Growing up in a city that barely conserved its connection to its historic landscapes, Duprat developed her love of gardens during weekends spent arranging flowers and collecting seeds at her family’s farm about two hours outside of the metropolis. In 1973, she enrolled at São Paulo’s Mackenzie School of Architecture and Urbanism, where she compensated for the lack of coursework on landscape design by reading everything she could on English and Japanese gardens and attending botany courses at the University of São Paulo. Two years into her studies, she entered the city’s Department of Green Spaces as an intern, where she offered classes in garden history to hobbyists and later helped design public parks. Duprat went into private practice in 1982, while also running a nursery and garden shop in the Jardins neighbourhood, and within a decade had as many clients in Rio as in São Paulo. She’d extend her frequent trips to the coast to spend weekends with Burle Marx at his botanical sanctuary on Rio’s western outskirts, where she’d apprenticed briefly after completing her architecture degree. “The contact with Burle Marx and with the landscape of Rio, which is so sensual and organic and strong — I brought this back with me to São Paulo,” Duprat says. “In the beginning, [some local] architects felt my work was too strong, too aggressive with their buildings.”
She nonetheless fought for her vision, which is on full display at the home of Duprat’s sister-in-law, completed in 2009 by the São Paulo firm Andrade Morettin. Here, in Jardim Europa, the architects accepted her proposal to set their 4,475-square-metre prism of perforated steel screens more than 12 metres back from the street-facing boundary wall — a deferential gesture that opened a 1,310-square-metre forecourt where Duprat sunk whorls of native ferns, begonias and calatheas almost half a metre below a travertine pathway, “like the entrance to a private rainforest”, she says.
The house’s front garden is less a place for relaxation than a living tapestry, legible only from above, a vantage essential to many of Burle Marx’s projects. Although Duprat bristles at being compared to her mentor (“Even today,” she says, “people act as if Burle Marx is the only landscape architect in Brazil”), she shares his belief that gardens can restore our fundamental connection to nature. Throughout his career, Burle Marx used his fame — and, in the 1960s and ’70s, an ethically dubious role as a cultural counsellor under Brazil’s military dictatorship — to denounce the destruction of the Amazon, which continues today. If Duprat works mostly on private projects, that’s in part because the appetite for massive public interventions has more or less disappeared, with grave consequences. In São Paulo, she says, “when leaves fall, people hate it. When flowers [drop on their windscreens], they hate it. [But] we destroy the Amazon and no one does anything about it.” The connection, for her, is clear: by living without green space and locking ourselves in climate-controlled buildings, we disrupt the cycles of death and rebirth that shape our world.
The year before finishing her sister-in-law’s garden, Duprat received a commission to develop nearly half a hectare of land on the same São Paulo street where she’d lived on and off from childhood until she was 25. Her client, a native of Rio, asked her to create an oasis within the concrete city. While a Rio garden at this scale would almost certainly face outward toward mountains and sea, here Duprat erased the city behind a canopy of cedro-rosa, sapucaia and cabreuva trees. A decade after its completion, the garden is not quite manicured but not quite wild, like a patch of rainforest that, restored to its rightful place, has adapted to an urban landscape. The garden is a fantasy, of course, but it’s also a reminder that human beings can do more than just destroy. With time and patience, we can make things grow — far beyond the roofline, up into the sky.