Some of you may not have any idea about Christopher Janus, CJ, so here goes.
Who is CJ?
CJ is a contemporary designer, an American, born in the Midwest, raised in New Mexico—a hard worker who found his muse in the landscape.
At university he grew to embrace—with humanitarian, environmental and spiritual sensibilities—literature, all the fine arts and their roots in the landscape. Those humanitarian and environmental sensibilities drove his thoughts and explorations.
Underneath it all he had questions about his purpose in life. In other words, he was just like many of us.
Drawing upon his fine arts history, CJ becomes obsessed with his experiences in nature and the landscape—experiences beyond the five senses. Beyond the five senses? The paranormal? You can decide.
But what does he design?
Christopher Janus studied landscape architecture in university and graduated; but they did not teach him about landscape. He learned landscape from the hardest, most unfortunate events in his life.
CJ was studying the large scale landscape and the fine detail of plants and gardens to uncover the essence of design. He did that internationally as he worked in the strangest cultures and most exotic landscapes. Christopher Janus had adventures in and was inspired by the landscape.
You may ask what is the landscape? To which he would answer, “When we get out of bed in the morning and put our feet on the floor, we are in the landscape”. You might rightly ask again, what… my apartment, my flat, my house, my town, my city? To which CJ would simply answer, “they all sit in the landscape”.
CJ chases nature, its landscape and plants to their existential roots. He describes his interactions with cultures, landscapes, gardens and plants of the world—where the unexpected and downright strange become daily facts of life.
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Interested?
Join my email list for discounts on new releases as CJ goes deep into Cairo, Istanbul, Vienna and the Swiss Alps via this link:
“Back home, at university, in my original Design Study Statement, I wrote that I would evaluate the use of water features in the Moroccan medina urban public realm, with a view toward deriving a metric of understanding their physical and cultural components.
“I must be frank. I almost failed this self-directed Moroccan design study.
“My time in Tangier took me to some deep places—some I had seen before. Others? Most peculiar…I didn’t know where I was. And others still where I was glad to be.”
But that is CJ’s tale; this prequel is my story.
A weak breeze and a few late wisteria flowers prepared me to be charmed by the view of the Strait of Gibraltar the way I like it–a safe distance, a comfortable distance away from that strangely aggressive magic, that throbbing aura of Joseph Conrad’s Africa. The more I thought about it, the more I could feel that hot African breath prickling the back of my neck.
I had been strolling lazily, inspecting the Gibraltar hotel where I was staying. I walked through the Barbary Bar out onto the shaded Wisteria Terrace. Nobody was sitting out there. Off season. Siesta time of day. Perfect quiet for me, perfect for daydreaming–my way of searching for the orange gardens of the Hesperides.
Curious Tales The Prequel is free to read on Kindle Vella at this link (https://bit.ly/3Hv6p2p)
I had to edit the peculiar highlights of CJ’s term abroad design study adventures in Andalusia and among the Moors. Please read the Kindle Vella–3 episodes, and don’t be surprized, at: https://amzn.to/3ZHeuHX
CJ in Andalusia, “… the Alhambra: mocarabes, muquarnas, marquetry–geometry, patterns everywhere. Here it was all about the worlds within worlds of micro inspection. Everything intertwined–micro to micro–then micro to macro–then macro to macro–then macro to micro. And at the end, I had turned in on myself.”
CJ among the Moors: “I was at sea–absolutely nothing was certain. I must be frank. I almost failed my self-directed Moroccan design study.”
Please read the Kindle Vella–3 episodes, and don’t be surprized, at: https://amzn.to/3ZHeuHX
Better still read Tangier Gardens, you can find it here:
All my books are about a young person (CJ) growing up and learning lessons that form his approach to design. CJ studied Fine Arts before majoring in Landscape Architecture. My first two books explore CJ’s experiences in northwest Africa, especially northern Morocco and Tangier where he lived during his term-abroad design study.
What do you think happens day to day with your term-abroad students? Check this out–student on the way for his term-abroad design study in Morocco, passes six days in Spain–the difference between a slide lecture and real life.
There are four distinct Berber communities in Morocco.
A weak breeze and a few late wisteria flowers prepared me to be charmed by the view of the Strait of Gibraltar the way I like it, a safe distance–a comfortable distance away from that strangely aggressive magic, that throbbing aura of Joseph Conrad’s Africa. The more I thought about it, the more I could feel that hot African breath prickling the back of my neck.
I was in Gibraltar, sitting with a man who knew his way around the Tingis region.
“But the maquis, the maquis, what about the maquis?” I asked.
“The maquis? The maquis is all that’s left. The remnants, the refuse of a great botanical richness that used to be. Old growth has been stripped. The maquis? Nothing but a few odiferous weeds. Suitable for the Interzone.”
“The what?”
“The Interzone, just as Burroughs’ wrote. But it’s real. Look at any satellite image. The Interzone is a land nobody owns–separated by the Sahara from Africa and separated by the Mediterranean from Europe. You don’t think so? One continent with towns like Timbucktu, Gran Bassam and Little Popo–another continent with towns like Rome, London and Paris. You tell me what happens where those two continents meet…the Interzone.”
“Wasn’t that some kind of 1950s fiction?”
