With all that is said above, let us return briefly to the portrait bust. In a well- known passage, Rudolf Wittkower has introduced the often repeated, but somewhat ill-defined expression ‘speaking likeness,’ using it to set apart Bernini’s
portrait busts of Costanza Bonarelli and Scipione Borghese (figs. 50, 15).74 By
accentuating the word ‘speaking’, Wittkower suggests something beyond the striking resemblance that is commonly meant by the phrasing, and although he does not actually give a direct definition, we may infer one from his characteri- zations of the two busts. Wittkower dwells here particularly on the engagement between portrait and spectator: ‘the spiritual barrier between onlooker and the portrait bust has fallen,’ he writes, ‘and contact is immediate and direct.’ The portraits, he continues, ‘seek contact with others and need partners to bring their faculties to life.’ Their impact, we may infer from the description of the Scipione bust, is the result of the ‘spontaneous expression of the face with the
72 As has been remarked by Bedaux 1998, p. 100. For Raggi see Westin 1978. 73 On the relief see Westin 1974 and Simonetta, Gigli & Marchetti 2003, pp. 112-115.
74 Wittkower 1955, p. 15; for a discussion of the term see Bacchi & Hess 2008, p. 20 and Hill
half open mouth and the lively gaze,’ or in more general terms, of the ‘transi- toriness of the psychological moment’. The portrayed seems to be ‘caught in stone’ while ‘engaged in animated conversation,’ or, in the case of Bonarelli, ‘in the grip of passion.’75
At this point we may well wonder if such a ‘snapshot’ conception can be upheld.76 Would it not be possible to explain the dynamic character of these
busts in terms of Rodin’s example? In effect, already our discussion of the con-
cept of pluralità suggests that such an approach may be worthwhile. In order to
take the step from the full marble to the portrait bust, we may look at a particu-
larly interesting example, the Bust of a King in the National Gallery of Canada,
Ottawa, by the French sculptor Pierre Puget (fig. 51).77 With its almost violent
thrust to the side, the work possesses an animation that we do not often find in busts; rather, it is much closer to a figure such as Algardi’s Attila (fig. 43) dis- cussed above, which may have inspired Puget when he was in Rome in 1662.
Indeed, the dramatic movement of the Attila resonates in the limited structure
of the bust alone. Clearly, the sculptor could afford some liberty as it is obvi- ously no actual portrait likeness, but similar (albeit less extreme) effects are equally found in real portraits, first and foremost those of Bernini singled out by Wittkower. Also Bernini’s busts are not without predecessors, though, as may be illustrated by a closer look at one which may have been particularly influential: a Roman portrait bust from the first century BC, generally identified
as the orator Cicero (figs. 52-53), now in the Musei Capitolini, Rome.78 Already
in the Barberini collection before 1628, Girolamo Tezi locates it in the sala ovata of the Barberini palace in his 1642 Aedes Barberinae ad Quirinalem descriptae.79 Its
presence in this particular room was, it seems, not accidental, for it was here
75 Wittkower 1955, p. 15.
76 Wittkower 1955, p. 15, using the word ‘snapshot’ in relation to Bernini’s drawing of Scipione
Borghese in the Morgan Library, New York.
77 For Puget’s stay in Rome in 1662 see Walton 1969, who also suggests (at p. 585) that the bust
is related to Algardi’s Attila.
78 Stuart Jones 1912, p. 249 [= Filosofi 75]. Also Weil 1989, p. 36 has proposed an antique ex-
ample for the bust, the Pseudo-Sceneca in the Museo Nazionale, Naples, arguing that Bernini ‘probably meant to honor and flatter Scipione Borghese by comparing him to the great thinkers of the past…’
79 Within the Barberini family it changed several times of ownership. The bust entered the
collection of Cardinal Francesco Barberini in 1628 from that of Don Carlo Barberini (Lavin 1975, p. 79, no. 116) and in 1640 it was given to Cardinal Antonio Barberini (Lavin 1975, p. 145, no. 409). In 1640 it had been installed in the Oval room on the piano nobile (cf. Lavin 1975, p. 145, no. 411: ‘…tutti li sopradetti petti sono dentro al ovato dove stanno le sopra dette statue sopra li scabbeloni di marmo bianco…’) of the Palazzo Barberini alle Quattro fontane where it is mentioned by Tetius/Faedo & Frangenberg 2005, p. 473 in 1642 and was still to be found in 1644 (Lavin 1975, p. 178, no. 588) and 1651 (Lavin 1975, p. 263, no. 16). Cf. Lucia Faedo in Tetius/Faedo & Frangenberg 2005, p. 43.
