The Sistine Secrets

by Benjamin Blech

  Sandro Botticelli, even though the favorite artist of the liberal de’ Medici family in Florence a generation before Michelangelo, was still not allowed openly to explore the human body. In one of his most famous—and also one of his most mysterious—paintings, he hides several secrets. The painting is the allegorical work Primavera (Spring). Just as in the case of Raphael’s School of Athens, whole books have been written about it, each one promoting a different interpretation of the masterpiece. It is set in a mystical forest clearing, and the action moves from right to left, starting with the mythological Zephyr, the wind of Spring, who transforms the forest nymph Cloris into the figure of Flora, the symbol of Spring and its fertility. Then, in the central position in front of two odd openings in the canopy of branches above, is Venus, the goddess of Love. Hovering over her head is the blindfolded Cupid, about to shoot his phallic arrow at the central woman of the three Graces, the figure of Chastity. The last figure, on the far left and detached from the rest, is Mercury, the god of change and hidden wisdom, stirring up the clouds. No one before has discussed the strange gaps in the branches in the center of the work, but it is exactly there that Botticelli embedded his biggest secret in the painting, one that is the key to understanding the whole work. If you look carefully at the shape, angle, and juxtaposition of the two openings, a very clear anatomical image appears—a pair of human lungs, just as they would appear during an illegal dissection in a secret Renaissance laboratory.

  The painting, a wedding gift, is celebrating the cycle of life that was originally created, according to Judaic and Kabbalistic lore, by ruach HaShem, the Divine Wind, or Breath—the same breath of life that created Adam, the first human. If one could take the painting out of its frame and curl it into a cylinder so that the two edges met, one would see that the clouds that Mercury/Hermes stirs up on the left become Zephyr on the right, showing that the Divine Wind, the Breath of Life, has no beginning and no end. In the exact middle, framing Venus and her heart-red pendant, are the two lungs, to reaffirm the connection of Love and Life. Thus, this famous masterpiece is an early example of secret Neoplatonic imagery, which was just taking form at that time in freethinking Florence under the de’ Medicis, the commissioning patrons of this painting.

  DECIPHERING THE ESOTERIC

  Our next category of secret symbolism in Renaissance works, of prime importance for deciphering Michelangelo’s hidden messages in the Sistine Chapel, is the use of “esoteric knowledge”—images, symbols, and codes known only to a few initiates—to pass on a hidden message not intended for the masses. Some of these have since been revealed, such as Mozart’s use of Masonic symbolism in his opera The Magic Flute, and the seventeenth-century Baroque architect Borromini’s use of Masonic-Kabbalistic symbols in his Church of Sant’Ivo in Rome. Others have still not been deciphered, such as the “dark Lady” of Shakespeare’s sonnets and the “Enigma Variations” symphony of Edward Elgar.

  A very recent example of decoding hidden symbols in well-known artwork is that of the designs of what we in the Occident call Oriental carpets: the beautiful, intricate carpets found all along the ancient Silk Road, from Turkey through India and on to China. According to the Textilia Institute’s findings, presented in its exhibit and catalogue in Rome and New York in 2005, Il giardino dei melograni (The garden of the pomegranates), Jews fleeing the deadly persecutions of the Holy Inquisition in Spain in 1492 were searching for a way to preserve the arcane knowledge of the Kabbalah and its practice of mystical meditations. Upon finding refuge in the East, they discovered the art of carpet weaving. Soon thereafter, these carpets, either designed and commissioned by Jews or woven by Jewish artisans themselves, took on a whole new look. This innovative fashion incorporated pomegranates, Jacob’s Ladders, Gardens of Eden, and Trees of Life into the rugs in order to make them vehicles for transmitting the forbidden wisdom of the Kabbalah, as well as to serve as devices for Kabbalistic meditation. These carpets, even though not understood by the masses, were greatly esteemed and were found in very unexpected places. Thus, the unsuspecting Muslim Mogul rulers of northern India had Jewish Kabbalistic carpets hanging in their royal palaces and the Confucian emperors of China had the same secret symbolism in huge carpets decorating the Royal Pavilion in the heart of the Forbidden City.

