That the Greek sculptors worked along these lines is clear, for many peculiarities of their art find their explanation only if this is understood. The Greeks always had in mind the nobler side of man, although they were well aware that to impress this noble side required a certain sacrifice in gratifying man’s physical nature. A work of art fails to carry its message if unpleasant to look upon. To credit the ancients, on the other hand, with a logical interpretation and knowledge of all the principles which they followed, is a mistake; the most refined people do the proper things unconsciously.
Modern artistic standards vary; the observer’s individuality is often overpowered by the individuality of the artist, and the complexity of modern times has forced claims of simple human nature into the background where it’s almost forgotten. In antiquity these claims were of great importance. Before attempting, therefore, to judge the allowances made to them by the Greeks, it is necessary to see what they are.
Often at the unveiling of commemorative statues one hears comments that the sculptor had done well in capturing the characteristic pose of the dead and that the statue looked just like the person it commemorated; one could almost believe one saw the man himself; in short, the statue was a great work of art. The statue may indeed be a great work of art, but not for these reasons, for most of them are applicable to any fine figure in the Eden Musée,[4] where wax policemen guard the entrance and waxen smiths work the bellows.
Few people would be willing to call such figures great works of art. The average wax figure, while it accurately reproduces the material body of a person, disregards his personality. It momentarily tricks vision, and makes no appeal to man’s higher faculties; as a suggestive work of art it fails. If a man wants a physical momento of his friend, he places a statue or a bust of him in his study, not a wax figure. A good portrait is better than a photograph, though the latter is generally a more accurate copy of the material body. Neither the photograph nor the wax figure transmits the spirit of life primarily representing the man. Art seeks the man, with all his thoughts, not a mechanical reproduction of his body’s lines. The sculptor works in stone or bronze, and the questions arise: Does he have the means at his disposal to satisfy the requirements of art? What are these means?
Apollo and Marsyas, statue base, Mantinea, c. 330–320 B. C. Marble, h: 97 cm. National Archaeological Museum, Athens.
The first question may unhesitatingly be answered in the affirmative; for the Greek sculptors, and some great men after them, have demonstrated the existence of such means. The second question is less readily answered, because the means are not only different for different subjects, and different according to the various standards of the ethnic group, but also so subtle that they can hardly be expressed in words – they must be felt. It is therefore not only impossible, but also perhaps needlessly presumptuous, to enumerate all the means at the disposal of the sculptor – for who would dare to prescribe to the genius of a great artist? However, it may be profitable to point out certain things the Greeks avoided in meeting the claims of an art that appeals to human nature. The near total absence of subjects taken from inanimate nature is one of the most noticeable traits of Greek sculpture. The principle: sculpture ought to represent nothing but living things. Says Ruskin:[5] “You must carve nothing but what has life. “Why?” you probably feel inclined to ask. “Must we refuse every pleasant accessory and picturesque detail and petrify nothing but living creatures?” Even so: I would not assert it on my own authority. It is the Greeks who say this, and be assured whatever they say of sculpture is true!”[6] He and most art teachers let the matter rest there. But this is neither wise nor just. Unless a man sees the correctness of a principle he ought not to accept it, not even on the authority of the Greeks. Fortunately for us it is not difficult to see why the Greeks avoided inanimate matter in sculpture, for the principle which guided them in this respect is at the very foundation of their art.
Since a work of art may be considered nonexistent unless beheld by human eyes, the danger is ever present of having the spectator’s consciousness centred in his purely physical faculty of sight. To avoid this the Greeks made use of certain devices or “conventions,” that satisfied the claims of vision without curtailing the scope given over to the higher human faculties of thought or imagination. Reproducing the mental image of the object rather than the object itself achieved this. Care was taken, however, that the reproduction should be neither so completely like the original as to challenge, after the first momentary deception, immediate comparison, nor so unlike the original that it should fail to bear strong points of resemblance; in both cases eyesight would have rendered this disproportional.
The sculptor, it may be remarked by way of digression, must observe these principles much more carefully than the painter, because painting, which is restricted to two dimensions – whereas all objects of nature have three – does not run the danger of deceiving our vision. Sculpture, representing not only the object’s appearance, but also its bodily form, may easily make such a forceful appeal to vision that it fails to attain its goal.
By representing inanimate objects in corporal form the sculptor must confront practically insurmountable obstacles. Generally speaking, such objects offer little inspiration in appealing to man’s nobler self; thus, their pure and simple form convey importance. But since they are represented in full bodily form, even the slightest deviation from their actual appearance attracts notice – here there is no work of art because there is no appeal to the imagination. On the other hand, the very excellence of a truthful representation challenges the vision to make a comparison – again there is no work of art. Only when living people are represented does the specific character, not its outer form, attract attention. This appeals to vision through the higher mental faculties, for consciously or not, we tend to read character in human bodies; and this cannot be done by the merely exercising vision. For this reason, viewing the statue of a man makes eyesight less consciously active than the imagination. The best art ceases to be an interesting visual object altogether, making its appeal immediately to the imagination. Artists at all times have striven to accomplish this. The realistic reproduction of nature never does it; neatness of workmanship alone is useless in this respect. Like the Greeks, only those paying full attention to the peculiar needs of physical human nature achieve it. Impossible in sculpture – unless living creatures are represented.
Contrast enhances the idea of life. The ancient Greeks, therefore, introduced as accessories lifeless objects into their compositions. Ruskin states the principles governing the use of such secondary subjects: “Nothing must be represented in sculpture external to any living form which does not help to enforce or illustrate the conception of life. Both dress and armour may be made to do this and are constantly so used by the greatest, but, “Ruskin adds, using an instance of modern sculpture, though his inferences are equally true of Greek art,” note that even Joan of Arc’s armour must be only sculptured, if she has it on; it is not the honourableness or beauty of it that are enough, but the direct bearing of it by her body. You might be deeply, even pathetically, interested by looking at a good knight’s dented coat of mail, left in his desolate hall. May you sculpture it where it hangs? No; the helmet for his pillow, if you will – no more.”
But how can such a helmet be sculptured, or how must the armour be treated if the hero has it on? Shall we represent it as accurately as possible? Suppose we do, and suppose the statue we make is of bronze; then there is no reason why the result should not be a second armour so much like the one the hero wore that our vision is deceived into seeing the armour itself. But how about the person that wore it? His bronze statue reproduces the sculptor’s mental image of his personality – it cannot be the man; the quality of the accessory is different from that of the figure itself.
The one is what it appears to be; the other cannot appear to be what it is meant to represent, because the contrast between the real armour and the man’s lifeless form awakens the thought that he is not real. “But,” an objector exclaims, “if the armour shouldn’t be made just like its prototype, the sculptor surely ought not carve it altogether unlike it.” Certainly not; if he did, its being too little like a coat