Florists to follow: on the architecture of floristry

Your practice speaks of “botanical sculptures” rather than arrangements—how does this distinction alter the way you think about space, tension and permanence in your work?
I’ve always seen my works as living entities. The idea for a sculptural arrangement came to me while walking one night—I passed by a tree completely covered in vines, perfectly composed without any human intention. That image defined how I wanted to design: not to reinvent a space, but to let a fragment of nature emerge within it.
I started calling them creatures—a name that marked the beginning of a study series. Each piece is a practice in restraint, a dialogue between vision and material. As new forms continue to unfold in my mind, every work becomes both a lesson and an experiment. And so each project ends with a quiet reminder to keep searching: more forms, the study continues.

There’s a sculptural logic in your use of gravity, texture, and decay—how do you negotiate the moment when nature asserts its own authorship over your design?
In every project, material is my starting point. It’s never about how rare or costly it is, but about how far I can push a simple element, a grass, a twig, into something architectural.

Decay is part of that dialogue. I choose materials thoughtfully, aware of how they behave over time and in weather I can’t control. I’ve never been much of a flower person; I’m more drawn to material and form. The best feedback I get is when someone says, “I couldn’t tell what it was from afar.” The weather can’t be controlled, but material can be understood.

I also make it a point to remind clients that flowers are fleeting by nature, meant to be appreciated in their moment, while also guiding them on what ingredients work best for the season.

Formana’s compositions often feel like meditations on restraint. How do you decide when a piece is complete, and when it must be allowed to evolve or collapse as part of its intended narrative?
While my arrangements can sometimes feel unfinished or hard to interpret, I consider a piece complete when its frame and base disappear—when it feels suspended, alive from every angle. But sometimes, the work decides to evolve on its own. I’ve seen it happen the next day, especially with the experimental pieces I build at home. I rarely start with sketches or digital plans; everything unfolds intuitively, almost like abstract painting. The process itself is meditative: build, dismantle, pause, rebuild. I have to feel it before I can release it. It may sound a little unorthodox, but that rhythm is what allows the piece to find its own balance between control and collapse.

Your compositions often feel like rooms in themselves: layered, textural, and deeply atmospheric. How do you balance architecture and emotion when building your floral worlds?
I approach each floral arranging endeavour with an instinctive feel, which comes from a place of peace and tranquillity as I stay open to creative energy or what the universe may be conveying to me. I arise very early, when the world is quiet and the day is just filled with endless possibilities. Like a blank canvas, I tread gently, sipping my tea, savouring my sanctuary as I begin to think of the task before me.

The details, such as the audience, the client preference and specs, combined with what I envision to be the appropriate plan of execution. In a way, the process is organic, mindful of artistic bursts of expression and not strictly beholden to the plan because this is where the magic lies. I have been well trained in the architectural components such as scale, size, balance and volume. However, I also try to experiment once in a while, stepping back and complementing practical and structural with flair and aesthetic. That touch of uniqueness or stroke of mystery to throw off the predictable is what I go for, but never too brazen or outlandish, because for the most part, I err on classical and elegant versus trendy and overly innovative.

Majorelle is known for its instinctive use of colour. Do you think of colour as structure, a framework that shapes how people move through or feel within a space?
Everything about Majorelle’s floral artistry is experiential. So yes, colour is an intrinsic part of the process in all my creations. Constant dreaming and envisioning of entering the space of display is inevitable when on task at my atelier. The challenge is, each experience is subjective and relative. Individuals possess different understandings of what is beautiful and elegant. I can only think of the collective appreciation from my lens and my own experience. My global exposure, travels, keeping abreast of the universally appreciated floral events and displays in glamorous cities abroad certainly help educate and refine my own taste in palette and artistry.

Flowers are fleeting, yet your arrangements feel anchored and deliberate, almost architectural. What anchors your process, the vessel, the story, or the memory you want the arrangement to hold?
Flowers are fleeting, but the feeling of joy is lingering. I personally believe in striving for perfection in any endeavour I enter into. I would be remiss if I did not apply myself optimally, more so in my passion for floral creations, always 100 per cent, consistently, constantly. I derive a sense of intense fulfilment in building, shaping and refining from start to end, up to that final snip of foliage for the ultimate, satisfying sensation an artist feels about a finished creation. The gratifying completeness I feel when I am done might be a personal experience, yet time and again, the feedback I receive from my clientele is similar. Be it a wedding, a marketing event or an intimate dinner, my floral creations have made a significant and lasting impact on these special milestones through the memories made sublime by Majorelle Floral Creations.

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