ON GARDENS 1
Architecture Edition, Tongji University Journal, Issue No. 2, 1978
With a venerable history and a distinctive character, the craft of Chinese gardens is a school of its own worldwide. Over the years scholars around the world have been studying it in every perspective, and contributed a wealth of eloquent and judicial discourses. Today I would like to spell out my take on the basis of what I have witnessed and learned in my daily involvement in gardens. Hence the title of this essay, "On Gardens."
The first thing to consider before making a landscape garden is that there are vistas for in-situ viewing and those for in-motion viewing, the former pointing to sceneries that people can take in while sitting down, and the latter calling for a tour route of considerable length so that the vista changes with the shift of the visitor's feet. Small gardens should be predicated on sights for insitu viewing and supplemented with those for in-motion viewing, courtyard gardens should be catered entirely to in-situ viewing, but it should be the other way round for large gardens. The Master-of-Fishnets Garden of Suzhou is a typical example for small gardens, and the Humble Administrator's Garden of Suzhou is a case in point for large gardens.
Visitors to the Master-of-Fishnets Garden are invariably delighted to see a pond surrounded by buildings where they can sit down or hang around. They can lean over a balustrade to count the fish swimming in the water, or stay in a pavilion to await the moon in the breeze. Beyond the balustrade, shadows of flowers sway on the walls, and hills in the distance are framed in the windows to evoke a classical painting that exude serenity and appeal. In the Humble Administrator's Garden, a footpath encircles a pond and a roofed walkway meanders its way through an agglomeration of scenic attractions to bring along the visitor—which is similar to the Slender West Lake of Yangzhou, where, in the words of Wang Shizhen (1634-1711),
A painted boat passed 'neath the bridge at noon,
Gone were her scented dress and figure so soon.
The secret to this ever-changing view lies in the shift of the visitor's footsteps, which is exactly what in-motion viewing is all about. Conception always comes before a garden is made, just as writing is always heralded by conception as well. Only with an exquisite conception can a scenic setting be wondrous enough. Whether scenery should be adapted to in-situ or in-motion viewing depends on a garden's nature and size. The Garden of Miniature Landscapes under construction in Shanghai, for example, makes sense largely because its sights are devoted to in-situ viewing.
The traditional Chinese garden is an artistic synthesis of architecture, rockery, water, and horticulture that emanates idyllic sentiments and picturesque fascinations. Though rockery and water are set out by man, they must look like wrought by nature. What is the relationship between rockery and water? In a nutshell, rather than squeeze an entire landscape into the limited space of a garden, only a part of it should be used, which accords with the principles of painting. (A fabulous example is the way the pond in the Master-of-Fishnets Garden is patterned after the White Lotus Pond at the Tiger Hill in Suzhou.) The value of rockery is borne in its veins, and that of a stream or pond lies in its headwater; only when the veins and the headwater are meshed can the entire garden come to dynamic life. I once illustrated the relationship between rockery and water in a garden with inspirations from real mountains and real streams: firstly, water should follow the contours of rockery, so that the latter comes alive because of the former; secondly, water should accommodate to the shape of the rockery to carve out a winding course, whereas a mountain trail should follow the lie of the land and stay low and level. Zhang Lian (1587-1673), a prominent rockery architect during the Ming-Qing transition, advocates the use of level ridges, small slopes, and high mounds to bring man's landscaping and gardening efforts close to nature. If we know a smattering of the reason behind it, we will not stray too far from nature and can create, to varying degrees, intriguing scenes in which water and rockery are well meshed.
Trees are planted in the traditional Chinese garden not just for keeping the land green, but more importantly, they are supposed to add picturesque fascination to the landscape. A flowering tree ought to be partially framed in a window to look like a foot-long scroll of Chinese painting with a single bough in it. The combination of a few old trees craning over a clump of bamboos by the side of a boulder invariably draws its inspiration from a landscape painting of withered trees overlooking bamboos and rocks. He who favors the beauty of shape over species can train a potted plant any way he would to evoke a classical painting. The Chinese wingnut trees in the Humble Administrator's Garden, and the age-old cypresses in the Master-of-Fishnets Garden are both scenic attractions pivotal to the general plan of their respective gardens. Were these picture-perfect old trees taken away, the scenic charms of the entire garden would be irretrievably lost right away. Most of the tree species introduced to the Chinese garden are distinctive in their own ways. Chosen fastidiously, they can bestow a unique personality on a garden, which is exactly what the lacebark pines mean to the Lingering Garden, what the pines and plum trees mean to the Garden of Brotherly Indulgence2, and what the broad-leafed indocalamus bamboos mean to the Dark Blue Waves Pavilion.
