Cynthia Oswald

Surface Design, Fine Art + Branding for Creatives

Fine Art & Design

Abundance: A Botanical Portrait Rooted in Care, Memory, and Quiet Strength

The Story Behind “Abundance”
A Botanical Portrait Rooted in Care, Memory, and Quiet Strength

Abundance

Abundance is one of the first pieces in The Wild Garden, a collection of botanical portraits rooted in memory, place, and meaning. Like each piece in the collection, it began with a person, a feeling, and a flower. As I worked on it, I started to understand that it was holding something much larger than the botanical details themselves.

When you first see it, your eye may go to the green orchid at the center, then to the leaves, yellow ylang ylang flowers, butterflies, and small natural details moving around it. There’s a sense of balance, but it isn’t perfectly symmetrical, which is part of what I love about it. It feels full and alive without feeling overly arranged. Like so much of nature, there’s structure there, but there’s also wildness. Everything has its place, but nothing feels too controlled. Abundance isn’t only about the arrangement of flora and fauna.

This piece became the beginning of a larger body of work and helped me discover the art of creating a “botanical portrait.” They aren’t portraits in the traditional sense—there’s no face, no figure, no literal likeness. But they’re still portraits because they hold something of a person through flowers, color, memory, place, and feeling. They invited me to think about portraiture a little differently. Not as an exact image of someone, but as a way of honoring the presence a person carries and the way they make us feel. In the case of Abundance, that person is my mom.

The Person Behind the Piece

When I look at Abundance now, I think it holds the origin of my love of green. That sounds a little funny to say, but here’s what I mean: my mom has the most beautiful green eyes. They’re not a normal green exactly, more of a hazel green that sometimes has blue in it, and I think they may have been my earliest connection to that color. From there, my love of green seems to have flowed outward into plants, water, landscape, and all the greens that show up in nature when something is alive and growing.

That connection makes sense to me because my mom has always loved plants. She’s always had orchids around, and she’s always loved growing them. I remember attending an orchid-growing classes alongside her when I was a young teenager. When I was in college, the first flowers I really painted in watercolor were orchids for a newsletter I put together on the subject. Looking back, I can see how those threads were already there, even before I understood they would become part of this larger body of work. The orchids, the green, the attention to plants, the way certain colors and natural forms can become attached to a person without us realizing it right away.

At the time I began working on Abundance, my mom was going through a health scare, and she was very much on my heart. Naturally, I turned to painting as a way to process my emotions, but I knew I didn’t want to paint her literally. What I wanted to honor was harder to capture directly: the beauty, curiosity, wildness, and abundance that have always felt so much like her.

She’s always been connected to the natural world—she loves plants, animals, flowers, water, open space, and the kind of life that happens when you’re paying attention to what’s growing around you. In fact, she once hid a horse from her mother after high school, using money she had saved to marry my dad, her high school sweetheart. Eventually, the life she built with my dad filled up with horseback rides, puppies, propagating plants, turtles saved from the road, long days at the lake, camping trips, and ponds she still tends. She taught me to notice the natural world, but not by formally teaching me. It’s more in the way she lives. She notices what’s blooming. She cares for what’s growing. She brings plants into the house, spends time outside, and makes the natural world feel like something we’re always in relationship with.

It isn’t only plants. My mom is also a collector, which she gets from her dad. She collects beautiful things, but not just to have them. She collects things that hold memory, things with story, things she knows someone else might love one day. There are five of us siblings, and some of the coolest things we have in our homes come from our mom’s treasure hunts.

That’s the kind of abundance I mean when I think about her. Not excess, and not more for the sake of more. More like an abundance of care, story, beauty, curiosity, and attention. My mom makes the world feel fuller because of what she notices, what she tends, and what she gives.

The Meaning of Abundance

The word Abundance felt right because it holds so much of what my mom represents to me, though not in the most obvious sense. It isn’t about having a lot or filling every empty space. It’s quieter than that. It’s the kind of abundance that gathers slowly over time through care, attention, memory, and the small things someone chooses to notice.

