Reviewing the current exhibition of
Daumier at the Royal Academy, London, Julian Bell reproduces a cartoon by the
artist, which shows a sculpture that has become animated. It is in an enraged state because it is
being totally ignored by the Salon visitors. Bell quotes Baudelaire suggesting
that naturalistic sculpture is boring and satisfies only hicks and savages
because something that can be viewed from all angles gives no scope to the
imagination.
I have been thinking about these matters, because earlier
this year, I had occasion to view sculptures from four different periods in
galleries in Toulouse. The Musée Des Augustins, housed in an ecclesiastical
styled building, boasts large collections of Gothic, Romanesque and 19th
century sculpture, while the Musée Saint-Raymond has the best selection of
Roman busts that I have ever come across.
I can’t work up much enthusiasm for Gothic carving. Much of
it is obviously highly skilled, but it seems to be for the glory of God rather
than the appreciation of mere mortals and in its original positions, gets lost
in the other elaborations of the architectural style. The earlier Romanesque
sculpture, on the other hand can be full of interest. It had a teaching
function to tell the stories of the Bible or frighten us into good behaviour by
its visions of Hell. Thus the Romanesque tympanum is at viewable height unlike
so many high neoclassical pediments copying ancient Greek architecture where
the sculpture was for the eyes of the gods not humans: the famous Parthenon
frieze couldn’t be seen at all in situ.
The Toulouse gallery had an extensive collection of
Romanesque capitols mounted at eye level on steel plinths. Carving a story
round a relatively small block of stone seems to have inspired sculptors. It
may be something similar to the way in which the restrictions of traditional
prosody can lead to inventiveness in poetry and, although the examples at the
Augustins were not of the highest quality they were far superior to the
collection of eminently ignorable 19th century pieces. I could
imagine a seething mass of furious marble figures coming to life Daumier-like.
Baudelaire may be on to something. On several occasions, I
have asked groups of well-informed people, including artists, how many
sculptors they can name in the period between the end of the Renaissance and
the abandonment of naturalism in modern times. Many can’t come up with any
names at all. A few have managed, Bernini, Canova and Rodin while I am sure
they could name many more painters without difficulty.
As I have noted in an earlier blog, many traditional
sculptures make an architectural contribution to our stone built cities, but
this is largely due to the fine proportions of their classically inspired
plinths. Aesthetically, what is on top of them, is often little more than a
finial, which is why the proposal of the authorities in Glasgow to heighten
their Wellington monument, to avoid the general being perpetually crowned with
a traffic cone, was so misguided. Meanwhile, unless we seek out images of
figures of historical interest we wander round our great capitals disregarding
whole populations of marble citizens and horses. Think of Hansen’s parliament
building in Vienna with no less than four, or is it six, quadrigas on its roof
and all these toga-clad people atop buildings in Edinburgh, London, Paris and
elsewhere.
If there is a lack of interest in full-sized sculpture in
the period I have described, that is even more true if we consider portrait
busts. We may look at Houdon to see what Diderot looked like, Nollekens to have
some idea of Fox. But unless the subject looks distinctive, we will probably
retain nothing. In Frankfurt a few years ago, I was delighted to find a
sculpted portrait of Anne-Robert-Jacques Turgot, a French enlightenment
philosophe in whom I am very interested. Today, I haven’t a clue as to what he
looks like. Why is it then that I was so entranced by the Roman busts at the
Musée Saint-Raymond? It is known who the subjects of these works are, but that
did not interest me. The sculptures themselves have a power and a presence that
I can’t explain. There is nothing in Western sculpture that comes anywhere near
them unless perhaps Bernini’s busts of the dignitaries of the church who were
his patrons. We are lucky to have one of these in Edinburgh.
