I’ve spoken here about the creative impulse before, but this time I’m going to make it a little more personal and discuss what I do when I’m not writing (or working on other stuff, or watching movies, or reading books or taking care of children), mainly because I realized that I also try to create stuff when I’m in downtime mode.
Now, one hobby I’ve got is building scale models, but that one seems a little like cheating. While it takes a little practice to get them looking decent, the real skill (at least in the case of the ones I build) is on the part of the model builder. Even on mass-produced plastic kits, at some point a prototype maker did the work of carving and engineering it so it would fit together and look correct. I can’t even begin to imagine the kind of talent that takes.
My own contribution to the arts is my other hobby: drawing stuff (admittedly, mostly cars) with colored pencils. These are amateur efforts, but I like the results and occasionally sell an original for a few hundred dollars to auto enthusiasts (it takes a couple of months of highly interrupted work to draw these, so I’m not exactly getting rich). As an example, here’s my latest effort.
As you can tell, my obsession with Le Mans extends to drawing… this is a Ford Mustand leading an Alpine at Le Mans in 1967, just before dusk.
Unlike my fiction, which is my primary creative output, these will likely never compete on the world level or win prestigious awards. But they give me enormous amounts of pleasure, both to create and to look at afterward. The delight is well out of proportion to the actual quality of the drawings, but it’s totally worth it to me.
Most countries have their emblematic art museum, the best in the nation, in their capital city. We suspect that will never be the case in the US, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that Washington DC’s art museums are bad. Quite the opposite, in fact; the National Gallery of Art is quite a decent museum, with a very good collection. Plus, it’s free, which makes it even better (I recently visited Philadelphia’s Art Museum, of Rocky staircase fame, and had to pay… so free is good).
I was there in June 2019 (while exploring Washington on occasion of my visit to the International Space development Conference), and while I usually pay more attention to the 19th century landscape artists and impressionists and post-impressionists than anything else, this time we’re going to be focusing on Flemish and Dutch painters.
Why? Because, on that visit, I happened to grab a booklet entitled The Dutch and Flemish Cabinet Galleries, which I read recently. I generally try to read these booklets eventually, because I enjoy remembering what I saw there, and also learning from curators.
If you have a layman’s understanding of art, the general information about how Flemish and Dutch art developed in the 17th century alongside the newly prosperous merchant bourgeoisie might not be necessary, but I always find the curator’s view of what makes a specific painting interesting to be pure gold. As a layman, I look at paintings and I either like them or don’t, they either generate a specific emotional response or they don’t, etc. But experts can look past that and point out exactly what makes a given piece different from the rest.
And that exercise is hugely worthwhile. As you know, I read a bunch of thick books, where often the pleasure comes in discovering what happens to each of the characters, and how the problems get resolved. So taking half an hour to stare at a selection of 20 pictures that I might not have given a second glance at in a museum (must move over this section quickly, where are the Van Goghs?) is a relaxing exercise. Not quite as good as being in the museum itself, but very good all the same.
One of the things I look forward to most about the end of the pandemic is that museums should reopen fully. The world is so much poorer when these places aren’t running at full capacity.
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer. His erotic thriller Timeless really takes flight after his protagonist has a long think in the Frick Gallery in New York. Art lovers and people who like to be excited in all senses of the world would do well to check it out here.
As we mentioned on Monday, guest columnist Richard H. Fay will be writing all three of this week’s posts, as he continues to give us his very well-researched take on the odd and the occult. You can read his blog here, and we also recommend checking out his Zazzle Store. Additionally, the artwork referring to the creatures discussed in this article can be found here.
A legendary monster that bore many names (Manticore, Manticora, Mantichora, Manticory, Manticoras, Martikhora, Mantiserra, Memecoleous, Mancomorion, and the Satyral), the fearsome Manticore featured in the lore, bestiaries, and creative works of various lands and cultures, from ancient Asia to medieval Europe, and beyond. However, the Manticore legend first took root in ancient Greece and Persia. A garbled account of man-eating Bengal tigers of India may have been the seed that sprouted all subsequent tales of this strange and ferocious hybrid creature. Despite its dubious origins, the legend of the Manticore persisted and developed over the centuries.
Ctesias, Greek physician to the Persian King Artaxerxes II Mnemon (reigned 404 to 358 BCE), penned what seems to be the first written account of the Manticore. Even though Ctesias never visited India, he wrote that a lion-sized man-faced monstrosity prowled the sub-continent. As preserved in later works by the Roman writer Aelian (c. 170 – c. 235 CE) and the Byzantine scholar Photius (c. 815-897 CE), Ctesias described what he called the Martikhora (derived from the Persian mardkhor, meaning “man-slayer” or “man-eater”) as possessing pale blue eyes, three rows of sharp teeth, savage claws, a cinnabar-coloured pelt, a scorpion’s tail, additional stings on the crown of its head and each side of its tail, and a voice that sounded like a trumpet. Ctesias also claimed that the creature could, to defend itself, shoot regenerating foot-long stingers both forward and backward a considerable distance. One animal alone could withstand those poisoned quills; the thick-skinned elephant had little to fear from the Manticore’s otherwise deadly sting. To hunt such a formidable beast, Indian natives rode upon elephants and attacked their prey with spears or arrows.
