The Flagellation by Piero della Francesca

The Flagellation, painted by Piero della Francesca between 1458 and 1466 [1], is on a wooden panel measuring 58.4 by 81.5 cm. It is possibly the most mysterious and enigmatic of all the surviving pictures by Piero, whose work is in any case conspicuous for this hallmark quality. Many of his works, ostensibly straightforward in their treatment of their subjects, in fact contain elements which are not easily explicable in relation to the supposed subject and are, in their general feeling, somewhat ambiguous (or better, enigmatic). His London Baptism may be taken as an example: the subject is the Baptism of Jesus by John the Baptist, in the River Jordan.

The Baptism by Piero della Francesca, tempera on wood, height 167cm, early 1440s?

National Gallery, London (Photo: the author)

Given that it is a religious image, and one with a historical iconography, the basic and necessary ingredients are all there (based on Luke, Mark and Matthew), and, in addition three angels - divine figures - who witness the event, and among whom, one engages our gaze directly. However, in the background there is a young-looking man who is removing his shirt, preparing to be baptised as well; or is he? He could equally be putting his shirt back on. This would seem to be a small and even insignificant point, nevertheless, it leaves us with a doubt, something is not clear, something is ambiguous - and especially in relation to the seeming crystal clarity of the event taking place in the immediate foreground of the painting.

But, even more puzzling are the four orientally-dressed men standing in the distance on the other side of the river, behind the dressing/undressing neophyte. Do these men, dressed as they are, represent the old Hebrew Law, as it was before the coming of Christ?; or do they represent, as suggested by various historians, the Eastern Christian Church with whom Rome (the centre of the Western Church) was attempting to reconcile in the 1430s? In any case, what is Piero trying to imply by including these contemporary Eastern figures in an event which took place roughly 1,400 years earlier, viz. the Baptism of Christ?

The Flagellation by Piero della Francesca, oil and tempera on wood panel, 1450?-1466?

In its glass case in the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, Urbino (Photo: the author)

In the Flagellation (above) I think the first point to be made is that it should not be read as a description of an event as retold in the New Testament; it is a symbolic picture and what it is symbolic of is the problem, at least for art historians. Like the Baptism, it too contains the Gospel and (by then) long-established iconographical essentials of the purported subject, but, unlike in the Baptism - and perhaps two decades later - this Biblical event is not shown in the centre of the foreground area of the painting, but is set, as sometimes happened, off to one side (the left) and, much more radically, virtually in the background - although not quite. For this reason and given the small size of the picture anyway, this event, the Flagellation of Jesus, is very small: clearly visible, but small. If Piero's painting consisted only of this rendering of the event, apart from the almost secondary placing, that is, almost in the background, we could have said that it was a more or less 'normal' representation; however, the right side of Piero's painting is completely and wholly abnormal!

The right side takes us outside, away from the 'action' of the putative subject, to three very differently-clothed men, arranged like the standing figures on the left side, in a vague semi-circle. Some obvious questions spring to mind: who are they?; why are they there?; what are they doing?; what is their relationship to the Flagellation? The very composition of Piero's Flagellation, that is, the architecture and the physical organisation of the environment, marks it as one of his most enigmatic works: the, so to speak 'incarnation' of Albertian theory, especially in the internal view on the left, and the comparatively modest urban street on the right; then, the relatively minor role played by the Flagellation scene - in itself, very conservative in its adherence to late-Gothic models - and the conversely major role played by the much larger and closer three figures in the right foreground.

It has been pointed out by various writers that Piero's 'staging' of the events, that is, one in the distance and another in the foreground area, is not necessarily peculiar to him. Benozzo Gozzoli's Life of St. Francis cycle at Montefalco, finished in 1452, is a famous example; according to Carlo Ginzburg's dating of Piero's Flagellation as 1458-59 [2], it seems that the Gozzoli frescos were completed before Piero began work on his picture. This is important because some critics have maintained that Benozzo was influenced by Piero, and others that the influence went the other way. In Benozzo's painting of the Dream of Innocent III and The Confirmation of the Franciscan Rule we find two events portrayed in a very similar spatial arrangement to what we see in Piero's Flagellation. Benozzo also used this 'near-far' spatial device in another one of the frescos at Montefalco, namely the Birth of St Francis, The Dream of the Pilgrim and The Homage of the Simple Man (as in Piero's painting, it was common to include several episodes or events within the structure of one image). For our purposes, who influenced whom is not important, but there are major differences between the end results, namely, there is nothing enigmatic about Benozzo's beautiful but straightforward narrative content, nor does his storybook-like retelling bear any comparison with the Byzantine hierographic quality of Piero della Francesca's work. 

Let's have a look at some of the details of this beautiful and strange image called The Flagellation. First, Pilate, on the extreme left, is seen in (his) almost exact right profile, his face, beard and hat all possibly modelled on a medal portrait of Emperor John VIII Palaeologus, the leader of the Eastern Church delegation to Ferrara and Florence (1438-9) for the reconciliation talks; an event possibly witnessed by Piero himself given that he is known to have been in Florence at the time of those talks - suggesting that Pilate's face and hat may have been based on his own recollection (of the Emperor John), rather than on the image on a medal [3]. This profile in the extreme but distant left of the picture is mirrored, so to speak, in the extreme right foreground by the only other 'profile portrait' in the painting, this time the exact left profile of the richly-clothed balding man.

Portrait medal of John VIII Palaeologus by Pisanello, 1438-39?

Many questions have been raised concerning the identity and role of the turbaned figure, in shadow and with his back to us, in the left-hand section; in a certain way, he is quasi-invisible because he is almost entirely in shadow, especially when contrasted with the brightly-lit figure of Jesus and the column to which He is bound. This turbaned man, like the four distant figures in the Baptism and the left-hand figure standing in the right foreground of our painting, is dressed in oriental style (not Greek however); on its own, not a remarkable thing as Italian artists had long sought to 'set the scene' by including figures in oriental clothing to suggest Palestine in the 1st century. But, something about this shadowed figure and more especially his hand gesture, causes us to look more closely at him, and to note as well, that his left-hand gesture is also made by the other figure dressed in the oriental manner, that man on the left of our right-foreground group (incidentally, the tallest figure in the whole painting and virtually in the centre). Two Eastern or oriental 'types', both making the same gesture with the same hand; this particular gesture, as it does still today, signifies peace-making or at least, a placatory attitude. So, we would appear to be looking at two men attempting to make peace, to conciliate, one in the 'background' (in time, in history?), one in the foreground (the present?).

A close-up detail of the turbaned man and his hand gesture; note that his colouring is so muted as to render him almost invisible; note too the turban, oriental but not Greek. Photo by the author but distortion due to the marked curve now in the wooden panel on which the picture is painted.

One other point to remark concerning the oriental figure in the scene of the Flagellation is his position: initially, at least to me, he appears to be walking towards the scene in the middle of the room, or towards Pilate perhaps. Actually, he is still; his only movement is his hand gesture. Importantly, he stands outside the central area of that extraordinary architecture, marked by the large, circular black marble in the floor - in whose centre stands the column - and the light falling on the figure of Pilate and his chair. Therefore, this oriental personage would seem to be an observer of, but not a participant in, the event before him.

One aspect of the Flagellation scene which helps to 'remove' it from us in a certain way is that no one in that scene is interested in us: all the figures are engaged with each other and direct their focus inwards; as well, two of them indeed have their backs to us - the oriental man and the tormentor on the right. Although His body is seen from the front, Christ's gaze appears to be towards either the torturer on His left, or to the outside (the future?).

