Tag: KHM

Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch

Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch

Saints and Symbols in the Age of Pandemic

Recognizing saints in paintings is like solving a hidden picture puzzle, only the clues are palm branches, halos, arrows, a sword, a pilgrim staff, or even sometimes dogs! Once you know what to look for, every museum visit or church interior becomes a visual treasure hunt. This is about a visual language that painters used for centuries to tell stories and signal virtues. But it is not only about symbols. It is also about understanding the role these saints played in the lives of the people who venerated them. In the case of Sebastian and Roch, their images gave people hope and comfort during the darkest periods of the Black Death and recurring plague epidemics. These saints were more than just recognizable figures. They were spiritual companions in times of fear, loss and recovery.

Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch (1631), Ernst van Schayck III (Dutch, active 1567 -1631) 164x140cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht, The Netherlands.

In this crash course, we will meet two saints who are frequently and vividly depicted in western art: Roch and Sebastian. Once you know the tricks and symbols, you will start to see them everywhere and you will know exactly who they are. In short: Sebastian is the one pierced by arrows, Roch is the pilgrim lifting his tunic to reveal a swollen sore on his thigh, the visible sign of the plague disease.

Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch (c.1496), Die Heiligen Sebastian und Rochus Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), 20×20, Pen drawing, Städel Museum, Frankfurt am Main.

Here are the topics we’ll explore:

Let’s start!

Saint Sebastian: arrows, endurance, and healing

The earliest written account of Sebastian’s life comes from a fifth-century text known as the Passio Sancti Sebastiani. According to this biography, Sebastian was a high-ranking Roman officer under Emperor Diocletian, around the year 300. Though he served at the heart of the Roman Empire, Sebastian was a committed Christian, using his position to support fellow believers and convert others. His defiance did not go unnoticed. When Sebastian continued to preach after being ordered to stop, Diocletian condemned him to death.

Saint Sebastian (c.1457), Andrea Mantegna (Italian, c.1431 – 1506), 68x30cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian (1475), Antonio del Pollaiuolo (Italian, c.1432 – 1498) and Piero del Pollaiuolo (Italian, c.1441 – c.1496), 292x203cm, National Gallery, London.

Sebastian was tied to a post and shot with arrows; so many that, according to the Passio, his body looked “like a hedgehog.” Remarkably, he survived. A Christian woman named Irene found him still alive, took him into her home, and nursed him back to health.

Saint Sebastian tended by Irene (1625), Hendrick Terbrugghen (Dutch, 1588 – 1629), 149×119cm, Allen Memorial Art Museum, Oberlin College, Oberlin OH.

After being healed by Irene and rather than flee, Sebastian returned to confront the emperor and continue his mission. This time there would be no escape. He was beaten to death with clubs, and his body was thrown into a Roman sewer. Christians later recovered his remains and buried them in the catacombs along the Via Appia, a burial site that became an early pilgrimage destination.

Saint Sebastian (c.1615), Guido Reni (Italian,1575 – 1642), 128x98cm, Musei Capitolini, Rome.

Sebastian’s martyrdom was not just remembered, it grew! During outbreaks of plague in cities like Rome and Pavia, he became known as a powerful intercessor. People turned to him in desperation, hoping for protection or healing. Part of this devotion came from a visual connection: plague often brought painful skin lesions, which to the medieval eye resembled the wounds from arrows that pierced Sebastian’s body. Yet in his story, Sebastian miraculously survives these wounds. If he could heal, perhaps they could too. His body, punctured but intact, became a symbol of endurance and hope in the face of disease.

The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian (1600), Joachim Anthonisz Wtewael (Dutch, 1566 – 1638), 169x125cm, The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City, MO.

By the fifteenth century, as waves of plague, typhus, and dysentery overwhelmed European cities, his image spread rapidly in churches, chapels, and altarpieces. Sebastian was no longer just a martyr, but a solitary protector standing between humanity and divine interaction.

Saint Sebastian (c.1600), Aegidius Sadeler II (c,1570 – 1629) after design by Jacopo Palma il Giovane (c.1548 – 1628), Engraving, 44x31cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

For Renaissance artists, Sebastian offered something else: the ideal male nude. His pierced yet miraculously preserved body gave painters a sacred excuse to explore human anatomy, grace, and even sensuality. Painters emphasized his physical beauty, strength, and sometimes his erotic vulnerability. Over time, Saint Sebastian became a complex figure: part Roman soldier, part Christian martyr, part symbol of erotic endurance.

Saint Sebastian tended by Irene, (c.1623), Dirck van Baburen (Dutch, c.1592 – 1624), 109x153cm, Hamburger Kunsthalle, Hamburg.

The figure of Irene, who rescues and heals him, became popular in art during the Counter Reformation. She brought a renewed focus on compassion and quiet heroism, a contrast to the spectacle of violence. Her inclusion also emphasized that Sebastian’s story was not just about suffering, but about survival, healing, and of course about unshakable faith.

Saint Roch: the plague pilgrim and his faithful dog

According to tradition, Roch (or Rocco or Rochus) was born around 1348 in Montpellier, just as the Black Death was sweeping across Europe. Orphaned young, he gave away his inheritance, took up the pilgrim’s staff, and devoted himself to caring for plague victims as he traveled through France and Italy. Wherever he went, the sick recovered. His healing touch — and his refusal to abandon the afflicted — made him a figure of immense compassion and courage.

Saint Roch (c.1580), Engraving by Jan Sadeler I (Flemish, 1550 – 1600), after design by Marten de Vos (Flemish, 1532 – 1603), 20x15cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

But his life of service eventually turned against him. In the city of Piacenza, Roch himself caught the plague. To avoid infecting others, he withdrew into the forest, prepared to die alone. There, a small miracle occurred: a dog appeared daily, bringing him bread and licking his wounds. Artists portrayed him as a weary pilgrim, often lifting his tunic to reveal a swollen sore on his thigh, the visible sign of plague. He is nearly always accompanied by his faithful dog, a symbol of loyalty, compassion, and daily grace.

Saint Roch (c.1584), Gaspar Dias (c.1515 – c.1591), 350x300cm, Museum of São Roque, Lisbon.

Once healed, Roch returned to Montpellier. But his suffering was not over. Mistaken for a spy and unrecognized, he was thrown into prison, where he eventually died. Like Sebastian, Roch became one of the great plague saints of the Renaissance. He was the saint who had been there, not struck down in noble martyrdom, but sick, rejected, exiled, and healed. That made him deeply relatable. For many, he offered a vision of healing and survival through suffering.

Saint Roch (c.1480), Carlo Crivelli (Italian, c.1430 – before 1495), 40x12cm, The Wallace Collection, London.

His popularity surged during the Counter Reformation, especially in Catholic countries. He appeared in altarpieces, processions, and protective prints, sometimes shown receiving divine inspiration from an angel or being appointed by Christ himself as patron of the plague-stricken.

Christ Appointing Saint Roch as Patron Saint of Plague Victims (c.1623), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), 412x258cm, Sint Martinus Church, Aalst, Belgium.

In Rubens’ dramatic vision, Roch is formally appointed by Christ himself as the patron of the plague victimes. In the upper part of the panel, we see an angel who holds a tablet with the inscription “Eris in peste patronus” which means “You will be the patron in times of plague.” In the lower part of the painting, figures suffering from the disease implore the saint’s protection.

Companions in crisis: Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch together

As plague returned again and again to Europe between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries, artists and worshippers turned not to one protector, but to two. Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch began to appear side by side, in altarpieces, processions, chapels, and prints, forming a kind of alliance in the battle against disease.

The Virgin and Child with Saints Roch and Sebastian (c.1521), Lorenzo Lotto (Italian, c.1480 – 1556), 82x109cm, National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa ON.

