PHIDIAS AND MICHAEL ANGELO
One Saturday evening Rodin said to me, “Come and see me to-morrow
morning at Meudon. We will talk of Phidias and of Michael Angelo, and I
will model statuettes for you on the principles of both. In that way you
will quickly grasp the essential differences of the two inspirations,
or, to express it better, the opposed characteristics which divide
them.”
Phidias and Michael Angelo judged and commented upon by Rodin! It is
easy to imagine that I was exact to the hour of our meeting.
The Master sat down before a marble table and clay was brought to him.
It was winter, and as the great atelier was unheated, I was afraid that
he might take cold. But the attendant to whom I suggested this smiled as
he answered, “Never, when he works.”
And my disquietude vanished when I saw the fever which seized the Master
when he began to knead the clay. He had asked me to sit down beside him.
Rolling balls of clay on the table, he began rapidly to model a figure,
talking at the same time.
“This first figure,” he said, “will be founded on the conception of
Phidias. When I pronounce that name I am really thinking of all Greek
sculpture, which found its highest expression in the genius of Phidias.”
The clay figure was taking shape. Rodin’s hands came and went, adding
bits of clay; gathering it in his large palms, with swift, accurate
movements; then the thumb and the fingers took part, turning a leg with
a single pressure, rounding a hip, sloping a shoulder, turning the head,
and all with incredible swiftness, almost as if he were performing a
conjuring trick. Occasionally the Master stopped a moment to study his
work, reflected, decided, and then rapidly executed his idea.
I have never seen any one work so fast: evidently sureness of mind and
eye ends by giving an ease to the hand of a great artist which can only
be compared to the adroitness of a juggler, or, to make a comparison
with a more honored profession, to the skill of a great surgeon. And
this facility, far from excluding precision and vigor, involves them,
and has, consequently, nothing whatever to do with a superficial
virtuosity.
While I drew these conclusions, Rodin’s statuette grew into life. It was
full of rhythm, one hand on the hip, the other arm falling gracefully at
her side and the head bent.
“I am not fatuous enough to believe that this quick sketch is as
beautiful as an antique,” the Master said, laughing, “but don’t you find
that it gives you a dim idea of it?”
“I could swear that it was the copy of a Greek marble,” I answered.
“Well, then, let us examine it and see from what this resemblance
arises. My statuette offers, from head to feet, four planes which are
alternatively opposed.
“The plane of the shoulders and chest leads towards the left
shoulder—the plane of the lower half of the body leads towards the right
side—the plane of the knees leads again towards the left knee, for the
knee of the right leg, which is bent, comes ahead of the other—and
finally, the foot of this same right leg is back of the left foot. So, I
repeat, you can note four directions in my figure which produce a very
gentle undulation through the whole body.
“This impression of tranquil charm is equally given by the balance of
the figure. A plumb-line through the middle of the neck would fall on
the inner ankle bone of the left foot, which bears all the weight of the
body. The other leg, on the contrary, is free—only its toes touch the
ground and so only furnish a supplementary support; it could be lifted
without disturbing the equilibrium. The pose is full of _abandon_ and of
grace.
“There is another thing to notice. The upper part of the torso leans to
the side of the leg which supports the body. The left shoulder is, thus,
at a lower level than the other. But, as opposed to it, the left hip,
which supports the whole pose, is raised and salient. So, on this side
of the body the shoulder is nearer the hip, while on the other side the
right shoulder, which is raised, is separated from the right hip, which
is lowered. This recalls the movement of an accordion, which closes on
one side and opens on the other.
“This double balance of the shoulders and of the hips contributes still
more to the calm elegance of the whole.
“Now look at my statuette in profile.
“It is bent backwards; the back is hollowed and the chest slightly
expanded. In a word, the figure is convex and has the form of the letter
C.
“This form helps it to catch the light, which is distributed softly over
the torso and limbs and so adds to the general charm. Now the different
peculiarities which we see in this statuette may be noted in nearly all
antiques. Without doubt, there are numerous variations, doubtless there
are some derogations from these fundamental principles; but in the Greek
works you will always find most of the characteristics which I have
indicated.
“Now translate this technical system into spiritual terms; you will then
recognize that antique art signifies contentment, calm, grace, balance,
reason.” Rodin cast a glance at his figure. “I could carry it further,”
he said, “but it would be only to amuse us, because, as it stands, it
has sufficed me for my demonstration. The details, moreover, would add
very little to it. And now, by the way, an important truth. When the
planes of a figure are well placed, with decision and intelligence, all
is done, so to speak; the whole effect is obtained; the refinements
which come after might please the spectator, but they are almost
superfluous. This science of planes is common to all great epochs; it is
almost ignored to-day.”
