I made the leaf studies before attempting the garden. Their edges were the only part of the place I could remember without feeling unsteady. The leaves seemed glasslike, but not brittle. Fine branching veins caught light in a way graphite cannot reproduce, so I used differences in pressure to mark where their structure became visible.
The arch at the right should have three separate shadows. On the page they begin to merge, especially near the base. I tried making them darker and only succeeded in making the drawing look like an ordinary arch at different times of day. In the remembered garden those intervals seemed to be present together. I have no reliable visual language for that.
The stream gave me another problem. A pencil drawing already holds moving water still. How could I show that the drops had actually stopped in the air? I placed them above the channel and drew the reflections within them as carefully as I could. They still look like an ornamental fountain. The account has to do some work the drawing cannot.
I put the plain stone bench near the path because it was the thing that let me remain in the place. Its chipped edge helped me recover a sense of my own body. The bench is easy to miss among the plants, and I have decided that is appropriate. The spectacular parts draw the eye; the useful part waits quietly beside them.
This study does not explain what happened to my watch. It records an atmosphere and a set of remembered forms. I am happy for it to be looked at simply as a garden someone imagined. There is room in the notebook for beauty before anyone agrees on an explanation.
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