The current Asahi Shimbun Displays, Disposable? Rubbish and us, begins with two very different disposable cups. Disposable and single-use objects are about convenience, but they’re also more than that. Investing valuable labour and resources in things that may only be used once can be a way to show off wealth, power and status.
A single-use cup made for Air India by a company in Finland.
The one cup shown above may well be familiar – a small waxed-paper cup which displays the logo of Air India. It was used for serving hot drinks on flights and at airports, and was acquired by a British Museum curator travelling through Delhi in 1991. But, rather than being made in India, the cup was commissioned from a company in Finland. The logo style also speaks to the global trend for minimalist design in the early 1990s. Together these international connections helped to position the airline as a global brand.
The other cup is perhaps more surprising – it was made on Crete during the Minoan period around 3,500 years ago. Looking closely at the cup shows that it has been hastily made. It was turned on a potter’s wheel, and the finger impressions of the maker are still visible inside. The bottom is uneven where string or wire, used to take it off the wheel, has cut into the base on the first attempt.
Single-use clay cups like this were made for feasts and celebrations on the island of Crete.
Thousands of these cups were made, often in quite a standard shape and size. They are found in large dumps, sometimes of hundreds of cups, at palaces like Knossos – urban centres with a main building known as a ‘palace’. They are often thrown away in one piece – they could have been used again, but were discarded instead.
We know that large numbers of people gathered at Minoan palaces for celebrations, festivals and feasts. While simple fired-clay cups like these could have had many uses, their low-effort production, standardised size, the places they were used and the way they were dumped all suggest that many were designed to be disposable – used to serve wine to guests, and thrown away at the end of the event. Other ancient societies, including cities in Bronze Age India, also used single-use clay cups. Many present-day communities in North India and Pakistan use similar disposable ‘kulhar’ cups for serving tea and yoghurt, but these are increasingly giving way to plastic-coated paper cups.
Two disposable cups made 3,500 years apart.
Today, we are more and more concerned about the impact of disposable objects, and for good reason – the materials used and the scale of production have changed dramatically in the last 3,500 years. Disposable cups made from clay will have little environmental effect when they are thrown away, whereas plastic or plastic-coated paper will take decades or even centuries to biodegrade, and may even break down into microplastics which can enter the food chain if they are not disposed of properly.
Ancient societies were also not producing anything like the quantity of disposable cups that we do. Over 300 billion disposable paper cups are now made globally every year, and even more single-use plastic cups. These levels of production and consumption are unsustainable, not just because of the vast amount of waste they generate, but also the materials required and carbon emissions from the manufacturing process. Modern paper cup production uses millions of trees and billions of gallons of water every year.
A selection of infographics on display in the exhibition.
We all have a part to play in this international problem. At the British Museum, we are committed to reducing our environmental impact. Last year we had over 6.2 million visitors, and providing refreshments to thirsty Museum-goers is essential. As part of the research for this exhibition we spoke to Benugo, the Museum’s catering partner, about the disposable cups that are used in our cafés and restaurants. In 2018, Benugo served over a million hot drinks at the Museum. They use ceramic cups wherever possible, and encourage visitors to bring reusable cups if they can, but in busy areas and for visitors who have travelled a long way to reach us, these solutions are less likely to work. 630,000 disposable cups were used at the Museum in 2018.
The Great Court Restaurant.
Wherever possible, Benugo source packaging made from recycled materials and recycle the waste that we produce, but it is very hard to recycle paper cups – the plastic lining which makes them waterproof is difficult to separate from the paper. None of the waste from the British Museum goes to landfill, and all our non-recyclable rubbish is collected and compacted on site to reduce the number of lorry collections needed. To further reduce emissions, the waste is shipped by barge along the River Thames to an energy recovery facility, where it is incinerated. The energy produced is then sent to the National Grid. In 2018, energy recovered through the Museum’s waste operation was enough to power 223 UK homes for a month.
Inside the Asahi Shimbun Displays Disposable? Rubbish and us showing the recycled and re-purposed exhibition build.
The Disposable exhibition itself was also built from recycled materials. The design team worked hard to find materials and equipment which could be given a second life, and the designer’s idea was not to use any new materials. All of the display cases and plinths were repurposed from last year’s major exhibition on manga, and the labels were screen-printed onto paper cut from the banners that originally hung in the Great Court .
These small steps are part of a much bigger global conversation about more sustainable and environmentally conscious production, consumption and disposal. Creating rubbish is an unavoidable by-product of being human, but the choices we make, and the actions we take to reduce waste are more important now than ever before.
You can see the Asahi Shimbun Displays Disposable? Rubbish and us in Room 3 until 23 February 2020.
