Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs of Giovanni Dupre Part 21

Whoever is familiar with the Roman people will have observed a notable difference between the figures of the common people, and especially those of the Trasteverini and the Monti, and those of the higher cla.s.ses who are in better circ.u.mstances. The latter are more slender, with a fine and white skin, and often with chestnut hair; while the former have dark eyes, skin, and hair, are harsh and short in their ways and voices, and for a mere nothing throw up their barricades, and blood runs without much lamentation over it. You can easily see in these people their uninterrupted derivation from those fierce legions who planted their eagles over all the then known earth. Nor is the blood in the women different from that in the men; and if the men carry their knives in their pockets (they certainly did then), the women carried, thrust across their ma.s.sive knots of ebon hair with much taste, a sharp dagger with a silver handle, which was in every way capable of sending any poor unfortunate devil into the other world. One day (it was Sunday towards evening) I was, as usual, dreaming about those busts or necks of Minerva and Polymnia, and the Venus of Milo, and I know not how many other antique statues, which seemed to me to give a solemn contradiction to all my little models of pastry that I had left in Florence, and I fixed my eyes on the neck of every woman that I pa.s.sed. This examination induced me to modify in measure my opinion as to the conventionalism of the necks of the antique statues; and I should have been satisfied, and have changed my mind entirely, even had I not purely by chance gone on into the Trastevere. Here there was a great number of young persons, both male and female,--the men either in the pot-houses, or gathered around the doors, or standing in groups, and the girls in companies of three or four walking up and down the street of the Longaretta. Among these I saw one who, if she had been made on purpose to prove that the necks of the antique statues were not conventional, could not have here offered a more absolute proof. There were three girls, two small, and one large who was between them. She walked along with a slow and majestic step, talking with her companions. A sportsman who spies a hare, a creditor who meets a debtor, a friend who finds another friend whom he thought to be far away or dead, these give a weak notion of my surprise in beholding this girl. My dear reader, I do not in the least exaggerate when I say that I seemed to look on the Venus of Milo. Her head and neck, which alone were exposed to view, were as like that statue as two drops of water. I was astounded. I turned back to look at her again, and it would have been well for me had I contented myself with this; but I wished to see her yet once more. The girl, who had not an idea within a thousand miles of what I was pondering, nor of the corrections that I was formulating on an aesthetical opinion of such great importance, suddenly stopped, and taking the dagger from her hair, advanced towards me, and with a strong and almost masculine voice, said to me, "Well, Mr Dandy, does your life stink in your nostrils?" I shot off home directly, looking neither to the right nor left; and when I arrived I told my wife what had happened, and she reproved me gently for making my studies so out of time and place. Now I ask, why this disdain?

Had I been guilty of anything improper in looking at the girl? Is it possible that she could have really been offended? I do not believe it.

I know something about women, and I know that it is their weakness to try to attract attention. It is more probable that there was some one near her to whom the girl wished to show that in respect to anything touching her honour she was too fierce to allow any other person even to look at her. Leonardo none the less counsels us to study from nature, in the open air, not only by looking, but also by taking notes; and he makes no exception as to the Trasteverini. For the benefit of young artists, I propose to add a note on this subject to all new editions of Leonardo.

[Sidenote: GREEK LIFE AND MODELS.]

The discovery of this beautiful head and neck of the antique style and character set upon a living girl (and what a complexion!) led me to consider how many other parts of incontestable beauty which we find in the antique statues, and so readily believe to be born of the imagination of the Greek sculptors, are really to be found in nature; and the Greeks only selected them for imitation. But if this be so, how can the absolute deficiency of such models in our day be explained? Then I considered the different education of this people, their warlike lives, their games, and prizes at throwing the disc, racing, boxing, and the esteem in which physical beauty was held. If, indeed, for these reasons there is in our day a deficiency of fine models, we are not absolutely without them, as this spirited and beautiful girl clearly proves; and I firmly believe she must have been in respect to all the rest of her body an excellent model. Hence the necessity of carefully selecting our models. In this respect, however, we find ourselves in a much more difficult position than the ancients. First, because, as I have said, their education lent itself more efficaciously to the development of the body; and then, because the public games afforded far greater opportunities to see and select among them.

