I embroidered during the day and unravelled it at night several times (but only waiting for the definitive inspiration) before finding the exact posture and colours. Each time I thought I had made the right choice, although, with hindsight, I recognise a voice that whispered subtly to me about the nature of the mistake (which was difficult to undo) in the form of a slight annoyance, similar to doubt or guilt, which I silenced by assuring myself that if I embroidered it accurately, it would be fine and that it was not worth undoing. Then I finished the embroidery and looked at it askance for days, feeling that uneasiness growing stronger. I ended up undoing it again and then, after the repeated recurrence of this useless sequence of events, I wondered what the criterion was through which this voice spoke: why it would be interesting to avoid the torments of the creative phase, even though I believe that torment is the driving force behind everything. The voice itself evoked a cryptic answer: the poetic criterion.

As if, only after achieving perfect harmony, the feeling of peace that follows decrees the end. It sounds very presumptuous, I realise. But I don’t think I’m doing something poetic. I don’t even know what poetry is. I just realise that when that something clicks and makes me say “now we’re there!”, I feel a sensation that I also perceive when I hear beautiful words, when I contemplate a sunset, a work of art or eyes that look at me with affection, or that are inspired, and when a video or film moves me. And I have decided to investigate this voice and listen to it. But first I have to learn to recognise it, not to deny it and… not to let the psychiatrists catch me!

There was no way around it. I undid the embroidery and almost ruined the fabric, which could not withstand any further rubbing from the buttonhole cutter and pulling from the tweezers. I won’t show you my countless attempts to create volume, from the steam stitch to the full stitch and the scalloped steam stitch. Nor will I post a photo of all the tiny petals embroidered with scalloped and long and short stitches, because they are now just a memory… A painful one. Because in the end, I replaced the dahlias with roses. And despite the defeat (which leaves me with a sense of revenge that I fear will become an obsession), the roses did well to come to my rescue. Because in the end, they are a self-quotation of my first flowery letters. And these, I have now decided, will be the designs for my next paper publication, which will see the light of day almost ten years after the first: the same inspirational alphabet is the basis, enlarged, on which flowers embroidered with more complex techniques rest, a conscious distribution of colour and the more spectacular roses, to which I owe the profound exercise I did thanks to them and on them, through embroidery and teaching.

Thinking about the ten years makes me feel old and anxious…