The Baleful Head by Edward Burne-Jones

We end our weeklong odyssey with Edward Burne-Jones’ conception of Perseus with The Baleful Head.  In this picture, Perseus shows Andromeda the head of the Gorgon Medusa.  Because gazing directly into the Gorgon’s face will turn a mortal into stone, they look upon its reflection in a pool of water.

This is, in many ways, the most remarkable picture in the series.  The head of Medusa, one of the most hideous monsters of ancient mythology, here looks serene and harmless.  Her lifeless head is indeed at peace, and one could argue that the monster is as beautiful as the heroine, Andromeda.  Ugliness was not consistent with the way Burne-Jones saw the world, and it was impossible for him to render even the most monstrous creatures as less-than-beautiful.  (You will remember that the Kraken in The Doom Fulfilled looked more bejeweled and silkily ornate than horrific.)

Burne-Jones returns to the detailed and rich background missing in The Finding of Medusa, though we are still nowhere near a natural landscape.  The apple-rich bower here is purposefully illustrative rather than natural, setting the scene in an unreal space so essential to myth-making.  The earth upon which Perseus and Andromeda stand looks almost alive with a sense of movement – as if, along with the lifeless head – everything around them is galvanized with a life of its own.

The remarkable armor of Perseus is depicted in loving detail, and the clothes draping Andromeda loop around her left arm are created with quiet expertise.  The pool, seemingly constructed of both wood and marble, is skillfully done, though the very top (rendered in such a way that the water is visible to the viewer) seems, to my eye, slightly out of proportion.

I think the most remarkable thing about the picture is how Burne-Jones creates a wordless dialog between the three figures.  Perseus and Andromeda reach across the pool to hold one-another: this is love, yes, but Perseus is also supporting Andromeda during what may be a shock to her senses.  And follow the gaze of Perseus – he is not looking at the Gorgon’s reflection, but at the profile of his beloved Andromeda, instead.

And Andromeda – look at her gaze.  Is she looking at the reflection of Medusa, or the handsome face of Perseus reflected in the water?   And Medusa’s head is the top of the triangle – the focal point of all three characters even though she herself is not looking at anyone.

Returning to his inspiration, here is the passage in Morris that so inspired this picture: 

May I not see this marvel of the lands

So mirrored, and yet live? Make no delay,

The sea is pouring fast into the bay,

And we must soon be gone."

                            "Look down", he said,

"And take good heed thou turnest not thine head."

Then gazing down with shuddering dread and awe,

Over her imaged shoulder, soon she saw

The head rise up, so beautiful and dread,

That, white and ghastly, yet seemed scarcely dead

Beside the image of her own fair face,

As, daring not to move from off the place,

But trembling sore, she cried: "Enough, O love!

What man shall doubt thou art the son of Jove;

I think thou wilt not die." Then with her hand

She hid her eyes, and trembling did she stand

Until she felt his lips upon her cheek;

Then turning round, with anxious eyes and meek,

She gazed upon him, and some doubtful thought.

The Finding of Medusa

Today, we look at Perseus finding the Gorgon Medusa, part of a series of paintings by Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898) inspired by William Morris (1834-1896) and his book The Earthly Paradise (1896).

The Gorgon Sisters are among the most repulsive creatures in ancient mythology.  The Gorgons – Medusa, Stheno and Euryale – were the result of an incestuous relationship between the monstrous deities Phorcys and Ceto.  Medusa, with her head of writing snakes rather than hair, could turn men to stone with a glance.

There are many versions of the story of Perseus killing Medusa.  In general, Perseus used his shield, a gift from the goddess Athena, to look at the reflection of Medusa, rather than at the monster herself.  Using this trick, he was able to decapitate her with a sword from Hephaestus.

Surprisingly, the potency of Medusa really begins once she is decapitated, as her disembodied head take on a narrative life of its own.  Perseus uses the severed head as a weapon, and even kills the Kraken with it in some versions of the tale.  Perseus would eventually give the head to Athena, who placed it on her shield, the Aegis.

