Folke’s Garden in Zierikzee, 1981

In 1981, just eighteen months before he died, Folke was asked if he could paint his much loved garden at Zierikzee where he lived with Nell for over 10 years.  The request was from a friend who was making a book of gardens, pictures alongside a description called “With my Garden in the Clouds” by An Rutgers van der Loeff.

Folke completed his painting and wrote the following description of his garden for the book, which he titled ‘Tegen rozen zeg je U’, which is difficult to translate to English as there is no longer an alternative formal word in current use of the word ‘you’, one has to go back to the use of ‘thou’, perhaps.

Folke wrote:

“Roses you address as thou:

In the heart of Zierikzee there is a 12 x 7m garden. Its greatest surprise is the highly fruitful fig. I was recommended ‘Eat figs with Parma ham’.

Then I was given another thing: three sprigs of climbing white jasmine, similar to the yellow only scented. ‘In Tunisia young fellows wear these tucked on their ear’ I was told. What a joyful picture. This couple are well-travelled and wordly-wise, the one is a painter, the other a pianist.

Early in the morning one looks out on the garden rather sleepily emerging from the shower. The first hawkweeds are out one notices with a dash of red amongst the love-in-a-mist and the ladies bedstraw. It all looks planned, but in truth they are all self-sets.

During breakfast I tell Nell I am going to make a feature for this book today. I pick up a notepad to jot down all my thoughts as they come to mind. When we came here some 10 years ago the restoration of ‘Dikke Jan’, the vast old tower, was nearly complete. What had been a perfect haven for owls, kestrels and bats, indeed at that time there were grassy outgrowths on it, is now a solid and gloomy attraction for tourists. All the eroded stones worn by the passage of time had been replaced with perfectly edged new ones. Many of the old stones now form the paving in our garden. Dikke Jan further influences our garden. In late autumn, as the sun declines, it is blanketed in shadow from 12-1pm. Then we are heavily shaded. But in spring we suddenly find, as the sun rises higher than the tower, it’s Lent.

There are three trees in the garden, two pollarded willows and our fig.  The willow has grown from a branch we snapped off on a late evening walk along Naarden’s fortifications.  The moon was shining, a tawny owl called.  The other one was taken after a delicious picnic on a sultry Lenten day near Oudewater.  Now every three years they give us some little logs for our open fire and some support sticks for the flower beds. The fig is heavenly and biblical Zacchaeus could have found a hiding place in it, but it is also a problem child.  How should one prune it to keep it within reasonable bounds?

Oh, and the hollyhocks, the pale altheas all from varied collected seeds.   The wild one from Yugoslavia resembles a large mallow and climbs to 3m tall. The yellow one from Denmark is called Palle, the strong pin on is Susie, the salmon one from Friesland, Matilda and the very exceptional start white one from Amsterdam is merely called little Rie: all names from our friend’s gardens.

Roses are altogether too formal, you can’t call them by made up names.  You might just get away with calling Zéphirine Drouhin ‘Zeferientje’ when yet again you have to get heavy with the soap solution to deal with greenfly.  I often feel like calling Dorothy Perkins Mary Poppins, as I imagine it was the kind of roses she wore in her hat.  But to Mme Alfred de Rougemont or Louise Odier, I always remain formal.

Now the evening has arrived, I just want one more after dinner look at my painting.  It has turned out a lot tidier than I expected, a bit like the excess solicitousness of a mother who quickly combs her child’s hair before visiting the photographer.  I have also fallen into the trap of allowing certain plants to flower before their time. To rectify all this, out of honesty I have hung up a pair of underpants.  My mother taught me that hanging out washing in the garden was impolite.  But as a painter, I find such a touch pleasing.”