But more often than not painters have learned a huge amount from sculpture, and any rivalry they may feel with sculptors is an intensely creative one. This is made abundantly clear from the Art UK website, with its wealth of paintings that include depictions of sculpture. The sculptures are not there simply as decorative fillers and background, but to stimulate eye and mind. To borrow a phrase coined by anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss, sculptures are ‘good to think with’.

Antique sculpture was a major inspiration for artists from the Renaissance until the nineteenth century, and one of the great pioneers in its rediscovery was the Bolognese painter and occasional sculptor Amico Aspertini (1474–1552). He is best known for a series of sketchbooks crammed with drawings of antique sculpture made in Rome in around 1500, and again in the 1530s.

Despite Aspertini’s importance, he has only recently recovered from Vasari’s hatchet job in the Lives of the Artists, where he is portrayed as a crackpot who painted at lightning speed with both hands (the ‘chiaro’ in one, the ‘scuro’ in the other!). Vasari may have been responding adversely to the sinuous intensity of works like the Virgin and Child between Saint Helena and Saint Francis (c.1520), acquired by the National Museum of Wales, Cardiff in 1986, and the only major Aspertini in the UK. He is now admired as an innovative precursor to Mannerism.

Aspertini’s painting is divided into three horizontal bands. He creates intriguing counterpoints between the central trio of monumental painted saints; an evanescent stormy landscape background with buffeted ghostly figures; and the intricately crowded sculptural relief along the bottom that resembles an antique sarcophagus.

Freestanding marble statuettes are arranged before a marble ledge on the which the saints lean, and on which the fidgety Christ child stands: on the left, we see Moses receiving the tablets with the commandments, then smashing them after he finds the Israelites worshipping the Golden Calf; on the right, we see the story of the Biblical King Josiah destroying the idols.

Paradox is piled on paradox. Why did this Bolognese lover of antique sculpture devise fictive sculpture depicting stories that celebrate the destruction of sculpture? Aspertini is trying to express a powerful yet complex idea: that Christianity both superseded and absorbed the world of classical antiquity. Antiquity had first to be destroyed and buried before it could be reborn. Imperial Rome and its temples became the foundation for Papal Rome and its churches; the Popes now owned the finest collections of antique sculpture.

Astonishingly, Christ’s legs are in the same position as those of the smashed statue of a dancing satyr displayed on a pedestal, and his skin is marmoreal. The visual quotation shows that Christian dances of spiritual joy have superseded carnal pagan dances; it also poignantly reminds us that Christ, even more fragile than a marble statue, would be ‘broken’ on the Cross.

The most celebrated antique sculpture in the papal collections depicted the Trojan priest Laocoon and his two sons being attacked by sea snakes sent by vengeful gods.

The original was dug up in Rome in 1506. Laocoon became a standard model for depictions of martyrs, and so moving was the statue that the Venetian writer Anton Francesco Doni wrote that when a spectator sees it, he is so overcome by compassion that he feels bitten by the same snakes and compelled to adopt the same pose, and to writhe in agony.

It is seen here (in reverse) in a semi-wild landscape by Dutch artist Abraham Begeyn (1637–1697), their poses echoed by the twisting oak trees: even nature feels sympathy, but not the bathetic goats.

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Mark Abbe was ambushed by color in 2000, while working on an archeological dig in the ancient Greek city of Aphrodisias, in present-day Turkey. At the time, he was a graduate student at New York University’s Institute of Fine Arts, and, like most people, he thought of Greek and Roman statues as objects of pure white marble. The gods, heroes, and nymphs displayed in museums look that way, as do neoclassical monuments and statuary, from the Jefferson Memorial to the Caesar perched outside his palace in Las Vegas.

