Botticelli’s Birth of Venus: Hair painted with real gold, by an artist who fell under the spell of a crazed monk

A painting is rarely just a painting.

The “Birth of Venus” by Sandro Botticelli is one of the most famous images in the world, but the stories behind it provide far more color than the egg-based paint ever could.

It’s a tale of golden hair, a fake name, castration, gangs of creepy kids, naked ladies, and unrequited love. And if that doesn’t sell you on reading more, then I don’t know what would.

Roll Out the Barrels

Sandro Botticelli, the artist who painted the Birth of Venus, isn’t even his real name. It’s all a big lie — one he fully embraced. His actual name was Alessandro di Mariano di Vanni Filipepi.

No, “Botticelli” wasn’t his stage name. It’s not like how Tom Cruise’s real name is Tom Mapother. Although I think we can all agree that “Mapother” doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.

“Sandro” was a common nickname for those named “Alessandro.” As for the other part, it’s because he often hung around his older brother, whom many called “Botticello,” meaning “barrel,” due to his…well, his shape. “Botticelli” is the plural, so many have come to translate it as “Little Barrel.”

I keep picturing the older brother as Danny DeVito. I know he probably didn’t look like that at all, but it’s more fun that way.

The young Botticelli showed an interest in painting. After being apprenticed in a different craft, his father sent him to learn from Fra Filippo Lippi, a well known painter of the time. Maybe like how Tom Mapother was once an apprentice in the guild of Scientology.

We get a lot of information on Botticelli and many other artists of the time from a dude named Giorgio Vasari, who wrote the concisely-titled “The Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects.” It’s probably the kind of title I’d give to a book. You’d look at it, and think “Does this guy think I have all day and nothing better to do than read a bunch of words?”

Yes. Yes, I do. Come on, we both know you aren’t busy. Don’t lie.

Vasari describes Botticelli in his younger years as a fun-loving prankster, recounting a number of his exploits. The biography is a bit odd, as there’s a number of rather unflattering descriptions. It stands in stark contrast to his fawning over Leonardo and Michelangelo. As for why…we’ll get to that.

Botticelli’s Gravitational Pull

It’s important to mention where we are: Florence, in the time of the Renaissance. I think it’s fair to say at the time, Florence was the center of the world. Kind of like Branson, Missouri is today.

So it may not be surprising to hear Botticelli grew up with some famous neighbors: the Vespuccis. Never heard of them? Actually, you have. One of the Vespuccis was a guy named Amerigo, an explorer with some rather famous namesakes.

Those namesakes came from his first name, not his last. We don’t call it the United States of Vespucci.

Another member of the family was a young woman who married into it: Simonetta Vespucci. Famed as being the most beautiful woman in Florence, she died at the age of 22 and is said by many to be the inspiration for Venus.

In fact, you can see a similar face in many works by Botticelli. While this is one of those hotly debated topics in the world of art history, where people get together and shriek at one another beneath bookshelves lined with vinyl jazz records while sipping glasses of sherry and rolling their own cigarettes, the traditional story is that Botticelli was completely smitten with Simonetta, and she served as his muse.

Simonetta was certainly popular — friendly with the Medici brothers, Lorenzo and Giuliano. The Medici were easily the most powerful people in Florence, and part of what was, at the time, possibly the wealthiest family in the world.

Giuliano actually competed in a jousting tournament where he carried a banner with Simonetta’s face on it, portraying the Greek goddess Athena. Beneath her image were the words “The Unparalleled One.” Know who painted that banner? Botticelli.

Unfortunately the banner doesn’t survive — there was a lot of this “temporary” art made back then, which would only be used for one festival or one day. Some claim Giuliano had an affair with Simonetta, but that seems unlikely. I mean, if you were a wealthy dude sleeping with the wife of another wealthy dude, would you run around on a horse, waving a flag with her face on it? Probably not.

It seems more likely that it was just a depiction of Medieval “courtly love,” which makes sense. We are talking about a jousting tournament, after all. Giuliano would’ve just been playing the part of a knight and displaying the virtues of chivalry.

A few years later, Giuliano was stabbed 19 times during mass in Santa Maria del Fiore, and got a sword stuck through his head. This has nothing to do with Simonetta or the tournament. Nor does it have anything to do with Botticelli. I just couldn’t resist throwing in the tidbit, because it’s such a wild story.

Anyway, Simonetta herself died very young, possibly of tuberculosis. Whether or not Botticelli was actually in love with her, and whether or not she served as the model for Venus or anyone else continues to be argued over. But from my own perspective, I don’t see how anyone could argue that the same face certainly does seem to pop up a lot in his works.