Before leaving this group, I would like to suggest the possibility that the golden statue of the nude on top of the column to which Christ is tied was painted by Piero's reputed student, Luca Signorelli. A close-up view of this figure holding an orb in his raised left hand and a staff (or dividers?) with his right, reveals a human body quite unlike anything made by Piero della Francesca - but very like those made by Luca Signorelli in his frescos in Orvieto cathedral. The roundness of the torso, limbs and head - and particularly the face and eyes - is not the manner of Piero, nor is the smile on the face. But, importantly, neither is the pose of this bronze or gold figure: this pose, in 'contrapposto' [4], is typical Signorelli, especially in the area of the figure's right hip. Also, this bronze or gold figure is completely nude, that is, including the genitals, something seen nowhere else, in adult figures, in the work of Piero [5]. If Lavin is correct, and the painting was indeed made in or around 1466 (again, incidentally, well after Benozzo's frescos), then it is possible that Luca Signorelli (c.1445-1523), as a perhaps 21-year-old apprentice or assistant to Piero, might have been allowed to contribute this one element; after all, such a small, minor figure in such a small painting; however, in an obviously richly symbolic image such as this, it would be unwise to dismiss any element, no matter how apparently minor.

Two nude men carrying a man and a woman by Luca Signorelli, drawing, 1490-95?
Note the particular roundness of the torso and the lower limbs of the right-hand figure; also the characteristic swing of the hips.

Many writers have seen in Piero's Flagellation some kind of reference to a major problem of his time, namely the re-unification or reconciliation of the Eastern (Greek Orthodox) and Western (Latin) Christian churches; this problem was made more acute as Constantinople, the political and religious centre of the Eastern Church (and the remnant of the Eastern Roman Empire) was being threatened with attack from the Ottomans. The authorities in the East desperately wanted the Roman Church (the Pope) to send forces to the aid of Constantinople, something which did not happen and therefore contributed to its conquest by Ottoman troops in 1453. If there is in fact some reference to this politico-religious situation, for whom then was the painting made and further, what purpose was a small picture like this one supposed to serve in such a complex international crisis, already, according to the picture's dating, a fait accompli?

Reasonably, it would seem that the subtle references to that particular situation - if indeed that's what they are - are not addressed to the political reality, but rather to the doctrinal positions maintained by the Eastern and Western churches. Leaving aside the obvious political desires of the leaders of both factions, there had been in Christianity from quite early in its history, marked differences of opinion about what was acceptable or otherwise as Christian dogma. One of the most inflamed debates centred on the nature of Christ's divinity. Without going into the often deadly whys-and-wherefores of that debate, could it not be that hidden in the subtle signs within Piero's image, we have a dissertation on that theme? The inclusion of oriental or Greek characters (the left-hand figure in the foreground group), the very subtle (to our eyes) hand gestures, the differences in clothing, the clear separating of 'inside' and 'outside', the temporal and the eternal or divine, could not all of these contain occult references to the doctrinal questions? As we may now appreciate, there are many unanswered questions regarding this little picture.

We have already spoken in passing of the three right-foreground figures so let's look more closely at them, obviously important as they were for Piero, occupying as they do almost half of the foreground. In this part of the picture, there are three adult men arranged as previously mentioned, in a rough semi-circle. Two seem to be aged around 40 or 50 years, while the personage between them is clearly a youth or a very young man. This youth differs in many respects from his well-dressed and shod companions: first, he is clearly young, with youthful face and blond hair; he is barefoot; he wears what would qualify in Piero's art as angel's clothes; he is not a portrait, and, he is looking directly at us: no other figure in this picture addresses his gaze at us, the viewers. I used the word 'companions' just now to refer to the other two figures, on either side of our 'angelic' one; is it possible that, if he is indeed a 'divine' presence, that the others are unaware of him? The expensively-dressed Italian (Western) man on the right, who bears a very strong resemblance to other 'portraits' in Piero's work [6], seems to be looking at his opposite number, dressed as a contemporary Greek emissary. The Greek, whose lips could be parted, seems to be looking into the distance beyond the frame, but definitely not at the man on the right. Indeed, the facial expressions suggest stalemate while the Greek's left hand indicates conciliation, as noted earlier. The contemporary Italian on the right has his thumbs stuck in his belt, a stance possibly indicating either attention or resistance. We should note here as well, that both of these men are well-shod and well-dressed, indicative of high social standing [7]; furthermore, the Italian figure is wearing a specific kind of red headdress, at present though, slung across his right shoulder and falling to below his gown, near his right foot. According to Jane Bridgeman, this article of clothing shows high status, perhaps that of an academic, a physician or a lawyer. When not worn on the head, the 'capuccio' (hood) was hung on the back of the right shoulder as a mark of respect for the present company [8].

These two figures, perhaps symbolic of the Eastern and Western positions in a theological dispute, are both clearly portraits and this is pointed up by the obviously non-portrait of the angelic figure between them. This young figure is typical of Piero's angels: he is young, wears the long tunic with a high belt (with heavy material tucked-up from beneath), and importantly, his facial features are stylised. His eyes, nose, mouth and expression are absolutely 'stock' angel in the art of Piero della Francesca - and therefore, within Piero's environments, timeless. By contrast, the two contemporary, and therefore temporal, figures have particularised features, quite different from one another and completely different from those of the 'angel' - or any other standardised figure used commonly by Piero (including, to a large extent, the faces of his Madonnas). The left-hand figure, dressed in the Greek style, seems to me a possible free extrapolation from the medal likeness of the Emperor John VIII; that this figure looked like a 'real' Greek personage was possibly the point, not that it looked exactly like anyone in particular.

I have spent some time on these three figures also as a way of introducing some other enigmatic qualities in this painting. These three figures are typical 'modern' figures in Piero paintings, that is, Renaissance figures, as is the beautifully drawn and painted oriental witness to the Flagellation scene. However, apart from Pilate, the other figures in this section, the scourgers and Christ himself, are all standard late-Gothic types and poses (allowing that Christ's body does show some classical influence although not more so than a figure by Nicola or Giovanni Pisano for instance). Even the arrangement of those four figures (Christ, Pilate and the two scourgers) in the left side of the painting is 'standard' and, it must be said, a little old-fashioned by that stage of the 15th century - especially for a painter otherwise avant-garde, as it were. Very similar compositions may be seen in Pisan and Sienese works, for instance in the Flagellation by Pietro Lorenzetti, c. 1316-19 (?) at Assisi; these have the Flagellation set in an elaborate architectural environment, with Pilate seated at the left. In fact, these and many others have a number of similarities with the general composition and choices seen in the left side of Piero's version.

In other words, Piero has apparently combined a very traditional and almost anachronistic grouping with certain of his own very modern ideas, not least of which is his profound mastery of linear perspective (it might be noted that the lovely frescos by Benozzo Gozzoli referred to earlier, do not have quite the same level of mastery, as can be seen in the raised oblique structures). In the earlier examples just referred to of the same subject (in Pisa and Assisi), the architecture in which the torture takes place is, while elaborate and decorative, almost completely ignorant of the (Albertian) principles of linear perspective. Professor Aronberg Lavin's detailed exegesis of the complex architecture, both inside what she refers to as 'Pilate's palace', where the torture traditionally takes place, and outside (where the three foreground men are) which is the physical and, to a large extent, psychological locus of Piero's interpretation, has revealed exactly how profound was his understanding of that new science of perspective, and how subtly and cleverly he made use of it.

Just now it was stated that the architectural setting was also a psychological one: this because the composition is split, almost but not quite in the centre, between an event in the distance on the left (in the past?) and one set very close to the picture plane, that is, close to us (in the then-present?). This 'split' forces us to move not only 'across' the image but, thanks to the architecture, 'back' into it on the left, and 'forward' to the front on the right: in other words, also backwards and forwards in time. To appreciate how radical this is, we need only consider the usual pictorial and sculptural representations of the period, with either an event or a series of events represented 'across' the field, that is, frieze-like across the image, from left to right; or, the alternative, especially by the time of the Renaissance, and also in Piero's own paintings, where the subject is right in the middle of the visual field, more or less close to the bottom edge of the image, that is, close to us, the viewers (for example, The Baptism, The Resurrection and The Madonna of Senigallia).

In Piero's Flagellation, our eye cannot take in the narrative in the usual way, partly because we are forced to keep adjusting our attention from the left side to the right side and back again, that is to say, from a very deep fictive space 'within' the picture plane, back to a place at exactly the spot where we encounter the image in our real space - the surface of the actual piece of wood on which the picture is made. Not only that, but we are confronted with an apparently 'standard' representation of the putative subject on the left while being brought up short with a very non-standard one on the right.