It seems likely that the man-eating Martikhora of Ctesias was based upon tales of the Bengal tiger (Panthera tigris tigris). The Romanised Greek Pausanias (c. 110 – c. 180 CE) believed this to be the case, and wrote about his thoughts on the matter in the ninth book of his ten-volume travelogue entitled Description of Greece. In his section on fabulous animals, he suggested that the red-hued pelt described by Ctesias could be explained by a tiger appearing to be a homogeneous red in colour when observed running in full sunlight. Pausanias also put forward the opinion that the more fanciful traits recorded by Ctesias, such as the lethal stingers and three rows of teeth, arose from natives exaggerating the deadly characteristics of a man-eating beast they dreaded. According to what Irish naturalist Valentine Ball wrote in his 1883 paper “Identification of the Pygmies, the Martikhora, the Griffin, and the Dikarion of Ktesias”, these two traits dismissed by Pausanias as false may have had a basis in fact. Ball argued that the Manticore’s three rows of teeth might have been derived from the tiger’s trilobate molars, while the tail-borne stingers might have been a distorted account of a horny dermal structure he asserted exists at the extremity of a tiger’s tail.
Regardless of the reality behind Ctesias’ account, other ancient writers helped propagate the legend of the Manticore. With the sceptical qualifier of “if we are to believe Ctesias”, Aristotle described the Martichora of India in his History of Animals of 350 BCE. He included most of the characteristics already mentioned and also said that the beast’s call sounded like a combination of pan-pipes and a trumpet. The Roman author and naturalist Pliny the Elder, in his Naturalis Historia of c. 77 CE, displayed little scepticism over the creature’s actual existence when he echoed Ctesias and Aristotle, although he placed the creature in Ethiopia. He added that the triple-rowed teeth fit into each other like a comb. He also claimed to have been informed that the man-faced monster could mimic human speech.
Inspired by the writings of ancient Greek and Roman naturalists, the compilers of medieval bestiaries included the Manticore among their compendia of beasts, both ordinary and fantastic.
The exact appearance of the creature varied from work-to-work, although all variations displayed a feline-body with a human face. One 12th century bestiary featured a Manticore wearing a Phyrgian cap. An English bestiary of the early 13th century portrayed its Manticore as possessing a particularly savage countenance and prominent stingers all along its tail. Another mid-late 13th century English bestiary depicted the Manticore with a visage that was merely a rough approximation of a human face. Yet another 13th century bestiary, this one from northern France, portrayed the beast as having a distinctively human head, but no stinging tail. This particular depiction also deviated from the standard reddish coat colour, in this instance (assuming the colour hadn’t faded or altered drastically over time) the illuminator had instead opted for a greyish hue.
Besides its frequent presence in bestiaries, the Manticore also made appearances in medieval sculpture and even, on rare occasions, medieval and Tudor heraldry. The Manticore carvings found in some medieval churches stood as symbols of the weeping prophet Jeremiah. The late medieval Lord Hastings adopted a tusked Manticore (or mantyger) as his heraldic badge. The Tudor-era Lord Fitzwalter had, for his badge, a purple-hued Manticore. At times, the head of the heraldic Manticore would be adorned with spiral horns.
Over time, the Manticore became associated with other fabulous creatures and served as inspiration for other legendary monsters. In the later Middle Ages and Renaissance, the heraldic Manticore helped shape the imagery of the female-faced chimaeric creature that stood as a symbol of the sin of fraud in “grotteschi” (grotesque decorative elements) and some Mannerist paintings. Edward Topsell, in his 1607 work The Historie of Foure-Footed Beastes, copied the description of a Manticore as given by Ctesias, but then equated the man-faced beast with the badger-headed cloven-hoofed Leucrocota and the hyena. In Spanish lore, the Manticore transformed into a kind of werewolf that kidnapped and preyed upon children. Tales of the Manticore told by sixteenth century missionaries to the New World may have formed the basis for the Cigouave, a human-faced feline-bodied beast, of Haitian Vodou tradition.
As the ages progressed, the Manticore of art and popular culture gained additional attributes. Along with the spiral horns added by heraldic artists, others tacked on scales, udders or dragon’s wings. A scaly Manticore sporting horns, udders, and wings featured in a 17th century bestiary. In modern times, a bat-winged Manticore has numbered among the monsters that adventuring characters may encounter in the fantasy realms of a certain well-known role-playing game. The Manticore in Gustave Flaubert’s 1874 work The Temptation of St. Anthony spoke of possessing screw-like claws and the ability to spew plague.
Interestingly enough, although it seems likely that distorted tales of man-eating tigers served as the basis for the man-faced scorpion-tailed stinger-flinging Manticore of ancient natural histories and medieval bestiaries, the legend lives on. In Indonesia, some villagers today tell tales of a man-eating Manticore that prowls the jungle and kills its human prey with a single bite or scratch. It just goes to show that the Manticore has endured, in human imagination if not necessarily in reality.
As we mentioned on Monday, guest columnist Richard H. Fay will be writing all three of this week’s posts, as he continues to give us his very well-researched take on the odd and the occult. You can read his blog here, and we also recommend checking out his Zazzle Store. Additionally, the artwork referring to the creatures discussed in this article can be found here.
Featured in the lore of many human cultures, merfolk were said to be people of the sea, although some resided in freshwater. In their most usual form, these beings appeared humanoid from the waist up and pisciform from the waist down. However, some chronicles and tales presented variations from this standard. At times hostile, at other times helpful, merfolk interacted with land-dwellers in various ways. Certain stories even spoke of marriages between merfolk and mortals, unions that could produce lines of human descendants. With potential links to ancient gods, goddesses, and monsters, merfolk have been a fixture of human legends for ages, but some accounts suggest that they are more than mere creatures of legend. Surprisingly enough, various historical records describe actual encounters with these aquatic entities, According to some reports, such encounters have even persisted to the present day.
