Medusa: More than Just a Head of Hair

Watching Clash of the Titans, reminded me of another movie I had seen decades ago in which Medusa also figured prominently. We were then living on a farm in Negros and when we ventured into the city for the day, I begged my father to bring me to the cinema. He pointed out that the only thing playing was a horror flick which, he was sure, would be too frightening. Vehemently, I insisted that I would be very brave. Needless to say, I spent most of the movie facing the back of my seat.

I have since been able to look up on the internet that horror film of my childhood. It was entitled “Gorgon”, the generic name for the sisters that formed the trio of which Medusa was part. Now I wonder what I had found so frightening. It was just a woman with too much make up and a bad hair day of mythic proportions!

Admittedly, the Classical monster in the Clash of the Titans was creepier. I cannot imagine finding the courage to take on an adversary who could slither around and turn you into a large paperweight for all eternity. Yet when given a glimpse of Medusa’s face, I wasn’t actually repulsed. With the high cheekbones, blazing almond eyes, full lips, what’s there not to like? In some ways, I can relate to the little boy in a Woody Allen film that confesses to a perverse interest in the evil queen.

Archetypes abound in the juxtaposition of the beserpented one’s sultry looks with the fair, selfless image of Princess Andromeda. The present Hollywood remake, despite its many liberties with the tales of the Ancients, reminds us of a timeless duality: the whore and the virgin. Medusa is the exotic temptress who lives in a palace on the other side of the world. The symbolism of her ability to turn a man rock-hard in moments is quite clear, though perhaps too racy to elaborate before a classroom of children. Meanwhile, dutiful Andromeda remains at home, serving her people, ready to throw herself before leviathans to save the kingdom. This intertwined duality is well appreciated in the Philippines’ local incarnation of the lady with the diadem of vipers. In the various versions that have come out through the years, Valentina and Darna are portrayed as childhood friends and even as long-lost twins.

Medusa’s reptilian strands are writhing with subtler meanings. For centuries, images ranging from Mary Magdalen wiping feet with her long tresses to Farah Fawcett showing off her blow-dried blondness, demonstrate just how hair has always been a universal fetish. This is why it must be controlled – braided, powdered, veiled, shaved. Hair can even play a role in politics. Think of the galvanizing message of sacrifice, courage, and acceptance which former President Aquino delivered to the nation by refusing to hide her shocking white streak in the last months of her illness. Think too of all the candidates who are trying to project illusions of eternal youth by using decades-old pictures taken when they still sported thick pompadours. Interestingly, some years back, when a militant group printed posters which depicted another Philippine president as Valentina, the press they were using was raided by government agents.

The combination of snakes and a woman’s locks is quite explosive. It conjures all manner of contradictory emotions from fear to lust. It is both potent and perilous. What was so arousing when flowing in soft lengths, had suddenly turned murderous. Since snakes are phallic symbols as well, this is tantamount to a double whammy! An uncomfortable brush with homosexuality is hinted at by the revelation that what had once been the object of men’s desires has now taken on a masculine form. Simultaneously, what was desired is also feared as a terrible weapon that could bite, poison, and petrify. The swords have turned on the gladiators. With such a disquieting configuration, there can be only one appropriate reaction: decapitation!

Yet, even death does not grant the poor creature peace. Upon separation from the rest of the body, her head is thrown into a sack and bandied about to fell monsters, win kingdoms, revenge affronts. Even if the kraken never gets to devour Andromeda, another woman must still be sacrificed to restore the established order.

We realize just how unfair things are when we delve deeper into Medusa’s story. We learn that Perseus’s hapless enemy was once quite beautiful. Unfortunately, her beauty could tempt even the gods. Poseidon was soon in hot pursuit. In the temple of Athena, his archrival, he finally managed to have his way with his quarry. Strangely, Athena’s wrath over this desecration of her shrine fell not on her hoary adversary but on the winsome maiden. Apparently, it is the fate of mortals to endure the anger of the heavens, no matter how arbitrary. Athena promptly turned Medusa into the infamous monster of lore.

