Gertrude Stein once wrote; ‘A rose is a rose is a rose’. Of course, I doubt whether she ever saw a rose quite like this, either in reality or in her mind’s eye, because this is the kind of surreal object that seems to come from another world altogether. This is also a disturbingly ambiguous rose. You tell us it is made of porcelain - and I believe you, why shouldn’t I? - but my wayward imagination wants to see it as a fairytale rose (not unlike the one 'stolen' by Beauty's father); one made of tepid milk, or freezing snow, or sleep-inducing sugar. Or perhaps this is a petrified rose, a rose made of fog, or even the kind of rose that only blooms in heaven when a good person has died.Perhaps if Ms Stein were to see this rose, in all its precious fragility, she might choose to rewrite her poem. Or, then again, she might not. In any case, this is the kind of rose that only a poet can pluck.
C'est très curieux cette rose, on dirait qu'elle est irréelle...
Beautiful Anna.Your blog really makes me discover Rouen!
My new background. Great shot Anna.http://kansascitydailyphoto.blogspot.com/
ben moi les roses je l'ai préfére quand j'invite une demoiselle mais bon là j'accepte ton invitationmais je l'ai aime jaunes la couleur du soleil
Thanks for your comments.Lucio: thank you very much for this comment so poetic.
Your welcome, Anna.
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