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Every painting I make circles back to the same question: what does it look like to grow somewhere uncertain? A seed does not wait for guarantees before it opens. It blooms into whatever light and dark are already there.

That is the throughline of Cosmic Flora. The flowers are not blooming despite the vast, dark space around them, they are blooming because of it. It is a visual language for starting over, for growth that happens in the middle of uncertainty rather than after it resolves. That idea sits at the center of how I make art and, honestly, how I try to do life.

There is an older symbolism underneath this too. Across many traditions, the sky is cast as the father, vast, distant, and immovable, while flowers carry the feminine, soft, cyclical, always dying back and returning. Cosmic Flora sits the two directly on top of each other. The blooms hold their ground against that vastness, not by being small or quiet within it, but by growing despite it, the same way we bloom despite patriarchy rather than because it made room for us.