“Didn’t you understand? It’s a real place, not a literary fantasy, but a geographic reality! Listen, in the Interzone rootlets from Africa and Europe attack and they attach. They try to suck energy from you. African rootlets suck European energy. European rootlets suck African energy. Anyone who lives there long enough becomes a crippled schizoid.”
Every morning, around 8AM, I would be awoken by shouting from a man walking down the street outside my apartment window. Where was this? Ville Nouvelle in Meknes, Morocco.
He was yelling NaNa, NaNa…with a lot of nasal. He, wearing qadrissi pants (characterized by a wide and low crotch that reached to the knees), was walking with his donkey. And the donkey’s two saddlebags were chock-full of freshly cut mint clumps for making mint tea at home.
Fresh mint–the only way to really enjoy it is the Moroccan way. Grab a bunch of freshly picked mint and just add a pinch of black tea, too much white sugar and a sprinkle of orange blossoms on top. The water should be too hot to touch, too hot to drink. Got to slurp it. Hospitality without words.
This is local-agriculture-home-delivery. I had seen it once before in the early 1950s where I grew up on the East Side of Detroit. Then it was a local baker–up and down neighborhood streets. What kind of neighborhoods then? One car per family used by father to get to and from work. Neighborhoods sized by cars–not by pedestrians–no walking–only driving. But late 20th century–Meknes, Morocco. It was walkable and local. I loved it.
On the twelfth day of Ramadan, Maalem Hamid and I arrived at the shop about 8AM. Maalem Hamid finished the outstanding work. I watched him do the final touches. I helped where I could; but I was tired and mostly watched. He did a lot of detailed tooling; his assistant did leather stamping.
When they finished the first book, the maalem proudly offered it to me for examination. I took it. I hefted it. I felt it. I inspected it. I paged through it. Yes, it was beautiful–content aside, it was every bit as delectable a product as I could have ever hoped for.
About two in the afternoon, when he had finished the details, he wrapped the five books in thick brown paper himself. Then he ceremoniously presented to me the final five books. I placed the balance of what was due for his services in his hand. Then we shook hands. He was proud. I was proud.
And honestly, it had been such a pleasure to watch the exceptional craftsman handle his tools, and produce such a refined result in appearance, in touch, and in technical strength. I thanked him.
He walked with me to the Place El Hedim where I took a Petit Taxi. He and I both waved until he was out of sight.
Almost sunset when I arrived in the Ville Nouvelle. Lights on in Tom’s place. Knocked and showed them one of the final copies. My time in Morocco was up. Over the past six months, Tom and Marcela had given me shelter every time I needed it. I owed them.
Arranged to have dinner together at a 5-star Ville Nouvelle hotel restaurant the next night.
I spent the day packing. I took Marcela and Tom for dinner at the Hotel Transatlantique with a full-blown late-night Ramadan Iftar buffet special, filled with more options than I could list. It didn’t make much difference to me because all through the Iftar dinner I was dreaming not just to be home for Christmas, but of a White Christmas.
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Christmas Now
The morning of the fourteenth day of Ramadan–couldn’t believe it–my personal last day of Ramadan–my last day in Morocco!
Tom drove me to Casablanca airport. We left early in the morning when it was still dark. Three hours on the road–a Moroccan autoroute. Raining and gray, low clouds all the way. The earth was sucking in all the moisture. Plants looked happy. The ride, though, was a slog.
I was emotionally depleted. My last Moroccan memories like the first–sensually extravagant. We had parked and I was walking. Just at the pedestrian entry to the airport terminal–my sense of smell was assaulted by–clusters of Eriobotrya japonica trees in flower–excessively sweet to the place where fragrance meets odor. Goodbye Morocco.
Finally, I was off the ground. Casa-Brussels-NYC-home. I was outta there! Phew! Never thought it would happen. Relief.
But then there was also sadness. Ma’salama. I’ll never be the same. But then I mentally blinked–twice–reset.
Wonder what Santa will bring?
Back home. I paused in transit in New York, had to go through passport control and customs. Outside, it was snowing. Thanked my lucky stars to be standing there where at least I hoped I could live happy in the land of the free. The country where we can sleep in peace at night when we lay down our heads.
Last flight…after gathering my luggage, I looked around and thought, I am starting again. LittleWing was the first I saw, then Kate and Sam–they all met me.
Kate joked, “Look who got a Med sun tan.”
Sam observed and, with a smile on his face, gruffly asked, “Did you order this winter wonderland snowstorm?”
But Sachy was the first to wrap her arms around me–eyes all aglow–a huge smile on her face as she ran up to greet me. Hugged me hard and in my ear she whispered, “Home for Christmas!”
I stepped back, looked deeply into her eyes. It was her, Sachy, in real life, in front of me. Could this be? I held Sachy by her shoulders and said, “Lovely weather for a sleigh ride!”
I put my arms around her again, pulled her ever so close and, in the tightest of hugs, I whispered in her ear, “This is not a dream–my heart is warm–I couldn’t have done it without you!”
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CJ made it home; but Morocco, unbeknownst to him, lingered.
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If you wonder what actually happened during CJ’s six months in Tangier, pick up the eBook, Tangier Gardens–out of the classroom into the real world–via plant portals, here: https://amzn.to/3HLrtyv
