The agony and the ecstas.., p.50
The Agony and the Ecstasy, page 50
Michelangelo looked at this man who had become such a good friend to him. It would be impossible to deny him. Instead he asked, “I am not to copy the Donatello?”
“Let’s say that it would be safe to create minor variations, but not enough to disappoint the Maréchal’s memory.”
Michelangelo put a slice of cheese on a quartered pear.
“I’ve never had a chance to do anything for Florence. It gives me a good feeling. If only I had not been an idiot, and refused to learn casting from Bertoldo.”
“We have good casters in Florence: Bonaccorso Ghiberti, the cannon maker, and Lodovico Lotti, the bell caster.”
The sensation of being a patriot faded when he again stood in front of Donatello’s David in the courtyard of the Signoria. He had come so far from this conception in his own figure! If he could not bring himself to copy it, and at the same time could not change it … ?
He returned to the courtyard in the morning, carrying a box to sit on, and sheets of old drawing paper. His David emerged several years older than Donatello’s, more male and muscular, drawn with the inner tensions that can be transplanted to marble, few of which were present in the smooth-surfaced bronze youth before him. He set up an armature on the back bench in the workshed, used his occasional rest hours to transpose his drawings into a rough clay structure, slowly building up a nude with a turban binding up the hair. He was amused to think that, in the interests of Florence, he had to model a head of Goliath, on which David rested his foot in triumph. The Maréchal would never be happy without that head.
The perfect weather lasted through November first, when Soderini was installed as Gonfaloniere for life in a colorful pageant on the Signoria steps, with all of Florence in the piazza, and Michelangelo up front, feeling proud and secure. Then freezing winter clamped down. Michelangelo and Argiento put up the roof, reset the tiles. The four braziers could not cut the intense cold. He wore his cap with the earmuffs. Beppe hung a canvas over the side opening, but there was little light from the overcast skies and the canvas cut out that little. Now he suffered from darkness as well as cold. He worked by candlelight and lamp. Nor was spring much help; heavy rains began in early March and lasted for months.
Toward the end of April he received an invitation to dinner in the new apartment of the Signoria, presided over by Monna Argentina Soderini, the first woman ever permitted to live in the palace. The suite had been decorated by Giuliano de Sangallo and young Baccio d’Agnolo, the living, dining and bed rooms converted from first- and second-floor offices formerly used by the city notary and chancellor. The dining room was frescoed, the ceiling done in gilt, the cupboards and buffet of inlaid woods. The dinner table was laid before a fire, warm and cheerful. Michelangelo took off his green cloak, pleased with his appearance in his smocked woolen shirt. Soderini showed off his wife’s flower pots in the windows.
“I know some people are complaining about the expense of the window boxes,” he said shyly; “but actually I think it’s their way of saying that women shouldn’t live in the Palazzo della Signoria.”
After dinner Soderini asked Michelangelo to accompany him to the Duomo.
“For years Florence has been talking of having the Twelve Apostles in marble for the cathedral. Larger than life size. Of perfect Seravezza marble. That would fill the cavernous space, would it not?”
“With the light of a thousand candles.”
Soderini stopped at the back of the central altar, facing the Donatello and Della Robbia marble choirs.
“I’ve been speaking to the members of the Boards. They think it a magnificent idea.”
Numbly, Michelangelo murmured, “It’s a lifetime of work.”
“So were Ghiberti’s doors.”
“That’s what Bertoldo wanted for me: a body of work.”
Soderini linked his arm through Michelangelo’s, walked him down the long nave toward the open door.
“It would make you the official sculptor of Florence. The contract I have been discussing with the Boards includes a house we will build for you, and a studio of your own de sign.”
“A home of my own! And a studio.”
“I thought that would please you. You could do one Apostle a year. As each was delivered, you would own another twelfth of your house and studio.”
Michelangelo stopped in the doorway. He turned about to look at the enormous and empty cathedral. Assuredly it could use the Twelve Apostles.
