masters. These were causes to destroy any Pheidian-like unity in Michael
Angelo’s work, but causes much more potent to work him injury were the
characters of the men for whom he worked, prince as well as Pope. It
was, doubtless, in many respects fortunate for a young artist to have
the freedom of the court of Lorenzo de’ Medici, but while Lorenzo might
help such a man as Michael Angelo at the beginning of his career, he was
hardly the man to inspire his more mature years. At any rate he died
while Michael Angelo was still young, and thenceforth the latter worked
for men with whom he can have had but little sympathy. Men of great
energy they were, but with the exception of Alexander VI, in the main
corrupt or stupid. To work for such men under any circumstances must
have been trying, but when one thinks of their refusal to allow Michael
Angelo to work as he saw fit, one does not wonder that at times he was
nervously irritable.
Obviously such a life would have been trying to a man of more ordinary
clay than Michael Angelo, but to him, endowed, as he was, with enormous
powers of mental application and sensitive as only poets are, it must at
times have been little less than torture. He knew that the golden age of
his country had passed. He saw Florence humbled and Rome sacked. The
statesmen were men of mean ambition and the clergy men of lax morals.
Nothing could stop the degeneration. Political reformers and saintly
enthusiasts had matched themselves against the ever-increasing
debasement of Italy, and one after another they had all been overcome.
From the days of the doubtful reforms of Crescentius or Cola da Rienzi
through the period of the passionate recalling of Christ by Francis of
Assisi to the time of bitter invective of Savonarola, reformers had
given their lives in the attempt to save their beloved Italy from the
error of her ways, and all had failed. It was not a time for hope but
for sorrow, and it needed a firm belief in the Divine Word to save one
from despair—or at least discontent.
It is from his sonnets and letters rather than from his sculpture that
we can obtain a view of Michael Angelo’s thoughts and feelings. Not that
the latter does not show certain moods of the artist very clearly, but,
as in the Pietà, it is more ideal than personal, more the expression of
dreams than of his actual experience. In the sonnets, on the other hand,
he gives vent to his own innermost feelings. In them we find frequent
expression of deep despair, but bitterly as he grieved for the death of
Savonarola, there is no evidence that he thereat lost faith in humanity.
It may well have been his admiration of Vittoria Colonna that saved him
from misanthropy. As his intercourse with her was undoubtedly the purest
joy and her death the keenest sorrow of his later years, so there may
have been some similarly sweetening influence during the summer of his
life. The knowledge of his career that we possess is great, but it does
not tell us this. It is for our purposes, perhaps for all, better that
this should be so. At least it makes it easier to compare him with
Pheidias, of whose life we have no such details whatever.
Such were some of the general conditions affecting the point of view of
these two men. The effect they had on particular work becomes evident
with the study of the separate monuments. One point is, to begin with,
very noticeable. It is that of the eight works by Pheidias mentioned
distinctly by ancient writers seven are representations of deities, and
the eighth of an ideal being. There can be no question that he made
other works, but that these alone were preserved by tradition certainly
affords safe grounds for the deduction that his genius was most
congenially employed and most fully displayed in such work. In the case
of Michael Angelo, while we know of work like the statue of Julius or
the Battle Cartoon (not to mention his youthful efforts) that have
nothing to do with religion, yet his mind also turned to religious
subjects and his greatest works are entirely of this character.
Curiously enough it is when employed on subjects drawn from the ancient
world that Michael Angelo is most unlike the great Greek. His Pietà, the
Madonna of Bruges (Plate LIII) and Victor (Plate LIV) are more Pheidian
than his Bacchus (National Museum, Florence; Plate LV) or his Eros
(South Kensington Museum; Plate LVI). These are Greek of a kind, but
they are Alexandrian rather than Pheidian. They are as foreign to any
conceptions of the fifth century as they are to those of the Catholic
Church. The drunken, tottering Bacchus is as different from the early
conception of the God, who was thought of almost more as the sunshine
that makes the grape than as the juice itself, as the shrinking and
self-conscious Venus of the Capitol is from the Venus of Cnidos. In his
sensuality the Bacchus is un-Pheidian and in the humour introduced in
the group by the presence of his companion he is equally so. Humour was
not lacking to the Athenian, as the drama shows, but the fields of
sculpture and painting were not considered the proper place for its
display.
