Tag: Metamorphoses

Apollo and Daphne

Apollo and Daphne

Birth of the Laurel Tree

In the Galleria Borghese in Rome stands a statue by Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598 – 1680) that is widely regarded as one of the masterpieces of marble sculpture in the Western world. Executed from 1622 to 1625, Bernini captured the moment Daphne escapes Apollo and transforms into a laurel tree. Her fingers are already becoming laurel leaves, her skin already becoming bark. Apollo has caught her at the exact instant she escapes him forever. Bernini is transforming cold stone into something that seems to breathe, to move, to cry out.

Daphne and Apollo (1625), Gian Lorenzo Bernini (Italian, 1598 – 1680), detail, Galleria Borghese, Rome.

Crucially, in the story of Apollo and Daphne neither of the two central figures acts entirely by free will. Both Apollo and Daphne are moved by forces beyond themselves — arrows loosed in revenge by the child-god Cupid — and yet the consequences fall almost entirely upon Daphne. This tension gives the myth a startling relevance to our own age, resonating powerfully with the questions raised by the #MeToo movement: Who is responsible when power is abused? What does consent mean when one party is overwhelmed by forces they did not choose?

Daphne and Apollo (c.1636), Cornelis de Vos (Flemish, c.1584 – 1651), Oil on canvas, 207x193cm, Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

In the first book of his Metamorphoses, composed in the first century AD, the Roman poet Ovid tells the tale of Apollo and Daphne. The story unfolds in six movements, each preserved in Ovid’s verse, and each illustrated by painters, sculptors, and illuminators. Let us follow it from beginning to end:

  1. Apollo kills Python
  2. The dispute between Apollo and Cupid
  3. Cupid’s revenge: the two arrows and Apollo goes after Daphne
  4. Daphne begs her father for help
  5. Daphne turns into a Laurel Tree
  6. The Evergreen Tree and the Laurel Wreath

1. Apollo kills Python

The story begins not with love but with slaughter. Apollo killed Python, the great snake that terrorized mankind. As an allegory, Python represents the fogs and clouds of mist that arise from ponds and marshes, and evaporate when the rays of the sun appear — Apollo being the sun-god, and his arrows the rays of sunshine.

Apollo kills Python (1589), From the series ‘Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, Engraving after design by Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), 18x25cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
The archer god, with lethal shafts that he had only used before on fleeing deer, destroyed the creature with a thousand arrows, almost emptying his quiver, the venom running out from Python's black wounds.

Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book I (643-648)
Apollo, Python and Cupid (c.1636), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), Oil on panel sketch, 27x42cm, Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

2. The dispute between Apollo and Cupid

Flushed with triumph, Apollo encounters Cupid — the small, winged god of love. Apollo, in his pride, cannot resist mockery. Why, Apollo demands, does this little boy need weapons suited for war? The bow belongs to mighty gods like himself, to those who hunt and fight and conquer monsters. Let Cupid content himself with his love-torch and leave glory to those who have earned it.

Apollo and Python, and the dispute with Cupid (c.1650), Jan Boeckhorst (Flemish, 1604 – 1668), Sketch or modello for a tapestry, Oil on canvas, 60x51cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Ghent, Belgium.

Cupid’s reply is dangerously calm. Your arrow may pierce all things, he tells Apollo, but my arrow will pierce you.

Apollo, proud of his recent conquest of the snake, saw Cupid flexing his bow, pulling back the string, and said to him: Boy, what are you doing with strong weapons? Those arrows and bow are fitting for my shoulders — I who can shoot wild beasts and never miss, and wound my enemies, I who with my countless arrows has just killed that Python. You, be satisfied to stir up some love affair with your torch, and do not lay claim to my praises!

Cupid then replied to him: Oh Apollo, your arrow may strike all things, but mine can strike at you.


Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book I (665-677)
The Dispute between Apollo and Cupid (c.1812), José de Madrazo y Agudo (Spanish, 1781 – 1859), Pencil on paper, 22x29cm, Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

Here is a divine comedy playing out with tragic consequences for a mortal — or rather, for a nymph. Apollo’s arrogance triggers Cupid’s revenge, and that revenge will be visited not merely on Apollo himself, but on an entirely innocent third party: Daphne, daughter of the river god Peneus, who has never wronged either of them and is simply going about her life in the forests she loves.

3. Cupid’s revenge: the two arrows and Apollo goes after Daphne

Ovid then describes Cupid’s vengeance with great precision. He tells us that the little god flies to the top of Mount Parnassus and takes two arrows — arrows of entirely opposite powers. The first is golden with a razor-sharp head: it kindles love. The second is blunt-tipped, leaded: it repels love and makes its victim flee from even the name of it. He shoots the golden one at Apollo and the leaden one at Daphne.

Daphne and Apollo, and Cupid (c.1617), Francesco Albani (Italian, 1578 – 1660), Oil on copper, 18x36cm, Louvre, Paris.

Apollo sees Daphne and is immediately consumed by burning love. Daphne is equally consumed by burning aversion, running from the very idea of love. Both are robbed of choice. Both are puppets of a Cupid’s arrows and revenge. Yet it is Daphne who pays the higher price.

Cupid pulled out two arrows, each with a different force. The arrow which arouses love is gold with a sharp, glittering head, while the arrow which inhibits love is blunt and has lead below the shaft. With this second arrow Cupid hit Daphne, the daughter of Peneus, but with the first he struck Apollo’s bones, piercing right through them, into the marrow.

Apollo is immediately in love, but she runs away, swifter than a soft breeze, and does not stop when he calls her. With increasing speed, he chases after her. That’s how the god and virgin race away, he driven on by hope and she by fear. Daphne grows pale as her strength fails, exhausted by the strain of running away so fast.

Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book I (680-801)
Daphne and Apollo (3rd Century), Detail of a mosaic pavement from Daphne Harbie in Turkey, 107x105cm (total mosaic 190x592cm), Princeton University Art Museum, Princeton, NJ.

4. Daphne begs her father for help

With Apollo almost upon her, Daphne turns to the one source of help available. She calls on her father, the river god Peneus, whose waters flow through the valley. It is a cry for transformation, for escape from the body that has become a trap:

Gazing at the waters of Peneus, she cries out: 'Father, help me! If your streams have heavenly power, change me! Destroy my beauty which has brought too much delight!'


Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book I (803-805)
Daphne and Apollo, and Daphne’s father Peneus (c.1757), Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (Venetian, 1696 – 1770), Oil on canvas, 69x87cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.

Daphne does not ask to be saved so that she can go on living as herself. She asks to be unmade. She asks for her beauty — the very quality that drew both Cupid’s arrow and Apollo’s eye — to be destroyed. In a world where she cannot control the effect her appearance has on those around her, the only freedom available is to stop being what she is. Her father Peneus, the great river God, complies. And the transformation begins.

Daphne and Apollo, and Daphne’s father Peneus (c.1545), Italian maiolica plate, Tin glazed eartheware, Diameter 27cm, Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

5. Daphne turns into a Laurel Tree

Then Ovid gets to the core of the story, Daphne’s transformation. It happens mid-stride, at the moment Apollo’s hands almost reach her:

Scarcely has she made this plea, when she feels a heavy numbness move across her limbs, her soft breasts are enclosed by slender bark, her hair is changed to leaves, her arms to branches, her feet, so swift a moment before, stick fast in sluggish roots, a covering of foliage spreads across her face. All that remains of her is her shining beauty.


Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book I (806-810)
Daphne and Apollo (c.1475), Piero Pollaiuolo (Italian, c.1441 – c.1496), Oil on panel, 30x20cm, National Gallery, London.

The transformation is complete — and yet not complete, for what persists is beauty itself. Daphne has changed form, but not vanished. And Apollo, reaching the tree, still reaches for her:

Apollo loved her in this form, as well. He placed his hand on her trunk, where he felt her heart still beating under the new bark. He hugged the branches as though they were still human limbs and he kissed the wood.


Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book I (813-818)
Daphne and Apollo (c.1668), Jan Boeckhorst (German, c.1604 – 1668), Sketch or modello for a tapestry, Watercolor, 22x23cm, Getty Center, Los Angeles.

Apollo’s love does not end with the transformation. The god who could not accept refusal from a living woman, now declares his love for a tree:

Apollo spoke: 'Since you cannot be my bride, you will certainly be my tree. My hair will always be decorated with your leaves. You will accompany the Roman emperors, when joyful voices acclaim their triumph. And just as my head with its golden hair is always young, so you also will wear the beauty of evergreen leaves.'


Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book I (820-831)

At the heart of Apollo’s speech is a promise: as his hair is always young — as the god of light — so the laurel will bear the beauty of evergreen leaves throughout winter. This is the mythological explanation for a natural fact: the laurel (Laurus nobilis) is indeed an evergreen, its aromatic leaves glossy and dark throughout the year. In the ancient world, evergreens were associated with immortality, with the persistence of life beyond ordinary death. The laurel thus became the perfect symbol of Apollo — the god of undying light, the sun that does not permanently fail even in midwinter.

Daphne and Apollo (1622), Gian Lorenzo Bernini (Italian, 1598 – 1680), Marble, height 243cm, Galleria Borghese, Rome.
And here you can watch the great video on Bernini’s Daphne and Apollo by the Khan Academy (Smarthistory), presented by Dr. Beth Harris and Dr. Steven Zucker.

Apollo turns his loss into an enduring program, although it is quite a self-glorifying solution. Daphne will adorn Apollo’s hair and his lyre. Daphne will stand at the doors of emperors. Daphne will crown the victorious and the powerful. Apollo claims her, even in her transformation — even in what was meant to be her escape.

6. The Evergreen Tree and the Laurel Wreath

The story ends when the laurel tree bends its new branches, in what Ovid calls a nod — a tree’s equivalent of consent, as Apollo certainly will understand it. 

The laurel bowed her newly made branches, nodding in agreement, and seemed to shake her leafy crown like a head giving consent.


Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book I (832-833)

But perhaps it was only the wind that moved the leaves?

Daphne and Apollo (c.1414), from the Illuminated Manuscript ‘The Book of the Queen’ by Christine de Pisan (French, 1364 – c.1430), Harley MS 4431, f.134v, British Library, London. For the Illuminated Manuscript, click here.

The final image of Ovid’s story is the laurel bowing its branches — or seeming to. Daphne, who asked to be unmade, who prayed for her own transformation, has become permanent. She is the tree that does not die. She is in Apollo’s hair and she is on the heads of emperors and generals. She is in the hand of every poet and laureate who ever received a wreath.

Julius Caesar (c.1675), from the Series of Roman Emperors, Engraving by André Vaillant (Dutch, 1655 – 1693), after a design by Titian (Venetian, c.1488 – 1576), with a poem by Geeraert Brandt (Dutch, 1626 – 1685), 22x16cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Every time you see a laurel wreath — in a painting, on a coin, at a graduation ceremony, above a doorway — you are seeing Daphne. The girl who ran. The nymph who asked to be dissolved and was instead immortalised. The body that fled possession and was possessed anyway, in a form that cannot speak, cannot run, cannot refuse.

Napoleon on the Throne (1806), Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (French, 1780 -1867), Oil on canvas, 163x260cm, Musée de l’Armée, Paris.

The myth is two thousand years old. The laurel is on every door. Daphne is everywhere.

The Twin Tipped Fred Perry Shirt (1952). The Fred Perry logo – a laurel wreath.

The laurel wreath, then, is not only a symbol of triumph. It is also a reminder — worn at every moment of victory, present at every crowning — that somewhere behind glory there may be a story of someone who ran, and who ran in vain.

