Michelangelo

by Miles J. Unger

  The pope himself must have been particularly unimpressed with Michelangelo’s demurral, since at the same time he was protesting his incompetence he was hard at work redesigning—at Paul’s request and through the good offices of Tommaso de ’ Cavalieri—the piazza at the top of the Capitoline Hill that housed Rome ’s civil government. The exact chronology of this masterpiece of urban planning has never been satisfactorily established, and much of the actual building took place after Michelangelo’s death, but work was almost certainly under way in 1538 when the famous equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius was brought there to serve as a centerpiece to the renovated square.

  Michelangelo, Laurentian Library, 1524–34. Scala/Art Resource, NY

  In ancient times the Capitoline Hill was the site of the Temple to Jupiter, a symbol of Roman pride regarded by millions of imperial subjects as the very center of the universe. Like much of the city, the Capitoline had fallen into ruins during the Middle Ages. Though technically the seat of the Roman government, the buildings were dilapidated and the square itself a barren, muddy expanse.II As late as 1536, when Emperor Charles V paid a state visit to Rome, the parade had been forced to detour around the hill to avoid the embarrassment of presenting such a sorry spectacle to the great man.

  It was with the memory of this unhappy occasion fresh in his mind that Pope Paul decided to refashion the ancient center of Rome into a showpiece worthy of its glorious past, hiring his favorite artist to do the honors. The design Michelangelo drew up is one of the most influential pieces of urban planning ever devised, imitated in countless variations, from the elegant places of Paris to New York’s Lincoln Center. As was almost always the case in Michelangelo’s building projects, in the Campidoglio, as the piazza is known, he was not starting from scratch but had to work with preexisting structures and within an awkward space. Providing the Palazzo del Senatore with a new grand staircase gave a new axial focus to the piazza and refacing the Palazzo dei Conservatori turned an undistinguished medieval building into a showpiece of elegant Renaissance form. Michelangelo also designed a second palace, the Palazzo Nuovo, to face the Palazzo dei Conservatori across the square, imparting a symmetry and sense of order that recalls those ideal cities that Renaissance artists had for the most part been able to conjure only in paintings. A spacious ramp leading up to the piazza bestows a ceremonial, processional quality in keeping with the symbolic importance of the space.

  Michelangelo, Campidoglio (Capitol), begun 1538.

  Thus far, the improvements Michelangelo made to the Capitoline Hill can be viewed as a particularly elegant variation on a traditional Renaissance theme: imposing geometric order on a space marked by randomness and confusion. But Michelangelo defies our expectations in large ways and small. He is as obsessed as most of his contemporaries with geometric form, but rather than laying out his plaza in terms of the circle and the square, he has built it around the oval and the trapezoid. The patterned pavement that frames the statue of Marcus Aurelius is an elongated ellipse of radiating lines, while the piazza as a whole widens from front to back, creating a forced perspective like the one he employed to such great effect in the windows in the Medici tombs. Though wildly unconventional, these innovations are not simply eccentric. Rather, they convey a feeling of movement, of shifting vistas as we process through the space, drawing us ever onward to the grand staircase at the far end of the square. As always for Michelangelo, form is not an end in itself, but something expressive of the body in motion and the mind in flux.

  • • •

  Bowing to the inevitable, Michelangelo graciously agreed to take over the building of St. Peter’s on January 1, 1547, refusing his salary to indicate that he was shouldering this burden not for profit but for the love of God.III Not coincidentally, this grand gesture also served to distinguish him from his predecessor, who had turned La Fabbrica di San Pietro into a lucrative family business. When reporting on his progress to friends and colleagues, Michelangelo rarely failed to mention how much it cost him in terms of his peace of mind and how little he earned for his pains. “I was forced to undertake the work on the fabric of St. Peter’s and for about eight years I have served not only for nothing,” he explained to Vasari, who had been tasked by his master Grand Duke Cosimo de ’ Medici to persuade Florence ’s most famous son to return home, “but at great cost and trouble to myself. But now that the work is advanced, that there is money to spend on it, and that I am almost ready to vault the dome, it would be the ruin of said fabric if I were to depart; it would disgrace me utterly throughout Christendom and would lay a grievous sin upon my soul.” Given the metaphysical stakes involved, Michelangelo could hardly be faulted if he countered the duke ’s kind invitation with a polite refusal.

