The History of Tulips in Art
The tulip has never meant just one thing.
At first glance, it is simply a striking flower — upright, vivid, unmistakable. Yet in art, its meaning has shifted over time and across places. As it moved through courts, gardens, and studios, artists reframed it again and again.
In different contexts, the tulip becomes ornament, specimen, possession, or atmosphere.
The works below trace those transformations.
Iznik Blue-Ground Dish with Floral Design [detail], c. 1560, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. The structure of the Ottoman tulip as a decorative motif followed consistent conventions. It was typically rendered with three curving petals, forming a waisted bloom that gently flares at the top.
THE TULIP IN THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE
In the sixteenth century, under the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent, the tulip became one of the defining motifs of Ottoman imperial culture. It appeared across all media — in mosque tilework, court manuscripts, silk textiles, and architectural ornament. Repeated across sacred and secular spaces, the flower became part of the empire’s visual identity.
Portrait of Suleiman, c. 1530, Titian, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria
Within this imperial context, the tulip came to suggest cultivated beauty, abundance, and the ordered perfection of creation. Its presence across imperial buildings and luxury objects reinforced a vision of harmony aligned with divine order and sovereign authority. This was not incidental decoration; it was aesthetic policy.
Ottoman court art operated through highly controlled workshop systems. Motifs were selected, refined, and standardized. The tulip’s upright, disciplined form aligned naturally with architectural rhythm and calligraphic line. Its silhouette was instantly recognizable. Through repetition across buildings and objects, the flower became a visual marker of imperial authority.
Ottoman silk and velvet textiles often feature large-scale designs displayed within the ogival framework. This example features an elongated tulip flanked by two wavy lines, divided by saz-style serrated leaves, and centered by tiny blossoms. Delicate carnations and tulips wind their way along vines inside the ogival lattice. Though slightly worn, the gold surface features metal-wrapped thread emphasized by the bright red background, a color combination popular at the Ottoman court. Based on the shape of this 16th-century fragment, housed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, the lampas-woven silk (known as kemha in Turkish) was probably once part of a garment.
The refinement of this floral language is closely associated with the artist Kara Memi, whose work helped establish what scholars call the Floral Style. Under his influence, flowers became more recognizably botanical while remaining stylized and controlled. The tulip was no longer an abstract vegetal form; it was a specific flower, distilled into its essential structure.
That structure followed consistent rules. Ottoman tulips were almost always composed of three curving petals, forming a waisted bloom that flares gently at the top. The motif could be executed with three confident brush strokes, allowing repetition without loss of clarity. Whether woven into silk or painted onto ceramic, the form remained stable.
ABOVE: Ottoman Iznik bottles, 1575-1580 (made), © Victoria and Albert Museum, London; BELOW LEFT: Iznik Dish Depicting Two Birds among Flowering Plants, c. 1575–90, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York; BELOW RIGHT: Iznik Tankard, c. 1580-1600, © Victoria and Albert Museum, London
Material choices reinforced this clarity. Cobalt blue — one of the earliest and most stable pigments in the Iznik ceramic palette — was widely used for floral motifs because it withstood high-temperature firing. As the palette expanded to include turquoise, emerald green, and the distinctive raised red, tulips appeared in bold combinations, often sharply outlined against a luminous white ground.
Tulips appear most powerfully in the great tile programs produced in Iznik workshops during the sixteenth century. These underglaze-painted ceramics — fired at high temperatures and set against a luminous white ground — transformed mosque interiors into fields of ordered color. In monuments such as the Süleymaniye Mosque and the Rüstem Pasha Mosque, tulips rise rhythmically across walls, framing windows, mihrabs, and domed spaces. Repeated in cobalt blue, turquoise, emerald green, and raised red, the flower becomes architectural.
Interior of Rustem Pasha Mosque (Rustem Pasa Camii) in Istanbul, Turkey with its famous Iznik blue-tiled walls.
Tiled wall with tulip border at Rustem Pasha Mosque (Rustem Pasa Camii), Istanbul Turkey. Image Source: Shutterstock
THE TULIP AS BOTANICAL MARVEL
By the mid-sixteenth century, tulips were growing in European gardens. Their unfamiliar form — bold color, smooth petals, upright stance — distinguished them from the meadow and woodland flowers Europeans were accustomed to seeing. The tulip did not resemble a daisy, a violet, or a wild rose. It looked deliberate.
