The secret language of petals: When flemish flowers whispered in the seventeenth century
Imagine an April morning in 1607, in Jan Brueghel the Elder’s studio in Antwerp. Golden light filters through diamond-shaped panes, caressing a canvas resting on the easel. On this still-damp surface, an improbable bouquet comes to life: Ottoman tulips with petals striped like purple flames stand be
By Artedusa
••10 min read
The secret language of petals: when Flemish flowers whispered in the seventeenth century
Imagine an April morning in 1607, in Jan Brueghel the Elder’s studio in Antwerp. Golden light filters through diamond-shaped panes, caressing a canvas resting on the easel. On this still-damp surface, an improbable bouquet comes to life: Ottoman tulips with petals striped like purple flames stand beside summer roses, their half-open corollas releasing an imaginary fragrance. At their feet, spring violets seem to murmur secrets, while a sunflower—like a miniature sun—already turns its face toward an invisible light. Brueghel is not painting a mere still life. He is composing a visual poem, a score where each flower plays its note in a silent symphony of symbols.
Why this impossible bouquet, where seasons blend like colors on a palette? Why these petals rendered so delicately that one could almost feel their velvet beneath one’s fingers? And above all, why have these flowers, which still seem to breathe, drawn the gaze of art lovers, botanists, and theologians for four centuries? The answer lies in the very thickness of the paint, in those layers of glaze where the science of pigments, religious devotion, and the dreams of an empire where tulips were worth more than gold overlap.
When the Counter-Reformation bloomed on canvas
The story begins in the damp corridors of Jesuit churches in Antwerp, where walls suddenly burst into floral garlands framing sacred scenes. We are in the early seventeenth century, and Flanders, under Spanish rule, lives to the rhythm of the decrees of the Council of Trent. The Catholic Church, shaken by the Protestant Reformation, seeks to reclaim souls through the senses. Flowers become more than mere ornaments—they are weapons of mass persuasion.
Daniel Seghers, a Jesuit lay brother turned painter, embodies this strategy better than anyone. In his austere studio, he composes floral wreaths so lifelike one would swear they could be plucked. But these garlands are never innocent. They systematically frame images of the Virgin Mary, transforming each petal into a metaphor for her virtues. The white lily, symbol of purity, stands beside the red rose, emblem of divine love, while the violet, discreet and humble, evokes the modesty of the Mother of God. These compositions are not meant for merchants’ salons but for church altars. Every visitor who kneels before them receives, without even realizing it, a lesson in catechism through images.
Yet behind this apparent simplicity lies a theological sophistication that would have made the Church Fathers envious. Take, for example, the garland preserved in the Louvre, where Seghers depicted no fewer than forty-seven different species. Each flower is chosen with almost manic precision: the peony, symbol of prosperity, recalls the blessings of faith; the columbine, with its five dove-shaped petals, evokes the Holy Spirit; and the poppy, its blood-red hue seeming to bleed onto the canvas, foreshadows Christ’s sacrifice. Even the insects that flit among these flowers are not there by chance. The ladybug, called "God’s little beast" in Flemish folklore, becomes an allegory of Providence, while the bee, industrious and organized, embodies the souls of the faithful working toward their salvation.
The gold of bulbs: when flowers became currency
But not all Flemish flowers grew in the sacred soil of churches. Some flourished in the curiosity cabinets of Antwerp’s wealthy merchants, where they rubbed shoulders with exotic shells and corals brought back from the Indies. These bouquets tell another story—one of a world where borders blurred and gold took new forms.
Jan Brueghel the Elder, master of "impossible bouquets," was among the first to grasp the power of these new riches. The son of Pieter Bruegel the Elder, he inherited his father’s keen eye for everyday detail but added a touch of luxury that reflected Flanders’ growing opulence. His compositions overflow with flowers from the four corners of the world: tulips brought from Constantinople by Venetian merchants, sunflowers native to the Americas, and even Asian peonies, their silken petals seeming to defy the laws of botany.
These exotic flowers were not mere ornaments. They were silent witnesses to a burgeoning commercial empire. The tulip, in particular, became the symbol of this new economy. Imported from the Ottoman Empire, it captivated the Flemish with its vivid colors and striped patterns, the result of a virus that deformed its petals. In 1637, at the height of "tulip mania," some bulbs sold for the price of a house. Painters, of course, seized upon the phenomenon. Roelandt Savery, a court painter who worked for Emperor Rudolf II in Prague, created entire catalogs of tulips, so precise that botanists still use them to identify extinct varieties.
Yet behind this fascination with the exotic lay a darker truth. These flowers, which seemed immortal on canvas, were in reality ephemeral commodities. Tulip mania ended in a spectacular crash, ruining hundreds of speculators. The painters, however, continued to depict these flowers as if nothing had happened—but they now added details that betrayed their unease. A wilted petal here, a yellowed leaf there: these imperfections became memento mori, reminders that even the most dazzling riches eventually fade.
