The Ugly Renaissance (14 page)

There were also neighbors to be considered, and they could not, in fact, be ignored in so community-minded a society as Renaissance Florence. Although often hidden from the historian’s view, these more mundane social interactions—beyond the bounds of family, friends, patrons, and workshop—occasionally shine through in the evidence. While undoubtedly harmonious in some cases, what testimony we possess points toward something resembling a soap opera.
Botticelli, for example, was enraged when a cloth weaver moved in next door to him. Eliding home and business, the weaver set up shop with no fewer than eight looms on the go all day, every day. The noise was deafening, and, what was worse, the vibrations of the looms caused the walls to shake to a ridiculous degree. Botticelli quickly found himself unable to work. Anger took over. Rushing upstairs, Botticelli balanced a huge stone on the very top of his roof (which was somewhat higher than the weaver’s) and loudly proclaimed that it would fall unless the shaking stopped. Terrified of being crushed to death, the poor weaver had no option but to come to terms. Extreme though this incident may have been, there is no doubt that Michelangelo would have had to deal with similar sorts of concerns.

As Michelangelo’s social circles suggest, there was perhaps no clear, overall picture encapsulating the immediate society of the Renaissance artist, but a shifting web of overlapping, interlocking, and sometimes conflicting social networks. Formal obligations coexisted with idealized relationships, and bawdy jokes sat alongside angry arguments and ritualized but insincere expressions of respect. Duty to family and friends similarly interacted with fraught, or funny, relationships with apprentices and crossed the boundaries of class and social status as patrons entered the equation. Far from being elevated to the status of a high-minded, truly independent individual, far removed from the hustle and bustle of ordinary existence, Renaissance artists like Michelangelo
were always being swept along by the shifting currents of the society in which they lived, pulled always this way and that, shaped by the tastes of one group, the humor of another, and the demands of a third.

Most important, these shifting relationships, obligations, and values shine through in the art of the period. On the one hand, there is a clear conceptual and creative link to be drawn. Concepts of family and even the conflicted experiences of family life are implicit in Michelangelo’s depiction of Mary, Joseph, and the infant Christ in the
Doni Tondo
and Ghiberti’s bronze rendering of the sacrifice of Isaac on the doors of the
Baptistery; the artist’s dependent but fraught relationship with his patrons is glimpsed in Botticelli’s inclusion of a sly, slightly disdainful self-portrait alongside Cosimo, Piero, and
Giovanni de’ Medici in the
Adoration of the Magi
(
Fig. 5
); the importance of friendship is seen in
Taddeo Gaddi’s inclusion of the figure of Amicitia among the virtues in the
Baroncelli Chapel in Santa Croce; and the value of workshop banter shines through not only in many of Vasari’s pen portraits of the artists but also in the multitude of playful details in larger artistic works that reflected the often fruitful relationship between the artist and his assistants. But on the other hand, the influence of these social circles can be seen at play beneath the surface of the artworks themselves. It
was the obligations owed to family, friends, patrons, and even assistants that to a greater or lesser extent drove production itself; and it was the values thrashed out in the melting pot of these relations which shaped the form that production took.

W
OMEN

Perhaps the most striking thing about the evidence for the composition of Michelangelo’s social circles in this period is the fact that it presents his social world as overwhelmingly male. With the fleeting exception of his elusive sister, Cassandra (whose date of birth is, tellingly, unknown), his “bitch” aunt, and the family housekeeper, women are all but invisible. He seems to have had almost nothing to do with them.

In some ways, Michelangelo’s story in the period 1501–4 is not altogether remarkable in this respect. It is not that his reputed disinterest in women at this time was common. Indeed, quite the contrary. The majority of artists—even the misanthropic
Piero di Cosimo—either married or pursued continual affairs with unabated enthusiasm, as
was the case with Raphael. Nor was Michelangelo cut off from women any more than any other artists. Given that they made up 50 percent of the population of the city, ordinary life was, quite naturally, swarming with women at every turn, and no artist, however immune to female charms, could avoid female interaction whether inside or outside the family. Rather, the comparative invisibility of women speaks to a certain facet of gendered existence in Renaissance Italy and its reflection in the male-dominated written culture of the period.

