From Sketch To Show Bench - Creating Land Of My Fathers:

The Story Behind This Contemporary Floral Art Exhibit

When the opportunity arose to put myself forward to represent the Cheshire Area of NAFAS in the elimination competition to select the designer who would represent the National Association of Flower Arrangement Societies at the WAFA World Flower Show in Sydney, Australia, I felt it was an opportunity I simply couldn't miss.

I was delighted to be selected to represent the Cheshire Area, and felt both honoured and privileged to take part. It was an exciting moment, but one that also carried a real sense of responsibility. The standard of work would be exceptionally high, and I knew this would challenge me both creatively and technically.

What followed wasn't simply the making of a competition exhibit. It became a journey of research, experimentation, problem-solving and storytelling—one that taught me as much about the creative process as it did about the finished design.

Where The Story Began

The title of the competition class was Land of My Fathers - the familiar English title of Welsh national anthem, Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau, a song that speaks so powerfully of Wales, its people and its heritage.

Before I thought about flowers, mechanics or even the overall design, I spent time thinking about what those words meant to me. As I explored the theme I focused on Wales—its dramatic landscapes, rich mining heritage, music, Celtic traditions and, of course, the iconic Welsh dragon.

I knew then that I didn't want to create a design that simply represented Wales. I wanted to tell a story that captured its spirit.

Giving The Dragon Form

With the theme firmly in my mind, I began filling pages of my sketchbook with ideas.

As I thought about Wales, one image kept returning: the Welsh flag. At its heart is the magnificent red dragon, a powerful symbol of strength, courage and protection. I knew almost immediately that I wanted the dragon to become the focal point of my design—but not in the way people might expect.

Rather than creating the dragon itself, I wanted its wings to tell the story.

To me, those wings became a symbol of protection, gently embracing everything that makes Wales unique—its dramatic landscape, rich heritage, music, language and culture. They would surround the exhibit, almost as though the dragon were watching over the land it represented.

With that vision taking shape, I began researching the anatomy of dragon wings. I studied how they were structured, how the bones and membranes worked together and, most importantly, how I could interpret that structure in a contemporary floral art exhibit.

The competition space measured just 100cm wide by 100cm deep, with a height of 220cm. It was a generous vertical space but offered very little room for a dramatic wingspan. The challenge was to create wings that felt powerful and expansive without overwhelming the exhibit or extending beyond the allocated space.

My first sketches soon became simple paper templates. By cutting out the wings and moving them around, I could experiment with their size, angle and relationship to the rest of the design. It was an invaluable stage of the process, allowing me to refine the composition long before any permanent materials were used.

Once I was happy with the proportions, I bent the first outline from red aluminium wire. Seeing that graceful line suspended in space was the first moment the dragon began to feel real. What had started as an idea on paper was now becoming a three-dimensional form, ready to evolve into the centrepiece of Land of My Fathers.

Finding the Right Materials to Tell the Story

With the dragon beginning to take shape on paper, the next question was how to translate those ideas into materials.

For me, this is one of the most exciting stages of any design. Materials have their own personalities, and I spend a great deal of time handling them, experimenting with them and asking what they can contribute to the story.

As soon as I see mulberry fibres, I become excited by their possibilities. They have a wonderful lightness and transparency that immediately felt right for the dragon's wings. I wanted the wings to feel airy and almost skeletal, allowing light to pass through them rather than creating a heavy, solid form.

To achieve that effect, I soaked the fibres and carefully stretched them apart, encouraging holes and irregular openings to develop naturally. Once they had dried, I added layers of red spray, building colour while preserving their delicate structure. The result reminded me of worn wing membranes—strong, yet fragile enough to allow light to filter through.

Alongside the mulberry fibres, I introduced Japanese washi paper. Like the fibres, it offered a beautiful balance between strength and delicacy. Its subtle textures and natural openings echoed the idea of dragon scales without becoming too literal. Throughout the design, I wanted people to discover suggestions rather than obvious representations.

Another material I return to time and time again is sisal. People who have seen my work will know how often it appears in my designs because I love the way it behaves. Once teased apart, it becomes almost sculptural. Using a large craft needle, I can stitch and shape it into flowing forms, building texture while keeping the overall design wonderfully light.

Again, I gently opened the fibres, creating small spaces and irregular patterns that hinted at the scales and structure of the dragon's wings. Nothing was forced. The textures simply suggested the story rather than illustrating it directly.

