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History of Art Literature Anthologies
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[Letters of the Artists of the Nineteenth Century]
Künstlerbriefe aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert
[Edited by Else Cassirer]
Berlin, Bruno Cassirer Verlag, 1913 [on the cover page] / 1914 [in the frontispiece], 710 pages, with 150 illustrations.
Review by Francesco Mazzaferro
Part Four
On the Cassirer Family, please see: https://letteraturaartistica.blogspot.com/2019/11/cassirer-family.html
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| Fig. 81) Johann Gottfried Schadow, Quadriga of the Brandenburg Gate, Berlin, 1793 |
Art and power
The Letters of the Artists from the Nineteenth
Century revealed that the German world of the Nineteenth century
(especially the Prussian world, but of course also that of the other German
states) was organized according to well-defined power relations. In sum,
life and success of the artists depended upon the commissions from the royal
house, and the support of the king and the ministers. Thus, it became
essential for the artists to know how to meet the aesthetic preferences of the rulers, but also
of the closest circles to the monarchy, such as high officials and the military class [108]. This applied to all arts: first and foremost to sculpture and
architecture, due to their obvious celebratory and public aims, but also to
painting and even minor arts (such as engraving [109]).
The letters
documented different situations, some of which testifying a perfect symbiosis
between artists and power, others instead revealing a robust contestation. In
most cases, it is clear that an art market capable of making artists
independent from the preferences of the monarchs and their highest officials arose
only very late in Germany, and therefore the direct dependency of artists from
power lasted longer than elsewhere (for example, in the United Kingdom). I
found a high number of cases in which the artists wrote in the letters about
their direct relations with the monarchs, emphasizing the importance that some royal
families (especially in Prussia, Bavaria, Saxony and in the Habsburg Vienna)
assigned to the artistic promotion of their courts. Also the academies were a
clear enactment of the monarch's preferences. Intermediate structures at local
level, such as the Kunstvereine – i.e.
the art societies – which organized exhibitions and regulated prices, helped
the slow emancipation of artists from the political power, a process which nevertheless seems to have been hardly completed in the Nineteenth century German
world, at least on the basis of the testimony of the letters. Moreover, the Kunstvereine never conquered the central
role of the Salons in France. The
only real spaces of freedom then became Rome and Paris, the centres around
which gravitated German artists abroad. It is no coincidence that the first
case in the anthology in which an artist became the protégé of an independent intellectual, and not of a monarch or a
prince or a noble, was Hans von Marées, a painter who lived in Rome since 1864
and was supported by Konrad Fiedler, the art critic and scholar of aesthetics,
since 1869.
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| Fig. 82) Hans von Marées, Portrait of Konrad Fiedler, 1879 |
But let us
go back to the first decades of the century. On 28 December 1820 the
neoclassical sculptor Johann Gottfried Schadow wrote a report to the interior
minister [110]. In the Kingdom of Prussia, which could be technically defined, in those years, as a police state, the interior minister had indeed authority on
culture. Schadow complained that he did not receive any commission anymore from
the interior ministry but restorations. With the high official in the ministry Schadow
even protested that he no longer had any employment outside the Academy
management. He had been for years the sculptor of Frederick William II, and had
directed the Academy of Fine Arts since 1816. In fact, he signalled to his
correspondent – who was certainly well aware hereof - that he had performed all
the projects and models for royal buildings between 1789 and 1806, and quoted among
them the Quadriga on the top of the Brandenburg Gate in 1793 (fig. 81). Schadow did not
mention it, but his real problem was, most likely, that Frederick William III,
the new monarch, had gradually moved away from his neo-classical style after he
had come to power in 1797. The new king had rewarded him with academic
assignments, but assigned tasks to other sculptors, including Schadow’s
students, who responded to a more modern taste.