Arbitrariness was a central theme of a Classical art exhibit I had seen in the Liebieghaus museum in Frankfurt. It stressed that the gods of Greece and Rome were far from perfect beings whose every move was just, and wise. They were impulsive, lecherous, jealous, and worse. In other words, they were very human but on a grander scale.

The rest of the tale of our luckless lass was just as instructive about the impunity with which the gods reigned. It turns out that Perseus’ slaughtered foe was bitterly mourned by her sisters, the other two Gorgons. The intensity of the sisters’ grief was such that they let loose powerful, haunting wails heard all the way in Mount Olympus. Somehow this detail made the narrative suddenly more moving. It drove home the point that even a monster can be missed.

Lulled by the Gorgons’ heart-breaking song, Athena herself became entranced. It was in trying to replicate the plaintive sound that the wise goddess invented the reed pipe. Eagerly, the Patroness of Athens then went before her fellow divinities to demonstrate her new creation. To her surprise, she was ridiculed for the facial contortions blowing the pipe required. In a rage, Athena destroyed and cursed her instrument. Innocent of its fey fate, the satyr Marsyas later restored the reed. The music he produced was so beautiful that he earned the ire of the gods. This time, Apollo challenged him to a contest. When Marsyas lost, the sun god commanded that the satyr be flayed alive.

Walking through that Frankfurt exhibition hall filled with Classical statuary, I was surprised to find a room dominated by a flat screen on which pop star Robbie Williams was performing his hit, “Rock Dj”. I only understood the connection when Robbie, trying to impress a bunch of roller-skating fashionistas who were ignoring him, resorted to taking off all his clothes. He eventually tore off his own skin and flesh, leaving just a bloodied skeleton. The message was clear: the artist was exposing the truth that even those who were supposed to be leaders in the pursuit of beauty could really be parasites and vampires feeding on the bodies of the exploited.

In a most imaginative way, the Frankfurt show illuminated why Marsyas has, for many centuries, been a symbol for augury, for speaking truth to authority. The ordeal of this innocent musician was the subject of works by many great artists. The satyr seemed to have served as a reminder, even in different ages, that those who ruled could be whimsical and unjust. Of course, some may, as well, have smugly read into the story a warning that those who dared challenge authority could lose their skin. As a closing piece, the exhibit featured an exquisite Botticelli portrait of a Renaissance woman wearing a medallion of Marsyas.

In a similar vein, the tale of Medusa and her terrible head has meant different things in various contexts. Even though, like Marsyas, the erstwhile beauty had also been unfairly punished by the powerful, goodness still arose from her tragedy. In the movie Clash of the Titans, it is the agency of the Gorgon’s awesome gaze which saves Argos from the catastrophe unleashed by the gods.

Of course, there will always be those who only see one side of the story. tired tourists will note. By placing Cellini’s sculpture of Perseus and Medusa in Florence’s main piazza along with Michelangelo’s David, the town fathers may have wanted to show how their beloved city was capable of felling formidable opponents. Happily, this message is no longer unchallenged. A feminist writer has dryly pointed out that the statues’ arrangement show the biases of the ruling cabal of men: all the works depicting females are consigned to the back. Except for the monument to Judith, the prominent spots are reserved for sculptures glorifying males. The only ladies present in the front row have been beheaded (as in the case of Medusa) or been the victim of violation (as in the Rape of a Sabine).

So amazing is the efficacy of the head of serpents that it has long been used as an icon to scare away evil spirits. The Gorgon in all her glory is the center of the Corfu temple fragment, one of the oldest surviving pediments from Greece. With her proud stance, Medusa has been reincarnated as a fearless guardian, ready to save her people with her icy stare. Such protective devices are known as apotropaic symbols, or in Irish speaking areas, sheela na gig.

