The Team on Tops | Landscape Architecture Magazine

By any count, Presidio Tunnel Tops had an unusual number of women in construction and project leadership. They say there are good reasons for that.

By Anne C Godfrey

Three women sitting on the ground at the park.
The Meadows, sitting directly on top of the Highway 101 tunnels, is a place to gather and enjoy the views. Photo by Rachel Styer.

An unexpected amount of rain fell on the Presidio Tunnel Tops construction site this past October. The rain was a mixed blessing; though welcomed by parched San Francisco Bay Area residents, it had damaged parts of the job site. Kerry Huang, ASLA, a senior associate at James Corner Field Operations (JCFO), the project’s design partner and landscape architect, said that layers of soil and plants were torn out of one of the embankments, despite the recent installation of erosion control blankets. Huang is a construction manager for Tunnel Tops, one of an unusual number of women who are project managers on this high-profile project.

Managing the daily occurrence of unpredictable events defines the construction phase of any project, and effective problem-solving is the coin of the realm. Project managers representing the client, the design team, and the general contractor are responsible for moving construction forward, one day at a time. A project manager who works with adversity, communicates clearly, and draws from a deep wealth of skills and expertise cultivates trust on the team. And trust keeps everyone moving toward the finish line.

Photo of Kerry Huang on the site.
Kerry Huang, ASLA, James Corner Field Operations. Photo by Rania Rayes.

Tunnel Tops opened to much fanfare in July. Designed by JCFO for the Partnership for the Presidio, Tunnel Tops is the long-term vision of the late Michael Painter, the founder of the landscape architecture firm MPA Design: a series of parks along and on top of tunnels built over a regraded section of Highway 101, known as Presidio Parkway, which runs along the northern edge of a historic former army base. The suite of diverse projects—Quartermaster Reach marsh, Battery Bluff, and Tunnel Tops—creates a connected park sequence with Crissy Field. The project was highly complex and required coordinating with the California Department of Transportation to design and construct extensive soil improvements below the tunnels and embankment to mitigate the compressible bay muds. Coordinating the input of multiple participants, including the National Park Service, the Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy, the Presidio Trust (those collectively making up the Partnership for the Presidio), as well as the City and County of San Francisco and community organizations, has also been central to this project.

The number of women in leadership roles on Tunnel Tops, especially in construction-related positions, is still uncommon. The situation is viewed as a rare triumph, although the deeper reasons for that are unexplored.

Women in construction management have varying stories, come to the profession through different paths, and experience different successes and barriers. “Good project managers are able, when things go wrong, to keep the fingers from flying around and pointing at each other,” explains Lily Siu, then a civil engineer for Magnusson Klemencic Associates, the civil site and structural engineer for the project. She says the project managers for the Presidio Trust “all have the skills to really bring people together and keep things calm.”

Photo of Lily Siu wearing hardhat and safety vest.
Lily Siu, Magnusson Klemencic Associates (now with LPD Engineering). Photo courtesy Lily Siu.

“Relationships are really the thing that makes this whole thing work,” says Paula Cabot, a senior project manager for Tunnel Tops. Cabot has been with the trust since 2016. Previously, she worked on notable projects such as the J. Paul Getty Trust’s renovation of the Getty Villa, for which she also served as a senior project manager.

Rania Rayes is a senior project manager for the trust and Tunnel Tops and worked on both the design development and construction side of Tunnel Tops. “The experience on the project’s been very challenging, but it’s been extremely rewarding in so many ways because of the relationships with the other team members on all sides of the project,” she says. Rayes came to the trust 17 years ago from private practice as a landscape architect in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Lauren Connolly, the senior project manager of construction for Tunnel Tops, says her job is all about getting everybody behind a common goal by finding a balance between respecting people’s knowledge and making sure they do their jobs correctly. “I won’t tell you how to do your job, but I will tell you that you have to follow the documents,” says Connolly, who worked on heavy civil engineering projects before she came to the client side.

Photo of Lauren Connelly in front of crane.
Lauren Connolly, The Presidio Trust. Photo by Ryan Curran White, Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy.

A theme persisted across conversations about the project: The managers are excellent communicators and support collaboration across the team. Are women inherently better at this? There are mixed opinions about this idea among the women involved; behind the excellent communication skills demonstrated by the team is the amount of experience and expertise each manager brings with her.

Cabot attributes success to managers who can help “different personalities [become] united in their view of what needs to happen on a construction site.” She wonders how much gender is tied to collaboration. She looks more to skill, experience, and cooperation for moving a project forward. Huang concurs. It’s not the gender that makes the managers on this project unique, she says, it’s that “the group of people on this project are all so talented and dedicated and smart.” With that, she says, “you’re going to have a successful project.”

Rayes believes that women more generally bring valuable qualities to this experience. “We’ve all worked so harmoniously together,” she says. “Having many women on the team may make that possible. We’re very patient, we have some great communication skills…. I just think that these are attributes that a lot of women have, and they want to be team players.”

Photo of Rania Rayes examining a tree to be planted.
Rania Rayes, The Presidio Trust. Photo by Kerry Huang, ASLA, James Corner Field Operations.

Connolly believes the idea of women being good collaborators cuts both ways. “As a woman, it helps because we’re a little more empathetic, we’re a little more likely to try to make everybody get along and figure it out. [But] sometimes that works to our detriment,” because women can spend too much time making sure everyone is getting along and not taking care of themselves.

Is there a hesitancy to make too much of some acculturated differences between how women and men communicate or work together? Siu says it’s complicated to tie certain traits to a particular gender. “It’s hard to dismantle the dynamics; you have to approach what makes it this way. To celebrate the difference, you have to call out difference.” There is a desire to both embrace and describe traits that are more strongly tied to women, such as effective communication and cooperation, and also a desire to uncouple those associations, because sometimes they bind or keep the stereotypes alive. Many of the sources interviewed pointed to men they have worked with in construction who are excellent communicators, and some women who have been obstructive to a problem-solving process. I thought about my experiences on-site as well, and it was easy to see how all of us had stories about how anyone, of any gender, could unite or divide people on a project.

Examining expectations of leadership is a different tack into this complex discussion. The default characterization of leadership still leans toward loud, outgoing, and talkative—having all the answers and dominating the conversation. Genevieve Bantle, the associate director of landscape rehabilitation at the trust, who managed the Quartermaster Reach marsh project, questions this stereotype. “I’m very conscious that leadership doesn’t look one way and doesn’t act one way, and that there are different ways to lead. Just because the person isn’t how you think they should be for that role doesn’t mean they aren’t good at it.”

Rayes has grappled with the prevailing definition of leadership as well. “If you’re not by nature very self-confident and strong, it’s more challenging when there is such a strong stereotype. You have to find your space and fight for people to acknowledge your strengths.”

Photo of Paula Cabot in hardhad and vest standing in muddy field with shovel.
Paula Cabot, The Presidio Trust. Photo by Felipe Romero.

For Siu, working with this team has been different than past experiences. “People were much more willing to listen to other people—no one dominated the conversation.” The typical large meetings were seldom forums for one or two people to tell everyone else what was going to happen. Instead, questions could be raised by all parties as a way to explore solutions for any of the problems on the table. This method supports Bantle’s observation about what makes a good project manager: “A lot of listening and not assuming that you know what’s right going into the conversation.” As a project comes close to an ending, Cabot and Connolly say it’s about keeping people motivated to do the work well, to feel good about what they have accomplished, and, as the reward, to eventually go home.

Perhaps things are shifting in terms of how companies identify qualities of leadership. Lori Dunn-Guion, a vice president and division manager for Swinerton, the general contractor for Tunnel Tops, says the COVID-19 pandemic helped her reevaluate what constitutes valuable traits in a manager. “How do we put value in our leaders around the quality, not quantity, of hours put in?” She connects this to the idea that working long hours, 10 to 14 hours a day, automatically makes a person a good leader. Redefining what makes good leadership combined with building more flexibility into the day are ways Dunn-Guion thinks Swinerton supports women. For example, Dunn-Guion’s pickup time for her daughter is part of the shared schedule, so everyone is clear, and more realistic, about when she is available. “They say to me, ‘Hey, Lori, we are ending this meeting now, because you need to go pick up your child.’”

