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Changing Paintings: Rubens’ Metamorphoses 1
Several Masters have specialised in painting myths told in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Although Nicolas Poussin painted many, perhaps the most prolific is Peter Paul Rubens, whose work has featured in nearly half the articles in this series. Here, possibly for the first time, I bring together a virtual exhibition of some of his best narrative paintings drawn from Ovid.
Rubens’ Deucalion and Pyrrha (1636) shows an aged couple, clearly beyond any hope of parenthood, which at least explains why this metamorphosis was needed. As their more reasonably sized rocks transform, they follow an ontogenetic process, instead of behaving like sculpted blocks. Rubens also treats us to some interesting details: the couple’s boat is shown at the top right, and a newly transformed couple appear already to be engaged in the initial stages of making the next generation without the aid of metamorphosis.
His late oil sketch of Pan and Syrinx from about 1636 is one of the few paintings that attempts to show Syrinx undergoing her transformation into reeds, and succeeds in making Pan appear thoroughly lecherous.
Rubens’ finest painting of the story of the rape of Io is his Juno and Argus from about 1611, showing this part of its outcome. Juno, wearing the red dress and coronet, is receiving eyes that have been removed from Argus’ severed head, and is placing them on the tail feathers of her peacocks. The headless corpse of Argus lies contorted in the foreground. Rubens took the opportunity of adding a visual joke, in which Juno’s left hand appears to be cupped under the breasts of the woman behind.
His The Fall of Phaeton, started in about 1604, is perhaps the best of several superb paintings of this story. He seems to have reworked this over the following three or four years, and elaborates the scene to augment the chaos: accompanying Phaëthon in the chariot of the sun are the Hours (Horae, some shown with butterfly wings), who are thrown into turmoil, and time falls out of joint as Phaëthon tumbles out of the chariot.
His is also one of the best accounts of Jupiter and Callisto (1613). Diana looks a tad more masculine than in most depictions, and their facial expressions are more serious, with Callisto hesitant and suspicious. Most importantly, Rubens tells us that this Diana is more than meets the eye: parked in the background is Jupiter’s signature eagle, with a thunderbolt in its talons.
This is the better of his two versions of Erichthonius Discovered by the Daughters of Cecrops, from about 1616. Aglauros has just given way to temptation and taken the top off the basket entrusted to the sisters by Minerva, revealing the infant Ericthonius and a small snake inside. To the right is a fountain in honour of the Ephesian Artemis (Roman Diana), distinctive with her multiple breasts, each of which is a source of water. At the left, in the distance, is a herm, at the foot of which is a peacock, suggesting that Juno isn’t far away.
Rubens’ workshop is credited with this oil sketch of Cadmus Sowing Dragon’s Teeth from between 1610-90, the start of Ovid’s history of Thebes. Cadmus stands at the left, Minerva directing him from the air. The warriors are shown in different states, some still emerging from the teeth, others killing one another. Behind Cadmus is the serpent, dead and visibly edentulous.
His oil sketch of The Death of Semele from about 1620 reveals Semele pregnant on a bed and in obvious distress. Jupiter grasps his thunderbolt in his right hand, as his dragon-like eagle swoops in through the window.
Rubens’ Perseus and Andromeda (c 1622) shows a late moment when the height of action is just past, but its outcome more obvious. Andromeda is at the left, unchained but still almost naked. Perseus is in the process of claiming her hand as his reward, for which he is being crowned with laurels, as the victor. He wears his winged sandals, and holds the polished shield that still reflects Medusa’s face and snake hair. One of several putti (alluding to their forthcoming marriage) holds Hades’ helmet of invisibility, and much of the right of the painting is taken up by Pegasus, derived from a different version of the myth. At the lower edge is the dead Cetus, its fearsome mouth wide open.
The young and flourishing Rubens painted this remarkable Head of Medusa in about 1617. This shows the head after Perseus had placed it on a bed of seaweed once he had rescued Andromeda. He includes an exuberant mass of snakes, even a lizard and a scorpion, more of which appear to be forming in the blood exuding at the neck.
His superb The Rape of Proserpina (1636-38) shows a composite of Ovid’s account. Pluto’s face looks the part, his eyes bulging and staring at Minerva, who is trying to stop the girl from being abducted. Below the chariot, the basketful of flowers which Proserpine had been picking is scattered on the ground. Rubens shows irresistible movement to the right, as Pluto struggles to lift the girl into his chariot. Two winged Cupids are preparing to drive the black horses on, once the couple are secured inside.
Rubens’ surviving oil study of Pallas and Arachne (1636-7) tells this story in a conventional view. In the foreground, the angry Minerva is striking Arachne on the forehead with the shuttle. To the right is one of the images woven by Arachne, showing Europa riding Jupiter disguised as a white bull, an image that Rubens was familiar with from Titian’s Rape of Europa (c 1560-62), copied so well by Rubens in 1628-29. However, this version is different from either of those. Behind Minerva and Arachne, two women are sat at a loom, and it’s tempting to think that they too might represent the pair, in multiplex narrative. However, neither is dressed in red as is Arachne, leaving the question open.
His Tereus Confronted with the Head of his Son Itys (1636-38) shows the two sisters dressed as Bacchantes, one carrying her thyrsus with her left arm, and their breasts bared. Tereus is just reaching for his sword with his right hand, and his eyes are wide open in shock and rage. In the background, a door is open, and one of the court watches the horrific scene.
Rubens painted Boreas Abducting Orithyia in about 1620, when he was at the peak of his career. Boreas is shown in his classical guise, as a roughly bearded old man with wings. He is sweeping Orithyia up in his arms, while a cluster of Cupids are engaged in a snowball fight, a lovely touch of humour, and a subtle reference to winter.
This oil sketch of Aurora Abducting Cephalus was probably painted by Rubens in 1636-37, late in his life, for his workshop to complete as a painting for King Philip IV of Spain’s hunting lodge at Torre de la Parada, near Madrid. In addition to showing the willing Aurora trying to persuade the reluctant Cephalus to join her in her chariot, it includes some details differing from Ovid’s story: Diana’s hunting dog and javelin, given by Procris to her husband after their reconciliation, occurs later in the story, and may be intended as attributes to confirm his identity.
His oil sketch of Cephalus and Procris (1636-37), shows the couple just before Cephalus throws the fateful javelin at his wife.
Rubens’ initial oil sketch of The Fall of Icarus (1636) above, was presumably turned into a finished painting by his apprentice Jacob Peter Gowy. Icarus, his wings in tatters and holding his arms up as if trying to flap them, plunges past Daedalus. The boy’s mouth and eyes are wide open in shock and fear, and his body tumbles as it falls. Daedalus is still flying, though, his wings intact and fully functional; he looks towards the falling body of his son in alarm. They are high above a bay containing people with a fortified town at the edge of the sea.
