Reliving the Renaissance, Part 1
The first of two letters about Botticelli’s ’hood, Michelangelo’s early work, and Gentileschi’s new glory
When you’re an art geek of the giddy romantic kind, like I am, Florence gives you shivers. Not only because of the wealth of art found in its museums, not only because of such architectural feats as the Duomo and Santa Croce, Santa Maria Novella and Orsanmichele, Palazzo Vecchio and San Miniato al Monte. I mean the city itself, the echoes of the artistic explosion that began on the streets and in the workshops of Florence circa 1350 and shimmered, during the Renaissance’s 100-year unmatchable peak, between 1450 and 1550.
It was a city transformed. As Joseph Luzzi wrote in Botticelli’s Secret: The Lost Drawings and the Rediscovery of the Renaissance:
By the late fifteenth century, Florence had more woodcarvers than butchers, suggesting that creating beautiful objects was as essential as eating meat. The city had more than fifty workshops for marble and stone, forty-plus master goldsmiths and silversmiths, and some thirty master painters (a group that would include Botticelli). As renowned as some of these craftsmen would become, they did not think of themselves as “artists” in the modern sense of the word—that is, highly educated, theoretically minded creators with special powers. It was only after [Giorgio] Vasari and his Lives [of the Artists] that the “artist” was thought of as someone imbued with remarkable, divinely inspired genius. Vasari would transform humble artisans and craftsmen into exalted beings.
Though I haven’t forgiven Vasari for trashing Botticelli’s work and sending the artist into obscurity for centuries, I’m with him—those Renaissance artists were indeed exalted beings. The century that spawned so many of them gave us not only Sandro Botticelli (1445-1510), real name Alessandro di Mariano di Vanni Filipepi (for more on his and other artists’ nicknames, go here) but also Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564). And it was in search of them—their spirits, the remnants of their lives—that I went to Florence one fine day at the end of May.
Let’s start with Botticelli, like I did. Next week, Michelangelo and Gentileschi.
Off the train, I head past Santa Maria Novella and south to Via del Porcellana, known in Botticelli’s day as Via Nuova. This was his street, where he had grown up and where, in 1465, he opened his studio, or bottega. My goal: to walk the street in full, conscious awareness that more than 500 years ago, so had he.
It’s a nondescript street, devoid of any plaque or marker to tie it to Botticelli. I’m sure any locals who see me think it’s odd that I keep stopping and turning and staring, that I photograph buildings unremarkable in any way. But they don’t see what I do—a young, vigorous Sandro bursting from one of those doors, a rolled-up canvas tucked under his arm. Or maybe, as he steps outside, he stops to pull up the hood of his cloak against the rain; then, with a full purse secured to his belt, he’s off to buy pigments and oil, canvas and wood. I can hear the rumble of cart wheels, the thud of hooves, the shouts of workingmen; I can smell chimney smoke and sweat, the stink of human waste beneath aromas of roasted meat and fried vegetables. I can see Sandro hurrying to the end of the street, greeting a friend before turning the corner. Beneath what’s there now, in this moment—relative quiet, one man on a bike, one loading boxes into his car, the scent of nothing—I can imagine the energy of Botticelli’s bottega, the excitement and frustration that go hand-in-hand with creation.
I will allow myself to indulge in this fantasy Florence, this Florence of perfection, when her streets rang with the noise of hammers and chisels and saws, when oils and dyes scented the air. And yes, I will ignore the reality of repeated eruptions of wars and pestilence, the maladies that limited adult life spans, the frequent deaths of infants and children. Call me silly, even obsessed; you’d be right on both counts. All I can say is this: I find joy in trying to walk in the footsteps of my Renaissance heroes.
From Via Nuova, Botticelli would have had only to turn right to end up in Piazza Ognissanti (if it existed then) and his neighborhood church, Chiesa di San Salvatore in Ognissanti. A splendid church, it houses two important reminders of Botticelli—his dreamy Sant’Agostino nello studio (Saint Augustine in his studio), painted in 1480, commissioned by the Vespuccis, a family important in the realms of politics, society, world exploration, and art patronage.
