Japanese Radish

         It’s been another of those days when I had no time to put together a proper blog post, so here’s just a very pleasing and deceptively simple woodblock print by Kōno Bairei (Japan, 1844-1895).  Bairei was a master of depicting birds and flowers, and he opened an art school in 1880.  This delightful radish seems quite simple and straightforward, but remember that those seemingly spontaneous lines were carefully carved and those subtle washed of color had to be carefully inked and printed.  For whatever reason, I’m just finding this piece is making me very happy today!

[Picture: Japanese Radish, woodblock print by Kōno Bairei, 1868-95 (Image from Harvard Art Museums).]

The Lure of Sirens

         Throughout history artists seem to have struggled with a lot of confusion over the nature of sirens.  It’s enough to make you wonder how many of these artists had ever even seen a siren!  But let’s start with what we know: sirens sing so beautifully that sailors are lured to their deaths.

        That’s it.  That’s all that’s certain.  Everything else is a mishmash!

        How many sirens are there?  Homer said 2, other ancient writers suggested up to 8, later artists depicted whole bevies, and some writers suggested 0, either because they didn’t believe in sirens or because they thought that the sirens all killed themselves after Odysseus passed by them without succumbing.

        Where do sirens live?  Early writers said they were in flowery meadows, and only later did they come to live on cliffs by the sea.  Later still they were plunged right down into the ocean.

        What do sirens look like?  Homer didn’t describe their appearance - it was their song that mattered - and as for everyone else?  Whew, take your pick…  Sirens generally began as human-bird hybrids, but how much bird could range from everything-except-the-face, all the way to nothing-except-the-wings.  

At some point sirens began to gain piscine traits as well, generally in the form of a fish tail that could be either instead of or in addition to any avian traits.  And finally in the nineteenth century many artists made them look like straight-up sexy human women, because nineteenth century artists were always looking for excuses to paint sexy women.  So if you’d like to design your own siren, make your choices from this handy guide:

• Face - human, most often female, occasionally male, (or in the case of one medieval illuminator included here, with the addition of a beak)

• Limbs - choose any combination of the following

        wings - 0 or 2  (you can also choose whether to place wings at the shoulders or the hips)

        arms - 0 or 2

        legs - 0, or 2 human, or 2 bird, or 2 sort of beast-looking

        tail - 1 bird, or 1 fish, or 2 fish

• Accoutrements - choose from the following

        fish - 1 or 2

        mirror

        comb

        club (for beating sailors)

        musical instrument - most often lyre, kithara, aulos, or flute

        empty bottle - according to one (and only one) medieval author, if you throw a siren an empty bottle she will be distracted playing with it, thus giving you a chance to escape

• Apparel - choose nothing, OR a diaphanous scarf or 2, OR complete head to toe outfit

        I’ve selected a variety of siren depictions for you, including a couple from ancient Greece showing various proportions of bird vs human.  I had a tough time narrowing down my choices from the medieval era because they’re so diverse and often so amusing.  I’ve started with one that gives the story in two panels: the singing first, followed by the attack on the sailors once they’ve been lulled to sleep.  This artist has picked a surprisingly popular strategy of refusing to make a decision about the nature of sirens and showing one with bird parts and the other with fish parts.  I also picked an illumination in which the

sirens play musical instruments, and one that includes a male as well as a female siren.  I included one showing a double fish tailed siren, in which I especially like the way the man in the boat is gazing so adoringly at the temptress.  I’ve included one with a nice depiction of the transparent water (and more sleeping sailors), that funny beaked siren, and a throwback to the mostly-bird version, who’s looking quite scary.  I also include one who looks purely mermaid, complete with comb and mirror, but who is nevertheless living in a meadow like the earliest versions of sirens.  (By the way, the mermaids’ love of mirrors and combs originated with their siren cousins.)

        Moving on to the Romantic era, I’ve got three depictions of Ulysses’s encounter with the sirens.  Etty’s 1837 sirens are among the first to be pure human, but they’re kneeling among the corpses of their victims.  Waterhouse’s 1891 painting bucks the modern trend for naked maidens to depict the sirens much like that original Green vase painting from about 475 BCE.  And in 1909 Draper has used the medieval trick of including different forms of siren rather than picking just one - although in his case it’s fish and pure human rather than fish and bird.