The pairing made sense. Sebastian had endured violence and lived, if only briefly. Roch had fallen ill and survived. One was pierced, the other wounded. Both had skin lesions, which was so very recognisable for the ones suffering from the plague. Artists often placed them at either side of the Virgin and Child, turning them into protective witnesses for the sick and the fearful.

Mary with Saint Roch and Saint Sebastian (c.1633), Engraving by Cornelis Bloemaert II, (Dutch, 1603 – c.1684) after design by Federico Barocci (Italian, 1528 – 1612), 37x28cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Closing notes

Once you know the clues, it’s easy to identify Sebastian and Roch. The first one with the arrows, tied up and pierced; Roch, the second one, the pilgrim with a swollen plague-sore on his thigh. Sebastian’s idealized, youthful body stands for sacrifice and beauty even in suffering. Roch’s older figure emphasizes humility and compassion. And both of them are on a path of recovery.

Together, they became companions in crisis. In times of fear, they offered a sense that the suffering had been seen, shared, somehow sanctified, and maybe even healed! A visual and spiritual double act, shaped by public need for hope and support in the dark days of the Black Death.

Bonus: Sebastian, Resurrection, and the path to Heaven.

As a bonus, let’s have a look at Sebastian on the Triptych of The Resurrection (c.1490) by Hans Memling from the Louvre, Paris. Three panels, and showing from left to right the path from suffering to heaven.

Saint Sebastian and the Triptych of The Resurrection (c.1490), Hans Memling (South Netherlandish, c.1435 – 1494), central panel 62x45cm, Louvre, Paris.

On the left panel, Sebastian is being pierced by arrows. That is the figure with whom the viewer suffering from the plague or disease might identify. Moving to the central panel, we see the resurrection of Christ from death. That must have given hope to beat the plague and rise and shine again. And to complete the path to healing and salvation, look at the panel on the right, with the ascension into heaven. You can just see Christ’s feet dangling in the top part of the panel, ascending into heavenly light.

So when you suffer from the plague, read this triptych from left to right. Hope to resurrect from the disease and heal. Or alternatively, ascend into heaven. Either way, a happy ending!

Hercules

Hercules

Brute Force in a Divine Package

Meet Hercules! After writing about Perseus, I now turn to Hercules, another legendary son of Zeus, also born of a mortal mother. Like Perseus, Hercules belongs to the pantheon of Greek mythological heroes, but where Perseus is celebrated for his wit and cunning, Hercules is all about brute strength and unstoppable physical power. How can you recognise him in art? Look for bulging muscles, a hefty club, and the skin of the Nemean Lion; more on that last detail later.

Hercules (c.125CE), Marble Roman statue, aka Landsdowne Herakles, found in 1790 at Hadrian’s Villa in Tivoli, height 194cm, J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.

Hercules is his Greek name; in Roman mythology, he’s known as Heracles. He’s most famous for the epic series of challenges known as the Twelve Labors, a set of nearly impossible tasks, each involving a monstrous creature or a supernatural trial. In this TAB: The Art Bard story, I’ll focus on three of his Labors: his battle with the Nemean Lion, his wrestling match with Antaeus, and his descent into the underworld to capture Cerberus, the terrifying three-headed hound of Hades.

Farnese Hercules (c.1592), Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), Engraving, 42x30cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

But before we get to those heroic feats, let’s take a moment to look at Hercules’ extraordinary infancy, a childhood that already hinted at the hero he would become. It’s also the story behind nothing less than the creation of the Milky Way!

Here are the topics we’ll explore:

Consider this post both an introduction to Hercules and another crash course in Greek mythology. Let’s begin!

The Baby Who Bit a Goddess: Hercules and the Milky Way

According to Greek myth, Heracles was the illegitimate son of Zeus, king of the gods, and the mortal woman Alcmene. Zeus was married to Hera, queen of the gods, and his countless affairs with mortals enraged her. Heracles, born of one such affair, became a particular target of Hera’s wrath.

Yet Zeus had a bold plan to make his mortal son invincible: he secretly placed the baby at Hera’s breast while she slept, hoping the divine milk would grant him immortality.

The Birth of the Milky Way (c.1638), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640), Oil on canvas, 181x244cm, Prado, Madrid.

But Hera awoke. The infant Heracles bit her nipple with such force that she screamed and pushed him away. As the baby tumbled back, her milk sprayed across the heavens, creating what we now see in the night sky as the Milky Way.

In Rubens’ painting, Zeus watches the scene unfold, his thunderbolts symbols resting at his feet.

The Baby Hercules vs. the Snakes

Another famous story tells of the night when two snakes slithered into Hercules’ cradle. They weren’t there by accident. They were sent by Hera, Zeus’s long-suffering wife, still furious about her husband’s affair with the mortal woman Alcmene, which had produced the illegitimate child Hercules.

The Infant Hercules with the snakes (c.1700), Pieter van der Werff (Dutch, 1665 – 1722), Oil on panel, 35x43cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Hera’s plan was simple: let the snakes do the dirty work and get rid of the child once and for all. But things didn’t go as she hoped. Hercules, still just a baby, grabbed the snakes with his bare hands and strangled them effortlessly, treating the deadly serpents like harmless toys.

Young Hercules choking the snakes (c.150CE), Marble, hight 64cm, Musei Capitolini.

The Twelve Labors: why did they happen?

According to Greek myth, Heracles was condemned to perform twelve nearly impossible tasks, known as the Twelve Labors, as a form of penance. Driven mad by Hera, he had killed his wife and children. Overcome with grief, he sought purification and consulted the Oracle of Delphi, who instructed him to serve King Eurystheus for twelve years. It was Eurystheus who assigned him the twelve labors, each one more dangerous and degrading than the last.

This punishment was part of Hera’s ongoing vendetta. Not only had she caused his madness, but the labors themselves were designed to humiliate and destroy him. Yet instead of breaking him, these trials became the very deeds that secured Hercules’ fame and turned him into a legend.

Hercules and the Nemean Lion (c.1468), manuscript illustration from Raoul Lefèvre, Recueil des histoires de Troie, MS Francais 59, folio 136r, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

The First Labor: the Nemean Lion

Hercules’ first task sent him to the hills of Nemea to slay a monstrous lion that had been terrorizing the region. But this was no ordinary beast. The Nemean Lion’s golden coat was invulnerable to weapons; neither sword nor arrow could pierce it. When Hercules discovered this, he did something only he could do. He trapped the lion inside its cave and wrestled it bare-handed. After a brutal struggle, he choked it to death with his immense strength. When the battle was over, he tried to skin the lion. But even in death, its pelt resisted every blade.

Herakles wrestling the Nemean Lion, hydria vase (c.470BCE), attributed to the Aegisthus Painter, produced in Attica (Greece), height 29cm, Getty, Los Angeles.
Hercules and the Nemean Lion (c.1530), Engraving by Adamo (Ghisi) Scultori (Italian, 1530 – 1585), after design by Giulio Romano (Italian, 1499 – 1546), 21x14cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Hercules fighting the Nemean Lion (1634), Francisco de Zurbarán (Spanish, 1598 – 1664), Oil on canvas, 151x166cm, Prado, Madrid.
Hercules with his Club and Nemean Lion’s Skin (1548), Engraving after design by Baccio Bandinelli (Italian, 1488 – 1560), 35× 23cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Unable to cut through the pelt with his knife, Hercules used the lion’s own claw to flay the beast. Razor sharp, the claw was said to pierce any soldier’s helm or shield. He then draped the invulnerable pelt over his shoulders, wearing the gaping lion’s head like a hood. From that moment on, the lion skin became part of his iconography and a lasting symbol of Hercules’ brute strength.

Hercules dressed in the skin of the Nemean Lion (17th Century), Anonymous sculptor, Carrara marble, height 77cm, Prado, Madrid.

The Eleventh Labor: wrestling with Antaeus on the way to the Garden of the Hesperides

The wrestling match between Hercules and Antaeus became a legendary detour on his way to the Garden of the Hesperides, where he had to steal the golden apples.

