Shining Prospects: a Conversation

Interview of Roger Raiche by George Waters

Pacific Horticulture Magazine

Fall 1997

For whereso'er I turn my ravished eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground

Addison, Letter from Italy

Ascending the lower slopes of the Berkeley Hills along winding streets lined with turreted gothic  villas, Tuscan farmhouses, and shingle clad dwellings in the Arts and Crafts manner, I arrived one spring morning at a sliver of land on which no structure was at first visible. The entrance had the casual air of a small farmyard, but no animal sounds greeted me. Through a small wicket gate a few yards from the asphalt road I saw mown grass. A voice not at once traceable to source called; I opened the gate and saw Roger Raiche seeming sky-borne and reaching into the branches of a tall cotoneaster. He was on the roof of a single-story house pruning the tree--a necessary and satisfying job, he said, but made less pleasant by the dusty indumentum on the leaves.

The sliver of land, I now saw, ran like a ledge along the steep hillside, tapering to a point at the far end. The topographical limitations of the site were balanced by a superb view over San Francisco Bay directly in line with the Golden Gate and its famous bridge. This, surely, was what had attracted Bernard Maybeck, the architect of so many of Berkeley's finest buildings, to the place nearly seventy years before. The house was an assemblage of add-ons curving a little to fit the site and each, it seemed, an experiment in construction. The most remarkable of these was clad with sacks dipped in an aerated slurry of cement and sand fastened wet to the walls and left to dry like huge shingles, in the hope that the completed walls would resist fire. Nothing of the sort would be possible under modern codes, but the improvisational character of the building suited the surroundings perfectly.

The garden, too, shows leanings towards experimentation. All sorts of found and recovered items support, threaten, or are companions to plants. An old shovel blade tops off an erection of broken concrete paving, lumps discarded from the glass blower's crucible, and an earthenware pot whose brownness accords with that of the rusty shovel. The grayish hues of succulent plants protruding from the structure are something of a provocation. A smaller pot overflowing with Antirrhinum pulverulentum is crowned with a teepee of rake heads. Barbed wire woven with greenery encircles a pool in which a carved head drowns as it is succored with a descending trickle of water.

This was irreverent and highly entertaining, but far removed from his work at the University of California Botanic Garden, Berkeley. Are there two Roger Raiches? At the botanic garden he is responsible for, among other areas, a native garden that in its immaculate presentation and scrupulous maintenance is a superb shrine for devotees of California plants. In his own garden, it seems, another personality is at work. Here plants in great variety, though almost always having distinctive foliage, are used playfully. It is a collection of miniature theaters--stage sets in which a well informed plantsman reveals a little of his ambition and background. The pruning complete, Roger came down from the roof to show me a little more of the garden as we talked.

GW: A view such as you have here does something for the spirit. I could spend hours noting the shifting effects of sun and cloud on the city, the water, and the hills.

RR: Yes, we're often distracted by the view westward across the Bay--San Francisco and the Marin Headlands framing the debouchure into the Pacific Ocean. You could hardly go wrong with a setting like this; it's a good starting point for making any garden. Most people feel that with this view one doesn't need to garden at all. I take it as a compliment that many visitors get so absorbed in the garden here, they are surprised when they look up and notice the view.

What did you find when you moved into this garden? Drainage must be perfect on this hillside, but what of the soil?

About the only pre-existing plants are the trees: a lovely old Cotoneaster lacteal Arbutus unedo, Cupressus macrocarpa, olives, California buckeye, bay laurel and coast live oak. The borders and the entire back hill were completely overgrown except for a few trails. We removed many truck loads of weedy shrubs like French broom, blackberries, cotoneasters, pyracantha, and mountains of ivy and Vinca major.

The soil is generally horrendous, either clay, bedrock in parts, old road debris forming the back hill, and the lawn areas overlay an old tennis court and driveway. Even getting a shovel into some areas is a challenge, especially in the dry season. I find a pick or mattock the most useful tools.

Does the western exposure limit the range of plants you can grow?

