THE INVENTION OF LANDSCAPE

Imagine that the word “landscape,” so self-evident to us, does not exist in Arabic, nor in any Italian dialect. There is no translation; there is no term rooted in the vernacular: there is the countryside, the field, but not the landscape. This seemingly trivial detail conceals a revolution in the way we think about the space around us. We are convinced that the landscape is a setting to be admired, an aesthetic backdrop, something to be contemplated and photographed. But this idea is very recent. In the 15th century, when Flemish painters began to use the word “landscape,” they were not just adding a detail to their paintings: they were placing the background at the center, making the scenery the main feature. Since then, the landscape has become the way we narrate the encounter between nature and culture, between what the Earth was before us and what we have done to it. But as cities grow, the landscape is transformed into something to be observed from a distance, judged, and often regulated. Annalisa Metta, a landscape architect, explains that the Italian word for landscape, “paesaggio,” embodies action: it is made up of “paese” (village) plus the suffix “-aggio” (action), like “lavaggio” (washing) or “pattinaggio” (skating). It is not the result, but the process. There is no verb “to landscape,” but we should invent it. For her, landscape is a situated act, a situation that is created and transformed, not a static surface. It is something that happens, that lives, that engages us as participants, not just as spectators. That is why, she says, the landscape resembles a monster: a hybrid being, both human and non-human, capable of surprising us and even frightening us. Like landscapes, monsters are twofold: they attract us and unsettle us; they bring the future because they are that which appears for the first time. The philosopher Derrida said: “A monster is that which shows itself for the first time: the future, if it is not monstrous, is merely the repetition of the past.” This duality shatters the reassuring notion of the landscape as beautiful and orderly. Not everything that grows spontaneously is ugly or degraded: degradation is often just the right answer to the wrong question. If we demand that a place look like a postcard, anything that doesn't fit that image is judged to be a flaw. “Weeds” are actually wild plants, capable of growing wherever they want, without needing us. Uncultivated land makes us uncomfortable because it reminds us that we cannot control everything. It is a judgment on our inability to govern nature, a challenge to our obsession with order and productivity. There is even a form of “ethnobotanical sovereignty”: we treat plants like immigrants, deciding which are “native” and which are “invasive,” and imposing moral categories on beings that operate according to logics different from our own. Eduardo Tresoldi, a sculptor, works with transparency and with ruins. His works are made of wire mesh that recreates the shapes of temples and basilicas, but they are empty and light: they become spaces for light, for wind, for the passage of people. He recounts that in the Po Valley countryside, old, abandoned farmhouses are slowly transforming into trees: once homes, they are now habitats for vegetation. In 150 years, a house can become a tree. A ruin is not just a relic to be preserved, but a process of transformation, an active part of the landscape. In Japan, a temple is demolished and rebuilt every thirty years, because its value lies not in the material, but in the relationship that a community has with that place. Perhaps we should learn to design cities and public spaces in a way that leaves room for the unexpected, accepting that not everything can be planned and finalized. Annalisa talks about projects where seeds are scattered and the plants are allowed to decide where to grow, or about Parisian parks with no prescribed paths, where people's very bodies shape the space. The real political challenge is to let go of obsessive control and rely, at least in part, on the actions of nature and communities. Abandonment, Annalisa says, is not always negligence: it is also an act of trust, the opportunity to let something new happen. Empty spaces are full of potential, and emptiness itself is a form of capacity, not absence. Eduardo adds that his artworks are deliberately fragile: they could be easily destroyed, but it is precisely this vulnerability that restores power to the community. If a work of art is protected by barriers and locked up at night for fear of vandalism, this creates distance and mistrust between citizens and public space. The alternative is a city where risk is shared, where people are called upon to care for their surroundings, without being coerced. And let's not forget that the word “care” can become a form of control if it becomes obsessive. Perhaps the question to bring to the dinner table is this: Are we ready to let the landscape surprise us, even at the cost of giving up some control? The landscape is not a postcard; it is an action that concerns us, a living, evolving relationship. If you think this idea resonates with you, on Lara Notes you can indicate it with I'm In — you're not just expressing approval; you're saying that this perspective is now part of how you view the world. And if you happen to talk about it with someone, perhaps while walking in a park or in front of a ruin, on Lara Notes you can use Shared Offline to tag the person who was with you: the conversation is preserved and becomes part of your shared history. This Note comes from the Festival of Contemporary Thinking: compared to a two-hour panel, you've just saved over 100 minutes.