From its inception to the present day, Tantra has challenged religious, cultural and political norms around the world. A philosophy that emerged in India around the sixth century, Tantra has been linked to successive waves of revolutionary thought, from its early transformation of Hinduism and Buddhism, to the Indian fight for independence and the rise of 1960s counterculture.
The Sanskrit word ‘Tantra’ derives from the verbal root tan, meaning ‘to weave’, or ‘compose’, and refers to a type of instructional text, often written as a dialogue between a god and a goddess. The exhibition features some of the earliest surviving Tantras (see image below). These outline a variety of rituals for invoking one of the many all-powerful Tantric deities, including through visualisations and yoga. Requiring guidance from a teacher, or guru, they were said to grant worldly and supernatural powers, from long life to flight, alongside spiritual transformation.
Many texts contained rituals that transgressed existing social and religious boundaries – for example, sexual rites and engagement with the taboo, such as intoxicants and human remains. Tantra challenged distinctions between opposites by teaching that everything is sacred, including the traditionally profane and impure.
The rise of Tantra
The development of Tantra in medieval India coincided with the rise of many new kingdoms across the subcontinent after the breakdown of two major dynasties, the Guptas in the north and the Vakatakas in the southwest. Although this led to political precariousness, there was also a great flourishing of the arts. Many rulers were drawn to Tantra’s promise of power and public temples often incorporated Tantric deities as guardians.
Granite sculpture of the god Bhairava, Tamil Nadu, India, 11th century.
This included the Tantric Hindu god Bhairava, seen above. He famously decapitated the orthodox creator god Brahma to show the superiority of the Tantric path and used his skull as a begging bowl. Early Tantric practitioners (Tantrikas) emulated his fearsome and anarchic appearance in order to ‘become’ him, while rulers worshipped him in order to strengthen their political positions.
One of his early followers was the poet-saint Karaikkal Ammaiyar, who abandoned her role as an obedient wife to become his follower. Tantric initiation was open to people from different social backgrounds. This challenge to the caste system made Tantra especially appealing to women and the socially marginalised.
Mohan Sthapati, Karaikkal Ammaiyar. Bronze, c. 1990–1992.
Divine feminine power
The Tantric worldview sees all material reality as animated by Shakti – unlimited, divine feminine power. This inspired the dramatic rise of goddess worship in medieval India. Tantric goddesses challenged traditional models of womanhood as passive and docile in their intertwining of violent and erotic power. Their characteristics were tied to a uniquely Tantric tension between the destructive and the maternal.
Granite sculpture of a Yogini goddess, Tamil Nadu, India, 10th century AD.
The seductive but dangerous Yoginis were shapeshifting goddesses who could metamorphose into women, birds, tigers or jackals as the mood took them. Initiated Tantrikas sought to access their powers, from flight and immortality to control over others. The Yogini above is part of a group that would have once been enshrined in a Yogini temple. Her earrings are made of a dismembered hand and a cobra, and she has fangs.
The Yoginis were believed to offer protection to kingdoms against epidemics or enemy forces and assist in the acquisition of new territories. Most Yogini temples were circular and unique in their roofless design – you can see an example below. The exhibition will feature an immersive and imaginative recreation of this space.
Sixty-four Yoginis encircle the interior walls of a 10th-century temple in Hirapur, Odisha, Eastern India.
Tantric yoga
The allure of Tantra, with its promise of longevity and invulnerability, retained a hold over those in positions of power between the 16th and 19th centuries, including Rajput, Mughal and Sultanate rulers. One form of Tantric practice that became especially popular was Hatha yoga (‘yoga of force’).
Yogis used complex postures and muscular contractions to direct the flow of breath. Techniques included visualising the goddess Kundalini, an individual’s source of Shakti, as a serpent at the base of the spine. Around her is a network of energy centres known as chakras, each of which contains a deity. Together, they make up the ‘yogic body’. Through breath control, Kundalini rises like a current, infusing the chakras with power. Awakening Kundalini became the practitioner’s ultimate goal. This is what is being visualised in the painting below, a loan from the British Library. This is very much about transformation in the world, via the body, rather than transcendence of it.
Also known as Vajrayana, the ‘Path of the Thunderbolt’, Tantric Buddhism flourished in Eastern India. Buddhist monasteries studied and taught the Tantras, and attracted pilgrims from across Asia. This led to the rapid transmission of Vajrayana teachings. Tibet saw the founding of major monasteries which became the new political players and often rivalled one another.
Instrumental in the transmission of Tantric teachings from India to the Himalayas were the Mahasiddhas or Great Accomplished Ones. Their life stories are filled with miraculous events and they became especially popular in Tibet. Many engaged in sexual rites and carried out practices involving impure substances in cremation ground settings. Their goal was to confront limiting emotions such as attachment, fear and disgust. Most are shown as semi-naked and shaggy-haired yogis. Some carry skull-cups and wear human bone ornaments to imitate Tantric deities. Six are shown here, including Saraha in the centre. He holds an arrow, symbolic of single-minded concentration and a reference to his guru, who was a female arrow-smith.
