Perseus and Andromeda

I'm in Florence and had the fortune of visiting Gli Uffizi today. The sheer breadth of history compressed within the comparatively small, maginificently ornate building spills over into an infinite pool of observations, associations, and recapitulations that I can ladle from. Acknowledging that much of what I formulate has likely been said in some form, and rejecting the temptation to be overly discursive, I prepare a glass for my parched, slightly sticky throat (it's hot here) with one deft motion: Perseus and Andromeda.

I first saw the Met piece a few years back. I took the Humanities Sequence at Princeton (one of the greatest parts about the school -- seriously) which is four classes over two semesters in your freshman year; because of the time commitment, we had the opportunity to do additional things, like go to the Met/Cloisters and even Sicily/Greece. This Perseus/Andromeda piece immediately convulsed me then, so much so that I wrote one of my papers on it. I think what struck me immediately were the cool tones (the snot-green sea), the situation within a spatial context (with its pair), and, of course, the doubling of the figure of Perseus.

Paintings are usually temporally static, a moment "captured" inasmuch as sculpture "reveals" the spiritual via the material. To stretch through time is typically to delineate a compositional boundary; this is most easily accomplished in the frame itself. I readily think of Thomas Cole's The Course of Empire which, in its 5-long series of canvases, convey "ages" passing, as seen in the change in perspective and natural landscape, a material reflection of the passage of time. The "course" is delineated by the disparate canvases that act as viewports into the similarly disparate captured moments; confined to a singular canvas, it's difficult to illustrate the passage of time because it ultimately represents one "scene" ^[1]. Where Cole's series offers a set of frames that, in juxtaposition, suggest the passage of time, the depictions of Perseus and Andromeda acknowledge time's presence in a more oblique mode. One's singularity is meant to be inviolable; a doubling necessitates some other trick as to elude this supposed rule. As such, the viewer is forced to look elsewhere, to time.

The painting is unique in that it engages with the concept of time within the canvas itself. Perseus is portrayed twice at two distinct moments in time, developing a pictorial composition that innately mutates time with respect to space. While the other characters remain largely static in their actions, Perseus is the one navigating the space and performing actions. He is constantly leaning forward, implying movement even in the static, temporally frozen medium of a painting. In a sense, he also navigates through time itself, his movement allowing his duplication and generating the very continuity that binds the story together. Though Andromeda’s central position implies that it may be her story, Perseus’ action defines it as well.

Above is a small excerpt from my essay (a few years dated now, so excuse its shortcomings), but I think it captures what I found/find so enthralling about the composition: the juxtaposition between static and dynamic repose and how time is stretched and pinned across space. The absence of definite borders denoting time lends to a temporally ambiguous scene. In the Roman landscape, the Perseus-es exist simultaneously and without heirarchy. It is difficult to extract a linear, left-to-right, reading because the disparate scenes coexist along the same horizon; Perseus, as he appears simultaneously, is both engaged in the act of saving Andromeda and presenting himself to her father. The temporal ambiguity can be further extended. Would the woman draped in mourning, with crescent curvature against the rocks, sit there so passively as the sea monster rears its head? These inconsistencies efface the temporal anchors the viewer seeks to cling to. The composition plays with time and its relation to space-- as the viewer shifts their focus, time itself slips from one scene to the next without notable distinction.

By comparison, Lippi's composition is anchored temporally with the sole exception of the elusive Perseus. In sudden appearance and decisive action, he traces an imagined beautiful curvature in his descent right-to-left. However, his dynamism in action, as opposed to repose, marks a contrast against the static arrangement of the observers. Perseus from the Roman depiction is triumphant from the onset, sword boastfully raised above his head as he swoops in. Similarly, in his encounter with Andromeda's father, he puffs his chest--as indicated by the recessed curvature of his spine--with firm poise. Chin and chest up, hands out, Lippi's Perseus seems initially apprenhensive. This is, of course, triumphed by the arc of the sword, but nonetheless, there seem to be two different Perseus-es as differentiated by time, before and after victory. Without the strict linear reading, the Roman piece is more ambiguous, pinning the heroic ideal to Perseus' characterization through time, rather than juxtaposing a difference in disposition anchored around his forthcoming triumph.

Lastly, of note is Andromeda's figuration--especially in the class of Perseus and Andromeda paintings as a whole. The Roman Andromeda is so alluring because of her centrality; her arms, though fixed in chains, hang languidly. In a 'Y', they seem to stretch to the ends of the canvas, softly demarcating different regions of the composition. Lippi's Andromeda reels in torment against the (comically) monstrous face. Both figures are adorned in diaphonous garb that reveal the chest, but Lippi's is dishelved against the Roman composure. To bolster Perseus' heroicism, Andromeda is afflicted with greater emotional peril.

The story of Perseus and Andromeda does not immediately bubble to my throat when prompted for my favorite painting subject. Rather, what has stood out to me all these years is of course the opportunity to understand how space and time can exist on the material canvas. One can talk about these paintings at a much longer length, but I'll opt to tie it there: a fragment.

1. I say difficult as anchored to a particular mode of observing time, like watching the frames of a video. Time can be understood associatively, by the accumulation of adversaries, memories, regrets. It can also be understood allegorically. Allegories of Time/Death don't depict the instantaneous passage of time, but emphasize the fact that time has passed in juxtaposition of dissimilar figures (like men in different stages of life, as in The Three Ages of Man by Titian). Death and thus time can be signaled by a representative figure/symbol like a skull (within one frame). The Course of Empire, though stretched across multiple canvases, illustrates the passage of time through juxtaposition, just like the aforementioned allegories. Of course, what is time but the juxtaposition of infinitismally small and infinitely large moments to produce an illusion of movement. And, in another mode, contemplating any creation, especially those mechanically reproduced, in all of its posterity is in fact a brush with death, time, and legacy. It is interesting to take the leap to Walter Benjamin's "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" to understand all encounters as encounters with the dead. ↩