MOVEMENT IN ART
There are two statues by Rodin at the Musée du Luxembourg which
especially attract and hold me; _l’Age d’Airain_ (the Iron Age) and
_Saint-Jean-Baptiste_. They seem even more full of life than the others,
if that is possible. The other works of the Master which bear them
company are certainly all quivering with truth; they all produce the
impression of real flesh, they all breathe, but these move.
One day in the Master’s atelier at Meudon I told him my especial
fondness for these two figures.
“They are certainly among those in which I have carried imitative art
farthest,” he replied. “Though I have produced others whose animation is
not less striking; for example, my _Bourgeois de Calais_, my _Balzac_,
my _Homme qui marche_ (Man walking).
“And even in those of my works in which action is less pronounced, I
have always sought to give some indication of movement. I have very
rarely represented complete repose. I have always endeavored to express
the inner feelings by the mobility of the muscles.
“This is so even in my busts, to which I have often given a certain
slant, a certain obliquity, a certain expressive direction, which would
emphasize the meaning of the physiognomy.
“Art cannot exist without life. If a sculptor wishes to interpret joy,
sorrow, any passion whatsoever, he will not be able to move us unless he
first knows how to make the beings live which he evokes. For how could
the joy or the sorrow of an inert object—of a block of stone—affect us?
Now, the illusion of life is obtained in our art by good modelling and
by movement. These two qualities are like the blood and the breath of
all good work.”
[Illustration:
MAN WALKING
By Rodin
]
“Master,” I said, “you have already talked to me of modelling, and I
have noticed that since then I am better able to appreciate the
masterpieces of sculpture. I should like to ask a few questions about
movement, which, I feel, is not less important.
“When I look at your figure of the _Iron Age_, who awakes, fills his
lungs and raises high his arms; or at your _Saint John_, who seems to
long to leave his pedestal to carry abroad his words of faith, my
admiration is mixed with amazement. It seems to me that there is sorcery
in this science which lends movement to bronze. I have also studied
other _chefs-d’œuvre_ of your great predecessors; for example, _Maréchal
Ney_ and the _Marseillaise_ by Rude, the _Dance_ by Carpeaux, as well as
Barye’s wild animals, and I confess that I have never found any
satisfactory explanation for the effect which these sculptures produce
upon me. I continue to ask myself how such masses of stone and iron can
possibly seem to move, how figures so evidently motionless can yet
appear to act and even to lend themselves to violent effort.”
“As you take me for a sorcerer,” Rodin answered, “I shall try to do
justice to my reputation by accomplishing a task much more difficult for
me than animating bronze—that of explaining how I do it.
“Note, first, that _movement is the transition from one attitude to
another_.
“This simple statement, which has the air of a truism, is, to tell the
truth, the key to the mystery.
“You have certainly read in Ovid how Daphne was transformed into a
bay-tree and Progne into a swallow. This charming writer shows us the
body of the one taking on its covering of leaves and bark and the
members of the other clothing themselves in feathers, so that in each of
them one still sees the woman which will cease to be and the tree or
bird which she will become. You remember, too, how in Dante’s _Inferno_
a serpent, coiling itself about the body of one of the damned, changes
into man as the man becomes reptile. The great poet describes this scene
so ingeniously that in each of these two beings one follows the struggle
between two natures which progressively invade and supplant each other.
[Illustration:
THE TEMPEST
By Rodin
Photograph reproduced by permission of the Metropolitan Museum of Art
]
“It is, in short, a metamorphosis of this kind that the painter or the
sculptor effects in giving movement to his personages. He represents the
transition from one pose to another—he indicates how insensibly the
first glides into the second. In his work we still see a part of what
was and we discover a part of what is to be. An example will enlighten
you better.
“You mentioned just now the statue of Marshal Ney by Rude. Do you recall
the figure clearly?”
“Yes,” I said. “The hero raises his sword, shouting ‘Forward’ to his
troops at the top of his voice.”