Thangka (painting on textile) depicting Saraha and other Mahasiddhas, Tibet, 18th century.
One of the themes the exhibition explores is the role of divine union. Tantric Buddhist texts and images use gender to articulate the two qualities to be cultivated on the path towards enlightenment, wisdom and compassion. These are visualised as a goddess (representing wisdom) and a god (representing compassion) in sexual union, as we see with this Tibetan bronze. In Tibet this is known as yab-yum or father-mother. The goal is to internalise these qualities by visualising the deities uniting within the body through meditation.
Sculpture of Raktayamari in union with Vajravetali. Bronze with turquoise, gold and pigment, Tibet, 16–17th century.
Tantra and revolution in colonial India
The Tantric goddess Kali was widely worshipped in Bengal. She was heralded as a ruthless yet compassionate Mother by the Bengali mystic and poet, Ramprasad Sen. His verse resonated at a time of crisis in Bengal, intensified by the rise of the British East India Company. Devotion to Kali as an icon of strength increased, promoted through poetry and public festivals.
Print of Ramprasad Sen with the goddess Kali, signed P. Chakraborty, Bengal, India, 20th-century.
Kali was regarded by many British officials as a threat to the colonial enterprise, and Bengali revolutionaries effectively exploited these fears by reimagining her as a symbol of resistance and a manifestation of India personified. This is evident in prints produced by printmakers such as the Calcutta Art Studio, established in 1878. The example below continued to circulate after 1905, when Bengal was partitioned by the British to weaken the growing independence movement. A colonial administrator identified the decapitated heads in this print as suspiciously British-looking, leading to its censorship.
Popular print of the goddess Kali, published by the Calcutta Art Studio. Lithograph, Kolkata, Bengal, India, c. 1885–1895.
The art of Tantra
Both before and after Indian independence from British rule in 1947 and the emergence of India and Pakistan as independent nation states, South Asian artists forged modern national styles rooted in the pre-colonial art of the past. Many were inspired by Tantra’s engagement with social inclusivity and spiritual freedom. In the 1970s, artists associated with the Neo-Tantra movement adopted certain Tantric symbols and adapted them to speak to the visual language of global modernism, particularly Abstract Expressionism.
The painting above by Bangladeshi artist Biren De reflects the influence of the concentric shapes of mandalas, which frame luminous central deities. This centre point is also understood as an expression of cosmic creation.
Tantra in the UK and the US
In the UK and the US in the 1960s and 1970s, Tantra had an impact on the period’s radical politics, where it was interpreted as a movement that could inspire anti-capitalist, ecological and free love ideals. Tantra was reimagined as a ‘cult of ecstasy’ that could challenge stifled attitudes to sexuality. Here a pair of London-based designers draw on Tantric images of deities in union to communicate this idea.
Hapshash and the Coloured Coat (Nigel Waymouth, b. 1971 and Michael English, 1942–2009), Tantric Lovers. Pull-out poster from Oz Magazine, London, 1968.
Another poster advertises the Human Be-In festival, held in San Francisco, which heralded the summer of love in 1967. Yoga and meditation were promoted as transformative practices that could inspire minds to challenge the status quo. The poster includes a portrait of a yogi taken in Nepal. Yogis captured the popular imagination in the West as countercultural role models.
Human Be-in poster, designed by Stanley Mouse and Alton Kelley, photograph by Casey Sonnabend. USA, 1967.
Tantra today
Today, 200 years of shifting interpretations have left many misconceptions about what Tantra is, or what it actually involves. Tantra is not independent of Hinduism and Buddhism but has pervaded and transformed both traditions from its inception. As a worldview, philosophy and set of practices, Tantra is as alive as ever. Sects in India, including the Aghoris, reveal the enduring power of the movement. Their practices include smearing their bodies with the ash of burnt corpses from funerary pyres, as seen here, an act which is traditionally deemed polluting.
For the Aghoris, transgressive practices are an expression of the Tantric assertion that all is sacred and there is no distinction between what is conventionally perceived as pure and impure, just as there is no distinction between the self and the divine. By shattering society’s cultural conditioning of the mind, the Aghoris transcend ego-led emotions such as fear and aversion and instead nurture a non-discriminating attitude that draws on the repressed power of the taboo.
