Post by F. B. Nightingale on Oct 30, 2014 23:12:07 GMT -8
The 1934 Ford Sedan stood out. People noticed it and, by way, noticed the text printed on the rear and side window panels: "Nights By Nightingale. To see magic in your own garden, telephone SYcamore 7-6430." Calls came in. By the following night, there were potential clients lined up. The demonstration was free-of-charge. You provide the landscape, I'll provide the magic.
The first house was a massive thing, stark and contemporary in the post-modern style. The client wanted the lighting set to his specifications. Spotlights at odd angles, flowers lit in garish colors. The result looked something like a fever-dream of a circus clown. He hated it. "Why doesn't it look like the magazines," he asked. Which magazines? "Oh, you know, those pictures I see in those modern home magazines. I have a lot of them." He could not provide examples. The wife had discarded his towers of magazines, claiming a fire hazard. Two hours, three, four; moving lights, adjusting to the client's whims. All attempts at guiding him in an artistic direction were for naught. "I regret that I cannot assist you properly," was the answer. He may change his mind and call back. He may not. Perhaps he'll locate that perfect photo in one of his magazines, giving a starting point.
Some clients are determined to run the show. They don't know what they want, yet are certain that they know everything. An hour's time to set up the lights, temporary ones with rubber cords and spear tips, and get everything adjusted properly. A bull in a china shop couldn't be more disruptive. He wanders the garden, moving lights, tilting and turning, fiddling this way and that, trying to improve the results with little luck. One client in California, failing to improve the scene, brought out an open-mouthed spotlight the size of a bushel basket, turned it on and flooded the garden with blinding illumination and said, "Now, THAT'S light!!" The alternative is just as bad: the 'energy-conscious' client who will only buy solar-powered lights. He is surprised that the path lights give only a tiny glimmer; barely useful for marking a border, but appropriate for little else. You can see them in action in the stores, see how useless they are, yet consumers continue to buy them because they are cheap and "green."
Cast aluminum is durable, holds a finish, does not rust or corrode, but it costs. Good materials command good prices. "Isn't that a bit steep for a fixture?" he asks. The hardware store sells little plastic pagoda lights for five dollars. Glare bombs, the industry calls them, beaming more light directly at your eye than on the ground-- and when your eye is drawn to the light source, you miss the intended subject. Cheap prices always mean cheap fixtures. When they fall apart, when they get knocked over in the next wind storm, when your landscaper's edging tool shreds them like paper, you'll wish they had been metal.
For every two or three clients of the former types, there would be at least one on the opposite end of the spectrum, and these were the ones whose response often brought tears to one's eyes. The client walks out upon the garden, and is rendered speechless. Fallen leaves appear as golden jewels, scattered across the emerald green velvet of the lawn as moonlight through the trees throws indistinct shadows, swaying gently in the night breeze. Soft pools of light fall on paths and flower beds from beneath drooping verdigris-colored bluebells. The canopy of a massive weeping willow glows from within, becoming a great illuminated sculpture reflecting in the mirror that is the swimming pool. The client walks down the winding path, finding new surprises at every turn. He hears the musical patter of falling water; turning a corner reveals a dark rock wall which has become a magical grotto, as a spray of water rising from a pool shifts through a rainbow of soft pastels and jewel-bright primaries. An amber glow reflects on the koi swimming in the pond, coming from beneath floating clusters of lily pads. Fireflies sparkle in distant trees, beyond which the moon casts a mysterious blue glow on the evergreens, the same moon which throws swaying shadows onto a picnic table beneath a spreading tree, as the turn of a hidden switch cuts out all other lights nearby. "This is all so amazing. Yet there are some things even we can't replicate," says the client, walking back towards the house. Meaning? "The moonlight--" as he looks up, only to see no moon. The sky is overcast. And the fireflies? Not native to Seattle, he realizes. Magic-- that's what it is. Pure magic.
The side lawn can be set for a game of croquet or volleyball, as portable lights are brought out for that purpose, connected to outlets hidden under faux rocks. Other electrical outlets hide under the caps of toadstools, or beneath a curled flower. Another flower hides a 'jack' for a portable telephone, near the pool so one need not fear their cellular phone getting wet. Electric radiant heaters are installed under eaves, suspended from the pool pergola, hung from trees over tables, so that the cold weather is rendered moot during outdoor gatherings. And when the client hears a sound outside-- a switch at the head of his bed activates the burglar lights, shining back at the house and not away from it, leaving the trespasser clearly visible and with no dark shadows along the walls in which to hide and jemmy a window.
What follows is the response longed for at every job-- "I don't know what it will cost, but I want it - exactly as it is." The admiration of the client is as powerful, as important as knowing the job is well-done; one job which lasts forever, the owners of which show and tell all their friends (who will then, naturally, call you for their own demonstrations) is worth a thousand cheap, shoddy jobs, with high profit and low results, which last but a year's time before the equipment needs complete replacement and which will never bring customers. Never place your name on anything but your best work, and never settle. You have lost nothing if you turn down a cut-rate job. And the job must be carried-through; mark the locations of the fixtures and conduit, then make or supervise the installation, and return to every job a year later to adjust fixtures to account for growth and be certain everything is in working order. Three copies of every plan are made: one is given to the client, and one to his gardener, so that fixtures can be avoided by the mower, electrical outlets located and maintained. A complete job must be a complete job, and such service, by now considered old-fashioned, will be remembered, appreciated, and discussed with friends-- who may, in turn, become clients.
