“Il y a des fleurs partout pour qui veut bien les voir. ”
– Henri Matisse, Ecrits et propos sur l’art (1972)
“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.”
In 1590, a small book appeared in the window of a bookshop in Antwerp, Belgium, unlike any the world had seen. Its author called it Florilegium.
It was an anthology, not of words, but seventeen intricate, delicate, anatomically correct, flower engravings.
Roses, lilies of the valley, sunflowers, anemones, sweet williams, daffodils, iris, forget-me-nots, carnations, peonies. An autobiography of seasons, so finely detailed it made people trace their fingers along the pages, almost lean in to smell them.
It was just a book of flowers,
whose petals never wilted, whose colours could survive frost and drought and sunless days in December, dusk on Sunday evenings, the end of summer. Florilegium comes from two Latin words: flores – flowers – and legere – to gather. It was a bouquet, then, of beautiful things made immortal.
In the 1940s, another artist, in France this time, found himself bedridden after surgery for abdominal cancer. Henri Matisse could no longer paint or sculpt, or leave his room, so he made his own florilegium of bright paper cutouts.
Twenty collages in gouache paired with his handwritten thoughts, the colours so vivid they seemed to come alive, like music. Like Jazz. Just a book of cutouts, in which he sought
“To find joy in the sky, the trees, the flowers,
There are flowers everywhere for those who want to see them.”
Florilegium then, 1989 to 2020. Here goes:
Orange blossoms,
distilled into syrup, dripped in my mother’s white coffee, imbued into sfouf – spongy saffron cakes, my favourite.
Jasmine,
lacing the fir green shutters of a window shared with my sister, wafting in on a mild breeze; bedtime on a June evening.
Broom flower,
rebelliously, joyfully wild and yellow, woven into a tapestry, hung for shade in my father’s orchard.
Lavender,
in little pouches tied with satin blue bows and tucked at the back of drawers, by letters, old boarding passes, other treasures.
Daisies,
He loves me, he loves me not. He did love me that summer.
Daffodils,
April in Glasgow.
Cherry blossoms,
Tokyo’s October.
Tulips,
I miss her.
White roses,
I miss him.
Verbena,
around his neck, over the ascot tie only my grandfather could wear.
Edelweiss,
Captain Von Trapp, homemade burgers on movie night. The hills are alive for the rest of the week stuck in my head.
Red roses,
Will you marry me?
Peonies,
Yes. I did.
Snowdrops,
It will be all right.
Orchids, white,
Always.