There is autumn colour, and then there is the deliberate red of a maple placed four hundred years ago exactly where November would need it — beside grey stone, over still water, framed by a gate. Gardens like these were planted by people who would never see the mature tree. The photographs collect their patience.
The frames here run from single leaves on wet moss to entire hillsides in ember tones, temple roofs floating on the colour like boats.
Red is a demanding wallpaper colour, but autumn red is different — it arrives pre-softened, already half memory. It warms a screen without shouting at it.
