Ah yes, sculpture.
Firstly, a bit of background. My interest in sculpture is longstanding, but it's a highly interior interest - I don't sit and talk to people at length about how much I love Rodin or Degas, I just spend time thinking back to experiences in the presence of the object. I guess the first image in my mind of a sculpture can be dated to 1985, when I was first introduced to Classics. On the frontispiece of my first book on classical mythology was a picture of the famous statue of Laocöon, flanked by his faltering sons as his contorted torso is being consumed by serpents. The image of the dying man made an impact (as would other statues of bodies in collapse, e.g. The Dying Gladiator), and twenty years later I would be close to tears as I stood face-to-face with the statue itself, in the Vatican collections - the culmination of an early longing to put myself in the presence of the iconic figures.
That trip to Rome a couple of years ago turned out to be a pilgrimage of sorts, although the decision was a snap one taken at the end of a particularly arduous 9 months of unhappy work in Belfast. What better way to revive spirits than a visit to the place where Bernini accomplished his great feats of genius? It was one of the best trips I have ever made, anywhere. The wealth of beauty was almost overwhelming. I spent hours in Travestere, paying homage to the great works I had only read about before: Bernini's ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni at San Francesco a'Ripa, Maderno's rendering of the martyred Saint Cecilia at the Santa Cecilia in Travastere, to name but two of the most moving. In the Galeria Borghese were further delights by Bernini, the Rape of Persephone and Apollo and Daphne in particular. The latter a truly miraclulous vision, unquestionably genius, human talent of freakish brilliance that may never be surpassed, ever.
If this last paragraph reads like a rushed travel guide, you have to forgive. Viewing these pieces felt, at each opportunity, like an act of collection. It is, therefore, difficult not to lapse into account when returning in the mind to those miracles of stone. Sculptural composition inspired by great stories, by mythology and scripture, creates an effect of emotional power that is perhaps the essence of what constitutes the artistic (well, in my opinion anyway). The physical exertion of rendering in three stubborn dimensions, the mental drain of concentration on acquiring perfection... and everything geared to an extraction of the totality of a human experience, wrapped in a single positional capture. It forces a binding commitment to the inspirational resource - the legend, the creed, the scriptural poetics etc.
I wrote an entry many months ago about my interpretation of the story of Pygmalion, but it is my favourite of all the classical myths. In Ovid's version, the sculptor's fingers are described as being "possessed" as he fashions the model of his aspirations to beauty and ultimately love. The use of this idea of possession, such that a third person is drawn into the creative process (it is no longer just the artist and his object, but the also external, supernatural dynamic - God? Nature?), is captivating because it undermines ownership or comprehension of the sculpted object. The sculptors, so deliberate and full of care in their movements, are nonetheless left baffled (philosophically, emotionally) at the result.
My practical incursions into the world of sculture began last week, at an introductory class. An excellent experience, even at this current, basic level. We are modelling in clay and creating casts in plaster. My first clay relief was of a whale motif - I like whale shapes, the similarity of the whale's body and its fins in particular. It was not very successful, vaguely interesting in composition and unimaginative in execution, but I think I can do better!
There are no delusions here - I am immediately aware that I am certainly bereft of talent. If I am lucky, however, I may at least manage something reaching competence in this pursuit. I intend steadily to take the specialised classes over the next few terms, to acquaint myself at least with the theory of the techniques if not the prowess that ought to accompany it. Perhaps more importantly, I'm loving the sense of absorption that overtakes me when I am isolated with the clay and possibility. However poor the result, in the early moment when the clay is lumpen and unfulfilled, my heart rises momentarily to the pregnancy of the dumb material - the possibility that I might make it something more than its baseness. In my late lethargy, and in the absence of love, sculpture class may just ignite some sustainable passion.
