London’s allotments and garden areas can be read as counter-monumental sites that challenge the modern city through everyday visuality, property laws, and historical narratives. I investigate how varying land governance yields divergent visual and political outcomes through informal allotment gardens, such as the allotment garden on Cable Street, and Kensington Gardens, a centrally administered landscape characterized by imperial monuments. Rather than conveying history through permanency or spectacle, allotments emphasize labor, vulnerability, and seasonal incompleteness. Simultaneously, their histories exhibit profound ambivalence: allotments have served as venues for sustenance and care, as well as mechanisms of discipline, exclusion, and moral policing. Museums and monuments alike romanticize colonial brutality under the guise of impartiality. In the very same city, gardens function as dynamic, living archives: environments where memory is enacted, not static, and where care supersedes commemoration. This paper advocates for a visual politics based on a continuous effort to remain aware of histories that persist rather than being relegated to the past.
The Historical Development of Allotment Gardens in the United Kingdom
Allotment gardening in Britain expanded significantly during the 17th-century English Civil War (Crouch, 2000). In their original form, allotment gardens were plots of land typically smaller than half an acre (Acton 2011, 46). These plots were owned by substantial landholders and leased to tenants who cultivated fruits, vegetables, herbs, and occasionally raised livestock, constituting their primary food supply. As England progressed from the 18th to the 19th century, the nation’s population experienced a general expansion, particularly in industrializing urban centers (Acton 2011, 50). While this population growth trend occurred across the United Kingdom, the development of formal allotment systems was most pronounced in England, where rapid industrialization, land enclosure, and urbanization created an urgent demand for small-scale agricultural plots.
The Industrial Revolution commenced, generating numerous employment opportunities for the burgeoning populace. However, large segments of the rural and urban populations were unemployed and living in poverty. These employment opportunities were largely concentrated in metropolitan areas, and the growing industrialization of agriculture displaced traditional farming livelihoods (Burchardt 2002, 36). Early notable allotment garden movements arose on the outskirts of major cities, as the labor-intensive nature of maintaining a successful garden provided an amiable alternative to the municipal industrial economy and helped offset insufficient incomes (Burchardt 2002, 231). The allotment pattern shows up on London’s then-periphery in the surrounding historic counties, especially the north/east fringe (then Middlesex/Essex-side) and the Lea Valley corridor, rather than in the fully built central city.
Adopting allotment gardens in England was not a gradual trend that ultimately gained traction and remained significant to the populace and working class (Acton 2011, 56). Instead, English society underwent several phases of allotment gardening, each triggered by severe national crises (Burchardt 2002, 2). The initial episodes of allotment gardening transpired twice throughout the 1790s. Both instances arose due to inadequate crops, resulting in significant food shortages nationwide. However, in both cases, once the crisis was resolved and harvest yields stabilized, interest in allotment gardening declined among the land-distributing authorities and the purchasing peasantry.
The Swing Riots of 1830–1831 were a widespread rural uprising in southern and eastern England. They were driven by agricultural laborers protesting worsening working conditions, low wages, and the introduction of mechanized threshing machines, which threatened their livelihoods. The riots not only highlighted the struggles of rural workers but also sparked the second significant allotment movement in England, which emerged in 1830 as a direct response to the unrest (Thorpe 1969, 16). The bourgeoisie viewed small-scale agriculture as a means to generate employment, sustenance, and improved living standards for the lower classes (Burchardt 2002, 16). This movement maintained a persistent presence throughout the region, and by 1873, the number of allotments had almost doubled (Acton 2011, 49). However, public and governmental interest in allotment gardening waned as the elite increasingly shifted their focus from rural to urban concerns, prioritizing housing developments over establishing additional allotments (Acton 2011, 46). Despite this, the legacy of the Swing Riots underscores the challenges faced by rural laborers during the transformative period of industrialization.
In the early 20th century, English urban planner Ebenezer Howard proposed the “garden city” utopian concept, advocating for the integration of rural landscapes within urban environments, which positioned allotment gardens as a key component of his vision (Burchardt 2002, 2). The initial conceptions of British urban planning emphasized a dense urban core encircled by extensive agricultural land. The compact nature of the urban core greatly contributed to the heightened acceptance of allotment gardens within the city, as both residents and planners recognized the advantages of integrating agricultural features within residential zones (Flavell 2003, 100). The movement’s ideals of reducing density, increasing pedestrian pathways, and expanding green space “set the framework for thinking about how land in cities should be organized, maintained, and expanded” (Lawson 2005, 23). These “garden cities” sought to provide residents with larger lots for gardening and walking paths connecting residential neighborhoods to green spaces (Lawson 2005, 23).
