II
One of the brighter possibilities of the small bronze designed in its ultimate size is that it may well be cast by the cire perdue process. That name is not altogether a happy one, because in truth less of the sculptor’s personal touch is “lost” by this method than by the sand process of bronze casting. By the lost wax method, it’s the sculptor’s own fault if there’s anything wrong with the wax figure as it leaves his hands. A mold made of a composition suitable for enduring the subsequent impact of molten metal is then built up directly on the wax figure, which has of course its insoluble core. This stout mold or shell, closely enveloping every knob and crevice of its wax kernel, is subjected to heat; the wax is thus melted out; and, if all is well, an absolutely perfect space is left behind it, between core and shell, ready to receive the red-hot bronze. The cire perdue process theoretically avoids all unseemly seams, all ill-joined joints. At its best, it approaches perfection; and such work is as well done in our country as anywhere on earth.
CENTAUR AND DRYAD
BY PAUL MANSHIP
The small bronze has then its two separate manifestations. It may present itself either as a reduction from some much larger work worthy of wide recognition and ownership, or as a spontaneous first-hand offering of a sculptural thought well-suited for expression within modest confines. In either shape, its cost is not prohibitive for many of our private citizens as well as for our museums. The cause of art and the delights of possession are advanced side by side.
III
Whether we look at a little book-end bear in bronze, or at a heroic equestrian statue in bronze and stone, or at a colossal monument in granite or marble, the importance of fine craftsmanship is evident. The artist is the last person in the world who can afford to underrate the craftsman.
Not long ago in reading an essay on literary criticism, I was confronted with this impressive query: What has the navel done for modern life? Of course modern literature in its desire to be impressive asks many curious questions of the reader, but this one about the navel seemed unduly wide of the mark. I was disturbed until I suddenly perceived that the printer had used an a for an o; the luckless author had meant to ask about the novel, not the navel. But the artist in words suffers less often at the hands of his helping craftsman than does the artist in paint or clay. The sculptor in particular runs grave risks. Even the forces of nature conspire against him; the fair-faced marble hypocritically hides her blemishes until weeks of carving lay them bare. Even chemistry betrays him; the bronze that should be perfect everywhere has perhaps a spongy place or a “tin spot” or a treacherous seam just where it does the greatest possible damage to his statue.
One of the advantages of the ancient apprentice system was that the beginner in art could learn all the tricks, and not only the tricks but the very serious difficulties of the various trades that help to bring the artist’s work to completion. Our American sculpture, which after all began timidly enough as a kind of craftsmanship, has at certain periods of its immaturity forgotten the importance and dignity of the crafts on which it depends for a fair presentation. Bronze casting has indeed advanced greatly through the fact that modern sculpture has become largely an expression in clay, to be made permanent in bronze; sculptors have demanded good casting, and they have obtained it. In general, the sculptors of the world are no longer masters who release from stone, either hard or soft, the image circumscribed within. To reach their results, they do not as a rule start from the assumption of Michelangelo, as Symonds translates it: