Modern Tendencies in Sculpture

Front matter

BY

THE SCAMMON LECTURES FOR 1917 PUBLISHED FOR THE ART INSTITUTE OF CHICAGO BY THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Copyright 1921 By The University of Chicago

List of Illustrations

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LECTURE I

LECTURE II

LECTURE III

LECTURE IV

LECTURE V

LECTURE VI

Lecture 1

I

AUGUSTE RODIN

I heard say once upon a time in one of his impassioned talks: “This was the weakness of Phidias as well as his strength.” What it was all about I do not remember; the pronouncement was so startling that I forgot everything else. “The weakness of Phidias” indeed! Was there ever such blasphemy? My feelings were not unlike the emotion which I experienced many years ago upon hearing remark in one of his sermons: “In this matter Christ was evidently mistaken.”

One is seldom shocked twice by the same thing, and these recent years have quite accustomed us to hearing our pet divinities assailed and even to seeing them rock on their time-hallowed pedestals. Among modern leaders in art the casualties have been particularly numerous. With every turn of fashion over goes a figurehead. When, as today, pre-eminence is largely based on novelty, that most ephemeral of sanctions, the massacre of the innocents must perforce be cruel. They fall like the puppets in a shooting gallery, but not to be set up again.

In the midst, however, of this twilight of the gods there appeared a while back a new hero, one whom his admirers modestly acclaimed for a few years as the greatest sculptor since Michelangelo, but whom they later saluted as “the mightiest sculptural genius of all time.” There are others, to be sure, who denounce Auguste Rodin as the arch-impostor of our day and the father of all artistic rottenness.

Which estimate is correct? Or shall we find the truth in a disappointing middle ground? , our foremost writer on art, gave in his essay on Rodin the following brief eulogy and subsequent indictment: “He was a consummate modeler, a magnificent workman, but he had always grave faults and striking mannerisms. These faults and mannerisms he has latterly pushed to greater and greater extremes while neglecting his great gift, each work being more chaotic and fragmentary in composition, more hideous in type, more affected and emptier in execution, until he has produced marvels of mushiness and incoherence hitherto undreamed of and has set up as public monuments fantastically mutilated figures with broken legs or heads knocked off.”

I am inclined to believe this arraignment just, but shall take greater pleasure in showing the power that was than the decadence which was made inevitable by circumstances. Some of the circumstances are to be found in the feverish activities of his admirers. Volume after volume has been written upon Rodin, while the special articles in praise of him are as the autumn leaves. Every form of adulation was heaped upon and ladled over the kindly little man until a mind even stronger than his would have become confused. No wonder that his utterance became at last incoherent. A self-appointed chorus of acclaim, a shining band of acolytes, sang his praises day and night. His crudest, most immature sketches were seized upon as precious. “Not another touch, O Master!” they cried, literally snatching these puerilities from his hands. Who but an ascetic like could resist such influence?

It has been well observed that “the things written about Rodin have been mainly literary compositions, admiring and lyrical passages, to which his favorite subjects have served as texts.” That these panegyrics, these strident peans of praise, are often contradictory and mutually exclusive does not disturb the ardor of his devoted followers. They all contribute to the volume of sound; and, besides, should not all tastes find all things in a universal genius—“a force of nature”? “Rodin is a force of nature,” writes one logical lady, “because art is a force of nature.”

One is tempted to quote certain absurd passages which would amuse; but since the Scammon Lectures must be dignified at whatever cost, I restrain myself. Here, however, are two or three characterizations which have interested me. Chants a disciple: “Rodin’s mind has the serenity of one whose love of nature amounts to the strength and majesty of a religion.” To the Belgian poet, , on the other hand, the products of this serenity speak quite another language: “Everything is vague, anxious, complex, vanishing or emphasized—be it in marble or bronze—like thoughts in the brain or beings and objects in Nature. . . . . He has never proceeded otherwise than according to Nature’s example; he has ever created like the Creator—and with clay also!”

Another estimate, “important if true,” is by : “This singular man has enjoyed the exceptional privilege of living in the midst of the modern world in a state of perfectly natural and pagan grace. He is anterior to morality and sin. To him, all the work of the past, all the labor of civilization, all the progress in which we pride ourselves is null and void. He does not even need to rebel, as did Rousseau, and to turn violently back to the state of Nature, for he has not yet emerged from it.”

