I was unaware that there were two distinct kinds of roses: the ones you procure from a florist, which endure and maintain their beauty for several days, and those from my yard, which, unfortunately, grace us with their beauty for a mere couple of hours at best.

As I admired the resplendent roses in my yard, brimming with enthusiasm, I became consumed by the idea of painting them. Embracing the French saying, "Why make things simple when we can make them complicated," I impulsively snipped far more of them than necessary in my exuberance.

Here I stood, arranging my still life with ten flowers, blissfully ignorant of the challenges that lay ahead. As I began to paint, I swiftly noticed significant alterations in the shapes of the flowers, all seemingly drifting downward. I need not elaborate on the array of disheartening words that crossed my mind.Thankfully, my rose bushes were in full bloom, allowing me to cut fresh flowers each day and reassemble the still life anew. Hence, the title of this painting came to be.