Frans Oerder
Roses
circa 1899 (?)
The rose - a flower whose face is widely known and whose name rings tirelessly along with those of purity, freshness and life. Even here, where these roses near their final wakeful stages, life is felt in their voluminous velvety petals despite the suggestion of slow and heavy decay, its power drawing downwards each head with an almost soporific magnetism. The rose’s vigour arguably solidifies with age, while for many other types of flowers it seemingly dissipates, leaving its host limp and frail. With the rose, no matter how light or subtle its perfume may be, the scent clings to its heart even during rotting. It dampens the petals, soldering them thickly together with a putrid sweetness that only glorifies rather than shames the death dance of the rose. It elevates the sense of smell and almost brutally shouts for one’s full attention in discovering the source of its last breaths; it then demands to be held, swollen and sweaty, before its moment of burial in a heap of compost or, worse, a bin. And still yet, the rose fights to be remembered even in death, for its empty place long after reverberates with its lingering silhouette, looming unseen.
