Magnifico
Page 5
The new palace must have been a pleasant change for the nine-year-old boy after the cramped, crowded quarters of the old house. Not least of the attractions were an airy courtyard and a garden, the latter filled with exotic fruit trees. With indulgent, often distracted parents, the spacious and bustling palace offered plenty of opportunities for undiscovered mischief. It was, perhaps, a little too commodious for a family used to living one on top of another. Some years later, after the death of his younger son, the aged Cosimo was heard to lament, “Too large a house for too small a family!”
The palace as it exists today differs significantly from the one Lorenzo knew. First of all, it was considerably smaller in the fifteenth century, seven bays of windows having been added in the seventeenth century by the Riccardi family, who evidently found it too cramped for their needs. A loggia opened out onto the busy street, making the building less forbidding than it now seems. During Lorenzo’s lifetime this arcade was always crowded with petitioners, visitors, and even tourists armed with letters of introduction. The Milanese envoy Niccolò de’ Carissimi da Parma, visiting the master of the house in 1459, complained that he was “obliged to leave because of the multitude who arrived wishing to see the aforesaid magnificent Cosimo.”
Even more deceptive is the austere interior we see today. Walking through its largely empty rooms and corridors one gets little hint of its former opulence. It was Piero who took the lead in furnishing the new family home with paintings, sculptures, and decorative objects, a collection to which Lorenzo continued to add after his father’s death. Gone is Piero’s private study, whose walls were covered floor to ceiling in elaborate patterns of inlaid wood and whose collection of objets d’art so impressed visitors, including the architect Filarete, who has left us a vivid description of the master at his ease:
He has himself carried into a studio…. When he arrives, he looks at his books. They seem like nothing but solid pieces of gold…. Sometimes he reads one or the other or has them read. He has so many different kinds that not one day but more than a month would be required to see and understand their dignity…. He has effigies and portraits of all the emperors and noble men who have ever lived made in gold, silver, bronze, jewels, marble, or other materials…. Another day he looks at his jewels and precious stones. He has a marvelous quantity of them of great value and cut in different ways. He takes pleasure and delight in looking at them and in talking about the virtue and value of those he has. Another day [he looks] at vases of gold, silver, and other materials made nobly and at great expense and brought from different places. He delights greatly in these, praising their dignity and the mastery of their fabricators. Then another day [he looks at] other noble things that have come from different parts of the world, various strange arms for offense and defense.
It is impossible to overestimate the impact such an environment had on the formation of Lorenzo’s tastes and his character. Even among Florentines, accustomed to being surrounded by works of art and architecture of the highest quality, his circumstances were unique. The immense Medici fortune was harnessed to acquire work from the greatest artists and artisans of Europe; from their branches in northern Europe employees were told to be on the lookout for the finest tapestries and the latest works in oil by masters like Jan van Eyck;* agents in Rome and southern Italy sought out antiquities, and scholars on the Medici payroll rummaged through the monastic libraries of Europe seeking lost works by the ancients. Galeazzo Maria Sforza, who as son of the duke of Milan was a youth not easily impressed, was awed by the Medici’s fabled treasures. “[T]he aforesaid count,” noted his chief counselor,
together with the company, went on a tour of this palace, and especially of its noblest parts, such as some studies, little chapels, living rooms, bedchambers and gardens, all of which are constructed with admirable skill, embellished on every side with gold and fine marbles, with carvings and sculptures in relief, with pictures and inlays done in perspective by the most accomplished and perfect of masters, down to the benches and all the floors of the house; tapestries and household ornaments of gold and silk; silverware and bookcases that are endless and innumerable; then the vaults or rather ceilings of the chambers and salons, which are for the most part done in fine gold with diverse and various forms; then a garden all created of the most beautiful polished marbles with various plants, which seems a thing not natural but painted.
