There are some works of art that are so transcendent, so seemingly divinely inspired, that you almost don’t want to look too closely at the individual(s) responsible for creating such magnificent beauty lest they turn out to be total douche bags. It’s a little bit like seeing how the sausage is made. “Man, this sausage is delicious…I can’t wait to see how you guys do—wait…oh…oh, no…hold on…is that pig anus you’re putting in there?! Seriously? Like, the anus of a pig? I’m eating a pig’s ass? Why is it so delicious? WHY, GOD, WHY?!”
Hmm. This review is not getting off to a very good start. Let’s try that again.
Michaelangelo is the ninja turtle who loves to party. He also loves pizza—well, I mean, they all love pizza, but Mikey especially loves pizza, and he sure comes up with some crazy toppings. This one time he…
What? Wrong Michelangelo? F$@& me!
All right. Let’s try this one more time.
It’s pretty universally agreed, and I’d wholeheartedly include myself amongst the group of agreers, that the ceiling of Sistine Chapel is one of the most amazing works of art ever created (and it’s unquestionably one of the most influential). The artist most responsible for that work (I say “most responsible” because, like any Renaissance fresco-er, he had help from a team of assistants), was Michelangelo Buonarroti, and the story of how he came to paint that magnificent work—and the challenges he encountered while doing it—is a fascinating one, ably recounted by Mr. King.
In retrospect, it seems almost impossible that we can admire Michelangelo’s work today. The passage of time alone could have, and nearly has on multiple occasions, destroyed it (only a combination of luck, genius craftsmanship at the outset, and dedicated conservation efforts have managed to preserve it), but the fact that it exists in the first place is almost inexplicable.
Michelangelo shot to fame on the strength of a number of works, but primarily because of a 17-foot-tall naked dude by the name of David (like Madonna or Beavis, he needs only one name, though I’ve heard Beavis is more well-endowed). He considered himself a sculptor first and foremost and had never executed a fresco before (though he had been commissioned to do one); in fact, the primary reason he ended up getting offered the commission to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling was because a rival talked the pope into it in the hopes that Michelangelo would either decline (and be disgraced) or utterly fail (and be disgraced).
Despite his relative inexperience, the logistical difficulties of painting something so absurdly high (contrary to popular belief, Michelangelo did not paint lying on his back, though rumor has it that he did once eat a plate of pasta in that position, which, in and of itself, should be recognized as one of history’s most daring and difficult feats, because gravity…am I right?), the sheer amount of square footage involved (it took Michelangelo more than 4 years to complete), and the near-constant turmoil that resulted from then-Pope Julius’s warmongering ways (side note: my alma mater, Ohio Wesleyan University, features the seemingly inexplicable Battling Bishop as its mascot; that concept makes a lot more sense after reading about the exploits of the vainglorious Julius), Michelangelo produced a masterpiece of form and aesthetics that continues to inspire people today.
I should preface the following remarks by noting that I am, in the technical sense, a heathen, having never been baptized. I was raised nominally as a Christian, but with no particular guiding doctrine nor any family devotion to, well, devotion. So, when I visited the Sistine Chapel a few years ago, I did so primarily with historical and artistic interests in mind, not religious ones. We had the good fortune to be part of a tour group that was able to gain access to the Chapel before it opened for the day to the general public, which means that there were only about 50 or 60 people milling about when I was there—it might as well have been empty.
Craning my neck to see the full splendor of Michelangelo’s work, I was dumbstruck. (Well, really, I was awestruck, but since when you adjust for my lack of intellectual horsepower, it was the functional equivalent of being dumbstruck.) Despite having nary a religious bone in his body, I can only call it a religious, or, at least, cathartic, experience. The sheer power and awesome majesty of Michelangelo’s (and his conspirators’) work was so unbelievable that it seemed hard to believe that human hands could have crafted it…
…which brings us back to the thorny issue of not wanting to look too closely at the person responsible for such divine glory lest he turn out to be a large-nosed curmudgeon who thought smiles were comparisons using “like” or “as” rather than facial expressions intended to convey that inexplicable feeling known as “happiness.” Which, in this case, he was. And, yet, the story of the Sistine Chapel’s painting, of Michelangelo’s strange relationship with Pope Julius, of his rivalry with Raphael, of his odd family dynamics, of his insane and obsessive work ethic, is fascinating in and of itself. If it doesn’t reach the dramatic heights of his artistic achievements, it does not in any way diminish them, and King’s account adds flesh and bone to the ethereal images that have continued to speak to us across the ages.
Well worth a read for art or Renaissance aficionados.
(On an unrelated note: do we think Splinter was being intentionally ironic when he named the most happy-go-lucky ninja turtle after the grouchiest of his quartet of Renaissance artist-inspired names? I hope so; otherwise, it just makes him look ignorant, and there are few things I hate more than an ignorant mutant rat who holds himself out as a wise sensei. I just don’t truck with those shenanigans.)