Preaching To The Perverted: Andromeda Unchained
Tara Heffernan
Tara Heffernan
One of the undisputable achievements of psychoanalysis is to have identified the object as more than a “thing in itself” lying statically outside of the subject, but as a dynamic element in constant flux, mediating the subject’s inner and outer worlds…
(Antony Hudek 2014).[1]
Curved lines etched into cold glass; lustrous silver droplets affixed to a translucent surface; large, polished copper beams arranged like elongated feathers; and the ritualistic chiming of tiny brass bells. These are but a few of the elements found in Anastasia Booth’s exhibition Preaching to the Perverted: a collection of sculptural and performative artworks that unite Booth’s interest in fetishism, and arcane feminine imagery. Driven by a personal investment in the affective quality of materials, and the erotic narrative devices that pervade female representation, Booth reimagines several characters from Greek mythology and religious iconography in moving images, and sculptural arrangements of glass, stone, and copper.
Though initially directed by Freudian psychoanalysis, Booth’s practice has evolved to encompass broader anthropological and cultural articulations of the fetish. By looking back, Booth encounters entirely different interpretations of female sexuality—connected to nature, magic, and the divine. These are in stark contrast with the phallocentric psychoanalytic interpretation of woman as lack: as the castrated male. Moreover, this extended trajectory reveals the pervasiveness of paradigmatic assumptions. As Page DuBois notes, ‘The study of ancient history allows us to see the particularity of our own culture, to be critical of its categories, to imagine otherwise.’[2]
Perhaps the most culturally pervasive figure Booth investigates is the character from Greek mythology, Andromeda. This myth has been a persistent subject within figurative art. Represented by Giorgio Vasari (1570), Peter Paul Rubens (1638), and Rembrandt (1630) to name a few, the same carnal scene has been repeated throughout history: a young, voluptuous woman stands on a rock formation above angry, lapping waves. Her naked body is extended by her raised arms, chained at the wrists. She is being sacrificed to the sea monster, Cetus, but is rescued by Perseus, who slays the beast. In her analysis, Adrienne Munich aptly notes that the gendered roles in the myth—the female victim and male hero—enforce the paradigmatic construction of masculine power and feminine vulnerability: a gender relation that is continually reinforced and exaggerated in artistic reiterations of the myth, particularly in the Victorian era.[3] Moreover, Andromeda’s sexual passivity, and subsequent marriage to her saviour, Perseus, eroticises male dominance and female submission: ‘the gendered erotics of power’.[4] While Booth’s interest in BDSM cultures partially fuelled her interest in Andromeda, she was also intrigued by the etymology of her name, and her reiterations in art and culture.[5] Interestingly, Andromeda evolves from the Greek name meaning “ruler of men”:[6] an authoritative title. Her name also designates a constellation, and a galaxy that is visible within it. It is this celestial body that Booth captures in silver droplets upon disks of glass in the Andromeda sculptures (2015/2016). In recounting her first glimpse of the constellation, Booth emphasised a pertinent parallel between her act of stargazing, and the myth:
In November the Andromeda constellation is partially visible from the Southern hemisphere, sitting just above the horizon line. I was caught by the poetic correlations in this relationship between me and Andromeda, and Perseus in the myth, as we both glimpse her on the horizon.[7]
This chance association, and the aesthetic beauty of the star chart itself, provided the foundations for the sculptures. Laden with ambiguous cues, we can draw many associations. The silver nubs might conjure visions of a landscape, the gooseflesh of exposed skin, or teardrops. The stones that support the disks recall the cliffs that Andromeda stands upon in the myth. One of the sculptures uses three stones of similar size and shape placed in a triangular arrangement, inevitably recalling the Holy trinity. Moreover, the flat expanses of glass in the Andromeda sculptures—with their circular shape, the etched curves (creating crescent shapes), and the texture and colouration of the stones that support the glass—also encourage associations with the moon and its history in religious iconography. In Renaissance and Baroque art, the crescent moon often symbolised purity.[8] This is exemplified in Diego Velázquez’s Immaculate Conception (1618-1619), which depicts the Virgin Mary standing atop a smooth, white moon. In the Andromeda sculptures, the sterling silver droplets that map the constellation could be read as craters on the moon’s surface. Each imperfection emblematised in lustrous protrusions.