“Tomorrow is the monthly meeting of the joint Boards. They have asked you to appear.”
Michelangelo’s smile was sickly. He made his way, cold and shivering, through the streets toward the hills, glad that he had worn a warm cloak. When he began to climb to Settignano he perspired as heavily as though he had a fever. He could not concentrate his thoughts on any one aspect of Soderini’s proposed commission. Then, as he reached the Settignano farmhouse, pride took precedence: he was only twenty-eight, and he was going to have a home of his own, and a sculpture studio adequate to carve heroic pieces. He stood on the terrace in the midst of the five Topolino men, began slicing pietra serena blocks into long slabs.
“Better tell us,” said the father, “before you burst.”
“I am now a man of substance.”
“What kind of substance?” asked Bruno.
“I shall have a house.”
He told them about the Twelve Apostles. The father brought out a bottle of old wine, reserved for marriages and births of sons. They drank a glass to his good fortune.
His anxieties rushed upward to drown out the pride. He descended the hill, jumped stones to cross the creek, climbed the opposite side to stand for a moment gazing at the house and rooms in which he remembered his mother. How proud she would be, how happy for him.
Then why was he not happy for himself? Was it because he did not want to carve the Twelve Apostles? Because he hesitated to lock himself into a commission that would consume the next twelve years of his life? Once again be obliged to handle fully clothed and draped figures? He did not know whether he could endure it, after the glorious freedom of the David. Even Donatello had done only one or two apostles in marble. How was he going to create something fresh and different for each of the twelve?
His feet carried him to Giuliano da Sangallo, where he found his friend at his drafting table. Sangallo already knew about the proposal; Soderini had asked him and Il Cronaca to appear at the meeting the following afternoon to witness the signing of the contract. Il Cronaca was to design the house.
“Sangallo, this project isn’t anything I conceived for myself. Should a sculptor undertake a twelve-year task unless he’s passionately eager to do it?”
Sangallo replied noncommittally, “It’s a lot of years.”
“As long as a sculptor lives from one commission to another he remains someone who is hired.”
“Painting and sculpture have always been commissioned. Is there an alternative?”
“To create art works independently, sell them to whoever will buy.”
“Unheard of.”
“But not impossible?”
“… perhaps not. But can you turn down the Gonfaloniere and the Boards? They are offering you the biggest commission since Ghiberti’s doors. The members would be offended. That would put you in a difficult position.”
Michelangelo sat with his head in his hands, glum.
“I know. I can’t take it, and I can’t turn it down.”
Sangallo brought a hand down sharply on Michelangelo’s shoulder.
“Take the contract, build your house and studio, carve as many Apostles as you can do well. When you’re through, you’re through; you’ll pay off the rest of the house in cash.”
“Another Piccolomini contract,” said Michelangelo mournfully.
He signed the contract. The news spread through the city with the speed of a fresh scandal. Strangers bowed to him respectfully in the Via de’ Gori. He nodded back, wondering what they would think if they could know how miserable he was. He reached home to find the Buonarroti in the family room, excitedly planning their new house. Uncle Francesco and Aunt Cassandra decided they wanted a third floor to themselves.
“Get it built quickly,” said his father. “The faster we move in, the sooner we stop paying rent here.”
Michelangelo turned away to gaze sightlessly into the street. He spoke without emotion.
“This is to be my home. And my workshop. It is not to be the family residence.”
There was a stunned silence. Then his father, uncle and aunt all began talking at once, so that he could not disentangle the voices.
“How can you say such a thing? Your home is our home. We can save rent. Who will cook and clean …”
He knew better than to say, “I am now twenty-eight, and it is time I had my own house. I have earned it.” Instead he replied, “The land is provided, but I am allowed only six hundred florins for building purposes. I need a huge studio to handle these marbles, with a thirty-foot roof, and a large outdoor paved court. There will be enough left for a small house, one bedroom, two at the most …”
The storm lasted the rest of the day, until everyone was worn out. Michelangelo was adamant; the least he could get out of the contract was private work quarters, a secluded island to live in. But he had to agree to pay the rent for this apartment out of his monthly advances.
