Mishandling the Myth of Medusa. A Feminist Perspective on Medusa
By: Tyler A. Donohue
Tags: Mythology, Feminism, Medusa, Analysis, Womens Rights

The stories of ancient Greek and Roman mythology have, over the years, been rediscovered, repurposed, and reinterpreted in more modern contexts. Often times, this has allowed us to garner some sort of fable-like lesson from the stories of the Illiad or Metamorphoses. The story of Medusa continues to provoke renewed perspectives on its symbolism — including through the lens of feminism and psychoanalysis.

From a feminist perspective, Medusa’s story seems a cautionary tale of the symbolic decapitation of women and a loss of one’s power. In order to unpack the feminist implication of the mythology, let’s begin with the narrative of her story. Medusa was one of three daughters — born with extraordinary beauty and stunning hair. She becomes a priestess to her sister Athena and vows to her sister to remain pure. Athena grows jealous, as many men flock to her, only to glance at Medusa instead. Eventually, Medusa attracts the attention of Poseidon, who subsequently rapes her. Although Athena had the power to prevent this, she chooses not to. Athena is one of Poseidon’s sworn enemies, and through raping her sister, he is able to take power from her. When Athena discovers that Posidon has raped Medusa, she chooses to blame her rather than him. In order to punish her, Athena curses Medusa by replacing her beautiful hair with a head of venomous snakes and making it so anyone who looks into her eyes will be turned to stone.

At this point, Medusa’s head became a desired trophy for many warriors who wanted to brave her fierce monster-like powers. Many warriors are sent to kill her, including Perseus. It is only with help from all of the gods that Perseus is able to not only kill but fully decapitate her. Without the support of the gods, he would have been petrified like every other warrior. Perhaps one of the most fascinating aspects of Medusa’s story is that she was pregnant with Poseidon’s child when she was killed. From her severed neck, her child Pegasus is born. As we’ve mentioned, the myth of Medusa can be interpreted in various ways, but I think perhaps the most fascinating analysis is done through a feminist perspective because it unveils just how swift we are to circumvent female rage.

turinboy/Flickr/CC BY 2.0

Despite her origin story being one of purity and renowned beauty, Medusa has come to connote only malevolence and her role as a gorgon, or mythical monster. She is the opposite of what Michael Foucault called, “docile bodies.” A concept in which women are expected to conform and submit to the enforced codes and structures of a patriarchal society. During the late 20th century, feminists began to reassess the myth of Medusa. In the 1994 book, Female Rage: Unlocking Its Secrets, Claiming Its Power, the authors claimed that “when they asked women what female rage looked like to them, it was always Medusa…who came to mind…In one interview after another they were told that Medusa is ‘the most horrific woman in the world.’” None of the women they interview could remember the details of the myth, and perhaps, had they been able to, they would have had a different perspective. Our image of Medusa is one of pure evil, but in reality, she is raped and impregnated by her rapist. She is then cast out and cursed by her own sister. Only to be stalked and haunted constantly by status-seeking men, and inevitably, murdered by Perseus. Then her “severed head, capable of transfixion even in death, is carted away to help him defeat the villain of his story.” There is a painful recognition in the fact that Medusa’s head — the center of her knowledge and power — is taken from her in order to empower a man and to fight his battles for him.

She is the symbol of what female power looks like in the face of threatened male authority

Ancient Greek artists originally portrayed Medusa “as an almost comically hideous figure, with a lolling tongue, full beard, and bulging eyes.” This image of Medusa began to shift when “mustache stubble was replaced by smooth cheeks, and fangs concealed by shapely lips,” as Classical artists began to feminize her once again. There are numerous images of Medusa in an almost angel-like state, or even once she had been cursed, images where the snakes in her hair function as more of an accessory rather than something fearsome. Through these renditions of her visage, Medusa is painted into a half-human, half-animal monster. She is both feminine and monstrous. While she may be known for her monstrosity, her beauty remains just as dangerous. In ancient Greek society, which was “a male-centered society, the feminization of monsters served to demonize women.” Medusa is, in other words, the ultimate femme fatale. She is a woman who “represents a conflicting view of femininity, one that is seemingly alluring but with a threatening or sinister underside.” The femme fatale archetype has found permanence in our storytelling, and confirms to us that: to be both beautiful and fearsome — to be a woman who has bodily autonomy and anger — is not at all normative and that those women must be cast aside or have power taken from them.

This is exactly why the story of Medusa continues to captivate us — because she is a character that demands to be reimagined, she pushes back against the story that places Perseus at its center, who claims him to be blameless and heroic. Medusa is so alluring to us, because she is the “image of intoxication, petrifaction, and luring attractiveness.” She is seductive to us in her contemporary application and dimensionality. Medusa remains of temporal importance because she is the symbol of what female power looks like in the face of threatened male authority. As Elizabeth Johnston claims in her 2016 Atlantic essay, Medusa may be “the original Nasty Woman.” In 2020, it might be easy to chastise the women in the 90s who called Medusa “the most horrific woman,” but perhaps we would be better suited to remind ourselves just how recently things have begun to change. After all, we are in a post #MeToo moment, when we can clearly recognize Medusa’s myth as a rape narrative — one in which the victim is blamed and cast out by her community for crimes perpetrated against her.