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| Fig. 83) Christian Daniel Rauch, Equestrian statue of Frederick the Great, 1840-1851 |
Three
decades before, the engraver Davis Chodowiecki had written a letter to the
painter Anton Graff in February 1792 [111], revealing the background of the
competition for the statue of Frederick the Great, launched in the previous year
by the Prussian authorities. It would turn to become almost a never-ending story, which
accomplished itself only in the space of fifty years. Chodowiecki explained the
ongoing discussion on the clothes in which the great monarch should have been
represented on the horse: King Frederick William II, supported by the Academy
of Fine Arts, proposed that his predecessor would be displayed in the guise of
an ancient Roman (as in the equestrian statue of Marco Aurelio), while the son
of the monarch (the future Frederick William III) and many members of the
government preferred a representation with modern clothes, in the Prussian
fashion which Frederick the Great himself had in fact inaugurated. Chodowiecki
could not foresee in his letter that the dispute would become so emotional (and
linked to a question of legitimacy of power) to be resolved only under
Frederick William IV, who would decide for the modern clothes in 1840. In 1792
Chodowiecki mentioned the neoclassical Johann Gottfried Schadow as a natural
candidate for executing the commission, but in the end a different choice was
made: the task went to his follower Christian Daniel Rauch. It was another
proof that Schadow, while running as president of the Academy until his death
(1850), was no longer the favourite sculptor of the Hohenzollern family.
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| Fig. 84) Jacob Asmus Carstens, The Night and his two Sons, Sleep and Death, 1794 |
The painter
Jacob Asmus Carstens (1754-1798) was a special case of rebellious artist. Almost
the entire correspondence selected by Else Cassirer regards his relations with
the Ministry of the interior, as explained the responsible authority for the
support of the artists. Carstens applied in 1791 for a two-year leave of
absence from his office as teacher at the Academy of Fine Arts in Berlin. He
wanted to spend two years in Rome to deepen his studies, but appealed to the
authorities because he had no economic base for it. He then also applied for a public
financial support for the two years, a kind of scholarship, which would allow
him to remain abroad, obviously with the promise to return to teaching in
Berlin. The application was very well documented and even contained a list of
all the intermediate stages of the journey from Berlin, including short study stays
in Dresden, Vienna, Venice, Mantua, Parma, Bologna and Florence. In the
hierarchy of locations chosen to prepare for the longer stay in Rome, Florence was
the most important (3 weeks), followed by Venice and Parma (2 weeks), Dresden,
Vienna and Mantua (8 days) and finally Bologna (4 days) [112]. In March 1792
the request was accepted, and Carstens got really generous terms: he was placed
on leave of absence with the right to return to the academy; however, he
maintained the salary of 250 tolars per year and received in addition a
contribution of 200 tolars per year as reimbursement for expenses abroad, for
two years. In 1795, at the end of the period, the painter, however, refused to
return to Germany, triggering the administration's dismay. He was then
immediately fired, and received an order to return all sums. Instead, he responded
that the economic value of the works he had already sent to Berlin were in
excess of those sums, and decided to stay in Rome. Here are his words: "And finally, I must say to His Excellency
that I do not belong to the Academy of Berlin, but to humanity; and I have
never came to the idea to sell myself because of an allowance - which was given
to me a few years to develop my talent - and to become the lifelong serf of an
academy. I can continue to train only here, among the best works of art that
exist in the world. So I will continue to justify myself in front of the whole
world, with all my strength and thanks to my art works" [113]. Italy was thus the land of his
voluntary exile, where he eventually died only a few years after in 1798.
Years passed
and several German monarchies joined the competition to host key artists in
their respective academies, such as Peter von Cornelius, who - after having
spent some years in Italy - was back in Germany and helped to create the school
of Düsseldorf, becoming President of the local Academy. His elevated status as
an artist was evidenced by the presence of a correspondence with the highest
authorities of the German world. King Ludwig I of Bavaria concluded his letters
to him with expressions of esteem [114] and in some cases with personal warmth,
as in 1835: "And now my greetings,
estimated Cornelius and keep in shape"
[115]. Ludwig had just entrusted him important tasks, such as the
frescoes in the Glyptothek and the Church of St. Louis, at whose end, however,
their personal relationship ultimately broke. It was therefore the time for Prussia
to offer an opportunity to Cornelius. The Prussian Minister Alexander von
Humboldt explained so the reason of his 1840 letter: "The monarch, a high minded man, feels intensely the desire to motivate
the splendour of his government by gathering around him the great spirits of
his time, the creators of sublime works of art" [116].