In 1561, the renowned Swiss naturalist Conrad Gesner published the earliest printed images of a tulip in Europe. His woodcut isolates the flower against a blank ground. The stem is straight, the bloom clearly outlined, the leaves carefully rendered. There is no decorative setting, no architectural rhythm, no ornamental repetition. The purpose is accuracy.
The tulip appears here not as a motif, but as a specimen.
Conrad Gesner's red tulip formed part of a monumental botanical encyclopedia compiled between 1555 and 1565. To complete it, Gesner assembled nearly 1,500 plant drawings — most of them his own — remarkable for their scientific precision and detailed annotations on structure and habitat. He died of the plague before seeing it published. Of the nearly 1,500 illustrations, only two depicted tulips, a reflection of how rare and newly arrived the flower still was in Europe at the time.
Around the same time, the Flemish botanist Carolus Clusius was compiling plant studies and cultivating tulips at the University of Leiden's botanical garden. His publications and gardens helped establish the flower within the emerging discipline of natural history. Plants were measured, compared, named, and systematized. Illustration functioned as evidence.
This was the age of the herbal and the cabinet of curiosity. Scholars sought to document the expanding natural world — newly encountered plants, shells, minerals, and artifacts arriving through diplomatic exchange and global trade. The tulip entered European visual culture within that framework: as an object of study, worthy of record because it was rare and unfamiliar.
Tulipa praecox ruba from Carolus Clusius's Rariorum plantarum historia, 1601, © Royal Collection Enterprises Limited 2024 | Royal Collection Trust
By the late sixteenth century, a new type of publication emerged: the florilegium. Unlike practical herbals and botanical monographs, which emphasized medicinal properties and classification, florilegia celebrated ornamental flowers. They presented blooms as individual portraits, often arranged on clean pages, labeled, and admired.
In works by artists such as Crispin van de Passe the Elder and Emmanuel Sweert, tulips appear carefully delineated, sometimes with named varieties. The emphasis shifts subtly from taxonomy to cultivation. These were not wild plants; they were garden achievements.
ABOVE: Emanuel Sweert, Florilegium, 1612, hand colored plates, private collection; BELOW LEFT: Hortus floridus (Garden of Flowers), Plate 28, 1614, Crispijn van de Passe, Getty Research Institute; BELOW RIGHT: Tulips, from Florilegium novum (New Book of Flowers), c. 1612, Johann Theodor de Bry, Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven, Connecticut
“Tulip books” followed — collections of watercolor studies recording prized varieties owned by collectors and growers. Each bloom was documented not only for its structure but for its distinct coloring. The flower was still a specimen, but now it was also an object of aesthetic pride.
The tulip had moved from curiosity to cultivated rarity.
Sheet from a Tulip Book, c. 1640, Jacob Marrel, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam. Flowers were costly, and tulips the costliest of all. Tulip bulbs were avidly collected in the 17th century and large sums changed hands for unusual specimens. The tulip book’s exact function is not known. It could have been a catalogue from which an interested buyer made his selection, or a drawn inventory of a collection of tulips.
THE TULIP AS POSSESSION: DUTCH STILL LIFE
In the early seventeenth century, the Dutch Republic developed a vigorous culture of collecting. Prosperous merchants and professionals filled their homes with paintings, shells, curiosities, maps, and cultivated plants. Gardens became sites of experimentation and prestige. Tulips — especially rare striped varieties — were named, exchanged, and carefully bred. The distinction lay in subtle differences of color and form. Ownership mattered.
Within this environment, floral still life emerged as a way of displaying a collection. A painted bouquet could gather together the most admired flowers — rare tulips, roses, irises, exotic blooms — and arrange them in a single, controlled composition. Unlike a garden, where flowers bloom and fade with the seasons, these painted arrangements defy time. Tulips that flower in spring appear beside blooms from summer and autumn, creating a perpetual display that could never exist naturally. The painting allowed a collector to possess not only the flower, but its image — assembled, ordered, and preserved on canvas.