I do not wish to offer a solution to the enigmas of this painting - I don't have one! And, at present, as far as I am aware, nor does anyone else. In a certain way, with its secrets still kept, and we having grown up with Dada and Surrealism as parts of our visual vocabulary, we are fortunately able to enjoy the Flagellation for what we can understand about it, including the fact that it contains elements which we can't interpret or comprehend. Similarly, the enigmatic details of Piero's picture, today, function as stimulus to the imagination, a welcome opportunity to roam around our own thoughts, free of the 'guiding prod' of much modern technology. We may however reasonably conclude that this picture was not made for public viewing, but rather for the private scrutiny of a cultured, visually literate patron, one accustomed to the many riddles concealed in such works of art.

[1] Marilyn Aronberg Lavin, Piero della Francesca / The Flagellation, originally published by The Viking Press, 1972; this edition, The University of Chicago Press, 1990. While I do not agree with some of her points of view, the book is of course, a masterful analysis, especially those sections that deal with the perspective of Piero's picture ('The Setting') and the iconography (The Sources of the Composition). Aronberg Lavin's dating of the Flagellation is at variance with that of other scholars but this is normal in studies of Piero della Francesca. There are very few dated or conclusively datable pictures by him and scholars frequently rely on 'external' data to try to fix, or at least narrow down, his dates.

[2] Carlo Ginzburg The Enigma of Piero (first published as Indagini su Piero); this edition, 2000 by Verso. Ginzburg's analysis (which came under heavy criticism from some scholars) of Piero's work, especially the Flagellation, is intriguing although it relies quite a bit on conjecture - and, in one particular instance, on error! In fact, in the Verso, 2000, edition, Ginzburg himself admits the error and therefore the weakening of his thesis. This aside, his book is extremely interesting in many ways: he posits among much else, that Piero could have made a detour to Montefalco on his way to Rome (1458-59) and that there he would have seen Gozzoli's frescos, whence the idea for the structure of his Flagellation. Ginzburg by the way, identified the left-hand figure in the foreground as Bessarion, originally a Greek Orthodox scholar, but later a cardinal in the Roman church.

[3] Pisanello's medal showing (in Greek) "John King and Autocrat of the Romans Palaeologus", in right profile. On the other side are two horses, one in profile, ridden by the Emperor John, and the other, a remarkable back view of a horse in extreme foreshortening. Pisanello has 'signed' this medal, of which there exist several copies, in both Greek and Latin. It is dated to 1438-39, the years of the reconciliation councils in Ferrara and Florence. In this relation, it is interesting to note that the Emperor John's right profile is also used, seemingly, in Piero's extraordinary fresco of the Battle of the Milvian Bridge (or, The Battle between Constantine and Maxentius) at Arezzo, on this occasion representing the Emperor Constantine.

[4] On pp 74,75 Aronberg Lavin, ibid, discusses what she sees as the 'contrapposto' in certain figures in the Flagellation, notably the golden statue on top of the scourging column. In my opinion, a figure seen from the front and merely placing more weight on one leg than on the other, does not constitute remarkable 'contrapposto'. Contrapposto may be most easily seen in many works by Michelangelo and notably in his figure of Day on the Medici Tombs (see my essays on Michelangelo in this blog).

[5] Piero did paint a number of almost-naked men but the genitals are never shown, although at Arezzo, in the scene called The Burial of the Wood, the testicle of one of the labourers is visible: an 'anomaly' in Piero's work. Genitals are nevertheless visible in a number of his representations of the Infant Jesus. In the Arezzo lunette with the stories of Adam, there are several near-naked figures and two actually naked grown men, but these are shown either from the side (Adam), or from the back, so the genitals of male (or female) adults are not visible. In this regard, the same lunette also shows the naked breasts of two women, one apparently meant to be Eve as a very old woman, and the other a young woman with one breast uncovered. Incidentally, in Benozzo Gozzoli's Dream of Innocent III at Montelfalco, where the Pope is shown in a bed, partly surrounded by a large curtain, and attended by the two figures sitting by the side of the bed, do we have a forerunner of the famous Dream of Constantine fresco by Piero in Arezzo?

[6] Noted independently by me and by scholars, this expensively-dressed figure on the extreme right of the Flagellation bears a strong resemblance to, certainly, the clear portrait as one of the observers of the Execution of Chosroes, at Arezzo, identified as Giovanni Bacci, as well as to one of the supplicants, on the left, under the Madonna's cloak in the Madonna della Misericordia, at Sansepolcro. Other writers have (with difficulty I feel) seen the same person in the red-smocked and hatted gentleman on the left of the Meeting of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, also at Arezzo, as well as (even) the supplicant or donor in the Venice St Jerome and Donor.

[7] Exactly similar footwear and hat may be seen in the approximately contemporaneous frescos in San Francesco at Arezzo. Again, the scene of the Exaltation of the Cross and that of the Proof of the True Cross have orientally-garbed men with our Greek's boots, cloak and (apparently goat's fur) hat. In these scenes (and the Baptism) it is most probable that Piero was relying on his personal experience of contemporary Greeks (in Florence?) to populate Jerusalem, where the action historically takes place. However, contemporary Greeks (of the 15th century) in these early-Christian events, whether representing Bessarion, John VIII Palaeologus or someone else is, to say the least, puzzling.

[8] Jane Bridgeman in The Cambridge Companion to Piero della Francesca, edited by Jeryldene M. Wood, published by Cambridge University Press, 2002: a collection of essays by various scholars in various disciplines. Jane Bridgeman's essay "Troppo belli e troppo eccellenti" - Observations on Dress in the Work of Piero della Francesca, is a very interesting and, as she says herself, useful one for students of art history, particularly when they may be discussing the significance of clothing and costume - often not merely a casual element in a picture of the period.

Michelangelo's Abstraction

One of the many curiosities of Michelangelo's art is his almost total dependence on the figure - usually the nude male - as his language, especially in sculpture. Michelangelo was also a fine poet and therefore used language in the literal sense; but what I'm referring to here is his reliance on one element, or object, only, whereas, in most works of art, and especially in Michelangelo's time (1475 - 1564), the human body, clothed or not, was only one element in a complex composition. In the case of Michelangelo, very often, the human figure was the composition!

Saint George by Donatello, 1417-18, marble; now in the Bargello Museum in Florence

Photo: the author

A simple example will serve to point up this peculiarity: let's take Donatello's St George, now in the Bargello Museum but originally in a niche, or tabernacle, on the north wall of Orsanmichele, in Florence. This marble sculpture has, naturally, as its main focus, a roughly life-size statue of Saint George, dressed in an eclectic Roman-cum-contemporary-style armour and holding a shield, resting on the ground in front of him, with his left hand. This figure is certainly a single, isolated object, but, below the principal figure is a low- or bas-relief scene (in Italian: rilievo stiacciato), again in marble, illustrating the heroic deed of St George, as he kills the menacing dragon and saves the terrified maiden - who, incidentally, is seen on the right in front of a series of receding arches, a kind of loggia, while St George is this time mounted on his charger in the very act of killing the dragon; the hapless dragon is placed before his cave, the form of which recedes on the left into the background, thereby mirroring the perspective of the loggia on the right. In other words, through this narrative panel, the larger, free-standing figure above is given a raison d'être, as in the story itself.

The low-relief marble panel, 1417-18, which sits under the St George by Donatello, now in the

Bargello Museum, in Florence. Photo: the author

Donatello's career as a sculptor involved the making of, not only many bas-reliefs in both bronze and marble, but also free-standing figures in bronze, marble and wood, either alone - as in the St George, his St Mary Magdalen (Florence) or his St John the Baptist (Venice) - or as parts of a larger complex, such as that for the altar of the Basilica del Santo, in Padua. His own free-standing bronze figure of a young David is another example (not to be confused with his earlier (c.1408) marble David, also in the Bargello): this bronze David however, holds in his right hand the enormous sword of the slain Goliath, whose severed head he rests his left leg on. These accoutrements aid in the 'reading' of the significance of the sculpture (moral, civic, and so on) - and in identifying whom it represents - but function therefore, as elements of narrative. It is precisely these elements of narrative which are (virtually) entirely lacking in Michelangelo's sculpture, or are so reduced that they might as well be! In fact, in this bronze David of Donatello, the narrative elements, including a memorable helmet or hat - together with the sword and Goliath's head - are so active as to be almost distractions from the figure: the trap of decoration overwhelming the actual subject.

