knowledge, I should take to be the recumbent portrait-statue of Father
Brown in the Church of Saint Mary-the-Virgin in New York. It is very
truly monumental, with an exquisite placidity and tender gravity of
feeling; the lines of the figure severely simple, the vestments,
notwithstanding some elaboration of delicate detail, subordinated so
completely to the form, and the latter in its supple fixity expressive
of the eternal calm of the head. It is a figure from which emanates a
very unusual atmosphere of spirituality.
I wonder if there is not more incentive to revere the memory of a man in
a memorial like this, representing him folded in the sleep of death,
than in one which figures him as he lived! Yet the latter is the more
usual method in this country, possibly because of the lack of space in
city churches. Saint-Gaudens has done some memorable work in this
direction, notably in the portrait-panels of James McCosh at Princeton,
and of Doctor Bellows in the Church of All Souls, New York; so too have
French and Herbert Adams. Again in mural tablets, bearing instead of a
portrait some ideal figure, work of technical merit and of very
beautiful spirit has been done by Clement J. Barnhorn of Cincinnati.
Especially would I mention an angel design of his for the Poland
Memorial and a “Madonna of the Lilies.” In both these low reliefs he
displays a quite exquisite appreciation of the beauty of simplicity of
design, of the expression of tender differences of plane, and of the
mingling of firm and vanishing lines. Nor in the refinement of treatment
is the structural character of the figure and drapery lost.
DOMESTIC DESIGN
Among the various decorative designs by Barnhorn is one for a cottage
piano, carved in wood. Conventionalised tree-forms compose the legs,
extend a bough from each side along the lower part of the keyboard and
then mount up the sides and spread their foliage in a canopy along the
top, a draped figure occupying the centre of the front. The design has
one good feature, that it grows out of and expresses the character of
the material. Yet it deviates from what experience suggests to be worth
regarding as an axiom: that in such objects as are actually a part of
the structure of a room, for instance a mantelpiece, or in those which
by their size and importance emphasise their structural character, the
contours should conform to the straight and curved lines, which
experience has found necessary in architecture. In a word, that the
structure of the object should be first attained and the decoration then
subordinated to it, instead of the latter being allowed to encroach upon
the structural lines. An ivy-mantled tower takes its place suitably in
an open-air setting; and, on the other hand, a small object indoors,
such as a clock on a shelf, may assume any variety of outline; but with
the larger, formal ones, whether built into, or detached within, the
room, you cannot indulge in irregular contours without making them
amorphous, more or less clumsy or else trivial. And this piano seems
open to the charge of cumbersomeness, which again offends the instinct
of the musician, who would feel in the instrument a suggestion of
yielding to the vibrations of the music--a feeling so prominent in the
delicate simplicity of the violin and to be desired in the form of all
instruments. Yet one welcomes in this piano the inventiveness of fancy
displayed, and the skill and individuality of the craftsmanship,
delighted to find an American sculptor applying his art to the
intimacies of domestic design.
Among the few sculptors who have used the figure decoratively in the
arts of minor design none has displayed a livelier imagination or a more
charming facility than Henry Linder. His little conceptions for
candlesticks, inkwells, electric-light stands and other objects of
domestic use are full of grace and spirit. Another decorative sculptor
of rare feeling and unusual technical resources is M. M. Schwarzott. I
remember well a panel of his representing fishes sporting in the waves,
which, as Mr. Hartmann fitly observes, is worthy of a Japanese
coppersmith.
That very few sculptors have devoted themselves to domestic design is
due as well to the dearth of really decorative genius among them as to
the claims of other commissions upon the time of those few who possess
it. Partly, perhaps, to a prevalence of “high-art” notions, which regard
a statue as, of itself, more worthy than a decorated object,
irrespective of the skill and craftsmanship or the beauty of the design
involved. Yet, I doubt if a prejudice of this sort would deter a man
really possessed of the decorative instinct. It is the lack of this and
of appreciation on the part of the public for personal work which forms
a bar to our advancement in the arts of design; this and the preference
of the architects for reproducing commercially the time-honoured forms.
