The depiction of women in the illustrated works of Pierre Louys

by Paul Gervais

The illustrated novels of Pierre Louys are instructive in many ways. Primarily, of course, they reveal evolving artistic responses to the author’s prose and verse, thereby not just illustrating his personal vision but demonstrating- indirectly- what book purchasers were understood to want, and what publishers and their commissioned artists believed they could offer them, within the parameters of law and public decency. In other words, the nature of illustrations can be a record of changes in society- in attitudes to sexuality, gender and the status and rights of women.

Louys’ first books appeared in the last decade of the nineteenth century, notably Les Chansons de Bilitis in 1894 and Aphrodite in 1896. The earliest illustrated editions are distinctly reflective of their era, tacitly articulating contemporary attitudes towards the female gender and the position of women in society. Librairie Borel‘s 1899 edition of Aphrodite, illustrated by Antoine Calbet, is a case in point: his depictions of Chrysis reflect the Academic tradition of life studies, derived from the classical artistic tradition since the Renaissance, and the young Galilean courtesan is depicted very much in the style of Greek statues of Aphrodite and paintings of Venus by Botticelli, Tiziano Vecelli and others thereafter.

The title pages of the Calbet edition

Likewise, when Georges Rochegrosse provided plates for an edition of Ariadne in 1904, what he supplied was a very revealing reflection of the period’s conceptions of bacchantes- frenzied women. In the plate illustrated below, they are seen wreathed in ivy and flowers and leopard skin, about to tear apart the helpless Ariadne. Elsewhere in the same volume, Greek ladies were presented as sedate, respectable, elegant, graceful and beautiful- as in the illustration that accompanied the preamble to The House on the Nile by Paul Gervais, which is seen at the head of this post.

As I have described in other posts, numerous further illustrated editions of the various books written by Louys were to follow, both before and after his decease in 1925. A constant feature of these was women in greater or lesser states of undress, plates that faithfully responded to the text but also very consciously appealed to the primarily male collectors of fine art limited editions of books. Amongst these many examples, the most interesting are probably those designed by women. Those volumes worked on by Suzanne Ballivet, Mariette Lydis and Clara Tice are notable for the quality of their work and for the fact that the latter two were lesbian and brought their own sense of eroticism to their reactions to the texts. So, for example, in her plates for the 1934 edition of Les Chansons de Bilitis, Lydis’ vision of female lovers was far more intimate and subtly sensual than most of the works produced by male contemporaries- such as J A Bresval (see below). Other women who worked on the various titles by Louys included Renee Ringel (Aphrodite, 1944), Yna Majeska (Psyche, 1928), Guily Joffrin (Psyche, 1972) and editions of Bilitis illustrated by Jeanne Mammen, Genia Minache (1950), Carola Andries (1962) and Monique Rouver (1967). The frequency with which female illustrators were employed as the century passed is noticeable, although I hesitate to identify a distinctly feminine style.

Maritte Lydis, plate for Bilitis, 1934

Post-war, new editions of Louys introduced us to new conceptions of his female characters. J. A. Bresval illustrated an edition of Bilitis in 1957, his figures being very much inspired by contemporary film stars like Gina Lollobrigida and Brigitte Bardot. The women have a dark-haired fulsomeness typical of the period; the eroticism is rather cliched, such as the frontispiece to the book, which shows Bilitis with a lover: the latter kneels before her partner, embracing her waist and kissing her stomach; the standing woman cups her breasts in her hands and throws back her head in a highly stereotypical soft-porn rendering of female ecstasy.

However, by 1961 and Raymond Brenot’s watercolours for a new edition of Sanguines, we see a new aesthetic of the female body beginning to emerge: the bosoms may be just as fantastical, but there is a slenderness and, in some of the clothes, a sense of a more liberated and relaxed mood. Pierre-Laurent (Raymond) Brenot (1913-98) was a painter who was also very much in demand to design record sleeves, advertisements and fashion plates (for such couturiers as Dior, Balenciaga, Ricci and Lanvin). More tellingly, he is known as the ‘father of the French pin-up’- consider, for example, his advert for lingerie manufacturer Jessos- “Comme maman, je porte un Jessos” declares a young teen with pigtails, seated with her blouse unbuttoned to reveal her bra (“just like my mum’s”); I have discussed this style of marketing in another post. Brenot’s poster designs, for consumer goods, holiday destinations and films and theatres, regularly featured glamorous young women and, when this work declined during the later 1960s, he returned to painting, producing many young female nudes.

Brenot, Parrhasius in ‘The Wearer of Purple’ from Sanguines

What has to be observed, though, is that most of the nudity portrayed by Brenot was not justified by the actual stories in Sanguines. There are some naked slaves in The Wearer of Purple (see below), and Callisto in A New Sensation does share a bed with the narrator, but most of the rest of the stories are really quite respectable and sex-free (by the standards of Louys), being more concerned with psychology than sexuality. What we see, therefore, is evidence for the tendency to treat the works of Louys as a platform for erotic illustration. Frequently, this was a distinct element in the author’s stories, but it seems that he had acquired a reputation for sexiness which was then applied more liberally, presumably in the knowledge that the name would sell. The same criticism can, in truth, be made of Georges Rochegrosse’s depiction of the bacchae in the 1904 edition of Ariadne (see earlier): what he depicted might perhaps be implied in the text, but what Louys wrote doesn’t wholly warrant the nudity that we see:

“They wore fox skins tied over their left shoulders. Their hands waved tree branches and shook garlands of ivy. Their hair was so heavy with flowers that their necks bent backwards; the folds of their breasts streamed with sweat, the reflections on their thighs were setting suns, and their howls were speckled with drool.”