Despite the gruesome aspects of the myth, Burne-Jones seems incapable of painting anything that is not beautiful.  In The Finding of Medusa (1882), Medusa here is tall and svelte, with a strong but attractive face.  He does not depict a head full of snakes – perhaps too gruesome an image for his art to express – but her windblown hair does have a serpentine suggestion.  The other sisters, who should be equally baleful, are quite beautiful in their way.  The Gorgons here are also equipped with wings, and look more like fallen angels than pagan monsters. 

As with other pictures we’ve looked at in the series, the background is an unreal dreamscape; however, unlike The Rock of Doom and The Doom Fulfilled, the background here is suggested with a few broad brushstrokes, rather than depicted with any significant detail.  The craggy mountain range and color-splashed melodramatic sky make it more of an emotional landscape than anything recognizably earthy.  Even the armor of Perseus, so lovingly depicted in other paintings, seems here rather rushed.

Much more interesting to me is the surviving watercolor study Burne-Jones did before creating the actual painting (see below).  Like many great masters, Burne-Jones conceived of his figures first as nudes, and draped them with clothing later on.  Here, we see Medusa’s movements beneath her pendulous robes and have a better understanding of the pivot of her body.  Also – the expression on Medusa’s face is much more effective than that on the finished picture. 

In the final painting, Medusa is a beautiful, if evil, woman now afraid.  The Medusa of the study seems to be more frozen – more (if you will) stone-faced.  This seems in keeping with the magical powers of the Gorgon: and despite that ‘frozen’ quality, this visage is much more expressive.  This is evil in full realization of its own, upcoming doom.    

More Perseus tomorrow, but for now, here is the passage in Morris that so inspired Burne-Jones: 

And midst this wretchedness a mighty hall,

Whose great stones made a black and shining wall;

The doors were open, and thence came a cry

Of one in anguish wailing bitterly;

Then o'er its threshold passed the son of Jove,

Well shielded by the grey-eyed Maiden's love.

       Now there he saw two women bent and old,

Like to those three that north he did behold;

There were they, sitting well-nigh motionless,

Their eyes grown stony with their long distress,

Staring at nought, and still no sound they made,

And on their knees their wrinkled hands were laid.

       But a third woman paced about the hall,

And ever turned her head from wall to wall

And moaned aloud, and shrieked in her despair;

Because the golden tresses of her hair

Were moved by writhing snakes from side to side,

That in their writhing oftentimes would glide

On to her breast, or shuddering shoulders white;

Or, falling down, the hideous things would light

Upon her feet, and crawling thence would twine

Their slimy folds about her ankles fine.

But in a thin red garment was she clad,

And round her waist a jewelled band she had,

The gift of Neptune on the fatal day

When fate her happiness first put away.

       So there awhile unseen did Perseus stand,

With softening heart, and doubtful trembling hand

Laid on his sword-hilt, muttering: "Would that she

Had never turned her woeful face to me."

But therewith allas smote him with this thought,

"Does she desire to live, who has been brought

Into such utter woe and misery,

Wherefrom no god or man can set her free?

The Rock of Doom by Edward Burne-Jones

We continue looking at the cycle of Perseus paintings by Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898) inspired by William Morris (1834-1896) and his book The Earthly Paradise (1896).

Burne-Jones was born in Birmingham, the son of a frame-maker.  His mother died he was only six and he was raised by his father and the housekeeper, Ann Sampson.  Despite these humble beginnings, Burne-Jones was able eventually make his way to Exeter College, Oxford, where he studied theology.  (He earlier studied art at the Birmingham School of Art from 1848-1852).  It was while at Oxford that he first met Morris.  Both were poets and deeply interested in the Middle Ages, or, rather, a Victorian idealized vision of that period.  Burne-Jones also became deeply affected by the Arthurian legends at this time – further crystalizing his artistic vision into a fabulous past that never was.

Both men were to come under the influence of Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882), who was instrumental in both men becoming artists.  Burne-Jones left Exeter before receiving his divinity degree and Morris, of course, went on to secure his reputation in arts and crafts and poetry.

Yesterday, we saw The Doom Fulfilled, where Perseus battles the Kraken, a hideous monster about to kill Andromeda.  The Rock of Doom is the prequel to that painting, created in 1885, showing Perseus appearing before Andromeda.  It includes all of Burne-Jones’s signature strengths.

