Erato

The Snake in the Garden Considers Daphne

2010-02-07T13:42:00.004-05:00

My less erotic god condemned
my taste for girls less classical
than you, the kind that can't resist
a dazzling advance or trees that stand
for love. Of course I understand
up there it seems to be all light
and prelapsarian elation - but bear
in mind your lower half that gropes
for water, the slender roots you spread
in secret to fascinate the rocks,
while sunlight pries apart your leaves
and flights of birds arouse the air
around you. If only I could run
a brazen hand along this wood
and feel your heart accelerate
beneath it, rising to your lips.
If only you could pick the whitest
petals from the holy orchard
where I patrol the crevices
and slink along my damned gut,
you could arrange them as you wished
and change the ending of our story.
But we're disarmed, and nothing changes
in our natural gardens - we cannot grasp
the word hope, which the ones we've tempted
find always at their fingertips.

At Love's Coming

2010-02-07T09:58:00.005-05:00

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Like some weed-tangled forest pool,
Unsunned, forgotten, grey,

So fared my shadowed fate before
Yon came your shining way.

Now, as a Dryad's mirrored face
Alight flush those waters dim,

Your coming floods my waiting life
With beauty to the brim;

And I would shine the wonder back
Till all sad eyes should know

Your sunlight, and all dry lips drink
Of my joy's overflow.

The Balcony

2009-09-07T10:07:00.004-04:00

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Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses,
O thou, my pleasure, thou, all my desire,
Thou shalt recall the beauty of caresses,
The charm of evenings by the gentle fire,
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses!
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The eves illumined by the burning coal,
The balcony where veiled rose-vapour clings--
How soft your breast was then, how sweet your soul!
Ah, and we said imperishable things,
Those eves illumined by the burning coal.
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Lovely the suns were in those twilights warm,
And space profound, and strong life's pulsing flood,
In bending o'er you, queen of every charm,
I thought I breathed the perfume in your blood.
The suns were beauteous in those twilights warm.
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The film of night flowed round and over us,
And my eyes in the dark did your eyes meet;
I drank your breath, ah! sweet and poisonous,
And in my hands fraternal slept your feet--
Night, like a film, flowed round and over us.
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I can recall those happy days forgot,
And see, with head bowed on your knees, my past.
Your languid beauties now would move me not
Did not your gentle heart and body cast
The old spell of those happy days forgot.
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Can vows and perfumes, kisses infinite,
Be reborn from the gulf we cannot sound;
As rise to heaven suns once again made bright
After being plunged in deep seas and profound?
Ah, vows and perfumes, kisses infinite!
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Hypatia

2009-09-02T08:36:00.005-04:00

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1885
Oil on canvas
Laing Art Gallery
Newcastle upon Tyne
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A Venetian Night

2009-09-02T08:26:00.002-04:00

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Come, let us leave the great Piazza's glare,
Out on the Riva, see, the night is fair
With stars and tenderest moonbeams, and the wave
Flows silvering from the far lagoon to lave
The old grey steps beside the little shrine ;
And look, — out in the dark canal there shine
Clusters of rose and orange lights that swing
With some soft-rocking keel ; and hark, they sing
There, throbbing notes that, like these ripples bright,
Seem pulsing from the happy heart of night.
Let us glide to them up that shining way.
"Gondola, Signorina, gondola? " —
Hear the soft syllables. Aye, let us go,
And leave the old world, love, — for you must know
These are the waterways of Fairyland,
And this our fairy bark, — give me your hand,
And lean back on your cushions ; listen now —
The lapping of the wavelets 'neath our bow,
The creak and soft slow plashing of the oar ;
And turn a moment, — on the enchanted shore
Fair dreamland palaces shine snowy white,
Agleam with lamps, whose gold and silvery light
A thousand quivering ripples catch below.
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But now look onward, — we are creeping slow
Into a ring of gondolas, and see
How like a sentient thing, how warily,
Our prow goes feeling, edging in its way;
And there, amid them all, the lantern-ray
Falls on the minstrels' faces and dark hair.
Look round us ere they sing again ; see where
The wet oar wavering fin-like at our side
To hold us steady 'gainst the breeze and tide,
Out of the purple shadow seems to turn
Bright pleats of liquid moonlight ; on each stern
The tall lithe figure of a gondolier
Shows dark against the Riva lights, or clear
Upon the seaward sky ; one strikes a match
Down his oar-handle, how the soft rays catch
The rich warm tints of sunburnt cheek and brow,
The broad sombrero, and his ear-rings ; how
It brings the memory of fierce mid-day skies
Into this tender moonlit paradise.
Around us other lovers lean and lie,
Rocked on the ripples, whispering happily;
On each boat-side the brass sea-horses gleam
Beneath our lamps, and how the high prows seem
Raising their hatchet-faces like a throng
Of strange wise sea-beasts waiting for the song;
Sudden they plunge and leap, for close behind
Our ring a great ship moves, her bulwarks lined
With shadowy, watching forms ; she goes to find
The wide sea and her work. But hush, they sing —
" Santa Lucia ! " — the rich voices ring,
Again with that same pulse, it seems to be,
That makes the moonlit tide run ripplingly,
And sets the stars a-quiver in the sky.
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Now let us go, but we will linger nigh
And learn the whole sweet magic of the hour :
Drooping above us Night's great purple flower
Seems trembling with a thousand dew-drops bright,
Unseen beneath the rosy lantern-light ;
And one must leave that merry lilt to hear
This deeper song of breeze and tide come clear;
Must leave the little, laughing ring to be
Nearer the great arc of humanity.
The silent palaces and temples stand
Dreaming the ancient glories of their land,
With snowy marble stairways leading wide
Down to their image in the whispering tide.
But let us steal out to the dim lagoon,
Past the Guidecca anchorage, — how the moon
Shines strangely on that orange fisher-sail,
Softening the glowing hues the gleam falls pale,
Like silvery tissue o'er a shield of gold.
Now, by moon-magic, fold on ghostly fold
The brooding night is veiled in mystery;
And now the faint breeze brings a scent of sea,
The breath of freedom ; and the soul awakes,
And stealing to her own domain, she shakes
Her earthly bonds aside ; a little space
She seemeth free, a little, blessed grace
In hers, untroubled as this tender light,
In the Nirvana of the dream-filled night.
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Postlude

2009-08-29T09:54:00.004-04:00

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Now that I have cooled to you
Let there be gold of tarnished masonry,
Temples soothed by the sun to ruin
That sleep utterly.
Give me hand for the dances,
Ripples at Philae, in and out,
And lips, my Lesbian,
Wall flowers that once were flame.
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Your hair is my Carthage
And my arms the bow,
And our words arrows
To shoot the stars
Who from that misty sea
Swarm to destroy us.
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But you there beside me—
Oh, how shall I defy you,
Who wound me in the night
With breasts shining
Like Venus and like Mars?
The night that is shouting Jason
When the loud eaves rattle
As with waves above me
Blue at the prow of my desire.
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Love in the Afternoon

2009-08-29T09:48:00.001-04:00

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It was very hot. The day had gone just past its noon.
I'd stretched out on a couch to take a nap.
One of the window-shutters was open, one was closed.
The light was like you'd see deep in the woods,
or like the glow of dusk when Phoebus leaves the sky,
or when night pales, and day has not yet dawned,
- a perfect light for girls with too much modesty,
where anxious Shame can hope to hide away.
When, look! here comes Corinna in a loose ungirded gown,
her parted hair framing her gleaming throat,
like lovely Semiramis entering her boudoir,
or fabled Lais, loved by many men.
I tore her gown off - not that it mattered, being so sheer,
and yet she fought to keep that sheer gown on;
but since she fought with no great wish for victory,
she lost, betraying herself to the enemy.
And as she stood before me, her garment all thrown off,
I saw a body perfect in every inch:
What shoulders, what fine arms I looked on - and embraced!
What lovely breasts, begging to be caressed!
How smooth and flat a belly under a compact waist!
And the side view - what a long and youthful thigh!
But why go into details? Each point deserved its praise.
I clasped her naked body close to mine.
You can fill in the rest. We both lay there, worn out.
May all my afternoons turn out this well.
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Danae and The Golden Shower

2009-08-21T21:26:00.003-04:00

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1891
Oil on Canvas
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Diana and Actæon

2009-08-20T19:56:00.001-04:00

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"Diana Hunting"
Guillaume Seignac
c. 1899

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Thus in two instances we have seen Juno’s severity to her rivals; now let us learn how a virgin goddess punished an invader of her privacy.
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It was midday, and the sun stood equally distant from either goal, when young Actæon, son of King Cadmus, thus addressed the youths who with him were hunting the stag in the mountains:

“Friends, our nets and our weapons are wet with the blood of our victims; we have had sport enough for one day, and to-morrow we can renew our labors. Now, while Phœbus parches the earth, let us put by our implements and indulge ourselves with rest."
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"Diana Standing by a Waterfall"
William Etty
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There was a valley thick enclosed with cypresses and pines, sacred to the huntress queen, Diana. In the extremity of the valley was a cave, not adorned with art, but nature had counterfeited art in its construction, for she had turned the arch of its roof with stones as delicately fitted as if by the hand of man. A fountain burst out from one side, whose open basin was bounded by a grassy rim. Here the goddess of the woods used to come when weary with hunting and lave her virgin limbs in the sparkling water.
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"Diana and Actaeon"
Jean Baptiste Camille Corot
c. 1836
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One day, having repaired thither with her nymphs, she handed her javelin, her quiver, and her bow to one, her robe to another, while a third unbound the sandals from her feet. Then Crocale, the most skillful of them, arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale, and the rest drew water in capacious urns. While the goddess was thus employed in the labors of the toilet, behold Actæon, having quitted his companions, and rambling without any especial object, came to the place, led thither by his destiny. As he presented himself at the entrance of the cave, the nymphs, seeing a man, screamed and rushed towards the goddess to hide her with their bodies. But she was taller than the rest and overtopped them all by a head. Such a color as tinges the clouds at sunset or at dawn came over the countenance of Diana thus taken by surprise. Surrounded as she was by her nymphs, she yet turned half away, and sought with a sudden impulse for her arrows. As they were not at hand, she dashed the water into the face of the intruder, adding these words:

“Now go and tell, if you can, that you have seen Diana unapparelled.”

