Many of us can imagine how an artist composes a picture on paper, but how a sculptor converts a lump of stone into a sculpture of beauty remains one of life’s enigmas. We can see or read the steps in the sculpting process, but the sculptor’s skill still enchants us.
An upcoming exhibition at the National Gallery of Art in Washington may help shed light on the age-old mystique of creating sculptures. Opening on June 11, “Canova: Sketching in Clay” explores the importance of clay in neoclassical sculptor Antonio Canova’s artistic process. Only around 60 of his terracotta (fired clay) models now survive—more than 30 of which will be on display, along with some of the sculptor’s plaster casts and finished marbles. It’s the first time in over 50 years that Canova’s terracottas have taken center stage in an exhibition. Together, these exhibits show the evolution of a sculptural masterpiece from its initial conception through its gestation and birth.
According to the ancient Roman writer Pliny, sculptors began creating clay models to make stone carvings during the reign of Alexander the Great. Early in his career, Canova became known for reviving the ancient Greek heritage of sculpture. Some at the time even called him the modern Phidias (circa 480–430 B.C.). Canova would have been flattered by the comparison to the ancient Greek sculptor, as he believed that “the works of Phidias are truly flesh and blood, like beautiful nature itself,” according to Jane Martineau and Andrew Robinson in their book “The Glory of Venice: Art in the Eighteenth Century.”
In Praise of Clay
Sculptors made models in wax, clay, or plaster. Few of Canova’s wax models have survived. He preferred clay to plaster presumably because plaster was less forgiving to work with, notes the exhibition book.We can’t see Canova at work, but his clay models give us a unique peek into his artistic process. In the 19th century, workshop assistants created the finished sculptures from their masters’ models. Normally, each assistant would specialize in one aspect of the process. However, Canova’s workshop differed. According to the exhibition book, Canova insisted that his assistants knew how to carve as well as model. He believed “it was necessary for a young man to learn how to use the hammer and the chisel if he really wanted to become a great sculptor.”
Canova’s assistants made his plaster casts and marble masterpieces, but only the master’s hands kneaded, shaped, and carved each of his clay models.
In 1768, esteemed art historian and archaeologist Johann Joachim Winckelmann wrote:”Modeling in clay for the sculptor is like drawing on paper for the painter. And as the juice from the first pressing of grapes makes the best wine, so the genius of an artist is displayed in all its naturalness and truth in works in soft material or on paper,” according to the exhibition book.
Much like an artist sketched ideas onto paper, Canova molded his initial ideas into clay. He used these clay models, called “bozzetto,” to roughly work out compositions. It’s important to remember that these models acted as tools for the sculptor—he made them in minutes.
In the exhibition, we can see a series of such models in varying states depending on what Canova wanted to explore and express in these studies. For instance, in some of his terracottas featuring “Adam and Eve Mourning the Dead Abel,” Canova seems to have just been working out the figures’ general positions and expressions. Somehow Canova evokes a sense of anguish through the shape of the figures. In his “Penitent Magdalen” terracotta, we can see how he pinched the clay with his fingers, immortalizing his fingerprints, and how he left track marks as he dragged his wooden modeling tool across the clay. Canova quickly marked out Mary’s facial features, indicating the direction of her gaze as she opened her arms in remorse.
Once Canova decided on his composition, he’d make a detailed clay model called a “modello” to show to patrons, and often a larger model that his assistants used to cast in plaster to make the final marble sculpture. Experts consider Canova’s terracotta modelli “Pope Clement XIV” and “Piety” to be his greatest surviving examples. Both will feature in the exhibition. In “Piety,” Canova rendered a woman heavily draped from head to toe; the fabric barely skims her body as she bows her head. Experts believe that Canova’s modello of Pope Clement XIV seated on a throne and wearing his papal finery may have been a presentation piece. According to the exhibition book, Canova painted the plaster model white to show his patron how the finished marble would look. Even though Canova had seen hints of color pigments on ancient Roman sculptures excavated in Rome, the long-held belief that classical sculptures were pure white reigned supreme.
Canova also made clay studies of certain details, such as the head, hair, or facial features. Experts believe that he copied the facial features from life. Early in his career, in Venice, he created a delightful terracotta portrait of Doge Paolo Renier, a Venetian statesman. It was never realized in marble, but traces of white paint can be seen on the piece hinting at what it may have looked like if it had been made. Renier wears the distinctive “corno ducule” hat indicating his position as the Doge of Venice. Canova rendered Renier’s character. He looks approachable, and there’s a slight curl to his lips hinting at a smile. Somehow, Canova made the terracotta head appear luminous, with elastic-like skin and small wrinkles under the eyes and at the corners of the eyes that naturally happen when one smiles.