When he had a clay model of the Maréchal’s David he sent Argiento to Lodovico Lotti, the bell caster, and Bonaccorso Ghiberti, the cannon caster. The two artisans came from their foundries in clothes streaked with grime. The Gonfaloniere had requested them to help Michelangelo get the bronze ready. When they saw Michelangelo’s model they looked at each other, Lotti wiping black soot from the back of his hand across his eyes.
“It won’t cast,” he declared.
“Why not?”
“Because you got to make a plaster mold,” said Ghiberti.
“I know nothing of this confounded art.”
“We can only cast what another man makes,” replied Lotti.
Michelangelo sought help from Rustici, Sansovino, Bugiardini, to see if they had listened more closely to Bertoldo about bronze. From them he learned that he would have to make his clay statue full size and exact, then build over it with plaster, piece by piece, marking on every piece a numerical key for identification, oil the pieces where the edges had to be connected, set the plaster cast aside …
“Bastal” groaned Michelangelo. “No wonder I never learned.”
The casters brought him back his David. He gazed dully at the ugly red bronze figure, streaked, bumpy, ridged, with protuberances of metal where it was not wanted. He was going to need punches, files, chasing tools to make it look human; then burnishers, metal chisels, polishers, pumice and oil to make it presentable. Even then, would the Maréchal’s memory so fail him as to imagine this David resembled Donatello’s? He doubted it.
10.
The first fruit of his contract for the Twelve Apostles was a visit from a neighbor he had known in the Piazza Santa Croce, Agnolo Doni, his own age, whose father had made a beginning competence in the wool trade and bought a neglected palace near the Albertini palace in the Santa Croce quarter. Agnolo Doni had taken over his father’s business and palace, earned the reputation of being the sharpest bargainer in Tuscany, made a fortune and remodeled the palace. He had come so high in the financial and social worlds of Florence that he was now engaged to Maddalena Strozzi.
Beppe brought Doni into the workshed with an apologetic expression. Michelangelo was high on the scaffold carving on the sling over David’s left shoulder. He laid down his tools, climbed down the ladder. Doni was wearing an expensive doublet, from which a shirt puffed out at the shoulders, fastened at the breast and waist with golden clasps.
“I’ll come straight to the point, Buonarroti,” he said as Michelangelo reached the ground. “I want you to do a Holy Family as a wedding present for my bride-to-be, Maddalena Strozzi.”
Michelangelo flushed with pleasure; Maddalena had been brought up with his Hercules.
“The Strozzi have good taste in the arts,” he murmured. “A Holy Family in white marble …”
Doni’s small mouth, framed between the vertical creases on either side, fell visibly.
“No, no, it is I who have the good taste! I thought of commissioning you, not Maddalena. And who said anything about marble? That would cost a lot of money. All I want is a painting, to be used as an inset in a round table.”
Michelangelo picked up his hammer and chisel.
“Why should you come to me for a painting? I haven’t put color on a brush for fifteen years.”
“Pure loyalty. We are of the same quarter. Remember how we used to play football in the Piazza Santa Croce?”
Michelangelo smiled ironically. Doni pressed.
“What do you say? A Holy Family. Thirty florins. Ten for each figure. That’s a generous sum, isn’t it? Shall we call it a bargain?”
“I don’t know how much the painters will charge you, Doni, but you can have your choice of half a dozen of the best in Italy: Granacci, Filippino Lippi. What about Ghirlandaio’s son, Ridolfo? He’s going to be a fine craftsman, and he’ll do it cheap.”
“Look, Buonarroti. I want you to paint a Holy Family. I don’t want one by Lippi or young Ghirlandaio. I already have Gonfaloniere Soderini’s permission.”
“But, Doni, it makes no sense. You don’t take your wool to a scissors maker to be woven …”
“It is well known that to carve marble is to be only a fraction of an artist.”
