My Inspiration for March 2024

A book that touched me deeply this March was Balzac’s “Eugenie Grandet” as you could have read about in my previous post. I also enjoyed Mason Currey’s book “Daily Rituals – How Artists Work” which I might write about on some other occassion… I am nearly finished with two other interesting books; Ernest Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast” and a book which I have been wanting to read for years and it is Jean Nathan’s “The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll” which is a biography on Dare Wright, a strange and whimsical photographer, model and children’s book author famous for her 1957 children’s book “The Lonely Doll” and I have included some of her doll-photography in the post. The theme of indolence and the joy of the arrival of spring were my main themes for March.

“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.”

(Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast)

“And now it’s spring, so my ideas are always so nice, sharp, inventive, and the dreams I have are tender; everything is rose-coloured.”

(Fyodor Dostoevsky, Poor People)

“In the life of the soul, as in the physical life, there is an inspiration and a respiration; the soul needs to absorb the sentiments of another soul and assimilate them, that it may render them back enriched. Were it not for this glorious human phenomenon, there would be no life for the heart…”

(Balzac, Eugenie Grandet)

“She was a pixie, a fairy, full of imagination and in another world.”

(Jean Nathan – The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll)

March 1997. ‘Romantic dresses, cute guys in tuxes and a walk through the city at dusk. Does it get any more glam than this?’

Night Fragments by Jana Sojka.

by teresacfreitas.

by teresacfreitas.

Moon Landscapes, Spring, by Jana Sojka.

Misty mountain, Mount Yoshino, Nara, Japan. Picture found here.

Japan: Cherry blossoms in full bloom at Mount Yoshino, Nara. Picture found here.

Picture found here.

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Balzac’s Eugénie Grandet; I shall die and never know what life is

“Eugenie was standing on the shore of life where young illusions flower, where daisies are gathered with delights ere long to be unknown.”

Camille Corot, Femme Lisant, 1869

When I picked up Honore de Balzac’s novel “Eugénie Grandet” from my bookshelf I was hoping for hours of amusement, but I couldn’t anticipate just how touched to the core I would feel after finishing it. I had read his “Father Goriot” before and I found it a tad tedious to say the least, the flow of the novel too burdened by unnecessary descriptions of places and people, but “Eugenie Grandet” was the opposite; shorter and more to the point, more melancholy and intimate, and sad in its realism. If you are looking for a happy ending, do not read this book. The novel was first published in 1833 and it was part of Balzac’s “The Human Comedy”; a series of novels written from 1829 to 1848 that serve as a portrait of French society in the periods of Restoration (1815-30) and the July Monarchy (1830-48). Balzac even made subcategories for his novels and “Eugenie Grandet” was put in the “Scenes from provincial life” category. Interestingly, the novel was also translated by Dostoyevsky into Russian in 1843 and this translation marks the beginning of his literary career.

Zinaida Serebriakova, Collioure – Bridge with goats, 1930

“Eugenie Grandet” is a tale of a monotonous provincial life, greed and disillusionment set in the town of Saumur in 1819. The novel’s main character is a young woman called Eugenie Grandet who lives with her stingy old father Felix, a long-suffering mother who is her only friend, and a kind-hearted maid Nanon. Felix Grandet hides his wealth from everyone and forces his family to live on meager means and is keen on controlling every gram of butter and flour that is spent. There is no joy or love in the Grandet household. The novel in fact commences with a description of the Grandet house and this is important because the dark and gloomy house explains the pyschology of the characters, and later on it even becomes more important because it symbolises Eugenie’s life itself:

“There are houses in certain provincial towns whose aspect inspires melancholy, akin to that called forth by sombre cloisters, dreary moorlands, or the desolation of ruins. Within these houses there is, perhaps, the silence of the cloister, the barrenness of moors, the skeleton of ruins; life and movement are so stagnant there that a stranger might think them uninhabited, were it not that he encounters suddenly the pale, cold glance of a motionless person, whose half-monastic face peers beyond the window-casing at the sound of an unaccustomed step.“