Three interesting examples dating to the 18^th century can actually be found in Bohol. The bell towers of Baclayon and Dauis churches both feature heads with bulging eyes as does the inner wall of Loboc’s convento or priests’ quarters. These are thought to ward off demons. A friend of mine thinks it significant that the Boholano symbols appear to be male. Pointing to their fierce scowls, a feature that links them with their Classical antecedents, she thinks that these prove that sometimes, men can just be as scary as any Greek harpy, regardless of hairstyle.

Celebrated painters like Caravaggio and Rubens have essayed renditions of Medusa’s awesome visage. Shelley even wrote a poem on this subject as inspired by a work in the Uffizi attributed to Leonardo. In our times, we have the famous logo of Gianni Versace. This was selected by the Italian designer as his personal symbol recognizing perhaps that the Gorgon’s head was an image of terror but also of beauty. Like the volcanoes of Versace’s native southern region, the crown of snakes stood for both destruction and creation.

Despite a long history of vilification, artistic visionaries now see in the Medusa’s head the affirmations that, out of tragedy and injustice, retribution and renewal could still be obtained.

Allegory of the Four Continents in Loboc, Bohol

Loboc Allegory

VISITORS TO Loboc in Bohol come mostly to take a ride on the restaurant barges that ply the river. Few will bother to explore the town’s ancient church with its huge convento (or priests’ quarters) that houses many treasures.

The Jesuits worked in Loboc from the 16th-18th century. During their stay they established a school for boys. Among the subjects that were probably taught was music. One can imagine that this may have laid the foundation for the rich tradition of choirs and bands the town is famous for.

What was this place like in the past? How would it have felt to wake in the morning and hear angelic voices rising through the cold air, floating past blue mountains in the distance?

In the 1986 movie “The Mission,” a trial is held where the Jesuit fathers defend their parishioners, the Guarani people of the Amazon jungle. A little boy is called to sing the “Ave Maria” as proof that he and his ilk were not animals, subject to slavery. Could similar arguments have raged in Bohol?

Like their counterparts in the movie, the Jesuits were expelled from their Boholano parishes and from the rest of the Philippines in 1768. Despite their sudden departure, the good fathers made their mark on the land. In the case of Loboc, they had created an intricately carved Baroque church front in keeping with the tastes of their epoch.

When the Agustinians took over, they, in turn, would cover up the Jesuit façade, while applying the aesthetics of a later period: the Neo-Classical.

Encounter of styles

This encounter of styles is most evident at the left side of Loboc Church. Here one will glimpse an exuberant Baroque scroll struggling to escape from the heavy Greco-Roman inspired wall that is pinning it down. Truly, this is a splendid illustration of how the passing of history can be etched on the face of a building!

Inside the church, the encounter continues in the stylistic dialogue between the florid side retablo (or altar backdrop) and the monumental main retablo in the center. Over a door of the sacristy is another memento of the Society of Jesus: a faint relief sculpture of saints surrounding the Blessed Virgin enthroned. This configuration follows a standard format known as a Sacra Conversazione.

Located on the exterior side of this Conversazione, crowning the doorway, is one of Loboc church’s most glorious works of art: a carved medallion depicting St. Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuit order, flanked by two magnificent women.

Such an elaborate relief sculpture was clearly meant to be seen by all, indicating that this was an important entrance. The present doorway now leads to a small tiled vestibule squeezed between the church and the convento.

In the past, the convento was obviously not as large, so that the entire wall where the carvings are located was exposed.

An Internet search reveals that “the four continents, personified as female figures, are found in the art of the Counter-Reformation, where their most common function, especially in Jesuit churches, is to serve as a reminder of the world-wide spread of Catholic Christendom.”

It is quite possible then that the tableau of the two women and the Jesuit saint that adorns the Loboc church doorway is what has been referred to in Western Art as an Allegory of the Four Continents.

Four great lands

To the European mind, when Australia and Antarctica were not yet on the map, the entire world was divided into four great land masses: Europe, Africa, Asia and America. As can be seen in examples by artists from the 16th century onwards, these continents were often depicted as women with specific attributes.