Construction is grueling and demanding. As a project nears its end, the days often become longer and longer. Cabot explains that “a lot of life has to get really pared down and get very streamlined” at this phase. “You prioritize those things that are really important to you.”

Photo of Genevieve Bantle in hardhat, jacket, and mask in the field.
Genevieve Bantle, The Presidio Trust. Photo courtesy Presidio Trust.

There is burnout. The need for work–life balance often drives career-changing choices familiar to many women in the workforce. During this project, a female project manager for Swinerton left, in part because she found the work–life balance was too exhausting, especially with her four-hour commute from the South Bay. Connolly observes, “Others said she wants to spend more time with her kids, and I’m like, ‘She also doesn’t want to spend her entire life in the car.’”

With such a high-visibility, decades-in-the-making project, there is far more to manage than construction. As the senior project manager, Cabot represents the Presidio Trust long after the construction fencing is locked for the day by giving interviews, participating in tours, meeting with donors, and attending events. During our second Zoom interview, the finish line for the project kept stretching further and further into the future. Still suited up from another day on-site, she adjusted her chair, ran her fingers through her hard hat–flattened hair, and rested her elbows on the desk. Talking with me was just one more thing on her endless list of tasks.

Cabot and Bantle talked about the difficulty in taking a breather after a long project finishes. “There’s no break between; you go from one [project] to the next, and there is not much time to recover,” Cabot says. This circumstance creates a situation in which women go from job to job, employer to employer, to create space between those large projects. Cabot did this earlier in her career and took a longer break after finishing her work at the Getty. Bantle also feels the crunch after an intense project ends. “I wish we would get to some point where there was an ability to take a larger chunk of time off,” she says.

Aerial shot of park atop highway tunnels
Tunnel Tops connects and completes a multipark cultural and ecological system: Crissy Field (lower left), the Presidio (lower right), and Quartermaster Reach marsh (middle above the Meadows). Photo courtesy James Corner Field Operations.

Working in construction management is clearly an intentional career path these women have chosen. The demands are extensive. Sexism is still a sensitive topic—some women I interviewed shared stories off the record about past situations that have influenced how they navigate work now. When it comes to the number of women managing construction, the Presidio Tunnel Tops project is still an anomaly. The women interviewed told me that it is the first project they have worked on that includes many other women in leadership roles, on all sides: client, designer, and contractor.

Different generations have had different experiences. Cabot, Rayes, and Bantle have all worked in construction for more than 20 years and were often outliers. When Rayes first came to the Presidio Trust, she was the only woman on her team. Bantle has never reported to a woman. Connolly, in her forties, has worked with more women during the course of her career and attended the California Polytechnic State University’s construction management program with other women. Huang and Siu, both in their thirties, work in environments where many women hold leadership roles. Siu now works at the woman-owned firm LPD Engineering. JCFO had seven women leading construction administration at press time.

Yet, some basic things still haven’t changed much. Many safety equipment items are made for men and then retrofitted for women. Safety harnesses are generally not designed for women’s bodies. Hard hats don’t accommodate braids, buns, ponytails, dreadlocks, or other volume hairstyles. Sufficient steel-toed work boots do exist for women, but items like vests, eye protection, and gloves are still harder to find when smaller sizes are required. Simple things like porta-potties designated for women or a place to change clothing are sometimes forgotten, requiring women to ask for them on the job site.

Still, for many women, construction management is their calling. “You know there’s been some hard days when you’re standing in a ditch filling up with water and you don’t even know it’s Friday at 5:00. That’s when you know you’re in construction,” Connolly says. “You’re the only one there. You’re like, ‘I guess I’m gonna have to deal with this.’ You’re dragging around fence panels” to cordon off the area, “and you’re [thinking] I wish I did something else.” She adds quickly and emphatically, “and then I’m like, I wouldn’t want to do anything else.”

Anne C Godfrey is an assistant professor of landscape architecture at the SUNY College of Environmental Science and Forestry.

A Bumpy Reentry | Landscape Architecture Magazine

Girls landscape architects are finding the road from component-time to comprehensive-time function complete of potholes.

By Jared Brey

Barbara Peterson, ASLA, is a night time owl. All through the 16 many years she labored as a part-time landscape architect, she normally used the hrs of 9:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. sending email messages, doing work on styles, and stamping strategies. When her son, Eric, obtained a little older, she would pack a lunch and depart it in the fridge for him to consider on his way to the bus in the morning. She put in much of her working day carting him again and forth to sporting events and skateparks.

It was a reasonably excellent equilibrium for a experienced and mom, she states, but in 2019, when Peterson made the decision to start doing work total-time all over again, she located the occupation-lookup approach frustrating in new ways. She reported a few companies “ghosted” her immediately after the job interview method, and at minimum one particular interviewer’s demeanor improved radically after she recognized Peterson had been performing element-time for so long. Peterson preferred to create about it on LinkedIn and Facebook, but “didn’t want it to be, oh, here’s me whining and complaining,” she says. So she despatched about an casual study to gather tales from other women of all ages in landscape architecture about “off-ramping,” “down-ramping,” and “on-ramping”—taking time off from a occupation or lessening hrs and then reentering the full-time workforce.

Peterson obtained responses from roughly 50 designers, which she summarized in an write-up that she shared on social media. In it, she tried using to dispel what she claims are some of the myths about folks who acquire time absent from a style job: that they will not be passionate about the get the job done when they return, won’t be in a position to multitask, will have overlooked certain techniques or will not be equipped to learn new kinds, and so on. People beliefs replicate biases against persons who comply with “nonlinear” job paths, Peterson states. Some respondents to Peterson’s study stated they’d been asked interview queries that confirmed these biases explicitly, this sort of as how a lot of small children they were anticipating to have, or no matter if they would prioritize their families in excess of their get the job done, regardless of it being unlawful to make hiring selections based on this kind of things.

Considerably from currently being a detriment, time put in on other pursuits—like seeing how young young ones use parks, streetscapes, public spaces, or, in Peterson’s son Eric’s situation, design career sites—can give designers essential insights, Peterson believes. (Eric is in faculty now, researching architecture.)

For Jeanne Lukenda, ASLA, the vice president of communications for ASLA and the chair of ASLA’s Activity Power on Girls in the Landscape Architecture Career, studying about Peterson’s expertise was depressingly acquainted. A lot of of the problems Peterson mentioned are those people that have been talked about in professional circles for yrs and are a aim of the activity force’s operate. “Many of us [on the task force] are mid- to senior-profession individuals, and we haven’t observed enough alter in our own professions,” she claims.

Barbara Peterson, ASLA, highlights the troubles faced by these with nonlinear vocation paths. Image courtesy LPCI.

Corporations that really don’t give distinct pathways for men and women to start or broaden their family members drop out on best expertise, she suggests. Gals exclusively depart those people companies, normally which means that males who are not getting time absent to raise little ones are remaining to fill leadership roles, which perpetuates the cycle. Lukenda says the ASLA job pressure and other teams, like WxLA and the Ladies in Landscape Architecture Skilled Observe Community, are endeavoring to make expert lifestyle far better for women. “Our collective objective is to be chatting about staying the place we require to be,” Lukenda suggests.

Very last summertime, Variety x Landscape Architecture (DxLA), a group shaped by ASLA California Sierra members, held a panel dialogue on parenting and landscape architecture. 1 of the panelists, Melissa Ruth, ASLA, a principal of Callander Associates in Gold River, California, talked about the give-and-consider she had to negotiate as she lifted her sons, Eli and Leo, and labored to develop into a partner and operator of the organization. Ruth afterwards came across Peterson’s survey on LinkedIn and shared a number of activities with her.

