SCULPTURE
The sculptor has this advantage over all other artists, that his chief
subject is the most beautiful thing in the world--the human body. In
two ways the body is supremely beautiful: as an expression of mind and
as an embodiment of sensuous charm. In the body mind has become actually
incarnate; there purpose, emotion, and thought have taken shape and
manifestation. And this shape, through its appeal to the amorous,
parental, and gregarious feelings, and through the complete organization
of its parts, has no rival in loveliness. What wonder, therefore, that
sculptors have always thought of their work as simply one of mere
imitation of nature, the divine. Yet in sculpture, as in the other
arts, the imitative process is never slavish, but selective and
inventive. For the body is interesting to the artist only in so far
as it is beautiful, that is, so far as it has charm and exhibits the
control of mind; some of its details and many of its attitudes, having
no relation to either, are unfit for imitation; and, although inspired
by his model, the sculptor seeks to create out of his impressions a
still more harmonious object.
To give to his material the semblance of the body beautiful is the
technical problem of the sculptor. Although this semblance is primarily
for sight, it is not exclusively so. For in sculpture shape is not
two-dimensional, but plastic; and for the full appreciation of
plasticity, the cooperation of touch is required. Moreover, not only
the perception of the form, but also a large part of the appreciation
of the charm of the body depends upon touch. Of course we do not
ordinarily touch statues, but they should make us want to touch them,
and we should touch them--in the imagination. The surfaces of the
statue should therefore be so modeled as to give us, in the imagination,
the pleasures that we get when we touch the living body. It is well
known that these touch values were destroyed by the neo-classicists
when they polished the surfaces of their statues. Such sculpture for
the eye only is almost as good when reproduced in an engraving that
preserves its visual quality, and is therefore lacking in complete
sculptural beauty. But no plane reproduction can replace the best
Greek, Italian, or French work.
The life of the statue should, however, be more than skin deep. We
should appreciate it through sensations of motion and strain as well
as through sight and touch, feeling the tenseness or relaxation of the
muscles and tendons beneath. We should move with its motion or rest
with its repose. And this does not mean that we should merely know
that an attitude of quiet or of motion is represented; we should
actually experience quiet or motion. In our own bodies sensations
corresponding to these should be awakened by the visual image of the
statue, yet should be fused with the latter, becoming for our perception
its, not ours, in accordance with the mechanism of _einfuhlung_
described in our fourth chapter. The light rhythmic motion of the
figures in Carpeaux's "Dance" should thrill in our own limbs, yet seem
to thrill in theirs.
Because it preserves the full three-dimensional presence of the body,
sculpture is, next to the drama, the most realistic of the arts. This
realism is not, however, an unmixed advantage for general appreciation.
For, finding the shape of the body, men sometimes demand its color and
life, complaining that the statue is cold and dead;[Footnote: See
Byron, _Don Juan_, Canto II, cxviii.] or else, giving life to the
form, they react to it practically and socially, as they would toward
the real body. Yet, for the one attitude, the art itself cannot be
held responsible, but rather some want of genius in the artist or lack
of imagination in the spectator; and as for the other, although only
a bloodless dogma would demand the elimination of passion and interest
from the appreciation of sculpture--for unless the marble arouse the
natural feelings toward the body it is no successful
expression--nevertheless, good taste does demand that, through attention
to form and a sense of the unreality of the object, these feelings be
subdued to contemplation.
In order to keep the statue on the ideal plane, it should not be too
realistically fashioned. If it looks too much like a man, we shall
first treat it as a man, as we do one of Jarley's or Mme. Tissaud's
waxworks, and then after we have been undeceived, we shall have toward
it an uncanny feeling, totally unaesthetic, as towards a corpse. The
statue, therefore, if life-sized, should not be given the colors or
clothing of life. Tinting is not excluded, provided no attempt is made
at exact imitation; and when the statue is of heroic, or less than the
normal size, as in porcelain, both coloring and clothing may be more
realistic. No hard and fast rules can be formulated; yet the principle
is plain--there should be realism in one aspect, above all in shape,
in order that there may be an aesthetic semblance of life, but not in
all, in order that the statue may not be a mere substitute for life,
awakening the reactions appropriate to life. Moreover, appreciating
the beauty of his material, the sculptor may not wish to cover it up,
as he would if he tinted it. As in painting, the attainment of beauty
in the medium may interfere with full realism in execution. For the
sake of beauty of color, the worker in bronze will be content to see
the white man black, and for the sake of beauty of line he may even
sacrifice something of exactness in the rendering of shape.
