Souls coaxed out of wood and stone
Many of Henry Moore's works hint at human presences, with uneasy shapes and swellings, writesAlan Caine

5 March 2010

Henry Moore
Tate Britain
until August 8

Henry Moore focuses on the human animal. Often monumental, his work contains a silent but assertive spirit which survives the violence of 20th-century upheavals. Returning from military service in the First World War at the age of 20, his education at Leeds College of Art and the Royal College of Art in London placed him in a vital period where restless artists, tired of the dry traditions of European art, found alternative images and ideas in other cultures. He chose to begin with influences outside of Europe, including Africa, Peru, Egypt, and Mexico - all available to him in the British Museum and reinforced by travel.

An almost innocent directness holds our attention in the first room. As if petrified figures were coaxed into showing their silent souls, these solid sculptures do not allow us to forget that they were once blocks of stone and have no desire to erase their source. Moore has turned his back on a major strain of European sculpture where materials normally tend to lose their identity and to become figures and costumes. He insists that even the most modest of human subjects will carry an elemental impact.

Moore is interested in essence, not charm.

The small cubic stone image of Woman with Upraised Arms (1925) is commanding and intensely human - with overtones of a striving spirit. A magnificent Mother and Child (1925) is also half-length. The child, on its mother's shoulders, rests an arm on her head.

Transfigured by the sculptor we still catch sight of a piece of stone. Shapes of eyes, nose and mouth are simply achieved. Elbows, breasts and the baby's rounded head speak of strength, gentleness and a basic animal vitality. Mother and child sculptures mattered greatly to Moore. These are not Madonnas (although they emerged later). The child and breast are important, but their sensuous content only extends to a matter-of-fact nakedness which is closer to African sources than to western nudes. Strong and lyrical, these works convey a thoughtful delight.

Varieties of stone interest the sculptor. A glowing Girl with Clasped Hands (1930) is made of Cumberland alabaster with inlaid white and ruby eyes. Like most of his work from the 1920s and 30s, it invites touch to investigate the stone's character.

Another spirit kicks in during the 1930s. At a glance, the outlook is perplexing. We cannot quite "find" figures in many of the works. Yet they hint at human presences as well as anxiety and puzzlement.

Marks, spaces and swelling shapes are at times disturbing, but we begin to remember that the human creature bears the burden of consciousness, including uneasy memories. Some of Moore's stones reveal marks and shapes which call to mind memories of skulls, human torsos, archaeological remains or standing stones.

The constant and recurring theme of reclining figures continues throughout his life - sometimes in lead or bronze. Machine-like shapes emerge and become part of the figures. Ambiguous, they may suggest pain while at the same time creating intriguing rhythms spreading across the horizontal pose of the figure. From time to time dissonance is intended and achieved, but often they are earthy and comforting. Four huge, reclining carvings in elm are exhibited at the end of the exhibition. They reign like relaxed sphinxes.

The advent of war finds a voice in two small bronze pieces: Three Points (1939) creates an almost electric charge when three thorn-sharp shapes nearly touch points. In The Helmet (1939), the smooth, hollowed dome reveals dark, curling innards and speaks of menace. Larger versions of this motif, brilliant and sobering, are fearful.

Black, grey and white drawings of figures based on Londoners asleep in Underground tunnels while sheltering from bombs are joined by drawings of miners working underground. Both are wartime projects which strike a sober chord. Not tragic, they are mysterious and tenderly compelling. We experience a dark nether space outside the boundaries of photography or anecdote. Sometimes reminiscent of mummies or petrified bodies, the effect is closer to a vision than reportage, and that mixture of fact and fiction speaks like poetry.

Monumental doses of mortality confront us in a gallery which is dominated by large sculptures.

Modelled (not carved), these bronze and plaster images are very clearly figures. Earth and bone have collaborated with flesh and blood. The shock of some of this post-war sculpture makes us recall the innocent clarity of earlier works. Some continue to be unmarked by time; others are not.

A stunning life-size bronze, Warrior with Shield (1954), is both aggressive and also defensively vulnerable: the perpetrator of violence is also one of its victims. An over-life-size Seated Woman: Thin Neck (1961) in green patinated bronze carries a sense of raw weight. Elegant, the head and neck curve upwards out of the earthy metal mass. These works wear the marks of time.

Most people in Britain will have come across a few Moore sculptures, but it is time to reappraise his still and commanding spirit. Without great drama, he achieves monumentality, using figures which bear the marks of "everyday". Neither muscle nor glamour attract him, and he makes no attempt to create a pitch of intense emotion or raw aggression. The work invites meditation and reflection.

Like the solid stone shapes of his early works, the constancy of the maternal and recurring presence of the reclining female figure appear to come from an essentially down-to-earth, even "democratic" spirit. This vision is not noisy, but it is persistent and life-affirming: an indelible voice that will not pass away.