Vintage Swedish Herbarium - Scabiosa, circa 1959
It was pressed between the pages of a forgotten botany journal, 1959. The ink barely legible, the handwriting careful, romantic—someone had loved this flower once. Scabiosa, they called it. Pincushion flower, to the less poetic.
Native to meadows where the air smells faintly of wild honey and the sky stretches too wide, too blue. It grew where secret picnics happened, where letters were written but never sent. A bloom carried for luck by boys, or tucked into the hair of a young girl.
Now it rests here, preserved with the kind of precision that only history seems capable of—part science, part love letter to a summer that dared not stay. Petals pale with age, stems impossibly fragile. A quiet defiance of time.
Not just a plant. A story, flattened, dried, immortal.
It was pressed between the pages of a forgotten botany journal, 1959. The ink barely legible, the handwriting careful, romantic—someone had loved this flower once. Scabiosa, they called it. Pincushion flower, to the less poetic.
Native to meadows where the air smells faintly of wild honey and the sky stretches too wide, too blue. It grew where secret picnics happened, where letters were written but never sent. A bloom carried for luck by boys, or tucked into the hair of a young girl.
Now it rests here, preserved with the kind of precision that only history seems capable of—part science, part love letter to a summer that dared not stay. Petals pale with age, stems impossibly fragile. A quiet defiance of time.
Not just a plant. A story, flattened, dried, immortal.
It was pressed between the pages of a forgotten botany journal, 1959. The ink barely legible, the handwriting careful, romantic—someone had loved this flower once. Scabiosa, they called it. Pincushion flower, to the less poetic.
Native to meadows where the air smells faintly of wild honey and the sky stretches too wide, too blue. It grew where secret picnics happened, where letters were written but never sent. A bloom carried for luck by boys, or tucked into the hair of a young girl.
Now it rests here, preserved with the kind of precision that only history seems capable of—part science, part love letter to a summer that dared not stay. Petals pale with age, stems impossibly fragile. A quiet defiance of time.
Not just a plant. A story, flattened, dried, immortal.
9.5” x 15.75”
Custom framing available upon request, please inquire.