Consent and Viewership through Depictions of Venus

At the Louvre, visitors can find Hermaphroditus, the two-sexed child of Aphrodite and Hermes, peacefully sleeping, naked atop a mattress. The Sleeping Hermaphroditus by artist Gian Lorenzo Bernini is a seventeenth-century marble copy based on sculptor Polycles’s bronze Greek original from the second century B.C. In addition to challenging beliefs about gender, this sculpture also displays an incredibly private moment to be viewed by all. Sculptures such as this display private moments to the public, which then makes voyeurs of the audience. Three Venus figures that evoke similar feelings of unease in viewers are Praxiteles’s Aphrodite of Knidos, Clemente Susini’s Anatomical Venuses, and Marcel Duchamp’s Étant donnés. Since sculptures are inanimate objects, they cannot be expected to offer consent like humans. Though the sculptures are not sentient, the intense commitment to humanization and beautification that brings these sculptures to life make them seem almost alive. Their lack of consent can be established in the way these sculptures are posed: some might suggest Venus is unaware of the viewer, or that she is explicitly trying to hide herself from an unwanted gaze. Like the Sleeping Hermaphroditus, these Venus figures are not affirming their acceptance of being viewed. In being humanized and lacking any clues that they are “consenting,” these lifelike Aphrodite likenesses were created to be humiliated by viewers. Through understanding this cycle of humanization leading to humiliation, these depictions can be seen as placeholders for real women. ¹ These Venus representations are humanized and set up in a way just for the viewer to violate them to varying degrees, clearly without any consent from figures themselves. The act of viewing (and in some cases, removing) is actively dehumanizing these figures and speaks to the amount of violence real women continue to face. 

Aphrodite of Knidos by Praxiteles

Looking at Praxiteles’s Aphrodite of Knidos is important for understanding his intentions and the treatment of the figure. In creating a sculpture to be viewed by others, the artist manipulates the dynamic between the audience and Aphrodite. Since she was the worshipped goddess at Knidos, Aphrodite was highly revered, and it is safe to say that there was no malicious intent from Praxiteles in creating the statue. However, in sculpting a likeness of the goddess in human form, the Aphrodite of Knidos was subject to the same misogyny and disrespect ancient Greek women dealt with for the pleasure of men, which in itself is not a position of power. 

Master sculptor Praxiteles created the Aphrodite of Knidos sometime during the fourth century B.C., and the figure is rumoured to be modeled after his courtesan lover, Phryne. Christine Mitchell Havelock, author of The Aphrodite of Knidos and Her Successors, points out that the last known location of the sculpture was the palace of Lausos in Constantinople (present day Istanbul) after it was consumed in a fire in 476 A.D.  ² The original Aphrodite of Knidos by Praxiteles is no longer in existence, but since its creation, hundreds of reproductions have been made. Believed to be the first female nude, this sculpture and its derivatives have sparked conversations on gender and beauty that continue still today. Subsequent iterations even tackle issues such as race, disability, and sexuality. Since the original is thought to have been destroyed, the copy that will be examined for its pudica pose is a Roman copy from the Ludovisi Collection in Rome, the Aphrodite of Cnidos. The pudica pose, famed by Praxiteles’s Aphrodite, is characterized by a figure shielding their genitalia from the viewer. This Roman copy depicts Aphrodite’s right hand hovering over her pubis area and the left grasping drapery; later iterations have the left arm shielding her breasts from view. Her hair is tied up into a bun that rests on the back of her head. Since some portions of this Roman copy have been reconstructed, it is unknown whether or not the original sported an arm band or other accessories, but many other versions show Aphrodite adorned with her typical accessories. The figure is also standing contrapposto, meaning that one leg, the right in this case, is being rested upon, while the other is bent at the knee. Aphrodite’s gaze is turned away from the viewer, with her eyes averted slightly downward. Here, the drapery covers a water jug, indicating she is on her way to bathe. In addition to the turning of the head, Havelock argues that the position Aphrodite is in is intended to be a vulnerable one. In placing her at the baths and giving her drapery to clutch, Praxiteles is opening up the possibility that Aphrodite knows she could be caught off guard and seen by others, something she does not want as indicated by the pudica pose and the averted gaze.³ 

