I don't know when it started, but it definitely started: my obsession with poppies. Perhaps it was Monet's painting "Les Coquelicots".
Or, as my other obsessions, it started with my first trip to Germany. I do remember when I first saw them in person. I was walking down to my student dorm from some class and I had to go through a field of rapeseed flowers (is that the most horrifying name for a flower or what?), and as always, I look down to the floor (as to not to trip and fall because I am as clumsy as hell). And then, I saw them, in a small corner, and maybe two or three small flowers, seemingly out of place in this field. I gasped and stared in awe. I was in love.
Second time I saw them, I was waiting for the train in Prague to take me back to Berlin (back to "civilization", or well, a place where I could actually read the street signs!). I looked to the floor once again, to see if I could find something to draw (to appease my strict art professor back in Dortmund), and there they were. Small, wildflowers waiting for me to take notice.
And I find myself painting them often. Perhaps because people often overlook them, because they are nothing special... they are merely wildflowers. I think they are ridiculously gorgeous. Not only because they are a special kind of red and it contrasts perfectly with the green surroundings, but they are also beautiful, not as fierce as red roses but delicate and nonchalant, soft and effortless. Like I'm gorgeous without even trying.