Darting Strokes & Wild Lines: the Drawings of Battista Naldini

Darting Strokes & Wild Lines. The Drawings of Battista Naldini (1535-1591)

by Marco Quabba ORCID: http://orcid.org/0000-0001-9302-851X

Submitted in total fulfilment of the requirements of the degree of Doctor of Philosophy June 2017

Art History School of Culture and Communication University of Melbourne

Declaration

This is to certify that:

i. This thesis comprises only my original work towards the PhD.

ii. Due acknowledgement has been made in the text to all other material used.

iii. The thesis is less than 100,000 words in length, exclusive of tables, list of illustrations, bibliography, image captions, and appendices.

Marco Isaac Quabba

2 Abstract

Darting Strokes & Wild Lines. The Drawings of Battista Naldini (1535-1591)

This thesis investigates Mannerism, contorted bodies, imitation, and drawings. Like many Florentine draughtsmen of his generation, Battista Naldini copied extensively, undertaking an intense study of the most famous antique and contemporary visual sources. He was the curious product of two divergent mannerist traditions, those represented by Jacopo da Pontormo and Giorgio Vasari. Around 650 of his drawings survive, and they reveal that he adhered to a broad theory of imitation. This thesis contributes to the reappraisal of Mannerism and artistic imitation. It revisits common terminologies used in drawing studies, categories such as primo pensiero, bozzo, schizzo, and modello, and deconstructs the cherished assumptions of traditional connoisseurship. My approach to drawings is motivated by the desire to reconstruct sixteenth-century artistic practice. It is inspired by David Rosand’s phenomenological investigation of graphic acts and Leatrice Mendelsohn’s fascinating research into how sculpture fuelled the imagination of Mannerists. I chart the creative dimension of Naldini’s imitation, examining the angular jolt of his strokes in their quest to emulate Pontormo’s sketches, ponder on his close scrutiny of Albrecht Dürer’s engraved lines, analyse how he extracted idealised female bodies from bronze sculptures by Bandinelli, and reflect on the devotional function of his Michelangelesque adaptations.

3 Acknowledgements

I owe an enormous debt to my supervisors, Associate Professor Robert Gaston and Professor Jaynie Anderson, for their encouragement, patience, and unwavering commitment to this research project. I have fond memories of Robert Gaston’s undergraduate class on Italian art at La Trobe University more than 10 years ago. He gave us students an impressive list of 47 essay questions, encouraging investigations into Botticelli’s ‘humanism’, Leonardo’s ‘genius’, or critical assessments of entrenched art historical opinions. One question concentrated on drawing the body, and invited reflection on the ‘supposed immediacy and intimacy of contact with the object drawn’. It ended with the modest reservation: ‘Or is this a myth propagated by historians of drawing?’ This cautious scepticism lingered in my memory over the years together with important questions posed by David Rosand in 2002: ‘Is there a discourse beyond the catalogue raisonné? If so, how is it to be continued? One of the most basic assumptions of traditional connoisseurship and appreciation is that drawings offer us the most intimate documents of artistic creativity and personality, but what exactly do we expect them to reveal?’1 Ultimately, I was compelled to find a possible solution for Mannerism and imitation. I am grateful to Robert for first suggesting Battista Naldini as a potential study, and to Jaynie Anderson for lending her connoisseurial expertise and knowledge of Giovanni Morelli.

I am grateful to the University of Melbourne for supporting my research with an Australian Postgraduate Award. I was also fortunate to benefit from an introductory course in Palaeography and Archival studies provided by the excellent staff and fellows of the Medici Archive Project in 2011, where Alessio Assonitis, Maurizio Arfaioli, Nicoletta Baldini, Elena Brizio, and Julia Viscoso were especially helpful. I am most grateful to the Gandioli Fumagalli Foundation and the Samuel H. Kress Foundation for supporting research in Milan and Florence. I also want to thank Jaynie Anderson, Shigetoshi Osano, and the University of Melbourne for supporting my attendance of the CIHA colloquium in Naruto, Japan (2013), dedicated to the theme of reproduction across Eastern and Western art. Here I presented a shortened version

