united in one artist. But in Brenner’s case it seems to result from an
absence of all artistic _parti pris_, and from the freshness of interest
with which he attacks each subject, so that the latter itself reveals to
him the more appropriate manner of presenting it. In the portrait shown
in the accompanying illustration the two motives seem to be combined.
XII
THE DECORATIVE MOTIVE
In all ages sculpture has been intimately allied with architecture,
somewhat as the blossom with the tree, reaching often its noblest
expression as an efflorescence of decoration upon the surface of a
building or as separate forms within it; springing up in statue, tomb or
pulpit like bursts of flowery growth in the forest. Nature in a
marvellous way adapts the colour and forms of the blossoms to the
character and structure of the tree and shapes of the woodland flowers;
for example, the foxglove spiring up amid the tree trunks to the
character of its environment. In the spirit of this example the sculptor
fashions his designs in conformity with that of the architecture,
whether it be for decoration of the building’s surface or for a separate
contributing feature.
Such coöperation with the architect demands at once fertility of
imagination and considerable self-restraint; an appreciation of the
larger qualities of design as displayed in the architecture, mingled
with a natural feeling for the charm of minute and exquisite
workmanship; a personal feeling, subordinated to the main design, yet in
this subordination finding an increase of force. For the modelled
ornament is itself enriched by its enrichment of the wall-surface; and
the statue which has fine architecture for its setting receives
therefrom additional dignity, provided always that the sculptor has
adapted the lines of his figure to those of the architecture. If he miss
the spirit of the latter and design his subject independently his statue
loses the benefit of the alliance and its importance is overpowered by
the necessary predominance of the architectural effect. Nor is the
failure to secure harmonious relation between the sculpture and the
architecture always to be laid to the sculptor. The architect’s design
may be lacking in taste and dignity; or, if good in itself, yet without
adequate or any provision for sculptural embellishment; the latter being
resorted to as an afterthought. Examples of this kind are not
infrequent.
The best opportunity that we have in this country of studying sculpture
in its relation to architecture is in the Library of Congress, for here
the design was deliberately planned to include sculpture and painted
decoration, and on a scale of unusual magnitude. Some critics are
disposed to complain of an overelaboration in the decorative scheme, but
at least every item of the sculpture was organic and structural in
intention. We may differ, that is to say, as to the propriety of
introducing so much embellishment, but the latter everywhere grows
naturally out of its position and has its closely planned function in
the general design.
The sculptural decoration of the staircase hall was entrusted to Philip
Martiny, except the figures in the spandrils over the main arch which
fronts you as you enter. These were executed by Olin L. Warner--whose
work has been reviewed in another chapter--and in their Greek-like
monumental simplicity and repose, their freedom from all accessory aids
to decoration and their avowal of the decorative value of pure form they
are in marked contrast to the French spirit of Martiny’s work. For the
latter, a naturalised Frenchman, represents the French training,
comparatively unaffected by the American environment. As a boy he was
employed with his father in modelling and carving ornamental designs;
thus gaining a familiarity with ornament before he proceeded to study it
systematically as a designer, from which stage he passed on to the
further studies of a sculptor of the figure. The feeling for decoration
is with him an instinct, cultivated in the best of all schools, that of
practical experience; his knowledge of historic forms a habit of memory,
and his versatility in adapting, skill in device and manipulative
facility, the product of habitual practice.
For the newel posts of the staircase he executed the female figures
holding a torch aloft; but these reveal mainly the results of good
teaching. They are not a personal expression of himself. In a seated
figure, however, designed as a Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Memorial for
Jersey City, he reached a very considerable degree of monumental
dignity; yet it still appears to be true that his real bent is toward
decoration. In this he displays creative fancy and a most charming
faculty in the use of form. Witness this marble balustrade, divided into
compartments by a series of plain posts, between which are suspended
festoons of fruit and flowers, with baby forms astride them. Each in a
vein of playful fancy personifies some occupation, art or science, and
the emblems typifying them are introduced as accents of surprise in the
composition. The whole is alive with graceful animation and yet
preserves a rhythmical dignity, a variety in uniformity, like the play
of notes in succeeding bars of music.
