The Agony and The Ecstasy

At 13, an impressionable age, I sat an art exam. The result? 41%. Not a "just squeaked by" passing grade of 45% or an F but 41%. In that soul destroying moment, it was as if the teacher was trying to prove a point. She did. I never drew again. 

Instead of pursing what I loved, I turned to math and science and the Laws of Straightness. And with that grade, my inner child with her fantastical imagination, her love for colour and whose laughter could be heard as it bubbled into the blue, blue sky as she twirled through the English morning dewy grass, died.

At 13, I began to wear black and a slash of red across my lips as if to prove I could still bleed. At 13, I became in awe of people who could create art, believing that I could not.

So damaged by "The Day I Got The Grade", I never again created anything that could be critiqued. Instead, I allowed my flights of fancy to run rampant and hired amazing people to create what I only dared to see in my mind.So you can imagine my horror when Amanda suggested we attend the Flower Wild Workshop in Palm Springs, California being run by Kate Holt, and being photographed by Jose Villa. 

Last year I found myself thrust back into the running of Petals. It's all Amanda's fault! I have always been particular ~ it's a blessing and a curse ~ and being so, have become heavily involved in the new direction we want Petals to bloom. Our shop is due to open mid April but I still did not know how to create a floral arrangement or a bouquet or what I felt was a work of art.

The workshop was spilt over two days. The first ~ all business. I was in my milieu. Conversations of profit and loss, bottom lines and presentations, staffing and schedules; we covered it all. Throughout, buckets of flowers sat there waiting patiently. To give themselves up, to be created into something more than they could be on their own. 

After the first day, as class was dismissed, some flowers needed tending to. It had been 95 degrees in the shade and the flowers were feeling it. I knelt down with my new snippers to take away a bloom or a leaf past its prime; happy in the mechanical process of tending to flowers. I peeled back the stiff cardboard stapled together and removed the interwoven tissue that swaddled the roses tighter than a newborn child. I trimmed the woody end at an angle, gave them a shake and set them free and thirsty in a bucket of cool water.

The second day passed in a blur. Kate demonstrated how to create a hand-tied bouquet, effortlessly weaving each bloom into an arrangement that was provocative, carefree and romantic. The colours and texture in perfect balance. And then it was our turn. We were to choose our own flowers ~ whatever we wanted. I felt sick, I needed a list, some structure; a picture to copy. I looked around. There were 14 of us and Amanda was busy taking photographs. There was no one to ask what to do, what to choose. Everyone was just getting on with their designs.

I went over to the flowers and paused. I silently waited for buried memories of creativity to surface from deep within and the belief that I could create something that intrinsically would be pleasing, if only to me. I swept up an armful of flowers: lilacs, roses, ranunculus, rice flower and sweet pea. I took sweet solace that there was no passing grade in this class. 

Kate came over to see how I was doing. I knew she was going to be honest and suddenly I felt 13 again. I tentatively held up my bouquet for inspection. She said it was beautiful, that I understood the concept. As tears came to my eyes, she recognized how much her approval had meant. And there it was. 

They say that your past can destroy you, define you or make you stronger.  Such is the agony and the ecstasy of living. Such is art.