Staying home much more during the pandemic, people have turned inward. They have realized that no amount of luxury goods, gourmet dishes or video entertainment can compare to Nature’s healing power. A foray into mountains or forest offers an alternative, but for those who inhabit a concrete jungle, the soothing effect of caring for flora is far more accessible.

 

In 1964, psychologist Erich Fromm coined the term “biophilia,” which signifies “affinity for life.” The biophilia hypothesis argues that human beings—as one of myriad forms of life—feel emotion for Nature and seek to commune with it. This is an innate trait of humankind, and contact with other living systems is highly beneficial to an individual’s vitality.

This seems to explain why during the current Covid-19 pandemic, consumer demand for a biological resource not previously perceived as essential to human wellness—decorative flora—has shown surprising growth, rather than shrinking due to global turmoil.

In the past two to three years, many new florists have emerged in the metropolitan areas of Taipei, Hsinchu and Taichung. In addition to implementing progressive management techniques, transcending the limitations of brick-and-mortar stores, and migrating towards digitization, business models and aesthetics have also taken on different dimensions.

When choosing flowers for your home or workplace, there is no need to procure a profusion of roses as if you were making a marriage proposal. Even a single fresh flower is capable of invigorating our daily lives, infusing a sense of ritual into our humdrum routine, brightening up the spaces around us and helping us to appreciate Nature’s cycle.

“We aim to bring flowers into the daily lives of ordin­ary people”—this is the aspiration that distinguishes these fledgling florists vis-à-vis their traditional counterparts.
 

SMFP: Capturing memorable moments

Many young floral designers were imperceptibly inspired by proximity to plant life during their formative years. A pair of sisters who are emotionally close, Bonnie and Stephy Fan, grew up cultivating greenery in their courtyard alongside their parents.

The family wasn’t particularly well off, but their father never neglected to use fresh flowers to express his affection for his wife. “It was only in adulthood that I learned to my surprise that not every household was like that,” reveals Bonnie.

As students, the aesthetically minded sisters worked in the clothing and accessories business, and then used the money they saved to launch a florist’s shop—SMFP—in Hsinchu County’s Zhubei City. The shop’s Chinese name comprises four characters in a combination that is not immediately intelligible, and it’s often mistaken for an oddly named retailer of biandang—boxed meals. The four characters—shi mi feng ping, whose primary meanings are “pick up,” “rice,” “abundance” and “bottle”—are actually puns on the first names of family members. But the sisters offer another interpretation: “Many things are as fine as grains of rice, but when gathered together, they are plentiful.”

As we step into the petite shop, fresh flowers echo the sisters’ preferences. The interior is decorated in muted Morandi hues, not loud, full-bodied colors. As florists with unique aesthetic requirements, they have taken great pains to introduce special varieties of flowers, but the pair also excel at subverting stereotypes and do not shy away from using flora and plants that are perceived as run-of-the-mill. For instance, gladiolas, commonly used in worship, chrysanthemums, which take the stage at funerals, and even fairly common flowers such as lilies, roses and baby’s breath, star in ­contemporary floral arrangements that re-­emphasize their elegant appearance, thus bringing beautiful moments into everyday life.
 

Yiyu: A bouquet for… yourself?

Yiyu Florist has no physical store, and the atelier is located in an old apartment in Taipei’s Da’an District.

As an online shop, Yuyi debuted by offering a service entitled “Weekly Bouquet.” Sub­scribers grant the floral designer full discretion to personally make purchases at a flower market, undertake basic procedures such as stem splitting and thorn removal, arrange the flowers into a compact and delicate bouquet, and once weekly deliver it into their hands via courier.

The virtual shop’s Chinese brand name, yi yu you hua (“in a small place, there are flowers”), is a pun on the given name of founder Wang Yi-yu, so that it can also be read as “Yi-yu has flowers.” The name reflects her original intent in launching the business: “I wanted to make flowers more accessible in daily life.”

Five years ago, when Wang was still in graduate school and under pressure from her tight schedule, it occurred to her to order herself a flower bouquet as a way to relieve stress. But she found that traditional florists were scarce on the ground nearby, and only large bouquets and floral gifts starting at NT$1000 were available on the Internet. Even then few matched her desires in terms of size and style.

Originally a student of industrial design, she was inspired to launch an online florist’s shop, and to do so she turned down a job offer in China and embarked on the path toward becoming a self-taught florist. After her boyfriend Chang Po-wei came on board for her project, they gradually fleshed out the details of her concept: “Buy yourself a bouquet of flowers.”

Many people have the impression that Yiyu is a florist with a lot to say for itself. The typical florist welcomes customers to write a personal message to the recipient, but Yuyi takes the opposite tack, attaching a small card that features a brief, iconic quote from a celeb­rity, book or film.

“Since our starting point was ‘buying flowers for yourself,’” explains Chang, “we try to figure out how to utilize a bouquet of flowers to cheer someone up for the coming week.”

On the fan page, in addition to introducing the weekly bouquet’s flower varieties and how to care for them, entries also convey sentiments reflecting the two floral designers’ recent experiences. When the customer receives the weekly arrangement, it’s as if they are also being gifted with a greeting from a close friend, gentle words whispered in the ear that accentuate a sense of healing.
 

Takako Mine: Like flowers in the wild

Even before I met Takako Mine in the flesh, I had a distinct impression from her work that I had previously seen, which immediately brought to mind one of the Seven Rules for the Way of Tea proposed by ­Japan’s immortal tea master Rikyū: “Like flowers in the wild,” expressing the ideal that the paramount flower arrangement (ikebana) replicates flowers blooming in the wilder­ness. Indeed, flowing lines, generous foliage, and a savage vitality suggestive of wild plant-life distinguish Mine’s works from numerous other schools and styles.

Mine, who has resided in Taiwan for nearly a ­decade, hails from Tokyo’s Roppongi. Her connection with floral art commenced when she was a student working part-time at a florist near her home, and she later attended the School of Visual Arts in New York City. After graduating, she held jobs as a shop-window designer and fashion purchaser.

Psychological after-effects of the 2011 Tohoku earthquake and tsunami brought Mine’s three-person family to Taiwan for a trip. Attracted by the slower pace of life and warmth of the locals, they decided to settle down here.

Unlike traditional florists, flowers that grow year-round, like roses and prairie gentian (Eustoma russellianum), rarely grace display stands inside Salon Flowers. “We try to purchase more seasonal materials, so that each time a customer visits, they will see different plants,” says Mine.

She loves the ease of travel between the city and the mountains in Taiwan, so she commissions suppliers to pick wild mountain plants. Unlike greenhouse-grown flowers, wild flora often prosper for just a brief 15-30 days, and thus impart a stronger sense of seasonality.

In addition, Mine specializes in the “vase” style of ikebana that does not employ sponges or kenzan (a lead plate with erect brass needles) to fix flowers in place. First, she observes the physical “posture” of the plants themselves, and then proceeds to utilize the strength of their stems and foliage for mutual support. This approach facilitates greater freedom and spontaneity, as if one were to cut a tranche of natural scenery and transplant it indoors, like wild flowers blooming in a vase, awaiting what Rikyū back in the 16th century labelled ichi-go ichi-e—a precious once-in-a-lifetime encounter.