In 1480, Botticelli would have been 35, accomplished yet still young. And perhaps pining for Simonetta Vespucci, wife of Marco Vespucci (a distant cousin of the celebrated explorer Amerigo Vespucci, whose name graces two continents) and idealized muse (and, so the stories go, heartthrob) of the artist. Said to be the most beautiful woman in Florence, Simonetta died in 1476, in her 20s. It’s also said, and disputed, that she and Giuliano de’ Medici, brother of Lorenzo the Magnificent) were madly in love. Still, there’s no disputing that it’s her face we see in Botticelli’s most famous and beloved works—she’s Venus in his Nascita di Venere (Birth of Venus) and his Venere e Marte (Venus and Mars); she’s Flora in his Primavera (Spring).
It's also said that Botticelli asked to be buried at Simonetta’s feet in the Ognissanti church, a heartbreakingly romantic “fact” you’ll find written everywhere. I hate to be the destroyer of any endearing story about my boy Botticelli, but here’s the thing: he’s indeed buried in Ognissanti. But he’s not at the foot of the Vespucci tomb, which is around the corner, and there’s no mention of Simonetta on the Vespucci tomb or anywhere else. The words carved on a decorative slab in the marble floor nearby, which might be taken for a tomb, mention neither a person nor a family. Determined to know for sure, I asked an Ognissanti nun where Simonetta is buried. Her answer: “She’s nowhere here.”
There’s hope that the story is true, though, because the church, built in the 1250s by the somewhat fanatical Umiliati and called Sanctorum Omnium (meaning “all the saints,” from which the name Ognissanti derived), was changed quite a bit by the Franciscans who took over the church in the early 1570s, and then extensively remodeled in the Baroque style around 1627. It seems possible, ever so slightly, that Simonetta’s tomb had been there but was moved during one of those renovations. It’s possible Botticelli once slept at the feet of his muse. We can only hope.
Unfortunately, the two renovations mean that the church we admire today looks nothing like it did when Botticelli, known to be a religious man, worshipped there. New altars, a new façade, new paintings; the list goes on. Here’s what we do know about its former appearance: Giotto’s painting of the Madonna and Child enthroned with angels, called Madonna Enthroned or Madonna Ognissanti, now in the Uffizi, had adorned the former altar; the frescoes by Botticelli and Ghirlandaio (including his Madonna della Misericordia and San Gerolamo, the latter now directly across from Botticelli’s Agostino) were there, and so was a spectacular Crocifisso (Crucifixion), only discovered to be a masterpiece by Giotto when it was restored in the early 2000s.
Like Botticelli, Michelangelo was buried in his parish church, the great Basilica di Santa Croce, across town from Ognissanti. Unlike Botticelli, he’s buried in an enormous, ornate tomb that’s admired by millions of visitors. I have no idea how many visitors or locals come to Botticelli’s humble tomb, which bears the equally humble, non-individualized inscription Mariani Filipepi filiorum sepulcrum (sepulcher of Mariano Filipepi’s children). But I know this: it’s not enough.
Like Michelangelo, Botticelli’s work can be found everywhere—on tote bags and keychains and T-shirts and placemats. His Birth of Venus may be as famous, and as popular, as Michelangelo’s David. Also like Michelangelo, Botticelli painted the Sistine Chapel—not the exalted ceiling and Last Judgment, but three wall frescoes: The Trials of Moses, Temptation of Christ, and Punishment of the Sons of Korah, all completed in only 11 months. But he’s given neither the same reverence as Michelangelo, nor the same respect, by the city of Florence.
So do me a favor, and if you get to Florence, go to Ognissanti and pay your respects to Botticelli. Next time, I’m bringing flowers.
Alla prossima,
Cheryl
© 2023 Cheryl A. Ossola
Books of the week:
The Stones of Florence by Mary McCarthy
Florence: A Map of Perceptions by Andrea Ponsi (with fab watercolors)
Botticelli’s Secret: The Lost Drawings and the Rediscovery of the Renaissance by Joseph Luzzi
P.S. My book!
If you read it and like it, please tell your friends and/or leave a few lines of praise on any bookish site. You’ll make me over-the-moon happy. Baci!
This is YOU!!!! Loved your voice in this post and felt I was walking with you (and Botticelli). Great pics and stories.
Your lovely writing took me to Florence right away. Thank you.