Highlights
Handpicked by DianaHansenYoung
Vintage from the 1990s
Width: 10 inches
Height: 8 inches
 
About this item
Leis are a lesson in impermanence. Like those who carve intricate sculptures out of ice, or butter, the hours spent creating a art object of extreme beauty and delicacy are often thought of like so: "How terrible to spend hours doing this, only to have it wither and die in a few hours more." But the beauty of lei-making is in the act itself. Like art, it exists for its own sake. The giver experiences the joy of giving it to a loved one on a special occasion. The receiver enjoys the fragrance, intricate shapes, colors, and weaving, and the moment is captured only in one's senses, as the flowers wither and die, often within hours.

But the most blessed are those whose fingers can forge elaborate marriages of delicate flowers, ferns, and leaves, and the patience to lovingly do something for it's own sake -- knowing full well that it will be quickly gone.

I remember when I came to Hawaii in 1966, when the sidewalks of Kalakaua Avenue were full of lei makers, sitting on lauhala mats, weaving their magic. One of the first evenings I walked down Waikiki Beach, marveling at the colors of dusk and the fragrance of the flowers, I saw a young sailor, on a three-day "R&R" from Vietnam, absolutely fascinated by a leimaker who was creating a perfect double-gardenia lei out of the creamy soft flowers. None of the petals were bruised or brown. I stopped to watch her, and the sailor, and saw tears well up in his eyes at the powerful emotion that he was feeling as he watched the magic of the leimaker. She asked him how long he was in the islands for, and he then revealed he was going back to Vietnam the next morning.

She stood and gave him the gardenia lei, putting it around his neck with love and aloha, and then whispered something in his ear. He smiled, turned to me, and said: "Want to take a walk on the beach?" We held hands, that young sailor and I. I never knew his name, he never knew mine. I don't know if he made it through, or not. But at the end of the walk, when it was time to go, he took off the gardenia lei and placed it around my neck and said "This is for you. Wear it for me."

To this day, whenever I smell a gardenia, I am instantly transported back to that summer of 66, to the young sailor on Waikiki Beach, and my first gardenia lei.

All of the leimakers I paint are based on this precious moment. I created a signed, 16" x 20" giclee from the original and stapled it to stretcher bars. Find a ribbon to cover the staples, and hang as is, or frame it (no glass).

May the fragrance of Hawaii's leis always be in your heart.