For there is a beauty in the media of sculpture, apart from what they
may represent, quite as real, if not as obvious, as in the other arts.
And without this beauty, there is no artistic sculpture. Its subtlety
does not diminish its importance or its effect upon our feeling, for
it makes all the difference between a mere imitation of nature and a
work of art charming and compelling. We do not need to recognize its
existence explicitly in order to appreciate it; yet, as soon as our
attention is called to it, we admit it and accord to it that rare
influence which before was felt but nameless.
In the first place, the color of the material is expressive. The black
and gold of bronze have a depth and intensity, the whiteness of marble
a coldness, clarity, and, serenity, inescapable. The weight and
hardness, or lightness and softness, of the material, also count. If
people do not feel the expressiveness of these qualities directly,
they nevertheless do feel it indirectly, whenever they appreciate the
superior fitness of marble and bronze for the embodiment of the heroic
and supernatural, and of the light and fragile porcelain for the more
fleeting and trivial phases of life. Size, too, is expressive. There
is a daintiness and tenderness about a little statue, contrasting
strongly with the grandeur and majesty of one of heroic size. The usual
small size of the terra cotta figurines among the Greeks was appropriate
for the genre subjects which they so frequently represented, and an
Aphrodite in this material is rather the Earthly than the Heavenly
Love.
There is also an evident beauty of line in sculpture, similar to the
beauty of line in painting. The curved line is expressive of movement
and grace; the horizontal, of repose; the crooked line, of energy and
conflict. Compare, from this point of view, Rodin's "The Aged Helmet-
Maker's Wife" with his "Danaid,"--how expressive of struggle and
suffering are the uneven lines of the former, how voluptuous the curves
of the latter! Michelangelo is the great example of the use of tortuous
lines for the expression of conflict. Undulating vertical lines are
largely responsible for the "grace and dignity" of the classic
sculpture.
There is an organic unity of line in sculpture, similar again to that
in painting. And by line I mean not only surface lines, but the lines
made by the planes in which the body lies, the lines of pose and
attitude. The predominance of a single type of line, the union of many
lines to form a single continuous line, balance and symmetry of line,
proportion of length and parallelism, are all to be found in sculpture.
Especially important is rhythm--the harmonious, balanced movement of
lines. In the "Venus de Milo," for example, the plane of the lower
limbs from the feet to the knees moves to the left; there is an opposite
and balancing movement from the right knee to the waist; the first
movement is repeated in the parallel line from the right hip to the
top of the head; this, in turn, is balanced by a line in the opposite
direction running from the left hip to the right shoulder, parallel
to the second line; but the equilibrium of line is not a rigid one,
for the body as a whole moves in an undulating line to the left,
imparting grace and a total unity.
The beauty of line in sculpture is, of course, no invention of the
artist; for nature has created it in the body itself. The sculptor
takes this beauty as the basis of his work, remodeling only by the
elimination of details, through which purer effects of line are
obtained, or by the selection and emphasis of pose, through which these
effects are rendered more intensely expressive. All conventionalization
is in the interest of increased beauty of line. But too great a
sacrifice of the natural contours of the body, as in some of the work
of the Cubists, results in a lifelessness that cannot be atoned for
by any formal beauty.
The unification of line in sculpture is a matter not only of lines
within the whole and of single contours, but of the total visual form
of the whole, of silhouette. Although three-dimensional, every statue
casts a two-dimensional image on the retina. It makes as many of these
plane pictures as there are points of view from which it can be seen.
One can easily convince oneself of this by viewing a statue from a
distance, when it will flatten out to a mere outline or silhouette.
