WAXING LYRICAL

THE WORK

On conserving bronzes in the sculpture garden at the Baltimore Museum of Art

By Dereck Stafford Mangus

“For there is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in Work. Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works: in Idleness alone is there perpetual despair.”

— Thomas Carlyle, Past and Present (1843), Book III, Chapter Ⅺ: “Labour”

It took them ages to perfect, but after generations of trial and error our ancient forebears synthesized a unique hybrid material that would revolutionize the art of sculpture. Beginning in the mid-fourth millennium BCE, they began adding tin, along with a few other ingredients, while smelting copper. After cooling, the strange new amalgam was dark, lightweight, and strong. They had created the world’s first alloy: bronze.

Less brittle than iron and more durable than later alloys, bronze spread like wildfire across Eurasia during antiquity. By the second millennium BCE, it was used for everything from artwork and currency to tools and weaponry. Its use in the ancient world became so predominant that later historians would coin this era the Bronze Age. Though periodization by a material is no longer fashionable among historians, it speaks to how powerful a place bronze holds in the modern imagination.

Impressed by its unique properties, the ancient metallurgists employed a special technique for casting bronze. Though some form of casting had previously existed, it came into its own with the arrival of the versatile new material. After centuries of adaptation and experimentation, the ancients mastered the lost-wax method of casting, still in use today.

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In the first year of the coronavirus, while its indoor galleries were still closed but its exterior spaces remained open, I added a new role to my work at the Baltimore Museum of Art (BMA). In addition to my regular duties as a security guard, once a week I began helping the museum’s conservation team wash the many works of art in the outdoor sculpture garden. Over the past few seasons, I have become familiar with a range of conservation practices for outdoor art objects. Besides enriching my knowledge as a museum professional, my work in the garden has afforded me the opportunity to think more deeply about sculpture.

My dual roles at the museum—guarding and washing art—are related: both entail the protection and preservation of cultural artifacts. One consists of standing in and walking around climate-controlled galleries; the other, doing manual labor outside in the heat. Like the sculptures I help protect, I am exposed to the elements while laboring in the garden. But I don’t mind; I welcome it. I regard my work there as somehow sacred. Though more arduous than guarding, I appreciate the opportunity to work with my hands and directly experience the fruits of my labor while working outside. It can be hard, backbreaking work, especially on hot days, moving buckets and hoses back and forth across scorching pavers under a blazing sun. But witnessing my work, actually seeing the difference between a fully waxed and buffed bronze and one still in need of attention, is deeply satisfying.

Not that the feeling lasts! Like guarding, which largely consists of telling visitors the same message over and over again—Please don’t touch the art. . . . Please don’t touch the art. . . .—conservators have to continually wax, dewax, and rewax the bronzes in the garden, ad infinitum. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. The work of art is never done. Though the artist dies, their art lives on. Long after their demise, museum professionals continue to keep artists’ work looking fresh in perpetuity, so that future generations of art lovers may appreciate it. A museum—with all of its departments, equipment, staff and interns—is like a fully-functional, high-tech, life-support system for art.

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The earliest bronzes are no longer with us. At the height of the Hellenistic period, the three centuries between the death of Alexander the Great in 323 BCE and the beginning of the Roman Empire in 31 BCE, ancient Greece was awash with bronze statues. Today, fewer than thirty intact, large-scale examples survive from Hellenistic Greece, and maybe a few hundred more fragments such as hands and feet. As Peter Stewart, Director of the Classical Art Research Centre at the University of Oxford writes in the opening of his essay “The Lost Art of Greek Bronzes” for Apollo Magazine:

Classical art is a heritage of loss. The great majority of the works of art produced in ancient Greece and Rome no longer survive. Paintings have rotted, crumbled or burned. Marble statues were smashed or perished in medieval lime-kilns. As for sculpture in bronze, it has suffered as a result of its intrinsic material value, with statues melted down and recycled throughout the intervening centuries.

