In the Labyrinth

Banished Brides and Longbows

 

I found this lovely image—most likely of the great warrior Queen, Matilda of Tuscany—and thought how familiar she looked, banded together with her sisters-in-arms, swords and longbows, arrows, and beautiful dresses. Though Matilda was certainly far more powerful and effective as a warrior queen, this image seemed like a perfect illustration for a band of querulous brides that appear in Zizola's novel.

More than a while ago, I wrote about the peculiar figure of the "banished bride" in folktales and ballads --- the bride who unwittingly stands in for the heroine until she can extricate herself from whatever impediment has kept her temporarily from her intended groom. The poor dear is then banished at the altar -- sent home, and even though financially compensated, her honor and reputation dimmed. Here's what I wrote in that post:

"So what happens to those banished brides -- not the deceitful and disguised brides, they always meet with bad ends -- but those brides like poor Anne of Cleves determined too ugly (and "too swarthy") by Henry the Eighth and sent home as unsuitable. Since we never get their side of the story or the what-ever-happened-to-that-young-woman? The writer in me couldn't resist wondering what those women might do to reclaim themselves if given a chance in a novel. A young writer I know suggested they went home with a huge sigh of relief -- imagining that such weddings to total strangers would have been scary enough to contemplate.

But from a narrative point of view, that's no fun -- especially after reading the Lost Sicilian Folk and Fairy Tales of Laura Gonzenbach; I know that the Italians -- or at least the Sicilians-- are firm believers in spectacular revenge. So I couldn't help but think of a sisterhood of Banished Brides coming together and taking their fury on the road to extract some form of punishing compensation. A band of marauding, almost brides are offering to my young heroine roadside companionship and rancorous cautionary tales about men in general. (Although I suspect the trickster traveling with her would not be able to resist the temptation of meddling with those dangerous women.) Well...there's a few chapters to meditate on and then to write."

Queen Matilda was certainly no banished bride—though she did have an awful marriage to a stepbrother—but she seems to have compensated for all the shortcomings of an unhappy marriage by becoming a highly effective military commander and fighter. All this happened in the 12th century, which is pretty remarkable. 

People Inconvienced by Objects and Thoughts

I love these wildly imaginative graphite portraits of "People Inconvenienced by Objects and Thought" by Stefan Zsaitits. They look almost exactly how my head feels right now. itchy, scratchy, and aggravated by an eye infection. 

It has been something of a rough road for these last four months as we traveled from Longmont, Colorado, to Tucson, Arizona, and then to Pittsburgh, where I am now awaiting the flight that will return us to our home in Longmont. It was good seeing so many friends that we have missed and many of our relatives scattered all over the country. 

By the Work of Hands, We Heal Ourselves.

I am heading to the desert for a while and bringing new projects along....looking forward to the dry cool nights, and the stars high overhead.

And then I found these fall beauties from Madeleine Tosh! Let's see how fast I can knit while trying to finish preparing a second novel for re-release (Flight of Michael McBride) and spend time up in the mountains of the Mogollon Rim. Forget covid, forget elections, forget strife. Just be a maker....

How I See Myself In the Stones

Every morning we hike at sunrise to watch the sun lift in the east and light up the Flat Irons in the west. The path is full of river stones and rocks. And at this one, I stop and say hello -- for it seems to me a perfect description of my working life: weaving, writing, and knitting. And I think, yes, even broken into three fragments, it is still whole.

Tearing Up The Canals: The Women's Regatta in Venice, 18th Century

 I am rather in love with this painting of the Women's Regatta in Venice by Gabriele Bella, 1730-1799 (click on for a larger view). I had no idea that women were accomplished rowers, though it does on reflection make a certain amount of sense. If one lives on the waters and the canals, or course every woman would have to know how to manage her own small boat if she wanted to get any where important. (This is the problem of being a tourist in Venice -- one always assumes someone else will row one around). 

Here's a bit more information from a nice post in Seductive Venice (indeed it is).

