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Galatea features prominently in 19th-century stories and images based on Greek and Roman mythology. As the ideal of feminine beauty and a symbol of the creative power of art and love, she has secured a place alongside Aphrodite/Venus, Artemis/Diana, and Athena/Minerva. While the latter are of divine blood, Galatea is a simple mortal—just like you and me, so to speak...
Who was this Galatea, and what made her so famous?
Galatea is almost always mentioned in the same breath as her creator, the sculptor Pygmalion. The myth of Pygmalion—at least as far as we know—originates in ancient Greece. The story has reached us through various channels, but the most famous and complete version is that of the Roman poet Ovid. Around the beginning of the Common Era, he included it as one of 250 myths in Book X (10) of his Metamorphoses. For those who wish to read it, I’ve included a Dutch translation at the bottom of this blog.
TL;DR: Pygmalion carves a statue of a woman, falls in love with it, and asks Aphrodite (Venus) to bring it to life. The goddess obliges, and they live happily ever after.
There’s just one little problem: Ovid never gives the statue Pygmalion creates a name... Galatea does not appear at all in Ovid’s tale—or, for that matter, in any other surviving version from antiquity!
So who did come up with the name Galatea?
Fortunately, I’m neither the first nor the only one to ask this question. Helen H. Law published an article in 1932 detailing her extensive research into the name’s origins (source).
She concludes that "Galatea" only became widely used for "the statue brought to life" in the second half of the 19th century. The first to use the name—as far as she could trace—was the Genevan writer and philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who employed Galat(h)ée in his 1762 melodrama Pygmalion.
She also mentions a ballet-pantomime by one Molin (1840) and an 1847 poem by Gustave Le Vavasseur that reference Galathée (though I couldn’t locate either). Only later did Galatea leave France: in 1865, the operetta Die Schöne Galathée premiered in Germany, and in 1871, William S. Gilbert wrote a romantic comedy in verse titled Pygmalion and Galatea.
Thus, Pygmalion’s Galatea seems to originate in France, with Rousseau. He didn’t invent the name out of thin air, however: it already existed in Greek mythology as the name of a sea nymph or Nereid. Ovid himself wrote about this Galatea in his Metamorphoses (Acis and Galatea).
Rousseau may have chosen the name because it suited the ivory statue—Pygmalion’s material—given that gála (γάλα) means "milk" in Greek (think of "galaxy" from "milky way").
The story of Pygmalion and Galatea explores themes that have long resonated with audiences—particularly in the 19th century. Key examples:
Though the artist fashions an object from "dead matter" (ivory or stone, in Pygmalion’s case), it can evoke profound emotions in humans. This effect is likely one of the primary drives behind human creativity. And it’s not just the viewer who is "enchanted"—the artist themselves may fall under the spell of their own creation!
While conceptions of beauty have shifted throughout history, its creation has been a central artistic pursuit. By the late 19th century—during the Art Nouveau movement—the beauty of nature, and of women in particular, became a dominant theme.
Love is an "eternal" theme in art. Here, it encompasses both the love for the work that creates beauty and the love of the result, which ultimately brings it to life (with Venus’s intervention, of course...).
The futility of human striving for the ideal. Despite his extraordinary skill, Pygmalion cannot truly animate the statue—divine or magical intervention from Venus is required.
Since the Renaissance, but especially in the 19th century, there was intense interest in Greek and Roman antiquity. Major discoveries—like the excavations at Pompeii—made "antiquity" (and thus Pygmalion’s myth) fashionable, inspiring countless artists.
In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, art saw an explosion of works based on Pygmalion and Galatea across disciplines: poetry, books, theater, opera, ballet, sculptures, and paintings. Even the French and English Wikipedia pages list dozens of works—and the lists are incomplete!
Notable examples:
Given the myth’s age, it’s unsurprising that the gender dynamics between Pygmalion and Galatea follow outdated patterns. The (heterosexual) male creator is active, while the woman—defined solely by her beauty (and whiteness)—is passive. Pygmalion’s misogyny and lack of consent by modern standards (post-#MeToo) have also been scrutinized.
Some critiques go further, arguing the myth’s ethics are deeply flawed: Pygmalion treats the statue as a lust object, effectively assaulting it. Regardless, the story remains relevant and thought-provoking.
That said, the myth’s power endures even in modern adaptations—imagine a female sculptor creating a prince(ss) on a white horse. The narrative, actions, and emotions could mirror the original or adapt to contemporary norms. A suggested title: "Pygmalia and Galation."
Though the name Galatea stems from ancient Greek and Roman myths, Pygmalion’s Galatea was only introduced in 18th-century France by Rousseau. She embodies ideal beauty, the love it inspires, and the life that springs from that love—a story that, perhaps in adapted forms, will endure for years to come.
Source: https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Les_Métamorphoses_(Ovide,_Nisard)/Livre_10
Having witnessed their criminal rage and revolted by the countless vices that taint the hearts of women, Pygmalion lived as a bachelor, long remaining solitary in his chamber. But with his skilled chisel, guided by wondrous art, he shaped the gleaming ivory into a form no woman born of nature could rival, and the artist fell in love with his own creation.
It was the face of a maiden, a mortal; she seemed to breathe, and were modesty not restraining her, one might think her alive; so convincingly did art conceal its own artifice.
Blinded, his heart aflame with love, Pygmalion was consumed by an unattainable passion. Often he reached out to his idol, touching her. Was it flesh or ivory? Ivory! Yet he refused to believe it. He imagined she returned his kisses; he spoke to her, embraced her; he almost believed her limbs yielded beneath his fingers, feared they might bruise under his touch.
At times he showered her with caresses, at others he gave her gifts: shells, polished pebbles, birds, flowers of a thousand hues, lilies, tinted beads, amber tears from the Heliades. Still not satisfied, he dressed her in fine fabrics; diamonds sparkled on her fingers, delicate earrings on her ears, golden chains around her neck—all became her, yet naked she seemed lovelier still. He laid her on cushions dyed purple from Sidon, called her his companion, and gazed at her as she rested on the soft down, convinced she could feel it.
It was the festival of Venus. All Cyprus celebrated this sacred day. Gold gleamed on the curved horns of the snow-white heifers led to slaughter; incense filled the air. Pygmalion brought his offering to the altar and, standing there, prayed in a timid voice: "Great gods, if all things are within your power, grant me a wife like my heart’s desire."
He dared not name the ivory maiden, but added: "One like my ivory maiden." Venus heard him. The golden Venus, presiding over her own festival, understood his unspoken wish, and as a sign of divine favor, the flame on the altar flared three times, leaping high into the sky.
He returned home, rushing to the object of his imagined passion. Bending over the bed, he covered the statue with kisses. Gods! Her lips were warm. He pressed his mouth to hers again. With trembling hands, he touched her breast—the ivory softened, losing its hardness, yielding beneath his fingers like the wax of Hymettus, which melts in sunlight and, shaped by the artisan’s thumb, takes a thousand forms.
Pygmalion stood amazed, scarcely daring to trust his joy. Again and again, he tested the truth with his hands. It was real. A pulse throbbed beneath his touch. At last, the sculptor of Paphos poured out his heart in gratitude at Venus’ feet. No longer did his lips meet cold ivory: the maiden felt his kisses, blushed beneath them, and shyly opened her eyes to the light, seeing for the first time both the sky and her lover.
This union was the goddess’s work. When the moon had nine times joined her crescent to a full orb, Paphos gained a daughter, and the island bore her name. You, too, were born of this line, O unfortunate Cinyras—you who might have been counted among the most fortunate of mortals, had you never become a father.
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