which appeared on faces with the clarity of a dial, easily read and full of signs of the times, was greater and more diffuse in bodies, more mysterious and eternal. Here there was no deception. Here indifference appeared as such, and pride was simply pride. Stepping back from the stage provided by the face, the body removed its mask and revealed itself as it really was behind the curtains of costumes. It was here that he found the spirit of his age, just as he had discovered the spirit of the Middle Ages in its cathedrals: gathered around a mysterious darkness, held together by an organism, adapting to it and in its service. Human beings had become temples, and there were tens of thousands of these temples, none of them identical and all very much alive. And the most important thing was to demonstrate that they were all of one God.
Rodin followed the paths of this life year after year, a humble pilgrim who never stopped thinking of himself as a beginner. No one knew of his travails; he had few friends and even fewer he could trust. Sheltered behind the efforts that sustained him, the work continued to grow, awaiting its time. He read widely. He was often to be seen on the streets of Brussels reading a book, yet we can’t help but wonder if these books were but a pretext for a deep absorption in himself, in the unfathomable task before him. As with all who are called to action, this sense of the enormity of the work ahead provided incentive, heightening and concentrating his powers. And when doubt and uncertainty appeared, when impatience with that which was coming into being threatened, when the fear of an early death crept in, or the hardships of daily existence, they were always met by a quiet, resolute resistance, by defiance, strength, and confidence, by all the flags that would be unfurled in the victory yet to come. Perhaps the past took his side in those hours; the voice of the cathedrals, which he never stopped listening to. From books, too, came considerable support. Reading Dante’s Divine Comedy for the first time was a great revelation. He saw the suffering bodies of another generation. He saw, across the span of countless days, a century stripped of its clothes, and he recognized the poet’s great and unforgettable judgment on his age. They were images that only confirmed his own sensibility, for when he read of the weeping feet of Nicholas the Third, he already knew that feet could weep; indeed, he knew that there is a kind of weeping that encompasses the whole body, and that tears can come from all the pores.
The Monument to the Burghers of Calais, 1889.
Bronze, 217 × 255 × 177 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Burgher of Calais: Andrieus d’Andres, figure from the second model, 1885.
Bronze, 61.5 × 22 × 46 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Head of Pierre de Wissant, c. 1885–1886 (?).
Terracotta, 28.6 × 20 × 22 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Jean de Fiennes, dressed, 1885–1886.
Bronze, 208.3 × 121.9 × 96.5 cm.
Musé Rodin, Paris.
Burgher of Calais: Eustache de Saint Pierre (study).
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Burgher of Calais: Pierre de Wissant, figure from the second model, 1985.
Bronze, 70 × 29 × 29 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
From Dante he came to Baudelaire. This was no tribunal of judgment, no poet ascending on the hand of a shadow to heaven. Here, rather, was a simple human being, a mere mortal who suffered like everyone, lifting his voice high above the din, as if to save us all from destruction. And there were sections of these lyrics that stood out from the rest, passages that seemed to be formed more than written, words and groups of words that were molded in the hot hands of the poet, lines like reliefs to the touch, and sonnets like columns with twisted capitals, bearing the weight of troubled thoughts. He felt dimly that the abrupt ruptures of this art ran up against the beginnings of another art, and that it longed for this other art. He came to think of Baudelaire as a predecessor, an artist who refused to be led astray by faces but sought bodies instead, in which life was greater, more gruesome and more restless.
From this time forward, these two poets were always close to him. His thoughts reached out beyond them but always returned. In that seminal, formative period of his art, when the life he was learning was still nameless and without significance, Rodin’s thoughts roamed in the books of these poets, and he found in them a past. Later he would draw again on this rich material as a source for his own creative art. Figures would arise, weary and entirely real, like memories from his own life, making their way into his work as if they were coming home.
Finally, after years of solitary work, he surfaced with one of his works. It was a question put to the public, and the public responded negatively. So Rodin withdrew within himself for another thirteen years. These were the years in which, still toiling in obscurity, he developed into a master, gaining complete command of his medium, constantly working, thinking, and experimenting, uninfluenced by his time, which took no notice of him. Perhaps it was just this – that his whole development had proceeded in such undisturbed serenity that would give him such tremendous confidence later, when he was attacked, and when his work became the object of no small criticism. When others began to doubt him, he no longer had any doubt in himself. All that was behind him. His fate no longer depended on the recognition and acclaim of the public; it was already decided by the time people tried to annihilate him with hostility and disdain. Rodin was immune to the voices of the outside world in the time of his becoming. There was no praise that could have led him astray, no censure that might have confused him. Like Parsifal, his work grew in purity, alone with itself and with great, eternal nature. His work alone spoke to him. It spoke to him in the morning when he awoke, and reverberated like an instrument in his hands late into the evening. His work was invincible because it came into the world mature. It no longer appeared as something that was coming into being and thus seeking justification; rather, it was as if reality had emerged, and one simply had to reckon with it. Like a king who learns of plans for a city to be built in his realm, considers whether to grant the privilege, hesitates, and then finally decides to check the prospective site only to discover that the city is already complete, its walls, towers, and gates standing as if for eternity, people came when they were finally summoned, and found Rodin’s work complete.
Balzac in Dominican Robe, 1891–1892.
Plaster, 108 × 53.7 × 38.3 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Monument to Balzac, 1898.
Bronze, 270 × 120 × 128 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris.
Two works mark this period of growing maturity. At the beginning stands the head of The Man with the Broken Nose, at the end the figure Rodin called First Man. The Man with the Broken Nose was rejected by the Salon in 1864. This is not difficult to imagine, for one can’t help but feel that with this work, entirely whole and sure as it was, Rodin had already reached full maturity. With the forthrightness of a great confession, it violated the precepts of academic beauty that were still predominant at the time. Rodin had given the wild gesture and widemouthed scream to his Goddess of Revolt on the triumphal arch in the Place de l’Etoile in vain; Barye, too, had created his graceful animals in vain; and Carpeaux’s Dance was greeted with scorn, until familiarity eventually made it impossible to see it for what it was. Nothing had changed. In those days sculpture was still models, poses, and allegory – the simple, facile, and leisurely work that consists essentially of more or less accomplished variations on a few sanctioned gestures. In this environment the head of The Man with the Broken Nose almost surely would have caused a storm much like the one that broke only when Rodin’s later works appeared. But it seems more likely that,