Coin Portraits Of Bactrian Kings: (Left) Antimachus (C.185 BC), (Right) Eucratides I (c.165-150bc). The portraits of this
remarkable dynasty on the far-eastern fringe of the Hellenistic world show a degree of individuality never matched by the often
bland depictions of their royal contemporaries further west. Eucratides is helmeted; Antimachus wears the Macedonian royal beret,
or causia.
Another sculptural genre which owed much to the influence of Lysippus was the figure-group. Lysippus' exploitation of the third
dimension, and no doubt the famous multi-figure compositions in bronze with which he and collaborators had commemorated the
exploits of Alexander, paved the way for a whole range of virtuoso statue-groups, in which two, three, or more figures were arranged
in complex relationships which required a new attitude on the part of the viewer. The wrestlers in Florence, the Ludovisi Gaul in the
Terme Museum (above, p. 320), and the elaborate Rhodian composition showing the punishment of Dirce, reflected in a Roman
copy in Naples, cannot be fully appreciated from any one viewpoint, but demand to be studied from all angles. The Ludovisi Gaul,
whose prototype, together with that of the dying Gaul in the Capitoline Museum, formed part of a larger aggregation of bronze
statues set up in Pergamum to commemorate the victories of Kings Attalus and Eumenes, also illustrates further facets of Hellenistic
group composition, in particular its love of drama and of studied contrasts.
The act of the Gaulish chieftain who has killed his wife and plunged the sword in his own breast rather than surrender might have
seemed theatrical were it not for the impressive nobility of the warrior's face and figure. At the same time the artist makes great play
of the contrast between the vigorous action of the Gaul and the limpness of the dead wife, between the muscularity of his virtually
naked body and the lifeless fall of her drapery. Yet the two figures are artistically united in a favourite pyramidal structure by the left
arm of the warrior supporting his wife's collapsing form. It is significant that this Hellenistic victory-monument expressed its
message in more human terms than its great Classical predecessors: not only were the actual Gaulish foes of Pergamum represented
where Classical sculptors would have chosen some remote mythological allegory, but they were also rendered with sympathy both
for their distinctive physiognomy (broad cheeks, chunky hair, the man's moustache) and for their great courage and dignity. Other
groups showed an increased emphasis on horror. For example, the old myth of Marsyas, hitherto represented in its earlier, milder
stages, the discovery of the flutes and the musical contest between the satyr and Apollo, now moved on to its gruesome climax: a
number of copies attest the existence of a group, again probably Pergamene, consisting of the terrified Marsyas strung up on a tree, a
brutal, balding Scythian slave sharpening the knife with which he is to be flayed alive, and (no doubt) a pitiless seated Apollo.
In relief sculpture the Alexander sarcophagus (above, p. 327), apparently carved for Alexander's client king in Sidon, reveals a
number of important developments of the early Hellenistic period. The representation of actual events involving living or recently
dead personages (hunting scenes and episodes from Alexander's battles) and the portrayal of precise details of national costume and
armour look forward to the Pergamene Gauls and ultimately to the historical reliefs of imperial Rome; while the complexity and
interlocking of the main battle relief mark a complete break from the well-spaced duels which prevailed in fifth- and fourth-century
sculpture. One effect here was a diminution in importance of the background, which had always been the essential foil to reliefs of
the Classical period. This development reached a climax in the sculptures of the Great Altar at Pergamum (second quarter of the
second century B.C.).
The larger frieze, situtuated on the exterior of the podium, depicted the time-honoured subject of the battle of gods and giants, but
did so with a bravado and grandiloquence never equalled in ancient art. Almost every inch of the available surface was covered with
a writhing mass of bodies, wings, drapery, coiling snakes, and animal forms, all rendered with a loving attention to texture which
can distinguish, for example, between the nap and plain surfaces of the same piece of cloth. The effect was to destroy the visual
function of the podium and to leave the superstructure of the altar floating, as it were, above the cosmic tumult of the sculptures. A
particularly good example of the ambivalent relation between architecture and decoration was the group of giants which rested
hands, knees, and snake-coils directly on the steps of the monumental entrance stairway, as if trying to crawl out of the frieze. Along
with the technical brilliance went a typically Hellenistic academicism: in addition to the twelve Olympian gods, the artists had
introduced about seventy-five lesser deities and personifications, all of whom, like the giants, were labelled with inscriptions for the
benefit of passers-by. It is difficult to remember that all this, like most Greek sculpture in stone, must originally have been coloured.