There is a tree outside my apartment that I love. It’s called a cigar tree and in the summer it is lush and green; it is currently leafless, but not lifeless. It is home to crows and finches that perch upon its branches, a noisy seagull that barks noisily around the trunk’s base, and a grey squirrel I’ve named Peter. I’ve taken a break from creating a cascading baby’s breath chandelier above my dining table to see Peter being chased up the tree by an unfamiliar squirrel. It’s an interesting time of year when life is not necessarily visible, but silently brewing, where the trees are barren but potential sparks are happening before your eyes.
I return to my project. The night before, S. hung a piece of driftwood from the ceiling (my acid stick), and I have gone to work with fishing line and gypsophila, balancing on stools and chair seats with outstretched arms, to create a floating centrepiece for our upcoming dinner party. His brother and our sister-in-law have announced that they are having a baby and I thought it proper to celebrate with homemade pasta and place card holders that look like tiny nests.
When S. returns home from work I get a critique of my masterpiece. He takes issue with the two flower clusters that hover just above the table, disconnected from the grand bouquet above. He is absolutely right, they are disconnected, but that’s why I like them. They create just enough disharmony to make you look a little longer, consider. A delicate, little mystery.
Featured Image Credit: Uffizi Gallery (Sandro Botticelli, Primavera, 1470s/80s)
Body Image: Sandro Botticelli, Primavera, 1470s/80s