Hercules lifts Antaeus clear of the Earth, Maiolica piatto (c.1490), Italian, Ø43cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Antaeus, a giant son of Gaia, the Earth goddess, had an unfortunate habit of challenging every traveler to a wrestling match. And winning! His secret was simple: as long as he remained in contact with the ground, and thus with Gaia his mother, the earth itself renewed his strength. Wrestling, after all, is about pinning your opponent down. But Hercules, no stranger to thinking as well as fighting, realized where Antaeus drew his power from. So he did the opposite. He lifted the giant high into the air, breaking his bond with the earth, and crushed him in a powerful embrace.

Hercules disconnecting Antaeus from the Earth (c.1828), Rafael Tejeo (Spanish, 1798-1856), sketch for the larger work now in the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Oil on canvas, 27x17cm, Prado, Madrid.

This scene became a favorite among artists in the Renaissance and Baroque periods. It gave them the perfect excuse to show off: two muscular bodies intertwined in violent motion. The struggle between Hercules and Antaeus offered not just a tale of brute strength, but also a clever mythological riddle and a glorious opportunity to turn male anatomy into art.

Hercules and Antaeus (c.1578), Giambologna (Flemish, 1529 – 1608), Bronze, height 51cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

The Twelfth Labor: the Cerberus

The Twelfth Labor was the most terrifying of all. Hercules had to descend into Hades, the Greek underworld, and bring back its guardian beast, the fearsome three-headed dog Cerberus.

Hercules and Cerberus (1636), Peter paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), Oil on panel, sketch made for the decoration of the Torre de la Parada, 28x32cm cm, Prado, Madrid.

Cerberus was the creature Hercules was sent to capture, not to kill, but simply to borrow and display. Like a mythical dog-walker, he descended into Hades, wrestled the beast into submission with his bare hands, and dragged it up into the land of the living. For a brief moment, Cerberus was paraded through the court of King Eurystheus as living proof of Hercules’ impossible strength, before being politely returned to his post in the land of the dead.

Charon crossing the Styx (c.1520), Joachim Patinir (South Netherlandish, c.1480 – before 1524), Oil on panel, 64x103cm, Prado, Madrid.

In the old Greek mythological days, one might have pictured Hercules standing at the brink of the underworld, just like the lone soul in the boat in Joachim Patinir’s haunting painting Charon Crossing the Styx (c. 1520, Prado, Madrid). Charon, the ferryman, guides his boat across the dark waters of the river Styx, the shadowy boundary between life and death. On one side of the river, a narrow, rocky side stream winds upward toward a glowing paradise, guarded by angels. On the other, a broad and inviting channel leads straight into what looks like a pleasant place but is, in fact, the gaping mouth of Hell, or Hades in the Greek tradition.

Charon, the grim ferryman of myth, rows his silent passenger toward a final judgment. But look closely at the right bank. Just before the gate of the underworld crouches a monstrous figure. This is Cerberus, part bulldog, part nightmare. The three-headed hound of Hades sits at the infernal threshold, ensuring that no soul may ever escape. In this Christianized vision of a Greek myth, Cerberus appears like a devil’s watch-dog, trapped in a kind of kennel at the entrance to eternal darkness.

Hercules and Cerberus (c.1580), Aegidius Sadeler II (Netherlandish, 1568 – 1629), Engraving, 23x16cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Bonus: Who Pays The Ferryman?

The question of who pays the ferryman has echoed far beyond ancient myth. In Greek tradition, Charon demands a coin from each soul before granting passage across the river Styx. Without payment, there is no crossing, only a restless afterlife on the shadowy banks. The phrase found new life in the 1977 BBC series Who Pays the Ferryman?, set in Crete and centered on Alan Haldane, a British former soldier haunted by the moral debts of war and love. Just as Charon rows through the waters of Patinir’s painting, ferrying a soul toward judgment, the title reminds us that no crossing, whether into Hades or into memory, comes without its price.

Who Pays the Ferryman? BBC television series, 1977, theme composed by Yannis Markopoulos (Greek, 1939 – 2023).

🎵 Listen to the theme from Who Pays the Ferryman? by Yannis Markopoulos.🎵 

Bonus: Antaeus, by Chanel

The myth of Antaeus did not just inspire Renaissance painters and sculptors. It also found its way into the world of modern fragrance. In 1981, Chanel launched Antaeus, one of its first perfumes created specifically for men. In Chanel’s words: “Named after the mythological Greek giant who was invincible only as long as his feet remained on the ground, Antaeus is an intense yet subtle, smooth and rich fragrance that tells the story of a hero both virile and vulnerable.”

Antaeus, Pour Homme, Chanel, 1981.

A personal note. This was my very first perfume. I still remember the iconic 1980s advertisement: a sculpted male torso, arms raised in triumph, lifting the Antaeus bottle like a trophy or sacred object.

And it is only now, while writing this story about Hercules and Antaeus, that I realise the Chanel perfume was indeed named after the mythological giant, and that the visual imagery of the advertisement is a direct contemporary echo of the ancient tale. Learning by going.

Perseus and Medusa

Perseus and Medusa

Super Hero and #MeToo

After exploring prophets, sinners, and saints from the Biblical tradition, it’s time to turn back to the world of Greek mythology. Let’s start with two of its most iconic figures: Perseus and Medusa. Her story resonates today as a #MeToo narrative; his tale reads like the script of a modern superhero film. Greek myths may be older than the Bible, but the themes they carry, such as good versus evil, justice for the wronged, and the quest for hope, are timeless. So let’s dive in.

To give some context, I’ll introduce the two main characters, Perseus and Medusa, before following Perseus through his adventures, from his miraculous birth as the child of one of Zeus’ escapades to his dramatic wedding with Andromeda. The topics we’ll explore are:

The recurring theme: a busy life for our superhero and the eternal struggle between good and evil.

The Main Characters: Perseus and Medusa

Perseus is one of the prominent heroes in Greek mythology. Unlike some other Greek heroes, his strength did not rely solely on brute force but also on inner qualities like courage and determination. He was the son of Zeus, king of the gods, and Danaë, a mortal princess. Perseus is best remembered for slaying Medusa and for rescuing Andromeda from a sea monster.

Medusa, once a beautiful priestess in the temple of Athena, is one of the tragic figures in mythology. She was raped by Poseidon in Athena’s sacred temple. Because the act defiled a holy space, and possibly because Medusa had boasted of her beauty, Athena punished her by transforming her flowing hair into venomous snakes. And from that moment on, anyone who looked directly at Medusa would be turned to stone.

Poseidon, the rapist, went unpunished. It was the victim who bore the consequences. We do not know if Poseidon felt guilt or ever faced the weight of what he had done. What we do know is that Medusa became the embodiment of female suffering, even labeled a monster. Her transformation has come to symbolize the way women are punished or demonized. In today’s world, Medusa’s story is often reinterpreted through the lens of the #MeToo movement, challenging us to consider who the real monster truly was.

Perseus, Roman copy after a Greek original of the 5th century BCE, Marble, height 29cm, Centrale Montemartini, Musei Capitolini, Rome. Medusa (c.1646), Gian Lorenzo Bernini (Italian, 1598 – 1680), Marble, height 68cm, Musei Capitolini, Rome.

Danaë, Perseus’ mother; Zeus, his father

Perseus was born under remarkable and mysterious circumstances. His mother was Danaë, a mortal princess and daughter of Acrisius, the king of Argos. Acrisius, obsessed with control and fearful of fate, had received a chilling prophecy: one day, he would be killed by his own grandson. To stop this from happening, he locked Danaë in a bronze chamber, isolated high in a tower, where no man could reach her.

Danaë and the shower of gold (1527), Jan Gossaert (Flemish, c.1472 – 1532), Oli on panel, 114x95cm, Alte Pinakothek, München.

