Only connect
Whilst researching Luton Hoo, and in particular Madame de Falbe, I began to wonder if this walled garden can be interpreted by our 21st Century thoughts and feelings. In other words, does the garden have a finite longevity, or does the recent restoration process bring it back cyclically to its original state?
The issues raised by my thoughts are that our roles as spectators of the rural have altered over the last century or so. It is no coincidence that the further industrialisation of Britain post-World War Two came about at the time that this garden began to fall into disrepair.
Now, the government enforces carbon footprint limits, there are catalytic converters on cars, there is recycling of waste… The perception of 'the garden' has changed considerably. Despite being walled, Luton Hoo has not been able to escape the socio-cultural ravages of the great industrial changes.
Through my photography I explore the connection between Madame de Falbe and her expectations and interpretation of the walled garden and our expectations of it as a garden today. Have we improved ourselves socially and culturally since this time, or have, as E. M. Forster feared, we lost our spiritual connection with the land, with the earthy Britain we took ourselves from. Is Luton Hoo an elegy for times gone, or, through the restorative process, will it be once again the vision that Madame de Falbe anticipated - even if it is renovated to its previous state, will our history prevent us from seeing it in the same way? What is our connection with the garden, with rurality; with the post-Victorian artistic unease associated with mass mechanisation?
Only Connect was made during my residency at Luton Hoo Walled Garden.
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uncommon ground
I
I slipped a shawl on over my shoulders and went down into the garden. There was a foggy dew upon the grass and the trees were shrouded in a white mist. I felt the dew collect on the hem of my night dress, pulling me down towards the earth. There was a slight chill in the air, and a fresh breeze circulated inside the garden walls.
I could feel you there, almost see you in between the trees.
II
Over the years railway lines were added to the east bank of the River Lea. I asked for a thick belt of trees to be planted along the St Alban's road boundary to block the mechanical drone of the train.
As I walk along the bank of the river many years on, I watch as the train is enveloped in the shadows of the trees. Body blurred with motion, it moves on without consequence for the countryside it invades.
III
I watch as Charles Butters, our Head Gardener, sets his men to work. The youngest of all is tasked with mowing the lawn. As he pushes the lawnmower across the grass the cylinder blades rotate feverishly, severing the grass at its base. Manicuring it to perfection as they say.
IV
One summer I fell ill. I spent a week indoors in my bed. I had them bring up fresh flowers every day for my room, cultivated from the glasshouses. They would arrive fresh, with water droplets shimmering on their petals, but after a few hours they invariably sagged beyond the lip of the dry vase they had been put in.
After a few days of watching their petals shrival and die, I asked a steward to bring me some of the flowers from the woods, situated outside of the garden walls, With wet clumps of soil still bound withing its roots the wild flowers were placed in a pot on my dresser. I felt as though you were with me again, watching over me; nurturing me back to health.
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V
The sky starts to cloud over, and the rain comes down in tiny clear droplets. I run for the glasshouses, seeling shelter. On my way, I pass the water storage tank, where tumbling rain sinks into the dark abyss of the container. I skim my fingers across the surface of the waters and colours rise up in the wake of my fingers: blues, purples, fuschias - all garish in their appearanc. Oil had been allowed to contaminte the fresh rainwater.
VI
It was a week before the party. I came down to the garden to find that the stewards were already preparing, already arguing over which way was best to arrange the seating outdoors. My attention waned and I started to look around the garden, their argument ceased to be words and became white noise. At the same time a blackbird ran from underneath the shrubbery towards the lawn in swift, short bursts, every now and then stopping to tilt its head and then violently stabbing at the earth with its beak.
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