Gardens and studios, for some secret reason, keep many degrees of affinity and kinship. We feel enchanted in these spaces because they contain a premise: the duration of time, memory and imagination. Outside intrepid rationality they move together, accomplices in a metamorphosis, at a slow pace, almost invisible to the naked eye. In these spaces everything can be eternally recombined. There are no beginnings, but new beginnings, rebirths and recreations: a cyclical and malleable book in which pictures and drawings contaminate each other as language.