Sikandra - Rajasthan (part II).

Geometry expressed harmony in the universe. If palace gardens were for pleasure, tomb gardens were the closer realization on earth of the Islamic paradise.

At Sikandra, the scheme follows the rules of the char bagh, with two perpendicular khiybans, a raised paved walkway, that divide the garden in four equal parts. The mausoleum stands on a raised platform at their crossing point and gates, aligned to cardinal points, terminate each causeway. The four imposing gates have different size but the same structure based on a central iwan with arched wings on both sides, completed with elegant chattris and rich decorations. These are more sumptuous on the South gate, the only true entrance, and just fragments on the ruins of the North gate, which was struck by lighting some years ago.

Narrow water canals run along the center of the broad pavement interrupted by rectangular fountains, replicated on each side of the square platform. In old times, water stored from the river flowed to canals from overhead tanks to ensure pressure. Besides, in times of drought, several wells distributed in the garden provided water to the fountains through a complex system of underground glazed clay pipes. Today, the shallow canals are dry, but their original meaning is not lost. They are the Four Rivers of Paradise, flowing from the Sacred Mountain to bring life to the world with water, milk, honey and wine. Architectural elements translated an idea of Paradise inspired by Islam but common to many religions, including Hinduism and Buddhism. 

The mausoleum, the Cosmic Mountain, is a five-tiered stories building, like a truncated pyramid. The large ground floor is developed in vaulted galleries supported by impressive pillars. A central pishtaq, an imposing arch surrounded by a rectangular frame, stands  on each side of the building enriched with elaborated marble decorations and delicate chhattris. Entrance to the burial chamber is on the southern side, through a narrow and inclined corridor. In the vestibule that precedes it, time is devouring the refined stucco decorations and the golden  inscriptions that stand against the blue background. The sarcophagus is a simple white marble parallelepiped. An ever burning lamp, suspended above it, provides a dim light toghether with four small windows that open eighteen meters above, the height of this domed chamber that reaches the third floor. Whitewashed walls and stone floor are not its original layout. There were paintings of angels and  other Christian subjects on the walls and rich carpets spread on the floor, while armors, books and clothes of the emperor were placed around the tomb. Everything was pillaged together with jewels, gold and silver by marauders at the end of the XVII century. The emperor is not alone, in nearby chambers are the tombs of two daughters.

The three storeys above, each one smaller than the one below, are slender pillared pavilions made of red sandstone and ornate with domes and white marble chhatris. Building materials had local origin and recall, with their colors, the purity and the royalty of the place. Until then, white marble was used just for saints’ shrines, while red was the color of the imperial tents.

Access to the top story is not guaranteed. Here, under the tropical sun and violent monsoons, is a white marble cenotaph carved with the ninety-nine names of God, arabesques and floral motives. A square pedestal, similarly decorated, stands at the north end of the cenotaph. It is supposed to be a base for lamps or censer during celebrations. An arched cloister of white marble, closed on three sides with finely crafted screens, surrounds it. There is no roof. Some people consider the building unfinished, others explain this choice with a rigid interpretation of Muslim burial precepts, but others, fascinated by the ever changing reflection of light on the marble surface, think of Akbar and his lifelong search for divine. In 1641, two hundred men read the Quran in nearby chambers to celebrate the holiness of the tomb, whose head is turned towards the rising sun and not towards the Mecca.

From here, the sight of the garden was magnificent. No green lawns in Mughal times but beds full of fruits trees and flowers, that echoed the main fourfold structure in their obsessive concentric subdivision. There were mango, mulberries, figs and oranges doubled with a line of cypress close to the walk path. Fruit trees were symbols of life, cypress recalled death and eternity. Flowers exploded in carpets of marigolds, roses, poppies, carnations, jasmine and peonies. They could be admired from the causeways or, descending the steps, moving closer to their perfumes and to the fresh appeal of the murmuring water. This fell from abshars, or water chutes, placed in the middle of the stairs with small pools filled with lotus at their end. In the flat Agra plains, this was a satisfying solution to replace the beloved terraced gardens that flourished on the far hills of Kashmir.

It is said that Akbar started the building during his last years. Agra was the capital again, the center of the empire with efficient roads connecting the furthest towns and congested trades along the Yamuna River. Palaces, houses and the Fort looked from the right bank to the gardens that flourished, without interruption, along the opposite left bank. His son Jahangir finished it. Dissatisfied with the work already done, he ordered to partially rebuild it. He wanted a noble, magnificent monument to celebrate a father he had fought for long years. Amusing tales will perpetrate the name of Akbar as a bizarre sovereign forever; this garden will tell about beauty, respect and faith.
Stated on the south door is:

“The pen of the mason of the Divine Decree has written on its court;
These are the gardens of Eden, enter them and live forever.”

Vocabulary:

Abshar: water chute
Char bagh: introduced in India by Babur, is walled garden divided into different sections 
Iwan: vaulted hall with walls on three sides and opens directly to the outside on the forth
Khiyaban: paved (raised) causeway, avenue
Pisthtaq: an imposing arch surrounded by a rectangular frame 

Further reading:

From Google Books:
Catherine Ella Blanshard Asher, Architecture of Mughal India, part 1, volume 4, 1992 Cambridge University Press

C.M. Villiers-Stuart, Gardens of the great Mughals, 2008 Read Books

Christopher Thacker, The history of gardens, 1979 University of California Press

Photos:
Travelinagarden

Sikandra - Rajasthan (part I).

In Rajasthan folk tales Mughal Emperor Akbar is a capricious and bizarre man with incomprehensible desires and absurd commands. It is Birbal, his wise and patient minister, who solves all situations with brilliant ideas and great courage making the emperor laugh of his own fool requests. In history books, Akbar is the grandson of Babur, the first Mughul emperor who conquered North India around 1526 coming from Kabul. Akbar is described as a strong, fearless and energetic man who fought to expand his empire that, at his death in 1605, extended from the Himalayan Mountains in the North to Godavari River in the South. He worked hard to strengthen and organize a huge territory, providing solid bases that would last in the following centuries. He was interested in culture, a skilled artisan and a curious and enthusiastic inventor. He enjoyed life and its pleasures above all during his youth becoming more restrained as he grew old. He was illiterate but knew the heart of men and knew how to obtain obedience, respect and love.

