Saturday, 23 February 2019

fever gardens

I'm clearing out my studio at the moment, and one of the things I've been finding is ruined little pocket art books. These were a regular feature at the charity bookshop I worked in for years, and we kept them filed in an impulse purchase box by the door along with Penguin 60s, little books of whatever and similar amuse bouches of the book world.

Periodically items from this box which perfectly combined mangled with magnificent came home with me. Toulouse- Lautrec reproduced in unforgiving monochrome. Masterpieces of Surrealism with all the rude ones ripped out. Pocket classic Hieronymous Bosch, spine-splintered and spilling plates.

When I'm ill (I've been ill) I spend my time asleep tumbling through weird, endless gardens and vast, stately houses, gripped by anxiety and a sense of not belonging. I house-sat quite a bit as a child, which might be where this comes from, long weekends of looking after incomprehensible parades of ill-behaved pets and shivering in front of unfamiliar televisions while ugly and valuable things loomed from the darkness all around me and flies buzzed in the ad hoc double glazing that was de rigeur for listed housing at the time.

There's little inspiration in these dark grim childhood gardens. Compare with the H-B psych-out garden:

Check out this amazing fountain design:



And here, an innovative owl box:


Here are some interesting ways with shrubs:



 And a delightful canopy idea:


Not to mention this startling statuary


Many many more details may be found here.

Now that's the kind of fever garden I could really get my teeth into.

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