Its freedom of fancy and rich effect recall the qualities shown in
Lorado Taft’s decoration of the Horticultural Building at the World’s
Fair; a decoration of rare distinction. Indeed the prime feature of this
artist’s work at its best is the decorative character of the
composition; as in “The Solitude of the Soul,” which involves an ideal
motive, but is perhaps happiest in the grouping of the nude figures
around the mass of unhewn rock.
The relief ornament in the ceiling of the dome and in the frieze of the
entablature was modelled by Albert Weinert. He was limited by the
architect to the well-known Roman forms revived by the sculptors and
painters of the Italian Renaissance, but has treated them with so much
individual feeling that one may regret he was denied the opportunity of
creating the designs. For one cause of the dearth of decorative
sculptors in America may very reasonably be attributed to the hesitation
of architects to permit the use of any forms except such as they can
find authority for in historic ornament. Martiny, we have seen, was
allowed to invent the design for the staircase; a quite unusual
privilege, which has resulted in a memorable work of art, almost unique
in the country. Usually the architect from books and photographs
indicates what forms shall be adopted, and these are reproduced by the
draftsmen in working drawings, which are handed over to a contractor to
be executed by journeymen modellers. Their business is to copy the
drawing exactly. If they have any individuality of feeling it is
suppressed; the divorce between design and craftsmanship is perpetuated,
and dry conventionalism results. In the degradation of design which
ensues from this slavish adherence to historic precedents, producing, be
it noted, not a revival of the precedent but, for the most part, a dead,
inert copy, a thing not to be taken seriously as decoration, the
sculptor is discouraged from associating himself with design. He may
have the gift of decoration, but it lies uncultivated, since he will not
work except with reasonable liberty. And he is right, for the only
decoration that is of any vital worth is such as grows under the hand of
a man whose brain has conceived it and is controlling continually its
growth. He may be influenced by historic precedent or be working in the
freedom of his fancy; in either case, his work has personal, vital
significance. Significantly bad it may be, and this I suspect is the
architect’s apprehension; yet, provided it have significance, there is
some prospect of improvement: just as we reach what measure of virtue we
have through our faults. For of all men the most exasperating is he who,
without character enough for fault or virtue, methodically maintains a
level of innocuous mediocrity. Equally exasperating is decoration of
this kind, and it is a kind that is prevalent everywhere.
The dome of the Library is supported on eight piers, each formed of a
cluster of columns, one of which projects more prominently than the rest
and is surmounted by a figure personifying some department of civilised
life or thought. Its function seems to be to prolong the upright line of
the pier to the bottom of the triangular pendentive which connects the
spread of the arches; at any rate, those figures which most simply
suggest the vertical direction, with as little play of contour lines as
possible, appear most conformable to their position. The one that most
thoroughly fulfils this condition is the figure of “Philosophy,” by Bela
L. Pratt. One arm hangs down, the other is drawn up at the elbow
supporting a book; the line of the drapery on one side comes squarely
down to the feet and on the other is slightly varied by the drawing back
of the leg from the knee. The figure is of ample proportion, with a
sweet gravity of mien; the head, being slightly bowed, which, as it is
viewed from below, brings the face agreeably within the line of vision;
a point that has been overlooked in some of the other statues. Without
having any particular force, the figure nevertheless impresses by the
sobriety of its lines and mass and by its reserve of feeling. The value
of these qualities can best be appreciated when one is actually
standing in the dome and able to compare the figure with the other
corresponding ones, all of which by reason of more varied contours seem
inferior to it in decorative appropriateness.