Encouraged by them our rich people prefer a room in which every detail
is dryly imitated from a dead period to one animated by the art and
spirit of to-day. So they take their morning coffee _à la Louis Quinze_;
their luncheon in a Dutch kitchen; drop into an affectation of Japan
for a cup of afternoon tea; dine in the splendour of the _Grand
Monarque_; sip their liqueurs in Pompeii, and rest at length from this
jumble of inert impressions in a chamber _à l’Empire_. Small wonder if
their appreciation of art should be a pose and their actual
encouragement of it nearly null!
OPEN-AIR DECORATION
The first great opportunity in this country for sculptors to prove their
capacity in the larger field of outdoor decoration was presented by the
World’s Fair at Chicago, and it brought into prominence three animal
sculptors, E. C. Potter, Edward Kemeys and A. Phimister Proctor. The
first named collaborated with French in the quadriga above the
water-gate and in the groups of the “Bull” and “Farm Horse” in front of
the Agricultural Building, displaying in the one case a fine command of
spirited movement and in the other a feeling for large simplicity. These
qualities he combined most effectively in the equestrian statue of
Washington for the Place de Jéna in Paris, in which again his
collaborator was French. The “Wild Cats” by Kemeys, which stood upon the
ends of two of the bridges, were quite extraordinary examples of animal
sculpture. Their stealthy, supple movement, as, bellies low to the
ground, they advanced with that slow, clinging step which precedes the
spring, represented the closest study of the naturalist, while the
treatment of the lines and masses was altogether a sculptor’s,
monumental in a high degree.
Proctor also is a naturalist and ardent sportsman, camping alone for
weeks together in the forests and studying the big game at close
quarters. Perhaps his instinct is naturalistic rather than sculptural.
At any rate, the strongest feature of his work is its realism; yet his
“Pumas,” at one entrance of Prospect Park, Brooklyn, shows a fair
measure of monumental feeling. The quadriga which he modelled for the
United States pavilion at the Paris Exposition was dwarfed by the
structure, but when reproduced for the Ethnological building at the
Pan-American Exposition proved extremely effective. On this occasion,
however, it was only a part of the structure’s embellishment and not a
single emphatic note, for which purpose it was too slight in
composition, unduly stringy and deficient in cohesion. Proctor himself
had felt it to be so, and the lesson was not lost upon him, for in his
next opportunity of essaying an important composition he produced
something of much more sculptural import. This was a group executed for
the Pan-American Exposition, which embodied the idea of “Agriculture,”
representing a man at the plow-tail, while a boy urged on the team, a
horse and an ox. It was a very remarkable example of the force of
realism, when governed by the sculptural intention. The mass was most
imposing and full of variety of movement, through the contrast afforded
by the figures: the horse vigorously straining at the traces, the ox
exerting his slow, lumbering weight; the boy in free action, while the
man’s was concentrated and checked. Moreover, it told its story so
simply and directly, with such complete recognition of the essential
points. As a piece of artistic realism, it was alive with the spirit of
Millet--altogether a most memorable work.
At this exposition was also seen a quadriga by Frederick G. R. Roth. His
previous work had consisted of statuettes executed in bronze, revealing
a close study of unusual kinds of action, such as that of an elephant
balancing himself upon a tub. He modelled a pair of these in which the
mass is poised, respectively, upon the forelegs and the hind ones.