Ariadne, c.2

Brenot, Callisto in ‘A New Sensation’ from Sanguines

The men who feature in Brenot’s illustrations often seem hesitant, ill at ease or, even, embarrassed at being discovered with the women in their company- his take on the ‘satyrs’ with nymph in a scene from ‘The Wearer of Purple’ is a case in point. In Louys’ story, this is an incident involving a slave girl being assaulted by two other servants so as to create a titillating composition for the the artist Parrhasius to paint. As we can see in the reproduction below, the satyrs appear afraid of the young woman, having lost all their accustomed priapism, whilst she strikes me as indifferent to their presence and in fully control of the situation. Given Brenot’s later output, it’s almost certainly overstating things to say that these plates reflect shifts in social attitudes.

Brenot, two satyrs & a nymph in ‘The Wearer of Purple’ in Sanguines

Coming right up to date, the 1999 edition of Aphrodite demonstrates how visions of women may have developed and advanced (or not). The book was issued in three volumes, the first two being illustrated by two male comic book artists, Milo Manara and Georges Bess respectively. Both have distinctly erotic styles and the results strike me as being, in essence, highly accomplished and artistic reproductions of glamour photography and lesbian porn; for example, George Bess’ picture of the reclining woman, which faces the start of Book 2, chapter 1 of the story, seems to me to be drawn in a style very much influenced by Mucha or Georges du Feure: the streaming hair and the encroaching, twisting foliage all have the hallmarks of Art Nouveau (which is of course highly appropriate given the publication date of the original book). In the modern version, Chrysis is regularly depicted in intimate scenes alone, with her maid Djala or with the two girls Rhodis and Myrtocleia. With their tousled hair, pouting lips and pneumatic breasts, these women are very much the late twentieth century ideal. Most of the time, they are presented as being more interested in each other than in any of the male characters in the story, but my response is that there are really rather high-quality examples of fairly standard pornographic obsessions. When we look at them, it’s worth recalling Pierre Louys’ own description of his heroine, when he wrote to the painter Albert Besnard asking to paint her:

“Chrysis, as womanly as possible- tall, not skinny, a very ‘beautiful girl.’ Nothing vague or elusive in the forms. All parts of her body have their own expression, apart from their participation in the beauty of the whole. Hair golden brown, almost Venetian; very lively and eventful, not at all like a river. Of primary importance in the type of Chrysis, the mouth having all the appetites, thick and moist- but interesting […] Painted lips, nipples and nails. Depilated armpits. Twenty years old; but twenty years in Africa.”

Aphrodite, chapter 1, Milo Manara, 1999

Bess, plate for Aphrodite, 1999, Book 2, c.1, ‘The Garden of the Goddess’

A fascinating contrast to the the first two volumes of the 1999 edition is to be found in the third, illustrated by Claire Wendling (born 1967). She is a French author of comic books and her response to the text is interesting because it is so much darker and less obviously ‘sexy’ than that of her male collaborators. The plates are, literally, dark in tone and, although they tend to focus on solo female nudes, rather than lascivious eroticism is there is a mood of mental and physical suffering entirely appropriate to the final section of the book, in which Chrysis is arrested, sentenced to death, executed and buried. Her cover image evokes- for me- thoughts of Gustav Klimt in its decoration, but the twisted, crouched posture of the woman doesn’t look seductive- rather she’s supplicatory or, possibly, predatory.

At the start of this post I proposed that the book illustrations published with successive editions of the works of Pierre Louys can be a record of changes in society- in attitudes to sexuality, gender and the status and rights of women. I think that this is true, but that the evidence does not necessarily reveal huge steps forward in those areas. Far more women are involved now in commercial art, and the works of Louys provide vehicles for the expression of lesbian desire on their own terms: albeit in the service of illustrating books written by a man in which his sympathetic views of same-sex attraction compete with heterosexual masculine eroticism. Art styles have evolved, but the attitudes expressed by what’s depicted have not necessarily developed at the same pace.

Hans Makart- nymphs & centaurs

Abundantia, 1870

In the past I’ve discussed quite a few British neo-classical painters such as Alma-Tadema and John Collier. Here I wish to draw attention to an Austrian artist in the same tradition, the hugely influential Hans Makart (1840-84). Makart was a prolific history painter, designer, and decorator in the ‘academic’ tradition and his work had considerable influence on the development of art in Austria-Hungary, Germany and beyond. The image below is a fairly standard example of late nineteenth century classicism- the school of women in togas on marble terraces, but Makart developed beyond this into something more imaginative and interesting. There was also an orientalist strand to his work, as demonstrated by several portrayals of Cleopatra and other ancient Egyptian women- see the image below; this too very typical of the period. Both ancient Rome and Pharaonic Egypt will have appealed to the artist because, as we shall see, they enabled him to indulge his taste for lavish colours, opulent ornamentation- and naked women.

Summer

Cleopatra’s Nile Hunt

Makart was born in Salzburg, the son of a failed painter, and began his artistic training at a remarkably young age at the Vienna Academy (1850-51). Classicism was the predominant style, with the emphasis on clear and precise drawing and the modelling of the human form in obedience to the principles of Greek sculpture. The young Makart, sadly, was a poor draughtsman and didn’t enjoy the continual drawing from statuary and from life- nor did his instinct for colour and flamboyance fit well with his teachers’ rather austere view of classical art. His teachers considered him to be lacking any talent or promise and he was dismissed from the Academy. Undeterred, the youth travelled to Munich for further training and thence to London, Paris and Rome. He developed a painting style that emphasised colour and drama; his work attracted attention when he began to exhibit and in 1868, when the Austrian emperor bought his version of the Romeo and Juliet balcony scene, his future was secured. Makart was encouraged to settle in Vienna and was provided with a studio. He’d asked for a suite of rooms but was given an abandoned foundry. This unpromising location had the advantage of size (to accommodate his vast paintings) but it was not initially appealing. Undeterred, Makart furnished and decorated it with artifacts and ornaments in the showy and lavish manner that became synonymous with his work. Those who liked to snipe at this upstart’s success labelled it a Trödelbude (junk room) or Möbel-Magazin (furniture warehouse), but it became a key destination for anyone visiting the imperial capital. The salon was regarded as such a “wonder of decorative beauty” that it became the model for the most tasteful reception rooms in private homes in Vienna. Makart thereby managed to make himself the foremost figure in cultured life in the capital and to develop the old factory into the vibrant social rendezvous for writers, the rich and the nobility- the venue for the best parties in the city.

