The Ugly Renaissance (4 page)

This intimate relationship between a self-conscious age of “rebirth” and the creation of a pantheon of “golden intellects” was picked up and refined yet further in the sixteenth century by
Giorgio Vasari. Vasari—who coined the word
rinascita
(rebirth; Renaissance)—set himself the task of assembling a series of biographies of “the most excellent painters, sculptors, and architects” responsible for restoring the long-forgotten “pristine form” of antiquity. But Vasari also went one step further. His goal was not simply to formalize a canon of great men who had created and defined an age of “rebirth” but also to fashion an ideal of the artist as hero. Although he criticized many artists for their
unpleasant or “bestial” habits (such as
Piero di Cosimo), Vasari left no doubt that the truly important, heroic artist—who was in part responsible for giving shape to the new age—was the artist whose life itself was a work of art. Michelangelo—whom Vasari knew personally—was just such a man.

The implications of this sort of evidence are significant. To say that such testimonies are the bedrock of our view of the Renaissance as a whole is not to say that we trust them absolutely. Indeed, precisely because they are so effusive, the self-conscious and self-congratulatory remarks of individuals such as Bruni, Ficino, Palmieri, and Vasari automatically arouse the suspicion of any self-respecting historian. Although
Erwin Panofsky adamantly defended them as self-conscious affirmations of a verifiable cultural shift, there can be little doubt that such statements were perhaps more reflective of a tendency toward rhetorical hyperbole and wishful thinking than they were indications of contemporary cultural realities.

At the same time, however, these proclamations of a new age of cultural rebirth can’t be ignored altogether and are actually the best guide to the period we have. Rose tinted and propagandistic though they may be, they provide the historian with a viable working definition of the “Renaissance” that can serve as the springboard for research. Even if it is possible to question whether Petrarch actually did revive the brilliance of Cicero’s Latin in quite the way that Bruni claimed, for example, the
idea
of “rebirth” can still be used as a lens through which to view (and question) his works. Similarly, even if it is accepted that Giotto’s campanile lacks any clear parallels in ancient architecture, it is nevertheless possible to acknowledge that contemporaries believed they were
trying
to revive antiquity and use that goal as the yardstick against which to evaluate the art of the period.

Yet if historians have been careful to avoid trusting the words of men like Ficino and Palmieri too much, they have nevertheless continued to indulge one vital part of the Renaissance “myth” in their quest to understand the period as a whole. Although the concept of rebirth has been the subject of incessant, critical scrutiny for well over a century, the Renaissance still tends to be thought of in terms of the works and deeds of “great men.” More important, even if Vasari’s often lavish praise has been viewed with skepticism, it has nevertheless proved almost impossible not to succumb to his vision of the Renaissance artist
as a purely cultural figure. Despite the proliferation of studies on the social and economic history of the Renaissance, for example, there is still a tendency to think of the period as a litany of “big names,” as a list of “golden boys,” each of whom is viewed principally—even exclusively—as an agent of cultural production.

It is not difficult to see the allure of this idea of the Renaissance or to understand why it has become so familiar. On first arriving in a city like Florence, one finds it very hard to avoid. When one stands in the Piazza della Signoria, it’s easy to imagine that the Renaissance was more or less exactly as Bruni and Palmieri described it. Surrounded by the classical elegance of the Loggia dei Lanzi and the
gallerie
of the Uffizi, and with statues by Michelangelo,
Donatello, and Cellini looking down on the square, one is all too tempted to think of the Renaissance as a time in which heroically talented artists revived the culture of antiquity to create both cities and societies that were themselves works of art.