Immediately a pair of branching stag’s horns grew out of his head, his neck gained in length, his ears grew sharp-pointed, his hands became feet, his arms long legs, his body was covered with a hairy spotted hide. Fear took the place of his former boldness, and the hero fled. He could not but admire his own speed; but when he saw his horns in the water, “Ah, wretched me!” he would have said, but no sound followed the effort. He groaned, and tears flowed down the face which had taken the place of his own. Yet his consciousness remained. What shall he do?—go home to seek the place, or lie hid in the woods? The latter he was afraid, the former he was ashamed, to do. While he hesitated the dogs saw him. First Melampus, a Spartan dog, gave the signal with his bark, then Pamphagus, Dorceus, Lelaps, Theron, Nape, Tigris, and all the rest, rushed after him swifter than the wind. Over rocks and cliffs, through mountain gorges that seemed impracticable, he fled and they followed. Where he had often chased the stag and cheered on his pack, his pack now chased him, cheered on by his huntsmen. He longed to cry out, “I am Actæon; recognize your master!” but the words came not at his will. The air resounded with the bark of the dogs. Presently one fastened on his back, another seized his shoulder. While they held their master, the rest of the pack came up and buried their teeth in his flesh. He groaned,—not in a human voice, yet certainly not in a stag’s,—and falling on his knees, raised his eyes, and would have raised his arms in supplication, if he had had them. His friends and fellow-huntsmen cheered on the dogs, and looked everywhere for Actæon, calling on him to join the sport. At the sound of his name he turned his head, and heard them regret that he should be away. He earnestly wished he was. He would have been well pleased to see the exploits of his dogs, but to feel them was too much. They were all around him, rending and tearing; and it was not till they had torn his life out that the anger of Diana was satisfied.
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"Death of Actaeon"

Vecellio Tiziano
c. 1562

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In Shelley’s poem “Adonais” is the following allusion to the story of Actæon:
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“’Midst others of less note came one frail form,
A phantom among men: companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm,
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature’s naked loveliness,
Actæon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness;
And his own Thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued like raging hounds their father and their prey.”
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The allusion is probably to Shelley himself.
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Aphrodite

2009-08-08T07:36:00.004-04:00

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Dark-eyed, out of the snow-cold sea you came,
The young blood under the cheek like dawn-light showing,
Stray tendrils of dark hair in the sea-wind blowing,
Comely and grave, out of the sea you came.
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Slim covered thigh and slender stockinged foot
In swift strides over the burnished shingle swinging,
Sweet silence of your smile, soft sea-weed clinging,
Here and there, to the wet bathing-suit.
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O fierce and shy, your glance so piercing-true
Shot fire to the struck heart that was as tinder—
The fire of your still loveliness, the tender
High fortitude of the spirit shining through.
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And the world was young. O love and song and fame
Were part of youth's still ever believed-in story,
And hope crowned all, when in dear and in queenly glory,
Out of the snow-cold sea to me you came.

Odalisque #4: Odalisque

2009-08-02T08:08:00.003-04:00

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1933
Oil on Canvas
40 x 50
Sotheby's New York
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La Belle Dame Sans Merci

2009-08-02T07:56:00.000-04:00

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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
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Odysseus and Calypso

2009-08-01T11:08:00.000-04:00

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"Hermes Ordering Calypso to Release Odysseus"
Gerard de Lairesse
c. 1670
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On the lush, luxuriant island of Ogygia, Odysseus in the Odyssey spends seven years of his ten year journey home with the beautiful seductive nymph Calypso, who virtually possesses him and compels him to live a sensual but vegetative existence.

For ten years, surrounded by men, he lived out the male heroic ideal of warrior, then spent several years further testing himself against otherworldly obstacles. In the process, he lost all of his companions, and has nothing left but the little that remains of himself.

Here on Calypso's isle, he lives in paradise:

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Thick, luxuriant woods grew round the cave,
alders, and black poplars, pungent cypress too,
and there, birds roosted, folding their long wings,
owls and hawks and the spread beaked ravens of the sea,
black skimmers who make their living off the waves.
And round the mouth of the cavern trailed a vine
laden with clusters, bursting with ripe grapes.
Four springs in a row, bubbling clear and cold,
running side-by-side, took channels left and right.
Soft meadows spreading round were starred with violets,
lush with beds of parsley. Why, even a deathless god
who came upon that place would gaze in wonder,
heart entranced with pleasure.

Odysseus is now embraced by Mother Earth, in all her verdant fertility, and also living deep within caverns that are only reminiscent of the womb. For seven years, Calypso protects him from Poseidon's wrath. As the devoted and devouring mother, and the seductive and engulfing mistress/lover, she is both what men most desire, and most fear.

"Odysseus and Calypso"
Jan Brueghel
ca. 1600

Alicia LeVan wrote:

Perhaps the 'necessity' he has for unity with the feminine, coupled with his yearning for home, (an embodiment of the feminine principle representing relationship, community, cooperation, and non-aggression) represents a need for integration of the feminine principle within his psyche after years of functioning in war, with the constant testosterone of destroying, killing, raping and surviving in the most inhumane, strife torn, blood drenched, barren plains of Troy. After ten years of functioning as a killer and destroyer, he must heal his numbness and desensitivity by connecting with his feelings.
The emotional outpouring when he weeps in pain from being in exile from his home (the feminine) suggests that he has begun to integrate the feminine virtues of sensitivity, patience, contemplation, depth, ripening, healing and transforming insight that enable him to continue, and to be drawn back home. Thus he is reborn through Calypso.

In the terminology of Carl Jung, Odysseus has been ruled for years by his animus, his male self. He had denied the feminine, his anima. When we deny a significant part of our psyche, we often end up confronting it outside of ourselves, and usually, at least initially, in a negative or extreme manner.

From this viewpoint, we can view Odysseus' seven years with Calypso as seven years of feeling engulfed by his own need for dependency on the feminine - both the mother principle which forces him to come to terms with the powerless boy within him who craves a mother's care, and also the inner adolescent who feels at the mercy of his sexual desires. The engulfment by Calypso expresses his own lack of control as his deeper unconscious self takes him over and possesses him. He both desires and despises the very union with the feminine he craves - despises, because within in there is no arena for his masculinity in its most primal form.

John Houston wrote:

"Calypso provides him with a regular daily life in which has no need for the cunning and wily qualities that saw him through the Trojan victory and his subsequent adventures. Instead, he must learn to use the qualities of sensory enjoyment and emotional relationship.

Most of the commentators.... (virtually all of whom are men) see an engulfment by the "instinctual female principle, physically vital, but intellectually and spiritually lifeless." For the hero adventurer, the apparent "effortlessness of existence" would always be a kind of living death. For only in action can he find his identity: only by struggle an he maintain his reality. So this adventuresome hero must live without adventure for seven full years."

Odysseus faces the challenge of NO active challenge. On Calypso's isle, he has no way to be a hero. He is forced to live a vegetative existence, perhaps at first a welcome rest, but then a womblike entrapment. The name Calypso means "eclipse," and indeed, Odysseus' long stay on Calypso's isle is an eclipse of all that he has known of life and also his consciousness of himself as a warrior hero and shrewd initiator of action.

In this state we may feel as if we are in a trance. Our egos are pulled deeper into our subconscious. We are operating on only a small portion of our energy. Our conscious energy seems to be leaking into our subconscious, while our subconscious energy is simultaneously seeping into our consciousness and dissolving behavior patterns of the past. For a time, we are not likely to be able to operate clearly or productively, as part of ourselves is actually being bathed in the well of our subconscious feminine energies, taking a deep rest so that in the future it can spring forth, totally refreshed and bursting with new inspiration.

As in many myths of creation, all that existed first was unnamed, undifferentiated chaos before the beginning of the earth and the birth of humanity, so we are journeying into the primeval chaos in order to give birth to higher dimensions of ourselves. We are taking a journey into blankness, into the void within - a fertile void, but we are not yet aware of its fertility. Instead, we may struggle and splash in the waters of our emotional confusion, afraid of being engulfed and drowning in the whirlpool within us.

We need to understand fully that we are in a time of transition, vacationing upon an island in the midst of the deepest waters of the psyche, as our energy is being reprocessed to prepare for a future period of greater clarity, fulfillment and wholeness.

Odysseus has been severely traumatized. Year after year of war, fighting for his life, and losing the male friends with whom he bonded throughout harrowing adventures - all the while being cut off from nurturing relationship with the feminine - he has regressed to a lower level of functioning. he can no longer free himself from the challenges he is facing through brawn or brain. The only way out is to surrender.

According to Jean Houston, his experience is a hibernation, a kind of halfway house for post-traumatic stress survivors, a seven-year stay in a healing sanctuary of recuperation and integration.

In The Hero and the Goddess, Houston also wrote:

It feels like an utter engulfment in which one has a hard time relating to anything else because the self is so deeply buried in something else. It is not the dark night of the soul. Rather, it is the necessary hibernation period presaging a fundamental renewal or restructuring of personality. How vital the long resting place is to the soul's development - those loose and mindless places where on can go to relax and vegetate. Sometimes, however, these places are so hidden, even from us, that we feel our lives are being wasted and we long to get back where the action is. Yet the "action" may very well be going on - in the internal reams - with our state of external routine providing the stable conditions necessary for the reflection and reweaving of our own possible human.

It's not so bad here
on Aeaea
on Ogygia
with my witches
my nymphs
my little nobodies
and their slim fingers.
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It's not so bad here
in the dark cluster of the trees
in the wet breath of the sea
in the marble halls I conjure
in the luminous caves I have not bothered to smooth.
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It's not so bad here
where every garment I weave
from the silk of my spiders
from the ship-gripping kelp
is for my wearing
is for my warmth.
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It's not so bad here:
I have unwatered wine
I have ambrosia
I have blood
I have milk
waiting in a jug, in a vase,
in my heart, in my breast,
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it's not so bad here,
in,
of,
with,
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without.

During his stay on Calypso's isle, Odysseus is never able to fully accept his situation. His body is alive, but only in regard to sensuality. Calypso holds him so tightly to her embrace, that he is not free to embrace her in turn. And because of his unresolved grief and trauma, his heart remains closed. In book nine of the Odyssey, he says of both Calpyso and Circe, "They never won the heart inside me, never."

"Circe Offering the Cup to Odysseus"
John William Waterhouse
c. 1891
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But at the same time, Odysseus is also compelled to surrender. Only in surrender can another part of himself emerge and lead him forward once again. Only in surrender can he fell and release the deep grief he has been carrying all these years, and own the feminine energy within himself. And by the seventh year, he is ready to move into the next stage, what Houston refers to as the stage of active longing. He weeps ceaselessly for Ithaca and for Penelope.

"Penelope"
John Spencer Stanhope
c. 1849
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The waters are his own now - his tears. The island is his own making - his loneliness. The feminine is within him now - his own deep feeling. At this point, he begins to own and express his own anima, and in this emerging wholeness, a new voice, which encompasses both the masculine and feminine, and can begin to exert is authority.

For Odysseus now, the male is no longer repressed or expressed in its lowest diminesion. Nor does the female need anymore to be projected, or to be encountered in its most primitive manifestation. The feminine within is transformed by grief and lets go, as Calypso lets go. Odysseus awakes to his heroic, adventuresome self. But his self has only one focus - to unite with the femine energy in its most positive form. To go home, home to Ithaca, home to Penelope.

