I wanted to see what happens to a living form when it passes through something solid but clear.
The glass doesn't hide the stems. It breaks them apart and moves them, piece by piece.

To me, flow isn't about movement. It's about how perception keeps rearranging what stays still.

I think of a vessel as a kind of architecture, a structure that decides how something is seen.
Here a single stem passes through three different states of glass: warm, clear, then dark.

I was interested in staying the same while everything around you changes.

A bouquet is always on its way to coming undone.
I wanted to catch the moment just before that, when the tulips start to open and lean outward.

The jar holds them, but only for a while.

I placed the flower underwater to take it out of time.
Inside the glass it becomes something between a memory and a specimen, close but untouchable.

I keep returning to that tension: to preserve something, you often have to separate yourself from it.

We usually look at the bloom and ignore what keeps it alive.
In this work I turned that around and let the roots and the water become the subject.

To me, the glow is quiet. It is the part of growth that happens out of sight.

Chrome reflects everything and gives nothing back unchanged.
I set one soft, white flower against that hardness to see which of them would define the space.

The work lives in that uneasy balance between fragile and reflective.