Greetings ghouls and gals. Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m your ghost of a host, Lucas Livingston. In the spirit of Halloween, with monstrous fiends and tortured souls lurking about in dark shadows, I bring you this haunting episode of a mythic monster from the Classical world, the Gorgon Medusa.

In the lineage of the earth goddess, Gaia, Medusa is a chthonic being, a creature born of the chaotic shamblings from Earth’s dark abyss, much as we encountered in previous episodes exploring dragons from ancient myth and legend, like Python and Typhon. The monstrous Medusa is well known to modern souls, so fiendishly ugly with twisting snakes for hair that a brief gaze upon her visage will transform you to stone.

In the 7th century BC poem Theogony, among the litany of the origins of the myriad of hybrid monsters and creatures conjured up in the minds of the Greeks or imported from neighboring cultures and myths, the poet Hesiod mentions the children of Ceto and Phorcys, themselves sister and brother by the earth goddess Gaia and the primordial sea Pontus. Among these children are Medusa and her two sisters, collectively known as the Gorgons, from the Greek word γοργός meaning grim, fierce, or terrible.

“And again, Ceto bore to Phorcys the fair-cheeked Graeae, sisters grey from their birth … and the Gorgons who dwell beyond glorious Ocean in the frontier land towards Night where are the clear-voiced Hesperides, Sthenno, and Euryale, and Medusa who suffered a woeful fate: she was mortal, but the two were undying and grew not old. With her lay the Dark-haired One [Poseidon] in a soft meadow amid spring flowers. And when Perseus cut off her head, there sprang forth great Chrysaor and the horse Pegasus…”
Theogony, ln. 270, trans. Hugh G. Evelyn-White, 1914.

We learn a lot from that short passage in the Theogony. We learn that the Gorgons were sisters to the Graiae. Those are the three elderly crones who share one eye and one tooth between them. And we learn about the three Gorgons, Stheno, Euryale, and Medusa. While Stheno and Euryale are immortal, Medusa learns the hard way that she, indeed, was not. Perseus, the hero of the modern film The Clash of the Titans, beheaded Medusa. And he was extra clever about it. As Medusa’s gaze would petrify any onlooker, Perseus observed Medusa indirectly through the reflective surface of the mirrored shield he had received from the goddess Athena. In the Metamorphoses, the Roman poet Ovid recounts the tale as Perseus approaches the lair of the Gorgon:

“Along the way, in fields and by the roads, I saw on all sides men and animals—like statues—turned to flinty stone at sight of dread Medusa’s visage. Nevertheless reflected on the brazen shield I bore upon my left, I saw her horrid face.

“When she was helpless in the power of sleep and even her serpent-hair was slumber-bound, I struck, and took her head sheer from the neck. To winged Pegasus the blood gave birth, his brother also, twins of rapid wing.”
Metamorphoses iv, 780-790, trans. Brookes More, 1922.

And in a manner of speaking, Medusa has children. In both passages, Hesiod’s Theogony and Ovid’s Metamorphoses, we learn that the blood spilt from the severed head of Medusa gave birth to two creatures, brothers, Chrysaor and the winged horse Pegasus. Yes, the majestic Pegasus sprung from the gore of Medusa. We’re all too familiar with Pegasus, from fairly tales and My Little Pony to Clash of the Titans and Dungeons & Dragons. And to be entirely faithful to Greek legend, there was only one Pegasus. Not like the teaming hoards of unicorns and fire mares. We don’t hear much about Chrysaor, though. His name essentially means “the dude with a golden weapon,” and, yeah, that’s pretty much all there is to say about Chrysaor, except that he also had a son named Geryon, which is the name of a pretty wicked slice at Dante’s Pizzeria in Chicago.

Back to the matriarch, though. Medusa wasn’t always such a beastly monster. In fact, even ancient authors relished in the ambiguous appearance of Medusa, at once both beautiful and terrifying. In an ode written in 490 BC, Pindar speaks of “fair-cheeked Medusa.” A few examples of Greek vase painting depict the slumbering Medusa as not entirely unattractive. And many later images show a much more attractive Medusa. A few lines later in that passage from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Perseus recounts the background story behind Medusa—the cruel curse that damned this once beautiful maiden:

“Beyond all others she was famed for beauty, and the envious hope of many suitors. Words would fail to tell the glory of her hair, most wonderful of all her charms—A friend declared to me he saw its lovely splendour. Fame declares the Sovereign of the Sea attained her love in chaste Minerva’s temple. While enraged she turned her head away and held her shield before her eyes. To punish that great crime Minerva changed the Gorgon’s splendid hair to serpents horrible. And now to strike her foes with fear, she wears upon her breast those awful vipers—creatures of her rage.” Metamorphoses iv, 792-802, trans. Brookes More, 1922.

So, to translate that poetic speech, Medusa was raped by the god Poseidon in the temple to Athena. As punishment for apparently allowing herself to fall victim to the attack on sacred ground of the virgin goddess, Athena transformed the beautiful Medusa into the fiend we commonly know.

At the end of that passage, Ovid also mentions the aegis, or the gorgonian, the face of Medusa worn upon the breastplate of Athena. Upon completion of his quests, Perseus gave the severed head of Medusa to Athena, which thereafter she would proudly sport as an apotropaic device, meaning to “turn away.” Even today the aegis is regarded as a talisman to ward off the evil eye, not unlike the Eye of Horus in some cultures today. Interestingly, the aegis and the Eye of Horus share much in common. In addition to both being protective talismans, they are both severed body parts, rent from the whole corpus in acts of violence. Despite that, they were both culturally and spiritually considered complete symbols in their own right—not mere fragments dislodged from some previous host. Both also entwine serpentine imagery about the central protective device.

Historians have often suggested that Medusa was not entirely the creation of the Ancient Greeks, but that she was part of a vast inheritance of myths, religion, and imagery from the Ancient Near East and from the Greek Bronze Age Minoan and Mycenaean civilizations. [1] It’s been suggested that the primordial Medusa could have been a snake goddess, a mistress of beasts, or perhaps a solar deity. [2] The Egyptian Eye of Horus is closely connected to the Egyptian snake goddess, Wadjet, the patron goddess of Lower Egypt, the Nile’s delta region. We often see Wadjet depicted as the uraeus, the snake entwined about the solar disk surmounting the heads of gods and perched upon the crown of Pharaoh. Wadjet and the Eye of Horus are quite conceivably one of the many pre-Greek influences that shaped the Gorgon Medusa.

The origins and imagery of Medusa is a startlingly vast topic, so we can only scratch the surface here. But do stay tuned for a future episode delving deeper into the primal realm of that nether being, the Gorgon Medusa. We’ll dare confront the petrifying gaze of the monstrous fiend as we closely examine wondrous salient works of ancient art exploring Medusa’s roots, influences, and evolutions.

Thanks for tearing in to the Ancient Art Podcast. Be-head yourself on over ancientartpodcast.organs to gorge yourself on a feast of high-resolution imagery with detailed credits for this and other episodes, and to chant the eldrich scroll that is the transcript. Your witch’s mirror of clairvoyance can scry the actions of the Ancient Art Podcast at http://facebook.com/ancientartpodcast and http://twitter.com/lucaslivingston. Do inscribe your mythic runes of commentary upon the walls of YouTube, iTunes, and Vimeo. And evoke the uncanny oracle of the podcast through diabolical incantations at http://feedback.ancientartpodcast.org or alight your broomstick to the email address of info@ancientartpodcast.org. As always, the shambling hoards of the Abyss and I, your host, Lucas Livingston, thank you for tuning in to the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2012 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

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Footnotes:

[1] Gisela M. A. Richter, “A Bronze Relief of Medusa,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, Vol. 14, No. 3 (Mar., 1919), pp. 59-60.

[2] A. L. Frothingham, “Medusa Apollo and the Great Mother,” American Journal of Archaeology, Vol. 15, No. 3 (Jul. – Sep., 1911), pp. 349-377.

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See the Photo Gallery for detailed photo credits.

Credits:

Plan 9 from Outer Space (1959)
New York Public Library
University of North Carolina Greensboro Special Collections & University Archives
Classical Art Research Center & the Beazley Archive
Johnny Decker Miller, beardofmoss.blogspot.com
Apple

Creepy sounds courtesy of The Freesound Project, created by the following artists, and remixed by Lucas Livingston:
DJ Chronos, Horror Drone 001-006 (ID’s: 52134, 52135, 52136, 52137, 52138, 52139)
DJ Chronos, Suspense 001, 004-015, 017 (ID’s: 56885, 56886, 56887, 56888, 56889, 56890, 56891, 56892, 56893, 56894, 56895, 56896, 56897)
Sea Fury, Monster (ID: 48662)
Sea Fury, Monster 2 (ID: 48673)
digenisnikos, scream3 (ID: 44260)
thanvannispen, scream_group_women (ID: 30279)
rutgermuller, Haunting Music 1 (www.rutgermuller.nl) (ID: 51243)

Note: This post includes segments that were excluded from the podcast episode.

After many long months of anticipation, the Art Institute of Chicago recently unveiled the new Mary and Michael Jaharis Galleries of Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Art (on November 11, 2012).

The new installation has quadrupled in size and, with its fresh redesign, encompasses the entire circuit overlooking the Art Institute’s open-air McKinlock Court (galleries 150-154). The long corridors of the new Jaharis Galleries lined with Classical treasures amidst bustling visitors almost give me the feeling of hobnobbing among the philosophers of an ancient Athenian stoa.

Ironically, with the increased space dedicated to Greek, Roman, and Byzantine art, the Art Institute’s collection is not substantial enough to fill it. Over a quarter of the approximately 550 works of art on display are on loan from various private collections and other museums, including the Oriental Institute and Smart Museum of Art at the University of Chicago, the Field Museum of Natural History, and the Getty. [1]

The Jaharis Galleries are designed in part by Kulapat Yantrasast of wHY Architecture, although I’m not exactly sure which part, as this design is a radical departure from Yantrasast’s earlier commission in the Art Institute, the Roger and Pamela Weston Wing of Japanese Art, featured in episode 34 of the Ancient Art Podcast, Haniwa Horse and Hokusai’s Ghosts. The refined simplicity and pedestrian-friendly layout of the Weston Wing seems to have gotten lost in translation from Japanese to Greek and Latin. The congested atmosphere of display cases in the Jaharis Galleries proves a little troublesome for groups larger than what I can count on my hands (I presently have all my fingers). You might find yourself careening into fellow visitors like a sailor dashed upon the Peloponnesian crags, lured by the sirenic call of some Athenian vase or Antonine portrait bust.

The galleries begin with two works that form a bridge to other collections in the museum, which broadly express inspirations for or from the art of Classical antiquity. The c. 3000 BC Mesopotamian Statuette of a Striding Figure on loan to the Art Institute reminds us that Classical Civilization had one foot firmly placed in the cultural heritage of the Ancient Near East and Egypt (aka “Oriental”), which we have explored repeatedly in the Ancient Art Podcast. [2]

The Art Institute’s refreshingly modern Cycladic Female Figurine from c. 2500 BC tantalizes visitors emerging from the museum’s Modern Wing with a simplified elegance and abstraction tantamount to Pablo Picasso. This reminds us of Classical art’s far-reaching fingers in European Modernism and in other areas of the collection, like 19th century American sculpture found in the adjacent Classically-inspired sculpture court [3], and in the Hellenized art of ancient Gandhara seen in the adjacent galleries of Asian art. [4]

Beyond these initial sentinels, the ancient collection is arranged chronologically and culturally. For example, Greek art begins with ceramics of the Mycenaean Bronze Age, takes us through the Geometric, Archaic, and Classical Periods, and concludes with Hellenistic art of the age following Alexander the Great before pleasantly segueing into Etruscan and Roman art.

One benefit of the aforementioned sea of display cases (as in Greek islands dotting the Aegean) is that the works have been relieved of their punitive “time-out” in corners and along the walls. I am especially delighted now to see most objects fully in the round, which had previously teased me for years with only glimpses of their back sides. As a friend and colleague put it: “There are some pretty good derrieres in the ancient galleries!”

Truly spectacular is the brilliance of radiant daylight streaming into the galleries—most notably the Greek gallery. The powerfully raking light beautifully highlights the subtle engravings on the surface of the Greek vessels, used by ancient painters to outline shapes and figures to be filled in with slip and pigment. It may cause something of an initial fright to see powerful sunlight bearing down on vividly colored 2,500 year-old treasures, but take comfort in knowing that the clay-based, fired colors of Ancient Greek ceramics are not particularly sensitive to light. Furthermore, a UV-light filtering film applied to the windows eliminates the more dangerous part of the light spectrum. [5]

Included among the ceramics, sculptures, and jewelry of the Hellenistic Period is a somewhat less than impressive fragmentary stone head of a Ptolemaic Egyptian pharaoh (Anonymous loan, 20.2012). Placed with its back against a large south-facing window, the details of this head can be difficult to discern on a sunny afternoon, but it at least serves as a vehicle for a discussion of Ptolemaic Egypt and an excuse to include one Egyptian piece in the newly expanded galleries.

Conspicuously absent from the Jaharis Galleries, though, is the Art Institute’s beloved collection of Ancient Egyptian art. Gone is the world’s most beautiful Mummy of Paankhenamun. The Statue of Ra-Horakhty has flown the coop. Osiris must have fallen in his own trap door. And that Middle Kingdom ship has sailed. With the ancient art galleries quadrupling in size, one can only wonder how there apparently wasn’t enough room for the Egyptian art. As the Egyptian collection gathers dust in storage, its future location within the Art Institute remains a mystery. Perhaps they could take the initiative and place it among the art of Africa? In the mean time, I’ll derive pleasure in pointing out that the coin display cases throughout the Jaharis Galleries are unabashedly pyramidal in shape.

