The first time I attempted a Dutch-style aquascape, I ended up with what can only be described as underwater chaos. Plants everywhere, no focal point, colors clashing like they were having an argument. It was the aquatic equivalent of throwing paint at a canvas and calling it art. My second attempt wasn’t much better—I overcorrected and created something so rigidly organized it looked like plants arranged by a drill sergeant. Both tanks made me question if I had any artistic sense whatsoever.
Meanwhile, my first Iwagumi attempt looked less like a serene mountain landscape and more like I’d accidentally dropped a bag of rocks into my aquarium. The local aquarium shop owner—who had become something of a mentor—took one look and diplomatically asked if I was “going for something abstract.” I wasn’t.
These two aquascaping styles seem worlds apart, yet understanding both has made me a better aquascaper overall. Let me share what I’ve learned through years of trial, error, and occasional moments of unexpected brilliance about these two distinct approaches.
Dutch-style aquascaping originated in the Netherlands in the early 20th century, long before dedicated CO2 systems or specialized aquarium fertilizers existed. It’s essentially an underwater garden, with an emphasis on lush plant growth, contrasting colors, and meticulously maintained order. Imagine formal European gardens translated to an underwater environment—that’s Dutch style in essence.
The defining characteristics include densely planted groups arranged in streets or rows, careful attention to leaf color and texture, and almost no visible substrate. Fish are selected to complement the plants rather than serve as focal points. There’s typically little to no hardscape—no driftwood, minimal rocks—because plants are the stars of this show.
Traditional Dutch tanks follow specific rules that initially drove me crazy. Plants must be arranged in groups, with taller species toward the back and shorter ones in front (creating that terraced look). Each group should contrast with adjacent groups in color, leaf shape, or texture. And most challenging for beginners like me: no more than one species per 10% of the substrate area, meaning a properly executed Dutch tank requires at least 10 different plant species, all thriving simultaneously.
My breakthrough came when I stopped trying to follow rules and started thinking like a gardener. I took a notebook to our local botanical garden and studied how they created visual interest with plant groupings. I noticed they often used odd numbers of plants (3, 5, 7) in each group rather than even numbers, creating more natural-looking arrangements. They’d place contrasting colors near each other—purple next to yellow, red beside green—to make both pop. And importantly, they maintained negative space, areas where the eye could rest between points of interest.
Applying these principles to my next Dutch attempt made all the difference. Instead of cramming every plant I loved into one tank (my previous approach), I carefully selected species that would create the contrast I wanted. Rotala rotundifolia’s reddish hues behind the bright green of Pearling Moss. The broad leaves of Echinodorus adjacent to the feathery texture of Cabomba. The tank finally had rhythm and flow rather than chaotic abundance.
Maintenance, though—that’s where Dutch tanks separate the casual hobbyists from the dedicated aquascapers. These systems demand religious pruning, usually weekly for fast-growing stem plants. Skip two weeks and your carefully planned streets start invading each other’s territories. I learned to trim stem plants just above a node to encourage lateral growth rather than just vertical stretching. And I discovered through painful experience that different species grow at wildly different rates, meaning what looks balanced at planting quickly becomes lopsided without intervention.
While Dutch-style aquascaping challenges your horticultural skills and dedication to maintenance, Iwagumi tests your patience, restraint, and understanding of proportion.
Iwagumi, meaning “rock formation” in Japanese, comes from the Japanese gardening tradition and was adapted to aquascaping by Takashi Amano. It’s minimalism in its purest form—a few carefully positioned rocks, a carpet of single-species plants, and often just one type of small, schooling fish. The rocks form the skeleton of the design, creating an impression of mountains or cliffs in a landscape. Every stone matters intensely in ways I didn’t initially appreciate.
The placement follows traditional principles, with the main stone (oyaishi) establishing the focal point, and secondary stones (fukuishi) and tertiary stones (soeishi) supporting it. These should never be equal in size or placed symmetrically—nature abhors perfect symmetry. Always use an odd number of stones—typically three or five for smaller tanks, seven or more for larger ones.
