not only for these linear proportions, the angles and lengths of these imaginary pieces of string stretched from one point to another, but also for the relationships of planes, of receding and advancing surfaces.
Just as looking over the haphazard roofs of an unplanned city you find identical angles of recession in the gables and dormer-windows of quite different houses – so that if you extended any particular plane through all the intermediary ones, it would eventually coincide perfectly with another – in exactly the same way you find extensions of identical planes in different parts of the body. The plane, falling away from the summit of the stomach to the groin, coincided with that which led backwards from the near knee to the sharp, outside edge of the calf. One of the gentle, inside planes, high up the thigh of the same leg, coincided with a small plane leading away and around the outline of the far pectoral muscle.
And so, as some sort of unity was shaped and the lines accumulated on the paper, I again became aware of the real tensions of the pose. But this time more subtly. It was no longer a question of just realising the main, vertical stance. I had become involved more intimately with the figure. Even the smaller facts had acquired an urgency and I had to resist the temptation to make every line over-emphatic. I entered into the receding spaces and yielded to the oncoming forms. Also, I was correcting: drawing over and across the earlier lines to re-establish proportion: or to find a way of expressing less obvious discoveries. I saw that the line down the centre of the torso, from the pit of the neck, between the nipples, over the navel and between the legs, was like the keel of a boat, that the ribs formed a hull and that the near, relaxed leg dragged on its forward movement like a trailing oar. I saw that the arms hanging either side were like the shafts of a cart, and that the outside curve of the weight-bearing thigh was like the ironed rim of a wheel. I saw that the collar-bones were like the arms of a figure on a crucifix. Yet such images, although I have chosen them carefully, distort what I am trying to describe. I saw and recognised quite ordinary anatomical facts; but I also felt them physically – as if, in a sense, my nervous system inhabited his body.
A few of the things I recognised I can describe more directly. I noticed how at the foot of the hard, clenched, weight-bearing leg there was clear space beneath the arch of the instep. I noticed how subtly the straight under-wall of the stomach elided into the attenuated, joining planes of thigh and hip. I noticed the contrast between the hardness of the elbow and the vulnerable tenderness of the inside of the arm at the same level.
Then, quite soon, the drawing reached its point of crisis. Which is to say that what I had drawn began to interest me as much as what I could still discover. There is a stage in every drawing when this happens. And I call it a point of crisis because at that moment the success or failure of the drawing has really been decided. One now begins to draw according to the demands, the needs, of the drawing. If the drawing is already in some small way true, then these demands will probably correspond to what one might still discover by actual searching. If the drawing is basically false, they will accentuate its wrongness.
I looked at my drawing, trying to see what had been distorted; which lines or scribbles of tones had lost their original and necessary emphasis, as others had surrounded them; which spontaneous gestures had evaded a problem, and which had been instinctively right. Yet even this process was only partly conscious. In some places I could clearly see that a passage was clumsy and needed checking; in others, I allowed my pencil to hover around – rather like the stick of a water-diviner. One form would pull, forcing the pencil to make a scribble of tone which could re-emphasise its recession; another would jab the pencil into re-stressing a line which could bring it further forward.
Now when I looked at the model to check a form, I looked in a different way. I looked, as it were, with more connivance: to find only what I wanted to find.
Then the end. Simultaneously ambition and disillusion. Even as in my mind’s eye I saw my drawing and the actual man coincide – so that, for a moment, he was no longer a man posing but an inhabitant of my half-created world, a unique expression of my experience; even as I saw this in my mind’s eye, I saw in fact how inadequate, fragmentary, clumsy my small drawing was.
I turned over the page and began another drawing, starting from where the last one had left off. A man standing, his weight rather more on one leg than the other …
Frederick Antal –A Personal Tribute
ANTAL, THE LOGICAL, precise, profound art historian, has deservedly earned his international reputation. But in any assessment of his work the importance of his Marxism tends to be underestimated. In a curious way this is probably done out of respect for him: as though to say ‘He was brilliant despite that – so let’s charitably forget it.’ Yet, in fact, to do this is to deny all that Antal was. Admittedly a man’s personality is fashioned by his temperament as well as by his beliefs. And certainly Antal had his temperament. Nevertheless, all the features that distinguished him so clearly, both as a man and as a thinker, completely coincided with, even if they were not all originally created by, his Marxism.
Art history for him was not just an ‘interesting’ field to be excavated: it was a revolutionary activity. Facts were weapons unearthed from the past in order to be used in the future. And his whole character reflected this attitude. Meeting him for the first time one would not have guessed that he was an historian. He had none of the comfortable insulation against life that academic study usually ensures.
In appearance he was very tall, with long, dark, swept-back hair. His face was gaunt and he had very bushy protruding eyebrows which, always clenched, emphasised by contrast the depth and calm of his eyes that were simultaneously velvety, gentle and very hard. Only the movements of his long, thin hands indicated his extreme sensitivity. His expression was severe – not the petulant severity of an embittered schoolmaster, but the patient severity of a man who has long been vigilant alone. When he occasionally laughed or made some gentle personal remark, his expression changed and became as uncomplicated as that of a schoolboy.
One would probably have said, despite the fact that his presence straightaway shamed one out of any romanticism, that he was either a poet or a political leader. When I used to go and see him and tell him of my week’s activities, I felt like a messenger reporting to a general. Not because I ever had anything very important or revealing to tell him, but because the way he would listen reminded one that to the real tactician even the smallest facts may be significant.
As for the poet in him – this was more complicated. It had nothing to do, for instance, with his attitude to language. On the contrary, he had little feeling for words and considered them absolutely functionally, absolutely unsensuously; they were simply nails to be hit on the head in order to fix an idea or establish a fact in its proper place. It was rather that his sense of history, connecting the past with the future, was similar to the epic poet’s sense of destiny. And just as the poet seeks to connect intuitively by images, Antal sought to connect rationally by research. Above all his compulsion to work was similar to a poet’s. He worked to release a vision.
Another thing I would like to emphasise is Antal’s feeling for paintings and sculpture. He never simplified the mystery out of art – and by mystery I mean the power of a work of art to affect the heart. I have seen him profoundly moved in front of works he admired. Nor was his judgment of a work necessarily dependent upon his knowledge of all the related facts. A few weeks before he died, we went together to an exhibition of a contemporary Asian painter whom neither of us knew anything about. As we walked round he demanded now and again the date of a particular painting. Most of them were fifteen or twenty years old. After about half an hour he asked me what I thought. I was rather enthusiastic. He agreed that the paintings were good, but told me to think