For Ruth, it is vital that companies converse obviously to their workers what flexibility is accessible in conditions of component-time function, distant get the job done, and go away. It is tough for anticipating or aspiring parents to handle their expert lives—especially if they want to go into leadership roles—if they really do not have superior fork out, benefits, and childcare possibilities lined up. “If individuals all align, then I think it is probable,” Ruth says. “But it is absolutely [an issue] that is not solved.”

Jared Brey is a freelance reporter in Philadelphia and a contributing editor to LAM.

Natural Resting Place | Landscape Architecture Magazine

The world’s to start with Web-sites-accredited cemetery is developed as a successional forest.

By Lydia Lee 

To create a native meadow and burial ground from the previous dump, the soil down to 4 ft was screened for particles and then amended with compost. Image courtesy Alta Arranging + Design and style.

In the summer, the 400 grave web sites in a part of West Laurel Hill Cemetery outdoors Philadelphia that is known as Nature’s Sanctuary are marked only by a meadow blazing with indigenous scarlet bee balm (Monarda didyma). Memorial stones are established into a nearby wall. The location, which is specified for inexperienced burials, is the initially cemetery to earn certification less than the Sustainable Web pages Initiative (Web sites). As this kind of, the cemetery was the topic of an ASLA webinar earlier this year, readily available for buy (1. PDH (LA CES/HSW)/1. GBCI Sites-Certain CE).

To date, approximately 50 landscapes have been accredited by the Web-sites system, which was formulated jointly by the American Society of Landscape Architects, the Girl Bird Johnson Wildflower Centre at the College of Texas at Austin, and the United States Botanic Backyard garden. But Nature’s Sanctuary is the initially burial ground. “The model in this article is assisted ecological succession, in which the routine maintenance for the web-site will be carried out by nature,” states Adam Supplee, ASLA, right until a short while ago a principal at Alta Scheduling + Style and design who labored on the style. “It’s extra sustainable than operating a lawn mower over a grave for eternity.”

Concluded in 2016, the sanctuary is part of a increasing desire in green burials, an strategy that normally forgoes embalming chemical compounds and utilizes biodegradable caskets. In accordance to a 2018 report from the National Funeral Directors Affiliation, 48 per cent of shoppers are fascinated in the eco-friendly burials. In May perhaps, Washington State turned the first U.S. point out to make human composting authorized, letting the Seattle-based organization Recompose to offer you a provider that turns bodies into soil in about a thirty day period.

A plaque explains how the maintain will evolve from a meadow to a successional forest to a climax forest. Picture courtesy Alta Scheduling + Design and style.

At the historic West Laurel Hill Cemetery, green burials have been initial introduced in 2008. They were being in an area that had been previously utilised as a dump site for excavated grime and cemetery debris. On the other hand, the grave web pages ended up complicated to identify and the area was overrun by invasive species. So the business turned to Alta to come up with a formal system. Alta developed it as a mother nature preserve, with a trail network and rain backyard garden for stormwater drainage. In the process, Alta, which had used the Web pages score process as an informal guide on other tasks, realized that certification was nicely within grasp (this undertaking is qualified Websites Gold). To rehabilitate the website, the Alta crew introduced in a herd of goats to remove invasives, screened out debris from the initially 4 toes of topsoil and amended it with compost, then planted it with about two dozen indigenous grasses and shrubs.

The sanctuary is around two-thirds of an acre, of the cemetery’s 187 acres, and has a developed-in routine maintenance agreement, Supplee states. “The cemetery has an endowment to present for perpetual treatment, so those people cash can go into nurturing the trees and preserving invasive species at bay,” he suggests. West Laurel Hill’s president and CEO, Nancy Goldenberg, says need has exceeded projections, and the business is thinking about extending the approach to other spots of the cemetery. “We’re in the organization of elegance,” she suggests, “and having this normal place just provides interest and attractiveness to the cemetery.”

Image courtesy Alta Setting up + Design.

A Wilder West | Landscape Architecture Magazine

Embracing “ugly-pretty” ecology on a Camelback Mountain estate.

By Brian Barth / Photography by Caitlin Atkinson

Stormwater runoff from the property collects in a steel basin before seeping into the lawn through a series of weeps. Photo by Marion Brenner, Affiliate ASLA.

Rare is the landscape architecture client who enjoys a view of decay out their window. Lauri Termansen’s taste may be unconventional, but it fits the desert ecology of her southern Arizona home like a glove. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame glimpses of notably unmanicured native species, whose succulent pads are left to shrivel as nature intended when they fall off the mother plant. Other once-living appendages dangle from cacti bodies as they are shed—habitat for birds and insects, nature as art for Termansen.

“It’s like old skin; it just sloughs off,” she said one afternoon last December, as we walked down a hall past the desiccating arm of a Cereus peruvianus, also known as queen of the night. “I’m not big on roses,” said Termansen, who has a background in financial services and a passion for avant-garde fashion design. “I like things that are a little prickly, a little lopsided. Ugly-pretty: That’s my brand.”

The two-and-a-half-acre landscape around her 8,500-square-foot home is an extravagantly elegant boneyard designed by Colwell Shelor Landscape Architecture, a six-person Phoenix firm known for its minimalist hardscapes and celebration of the Southwest’s sublimely austere flora. This isn’t always an easy sell, especially for clients who have come to the Sunbelt from lusher locales, said Michele Shelor, ASLA, who studied landscape architecture at Arizona State University and has lived in the area on and off for most of her life. “We have a very high percentage of people who come here from elsewhere, so it takes a bit of education to convince an audience used to green landscapes that the desert is beautiful,” she said.

The view from main house to guesthouse runs along the Ghost Wash—the runoff-absorbing landscape that forms the central axis of the design.

Lauri and her husband, Eric Termansen, who are from Houston and Vancouver, British Columbia, respectively, did not bring the unyielding predilection for verdancy with them, however. “Lauri is all about water conservation and she’s all about educating her peers,” said Allison Colwell, ASLA, who cofounded the firm with Shelor in 2009 after they both worked at the office of Steve Martino and Associates.

The Termansens live at the foot of Camelback Mountain, a humped ridge northeast of Phoenix known for its wealthy residents—they live a block away from East Starlight Way, known locally as Billionaires Row—and Colwell said it’s been helpful to have a pair of native plant aficionados in the community. “They teach their friends,” said Colwell, who’s fond of predawn hikes in the Sonoran Desert surrounding the city. “Now we have another client in the neighborhood who’s willing to do it.”

“It” means letting go of the clipped hedges and acres of lawn that ring many of the local estates, while embracing the barren aesthetics of a lizard’s lair.

But the desert, of course, is full of life for those who know how to see it. At the Ghost Wash House, as the Termansens call their residence, that vitality has been painstakingly revealed.

Image courtesy Colwell Shelor Landscape Architecture.

The name references the small ravines that define local geography, which are dry except for the rare occasions when rainstorms give them a quick wash. The water slows down and spreads out as it moves down the landform, nurturing plant life, which grows more abundantly around desert washes. The house is framed by a pair of natural washes that run along the two long edges of the property. The Ghost Wash refers to a third wash on the property—a conceptual one in the middle, formed by the house and the landscape around it, which also serve to capture runoff and foster habitat. The design won a 2021 ASLA Professional Honor Award in Residential Design for Colwell Shelor, one of two ASLA Honor Awards the firm garnered that year, and a 2018 AIA Housing Award for the architecture firm A-I-R Inc.

The Ghost Wash starts with the pervious paving of the parking area at the top of the property and continues with the butterfly roof of the home—a soaring funnel that, along with a series of terraced gardens, channels stormwater into a rectangular, steel-walled basin about the size of a lap pool. This has been planted with native species that tolerate both inundation and drought. When this fills up, the water overflows through a series of weeps in the basin wall and irrigates a small lawn. “The Ghost Wash is the imaginary wash that you don’t see,” Shelor said.

