To begin with, sculpture is not easy to exhibit. Far more than any living painter has ever acknowledged, it suffers acutely from unfriendly lighting. The old proverb that good sculpture looks well anywhere ought to be amended to add, it looks its best only in its chosen light and space. Sculpture’s appetite for space, at times modest, is at times illimitable. The Academy, always hard-pressed for space in its annual exhibitions, cannot afford to give up large well-lit areas for sculptures of heroic size. The Architectural League is hospitable toward sculpture, but, the aims of this body being many and diverse, it certainly cannot favor the sculptors above all other comers. Once in a while, if not oftener, our sculpture should be shown under the happiest conditions. Again, sculpture, even more than painting, has active contacts with the worlds of government, whether municipal, state or federal; it should be able to present itself with the authority naturally vested in an honored group of experts. And sculptors, quite as much as painters and architects, must stand together lest personal interest wrong the general good, and lest individuals fall into misunderstandings either among themselves, or with the public, to whose intelligent opinion they, like other citizens, must commonly submit.
The Society, founded in 1893, and incorporated in 1896, has had from the first an extraordinarily vivifying influence in matters of sculpture. It has labored for the public good, in harmony with various private committees, with Municipal Art Commissions, and with the Federal Commission of Fine Arts. Its first president, John Quincy Adams Ward, believed enthusiastically in its work and destiny. His first annual report emphasizes the fact that its “reputation will be established by its deeds, not by empty promises.” In the Society’s second year, Ward was called upon, in association with Warner and Saint-Gaudens, to give counsel as to the sculptural decorations for the Library of Congress, the architecture of this building being at that time in the hands of Edward P. Casey. Mr. Casey showed a fine zeal in getting the best possible sculpture for the Library; besides the usual structural ornament, his scheme called for fountains, three pairs of bronze doors, and for a circle of twelve imposing bronze statues by almost as many sculptors. The results were in general very happy, and at once established a high standard. And this is important, because the fine public building enhanced by sculpture is of service in the progress of art, as we see from the Brooklyn Museum, the New York Public Library, the Cleveland Court House.
Among the “deeds” foreshadowed by Mr. Ward were certain memorable exhibitions of sculpture, enterprises of genuine value to the community. These exhibitions were wisely and enthusiastically arranged in collaboration with landscape architects and florists; beautiful works fitly shown proved a surprise and a joy to both public and connoisseurs. The public was reminded that sculpture is a living art, with roots and branches; that it is not dedicated entirely to pediments, portrait statues, and other monumental grandeurs; and that sculptured forms may charm the eye of the home-maker and the garden-lover, in intimate possession.
In 1899 Charles R. Lamb, a charter member, born with a vision of the City Beautiful and working always toward the realization of that great dream, conceived the thought of the Dewey Arch as a dignified free-will offering from our sculptors,—an offering that would take a central and beautiful part in New York’s public tribute to the hero of Manila. That idea somehow captured the fancy of Mr. Lamb’s fellow-artists. Immediately and unreservedly, they gave themselves to the sculptural decorations of this arch and its approaches; Mr. Ward, full of years and honors, set the pace by his vigorous design for the crowning group of Naval Victory. It was rightly said that the names of those sculptors who dedicated themselves to this Arch constituted a roll of honor. The result of their labors was impressive beyond expectation. The Dewey Arch, though a temporary structure, lives in our remembrance; it is vivid in our annals as an example of whole-hearted artistic co-operation; it gave a precedent for our later historic transformation of Fifth Avenue into the Avenue of the Allies, an enterprise to which our sculptors once more devoted their gifts. These rousing masculine gestures of civic pride have a value. At the very least, they keep the world from falling into the belief that Fifth Avenue is no more than a bright shop where beautifully painted flower-face girls choose endless bubbles of adornment, only to speed away self-regarding yet unsatisfied on their tiptoe silvery shoes.
