In my opinion, however, one of the most evocative descriptions of Dionysus comes from The Bacchae by Euripides. In case you’ve forgotten the details of this play, here’s a quick summary. Dionysus returns to Thebes to proclaim his divinity. However Pentheus, the impetuous young ruler of Thebes, is having none of it. He denies the divinity of this stranger, and as you can imagine, this clash between human and divine wills is the cause of the central conflict in The Bacchae.

Euripides does a masterful job of depicting Dionysus as a deity who is utterly determined to establish himself, and his rites, at his birthplace of Thebes. The Bacchae opens with the following passage, spoken by the Greek god :

I am Dionysus, the son of Zeus,
come back to Thebes, this land where I was born.
My mother was Cadmus’ daughter, Semele by name,
midwived by fire, delivered by the lightning’s blast.

And here I stand, a god incognito,
disguised as man, beside the stream of Dirce
and the waters of Ismenus.

Euripides, The Bacchae, lines 1-6, trans. by William Arrowsmith

Dionysus talks of his travels in the lines that follow. He speaks of his journeys through places such as Lydia, Phrygia, Persia, Bactria, Arabia, then Asia, and finally a triumphant return to Greece. He reveals that he taught the inhabitants of these varied lands his rites and mysteries. In Thebes, however, members of the royal house stubbornly refuse to acknowledge him as the son of a god.

As a consequence, Dionysus makes the women of Thebes mad, turns them into his personal retinue of Bacchae (who incidentally are also referred to as Bacchantes or Maenads). These frenzied women haunt the hills surrounding Thebes and perform ecstatic rites in honor of their deity Dionysus.

Naturally, this behavior is not well received by the current ruler of Thebes, Pentheus. The king rushes back to survey the state of affairs :

I am also told a foreigner has come to Thebes
from Lydia, one of those charlatan magicians,
with long yellow curls smelling of perfume,
with flushed cheeks and the spells of Aphrodite
in his eyes. His days and nights he spends
with women and girls, dangling before them the joys
of initiation in his mysteries.

Euripides, The Bacchae, lines 233-39

Pentheus speaks these words before he has met the mysterious stranger - indeed, these are among the first lines he shares with the audience. His enthusiasm for hunting down and capturing the man accused of causing such scandalous behavior in the women of Thebes is evident, as is his interest in the stranger himself.

In one particularly vivid scene, we see Dionysus through the eyes of Pentheus. In this encounter, Dionysus is in disguise as one of his own priests. Here is how Pentheus addresses Dionysus when the two finally meet face to face :

So,
you are attractive, stranger, at least to women -
which explains, I think, your presence here in Thebes.
Your curls are long. You do not wrestle, I take it.
And what fair skin you have - you must take care of it -
no daylight complexion; no, it comes from the night
when you haunt Aphrodite with your beauty.

Euripides, The Bacchae, lines 452-58

Dionysus is portrayed here as an attractive, alluring, and altogether seductive figure. Notice how Pentheus deliberately points out the luxurious curls, the decidedly unmanly pale skin, and then concludes his description by suggesting the sex appeal of Dionysus in the comment about haunting Aphrodite with his beauty? It’s all calculated to cast Dionysus as an effeminate outsider, someone who lures the women of Thebes away with his good looks and irresistible foreign charms.

Pentheus seems to be simultaneously repulsed and intrigued by this mysterious stranger. Yet, over time, he succumbs to the spell of Dionysus…or is that Aphrodite? Pentheus desperately wants to witness what he imagines are wanton acts among the Bacchae.

It is also worth noting that according to mythology, Dionysus and Pentheus are in fact related. They are cousins by blood. Dionysus was the son of the god Zeus and the mortal woman Semele. The first quote from The Bacchae reveals that Semele was one of the daughters of Cadmus. It turns out that Pentheus is also one of the grandsons of Cadmus. His mother, Agave, is another daughter of the famous Theban hero.

Both Dionysus and Pentheus are portrayed as young, beardless men in the play. However, while Pentheus represents the traditional model of a Greek youth, Dionysus is decidedly different from his cousin. Clad in a fawn skin and holding a thyrsus (essentially a staff composed of fennel topped by leaves of ivy), the garb that Dionysus wears marks him as a foreigner.

I found this depiction of Dionysus in The Bacchae to be one of the most memorable representations of the Greek god in all the works of ancient literature I’ve read. The notion of the handsome stranger, with intriguing foreign ways and the ability to charm or punish, based on his desires, holds a powerful appeal for me. Dionysus is after all more than a bit dangerous in this play by Euripides. I invite you to read The Bacchae as well, and see what you think.

