A central characteristic of the often ambiguous term "landscape" is that it is first a schema, a representation, a way of seeing the external world, and, based on one's point of view, such schemata vary significantly.
Geographers and painters see the land in different ways, as do developers and environmentalists.
1 If asked to draw the landscape, each party would no doubt produce a wholesome variety of graphic models and representations, reflecting their own peculiar mode of (re)cognition.
Drawings might range from a cartographer's map, to an ecologist's transect, to an artist's perspective rendering. A poet might prefer words and tropes to visual images when describing a landscape.
Collectively, each of these texts would "draw out" of an existing landscape a particular description, or analytique, as seen through a specific conceptual lens, and would subsequently alter or transform the meaning of that landscape.
Landscapes are thus the inevitable result of cultural interpretation and the accumulation of representational sediments over time; they are thereby made distinct from "wildernesses" as they are constructed, or layered.
2 From a landscape architectural point of view, a major aspect of landscape is that it is not only a phenomenon of analysis, but is more significantly something to be made, or designed.
The landscape architect is very much interested in physically manipulating the land to reflect and express human ideas about Nature and dwelling therein.
After all, landscape architecture is not simply an ameliorative or restorative practice, but is more precisely a figurative and representational art, providing culture with a sense of existential orientation through the construction of a built symbolic environment.
Like any text, landscape architecture is conceptual, schematizing Nature and humankind's place within it, but at the same time it differs from other landscape representations in that it operates through and within the medium of landscape itself.
In other words, the actual lived landscape is the medium of both construal and construction; the representation is not only encoded in various related textual media, such as literature or painting, but is more significantly embodied in the constructed landscape.
As such, landscape architectural drawing—a textual medium which is secondary to the actual landscape—can never be simply and alone a case of reflection and analysis; it is more fundamentally an eidetic and generative activity, one where the drawing acts as a producing agent or ideational catalyst
.3 The relationship of drawing to the production of the built landscapes remains, how-ever, obscure. Indeed, this obscurity is made all the more difficult to understand when one stops to reflect on just why drawings have become so extensive and prevalent in the making of landscapes: do not drawings seem particularly abstract phenomena when compared with the phenomena of landscape? This peculiarity is made all the more apparent when one compares drawing in landscape architectural production with other modes of artis-tic endeavor, such as painting or sculpture.
It is not insignificant that many painters and sculptors often admit to not knowing where they are going with their work when they first begin.
Instead, the work "unfolds" as the artist is personally engaged with the medium and the possibilities that emerge from the work. Invariably, the fine artist's most focused attention is on the making, the touching and holding of the same worked artifact that will become the final piece.4 During the time of engagement there occurs a spontaneity of feeling and expression arising both from a reactive response to the medium and from an imaginative source deep within.
Here, the body and the imaginal are joined, inextricably involved with one another in a concentrated and creative, yet unselfconscious, unity.
The making is itself a dialogue, a perceptive conversation between the medium and the imagination that cannot be intellectualized or thought of external to experience.
5 The ancient Greeks knew this; an important connotation of poiesis, meaning to create or to make, is that only through the sentient perception of tactile and creative activity—the actual work of making—can discovery and revelation occur, the longed-for "moment" of disclosure.
As Heidegger has recognized, the hidden "truth" of things, their essence or aletheia, is some-thing brought forth through human agency.
6 The difficulty in landscape architecture, however, is that the actual work of building and construction is usually done by people other that the landscape architect.
The instrumentality of modern construction procedures leaves little room for emotive or tactile involvement. Unlike the painter, the musician, the sculptor, or the traditional gardener, the landscape architect rarely has the opportunity to significantly touch and mould the land-scape medium as it plays out in response to intervention.
Although landscapists ultimately make places out of plants, earth, water, stone and light, they are caught at a peculiar distance from these same elements, working instead with a completely different medium, an intermediary and translatory medium that we call drawing.
Creative access to the actual landscape is therefore remote and indirect, masked by a two-dimensional screen.
This problem of distance and indirectness is further complicated by the apparent dis-parity or incongruity between drawing and landscape.
While the preliminary sketch bears an obvious and similar relationship to the work of painting and sculpture, a drawing, any drawing, is radically dissimilar from the medium that constitutes the lived landscape.
The disparity between the phenomenon of drawing and that of the landscape means that there is often a discrepancy between what is represented and what gets built.
It is significant— but not necessarily disadvantageous—that the nature and embodied meanings of drawings and landscapes belong to different worlds, as do their modes of experience.
Drawing in landscape architectural design is also different from the art of the land-scape painter.
In a brilliant essay called "Translations from Drawing to Building," Robin Evans has described how architectural design drawing differs from other pictorial artist in that it is not done after the subject, but prior to it, that is, prior to building and construction.
7 Landscape architectural drawing is not so much an outcome of reflection on a pre-existing reality, as it is productive of a reality that will later emerge.
The built landscape must be determined in advance, and will exist after the drawing, not before it. Therefore, as a preface to the argument that follows, it is possible to state that the difficulties of drawing, with respect to landscape architectural production, lie primarily in three characteristics:
(1) the designer's indirect and detached, or remote, access to the landscape medium;
(2) the incongruity of drawing with respect to its subject—its abstractness with respect to actual landscape experience; and
(3) the anterior, prevenient function of the draw-ing— its generative role.
Paradoxically it is these same three characteristics that make such drawing enigmatic in both a negative and positive sense.
On the one hand, the drawing can be an impotent imposter, an impossible analog, dangerously reductive and misused; whereas, on the other hand, drawing holds the possibility of forming a field of revelation, prompting one to figure previously unforeseen landscapes of a richer and more meaningful dimension....
