Lily of the Valley

There's a point with lily of the valley where the detail could keep going.

Each small bell holds more than you first expect — a slight structure, a soft edge, a centre that could be pushed further if you chose to. It becomes easy to keep adding, to keep refining, until the work begins to feel overheld.

I reached that point here.

And then stopped.

Not everything needed to be carried through.

What mattered more was how they sat together — the way the stems fall and gather, each one holding its own line, but never quite separate from the others. Ordered, but not exact.

They reminded me of something found rather than arranged.
A shaded place. Quiet undergrowth. The kind of small detail you only notice when you slow down enough to look properly.

I wanted to keep that feeling.

Not a single stem, but a cluster. Something growing close, overlapping, settling into itself.

The frame came afterwards, but it settled the piece.

Painted and aged by hand, its surface sits back slightly, allowing the greens and whites to come forward without contrast. It doesn't hold the flowers in place so much as give them somewhere to rest.

It feels as though it belongs to them.

Together, it becomes less about a single stem, and more about a small section of growth — something gathered, held briefly, and allowed to be still.

The piece now sits within Available Works.

Rebecca.