Even the lure of immortality cannot entrap him now. His pride, which has led him to continually prove his superhuman capabilities, is no longer his primary source of motivation. The heroic in him now is directing all his energies toward the journey of both inner and outer home.

Alicia LeVan wrote:

The hero masters his masculinity with Circe, and then unites with his feminine psyche with Calypso. Through coming to know both aspects of universal/ individual duality, he becomes whole.

Now Odysseus is ready, having discovered a manhood which can confront the inner and outer waters, to face the full wrath of Poseidon's waves. Only now can he fully surrender to the sea, to the vast and powerful feminine, and be reborn.
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Only then does he arrive in the land of the Phaeaicans, naked as a newborn, but able to now suppress and gain command over the sexuality which so recently dominated his existence - as he covers his private parts with a leaf. For now he meets the feminine in a virgin, youthful form. Nausicaa is an expression of his own virgin and developing anima. He treats her with dignity, grace, self-control and respect. And in honoring her, he also honors himself.

"Nausicaa"
Frederic Leighton
c. 1870
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Bathing Girl

2009-07-17T20:54:00.001-04:00

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In reverie of a rapturous disrobing
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Feel young again, my bathing girl!
Draw on the Joy
The limpid pool of life
That nourishes your name.
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Feel young again, my bathing girl,
Firm-fleshed against all ills
In that deep, loving light,
Lucent as a red-flushed sky.
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Wear Priestess robes,
Make deepest awe
Till you release them,
Triggered by our bated breath.
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Span the enchantresses of history,
Holding their time-frozen heights
And span their cosmic bridges to the present,
For now you shine!
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Let that apparel now cascade
And show you poised
For water's communion
In glorious luminosity.
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Holding all breath.
Your radiant beams
From your magnetic casing,
Beauty to adore.
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Reveal yourself
In the glory of a life's new morning:
Let our two bodies
Be each other's mirrors.
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Banish and shrink
The blights of darkness.
Draw on the bubbling rills of health,
Feel young again, my bathing girl!
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Art is "The Bath"
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Sonnett LXXVIII. Body's Beauty

2009-07-12T21:24:00.000-04:00

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Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told
(The witch he loved before the gift of Eve)
That, ere the snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive
And her enchanted hair was the first gold.
And still she sits, young while the earth is old,
And, subtly of herself contemplative,
Draws men to watch the bright web she can weave,
Till heart and body and life are in its hold.
The rose and poppy are her flowers; for where
Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent
And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare?
Lo! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went
Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent
And round his heart one strangling golden hair.
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Art is "Lady Lilith"
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Juno and Her Rivals, Io and Callisto

2009-07-12T03:17:00.006-04:00

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"Juno and Jupiter" by Gavin Hamilton

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Juno one day perceived it suddenly grow dark, and immediately suspected that her husband had raised a cloud to hide some of his doings that would not bear the light. She brushed away the cloud, and saw her husband on the banks of a glassy river, with a beautiful heifer standing near him. Juno suspected the heifer’s form concealed some fair nymph of mortal mould—as was, indeed the case; for it was Io, the daughter of the river god Inachus, whom Jupiter had been flirting with, and, when he became aware of the approach of his wife, had changed into that form.
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Juno joined her husband, and noticing the heifer praised its beauty, and asked whose it was, and of what herd. Jupiter, to stop questions, replied that it was a fresh creation from the earth. Juno asked to have it as a gift. What could Jupiter do? He was loath to give his mistress to his wife; yet how refuse so trifling a present as a simple heifer? He could not, without exciting suspicion; so he consented. The goddess was not yet relieved of her suspicions; so she delivered the heifer to Argus, to be strictly watched.
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Now Argus had a hundred eyes in his head, and never went to sleep with more than two at a time, so that he kept watch of Io constantly. He suffered her to feed through the day, and at night tied her up with a vile rope round her neck. She would have stretched out her arms to implore freedom of Argus, but she had no arms to stretch out, and her voice was a bellow that frightened even herself. She saw her father and her sisters, went near them, and suffered them to pat her back, and heard them admire her beauty. Her father reached her a tuft of grass, and she licked the outstretched hand. She longed to make herself known to him, and would have uttered her wish; but, alas! words were wanting. At length she bethought herself of writing, and inscribed her name—it was a short one—with her hoof on the sand. Inachus recognized it, and discovering that his daughter, whom he had long sought in vain, was hidden under this disguise, mourned over her, and, embracing her white neck, exclaimed, “Alas! my daughter, it would have been a less grief to have lost you altogether!” While he thus lamented, Argus, observing came and drove her away, and took his seat on a high bank, from whence he could see all around in every direction.
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Jupiter was troubled at beholding the sufferings of his mistress, and calling Mercury told him to go and despatch Argus. Mercury made haste, put his winged slippers on his feet, and cap on his head, took his sleep-producing wand, and leaped down from the heavenly towers to the earth. There he laid aside his wings, and kept only his wand, with which he presented himself as a shepherd driving his flock. As he strolled on he blew upon his pipes. These were what are called the Syrinx or Pandean pipes. Argus listened with delight, for he had never seen the instrument before. “Young man,” said he, “come and take a seat by me on this stone. There is no better place for your flocks to graze in than hereabouts, and here is a pleasant shade such as shepherds love.” Mercury sat down, talked, and told stories till it grew late, and played upon his pipes his most soothing strains, hoping to lull the watchful eyes to sleep, but all in vain; for Argus still contrived to keep some of his eyes open though he shut the rest.
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Among other stories, Mercury told him how the instrument on which he played was invented. “There was a certain nymph, whose name was Syrinx, who was much beloved by the satyrs and spirits of the wood; but she would have none of them, but was a faithful worshipper of Diana, and followed the chase. You would have thought it was Diana herself, had you seen her in her hunting dress, only that her bow was of horn and Diana’s of silver. One day, as she was returning from the chase, Pan met her, told her just this, and added more of the same sort. She ran away, without stopping to hear his compliments, and he pursued till she came to the bank of the river, where he overtook her, and she had only time to call for help on her friends the water nymphs. They heard and consented. Pan threw his arms around what he supposed to be the form of the nymph, and found he embraced only a tuft of reeds! As he breathed a sigh, the air sounded through the reeds, and produced a plaintive melody. The god, charmed with the novelty and with the sweetness of the music, said, ‘Thus, then, at least, you shall be mine.’ And he took some of the reeds, and placing them together, of unequal lengths, side by side, made an instrument which he called Syrinx, in honor of the nymph.” Before Mercury had finished his story he saw Argus’s eyes all asleep. As his head nodded forward on his breast, Mercury with one stroke cut his neck through, and tumbled his head down the rocks. O hapless Argus! the light of your hundred eyes is quenched at once! Juno took them and put them as ornaments on the tail of her peacock, where they remain to this day. But the vengeance of Juno was not yet satiated. She sent a gadfly to torment Io, who fled over the whole world from its pursuit. She swam through the Ionian sea, which derived its name from her, then roamed over the plains of Illyria, ascended Mount Hæmus, and crossed the Thracian strait, thence named the Bosphorus (cowford), rambled on through Scythia, and the country of the Cimmerians, and arrived at last on the banks of the Nile. At length Jupiter interceded for her, and upon his promising not to pay her any more attentions Juno consented to restore her to her form. It was curious to see her gradually recover her former self. The coarse hairs fell from her body, her horns shrank up, her eyes grew narrower, her mouth shorter; hands and fingers came instead of hoofs to her forefeet; in fine there was nothing left of the heifer, except her beauty. At first she was afraid to speak, for fear she should low, but gradually she recovered her confidence and was restored to her father and sisters.
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In a poem dedicated to Leigh Hunt, by Keats, the following allusion to the story of Pan and Syrinx occurs:
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“So did he feel who pulled the bough aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
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Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
Poor nymph—poor Pan—how he did weep to find
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation, balmy pain.”
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"Jupiter and Callisto" by Cesar Van Everdingen

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Callisto was another maiden who excited the jealousy of Juno, and the goddess changed her into a bear. “I will take away,” said she, “that beauty with which you have captivated my husband.” Down fell Callisto on her hands and knees; she tried to stretch out her arms in supplication—they were already beginning to be covered with black hair. Her hands grew rounded, became armed with crooked claws, and served for feet; her mouth, which Jove used to praise for its beauty, became a horrid pair of jaws; her voice, which if unchanged would have moved the heart to pity, became a growl, more fit to inspire terror. Yet her former disposition remained, and with continual groaning, she bemoaned her fate, and stood upright as well as she could, lifting up her paws to beg for mercy, and felt that Jove was unkind, though she could not tell him so. Ah, how often, afraid to stay in the woods all night alone, she wandered about the neighborhood of her former haunts; how often, frightened by the dogs, did she, so lately a huntress, fly in terror from the hunters! Often she fled from the wild beasts, forgetting that she was now a wild beast herself; and, bear as she was, was afraid of the bears. One day a youth espied her as he was hunting. She saw him and recognized him as her own son, now grown a young man. She stopped and felt inclined to embrace him. As she was about to approach, he, alarmed, raised his hunting spear, and was on the point of transfixing her, when Jupiter, beholding, arrested the crime, and snatching away both of them, placed them in the heavens as the Great and Little Bear. Juno was in a rage to see her rival so set in honor, and hastened to ancient Tethys and Oceanus, the powers of ocean, and in answer to their inquiries thus told the cause of her coming: “Do you ask why I, the queen of the gods, have left the heavenly plains and sought your depths? Learn that I am supplanted in heaven—my place is given to another. You will hardly believe me; but look when night darkens the world, and you shall see the two of whom I have so much reason to complain exalted to the heavens, in that part where the circle is the smallest, in the neighborhood of the pole. Why should any one hereafter tremble at the thought of offending Juno, when such rewards are the consequence of my displeasure? See what I have been able to effect! I forbade her to wear the human form—she is placed among the stars! So do my punishments result—such is the extent of my power! Better that she should have resumed her former shape, as I permitted Io to do. Perhaps he means to marry her, and put me away! But you, my fosterparents, if you feel for me, and see with displeasure this unworthy treatment of me, show it, I beseech you, by forbidding this guilty couple from coming into your waters.” The powers of the ocean assented, and consequently the two constellations of the Great and Little Bear move round and round in heaven, but never sink, as the other stars do, beneath the ocean.
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Pyramus and Thisbe

