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Helen Lewis: Wonder Woman’s complex, contradictory origin story

Wonder Woman is riddled with contradictions: sexless, yet sexy; strong, yet vulnerable; a feminist hero created by a man.

The babe from Themyscira: Wonder Woman embodies female ideals and male fantasies

The Secret History of Wonder Woman 
Jill Lepore
Scribe, 432pp, £20

“A great movement is now under way – the growth in the power of women. Let that theme alone or we drop the project.” These stern words were written by William Moulton Marston in 1941 as he submitted his first script for a new superhero. Her name was Wonder Woman.

In the seventy-odd years since, successive editors, writers and directors have found it impossible to “let that theme alone”. A strong, independent, explicitly feminist action hero is still too radical for the business-minded comics industry.

It doesn’t help that Wonder Woman has quite the glass ceiling to smash with her Lasso of Truth. Although superhero movies now dominate the box office, there is still a dearth of female characters – even 2012’s The Avengers, directed by a geek feminist, Joss Whedon, had only Scarlett Johansson’s Black Widow next to seven male leads. And she was the only one in the poster sticking her bum out. Despite a blizzard of comic adaptations, Wonder Woman will have to wait until at least 2017 to get her own feature film.

As Jill Lepore’s lovingly researched study demonstrates, Wonder Woman is used to such slights. The character soared in popularity when invited to join the “Justice Society” of superheroes during the Second World War. However, this bold traveller from the land of the Amazons, who had incredible strength and resourcefulness (as well as bullet-stopping bracelets), was promptly installed as . . . the Society’s secretary. She spent the war sighing about having been left at home while her male counterparts went off adventuring.

This book is several things at once: a history of Wonder Woman’s creator, Marston; a reflection on the themes underpinning the comic; and an exploration of how it was influenced by the early women’s suffrage and reproductive rights movements. Lepore came to the topic through her interest in legal history – Marston also invented the lie detector – and describes herself as a rare person who is interested in law, comics and feminism. At times, you can almost feel her cursing her self-restraint, as the prose strains to scurry off and follow an interesting digression.

The spine of the book is the life of Marston, a charming and occasionally cantankerous conman who hoodwinked a series of establishment figures with his PhD in the (then) avant-garde discipline of psychology. Born in 1893, he met his future wife, Elizabeth Holloway, in eighth grade at a grammar school in Cliftondale, Massa­chusetts. The bright, serious girl went on to Mount Holyoke, the leading women’s college, founded in 1837; he went to Harvard. The university experiences of both were shaped by the burgeoning “woman movement”, campaigning for suffrage; Marston’s was also affected by his growing interest in subjecting young women to psychological experiment. One of the women the young professor strapped into his early lie-detection machine was Olive Byrne, a boyish student who was the secret niece of the feminist firebrand Margaret Sanger. Olive had grown up in an orphanage after her mother, Ethel, Sanger’s sister, was jailed for distributing advice on contraception.

Soon, Olive was living with Marston and his wife; in 1931, she had the first of two children by him. Her sons, Byrne and Donn, were told that their father was called William K Richard and had died tragically without leaving a single photo behind. Later, the Marstons adopted the boys and raised them with their children, Pete and Olive Ann. That two of the kids were just six months apart in age caused a degree of confusion among their classmates; otherwise their neighbours and colleagues seem to have decided not to question too closely the story that Olive was the couple’s housekeeper.

In effect, Marston had two wives: one to work, and one to raise the family. (A third lover also had a room in the attic.) As Lepore coolly observes, for a man who preached the gospel of female dominance, he behaved at times like an old-fashioned patriarch.

Olive Byrne didn’t have a wedding ring but she did wear two golden bracelets from the date she took up with Marston: these were the inspiration for Wonder Woman’s bullet-stoppers. Similarly, Holloway’s love of the Greek poet Sappho fed into some of the character’s curses (“Suffering Sappho!”) and her time at Mount Holyoke inspired the fictional all-women’s “Holiday College”.

At times, there is perhaps too much reading of the comics through the prism of Marston’s personal life: after a section discussing how Wonder Woman is perpetually getting tied up, one of his children is ushered in to say that his father never demonstrated any real-life interest in bondage. Where the book shines is in laying bare how explicitly political the comic book was always intended to be. Marston’s Wonder Woman – or rather, her alter ego, Diana Prince – could never marry her love interest, Steve, because it would lead to her losing her Amazon powers. (In a clanking bit of symbolism, the only way she can be defeated is if a man welds chains to her golden bracelets.) Lepore’s epilogue explaining how in the 1970s the Second Wave of feminists tried to reclaim the character is particularly good, and there are plenty of examples of the original comic art.

