Sir Percival David’s collection, amassed in the early 1900s, includes prized vases and wine cups. “You simply couldn’t build up a collection like this today,” one expert said.
After he has told us of the birth of Hercules, Ovid uses Alcmena’s link with Hercules’ former lover Iole to introduce several obscure stories, starting with the transformation of Dryope.
Iole tells the tale of her sister Dryope, the fairest in all Oechalia. She had been raped by Apollo, then married Andraemon, by whom she had a baby boy. When her son was only one and still at the breast, Dryope and Iole came to a lake, and picked crimson water-lotus flowers to please the infant. They were horrified to see drops of blood on the foliage; these later turned out to be from the nymph Lotis, who had been transformed into that bush after fleeing from Priapus.
As Dryope tried to run away, she found herself literally rooted to the spot as she was transformed into a Lotus Tree, as punishment for picking the lotus flowers. Her distraught husband came and took his son away to be cared for by a nurse.
Johann Wilhelm Baur (1600-1640), Dryope Transformed into a Lotus Tree (c 1639), engraving for Ovid’s Metamorphoses, further details not known. Wikimedia Commons.
Baur’s engraving from about 1639 shows Dryope and Iole distant, at the right. As Dryope transforms into a Lotus Tree, she’s still holding her son, and Iole is praying to the heavens. Presumably the two males in the foreground are Dryope’s husband and a friend.
By the end of Iole’s story, Alcmena is in tears. They are then interrupted by Iolaus, Hercules’ former charioteer who took part in the Calydonian boar hunt, who had just been rejuvenated as a result of the intervention of Hercules, now a god, and Hebe, his heavenly wife.
Ovid briefly mentions the sons of Achelous’ daughter Callirhoe, whose years were advanced by Hebe to allow them to avenge their father’s murder. This in turn resulted in discord among the gods over Iolaus’ rejuvenation. Ovid uses this aside to link to the story of Byblis and Caunus, twins born to Miletus and the beautiful nymph Cyanee, the first of two concerning ‘unnatural love’ concluding book 9 of the Metamorphoses.
Byblis was strongly attracted to her twin brother Caunus. At first this was nothing more than sisterly love, but it grew into something more passionate, if not obsessive, as demonstrated in her long soliloquies. Eventually, Byblis decided the best way ahead was to write to her brother confessing her love for him. She did this on wax tablets, but kept erasing her words, until she eventually arrived at a long and elaborate message, given in full by Ovid, that she signed with her signet ring and despatched to Caunus via a slave.
On starting to read his sister’s message, Caunus flew into a rage, threw the tablets to the ground, and angrily sent the slave back to Byblis, with a clear message that his sister’s proposition was shameful. In another soliloquy, Byblis blamed herself for getting it so badly wrong, saying she shouldn’t have put her feelings in writing, but should have told them orally to her brother. She then pondered whether the slave had made some error, or that her brother had mistaken her true love for him for simple lust.
Becoming more confused and upset all the time, Byblis beat herself, tore her clothing, and ran through the countryside, until she fell on the ground by a forest. The wood nymphs there tried to comfort her, to no avail, as she dissolved in her tears to form a spring.
Despite its sensitive subject of an incestuous relationship, the story of Byblis and Caunus has appeared in a few paintings. In each case, they show Byblis’ transformation into a spring, or rather they provide an opportunity to paint a young nude woman outdoors.
Jean-Jacques Henner (1829–1905), Byblis Turning into a Spring (1867), oil on canvas, 88 x 138 cm, Musée des beaux-arts de Dijon, Dijon, France. Wikimedia Commons.
Jean-Jacques Henner includes a spring of sorts, and some garments that have been cast off, not exactly torn, in his Byblis Turning into a Spring (1867).
William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825–1905), Biblis (smaller version) (1884), oil on canvas, 48 x 79 cm, Salar Jung Museum, Hyderabad, India. Wikimedia Commons.
This is a smaller version of Bouguereau’s painting of Biblis from 1884, the larger one having been exhibited at the Salon in 1885. His spring is more substantial, but there’s nothing to suggest that this wasn’t just another carefully posed nude.
Armand Point (1860–1932), Biblis Changed into a Spring (date not known), further details not known. Wikimedia Commons.
This undated account by Armand Point, Biblis Changed into a Spring, reads a little more faithfully to Ovid’s story, but this image of it is too poor to see other potential narrative elements such as the figures in front of the temple at the left.
Ovid then concludes Book 9 of his Metamorphoses with one of his most remarkably insightful tales. I have to keep reminding myself that he wrote this over two thousand years ago, but the issues he considers are thoroughly modern, and his approach to the story of Iphis and Ianthe is sensitive even by current standards.
Ligdus lived in Phaestos in Crete, not far from the great Knossos. Telethusa his wife was pregnant with their first child. They weren’t rich, and as a consequence Ligdus told her that she had to bear him a son, as they couldn’t afford to have a daughter. If she were to give birth to a girl, he said the child would have to die. Telethusa begged her husband to accept a daughter, but he wouldn’t budge.