Ambrosius Bosschaert the Elder was a pioneer of this genre. He helped establish the structural clarity that defined early Dutch flower painting and trained the next generation of floral specialists. His bouquets are tightly composed against dark backgrounds, each bloom rendered with precision and separated for study.
A Still Life of Flowers in a Wan-Li Vase, 1609-10, Ambrosius Bosschaert the Elder, The National Gallery, London
Tulips were central to these arrangements. A successful bouquet typically includes at least three tulips, and one often rises high in the composition, frequently positioned toward the upper right. In many paintings, that tulip stands far taller than a stem could realistically support, stretching above the surrounding flowers to command attention. The exaggeration is deliberate. A striped or “broken” tulip would be placed where it could not be missed. Its inclusion signaled rarity and cultivated distinction.
Yet these paintings rarely present beauty without tension. Floral still lifes often participate in the broader Dutch tradition of memento mori — reminders of mortality embedded within scenes of abundance. A fallen petal, a browning leaf, a small insect chewing at the edge of a bloom interrupts the display. Even the tulip, so carefully elevated and prized, is a cut flower. Its dramatic height and vivid coloring only emphasize its fragility. The bouquet celebrates cultivated achievement, but it also acknowledges that beauty fades and possession is temporary.
ABOVE: Still Life with Flowers and Fruit [detail], c. 1715, Jan van Huysum, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.; BELOW LEFT: Flower Still Life [detail], 1669, Maria van Oosterwijck, Cincinnati Art Museum; BELOW RIGHT: A Vase with Flowers [detail], Jacob Vosmaer, probably 1613, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
In the work of Jan Brueghel the Elder, this tension becomes more elaborate. If anyone could overstuff a vase with the impossible, it was Brueghel. His bouquets gather flowers from different seasons, climates, and stages of bloom into a single, meticulously balanced composition. Tulips rise among lilies, roses, and exotic blossoms, each rendered with jewel-like precision. The abundance is dazzling — and deliberately artificial.
That artifice heightens the meaning already embedded in the genre. Brueghel does not simply include symbolic elements; he multiplies them. Insects crawl across petals. A blossom droops at the edge of perfection. The contrast between vitality and decay grows sharper precisely because the arrangement is so extravagant. The tulip, lifted high and painted with clarity, remains a cut bloom — its rarity amplified, its fragility unavoidable. The more spectacular the display, the more pointed the reminder.
Flowers in a Wooden Vessel, 1606-1607, Jan Brueghel the Elder, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna
Foral still life was one of the few professional arenas in which women could achieve sustained artistic success. Prestigious history painting required formal academic training, participation in guild systems, and study of the nude figure — access to which was largely closed to women by social and institutional constraints. Portraiture depended on elite patronage networks that were difficult to penetrate independently. Still life, by contrast, could be practiced within domestic or semi-domestic spaces and did not require anatomical study of the male body. Within these limitations, women transformed the genre into a site of technical mastery and intellectual depth.
Several female painters achieved international acclaim and commanded prices that rivaled, and sometimes exceeded, those of prominent male contemporaries. Among the most celebrated was Maria van Oosterwijck (1630–1693). Working in Amsterdam, she built an independent career despite being excluded from formal guild membership because of her gender. Born into a prosperous family of ministers, she remained unmarried and devoted herself entirely to her studio practice. Her clientele included European royalty: King Louis XIV of France, Emperor Leopold I of Austria, and William III of England, all of whom acquired her work.
Van Oosterwijck’s paintings are meticulously constructed and densely symbolic. She favored dramatic contrasts between dark backgrounds and brightly illuminated blooms. Tulips rise alongside roses, peonies, and rare exotics, but their brilliance is tempered by vanitas imagery. Butterflies hover. Insects crawl. Wilting leaves curl at the edge of the arrangement. Skulls and hourglasses appear among marble ledges rendered in trompe l’oeil, some inscribed with signatures that seem carved into stone. Illusion and mortality coexist. The tulip, luminous and carefully positioned, becomes part of a carefully staged meditation on time and inevitability.