But the gods, as always in Greek myth, find a way. Zeus, king of the gods, saw Danaë and desired her. Taking the form of a shower of gold, he entered her prison and impregnated her. In time, Danaë gave birth to a son, whom she named Perseus.

Danaë and the shower of gold (c.1621), Orazio Gentileschi (Italian, 1563 – 1639), Oil on canvas, 162x227cm, Getty Center, Los Angeles.

When Acrisius discovered the child, he was furious and terrified. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to kill his own daughter and her infant directly. Instead, he sealed them in a wooden chest and cast them out to sea, leaving their survival to fate. But Zeus watched over them!

The sea carried Danaë and Perseus safely to the island of Seriphos, where a kind fisherman named Dictys took them in. Dictys raised Perseus as his own, and the boy grew into a brave and spirited young man.

Danaë and the little Perseus put in a chest by King Acrisius (c.470BCE), Stamnos (storage bowl), Attributed to the Deepdene Painter, produced in Attica (Greece), height 39cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

(A note from the future: many years later, when Perseus had grown into a man, he took part in the Olympic Games. During a discus throw, his aim went astray and struck down a spectator. That man was none other than King Acrisius, his own grandfather. The prophecy Acrisius was so afraid of was fulfilled, by a tragic accident. But that lies far ahead in the story. For now, we return to the adventures of Perseus as a youth.)

King Acrisius sending off Danaë and Perseus in a chest (c.470BCE), Lekythos (oil vessel), Attributed to the Providence Painter, height 41cm, Toledo Museum of Art, Toledo, OH.
Danaë and the little Perseus put in a chest by King Acrisius (c.490BCE), Hydria (water bowl), Attributed to the Gallatin Painter, produced in Attica (Greece), height: 42cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

As Perseus matured, he became fiercely protective of his mother. Her beauty had not faded, and it attracted the unwanted attention of many men, including the island’s ruler, King Polydectes. Polydectes was aggressive and arrogant, and he was determined to marry Danaë, whether she agreed or not. Perseus saw through him immediately and did everything he could to protect his mother.

Danaë locked in the tower, Perseus with his mother Danaë drifting away, the fisherman Dictys who found Perseus and his mother, and King Polydectes who will soon start harassing Danë.
Illustration (c.1470) from Raoul Lefèvre (French, 15th Century) “Recoeil des Histoires de Troyes”, 9x12cm, Koninklijke Bibliotheek KB 78 D 48, National Library of the Netherlands, The Hague. For the full page of the manuscript, with text and illustration, click here.

An impossible task: killing Medusa

Frustrated, Polydectes devised a plan to get Perseus out of the way. He announced he was marrying someone else and demanded that all his subjects bring him wedding gifts. Perseus, relieved that his mother wasn’t the bride, promised to give Polydectes whatever he wanted. The king seized the opportunity and asked for something outrageous: the head of Medusa, whose gaze could turn anyone to stone.

Perseus agreed, though he had no idea how he would complete such an impossible task.

Help from Athena and Hermes

To carry out the impossible task of killing Medusa, Perseus received crucial help from two gods: Athena, goddess of wisdom, and Hermes, the swift messenger of the gods.

Perseus Armed by Athena and Hermes (1604), engraver Jan Harmensz. Muller (Dutch, 1571 – 1628) after design by Bartholomeus Spranger (Flemish, 1546 – 1611), Engraving, 57x40cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Athena gave Perseus a highly polished bronze shield. It would allow him to see Medusa’s reflection without looking directly at her. A pretty vital move, since anyone who met her gaze would instantly turn to stone. Hermes provided him with winged sandals, enabling him to fly, and a sharp curved sword.

Perseus Armed by Athena and Hermes (c.1550), Paris Bordone (Italian, 1500 – 1571), Oil on canvas, 104x153cm, Birmingham Museum of Art, Birmingham, AL.

With Athena’s guidance and Hermes’s gifts, Perseus was ready to face the deadly Medusa. He flew to her, used the mirror-like shield to watch her movements, and without ever meeting her eyes, struck with precision. In one swift motion, he cut off her head, snakes and all.

Perseus with the Head of Medusa (1554), Benvenuto Cellini (Italian, 1500 – 1571), Bronze, height 519cm, Loggia dei Lanzi, Piazza della Signoria, Florence.
Perseus about to kill Medusa with the the guidance of Athena (c.1636), engraver Cornelis Bloemaert (Dutch, c.1603 – 1692) after design by Abraham van Diepenbeeck (Dutch, 1596 – 1675), Illustration from Michel de Marolles “Temple des Muses” (Amsterdam, 1676), Engraving, 28x18cm, Heidelberg University Library, Heidelberg, Germany.
The Head of Medusa (1618), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640 Antwerpen), and the snakes by Frans Snyders (Flemish, 1579 – 1657), Oil on canvas, 69x118cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
Perseus after cutting off Medusa’s head (c.460BCE), Hydria (water bowl), attributed to the Pan Painter, produced in Attica (Greece), excavated in Capua (Campania, Italy), height 34cm, British Museum, London.

Death of Medusa and the birth of Pegasus

As Perseus struck off Medusa’s head, something extraordinary happened. From the blood that poured from her neck, a winged horse sprang forth. This was Pegasus, who became Perseus’s loyal companion.

Perseus now carried two powerful tools. One was the head of Medusa, which still had the power to turn anyone who looked at it into stone. The other was Pegasus, the magical horse who could fly. With these, Perseus began his journey home. He planned to return to Seriphos, confront King Polydectes, and reunite with his mother Danaë.

Perseus on Pegasus, after slaying Medusa (1925), John Singer Sargent (American, 1856 – 1925), Oil on canvas, 348x318cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

But the way back would not be simple. Like many heroes, Perseus would face new challenges on the road. Each test would reveal more of his courage, his cleverness, and his sense of justice.

Atlas becomes a mountain

On his journey home, Perseus grew tired and stopped to rest in a distant land. This place was ruled by Atlas, a mighty giant who stood guard over a sacred garden. Perseus asked for shelter, explaining that he was the son of Zeus. But Atlas remembered a prophecy that warned him a son of Zeus would one day steal the golden apples from his garden. Fearing the prophecy, Atlas refused to let Perseus stay.

Atlas being transformed into a mountain range (1606), “Atlas ob inhospitalitatem in montem sui nominis” or “Atlas, because of his inhospitality, turned into a mountain of his own name” from Ovidius’ Metamorphoses, Antonio Tempesta (Italian, 1555 – 1630), Etching, 10x12cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Perseus did not argue. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out the head of Medusa. When Atlas looked upon it, he was instantly turned to stone. His great body became part of the earth. His beard and hair turned into forests. His shoulders and arms became ridges and cliffs. His head rose into the sky as a high mountain. This, according to legend, is how the Atlas Mountains in Morocco originated and came to be named after the giant Atlas.

Perseus and Andromeda

As Perseus traveled home, riding the winged horse Pegasus, he flew over the coastline of ancient Ethiopia. There, he saw a young woman chained to the rocks at the edge of the sea. Her name was Andromeda. She had been left as a sacrifice to a sea monster, sent to punish the land for her mother’s pride. Her mother, Queen Cassiopeia, had once claimed that Andromeda was more beautiful than the sea spirits. This angered Poseidon, god of the sea. In revenge, he sent a terrifying monster to attack the coast. The only way to stop the destruction, the people believed, was to offer Andromeda to the creature.

Perseus and Andromeda (c.1592), Giuseppe Cesari (Italian, 1568-1640), Oli on slate, 71x55cm, Rhose Island School of Design Museum, Providence, RI.

Perseus was struck by Andromeda’s beauty, and he made a promise to save her. As the sea monster rose from the waves, Perseus flew into action. Riding Pegasus, he waited for the perfect moment. Then, at just the right time, he pulled Medusa’s head from his bag. The monster looked…, and instantly turned to stone.

