casa coniglio

Hi Lindsey,
Since our conversation, I've been thinking about your question of how my education in architecture has influenced my medical practice. My answer, though accurate, was abbreviated and less than eloquent since the true answer is lengthy. Let me tell you more.

I certainly did learn about how people live their lives. In the process of design, what is foremost is how people use the space. It is not just the spoken words such as "I want this to be a park where 120 people can watch a band" but it is the unspoken words, such as "there needs to be space for overflow, and there needs to be space for parking, concessions, restrooms." There is another layer, the sense that the person is saying something like, "I don't know what's the real number, but it would be nice to have than number" or even as far as "I hope they don't have to take out the trees." In short, I learned more about how people communicate. That's not to say that I'm an expert by any means, but it makes me more aware.

Architecture education made me aware of the concept of Process. Process is the way in which the designer has come upon a solution. In Process, many different ideas are tried, and the ideas that don't work are just as important as the ideas that do work. In fact, if a workable solution is presented without failed ideas, the solution is said to lack Process. This was reinforced to me by working intensely alongside my classmates. Everyone has their own method of Process. This is a metaphor for life: we all have our mistakes to make, and these mistakes are a necessary part of the Process called Life. This knowledge makes me more accepting of other perspectives, makes me more flexible to different approaches. It makes me more able to accept that patients to make mistakes (e.g. "I didn't take my medicine because I wanted to see what would happen").

This education has also made me a fuller person. In doing so, it allows me to think more fully about my patients experience and their lives. It makes me a more holistic doctor.

In design, one becomes very aware of a project's positive and negative aspects. You can't ignore the negative, and this type of work makes one's own strengths and weaknesses plainly apparent. But neither the project's or the designer's weaknesses are seen as fatal character flaws: you can't just dismiss the project because there is something you don't like. The skill of the designer is to utilize the flaw, and even make the flaw an asset. This too, is a metaphor for life, for it allows one to appreciate each individual's qualities, as well as one's own, and how to deal with and even appreciate the negative.

In short, the process of design is often the utilization of metaphor (e.g. "this space is a dance") and the process itself becomes a metaphor for life.

I hope this is a better, more thorough answer to your question.

Forest

My father has a rather unorthodox planting style. It’s not that he plants in containers, many gardeners do that. It’s not that he grows Penjing, the containerized gardening style that is the Chinese equivalent of bonsai. It’s that he plants much of his garden in containers that are then planted (mostly, but not completely) in the ground, the plant's roots escaping through drainage holes into the ground. Vegetables and other annuals are planted directly in the ground, but other plants are containerized first. These plants not only include smaller plants such as strawberries, but also camellia, strelitzia (bird of paradise), avocado, citrus, the wisteria vine that climbs the post at the front entry, passionfruit vines...I can only imagine what is happening with the roots below ground.

My father commented on his gardening style at my last visit. The reason that he does this, he says, is because of his semi-nomadic lifestyle. I’m not sure if it’s his decision or my mother’s, but my parents pack up and move every few years. Sometimes it’s two or three years, sometimes it’s eight or ten. But more commonly, it is five or six years. They always end up moving. He wants the plants to be able to sink their roots into the ground, but he also wants to be able to take them with him. With their roots in the ground, they grow better, and larger. When it comes time to move, he digs up the pots, cuts the roots at the drainage holes, and plants them in the new house. That way, he doesn’t have to leave his favorites behind.

My father recently suffered a rather serious stroke. Although his physical disability is thankfully limited, he certainly isn’t the same as he was. In the last few years, he had been slowing down. Where once he was a geriatric rancher: building fences, caring for animals and growing vegetables, the years seem to have caught up with him. He has moved to a house with a less than postage stamp garden. He has been moving slower, the garden less meticulously maintained. The stroke took away much of his eyesight, making gardening difficult at best. Seeing his garden, I couldn’t help but think that in his next move, he probably would not be taking his trees with him.

My father and his garden.

I love the ocean. Doesn't just about everyone? I took this photo at Stinson Beach (yeah that beautiful beach where a number of shark attacks have occured). I used to have an aquarium in which I planted a seaweed garden (Caulerpa sp. - an invasive ocean weed, but none lived beyond my experiment). One of these days I'll have a freshwater aquarium garden...

Sunset Magazine, February 2009.
These are the new violas? Holy Moly. I'll take a flat.

I spotted this tree while we were travelling from Petaluma to Pt. Reyes Station. Good thing I wasn't driving.

I know I've posted this Ascocentrum miniatum before, but heck, it's my blog, not a magazine. I'm documenting what's blooming, and part of that is how frequently something blooms. Besides, isn't he a beaut?