Europe was an old monarch, stately and dignified. The other three were much more outlandish. Asia appears inscrutable beneath her veil and silks, while Africa and America are naked. Their mounts are freakish specimens from a legendary bestiary: camel, crocodile and armadillo.

Occasionally, America carried severed limbs, ghoulish reminders of cannibalism. The message is clear. It is Europe that sets the standard. All else were the realms of the unknown, the bizarre. Consequently, the divinely ordained task of Europeans was to bring civilization to the rest of the planet.

In the Four Continents illustrations, America characteristically sports a crown of feathers. Given that the two Loboc figures both wear feathered headgear, it is fairly certain that at least one of them stands for the American continent.

The same symbolic use of a feathered diadem may be observed in the spectacular Apotheosis of St. Ignatius as painted by Andrea Pozzo on the ceiling of an important church of the Society in Rome.

What then of the other woman? Perhaps she is meant to evoke Asia. Or perhaps the two female images are references to the Old World (of Europe, Africa and Asia) on one side and the New World (of the Americas) on the other. This is, after all, the interpretation of the famous “Dos Mundos” coins which were the currency of the period.

Here one sees twin pillars flanking two hemispheres topped by a crown. Spain was proclaiming that it was truly a global power. Then again, since the two figures in Loboc are practically identical, they may well stand for all heathen realms in general or Asia and the Americas in particular.

Shell meaning

Pozzo’s painting in Rome, also known as the Allegory of the Jesuits’ Missionary Work, helps clarify the meaning of the shell at the bottom part of the tableau in Bohol.

Professor Marianito Luspo of Holy Name University has suggested this aquatic metaphor may refer to the cockles that are carried by pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela, Spain. In the Pozzo ceiling, however, it may be seen that all the different Continental Muses, except for Europa, are seated on a similar shell form.

What is being portrayed then, seems to be the conviction that the Missionary Work of the Jesuits consists of bringing the Word across oceans to overseas communities in Asia, Africa and the Americas.

An image which may help to support the idea that traversing vast bodies of water was central to the whole concept of evangelization may be found in one of the earliest maps of the Philippines produced by Fr. Murillo Velarde in 1744.

Here another Jesuit saint, Francis Xavier, is depicted riding a chariot pulled by horses with fish tails. Above this curious conveyance is a banner which proclaims him “Principe del Mar.”

An alternative reading may be discerned in no less than Botticelli’s resplendent The Birth of Venus, where a large clam is the vessel for the goddess’ arrival. Since the Blessed Virgin Mary is also seen as the New Venus, the shell could well be a reference to her. It can be noted that in Piero della Francesca’s Brera Madonna, the Virgin is shown beneath an awning shaped like a clam as well as an egg suspended by a string.

Weaving the different symbolic threads together, a possible message of the carvings in Loboc seems to be: St. Ignatius had been entrusted with a special mission to defend the Catholic Church. He, in turn, has challenged the members of his Society of Jesus to go forth, fearlessly negotiating perilous oceans, while protected by the Blessed Virgin, to bring the Church’s message to the befeathered natives of distant lands.


Different reading

Aside from what the Jesuits may have wanted to project, however, others may read the tableau differently. The women and, consequently, the peoples they represent may be seen as hapless subjects, to be converted, dominated and colonized for their own good.

Their quaint feathered headpieces are, in fact, emblems of their primitive status. This is the implication of the fact that, with the rise of the US, when the personification of America the Exotic becomes Columbia the Regal, she will exchange her avian accessory for a more classical circlet festooned with laurel leaves or even rays of light as in the Statue of Liberty.

This rich harvest of competing meanings is all the more reason the Loboc tableau must be preserved for future generations. Unfortunately, it was recently subjected to an overly vigorous cleaning, courtesy of a powerful water jet blaster which caused some abrasion.

Hopefully, more gentle techniques will be employed next time to ensure the survival of such a remarkable work of art. With care from the good people of Bohol and the Diocese of Tagbilaran, the Allegory of the Continents should continue to share its meanings long after other voices have been stilled.