Claiming that Praxiteles only created Aphrodite of Knidos to be disrespected would disregard all the positive notes that came due to her creation. Havelock points out that Praxiteles’s revolutionary female nude, the first of its kind, embodies the classic values of Greece and is a central part of Greek art.⁴ Both the pudica pose and the female nude had never been seen until that time, and the world still cannot get enough of it. Knidos also was the place of Aphrodite’s cult shrine where the goddess was worshipped. Havelock argues that, following a longstanding tradition of fertility figures, which often depict nude women cupping their breasts and/or holding their abdomens, Praxiteles adhered to the nude tradition when sculpting the cult statue for Knidos.⁵ Fertility figures have an explicit purpose of bringing good fortune to women in childbirth or encouraging fertility. The Knidian Aphrodite is the first female nude created not for this purpose. In order to give pretext for her nudity, he placed her in a bathing narrative, indicated by the cloth in her hand, as some bathing rituals are held to restore one’s purity. If this were the case, Praxiteles still set up the statue to be stared at in a vulnerable position, a position that mortal women would have been shamed for. Havelock acknowledges that women during that time period were expected to be modest and restrained, so it seems likely that if a mortal woman were caught in a similar position, she may hastily attempt to cover herself, as did Aphrodite.

The pose reads as if she were surprised or startled by an unwanted viewer catching her as she is about to bathe. Her right hand over her pubis is not a teasing invitation for others to stare, but an attempt to stop their gaze from viewing her. The downward, turned away gaze that she holds seems to be an indication that she is feeling shamed. The act of bathing also plays a crucial part in the dynamic between Aphrodite and the viewer. Havelock points out the sanctity of bathing during that time period, and especially how important bathing rituals are to Aphrodite, who loved her baths.⁶ Women often bathed together, both just to get clean and also in rituals, so one could argue that the viewer who happens upon Aphrodite is most likely a man. The understanding of how sacred and important Aphrodite’s bathing rituals are adds another layer of disrespect.

 As a goddess, Aphrodite’s physical form holds immense power over mortals who witness it. In Homer’s The Odyssey, Anchises admits how fearful he is that he will face repercussions for seeing and sleeping with Aphrodite.⁷ In this case, Praxiteles has created a likeness of a goddess, thus humanizing her. This humanization creates the opportunity for mortals to eternally (or for however long the sculpture survives) view the goddess in a form she would rarely assume, and thus allow humans to access. A counterargument to the idea that Aphrodite of Knidos is in a position of disrespect that Havelock pushes is that her nudity here is not meant to be immoral or shameful, especially because it is Aphrodite. Born nude from the sea, her nakedness here harkens back to her divine birth. The water jug is also a call to her youth and power, while her drapery is another example of the adornments that the goddess is known for.⁸ While nudity can be empowering, especially for Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, that does not mean that all nudity is empowering. The existing hierarchies and dynamics between men and women as well as between goddesses and mortals add more nuance to the concept that female nakedness is empowering. The lack of consent from Aphrodite and the lack of dignity she has in this situation—depicted as a mortal and being viewed by mortals—take away any possibility of empowerment. She is not consenting to be seen at that moment, but that does not mean that her nudity cannot be empowering at a time of her choosing. 

In being caught and frozen in this pose of attempting modesty, Aphrodite of Knidos is left to be viewed and touched for others’ pleasure. First-century satirist Lucian recounts the story of a young man who defiled and disrespected the goddess, permanently leaving a stain for everyone to see the evidence of his passion.⁹ Despite being placed at the cult shrine, the goddess did not receive refuge; instead, she was disrespected in a place dedicated to her. The young man, though he did end up taking his life for the shame he brought to his family, still committed the act. He did not kill himself out of regret for how his behavior affected Aphrodite but how it affected his image and reputation. There is no regard for Aphrodite or how she would deal with his actions, meaning in this case the permanent stain he left on her. Additionally, she is reduced from being a goddess to standing in as an object of sexual desire and use by the young man. 

