From the soil of silence rise 'les fleurs de la mort' - the flowers of death, flowers of the dead.  Formed in dark clay and veiled in ebony glaze, they hold the tension of shadow and light, of body and ghost, memorial and memoriam.​

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They bloom where time unravels, in the liminal underworld where withering decays emerge in the hour of violet light - where what lives carries the shadow of ending, where what is dead may yet be alive, and what is alive is always touched by death.  Petals fall, prayers upon the paths of ancestors, offerings to those who have crossed the veil and return in vision, in glimmer, in dream.  Shining as luminous memorials, guardians of remembrance, remnants of love.

  

They are the dream’s emissaries, standing in solemn magnitude to the living and the departed in the garden of ever-becoming loss and leverage.  Holding the fragility of grief;  they are flowers of the shaded glow - a dream that carries love across.​