If 'art is created- or determined- by the beholder', it's also denigrated by the prejudiced, the ignorant and the tyrannical, but in these cases only temporary, provided the art is never destroyed.
Oscar Wilde's Salomé was first performed during the same period of his trial (Wilde versus the Marquess of Queensbury-1895) when most of the less objective theatre goers would have been disinclined to 'behold' it.
It's interesting to note that Lord Chamberlain's licensor of plays banned Salomé in England because it was then considered illegal to stage Biblical characters. Incredibly the ban lasted almost forty years before it was lifted. It could be argued that the Biblical characters themselves were also 'staged' in the Bible, and that as a classical, allegorical tragedy, it belongs more to literature and therefore artistic representation and interpretation, than to be uniquely limited to the Bible, and as such, perhaps unduly considered sacred.
Oscar Wilde was understandably angry because of what then seemed to him to be an unnecessary, vindictive ban, to such an extent that it's said he envisaged registering for French nationality in order to avoid the possibility of having to contend with any further restrictions and censorship.
Salomé was originally written (retold) by Wilde in French, and first published in 1891. An English translation, accredited to Alfred Douglas, but in fact mostly retranslated by Wilde himself, due to the unacceptable results of the Alfred Douglas effort, was published three years later.
This is quite apparent on reading the English translation. One has the distinct impression of reading Wilde's prose and no one else's.
The famous illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley for the English version are master-pieces in themselves.
The story is of course that of Salomé, who having received the promise from Herod Antipas, the Tetrarch of Judæa, that he will give his step-daughter everything and anything she desires if she dances for him, finally agrees to perform the dance of the seven veils. After the performance her mother Herodias is delighted to hear Salomé ask for the head of Jokanaan (John the Baptist) who had always expressed his disdain for Herodias. Salomé asks that his head be presented to her on a silver platter. The appalled and fearful Tetrarch tries desperately but unsuccessfully to dissuade her.
There is symbolism in comparing Salomé to the moon- the pagan goddess Cybele who is also obsessed with preserving her virginity whilst diverting herself by destroying male virility. There are paradoxes (naturally), ambiguity, ironism and clin d'oeils in Wilde's version of Salomé.
Here's an excerpt as an example.
'Salomé :
How wasted he is ! He is like a thin ivory statue. He is like an image of silver. I am sure he is chaste as the moon is. He is like a moonbeam, like a shaft of silver. His flesh must be cool like ivory. I would look closer to him.
The Young Syrian :
No, no, Princess.
Salomé :
I must look at him closer.
The Young Syrian :
Princess ! Princess !
Jokanaan :
Who is this woman who is looking at me ? I will not have her look at me. Wherefore doth she look at me with her golden eyes, under gilded eyelids? I know not who she is. I do not wish to know who she is. Bid her begone. It is not to her that I would speak.
Salomé :
I am Salomé, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judæa.
Jokanaan :
Back ! Daughter of Babylon ! Come not near the chosen of the Lord. Thy mother hath filled the earth with the wine of her iniquities, and the cry of her sins hath come up to the ears of God.
Salomé :
Speak again ! Jokanaan. Thy voice is wine to me.
The Young Syrian :
Princess ! Princess ! Princess !
Salomé :
Speak again, speak again, Jokanaan, and tell me what I must do.
Jokanaan :
Daughter of Sodom, come not near me ! But cover thy face with a veil, and scatter ashes upon thine head, and get thee to the desert and seek out the Son of Man.
Salomé :
Who is he, the Son of Man? Is he as beautiful as thou art, Jokanaan ?
Jokanaan :
Get thee behind me ! I hear in the palace the beating of the wings of the angel of death.
The Young Syrian:
Princess, I beseech thee to go within.
Jokanaan :
Angel of the Lord God, what dost thou here with thy sword ? Whom seekest thou in this foul palace ? The day of him who shall die in a robe of silver has not yet come.
Salomé : Jokanaan !
Jokanaan :
Who speaketh ?
Salomé :
Jokanaan, I am amorous of thy body ! Thy body is white like the lilies of a field that the mower hath never mowed. Thy body is white like the snows that lie on the mountains, like the snows that lie on the mountains of Judæa, and come down into the valleys. The roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia are not so white as thy body. Neither the roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast of the sea. . . . There is nothing in the world so white as thy body. Let me touch thy body.