Not really; I'm an adapter. I like the challenge of taking whatever constraints are pre-existing and then making them work for you. If anything, the western-facing areas of the garden are blessed by the late sunlight, and the warm colors of sunset, something you can not replicate with other exposures, and quite frankly, priceless. For example, when the phormiums are illuminated and back-lit at sunset, they become flaming swords of radiant color--a complete transformation from their rather muddy, opaque colors at noon.

Despite your enthusiasm for natives, your garden is not devoted to California plants.

Let me just say for the record, that I love each and every Californian native plant dearly. That said, let me also say that I feel strongly that the best place to appreciate and love California native plants is in their natural habitats, which are frequently under serious threat from so many sources. Growing California natives in urban and suburban gardens is great, if that is what you want to do, but protecting them in the wild should be every native plant enthusiast's first priority. Beside that, I've gardened with natives as a full time job for seventeen years at the Botanical Garden. I enjoy coming home and playing with something new. And, if you look carefully, there are many natives incorporated within the planting schemes here. I don't share the peculiar notion, that natives should be used only in totally native gardens. And as for the idea that a native garden is by definition somehow superior to a non-native garden, I find that utterly preposterous.

Please don't get me wrong, there are many really good reasons for using natives in gardens. But the best reason for me to choose any plant for my garden is because it is the best plant for that site; one that best produces the effects I want to experience in that space.

This part of the garden on the slope is distinct from the rest, yet blends smoothly into it. What guided that planting?

The Mediterranean Hill came about as a sort of keystone between the development moving up the hill from the lawns on the west, and from the back of the north side of the house. Both of those areas are shaded by old trees -- thus logically woodland gardens -- but as you moved up the hill you are suddenly out in the hottest, sunniest spot on the property. Also, as you can clearly see, with its very steep slope and appallingly bad soil of stones, cement, asphalt and other debris pushed over the edge when the road above was built, it was no great insight to choose plants from tough, sunny, rocky sites.

However, most credit for turning a precipitous bluff of rubble into this magnificent garden, goes to my roommate, Tom Chakas. He finally decided to start gardening here, and it was the last part of the yard that hadn't been developed by me. Over the years he completely transformed this precarious slope into one of the most creative rock gardens I've ever seen, and it certainly must be the most sophisticated use of Mediterranean plants on this continent. His work has been an enormous inspiration to me.

(The sun rose over the house dispelling the morning chill. We sat to admire the plants in pots on the patio whose leaves were brightened in the rosy light, especially the young deep purple shoots, yet only two inches high, of Epipactis gigantea 'Serpentine Night,' a native orchid that Roger found in the wild, named, and introduced to gardeners. Their new growth pleased Roger immensely.)

Where were you born, and were your parents gardeners?

I was born and raised in Newport, Rhode Island on the southern coast of New England. My father gardened, not professionally, but to have an attractive yard and to provide fresh fruits and vegetables during the summers, and to do a little canning of surplus.

What kinds of plants were grown at home?

Mostly those usually seen in suburban yards in the 1950s or 60s. Privet hedges, forsthyia hedges, chain link fence covered in Japanese honeysuckle. The front white picket fence was entwined with a multiflora rose, foundation plantings were of spreading yew, pieris, spiraea, hybrid tea roses, tulips, peonies, oriental poppies, chrysanthemums, gladiolus, petunias, marigolds, cosmos and dahlias. I remember a row of Japanese azaleas that were a special pride of my father, and a dazzling highlight of spring. And there were apples, pears, rhubarb, raspberries, strawberries, blueberries, grapes and a wide selection of vegetables.

But more than those plants, it was the gardening techniques that my father taught me that were most important. Once you learn that you can grow things, and how to grow them, you've got the skills that allow you to deal with any plant you'll come across.

I'll always remember being shown how to sow a row of seed in my father's coldframe when I was just six or seven. What a thrill to see them germinate, and then the even greater anticipation and thrill of watching the first bud open. It was an intense purple magenta petunia, and it was just the most exciting moment for me. And later there was the composting of debris, raised beds, trips for manure and seaweed, forking soil, and so on. I remember being amused in the seventies when I read about the new craze, French intensive gardening. It was how my father and his father had gardened.

