Pandora

The story of Pandora, the first woman on Earth, who opened the forbidden box and so released all of the sorrows and misfortunes into the world, is one which has entered into folklore. But the familiar myth needs some revision. The 'box' is actually a mistranslation from the original Greek, which specifies the vessel as a lidded pot or jar. And the parallels with the story of Eve in Eden are unmistakable: it is a woman’s curiosity that is to blame for all the ills that afflict humankind. But as with the Eden story, perhaps the truth is less simplistic. Eve in her wisdom released all the human travails, knowing that the encounter with these was needed in order for the soul to progress in experience. Wise Pandora acted out of the same motives, and with the same result: she has been blamed ever since for all the ills which afflict humankind. But Pandora was wise in another detail of the myth: she kept Hope in the jar. Hope is a mixed blessing, which can prove to be as deceitful as it can be rewarding. ‘False hope’ is not just a phrase, and Pandora perhaps deserves our gratitude, rather than our blame.

Princess Andromeda

This is my second version of this subject, and the one which I personally prefer. When I first came to tackle the subject I had the option either of being ethnically correct or of going with the traditional portrayals of the 'Grecian' princess who was rescued from the sea monster by the hero Perseus - although my interpretation then, as now, holds the implication that the monster is in reality Andromeda's protector in defiance both of Perseus and a familiar reading of the myth. When it came to portraying Andromeda I opted for tradition, and have regretted it ever since. Now I have chosen to be faithful to her ethnicity. Andromeda was, after all, a princess of Ethiopia.

Andromeda and the Monster

It was, of course, asking for trouble. When Queen Cassiopeia made the claim that she considered herself more beautiful even than the sea nymphs of Poseidon, the god who was the sea demanded retribution. Chained to an offshore rock, her daughter Andromeda now waits in helpless terror for the arrival of the sea monster that will devour her. In myth, victorious rescue is preordained, and the hero Perseus will arrive from the skies to do battle with the monster and win fair Andromeda’s hand.

Perhaps the myth hints at other possibilities. Perhaps the princess is more powerful than this traditionally masculine reading of the myth allows her to be. Andromeda, with all the power she commands, has made a pact with the serpent, who is really her guardian. Entwining her in its radiant coils, the monster will protect the princess against all threats.

Understanding none of this, brash Perseus in his glinting armour wings towards the pair above the moonlit Mediterranean waves, and the monster, to protect its mistress, knows that it must join battle with the meddlesome hero. Andromeda, princess of monsters, must wish that the outcome will favour her protector, although the myth dictates otherwise. And yet she must hope against hope that, for once, the myth will be rewritten in the monster’s favour.

The Creation of the Man and the Woman

The first rains have fallen, turning the earth into a malleable clay. From this gravid soil the Man is fashioned, infused with all the potential for life, for the human existence to come. Much the same beginnings for humankind are related in the Popol Vu – the Book of the People – of the Maya, in which the first humans are fashioned from mud. Dust and water and a deific alchemy are the processes involved, mirroring the observation of the Roman writer Horace that in the end, we are but dust and a shadow. The end and the beginning always mirror each other. From dust we came, and to dust we shall return, as the waters of life flow into the shadows once more.

Woman, we are told in the second chapter of the Book of Genesis, is fashioned from a rib of the deeply-sleeping Man. ‘Bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh’, the rib is extracted from Man’s side, the flesh is closed over, and Woman is formed while the Man sleeps on, all unknowing. This is a fundamentally different and conflicting order of things from the events related in the first chapter, where the man and the woman are created simultaneously. In Chapter One, having created these two beings from the same prima materia, the deity blesses both of them. But the second chapter presents us with a woman who already is a generation removed from the direct creation of the man. In Chapter Two, Woman is made later, from second-hand goods: from material which already has been touched by the hand of creation. For the Woman of the second chapter of Genesis, God is a more distant star.

The Man who turned into a Jaguar

The pre-Mayan Olmec civilization had its beginnnings over three thousand years ago in the region of tropical lowlands that are now the Mexican States of Veracruz and Tabasco. The Olmec are credited with introducing, among other things, New World writing - and significantly, the mathematical concept of zero. The binary system (0 and 1) which is the foundation of all computer language, therefore had its origins in the Olmec culture! Several significant mysteries are associated with the Olmec, the best-known of which are the colossal carved granite heads which appear to portray African features, and several small sculptures of men with Caucasian features and beards, one of whom is wearing what appears to be a Greek Phrygian cap: artifacts which intriguingly suggest possible ancient trans-Atlantic trade connections. Other figurines show a mix of human and jaguar features, perhaps intended to portray shamans in states of transformation. My painting takes its inspiration from these Olmec figurines.

Samyaza

Samyaza was trouble waiting to happen. Gazing down from the realms celestial, he just could not keep his roving eye off the comely 'daughters of men' in the world below. This wayward son of heaven with all-too-earthly desires summoned together a coalition of the willing known as the Watchers, and having sworn a terrible oath of allegiance two hundred rebel angels descended Earthwards to party, gaining material bodies as they fell. And party they did. Their notorious half-mortal, half-angelic offspring, the Nephilim, began eating their way through all the bounty which the planet had to offer. But when humans also went onto the menu, the angelic host still residing above decided that enough was enough. The archangels descended, and Earth became a battleground. 

It's a fantastic story, and appears in full detail in the non-canonical Book of Enoch. It also expounds at length on the reasons for the Biblical Flood, which are glossed over so swiftly in Genesis that you just feel that somewhere a whole slab of explanatory text must be missing. And it is. It is in the Book of Enoch.

Danaë

Acrisius, king of Argos, fearing from a prophesy that the future son of his daughter Danaë will be his slayer, ensures that his virgin daughter remains inaccessible to any and all potential suitors. Acrisius incarcerates Danaë in a circular tower of bronze. The tower has only one opening: a small lunette in its domed roof high overhead. This is all the access which amorous Zeus needs to gain entrance to the chamber, and the form which the god chooses is that of a shower of gold. The result of this encounter is the semi-divine hero Perseus, who goes on to slay the gorgon Medusa and rescue the fair Andromeda from a sea monster. 

What became of Danaë and the prophesy is a story for another time; my focus here is on her portrayal. Artists from Titian to Klimt have tackled this incident from mythology, all of them apparently concerned, either to show her demurely opening her skirts, or reclining with graceful languor, or (in Klimt's case) to show her seemingly sleeping blissfully unaware through the whole deific encounter. And none of them really seem to capture the goldness of the gold. Where is the gold? I wondered. Where are the fires of passion? In my own version I have sought to portray both, and still to touch the human drama of the moment.

The Ecstasy of Icarus

The story of Icarus, who with his inventive father Daedalus strapped on a pair of contrived wings to realize the eternal dream of flight, is usually held up as a cautionary tale of human folly, of reaching too far. Wisely-cautious Daedalus kept to the lower reaches of the sky, and returned safely to earth. His impetuous son soared to the heavens, where the sun's fires melted the wax that provided his wings' structural integrity, and Icarus plummeted into the sea. But perhaps youthful Icarus experienced a moment of supreme transcendent ecstasy which his more cautious father never knew, and that moment, that fraction of time needed to touch the realm of the gods, was worth everything.

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