Camille Corot, The Inn at Montigny les Cormeilles, 1830

The monotonous existence of the Grandet family is disturbed one day by an unexpectant visit; Felix’s nephew Charles came to Saumur, sent by his father, Felix’s estranged brother Guillaume who had spent the last thirty years living in Paris. Now, Guillaume is bankrupt and is planning to commit suicide and he sent his unaware son Charles to Saumur hoping that Felix will aid him in going to India. Charles is a handsome young man with an aristocratic elegance but like a true child of Paris he is too shallow and doesn’t believe in anything really. At first, he is devastated to learn of his father’s death and the unfortunate financial situation, but over time he and Eugenie fall in love. Before he leaves for India, they swear to remain true to one another and Eugenie gives him her collection of rare gold coins. The secret of Eugenie’s love brings the three women closer and all three are lonely creatures, birds trapped in Felix’s birdcage. But a sad love is better than no love it seems, for Nanon says: “If I had a man for myself I’d—I’d follow him to hell, yes, I’d exterminate myself for him; but I’ve none. I shall die and never know what life is.“ I found this passage about the differences between men and women interesting; while Eugenie was pining, waiting, yearning and suffering, at least Charles had agency in life:

“In all situations women have more cause for suffering than men, and they suffer more. Man has strength and the power of exercising it; he acts, moves, thinks, occupies himself; he looks ahead, and sees consolation in the future. It was thus with Charles. But the woman stays at home; she is always face to face with the grief from which nothing distracts her; she goes down to the depths of the abyss which yawns before her, measures it, and often fills it with her tears and prayers. Thus did Eugenie. She initiated herself into her destiny. To feel, to love, to suffer, to devote herself,—is not this the sum of woman’s life? Eugenie was to be in all things a woman, except in the one thing that consoles for all.”

Camille Corot, Girl Weaving a Garland, 1860-65

As a little digression, I have to say that while reading the novel I had the paintings of the French painter Camille Corot in mind, many of which were painted around the same time when the novel was published. Not only because of the motifs painted, but because of the dark, murky, and earthy colours. Charles’ arrival brought excitement into the Grandet household and Eugenie’s entire world had changed forever; once touched by love, the first time touched by love, a woman is never the same. For Eugenie, it was suddenly as if the flowers smelt better, the sky was bluer, and the future seemed brighter:

“Art thou well? Dost thou suffer? Dost thou think of me when the star, whose beauty and usefulness thou hast taught me to know, shines upon thee? – In the mornings she sat pensive beneath the walnut-tree, on the worm-eaten bench covered with gray lichens, where they had said to each other so many precious things, so many trifles, where they had built the pretty castles of their future home. She thought of the future now as she looked upward to the bit of sky which was all the high walls suffered her to see; then she turned her eyes to the angle where the sun crept on, and to the roof above the room in which he had slept. Hers was the solitary love, the persistent love, which glides into every thought and becomes the substance, or, as our fathers might have said, the tissue of life.“ 

Edvard Munch, Spring, 1889

On a New Year’s Day, as a family tradition, Felix asks his daughter to show him the coins but she refuses. As a punishment, he locks her in the room and gives her nothing but bread and water. Felix’s behavior, along with the austerity in the house, take a toll on his wife and she grows weak and eventually dies:

“Madame Grandet rapidly approached her end. Every day she grew weaker and wasted visibly, as women of her age when attacked by serious illness are wont to do. She was fragile as the foliage in autumn; the radiance of heaven shone through her as the sun strikes athwart the withering leaves and gilds them. It was a death worthy of her life,—a Christian death; and is not that sublime? In the month of October, 1822, her virtues, her angelic patience, her love for her daughter, seemed to find special expression; and then she passed away without a murmur. Lamb without spot, she went to heaven, regretting only the sweet companion of her cold and dreary life, for whom her last glance seemed to prophesy a destiny of sorrows. She shrank from leaving her ewe-lamb, white as herself, alone in the midst of a selfish world that sought to strip her of her fleece and grasp her treasures.

“My child,” she said as she expired, “there is no happiness except in heaven; you will know it some day.”

