Work in my Cotswold garden has stalled somewhat. The kitchen garden is just
starting to come together – of which more next month – but of necessity it
is playing second fiddle to another project. It’s the first Sunday in May
and, for me, this month means only one thing: the Chelsea Flower Show.
This year, I’m fulfilling a long-held ambition and designing one of the
gardens. Admittedly, it’s in the new Urban category (which replaces the Chic
and City gardens of former years) and measures just over 16ft by 16ft,
rather than being a main show garden, but I’ve warned my family and friends
not to expect to get any sense out of me between now and the end of the show.
Chelsea, which begins on May 20, is arguably the biggest event in the global
gardening calendar, showcasing the achievements of the finest designers and
growers from all over the world. I’ve been visiting it since I was a child.
It often includes sights of such beauty, they make you want to give up
everything else and devote your life to growing plants. It can also be
maddeningly busy and overstimulating, but it is always a piece of theatre.
I’m a Londoner, so it’s my local show, and I love it.
The show has also figured hugely in my professional life. As part of the BBC’s
team of presenters, I’ve spent the past six years commenting on other
people’s gardens. But 2008 will be different. For the first time, I will be
combining my role as presenter with that of designer.
It’s time to put my money where my mouth is, and I’m certainly feeling the
pressure. Chelsea is a very public stage, and I really want to produce a
garden worthy of the setting and the attention. The whole process is likely
to be more exposed for me than for some of the other designers, because the
BBC is following my progress in the run-up, so there’ll be a camera in my
face when glitches occur – as they no doubt will.
Most uncomfortably, the cameras may also be there to capture my reaction when
the medals are handed out – or not. This can be great fun when the designer
has tears of joy streaming down his or her face, but it is ghastly for
everyone when the result is not what was expected. I have had the unenviable
task of interviewing friends and colleagues after they received a silver
gilt when they were hoping for gold, and I’m praying the adage “what goes
around comes around” doesn’t apply in a couple of weeks’ time.
The answer is to try to keep sight of the fact that creating gardens is not a
competitive sport, and I’m determined to remind myself, when the time comes,
that while a medal would be a wonderful bonus, the real prize is having had
the chance to do a garden for Chelsea at all. I’m also trying to ignore the
hype, although a certain amount of media exposure is desirable for the
sponsors – the fashion house LK Bennett and SG Hambros bank – without whom
there would be no garden. It’s important to focus on the main objective and,
at this stage, I’m keeping my head down and getting on with the business of
making the best garden I can.
Designing a Chelsea show garden is a lengthy process. I was initially
approached in 2006, but, with a young baby, I felt I wouldn’t be able to
give it my all. When asked again last summer, I decided it would be madness
to let the opportunity get away. Once I’d agreed, the race was on to come up
with a design, which had to be submitted by October.
Suddenly, the world around me became a pattern book. Interesting shapes,
textures and proportions were everywhere. The smallest detail would leap out
at me as I ran for a bus or trawled the supermarket, and I’d stop
mid-conversation to take photos of bits of paving, railings, shop fittings
and skylines. I tore scraps from magazines, saved bits of tissue paper
because I liked the colour and collected fragments of fabric.
LK Bennett couriered over swatches and pictures that conveyed the direction of
its 2008 collection. Equally important were images that had appealed to me
for years and would influence my design: the elegant lines of Cecil Beaton’s
costumes for the Ascot scene in the film of My Fair Lady, for example – most
particularly, Audrey Hepburn’s cartwheel hat. Barbara Hepworth’s sculptures
from the late 1950s and early 1960s, which incorporated harp-like stringing
(there’s a prime example on the side of the John Lewis building on Oxford
Street, in central London), gave inspiration for my own sculpture, which is
one of the dominant features in the garden. I also found myself drawn to
vintage fashion illustrations, particularly those depicting the
wasp-waisted, rose-printed silk dresses of the 1950s.
The initial problem was not a lack of ideas, but trying to narrow down the
swirling mass of thoughts and inspirational images into something with the
makings of a coherent design. I always work best under pressure and it was
only in the day or so before my first presentation to the sponsors, in
September, that these disparate ideas began to settle into four or five
themes.
Once we’d agreed to focus on one of these – out went a black-and-white garden,
and another centred around a space for entertaining – I developed my
abstract musings into real design elements and structures, eventually
creating a computerised drawing with the help of Clifton Nurseries, in west
London, which is providing the bulk of the plants. I also made up a
photographic “mood board”, which helped to convey my ideas for materials,
colours and plants.
When it came to plants, I knew from an early stage that I wanted to include
roses. They are often highlighted in the magnificent nursery displays at
Chelsea, but are rarely the main players in the show gardens. I want my
garden to have strong contemporary lines, softened by voluptuous planting
reminiscent of a traditional country garden. That means roses are a must, as
are herbaceous peonies, bearded irises and aquilegias in shades of soft pink
and burgundy. All this softness requires good bones to hold it all together.
Long-term evergreens, including box, and plenty of interesting foliage – for
instance, a large Cercis canadensis ‘Forest Pansy’, which has rich
plummy leaves – should provide the solidity needed to stop it all looking
too blowsy.
I soon learnt that a small garden does not mean less work: the time and effort
involved is certainly disproportionate to the size of this garden, which is
no bigger than the average patio. Most important was producing a detailed
brief for the Royal Horticultural Society in October, which set out my
intentions. The judges will later refer to this and decide whether I have
delivered what I aimed to achieve – marks can be deducted if you veer too
far from the brief.
In a small space, the design has to be really sharp and every plant has to
earn its keep: there is no room for flabbiness. It’s hard to resist the
temptation, though, to fit in more materials and plants. This is something
I’ve often noticed when commenting on the smaller gardens at shows – now I’m
on the other side, I can see how tough it is to be disciplined enough to
leave stuff out. Getting the balance right will be one of my main
challenges, and I hope I’m brave enough to risk losing points for not
following my brief exactly if I think the garden would benefit from the
removal of some of the plants on my list.
Another challenge is achieving the level of plant quality I’m after. The
design elements and hard landscaping may shape the garden, but I got into
this business because I love plants, so for me they’re the stars – and I
have hundreds arriving on site in the week before the show. (We are not
allowed to start building the gardens until 7am this Friday.) I can be
extremely finicky when it comes to positioning them, and will find it hard
to delegate this stage of the process.
On the night before the show opens, you’ll doubtless find me on my knees,
tweaking, polishing and coaxing every leaf. I have already found myself
doing some pretty strange things. I get worryingly excited by bits of
walling, take sneaky photos of strangers’ front gardens and frequently stay
up surfing the internet for a specific plant until the birds start singing.
Occasionally, I surface from this Chelsea madness and realise that it must
seem ridiculous to devote so much time, energy, money and attention to
developing a garden that will exist for only a week. But is the lasting
impact of a performance in the theatre or concert hall diminished by its
brevity? Does the fact that a Michelin-starred meal no sooner hits the plate
than it has disappeared take away from the pleasure it delivers?
Fleeting creations – including show gardens – live on indefinitely in words,
photographs and, above all, people’s memories. This is a labour of love – of
course it’s worth every bit of effort I can muster. And, when I’m back in
Oxfordshire sowing carrots, I know it will all seem like a dream; impossible
to hold on to, but cherished for the rest of my life.
Rachel will be reporting on the progress of her garden next week
