And elegance. Near the bonsai were some raked gardens. If that’s their name? Sand garden? Gravel garden? Grave, to be sure. A deliberate serenity, precision without measuring (I assume), just care, ordinary or extraordinary human care.
Focus. I think of the maker and the making when I look at art, and this is no exception. What happens when it rains? What does the wind do? Or a scurrying squirrel? Ah, I might have to write a story or a poem about a scurrying squirrel — another day, another time.
And does it get re-made periodically? How often? By the same person? In the same pattern? I would guess you can take classes in raked gardens. And perhaps there are raked-garden masters, national treasures, deservedly.