Some Do the Deed With Many Tears and Some Without a Sigh: On Matricide

John Singer Sargent: Orestes Pursued by the Furies (1921):

This is what happens when you kill your mum ...

 

 

I. 

 

A recent piece by Yvonne Roberts in The Guardian on the subject of child to parent violence and abuse (CPVA), detailed the dramatic rise in the number of (often elderly) women murdered by their sons since 2016 [1]. 

 

Rarely spoken about and often misunderstood, matricide, it seems, is the crime du jour ...

 

 

II.

 

Now, whilst I'm no expert in this area and have only the vaguest familarity with the growing body of research, I have been caring full-time for my mother - who is in her 90s and has Alzheimer's - for the past seven years and this gives me, I would argue, a degree of insight into the subject based upon actual experience.      

 

The fact that I can comment upon the subject from a philosophical perspective informed by a reading of Nietzsche, also allows me to bring something different to the discussion - although not necessarily something that people might want to hear ...

III.

For example, I think that rather than view matricide as a gendered crime to be explained in terms of toxic masculinity, we might better understand it as often an ironic consequence of care; this is why Nietzsche warns against pity and describes it as more harmful than any vice. 

 

The fact is, being in the presence of the old, the weak, the sick, the demented and severley disabled for a prolonged period of time when one is still relatively young, healthy and strong, is not advisable; one eventually becomes infected with their misery and is driven towards atrocity. 

 

If this sounds like victim blaming [2], that's because, in some sense, that's precisely what it is. I know I've behaved monstrously towards my own mother at times. But I also know that she (inadvertently) gave birth to this monstrous me, just as she gave birth to a loving son. 

 

Nietzsche says that the only healthy response to the wretched of the earth is nausea (not pity). For nausea is a protective instinct; one that causes us to fear and move away from that which (and those whom) sicken us. Nausea keeps us safe and, also, it protects the one who repulses from our contempt and anger, by ensuring a safe distance between us and them.      

 

 

IV.

 

It has been suggested that one of the reasons that so many elderly women are being abused and killed by their sons is because there's a chronic lack of social care and a shortage of affordable housing; the latter end up living at home and having to provide care for the former, 24/7. 

 

Unable to go anywhere, do anything, see anyone - and unable even to think or breathe at times - is it any wonder violent - even murderous - thoughts arise?

 

Like Paul Morel, I can vouch for the sense of helplessness and horror that one feels when obliged to watch over one's mother, slowly dying (and choking) on a bed [3]. It's not easy, nor is it in any sense edifying; it is, rather, demoralising and distressing and it very often leads to the secret wish that the burden of providing palliative care is lifted sooner rather than later. 

 

Ultimately, says Nietzsche, the first principle of his charity is allowing the terminally sick to die - and assisting them in this [4]. Euthanasia, however, is illegal in the UK and only a very few will have the courage to actually do what needs to be done, thereby risking not only pursuit by the Furies (i.e., a lifetime of grief and guilt), but criminal prosecution for murder.

 

And so, most do nothing - until the crack-up - and then a very small number commit mad and terrible deeds; such as burning the bloody house down with their grey-haired mother locked inside, or frenziedly stabbing the latter over a hundred times with a kitchen knife. 

 

Not that I imagine Nietzsche approving of such actions ... 

 

Indeed, for Nietzsche the only human beings who are of any concern to him are those who manage to endure in the face of terrible hardship and suffering; individuals who learn to overcome perhaps even their own nausea and remain stoical in the face of adversity; individuals whose kindness and compassion is the mark of their own self-conquest.  

 

Ultimately, Nietzsche's is a tragic philosophy - but not a murderous one. And it is because Zarathustra deems his followers capable of committing every evil - including matricide - that he most demands goodness from them ... [5]

 

 

Notes 

 

[1] Yvonne Roberts, '"You had better be careful in your bed tonight": shock rise in women killed by their sons', The Guardian (15 Jan 2023): click here.

