The secret language of petals: When seventeenth-century dutch flowers whisper to time
Imagine an autumn morning in Amsterdam, 1667. Golden light filters through the leaded windows of a bourgeois home, caressing a canvas hung on the wall. A bouquet of tulips, roses, and peonies unfurls its colors with almost supernatural precision. The petals still seem damp with dew, water droplets g
By Artedusa
••12 min read
The secret language of petals: when seventeenth-century Dutch flowers whisper to time
Imagine an autumn morning in Amsterdam, 1667. Golden light filters through the leaded windows of a bourgeois home, caressing a canvas hung on the wall. A bouquet of tulips, roses, and peonies unfurls its colors with almost supernatural precision. The petals still seem damp with dew, water droplets glisten on the leaves, and a butterfly, wings spread, appears about to take flight. Yet something is amiss: these flowers should not coexist. Tulips bloom in spring, roses in summer, peonies in May... So why does this painting, signed Rachel Ruysch, assemble the impossible? And why, three centuries later, do these still lifes continue to haunt us, as if they held a secret we have not yet fully uncovered?
It is no accident that the Dutch painters of the Golden Age elevated the flower to the rank of visual enigma. At a time when the United Provinces dominated global trade, when Amsterdam was Europe’s stock exchange, and when a tulip was worth more than a house, each petal became a metaphor. Wealth, transience, love, death—all was there, concealed beneath the guise of enchanting realism. But to understand this language, one must first accept an unsettling truth: in these paintings, nothing is ever what it seems.
The tulip that was worth a fortune: when art mirrored human folly
In February 1637, the tulip market collapsed in Haarlem in indescribable chaos. Ruined speculators burned their futures contracts, entire families were left destitute, and bulbs once purchased for the price of a mansion now sold for a few florins. This "tulip mania," the first speculative bubble in history, left traces far beyond the stock exchange ledgers. It infiltrated art, transforming the flower into a symbol of human vanity.
The painters were not mere witnesses to this madness. They were its accomplices, even its prophets. Ambrosius Bosschaert, one of the genre’s pioneers, painted tulips so lifelike that his canvases served as "certificates" for collectors. One of his works, Bouquet of Flowers in a Niche (1618), depicts a black tulip—or rather, a tulip of such deep violet that it appears black. At the time, this variety, called Semper Augustus, was so rare that it was worth the equivalent of 10,000 euros today. Bosschaert was not merely painting a flower: he was capturing a dream, an obsession, a mirage.
What strikes one in these representations is their ambiguity. The tulip is both an object of desire and a warning. In the still lifes of Jan Davidsz. de Heem, it often appears alongside skulls or hourglasses, as if to remind us that beauty, like wealth, is but fleeting. What if these paintings were, in fact, disguised warnings? Vanitas before their time, where the flower, symbol of prosperity, also became that of downfall?
Rachel Ruysch, or the art of painting the ephemeral with fairy fingers
Among the masters of this genre, one woman stands out with an almost supernatural grace: Rachel Ruysch. The daughter of a famous anatomist, she grew up surrounded by botanical specimens and skeletons preserved in jars. Her father, Frederik Ruysch, was known for his "anatomical tableaux"—macabre compositions where fetuses danced with ribboned arteries. One might think this strange childhood would have marked her art with a morbid touch. Yet her flowers breathe with a rare intensity of life.
Ruysch had a secret: she did not paint what she saw, but what she imagined. Her bouquets, often asymmetrical, seem caught in motion, as if a breath of wind had just passed through them. In Flowers in a Vase (1700), a white rose, symbol of purity, leans toward a red tulip, while a cherry branch, already faded, lets its petals fall. The message is clear: beauty is a precarious balance, always on the verge of unraveling.
What fascinates about Ruysch is her ability to create the illusion of movement. The water droplets on the petals are not static: they seem about to slide. The insects—bees, butterflies, ladybugs—appear alive, as if they might take flight at any moment. This impression of suspended life is no accident. Ruysch used glazes, layers of transparent paint that capture light and lend a near-magical depth to details. She was also a virtuoso of contrasts: scarlet roses beside forget-me-nots of an almost electric blue, creating a visual tension that draws the eye like a magnet.
But behind this technical mastery lies a deeper truth. Ruysch painted flowers that did not exist. Her bouquets, composed of flowers from different seasons, were oneiric constructions, a botanist’s dreams. What if these impossible assemblages were, in fact, a metaphor for life itself? A way of saying that beauty, like happiness, is always a fragile illusion, a moment stolen from time?
The secret code of petals: when every flower becomes a word
If Dutch painters elevated the still life to the rank of major art, it is because they turned it into a language. Each flower, each insect, each fruit had its meaning, like the words of a visual poem. To decipher these paintings, one must learn this forgotten vocabulary.
Take the rose. In Dutch art, it was never simply a rose. Red, it symbolized passion; white, purity; faded, death. In Still Life with Flowers and Fruit by Maria van Oosterwijck, a half-open red rose sits beside a skull and an hourglass. The message is unequivocal: love and death are linked, and time carries all away. As for the carnation, it was often associated with betrothal. In wedding paintings, it appears alongside myrtle, symbol of fidelity, and lilies, emblem of purity.
But the true genius of the painters lay in their ability to layer meanings. A tulip, for example, could simultaneously represent wealth (because of tulip mania) and transience (since its bloom is brief). A lemon, often depicted half-peeled, evoked both the bitterness of life and purification. And what of the insects? A bee, symbol of labor and perseverance, could also represent the soul; a spider, malice or entrapment.