Perseus releases Andromeda (c.1622), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), Oil on canvas, 100x139cm, Hermitage, St. Petersburg.

Andromeda’s parents, the king and queen, were filled with gratitude. Perseus asked for Andromeda’s hand in marriage, and she agreed. Together, they would set off for his homeland. But their story was not over yet.

Wedding of Perseus and Andromeda, and Phineas as unwanted guest

After rescuing Andromeda, Perseus was welcomed as a hero. The wedding was quickly arranged, and the royal palace filled with celebration. But not everyone was pleased. At the height of the feast, an angry voice echoed through the hall. It was Phineus, Andromeda’s former fiancé. He stormed in with a group of armed men, furious that the bride had been given to another. He shouted that Andromeda had been promised to him, and that Perseus had stolen her. Tension rose. The joyful feast turned into chaos. Phineus and his followers attacked. Perseus tried to fight them off, but he was badly outnumbered.

Perseus turning Phineas and his followers to stone (c.1640), Luca Giordano (Italian, 1634 – 1705), Oil on canvas, 285×366cm, National Gallery, London.

Then, as a last resort, Perseus reached for the most fearsome weapon he had: the severed head of Medusa. Holding it aloft, he turned his gaze away. The attackers, caught mid-charge, had no time to look away. One by one, their bodies froze in place. Faces twisted in rage, weapons raised, they turned to cold, silent stone. The room fell quiet. Phineus was no more. The threat was over. The marriage of Perseus and Andromeda could finally begin in peace.


Perseus turns Phineas and companions into stone by showing them Medusa’s head (c.1605), Annibale Carracci (Italian, 1560 – 1609) and Domenichino (Italian, 1581 – 1641), fresco, c.500x200cm, Galleria dei Carracci, Palazzo Farnese, Rome.

Saving his mother Danaë, and confronting Polydectes

After his adventures abroad, Perseus returned home to the island where he had grown up. But all was not well there. His mother, Danaë, was still being harassed by King Polydectes, who had never given up his attempts to force her into marriage. She had taken refuge in the temple of Athena, hiding from the king’s relentless advances.

King Polydectes petrified by Medusa’s head (1676), illustration from Isaac De Benserade’s “Metamorphoses d’Ovide en rondeaux”, engraved by Sébastien Leclerc (French, 1637 – 1714), 8x10cm, Bibliothèque municipale de Lyon, France.

Perseus went straight to the palace and confronted Polydectes. Without a word, Perseus pulled the head of Medusa from his bag. Polydectes and his supporters, unprepared and arrogant, looked straight at it and turned to stone. With justice served and his mother finally safe, Perseus restored peace to the island.

Medusa’s head on Athena’s shield

After the sea monster was killed, Andromeda and his mother Danaë saved, and justice delivered, Perseus fulfilled one last promise. He returned the head of Medusa to Athena, the goddess who had guided him on his quest.

Perseus, Athena with the head of Medusa, and Hermes (c.395BCE), Krater (mixing bowl) by the so-called Tarporley Painter, produced in Apulia (Italy), height 31cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, MA.

Athena took the powerful object and placed it at the center of her shield. From then on, Medusa’s stony gaze would serve to protect. It would turn away evil, and remind all who saw it of the strength found in wisdom and courage.

Athena and her shield with Medusa’s Head (c.1585), engraver Jan Saenredam (Dutch, 1565 – 1607) after design by Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), Engraving, 21x14cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Medusa on a shield (1597), Caravaggio (Italian, 1571 – 1610), Oil on panel, 60x55cm, Le Gallerie degli Uffizi, Florence.

Closing Notes

So what do we make of Perseus? Like Daniel from the biblical tradition, he is not a hero of brute force but of cleverness, courage, and integrity. Both are young men who rise to great challenges with the help of higher powers, whether divine faith or Olympian favor. They confront arrogant rulers, monsters in both human and mythic form, and they stand up for those who cannot protect themselves.

The stories of Perseus are older than the Bible, mythological in form, but in essence they tell the same tale: that justice can prevail, and that even in dark times, there is hope for the oppressed. Daniel’s story, though biblical in origin, mirrors these ancient myths in spirit. Both narratives teach us that the powerful who act with pride and hubris will be humbled. Both reveal a world where integrity matters more than might. And both reassure us that in the end, with the help of God or the gods, peace can be restored.

Bonus: Versace!

Now from myth to Milan! The famous fashion house Versace uses the head of Medusa as its logo, a direct nod to Greek mythology. The choice wasn’t random. As children, the Versace siblings played among ancient ruins near Reggio Calabria in southern Italy. There, on an old mosaic floor, they encountered the image of Medusa.

Versace Medusa plate (1993), Rosenthal Porcelain, Ø30cm.

Gianni Versace chose Medusa as the brand’s emblem. In myth, those who looked at her were turned to stone. In fashion, he hoped those who looked at his designs would be equally spellbound and captivated. Unlike Perseus, who avoided her gaze, we are drawn to it willingly, mesmerized. Carefully of course, because style and beauty can petrify!

Cranach’s Adam and Eve united in a single frame

Cranach’s Adam and Eve united in a single frame

Lucas Cranach the Elder (German, 1472 – 1553)

Gallerie degli Uffizi, Florence

At the Uffizi in Florence, an important restoration has brought new life – and unity – to Lucas Cranach the Elder’s celebrated pair of panels Adam and Eve, together representing the Fall of Man. The Uffizi’s Adam and Eve were most likely created as two coordinated but independent panels, not as one painting later split. They are conceived together as a single composition, and the two works have now been united within a single ebony-style frame, visually and aesthetically restoring the harmony intended by the German master.

Adam and Eve (1528), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, 167x122cm, Galleria degli Uffiuzi, Florence.
After: Adam and Eve (1528), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, 167x122cm, Galleria degli Uffiuzi, Florence.

Cranach and his workshop painted over fifty versions of The Fall of Man. Within those, the Uffizi pair stands out for its design: the figures of Adam and Eve are clearly meant to be seen together and, as such, tell the story of the Fall of Man. Their expressions, gestures, and mutual gaze reveal a dynamic dialogue that is now fully restored. The new frame, inspired by the black ebony frames typical of Central and Northern European collections, enhances this interplay while also protecting the works with conservation glass.

Adam and Eve (1528), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, each 167x61cm, Galleria degli Uffiuzi, Florence.
Before: Adam and Eve (1528), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, each 167x61cm, Galleria degli Uffiuzi, Florence.

Lucas Cranach the Elder’s paintings of Adam and Eve were typically created as a matched pair, with each figure painted on a separate panel intended to be displayed side by side. Though not a single unified panel, the works were conceived as a visual pair, often mirroring each other in pose and scale to create that harmonious composition. This diptych format was popular in Cranach’s workshop, which produced multiple variations on the theme, all maintaining the balance and tension between the figures.

Here are a few other examples: the set from the Kunsthistorische Museum in Vienna; the set from the Norton Simon Museum during restaurantion; and a single panel variation from Würzburg. For an overview of all Cranach’s Adams and Eves, see the Corpus Cranach as supported by the Universitätsbibliothek Heidelberg.

Adam (c.1510), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, 137x54cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
Eve (c.1510), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, 137x54cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
Adam and Eve (c.1510), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, each 137x54cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
Adam and Eve (c.1530), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, each 188x70cm, Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena, California.
The two panels from the Norton Simon Museum, put next to each other during the restauration.
Adam and Eve (c.1530), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, each 188x70cm, Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena, California.

Over the centuries, some of these paired panels were separated, sold individually, and now reside in different collections around the world. Where possible, museums have reunited them, while others display only one half of the original pairing. Though variations exist – including single-panel compositions featuring both figures – Cranach’s most attractive format is the two-panel set, a format emphasizing the duality of the narrative of the seducer and the one being seduced, and allowing for the visual interplay between Adam and Eve.

