A few weeks ago spring began to unveil itself in New York. Coats turned into light jackets, scarves disappeared completely and people started to actually smile, or at least muster a smirk, but the most important thing was that the flowers began to bloom and with that came the most breathtaking lily's I have ever seen. There was something so unfathomably heart gripping about these specific lilies that I came back the day after passing by them on Bedford to purchase for myself.
At that point they went on to sit in my living room for several days with me staring at them in a deep trance. They weren't pretty and they weren't beautiful, they were more than that. They had grace and elegance, an intoxication to them that was dangerous and you couldn't resist yourself from the temptation. But there was also a sadness about them. A melancholy that would start to creep in your chest. You would feel your heart beat heavier and before you knew it your mind was washed over with an addiction to learning their every curve, the anatomy of their poetic construction, memorizing the exact mixture of oxblood, purple and black that created their addictive essence.
Days were lost to this obsession until I finally tore myself away and moved forward with approaching a way to photograph these sirens.
They are on their last days now, wilting in the windowsill struggling to keep their necks held high but their essence and this photographic study of them has inspired a new direction.
Something darker, deeper and mesmerizingly addictive.