In Rosalind Krauss’s influential study of later nineteenth- and twentieth-century
sculpture, Passages in Modern Sculpture (1977), the author repeatedly raises two
key issues: one focusing on how some of the most innovative sculpture produced
in this period sought to negotiate the ‘juncture between stillness and motion,
[between] time arrested and time passing’, the other exploring how this work’s
increasing focus on sculptural surfaces could highlight the liminal tensions
between an object’s internal form and its external contextualization.1
In
addressing both issues, Krauss evokes the notion of ‘dematerialization’ to try to
explain how even the most dense, solid and fixed sculptural object could also in
some cases be implicated in spatial and temporal modes that emphasize
transparency, insubstantiality and movement.
The notion of sculptural ‘dematerialization’ has most commonly been applied
to works associated with a Minimalist aesthetic and produced in the 1960s and
’70s.2
But as Krauss suggests, the term also can be applied to a variety of artistic
strategies deployed by sculptors in the later nineteenth and first half of the
twentieth century, when the physical and metaphysical qualities of sculpture as a
medium were being questioned ever more intensively by artists and critics
working in a time not only of cultural but also of social and political upheaval.
Although Krauss considers in passing the role played by photography and, to a
lesser extent, film in the dematerializing tendencies of some of the sculpture
produced in this period, this article will focus explicitly on how such twodimensional
media interrogated the very nature of sculptural materiality.
Specifically, it will consider a number of artists, beginning with Auguste Rodin in
the 1890s and continuing into the first half of the twentieth century with
Medardo Rosso, László Moholy-Nagy, Naum Gabo and Constantin Brancusi, who
used photography and, later, film to try to ‘dematerialize’ and thus redefine the
art of sculpture itself. In the process sculpted works sometimes lost their very
‘quality as objects’.3
At the same time, this article will explore how these artists
used photography and film to try to control the reception of their sculpture
through such reproductive media, which could mediate between the objective
reality of sculpted objects and the subjective responses of beholders.
One question that arises is what might have driven these artists to try to
dematerialize their three-dimensional works through the medium of
photography and, in some instances, film as well. Krauss, in her sensitive analysis
‘All concrete shapes dissolve in
light’: photographing sculpture
from Rodin to Brancusi
Geraldine A. Johnson
199 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
of these artists as well as others working in the same period, focuses almost
exclusively on the aesthetic impulses that seem to have caused a radical shift in
the understanding of sculpture from being a medium traditionally defined by its
internalized solidity, stasis and clarity to an outwardly turned medium that
actively sought to implicate beholders in its changeable surfaces, unstable
contours and kinetic aspirations. More recently, scholars have linked Rodin, Rosso,
Moholy-Nagy, Gabo, Brancusi and the works (photographic as well as sculptural)
they produced to more general contemporary social, historical and intellectual
contexts: the increasing availability of electric light and other technological
advances; the political fall-out of the ‘Affaire Dreyfus’ in France in the 1890s; an
interest around the turn of the century in the ‘haptic’ versus ‘optical’ reception of
sculpture as discussed in the writings of the curator/art historian Alois Riegl and
the sculptor/art theorist Adolf von Hildebrand; the development of radical new
scientific and philosophical approaches throughout Europe in the first decade of
the twentieth century as seen in Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity or Henri
Bergson’s concept of multiplicity; the traumatic social, political and personal
consequences of the First World War and the Russian Revolution in the 1910s; the
inexorable rise of Fascism in Germany and Italy in the 1920s and ’30s; and the
general shift in the balance of power (cultural as well as economic and sociopolitical)
from Europe to America in the years of and around the Second World War,
driven in part by the emigration of so many artists, intellectuals and scientists.
One could, of course, try to suggest that the dematerializing tendencies seen in
the work of Rodin, Rosso, Moholy-Nagy, Gabo and Brancusi were related or
perhaps even a response to the ‘disintegration’ of the traditional social, political
and cultural-scientific order in this period. But while the broad trends outlined
above, as well as innumerable personal circumstances particular to the figures
considered here, clearly played an important role in these artists’ persistent
interest in dematerializing the sculpted form, it would be simplistic and even
disingenuous to attribute this tendency with any certainty to any single
contemporary cultural-historical event or trend – or, indeed, even to a cluster of
such events or trends. Rather than trying to make such tenuous connections,
therefore, this article instead seeks to highlight the surprisingly central role
played by photography and, to a lesser extent, film in radically redefining
sculpture as a medium in this period in spite of – as much as because of – the
heterogeneous circumstances in which the artists in question worked. Indeed, it
may well be the growing awareness by avant-garde artists of the very qualities and
possibilities of photography as a medium, especially when confronted by the
materiality of sculpted forms, both traditional and ‘modern’, that precipitated the
impulse to use photographic media to make ‘all concrete shapes dissolve in light’.
Rodin and sculpture’s shadowy substance
By the time Rodin embarked upon his artistic career, hundreds if not thousands
of photographic images had already been taken of statues and reliefs.4
Indeed,
some of the earliest known photographs depict sculptural subjects and, with the
increasing availability of relatively cheap photographs, by 1863 the Art Journal
could confidently claim that: ‘Now . . . sculpture has been photographed into . . .
200 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
popularity’.5
Many of the photographs taken of sculpture in the medium’s first
decades served a primarily documentary purpose. By the later nineteenth
century, however, a number of artists, beginning with Rodin, started to use the
medium to explore the complex ways in which photography could not only
record the external appearance of three-dimensional art objects, but also could be
used in a highly subjective manner to question long-held assumptions about the
nature of sculpture – and of sculptural materiality – itself.
From the mid-1870s onwards, Rodin actively incorporated photographs and
photographers into his artistic practices, although he apparently never actually
took a single photograph himself.6
Whether buying photographic reproductions
of Michelangelo’s figures for inspiration, selling carefully selected images of his
own works to legions of admirers, or experimenting with alternative possibilities
by sketching directly on photographs of his unfinished statues, the medium
became increasingly important in the genesis, marketing and documentation of
his sculptural oeuvre. In one instance, the sculptor even used photographic
evidence to try to ‘prove’ his case when falsely accused of casting a figure now
known as The Age of Bronze directly from life. To silence his critics, Rodin
commissioned photographs of both this statue and the young soldier who had
posed for him, thereby allowing viewers to appreciate by means of a
photographic comparison the significant differences between the sculpture and
its living model.7
More significantly, Rodin also sometimes exhibited photographs
in place of actual sculpted works, with the two-dimensional medium thus literally
displacing the latter’s three-dimensional presence.8
Rodin’s imaginatively varied use of the photographic medium soon inspired
younger contemporaries, such as Rosso, and, eventually, the next generation of
artists whose careers began in the first decades of the twentieth century, including
Moholy-Nagy, Gabo and Brancusi, as will be discussed below. Photography,
however, was not just a helpful but humble tool. Rather, for Rodin and other
photographically oriented sculptors, the medium could also serve to redefine
sculpture itself by transforming solid, palpable and static three-dimensional
matter and volume into an ever-changing and ever-changeable series of elusive
surface textures and light effects. In other words, for these artists, photography
could, under certain circumstances, seem to liberate sculpture from its very
physical materiality and temporal stasis.
Many of the photographs first taken at Rodin’s behest were relatively
straightforward and sharply focused visual documents that sought to record
individual figures or, occasionally, the studio environment as a whole from a
fairly ‘neutral’ point of view, with the statues evenly lit and generally posed headon.
By the 1890s, however, Rodin’s appreciation of the medium’s possibilities, as
well as the ongoing controversies, political as well as artistic, associated with his
designs – his statue of Honoré de Balzac, for instance, had even been dragged into
the aftermath of the infamous ‘Affaire Dreyfus’ – led him to intervene more and
more actively in stage-managing and thus controlling photographic shoots.9
In
the case of Eugène Druet, one of his favourite photographers at the turn of the
century, Rodin encouraged him to record works such as the Eve from the
continuously reworked Gates of Hell or his notorious Balzac from a variety of
201 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
angles and in a mysteriously shadowed,
disembodying half-light – an effect, Rodin claimed,
that reproduced the back-lighting he used when
modelling such figures, but that also would have
recalled the experience visitors would have had
during his carefully orchestrated studio tours by
candlelight (fig. 1).10
In such photographs, the threedimensional
figures seem to dissolve into their
penumbral surroundings, as if on the verge of
dematerializing into the ‘silence which surrounds
things’ that Rodin’s works evoked for the poet Rainer
Maria Rilke.11
Paradoxically, however, the very works that seem
most dematerialized in photographs are, when seen
in the flesh, actually some of the most materialistic
works made in this period, with surfaces marked by
highly individuated textures, protrusions and voids
that serve to highlight the very physical processes
involved in their making. Krauss has argued that this
emphasis on surface values and on the temporal
processes of production shifts the beholder’s focus
from a sculpture’s fixed, internal form as the locus of
its meaning to the much more transient ‘manifest intelligibility of [its] surfaces’.12
This contrast is made even clearer by comparing the insistent materiality of the
highly worked surfaces when seen close up with the dematerializing photographs
of the statues as a whole increasingly favoured by Rodin. As Alex Potts puts it,
Rodin’s sculpture thus becomes readable ‘both as material object, its hard metallic
or plaster or stone surfaces here and there reflecting the light, and as shadowy
presence immersed in an enveloping atmosphere’.13
In the case of Rilke, cited above, it seems likely that it was his familiarity with
the dematerializing photographs that inspired his sense of an incorporeal silence
when contemplating Rodin’s sculpture. Rilke, who served as the sculptor’s
personal secretary in 1905–06, would certainly have been familiar with the actual
plaster, marble and bronze figures. But he would probably have been equally
familiar with their photographic reproductions, as confirmed by his use of
lantern slides when lecturing on Rodin, as well as by the fact that photographs
were displayed and sold at the sculptor’s exhibitions and were also readily
available in postcard format for visitors to the studio.14
In a lecture given by Rilke
in 1907, he explicitly urged his audience to look at the slide projected on the wall
behind him of ‘a gigantic Balzac’, a figure that for him seemed to be ‘surrounded
by the whole atmosphere’.15
In the same lecture, Rilke claimed that Rodin, master
of ‘the problem of light’, created sculptures in which ‘the shadows melt and pass
into a transparent clair-obscur’, an effect most readily observed in photographic
images, rather than in the highly tactile and volumetric objects themselves.16
Such
comments seem to confirm that Rilke’s reactions to Rodin’s works were, at least in
part, in response to slides or photographs as much as to the actual sculpted works.
