It’s been a pretty grim run of Big Stories—death, loneliness, cyber slavery. We decided to lighten the mood with a visual essay on the history of eclipses in art—around the world and across great spans of time.
The many stories of an eclipse
It’s hardly surprising that humans have long marvelled at the sight of an eclipse. The first record of an eclipse is nearly 3,300 years old—inscribed on a clay tablet in the ancient city of Ugarit in modern-day Syria. The disappearance of the life-giving star has long inspired awe and unease—reflected in our myths of voracious demons and angry gods. It’s truly remarkable how similar they are.
The mighty Inti: The sight of the moon or sun vanishing from the sky was uncanny and frightening for early civilisations. For the Incans, a solar eclipse was the sign of displeasure of Inti the mighty sun god—who presided over all the important stuff: crops, fertility and war. The only way to appease him was to slaughter fellow humans—though “food and white llamas were also acceptable.” Thank god Inti for that!
As for the Mayans: They believed the sun was eaten by a hungry monster. Eclipses were harbingers of doom—so the Mayans spent great energy trying to predict the next one. Their elaborate calculations survived even Spanish colonialism. You can see a glimpse of them in this 18th century manuscript—which documents the very unfortunate Spanish conquest of the Yucatan Peninsula:
The hungry dragon: In Chinese mythology, the sun also makes a fine meal—for a celestial dragon that must be scared away by making loud noises. Bit like the coronavirus perhaps? The earliest records date back 4,000 years—and simply note: "The Sun has been eaten." There other more colourful accounts of a solar eclipse—like this one:
As recorded in a text compiled between the fourth and first centuries B.C., solar and lunar eclipses were also believed to have been caused by a beast "whose form resembles a wildcat but with a white head. It is called the Celestial Dog [fig. 2] and makes a sound like a cat. It can repel evil forces." Forewarnings of eclipses were deemed vital so that preparations could be made for people to make noise in order to scare away the creatures trying to eat the sun or moon. In Chinese, the terms for solar eclipse (rishi 日食) and lunar eclipse (yueshi 月食) both end with the character "to eat" (shi 食).
This gorgeous little statuette captures the dragon making a meal of things:
As for the Japanese: Here the sun is a goddess—Amaterasu—who retreats into a cave during an eclipse—and must be lured out with a mirror reflecting her beautiful self. But the most famous Japanese painting is of a lunar eclipse—and features a Meiji-era lady confronting a ghost in the palace garden:
FWIW, the Greeks: shared the same terror of eclipses as the Incans–except it was the mighty Zeus who wreaked havoc. The seventh century BC poet Archilochus said this of a solar eclipse over the Greek island of Paros:
Nothing in the world can surprise me now. For Zeus, the father of the Olympian, has turned mid-day into black night by shielding light from the blossoming sun, and now dark terror hangs over mankind. Anything may happen.
A very angry Rahu: Both Hindus and Buddhists share the same origin story for eclipses. During the great churning of the ocean, serpent demon Svarbhanu tries to steal the nectar of immortality. He is caught by Vishnu—because the sun and moon snitch him out. The decapitated head of Svarbhanu becomes Rahu—now immortal because he managed to taste the amrit. In his rage, Rahu swallows the sun and moon—for being dirty rats.
For Hindus, Rahu represents bad luck—as do eclipses. You can see him in the 10th century sculpture below—hanging out between the other two inauspicious gods—Ketu and Shani (Saturn):
In Tibetan lore: Rahu becomes Rahula—and is the protector of the “revealed treasure” teachings. And he looks very different:
In Buddhist depictions he is portrayed with the lower body of a coiled serpent spirit and an upper body with four arms and nine heads, adorned with a thousand eyes. In the middle of the stomach is one large, wrathful face. The face in the stomach is actually the face and head of Rahula. The nine stacked heads depicted above are the nine planets that Rahula has eclipsed—or, rather literally, swallowed—and they now symbolically appear on top of his own face and insatiable mouth.
You can see a 15th century bronze of Rahula below:
Rahu is also commonly found across South East Asia—literally eating the sun in the case of Thailand.
Sign of the apocalypse: That’s what a solar eclipse signifies in Norse mythology. Sköll is a giant wolf who is always chasing the solar goddess Sól across the sky. When he catches up with her—it will signify the onset of Ragnarök—or the end of days.