Booth’s attention to religious iconography carries through in the other works. Teresa (2015) recreates the gilded stucco rays from Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s Ecstasy of Saint Teresa (1649-52). Considered one of the masterpieces of the Roman Baroque,[9] Bernini’s sculpture depicts Teresa of Ávila in religious ecstasy. Above her reclining body, an angel stands clutching a spear ready to be thrust into her heart. In her autobiography, Teresa gave an account of this experience of divinity:
I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it.[10]
The metaphor of sexual ecstasy is overt. In his assessment of the sculpture, Jacques Lacan discusses jouissance: an overwhelming, excessive excitation.[11] In Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, he identifies female, or Other jouissance - an advance beyond Freud’s phallocentrism, in which women are defined as lesser due to their lack of a penis.[12] While phallic jouissance exists within the symbolic, female/Other jouissance is ‘beyond the symbolic and the subject’.[13] It is something altogether more ambiguous and undefinable—a surplus jouissance.[14] Bernini conveys Teresa’s overwhelming bodily pleasure in a vibrant utilisation of architecture, sculpture, and painting. The scene is presented as though it were being performed on a stage. In her recreation, Booth isolates the gilded beams that serve as the luminous backdrop. In Bernini’s original sculpture, these beams descend from a hidden window above the figures of Teresa and the angel. Their bronze sheen assists in illuminating the sculpture from behind, reflecting the brilliant natural light. A single dove—representing the Holy Ghost—is painted above the scene. The light is symbolic of the unity between the heavens and Teresa’s earthly body. Unspeakable, surplus jouissance manifests beyond figurative representation in solid, sculpted shafts of light. Recreating them in copper, Booth monumentalises this symbolic framing device, divorcing it from the figurative representation of pleasure in Bernini’s sculpture, evident in Teresa’s slightly open mouth and closed eyes. Now, the brilliant beams stand alone in the gallery. The cold, lustrous surfaces, and the feathered arrangement of the solid shafts of copper still retain the sense of sensuality and movement. However, in the isolated state, the arrangement takes on an aggressive quality, evoked by the angular tips of the copper shafts, the material’s rigidity, and slightly haphazard, flayed presentation.
Portrait of Baubo (2015)—a looped film presented on a small screen—diverges from the other works, documenting the body in a humorous performance. Dressed in a ripped black shift dress, long black wig, a leather mask studded with small bells and a matching codpiece, the figure performs a comedic vulvic mooning gesture. The repetition of the act, and the chiming of the tiny bells, creates a ritualistic quality. Consistent with Booth’s oeuvre, Baubo is a character taken from mythology. In Greek tales, Baubo is an old crone who moons the bereaved goddess Demeter. The shock of Baubo’s exposure breaks Demeter out of her mourning with involuntary laughter: an uncontrollable release of emotion that ruptures her melancholy.[15] Along with being historically related to jest and emotional healing, the gesture carries apotropaic associations.[16] In Balkan folklore, women would lift their skirts and expose themselves to the earth to promote crop growth.[17] In the ancient Near East, the depiction of a goddess exposing herself to a King represented a ‘sacred marriage… whereby the goddess conferred her favour to the King, and from which he derived his power to rule.’[18] Notably, all of these acts are not sexual, but are agentive. They often evoke humour, and shock of the unexpected. Unlike other references Booth draws upon, Baubo is an obscene, bawdy, and authoritative figure. While Andromeda and Teresa remove the figurative representation of women’s bodies from classical artworks, Portrait of Baubo—a character most iconically represented in totemic figurines—is performed by the artist in costume. Baubo is given life.
By lifting narratives and characters from art and mythology, and reimagining them in tactile objects, or humorous performances, Booth encourages a reflexive dialogue with history. Booth’s interest in objects with tactile, sensual forms, and erotic narratives is fuelled by personal investment. However, the conflation draws out the instability of gendered paradigms: most predominantly, the tension between psychoanalytic and ancient interpretations of female sexuality (associations with nature and magic, rather than lack). Though, the works undoubtedly have an autonomous presence as objects, their historical sources and patriarchal connotations are not muted. It is easy to recall Sherrie Levine’s appropriation of Edward Weston’s photographs. In these works, Weston posed his son Neil as a classic Greek torso. Levine rephotographed these images of Neil several decades after their creation. Champion of postmodernism, Craig Owens inquired of Levine’s appropriation: ‘is her refusal of authorship not in fact a refusal of the role of creator as “father” of his work, of the paternal rights assigned to the author by law?’[19] Levine’s specific focus on images of Others: of children, women, and the poverty stricken (as featured in her most iconic appropriations of Walker Evans), suggest a reclaiming of objectified Others. In Booth’s practice, there is a comparable interest in the agentive potential of importing imagery from art historic and iconographic contexts. Andromeda, often depicted in painting as a classical nude, is no longer imagined through her sexualised body, but in a tactile composition of objects with sensuous presence. Booth’s refusal to ‘reclaim’ the female body through appropriation of sexualised images is pertinent. This overused tactic—present in postmodernist appropriation of the 1980s, and in today’s liberal individualist feminisms (à la, the ‘nude selfie’ movement)—is eschewed; instead, Booth explores the objects and symbols that punctuate cultural articulations of female sexuality. If anything is reclaimed, then it is these visual cues and gestures. In their reimaged state, they are removed from gendered, heterosexist narratives, and reinvested with sensuous qualities directly related to their materiality, and playfulness, enabling more ambiguous and sometimes contradictory affective responses.
