Now, to reflect on the image I have chosen to aspire to and to reflect the key components of my sense of self. Let us start with the central figure of the hippocamp, a unique animal which straddled the realms of the mythological and the real. Initially, the hippocamp appeared as an ornamental motif on ancient Greek and Italian artifacts including vases, coins, jewelry, sculpture, and mosaics (Loxton and Prothero 2013). Its first appearance coincided with the first depictions of the triton (merman), a figure with which it is often associated (Loxton and Prothero 2013). It should be understood that at this time, its appearance was not referential; like the triton, it was neither considered an animal, nor a deity and during this era it appeared “almost exclusively in art, where they were often depicted as steeds for mythological beings associated with the sea” (Loxton and Prothero 2013:189).Archaeologically speaking, the hippocamp is described as a “‘difficult problem, since he plays no part in any mythological tale’” (Loxton and Prothero 2013:189). However, the creature likely arose due to the commonly held association between horses and Poseidon (Loxton and Prothero 2013), who -- if I remember my early education of Greek mythology at all correctly -- created the first horse as a courtship gift.
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
Brief aside: I visited the Roman Baths in Bath in 2012, where tour guides are dressed in era appropriate clothing and signs warn visitors not to touch the water, which continues to emanate from the springs but is of a lively vernal hue.
The hippocamp does begin to appear in textual references with the poetry of Virgil, however, an author read everywhere in Christian Europe (Loxton and Prothero 2013). Virgil described how Proteus “‘rides o’er / the sea / drawn by strange creatures / horse before / and fish behind’” (Loxton and Prothero 2013:191). The hippocamp was referred to as hydrippus in the ancient Greek text Physiologus, published between the second and fourth centuries in Alexandria as a collection of mythological animals reframed “in the service of overt Christian allegory” (Loxton and Prothero 2013:191). In this text, the hippocamp was described as being king of the fishes and a symbol of Moses, “‘the first of all prophets’” (Loxton and Prothero 2013:191). So in a sense, then, the hippocamp is a visionary animal.
Image courtesy of Strange Science.
This motif was carried by the Romans into Britain, who invaded around 43 C.E. (Loxton and Prothero 2013). This explains the appearance of the hippocamp in Aberlemno, Scotland in Pictish art from the 9th century (Loxton and Prothero 2013). Eventually, the hippocamp became naturalized to the region through heraldry, the coat of arms of Belfast, Ireland being a prime example (Loxton and Prothero 2013).
Next, the hippocamp crossed from legend into reality when it was incorporated into the encyclopedias and natural history texts produced during the Late Middle Ages (Loxton and Prothero 2013). These texts dropped the allegorical references to Biblical figures (Loxton and Prothero 2013). Following this, the hippocamp was often included among the animals housed in the popular twelfth and thirteenth century bestiaries, where it was once again a moralizing and allegorical figure (Loxton and Prothero 2013). Around this time, the hippocamp made an appearance in Albertus Magnus’s 13th century book De animalibus, where it was called equus maris (sea horse) and described as being a very real animal with fish being its dietary staple, naturally fearful of humankind, and unable to survive on land without its natural element (Loxton and Prothero 2013).
A woodcut depicting the aquatic counterparts of well known land animals (cow, dog, and horse) from the 1491 encyclopedia Hortus Sanitatis.
Image courtesy of Strange Science.
The hippocamp was called hrosshvalr (horse whale) by the Icelandic during the 12th century (Loxton and Prothero 2013). Described in a passage discussing useful whale species and frightening sea monsters from the 12th century book Konungs Skuggsja (The King’s Mirror), an instruction manual for princes, it was known as a fundamentally loathsome species of creature, “‘natural enemies of mankind’”, attacking ships at will (Loxton and Prothero 2013:194). Additionally, the hrosshvalr appeared in Abraham Ortelius’s 1585 map of Iceland and Olaus Magnus’s 1555 account of the peoples, animals, and landscapes of Scandinavia (Loxton and Prothero 2013). Magnus (no relation to the aforementioned Albertus Magnus), however, referred to it as equus marinus and claimed it could be sighted regularly in the stretch of sea between Britain and Norway (Loxton and Prothero 2013).
Image courtesy of Skeptical Humanities.