1 Rosand, 2002, p. 3. 4 of my eighth chapter and received invaluable feedback from Stephen Bann and Jonathan Hay.

The staff of several libraries and archives offered support throughout the project: Baillieu Library of the University of Melbourne; State Library of Victoria; Caulfield Library, Monash University; Dalton McCaughey Library; Biblioteca d’Arte of the Castello Sforzesco, Milan; Archivio di Stato di Firenze; the Sala Manoscritti of the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze; Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florence; the State Archives of Prato and Pistoia. I extend my gratitude to the institutions where I conducted most of my research on drawings: the wonderful staff at the Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati di Siena (BCI); Gabinetto dei disegni, Castello Sforzesco, Milan; Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan; the Department of Prints and Drawings at the British Museum, London; Staatliche Graphische Sammlung, Munich; Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, Lisbon; Département des Arts graphiques, Musée du Louvre; and a special thanks to the entire staff of the Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe degli Uffizi (GDSU) for their generous support during my prolonged stay; and the Australian Institute of Art History, University of Melbourne, were I wrote much of the manuscript.

Others deserve special mention: Milena Pagni at the BCI kindly shared her knowledge of watermarks and made my examination of Naldini’s sketchbook possible. I am grateful to Elizabeth Pilliod for sharing invaluable insights into Pontormo and Naldini, and graciously informing me of her discovery of Naldini’s half-brother. Carmen Bambach offered me a brief glimpse of her remarkable understanding of Pontormo’s drawings as I struggled through questionable attributions. Lisa Goldenberg Stoppato catalogued Naldini’s drawings in the GDSU more than thirty years ago and generously shared her observations with me.

I am indebted to many others who helped along the way: Andrew Baird, Celina Bastos, Giulio Bora, Donatella Boschi, Stefano de Bosio, Miles Chappell, Angelo Lo Conte, Maria Rita d’Amato, Carla D’Arista, Maria Elena de Luca, Marzia Faietti, Frank Filippone, Mauro Vincenzo Fontana, Cristiana Garofalo, Adam Goatley, Józef Grabski, Felicity Harley-McGowan, Ariana Henderson, Diana Hiller, Deborah Howard, Giorgio Marini, David Marshall, Alessia Meglio, Christina Milz, John 5 Paoletti, Daniele Pescarmona, Annamaria Petrioli Tofani, Alan Tuxford, Massimo Pivetti, Renzo Pepi, Roberta Pozzato, Cara Rachele, Callum Robert Reid, Elizabeth Reid, Paolo Rosa, Francesca Rossi, Agnieszka Smołucha-Sładkowska, Elena Tondini, Don Osvaldo Valota, Paul Vout, Joanna Wolańska, Richard Woodfield, and Milosz Wozny.

It is standard for academic acknowledgements to place family members last, even when this convention fails to genuinely communicate gratitude. I had the good fortune to grow up in an artistic home with my father painting in his studio almost every day. He was my first teacher of art, and nurtured my early appreciation for drawing. I am extremely grateful for the enduring support of my wonderful family: Angelo, Julie, and Tim Quabba, Janette, Joey, and Frankie-Quinn Pelayo, and Tony Pooley. Last, but not least, to my partner Rainer Schack I give my heartfelt thanks for motivating this project to its end with strong, positive encouragement.

Table of Contents

Declaration 2 Abstract 3 Acknowledgements 4 List of Illustrations 10 Chapter 1 38 Pratico e fiero dipintore. The Scholarly Reception of Battista Naldini The Critical Fortune of Battista Naldini 50 Chapter 2 57 Reading Lines My Approach to Drawings 61 The Size of Naldini’s graphic oeuvre 63 Classification and the Catalogue Raisonné 65 Chapter 3 67 Deconstructing the Cherished Assumptions of Traditional Connoisseurship [A] - Drawings are the most Immediate and Intimate of all the Visual Arts 72 [B] - Drawings Reveal Personality 74

[C & D] - Effortlessness in Drawing is a Sign of Originality and genius. Labour and effort mask Personality. 80 [E] - The Personality of a Draughtsman Cannot be Imitated 83 Cinquecento Context 88 Ars & Ingenium 88 Sprezzatura, fatica e stento 91 Diligence 93 Evaluations of the Sketch in Cinquecento Florence 97 Vasari’s Libro de’ disegni 108 Chapter 4 117 Marks of Invention Primo Pensiero 125 Schizzo – The Gushing Squirt of Inventive Passion 128 Macchia – Invention and the Illegible Stain 137 Bozzo 140 Modello & Bozzetto 142

