Andrew Duff MSGLD, Chair of the Society of Garden + Landscape Designers, rethinks the clean slate in garden design
There is a curious rhythm to the way we hold conversations. We begin with intent, energy, and conviction but often leave our words unfinished, assuming that someone else will pick them up, carry them forward, or complete the thought for us. In many ways, this is how I feel about the design industry at present: caught mid-sentence, halfway between tradition and transformation, between old habits and new responsibilities.
Do you remember how we used to shake our heads when hearing of someone who, on moving house, had immediately torn out a perfectly serviceable kitchen? The tiles still glossy, the appliances still working, the cabinets still strong – and yet out they went, because someone felt compelled to start again, to put their own stamp on the space.
At first glance such an action might seem like harmless indulgence, a personal preference. But beneath it lies a deeper truth about our species: the urge to leave a mark. From the pyramids of ancient Egypt to a Neolithic handprint on a cave wall, from graffiti scrawled on the side of a train to the initials carved into the bark of an old tree, we carry within us a compulsion to assert our presence, to say: I was here.
Gardens embody this instinct in a particularly poignant way. When we plant a tree, we are not simply placing greenery in the ground – we are setting a living marker of our existence, something that will outlast us, perhaps by centuries. For garden designers, this is a profound responsibility. That small, neat circle we sketch onto tracing paper to represent an oak is not merely a symbol; it is the potential beginning of a 500-year legacy.
Imagine the magnitude of that decision – one pencil stroke shaping the horizon of the future, dictating shade, shelter, and habitat long after we ourselves are gone. Unlike kitchens, gardens are not temporary interiors to be redone every decade; they are green legacies, entwined with the burden of safeguarding our environmental future.
SUSTAINABILITY MUST BE A WAY OF THINKING AND WORKING THAT BECOMES INSTINCTIVE.
Too often, though, the industry approaches design with the mindset of tabula rasa, a clean slate, a blank canvas. And yet, to walk on to a site and sweep aside everything that exists, as though it were inconvenient debris, is not merely careless, it is irresponsible.
How often have we heard the phrase ‘The tree is in the way’? The words sound innocuous but they reveal a mentality that values ease over integrity. Removing what is already there, whether it is a mature tree, a line of hedgerow, or a bed of perennials, can seem efficient, even logical, when trying to impose a vision. But efficiency is not always wisdom. It is, in fact, a form of lazy design.
The truth is that no newly planted tree can replace the ecological richness of one that has stood for 50 or 100 years. You may put in three, five, or ten saplings in its place, but none will offer the same carbon storage, the same root depth, the same biodiversity. What we lose when we erase mature plantings is not simply aesthetic or structural, it is temporal, ecological, and ethical. To insist otherwise is to misunderstand the meaning of landscape as a living continuum.
This tendency to start afresh, to wipe away and rebuild, says as much about our worldview as it does about design. It reflects a culture that has grown accustomed to consumption and replacement, to the illusion that resources are infinite and time renewable. It is symptomatic of a mindset that prioritises novelty over continuity, control over collaboration, and short-term effect over long-term impact. It is, in many ways, profoundly sad.
But despair alone cannot move us forward. What is required now, more than ever, is a shift in how we understand our role as designers. Every one of us holds a responsibility, not only to our clients but to the landscapes we touch, and to the generations who will inherit them.
We must design with legacy in mind. That does not mean compromising aesthetics or ignoring a client’s needs; rather, it means broadening the lens through which we evaluate success. A garden should delight the senses and serve its owner, yes, but it must also be adaptable, resilient, and ecologically intelligent.
This responsibility extends beyond trees and plantings to the materials we choose. Every stone, timber, or paving slab carries with it an environmental cost. Longevity should be a guiding principle. Materials that endure, that weather beautifully rather than degrade, are investments in both sustainability and aesthetic integrity. And where possible, sustainability must not be optional, it must be inherent.
The word ‘sustainability’ has become so frequently used, so overburdened with meaning, that it risks sounding like a cliché. But this is precisely why we must stop treating it as a slogan or a sales pitch and instead embed it into our natural design process.
Sustainability should not be a question asked after the sketch is complete, or a checkbox ticked at the end of a project proposal. It must be a constant, unconscious rhythm, a way of thinking and working that becomes instinctive. To design otherwise is to ignore the reality of our ecological crisis and to abdicate our duty to those who will walk these landscapes after us.
We need to recover an ethic of respect: for what already exists, for what has endured, and for what will come. Respect does not mean preservation at all costs, as sometimes removal or change is necessary, but it does mean approaching each site with humility. To stand before an old oak or a weathered stone wall and ask: What has this seen? What has it sheltered? What will be lost if it disappears? Only from that place of respect can we create designs that are not merely beautiful but meaningful.
Design is never neutral. Every path we lay, every tree we plant or remove, every boundary we draw is a statement about how we view the world and our place within it. We can choose to see the landscape as raw material, a blank canvas waiting for our imprint. Or we can choose to see it as a layered palimpsest, alive with history, memory, and potential, inviting us to add carefully, thoughtfully, and with restraint.
The time for tabula rasa has passed. The clean slate is no longer a valid or ethical approach. Instead, we must embrace the messy, complex, and rewarding challenge of designing with what exists rather than despite it. To do so is not a limitation, but an opportunity. It calls upon our creativity in deeper ways, demanding solutions that are nuanced, inventive, and respectful.
As designers, our legacy will not be measured by glossy photographs taken the day after installation, but by the thriving landscapes that endure decades later. By the shade of trees we allowed to remain, the habitats we protected, the soils we replenished, and the sense of continuity we fostered.
So let us resist the seduction of the blank page. Let us put away the eraser, and instead take up the pencil with care, adding lines that honour what has been written before us. The gardens we shape today are not simply for us, nor even for our clients alone. They are, in truth, for those yet to come, for children who will climb the branches of the oak we refused to cut, for birds who will nest in its shelter, for communities who will gather in spaces we designed to last.
To design responsibly is to recognise that we are not the sole authors of the landscape but contributors to an ongoing story. And it is our duty to ensure that story continues with richness, resilience, and respect.