Conrad Gesner’s Historiae animalium (1551-1555), from which my rendition of the hippocamp is taken, handled the creature with a much more rigorous degree of skepticism. Gesner described the hippocamp as a creature of pure invention, imagined by princes and scholars in their “‘wish to signify their dominion over land and sea’” producing a conjoined animal which symbolized both realms (Loxton and Prothero 2013:202).
The hippocamp as seen in the Historiae animalium (1551-1555).
Then there is, of course, the symbolism of the sea itself. In early modern literature, the sea represented “resistance to containment” (Mentz 2009:998). The oceans were also understood to be a symbol of “pure alterity” (Mentz 2009:998), complete otherness. During this period, the sea was understood to encapsulate both hostility and fertility (Mentz 2009), a life giving force that also had the devastating potential to claim life. Unlike freshwater lakes and rivers, the salinity of sea water was part of what made it so hostile (Mentz 2009). The vast ocean with its murky depths at this time also acted to symbolize “places in the world into which mortal bodies cannot go” (Mentz 2009:1003). With a growing international and nautical culture (Mentz 2009), it was the vehicle which facilitated adventure and daring -- as well as devastating loss -- during the 16th century.
A copper plate engraving showing Johannes Hevelius's Selenographia sive Lunae Descriptio (1647), a map of the moon first published in Danzig.
Image courtesy of The Renaissance Mathematics.
During the Elizabethan era, metamorphosis became an important theme. “Metamorphosis is associated with wit in late Elizabethan culture as it figures the transformative powers of imagination” (Brown 2004:160). As an attribute, and not a literary trope, it was associated with women, who were recognized at the time as being more changeable than their male counterparts (Brown 2004). The moon was correctly understood to influence water, holding sway over earth, as well as being a symbol of that which is mutable (Brown 2004). Its special influence over women was described in Michael Drayton's 1595 poem Endimion and Phoebe, because “‘That as of Plannets shee most variable, / so of all creatures they most mutable’” (Brown 2004:160). Additionally, the moon was associated with the goddess Diana, and by extension, virginity and chastity; as such, it was easily associated with the Virgin Queen Elizabeth (Yates 2003). By extension, the moon also became an appropriate planetary symbol of Britain (Yates 2003). Commentators speaking of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream have pointed out the ways in which the moon has “an intoxicating effect on all the characters and incites bizarre and illicit behavior” (Smith 2011). In all likelihood, this relates to the origins of the word lunacy and its etymological reference to the power of lunar forces. Importantly, the play connects to the moon to dreaming (Smith 2011), perhaps the single most important association to one such as I.
A 16th century woodcut, later copied by Camille Flammarion in 1888, showing the discovery of that fabled location where heaven and earth meet.
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
At last, we come to the final aspect of my impresa: the motto. I have thought long and hard about my motto (hey, it seems like you only get one impresa in life, so you'd better choose wisely), and it only took about eight or ten weeks to think of. Initially, I tried Roger Ascham's double translation method to feel out the language. I must stress, at this juncture, that I have only a beginner's handle on Latin; I can conjugate a simple sentence with an objective noun, a subjective noun, a verb and maybe -- if I'm pushing it -- a simple ablative such as "with" or "from." What I wanted to say was something along the lines of "great heights from great depths," but none of the translations (with their ensuing back translations) were capable of encapsulating this thought. Then, I remembered from my initial foray into amateur Latin a phrase which has stuck with me all my life: abyssus abyssum invocat. This phrase, actually a psalm (Psalm 42: 7), can translate in different ways, since abyssus can be translated literally to mean "abyss" and figuratively to mean "deep." So the phrase, in fact, has a double meaning; "the abyss calls to the abyss" or "the deep calls to the deep." The abyss, in this case, is also allegorical, understood to mean an interior state of the psyche (Blodgett and Coward 2010). Heraclitus asserted that the psyche, limitless in its being, should be traversed in all directions "'so deeply is it rooted (abyssed) in logos'" (Blodgett and Coward 2010:99). The idea of a dark and foreboding interior cavern of thought lingered in Western philosophy, as even Neitzche said, "'behind every cave in (the thinker) there is... a still deeper cave... an abyss behind every bottom, beneath every foundation'" (Blodgett and Coward 2010:99). There is, of course, the linguistic connection between depth and profundity; we call an idea deep or shallow based on its breadth, scope, and potential for generating other thoughts. Additionally, we call something -- such as a work of art or literature -- deep when it is difficult to think about or requires a concerted mental effort. So there is a connection between our concept of the physical dimensions of expanse and our understanding of the mental realm, and an ingrained idea that big thoughts come from -- or require us to go -- down below.
