Skip to main content

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. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Mark Rothko, 'Light Red over Black', 1957

  My eye is not drawn to the painting itself but the title of the painting, 'Light Red Over Black'. We would automatically think that the black is on top of a red background, but Rothko has flipped this around, subverting the title just like he subverting the meaning of what it was to be an artist and what Art actually was. During this time, art was going through rapid changes, with abstract expressionism coming into full force (Rothko, Pollock). But Rothko showed that all this change was for the good, even if for him, it was short lived.  The colour red in this painting is searing and the black struggles to fully cover this velvety border, especially at the bottom of the canvas. Unlike the black squares which have a hazy quality to their edges, the red is clear and impregnable. It is hard to figure out what this represents - the Tate has suggested a window perhaps, but if it is a window then what are we looking out into? Perhaps it is night, or perhaps the viewer is catching ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Egon Schiele, 'Dead Mother', 1910

  My eye is drawn to the hand. Those long, bony fingers are so characteristic of Schiele but here they are particularly skeletal and deathly – the veins seem to have been injected with poison. And they are a warning right in the foreground of the painting that keeps the viewer at bay as an outsider to this incredibly intimate relationship between mother and child, and sets the tone of death and mortality which hangs over the whole image. The mother cradles her child in a womb-like shroud, alluding to childbirth and the death of the mother explained in the title. She seems desperate to feel that bodily connection with her child, highlighted by the emphasis on her craned neck as she tries to connect to the baby. There is a clear link between the mother’s bent neck and the child’s bent neck, again emphasising their longing to be with each other. However, the darkness around the child is almost like ropes, with flecks of white in the painting making it look as though the darkness is wo...
Post a Comment
Read more

M.K. Ciurlionis, 'Funeral Symphony VII', 1903

  There are many who have been left out of the art historical canon and Lithuanian artist and composer Mikalojus Ciurlionis is one of them. Producing over 200 musical works and 300 paintings, his career was extensive, prolific and multifaceted. Yet, he was a 'genius cursed by fate' according to artist and critic Alexandre Benois, dying from exhaustion in 1911. Praised within his lifetime, Ciurlionis is virtually invisible today, especially to a Western viewer. Describing one artwork by Ciurlionis is not enough to appreciate his diversity and synthesis of artforms - pastels, as this work shows, vignettes, oils, designs for stained glass, even abandoning the easel for cardboard. More importantly, he was indebted to the Lithuanian landscape. Ichiro Kato refers to him as 'Lithuanian in nature and national feeling...a genius from the Baltic lands', reflected in works including  Serenity depicting idyllic, peaceful settings of mountains and lakes, devoid of humanity. Like man...
Post a Comment
Read more