Well...just go with it.
Originally, the Villa—then simply “the Getty Museum”—was the sole focal point of Getty’s art collection, but with the creation of the much larger Center in 1997, the bulk of the art was moved to Brentwood, allowing the Villa to be renovated specifically as a showcase for the Greek, Roman, and Etruscan works when it reopened in 2006. Sort of a no-brainer, since the Villa was—in a nod to Getty’s kindred spirits among the art connoisseurs of both the Neoclassical era and Ancient Rome itself—largely based on the Villa dei Papiri, a 1st-century Herculaneum house that was buried by the eruption of Vesuvius and (partially) excavated in the 18th century. Hey, it’s a good look no matter what tectonically unstable area it’s in!
Fittingly, there’s kind of a subdued intimacy to the Villa’s atrium compared to the bustling Getty Center entrance. From here you can traipse straight through to the Inner Peristyle or the East Garden, or backtrack to the Herb Garden, which provides some of the fruit and herbs used in the on-site café and makes a pleasant little stroll on its own. Or you can hook a left and go past the Information Desk...
...which is what I did, because I like an audio tour. Well, audio and video tour, rather, since it’s on an iPod. We’ll see how well I manage this thing with paws. So here we go—everybody remembers Greek Mythology 101, right? If not, well— there’s always Wikipedia, right?
First stop: the TimeScape Room, which provides a handy timeline for the three featured cultures, complete with examples of their distinct and evolving art styles. It’s easy to gloss over an exhibit like this when so much else awaits, but what can I say, I try to take notes. I won’t really get into the differences between Geometric, Archaic, Classical, and Hellenistic art here anyway, but it never hurts to be a better-rounded rabbit.
Just my luck, the Gods & Goddesses gallery was closed during our visit, but one of the highlights, the Marbury Hall Zeus, was moved into the atrium for the duration. At nearly seven feet tall, it’s pretty imposing, so I can only imagine what it would’ve been like if Getty had commissioned a recreation of the statue that probably inspired this one—Pheidias’ behemoth Zeus at Olympia—for the entryway. There’d be a lot less roof, for one thing.
Another cornerstone of the Villa, the Lansdowne Herakles, gets a small room mostly to itself. It’s presented as an example of Neoclassical restoration work: When it was discovered at Hadrian’s Villa in 1790, chunks were missing from head to toe, and since that was considered unsightly in that era, new marble was grafted in. About 180 years later, the pins holding that stone in place had corroded, but rather than simply revert the statue to its found state, they were replaced because it was felt the statue would look “marred” without them—by then, the restoration had become a part of the statue’s history in its own right. What time doesn’t heal, it adapts, I guess.
Fun behind-the-scenes factoid: The one doorway to this room is fairly narrow, so in taking this photo, Rob inadvertently rockblocked an entire tour group from entering. Sorry, guys—done in a sec!
There are more objets d’Herc in the Mythological Heroes room, but also of Theseus, who was practically as accomplished as Herakles but often remembered only for the Minotaur gig; Perseus, who actually was a one-hit wonder; and even poor Bellerophon, who, like Icarus, had a single bad idea and was sent crashing down to earth for it. But the centerpiece is this terra cotta trio, believed to be Orpheus with a pair of sirens, possibly during his Argonauts tenure (and thus the sirens). However, a closer reading indicates this could be a funerary monument, with the deceased—a poet, perhaps—in the guise of Orpheus, and the sirens present because they signified death. A whole other interpretation, based on subtle clothing cues that suggest it’s not Orpheus per se. Who says art history is an easy major?
Another hero, Achilles, pops up in the Trojan War room, and this time it’s definitely a cemetery relic because it’s a sarcophagus. Thing is, it was never used, as you can see from the unfinished sculptures at the top—had it been purchased, the faces would’ve been carved into porraits of the dead. So what’s Achilles got to do with anything? He was popular, essentially. Although maybe prospective buyers were put off by the fact that he’s desecrating Hector’s corpse on the front of it—even in the age of bread and circuses, I suppose that could’ve been a bit niche.
