The puzzles and promise of campus landscape preservation: integrating sustainability, historic landscapes, and institutional change: several of the campus heritage plans funded by the Getty Foundation served as laboratories for cultural landscape preservation.

Martin, Frank Edgerton

Several of the campus heritage plans funded by the Getty Foundation served as laboratories for applying the relatively new field of cultural landscape preservation to campus planning. (1) With a strong landscape component, the heritage plans of The University of Kansas, Cranbrook Academy, the University of California, Berkeley, and elsewhere remind us that landscape preservation is inherently different from architectural preservation--and that the young field remains far richer in edifying puzzles than proven answers. The Getty Foundation-funded plans also remind us that planners should always challenge the assumed wisdom about what is "historic" and how to steward it.

Having contributed to two of the campus heritage plans as a landscape historian, I have come to learn that the rigidity of our beliefs about what is "historically significant" on a campus often leads to preserving static physical qualities with little regard for character-rich ecological systems, town-gown connections, and institutional culture. For too long, officials at state offices of historic preservation and many preservation consultants have assumed that the new sustainability and the preservation of designed campus landscapes, such as quads and formal gardens, must be at loggerheads. Recent sustainable practices, such as rainwater swales and gardens, green roofs, and permeable paving, are often forbidden in campus historic districts because they did not exist during some official "period of historic significance." Many campus leaders also still view architectural and landscape preservation as a fundamental threat to new programs and institutional competitiveness.

Yet, as a field only about 30 years old, historic landscape preservation can help planners to challenge these old assumptions that historic resources must be frozen in time. Historic landscape stewardship is fundamentally different from the preservation of buildings and the curation of museum artifacts. Like generations of students and alumni, campus landscapes, if managed well, can be self-renewing. But unlike a Greek vase or a historic classroom building, they are never quite the same at two points in time. So from what period should a specific campus landscape be preserved? Is it even possible or desirable to pose a single period of significance for a campus as a whole? In most cases, probably not. How do we frame periods of historic significance or, more realistically, successional historic landscapes within a campus as a whole?

In several of the completed campus heritage plans, we can find site-specific decisions regarding some of these landscape preservation dilemmas. Yet we should note that these strategies are choices made and not universal solutions. There remains no one set of best practices in campus landscape preservation-and this lack of resolution may be why its puzzles can enrich heritage preservation discourse overall.

How Can We Define a Campus's Essential Character?

At its core, historic landscape preservation on campus means getting to the bottom of things, knowing what is the baseline character of spaces, roads, walks, lawns, and water features that, if altered or lost, would severely harm the campus's "historic integrity." In preservation terms, "character-defining features" are the sine qua non, the bedrock that must be saved if a campus is to retain its historic integrity and eligibility for recognition such as inclusion on the National Register of Historic Places.

Campus cultural landscapes are not discrete sets of objects but rather connected systems of spaces, topography, vegetation, and circulation. Character-defining features matter because if we can define them, we can also find ways to protect them while accommodating new programs and improving campus sustainability, safety, and accessibility. Of course, like constitutional law, the qualities of historic landscape character are entirely open to interpretation--and that is partly why they are so fascinating.

Rather than trying to define every type of historic landscape characteristic on campus--from vegetation to historic walkways--one approach is to define what threats and alterations could irrevocably harm them. Surprisingly, the biggest threats to campus landscapes often have little to do with plantings. As numerous cultural geographers such as J. B. Jackson (1986) have pointed out, the origin of our word "landscape" and its application to "landscape preservation" has a strong visual, painterly, and vegetative bias. Yet, as the Secretary of the Interior's guidelines assert, vegetation is only one of several character-defining elements of historic cultural landscapes and, quite often, not the most important (National Park Service n.d.). Scale and spatial patterns, generally shaped by buildings, are often the driving force in the character of historic campus landscapes.

Simply put, the most direct and irreversible way to harm the character of a campus is to remove buildings or to add over-scaled ones that alter the inherited spatial patterns of courtyards, the rhythms of buildings along streets, and the long views. Widening roads in a way that removes their tight tree canopies or lighting can also destroy scale and perceived space. Historic trees, hedges, and gardens can be replanted. But once spatial patterns are altered, it is much harder to repair them. For this reason, defining essential character must begin with spaces.

Topography is also space forming, and also difficult to restore once altered for a utility project, steam tunnel, or stormwater grade related to a nearby building project. These small capital projects can have incremental effects on historic circulation and ground planes that can ultimately damage overall historic landscape integrity and National Register eligibility. The challenge is to determine how much alteration a historic ground plane can endure before it becomes something else.