In “Making a World of Difference: Gender, Asymmetry, and the Greek Nude,” Nanette Salomon argues that analyses of Venus representations should be formed through both its original context and its relationship to the longstanding issue of gender and sexuality.¹⁰ Though now scholars may want to champion the Knidian Aphrodite as the revolutionary depiction of female empowerment, that would take the figure out of its original context and sever the relationships between gender and sexuality that prove how the statue is continuously humiliated. The biggest difference that Salomon names between men and women in ancient Greece is the acceptance of the nude body. While men’s bodies were celebrated, as the nude standing youth (kouroi) came onto the scene two centuries earlier, women’s bodies were expected to be cloaked and hidden.¹¹ Is this difference because women’s bodies are inherently sexual, while men’s serve other purposes, such as athleticism? Partially, Salomon points out that men’s bodies represent unity and symmetry, while women’s bodies are places for accoutrements. Not only is Aphrodite’s nudity something she does not consent to others viewing, but it is also shameful. In ancient Greek culture, it is the male youth’s body that is sexualized, more so than the woman’s, which is interesting when considering Lucian’s documentation of a conversation between characters Callicratidas and Charicles. The two both agree that Aphrodite of Knidos is beautiful, but Callicratidas likens her features to a young boy. Salomon notes that the difference between male nudes and the Knidian Aphrodite is that the Knidian is reduced to being a sexual being yet is forever being punished for it by being seen, which she is painfully aware of.¹² 

As art historian Natalie Boymel Kampen notes, most analyses of Praxiteles’s Aphrodite focuses on the male creator and male voyeur. Rarely does scholarship focus on the female audience, and when it does, it usually focuses on female prostitutes.¹³ Though understanding the effects of the Knidian Aphrodite on various audiences is important, trying to assert that Aphrodite of Knidos is an empowering statue, especially to prostitutes, is more of a stretch. In “Other ‘Ways of Seeing’: Female Viewers of the Knidian Aphrodite,” Mireille Lee offers an understanding between the Knidian Aphrodite and the female viewer. She argues that Aphrodite of Knidos, though representing the goddess of love, is not inherently sexual, and represented a plethora of ideas for which married women and prostitutes alike—a large audience of the statue’s viewers—worshipped her.. As Aphrodite is a goddess, it does seem unlikely that she would feel shame for her nude body.¹⁴ In knowing the general understanding of women during this time period, the possibility that Praxiteles crafted Aphrodite as a symbol of empowerment for female viewers seems unlikely. However, that does not mean that worship of the Knidian Aphrodite is restricted to men. Lee argues that the female viewers of Aphrodite of Knidos include married women and sex workers and points out that the hetaerae, well-educated women who often provided sexual services and companionship to long-term clients are “conflated with the goddess.”¹⁵ Hetaerae were distinct from pornai, women whose role aligns more closely with current understandings of prostitutes who belong to brothels and pimps. Hetaerae, unlike pornai, could control their finances, and received a bit more respect than regular women. Through their eyes, Aphrodite may not have been humiliated or shamed. Instead, she represented erotic love and power. In relation to such female viewers, she would have reclaimed some of the power stripped from her when viewed by the male voyeur. 

Even though Aphrodite of Knidos could have been viewed as an empowering figure for various women at the time, that does not dismiss the imbalance of respect between the genders (looking through a binary lens). It is possible for the statue to exist in multiple understandings, but ignoring that the Knidian Aphrodite faced humiliation due to her gender and nudity erases the ostracization and misogyny faced by real ancient Greek women. While it is hard to remove our contemporary understanding of gender and nudity when examining Aphrodite of Knidos, we should still attempt to understand the statue through an ancient context. Though it may be true that the statue was intended to be a dignified representation of a revered goddess, the ancient outlook still includes layers of misogyny and sexism real women were subjected to. The Knidian Aphrodite was not exempt from that, even if no male onlookers viewed her with malicious intent. The reduction of the goddess’s body to being a sexual object forever subjects her to shame and humiliation.

Anatomical Venuses by Clemente Susini

While the original Knidian Aphrodite and other copies engage the viewer in a passive role, Clemente Susini’s Anatomical Venus turns the viewer into an active participant in violating and humiliating a Venus figure. Susini, a Florentine sculptor born in the mid-seventeenth century, joined a wax modeling workshop that was commissioned to create anatomical models that soon became highly sought by surgeons and anatomists. As the Susini workshop worked directly with cadavers, the wax model reproductions are incredibly accurate, but that is not the most unsettling part about them. The Anatomical Venuses not only have highly realistic facial features and an eerily peaceful expression, but are accessorized with jewelry and other accoutrements that make the wax figures even more human-like. Though serving a practical purpose, the humanization and beautification of these medical models turns an educational lesson into an act of violence. These models further the idea that Venus depictions lack agency, as these anatomical models cannot consent to their dismemberment. The hands-on nature of actively dismembering the insides of these Anatomical Venuses is a direct depiction of the medical harm women faced during the 18th century.