Camille Corot, The Letter, 1865

Eugenie takes on her mother’s duties in the house and life continues as monotonously as before. Felix dies and Eugenie is now a wealthy young woman. She is still hopeful and waiting for Charles… But circumstances have changed Eugenie, hardened her even against her will:

“At thirty years of age Eugenie knew none of the joys of life. Her pale, sad childhood had glided on beside a mother whose heart, always misunderstood and wounded, had known only suffering. Leaving this life joyfully, the mother pitied the daughter because she still must live; and she left in her child’s soul some fugitive remorse and many lasting regrets. Eugenie’s first and only love was a wellspring of sadness within her. Meeting her lover for a few brief days, she had given him her heart between two kisses furtively exchanged; then he had left her, and a whole world lay between them. (…) In the life of the soul, as in the physical life, there is an inspiration and a respiration; the soul needs to absorb the sentiments of another soul and assimilate them, that it may render them back enriched. Were it not for this glorious human phenomenon, there would be no life for the heart; air would be wanting; it would suffer, and then perish. Eugenie had begun to suffer. For her, wealth was neither a power nor a consolation; she could not live except through love, through religion, through faith in the future. Love explained to her the mysteries of eternity. (…) She drew back within herself, loving, and believing herself beloved. For seven years her passion had invaded everything.”

Camille Corot, A Pond in Picardy, 1867

Seven years pass before his return; Charles is now wealthy and excited to show off in Paris, but the pure feelings of love and tenderness that he felt towards Eugenie had all faded. Travel has changed him; he lost his moral compass, if he ever had it in the first place, and “his heart grew cold, then contracted, and then dried up.” He writes to Eugenie about his change of heart, telling her also that her provincial lifestyle is not compatible with his life, and that love is merely an illusion really.

“…travelling through many lands, and studying a variety of conflicting customs, his ideas had been modified and had become sceptical. He ceased to have fixed principles of right and wrong, for he saw what was called a crime in one country lauded as a virtue in another. In the perpetual struggle of selfish interests his heart grew cold, then contracted, and then dried up. The blood of the Grandets did not fail of its destiny; Charles became hard, and eager for prey. (…) If the pure and noble face of Eugenie went with him on his first voyage, like that image of the Virgin which Spanish mariners fastened to their masts, if he attributed his first success to the magic influence of the prayers and intercessions of his gentle love, later on women of other kinds, —blacks, mulattoes, whites, and Indian dancing-girls,—orgies and adventures in many lands, completely effaced all recollection of his cousin, of Saumur, of the house, the bench, the kiss snatched in the dark passage. He remembered only the little garden shut in with crumbling walls, for it was there he learned the fate that had overtaken him; but he rejected all connection with his family… Eugenie had no place in his heart nor in his thoughts, though she did have a place in his accounts as a creditor for the sum of six thousand francs.“

Camille Corot, Portrait of Madame Charmois, 1837

Eugenie marries a man Cruchot whom she doesn’t love and who only wants her wealth but only under the condition that the marriage is not consummated. Cruchot too then dies. Eugenie is left alone in that dark and drab house which is now a reflection of her life. The novel is really a tale of Eugenie’s rite of passage; she grows from an innocent and inexperienced provincial girl who knows nothing about the world into a mature and wise woman whose heart is closed and whose tender feelings have all hardened. The disillusionment in love brought on a disenchantment with the world and life itself. She is alone and lonely, with no one but Nanon to love her, but Nanon too will die one day. When I was reading these kind of novels years ago, before I knew what love or loss were, I read them with a mix of curiosity and a detached sadness. These days, though, it is impossible not to be touched by such stories as Eugenie’s. Once you get your hopes high and life disappoints, it is almost impossible to raise them as high again. Life etches itself into your soul and it is hard to be blind and naive again and see things through rose-tinted glasses. Eugenie’s tale isn’t even sad, it’s just realistic. This is life; love brings disappointment and loneliness is always a step away. The last page leaves us with an image of Eugenie of continuing her father’s stingy habits because it is something familiar to her, but in truth, the money had brought her nothing but misery:

“Madame de Bonfons became a widow at thirty-six. She is still beautiful… Her face is white and placid and calm; her voice gentle and self-possessed; her manners are simple. She has the noblest qualities of sorrow, the saintliness of one who has never soiled her soul by contact with the world; but she has also the rigid bearing of an old maid and the petty habits inseparable from the narrow round of provincial life. In spite of her vast wealth, she lives as the poor Eugenie Grandet once lived. The fire is never lighted on her hearth until the day when her father allowed it to be lighted in the hall, and it is put out in conformity with the rules which governed her youthful years. She dresses as her mother dressed. The house in Saumur, without sun, without warmth, always in shadow, melancholy, is an image of her life. She carefully accumulates her income, and might seem parsimonious did she not disarm criticism by a noble employment of her wealth. (…) that noble heart, beating only with tenderest emotions, has been, from first to last, subjected to the calculations of human selfishness; money has cast its frigid influence upon that hallowed life and taught distrust of feelings to a woman who is all feeling.
“I have none but you to love me,” she says to Nanon.”

Henri le Sidaner – Soir de Printemps

“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.”

(Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast)

Henri le Sidaner, Soir de Printemps, c. 1920

Henri le Sidaner is amongst my new favourite artists because his paintings are just so damn dreamy and this painting, “Soir de Printemps” is no exception. The painting shows a view of the houses and blooming trees one evening in spring. Henri le Sidaner loved painting landscapes and gardens, overall he had a penchant for portraying places uninhabited by people or even animals, places which he could then, using the colours of his emotions, transform into landscapes and gardens of his dreams. The mood of his paintings is often dreamy, tinged with an inexplicable melancholy and a sense of beauty inevitably passing away, just like the warmth of summer does. In “Soir de Printemps” there is dreaminess, but no sadness. I dare say there is even a sense of excitement, and surely the painter must have felt excited as he gazed at this scene himself. An evening in spring is made for daydreams and the heart is filled to the brim with the beauty and fragrance of the blooming trees, and we are eager to take in all this transient beauty before the petals fall off, or are carried away by the wind. The houses with windows here and there from which a warm yellow lighth can be seen, and the trees in bloom create a lovely pattern and almost nothing else apart from these two motifs can be scene. The colour palette of lilac, grey, and blue perfectly encapsulated that hazy moment when the evening is falling in spring, as if the fairies themselves have woven a magical cloak and are covering the entire nature with it. I love the softness and vagueness of the scene, it is painted as if the painter was seeing the world through a gauze curtain. The tender, transient beauty of the blooming trees of early spring is truly unparalleled, especially after long, dreary months of winter.

John Keats: This morning I am in a sort of temper, indolent and supremely careless…

“Shameful to say, I was in bed at ten. (…) This morning I am in a sort of temper, indolent and supremely careless—I long after a Stanza or two of Thomson’s Castle of Indolence—my passions are all asleep, from my having slumbered till nearly eleven…”

James Abbott McNeill Whistler, Symphony in White, No. 3, 1865-67

Last night I was reading some of John Keats’ beautiful letters and the one from the 19th March 1819 struck me with its description of sweet indolence – something near and very dear to my heart. Since today is also the 19th of March, I thought it a splendid serendipity that deserves a post. The letter was written during Keats’ stay at Wentworth Place in Hampstead Heath. His stay there, from December 1818 to May 1820, has proven to be quite fruithful, not only in poetry, but also – in love. He wrote five out of his six great odes while there, one of which, surprise surprise, is the “Ode to Indolence”, and fell in love with Fanny Brawne. On that morning of the 19th March, as Keats was enjoying the idleness of early spring in the coziness of his bed, little did he know what was awaiting him around the corner; on the 3rd April that year Fanny Brawne and her mother had moved into the other half of the Wentworth Place and the two were able to spend time together every day, and the months to follow were a fruithful period for him artistically.

Keats writes about staying in bed late, about being indolent, and even though our minds, so poisoned today with the culture of hustle and an emphasis on productivity, may perceive this as a waste of time, it was in fact the opposite. The word “indolence” comes from the Latin word “indolentia”, and even though nowadays the word is almost synonymous with laziness, originally it was meant to describe a state in which one feels free from pain. For many poets of the Keats’ generation and even prior generations, indolence was seen as the first step of artistic creation; indolence as a passive state which precedes the active state of creating an artwork. At the time of writing the letter, Keats had spent two months having written almost nothing, and that might be seen as a waste of time, but the indolence which he allowed himself to experience will prove to be useful later on. Even when you plant the seeds, the flowers don’t start growing instantly, and just because the plant hasn’t sprung it doesn’t mean the soil is dead. Keats’ indolence was merely a period In April and May that year he had written some of his most beautiful and most celebrated poetry. For many poets, indolence was seen as a mood that is auspicious for artistic creation, for a mind that is idle is a fertile ground for flowers to bloom.