Adam and Eve (c.1513), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, 72x62cm, Museum für Franken, Würzburg.
Adam and Eve (c.1513), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, 72x62cm, Museum für Franken, Würzburg.

Within the visual and theological conventions of the Renaissance, Eve was often portrayed as the seducer, and Adam as the one being seduced. Lucas Cranach the Elder’s paintings reflect this interpretation. His depictions typically follow the traditional Christian narrative in which Eve is the first to take the forbidden fruit and then offers it to Adam, thus leading both into the Fall.

With the operation in Florence, the Uffizi has not only restored the original compositional intent but has also enhanced the storytelling power and visual impact of two masterpieces of the German Renaissance, now united as they were meant to be. The result is a more coherent and powerful narrative of the biblical story of temptation and the fall of humankind. This reframing marks a key addition to the Uffizi’s newly arranged rooms dedicated to Flemish and Northern European painting on the Gallery’s second floor. 

  • About the restoration on the Uffizi website, click here.
  • Some info about visiting the Uffizi in Florence, click here.
Holbein. Burgkmair. Dürer. Renaissance in the North

Holbein. Burgkmair. Dürer. Renaissance in the North

Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

19 March to 30 June 2024

The Kunsthistorisches Museum Vienna’s 2024 spring exhibition “Holbein. Burgkmair. Dürer. Renaissance in the North” is devoted to three outstanding pioneers of the Renaissance north of the Alps: Hans Holbein the Elder, Hans Burgkmair, and Albrecht Dürer. It offers a golden opportunity to experience fascinating works by these artists and to explore how Augsburg became the birthplace of the Northern Renaissance. 

Paired Portraits of Jacob Meyer zum Hasen and his Wife Dorothea Kannengießer (1516), Hans Holbein the Younger (German, c.1497 – 1543), each panel 40x32cm, Kunstmuseum Basel.

At the beginning of the sixteenth century, Augsburg – dominated by the hugely wealthy banking family of the Fuggers – was influenced by the art of Italy more than almost any other city north of the Alps. That this was the case is vividly demonstrated by the two most important Augsburg painters of the period: Hans Holbein the Elder (c.1464–1524) and Hans Burgkmair (1473–1531). In the Vienna exhibition, select works by these two very contrasting artists enter into a stimulating dialogue with works by Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528) and further German, Italian, and Netherlandish masters, notably the Augsburg-born Hans Holbein the Younger (1497/98–1543). The exhibition in Vienna showcases more than 160 paintings, sculptures and other works from many of the most important collections of Europe and the United States of America.

Portrait of a Young Man (1506), Hans Burgkmair the Elder (German, 1473 – 1531), 41x28cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

The upheavals in art around 1500 are brought to life and elucidated, as is the role of the imperial trading city of Augsburg as the centre of the Renaissance in the North.

The Conversion of Saint Paul on the Way to Damascus

The Conversion of Saint Paul on the Way to Damascus

“Saul becomes Paul”

The Feast of the Conversion of Saint Paul is celebrated on January 25th. This day commemorates the biblical account of the dramatic conversion of Saul, who then becomes the Apostle Paul. According to biblical accounts, Saul was traveling to Damascus with the intention of arresting and persecuting Christians when he experienced a dramatic encounter with a bright light and heard the voice of Christ. Saul fell from his horse as he heard Christ’s words “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me”? or in Latin ”Saule, Saule, quid me persequeris”? This dramatic encounter brought about Saul’s conversion.

The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (c.1617), Guido Reni (Italian, 1575 – 1642), 238x179cm, Royal Monastery of San Lorenzo de El Escorial, Spain.

Saul was blinded by the strong light. He was then guided to Damascus where Ananias, a follower of Christ, baptised Saul and miraculously gave him back his eyesight. After his conversion, Saul’s name was changed to Paul, and he is often referred to as Saint Paul or the Apostle Paul.

Christ appears own a cloud, with three angels. The Conversion of Saint Paul (1506), Hans Baldung Grien (German, 1484 – 1545), woodcut, 24x16cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Alternative theories about what happened to Paul on the way to Damascus have been proposed, including sun stroke, struck by lightning and a seizure; or a combination of these. In an article in the Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery, and Psychiatry (1987), it has been stated , that Paul’s conversion experience, with the bright light, loss of normal bodily posture, a message of strong religious content, and his subsequent blindness, suggested a Temporal Lobe Epilepsy (TLE) attack, and a post-ictal blindness. TLE seizures can affect emotions, behaviour, memory, and consciousness. Symptoms can vary widely and may include unusual sensations, altered sense of reality, déjà vu, hallucinations, or even loss of awareness. Post-ictal blindness refers to a temporary loss of vision that occurs after a seizure. Individuals may experience various neurological symptoms, and a temporary inability to see.

The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (c.1680), Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (Spanish, 1617 – 1682), 125x169cm, Prado, Madrid.
The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (c.1602), Adam Elsheimer (German, 1578 – 1610), Oil on Copper, 20x25cm, Städel Museum, Frankfurt am Main.
The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (c.1527), Francesco Mazzola aka Parmigianino (Italian, 1503 – 1540), 178x129cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (1601), Caravaggio (Italian, 1571 – 1610), 230x175cm, Cerasi Chapel, Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome.
The Conversion of Saint Paul (1509), engraver Lucas van Leyden (Netherlandish, 1498 – 1533) after his own design, engraving, 28x41cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

According to the New Testament, after Saul had his encounter with the bright light on the road to Damascus and heard the voice of Christ, he was left blinded. The men traveling with Saul stood there speechless; they had heard the sound but did not see anyone. Paul got up from the ground, but when he opened his eyes he could see nothing. So they led him by the hand into Damascus. For three days he was blind. In Damascus he met with Ananias, who laid hands on him, and something like scales fell from Saul’s eyes, restoring his sight. Ananias then baptized Saul, who took on the name Paul.

The Conversion of Saint Paul, print 15/34 from the series Acts of the Apostles (1582), engraver Philip Galle (Netherlandish, 1537 – 1612) after design by Maerten van Heemskerck (Netherlandish, 1498 – 1574), engraving, 21x27cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington.
Ananias Restoring the Sight of Saul (1719), Jean Restout (French, 1692 – 1768), 99x80cm, Louvre, Paris.
The conversion of St Paul on the way to Damascus and the baptism of St Paul by Ananias (c.1190), Fol 24v from the Picture Bible from the Benedictine Abbey of St. Bertin, France, 11x15cm, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, National Library of the Netherlands, The Hague.
The Apostle Paul with in the background the story of his conversion, including the words: “Saule, quid me persequeris” or “Saul, why are you persecuting me”?.
Saint Paul, print 5/6 from the series Sinners of the Old and New Testament (c.1610), engraver Willem Isaacsz. van Swanenburg (Netherlandish, 1580 – 1612) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Netherlandish, 1564 – 1651), Rijkmuseum, Amsterdam.

After his conversion, Paul dedicated himself to spreading the teachings of Christianity. He embarked on several missionary journeys, established Christian communities, and wrote numerous letters (epistles) that are an integral part of the New Testament. His writings and teachings have had a profound impact on the development of the early Christian Church.

The King Drinks

The King Drinks

“The Three Kings and The Bean King”

In the Low Countries, the Feast of Epiphany, or Twelfth Night of Christmas, is known as Drie Koningen (Three Kings). The Christian holiday is traditionally celebrated on January 6th with a festive meal at which friends and relatives gather to eat, drink and be merry. Drie Koningen originated as a medieval church holiday with public performances and festivals reenacting the biblical story of the Three Kings from the East who follow a bright star to find and do homage to the newborn Jesus. Although public performances had become outmoded in the 17th century, Twelfth Night continued to be celebrated in taverns and homes.

The king was chosen by chance, either by finding a bean or a coin in a cake baked for the occasion or by lottery, as is evident here from the two slips of paper on the floor and the one stuck on the hat of the young man seated at back.
The King Drinks or Peasants Celebrating Twelfth Night (1635), David Teniers the Younger (Flemish, 1610 – 1690), 47x70cm, National Gallery, Washington.

