A WARNING TO YOUNG ARTISTS--PROFESSOR CAMBI'S PROPOSITIONS--A
FINANCIAL PROBLEM: TO INCREASE GAIN BY DIMINISHING THE MEANS
THAT PRODUCE IT--I LEAVE SANI'S SHOP TO HAVE MORE TIME AND
LIBERTY TO STUDY--AN IMITATION IS NOT SO BAD, BUT A
FALSIFICATION IS INDEED AN UGLY THING--THE MARCHESA POLDI AND A
CASKET, SUPPOSED TO BE AN ANTIQUE--HOW A MASTER SHOULD BE--THE
DEATH OF MY MOTHER, SEPTEMBER 1840--OPINION OF THE ACADEMY--THE
"TIPSY BACCHANTE"--A DIVIDED VOTE--THE "CARIATIDI" OF THE
ROSSINI THEATRE AT LEGHORN.
Let us consider for a moment the state of my mind at this time. I felt
within me an unconquerable inclination for the study of sculpture; and
even as a child, I gave vent to my feeling as well as I was able. As I
increased in years, the more this desire was repressed and opposed,
whether by my poverty or the aversion of my father, the more it
developed into a settled passion. But after the progress I had made in
my studies gave me a right to hope, and my masters had encouraged me,
and I had acquired some skill in working the marble, no work was given
me to do. Nor was this all. I was humiliated at last, being told by a
workman to whom I applied--who was the administrator of the studio of a
foreign artist--that there was nothing for me to do there, because the
work in that studio was so difficult as to be beyond my ability. I
swallowed this bitter mouthful, but I did not despair. Not only did I
not despair, but I determined, by study and force of will, to prove
that I was right and they were wrong. Add to this that I was not alone;
I had a wife and children. But no matter. Since the first prophecies
that I never should be good for anything as a wood-carver had proved
false, this also, which was both a humiliation and an insult, might
prove to be untrue. My poor wife saw that my mind was greatly disturbed,
and, with her sweetness, strove to calm me by representing to me that we
were fairly well off and without troubles, and exhorted me to drive from
my head a thought which was rendering my life bitter to me. These words,
dictated by love, made me still more unhappy; but dissimulating and
caressing her, I told her that she was right.
[Sidenote: RIVALSHIP AND CRITICISM.]
One day, in the studio of Magi, I and another young man were modelling
together a man's _torso_ which had been cast from nature. A friend of
Magi, a painter, as he passed by us paused, and after looking at our two
copies, said, turning to my rival and patting him gently on the
shoulder, "I am delighted: this is an artist!" Then turning to me with
an expression of regret, he said, "_A rivederla._" My good reader, do
you think that made me despair? No, by the Lord! I tell you rather that
these words were seared upon my brain as with a red-hot iron, and there
they still remain--and they did me a great deal of good. The Professor
who spoke them (yes, he was a Professor), three years afterwards
embraced me in the Accademia delle Belle Arti before my "Abel." My
rival? My rival is perfectly sound in health, and is fatter and more
vigorous than I am, but he is not a sculptor. So, my dear young artist,
courage! in the face of poverty, and opposition, and abuse, and
contempt, and even (remember this) of blandishments and flatteries,
which are more destructive than even abuse and contempt.
[Sidenote: INDICATIONS OF GENIUS.]
But be careful to consider well what your vocation really is, and do not
allow yourself to be deluded by false appearances. It is absolutely
necessary that your calling should be imperious, tenacious, persistent;
that it should enter into all your thoughts; that it should give its
form and pressure to all your feelings; that it should not abandon you
even in your sleep; and that it should drive from your memory your hour
of dinner, your appointments, your ease, your pleasures. If, when you
take a walk in the country, the hills and groves do not awaken in you in
the least the idea that it would be pleasant to own them; but, instead
of this, if you feel yourself enamoured by the beautiful harmony of
nature, with its varied outlines, and swelling bosoms, and slopes sadly
illuminated by the setting sun, and all seems to you an exquisite
picture--then hope. If at the theatre you see a drama represented, and
you feel impelled to judge within yourself whether this or that
character is well played--whether the gestures, the expression of face,
and the inflections of voice are such as properly belong to the
character, and accord with the affections that move him, or the passions
which agitate him--then hope. If, while you are walking along, you see
the face of a beautiful woman, and if it does not immediately awaken in
you the idea of a statue with its name and expression, but, on the
contrary, you idly or improperly admire it--then fear. If in reading of
a pathetic incident you feel your heart grow tender; if the triumph of
pride and arrogance rouse your scorn--then hope. And if you do not feel
your faculties debilitated by the long and thorny path of study, but, on
the contrary, tempered and strengthened every day by constant and
patient labour, then hope--hope--hope. If you have property, attend to
the management of it. If you are poor, learn some trade. It is better
to be a good carpenter than a bad artist.
