Zeuxis or Antiochus (1-5)

Recently I was on my way home after lecturing to you, when a number of my recent audience met me (I see no objection to telling you a story like this now that you and I are friends)—they met me, then, and after greeting me gave some indication of approval. They accompanied me for some distance, vying in noisy praise until I blushed for shame at the thought that I fell far short of their praises. The substance of their approbation, which all alike emphasised, was the strangeness of the thought in my composition and the degree of freshness it displayed. It would be better to quote verbatim: “What novelty! What marvellous paradoxes! How inventive he is! The freshness of thought is beyond compare!” They continued in this strain. They had clearly been taken with the lecture—I don’t suppose they could have any reason for telling lies and flattering a stranger as they did, one who had no other reason for claiming their attention.

To be honest, however, their praise caused me considerable annoyance, and when they had gone and I was left alone, I reflected as follows: “So this is the only attraction in my writings, that they are unconventional and keep off the beaten track, while good vocabulary, conformity to the ancient canon,

I want to give you an example from a painter. Zeuxis, that pre-eminent artist, avoided painting popular and hackneyed themes as far as he could (I mean heroes, gods, wars); he was always aiming at novelty, and whenever he thought up something unheard-of and strange he showed the precision of his craftsmanship by depicting it. Among the bold innovations of this Zeuxis was his painting of a female Hippocentaur, one moreover that was feeding twin Hippocentaur children, no more than babies. There is a copy of this picture now at Athens made with

The Centaur herself is depicted lying on fresh young grass with all the horse part of her on the ground. Her feet are stretched behind her. The human part is slightly raised up on her elbows. Her fore-feet are not now stretched out, as you might expect with one lying on her side; one foot is bent with the hoof drawn under like one who kneels, while the other on the other hand is beginning to straighten and is taking a grip on the ground, as is the case with horses striving to spring up. She holds one of her offspring aloft in her arms, giving it the breast in human fashion; the other she suckles from her mare’s teat like an animal. Towards the top of the picture, apparently on some vantage point, is a Hippocentaur, clearly the husband of her who is feeding her children in two ways. He is leaning down and laughing. He is not completely visible, but only to a point halfway down his horse body. He holds aloft in his right hand a lion’s whelp, suspending it above his head to frighten the children in his fun.

The other qualities, not completely discernible by the eye of an amateur like myself, nevertheless display the whole power of his craftsmanship—such things as precision of line, accuracy in the blending of colours, taste in application of the paint, correct use of shadow, good perspective, proportion, and symmetry. But let the sons of artists appreciate these points, men who make it their business to know them. For my part I praised Zeuxis for this in particular, that in one and the same subject he has shown his extraordinary craftsmanship in so many ways. His husband is completely frightening and absolutely wild; he has a proud mane, being almost completely covered in hair—not only the horse part of him but his human chest as well and especially his shoulders, and his glance, although he is laughing, is altogether savage, wild, and of the hills.