Susini created the first Anatomical Venus between 1780 and1782. What was born was a waxy, life-like model that could be neatly torn apart at the abdomen to reveal internal organs,  accesorized with Venus-esque frills. The models often wear pearls, long (real) hair and eyelashes, and a peaceful, nearly ecstatic look on their faces; all the while, a medical student could pull through each of the seven removable layers to reveal a five month old fetus. In addition to the highly accurate insides, great attention went into beautifying these medical models. Their unsettling, beautiful faces make a grave contrast with the gore of their removable abdomens. In the twenty-first century, researchers took the Venerina (little Venus), a model of a petite young woman who is five months pregnant, under autopsy to determine the cause of death of the person it was modeled after. The study determined two possible causes of death: either an “endocarditic infection or a more serious cardiovascular insufficiency” that progressed due to the pregnancy.¹⁶ The incredible detail that went into making these wax models proves how effective they are as an educational aid. That present-day medical professionals can continue to use these models to accurately conclude a cause of death further emphasizes their accuracy. 

There is no question that the Anatomical Venus models can serve a key role in advancing medicine, but we are still left to wonder why they were made to be so beautiful and human-like. In the medical journal article, “Rendering the Invisible Visible: From the Anatomical Venus to the Mystery of Conception,” Daniela Tinková discusses how the medical Venuses synthesized the ideas of concealing and revealing to bridge the gap between the knowledge of midwives and medical students. Originally, Tinková reveals, medical illustrations were intended for midwives who had no other formal medicinal training, but as time progressed, the roles flipped.¹⁷ Medical illustrations and models were becoming increasingly naturalistic for the (male) medical students who had little experience with real patients, and it offered the students an opportunity to understand more things about the female body that midwives already knew about.

During the Enlightenment period (in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries), when Susini’s Anatomical Venuses were created, there was a fascination with the discovery of the differences that female anatomy had in comparison to the male body. Doctors in Germany and France were finding differences in female and male bodies, from each tendon, bone, and organ. These new discoveries that the female body revealed were “concealed in a work of art.”¹⁸ Anthropologist Londa Schiebinger argues that this obsession and focus on female anatomy was not out of medical revelations, but out of the need to biologically justify the European woman’s role in society.¹⁹ The Enlightenment concept of nature was above human beliefs, and thinkers used the scientific “discoveries” about this “nature” to justify women being treated as men’s inferiors. These discussions set the precedent for women’s rights to be denied, Schiebinger argues. Rather than seeking more knowledge, the scientists and thinkers of the Enlightenment sought answers that justified the preconceived ideas they already held. Understanding these medical models from an Enlightenment standpoint sheds light on why there was so much effort put into making the Anatomical Venuses look palatable to the eye. In bringing together physical beauty and the beauty of human life, these models represent the intersection of form and function. Perhaps the act of beautifying the models was a way to weaponize women’s physical appearance, which is simultaneously held against them while they are often sexualized because of it. 

While most Venus statues lack agency in deciding who views them, the Anatomical Venuses allow for viewers to have a hands-on role in taking their freedom. Instead of an unwanted viewer being able to gawk at Aphrodite, an unwanted medical student can reveal the insides of Venus, moving the viewer to be an active participant in the process of humiliation and violence. From a practical standpoint, creating a medical model to support the understanding of human anatomy makes sense, but the understanding of Enlightenment values and the decision to call these “Anatomical Venuses” calls for further scrutiny of the models. More layers of consent, social and gender dynamics, and history come into play. While the pudica pose that the Knidian Aphrodite is found in is a futile attempt at retaining modesty in the eyes of the viewer, she at least has slight autonomy in the sense that she can keep parts of herself unrevealed. These Anatomical Venuses have even less autonomy and are at the mercy of the person who is handling them. The Anatomical Venuses mimics the same turned away gaze held by the Knidian Aphrodite and its reproductions, and are posed on velvet cushions in glass boxes in the same reclining fashion as Titian’s Venus of Urbino. These figures are not as obviously erotic as the Knidian statues, but there is a major commitment to the beautification of these medical models. The humanization, seen through the models’ long hair, pretty faces, and accessories make the acts of removing their organs even more violent. The pearl necklaces are an eerie call to Aphrodite’s jewelry she is characterized with wearing. Unlike Venus statues, these models don’t appear to have much interaction with their environment, but they don’t appear completely expressionless. At peace would be the best way to describe them, despite them and their organs undergoing intense manhandling. Those who have access to the anatomical venuses are essentially granted the right to women’s bodies. Venus statues essentially leave a little to the imagination, letting the viewer salivate for the full naked picture of her body, but Anatomical Venuses have everything on display for the viewer. Theater historian Kara Reilly describes the act of removing each layer of the Venuses’ flesh as a striptease, and for those who might get off on committing acts of violence against women, that may hold true.²⁰ There is a historical basis that the Venuses were used for purposes beyond medical education. Many owners of the Anatomical Venuses displayed these models as a tourist attraction.[fnReilly, “Two Venuses,” 112.[/fn] Like the Knidian Aphrodite, these Venuses are put up for display, to be viewed in a highly vulnerable state by any and all visitors.