The origins of merfolk lore might be as murky and difficult to plumb as the ocean depths themselves, but possible precursors to the merfolk of later chronicles and tales may be found in ancient myths and legends. Oannes, god of wisdom who granted the ancient Babylonians the gift of culture, appeared as a human-fish hybrid (Sykes & Kendall, 1993). The Philistine god Dagon and the Syrian goddess Atargatis were also depicted as prototypical merfolk (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). Mythographer Robert Graves traced a connection between mermaids and sea-born goddesses Aphrodite and Marian (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). The Greek scholars Nicholas Polites and Stilpon Kyriakides argued that the mermaid of modern Greek lore, the gorgona, shares features with the siren of Classical Greek myth (Simpson, 1987). Notwithstanding the fact that medieval authors did conflate the sailor-luring siren of ancient lore with the northern mermaid, Classical depictions portrayed the siren not as half-woman, half-fish, but as a monster that possessed a woman’s head and torso atop a bird’s body (Rose, 2000).
Although the true nature of alleged links between ancient gods and merfolk of later times may be doubtful, there is no doubt that such beings feature in folklore and legends around the world, from Ireland to New Ireland, New Guinea. The usually peaceful Irish merfolk known as merrows wore magical red caps that allowed them to shape-shift and travel back-and-forth between their undersea realm and dry land (Rose, 1996). The Manx mermaid ben varrey exhibited two conflicting natures, one a benevolent finder of treasure, the other a malevolent enchanter of men (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). The handsome Danish merman havmand treated those mortals he encountered with kindliness, while his female counterpart havfrue could be either helpful or harmful (Rose, 1996). Like the sirens of ancient myth, the alluring Swedish mermaids called sjörå entranced boatmen at sea and destroyed both mortals and their vessels (Marriott, 2006). The cannibalistic mermaids of Portuguese tales went one step further and devoured those lured into their watery abode (Marriott, 2006). The far more benevolent ningyo of Japanese lore brought peace and dispelled bad luck (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). Clad in cowrie-shell jewelry, the bonito maidens of the Solomon Islands acted as caretakers of both bonito fish and lost ivory fishing hooks (Rose, 1996). The singing ri of New Ireland tradition resided among the mangroves and along the strand (Rose, 2000). On the east coast of Canada, the halfway people of Micmac legends alerted courteous fishermen of impending storms (Rose, 2000).
Merfolk through the ages and across the globe have traditionally appeared as humanoids with fishy tails, exemplified by the beautiful-but-deadly comb-and-mirror-wielding sea maiden of the English folk song “The Mermaid” (Briggs, 1978), but there are variations to this tradition. The 1st century author Pliny described mermaids as being completely scaly head-to-tail (Rosen, 2008). The medieval Irish Annals of the Four Masters told of a truly monstrous mermaid said to have measured a whopping 160 feet long (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). Another oversized mercreature featured in a report made to Bishop Pontoppidan of Bergen in 1719 that described a human-faced seal-like beast 28 feet long (Rose, 2000). Male merrows appeared downright hideous in aspect, possessing green-coloured hair, teeth, and skin, pointed red noses, and piggy eyes (Rose, 2000). On occasion, the Danish havmand was said to have had blue skin (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). Instead of looking like a human woman from the waist up, the Japanese ningyo could appear as a huge fish with a woman’s head (Rose, 2000).
Along with the varying physical descriptions of merfolk, different human cultures expressed different views regarding what merfolk symbolised. In medieval Europe, mermaids represented deceit and were believed to be in league with the Great Deceiver himself, the devil (Rose, 2000). Additionally, the medieval church considered mermaids to be symbols of vanity, lust, and the soul-endangering aspects of femininity and sex (Rosen, 2008). In Tudor times, the word “mermaid” became synonymous with the word “prostitute” (Franklin, 2002). Conversely, the Afro-Brazillian Batuque cult saw their aquatic jamaína and imanja as intermediaries between mortals and angels (Rose, 1996). The Japanese thought of their ningyo as a positive entity, a protector of the land (Matthews & Matthews, 2005).
As has been touched upon above, merfolk in various locales and circumstances sometimes dealt with land-dwelling mortals in a less-than-beneficial, or even outright malevolent, fashion. The otherwise friendly male merrow named Coomara captured the souls of drowned sailors in cages in the mistaken belief that he was performing a good deed sheltering the souls and keeping them warm and dry (Croker, 1882). Mermen of a more baleful nature were believed to conjure terrible storms and sink ships (Rose, 2000). At times, the female of the species also acted in a destructive manner; the subject of the folk song “The Mermaid” sent a ship of doomed souls to the bottom of the ocean (Briggs, 1978). The Norwegian havfine herded the waves and wrecked vessels foolish enough to be caught asea when storms rolled in (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). The Scottish lake-dwelling mermaid encountered by the youthful Laird of Lorntie proved to be a downright bloodthirsty creature that would have feasted on the young laird’s blood had his loyal servant not pulled him from the loch’s waters (Briggs, 1979).
