From Daphne to the Little Dancer: The History of Sexual Violence in Art
Sexual violence has a long and sordid history in art. From depictions of rape in ancient myth and history, to the abuse of models in workshops, it seems there is no end. Too often in art history, women are reduced to their role as ‘muse’ to the male genius artist. Not only does this narrative remove the agency of these women, but sometimes plays down, or rewrites what would be more accurately described as abuse. When women are portrayed one dimensionally, it is easy to overlook sexual violence. It is far past time to challenge these conceptions, and to do so, it is important to understand how embedded they are in art history.
Renaissance and Baroque art draws heavily from the mythologies of Greek and Roman antiquity. Anyone with a vague understanding of these ancient myths can tell you that many are built on the sexual abuse of women by gods, heroes and mortal men alike. From Zeus raping Persephone to Poseidon raping Medusa in the temple of Athena, it is a disturbingly common theme. These classical sources, the likes of Homer and Ovid, form the basis of a significant portion of art from the 16th to the 18th centuries, and as such, these works are imbued with sexual violence.
Gian Lorenzo Bernini, the defining figure of Baroque architecture, frequently drew on classical sources for his work. As such, two of his most famous and beautiful sculptures are depictions of sexual violence in mythology: Apollo and Daphne and The Rape of Proserpina.
The Rape of Prosperpina depicts the Roman myth of Prosperina, a maiden and daughter of the goddess Ceres, who is kidnapped by the God of the Underworld, Pluto, and forced to live in the Underworld against her will. The story is essentially the same as the more well known Greek myth of Persephone and Hades. The use of ‘rape’ in the title more accurately translates to ‘abduction’ and the sculpture depicts this aspect of the story rather than a ‘rape’ in the modern sense. But I would argue the subject is no less uncomfortable for the nuance. Images of Bernini’s The Rape of Proserpina (c.1621-22) are all over the internet, celebrating its great beauty. From the Tumblr pages of old to Pinterest boards to Instagram aesthetics, it is both everywhere and completely divorced from its context. Bernini was renowned for his ability to make such a hard and unyielding material like marble appear to be supple, soft and smooth and there is perhaps no better example than his Proserpina. In the sculpture, Pluto’s hands sink into the flesh of Prosepina’s thighs, a detail frequently cited in its description. It is undeniably incredible, but its beauty shouldn’t hide what it is: an act of violence. Prosperpina is in mid air, using the force of her body to try and escape Pluto (a marvel of structural integrity in the sculpture). She pushes Pluto’s face with her hand, desperate to be freed, her face filled with fear and immense sadness. The aesthetic appeal of this sculpture is clear, it is a masterpiece, but it also depicts a tragedy.
Apollo and Daphne (c.1622-25) depicts a similar myth. Daphne, a beautiful nymph, is dedicated to virginity, choosing to devote herself to the nature of the woodland. In the sculpture, Apollo, the God of music and art, pursues and chases Daphne (aided by Eros, God of Love). It is clear the Apollo intends to rape Daphne, and so she asks her father (the river god, Peneus) to save her. Peneus turns Daphne into a tree, so no man can harm her. Bernini’s sculpture captures the moment Apollo reaches Daphne: as his hand grasps her waist, her hands begin to turn to branches. The sculpture is imbued with movement, with Apollo only a step behind, you can feel the tension. Daphne’s contrapposto is forceful, as she bends her body away from Apollo’s threatening presence. Just like Proserpina, Daphne’s face tells a story--her mouth is agape in shock, her eyes turned heavenward in a call for help to her father. For all its immense beauty, this sculpture depicts an attempted rape. Polished, displayed, commodified, rape.
The Renaissance and Baroque’s fascination with antiquity was not limited to mythology; Greek and, particularly, Roman history was often depicted. For those in early modern Europe, the Roman empire was seen as the peak of civilization, a society that one could only hope to recreate and that could never be surpassed. This notion becomes intensely problematic when considering the history and foundations of the Roman civilisation.
One popular historical subject portrayed by artists of the early modern period is the abduction of the Sabine women. The abduction (or rape) of the Sabine women is an event from the early history of Rome; the city contained very few women and so Roman soldiers were encouraged to go to the surrounding towns and villages to kidnap women and force them into marriages. This event is often considered the foundation of Rome, as it was creating families that ensured its survival. This act of sexual violence founded a great civilsation. The sculpture Abduction of a Sabine Woman by Giambologna (c.1579-1583) shows a young man standing triumphantly over an older figure, holding the flailing body of the young woman he is kidnapping. The serpentine structure of the figures is a testament to its construction, but it also adds to the disturbing impression the sculpture leaves. The female figure is desperate to escape her fate, being grasped around the waist and shoulders by the muscular man who is assaulting her. This sculpture depicts the precursor to the sexual violence that established Rome. The French Baroque painter Poussin also depicted this subject in his grand history painting The Abduction of the Sabine Women (c.1633-34). The painter depicts the founder of Rome, Romulus, raising his cloak to signal the Roman troops to kidnap the Sabine women. Much of the scholarly writing on this painting is focused on Poussin’s masterful representation of classical architecture, statuesque male figures and the vibrant colours of the classical costumes, not the horrified expressions of the women being groped, or the mothers torn from young children. Once again, the significance of the subject is lost in the beauty of its representation.
