From My Grandmother’s Garden
Cascades of white flowers. Wind sweeps in and a flurry of white erupts. There is snow in the spring. Bridal wreath, my grandmother would say. Her garden was where I learned about flowers and plants. After the cold Wisconsin winter had finished its run, she was out there every day, from morning until the afternoon sun became too hot, deadheading the geraniums to keep them blooming, collecting marigolds and candytuft for seeds for next year.
The experience of the bridal wreath flurry is a lush memory and is the foundation of this piece. I recruited the other flowers to further elaborate the story of my grandmother’s garden. Each flower was treated as a blossom blowing in the wind. Like the way memory works, these white, layered, embroidered paper cutouts are a quiet reduction of the flowers they are meant to be. Reduced and reimagined, they reveal a variation of my grandmother’s garden.
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