THOUGHT IN ART
One morning, finding myself with Rodin in his atelier, I stopped before
the cast of one of his most impressive works.
It is a young woman whose writhing body seems a prey to some mysterious
torment. Her head is bent low, her lips and her eyes are closed, and you
would think she slept, did not the anguish in her face betray the
conflict of her spirit. The most surprising thing in the figure,
however, is that it has neither arms nor legs. It would seem that the
sculptor in a moment of discontent with himself had broken them off, and
you cannot help regretting that the figure is incomplete. I could not
refrain from expressing this feeling to my host.
“What do you mean?” he cried in astonishment. “Don’t you see that I left
it in that state intentionally? My figure represents _Meditation_.
That’s why it has neither arms to act nor legs to walk. Haven’t you
noticed that reflection, when persisted in, suggests so many plausible
arguments for opposite decisions that it ends in inertia?”
These words corrected my first impression and I could unreservedly
admire the fine symbolism of the figure. I now understood that this
woman was the emblem of human intelligence assailed by problems that it
cannot solve, haunted by an ideal that it cannot realize, obsessed by
the infinite which it can never grasp. The straining of this body marked
the travail of thought and its glorious, but vain determination to
penetrate those questions which it cannot answer; and the mutilation of
its members indicated the insurmountable disgust which contemplative
souls feel for actual life.
Nevertheless, this figure recalled a criticism which is often heard on
Rodin’s works, and, though without agreeing with it, I submitted it to
the Master to find out how he would answer it.
“Literary people,” I said, “always praise the essential truths expressed
in your sculptures. But certain of your censors blame you precisely for
having an inspiration which is more literary than plastic. They pretend
that you easily win the approbation of writers by providing them with
subjects which offer an opening for all their rhetoric. And they declare
that art is not the place for so much philosophic ambition.”
“If my modelling is bad,” Rodin replied sharply, “if I make faults in
anatomy, if I misinterpret movement, if I am ignorant of the science
which animates marble, the critics are right a hundred times. But if my
figures are correct and full of life, with what can they reproach me?
What right have they to forbid me to add meaning to form? How can they
complain if, over and above technique, I offer them ideas?—if I enrich
those forms which please the eye with a definite significance? It is a
strange mistake, this, to imagine that the true artist can be content to
remain only a skilled workman and that he needs no intelligence. On the
contrary, intelligence is indispensable to him for painting and for
carving even those figures which seem most lacking in spiritual
pretensions and which are only meant to charm the eye. When a good
sculptor models a statue, whatever it is, he must first clearly conceive
the general idea; then, until his task is ended, he must keep this idea
of the whole in his mind in order to subordinate and ally to it every
smallest detail of his work. And this is not accomplished without an
intense effort of mind and concentration of thought.
“What has doubtless led to the common idea that artists have little
intelligence is that it seems lacking in many of them in private life.
The biographies of painters and sculptors abound in anecdotes of the
simplicity of certain masters. It must be admitted that great men who
think ceaselessly of their work are frequently absent-minded in daily
life. Above all, it must be granted that many very intelligent artists
seem narrow because they have not that facility of speech and repartee
which, to superficial observers, is the only sign of cleverness.”
[Illustration:
THE STATUE OF VICTOR HUGO
By Rodin
]
“Surely,” I said, “no one can contest the mental vigor of the great
painters and sculptors. But, to return to our question—is there not a
sharp line dividing art from literature which the artist should not
cross?”
“I insist that in matters which concern me I cannot stand these
limitations,” Rodin answered. “There is no rule, according to my idea,
that can prevent a sculptor from creating a beautiful work.
“What difference does it make whether it is sculpture or literature,
provided the public find profit and pleasure in it? Painting, sculpture,
literature, music are more closely related than is generally believed.
They express all the sentiments of the human soul in the light of
nature. It is only the means of expression which vary.
“But if a sculptor, by the means of his art, succeeds in suggesting
impressions which are ordinarily only procured by literature or music,
why should the world cavil? A publicist lately criticised my _Victor
Hugo_ in the Palais Royal, declaring that it was not sculpture, but
music. And he naïvely added that this work reminded him of a Beethoven
symphony. Would to Heaven that it were true!