Nevertheless, this issue seems to have eluded attention in recent years. Confusion has reigned over the choice of tree species, and some gardens' personalities are tarnished as a result. It seems a lesson ought to be drawn from it. The Northern Song (960-1127) painter Guo Xi (c. 1000-c. 1080) says a mouthful,
A mountain takes streams as its arteries, grass and trees as its hair, and the misty clouds above it as its spiritual verve.
Even grass can be so indispensable to landscape, to say nothing about trees. I always believe a garden should be imbued with the botanical character of the place in which it finds itself, not to mention the fact that trees growing in their native places have a high survival rate and grow fast—it may take only a few years for their saplings to grow into a wood. The Chinese garden differs from the arboretum in that its trees, instead of having their diversity in species flaunted, are there to be viewed and appreciated. However, it is by no means easy for a garden to excel with its own scenery and for sceneries to look different from one garden to another. This, without question, is also pertinent to flowers. You have got to seek difference from similarity and vice versa, for only in this way can every garden in this nation stand on their own. Garden-crafters in ancient times did their best to create scenes and sights for every season with the same pavilions, terraces, lofts, rockeries, streams and ponds while keeping them perennially new. This practice conforms to the fact that our nation has developed a discerning eye in appreciation of arts. For example, we are highly demanding of the shapes and postures of flowers and trees to be cultivated, of the melodies of music to be appreciated, and of the intended conceptions for calligraphy and painting to be practiced. Thus to produce a work of art that stands the most stringent scrutiny and has lasting artistic value, the artist has got to take pains and be attentive to the minute detail. This idea seems to be inspiring for us in exploring the "Chinese form" of landscaping gardening.
The views inside of a garden are to be observed from angles of elevation or depression and, therefore, each view should be handled on its own merits. Accordingly, lofts and pavilions must set off each other, hills and rockeries must be solemn and towering, streams must twist and turn, and bays must be made to encircle the premises.
By a tiny pavilion, beyond a red bridge,
Many a cicada warbles in tall willow trees.
In green willows' shadows,
By a pavilion amid crabapple flowers,
Atop red apricot branches.
Through these poetic lines, the depth of field, space and sound in a garden are recreated, while the tall willows and the tips of apricot branches direct the eye to look up. We learn, as we should, from poets, who definitely belong in the most sensible sort.
A winding trail hides itself in a mount,
So at measured pace I climb along it.
This reminds us the concealed trail can be discovered only by looking down at the foot of the mount. Therefore, the arrangement of details like rooftops, the foot of a rockery, water inlets, and treetops tolerates no negligence and rashness. Erecting a pavilion up a hill serves to guide the eye upward whereas leaving a crag by a stream or pond directs the eye downward.
Why is it that our country's places of interest and gardens can draw a constant stream of visitors from home and abroad? Why is it that people are never tired of looking at them? Fabulous landscape is no doubt a major reason behind it, but another important factor is that these tourist attractions are rich repositories of Chinese culture and history. I have pointed out that the presence of cultural artefacts and sites of historical interest enriches the cultural undertones of a scenic resort or garden, adds to their appeals, and gives more food for thought, so that people do not visit them for visit's sake or they just come to eat and drink. A cultural artefact and a tourist resort or garden are not a pair of opposites but a pair of mutually complementing factors. In this pair, the cultural artefact finds an ideal sanctuary whereas the resort or the garden becomes more culturally endowed. Only in this way can the garden in China epitomize traditional and modern Chinese culture.
The beauty of the Chinese garden lies in its implicit undertones. Every hill or rock inside of it is worth contemplating. An artificial peak is an impressionist work of sculpture; the name of the Beauty Peak makes sense only by putting it under close scrutiny, and the same is true with the Nine-Lion Mountain. The front and rear beams in a twin hall come in different forms to imply a couple of loving birds, but nobody can notice it without being prompted. The fear that visitors may not know what they are seeing has compelled many a well-intentioned garden keeper to erect, say, a big artificial fish in a pond, or a clay panda in front of a giant pandas' arena. They want to advertise their "wares," without realizing that their action contravenes the value of implicitness, robs the Chinese garden of its quintessence, and spoils the scenery. But what can we do about it? Fish faintly discernible in the water are the most bewitching to see. A bamboo grove in a giant pandas' world tends to guide the visitor to where the fun is and keep his eyes peeled. From some gardens' old names one can easily figure out what can be seen in them, such as lacebark pines in the Wintry Emerald Mountain Abode (i.e., the Lingering Garden of today),3 plum trees in the Plum Garden, and water in the Master-of-Fishnets Garden. Better examples in this regard can be found in the ten views of the West Lake in Hangzhou.
