Overcoming handicaps

Less than forty years ago a little Serbian boy—Ivan Mestrovic—was watching the sheep on the hillsides near his home in the village of Otavice in Serbia, about thirty-five miles from the Dalmatian coast. Ivan’s parents were peasants and, like all the humble folk of the countryside, lived very simply. There were few luxuries in that little thatched cottage, and while still a mere lad of eight or nine years of age, Ivan, like the other boys he knew, spent long hours at the foot of the soaring Dinaric Alps, tending the flocks and at night returning, often footsore and weary, to listen to the stirring tales of Serbia’s national heroes, as they were told to the assembled children around the fireside.

The history of the Serbian people in many ways has been a sad one. Centuries ago they lost much of their independence when the Turks crushed them with a cruel onslaught which left them in an enfeebled condition. But no people in the world are prouder of their history than the Serbs, and Ivan listened eagerly as his father told of the mighty deeds of Kraljevic Marko, the national hero of Serbia, and other renowned men of the nation.

Perhaps after Ivan went to bed each night he dreamed of the thrilling tales he had heard. One thing he certainly did: he dreamed of these things by day when out on the lonely mountain sides with no companions but the sheep. He had lots of time to think, for often he would be off almost at daybreak and only when night was falling did the lad turn his steps homeward. He knew little or nothing of the great world outside. Most of the old people of the district had lived all their lives without moving away more than a few miles. Many of them had never been as far as the Dalmatian coast although it was little more than thirty miles away. Ivan thought that perhaps he too, like the old men of the village, would live and die near his father’s thatched cottage.

From his earliest years Ivan loved to carve wood, using the curved peasant knife which he took with him to the hills each day. Sometimes he made spoons, or knives, or forks, which he proudly brought home to his parents, who commended him for his cleverness. The days were never dull for him; for during the long sunny days on the upland pastures he meditated over the strange stirring tales he had heard at his father’s fireside, and occupied himself with carving all manner of household utensils with his curious old knife.

Then, one day, as Ivan gazed at the silent mountains, towering higher and higher until they seemed to reach the sky, he wondered if he could not make other things with his knife such as models of men and women, cattle, and then perhaps of the brave heroes of whom he was so proud. One day he was taken to the town of Sibenik and for the first time saw a cathedral, with its carved saints, gleaming altar and scenes depicted from sacred history.

When next he tended the flocks Ivan’s mind was busier than ever. He resolved that he—poor peasant boy though he was—would be a sculptor, with stone as well as with wood, and he would make models of great and good people such as he had seen in Sibenik Cathedral. After that Ivan was busy every hour of his solitary watches, carving some figure either in wood or in stone. He showed the result of his efforts to the village priest who greatly encouraged him, and at his request Ivan made a crucifix for the village church.

The boy’s workmanship began to attract attention. A visitor to the district was so impressed that he tried to raise money in the neighbourhood to send Ivan away to pursue his studies under some competent teacher but, although the peasants were all proud of Ivan, they were very poor and the little money they could raise would not be sufficient, so the plan had to be abandoned. By this time Ivan’s father was eager to have him get experience so he apprenticed him to a marble cutter at Split named Bilinic. This was a great adventure for Ivan. He left his humble home among the hills, clad in native dress and wearing his red Croatian cap, and soon he was at work helping to carve crucifixes, angels and various altar ornaments for the local churches. In the evenings he had to do much drudgery and he suffered privation of every kind, but there was no foolish pride in the boy’s heart. He knew that his parents were too poor to pay for his tuition, so he was glad to do even the meanest duties, to pay for his education as a sculptor. About this time a man named Konig became greatly interested in him and through him Ivan was able to pursue his studies in Vienna. He must have seemed a strange figure when, clad in his Serbian peasant’s dress, he reached that great city; soon he discarded these for the corduroys and soft hat so typical of the art students of the Austrian capital.

Things were certainly opening up for Ivan Mestrovic but his troubles were by no means over. He received a small grant from his native village but this was not nearly enough to provide him even with the necessities of life, so that during his four years of study at the Academy in Vienna he constantly felt the pinch of poverty. Then the attitude of the proud Austrian people towards the Serbians, together with the fact that his early education had been sadly neglected, often embarrassed him. But Ivan was not easily discouraged and his determination to become a great sculptor became stronger every day.

From Vienna he went to Rome and then on to Paris where he studied for two years, coming into contact with the great sculptor Auguste Rodin, who was quick to recognise the true genius of the Serbian youth. Soon the excellent quality of Ivan’s work began to attract attention and he was recognised as a student of much more than ordinary ability.

In 1911 there was a great exhibition of art in Rome and in the Serbian pavilion the work of Ivan Mastrovic was displayed on a much greater scale than on any previous occasion. He had a magnificent model of Serbia’s national hero, Kraljevic Marko, which almost seemed to breathe, it was so lifelike. There were scenes depicted from Serbian history with marvellous grace, and besides these there were models of his father, his mother and some of the shepherds whom as a boy he had seen around his native hills. This exhibition of Ivan’s work created a very favourable impression; it might almost be said a sensation, for everyone who saw it realised that it was the work of a true genius.

During the days of the Great War Ivan Mestrovic lived in Rome. They were sad days for him, for with the retreat of the Serbian army it seemed as though the brave little nation would be crushed again, as in the days of the Turkish oppression. His mind turned much to the sorrows of Christ and out of walnut wood he depicted many incidents from sacred history such as Christ on the Cross and other scenes which set forth the sorrows of the Saviour.

In 1915 Ivan Mestrovic astounded even his admirers by conducting a one-man exhibition in the Victoria and Albert Museum, Kensington, London, England. The exhibition was a great revelation to the British public. It was even a greater triumph than that he had achieved at Rome and his wonderful statues in wood and plaster and stone were the subject of favourable comment from all quarters. Of course much of his work could not be seen at exhibitions such as at Rome and London, for it was done in churches. It is said that one of the finest pieces of artistry in stone to be seen anywhere is his work in the Chapel of the Madonna of the Angels at Cavtat. Critics say that no finer work has been done in modern times than that which Mestrovic has done in this chapel.

A few years ago Ivan Mestrovic crossed the Atlantic with his wonderful people of wood and stone, and in America thousands have gazed on his work and admired and wondered how one man, scarcely yet in middle life, could have done so much work and all of such high quality. In 1924 a Mestrovic exhibition was held at the Brooklyn Museum. The triumphs the sculptor scored at Rome were repeated at Brooklyn. It is safe to say that no sculptor of modern times has won greater laurels than Mestrovic and no one can foretell what wonderful things this Serbian genius may yet accomplish.

Away in the far-off hills of Serbia, the peasants still tend their flocks of sheep on the rugged hillsides, and at night, when the day’s work is over, they still gather around the fireside and tell thrilling tales of Serbian heroes, but of one thing we may be sure: they have added a new hero to their list. They tell of a peasant boy who, not so many years ago, watched his father’s sheep and dreamed of what he would like to do and of how he has made his dreams come true.