Many Edens
Olivia Laing's seventh book begins as a portrait of a time halted: the lockdown, a house in Suffolk, and the dream-effused labour of restoring the walled garden attached to it. As the author tells us, she came to homeownership late, "renting till [she] was 40," and to her lifelong passion for cultivating a garden of her own under circumstances of personal duress: forced to move when her mother was outed as gay, she found solace in childhood trips to National Trust homes with her father. It was her proximity to injustice that led Laing to gardens, and this unlikely book attempts to trace the grotesque that underlies this idea of paradise.
Take, for instance, Eden, and the attendant idea of a sublime, failsafe sanctuary that all earthly gardens are based around: reading Milton amidst a pandemic, an ongoing housing crisis, and the onwards march of the Far Right, Laing recognises gardens as sites inescapably political, on which the grotesque reality of existing power structures is writ large alongside the urge to forget about them. As she works her hands into the dirt and brings her own garden to bloom, she also attempts to trace - if not uncover - the history of slavery, colonialism, empire and enclosure on which the notable gardens of England have quite literally been built - those sublime estates that symbolise the status quo in a country where over 50% of land is owned by less than 1% of the population.
For Laing, as for those like W.G, Sebald and the utopian socialist William Morris, gardens - not least in their idea of slow, seasonal growth outside the capitalist logic of productivity - can also be a site for imagining utopias and cultivating radical futures. As with her previous books, The Garden Against Time is embedded with heartfelt forays into the lives of artists and thinkers whose life and work advance Laing's central argument: the "peasant poet" John Clare, with his flowers and his ailing letters to his son, is emblematic of the devastating psychological impact of being dispossessed of one's ancestral land, as many were during the Enclosures movement of the 18th century; Derek Jarman's garden in Dungeness prompts us to think anew of plague, repose, and regeneration. Laing also sees the possibility of gardens as "rebel states," taking us back to La Foce in Italy, which served as a shelter for refugees during the Second World War.
Though imbued with a sense of injustice, Laing's attempts to grasp the remedial and revolutionary potential of Eden is presented to us in lush, verdant, sensual prose - not neatly pruned, but "floriferous and floppy," with blooms, colours, sounds, and smells clashing and pushing up against each other unlike in the fixed, seamless landscapes designed by the likes of Capability Brown. In an interview with The Independent, Laing describes this as a way to offer the reader respite during this journey into Edenic thinking. This, in my opinion, is only as successful as the degree to which the book works to welcome readers into recognising the uncomfortable facts behind our ideas of idyll and visualising gardens as spaces for resistance, friendship, and care: The Garden Against Time falters in its survey of the present; the connection between the author's emotions and the happenings in the world around her often feel forced, glib, and only tangentially engaged.
This is certainly not Laing's best work, but nonetheless important. It does the critical work up until a point - after which it is up to us, as readers, to carry on the work of reimaging...