As you make your way around the corner from Greek to Roman art, it’s tempting to establish a connection between ancient and modern. You waltz among the graceful curves of Hellenistic sculpture and vibrant primitivism of two bronze Sardinian figurines and Etruscan pieces set against the backdrop of the Art Institute’s gallery of public modern art in Chicago. This include maquettes for Alexander Calder’s Flamingo in Federal Plaza, Joan Miro’s variously titled piece [6] at the Cook County Administration Building, Pablo Picasso’s untitled sculpture in Daley Plaza, and the famed America Windows by Marc Chagall. Many of these and other Modern artists looked to antiquity as inspiration for their groundbreaking artistic styles.

Happily, no longer is the collection of ancient glass sequestered in its previous isolation ward, but is now fully integrated and dispersed throughout the Jaharis Galleries, serving to help contextualize the art of glass in the broader narrative of ancient civilization.

A delightful new promised gift to the Art Institute is a collection of eight Roman mosaics related to feasting and merriment. One of my favorites is this charming fish on a platter. The gentle smirk gracing its lips makes me wonder if the fish was not entirely displeased at being served for dinner. Or perhaps this helped a particularly over-empathetic Roman patron overcome his or her vegetarian inclinations. And while mosaic tesserae are generally not considered the most subtle of media, I am nonetheless struck by the level of detail in some of the designs. For example, the thoughtful placement of differently colored tesserae grants a simple sack the contrasting light and shadow of folds and creases.

And a visit to the new galleries is also a multi-sensory experience, for better or for worse. In addition to the tantalizing visual treats and pleasant touch of sunshine on one’s skin, the cacophonous ringing of overambitious alarms when one so much as graces some works of art with too discerning a glance can be a bit distracting. Thankfully, in the weeks since the galleries’ debut, it seems that many sensors have been re-tuned to be a little more forgiving.

For a far more rewarding audial experience, however, head to the back corner of the Roman collection, where you’ll find a little conservation nook with pieces that recently underwent restoration and an interesting video surveying the history of the collection and conservation techniques.

Another multimedia feature you’ll find dispersed throughout the new galleries is an interactive educational resource called LaunchPad installed on 16 Apple iPads. LaunchPad goes beyond the gallery labels, offering up a wealth of information for selected objects including historical context, form and function, method of manufacture, and connections with other works in the museum’s collection. You could easily spend an hour or two absorbed in LaunchPad alone.

Also on loan for an initial nine-month period are 51 stunning works from the British Museum organized in a special exhibition called Late Roman and Early Byzantine Treasures from the British Museum. As far as things go in the museum world, that’s a pretty lengthy period for a temporary exhibition. We can be thankful that the British Museum is remodeling their Byzantine galleries, which permits American audiences to become enriched by these treasures across the pond over in “The Colonies.” One of the highlights of the British Museum loan is the Lycurgus Cup, a fascinating 4th century Roman luxury object. Made of dichroic glass, meaning “two colors,” the cup changes from red, when light shines through the glass, to green, when reflecting off the surface. A clever lighting rig in the ceiling permits you to see this magical transformation before your very eyes.

Late Roman and Early Byzantine Treasures from the British Museum is on display at the Art Institute through August 2013. Be sure to catch it while it’s there, as it’ll likely be a long time before these exquisite treasury objects leave London again. But after the British Museum loan leaves, that space in the Art Institute will serve as a venue for rotating special exhibitions of Greek, Roman, and Byzantine art. So, with over 550 works in the new permanent Jaharis Galleries of Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Art, and the special exhibitions, we can look forward to plenty of new fodder for this epic adventure of the Ancient Art Podcast.

Thanks for tuning in. Don’t forget to “like” us on Facebook and follow me on Twitter. Subscribe to the podcast on iTunes, YouTube, and Vimeo, and be sure to give us a rating and leave you comments. You can also reach me at info@ancientartpodcast.org or use the online form at http://feedback.ancientartpodcast.org. Happy hunting and we’ll see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2013 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

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Footnotes:

[1] Press Release: Art Institute to Open the Mary and Michael Jaharis Galleries of Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Art, Art Institute of Chicago, 25 October 2012.

[2] See especially episode 5 on A Corinthian Pyxis, our three-part series on the Parthenon Frieze, and episodes 15 and 16 on the Origin of Greek Sculpture and the Metropolitan Kouros.

[3] See episode 13: Ellsworth Kelly’s “Chicago Panels”.

[4] See episode 7: Gandharan Bodhisattva.

[5] Personal correspondence with Art Institute conservator Emily Heye, 20 November 2012.

[6] You’ll find Joan Miro’s statue referred to as Moon, Sun, and One Star (Miss Chicago), and Miro’s Chicago.

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See the Photo Gallery for detailed photo credits.

Media courtesy of:

Apple Garageband
Art Institute of Chicago

Hello bold adventurers and welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m your host Lucas Livingston. Back in episode 53, we explored the mythology and artistry of that demonness of Greek legend, the serpentine Gorgon Medusa. As foretold, we now delve deeper into her primal lair and confront her petrifying gaze as we closely examine a few salient works of ancient art exploring Medusa’s roots, influences, and evolutions.

A point I made in the previous discussion of Medusa was that she may not have been solely the creation of the Ancient Greeks, but that she was part of a vast inheritance of myths, religion, and imagery from the Ancient Near East and from the earlier Bronze Age Minoan and Mycenaean civilizations. [1] It’s been suggested that the primordial Medusa could have derived from a snake goddess, a mistress of beasts, or perhaps a solar deity. [2] We previously compared Medusa to the Egyptian Eye of Horus and the Egyptian snake goddess, Wadjet. As part of Archaic Greece’s inheritance from its earlier Bronze Age civilization, could the famous Minoan Snake Goddess be the prototype for the figure of Medusa?

These faience figurines of the so-called Snake Goddess were excavated from the ruins of Knossos on the island of Crete by Sir Arthur Evans in 1903. There’s scant evidence about their true nature, but they’re certainly visually striking. They’re both a little over a foot tall and are dated to c. 1,600 BC. One seems almost enveloped by coiled serpents about her arms and torso, even slithering up her tall crown, perched like the cobra of the Egyptian uraeus (although, we should note that that part is a modern reconstruction by Evans). [3]

The other figurine grasps writhing serpents in her outstretched arms as if in some sort of ritual dance or chant. While neither figurine has writhing snakes for hair, it’s important to note that this feature of Medusa was a much later addition. As we already read last time in Hesiod’s Theogony, perhaps the earliest written account of Medusa, there’s no mention of snakes for hair.

Just a mere thousand years later than the Minoan figurines, but at least on the same island — Crete — we have a couple fragments from a 6th century BC temple showing the typical Archaic Greek example of the grimacing Medusa. We see recoiling snakes flanking her head, and on the surviving torso of one of fragments she grasps snakes in her clenched fists with a symmetry remarkably similar to the Minoan figurines. [2] That said, there’s no hard and fast evidence to support a connection between the Minoan figurines and Medusa beyond just visual similarities and geographic proximity. If you want to learn more about the Minoan Snake Goddess, there’s a great essay by Christopher Witcombe at arthistoryresources.net. And also, while it’s a little dated, check out the 1911 article “Medusa, Apollo, and the Great Mother” in the American Journal of Archaeology, volume 15, number 3. There’s a link to it ancientartpodcast.org/bibliography.

The grimacing Medusa makes her appearance throughout the Archaic Greek world. Way back in episode 5 of the Ancient Art Podcast on A Corinthian Pyxis in the Art Institute of Chicago, we were introduced to the sculptures from the pediment of the Temple to Artemis at Corfu just off the western coast of Greece. Built around 580 BC, this is the earliest known example of pedimental sculpture in Greece. The pediment is that large triangle above the entrance. Here we see Medusa with big bulging eyes and gaping mouth with lolling tongue. Tight curls of hair roll across her head ending with spitting vipers, and two thick serpents jut from behind her ears, swarming about her long braided locks cascading over her shoulders. Two more snakes are tied around her waist like a belt, facing each other similar to the grasped snakes from the contemporary temple fragment on Crete. In early examples it’s not uncommon to see Medusa in her entirety; not just as the disembodied head known as the aegis. And this Medusa is on the go, arms swinging and legs striding in the act of running. Flanking her are her two offspring, winged Pegasus and Chrysaor, who interestingly came into the world only upon Medusa’s beheading, but Greek art has a penchant for taking liberties with narrative chronology. If Medusa is thought to represent the wild mistress of beasts and feminine fury, as some have labeled her, it stands to reason here that she’d find herself decorating a temple to Artemis, the maiden goddess of the hunt, wilderness, animals, children, and childbirth. [4]

Jumping back about 70 years, one of the earliest representations of the Medusa and Perseus myth can be found on a tall painted vase from about 650 BC. Remember from last time that Perseus was the Greek hero, who beheaded Medusa. This is one of the more famous works of early Greek art known as the Polyphemus Amphora painted by … wait for it … the Polyphemus Painter. You also see it called the Eleusis Amphora, because that’s where it’s from. Most of the attention is showered on the grisly scene on the vase’s neck, the blinding of Polyphemus (from the Odyssey; totally unrelated here), but along the body we see a very early image of the ghastly Medusa, or more specifically her sisters, the other gorgons, Sthenno and Euryale, chasing after Perseus. We can sort of make out the legs of Perseus as he runs off through the reconstructed section. The goddess Athena stands strong between him and the gorgons. Swiveling it around, though, we see the crumpled, headless body of Medusa. It almost looks like she has a serpentine body instead of legs, but the dark section is actually a wrap tied around her waist, and she’s wearing a long skirt. You can just make out her little feet peaking out from the bottom of her skirt. The faces of Sthenno and Euryale are more mask-like than realistic faces—truly monstrous with huge, gaping, fanged mouths, protruding tongues, piercing eyes, and vicious draconian serpents writhing about their heads.

The geometric patterns on their chins almost seem to suggest beards. The bearded gorgon is not uncommon. The Nessos Amphora painted by, you guessed it, the Nessos Painter in c. 620-610 BC shows a similar scene of the gorgons giving chase to avenge the murder of their sister. But here we see bearded winged gorgons. The easy way to explain this is that the gorgon, as it evolved in Greek culture, became a pastiche of many ancient and foreign influences. The emerging Greek art, religion, and mythology adopted many Near Eastern and Egyptian concepts, including the already hodgepodge Egyptian god Bes, protector of the household, children, childbirth, and mothers, complete with grimace, beard, and sometimes tongue, wings, snakes, and all kinds of other attributes. He’s just a mess.

Perhaps my favorite examples of gorgons in Greek art are found decorating wide drinking cups, which look more like bowls to us. The kylix was a favorite type of cup in Greek drinking parties, which we already covered way way back in episode 3 of the podcast on the Donkey-headed Rhyton in the Art Institute of Chicago. We can imagine the surprise and chuckle shared by tipsy guests at an Ancient Greek symposium as you would tilt back your kylix to quaff your wine only to reveal the glaring gaze of a gorgon staring out at you from the bottom of your cup. If perhaps only for a brief second, you might worry if the gorgon’s piercing gaze will turn you to stone—perhaps a commentary on the dangers of drink. And on the underside of drinking cups we sometimes find two large glaring eyes, so-called “eye cups.” And this decoration is similarly connected with the gorgon Medusa. As the drinker lifts the kylix to his mouth, finishing his drink, he dons the monstrous mask of the gorgon. His friendly companions then witness his transformation from the good-natured symposiast to the glassy-eyed beast of alcohol’s domain.

Thanks for sharing the fun with me in our discovery of the creepy creature of chaos, the Gorgon Medusa.

Don’t forget you can “like” us on Facebook at facebook.com/ancientartpodcast and follow me on Twitter @lucaslivingston. You can subscribe to the podcast on YouTube, iTunes, and Vimeo, and be sure to give us a rating and leave you comments. You can also reach me at info@ancientartpodcast.org or use the online form at http://feedback.ancientartpodcast.org. As always, thanks for tuning in and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2013 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

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Footnotes:

[1] Gisela M. A. Richter, “A Bronze Relief of Medusa,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, Vol. 14, No. 3 (Mar., 1919), pp. 59-60.

[2] A. L. Frothingham, “Medusa Apollo and the Great Mother,” American Journal of Archaeology, Vol. 15, No. 3 (Jul. – Sep., 1911), pp. 349-377.

[3] Witcombe notes: “Large portions of the figurine seen today are reconstructions. Of the original figurine, only her torso, right arm, head, and her hat (except for a portion at the top) were found. It not at all clear, for example, that it is one single snake that has its head in her right hand and its tail in her left.” Christopher L. C. E. Witcombe, Women in the Aegean: Minoan Snake Goddess, 4. Evans’s “Snake Goddess.”

[4] Regarding Artemis’s role in childbirth

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See the Photo Gallery for detailed photo credits.

Music:

Antonín Leopold Dvorák (1841-1904)
String Quartet No. 10 In E Flat, Op. 51
musopen.org

Richard Wagner (1813-1883)
Fantasie, Funeral March and Finale
(From Siegfried, The Ring of the Nibelung)
musopen.org

Nightshift
Brian Boyko
freepd.com

Additional media courtesy of:

American Journal of Archaeology (1911)
Apple Garageband

Wikimedia Commons:
Rama, George Groutas, Wolfgang Sauber, sailko, Dr.K., Marcus Cyron, Angela Monika Arnold

flickr:
Panegyrics of Granovetter (Sarah Murray), mari27454 (Marialba Italia)

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(67 Photos)

Hello fellow travelers and welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m the astrolabe to your Copernicus, Lucas Livingston.

