Royal Elegance, Hidden Exploitation

A couple of years ago, Gary introduced me to an artisan based in Amsterdam named Natasja. This was right before we traveled to Europe to celebrate a dear friend’s birthday. Natasja is a cake artist and sugar flower maker—but when I say that, don’t take it lightly. Her creations are exquisite. Her flowers look so real you’d expect them to wilt.

Curious and inspired, I started following her too. Not long after, I discovered she had a book coming out, filled with photographs of her incredible work. It looked beautiful. I thought it would make a fantastic, unique gift for a few friends, so I decided to see if I could get her to sign some copies. I wasn’t expecting much—she didn’t know me, after all—but to my surprise, she said yes. Then she went a step further and invited us to visit her studio while we were in Amsterdam.

When the day came, we found ourselves climbing the narrow, winding staircase of a classic Amsterdam home. The houses there are tall and thin, with staircases that feel more like ladders than stairs. At the top, Natasja greeted us warmly and welcomed us into her charming kitchen studio. One wall was covered in china cabinets filled with Delftware—blue-and-white pottery that was as beautiful as it was historically significant.

It was extraordinary. The space, the art, and Natasja herself radiated warmth and creativity. As we talked, I realized how much we had in common. If we lived in the same city, I could see us becoming close friends. This week, she posted a picture of her sugar flowers displayed in two massive tulip vases that were originally commissioned by William and Mary. The vases, standing five or six feet tall, were stunning. They are currently on display at the Kunst Museum in the Netherlands. Her post sparked my curiosity about the royal couple and sent me down a rabbit hole of research.

The Legacy of William and Mary

Mary II, who died tragically at the young age of 32, was a remarkable monarch. She co-ruled with her husband, William III, during a transformative period in British history, stabilizing the monarchy after the Glorious Revolution. Mary was deeply devoted to the Protestant faith and prioritized religious reform and the well-being of her people. Known for her grace, humility, and compassion, she frequently engaged in charitable works and was beloved by her people.

Together, William and Mary shared a passion for art, culture, and gardens. Their love for Delftware—a hallmark of the Dutch Golden Age inspired by Chinese porcelain—was just one expression of their refined taste. They incorporated these blue-and-white treasures into their homes, seamlessly blending Dutch and English influences. Their garden designs were equally visionary. At Hampton Court Palace, they transformed the grounds into a masterpiece of symmetry and structure, inspired by Dutch horticultural traditions. These gardens weren’t just decorative—they were deeply symbolic, representing renewal, harmony, and balance.

But here’s the part of their legacy that often goes unspoken.

The Dark Side of Elegance

The opulence William and Mary enjoyed didn’t come without cost. Much of the wealth that funded their art collections and gardens was rooted in colonial exploitation. Their reign coincided with the height of the transatlantic slave trade, a brutal system that enriched European elites at the expense of unimaginable human suffering.

The Royal African Company, operating under royal patronage, transported thousands of enslaved Africans to sugar plantations in the Caribbean and Americas. The profits from sugar, tobacco, and cotton fueled the very luxuries William and Mary admired—their gardens, their Delftware, their vision of elegance. Even their beloved gardens were steeped in colonialism. Many of the exotic plants they imported were plundered from colonized lands. The beauty of their legacy is inseparable from its darker truths.

Coming Full Circle

And yet, here’s Natasja—a woman of color, descended from sugar field workers in a country that was once a colony—using her extraordinary talent to craft sugar flowers now displayed on pieces of Delftware in a Dutch museum. She reflects on the irony: these pieces, shaped by her ancestors’ suffering, might never have existed without their exploitation. It’s a paradox that is as poignant as it is uncomfortable.

This brings up a larger question: How do we reconcile the beauty of art and culture with the painful histories that often underlie them? Do we close ourselves off from the world, shielding ourselves from the complexities of the past? Do we erase figures like William and Mary from history, canceling them outright? Or is there another way?

A Lesson in Listening

History is complicated. Legacy wealth often comes with unseen costs, and stories like William and Mary’s remind us that beauty and exploitation can coexist in ways we don’t always recognize. It’s easy to romanticize the past, to focus on the Delftware and gardens and ignore the colonial systems that made them possible. But ignoring history doesn’t make it go away.

The real opportunity here is to have the conversation. To listen. To acknowledge history without dismissing it. It’s not about canceling culture; it’s about understanding context. It’s about recognizing that even the most celebrated legacies are often built on contradictions.

What I find inspiring about Natasja’s story is how she takes this complex history and makes something new from it. Her sugar flowers are an act of creation, a way of taking the past and reshaping it into something beautiful and meaningful. In a way, she’s reclaiming that legacy, adding her voice to the narrative.

Moving Forward

So where do we go from here? How do we engage with legacies like William and Mary’s in a way that’s both honest and hopeful? There’s no simple answer, but I believe it starts with asking questions. Who gets to tell the story? Whose voices have been missing from the narrative? And how can we ensure that the legacies we create today reflect not just beauty, but equity and justice?

The next time I look at a piece of Delftware or walk through a beautifully manicured garden, I’ll think of Natasja. I’ll think of her sugar flowers, her artistry, and her ability to create something extraordinary from a legacy that is both beautiful and flawed. And I’ll remember that our stories—like history itself—are never as simple as they seem.

What are your thoughts?