1850, came under these influences at the impressionable age of eighteen,
when he began to model under the instruction of a member of the Alcott
family, the head of which, Amos Bronson, had been one of the leading
writers in _The Dial_. Moreover, his own nature, one may suspect,
furnished congenial soil for the germination of the seeds which it
received during this time, since the fruit of his maturity savours
unmistakably of these conditions. And this, notwithstanding that he
spent many subsequent years in Florence, where his master was Thomas
Ball, a blithe, sweet nature, gentle, refined, and full of _bonhomie_.
Here again was a continuance of, at least, the gracious influences which
had surrounded French’s growth from the beginning, and it was in the
light of these that he sucked in nourishment from the environment of
Florence. To judge by the tenor of his afterwork, the treasures of the
city did not affect him very directly; here and there we may find a hint
of assimilated style, notably in the angels for the Clark monument in
the Forest Hills Cemetery; but for the most part, apparently, the
impressions of these days served to give artistic indorsement to the
gracious elevation of the earlier literary ones. Even the work upon
which he engaged himself at that time, a statue of “Endymion,” was a
following of the Canova tradition, still lingering in Italy, rather than
of the beckonings of the older art, and chiefly characteristic of
himself by reason of the calm, passionless purity of the emotion
involved.
The degree and quality of emotion which enters into an artist’s work
must constitute one of the most important elements in his art and will
even affect that other essential element, the character of his
technique. How his work will affect ourselves will largely depend upon
the extent to which we respond, either by nature or by a habit of
cultivation, to the particular kind of emotion which he portrays. On the
other hand, a great number of people seem unable to appreciate the
emotional quality in a work of art and look only for the intellectual,
while more than a few artists display little or nothing of the latter
quality and exaggerate the sensuous. Especially are they apt to limit
the range of the emotions to one kind, that of love, and to regard it
exclusively in its sexual manifestation. In this way the word passion,
with its deep significance of an emotion so strong as to bring
suffering, has been belittled. Some art is the product of this nobler
kind of passion, a good deal is only a tiresome reiteration of the lower
kind, and, again, there is art which emanates from a tranquillity of
spirit undisturbed by either kind of passion. It is in this last
category that French’s art seems to belong.
My own appreciation of it recalls the memory of a certain mountain pool.
I had made an early start on a summer’s day, rising in the cheerless
glimmer before the dawn and spending some two hours as one of many
sleepy passengers in a stuffy train. Alighting at a drowsy little town,
where small farmers congregate to pursue their petty barterings, I began
the ascent by a bridle path, steep, stony and dusty, winding frequently
as it steadily mounted. By noon I had reached an elevation midway
between the last belt of trees and the snow-line and could look down
upon the cloud-mists that clung like patches of wool to the forest, and
farther down to the green bowl of the valley, with its flashes of river
and thin spirals of gray smoke. Above me was a more venturesome climb,
to have accomplished which would have entailed stouter endurance and
more painful effort, crowned, it may be, with a keener, fiercer
exaltation. But, as it was I felt exalted. The spacious prospect, the
crystalline purity of the air, a labour that had fully taxed my natural
strength, combined to produce a condition of most perfect spiritual
exhilaration, stealing over me so unconsciously as at last to be
realised with surprise. The memory of it represents to me the clearest
comprehension of passionless emotion and of the mental atmosphere in
which a work of art that has not been conceived in the throes of passion
may spring forth and be matured.
Full to the brim of this sensuous elation, I wandered from the path and
found myself beside a pool that caught within its deep hollow something
of the sky’s blue and the glint of a passing cloud; otherwise mirroring
only the surrounding banks and my own figure, bending over to peer
through the cold, clear water to the bottom. Quite near it was to the
dusty, beaten track, yet secluded, cradled within its own niche of the
great mountain, placidly exhaling its water to the sky, whence it was in
turn to receive its sustenance. Again I am helped to understand the
beautiful reasonableness of art; although it may not be of the kind
which mirrors the wide experiences of life, holds within it the mystery
of impenetrable depth, or stirs the soul to loftiest heights of sensuous
and intellectual comprehension. For, if the artist sets his art at the
highest spot that his powers permit, keeps it secluded from the passing
traffic of the world, unsullied, fresh, that it may give clear
reflection to the figures of the imagination which, in the calm elation
of this upper air, he brings to its margin, then he has done something
for which the world is infinitely better.