[2] Victim blaming is the act of holding the victim of a crime or misdeed either entirely or partially responsible for the harm that befell them. Adorno regarded it as characteristic of the fascist mindset, but I tend to agree with Roy Baumeister that blaming the victim is not necessarily always fallacious and that the fantasy of the wholly innocent victim and entirely malicious evil-doer lacks moral complexity. 

      See Baumeister's Evil: Inside Human Violence and Cruelty, (St. Martin's Press, 2000).

 

[3] Paul Morel is the protagonist of D. H. Lawrence's novel Sons and Lovers (1913). His mother is dying of cancer and in great pain. So Paul is overly generous with the amount of morphine he puts in her milk one evening. I have written about this in a post entitled 'Sons and Killers' (17 Sept 2016): click here.

      See also the related post - 'In Praise of Euthanasia as a Practice of Joy before Death' (16 Sept 2016): click here. 

 

[4] See Nietzsche, The Anti-Christ, §2. 

 

[5] See the section entitled 'On Those Who Are Sublime' in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, where Nietzsche writes: 

 

"When power becomes gracious and descends into the visible - such descent I call beauty.

      And there is nobody from whom I want beauty as much as from you who are powerful: let your kindness be your final self-conquest. 

      Of all evil I deem you capable: therefore I want the good from you. 

      Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws.

      You shall strive after the virtue of the column: it grows more and more beautiful and gentle, but internally harder and more enduring, as it ascends."

 

This is one of the loveliest - and most crucial - passages in Nietzsche's work, particularly for those who are concerned with his ethical philosophy. 

      I am quoting from Kaufmann's translation of Zarathustra, which can be found in The Portable Nietzsche, (Penguin Books, 1976).

 

 

The Portrait of Madame X

John Singer Sargent: Portrait of Madame X (1884) 

Oil on canvas (92" x 43")

I. Opening Remarks

Whilst I appreciate that the American artist John Singer Sargent has great technical ability, I've never been particularly interested in him or his work. Indeed, of the estimated 900 canvases he produced in oil, there's really one that captures my attention: his painting of a young socialite, Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau, known as the Portrait of Madame X. 

Submitted to the Salon in 1884, this risqué and experimental work was intended to consolidate his growing reputation as a society painter. But, as we shall see, the picture aroused a hostile reaction from the critics and resulted in a public scandal.

II.  Before Madonna, There Was Virginie Gautreau

Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau was born in New Orleans, but grew up from the age of eight in France, where she became a socialite known for her unnaturally pale-skinned beauty and hour-glass figure. Although married to a wealthy banker and businessman, Virginie was happy to receive (and encourage) amorous attention from numerous other men. Indeed, her extramarital affairs were the subject of much popular gossip.

It was through one of her wealthy lovers that Virginie was introduced to Sargent, who, keen to advance his own career by capitalizing on her notoriety, pleaded with her to sit for him. She eventually agreed - they were both ambitious American expats after all - and invited him to her home in Brittany. Here, despite his model's lack of discipline and very obvious boredom with the entire process, Sargent made numerous studies in pencil, watercolour and oil - including the work that today hangs in the Met.


III. The Portrait of Madame X

As with many images that caused controversy in late-19th century society, it's difficult for us now to understand what all the fuss was about. But the suggestively coquettish pose and the revealing black satin dress worn by Mme. Gautreau provoked a huge hullabaloo at the time.

One critic wrote that to stand before such a portrait was to instantly be offended (if not, indeed, morally contaminated). What a woman may get up to in her private life was one thing - but to flaunt the fact of her infidelity in public ... Well, that was another matter entirely. Sargent was accused of not only defying artistic convention, but outraging public decency.

Virginie's mother decided she had to intervene; she persuaded her daughter to retire from society until the scandal blew over and she asked Sargent to remove the picture from the Salon. He refused, but did agree to change the title to that which it has been known ever since: The Portrait of Madame X.

He would also, later, when the picture was back in his studio, reposition the fallen right shoulder strap of the dress, rendering the work significantly less provocative - though it was a bit late by then, as the damage to his reputation and to hers had already been done.

