His father…
Felix Rodriguez of the Fountain.
What did he get?
The flight of the falcon. It does not see borders. I am a free soul.
And his mother?
Marcelle, character, independence: she organized my father.
Until it crashed in Alaska.
There were tributes, public events… I put on a sad face… and I felt nothing.
What happened to him?
Dad’s death numbed me, disconnected me from myself, from life.
And was he able to reconnect one day?
When I was eleven years old, I visited my grandmother Marcelina, my father’s mother, and on her balcony I saw her dying geraniums…
neglected?
I took a pair of pruning shears and cleaned them with infinite love, convinced that I would make them live.
And they lived?
They lived. And I had found my intimate moment. I connected with something, I fulfilled my duel filling my emptiness with flowers.
And you flourished.
Yes, by plunging my hands into the ground.
And today he grows flowers.
I grow organic flowers.
What is an organic flower?
The flower grown without synthetic fertilizers or pesticides.
And what is that noticeable?
They are more aromatic and asymmetrical flowers, of a very beautiful decadence. They are flowers with soul. Look at these that I have here… I am a slave to my naturalistic garden.
Where do you have your naturalistic garden?
In the valley of the river Ungría. One hectare of land with its own water and a hut.
How did you find her?
One day I entrusted myself to my father: “Find me the place.” And I searched, I searched… and one day I saw it from the height of a hill.
Hawk’s eye view.
My soul was hydrated contemplating that oasis of greenery in the midst of the grain-growing roughness of the Alcarria.
What did you see?
Soledad and hundred-year-old poplars, poplars and roe deer, gall oaks and booted eagles, wild rose bushes and snakes, walnut trees…
Nature.
A humanized nature, worked, wisely domesticated, which is my favorite. The first thing I did was produce compost to nourish my hectare well.
And then?
Mix clayey soils and sand from the river, nourish them with humus, plow them and administer drip irrigation, by gravity from a pool of living waters.
How wonderful… And nothing synthetic.
Nothing. I have disinfected my flowers with water with nettles. And I do not understand the concept “weed.”
Tell me: what is a flower?
A living being.
What else?
The sexual organ of a plant.
What else?
It seduces insects and uses them to pollinate itself.
And so plants reproduce.
That is why we owe our life to flowers.
Oh yeah?
The flower creates the plant, and the plant retains CO2 and produces the oxygen that you breathe.
I understand.
Flowers feel and communicate, even if they don’t walk or have self-awareness. And we use them in symbolic communication.
What is your favorite flower?
the dahlia. The peony. Viváceas, combined with herbaceous. I like the morphology of the entire plant, its movement, its environment… I like the persicaria.
¿Peacharia?
Small upholstery herbaceous, with inflorescence in clusters of fuchsia, pink, white flowers…
How is your flower garden?
English style, with a feral elegance. My teachers are English.
Very in favour.
It is my drug, the one that hooks me the most, more than any other: that shit from the humid earth, full of bacteria, is very good and very healthy, it activates dopamine in me.
How do you feel about the earth?
Belonging, rooting, recognition. One day a pink flint tip from a prehistoric spear surfaced…
Good place, if it was inhabited ago…
My place. There I no longer need to prove myself or prove anything. And my flowers dialogue as in a musical score.
You radiate happiness.
I am ecstatic in the sunset over my flowers. The hamster wheel of my life has stopped. I know what I want… and I have it.
Undress me with a flower.
Leave with this tulip that is aging so organically, so sensual, so erotic, so beautiful.