Perseus appears in his armor, approaching Andromeda with arms outstretched.  Indeed, he removes his helmet so that Andromeda can see him; and his countenance is as open as his body language.  His sword is placed rather suggestively before his pelvis, and his hands and feet are bare.  (And though this may be beating the point, I would venture that the rock to which Andromeda is chained has a distinctly phallic look.)  His armor, however, is detailed with a large declivity running down the front of his chest, bisecting a larger circle, as if to draw attention to his heart.  Over his arm is the sack containing the head of Medusa, the gorgon who could turn men to stone with a glance.

Andromeda, nude and chained to the rock, looks down, rather than at, Perseus.  It is not improbable to think that she gazes at the sword, entertaining dual thoughts of eros and thanatos.  Unlike Perseus, her arms are behind her body and, for all of her nudity, her body language is closed off, unlike that of Perseus.  And though a certain amount of idealization is expected in the female nude, the Andromeda of Burne-Jones has the unreal, glacial beauty of a statue come to life.

What is most fascinating to me about The Rock of Doom and The Doom Fulfilled is how spatially equal both Andromeda and Perseus are.  This is particularly marked here – both figures occupy the foreground on equal terms, and both have the most distinctive coloration in the picture.  With his cool blue armor and she with her warm flesh overpower the dreamlike landscape that surrounds them.  From body language to the language of art, each figure compliments the other.

Burne-Jones is not interested in painting landscapes that can be found in the everyday world, but, rather, dreamscapes.  His people have the placid beauty and balletic grace of dream figures.  This is the core of his art and what makes it so distinctive and valuable: Burne-Jones did not need the fripperies of surrealism or post modernism to escape the everyday.  Though we can see birds over the surf in the distance, the waves do not seem any different in size of scope from the ripples of water around the feet of both figures.  Foreground and background become one, as is often the case in medieval pictures, but here through a trick of perspective rather than a flaw in it.     The buildings on shore look more like organic mounds, parts of the earth rather than homes in which people live.  The whole picture is, in short, a perfect synthesis of Burne-Jones’ mastery of style and intent.

More Perseus tomorrow, but for now, here is the passage in Morris that so inspired Burne-Jones: 

Now hovering there, he seemed to hear a sound

Unlike the sea-bird's cry, and looking round,

He saw a figure standing motionless

Beneath the cliff, midway 'twixt ness and ness,

And as the wind lull'd heard that cry again,

That sounded like the wail of one in pain;

Wondering thereat, and seeking marvels new

He lighted down, and toward the place he drew,

And made invisible by Pallas' aid,

He came within the scarped cliff's purple shade,

And found a woman standing lonely there,

Naked, except for tresses of her hair

That o'er her white limbs by the breeze were wound,

And brazen chains her weary arms that bound

Unto the sea-beat overhanging rock,

As though her golden-crowned head to mock.

But nigh her feet upon the sand there lay

Rich raiment that had covered her that day,

Worthy to be the ransom of a king,

Unworthy round such loveliness to cling. . . .

Then unseen Perseus stole anigh the maid,

And love upon his heart a soft hand laid,

And tender pity rent it for her pain;

Not yet an eager cry could he refrain,

For now, transformed by that piteous sight,

Grown like unto a God for pride and might,

Down on the sand the mystic cap he cast

And stood before her with flushed face at last,

(And grey eyes glittering with his great desire

Beneath his hair, that like a harmless fire

Blown by the wind shone in her hopeless eyes.

       But she, all rigid with her first surprise,

Ceasing her wailing as she heard his cry,

Stared at him, dumb with fear and misery,

Shrunk closer yet unto the rocky place

And writhed her bound hands as to hide her face;

But sudden love his heart did so constrain,

With open mouth he strove to speak in vain

And from his heart the hot tears 'gan to rise;

But she midst fear beheld his kind grey eyes,

and then, as hope came glimmering through her dread,

In a weak voice he scare could hear she said,

"O Death! If though hast risen from the sea,

Sent by the gods to end this misery,

I thank them that thou comest in this form,

Who rather thought to see a hideous worm

Come trailing up the sands from out the deep.

The Doom Fulfilled by Edward Burne-Jones

It was such a pleasure to close last week with artist Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898) that I decided to spend this week with him, as well.