Canova’s terracotta “Study of a Boy,” made some 10 years after Renier’s portrait, will also show exhibition visitors Canova’s exquisite detailing. For instance, in the piece we can see how he carefully rendered each of the boy’s fine curls. Cracks fracture the youth’s otherwise unblemished face, demonstrating the fragility of the terracotta medium. Most of Canova’s terracotta heads have not survived due to the medium’s fragility and also because once his assistants had cast the piece in plaster the terracotta became redundant.
Pointing to Marble Masterpieces
Canova’s assistants cast these modelli in plaster and then, to make the finished marble, they copied the plaster casts using a technique called pointing.According to “The Oxford Companion of Art,” pointing works on the principle that three fixed points can be used to pinpoint another point in relation to them. In the first century, ancient Roman sculptors used a primitive version of pointing to copy Greek statues. In Hellenistic times, stonemasons used a plumb line and frame. In the Renaissance, artists developed several methods for copying models. But not until the early 19th century was a pointing machine invented such as that which Canova’s assistants would have used. The machines consisted of a frame that had movable arms with adjustable measuring rods to measure the depth of each point that needed to be drilled. We can see how the pointing machine works on a statue from St. John’s Cathedral, in the Netherlands. Three sturdy rods act as the fixed points, while a thinner rod points to the tip of the nose, reflecting the measurement needed to be carved in the marble.
In the exhibition, we can see small crosses on the previously mentioned “Pope Clement XIV” plaster modello, which may have also been guides for pointing although no pointing marks were made in the plaster. We can, however, see myriad pointing marks on the plaster “Head of the Penitent Magdalene,” which Canova’s assistants made to accurately transfer his design and carve into marble.
We can see that Mary holds her head higher in the plaster “Head of the Penitent Magdalene” modello than in the terracotta “Penitent Magdalene” bozzetto previously mentioned.
A grand example of Canova’s artistic process—from creating his bozzetto to his finely finished, highly polished marble—can be seen in the exhibition via his portrait of Napoleon’s mother, in the work “Madame Mère (Letizia Ramolino Bonaparte).” Canova looked to his ancient peers for inspiration for the seated piece, modeling Bonaparte’s pose in the second-century marble statue known as the “Capitoline Agrippina.” In Canova’s terracotta bozzetto for the piece, Bonaparte sits on a throne; her arms seem to rest on the throne’s arms as she turns her head and gazes out over her shoulder. She’s not at ease nor does she have a commanding presence. In Canova’s terracotta modello, he relaxed her pose. She rests one arm on the throne’s back and gazes forward. In the plaster modello used to point the design into marble, he adjusted her pose again. Her arm still rests loosely on the back of the throne, but he turned her head and her whole body to the side, making her engaging and commanding to the viewer. In the final marble piece, which experts laud as the greatest of Canova’s portraits, we can see how the sculptor and his assistants animated Bonaparte in stone.
Even though each of his marbles were made by many hands, Canova always supervised the process, and the final carving hand was his. He always finished the figure’s flesh, head, and facial features, shaping the cold, hard marble into warm, soft flesh. Canova’s secretary Melchior Missirini wrote: “One could always see him investing a passion for the object … with tears, with happiness, and with general convulsions of his body.” Lastly, an assistant cleaned and polished the marble, and sometimes Canova applied a tint to the finished piece.
Viewers were encouraged to see Canova’s sculptures by torchlight, as experts at the time believed the ancients once did. Canova took care to illuminate specific parts of his works. “The polish throws upon the parts which are lighted so great brilliancy as frequently to make invisible the most laborious diligence,” Winckelmann wrote. According to the website of the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, the Duke of Bedford noted Canova’s piece “The Three Graces” for “the morbidezza—that look of living softness given to the surface of the marble, which appears as if it would yield to the touch.”
Through Canova’s clay works, we can get a greater sense of the sculpting process. It won’t dispel the mystique of sculpting, but perhaps we can see what Winckelmann meant when he wrote: “And as the juice from the first pressing of grapes makes the best wine, so the genius of an artist is displayed in all its naturalness and truth in works in soft material.”
