I was not the first to pose this question; it was first asked in print by Garrett Eckbo, one of the most important landscape architects in America in the twentieth century. One could equally reverse the question and ask: ‘Is architecture landscape?’. In either formulation the question is about the relationship between two arts that are normally understood as separate professions these days. In fact, Eckbo was not the first to puzzle over this issue, even if his exact formulation had no antecedents. The question had already been posed in the nineteenth century, when landscape architecture emerged as a distinct discipline. The early theorists of the field, Humphry Repton and John Claudius Loudon in England, Antoine-Chrysostome Quatremère de Quincy in France, and Andrew Jackson Downing in the USA, all wondered about the relationships between these two practices – if indeed they were two. The professional accrediting and licensing bodies that were formed subsequently tried to settle the matter and institutionalise the distinction. But the question may be older, for it is possible to say that the distinction between these disciplines, at least the suggestion of fundamental differences, was debated even earlier in the eighteenth century. The cases I have in mind include the Abbé Laugier and William Chambers; the first compared the routes through a forest to the streets of a town, while the second used landscape aesthetics to evaluate the merits of a building's facade. Despite this tradition and indeed maybe because of it, the questions these theorists asked have not disappeared in our time.

Every year since the beginning of the new century, the Serpentine Gallery in London has commissioned a summer pavilion from a famous architect. This summer, a new book Ten Years Serpentine Gallery Pavilions was published by Taschen Verlag to coincide with the opening of the eleventh annual pavilion, designed by Peter Zumthor. Helen Mallinson reviews Zumthor's pavilion here, in the context of the decade-old pavilion programme.

The work of the American painter Jackson Pollock speaks to us not only through exhibitions of paintings hung on gallery walls, but also through the films and photographs [1] of Hans Namuth which exposed Pollock's phased working process to the public. In the first of two distinct phases Pollock is seen immersed in, and in intimate interaction with, a large horizontal canvas. This records traces of his movement and expressive gestures in heterogeneous media. A second phase is then triggered by a pivotal operation: the horizontal recording and working surface is transposed to a vertical viewing plane. Leo Steinberg recounts that Pollock: ‘would tack the canvas on to a wall – to get acquainted with it, he used to say; to see where it wanted to go. He lived with the painting in its uprighted state, as with a world confronting his human posture’.