Michelangelo

by Miles J. Unger

  If, as he often proclaimed, he had taken on the rebuilding of St. Peter’s for the sake of his eternal soul, Michelangelo’s dedication to God quickly vanished in the face of a perceived slight. On these occasions he resorted to his favorite tactic—threatening to quit unless he got everything he wanted. In the summer of 1563 his foreman Cesare Bettini was murdered by a jealous husband, and when the deputies of La Fabbrica appointed a new foreman without his consent, Michelangelo immediately sought out the pope (at the time, Pius IV), accosting him in the Campidoglio. “Holy Father,” he addressed the startled pontiff, “the Deputies have appointed in my place someone whom I do not know, but if they and Your Holiness think me no longer capable, I will return to take my ease in Florence and to enjoy the favor of the Duke, as he has so much desired, and will there end my days in my own house. I therefore ask for my discharge.”

  Faced with the loss of the great man’s services, Pius reversed the board’s decision, but this did little to encourage cooperation between Michelangelo and his supervisors. Vasari, who often visited the aging artist during these years, experienced firsthand the poisonous atmosphere at the Vatican, where backstabbing and slander were the normal forms of social intercourse, recalling that “Michelagnolo’s adversaries kept harassing him every day, now in one way and now in another.”

  But despite the persistence of anti-Michelangelo cabals, work on the basilica progressed, if only in fits and starts. On January 23, 1552, Michelangelo marked an important milestone when the cornice for the base of the drum was completed. Just as the four piers Bramante erected before his death established the dimensions of the central crossing, the completion of the cornice determined for all time the dimensions of the dome. Typically, Michelangelo celebrated not with a formal ceremony attended by princes of the Church but with the humble bricklayers on site. The meal, delivered from the nearby inn of the Paradiso, included on the menu fried pig’s liver, wine, bread, and 100 pounds of sausage. As an additional bonus, Michelangelo delivered felt caps to all the workers as a reward for a job well done.

  After this burst of activity, however, the pace slowed considerably, hampered by a shortage of funds and distracted leadership. In the spring of 1555, Julius III was replaced by Marcellus II, the former Cardinal Cervini, with whom Michelangelo had clashed five years earlier. Though Julius was personally corrupt—among his more egregious acts was to name the handsome boy who kept his pet monkey, one Fabiano, to the College of Cardinals (some said he was his son, others his lover)—he had proven himself a loyal friend to Michelangelo. The artist could expect no such deference from the new pope, a humorless penny-pincher with little taste for art. “Everything was sad, gloomy, and disheartening,” one resident grumbled, and when the pope died after less than a month in office, there was almost universal rejoicing.

  From Michelangelo’s point of view, however, the election of Gian Pietro Caraffa as Paul IV was hardly any more promising. A founder of the hard-line Theatines, Paul was a zealot who preferred to invest in racks and thumbscrews for use on heretics (a process referred to by the euphemistic term “rigorous examination”) than on expensive building projects. He valued art less for its own sake than as a form of propaganda, and it was he who arranged to have the “indecent” portions of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment painted over.

  Despite Paul’s doubts as to Michelangelo’s orthodoxy, he kept him on as magister operae and even consulted him when it came to the vital task of strengthening the city’s defenses. The artist no longer enjoyed the intimacy he had had with Paul III or Julius III, but the new pope regarded him with at least grudging respect. In fact, the biggest obstacle to progress was not Paul’s distrust of Michelangelo but his lack of political acumen. Under his erratic leadership, the always unsettled international scene became even more perilous, threatening a repetition of the disasters of Pope Clement’s time.

  Paul—like every pope since Alexander VI at the end of the previous century—was caught between France and the Empire, the two great powers vying for supremacy in Europe. To avoid being crushed by either of these two lumbering giants, the papacy generally adopted a strategy of flexible neutrality, leaning this way or that as circumstances required, usually weighing in on the side of the weaker party but never fully committing to either one. It was a policy dictated by the fact that final victory by either one would almost certainly spell the end of Italian independence. Caraffa, however, was temperamentally incapable of neutrality. Even before his elevation he made no secret of his hatred for the Empire, and after his election openly declared his preference for the French. His diatribes against the perfidious emperor—whom he labeled a schismatic and a heretic—and his Spanish allies had predictable results. In September 1556, Spanish troops under the Duke of Alba marched across the border of the Papal States, overrunning the Roman port of Ostia and threatening a repetition of the devastating sack of 1527. Work was halted on the basilica as the scarpellini scattered, and Michelangelo himself fled the city, galloping off to the mountains to commune with rustic holy men.

