by NJ McGarrigle
‘I decided against flowers. They wither on the instant. Fruits are more loyal. It is as if they were begging forgiveness for losing their colour. The idea is exuded from them together with their fragrance. They come to you laden with scents, tell you of the fields they have left behind, the rain that nourished them, the dawns they have seen.
‘When you translate the skin of a beautiful peach in opulent strokes, or the melancholoy of an old apple, you sense their mutual reflections, the same mild shadows of relinquishment, the same loving sun, the same reflections of dew…’