Blossom Pressure
Am I the only artist who feels a mixed pull to create flowers?
Symbolic beauties that they are…well
— I mean —YES,
they are beautiful.
So why do I have so many mixed feelings about painting them? Maybe just for that reason.
Part of me is contrarian by design. Growing up, art was a way to resist unspoken expectations, especially about womanhood. That could be a whole different blog post.
I remember the tension between the expectations of female loveliness, and my own awkward human experience. I was unsettled with myself. I’ve never seen myself as elegant. When I was younger, I had bad posture, awkward limbs (I was affectionately nicknamed Gumby in my pre-teen years), and I could (and still can) be seen wearing my heart on my sleeve. I was enamoured with visions of what a perfect female was, and the mythical woman of my imagination was always evading me. She was gentle, I was forceful. She was alluring, and I felt like I drove every one away. She was cute, I was gangly.
She was, she was, she was, she was…not me.
So when it came to painting flowers, it felt disingenuous. Art was an extension of myself. Flowers didn’t seem to be. I found myself painting them here and there, while feeling heaping dose of imposter syndrome.
Over the years, as art became more and more an extension of myself, but sales and financial success evaded me, well-meaning friends and family would sometimes say, “You should paint flowers — people ALWAYS buy paintings with flowers.” And while this advice was well meaning, it did make my inner conflict worse. I know it wasn’t meant this way, but it felt like a reminder that the symbolic loveliness everyone wanted didn’t represent me.
The meaning I made up in my head was that everyone wanted something in their life. That something wasn’t me. And still, I wanted me in my life. I really liked who I was, awkward and all.
Over time, I pushed deeper into the realm of human emotions and painted abstract pieces like Complex Notes, and In Formation, that I felt were true expressions of my inner world. They still represent the deepest, fullest extent of my artistic and emotional worldview, and for this, I will love them till the day I die.
Collectors who have purchased some of those paintings are my people.
They don’t tell me to paint flowers, just because flowers sell.
And yet, and yet, and yet.
There the flowers were, in my mind’s eye — in my eye’s eye, blooming and swaying.
And as I took them in with deeper awareness, I realized they didn’t always seem so elegant and perfect. What I began to notice was their unfathomable variety.
Long, short, big; tiny, confident, or demure.
Flowers that smell amazing, and some that don’t.
Flowers that grow in swamps, in deserts, and everywhere in between.
They aren’t objects of beauty — they are the earth’s artwork, unparalleled in variety, shape, and form. They represent the most elaborate array of colour nature offers. They are bold, bright, brave, and, yes, beautiful. Their connection to the earth’s ability to pollinate plants and trees suggests that they are a visual reminder of the health and wellbeing of our planet. Subconsciously, I think they remind us all that we as a planet are alive, and at least for today, we are, at least somewhat, okay.
While my aversion for painting them didn’t grow, my fascination with them did. One day, while contemplating my own artistic practice, I thought, again, about flowers.
This time, I thought about a single flower. Closing my eyes, I imagined a bud opening to the world. With that, I imagined a feeling of doubt. What if every flower unfolds with a mix of fear, and questioning of their own loveliness?
What if every flower that ever existed, when still a bud, worries they will never bloom?
One day I ran into an acquaintance. He was holding a SLR camera, taking photos of the blossoming cherry trees. While he adjusted the lens for another photo, we chatted about the time of year that Vancouverites converge upon cherry trees with cameras.
He said, “You know, I feel this weird blossom pressure. Like every year I feel this need to go and get that perfect shot.”
And the phrase struck me like lightning. Blossom pressure.
I immediately knew what he meant. I felt it too; I’ve been feeling it all my life. Pressure to exude loveliness. Pressure, to bloom in my own fragrant way. Pressure to be beautiful. Pressure to capture beauty, and exude it while doing so.
And yet, truly, I’ve always identified and loved the more awkward, less conventionally appealing parts of myself. Parts that reflect my imperfection and humanity. It’s always been a hard thing to explain, but I don't say things like “I’m awkward” wanting to change that, or because I’m chronically insecure. It’s something I recognize in myself and celebrate. I just don’t know always how to express that. I honestly can’t find a better quote about this than by John Reuben, I heard as a teenager: “I’m insecure, no big deal.”
Blossom pressure.
That one flower, ever wondering if it will ever bloom.
With this phrase in my head, I went back to the (quite literal) drawing board. I decided to resist the pressure to render anything perfectly. I tried my hand at “ugly” flowers. I found inspiration in awkward, unconventional ways of rendering blossoms; in the spirit of Paul Klee’s Sky Blossoms Over Yellow House, or Flower Field by Eric Carle.
With new creative direction, I started a one hundred day drawing project. At the time of writing this, I’m on day sixty one. Each time I want to draw a flower, I remind myself to resist the pressure. I celebrate the variety of shapes, not just of the flower pedals, but of the wobbliness of my own lines. I celebrate all the variety. Some of them do end up looking elegant, some don’t. I love them all. To see updates on the project, check out updates on Instagram.
I also began exploring each flower’s unique story. I’ve learned their names, origins, and symbolic meanings. Incredibly helpful to this process has been Flowers and Their Meaning, the Secret Language of Flowers, by Karen Azoulay.
As I become more comfortable with retelling the stories of flowers, I have a feeling this is going to lead to a spring series, to share flowers that are perfectly imperfect, a tad bit awkward, but absolutely delightful in a thousand different ways.
When the new blossoms emerge in the spring of 2025, I’ll whisper to them.
“I knew — I always knew — you were going to blossom.
You are meant to share your unique loveliness with the world around you. Don’t ever try to be something you’re not. You are perfectly imperfect, lovely and lovable just the way you are.”
YES, it’s a bit eccentric. But let’s be real. If I was a flower, I would not be a rose. Not every flower is a rose. (I would probably be more of a burdock).
In the great garden of life, there is room for unspeakable variety, and there is room for every one of us.
