I was transported into an Old Master painting. For a few brief moments, I heard nothing and saw nothing but those flowers.
Then the reverie broke, but wanting to remember the moment, I snapped it.
The particulars: Saturday, 6:30pm, west-facing window, a languid Hollywood sun sinking down over the Capitol Records tower and a vase of peonies and roses taking their final bow, an act I would have completely missed had the sun not drawn attention to it.
"I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers," remarked Claude Monet.
On the other hand, Eleanor Roosevelt said, "I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalog: "no good in a bed but fine up against a wall."
I think I love that quote even more.