Yesterday, while reading, I came across a reference that stopped me in my tracks: gay men in Toronto rubbing the bare butt on a statue for luck. As both a gay man and a museum person, that kind of detail lights up every curiosity circuit in my brain. The scene also reminded me of the old military practice of the “short arm inspection”—the venereal disease check that required soldiers to line up and present themselves for examination. Little moments of sexualized institutional history like that have always existed in the margins, half whispered but universally known.

And so it seemed fitting that the statue in question was the Alexander Wood monument that once stood in Toronto’s Church and Wellesley Village—a monument rooted in its own scandal of inspection, accusation, and rumor.

Alexander Wood (1772–1844) was a Scottish merchant and magistrate who became a prominent figure in early Toronto (then York). He served in several civic roles and was involved in shaping the young colony. But today, he’s remembered primarily for a scandal that forever marked his reputation—and later, queer history.

In 1810, a young woman named Miss Bailey claimed she had been sexually assaulted. Her description was vague, but she insisted she could identify the assailant by marks on his genitals.

As a magistrate, Wood investigated the case, questioning several male suspects. Historical accounts state that he personally inspected their genitals to look for corroborating marks.

This highly unusual method sparked gossip and ridicule.

What makes the incident even murkier is that many historians doubt the woman’s existence altogether. Some believe “Magdalena Nagle” may have been invented—either by Wood, his rivals, or the community at large. The absence of solid records fueled speculation in his own time and afterwards.

Regardless, the scandal led to public humiliation and accusations—spoken and unspoken—about Wood’s sexuality. Though never charged with wrongdoing, he fled temporarily to Scotland before quietly returning to his life in Upper Canada.

In 2005, Toronto’s LGBTQ+ community sought to commemorate queer history in public space. Although Wood’s sexual orientation is not documented, many queer historians reclaimed him as a possible queer ancestor—a man punished socially for perceived sexual deviance long before there was a vocabulary to defend himself.

Thus the community commissioned a statue honoring both his life and his place in queer memory.

lThe bronze sculpture, created by Del Newbigging, depicted Wood in early-19th-century attire—not a military uniform, but the formal dress of a gentleman of his era. His pose was confident, with one hand tucked behind him and the other holding a walking stick.

At the base of the statue was a plaque showing an engraved tableau: a young militia soldier with his pants partially lowered, presenting his bare buttocks for Wood’s infamous inspection. That image wasn’t part of the main statue—it was the plaque that made the scandal visually explicit.

And then came the charmingly queer detail: Newbigging openly stated that he modeled the soldier’s butt on the backside of his own partner.

A gift of love, art, and cheeky community pride.

The Village quickly embraced the statue with a sense of humor. Gay men began rubbing the bare butt on the plaque for luck, and as is always the case with bronze, repeated contact polished the metal to a gleaming shine. What started as a joke became a familiar ritual—a flirtatious, communal wink at queer history.

Placed at the entrance of Church and Wellesley, the statue served as a landmark for Toronto’s queer community. It stood in a district deeply associated with LGBTQ+ identity, activism, and resilience, marking the neighborhood with a figure reclaimed from historical shaming.

For many, it symbolized both pride and solidarity—a public monument that didn’t hide the queer interpretation but made it impossible to ignore.

Over time, the statue’s presence became more complicated. Some critiques focused on its campy sexualization or the historical uncertainty of Wood’s queerness. But a more serious criticism emerged:

Alexander Wood served on the Society for Converting and Civilizing the Indians and Propagating the Gospel Among Destitute Settlers in Upper Canada—an organization whose mission and practices were part of the colonial machinery that later contributed to the development of the Indian residential school system in Canada.

For Indigenous activists and allies, Wood’s connection to early assimilationist institutions made him an inappropriate figure for public commemoration. This dimension of his legacy was long overlooked but gained prominence in recent years as Canada confronted the deep harms of residential schools.

The statue thus became not only a queer symbol but also a site of contested memory.

When the site was sold to a condominium developer in 2022, community groups requested that the statue be relocated rather than removed. But issues of ownership, cost, and ongoing controversy complicated the process.

The statue was taken down quietly.

Placed in storage.

And ultimately destroyed—a loss that felt abrupt and painful to those who viewed it as a cornerstone of Village identity.

The Alexander Wood statue existed at the crossroads of queer reclamation, artistic expression, colonial history, and community identity. Its destruction leaves a literal void in the Village streetscape—a reminder that public memory is fragile and often shaped by forces beyond our control.