that Cardinal Antonio Barberini held his literary gatherings.80 In fact, Tezi
stages the bust as an actual living presence, conversing with illustrious members
of Antonio’s accademia such as Francesco Bracciolini, Lucas Holstein and Lelio
Guidiccioni. Without further elaborating here on the significance of Tezi’s re-
marks, we may note that the Cicero has the mouth slightly opened, indeed as if
in the act of speaking. The head, slightly larger than life-size, is placed upon a modern torso, characterized by the somewhat irregular drapery which, falling in large folds over the shoulders, joins below the chest where it follows the trun- cation at the lower rim of the bust. Characterized by a prominent nose and chin and high forehead, the face reveals a somewhat older, but vital man. His speech-like action is further stressed by the left turn of the head and the strong asymmetry of the face which becomes particularly apparent when one is view-
ing the work en face: the left cheek recedes more than the other and joins in a
flowing manner (echoed by the drapery below) the folds in the neck, the mouth, somewhat crooked, inclines towards the left, the more prominent left cheekbone tends to hide the eye which lies deeper in the head than the other; hair, brow, nose, forehead, nothing in the left side of the face is the same as on the right side. These asymmetries can only be partly explained by the physical changes brought about by the turn of the head; rather, the artist has tried to suggest a continuing flow, an ongoing suggestion of movement which unfolds itself with the spectator’s every saccade, every step.
At the cost of a consistent treatment of the human physique at a given mo- ment in time, though certainly not without suggesting such a unity, the artist builds his image from impressions, from movements, almost as in a cubist por- trait.81 The fragmentation of the portrait, as that of the whole figure, results in
an ambiguity, but it is an ambiguity that is resolved time and again in the details. When inspecting the work, the spectator is confronted with an image that shifts constantly between ambiguity and clarity. It is an ambiguity that we automati- cally resolve, pulling it towards the clarity of the detail, but always in different ways. In this sense the image is indeed transitional, but rather than caught in one frozen moment, it is a ‘transitoriness’ that itself constantly changes. The
80 Lucia Faedo in Tetius/Faedo & Frangenberg 2005, pp. 38-39, 50.
81 For the suggestion of movement by superimposing different moments in cubism see Gott-
lieb 1958, pp. 24-25 and Cleaver 1963, p. 235: ‘Cubist sculpture, like Cubist painting, tends to present us with a sequence of different points of view or different positions of the image. We often see a profile combined with a full face, the top and the side of a glass at the same time. The artist gives us a more complete experience of the object. Thus he develops a summary of experience from different moments in time and implies the relativity of time and space. He has carried further Rodin’s idea of preceding and succeeding movements or moments in time.’
image is, accordingly, essentially instable. Nonetheless, it remains within the parameters set out by the artist.82 In his double role as artist and spectator, he
can manipulate infinitely until a desired equilibrium is found. The liveliness of the figure, or at least one of its central elements, is collateral to, or a symptom of, the instable, plural character of the bust. Plurality, in other words, is both a means to the vivification of the image, as well as a means to suggest movement.
The Beholder
As is suggested by Wittkower’s remarks on Bernini’s busts, their transitional character gives the sculptor a powerful tool to address the beholder. In paint- ing, we tend to follow the picture plane; it is only when somebody looks out at us directly, that we have the feeling that the picture plane is crossed and the image reaches out to our world. The inaccessibility of the suggested space be- hind the plane is always eminent. Unlike the window or the mirror, our own movement does not change our perspective on the picture, the world beyond the frame remains totally hidden to us and our perspective on the depicted
scene stays the same.83 Our own bodily movement, constitutive of our capacity
to perceive, is accordingly denied by the painting. This very phenomenon also explains why sometimes we may have the feeling that a person looking out of the picture follows us with his or her eyes: why we would expect that by step- ping aside we change our angle on the face, the face is actually skewed but our angle does not change.84 How different is the art of sculpture; as a tangible,
physical art, our perspective on sculpture changes with every step. As has often been observed, the possibilities offered by this characteristic of sculpture is only fully exploited in the seventeenth century.85 The beholder is invited to an inter-
action with the work, and here movement plays an important role. So how do we actually respond to the suggestion of movement in these sculptures—and how do they responds to us?