Sforza’s visit highlights an important function of the palace: it was an essential tool of Medici statecraft. As private citizens, Cosimo, Piero, and Lorenzo possessed none of the titles needed to impress those with whom they negotiated on behalf of the republic. But by building this grand residence and furnishing it with famous works of ancient and modern art they showed that they belonged in the company of the greatest feudal lords.* So successful was this strategy that close acquaintance with the Medici lifestyle could foster a not altogether unintended sense of cultural inferiority. On a later visit Galeazzo Maria Sforza admitted its collections far outshone his own, and when his brother, Lodovico, lured Leonardo da Vinci away from Florence it was partly in an attempt to redress the cultural deficit.
Ordinary Florentines alternated between feelings of pride and resentment at the opulent lifestyle of their leading family. The treasures of the palace were celebrated in verse and song, one anonymous poet declaring “nothing in the world [is] more an earthly paradise than this.” But it could also be a tempting target for those who believed the government had been hijacked by private interest; during one politically tense moment, the family awoke to find the threshold of the palace smeared with blood.
For the most part, however, the public understood that the honor of the city was tied to the honor paid to its leading family. Florentines were painfully aware of their lack of pedigree and took every opportunity to demonstrate that, despite the absence of hereditary nobility, they were men of refinement. The pageantry of Florentine life was in large part an expression of cultural insecurity, and the Medici palace was a key element in this self-promotion. It is a notable trend in Florentine history—one that helps explain Medici success in subverting the city’s republican institutions—that men who otherwise jealously guarded their prerogatives accorded the Medici an almost princely standing if only in order to seem more worthy in the eyes of foreigners.
The one room that still hints at the palazzo’s former splendor is the small private chapel on the second floor. In 1459, Benozzo Gozzoli began work on the frescoes that have since made this one of the most beautiful rooms in Florence or, indeed, in all of Europe. Under the close supervision of Piero, Gozzoli depicted the Adoration of the Magi, a theme he had already tackled for the family when, as an assistant to Fra Angelico, he had painted a modest version on the walls of Cosimo’s private cell in San Marco. No expense was spared to create a jewel-like effect, including an intricately inlaid floor (designed by Andrea del Verrocchio) and elaborately coffered and gilded ceilings. As for the frescoes themselves, Piero insisted on the finest materials, generous amounts of lapis lazuli (for the deep blues of the sky) and sheets of silver and gold leaf that would cast an otherworldly gleam in the light of flickering candles.
Piero took a strong interest in the painting’s day-to-day progress. A series of letters between Piero and the artist suggests that this was a commission particularly close to his heart. “This morning I had a letter from Your Magnificence,” wrote Gozzoli to Piero, “and I learnt that it seems to you the seraphs I have done are out of place. On one side I did one among some clouds, and of this you hardly see anything except the tips of the wings…. Nevertheless I will do as you command, two little clouds will take them away.” This supervision—even micromanagement—of an artist’s work was not unusual. Renaissance patrons were often intimately involved in the smallest details of the works they commissioned. In their own eyes they were the true agents of the work of art, and they regarded the craftsmen they employed as, at best, collaborators, and at worst skilled servants whose role was simply to carry out the vi
sion of their employers.
One should not dismiss such attitudes as mere snobbery. Art in Renaissance Florence was the serious business of serious men, inextricably bound up with politics and religion. Later in his career Lorenzo employed the greatest geniuses of the Florentine Renaissance—Botticelli, Michelangelo, and Leonardo—as his own personal emissaries, sending them the length and breadth of Italy in hopes of cementing alliances and maintaining his city’s prestige abroad. If Florence was not the most powerful state on the peninsula, it abounded in artists and craftsmen coveted by foreign courts. By exporting Florentine culture, Lorenzo and his predecessors tried to achieve through the dazzle of art what they could not hope to win through strength of arms.