Jokanaan :
Back ! Daughter of Babylon ! By woman came evil into the world. Speak not to me. I will not listen to thee. I listen but to the voice of the Lord God.
Salomé :
Thy body is hideous. It is like the body of a leper. It is like a plastered wall where vipers have crawled; like a plastered wall where the scorpions have made their nest. It is like a whitened sepulchre full of loathsome things. It is horrible, thy body is horrible. It is of thy hair that I am enamoured, Jokanaan. Thy hair is like clusters of grapes, like clusters of black grapes that hang from the vine-trees of Edom in the land of the Edomites. Thy hair is like the cedars of Lebanon that give their shade to the lions and to the robbers who would hide themselves by day. The long black nights, when the moon hides her face, when the stars are afraid, are not so black. The silence that dwells in the forest is not so black. There is nothing in the world so black as thy hair. . . . Let me touch thy hair.
Jokanaan :
Back, daughter of Sodom ! Touch me not. Profane not the temple of the Lord God.
Salomé :
Thy hair is horrible. It is covered with mire and dust. It is like a crown of thorns which they have placed on thy forehead. It is like a knot of black serpents writhing round thy neck. I love not thy hair. . . . It is thy mouth that I desire, Jokanaan. Thy mouth is like a band of scarlet on a tower of ivory. It is like a pomegranate cut with a knife of ivory. The pomegranate flowers that blossom in the garden of Tyre, and are redder than roses, are not so red. The red blasts of trumpets, that herald the approach of kings, and make afraid the enemy, are not so red. Thy mouth is redder than the feet of those who tread the wine in the wine-press. Thy mouth is redder than the feet of the doves who haunt the temples and are fed by the priests. It is redder than the feet of him who cometh from a forest where he hath slain a lion, and seen gilded tigers. Thy mouth is like a branch of coral that fishers have found in the twilight of the sea, the coral that they keep for the kings. ! It is like the vermilion that the Moabites find in the mines of Moab, the vermilion that the kings take from them. It is like the bow of the king of the Persians, that is painted with vermilion, and is tipped with coral. There is nothing in the world so red as thy mouth. . . . Let me kiss thy mouth.
Jokanaan :
Never, daughter of Babylon ! Daughter of Sodom ! Never.
Salomé :
I will kiss thy mouth Jokanaan. I will kiss thy mouth.
The Young Syrian :
Princess, Princess, thou who art like a garden of myrrh, thou art the dove of all doves, look not at this man, look not at him ! Do not speak such words to him. I cannot suffer them. . . . Princess, Princess, do not speak these things.
Salomé :
I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.
The Young Syrian :
Ah !
He kills himself and falls between Salomé and Jokanaan.
The Page of Herodias :
The young Syrian has slain himself ! The young captain has slain himself ! He has slain himself who was my friend ! I gave him a little box of perfumes and ear-rings wrought in silver, and now he has killed himself ! Ah, did he not foretell that some misfortune would happen ?
I, too, foretold it and it has happened. Well, I knew that the moon was seeking a dead thing, but I knew not that it was he whom she sought. Ah ! why did I not hide him from the moon ? If I had hidden him in a cavern she would not have seen him.
First Soldier :
Princess, the young captain has just killed himself.
Salomé :
Let me kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.
Jokanaan: Art thou not afraid, daughter of Herodias ? Did I not tell thee that I heard in the palace the beatings of the wings of the angel of death, and hath he not come, the angel of death?
Salomé :
Let me kiss thy mouth.
Jokanaan :
Daughter of adultery, there is but one who can save thee, it is He of whom I spake. Go seek Him. He is in a boat on the sea of Galilee, and He talketh with His disciples. Kneel down on the shore of the sea, and call unto Him by His name. When He cometh to thee (and to all who call on Him He cometh) bow thyself at His feet and ask of Him the remission of thy sins.
Salomé :
Let me kiss thy mouth.
Jokanaan :
Cursed be thou ! Daughter of an incestuous mother, be thou accursed !
Salomé :
I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.
Jokanaan :
I do not wish to look at thee. I will not look at thee, thou art accursed, Salomé, thou art accursed.
He goes down into the cistern.'
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