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| Fig. 85) Carl Blechen, The tower of the castle of Heidelberg, 1829 |
Carl
Blechen (1798-1840) was rather displeased with the sums of money guaranteed by
the Prussian administration in case of sale of his works to the public,
revealing once again the mechanisms of the painters’ economic dependency from
the crown. He was convinced of being treated worse than less valid artists and complained
with a protest letter to a senior official in November 1830. The tone was that
of a bitter and uncontrolled outburst, even of a personal nature, but also revealed
the rage for the fact that his naturalistic painting was not fully understood
by the administration, still predominantly oriented in favour of history painting.
"Is it ever possible that I - in
relation to other artists who have not yet understood the essence of the art or
are less aware, sensitive and conscientious, and therefore fail to understand
the depth of the art, and seek much less than I do to become part of it - is it
possible - and I am infinitely sick of it – that I nevertheless have to stay
back to others, despite the better and higher technical tools that I have
achieved with the best will and effort? Do not call it presumption. For my own
sake, I cannot be silent. Is it possible, I ask you, how do you explain that I
– because of my awareness of having recognized and felt the divine nature, and
I hope to have done better than others in my profession, for the fact that my
brush does not tremble so much and has done progress beyond the simple abc of
art, because I sacrificed my humble heritage to art, not being costly at all to
the State and being now so completely exhausted - that I should therefore
suffer the offense to receive, against my will, a lower sum in the official
negotiations, becoming the laughingstock of all my colleagues and even the
inexperienced?" [117].
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| Fig. 86) Johan Christian Dahl, View of Dresden with the full moon, 1839 |
The
romantic landscape painter Johann Christian Dahl addressed directly Anthony, the
king of Saxony, to get the best possible economic conditions from the Academy
where he taught. The artist was born in Norway (then Danish colony) and
therefore had a very strong connection with Copenhagen. In 1828, he informed
the king about his serious intention to consider an offer of the Academy of
Denmark, which indeed he had already accepted informally. The reasons mentioned
in the letter were a bit vague: in Copenhagen the lecturing time would be less demanding
and would so enable him to have more time at his disposal to walk into nature
to paint. He would however be willing to reconsider the decision in the case of
a salary increase from 500 to 800 tolars [118]. A senior official responded in
a few days: the salary increase was granted and a new chair was created at the Dresden Academy for landscape painting, which was directly offered to Dahl [119].
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| Fig. 87) Alfred Rethel, Charlemagne destroys the Irminsul, the sacred tree for the Saxons, Aachen, 1848 |
Alfred
Rethel (1816-1859), a yet thirty-year old painter, needed to consolidate his
professional position. For this purpose he went from Frankfurt to Berlin in
1846, where over the course of three days was presented to the highest ranking officials
of the Prussian world: in sequence, he first met officials at the Interior
Ministry, then the Interior Ministry himself, the prime minister Alexander von
Humboldt, and finally Schadow, the long-standing director of the Academy, and a
series of artists, all working as professors at the Academy of Prussia
(including Rauch, Begas and Kugler). At the end of the three days, he was
awarded an important commission in Aachen for a cycle of frescoes on
Charlemagne’s life [120] The last day he was invited to lunch by Schadow;
moreover, Ignaz von Olfers (1793-1871), the general director of the museums of
Berlin, accompanied him in person to visit the art collections of the city.
Then happened the most surprising fact: the Prussian king Friedrich Wilhelm IV
wanted to meet him in person. Accompanied by von Olfers in full regalia, he
crossed the city to meet first the queen and then the king, for about an hour.
Here are his words full of pride, with which he described the encounter to his
mother: "He examined my compositions
with keen interest, made sure that I would notice his clear appreciation of
many of them, he laughed, made jokes, and concentrated with great composure on
the most serious issues. He expressed appreciations that are of great
significance for my future as an artist and, after seeing all the compositions
- which is already a job in itself - he left with the words: «I am really happy
to have met you here»" [121].