Of course, not all merfolk treated humans poorly; some had favourable and even intimate dealings with humankind. According to Danish lore, a prophesying havfrue foresaw the birth of Christian IV of Denmark (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). In one Scottish story, a young man learned how to cure his ailing love with an infusion of mugwort when a mermaid surfaced and sang of using the herb to prevent the girl’s death by consumption (Briggs, 1978). A mermaid that rose from a Renfrewshire pool as a funeral procession crossed a stream advised the mourners how to use both mugwort and nettle to ward off fatal illness (Briggs, 1978). In the tale “The Old Man of Cury”, a stranded mermaid rescued by an old man granted her saviour the gift of healing (Briggs, 1978). The title mortal of “Lutey and the Mermaid” was rewarded with similar benefits when he aided a mermaid, but found himself lured into her watery abode nine years later (Briggs, 1978). Along with knowledge of healing herbs, rescued mermaids could also warn of impending storms (Rose, 1996). On occasion, female merrows wedded mortal men and gave rise to a line of human descendants who possessed webbed fingers and scaly legs (Briggs, 1979). A mermaid was said to number among the ancestors of the McVeagh clan of Scotland (Franklin, 2002).
Apart from marriages and other relations between merfolk and mortals, some stories told of humans transformed into sea people. According to a popular Greek legend, Alexander the Great’s sister Thessalonike turned into a mermaid when, grief-stricken by the death of her conquering sibling, she attempted suicide by throwing herself into the Aegean Sea (DocumentaryMakedonia, 2013). Lí Ban, the pagan subject of a 12th or 13th century Irish tale, underwent a magical metamorphosis from human woman to mermaid after the majority of her kin were drowned in a flood (Ó hÓgáin, 2006). According to a certain Irish legend, pagan crones became mermaids when Saint Patrick expelled them from the land (Franklin, 2002). In the Samish story of Ko-kwal-alwoot, a maiden became enamoured with a merman who insisted on taking her as his bride and who eventually transformed her into a sea-dweller like himself (Matthews & Matthews, 2005).
Beyond the myths, legends, and folktales about merfolk told over the centuries by many different storytellers around the globe, sailors and fishermen across the ages have reported real-life sightings of fishy-tailed humanoids. Christopher Columbus wrote that he spied three less-than-lovely mermaids off the coast of what is now the Dominican Republic in January 1493 (Salaperäinen, 2016). In 1560, the bodies of several mermaids netted off the coast of Ceylon underwent dissection at the hands of a learned physician who concluded that, externally and internally, the anatomy of the merbeings resembled that of humans (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). Henry Hudson recorded that two of his crewmen spotted a white-skinned black-haired mermaid in 1608 (Cohen, 1982). In 1723, a Danish Royal Commission tasked with proving that merfolk existed only in myths and legends ended up running across an actual merman near the Faroe Isles (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). In 1830, residents of the isle of Benbecula in the Hebrides found the body of a small dark-haired white-skinned mermaid with “abnormally developed breasts”, perhaps the same creature that had been seen and injured at Sgeir na Duchadh a few days earlier, washed ashore at Culle Bay (Munro, 2016). Three years later, natural history professor Dr. Robert Hamilton described the capture of a short-haired monkey-faced mermaid offshore of Yell in the Shetland Isles (Munro, 2016). During a few notable summers around 1890, hundreds of eyewitnesses claimed to have seen the so-called Deerness Mermaid, a black-headed white-bodied creature that appeared like a human when swimming in the waters of Newark Bay, Orkney (Towrie, n.d.).
Believe it or not, in certain regions of the world sightings of and belief in merbeings have persisted right up to the present day. In 1947, an elderly Hebridean fisherman reported sighting a mermaid combing her hair near the shore of the Isle of Muck (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). In June 1967, passengers aboard a ferry travelling past Mayne Island, British Columbia, observed (and one snapped a photograph of) a blonde-haired dimple-faced mermaid with the tail of a fish or porpoise sitting upon a shoreside rock (Obee, 2016). In January 2008, several South Africans who had been relaxing near the bank of the Buffelsjags River at Suurbraak claimed they encountered a river-dwelling mermaid with white skin, black hair, and hypnotic red eyes known locally as the Kaaiman (Pekeur, 2008). In 2009, dozens of eyewitnesses caught sight of a mermaid porpoising and performing aerial acrobatics off the beach of Kiryat Yam, Israel (“Is a Mermaid”, 2009). As recently as 2012, workers at a dam in northern Zimbabwe insisted that mermaids were to blame for mysterious malfunctions and refused to continue their work until the harassing entities were appeased with a traditional beer ritual (Conway-Smith, 2012).
Merfolk number among the most widespread of legendary beings. Diverse cultures around the world have told stories of aquatic humanoid beings with piscine tails. Tales handed down from generation to generation attest to mankind’s relations with merfolk, for good or ill, throughout the ages. Perhaps such lore is merely the product of human imagination, but what are we to make of reports of actual sightings? Historic and more recent claims of seeing mermaids or mermen could be chalked up to mirages, misidentifications, hoaxes, or even mass hysteria. For instance, Columbus might have spied a trio of manatees. Witnesses who saw a mermaid on Mayne Island may have actually seen a human girl posing with a fake mermaid’s tail. Men who refused to continue work on a dam in Zimbabwe due to interference from mermaids might have fallen victim to mass hysteria. Whatever the truth of the matter, belief in merfolk has endured over time and continues to endure, in some locales, to this day. Regardless of the reality, merfolk continue to have a place in the hearts, minds, and imaginations of their land-dwelling mortal counterparts.