This same sculptor was entrusted with the designs of the six spandrils
over the entrance doors. The forms are graceful and repeat with pleasant
variation the curve of the arch, but they do not adequately fill the
space, and are wanting in architectonic character. Just what I mean can
better be understood by comparing them with Warner’s spandrils,
mentioned above. Then one can scarcely fail to notice how much more
structural in feeling are the latter, organically related to the arches
and to the space, truly architectural in their character. Pratt’s
strongest point seems to be expression of sentiment, exemplified in his
busts of Colonel Henry Lee and of Phillips Brooks; in some low-relief
portraits of children and in the heroic figure of a soldier for St.
Paul’s School, Concord, New Hampshire. In all of these it is not so much
the characteristics preëminently sculptural that we are conscious of, as
the quality of the sentiment; and this same quality, portrayed with
graceful inventiveness, represents the measure of his architectural
decoration. It is, therefore, in such examples as the medallions in the
pavilions of the Library, personifying the four seasons, that he appears
at his best; for in these the sentiment is expressed not only by suavity
of line, but by a sensitive treatment of the various planes. Like his
low-relief portraits they have very strongly the pictorial quality. That
he has, however, a feeling as well for the sculptural quality of form is
evident from two nude female figures which he has executed in marble,
“Study of a Young Girl” and “Study for a Fountain,” in which the charm
of sentiment and form are very happily united.
It is not within the scope of this essay, which is considering the
principles of architectural sculpture, to note each of the remaining
seven statues in detail, especially since most of them are by sculptors
whose work has been reviewed elsewhere. And the same applies to the
sixteen bronze statues that stand below upon the marble balustrade of
the gallery. These represent real or imaginary portraits of men
illustrious in the departments of civilised life and thought,
personified above, and their function is to relieve by a series of
spiring forms the level lines of the balustrade. And here again, if I am
not mistaken, those which with least disturbance of contour conform to
the character of a simple shaft are the most effective. Thus we may be
disposed to feel that, viewed in relation to its position and function,
the “Solon” by F. Wellington Ruckstuhl protests too much its own
individuality, and that the greater reserve of C. E. Dallin’s “Newton,”
of John J. Boyle’s “Bacon” and “Plato,” of Paul W. Bartlett’s
“Michelangelo,” of Edward C. Potter’s “Fulton,” of Charles H. Niehaus’s
“Gibbon,” of George E. Bissell’s “Kent” and the “Henry” by Herbert
Adams, makes them more valuable as sculptural adornments to the
architecture. And, after all, this qualification is the most important
one in the interest both of the architecture and of the statue itself.
If it were possible to study the statues independently of their
surroundings we might find that some I have mentioned are intrinsically
inferior to some of those omitted; and I well remember that some which
now fill their present position with quiet effectiveness seemed less
interesting before they were put in place. For the ultimate test of the
statue, as a part of the architectural scheme, depends less upon its
intrinsic than its extrinsic value; not so much upon what it is as upon
how it coöperates with the architecture, lending it some accent of
piquancy or elaboration and drawing from it dignity and enforcement. Nor
is the truth of this weakened by the fact that you visit many a church
in Italy solely to study some piece of sculpture without one thought of
the architecture, unless it be a regret that the shrine is not worthy of
its treasure. In such a case the intention of the sculpture was not
architectonic; whereas in the Library of Congress, as in all other
buildings in which the coöperation of the sculptor has been deliberately
included, the ideal is to make the two arts mutually reënforcing. The
architecture being necessarily predominant, the sculpture which does not
conform to the limitations imposed upon it will suffer by comparison,
while, on the other hand, through conformity it will secure additional
measure of impressiveness.