This man is buried in a peaceful and sacred garden, completed around 1613, at Sikandra some ten kilometers west of Agra.

I visited it in August. It was not crowded, just few Indian families who left rupees, yellow flowers and prayers on the tomb. Then, they walked back along the paved walkway glancing deer in the lawn and sudden flights of birds over tall trees. They exited from a red sandstone gate where monkeys run along the top and jalis broke light in geometrical splinters. Calm and silence.

The gateway is a majestic arch that frames recessing smaller ones built one above the other. They are replicated on each side, in closed balconies, creating a square building edged with crenellations and chhatris. Red sandstone disappears under a rich decoration of floral marble inlays and geometric mosaics made of colored stones. For the first time, Persian style inscriptions were designed along the surface. The famous calligrapher Adb al-Haqq Shirazi (called Amanat Khan), who later decorated the Taj Mahal, chose elegant characters to celebrate this garden as an earthly paradise and to remind the glory of Emperor Akbar and his son Jehangir. At each corner of the building, four white marble minarets topped with chattris stand slender and pure.

Beyond this gate is Akbar’s mausoleum, a place called Bihishtabad, or The Abode of Paradise. And hints of paradise are everywhere.

Mughals celebrated their power with buildings where architectural elements told about their divine origins. Fascinated by the mystery of religions, Akbar went further unifying in his own religion, called Din-i-Ilahi the Religion of God, elements and aspects of the different beliefs present in his empire. He preached tolerance, kindness and purity. He introduced new rites at court exalting the divine nature of his person: a descendant of the Sun illuminated by the light and knowledge of God. Religion legitimated his absolute power and increased loyalty. He was a wise ruler who, with the help of valuable ministers, organized a centralized administration, a solid fiscal system and an efficient army. Order and geometry expressed imperial power in the net of roads and towns developed to support agriculture, small manufacturers and commercial exchange as in the architecture of palaces and gardens.

- to be continued -

Vocabulary:

Chhatri: or umbrella, a small domed kiosk supported on columns  

Jali: perforated stone screen with ornamental design

Further reading:
Maria Grazia Cella, Favole del Rajasthan, 1992, Arcana Editrice – Milano
translated from Birbal ki kahaniya (Birbal’s tales)

Ebba Koch, Mughal Architecture, 1991, Oxford University Press

Francis Robinson, The Mughal Emperors and the Islamic dynasties of India, Iran and Central Asia, 2007, Thames & Hudson Ltd, London

Attilio Petruccioli, Fathpur Sikri La capitale dell’impero Moghul, la meraviglia di Akbar, 2007, by Mondadori Electa S.p.A., Milano

Internet links:
ArchNet online resourch focused on Muslim culture and civilisations
https://archnet.org/lobby/

Good rain for Rajasthan.

After ten years of poor rainy seasons, this year a good rain is falling in Rajasthan, North India.

Rain for the Yamuna River that reflects the white marble of the Taj Mahal in its flowing water in Agra, the endless flowing of time and the symbol of an eternal love

Rain for the insatiable buffalos that, careless of the busy traffic, are guided to the river in small groups to spend long hours in refreshing baths

Rain for pilgrims that, wrapped in orange clothes, walk for hundred kilometres carrying the water of the Ganges River; they rest by the roadside under trees or in tents where carpets are roof, walls and floor

Rain for the tourists' endless showers; they face hot and humid days with large hats and plunges in crystal clear swimming pools and, while a dark night cancels every shape, candles are lit in courtyards where echoes the note of peacocks in love

Rain for the patient drivers who guide groups of tourists along a well known circuit for a handful of days, waiting for hours with too many cigarettes, thick cups of masala tea and long languid songs that remind them of their far away loves 

Rain for the markets, the relentless flies, the stalls that sell fruits and vegetables piled in tempting pyramids of pineapples, bananas, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, garlic, papaya, bundles of herbs and expensive apples from Kashmir

Rain for the untamable traffic of cows, motorbikes, bicycles, carts, taxi, cars, bus, people that crowds roads where it is impossible to walk

Rain for the symmetric net of canals and fountains that surround the tombs of Mughal Emperors: red sandstone buildings with white marble chhatri, calligraphic inscriptions, floral inlay works and whispered prayers

Rain for the rice fields, the sugar cane cultivations and popocorn plants


Rain for Indian boys who, squatted close to jet of water that gushes from mysterious pipes by the road, squeeze small envelopes bought at the kiosk covering hair and body with a rich white foam, but not their smiles

Rain for the imposing entrance of the forgotten city of Fathepur Sikri

Rain to wash carpets knotted in Jaipur and hand dyed fabrics spread out on the roadside

Rain for men who sell street food; they slice, cut, mix, whisk and fry in huge frying-pans essential, tasty, cheap and very-very spicy all India Chaat

Rain for the flowers ready to be offered at the temple by the holy lake in Pushkar; roses, jasmine, rice, sugar, sandalwood, coconuts, spices to pray supernatural gods for human desires

Rain for the pots filled with pure water at the pomp in country villages by women in coloured sari; they walk home carrying them on their heads 

Rain for the Aravalli hills glittering in a soft emerald tropical green

Rain for puddles where float plastic and waste, for lakes where white palaces seem to float, crocodiles are supposed to live and children wait for the sunset diving next to women who do the washing

Rain for a Jain temple with thousand of carved marble pillars and waving flags, where light and shadow play among refined inlay works that tell a story begun long time ago, as old as the tree that grows in a quiet spot inside the temple

Rain for the busy commerce of bangles, made of gum, brass, bones, wood, glass, silver, gold, ivory, camel teeth and silk threats; they break easily to increase a busy commerce of bangles...