Design work began in 2011. The existing house on the property was demolished, but the clients had some reservations about tearing out the 20-foot oleander hedge surrounding it. Nonnative oleander hedges are ubiquitous in the area, their dense evergreen foliage an asset for those who don’t care for passersby peering into their property. Re-creating the privacy screen with natives resulted in a border around the property with the wild beauty of unkempt hair: a layered planting of paloverde, ironwood, and mesquite trees with an understory of pleasantly feral perennials. Running along the real-life washes that flank the property, the planting was installed two years before construction on the house began so that by the time it was completed in 2016, you couldn’t see it from the street.

Like most desert trees, the thorns on paloverde, ironwood, and mesquite are more prominent than their deciduous leaves. They are the antithesis of an evergreen hedge. But they do have a dense growth habit, if left to their own devices. The trick for Colwell Shelor was to find a maintenance crew that would actually leave them to their own devices—Colwell said the habit of “shaving” plants into orderly lollipops is deeply ingrained in southern Arizona. “Our desert trees want to grow like giant shrubs,” she said. “There’s strength in being wide and multitrunked—it protects them from wind and sun. If you let the tree do its thing, it’s actually quite hard to see through. But these are not the typical maintenance principles in the region.”

“We had to train the contractor: Don’t touch the trees!” Shelor said, putting on a stern voice.

The area averages about nine inches of rain annually, much of which falls in massive dumps during the summer monsoon season. These are followed by brief flourishes of ground-level growth in washes, which the designers sought to mimic at the site—including the lengthy periods in which the green turns brown.

A planting of paloverde trees along the street shelters the home from view.

Shelor, who took the lead on the design, scoured the washes of Camelback Mountain, the upper portions of which comprise a nature preserve, to develop the species list. Fully wild versions of the natives, rather than hybrids and cultivars, were used as much as possible, especially for the smaller perennials, which were seeded directly in the gravelly soil. These include globe mallow, brittlebush, and chuparosa, a Salvia-like species whose flowers add a cucumberish flavor to salads. “Our seed mix is exactly like what grows up there,” Shelor said as she gave me a tour of the property on a cool, clear day just before the winter solstice. “The idea is that the mountain is coming down into the site. We let it go wild—this is what it’s doing naturally.”

Parts of the mountain literally come down into the site—in the form of alluvium, which fans out where the washes open wide at the bottom of the property. Colwell Shelor has re-created this gravelly ground cover as a sort of mulch, a custom blend of locally sourced aggregates, ranging from a quarter inch to six inches in diameter. Ecologists call this desert pavement; Colwell Shelor refers to its version, which it has now specified on a number of projects, as Camelback Blend.

I’m someone who is pained to see plants without a protective layer of wood chips, but bare earth is ecologically appropriate in the desert. “Mulch would not fly here,” Shelor told me. “It would kill the plant material—it has too much organic matter.”

The designers also wanted the landscape to exude the proper fragrance. So they interspersed the wash plantings with creosote, a homely desert shrub with essential oils that smell like asphalt and railroad ties, which becomes highly aromatic in the rain, its tarry-sweet aroma perfuming the landscape. “I love it,” Shelor said. “It’s the smell of rain to me. We try to put creosote in every project, so when it does rain, it’s like, yeah, I’m in the desert, not in, like, Missouri. It’s a way to remind people of where they’re at.”

Creosote bushes can live for thousands of years, becoming a thicket of branches that are half dead, half alive—what they lack in surface-level aesthetics, they make up for with inner strength. Shelor said the municipality of Paradise Valley, where Camelback Mountain is located, has been directing developers to the screen planting along the top of the Termansens’ roadside wash as an example of an oleander alternative. A green wall of the plant runs along a neighbor’s property on the opposite side of the street. “I’m almost glad it’s there,” Shelor said. “It’s nice to see the contrast.”

 While we contemplated the oleander, the Termansens’ very heavy-looking Cor-Ten steel gate creaked open and we walked into what appeared at first as a rural Arizona ranch property—the unpaved driveway surface flowed seamlessly into the cacti-covered boulders surrounding it, no edging involved. It just looked like desert. But as we walked toward the house, design features emerged.

Custom-made Cor-Ten steel crutches supported horizontal arms of cactus, with hinged slings to accommodate movement. Lighting hung inconspicuously from the branches of paloverde trees—local dark sky ordinances prohibit most uplighting, Shelor explained. We arrived at the large auto court, which was barren except for a trio of Cereus cacti standing conspicuously against a wall. Some of the Cereus on-site have bizarre genetic mutations, including the Monstrose variety, in which the normally columnar stalks develop crested tops reminiscent of an exotic bird, or perhaps coral in a tropical sea. Shelor brought me close to the tallest of the three specimens in the auto court to show me a much rarer mutation she’d sourced: The ribs of the cactus spiral and undulate their way up the stalk in a pattern that reminded me of kelp.

“To me it looks like a ruffled dress,” Shelor said, pointing out where javelina have been eating away the base of the cactus (we found scat from the small piglike animals throughout the property). “When new flesh forms, it’s very juicy.”

One of the most captivating species on the property is the octopus cactus, seen in the background climbing over a wall of the auto court. Photo by Marion Brenner, Affiliate ASLA.

The Cereus cacti are not evenly spaced, and they emerge from the paving in random-shaped cutouts, lending the impression that they sprouted there of their own accord (they did not). The design of the tan-colored clay pavers (from Pacific Clay in Southern California) merges with that of a brick wall along another side of the auto court, which shields the home from view. The tentacle-like arms of octopus cactus clamber over the wall from a bed ensconced on the other side—they appear disturbingly animate, as though they might reach out and strangle an unwelcome intruder.

This wall curves at one end, tracing a short flight of stairs that leads away from the somewhat austere setting of the auto court and into a cool sunken patio at the entrance to the house. The wall’s curvature causes it to shift, Dali-like, from a flat surface to one in which every brick is a tiny niche. I discovered a tea light nested on one of the tiny ledges, a leftover from a recent dinner party on the patio where they had been massed in this way to create a warm glow.

A giant pane of glass swiveled open on its axis and Lauri Termansen emerged with Anders, the family’s golden Lab. She led me through a series of rooms and corridors, each of which looked out on carefully curated views of various courtyard gardens, including one off the master bathroom with an outdoor shower, where the floor retracts to reveal a hot tub below. These “gallery gardens,” as Shelor calls them, are populated with “freaks and geeks”—the firm’s term for unusual desert plants, such as the boojum tree, a prickly thing from Baja that looks as if it were dreamt up by Dr. Seuss. The moniker comes from a Lewis Carroll poem, “The Hunting of the Snark”:

In the midst of the word he was trying to say,

In the midst of his laughter and glee,

He had softly and suddenly vanished away—

For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.

In Paradise Valley, Arizona, Colwell Shelor Landscape Architecture designed a residential landscape intended to mimic the natural “washes” of the surrounding desert.

The boojum tree has become Termansen’s favorite plant. She also loves the octopus cactus—“They will attack you,” she said—and the old man cactus, which wears a beard of wispy white hairs that protects the plant’s flesh from the desert sun. “It looks like a shearling coat,” Shelor said, adding that many of their design choices “had to do with bringing [Termansen’s] personality into the project.” The pattern of the brick wall at the entrance “was based on a Bottega Veneta handbag weave,” Shelor explained.

In Termansen’s daughter’s room, Anders peered calmly through a corner window perched above the lawn, where a half dozen rabbits grazed like a herd of dainty cows. “They’re native,” said Shelor, shrugging.

“I would love it if we didn’t have the grass,” Termansen said. “My husband wanted the grass.”

She’d also like to do away with her neighbor’s palm trees, which hover above the wash that separates the properties. While there are a handful of native palm groves in the state, the species so ubiquitous around Arizona pools, lawns, and streets are imports. For Termansen, they’re emblematic of the manufactured landscapes she’s on a mission to retire to the coffins of history.

