The British Museum’s “Life and Death in Pompeii and Herculaneum” exhibition features a rich collection of erotic art. However, from a modern perspective, it appears to lack that essential element of naughtiness.
Sexuality is a prominent theme in the British Museum’s “Life and Death in Pompeii and Herculaneum” exhibition, as I noted in my review. The villas and brothels of Pompeii were adorned with erotic paintings, sculptures, and unconventional artifacts. Yet, this art seems to be missing something vital to contemporary sexuality – a sense of sin.
The pagan Romans might have expressed disapproval of certain forms of sexual behavior. Suetonius, the Roman historian, painted a disturbing portrait of Emperor Tiberius in his biography, describing him as a debauched old man who created a sinister pleasure island on the Isle of Capri, where he committed brutal acts and collected pornography. A memorable scene in the classic television drama “I, Claudius” portrays John Hurt, playing Caligula, ingratiating himself with Uncle Tiberius by gifting him a suggestive painting. However, the reality of Roman life, as revealed by the art of Pompeii, suggests that uninhibited sex and unrestrained art were commonplace in this ancient culture, rather than being the exclusive domain of decadent tyrants.
This contrast becomes stark when we consider the development of Christian society, which emerged from the ruins of Rome and still influences Western culture in many ways, regardless of personal beliefs. The fate of the erotic art of Pompeii, as it was unearthed by excavators in the 18th century, is a clear demonstration of this contrast. While the art was admired, it was also deemed highly provocative. For a long time, the sensual treasures now on display at the British Museum were kept under lock and key in the “secret cabinet,” a secluded, windowless alcove in the National Archaeological Museum in Naples. This closed academy of voyeurism only opened permanently to the public in 2000.
Even today, visiting the secret museum can feel somewhat sinful, as if looking at explicit images were a transgression. The ancient Pompeiians clearly did not share this sense of guilt. For us today, without a sense of sin, we would not enjoy sex nearly as much. That is why modern sexuality owes more to St. Augustine than to the painters of Pompeii.
During my research for the book “The Loves of the Artists,” I realized that sin is the secret ingredient in the Renaissance nude. When artists like Donatello and Caravaggio portrayed beautiful young men, they were not indulging in an accepted, legal desire as ancient Greek and Roman artists did. In the Renaissance, one could be burned at the stake for “sodomy,” and this added a special risk and excitement to overtly sexualized statues like Donatello’s David.
Roman erotic art is certainly striking and intriguing, but it lacks that spark of sin. Like Donatello when he daringly reintroduced the male nude in a Christian world, modern love revels in being a little bit naughty.