Walking Man II 1960

Alberto Giacometti's 'Walking Man II', made in bronze, stands tall and emaciated. I imagine the artist, pinching and pulling at the clay, building up the figure from almost nothing. It's a study in contrasts: weight and weightlessness, presence and absence. The surface is gnarly and pitted. I wonder about the physical act of creating this. Did Giacometti work quickly, urgently? What was the studio like? The figure's elongated limbs are so thin they seem to defy gravity. It's almost comical, and yet, profoundly moving. The stride implies purpose, resilience. It is a body reduced to its barest essence. The way Giacometti models the material is so distinctive, I can spot one of his sculptures from across a room. Like Rothko’s blocks of color or Van Gogh’s impasto, it’s deeply, unmistakably him. There’s something eternal about this walking man. The ongoing conversation between artists stretches across time. Each work builds upon what came before, and lays the groundwork for what’s to come. Giacometti speaks to us through the ages.