[1] Antony Hudek, “Introduction: Detours of Objects,” in The Object, ed. Antony Hudek (London: Whitechapel Gallery, 2014), 22.
[2] Page DuBois, Sowing the Body: Psychoanalysis and Ancient Representations of Women (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 1.
[3] Adrienne Munich, Andromeda’s Chains: Gender and Interpretation in Victorian Literature and Art (Columbia: Columbia University Press, 1989), 13.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Anastasia Booth, “Playing With Me: Feminine perspectives in Fetishism and Contemporary Art” (PhD diss., Queensland University of Technology, 2016), 8.
[6] Joseph Seiss, The Gospel in the Stars (New York: Cosimo Inc., 2007), 86.
[7] Anastasia Booth, “Playing With Me: Feminine perspectives in Fetishism and Contemporary Art”, 8.
[8] Irene Earls, Renaissance Art: A Topical Dictionary (Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO, 1987), 139.
[9] Gloria K. Fiero, The Age of the Baroque and European Enlightenment (New York: Brown and Benchmark, 1995), 17.
[10] St. Teresa of Avila, The Life of St. Teresa of Avila (New York: Cosimo Inc., 2008), 226.
[11] Sean Homer, Jacques Lacan (Milton Park: Routledge, 2005), 105.
[12] Ibid.
[13] Ibid.
[14] Ibid.
[15] Larissa Bonfante, “Freud and the Psychoanalytic Meaning of the Baubo Gesture in Ancient Art,” Notes on the History of Art 27, no. 2/3 (2008), 2. http://www.jstor.org.ezp.lib.unimelb.edu.au/stable/23208130.
[16] Ibid.
[17] Katarzyna Kosmala, Sexing The Border: Gender, Art and New Media in Central and Eastern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars, 2014), 80.
[18] Larissa Bonfante, “Freud and the Psychoanalytic Meaning of the Baubo Gesture,” 4.
[19] Craig Owens, “The Discourse of Others: Feminists and Postmodernism,” in The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture, ed. Hal Foster (Seattle: Bay Press, 1983) 73.
References
Bonfante, Larissa. “Freud and the Psychoanalytic Meaning of the Baubo Gesture in Ancient Art.” Notes on the History of Art 27, No. 2/3 (2008): 2-9. http://www.jstor.org.ezp.lib.unimelb.edu.au/stable/23208130.
Booth, Anastasia. “Playing With Me: Feminine perspectives in Fetishism and Contemporary Art.” PhD diss., Queensland University of Technology, 2016.
DuBois, Page. Sowing the Body: Psychoanalysis and Ancient Representations of Women. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991.
Earls, Irene. Renaissance Art: A Topical Dictionary. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO, 1987.
Fiero, Gloria K. The Age of the Baroque and European Enlightenment. New York: Brown and Benchmark, 1995.
Homer, Sean. Jacques Lacan. Milton Park: Routledge, 2005.
Hudek, Antony. “Introduction: Detours of Objects.” In The Object, edited by Antony Hudek, 14-27. London: Whitechapel Gallery, 2014.
Kosmala, Katarzyna. Sexing The Border: Gender, Art and New Media in Central and Eastern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars, 2014.
Munich, Adrienne. Andromeda’s Chains: Gender and Interpretation in Victorian Literature and Art. Columbia: Columbia University Press, 1989.
Owens, Craig. “The Discourse of Others: Feminists and Postmodernism.” In The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture, edited by Hal Foster, 57-83. Seattle: Bay Press, 1983.
Seiss, Joseph. The Gospel in the Stars. New York: Cosimo Inc., 2007.