        When I went to make my own version, I rejected the fish tail outright, because we have mermaids for that.  I initially tried to make my siren with more of an avian back half and the legs and feet of a bird, but my artistic skills just couldn’t pull off a bird behind looking alluringly yearning as she gazes over the sea.  So I fell back on copying the Romantics’ version of a nubile young woman, but gave her wings (and feathers in her hair, although that’s not as clear as I’d hoped).  I also considered adding a more modern boat to take her out of ancient myth, but since the story this piece will be illustrating talks about the first time sailors heard her, I figured I’d better stick with the historical view.

        Although I find the confusion of form amusing, one of the things I find most interesting about the depiction of sirens is their degree of physical beauty.  The earliest depictions were quite clear that the temptation was purely auditory and the appearance of the sirens was irrelevant.  Certainly there was nothing alluring about their looks.  During the medieval era artists seemed to be torn between making their sirens beautiful to emphasize the dangers of worldly temptation, and making them downright ugly to emphasize their evil nature.

        One last note: the word siren came into English from French in the mid-14th century.  (The Greek word seiren from the Odyssey might come from roots meaning “binder, entangler,” but then again, maybe not.)  The devices that make warning sounds were first called sirens in 1879, starting with the klaxons on steamboats and later extended to refer to air raids, emergency vehicles, and so forth.  It is not at all clear to me why a blaring alarm would seem suggestive of a sea nymph, unless it’s just the idea of a sound that indicates danger in some way.  But whatever the reason, it does give rise to one of my absolute favorite examples of faulty Google Translate: In case of volcanic eruption, you will hear mermaids.  Do not ignore the mermaids; they are there for your safety.  Oh no; while it’s wise to pay heed to the singing of mermaids, children, always remember that you should absolutely most definitely ignore the sirens!

[Pictures: Odysseus and the sirens, red figure stamnos by the “Siren Painter,” ca. 475-470 BCE (Image from Wikimedia Commons);

Pentelic marble funerary statue of a siren, ancient Greece, 370 BCE (Image from Wikimedia Commons);

Sirens attack a boat, illumination from the Queen Mary Psalter, 1310-20 (Image from the British Library);

Sirens, illumination from Bestiary, ca. 1225-50 (Image from Bodleian Libraries);

Sirens and a boat, illumination from psalter, 1303-08 (Image from Münchener Digitalisierungs Zentrum);

Siren and sailor, illumination from De physionomia liber, Franciscus Asculanus, 14th century (Image from Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana);

Sirens, illumination from Bestiary, 1226-1250 (Image from Bodleian Libraries);

Siren, illumination from Livre des proprietés des choses by Barthélemy l’Anglais, 15th century (Image from Bibliothèque nationale de France);

Siren, illumination from Rothschild canticles, ca. 1300 (Image from Yale Beinecke Library);

Siren/Harpy, wood block print from Ortus sanitatis by Johann Prüss, 1499 (Image from Boston Public Library);

Siren, illumination from Bestiary, ca. 1275-99 (Image from Bibliothèque nationale de France);

The Sirens and Ulysses, painting by William Etty, 1837 (Image from Manchester Art Gallery);

Ulysses and the Sirens, oil painting by John William Waterhouse, 1891 (Image from National Gallery of Victoria);

Ulysses and the Sirens, painting by H.J. Draper, ca. 1909 (Image from Wikimedia Commons)

Siren Song, rubber block print by AEGNydam, 2025 (Image from NydamPrints.com).]

Cain and Abel

         My short story “Brothers” was just published in the November issue of Friends Journal (on-line), and to celebrate I’ve got a selection of relief block prints depicting the world’s first brothers.  My story begins with Cain and Abel, but the speculative fiction twist is that the two are repeatedly reincarnated through other sets of Biblical brothers.  If you want to read it, you can find it here.

        Meanwhile, just like in my story, I’m marching through the centuries chronologically in these repeated depictions of sibling rivalry turned murderous.  The first wood block print, hand colored, comes from a German Bible of 1483, and it includes the whole story in a single frame.  There are lots of really delightful details, including the swan swimming peacefully beside the conflict, and the heavenly ruffles amongst which God floats in the sky.  I’m amused by the way the flames of Abel’s acceptable sacrifice rise straight up while Cain’s flames flop over limply.  And why is he labelled “Caim”?

