Texture and noise

Bramble & Briar #72

Texture I can live with. Not too noisy, even in the places where the forget-me-nots have gone mad

Winter is a great time for taking stock in the garden. Which is handy, because suddenly, it’s December, and winter has arrived.

I’ve been out here for a while, staring at the flowerbeds and wondering about the difference between texture and noise. I’m not even sure if this is a thing you’ll find in books, or courses, unless it’s a course from me, and that’s not something I’ve written, yet. But I think I know what I’m getting at. I should explain here that there is clearly one part of my brain that is quicker on the uptake than the other – the part that will coin a phrase, something like “texture and noise” for instance, and instinctively understand exactly what is meant, while the other, slower and perhaps more meticulous, gets left with the job of articulating exactly what’s being suggested, in such a way that it might make sense when offered up as a concept to someone else. Slow brain has yet to catch up and ask its annoyingly precise questions at this point. Fast brain just knows that we like texture, and don’t much care for noise. The one is multi-layered, complex, and pleasing to behold – almost chewy, in a synaesthetic kind of way (neither brain actually has synaesthesia, though both tend to reach for a food metaphor before any other when describing aspects of plants and gardens). The other is also complex, but it’s a complexity that creates a niggle, bordering on anxiety.

Just now, as the colour starts to bleed out of the natural world and frost, when it visits, runs its diamond-crusted highlighter along the edges of things, texture comes into its own, rapidly promoted to the governing principle most likely to enchant the onlooker now that Floral Splendour has hightailed it out of the garden and headed to warmer climes. My appreciation of texture, though, seems to be dependent on a fairly limited colour palette. Monochrome schemes of beige and biscuit are good, perhaps with the intrusion of a cool, bluey green. Or more vibrant greens with russet hues. Throw in too many shapes, or too many colours, and the noise level seems to rise.

Evie just happens to be standing in a particularly noisy spot – the achillea on the left, the random golden rod on the right, and the sambucus stems need a proper prune. The muddy path doesn’t help, but no wonder she looks a bit unsettled

This is not an assault upon weeds. I can gaze at a patch of ground that nature has planted and become lost in its complex harmony – the variety of plants selected, the instances of each, the interplay of colour and form. A weedy patch rarely strikes me as noisy, and has much instruction for the student of planting design. When I come across an area that strikes me as noisy, it’s usually one I’ve planted up and left to its own devices for too long. I might be in denial about something that’s seeding itself about too freely, or sending suckers out on land grabs throughout the flower bed, or responding vigorously to some a really cack-handed pruning job I did that had more to do with accessibility than aesthetics. It might be mimicking the behaviour of some of the more thuggish weeds, but it’s not a weed – not a wildflower, at any rate – and as an invited guest, it needs to behave with more decorum. Otherwise, it’s just as much of an ill-mannered oaf as the chump who put it there, and then wandered off to another corner of the garden for a couple of years.

Just to the left of the spot in the photo with Evie, harmony is restored. Frosty oak-leaved hydranga viewed though the spent stems of Althaea cannabina

I’m quite pleased that much of the garden seems presently to be falling into the chewy texture category, and I think I’m starting to listen to the ick that alerts me to the areas with the most noise. The winter months give us a clear run at editing the beds and borders, and I’m going to make the most of the next twelve weeks to cut out the rowdiest characters and bring a little more decorum to the whole.

Another step back, and more monochrome texture fun with the althaea

working together

A quick heads up. The current cohort of my one-to-one online programme, A year of garden coaching, is coming to an end, meaning I have some availability going into 2025. If you’re thinking that this could be just what you need, do add your name to the waiting list here so you can be the first to know when enrolment opens after Christmas. And drop me a comment here or a reply to this email if you’d like to find out more and have specific questions, or to book in a fifteen minute discovery call. I’m really looking forward to working with you!