“I do not deny, moreover, that it is useful to reflect upon the
differences which separate literary from artistic methods. First of all,
literature offers the peculiarity of being able to express ideas without
recourse to imagery. For example, it can say: _Profound reflection often
ends in inaction_, without the necessity of figuring a thoughtful woman
held in a block of stone.
“And this faculty of juggling with abstractions by means of words gives,
perhaps, to literature an advantage over other arts in the domain of
thought.
[Illustration:
BUST OF MLLE. CLAUDEL (LA PENSÉE)
By Rodin
]
“The next thing to be noticed is that literature develops stories which
have a beginning, a middle, and an end. It strings together different
events from which it draws a conclusion. It makes people act and shows
the consequences of their conduct. So the scenes that it conjures up
gain strength by their sequence, and even have no value except as they
make part of the progress of a plot.
“It is not the same with the arts of form. They never represent more
than a single phase of an action. That is why painters and sculptors are
wrong in taking subjects from writers, as they often do. The artist who
interprets a part of a story may be supposed to know the rest of the
text. His work must prop itself up on that of the writer; it only
acquires all its meaning if it is illuminated by the facts that precede
or follow it.
“When the painter Delaroche represents, after Shakespeare, or after his
pale imitator, Casimir Delavigne, the _Children of Edward_ (_les Enfants
d’Edouard_) clinging to each other, it is necessary to know, in order to
be interested, that they are the heirs to a throne, that they have been
imprisoned, and that hired murderers, sent by the usurper, are just
coming to assassinate them.
“When Delacroix, that genius whose pardon I beg for citing him next to
the very mediocre Delaroche, takes from Lord Byron’s poem the subject of
_Don Juan’s Shipwreck_ (_Naufrage de Don Juan_) and shows us a boat in a
storm-swept sea, where the sailors are engaged in drawing bits of paper
from a hat, it is necessary, in order to understand this scene, to know
that these unhappy creatures are starving and are drawing lots to see
which of them shall serve as food for the others.
“These two artists, in treating literary subjects, commit the fault of
painting pictures which do not carry in themselves their complete
meaning.
[Illustration:
THE SHIPWRECK OF DON JUAN
By Delacroix
]
“Yet, while that of Delaroche is bad because the drawing is cold, the
color hard, the feeling melodramatic, that of Delacroix is admirable
because this boat really pitches on the glaucous waves, because hunger
and distress convulse the faces of the shipwrecked, because the sombre
fury of the coloring announces some horrible crime—because, in short, if
Byron’s tale is found mutilated in the picture, in revenge, the fiery,
wild, and sublime soul of the painter is certainly wholly there.
“The moral of these two examples is this; when, after mature reflection,
you have laid down prohibitions which seem most reasonable in the matter
of art, you will rightly reproach the mediocre man because he does not
submit to them, but you will be surprised to observe that the man of
genius infringes them almost with impunity.”
Roving round the atelier while Rodin was talking, my eyes found a cast
of his _Ugolin_.
It is a figure of majestic realism. It does not at all recall Carpeaux’s
group; if possible, it is even more pathetic. In Carpeaux’s work, the
Pisan count, tortured by madness, hunger, and sorrow at the sight of his
dying children, gnaws his two fists. Rodin has pictured the drama
further advanced. The children of Ugolin are dead; they lie on the
ground, and their father, whom the pangs of hunger have changed into a
beast, drags himself on his hands and knees above their bodies. He bends
above their flesh—but, at the same time, he turns away his head. There
is a fearful contest within him between the brute seeking food and the
thinking being, the loving being, who has a horror of this monstrous
sacrifice. Nothing could be more poignant.
“There,” said I, “is an example to add to that of the shipwreck in
confirmation of your words; it is certain that it is necessary to have
read the _Divine Comedy_ in order to represent the circumstances of
Ugolin’s torment—but even if the stanzas of Dante were unknown, it would
be impossible to remain unmoved before the terrible inner conflict which
is expressed in the attitude and the features of your figure.”
[Illustration:
UGOLINO
By Rodin
]
“It is true,” Rodin added, “when a literary subject is so well known the
artist can treat it and yet expect to be understood. Yet it is better,
in my opinion, that the works of painters and sculptors should contain
all their interest in themselves. Art can offer thought and imagination
without recourse to literature. Instead of illustrating scenes from
poems, it need only use plain symbols which do not require any written
text. Such has generally been my own method.”
