{"id":474,"date":"2022-02-02T11:38:23","date_gmt":"2022-02-02T16:38:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/?p=474"},"modified":"2022-02-18T14:51:03","modified_gmt":"2022-02-18T19:51:03","slug":"emily-mcconkey","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/2022\/02\/02\/emily-mcconkey\/","title":{"rendered":"Emily McConkey"},"content":{"rendered":"

Emily McConkey<\/strong> is\u00a0a recent M.A. grad and a researcher for Mary Arseneau’s Christina Rossetti in Music archive. Her master’s thesis focused on the figure of Medusa in Victorian women\u2019s art and poetry, and in her doctoral work she plans to explore Ovid’s reception among Victorian women.<\/span> She has held both the Ontario Graduate Scholarship and the Vera Pauline Morrison Scholarship.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Women, Ovid, and Sculpture: Harriet Hosmer and Evelyn de Morgan\u2019s Medusa Busts<\/b><\/p>\n

Around twenty years apart, two young, female artists \u2013 one, an American expatriate sculptor, the other, an English painter \u2013 during their respective stays in Rome, began to establish their careers surrounded by the art of the Italian Renaissance. The first, Harriet Hosmer, was 22 when she moved to Rome in 1852; the second, Evelyn de Morgan, was 20 when she visited Rome and Florence in 1875. De Morgan\u2019s sister, Wilhelmina Stirling, describes the artist\u2019s trip to Rome in a way that could also describe Hosmer\u2019s experience:\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Alone in lodgings she studied, or paced the ancient city lost in dreams of an impersonal Past and a personal Future. She dwelt, absorbed on the glories of the Renaissance; she drank in the poetry, the pageantry, the haunting antiquity of her surroundings. The beauty of Italy satisfied her soul-hunger; the love of it was to leave her only with life itself.[1]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

While in Italy, each artist so happened to arrive at the same subject in the same form: a sculpted bust of the famous Gorgon from classical myth, Medusa.<\/p>\n

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Image 1. Harriet Hosmer, Medusa, c. 1854. Marble. Minneapolis Institute of Art, 2003. photo by Minneapolis Institute of Art.<\/a><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
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Image 2. Evelyn de Morgan, Medusa, c. 1876. Bronze. photo by The Victorian Web.<\/a><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

In a recent presentation, art historian\u00a0Melissa Gustin argued that these works are not necessarily harbingers of the feminist transformation of Medusa that would occur over the twentieth century.[2]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0Much more, they each reflect careful attention to the artistic tradition that has generated many depictions of the classical Gorgon. Indeed, sculptures of Medusa are abundant across western art. This is obvious in Rome and Florence, where Hosmer and De Morgan would have viewed Cellini\u2019s\u00a0Perseus with the Head of Medusa<\/em>\u00a0(1545-1554), Caravaggio\u2019s\u00a0Medusa<\/em>\u00a0(1597), the\u00a0Medusa Head<\/em>\u00a0thought to be painted by Da Vinci (ca. 1600), and Bernini\u2019s\u00a0Medusa<\/em>\u00a0(1630). Much earlier, the\u00a0gorgoneion<\/em>, an apotropaic amulet showing Medusa\u2019s head, was used widely as a decorative motif throughout ancient Greek art and architecture.[3]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0Hosmer and De Morgan would have been acquainted with each of these Medusas in various media as they developed their own renditions of the mythical figure.<\/p>\n