Over the last year, the blogosphere had been lit up with oracular prophesies of heavenly bodies, namely the supposed comet of the century, Comet ISON. Discovered on September 21, 2012, comet C/2012 S1, better known as Comet ISON, got its popular name after the place of its discovery, the International Scientific Optical Network (ISON) in Russia. Calculations of its trajectory predicted early on that ISON was destined to be one of the most spectacular comets visible by earthlings in a long while. Either that or it would be a colossal dud … or something in between. (Yeah, thanks for narrowing it down, astronomers!)

ISON received a whole heckuva lot of coverage leading up to the grand show. One interesting thing about ISON is that it had never before been witnessed by eyes from Earth. It’s a new comet, having never made the trip to the inner Solar System. And this unprecedented journey for ISON proved tragically fatal. On Thursday, November 28, 2013, as millions of Americans were indulging in their Thanksgiving Day feasts, Comet ISON took its closest approach around the Sun and blew up. So, as it turned out, those who predicted this would be the comet of the century, a dud, or something in between were spot on. If you want to learn more about the late Comet ISON from various astronomy blogs and podcasts, I’ve gathered a few references in the footnotes to the transcript for this episode at http://ancientartpodcast.org/60. [1]

While ISON was only making its first approach to the Sun, humanity has been gazing at the stars and other celestial phenomena for ages. And comets are no strangers to past civilizations. In the Classical World we find comets being interpreted as both harbingers of disaster and portents of fortune. And they sometimes found their way into the arts. In Pliny the Elder’s Natural History, we hear that a comet appeared for seven days shortly after the assassination of Julius Caesar. We know now that this was in July of 44 BC, four months after his death and coincidentally during his birth month. [2] This apparition of convenient timing was interpreted by the Roman people as a sign that their emperor had ascended to heaven to be among the gods. The cult of Julius Caesar grew and the Temple of the Divine Julius (Divus Iulius) was built in 42 BC and dedicated in 29 BC by his successor Augustus Caesar. [3] Coins minted in the years 19 and 18 BC during Augustus’s reign depict the handsome, young Augustus Caesar on one side, and on the other a shining, eight-pointed star with a distinct, fiery comet’s tail complete with the inscription “DIVVS IVLIVS” or “Divine Julius.” If you want to learn more about Caesar’s comet from the ancient authors, themselves, click on the transcript for this episode at http://ancientartpodcast.org/60. [4]

Nearly a century earlier, the sighting of a comet in the birth-year of Mithridates VI of Pontus (135 or 134 BC) and another comet in the year of his coronation (120 or 119) were said to have been heavenly portents foretelling his future greatness. This coin in the Art Institute of Chicago, minted during the king’s reign in the year 86 or 85 BC, shows a youthful portrait of the king on one side and a curtseying image of the winged horse Pegasus on the other. And nestled behind Pegasus is a depiction of one of Mithridates’s prophetic comets. There’s a fascinating paper by John Ramsey in the 1999 Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, which explores the theory that Mithridates adopted the Pegasus as something of a personal emblem, because it was within the constellation Pegasus where the prophetic birth comet had been observed. [5]

Hands down the most famous comet to modern observers is Halley’s Comet … well, at least until that unknown one out there with our name on it touches down. Halley’s Comet is so well known today because of its reliable predictability and frequent appearance, grazing past the earth and sun every 75 years or so. Its last appearance was in 1986 and it’s slated to return in 2061. Its prior appearance in 1910 was highly celebrated in the arts and the media. Astronomers at the University of Chicago Yerkes Observatory had just discovered that the earth would be passing through the comet’s debris cloud of poisonous cyanogen gas, which issued something of an end of the world, doomsday, hysteria among many. And, of course, souvenir peddlers didn’t fail to capitalize on this hysteria. [6]

Halley’s Comet gets its name from Edmond Halley, who, in 1705, using Newtonian physics, accurately predicted that the comet seen in 1682 would return in 1758. That happened to be after his death, but when it returned as predicted, the comet was henceforth dubbed Halley’s Comet.

Using computer models, the predictability of Halley’s Comet has allowed us to trace its appearances back through the Middle Ages into antiquity. While it wasn’t necessarily thought to be the same comet each time, it was recorded and variously interpreted across time and place. Perhaps its most famous rendering in art comes to us from the Bayeux Tapestry in Bayeux, France. Stretching almost 230 feet (70 meters) long, this linen cloth embroidered in wool commemorates the Norman invasion of England culminating in the Battle of Hastings in 1066. Here we see the comet soaring overhead as interested onlookers marvel at the ominous portent of disaster. Or so the Anglo-Saxons would have thought. To William the Conqueror and the Norman invaders of England, things turned out quite well. Interestingly, the fiery body with its curious geometric tail is labeled in the Latin inscription as a star. Or it could be the first ever recorded sighting of a Corellian Corvette from the planet Alderaan.

Comet Halley also makes a possible appearance as the Star of Bethlehem in Giotto’s Adoration of the Magi from circa 1305. Just four years earlier in 1301 Halley’s Comet soared across Giotto’s Italian sky.

We need to leave our comfort zone of Classical antiquity to find the most meticulous of astronomical records. Babylonian and Chinese documents record appearances of Halley’s Comet in 87 and 164 BC. Chinese records let us push back our earliest know sighting even further to 240 BC. To shake up the establishment, however, a July 2010 article in the Journal of Cosmology by Doctors Daniel Graham and Eric Hintz, makes a strong case for an Ancient Greek sighting of Halley’s Comet in 466 BC. [7]

This shouldn’t steal any thunder away from China, though. A fascinating discovery from Mawangdui, China in 1978 shows us just how meticulously ancient Chinese observers studied these celestial phenomena. The 4th century Comet Atlas meticulously catalogues a myriad of different comet formations. To the untrained eye, these sketches may seem like imaginary fantasy, but the late, great astronomer Carl Sagan, among others, confirmed the amazingly strong similarity between the ancient Chinese illustrations and modern comet photography [8].

Curiously, if you look closely at the Chinese Comet Atlas, you’ll note in this section that the first illustration on the left bears a striking resemblance to the swastika. The swastika will perhaps be forever damned in modern consciousness by its association with history’s dark chapter of the Third Reich and the Nazi Party, but we must try to step back and remind ourselves that it’s an ancient and originally positive, auspicious symbol. It’s also a global symbol, having appeared independently in visual culture across the world. To the Navajo of America it’s a sacred symbol of healing. [9] In Japan, the swastika, or manji, is a symbol of longevity and was even adopted by the famous woodblock print artist Hokusai as part of his artist name. We find the swastika across the cultures of Eurasia stretching back as far as prehistoric times in Neolithic rock art. A quick trip to the US Holocaust Museum website tells us that word swastika comes from the Sanskrit “svastika” meaning “good fortune” or “well-being.” [10]

One wonders how populations across the globe with no perceivable contact would have been independently inspired to produce the same geometric design in their art. So often visual inspiration for early peoples comes from the natural world … the earth and sea around us, plants and animals, and the sky above … the sun, the moon, planets, and stars, and most distinctly, comets, appearing spontaneously and briefly in the heavens and visible across the globe to most of the world’s inhabitants. If a comet can appear as a swastika in the sky, as evidenced by the Chinese Comet Atlas, it’s unsurprising that this peculiar phenomenon would be recorded by witnesses the world over.

The swastika is certainly a curious shape for a comet, though. The idea is that we’re looking at a comet more or less from behind moving away from earth toward the sun. As comets are heated by the sun, streams of vapor escape, which produce the signature comet tail. Comets can easily have more than one tail, as we see in the many different designs in the Comet Atlas. Imagine a four-tailed comet seen from behind with a little bit of a spin or rotation. Theoretically, this would give us a somewhat softened version of the swastika. Well, if you don’t take my word for it, I encourage you to read the interesting article “The astronomical origins of the swastika motif” by Fernando Coimbra. You’ll find a link to this article, more on the Chinese comet atlas, and other references for further study at http://ancientartpodcast.org/60. [11]

As we began with the contemporary, so do we conclude. To wrap up, another celestial body worthy of inclusion here, while not a comet, is the asteroid Apophis. Apophis caused something of a stir after its discovery in 2004 when initial calculations indicated a small chance that it could impact Earth in 2029. [12] I’m compelled to imagine that its finders chose the dubious name Apophis, heralding its ignominious parallel to the Egyptian demon serpent of chaos and destruction. But no, apparently they’re just Stargate fans. [13]

Refined calculations and observations eliminated the risk of impact in 2029. For a while, though, there remained a risk that when Apophis passes us in 2029 the gravitational nudge of the Earth would set it on a collision course with Earth in 2036. Rest assured, though, friendly listeners, that this probability is known now to be minimal. [12]

So next time you’re out on a clear night, when you spy with your eye to the starlit sky, consider the legends and tales our ancient ancestors shared gazing upon those same celestial objects and ponder the myriad of inspirations our cosmic neighbors had upon our visual culture.

Thanks for tuning in to the Ancient Art Podcast. If you dig the podcast, be sure to “like” us on Facebook at http://facebook.com/ancientartpodcast and give us a nice 5-star rating on iTunes. You can follow me on Twitter @lucaslivingston and can subscribe to the podcast on YouTube, iTunes, and Vimeo, where you’ll hopefully give us a good rating and leave you comments. You can also email your questions and comments to me at info@ancientartpodcast.org or use the online form at http://feedback.ancientartpodcast.org. Thanks for tuning in and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2014 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

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Footnotes:

[1] References on Comet ISON:

Phil Plait. “12 Cool Facts about Comet ISON.” Slate.com.

The 365 Days of Astronomy, the daily podcast of the International Year of Astronomy 2009 – Weekly Space Hangout – Comet ISON Special. November 8, 2013.

The 365 Days of Astronomy, the daily podcast of the International Year of Astronomy 2009 – Cosmic Perspective Radio – Brother Guy Consolmagno. November 28, 2013.

The 365 Days of Astronomy, the daily podcast of the International Year of Astronomy 2009 – Astronomy Cast Ep. 324 – Sun Grazers. December 9, 2013.

[2] John T. Ramsey and A. Lewis Licht, The Comet of 44 BC and Caesar’s Funeral Games, Scholars Press, 1997.

[3] James Grout, “Temple of the Divine Julius,” Encyclopaedia Romana. Retrieved February 11, 2014.

[4] Quotes from primary sources on Caesar’s Comet:

“Rome is the only place in the whole world where there is a temple dedicated to a comet; it was thought by the late Emperor Augustus to be auspicious to him, from its appearing during the games which he was celebrating in honour of Venus Genetrix, not long after the death of his father Cæsar, in the College which was founded by him. He expressed his joy in these terms: ‘During the very time of these games of mine, a hairy star was seen during seven days, in the part of the heavens which is under the Great Bear. It rose about the eleventh hour of the day, was very bright, and was conspicuous in all parts of the earth. The common people supposed the star to indicate, that the soul of Cæsar was admitted among the immortal Gods; under which designation it was that the star was placed on the bust which was lately consecrated in the forum.’ This is what he proclaimed in public, but, in secret, he rejoiced at this auspicious omen, interpreting it as produced for himself; and, to confess the truth, it really proved a salutary omen for the world at large.”

Pliny the Elder, The Natural History, trans. John Bostock, M.D., F.R.S., H.T. Riley, Esq., B.A., Book 2, Chapter 23. Accessed 20 January 2014.

“LXXXVIII. He died in the fifty-sixth year of his age, and was ranked amongst the Gods, not only by a formal decree, but in the belief of the vulgar. For during the first games which Augustus, his heir, consecrated to his memory, a comet blazed for seven days together, rising always about eleven o’clock; and it was supposed to be the soul of Caesar, now received into heaven: for which reason, likewise, he is represented on his statue with a star on his brow. The senate-house in which he was slain, was ordered to be shut up, and a decree made that the ides of March should be called parricidal, and the senate should never more assemble on that day.”

C. Suetonius Tranquillus, The Lives of the Twelve Caesars, Volume 01: Julius Caesar by Suetonius, Project Gutenberg. Accessed 20 January 2014.

“‘…Meanwhile transform the soul, which shall be reft from this doomed body, to a starry light, that always god-like Julius may look down in future from his heavenly residence upon our Forum and our Capitol.’

“Jupiter hardly had pronounced these words, when kindly Venus, although seen by none, stood in the middle of the Senate-house, and caught from the dying limbs and trunk of her own Caesar his departing soul. She did not give it time so that it could dissolve in air, but bore it quickly up, toward all the stars of heaven; and on the way, she saw it gleam and blaze and set it free. Above the moon it mounted into heaven, leaving behind a long and fiery trail, and as a star it glittered in the sky.”

P. Ovidius Naso, Metamorphoses, Book 15, Card 745, trans. Brookes More, 1922. Accessed 20 January 2014.

[5] Ramsey, John T. “Mithridates, the Banner of Ch’ih-Yu, and the Comet Coin.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, Vol. 99 (1999), pp. 197-253.

[6] Comets in History(Does Ignorance Rule?) ©1999, University of Wisconsin, Board of Regents. Accessed 8 February 2014.

Josh Sokol. HubbleSite – ISONblog – Great Moments in Comet History: Comet Halley, 1910. 30 August 2013. Accessed 8 February 2014.

[7] Graham, Daniel W., Ph.D., and Eric Hintz, Ph.D., “An Ancient Greek Sighting of Halley’s Comet?” Journal of Cosmology, v. 9 (2010), 2130-2136. Accessed 8 February 2014.

[8] Coimbra, Fernando, Ph.D., “The Sky on the Rocks: Cometary Images in Rock Art,” Quaternary and Prehistory Group, Centre of Geosciences.