Over time, ancient bronze statues were melted down for their material worth and recycled into coins, weapons, and other items. The few ancient bronze statues that have survived did so by sheer luck, either buried in landslides, covered over by debris from volcanic explosions, or submerged underwater after a shipwreck. The Riace Warriors, discovered by a snorkeler off the coast of southern Italy in 1972, are two of the best enduring examples of full-size ancient Greek bronzes.

While there were plenty of marble statues in antiquity as well, bronzes predominated. Cast bronze captures a level of detail rarely achieved in carved stone, enabling subtle areas of the human form to be realistically rendered in material: veins, wrinkles, tendons, musculature, and naturalistic facial expressions made bronze statues appear almost alive.

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There is an upper and lower sculpture garden at the BMA, the collections of each donated by different wealthy families. The upper garden consists of mostly postwar bronzes with a few exceptions, such as Auguste Rodin’s diminutive statue of de Balzac (original model 1892–1893; this cast 1957). Most of the works here are figurative, again with a few exceptions: a painted black steel “stabile” by Alexander Calder, Four Dishes (1967), and a large granite Möbius strip by Max Bill, Endless Ribbon (1953; original 1935), introduce abstract forms to the milieu. The layout of the upper garden is more geometric than its lower counterpart, which, by contrast, is more informal in style. The sculptures down here, like 100 Yard Dash (1969) by Calder and Spitball (1961) by Tony Smith, are mostly abstract. The two exceptions are also the sole bronzes in the lower garden: Head (1974) by Joan Míro and Large Boxing Hare on Anvil (1984) by Barry Flanagan are both figurative works cast in bronze.

Whatever their material or mode, they all get cleaned. Though regularly washed over by rain, every sculpture is first rinsed down with a hose. Dust and cobwebs can easily build up on outdoor art, and a quick spray down washes off much of it. Spiderwebs and bird shit (known as guano in the field) can be surprisingly resilient. We add a little Orvus, a multi-purpose, biodegradable soap, to a bucket full of water. Stone and unpainted steel sculptures can have a little soap added to their wash, but not painted steel ones as paint can peel off if scrubbed too hard. Painted steel sculptures like those by Calder and Smith are often sent off-site to be refurbished at remote facilities. But the works that require the most of our attention—and may be scrubbed as vigorously as possible—are the bronzes.

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Requiring almost twenty-four hours to complete, the process of washing, waxing, and buffing a single bronze is quite involved. First, we spray it down with a hose. It’s important to introduce a sponge only after rinsing a bronze with water alone, so as to wash off as much debris as possible and not cause scratches while scrubbing. Then, after filling a bucket with water and adding two fingers worth of Orvus, we take sponges loaded with suds and scrub over the entire surface of the bronze, using “elbow grease” on tougher stains like bird droppings.

The next phase involves a petroleum-based chemical, which cannot be applied until the entire sculpture is as dry as a bone. This requires using multiple cotton rags to wipe off and sop up any residual water clinging to the surface. Stubborn pockets of moisture remain in the many nooks and crannies, which bronze is so good at producing. We often have to wait and let the sun evaporate these last few puddles. We tend to take a water break at this point.

Once the piece is completely dry, we dewax the bronze using a solvent, whose fumes require the use of a respirator. Taking a cotton rag doused with solvent, we vigorously wipe the sculpture all over. We have to get in real tight, especially where there’s a lot of detail. It doesn’t seem like much happens at first. But after a while, a brownish residue starts to build up and peel away. This is the previous layer of wax being removed. Once the process gets along far enough, we begin to see the actual bronze, the raw material itself exposed again to the world. The process is not unlike oiling a bicycle chain: after cleaning off old lube with WD-40, new lube is applied to the chain, and so on.

The dewaxing process takes much longer than the wash down. The sun makes its way high into the sky. Insects come out of cracks and holes in the ground and scamper across the statues. Bugs don’t care about art. An outdoor sculpture is just another surface on which to hunt or lay eggs. We continue working. Behind the safety of my respirator, I wonder how the insects might react to the chemicals we’re applying. Is this pure torture for them? They scuttle about here and there.