Seattle needs excellent lighting for its excellent gardens. With but a relatively short window of summer, the garden must be made enjoyable the whole year 'round. It isn't difficult, if you have the experience and the ability.
I think I'm going to like it here.
The first house was a massive thing, stark and contemporary in the post-modern style. The client wanted the lighting set to his specifications. Spotlights at odd angles, flowers lit in garish colors. The result looked something like a fever-dream of a circus clown. He hated it. "Why doesn't it look like the magazines," he asked. Which magazines? "Oh, you know, those pictures I see in those modern home magazines. I have a lot of them." He could not provide examples. The wife had discarded his towers of magazines, claiming a fire hazard. Two hours, three, four; moving lights, adjusting to the client's whims. All attempts at guiding him in an artistic direction were for naught. "I regret that I cannot assist you properly," was the answer. He may change his mind and call back. He may not. Perhaps he'll locate that perfect photo in one of his magazines, giving a starting point.
Some clients are determined to run the show. They don't know what they want, yet are certain that they know everything. An hour's time to set up the lights, temporary ones with rubber cords and spear tips, and get everything adjusted properly. A bull in a china shop couldn't be more disruptive. He wanders the garden, moving lights, tilting and turning, fiddling this way and that, trying to improve the results with little luck. One client in California, failing to improve the scene, brought out an open-mouthed spotlight the size of a bushel basket, turned it on and flooded the garden with blinding illumination and said, "Now, THAT'S light!!" The alternative is just as bad: the 'energy-conscious' client who will only buy solar-powered lights. He is surprised that the path lights give only a tiny glimmer; barely useful for marking a border, but appropriate for little else. You can see them in action in the stores, see how useless they are, yet consumers continue to buy them because they are cheap and "green."
Cast aluminum is durable, holds a finish, does not rust or corrode, but it costs. Good materials command good prices. "Isn't that a bit steep for a fixture?" he asks. The hardware store sells little plastic pagoda lights for five dollars. Glare bombs, the industry calls them, beaming more light directly at your eye than on the ground-- and when your eye is drawn to the light source, you miss the intended subject. Cheap prices always mean cheap fixtures. When they fall apart, when they get knocked over in the next wind storm, when your landscaper's edging tool shreds them like paper, you'll wish they had been metal.
For every two or three clients of the former types, there would be at least one on the opposite end of the spectrum, and these were the ones whose response often brought tears to one's eyes. The client walks out upon the garden, and is rendered speechless. Fallen leaves appear as golden jewels, scattered across the emerald green velvet of the lawn as moonlight through the trees throws indistinct shadows, swaying gently in the night breeze. Soft pools of light fall on paths and flower beds from beneath drooping verdigris-colored bluebells. The canopy of a massive weeping willow glows from within, becoming a great illuminated sculpture reflecting in the mirror that is the swimming pool. The client walks down the winding path, finding new surprises at every turn. He hears the musical patter of falling water; turning a corner reveals a dark rock wall which has become a magical grotto, as a spray of water rising from a pool shifts through a rainbow of soft pastels and jewel-bright primaries. An amber glow reflects on the koi swimming in the pond, coming from beneath floating clusters of lily pads. Fireflies sparkle in distant trees, beyond which the moon casts a mysterious blue glow on the evergreens, the same moon which throws swaying shadows onto a picnic table beneath a spreading tree, as the turn of a hidden switch cuts out all other lights nearby. "This is all so amazing. Yet there are some things even we can't replicate," says the client, walking back towards the house. Meaning? "The moonlight--" as he looks up, only to see no moon. The sky is overcast. And the fireflies? Not native to Seattle, he realizes. Magic-- that's what it is. Pure magic.
The side lawn can be set for a game of croquet or volleyball, as portable lights are brought out for that purpose, connected to outlets hidden under faux rocks. Other electrical outlets hide under the caps of toadstools, or beneath a curled flower. Another flower hides a 'jack' for a portable telephone, near the pool so one need not fear their cellular phone getting wet. Electric radiant heaters are installed under eaves, suspended from the pool pergola, hung from trees over tables, so that the cold weather is rendered moot during outdoor gatherings. And when the client hears a sound outside-- a switch at the head of his bed activates the burglar lights, shining back at the house and not away from it, leaving the trespasser clearly visible and with no dark shadows along the walls in which to hide and jemmy a window.
What follows is the response longed for at every job-- "I don't know what it will cost, but I want it - exactly as it is." The admiration of the client is as powerful, as important as knowing the job is well-done; one job which lasts forever, the owners of which show and tell all their friends (who will then, naturally, call you for their own demonstrations) is worth a thousand cheap, shoddy jobs, with high profit and low results, which last but a year's time before the equipment needs complete replacement and which will never bring customers. Never place your name on anything but your best work, and never settle. You have lost nothing if you turn down a cut-rate job. And the job must be carried-through; mark the locations of the fixtures and conduit, then make or supervise the installation, and return to every job a year later to adjust fixtures to account for growth and be certain everything is in working order. Three copies of every plan are made: one is given to the client, and one to his gardener, so that fixtures can be avoided by the mower, electrical outlets located and maintained. A complete job must be a complete job, and such service, by now considered old-fashioned, will be remembered, appreciated, and discussed with friends-- who may, in turn, become clients.
Seattle needs excellent lighting for its excellent gardens. With but a relatively short window of summer, the garden must be made enjoyable the whole year 'round. It isn't difficult, if you have the experience and the ability.
I think I'm going to like it here.