The brush and the scalpel: when art rivaled science
If Flemish flowers continue to fascinate, it is also because they straddle the line between art and science. In the seventeenth century, botany was in the midst of a revolution. The first botanical gardens were being established, and scholars began systematically classifying plants. Painters, who had long worked closely with naturalists, became the visual chroniclers of this new passion for the plant world.
Jan Brueghel the Elder collaborated with Carolus Clusius, the pioneering botanist who introduced the tulip to Europe. Together, they created works that were both artistic masterpieces and scientific documents. Brueghel painted flowers with such precision that each species, each variety, could be identified. But he did not merely copy nature. He reinvented it, crafting bouquets that could never exist in reality, where seasons mingled and the rarest flowers stood beside the most common.
This "scientific" approach to floral painting reached its peak with the works of Roelandt Savery. This painter, who worked at the court of Emperor Rudolf II—a ruler obsessed with the occult—pushed realism to its extreme. His tulips were so precise that one could distinguish the slightest color variations on their petals. Some of his paintings resembled botanical plates, where each flower was depicted from multiple angles, as if to reveal all its secrets.
Yet even in these most "scientific" compositions, painters could not resist adding a touch of mystery. Savery, for instance, liked to slip strange details into his bouquets: a flower that seemed to wilt faster than the others, an insect that appeared to watch the viewer. These anomalies were not mistakes but coded messages. They reminded viewers that, despite their precision, these paintings remained works of art, laden with symbols and emotions.
The women who made art bloom
In this male-dominated world, one figure stands out: Clara Peeters. Little is known about this painter, yet she left an indelible mark on Flemish art. Her still lifes, often smaller and more intimate than those of her male contemporaries, reveal a unique perspective on the world.
What strikes one first in Peeters’ works is their almost tactile realism. Her flowers seem so real one could almost touch them. But what makes them truly unique is how she integrates them into broader compositions, where everyday objects take on an almost sacred dimension. In her famous Still Life with Cheeses, Almonds, and Pretzels, preserved in the Mauritshuis in The Hague, flowers are just one element among many. Yet they immediately draw the eye, as if they held a secret message.
And indeed they do. Peeters, one of the first women to specialize in still life, used these flowers to assert her presence in a male-dominated art world. In several of her paintings, she depicts herself reflected in the metallic surfaces of knives or goblets. These miniature self-portraits are like hidden signatures, proof that despite the obstacles, she had carved out a place for herself.
But Peeters did not merely sign her works. She also infused them with feminine symbols. Roses, for example, were often associated with love and fertility, but also with the fragility of women’s condition. Violets, discreet and modest, evoked the virtues traditionally ascribed to women. And the seashells that frequently appeared in her compositions symbolized both feminine beauty and maternal protection.
Suspended time: when flowers defied death
Why, after four centuries, do these Flemish flowers still captivate us? Perhaps because they represent a desperate attempt to defy time. On canvas, petals never wilt, colors never fade, and bouquets remain eternally fresh. Yet these immortal flowers are also reminders of our own mortality.
It is this tension between beauty and decay that gives Flemish still lifes their depth. Painters did not merely depict perfect flowers. They always added details that betrayed life’s fleeting nature: a falling petal, a yellowing leaf, an insect gnawing at a stem. These imperfections were not mistakes but messages. They reminded viewers that, despite their beauty, these flowers were doomed to die—just as we are.
This obsession with life’s transience found its most poignant expression in the vanitas genre. In these compositions, flowers stood beside skulls, hourglasses, and burning candles. The message was clear: even the most dazzling riches would eventually vanish. Yet in these seemingly morbid paintings, there was also a glimmer of hope. For if flowers faded, their beauty endured forever on canvas.
The living legacy of Flemish flowers
Today, in a world where flowers are often reduced to mere decorations, Flemish still lifes remind us of their symbolic power. They show us that every petal, every color, every combination can tell a story. That behind apparent beauty lie coded messages, complex emotions, and universal truths.
This legacy is visible in contemporary art. Artists like Jeff Koons, with his giant tulips, or Damien Hirst, with his flowers preserved in formaldehyde, revisit themes dear to Flemish painters in their own ways. But perhaps the influence of these flowers is most evident in design. The floral motifs that adorn our fabrics, wallpapers, and everyday objects owe much to seventeenth-century Flemish art.
Yet the most precious legacy of these flowers may lie elsewhere. In a world where everything moves faster, where cut flowers wilt in days and bouquets are discarded without a second glance, Flemish still lifes remind us of the value of suspended time. They invite us to slow down, to observe, to contemplate. To see, behind the fleeting beauty of petals, the eternity of art.
So the next time you encounter a bouquet of flowers, take a moment to truly look at it. Notice how the light plays on the petals, how the colors interact, how each flower seems to tell its own story. And remember that behind this apparent beauty may lie a secret message—a metaphor for life, death, and eternity. Just as Flemish painters did four centuries ago, with their brushes and pigments, transforming the ephemeral into the eternal.
The secret language of petals: When flemish flowers whispered in the seventeenth century | Art History
