Rodin

In 1880, at age 40, Rodin obtained his first state commission

for The Gates of Hell, inspired by Dante's Divine Comedy.

Come, Mademoiselle Camille.

Is there more fire and depth in Dante's poetry?

No...

The fire is there.

I chose his Hell so I could make small nude figures.

I want them to swarm all over the Gates.

See those figures?

The romance of Paolo and Francesca.

I may not leave this Kiss among the damned.

They're far too happy and joyous for that.

Yes.

She represents trust...

in betrayal.

And him?

He's enamoured of her.

And determined.

And impatient.

Seen in profile, your Dante looks like a bird of prey.

Is he satisfied with their suffering?

I don't know.

Ask him.

You're more compassionate than Dante.

Why do you say that?

Because your Gates are closed.

They don't open on to Hell.

Yes, but the Gates represent Hell.

It's as if you were making them without an initial design.

And yet I spent a year drawing them.

But the shapes come to me in clay.

I have so many more figures to create.

So many figures.

I could be a modest presence by your side.

I'm not sure I like modesty in this craft,

but...

always say what you think.

I'll tell you everything.

And help me combat preconceptions.

I will.

Your Gates are not made for the edification of young girls.

Although all that flesh, tormented by desire...

Master,

the models are here.

The other Abruzzesi, Adèle's sister?

- Is she here? - Summoned.

- Yes, but is she here? - She's coming.

- And Pretty Feet, Nice Thighs? - The' rèse Fontaine.

- And is Pretty Redhead here? - Mademoiselle Octavie, yes.

And Pierre Louÿs' model?

Also. But Monsieur Louÿs will be angry.

I don't care.

Shall I show them in?

- Yes, show them in. - Very well.

And tell them I want them crawling around,

I want twisted mouths, clenched fists, heaving breasts,

as if the Devil were about to carry them off.

Your upper belly... ready to rise.

That's it.

Like that. Stop writing to me.

- Yes, but... - No buts.

- You're ravishing, but don't abuse it. - You abuse it!

In the hierarchy of materials, first is gold,

then bronze, then stone,

then wood

and last, clay.

But I've inverted the hierarchy.

For me, clay comes first.

So,

here are my conditions.

My house is open to you.

Come for luncheon,

and you may make drawings like others take notes.

You'll see, that will suffice.

A few brief sessions, Victor?

No I will not pose!

I don't even want to see a pencil!

I got Hugo!

Do you know how?

Juliette Drouet got him to do a short sitting.

Yes, she lured him to the parlour.

But then, how did I go about it?

You managed to wield your compass

above his head without his noticing.

Even better!

I questioned the proportions of the bust David d'Angers made.

I thought he'd kill me.

He rushed over to the bust

and stared at it for a long time.

I seized the moment to measure his head.

Your story doesn't hold water.

And Hugo'd never have let you criticize David d'Angers.

So...

I bribed his favourite maid.

And got my 45 minutes with him.

I think it was Juliette

who got you a short sitting.

And after meals, when he dozes off,

you sneak over and measure him.

That's right. During meals,

Juliette was kind enough never to seat me in the same place.

That way I got all the profiles I needed.

But

how did I get close to the head

of the giant of the century? How?

That will be our little guessing game.

If you agree.

The curricula and teachers are essential.

School and church must be separate. Both stand to gain,

even if the church will need persuading.

You dash around a lot!

So I don't forget what I've just seen.

That's how I learned to work from memory.

What is nobler than educating the people?

And imposing the French language throughout the land

is a fine thing.

Don't think he looks down on you, even if all he says is

"Good evening, Monsieur Rodin.", or "Hello, Monsieur Rodin."

I don't,

and in fact I don't care a whit.

I just want to make a true Victor Hugo.

You seem sad.

Hugo showed me the door.

He made it clear that the bust was finished.

I'm used to it.

With Age of Bronze, I was accused of deception, of having cast from life.

I showed my model's photograph to point out the differences,

but it was no use.

The harm had been done.

It's my fault.

My sculpture has too much life in it.

You mustn't be angry with Hugo.

Mademoiselle Drouet is very ill.

There's something of the tiger in him.

Or a lion.

So it's not a failure,

because Victor Hugo is immensely animalistic.

What are you writing?

That questionnaire the British call "Confessions".

I know it,

but I won't answer.

I'm going to.

My favourite occupation?

I'd say, stone carving.

Doing nothing.

You, do nothing?

If you start by cheating...

If not myself, who would I be?

Joan of Arc. You'd want to be Joan of Arc.

A carriage horse.

I hate how coachmen treat them so badly.

My favourite artist?

Auguste Rodin.

Myself.

True, if I had any sense,

I should have guessed.

What personal fault do you tolerate most?

First a kiss.

Cheat! It was to shut me up!

Go on, answer for me.

Your insatiable appetite for women.

My mad love for Camille, you mean.

My mad love for Camille.

Look.

A snail crawled by here.

See the design it made with its track.

It's so nice.

So light.

I saw Dr Vivier

about my heart.

Did you know about his horse?

The one whose tongue hangs out?

Tuesday a crowd stood making fun.

It got Vivier's goat.

He couldn't get by.

So he took out his scalpel

and cut off the bit of tongue.

You don't say.

I hope it won't ruin your appetite.

For a good bacon omelette and white wine? I doubt it.

Remember the Sonian Forest?

There was a downpour. You shielded me with your umbrella.

Of course.

I'd opened your paint box. You couldn't do it.

You said you were too slow.

Because the sun always painted faster than I did!

And then you went back to Paris.

One day I was thinking about you

and started to hum that song

we always sang together. Remember?

She had a leg made of wood

That she liked to hide if she could

On the end she put a rubber tip so that her leg would grip.

She had a leg made of wood But she was also wearing hose

So actually nobody knew If they didn't feel her shins and toes

Wood, wood, She had a leg made of wood

The best years of our lives were in Brussels.

Rose.

And the damp cloths

on your models, remember?