The landscape of Wales needed a very different quality. Where the wings required lightness and movement, the mountains demanded strength. For that, I turned to bark. Layering pieces horizontally immediately reminded me of the slate that has shaped so much of the Welsh landscape and its industrial heritage. By adding washes of black and grey, together with subtle touches of verdigris copper, the bark began to resemble weathered rock faces. Threading the pieces onto copper wire added another quiet reference to Wales' mining history, connecting the materials to the country's past.

To soften those rugged forms, I introduced several varieties of preserved moss. The gentle curves of bun moss became, in my imagination, the rolling Welsh valleys weaving between the mountains, while flatter moss helped blend the different elements together and create a natural transition between rock, landscape and flowers.

As the materials slowly gathered on my workbench, I realised something important. I wasn't simply collecting interesting textures. Each material had earned its place because it carried part of the story.

Shaping The Dragon's Wings

With the materials chosen, I could begin shaping the dragon's wings. They were always going to be one of the dominant features of the exhibit, so they had to feel convincing—not in a realistic sense, but in the way they were recognised.

My first attempts weren't quite right. Although I liked the sweeping curves, there was one problem I couldn't ignore. They looked too much like butterfly wings. I loved their movement—they were elegant—but elegance wasn't what I was trying to express. The dragon represented strength, protection and presence. If people looked across the exhibition hall and their first thought was "butterfly," then for me the design had failed to communicate its story.

So I went back to my sketches. I spent time studying the anatomy of dragon wings, paying particular attention to the way the

long supporting spines radiate from a central point before sweeping outwards to define the wing. Those structural lines became incredibly important. They created the strength and tension that distinguish a dragon's wing from the softer symmetry of a butterfly. Little by little, I adjusted the proportions, altered the angles and reworked the framework. Some changes were surprisingly small, but they made a remarkable difference.

During this stage I also introduced two additional dragon wings behind the main pair. These were much smaller and far more subtle, covered with the same translucent mulberry fibres. They weren't intended to be noticed immediately. Instead, they quietly added depth and dimension, making the dragon feel larger and more present without overpowering the composition.

Some of the most successful elements of a design are the ones people barely notice. They simply make the whole exhibit feel more complete.

Eventually, I reached the point where I could stand back, look across the room and immediately recognise them as dragon wings. That was the moment I knew they were beginning to tell the story I wanted them to tell.

Knowing What To Leave Out

As the design continued to evolve, I began exploring another layer of Welsh heritage through Celtic-inspired motifs.

Using aluminium wire wrapped with natural Nutscene twine, I created a series of flowing Celtic forms that echoed the rhythm and movement of traditional knotwork. Individually, I loved them. They had a strong identity, brought another handcrafted element to the design and felt like a natural connection to Wales' rich Celtic history.

However, one of the advantages of working through ideas slowly is that it gives you time to stand back and look with fresh eyes.

When I began placing the motifs within the dragon's wings, something wasn't quite right.

Although each shape worked beautifully on its own, they didn't sit comfortably together.

Unlike traditional Celtic knotwork, they didn't interlock naturally. As they overlapped, the individual forms became confused, and instead of adding to the story, they began to compete with it. The wings suddenly felt heavier, and the clarity of the design was lost.

It wasn't an easy decision because I had invested time in making them, and I genuinely liked them.

But this project taught me a valuable lesson.

One of the hardest parts of designing isn't finding good ideas—it's recognising when a good idea belongs somewhere else.

Removing the Celtic motifs strengthened the overall composition. The dragon's wings regained their lightness, the story became clearer and every remaining element had more space to breathe.

Looking back, I don't see those motifs as a failure. They were simply part of the journey. They helped me understand what the design needed—and, just as importantly, what it didn't.

Choosing The Flowers And Foliage

With the structure of the design taking shape, it was finally time to think about the fresh flowers and plant material that would bring everything to life.

From the beginning, I knew I wanted to continue the complementary colour palette of rich reds and vibrant greens. Those colours echoed the Welsh flag and sat naturally alongside the materials I had already chosen.

Roses felt entirely appropriate for the design. Their timeless beauty brought a sense of dignity and quiet strength, while the rich red variety Jess provided the bold colour I was looking for. Smaller shrub roses created a softer transition through the design, allowing the eye to travel naturally from the dramatic dragon wings into the floral elements.