Tantra and the female gaze
In the contemporary art world, female artists have harnessed Tantric goddesses through the bodies of real women, evoking them in a feminist guise. The title of this almost three-metre tall mixed-media painting, Housewives with Steak-knives, challenges the stereotype of the submissive wife confined to the kitchen. It is by the Bengal-born British artist Sutapa Biswas. Here the ‘Housewife’ as Kali wears a garland of heads that the artist describes as figureheads of authoritarian patriarchy.
With this exhibition, we are offering the chance to gain a deeper understanding of Tantra so you can explore the diversity and vitality of its philosophies and practices, and the richness of its artistic traditions. Above all, we hope you’ll be stimulated and challenged to question your own ideas about the nature of the divine.
Find out more aboutTantra: enlightenment to revolution and book tickets here.
From its inception to the present day, Tantra has challenged religious, cultural and political norms around the world. A philosophy that emerged in India around the sixth century, Tantra has been linked to successive waves of revolutionary thought, from its early transformation of Hinduism and Buddhism, to the Indian fight for independence and the rise of 1960s counterculture.
The Sanskrit word ‘Tantra’ derives from the verbal root tan, meaning ‘to weave’, or ‘compose’, and refers to a type of instructional text, often written as a dialogue between a god and a goddess. The exhibition features some of the earliest surviving Tantras (see image below). These outline a variety of rituals for invoking one of the many all-powerful Tantric deities, including through visualisations and yoga. Requiring guidance from a teacher, or guru, they were said to grant worldly and supernatural powers, from long life to flight, alongside spiritual transformation.
Many texts contained rituals that transgressed existing social and religious boundaries – for example, sexual rites and engagement with the taboo, such as intoxicants and human remains. Tantra challenged distinctions between opposites by teaching that everything is sacred, including the traditionally profane and impure.
The rise of Tantra
The development of Tantra in medieval India coincided with the rise of many new kingdoms across the subcontinent after the breakdown of two major dynasties, the Guptas in the north and the Vakatakas in the southwest. Although this led to political precariousness, there was also a great flourishing of the arts. Many rulers were drawn to Tantra’s promise of power and public temples often incorporated Tantric deities as guardians.
Granite sculpture of the god Bhairava, Tamil Nadu, India, 11th century.
This included the Tantric Hindu god Bhairava, seen above. He famously decapitated the orthodox creator god Brahma to show the superiority of the Tantric path and used his skull as a begging bowl. Early Tantric practitioners (Tantrikas) emulated his fearsome and anarchic appearance in order to ‘become’ him, while rulers worshipped him in order to strengthen their political positions.
One of his early followers was the poet-saint Karaikkal Ammaiyar, who abandoned her role as an obedient wife to become his follower. Tantric initiation was open to people from different social backgrounds. This challenge to the caste system made Tantra especially appealing to women and the socially marginalised.
Mohan Sthapati, Karaikkal Ammaiyar. Bronze, c. 1990–1992.
Divine feminine power
The Tantric worldview sees all material reality as animated by Shakti – unlimited, divine feminine power. This inspired the dramatic rise of goddess worship in medieval India. Tantric goddesses challenged traditional models of womanhood as passive and docile in their intertwining of violent and erotic power. Their characteristics were tied to a uniquely Tantric tension between the destructive and the maternal.
Granite sculpture of a Yogini goddess, Tamil Nadu, India, 10th century AD.
The seductive but dangerous Yoginis were shapeshifting goddesses who could metamorphose into women, birds, tigers or jackals as the mood took them. Initiated Tantrikas sought to access their powers, from flight and immortality to control over others. The Yogini above is part of a group that would have once been enshrined in a Yogini temple. Her earrings are made of a dismembered hand and a cobra, and she has fangs.
The Yoginis were believed to offer protection to kingdoms against epidemics or enemy forces and assist in the acquisition of new territories. Most Yogini temples were circular and unique in their roofless design – you can see an example below. The exhibition will feature an immersive and imaginative recreation of this space.
Sixty-four Yoginis encircle the interior walls of a 10th-century temple in Hirapur, Odisha, Eastern India.
Tantric yoga
The allure of Tantra, with its promise of longevity and invulnerability, retained a hold over those in positions of power between the 16th and 19th centuries, including Rajput, Mughal and Sultanate rulers. One form of Tantric practice that became especially popular was Hatha yoga (‘yoga of force’).
Yogis used complex postures and muscular contractions to direct the flow of breath. Techniques included visualising the goddess Kundalini, an individual’s source of Shakti, as a serpent at the base of the spine. Around her is a network of energy centres known as chakras, each of which contains a deity. Together, they make up the ‘yogic body’. Through breath control, Kundalini rises like a current, infusing the chakras with power. Awakening Kundalini became the practitioner’s ultimate goal. This is what is being visualised in the painting below, a loan from the British Library. This is very much about transformation in the world, via the body, rather than transcendence of it.
