invest his rendering of them with that intangible something which does
not exist in the model, but in the impression which the latter has made
upon his imagination, the result will scarcely fail to bear the earmark
of being a copy. Doubtless the artist will lessen the probability of
this, indeed, may entirely remove it, by his absorption in the technical
subtleties of obtaining an illusion of actual facts out of his inert
material; but this, after all, is one of the active forms of his
artistic imagination. If he exercises it with enthusiasm he is still
maintaining his ascendency over the objectivity of the model. This is
the kind of realism in which the Japanese carver indulges on his sword
hilt. The facts are for him merely an excuse for revelling in the
enjoyment of his skill--the closer his rendering of them the greater his
triumph over the medium--and we ourselves in examining his work lose
cognisance of the facts in our wonder at the skill of craftsmanship.
This is a very different kind of realism from that exhibited in the
statue which crowned the principal entrance of the recent Paris
Exposition. The figure presumably was to symbolise modern Paris. Perhaps
it was in a spirit of mischief, certainly without much sense of humour
and with no imagination, that the sculptor sought his model in a
well-known _magazin des modes_, selecting the most famous of the young
ladies, on whose beautiful figure the mantles and cloaks are set, that
the patronesses of the establishment may see by a supreme effort of the
imagination how they will set upon themselves. He represented her in a
costume _à la mode_. The statue stood against the sky, a monument of
commonplace, trivial and ridiculous.
But, without going to any such lengths in demeaning his imagination, the
artist may still allow it to become hypnotised by his model. I was very
much struck by the remark of a painter, whose nudes are exquisitely pure
and poetical in type, that it was his habit as soon as he had secured
the facts of the figure to discontinue the model, since he found that
otherwise he was apt to become possessed by it. And is it not a fact
that in very many statues and pictures one detects the evidence of this
possession? Is it absent in Macmonnies’s later work?
The earlier is alive with spontaneous, creative energy, which shows
itself most characteristically in works like the “Cupid on Ball,” “Boy
with Heron,” and the “Diana.” The last has been criticised for being
“nervous and strained” in manner. Not quite justly, perhaps, since the
long, lean limbs are precisely those of one accustomed to swift
movement; the movement in this case is free and elastic, and the whole
gesture of the body expressive of keen and practiced energy; no antique
type, it is true, but its modern antithesis, the girl whose graceful
lines have been strung and whose grace of action liberated by physical
activities. The figure has the buoyancy and poise of mass and charm of
living lines which distinguish the work of Macmonnies as much as the
actual beauty of modelling. These traits reappear in a most fascinating
way in the artless grace of the “Cupid,” bounding along with head and
shoulders thrown back, as he discharges an arrow behind him. The action
of the body is quick with naturalness, and yet the disposition of every
part, even to such a detail as the fingers, reveals the shrewd
arrangement of a choicely refined taste--an instinctive taste, operating
almost unconsciously, with a frank, boyish impulsiveness, high spirited
and not without a spice of mischievous humour. For note the redoubtable
struggle between the “Boy with Heron”; the youngster planted firmly and
putting forth his strength so stubbornly, the bird thrashing the air
with its wings and writhing its body angrily. How will it end? Is it
only a tumble of sport, or will the young creature of the earth not let
go until the creature of the air is subdued, perhaps maimed, killed?
Or, again, in the “Pan of Rohallion” the boy stands upon a ball
supported by miniature dolphins, which spout their streams of water and
look up as if listening, while he blows the two reeds that issue at a
broad angle from his impish mouth, leaning back to inflate his chest
until his body describes an arc. It is the attitude of a saucy child
that has taken the measure of its little self from the affectionate
indulgence that surrounds it; again, not an antique type, nor rustically
impish like a Puck, but with the engaging elegance and self-conscious
roguery of a certain kind of modern urchin.