“Exactly! Well—when you next pass that statue, look at it still more
closely. You will then notice this: the legs of the statue and the hand
which holds the sheath of the sabre are placed in the attitude that they
had when he drew—the left leg is drawn back so that the sabre may be
easily grasped by the right hand, which has just drawn it; and as for
the left hand, it is arrested in the air as if still offering the
sheath.
“Now examine the body. It must have been slightly bent toward the left
at the moment when it performed the act which I have described, but here
it is erect, here is the chest thrown out, here is the head turning
towards the soldiers as it roars out the order to attack; here, finally,
is the right arm raised and brandishing the sabre.
“So there you have a confirmation of what I have just said; the movement
in this statue is only the change from a first attitude—that which the
Marshal had as he drew his sabre—into a second, that which he had as he
rushes, arm aloft, upon the enemy.
[Illustration:
MARSHAL NEY
By Rude
]
“In that is all the secret of movement as interpreted by art. The
sculptor compels, so to speak, the spectator to follow the development
of an act in an individual. In the example that we have chosen, the eyes
are forced to travel upward from the lower limbs to the raised arm, and,
as in so doing they find the different parts of the figure represented
at successive instants, they have the illusion of beholding the movement
performed.”
As it happened, the casts of the _Iron Age_ and of _Saint John the
Baptist_ stood in the great hall where we were. Rodin asked me to look
at them. And I at once recognized the truth of his words.
I noticed that in the first of these works the movement appears to
mount, as in the statue of Ney. The legs of the youth, who is not yet
fully awake, are still lax and almost vacillating, but as your eye
mounts you see the pose become firmer—the ribs rise beneath the skin,
the chest expands, the face is lifted towards the sky, and the two arms
stretch in an endeavor to throw off their torpor.
The subject of this sculpture is exactly that—the passage from
somnolence to the vigor of the being ready for action.
This slow gesture of awakening appears, besides, still more grand when
one understands its symbolic meaning. For it represents, as the title of
the work indicates, the first palpitation of conscience in a humanity
still young, the first victory of reason over the brutishness of the
prehistoric ages.
In the same way I next studied _Saint John_. And I saw that the rhythm
of this figure led, as Rodin had said, to a sort of evolution between
two balances. The figure leaning, at first, all its weight upon the left
foot, which presses the ground with all its strength, seems to balance
there while the eyes look to the right. You then see all the body bent
in that direction, then the right leg advances and the foot takes hold
of the ground. At the same time the left shoulder, which is raised,
seems to endeavor to bring the weight of the body to this side in order
to aid the leg which is behind to come forward. Now, the science of the
sculptor has consisted precisely in imposing all these facts upon the
spectator in the order in which I have stated them, so that their
succession will give the impression of movement.
[Illustration:
SAINT JOHN THE BAPTIST
By Rodin
]
Moreover, the gesture of Saint John, like that of the Iron Age, contains
a spiritual significance. The prophet moves with an almost automatic
solemnity. You almost believe you hear his footsteps, as you do those in
the statue of the _Commander_. You feel that a force at once mysterious
and formidable sustains and impels him. So the act of walking, usually a
commonplace movement, here becomes majestic because it is the
accomplishment of a divine mission.
“Have you ever attentively examined instantaneous photographs of walking
figures?” Rodin suddenly asked me.
Upon my reply in the affirmative, “Well, what did you notice?”
“That they never seem to advance. Generally they seem to rest motionless
on one leg or to hop on one foot.”
“Exactly! Now, for example, while my Saint John is represented with both
feet on the ground, it is probable that an instantaneous photograph from
a model making the same movement would show the back foot already raised
and carried toward the other. Or else, on the contrary, the front foot
would not yet be on the ground if the back leg occupied in the
photograph the same position as in my statue.
“Now it is exactly for that reason that this model photographed would
present the odd appearance of a man suddenly stricken with paralysis and
petrified in his pose, as it happened in the pretty fairy story to the
servants of the Sleeping Beauty, who were all suddenly struck motionless
in the midst of their occupations.
[Illustration:
SAINT JOHN THE BAPTIST
By Rodin
]
“And this confirms what I have just explained to you on the subject of
movement in art. If, in fact, in instantaneous photographs, the figures,
though taken while moving, seem suddenly fixed in mid-air, it is
because, all parts of the body being reproduced exactly at the same
twentieth or fortieth of a second, there is no progressive development
of movement as there is in art.”
