A discipline is defined by a domain of objects, a set of methods, a corpus of propositions considered to be true, a play of rules and definitions, of techniques and instruments: all this constitutes a sort of anonymous system at the disposal of anyone who wants to or is able to use it, without their meaning or validity being linked to the one who happened to be their inventor. (…)
But there is more; there is more no doubt in order for there to be less: a discipline is not the sum of all that can be truthfully said about something; it is not even the set of all that can be accepted about the same data in virtue of some principle of coherence or systematicity. (…)
Within its own limits, each discipline recognizes true and false propositions; but it pushes back a whole teratology of knowledge beyond its margins.
Anyone familiar with the ever-widening practice of landscape architecture is fully aware that this is not likely to be an overpopulated profession. There is good reason for its relatively small size, as professions go. An unusual combination of concerns and capacities has proved essential in a well-rounded landscape architect. He must have a compelling interest in, and sensitivity to, the environment as a whole. This requires of him a total view of ecology; a deep and abiding grasp of the natural world as an ongoing process of which humans are an integral part. He needs innate responsiveness to people, to their problems, and to the quality of life surrounding them. With it all he must be a visualist; fundamental to his approach is a sense of design, an intimate concern for specific form at every scale, and a keen appreciation of visual relationships as these affect human behavior. His mission insists on a creative urge and a dedicated search for excellence. It asks of him the ability to see, feel, and think-all with clarity-and to communicate visually as well as verbally.