Regina RzaevaParrot Tulips (2026)

In ‘Parrot Tulips’, a bouquet is caught mid-gesture. Stems lean and sprawl past the rim of a short glass, leaves cut through the air like green blades, and the blossoms, pale and crumpled as tissue paper, bow toward the table. Nothing looks arranged. Everything seems to have settled on its own, in the soft disorder of flowers a few days into their life in a vase. The lower edge of the canvas is where the painting turns confessional. Across the tabletop, pencil lines coil and loop, a drawing left uncovered, as if the work were still deciding what it wanted to become. ‘Parrot Tulips’ treats the cut flower as a measure of time, a life already in transition between bloom and wilting, presence and trace. It is a study in attention, in allowing a small, ordinary thing to take as long as it needs to be seen.