One story, provocatively called “A Lamia in the Cévennes”, caught my attention. For many reasons. Perhaps the most relevant is that it features a modern interpretation of mythology. As the title suggests, a Lamia makes an appearance in this tale. Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let’s start with a bit of a summary of the story.

Our protagonist in “A Lamia in the Cévennes” is a man named Bernard Lycett-Kean. He is a somewhat disillusioned British painter who relocates to France. Here he becomes quite obsessed with capturing colors, in particular a specific shade of blue :

“It was a recalcitrant blue, a blue that asked to be painted by David Hockney and only by David Hockney.”

Bernard found this alluring blue reflected in the swimming pool he has constructed. But this is not all he finds in the shimmering waters. Soon after taking some rather unorthodox measures to clear up a particularly nasty algae infestation, he notices yet another strange presence in his pool. Here is how A. S. Byatt describes the encounter :

“Sometimes he swam at night, and it was at night that he first definitely saw the snake, only for a few moments, after he had switched on the underwater lights, which made the water look like turquoise milk. And there under the milk was something very large, something coiled in two intertwined figures of eight and like no snake he had ever seen, a velvety-black, it seemed, with long bars of crimson and peacock-eyed spots, gold, green, blue, mixed with silver moonshapes, all of which appeared to dim and brighten and breathe under the deep water.”

The author goes on to describe the remarkable creature inhabiting Bernard’s pool. In addition to her luxuriant coils and vibrant colors, this serpent also has human eyes (fringed with flirtatious eyelashes), human teeth (pearly and perfect), and despite a decidedly forked tongue, can speak. She says the following to Bernard :

” ‘I am not entirely a snake. I am an enchanted spirit, a Lamia. If you will kiss my mouth, I will become a most beautiful woman, and if you will marry me, I will be eternally faithful and gain an immortal soul. I will also bring you power, and riches, and knowledge you never dreamed of. But you must have faith in me.’ ”

The creature clearly identifies herself as a mythical being. She even refers to herself as a Lamia. Now, the Lamia was one of the many monsters of Greek mythology. According to the myth, Lamia was one of the numerous loves of Zeus. For this, she was punished by Hera, the wife of the notoriously amorous ruler of the Olympian gods. In this version, Lamia was once beautiful, but was transformed into a monster.

We then learn that “Bernard liked snakes but he did not like women.” It’s not surprising that he is put off by her hybrid appearance, which is after all a disconcerting clash of not quite human and not quite serpent. He is nonetheless intrigued by the creature inhabiting his swimming pool. Bernard’s response is that of an artist - he wants only to paint her, to depict the myriad colors of her scales that flash, tantalizingly, in the water.

In addition, the story has an expected reference to Keats and his famous poem, Lamia. It is this poem, more than Greek mythology, that provides an evocative and enduring image of this serpent woman, and surely must have influenced A. S. Byatt’s description. I’ve quoted this excerpt on the page at Mythography devoted to the Lamia, but it’s worth repeating :

“She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue;
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr’d;
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
Dissolv’d, or brighter shone, or interwreathed
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries-
So rainbow-sided, touch’d with miseries,
She seem’d, at once, some penanced lady elf,
Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne’s tiar:
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!
She had a woman’s mouth with all its pearls complete:
And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?”

(John Keats, Lamia)

At any rate, Bernard keeps his companion captive in the swimming pool with the vague suggestion that he could, possibly, grant her wish and fulfill her desires to be made a woman. However, it is clear from what I’ve revealed so far that he really isn’t interested in her as anything else than an artistic subject. Anyway, that’s all I’m going to say for now. You will just have to read the rest of the story yourself to see how it ends, since I’m not in the habit of giving spoilers about books if at possible.

Jupiter and Semele by Gustave Moreau, detail

Today, I thought I would explore another work of art here at Mythography. Called Jupiter and Semele, the painting was created in the Nineteenth century by French artist Gustave Moreau. Let’s take a look.

As the title of this painting indicates, two figures are represented : Jupiter and Semele. But who are these figures? Well Jupiter - or Zeus, as he was known to the ancient Greeks - is the ruler of the Olympian gods and goddesses. Semele is a mortal woman with whom Jupiter fell passionately in lust, er, love.

So we know that the subject of the painting is taken from Classical mythology.

