On gazing at the gates of hell

There they were, framed against a sun-less sky, a bevy of bare, leafless branches watching over as the last rays of the day's light kissed the bronze. I stood there, gazing, thinking to myself that this is how they are meant to be viewed, under a desolate sky as the sun disappears and carries away hope.

La Porte de l'Enfer. 
Brought to language by Dante, brought to life by Rodin.
(I wonder, provocatively and pointlessly, if there has been a greater collaboration in the history of art.)

- Some context. -
The Gates of Hell is a sculpture by Auguste Rodin, drawing inspiration from Dante's Inferno. He worked on it most of his life, never feeling finished. However, many of the figures he cast for this group, he found them powerful enough to be taken out as standalone pieces, birthing masterpieces like The Thinker, The Kiss and others (my personal favourite being the sublime Eternal Springtime). Eventually, many years later, his original plaster was restored and some bronzes were cast, after his death. Three of them were made - one is at the Musee Rodin in Paris, the second is in the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and the third is here in Tokyo, at the National Museum of Western Art. There are two plasters, one which is more abstract (which Rodin seems to have preferred) displayed in Meudon, and the other more detailed one which is on display at the Musee d'Orsay in Paris.
- End of context. -

There's something stunning about seeing this piece here in Ueno Park, with the autumn trees watching over it. It will probably feel very different any other time of the year, but in this winter chill, with the barren backdrop of those branches, it feels like the sculpture comes to life. I'm fairly familiar with the sculpture, thanks to numerous visits to the Musee d'Orsay and the countless hours spent kneeling in front of it... And now I have this powerful image to add to that library of memories. 

And the work itself (view here), it's an overwhelming mass of flesh, and the relief barely seems able to contain it. It's part of Rodin's genius that everything blends in while still retaining its shape. Are they bodies, or are they souls, and is there even a difference between the two? It is a swirling ocean of suffering, swallowing all in its wake, the amorphousness of hell come alive. 
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

I can't think of many single works of art who can match its staggering ambition (the Stanze de Rafaello and the Sistine chapel come to mind, of course) and for me, that speaks to the immensity of Rodin's inner space, to assimilate the impossible breadth of Dante's vision and transmute it into something corporeal. Rodin kept working on it, never satisfied, probably considering it a failure, but how beautifully he failed.

More importantly, for me, this is one of the greatest, and most tangible, examples of how artistic inspiration works. One great mind drinking from the depths of another, transforming that into something novel and giving it shape, and the cycle of generosity continues. Rodin owed so much to Dante, and later, Rilke came to owe so much to Rodin. This sculpture stands at the fulcrum of this trifecta of masters who mean so much to me, a tangible testament to the great mutability of art.

Every time I stand in front of it, I see the one eternal thing, beauty, restlessly in motion, moving from one great mind to another, touching us mortals as it passes us by. And if I have to follow it to the gates of hell and kneel, I gladly will.