  From the beginning Michelangelo was determined to put his stamp on the project, though he was constrained to some extent by what had already been accomplished by his predecessors. This was not necessarily a drawback, since much of his best work came when his fertile imagination was unleashed upon a particularly knotty problem. Above all, Bramante ’s long shadow loomed over the busy work site. Though he had been in his grave for more than thirty years, his basic conception and the work he actually managed to complete before his death determined many of the building’s basic parameters. Four immense masonry piers 90 feet high, 30 feet in diameter, and 232 feet around established the dimensions of the central vault as well as the height of the nave and transept, each of which soared to 150 feet at their loftiest. Sangallo had modified Bramante ’s plan, providing much-needed reinforcement to the supports but also detracting from the clarity of the original by flanking the central space with columned ambulatories. His model also called for additional domes and spires as well as an extension of the nave to the east, turning Bramante ’s centralized Greek cross into a traditional basilica with a longitudinal axis.

  Michelangelo did not hide his disdain for his predecessor or his cronies.IV During the initial meeting in which he inspected the working model, “all the Sangallo faction . . . came forward and said how glad they were that the work had been given to him and that the model was a meadow that would always afford inexhaustible pasture.” Michelangelo responded to this olive branch with sarcasm, agreeing with them only to the extent that “it would serve for sheep and oxen who know nothing of art.” His contempt for the Sangalleschi was so strong that he reconciled with Bramante ’s ghost, apparently having decided that his former enemy was a genius after all. “Messer Bartolomeo, dear friend,” he wrote to Bartolomeo Ferratini shortly after accepting the position of capomaestro,

  One cannot deny that Bramante was as skilled in architecture as anyone since the time of the ancients. He it was who laid down the first plan of St. Peter’s, not full of confusion, but clear, simple, luminous and detached [from encumbrances] in such a way that it in no wise impinged upon the palace. It was held to be a beautiful design, and manifestly still is, so that anyone who has departed from Bramante ’s arrangement, as Sangallo has done, has departed from the true course; and that this is so can be seen by anyone who looks at his model with unprejudiced eyes.

  He [Sangallo], with that outer ambulatory of his, in the first place takes away all the light from Bramante ’s plan; and not only this, but does so when it has no light of its own, and so many dark lurking places above and below that they afford ample opportunity for innumerable rascalities, so that at night, when the said church closes, it would need twenty-five men to seek out those who remained hidden inside, whom it would be a job to find.

  It is characteristic that Michelangelo would admit Bramante ’s virtues only after death had removed him as a rival; praising the beauty of the original plan also provided him with a handy cudgel with which to beat the Sangalleschi. But Michelangelo did not simply praise Bramante in order to damn Sangallo. With his sensitivity to the dramatic potential of mass and space, he understood that Bramante ’s soaring vaults had been elaborated to death by Sangallo’s fussy intervention. Though even l
arger than Bramante ’s model, Sangallo’s version is oddly diminished, as Michelangelo pointed out, by “numerous projections and angles,” so that “his style had much more of the German than of the good antique or modern manner.” His reference to “many dark lurking places” that encourage “innumerable rascalities” sounds ludicrous until one remembers the faith Renaissance humanists placed in the healing power of geometry. If clear, uncluttered spaces mirrored the mind of God, then small, dark spaces might well attract the Devil.

  Michelangelo’s appointment as operaius disrupted the clubby, corrupt corporation that had run things for so many years. He sacked many of those closest to his predecessor, while thoroughly reorganizing the procurement process through which many enriched themselves at the Vatican’s expense. But old habits were hard to break, particularly when they proved so profitable. A year after taking the reins, Michelangelo wrote a letter to the overseers of La Fabbrica scolding them for falling into old patterns:

  Whoever takes delivery of materials necessary to the fabric but of inferior quality, which I have forbidden, does nothing but treat as friends those whom I have treated as enemies. This, I think, would be a new confederacy. Promises, gratuities and presents corrupt justice. I therefore pray you, with that authority I have from the Pope, henceforward not to take delivery of anything that is not suitable, even if it comes from Heaven, so that I may not appear to be what I am not—partial.

