Cyclamen

These paper cyclamen began as a flower I didn't know particularly well.

Unlike daffodils or hellebores, I can't think of a place where I've come across them growing naturally. They're familiar enough — the sort of plant you recognise when you see it — but I realised I'd never really stopped to look at one properly.

Part of the initial spark came from a book of botanical illustration by Pierre-Joseph Redouté, which my daughter gave me for Christmas. I've always been drawn to the way each plant is observed — the colours, the tones, the quiet attention given to every leaf and petal. His study of cyclamen made me pause and look properly at the flower for the first time.

 

And it's a strange one.

The flowers don't open outward like most blooms. Instead, the petals sweep sharply back, almost as if they've been caught by a sudden gust of wind — reminding me of those days when I step out of the front door and my hair is instantly blown straight behind me. They hover above the leaves on thin, arching stems, giving the whole plant a slightly weightless feeling.

Elegant, but also a little awkward. I can relate to the awkward.

That's what drew me in. I spent time looking closely, trying to understand how the plant holds itself together. The stems curve in different directions. Some flowers lift higher than others. Some are still closed, others fully turned back. The same kind of looking that often begins outside, before it finds its way back into the work.

Nothing sits perfectly straight.

 

The leaves are just as interesting. Softly heart-shaped, with pale markings that almost look painted already. I leaned into that — shaping each one by hand, adding just enough colour to bring out the pattern without overworking it.

I didn't try to copy any single plant exactly. It became more of a study — taking what I'd noticed and shaping it into something that felt balanced in its own way. That study now sits within Available Works.

It's a curious little plant when you really look at it. Not showy like a rose, or cheerful like a daffodil. But there's something in it — the way the flowers lift upwards while the leaves stay low and steady beneath.

The more I worked on it, the more I appreciated that quiet confidence.

Sometimes the most interesting flowers are the ones you almost overlook.

Rebecca