The sun is busy. Just before dawn she hurriedly paints the dark sky with an even wash of orange ink, in time to wake young Anna from her slumber. Through the panes of her cottage window, Anna looks out to the twilight fields. Rows of botanical silhouettes stretch as far as her eyes can see. Very soon, they will absorb light, revealing the deepest green leaves and bright white blooms.
Anna begins her day as she did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before. She pulls on her rubber boots and packs her collection bucket with a shovel and shears. As she makes her way from the bedroom to the front door, Anna passes the stone-walled study. Atop her desk of scribbled papers is a vase. It holds a simple arrangement. Five white roses of identical height, in fullest bloom.
The vase has always held a simple arrangement of five white roses of identical height, in fullest bloom. For, Anna never failed. Neither did her mother nor the mothers before.
This early May Monday morning, she would walk her fields, as she did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before, removing each and every sprout from the soil surrounding her rose bushes by five o’clock, no later. Once the soil is sprout free, Anna would carefully select five roses and return home. She would empty her vase, trim the roses to identical height, and arrange her flowers.
Except today, she wouldn’t. The sun is shining, blindingly tall overhead. The light breeze grows into an unpleasant, roaring wind. The nearby honeybee’s humming, buzzing, pestering tune amplifies. It is close. It loops closer.
In a very first moment of careless frustration, too quickly, Anna rises from her squatted sprout-picking position and gently swats, gesturing the bee away. It insists on staying. Anna flails, a thorn pricks her finger.
Bright red blood splatters the white blooms. Young Anna’s knees collapse, her vision fades, and she falls into the clovers at her feet.
When Anna wakes, her small frame is surrounded by verdant tubes. They lean into one another, meeting at her center. She raises her arms, pushing up towards the peak of the tent-like enclosure to reveal a tired, setting sun. She checks her wristwatch. It is a mere twenty minutes past five. Yet, the unpicked sprouts already blossomed into full shrubs, waist-high.
Thousands of flowers surround Anna. Puffballs of lime green, four-petaled blooms. Conical formations of hundreds of blossoms, the color of which she had only seen once before, that one time she mixed red and blue paint together.
Bewildered, Anna clears her fields of these strange things, gathering as many flowers as her collection bucket will hold. She rushes home and empties her pickings on the breakfast table. It’s time for a closer look.
She begins comparing her newly discovered flora to yesterday’s five roses. They appear thornless, which is good. Some are scentless, but those conical ones are deliciously fragranced. Different from the roses, but equally lovely. They must need water, too. Anna walks to the sink, fills her vase, and begins inserting the flowers, but she doesn’t trim.
With the inclusion of each stem, Anna’s arrangement takes a new, wildly different form. The second stem adds height. The third creates a triangular shape. The fourth enlarges an existing cluster.
Soon, Anna realizes she can cut the stems to any height, guiding her arrangement any way she pleases. She converses with color, texture, and form, snipping her scissors to an internal vision of floral bliss.
Artistry cannot exist without dialogue. How do white roses compare to purple lilacs? Why hasn’t anyone ever sung a heavy metal cover of Fly Me to the Moon? What would happen if I flavored a beurre blanc with mushrooms and vanilla? Does this smell bad? Does this sound right? Does this taste good? The answers to my questions can be externally divisive, but ultimately, the artist will have an opinion.
In Anna’s case, a creative process was born from dialogue. She adopted a comparative, curious approach to the new information presented to her. By manipulating her tools—flowers, scissors, vase—she became capable of executing internal vision. Alternatively, dialogue added meaning to her otherwise mundane, Sisyphean floral arrangement task.
If Anna were a chef, her tools might be carrots, salt, fat, acid, and heat. If she were a painter, a canvas, brushes, oil paints, and turpentine. If she were a fashion designer dressing a guest for the Met Gala, fabric, needle, thread.
Did I mention you’ll rarely see Anna now without sunglasses on? She wears them at runway shows to conceal her passing judgments.
Is it elitist to suggest your personal taste is superior? Maybe, but in some cases, it is possible to place personal biases aside. Anna Wintour’s facial expressions do not necessarily indicate whether or not she would wear a garment. Rather, she is likely considering editorial or commercial potential, grading against a rubric of requirements.
As we evaluate today’s Met Gala red carpet, consider outlining your own rubric. Mine might be different from yours, and that’s okay.
Go beyond “this is ugly.” Be kind. Consider the designer’s internal dialogue. What did they ask themselves? Did they interpret “The Garden of Time” with care and exacting attention? Question their questioning.
See you at five o’clock EST!
Cover Photo: Roses (1980), Vincent Van Gogh. On view at The Met Fifth Avenue in Gallery 822.