Robert O’Byrne on waxworks
In 1961, an Apollo writer rediscovered an artist whose reputation had been no more durable than his material – wax
In January, the Guardian ran a story about the septuagenarian Brazilian sculptor Arlindo Armacollo, whose bizarre wax renditions of celebrities – from Mother Teresa to Marilyn Monroe – have become something of an internet sensation. Given the material’s malleability, wax ought to be an undemanding medium in which to work, but, as Armacollo’s figures demonstrate, successful outcomes are not easily achieved. Even Madame Tussauds, the world’s best-known waxwork museum, can sometimes find its efforts mocked; fans have recently been dismayed by its attempts at portraying stars such as Beyoncé and Ariana Grande.
Madame Tussaud herself worked during what might be deemed the golden age of wax sculpture, the late 18th century. One of the period’s outstanding practitioners in England, Samuel Percy (1750–1820) – about whom Ruth Ord-Hume last year published an admiring book – was the subject of an article carried in Apollo 60 years ago, in March 1961. Written by E. Norman Stretton, a pottery specialist, the text offered a precis of Percy’s career, beginning with time spent in his native Dublin, where in 1772 he sent to the city’s Society of Artists a plaque entitled Abraham Offering Isaac; he followed this up the next year with two works, Likeness in Wax and Model in Clay. Percy soon decided to specialise in wax, abandoning other media, and by 1779 was advertising in the Dublin Evening Post his ability to render ‘likenesses in coloured wax’.
This was always a niche field, in part due to the vulnerability of the medium, which could suffer from exposure to light and heat: too much of either and the sculpture might bleach or even melt. But, as the art historian Anna Moore has written, another problem was disdain within the art world towards waxworks. In his 10th Discourse, for example, Joshua Reynolds loftily pronounced: ‘To express protuberance by actual relief, to express the softness of flesh by the softness of wax, seems rude and inartificial, and creates no grateful surprise.’ Meanwhile, the Royal Academy, of which Reynolds was a founder, had declared in 1771 that ‘no models in coloured Wax shall be admitted in the Exhibition’. This stricture was evidently relaxed, since Percy was able to show examples of his work there on a number of occasions, beginning in 1786. Nevertheless, it is likely his presence in the academy was tolerated rather than welcomed. When Anthony Pasquin (a pseudonym of the satirist John Williams, who was also a painter and engraver) published his account of artists in Ireland in 1796, he had no qualms about dismissing wax sculpture as ‘the most inconsiderable department of the fine arts’.
Stretton shows how determined Percy was not to be discouraged by the prejudices of other artists, but perhaps his very facility weighed against him. He seems to have been capable of turning out a large number of portraits quickly; in Liverpool in September 1782 he advertised that he had produced almost 100 portraits in six months. Of course, the work itself was relatively small: two examples are in the collection of the National Portrait Gallery, the larger measuring 20.3cm by 17.8cm, although they look bigger because of their substantial gilt frames.
Perhaps out of a desire to achieve greater credibility among his peers, Percy was soon informing the burghers of Liverpool ‘that he will execute in lead, or brass, Statues of any size, either for private ornament or public decoration, provided a number of figures are subscribed for, so as to defray the expense of workshop, etc’. It would appear requests for statuary were not forthcoming, since wax remained the medium in which he worked. Initially he had produced only profile portraits, but by now they were available in full relief, typically depicting the sitter waist-length against a background devoid of decoration other than a curtain pulled to one side, rather in the manner of classic swagger portraiture.
Ever restless, Percy had before long taken the work a stage further, creating threedimensional groups of figures. Among the best-known is one now in the Museum of London showing a band of carousers at the Turk’s Head tavern on Gerrard Street in Soho (1785–1800). Identifiable figures include other artists such as Thomas Gainsborough, Joseph Nollekens and, perhaps inevitably, Reynolds, as well as Samuel Johnson; Percy’s scrupulous representation of the doctor’s swollen legs and ankles has been cited in medical journals that discuss Johnson’s health problems.
As Stretton observed, at his death Percy had been ‘modelling for very nearly fifty years and his output was prolific’. His work remained popular with the buying public, despite scorn from some fellow artists. Will Arlindo Armacollo have a similar legacy?
In the April issue Paris and its photographers, Baudelaire among the artists, and the dynamism of Dia Art Foundation. Plus Kaywin Feldman on cultural leadership in 2021