Although they are very small in size they are large in feeling, with
breadth of modelling and enforcement of the suggestion of bulk and
weightiness. The expression of movement is admirable: felt continuously
throughout the mass and varying so characteristically, according as each
part contributes to the action. Nor does he neglect to secure the
surface-charm of colour and texture in his bronzes; and these little
objects of art make very choice appeal to sight and touch. This charm of
surface is accompanied by a more vigorous display of movement in a
group, which represents “The Combat” between an elephant and a
rhinoceros. The latter, with hind legs planted as firmly as trees, is
ramming his horn into the belly of the other beast, who has rolled over
on his side and is lifting head and trunk in a spasm of pain. Again our
interest is divided between the extraordinary realism of the
representation and the beauty of the surfaces, shown especially in the
slabs and corrugations of the rhinoceros. The stress of movement is
carried still further in the quadriga. It is an incident of a “Chariot
Race”; the vehicle has been whirled on to one wheel, and the driver is
throwing his weight upon the opposite side to restore the balance, at
the same time holding back with all his force against the strength of
the four galloping horses. This group, of full size, executed in
plaster, cannot fail to impress one both by its daring and by the
knowledge and power displayed. Whether it completely convinces one’s
imagination is less certain. The figure of the man does, so also that of
the horse which is plunging in midair; but the hind legs of the others
and the chariot wheel seem rooted to the ground, thereby clogging the
impetus of movement. The group, in fact, raises an interesting point as
to the limitation of the sculptor. A painter could give the wheel an
appearance of revolving, could raise a cloud of dust around the heels of
the horses and by the introduction of atmosphere resolve the rigidity of
lines. Correspondingly, if this group were raised to an elevation so
that the juncture of the wheels and legs with the ground were not
observable, and the whole by distance were enveloped in atmosphere, the
effect upon the imagination would be vastly increased, probably
complete. But when it was seen at Buffalo, on a low pedestal close to
the eye, the deficiencies of illusion were as apparent as they are in
the accompanying illustration. However, granted that the illusion would
be complete, we may question the propriety of expressing in sculpture
such violent movement of progression. If stationary, an equal vehemence
might still be monumental; but can one imagine any structure upon which,
without detriment to its stability and impressiveness, this restless
mass, hurling itself forward from its position, could be placed?
Therefore, the sculptor seems to have landed himself in the predicament
of needing something which he has made it impossible for himself to
procure; due, if I mistake not, to his having forced the medium beyond
its characteristic limits.
Eli Harvey’s observation of wild animals in confinement has resulted in
some excellent statues of lions, jaguars and leopards, all of which
would be eminently suitable for the embellishment of public parks. In
two cases he has used lions as the motive for decorating pediments
intended for the lion house of the New York Zoölogical Society. His work
is at once very true to life and thoroughly sculpturesque.
In all probability, however, the finest animal group which has yet been
produced in this country is the “Buffaloes” by H. K. Bush-Brown. It has
been reproduced as a statuette in bronze, and in this form is a powerful
and impressive work, but to appreciate to the full its conspicuously
monumental character, the dignity of its bulk and of its massed and
rooted energy, one must have seen it in the original colossal size. Well
placed in the natural surroundings of a park, it would present a
spectacle of remarkable grandeur. This sculptor, like his uncle,
[Illustration: CHARIOT RACE
By F. G. R. Roth]
Henry Kirke Brown, the sculptor of the equestrian statues of Washington
and General Scott, is a horseman, and his own equestrian statues display
a thorough knowledge, but scarcely that imposing dignity of mass, which
the build of the buffalo made possible for this group.
Whereas at the Chicago Exposition the gaiety of the sculptural
embellishment, with the exception of the Macmonnies’s fountain, was
concentrated on the buildings, and the arrangement of statues and groups
about the grounds had been regulated with reserve, one motive of the
Pan-American was to demonstrate conspicuously how sculpture could be
used in the decoration of open spaces. There must have been many who
felt that this feature was overdone; that the dignity of the vistas was
disturbed by the multiplicity and variety of forms, and that what had
set out to be gay finished by being fidgety. The more so that there was
little relief of greenery, the whole scheme being too exclusively
architectural without the assuaging influence of landscape gardening. If
in lieu of so much sculpture trees had been imported into the scene, its
beauty would have been increased, and the discomfort of the visitor,
unsheltered from the sun, correspondingly diminished. The value of
greenery in displays of this sort is at once an esthetic and a practical
consideration.