Late in her pregnancy, Telethusa had a vision of the Egyptian goddess Isis, with attendant deities. Isis told her to keep and rear the baby, whether it was a boy or girl, if necessary by deception. The goddess promised that she would answer her prayers and help in times of need. Telethusa promptly went into labour that morning, and was delivered of a girl. She followed Isis’ instruction and declared the child to be a boy. The couple then raised their daughter as a son named Iphis, a name ambivalent in gender.
Thirteen years later, Ligdus found his son a bride, Ianthe, and their match appeared excellent, each falling in love with the other. Iphis, though, knew that she was a girl, and became upset that because of her gender, their marriage couldn’t happen. She postponed the wedding, delayed it further, but eventually ran out of excuses, and a final date had to be fixed.
The day before their marriage, Telethusa prayed to Isis, with Iphis at her side. As they walked back together, Iphis was transformed into a man who then married Ianthe, and lived happily ever after, remembering to make offerings to Isis in thanks for the remarkable transformation.
As you can imagine, few if any patrons in the past would have commissioned artists to paint this story, although it has been tackled by those illustrating this book of the Metamorphoses.
Bernard Picart (1673-1733), Isis Appears to Telethusa (c 1732), engraving for Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Amsterdam, 1732. Wikimedia Commons.
Bernard Picart’s engraving Isis Appears to Telethusa, from about 1732, dodges the real issues at stake by showing Telethusa’s vision of Isis and her entourage of Egyptian deities.
Johann Wilhelm Baur (1600-1640), Isis Changing the Sex of Iphis (c 1639), engraving for Ovid’s Metamorphoses, further details not known. Wikimedia Commons.
Johann Wilhelm Baur was braver in his engraving, showing Isis Changing the Sex of Iphis (c 1639) shortly before the wedding, although his composition keeps well away from any troublesome detail in the figure of Iphis.
John William Godward (1861-1922), Ianthe (1889), oil on canvas, 64 x 29.5 cm, Private collection. The Athenaeum.
One artist who did show an interest in this story is John William Godward, whose own lifestyle demonstrated he wasn’t afraid to shock. Sadly, his two paintings of Ianthe dodge the issues, and are only weakly narrative in any case, although they’re still rather beautiful. Godward’s Ianthe (1889) above simply shows the bride-to-be, and I can see no hint of Ovid’s story.
His undated painting, again of Ianthe below is more elaborate, but I still cannot see any references to the issues or events.
John William Godward (1861-1922), Ianthe (date not known), oil, dimensions not known, Private collection. The Athenaeum.
There is another painting which, in recent years, had become associated with the story of Iphis and Ianthe, and on some websites has been re-titled to make it appear to be about this story.
Angelica Kauffmann (1741-1807), The Artist in the Character of Design Listening to the Inspiration of Poetry (1782), oil on canvas, 61.2 cm, Kenwood House, London. Wikimedia Commons.
This is Angelica Kauffmann’s The Artist in the Character of Design Listening to the Inspiration of Poetry (1782), which has been misinterpreted as showing a pre-transformed Iphis embracing Ianthe, as if in a lesbian relationship. As its real title demonstrates, that suggestion would be a travesty of Kauffmann’s intent. I also suspect that George Bowles, for whom she painted it, would have been shocked if someone had suggested that this was actually Iphis and Ianthe.
Perhaps Latin poetry can remain subtle enough for Ovid to get away with such a remarkable story so long ago, whereas the visual explicitness of a painting could never have enjoyed such licence. We could do with more brave paintings now, to challenge some of modern society’s remaining prejudices.
In the closing decades of the nineteenth century, Venice became increasingly popular with painters. Access to the city had improved in the 1860s, when its Santa Lucia railway station opened at the north-west end of the Grand Canal, although the famous Simplon Orient Express train didn’t start operating into Venice until well into the twentieth century.
One of the earliest of this succession of artists was Martín Rico from Spain. It was his discovery of Venice in 1873 that led to the perfection of his artistic style and the creation of many of his most emblematic works. From this first trip until his death thirty-six years later, Rico spent every summer with the exception of one painting there, until he died in Venice in 1908.
Martín Rico y Ortega (1833–1908), A Canal in Venice (c 1875), oil on canvas, 50.2 x 67.9 cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY. Wikimedia Commons.
Many of his paintings show lesser-known canals and less-frequented areas, like A Canal in Venice from about 1875. Although populated by the occasional gondola and a small clutch of children, they have a wonderful air of peace and serenity. His broken reflections are painted quite tightly although he is reputed to have painted mainly en plein air.
Martín Rico y Ortega (1833–1908), Santa María della Salute, Venice (Grand Canal and the Church of Santa María della Salute, Venice) (date not known), oil on canvas, 36 x 24 cm, Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Wikimedia Commons.