202 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
1. Eugène Druet, Monument to
Balzac (Rodin’s ‘Balzac’ in halflength),
c. 1898, gelatin silver
photographic print, 29.6 * 39 cm.
Musée Rodin, Paris (Ph. 379)
The impact of the essentially Pictorialist photographs increasingly favoured
by Rodin, in which his sculptures were transformed into almost impalpable
beings emerging from an atmospheric veil of silent shadows, is even clearer in the
case of the writer Charles Caffin.17
Although Caffin could have seen Rodin’s Balzac
at an earlier date, his 1909 article in the journal Camera Work was written
specifically in response to a series of photographs of the work exhibited in New
York’s Photo-Secession Gallery, not to a recent encounter with the object itself.
Using words that recall Rilke’s comments, Caffin evocatively described the ‘silence
[that] renders audible the footfall of incorporeal presences: the shadow seems to
be the substance’.18
Rather than the work of a studio employee, however, the
photographs seen by Caffin were the product of an active collaboration between
Rodin and the American photographer Edward (a.k.a. Eduard) Steichen. Steichen,
who was first inspired to travel to Paris to meet Rodin after seeing a small
photograph of the Balzac in a Milwaukee newspaper, may have been the junior
partner in this enterprise in terms of fame and renown. But Rodin was clearly
impressed by his visitor, hailing him as ‘a very great artist’, praise not usually
accorded to photographers at this time.19
Although Druet, possibly the author of
the newspaper photograph that first caught Steichen’s eye, had already depicted
the Balzac around the time of its controversial unveiling in 1898 as a shadowy
figure emerging from and submerging back into the studio’s crepuscular
darkness, the young American’s series of photographs of the Balzac taken a
decade later went even further in undermining the fixed, material reality of the
statue (figs 2a, 2b, 2c).
Apparently at Rodin’s suggestion, the plaster cast of the sculpture that had
seemed ‘harsh’ and ‘chalky’ to Steichen by daylight was dragged into the garden,
set on a rotating platform, and photographed using a variety of exposure times
over the course of two long, sleepless nights.20
The impressive results were first
displayed at the Photo-Secession Gallery, then pared down to just three key
images published in Camera Work in 1911 as a temporal and kinetic sequence that
moved all around the figure.21
Here, the passage of time and changes in the
photographer’s physical position, when paired with the atmospheric effects made
possible by Steichen’s use of gum bichromate prints, transformed the static, solid
203 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
2. Edward Steichen, three views
of Rodin’s Balzac (left to right):
The Open Sky, 11 p.m., 25.2 * 22 cm;
Towards the Light, Midnight,
19.3 * 21.2 cm; and The Silhouette,
4 a.m., 16.8 * 22 cm, 1908, gum
bichromate photographic prints.
Published in Camera Work, nos.
34–35, April–July 1911, pls. II–IV
(photos: Musée Rodin, Paris,
Ph. 235, Ph. 226, Ph. 224)
statue first into an unearthly ghost eerily melting into the surrounding sky, then,
spinning around the figure, into an inky black silhouette that no longer bears
any recognisable relation to the actual white plaster cast.22
The ability of
photography to transform the very materials of sculpture can also be seen in
photographs of Rodin’s celebrated Burghers of Calais taken by one of the
sculptor’s underlings, the photographer and patinateur Jean Limet, also in about
1908. Once again, the slightly unfocused lens and rough surface textures of the
gum bichromate prints leave viewers uncertain about even basic physical facts
such as whether the hazy, mysterious figures are cast in dry white plaster or dark
gleaming bronze.23
While the highly atmospheric images of Rodin’s works taken by Druet,
Steichen and Limet serve to dematerialize the figures, the grainy, roughly
textured, and often technically imperfect photographs themselves recall the
unfinished surfaces and purposefully preserved imperfections that were the
hallmarks of Rodin’s sculptural style. Likewise, Rodin’s obsession with endlessly
revising, revisiting and even replicating sculptural designs in different media and
with slight variations in surface texture and scale, but without ever finally
committing himself to a single, finished ‘original’, found its perfect echo in
photographs that showed seemingly endlessly mutable figures from one slightly
different angle after another.24
In other words, the figures depicted within the
photographs seemed to deny the very materiality of sculpture, while the physical
qualities of the photographs themselves and their repetition of sculptural
subjects as variations on a theme echo key aspects of the very real and very
material objects Rodin produced in collaboration with his studio assistants.
Rosso and the impression of sculptural (de-)materiality
Although the Pictorialist aesthetic that underlies Rodin’s photographic
preferences influenced many of his fellow artists, at least one disgruntled
contemporary was convinced it was his own example that lay behind this new
sensibility. Despite being nearly two decades younger than Rodin, Medardo Rosso
was certain that his own roughly textured ‘Impressionist’ sculptures had actually
inspired Rodin’s most audacious and innovative works, including the
controversial Balzac.25
Rosso, who had left his native Italy for Paris in 1889, and
Rodin initially had been friendly, mutual admirers, even exchanging sculptures as
gifts in 1893.26
Indeed, one of Rodin’s favourite photographers, Jacques-Ernst
Bulloz, may have photographed one of Rosso’s works as well.27
But by the 1904 Salon d’Automne exhibition in Paris, held six years after the
Balzac had been unveiled, Rosso had had enough. Convinced that this notorious
statue owed much to his own impressionistic sculptural style, Rosso requested
that his works be displayed near Rodin’s in order to allow visitors to make their
own comparisons. Rosso’s submission to the Salon consisted of a few of his own
small-scale sculptures and sculptural replicas, together with photographs of
some of his other sculpted pieces. In order to be certain that there would be at
least one Rodin exhibited near his works, Rosso also included in this display the
sculpted torso that the former had given him as a gift more than a decade earlier.
Rodin himself chose to be represented at the exhibition only by photographs of
204 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
his sculptures, including a very slightly cropped version of Druet’s shadowy,
half-length print of the Balzac (see fig. 1).
The exhibition committee did, in the end, hang Rodin’s photographs near
Rosso’s installation. But this simply confirmed the Italian sculptor’s suspicion
that his much better-known colleague was appropriating the artistic strategies he
had developed without due acknowledgement, as suggested by the note Rosso
scribbled alongside a photograph of this curious multi-media ensemble:
‘Confrontation at the Salon, Paris’.28
The point is reiterated by Rosso’s handwritten
additions to the photograph of his name and most of his own works’ dates of
conception, thereby giving textual support to the visual evidence of his claimed
chronological precedence vis-à-vis Rodin. Equally tellingly, Rosso later seems to
have produced a photo-montage that restaged this ‘confrontation’, with his own
works now almost crowding out Druet’s photograph of the Balzac and a print of
another sculpture by Rodin (fig. 3). This collage may well have influenced photomontages
that subsequently appeared in publications by the artist’s personal
friends, including the critic Ardengo Soffici, although it is unclear whether Rosso
himself produced these images or merely advised his colleagues.29
In his writings,
Soffici not only effusively praised Rosso as the ‘precursor, inspiration
[illuminatore], and in a certain sense teacher of Auguste Rodin’, but reprinted
essays by like-minded critics who similarly published photographic comparisons
205 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
3. Medardo Rosso (attributed),
photo-montage of works by
Rosso and Rodin, all originally
exhibited at the 1904 Salon
d’Automne in Paris. (clockwise,
from upper left corner: Rosso,
framed photograph of a detail of
his Impression d’omnibus; Rosso,
pasted-on photograph of his
Bambino alle cucine economiche;
Druet, framed photograph of
Rodin’s Balzac [see fig. 1]; Druet,
framed photograph of Rodin’s La
douleur on a columnar base;
Rosso, framed photograph of
another detail of his Impression
d’omnibus; Rosso, La rieuse in a
glass display case). Museo
Medardo Rosso, Barzio
purporting to prove to those who had been unable to visit the Salon d’Automne
that ‘Rosso and not Rodin was the pioneer of impressionism in sculpture’.30
Rosso likewise clearly believed that a visual (and virtual) confrontation with
his famous rival effected in large part through the medium of photography would
prove his point, namely, that his example had pushed Rodin to produce figures
that would, in Rosso’s own words, allow beholders ‘to forget matter’ itself.31
However, one could argue that it was the highly atmospheric photographs taken
of both Rodin’s works and Rosso’s own sculptures that produced these
dematerializing effects, rather than the often insistently material objects
themselves. Indeed, even more than Rodin, the surfaces of Rosso’s compositions
are texturally extremely varied and conspicuous, with their prominent pittings
and protrusions the result of his highly complex and idiosyncratic multi-media
sculptural techniques.32
Like Rodin, however, the dematerialized figures depicted
within the photographs taken of Rosso’s works stood in stark contrast to the
highly material qualities of the prints themselves. Although there has been much
206 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
4. Medardo Rosso (attributed),
three photographs of Rosso’s Ecce
puer, c. 1906. Museo Medardo
Rosso, Barzio
debate as to whether all the photographs associated
with Rosso were actually taken by his own hand,
there is no doubt that, unlike Rodin, he was an active
and highly interventionist photographer who
happily scratched, painted, cropped – one could even
say ‘sculpted’ – negatives and prints at will.33
The
resulting dematerializing photographs, which made
his sculptures seem to dissolve into a misty,
nebulous haze, were thus themselves insistently
material objects, with an emphasis on surface
textures that recall the actual sculptures themselves.
