From its origins, gardens have been understood as delimited spaces separated from wild nature: it doesn’t matter if by stone walls, fences, or symbolic marks. Into its boundaries, we create a designed nature that talks about our desire to inhabit another worlds, testing alternative possibilities of the outside. The feeling of nostalgia or the utopian reverie of a better future underlies even in the humblest garden. These kind of spaces are like small islands where one can fantasize about building a better world, but they also work like the perfect escapist excuse.
Although I do not own a proper garden, from some time now my studio have become my particular field of essay for a dream place. This space has gradually transformed to recreate my own paradise, built with precarious materials and found objects.
There, in my garden, I fantasize about a rich nature that provides everything effortless, without sweat. There are bright objects at the bottom of the springs and the coins are lying all over the grass, just like in El Dorado. The constant flow of water whispers about abundance, fertility and celebration. There, money is not a problem and working is not imperative.
My fertile Arcadia is outside any time, any productive time. That distracted joy, once only reserved for Sunday rest, there, it seems to invade the other days of the week. Even the air density seems to change, it feels lighter. Time has turned into a raft. While there, I had accumulated delays in my work delivery times, which, to tell the truth, are completely indifferent to me.