.jpg?w=1)
.jpg?w=1)
.jpg?w=1)
.jpg?w=1)
拍品專文
'The abstract realm that sculpture somehow demands is a very awkward way to work, so I abstract myself from the human figure, choosing the hare to behave as a human occasionally' Barry Flanagan
Conceived in 2004 at the height of his mature career, Large Troubador is a dramatically-scaled example of Barry Flanagan’s most iconic and salient motif: the hare. Cast in magnificent bronze, Flanagan presents us with a hare sitting on a rock, hand resting on its chin as it adopts a silent, pensive pose. Back turned to a cello, and hand loosely grasped onto its bow, the hare appears lost in thought, as if questioning its ability as a musician. Evoking Rodin’s universally recognised The Thinker (1903), Flanagan’s hare takes on a palpable human presence, its animated stance highlighting the anthropomorphic magnetism that has come to define the artist’s practice as a whole. Recalling Flanagan’s own experience studying the cello at the Guildhall School of Music, a pursuit which he quickly abandoned whilst studying at St Martin’s School of Art in the mid-1960s, Large Troubador can be considered as a type of self-portrait, humorously referencing his period of deluded musical prowess. ‘Thematically the choice of the hare is really quite a rich and expressive sort of model’, Flanagan explained, ‘… and on a practical level, if you consider what conveys situation and meaning and feeling in a human figure, the range of expression is in fact far more limited than the device of investing an animal—a hare especially—with the attributes of a human being. The ears, for instance, are really able to convey far more than a squint in an eye of a figure, or a grimace on the face of a model’ (B. Flanagan, quoted in interview with J. Bumpus, in Barry Flanagan: Prints 1970-1983, exh cat. Tate Gallery, London 1986, p. 15).
Sparked by his sighting of the animal bouncing across the Sussex Downs in 1979, an event which resulted in its first depiction in the seminal sculpture Leaping Hare that same year, the hare became Flanagan’s most recognisable motif. Defining his earliest experiments in bronze casting, the artist’s first depictions of the hare marked the beginning of his transition towards a more figurative aesthetic, and the abandonment of his conceptual works of the 1960s. Whilst fascinated by its lithe and agile anatomy, the artist was equally struck by the rich mythological associations of the hare, a quality meticulously mapped in George Ewart Evans and David Thompson’s 1974 book The Leaping Hare. Spanning immortality and fertility in Chinese and ancient Egyptian cultures, to trickery, cleverness and triumph, the complex and mysterious symbolism of the hare provided the ideal metaphor for the artist’s own elusive character. ‘The existentialist action makes us free, and nothing is more free, vital, spontaneous and alive—from Aesop’s hare outrun by the tortoise to Bugs Bunny—than a capering hare’, Paul Levy comments. ‘In France and most of Central Europe, it is the hare that lays eggs at Easter and so promises renewal. In fact, Flanagan’s hares do not carry much of this historic symbolic freight; they simply frolic freely and expressively. They don’t symbolise life, they live it’ (P. Levy, quoted in Barry Flanagan: Linear Sculptures in Bronze and Stone Carvings, exh. cat. Waddington Galleries, London 2004, unpaged).
Following their presentation at Waddington Galleries, London in 1981, and later at the British Pavilion at the Venice Biennale in 1982, Flanagan’s hares adopted a variety of guises, frequently engaging in human activities such as dance, sport and, in the case of the present work, playing musical instruments like the cello. Depicted in his large, ready-made sculpture Sixties’ Dish (1970, Tate, London), and later in his series of drawings of the instrument, the cello formed a recurring motif throughout the artist’s practice. The image of the troubadour, recalling a curious and whimsical figure dating back to the 11th Century, is also significant. With the words of their songs often taking on a satirical undertone, these travelling performers provided a playful commentary on medieval courtly life at the time, a quality which recalls Flanagan’s own trademark sense of humour. A cipher for his enigmatic persona, Large Troubador marks a monumental example of the skilful anthropomorphic wit that lies at the core of Flanagan’s practice.