[9] Aigner, Dennis J. (2000). The Swastika Symbol in Navajo Textiles. Laguna Beach, California: DAI Press. ISBN 0-9701898-0-X.

Dottie Indyke. “The History of an Ancient Human Symbol.” April 4, 2005. Originally from The Wingspread Collector’s Guide to Santa Fe, Taos and Albuquerque, Volume 15.

[10] United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. “History of the Swastika.” Holocaust Encyclopedia. Accessed on 7 February 2014.

[11] References on the Chinese Comet Atlas:

Coimbra, Fernando, Ph.D., “The astronomical origins of the swastika motif,” Proceedings of the International Colloquium – The intellectual and  spiritual expressions of non-literate peoples, 2011, Atelier, Capo di Ponte: 78-90.

“Han Dynasty silk comet atlas,” China International Travel Service Limited. Retrieved February 11, 2014.

[12] References on Asteroid Apophis:

Neil Degrass Tyson, Alan Alda, Kristen Schaal, Scott Adsit, Eugene Mirman, StarTalk Radio – Live at the Bell House (Part 1). September 15, 2011.

“Predicting Apophis’ Earth Encounters in 2029 and 2036,” NASA Near Earth Object Program. Last updated April 13, 2014 as of date retrieved: February 9, 2014.

Bill Cooke, “Will Earth break up 2004 MN4?” Astronomy Magazine, February 10, 2005. Retrieved February 9, 2014.

Bill Cooke, “2004 MN4: swing and a miss,” Astronomy Magazine, December 27, 2004. Retrieved February 9, 2014.

Ian O’Neill, “Asteroid Apophis Just Got Supersized,” Discovery News, January 9, 2013. Retrieved February 9, 2014.

[13] Darren Sumner, “Scientists: Apophis could destroy Earth in 2036,” Gateworld: Your Complete Guide to Stargate, February 10, 2011. Retrieved February 9, 2014.

Bill Cooke, “Asteroid Apophis set for a makeover,” Astronomy Magazine, August 18, 2005. Retrieved 8 October 2009.

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See the Photo Gallery for detailed photo credits.

Credits:

Gustav Theodore Holst (1874-1934)
The Planets, op. 32 (Mars, the Bringer of War)
US Air Force Band
musopen.org

David William Lamont
Corellian CR90E – C
dlamont.deviantart.com
Used with permission

This article includes additional highlighted information not found in the video.

This is the third installment of a three-part series on dogs in antiquity. First we explored the ancient hairless breeds of the New World, including the popular ceramic funerary effigy of the Colima dog from a couple thousand years ago, and we met Sputnik, my awesome, little, hairless Xoloitzcuintli-Chihuahua puppy (okay, he’s 5 years old). Then we traveled to ancient China to look closely at an expressive mastiff figurine from the Han dynasty. We learned a little about the roles of dogs in oracles, sacrifice, and the culinary scene (egad!) and read a bit of the Toa Te Ching talking about straw dogs. Now we’re heading home to the Classical World to consider the importance of dogs in ancient Greece and Rome.

Perhaps the most heartfelt and memorable appearance of a dog coming to us from Greek antiquity is found in Homer’s Odyssey. In Book 17, toward the end of the poem, after 20 years away from home, after the epic slaughter at the fields and citadel of Troy, after the seemingly endless wanderings and adventures on the wine-dark sea, our eponymous hero Odysseus, king of Ithaca, disheveled and unrecognized, finally returns home. Unrecognized by all but one, his ever-faithful dog Argos:

“As they were talking, a dog that had been lying asleep raised his head and pricked up his ears. This was Argos, whom Odysseus had bred before setting out for Troy. … As soon as he saw Odysseus standing there, he dropped his ears and wagged his tail, but he could not get close up to his master [and] Argos passed into the darkness of death, now that he had seen his master once more after 20 years.” (Homer, Odyssey, Book 17) [1]

Half a millennium later, we find another heartwarming tearjerker in the loss of Peritas, Alexander the Great’s favorite dog. While the story is mentioned only by the first century Greek biographer and philosopher Plutarch, he tells us that, “It is said, too, that when he lost a dog also, named Peritas, which had been reared by him and was loved by him, he founded a city and gave it the dog’s name.” (Plutarch, Life, LXI.3) [2]

But life for dogs in ancient Greece wasn’t always so rosy. After the tragic death of the young Patroclus, sidekick to Achilles, against the Trojan hero Hector, we learn the fate of his hounds at his funeral celebration:

“Patroclus had owned nine dogs who ate beside his table. Slitting the throats of two of them, Achilles tossed them on the pyre.” (Homer, Iliad, Book 23)

Much as we learned last time in ancient China, dogs were favored by the Greeks as sacrificial victims for purification after death and birth. [3]

Despite the presence of dogs at the Trojan War, evidence in the Iliad and Odyssey suggests that the Greeks at the time of Homer primarily used dogs for hunting, shepherding, and guarding, not warfare. In fact, there’s scanty visual or literary evidence of the Greeks employing war dogs even through the Classical era. [4] The closest suggestions of war dogs comes to us through accounts not of the Greeks, but of the cultures to the east of Greece: Neo-Assyrian, Persian, Lydian, etc. As recorded in Aelian’s De Natura Animalia, we do find one potential Greek war hound memorialized in a mural in the Stoa Poikile in the Athenian Agora, who followed his hoplite master into battle against the Persians at the Battle of Marathon in 490 BC. More likely, however, this was a faithful guard or hunting dog rather than a trained war dog:

“An Athenian took with him a Dog as fellow-soldier to the battle of Marathon, and both are figured in a painting in the Stoa Poecile, nor was the Dog denied honour but received the reward of the danger it had undergone in being seen among the companions of Cynegirus, Epizelus, and Callimachus. They and the Dog were painted by Micon, though some say it was not his work but that of Polygnotus of Thasos.” (Aelian, De Natura Animalia, vii. 38) [5]

A particularly stunning representation of hounds in action is seen on the so-called Alexander Sarcophagus in the Istanbul Archaeology Museum. This is not the sarcophagus of Alexander the Great. Rather, it depicts Alexander in the Battle of Issus on one side and a lion hunt on the other. Interestingly and supporting the scanty evidence of the Greeks using dogs in warfare, the hounds depicted on the sarcophagus appear only in the hunting scenes.

As today, dogs in classical antiquity appeared in many breeds. Ancient authors and inscriptions give us the names of some of these breeds. Native to Greece, the swift Laconian or “Spartan” breed was well regarded for its hunting prowess. Far heavier and ideal as a sturdy guard dog or hunter of large game was the Molossian, possibly an ancestor to the modern mastiff. And the Cretan was supposedly a crossbreed of the Laconian and Molossian. That’s Cretan, not cretin. Big difference. As for non-Greek breeds that the Greeks enjoyed, the Celtic Vertragus, with its lean, sleek features, is often cited as an ancestor to the modern greyhound.

Now, I’m not a card-carrying American Kennel Club certified dog show judge, but when I look at this mosaic in the Art Institute of Chicago, I see many of the features that the Greeks admired in the Vertragus breed. Around AD 150 in his Cynegeticus (a treatise on “Hunting with Dogs”), the Greek military historian Arrian wrote that Vertragus dogs:

“…in figure, the most high-bred are a prodigy of beauty; — their eyes, their hair, their colour, and bodily shape throughout. Such brilliancy of gloss is there about the spottiness of the parti-colored, and in those of uniform colour such glistening over the sameness of tint, as to afford a most delightful spectacle to an amateur of coursing. (III.7) … [They should] be lengthy from head to tail; for in every variety of dog, you will find, on reflection, no one point so indicative of speed and good breeding as length; … [with] light and well-articulated heads. … Their eyes should be large, up-raised, clear, strikingly bright. The best look fiery, and flash like lightning, resembling those of leopards, lions, or lynxes. (IV.5) … Let the ears of your [vertragi] be large and soft, so as to appear from their size and softness, as if broken. The neck should be long, round, and flexible … tails fine, long, rough with hair, supple, flexible, and more hairy towards the tip. (V)” (Arrian, Cynegeticus) [7]

Ancient authors tell us that getting a large guard dog is the first thing a farmer should do. “Never, with [a dog] on guard,” says Roman poet Virgil, “need you fear for your stalls a midnight thief, or onslaught of wolves, or Iberian brigands at your back” (Georgics, III.404ff) Though some authors are sure to point out that you ought make sure the dog was trained by a shepherd rather than hunter, so it’ll guard the sheep rather than chase the rabbit. A white dog is best for the shepherd, so you may see it clearly at night, while a black dog is ideal for the farm to terrify thieves in day and for stealth in darkness.

Arrian wrote the aforementioned Cynegeticus as something of a supplement to an earlier treatise on dogs also entitled Cynegeticus written by Xenophon in the late 5th or early 4th century BC. Xenophon tells us that we should “give the hounds short names, so as to be able to call to them easily.” [8] A few of the names he suggests include Dash, Rover, Sparky, Killer, and Blossom (in order, that’s Ormé, Poleus, Phlegon, Kainon, and Antheus). If you want to see the whole list, I’ve published a table of about 50 ancient Greek dog names mostly from from Xenophon’s Cynegeticus written in Greek and Latin scripts as well as their approximate English equivalents. You’ll find that list online at ancientartpodcast.org/dogs. Sometimes I’ve taken some interpretive liberties with the English equivalent. When browsing the list, if you have a suggestion for a more accurate English name, please leave a comment or shoot me an email at info@ancientartpodcast.org.

But not all dogs in the classical world were bred for sport or duty. Supposedly originating from the island of Malta, the Melitan was a small, long-haired, short-legged lap dog. Evidence suggests that small dogs, although not new, came to be favored during the Roman period, particularly in Roman Britain. This might signify a shift in attitude toward ownership of dogs as pets rather than solely the traditions of hunting, herding, and guarding. This shift could also betray the taste for conspicuous consumption among the Roman elite, where one could afford the expense of small, showy, “non-utilitarian” pets. [9]

Perhaps the most famous dog from Greco-Roman antiquity is Cerberus, the three-headed guard dog at the entrance to Hades, the underworld. As we learned in the first of our three episode on “Dogs in Antiquity” when we explored the hairless dogs of the ancient Americas, dogs hold prominent places as emissaries of the dead and guides for the soul … or to use the fancy Greek word, “psychopomp.” [10] With the ancient funerary effigies of the Colima culture from West Mexico, the form of the dog would often be altered or enhanced with a double body, turtle shell, human face, or some other transmutation. Did this serve to grant the canine emissary greater spiritual power while also evoking a deliberately supernatural or otherworldly guise? It seems, then, perhaps not too far fetched to see a similar rationalization for granting three heads to Cerberus.

If you want to read more about dogs in the Greco-Roman world, be sure to browse the footnotes of this essay, where you’ll find a good number of additional resources. One of those good resources is the article “Dogs in Ancient Greece and Rome” in the Encyclopaedia Romana website, hosted by the University of Chicago. You’ll also find a fair number of references there for additional reading. [11]

If you dig the Ancient Art Podcast, be sure to “like” us on Facebook at facebook.com/ancientartpodcast and give us a nice 5-star rating on iTunes. You can follow me on Twitter @lucaslivingston and can subscribe to the podcast on YouTube, iTunes, and Vimeo, where you’ll hopefully give us a good rating and leave you comments. You can also email your questions and comments to me at info@ancientartpodcast.org or use the online form at http://feedback.ancientartpodcast.org. Thanks for visiting the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2014 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

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Footnotes:

[1] Jarrett A. Lobell, Eric A. Powell and Paul Nicholson, “Constant Companions,” Archaeology, Vol. 63, No. 5 (September/October 2010), p. 28.

[2] James Grout, “Peritas,” Encyclopaedia Romana.

[3] Jarrett A. Lobell, Eric A. Powell and Paul Nicholson, “Sacrificial Dogs,” Archaeology, Vol. 63, No. 5 (September/October 2010), p. 30.

[4] E. S. Forster, “Dogs in Ancient Warfare,” Greece & Rome, Vol. 10, No. 30 (May 1941), pp. 114-117.

[5] Aelian, On the Characteristics of Animals (De Natura Animalia), Trans. A. F. Scholfield, Harvard University Press, 1954, p. 150 (vii. 38).

[6] James Grout, “Dogs in Ancient Greece and Rome,” Encyclopaedia Romana.

[7] Arrian, On Coursing (Cynegeticus), Trans. J. Bohn, London, 1831.

[8] Xenophon’s Cynegeticus. “On Hunting ” in Xenophon in Seven Volumes, 7. E. C. Marchant, G. W. Bowersock, tr. Constitution of the Athenians. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA; William Heinemann, Ltd., London. 1925.

[9] Jarrett A. Lobell, Eric A. Powell and Paul Nicholson, “Dogs of Roman Britain,” Archaeology, Vol. 63, No. 5 (September/October 2010), p. 31.

[10] Jarrett A. Lobell, Eric A. Powell and Paul Nicholson, “Guardians of the Soul,” Archaeology, Vol. 63, No. 5 (September/October 2010), p. 35.

[11] James Grout, “Greek and Roman Dogs,” Encyclopaedia Romana.

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(54 Photos)

Thousands of visitors to the Art Institute of Chicago pass by this modest object every day, yet hardly give it a second thought. At first glance, this may not look like the most exciting object in the museum; certainly not against celebrated treasures like Rembrandt, Van Gogh, and Picasso. But its subdued appearance belies its cultural and aesthetic significance at the crossroads of East and West, where great empires collide.