[Sidenote: A BEAUTIFUL NUDE MODEL.]

The first thing which a.s.sures a good result to a work is the selection of good models; and after taking great heed of this, good imitation is of absolute necessity. I have observed that he who exercises little or no selection, and contents himself with the first model he sees, belongs to that cla.s.s of conventional artists who allow themselves such an infinity of additions and subtractions, and corrections of the model, that generally only the remnants of nature are to be found in their works; while those who follow the opposite school copy the model minutely just as it is, and even with all its imperfections. If the former remain cold and false, the latter are vulgar and tasteless; for they carry their love for truth to such an excess, that they do not distinguish the beautiful from the ugly. Nay, they prefer the ugly, because to them it seems more true because it is more common. It happened to me once to be in the studio of one of these young artists, who was engaged on I do not remember what work. When the model was stripped he was beautiful to see: a small head, squared breast, an elegant pelvis, delicate knees and ankles, and, in a word, seemed the "Idolino" itself, living and speaking. Will you believe it?--he was set aside.

"But what are you doing?" said I. "Don't you see how beautiful this boy is? Copy him fearlessly. He is beautiful as Idolino himself."

"That is exactly why I do not want him as a model. I am afraid it will be said that I have copied my Idolino."

[Sidenote: CONVENTIONAL IMITATION.]

To such a point did their aberration arrive. But at the same time, I am sure that if this model had fallen into the hands of one of the idealistic reformers of nature, he would have been corrected (that is, ruined) in every part, according to the suggestions of his stupid conventionalism. This mania of correcting nature is in itself extremely injurious, and the young artist must be constantly on his guard against it. A finished artist may sometimes do this, because in his skill and experience he finds the limits and the measure of the liberty which are permissible. Indeed he is not aware of the corrections that he is making, and believes that he sees it so; but this depends on the habit of seeing and portraying beautiful nature. But a youth who once is set going on this incline never stops; for he finds it far easier to draw freely on his memory than to keep within the proper bounds of imitation.

I repeat, then, that he who does not select from beautiful nature with studious love shows little faith in her beauty, and thence come carelessness and unwillingness to portray her, and then a headlong fall into the conventional. He, however, who finds the beautiful in everything, or rather, he who despises antique art and calls it conventional, even though it be by Phidias, is quite as conventional himself in his realism. His wish is to be considered naturalistic and realistic at all hazards, even to denying nature itself, in case it reminds him of anything cla.s.sic (as we have already seen), and at last he goes so far as to puzzle his brains and struggle to arrange the model and draperies so as to make them appear naturalistic.

I have seen an artist get into a rage because his draperies would not come upon the natural model just as he wished, and who kept tossing them about and disarranging them so that they should not seem to be artificially disposed. I observed to him that he was really arranging them artificially, so that they should not appear to be so arranged. He was making a seated figure in a cloak. After the model had seated himself, and thrown the cloak about him in folds which were perfectly natural, and fell beautifully about his body and knees, the artist kept foolishly changing them, putting them out of their proper place, because, he said, that as they came naturally, they looked as if they had been artificially disposed.

[Sidenote: ARRANGEMENT OF DRAPERIES.]

"But that is not so," said I. "They arrange themselves naturally, and you keep disarranging them exactly like those artists whom you blame for being imitators of the antique and conventionalists, and you are in this neither more nor less than a conventionalist like them, and even worse, for they always strive to put the folds in their proper place, in a certain number and a certain disposition; and though this is detestable and tiresome pedantry, because it destroys that variety which is the first attribute of nature, still they are not renegades to it as you are, when you thus obstinately insist on placing the folds where they cannot possibly be, with the pretence that otherwise they would seem adjusted. You, even more than they, are an illogical conventionalist."