My first Iwagumi disasters happened because I placed rocks randomly, thinking the plants would eventually be the main attraction anyway. Dead wrong. The rocks create the essential structure that makes an Iwagumi powerful. I’ve since spent hours—literally hours—arranging and rearranging stones before adding a single drop of water to the tank. My wife once found me sitting on the floor surrounded by rocks at 2 AM, muttering about “balance” and “tension.” She slowly backed out of the room.
Plant selection for Iwagumi is deliberately limited. Traditional designs use a single carpeting species like HC Cuba, Eleocharis acicularis (hairgrass), or Monte Carlo. I’ve experimented with mixing two carpeting plants (usually a lighter one in the foreground transitioning to a slightly darker one in the background), which I think maintains the minimalist spirit while adding subtle depth.
The fish choice matters tremendously. My most successful Iwagumi featured a school of 15 green neon tetras—small enough not to overwhelm the scale of the landscape, active enough to add life, and colored to complement the vibrant green of the Eleocharis carpet. When they shoaled together across the tank, moving as a single entity between the stone “mountains,” the entire composition suddenly made sense in a way it never had when empty.
Equipment is a consideration for both styles but in different ways. Dutch tanks require powerful filtration to handle the heavy plant load and excellent circulation to ensure nutrients reach all those densely packed plants. I run canister filters rated for tanks twice the size of my actual Dutch setup, with spray bars positioned to create gentle but complete circulation.
For Iwagumi, equipment should be invisible. Clear lily pipes, external heating, and careful hiding of any necessary technology. Nothing should distract from the pure nature scene you’re creating. I’ve gone as far as painting equipment black where it might be visible against the back glass and using clear CO2 diffusers rather than more efficient but visually intrusive reactors.
Lighting differs dramatically between the styles too. Dutch tanks need strong, even lighting across the entire tank to support the diverse plant species. I use suspended LED fixtures that provide consistent PAR values from front to back. Iwagumi, conversely, benefits from directional lighting that creates shadow and depth among the rocks, enhancing the sense of a natural landscape. I’ve added small, focused spotlights to supplement main lighting in Iwagumi setups, creating dramatic highlighting on the main stone.
The most important lesson I’ve learned from working with both styles is that technical execution matters, but emotional impact matters more. My most successful Dutch tank wasn’t the one with the most perfect plant streets or the most species—it was the one that made people stop and say, “Wow.” The arrangement created a sense of abundance and vitality that transcended the technical aspects. Similarly, my best Iwagumi wasn’t technically perfect in stone placement, but it evoked the feeling of a mountain valley so effectively that a friend’s five-year-old asked if the tiny fish “lived in the mountains.”
If you’re considering trying either style, start with clear intentions. For Dutch, begin collecting diverse plant species, focusing on contrasting leaf shapes and colors. Invest in serious filtration and CO2, and be prepared for intensive maintenance. For Iwagumi, spend time studying rock formations in nature. Take photographs of landscapes that move you and analyze what makes them powerful. Practice stone arrangements before committing to a final design.
Both styles will frustrate you at times. Both will teach you something valuable about aquascaping. Dutch will teach you plant husbandry, maintenance discipline, and the art of controlled chaos. Iwagumi will teach you restraint, proportion, and the power of negative space. Together, they represent opposite ends of the aquascaping spectrum—maximum abundance versus minimum elements—yet both can create tanks of extraordinary beauty when executed with understanding and care.
I keep examples of both in my home now—a 75-gallon Dutch-inspired community tank that bursts with plant life and color, and a 20-gallon Iwagumi that sits like a zen garden in my office, simple and contemplative. Different moods, different challenges, different joys. That’s the beauty of this hobby—there’s always another perspective, another approach to try. Sometimes the most educational path is to attempt something completely outside your comfort zone, even if your first attempt ends up looking like an underwater plant riot or a random pile of rocks.
Because eventually, with patience and practice, those disasters transform into something that makes even non-aquarium people stop, look, and for a moment, glimpse the underwater worlds we spend so much time creating.
