target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#_20.jpg"/>Balzac in Dominican Robe, 1891–1892.
Plaster, 108 × 53.7 × 38.3 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Monument to Balzac, 1898.
Bronze, 270 × 120 × 128 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Two works mark this period of growing maturity. At the beginning stands the head of The Man with the Broken Nose, at the end the figure Rodin called First Man. The Man with the Broken Nose was rejected by the Salon in 1864. This is not difficult to imagine, for one can’t help but feel that with this work, entirely whole and sure as it was, Rodin had already reached full maturity. With the forthrightness of a great confession, it violated the precepts of academic beauty that were still predominant at the time. Rodin had given the wild gesture and widemouthed scream to his Goddess of Revolt on the triumphal arch in the Place de l’Etoile in vain; Barye, too, had created his graceful animals in vain; and Carpeaux’s Dance was greeted with scorn, until familiarity eventually made it impossible to see it for what it was. Nothing had changed. In those days sculpture was still models, poses, and allegory – the simple, facile, and leisurely work that consists essentially of more or less accomplished variations on a few sanctioned gestures. In this environment the head of The Man with the Broken Nose almost surely would have caused a storm much like the one that broke only when Rodin’s later works appeared. But it seems more likely that, because it was the work of an unknown artist, it was rejected summarily.
We feel what moved Rodin to form this head, which is that of an aging, ugly man, whose broken nose only heightens the pained expression on his face. The fullness of life is gathered in these features, and there are absolutely no symmetrical planes on the face. Nothing is repeated, no spot remains empty, mute, or neutral. Life had not simply touched this face, it had shaped it through and through, as if an inexorable hand had thrust it into destiny and held it there, in the rush and swirl of cleansing waters. Holding this mask and turning it slowly, one can’t help but be astonished by the constantly changing profiles, none of which are in any way uncertain, incidental, or indefinite. On this head there is not a single line, angle, or contour that Rodin hadn’t seen and intended. We get the sense that some of these furrows appeared earlier and others later, that years – difficult years – lay between the gashes across the features. We know that some of the marks on this face were etched slowly, with great hesitation, and that others were traced lightly at first, only to be inscribed more deeply by habit or a recurring thought. And we recognize those sharp incisions that can only have resulted from a single night, hacked as if by the beak of a bird in the weary brow of one starved for sleep. The life emanating from this work is so weighty and nameless, and we struggle to remember that all this appears in the shape of a face.
Placing the mask before us, it is as if we were standing on an enormous tower, looking down on an uneven landscape, surveying the winding paths crossed by countless people over the years. Picking it up again, we hold a thing that can only be called beautiful on account of its perfection. But its beauty is not solely a result of the incomparable meticulousness with which it was crafted. It comes, rather, from the sense of proportion, the balance of the living planes, and from an understanding of the fact that all these moments of ferment come to rest within the thing itself. And while one can’t help but be moved by the protean pain of this face, one also has the unmistakable sense that it utters no accusation. It makes no appeal to the world. It seems to carry its own justice within, the reconciliation of all its contradictions, and a patience sufficient for the weight of its burden.
Balzac, Nude Study C, 1892–1893.
Bronze, 127 × 56 × 62.2 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Balzac, Monumental Head, 1897.
Enameled terracotta, 42.2 × 44.6 × 38.2 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Balzac’s Dressing Gown, c. 1895
Plastered cloth, 148 × 57.5 × 42 cm.
Musée Rodin, Meudon.
Monument to Victor Hugo (first draft, sketch of the second maquette), 1890.
Bronze, 38.2 × 29 × 36 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Monument to Victor Hugo, 1901.
Plaster, 155 × 254 × 110 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Bust of Victor Hugo, 1883.
Marble, 47 × 21 × 20 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Victor Hugo, 1883.
Bronze, 48 × 28 × 31 cm.
Musée des beaux-arts, Lyon.
A man sat motionless before Rodin when he created this mask, his expression calm and unmoved. But it was the countenance of a living person, and as he studied this face it became clear that it was full of motion, full of disquiet and crashing waves. There was movement in the course of the lines and in the grade of the planes. The shadows played as if in sleep, and light passed softly over the brow: There was, in short, no peace, not even in death. For even in decline, which is also motion, death was subordinate to life. There was always motion in nature, and art that wished to present a conscientious and faithful interpretation of nature could not idealize a motionlessness that exists nowhere.
In reality there was no such ideal in antiquity. We have only to think of Nike. This sculpture gives us more than the motion of a lovely young woman going to meet her lover; it is also an eternal representation of the wind of Greece, of its breadth and glory. Even the stones of ancient cultures were not still. The restlessness of living surfaces was inscribed in the restrained, hieratic gestures of ancient cults, like water within the walls of a vessel. Currents flowed through gods at rest, and those who stood seemed to embody motion, like a fountain rising from the stone and then falling back again, covering it with innumerable waves. Motion was never at odds with the spirit of sculpture (which means simply the essence of things); it was only motion that remained incomplete, motion that was not in balance with other forces, motion that extended beyond the boundaries of the thing. Works of sculpture resemble those ancient cities where life was passed entirely within the city walls: the people did not lack for air and their gestures never became cramped. But nothing went outside the limits of the circle enclosing them. There was no sense of what was beyond, nothing to indicate a life beyond the gates, and no sense of expectation opening without.
No matter how great the motion in a work of sculpture may be, and whether it comes from infinite expanses or the depths of the heavens, it must always return to itself the great circle of solitude in which the art object passes its days must be closed. This was the unwritten law that lived in the sculpture of the past, and Rodin understood it. This distinguishing characteristic of things – this complete self-absorption – was what gave sculpture its serenity; it could neither demand nor expect anything from outside itself, and it could
