The Poet Prince (12 page)

“It is a masterpiece of sculpture. I have never seen anything as flawless as the
David
that was created for your palazzo,” Bracciolini replied perfectly.

The second man gave a similar response, with several other members of the council nodding in agreement. Florentines, for all their flaws, were ardent art lovers. Cosimo seized the moment and continued.

“Yes, Donatello’s
David
may even be the premiere work of art that we see in our time. Not since Praxiteles has there been such divinity in sculpture. And so I say to you all, who are you, who am I, who are any of us to question this man’s inspiration? If Donatello is able to create the most sublime works of art because he is inspired by love, then this is a gift from God that none of us has the right to question. Whom he chooses as his muse is not my business, nor yours. And how he chooses to love that muse is even less for us to consider or judge. Love is love. It is God-given, and a sacrament. It is not for any man to judge. I stand by that pronouncement, and I stand by the fact that I thank God every day for any man who can love so deeply that he is able to create art that is so very obviously divine!”

Only silence greeted the end of Cosimo’s speech, for what man could argue with the eloquence of what had just been invoked within that chamber?

Donatello was pardoned and Lorenzo was left with one of the most powerful lessons of his life, along with a piece of wisdom that rang in his ears for the rest of his days.

Love is love. It is God-given, and a sacrament. It is not for any man to judge.

Lorenzo accompanied his grandfather to Donatello’s studio to advise the artist of the positive outcome. The door to his workshop was opened not by the temperamental artist himself but by a calm and friendly face, a man Lorenzo had met on other occasions and liked tremendously. He was Andrea del Verrocchio, a master sculptor and art teacher in his own right, but more important, he was a key member of the Order and one of Cosimo’s most trusted artists. Verrocchio had once been apprenticed to Donatello and was one of the few who ever survived the maelstrom.

“Andrea, what a wonderful surprise!” Cosimo embraced the tall man with the gentle demeanor. “What kind of torment do you inflict upon yourself that you return to be abused by your former master?”

“I heard that!” The unmistakable voice of Donatello rang out from the adjacent room.

“You were meant to,” Cosimo shouted back. “And do let us know if you intend to grace us with your presence, will you? I have a commission for you, but I can give it to Andrea here if you prefer.”

They could hear the grumbling and scurrying in the other room. For all Donatello’s temperament, he worshipped Cosimo and would never keep him waiting too long.

Verrocchio turned to call forward a young man, a teenager who was grinding pigments across the room. The youth was beautiful; covered in golden curls and with deep-set amber eyes, he had the appearance of a young lion. The young man stood up and smiled a crooked, endearing smile at the visitors. He came forward, bowed gracefully in obvious recognition of the esteemed company, but then looked down at his hands apologetically. “Vermilion. It is messy, so I dare not touch anything or anyone.”

Verrocchio made the introductions. “Cosimo and Lorenzo de’ Medici, I present to you Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi. We call him Sandro. You shall be hearing more from him and soon, as I can say with absolute certainty that I have not before seen such raw natural talent in an apprentice, perhaps ever.”

Sandro, well aware of his talent yet determined to appear humble,
made a face at Lorenzo and shrugged. It was a self-effacing yet strangely confident gesture for one so young. Lorenzo laughed, liking him immediately, and asked Sandro to show him how the messy vermilion pigment was made. Lorenzo had grown up splattered with paint, watching in awe all the great artists who were integral to the Medici household and protected by Cosimo and Piero alike. He had always been fascinated by the pounding of minerals and the elaborate mixing that went into the creation of the paint and was excited at the prospect of getting his own hands a little dirty.

Cosimo raised a questioning eyebrow in Sandro’s direction as the boys wandered off. Verrocchio explained in a lowered voice. “He’s extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not just his talent but his understanding. He is a natural.”

“An angelic?”

Verrocchio nodded. “He may be
the
angelic we have been waiting for. His abilities are unnatural. Supernatural. I will work with him on the preliminaries, but then if all goes as I believe it will, he will need greater training. He is worthy of the Master, I think.”

Cosimo watched where the two boys were working in the pigment, Lorenzo happily grinding and crushing with the mortar and pestle, as Sandro guided his technique. There was an aura around the two of them, a sense of fate hanging in the air that was not lost on either Cosimo or Andrea. These boys were destined to be friends. Indeed, it appeared that they already were.

“If he is what you say he is, then I shall move him into the palazzo and raise him as a Medici.”

The conversation was interrupted by the loud and dramatic entrance of Donatello.

“Ah, my patron, my savior. Tell me you have come to bring news of your poor, humble artist’s exoneration from the tyranny of the Florentine philistines.”

Cosimo replied, “You are neither poor, thanks to me, nor humble, thanks to your talent. But what you are is free. Yes, you have been exonerated and shall live to sculpt another day.”

Donatello threw his arms around Cosimo. “Thank you, thank you! Never has there been a kinder or more beloved patron than my magnanimous Medici.”

“You are welcome, Doni. But now I think we must agree that you will take no more vanity commissions, as they are not in anyone’s best interest. Further, I have decided to monopolize your time with a commission of my own. I want you to create a sculpture of Our Lady, the Queen of Compassion.”

“Maria Magdalena?”