“I understand you perfectly, Master,” I answered. “But it seems to me,
if you will excuse me for risking the remark, that you contradict
yourself.”
“How so?”
“Have you not declared many times to me that the artist ought always to
copy nature with the greatest sincerity?”
“Without doubt, and I maintain it.”
“Well, then, when in the interpretation of movement he completely
contradicts photography, which is an unimpeachable mechanical testimony,
he evidently alters truth.”
“No,” replied Rodin, “it is the artist who is truthful and it is
photography which lies, for in reality time does not stop, and if the
artist succeeds in producing the impression of a movement which takes
several moments for accomplishment, his work is certainly much less
conventional than the scientific image, where time is abruptly
suspended.
“It is that which condemns certain modern painters who, when they wish
to represent horses galloping, reproduce the poses furnished by
instantaneous photography.
“Gericault is criticised because in his picture _Epsom Races_ (_Course
d’Epsom_), which is at the Louvre, he has painted his horses galloping,
fully extended, _ventre à terre_, to use a familiar expression, throwing
their fore feet forward and their hind feet backward at the same
instant. It is said that the sensitive plate never gives the same
effect. And, in fact, in instantaneous photography, when the forelegs of
a horse are forward, the hind legs, having by their pause propelled the
body onward, have already had time to gather themselves under the body
in order to recommence the stride, so that for a moment the four legs
are almost gathered together in the air, which gives the animal the
appearance of jumping off the ground, and of being motionless in this
position.
[Illustration:
EUROPA. Italian School of the Fifteenth Century
]
[Illustration:
EPSOM RACES
By Gericault
]
“Now I believe that it is Gericault who is right, and not the camera,
for his horses _appear_ to run; this comes from the fact that the
spectator from right to left sees first the hind legs accomplish the
effort whence the general impetus results, then the body stretched out,
then the forelegs which seek the ground ahead. This is false in reality,
as the actions could not be simultaneous; but it is true when the parts
are observed successively, and it is this truth alone that matters to
us, because it is that which we see and which strikes us.
“Note besides that painters and sculptors, when they unite different
phases of an action in the same figure, do not act from reason or from
artifice. They are naïvely expressing what they feel. Their minds and
their hands are as if drawn in the direction of the movement, and they
translate the development by instinct. Here, as everywhere in the domain
of art, sincerity is the only rule.”
I was silent for several instants, thinking over what he had said.
“Haven’t I convinced you?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed. But while admiring this miracle of painting and of
sculpture which succeeds in condensing the action of several moments
into a single figure, I now ask myself how far they can compete with
literature, and especially with the theatre, in the notation of
movement. To tell the truth, I am inclined to believe that this
competition does not go very far, and that on this score the masters of
the brush and chisel are necessarily inferior to those of language.”
“Our disadvantage,” he exclaimed, “is not as great as you would think.
If painting and sculpture can endow figures with motion, they are not
forbidden to attempt even more. And at times they succeed in equalling
dramatic art by presenting in the same picture or in the same sculptural
group several successive scenes.”
[Illustration:
THE EMBARKATION FOR THE ISLAND OF CYTHERA
By Watteau
]
“Yes,” I replied, “but they cheat, in a way. For I suppose that you are
talking of those old compositions which celebrate the entire history of
a personage, representing him several times on the same panel in
different situations.
“At the Louvre, for example, a small Italian painting of the fifteenth
century relates in this way the story of Europa. You first see the young
princess playing in the flowery field with her companions, who help her
to mount the bull, Jupiter, and further on the same heroine, terrified
now, is carried off through the waves by the god.”
“That is a very primitive method,” Rodin answered, “though it was
practised even by great masters—for example, in the ducal palace at
Venice this same fable of Europa has been treated in an identical manner
by Veronese. But it is in spite of this defect that Caliari’s painting
is admirable, and I did not refer to any such childish method: for, as
you may imagine, I disapprove of it. To make myself understood, I must
ask you first whether you can call to mind _The Embarkation for the
Island of Cythera_ by Watteau.”