It stands at about a foot tall (30.5 centimeters) and is made of phyllite, a type of soft stone similar to soapstone. We call this a Gandharan Stupa Reliquary. What eldritch incantation did I just utter? Well, let’s break down that name starting from the end. Simply put, a reliquary is a container for a relic. So, what’s a relic? You may have visited a place of worship once that housed the relics of some sacred person. Museums can be full of relics. Bits of cloth, slips of paper, stones, and human remains. There’s a relic of the tooth of St. John the Baptist in the Art Institute housed within a beautiful gothic reliquary.

So, reliquary?

Check!

So, what’s a stupa? “Stupa” is a Sanskrit word meaning “heap.” A stupa is a mound or dome-shaped memorial or funerary monument prevalent in India, South Asia, and the Himalayas. Stupas contain the remains of Buddhist holy figures or other relics. It is said that when the historical Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, died some time in the 6th through 4th centuries BC, his body was cremated and the ashes were entombed under eight stupas.

Later in the 3rd century BC, the Indian emperor Ashoka the Great of the Mauryan Dynasty excavated Buddha’s ashes and is said to have subdivided the ashes among 84,000 stupas spread across his expanding Buddhist empire. Stupas are not just tombs, but holy shrines, to which Buddhist devotees make pilgrimages for veneration. One of the most famous stupas is the Great Stupa at Sanchi, which was commissioned by Ashoka. Its appearance changed substantially during its first few centuries under successive rulers—expanding, elaborating, reconstructing, and destroying over time.

Stupas come in all sizes, from monumental architectural feats to modest objects like the Art Institute’s example. A reliquary like this may have once contained a spiritual text, a sutra, perhaps some mortal remains, or perhaps even another miniature model stupa. The bell-shaped dome is solid stone, but the cylindrical pedestal it’s standing on has a small cavity carved out for the relic. Not too long ago, I was involved with a 3D-scanning project at the Art Institute and we actually replicated the Gandharan stupa reliquary using a 3D printer. While the original lives behind glass, the 3D-printed replica helps you get a better sense of its many different parts and how it once functioned.

Ashoka’s Great Stupa at Sanchi and the Art Institute’s Gandharan stupa differ vastly in scale and shape. Upon closer inspection, though, they actually share the same fundamental architecture. The basic form consists of a dome on a cylindrical base. The dome is like an egg, a symbol of creative potential and the cycle of death and rebirth. Atop the dome is a symbolic altar suggestive of the sacrifice of one’s self and the world in order to achieve nirvana. It’s crowned by a parasol, which commonly suggested a person of high status. And the pole of the parasol imaginarily goes on forever as an axis-mundi, the axis of the world uniting heaven and earth.

Stupa?

Check!

So, finally, in our title of “Gandharan Stupa Reliquary,” what does Gandharan mean? Astute subscribers to the Ancient Art Podcast will recall our discussion of a Gandharan bodhisattva back in episode 7. Gandhara was a kingdom that thrived in the 1st through 5th centuries of the Common Era. The culture goes back centuries earlier as the eastern frontier of the Persian Empire’s Achaemenid Dynasty. The Gandharan region today corresponds to parts of Pakistan and Afghanistan, and we even see the name “Gandhara” reflected in the modern city name “Kandahar.” With the collapse of the Persian Empire at the hands of the Macedonian general Alexander the Great, the Gandharan region pivoted for a few centuries between Hellenistic Greek rule and the Indian Mauryan Empire. It flourished as a cultural crossroads of Greece, India, and Persia, which we see reflected in the arts, including our little stupa.

So, now we know what a Gandaharan stupa reliquary is and then some. Stick around with the Ancient Art Podcast if you want to learn more about the culture that built it, the significance of those four pillars surrounding the dome, and most importantly what this has to do with Star Wars.

Don’t forget to visit ancientartpodcast.org for detailed credits and more. I hope to see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

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(54 Photos)

By the time of our stupa’s manufacture, Gandharan was under Kushan rule, a Central Asian culture that had moved in to Gandhara during the 1st century. While the Kushans widely promoted the Buddhist faith, they supported the artistic influences of centuries of local Hellenistic Greek rule, characterizing a style we call Greco-Buddhist art. Remember, we had talked last time about how this region was under Greek rule for centuries following the conquest of Alexander the Great.

The four pillars capped by fierce lions face the four cardinal directions and roar out the teachings of Buddha. They also pay homage to the famous lion pillars and stupas erected by Ashoka the Great some centuries earlier. You remember Ashoka, the Indian Mauryan Emperor we met last time, who ruled in the 3rd century BC. Some of you might recognize the most famous Lion Capital of Ashoka, which comes from the sacred site of Sarnath. [Creepy music] Um, no, wrong Sarnath. [Pleasant music] That’s better. The sacred site where Buddha gave his first sermon in a deer park. The Lion Capital of Ashoka also served as the basis for the National Emblem of India.

There’s an intriguing resemblance between the Gandharan stupa architecture, Ashoka’s Lion Capitals, and the architecture of the ancient Achaemenid Persian site of Persepolis. We explored Persepolis in depth in episodes 10, 11, and 12 of the Ancient Art Podcast in relationship to the Athenian Acropolis. It’s less widely researched than the Persian-Greek connection, but I don’t doubt that the Persian emperors conscripted Gandharan vassals to help build Persepolis, much as they did with the Greeks under their rule. And in turn, this basically taught Gandharan architects how to build like a good Persian, a trade that they then took back home to Gandhara and perhaps also to the Indian Mauryan Empire of Ashoka.

But looking at this incredible multi-columned temple-like object and all this talk about Ashoka might have you thinking about another conspicuous comparison — the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, of course, and Jedi Padawan Ahsoka Tano. While you likely wouldn’t confuse Ashoka the Great and Ahsoka Tano even in a dark alley, frankly, I think the resemblance between the two structures is uncanny. I would not be in the least bit surprised if the designers of Coruscant’s Jedi Temple were looking at stupa architecture for influence. And the relationship between Star Wars and Buddhism is far from superficial. The Star Wars universe draws heavily from Buddhism and more broadly from South and East Asian faiths, cultures, traditions, and philosophies. Alas, that’s something we don’t have time to get into, so you’ll just have to research that on your own.

Thanks for taking the time to explore the Art Institute’s Gandharan Stupa Reliquary with me. Don’t forget to visit ancientartpodcast.org for detailed credits and more. I hope to see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

Hello and welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m your guide to antiquity, Lucas Livingston.

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(19 Photos)

Here we see two stories from the life of Buddha. The top scene depicts Buddha sitting in a cave with his legs crossed in the lotus position and his hands folded in his lap in a posture of meditation.

Do you see the two lions seated beneath Buddha? You might recall the Gandharan stupa reliquary from our last discussion (episodes 65 & 66) with its tall, lion-topped capitals, much like Ashoka the Great’s famous Lion Capital of Sarnath, one of the earliest work of Buddhist art. Lions were adopted as Buddhist symbols crying out the message of Buddha in four directions.

Who are all those other people surrounding Buddha with their hands together in supplication? Well, if we look at the label in the museum or on the website, we learn that this shows Buddha Shakyamuni meditating in the Indrashala cave. This scene likely depicts a tale from before Buddha’s birth in what you might consider Heaven. This is the realm of the Devatas (like angels or minor gods). Here the Devatas approach the eternal soul of the yet-to-be-born historical Buddha Shakyamuni and inform him that it’s time to be reborn on earth as a human, Siddhartha Gautama, who will ultimately become an enlightened Buddha — Buddha Shakyamuni. In some versions of the tale the Hindu gods Indra and Brahma even make an appearance among the surrounding figures. You might see this as a way to couch Buddhism in a sympathetic light for Hindus.

This tale is not very popular today. You might find it in Southeast Asia — in Thailand and Cambodia. But this is not a work of Southeast Asian art. Keen viewers of the podcast will recognize this as a work of Gandharan origin — nearly 2,000 years old — from present-day Afghanistan or Pakistan, where this narrative was also once popular. It’s not unheard of in Gandharan Buddhist art to find images showing Indra and Brahma. I imagine this must have suited the Gandharans well on the frontier of their Buddhist kingdom adjacent to the Hindu realm of India.

Then what do we have down below in this busy scene? Here we see Buddha surrounded by more people. There are a few figures to the far right behind him with simple robes and closely shorn hair — those must be his followers — and he’s being welcomed by some well-dressed folks in front of him. I particularly like those people in the balcony at the upper left. And then there’s one fellow prostrating himself at Buddha’s feet. This is a well known scene of one of the many Buddhas of the past. He is known as Dipankara, the “Lamp Bearer,” and is said to have lived 100,000 years ago. Remember, Buddha is not a name, but an honorific title given to someone, who has attained enlightenment. There have been many Buddhas in the past and there will be many Buddhas in the future. The prostrate figure is an ascetic hermit by the name of Sumedha. He was once a rich Brahmin, but he cast off all that materiality presumably to find inner peace through the path of Dipankara Buddha. When Dipankara approached, Sumedha kneeled down and laid his long matted tresses of black hair over a mud puddle so that Dipankara may cross without soiling his feet. With this kind gesture of piety, Dipankara revealed a magnificent prophesy to Sumedha that he, Sumedha, in the ages of the future will come to be a Buddha called Shakyamuni.

These two tales of different incarnations of Buddhas go hand in hand. The scene at the bottom prophesies the forthcoming of Buddha Shakyamuni, the historical Buddha, through the words of a previous Buddha no less. And the scene at the top shows that moment in Heaven when the eternal soul of the forthcoming Shakyamuni is called upon to be born and begin that magnificent prophesied life on earth.

What truly strikes me about this image, though, aside from the beautiful juxtaposition of blended legends, is the presence of one individual standing behind Dipankara. Among the slender figures with long robes of flowing drapery and closely shorn or beautifully coiffed hair, there’s this one muscular, wild haired, bearded brute wearing a simple loin cloth and holding some sort of cudgel.

Who is this curious guy and what’s his business? Well, if the possible inclusion of the Hindu gods Indra and Brahma in the Buddhist scene above wasn’t mind-blowing enough for you, brace yourself. This is none other than that legendary hero from Ancient Greece, Hercules. What on earth is Hercules doing in a Buddhist image? We’ll tackle that question next time in an episode I’m thinking of calling “Hercules and Buddha Walk into a Bar.”

Thanks for tuning in to the Ancient Art Podcast . If you wanna drop me a line, go to ancientartpodcast.org/feedback or email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org. Like and share the podcast on Facebook at facebook.com/ancientartpodcast, subscribe, thumbs up, and share my YouTube channel, and follow me on Twitter @lucaslivingston

Thanks and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

​Hello and welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast, pumping straight into your soft brain matter since 2006. I’m the cerebral spelunker of antiquity, Lucas Livingston.

Last time in episode 67 we learned all about a Buddhist relief carving in the Art Institute of Chicago. It has a really long name. It’s called a “Relief with Buddha Shakyamuni Meditating in the Indrashala Cave (top) and Buddha Dipankara (bottom).” We met the two Buddhas depicted here, Shakyamuni and Dipankara, and found out that the story on the bottom presages the narrative on top. For the full picture, be sure to go back and check out episode 67, “Buddha’s Past Lives – Dipankara and Shakyamuni” at http://ancientartpodcast.org/67. Now the promised bombshell. The reason you all came back. This muscular, shaggy-bearded, club-wielding brute next to Buddha. Why in the world in a Buddhist work of art does the legendary Greek hero Hercules make an appearance?

Remember, this is a nearly 2,000 year-old work from the ancient Gandharan kingdom, present day Pakistan and Afghanistan. We’ve looked at Gandharan art repeatedly in the podcast, because I’m a big fan of it and I’m steering this ship.

This is the perfect storm of time and place where east meets west, where cultures and faiths collide in the multi-century long wake of the campaigns of Alexander the Great and his Greek successors. It’s a melting pot of Silk Road merchants, itinerant monks, and diplomatic envoys from Parthia and Sassania to the west, the Chinese Han dynasty to the north, and Indian kings to the south. The Gandharans were the successors to centuries of Greek rule under the Seleucids, the Greco-Bactrian kings, and the Indo-Greek kings. The artistic style is commonly called Greco-Buddhist by art historians today.

Many Greek images, stories, and customs blended with the early evolving Buddhist traditions of Gandhara, such as, frankly, representing gods in human form (and that includes Buddha) and also the inclusion of Hercules as none other than the body guard of Buddha.

In Greek mythology, Hercules was a great protector of mankind against forces of evil. He slew the murderous Nemean Lion. He vanquished the venomous multi-headed hydra. He traveled the world in search of the apples of Hesperides and even fought his way through the Greek Hell, Hades, to wrestle and kidnap the bloodthirsty, three-headed hellhound Cerberus. And he did all of these tasks at the bequest of a king named Eurystheus. Hercules was a supporter of kings. He was considered the ancestor of the Macedonian dynasty of kings. Alexander the Great had the image of Hercules struck on his coins. Many Hellenistic kings after Alexander included the image of Hercules or increasingly of Alexander dressed as Hercules as a way of saying, “See, I have the support of Hercules. I am the new Alexander.”

As the Gandharan region transitioned from Greek to Buddhist rule, the vocabulary of leadership wasn’t wholly reinvented. But in this new Buddhist world of selflessness — and I’m tossing around that deeply philosophical term fairly casually — in this new world, it wasn’t the king who was supported by Hercules, but Buddha, the new overarching king and figurehead. Through his Twelve Labors, Hercules was also a famous wanderer, as was the Buddha, so they were just two peas in a pod.

