I find myself in Gregor’s orchard. As the diffuse overcast sky announces the callings of fall on this mid October day, I am eager to put myself to work. With a machine hanging from my shoulder, I negotiate my way around this hillside topography in order to attend to each tree. Every now and then, us here on the ground are granted a rare beam of sunlight, which illuminates the canopy and makes spotting what I am after easy enough: sinuous, vibrant, ripe fruits – still attached to the trees. I am here to harvest their image.

There are many ways to frame the artificial landscape of the orchard. As I position myself to visualize my subject-matter from different perspectives, I wonder about how to narrate what I see: the entwinement between people and plants corporified in each fruit. At first sight, this garden and its yields may seem like an exclusively human endeavor. Yet, in a moment of hallucinatory clarity, I forgo this impression and wonder: how did these trees manage to persuade me to come here and document their art, colorful and sweet? Amid mellow abundance, I begin to grasp the magnitude of their unspoken role in this fertile enterprise. 

Does the tree remember the hand that grafted it? (1) If it does, it would surely not remember mine. Although I came here to work with these plants, my chore today is immaterial. My hands will manipulate meaning, not manure. While searching and shooting through the foliage, another quaint thought crosses my mind: is this an uncommon form of relation between us – human and vegetal? I realize that the purpose of my hunt is rather bizarre: I am not interested in these fruits because of their juicy flesh, which I will refrain from biting into today; I am after the stories they might tell, so I can tell it to others. What will be elaborated from the things I harvest here cannot be tasted with the tongue, but shall be consumed by eyes and ears. My role at this moment is oddly voyeuristic, as I try to grasp and gather the tempting sense of this lush materiality.

All around me are local varieties of fruit trees. This green oasis makes for quite a sharp contrast with the surroundings. Across the fence, the neighbor's vineyards cover arid soil as far as the eye can see. Just as I think about having a rest by the shade, I realize that it took quite some effort for things to be as they are now. Toil coming not only from these trees and their gardener, but also from the whole genealogy of plants and people who grew this land. Over untold time, each generation selected their samples, grafted their saplings, composted their plots and dreamed about the harvest. In the meantime, trees worked just as tirelessly. Enlightened leaves nibbled the scorching sun while obscure roots diligently sipped from the cool underground. While farmers fantasized about fruit, what did the woods dream about?