“As plainly as if it was before my eyes,” I said.
“Then I shall have no trouble in explaining myself. In this masterpiece
the action, if you will notice, begins in the foreground to the right
and ends in the background to the left.
“What you first notice in the front of the picture, in the cool shade,
near a sculptured bust of Cypris garlanded with roses, is a group
composed of a young woman and her adorer. The man wears a cape
embroidered with a pierced heart, gracious symbol of the voyage that he
would undertake.
[Illustration:
THE MARSEILLAISE
By Rude
]
“Kneeling at her side, he ardently beseeches his lady to yield. But she
meets his entreaties with an indifference perhaps feigned, and appears
absorbed in the study of the decorations on her fan. Close to them is a
little cupid, sitting halfnaked upon his quiver. He thinks that the
young woman delays too long, and he pulls her skirt to induce her to be
less hard-hearted. But still the pilgrim’s staff and the script of love
lie upon the ground. This is the first scene.
“Here is the second: To the left of the group of which I have spoken is
another couple. The lady accepts the hand of her lover, who helps her to
arise. She has her back to us, and has one of those blonde napes which
Watteau painted with such voluptuous grace.
“A little further is the third scene. The lover puts his arm around his
mistress’s waist to draw her with him. She turns towards her companions,
whose lingering confuses her, but she allows herself to be led passively
away.
“Now the lovers descend to the shore and all push laughing towards the
barque; the men no longer need to entreat, the women cling to their
arms.
“Finally the pilgrims help their sweethearts on board the little ship,
which, decked with flowers and floating pennons of red silk, rocks like
a golden dream upon the water. The sailors, leaning on their oars, are
ready to row away. And already, borne by the breezes, little cupids fly
ahead to guide the travellers towards that azure isle which lies upon
the horizon.”
“I see, Master, that you love this picture, for you have remembered
every detail,” I said.
“It is a delight that one cannot forget. But have you noted the
development of this pantomime? Truly now, is it the stage? or is it
painting? One does not know which to say. You see, then, that an artist
can, when he pleases, represent not only fleeting gestures, but a long
_action_, to employ a term of dramatic art.
“In order to succeed, he needs only to place his personages in such a
manner that the spectator shall first see those who begin this action,
then those who continue it, and finally those who complete it. Would you
like an example in sculpture?”
[Illustration:
THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS
By Rodin
]
Opening a book, he searched for a moment and drew out a photograph.
“Here,” he said, “is the _Marseillaise_ which Rude carved for one of the
piers of the Arc de Triomphe.
“Liberty, in a breastplate of brass, cleaving the air with unfolded
wings, roars in a mighty voice, ‘Aux armes, citoyens!’ She raises high
her left arm to rally all the brave to her side, and, with the other
hand, she points her sword towards the enemy. It is she, beyond
question, whom you first see, for she dominates all the work, and her
legs, which are wide apart as if she were running, seem like an accent
placed above this sublime war-epic. It seems as though one must hear
her—for her mouth of stone shrieks as though to burst your eardrum. But
no sooner has she given the call than you see the warriors rush forward.
This is the second phase of the action. A Gaul with the mane of a lion
shakes aloft his helmet as though to salute the goddess, and here, at
his side, is his young son, who begs the right to go with him—“I am
strong enough, I am a man, I want to go!” he seems to say, grasping the
hilt of a sword. “Come,” says the father, regarding him with tender
pride.
“Third phase of the action: a veteran bowed beneath the weight of his
equipment strives to join them—for all who have strength enough must
march to battle. Another old man, bowed with age, follows the soldiers
with his prayers, and the gesture of his hand seems to repeat the
counsels that he has given them from his own experience.
“Fourth phase: an archer bends his muscular back to bind on his arms. A
trumpet blares its frenzied appeal to the troops. The wind flaps the
standards, the lances point forward. The signal is given, and already
the strife begins.
“Here, again, we have a true dramatic composition acted before us. But
while _L’Embarquement pour Cythère_ recalls the delicate comedies of
Marivaux, the _Marseillaise_ is a great tragedy by Corneille. I do not
know which of the two works I prefer, for there is as much genius in the
one as in the other.”
