Oil and Marble

by Stephanie Storey

  “But surely you can understand saying things you don’t mean in the heat of the moment,” Leonardo said, thinking of that cruel epithet the sculptor had hurled his way the night they met.

  “I know why you’re here,” Michelangelo snorted. The wounded bull was now angry. “You can’t have the stone for yourself, so you’ll find another way to take the glory. By claiming to be my teacher.”

  Leonardo opened his mouth to respond.

  Perugino interrupted. “Leonardo knows how to solve your problem.”

  Michelangelo and Leonardo stared each other down.

  “You said it was impossible to carve a proper figure out of this botched block of rock.” Michelangelo grabbed his sculpting hammer and began circling the stone.

  Leonardo shrugged. “I ignored my own credo: nothing is impossible. Your rock is salvageable. I was in the market, about to get my hand cut off—that part is unimportant—and the merchants had me bent over this table …” He stretched out arm and bent over, reenacting that day in the market. “That’s when it came to me.”

  A group of Florentines had gathered to watch the encounter, so Leonardo projected his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “See that knot?” He gestured to the large bump of marble weighing down the left side of the stone. “It’s the key to the entire composition. If you hunch the figure over like so”—Leonardo stood in front of the stone with his back and left shoulder bent into the area of the large knot—“a full-sized figure will fit. Maybe even leaving enough room to add some sort of prop here,” he said, gesturing to the top part of the rock. “I know it’s awkward, and I have no idea why that stance is part of Hercules’s—I’m sorry, David’s—story, but time will reveal that answer. Here, I’ll draw it for you.” He picked up a piece of Michelangelo’s sketch paper and chalk and dashed off several magnificent, curving lines, then flipped the drawing around to show it to Michelangelo and the curious spectators.

  “See?” Sangallo said. “He’s trying to help.”

  Michelangelo grabbed the drawing and looked at it. He balled up the paper and tossed it into the fire. “You think you’re so clever, but why would I listen to your advice about a sculpture? With the backing of the entire Milanese treasury, you couldn’t even cast a horse for Duke Sforza.”

  Leonardo’s left eye twitched. “My bronze was melted down for war.”

  Holding his stare evenly, Michelangelo’s lip curled upward. Leonardo’s shoulders dropped with dread. Somehow, this sculptor knew the truth: it wasn’t only the lack of bronze that had prevented Leonardo from casting the statue. It was the design. The weight of the horse would have crushed those thin bronze legs. How did this young man know about that secret flaw? Had he been to Milan to study the clay model before it was destroyed? Or could he tell simply from seeing other people’s sketches?

  “You won’t pass on your ignorance this time,” Michelangelo said. “You abandoned that statue in shame, leaving Duke Sforza with less money and no art. And the worst part is,” he continued, tears shining in his eyes, “those stupid Milanese believed in you. No one should ever believe in you. Anyone who does is a fool.”

  “I think we should go now,” Perugino said, backing away. “The young man needs to be alone. To work.”

  “A lemon tree,” Leonardo said through gritted teeth, “becomes conceited because it already knows how to make lemons. So it separates itself from the other trees. But without the protection of the others, the wind easily uproots it. Do not be an uprooted lemon tree, my young friend. Accept the help of those around you.”

  “You say that knot is the key to the composition?” Michelangelo gripped his hammer tightly.

  “It’s that knot that makes the whole thing possible. Without it …” Leonardo shook his head.

  “You mean this knot”—he climbed the scaffolding so he could reach the unsightly lump of marble—“that has been in front of me this entire time?”

  “That’s the one I’m talking about.”

  “This one right here?” He pointed his hammer at the knot.

  “Yes.”

  Michelangelo’s face scrunched up as he swung his hammer and smashed it into the center of that knot.

  Leonardo recoiled.

  “Why. Won’t. You. Speak. To. Me?” Michelangelo bellowed as he pummeled that knot over and over again. With every word, he hit the marble harder and harder.

  A storm of marble chips whirled around the three master artists. Those who had gathered to watch the standoff screamed and scattered. Even the cathedral workmen, accustomed to outbursts of manly frustration, paused to watch the tantrum.

