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I have often said that my first real fascination with great art happened when I saw a photo of Michelangelo’s David in the “M” volume of our encyclopedia. I was around twelve years old and there was something so appealing in the image, something about the slope of the shoulders, the natural stance, the elegance of it all, that I looked at it again and again.  That year, when my English teacher taught us how to write term papers and assigned us the job of writing a biographical paper, I chose Michelangelo.

Last week I was in Florence and my niece and I decided to take her ten-year-old daughter to the Accademia to see David. It was my seventh visit to see it in 46 years. Every visit has been characterized by a different set of circumstances and different companions. This time, when I walked into the gallery and saw the sculpture again, I found myself in tears. Part of that reaction is certainly due to the passage of time, and the history of my fascination with David, but most of it comes from the work itself. Michelangelo goes straight to the heart.



Many sculptural masterpieces impress with form, balance, surface, line. Michelangelo’s David epitomizes beauty in all of those elements, as do Donatello’s Davids in the Bargello. In Rome, one is dazzled by Bernini’s sculptural figures – the liveliness of the flesh, the stunning compositions of multiple figures, exquisitely balanced and composed from every angle. Perhaps he is even the greatest of technicians. Bernini gives us theatricality and drama to express human emotion.. Donatello gives us enigma. But Michelangelo gives us humanity. His figures seem to be thinking and experiencing life and emotion much in the same way all of us do. David’s face expresses a realistic mix of anger and youthful vulnerability, not as an actor in a pantomime would express it, but as a boy who saw a wrong he wants to right, thinks he can, but may be too young for the task. How Michelangelo pulls such subtle and profound emotion from a solid piece of stone is pure genius.



This year is the 450th anniversary of Michelangelo’s death. To celebrate this anniversary, a special exhibition has been mounted at the Capitoline Museums in Rome. This makes me think back 50 years. On the 400th anniversary of Michelangelo’s death, Italy shipped Michelangelo’s Pieta to New York as its offering in the 1964 New York World’s Fair at Flushing Meadows. I was sixteen years old and still remember reading, with interest and excitement, about the special packing and shipping precautions to protect the sculpture. I went to the fair and saw it from a special ramp that moved us slowly, letting us have a good look, but not linger so long as to hold others back. I remember feeling that it was magnificent. Now, fifty years later, after years of painting and years of making portraits, or of trying to, I understand how magnificent it really is and understand that genius is a word that should be used sparingly. If ever there has been a sculpture that transmits love, loss and fragility, it is the Pieta.



On many visits to Florence and to Rome, going to see these masterpieces time and again has given rhythm, dimension and perspective to my life. How do our reactions change from year to year or decade to decade when we view art? How do our feelings change? Do we see something that we missed before? Can we relate to something differently? Art can be a foil for many experiences. Over time, rather than becoming jaded by repeated visits, David’s determinationa and vulnerability and the Madonna’s grief in the Pieta only take on more meaning. Michelangelo’s skill only dazzles more. Maybe that is what defines great art. It is never less, always more.

 

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