Charles Ray is unquestionably one of the most powerful and challenging sculptors alive. His recent works presented at the Met carry within them a subtle and expansive understanding of space, a boundless wit and delicacy, and a deep sense of history. They articulate the pleasures of seeing as well as of thinking with a precise craftsmanship that quietly teaches every trope of this ancient art.

Some of the older works in the exhibition show their age. The modular arrangement of Family Romance presents Ray at his most medieval. Like the famous Theophilus relief at the Abbey Sainte-Marie of Souillac (1120–35) or the incredible (and mistitled) Saint Quentin Being Tormented (1420–1430) on view in Luhring Augustine gallery in Chelsea, the work plays with figures in a shallow space, whose strict and repetitive geometry resonates almost musically in the mind. While in the older sculptures this effect gives the impression of an arabesque polyphonic line of verticals and diagonals, moving right and left with pauses either at the center or at the sides, in Ray's work the modular tones are left fragmentary. There is no rest within them. They impart the feeling that this family, where ravenous children and suffering parents imitate each other, can continue ad infinitum: humans reproducing today not in terms of individual qualities, but mere additive quantities. The irony is torturous and haunting. It delights in the ugliness of life, bringing it to bear both in its most meaningful and meaningless forms, letting subject and form interlock and trump each other. Atomized, reduced to their biology, one seeks in the individual’s physiognomy traces of humanity that, as if a makeshift raft, can only be found in the meager interiority of the monstrosity of their eyes.

The gentle depiction of Mime (2014) pulls the thread of a different history. Sculpture in the past has often been challenged to deal with figures succumbing to absolute rest: just by descending one floor at the Met we can encounter a modern example of this in the funerary sculpture of Elizabeth Boott Duveneck (1891). A common trope since Gothic times (or perhaps older, if we consider the resemblance to mummies), these figures seek to inspire the eternal peace of the beyond. In this case, a melting mantle covering Duveneck’s figure also perhaps indicates the merging of the corporeal with the underworld. Ray’s Mime is similarly consumed by its clothing and abode. But rather than obliterating the corporeal, the foldings and contortions of the material accentuate it. As you incline to look at it, you feel the pressure of the mime’s hand over his left thigh, of his head over the rest of his body, of his total weight over the canapé: his unconsciousness makes you more aware of his vitality, for it makes present in the sweet language of steel — its unique reflections and malleability — his total surrender to tiredness and sleep.

Seeing a sculpture is an act of reflecting on our position in space as we interact with an object. We see from inside its world, and its determination literally pulls us into the equivocation of the space we actually inhabit and that toward which we are compelled by our galvanized imagination. We interact with the sculpture practically, intuitively, like with any other object, until it opens up to speak in ways that no objects really do, and we can no longer help but be overwhelmed by the intensity of its voice. The three sculptures in the show that exemplify this experience are Boy with a Frog (2009), Huck and Finn (2014), and Sarah Williams (2021). The first two open the show, enormous and delicate even at a distance from the entry; the latter closes it. Boy with a Frog has a subtle sweetness, the boy’s smooth face is as precious as the careful details of his frog — and as delightful. It is reminiscent of Ray’s famous Beetle (2006): children are enthralled in all they do, they give themselves completely, passionately, and heroically to their everyday activity. Boy with a Frog absorbs its own moment, a sense of punctual timeliness, within itself: the moment when the child catches the animal and holds it up in wonderment. 

Huck and Jim and Sarah Williams are both inspired by Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn. Huck and Jim is a monumental work depicting both characters as “they debate the origin of the stars,” as one reads in the exhibition’s label. Huck bends forward to scoop an object off the ground while an upright Jim stares into the distance, his hand softly resting on Huck’s back. Scale is the first aspect of this work that impresses upon the viewer. Like in the other works by Ray, it is an internal proposition: scale compels you to explore what lies beneath. One kneels to see the hand and face of Huck staring at the floor, and begins to perceive the smooth, crystal touch of Jim’s immense legs. From below, Jim feels not only imposing, but heroic. We start to move around the sculpture, trembling at the force of his body, which radiates from within and transforms with each step. Jim and Huck are not merely two elements, but two separate sculptures fighting for their presence in space. Like in Rodin’s Burghers of Calais (1884–1889), Jim and Huck have a distinct aura and gravitational force, which emanates from their form and transforms space through their struggle. This cacophony of space gives the sculptural group a unique sense of external disconnect while suggesting a more profound connection of the spirit: something happening elsewhere, whose depth the viewer is left to fathom in his or her own imagination.

Sarah Williams absorbs us in a drama of delightful wit. When I first saw the work, I refused to read the title (and had momentarily forgotten the earlier work). From the side, I was enthralled by the tender expression of both figures, the one kneeling, devoted, supplicating, like a lover in need of forgiveness. The upright boyish girl struck me as melancholic, a bit meditative, and deeply sorrowful. I kept moving around, changing my thoughts, reassessing, until some time later my partner relayed to me the title and subject of the piece… But theme aside, the experience of the work is similar to that of Huck and Jim. One encounters each sculpture as separate individuals, fully autonomous and engrossed in their actions and thoughts, and whose relationship is ambiguous, internalized, and complex. They are also separate spaces who direct our moments and glances according to their own needs. These works express more than is there, not simply by suggesting, but by organizing in space the totality of their form. 

Charles Ray's new works reflect years of accumulated experience and mastery from which all young sculptors should seek nourishment. In their use of sculptural space, materials, and subject matter they exploit all aspects in favor of the richest possible experience. As I left the exhibition, I felt I had witnessed part of history. These works will outlast generations and their feelings will resonate through the ages, with that air suffused with the vitality of American life.

Charles Ray: Figure Ground is on view at the Met Fifth Avenue in New York City through June 5, 2022.

Lead image by Charlie Rubin for The New York Times.