[Sidenote: TRIENNIAL COMPETITION.]
In my own case, I armed myself with stout patience, and pursued my
ordinary work of wood-carving; and when I returned home in the evening,
I applied myself to study, and, in the simple and frank conversation of
my wife, felt a calm come over my agitated mind; and my powers,
enervated by ungrateful labour, were thus restored. But the opportunity
which was to launch me once and for ever in art was already near, and I
seized upon it with all my strength, hope, and love. Many and sad were
the first steps against opposition and division; but I pushed on, and I
have never stopped since.
Professor Ulisse Cambi, who had seen me modelling in Magi's studio, and
who had his own studio close by, now began to talk to me about the
triennial competition in sculpture, which took place precisely in this
year, and he proposed that I should go in for it, and hoped that I
should succeed; but even if I did not, he said, at all events the study
incident to it would be no loss to me. Flattered by this suggestion,
which showed that he had some confidence in me, I replied that I would
think of it, and would speak about it to Magi, who might possibly lend
me one of his rooms which he did not use, and also give me his
assistance. I spoke to him on the subject, but I did not find him at all
disposed to favour the project. In the first place, he told me that he
could not give me a room; then that he did not think that I had gone on
sufficiently far in my studies to be able to attempt such a competition;
and finally, that he would not undertake to direct my work. This answer
having been repeated to Cambi, he told me that he was convinced that I
should succeed, and that if Magi would neither give me a room nor
superintend my work, he would do both--and this he did.
[Sidenote: MODEL OF "JUDGMENT OF PARIS."]
The subject of the basso-relievo was "The Judgment of Paris," and
required five figures--Paris, Venus, Minerva, Juno, and Mercury. I made
a sketch; but it did not please Cambi, and taking a piece of paper, he
sketched with a pen a new composition, saying, "That, I think, will do
very well." I then made a new sketch founded upon this by Cambi. Some
one will now say, "This is not right; you ought to have worked out an
idea of your own, and not one of your master's." Agreed; but these
considerations will come afterwards. For the present, let us go on.
In the meantime it was necessary to come to a decision, and to take into
consideration that the work required much time, and could not be
completed in my off-hours, as I had hitherto done with my other studies,
and also that money would be required to pay the models; so that, as it
would be necessary to give less time to my ordinary work, I should earn
less, while I should have need of more money in order to pay the models.
The problem was a difficult one, and at first sight not easily solved.
The reader will remember the Brothers Pacetti, in whose shop I had sold
the Santa Filomena. One of these, Tonino, had often said to me that if I
would work for them they would give me anything to do that I might
prefer--whether cornices rich with figures and _putti_ and arabesques,
or coffers and chests _all'antica_, or whatever I liked with figures,
with the prices agreed upon, and liberty to work when and how I liked.
The offer was excellent, as you see; but it involved leaving my old
master Sani, and I was affectionately attached to him, and he and all in
the shop were attached to me; and on this account I felt repugnance to
leaving the place and the persons who had helped me on when I was a
child. So, thanking Pacetti, I repeatedly refused his offer. But now it
was necessary to come to a decision between two alternatives--either to
abandon the competition and remain in the shop, or to abandon the shop
and accept the offer of the Brothers Pacetti. I spoke of this to my good
Marina, who at first did not look upon it at all favourably, fearing
that if I left the shop, which had always given me work, I should find
myself left in the lurch by the other, in spite of all the fine promises
of gain and liberty and the like. But at last, seeing that I was
decided, she contented herself with saying, "Do as you think best." O
blessed woman, may God reward thee!
