The ancient Greeks did not expect Aphrodite, the goddess of love, to manage all the different dimensions of love by herself. That would have been asking too much of a deity whose birth was somewhat traumatic. According to Hesiod, Aphrodite was born of the foam produced by the genitals of Uranus (the sky) when they were flung into the sea by his son Cronus, who sliced them off to oblige his mother, Gaia (the earth).
Gaia herself emerged from the Void, also known as Chaos, and from her sprang Eros, the life force that begot the world. Here it gets confusing, because Eros is also the name of Aphrodite’s son, a beautiful, winged youth who, alongside his three brothers, delivers the pains and pleasures of love to gods and mortals. Eros carries a bow and arrow to pierce our hearts when we first spy our beloved. Himeros wields a flaming torch to torment us with desire. Anteros brandishes a golden club to make sure our love is requited. And Pothos plays on a lyre to fill us with longing. During the Renaissance, poets and painters transformed these graceful youths into putti, the chubby, winged toddlers that swarm across the walls, ceilings, and domes of European churches and palaces (to say nothing of Valentine’s Day cards). I confess to a dislike of putti, which may be related to my regret at the disappearance of Eros, his brothers, and the depth of emotion they once symbolized.
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