I, Leonardo, Obsession, A Michelangelo Odyssey
Jan 13, 2009 — 3 comments
The art world (and the world in general for that matter) has always been rife with various forms of obsessive behavior. Example: Marcel Duchamp’s Opposition and Sister Squares are Reconciled, which is basically an obscenely intensive study of endgame scenarios in chess. It’s also a brilliant and not-at-first-obvious piece of conceptual art, a bizarre, obsessive and esoteric metaphorical and symbolic send-up of the art world. (Click here for an excellent explanation of why this is so great, written by a favorite professor of mine from college).
Artists have always studied the work of other artists, learning from the previous generations of masters, interpreting and incorporating (read: stealing) the techniques and ideas into their own work. Personal tendencies lead an artist toward a certain style, then toward an individual artist, one that the person feels connected to— man, he gets it, and man, if that person was still alive we would totally be friends. The more connected they feel, the stronger the desire for more, for further understanding, which can become an autocatalytic process, building and accelerating toward outright obsession (another professor of mine told me once that he thinks all great artists are at least somewhat schizophrenic, driven subconsciously by something, some… thing, and also a little OCD, a convenient foundation for obsessive behavior). More examples: Francis Bacon (click here to read my post about his obsession with Velázquez). This guy who is clearly obsessed with Vermeer, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Salvador Dali, who was obsessed with basically everything.
Then, probably my favorite example, the book I, Leonardo, by Ralph Steadman.
I had heard vague rumors about this book, and I actually originally found a copy buried under stacks of books for sale on a broken picnic table under a bridge in London. I couldn’t afford it, so I didn’t buy it then, but I found it immediately after I returned to the US. In brief, the book is an illustrated history of the life and work of Leonardo, and is essentially Steadman’s attempt to be Leonardo. In preparation for this project, Steadman went to all the places Leonardo worked, studied and repainted his paintings, built flying machines from his drawings, and generally obsessed about him to the point that when it came time to actually write the book, he wrote it as an autobiography, a first person narrative.
I drew this from the Pieta in Florence, about 16 hours before I left for America. The male non-Christ figure is a Michelangelo self portrait
The book is brilliantly written and illustrated, and it resonated with me, standing under the bridge next to the Thames, because at that time I was on my own version of Steadman’s odyssey: I was attempting to see every piece of art by Michelangelo Bounarroti, the greatest artist who has ever lived. In person. I was studying painting and sculpture in Florence, where Michelangelo lived much of his life, and where one could easily see a good amount of his work that still exists. And I did just that. I looked into the eyes of his Brutus, face to face, studying the chiselwork; I answered questions (in broken German and Italian) from high school kids, middle aged women and college students who watched over my shoulder as I drew the David and the slaves; I studied the way he applied paint, my face about 6 inches away from the Tondo Doni; I led a small rogue team away from our tour group to see the Last Judgement and Sistine Ceiling, I hid in the corner of the Medici Chapel for four hours drawing the Tomb sculptures; I couldn’t get enough, I wanted to be him. On weekends I traveled by train to various cities in Italy, where I would immediately find the sculpture I was looking for, then, and only then, I would wander around the city to see what else it had to offer me. There were a few obstacles along the way, most importantly a Madonna and Child, way the hell up north in Bruges, Belgium. I had counted that as a loss immediately. But at the end of my time in Europe, I planned with a friend a northern expedition, a nation-skipping adventure, the path of which I of course maneuvered and coaxed toward Bruges.
The Bruges Madonna
Generally I was alone for this whole experience, and when there were others with me, they at first gave me a hard time for my mania. But when they actually saw a piece of marble sculpted by Michelangelo in person, the power of his work was made clear by the look on their faces, and they came to understand and respect my quest.
Two pages from my sketchbook: a slave and the David
Certain things you remember during all this madness. What song was going through your head when you first saw the Sistine Chapel (Orestes by A Perfect Circle). The folding chairs set up 5 feet from the Genius of Victory, with people walking right past it like it was in a cafeteria or gymnasium or something. The strange feeling of knowing that the room I am standing in is the most incredible space I have ever occupied (I felt this twice, first in the Sistine Chapel, and second, more powerfully, in the Medici Chapel. Hands down most amazing room I’ve ever been in).
Medici Chapel, image found on this guy’s site
Drawings from the Medici Chapel
I failed. There are certain things you can’t see. A little known (and unimpressive, relatively) fresco he did late in his life is in the private quarters of St Peters. The rest I just missed, for various reasons: in London, I went to the wrong museum, missing the Taddei Tondo. I was in Milan, I saw the Duomo (the single most impressive building I’ve ever witnessed), but I did not see his final Pieta, on which he was working when he died. I walked right past the front door of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, home of Christ the Redeemer (click here. You see the big dark door behind the idiot in the pink? I walked right past the door, right to left. Up the steps, down the steps. Had no idea until twenty minutes later when it was too late. Idiot.) There is a sculpture of a Crouching Boy in Russia, and though it is generally regarded as being by Michelangelo, I’m not so sure. Either way I’ve never seen it. Most maddening, The Apollo, in the Bargello in Florence, had the distinction and the nerve of being the first Michelangelo piece to go on tour in over two hundred years. It was in Detroit. Of course. Unreal. Not that I remember things like that.
Drawing from The Battle of the Centuars
Everything else, I saw, in person.
Ok, this has gone on long enough. I guess this needs a sort of summary statement. Here it is. On obsession: I can relate. Click here for a list of all the major pieces by Michelangelo that still exist.
Jan 14, 2009
I suppose there are worse things with which you could be obsessed. For instance, I’m obsessed with conflict and laying out. People may not like me that way, but I’ve got an amazing golden-brown tan.
Jul 21, 2009
tks for the effort you put in here I appreciate it!
Apr 04, 2010
Stumbled on your sketches when googling Michelangelo – Very nice drawings.
my fave from here is Battle of the Centuars