“Whenever I see a palm tree in Arizona, it makes me crazy,” she said. “I want to stick a nail in them.” Termansen explained: “They die if you stick a nail in them.” Then she turned to Shelor. “Maybe you could do that for me?” Termansen laughed. “A palm tree assassin! She thinks her job here is done, but it isn’t.”

Brian Barth is a journalist based in the Bay Area. He is writing a book about unhoused communities in Silicon Valley.

Project Credits

Landscape Architect Colwell Shelor Landscape Architecture, Phoenix (Michele Shelor, ASLA, and Allison Colwell, ASLA, founding partners). Architect Architecture–Infrastructure–Research (A-I-R) Inc., Scottsdale, Arizona (Darren Petrucci). Landscape Contractor and Maintenance Mitschele’s Landscape, Phoenix. Tree and Cactus Salvage Native Resources, Phoenix. General Contractor Build, Inc., Phoenix. Mechanical Engineer Kunka Engineering, Phoenix. Structural Engineer JT Engineering, Phoenix. Electrical Engineer Woodward Engineering, Tempe, Arizona. Civil Engineer Fleet Fisher Engineering, Phoenix. Lighting Design Creative Designs in Lighting, Scottsdale, Arizona.

BAMcinemaFest Announces 2022 Program | Filmmaker Magazine

Alma’s Rainbow (Photo: Milestone Films)

BAMcinemaFest, which is returning with an in-person event June 23 – 30 at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, announced today the complete 2022 edition slate. The film opens with Paula Eiselt and Tonya Lewis Lee’s Aftershock, a documentary about the the ways in which the US maternal health system fails Black women and families, and it closes with Ramin Bahrani’s Sundance premiere, 2nd Chance, a portrait of Richard Davis, who invented the modern bulletproof vest while being something of an independent filmmaker and fabulist. Among the restorations are Ayoka Chenzira’s 1993 first feature film, the coming-of-age dramatic comedy Alma’s Rainbow, about a group of middle-class Black women in Brooklyn.

Tickets go on sale May 10, and for more information, visit BAM here at the link. The complete selection follows.

Aftershock (2022) Dirs. Paula Eiselt & Tonya Lewis Lee. Shamony Gibson and Amber Rose Isaac were excited mothers-to-be whose deaths due to childbirth complications were preventable. Directors Paula Eiselt and Tonya Lewis Lee follow Gibson’s and Isaac’s bereaved partners as they fight for justice and build communities of support with other surviving Black fathers. Aftershock shines a light on the world of gynecology—one that has a long-standing history of exploiting and neglecting Black women in America—while simultaneously uplifting the families, activists, and birth workers who are striving to bring change. From Onyx Collective and ABC News, the film will stream on Hulu domestically later this Summer. 86min. Thu, Jun 23 at 7pm.

Chee$e (2022) Dir. Damian Marcano. Damian Marcano’s award-winning breakout debut follows Skimma, a young Trinidadian man whose dreams of leaving his remote island village to explore the world are dashed when he becomes a father and needs money. Inspired by a local cheesemaker, he decides to store weed inside cheese—and sell it. 105min. Fri, June 24 at 6:45pm.

Ferny & Luca (2021) Dir. Andrew Infante. With Leonidas Ocampo, Lauren Kelisha Muller. Winner of the Craig Brewer Emerging Filmmaker Award at the Indie Memphis Film Festival, Ferny and Luca is a Gen Z rom-com set in Brooklyn. The stylish, lo-fi film follows the hot and cold relationship of Ferny, a sweet and naive pretty boy, and Luca, a rough-and-tumble disco queen, who is more concerned with chasing her dreams than chasing boys… mostly. Filled with the rhythms of young life in pandemic-era New York, Andrew Infante’s film is a joyous city symphony on the struggles of 21st century NYC. 70min. Fri, June 24 at 9:30pm.

When There Was Water (2022) Dir. Nicole Otero. A lyrical exploration of family, loss, connection, and nature. 15min. Part of BAMcinemaFest Shorts Program 1. Sat, June 25 at 1:30pm.

The Feeling of Being Close to You (2022) Dir. Ash Goh Hua. This autobiographical film documents an attempt at healing the trauma of touch between mother and child, as the filmmaker and their mother talk openly for the first time about the intergenerational trauma and abuse within their lives. Present day phone conversations are juxtaposed with archival VHS footage, creating a connection between the past and a re-write for the future. 12min. Part of BAMcinemaFest Shorts Program 1. Sat, June 25 at 1:30pm.

Portal (2022) Dir. Rodney Evans. During the pandemic, two queer BIPOC friends sustain each other through communication and connection in this short non-fiction film about the lack of touch for single people catalyzed by Covid-19. 12min. Part of BAMcinemaFest Shorts Program 1. Sat, June 25 at 1:30pm.

When It’s Good, It’s Good (2022) Dir. Alejandra Vasquez. When she returns to rural West Texas to document the effects of the boom-and-bust nature of the oil industry on her hometown, the filmmaker unexpectedly captures the political transformation that takes place in her family over five years and two election cycles. 16min. Part of BAMcinemaFest Shorts Program 1. Sat, June 25 at 1:30pm.

Winn (2022) Dirs. Joseph East & Erica Tanamachi. A formerly incarcerated woman becomes an activist and fights to legally end the shackling of incarcerated pregnant people in Georgia. 17min. Part of BAMcinemaFest Shorts Program 1. Sat, June 25 at 1:30pm.

100 Ways to Touch the Border (2022) Dir. Amber Bemak. A daring, self-reflexive documentary on the extraordinary Mexican/Chicano performance artist Guillermo Gómez-Peña’s 40-year career of radical artistic practice alongside his troupe La Pocha Nostra. At a time when the mainstream media is filled with stories about the US–Mexico border, this documentary presents the work and philosophical frameworks of an artist with a sustained dedication to highly impactful, innovative artistic interventions on that border. Including archival footage from his performances at BAM in the 90s, Gómez-Peña enacts his artistic interventions by “queering the border”—claiming all borders as queer and liminal spaces. World Premiere! 84min. Sat, June 25 at 4:15pm.

The Unknown Country (2022) Dir. Morissa Maltz. With Lily Gladstone. In this narrative/documentary hybrid, Lily Gladstone (Certain Women) stars as Tana, a grieving woman who starts an unexpected road trip from the Midwest to the Texas-Mexico border to reunite with her estranged Oglala Lakota family. Navigating a surreal natural landscape, as well as a complex post-2016 social climate, she meets familiar faces and strangers along the way as “human exchanges imbue a subtle sense of lyricism into the habitual” (Indiewire). At times at ease, at times on edge, Tana grapples with the pain of her recent loss and seeks to understand her place in the world. 85min. Sat, June 25 at 6:45pm.

Actual People (2021) Dir. Kit Zauhar. With Zauhar, Scott Albrecht, Vivian Zauhar. On the precipice of her college graduation, Riley is frantically searching for connection. Jealous of the job offers her classmates are receiving—and desperate to regain control of something—she decides to win the affections of a boy from her hometown of Philadelphia. An exciting, honest film by and about a young woman of color, Kit Zauhar’s feature debut captures Gen Z’s anxieties and hopes as they are launched into adulthood. 84min. Sat, June 25 at 9:15pm

Shut Up and Paint (2022) Dirs. Titus Kaphar & Alex Mallis. Winner of the Best Short prize at the 2022 Big Sky Documentary Film Festival, Shut Up and Paint follows the painter Titus Kaphas as he turns to film when the art world tries to silence his voice. 20min. Part of BAMcinemaFest Shorts Program 2. Sun, June 26 at 1:30pm.

The Body is a House of Familiar Rooms (2022) Dirs. Eloise Sherrid & Lauryn Welch. This magical-realist documentary collaboration between Samuel Geiger, director Eloise Sherrid, and the painter Lauryn Welch is a window into Geiger’s experience living with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, a painful connective tissue disorder that limits his mobility and functionality. 10min. Part of BAMcinemaFest Shorts Program 2. Sun, June 26 at 1:30pm.

