The idea of the garden as a place of sinister seclusion has found its way to the world of high fashion. The theme of the 2024 Met Gala on Monday will be “The Garden of Time,” a reference to a short story by J.G. Ballard. In Ballard’s characteristically bleak tale, a desperate mob advances on an elegant garden, where Count Axel and his wife live out a civilized, secluded existence. The count plucks mysterious “time flowers” to stave off the inevitable incursion, knowing the horde spells ruin to their cultivated life. Perhaps Anna Wintour, the editor in chief of Vogue and long-term co-chair of the Gala, was thinking about time and loss, but for me the story articulated the most dangerous aspect of the garden, as a place to hide from reality in a private paradise.
For a gardener like myself, these stories are hard to confront. While very few of us create gardens on a robber-baron scale, the experience of the pandemic made it clear that they can still be a privileged and exclusionary zone. According to a 2021 study, white Americans are nearly twice as likely to live in a home with access to a garden as Black or Asian Americans. The selfish gardener of the 21st century creates idyllic vistas that rely on fertilizers and pesticides that poison the wider ecosystem or demand water in a time of drought.
Gardens don’t have to be like this: sealed, exclusive and defended. Ballard’s story reminded me of Iris Origo, an Anglo-American aristocrat who made the exquisite gardens of La Foce in Tuscany in the 1920s and 30s. In her gripping memoir of the Second World War, “War in Val d’Orcia,” she describes a similar tide of desperate humanity approaching her garden gate. Unlike Ballard’s Count Axel, she didn’t seek to repel them, retiring to the library to dust her statues. Instead, she converted her grand house and garden into a haven for refugees, partisans and escaping soldiers, despite the risk of imprisonment or death.
One of the most exciting things I discovered in my research was a study carried out at Great Dixter, a well-known garden in the south of England, established by the horticulturist and writer Christopher Lloyd and cultivated after his death by Fergus Garrett. In 2017, he and his team commissioned a full biodiversity audit of the estate. To the amazement of the participating scientists, the greatest diversity wasn’t in the woods, meadows or ponds that surround the house, but in the formal garden itself.
This garden hadn’t been rewilded, or left to its devices. On the contrary, it was the human intervention that made it so biologically rich. Mr. Garrett had phased out pesticides and fertilizers, and had a relaxed attitude to rotting logs and weeds, which provided a habitat for a diverse array of species. But it was the sheer density of the ornamental planting, its aesthetic exuberance and abundance, that was the key. The borders, with their plumes of giant fennel, their riots of poppies and mullein, provided a constant supply of nourishment, while the regular disturbance by the gardeners created a rich habitat for insects and mammals.