Yes, modernity is the key to which all Macmonnies’s work is pitched; an
echo not of the modern mind, but of the modern temperament. So we may be
disposed to prefer the earlier ones, while his temperament was still
fresh and frank and exuberant with the _insouciance_ of youth. Later on
the exuberance is at once more conscious and less spontaneous. In the
“Diana” there was an abounding healthfulness of liberated energy; in the
“Bacchante” a suggestion of energy, reënforced with champagne. Truly,
this is not an inapt suggestion for a bacchante to make; but we are a
long way from the anthropomorphic tendency of the antique mind which
personified the power of wine in its social and beneficent aspects, and
saw in Bacchus the god of civilisation and in his devotees the frenzy of
divine inspiration. Moreover, there is no suggestion of this in the
statue. The figure is of modern type, rendered with undisguised
naturalness. After being declined by the trustees of the Boston Public
Library, it is now in the Metropolitan Museum, where among the variety
of impressions it loses its startling emphasis and takes its place
naturally as one of the cleverest pieces of modern sculpture. For of its
exceeding cleverness there can be no doubt. The action is such as no
model could maintain in its vivacity for more than a moment; the artist
has seized it in all its flow and suppleness of movement and held it in
his imagination to the finish. It is a statue which we can almost accept
as an example of the predominance of technique over the facts of the
living model, except for a certain look-at-me-ishness which seems to
result from the artist’s consciousness that his problem was a daring
exhibition of skill. There is just a little too much protestation of
skill in the whole conception, just as there is too much protestation of
hilarity in the girl’s face. Her gaiety is hysterical, the composition
lacking in artistic sanity.
Both the Nathan Hale and the Stranahan statues were completed when the
artist was only twenty-eight years of age. The former, since no portrait
of Hale exists, is an effort of imagination, the latter of observation
and by far the finer work. For, while Macmonnies is gifted with a very
delightful imaginativeness, he has not so far shown himself possessed of
the deeper qualities of imagination. The Hale scarcely rises above a
graceful and touching sentimentality; there is a point-device nicety in
the carriage of the figure; it stands well upon its feet, but with an
air of debonair primness and too conscious rectitude. The point of view
is a little immature. In the Stranahan, however, the frankness of youth
has helped the artist. He had seen many a sculptor go down before the
difficulty of a figure in modern civilian garb, but he had also seen his
master, Saint-Gaudens, triumph over it in his “Lincoln.” So, as a boy to
prove he is not afraid, grasps the nettle tightly and is not stung,
Macmonnies grasped his problem and succeeded. He contrives no ingenious
arrangement nor extenuates any detail of the costume, but actually makes
it interesting by the charming handling of the masses and textures. With
equal directness he has represented the character of the figure: stable,
composed, yet animated, while to the observation of the head he has
brought a sympathetic and reverent study, which results in a singular
nobility and sweetness of expression. The statue, in fact, has a very
considerable measure of monumental dignity, is full of vitality and
touched all over with fineness of human and artistic feeling.
Full of vitality also, and of artistic feeling is the “Sir Harry Vane”
in the Boston Library. The costume, a beaver with rolled brim and plume,
doublet and cloak, and breeches tucked into riding-boots, offered
opportunities of picturesqueness of which Macmonnies has taken full
advantage. The gesture, too, as the figure stands firmly with one leg
advanced, drawing on a glove, is manly and of winning courtliness.
Indeed, the elegance may be felt to be in excess; the conception of the
personality being scarcely more than that of a fine gentleman engaged in
the unimportant occupation of putting on his gloves. The costume also
plays a conspicuous share in the statue of “Shakespeare” at Washington.
The doublet, trunks and surcoat are stiff with embroidery, most
cunningly modelled, and the set of the silk hose upon the strong,
shapely legs is admirable. The head, too, is admirably constructed, the
bony portions having been copied from the bust in Stratford-on-Avon
Church and the features from the Droeshout portrait, commended by
Jonson for its fidelity. Thus the external facts have been very
conscientiously compiled, and edited with much mastery of craftsmanship;
but the soul of the facts, the inspired poet inside them, is scarcely
suggested. The statue illustrates again that Macmonnies does not display
imagination; that he only approximates to it with a certain charm of
imaginativeness, finding fittest expression in subjects of a decorative
character, of which the very beautiful central doors of the Library of
Congress remain the most successful example.