It was a secular way to celebrate the Catholic Epiphany; the Protestants did disapprove of these Catholic festivities, but could not prohibit the feast staying popular indoors and within the family. The evening began with the proclamation of a “King,” played by the eldest member of the company or chosen by lot. This was done by drawing paper lots or by the concealment of a bean or coin in a large cake, and the person in whose portion it was found would preside over the festivities as “King” or “Bean King.” He put on a fake crown, chose a queen, and appointed a staff of courtiers – from minister to jester.

The Latin inscription as translated “None is closer to the fool than the drunkard”, lends the degenerate carryings-on a moralistic undertone.
The Feast of the Bean King (c.1642), Jacob Jordaens (Flemish, 1593 – 1678) 242×300cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

Royal duties were extremely simple: When the King raised a glass of wine or beer, everyone had to exclaim in chorus: “The King Drinks!” as an appeal to the participants in the feast to follow the King’s example. And that happened often enough! Such feasts dragged on the whole night.

The inscription above the King reads: “In Een Vry Gelach, Ist Goet Gast Syn”, which translates as “It’s great to be a guest at a free drinking party”. The King had to pay the bill at the end of the evening.
The King Drinks (c.1639), Jacob Jordaens (Flemish, 1593 – 1678), 156×210 cm, Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels.

The “King” was not necessarily meant to represent one of the Three Kings, but might refer to the misrule of Herod, who is mocked as a drunkard and as a reminder of his all too excessive indulgence.

A Twelfth Night Feast, The King Drinks (c.1661), Jan Steen (Dutch, 1626 – 1679), 40x55cm, Royal Collection Trust, London.
The King Drinks (c.1655), David Teniers the Younger (Flemish, 1610 – 1690), 58x70cm, Prado, Madrid.
January, with “The King Drinks” scene, and with skating in the background (1629), from a series with the 12 months.
Crispijn van de Passe I, engraver (Dutch, c.1564 – 1637) after design by Maerten de Vos (Flemish, 1532 – 1603), engraving, 12cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.
The King Drinks (c.164), Gabriël Metsu (Dutch, 1629 – 1667), 81x98cm, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, München.
Twelfth Night (c.1665), Jan Steen (Dutch, 1626 – 1679) 41x49cm, Nasjonalmuseet for kunst, arkitektur og design, The Fine Art Collections, Oslo.
King’s Letter for a Twelfth Night celebration, with 16 lottery pieces for the various roles, King, Queen, Cook, Jester, Secretary, Singer, etc.
Publisher Widow Hendrik van der Putte, Amsterdam, c.1766, 31×22cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Ganymedes

Ganymedes

“Gay Pride”

It’s August, the month of “Pride” in many cities around the world and in Amsterdam today! What started as Gay Pride is now a celebration of LGBTQ+. I take this as an opportunity to speak about the beautiful boy Ganymedes, a hero from Greek mythology and a major symbol of homosexual love in the visual and literal arts.

Homer, who wrote in the 8th Century BC the legendary “Odyssey”, already describes Ganymedes as the most beautiful of mortals. Ganymedes was abducted from earth to become Zeus’s lover on Mount Olympus, serving wine to the Gods and blessed with eternal youth and immortality.

Peter Paul Rubens (1577 – 1640), “The Abduction of Ganymedes” (c.1637), 181x87cm, Museo del Prado, Madrid

Ganymedes (Γανυμήδης) was a young man from Troy and the most stunning guy walking around. Even Zeus, the King of the Gods, couldn’t resist his beauty. Zeus first tried to seduce him in a traditional way as shown on the Greek vase hereunder (from around 480 BC). Zeus pursues Ganymede on one side while the youth runs away on the other side, rolling along a hoop and holding aloft a crowing cock. A cock (the bird, that is!) was a common gift presented by an older man to a younger to indicate romantic interest. This custom took place in ancient Athens where such relationships were widely accepted and depicted many times on the visuals from those days, which was painted pottery as paintings did not exist yet. Considering the connotation of “cock” with penis, the bird nowadays mostly called “rooster”!

Berlin Painter, Red-figure krater vase with Jupiter and Ganymedes, c.495 BC, place of creation Athens; found in central Italy, 34x39cm, Louvre, Paris.

This “krater” is an ancient Greek vessel used for diluting wine with water. It’s made in Athens, most likely for the export market as this krater was found in Italy like so many other Greek vases. “Berlin Painter” is the name given to a Greek vase-painter who is widely regarded as one of the most talented vase painters of the early 5th century BC and he got his name after a large vase in the Antikensammlung Berlin.

Julien de Parma (1736 – 1799), “The Abduction of Ganymedes” (1778), 249x128cm, Museo del Prado, Madrid.

Ganymedes was a beautiful and young shepherd boy from the city of Troy. His beauty was so great and “godlike” that Zeus decided that Ganymede was too perfect to walk the earth. One day, when Ganymedes was tending the family flock of sheep, Zeus transformed himself into an eagle and abducted the unsuspected Ganymede, who was then taken to Mount Olympus. There, Zeus made him his cupbearer; it was Ganymedes’ duty to serve cups of wine and the divine drink nectar to Zeus and the other Gods.

Antonio Allegri “Corregio” (c.1492 – 1534), “The Abduction of Ganymedes” (c.1530), 164x72cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

On Correggio’s painting above, Ganymedes looks rather younger and less flagrantly showing the sensual male body. The boy seems happy to be abducted by an eagle, as if he knows that it’s Zeus who takes him into heaven. Rembrandt hereunder makes it more realistic. No toddler would like to be picked up by such ferocious bird, so Rembrandt has his Ganymedes bawling and urinating in fright.

Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), “The Abduction of Ganymedes” (1635), 177x129cm, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister, Dresden.

Nicolaes Maes, famous for his children portraits, is portraying a child from the Bredehoff de Vicq family as Ganymedes. Guess the boy’s parents thought their son was the most beautiful one ever! 

Nicolaes Maes (1634 – 1693), “Portrait of George Bredehoff de Vicq as Ganymedes” (17th century), 99x85cm, Harvard Art Museums, Cambridge, MA.

Not everyone was pleased with Ganymedes presence at Mount Olympus. Hera, Zeus’ wife and Queen of the Gods, was pretty jealous, certainly when it turned out that Zeus did not only abduct Ganymedes to serve the Gods wine, water and nectar, but also to become his lover. For the sake of family peace, Zeus promoted Ganymedes to an outside post and made him the stars in the sky that are the constellation Aquarius, the Water Bearer. And in post-Medieval times, Ganymedes’ name was given to the largest moon of the planet Jupiter.

Bertel Thorvaldsen (1770 – 1844), “Ganymedes and the Eagle” (c.1823), Marble, 88x118x47cm, Minneapolis Institute of Art, Minneapolis, MN.

Ganymede’s myth was popular amongst the Greeks and the Romans, the Greek version is with Zeus and the Roman version with Jupiter, both being the same King of the Gods. The first recorded mention of Ganymede is found in Homer’s Iliad dating back to the 8th century BC. The Greek vases shown are from around 500 BC and the Thorvaldsen sculpture is from around 1823. Ganymedes intrigues and inspires art and artists already more than 2500 years!

Géras Painter, Red-figure vase with Jupiter and Ganymedes as cup-bearer, c.475 BC, place of creation Athens; found in Vulci, Italy, 36x24cm, Louvre, Paris.

Ganymede’s myth is yet another piece in the history of sexuality, with particular importance for queer history. If the King of the Gods was allowed to have a male lover, then this certainly adds to the joy of all LGBTQ+ people attending Pride festivals this August.

Narcissus and Echo

Narcissus and Echo

Meet Narcissus and Echo! Although we know them already, as they are around us every day and everywhere. But originally they are two mythological characters from the “Metamorphoses”, an 1st century book in Latin, by the Roman poet Ovid.

