Figurative sculptor George R. Anthonisen ’55 has been pursuing a classical ideal for more than 60 years. In Meditations on the Human Condition, that pursuit is documented and celebrated—as is his legacy.

George R. Anthonisen ’55 is a man out of time. His work is a direct descendent of the sculptural titans of the late-18th-century classical tradition—people like Augustus Saint-Gaudens and Daniel Chester French, whose work you’ve seen dozens of times whether you realize it or not. Saint-Gaudens is responsible for the Adams Memorial in Washington’s Rock Creek Park, the Robert Gould Shaw Memorial on Boston Common, and the William Tecumseh Sherman statue in New York’s Central Park; while French, among other works, notably created the Lincoln Memorial.

Viewing an original Anthonisen is like seeing a snapshot of the fountain at Dupont Circle or a general astride a horse on the Mall; the echo of the District of Columbia and the National Monuments seeps into every piece, albeit with a contemporary political edge. Anthonisen spent his early childhood in Vermont and New Hampshire, the home of the Saint-Gaudens National Historical Park. In 1953, his parents dispatched him to Washington, DC, to enroll at Sidwell Friends for his junior and senior years. Yet, Anthonisen says he did not even discover art until he was an adult—after his time at Sidwell, after two years in the Army, and after three years of college at the University of Vermont. It is like the ghosts of the Beaux-Arts were inside Anthonisen all along, just waiting to be released.

Now with more than six decades of sculptures behind him, a new book, Meditations on the Human Condition (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2024)—part biography, part epic exhibition—captures the sweeping arc of a life devoted to figurative art and creating “marvels of human conception and design.”

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ON SIDWELL FRIENDS:

I’m convinced I only got into Sidwell because I played football and played it well. The thing that was so spectacular about Sidwell Friends was all the people. The students were the sons and daughters of spectacular people in terms of their parents working in government in one way or another. But among the kids, there was no sense of that identity. People just talked to each other about this, that, and the other, and it was wonderful. It was just easy to learn from each other. It was wonderful in that regard. I am still the best of friends with my classmates Danny Bernstein ’55 and Rob Bresler ’55 and many others.

I’ve certainly been imbibed with Quakerism, too. My work reflects Quaker values. I deplore war. I think of it as absolutely the most stupid human endeavor that exists. You kill Harry, and Harry’s brother hates you and his mother hates you. It just doesn’t make any sense. It’s a horrible business.

ON DISCOVERING ART:

It’s a very dramatic story. I was having trouble in college at the University of Vermont, and I was doing the best I could because I knew how important it was. I came in as a business major because I was going to make money and meet interesting people. That was what I thought.

But I wasn’t any good at business. I did have an incredible English teacher. I took English and I was lousy at English, but he understood that I had some brains and that I was interested. So I learned a bit about literature and got some history at the same time. I was going along making my way, when in my junior year, I figured out that if you took painting—no homework! I took it and I did well in it. It was sort of easy and fun. I said: “Hey, this works. I got good grades and no homework.” So, I signed up for sculpture. 

What happened then was just incredible. As soon as I started fiddling with clay, my mind shot right through to my hands. There was no question in my head that this is something I could do. Immediately—really, practically immediately—I told my parents, “I’m meant for this.” They said, “George, we’ll tell you what: You take pictures of your work, and we will research the path of an artist and how you manage this.”

So, I came home with photographs, and they liked what I had done. They had researched art through their colleagues who had a little art knowledge. My father had a brother who was a really good artist, but he died of food poisoning in Paris when he was 23 years old while studying with the painter Georges Braque. There was a certain inkling there about art, but they also knew it was rough going at the beginning. Still, they were open to the idea that people could build from that start and have success.

My parents said to me, “Your older brother, Nick, we supported him through his medical internship and his residency, and then it was up to him to make a living in the field of medicine.” They said, “We want to do a similar thing for you.” And so, they gave me emotional support and financial support from the get-go. I was able to come to New York City and enroll in the National Academy of Design and meet the professional artists who were teaching there. I began learning about human anatomy and modeling from life. I even studied a cadaver. I did that for four years, so I had a very thorough education in terms of the figure. And that’s really thanks to my parents.