Contrast with this the words of , who tells us that the master is ever “drawing new strength through his admiring faith in the past. He goes to the masterpieces of another age as they used to go on pilgrimages, with the same emotion and prepared through long meditation.” This is indeed strange for one to whom “all the work of the past is null and void”!

If Rodin succumbed much too early to fatty degeneration of the artistic conscience, he nevertheless produced in his best years a series of remarkable works which, for good or evil, have influenced the art of the entire civilized world. We shall let these speak for themselves in a brief review of his life.

Auguste Rodin, the most eminent of all modern sculptors, was born in 1840 and died in 1917. His parents were poor and gave him but a meager education. From the age of fourteen, however, he had the privilege of good instruction in drawing at the petite école of the Rue de Médecine, and this was speedily supplemented by frequent visits to the Jardin des Plantes, where gave

RODIN I

1. YOUNG GIRL | 2. MAN WITH THE BROKEN NOSE

3. AGE OF BRONZE | 4. ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST

RODIN II

5. ADAM | 6. EVE

7. UGOLINO | 8. GENIUS OF WAR

criticisms to the animal sculptors. From the age of twenty-four to thirty Rodin worked continuously with , one of the cleverest and most prolific of the commercial sculptors of Paris. A charming example of his skill during this forgotten period is shown in the head of a young girl (Fig. 1), which reminds one of the dexterity and lightness of touch of . Several years of work at the pottery at Sèvres contributed further to his marvelous virtuosity; not one of his contemporaries had the training that was his. In spite of this he was for some reason denied admittance to the École des Beaux-Arts, although making application several times.

His strange and repellent bust of a “Man with the Broken Nose” (Fig. 2) was refused at the Salon in 1864. Twelve years later the marble copy was accepted. Meantime Rodin had lived six years in Belgium, whence in 1877 he brought his notable work, “L’Age d’Airain”—“The Age of Bronze” (Fig. 3)—a figure which some consider his most perfect achievement. The uplifted hand of the primitive athlete originally grasped a bronze spear; but the artist, having temporarily removed the weapon, made one of his characteristic discoveries—the figure had through this elimination become impressively enigmatic. The spear was left out for all time. The statue was so remarkable in conception and so sapient in modeling that the jury was dumbfounded; it was the work of a master, but signed by an unknown name! Although by no means a servile rendering of nature, it was pronounced by the critics a cast from life, and the sculptor was obliged to summon his model—a Belgian soldier— and demonstrate that the figure was several inches taller than the original, thus effectually disposing of such accusations. The incident made him some good friends.

In 1880 the revolutionary “St. John the Baptist” (Fig. 4) was exhibited and at once awakened a storm of protest. We have become familiar with it, and, further, we do not take such things so “hard” as do the French; it is therefore difficult to comprehend the violence of emotions aroused forty years ago in the artistic capital of the world by so unprecedented a work as this. Perhaps the feeling of antagonism may be better understood if one recalls the traditional treatment of the subject, the kind of image which was welcome in the French church. “John the Baptist” by the once famous will illustrate. Observe the perfect decorum, the easy attitude of the seated figure, the graceful gesture—it might be a languid request for a fan!—the sleek body and well-combed hair. Contrast with this the wild man of Rodin’s vision! Our sculptor has read his Bible to a purpose; he knows that the prophet was haggard and unkempt, was burdened by his tragic mission. He must save a perishing world. His feet are calloused by the burning sands of the desert; his garment is a shaggy hide; his food but the precarious yield of the wilderness. “And preaching as one does battle, he makes a violent gesture which seems to scatter anathemas. His face is illumined with a mystic light, his mouth vomits imprecations.”

Probably you or I never thought of John the Baptist in just this fashion, but then we are not Rodins. He has made of him a fanatic in a noble cause and has interpreted his very soul as it had not been done since the days of . He shocked the critics of Paris as John shocked those of Galilee and Judea, but Rodin had made himself famous and found influential friends.