David by Donatello, c.1430-32, bronze; Bargello Florence

If we now consider Michelangelo's works, from his Battle of the Centaurs and the David, to the Medici Tombs, to the Moses (below) and the various Pietà, we note that all of these are entirely dependent on the human figure, nude or not, to express the eloquence and power of his ideas. In other words, there is no 'setting', no structure or environment, other than that of the site for which a given work was destined, that site, in effect, providing a de facto narrative. A clear contrast in this regard may be seen for instance, in a beautiful 'tabernacle' by Donatello (the Annunciation), on the interior south wall of the church of Santa Croce, in Florence [1]. It is worth pointing out incidentally, that Donatello's so-called 'Pulpits' in San Lorenzo in Florence, or his low reliefs at Padua, are examples of the common practice in 15th and 16th century Italy of providing a more or less complete narrative exposition - often requiring many subsidiary figures - of the story concerned [2].

Moses (c.1516), marble, by Michelangelo

 San Pietro in Vincoli, Rome   Photo: the author

In Donatello's early free-standing figures for the Campanile of the Duomo of Florence - now in the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo - or Verrocchio's Doubting Thomas (below; like Donatello's St George, made for a tabernacle [designed by Donatello!] but on the east wall, of Orsanmichele), we find that other sculptors apart from Michelangelo also relied on one or perhaps two figures, and no narrative support, to put across their ideas. Michelangelo was neither the first nor the only sculptor to rely on the power and success of only one or two isolated figures in a given composition or situation: much earlier masters in sculpture had already done so - although not in the same large-scale and dramatically-focused way in which Michelangelo was to do it. We can go to Pisa, Siena and Pistoia to see the wonderful Pulpits (from 1260 to 1301) of Nicola and Giovanni Pisano (note especially Nicola's Daniel at Pisa) and to witness the foretelling, in hindsight, of their culmination as it were, in Michelangelo - especially in the figure-only style of composition. But, Michelangelo was the only one to do so exclusively, that is, to make virtually all his sculptural statements wholly dependent on the communicative power of a, usually, isolated human form - with no supporting narrative features.

Doubting Thomas (detail) 1483, by Andrea del Verrocchio, bronze; seen here in the museum above  Orsanmichele, in Florence. Photo: the author

In fact, the one time when he did provide a narrative context, or something approximating this, was in one of his two earliest known pieces, both of them today kept at the Casa Buonarroti, in Florence. These are his Madonna of the Stairs (1490-92: De Tolnay) and the Battle of the Centaurs (1492: De Tolnay), both relief sculptures in marble. In the former, even at that early stage, we find Michelangelo's massive forms - especially the back and arm of the Child [3] - but these figures of Mary and the Child are supported by the stairs and three angels; the Battle of the Centaurs, on the other hand, contains numerous figures in high relief, both human and half-human (the Centaurs), although very little else. The subject itself, even if disputed, provides the narrative justification for the work.

The Madonna of the Stairs and the Battle of the Centaurs remained an exception as Michelangelo's career, notwithstanding the several commissions for large-scale, multi-figure monuments - the Tomb of Julius II in Rome for example - for better or worse, saw him produce many single-figure 'compositions' in marble, every one of which is almost completely devoid of narrative support. On some occasions, for example Notte (Night), one of the sculptures for the Medici Tombs, the figure may be equipped with certain 'attributes' which serve to indicate who the sculpture represents: in the case of the Notte, a crescent moon and a star on her diadem, the owl, a mask and a garland. This quantity of attributes, albeit discreet as they are, is exceptional in Michelangelo's oeuvre; and images of the 'Madonna and Child' and the 'Pietà' are self-explanatory to anyone brought up in the Christian tradition. This applies to 'David' as well since merely the title is enough to conjure the Biblical story in people's minds; in fact, unlike other versions of 'David', where there may be a large sword and/or the severed head of Goliath (again Donatello's version, as well as Verrocchio's, or later, Caravaggio's painted version of about 1605-06), Michelangelo's is, to all intents and purposes, a beautiful statue of a naked young man. Even the sling is barely suggested and is certainly not an active element in the composition; Bernini's David (1623) is similar in that there is no severed head or great sword. Bernini however, has made critical use of the sling: as a matter of fact, his whole composition is dependent for its legibility on the presence and active role of the sling (similar to the way the ancient Discobolos of Myron is dependent on the presence of the disk to explain the otherwise odd pose - itself a possible influence for Bernini?).

An ancient marble copy of the original bronze (c.450 BC)  Discobolos by Myron, in the Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, Rome. The similarity of the pose of the Discobolos and that of Bernini's David is interesting, to say the least. Photo: the author

Whereas however, Bernini, in his incredible Ecstasy of Saint Theresa (c.1644) in Rome, has a composition dependent on only two figures - and a large cloud together with bronze Divine rays - the overall effect is of a scene from a story (as related by the Saint herself!). In many of Michelangelo's works, the isolation of the figures, and particularly in those where there is only one figure, is a kind of 'abstract' isolation. Michelangelo depends on attributes only to a minor degree, if at all. His figures rely very often, for some kind of 'story', on their setting: the David as a symbol of the brave, young republic (or city) of Florence, originally set-up in front of - but not made for - the Palazzo della Signoria ( or, dei Priori, the seat of power in Florence at the time); the Day, Night, Dawn, Dusk, of the Medici Tombs, are symbols of the sleep of death and the Christian belief in rebirth and new life; and so on. If we now consider the Moses, a figure conceived as part of the Tomb of Julius II (now in San Pietro in Vincoli, in Rome) - his attributes reduced to the conventional 'horns' of wisdom or inspiration, and the merest suggestion of the Tablets of the Law - it seems to me that that sculpture could exist with equal force, anywhere. In a certain sense, the fact that it particularly represents Moses is really neither here nor there; what we have is an immensely powerful, and potentially even more powerful figure which we would be just as happy to read simply as that. Equally, the figures of Dawn, Day, Dusk and Night could be almost anywhere and still overwhelm us with their power, their knowledge (both philosophical and [art] formal), their potential for deliberate action: Michelangelo's figures often harbour 'potential' energy or action, a profound, quasi-dormant quality in many of his greatest sculptures (and pictures).

Day (Giorno) by Michelangelo, post-1533? (De Tolnay) marble, Medici Chapel, Florence:

note the arm brought around behind the immensely powerful back, part of the 'contro-posto' or 'twisted against itself' pose, the other part of which is the folded legs, with the left leg moving against the direction of the right shoulder

This capacity to be taken 'out of context' and still survive as supreme works of sculpture, of art, is an abstract quality in the sense that I am talking of. Many of Michelangelo's sculpted figures rely on their physical context for their interpretation as 'Christian' subjects, or at least Biblical ones; if that context were different, the interpretation may change, but the physical formal qualities as works of art would not.

This 'abstraction' was carried over into Michelangelo's painting as well, although, it must be admitted, perhaps not to the same extent. His early Doni Madonna (otherwise known as the Doni Tondo; 1503-04?: De Tolnay) and the (attributed) London National Gallery Entombment, both have a narrative setting, even if the so-called Manchester Madonna (also in the National Gallery) does not. Michelangelo's major works in paint, unlike the three pictures just mentioned, are in fresco however - the two Sistine Chapel campaigns and the later Pauline Chapel's Conversion of St Paul and Crucifixion of St Peter: all have the merest suggestion, where necessary, of an appropriate setting (for example, the Temptation of Adam and Eve: the tree, and the serpent), although, even in these works, and especially in the Sistine Ceiling frescos, there are still isolated figures, stupendous examples of his sculptural painting, quite dependent for any justification as anything other than studies of the nude, on their setting. Removed from that setting, they could exist quite happily as extraordinary figure studies - as could, for that matter, many of the figures in the group compositions.