Triumph of Ariadne, 1874

In the Austrian imperial capital Makart painted portraits but also practiced as a costume, furniture and interior designer (a practitioner of the idea of the gesamtkunstwerk I’ve mentioned before). As well as private clients, his work was commissioned by the royal family and to hang in public buildings and in 1879, doubtless with an irony he relished, he was made a professor at the Vienna Academy. Sadly, though, Makart died just five years later, aged only 44, still at the peak of his celebrity and influence.

Allegory with Sea Nymphs

Hans Makart’s work gave rise to a so-called ‘Makartstil’ (Makart-style) which shaped Viennese culture. He was known popularly as the ‘magician of colours,’ for it was the design and look of his work that was important above all. His paintings tended to be very big and his themes were typically dramatic and allegorical, their subjects being drawn from European history and mythology. As such, he was considered to be the Austrian rival to the French William-Adolphe Bouguereau– and their pictures have much in common in both subject and flamboyant style. In fact, many of Makart’s contemporaries objected to precisely what links him with Bouguereau- his excess of nudes, introduced in historical scenes where they were unjustified. The theatrical scale of his canvasses was another target for professional contempt- although this actually reflects those ‘old masters’ whom he admired, such as Rubens.

Faun & Nymph

Nymph & her Children

It is Makart’s often over-the-top mythological paintings that I prefer. The society portraits and the murals for grand buildings are generally far less inspired or interesting- but his nymphs and goddesses can have a natural energy I enjoy. The artist’s instinct for sensuality, which many contemporary artists liked to sneer at, were ideally suited to this subject matter. I first came across Makart’s work when I was writing my book on The Great God Pan- and I prefer his vision of Arcadia to Bouguereau’s. On the whole, Makart’s renditions of nymphs and satyrs are a good deal less frenetic and a lot more pastoral than the Frenchman’s.

Faun & Nymph (Pan & Flora)

The painting that really launched Makart’s career in 1868 was Modern Cupids, which was exhibited in Munich and attracted considerable attention. This triptych is painted against a striking a gold background that transports the viewer to a mythical twilight.  The central, vertical, panel of the three depicts a triumphal procession of nymphs and young satyrs. The main, probably female, figure in this group has a noticeably and disturbingly mature face on a youthful body.  In the two side panels, nymphs are shown dancing in flowing gowns.  Some of these girls are distinctly juvenile, although in the left-hand panel two of the nymphs are passionately kissing; a third nymph beside this couple wears a looser chiton or toga which reveals to us her bare back and a glimpse of bosom and another in the background cradles a baby.  All these details mean that we are left slightly unbalanced by the youthful looks, adult clothes and hair styles, pierced ears and mature behaviour.  All the figures, meanwhile, are surrounded by abundant nature, so that the main idea Makart seems to be conveying is that these beings are manifestations of the natural world, vigorous, fertile and ever-renewing.  The ambiguity of the nymph as either girl or woman is a traditional aspect of these minor divinities; from a distinctly British perspective, too, the old head on a young body puts me in mind of the changeling child, an elderly faery swapped for a human infant. Due to these elements, the triptych as a whole feels unsettling: nature is depicted, but it is not fully natural.

Hans Makart, Modern Cupids, 1868, left hand panel

Centaurs in the Forest

That said, Makart also captured the violent vigour of the centaurs. As I have described in my book, The Woods are Filled with Gods, they share with the satyrs an irresistible desire for nymphs, but this is combined with huge strength and speed, as well as an irascible temperament, which can make them dangerous adversaries. The Renaissance and old master influences on Makart are often apparent- the battle between the lapiths and centaurs, for example, has a fine pedigree, stretching from the Parthenon’s marble friezes through Piero di Cosimo, Jacob Jordaens and Luca Giordano to the late nineteenth century (and, in fact, beyond- for instance proto-surrealist Giorgio de Chirico in 1909).

Battle of the Centaurs & Lapiths

Nessus Abducts Deianira, c.1880

In addition to the direct impact that Makart had on art and culture in Vienna, his position at the Academy and the ubiquity of his work inevitably meant that he influenced younger painters and designers. Many of those, just as inevitably, rejected what he stood for. Gustav Klimt is a prominent example of such an artist; nevertheless, he always maintained his respect for Makart, whose influence is clear in Klimt’s early work. More generally, the decorative and sexual aspects of Austrian Art Nouveau have been traced back to ‘Makartstil.’ This impact notwithstanding, Makart’s reputation faded swiftly, so that an artist who was, in his lifetime, more famous and prestigious than many of the leading figures of French art, is now scarcely known.

For more information on Victorian era art, see details of my book Cherry Ripe on my publications page.

The Nixies (Water Sprites) & the Tiger, c.1870

Illuminating ‘The Twilight of the Nymphs’- illustrating ancient myths retold

Paul Albert Laurens, Leda

Between 1893 and 1898, French writer Pierre Louys produced a series of retellings of classical myths- the stories of Leda, Ariadne and Byblis– which were accompanied by The House Upon the Nile, a story set in Hellenic Egypt. These were later grouped together, along with Louys’ version of the story of Danae, as Le Crepuscule des nymphes (The Twilight of the Nymphs). Several illustrated versions of this were published after Louys death in 1925. This post reviews the artworks generated by this pleasant, if minor, collection of stories.

Laurens, Leda

The first illustrated volume in the series was Leda, issued in 1898 with plates provided by Paul Albert Laurens. I have mentioned edition this in other posts. Laurens (1870-1934) was born in Paris, the son of the distinguished painter and sculptor Jean-Paul Laurens. He undertook his artistic training at the Académie Julian and during his artistic career he won a variety of medals and prizes for his work. Laurens undertook a wide variety of commissions, including street scenes, still lifes, figures, murals and book illustration. During the First World War he helped to devise camouflage schemes and from 1898 was teacher and later professor of drawing at the École Polytechnique in Paris. His plates for Leda are very attractive little vignettes, faithfully portraying the rather alien blueness of the nymph and contrasting her slender nudity with the coarseness of the river gods.