Women were commonly regarded with a mixture of pious idealism, paternalistic condescension, and legal misogyny. For a host of poets and literary figures, they were very definitely the weaker sex. Even when writing a work specifically designed to praise the achievements of women—the
De mulieribus claris
(1374)—
Giovanni Boccaccio felt obliged to point out that the celebration of outstanding women was necessary given the natural and profound limitations of their gender. Indeed, such achievements as they could claim were only due to their assuming “male” characteristics. “
If we grant that men deserve praise whenever they perform great deeds with the strength bestowed on them,” Boccaccio asked, “how much more should women be extolled—almost all of whom are endowed by nature with soft, frail bodies and sluggish minds—when they take on a manly spirit, [and] show remarkable intelligence and bravery?”

This view, which was entirely commensurate with contemporary religious opinion, found expression in legal norms. Until she married, a young girl like Michelangelo’s sister, Cassandra, was totally subservient to her father, and her function and status were determined in relation to the needs of the household. In the city’s wealthiest families a modicum of education was seen as befitting a girl who would be used as a marital pawn in forging advantageous familiar alliances, but beyond a smattering of training in languages, music, and dancing, little attention was given to learning. “
Book learning” remained a man’s preserve. In less well-to-do families—perhaps including Michelangelo’s own, which lacked a mother figure—an unmarried girl was little more than an unpaid servant. Education was not a high priority, and that
Paolo Uccello’s daughter “
had some knowledge of drawing” alone was something of a surprise. In most Florentine households, the daughter might be expected to help with backbreaking domestic chores and contribute to the family income from an early age by selling produce at the market,
working looms, or spinning wool with her mother. Above all else, however, she had to protect her most precious asset: her virginity.

Marriage was a woman’s ultimate goal: in the Renaissance mind, it was what a girl had been born for. Legally speaking, it was possible for her to marry at any point after her twelfth birthday, but the age at which a girl took the leap very much depended on her family’s socioeconomic status. If she hailed from a patrician background, her family would arrange for her to marry a suitable husband when she was between thirteen and fifteen, always with the goal of achieving a suitable familial match, and conventionally endowed with a satisfactory dowry. The girl seldom had any choice in the matter. Indeed, she could expect to have virtually no say in any part of the wedding arrangements either: in 1381,
Giovanni d’Amerigo Del Bene complained that the satin gown desired by his future daughter-in-law was “too lavish” and sought to arrange a more suitable garment with her prospective husband,
Andrea di Castello da Quarata.
Although the poor girl’s mother was unhappy with the marriage, Giovanni simply dismissed her behavior as “bizarre” and undignified. Lower down the social scale, girls tended to marry when they were slightly older. But even here, few were given much say in the selection of a husband, and many found themselves hitched to much older men. At the average Florentine wedding, the groom could be expected to be twelve years older than his bride.

If anything, a woman’s legal status actually deteriorated after marriage. Like those of virtually every other city in Italy, Florence’s municipal statutes deprived a married woman of the right to enter into contract, to spend her own income, to sell or give away property, to draw up a will, or even to choose a burial place without her husband’s approval. Legal separation was virtually impossible to obtain, and complete divorce was simply not recognized, even in cases of brutality and manifest adultery.

At the same time, a young married girl also found herself subject to the exacting expectations of Florentine society. It was anticipated that she would devote herself entirely to her family, and most especially to her husband. A glimpse of what this entailed can be found in the Venetian
Francesco Barbaro’s aptly named treatise
On Wifely Duties
, which he presented to Lorenzo de’ Medici and
Ginevra Cavalcanti on the occasion of their marriage in 1416.