In 1976, Hélène Cixous, a noteworthy French feminist theorist, wrote an essay called “The Laugh of the Medusa,” in which she unpacks this myth. She calls women to write and express themselves fully. Throughout the essay she encourages women to come closer in relation to “her sexuality, to her womanly being, giving her access to her native strength.” She goes on to say that in doing so she will get “back her goods, her pleasure, her organs, her immense bodily territories.” Cixous continues on, saying that for too long women's bodies have been occupied and deemed guilty — “guilty of everything, guilty at every turn: for having desire, for not having any; for being frigid, for being ‘too hot’; for not being both at once,” perhaps even from being both woman and angry. Cixous emphasizes the importance of the female voice, of women’s story, she urges women to urgently learn to speak; because after all “a woman without a body, dumb, blind, can’t possibly be a good fighter.” Herein, we see Medusa’s head, cut from her body, being held up by Perseus, “she is reduced to being the servant of the militant male, his shadow.” In what insidious ways are women made to be in a man’s shadow? How might women’s stories actually be centered around women? Throughout all of her work, Cixous decries phallocentric storytelling and histories — in which men and the psychoanalytic lens of phallic imagery are centered in women’s stories.

Of course, one must never mention psychoanalysis and phallic imagery without then mentioning Sigmund Freud, who, during the 20th century, wrote prolifically about the intersection of sexuality and psychology. In 1950 his uncompleted essay, “Medusa’s Head,” was posthumously published. He poses the idea that “to decapitate = to castrate.” Through this framework, Freud posits that the female head is akin to her genitalia — keeping in mind that Medusa did in fact “give birth” to her child from her severed neck. Within this context, it seems as if both the male genitalia and female head are their respective centers of power. Thereby, to castrate a man is to severe his most vital organ; and to decapitate a woman is to take her most vital source of power.

SLAVA GERJ / WITR / SHUTTERSTOCK / ZAK BICKEL / THE ATLANTIC

The incomplete essay becomes far more phallocentric as it continues — explaining how the sight of female genitalia instills fear of castration, how Medusa’s snake-like hair is (of course) a phallic symbol, and finally that Medusa’s ability to cause onlookers to become stiff, is a representation of an erection and therefore a confirmation of their manhood and of still having a penis — it is in essence, their final confirmation of manhood. From Freud’s telling, the entire story takes place through the perspective of the man in the story, reducing Medusa to something sub-human. Medusa’s beheading is the ultimate offense because it involves a complete dismemberment, a permanence within the male gaze, and a “double darkness.” According to Hélène Cixous’ article “The Laugh of Medusa,” she claims that,

The mythologically beheaded woman is seen (or at least partially seen) does not see; she is blinded and those who have beheaded her are blinded to her real nature. She is transformed from a seeing subject to merely seen object, a demeaned and faceless body.

Freud’s analysis of the Medusa myth is that she was decapitated because she represents castration anxiety through phallic symbolism. According to Freud, it is for this reason that Perseus must decapitate her. Cixous disagrees with this analysis. She argues that decapitation is not a symbol of castration anxiety, but rather a result of it. In other words, symbolic decapitation, “is a symptom of the real dangers that women face in a culture that is anxious about the powers of masculinity.” Cixous demonstrates these points by claiming Freud himself is reductive and neglects to address the female experience in the Medusa myth, thereby erasing her experience, or, symbolically decapitating her as well.

In her book Put A Bag Over Her Head: Beheading Mythological Women, Wendy Doniger posits that — if men fear castration of the penis, then women fear decapitation of the head; therefore the penis and the head become the locus of power within the man and woman respectively. Doniger claims that “beheading equals the release or termination of sexuality, male or female.” Doniger submits that through the sexualization of the female head, (i.e. the mouth becoming the vagina) the woman, in essence, loses her voice, or rather she is denied of her voice. If the sexualization of the female head causes subjectivity of the woman, then I argue that Freud’s analysis (i.e. the hair as a phallic symbol) is also a sexualization of the female head. If women venture to claim control over their heads, then they become a threat to the phallic, male-dominated structure. Because Medusa refuses a fate of silence and subjectivity, Perseus is left with no option but to decapitate Medusa for wielding her power.

The myth of Medusa lies at the nexus of conversations about symbolism, feminity, rage, and the ways women are symbols of generativity, desire, and power. There is an alluring nature to Medusa, as she is both siren and saint — she is the complicated woman we all understand and fear. The phallocentric understanding of Medusa that attempts to claim her as an erotic object denies her of her full power of speech, thought, and importance. Her decapitation is in direct result of male anxiety about maintaining power and control. Google any famous woman’s name, perhaps Angela Merkel, Nancy Pelosi, or Hillary Clinton along with the word “Medusa.” For centuries “women in power (or fighting for power) have been compared to Medusa, from Marie Antoinette to the suffragettes.”It’s clear — in our society the sexually and intellectually independent woman is a fearsome sight to behold.