EMILY THOMPSON FLOWERS

Winter.

I love the destruction of these window installations almost as much as their construction.
Someday we’ll get to build a holiday wreckage.

The season is harsh and strange.  I’m compelled to make flowers that match.

 

 

Birch and quince are bones and veins.  These brittle or undulating linear directives come from the landscape outside.

 

Black begonias soothe the nerves, a celestial poultice.

 

The flowers have sharp teeth this season.  They bite back.
We are ungovernable.