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DOMENICO DI TOMMASO DEL GHIRLANDAJO was put by his father to his
own art of a goldsmith. Tommaso had been the first to make those
ornaments for the head which are worn by Florentine girls, and
which are called garlands, whence he acquired the name of Ghirlandajo.
But although Domenico was a goldsmith he was continually drawing,
and became so quick and ready at it, that many say he could draw
a likeness of any one who passed the shop; and this is the more
readily to be believed as there are in his works a great number
of lifelike portraits
Having brought himself into notice by his works, he was employed
by Francesco Sassetti to paint a chapel with the story of S. Francesco,
in which he introduced among many other noted citizens the magnificent
Lorenzo de' Medici. Afterwards he was called to Rome to help in
the painting of the Sistine Chapel, and while there was employed
by Francesco Tornabuoni in painting the wall round the tomb of
his wife which Andrea Verrocchio made. He painted here four pictures,
with which Francesco was so pleased that when Domenico returned
to Florence, he recommended him by letter to Giovanni, one of
his relatives. When Giovanni heard it, he began to wish to employ
him upon some magnificent work which would bring honour to his
own memory and fame to Domenico. And at that time it happened
that the principal chapel in S. Maria Novella, which had been
painted by Andrea Orcagna, through a fault in the roof had been
spoilt by water. Many of the citizens haa been wishing to have
it restored or repainted, but the owners, being the Ricci, would
not agree, not being able to bear the expense themselves, and
not willing that others should do it, lest they should lose their
rights and their arms should be taken down. Giovanni, desiring
to give it to Domenico to paint, set himself to obtain leave in
some way or other, and at last promised the Ricci to bear all
the expense himself, and to put their arms in the most conspicuous
and honourable place in the chapel. So, having come to terms,
and a contract being drawn up of very strict tenour, Giovanni
set Domenico to work, the price to be twelve hundred ducats of
gold, and if the work pleased him two hundred more.
So Domenico set to work and never rested till he had finished
it in four years, which was in 1485, to the very great satisfaction
of this Giovanni, who allowed that he had been well served, and
confessed ingenuously that Domenico had earned the two hundred
ducats extra, but said it would give him pleasure if he would
be content with the first sum; and Domenico, who loved glory more
than riches, gave up the remainder at once, saying he cared more
to satisfy him than to have the money.
Then Giovanni had two great coatsofarms made in stone, one of
the Tornaquinci family and the other of the Tornabuoni, and set
them up on piers outside the chapel, and in the arch, besides
other arms of the same family with different names and different
shields, the Giachinotti, Popoleschi, Marabottini, and Cardinali.
And when Domenico made the altarpiece under an arch in the gilded
ornament of the picture, he had a very beautiful tabernacle for
the Sacrament made, and in the front of it he put a little shield
blazoned with the arms of the Ricci. And the best of it was at
the opening of the chapel, for the Ricci having sought with a
great outcry for their arms, not being able to find them, went
to the magistrates, taking the contract with them. But the Tornabuoni
showed that their arms had been placed in the most conspicuous
and the most honourable place in the chapel, and though they exclaimed
that they could not be seen, they were told that they were wrong,
and that as they had been placed in the most honourable place,
near to the Holy Sacrament, they must be content. And so it was
decided by the magistrates.
For the same Giovanni Tornabuoni Domenico painted a chapel in
his house a little way from the city. He was so fond of work,
and so anxious to please every one, that he used to tell his scholars
to take any commission that was brought to the shop, if it were
only the hoops for women's petticoat panniers, for if they would
not do them he would paint them himself rather than that any one
should go away from his shop discontented. He disliked greatly
any domestic cares, and therefore left all the management to his
brother David, saying, "Let me work and you see about providing
everything, for now that I have begun to understand the methods
of the art, I am sorry that they have not given me the whole circuit
of the walls of Florence to paint." They say that when he
was drawing the antiquities at Rome, arches, columns, coliseums,
and amphitheatres, he did it ah by eye, without rule or measurement.
Drawing the Coliseum in this way, he put at the foot of it a figure
erect, by measuring which you can find the measurement of the
whole building, for, being tried by capable men after his death,
it was found correct.
He painted some things at the Abbey of Passignano belonging to
the monks of Vallombrosa, together with his brother David and
Bastiano da S. Gimignano. Before the arrival of Domenico, the
painters found themselves very ill entertained by the monks, so
they requested the abbot to serve them better, saying it was not
fair to treat them like labourers. The abbot promised to do so,
and excused himself, saying it came from ignorance and not malice.