“Enough,” growled Michelangelo, furious at this repetition of Leonardo’s denunciation. “I’ll paint your Holy Family. For one hundred gold florins.”
“One hundred!” screamed Doni, so that he could be heard the length of the Duomo workyard. “How can you cheat one of your oldest friends? The playmate of your youth. It’s like stealing the purse off your brother’s belt.”
They compromised on seventy florins; but not until Michelangelo’s eardrums felt broken. By the crafty smile in Doni’s shrewd eyes, Michelangelo perceived that Doni had outwitted, or at least outshouted, him and would have paid the hundred florins. From the door Doni said not unkindly, “You were the worst calcio player in the neighborhood. That puzzles me: how could you be so bad at football and so good at sculpture? But you certainly are the artist of the moment.”
“That’s why you want me, because I’m fashionable?”
“What better reason could there be? When will I see the sketches?”
“The sketches are my business. The finished product is yours.”
“You agreed to let Cardinal Piccolomini see your drawings.”
“Get yourself appointed a cardinal.”
When Doni had left, Michelangelo realized that he had been an idiot to let the man goad him into taking the commission. What did he know about painting? Or care? He could design a Holy Family, the drawing would be fun. But paint and color! Young Ridolfo could handle these better than he.
Yet his interest was piqued. He had dozens of drawings for a Madonna and Child that he had made for the merchants from Bruges, should the Mouscrons sign Jacopo Galli’s contract. They were intensely spiritual, removed from the mundane world. For a Holy Family the concept should be the opposite in spirit: earthy, a family of simple people.
As always during the hot summer days when he permitted himself a rest, he tramped the roads of Tuscany, sketching the farmers in the fields, eating before their door in the cool of evening, the young country mothers nursing their young before putting them to sleep in cribs under the outdoor arches. Over the days he drew for the Doni portrait a strong-limbed, healthy young girl from one household, a plump, red-cheeked curly-haired child from another, a bald-headed bearded grandfather from a third, put them together in an affectionate grouping on the grass. The flesh tones of the arms, faces, feet, the naked bambino he had no trouble with, but the robes of the mother and Joseph, the blanket of the child, eluded him.
Granacci dropped by, amused at Michelangelo’s baffle ment.
“Would you like me to fill in the colors? You’re making such an awful mess.”
“Why didn’t Doni honor you with the commission in the first place? You are of the Santa Croce quarter. You played football with him too!”
In the end he did a series of monotones, as though they were colored marble. The mother’s dress he painted pale rose and blue, the child’s blanket light to burnt orange, Joseph showing only a shoulder and arm of faded blue. In the fore-ground he painted a few simple bunches of flowers growing in the grass. The background was bare, except for the impish face of John looking upward. To amuse himself he painted a sea on one side of the family, mountains on the other; before the sea and the mountains he drew in five nude youths, sitting on a wall, glorious bronze figures with the sun on them, creating the effect of a Greek frieze.
Doni’s face went the color of his red tunic when he answered Michelangelo’s summons to see the finished picture.
“Show me one thing that is holy about the picture of peasants! One sentiment that is religious! You’re mocking me!”
“Would I be such a fool as to throw away my work on a mockery? These are fine people, tender in their love of the child.”
“I want a Holy Family in a palace.”
“Holiness has nothing to do with surroundings. It’s an inner spiritual quality.”
“I cannot give this picnic on the grass to my delicate bride. I would lose cast with the Strozzi family. You have put me in the worst imaginable light.”
“Might I remind you that you did not reserve the right of rejection?”
Doni’s eyes narrowed to slits, then flew open at the same time as his mouth as he cried in horror:
“What are those five naked boys doing in my Holy Family?”
“Why, they’ve just come out from a swim in the sea,” replied Michelangelo calmly, “and are drying themselves in the sun.”
“You’ve been touched by the moon,” screamed Doni. “Whoever heard of five naked youths forming a background for a Christian picture?”
