Ovidius’ Metamorfosen in het Rijksmuseum: Schoonheid en Verandering

Two thousand years ago, in his Metamorphoses, the Roman poet Ovidius pondered a simple question: the peacock, the eagle, the dove – indeed, every species of bird – “Who would believe they were born from an egg, if he did not know it had happened?”

Transformations in nature can be spectacular, the caterpillar’s evolution into a butterfly perhaps the most iconic example. But, as Dutch poet Hans Faverey wrote not two millennia ago, but 36 years ago: “The most beautiful bird, that can be made by kingfishers / can be / a kingfisher itself.”

And so it is with humanity. As it was in Ovidius’ time, and before, there was never a paradise where a person could become a butterfly, or even a seal (though many might wish for it!). We are, and will remain, human, destined to be ourselves until we return to dust. Even becoming another person is beyond our reach. We are condemned to remain ourselves.

But imagination, religion, and art offer an escape. And at the forefront of these is Ovidius’ epic poem, which wove together the myths of transformation known in Rome in 8 A.D. into a cohesive whole, from the creation of the earth to his own time. Suddenly, it’s possible: people can escape their own species and become a god, a star, a tree, a deer, a cow, a bull, a bear, a flower, a swan, a nightingale, a swallow, a kingfisher.

Seeing these transformations depicted is powerful, and the Rijksmuseum’s new exhibition, “Metamorphoses: Ovidius and the Arts,” explores this legacy through a stunning collection of works. The show demonstrates how artists have grappled with Ovidius’ tales for centuries, and how the pursuit of realism has consistently challenged them to bring these fantastical changes to life. The 17th-century sculpture of Apollo and Daphne, for example, is still described with awe, with Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s skill in rendering “soft skin changing into rough bark” being particularly celebrated in the exhibition catalog.

A Bible for Artists

Ovidius’ stories have inspired thousands of artists, from sculptors in antiquity to photographers of the 21st century. Karel van Mander called the Metamorphoses a “bible for artists” in the early 17th century, publishing his own commentary, Wtlegghingh op den Metamorphosis Pub. Ouidij Nasonis, alongside his famous Schilderboek in 1604. After the Bible, Ovidius’ work is arguably the most consulted source for artists, and the Rijksmuseum’s exhibition showcases pieces by some of the greatest masters – Bernini, Michelangelo, Titian, Poussin, Rodin, Brancusi, Bourgeois, and Mendieta, among others.

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“Metamorphoses” is the final exhibition curated by sculpture specialist Frits Scholten. His choices emphasize sculpture, giving it a particularly strong presence in the show. The exhibition also challenges the dominance of painting, featuring tapestries, goblets, and curiosities – including a piece of blood coral used as deer antlers on a golden cup depicting Actaeon’s transformation by the goddess Diana.

A curious piece is a head constructed entirely of phalluses on a majolica dish, dubbed a “penis board” from 1536. It hangs in one of the final rooms, where the connection to the myths collected by Ovidius loosens, and a variety of transformations are displayed, such as a portrait of Emperor Rudolf II constructed from vegetables and fruit by Arcimboldo. Flanking the doorway are two works where humanity remains human: a child’s head by Medardo Rosso from 1891, seemingly conjured from beeswax light, and a series of seven photographs by Roman Opalka documenting his aging process.

A Sourcebook for Artists

And finally, visitors arrive at the exhibition’s centerpiece: Bernini’s Sleeping Hermaphroditus, or rather, half by Bernini. The sculpture was unearthed in Rome in 1619, and Bernini conceived of placing the figure on a mattress sculpted from marble, which appears to buckle under its weight.

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The exhibition begins, naturally, with a book – a Dutch edition of the Metamorphoses from 1557, with the text limited to a few lines beneath a woodcut by Bernard Salomon. The book is open to the page where Daphne transforms into a laurel tree. That’s one of the great pleasures of this exhibition: seeing how artists throughout the centuries have depicted the same transformation using different means.

Violations

A significant portion of Ovidius’ metamorphoses involve a god disguising himself to commit assault, usually on a beautiful woman. Approximately fifty of the roughly 250 stories in Ovidius’ fifteen books deal with rape or attempted rape, according to classicist Leo Curran in 1978. What does that say about our culture? And what does it say about our culture that depictions of these violations are so beautiful, so unforgivably beautiful, and so intensely admired? Is it like condemning a murder but simultaneously praising the murder weapon – the inlaid ivory, the gleaming metal, the speed of the bullet?