All of the artists are painting flowers.
What is it about a bloom that mimics our form?
Is it the sheer awe of a beautiful manifestation in this universe, such as a rose?
Could it be the unique coding of a seed?
Do we not each morph through seasons battling gravity? Bearing sun?
Or the ultimate void that sweeps how a final frost might swallow a field?
What of the unknowns?
That must be the distinction.
The peony is not destroyed by the thought it will no longer be fragrant.
An iris does not loathe the expression of itself.
A poppy unfurls in its natural way, ceaseless in its pursuit of transformation.
So all of the artists are painting flowers, materialising change.
By Emily Dawn, The Sensorial Times
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