What my host indicated, his sculptures gathered around us proclaimed in
their mute language. There I saw the casts of several of his works which
are most full of ideas.
I began to study them one by one.
I admired the reproduction of the _Pensée_, which is at the Musée du
Luxembourg. Who does not recall this singular work?
It is the head of a woman, very young, very fine, with features of
miraculous subtlety and delicacy. Her head is bent and aureoled with a
reverie which makes it appear almost immaterial. The edges of a light
coif which shadow her forehead seem the wings of her dreams. But her
neck and even her chin are still held in the heavy, massive block of
marble from which they cannot get free.
The symbol is easily understood. Thought expands within the breast of
inert matter, and illumines it with the reflection of her splendor—but
she vainly endeavors to escape from the heavy shackles of reality.
Next I turned to _Illusion, daughter of Icarus_ (_l’Illusion, fille
d’Icare_). It is the figure of a youthful angel. As she flew with her
great wings through space, a rude blast of wind dashed her to earth, and
her charming face was crushed against a rock. But her wings, unbroken,
still beat the air, and, immortal, she will rise again, take flight
again, fall again to earth, and this to the end of time. Untiring hopes,
eternal disappointments of illusion!
[Illustration:
ILLUSION, THE DAUGHTER OF ICARUS
By Rodin
]
Now my attention was attracted by a third sculpture, the _Centauress_.
The human bust of the fabulous creature yearns despairingly towards an
end which her longing arms can never attain; but the hind hoofs,
grappling the soil, are fast there, and the heavy horse’s flanks, almost
crouched in the mud, cannot kick free. It is the frightful opposition of
the poor monster’s two natures—an image of the soul, whose heavenly
impulses rest miserably captive to the bodily clay.
“In themes of this kind,” Rodin said, “the thought, I believe, is easily
read. They awaken the imagination of the spectators without any outside
help. And yet, far from confining it in narrow limits, they give it rein
to roam at will. That is, according to me, the rôle of art. The form
which it creates ought only to furnish a pretext for the unlimited
development of emotion.”
At this instant I found myself before a group in marble representing
Pygmalion and his statue. The sculptor passionately embraces his work,
which awakes to life within his arms.
“I am going to surprise you,” said Rodin, suddenly; “I will show you the
first sketch for this composition,” and he led me towards a plaster
cast.
I was indeed surprised. This had nothing whatever to do with the story
of Pygmalion. It was a faun, horned and hairy, who clutched a panting
nymph. The general lines were about the same, but the subject was very
different. Rodin seemed amused at my silent astonishment.
This revelation was somewhat disconcerting to me; for, contrary to all
that I had just heard and seen, my host proved himself indifferent, in
certain cases, to the subject. He watched me keenly.
“To sum it up,” he said, “you must not attribute too much importance to
the themes that you interpret. Without doubt, they have their value and
help to charm the public; but the principal care of the artist should be
to form living muscles. The rest matters little.” Then, suddenly, as he
guessed my confusion, he added, “You must not think that my last words
contradict what I said before.
[Illustration:
NYMPH AND FAUN
By Rodin
]
“If I say that a sculptor can confine himself to representing
palpitating flesh, without preoccupying himself with subject, this does
not mean that I exclude thought from his work; if I declare that he need
not seek symbols, this does not signify that I am a partisan of an art
deprived of spiritual significance.
“But, to speak truly, all is idea, all is symbol. So the form and the
attitude of a human being reveal the emotions of its soul. The body
always expresses the spirit whose envelope it is. And for him who can
see, the nude offers the richest meaning. In the majestic rhythm of the
outline, a great sculptor, a Phidias, recognizes the serene harmony shed
upon all nature by the divine wisdom; a simple torso, calm, balanced,
radiant with strength and grace, can make him think of the all-powerful
mind which governs the world.
“A lovely landscape does not appeal only by the agreeable sensations
that it inspires, but by the ideas that it awakens. The lines and the
colors do not move you in themselves, but by the profound meaning that
is in them. In the silhouette of trees, in the line of a horizon, the
great landscape painters, Ruysdael, Cuyp, Corot, Theodore Rousseau, saw
a meaning—grave or gay, brave or discouraged, peaceful or
troubled—according to their characters.