In still another point is the statue of Bacchus comparable not to the
early but to the late Greek work, and that is in the realism of the
modelling and the action of the figure. Such modelling bears no relation
to the broad treatment of Pheidias. The latter shows no such
_morbidezza_, nor would he have dwelt on the repulsive unsteadiness of
the pose. Whoever it was that carved the famous Borghese Anacreon, and
it was some contemporary of Pheidias, shows us how the earlier Greek
artist felt towards drunkenness. The figure is under the influence of
his much-sung God Dionysos, but he is shown in attitude of mental
ecstasy not of physical uncontrol. What stamps the Bacchus and the Eros
(and much of his other work) as non-Greek is a lack not exactly of
beauty, but of delicacy and refinement, of charm. But each of these
characteristics that differentiates Michael Angelo’s work from that of
the Greek stamps it as a work of the Renaissance. The pleasure in
technical excellence, the realism and the representation of
unpleasantness are all qualities that recur over and over again in the
work of this vigorous, capable, unflinching, unbelieving period.
Similar un-Pheidian qualities show in the figure of Eros in London,
which if not by Michael Angelo, is at least made entirely in his spirit.
The same realism of modelling is seen in the treatment of the head and
face, the same choice of an action inexpressive of the deepest meaning
of the figure. It is still less Pheidian in the vividness and intentness
of the action and expression which are not explained by the figure
itself, but the meaning of which is left to the imagination of the
beholder to discover. Dramatic quality of this sort is rarely found in
Pheidian work. The statues carved in that time were self-explanatory.
Single figures were often represented as intent or as full of movement
as the Eros, but their action is not motived by something outside
themselves. Hence they do not puzzle the beholder. The Anacreon, the
Discobolus need no explanation, but Michael Angelo’s Eros needs to be
grouped (at least in imagination) with some other figure before it can
be understood. It is like Myron’s Marsyas, splendid and suggestive but
incomplete.[32] Separate figures of the Parthenon pediments are as
dramatic as the Eros, but then they form part of a group and as such
their meaning was perfectly clear.
An instance is found in one of the group of Gods on the eastern end of
the frieze of the Parthenon (Plate LVII). The figure is commonly called
Ares. He is seated forward on his throne, and holds one raised knee
between his clasped hands. Such an attitude, so lacking in grandeur, so
suggestive of restlessness, is well suited to the fiery God of Battles
and shows how free and ungoverned by conventions Pheidias could be. The
group as a whole is a perfect expression of the power of the master, to
be simple as a child in this treatment of the Olympians and yet never to
fail to produce work of supreme beauty.
[Illustration: PLATE LVI.]
This simplicity one notices in all Pheidian work, separating it sharply
from the later work in Greece and from most of the work in Italy,
particularly from that of Michael Angelo. Pheidias is not in the least
affected, but at the same time he is not actualistic. Of the hundreds of
figures in the full round and in relief that decorated the Parthenon
there is not one, nor even a group, that does not seem absolutely and
utterly simple and real. And yet there is not one of them which close
study does not reveal to be a marvellous composite of actions and forms
and draperies and expressions which all bear the stamp of idealisation
(Plate LVIII). The effect of perfection that the work conveys is due
perhaps to Pheidias not having tried to idealise in any vague or
artificial way, but to his combining an absolute dependence on Nature
for his models with a capacity of seeing, and solely representing, their
essential beauties. So while his figures are ideal in the sense that
they are more perfect than average mortals, yet they do not seem
unapproachable and unaccountable.
Now this, we may freely grant, cannot be said of Michael Angelo’s work.
His figures are simple, yet it is not the simplicity of Nature but of
Art. A passing glance may find them equal to the Pheidian works, but a
more careful study shows that though true to Nature and possible in
action, they are, in respect to both body and attitude, improbable. They
are composed, and hence in a way untrue. The Pheidian beings seem those
of the Golden Age—perfect and unconcerned; while the others oftentimes
seem interested in their own perfection and desirous that it should be
admired. One knows enough of Michael Angelo to know that though
self-conscious, such thoughts were far from his mind and if, as I think,
they are to be seen in his work, it only shows that the time was
stronger than the man, for he lived in a period when affectation was not
uncommon. The grandeur of the Greek figures, as manifest in figurines as
in colossal works, is due to the beauty dependent on a mental poise;
that of the Florentine figures is due to their size and suggestion of
physical strength and to their facial and bodily expression that imply
the capacity of untold depths of passion—quite as physical a
consideration as that of size.
Of course it may be said that the Eros is merely a study of the human
frame in a rather complicated position, but even so, my contention that
the figure is un-Pheidian still remains true.
The strength of the action exhibited by this figure of Eros, the
tremendous play of muscle while at the same time the figure is thought
of not as in motion but as at rest, is what one finds in very many
figures painted and carved by Michael Angelo and forms one of the most
distinctive characteristics of his work. It shows in the Slaves, in the
Medici figures, in some of the sacred groups, in lesser measure but yet
distinctly in the David and Moses, and as clearly as possible in the
paintings of the Sistine Chapel. It is due to this in large degree that
these works are so well known, for they strike the eye of the casual and
impatient sightseer and they are remembered with much greater vividness
than work of a quieter and less excited character. In the hands of a
genius like Michael Angelo such treatment of the human figure, and the
choice of such positions, seem natural and give no sense of exaggeration
or restlessness.
