The alchemy of jars: When the dust of centuries dances behind glass

Today, as these objects laden with history populate our interiors, the vintage apothecary style is no longer just a decorative trend. It is a rebellion against the ephemeral, a celebration of craftsmanship, a way to bring a little poetry into our sanitized lives. But behind the enchanting aesthetic of glass jars lies a far darker—and far more fascinating—story than the Instagram shelves of cottagecore influencers would suggest.

01The whispering shelves: the apothecary as a theater of knowledge

Picture Paris in 1680. In a narrow street in the Marais, a wrought-iron sign depicting a mortar and pestle creaks in the wind. Inside, the air is thick with the acrid scent of dried herbs, the musk of exotic roots, the vinegar used to preserve specimens. Behind the counter, a man in a leather apron, his fingers stained with ink and unknown substances, weighs powders on a brass scale. This is Nicolas Lémery, one of the most famous apothecaries of his time, author of a Cours de Chymie that would remain authoritative for a century. His shelves are not mere storage—they are the backstage of a theater where the great mystery of life and death unfolds.

At the time, the apothecary was physician, chemist, and alchemist in one. He knew the properties of belladonna, the plant that dilates pupils—hence its name, "beautiful lady"—but could also plunge one into an endless sleep. He understood that opium, imported from the East, eased pain but created an addiction from which there was no cure. He handled mercury, the liquid metal that treated syphilis while eating away at the bones of those who overused it. His jars held not just remedies, but hopes, fears, superstitions. Above all, they were tangible proof that the line between science and magic was still blurred.

Take the case of mummia, that brown powder sold as a panacea in the 17th century. Apothecaries claimed it was made from ground Egyptian mummies and could cure everything from headaches to fractures. Modern analyses revealed it was most often bitumen, crushed bones, or even the remains of executed criminals—anything but mummies. Yet people kept buying it, willing to believe in miracles. These jars were more than objects; they were props in a grand masquerade where credulity vied with necessity.

02Glass, the keeper of secrets

If apothecary jars fascinate us so, it is first because they are made of glass. A material at once fragile and eternal, transparent and mysterious. In the Middle Ages, glass was a rare commodity, reserved for churches and palaces. But with the rise of apothecaries during the Renaissance, its production surged. Venice, then Bohemia, became capitals of blown glass, and soon every apothecary displayed flasks in elegant shapes: narrow-necked bottles for essential oils, bulbous jars for syrups, tiny vials for poisons.

The mouth-blowing technique gave each jar a unique personality. Some still bore the mark of the pontil—the rough scar left by the metal rod that held the glass during shaping. Others, more refined, were adorned with relief patterns: vine leaves for tonics, intertwined serpents for antidotes. And then there were those jars in strange colors: cobalt blue, which protected light-sensitive substances; amber, which preserved tinctures; bottle green, inherited from Venetian glassmakers.

But glass was not just a container. It was a boundary between the visible and the invisible. Behind its smooth walls, specimens seemed to float in a timeless space. A mandrake root, with its humanoid shape, took on the appearance of a mythical creature. A handful of poppy seeds, black and glossy, evoked opiate dreams. Even the most mundane things—a bay leaf, a clove—became fascinating once trapped in their glass prison. As if the mere act of being observed through this transparent membrane gave them an aura of mystery.

03The label, or the art of naming the unnameable

Look closer at these jars. On each, a label, often yellowed by time, bears an inscription in faded ink: "Radix Mandragorae," "Oleum Scorpionis," "Sanguis Draconis." These words are not mere descriptions—they are incantations. They transform a simple root into an object of power, an oil into a magical elixir.

In the 18th century, apothecary labels became true works of art. Calligraphers deployed ingenious flourishes, blending Gothic script, alchemical symbols, and naive illustrations. A skull for poisons, a cross for remedies, a serpent for antidotes. Sometimes, the label bore a warning: "Cave" ("Beware"), "Venenum" ("Poison"), or that enigmatic phrase, "Non nisi paratus" ("Not without preparation").