St. Teresa of Avila. The Life of St. Teresa of Avila. New York: Cosimo Inc., 2008.
(Antony Hudek 2014).[1]
Curved lines etched into cold glass; lustrous silver droplets affixed to a translucent surface; large, polished copper beams arranged like elongated feathers; and the ritualistic chiming of tiny brass bells. These are but a few of the elements found in Anastasia Booth’s exhibition Preaching to the Perverted: a collection of sculptural and performative artworks that unite Booth’s interest in fetishism, and arcane feminine imagery. Driven by a personal investment in the affective quality of materials, and the erotic narrative devices that pervade female representation, Booth reimagines several characters from Greek mythology and religious iconography in moving images, and sculptural arrangements of glass, stone, and copper.
Though initially directed by Freudian psychoanalysis, Booth’s practice has evolved to encompass broader anthropological and cultural articulations of the fetish. By looking back, Booth encounters entirely different interpretations of female sexuality—connected to nature, magic, and the divine. These are in stark contrast with the phallocentric psychoanalytic interpretation of woman as lack: as the castrated male. Moreover, this extended trajectory reveals the pervasiveness of paradigmatic assumptions. As Page DuBois notes, ‘The study of ancient history allows us to see the particularity of our own culture, to be critical of its categories, to imagine otherwise.’[2]
Perhaps the most culturally pervasive figure Booth investigates is the character from Greek mythology, Andromeda. This myth has been a persistent subject within figurative art. Represented by Giorgio Vasari (1570), Peter Paul Rubens (1638), and Rembrandt (1630) to name a few, the same carnal scene has been repeated throughout history: a young, voluptuous woman stands on a rock formation above angry, lapping waves. Her naked body is extended by her raised arms, chained at the wrists. She is being sacrificed to the sea monster, Cetus, but is rescued by Perseus, who slays the beast. In her analysis, Adrienne Munich aptly notes that the gendered roles in the myth—the female victim and male hero—enforce the paradigmatic construction of masculine power and feminine vulnerability: a gender relation that is continually reinforced and exaggerated in artistic reiterations of the myth, particularly in the Victorian era.[3] Moreover, Andromeda’s sexual passivity, and subsequent marriage to her saviour, Perseus, eroticises male dominance and female submission: ‘the gendered erotics of power’.[4] While Booth’s interest in BDSM cultures partially fuelled her interest in Andromeda, she was also intrigued by the etymology of her name, and her reiterations in art and culture.[5] Interestingly, Andromeda evolves from the Greek name meaning “ruler of men”:[6] an authoritative title. Her name also designates a constellation, and a galaxy that is visible within it. It is this celestial body that Booth captures in silver droplets upon disks of glass in the Andromeda sculptures (2015/2016). In recounting her first glimpse of the constellation, Booth emphasised a pertinent parallel between her act of stargazing, and the myth:
In November the Andromeda constellation is partially visible from the Southern hemisphere, sitting just above the horizon line. I was caught by the poetic correlations in this relationship between me and Andromeda, and Perseus in the myth, as we both glimpse her on the horizon.[7]
This chance association, and the aesthetic beauty of the star chart itself, provided the foundations for the sculptures. Laden with ambiguous cues, we can draw many associations. The silver nubs might conjure visions of a landscape, the gooseflesh of exposed skin, or teardrops. The stones that support the disks recall the cliffs that Andromeda stands upon in the myth. One of the sculptures uses three stones of similar size and shape placed in a triangular arrangement, inevitably recalling the Holy trinity. Moreover, the flat expanses of glass in the Andromeda sculptures—with their circular shape, the etched curves (creating crescent shapes), and the texture and colouration of the stones that support the glass—also encourage associations with the moon and its history in religious iconography. In Renaissance and Baroque art, the crescent moon often symbolised purity.[8] This is exemplified in Diego Velázquez’s Immaculate Conception (1618-1619), which depicts the Virgin Mary standing atop a smooth, white moon. In the Andromeda sculptures, the sterling silver droplets that map the constellation could be read as craters on the moon’s surface. Each imperfection emblematised in lustrous protrusions.