Art and public use of buildings
One of the
aspects of the relationship between art and power is also that of the public use
of art. During the nineteenth century it became evident that artists, even when
they were paid by the monarch, were called to achieve more and more works of public
interest. The case of Karl Friedrich Schinkel reflects in an exemplary way the
conceptual evolution of the architect's role in the century. He was not only an
artist (painter and architect), but also an urban planner, a scholar of the
public use of architecture and a public intellectual committed to the defence
of the artistic heritage. The letters published by Else Cassirer, in fact,
demonstrate that his interests were dominated by a clear practical guidance,
where the choice of aesthetic solutions was always dictated by the end use of
the buildings that he wanted to build. An undated fragment, with the title
"The principle of art in architecture" (Das Prinzip der Kunst in der
Architektur) offers
a definition of the architect's art in terms of adequacy (Zweckmäßigkeit) of the distribution of space, of the
use of materials and construction and finally the ornament [122]. The letter
exchanges with the Prussian authorities on the reconstruction of the theater (Neue
Schauspielhaus) and
on the building of the first museum in Berlin further unveiled his commitment as
architect to the community. The first project was the theatre: on January 15,
1818 he required the king a clear mandate to build a new building that would
become a new city landmark [123], but above all asked for instructions on the
number of Berliners to be welcomed in the opera, concert and dance halls, and
the kind of performances that would have to be accommodated there. In addition,
he also wanted to be sure on the fire protection measures and emergency exits
[124], a theme he considered essential since the previous theatre (of which
only the tympanum of the façade had remained) was destroyed due to a fire. If
the style chosen for the work was neoclassical [125], the architecture was
becoming functional art, and the adequacy principle mentioned above was
therefore the expression of a wider principle of rationality.
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| Fig. 88) Friedrich Schinkel, Parametric drawing of the Neue Schauspielhaus in Berlin, undated |
Based on
the responses received, Schinkel presented a report to the King in the summer
of 1818, which contains among others a series of parametric drawings from the
outside and from the inside. He elaborated four points: "The adequacy of the interior with regard to
the acoustics, visibility, theatre services, the entrance and exit comfort; the
beauty of the interior and exterior; the fire safety, since the frequency of
such disasters in this kind of buildings compels; the possible savings in
implementation" [126].
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| Fig. 89) Friedrich Schinkel, Perspective of the interior with stairs, 1829 |
A few years
later, on January 8, 1823, he sent a short message [127] to the monarch for the
start of planning for the New Museum (Neues
Museum), today curiously called Old Museum (Altes Museum). It was the start of the project of the island of
museums between the two arms of the Spree river, which today attracts millions
of visitors to the city: Schinkel integrated the museum project (including the costs
of construction) with the island's functionality (bridge over the Spree,
impact on ship traffic, better use of banks). The original design was enhanced,
but the king rejected the proposed increase in costs in 1825, forcing Schinkel
to further streamline the project. In October 1826 the new missive to the
monarch instead focused on the adequacy of the buildings to the museum functionality,
with comparative references to the Louvre, the Vatican Museums, and specific
questions on how to ensure that these functions could be carried out in full
compliance with the requirements of honour and decoration on the one hand and
savings needs on the other, which also resulted in the decision to produce an
austere and solid building.
Art and markets
Beyond the
special relationship with the ruling houses, which remained important during the
whole century in Germany, other factors became increasingly important for the
artists over time: the demand for art from the larger public and the ability to
meet this demand by the artists, as well as the price setting mechanisms.
From the
very start, the role of private clients had an important role for engravers,
who did not sell the prints to the king, but targeted nobility, high
administration, military and upper classes. The engraver David Chodowiecki
(1726-1801) was the most successful engraver from his time in Berlin. He was
also the director of the local Royal Prussian Academy of Fine Arts (Königlich-Prussian Akademie der Künste)
in the last thirty years of the eighteenth century. In 1773 he wrote a letter
about the relationship with the clients to his colleague Christian Gottlieb
Geyser (1742-1803), an engraver of Leipzig: "My dear friend, you want to know how I have lived until now. As a slave
in a galley (...). I have to work almost day and night to meet everyone’s
demands, and I do it with pleasure, but I am sometimes confronted with sudden
orders that make me almost impatient; these are things I do not do with
pleasure, and yet I cannot refuse them." [128]
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| Fig. 90) David Chodowiecki, Cabinet of a painter (family), 1771 |
At the
beginning of 1800, new players were entering the market: they were the fine
arts societies (Kunstvereine), which were
created by the public and by the artists as a mediation tools, offering art
works to the bourgeois audience (and not only to the aristocracy) and taking
care of the pricing in such a way as to balance demand and supply needs.
