But What Is Surprising Is That In A City So Artistic As Paris
There Should Be So Few Photographs Of This Statue.
I could get but
two - these were duplicates, and were all the proprietor of the shop
possessed; there was some trouble to find them.
I was told that, as they
were so seldom asked for, copies were not kept, and that there was only
this one particular view - a very bad one. Other shops had none. The Venus
of Milo is in every shop - in every size, and from every point of view; of
the Accroupie these two poor representations were hunted out from the
bottom of a portfolio. Of course, these remarks apply only to Paris as
the public know it; doubtless the studios have the Accroupie, and could
supply representations of every kind: casts, too, can be obtained at the
Louvre. But to those who, like myself, wander in the outer darkness of
common barbarian life, the Accroupie is unknown till we happily chance
upon it. Possibly the reason may be that this statue infinitely surpasses
those fixed ideals of art which the studios have for so many centuries
resolutely forced upon the world. It seems that after a certain length of
art study the natural eyesight is lost. But I hope and believe there are
thousands of people in the world in full possession of their natural
eyesight, and capable of appreciating the Accroupie when once their
attention is called to it.
I knew it was useless to search further among the galleries of the
Louvre, for there could not be two such works in existence anywhere, much
less in one collection. Therefore I did not go a step beyond, but sat
down to enjoy it, and when I had gazed enough for one morning I turned to
leave the place. There are never two works of equal beauty of any kind,
just as there are never two moments of equal pleasure: seize the one you
have, and make much of it, for such a moment will never return. In
walking away I frequently looked back - first at three or four yards',
then at ten yards' distance; gradually the proportions diminished, but
the great sweep of outline retained its power. At about thirty yards it
is remarkable how this noble work entirely overshadows the numerous
figures close to it. Upon each side of the gallery the wall is lined with
ranks of statuary, but they are quite lost as statuary, and seem nothing
more than wall decorations, merely curious castings put there to conceal
the monotony of the surface. Cleverly executed they may be, but there is
no other merit, and they appear commonplace. They have no meaning; the
eye glances along them without emotion. It always returns to, and rests
upon, the Accroupie - the living and the beautiful. Here is the difference
between genius and talent. Talent has lined the walls with a hundred
clever things, and could line miles of surface; genius gives us but one
example, and the clever things are silenced. Here is the difference
between that which expresses a noble idea, and that which is dexterously
conventional. The one single idea dominates the whole. Here is the
difference, again, between the secret of the heart, the aspiration of the
soul, and that which is only the workmanship of a studio ancient or
modern. The Accroupie is human, loving tender; how poor are goddesses
beside her! At forty, fifty, sixty yards, still looking back, though the
details now disappeared, the wonderful outline of the torso and hips was
as powerful as ever. Ascending the steps which lead from the gallery I
paused once more, standing close against the wall, for other figures
interfere with a distant view, and even at that distance (eighty yards or
more) the same beauty was recognisable. Yet there is no extended arm, no
attitude to force attention - nothing but the torso is visible; there is
no artificial background (as with the Venus of Milo) to throw it into
relief; the figure crouches, and the love expressed in the action is
conveyed by the marvel of the work as far as it can be seen.
Returning next morning I took the passage on the left (not as before on
the right), and so came at once to the top of the steps, and to a spot
whence a view can with little trouble be obtained. Perhaps it is more
than eighty yards away, but the effect is the same despite the distance.
The very best place to view the statue is exactly in front of it, two or
three yards away, or as close as you like, but precisely in front. It
requires no careful choice of position so as to give a limb more
prominence, or render the light more effective (the light just there is
bad, though it is near a window). The sculptor did not rely upon
'artistic' and selected attitudes - something made up for the occasion. No
meretricious aid whatever has been called in - no trick, no illusion of
the eye, nothing theatrical. He relied solely and simply upon a true
representation of the human body - the torso, the body itself - as he
really saw it in life. When we consider that the lines of the body seen
in front are gentle, and in no way prominent, it is apparent how
beautiful the original must have been, and how wonderfully the form has
been rendered in marble for this to be the best position to view it.
Three large folds, marked by deep lines, cross the lower part of the
torso, and it is these creases that give the work its life. They are but
just made in stooping, and will disappear as she rises from that
position. These three grooves cross the entire front of the torso; the
centre one is forked at its extremity near the right hip, and the fork of
this groove encloses a smaller crease. Immediately under the right breast
there is a short separate groove caused by the body leaning to the right;
this is a fold of the side, not of the front.
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