This role of Hercules as the bodyguard of Buddha seems to have originated in Gandhara and spread out from there. [1] He was considered a bodhisattva and given the name Vajrapani, meaning “He, who holds the ‘vajra’ in his hand.” We know the vajra. We learned all about it in episode 17 with Kartikeya, god of war seated on his peacock. The vajra is the thunderbolt, a weapon used to defend the Buddhist way. And thanks to episode 7 about the Art Institute’s statue of a Gandharan bodhisattva, we know what a bodhisattva is — like a Buddhist Saint. Some heavily hellenized Gandharan representations depict Hercules with his requisite knobby club, while others may eschew that convention for a more eastern-looking vajra thunderbolt scepter. As the image of Vajrapani travels away from the Greco-Buddhist Gandharan tradition in both time and place, he deftly adapts to a regional appearance. In China, Vajrapani becomes the patron saint of the Shaolin monastery. And in China the lion skin cloak of Hercules makes no sense, so Vajrapani is given a tiger skin cloak instead. Ah, that’s better.

As he moves further east, we see Vajrapani developing a distinctly Japanese personality, being identified with the “Nio,” guardians standing at the entrances to Buddhist temples. The Nio have a conspicuously muscular build with fiercely combative expressions. Their ferocity frightens away evil spirits and unruly vices that would corrupt us and hinder our Buddhist journey to salvation. One popular Nio has the name “Shukongojin.” That translates literally as the “Vajra-wielding God,” though conventionally we refer to him as the “Thunderbolt Deity.” “Shukongojin” and “Vajrapani” both basically mean the same thing: “the one who holds the vajra,” or once upon a time the knobby club of Hercules. Incidentally, if you plug the kanji characters for “kongo” (金剛) into Google Translate, you get “King Kong.”

And lastly we find another class of Buddhist deities similar to Nios called Wisdom Kings. In Sanskrit that’s “Vidyaraja,” “Mingwang” in Chinese , “Myō-ō” in Japanese, and in Tibetan Buddhism they’re called “Herukas.” By golly it’s tempting for me to see the name “Hercules” in the Tibetan word “Herukas,” but that’s pure conjecture on my part and I’m sure any true Tibetan scholar could set me straight.

But still, hopefully your mind is blown, because I know mine is. Just think about it. We’ve followed the long journey of Hercules from the Grecian Mediterranean to the Buddhist temples of Japan seeing him adapt and mutate as the master of disguise and the ultimate superhero defender of righteousness.

Thanks for tuning in to the Ancient Art Podcast. If you dig the podcast, please consider leaving a little something in the tip jar. Just head on over to ancientartpodcast.org and click on the juicy “Donate” button. Any amount helps me pay for bandwidth and keep’n it real! And if you can’t spare a schilling, how about a nice five star rating and some comments on iTunes, subscribe, thumbs up, and share my YouTube channel, like and share the podcast on Facebook at facebook.com/ancientartpodcast, and follow me on Twitter @lucaslivingston. If you wanna drop me a line, go to ancientartpodcast.org/feedback or email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org.

Thanks and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

[1] For a discussion that Hercules effectively replaced Indra in the role of supporter of Buddha, see Katsumi Tanabe, “Why is the Buddha Sākyamuni Accompanied by Hercules/Vajrapāni? Farewell to Yaksa-theory,” East and West, Vol. 55, No. 1/4 (December 2005), 363-381.

Many sculptural works from the ancient world were once beautifully colored. This is an excerpt of my gallery talk “Coloring the Past” in the Art Institute of Chicago from March 9, 2017. Here we discuss the original polychromy of the famous Aphrodite of Knidos by Praxiteles and the 1862 Tinted Venus by English sculptor John Gibson.

This recording comes complete with all the juicy, unscripted, live-action museum gallery accents of noisy kids, beeping proximity alarms, and echoing reverb. Please forgive the poor sound quality.

Pliny the Elder shares with us the tale of dueling artists Zeuxis and Parrhasius as they battled for the title of who could paint a more beguilingly realistic trompe-l’oeil (“fools the eye”) masterpiece. We also hear another short story of Zeuxis’s dashed pride.

This recording comes complete with all the juicy, unscripted, live-action museum gallery accents of noisy kids, beeping proximity alarms, and echoing reverb. Please forgive the poor sound quality.

We examine the use of color in ancient art to designate role, status, nature, and more, and discuss causes for the disappearance of polychromy in ancient art.

Side note: Why does the Egyptian God Osiris sometimes appear with black skin and sometimes with green skin?

Names dropped: Zeus, Athena, Olympians, Giants, Gaia, Osiris

This recording comes complete with all the juicy, unscripted, live-action museum gallery accents of noisy kids, beeping proximity alarms, and echoing reverb. Please forgive the poor sound quality.

In this excerpt from one of my museum tours, I discuss the techniques of Greek vase painting and the differences between the black-figure and red-figure styles. We also dip a toe into some Greek history, talk about the names of Greek vase painters, artists signing their works, and compare Greek vase painters to the French Impressionists. This recording comes complete with all the juicy, unscripted, live-action museum gallery accents including background chatter, construction noises, and beeping proximity alarms. Note, the black-figure base pictured is different from the one I discuss during the tour. The red-figure vase is the same.

This is episode 84 of Ancient Worlds: The Birth of Dionysus. I’m the olive in your antiqui-tini, Lucas Livingston. Ancient Worlds is the mostly audio series of the Ancient Art Podcast. If you’re listening to the audio episode, you can see the picture gallery at ancientartpodcast.org/84. In each episode of Ancient Worlds I choose a single work of art to serve as a springboard for a discussion about the ancient world. Here we unpack the stories, history, myths, and culture from antiquity through a modern lens and with tongue firmly planted in cheek and a healthy dose of snark. So if you offend lightly, you might consider changing the channel. We may also encounter some full frontal ancient Greek male nudity both in stone and in words. I know many educators and parents take advantage of my podcast in their lessons. Some people find the conversation about nudity in art to be awkward with kids, but my best advice as an art museum educator is not to avoid the discussion. That’s about as damaging as misinformation. There are a number of helpful professional resources out there to help tackle that subject. One great starting point is Body Language: How to Talk to Students about Nudity in Art produced by the Art Institute of Chicago. You can download the 12-page PDF for free. You’ll find the link at ancientartpodcast.org/resources. [1]

Our artwork de jour is a statue of the Greek god Hermes holding the infant Dionysus. Hold on a sec. We’re calling this episode the “Birth of Dionysus.” So why, Lucas, didn’t you pick an image of the birth of Dionysus, because they’re out there? Yeah, I could have, but why follow a logical sequitur when the alternative is to not? And because when I think about this famous statue of Hermes holding the little baby god of wine, ecstasy, theater, and madness, it reminds me of the story of Dionysus’s birth.

Semele was on top of the world. She was a beautiful princess, daughter of King Cadmus of Thebes and the goddess Harmonia, so she had it pretty good. And on top of this, she was dating Zeus. Yes, the Zeus. What Semele didn’t know, though, was that the amorous eye of Zeus came with a catch. Zeus was married … and not to a delicate flower. Zeus’s wife was the goddess Hera and she never took kindly to the *many* mistresses of Zeus. Sometimes I imagine Zeus was the archetype object of every misogynistic ancient Greek husband’s divine bromance. The Olympian gods were generally horrible people, and I don’t mind saying that, because they’re all dead. Apologies to all my pagan friends.

Oh, side note, even though Semele’s mother was a goddess, apparently Semele didn’t inherit the divine gene, because she was mortal. I’m just saying. Surely that fact won’t come up again in our story.

So, Zeus and Hera. Despite all of Zeus’s dalliances with other goddesses, women, girls, and boys, she never sat down with him to have “the talk.” Instead, Hera would always exact her great vengeance and furious anger upon his lovers and their offspring. Different accounts by many authors have come down to us describing the details of what happened with Semele. The Roman Augustan-era poet Ovid makes the point of reminding us that Semele was related to Europa — specifically the niece of Europa — who also had an affair with Zeus, and Hera had vowed to make life hell for all of Europa’s kindred.

She hatched a plan to trick Semele into becoming “besties” and then sow the seeds of doubt about her relationship with Zeus. Ovid writes:

She rose up quickly from her shining throne,
and hidden in a cloud of fiery hue
descended to the home of Semele;
and while encompassed by the cloud, transformed
her whole appearance as to counterfeit
old Beroe, an Epidaurian nurse,
who tended Semele.
Her tresses changed
to grey, her smooth skin wrinkled and her step
grown feeble as she moved with trembling limbs;—
her voice was quavering as an ancient dame’s,
as Juno, thus disguised, began to talk
to Semele. [2]

In the guise of Beroe, Semele’s trusted nurse, Hera strikes up some small talk. “So, deary, are you seeing anyone special?”

“Oh! Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am, and … uh … well, this is a little embarrassing, but actually I’m going steady with Zeus.”

“Really, now? Steady, you say? Well, that’s quite an honor.”

“I know, right? Yeah, he says he’s over Hera and that I’m totally the love of his life.”

Hera closed her eyes for a moment to compress the boiling rage within. “Well, ain’t that something? But tell me,” she said, “how do you know he is who he says he is? How do you know he’s Zeus?”

“Oh, well, um … I guess I just believe him. He’s very genuine and honest.”

“Is that so? If he is who is says he is, then he ought to show his true love for you, don’t you think? He ought to come to you in the manner in which he would comes to his divine wife, Hera, as a real man would, ‘so you may know what pleasure it is to sleep with a god.'” [3]

Semele stared through her companion off into the distance, thinking. Hera knew that her words had affected the young woman.

“Maybe I just will,” she said, “and I’ll prove it to you.” Though she really meant to prove it to herself. After all, if her new man were the almighty Zeus, why wouldn’t she be deserving of the same level of affection that he had given others before.

Let me quote a nice stanza from Ovid here:

With artful words as these the goddess worked
upon the trusting mind of Semele,
daughter of Cadmus, till she begged of Jove
a boon, that only hastened her sad death. [2]

“Zeus, do you love me?”

“Why sure, my dear, absolutely. You’re just the bee’s knees.”

“Then will you promise me something?”

“Absolutely, Semele, anything your heart desires?”

“Then, come to me, Zeus, in all the splendor of your glory as you would come to Hera in intimate embrace.”

“Oh, jeez, Semele, anything but that!”

“Now Zeus, you promised me anything!”

“Yes, but Semele…”

“Zeus, you said you love me!”

The god of thunder and lightning was trapped. His word was his bond. He could do nothing. In bittersweet grief, Zeus ascended aloft to dark skies already swirling with thunderous clouds. He called forth a majestic maelstrom with brilliantly destructive lightning and devastating gale winds. Worlds quaked from deep Hades to lofty Olympus. Yet even so, he restrained himself and did not call upon the devastating bolts that felled the hundred-handed monster Typhon or that embraced his divine bride Hera. Zeus released a lesser lightning of milder heat, but this was all too great for mortal Semele. In pangs of agony, she burnt to ash before his sad, mournful gaze. But there curled within the cinders that were once her shapely form, the fetal infant Dionysus lay, torn prematurely from his mother’s womb, from Semele’s womb.

Few authors go into the narrative beyond the bare bones facts of the matter. Semele asked, she received, she died, and there was Dionysus. Did Zeus know Semele was pregnant? Not necessarily, although the 2nd century Greek mythographer Pseudo-Apollodorus comments in his Bibliotheca that Semele was six months pregnant. So either Pseudo-Apollodorus didn’t really know much what six months pregnant looks like or he figured Semele wasn’t hiding this from anyone. [4]

Zeus carefully plucked his premature son from the smoldering fire of his mother and hastened to hide him from his jealous wife. By all accounts, to see that his child would be properly carried to term, Zeus stitches up Dionysus into his thigh. One of Dionysus’s many epithets, though, is Enorches, which some scholars interpret as a reference to male private parts. So it’s possible that somewhere, sometime, somehow the legend transformed from Zeus’s privates to Zeus’s thigh. Scholars certainly enjoy a field day with discussions around the idea of the pregnant male in ancient myths. And this wasn’t even Zeus’s first pregnancy. Remember Athena?

So, Zeus carried the fetal god Dionysus to term in his … let’s stick with thigh … until Dionysus was born a second time. Hence, another one of Dionysus’s epithets is Dimētōr, meaning “born of two mothers” — born once of Semele and then again of Zeus. Hyginus calls him that in the Fabulae. [3] While in the Metamorphoses, Ovid also calls Dionysus the “twice-born god,” which is a nickname you might hear a little more often, probably because it translates well. [5]

After the second birth of Dionysus, Zeus was still wary of Hera’s wrath and wasn’t quite ready to parade his new son around Olympus. Diodorus Siculus lets us know that Zeus handed the infant over to Hermes and ordered the messenger god to take him to a cave on Mount Nysa, which lay between Phoenicia and the Nile. [6] There he would find the nymphs of the mountain, who will nurse and raise the infant god. [7] And this brings us to our sculpture de jour, Hermes Carrying the Infant Dionysus, a second century Roman-era marble copy of an alleged 4th century BC sculpture by the noted Hellenistic sculptor Praxiteles. We are already experts on Praxiteles. We met him back in episode 26 looking at another one of his famous sculptures, the Aphrodite of Knidos. Unlike the Aphrodite, our Hermes Carrying Dionysus seems perhaps not to have been too terribly celebrated in antiquity. We have only a passing reference to it in Pausanias’s Description of Greece from the 2nd century of the Common Era, and he says:

… other images were dedicated in the Heraion, including a marble Hermes carrying the baby Dionysus, a work of Praxiteles… [8]

It’s much more celebrated today than in antiquity, because of a debate that raged in the 1930’s as to whether this marble sculpture that we have today is a Roman era copy or the original by Praxiteles. For the bibliography to that debate, check out the footnotes to this episode at ancientartpodcast.org/84. [9] Opinion today seems to lean toward it being a Roman homage to the original, but we’re not going to get into that discussion here. The tall, lean, muscular Hermes stands casually in the Classical contrapposto with his weight shifted to his right leg, his left knee bent, and his hips tilted at a sharp angle. Contrapposto is an Italian term describing this prevalent Classical and Renaissance-era bend of the human figure. His torso tilts to the right, realigning his center of gravity, as his head turns down and to the left at the infant Dionysus perched daintily on Hermes’s left arm.