Rain for the blue houses of Jodhpur scattered at the feet of Mehrangarh Fort, seven gates, thick walls, corners cleverly built and sharp tips to defeat elephants attacks

Rain that digs insidious holes in the road, that drags trees and mud and blinds truck driver who decked their lorries with black tassels against the devil eye

Rain for the wild animals, butterflies, insects, deer, monkeys, tigers, peacocks, antelopes, snakes, mice and the millions of mosquitoes that born every day

Rain to wash dirty roads, spits, piss, excrements and carrions of caws and dogs that heat deforms and flies devour

Rain for the desert spotted of green with low shrubs and flowers, where, in painted villages among the dunes, camels sleep peacefully and old dances are performed under the full moon
 
Rain for the men who waste no time to look at it as they are busy on sewing machines in small open rooms overlooking the street in Mandawa

Pouring rain that stops motorbikes that run fast and then start again, the whole family in balance: husband, wife and children in a trusting interlacing of hugs

Rain clouds painted on the walls of the Badal Mahal, the Cloud Palace, in Bikaner. Lightings are scattered among blue and white clouds so that, in the hottest and driest days, the Raja could sit there to breath a good rain for Rajasthan




Photos:
Travel in a Garden, Rajasthan India -August2010

Boarding at Zurich.

Beginning of August, towards noon, at the International Airport in Zurich, two queues stood in front of their gates waiting to be boarded. They formed slowly as queues in airports usually do. First, one or two people stop in front of the desk and there stand for centuries; then, as the due time approaches, small groups join them, still not so convinced but impatient to leave and finally the mass of people rushes as the announcement starts. Passengers in late, lost in cafes, toilets or just somewhere in the airport space, reach the gate running with all their fluttering bags, received with smiles and quick checks.

At the terminal for departures to non-European countries, due to casual delays, two queues crossed each other.


African women had braids, zig zag braids, invisible braids and micro braids, tighten in bulky skeins or free to sway on their hips. Eccentric hairclips or hair bands of glittering plastic resumed in harmony or contrast the colour of their hair: burgundies, bronzes, copper or violet and blonde for the bold ones. Colour coordination involved nail polish, blouses and acrobatic sandals. Big earrings were the obvious choice for women with natural generous forms, large hips and imposing breasts squeezed in tiny dresses. Baby boys who had been shaved off and their little sisters, as smiling princesses of a pink kingdom, followed the adults.

At the opposite gate, people waited for information about their flight to India. Women had  plaited their long, dark hair in simple, thick braids. Old women wore sari and their steps were accompanied by the discrete sound of bangles and anklets. They seemed even more petty and thin next to their husbands, slender and tall men, with coloured turbans and dark beards. Younger women had traditional dresses but shorter hair. A vaporous mass where you could glimpse long and precious earrings as they grabbed, with delicate hands, bags, computers, mobile phones and children.


They were going back home to meet relatives, families and friends or after having met their daughters and sons, brothers and sisters that live in Europe.

I was leaving home boarding for India.

PANTELLERIA - Italy.

If I were a cistus I would live in Pantelleria, the small volcanic island closer to the coast of Africa than to Sicily. I could flower freely along cobbled paths that lead to solitary beaches no larger than a fingernail or impassable cliffs that natural elements have shaped in a curious way. Small shrubs with grey leaves and explosive blooms would be good company; their volatile perfumes mixed with the smell of salty air roused by a wind that never stops to blow. 

Despite its small size, intense human activities and dangerous fires, the surviving natural landscape is rich and varied. Woods of maritime pines cover the slopes of the “Montagna Grande” (Great Mountain). Descending from its 836 meters to sea level, they  mix with oaks, arbutus and junipers. In the under bush, shrubs of the Mediterranean area predominate: brooms, heathers, mastics and myrtles together with grass and wild flowers. The “garriga” fades towards the cliffs with a simpler vegetation of drought resistant plants. Their names evoke a perfumed summer: helchrysum, thyme, rosemary, lavender and chamomile. There are some endemic species confused among them, minuscule and discreet varieties of limonium parviflorum, matthiola incana and trifolium nigrescens. In the past, all plants were used to support local life. People produced oil from the fruits of arbutus, or a kind of ink and a tincture to dye leather from myrtle, while rosemary was an ingredient for recipes and talismans against bad luck. Today, ordered cultivations of wine and olive define the landscape. Introduced several centuries ago, the vine called Zibibbo is the most cultivated one. It offers excellent table grapes, abundant raisins and a sweet, dessert wine, the Passito. Olive trees are severely pruned to protect them from the impetuous wind.

The "giardini panteschi" (panteschi gardens) were a different solution to this problem. These circular buildings without roof were built with dry lava stones; their height varied from one to three meters. A small door, the only opening, introduced inside where proudly stood a lonely and luxuriant beauty, usually a citrus or a fruit tree. Walls protected the plant from relentless marine winds and above all retained the precious night dew or the rare rain. Their origins are lost in time, and today, after years of neglect, their future is more certain as new attention is dedicated to these examples of self-sustainable gardens.

Terraced dry stone walls design regular lines.  Indian figs and capers escaped from cultivated fields grow wild against them. Sometimes, these low walls enclose local vegetation that enriched with jasmine, plumbago, pomegranes, geranium and roses create small gardens for local houses, called "dammusi". Of Arabian origin, these low, square buildings are perfectly integrated in the rough landscape. Precious rain is channelled and collected in cisterns thanks to their domed roofs and their thick walls - up to 2 meteres - provide fresh and dry rooms. Built following particular construction techniques with lava rock cut by hand, they answered the practical needs of people dedicated to agriculture and breeding. Today, most of them are luxurious bed&breakfast combining tradition to modern tourist requirements.

