Garden built for the Radicepura Festival
Date: April 2025
Role: On-site Support.
WHEN STRUCTURE MEETS LIFE
This was the second garden I worked on during the Mediterranean Garden Festival. At first, I’ll admit, I had some doubts. The rigid, rectangular forms and the clearly defined architectural structure gave me a feeling of confinement. It seemed like a garden without breath — almost like a cage. But I was also curious: I wanted to see how my perception would shift as the project took shape.
The garden was designed by two architect siblings from Granada, Fernando and Marta, with whom I immediately developed a beautiful working relationship: cheerful, open, generous.
My role was to support the designers alongside the site team. We started with layout markings, then traced with lime the exact positions of the large terracotta pots. We dug foundations at those points to place circular steel profiles, which would support the vertical structure of the upside-down pots, all the way up to the roof. It was a task that required great precision: once the profiles were set in concrete, nothing could be adjusted. To check alignment, we would position ourselves in line with the row of posts — if we could see only the one in front, it was a success!
After several days of assembly, the columns were ready. We then began building the roof, placing wooden beams around the perimeter. The critical challenge was to find a structurally stable solution that could support two more levels of hanging pots. It wasn’t easy: between artisans’ proposals, SketchUp models, and many site discussions... we finally settled on two overlapping planks — a strong, efficient, shared solution.
Then came a lighter and more playful phase: painting the pots. Each one was hand-painted, following the patterns created by the designers. It was a joyful, collective moment that brought energy to the entire group.
And yet, until that point, I still didn’t feel we were building a real landscape. It was a fascinating structure, yes — but rigid, distant. I didn’t feel it was “alive.”
Then came the plants.
We planted Citrus reticulata (mandarins) heavy with fruit, slightly offset from the original plan, to create a new entrance and open the view toward a majestic solitary carob tree (Ceratonia siliqua) about fifty meters away. An unplanned focal point — but a beautiful reward.
At the entrance, two Citrus limon welcomed visitors with their brilliant yellow lemons. A sequence of Mediterranean shrubs followed: myrtle, Salvia muirii, Pittosporum tenuifolium, Myoporum parvifolium, Viburnum ‘Coppertop’… The painted pots held aromatic plants — calamint, lavender, asparagus fern — which added fragrance and character. On the roof, geraniums alternated with airy, threadlike plants, like dancing “hair” swaying in the breeze.
And there, at the very end, when the site fell quiet for a moment, I finally felt the garden.
I sat on the bench, surrounded by color, scent, the soft movement of leaves, and the sound of birds. The shadows cast by the netting above created a calming visual rhythm. My body relaxed. I didn’t want to leave.
That’s when I understood: plants give soul. You can design a perfect structure, but it’s the living, imperfect, fragrant, moving green life that brings depth, emotion, and welcome.
In that moment, I felt the full power of biophilia — our ancient bond with the living world. For millions of years we were immersed in nature, and though we’ve been separated from it for only a century, the body still remembers. And when it finds it again, it doesn’t want to let go.
