Woman in Trouble: Paulus Bor’s mythical portraits

The career of Paulus Bor (1601-1669) is fairly typical of that of many artists of the Dutch Golden Age: born in the city of Amersfoort in the centre of the modern Netherlands, he seems to have trained locally, then visited Rome, where he was one of the founders of a ‘secret’ society of Netherlandish expatriates, the Bentvueghels (‘birds of a feather’). He returned to Amersfoort to perform some decorative painting, and then pursued a successful career there until his death in 1669. Apart from a Caravaggist tendency during his early career and some slightly strange motifs, he seems fairly plain and ordinary. Until, that is, you look at his series of portraits of women in trouble, the subject of this article.

Paulus Bor (circa 1601–1669), Ariadne (1630-35), oil on canvas, 149 x 106 cm, Muzeum Narodowe w Poznaniu, Poznań, Poland. Wikimedia Commons.

The first of these is Ariadne, painted in the period 1630-35, which is reminiscent of Caravaggio, and a little mysterious. When Theseus came to Crete to kill the Minotaur, Ariadne helped him by giving him a ball of golden thread, which he used to retrace his route out of the labyrinth after he had killed the Minotaur (her half-brother). Ariadne fell in love with Theseus, and the couple eloped to Naxos, where he abandoned her.

Bor’s portrait can only show Ariadne on Naxos, immediately after she has been abandoned, still clutching the thread by which she thought she had tethered Theseus, now hanging at a loose end. On the wall above her are sketches she has made of her lover. She looks deeply lost in thought, and gloomy. This may refer to Ovid’s imaginary letter from her to Theseus in his Heroides.

Paulus Bor (c 1601–1669), The Magdalen (c 1635), oil on wood panel, 65.7 x 60.8 cm, Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool, England. Wikimedia Commons.

Then, in about 1635, Bor painted The Magdalen, clutching her bottle of myrrh and looking straight at the viewer. She too is troubled, and appears to have been crying.

Paulus Bor (c 1601–1669), Allegorical Figure (Allegory of Logic) (c 1635), oil on canvas, 81.7 x 70 cm, Musée des Beaux-Arts de Rouen, Rouen, France. Image by Caroline Léna Becker, via Wikimedia Commons.

At about the same time, Bor painted this Allegorical Figure, also known as an Allegory of Logic. Coiled around her right wrist is a snake, but she too looks straight at you, ignoring that completely. The reptile appears venomous, and could easily be a European adder (or viper), or even an asp of the type Cleopatra used to kill herself.

Bor’s last two portraits of women in trouble have clearer narrative bases, but are even more puzzling.

Paulus Bor (c 1601–1669), The Disillusioned Medea (The Enchantress) (c 1640), oil on canvas, 155.6 x 112.4 cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY. Wikimedia Commons.

The Disillusioned Medea (The Enchantress) from about 1640 appears unique among the images of the enchantress who used her magic to support Jason in his quest for the Golden Fleece. She fell in love with Jason, married him on his voyage home, and bore him two children. Ten years later, Jason divorced her for the King of Corinth’s daughter Glauce.

This was too much for Medea, who sent Glauce a poisoned wedding dress that killed her and her father horribly. She then killed her two children, and fled to Athens, where she had a child by King Aegeus. Ovid includes an imaginary letter from her to Jason in his Heroides.

Medea sits, her face flushed, resting her head on the heel of her right hand. In her left, she holds a wand made from bamboo or rattan. The wand appears poised, ready for use as soon as she has worked out what to do next. Behind her is a small altar, very similar to Diana’s in Bor’s painting of Cydippe below, and the statue at the left is of Diana.

The last of these is undated, but it has been proposed that it was painted as a pendant to The Disillusioned Medea, thus in about 1640. This is also based upon two letters in Ovid’s Heroides, and his Art of Love.

Acontius was a young man from the lovely Greek island of Keos, who fell hopelessly in love with the beautiful young woman Cydippe. Sadly, she was of higher social standing than he was, and such a marriage was unthinkable to her family. He came up with an ingenious plan to trick her into making a commitment to him: he wrote the words I swear before Diana that I will marry only Acontius on an apple.

He then approached Cydippe when she was in the temple of Diana, and threw the inscribed apple in front of her. Her nurse picked it up, and handed it to Cydippe to read his words aloud before the altar, so binding her to the vow. She then seemingly overlooked this inadvertent commitment that she had made.

But Cydippe’s family had other ideas, and found her a prospective husband of appropriate status. Shortly before the couple were due to marry, Cydippe fell ill with a severe fever, and the proceedings were postponed. After she recovered, another attempt was made to marry the couple, but again Cydippe fell ill just before the ceremonies, so a third time the wedding had to be called off.

Unsure of what to do next, Cydippe’s parents consulted the oracle at Delphi, who told them the whole story. Recognising the strength of the vow that she had made, Cydippe and her parents finally accepted the match, and Acontius and Cydippe married with their blessing.

Paulus Bor (c 1601–1669), Cydippe with Acontius’s Apple (date not known), oil on canvas, 151 x 113.5 cm, Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, Amsterdam. Wikimedia Commons.

Bor’s Cydippe with Acontius’s Apple puts a different slant on the story: here, Cydippe leans on the altar, alone, the inscribed apple held up in her right hand. But she isn’t reading Acontius’ words: she has clearly already said those out aloud, and now seems to be thinking through the vow she has just made.

Paulus Bor (c 1601–1669), Cydippe with Acontius’s Apple (detail) (date not known), oil on canvas, 151 x 113.5 cm, Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, Amsterdam. Wikimedia Commons.

Bor paints the details of the altar exquisitely. Cydippe’s dress may be anachronistic, but the artist brings in the skull of a sacrificed goat and festoons of flowers.

I felt sure that some artist would have depicted some of that story, but my reference sources only pointed to poetry and operas. These include an allusion in Spenser’s Faerie Queene, verse by Edward Bulwer Lytton and the artist and designer William Morris. There had been no less than six operas written about the story, including Hoffman’s Acontius and Cydippe, first performed in 1709. But, until the late eighteenth century, this appears to have been the only significant painting of the story of Cydippe.

Bor’s cycle of paintings of troubled women is unusual to say the least, given that three of them are drawn from Ovid’s Heroides, a book that Bor appears to be exceptionally familiar with.