Ambrosi, Gustinus. (1893-1975)
Two Autograph Letters
Two very interesting early autograph letters from the Austrian sculptor and poet, regarding his artistic and literary pursuits. The first letter (2 pp.; January 10, 1913) is addressed to a Herr Specht (perhaps the Viennese poet Richard Specht) and expresses Ambrosi's gratitude for Specht's support after an unfavorable review. The second letter (3 pp.; February 8, 1923), written in Ambrosi's remarkable calligraphic hand and addressed to Viennese scholar Max Pirker, expresses at length Ambrosi's feelings about his "true work," poetry (his first volume of poetry was published in 1923) and his gratitude for Pirker's recognition, going on to expound on his thoughts on nature, spirituality, death, and the importance of living in the present. An important pair of letters from the artist recognized as a significant portraitist of the twentieth century. On two bifolia, the first of translucent paper with toning, the second of heavier paper; some edge wear and folding creases, but overall in fine condition. 6.25 x 8.75 inches (15.8 x 22.2 cm) and 6.75 x 8.75 inches (17.3 x 22.4 cm).Translated from the German, in full:
January 10, 1913
My dear good Herr Specht!
When, as I child, I was given 25 across the backside, the sun also shone on that flesh, beside the 25 impressions of my mother. After every time, I kissed my mother's hand and was glad that the sun, which one day would stroke my grey-haired head, was a witness of this divine correction.
Today I cannot fail to recall this feeling! Tears of joy shine and have almost become tears of recollection; and I thank you for your sincerity.
I myself now recognize that this critique is trash of the most gossipy kind, which not even a porter would have dared to write, but at that time I was so unhappy and in such emotional turmoil that I did not know what I was doing, and writing.
I also feel that I can only be whole in literature in the spring; in the other three seasons, literature is a wretched puzzle which, even if I lovingly immerse myself in it, I cannot grasp!
I have found my style! The style of depth. I can only be whole as a sculptor—I feel this!
Six busts have been sent off: R. Specht, Frl. Ganz, W. v. Molo, Dr. Brandt, 1 child's bust and "the man with the broken neck." Whether it will be accepted, only time will tell! Next week is a new week, but I am now struggling with a difficult time.
Warmly, with thanks, yours,
Gustinus Ambrosi
Dear Max Pirker,
Of all those whom I dared to believe appreciated my intellectual work, and accepted it as one accepts the growth of a natural thing, it is in this strange way that you, who certainly do not know me personally, have been interested in my work for many years despite having never seen my true work, but rather things that I exhibited and that I made in order to make ends meet. For those things which have been born from all the fire of my being, with passion, humility, and dedication, have never been exhibited; I have worked on them for years in secret; they have no customers and truly, if I did not create them, there would be no one to call them out of nothingness into the light of day.
Now you, my dear Max Pirker, found your way to me years ago through a few busts and studies; I did not talk about these things, for it has never been my way to ask for applause or rejection for masks of vanity or anxiety. Today, however, my heart, which is so devoted to all beings, wishes to come nearer; it wants, albeit first with the surprising dedication of the first book, to reassure you that I have also been following your intellectual development and am happy to see how you bring things out of nothingness into the light of day.
Perhaps you suspected that I would write to you one day, perhaps you thought me arrogant?—or perhaps not, or perhaps ignorant. I am none of these. I am a simple man. My religion is nature, which I serve in my work. As it develops, it influences me to develop; and as it roots itself, as a whole in many parts, it roots and receives the whole in many parts of me. And as nature out of nothing is present in nothingness, in the changing present, I try to shape things out of nothingness, which—I know well—even if they are written in stone for ten thousand years, are in the end also for nothing.
To know this and yet not to doubt, this is the path that I walk. All human achievements are in vain. Even Michelangelo's work was incomplete. Beethoven—incomplete. Everything is incomplete, and the entirety of it is only a burning in the breasts of those who, in holy rage, want to consume the misery of this earth, and to shape the blazing glow of their longing into permanent form.
Permanent form! As I express this, I think of the eternal mystery of death. Transient, void, stale, and useless are all beings, existing for millennia. And yet!— I cannot give up my faith in the necessity of the present moment. That is where eternities are lifted up from their origin across into their homeland. The point of passage is the true thing. It glimmers in divine sparks, struggles into shape, staggers to life, grasps fullness, breathes ... speaks ... yes, Michelangelo! In his breast, these dreams turned over, from the necessity of the permanent form of eternally disappearing life and from the sensualization of emotional tensions, and these necessities dreamed on in Beethoven.
That the deaf Beethoven dwelt in this very city where I myself so happily dwell and which I love as if it were my responsibility, while I come from Florence and sense that city with its distant mountain peaks as I sense Vienna everywhere that there is spirit; that there is an urgent desire for spiritual wealth here; and be it that I become poorer because of it, as I felt months ago in the Musee Rodin near the Hotel des Invalides or at the Louvre... that Beethoven himself lived here in Vienna... not Beethoven the person, but Beethoven the spirit -- that is the reason that I live here, and work according to the eternal law of giving of oneself without thanks, which has remained the most valid law of mankind until our time.
May you wait! Because life is long, my dear Max Pirker! Things are growing around me. Nameless things that only have a name in themselves so as not to go under in the flood of life. A thousand kilograms of bronze, that is good enough for a sculpture, twenty thousand kilos in a block of marble, which is then a marble work of the young old-fashioned Ambrosi, five thousand kilograms of clay in the air -- that is the falling Icarus and all the other works as well—who wanted to name them? Mountains grow slowly, place by place, valleys sink lower, my day's work lasts sixteen hours. And then the nights—oh, I love them with a great ardor!
Fare you well! Now I have to work again! My works call! This ends the deafness of the deaf man! And how many voices call for the hands of the sculptor? How many faces ... gestures ... bends ... curls ... lines ... Farewell! And may you be greeted by the spirit of that which gives itself in nameless love to all the pure, the generous, and the noble.
Yours,
Ambrosi
Sculptor in Vienna, February 8, 1923 (15089)
Autograph Letter Art & Design