Nor was the role of art connoisseur the effete pursuit of the idle rich. Every Florentine patrician, not least the Medici themselves, spent countless hours serving on the boards (operaii) that supervised the great building and artistic projects in the city, making decisions on matters that now would be considered the creative province of the artist. Brunelleschi, himself a member of the ruling class, was exasperated by the constant interference of amateurs who thought they knew more about engineering than he did, but most artists understood that their role was to bring the client’s ideas to fruition. Discernment in matters of art was the mark of a true gentleman, as a popular fifteenth-century treatise on education reminds us: “The beauty and grace of objects, both natural ones and those made by man’s art, are things it is proper for men of distinction to be able to discuss with each other and appreciate.” Cosimo, in a letter to his cousin Averardo, makes an explicit connection between judgment in matters of art and the kinds of judgment demanded of those in positions of political leadership. “Although we do not have the expertise in feats of war of those who practice it continually,” he wrote, “nevertheless, seeing what others do, we are able to judge who does it better. I believe that although you are not a great painter, nevertheless you would judge the figures of Giotto to be better than those of Balzanello.”
In a very real sense, Piero, as much as Gozzoli, must be regarded as the author of the Adoration. The dynastic and political ambitions of its patron are closely woven into the sacred scene. While the fresco ostensibly commemorates the birth of the Savior a millennium and a half earlier, the magnificent procession Gozzoli conjures—in a Tuscan landscape complete with rural castles based on the Medici villas at Trebbio and Cafaggiolo—is couched in terms that would have been familiar to contemporary Florentines. Even the elaborate costumes of the kings and their retinues are based on the gaudy processions that the Medici sponsored every three years on the Feast of the Epiphany.*
Gozzoli’s painting is both a sacred narrative and, perhaps more important, a portrait of the Medici regime at the height of its power. Here, in a private setting, Piero could indulge to the full his taste for opulent display, disguising his ambition through an appropriately pious theme. If the political message were not obvious enough, Gozzoli—with Piero supplying the roster of names—painted in the scene all the leading figures associated with the Medici reggimento, including, in the entourage of the old king Melchior, many of those who would soon turn against him—Luca Pitti, Niccolò Soderini, and Dietisalvi Neroni.
For centuries the youngest magus, Caspar, was assumed to be a portrait of the ten-year-old Lorenzo. The identification has a certain superficial plausibility. The young king’s head is framed by a laurel bush, a plant that was often used as the personal emblem of the Medici heir. Gozzoli, a master of fine detail, has embossed the harness of the king with the Medici palle and the family motto, SEMPER (always), and the king’s entourage includes portraits of Cosimo (riding a donkey), Piero, and important Medici allies like Galeazzo Maria Sforza (riding the white horse to Cosimo’s right).
But for all Piero’s pride in his son, it is unthinkable that he would have placed him in a position where both he and Cosimo would be seen as supporting players in Lorenzo’s triumphal procession. And the fair, angelic face of Caspar bears no resemblance to Lorenzo, who was, in any case, far too young to play the role. Gozzoli has indeed included a portrait of the ten-year-old Lorenzo, but in a far less prominent position. To find Lorenzo we must look further back, in the great crowd of faces following in the young king’s wake. There, the swarthy complexion and shrewd, sharp features are immediately recognizable, standing out from amid the sea of less individualized faces, including that of his handsome brother, Giuliano, on his left. In this, the earliest known portrait of Lorenzo, the features of the boy are already stamped with the strong personality of the adult.
For Cosimo the new palace served the practical need of accommodating the growing families of two married sons, but it also marked a significant realignment of the larger Medici clan. In the casa vecchia the descendants of Giovanni di Bicci had shared a home; they constituted a single lineage sprung from a common ancestor. Now with his own palace, built with his money and according to his tastes, Cosimo set himself up as the pater familias of his own independent dynasty. From this point on the two main branches descended from Giovanni di Bicci will go their separate ways.*
By the time the Medici took possession of their new home the sixty-nine-year-old Cosimo had begun to loosen his hold on the reins of power. Increasingly he deferred to his sons, unloading some of the burden and preparing them for the responsibilities they would assume when he was gone. Given the unofficial nature of Cosimo’s position, the continuity of the reggimento and of the Medicis’ dominant position within it were by no means assured. Working in their favor, however, was Cosimo’s longevity, which guaranteed that he would be around long enough to see his children firmly established in the upper echelons of the state. By 1458, Piero was already a leading member of the reggimento, having served in important positions, including as a member of the Signoria in 1448, while Giovanni also served as one of the priors in 1453 and on the important advisory council known as the Dodici Buonuomini, the Twelve, in 1454.