In his Journal, Chantelou recounts how he and Bernini visited the Parisian church of Saint-Joseph des Carmes for prayers. Now, in the same church can be found the monumental Madonna and Child (fig. 54) after a design by the famed sculptor, executed by his one time assistant Antonio Raggi.86 Whilst 82 Zitzlsperger 2002 has convincingly argued that Bernini’s state portrait are closely tied to
socio-political conventions.
83 See on the perspective inherent to the painting Hopkins 2004. 84 Koenderink, Doorn & Kappers 2004.
85 E.g., Wittkower 1958, p. 101.
86 Wittkower 1981, no. 53; Westin 1978, no. 21. Del Pesco 2007, pp. 274-275, n. 158 cites an
entry from Lorenzo Magalotti’s Parisian diary which confirms the attribution to Raggi; Maga-
Chantelou was admiring this statue, he writes in the Journal, a few of the ‘good Fathers’ came up to him and Bernini, arguing that ‘to many people it looked as though the Infant Jesus of the Virgin […] was blind as there was no colour in His eyes’. Chantelou’s response indicates that he looked at the work primarily as an art critic: ‘I said to them that nor there was any in the hair, nor in those [i.e., the eyes] of the Virgin, nor red in their lips…’87 Yet, there may be some-
thing more to the suggestion of the ‘worthy fathers’ than mere ignorance in artistic matters. In fact, even nowadays the emptiness of Christ’s eyes strikes the beholder immediately. That those of the Madonna are not incised either, on the other hand, is much less disturbing: the light hits the eyelids but the eyes themselves, downcast, remain in the shadow. The whole posture of the Madonna makes it instantly clear that she looks down on the Christ child, at ease, in a loving manner. The attitude of the child is markedly different: his pose a mirror image of the Río de la Plata (fig. 55) on Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers, he turns away from his mother, almost breaking out of the compo- sition, making a violent movement to the right, contrasted by the forceful ges- ture of the right hand to the left.88 The child’s slight furrow betrays a hint of
panic—the panic in his eyes, one would almost say. It is there, in the eyes, that one looks for a suggestion of the cause of the child’s violent movement, yet one finds no answer.89 The emptiness of the eyes makes it hard to place the
work; the movement of the child remains unexplained, even if the averting gesture of the left hand may give some indication. As recent research has lotti/Doglio 1991, pp. 184-185 (5 July 1668): ‘…v’è una statua d’una Madonna a sedere con un bambino in braccio, donata dal cardinal Antonio [Barberini]. Ell’è creduta universalmente del Bernino, ma ell’è di Antonio Raggi detto il Lombardo, allievo dell’Algardi.’ In Brice 1685, vol. 2, p. 125 it reads: ‘…il y a une Statuë en marbre blanc, des plus belles que l’on puisse voir, d’un nommé …. disciple du fameux Cavalier Bernini…’ Two years later, in Brice 1687, p. 200 the text has been changed to: ‘…il y a une Statuë en marbre blanc, des plus belles que l’on puisse voir, d’un nommé Antonio Raggi eléve de l’Algardi…’ And in Brice 1698, vol. 2, p. 231 it reads: ‘…il y a une tres-excellente figure en marbre blanc, des plus belles que l’on puisse voir. Elle est d’Antonio Raggi, sur-nommé le Lombard, éleve de l’Algardi, lequel l’a fait à Rome sur un model du fameux Cavalier Bernin.’
87 Chantelou/Stanic 2001, pp. 113-114 [11 August]: ‘…quelques-uns de ces bon Pères m’ont dit
qu’il y avait beaucoupe de gens à qui il semblait que le petit Christ de la Vierge que je regar- dais était aveugle, ne lui voyant couleur aux yeux. Je leur ai dit qu’il n’en paraissait non plus à ses cheveux, ni à ceux de la Vierge, ni aucun rouge à leurs lèvres…’ Trans adopted from Chantelou/Blunt 1985, p. 113.
