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"Call To Arms" by Auguste Rodin
I'm at work and I really should be doing my readings, but I'm not feeling like applying myself to work, so I would like to talk to you, my noble audience, about something which compells emotion in me. I know there aren't a lot of you, but I'll manage.
Last year, during the second semester, I had registered myself for a TESL diploma course. This course included a practicum of several hours - now indeterminate due to memory lapses - of real TESL students, mostly from the TESL center. My students were interested in art, so I took them to the Nova Scotia Art Gallery, which was exhibiting a number of works by Auguste Rodin at the time.
You know who Auguste Rodin is, he requires no introduction. We really wanted to see The Thinker. (As it happened, the version of the Thinker that we finally saw was a foot tall and we were a little disappointed.) We also saw a different exhibition of a local Canadian artist who did oil paintings that looked so real, we thought they were photographs.
As I entered the second floor of the exhibition, I was struck by the sculpture right before the doorway - Rodin's Call to Arms. I was drawn to this one and stood there gazing at it for a good few moments. I took in the whole of the sculpture - the figure of the soldier, dying and awkwardly falling. His head bent backward, obviously slain, and falling in the midst of a battle.
Then the figure of the angel rises from behind him, her wings spread out, her fists thrust into the air. And her face was - amazing. I couldn't believe it. There was so much there. There was despair and pain, there was anger blazing through, and this was black-looking bronze. I gazed at her and I felt the hurt, and I felt the fury of her desired vengeance - I felt her call to arms.
I nearly cried looking at the sculpture, so instead I walked around it, taking in every single detail, marvelling at how much motion and emotion there was within the sculpture. It's not smooth. It doesn't have the perfection of form. The roughness is jarring. I heard the words of a poem racing through my head, too fast for me to catch. Just looking into her face made me hear the sounds of battle, a clash of swords, the groan of a dying soldier, and I heard her screaming.
I imagine that the screams of an angel are not meant to be heard by the human ears, but that they can be felt anyway. So within the battle, the angel would be screaming, and the soldiers wouldn't know where the sound is coming from, but they would know it anyway and surge on, fighting to the death.
I also imagine that the screams of an angel are not meant to exist in the first place. Usually, when I see angel sculptures, they're large and wise and beautiful and serene - they also smile if they're not simply expressionless. But she is not serene, not serious, not smiling. She is screaming. When I look at the image I feel like the screams would echo forever.
I read that she is named the Genius of War, or the Angel of War, or the Spirit of War. Sometimes she is just referred to as a "winged female figure" - supposed to represent the Liberty of France. And I look once more into the image and I can't see it. I can't see liberty, I can't see spirit, I can't see a soldier's courage and the victory on a battlefield. I don't see a rally, and I can't see a battle call.
It's all pathos. It's hurt and anger. It's a cry for vengeance. It's all innocence lost to the sight of death and dying and murder and hatred and killing. It's fraught with a kind of insanity, like a mind snapping from the pressure of so much evil things. It's an angel screaming.
It's a beautiful sculpture. I'd like to own a copy of it one day. I don't mean a poster of it either. This is one of those things which has to be seen and touched. The flat picture doesn't work. It took me forever to settle on a picture of her to use for LJ, because, well, it's not as striking.
One day, if you have the chance, go look at it. Look at the face of the dying soldier. Then look at her face. The face of an angel screaming.
Last year, during the second semester, I had registered myself for a TESL diploma course. This course included a practicum of several hours - now indeterminate due to memory lapses - of real TESL students, mostly from the TESL center. My students were interested in art, so I took them to the Nova Scotia Art Gallery, which was exhibiting a number of works by Auguste Rodin at the time.
You know who Auguste Rodin is, he requires no introduction. We really wanted to see The Thinker. (As it happened, the version of the Thinker that we finally saw was a foot tall and we were a little disappointed.) We also saw a different exhibition of a local Canadian artist who did oil paintings that looked so real, we thought they were photographs.
As I entered the second floor of the exhibition, I was struck by the sculpture right before the doorway - Rodin's Call to Arms. I was drawn to this one and stood there gazing at it for a good few moments. I took in the whole of the sculpture - the figure of the soldier, dying and awkwardly falling. His head bent backward, obviously slain, and falling in the midst of a battle.
Then the figure of the angel rises from behind him, her wings spread out, her fists thrust into the air. And her face was - amazing. I couldn't believe it. There was so much there. There was despair and pain, there was anger blazing through, and this was black-looking bronze. I gazed at her and I felt the hurt, and I felt the fury of her desired vengeance - I felt her call to arms.
I nearly cried looking at the sculpture, so instead I walked around it, taking in every single detail, marvelling at how much motion and emotion there was within the sculpture. It's not smooth. It doesn't have the perfection of form. The roughness is jarring. I heard the words of a poem racing through my head, too fast for me to catch. Just looking into her face made me hear the sounds of battle, a clash of swords, the groan of a dying soldier, and I heard her screaming.
I imagine that the screams of an angel are not meant to be heard by the human ears, but that they can be felt anyway. So within the battle, the angel would be screaming, and the soldiers wouldn't know where the sound is coming from, but they would know it anyway and surge on, fighting to the death.
I also imagine that the screams of an angel are not meant to exist in the first place. Usually, when I see angel sculptures, they're large and wise and beautiful and serene - they also smile if they're not simply expressionless. But she is not serene, not serious, not smiling. She is screaming. When I look at the image I feel like the screams would echo forever.
I read that she is named the Genius of War, or the Angel of War, or the Spirit of War. Sometimes she is just referred to as a "winged female figure" - supposed to represent the Liberty of France. And I look once more into the image and I can't see it. I can't see liberty, I can't see spirit, I can't see a soldier's courage and the victory on a battlefield. I don't see a rally, and I can't see a battle call.
It's all pathos. It's hurt and anger. It's a cry for vengeance. It's all innocence lost to the sight of death and dying and murder and hatred and killing. It's fraught with a kind of insanity, like a mind snapping from the pressure of so much evil things. It's an angel screaming.
It's a beautiful sculpture. I'd like to own a copy of it one day. I don't mean a poster of it either. This is one of those things which has to be seen and touched. The flat picture doesn't work. It took me forever to settle on a picture of her to use for LJ, because, well, it's not as striking.
One day, if you have the chance, go look at it. Look at the face of the dying soldier. Then look at her face. The face of an angel screaming.