London's rain stops before dusk. In the gardens of Kensington Palace the air is still wet, and the light is turning from leaden grey to a purpled dark blue — the very ground color of this painting. It is not yet night; it is the moment before night falls, when the day is most reluctant to let go of its light.
Five blue flowers open upon this dusky purple. Their petals are blue soaked open by water — the deep ones nearly indigo, the thin places letting a lake-like brightness through, like hydrangeas releasing their color layer by layer after rain. Alcohol ink cannot hold its edges; a faint watery halo rims every petal, proof that the rain's damp has not yet dried. At each flower's heart, a cluster of tiny white stamens — the first stars to light up at dusk, and raindrops the petals were not ready to let fall.
The 12 × 12 square is like a view from a window in the palace corridor — not large, yet it gathers the whole garden's dusk into itself. The blue flowers do not compete for show, the purple ground does not steal the scene; there is only moist air, a darkening sky, and flowers quietly opening.
This is not a painting about flowers. It is the few minutes after the rain stops and before the lamps come on, when a garden holds its breath.
If this piece speaks to you, you are welcome to write to me.