In 1881 his “Eve” (Fig. 6) was offered to the public—another great sculptural thought. A truly potential mother of the race, she stands “bent beneath her shame, apparently in horror of herself, fierce in attitude, sullen of expression.”

As might be expected, “Eve” was speedily followed by “Adam” (Fig. 5), a conception of great power, reminiscent of certain favorite poses of Michelangelo. In this massive work we have the first appearance of Rodin’s mania for exaggeration. Little hint is here, however, of the deformities which are to come.

The “Ugolino” (Fig. 7), which appeared in 1882, is one of Rodin’s very few groups of more than a couple of figures. Its failure as a composition, its naive absence of all beauty of line, may perhaps explain in a measure why the experiment was not repeated. Beside ’ masterly achievement this group seems almost childish.

But if the “Ugolino” failed to create the expected sensation already become so dear to the sculptor, certain smaller works had a success of much greater value. It was in this same year, 1882, that he began that series of extraordinary busts which were destined to put his fame upon a secure foundation and to extort the praise of all who recognize masterly craftsmanship. There was no gainsaying their likeness, and the vividness and charm of handling were equally obvious.

In not one of this early group of busts do we find lacking these two precious qualities: the incisive characterization, that intensity of life which unmasks the very soul, and—almost equally important in a great work of art—a masterly subordination of nonessentials, which Rodin understood better than any of his contemporaries. There is no “frittering away of the general effect in useless details.” With him cravats and buttonholes are of small importance compared with the face.

The first was an astonishing head of (Fig. 9), the eminent painter. M. Laurens was never a professional beauty and had no illusions on the subject; it is said that he did protest, however, that he was not in the habit of keeping his mouth open. The artist compromised by leaving it open, with the result here shown.

The bust of (Fig. 10) was executed under most unfavorable circumstances. The Olympian poet was old and irascible and had been bored for years by painters and sculptors. He absolutely refused to pose, but allowed Rodin to work on the outside of a circle of visitors. The portrait is a marvelous characterization of one of France’s greatest sons.

The ascetic head of (Fig. 11) is another which gives joy to every sculptor. No, there was one exception; Dalou himself did not appreciate it, and relations thereafter were never cordial. As well might a man quarrel

RODIN III

9. BUST OF JEAN PAUL LAURENS | 10. BUST OF VICTOR HUGO

11. BUST OF JULES DALOU | 12. BUST OF PUVIS DE CHAVANNES

RODIN IV

13. LA PENSÉE | 14. BUST OF MME VICUNHA

15. CARYATIDE | 16. CHILD’S DREAM

with his mirror! The feeling of structure in this cranium has not been surpassed in modern times.

Everyone knows the bust of the South American lady, (Fig. 14), which has so long been the gem of the Luxembourg Gallery. This head shows some of the most delicate, mellow modeling ever seen, the perfection of marble-cutting; the neck and bosom, likewise, are nothing else than soft, white flesh. Art can go no farther. Then the master considered his work done. With a sort of noble petulance he has scratched the suggestion of drapery into shape. For a moment he has played with the clay and pressed the loose scraps into semblance of flowers. And he has been very careful that the marble-cutter should not develop them any farther. On all this subordinate portion of the bust the tooth-marks of the tool remain; everything is blurred in order that the face may have entire attention. The result is one of the greatest works of sculpture of our time. Even today you will seldom find it without its circle of admiring artists, gathered like buzzing bees around a blossom, all endeavoring to penetrate its secret.

It was in 1882 that Rodin exhibited his bust of , the communist editor, and that of (Fig. 12), the great decorator. Perhaps the latter is the most impressive of the series. There is an almost Egyptian serenity and aloofness in the pose. No modern has wrought more admirably. One is surprised to learn that here, as with most of these heads, the original was far from pleased. Like ’s portraits they were “too true”! Of them an eminent authority—not a subject—has said: “Life, thought, strength, and character are here carried as far as it is possible.”

In 1889 Rodin produced the first of his portrait statues with which we are familiar, the “” (Fig. 17), for the painter’s native village of Damvillers. Already the sculptor had begun to feel the pressure of that admiring group who required from him something novel and startling upon every occasion. Despite its heroic stride, this figure seems disjointed and weak in pose. It is said that it gave little satisfaction to the people of the neighborhood who had known the painter. They pronounce the statue a caricature.

