No Meu Jardim

“Cultivons notre jardin.”
Voltaire, Candide (1759)

“We must cultivate our garden.” My garden is enclosed within the four walls that surround my home, between my studio and my house. My garden is where I peek over the wall, at the world, other houses, other gardens. My garden favors plants that bear fruit.

My garden would not be what it is if it weren’t for the other gardens. For the seeds brought by birds and the wind always bring surprising things. So it is up to me and the gardener to choose what we should eliminate, what to keep; what should thrive, and what should be stopped here and now.

My garden, like any other garden, requires constant care. But even with all the care in the world, it cannot be completely subject to my will. For it is the seasons that dictate the hours and the times. And these do not belong to us. It is up to us to be attentive to the smell of rain in the wind; to spy the movement of birds, who is singing, who is silent; to observe the secret collusion of flowering, whispered among leaves and roots.

I live in my house, and so do those who live with me. And that is where the voices of everyday life run. But in the studio in the back, everything ceases. In my studio, I am alone. In my studio, all voices cease. The phone does not ring. Silence reigns.

But I am not alone there. Far from it. For it is from there, from the large windows filled with light, that I see my garden, that I glimpse the gardens of others, raising my eyes to the tops of the tall trees that hide other houses and frame a sky in constant transformation. It is from there that I see the passing of the seasons, the flow of time, it is from there that I await abundant fruit and seeds. At the right and precise moment.