Laocoön: Beware of Greeks Bearing Gifts

Published: Tuesday, 15 October 2024

Storytelling is a universal form of communication, which humans have practised for thousands of years. Whether it’s gossip about who got dumped from Love Island last week, embarrassing family tales, or singing the National Anthem, the act of telling stories establishes connections between communities and individuals.

Each artwork has a story to tell, often along with dozens of related side stories. These stories are always aesthetic, but can also be political, cultural, economic, emotional, or derived from a different story entirely. Art is a key form of communicating such stories, especially at a time when a majority of the human population was illiterate (Fun Fact: the reason why many of the old stories such as the Iliad are “epic poems” is so they could be memorised and recited without access to written formats. Funner Fact: one of the oldest works of mathematics, the Brāhmasphuṭasiddhānta, introduced zero, negative numbers and square roots for the first time… was written completely in poetic verse…!).

When it comes to art analysis, there are some difficulties with this reliance on stories. Artists often rely heavily on the assumed knowledge of the observer to dissect what is being depicted in an artwork. The degree to which this is understood between artwork and viewer changes across generations. The further we get from the original time, place and culture of the artist, the less likely we are to possess the underlying narratives and references which the artist assumes are common knowledge.

Further, stories change all the time, both intentionally and through misinterpretation or misunderstanding. When stories are adopted from another culture or time, they are often subject to mistranslation. When the stories change, so does the art… like an ancient game of telephone.

Laocoön and His Sons (pronounced lā-ˈä-kə-wän) is one of the most famous sculptural groups from the ancient world. It is a staggering example of marble sculpture, and also of the impact of story, and how stories change. It is subject to such storytelling in art and its subsequent adaptations that most interpreters probably don't even recognise they are favouring one story over another in their explanation of the events. Today, we are going to discuss the various stories around this art piece, while also marvelling at how the artist could create such chiselled abs of stone (like, literally, lol).

You might not recognize the piece, but I bet you already know part of the story it depicts… the Trojan Horse. Set during the Epic Cycle of the Trojan War (~12th Century BC), Laocoön was a Trojan priest who warned the Trojans of the wooden horse left by the Greeks, saying “Do not trust the Horse, Trojans / Whatever it is, I fear the Greeks even bearing gifts"... Sound familiar?

In response to this act by Laocoön, either Poseidon or Athena (or both, depending on the version), sent two serpents to kill Laocoön and his sons. There's more details, but that’s the jist of it… very petty and icky. Greek Gods are gonna Greek God, I’m afraid.

The Stories, Oh The Stories

The oldest written account of this story comes from Arctinus of Miletus, in his Ιλίου πέρσις (Iliou Persis, Sack of Troy). The original (circa 776–774 BC) is lost, but we have access to it in limited form via Proclus's mid fifth-century synopsis of the Trojan cycles. According to Proclus, the Trojans had already accepted the wooden horse and dedicated it to Athena when the two serpents appeared, killing Laocoön and ONE of his sons.

The most popular, and well-known, is Virgil’s account in his Aeneid published in 19 BC. In this version, after Laocoön warned the Trojans against accepting the wooden horse, Athena and Poseidon sent two great sea-serpents killing BOTH Laocoön and his TWO sons.

There are still more versions of the story, as you can see in this folio from Virgil's Aeneid where the two sons depicted are much younger. The key differences generally arise around whether Laocoön had one son or two, if any of the sons managed to escape, and exactly which God (or Gods) committed the act.

The Sculpture… and the Controversy of the Second Son

Having established that there’s various versions of the story, let’s take a closer look at the most famous sculpture, and examine which variety of the myth it supports.

Here, we see Laocoön and one son contorted and dramatically splayed across an altar, as the monsters constrict them. Laocoön and the son on the left are both bitten on the torso and hip. The fatality of both Laocoön and one son is fairly evident, which aligns with the Greek accounts.

But, you say, there’s a second son! Congratulations, you’ve passed Art History 101, I’ve taught you well… this is where some controversy arises (and we get to do some art history analysis stuff, yay!).

Yes, there’s a second son, but notice how the compositional balance seems off, both visually and structurally. For a group sculpture, the second son to the right of Laocoön is positioned noticeably apart from the agony and chaos, especially compared to the tightness and intimacy of the son on the left. Neither serpent is concerned with the son on the right, he isn't as restricted in form and still has control over his movement. The tail of the monster is wrapped around only one ankle and arm, and he seems to be able to get away. His gaze is towards… I don't even know, but it’s not towards the action.

His expression resembles shock and distress more than agony when compared to his father and brother. He is very much alive, and does not appear as if he is in his final moments.

Further evidence raises suspicion if you look at the base: compare the marble from which the Laocoön is made (Parian marble) to the base (Carrara marble) on which his leg rests. They are clearly not the same, therefore cannot be original. This shows the movability of the second son in the composition and questions where his position should be in relation to the group. So much so you can remove him entirely and the rest of the group looks like an intended original.

You’ll remember from our discussion of The Flight Into Egypt by Titian that sometimes we can get supportive evidence from a slightly surprising source: other old paintings of our (older) artwork. During his European adventures, Napoleon took the opportunity to, ahem, relocate numerous artworks from Rome to Paris.

In 1813, Antoine Béranger decorated his Sevres vase with depictions of Napoleon’s spoils of war, including Laocoön and His Sons. In this rendition, the second son is in a different position while the Carrara marble base is not present. He is turned away and positioned behind Laocoön. This further supports the second son as a separate moveable piece the way an addition would be to an original sculpture group with changes made to the base.

This arrangement, in my opinion, is more cohesive whether or not it was the original. It emphasises and draws the eye directly to the drama and death of Laocoön and one son while exaggerating the size difference between father and son. The second son’s gaze and expression aligns with the horror of his dying father. Whereas in the arrangement today, the second son distracts from the gravity of the situation with his positioning in line with the scene and gaze not aligning to anything.

Thanks to the Vatican Catalog archives we have photos of the statue from 1957 supporting the second son's position as it appeared on Béranger's vase. However, there is evidence of alteration to the base and position of this son.

Welcome To My TedTalk

If you can’t already tell, I’m pretty sure the second son is a late addition to the original sculpture. Here’s what I think happened: it’s story time for my interpretation of which account Laocoön and His Sons reference.

Thanks to Pliny the Elder’s (AD 23/24 - 79) Natural History, we know the Laocoön was executed by eminent Rhodian sculptors Athenodoros, Agesandros, and Polydoros, and was displayed in the palace of Emperor Titus (reign AD 79 - 81). This could mean the sculpture was a Roman commission by a wealthy individual, most likely a member of the Imperial Family.

This was not long after Virgil’s version was published complete with the whole “this story led directly to the founding of Rome” thing. Crucially, Virgil’s narrative includes two sons, not one. Given the Greek sculptors were copying a Greek bronze original with only one son; they would have adopted Virgil's narrative and added the second son most likely by request of the Roman patron.

To emphasise the awkward and askew nature of the second son, look at the photoshopped image below without the second son.

The Laocoön never made it to Sperlonga: the grotto collapsed in 26 AD, nearly killing Tiberius. However, careful archeological reconstructions of the grotto suggest an empty alcove where no sculptures were found, which throws off the balance of the setting. Of course, it could be the pieces placed there were lost, but it would've been an ideal location for the Laocoön had they moved it down from Rome: the water feature of the grotto would emphasise the connection to the sea, Poseidon’s role in the story, and allow for a real world connection as if the serpents emerged from the sea and engulfed them right then and there.

We’ll likely never know exactly what happened, but that’s part of what makes for a fun mystery story!

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