This paradox can be seen in the numerous
photographs taken of Rosso’s Ecce puer (or Behold the
Child), of which just three are illustrated here (figs 4a,
4b, 4c).34
Rosso began working on this bust of a young
boy in about 1906, the only wholly new subject
developed by the artist between 1900 and his death in
1928. The composition was apparently conceived after
Rosso caught a brief glimpse of the young son of one of
his patrons pressing his face through a thin curtain.
However, this fleeting impression of a veiled being is
perhaps most effectively evoked not by the highly
textured sculpture itself, but rather when the bust is
seen through yet another veil, that of the photographic
medium. Indeed, it is only in the conspicuously handcrafted
photographs of this very material work that the
young boy is finally fully transformed into an almost
insubstantial ghost or mere shadow barely discernible
through the sheer curtain.
At the same time, the obvious technical imperfections and hand-crafted
elements of the photographic prints mirror the modifications, flaws and
blemishes of the sculpture, which existed in multiple versions in a variety of
media. In turn, this multiplicity is also reflected in the photographs, which vary
only slightly in their lighting, angle, surface texture and exposure time, thus
effectively creating new, virtual multiples. Like Rodin, Rosso’s inability ever to call
a halt to the process of artistic elaboration and definitively finish a particular
composition in three dimensions was reflected in his use of photography, which
allowed for almost infinite variations of an individual sculptural subject to be
produced with comparatively little effort.35
This tendency is also reflected in
Rosso’s habit of constantly altering the titles given to his compositions. In the case
of Ecce puer, the work was first commissioned as the Portrait of the Young Alfred
Mond, then referred to by the artist as Impression of a Child, before finally gaining
the title by which it is now generally known.36
While Rosso’s dematerializing images of sculpture depicted in highly material
photographic prints gave him the freedom endlessly to revisit and revise his
sculptural compositions, like Rodin, he too jealously guarded the right to
207 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
determine the nature of these variations. Rodin insisted on approving and
eventually co-signing all photographs issued by his in-house photographers;
similarly, Rosso was convinced that he alone could ensure that a ‘correct’
impression of his sculpture would be transmitted through photography.37
In a
letter written to Carlo Carrà near the end of his life, Rosso made this stance
explicit: ‘I cannot allow other photographs to be taken. I want those of mine and
no others. I also believe these are the best. I don’t want, desire any others . . . I want
only my own.’38
Once again like Rodin, with his highly orchestrated studio tours
by candlelight, Rosso also sought to control the experience visitors had when
coming to his workshop. Like the elaborately stage-managed lighting and
sculptural arrangements evident in the photographs taken of his works, Rosso
was keen to position studio visitors in a carefully choreographed performance in
which he served as the all-powerful ringmaster-cum-magus, thereby ensuring
that beholders of both the studio and the photographs would encounter his
sculptures only from the distanced and dematerializing points of view he had
intended.39
Throughout his life, Rosso repeatedly claimed that ‘material does not exist. By
making something, one makes the observer forget the material. Nothing is
material in space.’40
But it was only thanks to his manipulation of both the
photographic medium and the experience visitors had when entering his studio
that his complex and insistently material sculptures and, especially, sculptural
surfaces managed to shed their physical qualities and be transformed instead into
a series of disembodied impressions no longer connected to the actual realities of
the wax, plaster or bronze originally used. Indeed, he once claimed that: ‘A work of
sculpture is not made to be touched, but to be seen at such or such a distance,
according to the effect intended by the artist . . . we should rely entirely on the
visual impression . . . and not on the touch of our fingers’.41
It is not surprising, then, that he was pleased to learn that his friend and
admirer Edgar Degas had mistaken a photograph of a now-lost sculpture known
as Impression of an Omnibus for a painting. Ironically, this sculpture, now known
only through grainy photographic prints, seems to have first been conceived as a
three-dimensional embodiment of a two-dimensional lithograph by Daumier.42
Like many of the photographs of Rodin’s figures, the pictures taken of Rosso’s
works allowed sculptural media and sculptural surfaces to seem to disappear,
mutate and metamorphose into something completely new that was not
necessarily evident or even visible when looking at the actual sculptures
themselves. As Krauss puts it, Rosso’s photographs thus always seem to ‘gesture
toward the unseeable side of objects’.43
Indeed, it was the shadowy impression of a
sculpture, best captured in photographs, rather than the solid, physical object
itself that ultimately fascinated Rosso: ‘That shadow on the ground is more
important than the shoes. So let’s deal with the shadow and forget the shoes.’44
‘An almost immaterial substance’: Moholy-Nagy, sculpture and light
By the time Rosso died in 1928 – ironically, the result of an infection sustained
after stepping on a broken glass photographic plate – photography’s ability to
dematerialize what was solid and real had begun to fire the imagination of a new
208 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
generation of sculptor-photographers who had embarked on their careers in the
aftermath of the First World War and the Russian Revolution. One of the most
successful in articulating the possibilities of the photographic medium in this
respect was László Moholy-Nagy, whose varied artistic interests and necessary
practical responses to the rapidly changing political situation of inter-war Europe
led to a peripatetic existence encompassing his native Hungary as well as Austria,
Germany (where he famously taught at the original Bauhaus), Holland and England
before he finally emigrated to Chicago in 1937 to found the ‘New Bauhaus’.45
Although Moholy-Nagy always presented himself first and foremost as a
painter, he worked as a photographer, filmmaker and graphic designer as well,
and produced three-dimensional sculptures in media ranging from metal to
plastic. He also used ‘sculptural’ materials such as Formica, Plexiglas, Bakelite,
Galalith, aluminium and cardboard as supports for his paintings, which he then
cut, incised and bolted together in layers, sometimes with the addition of ‘found’
objects such as glass-headed pins or spiral bindings, thereby creating multilayered,
semi-sculptural objects.46
In an article published in 1936, he even claimed
that he had continued to work as a painter mainly because he had been unable to
finance the production of three-dimensional ‘kinetic’ objects like those he had
designed earlier in his career.47
One year after making this statement, MoholyNagy
moved to the USA where, in the years before his premature death in 1946 at
the age of 51, he was finally able to resume his sculptural practice alongside his
many other artistic and pedagogic activities.
Moholy-Nagy’s ability to shift from working in two to three dimensions and
back again was very much tied to his understanding of photography as a medium.
Already in 1927, he had boldly claimed that ‘this century belongs to light’, with
photography giving light itself a ‘tangible shape’.48
Moholy-Nagy was well aware,
however, that while photography could effect the ‘concretization of light’, it also
could dematerialize any three-dimensional object it encountered.49
Thus, through
the medium’s ‘materialization of light’, it could turn matter itself into ‘an almost
immaterial substance’.50
For Moholy-Nagy, this paradox seems first to have
become apparent when he began developing a new photographic technique he
dubbed the ‘photogram’ (a.k.a. ‘photogramme’), which he believed to be ‘the most
completely dematerialized medium’.51
Unlike conventional photography, which relied on light passing through a
camera’s aperture, a photogram was made by allowing light to strike small, solid
objects placed directly on light-sensitive photographic paper – in Moholy-Nagy’s
own words, a kind of ‘writing with light’ that had ‘a dematerialized effect’.52
His
earliest photograms date to 1922 and were produced in association with his first
wife, Lucia. In technical terms, they closely resemble the artist Man Ray’s own
camera-less technique, the ‘rayograph’, first developed in 1921. Although MoholyNagy
soon became aware of Ray’s work, he does not seem to have seen any
rayographs before embarking on his own photographic experiments. Indeed, his
second wife, Sibyl, cited Kurt Schwitters’s Dadaist ‘rubbish’ collages composed of
urban detritus as a key influence on the development of the photogram, not Ray’s
images, which were only available in published form from December 1922
onwards in any case.53
209 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
For Moholy-Nagy, photograms effectively gave a fixed, material presence to
light itself, while denying the specific materiality of the three-dimensional found
objects used in the process. They became, in his words, ‘sublime, radiant, almost
dematerialized’ things.54
Significantly, in a note scrawled on the back of a
photogram made in about 1924, Moholy-Nagy stated that he had used napkin
rings and matches to generate the image, then asked: ‘But is that important in the
end? How the light flows . . . and what becomes of the whole has nothing anymore
to do with the original material’ (fig. 5).55
By using multiple light sources when
producing many of his photograms, the silhouetted shape of the ‘original
material’ also could be doubled, dislocated and disoriented, an effect seen in a
number of photographs, intaglio prints and oil paintings made by Moholy-Nagy
in the early and mid-1920s as well.56
But it is the photograms in particular that
most clearly evoke Schwitters’s description of his own collage projects: ‘I use
discarded cogwheels, tissue paper, can tops, glass splinters, labels and tickets. By
being balanced against each other, these materials lose their characteristics . . .
