Writing 2000 & Writing 3500
The Roses of Heliogabalus
My all time favorite painting is titled "The Roses of Heliogabalus". This painting was created in 1888 by Dutch artist, Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema. The story within this image goes like this: an ancient roman emperor, Eliogabalus, also known as Heliogabalus, was known for two things—being cruel, and throwing luxurious parties. Here, he smothers his guests in beautiful rose petals, which eventually lead to their suffocation and death. I have written multiple pieces based on this work, as it tells a compelling story of both beauty and violence, and how they might intertwine in one, devastatingly stunning image. It is an image of both life and death, and how they converge in a setting of luxury. How powerful, how beautiful, how crushing!
One of the biggest heartbreaks of this painting, at least for me, is that it is privately owned, and has only been on display twice. So, there is a large chance that I will never get to see this painting with my own two eyes. The painting is about desire, excess, and the danger of wanting too much, and now the work has become almost untouchable in the same way. It exists at a distance, hidden behind private walls. A billionaire owns it, revels in its beauty, while I am left to suffer under the weight that I will never see those roses. But in a way, doesn't that just add to its story?
The Works, Explained
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Here I present two works that I have created based on "The Roses of Heliogabalus". The first is a creative nonfiction piece written from the painter’s perspective. It also has elements of historical fiction, because it uses real historical/artistic material but presents it through a fictionalized, sensory scene. I did this so I could further my understanding of the artwork from all sides of its existence: I knew about the story of Heliogabalus, the story of who owns it now, but I had yet to look into the inner workings of the creator himself. The piece focuses heavily on atmosphere, imagery, and internal reflection. I created this piece for Writing 2000, Theories of Writing, in winter of 2026. This class aimed to introduce theories of writing, and explore complex issues of the state and status of writing/writers.
The second piece is a rework/genre change of the first, titled "When Beauty Suffocates: The Violence Behind The Roses of Heliogabalus". I wanted to emulate the genre of an arts/culture feature article, thus taking a more analytical, yet interesting, perspective. I wrote this for my writing capstone, Writing 3500, Writing Design and Circulation. This class focused on how to write effectively for different audiences, purposes, and genres, as well as how to adapt our writing for online audiences through strategic revision and rhetorical choices.
The Roses of Heliogabalus
A Creative Nonfiction
I sat there in the sun-lit room of my London apartment, the chilly spring breeze wafting in and upsetting the piles of sketches littered throughout the room. It was beginning to warm up during this time of year, but the hint of winter could still be found in the cold nights and damp alleyways of the city. I didn’t mind the cold, as it was a prominent feature of London, but the warmth reminds me of home, the Netherlands. I have been here for nearly two decades now.
My stool is rickety, but my easel is stable. I have been staring at this painting for three months now, each brush stroke meticulously chosen, each color perfectly in harmony. This one was on the larger side, roughly 140 x 220 centimeters. The composition itself was relatively simple; seven figures sit atop a dais, observing seven other figures below. They are important, rich people. They eat from an overflowing platter of fruit, drink wine, and lounge casually on their feather pillows and intricately carved tables and chairs. However, what is not so simple to paint, is the flower petals that bathe the figures. The petals, pink and red and white, flow from one side of the painting to the other, creating a heavenly scene. I have worked tirelessly to recreate the flow of the natural world, encapture it with simple oils.
Suddenly, a knock at the door. Polite, quiet. I already know who it is.
“Yes, Anna?”
Anna pushes the heavy door open, and I take her in. My daughter; she is nearly 21 years old now, long russet hair covering her petit frame, and she has a face that I have spent many years memorizing. Both hers’ and her sisters’. Their mural that I created a few years ago is hanging in the sitting room, just across the hall. How much older she looks now.
“Father, your shipment has come from France. The postman is asking for you to receive it.” She said, eyeing the current work on my easel. She was an artist too, and a very talented one at that. I wonder what she sees in my work. I wonder if she sees the heaviness on the canvas.
“Well, we better go then, shouldn't we?” I get up from my rickety old stool and reach for my daughter’s hand. My bones are not what they once were. I had just celebrated my 52nd birthday this winter.
Smiling, Anna grabs my arm and we head out of the room toward the front door, where a man with a rather large package is waiting for me.
“Sir Alma-Tadema? This just arrived this morning from France. I think they sent you more than last time. Do you want me to bring it up to the studio again, Sir?” The young man asked. I liked him, but didn’t care to ask him his name. I nod and send him up the stairs with the package. I know there are a dozen other packages waiting for me, it might take him an hour to bring them all up.
My daughter turns to me, “Is it what I think it is?”
A smile breaks across my face, “Of course it is. I’m coming close to finishing it. Maybe a month more.”
We head back upstairs, the sweet scent welcoming us back. I open one of the packages, causing the spring scent to multiply. Mountains of roses will soon cover my studio, as they have for the past three months. I will find petals in my bed, in my shoes, under the carpet, on the walls, as I have for the past three months. The scent of roses shoves itself up my nose, and I smell them everywhere, even when I am kilometers away from the studio.
