From Asano Condivi's
Life of Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni
Chapter XXIII - Keep pure and holy both life and art
Benedetto de Dragano, a young apprentice,
ran lightly around the stories of his teacher,
circling smoothly as the wheel of a potter
when he sits and spins it, and there the tales
ran in lines to meet each other.
Dragano who would later
achieve a limited form of fame
on his own as artisan-restorer
for Il Pape Julius III, at the Vatican,
recounted to us his time with the great sculptor:
The master believed that physical beauty
was moral purity. And I will not condemn
his love for Poliziano. Or my undying devotion
to Ser Buonarroti. But rather ask
that sometime the fates should lend me love
and return me to those glorious mornings
where breath of incredible dawnings
filled those painted rooms of statuary.
Those long nightly sessions
in candle light when
all of us would gather to eat, drink,
and discuss how art should be created
within us with
the renascence at our feet.
And yes I will not deny
that at times I imagined the feel
of Ser Buonarroti's middle aged belly trembling
against my skin. Those repetitive thrusts
not of competitors at some forbidden entrance -
but of companions in this Quattrocento search
for the sweet expression of our souls.
I will attempt as dispassionately as possible
to record what happened
concerning a great work of sculpture,
now vanished but leaving
its trace in my memory.
I remember that cold winter of 1493,
a winter of oaths and cries
in my Florenzia.
In my splendid Florenzia -
metropolis of wealth.
In our magnificent Florenzia -
city of bankers.
Our Florenzia beautiful jewelled city
of Tuscan art and thought.
Besieged on the one hand
by the ravages of plague
and beset by the other hand of fate
from the equally deadly
ravings by Fra Girolamo Savonarola.
From whose Dominican priory pulpit,
the innocent as well as the profanely rich
were told that "... all would be scourged by God".
In this my Florenzia,
where cool narrow streets were lined
with high walls of marble palazzos.
Pigments of frescos dripped from balcony walls
with such sensuous longing, creating
rapture which emboldened the coming
of lovers kisses. Art called
to the people. And the citizenry
answered by ennobling a republic
which was the envy of Italia.
Florenzia, home of Dante, Petrarch,
Boccacio, Giotto, Donatello,
Mossaccio and tempera colourings
flooded our own self-indulgence.
Art which was created for the glory
of those that could indulge
hedonistic visions of themselves.
Purchasing art as they would buy a plum.
Selecting not for purple ripeness or appeal.
But as a means of congratulating
their own excess. The success of Florenzia
where one could easily obtain
silks of China, frankincense from Palestine,
ivory from Africa or indulgences -
eradicating your sins
with bribes to Papal Rome.
Florenzia still ruled by the Medici.
Now by Piero, grandson of Lorenzo "Il Magnifico",
son of Cosimo "Il Pater Praeta" -
with none of his illustrious forebearers
grace or genius - but with more
than a touch of their cruelty.
Some would say it was just and fitting
that his eldest daughter, Vittoria,
only fifteen this past Christmas,
having the same birth date as the Savior,
should be stricken with the plague.
Some would say it was the curse of God,
some the curse of Savonarola,
some the curse of all Florenzia.
Some would pronounce that it was the evil stars
under which all Medici were born -
that afflicted '' la bella signora" Vittoria
in this chill January of a New Year
where fountains froze
holding sprays of water in silence.
And many in the various artist's guilds
would blame Piero's delight
in pitting artist against artist
for sought after commissions,
like dogs fighting in a pit
to scrounge for leavings
dropped by the house of Medici.
For a commission from the Medici of Florenzia
meant success. But unlike Lorenzo
who composed sonnets - and Cosimo
who painted - Piero merely stated,
"It was he who determined
what art was in Florenzia."
Several years before, this same Piero
had awarded a sack full of golden ducats
to one artisan after striking another
artist in jealousy. Horribly breaking
his fellow craftsman's nose.
It was reported that Piero
laughed gleefully
when he was told
how the attacker "...felt bone
and cartilage crush like a biscuit".
Thrilling to the moment afterward,
as if he had been a spectator
at some gladiatorial event
while casually sunning himself,
in the broad manicured gardens
of the Medici palace
off "borgo" San Marco.
Now Piero prepared
for his daughter Vittoria's
imminent demise, because all Medici
were made conscious of their superior role
in life as well as death.
So the leader of the Medici
summoned
the local sculptor Buonarroti
to begin the art work for her tomb.
Not a great one such as Lorenzo's
with its exquisite classical bodies
of purest marble - but a resting place
fitting for a daughter of a Medici.
Designed and constructed by a competent
if yet unheralded artisan,
such as this Buonarroti - would suffice.
This Buonarroti, having once lived
under the protection and patronage
of "Il Magnifico" - was not overly eager
to please the degenerate Piero.
But Michelangelo Buonarroti had just lost
his amoroso, Poliziano,
to the dreaded sickness
having watched the light
of God's artistry fade
from his lover's eyes.
So this same Buonarroti
with his disfigured nose,
carrying a different type of signature
indelibly inflicted on his face
and soul, solemnly agreed
to create sculpture
that would be worthy of Vittoria
or any of the familia Medici.
On that very night - it snowed heavily.
And Ser Buonarroti with his assistants
and apprentices ventured into
the deserted San Marco gardens of the Medici.
Because as he worked -- it was as if
the snowy forms spoke to this Buonarroti.
Sometimes whispering, sometimes commanding his
hands and arms to create miraculous images.
And by torch light, working throughout
the long hours of cold darkness,
he completed statuaries fit for any king
or satrap - but not according
to the explicit instructions
of Piero's commission.