For the larger compositions, while full of exuberant invention and charm
of detail, lack unity and dignity of _ensemble_. The best of them was
probably the short-lived fountain for the Court of Honour at Chicago.
Its central feature, the “Ship of the Republic,” presented a handsome
silhouette, whereas the quadriga on the Brooklyn Arch, when viewed from
the back, does not. Considering also the necessary haste involved in the
preparation of the fountain, it was a fairly maintained composition,
reasonably balanced and homogeneous. In spirit, however, it represented
the _verve_ and gaiety which the Parisian seeks in exposition sculpture,
and scarcely conformed to the graver, more monumental character of the
architectural scheme at Chicago; while the naturalistic rendering of a
Parisian model to symbolise the Republic, presented a curious and not
uninstructive contrast to French’s “Republic” at the other end of the
basin.
For in this figure Macmonnies revealed perhaps for the first time,
certainly in most marked manner, his tendency to lose himself in the
natural facts of the model. Some extenuation might be found in the haste
with which the work was bound to be completed; and a similar
insufficiency of time--as commissions piled upon him in unexampled
profusion--may account for his subsequent addiction to bare naturalism.
Yet it scarcely excuses it, and still less that the naturalism should
take a grosser form, until in the colossal groups at Indianapolis it
reached a degree of coarseness in the female figures which is very far
indeed from the exquisite feeling of the artist’s early work.
In the freshness of his youth he reflected the national grace of gaiety.
God forbid that the grossness of type and orgy of action displayed in
these latter groups should be indicative of anything American!
VI
PAUL WEYLAND BARTLETT
In the Metropolitan Museum of New York there is a group, called “The
Bohemian,” which represents a man leaning over a young bear,
endeavouring by voice and gesture to encourage it to antics. The
attitude and play of movement are very true to life.
One knows the action of a trained bear at the end of its keeper’s chain;
how it balances from foot to foot, moves its body up and down like a
huge, slow piston rod, while its head turns this way, that way, keeping
rude time to the rhythm, half chant, half howl, of the man’s voice. The
latter seemed to our childhood’s imagination to have some affinity with
the bear; both strange creatures appearing in the village, whence no one
knew; performing their uncouth antics, silent but for the man’s
mournful, monotonous dirge or an occasional burst of gibberish as he
rattled the chain; then disappearing, whither?
In the posturing of the man in this group we can anticipate what will be
the movement of the bear when it is trained, and feel the suggestion
also of an animal kinship between them and of their outcast, vagrant
fellowship. Not only is the technique sure and facile, the observation
of form and action just, but the conception is one in which imagination
has played a distinct part.
It is an early work of Paul Weyland Bartlett, executed shortly after he
had studied with Frémiet. One may fancy that he, too, had come under the
spell of these strange travelling companions, and the absorbing question
to his boy’s mind had been: How was the bear taught? Then, in after
years, when his interest in animals, quickened by the example of his
master, took artistic shape, he bethought him of his old-time wonder and
set himself to solve it. However that may be, it is clear that
Bartlett’s preoccupation in the subject extended beyond mere deftness of
craftsmanship, and that in some way or other his imagination had been
roused.
I urge this point because some of his subsequent works might lead one to
suppose that he is lacking in imagination and absorbed exclusively in
the exercise of a very accomplished, graceful and refined technique.
Thus his statue of “Law” in the rotunda of the Library of Congress at
Washington reveals no higher conception than that of a refined young
woman in classic draperies, holding a scroll and resting one hand upon
a table of the law; a personification entirely superficial and only
redeemed from mediocrity by the tactful elegance of the modelling.
