For years, I drew flowers as witnesses, quiet, attentive, suspended in light. Those works held space for beauty and stillness, for presence itself.

 

Now the quiet feels insufficient. The new florals arrive as specimens of another kind: preserved, contained, examined. Each drawing reflects a future in crisis, a record of what might remain once our ecosystems collapse. Flowers sit in clinical glass cylinders or on plinths etched like ancient monuments, as if we’re already building relics of what we’ve lost.

 

These drawings are not about decoration. They’re about evidence. The blooms bruise, wilt, or resist; their containers gleam under sterile light. Insects appear as both caretakers and casualties. Together they form a kind of environmental autopsy, part scientific study, part memorial, asking what happens when beauty becomes proof of our neglect.

 

I’m no longer documenting what flowers are. I’m recording what they’re becoming.