7 Chapter 5 148 Battista Naldini’s Early Drawings & Tuition Naldini’s Apprenticeship 150 Pen drawings 159 Late Drawings for the San Lorenzo Choir 165 Naldini as Teacher 171 Chapter 6 173 Imitation Zeuxis and the Beautiful Maidens 176 Borghini on Imitation 178 Armenini on Imitation 181 Naldini’s Study of Multiple Sources 186 River Gods 196 Chapter 7 202 Naldini’s use of Sculpture Baccio Bandinelli 207 Leda & Venus 209 Chapter 8 217 Battista Naldini’s response to Albrecht Dürer Chapter 9 227 Reading Naldini’s religious images in Counter-Reformation Florence The Minerbetti Lamentation 233 Sources, Composition, and Narrative 238 Emotion in maniera painting 246 Raffaello Borghini and the Male Nude in Religious Painting 253 Conclusion 260 Appendix A 263 Pietà with Angels Abbreviations 271 Bibliography 271 Illustrations 310 Illustrations for chapter 4 through to Appendix A. Total of 396 Illustrations (Not included in open access document due to copyright restrictions).

List of Illustrations

Illustrations for chapter 4 through to Appendix A. Total of 396 Illustrations. All images have been removed from this redacted Open Access version of the thesis due to copyright restrictions.

Chapter 4

4.1 Eighteenth-century album page with 4 drawings from Naldini’s palm-sized sketchbook, 1565-71, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 14v. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

4.2 Giorgio Vasari and assistants, Clemente IV consigns his insignia to the captains of the Guelf party, 1564-1565, oil on panel, Florence, Palazzo Vecchio, Salone dei Cinquecento ceiling. (Photo: Google Cultural Institute / Musei Civici Fiorentini, Comune di Firenze. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/beta/asset/clemente-iv- hands-his-insigna-to-the-captains-of-the-guelph-part/GwFPrWljp_b0dw, accessed 29 May 2017).

4.3 Naldini, after Giorgio Vasari and assistants, Clemente IV consigns the insignia to the captains of the Guelf party, 1565, red chalk, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 11r d. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

4.4 Giorgio Vasari, Allegories of the Tuscan Towns (detail), studies for the ceiling of the Salone dei Cinquecento, pen and brown ink, 105 x 101 mm, Florence, GDSU 963 S. (Photo: Progetto Euploos).

4.5 Giorgio Vasari, Jacopo Zucchi, Battista Naldini, Capture of the Fortress of Stampace in Pisa, 1568, fresco, Florence, Palazzo Vecchio, Salone dei Cinquecento. (Photo: Google Cultural Institute / Musei Civici Fiorentini, Comune di Firenze. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/beta/asset/the-storming-of-the-fortress-of- stampace-in-pisa/HQHeHIHyYWrOxQ, accessed 29 May 2017).

4.6 Naldini, Battle scene, c. 1568-1569, pen and brown ink over red chalk, brown wash, heightened with white lead on blue prepared paper, 113 x 165 mm, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 22v c. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

4.7 Naldini, Defeat of the Pisan Forces at the Tower of San Vincenzo, painted May- August 1569, fresco, Florence, Palazzo Vecchio, Salone dei Cinquecento. (Photo: Google Cultural Institute / Musei Civici Fiorentini, Comune di Firenze. https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/beta/asset/the-rout-of-the-pisans-at-torre- san-vincenzo/pgFyFejv1OnoMA, accessed 29 May 2017).

4.8 Stemma of Giovanni di Antoniolo Bentivoglio, Cronaca di Bologna, Biblioteca Estense Universaria, Gamma.U.3.29, fol. 35r. (http://bibliotecaestense.beniculturali.it/info/img/mss.html, accessed 25 April 2016).

4.9 Caparison of central rider, detail from Defeat of the Pisan Forces fresco. (Google Cultural Institute / Musei Civici Fiorentini, Comune di Firenze).