It is commonly held that genius is limited by no law, and in so far as
is meant thereby to imply that no bounds can be set to the concepts of
great minds, this is true; in the attempt to express such concepts to
others, however, the genius equally with less endowed mortals must be
limited by the laws that govern the material in which he seeks to find
expression. The penetration of a Sophocles or a Shakespeare into the
mysteries of life can have no measure set to it, but when they tell us
their thoughts, their words are bound by the laws of verse. No final
explanation can be given for the teeming imagination of Michael Angelo,
but some of his works may be criticised for not conforming to the laws
of space or material that govern the arts of painting and sculpture. He
sometimes shows a lack of _taste_.
Genius shows in every touch of Michael Angelo’s hand, whether with brush
or chisel, but at times his work is unsatisfactory owing to its
exaggeration. No admiration is too great for specific qualities in
everything he did, but it is clear that the conception of beauty was not
held by him as essential. To Pheidias, on the other hand, it was of
primal importance.
A comparison of the Parthenon pediments with the ceiling of the Sistine
Chapel may make clear my meaning. This is not the place for fine
analysis of either composition. Suffice it to say that in each case the
space has been filled by the decoration with a perfection and adequacy
that has never been again approached, but I think it will be generally
admitted that the chief impression of the pediments, shattered though
they are, is of beauty, while that of the ceiling is of power. Michael
Angelo tried at times to express in paint and stone what cannot be
clearly expressed in those substances. This was what I have referred to
as lack of taste. His Last Judgment is a striking case in point. He
attempted in that work to do what Milton or Dante succeeded in doing
better with more suitable means. Even the Chief Actor in the scene
lacked the quality of grandeur which Michael Angelo seems usually to
have found no difficulty in suggesting. It is perhaps because he felt
the inadequacy of stone or paint for the full expression of his ideas
that he left so many works uncompleted.
Michael Angelo’s figures of Night and Dawn and certain figures in the
Sistine Chapel may be criticised for the exaggeration of their pose,
though how extraordinarily successful they are can be seen by comparing
them with similar figures by Vasari or other imitators of the master,
which invariably appear to be insecure and in danger of falling. The
difference in the kind of imitators who followed Pheidias, and those who
succeeded Michael Angelo, shows well one difference in their genius and
the effect on art in general that the two men had.
Both men had numerous pupils and followers, but in the earlier time such
men served to keep Greek sculpture at its highest level, in the later
they brought on a rapid degradation of the art in Italy. The reason for
this different result is plain. Just as most people now see nothing in
Michael Angelo’s work but strongly modelled figures and vigorous poses,
not knowing enough of his life to comprehend what were the thoughts he
desired to express, so the artists in his own day thought the
magnificence of his work lay in its exterior form. Imitating this they
succeeded in producing only figures with unnaturally protuberant muscles
placed in uncomfortably contorted positions. Vasari and Bandinelli are
two instances in point. The painted figures of the former are as foolish
in their assertion of would-be grandeur as is possible to conceive, and
there are few things uglier or coarser than the group of Hercules and
Cacus by the latter.
In Michael Angelo this insistence on the muscular development of figures
is an accident perhaps due to his delight (a pure Greek delight) in mere
physical strength, such as he himself possessed, but it is not the most
telling characteristic of his work. The truly essential part of his work
is the thought which his figures embody. His followers, being men of
little originality, as is shown by their trying to assume his
peculiarities, naturally succeeded not in making work like his, but work
which in reality serves to show their dissimilarity to their master. It
was unfortunate, also, that the very qualities which attracted them were
of a nature that if misunderstood lead to a more rapid debasement of art
and life than almost any other, for a love of mere physical strength is
a love of what allies one to the beasts of the field. Their work unites
them not so much to Michael Angelo as to the maker of what (with the
exception of the Laocoon) is probably the ugliest and most brutal work
preserved to us from antiquity—the Farnese Hercules.
All this was very different in the case of Pheidias and his school. In
his work there was nothing superficial to catch the eye, no peculiarity
except the perfection and beauty that one feels instantly and yet
cannot, without much care, explain on what it depends. What was there
then for other artists to do if they felt his was perfect sculpture and
they desired to work towards it? His figures were calm and stately. His
greatness lay in his conception of the being he was called upon to
represent—in his point of view, that is. This showed itself not in a
technical skill superior to that of his fellow-workers, for the artists
then as in the Renaissance were in the main equally skilful, but in a
mass of infinitesimal details which not so much by themselves separately
as by their combination gave his work its everlasting charm. It would
not have taken a quick-witted Greek long to realise that to produce
Pheidian works he must look at life in a Pheidian way, and the more
successful his imitations the more calm, restrained and careful would
they be. This Pheidian point of view was such that his followers were
turned toward spiritual repose as the source of inspiration for their
works rather than toward restless activity.