We have established that the Victorian mind found solace, inspiration and identity in a robust nostalgia.  This was not a personal nostalgia as much as a national depth of feeling: by looking at myths of the past, the Victorians sought to remake themselves in a more heroic manner.

Burne-Jones was commissioned to paint a series of pictures depicting the feats of the mythological hero Perseus by conservative politician (and Prime Minister) Arthur Balfour (1848-1930).  Burne-Jones created several large-scale paintings in the series, but, alas, did not finish the entire cycle.  The completed paintings can be found in Stuttgart’s Staatsgalerie.

For inspiration, Burne-Jones turned to another artist: William Morris (1834-1896).  Morris, aside from starting the Arts and Crafts Movement (and, hence, aestheticism), was also an instrumental force in the creation of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.  Morris was also a poet and medievalist.  His most celebrated work was The Earthly Paradise (1896), a collection of poems bound in a leather strapbound book.  The Earthly Paradise chronicled a group of medieval wanderers who set out to search for a land of everlasting life.  At length, they come upon a colony of ancient Greeks, still alive, who tell them a series of stories, including the myth of Perseus.

The Doom Fulfilled details a later moment in the sequence.  As you may remember, Perseus rescues his lover, Andromeda, from a sea monster called the Kraken.  Most artists go overboard in depicting this undersea threat, creating monsters 50 feet tall and looming like one of Ray Harryhausen’s creatures.  (Indeed, Harryhausen had a crack at the Kraken himself with his Clash of the Titans in 1981 – one of the most enjoyable bad movies ever made.)  Here, Burne-Jones creates a Kraken that is more bejeweled anaconda than giant sea monster.

Let’s look at this remarkable picture.  Burne-Jones had a wonderful and subtle gift – to render figures in action in attitudes of repose.  Look at most of his corpus and you will find figures engaged in physical activity (or about to engage in it), but delineated in a manner that is almost dream-like.  This gives much of his work an other-worldly quality, almost as if he were painting pictures first seen in our subconscious.

Burne-Jones stages his spectacle in a stony grotto, placing Andromeda on her own pedestal and creating a pyramid around Perseus and the Kraken in order focus attention on them.  The cool blue of both Perseus and the Kraken keep them in the background, while the bright flesh tones of Andromeda push her closer to us.  It is curious to me that both Perseus and the Kraken are the same shade of blue.  Perhaps Burne-Jones thought, if Andromeda was merely a prize, that there was little difference between Perseus and the Kraken. 

While Perseus cuts a heroic figure in his blue armor, Burne-Jones does not create a muscled man-god out of Michelangelo.  Rather, the heroic contours of his body are created by the armor he wears.  Perseus’ face is like many of those you will find in Burne-Jones’ work – introspective, intent, and locked in the gaze cast upon someone else.  Look at The Beguiling of Merlin from last week – rarely has an artist ever been so effective in exchanging charged emotions between subjects through the power of a glance.

Andromeda is beautifully drawn and painted.  Could she, too, have been modeled by his lover, Maria Zambaco (1843-1914)?  Possibly.  The Andromeda of Burne-Jones is not a screaming hysteric; instead, she watches the battle of Perseus and the monster with a cool detachment.

“Cool detachment” may be the perfect way to describe the Perseus series.  I am filled with admiration for the mastery of Burne-Jones, but it strikes me as a cold genius.  There is passion but no mess, lots of fire but little heat.  It is a genius that chills the intellect – a wintry blast of virtuosity that is just what is needed in the dog days of summer.

Tomorrow – more of Perseus!

The Beguiling of Merlin by Edward Burne-Jones

I had planned on posting some rather melancholy thoughts on our culture’s endangered future, but thought instead to end the week on a more hopeful note.  (Expect dire things next week!)  So, instead, let’s close the last week before the unofficial start of summer with this marvelous picture, the Beguiling of Merlin, by Pre-Raphaelite master Edward Burne-Jones, painted between 1872 and 1877.

With one-hundred-plus years of distance between us and our Victorian betters, it is easy to dismiss them as seemingly antiquated, stuffy or (cardinal sin of our age!) somehow repressed.  Actually, these misconceptions have little to do with the reality of Victoria’s age and her people.

