The First (and best?) of Bernini’s Borghese Commissions: A Gift of Generations
Master Copy of Bernini’s “The Rape of Proserpina,” graphite on paper, 11x14, Theresa DiFranco
Once upon a time I was working on a graphite master copy of Bernini’s statue, The Rape of Proserpina, for an art history research assignment. In my research on this masterpiece, I learned that it is the second statue in a three-part commissioned series that began with his statue of the flight of Aeneas, Anchises, and Ascanius out of Troy, and culminated in the famous masterpiece, Apollo and Daphne. After finishing my master copy, I thought it would be really neat to do the other two statues in the same size and medium and frame them together. Both Apollo and Daphne and The Rape of Proserpina were easy for me to get going because I liked the pieces so much, but Aeneas and his family sauntering out of their burning homeland didn’t appeal to me as much.
Still, I committed myself to the project, so whether I liked the piece or not, I had to stare at it for several hours.
Master Copy of Bernini’s “Aeneas, Anchises, and Ascanius,” graphite on paper, 11x14, Theresa DiFranco
My work on the two Ovid tales involved a lot of meditation and awe at the ability Bernini had for making marble look like flesh, or for making a woman’s hair gradually turn to leaves. I spent my time on those two pieces admiring Bernini’s skill and enjoying his craft. But when I got to Aeneas, I found myself meditating rather on the subject matter itself. There’s a reason why this short scene in Virgil’s Aeneid has become so iconic, so vivid, and so important. Now, my study of this piece of literature is limited. But my appreciation for this statue and the story it depicts increased tremendously as I brought it to life on the paper with my pencil and eraser, and it’s simply because it invited me to meditate on the gift to humanity of generations and fatherhood.
I can’t remember which figure in the statue I completed first. Likely I worked on them equally, and it really doesn’t matter, but I’ll start here with the youngest. As I sculpted the boy Ascanius with my pencil, I was struck by the willing and childlike trust he places in his father. The angle of the sculpture I chose doesn’t show his right arm, but it is clinging to his father’s leg, sort of holding the cloth up to cover his nakedness. It was a Baroque style in art to cover nude figures, but Ascanius is the only figure uncovered, showing his innocence as a child. He holds the lamp for light, representing his roll as the future, and he looks out with a sorrowful face, but there’s something about his posture and position that strikes me as both trusting and confident. Had his grandfather been able to walk, his father would have been carrying him, but the young boy takes responsibility and courageously walks beside his father, lighting the way while clinging for protection and support.
How beautiful it is to think of our children and the new generation in this way! They are the ones who will light the way for future generations, but they must always remember their dependence. And whether you’re an adult or a child yourself, I think it’s important to take some time reflecting on this and identifying with it. Alasdair MacIntyre wrote that “acknowledgment of dependence is the key to independence” (Dependent Rational Animals, 1999). Ascanius perfectly embodies this to me through Bernini’s sculpting hand. Even compositionally, Ascanius is somewhat offset from the other two—somewhat independent from the main action. While still an innocent child clearly fearful, he holds tightly onto the one on whom he is dependent, thereby securing his independence. We’re all children, no matter our age, and we’re all sons or daughters. By studying Bernini’s Ascanius, I have learned to embrace my childlike innocence, boldly take hold of the task(s) given to me despite sorrow or hardship, and cling onto the One on Whom I am dependent.
As I worked on Aeneas, I was struck firstly by his strong arms and legs. Aeneas is really doing the hard work in this sculpture. While Ascanius provides the light, Aeneas is still the one leading; still the one carrying the weight of his father on his shoulders. I love the way Bernini sculpted his hands in particular—hands that were once as soft and innocent as his son Ascanius’, but are now strong and manly. Yet, despite their strength, there is still a gentleness about them in the way they handle the frail body of Anchises. Aeneas is portrayed here as a man truly in the prime of his life. He has all the matured strength and beauty of youth before it begins to wither. He is strong physically, but clearly also mentally, for who but a strong and sound man would so humbly and dutifully lift his own father on his shoulders to carry him to safety?
