Sense 05 — Holding Colour

on grasses and the in-between

At this time of year, colour appears differently in the landscape.
Not through flowers or brightness, but through what remains.

This week, I visited a garden I designed a few years ago. As I walked through the gate and along the side passage, the space opened out in front of me and, without making a conscious decision, my pace changed.

It was the grasses that did it.

Even after rain, they caught the light. Buffs and bronzes, soft golds and muted browns; colours that hadn’t announced themselves, but had settled into the environment.

As I walked, my attention shifted from looking at, to touching, the landscape. My fingers moved through the grasses without much thought, testing their weight and texture, while I listened to the low rustle as they moved against one another, responding to air and what passed through them.

What I was feeling wasn’t separate from what I was seeing. Colour arrived through resistance and sound as much as through light, and was felt briefly in my hands before I moved on.

The grasses stood upright in the garden, statuesque but not fixed, adjusting subtly to their surroundings. Behind them, Fagus and Carpinus still held their autumn leaves, deepening the palette. Browns layered against browns, the garden settling into itself.

As I moved through the space, I became aware of how often it’s these colours that catch me at this point in the year, not just here, but across gardens and wider landscapes. The tones that remain in the in-between.

I stayed with it for a moment longer than I meant to, and then carried on.