Read Online The Medici Boy by John L'Heureux - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John L'Heureux
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during that year my life in the bottega gradually changed so that I was no longer an outsider. I became an anonymous part of the comings and goings of the bottega and little by little I was accepted by the other apprentices—young, all of them, except for Lo Scheggia—but during most of that year I was largely ignored by Donato himself, even as he ignored the abandoned Saint Louis. The statue had been commissioned more than two years earlier for a special niche in the Or San Michele and Michelozzo remained mindful that at some future time Donato would have to complete it. And he remained mindful of me as well, though I could not have guessed what he intended either for the statue of Saint Louis or for my place in the bottega .
On that calamitous afternoon—my first among them—Donato had turned from the shattered statue and packed everything away in the storage shed: the innumerable sketches, the battered armature, the crushed wax head. He looked to have lost all interest in completing Saint Louis, now and forever. He went on to other things—minor ones—a sandstone tondo of the Virgin and Child, a bust in terracotta, a coat of arms—gilded—of copper, some decorative work for a frieze. And then he returned to another abandoned project—a major one—the prophet Isaiah. It had been commissioned by the Operai of the Cathedral four years earlier and had long since been completed but not yet surrendered for judgment. It stood on wooden blocks outside in the courtyard, a statue over six feet tall carved of white Carrara marble and cloaked beneath a shroud of heavy sail cloth. The shroud was removed and here stood Isaiah: wisdom in old age rendered live in marble, the seal of the divine encounter written plain upon his face. To any observer it was Isaiah, there could be no doubt, but in truth the statue began as a portrait of Donato’s uncle Niccolò, a finisher of leather goods who could no longer work because of his age and his mangled hand. Donato had found the hard lines of his face and the balding head and the crippled hand sympathetic and convincing as marks of the prophet. Now he wanted time to think about the statue despite repeated demands of the Operai for its delivery. Uncle Niccolò as the prophet Isaiah? He returned to work on it and Saint Louis be damned.
Meanwhile Michelozzo helped me settle into the life of the bottega . It was a working bottega , like Ghiberti’s, and the sounds of hammering and sawing and the sharp chink of iron against marble rang in the air. There was the smell of wood chips and the sweet tarry smell of paint and the smell of sweat. There was dust everywhere. At times it was like working in the campo , with too many people coming and going. Donato had many assistants in addition to his chief assistant, Michelozzo, who oversaw this constant motion. Nanni di Bartolo, who had helped in roughing out Isaiah’s robes, was there all the time and stonecarvers came in now and again to cut huge blocks to the rough shapes of statues. And there were artisans hired for a particular piece of work—experts in copper or silver—and sometimes too there were hangers-on who were simply eager to be linked in any way with my lord Donato. And of course there were apprentices who occupied workbenches and trestle tables and there were men delivering work materials—wood and wax and marble, sacks of lime, barrels of plaster—and there were others, visitors and friends, who seemed to have no purpose but to look on. To be sure, it was not always so. There were times, especially late in the day, when it seemed no one worked there except the apprentices and the master. Cosimo de’ Medici himself had been known to visit at such an hour, Michelozzo said. The great Cosimo ever avoided crowds but he rejoiced in visiting Donato.
The bottega was huge, a vast rectangle divided into sections by work benches and partitions. At one side of the room was a long table covered with quills and styli and piles of paper:
On that calamitous afternoon—my first among them—Donato had turned from the shattered statue and packed everything away in the storage shed: the innumerable sketches, the battered armature, the crushed wax head. He looked to have lost all interest in completing Saint Louis, now and forever. He went on to other things—minor ones—a sandstone tondo of the Virgin and Child, a bust in terracotta, a coat of arms—gilded—of copper, some decorative work for a frieze. And then he returned to another abandoned project—a major one—the prophet Isaiah. It had been commissioned by the Operai of the Cathedral four years earlier and had long since been completed but not yet surrendered for judgment. It stood on wooden blocks outside in the courtyard, a statue over six feet tall carved of white Carrara marble and cloaked beneath a shroud of heavy sail cloth. The shroud was removed and here stood Isaiah: wisdom in old age rendered live in marble, the seal of the divine encounter written plain upon his face. To any observer it was Isaiah, there could be no doubt, but in truth the statue began as a portrait of Donato’s uncle Niccolò, a finisher of leather goods who could no longer work because of his age and his mangled hand. Donato had found the hard lines of his face and the balding head and the crippled hand sympathetic and convincing as marks of the prophet. Now he wanted time to think about the statue despite repeated demands of the Operai for its delivery. Uncle Niccolò as the prophet Isaiah? He returned to work on it and Saint Louis be damned.
Meanwhile Michelozzo helped me settle into the life of the bottega . It was a working bottega , like Ghiberti’s, and the sounds of hammering and sawing and the sharp chink of iron against marble rang in the air. There was the smell of wood chips and the sweet tarry smell of paint and the smell of sweat. There was dust everywhere. At times it was like working in the campo , with too many people coming and going. Donato had many assistants in addition to his chief assistant, Michelozzo, who oversaw this constant motion. Nanni di Bartolo, who had helped in roughing out Isaiah’s robes, was there all the time and stonecarvers came in now and again to cut huge blocks to the rough shapes of statues. And there were artisans hired for a particular piece of work—experts in copper or silver—and sometimes too there were hangers-on who were simply eager to be linked in any way with my lord Donato. And of course there were apprentices who occupied workbenches and trestle tables and there were men delivering work materials—wood and wax and marble, sacks of lime, barrels of plaster—and there were others, visitors and friends, who seemed to have no purpose but to look on. To be sure, it was not always so. There were times, especially late in the day, when it seemed no one worked there except the apprentices and the master. Cosimo de’ Medici himself had been known to visit at such an hour, Michelozzo said. The great Cosimo ever avoided crowds but he rejoiced in visiting Donato.
The bottega was huge, a vast rectangle divided into sections by work benches and partitions. At one side of the room was a long table covered with quills and styli and piles of paper:
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