A central characteristic of the often ambiguous term "landscape" is that it is first a schema, a representation, a way of seeing the external world, and, based on one's point of view, such schemata vary significantly.
Geographers and painters see the land in different ways, as do developers and environmentalists.
1 If asked to draw the landscape, each party would no doubt produce a wholesome variety of graphic models and representations, reflecting their own peculiar mode of (re)cognition.
Drawings might range from a cartographer's map, to an ecologist's transect, to an artist's perspective rendering. A poet might prefer words and tropes to visual images when describing a landscape.
Collectively, each of these texts would "draw out" of an existing landscape a particular description, or analytique, as seen through a specific conceptual lens, and would subsequently alter or transform the meaning of that landscape.
Landscapes are thus the inevitable result of cultural interpretation and the accumulation of representational sediments over time; they are thereby made distinct from "wildernesses" as they are constructed, or layered.
2 From a landscape architectural point of view, a major aspect of landscape is that it is not only a phenomenon of analysis, but is more significantly something to be made, or designed.
The landscape architect is very much interested in physically manipulating the land to reflect and express human ideas about Nature and dwelling therein.
After all, landscape architecture is not simply an ameliorative or restorative practice, but is more precisely a figurative and representational art, providing culture with a sense of existential orientation through the construction of a built symbolic environment.
Like any text, landscape architecture is conceptual, schematizing Nature and humankind's place within it, but at the same time it differs from other landscape representations in that it operates through and within the medium of landscape itself.
In other words, the actual lived landscape is the medium of both construal and construction; the representation is not only encoded in various related textual media, such as literature or painting, but is more significantly embodied in the constructed landscape.
As such, landscape architectural drawing—a textual medium which is secondary to the actual landscape—can never be simply and alone a case of reflection and analysis; it is more fundamentally an eidetic and generative activity, one where the drawing acts as a producing agent or ideational catalyst
.3 The relationship of drawing to the production of the built landscapes remains, how-ever, obscure. Indeed, this obscurity is made all the more difficult to understand when one stops to reflect on just why drawings have become so extensive and prevalent in the making of landscapes: do not drawings seem particularly abstract phenomena when compared with the phenomena of landscape? This peculiarity is made all the more apparent when one compares drawing in landscape architectural production with other modes of artis-tic endeavor, such as painting or sculpture.
It is not insignificant that many painters and sculptors often admit to not knowing where they are going with their work when they first begin.
Instead, the work "unfolds" as the artist is personally engaged with the medium and the possibilities that emerge from the work. Invariably, the fine artist's most focused attention is on the making, the touching and holding of the same worked artifact that will become the final piece.4 During the time of engagement there occurs a spontaneity of feeling and expression arising both from a reactive response to the medium and from an imaginative source deep within.
Here, the body and the imaginal are joined, inextricably involved with one another in a concentrated and creative, yet unselfconscious, unity.
The making is itself a dialogue, a perceptive conversation between the medium and the imagination that cannot be intellectualized or thought of external to experience.
5 The ancient Greeks knew this; an important connotation of poiesis, meaning to create or to make, is that only through the sentient perception of tactile and creative activity—the actual work of making—can discovery and revelation occur, the longed-for "moment" of disclosure.
As Heidegger has recognized, the hidden "truth" of things, their essence or aletheia, is some-thing brought forth through human agency.
6 The difficulty in landscape architecture, however, is that the actual work of building and construction is usually done by people other that the landscape architect.
The instrumentality of modern construction procedures leaves little room for emotive or tactile involvement. Unlike the painter, the musician, the sculptor, or the traditional gardener, the landscape architect rarely has the opportunity to significantly touch and mould the land-scape medium as it plays out in response to intervention.
Although landscapists ultimately make places out of plants, earth, water, stone and light, they are caught at a peculiar distance from these same elements, working instead with a completely different medium, an intermediary and translatory medium that we call drawing.
Creative access to the actual landscape is therefore remote and indirect, masked by a two-dimensional screen.
This problem of distance and indirectness is further complicated by the apparent dis-parity or incongruity between drawing and landscape.
While the preliminary sketch bears an obvious and similar relationship to the work of painting and sculpture, a drawing, any drawing, is radically dissimilar from the medium that constitutes the lived landscape.
The disparity between the phenomenon of drawing and that of the landscape means that there is often a discrepancy between what is represented and what gets built.
It is significant— but not necessarily disadvantageous—that the nature and embodied meanings of drawings and landscapes belong to different worlds, as do their modes of experience.
Drawing in landscape architectural design is also different from the art of the land-scape painter.
In a brilliant essay called "Translations from Drawing to Building," Robin Evans has described how architectural design drawing differs from other pictorial artist in that it is not done after the subject, but prior to it, that is, prior to building and construction.
7 Landscape architectural drawing is not so much an outcome of reflection on a pre-existing reality, as it is productive of a reality that will later emerge.
The built landscape must be determined in advance, and will exist after the drawing, not before it. Therefore, as a preface to the argument that follows, it is possible to state that the difficulties of drawing, with respect to landscape architectural production, lie primarily in three characteristics:
(1) the designer's indirect and detached, or remote, access to the landscape medium;
(2) the incongruity of drawing with respect to its subject—its abstractness with respect to actual landscape experience; and
(3) the anterior, prevenient function of the draw-ing— its generative role.
Paradoxically it is these same three characteristics that make such drawing enigmatic in both a negative and positive sense.
On the one hand, the drawing can be an impotent imposter, an impossible analog, dangerously reductive and misused; whereas, on the other hand, drawing holds the possibility of forming a field of revelation, prompting one to figure previously unforeseen landscapes of a richer and more meaningful dimension....
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