But these labels also reflected an era when science was still in its infancy. In 1753, the Swedish naturalist Carl Linnaeus published his Species Plantarum, classifying plants according to the binomial nomenclature still used today. Yet at the same time, apothecaries continued to use fanciful names inherited from medieval tradition. Thus, Digitalis purpurea—our foxglove, used today to treat heart conditions—had dozens of names depending on the region: "Our Lady’s Glove," "Virgin’s Finger," "Flycatcher." Each appellation told a story, a belief, a fear.

And then there were the labels that lied. In the 19th century, with the rise of "patent medicines," apothecaries became advertisers before their time. "Elixir of Long Life," "Fairy Dust Powder," "Mother Gigogne’s Syrup"—the bottles were adorned with bright colors, flashy lithographs, miraculous promises. Some of these remedies contained alcohol, opium, or simply sugar water. Others, like "Vin Mariani"—a mixture of wine and coca leaves—became true social phenomena. The line between medicine and charlatanism had never been so thin.

04When jars become works of art

At the turn of the 20th century, as modern medicine gradually relegated apothecaries to the status of relics, a handful of artists and collectors began to see these jars as more than mere utilitarian objects. To them, they were works of art in their own right, testimonies to a vanished craft, symbols of a time when man still sought to unravel nature’s mysteries.

One of the first to understand this was the British collector Henry Wellcome. A pharmacist by training, he amassed over 100,000 objects related to the history of medicine in the early 20th century, including thousands of apothecary jars. For him, these artifacts were not mere curiosities—they were pieces of a puzzle telling the story of human evolution. Today, his collection, displayed at the Wellcome Collection in London, is one of the most fascinating in the world. It includes jars containing human organs preserved in formalin, vials of "dragon’s blood" (still!), mandrake roots with tortured shapes—objects that, taken out of context, become works of outsider art, almost surreal.

In the 1920s, the Surrealists seized upon the apothecary’s imagery. For them, these jars were metaphors for the unconscious, containers of dreams and nightmares. Salvador Dalí, in his painting The Apothecary of Cadaqués (1936), depicted a shelf where impossible objects floated: a melting watch, an egg balanced on a point, a jar filled with clouds. Joseph Cornell, meanwhile, created "shadow boxes"—glass-fronted boxes where he assembled found objects, like miniature jars, pinned butterflies, fragments of old maps. His works, halfway between the apothecary and the cabinet of curiosities, seemed to tell secret stories.

Closer to our time, contemporary artists continue to explore this aesthetic. The Dutch designer Marianne Nowottny, for example, creates blown-glass jars in which she traps dried flowers, gold leaf, even shards of mirror. Her pieces, exhibited in contemporary art galleries, play with the ideas of preservation and memory. "A jar is like a miniature tomb," she says. "You bury something in it to preserve it, but also to forget it."

05The return of jars: when vintage becomes a philosophy

Today, as the vintage apothecary style invades our interiors, one might think it’s just another decorative trend, yet another avatar of "grandmillennial" or "cottagecore." But behind the enthusiasm for these jars lies something deeper: a need to slow down, to reconnect with the tangible, to give meaning to objects that have lost it.

In a world where everything is disposable, where medicines are bought in plastic boxes at the corner pharmacy, where dried herbs come in vacuum-sealed bags, apothecary jars embody a form of resistance. They remind us that things have a history, a provenance, a soul. That behind every root, every leaf, every powder, there are hands that cultivated, harvested, transformed. That medicine, before it became an industry, was a craft.

Consider the herbalist shops springing up in major cities. In Paris, London, or New York, artisans offer custom plant blends, packaged in recycled glass jars. Their shelves look just like those of apothecaries of old, with calligraphed labels and carefully sorted contents. But here, no mummia or dragon’s blood—just teas for sleep, essential oils for relaxation, balms for muscle pain. Yet the spirit is the same. These shops are havens of slow living, places where one takes the time to choose, to smell, to touch.

