Long before this was a photography collection, it was a Sunday ritual learned from my grandmother.
She lived on the farm next to ours, grew her own roses, kept a hothouse full of things that shouldn't have survived a New Zealand winter, and did the flowers for her church — every service, every wedding, arranged by hand at her kitchen table. I spent a lot of childhood hours watching her work, long before I understood that what she was teaching me was really about looking closely: how light falls through a petal, how a dying bloom can be as striking as a fresh one, how arrangement is its own kind of composition.
The Sunday Florist is my way of carrying that forward — studio macro photography of fresh-cut blooms, shot slowly and with the same attention she gave a bouquet headed for an altar. Some pieces lean toward full, quiet decay as much as color, on purpose. That was her lesson too.