Campus snapshot: the importance of historic roads and entry spaces at the University of Minnesota Morris. At the University of Minnesota Morris, where I served as landscape historian on a Getty Foundation study team with Miller Dunwiddie Architecture and Gemini Research, we quickly discovered that there were several periods of significance with different associated landscapes, each requiring different preservation treatments. The campus was founded as a Catholic school for Indians in the late 19th century that was later managed by the federal government. In 1910, the campus became the West Central School of Agriculture, a boarding school for boys and girls at least 14 years old (see figure 1). In the early 1960s, the University of Minnesota adopted the campus as an experiment in liberal arts education on the scale of a small private college (see figure 2). Today, the 2,000-student campus is recognized as one of the finest public liberal arts colleges in the nation.

[FIGURE 1 OMITTED]

[FIGURE 2 OMITTED]

A few years ago, campus administration sought to close some of the historic entry drives to automotive traffic. One drive in particular (see figure 3) had been altered in grade by a misguided utility tunnel project that connected two adjacent buildings. Five years later, the bump remains and the entry road is still closed to traffic. It remains a detracting feature next to the new campus welcome center in the recently restored engineering building. Because topography and streets are so costly to change once altered, chances are that this steam tunnel will stay in place. Yet, one compromise offered by our colleague Michael Schroeder, ASLA, of LHB Corporation was to replant the consistent canopy of street trees with fast-growing elm cultivars (see figure 4).

[FIGURE 3 OMITTED]

By creating a strong spatial pattern, it is likely that in 10 years the tunnel effect of the tree canopy could visually mitigate the bump in the road. Yet as a campus leader noted, the lesson here is that even small projects can have major effects if handled poorly. Character-defining features such as streets and grades should always be considered in even the smallest utility box or tunnel project.

How Can We Define Periods of Historic Significance?

In most of the Getty Foundation-funded campus preservation studies, investment priorities are geared to restoring or rehabilitating sites (or "resources" in preservation terms) tied to "periods of significance"--namely, the historic era or multiple periods that the preservation planners deem significant. For buildings, it is relatively easy to determine architectural periods and to create period plans for the built form of a campus at any given point in time.

Landscapes are far more mutable. They grow, age, are damaged by changing water tables, and are prone to species invasion and succession. Clear periods of significance are much harder to pin down. In today's service economy, many colleges and universities boast that they teach students lifelong learning skills so that they may "reinvent" themselves throughout their careers. The ecological concepts of succession and reinvention are also essential in stewarding always-changing historic landscapes.

Campus snapshot: Cranbrook Academy and knowing when to let go of the past. In some campus landscapes, we have to let go of the past. The challenge is to know when the investments needed to maintain a site outweigh the benefits of its preservation. In the early 20th century, the plantings along Kingswood Lake at Cranbrook Academy expressed an early vision of founder George Booth to create a wooded, self-sustaining estate-like campus that could be gardened "with an ax." Setting the foreground to Eliel Saarinen's Kingswood School, Booth's overstory of trees and later redbud plantings framed the renowned architecture. Yet, as Robert Grese, ASLA, the cultural landscape historian on the Cranbrook heritage plan project, explained, the historic planting scheme could not endure in the wet soils and would require constant maintenance (pers. comm.). As a result, the plan called for treating the area around the school as an open meadow, something it was never intended to be. Yet were the plantings really critical character-defining features?

Booth also planted several large conifer and hardwood plantations that had reached maturity and decline. The plan notes that

the even-aged stands of Norway spruce, white pine, oak and beech have reached maturity and species succession has, increasingly, been determined by loss of the intended tree species and subsequent invasion by adventitious exotic plant species rather than by sustaining the initial plant mix by forest management. A coordinated program of replacement plantings and forest canopy reduction will need to follow systematic invasive plant removal in order to preserve the design integrity of woodlands at Cranbrook. (Cranbrook Archives, Sasaki Associates, Inc., and the University of Michigan School of Natural Resources & Environment 2005, p. 36)

[FIGURE 4 OMITTED]

[FIGURE 5 OMITTED]

The dilemma here is whether to cut and replant these trees for a similar end result or to try a different approach to forest management. As Grese notes, "Do we reset the clock on these places every sixty years ... or do we encourage a more species-diverse natural process of succession?" (pers. comm.). Such a choice typifies why many campus landscapes, especially forests, windbreaks, bosques, and overstory canopies, can never be frozen in time as though they were objects. Even if fully restored, they must at some point be replanted, thinned, or trimmed. When is it appropriate to let go of the designed past? When is it worth investing to save it?

