Arachne and Athena: The Myth of Weaving and Wrath

From a Loom’s Eye View

Can you imagine being the most fabulous version of yourself…and someone comes along and completely destroys you? I can. Because I was once the pinnacle of artistry—a masterpiece of gossip and godly scandal. I was the kind of quality tapestry you’d find hanging in the golden halls of Mt. Olympus. Until, alas, I was unraveled and reborn into something else.

I suppose none of this rambling makes sense without rolling back the yarn a bit. My origins? Oh, pure luxury. I was shorn from the finest sheep, boasting thread counts so high, they'd make a goddess's own robes feel shabby chic. My mistress, Arachne, was a master weaver who created scenes so lively that you'd swear you were strolling through the Agora, rubbing elbows with Socrates or dodging Zeus' thunderbolts. I know the effort required to create such imagery is lost on you, but imagine if every T-shirt you wore was the result of months of labor rather than a quick purchase. That's how precious each of my mistress’s woven pieces was, and the sheer brilliance of her work spread across her hometown, Lydia.

Nymphs abandoned their idyllic lives nestled in mountain groves and seaside abodes to admire Arachne’s workmanship and witness the creative dance of her fingers and threads. It was a hypnotic tempo, a shuttle zipping across like a tiny boat on a fibrous sea, carrying the weft thread through the waves of the warp. The art, often shared between mothers and daughters, was hers alone, and in the quiet rhythm of her loom, she would fill the space with stories and songs, tugging at the hem of her mother’s spirit.

“Look at this intricacy! It's as if the threads come alive under her touch. Beautiful, yes, but unnaturally so, don't you think?” Those gathered would whisper and then agree that such talent could only be a gift from the goddess of handicraft herself, Athena.

You could imagine Arachne’s ire at such an assessment. My mistress was self-taught. To hear otherwise was to diminish her learning curve, which had been steep, requiring a blend of strength, dexterity, and patience that could rival the labors of Hercules. And that is what gave my mistress permission to respond to those whispers that her work was superior to that of Athena’s. She threw down the gauntlet for a contest with the goddess to settle this once and for all. “Contend with me,” she said to everyone and nobody in particular. “I will not disagree if I am beaten.” 

Eventually, Athena did show up. Gods can’t resist such a challenge. But Athena didn’t arrive as this great, big, celestial thing. Merely as an old crone in disguise who warned my mistress with some advice: Arachne could seek fame amongst mortals for her skill, but she must give way to the goddess and ask for her forgiveness for such a comparison.

When my mistress refused to heed the warning, the goddess revealed herself. Arachne, bless her, still wasn’t having any of it. In the face of a deity, she did not renege. Thus, the contest began. I cannot deny a certain taut excitement surged through my threads as this was what I had been spun for, to be woven and intricately displayed.

Athena's tapestry? A predictable parade of divine egos, gods on their thrones, and mortals getting their comeuppance for their hubris. Yawn—more celestial propaganda. Meanwhile, my threads? A candid exposé of the gods’ sexcapades, with Zeus as the philandering protagonist in myriad forms. In one panel, he was disguised as a shepherd to have sex with Mnemosyne. In another, he was a snake to have his way with Prosperine. But the most intricate was Zeus as a golden shower to impregnate Danaë. You would have thought the light real with how my mistress dyed my threads with glittering yellows and sparkling whites for that scandal. Arachne did not stop at Zeus but included all the many forms Poseidon, Apollo, and Dionysus took to pursue mortals. I could go on and on about their other incidents, but in summary, it was debauchery raised to an art.

Athena finished her work by framing it in olive wreaths, a nod to her emblem, while Arachne, in a stroke of veiled defiance, chose a border of flowers ensnared in ivy's relentless embrace. It struck me later, in my own entangled fate, the depth in that choice: ivy, clinging stubbornly, much like the gods who intertwine themselves in mortal lives.

It was just so obvious from the beginning that I was the superior woven wonder. I knew this inherently, but it was further confirmed by the look on Athena’s face once she compared me to her work. She looked at me like I was a literal monster. Not only did I shimmer, but my brazen display of the gods’ crimes must have meant ridicule and ruin for Athena. Why else would the golden-haired warrior goddess tear me to shreds? What other reason could she have for wielding her shuttle like a blunt-force weapon and striking my mistress across her forehead?

Not once. Not twice. But three, nearly four times.

Little wonder, then, that Arachne, dizzied by the crushing blows of celestial scorn, sought escape in the most final of fashions. She was probably suffering from a mild nervous collapse when she put a noose around her neck and killed herself. I mean, who can think straight when they’re concussed?

At the time, I thought it seemed strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, torn and muddied on the ground. The earthy musk of wet wool was going to be my end. However, in a rare moment of compassion, Athena must have taken pity on my mistress and me. With a divine touch and a few mystic words–"Live on, Arachne, in your weaver's exile, poised between sky and soil. Let this aerial ballet be your kin's eternal tale, weaving a saga of defiance, its delicate price ever in spin."–Arachne became the first spider, and I, her eternal web.

So here I hang, suspended in the hush of musty caverns, nestled in forgotten nooks. I'm far removed from the radiant chambers of Olympus that I thought I was bound for. Yet, ironically, my silken threads are now finer than any wool. As Arachne spins me, I'm a poignant echo of a time when we both basked in splendor, a reminder that in the pursuit of excellence, sometimes we find ourselves in the shadows.

Making Art, Not War, on Life’s Loom

There are times when I read Greek myths like the story of Arachne and Athena and wonder if gods have anything better to do. With all their abilities, it would seem like exploring their powers and creating things from their abilities would net them more joy than trying to police mortals. Because people are exhausting. And Athena, with her infinite wisdom, should have better things to do. Maybe, I don't know, write a book? Enough to start her own library full of pithy quotes about life and war. But hey, those types of gods would make for less exciting stories.

Something to note is that this myth of Arachne and Athena is sourced from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I usually prefer the Greek mythology version of a story, but there are no surviving Greek sources around for this story. So, one thing to keep in mind is that this is not only a Roman poet’s take on a Greek myth, but Ovid also has a particular knack for rewriting Greek myth and making the stories more unfair. He paints gods as more irrational, flawed, and jealous of humanity.

Even with Ovid's flair for hyperbole, I came away from the story feeling that there's some nugget of wisdom to say about jealousy. Something, something, maybe refrain from it? "But, Alvin," I hear you all scream through the internet, "We're mere mortals. We're emotional creatures!" And jealousy, along with the whole fun cluster of emotions like anger or disgust or fear, will sprinkle into our lives no matter how much we want to wish them away. You're entirely right. Even Athena, a goddess, fell prey to the power of jealousy. I mean, thug life sort of rises up in her and takes hold of her in this story. Not only does Athena destroy Arachne’s tapestry, but she assaults Arachne too.

There's a power to feelings like jealousy. And it's easy to let the energy from those emotions run rampant in the wrong direction. The more practical wisdom I saw in this story is that we need to learn how to harness that power. That's what shifts the expression of a “negative” emotion to being something more useful, more creative. For example, I got a divorce this year. And that journey included lots of fun emotions—anger and grief at the top of the list. But instead of letting those feelings use me in some ways that would have been all too easy, I put that energy into starting this Substack. Who knows what kind of beautiful mess this will be because of its roots, but there is power in negative motivation—to wield it and be directional. Because what else are you going to do with it?

Until our threads cross again.

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