  For once, Michelangelo reveled in inactivity, apparently finding the bucolic setting a pleasant change from the city. Writing to Vasari, he spoke of “my great pleasure here among the hermits in the mountains of Spoleto,” and opined that “peace is truly to be found only in the woods.” This is one of the few times he expressed a love for the natural world so common among his contemporaries.VIII While Lorenzo de ’ Medici penned sonnets celebrating the simple pleasures of the countryside and while Leonardo, Raphael, and Titian painted glorious landscapes as a backdrop to their sacred narratives, Michelangelo found material enough in the inexhaustible drama of the human form.

  In the end, the Duke of Alba withdrew after forcing the pope to sign a humiliating treaty, and Michelangelo returned to the city. But though the immediate crisis had passed, the almost constant turmoil distracted him and placed additional burdens on his time. He had earned a reputation as a military engineer while serving as governatore generale of the Tuscan fortifications during the siege of Florence, and throughout this tense period he was often brought in to consult on the rebuilding of the city’s defenses, work that drained his already limited stores of energy and embroiled him in quarrels with professionals who resented his interference.IX

  Under the almost daily threat of invasion, the building of St. Peter’s languished. In the winter of 1557, Michelangelo felt compelled to write to Lionardo to dispel rumors that work had ground to a halt: “As regards to the fabric being closed down there is no truth in this, because, as may be seen, there are still sixty men working here, counting scarpellini, bricklayers and laborers, and doing so with the expectation of continuing.” But while he insisted to his nephew that everything was going according to plan, he fretted that he would not be able to bring work to a point where it could not be altered after his death. “To leave now,” he told Vasari, “would mean the total ruin of St. Peter’s, a great shame and an even greater sin.”

  • • •

  Given the difficulties he faced, it was perhaps fortunate that Michelangelo was no longer as driven as he had been in his youth. Contemporary accounts record him riding about town on a small chestnut pony, respectably dressed in a velvet cloak and leather boots, and apparently in no particular hurry. While Holanda’s account of the artist conversing with his highborn friends at the cloister of San Silvestro is almost certainly idealized, it is clear that some of Michelangelo’s rough edges had been worn smooth by the passage of time. The architect’s calling was far more refined than the sweaty, dusty work of the sculptor, and also more respectable—a pastime for gentlemen and scholars who studied Latin texts and who used brain rather than brawn.

  Despite daily aggravations brought about by incompetence, indifference, and petty spite, Michelangelo had reached a stage in life where he could regard such annoyances from a certain philosophical distance. From time to time, he made the crosstown journey to inspect the progress on the church, but he was no longer compelled by an ambition
so fierce that it consumed every waking hour. In his private life he had achieved a measure of calm, if not exactly contentment. With the death of his brother Buonarroto in 1528 and of his father three years later, the ties that bound him to the family hearth in Florence had largely been severed, and with them many of the emotional entanglements that too often in the past had distracted him from his work. His passion for Tommaso de ’ Cavalieri had cooled as well, though the young nobleman remained a devoted friend, easing his way into society and defending him against his detractors.

  Michelangelo had made a life for himself in Rome that satisfied his professional, emotional, and spiritual needs, but he continued to think of himself as a Florentine. Despite a few close friendships with natives—most notably Tommaso de ’ Cavalieri and Vittoria Colonna—he spent most of his time and felt most comfortable in the company of his fellow expatriates.X He lived as one of the fuoriusciti, the exiles, who resided in Rome but spoke in the dialect of Tuscany, growing wealthy through serving the princes of the Church while never shedding their jingoistic prejudices.