As such, it should be clear and simple and pleasing, capable of being
grasped as a whole irrespective of detail. Michelangelo demanded that
every statue be capable of being put inside of some simple geometrical
figure, like a pyramid or a cube; that there be no wayward arms or
legs, but close attachment to the body, so close that the statue might
be rolled down hill without any part being broken off. This last is
perhaps too rigorous a requirement, but the best work of all periods
exhibits visual clarity and concentration.[Footnote: Compare Adolf
Hildebrand, The Problem of Form in Painting and Sculpture.]
Within its contours the statue stands alone. This is the essential
difference between painting and sculpture; the painted thing is always
a part of a larger spatial whole within which it exists in relation
to other things, while the sculptured thing exists by itself; the space
of the statue is the space which it fills; there is no further space
to which it belongs, no background in which it lies. The space of
sculpture, like the space of painting, is of course a represented or
imaginary space, to be carefully distinguished from the real space of
the room in which it is placed and the floor upon which it stands. The
pedestal serves the same purpose in sculpture as the frame in the
sister art; it cuts off the ideal space which the statue fills from
the real space where it is housed, raising it above the common ground
of real life, with its practical and social attitudes, into the realm
of contemplation. The pedestal should be of a different material from
the statue, else it belongs with the latter, and fails to perform its
separating junction. The plate, on the other hand, should be of the
same material, otherwise the statue would be made to stand on our
earth, and in the same space with us.
However, just as in painting every object should be represented as
belonging to a wider whole of space, so in sculpture, every part of
the body should be represented as belonging to the whole body. If,
therefore, only a part of the body is sculptured, it should be evident
that it is a part and not the whole. In the portrait statue, for
example, if the head alone is represented, there should appear, along
with the head, as much of the bust as will suggest attachment to the
body, in order that it may not seem decapitated! It is because the
torso is so obviously a fragment of an ideal whole that we do not feel
it to be an uncanny mutilation of a man or woman. In its present
condition, the "Venus de Milo" is not the statue of an armless woman,
but a statue of part of a whole woman.
A statue is not sufficiently unified by representing a single individual
or several individuals united by some common interest or by
participation in some common action; the unity in the object should
be expressed through a unity in the material of representation. The
finest taste requires that every statue should be made of only one
kind of material. One part, say the body, should not be of marble, and
another part, say the girdle, of gold or bronze. Such a combination
of materials gives the impression of two things juxtaposed, not of a
single whole. If in defense of this one were to say that through the
difference of materials real differences in the object are portrayed,
consistency would require that the principle be carried out, that the
hair be of another material, and the eyes of still a third, with the
result of making the statue a sheer agglomerate. And when more than
one individual is represented, even a unity of material is not
sufficient; it is necessary, in addition, that the several figures in
the group be in contact with each Other. It is not enough that they
stand on the same plate; for the real empty space that we see between
them will keep them apart. The ideal space to which they belong, and
the spiritual or dramatic oneness, should be mediated by a material
touch of hands or other parts of the body. Compare, in this connection,
Rodin's "Citizens of Calais" where this principle is violated, with
the three figures from the summit of his "Hell Gate," where it is
observed. In the former we simply know that the figures belong together,
but we do not feel them as together.[Footnote: Compare Lipps,
_Aesthetik_, Bd. 2, Fuenftes Kapitel.]
In the normal type of sculpture only one figure is represented. For
this, there is, perhaps, a chief point of regard, in front, the same
as that which we ordinarily occupy with reference to our fellow men.
Yet, since the body is beautiful from every point of view, the statue,
unless designed to fit into a niche, should be so made that we shall
want to move around it and survey it from every angle. Here is another
difference between painting and sculpture. In the group, however, where
several figures are represented united by some common interest or by
participating in some common action, this difference is already
beginning to disappear. For, in order to appreciate the dramatic
significance of the group, the point of regard from in front is
essential. The other aspects remain important for their corporeal
beauty, but, since that is not ordinarily paired with an equal inner
significance, they come to acquire a secondary place.
Impressionistic sculpture represents a further departure from the
normal and in the direction of the pictorial. Here part of the block
from which the statue has been hewn is left an integral member of the
piece; and out of it the figure seems to grow, as it were. It performs
in the whole a function corresponding to the background of a
portrait--the representation of the environment. Thus, in Meunier's
"The Miner," the block represents the mine; in Rodin's "Orpheus and
Eurydice," it represents the mouth of Hades; in his "Mystery of the
Spring," a basin. Through the possibility of thus representing the
relation of man to his environment a notable extension in the scope
of sculpture is obtained.