I think plants feel abundant in that same way. They’re prolific, unapologetic, and wild. They don’t ask permission to grow. They reach toward what they need, come back after quiet seasons, and fill a space with life in a way that feels generous and instinctive. Green has always carried that feeling for me. It’s the color of growth and return, but also of life moving quietly beneath the surface. So in this piece, abundance isn’t excess. It’s presence. It’s curiosity. It’s beauty that has been tended over time. It’s the feeling my mom gives me, and the way her love of plants, animals, objects, nature, and story has shaped the way I see the world.

The Anchor Flower

Orchids were already woven into my memories of my mom, they felt like the natural place to begin. I didn’t want just any orchid. I wanted a green one. I wanted the color palette itself to carry something of her, and green felt like the doorway into that memory. The central flower in this piece is a green Paphiopedilum orchid. I was drawn to it first because of the color, but the more I worked with it, the more it seemed to hold the feeling I was trying to express. It had a delicacy to it, but it didn’t feel fragile. It felt alive, structured, organic, and quietly strong. It held something I recognized, even if the connection was more intuitive than literal.

That’s often how these pieces begin. One flower, color, memory, or feeling rises to the surface, and then I follow it. I don’t always know exactly where it will lead, but I know when something feels like the right starting point. The orchid became the anchor for the piece, and once I had that, the rest of the composition began to open up.

The Research Process

After choosing the orchid, I started researching where it was native to. That led me toward Indonesia and the Bali region, and from there I began looking at what else could live within that same ecosystem. I wanted the piece to feel rooted in a real place, not just arranged around a flower because the colors looked pretty together.

That research process is one of my favorite parts of the work because it doesn’t feel cold or academic to me. It feels more like listening. I’m looking for relationships. What grows together? What pollinates what? What colors, shapes, and movement belong to that environment? What small details would make the piece feel like a living world rather than a collection of separate elements? Ylang ylang became part of the composition partly because it belongs to that region and partly because I’ve always loved the essential oil. I associate it with calm, rest, and the way the natural world can give back to us in these quiet, generous ways. That felt connected to the same kind of abundance I was trying to hold in the piece.

From there, I researched butterflies, beetles, plants, and other natural details that could fit both ecologically and visually. It became a dance between accuracy, symbolism, color, scale, and composition. Everything needed to feel like it belonged in the same ecosystem, but it also had to work as a painting. There’s a lot of thought behind each detail, but I don’t want the piece to feel like a research project when you look at it. I want the research to give the artwork roots, then disappear into the beauty of the piece. I want the details to feel so naturally connected that the little world in the artwork could almost exist on its own.

The Visual Composition

Once I had the orchid and the supporting elements, the composition became about finding the right balance between fullness and restraint. I wanted Abundance to feel generous and alive, but not crowded. The orchid gives the piece its center, while the surrounding plants, butterflies, and smaller details create movement around it.

There’s a lot of symmetry in the piece, but it’s not perfectly symmetrical. It looks balanced at first glance, but it’s actually more asymmetrical than it may seem. I like that tension because it feels true to nature. A garden can hold both order and wildness. It can be layered and growing in many directions, but still feel like everything belongs.

I usually begin with research and a sketch, but these pieces always evolve as I work on them. There’s a point where the planning gives way to listening, and I have to pay attention to what the piece is asking for. Something may need more movement, more balance, more quiet, or more grounding. That part of the process is harder to explain, but it’s where the artwork starts to feel alive.

What the Piece Holds

What I love about Abundance is that it doesn’t try to explain my mom. It holds a feeling of her. To me, it holds the way she has shaped how I see plants, color, beauty, and the natural world. It holds the green of her eyes, the orchids she grows, the objects she saves, the stories she carries, and the way she makes ordinary things feel alive with meaning. It holds the feeling she gives me: curiosity, beauty, wildness, generosity, and a deep connection to the earth. Using flowers was my way of translating that. This is why the idea of a botanical portrait feels so meaningful to me—it can carry someone’s presence without needing to show their face.