The polished bronze butt on the plaque may be gone, but the story remains:

of queer history reclaimed, contested, celebrated, and sometimes lost

And maybe that is the nature of queer memory itself—surviving in the stories we continue to tell.

When we think of early 20th-century American illustration, Norman Rockwell’s name often comes first. But long before Rockwell’s wholesome small-town Americana, there was Joseph Christian Leyendecker—his mentor, idol, and predecessor at The Saturday Evening Post. Leyendecker not only helped shape the golden age of American illustration; he also created some of the most striking, subtly queer imagery ever to appear on mainstream magazine covers in the early 1900s.

Between 1896 and 1950, Leyendecker produced more than 400 magazine covers and countless advertisements for brands like Arrow Collars, Kuppenheimer, and Interwoven Socks. His sharply dressed men, gleaming with confidence and sensuality, set the visual standard for masculine beauty. These “Arrow Collar Men” became the male ideal of their day—elegant, poised, athletic, and perfectly groomed. But beneath their polish lay something quietly radical: Leyendecker’s men gazed at one another—and at us—with desire.

Leyendecker lived most of his adult life with his partner and muse, Charles Beach, who modeled for many of the Arrow Collar ads and became the archetype of masculine allure. Their partnership was both personal and professional, lasting nearly fifty years, and though they lived in an era of rigid moral codes, Leyendecker found ways to encode affection, intimacy, and attraction in his art. The male figures in his paintings—posed with subtle tension, often in pairs—seem to vibrate with a kind of longing rarely seen in commercial art of that time.

His holiday covers for The Saturday Evening Post often featured wholesome domestic scenes, but even there, queer readings emerge: the bachelor trimming his own Christmas tree, the soldier straightening another man’s uniform, or two athletes sharing a private glance. These moments, hidden in plain sight, offered coded expressions of male companionship and tenderness during decades when overt queerness could not be depicted publicly.

After Leyendecker’s death in 1951, much of his reputation was overshadowed by Rockwell, who succeeded him at The Post. Yet in recent years, art historians and LGBTQ+ scholars have reclaimed Leyendecker as one of the most important queer figures in American art. His work reminds us that representation isn’t always loud—it can whisper through brushstrokes, glances, and gestures. In those polished, idealized men, he painted a world where beauty, desire, and love between men could exist—if only in coded form.

Leyendecker’s legacy today is being rediscovered in museum retrospectives and popular culture, from contemporary fashion photography to the animated short Coded: The Hidden Love of J.C. Leyendecker, which explores how he built an entire visual language of queer identity long before such language was socially permissible. His art stands as a testament to resilience and creativity under constraint—a reminder that even in eras of silence, queer artists found ways to make themselves seen.

In Rivière’s Victorian interpretation, the drama of Ganymede’s abduction becomes a study in beauty and terror. The eagle’s powerful wings engulf the golden-haired youth, whose luminous body and upturned gaze capture the tension between divine rapture and human vulnerability.

A shepherd once stood on the green slopes of Mount Ida, watching his father’s flocks beneath the wide Trojan sky. His hair caught the sunlight, and even the wind seemed to linger around him. High above, the king of the gods looked down and was seized by a longing beyond reason. Taking the form of a mighty eagle, Zeus swept from Olympus, his wings darkening the heavens, and carried the youth Ganymede into the clouds. The people of Troy saw only feathers and light—then nothing. In heaven, the boy awoke amid thunder and gold, offered a cup of nectar to his captor, and became the immortal cupbearer of the gods, beloved of Zeus and eternal in beauty.

In Greek mythology, few mortal youths have been as endlessly reimagined as Ganymede, the beautiful Trojan prince who caught the eye of Zeus himself. The story is simple yet potent: Zeus, enraptured by Ganymede’s beauty, descends in the form of an eagle and carries him off to Olympus to serve as the gods’ cupbearer—and, as the myths gently imply, as the god’s divine beloved. It is a tale that has stirred the imagination for centuries: a mortal elevated to immortality, a human boy desired by a god, beauty taken skyward by power. To artists, poets, and later to those who found themselves drawn to same-sex desire, the myth became a mirror—of longing, transcendence, and the perilous allure of beauty.

A Symbol of Divine Desire

In ancient Greece, Ganymede’s story was not viewed as scandalous but rather idealized as the epitome of male beauty and youthful grace. The myth encapsulated a cultural ideal: that beauty—especially youthful male beauty—was divine in itself. Over time, depictions of Ganymede evolved, reflecting changing attitudes toward love, innocence, and power.

