Raphael was a “very amorous person,” according to Vasari, young, handsome, and lionized—a celebrity comparable to a movie star or sports idol today. Although engaged to be married to Maria Bibbiena, a cardinal’s niece, described as beautiful and dignified, Raphael was a reluctant bridegroom. To avoid his prospective bride, he once hid in Agostino Chigi’s villa with his mistress of the moment, la fornarina, a baker’s daughter from Trastevere.*
Raphael’s commissions were as numerous as his conquests. He was designing a country villa on Monte Mario for the pope’s cousin, Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici, frescoing Chigi’s riverside palace, painting portraits, designing scenery for the elaborate pageants that Leo enjoyed, and operating a veritable art “factory” that turned out Madonnas like cornetti from a bakery. Many of Raphael’s Madonnas, it was said, had the face of his latest mistress.
He bragged to his uncle:
I find myself at present with possessions in Rome worth 3,000 ducats and 50 gold scudi in income, because the Holiness of Our Lord has provided me with 300 gold ducats to look after the building of St. Peter’s, which I shall not lack for as long as I live, and I am sure I shall have more from others. And then I am paid for what I do at whatever price I myself fix, and I have begun to paint another room for His Holiness, which will amount to 1,200 gold ducats…. And don’t moan about me not writing; I, who have a brush in my hand all day long…
In spite of Raphael’s enthusiasm, the second architectural triumvirate was as short-lived as the first. Fra Giocondo died within a year, and the aged Sangallo limped home to Florence, opening the way for his nephew, Antonio the Younger, to become second architect. Baldassare Peruzzi, who built Chigi’s villa, was named number three.
Pope Leo’s third triumvirate was young, ambitious, and overextended. Because they were building the defining edifice of the age, the three architects were in constant demand—and constant disagreement over how to realize the miracle in stone.
The monumental Basilica had matched the personality of Julius. Leo’s character, by contrast, lacked heroic dimensions. He was a connoisseur of the decorative arts, a lover of fine gold-work, tapestries, and jewelry more than of colossal constructions.
Critics had denounced Julius for confusing spiritual and political power, but they never questioned his conviction. To him, the glory of God and of the Church was paramount. Leo’s loyalties were divided. He was a prince of the Church, but he was also a prince of Florence, and he ruled both simultaneously. Restoring Florence to the luster of the Quattrocento and his family to its rightful place as princes of the Republic were his priorities.
Although he preferred an exquisite miniature to a megalith, Leo appreciated architecture as political capital, exploited by the Roman emperors and now embraced by their successors, the Roman popes. Only the mightiest could construct a monumental edifice, and in Leo’s eyes, there were none mightier than the Medici.
He was prepared to pour money into the Basilica as if gold alone could make stone rise. If Raphael’s excited letter of July 1, 1514, can be believed, in the first year alone, the Medici pope was planning to spend sixty thousand ducats, more than twice what Julius had spent in any given year. But like any large-scale operation that is managed from the top, the loss of the boss threw the project into confusion.
Leo could no more oversee the enormous Basilica operation than Hanno the elephant could bless himself. The line of control, both financial and artistic—as true as a straight edge under Julius and Bramante—grew twisted and murky. Leo was hopeless with money and not much better at administration, and while his new capomaestro had outstanding gifts and noble intentions, he was young and inexperienced. Raphael was neither controlling nor conniving enough to fill Bramante’s role.
Julius and Bramante had completed the core of the Basilica. It was an extraordinary accomplishment given the epic size and the time they had. But their most impressive achievement was not the work they realized. It was the immensity, the sheer impudence, of their idea. Their tragic flaw was a lack of clarity. They left no definitive plan for future pontiffs and architects to follow, and no cost estimate to restrain more opulent tastes.
Given the quick enthusiasms of pope and architect, it’s not surprising that they never settled easily on a single blueprint. There is some suggestion that Bramante built a wooden model. If he did, it was lost, and all that remains is boxes and books of drawings, sketches, and designs. Their volume is both a measure of his enthusiasm and an indication of how fluid his plans were. He had a quick, fertile mind. New ideas came thick and fast, and the latest always seemed the best, and captured his enthusiasm.