At dawn, this Buonarroti,
whose wet nurse
had been the daughter of a stone mason,
and who said of himself
that he had suckled a hammer and chisel
along with her milk -
asked signorina Vittoria to be brought
out into the garden to see
his work. Just as orange glare
changes to soft yellow beginning light,
pale and consumptive Vittoria was carried
in her warm feather-down bed by eight servants
accompanied by countless cousins,
aunts, uncles and attendants
to view some unusual creation
by this common artist.
And before her and everyone was wonder.
Sculptures of ice
perfectly resonating with brilliance --
A brilliance and genius that would
embrace a greater than life David -
waiting for fulfillment in future majesty.
Here a nativity scene.
The manger - bedding of straw
as delicately formed as any stem
of Venetian glassware.
Mary, La Santa Mama, Mother of God,
her face handsome yet giving.
While her head and shoulders
were outlined by glistening light
striking Joseph's muscular chest
as they both observed the grace
personified in the baby Jesu.
His small hands open, as if
he were inviting the world
to take him to its bosom.
To solve all its problems.
Shimmering with purity
of ice and packed snow.
Etched with the "gradina" -
the toothed claw chisel which gave
wonderful striated notches
to the surface - tiny streams
of texture as if drawn by finely hatched
pen lines.
Over there, animals;
sheep, oxen, asses, and camels
standing in life-size regal splendor.
Because to this Bounarroti, anatomy
was the definition of his life.
The sinews, muscles, and their very skin
seemed to breathe in the early morning light.
Steam rising from their bodies.
Creating "sfumato", a blending
of forms that melt into another
which produce a misty effect
without the use of lines or borders
in the manner of smoke.
Grouped there, the shepherds.
Staves and crooks gently herding
lambs and ewes. Toward flocks of snow formed creatures -
bleating from white muzzles
into a divine wind of this special moment.
A moment where herdsmen and boys
huddled for protection in
an Italian arboretum.
While their unblinking eyes watched
that scene in the manger of the inn.
Behind them glorious angels.
their clear wings of sparkling ice
outstretched in welcome
like peacocks
against backdrop
of grey and brown sleep-breathed bushes.
Halos of colour
composed from prismatic
reds, oranges, blues, and softest violets
refracted from the crystals.
Bringing the gift of creation
to enliven the drabness of a dull season.
While three wise men,
Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthasar
bowed and prayed before
the beautiful babe. Swaddled in intricate folds
of snow, as soft and seemingly pliable
as any linen cloth.
These strange men of the Orient,
as if we could see
their hues of different skin and foreign aspect,
genuflecting before this Holy Family.
Majestic figures of princely strength
immaculately detailed and radiant
as if all were lit
by that miraculous star.
For always this Buonarroti
was aware of how to illumine his creations.
The light becoming part of his compositions.
Casting the shadows he wished.
As if he was attuned not just to his art
but to a voice which whispered in his ear
how to allow the drama of shadow and shape
take and command center attention.
Positioned directly behind the manger
on a slight hillock, two saints.
Luke, his hard workman's body,
covered by a draped "stola"
Luke - patron protector of artists
and patron saint of Florenzia.
His strong hands, thumbs and forefingers
foreshadowing those incredible hands
on a church ceiling - painted years later.
Those hands striking awe, endowed with life,
fearing to reach out and touch God.
And Saint Francis of Assissi
with birds clustered around his shoulders.
Birds fluttering.
Necks and beaks angled as in life, so finely serrated -
your mind's imagination could see them
being blown in the wind.
Looking so alive
you thought they would fly
off into the increasingly ever bluer sky.
Which seemed to absorb the sparkles of colour
from the grand ice sculpture
set here in this wintered morning.
And dying Vittoria Medici began to cry.
Not from pain or remorse - but out of joy.
For these sculptures spoke to her.
And with her weak voice, she called
this Buonarroti to her side
and whispered to him
that forever onward, he would be known
as the "isculture del giardiano".
She touched his hands, still numb
from cold and saw the snowstorm
of ice chips matted on his head
and beard from his night's efforts.
Then she was carried inside
to a window by which to gaze out toward
the garden which brought
such lasting inner warmth
and satisfaction.
And Piero, her father,
wearing his tunic emblazoned
with the Medici's symbol
of three yellow globes -
signifying the golden wealth of the world,
faced this Buonarroti and demanded of him
why he had created this scene of ice.
This Buonarroti slowly answered:
"Because it is art."
"No," yelled Piero Medici.
"This will fade, it cannot endure."
And he scowled and continued,
Do not think I will pay you -
this is not the commission I contracted for."
"Vittoria's soul, clothed in all its flesh,"
said this Buonarroti, "even though blood of yours,
fades, and yet it will rise to God."
Piero stunned that a mere workman
would dare lecture a Medici screamed:
"You will have no more commissions
or help from our familia as long
as breath dwells within me.
No one in our society --
the best of Florenzia's society,
those of wealth, those of power,
those who have influence --
not the D'Este, or Alberti,
or Strozzi will offer you anything,
this I pledge." And he placed his right hand
on his genitals, out of disrespect
and from the old Latin tradition
of holding your manhood when
uttering a sacred vow.
And this Buonarroti replied:
"Il mal ch'io fuggo,
e' I ben ch'io O misprometto."
(The good I pledge to myself,
your bad I reject.)
And then this Buonarroti, quickly taking
a last glance at the wonder he created
took his leave of that coldness
in the garden of the Medici's
where he made sculptures of ice speak.
So Benedetto de Dragano finished his tale
Under chill of a sullen sky, leaving us alone
before a fire of memory, watching and listening
to an artist's footsteps, slip away
like melting snow into silence.
--Zyskandar Jaimot