The complexity of the attitudes of Michael Angelo’s figures is scarcely
more noticeable than the multiplicity of the subjects he was called upon
to produce. Life was more complicated in his day than in that of
Pheidias, and there were more varied demands made upon the artist than
in the ancient times. While Pheidias, so far as we know, had to make
works solely for the state or for some public purpose, Michael Angelo
was forced to gratify the whim of various powerful employers. Oftentimes
such work, as for instance the Sistine Chapel, was of public character,
but more often it was not, so that in place of striving to embody the
ideals of the state whose greatest artist he was, he had to bend and
mould his genius to satisfy the personal ambitions of his masters. The
story of the Julian tomb illustrates this sad and thwarted part of his
career. Not only was he prevented from carrying out work already
undertaken in the way which he considered best, but also he was forced
to do that for which he felt himself unprepared by previous training and
unfitted by lack of interest in the subject.
[Illustration: PLATE LVII.]
That this was his mood at the time when, notwithstanding his arguments,
Pope Julius II compelled him, in 1508, to begin the work in the Sistine
Chapel, is known. If, when working against his will, he produced the
most wonderful bit of decorative and architectural painting the world
knows, one can but wonder what limit his talent would have reached had
he ever carried to completion any of his great sculptural undertakings.
Just as his capacity for mingling in his figures deep thought and
powerful action shows not a greater but rather a more varied genius than
that of Pheidias, so his capacities as painter, as architect, as
engineer show that circumstances led him to much greater variety of
activity than probably any ancient artist ever experienced. Not that
this varied activity must needs imply the possession of greater powers.
It implies merely the capacity of using an intellect highly trained in
one way for the accomplishment of purposes of more than one kind. That
is, it implies the possession by the artist of adaptability and of
common sense in its finest form, and the possession of these qualities
was not a rare characteristic in the Renaissance. Men of all kinds
showed it, but it is most marked when it appears as part of the mental
outfit of painters and of sculptors, men who too often adopt a pose of
what they consider simplicity and lack of knowledge of the world, as
though ignorance were the stepping-stone to great art. This was not the
condition of things in the Renaissance, nor, so far as the little
evidence we have allows us to judge, in Greece. It created no surprise
when Van Eyck and Rubens were considered as proper persons to be
entrusted with affairs of state, nor when the military protection of his
city was put into the hands of Michael Angelo, nor when Leonardo laid
out the irrigation system of Lombardy. Life is more complicated now and
in many lines work has to be more specialised—but this is no reason why
artists should be stupid.
The fact that the talents required for painting and sculpture are not
incompatible is clearly shown by Michael Angelo’s works. The most common
criticism passed on them, and one that is in part true, is that his
sculptures are at times too pictorial while at others his paintings are
too sculptural. Certain it is that parts of the ceiling in the Sistine
Chapel look, at first sight, more like sculptured figures than like
painted decorations. Michael Angelo was unquestionably aware of this,
and the effect was intentionally sought by him. To state as a rule of
art that work on the flat should always look flat is a mistake. There is
no law of optics or of architecture which demands this.
The application of the laws of art must depend on the individual
practitioner.[33] In treating the figures in the Sistine Chapel in a
sculpturesque way Michael Angelo produced a work more like the Parthenon
in the perfection with which the decoration is adapted to its position
than is elsewhere to be seen. He has used painting, that is to say, in
much of his design to suggest sculpture, which is the richer and more
suitable adjunct to most parts of architecture,[34] and thereby produced
a complex architectural work instead of producing merely a painting
which, like many of those in Venice, might equally well be placed
anywhere else.
[Illustration: PLATE LVIII.]
A comparison will make the point plain. Take most modern decoration of a
similar sort and how infinitely feeble and accidental it seems! Look at
the decorations of the Pantheon in Paris, of the Boston Public Library,
and the difference may be seen. Great painting one may see there, but
not great decoration of architectural works; and ceiling or wall
paintings are nothing else. Any one of these paintings taken from its
present position would look equally well on any other wall large enough
to hold it, or in any gallery, and would also have equal meaning there.
Not so Michael Angelo’s work. As a whole it could be put nowhere except
where it is, and if cut in pieces each bit would cry out in its solitude
and demand the juxtaposition of the other parts. The work is as perfect
a finishing of the Chapel as though it were some natural growth. This is
equally true of the sculptures of the Parthenon. How inconsequent and
unmeaning they look when taken from their natural place is shown in the
British Museum by the Athenæum Club and Hyde Park Gate in London.