© Thea Traff for The New York Times
In Europe, tigers were best known from the Bengal tiger of the Indian subcontinent, although there were also Caspian tigers in Turkey until they became extinct in the 1970s. As the latter had bright rust-red fur with brown stripes, it should be possible to distinguish them, but I haven’t seen any matching that description in European paintings.
In mythology, tigers are most commonly associated with Bacchus/Dionysus, whose chariot they draw, although there’s considerable variation in the species depicted.
Ariadne on Naxos (1913) is one of Lovis Corinth’s most sophisticated mythical paintings, and was inspired by the first version of Richard Strauss’s opera Ariadne auf Naxos, rather than any classical account.
The group in the middle and right is centred on Dionysus, who clutches his characteristic staff in his left hand, and with his right hand holds the reins to the leopard and tiger drawing his chariot. Leading those animals is a small boy, and to the left of the chariot is a young bacchante.
Tigers also feature with other species of large cat including lions in depictions of Christian martyrdom.
I expect that Briton Rivière was well aware of the contemporary paintings of Gérôme showing scenes of gladiatorial combat and martyrdom in classical Rome. Those may have inspired his A Roman Holiday (1881), showing a wounded Christian inscribing a cross in the sand as a tiger lies dead by him, and another snarls behind.
Tigers became popular in zoos and other animal collections around Europe. When he was in Paris, one of Eugène Delacroix’s favourite activities was to visit the zoo at the city’s Jardin des Plantes and sketch the big cats there.
His pastel painting of a Tiger Preparing to Spring from about 1850 demonstrates his mastery of the medium.
Henri Rousseau’s Tiger in a Tropical Storm (Surprised!) from 1891 is a fine portrait of a tiger moving through dense vegetation in torrential rain.
Peter Paul Rubens’ Tiger Hunt from about 1616 packs its canvas with hunters, their horses, and a collection of big cats, including two tigers, a lion and a leopard. A Samson-like figure in the left foreground is wrestling with the lion’s jaws, as one of the tigers buries its teeth into the left shoulder of the Moorish hunter in the centre.
Colonial powers used elephants when hunting big game such as tigers in countries like India, as seen in this painting attributed to the animal specialist Briton Rivière, Tiger Hunt.
Those tigers that were killed had an unusual fate, as their skin became a prop for beautiful women.
John William Godward’s Dolce Far Niente from 1897 adopts a classical Roman setting, with his model lying and doing sweet nothing on a tiger skin.
In the first of these two articles I showed paintings of Hercules (Heracles) brandishing a large olive-wood club and wearing a lion-skin, as a stereotype of the ultimate high-testosterone uncouth hero. That association was strong enough to make its way into some more Christian images.
In Frans Francken the Younger’s composite painting of Mankind’s Eternal Dilemma – The Choice Between Virtue and Vice from 1633, the upper section of Paradise sets heroes including Hercules, to the left of centre with his trademark club and lion-skin, in an idealised landscape. Above them is an angelic musical ensemble serenading the figures below. This clearly was a Paradise for the artist’s patron, not the common person.
Clubs also appeared in other examples of hand-to-hand combat drawn from classical mythology.
In Peter Paul Rubens’ finished painting of The Rape of Hippodame (Lapiths and Centaurs) (1636-38) the figure at the upper right is just about to bring his club down on this wedding feast that turned into a pitched battle.
Sebastiano Ricci’s Battle of the Lapiths and Centaurs from about 1705 uses multiplex narrative to tell the same story. In the left background, Hippodame is seen being carried away by Eurytus, and a centaur in the centre foreground is swinging his club at one of the Lapiths.
Although the original story of the death of Orpheus at the hands of Bacchantes has them club him with their thyrsi, more modern interpretations are content with ordinary clubs.
Louis Bouquet’s The Death of Orpheus (1925-39) transports this scene to a beach, where the naked Bacchantes are armed with clubs, and just starting to tear the body of Orpheus with their bare hands and teeth.
Some earlier paintings of Christian devils show them with clubs.
Painted in 1430-32, Stefano di Giovanni’s St Anthony Beaten by the Devils identifies the saint by his Tau crucifix. Three devils, clearly fallen angels by their wings, are beating him with clubs. Those devils are fairly conventional figures, part animal and part man, with horns.
In contrast, Hercules’ lion-skin developed different associations, and involved other species.
Jean-Louis-Ernest Meissonier’s romanticised view of The Siege of Paris from 1870 combines almost every symbol relevant to the city’s distress, and dresses the symbolic figure of Marianne in a lion-skin against a battle-worn flag.
By the end of the nineteenth century, animal skins had gone from the uncouth to the mildly erotic, as seen in several of John William Godward’s paintings of doing nothing, or Dolce Far Niente.
This first from 1897 returns to a classical Roman setting, and adds a brilliant green parakeet to accompany this woman on a tiger-skin, in her diaphonous dress.
Seven years later (in 1904), Godward painted his more complex version, also known as Sweet Idleness, or A Pompeian Fishpond. More modestly clad, his lone woman rests with her knees drawn up into a sleeping (near-foetal) position on another animal skin, with a peacock-feather fan in the foreground.
A couple of years after that (in 1906), Godward’s beautiful woman is stretched out on an animal skin on marble, a colour-co-ordinated garden and distant Mediterranean waterscape beyond: a far cry from the uncouth Hercules.
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