[Sidenote: MODELLING BAS-RELIEF FOR COMPETITION.]
When I stated to old Sani my determination to leave his shop, angry as a
hornet, he said, "Do as you like," and spoke to me no more the whole
day. The next day, however, more softened, but still severe, he asked me
the reason of this strange resolution, and I told him. Then he proposed
an increase of salary and a diminution of work, and at last agreed (I
must do justice to this good man) to allow me to have all the hours
which were necessary for the competition. But I had already made my
contract with Pacetti, had decided upon a work after my own choice,
arranged the room given me by Pacetti, and which was the Hospital for
Horses in the old stable of the Palazzo Borghese, and I could not
withdraw from it.
I began to model the basso-relievo for the competition in the studio
Cambi, and my _intaglio_ work I did in the little studio or stable of
the Palazzo Borghese. The work that I had undertaken for Pacetti was
curious. It had every recommendation except that of honesty. Let me
explain. There was at this time a great passion among strangers for
antique objects: great chests, cornices, and coffers, provided they were
old, were sought for and purchased; but modern works, though of
incontestable merit, no one cared for, and they brought very low prices.
It came into the head either of Pacetti or myself--I do not remember
which--to make something in imitation of the antique (and so far it was
all right), and to sell it for antique, and here was the maggot.
[Sidenote: I CARVE A SEICENTO COFFER.]
It was settled, then, that I should make a coffer or chest in the
beautiful and rich style of the _Seicento_--rectangular of form and not
high. The cover was slightly pointed, with various arabesque ornaments,
and in the centre of this cover in the front I carved a Medusa crying
out loudly; and by looking at myself in the mirror, I succeeded in
giving a good deal of truth to the sad expression of this head--indeed
the muscles of the face and the eyes had such a truth of expression that
I would not promise to do as well again even now. This is the portion of
the work which is really original; all the divisions in panels, and the
external faces, were an absolute counterfeit representation of the
ornaments on the bookshelves in the Libreria Laurenziana, which were
carved by Tasso the carver, the friend of Benvenuto Cellini, and, as
some say, were designed by Cellini himself. Every precaution was
taken--the wood was antique but not worm-eaten, so that I could carve
with delicacy all the ornaments, dragons, and chimeræ; and when it was
finished, here and there a worm-hole was counterfeited and filled up
with wax, but so as to be visible. The hinges and ironwork were also
imitations of the antique, which were first oxidated and then
repolished. In a word, it was a veritable trap, and I give an account of
it for the sake of the truth; and I hope that the first statement of
this falsification does not come from me. But however this may be, we
laughed at it, and it amused me then, though now it displeases me.
[Sidenote: COFFER IS ATTRIBUTED TO CELLINI.]
This coffer was seen by many persons, some of whom asked the price; but
Pacetti set a high value upon it, and he had spread about some sort of
story that it was a work of Benvenuto Cellini's. Finally, after some
time, the Marchioness Poldi of Milan, who had gone to Florence to urge
Bartolini to finish the famous group of Astyanax which he was making for
her, saw this coffer, liked it, and took it for an antique; but in
regard to the excellence of the work, and above all the name of the
artist to whom it was sought to attribute it, she determined to consult
Bartolini himself, and if his judgment was favourable, to buy it for the
price that was asked, but which naturally was not what I had been paid.
Bartolini decided that it was one of the finest works of Tasso the
_intagliatore_, made after the designs of Benvenuto Cellini; and the
Marchioness Poldi then bought the coffer, and carried it to Milan.
Four years later, I finished my "Abel" and "Cain." I had made a name,
which had been rendered still more attractive by the curious story of my
origin; for all of a sudden, while nobody knew who I was, I seemed to be
an artist who had been born one morning and grown up before night. The
only thing that was reported about me was, that I had never studied, and
that I had suddenly leaped from the bench of the _intagliatore_ on to
that of the sculptor. The reader who has thus far followed me, and who
will continue with me up to the completion of my "Abel" and "Cain," will
see with what heedlessness these reports were propagated. Let us go on.
