Italian Sculpture in the Detroit Institute of Arts, 2 Vols. Eighth to Sixteenth Century ; Seventeenth to Twentieth Century

Apollo, July, 2003 by David Ekserdjian

ITALIAN SCULPTURE IN THE DETROIT INSTITUTE OF ARTS, 2 VOLS. EIGHTH TO SIXTEENTH CENTURY (VOL. I); SEVENTEENTH TO TWENTIETH CENTURY (VOL. II) Alan P. Dart, Peter Barnet, Antonia Bostrom Harvey Miller Publishers in association with The Detroit Institute of Arts, 2003, ISBN 1 872501 38 9, 195 [euro] (cloth)

ITALIAN AND SPANISH SCULPTURE: CATALOGUE OF THE J. PAUL GETTY MUSEUM COLLECTION Peggy Fogelman and Peter Fusco with Marietta Cambareri Getty Publications, 2003, ISBN 0 89236 689 3, 95 [pounds sterling] (cloth)

No museum curator would have the temerity to suggest--even in these halcyon days of ever-increasing accessibility--that scholarly catalogues of the collections in their charge were anything other than de rigueur. It remains the case, however, that there are virtually no museum collections which can claim to be fully catalogued. Moreover, while this is true even when it comes to paintings, sculpture is alas notably less well served (although the Victoria and Albert Museum has been making heroic efforts in this direction of late--with the publication of, inter alia, Paul Williamson's exemplary Netherlandish Sculpture 1450-1550). In consequence, the virtually simultaneous emergence of these two catalogues is clearly a cause for celebration.

Both share a common distinction of scholarship, but in almost every other respect they could hardly be more different. On one level, the histories of the respective collections make this inevitable, because whereas the Detroit holdings have always aspired to be an encyclopaedic collection of Italian sculpture and range in date from the pre-romanesque to the twentieth century, with the result that their catalogue is in two volumes and encompasses two hundred and seventy-eight numbers, the Getty has remained far more focussed, above all on the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, and its catalogue runs to a mere forty-four preposterously lavishly illustrated entries. It is a moot point whether it was really too late to start to create a great medieval collection from scratch in 1984, as was decided, but it has to be admitted that it would be distinctly perverse to try to catch up now.

The other fundamental differences derive from the contrast between a municipal museum which has had to rely on donors either to give their collections or to finance purchases, as against one where the curator has in effect been answerable only to his director and chairman. One might assume that this would mean the Getty has always enjoyed greater freedom of movement, but that would be to discount the financial gulf that separates the world of Detroit's Wilhelm Valentiner in the inter-war years from the Getty's Peter Fusco over the last couple of decades or so. For whereas a Valentiner could inadvertently purchase the odd nineteenth-century forgery (no. 270 is a case in point) without getting himself burnt at the stake, and occasionally underestimate the interest of works acquired under his aegis (such as no. 80, which the current curator, Alan Darr, rescued from storage), as a rule today's museum professionals have to present distinctly cast-iron cases to their masters before they are allowed to make all but the most trifling additions to their collections.

The major scholarly consequence of this state of affairs is that the Getty catalogue is categorically not the place to look for unconsidered trifles. There are some unattributed pieces which earn their places solely on merit (nos. 17, 19, and 29), but more generally the number of signed or otherwise securely attributed pieces is exceptionally high for a collection of sculpture. Bronzes far outweigh all other categories of objects, with marbles a distant second, and the emphasis is almost invariably on the exquisitely finished as opposed to the inspirationally rough. This should not be misconstrued as implying that the taste exhibited is safe or predictable, but rather that it reflects an entirely admirable eye for the best of a particular kind. What is more, the fact that this volume's Italian theme (the Spanish part of the catalogue's title accounts for one item) excludes such related masterpieces as the Getty's large-scale bronzes by De Vries and Van der Schardt may tempt readers unfamiliar with the collection to underestimate its strength. On the other hand, the roll-call of stellar names--with Cellini, Giambologna, Bernini, and Canova (albeit not in the form of the Three Graces) all represented--should be enough to impress even the most sceptical. Now all they need, confining oneself to the realm of the possible, is a serious Riccio bronze.

By contrast, Detroit does not have an especially illustrious collection of bronzes--the main exceptions being the Judith attributed to Antonio Pollaiuolo (no. 57), and two substantial nude figures of Mars and Neptune given to Danese Cattaneo (nos. 102a and b)--but more than makes up for this in other media. One of the early stars is a thirteenth-century polychrome wood Madonna and Child (no. 31), but then there are also major terracottas by or attributed to the holy trinity of early quattrocento sculpture in Florence--Ghiberti (no. 48), Donatello (nos. 50 and 51), and Luca della Robbia (no. 52). Another renaissance highlight is the pietra serena coat of arms of the Boni family (no. 54), whose design and execution are here respectively given to Donatello and Desiderio da Settignano. Moving on to the baroque, there is a remarkable terracotta modello by Bernini for the cathedra petri (no. 137), and a stunning group of Doccia figure groups (nos. 154-76), whose credentials for being included are considerably better than those of the admittedly spectacular and recently acquired Medici porcelain Ewer (no. 105).