Briggs, K. (1978). The vanishing people: fairy lore and legend. New York, NY: Pantheon Books.
Briggs, K. (1979). Abbey lubbers, banshees, and boggarts: an illustrated encyclopedia of fairies. New York, NY: Pantheon Book.
Cohen. D. (1982). The encyclopedia of monsters. New York, NY: Dodd, Mead & Company.
Conway-Smith, E. (2012, February 12). Zimbabwe mermaids appeased by traditional beer ritual. PRI. Retrieved from https://www.pri.org.
Croker, T. C. (1882/2008). Irish fairy legends. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications.
Ó hÓgáin, D. (2006). The lore of Ireland: An encyclopaedia of myth, legend and romance. Woodbridge, England: The Boydell Press.
Pekeur, A. (2008, January 16). Mysterious ‘mermaid’ rises from the river. IOL. Retrieved from https://www.iol.co.za.
Rose, C. (1996). Spirits, fairies, leprechauns, and goblins: an encyclopedia. New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company. Rose, C. (2000). Giants, monsters, and dragons: an encyclopedia of folklore, legend, and myth. New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company.
Rosen, B. (2008). The mythical creatures bible. London, England: Octopus Publishing Group. Salaperäinen, O. (2016). A field guide to fantastical beasts. New York, NY: Metro Books.
Simpson, J. (1987). European mythology (library of the world’s myths and legends). New York, NY: Peter Bedrick Books.
Sykes, E., & Kendall, A. (1952/1993). Who’s who in non-classical mythology (Rev. Ed.). New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
We’re delighted to announce the return of guest columnist Richard H. Fay. He will be writing all three of this week’s posts, as he continues to give us his very well-researched take on the odd and the occult. You can read his blog here, and we also recommend checking out his Zazzle Store, and artwork referred to this piece can be found here.
Most folks, when you say the word “dragon”, envision a four-legged, winged, fire-breathing, reptilian monster. In actuality, although many dragons of both modern popular culture and traditional lore fit snugly into this description, draconic creatures of European myths, legends, and folklore exhibited an amazing variety of forms. Some bore wings, while others went wingless. Some crawled on four or even six legs, while others made due with only two or none at all. Some sported scaly hides, while at least one surprisingly hirsute beast wore a shaggy, stinger-laden coat. Some breathed fire, while others exhaled poisonous fumes or spewed water. The majority possessed just one head, but a few had several.
The English word “dragon” ultimately derives from the Latin draco and the Greek drakōn. The Greek drakon and the Roman draco displayed decidedly serpentine traits such as legless bodies, flickering tongues, and ever-gazing eyes. At times, the eternally watchful monster serpents of ancient Greek myths guarded sacred locales or fabulous treasures. Derived from these Greek models, Roman dragons retained the serpentine appearance of their forebears. Roman artists depicted their draco as an enormous bat-winged serpent. Such depictions would occasionally show the draco breathing fire. A mid twelfth-century bestiary gave the draco the additional attributes of a crest upon its head and the ability to emit a dazzling luminescence. In the astronomical realm, Ptolemy (AD 100?-170?) immortalized the serpentine-style Greco-Roman dragon when he named a sinuous northern constellation Draco.
Moving from the sun-drenched Mediterranean to the mist-shrouded north, draconic creatures of serpentine form featured in Germanic folklore and beliefs. The Old English wyrm, Old High German wurm, and Old Norse ormr, all translate as “snake”. Norse mythology spoke of the Midgardsormr Jörmungandr, the great serpent that, with tail-in-mouth, encircled the middle world of men. The Teutonic epic poem Das Nibelungenlied contained the story of Fafnir, a greedy dwarf metamorphosed into a hideous wingless dragon. Scandinavian sagas and Germanic epic poems also told tales of heroic warriors facing monstrous winged serpents called lindwurms. With hides armored in radiant green-gold or green-silver scales, these draconic beasts of northern Europe guarded golden hoard or beautiful maid. It seems accounts of encounters with lindwurms were not restricted to Germany and Scandinavia, however, since Marco Polo claimed to have sighted such serpents during his journey across the Central Asian steppe.
Medieval bestiaries and psalters frequently contained images of loathly worms, wingless oftentimes two-footed serpentine monstrosities that spread blight and devastation. One such beast of northern England, the Lambton Worm, was said to have had the ability to wrap its loathsome body around its victims in the manner of a constrictor. As described when first found by the truant John Lambton, who was fishing when he should have been attending mass, this worm possessed the rather unique characteristic of nine holes on each side of its mouth. This sounds akin to the seven holes used for respiration found in the eel-like lamprey. A relative of the Lambton Worm, the Wode Worm of Linton, ravaged the northern English countryside until slain by a hero who thrust a blazing block of peat down the worm’s throat and burned it from the inside out.
Another draconic creature depicted in the illustrations of medieval bestiaries, as well as emblazoned upon heraldic arms, was the rapacious wyvern. Looking much more like what most people nowadays think a dragon should look like, the wyvern had a dragon’s head, a bat’s wings, two feet equipped with a raptor’s talons, and a serpent’s body and tail. Oftentimes the tail was tipped in a venomous barb. This particularly nasty dragon breathed poison and spread destruction wherever it went. It also became, according to the language of heraldic symbolism, a representation of might, envy, pestilence, and war.
