I wonder how many millions of these amazing little ceramic posies were made? There is an extraordinary amount of work involved, from getting the finest of clay, the rolling of it out and the cutting of all the leaves and petals of flowers, the putting of them together, the glazing of them and then the firing. That was a very simplistic description, not worthy of the dedication and skill of the hundreds of potters and china artists, who worked on these little things. Perhaps not too many people like them around the house now, but not so long ago they graced the best rooms in British houses, and shone out with great colour through the gloomy winter months. Something had to be done; no chance of picking up a bunch or two of flowers flown in that day from parts very far south.
I think it would have been wonderful to walk through those factories, to watch people do their work, not a series of robotic arms. The thing that makes something exciting to look at is not its absolute perfection, but the subtle imperfections that only handwork can produce, a quirkiness that the senses pick up on, although it takes the eye a moment or two to discover. Nature is exactly that, absolutely imperfect, which allows for the constant process of change.