Texture was just as important as colour.

The wings already contained wonderfully open and irregular surfaces created by the mulberry fibres, washi paper and sisal, while the bark introduced a rugged, slate-like quality that reflected the Welsh landscape. I wanted the flowers to soften those textures without losing the strength of the overall composition.

Hypericum berries became the perfect solution. Their smooth, glossy lime-green berries created a beautiful contrast against the rougher materials while reinforcing the green of the Welsh flag. They also introduced rhythm and movement as they threaded their way through the design.

For foliage, I chose ferns. Their delicate fronds echoed the lightness of the mosses and softened the more structural elements, suggesting the rolling hillsides and wooded valleys that are so characteristic of the Welsh landscape.

Every flower and every stem had a purpose. Nothing was added simply because it was beautiful. Each one helped tell another part of the story.

Engineering The Design

One of the greatest challenges in competition work is that the finished exhibit only tells part of the story. Hidden behind every design is a carefully planned framework that allows everything to come together within the limited time available.

Because sustainability is important to me, I wanted the mechanics to be entirely foam-free.

The black metal frame became the backbone of the exhibit, supporting the dragon wings, the slate landscape and every other structural element.

To hold the fresh flowers, I wrapped preserved moss around cylinders of copper mesh, creating natural-looking holders into which glass test tubes could be inserted. These were then suspended within the framework, allowing each rose and stem of Hypericum to be positioned exactly where it was needed while keeping the mechanics almost completely hidden from view.

With the mechanics complete, the final pieces of the puzzle were in place. The weeks of designing, experimenting and making had all led to one thing: competition day.

Preparing For Competition Day

By the time the design was complete in my studio, I knew the real challenge was still to come.

Competition work isn't simply about creating a design—it's about recreating it under pressure, within a strict two-and-a-half-hour time limit. Every stage has to be carefully planned long before you arrive at the competition venue.

One thing I always prepare is a detailed time plan and a comprehensive checklist. It's surprising just how many tools, materials and practical items are needed to complete a large exhibit successfully. Alongside the flowers and mechanics are the less glamorous essentials: tools, spare wire, adhesives, cloths, test tube filler, pincers and even a sturdy stool. With a design reaching 220 centimetres high, I needed to work comfortably at the top of the exhibit without stretching or risking knocking carefully placed elements out of position.

The exhibit itself was built on a circular wooden base, raised slightly from the floor to give the finished piece a sense of lightness rather than appearing heavy or grounded. I painted the base in layers of charcoal, grey and black, using a stippling technique to echo the appearance of Welsh slate and ensure it became part of the story rather than simply something the design stood upon.

Practical considerations are just as important as artistic ones and I always put protective cover over the base while I work, knowing that water, moss and the inevitable debris created during construction could quickly spoil the finish. Those small preparations might seem insignificant, but they allow you to concentrate fully on the creative process when the clock is ticking.

Experience has also taught me that time has a habit of playing tricks on you. The tasks you expect to take only a few minutes can suddenly become the most time-consuming, while others seem to fall into place almost effortlessly. No matter how carefully you plan, there always needs to be room for the unexpected. Building contingency time into the schedule isn't a sign of pessimism—it's simply good preparation.

Perhaps the most valuable piece of advice I carry with me comes from my sister, Louise. She often reminds me that after completing each stage of a design, to walk away from it, even if only for a minute. When you return with fresh eyes, you notice things you simply couldn't see while standing inches away from your work.

That isn't always easy in the middle of a competition. With the clock counting down, every instinct tells you to keep working. But I've learnt that taking those brief moments to step back is time well spent. They allow you to check the balance, the proportions and the story the design is telling before moving on to the next stage.

With the planning complete, and every item checked and rechecked, there comes a point where you simply have to trust the preparation. The weeks of sketching, experimenting and refining were behind me. All that remained was the journey to the competition—and the opportunity to bring Land of My Fathers to life.

A Quiet Moment Before The Creativity Began

Setting off early that morning, Louise and I arrived in Shrewley, Warwickshire, with plenty of time before the competition began. Just a few minutes from the venue we discovered Hatton Locks, and it couldn't have been a more peaceful way to begin the day.

