Life Support began during the first COVID-19 lockdown in spring 2020, when daily movement became restricted to short walks close to home. Living in central Cardiff, Townsend spent this period walking through the connected parks and green spaces surrounding the Roath district, gradually observing the emergence of early spring wildflowers after a long winter. In the stillness and uncertainty of lockdown, these small seasonal changes took on an intensified presence. The flowers became markers of time and continuity, carrying a quiet sense of hope within a moment of collective anxiety and isolation.

The series consists of wax sculptures of common wild plants enclosed within air-filled glass forms. Created over several months, each work relates to a particular encounter, memory, or emotional state experienced during this period. The glass orbs reference the “bubbles” imposed during lockdown, while also suggesting systems of care, separation, and containment. The plants appear carefully held beneath the glass, isolated within fragile artificial environments that echo both museum display and the experience of lockdown itself.

The works also reflect changing ideas of value during this time. Access to green space, something often overlooked within everyday urban life, suddenly became essential. Whether living in penthouses or small city apartments, many people found themselves dependent upon the same need for fresh air, movement, and contact with nature.

Each sculpture stands upon exposed roots beneath the glass. Usually hidden underground, the roots become visible here, tangled and restless beneath the surface beauty of the flowers above. The works form a series, connected yet separate, held close but unable to touch, carrying both calm and unease.

Growing in grassy banks, woodland edges, and hedgerows, flowering before the trees come into leaf and shade the ground. One final visit to a friend’s house before lockdown. Her lawn filled with primrose. On my walk in the park, I begin to notice them everywhere. Hundreds of primroses. With each one, I think of her.

Woodland, copses, scrub, hedgerows. One of the first flowers of spring, scattered across the forest floor. The roads of the city are quiet and the skies are clear. I hear the rushing water of the stream beside the bank of flowers, and birds singing.

Deciduous woodland, grassy heaths, old pastures and chalk downs. I spot deep bluish violet flowers growing just behind the park railings next to the pavement. I have been waiting all winter for them. Soon there are more, in my own garden, growing between the cracks in the patio.

Dry habitats, arable soils and dunes. Tiny blue flowers tinged with pink fill the park and my mum’s front garden, where we sit on the wall at a distance and talk.

Grassy habitats, rough unimproved meadows and pastures, banks and roadsides. As restrictions ease, I travel further afield to an industrial site where pink pyramid orchid spikes grow tall and slender beneath the sails of a wind turbine.

Damp woodland habitats. After the darkest of winters, snowdrops slowly emerge along the valley road as we continue our weekly journey delivering groceries to loved ones. They have received their first vaccines.

Deciduous woodland, damp grassy habitats, stream and river margins. Flowers bright, glistening yellow, opening only on fine days. More than a year has passed. Life is opening up again, but I am still walking the pathways of my local park, eyes down, looking for celandines.