RINGO

In the hills of Nagano, apples adorn the orchard trees, suspended in sunshine. Laden down, branches still hold their handfuls of medallions high — a succulent bouquet — a radiant treasure. Abstracted, each fruit becomes a small world, a core encircled by sweet relief, encased with peel aglow. Ringo reveals them tessellating, undulating, clustered and shape-shifting against the sky. Through the orchard, a farmer treads softly, gleaming trinkets all around — gifts silently ripening, waiting to be plucked.