There’s an affectionate gaze between the gods. The infant Dionysos leans forward slightly. His arms are missing, but his right hand delicately rests on Hermes’s shoulder. From what remains at the break on his left shoulder, we can tell that he was reaching forward toward Hermes. Hermes, in contrast, reaches his right arm high. It’s broken just above the elbow, but it’s clear that he’s reaching away from the infant. What’s going on here? These aren’t relaxed poses. We’re definitely seeing them in the middle of some intentional action, but what could that be? Pausanias’s comment doesn’t help us at all, so we’re forced to look elsewhere.

There are other sculptures that are stylistically similar to our Hermes here, like the Hermes Ludovisi. Rhys Carpenter gives us a quick rundown of those works with images in his 1954 article “Two Postscripts to the Hermes Controversy.” [9] These sculpted figures gesture somewhat similarly to Hermes, but they tend not to be doing much with the outstretched arm. Well, not doing much other than shepherding the souls of the dead to the underworld. But in our Hermes and Dionysus we have two figures, so we need to read them together. Baby Dionysus leans and reaches forward, bracing himself on Hermes’s shoulder for support. It’s as if Dionysus wants whatever Hermes has. What if Hermes is pulling away, trying to keep something from Dionysus? It’s almost like he’s teasing him.

Well, my money’s on Hermes playing a game of “got your nose” and Dionysus wants it back, but various authorities have postulated an alternative reconstruction. Similar to an ancient wall painting from the ashen ruins of Pompeii, Hermes likely once held a bunch of grapes. [10] Dionysus, god of wine, infant though he may be, is instinctually drawn to the grapes. This playful pairing of youthful gods in a casual context removed from the elevated grandeur of divinity fits right in with the humanistic ethos of 4th century late Classical Greece. We met a similarly humanizing rendering of a god with the Apollo Sauroktonos back in episode 48, also by Praxiteles. Gone are the moralistic black and white days of the glorious victory of Periclean Athens over the barbaric Persian forces. The 4th century Greek world is one of warring states and backstabbing governments vying for supremacy in the wake of the Persian and Peloponnesian wars. In a world of conflict, corruption, and depravity, the authority of divinity is reduced as the gods sit on their thrones and watch the mortal game play out … and the winning goal will be scored by a young MVP named Alexander.

Thanks for tuning in to Ancient Worlds. Check out ancientartpodcast.org/84 for references, footnotes, and a gallery of images for this episode. If you have anything to add to the conversation, you can add a comments there or on YouTube. You can get in touch with me directly at info@ancientartpodcast.org or on the web at ancientartpodcast.org/feedback. If you enjoy the podcast, please consider sharing some fiscal love. Whether it’s the cost of a cup of coffee or more, your donations help keep this ship afloat on our odyssey sailing the wine-dark seas. Just click the donate button at ancientartpodcast.org. And if you can’t donate a drachma, you can help the podcast by adding an iTunes review. Maybe it’ll even get you on the air, like LittleBrownMouse, who wrote: “Clearly, an exceptional amount of time and effort goes into these podcasts. Well scripted, but doesn’t sound like someone reading you a lecture. Truly excellent presentation, great images, and enjoyable even to someone who knows nothing at all about ancient art. Take the time to have a listen.”

And I thank you for listening. See you next time.

Footnotes:

[1] Art Institute of Chicago. Body Language: How to Talk to Students about Nudity in Art.

[2] Ovid. Metamorphoses III.251ff. Brookes More. Boston. Cornhill Publishing Co. 1922.

[3] Hyginus. Fabulae 167.

[4] Pseudo-Apollodorus. Bibliotheca 3.26-29.

[5] Ovid. Metamorphoses III.304.

[6] Homeric Hymn 1 to Dionysus.

[7] Diodorus Siculus. Library of History 4.2.3.
Pseudo-Apollodorus. Bibliotheca 3.26-29.

[8] Pausanias. Description of Greece 5.17.3.

[9] Carpenter, Rhys. “Who Carved the Hermes of Praxiteles?” American Journal of Archaeology, vol. 35, no. 3, 1931, pp. 249–261.

Casson, Stanley. “The Hermes of Praxiteles.” American Journal of Archaeology, vol. 35, no. 3, 1931, pp. 262–268.

Gisela M. A. Richter. “The Hermes of Praxiteles.” American Journal of Archaeology, vol. 35, no. 3, 1931, pp. 277–290.

Carpenter, Rhys. “Two Postscripts to the Hermes Controversy.” American Journal of Archaeology, vol. 58, no. 1, 1954, pp. 1–12.

[10] See Carpenter 1954, fig. 5. Also House of Zephyr and Flora. Also Pompeii in Pictures. VI.10.11 Pompeii. Casa del Naviglio o di zefiro e flora.

Music:

Colocate by Podington Bear

Nova by Go Ask Alice from the album Perfection is Terrible

The Shout by Go Ask Alice from the album Perfection is Terrible

Lightfeet by Podington Bear

A very brief excerpt from my lecture “Things That Go Bump: A Visual Survey of Witches, Demons, and Ghosts!” Odysseus Journeys to the Underworld and holds a seance with the souls of Hades through necromantic blood magic so the countless shades of the dead and the gone would surge around him.

Featured Work of Art:

Jar (pelike) with Odysseus and Elpenor in the Underworld
Greece, Athens, Classical, about 440 BC
The Lykaon Painter
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (34.79)

This is a short excerpt from my lecture “Things That Go Bump: A Visual Survey of Witches, Demons, and Ghosts.” Herein we explore the ancient Greek tradition of witchcraft and metamorphosis in two images — one ancient and one modern — of Circe, the definitive witch of Grecian lore and seductive sorceress of Odyssean fame. Waterhouse masterfully betrays her jealous cruelty in those cold, dark, uncaring eyes. Vying for the affection of a handsome lover, the hateful witch Circe poisons the placid pool where the her rival Scylla bathed. Circe’s potion of polymorphism transforms the beautiful nymph Scylla to the proverbial “hard place,” the loathsome multi-mawed many-tentacled monster, who’d dash the hopes (…and heads) of Odysseus’s men sailing “between Scylla and Charybdis.” And in the Grecian cup in the MFA, we see a magical elixir similarly perched in wicked Circe’s hands while Odysseus’s men are in the midst of metamorphosis from her arcane magicks.

Featured Works of Art:

John William Waterhouse
Circe Invidiosa (Jealous Circe), 1892
South Australian Government Grant 1892
Art Gallery of South Australia

Drinking cup (kylix) depicting scenes from the Odyssey
Greek, Archaic Period, about 560-550 BC
The Painter of the Boston Polyphemos
© Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (99.518)

In this excerpt from a recent tour, I explore some of the highlights from Homer’s Odyssey in a 15th century Florentine painting and learn a little about Italian Renaissance marriage and fidelity. Names and terms dropped: Homer, Odysseus, Penelope, Nausica, cyclops, Polyphemus, the Sirens, Hermes, moly, Circe, Calypso, Argos, Apollonio di Giovanni, James Joyce, Trojan War, Tuscan, gilding; important terms not dropped: cassone.

Featured Work of Art:

Apollonio di Giovanni
Italian, 1415/17-1465
The Adventures of Ulysses, 1435/45
42 x 131.7 cm (16 3/4 x 51 7/8 in.)
Art Institute of Chicago, 1933.1006

Hello and welcome back to the SCARABSolutions Ancient Art Podcast.

In the previous two episodes, we’ve been having a lot of fun in Ancient Egypt. In this episode, we’re going to jump forward a little bit and hop the pond on over to Greece. I want us to look at what’s probably my favorite piece in the Art Institute of Chicago’s collection of Ancient Greek ceramics. The Art Institute has a few very beautiful and entertaining objects in its Ancient Greek collection, but this one really takes the cake.

Nestled in a vitrine among all the grandiose High Classical red-figure amphoras, kraters, kylixes, and stamnoi, we find a cute little rhyton, a drinking cup. OK, here … let’s do it right. *Ahem* This is a mid 5th Century BC Attic red-figure rhyton in the shape of a donkey’s head attributed to the very prolific late Archaic, early Classical Athenian vase painter named Douris.

To start things off here in our examination of this rhyton, let’s first check out its interesting manufacturing technique. It exemplifies three primary methods for crafting ceramics in Classical Greece. The neck and rim of the cup was thrown on a potters wheel, the body of the vessel (which corresponds to the head and snout of the donkey) … this part was fashioned in a mold, and the ears and handle were shaped by hand. It’s certainly not unique in this way, but it’s nonetheless pretty interesting to see all three techniques used on one vessel.

We could of course go into much further detail on its manufacture, specifically the firing process of black and red-figure Greek ceramics, but let’s save that whole spiel for a later podcast.

The rhyton is a common type of drinking cup in the shape of an animal’s head. This vessel shape stretches far back to the Bronze Age Civilizations of Ancient Greece, the Minoans and Mycenaeans, the time of the heroic mythic warriors of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey and even to earlier periods in the civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Rhyta (that’s the plural) from different regions come in a variety of shapes and sizes and aren’t necessarily restricted to being in the shape of just the heads of an animals. They could be the whole front of the animal, the entire animal itself, or even just parts like a horn.

Rhyta were also commonly used in rituals for libation offerings. Now, these rhyta regularly have a small hole in the mouth of the animal’s head through which the libation offering pours out on to the offering table or whatever it was meant to pour out over.

This style of rhyton that we have here is fairly common to Archaic and Classical Greece — just the head and neck — and in this case here, there’s no hole in the mouth, so its function is clearly meant to hold a beverage instead of letting it pour through. And by “beverage,” of course, I mean wine.

Wine in Ancient Greece, however, was a little different from wine nowadays. The Greeks, believe it or not, actually watered down their wine. Not to do so was considered barbaric, literally, as in how the barbarians drank their wine (mostly Northern Europeans). And interestingly enough, the word barbarian derives from how the Greeks perceived certain foreign languages to sound. When foreign people spoke, all the Greeks heard was “bar-bar-bar-bar-bar.” Sounds pretty silly and made up, but it’s the truth.

Now, back to the rhyton. The one we have here is made out of ceramic. Earthenware, specifically terra cotta. It was most likely crafted with the intent of being buried in someone’s grave, where it’s said to have been found — similar to all the other ceramics in the Art Institute’s Ancient Greek collection (not all from the same grave, of course). Rhyta were used in daily life, but by and large the rhyta crafted for use by the living were made of precious metals, like bronze, silver, and gold. The rhyton was not the drinking cup of your average bloke. These vessels were reserved pretty much for the aristocracy of Greek society, be it Classical or earlier. These are the goblets used in the heroic feasts by great warriors on the eve of battle. The dinnerware of Achilles, Agamemnon, Menelaeus, and Odysseus at the siege of Troy.

Of course, that story was late Bronze Age, early Iron Age. Fifth century BC Athenian aristocracy didn’t regularly engage much in heroic warrior feasts. Instead, wealthy Athenian good-ole-boys would get together at dinner parties and drinking engagements to socialize, talk politics and money, and on special occasions maybe say something intelligent.

The types of animals rendered in the shape of the rhyton are also significant. You frequently comes across a rhyton in the shape of a goat, ram, bull, deer, or horse, and in this example here, a donkey. It’s not coincidence that these are the same kinds of animals used as sacrificial victims in Greek religion. See, while engaging in their modern drinking parties, the Classical Athenian aristocracy was symbolically participating in those heroic warrior feasts of yore. On the eve of battle with the great warriors gathered around, a priest offers up a sacrifice to Zeus and whatever other gods were listening, slicing the throat and spilling the warm blood of the goat, ram, etc. Whereas here, the Athenian, leisurely sprawled on his couch, pours the bright red liquid from the throat of the animal and down the hatch. And the thanks is offered up to a different god. Dionysus, the god of wine.

Decorating the neck of the vessel (cute, huh … the pottery term “neck” actually corresponds here with the literal neck of the donkey) … decorating the neck of the vessel, we see a couple figures — the half-goat half-man satyr (followers of Dionysus) with his bushy beard, pointy ears, long bristly tail, and penchant for not wearing pants (because pants would just get in the way of the satyr’s other penchant), in hot pursuit of a maenad, female followers of Dionysus that would run off into the woods at night in wild Dionysiac reveries, and in packs chase down live deer and with their bare hands, rip them apart limb from limb, and consume the hot raw flesh and blood. The Greeks actually had a word for that. It’s called sparagmos.

The Classical Greek drinking party was nothing nearly as violent, or religious for that matter, but they had a word for that too. The symposium. Now, when we think of a symposium, we picture a bunch of professors getting together, reading some less-than-exhilarating papers, and then having a little wine and cheese. The Greeks skipped the papers … went straight to the wine … and cheese was optional. The Greek word symposion with an “ON” (from which we get the Latin symposium with a “UM”) literally means “drinking together.

You’re probably thinking I’m off my rocker, at least those of you who’ve heard of Plato’s Symposium where Socrates and a bunch of his friends get together one evening and each in turn makes a grand speech on “what is love” and extolling its virtues. But if you look back towards the beginning of the text, you’ll see a very different side to their refined symposium.

