Michelangelo
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On the surface, the debate involves matters that are largely esthetic and practical: some prefer the loggia, where the statue will be protected from the elements, while others object that in the cramped space the giant figure will be diminished and interfere with the public ceremonies that were held beneath the arcade. But these bland utterances mask a deeper controversy, one that is no less bitter for being largely invisible. Every Florentine knew that the meaning of a work of art was largely determined by its context—something modern audiences, accustomed to viewing paintings and sculptures in the neutral site of the museum, can hardly appreciate. By shifting the locus of meaning from the sacred to the political heart of the city, the panelists were plunging headlong into the maelstrom, rejecting a site marked by consensus in favor of one marred by partisan rancor.
The change of venue meant that the David would now participate in the rough-and-tumble of Florentine politics, an emblem not simply of the people as a whole but of a particular party and a specific ideology. Since the fall of the Medici in 1494, the city had been riven by faction. Besieged on every side, the republican government headed by Piero Soderini clung precariously to power, threatened not only by the great powers whose armies marched back and forth across the peninsula but also by domestic malcontents who hoped to overthrow or at least discredit the current regime. The fortresslike Palace of the Priors with its dungeons, bristling crenellations, and high tower, home to the Signoria and the apartments of the Gonfaloniere himself, was a reminder that the government feared civil war almost as much as foreign invasion. The decision to transform a charismatic symbol of the Florentine state into one that stood for distinctly republican values was a courageous act, but one that also underscored the weakness of a regime that felt itself under siege.
Palazzo della Signoria (Palazzo Vecchio), late thirteenth, early fourteenth century.
Reading between the lines spoken by the various panelists, one can sense a pervasive, almost superstitious anxiety, as if the fate of the republic really did hinge on the correct positioning of Michelangelo’s statue. Oddly enough, this attitude is most explicitly reflected in the remarks of Filarete, the Herald of the Signoria, who urged that the David be placed on the ringhiera of the Palace of the Priors, the platform from which official proclamations were read to the people of Florence. The reasons he gives sound peculiar to modern ears, but they reveal the extent to which the Renaissance imagination was still in thrall to medieval superstition and the belief that works of art possessed powerful magic, for good or ill. If it were located on the ringhiera by the main door leading to the palace, the statue would replace Donatello’s Judith and Holofernes, a good thing according to Filarete “because Judith is a deadly sign and inappropriate in this place because our symbol is the cross as well as the lily, and it is not fitting that the woman should slay the man, and, worst of all, it was placed in its position under an evil constellation because, since then, things have gone from bad to worse, and Pisa has been lost.”
What Filarete leaves unsaid, but what all his listeners knew, was that the Judith was a Medici commission and, like Donatello’s bronze David, had stood in the courtyard of their palace until 1495 when it was confiscated by the reconstituted Republic. In fact, the original inscription read: “Piero Son of Cosimo Medici has dedicated the statue of this woman to that liberty and fortitude bestowed on the republic by the invincible and constant spirit of its citizens”—a dedication removed along with many other reminders of the detested family after the revolution of 1494. By raising an astrological objection, the representative of the Signoria disguised his real motive, which was to purge this very public site of anything associated with the former ruling family.
Supernatural and political anxieties tended to flow together; many fretted that the talismanic power of the image would tempt opponents to attack it. The goldsmith known as Il Riccio urged that the David be placed in the courtyard of the Palazzo, saying that it “would here be most highly regarded and most carefully watched against acts to damage it.” Giovanni the fife player also rejected both the loggia and the platform outside the Palazzo where the statue will be unprotected and “where some wretch may attack it with a bar.”
Despite these concerns, Filarete ’s views won out: Michelangelo’s statue would be placed on the ringhiera of the Palace, just to the left of the door through which the citizens of Florence passed on their way to argue over great affairs of state.
As it turned out, fears of vandalism were well founded. The apothecary Luca Landucci provides a detailed account in his diary of the statue ’s progress from the shed behind the Duomo to its final destination. He notes that on May 14, 1504,
[t]he marble giant was taken out of the Opera; it was brought out at 24 in the evening [that is about 8 P.M. since the Florentine day ended at sunset], and they had to break down the wall above the door so that it could come through. During the night stones were thrown at the giant to injure it, therefore it was necessary to keep watch over it. It went very slowly, being bound in an erect position, and suspended so that it did not touch the ground with its feet. There were immensely strong beams, constructed with great skill; and it took four days to reach the Piazza, arriving there on the 18th at 12 in the morning. It was moved along by more than 40 men. Beneath it there were 14 greased beams, which were changed from hand to hand; and they labored until the 8th July, 1504, to place it on the ringhiera, where the “Judith” had been, which was now removed and placed inside the Palagio in the court. The said giant had been made by Michelangelo Buonarroti.
