In a time when the world often feels fractured and distracted, Emily Sprague’s music project Florist offers a rare kind of refuge. Rooted in intimacy, tenderness, and emotional honesty, Florist’s work—since their 2016 debut The Birds Outside Sang—has become a quiet yet powerful force in modern indie music. With their latest release, Jellywish, Sprague and her collaborators expand their lens. No longer solely immersed in personal reflection, they now explore broader philosophical terrain: the nature of human consciousness, the quiet magic of existence, and what it means to live meaningfully with others and the planet.
From the beginning, Florist has cultivated music that speaks not only to personal grief and transformation but also to the subtle connections between people, place, and memory. Albums like If Blue Could Be Happiness and their expansive self-titled 2022 release have established Sprague as a gentle cartographer of emotion. But Jellywish marks a turning point—it’s a record less about looking inward and more about reaching out, not necessarily for answers, but to pose better, deeper questions.
In conversation, Sprague speaks of music as a form of magic—something that transcends language and reaches into the corners of human experience that words often fail to illuminate. “The core intention behind Florist,” she explains, “has always come from this belief in music as a magic that we have access to.” That magic, for Sprague, lies in connection: to ourselves, to others, and to a world so often rendered dull by convention. In Jellywish, she seeks to dismantle those conventions, to burst open the rigid structures that restrict emotional and imaginative growth.
The result is an album that feels like a soft revolution—tender but unflinching, curious but clear-eyed. Florist’s sound remains understated and acoustic-forward, but the conceptual scope of Jellywish is vast. Described by Sprague as an “exercise in multidimensional world-building,” the record is a shimmering constellation of poetic provocations. Songs pose existential questions without demanding resolution: “Should anything be pleasure when suffering is everywhere?” “Can you feel the side of the eye that looks back?” These are not riddles to solve, but invitations to contemplate—echoes of a deeper quest for understanding.
Rather than overwhelming with abstraction, Jellywish grounds these inquiries in simple, textured arrangements. The songs are concise, almost haiku-like, forming a kind of patchwork of thoughts and feelings. Sprague’s voice, often a whisper, floats over gentle guitar lines and sparse instrumentation, creating space for introspection. Yet there is a lightness too—a sense of movement, a refusal to stay trapped in sorrow. In this way, Jellywish is both meditative and alive.
Live performance has always been an integral part of the Florist experience, though not without its challenges. The band’s hushed dynamics and emotional vulnerability once struggled to find space in noisy venues. Now, however, their shows are often intimate gatherings, where audiences sit on the floor and listen with reverence. “It feels like a house show in rooms where that’s possible,” Sprague says, describing a communal atmosphere of quiet reflection. These performances aren’t about spectacle—they’re about presence.
When it comes to recording, Florist continues to operate on their own terms. Jellywish was born from weeks of rehearsal and live play before any studio work began—a process that emphasized musical connection and interplay over pristine production. The result is a record that feels lived-in, almost handmade. While previous albums leaned into improvisation and ambient interludes, this one leans toward structure—shorter songs, more intentional arrangements, yet still imbued with that signature Florist vulnerability.
Visually, the record extends its themes through collaborations like the music video for “Have Heaven,” created with artist Kohana Wilson. The synergy between sound and image reflects the band’s larger ethos: a multidisciplinary, open-hearted approach to creating art that fosters connection and reflection.
Perhaps most striking about Jellywish is its refusal to offer closure. Sprague’s open-ended questions invite listeners to linger in ambiguity. “We don’t answer it,” she says of these existential prompts. “We just sort of navigate it.” In a culture obsessed with clarity and conclusion, that quiet commitment to uncertainty feels radical.
In the end, Jellywish is less a statement than an ecosystem—an invitation to feel, question, and imagine more expansively. It is music that does not demand attention but earns it. Music that doesn’t seek to solve your grief but walks alongside it. Music that gently suggests: what if there’s more to all of this—more color, more consciousness, more possibility?
Florist believes we can reach it—not through escape, but through deeper presence. Jellywish is the sound of that belief, shimmering just beneath the surface.
