Note: this essay was first published in Heard Collective's culinary anthology zine, Volume 02: Play, published in August 2025. Limited zines still available at independent small businesses like Chevalier Books, Skylight Books, Wine & Eggs. 

Be still my heart — there’s a bowl of limes in Dakota Johnson’s 2020 Architectural Digest video, in her dreamy MCM green kitchen.

My first thought is: damn, I need to draw limes.

I want to screenshot that moment of parasocial ogling into my brain and scurry over to my iPad, where I’ll mix my digital paints of red, yellow, blue and get to work.

The desire to capture fruit through art (and eating!) isn’t deep, but to me, it’s deeply felt. And honestly, a little silly. A little playful. And that’s the point.

Fruit is abundance, beauty, pleasure.

Fruit is vanity, decay, indulgence.

Fruit is resilience, love, culture.

Fruit is home, humility, morality.

Fruit is eaten, relished, forgotten— or memorialized in a pesky juice stain.

It’s a natural category so vast and rich, my nerdom struggles to comprehend. Instead of trying to pin it down, I keep playing with it.

I look to art history for guidance.

In Dutch golden age paintings, lemons, oranges, pears and grapes were transformed into lush displays of decadence— the skill and composition from the artist as much revered as the collector who commissioned it. These stiff moments, known as “vanitas art,” reminded viewers of the transience of life. They had darkness in them.

In the 1800s, Paul Cézanne freed fruits from this symbolism, infusing them with funhouse color, balance, and wistful ease. They were humble, they were imperfect, they were what they were. There was a looseness to them that feels almost mischievous — like he was letting the fruit be their full, weird selves.

Today, fruit still lives have reached en masse — in galleries, on Etsy, at farmers’ markets (!) — all in unique styles, unique meanings, or maybe no meaning at all other than enjoyable kitchen art. That’s fine. That’s fun. I have no judgment other than to embrace it all and keep creating. 

I look to culture for guidance.

I’m not religious but there’s one verse I stand by — Food is so much more than fuel. Food is culture and belonging and curiosity and contemplation. Fruit embodied this as I was growing up in the diverse city of SF: the half-sliced melons at the grocery store in the summertime (I’d poke and sniff to see which variety was best), the free orange slices at the farmers’ market, the lychees and mangosteen at the Chinese grocer that looked like tasty aliens.

My mom taught me to explore my senses through food, with fruit being the easiest and cheapest step toward growth. There was joy in that. Exploration. Play.

Books like Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner stay with me because of the devastating friendship anchored by a pomegranate tree. Now in Los Angeles, jujubes, guavas and tamarind occupy my mind with their rich layers and latent stories.

 

I look to nature for guidance.

Fruit comes from trees, bushes, vines— all essential providers. When we pluck and glean from them, we have a moral responsibility to enjoy them and mutually thrive. It’s a well-worn note: take from the earth wisely (hey Eve). 

I figure the law of abundance applies here — there is enough, if we (1) center our focus in, say, an artful frame (pun intended), and (2) respect what’s beyond said frame. If I could plant a different fruit tree in every corner of the world, each one thriving, cohabitating and helping us, allowing free trade and transfer of resources, don’t you think that could change the world?

If I’m losing you, that’s OK. These thoughts wander. 

Finally, I look to myself.

For someone always on the move, fruit (and their still life counterparts) offer the opportunity for joyful presence. For playful stillness. Something my undiagnosed ADHD brain thumps up against regularly.

And yet — I am 100% focused reveling in the messy, hedonic slurp of a ripe peach.

I am 100% ready to zoom-in on an old master painting if there’s an unfurled lemon in sight.

I am 100% hopeful and scared when I paint the last leaves of my olive tree drawing, knowing its significance for so many. The quiet joy of painting, its meaning in constant crisis.

Still lifes of fruit are serious, but not too serious. They give space to be intentional and space to be a little absurd. A little sensory. A little wild.

I hope we all find stillness in a world on the move, even if it’s through lemons, limes, peaches, trees. Even if it’s just a moment of play.

Like I said, it’s not that deep.♦

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Emma is the artist behind Fruit Stand, a joyful illustration shop celebrating art, food, and nature. You can view and purchase her fine art prints (and more) at www.fruitstand.art or in-person at the Atwater Farmers’ Market.