But this is exactly where the paradox lies. It’s not that the implication of cultural and artistic “rebirth” is necessarily useless or invalid but rather that attempts to define the Renaissance in such terms inevitably exclude more than they include. In succumbing to the “great men” myth, the familiar definition of the Renaissance tends to exclude the everyday, the visceral, the sordid, and the distasteful. It tends to abstract literature and the visual arts from ordinary existence, as if it were possible to regard them as entirely distinct spheres of existence. It overlooks the fact that even the greatest artists had mothers, got into scrapes, went to the toilet, had affairs, bought clothes, and were occasionally very unpleasant people. It ignores the fact that Michelangelo had his nose smashed in for being cocky.

The result is a one-sided and incomplete image of what was undoubtedly a rich and profoundly “human” age. It effectively misrepresents entirely consistent human beings as conflicted or paradoxical figures when their artistic achievements appear to clash with decidedly down-to-earth characters. It leaves historians anxious for order and meaning with no option but to set aside whatever traits seem inconvenient—usually the most ordinary. In other words, by giving way to our comfortable old view of the Renaissance, we end up accepting Michelangelo the artist but dismissing Michelangelo the man.

There is no immediate need to offer a completely new definition of the Renaissance as a whole. But if Michelangelo’s broken nose illustrates
anything, it shows that the Renaissance can really be understood only when it is viewed as a whole—vicious brawls and all. In order to comprehend how Michelangelo was able to create so perfect a synthesis of classical and naturalistic elements in his sculpture at the same time as he was having his nose broken in idiotic fights, it is necessary to recognize that these were two interrelated dimensions of the same, all-too-human person and that the age in which he lived was similarly composed not just of soaring cultural achievements but also of seamy, boorish, violent, and deeply unpleasant trends. Put simply, if the Renaissance is going to be understood, Michelangelo must be put back into his real-life social context, and the swirling social world that gave birth to the man
and
the artist must be brought into focus. The “Renaissance” needs to be viewed not as it is conventionally seen but as the
ugly
Renaissance it was.

Returning to the beginning, therefore, it’s clear that a pause needs to be made at exactly the moment at which
Pietro Torrigiano’s fist crashed into Michelangelo’s nose. The bloodcurdling sound of bone and cartilage cracking is an occasion to stop and reconsider. As Michelangelo is left slumping to the ground, familiar ideas of the Renaissance also begin to fall away as a search is launched for the world that made it possible for this adolescent both to scale the heights of artistic genius and to plumb the lows of public brawling. This key moment must be approached afresh by imaginatively zooming out of Santa Maria del Carmine. First, it is important to look at Florence as a whole, and uncover the sights, sounds, and smells of the streets and squares. Only then will the dramas of social life that provide the immediate context for Michelangelo’s fight gradually come to light. After a survey of the dramatic history of the institutions that frame the world of Renaissance art—business, politics, and religion—the world of home life and the inner workings of everyday existence in contemporary Florence will be examined, and the surprisingly ordinary, often rather sordid, concerns that filled Michelangelo’s thoughts as he embarked on his career as an artist can be reconstructed. And finally, Michelangelo’s mind itself can be opened up to examine how the swirling mass of daily experiences combined with beliefs, hopes, and systems of thought to produce the intellectual framework on which his art—and his broken nose—relied.

2

I
N
P
ETER’S
S
HADOW

W
HAT SORT OF
city did Michelangelo encounter before his fateful fight on that summer’s day in 1491?

Although the documentary evidence for this early part of his life is comparatively sketchy, his day would certainly have started at
Bertoldo di Giovanni’s school in the gardens of the Piazza San Marco. Arriving there in the early morning, Michelangelo would have found it already buzzing with activity. Among the rich collection of ancient statues and the higgledy-piggledy blocks of un-carved marble sat his friends, each carving away or drawing diligently. He may have called a cheerful greeting to
Francesco Granacci—who would become a lifelong companion. Paper and chalk in hand, he would have approached Bertoldo to discuss the day’s work. Michelangelo made it clear that he intended to spend yet another day sketching at the Brancacci Chapel. Bertoldo—who appreciated the boy’s persistence but who understood the merits of good guidance—would likely have directed him to focus his attentions not on the more celebrated scenes but on one of the more compositionally challenging episodes from the cycle.
Because he was already ailing from an unknown illness that would carry him to his grave only months later, it is difficult to believe that
Saint Peter Healing the Sick with His Shadow
(
Fig. 1
) would not have been at the forefront of Bertoldo’s mind as he gave his advice. And so, dutifully assenting to his teacher’s counsel, Michelangelo would have set off for Santa Maria del Carmine.

