Notes from the Garden

I rarely walk through the garden without taking a photograph. Over time, these images have become a visual notebook, reminding me of a particular bloom, the way a petal caught the light, or a stem that twisted in an unexpected way. They are often where a new paper plant begins.

The garden has always been a place of refuge for me. It is where I slow down enough to notice the things that are easily missed. A petal beginning to unfurl. A tendril reaching for something to climb. The way a flower changes from one day to the next.

These observations often become the starting point for my work.

When I look at a flower, I am rarely thinking about recreating it exactly as it is. Instead, I am trying to understand what gives it character. Is it the softly ruffled edge of a petal? The graceful curve of a stem? The way light passes through the bloom on a summer afternoon?

Those details are what I carry back into the studio.

Paper has a wonderful way of responding to light. By carefully shaping each petal and allowing just enough light to pass through the crepe paper, I can capture some of the same luminosity that first caught my eye in the garden. Although the petals appear fragile, they are surprisingly robust, designed to be enjoyed for many years.

Some of my paper plants are close interpretations of flowers growing just outside my door. Others are inspired by the countless plants I admire while walking through gardens, parks and the countryside. They are not botanical replicas, but my own interpretation of the beauty I have observed.

There are even flowers that never quite make it in my own garden. Primulas, for instance, seem destined to become an early feast for the slugs before I have much chance to enjoy them. Thankfully, paper offers a rather more dependable way to keep them around.

Every collection begins with looking. Before the paper is cut, before the wire is shaped, there is simply time spent observing. I think those quiet moments in the garden become part of each finished piece, whether they are obvious to anyone else or not.

The garden continues to teach me that beauty is rarely found in perfection. More often, it is found in the subtle curl of a petal, an unexpected twist of a tendril, or the changing light across a flower at the end of the day. Those are the moments I hope to preserve in paper.