Wagrez, Byblis

The same year as Leda, an edition of Byblis, illustrated by Jacques-Clément Wagrez (1850-1908), appeared. This little known story concerns the nymph Byblis and her brother Caunos, the twin children of the river nymph Cyanis (the naiad Kyane, who is evidently just as blue as Leda). Being continually alone together, the siblings fall in love with each other and their mother determines to terminate their incestuous romance. She therefore has the boy carried off by a centauress. Byblis is heart-broken to lose her twin, sole companion and lover. She sets out in search of him but becomes hopelessly lost. In despair, she breaks down in tears of grief and is turned into a fountain.

Like Laurens, Wagrez was the son of a painter and studied École des Beaux-Arts in Paris before travelling in Italy. He became a painter (especially in watercolours) as well as a decorative arts designer (including tapestries). His compositions were often inspired by the artists of Renaissance Florence and Venice, as well as by classical mythology. In addition to the edition of Byblis, he also illustrated editions of Shakespeare’s plays, Balzac, Wagner and Boccaccio’s Decameron. His illustrations for Louys are conventional and not very exciting (sorry Jacques-Clément).

This last edition of Byblis was far surpassed in 1901 by Henri Caruchet’s art nouveau design, a truly stunning little book, on nearly every page of which the text is framed by beautiful studies of entwined flowers, foliage and nymphs.

Henri Émile Caruchet (1873-1948) was a French painter in oils and watercolours, illustrator and poet. He studied at the National School of Fine Arts in Paris in 1892, attending classes with Gustave Moreau amongst others.  Subsequently, Caruchet worked in many fields: he was a book illustrator, working on titles by Theophile Gautier and Anatole France, but he was also a press caricaturist, painter, and ceramics designer, in addition to which he was the author of poetry, reviews, stories and magazine articles. The Benezit Dictionary of Artists describes his “extravagantly floral style, typical of Art Nouveau.” The results are strange and beautiful.

Caruchet’s erotic illustrations have been described as symbolist: in 1904 he supplied twenty gorgeous art nouveau designs for an edition of Jean de Villiot’s Parisienne et Peux-Rouges, published by Charles Carrington; it was one in that company’s series La Flagellation à Travers le Monde (Flagellation Across the World).  The book was raised above its genre by the plates, which are stunning little works of art, both bizarre and beautiful: amongst them are a naked woman being molested by an octopus against a background of stars and a woman who is wearing only stockings and holds a small puppet of a man dressed in a suit and top hat, whilst apparently floating before a giant cobweb in which are trapped numerous babies. These are uniquely disturbing and yet lovely images.

Abandoning chronology for a moment, in 1929 a rather similar edition of Crepuscule appeared, designed by Sylvain Sauvage. It bore the title Contes Antiques (Ancient Tales) and was decorated with thirty-two colour engravings, as well as ornamental initials and decorative head and tail-pieces in colour. This stunning book is another example of the idea of the illustrated book as gesamtkunstwerk to which I have previously referred.

Contes Antiques (House on the Nile)

Contes Antiques, ‘L’Homme de pourpre’

Gervais, The House on the Nile

In 1904, an edition of Ariadne or The Way of Eternal Peace, combined with The House on the Nile or The Appearances of Virtue, was published. The two stories were illustrated by Georges Antoine Rochegrosse (1859-1938) and Paul Jean Gervais (1859-1936) respectively. Rochegrosse was the stepson of the author Theodore de Banville and was brought up in a very cultured environment, beginning his artistic education aged just twelve. He painted orientalist scenes in Algeria as well as depictions of Egyptian and Classical culture; later he portrayed scenes from the works of Wagner.  Rochegrosse was much in demand for book illustration, working on Aeschylus’ Oresteia, Petronius’ Satyricon, Flaubert’s Salammbo and Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, amongst others. He was extremely popular in his day, but is now largely forgotten. Gervais had studied under Gerome in Paris and became a painter of murals, allegorical and historical paintings and book plates (such as Aristophanes’ Lysistrata). Both artists’ illustrations of Louys are very conventional ‘academic’ and neo-classical images; perhaps the most notable thing about them is how Gervais has departed so much from his text: two young African girls in the House upon the Nile have become two white women under his brush, thereby losing much of the point of the story (contrast this plate to those by Clara Tice and others already reproduced).

Rochegrosse, Ariadne

Then, in the year of the author’s death, 1925, the first consolidated edition of Twilight of the Nymphs was issued, with woodcuts designed by Jean Saint-Paul. Born in Paris in 1897, he was a designer of tapestries, painter and illustrator; he is probably best known for this work on Louys. The images are strong and bold and seem to have been quite influential: an edition of the Collected Works of Louys issued in the USA in 1932, with translations by Mitchell S. Buck, included woodcuts by Harry G. Spanner. His version of Byblis bears marked similarities to Saint-Paul’s.

Byblis by Jean Saint-Paul

Byblis by Harry Spanner, 1932

As with many of Louys’ books, a small flurry of new printings then followed. The major Swiss artist and writer Rodolphe-Theophile Bosshard (1889-1960) worked on another edition in 1926. He had studied at the Geneva School of Fine Arts, before travelling to Paris in 1910 where Expressionism and Cubism had a great impact on his style. After the First World War, Bosshard returned to live in Paris for four years, getting to know Marc Chagall and André Derain amongst other writers and artist. On his return to Switzerland, the artist designed murals and painted portraits, landscapes, still lifes and mystical/ religious scenes, but it was female nudes dominated his output. He depicted their bared bodies in increasingly cubist and abstract manner.  Bosshard also undertook book illustrations, leading to his rather austere set of ten lithographs for Le Crepuscule des nymphes the year after Louys died. They have a cool, sculptural quality to them that is in some ways appropriate to these Greek myths.