They are de-materialized. A significant art product has no longer an outward
relationship to the material elements that formed it’ (fig. 6).57
210 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
5. László Moholy-Nagy, Untitled
(with text on verso), c. 1924,
photogram. The J. Paul Getty
Museum, Los Angeles
(photo: © Hattula Moholy-Nagy,
Ann Arbor)
In contrast, Ray’s camera-less images, which at
first glance can sometimes appear quite similar to
Moholy-Nagy’s photograms, attest to his Surrealist
fascination with the unconscious. Unlike MoholyNagy’s
generally abstract images, Ray’s prints often
feature still readily recognizable objects, thereby
allowing them to retain potentially revealing
associations for the viewer. Moholy-Nagy was well
aware of this essential difference, explaining that for
him, photograms were about the ‘optical miracle of
black into white . . . [which] result[s] from the
dematerialized radiation of light without any literary
secrets or secret associations . . . Photograms have to
. . . signify . . . nothing but themselves’, thus avoiding
the ‘disadvantage[s] of having complexes of material
associations’.58
Tellingly, Moholy-Nagy’s own caption
for a rayograph clearly depicting a hand and an egg
states, in contrast, that Ray’s image ‘transforms the
everyday object into something mysterious’, but,
implicitly, still identifiable.59
In his sculptural constructions and multi-media
installations, Moholy-Nagy further explored the
possibilities of using light as a ‘medium of plastic expression’ and, conversely, of
transforming plastic material into ‘light compositions’, the latter phrase used
specifically in reference to the transparent Plexiglas constructions he produced in
the last years of his life in the early and mid-1940s.60
Interestingly enough, such
metamorphoses were often realized or at least confirmed through photography
and, occasionally, in film. In the case of Moholy-Nagy’s late Plexiglas works, he
seems to have favoured photographs of these pieces taken against dark
backgrounds, with the lighting appearing to transform their edges and
perforations into two-dimensional white lines and their planes into merely
‘virtual volume[s]’ (fig. 7).61
In a similar vein, both film and photography were used to dematerialize an
elaborate installation piece known as the Light-Space Modulator (a.k.a. Licht
requisit einer elektrischen Bühne or Light Prop for an Electric Stage) first conceived
by Moholy-Nagy in 1922, the same year he developed his photogram technique,
but only completed in 1930.62
Seen in the flesh, this work is a highly tactile and
almost aggressively three-dimensional object constructed of a variety of metallic,
glass and plastic surfaces and protrusions engineered into a shiny, spiky mass.
But by setting the piece on a rotating base and illuminating it in a darkened room
with an artificial light source that produced shadows that danced around the
walls, Moholy-Nagy claimed he had been able to create a ‘light-sculpture’ made of
‘plastics, glass, wire-mesh, latticework and perforated metal sheets . . . [whose]
surfaces, although opaque in reality, looked like transparent sheets when
moving’.63
Similarly, Krauss agrees that ‘the radiance of electric light . . .
undermine[d] the physicality of the object’.64
In both cases, however, it is likely
211 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
6. László Moholy-Nagy. Untitled,
c. 1922–30, photogram. BauhausArchiv,
Berlin
(photo: © Hattula Moholy-Nagy,
Ann Arbor)
that it was the film Moholy-Nagy made of the piece in motion, rather than the
moving object itself, that made the work seem so completely dematerialized and
so highly kinetic. Indeed, even though Moholy-Nagy’s first experience of the work
in motion was almost like ‘magic’ and made him feel like ‘a sorcerer’s apprentice’,
he admitted that it was only after taking photographs and, especially, producing a
five-and-a-half-minute film (entitled Lichtspiel: Schwarz–Weiß–Grau or Light
Display: Black–White–Grey), in which he ‘tried to translate its action into
photographic “light” values’, that finally ‘all [the work’s] concrete shapes
dissolve[d] in light’ (fig. 8).65
In the film, Moholy-Nagy deployed a range of
techniques (many echoing those also used in his photographs, photograms and
photomontages of the same period) that served to undermine the tactile, threedimensional
presence of the work: disorienting angles, often on the diagonal;
dark shadows and bright highlights that seem to change from negative to positive
images and back again; unexpected shifts between overall views of the piece and
dramatic close-ups; and playful switches from sharply focused to fuzzily blurred
shots of the object. Once again, therefore, it was through the two-dimensional
media of photography and, in this case, film that the disembodied, dematerialized
essence of a three-dimensional work seems to have been finally fully realized.
Similarly complex exchanges between two and three dimensions, between
motion and stasis, between transparency and opacity are also evident in MoholyNagy’s
so-called ‘three-dimensional paintings’ and in his curved and perforated
Plexiglas pieces. The former, often constructed of superimposed planes of
translucent or transparent materials, were occasionally set on rotating turntables,
as was also the case for his Light–Space Modulator and, indeed, for Rodin’s Balzac
212 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
7. László Moholy-Nagy. Space
modulator with perforations and
its virtual volume, 1940,
Plexiglas. Published in L[ászló]
Moholy-Nagy, Vision in Motion,
Chicago: Paul Theobald, 1947,
fig. 329
(photo: Bodleian Library,
University of Oxford, shelfmark
17568 d.109; © Hattula MoholyNagy,
Ann Arbor)
8. László Moholy-Nagy, Lichtspiel:
Schwarz-Weiß-Grau, 1930, still
photograph taken from 16 mm
film. Bauhaus-Archiv, Berlin
(photo: © Hattula Moholy-Nagy,
Ann Arbor)
when photographed by Steichen. For Moholy-Nagy, the three-dimensional
paintings seemed to be ‘more transparent than transparency itself’, while he
described his works in Plexiglas as ‘a kind of sculpture-painting’ composed of
light (see fig. 7).66
It is thus not surprising that certain motifs such as circular
perforations, diagonal compositions and latticework meshes seem to appear
and reappear or, better yet, reverberate amongst Moholy-Nagy’s two- and
three-dimensional works, works that themselves often seem to hover
somewhere between one dimension and the next
(see figs 6, 7, 8).
Gabo’s ‘virtual volumes’
The ability of photography and film to transform the
material into the immaterial and back again, as well
as to add elements of time and motion to otherwise
static objects, is a reoccurring theme in MoholyNagy’s
literary and artistic oeuvre. But it also
permeates the sculptural practices, photographic
strategies and theoretical pronouncements of a
number of other important early twentieth-century
artists including the Russian-born Naum Gabo (a.k.a.
Naum Neemia Pevzner).67
Like Moholy-Nagy, whom
he met in London in the mid-1930s, Gabo was
compelled by both the tumultuous inter-war political
situation in Europe and his own artistic inclinations
to lead a nomadic existence for many years,
including stays in Russia, Germany and England,
before eventually settling in the USA in 1946.68
While
still living in Russia in the winter of 1919–20, Gabo
produced his Kinetic Construction (Standing Wave)
(a.k.a. Kinetic Sculpture [Pendulum] or Kinetic Model),
a work that consists of a vertical metal rod made to
vibrate by a small electrical motor located in its
base.69
Commenting on this object, Moholy-Nagy
observed that it was only thanks to a ‘blurred
photograph’ of this work silhouetted against a dark
background that one could see ‘several phases of
motion superimposed. (What would elsewhere be
regarded as an unsuccessful photograph is in this
instance a good demonstration of the processes of
motion, of the resulting virtual volumes.)’ (fig. 9).70
Krauss has evocatively described the ‘virtual volume’
of the sculpture as being like an ‘illusion of a
diaphanous column’.71
Paradoxically, however, the
effect would perhaps have been most successful
when looking at a photograph of the work, which
permanently fixed the object’s full range of
213 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
9. Photograph of Naum Gabo’s
Kinetic Construction (Standing
Wave), c. 1919–20. Published in
[László] Moholy-Nagy, The New
Vision: From material to
architecture, trans. D. M.
Hoffmann, New York: Brewer,
Warren & Putnam, 1932, fig. 113
(photo: Bodleian Library,
University of Oxford, shelfmark
17568 d.108; The works of Naum
Gabo © Nina Williams)
oscillation, rather than when standing before the
piece itself.
In 1920, the year in which he completed this
project, Gabo articulated his own beliefs about
sculptural dematerialization and the important role
played by time and motion in the production of art
works in a manifesto co-authored with his brother,
the sculptor Anton Pevsner:
The realization of our perceptions of the world
in the forms of space and time is the only aim
of our pictorial and plastic art . . . We renounce
volume . . . We renounce . . . mass as a
sculptural element . . . We renounce the
thousand-year-old delusion in art [of] . . . static
rhythms . . . We affirm . . . a new element [of] . . .
kinetic rhythms as the basic forms of our
perception of real time.72
The links between such abstract theorizing and the
Kinetic Construction in particular were made even
clearer when Gabo described the work in 1930 as: ‘The
creation of an immaterial spatial body through a
material line (rod) moving in space’.73
The interconnections of temporality, kineticism
and the dematerialization of solid matter are also evident in Gabo’s practice of
occasionally installing his paintings on revolving turntables (as Moholy-Nagy also
did) or in works such as his nearly transparent Linear Construction in Space No. 2,
designed in the later 1940s, with various versions constructed of tautly strung
nylon filaments that were intended to twist and turn slowly in space while
suspended a few centimetres above a dense and solid base (fig. 10).74
A similar
interest in combining time, motion and the disembodying effects of diaphanous or
reflective media was already evident in the bright spotlights and shiny, transparent
materials Gabo deployed when designing (together with Pevsner) the stage sets and
dancers’ costumes for La Chatte, a ballet staged by Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes in Paris
in 1926–27.75
From the mid-1920s onwards, Gabo regularly used transparent and
relatively flexible materials such as Plexiglas, Perspex, cellulose acetate and nylon
filament to produce geometrically complex sculptures that seemed on the one
hand to be dematerialized due to their lack of solid or opaque surfaces, while on
the other hand allowing light itself to be fixed into a kind of permanent plastic
form thanks to the light-trapping properties of the reflective media used.