Ganymede in Art Through the Ages

The Eucharides Painter’s Ganymede Krater (c. 490–480 BCE)

One of the earliest known depictions of the myth appears on an Attic red-figure calyx krater attributed to the Eucharides Painter, now in the Louvre. The scene shows Zeus, bearded and dignified, reaching toward the beautiful youth, who holds a hoop and a bird—symbols of playfulness and innocence. The moment is not violent but charged with tension: a mortal about to be chosen by a god. Painted during the late Archaic period, when Athenian vase painters often explored themes of beauty and desire between men, it captures the myth’s earliest visual language—not yet abduction, but invitation. This subtle, coded eroticism would echo through centuries of artistic interpretations.

Roman Frescoes from Pompeii (1st century CE)

Roman artists often delighted in mythic scenes of beauty and motion, and frescoes from Pompeii depict Ganymede as a symbol of youthful perfection. One particularly vivid wall painting shows the eagle swooping in, its talons gently gripping the boy’s thigh—a moment frozen between terror and ecstasy. The ambiguity of consent here fascinated later Renaissance artists, who saw in the myth both danger and divine invitation.

Rubens’s The Rape of Ganymede (1611–1612)

In Rubens’s dramatic Baroque vision, the story erupts with motion and passion. The muscular eagle bursts upward, wings slicing through the air as Ganymede twists in its grip, his luminous flesh contrasting the dark feathers. Rubens’s title, The Rape of Ganymede, reflects the 17th-century usage of “rape” to mean abduction, yet the erotic charge is unmistakable. His Ganymede is no helpless child but a radiant youth caught between resistance and surrender—a living embodiment of desire wrestled from earth to heaven. The intensity of movement, the clash of power and beauty, make this one of the most sensual and psychologically complex renderings of the myth.

Pierre Laviron’s Ganymède Médicis (1684–1685)

Laviron’s sculpture, commissioned for the gardens of Versailles, translates the myth into polished elegance. His Ganymede stands poised and composed, offering a cup to the eagle perched beside him. The Baroque drama of Rubens is replaced by serene theatricality: beauty tamed into courtly decorum. Created under the patronage of Louis XIV, who used classical myth to mirror divine kingship, Laviron’s figure hints at the fine line between power’s affection and possession—between being loved by a god and serving one.

José Álvarez Cubero’s Ganymede (1804)

Cubero’s Neoclassical marble returns Ganymede to the world of ideal form and measured grace. The youth’s body is sculpted with the purity of Greek statuary—calm, proportioned, untouched by struggle. The eagle looks up to him rather than seizing him, reversing the myth’s hierarchy. For Cubero and his Enlightenment contemporaries, Ganymede embodied beauty elevated by virtue rather than consumed by passion. Desire, in this vision, becomes enlightenment itself.

Bertel Thorvaldsen’s Ganymede and the Eagle (1817)

Thorvaldsen refined Neoclassical serenity even further. His marble sculpture shows Ganymede standing calmly beside Zeus’s eagle, cup in hand, offering nectar to the god. Here the boy is no longer abducted but accepted—a symbol of beauty at peace with power, devotion intertwined with dignity. For many in the 19th century, this was a way of transforming homoerotic desire into a language of noble aesthetics.

Hans (Jean) Arp’s Ganymede (c. 1950s–60s)

By the mid-20th century, Ganymede took flight again—not in flesh, but in form. In Arp’s abstract bronze and marble variations titled Ganymede, the myth dissolves into undulating shapes and organic curves, evoking both ascent and embrace. The human figure is no longer literal; it becomes pure motion, spirit, and metamorphosis. Arp’s biomorphic language connects the myth’s essence—beauty transformed, matter lifted toward divinity—to the modern search for unity between body and soul. In this Ganymede, there is no eagle, no Zeus, only the eternal rise of form seeking the divine.

Why Ganymede Endures

What is it about this myth that has captivated artists for millennia? Perhaps it lies in its paradox. Ganymede is both victim and beloved, mortal and divine, powerless yet exalted. The story dances between danger and desire, and between the human wish to be seen and the peril of being too beautiful to ignore. For queer viewers and artists in particular, Ganymede’s ascension to Olympus can be read as a coded allegory of forbidden love—the notion that same-sex desire, long condemned on earth, might find its rightful place among the heavens. The myth becomes not just about abduction, but about transcendence—an elevation of love beyond human judgment.