Vertumnus and Pomona

Vertumnus and Pomona

“God of Seasons and Goddess of Orchards”

The story of Vertumnus and Pomona comes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a Latin narrative poem from the year 8 CE. Vertumnus, the God of the Seasons, disguised himself as a talkative old woman and attempted to seduce the reclusive Pomona, the Goddess of Orchards. When Vertumnus approached Pomona in the form of an old woman, in her garden was an elm tree with a vine growing around its trunk. The old woman interpreted this as a symbol of marital union. In his disguise of the old spinster, he sang the praises of love and of Vertumnus. The trick worked, for when Vertumnus dropped his disguise and took on his own appearance of handsome young man, his good looks won Pomona over and she agreed to become his wife.

Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 623-636: “Pomona tended the gardens more skilfully or was more devoted to the orchards’ care than anyone else. She loved the fields and the branches loaded with ripe apples. She carried a curved pruning knife, with which she cut back the luxuriant growth, and lopped the branches spreading out here and there. This was her love, and her passion, and she had no longing for desire. She enclosed herself in an orchard, and denied an entrance, and shunned men.“
Vertumnus and Pomona (1617), Jan Tengnagel (Dutch, 1584 – 1635), Oil on Copper, 21x29cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 653-658: “Once, Vertumnus covered his head with a coloured scarf, and leaning on a staff, with a wig of grey hair, imitated an old woman. He entered the well-tended garden, and admiring the fruit, said: ‘You are so lovely’, and gave Pomona a few congratulatory kisses, as no true old woman would have done.”
Vertumnus and Pomona (c.1638), attributed to Ferdinand Bol (Dutch, 1616 – 1680), 18x22cm, Pen and brown ink on paper, Princeton University Art Museum, Princeton NJ. Auctioned in 2007 at Christie’s New York; purchased Princeton University Art Museum for USD 144,000.
Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 659-668: “Vertumnus, dressed at the old lady, pointed at the branches bending, weighed down with autumn fruit. There was a elm tree, covered with gleaming bunches of grapes. After he had praised the tree, and its companion vine, he said: ‘But if that tree stood there, unmated, without its vine, it would not be sought after for more than its leaves, and the vine also, which is joined to and rests on the elm, would lie on the ground, if it were not married to it, and leaning on it. But you, Pomona, are not moved by this tree’s example, and you shun marriage, and do not care to be wed. I wish that you did!”
Vertumnus and Pomona (c.1630), Paulus Moreelse (Dutch, 1571 – 1638), 114x130cm, Museum Boijmans van Beuningen, Rotterdam.
Vertumnus continued seducing Pomona with sweet words. Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 672-692: “Even now a thousand men and the gods and demi-gods want you, Pomona, though you shun them and turn them away. But if you are wise, if you want to marry well, and listen to this old woman, that loves you more than you think, more than them all, reject their vulgar offers, and choose Vertumnus to share your bed! You have my assurance as well: he is not better known to himself than he is to me: he does not wander here and there in the wide world: he lives on his own in this place: and he does not love the latest girl he has seen, as most of your suitors do. You will be his first love, and you will be his last, and he will devote his life only to you. And then he is young, is blessed with natural charm. Besides, that which you love the same, those apples you cherish, he is the first to have, and with joy holds your gifts in his hand! But he does not desire now the fruit of your trees, or the sweet juice of your herbs: he desires nothing but you. Take pity on his ardour, and believe that he, who seeks you, is begging you, in person, through my mouth.”
Vertumnus and Pomona (c. 1749), François Boucher (French, 1703 – 1770), 86x135cm, Columbus Museum of Art, Columbus, Ohio.
Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 761-764: “Remember all this, Pomona of mine: put aside, I beg you, reluctant pride, and yield to your lover. Then the frost will not sear your apples in the bud, nor the storm winds scatter them in flower.”
Vertumnus and Pomona (1613), Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), 90×150cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Rubens chose to depict the moment when, having removed his disguise, Vertumnus declares his love to Pomona. On the left, the old lady’s stick, and Vertumnus’ old-lady’s-veil is just sliding off his head. Pomona tries to resist a bit still, but will now fall in love, and they will be together happily ever after.
Vertumnus and Pomona (c.1636), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), 27x38cm, Prado, Madrid.
Pomona finally falls in love with the beautiful Vertumnus, who according to Ovid looks like the sun so beautiful: see his sunray-style of hair on this engraving. And Pomona’s sickle is safely on the ground now. Read Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 765-771: “When Vertumnus, the god, disguised in the shape of the old woman, had spoken, but to no effect, he went back to being a youth, and threw off the dress of an old woman, and appeared to Pomona, in the glowing likeness of the sun. Pomona, captivated by the form of Vertumnus, felt a mutual passion.”
Vertumnus and Pomona (1605), engraving by Jan Saenredam (Netherlandish, 1565 – 1607) after design by Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem (Netherlandish, 1562 – 1638), 26x22cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
On this engraving the whole story together in two scenes: Vertumnus disguised as the old lady speaks with Pomona, and Vertumnus and Pomona embracing each other in the background on the right.
Vertumnus and Pomona (1605), engraving by Jan Saenredam (Dutch, 1565 – 1607) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1564 – 1651), 49×38cm, Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven, CT.
Vertumnus, from the Pastoral Gods series (1565), Engraver Cornelis Cort (Dutch, c.1533 – 1578), after design by Frans Floris the Elder (Flemish, 1519 – 1570), Publisher Hieronymus Cock (Flemish, 1518 – 1570), Engraving, 29x22cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
This portrait painted by Arcimboldo is Vertumnus, as a glorified representation of Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II. As Vertumnus was the God of the Seasons, all four seasons are represented in the portrait using corresponding fruits and vegetables. Some of the fruits and vegetables represented, such as corn, were exotic at the time in Europe. The elements of this allegorical portrait stand for the power of Emperor Rudolf and the prosperity in the domains he ruled.
Portrait of Rudolf II as Vertumnus (1591), Giuseppe Arcimboldo (Italian, 1526 – 1593) 70x58cm, Skoklosters Slott, Skokloster, Sweden.
Pomona, from the Pastoral Nymphs and Goddesses series (1564), Engraver Cornelis Cort (Dutch, c.1533 – 1578), after design by Frans Floris the Elder (Flemish, 1519 – 1570), Publisher Hieronymus Cock (Flemish, 1518 – 1570), Engraving, 27x19cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Pomona encircled by a garland of fruit (17th Century), Studio of Frans Snyders (Flemish, 1579 – 1657), 203x158cm, latest Christies London 2010.