But I didn't want my motto to be a psalm. Although I was raised Anglican, I would describe my current spiritual affiliations as something akin to animism or neopaganism. I played with various forms of the Latin concept of depth, which can be described either with the words imis or profundus, I opted for the latter, since it can also be translated quite plainly and simply as "profound." In this way, I retain the dual meaning of the phrase in its new configuration profundus abyssum invocat, meaning "the depths call to the deep" and "the profound calls to the deep," but also "the profound invokes the abyss", since invocat is the obvious root of the English word "invoke." The motto is of particular import, given that it must both complement and explain the pictorial elements of the device while also demonstrating my wit and learning. Greatly relieved was I when, with the help of my professor, the phrase met the approval of esteemed Latin grammarians, who expressed their amusement at this witticism (I was told). Not only does it play with language, it also indexically refers to critical texts in Western philosophy. Finally, the motto is in keeping with the imagery of my impresa, since the hippocamp is a creature which adroitly navigates the depths of a hostile and boundless sea.
The symbolism of the impresa is deeply personal as well as expository. Not only does the impresa tell the world something about who you are as a person, but it also provides words to live by. Mary's sa vertu m'atire says much about her fierce intellect and her desire for power, but it also proffers words of strength to turn to during the hard times, and my impresa should do the same.
For as long as I can remember, I have suffered from manic depression. Officially meeting the diagnosis for both borderline personality disorder and ADHD, my moods are as changeable as the many forms of the moon. Living as I do, with massive shifts in personality, it often feels like I harbour a monster within me; at turns, socially withdrawn, at others a man-eating beast but sometimes vivacious and friendly. However, I do personally believe that this emotional disregulation and penchant for extremes allows for insights and revelations not otherwise possible with an even-keeled psyche. Grappling with monsters and dark shadows allows for an unprecedented depth of thought, since the deepest of thoughts come from darkest of places (see anything at all pertaining to Existentialism if you don't believe me). The words are both an affirmation and a source of resilience for trying times; fear not the dark places, for they yield a fathomless potential. In this sense, embracing my own sometimes problematic idiosyncrasies is what allows me to navigate the hostile environment of a dark mind. On a slightly brighter note (pun intended), I am also a deep believer in the portentous potential of dreaming, and am an avid lucid dreamer, so the moon's inclusion in the scene seemed vital.
What's important to recognize here is that the impresa is an exercise in allegory from beginning to end, reliant upon allusion, intertextual references, and a series of mental linkages dependant upon symbolic form. Moreover, there is a strong relationship between text and image, and each aspect of this configuration should be mutually reinforcing. Perhaps the most beneficial part of this exercise comes from the fact that constructing an impresa appears to present a unique opportunity to both constitute and essentialize aspects of the self, aspects which are subsequently encoded through allusion before being presented to the world.
Sources Cited
Blodgett, E.D., with Harold Coward
2010 Silence, the Word, and the Sacred. Waterloo, Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press.
Brown, Georgia
2004 Redefining English Literature. Cambridge, United Kingdom: Cambridge University Press.
Loxton, Daniel, with Donald R. Prothero
2013 Abominable Science: Origins of the Yeti, Nessie, and Other Famous Cryptids. New York, New York: Columbia University Press.
Mentz, Steven
2009 Toward a Blue Cultural Studies: The Sea, Maritime Culture, and Early Modern English Literature. Literature Compass 6 (5): 997-1013.
Smith, Nicole. “The Symbol of the Moon in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ by Shakespeare.” December 6, 2011. Accessed March 20, 2016. http://www.articlemyriad.com/symbol-moon-midsummer-nights-dream/
Yates, Frances
2003 The Occult Philosophy in the Elizabethan Age. New York, New York: Routledge.
No comments:
Post a Comment