Bosshard

Clara Tice, Danae

In 1927, the Pierre Louys Society in the USA issued a translation of Le Crepuscule, with gorgeous and lavish illustrations by Clara Tice. The pastel colours, highlighted with gold and combined with Tice’s delicate, naïve style, make for a memorable and highly appealing edition of the book. 

Another English translation was published in 1928 (and reissued in 1932) by the Fortune Press in London (it was intended, initially, as a small press specialising in gay erotica). Perhaps this is why the young Cecil Beaton was commissioned to provide the illustrations, even though he was almost unknown at that stage. despite his lack of formal qualifications, there’s no denying the unique flare of his five plates.

In 1940, the designer Louis Icart was commissioned to work on a couple of Louys’ works, including Leda. I have featured some plates from this edition in my post on the career of Icart.

Cecil Beaton, 1928

Lastly, in 1946, the established post-Impressionist painter Pierre Bonnard (1867-1947) provided lithographs for a further edition of Le Crepuscule des nymphes. He was a pioneer of Post-Impressionism in his youth, forming the Nabis group along with Gauguin, but over his long career Bonnard constantly stayed alert to and adapted new artistic styles. Nudes were a regular feature of his painting, but he was always interested in the integration of art into popular media, such as posters, magazine covers and book illustrations, as well as into ordinary household objects and decoration, including murals, painted screens, textiles, tapestries, furniture, glassware and ceramics. It was in this context that such a well-known and distinguished figure was commissioned to work on another edition of Louys’ book. His 24 lithographs give quite a detailed account of the events in the text.

Bonnard, Byblis, 1946

There have been several other editions of Louys’ short stories, many unillustrated and in a variety of combinations, often including stories from other collections that the author wrote. An example is the English language Collected Tales, of 1930, which featured illustrations from John Austen.

Clara Tice- bohemian illustrator of Pierre Louys

Clara Tice (1888-1973) was an American avant-garde illustrator and artist whose bohemian lifestyle and daring artwork often caused scandal during her life-time.  She was the first woman in Greenwich Village to bob her hair (in 1908), and her generally decadent look and conduct led to her being known in New York as the ‘queen of Greenwich Village.’ Her reputation only increased when, in 1915, the Society for the Suppression of Vice tried to confiscate some of her art from a display at the well-known bohemian restaurant Polly’s.

‘Nudes in a bath’

Tice was briefly married, but much of her output depicted naked women, meaning that she’s widely regarded as a lesbian artist today. Certainly, one of her watercolour sketches shows two women embracing in bed and readers may judge for themselves from other examples of her work.

Women Bathing

Tice, an untitled drypoint etching

During the 1920s, she received some seven commissions to illustrate erotic books, which included La Fontaine’s Tales and Boccaccio‘s Decameron. Amongst the illustration work Tice undertook were plates for editions of Pierre Louys’ Aphrodite, an edition of The Adventures of King Pausole in 1926 and for Twilight of the Nymphs (1927). In these colour plates, she repeatedly celebrated youthful female bodies; her ideal appears to have been the athletic and young woman, for she drew slim, curvaceous and pretty girls like this, with long ringleted hair, repeatedly.  One plate for Twilight of the Nymphs, for example, shows a bevy of naked girls, gathered in a line with their arms interlinked (see below).  At the same time, though, Tice’s style was innocent- colourful and almost childish- with her figures’ eyes reduced to round black dots. To a considerable degree these simple, bright images, playful and almost cartoonish as they are, leaven the sexuality she was being asked to reflect in the texts.

Plate from Roi Pausole

from ‘Twilight of the Nymphs’

Twilight of the Nymphs was a collection of retellings of classical myths, published by Louys between 1893 and 1898. Their theme reflects his deep interest in and familiarity with classical culture and literature- to the extent that he chose to produce his own versions, which are based upon- but depart quite noticeably- from the originals that inspired them. The stories are framed as if they are being told to each other by a group of travellers as they rest at night.

Despite the title of the collection, the stories are by no means all about nymphs. Ariadne concerns the princess abandoned by Theseus on Naxos and rescued by Dionysos- although in Louys’ version, the outcome is actually rather violent. Danae is told as a continuation of the story of the mother of Perseus, impregnated by Zeus in a shower of gold, and The House Upon the Nile- or the Semblance of Virtue in Women actually has no basis in Greek myth at all; it is entirely a story invented by Louys, and as such betrays some of his typical interests- with the more relaxed sexual attitudes and customs of the ancient past coupled with his not always admirable treatment of race or of women.

Two stories do deal with nymphs. Byblis is the bitter tale of the two children of the nymph, Cynas, who are called Byblis and Caunos. The brother and sister fall in love with each other and their mother resolves to separate them for their own good. The boy is taken away by a centauress, leaving Byblis bereft. She tries to follow him, but becomes lost and dies of despair. In its bleakness, the story is pure Greek myth; in its incest theme, it’s pure Louys.

Lastly, we have the story of Leda, the nymph made pregnant by Zeus- this time in the form of a swan. Leda is a naiad and is definitely not human:

“She really was most blue for, in her veins, ran the blood of the iris and not, as in yours, the blood of roses. Her nails were bluer than her hands, her nipples bluer than her breasts; her elbows and her knees were wholly azure. Her lips shone with the colour of her eyes, which were blue as the deep water. As for her flowing hair, it was sombre and blue as the nocturnal sky and quickened so along her arms that she seemed to have wings.”

Louys tells the story of this innocent’s seduction by the god very tenderly, whilst Tice’s illustrations are rich and charming, although they may not capture the otherworldly beauty of Leda in the same way as the plates designed by Paul-Albert Laurens for an edition of 1898.

For details of my essays on the French interwar illustrators, and other areas of art history, see my books page. For further information on all of Pierre Louys’ books, see my bibliography page for the author.

from ‘Twilight of the Nymphs’

Dangerous Liaisons- Mortals and Gods

William Blake Richmond, Aphrodite & Anchises

I have written numerous times about the gods and their lovers, but in this posting I want to focus on the perils for mortals of getting mixed up with divine partners. My starting text will be that ever-quotable scholarly work, the film Notting Hill (1999). Towards the end discussing the return of ‘The American’ to London, this exchange takes place:

“Max: Let’s face facts, this was always a no-win situation. Anna’s a goddess: you know what happens to mortals who get involved with gods.
William: Buggered, is it?
Max: Every time.”