A couple of years ago, I spent a week there towards the end of May when the island was preparing for its crazy summer season. The day after my arrival, I joined a boat tour to see the island from a different perspective: secret coves, hidden creeks, breathless rocks and a late spring landscape shaded with combinations of pink and yellow. We ate excellent pasta with tomato sauce anchored in a romantic cove after a quick swim and a glass of wine. Simple food where different herbs, oil, tomatoes garlic and capers are carefully proportioned with salty air and hot wind.  In the following days, I explored the internal too. Driving my white Fiat Panda I discovered fishing villages and those phenomena that remind its volcanic origin, such as sulfuric vapours, jets of steam called "favare" or "Lo Specchio di Venere" (Venus' Looking Glass) a small lake with incredible colours and a sulfuric-rich spring. Despite the interesting alternatives, I always went back to the sea, to those black beaches that are just bare and hot rocks that precipitate into the sea, crowded of young people and jellyfish during the long summer season.

Summer evenings, when the light never disappears in the sky, when the furious, sensuous and impolite wind calms down in a breeze on tanned skin, when music and kisses deafen the noise of the sea and the smell of grilled fish and pizza invades every street. 

If I were a cistus, with fragile and incandescent petals that last just one day I would live in Pantelleria. Caressed by a rude wind I would never be alone, and looking down towards the sea, I would feel safe and free.



Link:
http://www.pantelleria.com/english/index.asp

Giardino Pantesco from FAI (Fondo Ambiente Italiano) to be visited by appointment: 
http://www.fondoambiente.it/beni/giardino-pantesco-donnafugata-beni-del-fai.asp

A bouquet of fresh peonies from Orticola, Milan.

What does a professional of the garden world look for attending one of the several flower shows that crowd Europe in the first months of spring? Rare plants? Exciting hybrids? Refined preparations? Inspiring atmospheres? Commercial contacts? Gossips? Old friendships?

“Orticola” proudly opened its gates for the fifteenth year in a corner of the “Giardini di Via Palestro” in Milan, in the first days of May. Spring flowers make me happy and this market flower show abounds with compact carpets of unpretentious flowers that bloom together in splashes of colours, perfumed and tempting. It was a pleasure to greet them again whispering their names while I followed the gravelly path. Phlox, veronica, heuchera, dianthus, potentilla, hosta, helleborus, gaura, digitalis, campanula... Lunchtime was quiet and pleasant with a tender spring sun after days of wintry rains. Among the stalls placed around the edges of the lawn, under large and white sunshades or the old trees, shrubs of different sizes were on display. Viburnum, acers, camellia, hydragea, fruits trees, cistus… Anonymous thorny branches and bright green leaves camouflaged hidden treasures. Just the careful reading of the label and some specific questions to the owner, who tasted a sandwich sit nearby, disclosed interesting hybrids of berberis that cascade of berries will transform in autumn. Sudden grouping of people  marked  the  presence of pelargonium and roses; reliable plants for the summer season for sunny terraces and gardens of all size and money, for lazy and fussy gardeners. Collections of perfumed geraniums, of salvia, rosemary and lavender, of  unusual bulbs and iris tickled the most experienced gardeners. Cactus impressed with their shapes, orchids attracted fanatics and water lilies in small basins enthusiatic children. Furthermore, for those who do not want to waste their time with useless flowers, there was a wide range of vegetables and herbs.

In the garden, you also need chairs to relax, hats against the sun, vases to test hazardous mixtures, tablecloths and candles for romantic dinners and many other objects useful and useless. The traditional handcraft of wicker baskets used to gather apricots and zucchini had developed tiny forms for miniature gardens and impressive hampers for mature trees. According to the booklet, activities to awaken the attention of young generations for the green world were due in the afternoon and in the following day. Eco-friendly mothers  will take home children with dirty hands and coloured pots full of seeds that will be forgotten soon. Adults could learn about flower arrangements or join a botanical treasure hunt.

I took pictures, asked questions, gathered a lot of papers and wandered around enjoying the sun, the flowers and the people. The next appointment is for "Orticolario", in Villa Erba, Cernobbio, Como Lake, a sumptuous location for the autumn edition from 1st to 3rd October.

I left in the early afternoon, when queues at the gates were increasing and the sun was hotter, asking myself what can interest someone who works with flowers. Someone who visits hundreds of flower shows, who buys dozens of plants and not one or two, who knows the history of each green stem. Someone, who perhaps was leaving Milan for another flower show hiding boredom and impatience or dreaming a bouquet of fresh peonies?

Flower Show visited:

Orticola Giardini Pubblici Via Palestro Milano May 7th, May 9th 2010.

http://www.orticola.org/mostra.htm

The tulip and the vase

I would like to have a room, an empty room.

In May, I would open the window for sunbeams to explode on a precious vase full of tulips. Sit on the floor, cross-legged, I would be absorbed in a dispute between the beauty of the vase and that of the flowers. 

“Fifty years after the end of tulipomania, the first of the so-called tulip vases began to appear, strange tall pagoda-like creations with spouts jutting out at the top and sides. For a long time it was assumed that the vases were used either for displaying tulip flowers or for growing tulips indoors, the bulbs placed over water in spouts, much as hyacinths are grown today.“ (Pavord 1999;  180)


The extravagant craze called tulipomania happened in The Netherlands around 1630 and overwhelmed fortunes and men. Tulips came from East. Wild species bloomed in the steep mountains and the wide valleys of Central Asia, thriving on harsh winters and torrid summers. Single and simple flowers showed basic colours, sometimes with a black blotch at the base or stripes along the petals, but with such a variety of combinations that, today, the species classified are more than 120. For nomadic tribes who lived in that desolated land they were the sign of incoming spring and new life. Around 1050, tulips were cultivated in refined Persian gardens. Their name, composed with the same letters of the name of Allah, lâleh, echoed in legends of eternal love and passion. Later, they were the beloved flowers of the Sultans when Ottoman Istanbul was a town of gardens and green spaces. Tulips embellished the secret court in the Palace of Joy or Topkapi Saray and sumptuous night parties celebrated their blooming. Probably around the second half of the sixteenth century, they reached without clamour Europe, their name recalling the oriental shape of the turban. Little by little, they gained interest and fame as decorating plants, after having been studied for medical purposes and experimented in bold recipes. The inexplicable mutations of their colours thrilled botanists and amateurs, while for rich merchants and wealthy artisans they emerged as the symbol of fortune and success. Speculations rose to absurd levels transforming the flower in a luxury commodity, such as exotic birds and ornate fountains.

