Louis Benech

hube: The garden is an example of creative cooperation between man and nature. A garden pretends to be nature, a garden argues with nature; a garden is both the worship of nature and its subjugation. How would you explain your dialogue with nature? How does it work?

Louis Benech: It’s a relationship between man and nature. However, when you create a garden, it’s totally artificial, so, in my head, it’s clear that it’s not natural. Nevertheless, nature is a huge inspiration in my work, even on my own land, and nature is even more important when I’m working abroad with plants that are not my “native” plants. I need the maximum knowledge about how things work in a place. For instance, I always use plants that are native to the place that I am working in, whether that is the US, New Zealand, Korea, or Spain. I love being inspired by the way things are in each place. Using the plants you find around you is a way of being rational and responsible in your work. From there, I always try to add a bit of seasoning, if you will, by adding ex otic non-native plants. Except for historical places, I’m not a fan of such visual aesthetics, but I find beauty in how these plants blend together.

In 19th century Europe, some exotic seeds started growing. You can see them when you drive in the French countryside, cedars and sequoia trees are good examples. When you see these, you know there is a bigger house in the centre of these trees because they were planted more than a century ago and they reflect older trends.

If I have to work in such a place, I’ll try to reuse elements that match the site and its life. Because even though the formal Le Nôtre style of garden is genius, and I’m not saying that just because I’m French, he analysed the landscape before planting anything. He opened his garden to the general landscape, while most Renaissance gardens in central Europe—except in a few places in Italy where you had views and the houses dominated the landscape—were enclosed by walls. The desire for the outside wasn’t visual, it was to be protected from bigger animals, or from people. But Le Nôtre opened his paysages on to the landscape. He used the natural geography [of a place] as a backdrop to his perspectives. He knew perfectly well how to transform levels, how he could tell a story through a landscape composed of “the nature” of his well-groomed composition and “the nature” of the wild.

h: A garden is a dynamic structure. It constantly interacts with light, rain, wind, changing seasons, and the cyclical process of life, death, and rebirth. It is closely related to time. This feeling must be vitally important for you, could you tell us about your relationship to time?

LB: My relation to time is very important. I’m always in a hurry. Nowadays, people want bigger plants, bigger trees to be planted in their new places. To that, I always reply that if you adopt children, would you adopt them when they’re 55 or three weeks old? Some people just don’t understand that a garden is connected to life. I imagine it small, and I picture it growing. I’m old enough to have seen the garden in which I planted seeds that have now grown into trees. When you plant an adult tree in a garden, it always looks small in comparison to other mature trees that have been there for a longer amount of time. Planting is never about the size. If you plant bigger trees, they won’t move at normal speed because of the age they were when they were transplanted. When they are transplanted bigger, the root system isn’t the same; they might be more fragile, more liable to fall down if there is a storm. Having said that, time is also money in people’s heads and it’s true. In my opinion, it is nonsense to try to rush such things, it goes against nature. A tree planted in good condition when it is small will always grow taller and, to my eyes, faster than the same species of tree planted when it is big.

h: If we consider gardeners as artists, it seems that their art resembles theatre, dance, or performance. It encompasses the feeling of the moment, of improvisation, transience, fragility, and precise planning. How does your creative laboratory work?

LB: I’ve been thinking about that a lot, because everybody sees gardening as an artform. Through his installation work, Joseph Beuys is, to my eyes, one of those rare artists who describes their work like a garden (because of its ephemeral character). The garden is a living art, akin to performance, theatre, dance, movement. I’ve never thought of myself doing my gardens as if I were a painter. If I were able to write music, I would say gardening is more like writing a score. A mix of feelings and atmospheres. It’s not directly connected to music, but music is the result of people playing the score. It’s not exactly like painting or sculpture. To me, the garden can’t be considered “pure” art in the way that art today, and throughout history, has been valued. Even though it’s worth time and money, you still can’t sell a garden. It merely adds value to a place. Once it’s done, it becomes a liability because you have to maintain it. I think the funniest thing about a garden is that it’s the last place on Earth where trees resist the crazy trends of our modern world. I feel a bit old school and not at all progressive regarding this matter. Let’s take architecture in comparison. Every year, the world has a new tallest building. But this trend of getting bigger and taller doesn’t affect gardens. Gardens are very stable and the creativity we have as gardeners is rather minimal compared to other mediums of expression.

What I’m trying to copy are unspoiled places, places untouched by humans. The world of gardens is antinomic to what’s happening. The garden is a true look into the future. It is where you’ll see something growing and dying too, because it’s alive. Every day, people become less connected to nature. They want bigger things, and they want them to be eternal, but nothing ever is. Stones may be eternal but they’re not a living material. Gardens are plants before being considered as architecture. In a garden, you can’t control everything. Generally speaking, the real beauty of nature does not reveal itself by following the plan you’ve dreamed of, the pleasure lies in the fact that it gives you surprises. And I’m a person who’s fond of surprises.

h: Gardeners often name their works. These names prompt the viewer to look for narratives beyond the surface. They also inform our perception of the works. Do you feel like naming is important to you?

LB: It’s very important to name a plant, but I never name my garden as a work of art. I’m happy when people think that no one before went through the story because everything is in the right place. I never plant anything thinking that people will wonder who the human being was behind it. For people who are not knowledgeable about gardens, I want things to be calm, quiet, gentle, soft, and smooth. I hate brutality. I hate violence. The garden is a world of peace and harmony. I want random people to push the gate and not feel the hard work that went into the garden as they step inside it.

h: Artificial selection in gardening is a science that changes the traits of plants, ex panding the colour palettes of flowers and the varieties and taste of fruit and vegetables. Do you follow what is happening in this area, and what do you expect to see in this area in the future?

LB: Yes, I do, and I am interested in new hybrids and new selections. But I have few expectations because I’m not knowledgeable enough regarding this matter. I feel more and more withdrawn when I hear these new topics discussed. I’m not very confident about the future. When I look at the trajectory of my life, where I came from, where I’ve gone, where I am now, I can see that I welcome change in my life. Let’s take the phone for instance, a new habit that we can’t live without. There are plenty of things happening all the time, and unless they tickle my curiosity, I can’t say I’m trying very hard to keep up with them. We probably all feel a bit lost because in most areas things are going extremely fast, and many new things bring with them potential drawbacks, whereas, when you’re working with plants and nature, there are very few chances to make mistakes. I’m leading quite a simple life and I feel more and more like I come from an old planet. I would hate for people to think that I’m backwards, but it’s true that the garden itself is very resistant to change.

h: Do the fictional gardens that populate other worlds and planets in film and art make you jealous?

LB: Not at all, but they can be sources of inspiration. A garden in a fictional story is a place where you can cheat in terms of space. You don’t want to cheat on normal things—you can’t cheat the natural process of growth. Le Nôtre was really good at making people think that the gardens are much smaller than they are, because he wanted people to walk in the garden. In Versailles, you have the fountain of Latone that you can’t see from the Galerie des Glaces, nor through the Parterre d’Eau. It’s only when you reach the steps to the Parterre of Latone that you come across the surprise—and if you keep going, you may find some more! Among the arabesque lawns on a sandy platform are three round pools, the largest being Latone, mother of Apollo and Diane, and two smaller pools. From the sky, they form a triangle and resemble Mickey Mouse’s face. From here, you can see the tapis vert (green carpet) which slopes down towards the Bassin d’Apollo and the Grand Canal. From a higher vantage point, the three spaces have exactly the same proportions: One! Two! Three! Le Nôtre’s careful and intentional design was intended to showcase the power and glory of Louis XIV, known as le Roi Soleil—the Sun King.