Unheard of Roman mythology for fff?
It is Saturday morning because I went to bed before seeing this, but I don't think it's necessarily fair to make you wait a week. So! Today You Learned about how Romulus & Remus are not the only legendary founders of Rome.
Alright, so when you think about who founded Rome, chances are that you're thinking of Aeneas (a noble of Troy and the son of Venus) or Romulus & Remus (sons of Mars). Those are the established mythical figures associated with Rome's beginnings.
The story of Romulus & Remus is pretty popular, because of Plutarch and Livy, two big sources on Roman history and culture. Two boys, the demigod sons of Mars (and descendants of Aeneas, the Trojan prince, I think?), are abandoned in the wilderness and fed by a mother she-wolf. When they grow up, they found a city, but feud, and Romulus kills Remus and the city's named after him.
Except that's not the only story that went around in ancient Rome. Romulus and Aeneas are definitely popular contenders, but not everyone agreed on who they were. Romulus was sometimes posited to be the son of Aeneas or even the son of Odysseus. Some stories had Rome founded by Aeneas with Odysseus (why the two would work together after being on opposite sides of the Trojan War, I don't know). There are in fact a bunch of folk tales about Odysseus settling places in Italy, in part because that was where some believed Circe lived there, and Odysseus stayed with her for a while.
It's also worth noting that the Latin word for 'she-wolf' is also a euphemism for a prostitute, and legends involving either of those interpretation exist.
Fact is that there isn't a historical record about how Rome was founded that's survived, even in the days of ancient Rome, so mythical pasts were invented, often tying the story to the Trojan War. This was a popular thing to do for centuries! There are writers that tried to make it so that Britain was settled by Aeneas's descendants, or that the Norse gods are actually heroes of the Trojan War under different names.
So yeah! When someone asks you who founded Rome, Kiwi Hellenist suggests that you can give any or all of these answers:
Aeneas
Evander
Latinus
Romulus
Romulus & Remus
Romulus (son of Aeneas, rather than son of Mars and Rhea Silvia)
Romulus (grandson of Telemachus and Circe)
Aeneas and Odysseus
Romus (son of Aeneas)
Romus (grandson of Aeneas)
Romus (son of Odysseus and Circe)
Romus, Romulus, and Telegonus (sons of Latinus)
Romanus (son of Odysseus and Circe)
Latinus (son of Odysseus)
Latinus (son of Telemachus and Circe)
Latinus (a Trojan)
Greeks returning from Troy and stranded in Latium
Now you know!
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I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.
What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.
What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.
What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.
The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.
And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.
But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.
I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.
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Hey y'all. With the Writer's Guild of America on strike, you might be hearing a lot more about something called "residuals," which are payments that the writers get for the studios continuing to air their work on reruns and such. Already I'm seeing people trying to frame the union trying to bargain for better residuals as greedy and unreasonable, so I just wanted to give you guys a peek into my dad's full, 100% real residual payments for writing some of the most watched episodes of American late night television.
Yeah lol. If u hear anyone trying to frame the conversation around residuals as writers being greedy, please do me a favor and punch them straight in the face ❤️🙃🙃
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Sometimes, I cry so hard I can feel it in my ribs. / I feel like the real me is backed into a corner inside me
— Ama Asantewa Diaka, from "Saturday Evening WhatsApp Message," Woman, Eat Me Whole
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