Designing Discovery: Ashley Pelletier on Building Culture & Community Through Shared Landscapes

Ashley’s work is deeply rooted in the idea that every landscape carries its own story. In her spotlight, she discusses the importance of understanding a site’s historical and cultural context, illustrating how elements as familiar as a front yard or a public park can hold layers of meaning. By integrating storytelling into her design process, she aims to inspire a renewed sense of wonder and belonging among communities. This approach not only honors the past but also paves the way for more innovative, sustainable futures.

Why did you choose to study landscape architecture?

I was always into art growing up, but I didn’t really know of any applied art careers that resonated with me. I was aware of things like interior design and graphic design, but I was also interested in science, math—the whole spectrum. I actually didn’t learn about landscape architecture until after college.

I went to a small liberal arts school, St. Michael’s College outside of Burlington, Vermont, where there was just one art history professor. Her specialty was material culture, and I took a class with her that explored material culture in the United States. One book we read—Architecture and the American Dream by Craig Whitaker—completely blew my mind. It examined how the development of the built environment reflects cultural values. I specifically remember the chapter explaining the roles of the front, side, and back yards in suburban development, and the cultural importance of the lawn in America—it was all so fascinating to me. Seeing my enthusiasm towards the content, my professor encouraged me to explore a career in planning.

After graduation, I joined AmeriCorps VISTA working in the city of Montpelier’s planning department on a long-range sustainable city plan.. Around that time, I heard about the Conway School in Western Massachusetts—10-month masters’ program in sustainable landscape planning and design. With just 19 students, it’s one of the smallest graduate programs in the country. The program has a strong focus on communication and applied studio experience, with everyone working on real-world projects. 

At the time, I still didn’t even fully understand what landscape architecture was, but my work at Conway set me on the path. After that, I worked at a high-end residential design/build firm in Fairfield County, Connecticut, then completed my Master’s in Landscape Architecture at Cornell University. Although my path wasn’t always clear, there’s a clear thread through all of it—following what I was passionate about.

Storytelling is a central part of your work. What are some ways you bring narrative ideas into landscapes?

It really stems from my love of material culture and the belief that nothing is random—there’s always meaning behind things. That was reinforced during my time at Cornell, where my professors emphasized that design should be rooted in something  intentional. I truly believe design is more powerful when there’s a clear “why” behind every choice.

That’s where storytelling comes in. I try to distill the essence of a site—what makes it unique, even if it’s something subtle or overlooked. Every place has its own context and character, and my role is to help reveal that.

I recently shared a story at a conference in Utah, about the first time I visited in 2020. As a New Englander, I was completely awestruck by the scale of the Wasatch Mountains. For locals, that’s everyday life. But for me, it was a reminder of how powerful a place can be.

That sense of awe is what I try to bring back into people’s awareness—helping them see the beauty in their own environments. It’s also deeply tied to stewardship. Emotional connections and personal memories are what inspire people to care for places long-term.

So much of my work is about sparking that shift in perspective—helping people see their world with fresh eyes and recognize the value of what’s around them. That’s when design really becomes meaningful.

How do you adapt your approach depending on the scale of the project?

I think it’s all design. Whether I’m managing a project, creating a budget, or writing a contract—that’s design, too. It’s all part of shaping an experience and a process.

So much of our storytelling we do right from the start of a project. We’re constantly framing the approach in different ways depending on the audience—whether it’s the client, the public, or other stakeholders. That kind of narrative work helps set the tone and direction, no matter the scale.

I don’t think my approach shifts that drastically between small and large projects. It’s just different types of problem-solving. Even when there are similarities between projects, the core remains the same: it’s storytelling, just at different levels. Whether it’s a small site or a large-scale plan, it’s about understanding the context and telling the right story through design.

You believe in a simple idea about honoring the past, inspiring the future. What is the role of history in contemporary landscapes; how do you design for it?

I think it’s incredibly important to understand the original design intent of a place. That idea was especially front of mind when we were working on projects like the Cleveland Museum of Art’s Fine Arts Garden or Taliesin West. I think we can realize that if designers like Frank Lloyd Wright were alive today, he wouldn’t design spaces in exactly the same way. And I feel the same applies to the Olmsted Brothers—I don’t think they’d approach their work today the same way they did back then.

