CRISTOFANO ROBETTA. ADORATION OF THE MAGI
Size of the original engraving, 11⅝ × 11 inches
In the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
ANTONIO POLLAIUOLO. BATTLE OF NAKED MEN
Size of the original engraving, 15¾ × 23½ inches
In the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
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Hercules and the Hydra and Hercules and Antæus show so markedly the influence of Pollaiuolo that we may conclude them to have been taken from the two small panels in the Uffizi; though, in the case of the first named, Pollaiuolo’s original sketch, now in the British Museum, may also have served Robetta.
Whether Pollaiuolo based his technical method upon that of Mantegna and his School, or whether Mantegna’s own engravings were inspired by his Florentine contemporary, is an interesting, but thus far unanswered, question. Pollaiuolo’s one print, the Battle of Naked Men, is engraved in the Broad Manner, somewhat modified by the use of a light stroke laid at an acute angle between the parallels. The outlines of the figures are strongly incised; while the treatment of the background lends color to the supposition that, in his youth, Pollaiuolo engraved in niello, as well as furnished designs to be executed by Finiguerra and his School. In this masterpiece the artist has summed up his knowledge of the human form, and has expressed, in a more convincing and vigorous measure than has any other engraver in the history of the art, the strain and stress of violent motion and the fury of combat.
“What is it,” asks Bernhard Berenson, “that makes us return to this sheet with ever-renewed, ever-increased pleasure? Surely it is not the hideous faces of most of the figures and their scarcely less hideous bodies. Nor is it the pattern as decorative design, which is of great beauty indeed, but not at all in proportion to the spell exerted upon us. Least of all is it—for most of us—an interest in the technique or history of engraving. No, the pleasure we take in these savagely battling forms arises from their power to directly communicate life, to immensely heighten our sense of vitality. Look at the combatant prostrate on the ground and his assailant, bending over, each intent on stabbing the other. See how the prostrate man plants his foot on the thigh of his enemy and note the tremendous energy he exerts to keep off the foe, who, turning as upon a pivot, with his grip on the other’s head, exerts no less force to keep the advantage gained. The significance of all these muscular strains and pressures is so rendered that we cannot help realizing them; we imagine ourselves imitating all the movements and exerting the force required for them—and all without the least effort on our side. If all this without moving a muscle, what should we feel if we too had exerted ourselves? And thus while under the spell of this illusion—this hyperæsthesia not bought with drugs and not paid for with cheques drawn on our vitality—we feel as if the elixir of life, not our own sluggish blood, were coursing through our veins.”[6]
[6] Florentine Painters of the Renaissance. By Bernhard Berenson. New York: Putnam’s Sons. 1899. pp. 54-55.