Campus snapshot: Scripps College and the dilemma of historic significance. Sometimes, the preservation dilemma is to choose among varying periods of significance. At Scripps College, the Getty Foundation-funded Blueprint focuses on the period from 1927 to 1939, when architects Kaufmann and Huntsman-Trout were active in creating intimate, shaded courtyards, and prioritizes "treatments" for specific landscapes from that time.

As a second-phase priority, the plan calls for the reconstruction of the Oak Tree Terrace at the intersection of two major campus spaces. The problem is that the return to this Huntsman-Trout design would erase the later Elizabeth Monroe Wood Steps, laconically known by students as the "Miss America Steps" (see figure 5). The student nickname for the steps pretty well captures their sweeping stage-set scale as it contrasts with the tighter courtyards and lawns of the original campus. Yet the Steps (which opened in 1973) were designed by renowned landscape architect Thomas Church and survive as a rare orthogonal example of his work. They may ultimately be considered just as important as the work of Huntsman-Trout.

The effort to re-create the earlier design would erase a rare formal design by one of California's most important landscape architects. In other words, the effort to reconstruct a piece of history would erase an important later chapter. Such erasures should be considered very carefully with the knowledge that what we sanction as historic and significant evolves over time.

The implication is that campus heritage plans should be updated over time to include new periods of significance, such as the mid-century modernism that had once fallen out of fashion. For this reason, the most innovative campus preservation plans, such as a recently funded Getty Foundation project at the University of Cincinnati, document the work of contemporary designers such as landscape architect George Hargreaves, Frank Gehry, and others who are not yet deemed "historic." The Cincinnati plan anticipates future significance by also documenting other sites from the recent past, such as the streets and plazas where Vietnam War protests took place.

Where Is It Appropriate to Introduce Sustainable Landscape Practices? Where Is It Not?

Like historic significance, the ideal of campus sustainability remains muddled yet alluring to campus leaders. But what does it really mean? For example, Middlebury College, although not one of the campuses creating a heritage plan, is considered one of the most historic and "green" colleges in the nation, with a wind generator and an organic farm just west of the campus where a local farmer tutors student volunteers in sustainable agriculture.

Yet, Middlebury is not quite the eco-paradise that one might think. Surrounding the new library, there are acres of mowed grass--albeit punctuated with a new rainwater swale that filters runoff through clusters of prairie flowers. There is also a pitch-perfect, completely engineered lacrosse-soccer field covered with synthetic turf that can produce heat-island effects often 50 degrees hotter than the air above natural turf. The truth is that even at Middlebury, landscape management is a series of tradeoffs.

Founded in 1800, there is no single place at Middlebury today that looks exactly as it did in the early 19th century, nor even a century ago. But there are vistas, autumn breezes and smells, and moonlit winter nights with wood smoke in the air that bring one back to an earlier time--an experience that is unique to this place in Vermont. These multisensory experiences are what one long remembers from any college where we spend time; from a student's standpoint, they are among a campus's most important character-defining features. But there is really no place to inventory them in traditional preservation documentation. Until recently, there has also been no place in cultural landscape reports to discuss species diversity, integrated water management, and habitat-all of which contribute to environmental sustainability and seasonal character.

Campus snapshot: sustainable landscapes at the University of Minnesota Morris. Although federal preservation guidelines call for sustainable practices, there are few models for new sustainable landscapes in campus historic districts. During the University of Minnesota Morris heritage plan project, state historic preservation experts and officials strongly objected to the inclusion of a rainwater garden near the entry to a historic building rehabilitation. Federal guidelines for acceptable energy-saving windows, new grouting, brickwork, and metals are much more clearly established (along with numerous available product options) than are those for landscapes. At Morris, the idea of capturing water runoff in a historic district was rejected with little discussion. The argument was justly made that rainwater gardens (and intentionally native plant palettes) did not exist during the period of significance-a statement entirely true of the highly ornamental landscapes of the West Central School of Agriculture in the era between World War I and World War II.

But one could also argue that modern cars, streetlights, ADA-accessible ramps, and loading docks did not exist in the 1930s. The unresolved challenge is how we can have rainwater gardens and historic landscape character at the same time. Indeed, during the course of the campus heritage plan project, we documented a buried water garden behind the former engineering building (see figure 6). Probably built in the 1930s, the sunken square pool reflected the high-style estate gardens of the time and possibly served as a site for testing and exhibiting plants. For years, the engineering building was threatened with demolition. Fortunately, partially due to the heritage plan recommendations and a National Register district nomination for the entire campus core, the building has been saved and rehabilitated as a new campus welcome center. The admissions office is now based there, and prospective student tours begin with a walk outside through the restored water garden.

