Another artist to know: Antonio Canova

Realize first! Canova (early 19th Century) came long after Bernini (early 17th century). Styles had changed-- for Bernini, Baroque was the style, and it was all about intense detail and twisting movement, passion and bulging veins! For Canova, it was Neoclassicism. While passion still technically figured in here, it was the beautifully restrained kind, a sort of loving sensuality to be captured by clean lines and perfect execution; delicacy and grace were the words of the day.

Unfortunately, much of Canova's best work is in Russia (I've no idea why, since he was intensely Italian), and I am not very likely to get all the way over there anytime soon! However, what I have been fortunate enough to see is worth sharing.

Eros Reviving Psyche

This is the piece that really got me. It sits in a corner at the Louvre, a good corner, but a corner nonetheless. The result is two-fold: first, you can actually really look at it. No bumbling tourists milling around, trying to keep their kids from poking the centuries old masterpieces. Second, is that the sun from the window creates a beautiful scene, the light like water on the soft curves.

The subjects Canova chose seem to capture such great intimacy- don't ever let it be said the Neoclassicists were stuffy or stiff! Case and point, this is a scene from the final moments of one of the sauciest, steamiest myths the crazy ancient Greeks had to offer. Doubtful? Know this: During one of the many (many, many) times Eros and Psyche *ahem* get together, she conceives their daughter Voluptas... goddess of sexual pleasure.

In my abbreviated version, the story goes like this: Aphrodite, as usual, got jealous of a beautiful mortal girl; this time she was named Psyche. Being the conniving ~censored~ that she is, she tells her son, Eros, to go shoot Psyche up on love juice via his arrows. When Psyche wakes up, Aphrodite will be sure to have the ugliest creature she can find there for her to fall in love with. Eros, who admittedly does arguably have the worst mother on the planet, finally caves and flies down, making himself invisible so he can sneak into her bedroom. 

However, then comes my favorite part: as he's leaning over her, admiring her beauty, she suddenly wakes up and *girly squeal* looks straight into his godly eyes despite the invisibility. He is so startled that he accidentally pricks himself with his own arrow, and BOOM: the god of love is tripping hard.

Much chaos ensues, but eventually he gets her in bed, the one stipulation being that she can't ever turn on the lights- long story short, she has no idea who she's sleeping with, and he wants to keep it that way (kinky). Of course this doesn't work out, she eventually peeks, and it all goes to shit. Aphrodite, beyond a doubt now the worst mother in law in the world, tries everything she can think of to get Psyche killed, culminating in sending her to underworld to fetch some beauty-- apparently she'd actually lost some of hers caring for Eros, who is throwing the most unnecessarily melodramatic tantrum eeeever (...I guess the god of love can probably make it worth while to put up with his mood swings, though).

Of course it's a trap, Psyche peaks in the box, and eternal sleep suddenly jumps out of the box and melts all over her body. It is at this point that Eros decides to grow a pair, get over what I guess are body image issues, and finally stands up to his mom and goes to save the girl.  

This is the moment at which, having fully forgiven her (and hopefully feeling pretty sheepish after all she went through thanks to Aphrodite), he wakes her up- it's the first time they've seen each other in ages. To get back to the sculpture, I have to say this Canova is one of the most beautiful expressions of love in stone that I've ever seen; the incredible interweaving of the arms says it all. Bernini focused on myths of abduction and violence; Canova (and the Neoclassics in general) express real romance, moments of intimate reflection, and tingling potential energy.

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The second Canova I've seen while traveling (and chronologically the first) was back in Rome, at the Borghese Museum, where they also had so many of the Bernini sculptures. Haha, this one, besides of course being an incredible rendering of a reclining female, also has a great streak of sass to it, both in the work itself and the story behind it.

Pauline Bonaparte as Venus Victrix

Reportedly, when the obnoxiously over-conservative ladies inevitably asked, appalled, ''How could you have posed for this sculpture wearing so little?" Paulina apparently replied that it had not been a problem, as there had been a stove in the room as he worked (essentially the clever 19th century version of "shove it.").

Technically though, they're not really sure if Paulina did in fact pose nude for the sculpture since, while the face is a "slightly idealized" portrait, the body is clearly a neoclassic ideal. Essentially, this seems to me a polite way of saying, ''yeah, Paulina was really attractive, but have you seen the body on that sculpture?? Daaaaamn." 

