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Rubin Enyon, 'Gallos', 2016

 


Standing eight feet tall, this anonymous, bronze character surveys the cliffs in Tintagel Island. Its name, Gallos, translates to 'power', yet visitors have rewritten the sculpture's history, even in its short lifetime, to associate the figure with the legend of King Arthur. With crown and prominent sword supporting an ephemeral weight, this is a figure who could certainly reference the tale of the sword in the stone, which only the rightful King of Britain could release. The figure's two bulky hands cross over the sword's pommel, furthering his claim over the weapon. In fact, this is a relatively stable part of the work, along with the cloaked face which is fully cast in bronze and contrasts the gaps and holes defining the sculpture more broadly. Crown and sword become the most prominent features, returning to the idea of power as the figure peruses the landscape and Atlantic Ocean beyond. 

Bronze casting was a technique perfected since the Renaissance and came to be associated with skill and expertise, especially through the achievement of a 'one pour' sculpture. From the smoothly finished and athletic, erotic bronze sculptures of Alessandro Vittoria to the mottled surfaces and twisted forms of Rodin's The Shade or The Prodigal Son, bronze sculpting produces diverse and intriguing works. Here, Rubin Enyon uncovers a new and unique avenue of bronze casting. Gone is the smooth finish, the luxurious glowing surface of the medium in this outdoor setting, or the traditional associations with the nude. Instead, Enyon punches great gaps in the body of the work which provide sightlines out across the craggy coastline. These holes also give a sense of raggedness to the figure, half cloaked in a torn, tattered garment which, coupled with his ungainly boots, rolled up trousers and heavy coat, lack any grace or majesty. Perhaps Enyon is making a further comment on authority and power here, in giving it to a seemingly ordinary man, linking once again to the wide connotations of the work's title. 

However, the sculpture is not entirely welcoming, approachable or even of this world. Its monumentality means it looms over both a visitor and the wider landscape. The cloaked face is menacing, swathed in deep shadow where only a down-turned, dissatisfied mouth can be identified. The man is also armed whilst we remain defenceless - he may be draped in rags, but in jutting out both his elbows and hands which rest on the sword, the figure makes himself larger than he really is. Enyon's sculpture is therefore interesting through its achievements of creating both a monumental presence, but also an ephemerality. With the gaps in the bronze, the figure could equally disappear, detach from the ground, or float away at any moment. This ghoulish appearance is at odds to the title of 'power' which would surely need to evoke stability, strength and steadiness. The battle between presence and impermanence reflects the conflict over the true description of the sculpture, whether it be a representation of nobody, the legendary King Arthur or simply positioned to inspire visitors to dive into the wider epic history of Cornwall. Enyon leaves much up to the viewer in this representation. 

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