We are very grateful to the Barry Flanagan estate for their assistance in preparing this catalogue entry.
Conceived in 2004 at the height of his mature career, Large Troubador is a dramatically-scaled example of Barry Flanagan’s most iconic and salient motif: the hare. Cast in magnificent bronze, Flanagan presents us with a hare sitting on a rock, hand resting on its chin as it adopts a silent, pensive pose. Back turned to a cello, and hand loosely grasped onto its bow, the hare appears lost in thought, as if questioning its ability as a musician. Evoking Rodin’s universally recognised The Thinker (1903), Flanagan’s hare takes on a palpable human presence, its animated stance highlighting the anthropomorphic magnetism that has come to define the artist’s practice as a whole. Recalling Flanagan’s own experience studying the cello at the Guildhall School of Music, a pursuit which he quickly abandoned whilst studying at St Martin’s School of Art in the mid-1960s, Large Troubador can be considered as a type of self-portrait, humorously referencing his period of deluded musical prowess. ‘Thematically the choice of the hare is really quite a rich and expressive sort of model’, Flanagan explained, ‘… and on a practical level, if you consider what conveys situation and meaning and feeling in a human figure, the range of expression is in fact far more limited than the device of investing an animal—a hare especially—with the attributes of a human being. The ears, for instance, are really able to convey far more than a squint in an eye of a figure, or a grimace on the face of a model’ (B. Flanagan, quoted in interview with J. Bumpus, in Barry Flanagan: Prints 1970-1983, exh cat. Tate Gallery, London 1986, p. 15).
Sparked by his sighting of the animal bouncing across the Sussex Downs in 1979, an event which resulted in its first depiction in the seminal sculpture Leaping Hare that same year, the hare became Flanagan’s most recognisable motif. Defining his earliest experiments in bronze casting, the artist’s first depictions of the hare marked the beginning of his transition towards a more figurative aesthetic, and the abandonment of his conceptual works of the 1960s. Whilst fascinated by its lithe and agile anatomy, the artist was equally struck by the rich mythological associations of the hare, a quality meticulously mapped in George Ewart Evans and David Thompson’s 1974 book The Leaping Hare. Spanning immortality and fertility in Chinese and ancient Egyptian cultures, to trickery, cleverness and triumph, the complex and mysterious symbolism of the hare provided the ideal metaphor for the artist’s own elusive character. ‘The existentialist action makes us free, and nothing is more free, vital, spontaneous and alive—from Aesop’s hare outrun by the tortoise to Bugs Bunny—than a capering hare’, Paul Levy comments. ‘In France and most of Central Europe, it is the hare that lays eggs at Easter and so promises renewal. In fact, Flanagan’s hares do not carry much of this historic symbolic freight; they simply frolic freely and expressively. They don’t symbolise life, they live it’ (P. Levy, quoted in Barry Flanagan: Linear Sculptures in Bronze and Stone Carvings, exh. cat. Waddington Galleries, London 2004, unpaged).
Following their presentation at Waddington Galleries, London in 1981, and later at the British Pavilion at the Venice Biennale in 1982, Flanagan’s hares adopted a variety of guises, frequently engaging in human activities such as dance, sport and, in the case of the present work, playing musical instruments like the cello. Depicted in his large, ready-made sculpture Sixties’ Dish (1970, Tate, London), and later in his series of drawings of the instrument, the cello formed a recurring motif throughout the artist’s practice. The image of the troubadour, recalling a curious and whimsical figure dating back to the 11th Century, is also significant. With the words of their songs often taking on a satirical undertone, these travelling performers provided a playful commentary on medieval courtly life at the time, a quality which recalls Flanagan’s own trademark sense of humour. A cipher for his enigmatic persona, Large Troubador marks a monumental example of the skilful anthropomorphic wit that lies at the core of Flanagan’s practice.
We are very grateful to the Barry Flanagan estate for their assistance in preparing this catalogue entry.