Das Video »Der Tod Hyazinths« ist aus dem Vidéo Essai
»Schwan mit Sternenstaub«, Kapitel 33 Ars erotica.
»Mythen der griechischen und römischen Antike.«
Format: HDV, Farbe, Ton.
Kamera, Regie: Gerhard Fischer.
Schnitt: Valeriy Radmirov.
Produzent: Daedalus Wien , 2021.

The myth tells that the god Apollo fell in love with the boy Hyacinthus, while Zephyrus, the west wind, also desired him. As Apollo taught Hyacinthus to throw the discus, Zephyrus, whose unrequited love turned into hatred, redirected the discus and hurled it into Hyacinthus's face. Hyacinthus died in Apollo's arms. The boy was transformed into the hyacinth flower, on whose petals were inscribed Apollo's sighs: "Ai" ("Alas, alas"). The Roman writer Publius Ovidius Naso narrated this story in exile in Tomis. "The Death of Hyacinthus" is a poignant celebration of a homoerotic bond.

In the stylistic era of Neoclassicism (David, Girodet, and their pupils), one finds many slender youths depicted in amorous devotion. We see a gallery of Apollos, Cyparissus, Narcissus, Zephyrs, Cupids, and Endymions. These ephebes, with elegiac grace, are shown surrendered or ecstatic, asleep or dead. Neoclassicism celebrates the world of the androgynous and mythology.

Ovid, Metamorphoses

Book 10.162–219.

Apoll and Hyacinthus

By now, Titan stood midway between the approaching and the departing night, equidistant from both. Then they stripped off their clothes, gleaming with the juice of rich oil, and began the contest with the broad discus. First, Phoebus drew back and hurled the disc high into the air, scattering the clouds in its path with great force. After a long time, the weight returned to the firm ground, demonstrating how strength and skill were united. Recklessly eager to play along, the Spartan youth hastened to pick up the disc. However, the hard ground caused it to rebound and strike you, Hyacinthus, in the face. The god turned pale, just like the boy. Catching the collapsing body, he alternately warmed you, dried your sorrowful wound, and applied healing herbs, but his art was powerless. The wound was incurable.

Like flowers in a watered garden—stock, poppies, or lilies—bent down by a careless hand, they droop, let their heavy heads fall, and cannot hold themselves upright, gazing at the earth. Thus lay the dying face, its strength departed, the neck unable to bear itself, resting on the shoulder. "You are fading away, Oebalus's son, robbed of your youth," said Phoebus, "and I see your wound, my crime. You are my sorrow and my guilt. Let it be written on your grave that my hand killed you. I am the cause of your death. But what is my guilt unless one calls playing a fault, or loving a fault? If only I could give my life for you and with you! Since the law of fate forbids this, you will always be with me, and I will not forget you, always keeping your memory. My lyre, my songs will speak of you, and on you, the new flower, my sighs will be inscribed." As Phoebus spoke, behold, the blood that stained the grass was no longer blood; brighter than Tyrian purple, a flower bloomed in its place. It resembled the shape of lilies but was purple instead of silvery white. Phoebus himself inscribed his sighs on its petals: "Ai-ai," and the writing mourned. Sparta is proud to have borne Hyacinthus; his honor endures to this day, and each year, the Hyacinthia returns with its procession, celebrated in the tradition of the ancestors.

Original Translation in German by Michael von Albrecht