Also known as Vajrayana, the ‘Path of the Thunderbolt’, Tantric Buddhism flourished in Eastern India. Buddhist monasteries studied and taught the Tantras, and attracted pilgrims from across Asia. This led to the rapid transmission of Vajrayana teachings. Tibet saw the founding of major monasteries which became the new political players and often rivalled one another.
Instrumental in the transmission of Tantric teachings from India to the Himalayas were the Mahasiddhas or Great Accomplished Ones. Their life stories are filled with miraculous events and they became especially popular in Tibet. Many engaged in sexual rites and carried out practices involving impure substances in cremation ground settings. Their goal was to confront limiting emotions such as attachment, fear and disgust. Most are shown as semi-naked and shaggy-haired yogis. Some carry skull-cups and wear human bone ornaments to imitate Tantric deities. Six are shown here, including Saraha in the centre. He holds an arrow, symbolic of single-minded concentration and a reference to his guru, who was a female arrow-smith.
Thangka (painting on textile) depicting Saraha and other Mahasiddhas, Tibet, 18th century.
One of the themes the exhibition explores is the role of divine union. Tantric Buddhist texts and images use gender to articulate the two qualities to be cultivated on the path towards enlightenment, wisdom and compassion. These are visualised as a goddess (representing wisdom) and a god (representing compassion) in sexual union, as we see with this Tibetan bronze. In Tibet this is known as yab-yum or father-mother. The goal is to internalise these qualities by visualising the deities uniting within the body through meditation.
Sculpture of Raktayamari in union with Vajravetali. Bronze with turquoise, gold and pigment, Tibet, 16–17th century.
Tantra and revolution in colonial India
The Tantric goddess Kali was widely worshipped in Bengal. She was heralded as a ruthless yet compassionate Mother by the Bengali mystic and poet, Ramprasad Sen. His verse resonated at a time of crisis in Bengal, intensified by the rise of the British East India Company. Devotion to Kali as an icon of strength increased, promoted through poetry and public festivals.
Print of Ramprasad Sen with the goddess Kali, signed P. Chakraborty, Bengal, India, 20th-century.
Kali was regarded by many British officials as a threat to the colonial enterprise, and Bengali revolutionaries effectively exploited these fears by reimagining her as a symbol of resistance and a manifestation of India personified. This is evident in prints produced by printmakers such as the Calcutta Art Studio, established in 1878. The example below continued to circulate after 1905, when Bengal was partitioned by the British to weaken the growing independence movement. A colonial administrator identified the decapitated heads in this print as suspiciously British-looking, leading to its censorship.
Popular print of the goddess Kali, published by the Calcutta Art Studio. Lithograph, Kolkata, Bengal, India, c. 1885–1895.
The art of Tantra
Both before and after Indian independence from British rule in 1947 and the emergence of India and Pakistan as independent nation states, South Asian artists forged modern national styles rooted in the pre-colonial art of the past. Many were inspired by Tantra’s engagement with social inclusivity and spiritual freedom. In the 1970s, artists associated with the Neo-Tantra movement adopted certain Tantric symbols and adapted them to speak to the visual language of global modernism, particularly Abstract Expressionism.
The painting above by Bangladeshi artist Biren De reflects the influence of the concentric shapes of mandalas, which frame luminous central deities. This centre point is also understood as an expression of cosmic creation.
Tantra in the UK and the US
In the UK and the US in the 1960s and 1970s, Tantra had an impact on the period’s radical politics, where it was interpreted as a movement that could inspire anti-capitalist, ecological and free love ideals. Tantra was reimagined as a ‘cult of ecstasy’ that could challenge stifled attitudes to sexuality. Here a pair of London-based designers draw on Tantric images of deities in union to communicate this idea.
Hapshash and the Coloured Coat (Nigel Waymouth, b. 1971 and Michael English, 1942–2009), Tantric Lovers. Pull-out poster from Oz Magazine, London, 1968.
Another poster advertises the Human Be-In festival, held in San Francisco, which heralded the summer of love in 1967. Yoga and meditation were promoted as transformative practices that could inspire minds to challenge the status quo. The poster includes a portrait of a yogi taken in Nepal. Yogis captured the popular imagination in the West as countercultural role models.
Human Be-in poster, designed by Stanley Mouse and Alton Kelley, photograph by Casey Sonnabend. USA, 1967.
Tantra today
Today, 200 years of shifting interpretations have left many misconceptions about what Tantra is, or what it actually involves. Tantra is not independent of Hinduism and Buddhism but has pervaded and transformed both traditions from its inception. As a worldview, philosophy and set of practices, Tantra is as alive as ever. Sects in India, including the Aghoris, reveal the enduring power of the movement. Their practices include smearing their bodies with the ash of burnt corpses from funerary pyres, as seen here, an act which is traditionally deemed polluting.
