I came across Jean Delville’s Prometheus one night while scrolling through art on my phone. One of those late hours when I’m not searching for anything but hoping something unexpected will stop me. And this did. A single figure, luminous and taut, rising through clouds of gold and ash. His whole body strained upward toward a light so intense it seemed to sear the air itself.
Prometheus, the myth says, stole fire from the gods and gave it to humankind. For that gift he was punished, chained to a rock where an eagle devoured his liver each day. But Delville doesn’t show the punishment. His Prometheus isn’t bound at all. He’s suspended in motion, caught between agony and ascent, both burning and radiant. The light that wounds him is also what defines him.
As I studied the image on my screen, I thought of something far from myth. I thought of my early years of teaching. Back in 2010, during the recession, I was non-renewed from my first position. It wasn’t personal; budgets were being cut, programs trimmed. Still, it hurt. When I was rehired the following year in another school within the same district, I was determined to prove myself indispensable.
At that time, our district had a small tradition. During the opening-year meeting, teachers who hadn’t missed a single day the previous year were recognized. Perfect attendance. They received a simple placard, their name and the year etched across the front. Nothing elaborate, but to me it symbolized consistency. It showed everyone that person was dedicated, a teacher who showed up.
After the disappointment of losing my first job, I wanted that. I worked through sickness, exhaustion, and the weeks when I desperately needed a day away. I told myself it mattered, that perseverance could speak louder than anything else. By spring I had done it. I hadn’t missed once.
When August came, I walked into that meeting proud, almost giddy. I could already see that placard hanging on my classroom wall. The meeting began, then dragged on: updates, schedules, data. And then it ended. No recognition. No plaques. Someone in administration had decided the tradition wasn’t worth continuing.
It’s hard to describe the mix of embarrassment and emptiness I felt. It wasn’t the plaque itself; it was the silence that followed all that effort. I’d spent a year pushing myself for something that no longer existed.
Delville’s Prometheus brings that memory back in a different light. His painting isn’t about glory. It’s about the effort that continues even when no one is watching. Prometheus reaches toward the fire not because it will reward him, but because it’s what he does. Because it’s his nature to reach.
That, I think, is what teaching often feels like. The work asks everything from you — time, patience, emotional energy — and so much of it goes unseen. But the act itself, the daily carrying of that small flame, is its own kind of meaning.
Delville belonged to the Symbolists, those turn-of-the-century artists who tried to paint what can’t be seen: emotion, will, spirit, tension. His Prometheus is not the rebel in chains but the worker mid-gesture, every muscle describing persistence. The longer I looked, the more familiar that felt.
I never got that placard. What I did get, over time, was something quieter. I got a better understanding of why I keep showing up. The fire that drives us doesn’t always reward us, but it shapes us.
Some fires burn bright for a moment and fade. Others, like the one Delville painted, keep rising through darkness, steady and unresolved. That’s the kind of fire I recognize. It's the one that keeps me returning to the classroom, to the work, to the light that asks more than it gives.