[FIGURE 6 OMITTED]

Rehabilitated by LHB Corporation, the garden could be adapted to filter rooftop rainwater runoff and overflow water from storm events. This historic water feature could also serve as a new kind of rainwater garden and as a model for discrete orthogonal water absorption points throughout the historic district. Is there a compromise that preserves orthogonal campus spatial patterns and scale while quietly introducing ecological plantings in an ordered and contained way? Is there a means to introduce new sustainable landscape practices while preserving essential character?

Campus snapshot: Mills College and appropriate sustainability. Set in the Oakland Hills, Mills College was founded in the 19th century as a premier liberal arts college for women. The campus heritage plan completed in 2008 described two periods of significance: the first, 1868-1916, reflects the picturesque landscape ideals of founders Cyrus and Susan Mills. The second period, 1916-1949, embraces the influences of landscape architect Walter Ratcliff, Jr., and the renowned botanist Howard McMinn. In the 1880s, Cyrus Mills planted a double row of non-native eucalyptus trees along the original Bryant Path; a generation later, McMinn (1919) published A Manual of Trees, Shrubs and Vines of Mills College Campus, in which he advocated the planting of native California trees and shrubs including, as the heritage plan notes, redwood, oak, manzanita, toyon, and ceanothus.

Both landscape visions, the visually powerful wall of eucalyptus and the later more diverse landscape of native trees, reflect social ideals and fashions of their time that today require different treatments. For the second period of significance, which encompasses the Progressive Era and the native landscape movement, ecological restoration to native species is appropriate if spatial structures can be preserved. For the first period, the campus heritage team and the college administration made the somewhat controversial decision to eventually replace Cyrus Mills' aging non-native eucalyptus with a complete monocultural replanting of eucalyptus that the college is starting from seed.

Robert Sabbatini, a member of the Mills College heritage plan team, notes that discussion "with staff of the Presidio Trust identified Eucalyptus saligna, Sydney blue gum, as an appropriate in-kind replacement species because of its color and growth characteristics" (pers. comm.). Neither native nor exactly the same species as the original, this choice represents a wise compromise: to retain an essential character-defining vegetative and spatial structure through the choice of a hardy variety. Here is a situation where ecological restoration to pre-European settlement conditions--taken by many as a sustainable ideal--would not appropriately preserve campus character or convey its early history.

Where Is the Tipping Point Between Change and the Loss of Character?

The replanting of the eucalyptus rows at Mills College to preserve a historic spatial divider and the replacement of forest monocultures with successional plant communities at Cranbrook are both appropriate. Even though Mills restored a planting design and Cranbrook replaced one, both choices preserve essential campus character. They are both manageable solutions that have little adverse effect on neighboring character or ecological process. I would further argue that the University of Minnesota Morris could develop a system of rainwater gardens in its historic core if vegetation were kept relatively low and the footprints along buildings were framed by appropriate orthogonally-aligned hedges and shrubs as existed during the period of significance.

When interventions have gone too far at Morris--when they have moved beyond the tipping point and harmed historic character--they have generally done so through altering topography and circulation. The closing of the entry road described previously and the awkward rise caused by a recent utility line will be costly to reverse, but not impossible. More permanent is Gay Hall, a dormitory built in the 1960s at the other end of the cross-axial drive that blocks outward prairie views and connections southward.

One reason that mid-20th century architecture so often damaged the character of historic campuses was that modernist designers thought of buildings as designed objects set in open spaces rather than as urbane, space-framing campus elements. Many post-war architects paid little attention to earlier campus plans, even when they were elegant and offered flexibility for growth, like the 1911 campus plan for the West Central School of Agriculture developed by landscape architects Morell & Nichols. New iconic buildings were set back from street walls, built over streets, or set atop "plinths" of imposing blank walls.

[FIGURE 7 OMITTED]

Today, we still run the risk of harming campus spatial and circulation patterns by not understanding historic patterns. Even after the completion of the campus heritage plan at Morris, there was some debate over where to site the innovative new Prairie Learning Center--a sustainably-designed residential house where students could monitor building systems and study environmental research.

How Can We Steward Landscape Character Beyond the Campus Itself?

