Alfred Stevens and the Wellington Memorial

Alfred George Stevens, Victorian painter and sculptor, might have been far better known if he had managed to be more skilful as a businessman. He must go down as a failed genius because of his inability to finish his projects, this being due largely to the exacting standards that he set for himself.

Alfred Stevens's Early Career

He was born in Blandford, Dorset, on 31st December 1817, the son of a house painter. He was largely self-taught, having spent the years from 1833 to 1842 studying classical and Renaissance art in Italy.

On returning to England, he taught design and worked on a number of projects, including designs for the lions that adorn the railings outside the British Museum and the mosaics of four prophets inside the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral.

He also worked on more prosaic designs, such as for domestic stoves and fenders on behalf of a foundry in Sheffield.

Alfred Stevens worked for six years on designs for murals at Dorchester House, on Park Lane. These were never completed, and would have been lost in any case when the house was demolished in 1929 to make way for the Dorchester Hotel. However, some of the cartoons (preliminary artwork) survive, and can be seen at Tate Britain, on Millbank. His style was not so much an imitation of the forms of the Italian Renaissance as a reincarnation of its spirit.

As a painter, Alfred Stevens specialised in portraiture, although no more than 17 of his works are known to have been completed. These were technically excellent, although other portrait painters of his time may have had a better understanding of character. He demonstrated a mastery of colour and of how to apply paint.

The Wellington Memorial

However, the project that occupied him for most of the latter part of his life, and for which he is best known today, was the memorial monument to the Duke of Wellington (who died in 1852) that can be seen in the North Aisle of St Paul’s Cathedral. In 1856 a competition was announced for the commission, which Stevens entered. However, his design was well down the list of preferences, and he was only awarded the commission when proper consideration was given to how the memorial would be placed in the cathedral, framed by one of the aisle archways.

There were difficulties from the start, including Stevens’s totally unrealistic estimate of what the project would cost to complete. He also agreed to produce a full-scale plaster model in situ, which naturally led to much debate over the design, with his intentions being queried at every turn. When the money ran out, Stevens found that he had no choice other than to finance the project himself.

In 1870 there was only the plaster model to show, and the commissioner of works had Alfred Stevens’s contract terminated and his work impounded. No other sculptor could take on the task and Stevens was brought back to the project, under supervision. However, Stevens did not live to see the memorial completed as he died suddenly, in his studio, on 1st May 1875, at the age of 57. There is a suggestion that he may have committed suicide out of despair.

The monument was eventually completed in 1912, some 56 years after it began. Much of the work was done by Hugh Stannus, who unveiled an incomplete version in 1878, and John Tweed, who completed the piece to Stevens’s original design, or as close to it as was possible. Finance was the main problem, with various arms of government refusing to take responsibility or to find the funds. There was also considerable debate over what had been Alfred Stevens’s intentions, as it was well known that his plans had changed at various stages. The monument was to be surmounted by a massive bronze horse and rider, but there were doubts as to whether the structure would take the weight.

The 40-foot-high monument comprises a sarcophagus with a bronze effigy of the Duke of Wellington lying on it. A marble canopy, supported on slender pillars, rises above it. On one side of the canopy is a sculpture, cast in bronze, of Valour overcoming Cowardice and on the other side is Truth defeating Falsehood. The influence of Michelangelo is easy to see in both these bronzes. Other sculptured figures can be seen at the base and on other parts of the edifice. Surmounting the whole structure is the bronze figure of the Duke riding his favourite horse, Copenhagen, as mentioned above.

One difficulty with getting the monument completed was that for many years the unfinished work was placed in a side chapel of the cathedral where it could not be seen to advantage, with some of the excellent sculptural work not being visible. However, the full splendour of the monument is now fully on display in its rightful place. Stevens’s original 10-foot high plaster model of the monument, made for the 1856 competition, can also be seen, but at the Victoria and Albert Museum in South Kensington.