Wonder Woman is riddled with contradictions: sexless, yet sexy; strong, yet vulnerable; a feminist hero created by a man – inspired by the two women he loved (and who were inseparable even after his death). As origin stories go, it puts “found in a cornfield” or “bitten by a radioactive spider” into perspective, doesn’t it? 

Correction: This story originally referred to Wonder Woman joining the Justice League in the Second World War. It has been corrected to the Justice Society.

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

This article first appeared in the 19 December 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Christmas Issue 2014

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A sketchy legacy? How Pieter's sons kept Brand Bruegel going

For all his business acumen, Pieter the Younger was no original and his skill was weedy compared to the robustness of his father’s.

One of the many complications that make the Bruegels the most confusing clan in art is the letter H. Pieter Bruegel the Elder, the founder of the dynasty and its greatest artist, was the painter of such celebrated works as The Hunters in the Snow (1565) and The Tower of Babel (1563). Contrary to the elegance and elevating tenets of the Italian Renaissance, he made the peasant life of the Low Countries his subject, in all its scatological, rambunctious and therefore human detail. In 1559 he dropped the H in his surname and started signing in Roman capital letters – Brueghel becoming the rather more stately Bruegel.

Bruegel had two sons, Pieter and Jan, aged four and one at the time of his death in 1569. Both became painters, too, and as their careers took off Pieter the Younger reinstated the H his father had discarded (though in later life, to add to the disorder, he reversed the order of the U and E) and it remained the moniker of the innumerable painting Brueghels who followed. Rather more confusing than this alphabet jiggery-pokery, though, is the sheer number of painters in the dynasty – some 15 blood relations over the course of 150 years, before a plethora of apprentices, collaborators and intermarriages is factored in.

It is partly to unknot this family tree that the Holburne Museum is running “Bruegel: Defining a Dynasty”, a small but choice exhibition of about thirty pictures that show the distinctiveness of the leading family members. What makes the ­early-generation Bruegels worth looking at in detail is that each was significant in a different way.

The geographer Abraham Ortelius wrote of Pieter the Elder: “That he was the most perfect painter of his age, no one – unless jealous, envious or ignorant of his art – could ever deny.” For all the earthiness of his peasant subjects and their rural pastimes, he was collected by the richest of Antwerp’s merchants, by the Spanish governor general of the Netherlands, Archduke Ernst, and by the Holy Roman emperor himself, Rudolf II in Prague. His patrons recognised that he was no mere Hieronymus Bosch derivative but a highly innovative artist (candlelit interiors, snow scenes, landscapes) whose depictions of human folly mixed the comedic with the serious, but nevertheless contained the belief that wisdom and virtue were the means for redemption.

When Bruegel died, his two sons were trained in painting by their maternal grandmother, Mayken Verhulst, an accomplished miniaturist in her own right, and came of age at a time of Bruegel mania, when there just weren’t enough of their father’s pictures left to go round. There are only three Bruegel the Elders in the whole of Britain, and the National Gallery has lent its Adoration of the Kings (1564) to the show, the first time in a century it has left Trafalgar Square.

Pieter the Younger set out to milk the market and painted large quantities of copies of his father’s most popular works by using the original preparatory cartoons – scale drawings with holes pricked around the figures, which, when dusted with charcoal, would transfer the outlines to a panel beneath. The resulting pictures were very saleable Bruegels by Brueghel: he painted 45 versions of his father’s Winter Landscape with a Bird Trap, 25 of The Peasant Lawyer, and 31 of the 100 existing versions of the riotous Wedding Dance in the Open Air. There’s a lot of Pieter the Younger about.

For all his business acumen, Pieter the Younger was no original and his skill was weedy compared to the robustness of his father’s. It was the second son, Jan “Velvet” Brueghel, who was an artistic pioneer. Nature was his topic and although he, too, repurposed his father’s peasant scenes in his work, as in A Flemish Fair (1600), he shrank the goings-on to make them merely an incident within a diaphanous landscape, rather than the main subject.

Jan painted works of great refinement in oil on copper rather than wood, and also developed the genre of pictures of vases of flowers of kaleidoscopic colour that then became such a popular strand of 17th-century Dutch art. He also frequently worked with collaborators, usually figure painters such as Rubens (who was godfather to at least one of his children), realising that a joint Brueghel-Rubens painting was worth more than one by himself alone.

To add to the mix, one of Jan’s daughters, Anna, married the Golden Age genre painter David Teniers, while another, Paschasia, married into the van Kessel family – their offspring becoming popular for their miniature paintings of insects and plants.

What emerges from this tangled genealogy is that though talent ran in the family, it did so unevenly: Pieter the Younger was a pretty competent painter, Jan a good one, but Pieter the Elder had a genius his descen­dants never got close to matching.

Runs until 4 June. More details:

Michael Prodger is an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman. He is an art historian, Senior Research Fellow at the University of Buckingham, and a former literary editor.

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times