Barye's place in the history of art is more nearly unique, perhaps, than that of any of the great artists. It is hardly that; it has hardly enough spiritual distinction—not quite enough of either elegance or elevation—to merit such sweeping praise. A family tombstone lying in the cemetery at Athens, and half buried in the dust which blows from the Piraeus roadway, has more style than M. But sculpture is such an abstract art itself that the sculpture which partook of the artificiality of the eighteenth century has less interest for us, less that is concrete and appealing than even the painting of the epoch. Delaplanche is always satisfactory, and beyond this there is something large about what he does that confers dignity even in the absence of quick interest.
Occasionally, the website mis-applies a block from a previous visitor. Rodin has definitively triumphed—to the unwise attempt to define him in terms heretofore applicable enough to sculptors, but wholly inapplicable to him. The Landscape Painters; Fromentin and Guillaumet. The painter, however dominated by his theory, is more the master of its illustration than Ingres is of the justification of his admiration for Raphael. He is not perhaps to be called an original genius, and his work will probably leave French sculpture very nearly where it found it. Description: x, 274 pages Contents: Classic painting -- Romantic painting -- Realistic painting -- Classic sculpture -- Academic sculpture -- The new movement in sculpture --Rodin and the Institute.
All of these have done admirable work. Pattison somewhat sternly remarks, and on the other to be reprehended by Germain Brice in 1718, for evincing quelque reste du gout gothique—some reminiscence of Gothic taste. Saint Marceaux does better than almost anyone. Hence also the election of M. Of this quality there is more in Houdon's bust of Moliere, whom of course Houdon never saw, than in almost any production of the modern school. Coming as he did at the acme of the French Renaissance, when France was borrowing with intelligent selection whatever it considered valuable from Italy, he pleased the dilettanti. To see the work of David d'Angers, one must go to Angers itself and to Pere-Lachaise.
It is as a whole, if you choose, an article de Paris, with the distinction of being seriously treated; the modelling and the movement admirable as far as they go, but well within the bounds of that anatomically artistic expression which is the raison d'etre of sculpture and its choice of the human form as its material. And in art everything depends upon the attitude of mind. Its general interest, too, is hardly inferior; there is something generally ennobling in the celebration of the virtues of the brave defeated that surpasses the commonplace of paeans. He accepted the antique not merely as a stimulus, but as a model. He was certainly one of the greatest of sculptors, and he had either the good luck or the mischance to do his work in a field almost wholly unexploited before him. One is a little bewildered.
There is a region into whose precincts the dramatic quality penetrates only to play an insufficient part. Le Feuvre's qualities are very nearly the reverse of these: he has a fondness for integrity quite hostile in his case to simplicity. The traditions of Houdon are noticeably forgotten. No matter what you do, if you do it well enough, that is, with enough elevation, enough spiritual distinction, enough transmutation of the elementary necessity of technical perfection into true significance—you succeed. But in the category in which M. The sculpture of the present day has certainly not occupied itself much with it. It derived its canons and its practice from Puget—the French Bernini, who with less grace and less dilettante extravagance than his Italian exemplar had more force and solidity.
Niccolo Pisano, for example, died when Giotto was two years old, but, at the other end of the historic line of modern art, it has taken years since Delacroix to furnish recognition for Auguste Rodin. It is not that he does not possess charm, and charm in no mean proportion to his largeness and nobility, but for the elevation of these into the realm of magic, into the upper air of spontaneous spiritual activity, his imagination has, for the romantic imagination which it is, a trifle too much self-possession—too much sanity, if one chooses. But the character of the Maid is not perfectly satisfactory to a priori critics, to critics who have more or less hard and fast notions about the immiscibility of the heroic and the familiar. Is the quality in virtue of which—as Mr. It is at any rate impeccable; to seek in it a blemish, or, within its own limitations, a distinct shortcoming, is to lose one's pains.
But whereas Corot and Millet have triumphed over the Institute there are—there were, at least, till yesterday—hardly any Millets and Corots of sculpture whose triumph is as yet assured. His strongest side was that which allies him with his artistic ancestor, Claux Sluters. He believed in forming a complete mental conception of every composition before even posing a model, as he used to tell his students, but in complicated compositions this was impossible, and he had small talent for artificial composition. One has only to look at the eyes of his figures to be convinced how subtle is his art of expressing character. Any particular felicity of expression you are apt to find him borrowing from Donatello—such as, for instance, the movement of the arm of the 'David,' which is borrowed from Donatello's 'St. It epitomizes very definitely the national æsthetic judgment and feeling, and if its manifestations are even more varied than are elsewhere to be met with, they share a certain character that is very salient. The reader will say at once here that I am cavilling at M.
His decorative quality is as eminent as his purely sculptural side. Van Dyke Gutenberg Text by Esther Singleton Gutenberg Text by Charles Maginnis Gutenberg Text by Bernhard Berenson Gutenberg Text by Camille Mauclair Gutenberg Text by W. With the modern French school, the academic school, it is quite supplanted by the sculpture of the Renaissance. As one walks through the French rooms at the Louvre, through the galleries of the Luxembourg, through the unending rooms of the Salon he is impressed by the splendid competence everywhere displayed, the high standard of culture universally attested, by the overwhelming evidence that France stands at the head of the modern world esthetically—but not less, I think, does one feel the absence of imagination, opportunity, of spirituality, of poetry in a word. Expression results from a sense of the value of the detail.
The national quite overshadows the personal quality. But this is really no longer a question, however it may have been a few years ago; and when his Dante portal for the new Palais des Arts Decoratifs shall have been finished, and the public had an opportunity to see what the sculptor's friend and only serious rival, M. Rodin strikes so many crude apprehensions as a French Michael Angelo, whereas he is so radically removed from him in point of view and in practice that the unquestionable spiritual analogy between them is rather like that between kindred spirits working in different arts, and because, also, it shows not only what M. No, individuality is no more inconsistent with the antique spirit than it is with eccentricity, with the extravagances of personal expression. In addition to the understanding, the instinct demands satisfaction. The figure of the Luxembourg Gallery, the young Dante reading Virgil, is an example; a girl's head, the forehead swathed in a turban, first exhibited some years ago, is another.