I am Rooted, but I flow.

A flower is the only sculpture that agrees to die. The works in this exhibition were rooted for a season, cut in a morning, arranged by an afternoon, and gone within the week. What you are looking at is not documentation — it is everything that remains.

The title is borrowed from Virginia Woolf’s The Waves (1931). It names the contradiction every cut flower carries: to be held in place, and to be already leaving. The address — butiflow.art — is simply the second half of the sentence. The first half is understood.

The site is built the way an exhibition is built. Works are numbered and labelled like museum plates. Each room keeps its title fixed at your side while the works flow past it — the rooms are rooted; the looking moves. Every photograph waits in monochrome and blooms into colour as it crosses the centre of your screen, the way a flower opens for whoever stands directly in front of it. There is a day and a night, because flowers get both.

Through the rooms, other women speak — Frida Kahlo, Georgia O’Keeffe, Mary Oliver, Sylvia Plath, Hélène Cixous, Emily Dickinson. The last room, The Unpicked, belongs to the flowers that were never cut at all. More than eighty works were made across twelve countries; thirty-nine hang here, in the only state photography allows them: permanently temporary. The rest lived and died offline — which is, after all, the point.