The tradition of representing Medusa in art \u2013 particularly through sculpture and particularly by men \u2013 bears a certain irony, given that Medusa is, as Joseph Solodow describes her, \u201cthe most prolific creator of statuary,\u201d the mythical woman who hardens men\u2019s bodies into marble.[4]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0The link between Medusa\u2019s ability to change heroic men into stone and the artistic creation of sculpture has its origin in Ovid\u2019s\u00a0Metamorphoses<\/em>, where Medusa\u2019s power is repeatedly described as a creative act. To represent Medusa as a statue, then, could mean to wield her power against her, to transform her into an object frozen in time. And this has become her fate, as the head of snaky curls and terrifying grimace has, despite its dangerous gaze, become one of the most recognizable symbols in the western imagination. Many of the biggest names in the western art tradition \u2013 Bernini, Caravaggio, Cellini \u2013 have flourished their artistic authority by petrifying the one who petrifies.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Given this transformation of Medusa through her artistic legacy, I am interested in how these nineteenth-century women\u2019s works illuminate the\u00a0creative\u00a0<\/em>Medusa as depicted by Ovid.\u00a0In her new article, \u201c\u2018Two Styles More Opposed\u2019: Harriet Hosmer\u2019s Classicisms between Winckelmann and Bernini,\u201d Gustin warns against the tendency in scholarship to analyze women\u2019s art through a biographical lens. Such a mode of interpretation often commits the same errors as the reviews by the artists\u2019 contemporaries that would read patronizing, gender-driven analyses into their work. Rather than speculate on interior motives, then, I instead wish to consider how the artists and their artworks, by virtue of their connections to Ovid\u2019s myths, participate in and shape the trajectory of Medusa\u2019s metamorphic legacy. While I would not suggest that these two women artists manage to avoid petrifying Medusa as they sculpt her image, I am intrigued by the ways they enact Medusa\u2019s precarious position as a female artist, operating in the complicated space of one who both petrifies and is petrified. Before reflecting on this further, I will demonstrate how Ovid presents Medusa\u2019s creative agency in the\u00a0Metamorphoses<\/em>.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In\u00a0The World of Ovid\u2019s Metamorphoses<\/em>, Joseph Solodow demonstrates that prior to Ovid, Medusa\u2019s ability to change men to stone had not been explicitly linked to the work of a sculptor:<\/p>\n

That the statues are not intrinsic in the story of Medusa but special to this version we may confirm by comparison: Apollodorus nowhere refers to or hints at statuary in his handbook summary of the story (2.42\u201343), neither do Hyginus (Fab. 64) or the First Vatican Mythographer (74), nor does Claudian in an otherwise strikingly Ovidian account of how Minerva wielded the petrifying visage (Gigant. 91\u2013113).[5]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Ovid draws Medusa\u2019s powers into his larger exploration of the purpose of the artist and the metamorphic possibilities of art. Like Orpheus, Arachne, Pygmalion, and Philomela\u2019s creations, Medusa\u2019s changing of bodily forms into statuary parallels Ovid\u2019s broad revision of past myths and literary forms.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The transformative quality of sculpture tends to intersect with one of the other major themes of metamorphosis in the poem: the malleability of women\u2019s bodies.\u00a0<\/em>Female figures often transform, or appear to transform, into various kinds of sculpture. Punished for competing with the goddess Latona, Niobe finds all fourteen of her children struck down by the goddess\u2019 son Apollo. Childless, Niobe transforms in her grief into a weeping statue; \u201ceven now tears flow from the marble.\u201d[6]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0When Perseus found Andromeda chained to a rock,\u00a0\u201che would have thought she was a marble statue, except that a light breeze stirred her hair, and warm tears ran from her eyes.\u201d[7]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0The most famous of Ovid\u2019s tales of female statuary is that of Pygmalion, who, repulsed by real women, crafts his ideal from marble and falls in love with his creation. Pygmalion\u2019s whimsy becomes reality when he asks Venus to grant him a bride \u201clike my ivory girl.\u201d[8]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0Returning home from Venus\u2019 altar, he embraces his statue, and \u201c[t]he ivory yielded to his touch, and lost its hardness, altering under his fingers, as the bees\u2019 wax of Hymettus softens in the sun, and is moulded, under the thumb, into many forms, made usable by use.\u201d[9]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0Under pressure of a man\u2019s ardent touch, a sculpted female body softens into a living, breathing woman. Pygmalion becomes the sculptor extraordinaire, his sculpture animated and entirely docile to his will.<\/p>\n