  Another fascinating example of esoteric knowledge adopted by the informed to communicate secretly was the use of sign language for the deaf. Unknown to most people today, Renaissance Italian artists had no difficulties working with their hearing-impaired friends and colleagues. Even today, especially in southern Italy, there is a deeply engrained tradition of expressing oneself through nonverbal communication, using hand gestures, facial expressions, and body language in general. Leonardo da Vinci, in his day, encouraged other hearing artists to learn from the expressivity of the deaf.

  We know of two successful deaf artists in Renaissance Italy. One is Pinturicchio, whose frescoes from the fifteenth century appear in some of the most prestigious settings in Rome, including the Sistine Chapel. The other is Cristoforo de Pretis, who collaborated with his hearing half-brother Ambrogio de Pretis. The brothers, who worked together in sign language, were among the first to welcome Leonardo da Vinci when he moved to Milan in 1483. They were a great influence on Leonardo and when, in the same year, he created his first work in his new location, he wanted to thank the brothers in their own language that he had grown to admire. There are even some art historians who say that Ambrogio de Pretis actually worked on the piece with Leonardo. This painting, called The Madonna of the Rocks, can be found today in the Louvre in Paris. It depicts the Virgin Mary inside a dark cavern, with two infants at her feet, commonly interpreted as the infant John the Baptist and the baby Jesus. She is embracing the infant on her right while blessing the other with her left hand. Next to her left hand is a mysterious angel who protects that child while pointing across the painting to the infant on Mary’s other side. The baby under the hands of Mary and the angel is holding up his own hand in a two-fingered blessing toward the other child. Obviously fresh from the excitement of his discovery of sign language, Leonardo incorporated a number of hand gestures in this work. What most observers and even art experts do not know is that Leonardo signed this work—by “signing” his name. The vertical alignment of the three hands on the right side of the painting forms a straight downward line—Mary → angel → infant Jesus. Mary’s hand is in the archaic finger-spelling formation for the letter L. The angel’s hand is the letter D. The baby Jesus’s hand is the letter V. LDV—Leonardo da Vinci.

  Skeptical readers who doubt that Mary’s hand is the letter L need look no further than the gigantic sculpture of Abraham Lincoln in the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC. It was created by Daniel French, the same artist who made the sculpture of Thomas Gallaudet, the founder of the eponymous university for the deaf in Washington, teaching finger spelling to a little girl by way of the signed letter A. In French’s monumental sculpture of Lincoln, the Great Emancipator’s hands (his left and right, respectively) sign his initials, A and L, using the identical kind of old-fashioned L that Leonardo painted centuries before.

  THE MAGIC OF SPECIAL EFFECTS

  Yet another strategy for encoding in Renaissance works involved environmental “special effects.” Messages were ingeniously inserted so that they could be viewed only when one was in situ, in the very spot where the artist intended for the viewer to receive his true intent. Often this would be determined by how light coming from an actual window at the site would stream into the painting, thus literally and figuratively illuminating the piece. Leonardo did this with the light in his Last Supper fresco, and in the seventeenth century Caravaggio became world-famous for this special effect. Later on, we will see how Michelangelo based the entire concept, design, and revision of his Moses sculpture on its interaction with the light source in its predetermined setting.

