The flowers are growing, though not as flowers normally do. These flowers can’t grow at all because they’re fake, but they grow in other ways than botanical. I keep going at the ideas they hold. Each encounter reveals something new and adds promises that I hope someday to redeem.
For someone who advocates approaching art with a free spirit, contrary to my own precepts, I find that I have such a complicated notion of the flowers that I need all sorts of rehearsals. I ought to relax! But, goodness knows, with the price of roses and my own procrastinating ways, I am not going to spend money on real flowers.
Some artists draw from plaster casts to practice for drawing human beings and I, more timid than they, draw fake flowers to practice for someday doing real ones. Perhaps. Or not. When you consider it from a different angle, there’s so much theater involved in art. The play’s the thing — or the picture — so what difference does it make, real or fake?
And yet the forms and colors are an entirely different kind of reality. I get inside the world of the picture and after a while the thing perceived has disappeared.