Facts are, indeed, facts, and the record of human-deity romances is a sobering one. Aphrodite had several mortal lovers, including Anchises and Adonis. Neither were consensual partners- the goddess simply took them because she wanted to and she could. Their ends are almost always tragic too: the red rose is the flower most emblematic of the goddess because, according to one story, roses sprang from the blood of Aphrodite’s lover, Adonis, when he was gored by a boar and bled to death in the goddess’ arms. In other versions of the story, the boar was either sent by Ares, who was jealous that Aphrodite was spending so much time with Adonis, by Artemis, because she wanted revenge against Aphrodite for having killed her devoted follower Hippolytus, or by Apollo, to punish Aphrodite for blinding his son Erymanthus.

As for Anchises, Aphrodite pretended to be a Phrygian princess so as to be able to seduce him, only to later reveal herself and inform him that they would have a son named Aeneas. At the same time, though, the goddess warned Anchises that if he told anyone about her being the mother of his child, Zeus would strike him down with his thunderbolt. He failed to heed her warning and was duly struck down, either dying or being blinded.

The same applies to Dionysos/ Bacchus. One of his most famous partners is Ariadne, abandoned by Theseus on the island of Naxos after they slay the minotaur. In most accounts, Dionysos saves her and they have a happy marriage, although Ariadne dies young. However, the Belgian author Pierre Louys approached the relationship in a far darker manner. In his short story Ariadne, published during the 1890s and later included in his collection The Twilight of the Nymphs, he presented a unique interpretation of the interaction between the Minoan princess and the god.

Having been abandoned by Theseus on Naxos, Ariadne awakes to sound of bacchantes, satyrs and pans approaching. The maenads are described vividly: “Their hands waved branches of trees and shook garlands of ivy. Their hair was so laden with flowers that their necks bent backward; the folds of their breasts were rivulets of sweat, their thighs glowed like setting suns and their shrieks were spotted with flying foam.” They cry out to Iacchos- “Beautiful God! Mighty God! Living God! Leader of the Orgy!” imploring him to “Incite the multitude! Drive the rout and the rapid feet! We are yours! We are your swelling breath! We are your turbulent desires!”

As soon as the frenzied women see Ariadne, they tear her limb from limb and scatter her remains. Dionysos then appears, dismisses them, and resurrects their victim, intoning over her dismembered corpse “Arise! I am Awakening. I am Life. This is the road of Eternal Peace.”

Then, rather than marrying Ariadne, as the traditional story tells, this Dionysos makes her his queen, of a place “where you shall never again see the sun too glittering not the night too shadowy… you shall never again feel hunger nor thirst nor love nor fatigue…” He is the “Ruler of Shades, the Master of the Infernal Water” and she shall sit beside him on his throne presiding over a land where “the anguish of death is miraculously transfigured in the intoxication of resurrection,” where pain and trouble become ecstatic and where a great eternal peace reigns. Ariadne is overjoyed with this prospect- and then he annihilates her completely. Louys chose to explore the strand of the ancient myth that made Dionysos an equivalent of Hades/ Pluto and lord of the underworld; hence, his uniquely bleak and savage conception of the god is not without classical authority.

Dionysos in fact had multiple partners, mortal and divine, female and male. His affair with the Thracian boy Ampelos also ends in tragedy:

“It’s said that the beardless Ampelos, son of a nymph and a satyr, was loved by Bacchus on the Ismarian hills. Upon him the god bestowed a vine that trailed from an elm’s leafy boughs, and still the vine takes from the boy its name. While he rashly picked the ripe grapes upon a branch, he tumbled down from the tree and was killed. Bacchus bore the dead youth to the stars.”

In another version, Ampelos was killed while riding a bull maddened by the sting of a gadfly sent by Atë, the goddess of folly- the beast threw the boy and then gored him to death. Another doomed male lover is also recorded: according to several writers, Dionysos was guided during his journey to the underworld to rescue his mother Semele by a man called (variously) Hyplipnus, Prosymnus or Polymnus, who shamelessly requested, as his reward, to be Dionysos’ lover. Sadly, he died before he got his reward and the relationship was consummated.

The mention of Semele highlights another tragic divine-human love affair. Dionysos was conceived when Zeus had sex with the mortal woman Semele (whose name in fact means ‘Earth’ in Phrygian- hence Dionysos is again born of a union of sky and earth). In one version of this story, she asked to see her lover in his true, divine form. Zeus appeared to her as a bolt of lightning, which struck and killed the pregnant woman. Zeus was able to save his son, though, sowing the baby up in his own thigh until he could be born. This episode underlines what Max said to Will about the perils of divine partners. Either they will prove fatal for you- or other gods will be jealous or vindictive and take their revenge upon the vulnerable mortal.

Drunk Dancers- some Germanic Bacchantes

Franz von Stuck, Bacchantes, satyrs and nymphs

One of the arguable defects of many artists’ depictions of bacchantes, nymphs and other women of mythology is that they can be reduced to idealised and unreal figures. This is one reason why I like the work of some of the German nineteenth century painters, such as Lovis Corinth (1858-1925), Franz von Stuck (1863-1928) and Arnold Bocklin (1827-1901)- who, admittedly, was Swiss. Their vision of the maenads in particular could be quite brutally honest- and very far from the perfect anatomical specimens you find in much Greek sculpture.

Lovis Corinth, Bacchanal

Corinth, Bacchantenpaar

The Expressionist Corinth painted and drew a number of bacchanals, all of which inevitably featured naked figures in varying degrees of intoxication and debauch.  His nudes are refreshingly real- they are not perfect, slender nymphs but rather paunchy males and solid, slightly coarsened women with sagging breasts.  Everyone staggers around on unsteady feet and with glazed eyes. His Bacchantenpaar of 1908 comprises a plainly middle couple, very jolly after a good drink.  The man is flushed with wine and possibly lacking a few teeth; the pair look exactly like a couple of German peasants at a beer festival- which is very probably exactly who his models were.

