I've been thinking about Icarus a lot lately.
Maybe it's because I listen to too much Bastille.
Maybe it's because I miss teaching Classics.
Maybe it's because I don't know where I "fit" into the Morality Tale that the story of Icarus is suppose to illustrate.
(For those who don't remember, the story of Icarus goes something like this:)
Daedalus was a gifted, creative, and very proud inventor who gave Greece the sail for her ships and, supposedly, originated the art of carpentry in general. He was commissioned to build the Labyrinth by Minos, King of Crete, in order to contain the Minotaur. Then, to keep the Minotaur and the maze a secret, King Minos had Daedalus (and his son Icarus) imprisoned in the tallest tower. However, respected genius that Daedalus was known to be, he set to work making a "tool" to ensure freedom for himself and his son by using string, bird feathers, and candle wax to fashion wings for the two men to use to literally fly from their captors.
Before Daedalus and Icarus took flight for the first time in human history, Daedalus cautioned his son not to fly too high, as the heat of the sun would melt the wax, nor to fly too low, as the spray from the waves would soak and weigh down the feathers. (No lessons on flapping, coasting, or rudders required, apparently...)
Fearlessly, both men leapt from the ramparts of their prison and flew like birds, or winged gods. Daedalus maintained an even, "middle of the road" altitude, but, at some point, the boy Icarus either forgot his father's warning, decided the risk was worth it, or was perhaps so overcome by the temptations of power and height and the chance to be near to the Sun or the gods themselves that he flew high enough for the wax on his makeshift wings to melt.
Presumably, Daedalus witnessed Icarus' folly as it happened, and yet, knowing that he himself had no way to stop it, watched his son's fall, if he did not wish to suffer the same fate.
Without the aid of the wings, Icarus plummets to the sea below and drowns.
Daedalus survives.
The story goes that, after the death of Icarus, Daedalus bitterly laments his creation, and the Morality Tale the audience is encouraged to take away is to consider the long-term consequences of one's inventions with great care, lest those inventions do more harm than good--meaning not only the wings, but perhaps even so far back as Daedalus' making a wooden cow (that lead to the conception and birth of the Minotaur in the first place), or his construction of the Labyrinth.
Daedalus is, in many ways, ahead of his time; he creates something that may have negative effects on the world, be it the difficulty of solving the "puzzle" of the maze, the emotional damage of imprisoning the Minotaur, or making the ultimate sacrifice of inadvertently constructing the "tool" of wings that lead to his own son's death.
Thus, the idiom "don't fly too close to the sun" was introduced to the world, and the audience is expected to learn that tragic theme of the failure that comes at the hands of Icarus' hubris in not listening to his father.
And yet...
Somehow, I feel that the "moral" of the story has long been lost on modern ears (particularly when considering that for all the people who have heard of Icarus, a much smaller number of them can name his father, or can tell you that Daedalus is his father, if given the name out of context).
ICARUS is a name that has gone down in history. It, like Hercules or Thor means something when it is spoken. And somehow, that name does not seem to conjure up ideas about caution or duty to one's parents, however much story-tellers might want it to.
From my vantage point, I feel that Icarus is a glorified character that people remember because, goddamnit, he FLEW. At least he TRIED. At least he TOOK THE LEAP and BURNED BRIGHT, even if his flame was brief and he crashed at the end. Icarus seems to be something of a rock n' roll icon; a hero of the YOLO movement. Icarus took his life into his own hands, my man, and well, even if it ended tragically, at least he aimed for the highest possible goal before the end.
Ambition is the new Religion, so it seems. "Follow your dreams," the new God.
And I don't think that is a cult I want to join, frankly. Or, rather, I don't want to want to join it. Part of me REALLY wants to have the guts that I imagine Icarus had. Just to jump out of the prison window in the first place--! But then, how do I know what he was thinking when he looked ever upward, instead of down at the earth from whence he came? Perhaps he simply forgot himself, so wrapped up was he in the Newness of the experience of flight...
My envy of Icarus is a jealousy of freedom, of determination, of confidence, and of the thoughtlessness that is the opposite of fear.
