When I am enchanted with a landscape, I know very well that it is not I who create it, but I also know that without me the relations which are established before my eyes among the trees, the foliage, the earth, and the grass would not exist at all. I know that I can give no reason for the appearance of finality which I discover in the assortment of hues and in the harmony of the forms and movements created by the wind. Yet, it exists; there it is before my eyes, and I can make something more out of what is already there. But even if I believe in God, I cannot establish any passage, unless it be purely verbal, between the divine, universal solicitude and the particular spectacle which I am considering. To say that He made the landscape in order to charm me or that He made me the kind of person who is pleased by it is to take a question for an answer. Is the marriage of this blue and that green deliberate? How can I know? The idea of a universal providence is no guarantee of any particular intention, especially in the case under consideration, since the green of the grass is explained by biological laws, specific constants, and geographical determinism, while the reason for the blue of the water is accounted for by the depth of the river, the nature of the soil and the swiftness of the current. The assorting of the shades, if it is willed, can only be something thrown into the bargain; it is the meeting of two causal series, that is to say, at first sight, a fact of chance. At best, the finality remains problematic. All the relations we establish remain hypotheses; no end is proposed to us in the manner of an imperative, since none is expressly revealed as having been willed by a creator. Thus, our freedom is never called forth by natural beauty. Or rather, there is an appearance of order in the whole which includes the foliage, the forms, and the movements, hence, the illusion of a calling forth which seems to solicit this freedom and which disappears immediately when one looks at it. Hardly have we begun to run our eyes over this arrangement, than the appeal disappears; we remain alone, free to tie up one colour with another or with a third, to set up a relationship between the tree and the water or the tree and the sky, or the tree, the water and the sky. My freedom becomes caprice. To the extent that I establish new relationships, I remove myself further from the illusory objectivity which solicits me. I muse about certain motifs which are vaguely outlined by the things; the natural reality is no longer anything but a pretext for musing. Or, in that case, because I have deeply regretted that this arrangement which was momentarily perceived was not offered to me by somebody and consequently is not real, the result is that I fix my dream, that I transpose it to canvas or in writing. Thus, I interpose myself between the finality without end which appears in the natural spectacles and the gaze of other men. I transmit it to them. It becomes human by this transmission. Art here is a ceremony of the gift and the gift alone brings about the metamorphosis.

Jean-Paul Sartre, What is Literature? (1950)


Piet Mondrian, Geinrust Farm in Watery Landscape (1905)


Theory & practice are two equal components of a single consecutive operation, our general tendency, under economic stress, to divide these two into separate unconnected pigeon-holes ends in sterilizing both. (…) The esthetic poverty of our general physical environment is an expression of that divorce of practice from theory.  Theory is the why of doing things, practice is the how; neither functions well without the other. If practice is know-how, theory is know-why.

Garrett Eckbo, Landscape for Living (1950)

Garrett Eckbo, Union Bank Plaza (1968)





The “styles” are a lie.

There has never been an English garden outside of England, a Spanish garden outside of Spain, or a Japanese garden outside of Japan.

There has never been an Italian Renaissance garden since the Italian Renaissance, never an American Colonial garden since the vigorous beginnings of the American States.

A style is a definite form of expression of a certain people in a certain place at a certain time; “styles” are humbug and measured details.

Talk of the enrichment of our garden art by eclectic borrowings is merely a cloak over esthetic laziness, esthetic immaturity, esthetic poverty.

Garrett Eckbo,  Landscapes for Living (1950)