Flora and Form // a romance

I open the door to my art studio. I’m greeted by sweet scents of flowers and faint traces of musky earth. Clay

rests on a board, awaiting the possibilities of Form. Sculptures fill the shelves releasing moisture. Drawings and

excerpts from journals are tacked to unfinished walls and exposed framing. A ladder staircase across from a large,

ancient wood stove bridges between Flora and Form. Webs of twine twist and turn along the slanted ceiling in

the loft suspending thousands of drying flowers. A fleck of sun escapes through the curtain on the window

exposing vibrant color and texture.

Standing at the top of the stairs, I look at the layers of flowers and get lost in thought. Flowers require sculpting

and transition, much like the process of creating forms out of clay. I have an idea of what the final piece may

look like, but it is dependent on the Process in between. My hands sink into mud, plant seeds, and add water.

Slowly, shape takes Form. Gradual growth. Fresh blooms in a hand built vessel drape toward the sun.

Eventually, the water and flowers dry up. The romance between Flora and Form remains. A sentiment

preserved in Time.

When I was six my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I drew myself sitting at a very large

table, in a tall chair, with arms three times as long as my body and hands bigger than my head. On the table was a

big ball of clay and a vase full of flowers. 

“I want to be an Artist,” I proclaimed. 

Youth is the purest connection to Self. A time when we develop personality and unique interests. I found art in

everything. I cracked rocks in half to see what was inside, drew bugs, and created ecosystems in buckets.

Collections of feathers, pinecones, and bones were my treasures. 

The discoveries and adventures that I had with no tools but my own hands and wild imagination showed me

that beauty lives in strange places. Following the stepping stones through my Yiayia’s garden, I studied every

flower. The freckles inside foxglove, life cycle of an iris, soft fur of celosia, delicious smelling daffodil and the

creatures that live inside. Art and writing were my immunizations to ennui. While developing these skills, Time

stood still. 

After college, I ended up working jobs that did not fit. That’s all part of the Process. The routine of year round

positions felt like torture. Creativity and Imagination, weakened muscles, became difficult to exercise. Searching

for Passion, I spent a season helping at a farm in New Hampshire. My first task was to pinch back celosia, which

made me feel right at home. A basket full of large, floral wonders that resemble brains. The owners said they had

no use for them since the stems were very short, so I took my treasures home and made a garland for my kitchen.

In about a week the flowers were dry, with beautiful hues of burnt orange, rich reds, and warm yellow. When

summer ended, I felt nostalgic, but excited to embrace change. The flowers hanging in my kitchen provided a

constant reminder of cherished moments from warmer days. A feeling I could hold on to. 

I consider myself much like the seasons. I wonder if that’s why I never left New England. My transitions are

prompted by the environment. Fall is when I feel myself becoming depleted. Winter is when I rest. Spring is

when I revive. Summer is when I grow. Like the seasons, I pour all my energy into new roots, reaching eager

limbs toward the light and releasing seeds. Vigorous life craves interruption. A moment to slow down and

release weight. 

Seasonal work offered opportunities to explore many passions. After moving to Maine in 2016, I began to take

advantage of all that I could learn from the creative, talented and motivated humans that live here. I apprenticed

with ceramicists and jewelry designers, dabbled in freelance floral design, took on a position as the lead gardener

and educator at an herb farm, started thousands of plants from seed, and worked in production pottery studios.

All of these experiences provided me with the skills, connections, and motivation to branch off on my own.

When my husband and I bought our home in 2019 with enough land to start a flower farm and space for a

studio, I had all the tools I needed to manifest Silybum Arts. 

Silybum marianum, commonly known as milk thistle, is the first plant I grew from seed. When I read the

botanical name, it made me smirk like a child. She is the most dangerously beautiful flower I have grown. Once

the cotyledons emerge, Silybum grows boldly, throwing out large leaves with milky white veins, lined with

aggressive spiny edges. Demanding attention, she produces a large flower with a soft purple center and a crown

of pointy bracts. Despite the plant's unapproachable appearance, it is widely used and respected in herbal

remedies. I’ve been growing Silybum for ten years. She is the protector of my garden. Sometimes I never cut a

single flower. I grow her out of gratitude. She was a whisper of motivation when I really needed it.