The four youths arrested in connection with the stone-throwing incident by the Otto di Guardia—the Florentine security committee that dealt with political crimes—all belonged to families affiliated with the Medici, a confirmation that Michelangelo’s statue was now regarded not simply as an emblem of the Florentine state but as the standard-bearer of the republican regime. It is no coincidence that at exactly the same time the David was being installed in front of the Palazzo della Signoria, the Second Chancellor of the Republic, Niccolò Machiavelli, was preparing his controversial bill to establish a citizen militia. For centuries Florence had fought its wars with mercenary armies, expending treasure rather than blood in defense of the nation. By calling on her own citizens rather than hired guns to do their fighting, Machiavelli was imitating the example of the ancient Romans and hoping to renew the sense of obligation to the state that led them to greatness. Unfortunately, the brilliant civil servant—whose office was located on the second floor of the Palazzo—left no account of his feelings as he passed this giant statue each day on his way to work, but he would certainly have approved of its belligerent message.
Installed on the ringhiera in front of the Palace, David stood for sacrifice on behalf of the public good, courage in the face of adversity, and strength in the service of a just cause. He was a reminder that if Florence were to defeat her enemies it would not be through superior numbers but through superior virtue. “It is most foolish . . . to suppose,” wrote another famous Florentine, the poet Dante Alighieri, “that the forces of one combatant can be inferior, if God is on his side.” Just as David vanquished a stronger foe by placing his faith in the Lord, so Florentines would triumph if they remained true to their values.
IV. THE FELICITY OF MAN
Modern viewers can still get some sense of the statue ’s original impact by visiting the full-scale copy that stands at the entrance to the Palazzo della Signoria. Of course those descending on Florence these days are tourists rather than armies bent on mayhem, but one can still feel Il Gigante ’s awesome presence in the square, which still looks very much as it did in Michelangelo’s day. Unfortunately, the copy conveys little of the original’s exquisite beauty. To appreciate Michelangelo’s supreme artistry, we must travel a few blocks north, to the Accademia Gallery, where the original now stands flanked by neoclassical columns beneath an elegantly coffered dome. It is hard to say which is more true to Michelangelo’s vision, the pedestrian copy that
still provides some sense of how the colossus participated in the civic life of Florence, or the lovingly rendered original that has been taken out of context and turned into a gorgeous object resplendent inside its bland, climate-controlled conceptual bubble. To gain a full appreciation of Michelangelo’s achievement, one must imaginatively merge the two, and then cast oneself back five hundred years to a time when the very survival of a nation teetered in the balance and a work of art could mean the difference between salvation and destruction.
The David took its place in a city already chock-full of sculptural masterpieces, from Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise on the eastern façade of the Baptistery to Donatello’s St. George standing vigilant outside the shrine of Orsanmichele. For Florentines, art was not mere decoration but the means by which they projected their values and proclaimed their virtues. Patriotism, piety, and prosperity were all on display, from the humble parish church with its smoke-darkened frescoes to the great civic structures whose hulking forms reminded the citizens of the power and paranoia of the state.
But even in this crowded cityscape the David loomed large. This was not only because of his gargantuan size, though this was impressive enough, but because he seemed to proclaim, unabashedly, the new attitude toward Man and his place in the universe. Not since ancient times had an artist conceived a figure as bold, as confident in his own capacities, so certain of his destiny, and so comfortable in his own skin. Michelangelo strips his hero down to (literally) bare essentials. David has no need of the usual tools of warcraft; he is armed with the spirit of righteousness and that is enough. Even his sling is barely noticeable, and certainly not a weapon to take down a giant—unless, that is, propelled by a force that is more divine than human. It is as if David prepares to meet his opponent armed only with the strength of his will, a resolve registered in the slight furrowing of his brow as he peers over his left shoulder in response to the heavy tread of his approaching foe.
Here for the first time, and in spectacular form, is the New Man celebrated by Renaissance writers like Pico della Mirandola. “O highest and most wonderful felicity of man!” Pico wrote in his famous oration. “To him it was granted to have what he chooses, to be what he wills.”V Like the ancients they admired, Renaissance artists and philosophers contemplated the human animal and saw in him an almost infinite potential. He is no longer the weak, sinful creature of the medieval imagination cowering before the harsh judgment of an awesome God. He has come into his own. No longer are we expected to shrink from the world or mortify our flesh, to reject the here and now in hopes of something better to come, but to embrace life and revel in our marvelous faculties. The time we have on earth is no longer dismissed as merely the prelude to life everlasting but an arena in which to prove ourselves worthy of He who made us in His image.
The new conception of Man spelled out in Pico’s “Oration” and embodied in Michelangelo’s David shares much with the worldview articulated by the Greeks and Romans, particularly its celebration of Man’s essential dignity. But the differences are as profound as the similarities. Pico was steeped in classical philosophy, ethics, and literature, but his celebration of human achievement was filtered through a thousand years of Christian belief and couched in metaphysics. Critically for Pico, Man’s place in the universe was not fixed but determined through the choices he made, for good or ill. In fact, Man’s unique attribute was his capacity to shape his own destiny. “Neither an established place, nor a form belonging to you alone, nor any special function have We given you, O Adam,” says God the architect,
and for this reason, that you may have and possess, according to your desire and judgment, whatever place, whatever form, and whatever functions you shall desire. The nature of other creatures, which has been determined, is confined within the bounds prescribed by Us. You who are confined by no limits, shall determine for yourself your own nature, in accordance with your own free will, in whose hand I have placed you. I have set you at the center of the world, so that from there you may more easily survey whatever is in the world. We have made you neither heavenly nor earthly, neither mortal nor immortal, so that, more freely and more honorably the molder and maker of yourself, you may fashion yourself in whatever form you shall prefer.
