One ordinary broad tree, undeformed and photoreal, stands at the edge of completely still water, and the palette is deliberately wrong: a pale lilac canopy, a rust shore, a white waterline — every one of them a colour borrowed from some other scene. The whole scene is doubled in the water below, perfectly flat, so the wrongness reads as colour rather than as light. The canopy's fine branch texture dense and sharp, the water absolutely smooth, those three wrong colours the whole palette. Hard raking sun near the horizon, an empty cobalt sky, and the form's shadow stretched the full width of the frame, shadowless. One person alone in a bone shirt, standing at the base of the form, tiny — about one fiftieth of the frame's height, too small to read a face. Serene and faintly chemical.