Custom Botanical Portraits

I think that’s what I love most about this way of working. It leaves room for the parts of a person that aren’t always easy to describe. Sometimes it’s a flower they loved, or a color that always makes you think of them. Sometimes it’s a place, a scent, a season, or some small detail that would seem ordinary to someone else but holds a whole world for you. Those are the details that stay with us. The ones that bring someone back for a moment, not because they explain everything, but because they hold something true. I love the idea of artwork that can carry that kind of meaning quietly.

If you’re interested in creating a custom botanical portrait, click below to reach out. I’d love to connect and learn more about the person you want to honor.

A Meaningful Story, Painted for You

Perhaps there is a plant that reminds you of someone, a garden that feels like home or a landscape you would like to hold onto. I create original botanical and landscape commissions shaped around the places, memories and details that matter to you. Learn more about the available formats, investment and what it is like to commission a piece.

Explore Commissioned Artwork

The Rhythm of Slow Art: Why I Paint Botanicals All Year Round

The Rhythm of Slow Art:
Why I Paint Botanicals All Year Round

A few weeks ago, Viola stood by the back door with her little hands pressed against the glass and said, “Oh no, Mommy—the plants are dying.” To her, the browning leaves felt like a small heartbreak. To me, it was the quiet shift into a new season. I told her, “They’ll come back next year.” And the way her body softened into that answer stayed with me. There was something in that moment—how quickly things change, how easily beauty slips by if you’re not paying attention—that made me think about my own pace this year. How often I’ve reached for slowness, or felt myself wanting to hold onto the fleeting things just a little longer.

That’s part of why I chose pause as my word for the year. I wanted more space to notice what I’m usually rushing past. From the outside, my days didn’t always look slow, but internally, I stepped back from a lot of good things so I could protect the pockets of stillness I need—both for myself and for my family. That desire for a gentler rhythm naturally found its way into my artwork. After last year’s Dreaming in the Wild collection, I kept thinking about the quieter work I’d begun in the Wild Garden series—the way I centered one bloom and let everything else relate to it. I loved that focus, but I didn’t have room this year for large pieces or long studio days. I needed something I could return to in small moments and still feel connected to.

That’s how the Golden Halo collection began. A soft return to the butterfly studies I started years ago, and a chance to bring back metallic paints in a way that draws the eye toward the tiniest, most beautiful details. Working this way gave me permission to honor one bloom or one creature at a time. To sit with it, study it, and let that be enough. Each piece felt like an invitation to slow down and really see what was right in front of me. The more I painted, the more I realized how different everything feels when I match my pace to nature instead of the noise around me. There’s a groundedness in it—a settling. I’m not rushing ahead or replaying yesterday. I’m simply here, letting the moment be what it is. It’s meditative in a way I didn’t realize I’d been missing. My hope is that this collection offers even a small touch of that feeling—a place to rest your eyes, breathe, and reconnect with a rhythm that feels like your own.

What Slow Art Means to Me

I practiced “slow art” long before I ever called it that. It wasn’t a method—it was a feeling. A shift in how I paid attention. A gentler way of moving through the world. For me, slow art isn’t really about the speed of the work. It’s about the way I approach it: with presence, curiosity, and a willingness to really see. When I sit down with a botanical subject, something in me settles. My mind quiets. I’m studying the curve of a stem, the glow along a petal’s edge, the places where color shifts almost imperceptibly. It pulls me out of my head and into my hands.

Watercolor reinforces that rhythm. It won’t be rushed. It has its own timing and its own sense of boundaries. If I move too quickly, the whole piece loses clarity. So I follow the paint—layer by layer, wash by wash—until the subject comes forward. And then there’s that moment when the painting tells me it’s done. That part always feels true to life: you show up, you stay present, and then you rest.