But to be just, I must say that at this time the neophytes of the new school were few and scattered. The school, indeed, is new only in so far as it has carried us into the excessive, the negative, and the illogical; for the school of the _veristi_ is as old as art itself, and its principles are correct. Indeed, strictly speaking, it has one single principle, the imitation of nature; but what the ancients meant was imitation of life in its perfection, while the moderns (at least some of them) mean all life, all nature, even though it be ugly. More than this, they prefer the ugly and deformed, not perceiving that the deformity of nature is outside of true nature, since any defect alters the essential character of nature, which consists of a harmony of parts answering to beauty. In a word, the deformed, which is the same thing as the ugly, is nature debased, and thus ceases to be nature. I am well aware that the _veristi_ deny that they prefer vulgar and ugly nature; and if their denial were justified by their works, I should entirely agree with them, and my discourse on this subject would be entirely futile. But saying is not the same as doing.

[Sidenote: RETURN TO FLORENCE WITH A FRESH MIND.]

I returned to Florence quite restored in health, strengthened by the example of the works of art in Rome, and inspirited by the brotherly words of those old and venerated artists, who, alas! now sleep the eternal sleep, or rather, who have waked from the brief sleep of life to one eternal day. The discovery of the famous head and neck of that Trasteverina had cured me of my prejudiced belief that the ancients corrected nature according to their completely ideal mode of looking at it--a belief which induces in the mind of the artist a weak faith, slight esteem of nature, and thence an unwillingness to imitate it, and an effrontery in correcting it.

Before going to work in my studio I wished again to see and study, in view of my new convictions, our own monuments. I made the tour of the churches, palaces, and public and private galleries, just as if I was a stranger. To many things indeed I might call myself really a stranger, for I had either never seen them, or but slightly and superficially.

From this examination I came to the conclusion that the artists of all times studied their predecessors, and only imitated nature after having studiously selected what was conformable to the idea which first rose in their minds. Henceforth the way was clear, the light shone upon it, and the objects of art which I examined came out distinctly and really in their true aspect. Never to my intellect had the veil which covers the subtle and recondite reasons of the beautiful seemed so clear and transparent; and I felt tranquil, satisfied, strong, and ready to devote myself to my new works in the studio. One incident, however, did momentarily disturb this peace and security of mine.

[Sidenote: AN ADVENTURE IN THE PITTI.]

One day I was in the Pitti Gallery, and pa.s.sing through the room where the two statues of Cain and Abel are placed, I saw a youth who was drawing from the latter. He seemed from his aspect to be a foreigner. I spoke to him not only to a.s.sure myself of this fact, but also (I confess) because it gave me pleasure to see him copying my statue, and I wished by exchanging a few words with him to taste still more strongly this pleasure, which, for the rest, is excusable in a young author.

Approaching him I said--

"Do you like this statue?"

"Yes, very much; and that is the reason I am copying it."

"It seems," I said, as I saw he did not recognise me, "to be a modern work, does it not?"

"Certainly; so modern that the author is still living--though one might say that he is dead."

"What! I do not understand you. How can one say that he is dead when he is living?" and I could scarcely restrain the wonder and emotion that these singular words created in me.

"It is indeed a very sad fact, and is very much talked about; but it seems that the poor artist, so young and full of talent----"

[Sidenote: FILIPPO GUALTERIO.]

"Well?" I interrupted him suddenly.

"It seems that he is going mad."

I was silent. These last words wounded me to the quick, and I remembered that during my past sufferings I too had a fear lest I should lose my head, but I never suspected that this idea had entered into the minds of others. I went out of the room without even saluting the young foreigner, and walked up and down in the open air, going over in my memory my past suffering, my voyage to Naples, the cure I had undergone, and my re-establishment in health both in body and spirit, and at last I became tranquil, and almost smiled in recalling this strange conversation with the young foreigner.

I set myself to work with good will, and threw down the first model of the Bacchino dell'Uva Malata, which I had left without casting in order to remake it according to a new conception that had come to me in Naples. Secure of the road I meant now to take, convinced in my principles, which in substance did not differ from those that had guided me in my first statues, I modelled with great rapidity the small Bacchus, the Bacchante, and a figure of the daughter of the Marchese Filippo Gualterio, lying dead.

