The trajectory of a bouquet of flowers is brief and fleeting, and always more precious because of its short timeframe. We often value things that don’t last more than those that stick around, and while it’s foolish to give something with a shorter shelf life more worth, human nature is flawed and rife with such folly.
I’ve pushed against that, finding beauty and interest in the bouquet that is past its prime, or falling apart entirely. I like seeing the way some flowers dry in place, or lose their petals, or wilt and decay into gorgeously grotesque form.
We capture the table that looks pristine, striving for the freshest moment, hoping to catch the crest of a flower’s bloom, the first burn of a candle’s undarkened wick.
What of the beauty of the reality of it all, when it starts to fall apart and become victim to time and air and age? What of the fallen pile of petals, arranged in new radial form, or haphazard abstract wonder? What of the aftermath? There is beauty to be found here too.
