American Masters of Sculpture / Being Brief Appreciations of Some American Sculptors and of Some Phases of Sculpture in America

by Charles H. Caffin

in himself which the sculptor has imparted to this figure. He has represented in it the fine flower of Puritan scholarship and devotion to the higher claims of humanity. It is impossible not to detect in this characterisation an echo of the sculptor’s own early memories, and more or less they abide with him up to the present time. In correspondence with the development of his own ideals is that of his technique. It has acquired a breadth and unity of feeling, a regard for the mass and a tact of choice in the selection of details, a mingling of suavity and monumental stability, a disposition of the drapery, natural and yet enriched with elegant surprises. The statue is at once imposing and full of grace.

During the next decade French had opportunities for developing the imaginative tendencies which had already shown themselves during his student days. The chief works of this period are the “Gallaudet Memorial” in Washington, District of Columbia, the Milmore monument in Forest Hills Cemetery, better known as “Death and the Sculptor,” the “John Boyle O’Reilley Memorial,” and the “Statue of the Republic” at the Chicago Exposition. The “Gallaudet” represents the great teacher of deaf and dumb mutes in the act of instructing his first pupil. He has his arm around the girl, and each raises a hand to fashion the silent talk, while they gaze into each other’s faces in the rapt effort of mutual comprehension. The group is thus realistic in its conception, but developed with a degree of sympathy that passes into lovely imaginativeness as the sculptor penetrates the mystery of communication between these two creatures. Purely imaginative, however, is the following work: The untimely death of the sculptor, Martin Milmore, is here commemorated by an allegory of Death arresting the hand of a sculptor as he is engaged in perfecting his work. He is scarcely more than a youth, well-knit and lithe in figure, with a sweet seriousness of face; and as he plies the mallet and chisel, carving anew at the world-old problem of the Sphinx, putting forth his brave young strength in pursuit of a yet undimmed ideal, a gentle touch interposes between his hand and work. He turns his head from the enigma to face the reality of a Presence—a female figure, her head tenderly bowed in the shadowed obscurity of a heavy veil, mighty wings calmly folded at her back, a bunch of poppies in her grasp. The youth has not yet comprehended who and what she is, only the ineffable sadness of her face rivets his questioning gaze. He is face to face with another enigma—that of Death.

This memorial has won more admirers than perhaps any other of the sculptor’s works, and the reason is not far to seek. The allegory conveys a human story with such precision and tender sincerity that all can read it and few can fail to be affected. Moreover, the story is told with artistic propriety, the character of the memorial being sculpturesque. The dignity of form in the round has been boldly asserted; the device of clothing the youth’s figure in a tightly fitting suit permits a contrast of vigorous, clean-cut form with the drowsy, sensuous suggestion of the sweeps and folds of drapery on the other figure, and these again are relieved by the strong, simple modelling of the wings. Moreover, the varied emphasis of these figures in the round, placed against the quiet, smooth levels of low-relief in the background, results in a colour-scheme of striking handsomeness; the gradations from dark to light mingling richness and delicacy of tone, while the passages are distributed with such variety of bold and subtle contrasts as to be exceptionally decorative. And it is by these devices, as well as by the action of the two figures and the expression of their faces, that the sentiment of the subject is conveyed.

The quality of the sentiment in this particular group is fairly characteristic of French’s range of emotional expression. It has more of elevation than of breadth and depth. Not that it is lacking in either candour or sincerity, but, like Truth at the bottom of the well, it exists in a cool, clear, undisturbed element, its gaze concentrated on the circle of sky above, a glimpse of abstract inspiration, checkered by the occasional passage of a bird or by some wayfarer’s shadow. Separated from the turmoil of human passion it touches the theme of humanity with a gracious tenderness that leans toward an elegant idealisation and to an attitude of feeling that is far less human than artistic. I would cite, as an illustration of what I am trying to express, the fact that Death has been symbolised by a woman of noble and inviting mien, whose arms might fold themselves around the young sculptor’s form as with a mother’s caress, while she pressed the poppies on his brow and wooed him to eternal sleep. It is a beautiful idea, which touches our fancy, but not the heart that has experienced the pain of loss; and in its lyrical melodiousness we miss the snapping discord that would hint at the tragedy of a career of promise abruptly cut.

Similarly, a delicate fancy rather than imagination pervades the monument erected to the memory of the poet O’Reilley. This group of three figures may be felt also to establish a doubt, aroused by the previous work, as to whether the sculptor is fortunate in the treatment of a composition which involves more than one figure. Neither of them is conspicuous for organic unity or for relational value in the parts. It is, indeed, in the management of a single figure that French produces the most complete ensemble. Among these the colossal “Statue of the Republic” at the Chicago Exposition marks, if I mistake not, a turning-point in his art. Here, for the first time, his matured powers came into direct contact with the influence of architecture.

Hitherto his imagination had played around the subject represented; now it became absorbed in the architectonic significance of the statue itself, as a feature of isolated and conspicuous emphasis in a great scheme of monumental architecture. Removed from the surroundings for which it was conceived, the “Republic” is scarcely beautiful, the contours being rigid, the pose monotonous; yet these qualities became in its appointed place the very source of its indubitable stateliness; of its value as a focus-point in the long vista of the Court of Honour and as an expression in heroic shape of the dignity of the Republic.

At this time French came into close contact with the architect, Charles F. McKim, and the intimacy has ripened into very frequent collaboration, so that, although he has executed other commissions, such as that clever character-study, the statue of Rufus Choate, and, in coöperation with E. C. Potter, a spirited and impressive equestrian statue of Washington, his work has become more and more identified with sculpture in its relation to architecture. To a mind like his, that seems always to have leaned toward the abstract, this alliance with an art so free from direct human allusion must have followed quite naturally. Yet we may be disposed to regret a transition which has in a measure, if I may use the word, dehumanised his art, which broke off his development when it had acquired a charm of poetical expression not too usual in this country, and would appear to have curtailed the freedom and individuality of his manner. Certainly, the series of figures for the Capitol at St. Paul, Minn., lack the distinction and vital worthiness of some of his earlier work; and even the latest statue of “Alma Mater,” beautiful as it unquestionably is, I can hardly feel belongs among his best.

In the centre of the spacious paved court that forms the southern and chief approach to Columbia University, at the foot of the steps which lead up to the library—one of McKim’s most choice and impressive designs—she sits enthroned; clothed in a loose robe and college gown, a volume open on her knees, the arms extending upward from the elbows which rest upon the chair, one hand holding a scepter, the other open with a gesture of welcome. The face is of a familiar type of American beauty, corresponding with the very modern suggestion of the whole figure. Yet the sculptor has invested the head with an air of dispassionate refinement which gives it a certain aloofness; scarcely more, however, than the self-possession, consciously unconscious, with which the American woman can carry her beauty. It is almost as if one of them had mounted the pedestal and, with a ready wit embracing the situation, were enacting the part of patroness to the university. Every student will love her and her influence will be altogether one of sweet nobility; but whether he will receive any inspiration in the direction of the highest art and scholarship is less sure. The immediate fascination of the statue is that in feeling it is thoroughly modern and American; and, if it fails to comprehend the complex elements drawn from all sources and times which mingle in our highest civilisation, it is precisely because it is limited in character to the local and contemporary.

We recall that French in his youth came under the influence of Emerson, one of whose tenets was, as far as possible, to ignore European traditions, and to draw his illustrations from the society and manners of the United States; that French himself lived some time in Florence without assimilating its influence directly, has habitually confined himself to rendering types of American character and has gradually discovered for himself a personal form of technical expression. To this personal isolation may be traced both the excellence and the limitations of his technique.