I first made the acquaintance of Filippo Gualterio at Siena, in the house of my friend Count dei Gori, in the first revolutionary movement of 1847. He was a thorough gentleman, of careful education, a lover of art, an enthusiast for beauty, a facile writer of the moderate party, not then in favour of the unity of Italy, but attached heart and soul to the theories of Gioberti as set forth in the 'Primato.' Out of pique, on account of some annoyance he had received from the Pontifical Government, of which he was a subject, he exiled himself from his native country, Orvieto, and joined the revolutionary movement of Turin, Florence, and Genoa. Later he took a prominent part in the revolution of 1859, embraced the cause of unity, became Minister, and shortly after died of paralysis of the brain.

[Sidenote: PIETRO SELVATICO.]

The statuette of the Bacchino so much pleased my friend Pietro Selvatico, who happened to be in Florence precisely at the time when I finished it, that he made a drawing of it as a _souvenir_ in his alb.u.m.

This able writer and distinguished critic and historian of art was also an artist and accomplished draughtsman, or rather he was so until an obstinate disease in his eyes deprived them of that clearness of vision which is necessary to mastery as a draughtsman.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE NUDE--THE STATUE OF DAVID--RAUCH--THE BASE OF THE TAZZA--THE CHAPEL OF THE MADONNA DEL SOCCORSO--SEPULCHRAL MONUMENTS FOR SAN LORENZO--THE 27TH OF APRIL 1859--COUNT SCIPIONE BORGHESI--A GROUP OF THE DELUGE--COMPEt.i.tION FOR WELLINGTON'S MONUMENT, AND A GREAT HELP.

I began to work, as I have said, upon the figure of the Dead Girl, and upon the Bacchante, two subjects diametrically opposed to each other,--the Bacchante representing the festivity, the dance, the libations, and the weariness resulting from them; the Dead Girl, the innocence of a few short days of life, the repose and the joy of an eternal peace. This is a good method whereby to temper the expression and form of one's works, and I recommend it to young artists, since continually playing on the same string finally begets an annoyance and weariness, which exhibit themselves in the work. If the Bacchante had not been modified by this dead figure, which recorded an innocent life and a serene death, it might have degenerated and lost that beauty which is only to be found in what is good.

[Sidenote: THE NUDE.]

One other piece of advice. In conceiving and working out subjects which, in their intention as well as in the manner required to express them, tend towards sensuality, one should inspire one's self with a purely intellectual love. To this kind of love one should adhere tenaciously, for it is easy to go astray. Such love seizes, and desires, and prefers to attain what is good, in which is included all that is true and all that is beautiful; but the seductions of the senses veil the eyes of reason and light the fires of voluptuousness. Therefore we should be careful, in order that art, which is the mistress and mother of civilisation, should not lower itself to be the corrupter of taste and habits. It is not in the least in regard to nudity that we should be circ.u.mspect, but in regard to the conception, the expression, and the movement of the statue; in a word, to the state of mind, the idea, the interior condition of the artist. Thus, for instance, one may look at a figure entirely nude, like the Venus of the Capitol, and be impressed merely by a reverent admiration, or by quite the opposite sentiment. The purest and most sacred subjects, the most completely clothed figures,--as, for instance, a nun, or the Santa Teresa of Bernini,--may be impressed by an unequivocal sensuality. No! nudity does not offend modesty. If it did, all the works of Michael Angelo deserve condemnation; while on the contrary, as every one knows (I appeal for the truth of this to the most prudish; to the priests, to the popes, who ordered and placed in the churches the works of this divine man--and in so doing did well, though these figures, both male and female, are as naked as G.o.d made them), far from offending against decency in the least, they elevate the mind into regions so high and so ideal that their bodies are transfigured, so to speak, and clothed with a supersensual light in which there is nothing earthly.

[Sidenote: REMOVAL OF THE DAVID OF ANGELO.]

About this period the question began to be agitated in respect to the David of Michael Angelo. Already for some time artists and lovers of works of art had expressed a fear that this masterpiece should remain exposed to injury in the open air, and thus be subjected to constant deterioration. A commission was nominated to examine into the matter and prepare some manner of placing under shelter this celebrated work.