The Marchioness Poldi came to my studio, and having heard the story of
my life, which was in the hands of all, and was written in that easy,
attractive, and poetic style of which Farini is master, told me that
she possessed a magnificent work in _intaglio_ by the famous
_intagliatore_ Tasso, and said that this work was imagined and executed
with such grace and excellence that it might truly be called a work of
art, and she added that these were the very words of Bartolini.
[Sidenote: IN THE STUDIO CAMBI.]
The reader may imagine whether I was flattered by this; and in
consequence of this praise, as well as to pluck out this thorn from my
heart by a confession of my fault, I said, "I beg your pardon, Signora
Marchesa, but that work was made by me."
The Marchioness looked at me with a kind of wonder, and then said, "No
matter--nay, all the better."
I begged her not to tell Bartolini.
But to return to the point where I left off to make this digression
about the Marchioness Poldi. Let me say, that if in my studio I enjoyed
complete liberty of imagination and action, and if my works met with
such success and were so praised as to give me consolation, matters did
not go on so well in the studio Cambi, where I was modelling for the
competition. Scarcely had I put my foot into that studio when I became
timid, embarrassed, and almost fearful; for the Professor would not
leave me free to see and execute from the life as I saw it. I do not say
that he was wrong; I only say, that thus feeling my hands bound to the
will of another, rendered me hesitating and discontented. I should have
preferred a studio of my own, and after I had sketched out as well as I
could my own ideas, then to have my master come in to correct me. But
there he was always; and he was not content with correcting me by words
alone, but he would take the modelling tool and go on and model what I
ought to have modelled myself. My work might be done with difficulty;
but if I could have done it all myself, as I wished, I should have been
much happier, and my hand would have been better seen in it--the hand of
a youth without skill indeed, but still desirous to do and to learn; and
I should also have been spared the annoyance of hearing that the work
was not done by me, but by Professor Cambi. Now Cambi is a very dear
friend of mine, and I do not mean in the least to reprove him for what
he did; but it is my duty to state the facts clearly just as they
are--and I take this occasion to say a few words as to what I consider a
master should do in directing his young pupils.
[Sidenote: LAWS OF COMPOSITION AND GROUPING.]
Every historical fact, in its manifestations of time, place,
circumstances, and character, presents itself to the mind of each person
who studies it--and far more to any one who intends to reproduce it--in
an entirely different way from what it would impress another. The
impression each receives depends upon his character, intelligence,
temperament, and education. This being admitted, it is in the highest
degree difficult to assert with assurance, "I understand and can express
the fact better than you." When certain essential points are
established, such as the age and character of the personages, and the
costumes and style of dress, all the rest depends upon the taste of the
artist, and his manner of viewing and feeling it. As to the composition
and grouping of the figures, in regard to which dogmatic statements are
so often laid down, this should be a free field to the artist in which
he may move about as he will. The harmony of lines, the balance of
parts, the equality of spaces, are all very fine words; but above all
and before all, and as the base of all, there should be clear expression
of the fact, truth of action, and living beauty. It is very true that
sometimes, and indeed very often, the young pupil is without much study
or much knowledge, and in composing his sketch he makes mistakes in the
arrangement of the dresses and the character and truth of the subject he
wishes to represent. Then indeed the master should interpose. But how?
Not by taking the tool himself and saying, "You should do thus and
thus"; but rather by putting his pupil on the right road, and making him
clearly appreciate the story he is trying to represent, and showing him
that this or that figure ought to have the dress and the character
appropriate to it, and to point out the means by which he may attain
this result. If after this teaching the youth is dull, he should be
counselled not to go on; but if, on the contrary, he improves his
sketch, the master should correct it and perfect it in its movement, in
its _ensemble_, and in its expression. In this way the youth will take
courage and cognisance of his own powers, and improve.
[Sidenote: FAULTS OF YOUNG STUDENTS.]
One of the commonest faults with young scholars is their slothfulness in
trying to discover for themselves their own way to express their ideas.
For the most part, they are completely deficient in this, and prefer to
seek among the works of their master, or of some other master, for their
subjects, types, and movements--and thus, with little fatigue and less
honour, they only succeed in giving a colourless reminiscence of works
already known; and one of the faults of the master is this--not only to
allow his scholars to imitate and steal from him, but what is worse, to
desire to impose upon them his own works as models.
