The Shape of a Pocket by John Berger

behind inside him. Freed from the double-bind, he was sustained by a vague hope, an intuition, that later it would be others who would look at him with a compassion that he could not allow himself.

13
Brancusi

    Thank you for the painting, Marisa, I’ve put glass over it. Your painted man, and around him the horizons, and beside him the real, not painted, lichen which has resisted drought and every extreme of temperature for millions of years. Primeval lichen, petals, feathers – you keep them between pages and you take one out, like a ticket from a purse, whenever you paint a journey!
    Me? I’m standing in the biggest ever Brancusi exhibition. No lichen, no feathers, nothing itches here. Almost everything is polished and pure.
    I have the impression, that just after Brancusi’s death in 1957 I visited his studio in the Impasse Ronsin. I was with a friend – perhaps with Zadkine who was also a friend of his. I remember the name BRANCUSI scrawled on the door with a horseshoe hung beside it, the high skylights, the vice on his bench and the sculptures and the famous carved pedestals and the segments of his Column-without-end, all crowded together but never jostling one another – each work platonically arm in arm with its neighbour.
    Particularly I remember the benevolent presence of the man who had just been buried in the cemetery of Montparnasse. The studio seemed to me to be like a bakery, the ovens still warm, from which the baker had just walked out to go down to the river.
    Yet is this true? Was I really there or have I made it up, my imagination influenced by all the flaring, mysterious photos he took of his studio, or by a visit I made to the reconstructed one which was later opened as a museum?
    There’s nobody I can check with today. Yet the doubt is appropriate, for Brancusi had the perplexing gift of being entirely himself and, at the same time, always slipping away. (He was seven years old when he ran away from his home in the Carpathian Mountains the first time.) It’s not birds that I sculpt, he once said, it’s the act of flying.
    He dressed like a Russian peasant yet his friend Marcel Duchamp sold Brancusi’s sculptures in the 1920s to avant-garde collectors in the USA, where they were viewed as shining emblems of the modern era.
    His first sculpted birds were inspired by the mythical bird of the Romanian forests called the Maïastra. When he came to Paris from Bucharest in 1904 he made most of the journey on foot. Yet his last birds, made in the 1930s, already prophesy the form of the Concorde jet!
    When you look at his drawings, they have the air of maps, which is odd for a sculptor. The contours don’t mould forms, they simply mark frontiers which can be crossed. All his work is about leaving. Above all about leaving the earth for the sky, as his Columns-without-end are supposed to do.
    And standing here, Marisa, I suddenly want to resist. I think of one of your feathers falling down on to the earth. Maybe I love the imperfect and the flawed too much. I want to find out how to judge the rascal. He’ll remain great, of course, but we ought to know a bit more about his pain.
    There’s a work in the show called
Sculpture for the Blind.
It’s an oval, lying on its side, made of marble, about the size of an ostrich’s egg but not so symmetrical.
    Say somebody blind picks it up and starts feeling it, fascinated, with their fingertips. Is this slight ridge the place of a nose? Is this gentle hollow becoming an eye-socket? Can the ripple here be a hair-line? After a while they’ll turn the egg over and start touching it to discover whether there is a crack, as with an Easter egg that opens. And finally they’ll ask themselves a question: Is this thing I’m holding in my hands a container or a core? Is there a head within it, or is it a head coming into being?
    Now, this work is one of a long series of horizontal oval heads made between 1910 and 1928. Some he called
The Sleeping Muse
, others
The