Austrian tales told of unlucky alpine travelers meeting the fearsome tatzelwurm, a draconic resident of high mountain crags. Cat-faced but otherwise reptilian in appearance, the tatzelwurm was described as having four legs, or just two, or none at all. Descriptions also differed regarding the tatzelwurm’s pelt, which might have been smooth, or lumpy, or scaly, or even hairy. One attribute that seems to remain consistent throughout the accounts is the tatzelwurm’s terrible aggressiveness; it was said that the beast attacked humans without provocation. Swiss traditions featured a similar cat-faced mountain-dwelling wurm known as the stollenwurm, while lore from the French Alps contained a comparable creature known as the arassas It is remotely possible that tales of encounters with the tatzelwurm and its kin arose out of real-life sightings of an alpine cryptid reptile.
In the minds of many people today, the most familiar form of European dragon must surely be the four-footed winged kind as exemplified by Y Ddraig Goch, the red dragon displayed on the Welsh national flag. However, a certain legendary she-dragon of the Rhône river valley, the Tarasque, was said to have prowled about on six legs! This six-legged wingless river monster also possessed a lion’s head, a bear’s paws, a serpent’s tail equipped with a lethally-sharp barb, and a tough leathery carapace adorned with formidable spikes. According to medieval legend, the ravenous Tarasque was the terrifying product of an unholy union between Leviathan (the enormous primordial sea monster described in the Old Testament) and a bonnacon (a mythological horned bovine said to have been endowed with the ability to expel prodigious amounts of scorchingly-hot excrement).
Surprisingly enough, beyond a varying number of legs, draconic creatures of European myths and legends also had a varying number of heads, from one to one hundred or more. In Greek myths, the multiple-headed lava-spewing Typhon acted as a monstrous foe to the Olympian gods. The hundred-headed fiery-eyed Dragon of Ladon served as guardian of the golden apples of the Hesperides. The many-headed dog-bodied hydra poisoned the air and despoiled the land around the Lerna marshes in Argolis. In later times, the Greco-Roman hydra became analogous to the biblical apocalyptic beasts and came to be depicted as a wyvern with several heads. Romanian folk and fairy tales featured Balaur, a finned-and-footed dragon that had as many as twelve serpent’s heads.
Although steely scales formed the typical integument of most dragons of European lore, one rather hirsute beast of medieval French legend bore a shaggy coat. Said to have been a monstrous survivor of the Great Flood, the hair-covered serpent-headed Peluda (also known as La Velue, “the hairy one”) terrorized villagers, destroyed crops, and devoured maidens. To protect itself from attackers, it had the ability to launch lethal stingers from its hairy green pelt. Incredibly invulnerable, the Peluda could only be killed by cutting its serpentine tail in two.
Another dragon of medieval French legend, in this case, one that spewed water, gave its name to ornamental gutter spouts carved in the likenesses of grotesque monsters. The Gargouille of the Seine marshes would churn the waters and create waterspouts to overturn fishing boats and feast on drowned fishermen. It would also drag off and consume livestock. According to the legend, Gargouille’s depredations were ended by Saint Romain, Bishop of Rouen, who cowed the dragon with his crucifix and bishop’s stole and then led it into town to be slain by the townsfolk. As for those grotesquely carved gutter spouts, they came to be called gargoyles.
Draconic creatures of European myths, legends, and folklore, certainly came in a wide variety of forms with a diverse array of traits. Most did share one key attribute, however; whether it be a serpentine head (or heads), body, or tail, they all seemed to have something of the serpent about them. Of course, it could be said that they all shared another characteristic. Whether they had six legs or none, whether they were winged or wingless, whether they had one head or one hundred heads, whether they were scaled or furry, they were all truly awesome beasts.
Big Book of Dragons, Monsters, And Other Mythical Creatures by Ernst and Johanna Lehner. The Book of Dragons & Other Mythical Beasts by Joseph Nigg. Giants, Monsters & Dragons: An Encyclopedia of Folklore, Legend, and Myth by Carol Rose.The Mythical Creatures Bible by Brenda Rosen. A Wizard’s Bestiary by Oberon Zell-Ravenheart and Ash “LeopardDancer” DeKirk.
As I’ve mentioned here before, I love Fine Books & Collections. I used to be a subscriber but, unfortunately, the postal service they use to mail magazines overseas just isn’t arriving in Argentina for some reason. And no one seems to have any clue as to where they are going missing.
So I buy them when I travel to the US, if I happen to spot it at a B&N newsstand. Which I did on my recent mid-pandemic trip to Washington and Philadelphia.
It appears their distribution issues are not just limited to Argentina, because the only copy I was able to snag was the Spring 2020 issue… in October. Still, I grabbed it without hesitation and, unlike the rest of the reading material I bought on the trip, I read this one immediately.
Totally worth it, even if a good chunk of the magazine dealt with the New York Rare Book Week (I assume that got cancelled due to Covid).
Even so, this one represents immersion therapy in a world of classic editions of beloved books, old maps, beautiful craftsmanship and art. Along with my visit to the Philadelphia Art Museum, which had some unexpected highlights in its holdings of Impressionist, Post-Impressionist and Modern art, this was my cultural break during my trip since the Smithsonian museums I am interested in–Air & Space, Art and American History–were closed on the dates I was in town.
