The Influencer's Garden: How Instagram is Flattening Landscape Design

It was a crisp morning when I first stepped into the garden—a sprawling, meticulously curated expanse that seemed to hum with a strange, artificial energy. The air carried the faint scent of freshly clipped hedges, and the sunlight danced off an infinity pool that bled seamlessly into the horizon. Neon swings swayed gently, their vibrant hues clashing with the muted greens of symmetrical plant rows. A group of influencers, phones in hand, giggled as they struck poses, their laughter echoing over the manicured lawns. As a professional architect with decades of designing spaces that breathe life into communities, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease. This wasn’t a garden—it was a stage, built not for the soul but for the smartphone camera. And this, dear reader, is where our story begins.

Let me take you back to a time when landscape design was a dance with nature, a conversation between the land’s history and the people who shaped it. I’ve spent years sketching plans that honor the rugged cliffs of coastal villages or the sprawling savannas of inland plains, each design a love letter to its place. But today, as I scroll through Instagram,

I see a different narrative unfolding. The Influencer’s Garden has emerged—a global monoculture of design dictated by likes, shares, and hashtags. Infinity pools, neon swings, and perfectly aligned floral grids dominate feeds, promising photogenic perfection from Bali to Brooklyn. As an architect, I can’t stay silent. This is a critique of how our drive for “Instagrammable moments” is flattening landscape design, and I invite you to join me in questioning its cost.

The Rise of the Photogenic Backdrop

It started innocently enough. Social media gave us a platform to share our creativity, and landscape designers seized the opportunity to showcase their work. But somewhere along the line, the algorithm took the wheel. Posts with vibrant colors, bold contrasts, and symmetrical compositions began to soar, and clients—influencers, hoteliers, even homeowners—demanded designs that would rack up those coveted double-taps. I’ve seen it firsthand: a client once rejected a native wildflower meadow I proposed, insisting on a manicured lawn with a neon swing because “it photographs better.” The human eye was secondary; the smartphone camera reigned supreme.

This shift has birthed a global template. Walk into any trendy resort or private estate, and you’ll find the same elements: infinity pools that mimic a horizon (a feat of engineering that often ignores local water scarcity), neon installations that scream for attention, and plant arrangements so precise they could be blueprints. A 2023 study from the Journal of Landscape Architecture noted a 40% increase in such features in high-traffic Instagram locations over the past five years. But at what price? Are we designing for people to live in these spaces or merely to pose in them?

Sacrificing Ecology for Aesthetics

Let’s dig deeper into the soil of this issue. Ecological diversity is the heartbeat of any landscape, yet the Influencer’s Garden often tramples it underfoot. Take the infinity pool—a marvel of modern engineering that requires constant water circulation and chemical treatment, often in regions where drought is a pressing reality. In California, where I’ve worked on sustainable projects, I’ve seen communities struggle with water rationing while luxury estates flaunt these water-hungry features for the perfect sunset shot. Native plants, which thrive with minimal intervention and support local wildlife, are swapped for exotic species that demand irrigation and pesticides—all to achieve that lush, Instagram-ready look.

The symmetrical plantings, too, tell a story of lost character. In my travels, I’ve marveled at the rugged beauty of a Moroccan riad’s courtyard, where olive trees and cacti tell tales of resilience, or the chaotic splendor of a Japanese moss garden, where every irregularity speaks of history. These are landscapes with soul, shaped by their environment and culture. Yet, the Influencer’s Garden flattens these nuances into a one-size-fits-all aesthetic, erasing the very essence that makes a place unique. Are we trading ecological health and local identity for a fleeting scroll-by approval?

Beauty vs. Photogenicity: A Critical Divide

This brings us to a pivotal question: what makes a landscape authentically beautiful versus merely photogenic? I’ve stood in gardens where the beauty unfolds slowly—a hidden waterfall in a Pacific Northwest forest, the scent of sagebrush after rain in the American Southwest. These moments demand presence, not a filter. Photogenic design, by contrast, is instantaneous, engineered for a 3-second glance. The neon swing might catch the eye, but does it invite you to linger, to feel the earth beneath your feet?

As architects, we’re trained to consider the human experience—how a space feels, how it functions, how it connects us to our surroundings. Yet, the Instagram lens prioritizes spectacle over substance. A 2024 survey by the American Society of Landscape Architects found that 65% of younger clients now request features based on social media trends rather than personal or ecological needs. This isn’t evolution; it’s capitulation. We’re designing for the algorithm, not the human spirit.

Reclaiming Place-Based Design

So, what’s the way forward? As an architect, I believe we can resist this flattening trend by returning to the roots of our craft—designing unique, place-based experiences that defy the selfie-spot urge. Imagine a garden in Tuscany where ancient olive groves are paired with modern sculptures, reflecting both heritage and innovation. Or a rooftop in Mumbai where monsoon-resistant plants create a living tapestry, honoring the city’s climate. These designs demand engagement, not just a snapshot.

Here’s my challenge to you, the reader: demand more from the spaces you inhabit. Ask your designers to weave in local materials, native flora, and cultural narratives. Support projects that prioritize ecological balance over viral fame. As professionals, we can advocate for education—teaching clients that true beauty lies in authenticity, not likes. I’ve begun incorporating workshops into my practice, guiding homeowners to appreciate the wild edges of their land rather than taming them into submission.

The Garden’s True Legacy

As I left that influencer haven that morning, I couldn’t shake the image of those neon swings against the sterile lawn. But then I thought of a project I’m currently designing—a community garden in Seattle, where native ferns and cedar pathways tell the story of the Salish people who once thrived there. It won’t trend on Instagram, but it will endure in the hearts of those who walk it. The Influencer’s Garden may dominate our feeds, but it’s up to us—designers, enthusiasts, and occupants—to reclaim the landscape for genuine experience.

What do you think? Have you noticed this shift in the gardens you visit? Share your thoughts—I’d love to hear how we can reshape this narrative together. Let’s build spaces that live beyond the screen.