“Blue and white chinoiserie-style Delft ware was avidly collected in the late seventeenth century, mixed with genuine Chinese porcelain in special display cabinets. … [] As well as the popular pagoda design, Delft flower pots also appeared in the shape of busts of Turkish sultans… But whether in the shape of pyramids, sultans or other guises, there is little evidence that these flower pots were ever used for growing tulips. Only since the beginning of this century they have assumed the name (and by extension the function) of tulip vases.” (Pavord 1999; 182)

Ceramics was just one of the several crafts that made Delft prosperous and famous in the seventeenth century. Faiences, first influenced by Italian and Spanish traditions, found in this country new colours and patterns. The famous cobalt blue replaced more varied and brilliant hues in country scenes and marine landscapes, gorgeous flowers and Chinese figurines. Demand expanded as people began to use ceramic plates and jugs in everyday life instead of those made of wood, skin or tin. Special pieces were created to be displayed on shelves. Among vases, the tulipiere was an ingenious creation, inspired by Persian, each flower standing alone in its own vessel, in elaborated and impressive structures.

“But their use remain a puzzle. None of the hundreds of flower paintings of the Golden Age shows flowers in a Delftware holder.” (Pavord 1999; 180)

This is not the only mystery. But in the long history of the tulip, it is the image of those vast expanses of wild tulips in bloom after a dreadful winter that attracts me most. Between the vase and the flower I would chose the ephemeral beauty of the tulip.

Further reading:
The Tulip, Anna Pavord, Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 1999
Tulipomania, Mike Dash 1999; italian edition: La febbre dei tulipani, Mike Dash, RCS Rizzoli Libri Spa Milano 1999
Les faiences de Delft, Jan Boyazoglu Louis de Neuville Jacques, Grancher Paris 1980


Photos:
Travelinagarden.

Link:
The Rijksmuseum - Amsterdam:
http://www.rijksmuseum.nl/aria/aria_assets/BK-14852-A?lang=en

The Queen of Spade - Alexander Pushkin

Supposing Hermann turning the last of three fated cards had won the game. Supposing he had fallen in love with the innocent Lizaveta during their secret rendezvous. Supposing Alexander Pushkin had written a happy-ending for his work titled “Pikovaja dama”, or “The Queen of Spade”, published in Russia in 1834.

Despite being a short story, it is divided into chapters, six chapters. Epigraphs, sometimes in French, anticipate their content, introduce the characters and unfold an articulate plot. In a winter night in St. Petersburg, a group of army officers is lingering over a late dinner with champagne and talks, after long hours spent playing cards. The story of the Countess Anna Fedotovna, one of the men’s grandmothers, slipped into the conversation awakening their interest. Once a stunning beauty with a strong character and a condescending husband, she lost a fortune playing faro, a card game, when she lived in Paris sixty years before. An adventurer rescued the noble dame disclosing three secret cards that played consecutively would win back her money. This is what happened and during her entire life, she never confessed the secret, but once. At early dawn, the sceptic group of men breaks up, but for one of them these casual words have changed his life.

Hermann has German origins, a solid position as officer in the engineers and a small inheritance he firmly protected from his innate love for gambling. He appears quiet and composed when, night after night, he assists endless card games without touching any cards. The story of the old noble dame captures his mind, revealing the possibility to increase his small treasure in a simple and safety way. He succumbs to this idea, sifting through improbable solutions to get hold of the secret. A pair of young black eyes, glanced at the window of the Countess Fedotovna’s palace, shows him the way.

The eyes are those of Lizaveta Ivanova, the Countess Fedotovna’s pretty ward. Sad eyes indeed: she lives among carriage rides and sumptuous balls according to the capricious and despotic desires of the Countess. Lizaveta knows that just marriage can save her. A few days later, while she is embroidering sitting at the window, she casually glimpses the eyes of a young soldier looking at her from the corner of the street. The passionate but respectful letters she receives from the man, Hermann of course, quickly conquer her heart. Her first, distant answers give way, in less then three weeks, to a nocturnal meeting after a ball at the embassy. She sends him a letter with detailed instructions to guide the man up to her bedroom. Here, she waits for him in her evening dress with flowers in her hair, surprised by her own courage and audacity but a little anxious.

The night where love should have triumphed became a dramatic failure. The sudden death of the Countess, frightened by the threatening pistol of Herman, puts an end to Hermann’s hopes and Lizaveta’s love. He discloses his real intentions and the young girl realizes the frailty of her illusions.
Three days later, Hermann falls in a troubled sleep after the turmoil of the funeral. The ghost of the Countess appears, unknown forces obliged her to reveal the three cards: three, seven and ace. Excited Hermann played the fated cards, one a night, in front of an astonished public. But, the third night, the last card he turns is the queen of spade. He loses everything.

He could never win. We know that behind this irreproachable man, there is an ambitious and cold mind. Greed unleashes all his withheld passions and devours his mind. His obsession to attain wealth is shaded with gloomy words, with evil and ominous signs without remorse or regret.

He could never marry the sweet Lizaveta. He sent her words of love copied from a book and deceived the young girl to reach the old Countess and her secret. She easily falls in his trap. Love is the magic words that could save her but, lonely and inexperienced, she shaped this love according to romantic novels and dreams. 

I read the story again and again. Pushkin describes a reality he knew very well with few words and great skill. Time and place are enriched with details to sketch the Russian aristocracy with its rites and secrets. It created a realistic scenario where romance is just something in the air and supernatural creeps along the story to burst at the end. He interpreted popular themes that fascinated and scared, opposing good to evil, old to new, transforming the trivial desire for money in an amusing, intriguing and ironic story. Poems are considered his best works. He approached prose during his last years, when he dedicated times and energies to explore the story of his country. He believed that good prose needs a different style: essential, with short, simple sentences, no flourishing adjectives,  no lingering on emotions, only facts and actions. Pikovaja dama was a great success and a source of inspiration for future artists.

