Cloud Pruning And Organic Topiary

This is an excerpt from the Book called “The Art Of Creative Pruning” by Jake Hobson. Continue reading to learn more about Cloud Pruning And Organic Topiary, thanks to the author.

Two Cloud Pruning And Organic Topiary

A lot of people think of topiary as being formal, geometric and slightly old-fashioned. I supposed it can be associated with a certain scale and grandeur that might not apply to everyone’s garden, even though in reality topiary can fit into any setting, however modest. While this book focuses strongly on gardens that approach topiary in a fresh, individual style, it is worth backtracking to look at, in my opinion, the mother of all topiary gardens, Levens Hall in Cumbria, England.

Levens Hall has one of the most spectacular collections of yew and box topiary imaginable, in all shapes and sizes. It is packed with traditional topiary shapes such as multi-tiered wedding cakes, pyramids, spirals, top hats and mutated chess pieces, but look further and all is not as it should be: some forms have taken on a decidedly organic character, as though they were made of wax and exposed to the sun for too long. Definition is lost, in favour of natural, flowing lines. The landscape of Cumbria is called top mind: the dark, looming hills of the Lake District, one moment shrouded by heavy rain clouds, the next brilliantly illuminated as the clouds race on.

There are forms that could pass for a cubist rendition of a tree here (who knows, Picasso did like experimenting with his materials) that are not dissimilar to Japanese niwaki, the garden trees that are pruned and shaped to fit seamlessly into the landscape of Japanese gardens. Speaking to Chris Crowder, the current head gardener at Levens Hall, who has worked there for 23 years, I was interested in knowing if there were any Japanese influences on any of the topiary in his garden, but it turned out that the topiary here was more the result of various generations gradually asserting their own influences, along with time, the weather and the tree’s own feelings coming into play. Heavy snow-falls, collapsed trees and various other natural problems over the years have affected the shapes of the topiary at Levens Halls as much as the gardeners themselves, with the response of the current team being to work with, rather than against, these setbacks.

When walking round the gardens, what struck me most at Levens Hall was the way that the individual yew trees blend together to create a surreal landscape, a wonderland of shapes. Some are strong and boldly defined, while others slip, quietly and slowly, into some otherworldly slumber, reverting back to the natural world from whence they came. My visit to this garden reminded me that the art of topiary is not the controlling of plants, but a collaboration with them, pruner and plant working together. No matter how sharp the shears, or keen the eye, the tree will always contribute its own presence to any pruning project, and inevitably, over time, it will prevail.

So, from any own point of view, having singled out what I find exciting about a garden such as Levens Hall-the wonky, gone native shapes rather than the formal stuff-it does not take long to appreciate that, in England at least, such examples of organic topiary are everywhere. Without straying far from my native country of Dorset, I began stumbling across them wherever I went. They often appeared in the form of hedges-examples such as these are usually known as cloud pruned hedges, although I have never entirely hot on with this term, finding it to be too vague, as it describes not only big, old, billowing hedges but also Japanese garden trees too. A better description, I have decided, is organic topiary-the complete opposite to formal, classical topiary-which reflects the natural systems, landscapes and phenomena around us.

One of my favourites of all the big, bulbous, yew hedges is the one at Brampton Bryan in Herefordshire, England. It surrounds the church and grounds of the Harley Estate like a row of resting elephants, or perhaps decayed sand castles on the beach that have been almost washed away by the waves. They spill over the wall of the estate with all the yeasty energy of a home–baked loaf. A drive through the countryside around Brampton and further west into Wales offers glimpses into where the form of Brampton’s hedges might come from. The Welsh term for the particular topography of the area, the lumps and bumps that make up the glorious landscape here, is twmp and the hedges at Brampton Bryan seem heavily in dept to them. They are defined by light, and the light in Wales comes flooding across the hills in glorious dashes, showing itself as a magic presence before being chased away by ominous, dark clouds.

Set in the chalky landscape of Wiltshire, England, the lovely village of Winterbourne Dauntsey has some fantastic old box hedges, particularly at one private home, The Grange. The gardens here were renovated by the current owner some 25 years ago, and one of the first jobs of the project was to reshape the overgrown hedges. Clipped once a year, they have settled into being fine examples of the art, in a very English setting. Vast, writhing, slightly intestinal worm-like forms line the drive, arching and twisting like The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Interestingly, the same lane in Winterbourne Dauntsey has a fine example of a topiary peacock. The plume of the peacock merges with the thatched roof of the cottage in which garden it stands, reminding me of the well-known thatched cottages and box hedges of Chipping Campden in the Cotswolds, posing the question: does it get any more English than this?