A common “medical phenomenon” that these Anatomical Venuses explored is the condition of pregnancy. In comparing these Venuses with mythological Venuses, the biggest difference is obviously the emphasis on motherhood. The Anatomical Venus and her “sisters” from the Susini workshop all carry five month old fetuses in their wombs, while Aphrodite would be the last goddess to be accused of being matronly. Reilly notes that in the 18th century, young women often took the Anatomical Venuses as a warning to remain chaste as they pursued romantic relationships. Visits to these wax models by soon-to-be brides as a sort of “pre-deflowering” ceremony was not uncommon.²¹ While the mythical Venus was careful with her pregnancy by Anchises, she obviously gives up Aeneas and does not seem to feel any motherly responsibility to the child. So, why do the medical models seem to be so obsessed with motherhood? Perhaps it was a way for doctors and thinkers of the time to continue relegating women back into the home and not allowing them the same rights as men. If they are anatomically inferior and simply built for childrearing, they could argue, then there is no point in equalizing women. The sociopolitical implications that women were inferior to men that were “justified” by the Anatomical Venuses and other medical illustrations are a sort of othering that caused more than just social harm to women during the seventeenth through nineteenth centuries. Even in the present day, women face issues of not being believed by medical professionals, an issue that is linked to the idea of “female hysteria,” which was a flippant diagnosis for women that covered an array of symptoms. It is no longer a recognized medical diagnosis, but during the eighteenth century, there were a variety of “treatments” for hysteria. Some were rather silly while others were borderline dangerous.²² Childbirth during the eighteenth century was not easy for mothers, either. Deborah D. Rogers explores literary depictions of childbirth for British women during the eighteenth century and finds that most women didn’t make it through childbirth. Rogers explores these fictional characters who represent real women, finding that most depicted women dealing with childbed fever post-birth, an infection causing high fevers.²³ Though fictional, the stories Rogers investigates bears some truth in how women were treated at the time. Generally, a lack of sterilization practices and limited understanding of antisepsis led to a plethora of problems. Rogers recounts high involvement of midwives, who, while had much experience with actual patients, lacked medical training. This lack of serious medical attention may not be the sole issue of women’s deaths due to childbirth, but there must be a correlation between the two.

These Anatomical Venuses have proven to be exemplary educational aids but are equally as destructive as they are constructive. These models take away any agency Venus may have as they place the power in the hands that take them apart. Understanding the Anatomical Venuses as medical aids alone does not convey the problems these models raise, but through the knowledge of Enlightenment ideas, the humanization  of the models, and the medical mistreatment that women faced make these disturbing figures even more sickening. 

Étant donnés: 1° la chute d’eau / 2° le gaz d’éclairage by Marcel Duchamp

The final Venus I have examined is Marcel Duchamp’s Étant donnés: 1° la chute d’eau / 2° le gaz d’éclairage, which translates to Given: 1. The Waterfall, 2. The Illuminating Gas, the final work Duchamp made. Often referred to as Étant donnés, it is a surrealist tableau that he spent over twenty years working on in secret, revealed only after his death, in 1968. Étant donnés consists of a bucolic, eerie scene that is only visible through the peepholes of a wooden door that one person at a time can view. The scene the viewer glimpses at is set against the backdrop of trees and rolling hills and what looks like a flowing waterfall. Closer up, the viewer finds the body of a woman sprawled atop a bed of branches and twigs. The face is obscured from view, but her legs are spread open and in her left hand she grasps an electric lamp. It is unclear what events led to this moment, but no matter the context, viewers are left with morbid curiosity as they ponder the circumstances of the woman while she remains in a vulnerable state. The piece itself can be broken down and reassembled, and Duchamp created a detailed instructional manuscript so that it could be set up posthumously. 