“Shameful to say, I was in bed at ten—I mean this morning. (…)  This morning I am in a sort of temper, indolent and supremely careless—I long after a Stanza or two of Thomson’s Castle of Indolence—my passions are all asleep, from my having slumbered till nearly eleven, and weakened the animal fibre all over me, to a delightful sensation, about three degrees on this side of faintness. If I had teeth of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call it languor, but as I am I must call it laziness. In this state of effeminacy the fibres of the brain are relaxed in common with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree that pleasure has no show of enticement and pain no unbearable power. Neither Poetry, nor Ambition, nor Love have any alertness of countenance as they pass by me; they seem rather like figures on a Greek vase—a Man and two women whom no one but myself could distinguish in their disguisement. This is the only happiness, and is a rare instance of the advantage of the body overpowering the Mind.”

Still, in the same letter, upon having heard news about his friend’s dying father, he laments on the transient nature of the pleasures of life. All the more reason to cherish them then:

“This is the world—thus we cannot expect to give way many hours to pleasure. Circumstances are like Clouds continually gathering and bursting—While we are laughing, the seed of some trouble is put into the wide arable land of events—while we are laughing it sprouts it grows and suddenly bears a poison fruit which we must pluck.”

In a letter to John Hamilton Reynolds, from the 19th February 1818, Keats writes again about the “beauty of the morning” and a “sense of Idleness”. It seems that Keats had quite a few indolent mornings which he definitely benefited from artistically:

“It has been an old comparison for our urging on – the Beehive; however, it seems to me that we should rather be the flower than the Bee – for it is a false notion that more is gained by receiving than giving – no, the receiver and the giver are equal in their benefits. The flower, I doubt not, receives a fair guerdon from the Bee – its leaves blush deeper in the next spring – and who shall say between man and woman which is the most delighted? Now it is more noble to sit like Jove than to fly like Mercury – let us not therefore go hurrying about and collecting honey, bee-like buzzing here and there impatiently from a knowledge of what is to be aimed at; but let us open our leaves like a flower and be passive and receptive – budding patiently under the eye of Apollo and taking hints from every noble insect that favours us with a visit – sap will be given us for meat and dew for drink. I was led into these thoughts, my dear Reynolds, by the beauty of the morning operating on a sense of Idleness…“

Jean-Louis Forain – Finally Alone!

“I want to run away just to be alone with my feelings for you.”

(Anais Nin)

Jean-Louis Forain, Enfin Seule! (Finally Alone), c. 1890, watercolour

Ahh! To be alone – is there anything sweeter in the world? Well, there are some things sweeter… But, being alone, being left alone is truly the most beautiful, precious gift at times and that is why the watercolour “Finally Alone” by Jean-Louis Forain appeals to me so much these days. The watercolour shows a woman in an intimate setting, dressed in her undergarments and black stockings, lounging on the bed with her feet up, smoking a cigarette and getting lost in a reverie. The style is so vague that it is more a sketch than a proper finished painting, but the style goes very well with the carefree mood. The colour palette is simple as well, besides grey and black, the purple and yellowish-brown for the woman’s hair are the only actualy colours. I love the way the smoke of the cigarette is sketched with the pen. A quote from Anais Nin’s diaries came to my mind “I want to run away just to be alone with my feelings for you.” because sometimes, when I am in love, even sweeter than spending time with the person is being alone afterwards, being left alone for lengthly periods of time afterwards, so that I may contemplate the face of my beloved, soften with my imagination all the sharp edges of reality, relieve in my mind all that has happened, every kiss, every word, and add more and more to it, fantasise about what could have happened or what I wished would happen, until the reality is transfigured into fantasy and then I may fully enjoy it at last.

