Plastic flowers don’t die
Let’s be quite clear about this: the protagonist of this series by Luciana Crepaldi is not a stupid romantic, renewing her belief in the regeneration of man. She is interested in the white tulips as a ‘performance’ that wounds and seduces. Might this perhaps be the fetish of a solitary woman? But what kind of solitude? She has no babaca* taste for the determination that denotes fragility, submission and insignificance. She is not the Lady of the Camellias. It can be said with impunity, even with an audible laugh, that all the perfumed dreams envelop her, instrument or scenario of a particular magical or poetic activity. There are no more lies, this is not being played with the heart: the end of metaphors, kingdom of smell. The whole spirit of the girl smells pale yellow; the gilded coloration of the sea at dusk; ardent bees buzzing and zigzagging by the smells. The tones of the light of an invisible garden; the lilac clover of lost hopes; alecrin herb and cinnamon; the green juice of an old tune by the Titãs**; a dense wild delight of work finally finished.
On seeing this strange (happy?) face, dopey from the smell of the invented flowers, anyone, depending on their state of mind, can appreciate her art and the tulip petals with great enthusiasm.
* A Brazilian term for something outmoded, twee, silly or senseless.
** A Brazilian rock group.