10 4.10 Background detail from Defeat of the Pisan Forces fresco. (Google Cultural Institute / Musei Civici Fiorentini, Comune di Firenze).

4.11 Detail of six falconetti from Defeat of the Pisan Forces fresco. (Photo: Google Cultural Institute / Musei Civici Fiorentini, Comune di Firenze).

4.12 Naldini, corporeal torsion and contrapposto, details from GDSU 508 S, 652 F r, 512 S, Paris M. 2356r. (Progetto Euploos).

4.13 Naldini, Battle scene, 1568-1569, pen and brown ink over black chalk, 234 x 328 mm, Florence, GDSU 795 S. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings).

4.14 Naldini, Battle scene, 1568-1569, black chalk with traces of red chalk, 230 x 330 mm, Florence, GDSU 502 S r. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings).

4.15 Naldini, Battle scene, 1568-1569, pen and brown ink, traces of black chalk, 236 x 332 mm, Florence, GDSU 506 S. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings).

4.16 Naldini, Battle scene, 1568-1569, pen and brown ink over black chalk, 237 x 326 mm, Florence, GDSU 501 S. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings).

4.17 Naldini, Battle scene, 1568-1569, pen and brown ink over black chalk, traces of red chalk, 234 x 332 mm, Florence, GDSU 509 S. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings).

4.18 Naldini, Battle scene, 1568-1569, pen and brown ink over red and black chalk, 237 x 334 mm, Florence, GDSU 504 S. (Progetto Euploos).

4.19 Naldini, Battle scene, 1568-1569, pen and brown ink over black chalk, 230 x 333 mm, Florence, GDSU 652 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

4.20 Naldini, Battle scene, 1568-1569, pen and brown ink over red and black chalk, 234 x 330 mm, Florence, GDSU 500 S. (Progetto Euploos).

4.21 Naldini, Cavalry combat, detail from Defeat of the Pisan Forces. (Google Cultural Institute / Musei Civici Fiorentini, Comune di Firenze).

4.22 Naldini, Cavalry Combat, c. 1569, tempera fresco on terracotta, 370 x 520 mm, Florence, Palazzo Vecchio, Quartiere del Mezzanino, donazione Loeser. (Arezzo, 2011, no. 30).

4.23 Naldini, Cavalry combat, 1568-1569, pen and brown ink over black chalk, 102 x 139 mm, Paris, École nationale supérieure des Beaux-arts, Mas.2356r. (Cat’zArts 22744).

4.24 Naldini, Sacrifice of Isaac, c. 1567-1569, black chalk, traces of pen and brown ink, 328 x 228 mm, Florence, GDSU 8965 S. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings).

11 4.25 Naldini, Sacrifice of Isaac, panel for monumental altar, in Santa Croce, 1567- 1569, Bosco Marengo, Alessandria. (Merlano, 2010, p. 12).

4.26 Francesco Salviati, St Andrew, Rome, Oratorio di San Giovanni Decollato. 4.27 Naldini, Sacrifice of Isaac, c. 1567-1569, pen and brown ink over black chalk, 319 x 229 mm, Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett, KdZ 17481. (© Kupferstichkabinett, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin / Photo by Volker-H. Schneider).

4.28 Leonardo da Vinci, Sketches for the Virgin and Child with Saint Anne and some studies of machinery, c. 1506-1508, pen and brown ink, grey wash, heightened with white over black chalk, indented for transfer, 265 x 199 mm, London, British Museum inv. 1875,0612.17r. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

4.29 Naldini, Group of figures, red chalk, 221 x 152 mm, Florence, GDSU 716 F v. (Petrioli Tofani, GDSU Inventario, 1991, p. 303).

4.30 Naldini, Pietà with Saints, bozzetto for del Zeccharia Chapel in San Simone, 1566, fresco on terracotta, 60 x 61 cm, Florence, Museo degli Innocenti inv. 119.

4.32. Naldini, Lamentation, c. 1583, oil on panel, 44 x 30 cm, Florence, Collezione Banca Toscana.

4.33 Naldini, Lamentation, c. 1583, oil on panel, 134 x 85.7 cm, Christie’s New York, Thursday 6 April 2006, Sale 1776, lot. 238.