Yes, as I worked on Aeneas, I sort of fell in love with his manhood, his sonship, and his fatherhood. And although his face struck me at first glance as looking bored or sad, as I drew it (and redrew it to get it right), I noticed depths of emotion in it that can only be described as a dutiful, controlled, determined, and sorrowful concentration.
As I look at Aeneas, I am struck by the twofold beauty of a man who is both a father and a son. For I see reflected in his face a hint of that fear so present in Ascanius’ face, but I see a budding wisdom in his brow that is in full bloom in the face of Anchises. Aeneas is past that stage of dependence on his father that Ascanius is in, but he does not do away with it. He transforms it into gratitude, giving that protection back to his withering father. Aeneas’ independence still comes from his acknowledged dependence, but the acknowledgment is a respect and reverence for the man who provided him with everything he needed. In short, Aeneas loves his father. I think that is beautiful.
Aeneas also loves his son. It is perhaps harder to see this love in the sculpture, only because of the aforementioned physical separation of the two, but a little reflection and it is the most obvious. A father provides, protects, and teaches. The main action of this sculpture—Aeneas carrying his father—is the embodied love for his son. Not only is he leading Ascanius to safety, but he is modeling for him what it means to be a son. Courage and strength, humility and gratitude, duty and gentleness even in the face of the most horrific events radiate from Aeneas, and we already see those same virtues begin to manifest in his son.
And finally, Anchises. He was my favorite to work on. Several features about him struck me all at once: the strength of his own legs despite his age; the grave look on his face; his own posture mirroring Aeneas’ in the carrying of the household gods, and the humble admittance of his weakness in being carried by his own son. There’s not much to say about Anchises, for the wisdom of his age speaks for itself. He is the most passive figure in the whole composition, yet his passivity itself is somehow active. For it shows sophisticated virtue—both of humility and fortitude. It is not easy to admit that you are past your prime—that prime of life that Aeneas is in. It is not easy to admit weakness or defeat, but Anchises willingly and gratefully allows his son to care for him (acknowledged dependence).
Anchises is not entirely passive, however. He still has a role in carrying the household gods. Anchises is in the position of passing down to his son and his grandson the history and traditions of his fathers. It is uniquely his role to carry these gods on his shoulders so that his descendants may forever continue to acknowledge where they came from and on whom they are dependent. So we get a beautiful pyramid here: a son, dependent on his father; a father leading his son and carrying his father; a father allowing himself to be carried and carrying what might be considered the family’s identity. Truly, this is a story of generations, and it is a distinctly human story.
One more thing I would like to draw attention to is the actual making of this beautiful piece of art. Bernini was twenty years old when he made this sculpture. It was commissioned by Cardinal Scipione Borghese who was the nephew of the Pope—which we might glean a father-son relationship from. Bernini’s father, Pietro Bernini, helped him complete this sculpture (Borghese Gallery). It’s no wonder, then, that I was able to be so moved by the themes of fatherhood and sonship in this piece. It was sculpted by embodiments of these very themes.
Finally, Bernini was heavily inspired for the figure of Aeneas by Michelangelo’s Christ the Redeemer or The Risen Christ in the Santa Maria Sopra Minerva (Borghese Gallery), in which the Risen Christ is carrying the Cross in an almost identical pose to Aeneas carrying his father. The reflections one might engage in from this connection are numerous, so I’ll leave it to you, dear reader, to reflect.
I continue to draw new insights from this first masterpiece of Bernini’s. Apollo, Daphne, Hades and Persephone get all the attention, but I’ve grown to appreciate the quieter piece; the piece of fathers and sons; the piece that continues to make the lasting difference in my life.
MacIntyre, Alasdair. Dependent Rational Animals: Why Human Beings Need the Virtues. Peru, Illinois: Open Court Publishing Company, 1999.