My head spends a long time in the future because I’m in the middle of a science fiction novel, my kids ensure that I spend a good chunk of the day very much in the present (with both the joys and the annoyances that come with it), so just stopping everything and enjoying beauty and wonder created decades or centuries ago and seeing into minds who appreciate that sensation just like you do is a way to relax and just let go for a bit. I’m not exaggerating in the least when I say that these magazines are probably among the things I most enjoy reading.
In this one, there are the usual great articles and columns, but two, about the photography of Danny Lyon and the book listing high-tech inventions of the renaissance really stood out. I always leaf through these mags when I have a desire to be transported… and I still haven’t found one that disappoints on rereading.
Recommended (and maybe if enough people buy it, they’ll be able to fix their distribution problems!).
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer. You can check out his literary fiction in Love and Death a narrative that comes together out of several short pieces to tell the story of a group of individuals who never quite realize how closely they are linked. You can check it out here.
My social feeds are essentially composed of two very distinct types of people: friends from my everyday life and people I’ve met through my writing, be that other writers, editors, comic book artists or even cover artists.
The interesting thing is that the people from the writing world are much more likely to be painters or artists than the rest. There’s even a sculptor or two among them. (I can’t say much about music, because I’ve been singing in choirs since childhood, so a LOT of my non-writing friends are in the music scene).
But let’s look at that fine arts trend. People who should be spending an enormous amount of time sweating at the keyboard are apparently spending a good chunk of that at the easel.
Why? Why do these people still feel the need to create even though they’re already building literary works.
Psychologists probably have hundreds of different explanations for this, but my own take, as far as I’m able to read my own impulses (I draw cars. They probably aren’t “fine art” but I like them) is a combination of wanting recognition for having made something beautiful combined with a desire for immortality.
But shouldn’t the writing itself take care of these urges? After all, my writing friends are mainly published authors who have had at least a few editors tell them “I love this, I’d like to publish it.” Added to this is the fact that somewhere before that, people were already telling them: “hey, this is really good, you should consider publishing.” So the desire for approval is, to a degree, met by writing.
And immortality? No writer knows how that will play out. Melville died a forgotten failure. So did Poe. And then there were the writers who wrote the bestsellers from a hundred years ago. Lauded and fêted, they are forgotten today (if you want to have a bit of fun, here’s a list of the ten bestselling books per year, starting in 1900… a LOT of utterly forgotten writers on that one).
Worse, there’s the survival factor. Do we have any idea whether Beowulf was a good ancient story or just mediocre hackwork? Not in the least, because its contemporaries haven’t survived. It’s great because it’s here. Same with Gilgamesh. So maybe only writers who get their work in print books will survive. Or maybe sea levels will rise and paper books will be used to absorb excess moisture in houses, and only a few authors published in non-paying online journals will represent this generation of writers. We just don’t know.
So why, to that, add painting? My own theory is that adopting another art form allows authors to create without performance anxiety. When we’re writing, we’re always creating for an imaginary editor, a reader or a Pulitzer Prize judge (to each his own). What we create has to be good. It has to be literary. It has to entertain, or teach, or preach, or emote. It has to be memorable.
And under that pressure, some of the innocence of creation cedes. The joy of writing a good paragraph might be exactly the same, but it is tempered by the fear that it might not be good enough. And that’s true whenever you’re writing for publication, whether you’re a writer with a single story published in a 4-the-luv magazine, or a Nobel Prize winner (admittedly, I’ve never been a Nobel Prize winner, but I’ve read things where they say this).
But painting a picture? Sure, I can sit down with a YouTube tutorial and do a watercolor. I can buy a box of colored pencils and draw cars. Or I can go straight to oil paint and pretend to be Renoir. My friends and family will say things like “that’s very nice”, and I will have the satisfaction of having given pleasure to someone via something I created and left behind palpable proof of my existence to survive in garage sales and flea markets long after I’ve gone from this Earth.
And no one ever rejects my drawings.
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer from Argentina. His book of interconnected short stories, Love and Death, gives a complete narrative of several families across generations, allowing the reader to delight not only in the events of the stories themselves but in the irony of the twists and turns of fate. If that sounds like something you’d enjoy, you can check it out here.
Yesterday (I’m writing this on September 1st, you’ll likely se it later), I responded to a tweet about Picasso’s African influences in which I said that people who ignore the African roots of some of what the great Spaniard did was due mainly to ignorance as opposed to a willful attempt to erase it.
That kind of stuck in my head. For most of my life, I enjoyed art as a reasonably educated layman might. I was aware of the more popular painters, enjoyed art museums, and even knew the difference between a Flemish Grand Master and an Impressionist (albeit I confused these with the Post-Impressionists). I even had a weird preference for Den Bosch and Bruegel.
I wasn’t exactly ignorant… but I would have been one of those who didn’t know about the African roots of Picasso’s work.
A funny thing happened. I married a graphic designer.
Suddenly, I was getting dragged into the parts of museums I only glanced at in a cursory way before. The abstract painters. Calder. Kandinsky.
I’ll admit that I still find figurative art much more attractive than abstract art… and (horror of horrors) I’ll spend a long time in museums staring at technically wonderful but artistically superseded pastoral landscapes (is there anything more peaceful than a good idyll?). The difference is that I can now identify a Calder mobile from a hundred feet away, and I know what Dürer did.
And I can identify Picasso’s roots, and argue that Cézanne was the father of cubism. A true art fan would tear me a new one, of course (I’d get my revenge in the subsequent discussion of literature), but at least he would take the time to do so, and not consider me beneath notice.