We have few examples (especially from the early modern period) of female artists tackling these difficult themes, but Artemisia Gentileschi defied expectations of women at this time to become a great Baroque artist.
Gentileschi’s earliest known work is Susanna and the Elders (1610), which depicts a biblical story in which a young woman is accosted by two older men who sneak up on her bathing and attempt to extort her into sex. This was a reasonably popular subject for painters in the Baroque period, but Gentileschi’s depiction marks a few notable changes. Many previous portrayals of this subject (by male artists) focus on sensuality and the beauty of the idealised female form. Take Tintoretto's 1555 Susanna and the Elders, which is first and foremost a painting of a naked woman. Susanna is foregrounded, and is fair and beautiful; The Elders, on the other hand, are secondary, relegated to the fringes and background of the painting,implying a passivity to their actions. Conversely, Gentilsechi’s Elders are prominent and sinister; they invade not only Susanna’s space, but the viewers. Susanna herself is also distinctly different in this painting:she recoils from the presence of the men threatening her, holding up her hands to push them away, her face showing her discomfort. The actions of the predatory men are no longer passive, as their effects are written on Susanna’s face. The figure of Susanna, too, is more naturalistic in Gentileshi’s painting, more reminiscent of a heroic female figure--it is likely that the artist used herself as the model. It is horribly ironic that this story foreshadowed events in Artemisia Gentileschi’s own life. Only a year after Artemisia painted her Susanna, she was raped by Agostino Tassi, a fellow artist and friend of her father who had been brought to her home to teach her perspective. She was 18. Gentileschi would revisit this subject at least twice in her career and the parallels are striking.
While explicit depictions of sexual violence fell out of fashion with the lessening interest in these classical, historical and biblical sources, sexual violence itself continued on in the artistic community. The list of abusers who were also famous male artists is frighteningly long (as I suppose it is in many other professions), and there is one particularly sordid example: Paul Gauguin. Gauguin is one of the most famous artists of the late 19th century (although only considered so after his death), his work now defining post-surrealism in the artistic canon. Born in France, Gauguin travelled extensively to Martinique and, most famously, Tahiti. For Gauguin, Tahiti proved a hunting ground for subjects and for women. During his time on the island, he painted images of female models who were often partly nude (as in Cotes Barbares c.1902) and almost exclusively unnamed. Gauguin commodified the images of Polynesia’s native people, while simultaneously debasing them, referring to them as ‘savages’. Even more disturbing, Gauguin’s residence in Tahiti gave him the means to engage in his other passion, sexually abusing children. Gauguin is known to have had sex with several teenage girls while in Tahiti, one who at only 14, became his “companion” and had two of his children. His actions also demonstrate the often layered relationship of gender and race in acts of sexual violence, for the most vulnerable women exist at the intersections of multiple marginalised identities. Given this information you would (rightly) ask: why is this sexual predator still such a fundamental part of the art historical canon?
Unfortunately, Gauguin is not the only artist with this sort of sordid reputation. Some of art’s greatest men were abusers and misogynists. Picasso was a raging sexist who treated the women in his life like doormats and bled them dry. Degas was a celibate sexist (practically an incel before his time) who’s hatred of women stemmed from his contraction of syphilis from a sex worker at a young age--he called the vulnerable young dancers he painted ‘little rats’. Warhol was a controlling narcissist, and many think it was his mistreatment of his ‘muses’ that pushed them into anorexia, drug use and serious mental health issues (and is likely why he was shot by one, Valerie Solanas).
These men, and others, call to question one of the most important debates not only in art scholarship, but across many fields and society more widely. Should we separate the art from the artist? I would argue the answer is no. While objectively these men created beautiful paintings, their treatment of, and attitude towards, women undoubtedly factors into how they should be perceived.
I am not suggesting that the works of these men be removed from gallery walls, never to be looked at again. As most of these men are dead, this wouldn’t be an effective punishment for any kind of behaviour. But to ignore these attitudes and behaviours is to endorse them. We need to acknowledge Degas' hatred of women to fully understand his art. His famous sculpture Little Dancer c.1880 is intentionally deformed; Degas flattened the skull and elongated the chin to make the figure appear primitive, a comment on what he saw as the moral inferiority of women.
These works are only more interesting when perceived fully. It is a disservice to the models, muses and victims to display them only as beautiful and not also as complex historical objects. The same should be true of the works depicting sexual violence mentioned earlier. These are still objects of great beauty, but they need to be exhibited as depictions of violence against women, not just as portrayals of history and mythology.
More than this though, there is work to be done here and now. We need to uplift female artists who embrace and reclaim sexuality. We need to see women as whole, complex beings who are more than simply muses. We need to uncover lost female artists of the past, like Artemisia Gentileschi who, until feminist art scholarship hit its stride, had many of her great works credited to her father or her contemporary Caravaggio. And, crucially, we need to tackle sexual violence now. No longer can we let the fame of abusive men in history act as approval of their behaviour. Rather, we need to listen to victims and confront those responsible for this behaviour here and now. Sexual violence has a long and sordid history in art; let’s work to make sure it doesn’t have a future.