These symbols were not fixed. They evolved with context. In Protestant paintings, flowers often reminded viewers of the brevity of earthly life (memento mori). In Catholic works, they might evoke the Virgin Mary (lily) or Christ (red rose). And sometimes, these meanings contradicted one another, creating deliberate tension. As if the painters were saying: life is complex, and symbols, like emotions, are never one-dimensional.
The transparency of glass: when technique becomes magic
What makes Dutch still lifes so enchanting is their ability to deceive the eye. The painters of this era were illusionists, and their most impressive feat was undoubtedly the representation of glass. In Flowers in a Glass Vase by Jan Davidsz. de Heem, the vase is so transparent that its contours are barely discernible. The flower stems seem to float in water, and the reflections on the glass’s surface capture light with near-photographic precision.
How did they do it? The answer lies partly in a revolutionary technique: glazing. By layering transparent paint, artists could create unprecedented effects of depth and luminosity. For glass, they used lead white mixed with oil, which allowed them to suggest transparency while capturing reflections. Water droplets were painted with pure white touches, applied over a darker layer to create the illusion of light passing through water.
But the magic did not stop there. The painters also played with perspective. In Ruysch’s bouquets, foreground flowers are painted with surgical precision, while those in the background blur, as if dissolving into light. This technique, called "aerial perspective," creates an impression of depth and movement. It reminds us that these paintings are not mere reproductions of reality, but sophisticated constructions, where every detail is calculated to evoke emotion.
And then there are the insects. A ladybug on a leaf, a butterfly poised for flight, an ant climbing a stem... These often tiny details add a touch of life and mystery. They remind us that nature is an ecosystem, where everything is connected. And they underscore, once more, the fragility of beauty. For if flowers are ephemeral, insects are the silent witnesses of their decline.
The women behind the flowers: when genius defied convention
In the seventeenth century, painting was a man’s world. Yet in the realm of floral still lifes, women not only excelled but dominated. Rachel Ruysch, Maria van Oosterwijck, Clara Peeters... These names, now rediscovered, were those of true stars in their time. Ruysch, in particular, was a celebrity. She painted for European courts, earned fortunes, and signed her canvases with unapologetic pride—a rarity for a woman artist at the time.
How to explain this success? Partly because still life was considered a "minor" genre, thus less prestigious than history painting or portraits. Women, excluded from academies and official commissions, found in these paintings a field of freedom. But their talent quickly transcended prejudice. Ruysch, for example, was so skilled that even the most misogynistic critics of her time had to acknowledge her genius.
There is something deeply subversive about these still lifes. At a time when women were confined to the roles of wives and mothers, Ruysch and her contemporaries transformed domestic objects—flowers, fruit, vases—into major works of art. Their paintings speak of beauty, of course, but also of power. A rose, a tulip, a lemon... These seemingly innocuous elements become, under their brush, symbols of resistance. As if, by painting flowers, these women were saying: look how beautiful the world is, and how fragile.
And then there is that delicious irony: still lifes, a genre considered "feminine" and thus "minor," are today among the most sought-after paintings in museums. Ruysch’s works sell for millions at auction, and her bouquets, once hung in bourgeois salons, now grace the world’s greatest museums. As if, after three centuries, the world had finally recognized what these women had always known: that beauty, even ephemeral, is a form of power.
The legacy of flowers: when the past inspires the present
Three centuries have passed, yet Dutch still lifes continue to speak to us. Their influence can be found in contemporary art, from Dalí’s surrealism to Jeff Koons’ floral installations. But it is perhaps in design and decoration that their legacy is most visible.
Take the asymmetrical bouquets so dear to Ruysch. Today, they appear in Scandinavian interiors, where flowers are arranged with apparent nonchalance, as if freshly picked from a garden. The color contrasts so typical of Dutch art also inspire modern decorators: scarlet roses against a midnight-blue background, yellow tulips against a pearl-gray wall... These combinations, once reserved for the masters’ canvases, have become design classics.
Even the symbolism of flowers has endured. In an era obsessed with the ephemeral—where everything is disposable, where images flash by on screens—the Dutch vanitas resonate with renewed force. These paintings remind us that beauty is fragile, that time passes, and that objects, even the most precious, are but illusions. A lesson the modern world, with its cult of the instantaneous, would do well to ponder.
And then there is the idea, so cherished by Dutch painters, that art can be both beautiful and profound. That behind a simple appearance—a bouquet of flowers, a fruit, a vase—lies a world of meaning. Today, as contemporary art is often criticized for its obscurity, the still lifes of the seventeenth century remind us that a work can be accessible without being superficial. That it can please the eye while nourishing the mind.
The last petal: when art defies time
In 1944, a still life by Rachel Ruysch vanished in the chaos of the Second World War. For decades, it was thought lost forever. Then, in 2018, it resurfaced in an attic in Germany, intact, as if time had no hold over it. This story, almost too perfect to be true, encapsulates the mystery of Dutch still lifes.
For that is their true magic: they seem to defy time. The flowers of Ruysch, de Heem, and Bosschaert are as fresh, as vibrant as on the first day. Their petals have not faded, their colors have not dulled. And yet, they speak to us of the ephemeral, of transience, of life’s brevity.
Perhaps this is the ultimate paradox of these paintings. They capture the moment only to remind us that it has already passed. They celebrate beauty to better underscore its fragility. And in a world where everything accelerates, where images flicker without leaving a trace, they offer a lesson in patience and contemplation.
The next time you encounter a Dutch still life in a museum, take the time to observe it. Look at the water droplets on the petals, the insects on the leaves, the reflections in the glass. And listen. For these flowers, for three centuries, have been whispering the same thing: carpe diem. Seize the day. For it does not last. And that is precisely what makes it precious.
The secret language of petals: When seventeenth-century dutch flowers whisper to time | Art History