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A lull in city noises coincides with a sustained cicada crescendo, shifting my thoughts while working one day. As elaborate as the process of waxing sculpture may seem, the lost-wax method for casting bronze is far more complicated. While “wax” is used in both procedures, it is of a different kind and for a different purpose for each. The wax we use in the garden is an amalgam of modern components and is used to protect the bronzes; the initial material used in the ancient lost-wax process for casting bronze is actual wax, though similar materials such as resin, tallow, and tar have been used as well. This wax is the starting point of a bronze sculpture.

The lost-wax casting method, also called cire-perdue, describes the process of pouring molten metal into a mold that was imprinted from a wax model. Essentially, an original sculpture is made from a malleable and meltable material like wax. The sculpted wax model stays cool and firm while clay is packed all around it, forming within an exact negative of the wax model positive. This clay sheath, once baked, becomes the mold. Tubes are inserted at strategic locations of the structure to allow the wax to be drained, and for gasses to escape later on in the process. Heating the whole assemblage bakes the clay mold, hardening it, while also melting the wax, which drains out of a tube and is thus “lost.”

Molten bronze is then poured into the baked clay mold, from which a bronze sculpture is later removed after solidifying. As multiple statues can be made from the same mold, casting is sort of like a three-dimensional form of photography: an original object (or moment) is imprinted onto chemically-sensitive film, which is similar to a mold. From that negative or positive film (or “two-dimensional mold”), multiple versions of the same image may be printed.

While other materials had been cast before it, the inherent properties of bronze are ideal for the lost-wax process. In molten form, bronze expands before cooling, pushing into and filling every crevice of the mold. In the final phase of solidification, it contracts just a little. This dual feature of cast bronze ensures that even the finest of details from the mold are captured (during expansion) while also permitting the sculpture’s easy removal from the mold (after contraction.)

Larger bronze statues consist of many separate cast parts, welded together after casting. They are hollow and therefore lighter than similarly sized statues carved from stone. Lighter statutes would be easier to transport from foundries and studios to agoras and temples. Considering this advantage along with the fact that the sculptures capture such a high level of detail, it’s easy to see why the ancients became so enamored with bronze. The process is complicated, but the end results are highly sophisticated works of art.

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Unlike the modern ones we wax in the garden, ancient bronzes were never simply bronze. Just as their white marble counterparts were brightly painted, fading in time from exposure to the elements, ancient bronze statues were adorned in their day with jewels and other precious materials so as to appear more life-like. The handful of hollow-eyed, stripped-down relics we have today would have been inlaid with shiny alloys and other materials to enhance their overall effect, their eyes literal gems. As Sarah Waldorf writes on the Getty Museum’s Iris blog: “Eyes, nipples, lips, teeth, garment hems, and more might have been detailed with gold, copper, silver, bone, ivory, stone, or glass.”

Due to its high level of fidelity, bronze enabled ancient sculptors to capture the idiosyncratic features and emotional expressions of their subjects. This opened the door to portraiture. Common, everyday folks are found in ancient statuary, not just heroes and gods. Bald heads and pot bellies abounded as much as ripped abs and bulging biceps. It was during the Hellenistic period too that women became important subjects for the first time in art history.

Apart from a Louise Nevelson work, Seventh Decade Forest (1971–1976), there were no female artists represented in the sculpture garden at the BMA until very recently. One of the museum’s most recent acquisitions, Water Woman (2017; this cast 2018) by Wangechi Mutu, challenges the status quo in more ways than one. Not only is she just one of two sculptures created by a female artist there, Water Woman also represents the sole work by a Black artist in the outdoor gardens. Originally from Somalia, Mutu drew her inspiration for Water Woman from East African folklore, which warns of the nguva, captivating mermaids with webbed hands and fish tails who lure unsuspecting mortals into the water. Staring out from her grassy perch with sphinx-like eyes, Water Woman silently stares towards the main gate, ready to seduce all who enter the gardens.

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After the previous layer is completely removed, it’s time for the new layer of wax. We carefully apply the thick brown substance over the surface, covering every square inch of the bronze, making sure to brush out any streaks and avoid globs building up in more intricate areas. The shine of the wet wax quickly wanes in the noonday sun. A newly waxed, pre-buffed bronze lacks luster, and is like a matte version of itself. Still, I like how they look at this phase.

