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This bronze statue on the Langelinie in Copenhagen indicates the role sculptures, or public art, play in
the life of a city and its people, writes B. N. Goswamy
FAR out at sea the water’s as blue as the petals of the loveliest cornflower, and as clear as the purest glass; but it’s very deep, deeper than any anchor can reach. Many church steeples would have to be piled up one above the other to reach from the bottom of the sea to the surface. Right down there live the sea people`85." Thus begins Hans Christian Andersen’s enchanting tale of The Little Mermaid, whose fame, and seductive reach, have travelled far beyond Denmark. The story (titled Den lille havfrue in Danish) was written a century and three quarters ago — in 1837 to be precise — but it is still read with the same avidity as when it first appeared, and still casts the same spell over minds, mostly young but also old. What has enhanced the impact of the fairy tale certainly is other things that it has inspired. Among them: a statue of the Little Mermaid — showing her seated on a rock and gazing out wistfully at the sea — that has become a landmark of the city of Copenhagen, and almost a national icon. One learns that more than a million people see her every year: three-fourths of the visitors to the beautiful city of Copenhagen. It is as if without taking her sight in, the visit would be incomplete. The other things? Operas and ballets based on the story; early film adaptations of it made in Russia and Czechoslovakia; known everywhere, perhaps, Walt Disney’s famous animated film of 1989 bearing the same title: The Little Mermaid. What is it that makes for so much charm, and such lasting appeal? There is, first, the story of course. The Little Mermaid lives at the bottom of the deep sea with her father, the sea king. When she turns 15, she is allowed to swim to the surface to watch the world above, where human beings, of whom she had heard longingly from her sisters, live. Once, when she surfaces, she sees a ship with a handsome prince, and falls in love with him from a distance. A great storm hits, and the Little Mermaid saves the prince from nearly drowning. But, desperately in love now, she desires to go on to land. For this, however, she has to seek the help of the Sea Witch who gives her human legs in exchange for her voice. But she is also warned that if the prince with whom she has fallen in love marries another woman, she will all but disappear, dissolving into sea-foam. Many things happen then onwards. The prince loves her but circumstances lead him to marry another woman, a princess. When the fateful dawn breaks, the Little Mermaid, heartbroken, throws herself into the sea. Her body dissolves into foam, but instead of ceasing to exist, she feels the warmth of the sun; she has, because of her innocent and clean heart, turned into a spirit, a daughter of the air. The delicately nuanced story apart, behind its charm there is also another story: that about the sculpture that was based on it. It was the gift of a wealthy industrialist, the brewer Carl Jacobsen, to the city of Copenhagen. A lover of the arts, Jacobsen happened once to see at the Royal Theatre a ballet based on the story of the Little Mermaid and fell in love with it. He decided to commission a gifted artist, Edvard Eriksen, to make in bronze a sculpture to commemorate the Little Mermaid. He even persuaded the exquisitely limbed solo dancer, Ellen Price, to pose for it. But when the time came for the dancer to actually pose for the piece, virtually unclothed, she hesitated, upon which, it is said, the sculptor’s wife agreed to stand in. The piece was finished in 1913 and a search for a location began. The donor turned down the idea of it being shown on land, and wanted the Little Mermaid to be sitting on a rock at the seashore where "she would always be wet, just like a real mermaid". There eventually she was installed on the Langelinie, and has continued to sit for close to a 100 years now, hearing the sound of water lapping all round her. The sculpture: it is relatively small — the seated figure no more than four-and-a-half feet in height — but truly elegant. The sculptor shows her, as appropriate for a mermaid, half-human half-fish, legs merging into her original fishtail, looking wistfully at the sea that she abandoned for land in her quest for love. The small head is delicate, the body supple and youthful, the stance thoughtful, perhaps even sad. It leads those who know her story to wonder what she is thinking about, hands resting in lap. Is it the difficult moment of making up her mind about leaving the big sea? Or the final moment at daybreak when she would dissolve into sea foam? Is her whole life passing before her eyes as she sits gazing at water? No one knows, but there are very few who do not surrender to her charm. The Little Mermaid of Copenhagen is certainly not the greatest art object in the world. But, considering the affection in which it is held, and the importance it has for the city of Copenhagen, it raises some thoughts. Thoughts, among other things, about what part sculptures, or public art, play in the life of a city and its people. Do we, in our land, really understand any of this? If we did, we would not, perhaps, be setting up, on thoughtless road-crossings and chowks, diminutive little sculptures that no one ever sees, much less cares for. Sculptures like the ‘Baba Gandhi ka putla’ in Ahmedabad, or the shoddily made plaster of Paris statues of Dr Ambedkar that dot obscure corners in some of our cities. By doing this, and ceremonially garlanding them on photogenic occasions, we might be playing our little political games, but in the process are we not bringing great personages, apart from art itself, into disgrace? I doubt if the Little Mermaid would be thinking about all this, but is it not about time that we did?
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