Aphrodisias was home to a thriving cadre of high-end artists until the seventh century A.D., when an earthquake caused it to fall into ruin. In 1961, archeologists began systematically excavating the city, storing thousands of sculptural fragments in depots. When Abbe arrived there, several decades later, he started poking around the depots and was astonished to find that many statues had flecks of color: red pigment on lips, black pigment on coils of hair, mirrorlike gilding on limbs. For centuries, archeologists and museum curators had been scrubbing away these traces of color before presenting statues and architectural reliefs to the public. “Imagine you’ve got an intact lower body of a nude male statue lying there on the depot floor, covered in dust,” Abbe said. “You look at it up close, and you realize the whole thing is covered in bits of gold leaf. Oh, my God! The visual appearance of these things was just totally different from what I’d seen in the standard textbooks—which had only black-and-white plates, in any case.” For Abbe, who is now a professor of ancient art at the University of Georgia, the idea that the ancients disdained bright color “is the most common misconception about Western aesthetics in the history of Western art.” It is, he said, “a lie we all hold dear.”

In the early nineteen-eighties, Vinzenz Brinkmann had a similar epiphany while pursuing a master’s degree in classics and archeology from Ludwig Maximilian University, in Munich. As part of an effort to determine what kinds of tool marks could be found on Greek marble sculpture, he devised a special lamp that shines obliquely on an object, highlighting its surface relief. When he began scrutinizing sculptures with the lamp, he told me, he “quite immediately understood” that, while there was little sign of tool marks on the statues, there was significant evidence of polychromy—all-over color. He, too, was taken aback by the knowledge that a fundamental aspect of Greek statuary “had been so excluded” from study. He said, “It started as an obsession for me that has never ended.”

Brinkmann soon realized that his discovery hardly required a special lamp: if you were looking at an ancient Greek or Roman sculpture up close, some of the pigment “was easy to see, even with the naked eye.” Westerners had been engaged in an act of collective blindness. “It turns out that vision is heavily subjective,” he told me. “You need to transform your eye into an objective tool in order to overcome this powerful imprint”—a tendency to equate whiteness with beauty, taste, and classical ideals, and to see color as alien, sensual, and garish.

One afternoon this summer, Marco Leona, who runs the scientific-research department at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, gave me a tour of the Greek and Roman galleries. He pointed out a Greek vase, from the third century B.C., that depicts an artist painting a statue. Leona said, of polychromy, “It’s like the best-kept secret that’s not even a secret.” Jan Stubbe Østergaard, a former curator at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek museum, in Copenhagen, and the founder of an international research network on polychromy, told me, “Saying you’ve seen these sculptures when you’ve seen only the white marble is comparable to somebody coming from the beach and saying they’ve seen a whale because there was a skeleton on the beach.”

In the nineteen-nineties, Brinkmann and his wife, Ulrike Koch-Brinkmann, who is an art historian and an archeologist, began re-creating Greek and Roman sculptures in plaster, painted with an approximation of their original colors. Palettes were determined by identifying specks of remaining pigment, and by studying “shadows”—minute surface variations that betray the type of paint applied to the stone. The result of this effort was a touring exhibition called “Gods in Color.” Versions of the show, which was launched in 2003, have been seen by three million museumgoers in twenty-eight cities, including Istanbul and Athens.

The replicas often deliver a shock. A Trojan archer, from approximately 500 B.C., wears tight pants with a harlequin pattern that is as boldly colored as Missoni leggings. A lion that once stood guard over a tomb in Corinth, in the sixth century B.C., has an azurite mane and an ochre body, calling to mind Mayan or Aztec artifacts. There are also reconstructions of naked figures in bronze, which have a disarming fleshiness: copper lips and nipples, luxuriant black beards, wiry swirls of dark pubic hair. (Classical bronze figures were often blinged out with gemstones for the eyes and with contrasting metals that highlighted anatomical details or dripping wounds.) Throughout the exhibition, the colored replicas are juxtaposed with white plaster casts of marble pieces—fakes that look like what we think of as the real thing.

For many people, the colors are jarring because their tones seem too gaudy or opaque. In 2008, Fabio Barry, an art historian who is now at Stanford, complained that a boldly colored re-creation of a statue of the Emperor Augustus at the Vatican Museum looked “like a cross-dresser trying to hail a taxi.” Barry told me, in an e-mail, that he still found the colors unduly lurid: “The various scholars reconstructing the polychromy of statuary always seemed to resort to the most saturated hue of the color they had detected, and I suspected that they even took a sort of iconoclastic pride in this—that the traditional idea of all-whiteness was so cherished that they were going to really make their point that it was colorful.”

