Statuary does not affect me like painting. I am not, I allow, a fair
judge, having paid a great deal more attention to the one than to the
other. Nor did I ever think of the first as a profession; and it is that
perhaps which adds the sting to our love of excellence, the hope of
attaining it ourselves in any particular walk. We strain our faculties
to the utmost to conceive of what is most exquisite in any art to which
we devote ourselves, and are doubly sensitive to it when we see it
attained. Knowledge may often beget indifference, but here it begets
zeal. Our affections kindled and projected forward by the ardour of
pursuit, we come to the contemplation of truth and beauty with the
passionate feeling of lovers; the examples of acknowledged excellence
before us are the steps by which we scale the path of distinction, the
spur which urges us on; and the admiration which we fondly cherish for
them is the seed of future fame. No wonder that the youthful student
dwells with delight and rapture on the finished works of art, when they
are to his heated fancy the pledge and foretaste of immortality; when at
every successful stroke of imitation he is ready to cry out with
Correggio—‘I also am a painter!’—when every heightening flush of his
enthusiasm is a fresh assurance to him of congenial powers—and when
overlooking the million of failures (that all the world have forgot) or
names of inferior note, Raphael, Titian, Guido, Salvator are each
another self. Happy union of thoughts and destinies, lovelier than the
hues of the rainbow! Why can it not last and span our brief date of
life?
One reason, however, why I prefer painting to sculpture is, that
painting is more like nature. It gives one entire and satisfactory view
of an object at a particular moment of time, which sculpture never does.
It is not the same in reality, I grant; but it is the same in
appearance, which is all we are concerned with. A picture wants
solidity, a statue wants colour. But we see the want of colour as a
palpably glaring defect, and we do not see the want of solidity, the
effects of which to the spectator are supplied by light and shadow. A
picture is as perfect an imitation of nature as is conveyed by a
looking-glass; which is all that the eye can require, for it is all it
can take in for the time being. A fine picture resembles a real living
man; the finest statue in the world can only resemble a man turned to
stone. The one is an image, the other a cold abstraction of nature. It
leaves out half the visible impression. There is therefore something a
little shocking and repulsive in this art to the common eye, that
requires habit and study to reconcile us completely to it, or to make it
an object of enthusiastic devotion. It does not amalgamate kindly and at
once with our previous perceptions and associations. As to the
comparative difficulty or skill implied in the exercise of each art, I
cannot pretend to judge: but I confess it appears to me that statuary
must be the most trying to the faculties. The idea of moulding a limb
into shape, so as to be right from every point of view, fairly makes my
head turn round, and seems to me to enhance the difficulty to an
infinite degree. There is not only the extraordinary circumspection and
precision required (enough to distract the strongest mind, as I should
think), but if the chisel, working in such untractable materials, goes a
hair’s-breadth beyond the mark, there is no remedying it. It is not as
in painting, where you may make a thousand blots, and try a thousand
experiments, efface them all one after the other, and begin anew: the
hand always trembles on the brink of a precipice, and one step over is
irrecoverable. There is a story told, however, of Hogarth and
Roubilliac, which, as far as it goes, may be thought to warrant a
contrary inference. These artists differed about the difficulty of their
several arts, and agreed to decide it by exchanging the implements of
their profession with each other, and seeing which could do best without
any regular preparation. Hogarth took a piece of clay, and succeeded in
moulding a very tolerable bust of his friend; but when Roubilliac, being
furnished with paints and brushes, attempted to daub a likeness of a
human face, he could make absolutely nothing out, and was obliged to own
himself defeated. Yet Roubilliac was a man of talent, and no mean
artist. It was he who, on returning from Rome where he had studied the
works of Bernini and the antique, and on going to see his own
performances in Westminster Abbey, exclaimed, that ‘they looked like
tobacco-pipes, by G—d! ‘What sin had this man or his parents committed,
that he should forfeit the inalienable birthright of every
Frenchman—imperturbable, invincible self-sufficiency? The most pleasing
and natural application of sculpture is, perhaps, to the embellishment
of churches and the commemoration of the dead. I don’t know whether they
were Roubilliac’s or not, but I remember seeing many years ago in
Westminster Abbey (in the part that is at present shut up) two figures
of angels bending over a tomb, that affected me much in the same manner
that these lines of Lord Byron’s have done since—
‘And when I think that his immortal wings
Shall one day hover o’er the sepulchre
Of the poor child of clay that so adored him
As he adores the highest, Death becomes
Less terrible!’