Unlike his great predecessor Masaccio, who set his drama The Tribute Money in, for its time, a quite incredible landscape environment, or his St Peter Healing with his Shadow, in a detailed contemporary urban one (both in Santa Maria del Carmine, in Florence), Michelangelo, when he could, filled his space with numerous other nude or semi-nude figures as, for instance, in the Last Judgement and the two Pauline frescos. Certain of Michelangelo's contemporaries, notably Andrea del Sarto, Pontormo and Rosso Fiorentino, took their cues from his works, including - particularly Pontormo - his 'abstraction': the so-called Deposition or Entombment [4] by Pontormo in Santa Felicita, in Florence, shows how powerful was this rejection of setting; this extraordinary masterwork contains a quite radical accumulation of figures intertwined up and down the length of the panel. It would seem that Pontormo has here, in 1525-28, anticipated Michelangelo's subsequent crowding of numerous figures in the one composition, as seen in the Last Judgement (completed 1541: De Tolnay) and Pauline frescos for example. 

Michelangelo's artistic vocabulary, in stone or in paint, was in fact, the human form; he could not have been, it seems, less interested in landscape, or the urban environment. Compared with the pictures of Piero della Francesca for instance - who died when Michelangelo was 17 years old - where figures are placed in realistic settings, either indoors (the Madonna of Senigallia) or outdoors (the Baptism), Michelangelo relied to an extraordinary degree on the force and conviction of his representations of the human body. His early David was originally meant to be placed high up on the Duomo of Florence but, on its completion, was deemed such an appropriate symbol or emblem of the city itself, that it was therefore placed, as mentioned earlier, in front of the Palazzo della Signoria. The forceful and meaningful result of his work on that difficult block of marble [5], and its manifest capacity to 'stand alone', may have induced him to rely, for narrative logic, on nothing other than the supposed subject of any given piece, or at least, to do so whenever possible. 

Actually, it is clear from even a casual perusal of his sculpted works, or his drawings (albeit that they may be studies for figures in a more involved composition), that his taste and his intellectual leaning drew him to the isolated figure, especially the male nude, as the sole correspondent to his own psyche. Michelangelo never married, he seems to have preferred to work alone - even if this were not always possible - and he was apparently a kind of isolated, irascible man, a man who preferred his own company much of the time; given this circumstance, his work reflects himself, reflects who and what he was: he would seem to have been, happily for us, quite closely in touch with his personal reality and, perhaps in a sort of reciprocal relationship with his art, endeavoured to manifest that reality in a wholly independent manner. As Pope-Hennessy says at the very beginning of his excellent book on Donatello (1993), "Artists are private people whose identities are hidden in their work, but it is possible, by looking closely ... to establish some of the respects in which his mind and aspirations and the work that he produced differed from those of his contemporaries." Pope-Hennessy was referring of course to Donatello, a very great artist, but his words stand just as well for Michelangelo.

Much about Michelangelo's work is what one would expect of an artist working at that time: the profound interest in the human form (but not exclusively), the equally profound enthusiasm for and knowledge of classical (ancient Roman) art, the move away from the static (a profound quality of Piero della Francesca's painting) to ever more complex movement of the body, the use of perspective and so on; Michelangelo nevertheless, was unusual in his complete lack of interest in landscape as a natural phenomenon (quite unlike Leonardo da Vinci for instance), even less so in its possibilities as 'ambiance' for the setting of drama; he cared just as little for buildings and architecture, especially as they might have pertained to sculpture (in the sense of the Donatello tabernacle in Santa Croce, mentioned above). In the Sistine Chapel of course, fictive architecture plays an important role in the rational organisation of the whole scheme (and, sometimes, in certain episodes, for example, The Punishment of Haman), arguably dictated by the reality of the physical setting as much as by the sequential nature of the narrative he was dealing with. In itself, this general rejection of architecture in his painting and sculpture is extremely interesting, as Michelangelo was as great an architect as he was a painter. His inclusion or use of architecture in the Sistine Ceiling frescos is an anomaly in his fresco work; he did at times design architectural settings for some of his sculptures, as is demonstrated by the Tomb of Julius II for instance; his Medici Tombs were placed in an architectural environment wholly conceived by him - the Medici Chapel - which, however, still allowed the sculptures to 'stand alone'; the actual architecture was not meant to impinge upon or contribute to any given sculpture: it could frame it, house it or support it, but not play any active part in the independent life of a particular piece of stone. 

In relation to Piero della Francesca, it could be argued that, like him, Michelangelo still had some, however distant, rapport with 'the Greek manner', that is, with Byzantine art, much decried by 'modern' writers of the 16th century [6]: the invitation to contemplation perceived in both artists and, in Michelangelo's case, especially in his sculpture where the subject is still.

In using the term 'abstract', I can hardly not say something about one of Michelangelo's most abstract, or 'abstracted' pieces, his Rondanini Pietà: it could be said that here we have an early- to mid-20th century work, situated after the development of Abstraction as a Modernist invention. Any number of Modernist sculptors might have made such a piece; but in fact, we have a work which pre-dates Modernism by some 350-odd years! To be fair to Michelangelo's unfinished and much re-thought study, we should not really apply 20th or 21st century criteria to it: rather, while clearly appealing to our 'modern' taste, it further reveals the turbulent state of its creator's mind - not to mention the condition of the Catholic Church and politics more generally. According to various scholars, Michelangelo was assailed by self-doubt as much as by any of the other psychological (and physical) problems he might have had. The fluid state of anxiety and mature self-questioning which is common to many gifted minds, can be seen and felt in this late, troubled and ambiguously uncompleted masterwork.  

A postscript on method:                                                                                                                                                                
In this essay, I have moved about a bit, up and down the 15th and 16th centuries, and even into the 17th by mentioning Bernini and Caravaggio (and the 5th BC by mentioning Myron); for me, there is no problem with this mode of looking at art as, in my opinion, it is a continuum, not of development however, but of morphology, so to speak. Many styles and periods overlap or are positively contemporaneous - especially in the 20th century for instance. Michelangelo was alive, albeit as a very young man, at the same time as Piero della Francesca (d. 1492), and Andrea del Verrocchio (d. 1488). He was born only nine years after Donatello had died (1466). It is easy to see in the periods immediately before the Renaissance and afterwards, a kind of linear progression, taken by some (Vasari included) to indicate a development, that is, that art 'progresses' from primitive forms to more sophisticated ones; in some instances, this may be true: for example, there appears to be a development or evolution - in the Darwinian sense - from the static, erect and largely immobile Egyptian style, through early Greek, somewhat less static Kouri, to so-called 'classical' Greek art, as may be seen in the already-mentioned work of Myron. In this transition, we appear to see a greater understanding of the human form and its potential for movement. But, particularly with regard to high Egyptian culture, it is equally possible to see, and argue, that they were simply not interested in the kind of expression which we now associate with Greek classicism; when Greek artists began extending the limits of the Kouri type, they were also part of a culture which was significantly different from that of the Egyptians: in other words, they saw the world differently - not least in their interest in movement. And here is where apparent 'development' occurs, but, many factors, including taste, contribute to changes (morphology) in the appearance of works of art. A recent example of the effect of taste on our reading of art works is the almost psychological problem that many have when introduced to coloured and painted ancient marble statues - their original condition in many cases!

Looking at works of art by sliding up and down the periods of history is, to my mind, an extremely instructive way of seeing what artists were up to; history also teaches us that taste, physical circumstances, as well as geography, political and religious matters, all have their influence on what artists do - but not necessarily on what they are capable of doing! In light of this, Michelangelo's work is not better than Donatello's, or Verrocchio's, or Piero della Francesca's - it's different. Michelangelo lived at the time he did and so his work doesn't look Egyptian or even 'classical' Greek: it looks as though it had been produced in the Renaissance! But no two Renaissance artists, particularly the greatest of them, are the same; Michelangelo's work has as much of Michelangelo in it as it has of the Renaissance. Historical periods are definable - more or less! - but the human mind at its best moves freely, and while being affected by the (often subsequently-defined) historical period in which it lives, the power of the individual psyche or character is a constant throughout art history.


