In my paintings, flowers don’t die — they remember.
They hold traces of what has passed, but they never truly fade. Their petals, even when bruised, still breathe color; their stems still pulse beneath layers of paint. I’ve always seen florals not as fragile decorations, but as resilient symbols — beings that live between softness and strength, silence and survival.
The gothic botanical language allows me to explore that duality. My original paintings are not about mourning beauty but about witnessing its persistence. Decay is only one version of change. What we call dying is often just transformation — the moment when beauty turns inward and begins to glow differently.
Flowers as Memory
I paint flowers as emotional archives.
They store stories the way the human body stores feelings — quietly, under the surface. Each line, each petal, each crack in color is a record of time, tension, and tenderness.
In my mixed media paintings, florals aren’t idealized. They are layered, imperfect, tactile. Metallic paint meets matte pigment, shadows blend into light. The surface behaves like skin — delicate but strong. I want each flower to feel as if it’s lived through something and carried it with grace.
In that sense, my florals don’t decay — they remember living.
The Symbolism of Endurance
Gothic aesthetics are often associated with darkness, but for me, darkness is not destruction; it’s depth.
I use it as a background for resilience — a contrast that lets brightness emerge with more honesty. Within these original paintings, every flower becomes a symbol of endurance: how beauty can survive even after transformation.
Some petals fold inward, some open again, some blur into abstraction — yet none of them disappear. They evolve, adapting to time, just as emotions do.
In this symbolic world, the flower becomes a language of persistence. It teaches that fragility and strength are never opposites; they coexist, feeding each other.
Beauty Without Permanence
When I work with acrylic and metallic textures, I think of the way color behaves like emotion — it fades, deepens, shifts, and sometimes comes back in new form. But it never really dies.
That’s why I resist the romantic idea of decay. In my art, nothing truly ends. Even the darkest florals still carry a pulse — the shimmer of silver under black, a reflection that flickers when light moves.
The gothic botanical style lets me show that paradox: stillness that feels alive, beauty that exists not in denial of time but in dialogue with it.
The Living Surface
Every brushstroke I make is a small defiance of disappearance.
The textures — layered acrylic, scratched metallic paint, matte under luminous glazes — create surfaces that seem to breathe. When viewers look closely, they see that what first appeared to be decay is actually transformation.
My original paintings live somewhere between the real and the symbolic. They aren’t about florals that perish but florals that continue — emotionally, visually, spiritually. Even when transformed into art prints, I keep that raw tactility, that rhythm of survival.
The flowers in these works don’t fade — they shift form.
They become memory, emotion, atmosphere. They linger like scent, like breath, like something that refuses to end.
The Eternal Botanical
“Florals don’t decay” isn’t a denial of death — it’s a redefinition of life.
It’s the belief that beauty doesn’t depend on perfection or freshness, but on presence. My gothic botanical art exists in that space of continuation — where the organic becomes eternal through emotion.
Each painting is a reminder: what has been touched by feeling never truly disappears.
It just changes the way it stays.
