Every time I have done a painting I have thought, “This is more work than I thought it would be.”
Here I am holding the flowers in my left hand, and painting with my right hand. I set the flowers on the ledge of the stand, and get my paintbrush into the paint. Then I mix the paint on the board, and I am ready to paint again. I pick up the vase with the flowers in it. They are few and fragile. I note one aspect of the beautiful flower. I know where to start, so I do. I work until I am finished, and tired. The painting isn’t completed, but it has a good start.
You see, a flower has details that we don’t see unless we observe the flower. I see little aphids at times. I see other bugs caught in the middle of the flower, where they are sucking up the liquid. I don’t dissect flowers. I have too much respect for them. I did see one flower fall apart in my hand after I had drawn it for some time. I couldn’t save this one. It separated. My memory can go back to the moment and see what happened. There was my hand full of the yellow, beautiful remains of the flower. It didn’t have petals. It had parts that made up a whole.
I write sadly about it, and flowers don’t go to Heaven, since they have no soul. I do believe there will be all kinds of beautiful flowers there with no allergic reactions to them.