A fresh coat of wax takes about twenty-four hours to fully adhere. The following day, we take various sized brushes to our freshly waxed bronzes, polishing their surfaces until they shine. The finished product is like a whole new work of art, straight out of the mold. Experiencing the before-and-after look of a newly waxed and buffed bronze, knowing that I was part of the process, makes me feel proud. I enjoy seeing my work shine.

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If left unperturbed, bronzes will outlive works of art and cultural artifacts made of other metal alloys. Seemingly sturdy materials like steel will erode and, in time, disappear forever. Bronze, like the so-called “noble metals” silver and gold, will exist forever. In The World Without Us, journalist Alan Weisman pontificates on the various consequences of a post-human world. In a chapter titled “Art Beyond Us,” he explains:

Bronze artwork is doubly blessed. Scarce, expensive noble metals, like gold, platinum, and palladium, combine with nearly nothing in nature. Copper, more plentiful and slightly less regal, forms bonds when exposed to oxygen and sulfur, but—unlike iron, which crumbles as it rusts—the result is a film, two-thousandths to three-thousandths of an inch thick, that protects it from further corruption. These patinas, lovely in their own right, form part of the allure of bronze sculpture, which is at least 90 percent copper.

Like radio waves forever traveling further into outer space or sturdy buildings made of stone, bronze statuary will last a long time after humans.

More or less, that is. While bronze does not corrode, if not continuously waxed and buffed, it oxidizes when exposed to air so that its brownish black surface becomes covered with a distinct blue-green coating. Some time ago, The Thinker (original model 1880; BMA cast 1904–1917) by Rodin used to sit outside of the museum on the front steps. We have long since moved him back indoors and thoroughly polished off the oxidation buildup. It’s now as smooth and dark as ever. People revisiting the museum after some time insist that it must be a different statue. “Where’s the other Thinker? The green one?”

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While waxing the bronzes in the garden, I often think of Mierle Laderman Ukeles’ “Maintenance Art Performances.” On July 22, 1973, Ukeles washed the front steps of the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum in Hartford, Connecticut. This particular action was part of a larger series of performances meant to draw attention to overlooked custodial workers and the many menial jobs that sustain our cultural institutions. The work of art extends far beyond the actual, physical object. If deemed worthy of conserving, a given artwork will rely upon a complex hierarchy of labor that lasts for generations.

Beyond spurring such thoughts, washing sculptures in the garden has helped me better appreciate them as works of art. Sculpture certainly came up in the many art history courses I took as a student, but it always felt like an addendum to the grand narratives of two-dimensional work like painting. Further, because it occupies space, rather than creating a two-dimensional image or projection of space like pictures do, sculpture always felt somehow redundant to me. Like there’s no trick to it at all. Counterintuitively, it felt flat.

With two-dimensional art, even in its abstract form, the illusion of space is always at play. I am here and this work of art takes me there. A picture depicts/suggests/points to another world. It transports you. That’s what art is: a portal into another world. Sculpture always felt like too much a part of this one. Until working in the garden and becoming more acquainted with its material reality, I would often write off sculpture by blithely quoting abstract painter Ad Reinhardt who said, “Sculpture is that thing you bump into when backing up to see a painting.”

I no longer feel that way. After working in the garden these past few seasons, I have cultivated a newfound respect for sculpture. How human beings ever came up with bronze, let alone casting it into lifelike figures, boggles my mind. But then again, while typing this essay on my laptop, I can hardly evaluate our so-called Silicon Age. Perhaps I am more of a tactile learner; to better grasp sculpture—especially bronzes—I had to actually feel its material with my own hands.

Dereck Stafford Mangus is a visual artist and writer based in Baltimore. His artwork has been exhibited in select galleries throughout Charm City, and his writing has appeared in several art publications. In 2018, he won the prestigious Frieze Writer’s Prize for his review of a major exhibition celebrating Black artist Jack Whitten at the Baltimore Museum of Art.