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"He's dead Jim" , but still very beautiful

I'm not sure why, but flowers, beautiful as they are, I can only ever associate with death and dying. Growing up on a council estate in London, flowers were few and far between. The only recollections I have of them really as a kid were with funerals. I never appreciated them or really saw them growing until my family all moved out of the city to smaller towns along the Essex and Kent coast, and actually had gardens where they could spend time and effort nurturing flower beds. Our garden was pretty enough, as far as I can recall, but really, when thinking back with an additional 35 or so years between my thoughts and the fauna, I can only recall the ones that hit me emotionally. The funeral arrangements that robbed me of my Grandfather, then later my Grandmother, and finally the literal millions of daffodils that covered every stretch of ground for miles to say goodbye to my Mum. 

I recall keeping one red rose from my Grandfather's funeral, and I was fascinated to see it not wither, shrivel and rot away, but  remain graceful, dignified, and oh so delicate, like the memories of him - still here, but too fragile to touch or hold too tightly. A link back to something that was alive and vibrant - living in the same moment, seeing the same sunshine, feeling the same breeze,  as he was before he passed on.  

Andy leaning over a white board covered in a bunch of dried flowers in which are spraypainted in different colours of the rainbow.

As I have explored my art, my craft of photography, I have several times found myself coming back round the loop to look at these oh so delicate, emotionally charged tokens of beauty again and again.  Now, finally I feel that I have found the right time, the right way to give their silent souls a voice, to give them further life. 

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