  Unstated, but nonetheless implied, is the moral superiority he gained by refusing a salary, though he cedes some of the high ground when he labels those he disagrees with “enemies,” demanding of anyone who would serve him not only obedience but slavish devotion.

  The first order of business was to knock down Sangallo’s ambulatories, which had destroyed the clarity of Bramante ’s design. Then Michelangelo reinforced the central piers to allow them to carry the lofty dome he contemplated, modeled on Brunelleschi’s famous cupola for the Cathedral of Florence. So far, however, the impressive crown he had conceived, and even the overall plan, were still only inside his head. Unlike Sangallo, who provided a detailed model of the proposed work, Michelangelo preferred to keep his assistants in the dark, supplementing rough sketches with detailed instructions on a strict “need to know” basis. As always, his preference for secrecy amounted to an obsession, as if even at this point in his career the thing he dreaded most was the possibility that someone would steal his ideas. This was particularly self-defeating, since his other principal concern was to bring the work to a point that, even after his death, no one would be able to alter it.

  Despite carping from the Sangalleschi, the pope had complete confidence in his operaius. On October 11, 1549, knowing he was nearing the end of his life, Paul issued a decree, putting in writing the authority Michelangelo had enjoyed in practice, officially naming him master of the basilica:

  Forasmuch as our beloved son, Michael Angelo Buonarroti, a Florentine citizen, a member of our household, and our regular dining-companion, has remade and designed in a better shape, a model or plan of the fabric of the Basilica of the Prince of Apostles in Rome, which had been produced by other skilled architects, and has done the same to the building itself or its plan without accepting the reward or fee which we have repeatedly offered to him, but has done so because of the unfeigned affection and single-minded devotion which he has for that church;. . . .

  And, moreover, trusting in the good faith, experience and earnest care of Michael Angelo himself, but above all trusting in God, we appoint and commission him the prefect, overseer and architect of the building and fabric of the aforementioned Basilica on behalf of ourselves and of the Apostolic See for as long as he shall live. And we grant him full, free and complete permission and authority to change, re-fashion, enlarge and contract the model and plan and the construction of the building as shall seem best to him; to choose and commission all and several helpers and prefects and other men needed to work in that said building, and to arrange their due and customary wages and fees; and to release, dismiss and withdraw at will those same men, and others chosen previously, and his deputies; and to provide others as it shall seem best to him to do. . . .

  With this decree, Michelangelo’s triumph over his enemies was complete, though perhaps only temporary. The eighty-two-year-old pontiff was increasingly frail, worn down by the strain of fending off the twin behemoths of the French king and the Holy Roman emperor and by personal misfortunes, including the assassination of his oldest son, Pier Luigi, in 1547.

  Paul’s death, which came less than a month after he issued the decree, was potentially disastrous. Michelangelo had known Farnese since he was a boy, and as long as he lived he knew he would enjoy the protection and patronage of the great lord. His successor, elected after a contentious conclave lasting three months, was a relative unknown, the sixty-three-year-old Roman Cardinal Giovanni Maria Ciocchi del Monte, who took the name Julius III. Julius was a compromise candidate agreed upon after the pro-French and pro–imperial factions in the College fought to a standstill. Michelangelo did not have a close personal relationship with the new pope and, given the ongoing hostility of La Fabbrica, he had every reason to worry that his new boss would fall under the sway of his enemies.

  Initially, the new pope appeared determined to at least be more evenhanded in his dealings with the Fabbrica di San Pietro than his predecessor, who had taken Michelangelo’s side in every quarrel. In a letter of February 1550 the artist fretted that Julius believed he was too old to carry out his duties. His suspicions only grew when he was summoned to a hearing in the Vatican organized for the express purpose of allowing the Sangallo faction a forum where they could air their many grievances. Michelangelo listened sullenly while his enemies attacked him. Offending not only against good manners but against good taste, they claimed, Michelangelo had reversed Sangallo’s decision to build a traditional basilica and instead “was constructing a Temple in the image of the sun’s rays”—that is, one featuring the centralized, radial plan contemplated by Bramante.

