Ekphrasis or description of a work
of art by a verbal text is an ancient literary practice. In
antiquity, Philostratus’ Imagines or Pliny’s Historia
Naturalis - where he describes the paintings of Zeuxis
(1) - are usually the first examples that come to mind of
ekphrasis. Although millennia later, W. H. Auden
has also done just that modern version of an ekphrasis
in his poem “Musée des Beaux Art” (1938) describing
Bruegel’s painting of the fall of Icarus. But here it is
rather the opposite that is the subject of this brief
commentary: when an artist like Bruegel makes a visual
description of a literary text as in Ovid’s narrative,
apparently also a common practice since antiquity if we
remember Pompeiian wall paintings of Homer’s Odyssey
or Vergil’s Aeneid. If there is a term for this
other process of visualizing text (reverse ekphrasis?)
other than the Latin descriptio, it is elusive to
date. So this is not really ekphrasis but perhaps
visual imaging (Greek eidetikos?)
of a text, to borrow an idea from Coleridge’s Biographia
Literaria (2). Some examples of the fall of Icarus have
survived in ancient Roman art; perhaps the most famous or
noteworthy is the wall painting in the House of the Priest
Amandus in Pompeii .
Pieter Bruegel’s painting, Landscape
with the Fall of Icarus dating from around 1558, has
been much discussed in relation to its primary source in
Ovid’s Metamorphoses (8.183-235). While many of the
critical comments center around the differences Bruegel
innovatively highlighted in contrast to his Ovidian
quotation, with Faber’s recent careful analysis coming
immediately to mind, (4) it is almost universally agreed
that the painter’s allusions were deliberate, especially in
the triple appearances of the fisherman angling (harundine
pisces), shepherd (pastor) and plowman (arator)
as a motif in Met. 8.217-18:
hoc aliquis tremula dum captat harundine
pisces,
aut pastor baculo stivave innixus arator
“Now someone angling with his tremulous rod
or a shepherd leaning over his crook or a plowman on his
handle…”
where each is holding or leaning exactly on
or over in Bruegel’s painting what Ovid takes care to
mention: flexible fishing reed, crook and plow handles
respectively. The liberties Bruegel took with the text are
not as radical as might first appear. Where in Ovid all look
up at the flying Icarus, only the plowman is looking up but
with the plummeting Icarus disappearing behind him. This is
nonetheless a quotation with a different intent. Taplin has
noted that one of the myriad ways in which the
Metamorphoses can be seen is as a “store of
philosophical and ethical profundity” (5) and it is just
this ethical element which must have appealed to Bruegel
whose illustration of moral proverbs is justifiably famous.
Storchow points out that the parallel
painting of this scene in a private collection has Daedalus
still flying overhead (6) – what the shepherd notes – which
makes Bruegel’s change less dramatic. Gibson also notes that
the absence of Daedalus and the direct sun in the Brussels
version of the painting are more likely due to subsequent
repainted (pentimenti) than Bruegel’s omission. (7)
Many have suggested the sun is too low on the horizon to
melt waxy wings, but if the painting has been trimmed or
overpainted, this would be less problematic. The old Flemish
proverb most usually identified with Bruegel’s scene is “no
plough stands still just because a man dies”. (8) Riemer has
judiciously connected the immediately following Ovidian
account of Perdix (8.236-59) to the partridge in the low
tree branch just above the angler and just below the
disappearing bare legs of Icarus, with the bird being the
sole observer of the boy’s fall because it – transformed by
a sympathetic Minerva into the partridge - is the object of
Daedalus’ attempted homicide after his nephew Perdix
invented saw and compass only to be jealously cast over a
cliff by his uncle. Both boys, Perdix and Icarus, are flung
down, one by another’s hate and the other by his own pride,
but only one – Perdix - is really a victim and only one
survives. Bruegel seems to assent to Ovid’s moralizing by
the obvious proximity between branched bird and beached boy
below a cliff similar to the crime scene of Daedalus and
Perdix.
Ovid suggests many allegorical allusions and
intertextualizations here (9) between the two related
stories of Daedalus, Icarus and Perdix. The earthy humans -
plowman, shepherd, angler - all hold something useful and
practical in their hands as extensions of these same hands
and instruments of livelihood, whereas Daedalus “changes the
laws of nature” (naturamque novat 8.189) even in
unnaturally “placing feathers in order” (ponit in ordine
pennas 8.189) and Icarus ends with flailing bare arms (here
appropriately invisible because they are useless compared to
those of the workers) (nudos qualit ille lacertos
8.227) after pride brings him down. Bruegel may intend this
as well with his humble toil-preoccupied workers in contrast
to the upside-down youth whose feathers are now anything but
ordered as they flutter down around him in deathly chaos.
Even Bruegel’s ship seems headed for the ruin-reminding
island rocks with full sails, possibly evoking the Aegean
marine journeys Ovid notes passing by the islands of Samos,
Delos, Paros and the like. There is no mention in Ovid about
the enigmatic knife and sack lying just below the horse on
the yet-unplowed tussock, nor is there anything about the
equally-enigmatic pale head sticking out of the bushes
around a field corner above the horse. Whatever clues may be
possible for explicating these likely allegorical images,
they are more likely from unknown contemporary proverbs than
any Ovidian literary detail.