[1] This beautiful stone and terracotta Annunciation (1437-40 in high relief is a good example of the difference between the art of many of Michelangelo's predecessors and contemporaries, and Michelangelo's own: not only are the figures of the Virgin and the Angel equipped with their normal attributes, but they are in the conventional poses that this episode requires; however, in addition to this, Donatello has set the scene of Mary's house within an extremely detailed, elaborate and eclectic 'classical' structure - forming what is known as a 'tabernacle' - parts of which are gilded, the whole topped with five little cherubs. The overall effect is that of a decoration, at least as much as of a religious icon to be contemplated as such. Finally, the decorative elements, or their total, take up much more space than the putative subject, that is, the Annunciation.

[2] Many other artists working in Florence just before, and contemporaneously with Michelangelo, such as Luca della Robbia, Verrocchio, Masaccio, Fra Angelico, Filippo Lippi, Filippino Lippi, Benozzo Gozzoli, Ghiberti, and so on, all did this. See, in this regard, Domenico Ghirlandaio's Visitation in Santa Maria Novella (Florence) for both architecture and landscape, as well as 'extras',  as narrative support. Andrea del Castagno likewise often provided the narrative setting, but in his Portraits of Famous Men and Women, he allows his subjects to stand alone, although still equipped with some signifying attribute.

[3] The pose of the Christ Child in the Madonna of the Stairs was later, according to De Tolnay, developed in the figure of Giorno (Day), of the Medici Tombs, where the arm coming around and crossing the back are common to both works, separated however by 41 years. See "Michelangelo", by Charles de Tolnay, Princeton University Press, 1975; p205.

[4] Interestingly, several of the figures in Pontormo's Deposition/Entombment in Santa Felicita are nominally clothed, but the artist has in fact painted nude figures in cloth-like colour to give an initial impression of their wearing clothes. A process similar to this can be seen in Michelangelo's statue of the seated Giuliano de' Medici, one of the (clothed) figures of the Medici Tombs: this figure's leather (?) cuirass is effectively the model's actual naked torso, but with armour-like bits attached to give it the initial appearance of being armour. In addition, the almost complete lack of any but the most minimal indication of place in Pontormo's altarpiece is probably due to the influence of Michelangelo.

[5] See my recent article "Michelangelo and Bernini: David".

[6] In his "Lives of the most excellent Painters, Sculptors and Architects" (second edition, 1568), Vasari makes a number of disparaging references to styles of art which we now refer to as Gothic and Byzantine, especially in his Life of Cimabue: "...cioè non nella buona maniera greca antica, ma in quella goffa moderna di que' tempi ... levandole gran parte della maniera goffa loro ..." ("... that is, not in the good antique Greek manner [of 'classical' art], but in that silly [inept, clumsy] modern one of those times [meaning: the time of Cimabue, that is, the mid- to late-13th century] ... [he] removing from it a large part of their clumsy manner .."). This attitude of Vasari's, whether it began with him or was already an established point of view while he was writing, spread and continued long after he had died, in 1574. "Le vite dei più eccellenti pittori, scultori e architetti" by Giorgio Vasari, published first in 1550 and then in a revised edition, in 1568; this edition, consulted here, 2013 by Newton Compton editori s.r.l., Roma.

Michelangelo and Bernini: David

The following article is substantially that written as a diary entry on January 1st 1991, while living in Italy. In publishing it for the first time here, I have added other ideas, particularly after the point marked [2016].

NB Michelangelo Buonarroti  1475 - 1564

       Gian Lorenzo Bernini       1598 - 1680

       Both men were of very similar age when they began their respective Davids, i.e. about 26 years old         

Michelangelo and Bernini: David

Yesterday, the last day of the year, I went for a long walk [in Rome], a walk which eventually led me to the Villa Borghese which was fortunately open. Apart from the beauty of the building itself, and its marvellous decorations, including ancient Roman floor mosaics with 'portraits' of gladiators, there are several Caravaggio pictures and several sculptures by Bernini (amongst much else).

I spent quite a bit of time studying both the paintings and the sculptures, especially the large canvas by Caravaggio of the The Madonna of the Serpent (Madonna dei Palafrenieri) 1605, and the well-known statue of David 1623-24, by Bernini. Both are concerned with at least one thing in common, I might say one abstract thing, that is: space. Caravaggio uses often the device of the outstretched arm (in this case, that of the Child Jesus) to establish a contact - psychological as well as 'physical' - with our real space, and then leads us, through this device, into the 'real' (although not very deep) pictorial space of his painting. This device is used also by Bernini.

In both this large painting and the David by Bernini, the device of the extended or bent arm - with its implied or real space (i.e. painted or sculpted) between the inside of the elbow or arm and the body - is used to increase the 'existence' of the painted or sculpted figure in a psychologically acceptable 'real' space; in the case of the sculpture of course, the actual arm and the created space do in fact exist in three dimensions [1]. The importance of this device, or this extension or development of our concept of 'artistic' space, is perhaps better pointed up by the use of a comparison.

For example, we can compare the David of Michelangelo with that of Bernini. In the former, apart from the fact that we are dealing with an early work, and one limited by the circumstances of the stone itself (the block of marble [2]) - nevertheless, representing a typical spatial conception of the period - we can see that Michelangelo is basically concerned with the existence of a single, self-contained body, represented in three dimensions, with its spatial crux being principally that of the anatomical relationships of one part of the body to another (i.e. actual, not interpreted). Certainly, the raised left arm protrudes into a space outside the limits of the torso (at that time, and especially with Michelangelo, still regarded as the indispensable axis of a figure sculpture), but, as in nearly all of Michelangelo's sculpture - except perhaps his last Pietà, the Rondanini - the image (and therefore its space) is profoundly related to the pre-existing shape of the block of marble itself. Perhaps for this reason, some of Michelangelo's works seem under pressure, the figures themselves, and in particular the 'unfinished' ones, ready to explode at any moment. [3]

 

 David by Michelangelo, 1501-04, detail. Accademia, Florence

Note the  basic 'frontal' conception: i.e. it can be argued that this statue was conceived to be seen in fact from one point of view only, its supposed original collocation. This may explain the oversized head as this work was meant to be seen from some distance below and not as we now see it, from comparatively close up - although we still have to look up at it, it is so large! Note as well the relaxed left leg contrasting clearly with the weight-bearing right one; also, the pronounced 'hang' of the right shoulder creating a descending line with the left one towards David's right arm; this line has its opposite in the ascending one of the hips, where the right is higher and the left is lower.

In any case, to return to the argument, Michelangelo is concerned generally with extracting (liberating) a convincing and power-full image from a block of stone; he is concerned that the image take the place of the block (while however, not entirely denying the natural reality of his material): in other words, he creates one reality in place of another. For Bernini on the other hand, it would seem that the block of stone itself has little or no interest; he is not concerned with the reality or initial integrity of the block, but with something completely different, that is, the space which his figure can generate and spread into.

 David by Bernini, 1623-24, Villa Borghese, Rome

His David has no vertical (or central) axis, as do nearly all Michelangelo's sculpted works, but rather, is a complex of various axes, all centred more or less around the same point - but not a central point - i.e. the face of his figure, the concentrated expression of which is, I would say, active as opposed to the somewhat passive expression of Michelangelo's David (incidentally, reminiscent of that of Donatello's Saint George). Bernini's figure leans both forward and to the left (viewed from the front) and stretches from his left foot, along his leg, up and around his twisting and leaning torso/back towards three different focal points: first, the decided and acting face; second, the elbow of his left arm; and third, the hand of the right arm. If viewed from the left side, i.e. looking directly at the side where the two arms are, we find ourselves involved in at least two descriptions of actual space: one is the spatial difference between the position of the figure's right foot and the figure's head, not to mention the vertical axis - wherever one might choose to place this; the other is the Baroque space (also to be seen in Caravaggio [4]) between the inside of the bent arm and the body: here extended in a typical Bernini-style Baroque spiral by means of the sling itself which conducts our eye not only from the figure's left shoulder - thrown forward in preparation for powerful movement - along the left arm to the hand, but also along the sling, downwards towards David's right hand and arm which carry the motion further around the figure, and towards what would have been considered in Michelangelo's time, the 'back' of the sculpture. In this way, we the viewers, are involved in the represented event, not only psychologically, but also physically: Bernini's David occupies a part of our 'real' space; with Michelangelo and a lot of Renaissance art, we are offered an 'idea' to contemplate, and our physical involvement with the portrayed event is deliberately restricted (on both historical and hierarchical grounds).

