In spite of Stevens’s apparent failure, the elements of a regenerated school of English sculpture existed. It only needed a man of real artistic influence and established reputation to focus attention upon the possibility of better things. In view of the position which the sister art of painting held in England, it is not surprising that the lead came from two painters. Both were men of commanding personality, and both were in the very prime of their artistic careers. The one was G. F. Watts, the other, of course, was Frederic Leighton.
Watts’s bronze bust, “Clytie,” was modelled some years before Leighton’s “[Athlete Struggling with a Python],” and never aroused the enthusiastic admiration which fell to the later work. Nevertheless, the “Clytie”—it can be seen at the Tate Gallery—was a work of real beauty and power. Moreover, it displayed a naturalism which distinguished it from almost all the plastic art produced in England earlier in the century. This alone entitles G. F. Watts to an honourable place in the history of the renascence of English sculpture.
Leighton’s “[Athlete and Python]” was a far more ambitious work than Watts’s “Clytie.” It began as a small study, and the story goes that Dalou—some say Legros—persuaded Leighton to carry out the design in life-size. Three years later it was ready.
Probably sheer beauty of formal design was Leighton’s chief aim. But what struck his contemporaries was the finely vigorous pose, the splendid rendering of energetic movement and the magnificent naturalism with which an unfamiliar subject was rendered. The man holds the creature at arm’s-length, striving to prevent the thrust of the ugly jaws, which threaten death if once they can bring the full weight of the crushing coils to bear. The reception accorded to Leighton’s “[Athlete and Python]” was such that it is no exaggeration to date the model school of English sculpture from its exhibition. Appropriately enough, it became the first purchase under the bequest of the sculptor, Chantrey.
But all great artistic revivals are two-sided. There must be a spiritual stimulus as well as a technical. If the first may be credited to Leighton as far as the revival of English sculpture is concerned, the improvement in technique is undoubtedly traceable to Jules Dalou, the French sculptor. Our readers will remember how Dalou fled from Paris, on account of his connection with the Commune. During his stay in England he was persuaded to conduct the modelling class at South Kensington. The influence of his technical example and forceful personality began to show itself at once. Dalou made South Kensington one of the first centres of sculptural training in the world. When he returned to Paris, he was succeeded by Professor Lanteri—the sculptor of the virile “Head of a Peasant,” in the Tate Gallery—whose influence has since rivalled that of Dalou. Both were magnificently facile workers in clay. By continued practical demonstration they proved to the younger English sculptors the inestimable value of ease in modelling. The English school, as a whole, is still behind the French in facility of execution, but Dalou and Lanteri have done very much to remedy the defect.
The Dalou influence was continued in the second great training school of London—the Lambeth School of Art—by his pupil, W. S. Frith. The success of Mr. Sparks’ school may be judged from the fact that Alfred Gilbert, Frampton, Goscombe John, Harry Bates, Pomeroy and Roscoe Mullins all graduated there. Indeed, at one time, studentship at Lambeth seemed a necessary preliminary for all sculptors of ambition. Year after year, the gold medal at the Royal Academy and the £200 travelling scholarship were taken by Lambeth students.
LORD LEIGHTON
ATHLETE STRUGGLING WITH PYTHON
Tate Gallery, London