Ovid, Metamorphoses, translated by A. S. Kline.

Zeus and Io

Zeus and Io

“…and Hera, Hermes and Argus”

The story of Zeus and Io is one of the many fascinating tales from Greek mythology. It involves love, deception, and a remarkable transformation. The story is written in various ancient Greek texts, but one of the most well-known versions can be found in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”. Ovid was a Roman poet who lived during the 1st century AD and wrote a collection of mythical tales, including the story of Zeus and Io.

Here’s the story: Io was a beautiful mortal princess and her radiant beauty caught the attention of Zeus, king of the gods. He became infatuated with her and desired her affection. Zeus, being notorious for his amorous escapades, sought to pursue Io without the knowledge of his jealous wife Hera. To avoid detection, Zeus approached Io in the form of a cloud. It’s Zeus naughty and cunning habit to seduce his amorous victims in disguise, in the form of a cloud this time.

Zeus, disguised as a cloud, seduces the beautiful princess Io. Look at his face and his paw! (c.1530)
Correggio (Italian, c.1489 – 1534), 162×74cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

Zeus’ wife Hera became enormously suspicious when she saw that cloud hanging above the fields and went to see if her husband Zeus was behind it and maybe after another beautiful girl.

Oops, there is Zeus wife Hera! Catching her husband with Io; Hermes and Argus in the background, but that’s only later in the story… (1619)
Hans Bock the Elder (German, c.1550 – c.1623), 47x62cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest.

Zeus then used his divine powers and transformed Io into a white heifer (a young and fertile cow) to hide their affair from his jealous wife. This transformation allowed Io to live among the other cattle without arousing suspicion.