88 On the startling pose of the Río de la Plata see Kauffmann 1970, p. 189. The pose was also
used by Il Baciccio for his beato Giovanni Chigi; cf. Ana Maria Rybko in Faggiolo dell’Arco, Graf & Petrucci 1999, cat. 58.
89 The iconography of the frightened Christ has been cause for some discussion, particularly in
relation to Michelangelo’s Taddei tondo; see for a critical evaluation Easton 1969. The theme was certainly more common in the seventeenth century, cf. Finaldi & Kitson 1998, p. 92, no. 39. In our case, there can be little debate about Christ’s expression.
shown, a frightful look to the side changes our focus of attention in that direc- tion, thus indicating that we search the pupils for a clue for the origins of our companion’s fears.90 In case of the Christ child, now, we are at a loss. We
search his eyes and find nothing.
Raggi’s choice to leave the eyes blank makes us aware of our responses in an interesting manner. Our disturbance by the empty eyes indicates that we rely on them, expect something to be there. We search the work for hints, and let our attention be guided by what we find; essentially in a manner that is not much
different from how we act in an actual conversation.91 Sculpture not only sug-
gests movement, but has us move in unison. While Raggi’s Virgin and Child leaves us, in a sense, empty-handed, artists often know very well how to explore such responses in a more constructive manner.
The gesture of the Christ child is one that appears again and again in ba- roque sculpture; we found it in Raggi’s relief of the Death of Saint Cecilia, in Al- gardi’s Attila and a very similar gesture may in fact be discerned in Bernini’s early Saint Bibiana (fig. 4) in the Roman Church of the same name.92 As the first
commission where the sculptor was not only responsible for the sculpture, but also for the space in which it was to reside, he had the possibility to adjust the one to the other. While framed by the heavy aedicule, the animated figure is not confined to it; reaching out over the niche she enters the space of the beholder,
appearing to respond to the light entering through a hidden window.93 Bernini
seems to have been inspired here by some variation of Praxiteles’ legendary Cnidian Venus, most probably the acclaimed Medici Venus (fig. 69), depicted as if
she is caught undressed by an intruder and tries to hide her nakedness.94 As in
the Apollo of the Borghese Apollo and Daphne, Bernini has taken an ancient marble and brought it to life. Varying on the subtle defensive gesture found in
some of the antique examples, the delicate hint of the knee of the Cnidian Venus
has been given more prominence under the heavy drapery, as has the guarding hand above the genital area, an indication of the saint’s chastity, maybe—also suggested by the girdle around her waist—but at the same time an excuse to animate the rippling draperies. Leaning in towards the whipping post, she at
90 Tipples 2006.
91 See the classic study Argyle & Cook 1976.
92 Wittkower 1981, no. 20; Kauffmann 1970, pp. 78-84.
93 See in particular Fehrenbach 2005, pp. 12-13 and, more in general on hidden light sources in
relation to sculpture, Davis 2002.
94 The Medici Venus was recorded at the Villa Medici in Rome in 1638, and moved to Florence
in 1677 where it was restored by Ercole Ferratta; see Haskell & Penny 1981, cat. 88 and Goldberg 1983, pp. 227-251.
once both embraces her martyrdom and becomes a personification of fortitude. At its base, finally, the erba di Santa Bibiana, or hemp agrimony, associated with the Saint’s healing powers.
Where the attributes of the whipping post and the palm branch, the latter somewhat clumsily tucked away under the left hand, are a clear indication of her martyrdom, her whole pose and inclination is less straightforward. The opened, outstretched right hand can be read in an iconographic manner, as an indication of refusal—a suggestion that is further enhanced by the averse incli-
nation of the head and right knee.95 We may thus associate it with the saint’s
refusal to worship pagan idols, indeed similar to that in Domenichino’s fresco of The condemnation of Saint Cecilia (fig. 56) in the Roman church of San Luigi dei Francesi.96 Yet, the gesture of the Bibiana is more ambiguous; it is a transitory
gesture that has equally been interpreted as an opening up towards heaven and
God the father depicted above her.97 In effect, the work can be read as a con-