A study of masculinity, martyrdom, and homoerotica.

Cover photo: Yukio Mishima (三島由紀夫) poses as Saint Sebastian, photographed by Kishin Shinoyama [篠山紀信] (circa 1970). Via Dentsu Live (cropped).

Intro

In his semi-autobiographical novel Confessions of a Mask (1949), Japanese author Yukio Mishima (三島由紀夫) describes the saintly image that inspired his sexual awakening: “A remarkably handsome youth was bound naked to the trunk of a tree . . . Were it not for the arrows with their shafts deeply sunk into his left armpit and right side, he would seem more a Roman athlete resting from fatigue”.

The painting, by Italian artist Guido Reni, depicts Saint Sebastian — a figure which has captivated artists and audiences for centuries and who remains a magnetic queer icon. Why and how did he become such a potent symbol?

History

According to legend, Sebastian was a captain in the Roman Praetorian Guard during the 3rd century, secretly converting his fellow soldiers to Christianity. After his discovery, Emperor Diocletian sentenced Sebastian to death by arrows. The medieval archbishop and historian Jacobus de Voragine (writing centuries later) likened Sebastian’s pierced body to that of a “porcupine”.

Miraculously, Sebastian survived the torture and was nursed back to health by a holy woman named Irene. With renewed faith he continued proselytizing until he was arrested a second time and ultimately beaten to death. Sebastian was entombed with Saints Peter and Paul and thus became the third patron saint of Rome. Largely by coincidence, he also came to be associated with plagues.

Art

The earliest depictions of Saint Sebastian in mosaics presented a generic and standardized saintly figure. It was not until the Renaissance that artists adopted his dramatic iconography: a beautiful youth tied to a tree or post, his body pierced with arrows from a failed execution.

The scene proved a popular commission. Ann Dunn, professor at the University of North Carolina, suggests, “the prevalence of Saint Sebastian figures could be part of a project to create a human counterpoint for Christ, a figure ordinary people could relate to and through whom could comprehend the sacrifice of Christ.”

For artists, Sebastian provided a rare opportunity to depict the male nude in a dramatic, contorted pose. According to artist and historian Giorgio Vasari, Fra Bartolomeo’s altar painting for the church of San Marco in Florence was so sensual that it was swiftly removed — women had confessed to sin at its mere sight. Only a copy survives today.

Mishima did not encounter Saint Sebastian through Christian devotion. For him, this was a purely aesthetic experience. Similarly, Perugino’s Saint Sebastian was one of few works to catch my eye on my first trip to the Louvre. Though I was a devout Catholic, in adolescence, Sebastian was no different from the models of underwear packaging I secretly admired.

*Peter Hujar Dreaming / Yukio Mishima. St. Sebastian*, acrylic and spray paint on Masonite, by David Wojnarowicz (1982). Via Book Forum.

Queerness

The juxtaposition of Sebastian’s youthful beauty with the violence of his suffering — his body bound, his armpits exposed, his flesh pierced by arrows — is an image charged with undeniable eroticism.

Painter Guido Reni returned to the subject repeatedly, and his depictions of the saint are often cited among the most homoerotic, particularly for the “youthful androgyny” of his recurring star.

By the 19th century, Saint Sebastian had fully emerged as what Robert Kiely, professor emeritus of Harvard University, called “a highly eroticised symbol of the forbidden pleasures and dangers of the love between men.”

Sebastian became a conduit for the “shame, rejection and loneliness” familiar to many queer people. He inspired Derek Jarman’s groundbreaking queer film Sebastiane (1976) and became a recurring figure in the work of gay artists.

Amidst the HIV/AIDS health crisis of the 1980s, David Wojnarowicz, Keith Haring, and Pierre et Gilles all revisited the image of Saint Sebastian, drawing upon themes of isolation, plague, and sex. In a 1982 painting, Wojnarowicz depicted his lover Peter Hujar dreaming of Yukio Mishima in saintly ecstasy, infusing homoeroticism with death.

Masculinity & Violence

Shortly before his passing, Mishima imagined himself as Saint Sebastian, the pierced martyr he first idealized in Confessions of a Mask: “Was not such beauty as his a thing destined for death?”

As a frail, sickly child, Mishima was long obsessed with masculinity. “He always envied the strong, hard boys,” a former classmate recalled. This desire intensified after Japan’s humiliating defeat in 1945. Mishima lamented, “Since World War II, the feminine tradition has been emphasized to the exclusion of the masculine . . . flower-arranging and gardens and that sort of thing.” Despite the nation’s rebranding, he insisted, “I think we [Japanese] still have a strong warrior’s mind.”

Mishima’s life spiraled toward a tragic, theatrical end. In 1970, he staged a failed coup in attempt to restore military imperialism. His final act was a carefully choreographed ritual suicide — a spectacle that echoed his lifelong belief that beauty and greatness must be consecrated through violence.

Mishima’s fate inspired his friend Tadanori Yokoo (横尾忠則) to embark on a spiritual journey of his own: “Is this the time to go to India and erase this bad karma?” Later, in a 1983 painting, Yokoo immortalized Mishima as Saint Sebastian, the figure of his self-mythology.

Echoing Mishima’s own words, “His face is turned slightly upward and his eyes are open wide, gazing with profound tranquility upon the glory of heaven. It is not pain that hovers about his straining chest, his tense abdomen, his slightly contorted hips, but some flicker of melancholy pleasure like music.”

A blurry photo of Perugino’s *Saint Sebastian* from my first visit to the Louvre, Paris, France (2009). Photo by Danny With Love.

Conclusion

Saint Sebastian’s handsome depictions were not without criticism. As early as the 16th century, theologian Giovanni Andrea Gilio condemned artists for glorifying the male body while neglecting the visceral brutality of martyrdom. Certainly, there is a seductive danger in conflating beauty with suffering — a danger embodied perfectly by Yukio Mishima.

In his own queer novella Death of Venice (1912), German author Thomas Mann wrote, “Because grace under pressure is more than just suffering; it is an active achievement, a positive triumph, and the figure of St. Sebastian is its best symbol”.

Once captivated by muscles and arrows, I now understand; the beauty of Saint Sebastian lies not only in his body, but in his steadfast resilience.