When present meets past

Before we go to this entry’s story, I must do a bit of explaining as to the title of my blog: “Maine: Window to the World.” When I began this project, these five words aptly described my entries. However, as I am now spending much of the summer in Massachusetts, I am finding that no matter where I am, my “adventures” always lead me to the past. So, with this thought in mind, I have changed my title to: "WHEN PAST MEETS PRESENT”

Enjoy!

A trip to the New Bedford Whaling Museum is a must each time I visit my hometown! I went there as a child, visited on occasion as a teenager, and became a docent when an adult. Much has changed over the decades, but the lure remains the same. And this summer was no different! As I entered, I saw friends whom I had known since those early days and one said: “Don’t miss the new photography exhibit.” Usually, photography does not hold my interest but, this time, one artifact caught my attention—a studio camera.

Dating to the 1870s, the camera had belonged to a photographer named Manuel Goulart, who emigrated from the Portuguese Azores to New Bedford. The identifying tag noted that the piece had been made by Voigtlaender & Son Optical Company. A bit of research revealed that this company started in Austria in 1756, became quite renowned internationally for its excellence, and continues to this day, in a modified form, in Germany.

As I moved to check out the other artifacts on display, I found it impossible to stop staring at the camera. I could envision Mr. Goulart behind it, with a black cloth draped over his head, preparing to snap the next “shot” at just the right moment. The time-consuming prep work had been done, he just needed his subject to hold still, and…

My mind switched to the present day. Today, taking a photo is effortless. With the press of a tiny button, we can capture a moment with an instrument so small that it fits in a pocket. With another “finger-press,” we can send that photo around the world in seconds! The photographer actually does very little. Rather, it is the camera (or, in truth, the designers who crafted the mechanism and programs) that sizes up the subject and, in a split-second, delivers a “masterpiece.”

Not quite a “masterpiece,” but this photo illustrates my thinking.

Then, as so often happens when I take a moment to reflect on an artifact at a museum or a scene from one of my day-adventures, the familiar “comparison feeling” overwhelmed me. I was back in Rome, and the year was AD 8. The poet Ovid had just completed his “Metamorphoses,” a history of the world that contained more than 250 mythological tales. In college and grad school, I had read many of these, but one, in particular, had “stuck” in my mind: the tale of a sculptor named Pygmalion.

According to the ancient Greeks and Romans, Pygmalion, king of Cyprus, so disliked the immorality of a group of women on his island that he vowed never to fall in love. Rather, he planned to use his skill as a sculptor to craft a statue that would epitomize the “perfect woman.” For Pygmalion, sculpting was far superior to painting as it produced a three-dimensional object. But, as he chiseled away at a huge block of ivory and the days turned into weeks, he found it more and more difficult to turn away from his creation. He even began bringing the statue gifts and dressing her in magnificent garments.

One day, as Pygmalion walked into his studio, he suddenly stopped: “What am I doing? Can it be that I have fallen in love with a statue? Absurd to think so! Yet, I believe I have!“ As these thoughts twirled around in his head, Pygmalion realized that only Venus, the goddess of love could help him. “But, Venus is the one deity I have spent much of my life condemning.,” reasoned Pygmalion. “Why would she consent to help me now?” Logic, however, was not on Pygmalion’s side. He was desperate. He knew the feast day of Venus was approaching, a time when Romans believed Venus was especially attuned to pleas made by humans. In desperation, Pygmalion spoke his “wish” aloud: “Venus, please bring me a human incarnation of my ivory maiden!”

Venus heard his plea, thought for a moment, and decided to forget his previous disrespectful attitude toward her. She smiled as she thought, “He has ‘reformed,’ so why not answer his request and make him a ‘true believer.’”

Pygmalion knew nothing of Venus’s thoughts, but when he arrived home after spending the day at the festival, he went straight to the statue. As he kissed it—a practice he had started in recent weeks—he felt not cold ivory, but a sense of warmth and even some movement. His statue was coming to life! Venus had heard his prayer!

Ovid tells us that the two did marry and, in time, had a daughter, Paphos.

Through the centuries since Ovid wrote his poem, countless sculptors, authors, and composers have crafted their renditions of the tale. One of the most widely known is George Bernard Shaw’s stage play “My Fair Lady.”

NB: History says that the present-day Cypriot city of Paphos dates to the 12th century BC. Greek mythology says the city was so named to honor Pygmalion’s daughter. Greek myth also says that the goddess Venus had a special fondness for Cyprus as she had been born from the sea foam in one of the island’s coves.

Join us next time for another example of When Present meets Past.

Comments are welcome: rosalie@ivycloseimages.com