While in California, I visited Cornerstone Gardens which has been profiled in Landscape Architecture magazine. It reminds me very much of the local store Jackalope, in that there are a lot of things to see, salvage items for sale, and local art. If you can get past the nine dead olive trees in the entrance courtyard, Cornerstone has a number of stores adhering to the arts theme, as well as a cafe, and is the location for the Sonoma visitor's center. There are also a number of designed gardens, designed by some famous names. At this time of the year, there were few visitors.

Since it was lunch time, our first stop was the cafe called Sage Fine Food (and Provisions), whose BLT and salad were the best I've had in a long time. For $9, the BLT was loaded with crispy thick bacon, the perfect amount of tomatoes and lettuce, and avocado. I don't remember the name of the salad, but it had carmelized walnuts, a sprinkling of cheese (just the way I like it), various very fresh and tasty greens that were not overwhelmed but accented by the light dressing. Topped off with some Izze soda, it made lunch for two about $25. Not cheap, but not expensive either, it was tasty, and heck, we were on vacation.
Fortified, we hit the stores, which, while fun, were way out of my price range. I did lust for the carved wood pavilion from India ($10,000 is what I remember).

Then on to the gardens.

The blue tree has lost about half of its size:
The garden we most enjoyed was the Oehme & Van Sweden garden "The Garden of Contrasts". The two of us felt that it was by far the most delightful.
The plot was divided into 2 areas, with a serpentine path wandering through them. In the front section, the agaves were luscious sculpture, each leaf was perfection, contrasting with the feather grass underneath. Behind, the second area was filled with olive trees, and a large globe was placed under them, among rosemary. Was this a commentary on the influence California or Mediterranean landscapes have on the rest of the world?

The other gardens needed placards to describe what they are about.
Martha Schwartz' garden needed a whole banner to explain it, the garden being a miniature golf course (non-functional) where each hole is labeled with the name of an important landscape architect. The garden was un-navigable and unintelligible without the banner. Was the commentary that landscape architects are holes in the ground of Disneyland landscapes?

Topher Delaney's project was about play in the landscape, and although the placard described a game, and said that there was a set of rules posted, we couldn't find them (only 2 bocce balls). The language of the placard was rich in narrative (although what exactly is a random grid? Isn't a grid regular by definition?), but the result was not engaging.
The Yoji Sasaki project "The Garden of Visceral Serenity" had this steel box that you were supposed to crawl into, but there was no reason to crawl on hands and knees through rock and gravel to get inside. Once inside, what was the point? I did appreciate the paving design, however.

"Stone's Throw" by Marco Antonini, Roberto Capecci, and Rafaella Sini dealth with the concept of scale. In an echo of the movie "A Bug's Life" a concrete form represents a pebble, and large grasses represent the lawn. Unfortunately, the designers then added planting holes in the "pebble" and there were a number of dead plants in them. I felt that it would have been more successful if the "pebble" were solid, and made of exposed aggregate of fine texture. Walter Hood and Alma DuSolier created "Eucalyptus Soliloquy" which demonstrates the use of eucalyptus as a windbreak, but also playing with the idea of "open" and "closed." I felt that the panel on the left, "open" was redundant, since the eucalyptus line beyond that also demonstrated the simultaneous "open" and "closed." Although the high fences framed the view of the grape vines beyond, I didn't feel that this installation was telling me anything new about the eucalyptus windbreaks.

This installation by UC Davis, titled "The Knowledge of Man is as the Waters" was intriguing, though the vinyl adhesive letters in the water feature were falling off and unintelligible. Why the red painted bamboo? Maybe if I were to read the placard...
This garden, by David McCrory and Roger Raiche does not show well in this photo, but I enjoyed the ceramic bamboo and the variety of textures as well as the corrugated steel tube used as a tunnel. I think that the problem with many of the installations was that they did not have understandable commentary without their descriptive plaques, nor were they engaging on an experiential level. Perhaps they were over-designed. Of course, it is easier to be critical than creative. It's interesting that something that might have looked great on paper doesn't translate into the reality of experiential depth.

I didn't see any credit given to the following two gardens, but I enjoyed them thoroughly. They were simple yet dramatic, and had commentary of their own.

I just returned from a trip to see family and for job interviews in the California Bay area. January is a time when the differences in gardening between there and here in Albuquerque are very pronounced. More later.

The paperwhites are blooming.

The roses in my parents garden are blooming, and they aren't just hanging on from the summer. They are blooming.

The sweet gum are still in their fall glory.

The princess flower (Tibouchina) in my sister's garden are blooming their heads off. This is a variety that my brother-in-law is fond of, which has light purple blooms, fading to white in the center. The usual form is solid brilliant purple.

My father's plumeria still has a remaining blossom and a bud.

Do I seem wistful? You betcha.

Garden images for today. Happy New Year!

Rosemary 'Frimley Blue' is just starting to bloom, protected by the overhang. The more exposed rosemaries lost their blooms with the snow.
Despite the warm weather today (54 degrees!), there is still ice on the north side of the house and the shaded areas.