  About the only thing all members of the Florentine community in Rome shared was a belief in their superiority to the local population; in every other way they were divided against themselves. While some were supporters of the Medici, many were refugees from Medici tyranny. The able and ruthless Duke Cosimo, who had succeeded Alessandro after his assassination in 1537, proved far more effective than his cousin at consolidating and extending Medici power, but his triumphs—including the conquest of Florence ’s ancient rival Siena in 1555—made the exiles wax nostalgic for all they had lost. Unlike his fifteenth-century forebears, who held the reins of power while maintaining the fiction they were simple citizens of the republic, Cosimo ruled as a hereditary lord and as a vassal of the hated emperor. His power rested not on the consent of his fellow citizens but on the intimidation of imperial arms.XI

  Many of Michelangelo’s closest friends in Rome were vocal opponents of the duke, including Donato Giannotti, Machiavelli’s successor as Secretary to the Nine of War during the last years of the republic. Exiled since 1539 for his opposition to Medici rule, he now served as secretary to Cardinal Ridolfi, also a critic of Cosimo. Sometime around 1542, Giannotti asked Michelangelo to carve a bust of Marcus Junius Brutus, murderer of Julius Caesar, a not-so-veiled tribute to the assassin of Alessandro de ’ Medici.XII Given Michelangelo’s oft-demonstrated reluctance to stick his neck out, it’s unclear why he accepted such a potentially dangerous commission. Certainly, he wished to do a favor for his friend; it’s also true that he shared, at least in principle, Giannotti’s opposition to the current regime. But if Michelangelo shared the ideals of the anti-Medici faction in Rome, he generally chose the path of discretion rather than valor. It’s not surprising, then, that he never finished the commission, disavowing the project and handing over the roughed-out bust to his pupil Tiberio Calcagni.XIII

  The abortive bust of Brutus is but one more example of Michelangelo’s complicated relations with the ruling dynasty of Florence. He had loved his first patron as a second father, and had also faithfully served Il Magnifico’s son and nephew. But just as often he joined with their enemies, most notably during the three years of the last republic when his work on behalf of the anti-Medici regime forced him to go into hiding once Alessandro and his thugs regained power. Perhaps his refusal to return to Florence reflected a continuing discomfort with Cosimo’s heavy-handed rule, but if so he was always careful to hide his true feelings behind a screen of evasions and excuses.

  Given the bitter suspicions that riled the Florentine expatriate community, it was impossible to avoid controversy entirely. Even though Michelangelo was naturally risk-averse, he showed his sympathies by the company he kept. Perhaps his closest friend during these years was a Florentine expatriate named Luigi del Riccio, a man who, while personally on cordial terms with Duke Cosimo, was closely associated with leaders of the opposition. An agent in the Roman branch of the Strozzi-Olivieri bank, del Riccio had taken over as Michelangelo’s business manager after the death of Bartolommeo Angiolini in 1540. Like Angiolini and Jacopo Gallo before him, del Riccio not only handled Michelangelo’s accounts, but generally looked after his welfare, fussing over him like a mother hen and attending to the practicalities of life so that the artist could devote himself to more important matters. Twice, in July of 1544 and then in 1546, he proved his devotion when Michelangelo came down with a dangerous fever. On both occasions del Riccio had the artist carried to his own apartment in the stately Strozzi palace where he could be properly looked after and protected from harassment by “all the prelates, the chief gentlemen of Rome, the Pope himself . . . [who] sent daily to enquire about the state of his health.” Michelangelo later insisted that del Riccio had saved his life. In appreciation for this and many other services, he presented his guardian angel with the handsome gift of the two Captives from the tomb of Pope Julius.XIV

  Del Riccio’s act of kindness came back to haunt the artist in 1547 when Cosimo de ’ Medici issued punitive new measures against the rebellious fuoriusciti. Among the most prominent anti-Medici agitators were members of the Strozzi family, some of whom had led a disastrous military expedition against Florence in 1537. It was in the context of these harsh new laws that Michelangelo wrote a desperate letter to his nephew Lionardo: “As regards my being ill, in the Strozzi’s house, I do not consider that I stayed in their house, but in the apartment of Messer Luigi del Riccio, who was a very great friend of mine. . . . [I]f I’m greeted in the street I cannot but respond with a kindly word and pass on—though, if I were informed as to which are the exiles, I would make no response at all. But as I’ve said, from now on I’ll be very much on my guard, particularly as I have so many other anxieties that life is a burden.”