Schadow wrote on it in an undated letter, comparing the activities of the Weimar
and Düsseldorf Vereine. Both institutions
were under the remit of the Prussian state: however, the Weimar Verein was under the control of Goethe
and promoted the neo-classical art, while in Düsseldorf one felt more the
influence of Cornelius and the Nazarenes. There is no doubt that Schadow preferred
the first approach [129]. Blechen in 1830, as we have already seen, attributed to
the Berlin Verein the responsibility of intentional commercial unfairness
towards himself [130].
In favour or against Academies
A
particular aspect of the relationship of the artists with the power and the
world around them was their attitude towards the Academies of Fine Arts, a
legacy of the Eighteenth century that the new century was increasingly questioning.
There were undoubtedly several artists, among those included by Else Cassirer,
who were all their life long perfectly at ease within the world of art academies. In fact, academies offered them
both professional and economic opportunities to realize their projects. That of
Berlin, for example, was chaired - as already mentioned - by Johann Gottfried
Schadow from 1816 until his death in 1850. Cornelius - as evidenced by his
correspondence - was courted as president by the Academies of Düsseldorf, Munich
and Berlin. He was president of the Academy of Düsseldorf from 1819, but the
highest authorities offered him the position of director of the Academy of Munich
and Berlin (by personal letters of the King of Bavaria [131] and the Prussian
Prime Minister von Humboldt [132], the latter envisaging a co-Chairmanship together with Schadow). In 1824 Cornelius announced to a senior official of the
Prussian government and the Crown Prince Ludwig of Bavaria that he had decided
in favour of Düsseldorf for family reasons [133]; in 1835 Cornelius
respectfully declined the invitation of the King of Bavaria and in 1840 he still
rejected the proposal of the King of Prussia.
Other
artists, to the contrary, were highly critical of the Academy.
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| Fig. 91) Gottlieb Schick, Narcissus, 1807 |
The
classical painter Gottlieb Schick did not hesitate to present his complaints to
one of the greatest exponents of German Academia, the idealist philosopher
Friedrich Schelling, on 3 December 1808. Schick was certainly not an artist
breaking taboos in German art history, yet his letter seems to evoke a
nonconformist spirit that was not afraid to use a very direct language to
comment on the new Statute of the Academy, a text which Schelling had sent him
for information, in the hope he would please him. "Yet I must tell you frankly that I am sorry that you want to build a
new hospital for these art works in Munich. And why? To maintain and reproduce
art? But where is art? And who are the artists who will reproduce it? (...) All
the princes of Europe, almost without exception, even the smallest, have a
house of this type in their residences, where this art mummy is preserved,
protected and reproduced" [134].
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| Fig. 92) Ferdinand Waldmüller, After school, 1841 |
The
Austrian painter Ferdinand Waldmüller (1793-1865), teacher at the Imperial Academy
in Vienna, was in favour of a teaching devoted to the study of nature from
life, while the Academy offered an education prepared exclusively to historical
painting. In educational terms, history painting was studied at desk while
landscape painting required to exit the building. The two approaches were seen
at the time as incompatible, and a real religious war took place between supporters
of the one or the other stream. After Waldmüller exposed his criticism of the Vienna
Academy in a booklet published in 1846, he was forcibly put into retirement.
Since then he found himself in serious economic difficulties, so much so that
in 1857 he wrote to the Habsburg tax administration explaining that he was no
longer able to pay taxes. He applied, with no luck, for tax
exoneration, even if he promised to donate part of any future sale to the State.
