On Melancholy

Woman in Reflection, Mother of a New Dawn

Melancholy, in artistic iconography, is often depicted as a woman seated, her head resting on one hand, the other arm hanging loosely by her side.

This feeling—defined as a sadness for something lost or never possessed, yet deeply missed—has been widely portrayed throughout the history of art.We find an example in the relief sculpture Afflicted Penelope, housed at the Metropolitan Museum in New York.Here, Penelope—abandoned by Ulysses—is shown with a pensive, sorrowful expression, lost in the thought that she may never see her husband again.

The very word melancholy derives from the Greek and originates in the ancient medicine of the Hippocratic school, according to which human behavior is governed by four basic humors: black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood.Melancholy—literally black bile—describes a state of mind that blends sadness, restlessness, and gloom.

The term has long been associated with the temperament of the artist, tormented by the suffering born of desire that cannot find its object.This idea is deeply fascinating to me, because it describes a condition that goes beyond the artist in the strict sense—beyond the one who communicates through their works—and touches on the most intimate dimensions of the human experience.The human being who longs, yet cannot obtain; the one who yearns, yet is held back—blocked by invisible forces, hard to name and even harder to uproot.

I associate this condition especially with the human being as woman.The woman who, in centuries past and too often still today, desires but does not receive—caught in a vague and shadowy role inherited from a burdensome past that is difficult to shed.

It’s the difficulty of feeling fully integrated in a world that doesn’t seem to belong to them—as if merely invited into it.Much like Picasso felt during his Blue Period in Paris, when he gave shape to this emotional state through the figure of the Harlequin (1917), echoing the very essence of melancholy.

The figure of woman today is also a descendant of Melencolia I by Albrecht Dürer, dated 1514.In this engraving, the artist portrays a pensive winged genius, immobilized by the sense of the futility of action. Her gaze is dark, furrowed, turned toward a direction we cannot see.

The figure engages in no activity, despite being surrounded by a multitude of tools and instruments—objects that suggest potential, yet remain unused. She is caught in a moment of reflection.

A moment which, for women, has lasted far too long.

Women artists are virtually absent from the artistic canon. We find a few exceptions—celebrated and described as if they were somehow “extraordinary”—as though to emphasize that a woman does not possess the same capabilities or depth of soul as a man. And if, by some chance, she does express something worthy of attention, then she is seen as exceptional, rare. A near-unrepeatable phenomenon.

Of course, we now know that throughout history many female voices, minds, and hands were silenced before they ever had the chance to act—but it took centuries to fully realize this.

I believe melancholy is the feeling that best describes womanhood.Because melancholy is reflection, it is silent observation, it is understanding and knowing without speaking.Melancholy is nostalgia for a future that could have been, for a desire that might have been fulfilled.

We Western women live in a privileged condition: we can act.Not without judgment, prejudice, or injustice—but we can.And yet, so many women still cannot. They remain in the condition of Melancholy by Caspar David Friedrich, painted in 1803.

The woman is depicted in the act of bringing her hand to her head while gazing toward a blank horizon. She does not look at the viewer but invites them to share in her silent and incomprehensible sorrow. The nature surrounding her is aggressive, a harbinger of death, and the cobweb behind her speaks of abandonment.

Nature here represents all of humanity—inhospitable and ungrateful—and the cobweb is society itself, indifferent to a widespread problem so ancient it has become a status quo.

Today we talk a lot—perhaps too much—about women’s rights, about their condition of inferiority in comparison to men, about their reduced opportunities, injustices, fragility, and discomfort. But framing the issue in these terms runs the risk of keeping women in the role of victims. As long as the goal remains to “integrate” women, they will feel like melancholic impostors in a society that will never truly be theirs, but in which they are merely guests.

What I long to witness is a new Dawn—like the one painted by Artemisia Gentileschi.Dawn walks barefoot through a twilight field, awakening nature like a fertility goddess, her matronly proportions and the visible traces of past pregnancies on her abdomen underlining her role. Her expressive arms—one pointing toward the sky’s light, the other reaching toward the dewy vegetation—restore the plants to their daytime vigor, as described by art historian Sheila Barker.

Dawn is a young woman running toward a new day, leaving behind the night just passed. She illuminates nature with a light so new and vibrant that her gesture—her majestic outstretched arms—fills the entire canvas with promise.