This artwork is not explicitly a rendition of a Venus statue, but there are a few characteristics of the unnamed woman in Étant donnés that could qualify her as a contemporary Venus. The woman, who was actually modeled after Duchamp’s girlfriend and second wife, is being spied on while in a demeaning position. While the nature of the pudica position it is compared to can be analyzed differently, the revealing nature of the woman in Étant donnés is comparable to the Knidian Aphrodite. Though there is no attempt to cover herself, which the Knidian famously does, it is worth noting that these women are in different situations. Even without fully knowing the circumstances behind the Duchamp woman’s condition, we can agree that Duchamp’s figure is not expecting any eyes to be watching her, while the Aphrodite of Knidos is placed at the baths, a private activity in a public setting. Duchamp also dedicated a lot of his efforts into making the skin of the figure as humanlike as possible, which just adds to the eerie nature of the scene. The humanization, which can also be found in Praxiteles’s style and in the beautification of the Anatomical Venuses, is another layer of what it means to be a Venus sculpture. The explicitly voyeuristic viewing of the woman in Étant donnés reduces her to this violent and humiliating moment and creates a reluctant, tantalizing obsession in viewers as they continue to wonder what the story is behind this unsettling scene. This tableau also engages the viewer to consider their role in being a voyeur, possibly inciting feelings of shame and forces them to question their perception of gender.

Many scholars have noted that the genitalia of the figure is anatomically inaccurate, but cannot determine whether or not that was the intention. Curator and scholar Francis Naumann was startled by the figure’s inaccurate vulva, but recounts that when he first saw the piece, he was unable to name what exactly is misshapen.²⁴ Forty years later, he has then decided to fully investigate. The rise of feminist thinking that rose during the 1960s and 1970s has only recently made this “taboo” question about the representation of a vulva worth exploring. Not only is it received with less shame, but there has been a better understanding of the vagina, obstetrics, and gynocology due to the popularity of feminist thinking. Naumann argues that in order to understand Duchamp’s thought process, the vagina must be understood with the assistance from gynecologists, sexologists, and the feminist women who explored the meaning of vaginas through sexual liberation. Naumann comes up with eight different points that could explain the inaccurate representation of the female sex, though I will examine only a few. Duchamp’s plethora of sketches reveal his thought process behind the Étant donnés. Though the poses and angles slightly differ, the vulva is always at the forefront. If Duchamp knew he wanted to make the woman’s vulva a major focal point of the piece, why did he not model it accurately off of other depictions? Naumann points out that if intentional, the misrepresentation would reduce the harshness that an accurate vulva might bring to the piece. The audience’s focus would be on the vulva itself and take away from any concern regarding the woman’s circumstances and the invasive act of viewing alone. If Duchamp purposely misrepresented the vulva, then the woman is forever sentenced to being reduced to her (taboo) anatomy. In addition to sparking conversations about the woman’s circumstances, the viewer is left in a peculiar position that also makes them focus on her genitalia, possibly detracting from the original point that Duchamp wanted to make.²⁵ Instead of sitting in their unease caused by either their self-conciousness of viewing the woman or worry regarding what led to the woman being strewn across the bushes, the viewer can fixate on her misshapen genitalia. Whether Duchamp wanted to misshape the vulva or not, it seems that either way, the woman can be reduced to her genitalia. 

Through looking at the meticulous sketches and body casts Duchamp used to create the tableau and the female figure, Naumann deduces that the figure’s misshapen vulva is simply the result of several unintended factors during the production process.²⁶ For this part of the figure, Duchamp used his girlfriend, Maria Martin, as a model. Duchamp and Martin’s relationship ended during the production of the Étant donnés, and he later used his second wife, Alexina Duchamp, to model the figure’s arm. Over the time of its production, it is possible that Duchamp’s memory of Martin’s anatomy had gotten fuzzy and resulted in inaccuracies. However, Duchamp went through great lengths to conceal the identity of his models, specifically Martin. Though she was the primary model used to shape the figure, it is highly possible that Duchamp did not intend for the figure to represent Martin at all. Though the results of this wax molding were not initially intended, Duchamp’s artistic inaccuracy has real consequences on the viewers. Whether or not the intention was to create an inaccurate vulva, viewers leave this morbid peepshow with the figure’s sex on the brain, possibly as Naumann himself did. Without the knowledge of Duchamp’s process, a typical viewer may assume that the figure suffered from genital mutilation or violence.. This mystery surrounding the production of the vulva makes this piece a scene of sexual violence. The reduction of the Duchamp woman to this sex crime could actually be seen as a way to reveal the gender-based violence that women face. However, this traumatizing way of sparking that conversation, whether or not Duchamp intended for this, grasps onto the idea that “sex sells” and piques the interest of viewers who may only be able to recognize this violence through tales related as “true crime” murder mysteries. In a way, this speaks volumes about the viewer, more than Étant donnés will ever reveal about itself. 