And so, too, is my envy of Daedalus a similar kind of jealousy: I am covetous of the spark of creativity, the strength to construct, and the faith to test with all one has--not just his own life, but the life of his son.
And so, I confess, I forgot the traditional Morality Tale of Icarus, as his modern fame seems to eclipse the fact that HE DIED because he didn't follow directions! (I also think the Morality Tale of Daedalus feeling guilty for his inventions loses some of its heft when you learn that, according to some, the goddess Athena did eventually visit Daedalus and give him wings, telling him to fly like a god after all. Talk about the total opposite of Prometheus!)
In terms of divine--or even human--justice, I think I come down somewhere in between the fates of Daedalus, Icarus, and Prometheus (all three of whom are frequent subjects of classical and romantic art depicting their personal famous moments). And it is in these famous, captured, art-rendered moments that I truly consider Perspective.
In "The Fall of Icarus" as painted by so many of the Greats, the focus is on Icarus himself--his body, his face, his fear, his fall. Or, at times, the eye is drawn to Daedalus--the father, helpless to save his son, as in Jacob Peter Gowy's "The Fall of Icarus" [seen below]. (Nice religious metaphors there, too. Good job, old masters. *clap, clap, clap*).
Another rendering of the famous moment that defines Icarus for all of time is unique in that Icarus is a very small feature in the grander scheme of the frame; the painting "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus," by Pieter Bruegel [see below], features a plowman in the foreground, his head bent at his work in the field, with the sea far down below, and Icarus, nothing but a drop of sun from the sky into the ocean.
I like teaching Bruegel's painting because it literally illustrates perspective (both artistically physical, as well as metaphorical) better than many other classical examples I could give. And yet, when I ask one of my favorite Socratic questions, "Who are you in the story?", I fear my own answer. I never cast myself in the role of Icarus, nor even Daedalus. I am, reluctantly, the Looker-On--the peasant, hard at work, head bent low, not always aware of the beautiful and terrible things going on around me, and yet still discontent behind my plow, kicking at rocks in the earth, wishing to thrust them at the boy, falling from on high, too close to everything.
Maybe it's because I listen to too much Bastille.
Maybe it's because I miss teaching Classics.
Maybe it's because I don't know where I "fit" into the Morality Tale that the story of Icarus is suppose to illustrate.
(For those who don't remember, the story of Icarus goes something like this:)
Daedalus was a gifted, creative, and very proud inventor who gave Greece the sail for her ships and, supposedly, originated the art of carpentry in general. He was commissioned to build the Labyrinth by Minos, King of Crete, in order to contain the Minotaur. Then, to keep the Minotaur and the maze a secret, King Minos had Daedalus (and his son Icarus) imprisoned in the tallest tower. However, respected genius that Daedalus was known to be, he set to work making a "tool" to ensure freedom for himself and his son by using string, bird feathers, and candle wax to fashion wings for the two men to use to literally fly from their captors.
Before Daedalus and Icarus took flight for the first time in human history, Daedalus cautioned his son not to fly too high, as the heat of the sun would melt the wax, nor to fly too low, as the spray from the waves would soak and weigh down the feathers. (No lessons on flapping, coasting, or rudders required, apparently...)
Fearlessly, both men leapt from the ramparts of their prison and flew like birds, or winged gods. Daedalus maintained an even, "middle of the road" altitude, but, at some point, the boy Icarus either forgot his father's warning, decided the risk was worth it, or was perhaps so overcome by the temptations of power and height and the chance to be near to the Sun or the gods themselves that he flew high enough for the wax on his makeshift wings to melt.
Presumably, Daedalus witnessed Icarus' folly as it happened, and yet, knowing that he himself had no way to stop it, watched his son's fall, if he did not wish to suffer the same fate.
Without the aid of the wings, Icarus plummets to the sea below and drowns.
Daedalus survives.
The story goes that, after the death of Icarus, Daedalus bitterly laments his creation, and the Morality Tale the audience is encouraged to take away is to consider the long-term consequences of one's inventions with great care, lest those inventions do more harm than good--meaning not only the wings, but perhaps even so far back as Daedalus' making a wooden cow (that lead to the conception and birth of the Minotaur in the first place), or his construction of the Labyrinth.
