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Shaw Portrait 1914 New York Times
-Born: July 26th 1856 – Died: November 2nd 1950.
-Born into a poor family in the city of Dublin, Ireland.
-Shaw was a dedicated Socialist: a theory or system of social organization that advocates the vesting of the ownership and control of the m
eans of production and distribution, of capital, land, etc., in the community as a whole. (Dictionary.com).
-First worked as a Journalist and Music Critic and eventually a Drama Critic.
-He married Charlotte Payne-Townshend in 1898.-In 1913 Shaw wrote Pygmalion, which satirizes the English class system through the story of a cockney girl's transformation into a lady at the hands of a speech professor. The latter has proved to be Shaw's most successful work—as a play, as a motion picture,
and as the basis for the musical and film My Fair Lady (1956; 1964) (Encyclopedia.com).
*We apologize for the font inconsistency due to the format of the website.
Honore Daumier
Jean-Leon Gerome Pygmalion and Galatea 1824
Oil on Canvas, 35 x 27 in.
The Bridgemen Art Library London
Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, Bt ARA (1833-1898) 1875-78
Oil on canvas 39 x 30 inches Original frame
Birmingham Museums and Gallery
A Sèvres biscuit group of Pygmalion and Galatea on oval stand
Modelled by Etienne-Maurice Falconet
Height: 36.100 cm
Bequeathed by Sir Bernard Eckstein, Bt.
M&ME 1948,12-3,38
Room 46: Europe 1400-1800
A. Dawson, A catalogue of French porcelai, revised paperback edition
(London, The British Museum Press, 2000)
Ovid's Metamorphoses
Book X: 243-297 (~1850)
This is a later English translation of the Pygmalion source text.
Orpheus sings: Pygmalion and the statue
Pygmalion had seen them, spending their lives in wickedness, and, offended by the failings that nature gave the female heart, he lived as a bachelor, without a wife or partner for his bed. But, with wonderful skill, he carved a figure, brilliantly, out of snow-white ivory, no mortal woman, and fell in love with his own creation. The features are those of a real girl, who, you might think, lived, and wished to move, if modesty did not forbid it. Indeed, art hides his art. He marvels: and passion, for this bodily image, consumes his heart. Often, he runs his hands over the work, tempted as to whether it is flesh or ivory, not admitting it to be ivory. he kisses it and thinks his kisses are returned; and speaks to it; and holds it, and imagines that his fingers press into the limbs, and is afraid lest bruises appear from the pressure. Now he addresses it with compliments, now brings it gifts that please girls, shells and polished pebbles, little birds, and many-coloured flowers, lilies and tinted beads, and the Heliades’s amber tears, that drip from the trees. He dresses the body, also, in clothing; places rings on the fingers; places a long necklace round its neck; pearls hang from the ears, and cinctures round the breasts. All are fitting: but it appears no less lovely, naked. He arranges the statue on a bed on which cloths dyed with Tyrian murex are spread, and calls it his bedfellow, and rests its neck against soft down, as if it could feel.
The day of Venus’s festival came, celebrated throughout Cyprus, and heifers, their curved horns gilded, fell, to the blow on their snowy neck. The incense was smoking, when Pygmalion, having made his offering, stood by the altar, and said, shyly: “If you can grant all things, you gods, I wish as a bride to have...” and not daring to say “the girl of ivory” he said “one like my ivory girl.” Golden Venus, for she herself was present at the festival, knew what the prayer meant, and as a sign of the gods’ fondness for him, the flame flared three times, and shook its crown in the air. When he returned, he sought out the image of his girl, and leaning over the couch, kissed her. She felt warm: he pressed his lips to her again, and also touched her breast with his hand. The ivory yielded to his touch, and lost its hardness, altering under his fingers, as the bees’ wax of Hymettus softens in the sun, and is moulded, under the thumb, into many forms, made usable by use. The lover is stupefied, and joyful, but uncertain, and afraid he is wrong, reaffirms the fulfilment of his wishes, with his hand, again, and again.
It was flesh! The pulse throbbed under his thumb. Then the hero, of Paphos, was indeed overfull of words with which to thank Venus, and still pressed his mouth against a mouth that was not merely a likeness. The girl felt the kisses he gave, blushed, and, raising her bashful eyes to the light, saw both her lover and the sky. The goddess attended the marriage that she had brought about, and when the moon’s horns had nine times met at the full, the woman bore a son, Paphos, from whom the island takes its name.
