During this crazy time, during which all kinds of things are either unavailable or only accessible in strange circumstances, I have been reflecting on the things that have defended the quality of my life. I surprised myself today by the realisation that very high on that list would be the garden.
It has been a fairly strenuous day, as I decided to give the hedge separating us from the street its annual thorough cutting. It is of beech, and varies in height between two and three metres. Because it is also fairly deep the effort of reaching into the middle of it at the top requires quite a bit of effort …. and a reasonable sense of balance, perched on top of the step ladder. Hedge-cutting is one of those tasks that doesn’t actually require a great deal of thinking, although it does demand mental focus, so that it permits the mind to frolic about a bit. I was rather taken aback by the realisation that in terms of its contribution to my well-being the garden is up there as a close rival to painting.
It operates at the “other end” of being, however, in that art involves the free range of the imagination, whereas the garden in solidly grounded in material reality. In both cases there are important points of reference in relation to which problems and anxieties (such as those resulting from our current isolation) are put into some kind of scale of importance and relevance. Both, actually, entail a combination of engagement and physical effort that is very healthy.
I am really profoundly sorry for people, of whom there must be many, who are enduring isolation with no outside space of their own, and especially where they are trying to care for children. There are all kinds of things in my life for which I have come to be grateful during this period of upheaval, but the garden is well up the list. Given the value I attach to it, however, it is curious that I never feel the need to use the garden as subject-matter for my painting. I wonder why that is.