Bouquet of Flowers in a Vase, c. 1670s, Maria van Oosterwyck, Denver Art Museum
A generation later, Rachel Ruysch came to represent a broader stylistic shift in late seventeenth-century floral painting. Across the period, bouquets loosened and grew less rigidly symmetrical. Instead of upright, carefully centered arrangements, artists began to favor asymmetry, diagonal movement, and overlapping stems. Light deepened against velvety backgrounds, and compositions became more dynamic. Ruysch’s work exemplifies this evolution.
The daughter of an Amsterdam anatomist and botanist, she grew up surrounded by scientific collections and trained in careful observation. In her paintings, stems cross and bend; petals tilt toward and away from the viewer; blossoms seem to breathe within space. Signs of fragility remain, but they are absorbed into heightened naturalism rather than staged as explicit emblems. Tulips continue to appear, though they no longer function as singular trophies of rarity. They are integrated into a mature, fluid pictorial language shaped by movement and sustained observation.
Still Life with Flowers in a Glass Vase, c. 1690 - c. 1720, Rachel Ruysch, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
LEFT: Portrait of Maria van Oosterwijck, 1671, Wallerant Vaillant, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam; RIGHT: Rachel Ruysch (1664–1750), 1692, Rachel Ruysch and Michiel van Musscher, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
TULIPS & BOTANICAL ILLUSTRATION DURING THE ENLIGHTENMENT
By the eighteenth century, the tulip had become established in European horticulture. It was no longer a destabilizing rarity or a speculative obsession. Instead, it became part of a broader intellectual movement: the Age of Reason. This was a period defined by classification, scientific inquiry, and global botanical discovery.
Botanical exploration expanded through imperial networks. Figures such as Joseph Banks, who traveled with Captain Cook and later led the Royal Society, helped institutionalize plant collection and documentation. Gardens became sites of experimentation. Species were catalogued, compared, and systematized. The cultivated flower was no longer simply admired — it was studied.
LEFT: Joséphine in coronation costume, 1807-1808, Baron François Gérard, Musée national du Château de Fontainebleau; RIGHT: Portrait of Pierre-Joseph Redouté, c. 1800, Louis-Léopold Boilly, Palais des Beaux-Arts de Lille
Within this climate, botanical illustration reached new levels of refinement. Pierre-Joseph Redouté — who served as drawing master to Marie Antoinette and later worked under the patronage of Empress Joséphine — produced some of the most celebrated plant studies of the period. His lavish publication Les Liliacées (1802–1816) presented lilies, irises, and tulips with extraordinary precision and delicacy. Many of the specimens were drawn from Joséphine’s garden at the Château de Malmaison, which had become one of Europe’s most ambitious botanical collections, assembling rare species from across the globe.
In Les Liliacées, tulips stand isolated against pale ground, detached from decorative excess. Each stem is carefully observed; each petal is softly modeled with subtle gradations of tone. Unlike the dense Dutch bouquet, the Enlightenment tulip is singular and composed. The emphasis is clarity rather than abundance, classification rather than display.
The flower remains beautiful, but its meaning has quieted. It reflects an age that sought order in nature — not through moral allegory or market speculation, but through disciplined observation and careful naming.
CLOCKWISE: Tulipa cornuta, Tulipa clusiana, Tulipa suaveolens, Tulipa Gesneriana var. Dracontia, Pierre Joseph Redouté, from Les liliacées, 1805 - 1816, Rare Book Division, The New York Public Library
Within this Enlightenment culture of botanical inquiry, women played a significant institutional role. Before Redouté rose to prominence, Madeleine Françoise Basseporte served as official painter to the Jardin du Roi in Paris under Louis XV, succeeding earlier court artists in documenting plants for the royal collection known as the Les Vélins du Roi. These works, painted on vellum, were not decorative albums but scientific records. They preserved newly cultivated and imported species in precise detail, supporting botanical classification and study. Accuracy was paramount. Form, veining, and structure were rendered clearly so that the image could function alongside written description.
LEFT: Portrait of a Young Woman (likely self-portrait), 1727, Madeleine Françoise Basseporte, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam; RIGHT: Bizarre Tulips (Tulipa), c. 1750, Madeleine Françoise Basseporte and her circle, watercolor on vellum, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York
In England, Mary Delany entered botanical art later in life, beginning her celebrated paper “mosaicks” in her seventies. Working from living specimens, she cut and layered hundreds of tiny pieces of colored paper to reconstruct each flower against a dark ground. The effect is strikingly exact. Though she operated outside formal scientific institutions, her work aligned closely with Enlightenment botanical values: observation, taxonomy, and fidelity to structure. The tulip, when it appears in her series, is treated neither as ornament nor symbol, but as a distinct species to be carefully rendered and understood.
