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kathrynethegreat · 4 years

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Dr.Lecter and Leda and the Swan

The below is from an essay by the artist Anne Shingleton discussing Leda and the Swan, her artwork, and why she believes Hannibal Lecter likes it. The essay was originally provided by the now defunct Hannotations from the contributors BloodandIvory and NyxFixx. Minor content edits by me, but you can read the full essay here. You can also learn more about Anne Shingleton and her artwork at her official website.

[Lecter’s] absentee landlord apparently had a fixation on Leda and the Swan, The interspecies coupling was represented in no less than four brozes of varying quality, the best a reproduction by Donetello, and eight pantings. One painting delighted Dr.Lecter, an Anne Shingleton with its genius anatomical articulation and some real heat in the fucking. The others he draped. - Hannibal, Chapter 97, by Thomas Harris

Ever since the misty dawn of Greek mythology, Leda and her doting swan have lived and loved in countless poets' lays and, less ephemerally, in thousands upon thousands of embodiments in paint, line, stone and metal.

They appear in the arts of Rome and Hellas in a profusion of sizes and materials, from golden bracelet pendants and silver table ornaments to great sculptures cast in bronze and hewn from marble (such as the Great Relief in the British Museum), from delicate drawings on precious ceramics to colourful frescoes on the walls of atria and chambers. But after the decline of Rome they nodded off into the many long centuries of bleak post-Roman Europe, awaking briefly now and then and here there to invigorate some ornamental arts and crafts of the Middle Ages.

(The essay, as well as an image of Anne Shingleton’s version of Leda and the Swan is below the cut. It’s a little bit graphic, so fair warning)

Leda and the Swan by Anne Shingleton

It was the Italian Renaissance with its exuberant rediscovery of classical antiquity & say, from about 1400 or so onward that brought them once again into the limelight of profane (in the sense of non-ecclesiastical) imagery. Nearly all the great Renaissance artists drew, painted or sculpted their Ledas, conspicuous among these being an oil-on-canvas by Leonardo Da Vinci, known only through several copies by his followers, and Michaelangelo’s stunning marble, today in Florence's Bargello. From there they coupled their way through the next five centuries and far beyond Italy's shores and borders, into and out of the Baroque and Rococo, into the nineteenth century to brighten some sclerotic corners of Neo-Classicism, and eventually even into Art Nouveau, there briefly to beguile a languorous Belle Époque. After August 1914 they withered, along with the rest of Europe's humanistic culture.

Nevertheless, even today, in our own age of mostly meretricious rubbish art mass-produced to con newly-rich illiterates, they glow softly still among the now very distant and still receding constellations of our classical heritage.

Who, then, was Leda, and who the swan?

Antiquity sang several different versions of her tale. Most agree that she was the daughter of Thestius, king of Aetola, and the wife of Tyndraeus, king of Lacedaemon. Somehow she inflamed the passions of Zeus, Some said that he saw her bathing in a sparkling sun-drenched stream, others that Hephaistos had told him about her dissatisfaction with her husband's ways in bed, and others still that he was only out to spite his consort, Hera.

In any event, he was smitten and, having just lately visited Danae as a shower of gold, Europa as a bull, Io as a cloud, Ganymede as an eagle and others still in guises no less inventive, he decided to assume yet another one for his tryst with Leda: he would swoop down majestically on snowy pinions . . . as a swan.

Mythology fails to tell us whether these forms were mere travelling costumes, so to speak, and whether, as we may well suppose, upon arrival at the bedside he reassumed his customary and divine semblance of a robust, virile man in the prime of his maturity. I've heard that a swan's penis - to be precise: a cob's - is exactly like a circumcised human one in miniature, and that this gave rise to the amorous-swan legends . . . but I confess that I've never checked it out with a cygnologist, though I should've done so long ago. Perhaps some thoughtful cygnologist will let me know?

In any event, swan or man, he had his way with her, or she with him, or each with the other. Of it came an egg, or, in other versions, three eggs, and in others still seven, and you mustn't act surprised: when a fertile lady mates with a cob she'll lay eggs - faultless logic, that, and winsome science.

One tremendous event that soon followed was to become a bedrock and fountainhead of Western culture: for whilst out of two eggs hatched the twins Castor and Polydeuces.

I relinquish the podium to Homer.