There’s a spiritual thread in this for me, too. When I study something in nature up close, I can’t help but see God in it—the intricacy, the variety, the uniqueness of every bloom and creature. Painting becomes a quiet way of expressing gratitude for the abundance provided in nature and the gift of life itself.

Even in the busiest weeks, I feel that same grounding. When I painted the last five minis of this collection—all in one week—I actually slowed down more. I didn’t want it to end. I gave each piece the attention it deserved, trusting that the time I poured in would become part of the work itself. In the end, that’s what slow art is to me: discovery. Something ordinary becomes extraordinary simply because you paused long enough to notice.

The Stories Nature Tells (If You Slow Down Enough to Notice)

Painting across the seasons has taught me to notice the small shifts—the tiny markers of time that get louder as I get older. The more I slow down, the more these little changes feel like their own unfolding story. One of my favorites is a purple bush in our yard that blooms in late summer. For a couple of weeks, it’s covered in delicate moths—hundreds of them. My daughters run straight to it when we get home, cupping the moths in their hands before letting them go. It’s magical, and it’s fleeting. When the moths disappear, I know fall is coming—my favorite season and the hardest one to say goodbye to.

Winter has its own quiet beauty. The first frost always stops me: frozen blooms catching the morning light, dried thistle standing like sculptures. Even in the coldest months, there’s so much worth noticing. And in spring, the violets return and turn our lawn purple. They appeared the same year we found out we were having Viola, and now I can’t see them without thinking of her. They’re brief, but meaningful—like so much of nature’s timing.

Then there are the surprises: the wild geranium I found on a native plant walk, the “flower of an hour” that showed up in my vegetable garden, the monarch caterpillars my sister brings us each summer. Each one gives me a reason to pause and look closer.

Most of these moments come alive because of my girls. Seeing the world through their eyes brings back the wonder I felt as a child—lingering over lilacs in my mom’s yard, breathing in their scent, memorizing the softness of the petals. Now, when they ask, “Where did the moths go?” or “When will the violets come back?” my answer is always the same: “Next year.” There’s something tender about that—its reminder that these moments aren’t guaranteed.

Maybe that’s why I paint them. To honor what’s here, while it’s here.

The Meaning We Find in Botanicals

As I’ve begun to really appreciate the pace and rhythm of nature, I’ve also become more aware of how deeply plants nourish us—not just creatively and emotionally, but physically, too. The more I study them, the more fascinated I become. When you start learning about the healing properties of plants—how rosemary can help with focus, how dandelion root supports inflammation, how certain flowers uplift mood—it adds another layer of meaning to the work. I’m not painting something simply because it’s beautiful. I’m painting something that has purpose, history, memory, usefulness. Studying plants becomes a form of discovery that keeps deepening over time for me. 

And then there’s the nostalgia. Flowers have this way of bringing us back to specific people or seasons of life. I hear it often: “This reminds me of my grandmother.” “This feels like my childhood backyard.” A scent, a color, the shape of a petal—all of it can open something inside us. Botanical art becomes a way of reconnecting with moments we thought we’d forgotten, or feelings we haven’t visited in a long time. That’s part of why I paint botanicals all year. There’s always something new to notice, something fleeting to marvel at, something meaningful to honor while it’s here. 

An Invitation to Slow Down

If you’re reading this and feeling a tug toward a slower, more intentional pace, here’s the good news: you don’t need a paintbrush to experience slow art. You can start by stepping outside for a moment and noticing what draws you in—a bloom, a color, a shift in light. Pay attention to what you enjoy most, and let that be your doorway into presence.

When someone brings a piece into their home, my hope is that it offers that exact kind of quiet moment of discovery—the same kind of “little magic” I feel when I stumble across something beautiful in nature. I can’t take credit for the beauty itself; that belongs to the natural world. But I love being the person who pauses long enough to notice it, study it, and offer it back through my work. My hope is that you too find something in your own life that helps you slow down, take a breath, and notice the everyday magic around you.

Ready to bring more of nature’s beauty into your home or workspace? View my available works or contact me to discuss collaborating.

View the collection