Spherical Circumcision

Okay, so let’s talk about this painting. No, not about the gold stuff. Not yet. You’ll take your medicine and you’ll like it.

It actually isn’t the birth of Venus at all — it’s the arrival of Venus on the shore, after her birth. As for her birth itself, it’s your typically gross and perverted mythological tale. Well…by our standards, anyway.

“Venus” is the goddess of love from Roman Mythology. And as we all know, the Romans totally ripped off the Greeks in every way they possibly could. It’s like how you’ll see a popular movie about Transformers, and then someone makes one called “Transmorphers,” hoping to trick the elderly.

Actually I guess it’s not really like that at all. Just go with me on this.

So the Greek character of Venus is Aphrodite, which I think we can agree is a much cooler name. As for her birth, the Titan Cronos cut off the genitals of his father Uranus, and flung them into the sea. This, from Hesiod the Ancient Greek poet:

“And so soon as he had cut off the members with flint and cast them from the land into the surging sea, they were swept away over the main a long time: and a white foam spread around them from the immortal flesh, and in it there grew a maiden.”

Keep in mind that this is just one of multiple stories — ancient mythology is often as confusing and contradictory as the Transmorphers.

The Birth of Venus: Heavenly Body

Okay, so let’s talk about this painting. Wait, I already said that, and didn’t do what I promised. No complaining, this is free. And like I said, you aren’t busy.

After being born from the seafoam, Venus arrives on the shore in a shell, which in Roman times was often a symbol for the genitals of a woman. Don’t ask me to explain that one.

She’s blown to her destination by Zephyr, god of the wind, who’s intertwined with a figure that’s likely Aura, the breeze. Venus is welcomed on shore by Hora, one of the seasons — either Spring or Summer — offering Venus a blanket to clothe herself with.

To me, this is as unimportant as Tom Mapother’s early movies. What’s really key here is that this is considered the first full-sized painted female nude since ancient times. Instead of depictions of nudity as something shameful, reserved for Adam and Eve being expelled from the Garden of Eden, or tortured souls in hell, here’s a woman who’s slightly covering herself, but doesn’t seem ashamed.

The pose itself likely comes from ancient statues of Aphrodite, and is also considered to be an attempt at recreating a lost Ancient Greek painting spoken of by our old friend the Roman historian Pliny the Elder, who died rushing to rescue his friends after the eruption of Mount Vesuvius.

I didn’t make that up.

Planetary Planes

Okay, so let’s talk about this painting. Yes, again. Are you complaining again? Jesus Christ.

It’s likely it was commissioned as a wedding gift for one of the Medici family, and would have hung in a bedroom. An Aphrodite aphrodesiac.

I think it’s fair to say Botticelli has his own unique style. Love it or hate it, it’s his own. You could look at a random painting and pick it out as being one of his.

In addition to rediscovering the ancient world, the Renaissance represented a major shift in art. Instead of the stiff, improbable images of the Gothic period, we see elegantly posed figures, showing off the artist’s understanding of anatomy. Instead of flat, two-dimensional images, we see a use of perspective.

And yet, much of that is absent here. The figures are all on the same plane, and almost look like cardboard cutouts, with thick lines around the figures. No one casts shadows. The landscape in the background is skewed and unrealistic; the perspective is unnatural.

Or look at Venus herself. Her neck is elongated, and the pose is impossible for a human to hold. It’s like one of those filtered and tuned Instagram pictures where you just know there’s no room in that body for internal organs. 

But it’s not like Botticelli did a bad job. He certainly wasn’t incapable. This wasn’t his “Tom Mapother jumping on the couch” moment. He knew how to do things in the more popular “Renaissance way,” as many of his other paintings showed.

So, it must have been intentional. Many believe it’s because this is “pagan” art. Botticelli would have painted Christian scenes in a more realistic way, because to him, those things actually happened. This did not, and therefore it’s more of a dreamscape.

A purposeful dreamscape — maybe one into which Botticelli would’ve liked to have escaped. Like the girl in the “Take On Me” video. There, he could frolic on the beach with his departed love. Is it life, or just to play my worries away?

Personally, I find it completely unique and fascinating. Botticelli had his own way of doing things, and wasn’t tied to what was popular. I don’t think you’d catch him working on Transmorphers.

It’s especially interesting to me that in throwing out the rules of perspective and realism that were often hallmarks of the Renaissance, he was simultaneously embodying its spirit. Instead of mindlessly following along, he was doing his own thing and creating “art” in the process.

Botticelli himself said he didn’t like painting landscapes, and that “by throwing a sponge soaked with different colors at a wall, one can make a spot in which a beautiful landscape can be seen.”

