The Sistine Secrets (4 page)

The appearance of the Sistine pavement was meant to serve four major functions. First, it beautifies the chapel with a special grace. Second, it architecturally helps to define the space while simultaneously stretching it out and giving it a feeling of kinetic flow. Next, it “directs” the movements and order of rites during a papal court mass, showing where the pope would kneel, where the procession would pause during the chanting of certain psalms and hymns, where officiants would stand, where incense would be swung, and so forth. But last and least known is its additional purpose as a
Kabbalistic meditational device
that thus, in one more way, links it to ancient Jewish sources. Within it is a wide array of mystical symbols: spheres of the Tree of Life, the pathways of the soul, the four layers of the universe, and the triangles of Philo of Alexandria.

Kabbalah (in Hebrew, literally “receiving”) refers to the mystical traditions that encompass the secrets of the Torah, the esoteric truths that reveal the most profound understanding of the world, of humankind, and of the Almighty himself. Philo was a Jewish mystic in Alexandria, Egypt, who wrote dissertations on the Kabbalah in the first century of the Christian era. He is commonly considered the central link between Greek philosophy, Judaism, and Christian mysticism. His triangles point either up or down to show the flow of energy between action and reception, male and female, God and humanity, and the upper and lower worlds. In fact, the Latin name for this kind of mosaic decor is
opus alexandrinum
(Alexandrian work) because it is filled with Kabbalistic symbolism originally taught by Philo of Alexandria.

This Latin name is the reason that many art historians and architects mistakenly believe that Cosmati-style flooring originally came from Alexandria, Egypt, or was popularized by Pope Alexander VI Borgia in the late fifteenth century. However, there is no evidence anywhere in ancient Alexandria for this particular kind of design; as for the suggested connection to Pope Alexander VI, Alexander came on the scene more than two hundred years
after
the heyday of Cosmati paving. We believe that the most logical conclusion is that it was the connection with Alexandrian Kabbalah that gave the Cosmatesque design its name.

Yet another link to the Jewish Temple is the remarkable fact that the Seal of Solomon is a recurring symbol in Cosmati floors and found throughout the Sistine paving designs. This symbol was considered the key to the ancient esoteric wisdom of the Jews. The seal, composed of a combination of both triangles of Philo, superimposed one upon the other and therefore pointing up and down, is today called the
Magen David,
or Star of David. It serves as a nearly universal emblem of Judaism, chosen to highlight the flag of the modern state of Israel. In the late fifteenth century, though, it was not yet the symbol of the Jewish people, but rather of their arcane mystical knowledge. Even Raphael hid a Seal of Solomon in his giant mystical fresco,
The School of Athens.

Understanding the seal’s deeper meaning as part of the Sistine Chapel requires some background. The earliest archaeological evidence for the Jewish use of the symbol comes from an inscription dating to the late seventh century BCE and attributed to Joshua ben Asayahu. The legend behind its association with King Solomon—and hence its other name, Solomon’s Seal—is quite fanciful, and almost certainly false. In medieval Jewish, Islamic, and Christian legends, as well as in one of the Arabian Nights stories, the Seal of Solomon with its hexagonal shape was a magical signet ring said to have been possessed by the king, which variously gave him the power to command demons (or
jinni
) and to speak with animals. The reason that this symbol is more commonly attributed to King David, some researchers have theorized, is that the hexagram represents the astrological chart at the time of David’s birth or anointment as king. But its most profound and almost certainly its correct meaning is the mystical interpretation that links it with the holy number seven by way of its six points surrounding the center.

The number seven has special religious significance in Judaism. Going back to creation, we have the six days followed by the seventh, the Sabbath, the day of rest proclaimed holy by God and endowed with singular blessing. Every seventh year is a sabbatical year in which the land is not to be worked, and after seven cycles of seven the Jubilee year brings freedom to indentured slaves and the return of property to its original owners. But most relevant of all for our understanding of the significance of seven as used in the Sistine’s mosaic floor is its link with the Menorah in the ancient Temple, whose seven oil lamps rest on three stems branching from each side of a central pole. It has been strongly suggested that the Star of David came to be used as a standard symbol in synagogues precisely because its organization into 3 + 3 + 1—triangle up, triangle down, and center—corresponds exactly to the menorah. And this menorah is the very item featured so prominently on the Arch of Titus commemorating the victory of the Roman Empire over what it considered a defeated people never to be heard from again.