  Of course, Michelangelo is being disingenuous. It’s impossible to believe that he was unaware of the political views of his various expatriate friends. As always, his inclination was to stand on the side of Florentine liberty as long as neither he nor his family paid too high a price, but as soon as Cosimo turned up the pressure, Michelangelo disavowed his past associations. And, as his relatives had so often done in the past, Cosimo forgave Michelangelo his indiscretions, trying (unsuccessfully) to lure the great man back to Florence, where his presence would add luster to his regime.

  Del Riccio’s services to Michelangelo went beyond managing his accounts and occasionally playing nursemaid. Not only did he ply him with delicacies like caviar, wine, and fresh melons; he encouraged his poetry and made sure his verses were read and taken seriously in literary circles. After the death in January of 1543 of his fifteen-year-old cousin, the handsome Cecchino de ’ Bracci, del Riccio badgered Michelangelo until he agreed to write a series of quatrains in tribute to the charming young man. A recurring motif of these short verses is the contrast of eternal beauty with the perishable body:

  My flesh made earth, my bones as well,

  deprived of his shining eyes and comely face,

  enslaved to his grace and his delight

  in that prison where, down here, the soul resides.

  Here, Michelangelo explores the usual Neoplatonic image of the body as the prison of the soul, but in a playful note to del Riccio accompanying these lines he offers a telling variation. Instead of the word diletto (here translated as “delight”), Michelangelo suggests substituting nel letto (in bed), one of the few times he allows us to glimpse the carnal lust that was too easily concealed beneath high-minded rhetoric.

  Though Michelangelo had mellowed with age, he was still thin-skinned; even the devoted del Riccio could not avoid provoking a tantrum. The source of their quarrel has never been fully explained, but it elicited from Michelangelo a bitter reprimand that reveals something of his violent temper. “He who pulled me from the jaws of death also has the power to slander me,” he wrote del Riccio in a fit of rage, concluding on this ominous note: “But if you bring me ruin, I will do the same, not to you, but to your pos
sessions.”

  The two men apparently reconciled before del Riccio’s sudden death in October 1546. “Now that Luigi del Riccio is dead,” recorded the Bishop of Casale, “he is so stunned that he can do nothing but give himself up to despair.” This was far from the only blow Michelangelo had to endure in these years. Like all those who live to a ripe old age, he suffered the steady loss of those he cared about. Many who passed away were far younger than he was, including Vittoria Colonna in 1547 (aged fifty-seven) and his faithful servant Urbino, whose death in 1555 at the age of forty-three caused him such grief. In addition to the gloomy prospect of enduring the slow deterioration of his own body, the passing of beloved friends contributed to that morbid streak so evident in his late poetry. When he was still in his early seventies, with more than a decade and a half left to him, he was already writing in an elegiac vein: “I am old and death has taken from me the dreams of youth. He who knows nothing of old age should await its coming patiently, since no one can conceive it before it happens.”

  But old age had its compensations, one of which was that it allowed him to rest on his laurels, to look back on a long life well spent and to bask in the adulation of an adoring public. He had defeated or outlasted all his chief rivals, achieving the recognition he always craved as honors were heaped on his graying head. Even the assault on The Last Judgment by the newly vigilant upholders of orthodoxy did not succeed in tarnishing his reputation as he continued to enjoy powerful protection. Perhaps the most gratifying tribute came in 1547 when the humanist Benedetto Varchi delivered two discourses on Michelangelo in front of a distinguished company at the Florentine Academy. Surprisingly, the first lecture dealt not with a work of art but with a poem, his “altissimo Sonnetto” that begins, “The greatest artist has no concept/not already present in the stone/that binds it, awaiting only/a hand obedient to mind.” Referring to him as “our most noble citizen and academician,” Varchi treated his rough-and-ready verse with the seriousness usually reserved for discussion of Dante and Petrarch, offering validation in a field dominated by pedants.