Booth’s attention to religious iconography carries through in the other works. Teresa (2015) recreates the gilded stucco rays from Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s Ecstasy of Saint Teresa (1649-52). Considered one of the masterpieces of the Roman Baroque,[9] Bernini’s sculpture depicts Teresa of Ávila in religious ecstasy. Above her reclining body, an angel stands clutching a spear ready to be thrust into her heart. In her autobiography, Teresa gave an account of this experience of divinity:
I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it.[10]
The metaphor of sexual ecstasy is overt. In his assessment of the sculpture, Jacques Lacan discusses jouissance: an overwhelming, excessive excitation.[11] In Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, he identifies female, or Other jouissance - an advance beyond Freud’s phallocentrism, in which women are defined as lesser due to their lack of a penis.[12] While phallic jouissance exists within the symbolic, female/Other jouissance is ‘beyond the symbolic and the subject’.[13] It is something altogether more ambiguous and undefinable—a surplus jouissance.[14] Bernini conveys Teresa’s overwhelming bodily pleasure in a vibrant utilisation of architecture, sculpture, and painting. The scene is presented as though it were being performed on a stage. In her recreation, Booth isolates the gilded beams that serve as the luminous backdrop. In Bernini’s original sculpture, these beams descend from a hidden window above the figures of Teresa and the angel. Their bronze sheen assists in illuminating the sculpture from behind, reflecting the brilliant natural light. A single dove—representing the Holy Ghost—is painted above the scene. The light is symbolic of the unity between the heavens and Teresa’s earthly body. Unspeakable, surplus jouissance manifests beyond figurative representation in solid, sculpted shafts of light. Recreating them in copper, Booth monumentalises this symbolic framing device, divorcing it from the figurative representation of pleasure in Bernini’s sculpture, evident in Teresa’s slightly open mouth and closed eyes. Now, the brilliant beams stand alone in the gallery. The cold, lustrous surfaces, and the feathered arrangement of the solid shafts of copper still retain the sense of sensuality and movement. However, in the isolated state, the arrangement takes on an aggressive quality, evoked by the angular tips of the copper shafts, the material’s rigidity, and slightly haphazard, flayed presentation.
Portrait of Baubo (2015)—a looped film presented on a small screen—diverges from the other works, documenting the body in a humorous performance. Dressed in a ripped black shift dress, long black wig, a leather mask studded with small bells and a matching codpiece, the figure performs a comedic vulvic mooning gesture. The repetition of the act, and the chiming of the tiny bells, creates a ritualistic quality. Consistent with Booth’s oeuvre, Baubo is a character taken from mythology. In Greek tales, Baubo is an old crone who moons the bereaved goddess Demeter. The shock of Baubo’s exposure breaks Demeter out of her mourning with involuntary laughter: an uncontrollable release of emotion that ruptures her melancholy.[15] Along with being historically related to jest and emotional healing, the gesture carries apotropaic associations.[16] In Balkan folklore, women would lift their skirts and expose themselves to the earth to promote crop growth.[17] In the ancient Near East, the depiction of a goddess exposing herself to a King represented a ‘sacred marriage… whereby the goddess conferred her favour to the King, and from which he derived his power to rule.’[18] Notably, all of these acts are not sexual, but are agentive. They often evoke humour, and shock of the unexpected. Unlike other references Booth draws upon, Baubo is an obscene, bawdy, and authoritative figure. While Andromeda and Teresa remove the figurative representation of women’s bodies from classical artworks, Portrait of Baubo—a character most iconically represented in totemic figurines—is performed by the artist in costume. Baubo is given life.
By lifting narratives and characters from art and mythology, and reimagining them in tactile objects, or humorous performances, Booth encourages a reflexive dialogue with history. Booth’s interest in objects with tactile, sensual forms, and erotic narratives is fuelled by personal investment. However, the conflation draws out the instability of gendered paradigms: most predominantly, the tension between psychoanalytic and ancient interpretations of female sexuality (associations with nature and magic, rather than lack). Though, the works undoubtedly have an autonomous presence as objects, their historical sources and patriarchal connotations are not muted. It is easy to recall Sherrie Levine’s appropriation of Edward Weston’s photographs. In these works, Weston posed his son Neil as a classic Greek torso. Levine rephotographed these images of Neil several decades after their creation. Champion of postmodernism, Craig Owens inquired of Levine’s appropriation: ‘is her refusal of authorship not in fact a refusal of the role of creator as “father” of his work, of the paternal rights assigned to the author by law?’[19] Levine’s specific focus on images of Others: of children, women, and the poverty stricken (as featured in her most iconic appropriations of Walker Evans), suggest a reclaiming of objectified Others. In Booth’s practice, there is a comparable interest in the agentive potential of importing imagery from art historic and iconographic contexts. Andromeda, often depicted in painting as a classical nude, is no longer imagined through her sexualised body, but in a tactile composition of objects with sensuous presence. Booth’s refusal to ‘reclaim’ the female body through appropriation of sexualised images is pertinent. This overused tactic—present in postmodernist appropriation of the 1980s, and in today’s liberal individualist feminisms (à la, the ‘nude selfie’ movement)—is eschewed; instead, Booth explores the objects and symbols that punctuate cultural articulations of female sexuality. If anything is reclaimed, then it is these visual cues and gestures. In their reimaged state, they are removed from gendered, heterosexist narratives, and reinvested with sensuous qualities directly related to their materiality, and playfulness, enabling more ambiguous and sometimes contradictory affective responses.