There is one particularly dramatic event in the story of the relationship between Jupiter and Semele, and that is the moment when the god reveals himself, in all his divine glory, to his mortal mistress.

There is more to this story, however. It turns out that Semele was pregnant at the time with Jupiter’s child. The myth goes that Jupiter snatched the unborn from Semele just before she expired, and continued to nurture their offspring in his own thigh. In time, Jupiter himself gave birth to his son, who became the god Dionysos.

There isn’t much indication that Gustave Moreau meant to depict Semele as obviously pregnant in his painting. We instead see a slender, pale, petite woman swooning before the majesty of Jupiter.

In addition, it is worth noting that the canvas is swarming with a myriad of intricate details.

exotic flowers sprout from every conceivable surface

It seems that the only area of the image where the eye is allowed to rest is the somewhat tranquil blue space that surrounds the upper portion of Jupiter’s throne. Even here, however, the artist couldn’t seem to resist adding a couple of ornate flourishes in the form of what appear to be winged creatures.

And what are we, as viewers, to make of all this riotous profusion of detail? The artist himself rather helpfully included the following comment about his work :

“In the midst of colossal aerial buildings, with neither foundations nor roof-tops, covered with teeming, quivering vegetation, this sacred flora standing out against the dark blues of the starry vaults and the deserts of the sky, the God so often invoked appears in his still veiled splendour…At the foot of the throne, Death and Sorrow form the tragic basis of Human Life, and not far from them, under the aegis of the eagle of Jupiter, the great Pan, symbol of Earth, bows his sorrowful brow, mourning his slavery and exile, while at his feet is piled the sombre phalanx of the monsters of Erebus and Night…”

You could compare Jupiter and Semele to an earlier painting, Jupiter and Thetis, by the artist J.A.D. Ingres. There are some compositional similarities between the two works. In both images, Jupiter is seated on a massive throne, facing the viewer. Each painting features Jupiter as a monumental figure who is much larger than his female companion. This significant size difference, which is clearly discernible in the work of Ingres, becomes even more magnified in Moreau’s painting.

Jupiter and Semele is in the collection of the Musée Gustave Moreau, Paris.

I was particularly relishing the chapter of the book where the author shares some of his hard-earned wisdom about writing good fiction, when I was sidetracked by a comment about Muses of all things (for the record, I tend to capitalize the word Muses, while King does not).

King begins his Muse digression by pointing out the following in a footnote :

“Traditionally, the muses were women, but mine’s a guy; I’m afraid we’ll just have to live with that.”

Wait, Stephen King admits to having a Muse? And not only that, but this Muse - er, muse - of his is a guy? Hold on, brain processing data…

You see, I’ve written a fair amount about the Muses in my time. It’s kind of inevitable when you have a web site devoted to discussing mythology and art. And in all these years of reading and writing about myth, I don’t recall too many authors revealing the specific details of how their inspiration manifests in such vividly concrete terms.

I also suspect I’m kind of a traditionalist when it comes to considering the Muses. I tend to think of how the Muses were invoked in classical stories, such as the opening lines of the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer, or Hesiod’s poems, or even the Metamorphoses of Ovid. Or how they were depicted in these famous works of literature as goddesses who inspired mortals.

Here, for example, are the beginning lines of Hesiod’s Theogony :

“I begin my song with the Helikonian Muses;
they have made Helikon, the great god-haunted mountain, their domain;
their soft feet move in the dance that rings
the violet-dark spring and the altar of mighty Zeus.”

(Hesiod, Theogony, lines 1-4, translation by Apostolos N. Athanassakis)

In addition to this, my perception of the Muses has also been influenced heavily by art. Some favorite examples, which all incidentally date to the Nineteenth century, are Hesiod and the Muse by Gustave Moreau, Euterpe or The Muse of Music by Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, and Art and Literature by William Adolphe Bouguereau. In these images, the Muses are again portrayed as goddesses, female personifications of the idea of inspiration.

So needless to say, when I read King’s comment, I had a fairly strong reaction. Especially when I realized it was so at odds with my fundamental concept of the way the Muses have been traditionally regarded and depicted by artists.

After I regained my composure, I continued reading the passage in the book. Here again is Stephen King :

“There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative-fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you. Do you think this is far? I think it’s fair. He may not be much to look at, that muse-guy, and he may not be much of a conversationalist (what I get out of mine is mostly surly grunts, unless he is on duty), but he’s got the inspiration. It’s right that you should do all the work and burn all the midnight oil, because the guy with the cigar and the little wings has got a bag of magic. There’s stuff in there that can change your life.