        Next I had to include Albrecht Dürer’s version from 1511, even though I don’t love it.  Abel is so contorted he looks like he’s about to be stuffed in a trunk.  This piece as well as the 1599 woodcut beside it focus on the lethal violence of the fight.  I think renaissance artists were particularly drawn to the fight scene as a way to practice their interesting perspectives and anatomically perfect musculature.  (Besides which, of course, violence always seems to be popular.)  If you look at a whole range of depictions of the scene, including many more than I’ve posted here today, you’ll notice that some artists show Abel cowering in passive innocence, while others show him fighting back more actively.  The choice makes for a very different vibe.

        There’s also a variety of murder weapons.  The Bible doesn’t specify how Cain actually killed his brother, so artists get to choose.  Today’s first artist has gone with what is presumably the jawbone of an ass, as inspired by Samson, a choice that many other artists also use.  Dürer has given Cain an ax, while the anonymous artist has provided a club.  Gustave Doré is another proponent of the club in his wood engraving from 1866.  I’ve included illustrations of two scenes from the story: the disparity in sacrifices as well as the murder.  Just like in our first image, Doré has depicted Cain's fire and smoke refusing to rise to heaven, as if Cain has attempted to freeze his sacrifice with dry ice.  The interesting thing about Doré’s second scene is that instead of focussing on the brute violence, it shows Cain staggered with horror as he realizes what he’s done.  To me this is much more powerful than the mere brawl.

        Moving into the twentieth century we see another radical shift in style, and with a scene of violence and passion Expressionism can be just as effective as realism.  Lovis Corinth’s woodcut from 1919 has a weapon like some sort of hammer made with a huge rock on the end of a stick.  Richard Bosman, meanwhile, keeps it simple with a hurled stone (1981).  And finally, James Lesesne Wells in 1990 shows no weapon at all.  While I think bare hands would certainly be a plausible choice, I confess that if I didn’t see the title of this piece I wouldn’t know it was necessarily even a fight going on in the foreground.  And is that meant to be a policeman hurrying over to break it up?

        Clearly this has been a story that artists have been drawn to through the years.  If you want to know my take on the tale, check out my short story.  What part of this ancient story is most meaningful or memorable for you?

[Pictures: Cain and Abel, woodcut colored by hand from Bible pub. Anton Koberger, 1483 (Image from Detroit Institute of Arts);

Cain Killing Abel, woodcut by Albrecht Dürer, 1511 (Image from The Met);

Cain and Abel, woodcut from Wittenberg, 1599 (Image from Harvard Art Museums);

Cain and Abel, two wood engravings by Gustave Doré, 1866 (Images from Wikimedia Commons);

Brudermord, woodcut by Lovis Corinth, 1919 (Image from National Gallery of Art);

Cain and Abel, woodcut by Richard Bosman, 1981 (Image from RoGallery);

Cain and Able (sic), linocut by James Lesesne Wells, 1990 (Image from National Museum of African American History & Culture).]

Woman and Web

         As I continue with my busy busy fall season, I’ve got three exciting new blocks ready to print and another little one just printed (plus a short story coming out later this month - not to mention 3 poetry events, 1 printmaking event, and a spec fic lecture all before the end of November).  I’ll share those when I get a chance, but until then here’s a piece that seemed seasonally appropriate.

        This woodblock print is by Caspar David Friedrich (Germany, 1774-1840), a Romantic, almost Gothic landscape painter whose work has risen and fallen in popularity in inverse proportion to the popularity of modernism.  Friedrich was one of the first to use landscape to convey psychological and political messages, using dark and subtle colors and dramatic light effects, so this woodcut is not exactly his usual ouevre.  On the other hand, the woman turned away from the viewer, contemplating or looking for something within a lonely wilderness… that’s pure Friedrich.

        By the time this piece was made Friedrich’s use of woodcut as a medium was a deliberate return to earlier German wood block printmaking, and an adaptation of those earlier styles for use as an independent art form instead of merely a method of reproduction.  His use of differently angled hatch lines is an interesting way to differentiate different areas while keeping them all in shadow, but I particularly like the texture of the tree trunks, as well as the more detailed thistles and plants to the left.

        What do you think the woman is thinking about?  Is this actually Miss Muffet, grown older now but about to have a recurrence of her youthful surprise?

[Picture: Woman with Spider’s Web Between Bare Trees, woodcut by Caspar David Friedrich, 1803 (Image from Art Institute Chicago).]