Of the elaborate decoration of the rotunda clock by John Flanagan I
cannot speak from knowledge; and, without having seen it in place, it is
unfair to judge of the effect of the mingling of precise elegance in the
lower part with the florid arrangement above of Father Time and two
female figures. But before leaving the Library we may find in the
corridors of the entrance hall four relief-panels, by R. Hinton Perry,
personifying Greek, Roman, Persian and Scandinavian “Inspiration.” They
seem to me to represent this sculptor at his best, displaying a gift of
imagination and very charming treatment of form, regulated by reserve
and taste; for these last qualities are not so conspicuous in some of
his work. The fountain group, for example, which embellishes the terrace
in front of the Library, is a clever exhibition of technical skill in
the representation of form and movement, but pretentious. Its lack of
cohesion as a group may have been less the affair of the sculptor than
of the architect, since the latter had provided for the figures three
equal-sized niches; but on the other hand the sculptor seems to have
regarded them as features to be ignored. His central figure of Neptune
is entirely outside the arch, while the sea-nymphs on their restive
steeds seem to be trying to get clear of the architectural restraint.
Restiveness, indeed, is the chief suggestion of the whole; an uneasy
collocation of aggressive forms, out of keeping with the somewhat severe
character of the Library façades.
Yet one should not overlook the indubitable power and vigour of these
figures, especially of the Neptune; only regretting that imagination has
entered so little into its composition. In this respect the “Primitive
Man and Serpent,” a later statue, is much more acceptable. It also has
power, the more effective that its energy has been controlled, and the
sculptor, in thinking out this conflict between creatures of such
different forms, has produced a composition which is full of
imagination and very statuesque. Again he exhibits his mastery of form
in a statue of “Circe”; a finely poised, supple figure, with a superb
action of voluptuous invitation. Moreover, the conception is
satisfactorily idealised, a quality which does not always characterise
his treatment of the female form. The one, for instance, in the group of
“The Lion in Love” is a very ordinary reproduction of the model; nor can
I find in his Langdon doors for the Buffalo Historical Society’s
Building, the same imaginative control of form as in the Library
reliefs. Perry, in fact, seems to be an impetuous, forceful person,
drawing largely upon his temperament and with the unevenness of result
very usual in such cases. Yet he has a mastery of technique so much
above the average that, when he regulates it with reserve and kindles it
from his imagination, he produces work which is full of interest.
In this brief survey of the decorative sculpture of the Library of
Congress it has been possible to touch only upon some of the most
conspicuous features, but much else that is worthy of study upon the
spot will be found scattered over the big building, especially in the
private reading-rooms of the Senate and of the House of
Representatives. The scheming and supervision of this vast amount of
beautiful detail was the work of Edward Pearce Casey, an architect with
considerable knowledge of decoration and feeling for it. In some cases
he was coöperating with sculptors who had had no previous experience in
decorative work, and he was himself without practical experience, having
but recently returned from his studies at the École des Beaux Arts, and
the bias of his taste, if I mistake not, was toward the exuberance and
profuseness of Roman ornament. When, therefore, we take into
consideration the vastness and varied features of the undertaking, we
can scarcely avoid the conclusion that it has been upon the whole very
well carried out; probably quite as well as was possible under the
conditions of having to complete so huge a work by a given date. For one
of the difficulties with which our artists, architects, sculptors and
painters alike have to contend is the inexorable public demand that the
building with all its embellishments shall be “turned over” on contract
time. Very few men are sufficiently sure of their position, and likewise
possessed of sufficient conscience in the matter, to insist upon
adequate time for the development of their decorative scheme.
This insistence upon securing as far as possible an ultimate perfection
of detail, guided by a judgment and taste of unusual refinement, is a
notable characteristic of the architect, Charles F. McKim, as it is also
of the sculptor, Augustus Saint-Gaudens. Hence to this day the pedestals
in front of the Boston Public Library are without the groups of statuary
that the latter is to execute. Again, as an example of choiceness and
reserve in the sculptural decoration of a building, one may cite McKim’s
treatment of the façades of the University Club, New York. Indeed, they
are quite too choice and reserved to satisfy the popular taste, and it
is the latter which unfortunately regulates in the majority of instances
the character of our public buildings, with an inevitable tendency
toward pretentiousness of mass and floridness of detail. On the other
hand, from the point of view of the sculptor, McKim’s influence has been
too personal, too exclusively along the line of reproducing the style
and feeling of antique art, to have been of much direct benefit to the
development of decorative sculpture in this country. He is, perhaps, too
intolerant of failure to venture upon experiments.
