the rebirth of venus
Ever since I was a kid, I have loved Greek mythology. I don’t know if it was the complex stories or the special powers that I so desperately wanted, but I was obsessed. I far preferred seeing Greek mythology in art and culture to the seemingly endless portrayal of Jesus on the cross or as a baby. Rather, the sheer amount of deities each with their own responsibilities connected me to the world around me. I am not alone in this obsession as mythology has been the subject of art for centuries, though some gods and goddesses got significantly more canvas time than others.
One such deity is Aphrodite, and her Roman counterpart, Venus–the goddess of love and beauty. Aphrodite can be seen all throughout Greek stories bringing love and beauty to heroes, or causing mayhem for the same reasons. Though she is often portrayed as soft, beautiful and angelic, her origins are a bit more hardcore. Born from the severed body parts of her grandfather tossed into the ocean, Aphrodite emerged from the sea foam, a fully-formed goddess (The Birth of Venus). Personally, I think it’s very masc to be born from severed body parts, but Aphrodite is largely remembered for her gracious beauty and feminine elegance.
As such, classical artists used her as the muse and subject of their paintings–the symbol of beauty.
The most notable of these works was Italian artist Sandro Botticelli’s, The Birth of Venus. This piece depicts the scene of her birth, or more accurately the events that followed, as she stands on a shell surrounded by some minor gods and goddesses all celebrating her arrival. However, it’s generally agreed that the painting itself has no real meaning beyond that (Wiki - The Birth of Venus). It really is just a traditional scene from mythology made as a commission to appeal to the general public. That said, I think it is important to look at what Venus and “the nude” meant to art and culture.
Before Venus became the standard for the “female” nude, the “male” nude was the primary focus. Our modern understanding of the nude is in large part due to the Greeks and their “male” sculptures. It is well known that the Greeks LOVED a beautiful man (which is pretty fruity, in my opinion), especially strong, athletic men (again, fruity). The first of these sculptures were called kouroi (from 600 BCE) which “depict fit young men [whose] nakedness is unconscious and un-sexualized” portrayed with “[perfect] symmetry and proportion [that describes] their physical capability, and their nakedness [which] expresses the conquest of intellect over inhibition” (arthistoryproject.com). These stoic, athletic sculptures defined the standard of masculinity which pervades our culture to this day.
For these “male” nudes, nakedness was a show of strength. Their exposure was a symbol of “nobility and invulnerability”–their way of being untouchable and superior (AHP). Inversely, the “female” nude was all about being delicate and vulnerable. While the kouroi were boldly naked, Aphrodite is often posed with a hand covering herself “in a gesture that became so common it was termed the pudica or ‘the modest pose’” (AHP). In these works, Venus is “aware of her nudity, and guards herself from the sexualized gaze of the viewer” (AHP). Her nudity is vulnerable, and it sends a message.
With these heavily gendered presentations of bodies, the misogyny is hard to ignore. The kouroi came to define the form now called the heroic nude (seen as spiritually perfect), while Aphrodite laid the foundation for the submissive nude (seen as sensually perfect) (AHP)–the standard of cis men as literal gifts of god, and cis women solely existing to be beautiful objects of desire. Trans people are nowhere near this conversation. This comes as no surprise; trans people have largely been erased from history, but still, it’s frustrating to never see any representation in the art museums I love so much.
Trans people, in general, break the binary understanding of beauty and sexuality. I say this not to “other” us, but to celebrate the ways in which we see these gendered expectations and push past them. In reality, there are no hard lines on gender, and there is no one way to do anything. There is no one kind of “perfect” body. There are no real metrics to meet for beauty.
That idea is precisely what I wanted to capture in The Rebirth of Venus, and with my art in general. It is about questioning that which we deem desirable and worthy of reverence. This work is not about sexualizing trans bodies (though trans people deserve to feel sexy too!!), but rather about celebrating the raw nude as another presentation of the deity of beauty. It’s all mythology anyway, so who’s to say that Venus could not have found beauty in boyhood?
In a lot of ways, I see transitioning as a rebirth. It is a re-entrance into the world with a new form, rising not from the fiery ashes of your past self, but from the flowing water and sea foam, from the parts of you that you’ve allowed to wash away. This new self is beautiful, not because of any set standard, but because of its freedom to be itself.
That is why I was more inspired by the composition of The Birth of Venus by 19th century French painter William-Adolphe Bouguereau as a reference for this painting. Rather than the modest, delicate pose of its predecessor, this Venus bares all in a way that has no shame or expectation placed upon it. Instead, this Venus stretches for the sky in a way that feels relaxed and free, like an awakening from a long-overdue sleep. Though there is much criticism to be made of Bouguereau’s frequent use of the “female” nude simply for marketable appeal, there is a freedom to this Venus; it does not care to look at the audience or its revelers, it simply exists.
I want trans people to have that freedom. The freedom to feel beautiful and to hold power in yourself by simply existing. Originally, both the 15th century and 19th century versions of The Birth of Venus were not meant to be thought of that deeply. The viewer is simply an audience to a scene from mythology, something to appreciate and move past. However, there are no revelers in The Rebirth; instead, the viewer is pushed to look closer at Venus themself, and revere the transmasculine beauty in front of them. There is beauty in top surgery scars, in the growing hair on your body, in the taut muscles and soft spots alike. It serves as a reminder that there is room for beauty in masculinity as much as there is toughness and stoicism. There are so many variations of transmasculine bodies and no one is more beautiful than the rest; the beauty exists within the acceptance of the self and the determination to do what you must to find your happiness and comfort.
So reject stoicism, feel things deeply, and embrace the rebirth.