I often think back to a conversation I had with a previous employer. We were standing outside the pottery

studio, and heavy snow was falling. I was taking that brave leap where you ask your boss if there is any room for

you to have a raise. Most small business owners can probably recall a moment like this when they received the

nudge they needed to start pursuing their dream. 

“Maria, even if I paid you $50 an hour you still wouldn’t be happy working here.”

I thought about that for a moment and how financial stability would impact my day to day. I would still be

dedicating all my energy into making someone else’s art, and the void I had been feeling remained. I told myself

my discontent was caused by finances, but we both knew where it was really coming from. 

“You want to be in your own studio, making your weird heads and growing flowers.”

I laughed at his blatant honesty. 

“You’re right.” 

When the pandemic struck and businesses began shutting down, I tasted the freedom of being an independent

artist for the first time.

When I am in the garden, I do my best thinking. My mind drifts in and out of ideas as I complete various tasks.

Counting stems, pulling weeds, digging. Accomplishing things with simple tools and human power. My body

appreciates physical labor, but eventually begs for it to stop. I listen, and shift to spending my days going up and

down those precarious ladder stairs, drifting between dried flowers and ceramics.

I feel intimidated when I get back into making after a long season of growing. 

“Will I still know how to do this?” Self questions, doubtfully. 

I remember all the time I spent in the garden imagining sculptures and floral design concepts. After a whole

season of nurturing and staring at my favorite muse, Earth, my creative energy feels recharged. Ideas flow out of

the reserve effortlessly. Reconnecting with making, like visiting an old friend, feels natural and exciting.

My sculptures are meant to portray biophilia, our human desire to connect with nature.  Walking through the

woods and seeing the light drift through the canopies. Waking up early enough to watch the sky catch on fire.

Judging the time of day based on bird song. Believing that I can witness a flower bloom right before my eyes. A

dragonfly landing on my shoulder. My reverence for Nature is shown through female forms, representing Earth,

stretching and growing mushrooms from their necks. Faces with eyes closed and relaxed lips, adorned with calla

lilies, poppies and echinacea. Mermaids covered in coral and creatures of the sea. Each character is a person

becoming their environment. To humans, a flower exists to provide beauty; a relaxing visual. Mushrooms

invoke mystery, nourishment, and healing. The ocean for deep cleansing, curiosity, and minerals. Throughout

time, these aspects of our world have positively impacted our survival. They give humans a sense of wellness that

can’t be found anywhere else. My sculptures are a gentle encouragement in a modern, fast paced world, to slow

down and reconnect. 

My dried floral designs are lush, bold and dramatic. With vibrancy maintained, they bring focus to the

ephemeral nature of a flower. I want to inspire wonder. Clouds of flowers appear to be floating. Strings of single

blooms, suspended from driftwood, dance through the space. Large bouquets of various textures and colors

seem alive. Everlasting crowns. Flowers have always been perceived as perishable goods, something with

evanescent enjoyment. Dried floral arrangements take that joy and extend it over a much longer period of time.

They represent sustainability, seasonality and sentiment. 

Working with two art forms presents its challenges. It complicates marketing, image, and inventory. However,

the relationship between dried flowers and ceramics helps me maintain quality and originality as my core

business values. When my floral studio becomes chaotic after wedding season, I allow myself to rest. If I force

making when creative energy is not there, I produce arrangements I’m not proud of. Instead, I’ll start a new

ceramic collection. Imaging new forms feels refreshing. My hands appreciate practicing another language. When

I rush to fill a kiln for an art show deadline, my work can get sloppy. Small mistakes can result in me destroying

a piece. Two art forms keep me balanced when burn out starts to ensue, and remind me to pursue slow crafted

work infused with imagination, earth and soul. 

The most fulfilling aspect of my craft is presenting the romance between Flora and Form. My intention is to

create a sense of calm that connects people to a wild space, moment or idea. A curious, youthful nature that we

are innately drawn to. Flora evokes feeling and life, while Form is earth shaped by hand and fire, an ancient

companionship. Together, they are human essence.