Even in a city where loyalty to family was paramount, the Medici seem remarkable for their unity of purpose through many generations. The need for collaboration was increased by Piero’s poor health. For many years, in fact, it had seemed to most Florentines that the robust and outgoing Giovanni was the more likely successor to Cosimo. In 1455, Giovanni became director general of the Medici bank, a clear indication of the central role he played in the family’s affairs. The mark he left on his nephew is unmistakable; Lorenzo seems to have inherited his gregarious personality and weakness for sensual pleasures from his fun-loving uncle rather than from his dour, humorless father. Giovanni’s amiable character is embodied in the delightful villa he had built on the slopes of Fiesole. It was a building of no practical value (in fact its construction on a steep slope was one long series of engineering disasters). After it passed into the possession of Piero and his children it became a favorite haunt of Lorenzo, Giuliano, and their companions, who would spend summer afternoons wandering along its cypress-shaded lanes, heads bent deep in conversation. Unlike Trebbio, Cafaggiolo, and Careggi, working farms that helped to feed the voracious appetite of the palazzo in the city, Fiesole’s sole function was the pursuit of cultivated idleness; poetry rather than produce was its main export. Lorenzo’s friend the poet Angelo Poliziano paints a charming portrait of life at the villa. “When you are made uncomfortable by the heat of the season in your retreat at Careggi,” he wrote to Marsilio Ficino,
you will perhaps think the shelter of Fiesole not undeserving of your notice. Seated between the sloping sides of the mount, here we have water in abundance and, being constantly refreshed with moderate winds, find little inconvenience from the glare of the sun. As you approach the house it seems surrounded by trees, but when you reach it, you find it commands a full prospect of the city. Populous as the vicinity is, I can enjoy here that solitude so gratifying to my disposition.
The villa at Fiesole captures the new ideal of the Renaissance gentleman whose life is spent cultivating his mind and his aesthetic sense—an
ideal that will find its fullest expression in the retreat Lorenzo later built for himself at Poggio a Caiano.* The difference between the fortresslike Trebbio and the airy Fiesole is the difference between the medieval and Renaissance mind. For those of Cosimo’s generation, the pursuit of pleasure unsupported by a steady return on investment was frivolous. For Lorenzo it was exactly those same pursuits that gave savor to life.
Domestic arrangements in the Medici palazzo were complicated, with three distinct households and three generations living under one roof, but there is little or no hint of tension or competition. This is largely a tribute to Contessina de’ Bardi, Cosimo’s wife, a sensible, nurturing woman who was the emotional glue binding the extended family together. Less educated and cultured than her two daughters-in-law, she nevertheless managed multiple households and fussed over the health and well-being of her husband, children, and grandchildren. When Lorenzo was a year old and away with his parents in Trebbio, Contessina included a reminder to Lucrezia “to make him suck well,” probably an unnecessary piece of advice for a mother of three.
Lorenzo, for one, was devoted to his grandmother. She lived until 1473, surviving her husband by ten years, and so remained a comforting figure in Lorenzo’s life well into his adulthood. Lorenzo, increasingly surrounded by hypocritical flatterers and potential rivals, craved such maternal figures who offered reassurance and unquestioning love without fear of competition.
While his affection for this simple woman was direct and sincere, his feelings for his grandfather were complicated by constant reminders to live up to his example. Even when Cosimo was many years in his grave, Lorenzo found it difficult to emerge from under his shadow. “[A]s God created Cosimo as a model of the universe,” the philosopher Marsilio Ficino wrote to Lorenzo, “mold yourself on the model of Cosimo. Indeed you have begun to do so.” Lorenzo’s own protean achievement as a writer, patron, and statesman may well have been spurred by the desire to make a greater mark in the minds of his countrymen than his illustrious grandfather.