Eclipses happen when Sköll starts to eat her. So people would make loud noises to frighten Sköll into dropping the sun—and allow the chase to begin again. See? Making a racket to chase away the coronavirus clearly is deep-rooted in the human psyche. FYI: Sköll’s counterpart Hati is busy chasing the moon. You can see the two of them in action in this work by English painter JC Dolman:
The Semitic religions: don’t offer divine explanations for eclipses—but they do play a starring role. We were surprised to learn that Jesus was supposedly crucified during a total solar eclipse—when, according to the Bible, “darkness fell over the whole land … because the sun was obscured.” The event shows up in ivories from the 11th and 12th centuries—which show a dying Christ flanked by the sun and the moon. More moving are the illustrations in the Echternach Gospels—that suggest the two celestial bodies hiding their faces in grief:
As for Islam: The Prophet’s son is supposed to have died during a solar eclipse. When people begin to ascribe his misfortune to the event, he corrects them: “The sun and the moon do not eclipse because of the death or life of someone. When you see the eclipse, pray and invoke God.” Hence, Muslims usually mark eclipses with a unique prayer: Ṣalāt al-kusūf.
Moving on to the gorgeous, gorgeous art…
The eclipse has inspired great artwork through the ages, the reading list has a number of lists and essays. Below is an arbitrary selection of the stuff that caught our eye.
One: Let’s start with this fresco by Raphael—created around 1518—and titled ‘Isaac and Rebecca Spied Upon by Abimelech’. The description is as romantic as the painting:
This scene depicts an innovative interpretation of Genesis 26:8, wherein Isaac—who called his wife, Rebecca, his sister because he was afraid of being killed on account of her beauty—amorously embraces Rebecca while Abimelech, king of the Philistines, spies on the couple from his window. Raphael used the vivid solar eclipse as a complex metaphor for their stealthy deception and lovemaking, which here occurs during the darkness of totality.
The scene and atmosphere is remarkable:
Two: One of the most astonishingly accurate depictions of an eclipse is a 1735 painting by German artist Cosmas Damian Asam: “It depicts St. Benedict, who is said to have experienced a vision of the whole world ‘gathered together under a sunbeam’”:
Three: This 18th century Kangra painting captures a lovely vignette from the Bhagavata Purana—which gives the definitive account of Krishna’s life:
After he defeated the evil king Kamsa and embarked on princely adventures with his brother Balarama, Krishna reunited with his adoptive family at the banks of a river in Kurukshetra (modern-day Haryana). Together they observed a solar eclipse, an event described in the Bhagavata Purana (BP 10.81–82).
You have to really squint to see the eclipse. The National Museum of Asian Art offers a close-up:
Four: We also enjoyed this quirky take on the eclipse from 1844. The solar eclipse satire by Jean Jacques Grandville shows the sun and moon kissing each other—while they’re observed by bits of astronomical equipment:
Five: This is a stunning lithograph by Etienne Trouvelot—of a total solar eclipse seen on July 29, 1878:
Six: For something more modern, how about a Diego Rivera? This is a Cubist-inspired portrait of Spanish writer Ramón Gómez de la Serna—painted in 1915. Look for a total solar eclipse in the poet's eye:
Seven: The most famous painter of eclipses is Howard Russell Butler—known for a scientific accuracy admired by astronomers. This is a 1918 work—you can check out the others here:
Eight: This 1926 Georges Grosz surrealist painting depicts the power and greed of Germany's governing elite. Its imminent collapse is symbolised by the solar eclipse branded with a dollar sign. Works just as well in the here and now:
Nine: Last and most contemporary—in every sense of the word—is this 3D-printed sculpture created by Ashley Zelinskie in association with NASA in 2023:
The bottomline: More than enuf said:)
Reading list
The Smithsonian magazine is excellent on how ancient civilisations viewed the eclipse. Forbes has more on the first recorded solar eclipse. The Royal Society Publishing offers a great round-up and analysis of eclipses in Western art. CNN rounds up myths surrounding eclipses across the world. If you want a detailed analysis of the eclipse in the Bhagavata, check out this research paper. Scroll has an in-depth piece on the Krishna painting—which was misinterpreted as evidence of communal harmony. Contemporary artist Balarama Heller writes of his relationship with the eclipse in the New York Times. For the best collections of eclipse-themed art, check out Live Science and Princeton Art Museum. Last not least, New Scientist has a brilliant analysis of the scientific value of eclipse art—and very pretty pictures to accompany it.