Pushing aside the clay figure, he went on: “Now I will do you another
after Michael Angelo.”
He did not proceed at all in the same way as for the first. He turned
the two legs of the figure to the same side and the torso to the
opposite side. He bent the body forward; he folded one arm close against
the body and placed the other behind the head. The attitude thus evoked
offered a strange appearance of effort and of torture. Rodin had
fashioned this sketch as quickly as the preceding one, only crushing his
balls of clay with more vigor and putting almost frenzy into the strokes
of his thumb.
“There!” he cried. “What do you think of it?”
“I should take it for a copy of a Michael Angelo—or rather for a replica
of one of his works. What vigor, what tension of the muscles!”
“Now! Follow my explanation. Here, instead of four planes, you have only
two; one for the upper half of the statuette and the other, opposed, for
the lower half. This gives at once a sense of violence and of
constraint—and the result is a striking contrast to the calm of the
antiques.
“Both legs are bent, and consequently the weight of the body is divided
between the two instead of being borne exclusively by one. So there is
no repose here, but work for both the lower limbs.
“Besides, the hip corresponding to the leg which bears the lesser weight
is the one which is the more raised, which indicates that the body is
pushing this way.
“Nor is the torso less animated. Instead of resting quietly, as in the
antique, on the most prominent hip, it, on the contrary, raises the
shoulder on the same side so as to continue the movement of the hip.
[Illustration:
A CAPTIVE
By Michael Angelo
]
“Now note that the concentration of the effort places the two limbs one
against the other, and the two arms, one against the body and the other
against the head. In this way there is no space left between the limbs
and the body. You see none of those openings which, resulting from the
freedom with which the arms and legs were placed, gave lightness to
Greek sculpture. The art of Michael Angelo created statues all of a
size, in a block. He said himself that only those statues were good
which could be rolled from the top of a mountain without breaking; and
in his opinion all that was broken off in such a fall was superfluous.
“His figures surely seem carved to meet this test; but it is certain
that not a single antique could have stood it; the greatest works of
Phidias, of Praxiteles, of Polycletus, of Scopas and of Lysippus would
have reached the foot of the hill in pieces.
“And that proves how a formula which may be profoundly true for one
artistic school may be false for another.
“A last important characteristic of my statuette is that it is in the
form of a console; the knees constitute the lower protuberance; the
retreating chest represents the concavity, the bent head the upper
jutment of the console. The torso is thus arched forward instead of
backward as in antique art. It is that which produces here such deep
shadows in the hollow of the chest and beneath the legs.
“To sum it up, the greatest genius of modern times has celebrated the
epic of shadow, while the ancients celebrated that of light. And if we
now seek the spiritual significance of the technique of Michael Angelo,
as we did that of the Greeks, we shall find that his sculpture expressed
restless energy, the will to act without the hope of success—in fine,
the martyrdom of the creature tormented by unrealizable aspirations.
[Illustration:
THE THREE GRACES
By Raphael
]
“You know that Raphael, during one period of his life, tried to imitate
Michael Angelo. He did not succeed. He could not discover the secret of
the condensed passion of his rival. It was because he was formed by the
Greek school, as is proved by that divine trio of the Graces at
Chantilly, in which he copied an adorable antique group at Siena.
Without knowing it, he constantly returned to the principles of the
masters he preferred. Those of his figures in which he wished to put
most strength always kept the rhythm and gracious balance of the
Hellenic masterpieces.
“When I went to Italy myself, with my head full of the Greek models
which I had so passionately studied at the Louvre, I found myself
completely disconcerted before the Michael Angelos. They constantly
contradicted all those truths which I believed that I had definitely
acquired. ‘Look here,’ I said to myself, ‘why this incurvation of the
body, this raised hip, this lowered shoulder?’ I was very much upset.
“And yet Michael Angelo could not have been mistaken! I had to
understand. I kept at it and I succeeded.
“To tell the truth, Michael Angelo does not, as is often contended, hold
a unique place in art. He is the culmination of all Gothic thought. It
is generally said that the Renaissance was the resurrection of pagan
rationalism and its victory over the mysticism of the Middle Ages. This
is only half true. The Christian spirit continued to inspire a number of
the artists of the Renaissance, among others, Donatello, the painter
Ghirlandajo, who was the master of Michael Angelo, and Buonarotti
himself.