Jean-Louis Forain, Enfin Seule! (Finally Alone), in Le Courrier Français, c. 1890

Félix Vallotton – Indolence or Laziness

“Indolence is fatal only to the mediocre.”

(Albert Camus)

Félix Vallotton, Indolence or Laziness, 1896, Woodcut, 30.5 x 24 cm (sheet)

“Less and less is done
Untile non-action is achieved
When nothing is done, nothing is left undone.”

(Lao Tzu)

History of art is littered with depictions of women being idle – beautiful and idle. In most cases, the indolence is not explicitely proclaimed, but Felix Vallotton’s woodcut doesn’t shy away from putting the woman in an indolent position by naming his artwork “Indolence or Laziness”. Fair enough! The woodcut doesn’t pretend to show Venus or some other mythological woman, but it shows a normal, everyday woman who just happens to be idle. She is seen naked, lying on the bed on her stomach and playing with a cat that wants to climb up on the bed or is simply teasing the woman, or trying to scratch the bedcovers. The idleness depicted here is so suitable for women that we don’t even blink twice upon seeing this or similar artworks. If it was a man in the same position then we would assume all sorts of situations; his soul is sick, he is melancholy, he has no purpose… Otherwise, he would be active, go out into the world and do things – even if those things were drinking absinthe or arguing. But for a woman, lounging on the bed and playing with the cat are the most natural way to spend a day.

In all the depictions of Venus for example, those by Giorgione or Tizian for example, we never want to see Venus doing anything apart from what she is already doing; lying on bed, being beautiful and coquettishly looking back at us. As long as she is beautiful – that is the job of Venus, and every woman. Artistically looking, this woodblock by Vallotton shows a clear influence of Japanese woodblocks by the use of patterns. It is quite interesting, the simplicity of the black and white woodblock print embellished by the intricate patterns of the bed cover and the cushions, the patterns created by the play between the white and black. The woman and the cat are both white surfaces while the space is mostly black. It is interesting to observe all the patterns; checquered, zig-zag, dots, dashes, lattices, which shows what a variety can be achieved with such a simple technique. Artworks like these are dear to me, not only because they show a Japenese influence which I am always eager to see, but also because the theme of indolence is dear to my heart  – now and forever. I am a huge advocate of idleness. Sadly, in our faced-paced world one must almost be ashamed for it, always defending it to people who are blind to its beauties and benefits. Well, at least art is always understanding.

Vallotton’s woodblock print also made me think of this passage from Irving Singer’s book “The Nature of Love: Courtly and Romantic” in which the passivity is emphasised as a woman’s element and also as a way of being more connected to nature:

“Schlegel thinks that nature has endower women with a temperamental passivity foreign to the dynamic activism of men. Unlike others who have insisted upon this type of distinction between the sexes, he thinks that woman’s passivity is her source of strength. He associates it with vegetative aspects of nature that men fail to understand. The intuitive ability to love which he ascribes to women results from their greater kinship to the organic principle that underlies all creativity. In being passive, they know how to submit to nature and therefore can enjoy the virtues of idleness and quiescent love. By merging with them, men learn that striving and doing are less important than being, and masculine determination less valuable than feminine self-abnegation. Restless activity, which Schlegel calls “nordic barbarity”, changes through the process of loving into “the sacred tranquility of true passivity.“

A Renaissance Fair: The Love Witch and George Barbier

George Barbier, A Renaissance Fair, c 1929

George Barbier’s illustration “A Renaissance Fair”, taken from the book “Vies imaginaires” which was published in 1929, reminds me of the beautiful, joyous, flowery days of spring that are awaiting for us just around the corner. I simply adore this paganism that shots through the visual arts of the Renaissance. The illustration shows some sort of a celebration in nature. In the foreground a handsome man dressed in red tights, and just how very tight they are, is leaned on the tree and playing a lute, a very Renaissance instrument, while another man is lying down in the grass with his hands are in a lap of a lady who is dreaming plucking away her little harp. She is dressed in a very dreamy, calming shade of blue and has a rich crown of roses in her hair. In the background we can see the three dancing women, dressed in the colours of flowers, bring to mind the Charites or Graces; the Greek goddesses of beauty, charm, nature, creativity and fertility. Ancient Greek poet Hesiod writes of three graces as being called Aglaea which means “shining”, Euphroyne which means “joy” and Thali which means “blooming.” They were usually depicted as companions to God and Goddesses during festivals, ceremonies, feasts and dances. They even helped Aphrodite during her bath. In Barbier’s illustration they also seem to be accompanying this little celebration in a meadow, outside the big city, seen in the background, far behind the big pink blooming tree, and its restrictions.