2009-07-12T02:11:00.000-04:00

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"Thisbe"
John William Waterhouse
c. 1909
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Pyramus was the handsomest youth, and Thisbe the fairest maiden, in all Babylonia, where Semiramis reigned. Their parents occupied adjoining houses; and neighborhood brought the young people together, and acquaintance ripened into love. They would gladly have married, but their parents forbade. One thing, however, they could not forbid—that love should glow with equal ardor in the bosoms of both. They conversed by signs and glances, and the fire burned more intensely for being covered up. In the wall that parted the two houses there was a crack, caused by some fault in the structure. No one had remarked it before, but the lovers discovered it. What will not love discover! It afforded a passage to the voice; and tender messages used to pass backward and forward through the gap. As they stood, Pyramus on this side, Thisbe on that, their breaths would mingle. “Cruel wall,” they said, “why do you keep two lovers apart? But we will not be ungrateful. We owe you, we confess, the privilege of transmitting loving words to willing ears.” Such words they uttered on different sides of the wall; and when night came and they must say farewell, they pressed their lips upon the wall, she on her side, he on his, as they could come no nearer.
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"Aurora, Goddess of Dawn"
Herbert Draper
c. 1900

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Next morning, when Aurora had put out the stars, and the sun had melted the frost from the grass, they met at the accustomed spot. Then, after lamenting their hard fate, they agreed that next night, when all was still, they would slip away from watchful eyes, leave their dwellings and walk out into the fields; and to insure a meeting, repair to a well-known edifice standing without the city’s bounds, called the Tomb of Ninus, and that the one who came first should await the other at the foot of a certain tree. It was a white mulberry tree, and stood near a cool spring. All was agreed on, and they waited impatiently for the sun to go down beneath the waters and night to rise up from them. Then cautiously Thisbe stole forth, unobserved by the family, her head covered with a veil, made her way to the monument and sat down under the tree. As she sat alone in the dim light of the evening she descried a lioness, her jaws reeking with recent slaughter, approaching the fountain to slake her thirst. Thisbe fled at the sight, and sought refuge in the hollow of a rock. As she fled she dropped her veil. The lioness after drinking at the spring turned to retreat to the woods, and seeing the veil on the ground, tossed and rent it with her bloody mouth.
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Pyramus, having been delayed, now approached the place of meeting. He saw in the sand the footsteps of the lion, and the color fled from his cheeks at the sight. Presently he found the veil all rent and bloody. “O hapless girl,” said he, “I have been the cause of thy death! Thou, more worthy of life than I, hast fallen the first victim. I will follow. I am the guilty cause, in tempting thee forth to a place of such peril, and not being myself on the spot to guard thee. Come forth, ye lions, from the rocks, and tear this guilty body with your teeth.” He took up the veil, carried it with him to the appointed tree, and covered it with kisses and with tears. “My blood also shall stain your texture,” said he, and drawing his sword plunged it into his heart. The blood spurted from the wound, and tinged the white mulberries of the tree all red; and sinking into the earth reached the roots, so that the red color mounted through the trunk to the fruit.
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By this time Thisbe, still trembling with fear, yet wishing not to disappoint her lover, stepped cautiously forth, looking anxiously for the youth, eager to tell him the danger she had escaped. When she came to the spot and saw the changed color of the mulberries she doubted whether it was the same place. While she hesitated she saw the form of one struggling in the agonies of death. She started back, a shudder ran through her frame as a ripple on the face of the still water when a sudden breeze sweeps over it. But as soon as she recognized her lover, she screamed and beat her breast, embracing the lifeless body, pouring tears into its wounds, and imprinting kisses on the cold lips. “O Pyramus,” she cried, “what has done this? Answer me, Pyramus; it is your own Thisbe that speaks. Hear me, dearest, and lift that drooping head!” At the name of Thisbe Pyramus opened his eyes, then closed them again. She saw her veil stained with blood and the scabbard empty of its sword. “Thy own hand has slain thee, and for my sake,” she said. “I too can be brave for once, and my love is as strong as thine. I will follow thee in death, for I have been the cause; and death which alone could part us shall not prevent my joining thee. And ye, unhappy parents of us both, deny us, let one tomb contain us. And thou, tree, retain the marks of slaughter. Let thy berries still serve for memorials of our blood.” So saying she plunged the sword into her breast. Her parents ratified her wish, the gods also ratified it. The two bodies were buried in one sepulchre, and the tree ever after brought forth purple berries, as it does to this day.
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Moore, in the “Sylph’s Ball,” speaking of Davy’s Safety Lamp, is reminded of the wall that separated Thisbe and her lover:
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“O for that Lamp’s metallic gauze,
That curtain of protecting wire,
Which Davy delicately draws
Around illicit, dangerous fire!
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The wall he sets ’twixt Flame and Air,
(Like that which barred young Thisbe’s bliss,)
Through whose small holes this dangerous pair
May see each other, but not kiss.”
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In Mickle’s translation of the “Lusiad” occurs the following allusion to the story of Pyramus and Thisbe, and the metamorphosis of the mulberries. The poet is describing the Island of Love:
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“… here each gift Pomona’s hand bestows
In cultured garden, free uncultured flows,
The flavor sweeter and the hue more fair
Than e’er was fostered by the hand of care.
The cherry here in shining crimson glows,
And stained with lovers’ blood, in pendent rows,
The mulberries o’erload the bending boughs.”

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Apollo and Daphne

2009-07-12T00:53:00.000-04:00

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"Apollo and Daphne"
Theodore Chasseriau
c. 1845

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The slime with which the earth was covered by the waters of the flood produced an excessive fertility, which called forth every variety of production, both bad and good. Among the rest, Python, an enormous serpent, crept forth, the terror of the people, and lurked in the caves of Mount Parnassus. Apollo slew him with his arrows—weapons which he had not before used against any but feeble animals, hares, wild goats, and such game. In commemoration of this illustrious conquest he instituted the Pythian games, in which the victor in feats of strength, swiftness of foot, or in the chariot race was crowned with a wreath of beech leaves; for the laurel was not yet adopted by Apollo as his own tree.
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The famous statue of Apollo called the Belvedere represents the god after this victory over the serpent Python. To this Byron alludes in his “Childe Harold,”

“...The lord of the unerring bow,
The god of life, and poetry, and light,
The Sun, in human limbs arrayed, and brow
All radiant from his triumph in the fight.
The shaft has just been shot; the arrow bright
With an immortal’s vengeance; in his eye
And nostril, beautiful disdain, and might
And majesty flash their full lightnings by,
Developing in that one glance the Deity.”
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Daphne was Apollo’s first love. It was not brought about by accident, but by the malice of Cupid. Apollo saw the boy playing with his bow and arrows; and being himself elated with his recent victory over Python, he said to him, “What have you to do with warlike weapons, saucy boy? Leave them for hands worthy of them. Behold the conquest I have won by means of them over the vast serpent who stretched his poisonous body over acres of the plain! Be content with your torch, child, and kindle up your flames, as you call them, where you will, but presume not to meddle with my weapons.” Venus’s boy heard these words, and rejoined, “Your arrows may strike all things else, Apollo, but mine shall strike you.” So saying, he took his stand on a rock of Parnassus, and drew from his quiver two arrows of different workmanship, one to excite love, the other to repel it. The former was of gold and sharp pointed, the latter blunt and tipped with lead. With the leaden shaft he struck the nymph Daphne, the daughter of the river god Peneus, and with the golden one Apollo, through the heart. Forthwith the god was seized with love for the maiden, and she abhorred the thought of loving. Her delight was in woodland sports and in the spoils of the chase. Many lovers sought her, but she spurned them all, ranging the woods, and taking no thought of Cupid nor of Hymen. Her father often said to her, “Daughter, you owe me a son-in-law; you owe me grandchildren.” She, hating the thought of marriage as a crime, with her beautiful face tinged all over with blushes, threw her arms around her father’s neck, and said, “Dearest father, grant me this favor, that I may always remain unmarried, like Diana.” He consented, but at the same time said, “Your own face will forbid it.”
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Apollo loved her, and longed to obtain her; and he who gives oracles to all the world was not wise enough to look into his own fortunes. He saw her hair flung loose over her shoulders, and said, “If so charming in disorder, what would it be if arranged?” He saw her eyes bright as stars; he saw her lips, and was not satisfied with only seeing them. He admired her hands and arms, naked to the shoulder, and whatever was hidden from view he imagined more beautiful still. He followed her; she fled, swifter than the wind, and delayed not a moment at his entreaties. “Stay,” said he, “daughter of Peneus; I am not a foe. Do not fly me as a lamb flies the wolf, or a dove the hawk. It is for love I pursue you. You make me miserable, for fear you should fall and hurt yourself on these stones, and I should be the cause. Pray run slower, and I will follow slower. I am no clown, no rude peasant. Jupiter is my father, and I am lord of Delphos and Tenedos, and know all things, present and future. I am the god of song and the lyre. My arrows fly true to the mark; but, alas! an arrow more fatal than mine has pierced my heart! I am the god of medicine, and know the virtues of all healing plants. Alas! I suffer a malady that no balm can cure!
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"Apollo Chasing Daphne"

John William Waterhouse
c. 1908

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The nymph continued her flight, and left his plea half uttered. And even as she fled she charmed him. The wind blew her garments, and her unbound hair streamed loose behind her. The god grew impatient to find his wooings thrown away, and, sped by Cupid, gained upon her in the race. It was like a hound pursuing a hare, with open jaws ready to seize, while the feebler animal darts forward, slipping from the very grasp. So flew the god and the virgin—he on the wings of love, and she on those of fear. The pursuer is the more rapid, however, and gains upon her, and his panting breath blows upon her hair. Her strength begins to fail, and, ready to sink, she calls upon her father, the river god: “Help me, Peneus! open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger!” Scarcely had she spoken, when a stiffness seized all her limbs; her bosom began to be enclosed in a tender bark; her hair became leaves; her arms became branches; her foot stuck fast in the ground, as a root; her face became a tree-top, retaining nothing of its former self but its beauty. Apollo stood amazed. He touched the stem, and felt the flesh tremble under the new bark. He embraced the branches, and lavished kisses on the wood. The branches shrank from his lips. “Since you cannot be my wife,” said he, “you shall assuredly be my tree. I will wear you for my crown; I will decorate with you my harp and my quiver; and when the great Roman conquerors lead up the triumphal pomp to the Capitol, you shall be woven into wreaths for their brows. And, as eternal youth is mine, you also shall be always green, and your leaf know no decay.” The nymph, now changed into a Laurel tree, bowed its head in grateful acknowledgement.
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That Apollo should be the god both of music and poetry will not appear strange, but that medicine should also be assigned to his province, may. The poet Armstrong, himself a physician, thus accounts for it:
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“Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels diseases, softens every pain;
And hence the wise of ancient days adored
One power of physic, melody, and song.”

