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(…) it was the moment between six and seven when every flower—roses, carnations, irises, lilac-glows white, violet, red, deep orange; every flower seems to burn by itself, softly purely in the misty beds and how she loved the grey-white moths spinning in and out, over the cherry pie, over the evening primroses! (Woolf, 1925, p. 13)
This passage from Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf has captured my attention. The golden hour that lingered in my mind over the years. The image of flowers glowing “white, violet, red, deep orange; every flower seems to burn by itself” intrigues me, as though the present’s intensity drifts a little longer. At this hour, we know the burning surprise in the sky will sink, shifting purples to blues, into the inky blacks of night.
Like a sunset, the exhibition Every Flower Seems To Burn By Itself momentarily suspends time. Each artwork slowly burns and blossoms in its own heat like Woolf’s flowers: vibrant, full and lingering before disappearing...More
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Press Release
(…) it was the moment between six and seven when every flower—roses, carnations, irises, lilac-glows white, violet, red, deep orange; every flower seems to burn by itself, softly purely in the misty beds and how she loved the grey-white moths spinning in and out, over the cherry pie, over the evening primroses! (Woolf, 1925, p. 13)
This passage from Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf has captured my attention. The golden hour that lingered in my mind over the years. The image of flowers glowing “white, violet, red, deep orange; every flower seems to burn by itself” intrigues me, as though the present’s intensity drifts a little longer. At this hour, we know the burning surprise in the sky will sink, shifting purples to blues, into the inky blacks of night.
Like a sunset, the exhibition Every Flower Seems To Burn By Itself momentarily suspends time. Each artwork slowly burns and blossoms in its own heat like Woolf’s flowers: vibrant, full and lingering before disappearing...More