Working with strange roots, imagined growth, and emotional neon this plant doesn’t exist, but I wish it did.
I started this one just to test out how colors might clash and still feel alive. I wanted the plant to look both organic and synthetic—something sprouting in memory, not soil. The pinks and oranges came first, warm and strange, like petals cut from old plastic toys. Then those green highlights snuck in, and suddenly it looked like the plant was glowing from the inside, as if light got trapped in its veins.
The background was never planned as a real environment. It’s more like a nervous system of lines—a web that hints at both forest and circuitry. I liked how it makes the plant feel suspended, caught in a network instead of rooted in dirt.
The shapes of the leaves aren’t botanical—they’re memory-leaves, dream-leaves. The kind you almost recognize but can’t find in any field guide. They stretch and curl like something mid-movement, frozen just long enough to be seen.
My favorite part ended up being the roots. They’re barely there, almost hesitant, but they’re reaching anyway. They don’t anchor the plant—they dangle, like the plant isn’t sure if it belongs here or if it’s just passing through.
When I finished, it felt like I’d drawn a relic from a future forest—a plant that grows only in imagination. A little alien, a little fragile. Something glowing in the corner of your mind, asking to be remembered.