It appears to me that sculpture, though not proper to express health or
life or motion, accords admirably with the repose of the tomb; and that
it cannot be better employed than in arresting the fleeting dust in
imperishable forms, and in embodying a lifeless shadow. Painting, on the
contrary, from what I have seen of it in Catholic countries, seems to be
out of its place on the walls of churches; it has a flat and flimsy
effect contrasted with the solidity of the building, and its rich
flaunting colours harmonize but ill with the solemnity and gloom of the
surrounding scene.
I would go a pilgrimage to see the St. Peter Martyr, or the Jacob’s
Dream by Rembrandt, or Raphael’s Cartoons, or some of Claude’s
landscapes;—but I would not go far out of my way to see the Apollo, or
the Venus, or the Laocoon. I never cared for them much; nor, till I saw
the Elgin Marbles, could I tell why, except for the reason just given,
which does not apply to these particular statues, but to statuary in
general. These are still to be found in Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, with
appropriate descriptive stanzas appended to them;[32] but they are no
longer to be found in the Louvre, nor do the French seem to know they
ever were there. _Out of sight, out of mind_, is a happy motto. What is
not French, either as done by themselves, or as belonging to them, is of
course not worth thinking about. Be this as it may, the place is fairly
emptied out. Hardly a trace remains of the old Collection to remind you
of what is gone. A short list includes all of distinguished
excellence—the admirable bust of Vitellius, the fine fragment of Inopus,
a clothed statue of Augustus, the full-zoned Venus, and the Diana and
Fawn, whose light, airy grace seems to have mocked removal. A few more
are ‘thinly scattered to make up a shew,’ but the bulk, the main body of
the Grecian mythology, with the flower of their warriors and heroes,
were carried off by the Chevalier Canova on his shoulders, a load for
Hercules! The French sculptors have nothing of their own to shew for it
to fill up the gap. Like their painters, their style is either literal
and rigid, or affected and burlesque. Their merit is chiefly confined to
the academic figure and anatomical skill; if they go beyond this, and
wander into the regions of expression, beauty, or grace, they are apt to
lose themselves. The real genius of French sculpture is to be seen in
the curled wigs and swelling folds of the draperies in the statues of
the age of Louis XIV. There they shone unrivalled and alone. They are
the best man-milliners and _friseurs_ in ancient or modern Europe. That
praise cannot be denied them; but it should alarm them for their other
pretensions. I recollect an essay in the _Moniteur_ some years ago (very
playful and very well written) to prove that a great hair-dresser was a
greater character than Michael Angelo or Phidias; that his art was more
an invention, more a creation out of nothing, and less a servile copy of
any thing in nature. There was a great deal of ingenuity in the
reasoning, and I suspect more sincerity than the writer was aware of. It
expresses, I verily believe, the firm conviction of every true
Frenchman. In whatever relates to the flutter and caprice of fashion,
where there is no impulse but vanity, no limit but extravagance, no rule
but want of meaning, they are in their element, and quite at home.
Beyond that, they have no style of their own, and are a nation of
second-hand artists, poets, and philosophers. Nevertheless, they have
Voltaire, La Fontaine, Le Sage, Molière, Rabelais, and Montaigne—good
men and true, under whatever class they come. They have also Very and
Vestris. This is granted. Is it not enough? I should like to know the
thing on the face of God’s earth in which they allow other nations to
excel them. Nor need their sculptors be afraid of turning their talents
to account, while they can execute pieces of devotion for the shrines of
Saints, and classical _equivoques_ for the saloons of the old or new
_Noblesse_.
The foregoing remarks are general. I shall proceed to mention a few
exceptions to, or confirmations of them in their _Exposé_[33] of the
present year. The _Othryadas wounded_ (No. 1870), by Legendre Heral, is,
I think, the least _mannered_, and most natural. It is a huge figure,
powerful and somewhat clumsy (with the calves of the legs as if they had
gaiters on), but it has great power and repose in it. It seems as if,
without any effort, a blow from it would crush any antagonist, and
reminds one of Virgil’s combat of Dares and Entellus. The form of the
head is characteristic, and there is a fine mixture of sternness and
languor in the expression of the features. The sculptor appears to have
had an eye to the countenance of the Dying Gladiator; and the figure,
from its ease and massiness, has some resemblance to the Elgin Marbles.