Swerve (2022) Dir. Lynne Sachs. With poetry by Paolo Javier. A food market and playground in Queens, NY becomes the site for this film inspired by Paolo Javier’s Original Brown Boy poems. The film itself transforms into an ars poetica/cinematica—a meditation on writing and making images in the liminal space between a global pandemic and what might come next—as five New York City performers speak in verse while wandering through food stalls in search of a new sensation. World Premiere! 8min. Part of BAMcinemaFest Shorts Program 2. Sun, June 26 at 1:30pm.

ᎤᏕᏲᏅ (Udeyonv) (What They’ve Been Taught) (2022) Dir. Brit Hensel. Filmed on the Qualla Boundary and Cherokee Nation, ᎤᏕᏲᏅ (Udeyonv) (What They’ve Been Taught) explores expressions of reciprocity in the Cherokee world, brought to life by an elder and a first language speaker. Premiering at Sundance, the documentary circles the intersection of tradition, language, land, and a commitment to maintaining balance. 9min. Part of BAMcinemaFest Shorts Program 2. Sun, June 26 at 1:30pm.

The Fire This Time (2022) Dir. Mariam Ghani. Ghani traces the connection between epidemics and social upheaval from the 1800s to the present. 26min. Part of BAMcinemaFest Shorts Program 2. Sun, June 26 at 1:30pm.

Sirens (2022) Dir. Rita Baghdadi. This “utterly charming” (Hollywood Reporter) documentary by young Moroccan-American filmmaker Rita Baghdadi follows the first and only (to date) all-woman metal band in the Middle East. Amid a backdrop of political unrest and the heartbreaking unraveling of Beirut, the five-member band Slave to Sirens grapples with tenderness, friendship, and sexuality. Acting as director, producer, and cinematographer, Baghdadi’s singular vision is gentle yet emotionally powerful, offering a vision of light through darkness—and thrash metal. 78min. Sun, June 26 at 4:15pm.

Nothing Lasts Forever (2022) Dir. Jason Kohn. Director Jason Kohn pushes the documentary into thriller territory as he pulls back the veil on the secretive world of the diamond industry. Witnesses turn into antagonists as he leads us through trade fairs, mines, laboratories, and conventions in the US, Africa, China, and India. Hailed by Variety as “the rare documentary that transforms the way we understand the world,” Nothing Lasts Forever invites us into a labyrinth where illusions and reality merge, authenticity and imagination overlap, and questions arise about the value we place on the goods around us. 87min. Sun, June 26 at 6:45pm.

Crows Are White (2022) Dir. Ahsen Nadeem. For over a thousand years, a secretive Buddhist sect has lived in an isolated monastery in Japan performing acts of extreme physical endurance in their pursuit of enlightenment. A filmmaker, struggling to reconcile his desires with his faith, sets off to the strict monastery in search of answers. When he arrives, his presence is not welcomed and the only monk who will speak with him is an outcast who prefers ice cream and Slayer to meditation. Together they forge an unlikely friendship that leads them to higher truths and, occasionally, a little trouble. Shot over five years on three continents, Crows Are White is an exploration of truth, faith and love, from the top of a mountain to the bottom of a sundae. 97min. Sun, June 26 at 9:15pm.

Alma’s Rainbow (1993) Dir. Ayoka Chenzira. With Victoria Gabrielle Platt, Kim Weston-Moran, Mizan Kirby. Known for her socially conscious films that challenge stereotypes about Black culture, Ayoka Chenzira’s first feature film is a coming-of-age dramedy that highlights a group of middle-class Black women living in Brooklyn. As Rainbow (Platt) enters womanhood and navigates her own experiences around beauty standards, self-image, and the rights of Black women over their own bodies, her pragmatic mother Alma Gold (Weston-Moran) and free-spirited aunt Ruby Gold (Kirby) disagree on the “proper” direction for Rainbow’s life. In this multi-layered Black woman’s world, Rainbow, Alma, and Ruby wrestle with love and what it means to exert and exercise their own agency. New Restoration! 90min. Screening with Hair Piece: A Film for Nappyheaded People. Mon, Jun 27 at 7pm.

Hair Piece: A Film for Nappyheaded People (1984) Dir. Ayoka Chenzira. In this satirical short, Chenzira utilizes mixed media and animation to unpack the stereotypes associated with Black hair while critiquing the limits of the European beauty standard. She draws attention to the physical pain Black women endure to straighten their hair, and the emotional pain that comes as a result of the pressure to conform. New Restoration! 10min. Screening with Alma’s Rainbow. Mon, Jun 27 at 7pm.

Free Chol Soo Lee (2022) Dirs. Julie Ha & Eugene Yi. Eugene Yi and Julie Ha spotlight the pivotal, yet under-told story of Chol Soo Lee. In 1973, Lee was wrongfully arrested and convicted for the murder of a local gang leader shot in San Francisco’s Chinatown. He was sentenced to life in prison based on the eyewitness accounts of white tourists, and spent years fighting to survive behind bars before journalist K.W. Lee took an interest in his case. The reporter’s investigation galvanized an unprecedented pan-Asian American grassroots movement to fight for Chol Soo Lee’s freedom, ultimately inspiring a new generation of social justice activists. 83min. Tue, June 28 at 7pm.

Happer’s Comet (2022) Dir. Tyler Taormina. Filmed on the weekends across four months during 2020, Tyler Taormina cast his own Long Island family and neighbors in the delicate cinematic meditation on late-night life, which premiered at the Berlin Film Festival. Taormina takes the audience through the nightly routines of suburban residents as they clean their offices, meet their lovers, apply make-up before going out, and rollerblade around town. Dreamlike, gentle, and strangely ominous, this sensory series of vignettes “is a hypnotic ode to the night owl” (The Film Stage). 62min. Screening with The Last Days of August. Wed, June 29 at 7pm.

The Last Days of August (2022) Dirs. Rodrigo Ojeda-Beck and Robert Machoian. Two of the most distinctive filmmakers working today, longtime collaborators Rodrigo Ojeda-Beck and Robert Machoian use a photo book aesthetic to explore prairie towns in Nebraska that have been devastated by the internet boom. While meditating on the longing for permanence, The Last Days of August asks: do miracles really happen? 13min. Screening with Happer’s Comet. Wed, June 29 at 7pm.

2nd Chance (2022) Dir. Ramin Bahrani. Hailed by Roger Ebert as “the new great American director,” Ramin Bahrani (Chop Shop, White Tiger) has not made a documentary—until now. Coming off of successful showings at SXSW and Sundance, 2nd Chance chronicles the life of bankrupt pizzeria owner Richard Davis who invented the modern-day bulletproof vest. Shooting himself 192 times to prove its effectiveness and advertising his new invention with a barrage of self-made promo films, Davis earned celebrity status among gun owners and law enforcement. But the death of a police officer wearing his vest catalyzes Davis’s fall, revealing a man full of contradictions cultivated over decades of reckless lies. In this gripping documentary, Bahrani lays bare the complexities of one man’s supposed virtue while speaking to the nature of power and impunity in America. 89min. Thu, June 30 at 7pm.

Have Van, Will Garden | Landscape Architecture Magazine

The radical landscape architecture of Straub Thurmayr.

By Brian Barth

Nothing excites Anna Thurmayr and Dietmar Straub, ASLA, more than bringing high-concept landscape architecture to places where it is traditionally absent—remote communities, inner-city schoolyards, peri-urban land awaiting tract homes. But in their case, high concept does not mean high budget or highbrow; if their designs are rarefied, it is in the degree of humility that is expressed. Homeliness becomes a virtue in their work; cracks in the sidewalk become gardens; weeds are welcome. The German designers, who moved from Munich to Winnipeg 12 years ago, once designed a 500-acre, $320 million botanical garden outside Shanghai. Now professors at the University of Manitoba with a small but intellectually ambitious practice on the side, they intentionally pursue projects with budgets far more modest, if they have a budget at all.