And I quote, section 176A&B from a translation by Alexander Nehamas and Paul Woodruff (Hackett Publishing Company, etc etc):

When dinner was over, they poured a libation to the god, sang a hymn, and—in short—followed the whole ritual. Then they turned their attention to drinking. At that point Pausanias addressed the group:

“Well, gentlemen, how can we arrange to drink less tonight? To be honest, I still have a terrible hangover from yesterday, and I could really use a break. I daresay most of you could, too, since you were also part of the celebration. So let’s try not to overdo it.”

Aristophanes replied: “Good idea, Pausanias. We’ve got to make a plan for going easy on the drink tonight. I was over my head last night myself, like the others.”

So, we see, even Socrates’s philosophical brood was not impervious to the temptation of drink.

Getting back to the shape of the donkey-headed rhyton, just how do you set it down? Many other rhyta, especially the ritual libation rhyta and the ones from Near Eastern and Eastern European civilizations, have a flat bottom, so they could be set down right-side up, but the only way to set down this example is on its side or upside-down! So, if you want to set it down, you have to polish off your drink first! The shape of this rhyton, therefore, actually encourages drinking! What a perfect cup for a symposium. And just how does one drink from it? If you drink from it the same way you normally drink from a mug, with the handle to the side, the donkey’s ear would get in the way and you might just dribble on yourself. You’re best bet is probably to hold the handle underneath so the donkey face is right-side-up. And then as you’re kicking back your head, tipping the rhyton up to polish off your wine, suddenly you’ve got the face of an ass!

This idea of transformation through drink was not lost on the Ancient Greeks. Wine was regularly attributed with various therapeutic, medicinal, or even malignant properties. And in some examples, we even come across wine being equated with a sort of magic potion capable of transforming the drinker in various ways. The characters in Plato’s Laws briefly discuss the qualities in wine that transform one to be braver, bolder, more conceited, and looser with the tongue. Another relatively common expression of transformation through wine in Greek art can be seen on a large number of kylixes, another kind of drinking vessel more so in the shape of a bowl rather than a cup.

A brief side-track first. The kylix was also frequently used in Greek symposia, and not just for drinking. The Greeks actually had drinking games. One particular favorite was called kottabos and here’s a kylix that even came with instructions. This mid 5th century Attic red-figure kylix at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts shows a reclining youth in the act of playing kottabos. As I mentioned earlier, Greek wine was a little different from the wine that we have today. Not only was it watered down, but it also had far more sediment, so you’d likely have some dregs leftover in the bottom of your cup. The idea in kottabos was to twirl your kylix around, flinging out the sediment, to see who could come closest to the target in the middle of the room, whether the target be a jug or some poor flute girl.

Now back to the idea of how the kylix was commonly used to express the idea of transformation through drink. The typical kylix is decorated on both the inside, with a lovely picture for the drinker, and on the outside with pictures to be seen by all of his friends as he holds the bowl high to his lips. On the outside decoration of the kylix, you often come across two large glaring eyes penetrating the onlooker, as we see here in another example from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. The drinker grasps the kylix by the two handles and holds it up to his face as he takes a drink, thereupon donning a monstrous mask, a face like the Gorgon Medusa, who’s said to have been so fiendishly ugly with snakes for hair, that her gaze would turn you to stone.

We might also remember that interesting chapter from Homer’s Odyssey where Odysseus’s comrades are transformed into pigs by the witch Circe through a magic potion and a touch of a wand.

As Richmond Lattimore translates …

And at once she opened the shining doors and came out and invited them in, and all in their innocence entered. Only Eurylochos waited outside, for he suspected theachery. She brought them inside and seated them on chairs and benches, and mixed them a potion with barley and cheese and pale honey added to Pramnian wine, but put into the mixture malignant drugs to make them forgetful of their own country. When she had given them this and they had drunk it down, next thing she struck them with her wand and drove them into her pig pens and they took on the look of pigs with the heads and voices and bristles of pigs, but the minds within them stayed as had been before.

And here’s another great kylix from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts showing Circe in the act of drugging Odysseus’s friends and transforming them into pigs. The shape of the vessel that Circe uses for her potion helps the message along in that it resembles the kylix on which this scene is painted. With each casual glance, then, as the wine gradually disappears, the drinker from this kylix constantly reminds himself that he too may share the fate of Odysseus’s men, becoming, well, … a sloppy drunken animal if he doesn’t watch his liquor!

Alright, thanks for listening. Be sure to check out the website scarabsolutions.com for slightly better resolution images used in the podcast. I’ve also updated the bibliography to include some resources on Ancient Greece.

And as always, feel free to leave you comments on the website or at the iTunes Store. Just launch iTunes, click on the iTunes Store, and in the search box type however much you care to of “SCARABsolutions Ancient Art Podcast.”

Take care and see ya next time!

©2006 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

Welcome back to the SCARABsolutions Ancient Art Podcast. This episode is coming out a little later than I had wanted on account of a cold that I’ve been getting over. But I’m pretty much decongested now and more or less back to normal.

In this episode, I want us to take a look at a cute little pyxis from Corinth. A pyxis is a specific type of Greek vessel used to store cosmetics, jewelry, or other trinkets. They come in a variety of different shapes—squat basket-like, cylindrical jars, box-like, and spherical, as we have here, along with a separate lid and handles. This pyxis at the Art Institute of Chicago is dated to about 580-570 BC, towards the end of the Greek Orientalizing Period, late 8th to mid 6th centuries BC. The Orientalizing Period is a time when the Greeks renew contact and trade with the different civilizations of the Mediterranean and the Ancient Near East after a long period of isolation during the Greek Dark Age and Geometric Period. This is a fascinating time of rediscovery, invention, and assimilation.

Albeit not the most politically correct term, the “Orientalizing Period” has nonetheless stuck. The term refers to the tremendous cultural and artistic impact that the renewed contact with Ancient Near Eastern cultures had on the blossoming civilization of Greece. One particularly successful center for the flourishing of culture and commerce during the Orientalizing Period was the city of Corinth located on the narrow isthmus connecting the Peloponnesus with mainland Greece. Due to its strategic location with ports accessing both the Aegean and Adriatic, Corinth became a rather lucrative port of trade for Syrian, Phoenician, and other Near Eastern merchants. Corinthians saw the influx of exotic metal ware and ivory trinkets, pottery designs, and elaborate textile patterns. Some scholars even think that Near Eastern artisans and craftsmen may have made their way over to Greece to ply their skills. The Greeks themselves began to travel more extensively to foreign lands, including great forays up and down the Nile of Egypt beginning in the mid 7th century. And all this exposure to foreign artistic motifs and conventions, long-standing monumental architecture of ancient civilizations, new stories, cultures, myths, and legends had a tremendous impact on the visual arts of Ancient Greece.

The artisans and consumers of Corinth had a particular appeal for the Near Eastern aesthetic, or at least their spin on what was seen as quote-unquote “Oriental.” While Athens continues to linger in the traditional Geometric vase painting design of the previous century, Corinth quickly pushes this aside in favor of new Oriental designs, like exotic chimeras and sphinxes, ferocious wild beasts and prey, and flowering rosettes and palmettes. The stark contrast of the darkly silhouetted Geometric figure against a background of meandering patterns, gives way to gentler curves and elaborate outlines of the figure’s contour with a smoother, flowing brush. Color also begins to make an appearance in Corinthian Orientalizing vase painting. You can clearly see the use of red, black, and white on the Art Institute pyxis. This pyxis also seems to display a sense of horror vaccui of the earlier Geometric Period. Every possible blank space on the background is strategically filled with some sort of rosette or linear pattern so as not to leave any large portion of undecorated surface.

What’s immediately most striking about this pyxis is, of course, the central decorative scene. In the very center we have a composite monster with the torso and legs of a lion, wings of an eagle, and head of a human female, known in Greeks mythology as the sphinx. This pyxis is attributed to the so-called “Ampersand Painter” because the shape of the sphinx’s tail is that of an ampersand (you know, the “and” symbol). This ampersand-shaped tail is the signature mark of this particular painter or workshop and it can be seen on other works in other museum also attributed to the Ampersand Painted. The earliest account of the sphinx in Greek myth comes from Hesiod’s Theogony, one of the earliest works of Greek literature, composed sometime in the late 8th to early 7th century BC. Hesiod briefly mentions the sphinx among his litany of the origins of all the myriads of hybrid monsters and creatures conjured up in Greek minds or imported by the Greeks from neighboring cultures and myths. Now, it’s hard to argue that the sphinx is a purely Greek invention when you’re faced with all the similar composite creatures of Near Eastern tradition that first started to make their way over to Greece around the time when Hesiod puts pen to paper, creatures like the lammasu, shedu, manticore, griffin, and chimera. But certainly the oriental influence contributes to the new forms of expression and experimentation, with both a profound interest in the ancient civilizations of the Near East and a new interest among the Greeks in their own ancient ancestry.

It’s around this time when the Greeks begin to look more closely at the remains of their own Bronze Age Mycenaean ancestors. At the same time when the great Homeric Epics of the Iliad and Odyssey were being recited, as the Greeks were weaving tales of the heroic warriors Achilles, Menelaus, and Agamemnon, so too were they looking out over the standing ruins of ancient Mycenae, the palace of King Agamemnon. There’s even evidence that the Dark Age and Archaic Greeks excavated Mycenaean tholos tombs, digging down to their entrances with their monumental Cyclopean masonry to establish shrines and offer votives at the tombs of these heroic warriors.

So where are we going with all of this? Well, the central sphinx is conventionally seen as some sort of Near Eastern or Oriental influence. Ok, I’ll buy that. Flanking the sphinx you’ve got a couple feline creatures usually interpreted as lions or leopards. Felines, particularly lions, are very prevalent throughout Ancient Near Eastern art in architectural relief from the walls of ancient Babylon and Persepolis to the smaller decorative arts. But I argue a very different and distinctly indigenous influence taking place here. See how the two lions have their bodies turned inward toward the central sphinx, but their faces gaze outward with giant, blank, piercing eyes fixed upon you, ferocious beasts of prey staring you down. I mentioned how the Greeks of this day and age were interested in exploring and rediscovering their own heroic and mythic past of the Bronze Age Mycenaean Civilization and that the ruins of Ancient Mycenae, the so-called palace of King Agamemnon were readily visible and available to the early Archaic Greeks. The most visually powerful and notable architectural remains at Mycenae is the well-known Lion’s Gate. Here we are confronted by two colossal lions, their muscular bodies rearing up on a central platform. Their faces are now lost and the dowel holes suggest that they were carved separately. The way the dowel holes are positioned and the form of what’s remaining lead most scholars to believe that the faces were likely turned to gaze outward, staring down at the lowly people passing underneath the monumental gateway. Throughout Ancient Mediterranean and Near Eastern cultures and even well beyond into the Middle Ages of Europe, lions are a common emblem of kingship. The effect of this in-your-face confrontation by these gargantuan beasts conditions the viewers approaching the gate. The Lion’s Gate conveys this message of “Beware! Know that the king within is as mighty as a lion.”

The Lion’s Gate was in plain sight of the Greeks. In the day when monumental art, sculpture, and architecture reemerge from a long period of dormancy, it’s not surprising that they’d look back to their country’s former glory while also incorporating ideas and motifs from exotic civilizations abroad. In the mid 7th century BC the Greeks began creating their first monumental temples in stone. Perhaps the earliest known stone temple in Greece is that of Apollo at Corinth with a date somewhere between 670 and 630 BC. And in a couple generations, the Greeks settled on the sort of temples we think of when we think of Greek temples, with the surrounding columns called a peristyle, the pitched roof, and triangular pediment, all that sculpture above the east and west sides. The earliest known Greek temple of this style is the one to Artemis on the island of Corfu, just off the western coast of Greece. Built around 580 BC, right around the time when the Art Institute’s pyxis was created, the temple of Artemis displayed a magnificent pediment with a sculptural motif that should be pretty familiar to us by now. Seen from their sides, two great cats poise with their muscular bodies ready to pounce. Their faces are turned outward, just as in the Lion’s Gate, gazing at the tiny worshippers below as they make their approach to the house of the maiden huntress Artemis. In the center of the pediment between the lions stands the Gorgon Medusa, a fiendish creature with snakes for hair, said to be so ugly that her gaze would transform you to stone. This presentation of otherworldly ferocity and might is certainly something to give you goose-bumps, if you were an Ancient Greek not used to seeing such incredible displays nor desensitized by modern horror flicks.

And moving along to our darling little pyxis, the Ampersand Painter seems to have jumped on the bandwagon of Orientalism and Mycenaean revivalism (and that’s not a real term. As far as I know, I just made it up.) But why use this confrontational lion motif that might otherwise be more appropriate for temples and royal palaces? I don’t think the message here is “Beware the cosmetics housed within!” No, more likely it’s just meant to give us a little moment to pause … a jarring experience (ugh … pardon the pun). Remember, what we’re looking at here, as with most Ancient Greek ceramics throughout museum collections, is a grave good, something buried with the recently departed. This vessel exists because someone has died. While a pyxis for the living might be plain or decorated with little flowers and prancing deer, this vessel for the dead has a confrontational gaze inducing a moment to pause and reflect. A memento mori. A reminder of our own mortality.

On that cheerful note …

Thanks for listening. And don’t forget to swing by the website, scarabsolutions.com for additional resources, an extensive bibliography on ancient art and civilization, photos, and links to great external resources. And most recently, I’ve added a link that’ll let you subscribe to the podcast in MP4 format, so you can play it with images on just about any digital media player. Check out the website for more details. Take care, stay warm, and see you next time on the SCARABsolutions Ancient Art Podcast.

©2007 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org