The Villa’s not all sculptures of alpha males, however—far from it. Here we have a variety of theatrically themed knickknacks, valuable because they’re some of the only surviving representations we have of many classical plays. Yes, we still have scripts by big guns like Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Euripides, but countless others, from the earliest Greek tragedies to later Roman farces, are lost to time. Which is a shame, because you know those Romans were some bawdy cusses.
Due to Getty’s fondness for decorative arts, there’s also a healthy share of everyday houseware here, in posh metals like bronze and silver as well as such common materials as glass (more readily available thanks to advances in glassmaking at the time) and terra cotta. The latter was especially versatile, thanks to glazes that could simulate the color of precious metals to some degree—check out this mug in the shape of a god (probably Dionysus, or possibly Pan or even Hermes), with his bright “gold” skin, ruddy “copper” lips, and “patinaed bronze” of the green leaves. And you thought these sorts of things weren’t invented until the mid-20th century?
But if Roman kitsch isn’t glitzy enough for you, then let’s move on to these Parthian rhyta horns, drinking vessels made from silver and gold with gemstone eyes. Wine back then was harsher than what we have today, not to mention still loaded with stems and seeds, so a rhyton’s first purpose was to aerate the wine a bit and the second was obviously to strain the unwanted bits as the wine streamed directly into one’s mouth.
I think the third was simply to illustrate that even the ancients tried to class up their booze bongs.
And if the room the rhyta case is in draws the eye on its own, that’s because it’s the Hall of Colored Marble, a room embellished with wall panels and a stone parquet comprised of a dozen different kinds of marble from all around the Mediterranean, both Southern Europe and North Africa. Beautiful. Now I want oil money.
Of course, that kind of domestic extravagance can be traced back to the Romans themselves: These wall fragments are from another house that fell victim to Vesuvius, but that was fortunate in the sense that the layer of ash actually helped preserve the delicate but vibrant frescoes for centuries. The audio tour urges us to look closely for the fingernail indentations left in the plaster by the artists, which give them a human touch you don’t see with stone or metal. Just think—today, any such imperfections would be touched-up out of existence almost immediately.
But now that we’ve been indoors a while, how about some fresh air by the Villa’s iconic Outer Peristyle? It’s a lovely view from any angle—I wonder how many kids and nutters they’ve had to pull from the pool over the years?—but if I look distracted, it’s because I just spotted something else of interest...
...the path to this “touch statue,” a 20th-century replica of Antonio Canova’s Venus that’s set out on its own in a remote corner of the Villa and serves as a special exhibit that you’re actually allowed to touch, to get a better sense of the workmanship and the finished marble. No, really, they encourage you to do so. Well—all right, if you insist.
Hey there. Do you feel marginalized and undervalued because you’re a replica of a “real” statue instead of an original work? Being shunted to the side and groped by strangers all day isn’t what you imagined when you were in the quarry, is it? Aww, I’m sorry. I’ll try to visit again when I can, okay?
Going back to the peristyle, it’s very easy to spend a sunny day under the colonnade, just people-watching and enjoying the breeze–perfect time to catch up on some of the iPod’s video clips and review the map to make sure I’ve hit everything I wanted to. Let’s see, I...wait a minute, there’s a second floor? Man, I thought I was almost done. I’m going for lunch, then.
And hey, what better choice than the café’s “Roman Burger”? Gruyère, grilled onions, arugula, and garlic aioli on a brioche bun—just like Caesar would’ve ordered! Or not. Meh, pinpoint historical accuracy isn’t always everything.
Before heading back into the Villa, I figured I might as well stop by the gift shop, which is where I found what just might be the Best Hat Ever. How many of these do you have in stock? I’ve got eight brothers, and I have a feeling they’re not gonna be willing to share this.
Okay, the second floor. The two largest galleries up here are split between depictions of men and women; both feature rows of busts that read like the Roman Empire Hall of Fame, but I was drawn most to the empress who dominates the women’s room: Faustina the Elder, wife of Antoninus Pius and mother-in-law of Marcus Aurelius. Portrait conventions of the period meant the statue’s body used a generic template (the “Large Herculaneum Woman” model, in this instance), with the person’s head grafted on top. Luckily, Faustina’s recognizable by her distinctive bun, her hair strung with pearls and then piled high on her head. Probably not a look everybody could pull off, but she makes it work.