In art, Ganymede is never only a youth in the talons of an eagle. He is a symbol of longing, transformation, and divine recognition—the mortal who touched eternity through beauty. Across centuries, artists have reimagined his ascent: from Correggio’s soft luminosity to Rubens’s violent ecstasy, from Thorvaldsen’s calm reverence to Arp’s abstract motion. Each generation has remade Ganymede in its own image—sometimes erotic, sometimes spiritual, always yearning. By the time we reach Arp, the boy has dissolved into pure form, his body transfigured into rhythm and curve. The myth that began with the abduction of a shepherd becomes the eternal story of ascent itself: the soul drawn upward by beauty, still rising, forever beyond reach.

I haven’t added an Isabella Pic of the Week in a while, so here’s one for you:

You can go on Etsy.com and search “male torso” and you’ll come up with hundreds, if not thousands, of works of the male torso. Sculptures, paintings, photographs, and even decorative candles in the shape of a chest all testify to the enduring fascination with this particular part of the human form. The torso has long been a central subject in art because it distills the human body to its essence: strength, sensuality, vulnerability, and ideal proportion. Artists across time and cultures have used the male torso not only to study anatomy but also to express ideals of beauty, divinity, and desire.

 

 

Ancient Beginnings

One of the oldest surviving examples is the Red Jasper Torso from Harappa, an Indus Valley civilization sculpture dating back over 4,000 years. Despite its small size, it displays a careful attention to musculature and balance. A similar focus on proportion appears in the Male Torso from Mora, Mathura (2nd century CE), which reflects the Indian tradition of combining sensual form with spiritual resonance. Even in antiquity, the torso stood as a shorthand for the power and beauty of the whole body.

The Classical Legacy

The Greco-Roman world perfected the torso as an independent art object. A striking example is the Male torso (Mercury?) in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, or the Roman Marble Male Torso (1st century BCE–1st century CE) once auctioned at Christie’s. Both works emphasize muscular structure and the heroic stance, capturing divine strength in a fragment. Most famous of all is the Belvedere Torso (Vatican Museums), a mutilated but monumental fragment that became a touchstone for Renaissance artists. Michelangelo studied it obsessively, and its twisting form influenced the dynamic poses of his Sistine Chapel figures.

Other classical examples show how the torso could embody narrative as well as anatomy. The Statue of Meleager (Harvard Art Museums) presents the hunter hero in a poised yet relaxed stance, the carefully modeled chest and abdomen conveying both strength and elegance. The Fragmentary statue of Diomedes from the Great Baths of Aquileia (National Archaeological Museum of Aquileia) reduces the heroic figure to its torso, yet the carving retains a sense of vitality and forward motion, reminding viewers of the power and drama embodied in the classical male form.

From Study to Modernism

Renaissance and Neoclassical artists often drew the torso as a central exercise in mastering anatomy. Michelangelo’s Studies of a Male Torso and Left Leg (1519–21, Teylers Museum) demonstrate his fascination with musculature and motion, while Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres’s Academic Study of a Male Torso (1801, National Museum, Warsaw) shows the continuation of this tradition into the academies of Europe. By the 20th century, Constantin Brancusi abstracted the form into pure shape in his Male Torso (1917, Cleveland Museum of Art), reducing muscles and bones to flowing simplicity. Later, Fernando Botero reimagined the body on monumental, exaggerated terms with his Male Torso Statue in Buenos Aires—rotund, playful, and commanding.

Torso in Photography

With the advent of photography, the torso remained central to the visual exploration of masculinity. Mark Ashkenazi’s Male Abs turns the torso into an icon of modern fitness culture, a sleek and stylized emblem of desire. In contrast, Tom Bianchi’s Fire Island Pines, Polaroids: 1975–1983 (published 2013) presents torsos in intimate, personal settings. One image in particular, where Bianchi himself appears on the right, captures not just form but community, sensuality, and queer joy. Robert Mapplethorpe’s photograph of Derrick Cross isolates the male torso with sculptural precision, transforming flesh and muscle into a study of form, texture, and shadow that blurs the line between portrait and classical sculpture.