[Illustration:
EUSTACHE DE SAINT-PIERRE. ONE OF THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS
By Rodin
]
[Illustration:
ONE OF THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS
By Rodin
]
And, looking at me with a shade of malicious challenge, he added, “You
will no longer say, I think, that sculpture and painting are unable to
compete with the theatre?”
“Certainly not.” At this instant, I saw in the portfolio where he had
replaced the reproduction of the _Marseillaise_, a photograph of his
wonderful _Burghers of Calais_. “To prove to you,” I said, “that I have
profited by your teaching, let me apply it to one of your most beautiful
works, for I see that you have yourself put into practice the principles
which you have revealed to me.
“Here, in your _Burghers of Calais_, I recognize a scenic succession
like that which you have cited in the _chefs-d’œuvre_ of Watteau and of
Rude.
“The figure in the centre first attracts attention. No one can doubt
that it is Eustache de Saint-Pierre. He bows his venerable head with its
long gray hair. He does not hesitate, he is not afraid. He advances
steadily, his eyes half closed in silent communion. If he totters a
little, it is because of the privations that he has endured during a
long siege. It is he who inspires the others, it is he who offered
himself first as one of the six notables whose death, according to the
conditions of the conqueror, should save their fellow-townsmen from
massacre.
“The burgher beside him is not less brave. But if he does not mourn for
his own fate, the capitulation of the city causes him terrible sorrow.
Holding in his hand the key which he must deliver to the English, he
stiffens his whole body in order to find the strength to bear the
inevitable humiliation.
“On the same plane with these two, to the left, you see a man who is
less courageous, for he walks almost too fast: you would say that,
having made up his mind to the sacrifice, he longs to shorten the time
which separates him from his martyrdom.
[Illustration:
ONE OF THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS
By Rodin
]
[Illustration:
ONE OF THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS
By Rodin
]
“And behind these comes a burgher who, holding his head in his hands,
abandons himself to violent despair. Perhaps he thinks of his wife, of
his children, of those who are dear to him, of those whom his going will
leave without support.
“A fifth notable passes his hand before his eyes as if to dissipate some
frightful nightmare. He stumbles, death so appals him.
“Finally, here is the sixth burgher, younger than the others. He seems
still undecided. A painful anxiety contracts his face. Is it the image
of his sweetheart that fills his thoughts? But his companions advance—he
rejoins them, his neck outstretched as if offered to the axe of fate.
“While these three men of Calais may be less brave than the three first,
they do not deserve less admiration. For their devotion is even more
meritorious, because it costs them more.
“So, in your _Burghers_, one follows the action, more or less prompt,
which was the outcome in each one of them according to his disposition
of the authority and example of Eustache de Saint-Pierre. One sees them,
gradually won by his influence, decide one after another to go forward
with him to pay the price of their city.
“There, incontestably, is the best confirmation of your ideas on the
scenic value of art.”
“If your opinion of my work were not too high,” Rodin answered, “I
should acknowledge that you had perfectly understood my intentions. You
have justly placed my burghers in the scale according to their degrees
of heroism. To emphasize this effect still more I wished, as you perhaps
know, to fix my statues one behind the other on the stones of the Place,
before the Town Hall of Calais, like a living chaplet of suffering and
of sacrifice.
[Illustration:
ONE OF THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS
By Rodin
]
“My figures would so have appeared to direct their steps from the
municipal building toward the camp of Edward III.; and the people of
Calais of to-day, almost elbowing them, would have felt more deeply the
tradition of solidarity which unites them to these heroes. It would have
been, I believe, intensely impressive. But my proposal was rejected, and
they insisted upon a pedestal which is as unsightly as it is
unnecessary. They were wrong. I am sure of it.”
“Alas,” I said, “the artist has always to reckon with the routine of
opinion, too happy if he can only realize a part of his beautiful
dreams!”
[Illustration:
CUPID AND PSYCHE
By Rodin
Photogravure reproduced by permission of the Metropolitan Museum of
Art
]