Bacchus at the Plaza

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By John Anthony S. Estolloso

(UPDATED) STROLL AROUND the corners of Plaza Libertad and you would probably encounter those four figures that seem hellbent in making grimaces and smirks, to the point of trolling or mocking the passerby.

In a literary sense, you are not wrong: they are mocking the passerby. They are the Bacchi – effigies of the Roman god of wine, theatre, and revelry. Recognized as Dionysus by the Greeks, the character essentially held the same personality as their deity for all events and circumstances drunk, dramatic, and debauched.

Needless to say, the Greeks and Romans loved wine – so much so that a deity had to be personified to its crafting and imbibing. Every burnt oblation to their gods began with a spilling of wine over the hecatombs. No theatrical production was complete without a libation poured in remembrance at the onset of the performance. The stormy waters of the Aegean were described by their bards as ‘the wine-dark sea.’

At the apex of this fervid cult, Greek theater became a Dionysian festival and what seemed a structured exposition of theatrical narrative was eventually followed by a bacchanal where audience and actors alike reveled in merrymaking. If the role of theater is to reveal truth even while it entertains, then it runs parallel to the adage of finding truth in wine, when it loosens the tongue to reveal the most honest of sentiments, even to the point of one’s embarrassment and understandably, future regret.

Myth transformed Bacchus into a comic archetype and a cautionary anti-hero: someone to laugh about and certainly not to emulate. It is best perhaps to leave him standing at the corners of Plaza Libertad, to sneer at curious onlookers.

Attributed to Italian sculptor Francesco Riccardo Monti – the same artist who sculpted the massive figures of Law and Order flanking the portals of the old City Hall, now UPV’s Museum of Art and Cultural Heritage – the statues of Bacchus reveal nuances which build up characterization. While all four portray essentially the same figure, there are two versions of these, with each one constituting a different interpretation of the deity. What is especially interesting is the meticulous attention to detail that Monti devoted to each one, projecting varied ‘readings’ of the deity’s narrative.

One version portrays a bearded Bacchus, its face twisted in a sneer while it cradles grapevines and bunches of the fruit on his left arm and hand, evocative of the main ingredient of the wine-making process; his right hand grasps a horn overflowing with grapes, a horn of plenty [in Latin: cornucopia] to feed his followers. The character’s head is festooned with a wreath of ivy leaves, traditionally thought to diminish wine’s potency. The half-covered torso reveals a coy hint of a bloated paunch: of course, all that alcohol had to go somewhere.

The second version is a more demure bust: Monti gives the deity a leering face of a young man, his head bare of adornments. Devoid of arms and hands, a tunic covers his chest; tucked on his shoulders are bunches of grapes while panpipes peep surreptitiously from his front, the musical instrument commonly associated with his devotees indulging in frenzied bacchanalias. Most peculiar is the panther protruding from underneath the figure, its feline face exuding the exoticism identified with the deity.

Embellished with metaphors and symbols, the statues are cut to the tradition of incorporating semiotic references in art to build up narratives and characterizations. For instance, one can find strong similarities between the statuary and Titian’s Bacchus and Ariadne: in the latter, the lithe figure of the wine-god is portrayed astride a chariot pulled by leopards, his svelte body casting aside a wine-colored cloak, and his head crowned with ivy leaves. Following his wake is a procession of followers: maenads, fauns, and satyrs in various stages of undress and inebriation. At the left foreground, the figure of Ariadne twists in surprise at her suitor’s unannounced visit. In one canvas, Titian retells the myth without diminishing its meaning – the same way that the four gleeful statues at Plaza Libertad continue to embellish the public space with a suggestion of literary ambiance in subtle proportions.

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Far be it for this writer to encourage insobriety, there is still a resonant twinge of classical humor hidden in the Bacchi’s sneers; framed by the establishments of church and state, one can almost hear the Horatian exhortation, tongue-in-cheek: in vino veritas – and with the particular plaza which the statues call home – et libertas.

[The writer is the subject area coordinator for Social Studies in one of the private schools in the city. The image of Titian’s painting is from Wikimedia.]