“I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.” Claude Monet


Since, we arrived in Copenhagen I have admired the florists here. Even in the depths of winter, when we arrived, they astounded me, buckets of vibrant blossoms spilling from shop fronts onto the footpaths. I mentioned in an earlier blog post that our second Copenhagen home was a white, clinical little apartment and in an attempt to give it more life we would splurge on flowers every Sunday. It soon became my favourite part of the week, peering down at the wide array of flowers to choose from, “Which ones do you like?”

Even though we left that cold apartment months ago now, Flower Sunday (as we like to refer to it) has stuck. I bounce around the florists with glee, I smugly proudly teach him the names of all the flowers; knowledge leftover from flower hunts with my mother as a child, and he guesses which I’d like to take home the most. When we are home, I lay out an assortment of jars and bottles we have collected on our kitchen bench and begin to arrange the flowers. I photograph them, run them around the apartment looking for the best light, admire them, in and out of vases stems wet.

Then I paint them. So many artists before me have painted flowers and there really isn’t anything special about doing this anymore. Nothing new. Nothing epic.

Does it matter wether they pose big powerful questions about politics or religion? It feels almost defiant sitting down to paint them as a contemporary artist because they don’t…

There’s a reason people have painted and will continue to paint flowers.

Just look at them.



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