  Somewhat similar is another effect called anamorphosis. This is an amazing technique that makes an image literally “mo
rph” into another shape or image when the viewer looks at it from a different angle. Only highly skilled artists who had also mastered optics could create this effect. Of course, Leonardo da Vinci was one of these. His early work The Annunciation, which now hangs in the Uffizi Galleries in Florence, was until recently considered highly flawed because the Virgin’s right arm is disproportionately long, her legs seem mixed up with the bench on which she is strangely seated, and the angel is so far from Mary that they seem to be in two different paintings. In fact, when viewed normally or in any book of prints, the whole piece seems to be stretched out of shape. Only a few people who realized that Leonardo had concealed a giant anamorphosis were able to prove that this is indeed a unique masterpiece. In the brand-new guide to the Uffizi, Francesca Marini reveals: “Only by considering that the painting in its original setting would have to have been viewed from below, on the right side, the disconcerting anomalies fall away, to demonstrate an accord—which at that time was an uncommon study—of the perspective messages in the artwork in relationship to the location for which it was destined.”2

  The only way to experience what Leonardo is saying in The Annunciation is to interact with the actual painting. When one stands to the right of the painting as close to the wall as possible and views the painting out of the corner of one’s eye, the whole work comes to astounding life. Mary’s arm is the proper length, the angel is much closer to her, and Mary’s legs are together—while her stomach appears to be much smaller and flatter; in other words, a true virgin. As one walks from right to left in front of the painting, her legs seem to open and her stomach seems to swell. By the time the viewer is on the left side of the painting, the angel has backed away from Mary, and the now-very-pregnant woman’s skirt resembles a birthing trough or the rough crib in the manger. We will see later on how Michelangelo used anamorphosis for one of his secret messages in the Sistine.

  The last special effect that we need to explore here is trompe l’oeuil, French for “deceive the eye.” Simply put, it is the highly difficult technique of making a two-dimensional image, such as a painting or a fresco, seem to be three-dimensional. A trompe l’oeuil can be a false perspective, drawing the viewer’s sense of vision through the surface of the painting and deeper into the space beyond, sometimes seeming to go off into infinity. All of the niches of the popes painted in the original fifteenth-century decoration of the Sistine are this kind of optical illusion. Indeed, many visitors are surprised to learn that they are not real architectural niches.

  Trompe l’oeuil can also be a protruding illusion, making the image seem to pop out of the surface of the wall or canvas. This is even more difficult to achieve, and thus there are only rare examples. One of the triumphs of this technique is Michelangelo’s Jonah, in a place of honor at the front of the Sistine. The effect he achieved cannot be perceived or appreciated or understood in any reproduction; it becomes clear only when the original is viewed inside the chapel itself. What it is, and why Michelangelo did it, will be explained when we discuss the Judaic secrets of the Sistine.

  Since all these special effects required much extra time and energy, the artist would usually incorporate them into a piece of art for more than just a mere show of virtuosity. Careful study almost always leads us to an unexpected message contained within the image—again, for those in the know. Sometimes this would be to sneak in the artist’s signature, his lover, a sexual allusion or a joke, a rude insult to his patron or to those in power; sometimes to make a statement that was far more profound, usually forbidden, and thus far more dangerous.

  We have taken this tour into the secret world of codes in art for one primary reason: to demonstrate that Michelangelo was following in the footsteps of Botticelli, Leonardo, and many other contemporaries when he filled his work with secret symbols. Michelangelo had many reasons to cloak dangerous ideas and camouflage daring messages, reasons we will amply clarify. But what makes this all the more fascinating and relevant to our theme is that the one place where he slipped in the greatest number of these hidden messages was also the most unexpected and perilous place in the world for such subversive acts—the private chapel of the papal court in the Vatican Palace, the Sistine Chapel.

  Here Michelangelo best proved his genius. For the masses his frescoes provided—and still provide to this day—delights of incomparable beauty. However, for those perceptive enough to grasp the deeper messages imbedded in his multilayered masterpiece, there are far greater rewards in store.

  Chapter Three

  A REBEL IS BORN

  I live and love in God’s peculiar light.

  —MICHELANGELO

  WHAT SHAPES A CHILD of fifteenth-century Italy to become the most revolutionary artist and the most artistic revolutionary of his time? Is the answer determined by family, by one’s name, or is it fated by horoscope?