We can compare this style to that of Leonardo, who famously went to great efforts to avoid using any lines in his painting at all. Everything blended together with shading and shadow. And Leonardo himself said of Botticelli:

“The above mentioned painter paints very bad landscapes.”

Elemental Imagery

So let’s talk about this paint.

The “Birth of Venus” was painted using what’s called egg tempera. Remember how I mentioned Botticelli being apprenticed to a painter? The early stages of this would have involved an education on the very precise science of mixing paints.

Like Tom Mapother being “audited” and working his way up through various stages of donations before learning the ultimate truth about Scientology, and how Xenu killed a bunch of people with nuclear bombs and their spirits haunt us.

“Egg tempera” is just what it sounds like. It involved using egg yolk, pigment, and other ingredients like water and vinegar. Unlike oil paint, it dried very quickly. In order to paint shadows, you had to know what you were doing: Painting darker lines of various thickness layered on top. Sometimes artists would paint lines with a brush that only had one single bristle.

It may seem odd that someone would make a piece of art using actual gold, but it was quite common in Gothic painting. You’d use gold leaf, which is gold pressed into incredibly thin sheets. Think of all the Medieval Art you’ve seen — it often has a background of gold leaf.

Nowadays, you can go into a restaurant and buy a steak covered in gold leaf. Then you post a YouTube video about it with a thumbnail of yourself with your mouth hanging open, thrusting your golden calf towards the camera while you try to convince yourself this thousand-dollar steak is a solid investment that’s going to kick off your career as an influencer.

Back in Medieval times, gold leaf was used to give an otherwordly quality to the art. You also have to take into account the fact that it was seen in dim churches, lit by candles. The ability of a painting to reflect light was rather important.

So it’s not all that unusual for Botticelli to use gold leaf here. It’s in a number of other spots besides the hair, like the wings or the tree trunks. Unfortunately, it’s one of those things that doesn’t really stand out unless you see the painting in person. Personally, I like to think he believed nothing else but gold was suitable for Simonetta.

Oh, and remember how the Little Barrel was originally hanging around his brother, Danny DeVito? He was actually apprenticed to him before becoming a painter. Big Barrel was a goldsmith.

The Death of Venus

Botticelli was on his way to becoming a renowned artist. He even painted scenes on the walls of the Sistine Chapel. But eventually, he fell under the sway of a Domenican friar named Savonarola.

Savonarola was the prototype of the wild-eyed, hellfire and brimstone religious extremist. He took control of Florence, expelling the famed Medici family, preaching of the dangers of pleasure. He even had gangs of creepy kids who’d run from house to house, confiscating things like mirrors and paintings and musical instruments.

Can you imagine? Brainwashed hordes of children, ransacking your bedroom in bowl cuts, probably chanting something in Latin. No, I don’t know if they had bowl cuts. But they might have. And it’s creepier that way.

There was a big event called the “Bonfire of the Vanities,” where a bunch of this totally evil stuff was set on fire. Supposedly Botticelli burned many of his earlier works.

The Birth of Venus and a companion piece known as the “Primavera” were spared. Vasari mentions them both, having seen them in a Medici villa outside of Florence.

It’s really quite sad. We can imagine him falling under the spell of this friar, convinced that his “pagan” artwork, despite its celebrations of beauty and purity, was sinful. Because even though many have compared the Birth of Venus to paintings of the baptism of Jesus, the version of God we’re talking about definitely wouldn’t approve of naked ladies floating around in shells.

Aqua seafoam shame.

Botticelli’s later years were spent in decline. Vasari talks about how he didn’t know how to keep track of his money. There’s also a story of a woman wanting a painting done by a specific artist, and when he wasn’t available, Botticelli was suggested. She was like, “Umm…yeah, I’ll just wait.”

His output slowed considerably. Much of his later art was intensely religious, and seemed to slide backwards into thoroughly outdated images from Medieval times. Why? Who knows. Perhaps in his old age, unmarried, he’d tried to fill the void left behind by the girl next door and mainlined religion straight into it.

Vasari says this:

“Finally, after he had grown old and useless and had to walk with two canes (since he could no longer stand upright), he died, sick and decrepit, at the age of 78, and he was buried in the year 1515 in Ognissanti.”

Botticelli was forgotten. It wasn’t until the mid-1800’s that artists began appreciating his works again. And now, the “Birth of Venus” is a major tourist attraction, often with a line of people waiting to have their pictures taken in front of it.

As for Botticelli himself, the site of his burial may be a spot he’d always wanted: At the foot of the grave of Simonetta Vespucci.