Le Confident

Ideas tête-à-tête

A natural beauty

I begin this post with a poem of Alfred de Musset “A une fleur”. Even if this poem is naturelly more than a single flower, a declaration of love, I use it to introduce the work of Edvard Koinberg about flowers :

A une fleur

Que me veux-tu, chère fleurette,
Aimable et charmant souvenir ?
Demi-morte et demi-coquette,
Jusqu’à moi qui te fait venir ?

Sous ce cachet enveloppée,
Tu viens de faire un long chemin.
Qu’as-tu vu ? que t’a dit la main
Qui sur le buisson t’a coupée ?

N’es-tu qu’une herbe desséchée
Qui vient achever de mourir ?
Ou ton sein, prêt à refleurir,
Renferme-t-il une pensée ?

Ta fleur, hélas ! a la blancheur
De la désolante innocence ;
Mais de la craintive espérance
Ta feuille porte la couleur.

As-tu pour moi quelque message ?
Tu peux parler, je suis discret.
Ta verdure est-elle un secret ?
Ton parfum est-il un langage ?

S’il en est ainsi, parle bas,
Mystérieuse messagère ;
S’il n’en est rien, ne réponds pas ;
Dors sur mon coeur, fraîche et légère.

Je connais trop bien cette main,
Pleine de grâce et de caprice,
Qui d’un brin de fil souple et fin
A noué ton pâle calice.

Cette main-là, petite fleur,
Ni Phidias ni Praxitèle
N’en auraient pu trouver la soeur
Qu’en prenant Vénus pour modèle.

Elle est blanche, elle est douce et belle,
Franche, dit-on, et plus encor ;
A qui saurait s’emparer d’elle
Elle peut ouvrir un trésor.

Mais elle est sage, elle est sévère ;
Quelque mal pourrait m’arriver.
Fleurette, craignons sa colère.
Ne dis rien, laisse-moi rêver.

Alfred de Musset, Poésies nouvelles


A flower is a gift of the nature for the imagination of the artist, of the man. Flowers have also their language and a particular signification. A red rose is love. A wisteria is affection. A yellow daffodil is hope…. Flowers can tell everything. Since centuries they help us to express our feelings and are also used for their curative benefits (like sleeping for poppy…).

Over the utilitarian aspect of flowers, they also appear in our environnement like a rhythm of the year, like a summary of existence : born, grow, love, die. We love flowers beause they are like us, they live.  

What has done Edvard Koinberg, swedish artist born in 1964, is illustrating the grace and fragility of flowers accross the time. There is no ugly saeson, just a living time, the course of a fleeting life. From the first opening to the withering, understanding a flower process is understanding our process ; a whole aesthetic. No reasons to have complex when you think life as a changing but eternal beauty : natural !

Edvard Koinberg, with his exhibition herboris amoris has made the greatest celebration of the natural beauty. Flowers on black background. Nothing superfluous. Just light and beautiful.

His work is an herbarium, a perpetual bouquet, an ode to nature, an eternal Eden. Let’s have “a walk” and follow the link to his website and to the one of the exhibition “herbarium amoris”.




Traduction of “A une fleur”

To a flower

What do you want from me, dear little flower,
Friendly and charming souvenir
Half dead and half coy,
What makes you come up to me?

Enveloped in this style
You just made a long journey.
What did you see? What said the hand 
That cut you from the bush?

Are you but dry grass
That has just finished dying?
Or does your breast, ready to flower again,
Enclose a thought?

Your flower, alas! has the white
Of sorrowful innocence;
But of fearful hope
Your leaf wears the color.

Do you have some message for me?
You can talk; I am discrete.
Is your greenery a secret?
Is your perfume a language?

If it is so, speak low
Mysterious messenger!
If it is not, do not answer;
Sleep on my heart, fresh and light!

I know too well that hand,
Full of grace and caprice,
Which with a thread of supple and thin string
Tied your pale chalice.

That hand, small flower,
Neither Phidias nor Praxiteles
Would have been able to find a sister to
Other than by taking Venus for model.

It is white, it is soft and beautiful,
Honnest, they say, and more still;
For he who knows how to grab it
It can open a treasure.

But it is wise, it is severe;
Some evil could befall me.
Little flower, let us fear its anger;
Say nothing, let me dream.

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This entry was posted on June 2, 2012 by in Art and tagged .
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