[Sidenote: ILLNESS OF MY MOTHER.]
I return to my narrative. In my stable I pursued my artistic life freely
and happily, with power to select the work I was to do, to carry out my
own designs in whatever style I liked, and almost to fix their prices.
In this way, with only a half-day's work, I was able to carry home my
ordinary earnings for the maintenance of my family; and beyond this, I
had two francs over to pay my model for the remainder of the day, which
I spent on my basso-relievo. My daily life, therefore, was gay and free
in my stable, timorous and gloomy in the studio Cambi, and peaceful,
glad, and quiet all the evening at home. But for all this, the
bitterness had to come. The other competitor, Ludovico Caselli, was
already hinting it about that the basso-relievo was not made by me, and
that Professor Cambi worked upon it. Caselli was modelling under the
direction of Professor Pampaloni; but I never complained that Pampaloni
worked upon it, although there were some who affirmed that he did. I
kept my peace, and resolved formally in my own mind that whatever should
be the issue of this competition, I would again make an attempt the next
year. When the time of the exhibition and the decision approached, I
began to hear contemptuous and insolent rumours, which, whether I failed
or was successful, would equally afflict me. To this is to be added,
that my poor mother was suffering from a very severe illness--an
illness, indeed, that carried her in a few days to her grave. I
remember, as something that still pierces my heart, the interest she
showed during that illness for me, for my competition, and for my
triumph (as she called it); and it seemed as if this belief of my loving
mother gave a certain alleviation to the terrible anguish of her
disease, which every day grew worse and worse. This was in the first
days of September 1840. On Sunday the 15th the decision was to be given,
and my poor mother was at the point of death. What I felt in my heart
may be imagined, it cannot be told. The instant I heard that the prize
had been given to me, I ran to my mother--from whom I had of late been
somewhat separated--with almost a hope that this good news might bring
her back to life again. And in fact, on hearing this news her face
became radiant, her cheeks glowed, her eyes, which for a time had seen
nothing, became animated and seemed to gaze at me. Then she stretched
out her arms, and, pressing me to her, said, "Now I die willingly." She
lived a few days longer, and then, comforted by the sacrament of our
holy religion, died. She had finished her short life of about fifty
years, in the restrictions of poverty and in the bitterness of one of
the greatest misfortunes--blindness. God has taken her to the joy of His
infinite mercy.
[Sidenote: DECISION OF THE ACADEMY.]
The conflict of judgment among the professors of the Academy at the
competition was tempestuous, and the result extraordinary. The votes
were divided thus: Ten votes were given for my model, four or five (if I
mistake not) to that of my competitor, and there were eleven votes for a
division of the prize. I thought that votes for a division could not
properly be given; and at all events, as I received ten and the other
four, I considered myself the superior. But no. The legal adviser
declared that the number eleven was superior to the number ten, and as
eleven had voted for the division, that the prize must be divided. But
the matter did not end here. My competitor, not satisfied with his
prize, went about saying that it was not I who had competed; that he did
not know who I was, nor where I had studied; and he threatened to
challenge me to I know not what trial in design or modelling. I answered
that I intended to continue to study, and that naturally we should be
measured against each other often, if he chose to have it so; and this
put an end to it. More than this, we became friends, and still are; and
I believe he is now employed in the foundry of Cavaliere Pietro Bonini,
as a designer or mechanic, I don't well know which. He is a man of
talent, and has made several works of sculpture, among which are Hagar
and Ishmael, Susannah, and the statue of Mascagni which is under the
Uffizi.
[Sidenote: MODEL OF YOUTHFUL BACCHANTE.]
But in the opinion of the young students at that time there still
remained a doubt whether that work was all grist from my mill, and in
consequence I had a strong desire to do something by myself in my own
studio. In order to put an end to all this gossiping, I put up a figure
of life size representing a drunken and youthful Bacchante leaning
against the trunk of a tree as half falling, while she smiled and held
to her lips a goblet. The difficulty of the subject was as great as my
inexperience. The tender age of the model, who could not be made to
stand still, the difficult and fatiguing attitude, my own total want of
practice in setting up the irons and clay, the smallness of the room,
and the deficiency of light, were obstacles which conquered at last all
my poor capacity, and my figure fell, and I had not the courage to put
it up again; and it was all the better that I did not.