But, while he was engaged on this, he was pondering another statue which
hit his interest closely. The artist in him that could not be aroused to
enthusiasm by an abstraction, such as “Law,” awoke to the personal
matter of portraying the greatest master of his own craft. His
imagination was enlisted, and after much delay--for his conscience was
very truly involved in this work and he had an ideal that to his utmost
ability he would reach--the “Michelangelo” was completed; a work of
sincere imagination; of most arresting and moving appeal.
Then followed a commission for an equestrian statue of Lafayette; and,
after making the preliminary sketch for it in New York, he returned to
Paris to execute it. It was there, too, that he had conceived and
executed the “Michelangelo”; but with this “Lafayette” his imagination
again failed him. Through lack of interest in the subject, I wonder, or
lack of incentive in the environment, or lack of stability in himself?
For from this statue which stands in the Place du Carrousel, a gift from
the children of America, judged at least from the full-sized model
temporarily erected for the ceremony of presentation in 1900, one
receives mainly an impression of elegance. An elegance certainly
monumental; raised to the dignity of a motive and incorporated into a
fine structure of form, yet a little bit pretentious. It is as if the
sculptor had no higher purpose than to prove his capability as a
stylist. He has certainly succeeded; but the statue is more than a
trifle modish.
Bartlett had no need, however, to protest his possession of stylistic
qualities. The “Michelangelo” sufficiently proclaimed it, rivalling the
skill of technique displayed in Macmonnies’s “Shakespeare” in the same
rotunda, and displaying even greater accent of mastery, since it is the
expression of a more forceful and imaginative characterisation. It is
worth while to notice how keenly the sculptor has anticipated the
material in which the statue was to be finished. For, while marble
permits a great variety of surface effects and delicate contrasts of
light and shade, the essential suggestion of bronze is its hardness, and
consequently its special capacity is to express structure and action,
bone and muscle. In this “Michelangelo” one will find no superfluities
of detail, little insistence upon qualities of surface. A few salient
lines of planes, with incisive depth of shade here and there, suffice
for the drawing of the figure. The
[Illustration: MICHELANGELO
By Paul Weyland Bartlett
Library of Congress, Washington, D. C.]
main concern is structural, even the leather apron playing no
inconsiderable part in the strong, stalwart frugality of the whole
treatment.
This instinct for the special qualities of bronze has led Bartlett to
make experiments in what is a thoroughly characteristic method of
securing surface effect, the colouring of the metal with _patina_ of
various kinds. On several occasions he has exhibited little objects,
such as frogs and turtles, in which he seemed to have recovered some of
the secrets of Japanese art, so rich and varied were the tones of red
and brown and green, so exquisite the silky smoothness of the not too
highly polished surface. Compared with the crude effects of commercial
pickling the colour and texture of these objects was a revelation.
As to the conception of character in the “Michelangelo,” opinions seem
to differ, some finding it deficient in suggestion; as if any statue
were likely to convey to our imagination the full suggestion of the
master’s genius. Such can only be found in his own works. For myself, I
find abundance of suggestion in the rugged grandeur of the head (which
in the accompanying illustration has been unfortunately reduced in
size); a ruggedness, scarred by time and spiritual conflict with the
fever heat of supreme, unsatisfied passion; a rugged, mountain-like
head, with deepset eyes, two craters communicating with the inner
volcanic fire. I am happy in the possession of a cast of this head, have
lived with it several years, turned to it constantly with a sense of
being strengthened and purified thereby. I find, too, in the figure a
fair amount of correspondence to the character of the head. Structurally
it is strong and the attitude is that of a man completely absorbed in
the thoughts that occupy his brain. Indeed, one of the most notable
things in the composition is the entire absence of any suggestion of
preconceived pose; the figure stands in complete, unconscious isolation.
When the illusion from the front is so satisfactory it is with
repugnance that one pries behind the scenes; but this statue in its
position has to be viewed also from the rear and, so viewed, is less
dignified. The coat, fitting trimly to the waist and finishing in a
stiff skirt, again with a hint of modishness, belies the stern
simplicity of the front view. Some smaller motive has here intervened,
of historical accuracy to a little period of costume, quite out of place
in one who belongs to all subsequent ages; unreasonable, too, for we
fancy that the old hewer of marble would never have encumbered himself
with such sartorial gear, when, as here represented, he stood with
chisel in hand meditating some great conception.