But Domenico came, and all went on in the same way, so David,
going to the abbot again, said he came not on his own account,
but because of his brother's worth and talents. The abbot, being
however an ignorant man, made a similar reply. In the evening,
as they sat down to supper, the monk who had the charge of the
strangers, came bringing a board with porringers and food fit
only for coarse people just as before; upon which David, springing
up in a rage, flung the soup over the friar's back, and taking
up the loaf from the table attacked him with it, and struck him
so fiercely that he was carried half dead to his cell. The abbot,
who was already in bed, hearing the noise, sprang up and came
out, thinking the monastery was falling into ruins, and finding
the friar in bad case began to reproach David.
But he, being infuriated, bade him take himself off, for his brother
Domenico was worth more than all the pigs of abbots that ever
were in that monastery. And from that time the abbot took pains
to treat them as they ought to have been treated.
Domenico had a pupil named Jacopo l'Indaco, who was a reasonably
good master in his time. It is not strange that few works left
his hands, for he was a merry, idle fellow, and would never work
if he could help it. He used to say it was not a Christian thing
to do nothing but labour and take no pleasure. He was very intimate
with Michael Angelo, and that great artist, when he wanted recreation
after his great labours of mind and body, could find no one more
to his humour. And because he found pleasure in his chatter and
his jokes, he used to have him constantly to dine with him. But
one day, becoming wearisome, as such people generally do become
to their friends by their continual chatter without discretion
and at wrong times, Michael Angelo, to get rid of him, having
something else to do, sent him out to buy some figs. And as soon
as Jacopo was out of the house he fastened the door behind him,
determined not to let him in when he came back. So when l'Indaco
came back from the market, and found, after knocking at the door
in vain for some time, that Michael Angelo would not open it,
he took the figs and the leaves in which they were wrapped and
strewed them all over the threshold. Then he went away, and for
many months he would not speak to Michael Angelo; and though they
afterwards made it up, they were never such friends as before.
Cosimo Rosselli was called to Rome at the same time as Domenico
Ghirlandajo to paint in the Sistine Chapel, and there, working
in company with Sandro Botticelli, Luca da Cortona, and Piero
Perugino, he painted three pictures. There is a story told that
the Pope had offered a prize to the painter who, according to
the Pope's own judgment, should work best. When the pictures were
finished, his Holiness went to see them, every painter having
done his utmost to deserve the reward. Cosimo, knowing himself
to be weak in invention and design, had sought to hide his defects
by covering his picture with the finest ultramarine and other
bright colours, and there was not a tree, or a blade of grass,
or a garment, or a cloud that was not shining with goldj for he
thought that the Pope, understanding little of art, would give
him the prize on that account. When the day was come that all
their works were uncovered, and his was seen, it was received
with great laughter and many scoffing jests by the other artists,
who mocked him without pity. But in the end the laughter was turned
against them, for, as Cosimo had imagined, thecolours dazzled
the eyes of the Pope, who did not much understand such matters,
although he took great pleasure in them, and he decided that Cosimo
had done much better than all the others. And having given him
the prize, he commanded the others to cover their pictures with
the best azure that could be found, and to touch them up with
gold, that they might be like Cosimo's in colour and richness.
So the poor painters, filled with despair at having to satisfy
the Holy Father's small understanding, set themselves to spoil
all their good work, and Cosimo laughed at those who a little
before had laughed at him.
He afterwards returned to Florence with a little money, and lived
comfortably there, having as his pupil Piero,who was always called
Piero di Cosimo.
This Piero was the son of one Lorenzo, a goldsmith, but is never
known under any other name than Piero di Cosimo. His father, seeing
his inclination to drawing, gave him into Cosimo's care, who received
him willingly, and loved him as his son; and always considered
him as such. The boy had by nature a lofty spirit, being absentminded,
and very different from the other boys who studied under Cosimo.
He would get so intent on what he was doing that if a matter was
being discussed with him it would sometimes be necessary to begin
again, and go over the whole matter a second time, because his
mind had gone away to something else. And he was so fond of solitude
that he had no greater pleasure than going by himself to weave
fancies ?nd build castles in the air. His master Cosimo made great
use of him, and could leave him to conduct matters of importance,
knowing that Piero had a better manner and more judgment than
himself. He took him with him to Rome when Pope Sixtus summoned
him to work in his chapel, and in one of his pictures there Piero
painted a most beautiful landscape. And because he drew well from
nature he painted in Rome the portraits of many distinguished
men.