But some of the disorientation among viewers comes from seeing polychromy at all. Østergaard, who put on two exhibitions at the Glyptotek which featured painted reconstructions, said that, to many visitors, the objects “look tasteless.” He went on, “But it’s too late for that! The challenge is for us to try and understand the ancient Greeks and Romans—not to tell them they got it wrong.”

Lately, this obscure academic debate about ancient sculpture has taken on an unexpected moral and political urgency. Last year, a University of Iowa classics professor, Sarah Bond, published two essays, one in the online arts journal Hyperallergic and one in Forbes, arguing that it was time we all accepted that ancient sculpture was not pure white—and neither were the people of the ancient world. One false notion, she said, had reinforced the other. For classical scholars, it is a given that the Roman Empire—which, at its height, stretched from North Africa to Scotland—was ethnically diverse. In the Forbes essay, Bond notes, “Although Romans generally differentiated people on their cultural and ethnic background rather than the color of their skin, ancient sources do occasionally mention skin tone and artists tried to convey the color of their flesh.” Depictions of darker skin can be seen on ancient vases, in small terra-cotta figures, and in the Fayum portraits, a remarkable trove of naturalistic paintings from the imperial Roman province of Egypt, which are among the few paintings on wood that survive from that period. These near-life-size portraits, which were painted on funerary objects, present their subjects with an array of skin tones, from olive green to deep brown, testifying to a complex intermingling of Greek, Roman, and local Egyptian populations. (The Fayum portraits have been widely dispersed among museums.)

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#3 VENUS DE MILO

It is generally believed that this statue was discovered on 8th April 1820 by a peasant named Yorgos Kentrotas. He found it in pieces on Milos, a Greek island in the Aegean Sea. The sculpture was subsequently presented to King Louis XVIII of France who then gave it to the Louvre, where it is on display to this very day. Also known as Aphrodite of Milos, Venus de Milo is thought to represent Aphrodite, the ancient Greek goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation. The Roman goddess counterpart to Aphrodite was Venus. The statue is believed to have been carved by Alexandros of Antioch, a sculptor of the Hellenistic period. Apart from the much discussed mystery about its missing arms, it was originally draped in jewelry including a bracelet, earrings and a headband. However all these things have been long lost. Venus de Milo is perhaps the most famous work of ancient Greek sculpture. It has been widely referenced in popular culture and has greatly influenced modern artists including Salvador Dali.

#2 DAVID

In 1501, the city government of Florence commissioned Michelangelo to create this statue as part of a series to adorn the roof-line of Florence’s cathedral dome. However, upon its completion, they were so overwhelmed by its beauty that it was decided to place it in wide-view next to the entrance to the Palazzo Vecchio, the town hall of Florence. The marble sculpture was moved in 1873 to the Gallery of the Academy, an art museum in Florence. A replica was placed at its original location in 1910. Michelangelo’s David most likely represents the Biblical hero David after he has made up his mind to fight Goliath but before the actual fight. This is unlike earlier Renaissance depictions of David which show him after the fight and include some part of the giant Goliath. Michelangelo masterfully depicts the Biblical hero with his brow drawn, his neck tense and his veins bulging out of his lowered right hand. David is the most famous sculpture of perhaps the greatest sculptor of all time. It is one of the best known artworks in the world.

#1 STATUE OF LIBERTY

Liberty, a personification of the concept of liberty, has existed as a goddess in many cultures. Since the French Revolution, the figure of Liberty is viewed as a symbol of France and the French Republic. This renowned copper statue was a gift from the people of France to the people of the United States. It was designed by French sculptor Frederic Auguste Bartholdi and built by renowned French civil engineer Gustave Eiffel. The Statue of Liberty depicts the Roman goddess Libertas holding a torch above her head with her right hand and in her left hand she is carrying a tablet on which is inscribed in Roman numerals the date of the U.S. Declaration of Independence. As an American icon, the Statue of Liberty has been depicted on the country’s coinage and stamps. It has also become an international icon of freedom. It was described as a “masterpiece of the human spirit” and designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1984. One of the best known monuments, the Statue of Liberty is the most famous sculpture in the world.

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