I Sing of Girls Loved by Gods

Adrienne Rozells

I came into this room not for the goddess, but for the music. I will learn anything better if there’s a tune to go with it, so when I heard strings I followed them, curious what the notes might teach me this time. I found myself face to face with a goddess. She sat on a red dais that matched the red pants of the other tourist standing next to me. “Testa di Minerva” had no nose, no top lip, and no diadem to declare her godliness. Yet her hair swirled back from her face in perfect waves.

Her head tilted on a slender neck, looking at me with those smooth eyes, all iris, no pupil. I turned to find a small pixelated screen. Instrumental music underscored a woman carefully lasering discoloration off the goddess’s upper lip. With each blast of the laser a red dot appeared and a beep sounded and then all of a sudden what had been splotchy dark became marble white, as if the stone had never faded in the first place. I could feel Minerva watching over my shoulder. Another zap, and I felt it, my leg up on the kitchen counter with an at-home laser hair removal kit stinging my skin, making me sweat. The TV played in the background then too.

Under the goddess’s gaze, the art conservator (just a grad student according to the plaque) became an augur, burning sustenance so that the gods might feed on the smoke. Except in this case there was no meat, just rust being burned away by electromagnetic radiation, offering up the smell of burning ozone. I wondered what Minerva tasted. I thought I’d miss the meat, the blood and fat and bones.

Next the grad student used a thin tool to slice open the back of Minerva’s neck. I shivered. She marked the marble column holding up that wise head the way a plastic surgeon marks a patient’s skin. Minerva’s neck turned to blocks. Those blocks were pulled out to reveal green rot inside her throat. I felt my face scrunch up until the green was cleaned away, and Minerva was refilled with something more suitable. They couldn’t smooth away the lines in her marble face, but at least her insides were clean.

Throughout the process, the grad student’s face folded into a soft smile. She basked in the presence of this massive marble head, which may have once belonged on an acrolith: a statue made up of naked body parts, such as the head, arms, and feet, fastened to a wooden structure dressed up in precious materials. The body appeared expensive and stood tall. No audience could guess at the cheaper structure underneath. In her time, this Minerva watched over a sacred space, seen by only a select few. Now she stands in one of the world’s oldest public museums, at eye-level with mortals such as myself, the excavation of her body playing on a loop.

I turned away from the video and resituated my mind in the Capitoline. I wanted to look the goddess in the eye knowing what she used to be, and what she has on the inside now. The woman in red pants had drifted off. Alone among the artworks, I leaned down and met smooth marble with my stare. Minerva smirked right back as if she already knew me inside out.

From the Author

I met Minerva while studying abroad in Rome. I’d known of her before, from things like Rick Riordan books, classics courses, and the engraved ring I wear on my right pointer finger, but this was the first time I’d met her face to face. I was struck by the simple presentation of the goddess. I was struck by the knowledge that artists had worked to restore her, to their ideal vision of what a goddess ought to look like, but still weren’t able to clear away every splotch on her marble face. The Testa di Minerva is different today than she was upon initial construction, and even then her sculptor designed her as only a face to top an acrolith. I thought to myself, she is just as commanding now, blank-faced and chip-nosed, as she would have been painted and dolled up and given a body. 

The Testa di Minerva was located in the Capitoline museum, near the heart of Rome. Rome is a city full of history, which means it's a city that demands attention. Tourists flock to see the sights. People dress to see each other. No self-respecting Italian would run to their 9am class in sweats, straight out of bed. Even my Italian 102 professor told me that. 

It’s strange to be perceived. I think: I wonder what they are thinking about me? I grapple with the ideas of gender, sexuality, and attraction. 

The beauty industry has a strong hold in the United States, and especially in places the media depicts as glamorous, such as Southern California, which is where I grew up. It’s perhaps an even stronger industry in Italian metropolises. I envied the women who glided through cobblestone streets in stilettos with their don’t-fuck-with-me stares, and at the same time I hurt for them, because of the Italian girls my age who had told me outside the club that it was normal for men to keep trying after being told no. They said one no is taken as a yes, and to make a man understand you’re not just playing hard to get, it usually takes three. To me, that seems like an uncomfortable game. I try to strategize my way out of even playing. 

 Minerva is the goddess of wisdom, professions, handicrafts, arts, and war. I have often thought of beautifying myself as an act of art and war at the same time. It is uncomfortable to pluck my eyebrows, but the arch I get out of it makes for a withering expression if properly raised. It’s fun to put on my makeup, but I know that if I do it well enough some people will consider me intimidating, which is fun in its own way. I also know that folks who aren’t as strongly targeted by the beauty industry may not even consider the need to strategize their appearance at all, and I yearn for that sometimes.  

I’m not sure how to divest myself of beauty standards, but I’m not sure that I want to. I just need to find a happy medium! I think Minerva knows what that is. 

Adrienne Rozells holds a BA in Creative Writing from Oberlin College. She currently teaches writing to kids and works as co-EIC at Catchwater Magazine. Her favorite things include strawberries, her dogs, and extrapolating wildly about the existence of Bigfoot. More of her work can be found on Twitter @arozells or Instagram @rozellswrites.