4.34 Naldini, Purification of the Virgin modello, oil on panel, 1577, Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina, Ackland Art Museum, inv. 77.41.1.

4.35 Naldini, Purification of the Virgin modello, c. 1577, oil on panel, 46.5 x 33 cm, present location unknown, formerly Florence, Collezione Passerini, auction 22 March 2005.

4.36 Naldini, Purification of the Virgin, 1577, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella. (CC image courtesy of Sailko CC BY 3.0. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Giovan_battista_naldini,_presentazione_di_ ges%C3%B9_al_tempio,_1572,_01.JPG, accessed 28 May 2017).

4.37 Naldini, Study for St Joseph, 1577, red and black chalk, 196.2 x 335 mm, Florence, GDSU 9053 F.

Chapter 5

5.1 Naldini, Putto, c. 1560-63, red chalk, 230 x 333 mm, Oxford, Christ Church Picture Gallery inv. 0832 v. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings).

5.2 Naldini, Putto, c. 1560-63, red chalk, 232 x 332 mm, Oxford, Christ Church Picture Gallery inv. 0833 v. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings). 12 5.3 Pontormo, Putto, 1518, black chalk over red chalk on brown paper, 309 x 192 mm, Florence, GDSU 7452 F r.

5.4 Pontormo, Group of three nudes, c. 1519-1521, red chalk, Florence, GDSU 675 E r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.5 Pontormo, Study for Madonna in Pucci Altarpiece (detail), c. 1517-18, red and black chalk, 335 x 196 mm, Florence, GDSU 8976 S v. (Progetto Euploos).

5.6 Naldini, Sleeping man, red chalk, 210 x 265 mm, Florence, GDSU 7546 F. (Progetto Euploos).

5.7 Naldini, Seated male, red chalk, 302 x 184 mm, London, British Museum, inv. 1946,0713.381. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

5.8 Naldini, Kneeling male nude, c. 1590, red chalk, white heightening, 290 x 200 mm, Milan, Civico Gabinetto dei disegni, inv. B 103. (Bora, 1994, no. III.17).

5.9 Naldini, after Pontormo, Nude man carrying a platter, red chalk, 411 x 253 mm, Florence, GDSU 311 F r. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings).

5.10 Pontormo, Male nude carrying platter, c. 1515, red chalk, 403 x 247 mm, Florence, GDSU 6524 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.11 Naldini, after Pontormo, detail of GDSU 311 F r. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus).

5.12 Pontormo, detail of GDSU 6524 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.13 Naldini, Female figure holding a scroll, so called Sibyl, red chalk, 286 x 206 mm, Cambridge, MA, Harvard Art Museums inv. 1932.143r. (© President and Fellows of Harvard College).

5.14 Pontormo, Woman wearing a headscarf (detail), red chalk, Florence, GDSU 6551 F v.

5.15 Pontormo, Drapery study (detail), red chalk, Florence, GDSU 6520 F v.

5.16 Pontormo, Two heads wearing headscarves, red chalk, Florence, GDSU 6627 F.

5.17 Pontormo, Woman or studio apprentice wearing a headscarf (detail), red chalk, 247 x 148 mm, Florence, GDSU 449 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.18 verso of 5.13 Naldini, after Pontormo, Woman wearing a headscarf (detail), black chalk, 286 x 206 mm, Cambridge, MA, Harvard Art Museums inv. 1932.143v. (© President and Fellows of Harvard College).

5.19 Pontormo, St. Cecilia, study of lunette fresco (lost) for Compagnia di Santa Cecilia in Fiesole, 1519, red chalk and white heightening, 230 x 400 mm, Rome, Istituto Centrale per la Grafica, F.C. 124161r. (Progetto Corsini, vol. 157G1, p. 37).

13 5.20 detail of 5.13 Naldini, Female figure holding scroll, Cambridge, MA. (© President and Fellows of Harvard College). 5.21 Naldini, Helmet study (detail), 1565-71, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 10r c. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

5.22 detail of 9.30 Naldini, Study for Ottonelli Ascension of Christ (detail), 1571-76, red chalk, wash of red chalk, 272 x 261 mm, Paris, Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques, inv. 10306.