Michelangelo had himself realised this possibility in painting, examples of which may be seen in the Sistine Chapel, both on the ceiling (eg the Nude Youth above the Lybian Sibyl) and in the Judgement; his Sacra Famiglia (or Doni Tondo, 1503) in the Uffizi, various drawings, and sketches in clay for projected sculptures, also reveal that Buonarroti was consciously working with ways of extending his images into real or pictorial space. However, in much of his sculpture at any rate, Michelangelo's figures, while appearing to be attempts at defying the reality of the squared block of marble, almost never have 'protrusions' which would entail either a departure from the abstract purity of the untouched block, or the addition of pieces to the original block, again, for him, an impurity of concept. It can be said that Michelangelo was, in these terms, still closely attached to an earlier conception of space - also revealed, to my mind, in the difference between Florentine church architecture and that of Baroque Rome: Florentine space, be it painted or real, (i.e. using painted perspective, or actual church facades) is always related, and is in this sense very pure, to the flat surface: that is, 'flatness' is a given in the Florentine psyche; paintings and buildings are illusions worked on 'flat' surfaces. In Rome however, things are different.

From the beginning (ancient Rome), space was a created thing - was, one might say, the given, and flatness was added to contain or limit space. By the time of the Baroque, the question was not, as it had been in 15th century Florence, how to pierce space, but rather, what to do about all those straight lines! In Bernini's David, there is one straight line, and it is on a profound angle (a line may be drawn from David's left foot, along the leg, along the torso, to the head or shoulder). [2016] Bernini's David is coiled like a spring, seen at the instant prior to release, a spring coiled on itself yes, but already stretching into 'our' space at several points. By contrast, Michelangelo's David is a composed, restrained, upright figure, impassive and self-contained; from some angles, it is clear that his left arm and his left leg do 'protrude' from the 'simple' frontal view of the chest and waist areas, but the principal movements are those of the spine - entailing a curve in the torso - and a displacement of David's weight onto his right leg (not to mention the obvious raising of the left arm). Michelangelo later evolved this simple curve and shift of weight into his more complex spirals, with characteristic dropping of one shoulder, often quite marked, and the body frequently finishing-up as a kind of human corkscrew; extremely expressive of inner torment or struggle - but not weakness (e.g. Day and Night in the Medici Chapel; the Rebellious Slave, Paris, Louvre). Interestingly, this device of a spiral may be seen also in works of Classical antiquity: the Dying Gaul and the Laocoon being two examples.

Bernini's David has none of this self-questioning as seen in (later) Michelangelo; he is absolutely clear about what he has to do and we catch him in the very act of doing it! Michelangelo's David, seen from the front, is ambiguous in that sense because we do not know if he is contemplating doing something, or whether he has just done it! Whichever may be the case, he is definitely not the self-tormenting adult man of Michelangelo's more mature work: but he is static! This David, nevertheless, is young, virile and brave - and ultimately victorious; exactly the same in these terms, as Bernini's David. How much he reveals in his restraint is Florentine in contrast to the exuberant, open display of Baroque Rome. In a way, Michelangelo could be seen as the necessary precursor to Bernini (as Nicola [5] and Giovanni Pisano, Jacopo della Quercia [6] and Donatello could be seen as precursors to Michelangelo); however, I do not wish to imply here a developmental or evolutionary attitude to the way Art changes: I do not believe Bernini was superior to, or more developed than Michelangelo: he was an artist mirroring his own times just as Michelangelo was mirroring his.

1 The use of the word 'psychological' in this article refers to the effect of certain types of painted images on the perceptive faculties, in the first instance, the eyes. Although a three-dimensional 'realistic' sculptural work really does have form and really does occupy space to a greater or lesser degree, we often 'read' two-dimensional 'realistic' pictures in a very similar way, even though we know full well that the image is, in fact, flat. The point is, that through the artifice of the skilled painter (given that he or she has this intention), our eyes and then our brains accept the created illusion and are content to understand it as though it were 'real', in the same way as they accept as real the forms in a  'realistic' (or figurative) sculpture. It is important to be aware that not all types, styles or periods of art aim or have aimed at 'realism', in fact, many actually avoid it at all costs. But in terms of a lot of what might generally be called 'western' art, Orthodox icons, for example, do not appear to be concerned with space in the same ways as, say, Renaissance art is; given this, we, so to speak, 'skip over' that aspect, and take a Greek or Russian icon on its own terms (something interestingly, that early Modernism insisted that we do with its products).

2 The history of this commission (in 1501 to Michelangelo) is an interesting one in so far as the block of marble had already been given to another sculptor, in 1464, who had in fact begun work on the stone; Michelangelo therefore, had to adjust what had already been done and accommodate his conception to an 'impure' block.

3 In this way, the Rondanini (various versions, the final in 1564, the year of Michelangelo's death) differs from Michelangelo's other work because it seems he had at last lost interest in that 'terrible' force (in Italian: terribilità, used by Vasari to describe a particular quality in the work of M.), and consequently the work differs not only in its physical characteristics from his typical pieces, but also psychologically and spiritually - as do, it may be argued, all his Madonnas. By way of comparison, examples of sculpted 'terrible' females are the Dawn and the Night in the Medici Chapel, in Florence. The Virgin and Child however, in the same place, have a completely different feel.

4 In fact, extended or raised arms used to create space were not peculiar to the Baroque period: Andrea del Sarto for instance, had already used this device during the Florentine Renaissance - as had numerous other artists including, as already pointed out, Michelangelo.

5 See especially Nicola Pisano's Daniel on the pulpit of the Baptistry at Pisa, c 1260. Also interesting are the unusually crowded compositions by Pisano, both in Pisa and in Siena: could these too have influenced not only Michelangelo in, for example his early Battle of the Centaurs as well as his mature Last Judgement in the Sistine Chapel, but also the Mannerists Pontormo and Rosso Fiorentino?

6 Jacopo della Quercia (1374? - 1438), see especially the Adam in his Expulsion panel, 1425-38 on S.Petronio, Bologna, for a possible influence on the 'spiral' and dropped shoulder of Michelangelo.

L'aria di Piero della Francesca

Che ruolo ha l'aria nell'opera di Piero della Francesca?

In questo articolo, l'aria verrà considerata come un elemento che si manifesta sotto molteplici aspetti, ma, siccome essa agisce da tramite per la luce e al medesimo tempo, riempie lo spazio, diventa problematico distinguirne le varie sfaccettature. Così come lo spazio viene definito o si manifesta attraverso le cose materiali che lo circondano o lo limitano o ci s'infilano (ad esempio edifici, montagne, strade, un corpo posto davanti o dietro ad un altro, ecc), l'aria è definita dall'ora del giorno o della notte, dalla limpidezza o meno della luce e, per quanto riguarda la pittura, dall'uso fatto dall'artista dei suoi colori. È infatti cosa ovvia che il pittore si serva dei colori per rappresentare anche 'le cose' a cui manca un corpo, anche se fu detto all'epoca che il compito dei pittori fosse quello di rappresentare le cose visibili!