The inscription on a board hanging in the front or at the top of a pavilion or hall is illustrative for the curious sightseer. At the Pavilion of Lotus-Scented Breeze from Four Sides, for instance, the visitor would be caught up in a reverie in the wind even if no scented breeze is drifting from the lotus pond. The wondrous implication and brilliant calligraphy of an antithetical couplet are enough to make the visitor reluctant to go away. The Hut on Another Peak of Jiao's Mountain in Zhenjiang used to be Zheng Xie's studio. The front gate of this small three-room affair in a courtyard of flowers and trees is flanked by a couplet that reads,
Should a room be large to look elegant?
Flowers needn't be many to be fragrant.
Upon reading these lines, one would forget all worries and immerse himself in the pleasant scenery in no time. The studio would become the talk of the day among visitors, and its good reputation would spread far and wide through their lips. Inscribed name boards may be made of brick or stone; antithetical couplets may be engraved on wooden or bamboo boards, or screens made of stone or marble. Rectangular stone slabs with calligraphic inscriptions are sometimes used as well. These calligraphic works are more implicit and thought-provoking than pictures, whose use is somewhat deliberately avoided on these name boards and couplets. Mounted scrolls are seldom employed, as most garden buildings are left open all the time and, therefore, destructive to anything made of paper under their roofs. The materials used for the name boards and couplets are chosen in light of locales: brick and stone for those left in the open, and bamboo and wood for those to be kept indoors. Mounted calligraphic work or paintings hanging in a dwelling house helps improve light and acoustic effects indoors, and enhances the sense of peace and quiet on the part of the dwellers. In old days the Xuan paper made for this purpose and the mounted work came in specifications and sizes well adapted to the sizes of building in which it is to be kept.
Curving and straight lines are relevant to each other in the Chinese garden. They should be applied flexibly, with straight lines contained in curves and with every line running its natural course. When drawing a tree, the painter is absolutely right to make sure that none of the lines he draws is straight. The zigzagging bridge, trail and corridor are set from one point to another to serve transport and communication purposes, but in a garden they are invariably flanked by scenic attractions, and made to twist and turn along a line so that its sceneries can meet the visitor's eye as he looks this way and that, while the lengthened route serves to heighten his pleasure as he ambles along. Curving lines are born of straight ones, but most importantly, the use of curves should be measured. A zigzagging bridge should be kept below the shoreline of a brook or pond and set as close to the water surface as possible to induce the feeling as if one was treading waves, and the number of its bends should be decided according to circumstances. However, some bridges are forced to twist and turn for nine times or set high above the water surface—so mechanically are they designed as to make people feel like torture walking on them, most probably because the rule of thumb has been sidetracked. The Nine-Bend Bridge in the Gratification Garden of Shanghai is a bad case in point.
Once a site has been chosen for a garden to be made, its central theme should be decided in the light of the environment, and the anticipated ambiance fostered to give the garden a distinct character. I see the Garden of Perfect Splendor in Beijing as a classic case of "accommodating scenery to bodies of water and borrowing views from the western hills." In other words, it is celebrated as the "Garden of Gardens" because all the views in it are pivoted to water while sights from the said hills are ushered in. The Solace-Imbued Garden4 sits at the foot of the Huishan Mountain, with its scenes and sights structured to face the mountain, whose scenery thus becomes part and parcel of the garden. The Master-of-Fishnets Garden is predicated on water, but there is no water at all at its Late-Spring Peony Lodge5, which would have been in danger of being "expelled" from the garden. The builders meet the challenge by drilling a fountainhead at its southwest corner and let water run through all the streams in the garden. Thus the Lodge's desperate problem is addressed, and the Master-of-Fishnets Garden's reputation as a water-bound garden saved. However, the garden's newly added eastern part is a failure, for it is devoid of water—a dilemma resulting from a thoughtless design adopted in total disregard of the garden's general layout and in violation of its general principle.
