John: It’s, I think, worth the hike. You know, I could tell you how to get there on public transportation, but, you know, it’s still way up in the Bronx. It’s worth finding.

But there are always things, every once in a while you know, Atilio did the pediment for Wisconsin’s state capitol. I haven’t been there, but, you know, nobody does pediments anymore, which is such a shame. If you look at the history of them, they’re all so intensely thought out, filled with allegorical figures and symbolic meanings. It’s always fun to investigate these things. And, you know, I’m not an art historian. I’m a sculptor.

Lucy: You mean you’re not a qualified art historian, but clearly you are!

John: Yeah, yeah, you know how it is.

Lucy: You know such a lot!

John: Well, after 25 years of just kind of having this on my stovetop, cooking away, you just accumulate a lot of information. And this is something I’ve always thought about, especially as both a sculptor and a teacher in New York City. There’s always this lesson, especially in the Bronx, where we can tie everything to history.

A lot of students today don’t have a sense of history. They don’t always realize they’re part of something bigger. But when I teach, I can tell them, “You’re not the only one. You’re part of a history that stretches back hundreds, even thousands of years.”

We can connect what’s in the Bronx today to an entire lineage of sculptors, artists, craftsmen, people who have shaped the visual and cultural history of this city. And that’s so important. That’s what public sculpture should always do.

Lucy: Absolutely.

Atilio Piccirilli and The Maine Memorial

John: It’s particularly important in New York City. Because right now, we walk past so much without really seeing it.

Take the USS Maine Memorial, for example, it’s on Central Park West. Most people only know it as the place where you pick up the rickshaws to take a ride through the park. Skateboarders know it because they skate the steps there.

But how many people actually know what it is? How many people realize it marks a hugely significant moment in American history, before the modern era, before the world wars, when America was really coming into its own as a global power?

That monument was given to Atilio Piccirilli when he was still a young artist. In 1901, he had only been in this country for about ten years. And yet, this massive, prestigious commission was given to him. His design was celebrated. It was considered a beautiful and powerful work.

By the time it was finally unveiled in 1913, after all the usual political intrigue, it was one of the most important monuments in the country. Presidents were at the unveiling. It was a huge event.

Now, though, people just walk past it. And, to be honest, if anyone is listening from the Parks Department, it needs some restoration. It needs some care. Like all things, it requires maintenance.

But even in its current state, it has so much to teach us. The allegorical figures around it—especially those on the backside of the monument are absolutely stunning. They represent history, justice, and these classical ideals that were so important at the time.

Lucy: Yeah. I mean, we should probably say for those listening that Atilio Piccirilli was a sculptor in his own right. He wasn’t just carving for other people.

I mean, he did plenty of that, but he became his own man. He was recognised for his own work. That’s what you’re talking about here his own creations, not just his translations of other people’s designs.

John: Yes, absolutely. In a conversation like this, we sometimes skip over things, so I’m glad you brought that up.

Atilio Piccirilli was the artistic lead of the studio. He wasn’t just carving other artists’ work, he was designing his own sculptures, modelling in clay, and then carving his own pieces into marble. There are many sculptures across the country that were specifically created by Atilio, rather than just being executed by the Piccirilli Studio.

But of course, the studio also operated as a service for other artists. And the most famous work they ever created, perhaps the most famous sculpture in the United States, is the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.

That’s something that everybody knows. But what a lot of people don’t know is that it was carved in the Bronx.

The carving was supervised by Getulio Piccirilli, one of the brothers. It was done so perfectly that when the 28 blocks of Georgia marble were shipped to Washington and assembled, it required no correction, no last-minute adjustments. It was flawless.

And that’s significant because the Lincoln Memorial is more than just a sculpture. It has an almost spiritual quality. Lincoln is depicted as a martyr for democracy. He gave his life for the idea of freedom, for the abolition of slavery.

The Georgia marble it was carved from was quarried by the descendants of slaves. It was then carved in the Bronx by immigrants and finally installed in Washington. where it became this sacred site of American history. Even the process of installing the Lincoln Memorial required reverence.

I always think about the construction of the Temple in Jerusalem. The stones for the Temple were carved off-site, so that the holy ground would not be disturbed by noise. In the same way, the Lincoln Memorial was shaped elsewhere, and then assembled in a place of reflection and solemnity.

That’s why, when you visit the memorial today, you see signs asking for silence. You see flowers laid there. People don’t skateboard around it. They don’t blast music. It’s a place where people go to reflect on Lincoln’s sacrifice, but also on the sacrifice of a nation that tore itself apart over the sin of slavery.

From Dante to the Divine: How Belardo’s Work Carries the Torch

Lucy: And once you came across the Piccirillis, did their work influence your own? Or has it always been a separate love for you?

John: My work is definitely related to the Piccirillis and over time, it has become even more so. I’ve learned a lot from studying their work. Atilio, in particular, was more of an allegorist. He worked with allegory, with these grand, classical figures that symbolised abstract concepts.

I, on the other hand, work more with narrative. My sculptures tell stories, rather than symbolising ideas in the way his often did. But one thing that has profoundly influenced me is the question: How does a figure tell a story?

John: How do multiple figures come together to create a central mass or a mass conception? How do these things, how do forms work together psychologically?

The work of Atilio Piccirilli, particularly whether it’s The Outcast or the figures around the USS Maine Memorial or the Fireman’s Memorial, consists of highly sophisticated compositions.

When I bring that into my studio, I’m constantly working with multiple figures telling stories with those figures in terracotta, which is, again, where Atilio and most sculptors would start in clay.

When I do that, I’m thinking about the same ideas. How do these forms refine themselves into an allegory? How do they refine themselves into a story? How does one figure affect the other?

One of Atilio’s greatest works is his Mother and Child. It’s part of the Maine Memorial, but there’s also a version at Woodlawn Cemetery, at the gravesite of his mother. It’s an incredibly poignant piece. The weight of the small child is bearing down on the mother. And look at the way the lines move, how that weight affects the positioning of the mother. How is the head tilted psychologically toward the child?

There’s this gorgeous vignette between the child’s elbow, which lifts upward through his head and into the mother’s gaze. It’s a masterpiece of composition. So when I go into the studio, I’m thinking about those same questions: How does this figure press against another? How do they come together to create a single mass, something different than just individual figures standing alone? How do these figures tell a story?

And again, Atilio was a master of that. He told more allegorical stories, universal concepts, symbolic themes. I tend to focus on specific narratives, but the techniques of composing figures remain the same.

Recently, I did a triptych based on The Divine Comedy. It took me a couple of years to complete. The Divine Comedy is, of course, separated into three books, the Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso.

I created three large panels, each filled with multiple figures, I think there are about 40 figures total across the entire series. And in these compositions, I’m thinking about the same cause-and-effect structure that Atilio mastered. What is this weight doing against that weight? What is this arm pressing against? What is the psychological line through the composition?