The only certainty in the grand enterprise was the dome. From the moment of conception, it was the locus in the scheme of the Basilica—the alpha and omega, the starting point and the sublime finale. The shape and elevation would change over time, but not the fact of the dome, repeated like a mantra in the words that Paris de Grassis recorded and that have become immortal, as if inscribed in the very stones of the Basilica: “To raise the dome of the Pantheon on the Basilica of Maxentius.”
The dome was the fixed idea from which the imagination of Bramante and every architect who followed him wandered freely. By building from the center out, Bramante not only established an irrevocable scale, he also allowed his successors wide latitude. Everything except the circumference of the dome was open to debate, even the fundamental shape of the Basilica. Although his preference was a Greek cross, according to the plans in the Uffizi and in Menicantonio’s sketchbook, Bramante and Julius had considered the Latin one too—or at least experimented with both on paper. The argument between the two cruciforms—the Greek cross with four arms of equal length and the Latin cross with an elongated vertical arm—is a choice between the ideal and the practical. The symmetrical Greek cross appealed to Bramante’s Renaissance sensibilities. Its pure geometric form was considered a reflection of God. The asymmetrical Latin cross was more practical, because the extended arm would accommodate the large crowds that attend papal ceremonies. Since the Latin cross was the form of Constantine’s church, Julius may have asked Bramante to develop a similar design to quiet the criticism—a compromise or creative deception, suggesting that the new St. Peter’s would hew more closely to the original than they actually intended.
The Greek-versus-Latin-cross controversy would plague the project for more than a century. Each time it seemed resolved, a new architect or a new pope went back to the drawing board. While Leo was in office, the debate swung back and forth numerous times.
Fra Giocondo and Raphael both favored a Latin cruciform. Raphael’s plan had an aisled nave, an impressive, double-storied façade, and a piazza with the obelisk of Caligula in the center—very much as it is today. Although he kept the dome and vaulting just as Bramante had planned, he encircled the apses with aisles on the theory that a ring of ambulatories would absorb some of the thrust of the dome, lessening the strain on the piers.
Unity had inspired Bramante’s design. Raphael’s ambulatories had a divisive effect, creating a separation between the core of the Basilica and the external walls. He emphasized the division by introducing the Doric order to articulate the outside walls. There was little coherence between the interior and exterior of the Basilica.
Some scholars suggest that Bramante may have converted to the Latin cross before he died, because Raphael would not have deviated fundamentally from his mentor and friend. There is little concrete evidence to support or refute the argument.
More grandiose than Bramante’s, Raphael’s design matched Leo’s extravagance if not his budget. But it was never executed. Raphael found little common ground with his partners. Antonio da Sangallo took exception to much of Raphael’s Basilica plan and Peruzzi took an opposite direction. He favored a return to a centralized Greek cross with four entrances, one at the end of each apse and all leading to the papal altar.
The three young architects proposed contending designs. Irresolution is expensive, and in this case, d
isastrously so. It caused arguments, delays, divisions, and backbiting. With little direction and no definitive blueprint, plans multiplied like the biblical loaves and fishes, and the price tag kept rising.
In the years after Bramante’s death, building was erratic at best. Some progress was made on the south arm of the church. Leo christened it the Cappella del Re di Francia—“the Chapel of the King of France”—hoping that by giving the king’s name to a significant portion of the Basilica, Francis I would be induced to pay the construction costs. Although Leo continued to lavish money on the new Basilica, ordering the most expensive travertine for the exterior walls, St. Peter’s did not advance significantly.
The architects and their associates were becoming wealthy men, but their flourishing careers left them little time to build the church. As a result, much of the money that went into St. Peter’s was spent on keeping the work yard operating while the architects pursued other commissions. Although more money went into salaries and supplies than into actual building, each architect wanted to leave his signature. Drafts were drawn and redrawn, the arms of the Basilica extending and contracting, the elevation of the dome peaking and flattening, then peaking again, and still there was no blueprint agreed on by all.