The Garden City movement did not attract significant political involvement until widespread unemployment and World War II affected Britain in the 1930s and 1940s. In response to these conflicts, the British government adopted concepts proposed by the Town and Country Planning Association (TCPA) (Hardy, 1999). The height of allotment gardening activity in the U.K. transpired between World War I and World War II, with a slight decline in the interim (Crouch 2000). However, this integrated strategy proved unsustainable, reducing allotment gardens in England’s major urban districts over the past 50 years (London Authority, 2006).
Today, the caretaking of allotment gardens in the English urban landscape remains contentious, leading to the deterioration of traditional allotment gardens and the emergence of “guerrilla gardening,” which entails the unauthorized planting of flora in urban areas destroyed during the World Wars. This illegal act typically occurs on land without the owner’s permission, including public spaces, private property, or neglected areas. While this grassroots environmental initiative aims to integrate “rural vegetation” into urban centers, it can lead to legal issues such as trespassing or vandalism. Until recently, these empty landscapes in the U.K. have been susceptible to economic development. Allotments have declined from about 500,000 to 300,000 during the past fifty years (Crouch 2000). Despite this, environmental and community consciousness in the U.K. fosters a revival of interest in these historic parcels of land.
More established lots are still under public scrutiny by local government officials. For example, one gardener, Nicola Slawson, beats herself up for leaving her allotment in Hanwell, in west London. As in most areas, plot inspectors frequently issue “non-cultivation” notices, but always offer the option of downsizing from a 10-pole plot to a five- or even 2.5-pole one. Nicola said that she began to question which crops she should try to harvest to avoid these notices. Peas and parsnips, for example, can be hard to bring to harvest, but managing tomatoes and runner beans is usually easy enough.
Pearl and Mizanur’s Memorial Allotment: The Landscape as a Cultural Artifact
Figure 1: Pearl and Mizanur’s Memorial Allotment, Cable Street, London.
In the sense that the allotment is produced as well as exchanged, the Pearl and Mizanur’s Memorial allotment on Cable Street provides an excellent example. I accidentally wandered Cable Street in London’s East End, a historic location of antifascist resistance in the late 1930s. Situated within this dynamic area, between Shadwell, Whitechapel, and Stepney, I discovered an allotment garden. It appeared instantly out of place: a sanctuary of compassion, vibrancy, and collective effort juxtaposed against rigid train tracks running behind its structure.
At the center sat a vibrant turquoise wooden table accompanied by matching benches, creating a modest communal core amidst elevated garden beds. A chalkboard sign stating “PLANT SALE” implied informal trade and communal management rather than institutional oversight. At the edge of the site, railway tracks and train cars interrupted the horizon, firmly embedding the garden amid substantial infrastructure. A pristine blue sky stretched over an evidently unfinished space, feeling transitory, irregular, and vibrant. This was not a memorial. However, it was performing cultural functions.
Pearl and Mizanur’s Memorial Garden is located next to Shadwell station, revitalized by residents on a historically underutilized plot of land (Mansfield 2023). The site’s marginality began with the establishment of the railway in 1876. Nineteenth-century maps depict the area operating as a commercial “stone yard” next to an open-air rail cutting, not as residential or civic space (Mansfield 2023). Upon the construction of the current station entrance in 1983, the surrounding terraced houses were replaced by flats, and the plot next door lot was once more left unoccupied. Despite residents utilizing the site informally as a garden for decades, ownership was held through the Tower Hamlets Council until its sale to Transport for London (TfL) in 2011, following station renovation efforts (Mansfield 2023).
The sale featured a condition of sale mandating that the land be utilized solely for station-related purposes; any alternative use would require TfL to pay a further fee corresponding to the site’s increased market value (Mansfield 2023). Later redevelopment proposals, including plans for a twelve-stall street market known as the Shadwell Bazaar in 2013 and, later, the installation of shipping containers, failed or violated planning conditions. Despite the containers receiving approval for restricted commercial use, they functioned as a café in violation of planning permissions and were dismantled in early 2019, resulting in the land becoming vacant once more (Mansfield 2023). In early 2022, residents collaborated with East End Community Gardens and the local municipality to establish an agreement for the restoration of the site as a community garden, sustained by communal stewardship rather than formal ownership. The area currently operates again as a communal green space, while still under a persistent state of legal uncertainty.
In contrast to monumental landscapes that enshrine history via permanency, Pearl and Mizanur’s Memorial Garden preserves local memory through everyday practice. Meaning here has steadily evolved due to alterations in legal classifications and planning frameworks, and its continuity is maintained by the efforts of people who care for it. The allotment conceptualizes landscape as a social activity rather than a completed entity, contesting prevailing land value systems by illustrating that collective stewardship imbues a place with meaning.