After the death of Cosimo he shut himself up, and would let no
one see him work, living more like a wild beast than a man. He
would never have his rooms swept, eat just when he felt hungry,
would not have his garden dug or the fruit trees pruned, but let
the vines grow and their branches trail on the ground, and seemed
to find pleasure in seeing everything as wild as his own nature,
saying that things of this sort ought to be left to nature to
take care of. He would often go to see any animal or plant that
was made strangely, and would talk of it until he wearied his
hearers.
He had seen some things of Lionardo's, finished with the extreme
care that Lionardo would take when he wished to show his art,
and this manner pleasing Piero, he sought to imitate it, though
he was very far from attaining to Lionardo's skill, and was unlike
him; indeed, he may be said to have changed his manner in almost
everything he did. If he had not been so abstracted, and had taken
more care of himself, he would have made his great genius known,
so that he would have been adored; whereas he was generally held
to be mad, though he did no harm except perhaps to himself, and
did good to his art by his works.
I must not forget to say that Piero in his youth, having a fantastic
and strange invention, was often employed in the masquerades at
the carnival, and was therefore much in favour with the noble
Florentine youths, greatly im~roving with his invention that pastime.
Some say he was the first to turn them into a kind of triumphal
procession; at any rate, he improved them, introducing music appropriate
to the subjects represented, and adding pompous and splendid processions
of men and horses in suitable habits and costumes. And certainly
it was a fine thing to see at night twentyfive or thirty pairs
of horses, richly accoutred, with their masters attired according
to the subject represented, six or eight attendants in livery
following each cavalier, torch in hand, perhaps to the number
of four hundred, and behind them the car with trophies and fantastical
extravagances, all which things give great pleasure to the people.
I will just touch briefly on one of his inventions in mature years,
not because of its agreeableness, but, on the contrary, because
by its strange and unexpected horror it gave no little pleasure
to the people. This was the car of Death, made in such secrecy
in the hall of the Pope that no one was allowed to see it. It
was a triumphal car, hung in black and painted with dead men's
bones and white crosses, and drawn by buffaloes; and on the car
was a great figure of Death with a scythe in his hand, and all
round were tombs. At the places where the triumphal procession
was used to stop to sing, the tombs opened and there came out
figures dressed in black, on which were painted the bones of the
skeleton, horrible to look at, and they sang to the sound of muffled
trumpets in melancholy music that noble song-
"Dolor, pianto e penitenza," &c.
Before and after the car rode a great number of the dead on horseback,
singing in a trembling voice the Miserere.
This spectacle, from its novelty, satisfied all, and Piero, the
author and inventor, was much praised and commended.
I heard Andrea di Cosimo, and Andrea del Sarto, his pupils, who
aided him in the preparation, say that it was the opinion of the
time that it was intended to signify the return of the house of
Medici, for they were then exiles, or, as you may say, dead, and
were soon to rise again; and so some of the words of the song
were interpreted.
None could paint horrible dragons better than he, as may be seen
from a sea monster which he presented to the magnificent Giuliano
de' Medici. This monster is now in the Guardaroba of Duke Cosimo
de' Medici, where is also a book of animals of the same kind,
most beautiful and strange, and drawn with the greatest patience.
Indeed, in all his works there is a spirit very different from
that of others, and a certain subtilty in investigating nature
regardless of time or fatigue, only for his own pleasure. And
indeed it could not be otherwise, for, enamoured of nature, he
cared not for his own comfort, but brought himself to living on
hard eggs, which, to spare firing, he cooked when he boiled his
varnishes, not six or eight at once, but by fifties, keeping them
in a basket to consume by degrees. This sort of life he enjoyed
so much that he thought all other to be mere slavery. He could
not endure the crying of children, the sound of coughing, the
ringing of bells, or the chanting of friars; but when the skies
were pouring down rain he liked to see it rushing from the roofs
and streaming down the streets. He had great fear of lightning,
and when it thundered he would wrap himself in his cloak, and
shutting his windows and the door of his room, would hide himself
in a corner until it was over. His conversation was so varied
that sometimeS he would say things that would make people shake
with laughing. But with old age he grew more strange and fantastical,
and would not even have his pupils near him. He wanted still to
work, but could not, being paralysed, and in paroxysms of rage
would try to force his hands to keep steady, and would drop now
his mahlstick, and now his pencils, until it made one sad to see
him. The flies and even the shadows irritated him. He would talk
of the sufferings of those who have lingering diseases, and would
accuse physicians and nurses of letting sick men die of hunger,
besides torturing them with syrups and medicines. He would say
that it was a fine thing to die by the hand of justice in the
open air, with many people round you, supported by good words,
and having the priest and the people praying for you, and going
with the angels to P~radise. In such strange talk and ways he
lingered on, till one morning he was found lying dead at the foot
of the stairs.