Described as Pygmalion\u2019s \u201cdark double\u201d by Caroline van Eck, Medusa petrifies where the male sculptor animates.[10]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0She reverses the dynamic of women changing into and from passive sculpture; with only her gaze she turns men into stone. In Book IV of the\u00a0Metamorphoses<\/em>, Perseus,\u00a0Medusa\u2019s slayer who uses her head as a weapon, tells her origin story and describes the area around her dwelling place as something of a statue garden: \u201c[i]n the fields and along the paths, here and there, he saw the shapes of men and animals changed from their natures to hard stone by Medusa\u2019s gaze.\u201d[11]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0Later, when Perseus defeats Phineus\u2019 hundred-man army using Medusa\u2019s head as his weapon, the battle scene transforms into a sculpture gallery: \u201c\u2018[f]ind others, who might be worried by your marvel\u2019 said Thesculus, but as he prepared to throw his deadly javelin, he was frozen, like a marble statue, in the act\u201d; Eryx, determined to knock Perseus and the Gorgon head to the ground, \u201chad started his rush, but the floor held his feet fast, and there he stayed, unmoving stone, a fully-armed statue\u201d; while Astyages gazed at the men-turned-statues, [\u2026]\u00a0the same power transformed him, and he remained there with a wondering look on his marble face.\u201d At last, \u201c[a]s Phineus tried to avert his gaze, his neck hardened, and the tears on his cheeks were turned to stone. Now the frightened face, the suppliant expression, the submissive hands, and the slavish appearance, remained, in marble.\u201d[12]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In changing bodies into statues, Medusa contributes to Ovid\u2019s project of reshaping and subverting generic forms. All through the\u00a0Metamorphoses<\/em>, Ovid refigures the epic heroes of old, casting them as impulsive, weak, and often distracted from their primary tasks. In\u00a0The Epic Gaze: Vision, Gender and Narrative in Ancient Epic<\/em>, Helen Lovatt argues that \u201cOvid\u2019s Perseid is the episode of the\u00a0Metamorphoses<\/em>\u00a0in which the poem engages most vigorously with epic\u201d (347). Lovatt demonstrates that \u201cmoments of humour ([Perseus\u2019] wings are waterlogged, he almost forgets to fly when mesmerised by Andromeda), his unsympathetic portrayal and his eventual reliance on the head of Medusa to extricate him from an impossible battle all serve to problematise his heroism\u201d (Lovatt 348). That Perseus relies on Medusa\u2019s head to defeat his enemies subverts the paradigm of the epic male battle; the creative gaze of a woman supersedes masculine valor and brawn.<\/p>\n

Medusa is indeed the archetypal female artist in the\u00a0Metamorphoses<\/em>, but it is often forgotten that her creativity occupies a precarious, ambivalent space.\u00a0Though Medusa\u2019s gaze turns men to stone in the real-time of the narrative, it is not the living Medusa that does so, but her decapitated head wielded by Perseus, \u201cconqueror of the Gorgon with snakes for hair.\u201d[13]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0Disembodied, Medusa figures only as an object serving Perseus in his quest. Scholarship equivocally comments on this limit to Medusa\u2019s agency. Even as Solodow points to Medusa as the \u201cmost prolific creator of statuary,\u201d he proceeds to refer to the statues as \u201cPerseus\u2019 victims.\u201d[14]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0Medusa\u2019s creative power may be unrivaled, but it is Perseus who ultimately captures and commandeers that power.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In fact, the living Medusa does not appear in the sequential narrative of the\u00a0Metamorphoses\u00a0<\/em>at all; it is only through Perseus\u2019 boasting tale that we learn of who she was before she became a disembodied head. Perseus explains,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She was once most beautiful, and the jealous aspiration of many suitors. Of all her beauties none was more admired than her hair: I came across a man who recalled having seen her. They say that Neptune, lord of the seas, violated her in the temple of Minerva. Jupiter\u2019s daughter turned away, and hid her chaste eyes behind her aegis. So that it might not go unpunished, she changed the Gorgon\u2019s hair to foul snakes. And now, to terrify her enemies, numbing them with fear, the goddess wears the snakes, that she created, as a breastplate.[15]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It is Perseus, Medusa\u2019s victor, who discloses her story. Perseus learns that Medusa was once beautiful through a man who claims to have seen her. Furthermore, in his description of the event that caused Medusa\u2019s transformation, Perseus appeals to a vague, pronounced authority: \u201c[t<\/em>]hey say\u00a0<\/em>that Neptune [\u2026] violated her.\u201d Perseus, and by extension Ovid, attributes this aspect of her story to an earlier source, though the idea that she was raped appears to have been Ovid\u2019s idea. The layering upon layering of (male) voices that disclose Medusa\u2019s story buries our awareness of Medusa\u2019s own experience of the events that befall her. This kind of silencing constitutes another pattern common among the characters whose bodies transform in the\u00a0Metamorphoses<\/em>. In the story of Apollo and Daphne, for instance, Daphne\u2019s inability to speak for herself when she changes into a tree allows Apollo to interpret her position according to his own interests and to further objectify her, as he seizes her branches and weaves for himself a crown of victory. That Medusa lacks the voice to tell her own story is another suggestion that she is not entirely in control of her own creative power. And it is from this condition that Medusa\u2019s transformation continues as artists use her power against her, freezing her in time so as to flourish their own creativity.<\/p>\n