5.23 Naldini, Study for Santa Croce Lamentation for Lodovico da Verrazzano, c. 1583, red chalk, 417 x 278 mm, Milan, Civico Gabinetto dei disegni, inv. D 40r. (Bora, 1994, no. III.19).

5.24 Naldini, Study for Madonna, Purification of the Virgin, Santa Maria Novella, 1577, red chalk, 204 x 207 mm, Florence, GDSU 7498 F v. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus).

5.25 detail of 5.13 Naldini, Female figure holding a scroll (detail), Cambridge, MA, Harvard Art Museums, inv. 1932.143r. (© President and Fellows of Harvard College).

5.26 Naldini, Seated male nude, 1570, black chalk, stumped, heightened with white lead, on blue paper, 267 x 180 mm, Florence, GDSU 6540 F r. (Petrioli Tofani, 2008, no. 73).

5.29 verso of 5.26 Naldini, Male nude, 1570, black chalk, stumped, heightened with white lead, on blue paper, 267 x 180 mm, Florence, GDSU 6540 F v. (Petrioli Tofani, 2008, no. 73 v, p. 157).

5.30 Naldini, Male nude, study for Presentation of the Virgin (Volterra Cathedral), 1590, black and red chalk, heightened with diluted white lead, squared in black and red chalk, 351 x 197 mm, Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, 85.GB.440 r.

5.31 Pontormo, Compositional study for Vertumnus and Pomona lunette at Poggio a Caiano (detail), 1519, pen and brown ink, traces of black chalk, 198 x 380 mm, Florence, GDSU 454 F. (Progetto Euploos).

5.32 Pontormo, Compositional study for Vertumnus and Pomona lunette at Poggio a Caiano (detail), 1519, pen and brown ink, black chalk, 185 x 381 mm, Florence, GDSU 455 F. (Progetto Euploos).

14 5.33 Pontormo, Study for Capponi Annunciation, Santa Felicita (detail), c. 1527, black chalk, brown wash, squared in red chalk, 392 x 214 mm, Florence, GDSU 6653 F. (Progetto Euploos).

5.34 Pontormo, Scene with nudes around a fire (detail), c. 1535-1540, brush and brown wash, over black chalk, 290 x 313 mm, Florence, GDSU 6602 F. (Progetto Euploos).

5.35 Pontormo, after Marcantonio Raimondi, God the Father appears to Noah and his family, pen and dark brown ink, 305 x 253 mm, Florence, GDSU 526 E r. (Bambach, 1997b, fig. 2).

5.36 Marcantonio Raimondi, after Raphael, God the Father appears to Noah and his family, c. 1513-15, engraving, 306 x 251 mm, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 32.58.4.

5.37 verso of 5.35 Pontormo, Flying putto and architectural sketch, red chalk, pen and brown ink, 305 x 253 mm, Florence, GDSU 526 E v. (Progetto Euploos).

5.38 Detail from Naldini’s study after Albrecht Dürer’s Christ Taking Leave of his Mother from the Small Passion (c. 1509-11), pen and brown ink on blue paper (faded), 196 x 291 mm, Munich, Private Collection, verso. (Thiem, 2002, no. 54).

5.39 Pontormo, after Marcantonio Raimondi, Detail of Noah, Florence, GDSU 526 E r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.40 detail of 5.36 Marcantonio Raimondi, after Raphael, Detail of Noah, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 32.58.4.

5.41 detail of 5.36 Marcantonio Raimondi, after Raphael, Detail of God the Father, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 32.58.4.

5.42 Pontormo, Detail of God the Father, Florence, GDSU 526 E r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.43 Pontormo, Creation of Eve (detail), 1519-20, red chalk, 423 x 315 mm, Florence, GDSU 465 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.44 Pontormo, Detail of Noah’s wife, Florence, GDSU 526 E r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.45 Naldini, after Polidoro da Caravaggio, Isaac taking leave of his mother (detail), pen and brown ink, over black chalk, 217 x 318 mm, London, British Museum inv. 1947,0412.152 r. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

5.46 Naldini, after Polidoro da Caravaggio, Adam, Eve, Cain and Abel (detail), pen and brown ink, black chalk, 205 x 290 mm, Paris, Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques, inv. 9903. (Photo: Author).