The sun was shining, the canal was quiet and, over breakfast beside the water, we were able to relax for a little while before the intensity of the next few hours. After weeks of planning, sketching and preparation, there was nothing more to do except enjoy the moment and trust the work that had already gone into the design.

Looking back, I'm so glad we took that time. It provided a sense of calm before the creativity, concentration and inevitable pressure of the competition hall.

Bringing The Design To Life

Standing in front of an empty framework at the start of the competition always feels a little daunting. No matter how much planning I've done or how carefully I've prepared my time plan, actually beginning is always the hardest part.

But once those first few elements are in place, something changes. I become completely immersed in the process and it feels as though I'm back in my studio at home, simply doing what I love. Piece by piece, the design begins to evolve, and gradually the story I'd imagined in my sketchbook starts to take shape in front of me.

My time plan is always there as a guide, but I've learnt not to become a slave to it. Sometimes the schedule unfolds exactly as expected, but more often it doesn't. Certain tasks take much longer than I'd imagined, while others come together surprisingly quickly. That's why the planning is so important. It provides the structure and confidence to work flexibly as the design develops, adapting to whatever the moment requires.

I also know myself well enough to accept that I'll use every second available. I can probably count on one hand the number of exhibits I've finished before the allotted time. As a perfectionist, there's always one more stem to adjust, one angle to refine or one detail to improve. Even when the design is complete, I'm still looking for ways to make the story just a little clearer before the steward calls, "Time."

Seeing The Finished Design

When the final flower was placed and I was finally able to step back, I felt an enormous sense of relief but satisfaction.

The dragon had become exactly what I had hoped it would be.

The wings had the strength and presence I had worked so hard to achieve. From across the exhibition hall there was no mistaking them—they were unmistakably dragon wings. That had been one of my biggest challenges throughout the design process, and seeing people instantly recognise them confirmed that all the refining and re doing had been worthwhile.

But perhaps what pleased me most wasn't any single element of the design.

It was that the finished exhibit felt completely authentic. It felt like me.

Every sketch, every experiment, every material and every decision reflected the way I enjoy working as a contemporary floral artist. The natural textures, the sustainable mechanics, the storytelling, and the careful editing of ideas all came together in a design that genuinely reflected my own creative style.

Competitions naturally encourage us to look at what others are doing, but I think one of the most valuable lessons I've learned is that the strongest designs come from being true to yourself. We all have different experiences, different influences and different ways of seeing the world. Those differences are what make our work unique.

For me, Land of My Fathers wasn't simply about interpreting a competition title. It became an opportunity to create something deeply personal—a design inspired by the beauty, heritage and spirit of Wales, expressed in a way that felt honest to who I am as an artist.

More Than A Competition

One of the greatest pleasures of the day wasn't simply creating my own exhibit.

It was sharing the experience with so many talented floral artists.

Many of us knew one another through demonstrations, workshops and previous competitions, while others were new faces from different parts of the UK and Ireland. Bringing together so many creative people in one place created a wonderful atmosphere. Although we were competing, there was a genuine sense of encouragement and friendship throughout the day.

I have always believed that working alongside people whose skills you admire encourages you to raise your own standards. Watching other designers interpret the same title in completely different ways was inspiring. Every exhibit reflected the individuality of its creator, and that diversity made the whole experience even richer.

Competitions certainly stretch you, but they also remind you that creativity flourishes best within a supportive community.

Continuing The Journey

Creating Land of My Fathers has reminded me why I love contemporary floral art so much.

Every design begins with a question, develops through experimentation and grows stronger through reflection. Sometimes the most valuable lessons come from the ideas we leave behind, and sometimes they come from the people we meet along the way.

If you've enjoyed following this journey, we'd love to continue sharing our ideas with you.

Each week, Louise and I publish floral inspiration, behind-the-scenes projects and creative ideas in an email, celebrating the joy of flowers, natural materials and sustainable design.

If you're part of a flower club or simply enjoy exploring contemporary floral art, we also love teaching workshops together. Sharing techniques, encouraging creativity and helping others discover their own artistic voice is one of the most rewarding parts of what we do.

We hope you'll join us as the journey continues.

About Louise and Deb

Louise & Deb are contemporary floral artists, demonstrators and workshop tutors with a passion for sustainable floral design, creative mechanics and sharing the joy of flowers. Through demonstrations, workshops and weekly inspiration, they encourage others to experiment, develop their own style and enjoy the creative process.