“He is manifestly the descendant of the image-makers of the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries. You constantly find in the sculpture of the
Middle Ages this form of the console to which I called your attention.
There you find this same restriction of the chest, these limbs glued to
the body, and this attitude of effort. There you find above all a
melancholy which regards life as a transitory thing to which we must not
cling.”
As I thanked my host for his precious instruction, he said: “We must
complete it one of these days by a visit to the Louvre. Don’t forget to
remind me.” At this moment a servant announced Anatole France, whom
Rodin was expecting. The master sculptor had invited the great writer to
come and admire his collection of antiques.
They formed a great contrast to each other. Anatole France is tall and
thin. His face is long and fine; his black eyes are set deep in their
sockets; his hands are delicate and slender; his gestures are vivacious
and emphasize all the play of his irony. Rodin is thick-set, he has
strong shoulders, his face is broad; his dreamy eyes, often half-closed,
open wide at times and disclose pupils of clear blue. His beard gives
him the look of one of Michael Angelo’s prophets. His movements are slow
and dignified. His large hands, with short fingers, are strongly supple.
The one is the personification of deep and witty analysis, the other of
passion and strength.
The sculptor led us to his antiques, and the conversation naturally
returned to the subject which we had just been discussing.
A Greek stele roused the admiration of Anatole France. It represented a
young woman seated. A man is gazing at her lovingly, and behind her,
bending over her shoulders, stands a serving-maid.
“How the Greeks loved life!” cried the author of _Thaïs_. “See! Nothing
on this funeral stone recalls death. The dead woman is here amid the
living, and seems still to take part in their existence. Only she has
become very weak, and as she can no longer stand she must remain seated.
It is one of the characteristics which designate the dead on these
antique monuments: their limbs being without strength, they must lean
upon a staff, or against a wall, or else sit down.
“There is also another detail which frequently distinguishes them. While
the living who are figured around them all regard them with tenderness,
their own eyes wander far and rest on no one. They no longer see those
who see them. Yet they continue to live like beloved invalids among
those who cherish them. And this half-presence, this half-absence, is
the most touching expression of the regret which, according to the
ancients, the light of day inspired in the dead.”
Rodin’s collection of antiques is large and well chosen. He is
especially proud of a Hercules, whose vigorous slimness filled us with
enthusiasm. It is a statue which does not in the least resemble the huge
Farnese _Hercules_. It is marvellously graceful. The demi-god, in all
his proud youth, has a body and limbs of extreme slenderness.
“This is indeed,” said our host, “the hero who outran the Arcadian stag
with the brazen hooves. The heavy athlete of Lysippus would not have
been capable of such a feat of prowess. Strength is often allied to
grace, and true grace is strong; a double truth of which this Hercules
is a proof. As you see, the son of Alcmene seems even more robust
because his body is harmoniously proportioned.”
Anatole France stopped before a charming little torso of a goddess.
“This,” he said, “is one of the numberless chaste Aphrodites which were
more or less free reproductions of Praxiteles’ masterpiece, the _Cnidian
Venus_. The _Venus of the Capitol_ and the _Venus di Medici_ are, among
others, only variations of this much-copied model.
“Among the Greeks, many excellent sculptors spent their skill in
imitating the work of some master who had preceded them. They modified
the general idea but slightly, and only showed their own personality in
the science of the execution. It would seem, besides, that devotional
zeal, becoming fond of a sculptural image, forbade artists afterwards to
change it. Religion fixes once and for all the divine types that it
adopts. We are astonished to find so many chaste Venuses, so many
crouching Venuses. We forget that these statues were sacred. In a
thousand or two thousand years they will exhume in the same way numbers
of statues of the _Virgin of Lourdes_, all much alike, with a white
robe, a rosary, and a blue girdle.”
“What a kindly religion this of the Greeks must have been,” I cried,
“which offered such charming forms to the adoration of its worshippers!”
“It was beautiful,” Anatole France replied, “since it has left us these
Venuses; but do not believe that it was kindly. It was intolerant and
tyrannical, like all forms of pious fervor. In the name of these
Aphrodites of quivering flesh many noble souls were tortured. In the
name of Olympus the Athenians offered the cup of hemlock to Socrates.
And do you recall that verse of Lucretius:—
‘Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum!’
“You see, if the gods of antiquity are sympathetic to us to-day it is
because, fallen, they can no longer harm us.”