Axes from Château de Brécy stretch from the bottom of a terraced hill in Normandy, France.
The iron garden gate holds me from the infinite horizon. Safeguarding against the unknown, the iron bars are closed during times of reflection. At Brécy, I gaze upon a signal from worn hinges that the garden embraces infinite, influential possibilities for it’s enhancement. Layers of paint flake on the metal in the setting summer sun, pin holes of red rust rise to the surface.
The gates are closed in front of me, for it is a time of reflection now. After I go from the garden, infinite circumstances will work the hinges, fighting the rust. The blocked perceptive’s greatest threat in the garden is idle decay hidden under the surface.