I find a great irony in flowers being gifted as a romantic gesture. A bouquet is an assembly of dying beauty, something unlasting whose life has already has already been lost, fate decided. Contrary to that is the painting, the never-alive but always-there representation. As flowers are so intertwined with our ideas of love and relationships, I often find myself comparing these notions.

On one hand, the real flower requires maintenece to experience even in the short-term while the fake flower will survive the length of any relationship. The real flower is a constant reminder of death impending, while the fake flower can be a source of steadfast beauty.

However, at the end of the day, the fake flower is still just that: a lie. Even in its most realistic depiction, it’s only a glimpse of a scene from a moment in time, existing outside of action or feeling. That neither of these opposed concepts of beauty seem to accurately represent the love they’re supposed to—I suppose that’s the most realistic aspect of either.