Raphael’s most significant contribution was not in stone and mortar but in his architectural renderings. He introduced exact scale drawings that masons could read with precision.
Like most sixteenth-century builders, Bramante had marked out a working plan on-site and then explained it in detail to his masons and stonecutters. There was often a scale model in wood or clay for them to follow, as well. For moldings, capitals, and other intricate work, full-size patterns were drawn to guide the artisans.
Raphael added another dimension. He was used to drawing detailed sketches and cartoons for his frescoes. When he turned to architecture, he realized that linear perspective did not give a full or always accurate picture of spatial relations. In a note to Leo, he explained that architectural renderings need “to master all the dimensions of a building and see all its parts without distortion.”
His renderings gave three views—ground plan, elevation, and section. Each element of the building, both interior and exterior, was clearly represented. This not only provided closer directions for the master masons, it also freed the architect from being on site all the time. Raphael’s three-dimensional renderings would become accepted architectural practice, though not in his lifetime.
Bramante, Leonardo, and Michelangelo lived to be old men. Raphael had only a dozen years in Rome for his genius to reveal itself. He was a Roman candle, blazing brilliantly and briefly across the city. According to Vasari’s romanticized version, one wild April night in 1520, “having indulged in more than his usual excess,” Raphael returned home a spent man in need of “restoratives.” Instead of fortifying him, the doctors bled him. He never recovered.
Raphael died on Good Friday, April 6, more probably of the plague. It was his thirty-seventh birthday. Leo’s third triumvirate had proved as short-lived as the previous two.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE REVENGE OF THE SANGALLOS
After Raphael’s death, Antonio da Sangallo moved swiftly to advance himself. Whether it was a ploy to secure the coveted position of capomaestro or whether it was a sincere difference of artistic perception, Antonio wrote to the pope, roundly criticizing Raphael:
Acting more out of pity and respect for God and St. Peter and respect and the desire to be useful to Your Holiness, than to myself, this is to inform you how the money being spent with little respect for or use to God and Your Holiness is like throwing money away, and the reasons are written down here.
Antonio listed numerous technical and design faults in Raphael’s scheme, including a long, dark nave that would make the Basilica feel like an alley; Doric columns that were too tall in proportion to their circumference; heavier piers in the nave than in the crossing; and an insufficient number of large chapels.
His attack was scathing, but it has to be considered in context. Magister operae was the most prestigious and sought-after job for an architect. Whoever was chosen was assured a prominent place in Roman society and lucrative additional contracts. Rivalry among artists was fierce. To advance his own cause, Antonio had to convince the pope that he was his own man, worthy to be more than second architect. Given the pope’s affection for Raphael, Antonio’s tactic seems ill-advised, yet it worked. Leo, apparently accepting his argument, named him chief architect in 1520. Peruzzi moved up to second architect.
Antonio Giamberti Picconi da Sangallo (1484–1546), known as Antonio the Younger to distinguish him from his uncle Antonio, first appeared in the Vatican record books ten years before. While his uncle Giuliano and Michelangelo seethed with anger and resentment, Antonio went to work for their nemesis, Bramante. Whether Julius hired the young artisan as a consolation for his old friend or whether Bramante was trying to divide the Florentine faction, Antonio the Younger joined the construction team as a carpenter. He was twenty-four, and building St. Peter’s became his lifework. It brought him prominence and influence, and made him a wealthy man. For the next thirty-eight years, at least one, and often many, members of the Sangallo family were on the payroll of St. Peter’s.
Because of his family connections, Bramante at first kept a close eye on the young Sangallo, but Antonio, who had a quick and practical mind, proved his worth. When Bramante was constructing the arches spanning the diagonal piers of the dome, Antonio built the centering, a temporary wooden frame to support the masonry until it set. Considering the vast height of the arches, it was no mean achievement, and Bramante was impressed.