It is a work of great merit. The statue of _Othryadas erecting the
Trophy to his Companions_ (No. 1774) is less impressive, and aims at
being more so. It comes under the head of _theatrical_ art, that is of
French art _proper_. They cannot long keep out of this. They cannot
resist an attitude, a significant effect. They do not consider that the
definition of Sculpture is, or ought to be, nearly like their own
celebrated one of _Death_—an eternal repose! This fault may in some
measure be found with the _Hercules recovering the body of Icarus from
the Sea_ (No. 1903), by Razzi. The body of Icarus can hardly be said to
have found a resting-place. Otherwise, the figure is finely designed,
and the face is one of considerable beauty and expression. The Hercules
is a man-mountain. From the size and arrangement of this group, it seems
more like a precipice falling on one’s head, than a piece of sculpture.
The effect is not so far pleasant. If a complaint lies against this
statue on the score of unwieldy and enormous size, it is relieved by No.
1775, _A Zephyr thwarting the loves of a Butterfly and a Rose_, Boyer.
Here French art is on its legs again, and in the true vignette style. A
Zephyr, a Butterfly, and a Rose, all in one group—Charming! In such
cases the lightness, the prettiness, the flutter, and the affectation
are extreme, and such as no one but themselves will think of rivalling.
One of their greatest and most successful attempts is the _Grâce aux
Prisonniers_. No. 1802, by David. Is it not the _Knife-grinder_ of the
ancients, thrown into a more heroic attitude, and with an impassioned
expression? However this may be, there is real boldness in the design,
and animation in the countenance, a feeling of disinterested generosity
contending with the agonies of death. I cannot give much praise to their
religious subjects in general. The French of the present day are not
bigots, but sceptics in such matters; and the cold, formal indifference
of their artists appears in their works. The _Christ confounding the
incredulity of St. Thomas_ (by Jacquot) is not calculated to produce
this effect on anybody else. They treat classical subjects much more
_con amore_; but the mixture of the Christian Faith and of Pagan
superstitions is at least as reprehensible in the present Collection as
in Milton’s Paradise Lost. Among pieces of devotion, _The Virgin and
Child_, and the _St. Catherine_ of Cortot (Nos. 1791–22) struck me as
the best. There is a certain delicacy of finishing and graceful
womanhood about both, which must make them very acceptable
accompaniments to Catholic zeal. The French excel generally in
emblematic subjects, or in whatever depends on accuracy and invention in
costume, of which there are several examples here. What I liked best,
however, were some of their studies of the naked figure, which have
great simplicity and ease, such as a _Nymph making a Garland of
Flowers_, No. 1888 (Parmentier), and a _Youth going to bathe_, No. 1831
(Espercieux). This last figure, in particular, appears to be really
sliding down into the bath. _Cupid tormenting the Soul_ (after Chaudet)
is a very clever and spirited design, in bronze. Their busts, in
general, are not excellent. There are, however, a few exceptions, one
especially of a Mademoiselle Hersilie de F——, by Gayrard, which is a
perfect representation of nature. It is an unaffected, admirable
portrait, with good humour and good sense playing over every feature of
the face.
In fine, I suspect there is nothing in the French Saloon of Sculpture
greatly to stagger or entirely to overset the opinion of those who have
a prejudice against the higher pretensions of French art. They have no
masterpieces equal to Chantry’s busts, nor to Flaxman’s learned
outlines, nor to the polished elegance of Canova; to say nothing of the
exquisite beauty and symmetry of the antique, nor of the Elgin Marbles,
among which the Theseus sits in form like a demi-god, basking on a
golden cloud. If ever there were models of the Fine Arts fitted to give
an impulse to living genius, these are they.[34] With enough to teach
the truest, highest style in art, they are not in sufficient numbers or
preservation to distract or discourage emulation. With these and Nature
for our guides, we might do something in sculpture, if we were not
indolent and unapt. The French, whatever may be their defects, cannot be
charged with want of labour and study. The only charge against them (a
heavy one, if true) is want of taste and genius.