However, thanks to artists like the Cosmatis and Michelangelo, Jewish symbolism was to be seen again and again, through all their most famous works. It is one more bizarre secret of the world’s most Catholic chapel that its giant mosaic floor is chock-full of Stars of David.

THE ORIGINAL FIFTEENTH-CENTURY FRESCOES—NOT WHAT THEY SEEM TO BE

The main attraction of the new chapel, however, was neither its floor nor its ceiling, but its walls. Starting at the front altar wall, there began two series of panels—one about the life of Moses, the other about the life of Jesus, much like a pair of Bible stories told in comic-strip format.

To paint so many labor-intensive frescoes, a whole team of the top fresco artists of the fifteenth century were brought in—or to be more accurate, were
sent
in. This is important to know because of
who
sent them. It was none other than Lorenzo de’ Medici, the richest man in Florence and its unofficial ruler. He is the same man who would later discover Michelangelo and raise him as one of his own sons.

Pope Sixtus IV hated Lorenzo and his family, having struggled against them for years. Sixtus wanted to seize control of freethinking Florence and its great wealth so that he could then proceed to take over all of central Italy. In 1478 he plotted to eliminate Lorenzo and the entire de’ Medici clan in an early version of a Mafia rubout. The only difference is that even the Godfather would not have dared attempt this particular conspiracy. Sixtus planned to have Lorenzo and his brother Giuliano assassinated in the Cathedral of Florence, in front of the main altar, during Easter Mass. More blasphemous still, the chosen signal for the killing was the Elevation of the Host. Even cold-blooded professional killers turned down this job, and the pope had to enlist the help of a priest and the Archbishop of Pisa. These two plotted out the details along with Sixtus’s most corrupt nephew, Girolamo Riario. Sixtus refused to listen to the details, coyly saying, “Do what you must, as long as no one is killed.” However, he did order his warlord Federico da Montefeltro, the Duke of Urbino, to amass six hundred troops on the hills outside Florence and wait for the signal of Lorenzo’s death. The shameless attack took place as planned…up to a point. Giuliano de’ Medici died on the spot from nineteen dagger wounds. Lorenzo, though badly wounded, managed to escape into a secret tunnel and survive. The signal to invade Florence was never given. The enraged Florentines, instead of rising up against the de’ Medicis as Sixtus had hoped, slaughtered the conspirators. It took personal intercession from Lorenzo himself to stop the citizens from killing Cardinal Raffaele Riario, another nephew of the pope but one who had no involvement in the attempted coup. Two years later, the pope gave up and a truce was declared between the Vatican and Florence. It was just at this time that the new chapel was ready to be decorated.

So, why did Lorenzo send his most talented painters to decorate a chapel glorifying the man who had killed his beloved brother and had tried to butcher him as well? According to the official guidebooks, this was a “peace offering,” a gesture of forgiveness and reconciliation. But the official explanation is wrong. The real reason is key to understanding the none-too-conciliatory messages of the frescoes.

Lorenzo did indeed send the cream of the crop of artists: Sandro Botticelli, Cosimo Rosselli, Domenico Ghirlandaio (who would later teach Michelangelo for a brief time), and the Umbrian painter Perugino (who would later teach Raphael). Besides covering all four walls of the chapel with the Moses–Jesus cycles, they were commissioned to add an upper strip portraying the first thirty popes, plus a large fresco of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary into Heaven on the front altar wall between the two windows. Faced with so much to fresco, the team later brought in Pinturicchio, Luca Signorelli, Biagio d’Antonio, and some assistants. The list is a who’s who of the top fresco artists of fifteenth-century Italian painting. All of them, with the exception of Perugino and his student Pinturicchio, were proud Florentines.

