to prompt citizens to sacrifice their body and soul for the cause of the new political religion.
The European integration project, as the authors reveal, “was born like a phoenix out of the ashes of World War I and World War II” (Cultural Committee 2014). In 2014, a hundred years after the primal trauma, what Europe needs in order to leave behind the painful consequences of the shock (2008 crisis) is “nothing short of a ‘New Renaissance.’” As in bureaucrats’ rhetoric, the frequent use of religious and mythological idioms serves to add a mystic, spiritual dimension to the political projects. To similar ends, the authors sacralise time by restructuring the official EU calendar. Until recently, European history has always been told by the European elite in a teleological fashion as the story of the European family’s linear march, starting in 1950 and advancing gradually but without interruptions toward complete union. Today, however, Europe’s (chosen) intellectuals give a cyclic vision of time; they describe the story of Europe following the mythic structure of trauma and triumph, death and rebirth. Portrayed as the mythological phoenix, the European community is cherished for its ability to resurrect time and time again and arise from the ashes of its predecessor to return to the mythical age.
In both narratives crisis appears as something not just natural, frequent in the history of European integration, but also as something necessary—as a “great regenerating experience.” In both cases the sacralization of politics suggests that in order to resurrect one has to die; for Europe to restore its golden age, it must first undergo the painful destruction of the crisis. The symbolism of death and resurrection, the commitment to Europe, the mysticism of trauma and triumph, blood and sacrifice, the cult of Europe’s heroes and martyrs, the “communion” of citizens are all meant to contribute to the spreading of the myth of palingenesis, to the reinforcing of the belief that membership in a new united Europe would renew all forms of existence.
THE TALE OF SEDUCTIVE EUROPA
As the “White Paper on a European Communication Policy” demands, European institutions all need to have a “human face,” not just to demonstrate that they possess a “clear public identity” but also to strike a chord with citizens and to make sure that they are perceived as personally relevant. In 2012 Europa became the “new face of the euro.” The portrait of the mythological princess was incorporated into some of the security features of the new series of euro banknotes, a series that, not surprisingly, was baptized as the “Europa series.” At first sight this choice could appear to be a response to the Commission’s continuously repeated call that invited every EU institution to cease to be faceless. But is that all? Is it just one of the profane political measures serving simple “community goals?”
The ECB seems ready to attribute the characteristics of an animate being to an inanimate object, to personify the euro, to symbolize it, to make sure that the currency has both a public and a private function. Personification is part of the rich legacy of ancient Greece—a “strange disposition of Greek thought to turn concepts into gods and gods into concepts” (Gombrich 1971: 248). According to Gombrich we are perfectly accustomed to and even renounce asking questions about the
extraordinary predominantly feminine population which greets us from the porches of cathedrals, crowds around our public monuments, marks our coins and our banknotes, and turns up in our cartoons and our posters. (1971: 247)
Yet for us it is worth reflecting on the considerations and fantasies underlying the decision to ornament the new euro series with the portrait of Europa. Could we see in it an attempt to transform once and for all the euro’s humble story into a numinous tale? The image of the Phoenician princess has been traveling for various centuries through different territories, adorning everyday objects such as plates, medals, mirrors, stamps, and coins. Could it be that her voyage, ensured by the circulation of the European common currency, has several mysterious elements, conundrums difficult to decipher?
As Roland Barthes points out, myths represent a “type of speech,” a system of communication, a message that includes not just written but also visual discourse, not just modes of writing or of representations but also photography, cinema, reporting, sport, shows, and publicity (1972: 109, 110). While EU officials have offered several different verbal narratives about the origins and the rebirth of the “European family,” the ECB president chose the Europa myth and provided a visual (and partly verbal) and somewhat artistic representation of the paradise dream.
Before becoming a geographical expression, a political concept, a cultural identity, an economic fortress, a paradise dream, or a sui generis organization, Europe was a beautiful Phoenician princess, the daughter of king Agenor and the sister of Cadmos, whose story, in Moschus’s interpretation (1912), starts with a dream. Numerous versions of Europa’s story exist; the one written by this Alexandrian bucolic poet in the second century BC is interesting for at least two reasons. In recent studies the prevalent idea is that the name of the Phoenician princess and that of the continent were independent in origin. Moschus, however, is one of the few who identified Europa both with the maiden and with the continent. Furthermore, he opened his tale with a dream-image, which may remind us that at the core of the European civilization lies a myth, a collective dream.
Europa on the eve of her rapture dreamed that two lands, in the form of two women, were fighting for her possession. One looked familiar, the other, a stranger. Although the former (the native Asia) claimed that she was her nursing and nourishing mother, the maiden felt more attracted by the foreigner and more willing to submit to her violent advances. Once awake, the vision remained in her imagination. Feeling frightened by the obscurity of the dream, she wished to know which god had sent her forth such phantoms, what the meaning of the dream was, and, in particular, who the unknown woman represented: “how did desire possess my heart for her, and how gladly likewise did she take me to her arms and look upon me as I had been her child!” (Moschus 1912: [1]). In Moschus’s story we then see Europa gathering wildflowers in a seaside meadow with her companions. All of a sudden, she catches sight of a beautiful, unusually gentle white bull—Zeus in disguise—whose fragrance is more pleasurable than that of the flowers. It is worth quoting how the strong sensuality of the magic encounter is described (the image chosen by Draghi seems to capture exactly these moments of seduction):
There went he then and stood afore the spotless may Europa, and for to cast his spell upon her began to lick her pretty neck. Whereat she fell to touching and toying, and did wipe gently away the foam that was thick upon his mouth, till at last there went a kiss from a maid unto a bull. Then he lowed, and so moving-softly you would deem it was the sweet cry of the flute of Mygdony, and kneeling at Europa’s feet, turned about his head and beckoned her with a look to his great wide back. (Moschus 1912: [89])
Attracted irresistibly by the bull, the Phoenician princess climbs upon its back. At that moment, the bull jumps into the sea, determined to carry the maiden across the sea from Tyre to the island of Crete. During the journey, nereids rise from the water and become her companions while Tritons with their long taper shells sound the marriage-music. Once she is far from the land of her fathers and cannot see any more the shore, but only the endless sky and sea, she starts to feel that her sea voyage is being guided by a divinity. The bull reveals to her that in Crete she will celebrate her wedding with Zeus and give birth to famous children who shall all be kings. When they arrive at their destination the animal unveils his true identity, and “upon a bed made him of the Seasons [unloosens] her maiden girdle” and transforms the virgin into his bride, and the mother of his children.
Concerned about Europa’s disappearance, Agenor sends his sons Cadmus, Cilix, and Phoenix to find their sister and bring her back home. Cadmus decides to follow an Oracle of Delphi who orders him to embark on a different journey: to follow the cow that he meets on his voyage and found a city upon the spot where it lies down. Instead of finding his sister he creates the Greek city of Thebes and becomes its first king. Europa
