A bunch of flowers on the street is one of the most poignant symbols in the collective imagination. We see it, we know immediately what it means, and we suddenly find ourselves helplessly sinking in a deep, irrational sadness. But so much more do flowers mean if instead of leaning against a wall they are in a vase on a table, nicely displayed at an event, if the hands of a man are taking care of them or those of a woman bring them close to her cheeks as she loses herself in their scent, in a memory, somewhere far. With words spoken by the colours of flowers on the gloomy tints of a misty weather, Loreak explores incomprehensions, loneliness, affections, and the exhausting human rebelling against oblivion. There’s a very thin line between living in the present and in the past, a line stretched not only by the fear of being forgotten but also and above all, by that of forgetting.