Hell, I can even identify Bauhaus design…
Who’da thunk it?
I suppose that the whole point of this is to say that the art world can be quite intimidating to outsiders, but if I can get a deeper understanding, so can anyone.
In the meantime, I’ll let the experts speak of the deeper meaning of things.
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose work spans not only several lengths but numerous genres, too. His latest novel is a survival horror adventure book entitled Jungle Lab Terror which deals with advances in genetic engineering which, though seemingly fantastic, are happening today. You can check it out here.
I’m going to be frank: I find the phrase “pop culture” to be a contradiction in terms. This should surprise no one… my blog is called Classically Educated, after all.
Now, this doesn’t mean that I find no value in popular expressions. They can, for short periods of time, be entertaining, even brilliant. Who hasn’t enjoyed a Hollywood blockbuster or delighted in a trashy 70s paperback?
In my own particular case, I often write popular entertainment. While you can certainly make a case for Outside as being something much more than a fun science fiction novel (it is a fun science fiction novel, but it’s also a very pointed look at current social trends), I’m pretty sure Ice Station Death and Jungle Lab Terror will be afforded no such leniency, no matter how well-written they are.
So am I a hypocrite for what I’m about to say? I hope not.
I believe there is a huge gulf not only between high and pop culture, but also between those who enjoy high culture and those who find it boring, elitist and stuffy. In fact, that’s one of the few distinctions between people I even care about.
Note that I didn’t say that enjoying pop entertainment is a negative trait. Go ahead, listen to reggaeton, read a comic book or watch the latest transformers film. It’s all good. The problem is when you’re listening to Beethoven’s Eroica and unable to sit still for the duration because it is sadly lacking in explosions and no one is twerking nearby or on-screen. That’s where I feel there is something wrong.
There is a difference between art that is fast-paced, superficial and ephemeral and that which requires a little more introspection and calm to appreciate it. That doesn’t mean you have to like every expression of high culture, of course. I have a really hard time with Opera, for example, and some abstract art is, in my opinion, pretty sterile, from the manifesto all the way through every execution.
However, being able to appreciate art that requires an effort is, to me, the sign of an intellectually curious human (even if you then decide–for yourself–that that particular piece of art is not particularly valuable).
Of course, this discussion drew worldwide attention when the pop artists were at work, attempting to blur the lines between the two forms. Unfortunately (for their idea, at least), the solid philosophical grounding and thought-provoking execution landed them in the most ironic of spaces: the pop artists ended up as an unmovable part of high culture.
Regardless of the failings of Warhol and his ilk in blurring the lines, they DO blur, but only time can do so. Hokusai’s prints were very much pop art (especially the erotic ones, I would say), but have crossed the gulf to enter the realm of high art. Likewise Dickens’ novels and, sadly, Opera, which should have been strangled at birth, but somehow became socially acceptable (this is the art form that I really have to make an effort towards).
Historically, the theater may be the medium that has struggled with this dichotomy most often as, on one hand, it needed to keep those seats filled while, at the same time, keeping the nobility and better class of citizens happy as well, because not doing so brought consequences. Shakespeare was famous for combining erudite classical references and the Greek tragic tradition with juvenile dick jokes which are only funny if you’re really, really lowbrow and laugh only because it’s a dick joke.
What will be considered high art in the future? I don’t know. It might be a superman comic or the Muppet Babies or AC/DC or Twilight (it will NOT be reggaeton). We don’t know. What we do know is that most of what we call “culture” today will fall by the wayside and be forgotten in much the same way as most of the major, popular “culture” of the past is utterly gone today. That ephemeral nature is the main external difference between the two.
But in my mind the big difference is in the kind of people each type of culture attracts. I’ve found that regardless of what popular entertainment (whether it be Lady Gaga or Star Trek or TikTok Videos) they prefer, the people I get along with also have an appreciation for high culture. Whether that makes them more valuable or not as friends is a very personal question. Your own mileage might vary.
But in my own particular case, I already know the answer.
Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine novelist and short story writer whose work straddles the line. His linked collection of short fiction, Love and Death is definitely highbrow. His fast-selling monster novel Ice Station Death… isn’t.
One of the nice things abut buying books from Folio Society is that they send you little gifts with the books. My personal favorite is the annual Folio Diary, but another wonderful little gift is Folio, the company’s magazine.
This magazine is about what you’d expect from the house organ of a company dedicated to creating beautiful publications (and one which I’ve featured before). It’s a bit of an advertising piece disguised as a self-indulgent series of interviews of creators, behind-the-scenes look at how the final products are made and paeans to the finished product.
It is an utterly wonderful read.
The images of Folio artwork in this edition (Autumn 2018), are wonderful. The central topic is the Folio edition of Atlas Shrugged, which, love it or loathe it, is undoubtedly a hugely important book that seems even more relevant to political discourse today than when it was first published. Politics aside, Folio’s artwork is a wink and a nod to the era in which it was published, and takes us back to the glories of the Art Deco age. It’s like standing in the lobby of the Chrysler Building.
But that’s not the only article. Food, mythological beasts and murder mysteries are all illustrated in the pages of this publication, because they are also illustrated in the books the magazine is trying to sell. You get a look at the creative process behind the art, a guided tour given by editors and just a general sense of the loving way the books are put together.
Probably the most effective piece of advertising I’ve ever been exposed to.
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose literary collection of linked short stories is entitled Love and Death. You can buy it here.