\u2026<\/p>\n

I was prompted to reflect on Medusa\u2019s agency in the\u00a0Metamorphoses<\/em>\u00a0as I began to study Hosmer and De Morgan\u2019s\u00a0Medusa<\/em>\u00a0busts. These nineteenth-century sculptures convey a Medusa locked in an enduring cultural tradition. Yet in their historical context, these works may also sit on the verge of a more liberated transformation. Hosmer and De Morgan, who each created multiple works representing Ovidian female figures in the early parts of their career, appear attuned to the malleability of Ovid\u2019s female figures. Hosmer created her\u00a0Medusa\u00a0<\/em>in tandem with another Ovidian sculpture,\u00a0Daphne<\/em>. As Gustin argues, the primary Ovidian theme of the two works is not only female victimization (\u201cthis is common enough in both Ovid and nineteenth century art as to be largely meaningless as a unique joining principle\u201d), but more specifically the significance of sculpture in each woman\u2019s transformation: \u201cMedusa and Daphne transform because of the actions of a deity associated with the arts, Minerva and Apollo respectively, and their transformations lead directly to a proliferation of sculptural materials: stone for Medusa, wood for Daphne.\u201d[16]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0De Morgan\u2019s\u00a0Cadmus and Harmonia<\/em>\u00a0(c. 1877),\u00a0Ariadne in Naxos<\/em>\u00a0(c. 1877),\u00a0Deianira<\/em>\u00a0(1878), and\u00a0Medea<\/em>\u00a0(1889) take their inspiration from Ovid\u2019s stories in the\u00a0Metamorphoses<\/em>\u00a0and the\u00a0Heroides<\/em>. Each of these paintings centres the experiences of women who, in other classical texts, are often either vilified or silenced.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Both Hosmer and De Morgan\u2019s\u00a0Medusa\u00a0<\/em>busts capture a living, dignified female figure. Neither a grotesque monster nor Perseus\u2019 object of victory, Medusa appears in each work as a living woman, nude, with snakes atop her graceful head. Hosmer\u2019s bust is a high achievement of the neoclassical style. Gustin describes her own experience of the sculpture, noting that \u201cshe found it difficult, upon seeing the work for the first time, to refrain from touching the marble. The stone [\u2026] seems to absorb warmth and light like a densely woven velvet and becomes fleshier compared to the glinting polish of the hairband and sandy desert-adder scales of the lowly serpents.\u201d Gustin also observes that \u201cMedusa\u2019s meltingly soft upward gaze refuses to meet the eye of the beholder \u2013 perhaps for their safety \u2013 and joined with the graceful twist of the neck to turn her cheek towards us, goes towards the application of the beautiful style.\u201d[17]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0This remark suggests that this Medusa retains her creative ability; her upward gaze may signify a deliberate refusal to turn onlookers into stone. That the snakes in her hair are artfully arranged as a crown may also suggest Medusa\u2019s ability to control her monstrous features, even to transform them into aesthetic attributes.<\/p>\n

De Morgan\u2019s\u00a0Medusa<\/em>\u00a0looks downward, similarly refusing to look the viewer in the eye. While such a posture may similarly imply Medusa\u2019s creativity agency, it also contributes to the tragic demeanor of this bust. Unlike Hosmer\u2019s exquisite, professional marble, De Morgan\u2019s\u00a0Medusa<\/em>\u00a0is a heavy bronze, larger than life size. Turned to one side, Medusa appears contemplative, melancholy, resigned. Her mournful expression may signify her recollection of the rape (in Ovid\u2019s version of her story) that caused her monstrosity in the first place. The simplicity of the bust prevents a substantial symbolic analysis, but the snake slithering across the woman\u2019s breast may evoke Neptune\u2019s rape of Medusa in Minerva\u2019s temple. This type of imagery appears in William Morris\u2019\u00a0Earthly Paradise<\/em>, published only a decade earlier; in Morris\u2019 tale, Medusa<\/p>\n

moaned aloud, and shrieked in her despair:<\/p>\n

Because the golden tresses of her hair<\/p>\n

Were moved by writhing snakes from side to side,<\/p>\n

That in their writhing oftentimes would glide<\/p>\n

On to her breast, or shuddering shoulders white.[18]<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