“Yes. Life-sized. It will be a gift to the Master from all of us.”

Donatello nodded. “And what are my parameters?”

“You have none from me, other than to use your heart as you sculpt her and pour your love of Our Lady into the piece. I do not care what medium you use and will leave all artistic decisions up to you. Just make her magnificent and memorable, a true symbol of the Order and what we all stand for. And of course, I will pay you in advance so you are not tempted to take any other commissions, which will distract you and end in certain disaster. Do we have an agreement, Doni?”

The artist threw his arms around Cosimo again. “Yes, sweetest patron! I shall sculpt Our Lady as she has never been seen before. Leave everything to me!”

Donatello spent the better part of a year sculpting Maria Magdalena. He made the decision to create her out of wood, a remarkable challenge for a life-sized creation. He chose white poplar for its pliability, and finding the piece of wood large enough to fulfill his vision was in itself a task that took several months to accomplish.

He sculpted in absolute solitude and secrecy. No one, not even his closest assistants, were allowed to enter the room where he carefully whittled and carved away at the figure of his Maria Magdalena. When Cosimo inquired as to his progress, Donatello merely smiled, with a faraway gleam in his eye. “You shall see,” he said simply.

The day came for the unveiling, and Cosimo had the sculpture moved under Donatello’s guidance to the villa at Careggi for a meeting of the Order. The Master would be in attendance tonight, and the creation would be presented to him and the others. Donatello was giddy with excitement, while at the same time slightly apprehensive. Although he was renowned for his enormous faith in his own talents, which was more than justified, this particular commission had arguably been the most challenging of his artistic life. He had poured his heart and his soul into this piece, and like all artists of the Order used the technique called “infusion” to transfer his intention for the piece directly into the materials. If the infusion was done properly, the effect went beyond the visual, and the art transferred the artist’s emotional and spiritual intention to the viewer. It was an artistic alchemy, something which could only be achieved by masters such as Donatello, who had perfected the process.

And so his Maria Magdalena was infused with all the devotion and understanding that he had of her. He knew, if given the chance, that she would convey her essence to those who viewed her. But first they would have to overcome what they saw with their eyes, because his Magdalena was unlike anything that had been created before.

He had not set out to depict her this way. But she had insisted. He could feel it every time his hands went to touch the wood; it all but screamed to him what it was, precisely, she wanted to look like. And he had taken a vow, like every artist of the Order before him beginning with Nicodemus himself, to protect the legacy of Madonna Magdalena at all costs. He did just that, creating art that was purely expressive by listening to exactly what she demanded of him as he sculpted her.

The gathering was brought to order as Fra Francesco, the Master, opened with a blessing, followed by the prayer of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher:

We honor God while praying for a time
when these teachings will be welcomed
in peace by all people
and there will be no more martyrs.

Following the prayer, Cosimo made a short speech, dedicating this new work of art to Fra Francesco, while praising Donatello for his commitment and his genius.

But as Donatello feared, there was absolute silence in the great dining hall of Careggi when the sculpture was unveiled. If the attending members of the Order were expecting to see their Queen of Compassion depicted in all her luminous beauty, they were to be thoroughly disappointed and more than a little shocked.

In Donatello’s sculpture, Maria Magdalena was utterly wretched.

Her body was emaciated and naked underneath a mass of hair, which covered most of her, as it flowed nearly to her feet. It was extraordinary that even in the carving of the wood and without paint, the artist had conveyed perfectly that Magdalena was unwashed, her hair matted to her head. Her eyes were haunting in their hollow stare, and she was mostly toothless.

“She looks like a beggar woman!” a female voice whispered.

“It is blasphemy to the Order!” came a male whisper, slightly
louder.

The Master of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher rose from his chair and approached the sculpture. He ran his fingers lightly over the intricately carved hair of this terrible, tragic sculpture. After considering it for a long moment, he turned to Donatello.

“It is perfect. It is art. Thank you, my son, for this unequaled blessing you have given all of us.”

Donatello began to weep openly under the love of the Master. The pressures of the last year, the need to perfect this sculpture, had weighed heavily on his spirit. He knew that there was a tremendous chance of its being misunderstood, and from the initial whispered comments, he feared that it had been.

It was the child among them who ultimately came to his rescue. Using his remarkable intelligence and sensitivity of spirit, it was the nine-year-old Lorenzo de’ Medici who interpreted the art for those who did not have eyes to see. He moved toward the sculpture as if mesmerized and stood before it, tilting his head a little as he looked at Maria Magdalena, to whom he was deeply devoted. The assembled Order watched
Lorenzo in absolute silence. He was their Poet Prince, and his interpretation would be critical.

Donatello, standing closest to the sculpture, whispered to Lorenzo. “You hear her, don’t you?”

Lorenzo nodded, never taking his eyes off the sculpture. He walked around it, looking at every side of her, all the while appearing to listen to some phantom voice that no one else in the room heard. Finally he stopped and turned to face the assembly. A single tear slid down his cheek.

“Tell us what you see and hear, Lorenzo.” It was the voice of the Master, warm and encouraging.

Lorenzo cleared his throat, not wanting to cry in front of the assembled Order. He began haltingly at first but then found his voice as he continued.