It is true that of late there has been grumbling as to the choice of any arch as a monumental form fitted to express the tribute of our citizens to patriotism. This disapproval is sometimes warranted, sometimes merely superficial. The arch, as we shall doubtless see within the next generation, has its own place in our time; collaboration between sculptor and architect has never been better understood than at present. To reject an arch because it obstructs traffic, because it is out of scale, because it does not fit its surroundings, because it is needlessly magnificent, because it does not express the emotion it pretends to express,—all this is very wise, and important when true. But is it not stupid to reject the arch just because the Romans liked it? However, discussion as to the value of the arch in our coming War memorials is beside the mark in looking back on the Dewey Arch as a fine example of artistic co-operation.
A valuable activity has been the sending out of small sculptures on tour throughout the country. Commenting on the universal public need of something with increased beauty to replace the story-telling Rogers groups of other days, a president of the Society wrote in 1913: “The time was ripe when some four years ago the National Sculpture Society carefully selected and sent out as a traveling exhibition nearly two hundred small bronzes which made a circuit of the museums in some eight or ten of the important cities. The responsive interest was as immediate as it was unexpected, and thousands of people gave expression to their pleasure in seeing what had hardly been known to exist. In Chicago alone, over thirty thousand persons visited this first exhibition.... This year, under similar auspices, and the management of the Pittsburgh Art Society, another collection of entirely different bronzes is passing from one museum to another, and meeting the same warm reception from the public.”
Established in New York, the Society has proved by work of this kind that it is truly National in its aims. Earnest inquiries and knotty problems are sent to it from all quarters of the United States. At one time it will be asked to “prepare the program for the competition for the $100,000 American Baseball Monument.” Again, it will be found considering the question, “What will it cost to produce 30,000 medals within three weeks?” Only a great moral earnestness joined to a knowledge of art and some acumen in judging human nature can properly answer some of the queries submitted.
The Society’s professional membership includes nearly all persons in the United States who practise the art of sculpture with dignity and merit; it is safe to say that any renowned sculptor remaining aloof from the organization is an individualist, doubtless with a congenital distaste for organized effort. The Society’s lay membership is an unusually large and distinguished group, made up in the main of disinterested lovers of art. In addition to the proverbial reward of virtue, the lay members receive from time to time some tangible souvenir, such as a small bronze designed by a sculptor member, or a monograph. These tokens occur often enough to attest good will, but not so often as to lose the charm of the unexpected.
The list of professional members reveals a surprisingly large number of names of women. It will be remembered that Mr. Ward, that figure of virility personified, cordially invited women sculptors to become members of the Society, and to join in the deliberations of the council-table. Chesterton, in his story of Victorian literature, has emphasized the importance of women writers in the development of the English novel. In our country, the importance of women engaged in sculpture as a gainful occupation has steadily increased during the past half-century. “Enter the race,” said Mr. Ward, “asking no odds!” Commissions for statues were once given to women, it must be confessed, out of what Dr. Johnson might call “Pure ignorance, Madam.” How otherwise can we explain the spectacle of our chivalrous Congressmen entrusting to a girl of fifteen the making of a statue of Lincoln? It is indeed said that “all the great sculptors of the period submitted models, but that the committee, after careful study, decided that the model of the little Ream girl surpassed all others.” The child surely had genius; she had the further advantage of quiet half-hours of study of Lincoln from life.
But to-day,—well, it isn’t supposed to be done! Thanks to the National Sculpture Society, such competitions are at present generally conducted with even-handed justice. Nowadays, women who receive really important sculptural commissions are expected to deserve them out of the fullness of experience. In 1911, I was unwise enough to write, apropos of the monumental equestrian statue, that this field was for man’s working, and that it would not in the near future offer any very large place aux dames. But it chanced that the fifth centenary of Jeanne d’Arc fell due soon after, and Miss Hyatt, paying no attention to my grotesque observation, began work on her equestrian statue of the Maid. Rarely has any such statue been studied with as fine a vision of the relative claims of art and archæology. In 1915, Miss Hyatt’s work was unveiled on Riverside Drive. It is one of the best-loved monuments in the city of New York; and from the day of its unveiling, I have forsworn prophecy. Otherwise, I might be tempted to add that at present, given the tradition of apprenticeship still keeping its last stronghold in some of the studios, and given the ease with which assistance may be obtained for the ruder manual labor, there is no reason why women may not be trained to solve with success the usual sculptural problems. “Because they are conscientious, and because they have imagination,” were the reasons given by a sculptor who employed women assistants.