The sculptor Antonio Canova (1757-1822) is a study in contrasts: a devout Catholic who admired (and was admired by) the American Founding Fathers, who weren’t Catholic. A sculptor who carved portraits of Napoleon Bonaparte and his family — but led the effort after 1815 to bring the masterpieces Napoleon had stolen back to Italy. An artist renowned for the silky smooth surfaces of his marble statues but who also made clay models that seem modern in their roughness and emotional expression.
And finally: the last major sculptor who believed it was necessary to master both modeling (the additive process of building up a form in a soft material like wax or clay) and carving (the subtractive act of chopping, clawing and polishing to reveal a form within hard stone).
From now until Oct. 9, visitors to the National Gallery of Art in Washington can savor the work of this great contemporary of Beethoven, Thomas Jefferson and Goya. The exhibit, “Canova: Sketching in Clay,” takes us behind the scenes of the artist’s process and shows how he opened the way to modern industrial production of sculpture, where the artist’s idea is translated precisely into final shape by trained artisans in his workshop.
One of the best insights into Canova’s genius comes in the gallery devoted to religious works: the three clay models (“bozzetti” in Italian) for “Adam and Eve Mourning the Death of Abel.” As his health declined around 1820, Canova built a temple in his hometown of Possagno, where he would be buried. This figure group was one of the sculptures for the never-finished altar.
With the sculptures, Canova adds an episode to the Biblical story of Cain and Abel, when Adam and Eve find and mourn the body of their slain younger son. This rarely depicted event — the first death — is not in Genesis but was recounted in rich detail in Jewish medieval literature, the so-called Midrash, which became accessible in Christian Europe during the Renaissance. In Canova’s clay models, Adam tilts back his head in anguish. His eyes are deeply sunken, neck muscles taut, mouth gaping as if crying out. Canova clearly was evoking the many classic images of the Lamentation of Christ.
Canova’s first papal tomb, that of Clement XIV in the church of the Holy Apostles in Rome, is a life-size photograph display in the exhibit. This tomb stands over the doorway to the sacristy near the high altar of the church. Canova got this commission in 1783 as a young stone carver recently arrived from Venice, much to the chagrin of the Roman art establishment.
In the exquisitely detailed painted terracotta model Canova made for the papal statue, the pontiff extends his right hand in a gesture of both blessing and baptism. The tomb itself has a simple, classical design that breaks with the theatrical papal tombs of the previous century. Canova incorporates two allegorical figures, Piety and Humility, who not only represent these virtues, but double as mourners. A door opens under the figure of the pope, suggesting the passage from life into death.
Another aspect of the exhibit is its recreation of Canova’s working method. In the first gallery, we see the master’s fingerprints in quick clay sketches of “Madame Mere,” a statue of Napoleon’s mother Letizia Bonaparte. Then, twice as big, comes a plaster model where Canova worked out the final pose. Finally, the marble statue (1807, on loan from a British collection) shows further subtle changes in the pose and drapery. The face, unlike the sketches and clearly studied from life, conveys the warmth and humor of the sitter.
In the last gallery, visitors can follow the poignant “Penitent Magdalen,” from a terracotta sketch to a full-size plaster model with “points” to guide its realization as the marble statue. A masterful video re-enacting Canova’s process plays inside the exhibition and is also available online.
Hamerman writes from Reston.