The Victorians were actually an extremely modern people: dedicated to exploration, adventure, technology, experimentation and the scientific method.  (It is no mistake that detective fiction found its greatest expression in Sherlock Holmes, a romanticist’s view of the perfect scientific reasoner.)  However – and here is the great paradox – there was also a deep and vibrant strain of nostalgia to be found in the Victorians, and this sentiment colored their art and culture.

Nostalgia has a rather bad name today; it is associated with backwards thinking, slowed development or an escape from reality.  Disdain for nostalgia has recently given rise to the most loathsome locution in the modern lexicon of slang: “old timey.”  This is a meaningless phrase that often leaves your correspondent reaching for the nearest weapon (or heaviest dictionary) – and its practice should not be encouraged.

For the Victorians, nostalgia was not a mere wistfulness for the past; rather, it became a type of romanticism.  By imagining (or re-imagining) a better, greater past, the Victorians found a way of connecting with that best part of themselves, and also creating a template by which to measure future accomplishments.  This wasn’t an escape from reality as much as a redefinition of it – becoming a sort of secular religion that defined them as a people.  Whether it was an idealization of the English countryside or veneration for the age of Wordsworth (or Johnson), the Victorians connected with the imagined shades of their forebears and listened to their lessons.

One of the most persistent strains of Victorian nostalgia was for the great age of King Arthur.  Arthurian romance was the theme of their great poets, novelists, and, of course, painters.

The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (itself a sort of extended exercise in self-improving nostalgia) was greatly drawn to the myth of Arthur.  The Beguiling of Merlin is taken from one of the key moments in the legend.  Merlin, Arthur’s conscience and advisor, is trapped by Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, within the confines of a great hawthorn bush.  Nimue reads from her book of spells – and the great wizard will be imprisoned for all time, never able again to aid the great English king.

The Beguiling of Merlin is a cautionary tale: Merlin is consumed with lust for Nimue, but she refuses to become his lover until he teachers her the secrets of sorcery.  Once he has done so, she uses her new-found powers against him and, in the process, starts a cycle of events that will destroy Camelot.  The power of Victoria’s empire – which controlled a great deal of the world and its resources and people – would never be used against the powerless for base reasons without dire consequences.  How effectively the Victorians abided by this lesson is open to debate.

Artist Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898) was primarily a watercolorist before turning to oils.  His lover was Maria Zambaco (1843-1914), who was a favorite model of the Pre-Raphaelites and whose image can be found in many great pictures, including works by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and James Whistler.

Let’s take a moment to savor this magnificent picture.  The length of the picture is, to my eye, essential to its success, because it is used to delineate both the strength of Nimue and the languor of Merlin.  Nimue’s body twists to glance at Merlin, and her body language is all carless mastery and undisguised contempt.  Indeed, she seems about to walk away, book of spells in her hand, as if the great wizard offered no challenge at all.  Indeed, it is only in her face that Nimue holds a hint of sympathy – her face shows all the regret that her body cannot express.  Oceans of heartache and unnecessary tragedy can be found in her delicate profile.

Merlin lies in the hawthorn, powerless.  His arms lay limply at his side, his fingers lank and uncontrolled.  His face, too, seems affected by the paralysis of Nimue’s enchantment, but look at his eyes.  He looks at Nimue with all the hurt of betrayal, all the disappointment of failed love.  Those eyes, which can see visions of the future, know that he will be imprisoned there, and his own folly the cause of nationwide catastrophe.

The drapery of the figures is magnificent – look at how Burne-Jones uses Nimue’s robes to capture the movement of her legs.  The robe twists at the waist, with her body, and the fingers holding the book are delicate and beautifully rendered. 

Delicate, too, are Merlin’s feet, which are drawn with great sensitivity.  They are off the ground – indeed, Merlin will never meaningfully connect with this earth again.  The gray of his hair draws attention to the white of his haunting eyes – and cups the V-shaped shadow in his neck, framing his face. 

About the whole picture is a supreme delicacy of touch, a refinement of purpose that is mesmerizing.  As usual, Burne-Jones’ sense of color is astonishing.  The hawthorn is a pinkish, bluish white – but one never feels springtime, only death.  Nimue’s enchanted hawthorn may be the most beautiful coffin ever depicted in western art. 