An excellent garden calls to mind a well-written quatrain or a short lyric poem whose success hinges on pithy witticism. Though having only a few lines, such a creation is rich in connotations that never cease to resonate like lilting melodies. (Large gardens are not without their failures or oversights, just as a full-length song in a drawn-out tune can hardly be vocalized in a single breath.) This is exactly what I mean by "letting there be gardens beyond a garden and views beyond a view." The secret of a garden that has gardens beyond it lies in "borrowing"; and the key to a view having views beyond it lies in its "timeline" that governs the never-ending shift of the four seasons. The shadows of flowers, trees, clouds or reflections in water, the rustling of wind, the gurgling of water, the chirping of birds, and the aroma of flowers…all these intangible views mix with tangible ones to stage a symphony in which poetic beauty overflows and picturesque appeal flourishes.
A garden of ten thousand qing (one qing equals 6.6667 hectares) can hardly be compact, nor can a garden of a few mu (one mu equals one fifteenth of one hectare) be extensive enough. What really matters is to make sure that the visitor does not mind the largeness of a garden because he is not fatigued by its compact dispositions, and that he does not mind the smallness of a garden because its spaciousness contains something of everything for his appreciation. This is why gardens should provide for both in-situ and in-motion viewing, which helps make a large place look small and a small place large. To put it in traditional Chinese painting parlance, it is essential to be "bold enough to set the brush to paper and cautious enough to bring it to a finish." In the words of a calligrapher, a garden should be roomy enough somewhere for a horse to gallop through, and close-knit enough in other places so that not a single needle can be inserted in it. Thus in the Summer Palace of Beijing we have both the ethereally vast Kunming Lake and the exquisite Garden of Harmonious Charms—a hill-rimmed small courtyard patterned after the Solace-Imbued Garden in Wuxi, Jiangsu province. There are principles but no hard and fast rules for the making of scenic gardens—it all depends on whether or not the principles can be applied with felicity. What Ji Cheng (1582-c. 1642) means by "melting into the existing lie of the land" and "borrowing from available scenery" are two of the garden-making principles, but he sets no stereotypes in his The Craft of Gardens. All that matters is to distinguish large gardens from small ones, in-situ viewing from in-motion viewing, and rural gardens from urban ones—only then can you make the most of each of them and do something proper and fitting.
Simple as the orchid and bamboo are in traditional Chinese painting, every painter can depict them in a distinct way. The reason why the theatergoer never tires of watching the performance of a classical opera episode is because every performer can act it out with originality. The same is true with garden-making. If hard-and-fast rules are needed for scholars, like the Mustard Seed Garden Manual of Model Paintings for painters and the "eight-legged essay" for essayists, small-garden builders ought to draw something to go by from the Master-of-Fishnets Garden in Suzhou, recognized as a consummate example of "being small in quantity but exquisite in quality" and "beating the many with the few"—simple rules that call for mutual relevance and substitution between artificial mountains and buildings in a small garden where there is no land boat, large bridge or artificial mountain, and where buildings are small and few but methodically spaced. Virtually all the gardens in Suzhou have followed these rules, but the Master-of-Fishnets Garden's newly added eastern section is a complete flop because such rules are violated. Another negative example in this regard is the Lion's Grove, where a newly added boat is too bulky for its water surface and, therefore, is nondescript and off-key. Wang Weilin (1763-1822) of the Qing says in his note "Refurbishing the Literary Garden":
I replaced flowery hedge and stone railing repaired,
It is more difficult to modify a garden than poetry.
If only I could use every word to the point, and build
A pavilion or deck that, though tiny, stands scrutiny.
These thorough and succinct lines still sound sincere and resonant to garden-makers today.