For the Aghoris, transgressive practices are an expression of the Tantric assertion that all is sacred and there is no distinction between what is conventionally perceived as pure and impure, just as there is no distinction between the self and the divine. By shattering society’s cultural conditioning of the mind, the Aghoris transcend ego-led emotions such as fear and aversion and instead nurture a non-discriminating attitude that draws on the repressed power of the taboo.
Tantra and the female gaze
In the contemporary art world, female artists have harnessed Tantric goddesses through the bodies of real women, evoking them in a feminist guise. The title of this almost three-metre tall mixed-media painting, Housewives with Steak-knives, challenges the stereotype of the submissive wife confined to the kitchen. It is by the Bengal-born British artist Sutapa Biswas. Here the ‘Housewife’ as Kali wears a garland of heads that the artist describes as figureheads of authoritarian patriarchy.
With this exhibition, we are offering the chance to gain a deeper understanding of Tantra so you can explore the diversity and vitality of its philosophies and practices, and the richness of its artistic traditions. Above all, we hope you’ll be stimulated and challenged to question your own ideas about the nature of the divine.
Find out more aboutTantra: enlightenment to revolution and book tickets here.
The Greek hero Odysseus spent 10 long years striving to return home after the Trojan War. The stories of how he tricked the one-eyed Cyclops, evaded the flesh-eating Laestrygonians, and resisted the lure of the sirens as he struggled to reach Ithaca, are some of the most memorable in Homer’s Odyssey. These stories may be fictional, but they form the heart of a poem that has reverberated down the centuries as a vessel of eternal truths.
Herbert Draper (1863–1920), Ulysses and the Sirens, 1909. Ferens Art Gallery.
For centuries, people have been trying to discover who was behind the timeless tales of the Odyssey and its predecessor, the Iliad. Homer, the name attached to the two poems, remains a mysterious figure. Was he a man? Was ‘Homer’ a group or lineage of poets? Was Homer a woman? The late-19th-century novelist Samuel Butler was convinced that the author of the Odyssey, at least, was female. For most people in antiquity, however, the two epics were the products of a single male mind.
Etching showing an allegorical scene from the title page of an edition of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Homer is standing in the centre and reciting poetry. Apollo, the god of poetry, is listening on the right. After Jan Goeree. Around 1710.
In the second century AD, a satirical writer named Lucian imagined meeting the poet and interrogating him as to who he truly was. ‘Homer’ revealed to him that many people believed he came from the Aegean island of Chios, or from Smyrna or Colophon, on the west coast of what is now Turkey. While his words were to be taken lightly, scholars today consider it highly probable that the Homeric poems did indeed originate in these parts. Their Greek, while not one that was ever spoken, is overall more typical of the ancient dialects of the west coast of Turkey and the islands just off the coast than it is of those of mainland Greece.
Map of the Aegean showing some of the places where Homer was said to have come from. These include Smyrna and Colophon on the west coast of what is now Turkey, and the islands of Ios and Chios.
Homer was associated with this part of the world from a very early date. Several writers described a talented poet of Chios, where a group of performing bards calling themselves the ‘Homeridae’ or ‘children of Homer’ had also established itself by the 6th century BC. References also exist in the early sources to Homer being conceived on the island of Ios or at Cyme and being born at Smyrna (modern-day Izmir).
The earliest coin to feature Homer dates to the fourth century BC and comes from Ios.
Ancient writers had various ideas about what Homer looked like. The word ‘Homeros’ could mean ‘hostage’ in Greek, so some imagined that he was a captive. But ‘Homeros’ could also mean ‘blind’, and the image of a blind bard proved particularly compelling. One reason for this was that the Odyssey features a blind but immensely talented poet named Demodocus who recites his work before a royal court.
Marble bust of Homer, which depicts him as blind. 2nd century AD. Roman copy of a Hellenistic original of the 2nd BC.
It is possible that the blindness of Homer was a myth invented to account for the fact that the Homeric poems originally evolved orally, before the development of writing in Greece, by being performed and passed down from bard to bard. Like the blind poet Demodocus in the Odyssey, a bard would have sung the poems before an audience, repeating passages and set phrases, such as ‘godlike Odysseus’, to satisfy the poetic metre.
Athenian red-figure storage jar (amphora) showing a bard reciting or singing poetry. About 500–480 BC.
The Iliad and Odyssey are conventionally dated to the late 8th or early 7th century BC. By this time the use of writing was becoming more widespread in Greece and it seems that the poems were also set down for the first time. But it’s clear that the poems contain features preserved from the pre-writing age.
This Etruscan painting from a tomb shows the Judgement of Paris. At the left, Paris awaits the three goddesses. Aphrodite, last of the three, lifts her dress to show a flash of leg. On the right, Helen is approached by three women bringing jewellery and perfume. About 560-550 BC.