Let’s share, for a moment, the nostalgic urge of the Victorians.  Think, for a moment, of the great wizard still in some great wooded vastness of England, repentant still for his many wrongs, but also still aware of the great gifts he could bestow upon his people.  Perhaps the magic of Nimue is not for eternity, and another Arthur will return to us with Merlin in tow, guided by wisdom, honesty and a sense of justice.

Cave of the Storm Nymphs by Edward John Poynter

With many of my readers still reeling from the effects of Hurricane Irene, I thought we might look at some of the nymphs and troublemakers responsible.  (Your correspondent, a New Yorker, did not emerge unscathed – a neighboring tree toppled into our yard, turning our deck and trellis into so many toothpicks.)

Sir Edward John Poynter (1836-1919) was an English painter and president of the Royal Academy.  Though English, he was born in Paris and left school early because of poor health.  He spent winters in Madeira and Rome, where he met the great English master Frederick Leighton in 1853.  So impressed was young Poynter by Leighton that he studied art upon returning to London before going to Paris to study with classicist painter Charles Gleyre.  (His classmates included James McNeill Whistler and George du Maurier, who would later record the Paris art world in his novel, Trilby, which also introduced the character Svengali.)

Poynter married society beauty Agnes MacDonald in 1866 and they had three children. Her sister Georgiana married artist Edward Burne-Jones; her sister Alice was the mother of writer Rudyard Kipling and her sister Louisa was the mother of Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin.  An illustrious family, indeed.

Poynter was more than an artist; he was also a celebrated teacher.  He was the first Slade Professor at University College, London, and principal of the National Art Training School.  He entered the Royal Academy in 1876, and also received a knighthood that year.

Like many artists of great talent and ambition, Poynter was enamored of large, historical canvases.  Many of his pictures depict the ancient world or touch upon the mythic qualities of the sea.  Many of his large pictures encompass the white-capped wastes of endless ocean, or take place in the underground grottos of mythic creatures.  His output declined in quantity dramatically with his acceptance into the Academy, where Poynter proved to be an able administrator.  He was a staunch advocate of high artistic standards, and lived to see the beginnings of a Modernism that would alienate much of art from the human condition for another 100 years. 

Cave of the Storm Nymphs was painted in 1903.  It is in many ways a remarkable picture.  The triangular composition ensures the dynamism of the three splendidly rendered figures.  The nymphs are in varying stages of action: setting aside a seashell harp, carelessly throwing away golden coins and lying luxuriously amid ship plunder.  The golden red hair of the top two figures is blown by wind and spray, the hair of the lower figure spreads wantonly about her head and purloined fabric.  The sculptural monumentality of the women is underscored by a sensitive rendering of anatomy.

The sand and cave wall of their retreat are thick with water – in fact, you can feel the cool dampness and moisture just looking at the painting.  Poynter uses few warm colors to enliven his work – the movement of the central figures and storm-tossed ship provide the vitality missing in his coloration.  The tempestuous green sea blows fiercely behind them, a ship reaching upwards before it is covered by the greedy, unforgiving waves.

It is clear here that the sea nymphs care little for the treasure, though they disport themselves around it so languidly.  No, these nymphs are sirens, luring seamen to horrible deaths as a form of amusement and diversion.

Poynter’s mastery of color and light are stunning.  Though the source of light is the raging storm without, it illuminates the contours of the nymphs within.  Rather than plunge the figures in darkness, it serves to illustrate their voluptuous contours.  The light also makes the shell-harp incandescent, the siren’s beacon for unwary sailors.  The hair of the central nymph seems to glow with the light; indeed, the hair of the central figure, and that of the nymph above, seems almost unhampered by gravity, as if they were still under water.

Cave of the Storm Nymphs makes us believe in an invisible world.  It is a picture cool and calculating, painted by a master at the top of his form. 

"Careless of wreck or ruin, still they sing
Their light songs to the listening ocean caves,
And wreathe their dainty limbs, and idly fling
The costly tribute of the cruel waves.
Faire as their mother-foam, and all as cold,
Untouched alike by pity, love or hate;
Without a thought for scattered pearl or gold,
And neither laugh nor tear for human fate."