Pushkin could have finished here, with the mocking image of the dead Countess winking at Hermann from the card on the table, the queen of spade. Instead, he wrote the conclusion. 

Last summer, after visiting Pushink’s house in St Petersburg, it seemed that he was died just from a few weeks and not in 1837. Turning around a corner, halting in a wide square, looking the water of a canal, or glancing beyond the door of a smoky café there were traces of his life. They were not the wild, crazy days of a young boy who discovered love, pleasures and fame. They were the last days of a man around his forties, married to one of the most beautiful girl of the country, father of four children, with uncertain finance and the fame of classic poet, where classic meant just old. He was suffocating. The malicious, envious and gossip court poisoned everyday of his life. The severe censure, managed directly by the tsar, spied every thought and judged every sentence paralyzing any action or work. In the museum, tourists’ heads turned in sync towards a door, the bed, the imposing library while a voice in the headphones recalled the snow, the duel, the hurried steps and the mortal wound.

He wrote the conclusion: Herman becomes insane and Lizaveta marries another man. In life, everything can happen. For a man who had had love and glory but fought for hope, madness was freedom. A happy-ending.

Further reading:
La Dama di Picche e altri racconti - Aleksandr Puskin Adelphi Edizioni S.p.A. Milano 1998 (this is italian edition I read).


Photos:
Travelinagarden: St. Petersburg 2009.

The tree of life - an Indian carpet.

I would like to have a room, an empty room.

In the first, warm days of spring, I would open the window and looking at the blue sky, I would listen to the silence, lying on a carpet: an Indian carpet where, framed among abstract flowers and geometrical decorations, a tree of life is in bloom.

From the cold and uninhabitable countries in the far North, nomadic tribes emigrated to milder climates. It took centuries. Long, slow trains with women and children wound through valleys, along rivers and around lakes. They travelled on carts made of wood and leather, surrounded by flocks and led by men who were warriors and horse breeders. The first carpets were probably simple blankets to protect them from a relentless cold. They were the only furniture in their bare tents, the most important possession of a family. On their flat surfaces, patterns and colours that smelled of flowers expressed the magic in life, the inner need of men to understand their place in the universe and feel part of it.

Millennia passed. Powerful dynasties founded towns close to the fertile rivers in the Middle East, with high towers and magnificent palaces, rich gardens and wide staircases. Vertiginous columns supported precious halls echoing different languages, while faithful subjects paid homage to worthy sovereigns with golden gifts. In solemn temples, whispered prayers reached the highest skies. But, indifferent planets and celestial spheres continued their orbits ignoring those cunning kings, in search of broader boundaries for their kingdoms, who burned down the palaces, sacked the temples and destroyed the gardens. Just legends and old patterns, which would become part of elaborated, enchanting Persian carpets, reminded of a distant past. Symbols and decorations combined the severe Islamic tradition with older ones. Flowers and animals, stylized in geometric signs to respect the absolute prohibition to represent natural elements, celebrated the paradise, a heavenly garden made of soft, coloured wool or shiny silks.

The tradition of Persian carpets reached India during the Mogul Empire, the long reign started with Babur in 1526 and ended around 1858. In 1544, the Indian emperor Humayun succeeded in the recapture of Delhi after long years of exile in Persia. Fascinated by  its rich culture, he personally followed the opening of the first laboratories where skilled Persian artisans revealed their secrets.  Their influence waned slowly, leaving an Indian style characterized by the asymmetrical displayed of different elements, the use of more colours, with a preference for green and sky-blue for the borders and white, pink, yellow and azure for the patterns, and the research of more realism in the designs. 
The symbol of the tree of life is as old as the human beings. Its roots grow tall in the ground, where magic forces are hidden, its branches wave in the air, supported by a strong trunk, linking the earth and the sky, man and God. It is life, harmony and wisdom. It is the powerful strength of nature, its eternal cycle and beauty.

Lingering on the soft, warm surface fragments of thoughts and impalpable fantasies cross the air, like arrows shot by those mighty warriors.

Long time before Persian knotted their famous carpets, in the royal town of Ctesiphon, the old Sassanid capital of this country, there was a carpet woven with threads of gold and silver, decorated with precious stones and handfuls of emeralds. During the long winter days, when cold and dark became unbearable and bad omens filled his mind, the Persian king asked his servants to unroll the huge carpet. Among flowers made of precious stones, birds, rich orchards and basins of water where fish swam quickly, he found the promise of spring and peace of mind. It was called "The spring of Cosroe," from the name of Cosroe II. The Persian emperor, who loved beauty and power, who fought against the powerful Byzantine Empire and raised in his unhappy and indecisive son his murderer. Arabs soldiers, who invaded the country in 634A.D., tore the carpet to pieces and took them home. 

As the night falls, I would close the window looking at the black sky spotted by lonely clouds. Clouds decorate Persian carpets as ribbons rolled up to the frame and Northern skies as soft, impenetrable blankets.


Further reading:
Persian hystory:
La primavera di Cosroe, Pietro Citati, 2000 Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A., Milano;
Carpets traditions:
L'Arte del Tappeto Orientale, Taher Sabahi, 2007 by Mondadori Electa S.p.A., Milano;
Il tappeto orientale, John J. Eskenaki, 1983, Umberto Allemandi & C.

Photos:
Travelinagarden

Links:
http://tea-and-carpets.blogspot.com

VICO MORCOTE - Switzerland: The Adventures of a Gardener.

There was a garden, not far from Milan, where magnolias flowered in late winter.

“…Looking out of the window I see the buds on M.sargentiana robusta which are well advanced… This would mean that in the last week of February there would be something to see …”.(1)

Tall plants displayed pinkish and white buds far from the sky only for the length of their bare branches, standing out against the snowy peaks of the southern Alps and the foreshortenings of Lake Lugano.

