Daedalus and Icarus

Leighton's Most Mysterious Artwork

#Frederic_Leighton

The first time I came across Daedalus and Icarus by Sir Frederic Leighton (1869), I was struck by the black mantle partially covering Icarus’ left wing. ‘What does it represent?’ I wondered.  However, when I searched the internet for the meaning of the menacing profile shaped by the black silk, I found nothing. So, I had to find out myself!

Frederic Leighton, Daedalus and Icarus, 1869, oil on canvas, 138.2 cm x 106.5 cm, Faringdon Collection Trust, Buscot Park, England.

When analysing an artwork, the first step is to find out more about the context in which it was made, which can be translated into the question: ‘When and where was the painting created?’. As a second step, we can ask the following questions: ‘Who created the artwork?’ ‘Who or what does it portray?’ ‘Did a patron commission it, or was it created to be exhibited?’ Indeed, you can ask many more questions to a painting or an artwork in general; however, to keep this article reader-friendly, we will only ask a handful of them! So, let’s see in which context was Daedalus and Icarus created.

The painting was created in Victorian England, and Victorians were fascinated by the impermanence of life. Children were educated with moral tales punctually infused with death. To parents, this was a way of warning them about the transience of life and the dangers posed by disobedience. Following this contemporary trend, the artist Frederic Leighton drew his inspiration from Graeco-Roman mythology, painting a scene from the myth of Daedalus and Icarus.

The Chairman of the Friends of Leighton House – Richard Ormond, suggests that the version written by the ancient Roman poet Ovid in his epic poem Metamorphoses, composed at the beginning of the first century CE, inspired Leighton to paint his artwork. Daedalus and Icarus, as narrated by Ovid, tells the story of the brilliant Athenian craftsman and inventor Daedalus, who wants to escape his exile on the island of Crete by building a pair of wings for himself and his son – Icarus. The man had used wax to keep the feathers together; therefore, while he helps his son put his wings on, he cautions him against soaring too close to the fiery sun. However, in a tragic display of youthful defiance, Icarus disregards his father’s warning and ascends towards the radiant ball of fire, destroying his wings and causing the wax binding the feathers to melt. So, he sadly descends into the sea to find death in the arms of Neptune.

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In these first few lines, we had a brief overview of the context, specifically the Victorians’ relationship with death. We also learned that the subjects portrayed in it come from Graeco-Roman mythology. Such mythological subjects were widely appreciated at the time, so much so that they were displayed in the best spots in salons and academies. Still, we haven’t tackled the main question, but first, let’s dive into some visual analysis!

The moment captured in the painting is when Daedalus instructs his son to use the wings he crafted. You can see him hunching down under his son’s arm, fitting the wings. His head is turned towards Icarus, whose naked body rivals the beauty of many marble statues seen in museums. However, he does not return his father’s gaze. He is absent. He is not listening to his father’s instructions, and his profile points already towards the sky, impatient to take off.

The two are rendered in full body and placed at the edge of a slope. Behind them, there is a small statue of Minerva (Athena in the Greek tradition) with her right fist raised towards the sky – a gesture echoed by Icarus – while she faces the mountains in the distance and the Cretan coast. There are a few unsettling elements in the painting: Daedalus’ forehead is creased by worry, the goddess’ statue turns her back on the two figures as if she had left them to their fate and the black billowing silken cloth that is partially covering Icarus’ left wing, which the wind has shaped into a menacing human profile, echoes that of the youth. We went a bit fast with our visual analysis, so let’s slow down for now and examine the reasons that led Leighton to choose Ovid’s myth as the inspiration for his painting.

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Ovid’s take on this myth is just one of the many threads in the rich tapestry of mythical retellings. Thus, comparing it to another version may shine a light on why Leighton found it so captivating. One of these retellings is found in the Library, a myth’s compendium formerly attributed to the third-century BCE scholar Apollodorus. This version appears shorter than Ovid’s and has no direct speech lines. In it, we do not hear Daedalus’ concerned voice as we do in Metamorphoses, where he instructs his son to ‘listen carefully’ (8.203) as he attaches the wings to his shoulders, cautioning him about the perils that lie above and below (8.204-205).

Moreover, Ovid’s poem is scanned by heart-wrenching moments, such as when Daedalus, in tears, kisses his son for the last time before taking flight (8.211). In the Library’s version, he merely ‘enjoined his son’ (E1.12), but no mention of him being concerned. While the Library mentions Daedalus reaching Sicily alone (E1.13), there’s no reference to him burying his son, contrary to Ovid, who tells us that ‘Daedalus coursed the skill of his hands and buried his dear son’s corpse in a grave.’ (8.234-5). In Ovid’s portrayal, Daedalus emerges as a more genuine and relatable father figure. Don’t you find the emotional depth in Ovid’s version makes Daedalus a more compelling character as a father?

I believe that Daedalus' credibility as a father, as depicted by Ovid, was the factor that made this myth resonate with Victorian audiences and that ultimately inspired Leighton. In the nineteenth century, there was a high rate of child mortality; therefore, many parents, just like Daedalus, were mourning the loss of their children. As mentioned above, Victorians were also fascinated by death and enjoyed telling moral stories to their little ones in which disobedient children died—a rather macabre way of warning them about the dangers of unruliness, you might think, but at the time, it was perfectly acceptable. Children’s lives were already at stake without them endangering themselves, so scaring them a little was just an act of love…

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As you see, the myth of Daedalus and Icarus ticked all the boxes to be appreciated by Victorian audiences. Furthermore, Victorians paid particular attention to funeral rituals. Black - the colour of grief, covered the faces of women in deep mourning. This dark dye stained the clothes of grieving families for months and those of professional mourners (yes, people paid to cry at funerals) during the funeral service. Thus, after delving into the painting's context, it seems apparent that the shape of the striking black mantle was no accident and that it is clearly reminiscent of a Victorian woman in mourning wearing a black crape silk veil as a sign of grief. This could foreshadow Daedalus mourning the loss of his son, who would have soon gone to Hades or even represent a death omen.

Written by Gabriella Sentina