Assessing his Legacy

Alfred Stevens has been regarded by many as the finest sculptor of his age, although the small quantity of his work makes it difficult to judge its quality. What we do know is that his meticulous attention to detail and destruction of anything that he considered to be at all sub-standard means that the work that has survived is the very best that he could do, and, had he left more such work behind him, it would have been equally good.

© John Welford

David (bronze statue), by Donatello

Donatello (full name Donato di Niccolò di Betto Bardi) was probably born in 1386 (in Florence) and was apprenticed to the sculptor and goldsmith Lorenzo Ghiberti, with whom he worked on a number of commissions for statues to adorn churches and other buildings in Florence. He also spent three years in Rome working for the architect Filippo Brunelleschi. 

He soon developed his own style, which was more natural and realistic than that of his predecessors. Both in statuary and bas-relief, his figures were not just monuments but representations of real people caught at a moment of action, whether laughing, grimacing, leaping or twisting. His bas-relief of “Herod’s Feast” (dated 1427) captures the moment when Herod is presented with the head of John the Baptist and the diners react with varying expressions of horror.

His bronze statue of David (probably dating from 1440) holds an important place in the history of sculpture because it was the first nude statue since antiquity (as far as we know) to be designed to be free-standing, as opposed to occupying a place in a niche. It was therefore intended to be appreciated from all angles because the viewer can walk round it rather than merely viewing it from the front.

When we think about statues of David we immediately bring Michelangelo’s iconic image to mind, so it is interesting to compare it with Donatello’s work, completed more than 60 years before Michelangelo’s. For one thing, Donatello’s David is nowhere near as massive, being only five feet high as opposed to seventeen. For another, although both figures are completely nude, Michelangelo’s David is a heroic warrior looking out into the far distance, whereas Donatello’s is a shepherd boy contemplating the object at his feet, namely the severed head of Goliath.

Both Davids are shown with the weight thrown on to the right leg, with the left bent at the knee, but Donatello’s is far more flexed than Michelangelo’s. The right hip is much higher than the left, creating a curve through the entire body, and the left hand rests on the hip with the arm bent at the elbow. The right arm holds the hilt of the sword, the point of which touches Goliath’s head.

Donatello’s David has long hair that trails to his shoulders and he wears a broad-brimmed hat that is decorated with laurel leaves. His body does not appear to be as strong as Michelangelo’s David, with no arm muscles to speak of. It is also completely hairless, without even the pubic hair of Michelangelo’s work. This is very much a young boy, as opposed to a man, and is therefore more faithful to the Biblical account. However, one might wonder whether so slight a lad would have had the strength to wield a sword as massive as the one he is holding.

When Vasari wrote about this bronze in 1568 he commented that it was “so natural and possesses such beauty that it seems incredible that it was not moulded upon a living body”. This is entirely possible, and leads us on to slightly darker thoughts, because we know that Donatello was homosexual.

Donatello never tried to hide his homosexuality, but little is known about his private life either. There is no record of any scandal attaching to the sculptor, so perhaps he was very discreet about his sexual relationships or they were tolerated by those around him. Whatever the facts may be, knowledge of his sexuality goes a long way to explain how he saw his David. This is a body that he clearly admires, not just as a representation of a classic hero but as a sensual form that invites the viewer to come closer. The stance is almost coquettish, and therefore shocking when one realises that this young, attractive male has just cut the head off a giant. 

Michelangelo gave us a hero, but Donatello offers a figure of beauty, seen from his viewpoint as an object of desire. To us today there is something disturbing about it, as we wonder what relationship the sculptor may have had with his model. Can we allow ourselves to admire this work, knowing that it might be telling a story of the abuse of a pre-pubescent boy by a man of 45? 

This work therefore poses questions about how we view art; should we talk about “art for art’s sake” or can we only appreciate a work fully if we enter the mind of the artist and attempt to view it as he did? When we do the latter, do we then sometimes have second thoughts about the moral standing of the work itself?