Once again, however, this paradox is perhaps more apparent in photographs
of Gabo’s works than in the physical objects themselves. Especially when
photographed against a black background, the bright lines of light that pick out
the sculptures’ edges, curves and strings seem to reduce the three-dimensional
objects to the same kinds of linear patterns seen in the Opus wood engravings he
produced in 1950.76
Even more striking are the similarities the engravings and the
photographs of his sculptures have with the photographs Gabo himself may have
214 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
10. Naum Gabo, Linear
Construction in Space No. 2,
1970–71 (first version designed
c. late 1940s), Perspex and nylon
monofilament. Tate, London
(photo: The works of Naum Gabo
© Nina Williams/Tate, London
2006)
taken as early as 1941 (and definitely by the 1950s) of moving beams of light
projected onto reflective surfaces (figs 11a, 11b).77
Already in 1923, Moholy-Nagy
had considered photographing rays of light projected onto a screen, but he
apparently never followed through with this idea.78
Intriguingly, some
photographs of Moholy-Nagy’s Plexiglas works from the early and mid-1940s
also bear a remarkable resemblance to Gabo’s light photographs.79
Gabo may have
been inspired to take the latter photographs in the first place by the transparent
sculptures he had designed in the later 1930s with twisting and curving forms
that echo those seen in his light images. The photographs of light patterns, in
turn, could have given further momentum to Gabo’s interest in exploring spiral
shapes in both wood engravings and sculpted works, yet another example of the
materializing, dematerializing and rematerializing exchanges that could occur
between two- and three-dimensional media in this period (see figs 10, 11a, 11b).
In a 1942 review of a Gabo sculpture entitled Spiral Theme, the influential art
critic Herbert Read described the piece as ‘hovering . . . between the visible and the
invisible, the material and the immaterial’, while in his 1956 book The Art of
Sculpture (dedicated to, among others, Gabo himself), Read stated that the artist
had used transparent plastics as though they were ‘material[s] of crystal purity . . .
215 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
11. Naum Gabo. Two photographs
of light reflections, 1941 or
c. 1950s. Tate Archive, London
(photo: The works of Naum Gabo
© Nina Williams/Photo Tate
Archive)
to create forms in light itself’, thus allowing space to be defined by light rather
than by ‘gross material substance’.80
As we have seen, such effects were confirmed
by and, indeed, perhaps most fully realized in the photographs taken of Gabo’s
sculptures. Thus, photography could be deployed to dematerialize and activate
sculptures made of transparent media, while at the same time fixing light,
motion and even time itself when used to capture abstract patterns of light,
whether on reflective surfaces or on the surfaces and edges of sculptures, or when
giving permanent visual form to the vibrations associated with a piece such as
the Kinetic Construction (see fig. 9).81
Brancusi: challenging materiality and championing multiplicity
While Gabo only occasionally took his own photographs, another emigré artist,
the Romanian-born but Paris-based sculptor Constantin Brancusi, was a much
more consistently active photographer who used the medium to produce literally
hundreds of images of his sculptures, his studio and himself.82
Like Rodin and
Rosso, both of whom he knew personally, Brancusi was highly sensitive as to how
and by whom his works were photographed.83
Also like his two older colleagues,
Brancusi turned photographs of and visits to his studio into elaborate and
carefully staged ritual performances, further ensuring that he retained complete
control over the visual reception and, he hoped, interpretation of his sculptures.84
Although he began taking the occasional photograph as early as 1901, it seems to
have been his reaction to images of his works produced by the American
photographer Alfred Stieglitz in the 1920s that led him to insist that only he
should and could properly photograph his own
sculptures, which he soon began to do prolifically.
Man Ray described the defining episode as follows:
upon seeing a Stieglitz print of one of his sculptures,
Brancusi admitted that it
was a beautiful photograph . . . but it did not
represent his work. Only he himself would
know how to photograph it . . . [The
photographs he subsequently took] were out
of focus, over or underexposed, scratched and
spotty. This, he said, was how his work should
be reproduced. Perhaps he was right – one of
his golden birds had been caught with the
sunrays striking it so that a sort of aurora
radiated from it, giving the work an explosive
character.85
It is unclear which specific photograph Ray was
referring to, but its subject must have been one of the
bronze versions of Brancusi’s Oiseau dans l’espace
(a.k.a. Bird in Space), a work he repeatedly
photographed in the later 1920s and early ’30s with
‘explosive’ bursts of light appearing to emanate from
the highly polished and reflective surfaces (fig. 12).86
216 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
12. Constantin Brancusi. Bird in
Space, 1927, gelatin silver
photographic print. Musée
national d’art moderne, Centre
Georges Pompidou, Paris
(photo: CNAC/MNAM Dist. RMN
© Bertrand Prévost)
The photographic imperfections noted by Ray recall the grainy, highly textured
prints and equally tactile sculptural surfaces associated with Rosso and Rodin,
both of which contrasted with the hazy, dematerialized sculptures depicted
within these images. In the case of Brancusi, however, the tactile, hand-crafted
qualities of his photographic prints were in sharp contrast to the often slippery
smooth and glistening surfaces of the actual sculptures. Indeed, Bird in Space was
so perfectly polished that in 1926 a US customs clerk, as is well known, tried to
have the piece taxed in the same category used for machine-made metal kitchen
utensils and hospital implements.87
Interestingly enough, similar issues were
raised when Moholy-Nagy tried to import his Light–Space Modulator into the USA
in the later 1930s.88
However, Brancusi’s sculptures, despite their appearance to
the contrary, were actually the result of a laborious process of hand-polishing and
finishing undertaken by the artist himself, something Moholy-Nagy had already
commented on in 1929.89
At the same time, and in this case very much like Rodin
and Rosso, both Brancusi’s sculptures and his photographs were produced in
series, with only the scale or material (in the former case) and the lighting or
angle (in the latter case) varying between one version and the next. In other
words, individual hand-crafting, even if not immediately evident, was paired with
serial production and multiplication in Brancusi’s two- and three-dimensional
working practices.90
While most ‘professional’ photographs taken of Brancusi’s works after his
death emphasize their geometric clarity and dense, immobile and seemingly
impenetrable materiality, his own reflection-filled images make it obvious that
he himself did not perceive his sculptures to be stable, solid, static objects –
something that is also noticeable when comparing photographs made under
Rosso’s impetus with those taken posthumously.91
The particular problems
involved in photographing Brancusi’s works without producing reflections is
suggested by an incident in the 1920s when an unnamed photographer was
caught covering some of the artist’s sculptures in powder shortly before a shoot in
order to eliminate such visual effects. Predictably, an enraged Brancusi threw the
man out of his studio, now even more determined to forbid anyone other than
himself from photographing his works.92
Once again, therefore, it seems to have
been primarily through the medium of photography that Brancusi’s own vision of
his works as disembodied and ever-changing aesthetic entities was perhaps most
fully articulated.
In Brancusi’s photographs of a bronze version of Bird in Space, flashes of light
dissolve the solid, unitary wholeness of the sculpture at various points along its
long, slim shaft, producing what one French writer in 1920 called ‘radiant photos’
(see fig. 12).93
Paradoxically, in such photographs, the bases beneath Bird in Space
often seem more solid than the sculpture itself.94
Another tactic was to use one or
two strongly directed light sources to illuminate the sculpture, thereby allowing
shadows to be cast by the piece, something also seen in some of Moholy-Nagy’s
photograms. The resulting images, with their flickering black-and-white vertical
lines, could make the actual material object difficult to distinguish from its
shadowy and dematerialized Doppelgänger. Brancusi printed both negative and
positive photographs of Bird in Space as well, thereby further disorienting and
217 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
218 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
219 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
destabilizing his viewers’ material certainties and assumptions, a strategy also
sometimes used by Moholy-Nagy.95
In a similar vein, Brancusi occasionally seems to have deliberately doubleexposed
photographs so as to further disembody his sculptures, while also
introducing temporal and kinetic dimensions to his work. For instance, four
different versions of the chunky Endless Column, two of Fish, and one of
Bird in Space, as well as several other pieces (some, like Leda, displayed on
mirrored surfaces), were photographed by Brancusi in the mid-1940s in an
apparently intentional double-exposure of his studio, with the sculptures
appearing to shudder and vibrate in unison (fig. 13).96
In this image, a kind of
dematerialization through multiplication occurs, first by the initial serial
(re)production of individual sculptural compositions shown in different versions
or in mirror reflections, and then, again, by the doubling of the photographic
exposure.
At first glance, such double-exposures, which make the sculptures seem to
oscillate, recall the photographs taken of Gabo’s Kinetic Construction (see fig. 9).
Now, however, it is the camera, rather than the sculpture, that moves. But in
both cases, the artists sought to introduce an element of time and a sense of
motion into the traditionally static and seemingly time-less art of sculpture,
with photography thus serving to realize and document the works’
dematerialization. In another strategy that recalls the practices of Gabo,
Moholy-Nagy and even Rodin’s photographic collaborator, Steichen, Brancusi
displayed a gleaming bronze cast of Leda, a sculpture produced in multiple
versions, on a reflective (and hence further multiplying) base that could be
rotated (see the lower right corner of fig. 13). He then filmed the piece from a
succession of different angles and subsequently rephotographed the film
negative, often blurring the piece’s smooth contours even further in the
process.97
According to Moholy-Nagy, Brancusi rotated his Fish as well, a work
that also exists in various material and photographic versions, in order to see
‘vision in motion’.98
Once again, therefore, Brancusi had used two-dimensional
media to introduce destabilizing temporal and kinetic elements to a solid,
sculpted object, in the process generating new and ever-changing versions of a
composition that itself existed as a multiple.