The size of what is contained in a garden is relative rather than absolute. There is no smallness without largeness, and vice versa. The more the space is partitioned, the larger and the more changeable the garden is felt, so that limitless space can be created on a limited lot, and a large garden can contain several small ones. (The Three Pools Mirroring the Moon in the West Lake is a fitting example of how a large lake can embrace a number of small pools.) Actually more examples can be cited, for this principle has become a critical garden-making rule. The Loquat Courtyard and the Vernal Crabapple Yard in the Humble Administrator's Garden and the Garden of Harmonious Charms in the Summer Palace are marked for their sublime artistic attainments. If a visitor is daunted by a garden's hollow and insipid interior and sheer size the moment he sets foot in it, or if he calls it quits before he reaches all its recesses, this garden is a complete mistake because it cannot stoke the visitor's appetite for a thoroughgoing visit. If the scenery in a garden looks special, richly variegated, and euphemistically laid out, people tend to visit them time and again. Is there anything wrong to make sure that the attractions inside of a scenic resort or garden cannot be exhausted through a single visit, with ample room reserved to accommodate repeated visits? It is a pity that quite a few scenic resorts are given to expansions in hopes that they are large enough for one-day or half-day tours and that one can finish seeing it all on a single visit and need not come back again. For this purpose they tear down walls in their precincts, but contrary to their intentions, they harvest emptiness instead. This is exactly what has happened to the Autumn Moon over a Calm Lake and the Xiling Seal Engravers Society at the West Lake, where the newly built seven-storied Xiling Hotel6 also dwarfs the nearby scenic Geling Mountain by half.
By contrast, the Slender West Lake of Yangzhou owes its beauty partially to its slenderness and partially to local planners' far-sighted decision to ban tall buildings on its shorelines. The Slender West Lake Scenic Resort is actually a cluster of private gardens that reach out to the outside world through waterways (another cluster of private gardens at Garden Lane in Yangzhou's city proper is predicated on roads), where every garden is water-bound and stays on its own inside of a courtyard. The houses, decks, and red apricot boughs stretching over neighboring walls all throw their reflections into the lake, presenting one divine picture after another. Slender though the lake is, it never looks shabby for its manifold demure elegance. There, everything is fine save for a single defect: the total layout seems to be less than compact. What is more, more landmark buildings are needed, and the space should have been segmented more elaborately. No matter what, however, the character of the Slender West Lake should be preserved in future refurbishing efforts. The Humble Administrator's Garden in Suzhou has gained size by annexing what becomes its eastern part, but the new addition makes the garden's original layout look rather cramped, whereas its vast eastern part is virtually reduced to a passageway for the garden proper because of its lack of scenic attractions. Indeed, annexation did no good to either scenic spot—it would have been nice to keep them separated.
Chinese wooden structures have both individuality and liabilities in form and size. Every one of them, be it a hall or a pavilion, must conform to prescribed specifications that cannot be bypassed—rules must be followed even if such structures are merely enlarged or scaled down. Otherwise, "You want to draw a tiger but end up with what looks like a dog," as the saying goes. The lack of floor space can be amended by putting several buildings together. The Islamic mosque, for example, gains enough room by way of continuous-span construction or by surrounding itself with colonnades. The enlargement of a pavilion in the eastern part of the Humble Administrator's Garden has raised quite a few eyebrows because it has ended up being neither a pavilion nor a belvedere. The Five-Pavilion Bridge and the White Pagoda at the Slender West Lake are replicas of the Beihai Bridge, the Five Pavilions Arranged to Assimilate a Dragon, and the White Pagoda of Beijing, but to make up for the lack of space, the Five-Pavilion Bridge was constructed by putting these pavilions on a single bridge and downscaling the White Pagoda, resulting in an assembly that fits the water surface to a T and brings the character of the Slender West Lake into bold relief. The entire layout is so well conceived that, sans a close look, nobody could tell that the scenery as a whole is just a microcosm of the pavilions and pagoda of the Beihai Lake in Beijing.
"Let there be no foot in a distant mountain, no root in a distant tree, and no hull in a distant boat save for its sail." This rule of thumb for traditional Chinese painting also applies to landscape gardening. Every scenic spot in a garden should look like a singular painting with rich depth and multi-layered graduation in light and color.
[Of Kou Zhun (961-1023) at the Autumn Wind Pavilion,
which was built when he was magistrate of Badong county,]
He often leans upon a railing to gaze at water in greed,
With no wall built around it lest the views be clogged.