When a background is introduced, the figure or figures, being members
of a larger whole, require less detailed treatment, less clearness of
outline. Their parts may even be left in large measure unfinished, the
contours melting together with the block. A special point of regard,
from which alone the figures are modeled, is obviously essential.
Striking is the contrast of this type with the classic, where the
utmost precision in modeling is necessary. Along with the diminished
emphasis on clearness of form goes an increased effort at the portrayal
of the inner, more spiritual life; sentiment and mystery find an
unwonted place in the art. Rodin's "Psyche" is a good illustration.
Yet, despite these differences, the classic demand for living surfaces,
for rhythmical lines, for perspicuity and totality of silhouette, for
singleness and unity of material, abides.
However, when the block attains prominence, the unification of the
different figures through contact is no longer of equal necessity. The
background serves the purpose of bringing the figures together, of
providing a material bond between them. This is especially true in the
various kinds of relief, between which and sculpture in the round,
impressionistic sculpture is a sort of compromise. In relief there may
even be a representation of perspective, the figures seeming to lie
behind each other, flatter and smaller to indicate distance. But we
shall not enter into the technique of this, which obviously approaches
that of painting.
When the charm of the body is the prime object of expression, those
actions and poses which exhibit grace and vigor are the ones naturally
chosen. This beauty is best revealed in the single figure, because in
the group there is usually some dramatic interest which diverts
attention from it. The figure is preferably wholly or partially
undraped, or when drapery is used, it should reveal the body underneath
and possess beauty of line of its own. Elaboration of drapery for its
own sake, or in order to display virtuosity in modeling, shows lack
of true sculptural vision, which always has its eye on the naked form.
Aside from lack of charm, the old and crippled are avoided because
their inharmonious lines would appear again in a statue which reproduced
them; it is not possible, as in painting, to make a harmony out of
them through relation to other lines in the total work, for no other
lines exist; nor can their natural ugliness be so easily made acceptable
through beauty of color and light. Nevertheless, no one can dogmatically
assert that the artist must confine himself in his choice of subjects.
If by harmonizing the distorted lines of an ugly body with each other,
and by enhancing the given purity and expressiveness of his material,
the artist can create a beauty of form overlying the repellence of the
subject, and if he can make us feel the tragedy or pathos of age and
disease, no one can gainsay his work. In his "Aged Helmet-Maker's
Wife," Rodin has perhaps accomplished this. [Footnote: See Rodin's own
defense of this statue in his _L'Art_, chap. II.]
In the classic sculpture the expression of the inner life is subordinate
to the expression of corporeal beauty. Or, so far as mind is revealed,
the revelation occurs through the body as a whole,--through attitude
and pose and act. In this way complete unity between the inner and the
outer beauty is preserved. For when through subtle modeling of the
face the expression of the intense and individualized life of thought
is attempted, the beauties of soul and body tend to fall apart and
become rivals for attention. In classic sculpture, therefore, the face
is rightly somewhat inexpressive, or better, is expressive of only the
broad and typical human emotions. Fine or deep qualities may, however,
be expressed; for dignity, poise, intelligence, sorrow, and active joy
make themselves manifest in the total _habitus_ of the body no less than
in the face.
The work of Michelangelo is a further proof that sculpture can express
the spiritual life, not only in the face, but in the body also. The
expression there is no different in essential kind from that found in
the heroic classic sculpture. It is universal, typical, not individual,
personal; of the gods, not of men. Its quality alone differs; it is
monstrous, pathological, grandiose, instead of serene and happily
balanced.
But sculpture can also portray the individualized psychic life.
[Footnote: Consult the discussion in Rodin's _L'Art_, chap. VII.]