For certainly the development has been attended with some results to
which it is impossible to point with appreciation. Do we find an
example of this in the Appellate Court in New York? Its exterior is
profusely covered with sculpture; but can one truly feel that it is
decorative? On the contrary, it may occur to some that the building
would have had more dignity unadorned; that it is overloaded; its quiet
lines disturbed by the flutter of forms against the sky; that the
figures themselves lack the decorative quality, dryly formal in some
instances and in others without sufficient reserve of line and mass;
overpowering, in fact, the structure, while individually, at the
distance from which they are seen, of not much moment.
Civic pride, doubtless not uninfluenced by the discovery that there is a
commercial value in esthetics, has led to the embellishing of office
buildings and hotels with sculpture. With the former continually
increasing their vertical direction, it has been no easy matter to
devise for them a suitable kind of plastic decoration. Perhaps the most
appropriate has been the flat ornamentation, occasionally burgeoning
into rounded forms, which Louis H. Sullivan, a Chicago architect, has
used. He has the advantage of being his own designer for decoration as
well as for structure; and having a very logical mind he designs both
with a strict regard for organic propriety, while his fecund
imagination enables him to create freely forms of inexhaustible variety
and full of the charm of vital freshness.
In the case of many office buildings, especially those erected some
years ago, the sculpture has the appearance of being added as an
afterthought, so inadequate is the provision made for it. There is a
conspicuous instance of this on lower Broadway, New York, four colossal
figures in bronze by J. Massey Rhind being placed upon a projecting
cornice some twenty feet above the level of the street. They have no
structural relation to the building and thereby lose much of their
effectiveness.
This sculptor, a native of Edinburgh, where his family, as architects
and otherwise, have long been identified with the civic improvements
that have gradually made the modern city so conspicuously handsome, is
one of the most skilful of our architectural sculptors. He has not the
play of fancy nor the graceful facility in decorative forms displayed by
Martiny; but, instead, a strong instinct for big simplicity of design,
and for the constructional value of the figure as an adjunct to the
architecture. When, as in the spandrils for the Smith Memorial Arch at
Philadelphia, he is elaborating a part of the structure, he works with
as much of the feeling of an architect as of a sculptor, showing an
unmistakable appreciation of the material. In the case of these
spandrils it is granite, and the treatment of the drapery and wings has
been admirably adapted to the quality and character of the material and
to the exigencies of cutting. A similar recognition of the claims of the
material is displayed in some granite lions, designed for the Ehret
mausoleum in Woodlawn Cemetery, and again in the caryatides, executed in
pink Tennessee marble for the Macy Building in New York. The latter,
moreover, are particularly successful in suggesting their architectural
function of carrying a superincumbent weight, rigidity of form and grace
of line being fortunately mingled. Among the varied subjects which have
occupied this sculptor is an elaborate fountain for “Georgian Court” at
Lakewood, New Jersey. The design comprises a male figure, almost nude,
standing in a chariot formed of a huge shell, these parts being in
bronze, while the sea-horses that he drives and the attendant Nereids
are of marble. The composition, enclosed within a circular basin and
rising pyramidally toward the centre, is full of spirit, with especial
force and freedom of movement in the marble portions. Yet it is probably
true that J. Massey Rhind discovers his best qualities as a sculptor
[Illustration: RECUMBENT FIGURE
By J. Massey Rhind
From the Tomb of Father Brown in the Church of Saint Mary-the-Virgin,
New York]
[Illustration: PUMA
By A. Phimister Proctor
Prospect Park, Brooklyn]