 A Universal Fascination

What makes the male torso so timeless? Perhaps it is because the torso is both part and whole. As a fragment, it invites us to imagine what is missing; as a complete subject, it embodies strength, beauty, and vulnerability in one. Sculptors, painters, draftsmen, and photographers alike have returned to it again and again, finding in the lines of shoulders, the arch of ribs, and the rhythm of abdominal muscles a visual poetry that speaks across centuries. Contemporary works such as James Casey Lane’s The Shirt continue this dialogue, blending classical form with modern gesture to remind us that the torso is as much about movement and emotion as it is about anatomy.

From Harappa to Fire Island, the male torso remains an enduring symbol of the human form and its many meanings—divine, erotic, heroic, and profoundly human.

When most people picture Art Deco, the mind goes to sleek skyscrapers, angular ornament, and those famous female dancer figurines with ivory faces and bronze limbs. But the 1920s and 1930s also produced a remarkable body of male imagery, especially in sculpture, where the male nude was celebrated as much for its athletic power as for its aesthetic beauty.

Sculptural Heroes

Auguste Durin crafted muscular athletes whose streamlined bodies recalled both ancient Greek statues and modern gymnasiums. His bronzes often highlight the flex of a thigh or the arc of a torso, creating men who feel both timeless and distinctly of their era. Maurice Guiraud-Rivière gave us dynamic bronzes of runners, discus throwers, and hunters; their bodies drawn into taut, geometric rhythms as if caught in perpetual motion.

Demétre H. Chiparus, though famous for exotic female dancers, did not neglect men altogether—his Le Premier Pas shows a young nude stepping forward with deliberate grace, his body a harmony of energy and elegance. Max Le Verrier, perhaps the most recognizable name in Art Deco sculpture, created striking athletic youths such as Clarté, a lamp-bearing nude male who holds a glowing globe aloft like a modern Prometheus.

Jean de Roncourt’s works exude virility: his bronzes of hunters, wrestlers, and archers reveal every muscle in sharp definition, nude or scantily draped. Pierre Le Faguays, often working under pseudonyms like Fayral or Guerbe, produced vigorous male and female dancers alike; his Danseur Nu captures the twisting grace of a naked youth in motion. Even lesser-known sculptors like L. Valderi French contributed to this canon of heroic men, cast in bronze and spelter, embodying an age obsessed with strength and beauty.

Nudity and the Male Form

The nude male in Art Deco sculpture is strikingly different from the female nude of the same period. Where women are often allegorical or eroticized, men are athletic, disciplined, and powerful. Nudity was not scandal but symbol: the unclothed male body embodied health, modernity, and idealized masculinity. These weren’t portraits of individuals, but archetypes—youths who seemed to stride straight out of both the classical past and the Jazz Age future.

Two-Dimensional Visions

Art Deco depictions of men weren’t limited to bronze and stone. Painters, graphic artists, and muralists also took up the subject, often balancing sensuality with stylization. Tamara de Lempicka, best known for her cool, chic portraits of women, also painted striking male nudes, such as Nu Masculin (1929). In these canvases, bodies are sculptural and polished, more marble than flesh.

Jean Dupas, whose monumental panels adorned interiors of luxury liners, often depicted sailors, mythological heroes, and allegorical figures—sometimes draped, sometimes nude—his men elongated and stylized, their musculature arranged like architecture. In graphic art and advertising, artists such as Paul Colin infused male figures—whether jazz musicians, dancers, or athletes—with the same geometric vitality seen in sculpture.

Even in decorative arts, male forms appear: wall panels, book illustrations, and magazine covers showed sleek swimmers, runners, and workers, clothed or unclothed, embodying vigor and speed. The nude was celebrated not only in galleries but in the very fabric of modern life.

The Question of What’s Missing

One detail that often strikes modern viewers is what is not shown. Many Art Deco male nudes either cover or minimize the penis. This wasn’t an accident—it was a deliberate choice shaped by several factors. The style drew heavily on classical precedents, where small, modest genitalia signaled refinement rather than vulgarity. Social propriety and marketability also mattered: a statuette with prominent genitals would not have graced many bourgeois mantelpieces. Moreover, the Art Deco aesthetic favored clean lines, streamlined geometry, and polished surfaces—the penis simply disrupted the ideal silhouette. And finally, there was the delicate matter of gender politics: a nude woman could be eroticized without scandal; a nude man, if too explicit, risked reading as homoerotic in a society uncomfortable with such implications.

So while Art Deco exalted the male body, it often did so with strategic omissions. Muscles, movement, and idealized form took precedence over sexual detail. In this sense, the missing penis tells us as much about the cultural anxieties of the 1920s and 1930s as the stylized bodies tell us about its ideals of beauty and strength.