In 1860 he explained in detail to the tax administration the reasons that had led
to his dismissal (it is really peculiar that he offered detailed aesthetic
explanations of the contrasts with his colleagues to a tax official): "From the years of my youth, and throughout
my life I have dedicated to art and even today, in the twilight of my life, I
have devoted all my strength to it. I found the exercise of the art the only
reason for happiness of my life. That's why I could not bear the sad state of
today’s art, its stagnation in a state of serious illness. As a practising
painter, teacher of the academy and professor I am able to gain a deep insight
of the causes of this reprehensible condition. They are: the way in which the
lesson is organized, which is so totally devoid of soul and on the basis of a
compulsory attendance based on bureaucratic and pedantic methods, and planned
in a quite alien way to the true art; and the lack of a patron. With regard to
the first deficiency, without any fear I have dared in 1845 as a member of the
Governing Board to explain my point of view to my peer colleagues on the misery
of the academic lecture and to confront them with the need for reform. My
report was shelved derisively as the fantasy of a naturalist. This did not stop
me to publish my ideas for a reform in 1846, in a pamphlet with the title «The need for a focused lesson in painting and plastic art». To try and put into practice the strength of
my theories, I have applied them to my course of study and the results of my
students have gone above and beyond all expectations" [135]. And yet Waldmüller was put into early retirement for having
made public the internal quarrels. The need for a review of the teaching
methods in the Academy was recognized in some way by the government, but
without the necessary driving force, and none of the reforms between 1850 and
1860 followed the result, because "freedom
is the essence, the soul of art" [136].
But the surprising conclusion was: "The
State should intervene as a supporter and promoter of all artistic creations
that can be put in place through a completely free education" [137]. The response to the need for freedom should
therefore continue to be based on the administration's role: the State should
guarantee the prices of artworks, taking over the role of patron.
Art in a proto-industrial age- Shadow
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| Fig. 93) Johann Gottfried Schadow, Lying girl, 1826 |
In 1802,
the neoclassical sculptor Johann Gottfried Schadow - whom we have already
spoken about because of his relationship with the royal family and his role in the
Academy - offered us a description of how his sculpture atelier functioned. At
that time he was famous, having already created the model for the
Quadriga on the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin in 1792 (later cast in bronze in
1793 by Emanuel Jury: Schadow’s workshop did not work in bronze). His text, in
the form of a letter, was published in "Eunomia: nineteenth-century magazine" [138], a journal almost
anticipating today’s modern economy, with the title "The workshop of the sculptor". Schadow explained to the readers
the complex, almost proto-industrial organization of the atelier. These were
all imported techniques: "When I
receive applications of German sculptors in my workshop, I have to refuse them
or I need to teach them all again, starting from scratch, because they do not
know these methods" [139]. Schadow,
among other things a personal friend of Canova, was the first German sculptor
to use such foreign techniques in Berlin. His first concern, however, was to
explain to the reader that, while he was adopting modern procedures, "neither he, nor the assistants nor his
apprentices work on piecework or by the hour: it is just pleasure and passion
to push them. No, craft procedures are followed only by the stonemason, the
stonecutter, the grinder and the former" [140].
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| Fig. 94) Felix Schadow, Johann Gottfried Schadow in the study, undated |
To himself
Schadow assigned a dual role: first, he had responsibility for the overall success
or failure of the work in artistic terms; and second, he had the task to
organize the production process, in some way operating as a modern manager. The
organizational function, in fact, presupposed a complete knowledge of all
aspects of the sculpture: "It can be
expected that all this must be done by a complete workshop; it is easy to
realize that a single person may not be enough. And yet there must be a person
who knows and understands how to lead and organize everything. He can do this
only if he has the good fortune to have operated in all the fields of sculpture
and if he had to fulfill functions that were really big and complicated, already sufficiently
early in his career" [141].
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| Fig. 95) Johann Gottfried Schadow, Sketch for a statue of Martin Luther, 1823 |
The
workshop worked with a “team play” allowing the coordination of all stages of
production. It started with the design, based on the laying of models. In
Germany, the sculptor was faced with specific difficulties, whenever one needed
to make female nudes: while "in Rome
there are girls whose profession is to serve as models for artists"
[142], in Germany it was very difficult to find them "for reasons of habits, climate and morality" [143]. Moreover,
it was impossible to pass from the drawing directly to the marble statue
(particularly in light of the difficulties in the implementation of the tissues
and their folds); only a skilled painter like Raphael - Schadow wrote - was
indeed able to paint tissues from life, asking models to wear them: all others
resorted, even for painting, to dummies to which they applied clothes [144].
