The Dean of American Architecture: Richard Morris Hunt’s Legacy in Garden Design
This botanical history post was featured on The Daily Gardener podcast:
July 31, 1895
On this day, dear garden friends, we mark the passing of Richard Morris Hunt, that most American of architects who brought European grandeur to our shores with a flourish that would make even the most reserved gardener blush with envy.
While you and I might concern ourselves with the placement of a simple foxglove or the arrangement of our herbaceous borders, Hunt concerned himself with the grand canvas upon which our gardens rest—the architectural follies that give structure to our horticultural ambitions.
We gardeners know Hunt not merely for his edifices of stone and mortar, but for his dance with Frederick Law Olmsted, that choreography of building and landscape that defined an era. Together they created symphonies at the Vanderbilt mausoleum and orchestrated the Chicago World's Fair with all the precision of a well-planned parterre.
Their magnum opus, naturally, unfurled itself across the rolling hills of Asheville, North Carolina, where the Biltmore Estate stands as testament to what happens when architecture and horticulture engage in proper conversation.
One imagines them walking the grounds, Hunt gesturing emphatically at where a balustrade might frame a vista, while Olmsted nodded thoughtfully, already envisioning which shrubs would soften the stone edges.
Hunt carried the distinguished title of Dean of American Architecture, having been the first of our countrymen to train at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris.
One can almost see him strolling through the Tuileries, sketching furiously, absorbing those formal French principles that would later influence countless American gardens.
But do not mistake their professional relationship for one of perpetual harmony!
These titans clashed spectacularly over Hunt's designs for Central Park's southern entrance. Hunt had emerged victorious in the design competition, but Olmsted and his partner Vaux found themselves thoroughly scandalized upon viewing his grandiose vision.
Hunt's "Gate of Peace" for Fifth Avenue was nothing short of theatrical—a circular fountain nestled within a square parterre (a lovely touch, we gardeners must admit). But it was his semi-circular terrace that truly pushed Olmsted to apoplexy: a towering 50-foot column featuring a sailor and a Native American hoisting the city's arms aloft, with a monument to Henry Hudson at its base. Neptune himself would make an appearance in his chariot, with Hudson standing proudly at a ship's prow, while Christopher Columbus claimed the reverse side.
Hunt, brimming with confidence that would make Lady Whistledown raise an impressed eyebrow, promoted these designs himself, certain the public would swoon over his continental extravagance.
Alas, he underestimated Vaux's influence and cunning. While privately acknowledging Hunt's plans as "splendid and striking," Vaux publicly condemned them as "what the country had been fighting against... Napoleon III in disguise all over."
With the cutting precision of a good pruning shear, Vaux declared Hunt's designs "not American, but the park was."
Oh, the sweet irony of history!
In 1898, a memorial honoring Richard Morris Hunt appeared in Central Park—along the eastern perimeter, crafted by none other than Daniel Chester French, the very same sculptor who would later immortalize Abraham Lincoln in his memorial.
In life, Hunt sought to elevate public taste in design and the arts with the fervor of a gardener introducing exotic specimens to a provincial plot.
Yet he maintained enough flexibility to meet clients where they stood, much as we must sometimes compromise between our grand garden visions and the realities of soil and climate.
"The first thing you've got to remember is that it's your clients' money you're spending.
Your goal is to achieve the best results by following their wishes.
If they want you to build a house upside down standing on its chimney, it's up to you to do it."
Wise words from a man who understood that true artistry often lies in the balance between vision and practicality—a lesson as valuable in the garden as it was in Hunt's architectural practice.
One imagines him saying this with a twinkle in his eye, perhaps while sketching yet another impossible folly that would one day stand as testament to America's gilded ambitions.