  Chief among his critics was Cardinal Cervini, the official responsible for disbursing funds, who now rose to complain that he was kept in the dark about exactly what it was he was paying for. Michelangelo had remained silent through most of the hearing, but at this latest attack he rose to defend himself. Turning to the Cardinal, Michelangelo delivered a stinging rebuke. “I am not obliged, nor do I intend to be obliged, to say either to your Highness or to any other person what I am bound or desirous to do,” he rumbled. “Your office is to obtain the money and to guard it from thieves, and the charge of the design for the building you must leave to me.”

  Antagonizing the powerful cardinal could have been disastrous, particularly since Julius had yet to show where his sympathies lay. Forcing the issue, Michelangelo then addressed himself to the pope, playing the one card he had—the threat that if he was not given carte blanche to do as he pleased, he would simply walk away. “Holy Father, You see my reward; if the pains I endure profit not my soul, I am losing both time and labor.”

  Once again Michelangelo’s ploy paid off. Much to his relief, and much to the chagrin of La Fabbrica, Julius decided to stand by his operaius. Placing his hands on the artist’s shoulders, he replied: “Doubt not that you are gaining good reward both for soul and body.” Adding substance to this gesture, he soon announced that he was renewing Pope Paul’s decree giving Michelangelo complete control of the project. Once again an artist of genius had defied a powerful elite and emerged victorious. While there were plenty of cardinals to go around, someone of Michelangelo’s talents was unique. When forced to choose, this pope, at least, had the good sense to take the side of the indispensable man.

  III. BOUND BY NO RULES

  Of all Michelangelo’s major works, St. Peter’s is the only one in which his contribution is not immediately obvious. Usually, his contribution is instantly recognizable, stamped by the force of his outsized personality. Even in the more cerebral form of architecture, where individuali
ty is harder to assert, his designs are marked by an idiosyncratic, almost neurotic approach, as if he is incapable of making any form that is not expressive of some inner turmoil. But St. Peter’s is a child with many fathers, not so much a collaborative effort as a product of a protracted custody battle in which each parent pulled his offspring in a different direction. More than a century and a half elapsed from Bramante ’s excavation of the foundations in 1506 to Bernini’s completion of the magnificent piazza in 1667. Over this span almost a dozen master architects contributed their ideas and their labor to the project, as well as thousands of artisans and workers upon whose backbreaking labor the flawed magnificence of Christendom’s most famous monument depended.

  Michelangelo’s plan for St. Peter’s, c. 1546, extended by Carlo Maderno, c. 1602.

  The church we see today does not belong to Michelangelo any more than it belongs to Bramante, or Maderno, who provided it with a palatial façade, or Bernini, who turned a Renaissance masterpiece into a theater of Baroque bombast. Michelangelo’s imprint is subtle but pervasive. He swept away the unnecessary clutter that Sangallo added, restoring the original grandeur of Bramante ’s conception but reinterpreting it through his own peculiar genius. He reduced the building’s size but increased its power, melding disparate parts into a coherent whole, at once more nuanced and engaging than anything in the original design.

  The best vantage from which to study Michelangelo’s contribution is from the Vatican Gardens to the west of the basilica, where the dome seems to spring from the undulating wall like a leonine head proudly raised on massive shoulders. From here one can appreciate how he modified Bramante ’s plans to conform to his own conception of architectural form. While Michelangelo appreciated Bramante ’s masterful handling of mass and void, he was less concerned with abstract geometry than with organic unity and expressive potential. In the Medici tombs and the Laurentian Library, vertical members do not simply support their loads but bow and flex in response to stresses like Atlas straining to hold aloft the vault of heaven. In painting and sculpture, the human body was always his point of reference, and when Michelangelo turned to architecture, engineering was reinterpreted as a muscular contest of thrust and resistance. In a letter to an unknown cardinal, he paraphrases the famous passage in Vitruvius where he claims that the symmetry demanded of architectural forms derives from the symmetry of the human body. “It is therefore indisputable that the limbs of architecture are derived from the limbs of man,” he insists. But then Michelangelo gives the passage a distinctive slant, saying that “[n]o-one who has not been or is not a good master of the human figure, particularly of anatomy, can comprehend this.”