The Tulip with the Red Streak

I once saw a tulip that stopped me in my tracks.

It was growing in a perfectly manicured lawn — a stray among carefully choreographed plantings. The petals were a deep yellow, almost orange, with a thick red streak running through them. It felt singular. Completely itself.

I was reminded of how tulips were once considered rare and precious, traded at extraordinary values during the 17th century before becoming widely cultivated and ordinary. The thought made me smile. Value, after all, is often about attention.

I took a photo of that tulip. It felt worth remembering.

The next day, it was gone — a victim of the lawn mower. Perfectly reasonable. Perfectly expected. And yet, I felt a small sense of loss. Maybe I was the only one who noticed it. Maybe that flower only existed in that way for a moment.

Flowers are like that. No two are exactly the same. Even the simplest ones carry subtle variations that disappear if we don’t slow down long enough to see

That’s what these watercolours are about. They’re an attempt to honour the individuality of something that’s easy to overlook. To mark a moment of noticing. To hold onto what might otherwise pass unnoticed.

I hope that when someone looks at these works, they see them the way I first saw that tulip — as something familiar, yes, but also quietly extraordinary.

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This post is part of a short series reflecting on flowers, attention, and process.

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