MATSUNAGA Manabu | Vol. 10 Derek Jarman's Garden Part 2

MATSUNAGA Manabu | Vol. 10
Derek Jarman's Garden, Part 2

A Garden Left to Ruin

This is a continuation of the garden of Derek Jarman (1942-1994), which was touched upon in Vol. 3.
Derek Jarman was a filmmaker, stage designer, and writer from Middlesex, England. The garden is situated in the village of Dungeness in southern England, near the power station on a vast plain. It is a garden where the late filmmaker stayed and created.

Photographs & Text by MATSUNAGA Manabu

93km Through the Channel Tunnel from Calais, France

On a clear day, you can see mainland Europe, even France, with the naked eye. At night, the lights of the continent are visible. This is Folkestone, said to be England's oldest seaside resort. In the past, one could only cross from Europe by boat, but with the opening of the Channel Tunnel in 1994, it became easy to travel to Britain. Coincidentally, this was the same year Derek Jarman passed away.

On a clear autumn day, looking out at the sea from Folkestone, the Dungeness power station appeared to float on the horizon like a mirage. I changed my London plans and, as if drawn, headed for Dungeness. The mirage I saw on the opposite shore was only 35km away.

Could it be that everything is succumbing to the elements, like a desert? I became concerned about whether Derek Jarman's garden still existed, to the point it appeared in my dreams.

The neat row of villas along the coast changes as you enter Dungeness. As I proceeded down the road, the garden appeared, just as it had when I visited over 15 years ago. The house itself was also well-maintained, with newly painted bright yellow window frames. I was only surprised by how much the plants had grown.

There were no fences, no boundaries to the garden. I quietly stepped in. As I walked, I wished for silence with each crunch of pebbles underfoot. Driven by a desire to understand the garden's state, I examined the details. Iron, stone, driftwood, buoys, rubber gloves – all were so gaunt and weathered that I felt an unbearable sadness and fled the garden.

I observed the surrounding landscape, the plants bent by the wind, the mushrooms growing between the stones. I saw old fishermen's huts decaying from wind and rain. I watched seagulls floating against the wind. I saw the Union Jack dancing in the wind from the power station, along with flapping laundry.

This deserted place felt imbued with solitude, a land inseparable from pain and sorrow. As I returned to Folkestone at dusk, a young girl ran towards me on the beach.