For several years now, I’ve been photographing flowers and plants. It’s a long-term project, perhaps even a kind of obsession that has completely absorbed me. In art, people often talk about creative obsessions, I think this is one of mine. There are certain symbols that repeatedly appear in art, and flowers, apparently, are one of them.
But stepping slightly away from this magical introduction, let’s talk about obsession itself. There is a thin line between a good obsession and a harmful one. On the positive side, and especially in artistic fields, obsessions can become our safe ground.
When commercial projects fall apart, or when you feel lost, you return to what is familiar. That kind of obsession is healthy, as long as it’s not so expensive that you’d have to sell a kidney. Problems begin when obsession turns into the pursuit of perfection. Don’t get me wrong, we all seek it. Our brains naturally look for hierarchy, grids, and patterns. But once comparison takes over, burnout is close. Obsession should live in the process, in the feeling the process gives you,
not in perfectionism.
That kind of obsession will eat you alive.
Why did flowers become my obsession? I think it started with their absence. People turn to flowers in moments of joy and sorrow, when they celebrate, say goodbye, fall in love, decorate their gardens, or seek comfort. When I was living outside of Poland, I felt I lacked them. So I did the simplest thing, I bought them and began photographing each one.
Over time, there were many of them. I fell in love with their shapes, their colors, and with the possibility of making them appear almost artificial. I usually place them in the center of the frame. An interesting memory comes from my university years. During a class with Domingo Milella, shout-out to this teacher, we each brought ten photographs. For every person, the group chose one word that described their way of seeing. For me, that word was solitude. Trust me, it stayed
with me. It echoed for a long time, and it still does. Maybe each plant carries a trace of that feeling. The central composition. The isolation. Perhaps, in this way, flowers became a mirror of my own life at that moment.
