Ted had a garden in Normandy that no one manicured. Dandelions came in on their own and stayed. I photographed them for years, and then Ted died, and the photographs became the only way back. This painting is from that.

What I keep returning to is how the yellow ones and the spent ones exist in the same frame - the flower at full force and the flower already giving itself to the air. That's not a metaphor. That's just what I saw.