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 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.