And then there’s that almost spiritual dimension. In a world where science has an answer for everything, where nature’s mysteries are gradually unraveled, apothecary jars retain an air of enigma. They evoke the grimoires of witches, the recipes of alchemists, grandmother’s remedies. They remind us that, despite all our progress, there are still things we don’t understand—and that perhaps that’s for the best.

06Jars that changed history

Behind their apparent innocence, some apothecary jars played a key role in the history of science, medicine, even politics. Here are a few that, far from being mere containers, left their mark on their era.

The first is undoubtedly the one that held quinine. In the 17th century, Jesuits brought back the bark of the cinchona tree from South America, which cured fevers. In 1820, two French pharmacists, Pelletier and Caventou, isolated the active ingredient in this bark: quinine. This drug would save millions of lives by combating malaria, but it would also enable colonial powers to extend their grip over Africa and Asia. Without quinine, the history of colonization would have been very different.

Another famous jar held laudanum. This mixture of opium and alcohol, invented in the 16th century by the Swiss physician Paracelsus, was used as a painkiller and sedative. In the 19th century, it became a fashionable drug. Writers like Thomas De Quincey (Confessions of an English Opium-Eater) and Charles Baudelaire used it regularly. Mothers gave it to their babies to calm them (with sometimes tragic consequences). Laudanum was everywhere, in bourgeois salons and working-class slums alike. It wasn’t until the early 20th century that the dangers of opium were finally recognized.

Then there’s the jar that held digitalis powder. In the 18th century, an English healer, Mrs. Hutton, discovered that the leaves of the foxglove could treat dropsy (edema caused by heart failure). In 1875, a French physician, Nativelle, isolated the active ingredient in the plant: digitalis. This drug, still used today to treat certain heart conditions, has saved countless lives. But it has also inspired poisoners, like those in the famous "Affair of the Poisons" under Louis XIV, where digitalis was one of the criminals’ favorite substances.

Finally, there are those jars that held nothing but water and promises. The "patent medicines" of the 19th century, like "Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup," which calmed babies… by drugging them with morphine. Or "Coca-Cola," invented in 1886 by an Atlanta pharmacist, which originally contained cocaine and kola nuts. These jars tell another story: that of human credulity, of greed, and of the fine line between remedy and poison.

07The apothecary of the future: between nostalgia and innovation

Today, as the vintage apothecary style enjoys renewed interest, a question arises: is this aesthetic doomed to remain a passing trend, or can it evolve to meet the challenges of the 21st century?

Some designers and artisans are attempting to reinvent the apothecary by integrating contemporary concerns. In Berlin, the brand "Glashütte" creates jars from recycled glass, designed to be reused indefinitely. In London, the artist Deborah Ehrlich makes ceramic jars with glazed finishes, inspired by ancient forms but adapted to modern interiors. And then there are the zero-waste shops offering bulk products in returnable jars—a way to reconnect with the spirit of old apothecaries, where nothing was thrown away.

But innovation isn’t limited to materials. Some are also exploring new ways to use these jars. Urban herbalists organize workshops where people learn to make their own remedies: tinctures, syrups, balms. Artists like the Dutch Marianne Nowottny transform jars into light installations, playing with reflections and shadows. And on social media, accounts like "The Apothecary’s Daughter" or "Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab" reinvent the apothecary aesthetic for the digital age, blending vintage and modernity.

Yet despite these innovations, one thing remains unchanged: the evocative power of glass jars. Whether they contain dried herbs, spices, crystals, or simply air, they continue to fascinate us. Because they are beautiful. Because they are mysterious. Because they remind us that behind every object lies a story—and that these stories, however ancient, still have the power to move us.

So the next time you come across an apothecary jar, in a vintage shop or on an Instagram shelf, take a moment to look at it. Behind its transparent glass, there may be a mandrake root whispering forgotten spells, a mummy powder that has crossed centuries, or simply a handful of lavender waiting to release its scent. And who knows? Maybe that jar, too, has something to tell you.