Greek Sculpture. Edmund von MachЧитать онлайн книгу.
from the soil where they lived – without more than a few centuries of history. We know that the Greeks were mistaken – that beyond the dark middle ages of Greece lay the Mycenaean Age, a long forgotten civilisation of glory and splendour, and that even the Mycenaean Age was conceivably not the first advance in humanity’s progress. In any event, the past was blotted out, its memory erased. Step by step the Greeks had to make their move forward, unaided, just as if they truly had sprung from the soil. No thoughts of distant ancestors had been recorded, and the few fabulous ruins spared from the storms of prehistoric events were mistaken for remnants of a race of giants. The discoveries in Mycenae and on Crete have brought to light objects of art demonstrating a splendidly aesthetic character and an unusually refined power for pleasure. Perhaps the historic Greeks from their distant ancestors, unknown to them, inherited these traits and that this accounts to some degree for the unparalleled and rapid artistic advances that occurred when they again “found their footing.” In any case, each thought expressed became a new idea, and was greeted with that admirable delight accompanying every fresh achievement.
The Greeks’ wonderful skill and great simplicity, acquired slowly and painstakingly by most of us today through liberal education, can make one forget that the Greeks were a primitive people. Like all primitive people they constantly strove to more fully realise their thoughts. Once a thought came to life, its quintessence, at least at first, represented nothing but that one definite concept. The statue of the god Apollo today cannot be observed without immediately seeing in it all the changes which the conception of that deity underwent in subsequent ages, especially in the process of comparing it with the one God whose religion was destined to supplant the cheerful, and once helpful, trust in the Olympic Pantheon. Consequently, for the modern beholder the existing statues of ancient gods are largely symbolic, whereas for the original Greeks they were expressive of definite thoughts. Ancient Greek artists gave concrete shape to the mental images or ideas of their people; they could do so because they themselves were of the people.
This explains why the ancient artists were not set off as a class; being gifted with the power of expression did not exempt him from close association with the public. Some excerpts from later Roman writers might seem to contradict, but it should be remembered that the Romans were given clear class distinctions. This paucity of references towards separation between Greek artists and their public can argue against such a division. To fulfil their calling the Greek artist had to be the wide-awake children in his time. Sometimes, especially towards the end, we find a revisiting of the past, although never to the extent of forgetting the present and its special claims. The Olympian Zeus by Phidias was commonly believed to be the most complete realisation of noble thought; many statues were carved under its influence, but not one instance of slavish imitation is known during the centuries intervening between its erection in the fifth century B. C. and the end of Greek art.
Nike, balustrade, Temple of Athena Nike, Athens, c. 420–400 B. C. Marble, h: 101 cm. Acropolis Museum, Athens.
In all probability not one of the best Greek statues was meant to represent a thought of which the artist believed himself to be the inventor or sole possessor prior to completing his statue. This does not at all detract from the artist’s importance, for he was the first to seize upon this particular aspect of the idea and the only one to give it a visible shape. It is this bodily expression, which enabled his fellowmen to share with him an accuracy of conception that without his aid would have been difficult to attain.
This and similar considerations, based on ancient history, cannot form a sound basis for discussion of principles governing relations between modern artists and their public. Conditions today differ too greatly to permit exact parallelisms to be drawn between ancient and modern art. Then again, no student of art and life can help but be impressed by a certain incongruity. Despite superior skill modern artists as a class do not seem to be altogether successful. This difficulty lies not so much with them as artists but with the public of which they are a part and from which they draw their knowledge, if not their inspiration; in any event, it remains the raison d’être of their inspiration. Today’s public no longer consists of a well-educated minority and a captivating family past, but practically the entire populace. This audience forms a heterogeneous and often discordant whole. In reaction, some good men, imbued with admiration for the noble relics of the past, genius-like, although perhaps unaware of certain of its sordid conditions kindly removed from view in intervening centuries, are sounding an improbable retreat. Humanity’s march moves forward. Although we may learn a once successful spirit, in each case its correct application must be the creation of new conditions in keeping with the modern times.
Sculptors in Greece worked for their people. They knew intimately the foibles of their nature, and endeavoured to meet their needs. Abstract reasoning and wilful perseverance are subjective. They therefore often avoided unintelligible interpretations of nature. “As a thing appears to me, so it is,” was their motto. But this “me” did not mean the artist as an individual, but the artist as the representative of the people. As such he gladly placed his superior skill and his clearer perceptions at their service. What he carved was not unknown to them, for, if they had done nothing more, they at least felt the justice of the thoughts he expressed. It is a great thing to be an individual artist; like the Greek sculptor, it is a greater thing to be the exponent of his people’s best ideas.
The Principles of Greek Relief Sculpture
The thoughtful consideration of human nature’s needs characterising the best Greek works is nowhere better than in relief sculpture. All relief sculpture may be divided into two large classes, exhibiting great technical differences. In the first class, the artist may design and carve his figures on a block of stone from which he hews away as much as he likes to bring out the contours. He begins on the front plane, beyond which no figure may project, and pays no attention to a uniform depth of background. This kind of relief may be called the carved relief.
In the second class, which originated when sculptors no longer worked the marble itself but made their first designs in clay, the figures are modelled separately and attached to a uniform and unifying background. A profile view reveals the absence of a common front plane. Later, these models may be carved in marble or cast in bronze. Due to their origin, and to distinguish them from the other types, they are best called modelled reliefs.Common today, the best known reliefs in this style are the Ghiberti gates on the baptistery in Florence. The Greeks almost exclusively practised the carved relief.
In describing a Greek relief people usually speak of the figures as being raised to a certain height from the background. This is inaccurate, because carved relief technique requires their being sunk from the front plane. It is possible and occurs frequently on the Parthenon frieze frieze (Illustration 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12) to have the right side of a figure sunk deeper than the left side, with the feet deeper than the head. This creates virtually no background from which the figures can be said to have been raised. The effect of such a technique is that the figures themselves and not the background – which in pictures is often prominent – arrest the attention of the spectator
Human vision is restless. One feels ill at ease when obliged to keep a steady focus. In a picture one’s imagination may wander from the nearest object to the farthest, and vice versa; in the carved relief, which broadly speaking contains only the nearest object, care must be taken to provide variety in another direction. For this reason the broad expanse of the Parthenon frieze is tremendously pleasing. The skill of the artists through application of clever techniques has made it nearly impossible to concentrate at any single figure for long. The spectator has barely understood one figure when its lines carry him to the next and then the next, first rapidly, then slowly, as he approaches the quiet company of gods seated above the entrance door.
One can readily see that a relief of this kind cannot be easily adapted to a panel, limited, as it were, in size and sufficiently small to fall at once within one’s radius of vision. All figures crowd to the foreground; they pass quickly in review, and when the eyes desire a change no expanse into the distance exists; such a view could satisfy. Vision’s natural restlessness brings out this lack, and one will likely experience a sense of dissatisfaction.
To a great extent the