Hedges such as those at Brampton Bryan and Winter-Bourne Dauntsey are still clearly rooted in their origins and function. They are still effectively hedges and their form, however unusual, fits roughly into the physical norm of what we expect a hedge to be. Venture into the depths of West Dorset however, to the pretty town of Beaminster, and the notion of what constitutes a hedge has been stretched to its limits. Once again, it is yew that is the culprit (although within the gardens there also lurk some fairly substantial box trees and one or two very impressive Phillyrea latifolia). From the outside, the boundaries of the property are fairly well kept, but the outline of the hedges owes more to the stunning coastline of West Dorset that to a town garden. The exaggerated outlines of Golden Cap, the highest point on the South Coast, not so far to the south of here, seem to have crept into play in these hedges, as anyone who has attempted its steep ascents and knee-jarring descents will testify.

The boundary restrictions on the outside of this yew hedge have had a predictable effect on the inside-such a vast hedge had to grow somewhere, and as it could not go out, it went in: great swollen globules of it have spilled out on to the lawns like melted ice caps or beached whales. Some plants are individually defined, while others flow seamlessly into larger shapes. Smooth, flowing lines are punctuated by looming, dolphin-like humps. Seen at different times of day, the yew takes on new characteristics. The rich green of the foliage in the sun turns a threatening black in the shade, while at dusk, the dark shapes are silhouetted in a still, foreboding manner.

Clipping this hedge is an autumn job, taking a good week for the gardener, using a collection of ladders, a portable scaffolding stage and a long-reach hedge trimmer. No hand shears here, due to the scale of the yew, but when watching the gardener at work, it is obvious that as much care and skill goes into using the hedge trimmer as it would on any smaller scale job with shears.

It is interesting to compare the organic yew topiary of Beaminster with the azalea karikomi of Japan. Much karikomi is on a fairly small scale, with individually clipped blobs often no more than 2 ft. (60 cm) high. At Shisendo-in, north east of Kyoto, however, huge banks of azaleas flank a path, effectively doing the job of a hedge. As at Beaminster, the influence of the landscape here seems instrumental-on a larger scale, this could be the tree-clad mountains of Japan that ruin down the spine of the country. Consciously or not, nature is at the root of all these hedges.

One last piece of organic topiary that deserves a mention and is also close to home in Dorset is perhaps the most remarkable of the lot. Tucked away behind the A 35 road lives a remarkable yew tree, and this really is a tree, in size, shape and proportion. Whereas most of the organic topiary one comes across is in the guise of hedges or other forms of rounded topiary, this is a free-standing tree, at least 30 ft. (10 m) tall. Its story began back in the 1930 s when the tree, growing close to the owner’s house and becoming a liability, was curt back. It was chopped at around 8ft. (2.4m), leaving a straight trunk that was expected to re-sprout, but rater than sending out new growth from the top, it sent out suckers from the base, one of which became dominant and started a second life for the tree. Twenty years ago, still being so close to the house, this new tree needed pruning too, so it was curt back to a framework of branches. That framework became the structure of the present tree, and since then it has been shaped and clipped every year. Even more amazing than the tree itself is the fact that the owner is in his 80s and spends most of August on the yearly clip, using a collection of ladders to get at all the braches and to climb into the canopy of the tree itself, from where he can reach the very highest central parts.

Over the years, this tree’s branches have got denser and denser-they started off virtually bare, and gradually thickened up-until now the whole thing resembles a massive head of broccoli as much as anything else. The annual clip is done entirely with hand shears, but what is interesting to me is how similar this tree’s creation was to that of Japanese niwaki. Cutting back evergreens and conifers to provide a new framework for them to grow to is known as fukinaoshi in Japan, a common nursery practice which literally translates as to re-do or start again. The new foliage that emerges from the cut branches is then trained and clipped into shape, giving the character of a mature tree in a more contained scale.

The tree in Dorset is unique among the yew topiary of England in that it is the only one that I know of that is pruned, in a perverse way, to resemble a tree-something that places it nearer the Japanese tradition of niwaki than the English tradition of organic topiary. The idea that one might deliberately prune a tree-and a large one at that-into a tree shape, rather than a geometric, topiarised form, might seem slightly absurd to some people, but it all makes perfect sense when the effect is actually seen in the flesh-by recreating a tree in this manner, both its character and that of the creator are evident, an essence of tree as perceived by the artist. Similarly shaped trees are to be found in the Retiro Park in Madrid, where specimens of Cupressus Sempervirens are pruned into large, brain-like topiary. At first sight, these trees seem at odds with their surroundings, out of context and slightly surreal, especially considering that they are Italian cypresses and have no right to be growing in this shape, but on further inspection, they sit comfortably within their formal environment and are a strong reminder of what is possible with a sharp pair of shears and a bit of cunning.

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Cloud Pruning And Organic Topiary

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