Where the Flowers Take Her
A bouquet is one of the oldest ways we have of saying a moment matters. We bring flowers to openings, celebrations and goodbyes, and part of what makes them meaningful is that they don't last. Within a week they are gone, and the moment goes with them.
Bouquella reverses the roles. In the lower-left corner of a glossy black dial, a girl painted in white reaches up and holds on. Above her, on the opposite side, a bunch of bouquets in red, violet, orange and gold rises toward the top of the dial, and their strings run between the two on a long diagonal. The flowers that should be fragile are doing the carrying, and the figure who should be holding them is the one being held.
Nothing else competes for the eye. There are no numerals and no markers — only the girl, the bouquets and the line that joins them. The strings pass straight through the centre of the dial, so the hands turn exactly where her flight is anchored. Every element is hand-painted, and the black is left open around her as air — the kind of empty space that makes a small figure look very far off the ground.