John William Waterhouse (1849 – 1917), “Echo and Narcissus” (1903), 109x189cm, Oil on Canvas, Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool.

Let’s start with Narcissus. He was in those ancient mythological times a most beautiful young man. One sunny day, while walking in a wood and being thirsty, he wanted to drink from a well. But then another thirst grew in him. As Narcissus drank, he was enchanted by an attractive young boy he saw in the pond. Narcissus fell in love with that pretty guy in the water, mistaking that shadow of himself for a real body. Absolutely spellbound, he could not stop looking at that mirror image of himself. But poor Narcissus, whenever he wanted to kiss his lover, and when his lips touched the water, the reflection disappeared. Whenever he reached his hands to that guy in the pond, the image faded away. The boy he fell in love with did not exist and was nothing else than his own reflection.

Caravaggio (1571 – 1610), “Narcissus” (c. 1598), 110x92cm, Oil on Canvas, Palazzo Barberini, Rome.

Narcissus lay down next to the pond and being deeply in love kept on staring at his own image. No food anymore and no sleep. He started crying, but when his tears touched the water, the pool rippled and the object of his desire disappeared. Narcissus ultimately faded away and died. On that spot where he died, flowers started to grow; it’s the Narcissus flower, the daffodil, with its head hanging down, as if looking at the flower’s own refection in the water. See the painting by Waterford, some daffodils start to grow already next to Narcissus.

Anonymous, “Narcis” (c.1765), 30x19cm, Watercolor on Paper, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Would Narcissus have lived now and amongst us, he probably non-stop posted pictures of himslef on his social media. In that sense Narcissus invented the “selfie”, as ultimate passionate love for ones own image. We all know some of these guys and girls; check your InstaGram! We might even Narcissus ourselves?

Now about Echo, a young girl who fell in love with Narcissus. But first back to the beginning as described in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Echo was one of those girls who cannot stop talking, a chatterbox first class. Whenever in that mythological world the god Jupiter was playing around with girls, Echo distracted his wife Juno with her endless babbling. Juno got pretty angry and punished Echo. From that moment on, Echo could only repeat the last few words mentioned by someone else.

Alexandre Cabanel (1823 – 1889) “Echo” (1874) 98x67cm, Oil on Canvas, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

When Echo noticed Narcissus walking in the woods, she immediately fell in love. Narcissus sensed that someone was around and said: “Who is there, come here!”. And Echo said: “Come here!”. Narcissus said: “Let’s meet” and Echo said “Let’s meet!”. But when Narcissus saw Echo, he did not like her at all. Echo, feeling ashamed and rejected, hide in a cave where she became old and wrinkled and then died. Only her voice remains and that voice can still be heard when you are hiking in the mountains. Poor Echo will forever continue to repeat your last few words. I guess we all know some of these girls, endless talking and basically saying nothing more than just a few echoed words.

Of course there are deeper psychological meanings behind being a Narcist or being like Echo. The Narcists around us are the self-centered persons and the Echoists are the ones always focusing on others and neglecting themselves. And that makes them attracting each other, but never really connecting. They both should learn to share a bit each other’s characteristics. For Narcissus to echo more and for Echo to become a bit more narcistic.

The Caravaggio painting became the iconic image of Narcissus. The painting is currently to be seen on the exhibition “Caravaggio & Bernini, the Discovery of Emotions” in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, until January 19, 2020. This exhibition (and Caravaggio’s Narcissus) will then move to the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam as “Caravaggio-Bernini, Baroque in Rome” from February 14 until June 7, 2020.

Giuseppe Arcimboldo (1527 – 1593)

It’s summer; fruits and veggies galore! So, let’s speak about Giuseppe Arcimboldo, an Italian painter who spent his whole career at the Habsburg court, in Vienna for Emperor Maximilian II and later in Prague for Rudolph II. Arcimboldo was highly successful during his lifetime, but soon forgotten after his death. Only in the 1930s Arcimboldo got rediscovered. About 20 of his paintings remain and those 20 are quite something! A genius with an absolutely unique imagination, Arcimboldo combined fruits, plants and vegetables into allegorical portraits. Here is “Summer”, from one of his “Four Seasons” series, displaying a summer abundance of fruits and vegetables. Arcimboldo’s signature and the date of the painting are woven into the straw coat.

Giuseppe Arcimboldo (1527 – 1593), “Summer” (1563), 67x51cm, Oil on Wood, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

The Habsburg Court encouraged the study of art, nature and science. They not only collected works of art, but also established botanical and zoological gardens. Arcimboldo created a portrait of Emperor Rudolph II as “Vertumnus” the God of the Four Seasons, Gardens and Fruits. And of course Rudolph, who had a sense of humor indeed, loved to show off with this portrait as a symbol of the agricultural richness of his empire. Now the painting is on view in Skokloster Castle in Sweden. In 1648 the Swedish army took it with them after joining the Thirty Year’s War and having looted the castle in Prague.

Giuseppe Arcimboldo (1527 – 1593), “Emperor Rudolf II as Vertumnus, the Roman God of the Seasons”, c1590, 70x58cm, Oil on Canvas, Skokloster Castle, Sweden.

Arcimboldo had another trick. Some of his painting can be turned upside-down. Look at this basket of fruits, a painting from 1590. Reverse it and it’s the smiling face of the gardener himself. What a wonderful and witty way to paint the wealth of summer. Current whereabouts of the painting unknown, latest at French & Company art gallery, New York.

Mary Magdalene

Mary Magdalene

July 22nd is the feast day of Mary Magdalene. But who is she, and how to recognize her in art? If there had been more gender equality in the days of Jesus, than Mary Magdalene certainly would have become one of the 12 Apostles. She was the number one female follower of Jesus and is generally considered a historical figure. Most likely Mary Magdalene was wealthy, mundane, intellectual and beautiful. Rumors say that Mary Magdalene was a penitent prostitute and the lover of Jesus, that she was washing Jesus’ feet with her tears and drying His feet with her hair and rubbing His feet with precious ointment. These are fantasy stories made up from the Middle Ages onwards. But it’s through these stories that we can identify Mary Magdalene in art: as a beautiful long-haired woman with a perfume or ointment jar, or as a penitent sinner.

Jan van Scorel (1495 – 1562), “Mary Magdalene” (1530), 66x76cm, Oil on Panel, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Mary Magdalene depicted as a prostitute or sinful woman, whose sins are forgiven by Jesus, was a popular image. As everyone has some sins, big or small, one would love to see a painting with a sinner whose sins are forgiven and who sees the light of salvation. So let’s now look at this painting by El Greco. It’s the ecstatic moment when the penitent Mary Magdalene converts to the heavenly light and the skull representing her earthly mortality is rolling out of her hand. And of course in the left bottom comer is the omnipresent ointment jar.

El Greco (1541 – 1614), “The Penitent Mary Magdalene” (1576), 157x121cm, Oil on Canvas, Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest.

Another story is about Mary Magdalene wiping and anointing Jesus’ feet with precious perfume or ointment. Or washing His feet with her own tears and drying with her long hair. That’s pretty dramatic and will certainly appeal to any sinner who is looking for forgiveness.

James Tissot (1836 – 1902) “The Ointment of the Magdalene – Le Parfum de Madeleine” (c.1886), 22x28cm, Watercolor on Paper, Brooklyn Museum, New York.

As a historical figure, Mary Magdalene most likely was present when Jesus was crucified. See hereunder the crucifixion triptych by Rogier van der Weyden. And just so that we do not mix up Mary Magdalene with anyone else, she is the person carrying the jar with the perfume or ointment. The jar is Mary Magdalene’s traditional attribute and a great trademark to recognize her in art.

Rogier van der Weyden (1399 – 1464), “The Crucifixion Triptych” (c.1443), 96x123cm, Oil on Wood, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.