The statue can be seen in the Bargello Museum in Florence and there is a plaster copy, but with the sword broken off, in London’s Victoria and Albert Museum.

© John Welford

Bird in Space, by Constantin Brancusi

Bird in Space (1923) was created by the Romanian/French sculptor Constantin Brancusi (1876-1957). It can be seen in Paris at the Musée National d’Art Moderne.

This highly polished bronze, which is often regarded as the pinnacle of Brancusi’s work, stands five feet tall, supported on a solid stone base that contrasts with the lightness of the metal. 

Is it a bird lifting into the air? Or a golden feather falling to earth? Its beauty derives from the fact that it is neither symmetrical nor geometrical, and therefore appears to be a product of nature rather than human artifice.

It has a haunting presence that encapsulates Brancusi’s mystic symbolic approach to art, governed by his fascination with universal symbols of life and fertility, and a desire to “arrive at simplicity in spite of ourselves”. 

Brancusi was renowned for reworking his themes in a constant search for purity. That was why he created 28 versions of “Bird in Space”.

© John Welford

Grey Area, by Fred Wilson

Five plaster busts of Queen Nefertiti of Ancient Egypt are set on shelves. Each has been painted uniformly, from plain white at one end to plain black at the other, with shades of grey in between. An artwork based on an ancient image makes a dramatic contribution to the modern debate over racial discrimination.

Who was Queen Nefertiti?

She lived from about 1370 to 1330 BC and was the “Great Royal Wife” of Pharaoh Akhenaten. She may even have reigned in her own right for a short time after her husband’s death. She lived at a time when the Egyptian Empire was at its most prosperous, and she and her husband introduced important religious reforms that included a form of monotheism in that the sun-god Aten was worshipped as the sole deity.

Her image has become iconic thanks to a bust that has been attributed to the sculptor Thutmose and was copied widely throughout Egypt (the original is now in Berlin). It has been justly renowned for its realistic and proportionate portrayal of Nefertiti’s facial features and is always recognisable thanks to the distinctive headgear that she wears.

Fred Wilson’s plaster busts

However, there has long been a debate over Queen Nefertiti’s skin colour – was she light-skinned, like the Greeks, or black like the Nubians? This uncertainty has prompted the American artist Fred Wilson (born 1954) to make a pointed commentary on racial identity.

The full title of this work is “Grey Area (Black Version)”. It dates from 1993 and was seen on display at London’s Tate Modern gallery in 2013.

By placing five alternative views set side by side, the message is conveyed that every skin colour is as valid as every other – it doesn’t matter how you paint her, she is always going to be recognisable as Queen Nefertiti.

The commentary on race is therefore obvious to every viewer – the colour of your skin is completely immaterial – it is who you are, not what you are, that matters.

© John Welford

The Sculpture Garden, Baltimore Museum of Art

In 2006 I made my one and only visit to the United States. It was only for four days, and it came about because I had worked on a book for an American librarian (we were co-authors) and she invited me over for a book signing at a session of the annual conference of the Special Libraries Association, being held that year in Baltimore.

The book signing never took place! The lady in question had a blazing row with the organisers – on an entirely separate matter – the night before the signing was due to happen. They told her that she could forget all about the signing session, which meant my journey had been a complete waste of time. Fortunately, she covered all the expenses so I did not end up out of pocket.

However, that meant that I had a few days in Baltimore all to myself, although I spent quite a lot of time attending conference sessions. On my last day I visited the Baltimore Museum of Art, which is where this photo was taken.

It is in the Sculpture Garden that is part of the Museum. Whether it looks like this today I have no idea – they probably change the exhibits from time to time anyway. At all events, it was a very peaceful place to be at the end of a busy week. There was nobody else around, the trees provided shade from the hot sun, and birds that I did not recognise sang from the branches and hopped across the paths.

One day I might go back – who knows? On the other hand, I have been reliably informed that there is quite a lot of the United States that is also worth a visit!

© John Welford