Everytime a shipment comes, it is heaven for the first week or so. This is my daughter’s favorite time. But after some time, the petals begin to rot and decay, the sweetness turning sour. They shift to grey and brown, and stick to the bottom of your feet. Gnats haunt me for weeks and they submerge themselves in the layers of my paint. What once was alive is now dead, irreversable. This part, however, is my favorite.
I have decided to title it “The Roses of Heliogabalus”. At first glance, it is a sublime picture, a perfect painting of rich euphoria. But there is a secret to this, as there always is. I remember reading about the story of Heliogabalus, also known as Elagabalus, when I was a boy; he was a rich, young emperor of Ancient Rome. He was known for his extravagant parties and expensive tastes, even more so than his predecessors. He was also cruel, inexperienced, greedy, and incapable. That is what this painting is truly about.
I sit back down at my easel and begin to paint. I pick up tans and browns and greys to begin working on the false fabric ceiling featured in the top left of the painting. I must make sure the flow of the fabric is perfectly in line with the stream of flower petals falling onto the guests. As one might drown in the water of a river, those below the dais will drown in a sea of flower petals. Their movements might first be interpreted as errotic pleasure, but after further investigation from the viewer, one will see that they are suffering, suffocating under the weight of something so light. Dying.
I glance at the packages still being brought into my studio, the roses fresh with life. I imagine them to be wilted in a few weeks time. How strange it is to know that these people, of whom I am painting and of whom were very real, had their lives taken from them in such a beautifully haunting way. Much like the rose petals themselves, they were once filled with light and color, only for their bodies to be discarded after they begin to rot.
Strange it is. But I will continue to paint, and continue to wait for the next shipment of lovely rose petals. And life will go on.
When Beauty Suffocates: The Violence Behind The Roses of Heliogabalus
A Genre Analysis
I have always admired The Roses of Heliogabalus. It is a beautiful painting, and one that reveals more the longer you look at it. Every detail feels meticulously placed: a cloud of pink, red, and white rose petals falls across the canvas, covering the scene in softness and color. Wealthy figures recline on pillows, fruit spills across the table, and the marble setting glows with the polished beauty of the ancient world. At first glance, the painting seems romantic, luxurious, even dreamlike.
But the figures beneath the roses are not simply enjoying themselves. They are being buried. The petals, which first appear delicate and harmless, become suffocating. Beauty becomes violence. Pleasure becomes death.
Painted in 1888 by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, The Roses of Heliogabalus is one of those artworks that unsettles the viewer because it hides horror beneath elegance. Alma-Tadema, a Dutch-born painter who spent much of his career in England, was known for his highly detailed scenes of ancient Rome. His paintings often feature marble surfaces, classical architecture, rich fabrics, and carefully arranged figures. They are beautiful in a controlled, almost theatrical way. If life is a stage, then Alma-Tadema is the director, the creator, the curator.
In The Roses of Heliogabalus, that kind of beauty is exactly what makes the painting so off-putting.
The painting is based on a story about the Roman emperor Heliogabalus, also known as Elagabalus. He became emperor as a teenager and was remembered by later Roman historians as excessive, scandalous, and cruel. One of the most infamous stories about him claims that he once hosted a banquet where guests were showered with so many flower petals that they suffocated beneath them. Whether this event actually happened is uncertain, but the story itself clearly fascinated later audiences because of its bizarre combination of luxury and brutality. Through this scene, Alma-Tadema turns a strange historical legend into an image that is both gorgeous and horrifying.
The composition is clearly divided between those in power and those beneath them. In the upper portion of the painting, Heliogabalus and his companions sit comfortably on a raised platform. They are surrounded by food, music, and wealth. Their expressions are relaxed, bored, and amused as they watch the scene unfold below them. A heavier-set man to the right of the painting appears to laugh, his face reddened with delight. They are not threatened by the roses. They are entertained by the tragedy.
Below the dais, the other guests are trapped beneath the weight of the falling petals. At first glance, their bodies look graceful, even sensual, but with more attention, they begin to look desperate. The woman at the bottom right of the painting looks outward toward us, the audience, as if asking to be saved. The softness of the petals becomes claustrophobic. What should be light becomes heavy. What should be beautiful becomes deadly.
This is the central tension of the painting: the roses are both decoration and weapon.
The work is so compelling because it does not show violence in an obvious way. There is no blood, no weapon, no battlefield. Instead, violence is hidden inside excess. The guests are not stabbed or beaten; they are smothered by abundance. Their deaths come through luxury itself. This makes the painting especially unsettling because it suggests that beauty is not always innocent. We become voyeurs of extremism. As our eyes move down the canvas, we watch as delight shifts into pain, unable to look away.
The roses also create a strange relationship between life and decay. Fresh roses are full of color and scent, but they do not stay that way for long. Eventually, they wilt, rot, and fall apart. That temporary beauty mirrors the bodies beneath them. Both the flowers and the people are treated as disposable.
Part of what makes Alma-Tadema’s painting so memorable is that it does not immediately tell the viewer how to feel. From a distance, the painting may look like a celebration. Up close, it becomes a nightmare. This slow shift in perception is what gives the work its lasting power.
The most disturbing part of The Roses of Heliogabalus may not be the death beneath the roses. It may be the fact that the scene is so beautiful that we almost miss it.