The sculpture at this exposition was under the supervision of Karl
Bitter, and his equestrian “Standard Bearers,” surmounting the pylons of
the Triumphal Bridge, were the most arresting features of the scheme.
Ten years earlier he had modelled the colossal groups that stood at the
base of the dome on the four corners of the Administration Building.
They presented a fanfare of form against the sky; and these rearing
horses at Buffalo, with their riders holding aloft a draped flag, had
the same fling of action, only more controlled by experience. Instead of
an explosion of limbs and movement, there was a sustained and
concentrated energy, infinitely more impressive. It is in decorative
subjects of this sort, which permit a certain heroic exaggeration, that
Bitter seems at his best. An Austrian by birth and training, he has the
Teutonic exuberance, touched with the gaiety of the French influence,
and it is when the occasion warrants the exercise of both qualities that
he finds his best chance. When he is deprived of an excuse for festivity
he is liable to abandon himself to an excess of force, as in the
“Atlantes” of the St. Paul Building in New York, which are uniting their
titanic strength with contortion of limbs and muscles to support--one
little balcony! Or if, as in a memorial to the dead, he is constrained
to moderation and set toward the expression of sentiment, his work is
apt to be characterised by sentimentality and ineffectualness. Yet, in
the sitting statue of Doctor Pepper, he has made a sincere attempt to
render in straightforward fashion the personality of the subject. The
figure is realistically treated, even to the adoption of an awkward
pose, which, however, fairly corresponds with the meditative suggestion,
while the expression of the head unquestionably enlists our interest.
Nevertheless, it is in such a group as Bitter furnished for the Naval
Arch at the Dewey celebration, full of stirring action and heroic
suggestion, that he is to be seen most characteristically.
Isidore Konti’s groups at the Buffalo Exposition proved him to be a
decorative artist of unusual versatility. He does not show the same
varied familiarity with ornamental forms as Martiny, but his technique
is scarcely less facile and sure than the Parisian’s, while touched with
much of the Italian _naïveté_. Gay or serious, according to the subject,
his inventiveness of fancy inclines toward that slightly idealised
realism which characterises the work of many sculptors of the modern
Neapolitan school; a realism that is less the product of any theory of
art, than of the natural adaptability to impressions--a quick perception
coloured by temperament. Thus Konti seems to me at his best when his
fancy moves most simply. A first impression of his group, “The Age of
Despotism,” was very satisfactory. Bold and simple in design, it
represented a man seated in a chariot, erect and cold, with eyes fixed
sternly ahead, and at his side a woman (a courtesan, I took her to be)
lashing on the team of human cattle, while women were dragged in chains
behind. Amid so much trite symbolism here seemed to be a touch of very
naïve and forcible realism. But closer inspection discovered that the
realism was impaired by artifice and artfulness; the woman in the
chariot had wings, and one of the captives carried a pair of scales, a
lapse into abstractions that for myself, at any rate, lessened the value
of the group. On the other hand, in the group upon the Temple of Music,
while abstractions were introduced, they had no other meaning than a
decorative one. The youth with a lyre might represent Apollo, but there
was no need to recognise the fact; he was simply one of a joyous band of
figures, animated with the grace of gaiety, of music and the dance.
These groups were as refined in composition as they were exuberant,
exhibiting the genuine creativeness of an artist who has an instinct for
decoration and a lively delight in the pure expression of line and form,
regulated by an instinct also of artistic propriety. It is eminently a
Latin trait, in which the American is as deficient as the Anglo-Saxon or
Teuton.
Our tendency is to desire a motive in decoration beyond the decorative
one. So we make our statuary expressive of patriotism or what not. Well
and good; but we do so without that instinct of propriety which should
be as careful of the setting of the statue as of the statue itself. Thus
in city squares and public parks we multiply our memorials without
adding, as effectively as might be, to the beauty of their environment.