  Michelangelo pounded the marble until the knot broke off and dropped to the ground. It landed with a thunk.

  “Oh, Michelangelo …” Sangallo sighed.

  Leonardo observed the piece of marble wobbling on the dirt, then looked back up to the core of the Duccio Stone, still standing, but with a deep gash now hacked out of one side. Ten seconds ago the stone was usable. Now it was not.

  Michelangelo jumped down off the scaffolding and paced, huffing like a wolf that had just taken down its prey. Leonardo wondered if he realized how much damage he had done or if his anger had blinded him.

  “There,” Michelangelo said. “Now this stone doesn’t belong to anyone else. Not to Duccio, not to Donatello, and certainly not to you.” Michelangelo shot Leonardo a ferocious scowl. “This marble is mine.”

  As Sangallo and Perugino backed out of the workshop, Leonardo shook his head. “So much for trying to help.” It was truly time to stop thinking about the Duccio Stone. The marble was officially dead.

  Michelangelo

  Once Leonardo was gone, Michelangelo dropped his hammer and turned away from the stone. He couldn’t look, for fear of the damage he might find.

  He picked up the broken piece of marble and hauled it over to a stack of discarded stone. He dropped it into the pile. Dust flew up. He had loved the stone, begged it, and now he had beaten it.

  Still, it remained silent.

  The cathedral carpenters coughed awkwardly and went back to their work. A few spectators who had ducked behind the fence to avoid the spray of marble chips peeked out at him, while others glanced from behind shuttered windows.

  What had he done? He shouldn’t have let Leonardo get to him. He’d probably ruined the Duccio Stone, for good this time. Regret squeezed his chest like a fist.

  More people started to gather. Witnesses whispered the tale to those who had not been there to see it for themselves.

  His jaw tightened with mounting tears. He didn’t need to look at the stone or his notes to know that Leonardo had come up with an elegant solution to an ugly problem. Not that it mattered. Michelangelo never could have used the design. If he had, Leonardo would have become the true master of the stone, leaving Michelangelo as nothing but his second-rate assistant.

  The crowd of whispering Florentines echoed in his head. How was he supposed to inspect the damage to the stone with that swarm watching his every move? He couldn’t work like this anymore. Not in the middle of all of those people with their buzzing judgment and prying eyes and mocking taunts. Art was not meant to be created in public, but to emerge in the quietest, most private moments of the soul. He needed to be alone.

  Michelangelo hammered in another nail. Despite the cold temperatures, a crowd of spectators stood outside to gossip about what he was doing. He was supposed to be carving marble, not doing carpentry. But their whispering only made him work harder.

  With every strike, he imagined hitting the top of his own head. He missed a nail and smacked his thumb with the hammer. “Accidente a te, Michel,” he cursed, breath hanging in the chilly air. Using scrap planks from the cathedral workshop woodpile, he was constructing a shed around his stone. Once he was finished, he could close the door and shut out the world. People would not be able to mock him during their siestas anymore, and Leonardo would never be able to harass him again.

  “Secrecy is the tool of the devil,” Giovansi
mone shouted from the street. Michelangelo’s brother was one of the many Florentines who spent their afternoons watching him work.

  “Sorry to deny you any new gossip for the dinner table, mio fratello,” he called back. What would his brother do when he could no longer spy on him? Giovansimone might actually have to find proper employment to bide his time.

  Michelangelo pounded in the last nail and stepped back. As his first work of architecture, it was uninspiring. The corners weren’t flush, and it was already leaning to the right; but it had four walls, a roof, and seemed sturdy enough to protect him and his marble from the coming months of wintry rain, wind, and sleet. And from prying eyes.

  It was time to go in and inspect the damage. Every possible catastrophe whirled through his mind. He might have broken off too much stone. There might be a deep hole. A giant crack could have cut across the entire rock. What if there were thousands of tiny fissures running through the marble, and at the slightest touch of a chisel it dissolved into dust? If his temper had destroyed that legendary stone, he would never forgive himself. He would flee Florence in shame and never return.