I’ve had help from one person or another all the way through my career. When I think of the successes I’ve had, it’s really payback. There’s no sense of grandeur about it. It’s a sense of, My god, I’ve been helped. 

"As soon as a started fiddling with clay, my mind shot right through to my hands."

ON STARTING HIS CAREER:

From that education, I had an understanding that I needed to have new work to show every two years. On top of that, I was good with portraits, so I would pick up portrait commissions along the way. I never got a steady stream of commissions though. But because I didn’t, I developed my own body of work, and my own body of work reflected my value structure. That’s very different from a lot of monument sculptors. Even Saint-Gaudens and French, who were such giants, did almost all their work by commission. I would love to have seen their work when it was not on commission, because commissions are by nature collaborative.

My commissions were few and far between because representational art was basically in the toilet in the 1960s and ’70s. This was the era of conceptual art. How did I fit in? One determining factor in my success was becoming a member of the National Sculpture Society. That’s when I got a fellowship to work on the premises at Augustus Saint-Gaudens’s studio for four months. That absolutely blew me away because this was somebody who communicated with me. I could understand his work. I could see how grand it was in terms of development of form and texture. And I took off from there. The fellowship gave me a confidence I hadn’t previously had, and I didn’t feel like I had to fit into the moment.

I thought, “If I can create things that have a human interest, ideas that we’re all vying with and involved in and are thinking about, then maybe I can do something.” And I did that. That was motivating.

One of the guys I went to art school with ended up working at a foundry in upstate New York. He once told me, “You’re the only one still doing it.” So many people did not have either financial or emotional support. They didn’t have those things going for them, and they would fall away from art and do other things instead. I’ve seen that all through my life. It’s just reinforced my good fortune as to where I came from.

I thought, "If I can create things that have a human interest, ideas that we're all vying with and involved in and art thinking about, then maybe I can do something." And I did that.

ON THE BUSINESS OF ART:

I was doing studio work and trying to do the business of art, which are really diametrically opposed. When you’re in your studio, that’s one thing. When you’re trying to hustle yourself, that’s a whole other thing. And it evolved, really, that my wife, Ellen, and I divided this up. Ellen became the businessperson. She knew a lot about art but had never started a business. Yet she was remarkable, because she took it upon herself. She would go to a local library and research art and business—just really took herself through a crash course in the whole concept of art and business. Ellen has really handled publicity and every business aspect—every mailing list, press release, everything that a business does. At openings, Ellen would circulate easily with the people there. But I have a certain kind of intensity. If I’m talking to somebody, she could come over and gently interrupt me and move me on to somebody else—and all with an easy aplomb I didn’t have. It is a true partnership. 

ON HIS CLASSICAL STYLE:

Henry Duffy, the person in charge of the estate at the Saint-Gaudens National Historical Park in Cornish, New Hampshire, told me recently that I am a natural extension of Saint-Gaudens, Rodin, and the [Musée d’Orsay] Hall of French sculptors of that era—Jean-Antoine Houdon and Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux. That’s definitely where I come from. The curator of American Sculpture and Painting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art gave a lecture at the Michener Museum recently about a show I’m featured in with 70 works of Saint-Gaudens and French. She said their creative lives continue on in my work.

ON THE BOOK:

The book is beyond anything we could have imagined. It’s so necessary for any kind of legacy. And certainly the fact that we have pieces on permanent display at the Berman Museum as well as the Michener Museum helps. But the book has no equal. The book is just an amazing piece. People can understand what it is I’ve been doing and see the breadth of my work and our lives.

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Photos by Christian Giannelli  

Art Credits (Top to Bottom): 
Raoul Wallenberg I, 1998-99 George R. Anthonisen touching up his sculpture in 2023. 
Conversation, 2017-20 Plaster, 17 x 15 x 11 inches Collection of the artist
Dialogue, 2003-04Bronze, 29 x 20 x 20 inches. Edition 1/9Collection of Carol and Louis Della Penna