This undated view of the Grand Canal just catches the dome of the church of Santa María della Salute, Venice, and is also known by the fuller title of Grand Canal and the Church of Santa María della Salute, Venice.
Martín Rico y Ortega (1833–1908), Canal in Venice (date not known), oil on canvas, dimensions not known, The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago, IL. Wikimedia Commons.
Rico’s Canal in Venice is another undated view of one of the minor ‘backstreet’ canals that is deeply serene.
Martín Rico y Ortega (1833–1908), Venice (date not known), oil on canvas mounted on paperboard, 25.4 x 33.7 cm, location not known. Wikimedia Commons.
His undated cross-canal view of Venice appears to be a ‘proper’ plein air oil sketch with rougher facture for once.
Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919), Doge’s Palace, Venice (1881), oil on canvas, 54.5 x 65 cm, Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, MA. Wikimedia Commons.
The first of several Impressionists to visit Venice, Pierre-Auguste Renoir chose a view of the famous Piazzetta adjoining Saint Mark’s Square in his Doge’s Palace, Venice from 1881. The tops of the roofs follow the horizontal centreline, with the Campanile reaching well above that, and various boats below the band of buildings.
John Henry Twachtman (1853-1902), Venice (1881), watercolour, 33.3 x 27.9 cm, Private collection. WikiArt.
The American Impressionist John Henry Twachtman was one of several great American landscape painters who visited Venice. His watercolour Venice (1881) was clearly painted quickly en plein air. The lower half of his paper contains only reflections; the upper half is a view from the water placing the Campanile slightly to the right of centre, little higher than neighbouring church domes. Superimposed on that waterfront are passing boats, their sails and rigging complicating the buildings behind. His palette is also limited to earth colours, with grey-blue on the water below.
Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret (1852–1929), View of Venice (1882), oil on cardboard, dimensions not known, Musée Georges-Garret, Vesoul, France. Image by Remi Mathis, via Wikimedia Commons.
The French Naturalist Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret also visited Venice, where his brushwork was surprisingly loose and his marks painterly, as shown in his sketched View of Venice (1882).
Frank Duveneck (1848–1919), Grand Canal in Venice (c 1883), oil on canvas, dimensions not known, Private collection. The Athenaeum.
While he was working in Europe, the American Frank Duveneck visited the city on several occasions. His Grand Canal in Venice (c 1883) was a study for his Water Carriers below.
Frank Duveneck (1848–1919), The Bridge of Sighs (1883), engraving, 27.9 x 21.6 cm, Private collection. The Athenaeum.
Duveneck was also a successful print-maker, as exemplified in his Bridge of Sighs (1883).
Frank Duveneck (1848–1919), Water Carriers, Venice (1884), oil on canvas, 122.9 × 185.8 cm, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington, DC. Wikimedia Commons.
Water Carriers, Venice from 1884 is probably Duveneck’s finest painting of Venice, combining the view from his earlier study with an intimate insight into the daily work of ordinary Venetians. His visits to the city stopped when his wife died in 1888, and he returned to the USA.
Henri Rouart (1833–1912), Venice, San Michele (c 1885), oil on canvas, 50.7 x 61.2 cm, Musée d’Orsay, Paris. Wikimedia Commons.
In about 1885, Henri Rouart, one of the patrons of the French Impressionists and a talented painter in his own right, visited Italy. While there, he painted Venice, San Michele, showing the church of San Michele in Isola, on the island with the city’s main cemetery.
Eugene Boudin (1824-98), Piazzetta San Marco in Venice (1895), oil on canvas, 21 x 38 cm, Private collection. WikiArt.
Towards the end of his career in the 1890s, Eugene Boudin visited Venice several times. Among his paintings there is Piazzetta San Marco in Venice (1895), which adopts the same view and composition as Renoir’s earlier Doge’s Palace, Venice from 1881. This painting is sometimes mis-titled as the Piazza San Marco, which it doesn’t show, although the tower is its high Campanile.
Franz Richard Unterberger (1838-1902), Rio San Barnaba, Venice (date not known), oil on canvas, 82.5 x 70.8 cm, Private collection. WikiArt.
Franz Richard Unterberger was a landscape painter from the Austrian Tirol who produced many fine views of Venice in a more traditional Romantic manner. His Rio San Barnaba, Venice (date not known, but probably around 1895) gives a good account of his approach and style. The motif isn’t far from Saint Mark’s, but the tower shown isn’t the Campanile.
Although not as highly finished as the classical works of Canaletto, Unterberger puts great detail into buildings, figures, and other staffage, even down to painting the ties and walking sticks of figures. However, fine brushstrokes are distinct over the faces of buildings and in the water, and the clouds display marks more clearly.
In just a few years, at the turn of the century, Venice was to become popular with the most radical artists, including Divisionists such as Henri-Edmond Cross and Paul Signac, as well as John Singer Sargent.
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