The pope had planned his own multilayered symbolic design for the chapel. It was meant to illustrate successionism to the world, proving that the Church was the one true inheritor of monotheism by replacing Judaism. To accomplish this, every panel from the Moses cycle was twinned with one from the Jesus cycle. The northern series of fresco panels told the life story of Jesus, from left to right, in Christian order. The southern series told the story of Moses—but from right to left, in Hebrew order. This resulted in eight “pairs”:

Some of the “connections” require a stretch of the imagination, but the idea was to show that the life of Moses served only to foreshadow the life of Jesus.

Still another purpose for the pope was to elevate the worship of the Virgin Mary. Sixtus IV wanted the chapel to be dedicated to Mary’s Assumption into Heaven, celebrated in the Catholic calendar on August 15. For this reason, Perugino painted the giant fresco of Mary’s Ascent on the altar wall, with Pope Sixtus IV himself depicted kneeling before her.

The pope’s last intention—and the one probably closest to his heart—was to glorify and solidify the supreme authority of himself and his family, the della Roveres. The papacy was still recovering from centuries of schisms, scandals, antipopes, intrigues, and assassinations. The pontifical court had moved back to Rome only fifty years before, after the so-called Babylonian exile of the popes in Avignon, France. Pope Sixtus was eager to demonstrate not only the supremacy of Christianity over Judaism and the divine authority of the popes over Christendom, but also his personal superiority over all preceding popes. This is why, in accord with his mandate, Aaron, the first high priest of the Jews, and Peter, the first pope, are both clothed in blue and gold, the heraldic colors of the della Rovere family. This is why oak trees and acorns can be seen everywhere in the chapel—della Rovere means “of the oak tree,” which was his family crest. This is also why Sixtus had his portrait placed above the cycle of the first thirty popes—right in the center of the front wall, next to the Virgin Mary in Heaven.

With all this in mind, let’s return to our question: why did Lorenzo send his best artists to Rome to carry out this job of self-aggrandizement for the man who had plotted against him and his family? Very simply, as we’ll demonstrate, to
sabotage
Sixtus’s beloved chapel.

Botticelli was most likely the ringleader and team coordinator of the fresco project. Standard official texts on the Sistine claim that it was Perugino, but a quick analysis shows that he—the only non-Florentine—was not in on the plot. Perugino’s color scheme and style is completely different from those of all the other panels, and his symbolism contains no antipapal messages, whereas the other artists are having a field day all over the chapel.

Cosimo Rosselli had a little white puppy that became the mascot for the Tuscan artists. We do not know if the dog was allowed to play in the chapel while the artists were painting, but he can be found cavorting in every fresco panel, except for those of the Umbrian Perugino. In the Last Supper, he is sporting at his master’s feet. In the Golden Calf fresco, he is actually stepping down from the panel into the chapel.

Granted, other than the possible ritual impurity of a dog in the sanctuary, this is not a major insult. But the Florentines inserted much stronger images in their work to settle old scores with the pope. Botticelli was the one who had the biggest grievance. After the execution of the conspirators who attacked the de’ Medicis, Botticelli had made a fresco showing their corpses hanging from the cathedral on public display. The painting bore sarcastic captions attributed to Lorenzo de’ Medici himself. As part of the official peace treaty between the Vatican and Florence in 1480, Sixtus insisted that this fresco be utterly destroyed. Botticelli was certainly not likely to forget or forgive that. So, in his panel of Moses’s Flight from Egypt, he inserted an oak tree—the symbol of the della Rovere family—over the heads of the pagan bullies that Moses chases away. Near the innocent lambs and the holy vision of the Burning Bush, however, he placed an orange tree bearing an oval of oranges—the family crest of the Florentine de’ Medicis. In Korach’s Mutiny, Botticelli cloaked the rebellious Korach in the blue and gold of the della Roveres, and in the far background showed two boats: a wrecked one for Rome, and a fine floating one with the flag of Florence proudly waving on top. In the Temptations of Christ, he inserted Sixtus’s cherished oak tree twice: a standing oak right next to Satan as he is unmasked and a chopped-up oak about to be burned in the Temple.