In pittura, l'elemento 'aria' è percepibile per mezzo dell'esistenza di altri elementi che hanno corpo, e sono più o meno solide, tranne, però, la luce. La luce, incorporea, 'occupa' l'aria, che, a sua volta, trasmette la luce1. Da un certo punto di vista allora, l'aria 'esiste' in un'immagine, finché esistano 'cose' (illuminate, cioè visibili a noi, grazie alla luce), e ci accorgiamo di questo elemento 'pittorico', in base all'esistere, all'essere presente delle cose che la occupano. Lo spazio può essere definito allo stesso modo dell'aria e quindi possiamo dirci di fronte ad un intreccio di diversi elementi pittorici difficilmente distillati l'uno dall'altro. 

   

Piero della Francesca.  Il Battesimo di Cristo 

(?)1448-52  National Gallery, Londra 

In questo intreccio di elementi vari, consideriamo anche il paesaggio, elemento di grande rilievo nelle opere di Piero della Francesca, anche se, come di solito all'epoca, funzioni da sfondo a diverse figure. Analizziamo ora il celebre Battesimo di Londra, realizzato da Piero tra il 1448 e il 1452. In questa stupenda pala d'altare, la quale all'epoca ricopriva il ruolo della parte centrale di un polittico2, è rappresentato in primo piano il battesimo di Cristo. Gesù è affiancato a destra da suo cugino, Giovanni il Battista, e a sinistra da tre angeli. In secondo piano, vediamo altre figure e, dietro di loro, ecco lo sfondo paesaggistico che, però, inizia dal primo piano con il fiume3. Questo fiume nel suo serpeggiare, ci conduce oltre i personaggi principali, verso quelli secondari, e finalmente, in piena campagna dove c'è, molto distante, una città (Sansepolcro?). In quest'opera, il paesaggio comincia in primo piano non solo col fiume ma anche, con un albero. Questo importante elemento funziona come una colonna che separa gli angeli dal centro del avvenimento. Il suo tronco, con la sua ciocca di foglie, costruisce una sorta di cornice naturale che sovrasta, isola e contemporaneamente 'protegge' la figura del Cristo, fabricando così un'arco con la forma colonnare del corpo di Giovanni Battista.

Cominciando da sinistra e fino a San Giovanni, possiamo notare che le figure verticali formano una sorta di fregio con andamento orizzontale e per questo appartengono ad uno schieramento, una disposizione di figure molto antico. Il fiume, però, in quanto elemento curvilineo, ha una 'vita' diversa, il cui movimento non si limita al primo piano (il palcoscenico) ma penetra l'immagine e, mentre comincia e s'interseca con 'il fregio', rimane, nondimeno, indipendente da esso. E siccome le colline o montagne, come lo stesso fiume, sono elementi sinuosi più o meno orizzontali, si contrappongono ai verticali piuttosto rigidi degli attori viventi (a parte, chiaro, il colombo sospeso sopra Cristo).

La parte centrale del Battesimo

E' quindi evidente che la natura, inteso come il paesaggio, recita un ruolo di spicco. Il paesaggio ci conduce, adoperando il fiume come guida, dal soggetto di quest'immagine, cioè il Battesimo, dentro al mondo contadino del pittore, ovvero la campagna il cui perno è Sansepolcro. Poiché il Maestro ha utilizzato molto il bianco nel primo piano (in primis, il tronco dell'albero, l'angelo centrale, il corpo dello stesso Cristo4, nonché quello del neofito dietro San Giovanni, a destra), il paesaggio collinoso esercita anche una funzione formale: esso appare scuro e quindi fa da contrasto per le figure poste in primo piano. 

 Piero della Francesca.  La Battaglia di Ponte Milvio, particolare, affresco  (?)1452-55

San Francesco, Arezzo. La veduta in prospettiva del paesaggio retrostante la battaglia.

Lo spazio trasparente si dilata dal primo piano della Battaglia di Ponte Milvio, in uno iato nel fregio dei cavalli di Costantino e quelli di Massenzio. Questa apertura ci introduce nel paesaggio, dove si trovano delle case sulle rive del quasi vitreo fiume: un fiume che serpeggia nella tranquilla pianura, lontana da quella battaglia che si appresta a cambiare la storia. Il motore di quella limpidezza è un'aria mite, pacata, tersa che distingue e riempie quell'intervallo fra cavalli, e inoltre ci ricorda che, malgrado la battaglia e nonostante la storia, la natura perdurerà.

 Piero della Francesca.  La Resurrezione 

(?) 1455-60 affresco, Sansepolcro

Guardiamo ora alla Resurrezione a Sansepolcro, in cui è stato notato dai diversi studiosi come i due lati dell'opera alle spalle del Cristo Risorto siano differenti. Infatti, alla nostra sinistra, gli alberi sono privi di foglie, mentre, quelli dall'altra parte sono rigogliosi. Questo divario indica il cambiamento nel mondo prima e dopo di quell'avvenimento. E' opportuno notare che, se questo magistrale affresco fosse allo stato di conservazione degli affreschi ad Arezzo, a nostro avviso sarebbe possibile vedere molto di più e meglio di quanto non sia possibile oggigiorno. I colori candidi e lucenti di una volta (prendiamo quelli attuali di Arezzo come riscontro) ci farebbero sentire in un luogo molto più ampio, creando quindi uno spazio arioso 'dentro' all'immagine, dando così una vista ancora più profonda.

 Piero della Francesca.  La Madonna di Senigallia

olio e tempera su tavola, c 1470  Urbino

Osservando in fine la Madonna di Senigallia, troveremo che tanto lo spazio quanto la luce contribuiscono a rappresentare e a chiarificare le posizioni dei personaggi e degli oggetti. E come potremmo definire lo spazio se non come una 'zona d'aria'? La dimensione 'aria' che intercorre tra la Madonna, gli angeli e le pareti, non ha niente di tangibile nè di afferrabile. Però, nella realtà del quadro, cioè nell'illusione creata dal pittore, l'aria è un elemento attivo: sebbene in tante immagini l'aria sia sottintesa, nella  Madonna di Senigallia Piero della Francesca ribadisce il fatto che l'aria faccia parte del mondo dipinto, in quanto lui fa brillare il pulviscolo, colpendolo con la luce.5  Senza l'aria, però, in che cosa giace il pulviscolo?

1 Piero, però, ha dato corpo alla luce nel far scintillare la polvere galleggiante nell'aria nello sfondo della Madonna di Senigallia.

2 Il polittico, completato da Matteo di Giovanni, fu commissionato a Piero della Francesca per la chiesa di San Giovanni in Val d'Afra a Borgo (Sansepolcro nell'odierna Toscana). Il Battesimo è l'unica parte portata a compimento da Piero; esso fu venduto nel 1857 e, dopo varie peripezie, giunse alla National Gallery di Londra. La datazione dell'opera rimane tutt'ora incerta tra il1440 e il1465.

3 Nel suo Battesimo di Cristo sulla porta sud del Battistero di Firenze, anche Andrea Pisano ha messo il fiume in primo piano. Da notare, però, il diverso modo di Piero nel rappresentare il fiume e, cioè in prospettiva 'naturale'; quello del Pisano, come tanti prima del Rinascimento, è soprattutto un simbolo nel rito del battesimo. E' chiaro che si tratti di principi e scopi diversi, comunque Piero della Francesca, con questo elemento, ci riporta alla realtà.

4 Il corpo del Cristo nel Battesimo di Piero della Francesca, il cui modellato si rifa ai modelli classici, è un corpo robusto ma, al tempo stesso, elegante, e in questo rientra in un filone che egli condivide con Nicola e Andrea Pisano (ad esempio, il Daniel del pulpito del Battistero di Pisa). La testa del Cristo, però, non risponde a questi canoni, essendo una testa tipica dello stile di Piero.

5 'Anche l'aria è fondamento, è pietra di sostegno ..... ' così ha cantato Rafael Alberti in una sua poesia intitolata "A la Pintura"; si veda p27 del catalogo a cura di Gabriele Barucca della mostra tenutasi a Senigallia: 'La luce e il mistero, La Madonna di Senigallia nella sua città', 2011. Ed. il lavoro editoriale, Comune di Senigallia.

Ringrazio Beatrice e Angela per avermi corretto la grammatica, la sintassi e quant'altro. Gli errori che rimangono sono i miei.