called Marly-la-Machine, one sees the grand waterworks that were planned by Louis XIV with Hardouin-Mansart to feed the waters of Versailles between 1677 and 1714. Here, architecture gives the water shape as well as direction.
Palladio's Villa Barbaro (1560) was in essence a gentleman's farm, and in Solomon's drawing the symmetry of the agricultural fields reflects the symmetrical wings of the villa itself. She carries through the semicircular portico of the Villa Giulia in Rome from the villa to garden to water basin. The number of architects and landscape architects who had a hand in this plan would comprise a Who's Who of sixteenth-century Rome: Vasari, Michelangelo, Bartolomeo Ammannati, and Giacomo da Vignola.
By contrast to the hillside terraced gardens of the Italian villas, the more open French gardens of Gaillon and Vernueil offer broader horizons. For the latter, she draws the four grand terraces of promenades and parterres reflected in canals that hark back to the castle moat. Gaillon is a garden and chateau now in ruins, but form and symmetry survive in her drawing. There is nothing static about these; the viewer is always on the move into the farthest recesses of the gardens.
She ends with a drawing of the Portico of San Luca at Bologna, the arcaded walkway from the city to the eleventh-century Santuario della Madonna di San Luca on a hill. Here the inside becomes a pathway through the outside: “a promenade open to the vistas and closed to the rain.”
Although the Continent may have provided Solomon with the historical images for her drawings, her memories of garden architecture began with childhood walks on San Francisco's Marina Green, the grass rectangle that runs along the bay near the Yacht Harbor. She defines this personal archetype in her idealized drawing of it, set within a grid: “The Urban Garden: The green rectangle equals paradise,” or pairidaeza, the ancient Persian concept of enclosure. This greensward, as a basic component of the formal garden, became her “reassuring landscape,” a term employed by another landscape architect, Ian McHarg, to denote a landscape that becomes meaningful from an early association and that one seeks thereafter to recreate or rediscover in other environments. From this bit of urban paradise, she has traced garden history back to the basic form of the tilled field, the agrarian garden. The straight lines of man's first holding become for her the origin of the architectural grid.
Although Solomon's drawings have become an art form in their own right, she puts her theories to practice as a landscape architect of real projects, in particular, for the proposed Turia Gardens in Valencia, Spain; for an estate in Oregon; and for four gardens in Omaha, Nebraska. Closer to home, she has applied the principles of Renaissance architecture and Bramante axiality to a series titled “Crissy Field and the Palace of Marina Green,” a proposal based on her childhood haunt. The focus of this plan is the Crissy Field area, an unused Army airstrip along the bay that lies between Marina Green and the Golden Gate Bridge and is separated by a major road from the Presidio, an 1860s military garrison originally built in the Italianate style. On first view, the site plan resembles the configurations of the Renaissance gardens, but a closer inspection reveals elements suitable to contemporary California life, retaining nevertheless the traditional axes.
Solomon also continues to observe history, colored pencils in hand, most recently on a fellowship at the American Academy in Rome, an experience that culminated in a series of nine drawings of Roman streets and the patterns that originated the Western city. She began with the handout map of Rome given to all Academy fellows during orientation, and traced this map in as an overlay, a theme in all the drawings, with a wide serpentine line, the Tiber, as a motif. This juxtaposition records the passage of time from the original inception of the architectural plans to the progressive realization of structure and landscape.
In looking at these drawings, one is reminded that before Bramante was an architect, he was a painter, and, as British critic Stephen Gardiner writes in Inside Architecture, Bramante “saw architectural design in terms of planes and spaces as he might have seen a painting.” These drawings are like the paintings he might have seen. “Rome is Rome still,” Henry James wrote in Roderick Hudson. Here the pergolas, arbors, and garden walls of green hedges have given way to masonry facades that wall in narrow streets and piazzas that lead to vistas of other classical or baroque facades. The outside, the open space, now becomes the inside, the interior.
“The sky is a precious commodity,” says Solomon. “Needing this rare light, Romans have persistently used clearings to catch the sky's brilliance. Places, piazzas, voids—the city is a network of inhabited walls enclosing the mirror images of streets.” One remembers emerging from just such a narrow street and coming upon the Fontana di Trevi for the first time.
In some of the drawings, architectural details float in a surreal fashion above the canyonlike streets; Annibale Carracci's Blue Mercury is in flight over the Piazza Farnese. A sign reading “Lollypops” gives away the century in another one that includes the Teatro di Pompeo. In the Piazza del Popolo, she captures the effect of that great open space with the obelisk; the twin image of the church forms a gateway to the streets of Rome. And she writes on the drawing of the Piazza S. Eustachio: “A landscape is a place enclosed by buildings.” The reversal is complete.
Solomon knows everything about the color of stone. The grays and terracottas of Roman buildings turn into multishades of beige in her latest drawings of San Francisco houses cascading down the grid of hilly streets there.
Essentially all the drawings, of Renaissance gardens or of contemporary city streets, are about passageways from interiors to exteriors and the individual's private experience of borders—cafés under trees, shops under awnings, and fishing piers are some of her border images. But also as the body moves in a disciplined pattern, the mind is free to wander. “Order encloses magic,” is how she expresses it, as muted colors and blurred edges in her drawings evoke the qualities of gardens and places remembered.
Some of the memories she jogs are of literary gardens, those lawns and allées fixed in the imagination with a reality equal to experience. Seen through her eye, Henry James's description of the memorable lawn that stretches out behind the gabled brick house at the beginning of The Portrait of a Lady takes on a deeper significance: “Privacy reigned supreme, and the wide carpet of turf that covered the hill-top seemed but the extension of a luxurious interior.”
“There is magic,” concludes Solomon in one passage, “when illusion is reality and opposites merge.” For her, the common ground, where the inside and outside meet, has become the stage for civilization—civilization, that is, at its most cultivated.
Metropolis, March 1984
Planting Plastic: Martha Schwartz Looks to Art for Inspiration
IN EXPANDING the concept of what makes a garden, the landscape architect Martha Schwartz defines it as a place that is “conducive to contemplation and understandable on a human scale.” It need not necessarily contain plants—”Certainly many fine Japanese gardens do not,” she explained. And even when gardens are “filled with plastic or other strange objects,” Schwartz said, “I think they are still real gardens.” Such a garden is the one Schwartz created several years ago at her mother's home outside Philadelphia.
Admittedly, Schwartz does not come to landscape architecture with a horticultural orientation. She is drawn instead to the fluidity of outdoor spaces and the possibilities of various other media. Her concern is the synthesis between art and landscape, a concern she shares with Peter E. Walker, formerly her professor at the Harvard Graduate School of Design and currently her partner in The Office of Peter Walker Martha Schwartz Landscape Architects, of San Francisco and New York. It is an approach that would not be foreign to the great landscape architects of the seventeenth century, like André Le Nôtre, who brought all the arts to bear on garden design, employing sculptors as well as gardeners. In fact, Walker sees minimalists like Carl Andre and Donald Judd as contemporary interpreters of the flat planes and systematic order of Le Nôtre's gardens. He adds