Not less strange but far more pleasing is the well-known work called “Thought” (Fig. 13). This great mass of rough rock supporting a delicate head seems like an affectation of originality, but there is probably a symbolism intended—that of the soul’s flowering above inert matter. At any rate the head is exquisite—a portrait of one of Rodin’s most brilliant young pupils of the time, .

A truly delightful product of those busy years is the so-called “Caryatide” (Fig. 15). Although unimportant in theme and, like much of Rodin’s later work, a mere fragment, it is so happily compacted and so subtly modeled in the parts which are emphasized that it is to be counted among the master’s most pleasing works.

Even better known is the exquisite “Danaïde” (Fig. 27). The perfection of the modeling of back and shoulders is brought out in vivid contrast with the summary, sketchy treatment of other parts. The artist has

RODIN V

17. STATUE OF BASTIEN-LEPAGE (DAMVILLERS, FRANCE) | 18. MONUMENT TO CLAUDE LORRAIN (NANCY, FRANCE)

19. STATUE OF PRESIDENT SARMIENTO (BUENOS AIRES) | 20. APOLLO (BASE OF SARMIENTO MONUMENT)

RODIN VI

21. THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS

22. STUDY FOR VICTOR HUGO MONUMENT

illuminated, as it were, the portion that interests him; the rest is neglected—thrown out of focus. Thus Rodin “increases the gamut of his effects,” as has so well put it. It is one of his great discoveries and a salient characteristic of much of his work. Where he discovered this new means of emphasis is suggested by in one of his admirable essays:

“It is impossible to suppose that Michelangelo was himself insensible to that strange charm which is so visible to all of us in his unfinished work that it has recently become the fashion to seek for it deliberately and to plan for it in the clay. He was continually striving to infuse into sculpture meanings which it was not meant to express and could not hold. His deep poetic spirit tried to express itself through the medium of the most simple, classical, and formal of the arts, and he was unaided by the delicate technical methods of the earlier sculptors of the Renaissance, which he never understood. What more natural than that he should have found the sentiment evaporating as the work advanced and should have, half despairingly, left to the unfinish of the sketch the suggestion of things which the cold completeness of the finished marble could never convey? He ‘could not content himself,’ and his statues remain more impressive in their incompletion than the finished work of any modern.”

Now, however, we are to have another glimpse of the limitations of our hero. It was in 1892 that he made public his monument to the great painter Claude Gellée, whom we call (Fig. 18). This spirited and unconventional work does not reveal an appreciation of the needs of a composition to be viewed from a distance. Its silhouette is strangely confused and inelegant.

You will remember that it was said of Claude Lorrain that he “put the sun in the heavens.” The sculptor has seized this famous characterization of Claude’s luminous art and symbolizes the sun by the presence of Phoebus Apollo and his fiery chariot. But even his dazzling discovery will hardly explain the startled attitude of the painter. Rodin often assured us that his great quest was “to find the latent heroic in every natural movement”; here, however, he has certainly failed to express himself in nobility of line. The monument must have been a strong dose for his disciples, but they rallied to the defense and in joyful strains like the following proclaimed the beauty and profundity of the master’s conception: “Down to his very toes Claude seems to be preoccupied by his one idea to seize the passing effect in his mind’s eye, to find its equivalent on the palette, and to render it on the canvas. He is fully absorbed in the task of the moment. You feel distinctly that in a minute the impression will have vanished and that it must be caught at once. You realize the importance this instant assumes to the painter, the strain on whose mind is reflected in the slight contortion of the body, huddled up for fear, as it were, lest the effect should slip from his hold.”

Some who were not disciples expressed themselves differently: “It shows a miserable little shrimp of a man with zigzag legs and a head too big, utterly silly as an interpretation of the greatest landscape painter the world ever saw.” The citizens of Nancy, who have to see it every day, seemed to incline to the latter opinion; at any rate they were very much wrought up on the subject, and for some time there was strong talk of removing the monument.