[1] Antony Hudek, “Introduction: Detours of Objects,” in The Object, ed. Antony Hudek (London: Whitechapel Gallery, 2014), 22.
[2] Page DuBois, Sowing the Body: Psychoanalysis and Ancient Representations of Women (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 1.
[3] Adrienne Munich, Andromeda’s Chains: Gender and Interpretation in Victorian Literature and Art (Columbia: Columbia University Press, 1989), 13.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Anastasia Booth, “Playing With Me: Feminine perspectives in Fetishism and Contemporary Art” (PhD diss., Queensland University of Technology, 2016), 8.
[6] Joseph Seiss, The Gospel in the Stars (New York: Cosimo Inc., 2007), 86.
[7] Anastasia Booth, “Playing With Me: Feminine perspectives in Fetishism and Contemporary Art”, 8.
[8] Irene Earls, Renaissance Art: A Topical Dictionary (Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO, 1987), 139.
[9] Gloria K. Fiero, The Age of the Baroque and European Enlightenment (New York: Brown and Benchmark, 1995), 17.
[10] St. Teresa of Avila, The Life of St. Teresa of Avila (New York: Cosimo Inc., 2008), 226.
[11] Sean Homer, Jacques Lacan (Milton Park: Routledge, 2005), 105.
[12] Ibid.
[13] Ibid.
[14] Ibid.
[15] Larissa Bonfante, “Freud and the Psychoanalytic Meaning of the Baubo Gesture in Ancient Art,” Notes on the History of Art 27, no. 2/3 (2008), 2. http://www.jstor.org.ezp.lib.unimelb.edu.au/stable/23208130.
[16] Ibid.
[17] Katarzyna Kosmala, Sexing The Border: Gender, Art and New Media in Central and Eastern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars, 2014), 80.
[18] Larissa Bonfante, “Freud and the Psychoanalytic Meaning of the Baubo Gesture,” 4.
[19] Craig Owens, “The Discourse of Others: Feminists and Postmodernism,” in The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture, ed. Hal Foster (Seattle: Bay Press, 1983) 73.
References
Bonfante, Larissa. “Freud and the Psychoanalytic Meaning of the Baubo Gesture in Ancient Art.” Notes on the History of Art 27, No. 2/3 (2008): 2-9. http://www.jstor.org.ezp.lib.unimelb.edu.au/stable/23208130.
Booth, Anastasia. “Playing With Me: Feminine perspectives in Fetishism and Contemporary Art.” PhD diss., Queensland University of Technology, 2016.
DuBois, Page. Sowing the Body: Psychoanalysis and Ancient Representations of Women. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991.
Earls, Irene. Renaissance Art: A Topical Dictionary. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO, 1987.
Fiero, Gloria K. The Age of the Baroque and European Enlightenment. New York: Brown and Benchmark, 1995.
Homer, Sean. Jacques Lacan. Milton Park: Routledge, 2005.
Hudek, Antony. “Introduction: Detours of Objects.” In The Object, edited by Antony Hudek, 14-27. London: Whitechapel Gallery, 2014.
Kosmala, Katarzyna. Sexing The Border: Gender, Art and New Media in Central and Eastern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars, 2014.
Munich, Adrienne. Andromeda’s Chains: Gender and Interpretation in Victorian Literature and Art. Columbia: Columbia University Press, 1989.
Owens, Craig. “The Discourse of Others: Feminists and Postmodernism.” In The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture, edited by Hal Foster, 57-83. Seattle: Bay Press, 1983.
Seiss, Joseph. The Gospel in the Stars. New York: Cosimo Inc., 2007.
St. Teresa of Avila. The Life of St. Teresa of Avila. New York: Cosimo Inc., 2008.