This brooch is by Avon, the cosmetic company founded in 1886 and began marketing jewellery in 1971.  For a short period 1980-1984, Avon owned Trifari.  Avon jewellery does not have an identifiable ‘house style’, it was designed with the mass market in mind and is not particularly high quality.  In 2004 Avon began producing an annual Christmas tree design.

Avon still sell jewellery via their online shop; I could only find four brooches and no Christmas trees.  Over the years Avon have employed some well-known names as jewellery designers, from the mid-1980s Kenneth Lane designed for them and between 1993 and 1997 so did Elizabeth Taylor.

Sunflowers (original title, in French: Tournesols) are a well-known series of still life paintings by the Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh. The first was painted in Paris in 1887.  Vincent painted 12 in total.

Sunflowers by Vincent van Gogh, 1888, oil on canvas, in the National Gallery, London

When Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gaugin first met in Paris in 1887, they exchanged paintings.  Vincent gave Gaugin one of his ‘Sunflowers’.  During his brief stay at the Yellow House in Arles, Gaugin painted Vincent working on one of his ‘Sunflower’ series.

The Painter of Sunflowers by Paul Gaugin 1888

In Brussels in 1890, a Belgian painter complained at having his paintings displayed in the same exhibition as the ‘Sunflowers’, calling Vincent a ‘charlatan’.  Vincent’s friend Henri Toulouse-Lautrec heard the derogatory comment and challenged the Belgian to a duel.  Luckily, it never took place.

When former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, on a visit to the National Gallery in London, asked to see Van Gogh’s chrysanthemums, No one dared correct her!

Sunflowers have inspired a number of artists and poets.  William Blake wrote ‘Ah! Sun-flower’ in 1794

Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,

Who countest the steps of the Sun:

Seeking after that sweet golden clime

Where the travellers journey is done.

Where the Youth pined away with desire,

And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow:

Arise from their graves and aspire,

Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

In 1881 Claude Monet painted ‘Bouquet of Sunflowers’ – it is in the Met Museum in New York

And in 1955 the American poet Allen Ginsberg (3rd June 1926 – 5th April 1997) wrote the poem ‘Sunflower Sutra’

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.

The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—

—I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem

and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past—

and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—

corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!

The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown—

and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these

entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen,

—We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.