Sever Voinescu: The Muses of the (半)God-Farmer

It is paradoxical that, in a “literary-centric” culture such as ours, the most accomplished product on a universal scale is a sculptor. It is not the only paradox in our history, but it is, in a way, the most striking. Although the figure of the writer, the author of books, is paramount in our tradition, the absolute cultural pinnacle did not emerge from among them. Let me stress that the value of the handful of Romanian authors who have achieved universal recognition and validation, from Cantemir to Cărtărescu, is beyond question. Likewise, the importance of our writers in forging our cultural identity is immense. Our language today, in its beautiful form—not necessarily in the form in which it is spoken—is the product of the triad Dosoftei–Eminescu–Nichita Stănescu. The software of the evolution of our civilization was written by Maiorescu and Lovinescu. Our ethos is Caragialean. From every angle from which it can be viewed, our cultural profile is drawn by people who devoted themselves to literature. And yet, the greatest figure did not emerge from among them.

In an interview Cristian Mungiu recently gave us (you will be able to read it in full in the 2027 edition of our Almanac), the filmmaker observed that, visually, both intellectuals and the general public in Romania are rather ignorant. Literature, essay writing, poetry, philosophy, and history are generally the strong points of a Romanian’s general education. By contrast, the lack of education and good visual taste is evident in Romanian society, wherever one looks. Our aesthetic standards in urban planning and construction, clothing, or anything we arrange are living proof of conformity or ugliness. And yet, our national artist is a sculptor. Specifically, a sculptor born and raised in a sociocultural environment in which aesthetic education simply did not exist, who reached the École des Beaux-Arts only at the age of 22—the age at which most people complete higher education—after having lived in a cultural province. There is no doubt that Brâncuși’s work is the product of this man’s genius and of no school. I do not mean that the schools and formative experiences he went through did not help him; I mean that his work cannot in the least be explained by his CV. As someone passionate about Brâncuși, with a particular interest in his reception, I observe that we have serious difficulties in assimilating him, in all his significance, into our culture. My thesis is that we are still a minor culture—not in terms of value, but in Lucian Blaga’s sense (see the opening pages of “The Genesis of Metaphor and the Meaning of Culture”)—whereas Brâncuși is a typical product of a major culture. Major cultures do not pride themselves on their geniuses; they admire and cultivate them without pause. We pride ourselves on Brâncuși, and that is all. Moreover, the Brâncuși paradox does not stop at the fact that he, the man who revolutionized the visual language of modernity, emerged in a culture that was visually rudimentary. The paradox goes further: our culture, for all its “literary-centrism,” has still been unable to produce the great books about Brâncuși, unable to produce the books the great artist deserves. About Brâncuși, we have entire tomes of encomiums ranging from adolescent lyricism to conspiracy theories, from folklorizing emotion to occultism—books in which their authors rave nationalistically and protochronistically, books that see him as a saint, a magus, a guru, a Zamolxis with hammer and chisel—sheer madness! And the serious Romanian books are almost all minor: they boil down to indigestible analyses of the works or reproduce biographical trajectories in a didactic manner; every now and then, an author ventures into philosophical speculation to the extent permitted by his metaphysical bladder. Let me clarify: my judgment concerns books written by Romanians in Romanian, the books Romanian culture gives itself about the greatest Romanian cultural figure in history. The books of many foreign authors about Brâncuși are unquestionably (more) valuable, from Carola Giedion-Walker’s monograph, published only a few years after the artist’s death, to the collection of essays edited by Friedrich Teja Bach in 1995, not to mention, of course, Sidney Geist’s seminal study from the 1960s. I would add to the important foreign books Radu Varia’s volume on Brâncuși, never published in Romanian—therefore, a book from outside our culture. In Romania, the only books about Brâncuși that can be read with genuine interest are those by his friends or by people who knew him, and they remain interesting for their anecdotes.

That is more or less how things stood until some 10 or 15 years ago. In recent years, however, I have the impression that Romanian authors have begun to give Brâncuși what he deserves, in Romanian. The publishing landscape is moving in a positive direction. Unquestionably, one of the major impulses behind this development comes from Doina Lemny’s books about Brâncuși. Almost all these books (I include exhibition catalogues among “books”) were first written in French and then translated, with the author’s approval, into Romanian. By my standards, this approval makes them Romanian books—with a Romanian author, in Romanian.

Doina Lemny’s most recent book published in Romanian is Brâncuși’s Muses (Vremea Publishing House), translated by Silvia Colfescu. The Muses, as we know, are female figures who inspire and protect. Doina Lemny’s book presents 14 women who passed through Brâncuși’s life as muses. Some protected him, others inspired him. He loved some of them. Certainly, all 14 loved him. A few relationships remain mysterious as far as their erotic dimension is concerned; we do not know whether there was one or not.

Doina Lemny’s research was not easy because Brâncuși was extremely discreet about his intimate life. All sources point in the same direction: the sculptor took his relationships with women as far as his artistic freedom allowed, but he never permitted any relationship to become more important to him than art. Women were destined passengers who nevertheless left traces. It should be said that this “half crafty peasant, half god,” as Peggy Guggenheim described him, left much deeper traces in the hearts of his muses than they were able to leave in his. The man was apparently an irresistible seducer; the peasant was sufficiently crafty to know how to stage the (semi)god in such a way as to ensure success. It is difficult to speak about the traces these women left in Brâncuși’s heart without speculating, but concerning the traces they left in Brâncuși’s work, someone as competent as Doina Lemny has important things to say. The author is genuinely interested in the impact of these women on Brâncuși’s work, and we would be mistaken to read the book as a kind of Don Juan catalogue. In reality, by moving from Brâncuși’s muses toward Brâncuși himself, we are offered a royal road to understanding him. Ultimately, Doina Lemny’s book is the as-yet-untold story of how the women in Brâncuși’s life influenced his art, even though he did not allow them to do so. Something that we men acknowledge women are capable of doing...