Thurmayr and Straub’s gardens are built largely by volunteers. Salvaged and repurposed materials are finessed into benches and play structures. The resulting aesthetic is artful, but not static—they prefer to cultivate spaces over a period of years, prioritizing user engagement over Instagram aesthetics. In addition to the college students they teach, children seem to be a primary target audience for their work. Schools are a common venue; long, low planks on which to run through the landscape, and perhaps leap from in order to swing on a strategically located branch, are a recurring motif. At one school site, they repurposed a sod lawn into a sod wall to teach the kids about the sod houses that were once common on the Canadian prairie. Now the sod wall is decomposing and will become a rich planting berm. Thurmayr and Straub celebrate decay, revel in the unexpected, and fully expect that not everything they design will come out as planned.

On a cloudy morning in early June, they pick me up from my hotel in Winnipeg in their 1989 Volkswagen Vanagon camper—“our mobile office,” says Straub, with a strong German accent. Like anyone worthy of owning a such a vehicle, they’ve named it: “We call her our Blue Lady.” The couple brought their van-touring lifestyle with them from Europe, and it continues to undergird their practice in aspects both creative—what better way to find design inspiration than to drift at leisure from the comfort of a home on wheels?—and philosophical. “We’ve never been interested in status symbols, titles, or career path,” Straub says. “It was always our dream that everything we own should fit into a VW van.”

Thurmayr, sitting in the back, is the quiet one. “Dietmar prefers to talk,” she says. “I prefer to draw.” But she is no less philosophical than her husband. “The things the city throws out, we reuse and assemble them in our designs with new meaning. We usually start with no budget and engage the community to do the fund-raising. Our projects are built mostly by grandmas, parents, and children, so our designs have to take that into account with construction methods that are very simple. We embrace spontaneity and imperfection. This is a total contrast to what the mainstream of landscape architecture is producing.” She even has a name for their philosophy: “humble project thinking.”

Dark clouds gather as Straub pilots us north of the city past cattle ranches where bosques of aspen have been neatly pruned by cows nibbling off the lower leaves. By the time we reach the wetlands encircling Lake Manitoba, Blue Lady is sloshing through a June monsoon of hail and high winds. I’m frigid in my T-shirt as we scurry into a metal building with a wheelchair ramp that rises from a gravel parking lot. This is Zaagaate, a childcare facility at the Dog Creek 46 reserve of the Lake Manitoba First Nation. Adjacent to the community health center, the staff at Zaagaate cares for kids who have a variety of physical, emotional, and developmental challenges. Thurmayr and Straub have spent the past year developing a playground out back that is equal parts avant-garde and down-to-earth.

Upcycled beams inspired by driftwood act as pathways and bed borders. Photo by Brian Barth.

In a design reminiscent of a child’s scribble-scrabble, a zigzagging arrangement of wooden walkways forms a wheelchair-accessible path around the perimeter. The kids are on a field trip the day we are there, but one can imagine the races that occur, both wheeled and on foot, along this track. Inside the track there will soon be edible and culturally identified plants, plus an assortment of sticks and stones to play with; mounds of soil or sand to get dirty in are also planned. Everything has been built with off-the-shelf lumber and assembled by tradesmen from the reserve, including a just-completed gazebo-like structure that the tribe refers to as a ceremonial arbor—a modern incarnation of a traditional structure with an opening in the center of the roof to allow the smoke of a sacred fire to escape.

Soon the kids will light the inaugural fire, says Mary Maytwayashing, Zaagaate’s program manager. The gazebo “is a sacred place to provide teachings, to give them an identity,” she says. “Because of colonization, men have strayed away from their responsibility to look after that fire, and that’s why you see so much chaos within our communities. If you don’t manage the fire within the tipi, it’s going to get bigger and bigger and you’re going to burn the tipi down.” But, she adds, “If you give children a spiritual foundation, you strengthen them emotionally, mentally, and physically.”

We spend a couple of hours talking this way with Zaagaate staff. As we do, aspects of Thurmayr and Straub’s design process came into focus. They prioritize relationships with people (clients, visitors), and the relationships of those people to the landscape, above tangible outcomes. While they set the playground sailing in a certain direction (Zaagaate’s original plan involved the sort of prefab play equipment you might find at a McDonald’s), their clients at the Dog Creek 46 reserve—a tiny community of around 900 people with a median income of about $11,000 Canadian—now have their own design ideas. Thurmayr and Straub seem content to be along for the ride.

An early concept for the playground at Zaagaate, a daycare facility on a Manitoba First Nation reserve. Image courtesy Straub Thurmayr.

Lawrence West, the director of the community health center, says that, in his view, conventional play equipment “limits the kids’ imagination” rather than sparks it, “but with this design we can always change how the landscape is used. The point is to have something interactive, to tie our kids back to the land.” That feeling is shared among all parties present. “Whether we’re German or Anishinaabe, we are all children of the earth,” West says.

Thurmayr and Straub met while studying landscape architecture at the Technical University of Munich, where they worked with Peter Latz, a pioneer in the transformation of postindustrial landscapes. After stints with several German firms, they formed their own practice in 2000, an operation now named Straub Thurmayr Landscape Architects, which is staffed solely by the two designers.

Over bottles of Erdinger beer at their dining room table in Winnipeg’s Wildwood Park neighborhood, a postwar subdivision built in the vein of New Jersey’s Radburn community (homes front on pedestrian-only green space, with vehicular access via rear alleyways), they show me images from their portfolio, as their two teenage children wander in and out. Thurmayr and Straub are digitally proficient, but blend computer-generated imagery with video, projections, and tactile physical models—not built with the standard laser-cut foam, but hand assembled with berries, pine needles, lichen, snow, forks, knives, straws, salt, and marshmallows torched to varying degrees of burntness—to communicate their concepts.

Straub typically makes the early sketches for a project, which Thurmayr then shepherds through design development and construction drawings. She is fond of combining digital imagery with handmade strokes, an approach she terms “advanced doodling.” They are deeply averse to the 3-D renderings that have become ubiquitous showpieces for selling design ideas. Rather, their style of visual representation at times borders on fine art. Bricolage and arte povera, two artistic movements characterized by compositions of found materials, and often by a pointed subtext about the excess of consumerism, are explicit influences on their work, Thurmayr says. “High-res pictures of a landscape that is shining and glowing are not what we’re going for.”

Thurmayr and Straub have completed 10 projects since moving to Winnipeg, though they reject the notion that a landscape can ever be truly complete. Straub, who grew up on a farm, considers himself a gardener first, a designer second. He says, “Not enough landscape architects leave the drafting table and computer screen for the shovel and pruning shears.” And they are extremely selective with the clients they accept—while they don’t seek to control outcomes, they are unwilling to compromise values. “Show-off landscapes are something we abhor,” Straub says. “Design should not aim to make a spectacle of itself or celebrate the clients’ prestige, but simply strive to give the space its own energy by injecting a sensual feel.”

They don’t mind breaking rules, deviating from building codes, and otherwise disregarding the status quo when it impedes what they feel is important. They have at times threatened to walk away from jobs when clients have balked at their approach. “Sometimes I have to play the role of an asshole,” says Straub, who acknowledges that this is not a viable business model for a landscape architecture firm. Much of their work is pro bono and tied into their work as professors. “When you don’t ask the client for money,” he says, “you can ask them to take risks.”

Early iterations, rendered in a medley of different media, of a courtyard at a Winnipeg high school. Image courtesy Straub Thurmayr.

Poured concrete and manufactured landscape products are scarce in Thurmayr and Straub’s gardens. In lieu of pavers, they often use small fieldstones—sourced from farmers outside the city who pile them up at the edge of their fields—to create a bumpy, unmortared cobblestone surface. Seeking material to create mounds at a Montessori school garden, they turned to a nearby sugar beet processing plant where they’d discovered huge white hills of crushed limestone, a processing agent turned waste product that was free for the taking. In their design specifications, they’ve been known to list locations on nearby rivers where contractors can go to collect the large driftwood logs they’ve indicated for benches.