The story of the origins of the Trojan War, for example, in which Paris, prince of Troy, granted Aphrodite, goddess of love, the golden apple, is alluded to only briefly by Homer. It’s taken for granted that anyone coming to the poems would already have known the details. The story of the judgement of Paris, in other words, is at least contemporary, if not older, than the poems themselves.
The poems may also preserve memories of an earlier, heroic age. The men of this time are presented as far stronger and mightier than those who came after them. Many scholars today believe that, if anything like the Trojan War ever happened, the most feasible historical background for the heroic age of the epics is the Late Bronze Age, about 400 years before the Iliad and Odyssey were first written down. Still today the monumental architecture of the city of Troy speaks of the highly developed civilisation that flourished in this period in Anatolia. It finds its counterpart in the grand palaces that Mycenaean Greeks built in the Peloponnese in the period between 1600–1200 BC. The precise reasons for why their civilisation collapsed in the 12th century BC are still a matter of scholarly debate.
The lion gate at Mycenae. Mycenae was one of the most important settlements in Greece during the Bronze Age. Photo by Andreas Trepte, www.photo-natur.net.
The poems contain descriptions which evoke this glorious lost age. But they also contain details which derive from later times. There is a reference to the building of temples to the gods, for example, but the earliest Greek temples to the gods that we know of were constructed in the eighth century BC. It is partly accidental that the Homeric epics are such a chronological jumble – they preserve real memories and traces and phrases of the ancient past – and partly intentional. The war is set in the ancient past, so words and objects were chosen to characterise this earlier time.
So where might Homer fit into this? Going on the theory that there was a Homer, perhaps a poet who was born in Smyrna and worked on Chios, was he the original storyteller who came up with the plots of the epics, influenced perhaps by a conflict just north of where he came from, at Troy?
Or was Homer at the other end of the process? After being passed orally from generation to generation, the poems must have been refined when they were written down for the first time. So, should we think of Homer as a sort of editor, who shaped the inherited material into the complete poems?
Or is ‘Homer’ more a spirit than anything else, simply a name to give to a pair of remarkable poems which evolved and grew over hundreds of years and which can’t be attributed to anyone in particular?
Lawrence Alma-Tadema, A Reading from Homer, 1885. Philadelphia Museum of Art.
Everyone is entitled to their own view on this. My own is that it is not inconceivable that there was an original bard who came from the part of the world that we now know formed the setting of the poems. Perhaps he composed the epics in outline, building on stories passed down from his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents, which later poets developed and perpetuated orally. Finally these poems were written down.
It’s for each of us to decide whether to believe in one Homer or in many, in a blind bard or in a spirit that encapsulates the most astonishing process of preservation of stories told long ago. What is important is that we have the poems at all and continue to recognise their worth. It is uplifting to think that we can find as much joy in Homer’s poetry today as our forebears did 3,000 years ago.
The Greek hero Odysseus spent 10 long years striving to return home after the Trojan War. The stories of how he tricked the one-eyed Cyclops, evaded the flesh-eating Laestrygonians, and resisted the lure of the sirens as he struggled to reach Ithaca, are some of the most memorable in Homer’s Odyssey. These stories may be fictional, but they form the heart of a poem that has reverberated down the centuries as a vessel of eternal truths.
Herbert Draper (1863–1920), Ulysses and the Sirens, 1909. Ferens Art Gallery.
For centuries, people have been trying to discover who was behind the timeless tales of the Odyssey and its predecessor, the Iliad. Homer, the name attached to the two poems, remains a mysterious figure. Was he a man? Was ‘Homer’ a group or lineage of poets? Was Homer a woman? The late-19th-century novelist Samuel Butler was convinced that the author of the Odyssey, at least, was female. For most people in antiquity, however, the two epics were the products of a single male mind.
Etching showing an allegorical scene from the title page of an edition of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Homer is standing in the centre and reciting poetry. Apollo, the god of poetry, is listening on the right. After Jan Goeree. Around 1710.
In the second century AD, a satirical writer named Lucian imagined meeting the poet and interrogating him as to who he truly was. ‘Homer’ revealed to him that many people believed he came from the Aegean island of Chios, or from Smyrna or Colophon, on the west coast of what is now Turkey. While his words were to be taken lightly, scholars today consider it highly probable that the Homeric poems did indeed originate in these parts. Their Greek, while not one that was ever spoken, is overall more typical of the ancient dialects of the west coast of Turkey and the islands just off the coast than it is of those of mainland Greece.
Map of the Aegean showing some of the places where Homer was said to have come from. These include Smyrna and Colophon on the west coast of what is now Turkey, and the islands of Ios and Chios.
