On Flowers, Strangers, and Small Joys
Photographed by Zoë Ghertner, Styled by Marie Chaix.
The first time I made a flower arrangement, I found myself somewhere in Brooklyn in the kind of place where the help comes with side eye and tightly curated taste. I hovered between my options, already sensing the clerk’s impatience growing like humidity behind me. I changed my mind more than once, not out of confusion but out of care. She sighed. I smiled.
The final arrangement was tall, lush, and sharp with contrast. She sat on the dining table of my apartment like a quiet revelation. White oriental lilies, gold roses, tucked into a lush, vine heavy base. It smelled like drama, and for a rare moment, I allowed myself to enjoy the fact that I had created something with my own hands.
And then I did what I always do. I told myself,
“If I enjoy it, it must be indulgent. If it comes easily, it’s not real work. If I love doing it, it’s a waste of time.”
And so I waited almost two years before I tried again.
Photographed by Zoë Ghertner, Styled by Marie Chaix.
Before flowers,
I grew up in a town that encourages discipline but not always desire. I was classically trained in violin, the kind that teaches you when to breathe and when not to. I worked as a consultant at a large firm in New York City. I donned a work bag from SoHo made of Italian leather that was very “early 20s”. I knew the cafés where I could sit alone without feeling watched.
And then I left. I traveled for a year. Europe, then Asia. In little rented rooms with quiet mornings. When I landed in Seattle, I was still building myself. It took time for me to realize that in order to rebuild myself, I had to first build with my hands. I missed work that left a mess on the table. I wanted to build something that bloomed and died and meant something in the middle.
It was early April when I walked into the boutique next to my apartment. I didn’t have floral experience, but I had the mind and hands of a creative. I knew how to watch, how to listen, how to hold silence in a room and not let it collapse. I wore something functional, but deliberate. I made sure my posture said I was capable, and my vibe said I understood how light moves across a ceramic vase. I wore the red lipstick.
I started right before Mother’s Day. Which, I soon learned, is floral hell in heels.
Behind the flower counter,
It’s not arranging peonies to French music all day. Truth be told, it’s mostly Caroline Polachek and it’s been the same playlist since I started in April. I stand for hours, dodging thorns, trying not to spill hydrangea water on the $30 Merrell Hydromocs I wear most days. It’s bruised thumbs. It’s washing dozens of vases everyday. I chip at KKOTJÄM on slow days. It’s also, unexpectedly, a kind of theater. A small cast of artists.
One of my coworkers is a former fashion designer who now runs his own flower farm. He grows more than he can harvest and still shows up to wrap anthuriums for walk-ins. If I wear something luxe, he’ll clock the designer in half a glance, “That’s Y/PROJECT, right? I thought they went out of business” , he’ll nonchalantly muse while he prunes a bunch of bleeding hearts. Another reads Dostoevsky (in Russian) at the counter when the shop goes quiet. She was working through The Brothers Karamazov the other day, calmly marking passages between customers. Another is a piano teacher. She somehow fit a Steinway grand into her apartment and teaches children scales between floral shifts. Her hands are always clean, always precise. And then there’s me. I wrap, sweep, watch. I’ve handed over self-love bouquets to people on the verge of tears from a rough day. I’ve watched customers hesitate for twenty minutes over a card. I’ve learned how to condition roses without snapping their necks. And every day I learn more about composition, contrast, restraint.
It’s not as glamorous as it seems but it makes me feel like I’m alive. Because floristry isn’t only about flower knowledge, it’s about translation. You take love, grief, apology, yearning and you build something from stems that says what words won’t. The best florists I know are former chefs, musicians, stylists, dancers. They understand mood, tension, and the way small gestures can shift a room.
If floristry has taught me anything, it is that beauty is not the opposite of work. It is work. It’s repetition, judgment, timing, and care. It’s knowing what to cut away, what to leave alone, and when an arrangement is finished before you ruin it by trying too hard. I am still learning all of that. Most days, I’m wrapping, sweeping, watching, and trying again. But the longer I stay with flowers, the more I understand why they matter. They give shape to things people do not always know how to say.
With love, Sarah
KKOTJÄM, a floral design studio rooted in emotion and sensory storytelling. Last seen in Seattle.