Calder's Mobiles

If sculpture is the art of carving movement in a motionless mass, it would be wrong to call Calder's art sculpture. He does not aim to suggest movement by imprisoning it in noble but inert substances like bronze or gold, where it would be doomed forever to immobility; he lures it into being, by the use of unstable and base materials, building strange constructions of bits of bone, tin or zinc, of stems and palm-leaves, of disks, feathers and petals. They are sometimes resonators, often booby-traps; they hang on the end of a thread like spiders, or perhaps squat stolidly on a pedestal, crumpled up and seemingly asleep. But let a passing draft of cool air strike them, they absorb it, give it form, spring to life: a "mobile" is born!

A "mobile," one might say, is a little private celebration, an object defined by its movement and having no other existence. It is a flower that fades when it ceases to move, a "pure play of movement" in the sense that we speak of a pure play of light. I possess a bird of paradise with iron wings. It needs only to be touched by a breath of warm air: the bird ruffles up with a jingling sound, rises, spreads its tail, shakes its crested head, executes a dance step, and then, as if obeying a command, makes a complete about-turn with wings outspread.

But most of Calder's constructions are not imitative of nature; I know no less deceptive art than his. Sculpture suggests movement, painting suggests depth or light. A "mobile" does not "suggest" anything: it captures genuine living movements and shapes them. "Mobiles" have no meaning, make you think of nothing but themselves. They are, that is all; they are absolutes. There is more of the unpredictable about them than in any other human creation. No human brain, not even their creator's, could possibly foresee all the complex combinations of which they are capable. A general destiny of movement is sketched for them, and then they are left to work it out for themselves. What they may do at a given moment will be determined by the time of day, the sun, the temperature or the wind. The object is thus always half way between the servility of a statue and the independence of natural events; each of its evolutions is the inspiration of a moment. It may be possible to discern the composer's theme, but the mechanism itself introduces a thousand personal variations. It is a fleeting snatch of swing music, evanescent as the sky or the morning: if you miss it, you have lost it forever. Valéry said of the sea that it is a perpetual recommencement. A "mobile" is in this way like the sea, and is equally enchanting: forever re-beginning, forever new. No use throwing it a passing glance, you must live with it and be fascinated by it. Then and only then will you feel the beauty of its pure and changing forms, at once so free and so disciplined.

It may seem that these movements are made only for the delight of our eyes, but they have a profound metaphysical sense. "Mobiles" have to draw their mobility from some source. At first they were equipped with electric motors, but now it suffices to place them in the midst of nature, in a garden, for example, or an open window, and let the breezes play with them as with an Æolian harp. They feed on air, they breathe, they borrow life from the vague life of the atmosphere. Thus their mobility is of a particular kind.

Though made with human hands, they never have the precision and efficiency of Vaucanson's automaton. But the charm of the automaton is that it waves a fan or strums a guitar like a man, though with the inflexible jerkiness of a machine. The "mobile," on the other hand, weaves uncertainly, hesitates and at times appears to begin its movement anew, as if it had caught itself in a mistake. In his studio I have seen a hammer and gong hung very high in the air; at the faintest breath the hammer went after the gong, which was revolving; and, taking its time in hitting its target, the hammer launched itself and passed to one side clumsily, then when least expected came straight up on the center of the gong and struck with a frightful noise. Yet the motions are too artfully composed to be compared to those of a marble rolling on a rough board, when each change of direction is determined, by the asperities of the surface. They have their own life.

I was talking with Calder one day in his studio when suddenly a "mobile" beside me, which until then had been quiet, became violently agitated. I stepped quickly back; thinking to be out of its reach. But then, when the agitation had ceased and it appeared to have relapsed into quiescence, its long, majestic tail, which until then had not budged, began mournfully to wave, and, sweeping through the air, brushed across my face. These hesitations, resumptions, gropings, clumsinesses, the sudden decisions and above all that swan-like grace make of certain "mobiles" very strange creatures indeed, something midway between matter and life. At moments they seem endowed with an intention; a moment later they appear to have forgotten what they intended to do, and finish by merely swaying inanely. My bird, for instance, can fly, swim, float like a swan or a frigate. It is one bird, single and whole. Then of a sudden it goes to pieces and is nothing but a bunch of metal rods shaken by meaningless quiverings.

