MOUNTAINS AND MOLEHILLS
Yesterday we awoke to banging and a remarkably prolonged crash. The boulders were being delivered.There are stones – refined things that sit sedately in their walls – and then there is Wild Rock. These are the elephants, the blue whales, the T-Rexes of the landscape world. As big as small cars, traffic stopping, and sitting in my yard.
This collection – nearly a dozen – came from Western Massachusetts. They may as well have come from the moon, looking more like meteorites than anything from this world.They were all chosen by the contractor, based on virtues specified by the architect. Size matters, but so does shape, proportion, and dimension. Color is important. Lichen is good. As are striations, fissures, and other geologic elements of interest. They pull me up out of my two dimensional world of often-unfurled landscape plans into the tangible third dimension in which everything has height and heft.
Suddenly we have left the tame, magazine-slick world of pretty lawns, manicured shrubbery, and carefully pruned specimen trees. Now we are in the realm of earth science with these artifacts of raw energy; matter at its most massive. I think of Stonehenge, of Easter Island, of stellae personifying ancient gods. I think of these rocks as alive.
Awe-inspiring they may be, but, as it turns out, they are here only on spec. They sit like sprouted toadstools, awaiting the discerning eye of the architect, who will say which shall stay and which shall go. Talk about bringing the mountain to Mohammed.He arrives. We exclaim over them in turn, giving each its due, and he pronounces his verdict. They shall all stay. He will incorporate them as found objects into the work.
So now I am now the bemused owner of a sculpture garden.