The “Claude Lorrain” is, however, overshadowed by another work of much greater importance and even more pronounced originality—the memorable “Burghers of Calais” (Figs. 21 and 25). We have not time to tell the story, but you will recall how the six hostages were brought before the English king in their shirts, with halters about their necks, bearing the keys of their unfortunate city. It matters little today that the piteous queen interceded and their lives were spared. The important thing is that they offered themselves to save their city and that centuries later the greatest of modern sculptors immortalized them in these weird figures. That melancholy procession marching to its fate is what Rodin has chosen to represent in such extraordinary fashion, with an art so vital, so uncouth, and yet so irresistible. Strange as shadowy, twilighted tree-trunks, gnarled and riven, are these heroes of old. They might be the stalagmites with which Nature adorns the floors of caverns. Without precedent in the history of sculpture, they are, in the opinion of many, Rodin’s highest achievement.

Let us consider just one of the actors in this poignant drama. Many of my readers will recall that strange, grim figure which rose so impressively in the south court of the Art Palace at the Columbian Exposition—the rugged man who clutched a gigantic key in his enormous hands, whose feet were big and ugly beyond description, and whose face seemed to look scorn upon the posing manikins around him. He stood there erect and immovable, like a solitary tree with twisted limbs, amid swaying grasses and impertinent weeds. You can look at him still at the Art Institute of Chicago. You may not like him, this stern old of centuries ago, as Rodin has conceived and fashioned him; but you cannot fail to respect him. From the first glimpse you are sure to wish to know what the figure means and who made it. You feel behind it an extraordinary creative mind, a force almost terrible in its intensity.

Of course in any academic sense “The Burghers” are not a group at all; some would even deny them the dignity of being a composition, claiming that they are merely six independent figures set side by side. But, however classified, they are a triumph of originality.

The Pantheon required a monument to . It was proposed that Rodin make it. As usual, his conception was a novel one; a nude figure with outstretched

RODIN VII

23. THE THINKER | 24. THE THINKER

25. DETAIL OF THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS | 26. BALZAC

RODIN VIII

27. DANÏDE

22. SPRINGTIME

arm, seated apparently on the seashore; two female forms with elfish faces behind the poet—muses, the sculptor called them (Fig. 22). The meaning of the gesture of the left arm no one has ever interpreted. Is the great writer playing King Canute and ordering back the waves?

Another disappointment awaited our sculptor. After years of work and delay the group was adjudged unsuited to its place, and finally the old poet, stripped of even his muses, was set out stark and pitiful in the garden of the Palais Royal. However, the fire of his spirit remains unquenched, and his proud gesture is more enigmatic than ever.

Such experiments in simplification as the “Burghers of Calais” could result in only one thing. The enthusiast must, for once at least, push even farther his investigation of possibilities. He did so, and the “,” first shown in 1898, was the result. Although appearances are against it (Fig. 26), this strange creation is not to be treated with disrespect. It is not a joke nor a piece of effrontery. Its author had a serious intention. He was trying to eliminate all nonessentials—to present, reduced to lowest terms, the most vividly personal aspect of the extraordinary, misshapen genius whom men call Balzac. , following , has described him: “He had the face of an element, with a big head, the hair hanging about his coat-collar and cheeks like a mane which had never seen a pair of scissors … a flaming eye, a colossal body. He was fat, thick, square at the shoulders and feet, with much of ’s ampleness but no heaviness; there was so much soul that it could bear the weight of the body easily, and it seemed to add to rather than to subtract from his strength. His short arms gesticulated with ease.” It was his wont to wander at night through his house draped in a long dressing-gown. It has been Rodin’s aim perhaps to re-create the impression of this passing figure as seen in the flickering candlelight. The effigy of Balzac comes as near to being an abstraction as seems possible in the art of sculpture. Some denied that it was a statue at all: it was called a “menhir,” “a pagan dedicatory stone,” “an upright sarcophagus.”