My own versions…. differ a little from the conventional ones. For one thing, neither my painted nor my sculpted Zeus arrives in the form of a swan but rather dressed up as one . . . he's wearing a (rather skimpy) swan costume, under which he is very much the Chief Olympian: strong, handsome, supremely male, his ebullient libido refined by aeons (he being immortal) of experience and divine dedication to his beloved's (not always female) pleasure.

For another thing, most Leda depictions are intra-coital: it's happening, nobody can figure out just how but they're at it. My painting instead shows them as post-coital.

In the painting, the oil lamp on the rocks just right of the love nest is still burning but night is fleeing, crescent Selene is fading, colours are being reborn everywhere. First light is bathing the two dreamy, sated lovers. Birds chirp in chorus. An exquisite post-orgasmic Leda is savouring the last after-tremors of her lique-factions while scenting the dewy flowering of day. Zeus has retired to the top of the bower, his costume all awry, a smile of surfeit on his lips. Post coitum omne animal triste, said Aristotle: after mating all creatures are sad. I think there is truth in that, but it is more complex, less formulaic. The martyrs enter the arena hand in hand but the lions eat them one by one. Lovers in the act dispense with the meum-teum sense (Robert Graves), but after the shared orgasmic heats, the post-orgasmic chills overtake them one by one, and, slowly, deliciously if all went well, they drift apart, sometimes a little numbed, nearly always bewildered, on separate outbound tides. Even, or perhaps especially, if they're gods. My painted Leda and her god are poised over this hot-cold watershed. Until the next time…

Why does the doctor 'delight' in the Leda story? I don't know. Best ask Tom Harris. But I'll have a guess.

As he does in The Silence of the Lambs, as does so much literature both old and modern, Harris draws unconsciously or knowingly - I don't know which - on the world of myth and fable, that genome of the collective human subconscious. The leitmotif in both Silence and Hannibal, not deafening or intrusive but audible throughout from the dark beyond the firelight, is that of The Beauty and The Beast. Since I'm neither a poet nor a scholar I'll refrain from windy disquisitions, but to me the parallels between that fable and the interbraiding of the lives of Hannibal and Clarice Starling seem clear enough.

Clarice-Leda has taken vestal vows, has dedicated her body and soul to the FBI: not for her the traditional role of wife and woman as prescribed by patriarchal orthodoxy. Like the life of chaste and virginal Beauty, Clarice's life, so far as we've been told, is manless, and hence, conventional wisdom would have it, arid. The fable now demands that she be sexually fulfilled, 'sexually' having here a wide, deep, polyhedral meaning far beyond mere genital tiddlywinks.

Lecter-Swan is a beast, no doubt of that, and no need to dwell on definitions. The fable now demands that she make him human, meaning here humane.

And behold, in the book, though alas not in the film, both undergo the magical transformation: Beauty turns the Beast humane, the Beast wafts Beauty to, up and over the moany summit where she is, presumably, fulfilled. Both are reborn from scratch - from the egg, so to speak, through each other.

I think that could well be why the doctor delights in the one painting in the room that he leaves uncovered for Clarice to see.

Anne Shingleton

#leda and the swan #anne shingleton #hannibal #hannibal lecter #thomas harris tetralogy

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indieviolet · 5 years

Text

the rediscovery of us

notes: extended scene to Series 33, episode 35.

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They had spent time in the pub, having a drink and getting embarrassed by the collection of photographs Noel had found and shown to everyone! Duffy really wanted to know where he’d got them from but judging by Charlie’s coy smile, she’d already worked out the answer.

Duffy lost Charlie for about an hour as she mingled, talking to their colleagues in the pub. Despite been anxious over the event beforehand, now she was here and the spotlight wasn’t firmly on her anymore - she had relaxed enough to enjoy herself. Ordering herself another glass of white wine and a whiskey, she scanned her eyes over the pub in an attempt to find her husband but he was nowhere to be seen.

Paying for the drinks, Duffy picked up both glasses and manoeuvred her way through the crowds of people. She headed outside and smiled as she noticed Charlie sat at one of the tables, whiskey glass in hand. She approached the table and placed both glasses on the table, wrapped her arms around Charlie’s neck and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.”

She whispered in his ear as she moved her arms from his neck and sat down beside him. Charlie’s free hand came to rest on Duffy’s knee and he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“What for?”

Duffy smiled, picked up her wine glass and took a small sip. Her shoulders fell back into a small shrug before she answered, “for being you. Although to be fair, I should be killing you right now for those dreadful photographs you’ve given Noel! I look awful!”

“No you don’t, you look gorgeous.”