Believe me, I know.”

(Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, pages 144-5)

Even before I read this passage, I imagined that King’s muse would be a hard-working, pragmatic, no nonsense kind of guy who gets things done - I’d say like Stephen King himself, but that’s stating the obvious. And it turns out that it’s still up to the writer to do the heavy lifting. The muse is there purely to provide the inspiration, while the writer takes care of all the rest. I like this idea, very much.

Obviously I appreciate learning about this contemporary version of a muse (or Muse), and am thankful to Stephen King for sharing him with his readers in On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Now please excuse me while I run down to the basement to see if there is a cigar-chomping, monosyllabic guy who holds a bag of magic hanging out down there. I have this book idea I’d like to discuss with him…

What initially captured my attention, actually, was the image of Bacchus by artist Jan van Dalen used to represent the event. It’s just brilliant. In this painting, the god of wine looks a little, well frankly, a lot tipsy. Bacchus is portrayed as an affable fellow who has rosy cheeks, a wild mane of hair adorned with a spray of unruly ivy, and an expression that says, “Here, come and share this wine with me. I’ve already sampled it, and it’s a good vintage. Hic!”. He even extends a glass full of pale, shimmering wine to the viewer. How can you resist such an enticing invitation?

The information about the exhibition includes the following background :

“One of the earliest plants cultivated by man, wine played a pivotal role in the social and religious life of classical antiquity. In Ancient Greece and Rome wine was associated with Dionysus/Bacchus, patron of the theatre and guardian deity of law and order - as well as the master of orgiastic festivals.”

However, paintings of inebriated Classical gods aren’t the only thing to see at this exhibit. There are also treasures such as goblets, tapestries depicting mythological scenes, and tempting paintings of luscious grapes all available to enjoy.

Read more about the exhibit, and see tantalizing glimpses of some of the works of art on display, at the Kunsthistorisches Museum web site. Please note, however, that while the brief description of the event is translated into English, the names of the art works are not. Be that as it may, a picture is still worth a thousand words.

While the exhibition in the Kunsthistorisches Museum ends on September 2, 2012, hopefully “Art and Wine” will continue to be available online for some time. After all, seeing that painting of Bacchus I described makes it well worth the visit.

As for the characters who populate the paintings themselves, they are mainly drawn from Classical mythology, with one notable exception. Read on to learn more. Feel free to visit the pages to which I’ve linked for more in depth information, and to see images of the paintings. After all, a picture is worth a thousand words…

The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli

As the title indicates, this masterpiece depicts a specific event from Classical mythology - the birth of the goddess Venus. Artist Sandro Botticelli portrays Venus (who is known as Aphrodite in Greek myth) rising from the water. The new born goddess is accompanied by an entourage of mythological characters.

It goes without saying that Botticell’s Birth of Venus is an iconic image in the history of Western art. The painting has inspired artists through the centuries to create their own versions of the birth of Venus. That, however, is a tale for another time.

Jupiter and Thetis by J.A.D Ingres

In the painting Jupiter and Thetis, artist J.A.D. Ingres represented a scene from the Iliad of Homer. Thetis is here attempting to supplicate Jupiter, the implacable ruler of the Olympian gods and goddesses.

Remember me mentioning something about the Neoclassical period? The works of Ingres are traditionally categorized as Neoclassical in terms of their style, and Jupiter and Thetis is a fine example of how one of these Neoclassical artists drew inspiration from the past.

The Beguiling of Merlin by Edward Burne-Jones

The Beguiling of Merlin shows a Nineteenth century interpretation of mythology by artist Edward Burne-Jones. Fans of Celtic myth - specifically Arthurian legend - will recognize the names Merlin and Nimue. Here, the pair are portrayed in a dramatic moment, frozen in time. Nimue is the figure in the foreground. She holds a book and casts a glance back at Merlin. A grey-haired, silver-eyed Merlin returns her gaze.

The Garden of the Hesperides by Lord Leighton

The Hesperides from Classical myth were traditionally thought of as beautiful young women, and this is the type of subject that tended to inspire a painter like Lord Leighton to pick up his brushes and create a striking work of art. In The Garden of the Hesperides, the young women - or rather nymphs - are arranged around a massive tree.

Neptune’s Horses by Walter Crane

Neptune - or Poseidon as he was known to the ancient Greeks - inspired this painting by Nineteenth century artist Walter Crane.