When viewing Étant donnés, the viewer is hidden from the subject, hiding behind the wooden doors and obscured from the view of the woman. Unlike Aphrodite of Knidos, there is no evidence of shame from the subject, at least that the viewer can see. Though the viewer may immediately pull away from viewing, the secluded, intimate environment that Duchamp created for them beckons them to take another look. Unlike the other Venuses, this  iteration is meant to incite shame in the viewer in addition to the humiliation the figure is subject to herself. Though the viewer may also feel curious to learn more about the figure and the scene she’s in, Duchamp scholar Julian Jason Haladyn claims that the confident grasping of the lamp is meant to make the viewer feel ashamed for being a voyeur.²⁷ Haladyn specifically looks at the concepts of voyeurism and fantasy through the lens of Freud, but the idea that Étant donnés prompts viewers to question the tableau and themselves is agreed on by other scholars.

Scholar Ernestine Daubner points out that Duchamp’s fascination with mirrors could be coming to play in Étant donnés. In staring through the peepholes, Duchamp is viewing an inverted image of himself: the radical “other” that is represented by the nude female.²⁸ In Étant donnés, Daubner argues that there are two characters at play: the male (Duchamp) and the female (the nude woman, whom Daubner claims represents Duchamp’s alter ego, Rrose Sélavy.²⁹ Through the radical, feminine alter ego, Duchamp (or the rational male) is meant to explore reflection and inversion between the body and the mind. Though the radical other is represented in the tableau, the mirror within Étant donnés is only reflecting, not containing. The ability to explore is only given to the rational male while the radical female serves the rational male as the “other” to be explored. The radical female is not given an identity outside of the mirror. Daubner’s creation of a conversation that engages the viewer to delve into their perception and understanding of gender seems to best serve Duchamp himself, especially if the woman inside were to be a representation of his alter ego. New York-based artist Serkan Özkaya also explores the idea of mirroring that Duchamp likely hid in his final work, and even finds Rrose Sélavy in this process as well. Özkaya hypothesizes that Duchamp’s Étant donnés doubles as a camera obscura. Since Özkaya was unable to test out his theory on the original tableau, he tested this theory in his recreation of the Étant donnés called We Will Wait. Following Duchamp’s extremely detailed instructions, Özkaya’s scale recreation projected an image resembling a face. This image, Özkaya claims, bears a striking resemblance to Man Ray’s portrait of Rrose Sélavy.³⁰ 

The mysterious nature surrounding the subject in Duchamp’s Étant donnés raises more questions about Duchamp’s intentions, the subject, and the scene than the tableau answers. In the same way the intentions of Praxiteles will never be known, neither will Duchamp’s intentions with Étant donnés. The only difference is that Duchamp’s hidden layers of various meanings are carefully placed, perhaps only set to be revealed when he wants. Understanding Venus statues means reconciling complicated ideas that seem to go against one another, and Duchamp’s Étant donnés does not make it any easier.

Conclusion

In the ancient context, the Knidian Aphrodite may have served women, but ultimately she was subject to the mistreatment by mortal men, something she did not deserve, as a goddess and simply as a person. Contemporary analyses can paint the Knidian Aphrodite as a picture of empowerment, which may be something that she can reclaim currently, but it does not erase the original abuse she faced. The Anatomical Venuses of Susini’s workshop quite literally were physically manhandled; a stark contrast to the verbal and hypothetical degradation the Knidian Aphrodite dealt with. These Anatomical Venuses had the potential to serve true good in educating medical students, but due to the beautification and dismemberment these naturalistic models underwent, it is impossible to see them thrive under more ideal conditions. Marcel Duchamp’s Étant donnés is a complex, engaging piece that still possesses surprises. While the representation of the woman in the tableau incites feelings of discomfort and concern, the piece forces viewers to recognize and confront the feelings they experience. The viewer plays an important role in understanding these different iterations of Venus, but the viewers themselves also feed into the dynamics that these various pieces need in order to have meaning. Though these representations of Aphrodite are humiliated and disrespected, they are still able to give back and serve the viewer in ways that they may not have been seeking. Viewers can learn more about themselves in relation to these figures as opposed to using these figures to learn about their original contexts and purposes. Since that is timeless, these depictions of Venus are a force to be reckoned with.