The illustration appeals to me instantly because of its cheerfulness and vibrancy, but the more I gazed at it the more I was reminded of a scene from the film “The Love Witch” (2016). In the film a beautiful seducer and a witch called Elaine is strolling around on a date with a police sargent called Griff and they stumble upon a Renaissance Fair which was actually organised by some of her witch-friends. On the festival people are dressed in colourful Renaissance clothes and a cheerful music is in the air. Ladies are singing of love and wine is flowing. A man dressed as jester sees the love couple and suggests they make a mock-wedding, to celebrate love. And so Elaine and Griff are also dressed in Renaissance clothes and a little ceremony is performed after which Elaine feeds him some sweets and they gaze at each other infatuated, or so it seems. Elaine really does look lovely with her hot pink lips and blush, a vibrant blue eyeshadow and a gown all in white, like a fairytale maiden indeed.

Scenes from the film.

How to Dress Like a Modern Venus – Fashion Inspiration

Laetitia Casta, Yves Saint Laurent – Spring 1999 Couture

When I think of a modern Venus I instantly think of the French-Italian model Laetitia Casta wearing this gorgeous rose-ensamble made for the Spring 1999 Yves Saint Laurent couture. She looks absolutely stunning and I absolutely want that outfit for myself! The roses, her soft hair, the neutral makeup; rosy cheeks and rosy lips; perfection! And then I thought further, or started imagining rather, what would a modern Venus or a modern Aphrodite wear today?

Aphrodite was the Ancient Greek goddess of love and beauty, and the most beautiful of all the goddesses. According to Homer she was the daughter of Zeus and the goddess of rain Dione, but according to Hesiod she was born out of seafoam and came out of the sea on the island of Cythera. Since love was important in the lives of both people and Gods, Venus was especially respected and appreciated. She was also the most popular goddess in art representations; from the sculpture of Venus by Praxiteles to Botticelli’s famous painting “The Birth of Venus”, to Tizian and Giorgione, to Rubens and Boucher. Venus was the Roman equivalent of Aphrodite and although she was originally a goddess of spring, under the influence of the Greek cult of Aphrodite in the south of Italy and Sicily, Venus developed into a Goddess of love and beauty. I am very much into feminine, Venusian aesthetic these past days and weeks so this has been a fun topic of think about. So, how do I envision a modern Venus? What would she be wearing? First of all, since she was born out of the seafoam and the image of her on a seashell as painted by Botticcelli is engraved in my mind and I cannot erase it now, I do connect the sea and shell motifs with Venus. In my mind, she would be wearing soft colours; pink, salmon, white and creamy shades… Colours found on seashells and roses. The softness of the seawaves translates in my mind to masses of soft tulle. Definitely fancier fabrics; I think of tulle, chiffon, silk, georgette. Hair long and wavy or softly curled. Dainty details of lace. Pearl necklace or earrings. Rose gold jewellery. Shimmery eyeshadow in champagne, silver, taupe, dusty pink, or rose gold. Irridescent fabrics. Rosy cheeks and lips. Lipstick not red lips but more pink. Pink lipgloss with gold shimmer. Glowing highlighter. Sensuality meets elegance. Feminine but not girly. Quietly confident not aggresively erotic. Long flowing dresses with tiny floral prints or many flounces. Long tulle skirts, flowing effortlessly like her hair. Tiny flowers in the hair or a flower crown but a subtle version. Hair pins with little shells on them or even a hair clip with a shell. A purse shaped like a shell with little sequins. There, these are some of my associations for a modern Venus and bellow are some collages I made to illustrate my ideas visually. Of course this post is fanciful and fun, so no need to take your dagger out if you disagree.

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