I draw flowers every day and send them to my friends so they get

Host:
The morning light slid gently across the wooden table — a table crowded with brushes, pencils, watercolor paper, and half-drunk cups of tea. The smell of paint and fruit mingled softly in the air, mingling with the faint hum of a kettle on the stove. Outside, birds chattered in some secret chorus, the kind that only artists and the dawn ever hear together.

In the corner of the room, a large window opened to the world — not to a city skyline or ocean view, but to something quieter, more eternal: a garden alive with sunlight, each petal trembling with color.

Jack stood by that window, hands tucked into the pockets of his linen trousers, his grey eyes watching the way light landed on a vase of tulips. Across from him sat Jeeny, legs crossed on the floor, a sketchpad in her lap, her brown eyes tracing invisible lines in the air before her pencil touched the page.

On the table between them, a single note was written on cream paper, smudged with a trace of watercolor:

"I draw flowers every day and send them to my friends so they get fresh blooms every morning." — David Hockney

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
There’s something heartbreakingly kind about that, isn’t there? Sending drawings instead of real flowers — like giving people beauty that never wilts.

Jack:
(nods slowly)
Yeah. It’s not about the flowers — it’s about the ritual. The act of saying, “I thought of you today.”

Jeeny:
Exactly. Art as affection.

Jack:
And consistency as devotion.

Jeeny:
That’s what makes it so beautiful. Every day, he wakes up and offers the world another small proof of tenderness.

Jack:
(pauses, softly)
You know, in an age of noise, that’s an act of rebellion.

Host:
A soft breeze slipped through the open window, rustling the pages of Jeeny’s sketchbook. Sunlight broke through the leaves outside, scattering bright coins of light across the table. For a moment, it felt as if the room itself were a living canvas.

Jeeny:
Do you think he ever gets tired of drawing the same thing — flowers, again and again?

Jack:
(smiles)
Maybe that’s the point. The repetition isn’t a burden; it’s a form of meditation.

Jeeny:
Like monks chanting the same prayer every morning.

Jack:
Exactly. Every petal becomes a syllable of peace.

Jeeny:
(softly)
And every drawing a promise — that beauty still exists.

Jack:
Even when the world’s falling apart.

Jeeny:
Especially then.

Host:
The light shifted, now spilling across Jeeny’s face as she began to sketch again. Her pencil moved in quiet circles — petals, stems, leaves — a portrait of patience. The sound of graphite on paper was soft but rhythmic, almost musical.

Jack:
You ever notice how artists like Hockney make the ordinary seem miraculous?

Jeeny:
(smiling)
Because they see differently. He’s not just drawing flowers — he’s documenting moments of light.

Jack:
Moments most of us walk past without looking.

Jeeny:
That’s what makes art sacred — not its subject, but its attention.

Jack:
(pauses)
Attention is the truest form of love, isn’t it?

Jeeny:
It is. And love, in its purest form, is repetition.

Jack:
Like drawing the same bloom every morning, as though the act itself might keep the world tender.

Jeeny:
Or human.

Host:
A faint hum filled the room as the kettle clicked off. The smell of tea drifted toward them — a ritual of its own. Outside, a breeze stirred the tulips again, their shadows dancing gently on the wall like watercolor ghosts.

Jeeny:
You know, I think what I love most about this is that it’s not grand. It’s not a gallery, or a commission — it’s friendship.

Jack:
(smiling softly)
The kind that doesn’t demand conversation — just presence.

Jeeny:
Yes. A silent kind of generosity.

Jack:
(pauses)
He doesn’t send bouquets; he sends his time. That’s rarer than gold.

Jeeny:
And it never fades. The flowers die, but the gesture endures.

Jack:
Because art is how we say, I was here — and I thought of you.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
And in that, we outlive ourselves.

Host:
The clock on the wall ticked gently, marking the slow rhythm of a morning that felt both fragile and infinite. Jeeny placed her sketchbook on the table; Jack leaned over to look. A small violet, half-formed, rested at the center of the page — imperfect, but alive.

Jack:
You ever send your sketches to anyone?

Jeeny:
Sometimes. Not as often as I should.

Jack:
Why not?

Jeeny:
(pauses, smiling ruefully)
Because part of me thinks no one cares.

Jack:
They’d care more than you think. People are starved for sincerity these days.

Jeeny:
(sighs softly)
Maybe that’s true. Maybe we all need reminders that someone’s thinking of us — even if it’s just in a drawing.

Jack:
Especially if it’s just in a drawing.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Because it costs nothing, but it means everything.

Jack:
Exactly. The best gifts don’t decorate a home — they nourish the heart.

Host:
The light grew brighter, filling every corner of the room now, as though the world itself had heard them and decided to agree. Dust shimmered like tiny petals in suspension.

Jeeny:
You know, flowers are the perfect metaphor for life. Beautiful, temporary, fragile — but worth noticing every time.

Jack:
That’s why he draws them. Because you can’t stop the petals from falling, but you can make them eternal in color.

Jeeny:
(pauses thoughtfully)
So maybe art isn’t about defying death — it’s about preserving wonder.

Jack:
(smiling)
And sending it to your friends before breakfast.

Jeeny:
(laughing softly)
The simplest revolution of all.

Jack:
Kindness disguised as craft.

Jeeny:
And beauty disguised as habit.

Host:
The garden outside stirred again — a single petal broke free from a tulip and drifted to the ground, its fall slow, graceful. Jeeny watched it, her expression somewhere between joy and melancholy.

Jeeny:
You think he ever ran out of ideas?

Jack:
Maybe. But the point wasn’t invention — it was devotion.

Jeeny:
Yeah. Devotion doesn’t run out — it renews itself through the doing.

Jack:
That’s what daily art teaches you. You don’t wait for inspiration; you honor it by showing up.

Jeeny:
(softly)
Like love. Like friendship. Like flowers.

Jack:
Exactly. You don’t wait for the right time — you just give.

Host:
The sunlight began to shift, turning warmer, deeper — the beginning of the day taking hold. The sketches on the table, scattered and bright, looked almost alive.

Jack picked one up, studied it, smiled quietly.

Host:
And as the light filled the room with quiet grace, David Hockney’s words settled gently into their hearts — not as advice, but as a reminder:

That art is not an act of creation,
but an act of connection.

That to draw is to look closer,
to notice the small, breathing miracles
that others pass by.

That kindness need not be spoken loudly —
it can arrive softly,
in color and care,
in a daily ritual of remembering.

And that every morning,
no matter the noise of the world,
we have the choice
to send someone
a small piece of beauty.

The light poured in,
the flowers swayed,
and as Jack and Jeeny stood together,
their shadows mingled on the wall —
two silhouettes,
drawn in light,
both quietly blooming.