Overall, the whole piece does speak of supreme beauty though- there's no doubt Canova wasn't paid well for this! Because the marble is of such fine quality, and thanks to the tedious waxing process the sculpture underwent after, her entire body shines with this beautiful, warm luster. In her hand too (it's a bit difficult to see), she is also holding an apple to emphasize that this is Paulina as Venus, the apple here being proof that Paris chose her as the most beautiful of the three bickering goddesses. 

~

The final two Canova works I've been fortunate enough to see are actually in the V&A Museum in London- the work of great artists always is always so dispersed. I can't decide if that's a tragedy or a necessity, since so many obstacles would stand in the way of bringing all the sculptures together (politics especially, I'm sure!). At any rate, this sculpture was his career launcher in Rome.

Theseus Vanquishing the Minotaur

 At first, it seems so odd to see a sculpture not of the battle itself, but of the aftermath. And then, it seems even odder to not see Theseus in some kind of "HELLS YES" position, or at least in some sort of stance that would indicate he could walk away from an explosion wearing nothing but jeans, a black tshirt, and sunglasses. That's what I love about Canova and usually the other masters in general: they have a gift for capturing the moments that often do not get attention-- this is what is happening here.

The myth this time is fairly straightforward, and one you probably already know: The King has been sacrificing young men and women to keep the monster he created happy, but when Theseus arrives on the scene, he slams his fist down on the table and exclaims that he won't allow this to keep happening. Ariadne, the king's clever daughter, falls for his nobility right off the bat, and lends him a few life-saving trinkets.

The catch though, as you also probably already know, is that the Minotaur is kept in a massive labyrinth, and what Ariadne gives him is a special ball of string so he'll be able to find his way back out. Now, because we know the story so well, it's easy to become desensitized to what is really happening here. Think about it: You're Theseus. You have volunteered to go slay a super-powered mutant monster that has no problem eating children, and nobody can really tell you what to expect because it lives at the center of an incredibly complex, pitch black maze. As you stand at the entrance, barely able to see in past a few feet, Ariadne runs up. "It's dangerous to go alone! Here, take this." *ball of string*

Keeping this in mind, back to the sculpture: What Canova shows is a unique way of demonstrating the incredible nature of this epic battle. This man is exhausted, shaken, the seething adrenaline still tingling in his system. He has staggered backward to shakily sit on the fallen body, and looks down in something like awe at the monster, its dead muscles still bulging and solid. It is an angle of a hero we rarely ever see or even imagine, and somehow seeing this moment makes his triumph all the more awe-inspiring.

Finally, like I said, the V&A also has one other Canova. Although this one does not have quite so much of a myth behind it, it is conveniently enough the last piece he ever worked on.

Sleeping Nymph

Because she is simply meant to be a random sleeping nymph, the sculpture is now free to become only about the art and execution itself, and is therefore a great example of Canova's paradoxical style. She seems stiff for a sleeping figure, over-posed, and yet there is still such an alluring softness about her body. The V&A website describes her as both cold and ''drained of blood,'' yet still ''intensely erotic,'' and I have to agree.

 Again, there is a beautiful shine to the marble, and this seems to add to this sense of heady sensuality somehow presented in chill stone. She is both vulnerable and untouchable, presented as in that middle realm between life and death: sleep.

These are, to my knowledge, the only pieces of Canova's I've been able to see so far. 

There is a curious story about one of his most famous pieces, The Three Graces: Essentially, the original and best wound up (again) in freaking Russia, but a Duke of England fell so in love with the sculpture he commissioned Canova to make another. This one, though not quite as masterful, is also beautiful, and so a few decades after the Duke's death and some intense legal battles, the V&A and the National Galleries in Scotland teamed up to buy it. Now it spends three years in one place, then the three years in another, and unfortunately, it seems I just barely missed it. Maybe I'll get to see them in Scotland??

Overall, Canova's other work is surely worth a google image search- although of course we have artistic masters of our own day and age, and I do believe they are doing work that is equally as impressive, I also believe it tends to be often expressed in new technologies and mediums. On top of this, especially as a student of the humanities, I feel like our generation is constantly plagued with the question of "is this art?" We agonize over where to draw the line, and accordingly, I truly believe we are swamped with people who take advantage of that, passing off uninspired, overpriced, shock-value creations as "pushing boundaries."

I love looking at the older, marble sculptures because it helps to put things back in perspective; pieces like these help me to breathe in the midst of what sometimes feels like impending artistic anarchy. I feel when we lose our sense of ''what is art,'' we must turn back to the masters and try again to recognize what it is in their work that inspires our respect. Whatever this tiny, undefinable seed is, it is always, always within all immortal works of any form; it is this we must try to find in ourselves, and this which we should try to discover in the sea of what is being created today.