Theseus and the Minotaur

Antonio Canova
Antonio Canova, Theseus and the Minotaur, 1783

By FRANCESCA MAURO

According to Greek mythology, King Minos attacked Athens periodically out of nothing more than boredom. The King of Athens proposed a deal to ward off attacks for a while. If King Minos would agree to cease his brutal attacks for nine year, Athens would send seven young boys and seven young girls to be fed to King Minos' Minotaur. 

Theseus, son of the King of Athens, implored his father to let him bring Minos' reign of terror to an end. He accompanied the 13 other unlucky youths chosen as Minotaur chow to Minos' island of Crete. Upon his arrival, Princess Ariadne, daughter of Minos, slipped Theseus a note. She offered to help Theseus defeat the Minotaur if he would bring her with him back to Athens. 

Ariadne gave Theseus a sword, for obvious reasons, and a ball of string to tie to the door and trace back to the exit. Theseus entered the labyrinth and heroically defeated the Minotaur. He began his return to Athens with Ariadne. When the group stopped at a small island en route, Ariadne fell asleep and Theseus promptly abandoned her on the island.

In this sculpture, Canova disregards the dramatic battle between Theseus and the Minotaur and instead focuses on the aftermath. The resulting position of both Theseus and the slain Minotaur invoke a sense of homoeroticism not as obvious in Canova's other works. Instead of being intent on defeating his opponent, Theseus reclines, and his torso forms a diagonal with that of the Minotaur. The two figures create a balance and a seemingly even distribution of visual weight.

Canova, who is often considered among the best sculptors in history, followed a simple rule for his work: "sketch with fire, execute with phlegm." Canova rigorously made and revised sketches and prototypes of his sculptures before making his first cut. He allowed assistants to make the rough form of his sculpture, then the artist himself carved the finishing touches.

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Hercules and Lichas

Antonio Canova
Antonio Canova, Hercules and Lichas, 1795-1815
By MILES KNIGHT

The sculpture Hercules and Lichas created by Antonio Canova is an 11-foot tall masterpiece. The sculpture took Canova 20 years to complete but was worked on in increments due to various interruptions. It depicts a scene from the story of Hercules' death. The story begins when Hercules shoots Nessus, a centaur, with a poison arrow. Before Nessus dies, he gives a shirt with his poisoned blood on it to Hercules's wife. Nessus tells her that if she gives the shirt to Hercules she will never have to doubt Hercules's love for her. Lichas, the servant of Hercules takes the shirt to him but when he puts it on he goes mad from the pain and throws Lichas into the ocean.

The entire sculpture makes a triangle pulling the viewer's eyes to the top. Almost all of the limbs of Hercules and Lichas are parallel, which creates a strong sense of motion upwards and to the right. Both Hercules's visually and physically superior size create a large weight to the right side of the sculpture that also draws the eyes in that direction. There is also a half circle starting and Hercules's left foot running through the lion skin, up through Lichas's body and to Hercules's left arm. This half circle encompasses Hercules drawing focus to him.

Since this sculpture is monotone and was not given any color, detail is very important. And it sure has a lot of detail. Even Hercules's veins near the surface are visible. The tiny creases of the shirt Hercules is wearing are even visible.

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A Certain Type of Woman: Part V of V.

Antonio Canova

Antonio Canova, Detail of Venus Victrix, 1505-1508
Detail of Venus Victrix
So, let’s take a look at Pauline as Victorious Venus. She lies sumptuously upon the softest bed of marble you’ll even witness. And in her hand she holds the apple prize. 

The work, life size, stuns with its smooth lines, unbelievable detail and charged sensuality.

Her back bows gently, the drapery folds are extraordinary.

And her head seems to me among the most beautiful I can think of in sculpture. She’s as stunning as she is strong. No-nonsense Venus, the “that’s right I’ve won and I shall wear what I want” Venus.

Pauline, of course, loved the sculpture, for it captured her at the height of her allure and beauty. Camillo was appalled, and quickly had taken to Turin where Pierson Dixson tells us, “it was rarely allowed to be seen.” For her part, though, Pauline reveled in the scandal. She told those that asked about posing nude for the sculptor that “Oh, Canova is not a real man,” or else, “Every veil must fall before Canova.” If she was feeling particularly impish, she would claim, “There was a good fire in the room, so I didn’t take cold.”

Now shall we take cold either, since we have built a small fire in the room with these two subversive women and the stories behind their art.

Editor's note: This week's series was adapted from an earlier lecture. 
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Theseus and the Centaur

Antonio Canova
Antonio Canova, Theseus and the Centaur, 1805

Reasons not to fight Theseus include: he fights mystical creatures with ease, he will absolutely beat anyone, and he fights naked. Otherwise, come at me.

 Canova's piece captures the raw aspect of this battle, putting so much detail into the strain of the centaur's muscles and the dominant stance Theseus takes over him. There is a perfect triangle formed between the two, starting with Theseus's outstretched leg, continuing to his curly-haired, still-helmeted head, and ending with on the centaur's arm, pushing against the ground in a futile attempt to keep himself from being smashed into the ground.

 The piece fascinates me much less because of the subject matter and more because of the interaction of the two bodies. They aren't intertwined, but there is so much connection between their two forms. Theseus has his foot firmly placed upon the centaur's leg as he shoves his knee into his ribcage, which is even sunken in from the pressure. His other hand grips the centaur's neck, making me feel even a bit out of breath. The real effect of the piece is that it feels all too real. It's not this "pretty" piece that you enjoy from afar and admire the technique, even though there is plenty. It draws the viewer in, making you feel all too close to their conflict.

 I've actually never looked at Canova before. I am very glad to have remedied that, because I am rather blown away by his work. Sculptures do not capture my interest nearly as much as paintings do - not counting Bernini - but this one is both unsettling and intriguing at the same time. It is deeply human, rather than just a scene in marble. I am definitely a Canova fan now.
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