"The reality of sculpture is how it 'feels' to you, rather than how it looks. You must sense the strength and the tension, rather than see it. It is difficult to say why, but I am now interested in mass."
In the home of a private collector of her work in Washington, D.C., British sculptor Dame Elisabeth Frink speaks of the new director her art has taken. Frink's sculpture now focuses on the full male figure - sitting, standing, or running men. Massive indeed, these larger-than-life figures dwarf their surroundings.
"He is a contemplative sort," she says. We stand before a bronze of a seated man that appears to especially please her. A serenity seems to flow from him, a mature inner calm that conveys acceptance of life and a belief in one's own abilities.
"My sculptures of the male figure represent mankind, as well as man. The man I portray is not particularly anybody, although his features are more accentuated than in my previous work.
"I haven't used a model in a long time," she continues. "I work from memory, structurally following anatomy. I like to show the stresses and strains put on muscles, rather than creating a precise anatomical portrayal. The outer skin may define more or less conventional features, but a second look should indicate the complex strains of nerve endings and the anticipatory reflexes of something that is about to happen."
I understand. The figure seems at once relaxed yet ready to spring into action.
"I focus on the male because he is a combination of sensuality and strength, and yet he is vulnerable. I have always enjoyed looking at the male body. Women are not suitable vehicles for what I want to say." Indeed, the raw sensuality of these massive masculine sculptures almost overwhelms the viewer.
Yet something else disturbs me. Upon meeting Frink, I was struck at once by the strong facial lines, the prominent nose, jutting chin, and deep grooves that angle across her cheeks. And I recognized that these rather masculine facial features are duplicated again and again in her sculpted figures. In fact, she has been frequently photographed matching her profile to a sculpture's.
"Artists tend to portray themselves," she shrugs. Frink is reticent about the significance of her work, preferring not to interpret every piece.
But he persistent mirroring of her own image is intriguing, for the face of evil has been as often present in her work as the face of good. This awareness of the inherent good and evil in every person comes perhaps from the Calvinist, Huguenot blood that runs through both sides of her family.
Early Recognition
It was in Italy shortly after World War II, when she saw the four bronze horses of San Marco bathed in Venetian light, that Frink realized she wanted to be an artist. Later, at art school, she studied drawing and painting before she turned to sculpture. As late as 1972, her brilliantly fanciful
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