The day Fig & Bloom made flowers for Witchery, my old life and my new one shared a room. I had a lot of feelings about it.
Before flowers, I spent ten years inside the Country Road Group world — Witchery among them. I knew those stores from the inside: the way a rail is merchandised, the light over a counter, the exact gap between looking expensive and being it. So when we were asked to make the flowers for a Witchery activation, it was not a normal brief. It was two halves of my working life meeting in a shopfront.
And the strange thing was how little I had to translate. Styling a flower cart for a fashion floor is the same skill as the one I trained for years ago — reading the space, matching the palette to the brand, deciding the one gesture that makes a person slow down on their way past. The materials had changed from clothes to stems. The eye had not moved an inch.
That is really the whole origin of Fig & Bloom, compressed into one collaboration. Dan and I did not start a flower company because we loved flowers more than other people do. We started it because I had spent a decade learning how taste is built and held in fashion, and I wanted to point that same training at something that arrives at a person's door and makes them feel known.
The materials changed from clothes to stems. The eye did not move an inch.
People sometimes treat the fashion background like a fun fact on the about page. It is not a fun fact. It is the entire method. A florist should be a designer, not a dispatcher, and the fastest way I know to teach that is to have spent years somewhere that would fire you for shipping the standard thing without a thought behind it.
Designed the way I was trained to.
A bespoke bouquet, built fresh to the season — the same eye, every time. From $100. See the seasonal design →
My old world taught me how a thing should look. My new one taught me why it matters once it lands. The studio is where the two finally agree.
