Consideration | Because a Rose Is a Rose Is a Rose

Tauba Auerbach. “Pilot Wave Induction III (still)” (2018). © Tauba Auerbach. Courtesy the artist and Paula Cooper Gallery, New York.

She found him under the cherry tree, eyes closed and grass intertwined in his hair. If she didn’t know any better, she might have thought that he was merely asleep. It wasn’t uncommon to catch a wisp of a dream under the heart-shaped shadows of the evergreen covering. But unfortunately, this wasn’t a dream. Here Adonis laid, tucked into the grass surroundings, his head resting against a pillow of twigs, undone by a jealous Ares in the form of a wild boar. 

And above him? Aphrodite, tear-stricken as she mourned her lover. And she did indeed love him—she loved him gently as we do with human boys and their fragility. It is said that a certain alchemy took place here, where Aphrodite’s tears merged with Adonis’ blood and from their bodily concoction bloomed the first red rose. Forevermore, she was damned to haunt the earth without him, leaving trails of roses in her path in place of her tears, each petal blood-red, protected in thorns. In the pursuit of finding if there is truth behind the one, even the Goddess of Love isn’t spared. And maybe this is why we present red roses to those we love? To express the idea that we accept the risks and consequences of falling, yet yearn for it anyways. 

I think back to the pages I read as a literature major in college, reading how Charlotte Brontë compared her Jane to golden-eyed pansies so as to symbolize hopefulness and innocence. How Ophelia picked bitter rue after she had discovered that whom she thought was her forever was the end to her father in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The thoughtful intention of giving flowers dates back to the Middle Ages. With each stem, this tradition continued into the Renaissance until the Victorian Era sprouted something of which we now call floriography—the language of flowers. After the societal banning of public displays of affection in the 19th century and restricted communication before marriage, lovers turned to this cytological communication, in which every floret owned a secret. 

Books and pamphlets on floriography flooded the streets in the hopes that we could finally decode what transverses through a young man’s mind. Red roses meant that the love was fated, of course, whereas pink roses meant you were only a passing fancy. Sunflowers and myrtle were hastily bundled together and left at doorsteps in place of Dear John letters for a love that was no longer worth pursuing. If you were stubborn, you might receive a bouquet of bristling cacti and erect Fleur-di-Lis for a more heated feeling, which in floriography translates to “Flame, I burn.” I am curious to know what a sext in floriography might look like? Maybe a hefty amount of feral vines, where the more twisted the plant, the more impassioned? I’m not sure, but it must be better than an eggplant emoji.

The last time I received flowers was for my twenty-fourth birthday last month, along with a sparkly pink bottle that didn’t last so long in the fridge, but whose effects seemed to linger through the night. But the last time I was truly gifted a flower was in the first breath of the new year. I didn’t know him very well then. We twiddled with blades of grass until our fingers turned green and walked mostly in silence through dirt-paved gardens. Following him through the trees instead felt like crossing the street with my eyes closed after knowing what it felt like to have the pavement at my back. He suddenly turned around with his fist upright. Was he asking for a fist bump? Oh no. He unfolded his hand and in it laid the smallest yellow flower. A yellow that would stain the pages of my journal, and the first of which I would leave to dry in-between a handwritten recollection of spring. If only it would be so easy to know one’s intention by the color of a petal. 

One by one, like Aphrodite, and as if by tradition, we will all eventually discover that in real life, there is no promise of tomorrow or forever when we can’t see past the edges of today. And I think that is why I continue to keep petals in between the pages of books. Maybe this scrapbook of flowers, carefully timed and placed, is the only thing tangible to what depths float around in my head—that love and emotion are also bound by the laws of physics and the natural tempo of progression. Because who are we to ask for forever? And again, maybe a flower is just a flower?

Whether there is an intention or not, flowers are gifted to us when we are born and left for us when we pass on, their presence adorning both our achievements and losses. Our Style Director here at Flaunt calls flowers “the ultimate luxury,” as bouquets never last more than five days—although her bouquets cost more than the shoes I’m wearing, and I’m not sure I consider my ten-dollar pepto-pink tulips I buy from Trader Joe’s quite a luxury. But in truth, they are a luxury; we prune, cut, and take something from a place where it would continue to bloom, only to sit to a silent crisp. We buy them every week so that we may eventually watch them wither on our dining table amongst our keys, forgotten wrappers, and last night’s take-out. 

And they will stay there for weeks on end untouched and become just a glimmer of what they used to be. Is it out of laziness? Maybe. Or perhaps it is that of attachment, that the flowers almost replace the person in the same way that an image can replace a memory. Maybe it is the thought of being acknowledged, the way that it is easier to notice their absence rather than their bloom, and that nothing can truly be thrown away. 

The only thing that can be forgotten is our names. I can’t help but think that every tendril of thought that seeps into our heads, or any feeling we have experienced through osmosis or materially, has already been felt tenfold. We are not special, and what we feel isn’t revolutionary or new. As I write this I know that someone else has written the same thing and another in the near future will have written it too. No matter how hard we try, there is no escaping the monotony of the collective unconscious. So we instead rely on the extrinsic, the physical dimensionality of professing the way we feel in which words cannot, constructing our own floriography with every passing floret. 

And for my message? I’ll doodle daisies in my journal for a welcoming of tender thoughts. I’ll offer my friend white lilies every year following his choice to leave the world too soon. Baby’s breath on tops of cakes, hoping I’ll get to keep the rest of my friends. I’ll dry the flowers handed to me with grass-stained fingers while I continue to experience my first real adult love. And as I sit in front of the still decaying flowers from a month ago, counting each rigid petal, I’ll promise my roommates that I’ll take it out in the morning.