The still life, as an art form, captures the delicate balance between beauty and fragility. Artists like Jan Brueghel the Elder turned flowers, fruit, and objects into profound reflections on life’s transience. His Flowers in a Ceramic Vase is a striking example—a bouquet of blooms from different seasons, brought together in vibrant harmony. Yet, beneath its beauty lies the quiet acknowledgment of time’s passage, with some flowers thriving and others wilting. Each element tells a story of growth, flourishing, and inevitable decay.
In much the same way, my classroom’s picture walls acts as a living still life. Each photograph of a former student is a snapshot of a fleeting moment, capturing life at its most vibrant. These faces form a collective narrative, not unlike Brueghel’s bouquet—each unique, yet all contributing to the greater whole. But my wall holds something more: the weight of both joy and sorrow. It is a collection of peaks and valleys, a testament to life’s richness and complexity. Over the years, I’ve lost students. Their photos remain, silent reminders of lives cut short, yet forever part of our shared story. It is a wall of joy and loss, growth and remembrance—a mosaic of life preserved in its fullness.
Today, that living still life grew by one more piece. A former student visited, bringing with him a heartfelt thank-you card and a gift: a LEGO vase with a single flower. The simplicity of the gesture belied its profound meaning. As we stood together, we found his photograph on the wall. His eyes lit up, touched to see himself remembered, and I felt the quiet joy of reminding him that he is part of our story. It was a moment of connection that reaffirmed the purpose behind the work I do.
The LEGO flower, with its bright colors and careful construction, felt like more than a gift. It was a metaphor for teaching itself. Like assembling LEGO bricks, teaching is about bringing small pieces together to create something meaningful and enduring. The flower is not alive, but it will not wilt or fade. It stands as a symbol of the relationships I build with my students—relationships that, though shaped by fleeting moments, have the power to last a lifetime.
Still life as a genre has a long history of contemplating transience. In the Dutch Golden Age, still lifes often carried the theme of vanitas—a reminder of mortality and the impermanence of worldly things. Brueghel’s work acknowledged this with its wilting blooms and passing seasons. My picture wall echoes this acknowledgment, but with a different focus. Instead of mourning what is lost, it celebrates what remains. Each photograph is a testament to the lasting impact of connection. It reminds me that while the seasons change and the years pass, the relationships we form endure, transcending time.
And yet, the wall is not without its sorrow. There are times I stand before it and feel the absence of the students who are no longer here. Their faces remind me of laughter shared, struggles overcome, and the heartbreak of loss. Their stories are part of our collective narrative, their photos a quiet elegy within the larger tapestry. Teaching, like life, is a series of moments—some filled with joy, others with grief. The wall holds both with equal grace, reminding me of the privilege and responsibility of being a part of so many lives.
Jan Brueghel the Elder painted flowers that could never bloom together in nature—roses, tulips, and irises from different seasons, brought together in an eternal arrangement. My picture wall, in its own way, does the same. Students from different years, classes, and stories stand side by side, creating something timeless. Each photograph a fragment of a larger whole, and together, they form a story that is still unfolding.
As I prepare to place the LEGO flower in my room, I think about the power of small gestures. A thank-you card, a photograph, a flower—each is a reminder that teaching is not about outcomes or accolades. It is about relationships. It is about the seeds we plant, the flowers we nurture, and the stories we preserve, even if we do not always see them bloom.
Jan Brueghel’s Flowers in a Ceramic Vase invites us to marvel at the beauty of life while contemplating its fragility. My picture wall, too, invites reflection—not just on the stories of the students it depicts but on the shared story of teaching itself. It reminds me that every moment in the classroom, however brief, contributes to a larger narrative. And it reassures me that, even as the seasons change and time marches on, the shared story of our lives will endure, like a bouquet of flowers preserved forever in art.