But there is no satisfaction in dwelling on this point. The happier
thought is that a sculptor, still young, could have given us a work so
distinguished in technique, of so sincere and strong appeal.
VII
HERBERT ADAMS
The delicately refined sentiment of Herbert Adams, product of a
naturally sweet and modest temperament, has discovered its fittest
expression in flowers and in the flower-like forms of women and
children, influenced in its manner by decorative feeling. For he seems
to have the instinct that leads men to be naturalists; of the kind whose
gentle mind draws them into intimacy with nature’s nurslings and
frequently as well toward very tender sympathy with what is most fresh
and fragrant in humanity. Such a one studies and loves form, but less
for its organic and structural import than for its visible expression of
the spirit with which his imagination invests it; a very sensitive kind
of imagination, that must play freely or suffer some impairment of its
delicate elasticity.
From his earliest years Adams had desired to be a sculptor. He came of
an old family of good New England stock and was born at West Concord,
Vermont, in 1858, but passed his boyhood in Fitchburg, Massachusetts. A
general education at the local grammar and high school was supplemented
by special studies at the Worcester Institute of Technology and the
Massachusetts Normal Art School. Then followed a period of five years in
Paris, where he studied under Mercié, the pupil of Falguière. Among the
many sculptors with whom he came in contact, he felt most strongly the
influence of these two, both natives of Toulouse, in whose art the
poetry of the south mingles with academic elegance and technical
perfection. During these years, too, he studied in the galleries and
frequented the Louvre, not only for the sculpture, but also for the
paintings.
That the latter should have attracted him may seem at first sight hardly
worth mentioning; since, indeed, no student of art, whatever his
_metier_ would be likely to escape the fascination of the paintings. But
Adams seems to have been very conscious of it then, and to look back
upon it now as one of the distinct influences of his student days. And
that painting had an influence, and a very marked one, upon his
technique and motives as a sculptor, one can scarcely doubt. His early
work shows more feeling for the harmonic rendering of light and shade
and for the decorative treatment of the surface than for the structure
and character of the form. It reveals also, especially in his busts,
that specialisation of sentiment, limited in range, very quietly intense
in kind, tinctured frequently with enigmatic suggestion, which is so
often found in Italian sculpture and painting of the fifteenth century.
That he had felt that influence has occurred to many observers of
Adams’s work; yet it was not until five years ago that he visited Italy.
Accordingly, it must have been to his studies at the Louvre that he owed
his acquaintance with Italian art; and the paintings as well as the
sculpture, perhaps as much as it, must have shaped his impressions. And
the work of the marble sculptors of the fifteenth century, of men like
Mino da Fiesole and Maiano, is strongly pictorial in character,
frequently with more of the painter quality than the sculptor, with
great regard for highly finished surfaces and delicate richness of light
and shade. They represented the higher tendencies of the thought of
their time: subtle and refined and elegantly Platonic. To some
corresponding partiality is apparently due the inclination of Adams’s
mind toward this particular expression of sculpture. For, while
sculpture responds to the most vigorous conceptions of the artist, it
lends itself also to the most sensitive idealisation; more so in a
measure than painting, since the absence of the realism of colour makes
a greater demand upon the imagination and keeps the representation more
nearly within the region of the abstract.
In order to increase the sensitiveness of the idealisation by merging it
in the vague, the refuge of the modern world from the too exacting
claims of the actual, Rodin often leaves part of his statues in the
rough. So did Michelangelo. But the Italian mind of the fifteenth
century, wedded to perfection and finish as an essential of its creed,
carried to further sensitiveness the tactile suggestion of the marble by
bringing its surface to a smoothness of polish akin to that of jade or
ivory, materials which are of peculiarly caressing appeal to the sense
of touch. The effect was also heightened by the use of colour.