The “living” still lifes of Maruja Mallo, perfect feminist geometries. The gardens of Rubén Darío, of Santiago Rusiñol or of Gerard Serra, the landscapes of Joaquim Mir, the flower bouquets of the unrefined Eliza Dolittle or those of Mrs Dalloway, who said that she was taking care of the flowers!

The flowers that last a year, or the invasive ones, discreet, moving forward towards a successful conquest. Or the carnivorous ones, brilliant and succulent turned into symbols of vice and sin, of eroticism and the darkness of the city, of the flowers of evil.

The artificial flowers of the Egyptians, the plastic ones from Chinese bazaars that rest inside vases discoloured by time. The painted ones by Brueghel or Van Gogh, the ones by Georgia O’Keefe or the architectonic ones by Blossfeldt. The flowers of the Gardens of Babylon, perfect constructions of a king in love of with her queen. The flowers of the artists who still think of them, crazed romantics, in love with the delicate forms, formerly relegated to the last rank of the painter’s hierarchy. Mondrian painted flowers and this is how he earned his living.

Flowers everywhere, compositions of flowers in a garden. Compositions of flowers in a baroque painting, despised, badly kept, cracked by time, full of dust. Exotic and psychedelic flowers. Frozen flowers at the roadside, resisting winter immersed in fog. The ones that fill Instagram accounts and the ones hunted by hunters of flowers, collectors, creators of Florilegium.

The flower; which emits an intense odour, that makes you drunk, gets inside you, impregnates the clothes, the hair, the nose hair, that follows you so you don’t forget her and makes you feel guilty for desiring it.