“You don’t find the kinds of materials we like to use when you go to a trade show,” Straub says, as we wander through Salvage Supermarket, an enormous building materials junkyard where one can purchase rusted metal panels in random shapes and sizes, industrial-size scales from a bygone era, or an entire ice cream shack made of plywood that looks as though it dates from the 1970s (they nearly purchased the latter for a project in downtown Winnipeg). “These kinds of things are hard to specify,” he says, with only a trace of irony.

At a quarry outside Winnipeg, Thurmayr and Straub show me the limestone slabs that they’ve specified for paving a courtyard currently under construction on the University of Manitoba campus. These are not your average flagstones—they are a foot thick or more and several feet across, weighing up to a ton each. These will be a bear for the contractors to install, but the designers were adamant that thinner stones not be substituted. The thickness will not be visible to students walking across the courtyard, but Straub, clambering atop a pile of the slabs, insists that, at least on some level, they will experience it: “You feel grounded when you stand on one of these stones.”

Stones this big are made stable by their own weight, eliminating the need for cement to set them. Unlike the geometric, straight-edged shapes of typical flagstone, the uneven edges of the limestone slabs leave wide crevices—a tripping hazard in the eyes of some, but a gardening opportunity in the eyes of Thurmayr and Straub. They intend to fill those spaces with a coarse growing medium and install the sort of plants one might find growing naturally in rock crevices.

At the quarry, they lead me to an unquarried section to see the plants growing in the cracks of a large flat expanse of limestone—a natural patio. Straub waxes poetically about the patterned marks left by glaciers (this particular stone is called “Glacial Rub” limestone). And he declares it unreasonable to think that people can’t walk across something similar in public spaces, as long as accommodations are made for those with difficulty walking over rough surfaces (narrow tongues of concrete will provide wheelchair access throughout the campus courtyard garden).

A natural limestone outcrop serves as inspiration for patio design. Photo by Brian Barth.

Pedestrians will stamp out plantings in some places, but vegetation will flourish in the less-tread areas. If wild plants, even those considered weeds, gain a foothold in the cracks—what’s wrong with that? Straub and Thurmayr like cracks in pavement, and they like the things that grow there. The traditional bed–path dichotomy implies a separation from nature that they think is the real hazard, not tripping.

A latent beauty resides in Thurmayr and Straub’s landscapes. It emerges sporadically in small vignettes, and sometimes in big seasonal flourishes. One evening they take me to a home on the Red River near downtown Winnipeg, a rare residential installation in their portfolio. The clients, after seven years of collaboration on their garden, are close friends. The yard glows like a wildflower meadow in the late spring dusk, with orange tulips rising above smooth ripples of grass. A family of rabbits scampers about. Giant slabs of upcycled wood resting on boulders form boardwalks, benches, and a picnic table, all held together by gravity rather than bolts or concrete. Squint your eyes and it looks like driftwood piled randomly on rocks amid a grassy riverbank. The vintage lumber, which cost C$300 at Salvage Supermarket (I imagine one of the smaller slabs would go for $3,000 in Brooklyn), has been tinted in blue and apricot-orange shades with a nontoxic linseed oil paint that has faded artfully, like a sunset over water.

This is the garden’s second incarnation. The clients weren’t sure what they wanted at first (they’d contacted Thurmayr and Straub just after their home had been built, leaving them with a front yard consisting of an empty patch of earth), so the designers suggested something temporary. It was the end of the spring melt season on the river, which meant unneeded sandbags were ubiquitous in the low-lying parts of Winnipeg. They obtained a large quantity for free and spread them out as a thick mulch, forming a pillowy white grid across the yard. Here and there sandbags were emptied, refilled with soil and manure, and planted with pumpkin, zucchini, cucumber, tomato, and nasturtium seedlings. The installation spanned one playful day; total cost: C$300.

Not all the neighbors loved the garden as much as the clients did, especially by the following spring when the sandbags began to disintegrate. Code enforcement officials came knocking. The present meadow planting soon took shape, but the tall grasses also violated local codes (and neighbors’ aesthetic tastes). As the landscape matured, however, visits from code enforcement ceased and neighbors began coming by to snap photos. Known as the WY Garden, the project won the Canadian Society of Landscape Architects Jury’s Award of Excellence in 2019.

“We live in times where the massive consumption of resources and the constant production of waste can no longer be tolerated,” wrote Straub in an essay about the project. “This forces a radical paradigm shift for designers of built environments”—toward a “culture of improvisation, repairing, and recycling.” Landscape architects, he continued, “have a responsibility to find and implement creative responses to this self-destructive exploitation of limited resources.”

Thurmayr and Straub allude to feeling like black sheep in Winnipeg landscape architecture circles, their designs viewed as interesting but impractical. Yet the list of awards they’ve won over the past decade (despite claiming to despise the glam-shot culture of design awards) runs more than a page long. And if Thurmayr’s recent appointment as the head of the University of Manitoba’s Department of Landscape Architecture is any indication, their idiosyncratic approach has found a receptive audience. Breaking norms, after all, is often the only way to change them.

Nadia Amoroso is an assistant professor of landscape architecture at the University of Guelph and the editor of the recent book Representing Landscapes: Analogue, to which Straub contributed. She places them in a pantheon of norm breakers. “It’s like when Martha Schwartz and Ken Smith started doing their more colorful, low-tech installations in the 1980s. Some saw Martha’s Bagel Garden and thought, that’s a bit strange. But at the same time, it’s iconic—something that’s been written about, something we study in school. I think it’s the same with their work. It is a kind of art, and not everybody appreciates certain kinds of art.”

Judy Lord, the former editor of Landscapes/Paysages (the dual-language magazine of the Canadian Society of Landscape Architects), recalls being on the hunt for a cover image for the summer 2017 issue titled “Messy” (“Anarchie” was the French translation). Having followed Thurmayr and Straub’s work for years, she knew just whom to call. They sent her a photo from their Montessori school project, a feral-looking site characterized by irregular grassy mounds, some of them eroding, and a jumbled garden of rocks, sand, and logs where the kids play.

“I love their sense of anarchy—the off-kilter symmetries, the unstructured fun, everything defying physical order, being unresolved and dynamic and ambiguous,” Lord says. “On the surface, their work seems to defy all the rules, but underneath the seeming lack of structure is a very clear, carefully thought-through message. They force you to think in a new direction and say, well, why not?”

Photo by Brian Barth.

While an elegant design lurks beneath the occasional chaos of each of Thurmayr and Straub’s projects, it is not the product so much as an armature on which gardening is meant to occur. Gardening not just in the sense of caring for plants (though their landscapes definitely require gardeners more than maintenance crews), but in a broader meta sense: the inhabitants of a space, through trial and error, who are cultivating something nourishing within it. In the course of each project, at least one such gardener, usually someone connected to the site who becomes its guardian, custodian, and champion, generally emerges, ensuring that it is cared for and that the resources required for its ongoing care and evolution are obtained.

At Winnipeg’s Strathcona School, the site of Thurmayr and Straub’s Folly Forest landscape, I meet a teacher who has become the garden’s unofficial caretaker, planting trees to replace ones that have died and spending hours on hot summer days watering them by hand. I also meet the recently retired principal, Anastasia Sych-Yereniuk, who lists the many objections from school district officials that she helped fend off as she worked with Thurmayr and Straub to convert the 50-year-old asphalt schoolyard into a whimsical forested play space. Located in a neighborhood with high unemployment and the lowest median family income in the city, the schoolyard doubles as a neighborhood park—wonderful, except that the beating the saplings take during bouts of after-hours mischief has made establishment difficult.

“You can’t imagine the pain that we felt each time a branch was pulled off. It was like losing a kid,” says Sych-Yereniuk, as we stand atop one of Thurmayr and Straub’s signature mounds, surveying the happy chaos of recess below. “This garden has become a family.”

Brian Barth is a freelance journalist based in Toronto.