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| Fig. 96) Johann Gottfried Schadow, The princesses Luisa and Federica, marble statue, from 1795 to 1797 |
The
transition from the design to the statue had many intermediate stages. First, it was needed to produce wooden
figurines (it was a German use; in Italy wax was used) and then clay models (it
was an art in itself, requiring years of learning). Since the
clay is fragile and perishable, it had to be turned into plaster through casts.
Only when the plaster model was completed, one could start the marble work, to which
always worked a former and a pair of artists, to allow more control over
possible errors. The former was assigned basic tasks such as reproducing mathematically
the preliminary plaster model in the block of marble, yet grounded, and marking
in pencil the angles on the block, along which the work must proceed. Then began
the work of the true sculptors. The first artist removed the edges, isolated the
limbs, performed the work of drilling, and produced a first form, described in
a manner similar to that of a snowman. The second artist, the most refined,
worked on the skin, hair and face.
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| Fig. 98) Johann Gottfried Schadow, The princesses Luisa and Federica, Plaster model without the basket of flowers, 1795-1797 |
But it was the
teacher alone who could create the artistic effects making the statue a unique
piece: "Needs and conditions
stimulate our thoughts and lead us to develop methods that I want to describe
here thanks to some examples: I had prepared a [first] plaster model in natural
size for the marble group of the two sister princesses. The highest, who represented
the queen, held a basket in her right hand, which rested on the hip. This
basket had to disappear for orders (which were, among others, right). But the
problem was to keep the arm in the same position. I took a piece of tight and
long textile, I soaked it in plaster mixed with a light beer, I threw it on the
folds that were already present and then I let it fall again freely; the entire
play of the folds which were already present in the model appeared under this
new coating, and I obtained a similar effect to that of some ancient statues,
where under the upper folds glimpsed the lower ones" [145].
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| Fig. 98) Johann Gottfried Schadow, The original design for the group of princesses Luisa and Federica with a basket of flowers, 1795. |
This
proto-industrial description of Schadow’s workshop is two hundred years old,
but could also be applied to the artistic production of our days, often based
on the experimentation with new materials. Many contemporary artists - just
think of Jeff Koons – are working today in studios with a very large team of
assistants playing almost all manual processes, while the artist organizes the overall
process and intervenes only in the design phase and whenever key decisions must
be made.
End of Part Four
Go to Part Five
NOTES
[108]
Künstlerbriefe aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, Berlin, Bruno Cassirer, 1919,
712 pages. Quotations at pages 23 (Graff) and 214-215 (Steffeck)
[109] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 13 (Chowowiecki)
[110] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 56
[111] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 18
[112] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 107
[113] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 114
[114] Künstlerbriefe aus dem neunzehnten
Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 144 and 146
[115] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 147
[116] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 150
[117] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 211
[118] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 228
[119] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 230
[120] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 249
[121] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 251
[122] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, pp. 71-72
[123] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 77
[124]
Künstlerbriefe aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 78
[125] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 83
[126] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, pp. 80-81
[127] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, pp. 85-87
[128] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, pp. 8-9
[129] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 61
[130] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 211
[131] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, pp. 143 and 147
[132] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, pp. 150-151
[133] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 141
[134] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 122
[135] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 285
[136] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 286
[137] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 287
[138] Schadow,
Johann Gottfried – Die Werkstätte des Bildhauers (The workshop of the
sculptor), in: Eunomia. Zeitschrift
des neunzehnten Jahrhundert, Year II. Volume 2, Berlin, 1802, pages 346 – 363.
See:
[139] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 46
[140] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 46
[141] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 50
[142] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 48
[143] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 48
[144] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, p. 51
[145] Künstlerbriefe
aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert, (quoted), 1919, pp. 50-51
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