When we step into a museum gallery of Egyptian art, our eyes are often drawn first to the monumental: gilded sarcophagi, stone statues of gods and pharaohs, and painted papyri filled with hieroglyphs. Yet another thread runs quietly through these collections: the unclothed male body. Ancient Egyptian artists depicted nudity with striking frankness, and far from being taboo, it carried layered meanings about status, labor, youth, purity, and renewal.

Unlike the Greeks, who later celebrated the nude as the pinnacle of beauty and heroism, the Egyptians approached nudity as a visual code. In Old Kingdom tombs, men engaged in physical work—farmers, boatmen, fishermen—are often shown nude or in the simplest of belts. The tomb of Ti at Saqqara (c. 2400 BCE) shows such figures, their lean musculature emphasizing vitality and their role in sustaining society. In contrast, Ti himself appears clothed in fine linen, his dress underscoring elite distinction.

One particularly rare and fascinating relief from Saqqara, dating between 2350–2000 BCE, shows a circumcision ceremony in the tomb of Ankhmahor. Here, nude male figures are shown undergoing and performing the ritual—one of the few surviving artistic records of the practice in ancient Egypt. The nudity underscores both the ritual’s intimacy and its role in marking transition into maturity.

Sculpture also embraced this frankness. A striking wood and plaster figure from the Teti pyramid cemetery at Saqqara depicts a naked man, his body rendered with a simple, direct realism. Nudity here communicates not shame, but the humanity and vitality of the subject.

Children, meanwhile, were almost always represented nude, often with the distinctive side lock of hair. In the tomb of Mereruka, on a wall leading to the suite of his son Meryteti, reliefs show nude boys with this hairstyle—a clear marker of youth. Such depictions reinforced the cultural code that nudity signified a stage of life, unencumbered until maturity called for clothing and social role.

Even tomb owners themselves were not always portrayed clothed. For a brief period in the late Old Kingdom and the First Intermediate Period, there emerged a fashion of depicting the deceased nude before Osiris, lord of the underworld. These figures symbolized renewal and rebirth. A powerful example is the statue of the “sole companion Ha’a,” now at the Walters Art Museum, which shows the tomb owner nude in a stance of rejuvenation. His unclothed body is not vulnerable but potent—a symbol of life reborn.

Priests could also be represented nude in scenes of purification, where absence of clothing symbolized ritual purity. Nudity here functioned as a spiritual statement, aligning the physical with the sacred.

Even the kings, though usually shown in elaborate regalia, sometimes reveal the ideals of the nude body beneath. The famous triads of Menkaure (Mycerinus) from Giza (c. 2490 BCE) clothe the pharaoh in a kilt, yet the carving clings so closely that the idealized musculature beneath is practically a nude form.

It is worth remembering that erotic art did exist in Egypt—the Turin Erotic Papyrus (New Kingdom, c. 1150 BCE) leaves little doubt about the Egyptians’ playful side—but within tomb and temple contexts, nudity was symbolic rather than sensational. It marked youth, labor, ritual purity, or eternal renewal.

For us today, the honesty of these depictions can feel startling. To stand before the Ankhmahor relief in Saqqara, or to study the Walters’ statue of Ha’a, is to be reminded that the ancient Egyptians saw nudity not as scandalous, but as part of the visual language of life, death, and rebirth. For queer viewers especially, there’s something poignant here: the male body, shown frankly across centuries, becomes not just a record of status or ritual, but a reminder of continuity in human fascination with form, vitality, and beauty.

Where to See These Works Today

If you’d like to connect these ideas with objects you can actually view, here are a few key examples:

• The Tomb of Ankhmahor, Saqqara (2350–2000 BCE) – Relief of a circumcision scene (on-site in Egypt, reproductions in Cairo Museum).
• Wood and Plaster Nude Figure from the Teti Pyramid Cemetery, Saqqara – Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
• “The Sole Companion Ha’a” (late Old Kingdom / First Intermediate Period) – Walters Art Museum, Baltimore.
• Reliefs from the Tomb of Mereruka, Saqqara – On-site in Egypt, with reproductions in major collections like the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
• Statues of Menkaure (Mycerinus) with Hathor and Nome deities (c. 2490 BCE) – Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
• Turin Erotic Papyrus (c. 1150 BCE) – Museo Egizio, Turin, Italy.