Is it art?

Inspiration happens in dialogue

Recently I was in a park in Belgium, where perfectly trimmed yew sculptures lined up like silent sentinels. Fascinating shapes, bold accents – and as attentive readers of these pages will know: I love yews!

It wasn’t just a beautiful sight – it was above all a moment of inspiration.
And that’s as vital to my work as air to breathe.

But where does it come from?

Inspiration doesn’t appear out of thin air. It’s born in dialogue. With other people, with places, with what has been – and with what could be. Just like a good chef doesn’t learn to cook a feast on a deserted island, but through exchange – with other chefs, other ingredients, other cultures.

That’s how landscape architecture works. And probably every creative craft. You observe, you talk, you experiment. And sometimes you just sit in a park in Belgium and take something with you – not in your suitcase, but in your mind.

Yews that make a building speak

That place reminded me once again of the powerful effect that beautifully shaped yews can have. It’s immediately visible: they give the ensemble posture, tension, rhythm. They are like musical rests in a score – without them, everything would feel monotonous.

Freshly trimmed, with crisp edges, they stand like sculptures. They hold their shape for eight months, then start growing again. In spring they develop a soft fuzz, then comes the next cut – June, July – done.
Simple. And yet so effective.

It’s exactly this contrast that counts. Between architecture and nature. Between glass and green. Between structure and vitality.
The yew cubes add depth to the space. They give it a sense of dramaturgy. Without many words.
But with great impact.

Art or no art or wrong question?

And then there’s this question that keeps coming up: is it actually art?

A well-known gallerist once got quite upset that things like my beloved yew cubes are called “sculptures.” That, she said, should be reserved for real art.
And yes – maybe garden art isn’t art in the classical sense. But it is applied art. A creative discipline. We create things that touch people. Spaces that open up. Places where people want to live.

Strictly speaking, architecture isn’t art either. But no one would deny a good architect their creativity. It’s the same with garden art. We don’t design for the eternity of a museum, but for life. For the view out the window. For the evening light. For that moment when a building finds its stage – its perfect passepartout – through just the right touch of green.