Did your father encourage you to help in the garden?

My father very patiently showed me the techniques of basic horticulture. But once I became aware of the thrill of gardening, it was more the case of my insisting on gardening than the other way around. If there has been one constant in my life, it is the need to garden, and I wouldn't be surprised if it were a genetic character. But my parents, especially my father, encouraged me and gave me garden space and made every attempt to accommodate my need for acquiring new plants.

Were there childhood influences in addition to your parents, that led to your interest in plants?

Growing up in Newport was influential. Even though in the fifties and sixties, many if not most of the grand estates built at the turn of the century were poorly maintained, many in ruin or decay, at least as far as their landscapes are concerned, the magnificent trees and wide range of shrubs always fascinated me. There were so many gorgeous plants that I didn't know, or see in suburban neighborhoods, that I longed to grow. And the estates that were still well maintained enthralled me with their precision, their intricate detail, and their nearly impossible level of control over nature. To this day I thrill to see meticulous gardening; it truly is an obsession and an art. But ironically a great influence on my work today are the ruins of gardens, with their almost magical stimulus to my imagination. Exploring the overgrown ruins of some of these Newport gardens I would be forced to try to imagine how they looked in their prime. But my imagined garden was often more exciting than the photos I later came across of the real thing.

Did your education strengthen any latent wish for a career in horticulture?

Not really, although if I'd been more clear with myself, I would have realized that my aborted training in architecture was really a desire to create landscapes. Though now, with the passage of time, I can see the two fields are quite similar in principles, except that landscapes are in perpetual change. Permanence is fine for architecture, but death for a garden.

Where did you first garden for yourself?

It was as a child at home. My father had made space initially within his garden for my earliest plants, but soon I moved over the fence onto undeveloped city land, since we lived at the end of a dead-end street. I maintained this small garden until I left home for college. After leaving college and moving to a commune in the Finger Lakes area of upstate New York, I created several gardens there. It was at this time that I really started learning about the vast quantity of horticultural material that could be obtained through mail orders and specialty nurseries, and I was willing to try any plant I could afford, and to read about those I couldn't.

Gardens here in the West are quite different from those of your childhood. What caused you to make the move?

Well, there were many factors, but if you're as enthralled with gardening as I am, the ability to garden twelve months of the year versus six nearly says it all. But I also loved what I had seen of California both natural and created. The appeal of California was simply irresistible, and in retrospect, I believe I was always meant to be here.

Your interest in native plants has developed greatly with your work in the Botanical Garden, and several fine cultivars have resulted from it. Which of them are your favorites?

I think I would phrase it differently. My work at the Botanical Garden has developed greatly from my interest in, and love of, native plants. I believe that it was my attempt to transfer some of the splendor and intricate patterns of nature to the Botanical Garden setting that made the plantings so powerful. Part of that attempt involved finding the most exciting and intriguing examples of some of our wide ranging and highly variable species, and to attempt to grow them well. Favorites? It's a little like a parent trying to decide which child they like best, but I suppose Ceanothus 'Kurt Zadnik,' Arctostaphylos pajaroenisis 'Warren Roberts,' Epipactis gigantea 'Serpentine Night,' Rhamnus californicus 'Leatherleaf,' Festuca californica 'Serpentine Blue,' and, of course, the monster, Vitis californica 'Roger's Red,' would be my top six.

Are you led to new plants by their novelty, or have you criteria for plants introduced to the garden?

Yes and yes. And by novelty I mean something new to me; unfortunately the word is sometimes tainted by suggestions of being cheap or tawdry. Novelty represents a new option in gardening. It's not just that it's the latest blue corydalis from Heronswood nursery, but often it is just what I've been wanting for that shady slope under my Daphne caucasica, whereas the previous Euphorbia amygdaloides just didn't quite work right. And I learn because I'm willing to experiment with an unknown. I think that I, like most gardeners, are searchers, always looking for the right plant or effect. So I develop these mental filters, to catch a potentially valuable new item when I meet it or read about it. And let's face it, novelty titillates; I like it when a garden titillates me or other visitors.