  He put his hand on the shack to steady himself, then stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

  Inside, he lit a fire in the metal cauldron; a vertical pipe funneled the smoke. The shed was wide enough to house the scaffolding, his tools, and even an area for him to cook and rest in. Enough sunlight to work by poured in through the space between the planks and through a high window affixed with shutters to block out rain and snow. When the winter weather arrived, the shelter would be too cold to sleep in, but he could always go to his father’s house to warm up.

  For the first time, Michelangelo was alone with the marble.

  “David,” he whispered. The name still sounded strange on his tongue. It didn’t seem like a David yet. “I built you a home.”

  The marble did not respond; Michelangelo hadn’t expected it to. But now that they were alone, he hoped—no, he had no doubt—that the stone would start speaking soon.

  Michelangelo stepped up to the looming block. He didn’t see any obvious cracks. Running his hands over the marble, he pushed on every side, hunting for weaknesses. He expected to hear a pop or feel the rock give way and break in half, but it remained stable. There didn’t appear to be a fatal rupture. His muscles relaxed a little. That was a relief.

  Then he turned to the spot where he had broken off the knot. He inhaled sharply. The damage was worse than he had anticipated. He had taken off a huge chunk, marring almost half the length of the block. With shaking fingers, he touched the jagged surface. He would have to carefully chisel off the bumps, and in the process would probably remove at least another finger-width of marble. This wound was deep. There had never been enough material for limbs to reach out in gesture, but now, the marble on one side was completely gone. He had knocked off the only part that could have been used for the shepherd boy’s left arm.

  Panic shot from Michelangelo’s belly, up his neck, and over the top of his head. Perhaps he could make up a story in which David had his arm cut off in battle. Italians liked drama, and a story about David having his arm amputated was exciting. As soon as the idea occurred to him, he berated himself for it. He couldn’t change the story of David to fit the stone, and he couldn’t change the stone to fit the story. He had to change his brain to fit both.

  At least a shepherd boy was smaller than a Hercules, he reassured himself. A youngster wouldn’t take up so much space with bulging muscles and broad shoulders. Moreover, children were short. He could probably find a spot to lodge Goliath’s head under young David’s foot. He might be able to add a feathered helmet on top or a sheep at the bottom, just as he had included a mischievous satyr at the base of his Roman Bacchus statue, but he had to find enough room to clothe David. He was uninterested in carving the delicate, flabby flesh of an undeveloped youth. A nude David would also invite a comparison to Donatello’s masterpiece, and he knew he would never win such a battle. No, he would add armor or a flowing shepherd’s cloak. The thick drapery on his Pietà had attracted attention. He needed to recreate that power and beauty again here.

  But first, the marble had to wake up and tell his story. Michelangelo would never figure it out on his own. He planted himself at the base of the statue. He would sit there until the stone spoke. In a battle of stubbornness, Michelangelo was sure he could outlast even a rock.

  “Help me,” Michelangelo murmured. “You have to help me. Speak to me. Per favore, I beg of you.”

  Kneeling at the foot of the wooden altar inside Santo Spirito, a quiet neighborhood church smelling of incense and wine, Michelangelo clasped his hands in prayer. After three days of sitting in front of the silent stone, he had given up begging the marble to speak and turned to a more likely respondent: God.

  “My city needs me, my church needs me, the marble needs me. I am to decorate our great Duomo with a symbol to inspire Florence. I must give them something miraculous. Our enemies surround our walls and threaten our people. The French, Cesare Borgia, the Medici. I cannot fail. I will not!” His prayer echoed through the vaulted stone sanctuary.

  God did not reply.

  What was the meaning of this silence? Had he fallen from heaven’s grace? Was the Holy Father disappointed with him? Did God regret choosing him for such an important commission? Would Leonardo have been better?

  That was one fear Michelangelo refused to utter out loud, even to God.