It was this fact which, by a display of the opposite, the Buffalo
Exposition was designed to enforce. In another chapter I have alluded to
our preference for portrait-statues with their prosaic accompaniment of
tailor-made trimmings to statues which, while commemorating the
individual, would be more essentially decorative. But it is equally to
be desired that better use should be made of such statues as we decide
to encourage; for a statue set down promiscuously in a public square or
thoroughfare, facing in no particular direction, forming the termination
of no vista of sight, supported and isolated by no architectonic
arrangement, loses the greater part of its impressiveness. Indeed it is
very generally forgotten that there is an element of formality in a
statue, which necessitates some formality in its placing, and that the
accompaniment of wriggling paths and of the haphazard sprinkling of
trees, such as we find in our New York smaller parks, is directly
opposed to the spirit of the statue. It is equally a violation of
propriety and a waste of good material to set a fine statue on the line
of a thoroughfare, where it is seldom seen from the front, but
continually passed by unnoticed. Yet these and similar incongruities are
only too frequent.
XIII
THE IDEAL MOTIVE
The value of the imaginative quality in a work of sculpture must depend
chiefly upon the degree to which it is governed and prompted by,
impregnated with, the sculptural feeling. This is, of course, true of
any other work of art: that it should be the offspring of a wedding of
the thought with the medium; a union in which the medium is not
compelled into alliance with the thought, or dallied with in a more or
less honourable concubinage, but fitly mated in the liberty of mutual
dependence. Yet it is so habitual with us to clothe our thoughts in
words, actually to think in words, that the artist finds it difficult to
shake himself free of the verbal subjection and to think in the language
of his particular medium. Some evade the difficulty by not burdening
themselves with thought; others succumb to it and force their medium and
technique to a literal rendering of their ideas, whether shallow ones or
deeper; while a few succeed in deriving motive from the medium, or in
so moulding their thought to it, that both become indissolubly blended
and mutually enforcing.
Thus in those signal examples of Michelangelo upon the Medici tombs, we
may call them “Night” and “Day,” “Dawn” and “Twilight,” for convenience
of reference, but it is because the conceptions embodied in them cannot
be captured into the precision of words that they have so profound a
significance. Consciousness grows upon us first of huge, bony structures
and elastic muscles; of torso and limbs contorted; more developed than
the normal; in attitudes impossible to it, or well nigh so. We derive
from this consciousness an impression of struggle; but no emblem or
visible cause for it is introduced; only it is borne in upon us by the
forms themselves. With this clue to understanding we note the more than
human strength, the superb sensuousness, the eternal fixity of these
supple figures and, again, their distortion, and the struggle which they
body forth is realised as one of spirit, a conflict of soul. But to have
discovered this is not to have captured the conception. It still eludes
all exact comprehension; vague, limitless, the lapping up upon our shore
of sense of an ocean that stretches to immensity.
This is to cite the example of a genius, beside whom the wits of most
other men seem petty; yet surely it contains the principle upon which
all truly imaginative work must be based. It is thus that Rodin bases
his; bodying forth in structure, modelling and expression of movement
his imaginings, just so far as they are to be made palpable to sight,
but with a residuum always of what the mind alone can conceive or
approximate to.
In every work of art there should be present the imagination of the
artist, arousing our own imagination, directing it and then leaving it
to its own unhampered speculation. This quality is not to be confined to
the so-called “ideal” subject, it must appear in every bust or statue to
make it vital. For while it is given to but few men to have creative
imagination, we have a right to expect in the artist that degree of
imagination which can penetrate beyond the outer integument of his
subject, and find inside the tailor-made or millinery outworks the man
or woman, the revelation in the flesh, however infinitesimally
fractional, whether divine or devilish, of infinity.
How many American sculptors have infused their work in portraiture with
this vital quality has been reviewed elsewhere. But the number is not
complete without mention, at least, of W. R. O’Donovan, Samuel Murray,
Charles Calverly, Henry H. Kitson and his wife, Alice Ruggles Kitson,
R. E. Brooks, A. A. Weinman and Birtley Canfield. The last named’s
treatment of the child in portraiture is full of tender imagination.