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THE heroic soul of Greece was to ebb away through three wounds: the triumph of Sparta, the enrichment of Athens, and the reign of intellectualism. Sensibility increased at the expense of moral energy, reason overflowed faith, enthusiasm was dulled through contact with the critical spirit. The philosophers, to whose development sculpture had contributed so much by giving life to ideas, were to deny their origin, laugh at the poets and at the artists, and discourage the sculptors through misleading their minds in the meanders of sophistry. We need not bear them a grudge for this. The equilibrium was about to break; no human power, no miracle could have re-established it. And the soul of Athens, on the brink of the abyss to which her logicians were dragging civilization, was even then forging a tool with which the men of a distant future could build a new dwelling. The death struggle of Greece gave us freedom of examination.
THE heroic soul of Greece was to ebb away through three wounds: the triumph of Sparta, the enrichment of Athens, and the reign of intellectualism. Sensibility increased at the expense of moral energy, reason overflowed faith, enthusiasm was dulled through contact with the critical spirit. The philosophers, to whose development sculpture had contributed so much by giving life to ideas, were to deny their origin, laugh at the poets and at the artists, and discourage the sculptors through misleading their minds in the meanders of sophistry. We need not bear them a grudge for this. The equilibrium was about to break; no human power, no miracle could have re-established it. And the soul of Athens, on the brink of the abyss to which her logicians were dragging civilization, was even then forging a tool with which the men of a distant future could build a new dwelling. The death struggle of Greece gave us freedom of examination.
Beginning
with the last years of the fifth century, a furtive caress passed over the
Greek marbles. The great forms, kept alive by the circulation of their inner
energies, disappeared from the pediments, and the artist tried to call these
energies to the surface of the statues, of the portraits, of the picturesque
groups which, however, he isolated little by little. The form and the spirit,
which up to that time had flowered in the same integral expression, now
separated from each other irrevocably. The spiritualist searched the body to
extract the soul, the skeptic no longer tried to derive from it anything more
than sensual satisfactions. About that time a little temple was built on the
Acropolis to house a wingless Victory. But the external victories that had
descended upon it had kept their wings. They were to depart from Athens.
Greek
sculpture is supposed not to have appreciated the inner life until the fourth
century. It might be observed that from the Archaic period onward there are
statues, like the Samian woman, or like any Orante of the Acropolis, whose
visage makes us think of that of the Gothic virgins because of their naive
enchantment with life which illumines it from within. But that is not the
question. People generally believe that thought cannot dwell anywhere save in
the head of the model. The truth is that it is entirely in the head of the
artist. The inner quality of a work is measured by the quality of the relations
which unite its elements and assure the continuity of its ensemble. And no art
had more of the inner quality than that of the fifth century. The modeling of
everything goes from within outward. The surfaces, the movements, the empty
spaces themselves, everything is determined by the play of the profound forces
that pass from the artist into the material, as the blood passes from the heart
into the limbs and the brain.
It is
true that in a poor society, where the slave was well treated, where the steps
of the social hierarchy were very near together, one which lived on an
indulgent soil, in a health-giving air, near a flowered sea, human beings did
not have an urgent need of one another. The normal expression of man is a
resultant of the daily conflict of his passions and his will. The Greek
sculptor knew the sentimental agitations whose reflections pass at times over
the sternest among human faces. But it was only later, with the definitive
breaking of the social rhythm, that these reflections were imprinted there as
indelible traces. Man, who was then to be characterized by a warped, suffering
body and a haggard face, was defined for Phidias by a complete organic
equilibrium wherein the calm of the heart spread through the harmony of the
general structure, of which the tranquil face was only one element. The head of
the Lapith woman, that of Peitho, and that of the Artemis of the Parthenon
express a profound life, but a peaceful one. It is like a great depth of pure
water, full and limpid and unruffled. The world does not yet know water forever
plowed by the storm, blackened by the poisonous miasmas that slept in it.
Praxiteles
draws the spirit to the skin of the statues. As he sees the spirit floating on
faces as an undefined smile, as a vague disquietude, as a luminous shadow, he
fixes it there, and by so doing breaks that unity which gives to the forms of
the great century their contained radiance. To express the inner life he seeks
to make it external. And it is no longer as a dawn, it is as an evening, that
the soul mounts from the depths to spread itself over the surface. Praxiteles
is the Euripides of sculpture. His measure, his elegance, his mind, the
subtlety of his animation, and the charm of his analysis do not succeed in hiding
from us the fact that he doubts his strength, and that, at bottom, he regrets
having lost the sacred intoxication at which he laughs. Under his fingers the
plane gets soft, hesitates, and gradually loses the spiritual energy with which
Phidias invested it. The expression of the form, distraught and as if a little
wearied, is no longer the play of the inner forces, but that of the lights and
shadows on its shell. The soul seeks to escape from the embrace of the marble.
One sees this clearly in the great dreamy foreheads under the wavy hair, in the
sensual and vibrant mouth, in the undefined charm of the face as it leans
forward. That no longer means intelligence; that means sentiment. Art dies of
it, but new life takes its germ from it and, much later and under other skies,
is to flower from it. At the moment when human language and enthusiasm weaken
together, the work of Praxiteles affirms, not the appearance, but the survival
of the mind and a kind of transference of its function, which is to spend many
long centuries in searching for its real organ and in the end is to find it.
His art
betrays the coming of a kind of cerebral sensualism which we see appearing at
the same hour among all his contemporaries, to whom the friezes of the temple
of the "Wingless Victory" and the capital of the "Dancers"
at Delphi had already shown the way. Little by little, the deep structure is
forgotten, so that the surface of the figures may be caressed by desire, as the
surface of the faces is marked by the artist's effort to depict psychological
states. When the statue remains clothed, the robes become lighter than a breeze
on the water. But, for the first time, the Greek sculptor wholly unveils woman,
whose form is significant more especially through the tremor of its surface,
just as the masculine form, which had dictated his science to him, is above all
significant through the logic and the rigor of its structure. For the first
time he rejects the stuffs which the pupils of Phidias had begun to drape in
every direction, at the risk of leaving unexpressed the life moving under them.
It is without veils that he expresses the movement of the torsos as they draw
themselves up to their full stature, the animation of the planes which the
light and air model in powerful vibration, the youth of breasts, the vigor of
masculine bellies, and the pure thrust of arms and legs. He speaks of the body
of woman as it had never been spoken of before, he raises it up and adores it
in its radiant warmth, its firm undulations, in its splendor as a living column
through which the sap of the world circulates with its blood. These mutilated
statues confer on the sensuality of man the highest nobility. Full and pure,
like a well of light, intrusted by all their profiles to space which is
motionless about them, as if filled with respect, these great forms sanctify
the whole of paganism as, later, a mother bending over the dead body of her son
is to humanize Christianity. And if we are intimately grateful to Praxiteles
and regard him with a tenderness which does not resemble the heroic exaltation
to which Phidias transports us, it is because he has taught us that the
feminine body, by its rise into the light and the affecting frailty of the
belly, the sides, and the breasts in which our whole future sleeps, sums up
human effort in the unconquerable idealism with which it faces so many storms.
It is impossible to see certain of these broken statues where only the young
torso and the long thighs survive, without being torn by a tenderness that is
sacred.
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