GIACINTO BOSCO: LOVE BETWEEN MYTHOLOGY AND MYTHOGRAPHY
A sculpture that perfectly exemplifies the poetics of Giacinto Bosco between mythology and mythography: on the one hand, in fact, the Sicilian artist draws strength for his compositions from the myth, on the other he makes a continuous rewriting, so as to modify or increase its meaning. In the sculptural group in question, at the beginning of an avenue bordered by trees that stretches prospectively towards the sky, as if it were a trampoline, there is a figure of a man, intent on playing the flute; in the middle of the road, a woman is in the act of descending towards him, attracted by the sound that we do not hear, but that it is there. The scene reminds us a cultural memory, we seem to recognize Orpheus and Eurydice, also the cypresses and their shadow refer to the tombs sung by Ugo Foscolo and, despite the levity of the gestures, something recalls the catabases of the poet in Hades in search of the dead bride.
It is one of the oldest and most persistent myths of our history that is handed down from the sixth century B.C. and had a first definition in Ovid’s Metamorphoses followed by countless subsequent versions. Orpheus, to whom Apollo gave the lyre and who was able to enchant the beasts with his singing, obtains permission from the Gods to descend into the underworld to bring back the beloved Eurydice, but only on condition that in the ascent he never turns to look at her. The feat fails, but the always exuberant significance of the myth persists, on which Iosif Brodsky dwells by analysing a sublime poem by Rainer Maria Rilke entitled “Orpheus. Euridice. Hermes,” (1904), in a sort of triple reflection in which a poet writes about another poet who, in turn, described a poet. Brodsky makes it very clear that if a poem and, we add, a work of art, deals with a mythological theme, we have a reality that investigates its own history or, more precisely, “an effect that subjects its cause to a magnifying glass and remains dazzled by it”.
The effect of the myth, that is, the artist or the poet, with the magnifying glass in their hands, look at their own cause, that is, the myth itself, what gave them life, look at what is at the beginning of their research, at the origin of their work, look at that intense primitive light and remain dazzled, because the light is always too intense compared to the possibilities of the gaze and it generates further light and further meanings not immediately understandable:
“Like a sprout that every spring makes a new leaf sprout, a myth generates its messenger in every culture, century after century”, an individual, a poet or an artist, like Bosco, who can scour its borders; the myths living in the memory of men, in a collective – and more atavistic and wider – memory than that of the individual, are a revealing genre, “they deal with the interaction between the gods and mortals, between infinite and finite”, and that is why it is always useful and necessary to return to them.
The sculpture in question by Bosco surprises us: at first glance it reproduces the myth of Orpheus, but the lyre has not sprouted on the man’s left arm, instead he plays the flute. It could be Linus, excellent musician, brother of Orpheus. Or Marsyas, master in aulos, in the double flute. All three, Orpheus, Linus, and Marsyas are destined for a tragic end: the first dismembered by the Maenads, the second one torn apart by dogs, the third one flayed by Apollo.
(Brief aside: the death of Marsyas brings about a small technical reflection regarding the rough surface of Bosco’s sculptures, as if the protagonists had really been flayed by their desire like a fire that “flows under the skin”, as Sappho had written 2500 years ago, and that transmutes and discolours… a vibrating surface obtained, during a specific phase of processing, by interposing the hard matter with the fleshy leaves of the prickly pear that refer to the land of the sculptor from Alcamo).
For now, however, it is not time for death: the man sings a melody and attracts the woman to himself, the woman seems to hesitate. In Rilke’s writing, it all ends when Orpheus, almost at the exit, at the top, turns to make sure that his wife is following him, and sees Eurydice “already” turning around and going back to the bottom. The German poet with a simple “already” catches the simultaneity of the act, Orpheus failing his promise not to turn around, the sudden forgetfulness of Eurydice.
Bosco proposes a reversed version of the myth, the man is at the bottom, the woman higher on top is portrayed in the act of descending towards him, but one can catch the hesitation, the arms along the body, the hands just turned in a sign of (perhaps) loving adherence that – by looking at it more carefully – could be mistaken for a rejection: who does not remember the hesitation of the Virgin Annunciate by Antonello da Messina whose brief gesture of the hand overshadows Mary’s amazement, almost perplexity, of having been chosen as the mother of God? There! We are not sure that the love between the two ends, they are caught in that short fraction of time during which anything can happen and has not yet happened, the moment of falling in love.
The same mythopoietic dedication marks many other sculptures by Bosco who has become, par excellence, the singer of the moon. His are “small amorous idylls”, as Vittorio Sgarbi wrote, “where the mysterious medium of emotions is resolved in an enchanting plastic language”, as pointed out by Paolo Levi, figures as elementary as they are poignant, from which the solemnity of ancient and primary feelings shines through; the most present is that of human amazement in front of the nocturnal star, which, among many, was sung by poets such as Ariosto, Leopardi and Borges and which inspired musicians such as Beethoven and Debussy, just to name a few, whose works in turn are models for the sculptor himself. But Bosco, in his act of reinventing the myth, of grasping its archetypal essence, of founding further meaning, is not afraid to mention even pop or popular productions, or of low culture, for example cinema, which have however become classics during the twentieth century: in one of the most moving films in history, the splendid “It’s a Wonderful Life” by Frank Capra (1946), the two protagonists, the superlative James Stewart and the beautiful Donna Reed, play by humming a famous American song as “Buffalo Gals” whose verses clearly refer to the moon (“And we danced by the light of the moon”), and when George asks Mary what she wants, she points to the moon and he promises that he will take it for her, so much so that in a sequence following the love duet we see a small painting on which Mary has embroidered the scene entitled “George lassos the moon”.
Giacinto Bosco’s work focuses on the mythography of love, that is, on rewriting the feeling of love in a mythical key. However, there is no archaeological temptation, if anything the representation in a modern and symbolic key of the desire for love. Bosco’s mythology is in fact a personal and universal one as a reflection on the particular and the greatness of the art of grasping eternity in the fragment is precisely here; his figures have the lightness of a work by Peynet or Folon but in the solid resistance of bronze, heavy yet light they are a plastic representation of the longing desire that unites women and men. The moon is the Borgesian mirror of this desire that Bosco, deceiving us thanks to an extraordinary technique, configures as a point of tension to which lovers turn. The moon is a sort of fixed point, like the geometric point at which the Foucault pendulum hangs, that remains stationary allowing the plane of oscillation to remain fixed, while around the earth rotates and the universe spins.
The sculptures, including some monumental works – the most impressive one is 7 meters high –, best represent the poetics of Giacinto Bosco, in which the solidity of bronze is put at the service of the lightness of the feeling of love; his figures, yearning for the moon, seem to hover while swinging on swings hanging from the sky, or trying balance exercises by holding themselves up on chairs and stairs, climbing ropes to reach for the moon, with the same levity of Chagall Flying Lovers.
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