From the Sounds of St. Francis, 4 June, 2017
The terracotta statuary created by the Della Robbia family of
Florence is instantly recognizable: white figures surrounded by vivid blue
backgrounds, often wreathed by bright green leaves and fruit. But these statues
don’t always get so much respect. Modern connoisseurs of high Renaissance art
usually swoon over the Leonardos, Raphaels, and Michelangelos instead and
galleries sometimes consign Della Robbia statues to the hallways or overstuffed
“ojects d’arte” rooms.
In their own time, though, the Della Robbias (an uncle, a
nephew and a grand-nephew) were highly regarded and received enormous numbers
of commissions. In some ways, victims of their own success, the family
developed a unique process for glazing terracotta, leaving behind vivid colors
and a glassy sheen. Their impressive workshop method allowed extensive
production for over a century. We tend to overlook their statues because there
are so many of them, not just at world-class museums like the National
Gallery, but in all sorts of private collections (including an impressive
Madonna and Child that hung in the library of my former parish in Cooperstown).
If you’ve been to Tuscany or Umbria you will know how cheap knock-offs of Della
Robbia work abound in souvenir shops, cheapening one’s experience of beholding
the real thing.
Della Robbia: Sculpting with Color in Renaissance Color, an
exhibition on view at the National Gallery (but only for a few more days—it
closes on June 4) does a fine job of restoring the balance in our appreciation
of these statues. The largest exhibition of Della Robbia statuary ever
presented in North America, it gathers over 40 works from international
collections, including some that have never be-fore left Italy. The exhibition
reveals the versatility of the workshop, and the ingenious ways in which they
pressed the limits of the terracotta form. Those with an interest in the
technical side of art production will learn a great deal, and many of the
pieces are simply stunning.
When Allison and I visited the exhibit earlier this week we
were particularly taken with a dramatic lunette of the resurrected Christ, hung
(as designed) over a main doorway. Christ stands in placid triumph over his
broken tomb while the guarding soldiers collapse in dread. The careful attention
to detail on the armor and shields of the soldiers is striking, as is the
dynamism of the figures, which seem ready to burst from their elegant fruited
wreathing. The wreathing itself seems to pulsate with energy—a frog is poised
to jump from a branch of quinces, pomegranates burst open and flowers twine
over all, as if nature itself awakens to rejoice in the Easter miracle.
A large and impressive statue of the Visitation created by
Luca, the first of the Della Robbias is among the featured pieces. It is
unusual in being free-standing, and its four sections fit together without
pins. The figures are remarkably delicate, and the pure white glazed clay is
much more life-like than stone would be. Mary and Elizabeth clasp each other in
joy and affection, but unusually the aged Elizabeth is also kneeling before
Mary, adoring the Redeemer already present within her.
These are, on the whole, quite tender works of art, especially
for sculpture. Most of the works in this exhibition have religious subjects,
and, for me, this tenderness is, the key to their devotional value. The
Renaissance was, of course, a great time of artistic experimentation, and for
many artists of the period, the technical bravura sometimes gets in the way of
the religious meaning of the scenes they depict. We admire the mathematical
precision of a Masaccio painting or the precise musculature of a Michelangelo
sculpture. But they won’t often bring us to our knees. The subject could be a
heroic saint or a decadent pagan and we would notice exactly the same features.
The artists are more interested in showing off their skills than opening the
door to a deeper appreciation of holy things.
It seems otherwise with these statues. Della Robbias were made
for generations, and after a few years, few people never commissioned one for
the sake of having a conversation piece on the wall. The Madonnas seem
genuinely prayed over, the virtues contemplated. The resurrected Christ looks
confident enough to evoke a bit of dread and trust in the believer who beholds
Him. That tender-ness and devotional appeal is probably, in part, a function of
the medium. But it also reflect the admirable humility of the craftsman, who
was willing to point beyond the work of his own hands to mysteries of undoubted
and eternal value.
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