It is an art of this kind which French, if I mistake not,
represents--elevated, but passionless; always true to its noblest and
sweetest promptings; mingling intellectual grace with the graciousness
of pure emotion.
His first statue was the “Minute Man,” erected on the old battle-field
at Concord in 1875. The young farmer is standing with one hand upon the
plow and in the other grasping a musket, his head alert, as if he were
waiting for a summons, the body held ready to advance. Though a work of
immaturity and giving little promise of its author’s subsequent
accomplishment, it yet has something of the sweet uplifting of sentiment
that will reappear later with more assurance of conviction and with
maturer technical expression. The next important work was the seated
figure of John Harvard, unveiled at Cambridge in 1884. During that
interval of nine years French had made extraordinary progress. Whether
we consider the conception of the personality or the character of the
technique, this statue is the work of a man who has attained to a
realization of his true bent and to a freedom and force of
craftsmanship. The dignity of quietude, a self-contained aloofness, the
tender graciousness of a refined spirit, a gentle, unforced
sincerity--these are the qualities
[Illustration: DEATH AND THE SCULPTOR
By Daniel Chester French
From the Milmore Monument, Forest Hills Cemetery, Boston]
[Illustration: DETAIL OF THE CLARK MONUMENT
By Daniel Chester French
Forest Hills Cemetery]
in himself which the sculptor has imparted to this figure. He has
represented in it the fine flower of Puritan scholarship and devotion to
the higher claims of humanity. It is impossible not to detect in this
characterisation an echo of the sculptor’s own early memories, and more
or less they abide with him up to the present time. In correspondence
with the development of his own ideals is that of his technique. It has
acquired a breadth and unity of feeling, a regard for the mass and a
tact of choice in the selection of details, a mingling of suavity and
monumental stability, a disposition of the drapery, natural and yet
enriched with elegant surprises. The statue is at once imposing and full
of grace.
During the next decade French had opportunities for developing the
imaginative tendencies which had already shown themselves during his
student days. The chief works of this period are the “Gallaudet
Memorial” in Washington, District of Columbia, the Milmore monument in
Forest Hills Cemetery, better known as “Death and the Sculptor,” the
“John Boyle O’Reilley Memorial,” and the “Statue of the Republic” at the
Chicago Exposition. The “Gallaudet” represents the great teacher of deaf
and dumb mutes in the act of instructing his first pupil. He has his arm
around the girl, and each raises a hand to fashion the silent talk,
while they gaze into each other’s faces in the rapt effort of mutual
comprehension. The group is thus realistic in its conception, but
developed with a degree of sympathy that passes into lovely
imaginativeness as the sculptor penetrates the mystery of communication
between these two creatures. Purely imaginative, however, is the
following work: The untimely death of the sculptor, Martin Milmore, is
here commemorated by an allegory of Death arresting the hand of a
sculptor as he is engaged in perfecting his work. He is scarcely more
than a youth, well-knit and lithe in figure, with a sweet seriousness of
face; and as he plies the mallet and chisel, carving anew at the
world-old problem of the Sphinx, putting forth his brave young strength
in pursuit of a yet undimmed ideal, a gentle touch interposes between
his hand and work. He turns his head from the enigma to face the reality
of a Presence--a female figure, her head tenderly bowed in the shadowed
obscurity of a heavy veil, mighty wings calmly folded at her back, a
bunch of poppies in her grasp. The youth has not yet comprehended who
and what she is, only the ineffable sadness of her face rivets his
questioning gaze. He is face to face with another enigma--that of
Death.