  It was impossible to feel inspired to carve a boy standing victorious over his enemy, when he felt so defeated. Michelangelo fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a scrap of paper and chalk. “Guide my hand, O Lord. Give me a design, and I will use it.” He positioned the chalk over the paper and closed his eyes. “I have lost touch with the stone, but You can still hear it. If You guide my hand, I will listen. I will not question. I will believe.”

  He opened his eyes. The paper was blank. He was, indeed, alone.

  Above the altar hung a wooden crucifix, about three-quarters the size of a real man. Michelangelo scrutinized the craftsmanship of the carving. Jesus’s facial features were ordinary. His head was too large for his thin, sinewy body. The way he dangled on the cross was awkward, and he was too lean for a man in his thirties. He had no muscle definition. No power. No passion. Michelangelo sighed. The sculptor of that uninspiring crucifix was an amateur.

  “The young man who carved that was very talented,” said a voice nearby, as though reading Michelangelo’s thoughts.

  “He was a rank amateur,” Michelangelo snapped in disagreement. “And no better now.”

  Father Bichiellini stepped closer. In his mid-thirties, the prior of Santo Spirito parish had a shaved head and amber eyes. “I hear that sculptor made quite an impression with his Pietà in Rome. Is this not true?”

  Michelangelo shrugged. “Luck.”

  “I doubt you’ve ever done anything from luck alone, my son.”

  Michelangelo looked up at the crucifix. He had carved it when he was only seventeen years old, as a gift to the church. Visiting it usually comforted him, but tonight it only made him question his talents.

  “I’ve wanted to come by the workshop to visit you, but you always look so serious,” Father Bichiellini said. “You’re working too hard.”

  “There’s no such thing as working too hard.”

  “I saw you build a makeshift studio. Being alone must help.”

  “Nothing helps.”

  “Genius is eternal patience, my son.”

  After a moment of mutual silence, Michelangelo looked the father directly in the eyes. “You know why I’m here.”

  The prior’s face drained of color. He scanned the room, checking to make sure they were alone. “You must not speak of that anymore,” he whispered.

  “I am lost,” Michelangelo implored. “I must find my way again. You can help.”

  “I can’t. Not since …” Father Bichiellini shook his head.

  Girolamo Sa
vonarola’s name hung in the air, though neither had spoken it. Hardly anyone said that name anymore, although his spirit still haunted the city. As the half-millennium had approached, many Florentines feared the end of the world was upon them: French armies invaded, city-states warred, plagues rampaged, and the corrupt tenure of Pope Alexander VI raged onward. The terrified citizens had turned to Savonarola to save their souls. The friar’s sermons against sin and greed whipped them into a mania, and when the Florentines drove Piero de’ Medici out of town, Savonarola stepped into the void of power. Under the friar’s commands, citizens brought all of their material possessions to Piazza del San Marco and built towering mountains of musical instruments, books, paintings, statues, perfume bottles, fine gowns, dolls, and jewelry. Then Savonarola ordered them to light it all on fire. The city’s luxuries burned on the Bonfires of the Vanities. However, the terror woven by Savonarola could not last forever. When he started condemning the pope, the church repudiated him, and soon the people renounced the friar, too. In 1498, after excommunication by the pope, Florentines torched Savonarola on a bonfire of their own. But his teachings and terrors were harder to expunge. A dark underbelly of fear still rose from his ashes.

  “Savonarola is dead,” Michelangelo stated with conviction, as much to remind himself as the prior.

  “I know,” Father Bichiellini whispered. “But people aren’t as forgiving as they once were. They are afraid. Many would accuse you of tempting Dante’s Inferno with the things you suggest.”

  “The practice has never been smiled upon.”

  “It is more dangerous now.”

  “I’m in more need, now. Please. The stone is alive. I know it, even though I can’t hear it. I must wake it up. And to do that, I need to study again.”

  “You made plenty of sketches. Learn from those. Seek out the work of others. There is much to be absorbed from books and teachers. There’s no reason for you to go back.”

  “Wisdom is the daughter of experience,” Michelangelo countered. Those words, advice from Leonardo, tasted rotten in his mouth, and yet, in that moment, he had never believed anything more fervently.