‘Why not just show the photographs?’
In 1949, Brancusi asked: ‘Why write [about sculpture]? . . . Why not just show the
photographs?’99
In a similar vein, in 1928 Walter Benjamin cited Moholy-Nagy’s
claim that: ‘It is not the person ignorant of writing but the one ignorant of
photography who will be the illiterate of the future’.100
Although all the artists
discussed here did write about their work, in some cases extensively, it was in
fact through photographs and, occasionally, film that they were perhaps most
eloquently able to elaborate a ‘new vision’ (to use one of Moholy-Nagy’s
catchphrases) of sculpture unshackled from the constraints of time, space and
even matter itself.101
Often using new materials and new techniques in both
their sculptural and photographic practices, artists from Rodin to Brancusi
skilfully deployed two-dimensional media to re-envision their three-
13. Constantin Brancusi, Studio
with four versions of ‘Endless
Column’, two versions of ‘Fish’,
‘Bird in Space’, ‘Leda’ (lower right),
and other works, c. 1943–46,
gelatin silver photographic print.
Musée d’art moderne, Centre
Georges Pompidou, Paris
(photo: CNAC/MNAM Dist. RMN
© Jacques Faujour)
220 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
I would like to thank Sebastiano
Barassi and Michael Harrison for
inviting me to contribute a short
essay to their 2004 exhibition catalogue,
Immaterial: Brancusi, Gabo,
Moholy-Nagy, which was further
developed and expanded into the present
article. I am particularly grateful
to Dr Barassi for his helpful suggestions
when preparing my original
essay. I also received very useful comments
from anonymous reviewers of
earlier drafts of this article. My discussion
of Medardo Rosso has benefited
greatly from Francesca BacciMelcher’s
recent dissertation on the
artist, which she allowed me to read
in draft form. I am also thankful to
Michael Archer for kindly lending me
his copy of the Rosso catalogue edited
by Gloria Moure and to Ursula and
R. Stanley Johnson for drawing my
attention to the catalogue Rodin en
1900. Finally, I am most appreciative
to the following for generously waiving
their photographic reproduction
fees: Hattula Moholy-Nagy, Nina
(Gabo) Williams, the J. Paul Getty
Museum, the Bauhaus-Archiv, the
Bodleian Library, and the Tate Picture
Library and Archive. For the quotation
in the title, see note 65 below. Unless
otherwise indicated, all translations
are my own.
1 Rosalind Krauss, Passages in
Modern Sculpture, Cambridge, MA,
1977, p. 5 and passim.
2 See, for instance, L. R. Lippard,
Six Years: The Dematerialization of
the Art Object from 1966 to 1972,
New York, 1973, and, more recently,
R. J. Williams, ‘Dematerialization’,
After Modern Sculpture: Art in the
United States and Europe 1965–70,
Manchester, 2000, pp. 81–99.
3 The phrase was used regarding
the photography of art in general by
A. Malraux, Psychologie de l’art: Le
musée imaginaire, Geneva, 1947,
p. 130. On sculpture’s ‘objecthood’, see
also M. Fried’s influential 1967 essay,
‘Art and objecthood’, in G. Battcock
(ed.), Minimal Art: A Critical
Anthology, Berkeley, 1995, pp. 116–47,
and the critiques by Krauss, as at
note 1, pp. 201ff., and, more recently,
A. Potts, The Sculptural Imagination:
Figurative, Modernist, Minimalist,
New Haven, CT, 2000, pp. 178–206.
4 On the photography of sculpture
in general, see G. A. Johnson (ed.),
Sculpture and Photography:
Envisioning the Third Dimension,
Cambridge, 1998, esp. p. 16, n. 2, for
earlier references; J. Hall, ‘Beyond
photography’, The World as Sculpture,
London, 1999, pp. 325–47; and D. M.
Kosinski (ed.), The Artist and the
Camera: Degas to Picasso (exh. cat.),
Dallas, Dallas Museum of Art, 1999.
5 Quoted in T. Fawcett, ‘Plane surfaces
and solid bodies: reproducing
three-dimensional art in the nineteenth
century’, Visual Resources, 4,
no. 1, 1987, p. 8.
6 On Rodin and photography, see
esp. A. E. Elsen, In Rodin’s Studio: A
Photographic Record of Sculpture
in the Making, Oxford, 1980;
K. Varnedoe, ‘Rodin and photography’,
in A. E. Elsen (ed.), Rodin Rediscovered
(exh. cat.), National Gallery of Art,
Washington, DC, 1981, pp. 202–47;
H. Pinet (1998), ‘“Montrer est la question
vitale”: Rodin and photography’,
in Johnson, as at note 4, pp. 68–85;
H. Pinet, Rodin sculpteur et les photographes
de son temps, Paris, 1985;
and Jane R. Becker, ‘Auguste Rodin and
photography: extending the sculptural
idiom’, in Kosinski, as at note 4,
pp. 91–115.
7 See R. Butler, Rodin: The Shape
of Genius, New Haven, CT, 1993,
pp. 99–108, and Elsen (1980), as at
note 6, pp. 157–58 and pls. 2–5.
8 See ibid., p. 13; Pinet (1998), as at
note 6, p. 78; and Rodin en 1900:
L’exposition de l’Alma (exh. cat.),
Musée du Luxembourg, Paris, 2001,
pp. 272, n. 341.
9 On the links contemporaries
made between the ‘Affaire Balzac’
and the ‘Affaire Dreyfus’, despite
Rodin’s personal aversion to
politics, see Butler, as at note 7,
pp. 321–28.
10 On Druet’s photographs, see
Varnedoe, as at note 6, pp. 205–06
and 215–24; Pinet (1998), as at note 6,
pp. 76–77; and idem, ‘Eugène Druet,
homme-orchestre et gardien du
temple’, pp. 274–82, and Sylvester
Engbrox, ‘Eugène Druet, homme
du XXe siècle’, pp. 283–39, both in
Rodin en 1900, as at note 8. On
Rodin’s use of back-lighting and his
studio tours, see Elsen (1980), as at
note 6, p. 24, and J. Wood, ‘Close
encounters: the sculptor’s studio in
the age of the camera’, in Close
Encounters: The Sculptor’s Studio in
the Age of the Camera (exh. cat.),
Henry Moore Institute, Leeds, 2001,
p. 14.
11 R. M. Rilke, Rodin and Other
Prose Pieces, trans. G. C. Houston,
London, 1986, p. 46. Rilke published
essays on Rodin in 1903 and 1907. On
Rilke and Rodin, see Butler, as at note
7, pp. 370–78, and Potts, as at note 3,
pp. 77–101.
12 Krauss, as at note 1, p. 26 and
passim.
13 Potts, as at note 3, p. 85.
14 See Elsen (1980), as at note 6,
pp. 16 and 21; Varnedoe, as at note 6,
p. 215; Butler, as at note 7, pp. 372–78;
and P. Curtis, Sculpture 1900–1945,
Oxford, 1999, p. 3. The slides used by
Rilke were probably taken by JacquesErnest
Bulloz. On Bulloz, see
Varnedoe, pp. 224–25.
15 Rilke, as at note 11, pp. 50 and 53.
16 Ibid., p. 53.
17 On Rodin’s links to Pictorialist
photographers, see Varnedoe, as at
note 6, pp. 239–42, and H. Pinet,
‘Rodin et les photographes
américains’, in Le Salon de
Photographie: Les écoles pictorialistes
en Europe et aux Etats-Unis vers 1900
(exh. cat.), Musée Rodin, Paris, 1993,
pp. 13–19.
18 C. H. Caffin, ‘Prints by Eduard J.
Steichen–of Rodin’s “Balzac”’,
Camera Work, no. 28, October 1909,
p. 23. See also Becker, as at note 6,
p. 104.
19 Trans. in Varnedoe, as at note 6,
p. 231.
20 Ibid., pp. 229 and 235.
21 See Camera Work, nos. 34–35,
April–July 1911, pls. II–IV.
22 On the gum bichromate
process, see M. Hiley, ‘The photographer
as artist: a turn of the century
debate’, Studio International, 190, no.
976, 1975, pp. 7–9.
23 As noted by Varnedoe, as at note
6, p. 242; see also Varnedoe, figs.
9.70–9.72, and S. Barassi, ‘New visions
for a new world’, in Immaterial:
Brancusi, Gabo, Moholy-Nagy (exh.
cat.), Cambridge, Kettle’s Yard, 2004,
pp. 10–11.
24 On originality and multiplication
in Rodin’s work, see esp. L.
Steinberg, ‘Rodin’, Other Criteria:
Confrontations with TwentiethCentury
Art, Oxford, 1972, pp. 322–403,
and R. Krauss, ‘The originality of the
avant-garde’, The Originality of the
Avant-Garde and Other Modernist
Myths, Cambridge, MA, 1985,
pp. 151–72.
