Last Monday, on vacation, I visited Malibu's Getty Villa, where even the driveway was inspired by the streets of ancient Rome (it's like driving on cobblestones). I wandered early on into the Outer Peristyle, a beautiful garden with covered walkways and strategically placed statuary. In a niche at the end of the peristyle was a "touchable" Aphrodite/Venus. It's the only piece, as far as I know, that visitors are encouraged to touch, so that they can experience the varied textures of the stone. Rather shyly, I touched the most innocuous spots I could think of, an arm and a leg. For one thing, it felt strange to be touching anything in a museum, even a copy. For another -- well, after all, it's Aphrodite, a goddess. And not just any goddess, either. Boy, is that ever true.
Of course, the gods and goddesses are only personifications of forces, but the ancients revered them, and the forces themselves are real enough. That feeling of attraction toward a special someone? A love of flowers, chocolate, and gourmet dining? The urge toward adornment and the appreciation of beautiful things? All Aphrodite. I am probably more of an Athena in general; I am a little out of my depth with Aphrodite (except for the chocolate), and you can be sure she's quite aware of that.
After touching the statue, I almost felt I'd committed a sacrilege, or at least a social blunder, and everybody knows how testy the immortals could be over even the tiniest things. Did someone make Aphrodite mad? Well, they might be torn apart by rampaging horses, for starters. When someone dissed her (or she even thought they had), she took swift action. So what would Aphrodite think of a tourist putting fingerprints on her marble limbs? Would she think a mythologist, of all people, should know better? I was ever so slightly uneasy.
As it happens, I was visiting a city that celebrates all things Aphrodite pretty unashamedly. A lot of places are suspicious of Aphrodite, but I don't think L.A. is. What a lot of people criticize as shallow or vacuous in L.A. culture, at least as it's popularly conceived, are things I associate with Aphrodite -- the worship of physical beauty, for instance. This isn't bad in itself, but it can be if over indulged. It's all about balance. You can just as easily be running an Aphrodite deficit as an excess; the former is my usual condition -- and probably part of the reason L.A. appeals to me.
Aphrodite does has a generous side, and because of that, or maybe just because she's a little vain and likes attention, I did not turn into a flock of goats. Instead, I believe she decided to take me under her wing. I developed a propensity for taking scented baths in my jetted spa. I've never craved spas before, but -- presented with the opportunity -- I was suddenly enamored. That's the first thing I noticed. Next, I sought out a three-course meal in a restaurant that had previously intimidated me, ending with a fabulous chocolate dessert that was pure Aphrodite. It had her fingerprints all over it.
As the week went on, things got more interesting. I saw a car near the inn with a license plate that said O EROS. Even my labyrinth researches got the Aphrodite touch. I drove down to Palos Verdes one day to seek out a labyrinth-by-the-sea that I had heard about. It was a long way and not easy to find, but something made me go, and after getting very close to it once and doubling back on my tracks (that labyrinth thing again), I finally found it. It was behind a church on a little promenade overlooking the Pacific, the most Venusian labyrinth I have ever seen, a glowing pink and coral surface with the emblem of a shell at its center. Standing on the shell, with the sea breeze on my back and surfers down below, I closed my eyes and thought about Botticelli. For the first time, I had a visceral sense of that painting.
Of course, it was inevitable that the urge to shop would kick in. On Tuesday, I made a preliminary sortie into Anthropologie, but the jacket that caught my eye didn't fit. On Wednesday, I bought gifts of bath salts on Montana Avenue even as my laundry tumbled in the dryer. On Thursday, I set out to visit a boutique that promised personal attention from the staff, who would size you up and bring you clothes to try. Momentarily daunted when I found out movie stars went there, I recovered with Aphrodite's help and pressed on, letting the stylish, boa-wearing shop girl bring me armloads of items, some of them a bit out of my normal comfort range, until I left an hour later with two new outfits and a dent in my credit card. No, it was not self-indulgence, but a necessary wardrobe corrective (besides, it was good for the economy).
On Friday, I found myself in Silver Lake (in a pouring rain, no less) eyeing hand-crafted jewelry, cosmetics, lace and silk, flowers, and chocolate. I bought a few things, things I didn't strictly need according to Maslow's hierarchy of needs -- but of course, that's the whole point.
I think I fixed my Aphrodite deficit, at least temporarily. I'm pretty sure she thinks I did OK for a novice. So maybe my hesitant bumbling, which I took as an affront, she took as supplication. Maybe she has a soft spot for librarians. Or graduate students. She did such a good job on me that even on my last morning, at the airport, I was looking at the shoes of every girl that walked by, searching for the style of boots that would go with my new pants.
I think the moral of the story is . . . when in Rome, do as the Romans do; when at the Getty Villa, do as the tourists do; and when in L.A. -- live a little.