Adrienne Munich argues that in this passage, \u201cThe snakes perpetually reenact her rape, her transformation from a virtuous maiden to an alluring monster.[19]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0There is a suggestion of this idea in De Morgan\u2019s bronze, emphasized by the snake\u2019s apparent movement in contrast to Medusa\u2019s passive stillness. This Medusa seems caught in recollection, as though her monstrous transformation has become a constant reminder of the fateful day of her rape. Between these two busts, then, we can see an attentiveness to the two paradoxical elements in Ovid\u2019s telling of Medusa\u2019s story: her creative agency and her subjugation.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/span>The\u00a0Medusa<\/em>\u00a0was Hosmer\u2019s first commissioned work.[20]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0Hosmer created it during her time in Rome, where she belonged to a transatlantic circle of women artists embarking upon uncharted territory as they pursued professional careers as sculptresses. De Morgan\u2019s\u00a0Medusa\u00a0<\/em>work appears to have been an educational experiment, one that showcases her developing grasp of the artistic tradition she was studying in Italy. Both\u00a0Medusa<\/em>\u00a0busts demonstrate simultaneously the women\u2019s engagements with earlier artistic traditions and their early forays into the contemporary art world. In this way, they echo Ovid\u2019s endeavour to establish artistic authority through engagement with existing myths and traditions. As Gustin mentioned in her presentation\u00a0on\u00a0Evelyn de Morgan\u2019s\u00a0Medusa<\/em>, an analogy can also be made between Medusa and the growing movement of women artists who begin to claim the authority to view human bodies and render them in stone.[21]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I suggest that this analogy is more potent when we consider the objectification these women faced as artists working in a male-dominated field. Victorian women artists were regularly viewed as art objects beside their creations by tourists visiting their studios.\u00a0In\u00a0A Sisterhood of Sculptors: American Artists in Nineteenth-Century Rome<\/em>,\u00a0Melissa Dabakis\u00a0shows that in an engraving of Hosmer in her studio, the artist \u201cis as much the center of attention \u2013\u00a0a spectacle for the touring classes \u2013 as her sculptural work,\u201d posed on a stage-like podium in front of an audience, her clothing and figure feminized and idealized in contrast to her real-life \u201cboyish\u201d demeanor.[22]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0For Edmonia Lewis, a sculptor of mixed African American and Chippewa heritage, this treatment bore racial implications. Margaret Farrand Thorp notes that the tourists who visited Lewis\u2019 studio \u201cthought her a picturesque figure with her Negro features and straight black Indian hair and they were fascinated by the contrast of her black hands working the white marble.\u201d[23]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0To her audience, the sculptor became an object in her own exhibit. As Dabakis argues, \u201c[a]t the intersection of artistic production, femininity, and the market, their studios were popular destinations; the artists and their sculptures, commodities to be consumed by the touristic eye.\u201d[24]<\/span><\/a>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I am still working out what all of this means for our cultural understanding of Medusa. The feminist Medusa of the last few decades has tended to pivot on her two paradoxical natures proposed by Ovid: she is a victim of sexual assault; she is a powerful creative goddess. The Medusa developed by Victorian women, as I explored in my master\u2019s thesis and continue to ruminate upon, seems to be a cloudier, subdued engagement with the complexities of Ovid\u2019s tale, and with the broader conceptions of the Medusa myth. In response to the histrionically seductive, villainous, Eve-like Medusas highlighted in the wider Victorian imagination, Victorian women including Hosmer and De Morgan certainly cast Medusa in a gentler, more dignified light, as do a few male artists and poets like Shelley and Morris. Yet Hosmer and De Morgan, by virtue of their own precarious yet successful careers as women artists, remind us also of the nuances of Medusa\u2019s story. She is an artist, yes, but her creative power is constrained as men use it against her. She is a victim, but through her suffering she receives newfound strength and meaning. The perpetual cycle of these two natures prevents the possibility of our defining Medusa once and for all; nevertheless, continuing to uncover how our forebears, particularly women, have made sense of this cycle, may bring us closer to hearing her voice.<\/p>\n

Endnotes<\/strong><\/p>\n

[1]<\/span><\/a> Wilhelmina Stirling,\u00a0William De Morgan and His Wife.<\/em>\u00a0(London: Thornton Butterworth Ltd, 1922), 185. Internet Archive.<\/p>\n

[2]<\/span><\/a> Melissa Gustin, \u201c\u2019A Nauseating Lissomness\u2019: Evelyn De Morgan, Rome, and the Snake,\u201d De Morgan Foundation, January 2022.<\/p>\n

