I’m working on illustrative maps for a historic housing development near Los Angeles. It’s not artistically challenging: pretty much involves digitally tracing scans of the original as-built blueprints, and color coding plant material as specified by little numbers on the as-builts. I’ve learned a lot by tracing the work of a practically forgotten master landscape architect. The last set of drawings has changes scribbled all over, trees scratched out, new numbers hastily written without proper erasure, and it’s driving me crazy. Is that a 4 marked over a 9? Or a 9 marked over a 4? Or a 6 scribbled over a 5? I bet Fred Barlow Jr. never expected his work to be on the National Register. I bet he never thought someone would be studying it in preparation for a restoration plan. I’ve nigh lost my vision and pulled out my hair trying to decipher some of the lines and material notations.
I don’t expect to design permanent, lasting gardens at this phase of my career. I hope to be a master designer someday, and to be an expert plantswoman. Some of Barlow’s favorite plants are invasive here in Southern California, so even he didn’t necessary make perfect plant material choices in this landmark design. But by golly, I’ve learned a lesson here: write legibly in the final drawing. Erase things completely. Correct the key. And for that measure, place the key on the plan, because this one has been lost.
My husband and I live in Los Angeles. He works with people experiencing homelessnes and in drug/alcohol addiction recovery; I work as a garden designer, consultant, and lecturer, helping landscapes recover. We think the two are connected more than it may seem, and hope to start a farm that combines them deliberately in the near future.