For me, it’s about distilling the original design intent and cultural context of a site while also understanding which elements would or should evolve. The Olmsted Brothers wouldn’t be planting invasive species today; they’d likely be using a broader, more ecologically responsible palette that responds to our current climate conditions. With shifting plant hardiness zones, for example, they would adapt. So preserving the legacy of a design often means updating it in ways that keep its spirit alive, rather than freezing it in time.

In the case of Wright and my work at Taliesin, that meant leaning into his ideas around organic architecture—carrying those principles forward in a way that feels authentic, not nostalgic.

While I don’t have a traditional art history background, I bring a strong curiosity and a sensitivity to context. I ask questions. I listen. I try to understand what’s important to the community, the client, and the place—and how those values are expressed in the landscape. I think that perspective helps me recognize what needs to be preserved and what can evolve.

And then there’s the beauty—that’s probably the most personal part of my work. I always try to draw inspiration from the place and its history, but ultimately, it’s my design eye that shapes how those stories are brought to life. That’s where my voice really comes through.

What role does culture play in landscapes and bringing people together?

Culture plays a huge role—it shapes how people use and connect with spaces. At Primos Park, for example, we’re talking about creating a place where the neighborhood can come together to share meals. That’s very different from the Nord Family Greenway, which is more about movement—college students navigating the space—while still honoring the legacy of the Olmsted Brothers and the Cleveland Museum of Art.

Every community brings its own values, traditions, and expectations, and our job is to reflect that. People need to feel welcome in a space. It has to feel like it’s theirs—that’s how stewardship and longevity take root.

For my work, we have this amazing team here at Sasaki. Whether it’s landscape, architecture, strategy, or engineering, there’s always someone who knows more—and being humble enough to tap into that makes the work better. That spirit of shared knowledge and passion is what makes our projects truly come together.

What’s a project that has been really meaningful to you?

They’re all meaningful in different ways, but a few stand out. The Cleveland Museum of Art Landscape Master Plan was a real turning point for me—the first time landscape and art history came together in a way that made me feel like I’d found my niche.

Bonnet Springs Park was incredible in terms of scale and community impact. Walking around on opening day, hearing people’s reactions—without them knowing we were the design team—was so rewarding. Seeing it come to life like that really affirmed the value of the work.

And Dumke might be the most personal. It’s that smaller, jewel-box scale that I love. It brought together community, art, and creativity in such a thoughtful way. There’s subtle storytelling embedded throughout the design—it’s both a canvas for artists and, hopefully, a piece of art in itself. That project feels really special to me.

So on a site, you’re talking a lot about intent or maybe design intent. How do you uncover that?

It starts with research. For the Cleveland Museum of Art, we brought in an Olmsted historian who sifted through original correspondence between the Garden Club of Cleveland and the Olmsted Brothers. Those letters revealed so much about the design decisions and the cultural values behind them.

But it’s not just about the past—it’s also about how the community uses the space today. Sometimes that means going beyond formal engagement—Instagram, for example, can offer amazing insight into how people experience a place. I once made a collage of images from the Fine Arts Garden showing everything from prom photos to quiet moments alone. It helped illustrate how it’s both a beloved public space and, for some, still a space that feels unwelcoming.

That’s the challenge: honoring the original intent while also making sure people know they belong. Whether it’s rotating programming like we’re doing at Dumke or treating the site as a true third place—somewhere that’s not home, school, or work, but feels just as accessible and comfortable—we’re always thinking about how to bring people back, again and again.

If you could give a piece of advice to younger landscape architects, what would it be?

Patience. It takes time to get good at this work, but also finding your niche. Everyone has something they’re passionate about in landscape architecture. At Sasaki, each person has a unique focus they excel at. Mine is listening and storytelling, especially in arts and culture spaces. Find what excites you and embrace it—don’t be afraid to be passionate.

Also, seek out mentors. They might not always be the people you expect. Some of my greatest mentors have been peers who have supported me despite us being close in age. A mentor who truly believes in you can make all the difference in reaching your goals, and the journey won’t always be easy.

Is there a particular spot in a city you’ve lived that you really love?

One place that stands out is the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. I remember seeing someone play violin in the courtyard, and the way people gathered at the arches and changed perspectives as they moved around the space really inspired me. That sense of discovery and shifting viewpoints influenced the design of Dumke, where I aimed to create spaces that encourage people to see things from different perspectives—whether it’s the mountains, a performance in the plaza, or a piece of art.