The particular climate and the owner’s taste had privileged exotic plants for this terraced garden developed on a steep hillside, once a vineyard. It was crossed by an impetuous mountain stream, falling in a cascade incorporated, with dramatic effects, in the building of the Japanese style house. Deciduous magnolias were among the first plants to be introduced. A serious affaire and a real challenge, as in the seventies the market mainly offered nice but common hybrids. Researches to find new, exciting plants involved nurseries of tried reputation, private collectors, botanical gardens and experts from the whole world. An ever-expanding network of knowledge and materials, carefully cultivated during a life dedicated to politics, with different assignments, in several parts of the world.

Disappointing results and bitter failures were part of the adventures of this gardener, but good days always followed the troubled ones. The miraculous flowering of a M.maudiae, with white, rounded petals in a morning of March, effaced the heavy blow of the discovery that the perfect flowers of the hybrids of M.campbelli he expected were lost forever, as he had purchased seedlings and not grafted plants.

The precocious M.stellata, the darkest brightest pink of M.sprengeri, the elegant M.campbelli provided a luxurious canopy under which flourished many Himalayan plants, such as rhododendrons, acers, cornus and camellias. High bamboos grew fast trying to reach the terrace that overlooked the top of the trees, planted some thirty feet below. A winding path led you around the two-acres property under planted with bulbs, hellebores, cyclamen, peonies and many treasures hidden among the ferns. You could miss them if you had not an experienced eye or you were lucky enough to catch the explosion of flowers during your visit. In fact, it was a private garden generously opened to all garden lovers.


I first contacted Sir Peter Smithers with a formal, long letter, in January 1997. I received an enthusiastic reply, followed by a quick phone call to arrange the rendez-vous. I met a tall man, polite, practical and curious. He showed me the way down a stairs to the garden while he was walking towards the terrace, followed by his dog. He politely explained me that he was exhausted as he had spent the morning entertaining a numerous group of demanding gardeners from France. I plunged into the vegetation, loosing myself among paths, wandering up and down the hill. It looked like a natural forest, a wood sunken in a deep valley, with untidy corners and casual planting. It was the result of his taste and experience, and of the strict application of twelve principles, he had matured during his life. The first stated that the garden has to be a source of pleasure not a burden, especially for a man who was getting old. The last an invitation to share plants with other gardeners. In between, he defined the style of the garden and the plants: no annuals, biennials or plants requiring too many attentions, fragrant and aromatic plants as those with early or late flowers were privileged. Chosen among the best of their species, they must grow together creating a self-sustaining environment to reduce the intervention of man as time passed by. He was 65 years old when he designed and planned the garden in Vico Morcote to become an ecosystem.


I emerged on the terrace, opened on a small green lawn surrounded by soft cushions of azalea. He was waiting for me there. The mountains and the lake seemed painted sceneries. I looked with greedy eyes at several Chinese pots where flying dragons protected lotus flowers and citrus plants. We talked for a while. On my way out, we passed by the glasshouse where I glanced small pots carefully labelled. He confessed that breeding plants was his real passion, more than the garden itself. During the years, he successfully registered different new hybrids, among which was a tree peony dedicated to his wife: “Dojean”, from P.rockii.


I visited again the garden three years later. At the beginning of April, the terrace was enveloped in the generous flowering of Wisterias. Poetic names and soft hues added a magic touch to the amazing sight of those long, supple branches filled with flowers that jumped from the terrace into the void.


I wish I had visited this garden again, had talked longer and had asked more questions. Sir Peter Smithers died in 2006. He strongly believed that garden is a personal creation and cannot survive its creator. In his last years, he gifted different gardens with his collections while the Lindley Library in London received his archive and documentation.
However, his words are not lost forever. In 1995, he published a book: "Adventures of a Gardener". The story of his life and of his lifelong love for plants starts just with the twelve principles that guided his last years in gardening. Several photographs complete the book, as he was a keen and passionate photographer too.


Early magnolias in flower remind me of that wide extend of cream and pinkish fat buds, seen from a terrace next to a tall man with smiling eyes, listening to the sound of running water, in front of majestic peaks.

Note:
(1) quotation from a letter received from Sir Peter Smithers, January 1997.

Garden visited:
Sir Peter Smithers, Vico Morcote, Switzerland.

Further reading:
Adventures of a gardener, Peter Smithers, The Harvill Press, London 1995.

Photos:
Travel in a garden.

Links:
www.smithers-foundation.com/

The Rape of the Lock - Alexander Pope

The tragic event that gives the title to this poem occurs just at the end of Canto III.

Before, we follow a young, beautiful Lady called Belinda in her typical day under the reign of Her Majesty Queen Anna. From the late awakening, urged by the tender lickings of her dog Shock, to the rites of a complicated toilette, whose result is a triumphant sortie along the sunny, silver Thames, heading for Hampton Court.
After, we hear her screams of rage and despair. The Baron, armed with malicious scissors and burning desire, had cut off one of the two shining curls that adorn her ivory neck. She looks for comfort and relief in the arms of Lady Brown, just to find the bitter confirmation of her dishonoured and shameful fate. Then, she addresses to Lord Plume for him to claim her precious lock. His words, not so well articulated, and the ironical but categorical refusal given by the Baron do not leave any hope. She does not succumb to such adverse circumstances. Ignoring the words of common sense and experience spoken by Clarissa, the Lady who offered the sharpened arm to the Baron, Belinda launches a proud assault against the mean, young man. She wins the fight with a clever move, a handful of snuff thrown in his nose, but she cannot have her lock back. This is ascended to the sky to celebrate her name among the brightest stars. Forever.

I will never get tired of the perfect rhyme of these lines. They have the joyful, carefree spirit of a lullaby, the magic, exquisite fancy of a dream and the careful, solid construction of a stately home.
They shape a world of luxury, wealth and amusement where everything is refined and precious. Displayed on the dressing table of this innocent Lady are glowing gems from India and “…Puff, Powders, Patches Bibles, Billet-doux”. They come from the far countries of an expanding empire that indulges, in declining afternoons, in the pampering rites of snuff and coffee. It is a world where elegant men called Florio and Damon are supposed to meet at court to spend in “various talk th’instructive hours” or to play cards. Ladies participated to all these activities with their rich brocade gowns, pricking words and fans; waved with intention and expertise, used as a secret language to be deciphered in the never-ending game of love. Under the glittering surface, it results a vain and superficial world, engaged in frivolous activities and useless chat. Worried for a “…manteau’s pinn’d awry” and a respectability made of appearances, of formal and polite behaviours. The verses celebrate beauty, but a fragile one.