If this line by Lu You (1125-1210) can be well understood, then we know what is to be hidden, screened, left wide open, or separated in a garden being made. The idea is that rather than present a vista in its entirety, only a fragment of it ought to be kept in sight, so that there seems to be pictures beyond pictures and that the scenery close at hand looks like extending for miles on end—in this way the charms of the vista are made to linger infinitely. To put it more specifically, a pavilion should be kept slightly below a mountaintop; a tree should not be planted atop a mountain; a mountain should reveal its foot if its top is hidden and hide it if its top is revealed; a big tree should show off its crest if its root is concealed, and vice versa; and so on. To apply these rules, however, takes a lot of hammering out, with attention to the minute detail. Seemingly niggling details like pruning a tree or moving a small rock, if mishandled, can mar the whole thing. Indeed, a misplaced tree twig can spoil the beauty of an entire garden. In the Humble Administrator's Garden, a dead old tree was replaced with a new one in the back of the Yulan Magnolia Hall, but the scene lost its classical allure in no time; the same mishap also happened in front of the Sinuous Gully Loft in the Lingering Garden. These lessons indicate that it is hard to lay out a garden, but even harder to manage it. To be a good garden manager, one has got to be well-versed in a garden's history, and more importantly, he has got to have all the artistic characteristics of the garden at his fingertips, just like a well-trained nurse must know her patients well enough to take good care of them. This is particularly the case with governmentprotected heritage sites and cultural artefacts, where rashness and impetuosity must be guarded against. Such sites and artefacts must not be changed without the consent of the authorities. Otherwise, not only the "personality" of such a garden or relic will be blemished, but it also runs the risk of violating relevant government law.
Suburban gardens should be steeped in rural charms, and gardens attached to residences are valued for being refreshingly neat and cosy. Country charms are born of affinity to nature, while the quest for neatness and cosiness ought not fall into old rut. The Memorial Garden of Fan Li7 in Wuxi is a typical failure for its vulgarity and awkwardness in taste and lack of idyllic beauty, whereas the Master-of-Fishnets Garden is typically tidy and comfortable. The former is big but seldom draws raves; the latter is small but is flooded with praises. This comparison justifies the idea that the beauty of a garden lies not in size but in exquisiteness, for only with exquisiteness can a garden become a classic objet d'art. The difference lies not only in style but also in interior decoration and furnishing. In a garden's interior decoration, everything must be done by bearing its circumstances in mind. Open structures hinge on dainty lines and delicate contours, but hanging fascias should not be used for they are susceptible to damage; furnishings such as stools and tables fashioned out of stone or brick should be chosen mainly from among simple and unadorned ones. Halls, verandahs, rooms and all those structures with doors and windows should be appointed elaborately. Furniture should be made of mahogany, red sandalwood, Phoebe nanmu, or rosewood. To cope with seasonal changes, chairs should be covered with rattan-plaited cushions in summer and upholstered in winter. The furniture for pompous buildings should be made of mahogany or red sandalwood and thoroughly carved; those for simple buildings should be made of Phoebe nanmu and rosewood and come in good taste. The importance of furniture is self-evident, as it is commonly referred to as a house's "innards." A sparsely furnished room evokes someone who does not know how to read and write; an adequately furnished room can be graded by the quality and style of its furniture. In old days the Masterof-Fishnets Garden was furnished painstakingly and appointed gorgeously so that the visitor could learn a great deal about this aspect of the craft of gardens in our country.
In days of yore, hanging out lanterns for display was frequently portrayed in poetry and prose as a big evening event for every garden. Garden keepers would put valuable lanterns away immediately after the show was over. Being part and parcel of a garden, the lanterns, like the aforementioned name boards and couplets, are also fashioned in compliance with prescribed specifications and come in varied styles and sizes. Nowadays, however, some gardens have electric lamps fixed on their premises to draw visitors at night, which invariably spoils a garden's looks. A case in point is the Shan Juan's Hermitage Cave8 of Yixing, whose grottoes should have been returned to nature, but the reality is that when night falls, a myriad of electric bulbs were switched on, turning the place into a bizarre world of kaleidoscopic colors that is easily mistaken for a busy restaurant. At the Lion's Grove, too, lamps have been conspicuously installed upon the ends of every pavilion's roof ridges. I would like to suggest caution when handling ancient structures, traditional gardens, and places of historical interest, and we should also guard against imposing incongruous fixtures on them. In my opinion, lamps for illuminating purposes should be kept out of sight, and only ornamental lamps can be displayed in ways congruous to the building and environment. Open or closed structures ought to be fixed with different kinds of lamps. Lamps should not be left to dangle under the roofs of a walkway, for they tend to break easily when they sway and tinkle in the wind. Electric wires and poles must be handled with uttermost caution, for they molest the scenery and block the view, and are eyesores for photographers.
This discourse of mine, replete with clichés and platitude, is about trivialities that are of not much account, but I have delivered it here anyway in hopes that it will help bring our work to perfection and promote cultural prosperity. This foolish man will be elated if you can derive some useful reference from my words.