LEFT: Tulipa Sylvestris, from an album (Vol.IX, 65); tulip. 1782 (?), Mary Delaney, © The Trustees of the British Museum; RIGHT: Mary Delany, née Granville, Unknown date, but author died in 1807, John Opie, National Portrait Gallery, London
TULIPS & IMPRESSIONISM: CLAUDE MONET IN HOLLAND
By the late nineteenth century, Europe had changed. Railways compressed distance. Cities expanded. Leisure travel increased. Artists could move quickly between urban centers and the countryside. Industrial advances introduced brighter synthetic pigments and portable paint in metal tubes, making it practical to work outdoors for extended periods. Painting was no longer confined to the studio.
Impressionism emerges within this environment. Its artists were less interested in constructing timeless compositions than in responding to what they saw before them — immediately, directly, without smoothing or idealizing the scene. Brushstrokes remain visible. Colors are placed side by side rather than blended. The surface records the act of looking.
Tulip Fields near The Hague, 1886, Claude Monet, The Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam. After returning to Paris, Monet sold Tulip Fields near The Hague through the firm Boussod, Valadon & Cie, where Theo van Gogh was employed. It is possible that Vincent van Gogh saw the painting there. Theo had already written to his brother praising Monet’s bold use of color and his rapid, visible brushstrokes.
In the spring of 1886, Claude Monet spent ten days in the Netherlands. He had visited before, but this was the first time he turned his attention to the bulb fields in bloom. What he encountered was not only color, but structure — a landscape defined by radical flatness and by cultivation on a grand scale.
His painting, Tulip Fields near The Hague (1886), is built on that flatness.
The composition divides almost evenly between land and sky, reinforcing the Dutch countryside's horizontal sweep. Across the foreground, the tulip fields form wide, parallel bands of red, violet, and green. The horizon line runs low and steady, interrupted only by a windmill that provides scale and orientation. Without it, the landscape would feel boundless.
Monet was captivated by the intensity of the colors. He wrote that the sight was “impossible to convey with our poor colours.” Rather than attempting a detailed botanical description, he translated the fields into broad strokes and shifting patches of pigment. Individual flowers disappear at this distance. Their presence is conveyed solely through color.
This approach is central to Impressionism. The goal is not botanical accuracy or symbolic layering, but visual immediacy. Red presses against green. Violet breaks against yellow. The effect is not chaos, but optical vibration. The surface feels active and unsettled.
Unlike the tulips that appeared in seventeenth-century Dutch still life — isolated, prized, rendered with meticulous care — these are seen en masse. By the late nineteenth century, bulb cultivation had become an organized agricultural enterprise, its geometry visible from a distance. Monet paints not a single bloom, but a system: land divided, planted, harvested. The tulip is no longer an object of possession. It is a pattern across the terrain.
The windmill quietly anchors the scene in place and tradition. It breaks the horizon, stabilizing the composition, and reminds the viewer that this engineered landscape is deeply tied to Dutch history — wind, water management, and reclaimed land.
Flower Beds in Holland, 1883, Vincent Van Gogh, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.
Monet was not alone in finding cultivated flower fields compelling. Vincent van Gogh, working only a few years earlier in the Netherlands, painted blooming hyacinth fields in works such as Flowering Bulb Fields (1883). Though the subject is hyacinths rather than tulips, the visual approach is similar. Individual flowers dissolve into bands of color that stretch across the land. The field becomes pattern. Repetition replaces detail.
In both artists’ hands, the bulb field becomes less a botanical study and more an exploration of surface, rhythm, and cultivated geometry. The specific flower matters less than the experience of color laid across space.