Zeus (with the eagle) is surprised by his wife Hera (with the peacock) and quickly transforms his lover Io into a cow (c.1530)
On the left the drawing as study for the print, and on the right the ultimate print. Drawing (c.1530), Michiel Coxie (Flemish, 1499 – 1592), Paper and Brown Ink, 17x14cm, British Museum, London. Print (c.1540), printmaker Cornelis Bos (Flemish, c.1508 – c.1555), after the drawing by Michiel Coxie (Flemish, 1499 – 1592), engraving, 18x14cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

However, Hera was no fool and soon became suspicious of her husband’s intentions. She suspected that Zeus was up to something and devised a plan to discover the truth.

Hera is now finding out what’s happening, having watched her husband Zeus with the beautiful Io in the body of a cow (c.1656)
Jan Gerritsz. van Bronchorst (Dutch, c.1603 – 1661), 274x176cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.

Hera approached Zeus and cunningly expressed her admiration for the cow, suggesting that she would love to have the creature as a gift. Zeus, aware of his wife’s jealousy, could not refuse the request and reluctantly agreed to give the cow to her.

Hera demand Zeus: “Give that cow (Io, that is) to me!” (1638)
David Teniers (Flemish, 1582 – 1649), 47×61cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

Now, Hera had possession of the transformed Io, but she wasn’t entirely convinced of her husband’s innocence. To keep an eye on the situation, she assigned the many-eyed giant guy Argus Panoptes (the all-seeing Argus) to guard the cow. Argus was an extraordinary creature with hundreds of eyes, and he was capable of keeping watch over Io at all times, even while some of his eyes rested.

Hera tells Argus, the guy with 100 eyes, to guard the cow Io (c.1625)
Printmaker Moyses van Wtenbrouck (Dutch, c.1595 – c.1647), engraving, 13x18cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Zeus was deeply concerned for Io’s safety and well-being. In a desperate attempt to free her, he sought the help of his son Hermes, the messenger of the gods and a skilled trickster.

Zeus instructs Hermes to kill Argus and to free the cow Io (c.1656)
Jan Gerritsz. van Bronchorst (Dutch, c.1603 – 1661), 277x183cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.

Hermes devised a clever plan to rescue Io. He played a melodious tune on his flute and began to tell entertaining stories to Argus. As the music and tales enchanted the many-eyed giant, his eyes gradually closed, one by one, until all were shut in a peaceful slumber.

Hermes plays the flute and tells stories, until all the 100 eyes of Argus fell asleep,with the cow Io in the background (c.1592)
Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1566 – 1651), 64x81cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.
Argus fell asleep and Hermes is pulling his sword to kill Argus; the cow Io in the background (1610)
Paulus van Vianen (Dutch, 1570 – 1614), Silver Plaquette, 13x16cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Taking advantage of the situation, Hermes swiftly slew Argus with a single stroke of his sword.

Hermes kills the 100-eyed Argus with Io as a cow in the back of the picture, 5th Century BC
Greek Stamnos Vase, 5th Century BC, found in Cerveteri Italy, height 30cm, diameter 25cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

After Argus’s death, Hera was informed of his demise, and she mourned the loss of her loyal servant. As a tribute to the fallen guardian, Hera transferred Argus’s eyes to the tail of her favorite bird, the peacock, which became a symbol of her power and authority.

The dead Argus on the ground, and Hera placing the eyes of Argus on the tail of a peacock (17th Century)
Deifobo Burbarini (Italian, 1619 – 1680), 159x255cm, Private Collection, latest Christie’s New York 2017.

Io was finally free from her captor, but Hera’s rage did not subside. In her fury, she sent a tormenting gadfly to relentlessly sting and chase Io across the world, making her wander in agony.

Poor Io being pestered by a gadfly sent by Hera; the fly on her ear, she cannot reach it and it makes Io-as-cow running in panic all over the Mediterranean, through the Ionian Sea and over the Bosporus into Egypt (2019)
Olivia Musgrave (Irish, 1958), Bronze, 39x54x26cm, John Martin Gallery, London.