For this, the portrait bust is the most appropriate medium of
expression. By separating the head, the natural seat of mind, from the
rest of the body, the rivalry between the beauty of soul and form is
obviated. How much sculpture can do in this way is shown by the work
of the Greeks and Romans in ancient times, and by such men as Houdon
and Rodin among the moderns. Think of the intense and concentrated
expression of thought and emotion in the "Voltaire" of Houdon and the
"Dalou" of Rodin! Success depends largely upon the modeling of the
subtle lines of the face, where the more highly specialized workings
of the mind leave their impress. Whatever of character the face may
express can be expressed over again in its image. Of course the unique
responses of mind to definite situations, such as, for example, the
conversation of a man with his fellows, cannot be portrayed in
sculpture, which isolates the individual. But the characteristic mood
and attitude, the permanent residuum and condition of these responses,
can be portrayed; and this constitutes personality or character. As
Schopenhauer declared, the character of a man is better revealed in
the face when he is in repose than when he is responding to other men,
for there is always a certain amount of dissimulation or insincerity
in social intercourse. The impossibility of rendering the color and
animation of the eye constitutes a real deficiency, but, as has often
been pointed out, this is partly minimized through the fact that the
expression of the eye depends largely upon the brows; by itself, the
eye is inexpressive. The portrait statue has much the same purpose as
the bust, and hence should be draped. The heroic, equestrian statue,
however, expresses rather the imposing, socially perceptible side of
the man, than the inner life of thought and sentiment revealed in the
bust.
The development of sculpture has produced nothing more beautiful than
the solitaire statues which the Greeks have left us; and when we think
of Greek sculpture we usually have in mind these marble or bronze
images of gods and heroes. But we should not forget the figurines of
terra cotta, a genre sculpture, representing men and women in the acts
and attitudes of daily life, at work and at play. The ideal of sculpture
should not be pitched too high. There is no reason why, with the example
set by the Greeks, sculpture should not portray the lighter and more
usual phases of human life. If sculpture is to strike new paths, and
be something more than a repetition of classical models, it must become
more realistic. And, as we have already noted, by making use of the
block as a sort of background, even some relation of man to his
environment can be represented. Through the group the simpler relations
of man with his fellows--comradeship, love, conflict, or common
action--can be expressed; although the power of sculpture is greatly
limited in this direction. Sculpture is often taxed by people who
emphasize the importance of the political and industrial mechanism
with inability to portray large groups of men and the more complex
relations arising out of the dependence of man upon nature and society.
But one may well urge the compensating worth which sculpture will
always possess of recalling men to a sense of the value and beauty of
the individual as such, especially in an age like our own where they
tend to be forgotten.
The principles that apply to the use of historical, literary, and
symbolic themes in painting hold with increased force in sculpture.
We must admit the right of the sculptor to illustrate simple and
well-known historical or fictitious situations. At the same time,
however, we must remember that a work of this kind is subject to a
twofold standard: first and indispensable, the sculptural, is the form
animate and beautiful; then, are the life and action appropriate to
the idea? The first is alone absolutely unequivocal. The second, on
the other hand, is largely relative; for unless the sculptor has carried
out the idea in so masterly a fashion that we can think of no other
possibility--as Phidias is said to have done with his statue of
Zeus--there must always be something arbitrary about any particular
representation. This arbitrary element is increased in symbolic
sculpture. You can perhaps depict an actual or fictitious human
situation by means of sculptured bodies and make your image seem
inevitable; but how can you make bodies the vehicles of abstractions?
Moreover, sculpture is a realistic art; it presents us with the
semblance of living forms, and if these forms are monstrous or are
shown accomplishing impossible things, they cannot escape a certain
aspect of the ridiculous. I have in mind Rodin's "Man and His Thought."
If the man were only represented fashioning the figure with his hands,
his hands guided by his thought; but the hands are inactive, and the
figure grows by thought alone! Or consider "The Hand of God" by the
same artist. To say that we are in the hands of God is a good
metaphorical way of expressing our dependence upon the Destiny that
shapes our ends; but it is another thing to exhibit us as actually
enfolded by a hand.
The more sensitive we are to the beauty of the body and of the mind,
so far as manifest through the body, the better content we shall be
with normal sculpture and the less urgently we shall demand symbolism.
Of course all statues may become symbolic, as all works of art may,
in the sense of possessing a universal meaning won by generalizing
their individual significance. Symbolic in this legitimate way were
the statues of the Greek gods; thus Aphrodite, who was lovely, became
Love, and Athena, who was wise, became Wisdom. But there is nothing
arbitrary in such symbolism.