Homer was associated with this part of the world from a very early date. Several writers described a talented poet of Chios, where a group of performing bards calling themselves the ‘Homeridae’ or ‘children of Homer’ had also established itself by the 6th century BC. References also exist in the early sources to Homer being conceived on the island of Ios or at Cyme and being born at Smyrna (modern-day Izmir).
The earliest coin to feature Homer dates to the fourth century BC and comes from Ios.
Ancient writers had various ideas about what Homer looked like. The word ‘Homeros’ could mean ‘hostage’ in Greek, so some imagined that he was a captive. But ‘Homeros’ could also mean ‘blind’, and the image of a blind bard proved particularly compelling. One reason for this was that the Odyssey features a blind but immensely talented poet named Demodocus who recites his work before a royal court.
Marble bust of Homer, which depicts him as blind. 2nd century AD. Roman copy of a Hellenistic original of the 2nd BC.
It is possible that the blindness of Homer was a myth invented to account for the fact that the Homeric poems originally evolved orally, before the development of writing in Greece, by being performed and passed down from bard to bard. Like the blind poet Demodocus in the Odyssey, a bard would have sung the poems before an audience, repeating passages and set phrases, such as ‘godlike Odysseus’, to satisfy the poetic metre.
Athenian red-figure storage jar (amphora) showing a bard reciting or singing poetry. About 500–480 BC.
The Iliad and Odyssey are conventionally dated to the late 8th or early 7th century BC. By this time the use of writing was becoming more widespread in Greece and it seems that the poems were also set down for the first time. But it’s clear that the poems contain features preserved from the pre-writing age.
This Etruscan painting from a tomb shows the Judgement of Paris. At the left, Paris awaits the three goddesses. Aphrodite, last of the three, lifts her dress to show a flash of leg. On the right, Helen is approached by three women bringing jewellery and perfume. About 560-550 BC.
The story of the origins of the Trojan War, for example, in which Paris, prince of Troy, granted Aphrodite, goddess of love, the golden apple, is alluded to only briefly by Homer. It’s taken for granted that anyone coming to the poems would already have known the details. The story of the judgement of Paris, in other words, is at least contemporary, if not older, than the poems themselves.
The poems may also preserve memories of an earlier, heroic age. The men of this time are presented as far stronger and mightier than those who came after them. Many scholars today believe that, if anything like the Trojan War ever happened, the most feasible historical background for the heroic age of the epics is the Late Bronze Age, about 400 years before the Iliad and Odyssey were first written down. Still today the monumental architecture of the city of Troy speaks of the highly developed civilisation that flourished in this period in Anatolia. It finds its counterpart in the grand palaces that Mycenaean Greeks built in the Peloponnese in the period between 1600–1200 BC. The precise reasons for why their civilisation collapsed in the 12th century BC are still a matter of scholarly debate.
The lion gate at Mycenae. Mycenae was one of the most important settlements in Greece during the Bronze Age. Photo by Andreas Trepte, www.photo-natur.net.
The poems contain descriptions which evoke this glorious lost age. But they also contain details which derive from later times. There is a reference to the building of temples to the gods, for example, but the earliest Greek temples to the gods that we know of were constructed in the eighth century BC. It is partly accidental that the Homeric epics are such a chronological jumble – they preserve real memories and traces and phrases of the ancient past – and partly intentional. The war is set in the ancient past, so words and objects were chosen to characterise this earlier time.
So where might Homer fit into this? Going on the theory that there was a Homer, perhaps a poet who was born in Smyrna and worked on Chios, was he the original storyteller who came up with the plots of the epics, influenced perhaps by a conflict just north of where he came from, at Troy?
Or was Homer at the other end of the process? After being passed orally from generation to generation, the poems must have been refined when they were written down for the first time. So, should we think of Homer as a sort of editor, who shaped the inherited material into the complete poems?
Or is ‘Homer’ more a spirit than anything else, simply a name to give to a pair of remarkable poems which evolved and grew over hundreds of years and which can’t be attributed to anyone in particular?
Lawrence Alma-Tadema, A Reading from Homer, 1885. Philadelphia Museum of Art.
Everyone is entitled to their own view on this. My own is that it is not inconceivable that there was an original bard who came from the part of the world that we now know formed the setting of the poems. Perhaps he composed the epics in outline, building on stories passed down from his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents, which later poets developed and perpetuated orally. Finally these poems were written down.
It’s for each of us to decide whether to believe in one Homer or in many, in a blind bard or in a spirit that encapsulates the most astonishing process of preservation of stories told long ago. What is important is that we have the poems at all and continue to recognise their worth. It is uplifting to think that we can find as much joy in Homer’s poetry today as our forebears did 3,000 years ago.
