The Nearly Good Life

This morning Jacob was seriously upset. Somebody had trampled on his garden and pulled up some plants. They had tried and failed to pull up some parsnips and then progressed to the leeks. As both these plants need a fork to lift the result was just the destruction of a few plants.
I thought that Jacob's reaction was way over the top; he has announced his intention of giving up his allotments and flounced off; never to return, he says.
Considering that he only eats a very small percentage of the crops that he grows and gives the rest away, I was amazed that he should be so upset. In retrospect I think that the explanation is that his allotment is much more than a garden to him, and is his personal work of art.
Last autumn he prepared his canvas by deep digging and manuring, and in the spring he mixed his colours and began to paint his picture. Planting an allotment, particularly by a man, is fairly ritualised and prescribed. But within the traditional structure there are wide possibilities for individual expression and skill. Jacobs picture was beautiful, and now it is spoiled, at least for him.
It is almost a cliche to describe gardening as an art form, and my pet hate is to hear the word "create" used by TV gardeners. But I think that the Hortiscenti would hesitate to so describe allotment gardening, with its essentialy temporary status, but I think myself that for something to be described as Art requires two attributes, and these are beauty and utility. An allotment, at least one prepared by an artisan like Jacob, has both properties in spades. I hope he soon returns.