Corinth, Homecoming Bacchantes

Even Corinth’s rendering of Ariadne auf Naxos (1913) has the heroine slumped naked, sprawled in a stupor with her legs apart, looking more like she has been overcome by wine and desire than ennui. Contrast this to John Waterhouse’s version, where our heroine’s boredom after being abandoned by Theseus has certainly overwhelmed her, but has left the princess drowsy in the heat and looking like a David Hamilton glamour shoot, enjoying an erotic reverie

Corinth Ariadne auf Naxos

John William Waterhouse, Ariadne

German symbolist Franz von Stuck drew figures very similar to those of Corinth: a full range of young, old, pretty and ugly celebrants- as in his etching Bacchantes, Satyrs and Nymphs (see top), which shows a reeling and staggering procession of overwrought dancers.  His Bacchanal of 1905 depicts a circle of dancers in front of a classical portico; one of the naked frenzied females is just at the point of collapsing into the arms of a companion. She is, again, an older, more solid woman rather than a willowy fantasy of a nymph.

von Stuck, Bacchanal

Arnold Bocklin didn’t paint many scenes concerned with the Bacchic rites, but his Nymph on the Shoulders of Pan is unquestionably one. The grey haired and goaty satyr perpetuates the tendency for showing a diverse population in Arcadia. The nymph, meanwhile, goads her steed along with the pine-cone tip of her thyrsos. All in all, it appears that the pan isn’t wholly happy; she’s leaning back and pulling on his horn, which seems to be hurting him. Perhaps she’s a little too drunk to notice.

Bocklin, Nymphe auf den Schultern Pans, 1874.

Although German artists predominate in this genre of ‘real’ scenes from legend, they weren’t of course the exclusive purveyors of such a vision of antique myth- witness Alexis Axilette’s Silene entrainé par les nymphes which also eschews perfect models for its characters.

Axilette, Silene entrainé par les nymphes

Finally, I turn to a picture that truly encapsulates much of the spirit of many of the images of the bacchic rites that the period produced.  In 1886 Austrian painter Gustav Klimt was commissioned to decorate a staircase in the newly completed Burgtheater in Vienna.  He painted a memorable depiction of the Altar of Dionysus for the theatre audiences to admire on the way to the auditorium. In his work, Klimt often drew on Greek imagery to create aesthetic, mysterious and unsettlingly erotic designs and the Burgtheater panel is no exception to this. Unlike other German speaking painters of the period, though, he preferred the bacchante as slender girl to some of his compatriots’ more stolid and mature figures.

In the painting, two naked adolescent girls, whom we may confidently identify as a pair of maenads, appear before the god’s shrine.  One reclines, seemingly exhausted after the Dionysian orgy, and languidly offers up some slightly wilted flowers whilst gazing straight out at the observer.  The other girl holds a staff (which must represent Dionysos’ thyrsos) in one hand as she presents a statue to the god. In contrast to her exhausted companion, she is an alert and perfect creature who might almost have been carved from marble like the shrine.  She has immaculate pale, smooth skin, pert conical breasts, beautifully sculpted hair and dramatically made-up eyes.  To one side of this pair, a satyr figure plays on a drum and in the background lurk two young children with strangely black eyes- we may assume that their pupils have been hugely expanded by drugs.

Klimt’s vision radiates a sensual enigma which many of the other pictures considered here do not: they were concerned with earthy, real individuals, who’ve drunk too much and, if they feel lusty, are probably too inebriated to do much about it. Klimt’s almost icy scene sets itself at a distance from such wild and uncontrolled ecstasies. Instead, the worship of the god is restrained, almost frozen.

Klimt, Altar of Dionysos (detail)

Emma Hamilton- Georgian pin-up girl

George Romney, Lady Emma Hamilton as a bacchante

In modern terms, we might describe Emma Hamilton as hot, a babe, an effective influencer on social media. She knew how to promote herself; she kept up a supply of selfies and Instagram images for her fans. She knew that sex and good looks could sell, so she sold. Of course, the medium she chose- portraits in oils by leading painters of the day- was almost the only few option open to her to get herself recognised, but the product itself hasn’t changed in two hundred years- a pretty face, a winning smile, great hair- and just a bit of sauciness (spot that hint of nipple and the side boob in the gauzy slip below).

Romney, Hamilton as a Bacchante

Emma Hamilton (born Amy Lyon- 1765-1815), was an English model, dancer and actress. She began her career aged 12 on the stage in Drury Lane. This led to work as a society hostess, nude dancer and artists’ model and, in due course, she became the mistress of a series of wealthy men, culminating with the naval hero Lord Nelson. In 1791, aged 26, she married Sir William Hamilton, British ambassador to the Kingdom of Naples, where she a close friend of the queen, sister of Marie Antoinette, and met Horatio Nelson. Hamilton was bright, witty and elegant and made the best of the opportunities she found in every situation that confronted her.

Elizabeth Vigee le Brun, Emma Hamilton as a Bacchante

In 1782 Hamilton was introduced to the portrait artist George Romney. She became his favourite model and he sketched and painted her repeatedly, nude and in various guises. Other artists, such as French painter Elizabeth Vigee le Brun, were also fascinated by her looks and style. Hamilton loved to dress up, which must have been a great attraction, and we see her playing a variety of classical or famous roles- Circe, Cassandra, the Sibyl, Titania and Mary Magdalene. She didn’t object to revealing her body, which must have endeared her even more to some painters.

Romney, Hamilton as Circe (1782)

Vigee le Brun, Hamilton as Ariadne

What interests me here is Emma Hamilton’s repeated appearance as a bacchante- and I count here her portrait as Ariadne (above), for this princess was saved and married by Dionysos/ Bacchus after she had been abandoned by Theseus on Naxos following the slaying of the Minotaur. The leopard skin, vine leaves and wine cup all indicate Ariadne’s bacchic connections here.

