“Oh,” said Mr. Ruckstuhl, “that’s it, and that is what it is so hard to
get! That is what every sculptor strives for; and, unless he attains
it, his work, from my point of view is worthless. There must be life
in a statue; it must almost breathe. In repose there must be dormant
action that speaks for itself.”
“Is most of your work done under inspiration?” I asked.
“There is nothing, and a great deal, in so-called inspiration. I
firmly believe that we mortals are merely tools, mediums, at work here
on earth. I peg away and bend all my energies to my task. I simply
accomplish nothing. Suddenly, after considerable preparatory toil,
the mist clears away; I see things clearly; everything is outlined
for me. I believe there is a conscious and a subconscious mind. The
subconscious mind is the one that does original work; it cannot be
affected by the mind that is conscious to all our petty environments.
When the conscious mind is lulled and silenced, the subconscious one
begins to work. That I call inspiration.”
“Are you ever discouraged?” I asked out of curiosity.
“Continually,” replied Mr. Ruckstuhl, looking down at his hands,
soiled with the working clay. “Some days I will be satisfied with what
I have done. It will strike me as simply fine. I will be as happy
as a bird, and leave simply joyous. The following morning, when the
cloths are removed, I look at my precious toil, and consider it vile.
I ask myself: ‘Are you a sculptor or not? Do you think that you ever
will be one? Do you consider that art?’ So it is, till your task is
accomplished. You are your own critic, and are continually distressed
at your inability to create your ideals.”
Mr. F. Wellington Ruckstuhl is fifty years of age; neither short nor
tall; a brilliant man, with wonderful powers of endurance, for his work
is more exacting and tedious than is generally supposed.
“I have simply worked a month and a quarter on that statue,” he said.
“Certain work dissatisfied me, and I obliterated it. I have raised that
head three times. My eyes get weary, and I become physically tired. On
such occasions I sit down and smoke a little to distract my thoughts,
and to clear my mind. Then my subconscious mind comes into play again,”
he concluded with a smile.
Mr. Ruckstuhl’s best known works are: “Mercury Teasing the Eagle of
Jupiter,” which is of bronze, nine feet high, which he made in Paris;
a seven-foot statue of Solon, erected in the Congressional Library at
Washington; busts of Franklin, Goethe and Macaulay, on the front of the
same library; and the eleven-foot statue of bronze of “Victory,” for
the Jamaica soldiers’ and sailors’ monument. In competition, he won
the contract for an equestrian statue of General John F. Hartranft,
ex-Governor of Pennsylvania, which he also made in Paris. It is
considered the finest piece of work of its kind in America. Besides
this labor, he has made a number of medallions and busts.
“Art was in me as a child,” he said; “I was discouraged whenever it
beckoned me, but finally it claimed me. I surrendered a good position
to follow it, whether it led through a thorny road or not. A sculptor
is an artist, a musician, a poet, a writer, a dramatist, to throw
action, breath and life, music and a soul into his creation. I can pick
up an instrument and learn it instantly; I can sing, and act, so I am
in touch with the sympathies of the beings that I endeavor to create.
You will find most sculptors and artists of my composite nature.
“There,” said Mr. Ruckstuhl, and he stretched out his arm, with his
palm downward, and moved it through the air, as he gazed into distance,
“you strive to create the imagination of your mind, and it comes to you
as if sent from another world.
“You strive. That is the way to success.”