In the photograph of Eduardo Chillida plastered on the Dalí Museum's ads and billboards, he looks for all the world like a medieval stonemason, knocking at a piece of alabaster, sleeves rolled up above the elbow.
He doesn't look like a younger contemporary of Salvador Dalí, and you wouldn't guess that he is at work on a highly abstract piece of modernist sculpture.
But the photo does convey the Spanish sculptor's very tactile presence and process. "He was a very physical man," emphasizes the Dalí's curator of education Peter Tush. Chillida grew up in the Basque region of Spain and was a well-known goalie on a professional soccer team. (The only player on the team who can use his hands — keep that in mind for later.)
Then, fortunately for modern sculpture, he blew out his knee. He enrolled in architecture school, but decided there wasn't enough work with actual materials. ("Again with the physical stuff," says Tush.) Drawn to the Basque tradition of iron-working, he eventually began creating work with a foundry. His course was set.
The exhibit of Chillida's work, running through September 24, may prove to be an excellent palate cleanser for repeat Dalí visitors. It comes after the recent Frida Kahlo extravaganza, and before an October show centering on fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli. Coming between those two artists Chillida stands out like, well, a block of alabaster. And that's not a bad thing — The Dalí is flexing its stylistic range.
But to file Chillida as a cool, heady monument-maker is too easy. The show includes drawings of hands he did later in his life; they are crabbed and chunky and emotive. These quick sketches were apparently a recurring practice throughout his career. They hold a key to his art — once you start looking for human hands in his work, you will begin to see them everywhere. The work gains in human scale, and something like intimacy.
While wandering around a preview of the show I encountered Chillida's son, Ignacio, who was in the country to co-curate the exhibit. He is a blue-eyed, sun-tanned, smiling man, of about the age of his father in the stonemason picture. He spoke with a laugh of working in the same house with his late father and receiving phone calls from him from another room, asking for help with some big task. His stories spoke of a warm, humane, genteel man.
Seeing all the straight lines and material purity, it's easy to think that abstract art like Chillida's reflects some kind of emotional distance. Maybe abandoning that idea is the first step to understanding Chillida, and others like him. Even in the most imposing block of iron or alabaster or clay the artist is there, reaching out, trying to make contact.
This article appears in May 25 – Jun 1, 2017.