For as long as I can remember, my parents have had exactly three enemies that regularly ruined their vision of a uniformly green, well-tended Wimbledon-style lawn: leaves, moss and moles. At times, a veritable skirmish was waged – though, just like in the fable of the hare and the hedgehog, the moles were always there before my parents could even react. Neither moss nor autumn leaves showed any long-term willingness to submit to the human desire for order. Yet they were by no means alone in their unyielding desire for a hundred square metres of green, manicured lawn in the front garden.
To this day, the front garden is regarded as the showpiece and calling card of the entire household. What has changed most of all is its size. Whereas it was not uncommon in the past to have three hundred square metres of impressive lawn, flanked by flower beds, shrubs and trees in the entrance area of a detached house, today – not least due to rising land prices – there are often only a few square metres of functionally designed storage space in front of the house. Unfortunately, this is neither particularly attractive nor natural: low-maintenance gravel.
When we talk about the garden itself, however, the desire for a lawn remains as strong as ever. According to a recent survey, 95.6 per cent still want a lawn: neatly mown, lush green, clearly defined by a hedge or fence. It’s a familiar sight. And it is far more than just a design choice. For my parents and their neighbours, a well-tended lawn was a promise. That things can be put in order. That effort becomes visible. That time, attention and care can take a form that everyone can see and that needs no explanation. The lawn was quiet, but unambiguous. An expression of control – not in an aggressive sense, but as the ability to keep one’s surroundings under control. A small, functioning world based on regularity: mowing, watering, trimming. And that is precisely why it was so reassuring. A well-tended lawn radiates something that has long since become fragile in many other areas of life: reliability, consistency and the feeling that effort pays off.
A mechanism that still works today, even though the areas have become smaller. A well-tended lawn makes visible something that would otherwise remain invisible: the ability to create and maintain order. Not in some grand, abstract sense. But on a small scale, in something tangible. In a reality of life that is often characterised by abstraction, this has a certain meaning. The lawn translates action directly into a visible sense of achievement. You mow and see the difference. You water it, and the lawn grows. Perhaps this is precisely where its psychological benefit lies: a manageable area where control, order and self-efficacy can be demonstrated simultaneously.
Even though the vast, park-like gardens are now largely a thing of the past, the ideal itself and its social function have by no means disappeared. Anyone who has ever lived in a suburb of detached houses is bound to be familiar with the weekend and fair-weather phenomenon: one person starts mowing the lawn, and shortly afterwards the next joins in. And suddenly a uniform hum spreads over the streets like a harmonious soundscape. Almost like a small concert. An unspoken agreement about what needs to be done now. And yet something has changed here too. Instead of husbands mowing, silent robotic mowers now tirelessly follow their paths. And anyone with any self-respect treats their robot to its very own garage – a detail, incidentally, that says more to me than it seems at first glance: lawn care remains important. But it is delegated. To someone who works more reliably, consistently and, perhaps, more responsibly than one does oneself. Or – almost more importantly – than the neighbour.
This dynamic is particularly evident in terraced housing estates. Where gardens lie side by side, comparisons arise almost automatically. And with them, a quiet sense of competition. When you see what others are doing, your own actions are almost imperceptibly shaped by it. The small gardens are furnished with astonishing consistency: black poly rattan furniture, space-saving and collapsible, a barbecue area, a chill-out corner, a fire pit. Often an above-ground pool or a bouncy castle for the children too. Everything seems well thought out. And yet it all looks the same everywhere. It is a kind of modular system for leisure. The only thing that stands out is that you rarely see people in these garden spaces. Neither children nor adults use them to the extent that their furnishings would suggest. The garden is prepared for every leisure need – but not lived in. Over time, the designed space becomes a storage area. And eventually, a place that is no longer looked after.
Perhaps that is precisely why the smell of freshly mown grass and green countryside still has such a profound effect on us today. Because it reminds us of something that is increasingly being lost in everyday life: care, order and the reassuring notion that things can be kept under control.
