Beneath the skin: Francis Bacon and Henry Moore’s Flesh and Bone
The Ashmolean Museum Oxford: 12th September 2013-19th January 2014.
It’s a match made in Art-History heaven and not the first time it’s been made. However the curators of the Ashmolean’s most recent exhibition of Francis Bacon and Henry Moore are eager to maintain the shared history of the duo’s dynamic. Myfanwy Piper famously wrote that Moore "never forgets…the strength of the bone beneath the flesh" while Bacon "never forgets that flesh is meat". Yet the ‘Flesh and Bone’ on display is hardly paralleled by the dynamic of Bacon and Moore in quite the way that one might expect. Instead the duelling of these two art giants allows an audience to explore the complex dialogues that run between them for themselves.
For the curators, Bacon moves from the external to the internal, ‘disintegrating and dissolving form’ whereas Moore is seen as producing the contrary, moving from the inside out ‘pushing anatomical structure to the surface flesh and bone’, a statement that is made all too clear as we witness the writhing bronze of his Falling Warrior whose organs seem to swell and pull out against their intended positions, pushing through the bronze surface.
There’s certainly a tension created by the similar enterprise of both artists in reassembling and restoring the body, not towards an ideal whole but to ‘animal resignation in the face of isolation and suffering’, but there remains a pleasing coherence in the ways in which both move to re-establish the body in its own right; simultaneously conscious of inevitable mortality yet powerfully able to convey the infectiousness of ‘irrepressible life’.
For the curators, Bacon moves from the external to the internal, ‘disintegrating and dissolving form’ whereas Moore is seen as producing the contrary, moving from the inside out ‘pushing anatomical structure to the surface flesh and bone’, a statement that is made all too clear as we witness the writhing bronze of his Falling Warrior whose organs seem to swell and pull out against their intended positions, pushing through the bronze surface.
There’s certainly a tension created by the similar enterprise of both artists in reassembling and restoring the body, not towards an ideal whole but to ‘animal resignation in the face of isolation and suffering’, but there remains a pleasing coherence in the ways in which both move to re-establish the body in its own right; simultaneously conscious of inevitable mortality yet powerfully able to convey the infectiousness of ‘irrepressible life’.
‘The smallness of the head [was] necessary to emphasise the massiveness of the body’; a human body which in Moore’s view is ultimately ‘the thing that all sculpture is based on’ (1961)
Rather than bone, there is (so to speak) no ‘skull beneath the skin’ for Moore, simply a block of metal, with a single punctured hole, a desolate simplicity, where identity becomes obsolete. Yet the absence of identity in both Moore and Bacon is perhaps most artfully explained by Moore when defending the altered proportions in his work: ‘The smallness of the head [was] necessary to emphasise the massiveness of the body’; a human body which in Moore’s view is ultimately ‘the thing that all sculpture is based on’ (1961). Flesh and bones ultimately remain at the roots of his bronze and stone.
But this isn’t just an exhibition focused on the difference between two artists; instead we are shown an entire history. The legs of Moore’s ‘Falling Warrior’ are influenced by Michelangelo’s final unfinished sculpture ‘The Rondanini Pieta’, an influence illustrated through a line of Michelangelo sketches that adorn one wall, casting ancient eyes over their more modern counterparts, exposing a striking progression and exploration of human form. Facing one fallen body we find another in Bacon’s Portrait of Henrietta Moeas; both bodies splayed out for us to consume.
But this isn’t just an exhibition focused on the difference between two artists; instead we are shown an entire history. The legs of Moore’s ‘Falling Warrior’ are influenced by Michelangelo’s final unfinished sculpture ‘The Rondanini Pieta’, an influence illustrated through a line of Michelangelo sketches that adorn one wall, casting ancient eyes over their more modern counterparts, exposing a striking progression and exploration of human form. Facing one fallen body we find another in Bacon’s Portrait of Henrietta Moeas; both bodies splayed out for us to consume.
The figurative nature of both artists exposes their attempts to re-imagine human bodies after the trials of war
Moore has an incredible eye for space, the gaps in his bodies moving us just as Bacon does with his brushstrokes. The contorted bronze assembling a body before our eyes changes at our every move. The figurative nature of both artists exposes their attempts to re-imagine human bodies after the trials of war. For Moore in particular, working as an official war artist, it’s clear from his observations of the contorted bodies in the shelters that he is fascinated by the damage that can be endured by the human body. The bleak depictions of miners in simple sketches or intimate studies like Sleeping Positions unexpectedly prove to be some of the most striking pieces, both unlike and deeply like his sculptures.
In the central room of the exhibition, looking up we are met by Bacon’s Second Version of Triptych 1944 (1988), a work that appears to counter Moore’s three vast totem poles, both imposing, invading opposite ends of the gallery, a beautiful representation of the meeting of these two artistic giants. Although some might feel the paired nature of the exhibition inevitably leads to a competitive antagonism, what is gained is a sense of continuing development and a wonderful harmony. Neither artist pulls ahead from the other; both reflect and enhance the other’s work in ways that no ordinary exhibition could explain. Combined, the pieces in the second gallery become one grand assembly: a strange meeting house in which Bacon’s Pope sits beside Moore’s King and Queen, each flanked by their three modern furies.
Without the singularity of a traditional exhibition, we have the advantage here. We’re able to flow freely between differing attitudes and insights, able to enjoy the ultimate harmony of two great artists, coming together as they both construct their powerful visions; as out of the human body they build their own flesh and bone.
In the central room of the exhibition, looking up we are met by Bacon’s Second Version of Triptych 1944 (1988), a work that appears to counter Moore’s three vast totem poles, both imposing, invading opposite ends of the gallery, a beautiful representation of the meeting of these two artistic giants. Although some might feel the paired nature of the exhibition inevitably leads to a competitive antagonism, what is gained is a sense of continuing development and a wonderful harmony. Neither artist pulls ahead from the other; both reflect and enhance the other’s work in ways that no ordinary exhibition could explain. Combined, the pieces in the second gallery become one grand assembly: a strange meeting house in which Bacon’s Pope sits beside Moore’s King and Queen, each flanked by their three modern furies.
Without the singularity of a traditional exhibition, we have the advantage here. We’re able to flow freely between differing attitudes and insights, able to enjoy the ultimate harmony of two great artists, coming together as they both construct their powerful visions; as out of the human body they build their own flesh and bone.