By the start of the nineteenth century, Antonio Canova was the undoubtedly the most famous and accomplished artist in Europe. Certainly, a talented neoclassical sculptor, Canova was also a good businessman, for he published engravings of his work, garnering him patrons from all of the royal families of Europe (and even a few among the new presidents of the United States).
As Canova was justifiably famous, it was only natural that Napoleon Bonaparte, who was already looting—er, make that “collecting” art from conquered countries for his Musée Napoléon (now the Louvre), would want to commission the artist for creation of a statue of himself. This was a problem for Canova, for while he welcomed the general’s money—he made busts and statues of Napoleon’s mother, both wives, and infamously, the reclining nude statue of his sister, Pauline—Canova didn’t like Napoleon. He didn’t like that the general had invaded Venice, his home. He didn’t like the way that stolen art treasure was steadily making its way to France. The devout artist hated the way Napoleon treated the Pope, and he especially didn’t like that Napoleon was going to use his marble statue for official propaganda.
Though he didn’t like Napoleon, Canova had little choice but to show up in 1802, but he did impose a few conditions. Though Napoleon wanted to be depicted wearing the uniform of a French general, Canova insisted on depicting Napoleon as “Mars the Peacekeeper”, a classical figure, made more than twice life size. Napoleon agreed, and even “sat” for the artist a total of four times.
Napoleon had just signed the Treaty of Amiens, halting the war with England. Perhaps the idea of being depicted as a pacifist suited his political aims at the time. Or maybe, he just liked the idea of a statue 11 feet tall. (In fact, despite common belief, Napoleon wasn’t especially short. The French inch was a little different from the English version, so he was actually 5’ 5”, about an inch shorter than the average of the day.)
It took four years for the statue to be completed, by which time the “keeper of peace” was once again engaged in war. So, the statue remained in Venice. Various French diplomats who viewed the statue, pronounced it as magnificent and one even recommended that the peace be placed just inside the entrance to the Musée Napoléon, so that it would be the first work a visitor saw after entering.
Due to various military engagements…a battle here, a fleet lost there, an invasion or two, etc., it was not until 1811 that Napoleon finally gazed upward at his statue, the day before it was to debut at the Musée Napoléon. Canova’s statue depicts a well-proportioned nude Mars, who has set his breastplate and sword aside, holding in one hand, instead, a globe surmounted by winged victory and in the other, the staff of rule. Napoleon as Mars is walking forward while turning his head to look to one side, almost as if the statue is unsure of his actions.
Try to picture the scene, a middle-aged Napoleon, more than a little thick around the waist, is staring at a young, nude, muscular man who seems to be mocking him. The fact that the man’s genitalia is exactly at his eye level probably didn’t help.
“Too athletic,” Napoleon said and ordered the statue to be hidden from sight. The statue vanished for years.
Napoleon’s sister obviously disagreed. Pauline Bonaparte Borghese said “If one could make statues by caressing marble, I would say that this statue was formed by wearing out the marble that surrounded it with caresses and kisses.” Perhaps we should take the eccentric sister’s opinions at a discount, since she was just a trifle ahead of her time. Years later, after she had insisted that Canova create a life-size statue of her as a reclining Venus, she was asked if she had felt uncomfortable posing in the nude. “No,” she replied. “There was a nice fire in the room and I was quite warm.”
Note. A century and a half later, Marilyn Monroe was asked what she had on while her Playboy centerfold photo was taken. “The radio,” she answered. I’ve seen photos of both—Pauline wins.
After defeating Napoleon at Waterloo, the Duke of Wellington first viewed the statue in Paris. Already championing the cause of returning the artwork stolen by Napoleon to the rightful owners, Wellington was also collecting the work of Canova, though it is not known if he was interested in obtaining the Napoleon statue.
France, desperate for cash, began selling off some of Napoleon’s legitimate artwork. Though Canova eagerly offered to repurchase the statue, France sold the marble to England’s Prince Regent for 66,000 thousand francs (about $240,000 today). And the Prince gifted the statue to the Duke of Wellington.
I’m not sure that too many people would find a 11-foot statue of a nude man—much less a former enemy—much of a gift, but supposedly Wellington was pleased with the gift, even though he had to have the floor of his home’s foyer specially reinforced to handle the stress of the 3-ton statue. Wellington always spoke respectfully of Napoleon, though once the statue was installed in his home, the general had a removable fig leaf strategically added. (And if you’re wondering, Wellington was 5’ 9”, so yeah, it still would have been right about eye level for him, too.)
Regardless of what the Duke thought of the statue, his friends were not quite as respectful since the records of the house indicate that visitors usually hung their hanways (umbrellas) on the statue to dry. The home remained in the family until after World War II, when it was gifted to the National Trust (though the family still maintains an apartment in the building). Later Dukes, and their families, used the statue as a bicycle stand.
It is amazing how many times history replays the same tune. Though London has changed over the years, today, Apsley House still links Greek Park to Hyde Park. Just to the north of the mansion, one can find an even larger bronze statue of Achilles, the Greek Warrior, by the famous English sculptor, Sir Richard Westmacott, who had studied under Canova. Though few remember today, the statue was commissioned by a group of upper-class ladies to honor the Duke of Wellington as a war hero. When the statue was unveiled, the public, shocked to discover a large nude figure, laughed and made jokes about the statue. Embarrassed, once again Wellington had a fig leaf strategically placed. This one is not removable.
Interesting that both men were depicted naked at the urging of their female relatives. Perhaps they were hoping to take them down a peg. A soldier out of uniform is an uncomfortable fellow indeed.
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