For Barbaro, there were three wifely duties necessary to a praiseworthy
marriage: “
love for her husband, modesty of life, and complete care in domestic matters.” Of these, perhaps the most important was the third, for which
women, being “by nature weak,” were especially well suited. It was a demanding duty.
A noblewoman like Ginevra was expected to manage the household, particularly by ordering her servants appropriately, appointing “sober stewards for the provisions,” arranging for food and accommodation for the household staff, and managing the domestic accounts. On top of this, there was the education of children, especially girls, to be attended to. In less august households, including those of artists such as
Lorenzo Ghiberti and
Paolo Uccello, but most particularly in the homes of the
popolo minuto
, the wife was expected to assume responsibility for everything: cooking, cleaning, washing, darning, and any other such tasks that her husband might select. Where money was needed, the wife could also be compelled to undertake some sort of menial occupation. Although millinery and lace-making had always been the preserve of women, most women were limited to spinning, laundering, nursing, and the like, or found work in cookshops and taverns or as domestic servants like the Buonarroti family’s longtime housekeeper, Mona Margherita. Whatever they did, they were poorly paid.

Modesty was a rather more complex obligation but no less regimented. In this regard, dress was particularly important. For Barbaro, a wife should “
wear and esteem all those fine garments so that men other than their own husbands will be impressed and pleased,” and she was obliged virtually to forget her own tastes. This was a view that Michelangelo’s fellow artists clearly shared.
Perugino, for example, took so much pleasure in his wife wearing nice clothes that “
he very often attired her with his own hands.” What Perugino’s wife thought of the elegant but modest attire that was foisted on her is not recorded. The same degree of modesty, Barbaro claimed, applied to “
behavior, speech, dress, eating, and”—saving the best until last—“lovemaking.” Even in the act of procreation (for which marriage was designed), the woman was expected to safeguard both her virtue and that of her husband. Ideally, she should remain covered—to the point of being fully dressed—while having sex. It hardly needs saying that sexual modesty was expected to include an absolute fidelity to the husband that could brook no question. As
Matteo Palmieri expressed it,
even the faintest
hint of infidelity should be regarded as “the supreme disgrace” that was “worthy only of public humiliation.”

Love was similarly stringent. Far from being the romantic love of today, the idea of
amore
that was foisted upon women like Michelangelo’s poor sister, Cassandra, was in almost all senses equivalent to mere subservience. As
Barbaro argued, a woman should

love her husband with such great delight, faithfulness, and affection that he can desire nothing more in diligence, love, and goodwill. Let her be so close to him that nothing seems good or pleasant to her without her husband.

Tellingly, this meant not complaining under any circumstances. Wives must, Barbaro believed, “
take great care that they do not entertain suspicion, jealousy, or anger on account of what they hear.” If her husband was drunk or committed adultery or wasted the household income on gambling, she just had to smile and carry on.

Should the man find something to complain about, however, the situation was quite different.
Boccaccio went to great lengths to praise the fictional Griselda for demurely enduring the almost ritualized humiliation doled out by her husband, a story commemorated in a series of three paintings (now in the National Gallery in London) designed for the decoration of a home by the “Master of the Story of Griselda” ca. 1494. Beatings and domestic violence were accepted and even encouraged. In his
Trecentonovelle
,
Franco Sacchetti blithely pointed out that “
good women and bad women need to be beaten.” Although there are records of women petitioning the courts for redress after suffering brutality, such cases are rare.

If this picture is to be believed,
Giorgione’s early-sixteenth-century painting
The Old Woman
(Accademia, Venice) (
Fig. 6
) provides us with an image of the fate of many women in Michelangelo’s Florence. Perhaps in her fifties (but possibly younger), Giorgione’s sitter exemplifies a careworn life of backbreaking labor and legal subjugation. Her thin hair, barely covered by a pitiful cloth cap, hangs down in strands over her wizened, wrinkled face. Her eyes are sallow, surrounded by bags, and her mouth hangs open in exhaustion to reveal numerous missing teeth. Her simple pinkish gown and white shawl are of poor quality,
and their careless arrangement suggests that hope has been all but forgotten. She points to herself while holding a scroll reading “col tempo” (with time). It is almost a gesture of warning. Were any women from artisanal families to have seen this picture, this is how they could expect to look and feel as death drew near.