Although the peregrinations of any teenager are always hard to predict, his route through
Florence would certainly have taken him past some of the city’s most famous landmarks. From San Marco, not far from Brunelleschi’s Ospedale degli Innocenti and the Medici family church of San Lorenzo, he would have passed his home in the Pa- lazzo Medici Riccardi, the
Baptistery, and the cathedral of Santa Maria
del Fiore. Farther on was the great guild church of Orsanmichele and the Piazza della Signoria. His path would have taken him through the streets of the old city, across the Ponte Vecchio, and into the depths of Oltr’Arno before he reached his destination at Santa Maria del Carmine.

In many ways, Michelangelo’s journey was a voyage through the history of the Renaissance itself. The buildings he would have passed are in many senses emblematic of the artistic and architectural achievements of the period. But while they are today treated very much as artifacts to be preserved and admired in pristine condition, Michelangelo would have seen them as buildings in constant use as religious, administrative, and communal structures in a living, breathing city that was the context for the art and culture of the Renaissance. Plunging into the heart of Florence, Michelangelo trod the streets in which the cultural innovations of the period emerged, and he passed visible proofs of the different influences that had conspired to drive those changes.

After emerging as independent states following the collapse of imperial authority in the early eleventh century, the city-republics and despotisms of northern Italy had cultivated new cultural forms geared toward the celebration and preservation of autonomous self-government. The elegance of classical Latin was studied and imitated by the highly educated bureaucrats who handled the ever-increasing burden of legislation, taxation, and diplomacy.
Public officials like the Florentines
Coluccio Salutati and
Leonardo Bruni mined the ancient classics for a rhetoric of “republicanism,” while their counterparts in despotic states looked to the literature of the Roman Empire for models of illustrious princes. Particularly in the struggle to protect their independence from other states, the cities consciously fostered a sense of urban liberty.
Great public buildings such as Florence’s Palazzo Vecchio were constructed to reflect the grandeur of the republic and to testify to the stability and endurance of communal government. Art was commissioned for public spaces that glorified either the
independence of the city-states or the brilliance of the
signori
(lords). Grown rich on the profits of trade, business, too, contributed. Corporative organizations, such as guilds and lay fraternities, built grand edifices, such as Ognissanti, for their trade and funded public institutions, such as the Ospedale degli Innocenti. Wanting to celebrate their riches or to atone for the sins they had incurred in acquiring their wealth, the new urban merchant elite also eagerly
patronized the arts with a view to creating their own, very public image. Richly decorated family chapels proliferated, and fine palaces sprang up in their dozens.

But Michelangelo’s walk was also a figurative journey through the social influences that shaped his life as both artist and man. A city is, after all, the ultimate stage of the social dramas of everyday life and is the cradle in which the artistic dreams of the Renaissance were born. It is where artists lived, worked, and died; it is where social habits, tastes, and conventions were formed and refashioned; it is where life and art coincided, interacted, and cross-fertilized. As he passed the churches, squares, palaces, markets, government buildings, and hospitals that constituted the stage of everyday life, Michelangelo’s walk mirrored the social, economic, religious, and political concerns that shaped his career as a painter and sculptor and that defined his values and priorities as a human being. The sights, sounds, and smells he would have encountered on this journey were part of the weft from which the tapestry of his life and work was woven. The urban landscape in which Michelangelo and his contemporaries worked, played, and fought was, however, much uglier than the landmarks of his journey might initially suggest.