Io’s wanderings led her to Egypt, where she eventually returned to her original human form. In Egypt, she gave birth to a son named Epaphus, who would later become a renowned king and ancestor of various legendary figures.

Io (left, back in human form but still with the cow horns) is welcomed in Egypt by Isis (right) and Io is living happily ever after
fresco from the temple of Isis in Pompeii, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Naples, Italy.

The story of Io and Zeus is one of the many tales that highlight the complicated relationships among the gods and mortals in Greek mythology. It showcases the consequences of divine infidelity and the lengths to which the gods would go to protect their interests and secrets.

Ionian Sea and Bosporus

After her transformation into a cow and subsequent escape from Argus, Io roamed through various regions, enduring Hera’s torment in the form of a gadfly that continually stung her. Her wandering took her through different lands and over various seas. The Ionian Sea is named after Io and she crossed the Bosporus on her way to Egypt.

The word “Bosporus” does indeed have a connection to the idea of “cow crossing” in its etymology. The Bosporus, the strait that separates the European and Asian parts of Turkey, derives its name from ancient Greek. The Greek word “Βόσπορος” (Bosporos) is a combination of two words: “βοῦς” (bous), which means “cow,” and “πόρος” (poros), which means “crossing” or “passage.” So, the term “Bosporus” can be interpreted as the “Cow Crossing” or the “Cow Passage.” In a similar vein, “Oxford” in England has its name derived from “oxen ford,” which means a place where oxen (and likely other cattle) could cross a river. Same for “Coevorden” in The Netherlands. Place names often carry historical or mythological significance, and they can provide fascinating insights into the cultural heritage and stories of the regions they represent.

Greek and Roman Gods

The three gods involved in the story of Zeus and Io are:

  • Zeus (Ζεύς) is the god of the sky and thunder, and king of the gods, married to Hera. His symbol is the eagle. The Roman equivalent is Jupiter, also knows as Jove. Read more about Zeus in The Twelve Olympians.
  • Hera (Ήρα) is the goddess of marriage, women and family and the queen of gods, wife of Zeus. Her symbol is the peacock. The Roman equivalent is Juno. See Hera in The Twelve Olympians.
  • Hermes (Ἑρμῆς) is the messenger of the gods and the divine trickster. His Roman equivalent is Mercury. More about Hermes in The Twelve Olympians.
Icarus

Icarus

Hubris (ὕβρις): Pride Goeth Before The Fall…

This is a story of ambition, pride and downfall. It’s about Icarus (Ἴκαρος) and his father Daedalus (Δαίδαλος) and how they escaped imprisonment, flying out of the infamous Labyrinth on the isle of Crete. But with a tragic ending. Icarus flies too high and too close to sun; he loses his wings, falls out of the sky, plunges into the water, and drowns in what’s now called the Icarian Sea. A story from Greek mythology and written down in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

Anthony van Dyck (1599 – 1641), “Self-Portrait as Icarus with Daedalus” (1618), 112x93cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Daedalus is concentrating on adjusting the ribbons with the wings over his son’s shoulders, and may be explaining to him the importance of flying at the right altitude. Icarus though, is already making his own plan. He looks with pride and will follow his own path. Its a self-portrait by Van Dyck, when he was 19 years old. About to start his own career and become a famous painter on his own merits. That’s what he is expressing in this painting.

According to the classical Greek legend, Daedalus was a master architect most famously responsible for building the Labyrinth on the island on Crete, as prison for the Minotaur monster, a half-man, half-bull. Because of his knowledge of the Labyrinth, King Minos of Crete shut Daedalus and his son Icarus, up in his own created Labyrinth, to simply keep the mysteries of the labyrinth a secret. Daedalus decided that for him and his son the only way to escape was up through the air.

Laurent Pécheux (1729 – 1821), “Daedalus and Icarus in the Labyrinth”, 97x73cm, current whereabouts unknown, latest at Sothebys January 19, 2005.
Daedalus tells his son the that the only way out of the Labyrinth is through the air. In the front left corner the instruments of Daedalus as architect, on the right the stove where the beeswax was melted to glue the feathers together.