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The story of Apollo and Daphne is often alluded to by the poets. Waller applies it to the case of one whose amatory verses, though they did not soften the heart of his mistress, yet won for the poet wide-spread fame:

“Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion and approve his song.
Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He caught at love and filled his arms with bays.”
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The following stanza from Shelley’s “Adonais” alludes to Byron’s early quarrel with the reviewers:
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“The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the dead;
The vultures, to the conqueror’s banner true,
Who feed where Desolation first has fed,
And whose wings rain contagion: how they fled,
When like Apollo, from his golden bow,
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
And smiled! The spoilers tempt no second blow;
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as they go.”

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Prometheus and Pandora

2009-07-11T16:33:00.000-04:00

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"The Torture of Prometheus"
Jean Louis Cesar Lair
c. 1819
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The Creation of the world is a problem naturally fitted to excite the liveliest interest of man, its inhabitant. The ancient pagans, not having the information on the subject which we derive from the pages of Scripture, had their own way of telling the story, which is as follows:
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Before earth and sea and heaven were created, all things wore one aspect, to which we give the name of Chaos—a confused and shapeless mass, nothing but dead weight, in which, however, slumbered the seeds of things. Earth, sea, and air were all mixed up together; so the earth was not solid, the sea was not fluid, and the air was not transparent. God and Nature at last interposed, and put an end to this discord, separating earth from sea, and heaven from both. The fiery part, being the lightest, sprang up, and formed the skies; the air was next in weight and place. The earth, being heavier, sank below; and the water took the lowest place, and buoyed up the earth.
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Here some god—it is not known which—gave his good offices in arranging and disposing the earth. He appointed rivers and bays their places, raised mountains, scooped out valleys, distributed woods, fountains, fertile fields, and stony plains. The air being cleared, the stars began to appear, fishes took possession of the sea, birds of the air, and four-footed beasts of the land.
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But a nobler animal was wanted, and Man was made. It is not known whether the creator made him of divine materials, or whether in the earth, so lately separated from heaven, there lurked still some heavenly seeds. Prometheus took some of this earth, and kneading it up with water, made man in the image of the gods. He gave him an upright stature, so that while all other animals turn their faces downward, and look to the earth, he raises his to heaven, and gazes on the stars.
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Prometheus was one of the Titans, a gigantic race, who inhabited the earth before the creation of man. To him and his brother Epimetheus was committed the office of making man, and providing him and all other animals with the faculties necessary for their preservation. Epimetheus undertook to do this, and Prometheus was to overlook his work, when it was done. Epimetheus accordingly proceeded to bestow upon the different animals the various gifts of courage, strength, swiftness, sagacity; wings to one, claws to another, a shelly covering to a third, etc. But when man came to be provided for, who was to be superior to all other animals, Epimetheus had been so prodigal of his resources that he had nothing left to bestow upon him. In his perplexity he resorted to his brother Prometheus, who, with the aid of Minerva, went up to heaven, and lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun, and brought down fire to man. With this gift man was more than a match for all other animals. It enabled him to make weapons wherewith to subdue them; tools with which to cultivate the earth; to warm his dwelling, so as to be comparatively independent of climate; and finally to introduce the arts and to coin money, the means of trade and commerce.
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Woman was not yet made. The story (absurd enough!) is that Jupiter made her, and sent her to Prometheus and his brother, to punish them for their presumption in stealing fire from heaven; and man, for accepting the gift. The first woman was named Pandora. She was made in heaven, every god contributing something to perfect her. Venus gave her beauty, Mercury persuasion, Apollo music, etc. Thus equipped, she was conveyed to earth, and presented to Epimetheus, who gladly accepted her, though cautioned by his brother to beware of Jupiter and his gifts.
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"Pandora"
Jules Joseph Lefebvre
c. 1882

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Epimetheus had in his house a jar, in which were kept certain noxious articles, for which, in fitting man for his new abode, he had had no occasion. Pandora was seized with an eager curiosity to know what this jar contained; and one day she slipped off the cover and looked in. Forthwith there escaped a multitude of plagues for hapless man,—such as gout, rheumatism, and colic for his body, and envy, spite, and revenge for his mind,—and scattered themselves far and wide. Pandora hastened to replace the lid! but, alas! the whole contents of the jar had escaped, one thing only excepted, which lay at the bottom, and that was hope. So we see at this day, whatever evils are abroad, hope never entirely leaves us; and while we have that, no amount of other ills can make us completely wretched.
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Another story is that Pandora was sent in good faith, by Jupiter, to bless man; that she was furnished with a box, containing her marriage presents, into which every god had put some blessing. She opened the box incautiously, and the blessings all escaped, hope only excepted. This story seems more probable than the former; for how could hope, so precious a jewel as it is, have been kept in a jar full of all manner of evils, as in the former statement?
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The world being thus furnished with inhabitants, the first age was an age of innocence and happiness, called the Golden Age. Truth and right prevailed, though not enforced by law, nor was there any magistrate to threaten or punish. The forest had not yet been robbed of its trees to furnish timbers for vessels, nor had men built fortifications round their towns. There were no such things as swords, spears, or helmets. The earth brought forth all things necessary for man, without his labor in ploughing or sowing. Perpetual spring reigned, flowers sprang up without seed, the rivers flowed with milk and wine, and yellow honey distilled from the oaks.
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Then succeeded the Silver Age, inferior to the golden, but better than that of brass. Jupiter shortened the spring, and divided the year into seasons. Then, first, men had to endure the extremes of heat and cold, and houses became necessary. Caves were the first dwellings, and leafy coverts of the woods, and huts woven of twigs. Crops would no longer grow without planting. The farmer was obliged to sow the seed and the toiling ox to draw the plough.
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Next came the Brazen Age, more savage of temper, and readier to the strife of arms, yet not altogether wicked. The hardest and worst was the Iron Age. Crime burst in like a flood; modesty, truth, and honor fled. In their places came fraud and cunning, violence, and the wicked love of gain. Then seamen spread sails to the wind, and the trees were torn from the mountains to serve for keels to ships, and vex the face of ocean. The earth, which till now had been cultivated in common, began to be divided off into possessions. Men were not satisfied with what the surface produced, but must dig into its bowels, and draw forth from thence the ores of metals. Mischievous iron, and more mischievous gold, were produced. War sprang up, using both as weapons; the guest was not safe in his friend’s house; and sons-in-law and fathers-in-law, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, could not trust one another. Sons wished their fathers dead, that they might come to the inheritance; family love lay prostrate. The earth was wet with slaughter, and the gods abandoned it, one by one, till Astræa alone was left, and finally she also took her departure.
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Jupiter, seeing this state of things, burned with anger. He summoned the gods to council. They obeyed the call, and took the road to the palace of heaven. The road, which any one may see in a clear night, stretches across the face of the sky, and is called the Milky Way. Along the road stand the palaces of the illustrious gods; the common people of the skies live apart, on either side. Jupiter addressed the assembly. He set forth the frightful condition of things on the earth, and closed by announcing his intention to destroy the whole of its inhabitants, and provide a new race, unlike the first, who would be more worthy of life, and much better worshippers of the gods. So saying he took a thunderbolt, and was about to launch it at the world, and destroy it by burning; but recollecting the danger that such a conflagration might set heaven itself on fire, he changed his plan, and resolved to drown it. The north wind, which scatters the clouds, was chained up; the south was sent out, and soon covered all the face of heaven with a cloak of pitchy darkness. The clouds, driven together, resound with a crash; torrents of rain fall; the crops are laid low; the year’s labor of the husbandman perishes in an hour. Jupiter, not satisfied with his own waters, calls on his brother Neptune to aid him with his. He lets loose the rivers, and pours them over the land. At the same time, he heaves the land with an earthquake, and brings in the reflux of the ocean over the shores. Flocks, herds, men, and houses are swept away, and temples, with their sacred enclosures, profaned. If any edifice remained standing, it was overwhelmed, and its turrets lay hid beneath the waves. Now all was sea, sea without shore. Here and there an individual remained on a projecting hilltop, and a few, in boats, pulled the oar where they had lately driven the plough. The fishes swim among the tree-tops; the anchor is let down into a garden. Where the graceful lambs played but now, unwieldy sea calves gambol. The wolf swims among the sheep, the yellow lions and tigers struggle in the water. The strength of the wild boar serves him not, nor his swiftness the stag. The birds fall with weary wing into the water, having found no land for a resting-place. Those living beings whom the water spared fell a prey to hunger.
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"Deucalion and Pyrrha"
Giovanni Maria Bottalla
c. 1635
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Parnassus alone, of all the mountains, overtopped the waves; and there Deucalion, and his wife Pyrrha, of the race of Prometheus, found refuge—he a just man, and she a faithful worshipper of the gods. Jupiter, when he saw none left alive but this pair, and remembered their harmless lives and pious demeanor, ordered the north winds to drive away the clouds, and disclose the skies to earth, and earth to the skies. Neptune also directed Triton to blow on his shell, and sound a retreat to the waters. The waters obeyed, and the sea returned to its shores, and the rivers to their channels. Then Deucalion thus addressed Pyrrha:
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“O wife, only surviving woman, joined to me first by the ties of kindred and marriage, and now by a common danger, would that we possessed the power of our ancestor Prometheus, and could renew the race as he at first made it! But as we cannot, let us seek yonder temple, and inquire of the gods what remains for us to do.”

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They entered the temple, deformed as it was with slime, and approached the altar, where no fire burned. There they fell prostrate on the earth, and prayed the goddess to inform them how they might retrieve their miserable affairs. The oracle answered, “Depart from the temple with head veiled and garments unbound, and cast behind you the bones of your mother.” They heard the words with astonishment. Pyrrha first broke silence: “We cannot obey; we dare not profane the remains of our parents.” They sought the thickest shades of the wood, and revolved the oracle in their minds. At length Deucalion spoke: “Either my sagacity deceives me, or the command is one we may obey without impiety. The earth is the great parent of all; the stones are her bones; these we may cast behind us; and I think this is what the oracle means. At least, it will do no harm to try.” They veiled their faces, unbound their garments, and picked up stones, and cast them behind them. The stones (wonderful to relate) began to grow soft, and assume shape. By degrees, they put on a rude resemblance to the human form, like a block half-finished in the hands of the sculptor. The moisture and slime that were about them became flesh; the stony part became bones; the veins remained veins, retaining their name, only changing their use. Those thrown by the hand of the man became men, and those by the woman became women. It was a hard race, and well adapted to labor, as we find ourselves to be at this day, giving plain indications of our origin.
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"The Creation of Eve"
Henry Fuseli
c. 1791

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The comparison of Eve to Pandora is too obvious to have escaped Milton, who introduces it in Book IV. of “Paradise Lost”:
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“More lovely than Pandora, whom the gods
Endowed with all their gifts; and O, too like
In sad event, when to the unwiser son
Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she insnared
Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged
On him who had stole Jove’s authentic fire.”
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Prometheus and Epimetheus were sons of Iapetus, which Milton changes to Japhet. Prometheus has been a favorite subject with the poets. He is represented as the friend of mankind, who interposed in their behalf when Jove was incensed against them, and who taught them civilization and the arts. But as, in so doing, he transgressed the will of Jupiter, he drew down on himself the anger of the ruler of gods and men. Jupiter had him chained to a rock on Mount Caucasus, where a vulture preyed on his liver, which was renewed as fast as devoured. This state of torment might have been brought to an end at any time by Prometheus, if he had been willing to submit to his oppressor; for he possessed a secret which involved the stability of Jove’s throne, and if he would have revealed it, he might have been at once taken into favor. But that he disdained to do. He has therefore become the symbol of magnanimous endurance of unmerited suffering, and strength of will resisting oppression.
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Byron and Shelley have both treated this theme. The following are Byron’s lines:
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“Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity’s recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain;
All that the proud can feel of pain;
The agony they do not show;
The suffocating sense of woe.
“Thy godlike crime was to be kind;
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen man with his own mind.
And, baffled as thou wert from high,
Still, in thy patient energy
In the endurance and repulse
Of thine impenetrable spirit,
Which earth and heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit.”