1. Following that line of thinking, I refer to the representations of Venus in ways that humanize them.
2. Christine Mitchell Havelock, The Aphrodite of Knidos and Her Successors (University of Michigan, 1995), 23.
3. Havelock, The Aphrodite of Knidos and Her Successors, 36.
4. Havelock, The Aphrodite of Knidos and Her Successors, 18.
5. Havelock, The Aphrodite of Knidos and Her Successors, 43.
6. Havelock, The Aphrodite of Knidos and Her Successors, 39.
7. Homer, The Odyssey, translated by T. Murray and revised by George E. Dimock (Harvard University Press, 1919), 180-191.
8. Havelock, The Aphrodite of Knidos and Her Successors, 50.
9. Soloecista, Lucius or The Ass, Amores. Halcyon. Demosthenes. Podagra. Ocypus. Cyniscus. Philopatris. Charidemus. Nero, translated by M. D. MacLeod (Harvard University Press, 1967), 15.
10. Nanette Salomon, “Making a World of Difference: Gender, Asymmetry, and the Greek Nude,” Naked Truths: Women, Sexuality, and Gender in Classical Art and Archaeology, edited by Ann Olga Koloski-Ostrow and Claire L. Lyons, (Routledge, 2000), 199.
11. Salomon, “Making a World of Difference,” 200.
12. Salomon, “Making a World of Difference,”  204.
13. Natalie Boymel Kampen, “Gauging the Gender Gap,” The Women’s Review of Books 15, no. 5 (1998), 1.
14. Mireille M.Lee, “Other ‘Ways of Seeing’: Female Viewers of the Knidian Aphrodite.” Helios 42, no. 1 (Spring 2015), 107.
15. Lee, “Other ‘Ways of Seeing,’” 108-109.
16. Giovanni Mazzotti, Mirella Falconi, Gabriella Teti, Michela Zago, Marcello Lanari, Francesco A. Manzoli, “The Diagnosis of the Cause of the Death of Venerina,” Journal of Anatomy 216, no. 2 (2010): 273.
17. Daniela Tinková, “Rendering the Invisible Visible: From the Anatomical Venus to the Mystery of Conception,” Opuscula Historiae Artium 68, no. 2 (2019), 267.
18. Tinková, “Rendering the Invisible Visible: From the Anatomical Venus to the Mystery of Conception,” 267.
19. Londa Schiebinger, “Skeletons in the Closet: The First Illustrations of the Female Skeleton in Eighteenth-Century Anatomy,” Representations 14 (1986), 42.
20. Kara Reilly, “Two Venuses : Historicizing the Anatomical Female Body,” Performance Research 19, no. 4, 112.
21. Reilly, “Two Venuses,” 114.
22. Heather Meek, “Medical Men, Women of Letters, and Treatments for Eighteenth-Century Hysteria,” The Journal of Medical Humanities 34, no. 1 (2013), 4.
23. Deborah Rogers, ​​“Eighteenth-Century Literary Depictions of Childbirth in the Historical Context of Mutilation And Mortality: The Case Of ‘Pamela,’” The Centennial Review 37, no. 2 (1993), 312.
24. Francis Naumann, “G for GYNOMORPHISM IN ÉTANT DONNÉS,” PUBLIC 28, no. 56 (2017), 63.
25. Naumann, “G for GYNOMORPHISM IN ÉTANT DONNÉS,”66.
26. Naumann, “G for GYNOMORPHISM IN ÉTANT DONNÉS,” 69.
27. Julian Jason Haladyn, “A Contribution to the Study of the Fantasies of Sexual Perversion in Marcel Duchamp’s Etant donnés,” International Journal of Žižek Studies 7, no. 2 (2016), 3.
28. Ernestine Daubner, “Étant donnés: Rrose/Duchamp in a Mirror,” RACAR: Revue D’art Canadienne / Canadian Art Review 22, no. 1/2 (1995), 89.
29. Daubner, “Étant donnés,” 90.
30. Serkan Özkaya, We Will Wait, Postmasters Gallery, New York, New York, 2017.