With spring’s awakening, the grass grows greener and thicker, tiny flowers appear everywhere, and the buzzing crowd receives its invitation. At the height of the garden’s lush jungle, spiky green buds suddenly rise from the densest grass. Day by day, a new poppy flower is born from them. It enters the meadow scene with a spellbinding presence, a fierce colour, and the grandeur of its petals. It overshadows the textures and shades of every other flower and blade of grass. Even as a bud, the poppy stretches and stands out, immediately dominating and dictating the whole view.
I caught one bud at the instant its petals were breaking through. That natural struggle between what must be expressed and what has finished its time always fascinates me. What grows generates enough power to break through the structure it has outgrown. Then the outgrown thing lets itself be pierced and gives way. Everything has its purpose, function, and lifespan; together it all collaborates in the flow of passing.
The petals are born crumpled, but very quickly they spread themselves wide and show the fullness of their smooth, silken surface, made to entice and decorate, tempt and dazzle.
Once open, the flower is present for only a day or two. Then its parts scatter, fly off, and disappear. The plant moves into another phase: developing poppy seed.
When His Majesty the Poppy appears, your gaze simply sticks to him. You want to touch him, run your fingers across those peculiar petals, and pay tribute to all that ceremony.
