Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 11 June 2025, 21:49
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
From the ash-covered ruins of Pompeii, from a wall painted nearly two thousand years ago, the faces of a man and a woman meet ours with startling directness. The fresco is modest in size, unpretentious in its technique, and yet it holds a rare power—an invitation to peer not only into history, but into the private minds of two long-dead souls.
The man, believed to be Terentius Neo, was a baker. His face is broad, his beard carefully trimmed, his expression solemn but not cold. He wears a white toga, a scroll clasped in one hand—a symbol perhaps of civic duty or aspiration. Beside him, his wife holds a stylus to her lips and a wax tablet in her other hand. Her gaze is composed, intelligent, unwavering. Together, they project something we seldom associate with ancient portraits: presence.
What were they thinking?
It’s easy to see their faces as just another artifact—catalogued, explained, admired in passing. But if we slow down and really look, we might begin to wonder: were they anxious? Hopeful? Tired from running a household or keeping a business alive in a Roman world that rewarded status and punished missteps? Were they thinking of the artist at work, or of the guests who might see the finished image? Were they proud? In love? Bored?
Her eyes—especially hers—seem to hold questions.
There is an intensity to her that cannot be ignored. She is not an ornament to her husband’s success. Her expression suggests literacy, yes—but also self-possession. The stylus is poised at her lips, as if she were about to speak, or perhaps hesitating to. Does she wonder if the world beyond their walls will ever see her for who she is? Does she know how rare it is to be captured as an equal?
His face is more guarded. Perhaps he is aware of the expectations on a man in his position—a baker, a provider, maybe even a local official. His gaze is firm but not boastful. There is no arrogance in him. Perhaps a hint of fatigue. Of responsibility. He seems to be saying: this is who I am, and I stand by it.
Together, they share a certain stillness. A dignity that outlives them.
What they thought as they posed may never be known, but what we project into their faces tells us something about ourselves. We look at them and imagine a marriage, a shared table, disputes about bills or family, hopes for their children. We imagine them moving through life with the same blend of wonder and weight that we do. And in doing so, they cease to be “figures from the past.” They become fellow travellers.
Perhaps that is the deeper lesson of the fresco. Not just that time is fragile or that death is certain—we know that—but that even in an age of emperors, it is the faces of ordinary people that endure. Not mythic heroes, not sculpted gods, but a baker and a woman whose name we don’t know.
And isn’t that what it means to be human? To be seen. To wonder if anyone will remember us. To live lives that seem small until someone looks closely, deeply, and says: these people mattered.
Terentius and his wife may not have known what Vesuvius would bring. But they gave us a gift. Not in their wealth or status, but in their gaze—a mirror through which we can glimpse the quiet nobility of simply being alive.
These People Mattered.
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
From the ash-covered ruins of Pompeii, from a wall painted nearly two thousand years ago, the faces of a man and a woman meet ours with startling directness. The fresco is modest in size, unpretentious in its technique, and yet it holds a rare power—an invitation to peer not only into history, but into the private minds of two long-dead souls.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_of_Terentius_Neo#/media/File:Pompeii-couple.jpg
The man, believed to be Terentius Neo, was a baker. His face is broad, his beard carefully trimmed, his expression solemn but not cold. He wears a white toga, a scroll clasped in one hand—a symbol perhaps of civic duty or aspiration. Beside him, his wife holds a stylus to her lips and a wax tablet in her other hand. Her gaze is composed, intelligent, unwavering. Together, they project something we seldom associate with ancient portraits: presence.
What were they thinking?
It’s easy to see their faces as just another artifact—catalogued, explained, admired in passing. But if we slow down and really look, we might begin to wonder: were they anxious? Hopeful? Tired from running a household or keeping a business alive in a Roman world that rewarded status and punished missteps? Were they thinking of the artist at work, or of the guests who might see the finished image? Were they proud? In love? Bored?
Her eyes—especially hers—seem to hold questions.
There is an intensity to her that cannot be ignored. She is not an ornament to her husband’s success. Her expression suggests literacy, yes—but also self-possession. The stylus is poised at her lips, as if she were about to speak, or perhaps hesitating to. Does she wonder if the world beyond their walls will ever see her for who she is? Does she know how rare it is to be captured as an equal?
His face is more guarded. Perhaps he is aware of the expectations on a man in his position—a baker, a provider, maybe even a local official. His gaze is firm but not boastful. There is no arrogance in him. Perhaps a hint of fatigue. Of responsibility. He seems to be saying: this is who I am, and I stand by it.
Together, they share a certain stillness. A dignity that outlives them.
What they thought as they posed may never be known, but what we project into their faces tells us something about ourselves. We look at them and imagine a marriage, a shared table, disputes about bills or family, hopes for their children. We imagine them moving through life with the same blend of wonder and weight that we do. And in doing so, they cease to be “figures from the past.” They become fellow travellers.
Perhaps that is the deeper lesson of the fresco. Not just that time is fragile or that death is certain—we know that—but that even in an age of emperors, it is the faces of ordinary people that endure. Not mythic heroes, not sculpted gods, but a baker and a woman whose name we don’t know.
And isn’t that what it means to be human? To be seen. To wonder if anyone will remember us. To live lives that seem small until someone looks closely, deeply, and says: these people mattered.
Terentius and his wife may not have known what Vesuvius would bring. But they gave us a gift. Not in their wealth or status, but in their gaze—a mirror through which we can glimpse the quiet nobility of simply being alive.