Kensington Gardens: Municipal Curation of Imperial Power
Kensington Gardens is an example of a didactic green space in London where spectatorship is encouraged over participation in its maintenance. Kensington Gardens serves the state by producing citizens who consume green space as heritage rather than inhabit it as a shared or contested resource. Emerging from the Underground at the edge of Kensington Gardens, I was immediately confronted by tall iron fencing, beyond which stretched a vast park structured by long walking paths and an absence of seating. The design encouraged movement without rest, circulation without lingering. To my left, many London Plane trees (Platanus acerifolia) punctuated an expansive lawn of closely cut grass, their spacing deliberate, their scale monumental. To my right, stately manor-style homes lined the street, each equipped with its own carefully tended private garden. However, I realized the ridged landscaped corners on either side of me marked clear boundaries of ownership and access inside the park.
Like the early modern practice of acquiring art and culture through elite patrons in London, gardens served as curated extensions of property, authority, and aesthetic preference. In 1690, King William III and Queen Mary II acquired Nottingham House at the periphery of Hyde Park and renamed it Kensington Palace, creating a royal palace separate from the political center of the city (Impey 2000, 22–26). Queen Mary supervised the establishment of a formal Dutch-style flower garden, featuring box hedges designed to reflect William’s native region, while the South Drive was commissioned to connect Kensington with St James’s Palace, effectively uniting royal palaces through a meticulously curated landscape (Historic Royal Palaces 2019, 6–9).
During Queen Anne’s reign, the gardens were enlarged by thirty acres taken from Hyde Park and reconfigured into an English-style landscape, mirroring her own preferences and political divergence from her predecessors (Impey 2000, 78–80). She engaged Henry Wise and George London to reconfigure the grounds, incorporating elements like the Orangery for high-society gatherings. The most significant transformation took place under King George II and Queen Caroline of Ansbach, who annexed an additional three hundred acres from Hyde Park and commissioned Charles Bridgeman to execute a comprehensive redesign that featured the Round Pond, radiating avenues, and the damming of the Westbourne stream to form the Long Water (Historic Royal Palaces 2019, 12–14).
Bridgeman’s implementation of the ha-ha: a recessed barrier delineating Kensington Gardens from Hyde Park, created a sense of expansiveness while subtly imposing spatial regulation, affirming the gardens’ designation as a semi-public space regulated by social class and propriety (Cosgrove 1998, 15). Kensington Gardens, while historically accessible on Saturdays to the “respectably dressed,” continued to be an exclusive space, supported by royal money discreetly diverted by Queen Caroline. After Queen Victoria moved her court life to Buckingham Palace, the gardens became a commemorative and aesthetic landscape of imperial memory, regulated access, and curated visibility (Impey 2000, 92–97; Strong 1998, 156–160).
Figure 2: Queen Victoria Statue, Kensington Gardens, London.
As I continued walking deeper, I encountered a marble statue of Queen Victoria seated on her throne atop a bed of meticulously arranged flora. At this juncture, once again, there was no place to sit and observe. I remained standing. Designed by Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll, in 1893, the sculpture depicts Victoria in her coronation robes as she appeared in 1837, at the age of eighteen. The statue’s material permanence and elevated placement contrast sharply with the living plants that surround it, organic life disciplined into decorative accompaniment. Queen Victoria was born at Kensington Palace in 1819 and spent her childhood there under the strict supervision of Sir John Conroy, before ascending the throne in 1837 (Hibbert 2000, 9–15).
The statue, presented by the Kensington Golden Jubilee Memorial Executive Committee, situates this biographical narrative within a monumental register, and transforms her into a symbol of imperial continuity. In this setting, history is not encountered as labor or process, but as settled inheritance: fixed in stone, framed by greenery, and absorbed into the leisurely rhythms of the park. Kensington was curated for a person who fits the state’s idea of leisure: neat, obedient, and respectful of history. While access here is officially “public,” behavior is strictly controlled through signs, surveillance, and spatial design. This creates a hierarchy of belonging that favors those who know how to navigate elite public spaces.
Figure 3: King William III Statue, Kensington Gardens, London.
Next, I encountered the statue of King William III (1650-1702). This large, bronze monument of King William III is located at the south gate of Kensington Palace. Designed by H. Bauke in 1907, this statue was presented to King Edward VII for the British nation by his nephew, the German Kaiser Wilhelm II (Historic Royal Palaces 2019). It is inscribed with the words “William III of Orange, King of Great Britain and Ireland presented by William II, German Emperor, and King of Prussia to King Edward VII for the British Nation. 1907.”
