Page 3 of Love in Full Bloom

I blink in surprise, nearly spilling my coffee. "They are?"

"Of course! That sunset peony series sold out completely. I have three collectors specifically asking to be notified when you bring in new pieces. One mentioned something about the 'emotional honesty' in your work. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

"Oh." I pour my coffee with my free hand, unsure how to process this information. The mug I choose has "Create Bravely" written on it—a gift from Elena that often feels more like a challenge than encouragement. "That's... good."

Marcus sighs, and I can practically see him shaking his head. "You sound surprised. When will you accept that your work resonates with people? You have a unique vision, Jasmine. Not everyone can see beauty in the things others walk past without noticing."

There it is.Unique. The word people use when they don't know what else to say. Like when my third-grade teacher called my science project "unique" because I'd painted the solar system in watercolors instead of using styrofoam balls like everyone else. Or when my college boyfriend described my style as "uniquelybohemian," which I later realized was his polite way of saying he wished I'd dress more conventionally.

"Thanks, Marcus. I'll have everything ready for setup tomorrow afternoon. The varnish on the last few pieces should be dry by then."

After hanging up, I carry my coffee back to the studio and stare at my paintings leaned carefully against the wall. Ten wildflowers, each one captured not in photorealistic detail but in emotional impression. How they make me feel. How they move in the wind. How they stubbornly push through concrete to reach the sun. The chicory with its surprising blue blossoms. The defiant dandelion. The persistent clover. The overlooked beauty of Queen Anne's lace catching dewdrops like tiny diamonds.

Is that too fanciful? Too dreamy? Maybe even too soft for what people expect from “real” art?

My mother's voice echoes in my head:"Jasmine, honey, have you thought about painting something people actually want to buy? Like landscapes or portraits? Something that would look nice over someone's couch?"

I tried that once. The resulting paintings were technically proficient and utterly soulless. Like I'd abandoned myself at the door and let someone else hold the brush.

With a sigh, I pick up my brush again and return to the wild rose. Its imperfection is what makes it beautiful to me. That's what makes it real. I add a hint of dew clinging to the edge of a petal, reflecting the first light of dawn. A tiny detail that might go unnoticed but feels essential to the story I'm telling.

I work steadily through the afternoon, losing myself in the flow of creation. Time disappears as colors and shapes emerge fromthe canvas. The festival is two days away, and while the paintings are nearly finished, I still need to varnish them, attach hanging wire, and create labels with thoughtful descriptions that won't sound pretentious. Plus figure out how to arrange my booth to best showcase my work without overwhelming viewers. And decide what to wear: something professional enough to be taken seriously but that still feels like me.

As twilight falls, I finally set down my brushes. My back aches from standing all day, and paint speckles my hands and forearms like a constellation of tiny stars. I catch my reflection in the window—auburn hair escaping its messy bun in copper tendrils, a smear of yellow ochre across my cheek, my favorite green dress spotted with paint despite my apron. The dress that always makes the green flecks in my eyes stand out, now probably permanently marked with ultramarine blue.

I look exactly like what I am: an artist who forgets the outside world exists when she paints.

Is that so bad? Is there something wrong with losing myself so completely in creation?

My phone buzzes with another text, this time from my friend Elena:

Elena: Dinner tonight? Need to hear all about your festival prep! Plus I have gossip about that guy from the coffee shop who always orders the complicated pour-over.

Me: Rain check? Covered in paint and still have work to do. Haven't eaten since breakfast and might just collapse into bed with a peanut butter sandwich.

Her response makes me smile.

Elena: Artist mode activated. I get it. But remember to eat something besides coffee! And wear something besides that green dress to the festival. First impressions matter when you're selling yourself. Love you!

I wander to the bathroom and scrub the paint from my hands, watching the colors swirl down the drain in a miniature whirlpool. I study my face in the mirror, noting the smudge of paint I'd missed earlier. Hazel eyes with flecks of green stare back at me, currently more green than brown in the bathroom light. People always comment on my eyes—how they seem to change color with my mood. Right now, they look tired but bright with creative energy, like I'm running on some fuel only artists can access.

"You can do this," I tell my reflection, pointing my dripping paintbrush at the mirror. "Your work matters to someone, even if it's just you. Even if no one buys a single painting."

Back in the studio, I carefully set the finished wild rose painting aside to dry and uncover my final canvas. This one will be different—a meadow scene featuring all the wildflowers from the individual paintings, growing together in harmonious chaos. Dandelions intertwining with chicory, clover nestled against Queen Anne's lace, wild roses climbing over everything. Thecenterpiece of my collection, larger than the others and meant to tie everything together.

As I sketch the initial composition in light charcoal strokes, I feel that familiar mix of excitement and anxiety bubbling in my chest. Will people understand what I'm trying to say? Or will they just see pretty flowers? Will they grasp that these paintings are about resilience and finding beauty in overlooked places? About surviving despite not being cultivated or tended?

The festival will be my biggest public showing yet. Hundreds of people will pass by my booth, judging my work and, by extension, judging me. Some will stop, others will glance and move on. The thought makes my stomach tighten and my palms sweat.

But beneath the anxiety lies a tiny, persistent hope. Maybe someone will see these paintings and feel what I feel when creating them. Maybe someone will understand that these aren't just flowers—they're stories about resilience and beauty in unexpected places. About finding your way even when no one plants you in the perfect spot.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll finally find my audience. People who see the world the way I do, who appreciate the beauty in imperfection.

I step back from the blank canvas, brush poised, and take a deep breath. The evening light casts long shadows across my studio, turning everything golden and mysterious.

"Show me what you want to be," I whisper to the empty white space, feeling that familiar tingle of possibility in my fingertips. Something is coming—I can feel it in my bones. This festival will change things.

I just don't know how much.

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