This is a true story. Alexander Pope wrote these lines quickly in 1711. He accepted the invitation of his friend, Mr. Caryl, who wanted to reconcile two Catholic families, the Petres and the Fermors, offering them this amusing poem. They had broken their long friendship after the young Lord Petre had cut off one of the famous locks of Mrs. Arabella Fermor. The poem did not work in this sense but it was a great success. It was published in 1712, then revised and enlarged by Pope in 1714 and again in 1717.

The definitive version includes the Machinery: small, invisible, flying creatures that live in the air, in the earth and in the water. Their duty is to support and guide women:
“Instruct the eyes of young Coquettes to roll,
Teach Infant-cheeks a bidden blush to know
And little hearts to flutter at a Beau.”
They should protect the beautiful Belinda but they fail. The new, exciting emotions that agitate the young girl’s heart, uncertain and changeable as their fluid bodies and colours, cannot be ignored.

Sylphs, as supernatural, magic beings, represent the deities and the angels of the classical tradition. The poem presents all the elements of the epic conventions: the invocation to the muse, the preparation of the hero, the battles and more. Today’s readers probably are not aware of the complexity of the references to Greek and Roman epic contained in these perfect heroic couplets. The choice to use a form, a structure and a language traditionally referred to grand and important events for a trifle subject underlines the mock intention of the poem.

Nature has not a great importance in these verses, but this does not close the matter. With the income of this poem and of the English translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey, Pope settled in a house outside London, Twickenham. Here, he spent his days writing and gardening. His experience as gardener is considered a turning point for the garden style in England. He left the formal and severe rules of geometric garden to develop the idea of a more natural, pictorial environment that respected the characteristic of the place.
This happened later, after the rape of the lock.

Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock’d the ground,
And the press’d watch return’d a silver sound.
Belinda still her downy pillow prest,
Her guardian Sylph prolong’d the balmy rest…



Further reading:
The Rape of the Lock, Alexander Pope Oxford University Press, 1990

Photos:
Travel in a garden:
"Belinda embarking for Hampton Court", watercolour by Thomas Stothard from The Rape of the Lock Oxford University Press 1990;
Photos a-side: Hampton Court, August 2001.

Hunters in the Snow - Pieter Bruegel the Elder.

I would like to have a room, an empty room.
In winter, on the wall opposite to the window, I would hang a picture: Hunters in the snow, by the Flemish painter Pieter Bruegel the Elder.


He was an experienced artist in his forties when, around 1565, he realized the series called “Months”, commissioned by a wealthy merchant of Antwerp. Today, just five of these pictures are left scattered among museums in different countries: “Hunters in the Snow”, “Dark Day” and “Return of the Herd” are in Vienna, “Hay Harvest” in Prague and “Wheat Harvest” in New York.


Every picture shows an ample landscape where peasants attend their work according to the seasons. High mountains close the horizon in the background, valleys, caressed by winding rivers and dotted with tiny villages, stretch in the back of golden fields and meek cattle. Trees are grouped in the foreground. People repeat gestures unchanged from centuries, wearing coarse clothes and caps that hide their faces. Every element, carefully proportioned and positioned, contributes to give movement, depth and height to the picture. A wise use of colours enhances the spirit of the seasons: the warm, dazzling yellow for summer and the vibrant green for spring, lightened with coloured fruits placed in baskets. Winter privileges the grey-green shades of a day with no sun and the black-brown of the trunks. These echo the outlines of three hunters that, followed by a rich pack of hounds, have reached the hedge of a hill. A consistent stratum of snow covers the far mountains, the valley, the rooftops of small houses and the steeples of churches. People are everywhere: some skate on an iced lake, others just look at them while a man drives a carriage nearby; two women walk near a frozen mill and another carries a bundle of sticks on a bridge. A blazing fire, surrounded by a family, explodes on the left of the picture. But, the list of smoking chimneys, of little horses, of people engaged in amusing or working activities in the cold, dim light should be longer than this to include all details chosen with a poetic but firm eye. The truth and harmony of this winter scene reveal, with the beauty of nature, the difficulties and joys of life.

Bruegel was attentive to nature, interested in its unavoidable cycle symbolized, as in medieval tradition, by the peasants’ work “… but (he) modernized the stylistic expression of the conception with consummate artistry” (Charles D. Cuttler, 1968, 480). Just from the XVI century, landscape, portraits of common people as well as objects, flowers and fruits began to be considered as possible subjects of a picture and not as mere backgrounds or accessories. The Netherlands was the country where this process began.

People are strange, the same details that create a true masterpiece to me, as this snow that lowers the sounds and creaks under the feet, for others are just boring.

“But what meaning have all these principles if taste is a caprice and if there is not an eternal and immutable rule of beauty?” (Denis Diderot, 1991, 102; tr. Travelinagarden).

Denis Diderot, the French philosophe, wrote these lines in 1766. In the previous 100 pages he had analyzed colours, perspective, design and composition, stating his idea of painting, ripened during his activity as art critic started in 1759. His answer involved experience, study, sensitiveness and sometimes the intervention of reason to learn to see the true, the good and the beautiful in a picture and enjoy from this delightful emotions.

In the evening I would light up my fireplace. Its waving flames would warm the room and give life to the picture and to the story it tells.


Museum visited:
Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria
http://www.khm.at/en/kunsthistorisches-museum

Further reading:
Northen Painting from Pucelle to Bruegel, Charles D. Cuttler Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. New York 1968

Elogio del quotidiano, Tzvetan Todorov 2000 Apeiron Editori S.n.c. Roma

Saggi sulla Pittura, Denis Diderot, Aesthetica edizioni Palermo, 1991.

Photos:
Travel in a garden, Vienna February 2009.