This memorial has won more admirers than perhaps any other of the
sculptor’s works, and the reason is not far to seek. The allegory
conveys a human story with such precision and tender sincerity that all
can read it and few can fail to be affected. Moreover, the story is told
with artistic propriety, the character of the memorial being
sculpturesque. The dignity of form in the round has been boldly
asserted; the device of clothing the youth’s figure in a tightly fitting
suit permits a contrast of vigorous, clean-cut form with the drowsy,
sensuous suggestion of the sweeps and folds of drapery on the other
figure, and these again are relieved by the strong, simple modelling of
the wings. Moreover, the varied emphasis of these figures in the round,
placed against the quiet, smooth levels of low-relief in the background,
results in a colour-scheme of striking handsomeness; the gradations from
dark to light mingling richness and delicacy of tone, while the passages
are distributed with such variety of bold and subtle contrasts as to be
exceptionally decorative. And it is by these devices, as well as by the
action of the two figures and the expression of their faces, that the
sentiment of the subject is conveyed.
The quality of the sentiment in this particular group is fairly
characteristic of French’s range of emotional expression. It has more
of elevation than of breadth and depth. Not that it is lacking in either
candour or sincerity, but, like Truth at the bottom of the well, it
exists in a cool, clear, undisturbed element, its gaze concentrated on
the circle of sky above, a glimpse of abstract inspiration, checkered by
the occasional passage of a bird or by some wayfarer’s shadow. Separated
from the turmoil of human passion it touches the theme of humanity with
a gracious tenderness that leans toward an elegant idealisation and to
an attitude of feeling that is far less human than artistic. I would
cite, as an illustration of what I am trying to express, the fact that
Death has been symbolised by a woman of noble and inviting mien, whose
arms might fold themselves around the young sculptor’s form as with a
mother’s caress, while she pressed the poppies on his brow and wooed him
to eternal sleep. It is a beautiful idea, which touches our fancy, but
not the heart that has experienced the pain of loss; and in its lyrical
melodiousness we miss the snapping discord that would hint at the
tragedy of a career of promise abruptly cut.
Similarly, a delicate fancy rather than imagination pervades the
monument erected to the memory of the poet O’Reilley. This group of
three figures may be felt also to establish a doubt, aroused by the
previous work, as to whether the sculptor is fortunate in the treatment
of a composition which involves more than one figure. Neither of them is
conspicuous for organic unity or for relational value in the parts. It
is, indeed, in the management of a single figure that French produces
the most complete _ensemble_. Among these the colossal “Statue of the
Republic” at the Chicago Exposition marks, if I mistake not, a
turning-point in his art. Here, for the first time, his matured powers
came into direct contact with the influence of architecture.
Hitherto his imagination had played around the subject represented; now
it became absorbed in the architectonic significance of the statue
itself, as a feature of isolated and conspicuous emphasis in a great
scheme of monumental architecture. Removed from the surroundings for
which it was conceived, the “Republic” is scarcely beautiful, the
contours being rigid, the pose monotonous; yet these qualities became in
its appointed place the very source of its indubitable stateliness; of
its value as a focus-point in the long vista of the Court of Honour and
as an expression in heroic shape of the dignity of the Republic.
At this time French came into close contact with the architect, Charles
F. McKim, and the intimacy has ripened into very frequent
collaboration, so that, although he has executed other commissions, such
as that clever character-study, the statue of Rufus Choate, and, in
coöperation with E. C. Potter, a spirited and impressive equestrian
statue of Washington, his work has become more and more identified with
sculpture in its relation to architecture. To a mind like his, that
seems always to have leaned toward the abstract, this alliance with an
art so free from direct human allusion must have followed quite
naturally. Yet we may be disposed to regret a transition which has in a
measure, if I may use the word, dehumanised his art, which broke off his
development when it had acquired a charm of poetical expression not too
usual in this country, and would appear to have curtailed the freedom
and individuality of his manner. Certainly, the series of figures for
the Capitol at St. Paul, Minn., lack the distinction and vital
worthiness of some of his earlier work; and even the latest statue of
“Alma Mater,” beautiful as it unquestionably is, I can hardly feel
belongs among his best.
