Madrid Flourishes
The capital of Spain bewitches. It did it as soon as I set foot in it at the age of 17 when I got to know it from end to end aboard a bus of young Chileans, until today when I'm over 50. Because this city has no age and you can see a couple of gooey lovebirds in a cafe as well as a lady with their furs, red lips and a plethora of friends having a great time at the bar of a bar.
This is the city where I put down roots four years ago to do what I love the most: teach floral design. And teach it properly: with spectacular flowers, with a pleasant temperature, with instructors who have the patience to teach and not speak from a divo position.
I have been a student countless times. Of arriving at a class with zero knowledge about what I am going to be taught. By personality, I am not a questioner, but I have not been able to change my face of uneasiness. That is why it is so important that the educator knows how to read you without you opening your mouth. Many times it is enough to look into your eyes, and that's it!
Someone may wonder why temperature is so important. I'll tell a case in point: my friend Sarita and I traveled by train to southern New York for a week, round trip, to take floral design classes in the middle of winter. The classes were held in an unheated shed. The chairs were metal. A wall phone kept ringing. And the bathroom, only one, hadn't been cleaned all week. There were about 30 of us. So I didn't take off my parka, which covered me from neck to ankles. How is it possible to concentrate on learning new techniques and designing decently when your hands are shivering?
Floral design education deserves your time, your dedication. It needs a physical space with natural light and high ceilings from which to hang the latest crazy thing we've come up with. Each student needs a 2.30m table in times of covid to work without contagion. He deserves to take some time to assimilate the concepts he left behind on his 5th-grade bench.
Because we are all creative bodies, souls, and minds. What is missing is for us to believe it.
By Sylvia Bloom