Some critics and historians maintain Bruegel
is not making a “straightforward exposition” as much as a
visual “commentary” on Ovid. (10) While it is nowhere denied
that Bruegel’s primary referent is Ovid, the Flemish
retelling is nonetheless filled with Bruegel’s personal
moralizing about the insignificance of human life – also
seen in his other later landscapes such as Hunters in
the Snow (1565) - as well as the penalty of hubris. Why
Bruegel’s plowman is so magnified and Icarus diminutized in
contrast to Ovid is more a curious idiosyncrasy than a
narrative dilemma, however, it is mostly unanswerable other
than to point out, as others have also mentioned, Bruegel’s
Christian tendency to elevate the community of common men
over the almost-Luciferian individual who tries to become
independent of God and nature. It is easy to see Bruegel’s
extraction of Ovid’s stress on how Daedalus “changes the
laws of nature” (naturamque novat 8.189). More to
come shortly about the “monumental” size of the plowman.
Other details where Bruegel may have been
inspired by Ovid can be suggested, all of them seemingly
more than coincidental, although most likely requiring an
erudition Bruegel may not have possessed.
First, Ovid begins his text with an excursus
on earth, sea and sky (8.185-6), with Minos having blocked
the former two ways of escape from Crete for Daedalus.
Bruegel’s painting creates such a composite landscape with
earth in the left foreground, and with sea and sky joining
at the horizon at upper right center and land meeting sea at
the bottom right. The mutual emphasis of both Ovid and
Bruegel on the realms of nature and these three landscape
elements is strengthened by the triple light: seen in the
sky but also reflected on both the sea and land under the
plowman’s shadow.
Second, Bruegel has likely also noted
Daedalus wreaked all this havoc in his family by “unknown
arts” (ignotas…artes 8.188), which
he may have taken as a self-reflexive admonition to his own
artistry. In Ovid, Minerva - as goddess of techne –
herself feathered Perdix (8.253) like a foster mother
whereas father Daedalus feathered Icarus (8.187ff) who is
now defeathered (8.227-8). This Daedalian act of unnatural
or imitative "feathering" may also engage Bruegel in an
interesting reflection as an artist himself (who imitates
and even changes nature for an audience) pondering the
meaning of opifex (8.201) as "artisan" (or skilled
"craftsman") in contrast to the other earthy laborers here.
Third, Ovid’s sequential order of visible
humans is followed yet in reverse by Bruegel: Ovid moves
from Icarus flying to the fisherman to the shepherd to the
plowman to Icarus fallen. Yet Bruegel cleverly enlarges and
then shrinks in opposite order from the central foreground
rightward and downward in his “monumental” plowman to small
shepherd, tinier angler and finally to an almost invisible
Icarus on the right.
Finally, perhaps one of the most interesting
crux elements in Bruegel’s painting likely derived from Ovid
is just this emphasis on Ovid’s Latin verb novare
(in novat 8.189). In the context of the
Metamorphoses, its surface meaning is “to alter or
change” where, as mentioned, Daedalus “changed nature” (naturamque
novat 8.189)- the best reading for Metamorphoses
according to Anderson (11) - by making humans fly even if
only temporarily. But a fascinating connotation Bruegel may
intend as a gloss is the meaning of ager novatus,
“to break up fallow ground in a field prepared by plowing”
which is exactly the main visual image, especially where we
cannot miss the dramatic light that falls on the freshly
turned furrows under the plowman’s feet.
Is this why Bruegel has visually magnified
the role of the plowman? Has he attached greater value to a
“renewal” of nature (yet another connotation of novat)
in plowing (ager novatus) than to Daedalus’
aggressive “altering” of nature which results in his son’s
punitive death, also caused or at least compounded by his
treatment of Perdix?
Although it is a given that he was a close
reader of biblical literature and elsewhere often employed a
Netherlandish proverb as crux to a painting, it is only fair
to suspect Bruegel’s compass of the classical literature
might not stretch to such a close reading of Ovid. Bruegel’s
closest Antwerp friends, however, included Abraham Ortelius,
the noted Humanist geographer and erudite appreciator of
classical landscapes and antiquities. Subsequent author of
Theatrum Orbis Terrarum (1570), the Western world’s
first serious and comprehensive atlas since the Roman
Ptolemy. Ortelius was himself a very learned man, a
“collector of antiquities” with a “passion for the Classical
world” – familiar in “years-long intimacy with Herodotus and
Strabo” (12) and almost certainly Ovid - thus possibly even
one of several intended patrons or commissioners of this
painting. Regardless of patronage, it would be likely that
just such discursive conversations on Icarus would have
transpired between friends like the Humanist Ortelius and
the artist Bruegel.
In conclusion, whether or not Bruegel can be
directly credited for much of the possible erudition in this
painting, his Landscape with the Fall of Icarus is
one of the most involved reverse ekphrases - here
suggested as an eidetikos “imaging” quotation with
multiple allusions - in art so inspired by a famous
classical text of which it amply serves as a visual
commentary.
Bron:
Ekphrasis over De val van Icarus
Classics Department, Stanford University
Patrick Hunt © 2005
(phunt@stanford.edu)
(http://www.patrickhunt.net)