In Pico’s worldview, free will is key to our essential dignity, since without it there is no meaningful way to participate in our own redemption. Mankind’s fall derives from Adam’s disobedience, but each of us through the way we live our own lives can chart a different course.
Michelangelo’s David embodies the abstract notion of Man as the architect of his own destiny. His grandeur is conveyed by his enormous size, but there is nothing clumsy about him. He carries himself with ease, in full command of his outsized limbs. He is ready for action, certain that when the time comes he ’ll be ready for the task at hand. He strikes a relaxed pose, his weight shifted easily to his straight right leg, allowing the left to flex ever so slightly, his torso to twist, in the classic contraposto. Only his face conveys the tension of the moment, but even here his expression is one of resolve rather than doubt.
David’s poise is reminiscent of the Apollo Belvedere, the masterpiece of Hellenistic sculpture that Michelangelo studied during his time in Rome. But the boy hero possesses a dimension lacking in the ancient figure of the god. Both register supreme self-assurance, but while Apollo is almost bland in his superiority to mere mortals, David achieves greatness through action, exhibiting grace under pressure rather than timeless perfection. There is an alertness, a taut expectancy, in the David that appears nowhere in the ancient masterpiece. Apollo seems almost disdainful in his eternal beauty. Immortal, he has no need to strive since, to a god, everything is given. He strives for nothing because he lacks for nothing. David, for all his self-assurance, is a verb, not a noun; he represents a state of becoming rather than of being, defined by a supreme act of will. His identity is not complete but forged in battle driven by a fierce spirit.
Of course not all Greek statues convey pure being rather than doing. The ancients had their warriors and their athletes, men defined by sweat and toil. One thinks immediately of Myron’s Discobolus, his body a taut spring set to uncoil in a furious burst of purposeful energy. But this latent motion is not animated by a spark of consciousness, much less a deeper spiritual purpose. David, the Lord’s warrior, embodies consciousness, moral awareness. He turns his head, looking over his left shoulder. The tendons of his neck stiffen as he responds to some sight or sound that tells him the critical moment is at hand. He knits his brow, his eyes shift in the direction from which his enemy approaches; his nostrils flare ever so slightly. He is not a creature of the placid heavenly realms, nor of the gymnasium, but a spiritual athlete, a man whose identity was forged the moment he took up arms on behalf of the Lord. Like Pico’s Adam, David is the “molder and maker” of himself.
In a sense, Michelangelo’s David is everything his Bacchus was not: firmly in control of himself while the god of wine was teetering on the brink of dissolution; his senses heightened while Bacchus’s are dulled. Where one is taut, the other is flaccid. David’s toned, athletic body contrasts with Bacchus’s effeminate form, illustrating the dichotomy in Michelangelo’s mind between the active masculine force and the passive feminine. It is man’s role to master fate, and woman’s to succumb. David is the supreme example of the masculine principal, the embodiment of mind in complete control of matter.
While Michelangelo’s Pietà stands outside time, an image of an eternal idea, the David achieves its power by squeezing an entire narrative into a single critical moment. Depicting the youthful shepherd on the verge of battle, Michelangelo heightens the dramatic tension. Of course we all know how the story ends, but so much more seems to hang in the balance than in the traditional depiction of the victorious warrior. Compare Michelangelo’s David to Donatello’s wistful champion or Verrocchio’s smirking boy, and the genius of his conception is immediately apparent. In those earlier prototypes nothing is at stake: the crisis has
already passed; the victor reflects on his triumph with varying degrees of introspection or bemusement, unsure what to do next or what it all means. Michelangelo’s David, by contrast, seems to stare down not only Goliath but the future, determined to give his all, confident in his cause but as yet uncertain of his fate. It is determination in the face of uncertainty that defines true heroism, a trait nowhere more eloquently portrayed than in Michelangelo’s Gigante.
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Florentines immediately embraced the David as their insegna, the emblem of the resurgent Republic. Michelangelo’s hero was not responsible for the wave of patriotic fervor that swept the city at this time, but the colossus became a visible manifestation of that civic pride and a rallying point for those who pinned their hopes on a government chosen by the people themselves. Like the just-completed Hall of the Great Council in the Palazzo—where citizens engaged in raucous debate about the pressing issues of the moment—he stood not only as the champion of Florence but of its republican institutions. A few months after his installation on the platform in front of the seat of government, Machiavelli’s citizen militia paraded across the piazza “each [in] a white waistcoat, a white cap, shoes and an iron breastplate. . . .” It was, wrote Luca Landucci, catching the euphoric mood, “the finest thing that had ever been arranged for Florence.” While Michelangelo’s masterpiece functioned on a symbolic level, Machiavelli’s squadrons made a practical contribution as they added their considerable weight to the forces besieging Pisa.