One of the best arguments for keeping the historic entry drives on the Morris campus open to the public is that the campus once drew 5,000 visitors in the 1920s for agricultural festivals. The easily-reached spaces became a public forum for west-central Minnesota. Campus visitorship, festivals, and movement patterns are important enduring campus precedents. In the same sense, some of today's most innovative campus landscape preservation looks at connections outward beyond the formal campus itself.

Campus snapshot: a new approach to boundaries at the University of Kansas. Because cultural landscapes challenge the paradigm of historic resources as stable, curated objects, they also open new questions about how we define historic districts. When associations with historic events or design periods are clear, district lines can be drawn clearly around fields, gardens, and neighborhoods. But when the character of a campus landscape reaches miles outward, such as in the long views from Jayhawk Boulevard at the University of Kansas (KU), setting boundaries for treatment becomes more complex (see figure 7). KU's campus heritage plan project, on which I served as landscape historian in collaboration with the landscape architecture firm J. L. Bruce & Co., responds to the unique conditions of the ridgeline campus and state historic preservation laws on "Environs" (See Jeffrey L. Bruce's article on this and other campus landscapes in this issue of Planning for Higher Education.)

[FIGURE 8 OMITTED]

While most states treat historic buildings as stand-alone objects, the Kansas law mandates consideration of adverse impacts within a 500-foot radius of a designated property. At KU, several buildings are already listed on the National Register or are potentially eligible; thus, the "environs implications" for planning were significant for the entire core campus.

Working with campus staff, we developed a new interpretation of the Environs law that encompassed broad viewsheds across campus and outward to the horizon line. (See Bruce's article for graphic analysis maps of views.) Indeed, these viewpoints, now often obscured by vegetation, were the logical sites for the stone benches we documented as historic objects (see figure 8). Although controlling the introduction of tall buildings and communications towers beyond the campus property will be challenging, we were able to write guidelines to clear overgrown vegetation and to manage new structures and objects within the viewsheds on campus--even if they were outside the sanctioned campus historic districts.

Campus snapshot: Savannah College of Art and Design and the city as campus. Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD), also the subject of a campus heritage plan, is one of the most "European" campuses in the United States. Founded in a former armory in the late 1970s, this leading art and design college now has close to 8,000 students housed in facilities that include a renovated Howard Johnson's hotel (now a residence hall), a former synagogue (now the student center), and a modern-era downtown movie theater (now the campus performing arts and events venue) (see figures 9, 10, and 11).

Unlike the historic model of American colleges based on English monastic precedents, seminaries, or more open quads, SCAD is completely woven into its city. Unlike the traditional Midwestern land-grant campus or a New England college like Middlebury, SCAD owns and manages virtually no designed landscapes. Rather, the city of Savannah's celebrated squares, streets, and the romantic Forsyth Park are the campus landscapes. They are shared with the city's long-term residents, and they serve multiple uses including student soccer games, art shows, and sidewalk chalk art festivals (see figure 12).

In terms of sustainable design, SCAD may be the most progressive campus in the country. As Heriberto J. Brito, Dean of SCAD's School of Building Arts, points out, virtually every one of its roughly 70 buildings is reused (pers. comm.). As an urban campus, the landscapes of this gracious and compact city are taken for granted because, as part of General James Edward Oglethorpe's 18th-century town plan, they predate most buildings. SCAD's campus heritage study focused on an inventory of buildings with little mention of the surrounding public spaces. The challenge for SCAD in the coming decades will be to open its facilities and programs to the public to build on the town-gown interaction now happening outside. Already one of Savannah's largest employers, SCAD's nearly 8,000 students and roughly 1,000 staff members are a major economic contributor to the city, and their places of living, working, and learning are almost all within the historic core and overlap several historic districts.

[FIGURE 9 OMITTED]

[FIGURE 10 OMITTED]

[FIGURE 11 OMITTED]

Conclusion

Before American colleges and universities started housing their students on campus and building complex athletic and residential life programs, most higher education institutions (particularly on the Continent) functioned like SCAD. They were not islands of green quads and limited-access recreational facilities, but pieces of the urban fabric. One example is the Academie de Beaux Arts, where students lived in apartments or in the proverbial garret under the eaves. Legend has it that today's fancy-sounding architectural word for a working meeting where sketches are made--"charette"--comes from the Academie's history of sending carts (charettes) around to surrounding neighborhoods to pick up architecture students' drawings for critique days. Lore has it that sometimes the students might just drop the heavy drawings from their windows. These students didn't live in tower-block dormitories or suburbs; rather, they lived on nearby streets and walked to lectures.

