The landscape is glorious, isn’t it? Inspiring, even. It has been captured by lenses and written about in books, with a whole genre: pastoral, dedicated to it. Analysis surrounds the compulsion of the artist to re-create every detail – from the majestic to the obscure – in different, creative forms.
In the words of Margaret Drabble: “The desire to turn landscape into art seems a natural one, though it is hard to say precisely why painters and writers should labour to reproduce in paint or words what each of us can see with our own eyes. But we all see differently, and the writer’s work is a record both of himself and of the age in which he lives, as well as the particular places he describes.”
In the words of Margaret Drabble: “The desire to turn landscape into art seems a natural one, though it is hard to say precisely why painters and writers should labour to reproduce in paint or words what each of us can see with our own eyes. But we all see differently, and the writer’s work is a record both of himself and of the age in which he lives, as well as the particular places he describes.”
The idea of vision and, more importantly, how we perceive the world in which we live is one that has been nagging me for some time. It is apparently the duty of the artist and author to attempt to tell the truth, but the idea of deftly sculpting something realistic is daunting. It is perhaps the reason why so many like to merely imagine themselves as a writer – the ‘perfect’ novel remaining safe and intangible in their mind, rather than precarious and tasking on the page. The process of writing is often compared to birth, with Virginia Woolf observing the challenge of trying to produce an idea “entire... as it was conceived”.
Similarly, it's a struggle to evoke the subtleties of the light on the fields, or a hush between the trunks, without falling into one of two traps – cliché or over-extended description. Clichés are like the fruit most easily picked from the tree, requiring little more than a nudge to fall into the hand. They are accessible, lazy and creep in when we’re not thinking. How many times have we heard “swaying grass” or “glittering lake”? These reduce the landscape to flat statements, reinforcing what the reader already recognizes, rather than suggesting something new or exciting. At the other end of the scale, there are lines after lines of description – perhaps perfect on their own, but overwhelming when read en masse. To return to the tree metaphor, these branches are so heavy with fruit that they could do with pruning and cutting back. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule, where rich imagery increases the effect of the story. Nevertheless, the author must do more than just place pretty pictures in the head – they should observe, collect and arrange the real world in a suitable form. There's a process of selection, from the choice of characters and setting, through to the themes and structure.
In the same way that we romanticize the past, I think there is also a certain amount of idealisation extended to the landscape in literature. Folk tales and myths favour rural settings – filling them with imaginary highwaymen, goblins, gypsies, knights, enchantresses and fairies. They are places of magic and mystery, where anything could lurk beyond the next corner of the lane. Of course, the reality is more one of tractors and crops – the countryside is a working community, much like anywhere else. And yet, even the practices of farming have been re-imagined in the novel. Pastoral, as mentioned above, busied itself with shepherd boys and milk maids for many, many years. These archetypal characters were entirely fictional – many of the hardships of cultivating land and animals hidden beneath the perceived idyll of the hills. And it is, in part, an idyll. Where else could I return from college, put on wellies, and be standing in a field within three minutes? Petty worries are put aside when staring up at the sky - a concave roof pinned at the edges – or when watching the sun disappear behind trees.
Much like a city, the countryside is a place full of contradictions and juxtapositions. Decay of indigenous communities happens alongside the stunning views of villages; teenagers sit on bikes at bus shelters, scrawling graffiti while a photographer admires the church down the road; milk quotas make work hard for farmers while the enthusiast cultivates an organic vegetable patch. Like life, it is a jumble of differences. Maybe it is important to celebrate both the realities and fantasies linked with any place; acknowledging the negative while celebrating the best and most brilliant parts.
The photos above are of my very beautiful friend Lettice, who allowed me to style and snap my camera at her over the Christmas holidays. We spent the day padding around a nearby wood – seemingly conforming to the idea of a picturesque landscape - with bags, clothes and her ukulele in tow. The clothes are all mine, apart from the purple draped dress and floral skirt, which are hers (as is the elephant necklace – an item of jewellery that belonged to her late aunt, which she always wears).
The title is from Andrew Marvell's 'The Garden'.
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