In the centre of the spacious paved court that forms the southern and
chief approach to Columbia University, at the foot of the steps which
lead up to the library--one of McKim’s most choice and impressive
designs--she sits enthroned; clothed in a loose robe and college gown, a
volume open on her knees, the arms extending upward from the elbows
which rest upon the chair, one hand holding a scepter, the other open
with a gesture of welcome. The face is of a familiar type of American
beauty, corresponding with the very modern suggestion of the whole
figure. Yet the sculptor has invested the head with an air of
dispassionate refinement which gives it a certain aloofness; scarcely
more, however, than the self-possession, consciously unconscious, with
which the American woman can carry her beauty. It is almost as if one of
them had mounted the pedestal and, with a ready wit embracing the
situation, were enacting the part of patroness to the university. Every
student will love her and her influence will be altogether one of sweet
nobility; but whether he will receive any inspiration in the direction
of the highest art and scholarship is less sure. The immediate
fascination of the statue is that in feeling it is thoroughly modern and
American; and, if it fails to comprehend the complex elements drawn from
all sources and times which mingle in our highest civilisation, it is
precisely because it is limited in character to the local and
contemporary.
We recall that French in his youth came under the influence of Emerson,
one of whose tenets was, as far as possible, to ignore European
traditions, and to draw his illustrations from the society and manners
of the United States; that French himself lived some time in Florence
without assimilating its influence directly, has habitually confined
himself to rendering types of American character and has gradually
discovered for himself a personal form of technical expression. To this
personal isolation may be traced both the excellence and the limitations
of his technique.
It is distinguished by a pure and poignant serenity, by a monumental
feeling penetrated with a sort of gentle sprightliness; for the
expression which he puts into the modelling of the limbs can scarcely be
characterised by a word of more sensitive application. In his handling
of an arm or hand, still more of the articulation of a wrist, his method
is so dispassionate as to betray little fascination in the loveliness of
form and movement. In this respect his technique, as compared with
modern French sculpture, is deficient in the stylistic quality, lacking
the raciness and the suggestive piquancy of craftsmanlike precision. As
to the finer quality, that of style, in which thought is wedded to
technique in a union choicely
[Illustration: ALMA MATER
By Daniel Chester French
Columbia University]
appropriate, indefinably distinguished, one may detect it in his angels
for the Clark monument, particularly in the treatment of the head and
wings. But these panels are, perhaps, the only examples of his work in
which a direct influence of his sojourn in Florence can be traced. They
are imbued with the spirit of the Renaissance. When, as usually, he
works in an atmosphere circumscribed by local considerations, I doubt if
we shall find this added savour of style. He handles drapery with
evident delight, but scarcely with an independent control of the
material. Having arranged it upon the model with perfect taste, he
copies the folds and volumes. They seldom display that touch of artistic
arbitrariness which a master of style would give them, compelling them
to yield to the precise shade of expression demanded by the subtle union
of his hand and brain. In the “Death and the Sculptor” the drapery
reaches a measure of style, but scarcely in the “Alma Mater”; and this
is precisely one of the reasons of the suggestion that a woman has been
suddenly metamorphosed into a statue. The drapery is not idealised.
Yet, if it is only on rare occasions that French’s work evinces style,
it is never without a very rare and fine distinction--the impress of a
man who reverences his art and has yielded her the devotion of a
refined and elevated spirit. If the localness of its range may have been
at the expense of some desirable qualities, it has endeared it to the
greater number of people and presented an invaluable incentive to many a
young artist to seek his ideals in his own country. If it fails to touch
the deeper chords of human emotion, it is always purifying and
uplifting. With maturity it has lost nothing of its original freshness,
and has had an abiding influence for good upon American art and life.
V
FREDERICK MACMONNIES
Penetrating the American temperament is a strong vein of boyishness,
alertness, elasticity of mind, a happy disregard of difficulty and a
buoyant hopefulness; a predisposition to humour and a refusal, except in
really serious matters, to take life seriously; a national grace of
gaiety. It is this phase of Americanism that is reflected in the
sculpture of Frederick Macmonnies.