"Women had raced in regattas (boat races) since 1493. An island community like Venice, where every nonna knew how to row a boat, allowed its women to enter the races and processionals (or at least the women from the working class). The priests even blessed them. Regattas were usually held when a visiting dignitary came to town, and rowers showed off their skills or challenged others in order to keep fit for their jobs, such as did the gondoliers or workers at the Arsenale where they made boats."

The post also includes a lovely painted portrait of an especially skilled woman, five-time regatta winner Maria Boscola: "Maria had first raced in 1740, winning the red pennant for first place, with her partner and friend Emma, nicknamed La Garbina. But 24 years passed before women participated in the races again. These may have been the years that Maria bore and raised her children. She also grew enough vegetables that she could bring in to the Rialto market to sell, keeping her rowing arms strong for the 25 kilometer trip each market day." 

So, she took a little time off to keep up with her produce business and raise children -- but she kept herself in shape and ready for the day she could return to race. Pretty remarkable and determined! 

 

When Heroines Write Their Own Stories

Penelope Writes to Odysseus

I am still in awe of these amazing little Medieval illustrations of the classical Greek and Latin heroines of Ovid writing imaginary epistles. Ovid's work was translated into French by poet Octavien de Saint-Gelais, and it so delighted Louise of Savoy (1476-1531), mother of the future king Francis I of France, that she commissioned artist Robinet Testard to decorate a sumptuous manuscript of Ovid with these beautiful miniature portraits of the heroines writing their own stories. Each one is so different ..caught in the unique drama of her life -- some beautiful, some rather violent. (And really...so many bad husbands and rotten boyfriends...) Here's a sample of some of my favorites ...but do, stop by La Folia Magazine and indulge in all the others. All these heroines writing their own stories provides fuel and words for my own characters who are impatient to write down their (mis)adventures.

Medea Writes to Jason

 

Ariadne Writes to Theseus 

 

Hypsipyle Writes to Jason (double rotter)

The Voynich Manuscript: Magic, A Garden of Women, and a Secret Language

*Please note that posters in the comments provide links to pages that no longer exist -- sadly! Yale at one point removed the archive of images from public view. 

 

I am sitting at my desk transported by the digital images of the Voynich Manuscript, created sometime between the late 15th century and early 16th century. It is a most magical text, written in an unknown language or perhaps a cipher. It is illustrated with botanical drawings of unknown plants, strange designs and patterns that suggest spiral and circular gardens. And most wonderfully it is filled with the alchemical activities of women who seem to be the life force of this strange and fecund world. The women often appear nude with rounded bellies, sometimes in bathtubs, other times connecting roots, seeds, and pods through tubes and rivers.

Not much is known about its origin and what is known is as mysterious as the manuscript itself. It has been carbon tested and found to have been produced in late 1400's; it gets it's name from the Polish-American antiquarian bookseller, Wilfrid M. Voynich who purchased it in the 1920s; it was owned by the Emperor Rudolph II of Germany (1576-1612) who believed it to be the work of Roger Bacon (it wasn't --he's 13th century). There is Jesuit involvement -- the correspondence of 17th c. Jesuit scholar Athanasius Kircher who wrote references to it after receiving it from a Prague physician Johannes Marcus Marci. And much later in 1912, Voynich purchased the manuscript from Joseph Strickland S. J. at the Jesuit College at Frascati, near Rome. (Why does this all remind me of Umberto Eco's Name of the Rose?). And then there are about 150 years where no one knows who had it or where it was hiding.

And as far as the language goes -- no one has been able to translate it into any language. Some scholars thought it might be the work of an insane author -- but other linguists suggest there are two authors and the language appears too "organized" to be the work of a crazy person. Potential authors range from Leonardo da Vinci, Antonio Averlino, a 15th century Italian architect, English occultist John Dee, and an underground sect of Cathar heretics. Strangely, at least to me-- no one has suggested it might have been written and created by women.

Enjoy these few pages I pulled from the online collection -- and marvel at all that beautiful, mysterious work and give thanks to the internet. You can also read more about the Voynich manuscript here.

I want these to be plans for a garden -- circular, spiral, filled with female fertility connected to the moon, the stars, and the zodiac calendar.