The Sculpture Collection in Manchester Art Gallery
I was delighted to see that the Manchester Art Gallery has committed to a long showcase of its sculpture collection.
It was a shame, then, to see them in storage boxes preventing their being appreciated fully in three-dimensions, and in the case of one or two, with curators obscuring access or retaining large lumps of foam in existing assemblages making it impossible to see them at all. I find myself on my hands and knees trying to appreciate the side of an Epstein bust until a stranger looms over me and too-late realises his interruption.
The inclusion of the primary school children in Room 2 is charming and forgiveable if it does not become a permanent fixture. Picasso said it took the rest of his life to paint like a child, and their free-ranging script is likely to delight the elderly. Their love for a coiled cobra, coming a close second to a Martin Creed (No. 88), suggests an exciting and eye-opening experience in the archives.
The questions in Room 3 are a totally unwelcome intrusion into the thought-processes and appreciation of works of art. The polished bronze figure in the middle is deeply unpleasant but this is added to by a patina around the armpits and genitals suggesting something malodorous in the unsympathetic übermensch. Nevertheless, the deep revulsion and corresponding feeling of my own humanity evoked by a continued study of the work is a memorable experience.
To Room 1 I must return, as it is filled with delights from the collection. There are many Epstein’s here, beginning with the head of a baby, before I am entranced by his portrait of Joseph Conrad. The eyes and expressive brows and beard sparkle in a slumping, introspective way. The rough texture of the cast shows the artists’ hand at work, and stages of drying. You can see the way his fingers drag the wet clay forward. I have not spent this much time looking at an art object in a while, and I come away with a new feeling for the great man’s talents, before noticing several others dotted around the room. The impressionistic herringbone texture on the jacket of another is entrancing. Their ‘inner power’ becomes an instant hallmark after some familiarity, and I vow to return. Honourable mentions go to a Cossack from the Russian School and an assemblage dominating the far wall.
Despite my joy in seeing them, too much weight is given to the method of transportation and storage, which could be the subject of its own show or a curio for a short while. Perhaps some trips to the archives could be arranged instead? In no room is the collection simply on display, as they ought to be. Is the gallery perhaps still mawkishly embarrassed to show sculpture in its naked pride and glory?
Unfashionable traits these may be, but they are integral to sculpture, which deals with the mighty subjects of weight, and light, and time.
Hopefully they will be out of their crates before too long.