The implication is that a future generation of campus heritage plans might return to this public tradition. They might resemble overall community development plans in examining how higher education institutions and the communities that surround them overlap through transportation, economics, shared ecologies, and lifelong learning. Rather than being planned as competing interests, communities and campuses could preserve heritage together because they share interwoven destinies.

Yet, purpose-built science buildings, sports facilities, and residence halls remain a major market for architects and significant drivers of student recruitment. We have a long way to go in achieving reused and shared facilities. The official spaces of campuses and the assumed ages of their students are expanding. In response, we should not limit our study of historic campus landscapes to those contained within campus gates. Just as learning is now a lifelong pursuit, we may one day see metropolitan regions themselves as educational networks with many layers of history and access to many kinds of learning.

For this reason, digital and public transportation connections are critical for true equality of access. A campus may have elegant and preserved historic landscapes, but if it is surrounded by automotive sprawl and affordable housing is absent, then it has already lost much of the historic character of pedestrian access, working farms or neighborhoods, and mixed uses that probably once existed nearby. Such social and political issues arise when one considers the lack of fixed periods of significance and traditional boundaries in cultural landscape preservation. As the campus heritage plan projects remind us, we are still very much in exploration, in the charette stage of building a new preservation discipline in which the official "past" is surprisingly difficult to define.

Acknowledgements

Many campus facility leaders and planning and preservation experts contributed essential background for the institutional case studies that made this article possible. Special thanks to Lowell Rasmussen, associate vice chancellor for physical plant and planning, and Maddy Maxeiner, associate vice chancellor for external relations, from the University of Minnesota Morris; Robert Sabbatini, FASLA, who served as consultant for the Mills College study; Professor Robert Grese, who conducted much of the landscape preservation research for the Cranbrook Academy plan; and Dean Heriberto J. Brito from the Savannah College of Art and Design for his input on the history of that unusually urban institution.

References

Cranbrook Archives, Sasaki Associates, Inc., and the University of Michigan School of Natural Resources & Environment. 2005. Cranbrook Cultural Landscape Report. Bloomfield Hills, MI: Cranbrook.

Jackson, J. B. 1986. Discovering the Vernacular Landscape. New Haven: Yale University Press.

McMinn, H. E. 1919. A Manual of Trees, Shrubs and Vines of Mills College Campus. San Francisco-Oakland: H. S. Crocker Co.

National Park Service. n.d. The Secretary of the Interior's Standards for the Treatment of Historic Properties + Guidelines for the Treatment of Cultural Landscapes. Retrieved February 8, 2011, from the World Wide Web: www.nps.gov/hps/hli/landscape_guidelines/index.htm.

Note

(1.) Nearly all of the completed plans can be found on the Society for College and University Planning's Campus Heritage Network website (www.campusheritage.org). Additional references for the plans mentioned in this article are listed below.

Celebrating the Cultural Landscape Heritage of Mills College by Karen Fiene, Vonn Marie May, and Robert Sabbatini. For a summary version see www.sabbatini-loyd.com /r-Mills-Summary.pdf.

Cranbrook Cultural Landscape Report. Prepared by Cranbrook Archives, Sasaki Associates, Inc., and the University of Michigan School of Natural Resources & Environment. See oneness.scup.org/asset/52949/Cranbrook_Cultural_Landscape _Report.pdf.

Savannah Campus Heritage Preservation Planning Project. See oneness.scup.org/asset/55489/SCAD_Getty_Final_Report.pdf.

Scripps College Landscape & Architectural Blueprint. Prepared by the Blueprint Committee with the Historic Resources Group. See oneness.scup.org/asset/53091/ScrippsCampus MasterPlan.pdf.

The University of Kansas Campus Heritage Plan. For a full draft and additional photographs see www.dcm.ku.edu/planning /heritage.shtml.

The University of Minnesota Morris Historic Preservation Plan. For a full draft and additional photographs see www.morris.umn.edu/preservation.

Frank Edgerton Martin is a landscape historian, campus preservation planner, and design journalist. He has worked at such historic campuses as Earlham College in Richmond, Indiana, and Wells College in Aurora, New York; more recently, he worked on the campus heritage plans for the University of Minnesota Morris and The University of Kansas. A long-time contributor to Landscape Architecture magazine, he is now collaborating with Jeffrey L. Bruce & Company on the integration of cultural landscape preservation and sustainable, restorative design. Contact information is available at www.frankedgertonmartin.com.