Above: The drawing that inspired the diorama. Below: Additional details from the scene.
SHEP’S COMMENTS ON THE DIORAMA
At the beginning of the campaign of 1806, there was considerable speculation as to whether the upstart armies of Imperial France could hold their own against the legendary military prowess of Prussia. Although the French had defeated a series of professional European armies, these had, after all, been Austrians and Russians. The Prussians still enjoyed the aura of invincibility they had achieved under Frederick the Great fifty years before, and it was against this enemy that the real test wield come.
On August 15, shortly after the opening of the campaign, the two armies met in the twin battles of Jena and Auerstadt, and the Prussian forces were disastrously defeated. The humiliation was completed by a pursuit so swift and relentless that within two weeks the vaunted Prussian army ceased to exist altogether.
Three weeks after the battles, Napoleon and his victorious entourage entered Potsdam, the residence of the Prussian Kings outside Berlin. The Emperor wasted little time before visiting the Garrison Church, burial place of the man widely regarded as the greatest soldier of the age. Their sabers clanking loudly in the empty church and their boots tracking the mud of Jena and Auerstadt on the polished marble floor, the French conquerors followed the curate to the small crypt behind the pulpit. It was with a sense of obvious awe that the “little corporal” stood silently before the tomb, reflecting on the events that had brought him there. Finally, he spoke softly to his staff. “Hats off, gentlemen. If he were alive, we would not be here.”
This diorama was an atmosphere piece which depended for its success on its quiet mood—a distinct break from the action pieces I had done up to this time. It was my first experience with mood lighting, and the techniques developed here f0rmed the basis for the more sophisticated lighting schemes developed for later dioramas.
It is a deceptively simple scene—only seven figures, without much architectural detail (most of which was taken from 19th-century print). As the project developed, the curate became the most interesting figure for me, with his aged crouch and cane. The candles were a real gamble since the whole scene depends upon them. I had never tried anything like that before; the planned use of super-miniature light bulbs worked, but only after some frantic adjustments. The wires from the bulbs passed down the arms of the candelabrum, passed along the back of the figure’s arms, side, and leg and out through a small hole in the floor without being visible at any time from the front.
The French figures are mostly personalities based upon who was known to be their time. The incident is based upon the memoirs of Caulincourt, who was one of the officers present and is seen in the diorama nervously fidgeting with the feathers of his hat. Also seen are Marshal Berthier talking to an aide and Marshal Murat, the flamboyant cavalry leader. It is worth noting that the retinue does not seem to share the Emperor’s appreciation of moment—the telepathic communication of one conqueror to another—and are fidgeting for the moment to leave. The officers are one of the keys to this scene and presented an interesting design problem: They must appear to be doing something besides just standing around, but the activity must be both natural and unobtrusive, not upstaging the central focus of the scene.
Another interesting aspect of this diorama and one of its most challenging features is that all of the characters, including Napoleon, have their backs to the viewer. So far as I know, this had never been done before in a diorama, and was something of calculated risk. I think it worked, and turned out to be much better than viewing the scene from the side.
From Sheperd Paine: The Life and Work of a Master Military Modeler and Historian by Jim DeRogatis (Schiffer Books, 2008)
J.D. In terms of capturing a creepy mood, I think your next effort, “Napoleon at the Tomb of Frederick the Great,” is just as effective. This is a scene that was tailor-made for a boxed diorama.
S.P. Very much so. I based it on a drawing that I saw in a book. Years later, I saw a painting that the drawing was taken from, which looked a lot like this box, but I never saw the colored version until after the box was done.
This diorama was an atmosphere piece which depended for its success on its quiet mood—a distinct break from the action pieces I had done up to this time. It was my first experience with mood lighting, and the techniques developed here formed the basis for the more sophisticated lighting schemes developed for later dioramas.
J.D. Had you been to the tomb?
S.P. No, Potsdam’s Garrison church was badly damaged in World War II and torn down after the war. In fact, during the war, the Germans moved Frederick to safety somewhere in the West. It wasn’t until after the fall of the Berlin Wall that they finally buried him at his Palace of Sans Souci, which is where he had wanted to be buried in the first place.
J.D. So the details of the crypt are conjecture?
S.P. There was enough detail in the drawing that I could get pretty close. Somebody might quibble with the spindles on the doors or other minor details, but it was basically a big arched doorway, with two doors that opened up to the tombs of Frederick and his father beyond it. Frederick’s hat and sword were on top of his sarcophagus. Napoleon may have respected his memory, but that didn’t keep him from taking them back to Paris as trophies!
J.D. It seems like you had a blast with the old man with the candelabra.
S.P. Yes, he was the most interesting figure to do, because the body language is so expressive. All of the figures were fun, though. Napoleon was a challenge, because he had to be recognizable from behind. It was the classic image of Napoleon in his gray overcoat, but without the benefit of the hat, which is in his hand. With the officers behind him, I had to find something for them to do. They couldn’t just be standing there with their hands by their sides.
J.D. So a few of them are in conversation.
S.P. It’s the same posing trick I used with the staff officers in “The Eve of Essling” and the paratroopers in the diorama for the Monogram C-47. Murat is a fairly obvious presence; Marshal Berthier is standing behind him, and General Caulincourt, on whose recollection the diorama is based, is fiddling with the feathers on his hat. Some serious digging would probably turn up the names of some other officers present, but at the time, I didn’t have the resources for that.
J.D. I’ve heard that there’s a rat in this scene somewhere.
S.P. No, there’s a mouse—a very big mouse, maybe, but still a mouse. He’s hidden in the darkness off to the right side, and if you don’t know he’s there, you’d probably never spot him. I don’t think he appears in any of the pictures. He’s definitely an Easter egg: a little reward for viewers sharp enough to spot him. If I could have figured a good way to model cobwebs, I might have included some of those, too.…
J.D. Is there any illumination besides the candelabra?
S.P. Yes, this diorama was the one in which I learned how to use spotlights. I don’t remember exactly where they are, because lighting is always a trial-and-error process: You install the lights, and you move them around until it looks right.
The lights in the candles are micro mini-bulbs, and the candles are brass tubes. The wires actually run down the arms of the candelabrum; behind the curate’s hand; down his arm, and out through a hole by his feet.[1] The problem is that the wires are glued to the arms of the candelabra, which means you have to take the candelabra apart to change the bulbs. Andrew Wyeth has this one, and I’ve only had to visit him to change the bulbs once, but it’s worth the effort: I think the candles really make the scene.
J.D. This really is one of my favorites. Were you happy with it?
S.P. On the whole, yes. With a box, you never know how it’s going to turn out until you start putting the lights in, and that’s what really brings the scene to life.
J.D. Did you know it was good when you finished it?
S.P. By the time I get to the end of a project, I have no idea whether it’s any good or not, because I’ve been working on it too closely for too long. When I did the Monitor, for example, I showed it to some friends before I left for the MFCA show in Philadelphia, and they all said, “You’re going to win Best of Show with that.” This was my first inkling that it might be something special.
J.D. How did you make the stone coffins?
S.P. They’re made out of wood; the illusion of stone is all in the painting. The front of the tomb with its engraved inscription is a photo-etched printer’s zinc. That’s how illustrations were done in the days of linotype printing. The belt buckle designers discovered this was a good way to do raised and engraved lettering, and we used the technique a lot at Valiant. I laid out the inscription with rub-on lettering, and sent it in with one of the jobs we were doing at Valiant. There was a minimum size for the plate, so if there was space left over, I often added some personal pieces to ride piggyback with a commercial job.