Duffy rolled her eyes in reply and answered verbally, “you /have/ to say that otherwise you know, I won’t put out.”

She took a second mouthful of wine and turned her head slightly so she could read Charlie’s expression. Like she’d done a few moments before, Charlie rolled his eyes.

“It’s the truth! You were beautiful then and you’re still beautiful now!”

Duffy’s complexion began to turn a warm pink colour as she found herself blushing over Charlie’s compliment. Charlie smiled, he loved making Duffy blush by plying her with a series of compliments. It was a daily occurrence for them both. Charlie would comment on her appearance and Duffy would become adorably flustered.

Noticing the look her husband was giving her, Duffy tilted her head to the side and met his gaze.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He finished the liquid in the glass, pushed the glass to the middle of the table and took hold of the drink Duffy had brought him. He swirled the liquid around the glass before bringing it to his lips.

A comfortable silence stayed between them for a while as they drank their drinks. Duffy moved slightly closer into Charlie becoming a little cold. Charlie placed an arm around her shoulders and she snuggled closer.

“I thought you’d escaped and gone home.” She said gently as she placed the glass on the table and ran her finger along the rim of the glass.

Charlie cheekily grinned and answered back, “I was planning on leaving after this drink.”

“Well you wouldn’t have got very far, I’ve got the keys.” She stuck her tongue out like a child and Charlie laughed gently at her behaviour.

“How old are you, five? Ah but you see, the spare key is in the flowerpot so I could’ve left you here..”

He laughed gently as Duffy’s hand playfully slapped him on the arm. A small pout appeared on her face at his comment.

“That’s rude!”

“Hm, a little bit.” He teased before hovering his lips near her pout. Eventually he gave in and planted a delicate kiss to her lips.

“One more drink and then home?” She suggested and Charlie nodded in agreement. As much as he enjoyed social gatherings, he much preferred been in front of the telly with the fire lit and cuddled up to his beautiful wife.

“Fancy a piggyback?” Charlie joked.

“And have you drop me on my head or something? No thanks.”

“That’d be funny. Ouch! What was that for?” Charlie let go off his whiskey glass to rub his hand against the top of his arm where he’d just received a punch from Duffy.

“Git.” She muttered under her breath. He laughed, he enjoyed winding her up more than anything. He finished his glass of whiskey at the same time Duffy finished her wine and stood up, offering his hand for her.

“Home?”

Placing her hand into Charlie’s, Duffy agreed with going home and stood up from the table. She entwined her fingers through his and lent up, planting a small kiss against his cheek. The walk home was quiet and comfortable.

Once home and they’d removed their coats, Charlie suddenly picked up Duffy. She shook her head fondly, wrapped her legs around his waist and tapped his shoulder.

“One of these days Mr Fairhead, you’re going to put your back out.”

“Hmm, maybe.” He answered. He held her as he carried her upstairs and reached the bedroom. Laying her on the bed, he towered over her and kissed her tenderly.

“I wasn’t expecting an early night so soon.” She whispered as she met his gaze.

Charlie smiled, his hand gently caressing her cheek, “I thought maybe we could just... cuddle.”

“Just cuddles?” She rose an eyebrow for a second, “I’d hope not.”

He met her eye and smiled noticing the mischievous glint in her eye. “I thought you wanted to come home..”

“I did but not to sleep.”

She smirked as she reached up and brought his head down to her lips again. Kissing him deeply before she pulled away, she whispered;

“Mr Fairhead?”

“Hmm?”

“Less talking, more action.” She giggled softly.

“Yes Mrs Fairhead.”

Their hands began to roam each other’s bodies. Buttons coming undone, clothes being thrown around the room. Lips on skin, sucking, licking, biting. Both of them exploring each other - becoming one again. Reconnecting sexually and emotionally. She giggled softly, her breathing heavy as she rested her head against Charlie’s chest. Their legs tangled together, Charlie’s hand rested on her hip, his fingertips stroking the skin.

She found his hand with hers and entwined it, their fingers interlocked. Neither of them said anything, they didn’t need too. They’d said everything they needed to during their love making. Their actions speaking louder than words could right this minute. Duffy giggled again a couple of seconds later when she heard Charlie’s begin to snore. Kissing his chest, Duffy closed her eyes and settled down to sleep back in the loving arms of her husband, back home where she belonged.

#casualty #bbc #charlie fairhead #lisa duffin #charlie #duffy #chuffy #fanfic #fanfiction #extended scene #series 33 #episode 35

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