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Byron also employs the same allusion, in his “Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte”:
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“Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him—the unforgiven—
His vulture and his rock?”
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Excerpt from The Age of Fables

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Venere e Cupido

2009-06-20T10:23:00.000-04:00

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Tristan and Isolde

2009-06-20T07:48:00.001-04:00

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I try to recollect
The way your sweat amused my fingertips.
The way your face enthralled my eyes.
With features like an ancient sculpture,
Warm in the Mediterranean sun.

The candlelight, our sunlight.
Our limbs, retired ruins,
Basking in the comforting amber glow.

...curling up inside my private tortures...

Isolde, promised to King Marke in marriage, and her handmaid, Brangäne, are quartered aboard Tristan’s ship being transported to the king's lands in Cornwall. The opera opens with the voice of a young sailor singing of a “wild Irish maid,” which Isolde construes to be a mocking reference to herself. In a furious outburst, she wishes the seas to rise up and sink the ship, killing all on board. In what is termed the "narrative and curse" her scorn and rage are directed particularly at Tristan, the knight responsible for taking her to Marke, and Isolde sends Brangäne to command Tristan to appear before her. Tristan, however, refuses Brangäne's request, claiming that his place is at the helm. His henchman, Kurwenal, answers more brusquely, saying that Isolde is in no position to command Tristan and reminds Brangäne that Isolde’s previous fiancé, Morold, was killed by Tristan.

Brangäne returns to Isolde to relate these events, and Isolde sadly tells her of how, following the death of Morold, a stranger called Tantris was brought to her. Tantris was found mortally wounded in a boat, and Isolde used her healing powers to restore him to health. She discovered during Tantris' recovery, however, that he was actually Tristan, the murderer of her fiancé. Isolde attempted to kill the man with his own sword as he lay helpless before her but, Tristan had looked not at the sword that would kill him, but into her eyes. His action pierced her heart and she was unable to slay him. Tristan was allowed to leave, but later returned with the intention of marrying Isolde to his uncle, King Marke. Isolde, furious at Tristan’s betrayal, insists that he drink atonement to her, and from her medicine-chest produces a vial to make the drink. Brangäne is shocked to see that it is a lethal poison.

Kurwenal appears in the women’s quarters and announces that Tristan has agreed to see Isolde after all. When Tristan arrives, Isolde tells him that she now knows that he was Tantris, and that he owes her his life. Tristan agrees to drink the potion, now prepared by Brangäne, even though he knows it may kill him. As he drinks, Isolde tears the remainder of the potion from him and drinks it herself. At this moment, each believing that their lives are about to end, the two declare their love for each other. Kurwenal, who announces the imminent arrival on board of King Marke, interrupts their rapture. Isolde asks Brangäne which potion she prepared and Brangäne replies, as the sailors hail the arrival of King Marke, that it was not a poisonous drink, but rather a love-potion.

King Marke leads a hunting party out into the night, leaving the castle empty save for Isolde and Brangäne, who stand beside a burning brazier. Isolde, listening to the hunting horns, believes several times that the hunting party is far enough away to warrant the extinguishing of the brazier -- the prearranged signal for Tristan to join her. Brangäne warns Isolde that Melot, one of King Marke’s knights, has seen the amorous looks exchanged between Tristan and Isolde and suspects their passion. Isolde, however, believes Melot to be Tristan’s most loyal friend, and, in a frenzy of desire, extinguishes the flames. Brangäne retires to the ramparts to keep watch as Tristan arrives.

The lovers, at last alone and freed from the constraints of courtly life, declare their passion for each other. Tristan decries the realm of daylight which is false, unreal, and keeps them apart. It is only in night, he claims, that they can truly be together and only in the long night of death can they be eternally united. During their long tryst, Brangäne calls a warning several times that the night is ending, but her cries fall upon deaf ears. The day breaks in on the lovers as Melot leads King Marke and his men to find Tristan and Isolde in each other's arms. Marke is heart-broken, not only because of his adopted son Tristan's betrayal but also because Marke, too, has come to love Isolde. The Act II love duet is regarded by some as the most rapturous in all of western music.

Tristan turns to Isolde, who agrees to follow him again into the realm of night. Melot and Tristan fight, but, at the crucial moment, Tristan throws his sword aside and Melot mortally wounds him.

Kurwenal has brought Tristan home to his castle at Kareol in Brittany. A shepherd pipes a mournful tune and asks if Tristan is awake. Kurwenal replies that only Isolde’s arrival can save Tristan, and the shepherd offers to keep watch and claims that he will pipe a joyful tune to mark the arrival of any ship. Tristan awakes and mourns his fate -- to be, once again, in the false realm of daylight, once more driven by unceasing unquenchable yearning. Tristan's mourning ends when Kurwenal tells him that Isolde is on her way. Tristan, overjoyed, asks if her ship is in sight, but only a sorrowful tune from the shepherd’s pipe is heard.

Tristan relapses and recalls that the shepherd’s mournful tune is the same that was played at the deaths of his father and mother. He rails once again against his desires and against the fateful love-potion until, exhausted, he collapses in delirium. After his collapse, the shepherd is heard piping the arrival of Isolde’s ship, and, as Kurwenal rushes to meet her, Tristan tears the bandages from his wounds in his excitement. As Isolde arrives at his side, Tristan dies with her name on his lips.

Isolde collapses beside her deceased lover just as the appearance of another ship is announced. Kurwenal spies Melot, Marke and Brangäne arriving and, in an attempt to avenge Tristan, furiously attacks Melot. Both Melot and Kurwenal, however, are killed in the fight. Marke and Brangäne finally reach Tristan and Isolde. Marke, grieving over the body of his “truest friend,” explains that he learned of the love-potion from Brangäne and has come not to part the lovers, but to unite them. Isolde appears to wake at this, but instead, in a final aria describing her vision of Tristan risen again, dies of grief..

.Wagner's "Traume" - Act II Love Duet of Flagstad & Melchior
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Song is "My Angel Gabriel" by Lamb
"Tragedy" (Austin Cello Version) by Brandi Carilile
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Poem written by Alina from Tabula Culpa
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For Joseph
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Nymph with Morning Glory Flowers

2009-06-20T02:52:00.000-04:00

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Anacreon's Song

2009-06-19T21:57:00.001-04:00

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Golden-Throned Muse, sing the song that in olden
Days was sung of love and delight in Teos,
In the goodly land of the lovely women:
Strains that in other

Years the hoary bard with the youthful fancy
Set to mirthful stir of flutes, when the dancing
Nymphs that poured the wine for the poet's banquet
Mixed it with kisses;

Sing the song while I, in the arms of Atthis,
Seal her lips to mine with a lover's fervor,
Breathe her breath and drink her sighs to the honeyed
Lull of the melics.

"Anacreon Reading his Poems at Lesbia's House"
Oil on Canvas
70 x 58 cm
Private Collection
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Lesbia's Sparrow

2009-06-19T20:49:00.000-04:00

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All you Loves and Cupids cry
and all you men of feeling
my girl’s sparrow is dead,
my girl’s beloved sparrow.
She loved him more than herself.
He was sweeter than honey, and he
knew her, as she knows her mother.
He never flew out of her lap,
but, hopping about here and there,
just chirped to his lady, alone.
Now he is flying the dark
no one ever returns from.
Evil to you, evil Shades
of Orcus, destroyers of beauty.
You have stolen the beautiful sparrow from me.
Oh sad day! Oh poor little sparrow!
Because of you my sweet girl’s eyes
are red with weeping, and swollen.
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The Mirror

2009-06-19T20:32:00.001-04:00

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Water Nymph

2009-06-18T20:29:00.000-04:00

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The Kiss of the Sphinx

2009-06-18T06:48:00.000-04:00

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This painting is grand melodrama painted in a blaze of fiery red. Locked in a passionate kiss, the sphinx presses her lips against the man's like a vampire, as if to suck the life out of him. It was Heinrich Heine's poem in the foreward to his Buch der Lieder of 1839 that inspired Stuck to paint this triumph of woman over man.

'The marble image came alive,
Began to moan and plead -
She drank my burning kisses up
With ravenous thirst and greed.

She drank the breath from out my breast,
She fed lust without pause;
She pressed me tight, and tore and rent
My body with her claws.'

The critic Hans Vollmer gave the following analysis of the underlying symbolism of Stuck's painting:

'What a psychologically exhausting treatment of the subject this is! There lies the sphinx, this time a bewitchingly beautiful woman, on a low slab of rock. With her lion's claws she clasps the body of the unfortunate, who has sunk to his knees, while her lips press against his. The classical myth is given depth by investing it with the universality of a modern symbol. We hear the old song about man and woman, about man's powerlessness when faced with a demonic woman, about physical strength against the psychical. As this body of a young man writhes in the claws of the sphinx, impotent, unresisting, as lips press against lips there in passionate desire - the moment of greatest pleasure also the moment of death - all of this is portrayed with a dramatic force which truly moves one to the depths of one's being and is incomparably poignant.'

This painting, like Sin, caused a sensation in Munich. Reproductions of it were removed from the windows of art galleries on the orders of the police. The painting is a universal symbol of the passion that leads to downfall.