25 Krauss, as at note 1, pp. 31–33, is
sceptical about how much Rodin really
did owe to Rosso’s example, seeing
the latter as essentially remaining
‘within the traditional vein of sculptural
relief’. More recent evaluations
of Rosso’s work can be found in
G. Moure (ed.), Medardo Rosso (exh.
cat.), Centro de Arte Contemporánea,
Santiago de Compostela, 1996;
G. Stix-Marget, Maler ohne Pinsel: Der
Bildhauer und Fotograf seiner Werke
Medardo Rosso, 1858–1928, Munich,
1998; J. R. Becker, ‘Medardo Rosso:
photographing sculpture and sculpting
photography’, in Kosinski, as at
note 4, pp. 159–75; J. R. Becker, ‘“Only
one art”: The interactions of painting
and sculpture in the work of Medardo
Rosso, Auguste Rodin and Eugène
Carrière, 1884–1906’, unpub. PhD,
New York University, 1998; H. Cooper
and S. Hecker (eds), Medardo Rosso:
Second Impressions (exh. cat.),
Harvard University Art Museums,
Cambridge, MA, 2003; D. Melcher and
F. Bacci, ‘“A moment’s monument”:
the central vision of Italian sculptor
Medardo Rosso (1858–1929)’,
Perception, 32, 2003, pp. 1051–58;
L. Caramel (ed.), Medardo Rosso: Le
origini della scultura moderna,
Milan, 2004; and F. Bacci-Melcher,
dimensional compositions, in the process creating new, virtual and constantly
changing versions of their designs while, paradoxically, also giving a fixed and
permanent form to light, motion and even time itself in the resulting images.
Displaying at times an almost obsessive desire to control the visual
(re)presentation of their work for beholders – whether in film, photography, or
studio visits – these artists imaginatively used such strategies to expand the
boundaries of what it meant to be a sculpture. Thanks to their inspired use of
photographic media, sculpture was no longer limited to solid, static and
impenetrable objecthood, but rather could now be transformed into a mobile
and ‘almost immaterial substance’.102
221 | Johnson: Photographing sculpture from Rodin to Brancusi
‘Impressions in light: photographs of
sculptures by Medardo Rosso
(1858–1928)’, unpub. PhD, Rutgers,
The State University of New Jersey,
2004.
26 See S. Hecker, ‘Reflections on
repetition in Rosso’s art’, in Cooper
and Hecker, as at note 25, p. 46.
27 See R. M. Mason, H. Pinet and
H. Wölfflin, Pygmalion photographe:
La sculpture devant la caméra,
1844–1936, Geneva, 1985, p. 100, and
note 14 above.
28 For the photographs of this
installation and Rosso’s relations
with Rodin, see Hecker, as at note 26,
pp. 46–48, 64–67, fig. 42; Becker, as at
note 25, pp. 167–68, figs 95–96; and
Bacci-Melcher, as at note 25, ch. 4. The
latter confirms that Rosso probably
did not actually take the photograph
he later annotated, nor personally
installed his works next to Rodin’s
photographs. Rather, Rosso apparently
simply requested that the exhibition
committee place his installation
near his rival’s. See also the somewhat
conflicting accounts in Ardengo
Soffici, ‘Il caso Medardo Rosso’, Opere,
Florence, 1959, v. I, pp. 51 and 52.
29 See Becker, pp. 168–69, and
Bacci-Melcher, ch. 4, both as at note
25.
30 Soffici, as at note 28, pp. 46 and
52. See also Rosso’s 1902 essay,
‘Impressionism in sculpture’, in
Moure, as at note 25, pp. 129–31.
31 Trans. in ibid., p. 130.
32 See H. Lie, ‘Technical features in
Rosso’s work’, pp. 69–93, and D.
Pullen, ‘Gelatin molds: Rosso’s open
secret’, pp. 95–102, both in Cooper and
Hecker, as at note 25.
33 On whether Rosso actually took
all the photographs attributed to him,
see L. Caramel, ‘Identity and current
relevance of Medardo Rosso’, in
Moure, p. 106; Becker, p. 159; and esp.
Bacci-Melcher, ch. 1, all as at note 25.
In light of Bacci-Melcher’s recent
research, it seems very likely that
Rosso probably did produce (or at
least stage-manage or significantly
modify) the vast majority of the photographs
and negatives now in the
Museo Medardo Rosso archive in
Barzio. On Rosso’s physical handling
of these images, see ibid., ch. 2.
34 Fourteen photographs (presumably
all taken or at least overseen by
Rosso) of the Ecce Puer are reproduced
in Moure, as at note 25, pp. 256–63,
while Bacci-Melcher, as at note 25,
Appendix Part A, lists twenty negatives
associated with this composition.
35 See Caramel, as at note 33,
pp. 106–12; Bacci-Melcher, as at note
25, esp. ch. 2; and Hecker, as at note 26.
36 See ibid., p. 51.
37 On Rodin’s oversight of his
studio photographers, see Elsen
(1980), as at note 6, p. 14.
38 From a 1926 letter trans. in
Moure, as at note 25, p. 299.
39 On visits to and photographs
of Rosso’s studio, see Becker,
pp. 166–67; Melcher and Bacci,
p. 1053; and Bacci-Melcher, ch. 7, all as
at note 25.
40 Rosso made these types of declarations
throughout his career. The
one quoted here, from a 1919 interview,
is trans. in Moure, as at note 25,
p. 171.
41 From an article published in
the Daily Mail in 1907, quoted in ibid.,
p. 141. See also Hecker, as at note 26,
p. 27. Rosso’s distinction between
close-up tacile or ‘haptic’ encounters
with sculpture, which he criticizes,
and a purely ‘optical’ reception of
works in this medium echoes the
writings of contemporaries such as
Alois Riegl and Adolf von Hildebrand.
42 See Hecker, as at note 26, p. 40,
and Becker, as at note 25, p. 167.
43 Krauss, as at note 1, p. 290, n. 7.
44 Trans. in Moure, as at note 25,
p. 183.
45 On Moholy-Nagy’s ‘transnational’
(to use his daughter Hattula’s term)
career, see the essays in A. BorchardtHume
(ed.), Albers and Moholy-Nagy:
From the Bauhaus to the New World
(exh. cat.), Tate Modern, London,
2006. On Moholy-Nagy, esp. as a
photographer, see also S. MoholyNagy,
Moholy-Nagy. Experiment in
Totality, Cambridge, MA, 1969, 2nd
edn; R. Kostelanetz (ed.), MoholyNagy,
London, 1971, esp. pp. 47–71 and
97–160; C. Fawkes, ‘Photography and
Moholy-Nagy’s do-it-yourself aesthetic’,
Studio International, 190, no. 976,
1975, pp. 18–26; G. Rondolino, László
Moholy-Nagy: Pittura, fotografie, film,
Turin, 1975; A. Haus, Moholy-Nagy:
Photographs and Photograms, trans.
F. Samson, London, 1980; idem,
‘Moholy-Nagy’, in J. Fiedler (ed.),
Photography at the Bauhaus, London,
1990, pp. 14–23; A. Haus, ‘Matériau,
lumière et espace: Les idées photoplastiques
de László Moholy-Nagy’, in
M. Frizot and D. Païni (eds), SculpterPhotographier,
PhotographieSculpture,
Paris, 1993, pp. 56–65;
K. Passuth, Moholy-Nagy, trans. É.
Grusz et al., London, 1985; and E. M.
Hight, Picturing Modernism: MoholyNagy
and Photography in Weimar
German, Cambridge, MA, 1995.
46 For examples of MoholyNagy’s
highly ‘sculptural’ paintings,
see Borchardt-Hume, as at note 45,
pp. 59 (pl. 73), 63 (pl. 79), 89 (fig. 38),
and 143 (pl. 109). All these examples
were painted in the 1930s, except the
last work, which was produced in
1946.
47 See T. A. Senter, ‘Moholy-Nagy:
the transitional years’, p. 89, in
Borchardt-Hume, as at note 45. On
Moholy-Nagy’s self-identification as a
painter, see Haus (1993), as at note 45,
p. 57, and A. Borchardt-Hume, ‘Two
Bauhaus histories’, in BorchardtHume,
as at note 45, p. 70.
48 L. Moholy-Nagy,
‘Unprecedented photography’ (1927),
trans. in C. Phillips (ed.), Photography
in the Modern Era: European
Documents and Critical Writings,
1913–1940, New York, 1989, p. 85.
49 Trans. in S. Moholy-Nagy, as at
note 45, p. 27, from a 1923 catalogue
essay.
50 L. Moholy-Nagy, ‘Photogram
and frontier zones’ (1929), trans. in
Passuth, as at note 45, pp. 305–06.
51 Quoted in ibid., p. 326.
52 Trans. in S. Moholy-Nagy, as at
note 45, p. 27.
53 See ibid., as well as Haus (1980),
p. 19, and Hight, pp. 60–72, both as at
note 45.
54 Trans. in ibid., p. 70.
55 Trans. in In Focus: László
Moholy-Nagy: Photographs from the
J. Paul Getty Museum, Malibu, 1995,
p. 12.
56 See, for instance, the intaglio
prints illustrated in Immaterial, as at
note 23, p. 30, cat. nos. 38 and 41, and
Haus (1980), as at note 45, p. 18, fig. 8,
as well as the paintings reproduced in
Borchardt-Hume, as at note 45, pp. 17
(pl. 11), 18 (pl. 12), and 19 (pl. 14). For
Moholy-Nagy’s photographs, which
include many with disorienting diagonals,
shadows and negative–positive
image combinations, see the references
in note 45 above.
57 Trans. in S. Moholy-Nagy, as at
note 45, p. 24.
58 Trans. in Haus (1980), as at note
45, p. 21.
59 L. Moholy-Nagy, Painting,
Photography, Film, trans. J. Seligman,
London, 1969, p. 77. First published as
Malerei, Photographie, Film
(Bauhausbücher, 8, 1925), then again
in a revised edn (used for the 1969
English trans.) as Malerei, Fotografie,
Film, Munich, 1927.
60 Quoted in Passuth, as at note
45, pp. 292 and 383.
61 See the caption in L. MoholyNagy,
Vision in Motion, Chicago, 1947,
p. 242, although Moholy-Nagy probably
did not actually take this photograph
himself.
