
Red Hills with Flowers
Red New Mexico hills roll across the canvas with a few flowers brought right up close, the vast and the fragile in one frame.

Red New Mexico hills roll across the canvas with a few flowers brought right up close, the vast and the fragile in one frame.

None of these flowers bloom in the same season. Bruegel assembled the bouquet from studies made across the whole year, and let petals droop.

Four flat hibiscus blossoms on green, silkscreened from an ordinary photograph and reproduced in any color, over and over, on demand.

One plump bullfinch on a cherry sprig, a poem written beside it. The other Hokusai, quiet and exact, nothing like the wave.

An armful of calla lilies is nearly bigger than the woman kneeling behind it. Rivera came back to the flower and its sellers constantly.

An enormous basket of flowers forces the man down onto his hands and knees, and a woman steadies the load from behind.

He painted it for his brother's newborn son, named Vincent after him, and cropped the boughs against the sky like a Japanese print.

One white iris stands alone among a whole bed of blue-violet ones, the blades twisting and crowding right up to the edge of the canvas.

Some blooms burst with petals and others have gone to seed, all yellow on yellow, painted to decorate the house where Gauguin was to come.

Over ten meters long and tied from perhaps twenty-six million knots, woven for a shrine and inscribed with a longing line of Hafiz.

The bodhisattva lowers his eyes with a blue lotus in his hand, painted into living rock at Ajanta and lost to the jungle for centuries.

A stylized river runs down the gold between two plum trees, one young and white, the other old and red, leaning toward each other.

Monet painted these eight murals of his pond for two oval rooms in Paris while his eyesight failed. They opened months after he died.