“This is because the artist, full of feeling, can imagine nothing that
is not endowed like himself. He suspects in nature a great consciousness
like his own. There is not a living organism, not an inert object, not a
cloud in the sky, not a green shoot in the meadow, which does not hold
for him the secret of the great power hidden in all things.
[Illustration:
THE CENTAURESS
By Rodin
]
“Look at the masterpieces of art. All this beauty comes from the
thought, the intention which their creators believed they could see in
the universe. Why are our Gothic cathedrals so beautiful? It is because
in all their presentment of life, in the human images which adorn their
portals, and even in the plants which flourish in their capitals, you
can discover a trace of the divine love. Those gentle craftsmen of the
Middle Ages saw infinite goodness shining everywhere. And, with their
charming simplicity, they have thrown reflections of this
loving-kindness even on the faces of their demons, to whom they have
lent a kindly malice and an air almost of relationship to the angels.
“Look at any picture by a master—a Titian, a Rembrandt, for example. In
all Titian’s seigneurs you notice a proud energy which, without doubt,
animated himself. His opulent, nude women offer themselves to adoration,
sure of their domination. His landscapes, beautified with majestic trees
and crimsoned with triumphant sunsets, are not less haughty than his
people: over all creation he has set a reign of aristocratic pride; it
was the constant thought of his genius.
“Another kind of pride illumines the wrinkled, smoke-dried face of the
artisans whom Rembrandt painted; he ennobled the smoky lofts and little
windows glazed with bottle ends; he illumined with sudden beauty these
flat, rustic landscapes, dignified the roofs of thatch which his
etching-point caressed with such pleasure on the copperplate. It was the
beautiful courage of the humble, the holiness of things common but
piously beloved, the grandeur of the humility which accepts and fulfils
its destiny worthily, which attracted him.
“And the mind of the great artist is so active, so profound, that it
shows itself in any subject. It does not even need a whole figure to
express it. Take any fragment of a masterpiece, you will recognize the
character of the creator in it. Compare, if you will, the hands painted
in two portraits by Titian and Rembrandt. The hands by Titian will be
masterful; those by Rembrandt will be modest and courageous. In these
limited bits of painting all the ideals of these masters are contained.”
[Illustration:
ITALIAN LANDSCAPE
By Corot
]
As I listened to this profession of faith in the spirituality of art an
objection rose to my lips.
“Master,” I said, “no one doubts that pictures and sculptures can
suggest the most profound ideas; but many sceptics pretend that the
painters and sculptors never had these ideas, and that it is we
ourselves who put them into their works. They believe that artists work
by pure instinct, like the sibyl who from her tripod rendered the
oracles of God, without herself knowing what she prophesied. Your words
clearly prove that your hand, at least, is ever guided by the mind, but
is it so with all the masters? Have they always put thought into their
work? Have they always had this clear idea of what their admirers found
in them?”
“Let us understand each other,” Rodin said, laughing. “There are certain
admirers of such complicated brain that they attribute most unexpected
intentions to the artist. We are not talking of these. But you may rest
assured that the masters are always conscious of what they do.” And
tossing his head, “If the sceptics of whom you speak only knew what
energy it takes for the artist to translate, even feebly, what he thinks
and feels with the greatest strength, they would not doubt that all that
appears shining forth from a picture or sculpture was intended.” A few
moments later he continued: “In short, the purest masterpieces are those
in which one finds no inexpressive waste of forms, lines, and colors,
but where all, absolutely all, expresses thought and soul.
“Yet it may happen that when the masters animate the Nature of their
ideals, they delude themselves. It may be that it is governed by an
indifferent force or by a will whose design our intelligence is
incapable of penetrating. At least, the artist, in representing the
universe as he imagines it, formulates his own dreams. In nature he
celebrates his own soul. And so he enriches the soul of humanity. For in
coloring the material world with his spirit he reveals to his delighted
fellow-beings a thousand unsuspected shades of feeling. He discovers to
them riches in themselves until then unknown. He gives them new reasons
for loving life, new inner lights to guide them.
[Illustration:
AN OLD MAN
By Rembrandt
]
[Illustration:
LAURA DIANTI
By Titian
]
“He is, as Dante said of Virgil, ‘their guide, their master, and their
friend.’”
[Illustration:
THE THINKER
By Rodin
]