Professor Pasquale Poccianti, president of the commission, proposed that it should be removed and placed in the Loggia dell'Orgagna close by, under the great central arch. This proposition was supported strongly by Lorenzo Bartolini, who had expressed his opinion several years before in a letter addressed to Signor Giovanni Benericetti-Talenti, then Inspector of the Academy of Fine Arts, and which I have seen. The Grand Duke, a.s.sured by the opinion of such competent artists, ordered the statue to be removed and placed under the Loggia, in conformity with the advice of the commission, and with the plans presented for this end by Professor Poccianti. It was the intention of the Grand Duke to subst.i.tute for the colossus that he removed a copy of it in bronze, to be cast by Papi, and the order was given for making a mould and casting it. I was not on the commission for the removal; on the contrary, I was among those who did not believe in the injuries which the statue was supposed to be suffering. I did not think that there was any grave danger in allowing it to remain where it was, or that the cause that had produced the very apparent injury occasioned to the head and the left arm was constant dropping of water from the roof above; and as this had already been guarded against, it seemed to me inadvisable to remove it and withdraw it from public view. I remembered also to have read that Michael Angelo himself had strongly urged that it should be allowed to remain where he had placed it, and where he, in working at it, had harmonised it with its surroundings; for even then doubts were raised lest it might suffer injury in that position. And besides, I did not consider it prudent to remove such a colossal statue, both on account of the danger of the operation, and because I thought it impossible to find another place so favourable for artistic effect and historical significance. Therefore, when I learned that its removal had been decreed, I regretted it extremely. Information of this intention was given me by my friend Luigi Venturi, from whom I did not conceal my regret; and as the Grand Duke was well disposed towards me, I decided to go that very evening to the Pitti Palace and humbly submit all the arguments which induced me to oppose this removal of the David. He received me with his customary kindness, and imagining perhaps that I desired to speak with him about some work which I was doing for him on commission (of which I shall speak in its proper place), he said--

"Sit down, and tell me what you have to say."

[Sidenote: ARGUMENTS AGAINST THE REMOVAL.]

"Your Imperial Highness, I have heard with great surprise that you intend to remove the David from where it now stands, and to place it under the Loggia dell'Orgagna."

"Yes; that statue is, as you know, the masterpiece of Michael Angelo. It is suffering injury every day, and it is dangerous to leave it there exposed to the sun and the rain. It ought to be placed under cover, and the Loggia is not only so near as to render the operation of removal easy and safe, but it also is a most beautiful place, and with its great central arch will fitly frame this magnificent statue."

I answered--"I also always have thought that this statue suffers from its exposure to the frost and sun--although the marble is from Fantiscritti, and is of most durable quality; and naturally the idea suggests itself to one that it would be better to remove it where it would not be subjected to this slow but certain deterioration. But the grave question which has always preoccupied my mind has been the difficulty of handling this colossus, so weak in its supports; and what renders this all the more difficult is the crack which is said to have been discovered in the leg upon which it stands, which is the weakest. I therefore think that if this crack exists, it const.i.tutes another and princ.i.p.al reason why the statue should not be touched. But independent of this difficulty, which practised and scientific persons might possibly overcome, there is the question as to where it should be placed. This colossus is made for the open air, and to be seen at great distances; and the place to which it is now proposed to a.s.sign it is not in the open air, and has not the light of the sky, but on the contrary, a light reflected from the earth, so that only the lower part would be illuminated, and in a negative sense--that is, from below upward, and not from above downward, as from the light of the sky. The upper part would in consequence remain in a half light, so as to divide the statue into two zones: the one which would be in the half light ought to be illuminated, and that which would be illuminated ought to be in graduated shadow. And again, there is no distance: from the sides it is not sufficient, and in front the statue would seem too high in consequence of the steps of the Loggia. Nor only this: if for the reasons I have stated the statue itself would suffer, the Loggia would suffer still more, and would be enormously sacrificed, and in consequence of the colossal proportions of the statue, its beautiful arches would be dwarfed; and still more----"