Daedalus is, in many ways, ahead of his time; he creates something that may have negative effects on the world, be it the difficulty of solving the "puzzle" of the maze, the emotional damage of imprisoning the Minotaur, or making the ultimate sacrifice of inadvertently constructing the "tool" of wings that lead to his own son's death.
Thus, the idiom "don't fly too close to the sun" was introduced to the world, and the audience is expected to learn that tragic theme of the failure that comes at the hands of Icarus' hubris in not listening to his father.
And yet...
Somehow, I feel that the "moral" of the story has long been lost on modern ears (particularly when considering that for all the people who have heard of Icarus, a much smaller number of them can name his father, or can tell you that Daedalus is his father, if given the name out of context).
ICARUS is a name that has gone down in history. It, like Hercules or Thor means something when it is spoken. And somehow, that name does not seem to conjure up ideas about caution or duty to one's parents, however much story-tellers might want it to.
From my vantage point, I feel that Icarus is a glorified character that people remember because, goddamnit, he FLEW. At least he TRIED. At least he TOOK THE LEAP and BURNED BRIGHT, even if his flame was brief and he crashed at the end. Icarus seems to be something of a rock n' roll icon; a hero of the YOLO movement. Icarus took his life into his own hands, my man, and well, even if it ended tragically, at least he aimed for the highest possible goal before the end.
Ambition is the new Religion, so it seems. "Follow your dreams," the new God.
And I don't think that is a cult I want to join, frankly. Or, rather, I don't want to want to join it. Part of me REALLY wants to have the guts that I imagine Icarus had. Just to jump out of the prison window in the first place--! But then, how do I know what he was thinking when he looked ever upward, instead of down at the earth from whence he came? Perhaps he simply forgot himself, so wrapped up was he in the Newness of the experience of flight...
My envy of Icarus is a jealousy of freedom, of determination, of confidence, and of the thoughtlessness that is the opposite of fear.
And so, too, is my envy of Daedalus a similar kind of jealousy: I am covetous of the spark of creativity, the strength to construct, and the faith to test with all one has--not just his own life, but the life of his son.
And so, I confess, I forgot the traditional Morality Tale of Icarus, as his modern fame seems to eclipse the fact that HE DIED because he didn't follow directions! (I also think the Morality Tale of Daedalus feeling guilty for his inventions loses some of its heft when you learn that, according to some, the goddess Athena did eventually visit Daedalus and give him wings, telling him to fly like a god after all. Talk about the total opposite of Prometheus!)
In terms of divine--or even human--justice, I think I come down somewhere in between the fates of Daedalus, Icarus, and Prometheus (all three of whom are frequent subjects of classical and romantic art depicting their personal famous moments). And it is in these famous, captured, art-rendered moments that I truly consider Perspective.
In "The Fall of Icarus" as painted by so many of the Greats, the focus is on Icarus himself--his body, his face, his fear, his fall. Or, at times, the eye is drawn to Daedalus--the father, helpless to save his son, as in Jacob Peter Gowy's "The Fall of Icarus" [seen below]. (Nice religious metaphors there, too. Good job, old masters. *clap, clap, clap*).
Another rendering of the famous moment that defines Icarus for all of time is unique in that Icarus is a very small feature in the grander scheme of the frame; the painting "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus," by Pieter Bruegel [see below], features a plowman in the foreground, his head bent at his work in the field, with the sea far down below, and Icarus, nothing but a drop of sun from the sky into the ocean.
I like teaching Bruegel's painting because it literally illustrates perspective (both artistically physical, as well as metaphorical) better than many other classical examples I could give. And yet, when I ask one of my favorite Socratic questions, "Who are you in the story?", I fear my own answer. I never cast myself in the role of Icarus, nor even Daedalus. I am, reluctantly, the Looker-On--the peasant, hard at work, head bent low, not always aware of the beautiful and terrible things going on around me, and yet still discontent behind my plow, kicking at rocks in the earth, wishing to thrust them at the boy, falling from on high, too close to everything.
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