The Sharpness of Sweetness

The taste of summer is always a little bit metallic. It is the cold, sharp bite of a soda can against the lip, followed by the sticky, cloying ghost of syrup that clings to the back of the throat. I remember the way the sun felt on my shoulders back then—a heavy, golden weight that smelled of dry grass and crushed stems. There is a specific friction in the world, a place where the soft, velvet underside of a petal meets the unyielding, cold edge of manufactured tin. We are always trying to bridge these two states: the wild, wilting fragility of the earth and the hard, permanent surfaces we build to hold our thirst. My skin still remembers the prickle of pollen and the sudden, jarring chill of aluminum. We spend our days trying to arrange the world into something that makes sense, but does the flower care what holds it, as long as it can still reach for the light?

Leanne Lindsay has captured this collision of textures in her work titled Sip of Daisies. It is a quiet study of how we bring the outside world into our own hands. Does the contrast between the metal and the bloom make you feel the warmth of the sun, too?