Sculpture: Only Connect LINCOLN PERRY My mother would take us to New York’s Museum of Natural History when I was a child. Tyrannosaurus Rex, his skeletal tail firmly on the ground, and the gargantuan blue whale, airborne as if leaping from the sea, were of course magical to a young boy. The snowbound diorama of wolves running and leaping beneath the Northern Lights terrified me, and in my bad dreams no glass intervened to protect me from their gleaming fangs. Two groups of figures in bronze loomed in the entry hall’s semi-darkness, one of growling lions, faced diagonally across the huge hall by natives preparing to throw spears. I was enchanted, less by the artistry of the sculptor (I was only a kid) than by this wonderful tension, a drama unfolding right there on the Upper West Side. The reasoning now operating behind the move to take down the statue of Teddy Roosevelt on Central Park West may have been responsible for the removal of this vivid confrontation of hunters and hunted (it was unclear which would be which). On re-visiting the museum decades later, I also missed the busts by Malvina Hoffman that had graced the upper halls, including one of Mangbetu Woman. She was glorious, even more magnetic to a very young boy than the Tyrannosaurus or the whale. She may have been removed as we re-thought the premise of Hoffman’s series, “The Races of Mankind,” or because her spectacular breasts had been polished to a golden glow by young hands reaching up to touch them. While Hoffman herself might have been troubled that her piece’s dark matte patina contrasted so dramatically and distractingly with the woman’s shiny breasts, she may also have felt amused or even honored. For Mangbetu Woman arion 29.1 spring/summer 2021 2 sculpture: only connect had very young admirers, one might almost say worshippers, paying homage or seeking comfort from an inanimate chunk of metal. This might be a tribute to mammary glands, but also to the power of sculpture. Toes of marble saints across Europe have been worn down to stubs by a similar need to bond with objects that transcend objecthood . Jules Dalou’s bronze of the recumbent/tumescent Victor Noir in Paris’ Pere Lachaise Cemetery was briefly fenced to prevent women from rubbing his member, made to glow with an almost supernatural radiance. As an adult, I can’t imagine I’m alone in the desire to touch, to identify or merge with tangible forms in space, be they bronze, stone, wood or flesh. Atavistic needs and memories surely come into play even with abstract sculpture, taking Jean Arp as but one example. His work recognizes these urges and perhaps even teases the viewer, or I might say the fondler. For while our eye may try to comprehend Arp’s biomorphic bulbs, we respond more viscerally, somewhere between touch and a bodily identification, deep in our own sense of being. His piece lacks our symmetry, resembling a squeezed balloon bulging in unpredictable ways, but this quirky swelling might remind us intuitively of our own proclivity to move and grow. Whether we hold such a form in our hands the way cave Lincoln Perry 3 dwellers held the Willendorf Venus 25 millennia ago, or stand humbly before it, some mysterious fusion or projection can take place. Surely some of this power depends on actuality, on being able to circumnavigate, say, this African sculpture in the Art Gallery of Ontario’s collection. It’s our loss if we stride past and dismiss her as foreign or unfamiliar, for the more time we spend in her presence the more we subtly assume her semi-squat, as if we all belong to the same gym. She being about our height, we feel as much as see her, sensing her kindred nature, with weight shifts we’ve experienced ourselves. Scientists call this proprioception, our awareness of location in space as a kind of sixth sense, making this figure’s pinched waist, protruding belly and bent knees evoke an unconscious echo in our limbs, as if mass precedes sight or surface. For me, some of the devotional...
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