After this came new attacks, new gossip, and new affronts, all carefully
covered and veiled, and, as Giusti says, "_Tramati in regola, alla
sordina._"
I have already spoken of the voting on the competition, and I may as
well return to this here--for these memoirs are not solely a meagre
narrative of my life, but also an examination of principles; and
whenever it seems to me proper to make this examination, I shall do so,
endeavouring, as usual, to be brief and clear.
And first of all, you must believe that I do not return to this decision
to complain that the prize was divided between me and my rival; and I
wish you to understand that even had the entire prize been adjudged to
me, I should equally have returned to this question. The subject I mean
to examine is the false principle of a vote of division.
[Sidenote: VOTES ON COMPETITIVE WORK.]
Whoever undertakes to judge of the comparative merit of various works,
ought, I think, to have sufficient critical ability to distinguish
minutely the smallest differences between these works on various
points--such as, for instance, their composition, character, proportion,
movement, expression, refinement, historical accuracy in the types and
fashion of the dresses, truth, style, &c. &c. Now it is absolutely
impossible that in all these particulars two works can be perfectly
equal and of the same value; and the conclusion thus far is unavoidable,
that the judge who gives his vote for a division, either has not the
qualities required to discern these delicate differences, or omits
through culpable negligence to make such a rigorous examination as is
required to arrive at what is true and just. Therefore the President
should declare formally that the votes for a division will be null; and
as their absence might invalidate the decision through a consequent
deficiency of votes, he should invite the judges to declare for one or
the other. I conclude (and with this I shall finish my disquisition on
this subject of division of votes) that whoever feels inclined to give a
vote in this indeterminate way, either is, or thereby declares himself
to be, ignorant of the matter in regard to which he is required to have
knowledge and to give judgment.
The youthful Bacchante fell down; and, as I have said, it was well that
it did. This I say now; but then I was much vexed, both on account of
the accident itself, and also for the unpleasant talk that it gave rise
to. But after all, things are what they really are, and not what we
think them to be. I was, however, consoled by a commission--very small
indeed, but it seemed to raise my depressed spirits--and it was this, to
make the four "Cariatidi" of the Royal Box in the Rossini Theatre in
Leghorn. I should not have mentioned this humble work did it not give me
occasion to note one thing which the young men of to-day seem to have
forgotten.
[Sidenote: HUMBLE COMMISSIONS.]
It is common for the young sculptors of our day to scorn and sneer at
any work that is offered to them which they think beneath that skill and
capacity which they suppose themselves to possess; and they will not, as
they say, abase themselves to mere work in plaster. If any one orders of
them a bust or a statue in plaster, their pretence is so excessive that
they deem it an insult. Now, I say the material counts for nothing; and
a plaster statue merely for decoration, well executed, is worth more
than a statue in marble or bronze which is ill executed. Undoubtedly, if
one could choose, he would reject the statue in plaster and accept that
in marble--always, however, recognising that the one essential thing is,
to do his work well. But I was not given this choice, and I accepted
this humble commission, and executed it with zealous love. There was
this, too, of good in the commission--it might induce me to believe that
I should have made a far better statue had I been given more time and
more means to make one of my own selection; and I said, "If I have been
able to make these statues in a month, with thirty or forty lire to pay
to my models, how much better I might do in five or six months, with
much more money!" The question reduces itself, then, to time and money.
Let the young artist consider whether my reasoning is not just; and let
him also consider what is more important--that if I had not accepted
this commission, I should not have come to the knowledge of the power
that was in me, nor have gone through the reasoning which by strict
logic induced me to make the "Abel."
This humble work was of great importance to me, and I recommend it to
the attention of those young artists who consider themselves humiliated
by small commissions. No; do not let them be alarmed either by the
subject or the material, and if they should receive an order even for a
great _terra cotta_ mask for a fountain, provided it be well made, they
will acquire by it praise, and new and worthier orders, so long as their
sole endeavour is to do their work well.