This was a few weeks ago, before the first killing frost. Since then these marigolds have dried, some have withered, some have fallen down completely from too many doors opening and closing. But for a few days our kitchen looked like this. And smelled amazing. I don’t typically create more work for myself this time of year. I try to spend any free time I might have reading articles about self-inflicted, nature-assisted catastrophes or plucking leaves off my jade plants and obsessively tracking their propagation progress (usually: little-to-none). But Eric gave me a glass of wine (I am so predictable) and pulled out the bushel baskets and clippers and asked me if I wanted to pick flowers with him. That was enough for me.
We were inspired in part by the recent Flower House project in Detroit (which we were reminded of when, a few weeks prior to its exhibition, Eric (in an airplane) sat next to the woman who wrote the NY Times article about it -and of course talked to her the entire way about urban-ag, and campfire-disco. and data-sets. (I can’t link to the article because every month I surpass my limit of NY Times articles and I am not going to waste one on you. I love you. I’m sorry. Just google it).
And so we hung a measly amount of flowers in our kitchen. But you know what? It takes A LOT of flowers to hang them in a row on your ceiling. We filled two bushel baskets, positively brimming. And that only gave us three bundles. So we got two more bushel baskets. And then two more. And then more. But still, outside looked like we hadn’t made a dent. That is fortunate. Space inside and space outside are pretty complementary. Even though inside seems smaller than outside because of walls and roofs. But no. Same flowers. Same space. Just taking them from one place and putting them in another.
These two pictures of me look like I bashed my head on something and I’m painfully holding it in my hand. I’m not in pain. I’m fine. Just fluffing my hair post-shower. I know what you’re thinking -I look like a homeless farmer. But that’s my look. Eric calls it my uniform. So this is me, in my uniform, trying to add artificial volume to my pin straight locks. You’re learning my secrets. THE END.