Rodin Sculpture Garden: "Fallen Caryatid," "Martyr," and "Orpheus"

Upon observing the Rodin Sculpture Garden beside the Cantor Arts Center, I notice that these sculptures have really lived. Their facial expressions, their contorted bodies tell stories of pain and despair, of failure and suffering. The sculptures are bare, exposing themselves shamelessly to the harsh critics of the world, uncomprehending children, and curious admirers alike. These figures age, yet they are constant and unchanging; time can rust their color, but not the delicate folds and creases of their bodies. The Sculpture Garden is truly a meditation on emotion and the human soul.

In Fallen Caryatid, Rodin portrays a woman who has fallen under the weight of a bowl-like figure, which she carries over her shoulder. She stands in a crouched position, withdrawn but bare. Her back is curved inwards, mimicking the introverted nature of her expression. Her eyes are closed; she has one breast exposed (the other is welded to her leg), a single eye to observe the world around her. This sculpture is solitary, but carries a hint of remorse; it is as if a faint cloud of darkness hovers over her world. The woman is dealing with failure, having withdrawn from her duty as a column to a building, or caryatid. Rather than bearing a look of distraught, she wears a pensive expression, one that points to a deeper source of melancholy coming from within. Upon recognizing this inner darkness, a pang of sympathy resonates within me when I observe this woman.

Similarly, Rodin’s Martyr causes me to recognize the dark and futile within myself, the world, and the sculpture. Consisting of a woman lying down with her body contorted in pain, Martyr is a tribute to the universality of suffering. This woman is evidently experiencing great torment; one of her hands is fisted, concentrating the suffering in a single point. The woman is exposed and vulnerable; one arm is extended backwards, asking for help, and yet all anyone can do is watch her suffer. She must carry this burden as the Fallen Caryatid carries her bowl-figure. Observing Martyr gives me a feeling of helplessness. I realize my and others’ suffering is inevitable and out of my control; I can reach out for help but will receive none. Martyr is an ode to tragedy; the sculpture itself is hollow, like the human spirit and hope itself.

But I cannot wallow endlessly in this pool of pity and sorrow Rodin creates in these female sculptures; I must turn to the pool of Rodin’s male sculptures, namely, Orpheus. For Orpheus, his tragedy is already known: his love Eurydice has died, and when he goes to the underworld to retrieve her, he is told she may return to the earth as long as he walks in front of her and doesn’t look back. Unfortunately, he forgets and looks back, and Eurydice is gone forever. Orpheus then is left in despair to sing his mournful songs. In Rodin’s rendition, Orpheus is lunging forward and reaching upward as if he is calling Eurydice. His fingers point down towards the underworld and his face wears a tormented expression. In observing Orpheus, I am led to feel the deep sorrow of personal failure, the kind that results from individual responsibility. I wholly empathize with Orpheus, and the detail of his face sing to me of his melancholy.

It seems that, in these sculptures, Rodin is trading on sympathy, on evoking powerful emotions through body positions and angles. And in this regard he completely succeeds, for his work is emotionally despairing and overwhelming. His sculptures tell the universal story of human tragedy, of the pain and suffering inevitable in a single life. When we “read” this story, the strings of our heart bend in such a way as to mimic the bend of the sculptures’ bodies. The empathy we share for the portrayed distress of the sculptures summons the dissonant within us, causing us to reflect upon our own lives and redeem ourselves before we, too, become destined to live eternally in despair.

-Dominique Y