[3]<\/span><\/a> Madeleine Glennon, \u201cMedusa in Ancient Greek Art,\u201d Metropolitan Museum of Art, March 2017, https:\/\/www.metmuseum.org\/toah\/hd\/medu\/hd_medu.htm<\/a><\/p>\n

[4]<\/span><\/a> Joseph B. Solodow,\u00a0The World of Ovid\u2019s Metamorphoses<\/em>\u00a0(Chapel Hill\/London: University of North Carolina Press, 1988), 204.<\/p>\n

[5]<\/span><\/a> Solodow, 205.<\/p>\n

[6]<\/span><\/a> Ovid,\u00a0Metamorphoses<\/em>,\u00a0translated by A.S. Kline. University of Virginia Library, 2000,\u00a0https:\/\/ovid.lib.virginia.edu\/trans\/Ovhome.htm<\/a>,\u00a0VI.312.<\/p>\n

[7]<\/span><\/a> Ovid,\u00a0IV.700.<\/p>\n

[8]<\/span><\/a> Ovid, X.270.<\/p>\n

[9]<\/span><\/a> Ovid, X.275\u201376.<\/p>\n

[10]<\/span><\/a> Caroline van Eck, \u201cThe Sublime and the \u201cThe Petrifying Gaze of Medusa: Ambivalence, Ekplexis, and the Sublime,\u201d\u00a0JHNA<\/em>, vol. 8, no. 2 (Summer 2016): 6, 7. DOI:10.5092\/jhna.2016.8.2.3<\/p>\n

[11]<\/span><\/a> Ovid, IV. 776-803.<\/p>\n

[12]<\/span><\/a> Ovid, V.198-199, 203-205, 232-235.<\/p>\n

[13]<\/span><\/a> Ovid, IV.701.<\/p>\n

[14]<\/span><\/a> Solodow, 205.<\/p>\n

[15]<\/span><\/a> Ovid, IV.790-803.<\/p>\n

[16]<\/span><\/a> Gustin, \u201c\u2018Two Styles More Opposed\u2019: Harriet Hosmer\u2019s Classicisms between Winckelmann and Bernini,\u201d\u00a0Journal of Latin Cosmopolitanism and European Literatures<\/em>, no. 6 (December 31, 2021): 6. https:\/\/doi.org\/10.21825\/jolcel.v6i0.11801.<\/a><\/p>\n

[17]<\/span><\/a> Gustin, \u201c\u2018Two Styles More Opposed,\u2019\u201d 6.<\/p>\n

[18]<\/span><\/a> Morris, 259.<\/p>\n

[19]<\/span><\/a> Munich, 203.<\/p>\n

[20]<\/span><\/a> William H. Gerdts, \u201cThe\u00a0Medusa\u00a0<\/em>of Harriet Hosmer,\u201d\u00a0Bulletin of the Detroit Institute of Arts<\/em>, 56, no. 2 (1978): 99.<\/p>\n

[21]<\/span><\/a> Gustin, \u201c\u2019A Nauseating Lissomness\u2019: Evelyn De Morgan, Rome, and the Snake.\u201d<\/p>\n

[22]<\/span><\/a> \u00a0Melissa Dabakis.\u00a0A Sisterhood of Sculptors: American Artists in Nineteenth-Century Rome<\/em>. (Penn State University Press, 2014), 65. https:\/\/doi.org\/10.5325\/j.ctv14gp0r7.5.<\/a><\/p>\n

[23]<\/span><\/a> Margaret Farrand Thorp, \u201cThe White, Marmorean Flock,\u201d\u00a0The New England Quarterly<\/em>\u00a032, no. 2 (1959): 164.\u00a0https:\/\/doi.org\/10.2307\/362550<\/a>.<\/p>\n

[24]<\/span><\/a> Dabakis, 63.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Emily McConkey is\u00a0a recent M.A. grad and a researcher for Mary Arseneau’s Christina Rossetti in Music archive. Her master’s thesis focused on the figure of Medusa in Victorian women\u2019s art and poetry, and in her doctoral work she plans to explore Ovid’s reception among Victorian women. She has held both the Ontario Graduate Scholarship and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":19530,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[14],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/474"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/19530"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=474"}],"version-history":[{"count":18,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/474\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":550,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/474\/revisions\/550"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=474"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=474"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.bu.edu\/ampersandjournal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=474"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}