1895
Oil on Canvas
60 x 68 cm
Szépmüészeti Mùzeum, Budapest, Hungary
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Odalisque #3: Odalisque

2009-06-13T08:30:00.000-04:00

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1874
Oil on Canvas
40.31 x 79.02
Art Institute, Chicago, Illinois
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Odalisque #2: La Grand Odalisque

2009-06-13T06:42:00.000-04:00

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1814
Oil on Canvas
Musee du Louvre, Paris
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Odalisque #1: L'Habillage

2009-06-13T00:00:00.001-04:00

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L'Habillage (The Dressing Room)
19th Century
Oil on canvas
92.3 x 72.7
Private Collection
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An odalisque was not a concubine of the harem, but it was possible that she could become one. Odalisques were ranked at the bottom of the social stratification of a harem, serving not the sultan, but rather, his concubines and wives as personal chambermaids. Odalisques were usually slaves given as gifts to the sultan. Generally, an odalisque was never seen by the sultan, but instead remained under the direct supervision of the Valide sultain. If an odalisque was of extraordinary beauty or had exceptional talents in dancing or singing, she would be trained as a possible concubine. If selected, an odalisque trained as a concubine would serve the sultan sexually, and only after such sexual contact would she change in status, becoming thenceforth a concubine. In the Ottoman Empire, concubines encountered the sultan only once—unless she was especially skilled in dance, singing, or the sexual arts, and thus gained his attention. If a concubine's contact with the sultan resulted in the birth of a son, she would become one of his wives.
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The Wave and the Pearl

2009-06-12T21:39:00.001-04:00

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The Wave and The Pearl
1862
Oil on canvas
745 x 346 cm
Madrid, del Prado Museum
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The Judgment of Paris

2009-06-12T10:16:00.000-04:00

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"There is no doubt in my mind that the concept of 'beautiful'
has its roots in sexual excitation and that its original meaning
was 'sexually stimulating' "

:: Sigmund Freud on the Psycho-Analysis of Aesthetic Experience ::
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Drawing on Freudian theories of sexuality and Kant's conception of the beautiful, French art historian Hubert Damisch considers artists as diverse as Raphael, Picasso, Watteau, and Manet to demonstrate that beauty has always been connected to ideas of sexual difference and pleasure. Damisch's tale begins with the judgment of Paris, in which Paris awards Venus the golden apple and thus forever links beauty with desire. The casting of this decision as a mistake—in which desire is rewarded over wisdom and strength—is then linked to theories of the unconscious and psychological drives. In his quest for an exposition of the beautiful in its relation to visual pleasure, Damisch employs what he terms “analytic iconology,” following the revisions and repetitions of the motif of the judgment through art history, philosophy, aesthetics, and psychoanalysis.

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Book:
Written by Hubert Damisch
Translated by John Goodman
University of Chicago Press, 1996
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Art:
Judgment of Paris
1639
Oil on canvas
709 x 367 cm
Madrid, del Prado Museum
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The Nature of Love

2009-06-05T21:20:00.000-04:00

The philosophical treatment of love transcends a variety of sub-disciplines including epistemology, metaphysics, religion, human nature, politics and ethics. Often statements or arguments concerning love, its nature and role in human life for example, connect to one or all the central theories of philosophy, and is often compared with, or examined in the context of, the philosophies of sex and gender. The task of a philosophy of love is to present the appropriate issues in a cogent manner, drawing on relevant theories of human nature, desire, ethics, and so on. This brief introduction examines the nature of love and some of the ethical and political ramifications.

The philosophical discussion regarding love logically begins with questions concerning its nature. This implies that love has a 'nature', a proposition that some may oppose arguing that love is conceptually irrational, in the sense that it cannot be described in rational or meaningful propositions. For such critics, who are presenting a metaphysical and epistemological argument, love may be an ejection of emotions that defy rational examination; on the other hand, some languages, such as Papuan do not even admit the concept, which negates the possibility of a philosophical examination. In English, the word 'love', which is derived from Germanic forms of the Sanskrit lubh (desire), is broadly defined and hence imprecise, which generates first order problems of definition and meaning, which are resolved to some extent by the reference to the Greek terms, eros, philia, and agape.
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The Nature of Love: Eros

2009-06-05T21:19:00.000-04:00

The term eros (Greek erasthai) is used to refer to that part of love constituting a passionate, intense desire for something, it is often referred to as a sexual desire, hence the modern notion of 'erotic' (Greek erotikos). In Plato's writings however, eros is held to be a common desire that seeks transcendental beauty-the particular beauty of an individual reminds us of true beauty that exists in the world of Forms or Ideas (Phaedrus 249E: "he who loves the beautiful is called a lover because he partakes of it." Trans. Jowett). The Platonic-Socratic position maintains that the love we generate for beauty on this earth can never be truly satisfied until we die; but in the meantime we should aspire beyond the particular stimulating image in front of us to the contemplation of beauty in itself.

The implication of the Platonic theory of eros is that ideal beauty, which is reflected in the particular images of beauty we find, becomes interchangeable across people and things, ideas, and art: to love is to love the Platonic form of beauty-not a particular individual, but the element they posses of true (Ideal) beauty. Reciprocity is not necessary to Plato's view of love, for the desire is for the object (of Beauty), than for, say, the company of another and shared values and pursuits.

Many in the Platonic vein of philosophy hold that love is an intrinsically higher value than appetitive or physical desire. Physical desire, they note, is held in common with the animal kingdom and hence of a lower order of reaction and stimulus than a rationally induced love, i.e., a love produced by rational discourse and exploration of ideas, which in turn defines the pursuit of Ideal beauty. Accordingly, the physical love of an object, an idea, or a person in itself is not be a proper form of love, love being a reflection of that part of the object, idea, or person, that partakes in Ideal beauty.

The Nature of Love: Philia

2009-06-05T21:12:00.001-04:00

In contrast to the desiring and passionate yearning of eros, philia entails a fondness and appreciation of the other. For the Greeks, the term philia incorporated not just friendship, but also loyalties to family and polis-one's political community, job, or discipline. Philia for another may be motivated, as Aristotle explains in the Nicomachean Ethics, Book VIII, for the agent's sake or for the other's own sake. The motivational distinctions are derived from love for another because the friendship is wholly useful as in the case of business contacts, or because their character and values are pleasing (with the implication that if those attractive habits change, so too does the friendship), or for the other in who they are in themselves, regardless of one's interests in the matter. The English concept of friendship roughly captures Aristotle's notion of philia, as he writes: "things that cause friendship are: doing kindnesses; doing them unasked; and not proclaiming the fact when they are doneÖ" (Rhetoric, II. 4, trans. Rhys Roberts).

Aristotle elaborates on the kinds of things we seek in proper friendship, suggesting that the proper basis for philia is objective: those who share our dispositions, who bear no grudges, who seek what we do, who are temperate, and just, who admire us appropriately as we admire them, and so on. Philia could not emanate from those who are quarrelsome, gossips, aggressive in manner and personality, who are unjust, and so on. The best characters, it follows, may produce the best kind of friendship and hence love: indeed, how to be a good character worthy of philia is the theme of the Nicomachaen Ethics. The most rational man is he who would be the happiest, and he, therefore, who is capable of the best form of friendship, which between two "who are good, and alike in virtue" is rare (NE, VIII.4 trans. Ross). We can surmise that love between such equals-Aristotle's rational and happy men-would be perfect, with circles of diminishing quality for those who are morally removed from the best. He characterizes such love as "a sort of excess of feeling". (NE, VIII.6)

Friendships of a lesser quality may also be based on the pleasure or utility that is derived from another's company. A business friendship is based on utility--on mutual reciprocity of similar business interests; once the business is at an end, then the friendship dissolves. Similarly with those friendships based on the pleasure that is derived from the other's company, which is not a pleasure enjoyed for who the other person is in himself, but in the flow of pleasure from his actions or humour.

The first condition for the highest form Aristotelian love is that a man loves himself. Without an egoistic basis, he cannot extend sympathy and affection to others (NE, IX.8). Such self-love is not hedonistic, or glorified, depending on the pursuit of immediate pleasures or the adulation of the crowd, it is instead a reflection of his pursuit of the noble and virtuous, which culminate in the pursuit of the reflective life. Friendship with others is required "since his purpose is to contemplate worthy actionsÖto live pleasantlyÖsharing in discussion and thought" as is appropriate for the virtuous man and his friend (NE, IX.9). The morally virtuous man deserves in turn the love of those below him; he is not obliged to give an equal love in return, which implies that the Aristotelian concept of love is elitist or perfectionist: "In all friendships implying inequality the love also should be proportional, i.e. the better should be more loved than he loves." (NE, VIII, 7,). Reciprocity, although not necessarily equal, is a condition of Aristotelian love and friendship, although parental love can involve a one-sided fondness.
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The Nature of Love: Romantic Love

2009-06-05T21:05:00.000-04:00

Romantic love is deemed to be of a higher metaphysical and ethical status than sexual or physical attractiveness alone. The idea of romantic love initially stems from the Platonic tradition that love is a desire for beauty-a value that transcends the particularities of the physical body. For Plato, the love of beauty culminates in the love of philosophy, the subject that pursues the highest capacity of men's thinking. The romantic love of knights and damsels emerged in the early medieval ages (11^th Century France, fine amour) a philosophical echo of both Platonic and Aristotelian love and literally a derivative of the Roman poet, Ovid and his Ars Amatoria. Romantic love theoretically was not to be consummated, for such love was transcendental motivated by a deep respect for the lady; however, it was to be actively pursued in chivalric deeds rather than contemplated-which is in contrast to Ovid's persistent sensual pursuit of conquests!

Modern romantic love returns to Aristotle's version of the special love two people find in each other's virtues-one soul and two bodies, as he poetically puts it. It is deemed to be of a higher status, ethically, aesthetically, and even metaphysically than the love that behaviourists or physicalists describe.
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The Nature of Love: Philosophical, Emotional & Spiritual

2009-06-05T20:05:00.000-04:00

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Some may hold that love is physical, i.e., that love is nothing but a physical response to another whom the agent feels physically attracted to. Accordingly, the action of loving encompasses a broad range of behaviour including caring, listening, attending to, preferring to others, and so on. (This would be proposed by behaviourists). Others (physicalists, geneticists) reduce all examinations of love to the physical motivation of the sexual impulse-the simple sexual instinct that is shared with all complex living entities, which may, in humans, be directed consciously, sub-consciously or pre-rationally toward a potential mate or object of sexual gratification.

Physical determinists, those who believe the world to entirely physical and that every event has a prior (physical cause), consider love to be an extension of the chemical-biological constituents of the human creature and be explicable according to such processes. In this vein, geneticists may invoke the theory that the genes form the determining criteria in any sexual or putative romantic choice, especially in choosing a mate. However, a problem for those who claim that love is reducible to the physical attractiveness of a potential mate, or to the blood ties of family and kin which forge bonds of filial love, is that it does not capture the affections between those who cannot or wish not to reproduce-that is, physicalism or determinism ignores the possibility of romantic, ideational love-it may explain eros, but not philia or agape.

