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8 VI NEW YORK HERALD TRIBUNE, SUNDAY, APRIL 7, 1940 A FESTIVAL OF AMERICAN SCULPTURE By ROYAL CORISSOZ THE founders of American sculpture, in the earlier decades of the nineteenth century, transcended in their influence the intrinsic value of their works. Greenough, Hiram Powers, Thomas Crawford and the rest had much traffic with Italy and the classical hypothesis, resulting in sculptures which, to put it courteously, excited a warmer appreciation in their own time than they excite today. But these artists, on the other hand, contributed to our tradition elements of idealism and dignity which have never lost their force. Men like Ward, Saint-Gaudens, Warner and French lifted them to a higher level, and they persist in contemporary American sculpture. This circumstance is well brought out by the exhibition which has been organized under the auspices of the National Sculpture Society at the Whitney Museum. It is called a "Sculpture Festival," and the designation is well chosen, for this is a singularly happy affair. It shows that plastic art is flourishing with us, and especially that it continues in the path blazed by the forefathers, a path significant of artistic integrity. Of course, there are distinctly modern tendencies to be noted, as in the matter of stylization, and there is one curious exhibit, "We Are the Resurrection," by Warren T. Mosman, which is merely "curious." But that is the only abstraction in the show. The tone of the well filled galleries is generally on the conservative side. It is eloquent, too, of good craftsmanship. * * * Form and Expression IN SUBSTANCE the sculpture covers a wide range, from portraiture to imaginative and industrial subjects. The tests everywhere, of course, are the tests of form and expression, and in both respects the exhibition gives a stimulating account of what has lately been going on in this field of art. For the sensitive interpretation of character look at the vivid "Will Rogers" of Herbert Adams, the dainty "Portrait Head" of Edward McCartan, the spirited "Frederick Macmonnies" of Edmondo Quattrocchi, the admirable "Dr. Lin Yu-Tang" of Jo Davidson, the thoughtful "Lincoln" of Henry Hering, and, indeed, a surprisingly large number of other immediately convincing busts. Portraiture is in good hands when it is in those of our sculptors. Occasionally, it is true, it takes a not altogether felicitous turn. Warren Wheelock's "Sultan of Swat" will doubtless interest the adorers of Babe Ruth, but as sculpture "Aphrodite" [[image: black and white photograph of a statue of a kneeling naked woman]] From the sculpture by A. A. Winman, at the Whitney Museum this statue dos not evoke precisely adoration, and much the same may be said of the tribute to another athlete, the "Joe Louis" of Ruth Yates. But in the long run the portraits maintain themselves as a strong factor in the exhibition. Likewise of prime importance of the nudes, which include some lovely examples. The Rodinesque influence is fortunately not too widely diffused. There are a few illustrations of it, such as the clever "Desolation" of Olympio Brindesi and the similarity well done "Vision" of May Elizabeth Cook. Most of the nudes, however, go beyond the lure of melting modulations of surface. It is the thoroughgoing treatment of form that underlies the beauty of Edward McCartan's "Bather," George Lober's "Eve," Boris Lovet-Lorski's "Ariadne," Robert Aitken's "Fantasy in Marble," Thomas Hudson Jones's "Kneeling Venus," A. A. Welnman's "Aphrodite" and divers other interesting pieces. I would stress the word "interesting." A kind of gracious naturalism has superseded the old classical mode. These things are imaginative, but what they have to say about form is based upon study of life. Their loveliness is not that of any academic convention, but has in it the vitality of true realism. It hardly matters that there is a tincture of studio fixed attitude about the group of Mario Korbel called "The Kiss," or that it once more is suggestive of the tradition of Rodin. It is also fraught with the truth of nature. It is hard to leave the designs that have a certain idealistic import, they include so many fine sculptures, like the beautiful "Fragment of a Memorial" by Rudolph Evans, the charming "Seated Faun" by Janet Scudder, the picturesque "Penelope" by Lewis Iselin, with its wind-blown draperies, the tiny "Daphne" by Jess L. Peacey, the touching "Mother and Child" by Gertrude V. Whitney, the impressive "Niobe" of Joseph C. Fieri. But it is time to observe some of the transcriptions of American life in the homespun, so to say. Some of them are appealing, such as "The Driller" by Max Kalish, the "Ploughwoman" by Mario Sanford and the "Man With Jug" by Ulric H. Ellerhausen. But Cesare Stea's "Construction" did not arrest me long nor was I held by Sylvia Ward's "Rush Hour," more pictorial than sculpturesque. In fact, the sculptor who have turned specifically "contemporaneous" form on this occasion, at all events, a comparatively small body, and that one not particularly inspiring. It is not an unwelcome circumstance that the visitor is thrown back upon the more imaginative things. The truth is they are, as I have already suggested, richly rewarding--and I have not touched upon all the items that add effectively to the ensemble. It is always difficult to pay deserved tribute to individual works in an exhibition as crowded as this one, which contains upward of two hundred sculptures. Yet as I take leave of it I cannot forbear making appreciative allusion, however brief, to various works such as Attilio Piccirilli's "Woman," Donald De Lue's "Apex Group" and his little "Pegasus Panel," Paul Manship's brilliantly decorative "Celestial Sphere," the roomful of beautiful plaques and medals, the important group of large photographs from executed monumental works, like Henry Hering's "Lincoln" for Indianapolis and his "Pro Patria" for the same city; Getano Cecere's "Mother and Child," the many interesting studies of animals, among which Anna Hyatt Huntington's "Greyhounds Playing" and "Fawns PLaying" are fascinatingly conspicuous; a heroic composition like Benjamin Hawkins's "Samson and the Lion," and the amusing little bust of a child, "Doris," by Walter Rotan. And still I have been obliged to leave unmentioned sculpture after sculpture having winning qualities. The lasting lesson of the exhibition is that it strikes such an exhilarating average in ideas an din execution. The matters of a distinctive and engrossing style may be rare. But the masters of the craft of sculpture make an imposing company. They redouble confidence in the American school. * * *