Of all the battles in Rodin’s tempestuous life, never was there such a one as raged about this strange form. , the Belgian poet, was inspired to say things like this about it: “The head emerges . . . . frightened to see all it sees, frightened, especially, to come in contact with life for so short a time—the face of genius rising out of matter to return to matter—the lump of anguish sticks in the throat—itself an ephemeral mask summing up all the masks of the Human Comedy. Do not here seek a likeness but a dramatic evocation. . . . . Men of genius are less men than monsters. That is what Rodin has understood and rendered so magnificently.”

proclaimed it “the proudest thing that has been made out of clay.” , the painter, wrote: “He surges forth out of his pedestal like one ready to thrust himself into life. Rodin has expressed the intense, palpitating, suffering genius of a powerful psychologist, for to no other belongs that particular poise of the head and such orbits at the back of which swim the almost useless eyes, humble servants of the mind which alone sees everything. At such a pitch the amplification of fougue attains serenity, yes, serenity! The summit of art illuminated by genius and refreshed by the breath of pure thought.”

“The ‘Balzac’,” declares another eulogist, “has the synthetical, enormous character of a great shadow, borrowing from life’s forms, as do shadows, to create another form, rather than a docile mould of life. … The ‘Bourgeois’ are merely heroes of life; Balzac is its conquering hero. And that is why, having accomplished a superhuman task, he here assumes an almost superhuman aspect, an aspect where the masculine beauty of character rises superior to the feminine beauty of form.”

The statue was declined by the Société des Gens de Lettres which had ordered it, and a figure more to their taste was handily produced by .

At the Exposition of 1900 Rodin was represented in the Art Palace by the exquisite marble group called “Le Baiser”—"The Kiss” (Figs. 29 and 30). It was shown among a collection of the great works of recent years contributed by many of the leaders of modern sculpture, and it must be confessed that its atmospheric handling made its companions look very hard and arid. Indeed, a late group by , alongside, seemed like the work of a steamfitter—you could have believed that those arms and legs had been screwed into place with pincers and tongs! With just as great a truth of drawing Rodin had known how to modify discordant black shadows— to “amplify his surfaces,” as he called it—until the result seemed perfectly luminous. The admirably modeled limbs became part of the whole, insistent details melting together into a delightful unity. The fluent surfaces echoed the charm of the composition, and the group from every view gave joy to the eye. The artist had not only “kept his work white,” but had made it positively radiant.

Rodin’s monument to (Fig. 19), one time president of Argentina and an educator of great influence, was most unfavorably received at its destination. The portrait was bitterly criticized, but artists generally concede that the symbolic group in the pedestal, “Apollo Victorious over the Hydra” (Fig.20), is one of the master’s very successful achievements, a powerful conception most adequately translated into stone.

There remained other worlds to conquer, and I have now to tell you of an undertaking which was in a sense the leit-motif of Rodin’s life. Away back in the early eighties , minister of the Fine Arts, had listened to the sculptor’s description of some bronze doors which he wished to model. Carried away by his eloquence, the minister commissioned him to execute them for a mythical palace of the Fine Arts. These doors, which were never made, for a building which will never be erected, were the greatest thing in the life of Rodin. He called them “The Gates of Hell,” and his grandiose idea was to picture thereupon the whole story of ’s , while above them in the tympanum of the portal should sit the brooding figure of the poet whose dreams

RODIN IX

29. LE BAISER | 30. LE BAISER; DETAIL

31. METAMORPHOSIS | THREE FIGURES FROM LA PORTE D’ENFER

RODIN X

33. LOVE FLIES

34. THE DREAM

are thus shown forth. This figure has been triumphantly realized in gigantic proportions in the well-known of the Paris Pantheon (Figs. 23 and 24). In contemplating its unintellectual countenance one’s first thought is that the artist must have deviated from his original intention; at any rate he has given us another of his primitive men, not so much a thinker as one who is trying to think—and finding it a painful operation. The pose, however, is admirable, and the solidity of the composition makes it one of the most sculptural of modern thoughts.

The irregular panels of the door were to contain countless groups, and herein it is that the work became not the promised “Gates of Hell” but, to Rodin at least, a portal to fame and fortune. For those groups never stayed in their place! One after another they were cut out and enlarged into independent compositions. It was truly a miracle-working door of incredible fecundity, a talisman, the mere touch of which produced wonders. And through it the sculptor entered into his kingdom. No man, however great his facility, could execute all the subjects suggested by those swarming panels. At last the old man acknowledged that he would never finish his task. “Too many new sins have been invented,” he said genially; “I cannot keep up with them.” They have served their purpose; though they remain but dream doors, they are the most wonderful portals in the world.