Amid a pandemic, I find myself in a cabin in the sleepy wooded mountains of North Carolina. All plans are off; I'm not sure of the next step, blank canvas syndrome is eating away at me. As I walk to a friend's house for an appropriately distanced drink, I have nothing to bring. The cupboards are empty, but I can't show up empty-handed. I pluck a few flowers from the rocky ridge leading up to her house. Spring is in full bloom, the buttercups are burning bright, the fire pinks shoot out from the side of the road, the ferns take over the ground unscathed by deer. I continue to pick and pull along my path, by the time I reach her house, I have a full bouquet spilling out of my hands.
As I head back home, I accumulate another collection of specimens to bring back to my studio. I gently separate the bouquet and photograph the elements individually. This roadside bouquet wakes me, each tendril another world to investigate.