The statue memorializes a man with a dark history. In the late 17th century, King William oversaw the growth of the British slave trade (Brewer 1989, 88–90). He also had connections to the Dutch colonial slave empire and was able to live in places like Kensington Palace, which was built with money from sugar, tobacco, and enslaved labor in the Caribbean (Draper 2010, 25–27). The Trade with Africa Act of 1698 was passed by Parliament during William III’s reign. It ended the Royal African Company’s monopoly and let private English merchants trade in slaves from Africa (Pettigrew 2013, 120–125). Rather than signaling an ethical rejection of slavery, this liberalization dramatically expanded the scale of the trade, accelerating the forced transport of enslaved Africans to British colonies and embedding slavery more deeply within Britain’s imperial economy (Pettigrew 2013, 120–125; Inikori 2002, 42–45).
Visuality & Aesthetics of Allotments
NYU’s Visual Cultures of the Modern and Global City examined visuality as a dominant principle: the emphasis on spectacle, organization, and clarity in industrial modernity. Tony Bennett, referencing Michel Foucault, characterizes this as the “exhibitionary complex,” a system wherein appearance functions as a method for governing (Bennett 121). Foucault argues that contemporary power functions through surveillance: disciplinary technologies originating in carceral systems, particularly panopticons, make all actions observable to the authority of power (Foucault, cited in Bennett 121). This idea does not apply to communal existence but to the separation of private individuals from governmental relations who observe without engaging and understand without belonging (Bennett 121). The Crystal Palace, constructed for the Great Exhibition under Queen Victoria’s authority, serves as a significant symbol of this rationale. The architecture captivated the attention of the masses towards completed products: manufactured items and imperial accomplishments displayed for examination. Everyone was visible, all of them could be observed. The city progressively made its processes accessible to public scrutiny, exposing itself to both power and internal reflection (Bennett 122).
Allotments as Wake Work
Observing the distinction between Kensington Gardens and the Pearl and Mizanur’s Memorial allotment on Cable Street through Christina Sharpe’s “wake” lens reveals a fundamental divergence in how memory is organized and sustained: imperial monuments and museums curate history through stability, coherence, and visual authority, presenting settled narratives that aestheticize violence and convert it into heritage. For Sharpe, a “wake” functions on various levels: the disturbed water following a ship, evoking the Middle Passage; a funeral conducted in the presence of a corpse; and the recoil of a firearm, generating both tangible and symbolic reverberations of violence (Sharpe 2016, 17–18). Wake work necessitates continuous focus on these intersecting temporalities and asserts that racial violence is not limited to history but actively influences present settings, institutions, and perceptions. Sharpe’s focus on the present tense: “wake work” instead of having been “woke,” illuminates the ethical implications of this endeavor (Sharpe 2016, 18). Staying awake necessitates addressing the enduring nature of imperial and racial violence manifested through infrastructures that frequently appear neutral, administrative, or beneficent. This inquiry became more pressing for me as an American navigating London, a former imperial capital whose affluence and cultural institutions are inextricably linked to the transatlantic slave trade.
Traversing the British Museum, the feeling of existing in a post-event reality was unavoidable. Dismembered marble figures: headless torsos, degraded limbs, fragmented faces, are shown as universal heritage, divorced from the history of extraction and oppression that facilitated their acquisition. According to Sharpe, these things serve as wake objects: artifacts formed by violence, displacement, and the administration of loss, yet being presented under the pretense of aesthetic neutrality. Maintaining vigilance in this context necessitates consideration of both the presented content and the circumstances that enabled such exhibitions. The British Empire’s involvement in slavery and colonial exploitation is hardly emphasized in exhibition texts, yet it underpins the museum’s power to categorize, preserve, and recount global history. Unlike the museum, the allotment does not claim neutrality; its very disorder makes visible the labor and histories that imperial display works to smooth over.
Allotment gardens operate in the aftermath. Their incomplete beds, cyclical seasons, and visible labor resist closure and deny historical finality. Rather than commemorating the past as resolved, they demand ongoing attention in the present, making loss, care, and responsibility perceptible. In this way, gardens function as counter-monumental spaces by exposing the remnants of violence and insisting on the persistence of unresolved histories.
What Occurs When the Product Remains Incomplete?
What does it signify for pedestrians to observe an area where the products are incomplete? Where plants perish, lie dormant, overgrown, or merely out of season? In contrast to monuments or exhibitions, the garden resists finality. It does not offer a conclusive narrative of victory or coherence. Rather, it reveals labor, continuous, inconsistent, and communal. In doing so, it defies the exhibitionary need for refinement and clarity. One cannot engage with the products grown in gardens without also addressing the underlying labor that supports it.
While monuments control memory through repetition and anonymity, gardens disrupt that paradigm. They command attention through their vulnerability, not magnitude or durability. Gardens reveal what exhibition spaces attempt to obscure: deterioration, exertion, inadequacy, and upkeep. Valuing a garden means prioritizing process over product. To linger in or near a garden is to resist the imperative that all must be completed, structured, and suitable for exhibition. Allotments deserve attention too.
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