Valentine's Day Gets My Goat

Need I offer an explanation as to why Valentine’s Day is irritating? Methinks I don’t. In fact, let’s switch gears: Instead of focusing on the negative and spewing some petty, vitriolic tirade – a frequent occurrence here at Belly Blog, I realize – we should give in to the (hollow, meaningless) spirit of this (sham) holiday. And so, let us celebrate a tale of love involving our friend, Pan, to whom I introduced you a short while ago. Remember him? Handsome fellow.

Arnold Böcklin, Idyll (detail of Pan), 1875; oil on canvas; Munich, Neue Pinakothek.

Now, Pan has had many amorous adventures, most of which have ended in rejection, unfortunately.

I shouldn’t even mention Syrinx, but…

Hendrick van Balen the Elder and Follower of Jan Brueghel the Elder, Pan Pursuing Syrinx, possibly after 1615; oil on copper; London, National Gallery.

Understandably, Pan did not take it well when Syrinx, instead of being civil and just grabbing coffee or something, decided that she’d rather be transformed into vegetation. That can be pretty tough on a guy. But needless to say, Pan is not the smoothest operator either. To be fair, being half-goat probably doesn’t help. Indeed, because of his ill fortune in love, it may be that Valentine’s Day also gets Pan’s goat, so to speak. However, we are focusing on the positive today! We are focusing on love! Or its physical approximation, at least! And thus, whether Valentine’s Day gets Pan’s goat or not, he can always look back fondly on the time when he got his goat, quite literally. Behold:

Pan and a Goat, first century CE; marble; from the Villa of the Papyri at Herculaneum; now in the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli.

Based on this sculpture, it seems that Pan realized that he was previously boxing above his weight, so to speak, and decided to pursue the other species for which his hybridity qualifies him as a suitor; quite successfully, too, by the looks of things. Pan’s partner is offering none of the troublesome resistance or headlong flight with which his human crushes reacted to his advances. Indeed, Pan here seems quite the Casanova, whispering sweet nothings to his barnyard beau as they… well, you can see what they’re doing.

This sculpture was probably crafted in the first century. It was found in Herculaneum, one of the cities buried by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 CE. It is just one of about 75 sculptures that decorated one of the most lavish private residences left to us from the ancient Roman world: the Villa of the Papyri, so named for its remarkable library of thousands of papyrus scrolls. This site was excavated around 1750 with the finds – like all of those recovered from Pompeii, Herculaneum, and other Vesuvian cities in this period – going into the collection of the Spanish Bourbon King of Naples (which at this time was King Charles VII, later Charles III of Spain).

While most of the sculptures from the Villa of the Papyri were put on display at the Museo Archeologico Nazionale, which was founded by Charles (it was originally called the Museo Borbonico), and where they can still be seen today, more lascivious objects, such as our sculpture of Pan on the pull, went into what was referred to as the gabinetto segreto (“secret cabinet”). Only individuals of “mature years and known morality” with permission from the king could view the contents of the cabinet, though it has for long stretches been closed completely. It has recently been open to the public (since 2005, I believe), but was inaccessible when I visited the museum in 2010, due to renovations (which, taking into account the efficiency, organization, and financial situation of the Italians, should be finished sometime around 2378). The segregation and censorship of these objects is a fascinating tale in itself (summarized briefly at the above link), and also impacted profoundly scholars’ views of ancient Roman culture and society by making unavailable significant archeological evidence. Even the great antiquarian Johann Joachim Winckelmann, considered by some the father of art history, despite desiring to view the cabinet in the interest of completeness of knowledge (and maybe some other interests too), quipped that he did not want to be the first to ask for permission.  

Later scholars were bolder, however, and the sculpture we are employing as our Valentine’s Day parable stirred the… um, let’s say: “hearts;” yes, it stirred the hearts of some unlikely individuals.