Irises are among the most useful of western natives. Did you raise those I see here from seed, or are they named kinds from the nursery?

Most are selections from wild coast iris, Iris douglasiana, though by now there are many self-sown seedlings mixed in. I used a few named and unnamed hybrids, such as 'Canyon Snow' and some wonderful orange-rust colored forms that were not labeled. However, I should say that iris, on the whole, are on their way out as the plantings evolve. Initially though, they were indispensable, simply for covering ground, looking very naturalistic, and having such magnificent flowers.

In addition to a multitude of plants, there are many artifacts--jars, recycled pieces of iron and so on. Do they have meaning for you, or are they simply decorative?

It's hard to generalize, since there are so many objects brought in for many different reasons or effects, but I guess the simple answer is that I like re-using things. I have always been fascinated by the simple beauty of many cast off objects from our society, be it broken chunks of concrete, bent rebar, ceramic chimney pipes, rusty tools, what-have-you. I like the dynanic of siting them in non-traditional settings so that these inner characters--be they sculptural, color, or associations from their former uses--can be brought out, much the way the beauty of plants can be enhanced by creative placement with non-traditional associates. I think of it as a type of reincarnation for discarded objects. But beyond the individual objects and their specific placement, collectively they contribute to the sense of being surrounded by ruins, but not really any specific ruins associated with any particular time or place. And much the way archaeologists might piece together fragments to create a story about some ancient civilization, I see these objects in my garden as fragments that the garden viewers must string together in their own minds to create some narrative. The narrative should evoke ideas, mood, and a sense of place. The objects are like some background chant, ancestral voices guiding our reverie. So the garden visit becomes a journey, linking what is physically in front of you with the imagination of what might have been before. When successful, it removes you from your everyday reality.

But back to your original question, the collections of objects are meant to enhance the theme of each garden space, and serve as a stage for the plants. This sets up an exciting counterpoint between object and plant. I think my Sulfur Spring is a good example of a powerful balance between objects and plants synergistically creating something entirely unique.

I've noticed how you name your gardens spaces, such as Fire Pit Terrace, Head-in-the-Hole Spring, or your Sulfur Spring. Are they places you've visited?

Only in my mind. Actually they represent a collection of places that I've seen or explored, somewhat of a composite image, but a fantasy on that image. The idea is to convey the impression of discovering one of these very special--to me anyway--Californian spots: an abandoned fire ring, a road-side spring, or a sulfurous hot spring. To evoke that impression, I use exaggerated architectural, sculptural and plant material, again to push that sense of the almost other-worldly-familiar yet not familiar. Although these garden sites are the most derived from a particular source image, I feel the entire garden is in essence a homage to California, natural and altered.

You share the garden as well as the house with Tom Chakas. Do you agree on what should be done in the garden, or are there differences that need to be reconciled?

We have separate areas, though few would be able to figure out these very precise boundaries between our respective zones, just by looking. Although we might take mock offense at having our respective styles confused, we complement each other's sections extremely well. I can honestly say that his work has inspired many new paths for me to explore in my garden making.

You recently cut back your work time at the Botanical Garden and have begun a career as a garden designer. What do you feel best able to offer your clients?

My partner David McCrory and I see our landscape design business, Planet Horticulture, as offering gardens of great originality that explore areas of horticulture previously neglected for cultural reasons--humorous gardens, even erotic gardens perhaps. If the client can imagine it, we'd try to create it.

And we hope those who own rural land would like to understand how their property fits into the larger natural landscape and that they'll want to know how to improve the natural values of their piece of earth. It seems tragic that so much rural landscaping and land use destroys or negates qualities inherent in the site rather than enhancing them. We want rural gardens to bring out the magnificence of nature, while providing for human needs. Until we celebrate and prize our native landscapes, we will continue to lose them, and the definition they provide of our own view of life.