Daedalus constructed for himself and Icarus sets of wings made from feathers held together by beeswax. He then cautioned his son to fly a middle course: neither so low that the sea would wet the feathers and make them heavy, nor so high that the heat of the sun would damage them.

School of Joseph-Marie Vien (1716 – 1809), “Daedalus in the Labyrinth, attaching the wings to his son Icarus” (c.1750), 195x130cm, Louvre, Paris.
Daedalus is attaching the wings to the shoulders of Icarus and gives his son the vital pre-flight briefing. Seems Icarus has other thoughts, he is pointing out to where he wants to go. Is that towards the sun?

“Daedalus said: Let me warn you, Icarus, to take the middle way between earth and heaven, if you fly too low the moisture from the sea weighs down your wings, or if you go too high, the sun scorches them. Travel between the extremes. Take me as your guide and follow the course I show you!” (From Ovid’s Metamorphoses book VIII. Verse 183-235)

Jacob Peeter Gowy (1615 – 1661) after Peter Paul Rubens (1577 – 1640), “The Fall of Icarus” (1637), 195x180cm, Prado, Madrid.
Icarus, his wings in tatters, plunges past Daedalus into the sea. Icarus’ mouth and eyes are wide open in shock and fear, and his body tumbles as it falls. Daedalus is still flying, his wings intact and fully functional; he looks alarmed towards the falling body of his son. They are high above a bay containing people and a fortified town at the edge of the sea.

Overcome by a feeling of pride and confidence, Icarus disobeyed his father and soared high into the sky trying to quench his thirst. But he came too close to the sun. And without warning, the heat from the sun melted the wax holding his feathers together. One by one, Icarus’s feathers fell like snowflakes. Icarus kept flapping his “wings”, but he had no feathers left and was only flapping his bare arms. Then he fell into the sea and drowned.

Joos de Momper (1564 – 1635), “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”, 154173cm, Nationalmuseum, Stockholm. Joos de Momper is closely following the narratives from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. These include an angler catching a fish with a rod and line, a shepherd leaning on a crook, a ploughman resting on the handles of his plough. According to Ovid, they are amazed with this sight of Daedalus and Icarus and believed to be gods. Up at the top left, Daedalus is seen to be flying well, but Icarus is in an inverted position as he tumbles down.

“Icarus, Icarus where are you? Which way should I be looking, to see you?”, screamed Daedalus. Finally, Daedalus found the body of his son floating amidst feathers. Cursing his inventions, he took the body to the nearest island and buried it there. The island where Icarus was buried is named Icaria.

Paul Ambroise Slodtz (1702 – 1758), Fall of Icarus” (1743), Marble, 38x64x55cm, Louvre, Paris.
A beautiful intimate marble from the Louvre. Icarus fell into the sea, a wave comes from the right, his wings detached and the feathers in disarray. As if he washed ashore on the island of Icaria, in the middle of the Icarian Sea. The island where his father Daedalus will burry him.

What do we learn from this story? Icarus is instructed to fly between the extremes; not too high but also not too low. This is a warning to avoid being too ambitious while also not becoming completely unambitious. One need to find a golden ratio. In the story are significant changes of fortune. When Daedalus and Icarus start their flight, it marks a change from prison to freedom, from bad to good fortune but then comes the moment that Icarus gets overconfident and flies too high, he wants to reach the sun! With as result that his wings disintegrate, and his fortune changes from good to bad. Pride goes before the fall! The story of Icarus is the perfect example of hubris!

Herbert Draper (1863-1920), “The Lament for Icarus” (1898). Draper’s painting a more romantic view, in which three nymphs have recovered the (apparently dry) body of Icarus, and he is laid out on a rock, while they lament his fate, to the accompaniment of a lyre. Perhaps influenced by contemporary thoughts about human flight and aerospace travel, Draper gives Icarus huge wings, and they are shown intact, rather than disintegrated from their exposure to the sun’s heat.
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.