Earlier this year, I tried something new: ice sculptures. Not in a proper cooling facility, just in my fridge. It was my first attempt, and if I’m honest, it didn’t quite work. The ice never came out clear, the forms never solidified the way I imagined. I could call it a failed project. But in its own way, it became something else - part of my ongoing exploration of grief.

 

Being in the business of flowers means I am often surrounded by moments of loss. Many of my arrangements are made for condolences, and over time I’ve realized that I grieve my flowers, too. It’s a strange feeling, putting so much thought and emotion into something so fragile, bonding with it, then having to let it go.

 

Some days I rush out, only to return home to a scene on the floor—flower remains scattered everywhere. Some stems still intact, others already beginning to decay. A beautiful mess. I can never just sweep it into the trash. Instead, I pick them up carefully, not wanting to let them go. It reminds me of when I first began working with flowers. Years later, not much has changed.

People often ask me, “Can you preserve this? Can you preserve that?” And yes, there are ways to preserve flowers. But to me, preservation goes beyond keeping something “forever.” It’s a state of mind. A practice. A ritual. Sometimes it’s about holding on because the connection still speaks to you. And sometimes, it’s about letting go when it doesn’t, no matter how long it’s lasted.

Which brings me back to the ice. That sculpture is still sitting in my fridge. I don’t know why I haven’t discarded it. I’ve already photographed it. The ice was never clear. And yet I keep it.

Maybe because grief is like that. It’s never clear. It never really leaves. You just learn to live with it.