He is himself a remarkable example of maturity in youth. To-day, in this
year 1903, he is but forty, yet in variety and quality the work
accomplished has been prodigious, and he has long since reached a
notable eminence both at home and in Paris. The latter has been pretty
constantly his place of sojourn since 1884, and he has proved himself
fully in touch with its spirit, at least with that exhalation of elegant
materialism which hovers over its deeper qualities. For, except in the
statues of Nathan Hale and James S. T. Stranahan, and possibly in his
“Shakespeare” of the Congressional Library, Macmonnies has shown
himself more alive to the external charm of form than to its expression
of underlying qualities of deeper significance.
At the age of seventeen he had the good fortune to be received into the
studio of Saint-Gaudens as an apprentice-pupil, where he worked for some
four years, meanwhile attending the life classes at the Academy of
Design and the Art Students’ League. Even in those days he developed an
extraordinary manual skill, and his drawings also are remembered by his
fellow-students as being quite unusually graceful and true. He had,
moreover, the privilege of working under the master, at the time of his
greatest productivity, when his studio was the resort of the best
architects, sculptors and painters; so that he grew up under the most
favoured conditions, corresponding in kind to those experienced by
apprentices of the fifteenth century in the _bottegas_ of the Florentine
masters.
Accordingly, when Macmonnies went to Europe, in 1884, his experience and
knowledge were far beyond what students of his age usually possess.
However, the first visit to Paris was abruptly terminated by the
cholera, before which he retreated to Munich, and for some months
studied painting. Then followed a tour on foot over the Alps, when a
summons from Saint-Gaudens recalled him home. For a year he assisted the
master and then returned to Paris, this time entering the École des
Beaux Arts and studying under Falguière; with such success that he twice
won the Prix d’Atelier, which ranks next to the Prix de Rome and is the
highest prize open to foreigners. Then, taking a studio of his own, he
executed his first statue, a “Diana,” which gained an Honourable Mention
at the Salon. A commission for three angels in bronze for the Church of
St. Paul in New York was followed in 1889 and 1890 by orders for the
Hale and Stranahan statues, for the latter of which he received a Second
Medal at the Salon, the only instance of an American sculptor being thus
honoured. After executing two small fountain designs, for which he
modelled a “Pan of Rohallion” and a “Faun with Heron,” he found himself
confronted with the big problem of the Columbia fountain, the most
important sculptural group at the Chicago Exposition. Since then, in
addition to many statuettes, medallions, busts and low-relief portraits
he has accomplished such notable works as the “Bacchante,” the statue of
Sir Harry Vane, the “Shakespeare,” pediments for the Bowery Savings Bank
and spandrils for the Washington Arch in New York, a quadriga for the
Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Memorial Arch in Brooklyn and horse groups for
the entrance to Prospect Park, a “Victory” for the battle monument at
West Point and colossal groups for the Indiana State Soldiers’ and
Sailors’ Memorial at Indianapolis. The mere enumeration of this
incomplete list of works, representing a period that scarcely exceeds
ten years, testifies to the artist’s energy and inventiveness. That such
an exuberance of output should affect the quality of his work was almost
inevitable. The precise way in which it seems to have done so is
interesting, in relation not only to Macmonnies’s career, but to the art
generally. It has, indeed, a reference to the artist’s manner of using
his model, to the degree in which his imagination maintains a control
over or succumbs to the facts of the living subject.
It is true the model will frequently suggest an idea to the artist. Some
arrest of action, momentary gesture, or the movement of relaxation, as
the figure, tired with posing, extends itself, will supply the artist’s
eye, ever on the alert for impressions, with the hint of a motive which
his imagination will develop into a serious and beautiful work. He will
use the model to build up the structural fabric of his ideas, and, if
need be, to elaborate the facts, but unless he
[Illustration:
_By permission of Theodore B. Starr, New York_
DIANA
By Frederick Macmonnies]
[Illustration:
_By permission of Theodore B. Starr, New York_
BACCHANTE
By Frederick Macmonnies]