TULIPS IN DESIGN: ARTS & CRAFTS, ART NOUVEAU & MODERN ORNAMENT
Even as Impressionist painters dissolved the tulip into fields of color, designers in the late nineteenth century turned back toward ornament. The Arts & Crafts movement, led by figures such as William Morris, sought to resist the anonymity of industrial mass production by reviving handcrafted design rooted in historical pattern traditions. Morris and his contemporaries drew inspiration not only from medieval Europe but also from Islamic and Ottoman decorative arts, whose rhythmic repetition and stylized vegetal forms had long integrated the tulip into architectural and textile design.
In Arts & Crafts textiles and wallpapers, the tulip reappears as a flattened motif. It is no longer a scientific specimen or a landscape subject. It becomes repeatable, rhythmic, woven into dense botanical scrolls. The flower returns to pattern, though now framed as a moral response to industrialization rather than an emblem of empire.
Garden Tulip Wallpaper, 1885 (made), William Morris (designer), © Victoria and Albert Museum, London
At the turn of the twentieth century, Art Nouveau further stylized the flower. Designers embraced elongated stems, sinuous curves, and organic line. In glass and decorative arts — particularly in the lamps and stained-glass designs of Louis Comfort Tiffany — tulip-like forms appear in glowing, layered color. Petals become sculptural arcs of glass; stems bend into elegant silhouettes. Nature is not copied but transformed into a flowing ornament.
By the time Art Deco emerged in the 1920s, floral forms grew more abstract and geometric. The tulip is pared down even further. Its petals sharpen into geometric arcs; its silhouette becomes symmetrical and architectural. In the glasswork of René Lalique or the marquetry of Émile-Jacques Ruhlmann, the flower is no longer observed in nature. It is engineered into ornament.
Tulip Table Lamp, c. 1900–1906, Tiffany Glass & Decorating Company, The Cleveland Art Museum
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Across centuries, the tulip has moved through radically different visual systems. In the Ottoman Empire, it functioned as a disciplined imperial motif. In early European prints, it appeared as a specimen to be recorded. In Dutch still life, it rose from the vase as a marker of rarity, often prized for dramatic “broken” patterns caused by a virus that made the flower both unstable and desirable. Under the Enlightenment, it stood isolated and named. By the time Monet encountered it, industrial agriculture had transformed tulips into vast cultivated fields, standardized and multiplied across reclaimed land. Designers of the Arts & Crafts movement and Art Nouveau would later reclaim the flower once more, flattening and stylizing it into pattern as a response to industrial modernity.
The tulip did not remain fixed. It was bred, infected, stabilized, and industrially reproduced. Yet at every stage, artists framed it according to the intellectual and cultural priorities of their moment. Its history in art reveals not only changing ideas about beauty, but evolving systems of power, knowledge, ownership, and perception. The tulip is never just a flower; it is a record of how societies choose to see.
RECOMMENDED READING
ISLAMIC WORLD
The Ottomans: A Cultural Legacy by Diana Darke
Iznik: The Artistry of Ottoman Ceramics by Walter B. Denny
BOTANICAL ILLUSTRATION
Basilius Besler. Florilegium. The Book of Plants (TASCHEN)
Basilius Besler. The Garden at Eichstätt (TASCHEN)
Flora Illustrata: Great Works from the LuEsther T. Mertz Library of The New York Botanical Garden, edited by Susan M. Fraser and Vanessa Bezemer Sellers
A Garden Eden. Masterpieces of Botanical Illustration (TASCHEN) by Walter Lack
A Natural History of English Gardening: 1650–1800 by Mark Laird
Mrs. Delany: A Life by Clarissa Campbell Orr
Redouté, The Book of Flowers (TASCHEN)
Redouté. Roses (TASCHEN)
FLORAL STILL LIFE
Forever Flowers: Mastery and Meaning of Flower Paintings in the Low Countries (1600-1700) by Sven Van Dorst
Jan Davidsz. de Heem by Fred G. Meijer
Rachel Ruysch: Nature Into Art
IMPRESSIONISM
Monet. the Triumph of Impressionism by Daniel Wildenstein
ARTS & CRAFTS
Tulips and Peacocks: William Morris and Art from the Islamic World by Rowan Bain
V&A Pattern: William Morris by Linda Parry
William Morris's Flowers (V&A Museum) by Rowan Bain
William Morris: Pattern & Design (V&A Museum) by Jenny Lister
