Roses, Woven

The florist on the corner sells roses that die in a week. Mine are different. Mine are woven in black thread, stem to petal, ankle to thigh, and they bloom every time I decide they should.

People ask why I photograph lace so often. It is because lace is honest about what it is: a pattern of presence and absence, of what is offered and what is withheld. A rose you can look at, but never quite pick.

This pair lasted one evening and one photograph. The roses, as promised, are still blooming.