  Those who stress heredity must acknowledge that, sometimes, the fruit does indeed fall far away from the tree. The Buonarroti family tree was filled with anything but artistic types. An early ancestor had been a city councilman in Florence, another a Dominican monk, yet another a moneylender, and then there was a great-grandfather, Simone di Buonarrota, who was a wool trader and money changer. This Simone was perhaps the loftiest branch on the tree: he became rich and was a social success, gaining many honors for the family by lending money to the Florentine city government. His son Lionardo, however, was the undoing of the family. He was not a great businessman, and sired so many daughters that their wedding dowries more or less bankrupted the family. They lost their prestigious home in Florence, and Lionardo, in order to pay his debts, had to accept demeaning magistrate positions in rural villages far from the fashionable streets of Florence. His son, Ludovico, inherited his bad luck and poor business acumen. He was relegated to being the local magistrate for far-flung Caprese, high in the rocky Tuscan mountains near Arezzo. Caprese means “goat-filled,” since the rustic area probably had more mountain goats than human inhabitants. This represented a precipitous drop in the status of the once-wealthy Buonarroti line.

  It was here, amid the rough stony mountains and the rough, stoic stonecutters who toiled there, that Ludovico’s wife, Francesca di Neri, gave birth to their first son in the predawn hours of a winter’s day. Ludovico, ever the precise functionary, diligently recorded: “Note as today, the 6th of March 1474, there was born to me a male child, and I have placed upon him the name of Michelagnolo…. Note that the 6th of March 1474 is according to the Florentine calendar, which counts from the Incarnation, and according to the Roman calendar, which counts from the Nativity, it is 1475.” Even at what would normally be a time of elation for a new parent, Ludovico was evidently still very much concerned with demonstrating his “noble” Florentine roots.

  Florence and Rome have always had two very divergent mentalities, but it was especially so in the Middle Ages and during the Renaissance. Back then, the Florentines based the year one of their calendar on the Incarnation, when according to Church tradition the Holy Spirit impregnated the Virgin Mary, thus uniting the divine Jesus with the human Jesus in her womb. The Roman calendar, however, was based on the Nativity, or the birth year of Jesus, just as it is today. This is an apt metaphor for the two ways of thinking in the time of Michelangelo: Renaissance Florence was a place of inclusionary, humanistic philosophy (e.g., the union of the holy and the carnal in the womb), whereas Rome was the center of exclusionary, supremacist teaching (e.g., the partum, the baby being separated from the womb). Even at birth, Michelangelo was already caught in the middle between these two cities and their two mind-sets.

  Ludovico does not even mention his wife, the boy’s mother. It was obviously a difficult birth, as were most back then. The choice of the newborn’s name is a clue. The archangel Michael was considered in the Catholic tradition to be the angel of healing and to hold the keys to life and death. Naming the baby Michelagnolo (the Florentine dialect for “Michelangelo”) meant that the mother’s health—indeed probably her life—was in question
. What Ludovico probably did not know is that Jewish tradition teaches that Mikha-el ha-Malakh, the angel Michael, is the defender of the Jewish people from its deadly enemies. Michelangelo undoubtedly learned this later on in Florence, and, as we shall see, it had a deeply resounding effect on the rest of his long life.

  Ludovico quickly turned the infant over to a wet nurse, a young village woman from a local family of stonecutters. Decades later, Michelangelo would joke with his friend and biographer, the artist Giorgio Vasari: “Giorgio, if I have any intelligence at all, it has come from being born in the pure air of your native Arezzo, and also because I took the hammer and chisels with which I carve my figures from my wet-nurse’s milk.”1

  Michelangelo was raised with little affection from his family. His father was distant, and his sickly mother died when he was only six. Michelangelo would remain forever obsessed with the idea of family, without ever being emotionally close to his father, his stepmother, or his siblings. The only connection he felt with them stemmed from the stories he had heard of the family’s supposed ancestral glory. For the rest of his life, he would spend his considerable earnings on restoring his family’s lost fortune, properties, and social standing. This would put him into direct competition with his own father as the acting head of the family, and would be a constant source of friction between them.