62 This work, designed by MoholyNagy
and dated by him 1922–30, was
executed under his supervision by
Stefan Sebök and actually built only
in 1930; a replica was also produced in
1970. See M. White, ‘Mechano-Facture:
Dada/Constructivism and the
Bauhaus’, p. 171, n. 13, in BorchardtHume,
as at note 45, and Senter, as at
note 47, p. 85. On this piece, see also
Moholy-Nagy, as at note 61, pp.
288–89; Krauss, as at note 1, pp.
206–13; Haus (1980), as at note 45,
p. 73; Passuth, as at note 45, pp. 53–56;
In Focus, as at note 55, pp. 80–83; and
Barassi, as at note 23, pp. 34–42.
63 L. Moholy-Nagy, ‘Abstract of an
artist’ (1944), quoted in Passuth, as at
note 45, p. 381.
64 Krauss, as at note 1, p. 207.
65 ‘All concrete shapes dissolve in
light’ is the final sentence of MoholyNagy’s
synopsis of Lichtspiel, filmed
in 1930. See L. Moholy-Nagy, as at note
61, p. 289. For the other quotations,
see Passuth, as at note 45, p. 381, and
D. Irwin, ‘Motion and the Sorcerer’s
Apprentice’, Apollo, 84, n. 53, July
1966, p. 54. As in the construction of
the Light–Space Modulator, discussed
in note 62 above, Moholy-Nagy relied
on the technical expertise of an assistant,
in this case György Kepes, to
make this film. See Senter, as at note
47, p. 85. For a selection of stills from
the film, see Borchardt-Hume, as at
note 45 above, pp. 54–55.
66 The first phrase is quoted in
Passuth, as at note 45, p. 383, and the
latter in A. Findeli, ‘Laszlo MoholyNagy,
Alchemist of Transparency’, The
Structurist, nos. 27–28, 1987–88, p. 10.
Several of these paintings are illustrated
in colour in Borchardt-Hume,
as at note 45. See also Barassi, as at
note 23, p. 28.
67 On Gabo, see esp. S. A. Nash and
J. Merkert (eds), Naum Gabo: Sixty
Years of Constructivism, Munich, 1985;
John E. Bowlt, ‘The presence of
absence: the aesthetic of transparency
in Russian Modernism’, The
Structurist, nos. 27–28, 1987–88,
pp. 15–22; M. Hammer and C. Lodder,
Constructing Modernity: The Art &
Career of Naum Gabo, New Haven,
2000; idem, ‘Dematerialising
sculpture: methods and motives’,
pp. 51–69, in Immaterial, as at note 23;
and P. Paret, ‘The crisis of sculpture in
Weimar Germany: Rudolph Belling,
the Bauhaus, Naum Gabo’, unpub.
PhD, Princeton University, 2001.
68 On Gabo and Moholy-Nagy, see
Senter, as at note 47, pp. 87 and 89.
69 On this work, see esp. Nash and
Merkert, pp. 205–06, and Hammer
and Lodder (2000), pp. 69–71, both as
at note 67.
70 [L.] Moholy-Nagy, The New
Vision: From Material to Architecture,
trans. D. M. Hoffmann, New York,
1932, p. 127; first published as Von
Material zu Architektur
(Bauhausbücher, 14, 1929).
71 Krauss, as at note 1, p. 216.
72 N. Gabo, with A. Pevsner, ‘The
Realistic Manifesto’ (1920), trans. in
J. E. Bowlt (ed.), Russian Art and the
Avant-Garde: Theory and Criticism,
1902–1934, London, 1988, pp. 212–13.
73 Trans. in Nash and Merkert, as
at note 67, p. 205.
74 See ibid., pp. 38 and 235–38, and
Hammer and Lodder (2000), as at
note 67, pp. 325–26.
75 See Nash and Merkert, pp. 29–31,
and Bowlt, p. 17, both as at note 67.
76 See Hammer and Lodder
(2000), pp. 328–30, and idem,
‘Dematerialising Sculpture’,
pp. 64–67, both as at note 67.
77 The photographs illustrated
here are stored in the Tate Archive in
a Boots’ photograph processing envelope
date-stamped 16 Oct. 1941. See
Hammer and Lodder (2000), pp. 281
and 497, n. 89, as at note 67. The
artist’s daughter, Nina (Gabo)
Williams, has described similar photographs
being taken by Gabo in the
1950s of reflections on a chromium-
222 | Sculpture Journal 15.2 [2006]
plated toaster in the dining room of
the family home in Middlebury,
Connecticut, and believes the Tate
photographs may actually date from
this period, despite how they are currently
stored. (Letters to the author of
10 May and 5 June, 2006.)
78 See Haus (1980), as at note 45,
pp. 16–17.
79 See Kostelanetz, as at note 45,
fig. 52.
80 See Hammer and Lodder
(2000), as at note 67, p. 281, and
H. Read, The Art of Sculpture, New
York, 1956, p. 112.
81 Ironically, many of Gabo’s transparent
and translucent plastic sculptures
are now literally disintegrating
due to their chemical instability. See
E. Rankin, ‘A betrayal of material:
problems of conservation in the
Constructivist sculpture of Naum
Gabo and Antoine Pevsner’, Leonardo,
21, no. 3, 1988, pp. 285–90.
82 The Brancusi archive has
approximately 700 original negatives
and 2,000 of the artist’s own prints.
See P. Paret, ‘Sculpture and its negative:
the photographs of Constantin
Brancusi’, in Johnson, as at note 4,
p. 101. On Brancusi as a photographer,
see also M. Tabart and I. MonodFontaine,
Brancusi Photographe (exh.
cat.), Musée Nationale d’Art Moderne,
Paris, 1977; H. Kramer, Brancusi: The
Sculptor as Photographer, London,
1979; S. Miller, ‘Constantin Brancusi’s
photographs’, Artforum, 19, no. 7, 1981,
pp. 38–44; M. Frizot, ‘Les photographies
de Brancusi, une sculpture de la
surface’, Cahiers du Musée national
d’art moderne, no. 54, Winter 1995,
pp. 34–49; F. Teja Bach, ‘Brancusi
and Photography’, in F. Teja Bach,
M. Rowell, and A. Temkin (eds),
Constantin Brancusi: 1876–1957,
Cambridge, MA, 1995, pp. 312–19;
E. A. Brown, Brancusi photographs
Brancusi, London, 1995; and idem,
‘Brancusi’s photographic in-sights’, in
Kosinski, as at note 4, pp. 266–85.
83 Brancusi worked briefly in
Rodin’s studio in 1907 and exhibited
at the 1904 Salon d’Automne in Paris
with Rosso. See S. Geist, Brancusi, New
York, 1967, pp. 22–23; idem,
‘Rodin/Brancusi’, pp. 270–73, in Elsen
(1981), as at note 6; and L. Tilanus,
‘Rodin and Brancusi’, Burlington
Magazine, 135, 1993, pp. 484–85.
84 See A. C. Chave, Constantin
Brancusi: Shifting the Bases of Art,
New Haven, CT, 1993, pp. 275–84;
E. A. Brown, ‘L’atelier métaphorique’,
pp. 40–55, in Frizot and Païni, as at
note 45; Brown (1995), as at note 82,
pp. 4–5; and J. M. Wood, ‘The materials
and metaphors of the sculptor’s
studio: Brancusi, Picasso and
Giacometti in the 1920s and 1930s’,
unpub. PhD, Courtauld Institute of
Art, University of London, 1999.
85 Quoted in Bach, as at note 82,
p. 319, n. 19.
86 On the narcissistic implications
of Brancusi’s reflective surfaces, see
Chave, as at note 84, pp. 66–92.
87 See ibid., pp. 198–249.
88 See S. Moholy-Nagy, as at note
45, p. 67.
89 See L. Moholy-Nagy, as at note
70, p. 89.
90 See Krauss, as at note 1,
pp. 99–100, and Paret, as at note 82,
pp. 101–15.
91 To compare Rosso’s own
photographs with those taken
posthumously, see Melcher and Bacci,
as at note 25.
92 See Bach, as at note 82, p. 316.
93 H.-P. Roché, quoted in ibid.,
p. 318, n. 5. See also Krauss, as at note
1, p. 99.
94 See Paret, as at note 82, p. 106.
95 See ibid., pp. 105–06. For
Moholy-Nagy’s negative prints, see
Haus (1980), as at note 45, pls. 64–65,
73–74, 133–36, 149–50. H. Foster, ‘The
Bauhaus idea in America’, in
Borchardt-Hume, as at note 45, , p. 174,
n. 13, has suggested that Moholy-Nagy
may have been directly influenced by
Brancusi’s photographic practices.
96 See Bach, as at note 82,
pp. 314–15 and 355, cat. ill. 191.
97 See Barassi, as at note 23,
pp. 40–42.
98 L. Moholy-Nagy, as at note 61,
p. 240.
99 Quoted in Bach, as at note 82,
p. 312. On photographic images
eclipsing words, see also R. Krauss,
‘When words fail’, October, 22, 1982,
pp. 91–103.
100 W. Benjamin, Selected
Writings, Volume 2, 1927–1934, ed.
M. W. Jennings et al., Cambridge, MA,
1999, p. 156. In a later article, MoholyNagy
put this point slightly differently:
‘The illiterates of the future will be
ignorant of the use of camera and
pen alike’. L. Moholy-Nagy, ‘How
photography revolutionises vision’,
trans. M. Shand, The Listener, 10, no.
252, 8 Nov. 1933, p. 690.
101 For examples of Moholy-Nagy’s
use of this phrase, see ibid., p. 688,
and note 70 above.
102 L. Moholy-Nagy, as at note 50,
p. 306. On sculpture’s ‘objecthood’,
see also note 3 above.