Flowers, nothing but flowers. A subject I have consciously steered away since I started making art. Yes, in some of my recent Vanitas and still life paintings flowers are there as an accent but I can’t think of a piece of art I have done that was just flowers, front and center. I think it’s pretty obvious that flowers have been done and done, from Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, to Joan Mitchell’s giant messy scribbles, Mapplethorpe’s high definition bouquets, and O’Keefe’s lurid blooms, it didn’t seem that there is any room left for the floral.
For some reason, I’ve taken a like to peonies, I remember them growing ragged and unkempt in the yard of my grandmother’s house. As a 5 year old, they made little impression, so I don’t know why I’m remembering them now. I’m not even sure how I know they were peonies. Maybe it’s this little mystery that’s caused some of the attraction. Physically they are just a ragged mess, and that I do like. Despite their seeming disorder, they are beautiful, as if they don’t care about the order of nature. As a scientist, I know there is an underlying order to their structure, and even a reason for their appearance, but on cursory inspection, they look like beautiful mess.
I like this painting, and I liked doing it. It occupied my hands and mind through a period of both physical and emotional pain. The positioning of each blossom was a bit like a piece of a puzzle as to the overall balance of this painting….and it’s not perfectly balanced. There’s not a little thing up here and a big thing down there. In other words, it’s not perfectly symmetrical, but I think that adds something to the energy.