One was the Baron Dominique Vivant Denon (1747-1825), whose name you may recognize from the Musée du Louvre, where one of the wings – the one containing the Mona Lisa, now that I think about it – is named after him. Denon was Napoleon’s arts minister and the first director of the Louvre, which was formed after the 1789 French Revolution from the former royal collections, and came to include works of art that Napoleon plundered in the wake of his conquests. Denon was also an artist and in 1793 released a collection of erotic engravings, l’Oeuvre priapique, from which the following sheet comes. You will recognize that the subject is taken from our sculpture, which Denon likely viewed during his time as the French ambassador to Naples (1779-1785).

Denon, Pan mating with a Goat, from l’Oeuvre priapique, 1790-1794; etching; London, British Museum.

In Denon’s version the situation seems less consensual. Pan’s profile, with large nose and jutting jaw, gives him the appearance of a lecherous old codger. Additionally, his grip on the tuft of fur under the goat’s chin appears less considerate than that of his sculpted precursor: The wide-open eye of the goat in Denon’s etching suggests that his little beard is being yanked roughly. Contrastingly, the languidly half-open eyes of the goat in the marble pair make direct contact with those of his partner, conveying an unnerving tenderness.

More unsettling than either of the previous examples, though, is this one:

Unknown artist, Pan Engaged in a Sexual Act with a Goat, c. 1768-1805; bodycolor and watercolor on a sheet of card; London, British Museum.

What to say here? The slightly unnerving, but still somewhat comical, affection of the sculpted couple and the vaguely Kobe-esque atmosphere of the Frenchman’s print give way to a sickeningly vulgar, rapturous clinch of goat and man-goat. The deviant devotion of this pair to their aberrant activities is punctuated revoltingly by the goat’s tongue, which slithers out toward its partner’s upturned visage like an earthworm escaping its burrow during a rainstorm.

Incongruously, this small watercolor belonged to Rick Santorum – oops, I’m sorry, that’s incorrect. Forgive me; it just suits him so well that his name slipped out. The painting in fact belonged to Charles Townley (1737-1805), who you can see on the right in the scene below:

Johann Zoffany, Charles Townley’s Library at 7 Park Street, Westminster, c. 1781-1783; oil on canvas; Burnley (UK), Towneley Hall Art Gallery and Museum. Out of respect to Mr. Townley, I should make clear that I am in no way comparing him to Rick Santorum.

Townley was born into a wealthy, non-noble family from Lancashire. After taking his Grand Tour around Italy, he became enamored with the art of antiquity and would go on to become one of the most prolific collectors of his time. His collection is now in the British Museum, and many of his most significant pieces are included in the above painting. However, much like the marble sculpture of Pan locked away in the secret cabinet, the little watercolor – which Townley either commissioned, bought from an unknown artist, or perhaps made himself(?) – is nowhere to be seen. It’s fairly funny to think of Townley and his buddies, after posing as cultivated, dignified academics for Zoffany, retiring to another room in their little wigs and leggings to have a laugh over more risqué, and in this case, frankly ridiculous works. At least, I hope having a laugh is all they were doing over it. Anything else wouldn’t be so funny.

So, all this to say: Happy Valentine’s Day! I hope many of you are as lucky in love as our friend Pan. Actually, I hope that you’re luckier. I don’t want anyone reduced to shagging livestock. Unless, of course, that’s what you’re into: In which case, have at it. It’s still a free country, after all. This guy agrees.

(Note: I do not recommend thinking of the above image when you are wooing your sweetheart tomorrow. It would be quite frightening to have such a picture pop into one’s head during an intimate moment. Hopefully no one’s Valentine’s Day will be ruined by having said scene seared into his or her psyche.)

[In composing the entry above, I consulted Classical Art: From Greece to Rome, by Mary Beard and John Henderson (Oxford University Press, 2001). It is a thought-provoking, original, and highly accessible introduction to the art of antiquity, and I would certainly recommend it. In fact, let me know if you want to borrow my copy and I’ll be happy to lend it to you.]