Because the triangle is the only geometric form that can’t be distorted unless the length of a leg is changed, it was the basic form in all centerings and scaffoldings. Antonio’s frame for the main crossing arms was a series of braced triangles bound with iron straps. Two right triangles (A-B-C with B-C being the hypotenuse) stood on end, so that points B were on the ground at either end and points C came together in the middle of the centering. A-C C-A formed a single sturdy line that also became the base of an isosceles triangle rising above it. The three triangles were buttressed at strategic points by smaller triangles. The center of the arch rested on the apex of the upper isosceles triangle. Since the span of the arches was seventy-five feet, finding and hauling timber of a sufficient length and thickness was difficult if not impossible. Renaissance builders devised various ways to splice together lengths of wood and secure them with iron bands and brackets.
Bramante grew to trust and depend on the young Sangallo’s practical skills. Antonio and Baldassare Peruzzi learned their trade working in Bramante & Co. According to a money order issued to pay their salaries, by April 1510, they were two of five subarchitects working under Bramante, and there is ample evidence that they drew many of his plans. Of the two, Peruzzi was the more original talent, but Antonio mastered the technical aspects. He became a skilled structural engineer and a shrewd businessman and lived in high style when Peruzzi was still struggling to make ends meet.
Antonio had never been a sculptor, painter, or designer of any kind. He was the first pure architect to become capomaestro—and that was both his strength and his weakness. In Benvenuto Cellini’s disdainful words, Antonio was “a draftsman not an architect.” While it is true that he was a meticulous and prolific draftsman—the Gabinetto dei Disegni e delle Stampe of the Uffizi Gallery holds more than one thousand of his drawings—Antonio had two essential qualities that most of the architects of St. Peter’s lacked: common sense and a practical mind. His skill was not creation but implementation. The most brilliant design, unless it is well implemented, will fail.
In what remained of Leo X’s disordered papacy, Antonio completed the barrel vaulting Bramante had begun. Spanning two walls like a continuous arch, a barrel vault is another brilliant Roman invention in cast concrete. All of Bramante’s arches in St. Peter’s are coffered barrel vaults, and Antonio continued
the same vaulting in the southern apse.
Although the Chapel of the King of France was nearing completion when Antonio became capomaestro, without the furious spirit of Julius, his sharp, questioning intelligence, and his determination, the new St. Peter’s had lost its impetus. The funds expended were out of all proportion to the progress achieved. The Basilica became a sinkhole into which money disappeared. There were few progress reports, fewer cost controls, and no restraints. Adding to the confusion, architectural control kept changing. In the eight years of Leo’s pontificate, St. Peter’s had six architects.
Money was squandered, mishandled, possibly stolen. Expenses were inflated, whether intentionally or by mismanagement and poor oversight. The payroll swelled. Artisans and suppliers became wealthy men on the construction of St. Peter’s. None profited more than the Sangallos. Antonio’s cousins, Giovan Francesco and Bastiano da Sangallo, had the concession for the lime furnaces, pozzuolana, and tufa. According to Vasari, it “brought them very large profits and in this way Bastiano lived for a time…having amassed a large amount of money.”
Leo X’s fiscal policy consisted of extravagant spending matched by extravagant borrowing. The pattern was set from his consecration, when money flowed like wine, and Agostino Chigi picked up the check. To pay for the three-day carnival, Chigi had advanced Leo the lavish sum of seventy-five thousand ducats, enough to support a fair-sized town. Conveniently for the new pope, the banker’s lease on the alum mines had just expired, and he was pleased when it was renewed for an additional thirteen years.
Through the confidence of Julius and the profligacy of Leo, Chigi had become the wealthiest man in Italy, and very possibly in all of Europe, hailed as Agostino il Magnifico for his financial wizardry. Twenty thousand men served in his employ, and one hundred ships sailed under his flag. Chigi’s relation with each pontiff was unique. With Alexander, he was a banker; with Julius, a financier, adviser, friend, and confidant. With Leo, he was a reliable touch and lavish host.
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