A fallen gladiator—naked, in the dust, his name and fate unknown as he rests in distress atop a marble platform. He is an isolated figure, kneeling on a slab of ground, his body torqued and twisted away from some invisible adversary. I don't know what story Monnot intended for this young, (presumably) Roman warrior—if he is perhaps waiting for an emperor to decide his fate; if he means to take his own life; or if he is futilely attempting to ward off another blow. Whatever the case, the lines and details of his body emphasize his helplessness. He crouches close the ground, held up by his left hand planted in the dirt, indents in the ground from where his hand has been pressed: the implant defines splayed-out fingers and a hand stressed by prominent veins. His arm and shoulder lean against a shield shoved into the small base of a tree (out of the immediate line of sight), and the strap of his shield circles the muscles of his upper arm only—the one meant to circle his forearm has been severed, the strap lying impotently on the ground behind his hand. There is a nick in his left breast, perhaps intentional as a sword wound, perhaps the result of age, and his torso curves at the rib cage, the bones beneath the skin visible against the muscle definition of his abdomen. His right leg stretches forward in front of his genitals, knee resting on a patch of grass as his foot digs into the dirt on its side, while his left bends more acutely, arch of his heel in the air as he balances his weight on the balls of his feet. Even as he struggles in the dust, the gladiator comes across as modest and aesthetic, a healthy model of Roman youth.
His face, however, conjures up the most pathos from the audience. Even from far away, one can tell that he is in some unknown trouble: face tilted to the sky, eyes wide and trained on something out of sight, the youth gazes solemnly into the distance—perhaps even to the heavens, as if in entreaty to the gods. Upon closer inspection, however, one can see (beyond the nicks of old age on his neck, cheek, and earlobe) the deep furrow of his brow. Seemingly passive from a distance, his expression becomes all the more emotional for the creases carved into his forehead. The Alexandrian curls and clean-shaven jaw only serve to deepen that pathos, as the sculptor emphasizes the youth of the man struggling in the dust. He seems doomed to fail in whatever endeavor he is attempting, as his outstretched right hand clamps tightly around the hilt of his sword (now broken off just beyond his thumb, if ever it was whole in the first place) and his scabbard lies uselessly beneath him, nearly brushing against his left foot as it rests in the shadow of his body. Even if he could push himself up to his knees, he would not be able to protect himself from whatever danger so concerns him: he is preserved perpetually as a man preparing for the end of his life, the sword in his hand a symbolic remnant (even in its broken state) of how his death will come to be.
His face, however, conjures up the most pathos from the audience. Even from far away, one can tell that he is in some unknown trouble: face tilted to the sky, eyes wide and trained on something out of sight, the youth gazes solemnly into the distance—perhaps even to the heavens, as if in entreaty to the gods. Upon closer inspection, however, one can see (beyond the nicks of old age on his neck, cheek, and earlobe) the deep furrow of his brow. Seemingly passive from a distance, his expression becomes all the more emotional for the creases carved into his forehead. The Alexandrian curls and clean-shaven jaw only serve to deepen that pathos, as the sculptor emphasizes the youth of the man struggling in the dust. He seems doomed to fail in whatever endeavor he is attempting, as his outstretched right hand clamps tightly around the hilt of his sword (now broken off just beyond his thumb, if ever it was whole in the first place) and his scabbard lies uselessly beneath him, nearly brushing against his left foot as it rests in the shadow of his body. Even if he could push himself up to his knees, he would not be able to protect himself from whatever danger so concerns him: he is preserved perpetually as a man preparing for the end of his life, the sword in his hand a symbolic remnant (even in its broken state) of how his death will come to be.
Wonderful! An excellent blend of external detail and inner life. "His face conjures up the most pathos" etc. is a little clunky, as are a few other phrases here and there. Normale.
ReplyDelete9.5/10