Hamilton wasn’t alone in choosing to present herself as a maenad. Lots of other women did so, especially actresses and dancers, but also noble women and princesses. See below Jacques-Antoine Vallin’s Madame Bigottini as a Bacchante– she was a ballet dancer and doubtless keen on self-promotion just like Emma Hamilton; contrast this to William Hoare’s Lady Emily Kerr as a Bacchante. The eligible and marriageable daughter of a respectable and wealthy family wouldn’t- on the face of it- have wished to associate herself with actresses and dancers and other women who were “no better than they should be” (let’s not overlook that fact that both Bigottini and Hamilton cheerfully bared some bosom) but here she is, in something of a state of underdress, and looking not much older than fourteen (and rather serious and sensible, too). She has her thyrsos and her tambourine, all ready for the Bacchic rites, even though it’s hard to believe she’d actually have got involved.

Vallin, Madae Bigottini

William Hoare, Lady Emily Kerr as a Bacchante

Dressing up as a bacchante clearly wasn’t regarded as demeaning, despite the associations with drunkenness, violence and general excess. Why did they do it? Probably indicating that you knew your classics did no harm at all to your standing in society- you projected yourself as educated and cultured. For Lady Kerr, this would have confirmed her existing position; for Bigottini, it presumably raised her status somewhat. Yet, at the same time, it had a bit of an edge. The sensual, ecstatic aspect of the bacchante wasn’t forgotten- so you could imply you were a bit wild, a bit daring, whilst also showing you’d read your Euripedes. It was win-win- and very attractive.

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Norman Lindsay- Dionysos Down Under

Crete , 1940

This time, I’d like to feature the bacchic works of Australian painter Norman Lindsay (1879-1969). There are strong pagan and erotic elements in much of his art, to the extent that he was called anti-Christian and decadent during his life time and had a large number of his paintings destroyed as pornographic by the US authorities. The artist’s tastes are, perhaps, reflected by his decision to illustrate Petronius’ Satyricon and his son Jack’s Dionysos: Nietzsche Contra Nietzsche. An Essay in Lyrical Philosophy (1928).

Dionysus

Lindsay regularly depicted a number of themes: pirates and their girls, wild witches at their sabbaths and frenzied maenads celebrating Dionysian rites. These all provided opportunities for nudity and highly suggestive sexual scenes. Here I’ll focus on Lindsay’s depictions of the bacchanalian orgies. He painted several pictures directly featuring the young god Dionysos himself. The first of these was Dionysus, of 1908, in which the god stands on top of a small hill, surrounded by a seething mass of bodies- satyrs, leopards and Lindsay’s trademark large breasted women. The god bears his thyrsos (a staff topped with a pine-cone and often wreathed with ivy) and is naked except for a loosely draped leopard skin (the skin and the staff are instantly recognisable signs of Dionysos and his followers). One of his devotees, a naked maenad (a woman made ‘manic’ by his rites) clings to to the god, others writhe, open mouthed and wild eyed, on all sides. It is noticeable that these are mature women, with heavy bosoms and round bellies- they recur constantly in Lindsay’s art.

Te Laudete!

The illustration, Te Laudate, O Dionysus! (I praise you, Dionysos), which was published in 1918, shows a curious procession of rejoicing people, of all ages and eras, clothed and unclothed, emerging from a wood. Thyrsoi are held aloft, the fat old satyr Silenus is astride his donkey and fauns prance. In addition, Lindsay twice tackled the story of Ariadne and Dionysos (he rescued her from the island of Naxos where she had been abandoned by Theseus after the successful killing of the minotaur). An undated ‘Study after Titian’ shows a group of male and female bacchantes marching determinedly towards their destination, a small dog in tow (as in Te Laudate). The picture that seems to have been developed from this, Bacchus and Ariadne (1914), features yet another troop of fauns, leopards and naked men and women, but with Ariadne being carried on several men’s shoulders- this posture is another recurring theme in Lindsay’s work, as we’ll see in the picture of Silenus below.

A Bacchanalian Scene, 1941

In the Bacchanalian Scene illustrated above, the central male figure, in his crown of vine-leaves, seems clearly to represent Dionysos/ Bacchus, the god of wine and the new vintage. The ecstasy here is not so much a matter of religious enthusiasm as simple wine (and sex). Although it was painted in 1941, I have to admit that every time I look at it, I think Bacchus looks just like Tim Curry in the Rocky Horror Picture Show- a resemblance which, in many ways, is entirely appropriate.

Silenus Finds a Companion, 1940

Entourage (1940) is a less specific bacchanalian scene. Silenus, centaurs and fauns are present and naked women ride leopards, lions, gryphons and a deer. There’s a lot of sexual touching. This is just one of a large number of such pictures that Lindsay created throughout his career, in which drunken men and women stagger, stumble and fall, satyrs cavort and centaurs prance. Sometimes there is evidence of wine drinking, sometimes we see bacchic elements such as pipes, tympana and leopard skins. Occasionally, live leopards are present, perhaps being ridden by naked teenage girls. It’s not always clear what’s happening, except that the participants are in a delirium of pleasure and sex is probably not very far away- the indication frequently being that the maenads will be pairing up.

Vintage festival

Procession

With his crazed looking bacchantes, voluptuous nakedness and debauched behaviour, Lindsay’s work epitomises the consensus on the bacchic rites that seems to have emerged over the last century and a half. He depicted riotous pleasure, with everything on the point of collapse- whether into bed or into a stupor. Lindsay’s work is, of course, highly erotic, but I think that part of its attraction is that it retains a sense of humour that balances the pornographic aspect. There is always something faintly ridiculous about the revels presented to us- a surprised expression or an element of parody- as in The Audience below, in which a rapt satyr watches a dancing woman- along with a bunch of bemused bunnies.

Sisters

The Audience

For more detail on the cult of Dionysos, see my 2022 book, Dance, Love and Ecstasy, published by Green Magic.