Between Hope and Fear by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, detail

In Between Hope and Fear, artist Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema once again painted a scene that represents a vignette of life in ancient Greece. And while the image is based on a Nineteenth century interpretation of Greek art and culture, it is interesting to note that Victorian audiences and art critics alike tended to view this work based mainly their rather conservative contemporary perspective. With this in mind, let’s explore the painting in more depth.

Between Hope and Fear depicted a touching image of family for many critics of the time. They saw the young woman in the foreground as a modest daughter, demurely requesting her father’s permission to marry. The young woman grasps a bouquet of flowers as she shyly lowers her head, and this posture of innocence must have struck some viewers as a charming gesture meant to suggest submission. The father, here portrayed as a bearded older man, reclines on a couch with his drinking cup slightly raised. He is ostensibly considering his daughter’s request.

While this interpretation is a telling reflection of the strict morality of the Victorian era, it is also likely that it is a bit too simplistic. It seems some critics failed to look too closely at the rich Pompeian red mural in the background of the painting (see the detail above). If you look closely, you may notice that the figures on this mural are arranged in a splendid procession that has distinctly Dionysian overtones.

Indeed, the mural, with its overt references to the pleasures of the Greek god Dionysos, suggests the idea that the man is in fact instead enjoying a symposium - which, incidentally, is essentially an ancient Greek drinking party. According to this reading, the shy young woman would most definitely not be his daughter, but instead a type of performer who entertained male audiences at symposia.

As I previously mentioned, the man is holding a kylix, or drinking cup, which reinforces the idea of a symposium.

The ancient Greeks had their fair share of love triangles, and not just in tragedy. Mythology also gives us some memorable moments when a devoted couple is torn apart by the intrusion of another person into the romance. With that in mind, here are a few of my favorite love triangles from Greek myth.

Zeus + (random female) + Hera

The standard paradigm for love triangles in Greek myth involves Zeus, some beautiful female with whom he falls in love, and Hera. So with that in mind, let’s get to know our main protagonists a bit better. Zeus is the amorous ruler of the Olympians. Hera is the wife of Zeus. The only wild card in this scenario is the specific woman who is the object of Zeus’s desire.

There are of course some obvious examples from mythology, such as the relationship between Zeus and Semele, or Zeus and Leto. These unions between the Olympian god and his mortal (or immortal) paramour often resulted in the birth of children. Indeed, Zeus fathered quite a few offspring out of wedlock.

Aphrodite + Hephaistos + Ares

The gorgeous goddess of love was famously married to the god of smiths.

Oenone + Paris + Helen

The tale of the notorious beauty Helen of Troy and her relationship with Paris is the stuff of legend. Did you know, however, that there is another woman involved in this story? Once upon a time, Paris lived happily with a nymph named Oenone…

Echo + Narcissus + Narcissus

This familiar myth may not strike you as a triangle at all initially, since there are technically only two people involved. But notice how the name Narcissus makes the list not once but twice?

…

This sardonyx cameo, which is called the Gemma Augustea (Gem of Augustus), is a masterpiece of ancient Roman art. It features two registers of figures, both of which are brilliantly depicted in shallow relief. The milky white of these ornately carved figures contrasts with the dark background of the cameo, making this work of art both beautiful and striking.

In addition to the remarkable workmanship and elegant appearance of the cameo, the Gemma Augustea also has a complex and sophisticated significance. It was created to celebrate and glorify the leadership of Augustus. On the top register of the work, there is a scene in which the focal point is the semi-nude Augustus. Next to Augustus is a female figure, who is thought perhaps to be a personification of the World. This female figure holds a crown over the head of Augustus. On the other side of Augustus is another personification. This armed and helmeted female is traditionally identified as the goddess Roma.

It is important to note that in this depiction of Augustus, the stylized image of the Roman Emperor is meant to evoke the power and glory of the god Jupiter (Jupiter, remember, was the ruler of the Roman pantheon). An eagle, which is traditionally a symbol associated with the ruler of the Roman gods, is poised underneath the throne of Augustus. The presence of this bird of prey further reinforces the identification between Augustus and Jupiter. Taken together all of these symbols on the Gemma Augustea can be read as tribute to the manifest victory and power of the Emperor Augustus.

The Gemma Augustea is part of the collection of the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna.

It is one of the four major Celtic festivals celebrated in Ireland, along with Beltane, Imbolc, and Samhain.