The "mobiles," which are neither wholly alive nor wholly mechanical, and which always eventually return to their original form, may be likened to water grasses in the changing currents, or to the petals of the sensitive plant, or to gossamer caught in an updraft. In short, although "mobiles" do not seek to imitate anything because they do not "seek" any end whatever, unless it be to create scales and chords of hitherto unknown movements—they are nevertheless at once lyrical inventions, technical combinations of an almost mathematical quality, and sensitive symbols of Nature, of that profligate Nature which squanders pollen while unloosing a flight of a thousand butterflies; of that inscrutable Nature which refuses to reveal to us whether it is a blind succession of causes and effects, or the timid, hesitant, groping development of an idea.

——-

Les Mobiles des Calder

S'il est vrai que la sculpture doit graver le mouvement dans l'immobile, ce serait une erreur d'apparenter l'art de Calder a celui du sculpteur. Il ne suggere pas le mouvement, il le capte; il ne songe pas a l'ensevelir pour toujours dans le bronze ou dans l'or, ces materiaux glorieux et stupides, voues par nature a l'immobilite. Avec des matieres inconsistantes et viles, avec de petits os ou du fer blanc ou du zinc, il monte d'etranges agencements de tiges et de palmes, de palets, de plumes, de petales. Ce sont des resonateurs, des pieges, ils pendent au bout d'une ficelle comme une araignee au bout de son fil ou bien ils se tassent sur un socle, ternes, rabattus sur eux-memes, faussement endormis; passe un frisson errant, il s'y empetre, les anime, ils le canalisent et lui donnent une forme fugitive: un Mobile est ne.

Un Mobile: une petite fete locale, un objet defini par son mouvement et qui n'existe pas en dehors de lui, une fleur qui se fane des qu'elle s'arrete, un jeu pur de mouvement comme il y a de purs jeux de lumiere. Quelquefois Calder se divertit a imiter une forme naturelle: il m'a fait don d'un oiseau de paradis aux ailes de fer; il suffit d'un peu d'air chaud qui le frole en s'echappant par la fenetre: l'oiseau se defripe en cliquetant, il se dresse, il fait la roue, il balance sa tete huppee, il roule et tangue et puis, tout a coup, comme s'il obeissait a un signe invisible, il vire lentement sur lui-meme, tout eploye. Mais la plupart du temps il n'imite rien et je ne connais pas d'art moins menteur que le sien. La sculpture suggere le mouvement, la peinture suggere la profonduer ou la lumiere. Calder ne suggere rien: il attrape de vrais mouvements vivants et les faconne. Ses mobiles ne signifient rien, ne renvoient a rien qu'a eux-memes: ils sont, voila tout; ce sont des absolus. En eux, la "part du Diable" est plus forte peut-etre qu'en tout autre creation de l'homme. Ils ont trop de ressorts, et trop compliques, pour qu'une tete humaine puisse prevoir toutes leurs combinaisons, meme celle de leur createur. Pour chacun d'eux, Calder etablit un destin general de mouvement et puis il l'y abandonne; c'est l'heure, le soleil, la chaleur, le vent qui decideront de chaque danse particuliere. Ainsi, l'objet demeure toujours a mi-chemin entre la servilite de la statue et l'independance des evenements naturels; chacune de ses evolutions est une inspiration du moment; on y discerne le theme compose par son auteur, mais il brode dessus mille variations personnelles; c'est un petit air de jazz-hot, unique et ephemere, comme le ciel, comme le matin; si vous l'avez manque, vous l'avez perdu pour toujours. De la mer, Valery disait qu'elle est toujours recommencee. Un objet de Calder est pareil a la mer et envoutant comme elle: toujours recommence, toujours neuf. Il ne s'agit pas d'y jeter un coup d'oeil en passant; il faut vivre dans son commerce et se fasciner sur lui. Alors l'imagination se rejouit de ces formes pures qui s'echangent, a la fois libres et reglees.

Ces mouvements qui ne visent qu'a plaire, qu'a enchanter nos yeux, ils ont pourtant un sens profond et comme metaphysique. C'est qu'il faut bien que la mobilite vienne de quelque part aux mobiles. Autrefois, Calder les alimentait avec un moteur electrique; il les abandonne a present au milieu de la nature, dans un jardin, pres d'une fenetre ouverte, il les laisse vibrer au vent comme des harpes eoliennes; ils se nourrissent de l'air, ils respirent, ils empruntent leur vie a la vie vague de l'atmosphere. Aussi leur mobilite est-elle d'une espece tres particuliere. Quoiqu'il s'agisse d'un ouvrage humain, ils n'ont jamais la precision et l'efficience des gestes de l'automate de Vaucanson. Mais justement le charme de l'automate, c'est qu'il joue de l'eventail ou de la guitare comme un homme et que, cependant, le deplacement de sa main a l'impitoyable et aveugle rigueur des translations purement mecaniques.