Sargent made the wise decision to move to London, as it was clear that he would receive no more portrait commissions in France anytime soon. And it was in England - and later America - that he really made his name. But, by his own admission many years later, he never painted anything better than The Portrait of Madame X.

Notes

Readers interested in seeing The Portrait of Madame X for themselves will find it on display in Gallery 771 at the Met Fifth Avenue. For more details, click here. An earlier, unfinished version of the work is in the Tate collection, but not presently on display: click here for details.

Coincidently, Madame X is the title of the fourteenth studio album just released by Madonna (Interscope Records, 2019). However, the title is neither a reference to Mme. Gautreau nor Sargent's portrait. Madonna claims that she was given the name Madame X at the age of 19 by a dance teacher whom she perplexed due to her constantly changing image and identity. 

Finally, readers may be interested in a recent post on Rita Hayworth wearing a dress by the French-born American costume designer Jean Louis for the film Gilda (1946), which drew inspiration from Sargent's Portrait of Madame X. Click here.   

The Naked Look: In Praise of the Backless / Strapless Dress

Rita Hayworth as Gilda wearing the iconic 
black dress designed by Jean Louis

Being something of an omosophile, I've always had a thing for necks, shoulders, and bare backs - though would draw the line at the buttocks (I'm not much of a pygophile). I am, therefore, a fan of the backless dress, which - if I recall my fashion history correctly - first appeared in the Roaring Twenties and was designed to expose the above areas of the female body to stunning effect.

Of course, the amount of flesh revealed varies with the style of dress. Personally, I'm not too fussed how low it's cut as long as the neck and shoulders are naked and the dress is held up either with ultra-thin spaghetti straps that look as if they might break at any moment, or fastened, halterneck style, with a strap that passes from the front of the garment and behind the wearer's neck where it's covered by her hair, thus creating the happy illusion from behind that the dress is kept in place simply by the grace of God or a gravity-defying act of will.  

If a woman chooses to wear a bra with such a dress it obviously has to be strapless. But daring to go bra-free is probably the best option and adds to the dangerous appeal of the dress - something which is even further enhanced if the latter itself is of a strapless variety, without any visible means of support.

There are, I know, many women who secretly long to wear such a dress, but worry about exposing rather more than intended should it suddenly slip south. However, those concerned about the practicality of wearing a risqué strapless number might find some reassurance watching Rita Hayworth in a famous scene from the classic film noir Gilda (1946), in which she wears an iconic strapless design by Jean Louis, inspired by Sargent's Portrait of Madame X (1884).

As demonstrated - to the disappointment of the men in the audience - the tightness of the bodice prevents the dress from falling off, even when she's singing, dancing, and performing an erotic striptease of the hand with some enthusiasm.

The dress - a black satin sheath with a straight neckline leaving the shoulders, arms and upper-back all beautifully bare - helped consolidate Hayworth's image as a femme fatale and was said to illustrate that unrestrained female sexuality ultimately leads to catastrophe. It's not merely coincidental, therefore, that the first nuclear bomb to be tested after the Second World War was nicknamed Gilda and decorated with an image of Rita wearing her notorious black dress. 

For added good measure, the floor-length dress also has a thigh-high slit, so we can fully appreciate the fact that Gilda's got legs (and knows how to use 'em). Finally, it will be noted that the dress is worn with a pair of matching full-length gloves, pushing the fetishistic appeal of the scene to the maximum. Illicit lovers of every stripe can find something to perv on in this scene.       

Of course, it goes without saying that all the usual suspects who like to decry the immodesty of fashion, bemoan the objectification of the female body, or condemn the half-naked women of today for cynically exploiting their sexuality, have attacked the backless/strapless dress. However, the ravings of such puritans need not detain us here ... 

See: Rita Hayworth as Gilda performing the number 'Put the Blame on Mame' (written by Allan Roberts and Doris Fisher) in the film Gilda (dir. Charles Vidor, 1946): click here. Note: it's not actually Miss Hayworth singing; the voice belongs rather to Anita Ellis.