Behaviourism, which stems from the theory of the mind and asserts a rejection of Cartesian dualism between mind and body, entails that love is a series of actions and preferences which is thereby observable to oneself and others. The behaviourist theory that love is observable (according to the recognisable behavioural constraints corresponding to acts of love) suggests also that it is theoretically quantifiable: that A acts in a certain way (actions X,Y,Z) around B, more so than he does around C, suggests that he 'loves' B more than C. The problem with the behaviourist vision of love is that it is susceptible to the poignant criticism that a person's actions need not express their inner state or emotions-A may be a very good actor. Radical behaviourists, such as B F Skinner, claim that observable and unobservable behaviour such as mental states can be examined from the behaviourist framework, in terms of the laws of conditioning. On this view, that one falls in love may go unrecognised by the casual observer, but the act of being in love can be examined by what events or conditions led to the agent's believing she was in love: this may include the theory that being in love is an overtly strong reaction to a set of highly positive conditions in the behaviour or presence of another.

Expressionist love is similar to behaviourism in that love is considered an expression of a state of affairs towards a beloved, which may be communicated through language (words, poetry, music) or behaviour (bringing flowers, giving up a kidney, diving into the proverbial burning building), but which is a reflection of an internal, emotional state, rather than an exhibition of physical responses to stimuli. Others in this vein may claim love to be a spiritual response, the recognition of a soul that completes one's own soul, or complements or augments it. The spiritualist vision of love incorporates mystical as well as traditional romantic notions of love, but rejects the behaviorist or physicalist explanations.

Those who consider love to be an aesthetic response would hold that love is knowable through the emotional and conscious feeling it provokes yet which cannot perhaps be captured in rational or descriptive language: it is instead to be captured, as far as that is possible, by metaphor or by music.

Evening Mood

2009-06-05T19:04:00.000-04:00

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Evening Mood
1882
Oil on canvas
207.5 x 108 cm (81 11/16 x 42 1/2 in.)
National Museum of Art, Havana
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The Eros, the Pathos, the 'Love-Wine' of Pluto

2009-06-03T21:08:00.000-04:00

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What is material falls down dead in the earth, as if returning to its real (till now hidden) owner. We've come to Pluto's treasury, his cornucopia, and it is inexhaustible.
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Like the suction of a ship as it's sinking, his cornucopia, a vagina to the Void, tunnel to which our losses flow...when even "our" refers to a corporal assumption, some temporary, time-bound custodian... an identity which too must die, as Pluto receives what is inevitably his, the whole visible world (and our attachment to it) becoming his Renewable Resource, winnings that inevitably return to the house.
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It's always surprising to hear a god talk.
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"I cannot help my depth, nor would I want to -- but what I want ... is someone to share it with." (Maybe I didn't hear him right--maybe he just gets horny--as it is usually only sudden lust that leads him to visit the upper air). He has a good set of wheels, and once tried to impress the Nymph Minthe with his chariot. "Like a little ride, my dear?"
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And would have seduced her easily had not Persephone gotten wind of it, and metamorphosed Minthe into sweet smelling mint. He got turned on to another nymph, too-- Leuce, who was similarly metamorphosed into the white poplar standing by the pool of Memory (reminiscent of Narcissus being metamorphosed into the flower that bears his name beside another strange pool). Pluto is a powerfully sexual god, but what he loves seems ever to be taken away from him.
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In this way he is not free of pathos --as it is he who ongoingly suffers the loss of a wife, even as he receives daily all the husbands and wives who themselves are losing each other.
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Coming and going, the agony of Pluto is to love what is fated to disappear. (How apt that he too suffers the eventual agony, the pathos of us all). But if Pluto loves what is fated to disappear, he loves also what will come around again. Perhaps it is the god's boon to have a long-term, a depth perspective. And so, for all the orgiastic, "unsocialized" urgency of his need, there is a patience in Pluto's loving. A patience not unlike the feeding rhythm of a shark, a patience that has its limits, and will get what it needs.
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Pluto is the solitary being quite content to receive what flows toward us when we are in our depths. Lying in wait behind deep rocks, the toothy ling cod darts out to feed; the alchemist in his laboratory, the deep-image poet at 2 a.m. But this contentment, this confidence in what arises from our deep places is not a constant, and there is something even in our depth (or only shortly removed from it) that isn't the whole story. Even a god has needs.
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Plato tells us, and Pluto shows us, it is need that gives birth to eros. And it is Pluto's need that brings him up for air, coming up like a volcano. Something seismic, a seizure of longing, brings him to the surface, to a common ground: where goddesses frolic across a wide green field. How lovely they are amidst flowers, flowers everywhere.
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Pluto needs ...needs to annex a portion of this beauty, this vulnerable, flower-like beauty, and wants to bring it home with him. He who is strong and solitary finds himself preying (praying?) at the outskirts of his own geography. He needs what Persephone represents. Perhaps he needs to find a way of connecting with his own vulnerability--and so, he marries it.
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He who lives amidst invisibles loves the color that might enter his life. Finally, the hues of a connection that is personal, the color of what is so poignantly transient, the color of the flowers rising up their stems, the color of her pubic hairs, the tint of, the smell of, her skin.
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This field he would deflower--would plough over and over, moist and rich as any humus, any human--a love so unforgettably... impossible.
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For what he takes to wife keeps looking back... keeps looking back for a mother--what no male can give. There was something about her eyes. That kept looking back, or kept seeing through him in search of another.
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And so, each time, each Spring she'd disappear (from him): the backward glance--like Lot's wife--turned the flower of his love into salt, a salt that seemed the crystallization of tears...
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James Hillman says that "you need a certain masochism, a masochistic touch in order to deepen--it is a mode of deepening into one's pain...There's a joy in that hurting because a layer of your skin's been peeled: you're that much more sensitive." And if we need a masochistic touch in order to deepen, this "masochistic touch" can certainly be found in Pluto, who is the god of depth.
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Though the love union of Pluto and Persephone begins with a rape--which on the surface doesn't suggest any masochism or sensitivity on the part of Pluto, still, the union is triggered by an incredibly powerful attraction that Pluto feels for her. Persephone is the one being desired. And later, Persephone is the one who controls (and dashes) Pluto's romantic impulses toward Minthe and Leuce. Plus it is Persephone who is cyclically leaving the relationship, in order to return to her mother for nine months of each year.
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So though on the surface Pluto would seem to be equated with "power," and Persephone with vulnerability and sensitivity, there's really a lot of power held by Persephone--who can turn Pluto's other love interests into vegetables, and a lot of "vulnerability" in Pluto. And as in any relationship, the distancing person, the one who withdraws, the one who doesn't want to dance (the more schizoid partner) in some way controls the relationship, and what happens on their "dance floor."
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Thus it suggests that in speaking about the eros of Pluto, and the eros of the "underworld marriage" that the couple may be attempting to work something out where there is an imbalance in the level of attraction, or the level of need. And that the lack of availability on the part of the beloved only increases the attraction of the lover, gives it more "depth," gives it more longing, more sensitivity.
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We find this Plutonic kind of eros in all the great love poetry, a somewhat masochistic flavor of longing for an other who is not quite available, an other who tends to disappear...Petrarach and Laura, Dante and Beatrice, the beloveds of the troubadours who were all married to somebody else. Shams disappearing to Damascus, and later killed, perhaps by Rumi's own son. Here, the unavailability of the beloved can not only increase the longing and sensitivity on the part of the lover, but take it to a dimension of depth in which the love becomes trans-personalized, spiritualized...
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In this way one's love is being initiated to another plane. The "masochism" becomes a kind of love wound, an opening in our psychic skin, a surface that had kept us bounded. But now the opened wound gives rise to an extra-dimensional, boundless longing for union --and from the wound's blood, a kind of alchemical wine, or "spirit" is distilled.
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Summer pales, like a ghost of stubborn Spring
This itch, this prayerful longing for heat
Belies an angel’s desire to take wing
So as you fall, then fall into me sweet
Persephone now your poet and guide
Night after day after night I’ll complete
Your saintly goodness with its darker side
As one without the other is naive
Past Limbo, to the Second Circle we slide:
When first you whisper that little white lie
The gods will laugh
The gods will cry
In this soft circle, Reason’s slave to desire
This feels like fun
This feels like fire
These small indiscretions may get lost over time
So much like love
So much like crime
As fine fine fabric slipping over your skin
This feels like silk
This feels like sin
Like a gentle dirty dream
Like a room where you can hide
Like confession in your sleep
Like expression sanctified
Like a devil, like a friend
Like a doctor who can end your pain
Like a pillow, like a kiss
Like a party, like a pill
Like a priest my lovely lips
As redemption will fulfill
Every spectral midnight fantasy
Each and every damning desire to be
Complicit with me
And as I leave you softly under the stars
Without a scratch
Without a scar
Like hell on earth slipping under your skin
This feels like love
This feels like sin

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Persephone by Patricia Barber
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The Lady of Shalott

2009-06-03T19:21:00.000-04:00

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On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
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John William Waterhouse
1888
Oil on Canvas
153 cm x 200 cm
Tate, London
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Dedicated to Anjelica M.
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Sin

2009-06-01T07:16:00.000-04:00

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Stuck exhibited Sin at the Secessionist Exhibition in Munich in 1893. It was bought by the Neue Pinakothek musuem. Stuck's Sin brought crowds flocking to the Neue Pinakothek, where it was installed immediately after it had been bought. In 'Das Jahr der schönen Täuschungen', the doctor and poet Hans Carossa described the deep impression that this famous work made on the viewer:

'The fame of the painting drove us through the galleries; we stopped nowhere and opened our eyes for the first time when we were finally standing opposite it. It was displayed on a special easel in its broad, monumental gold frame, […] and now all three of us stared at the night of hair and snake which did not allow too much of the pale, female body to be seen. The shadowed face with the bluish-white of the dark eyes was less important to me at first than the iron sheen of the nestling snake, its evil, beautifully designed head and the dull chequered pattern on its back, over which a delicate blue line ran like a seam. […] There are works of art that strengthen our sense of community, and there are others that seduce us into isolation. Stuck's painting belonged to the latter group.'

There are several versions of this painting. The painting shows Eve, no longer hesitating between good and evil, she has chosen evil and has become one with the snake, shown wrapped round her neck.

About a year after Stuck's Sin, Edvard Munch produced Madonna as part of his Frieze of Life series. It has the same ambivalent mixing of Christian iconography with sensual content, the same combination of eros and thanatos, love and death, pain and pleasure:

'Your face encompasses the whole of the earth. Your lips, as red as ripening fruit, gently part as if in pain. It is the smile of a corpse. Now the hand of death touches life. The chain is forged that links the thousand families that are dead to the thousand generations to come.'

Stuck turned Sin into an icon and included it in his artist's altar displayed at the Villa Stuck.

1893
Oil on Canvas
95 x 60 cm
Neue Pinakothek Museum