Upstairs is also where I found the only representation of a rabbit at the Villa. There’s an entire hallway dedicated to animals, but it’s mostly lions and...well, mostly lions. But us? As far as I saw, all we get is this miniscule carved jasper intaglio—it’s right between my ears—depicting a hare being hunted. Terrific, yet another image of us as the victims; as I said at the Getty Center, this is a deep peeve of mine when it comes to human art. Bah.
Anyway: Just as people in the movies hide the family freak in the attic, so too does the Getty store some of its more interesting curiosities on the second floor. This kouros—a statue of a young male meant to represent the ideal of youth and physical beauty rather than a real person—may not look unusual at first glance, but what’s odd about it is that even experts aren’t sure if it’s a true millennia-old kouros or a modern forgery, because of its odd blend of stylistic elements and atypical choice of marble. Early kouroi were highly stylized, whereas later ones showed a better grasp of technique and physique; this one combines fairly realistic proportions with simplified musculature and hair. And then look at its one-foot-forward pose—if you walk around the back and glance at the buttocks, you’ll notice that they’re flat and unnaturally clenched together, with no indication of movement. Compare that to the posterior of the Lansdowne Herakles, which is several centuries younger and shows a better grasp of how the body weight shifts in that position. (This is what Rob’s favorite college professor called “ass-ymmetry.”) Is this kouros merely a transitional work that reflects the evolution of sculpture or a very clever fake? We just can’t be sure.
So why display it, if its provenance is so uncertain? It’s sort of the same thing as the restorations on Herakles—although if it may not be real or original, with time it’s taken on a significance of its own. Even if it’s an asterisked significance. (And okay, just to be all things to all people, we went back and shot Venus’ ass. You’re welcome.)
Elsewhere on the floor is the prehistoric and Bronze Age gallery; plucked from around the Mediterranean, some of these pieces go as far back as the Chalcolithic. This fertility idol may look crude, but in context, it’s actually impressive: For lack of good marble on Cyprus, where this was found, statues had to be made from limestone, which obviously doesn’t stand up to a lot of carving or, well, anything. So this figure had to be carefully etched out with Bronze Age tools and emery, and if that wasn’t difficult enough, the artist chose to carve the face in actual relief instead of merely painting one on, as was the norm then. Primitivism ain’t easy.
Also, it says here that the figure’s twelve toes connote a supernatural element to the idol. Well, as long as it not’s not ten, right?
I saved the most intriguing rarity for last: the mummy of Herakleides, from the Ptolemaic era when Egypt was a Roman province and Egyptian customs caught on with some Romans. That includes mummification, although they put their own spin on it by adding painted portraits to the shroud; one of the things that makes Herakleides special is that his is intact, since collectors would often remove the portrait and discard the body. Tacky. His other odd features are the red wrappings—an unusual color—and what X-rays revealed to be a small mummified ibis, probably signifying Thoth, enshrouded with him. The ibis rests on Herakleides’ chest, which explains the bulge there; the lower bulge is his hands. That’s human males for you, I suppose—even in death and regardless of era or culture, they protect their junk.
So that about covers the Getty Villa, but there’s one last room I wanted to stop in: the Family Forum. This is the activity room for the kids, although it’s pretty clear from what I saw that the adults aren’t shy about joining in. Who can blame them? The room’s filled with stuff that’s fun at any age, including these dry-erase vessels that let you create your own black-figure art. Time to rectify the lack of rabbit representation in classical art with a little family portrait! Okay, I’m not a great freepaw artist, but hey, there was a line to use these things, I couldn’t very well take all day.
Better yet, check out this backlit projection screen that scrolls through several different slides and lets you be the star of your own giant Greek vase. Even with those wooden seats in front, it’s pretty hard to beat this tableau. En garde!
I hope that’s Achilles I’m squaring off against—I’m perfectly positioned to take him out in one shot!