5.47 Pontormo, Detail of parallel hatching, Florence, GDSU 526 E r. (Progetto Euploos).

15 5.48 Naldini, Study of antique sarcophagus (detail), pen and brown ink, over black chalk, 280 x 440 mm, Edinburgh, National Gallery of Scotland, inv. D 992 A v. (Thiem, 2002, no. 23). 5.49 recto of 5.2 Naldini, Study of antique sculptural relief (detail), pen and brown ink, over black chalk, 232 x 332 mm, Oxford, Christ Church Picture Gallery, inv. 0833 r. (Census 63057, Thiem, 2002, no. 22).

5.50 Pontormo, Detail of flying cherubs, Florence, GDSU 526 E r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.51 Pontormo, Flying putto, pen and brown ink, 157 x 63mm, Florence, GDSU 445 F. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings).

5.52 Pontormo, Flying putto (detail), Florence, GDSU 445 F. (Progetto Euploos).

5.53 Pontormo, Reclining male nude (detail), 1512, red chalk with some stumping, 294 x 200 mm, Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, inv. 90.GB.34v.

5.54 Pontormo, Creation of Eve (detail), 1519-20, red chalk, 423 x 315 mm, Florence, GDSU 465 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.55 Pontormo, Figure study (detail), red chalk, Florence, 6530 F v. (Progetto Euploos).

5.56 Pontormo, Male nude studied three times (detail), 1515, red chalk, 397 x 265 mm, Lille, Palais des Beaux Arts, inv. Pl. 162. (Brejon de Lavergnée, 1997, no. 127r, plate XXIV).

5.57 Pontormo, Three male nudes (detail), c. 1519, red chalk, 272 x 405 mm, Florence, GDSU 6677 F v. (Progetto Euploos).

5.58 verso of 5.60 Pontormo, Male nude (detail), c. 1529-30, red chalk, 266 x 199 mm, Florence, GDSU 441 F v. (Progetto Euploos).

5.59 Pontormo, Three Graces (detail), c. 1535-36, red chalk, 295 x 212 mm, Florence, GDSU 6748 F.

5.60 recto of 5.68 Pontormo, St Jerome (detail), c. 1529-30, red and black chalk, squared in red chalk, 266 x 199 mm, Florence, GDSU 441 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.61 detail of 4.27 Naldini, Sacrifice of Isaac (detail), c. 1567-69, pen and brown ink, over black chalk, 319 x 229 mm, Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett KdZ 17481. (© Kupferstichkabinett, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin / Photo by Volker-H. Schneider).

5.62 Jacopo Caraglio, after a design by Perino del Vaga, Jupiter and Antiope, engraving from Loves of the Gods series, Rome, Istituto Centrale per la Grafica, FC 5928.

16 5.63 Naldini, Study of Jacopo Caraglio’s Jupiter and Antiope (detail), pen and brown ink over red chalk, 325 x 231 mm, Milan, Civico Gabinetto di Disegni, inv. 117v. (Photo: Author).

5.64 - 5.67 Four details from Naldini’s Antiope, Milan, Civico Gabinetto di Disegni, inv. 117v. (Photo: Author).

5.68 Pontormo, Five studies of Niccolò Tribolo’s Eros, pen and brown ink, 398 x 278 mm, Florence, GDSU 671 E r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.69 Pontormo, Four studies of Niccolò Tribolo’s Eros, pen and brown ink, 398 x 278 mm, Florence, GDSU 671 E v. (Progetto Euploos).

5.70 detail of 5.68 Pontormo, Study of Niccolò Tribolo’s Eros, pen and brown ink, 398 x 278 mm, Florence, GDSU 671 E r. (Del Bravo, 1985, p. 85, fig. 18).

5.71 Pontormo, Detail of hatching from studies of two male nudes, c. 1520-23, red and black chalk, 286 x 410 mm, Florence, GDSU 6740 F v. (Progetto Euploos).

5.72 Pontormo, Seated male nude (detail), red chalk, 286 x 410 mm, Florence, GDSU 6740 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.73 detail of 5.68 Pontormo, Five studies of Niccolò Tribolo’s Eros, pen and brown ink, 398 x 278 mm, Florence, GDSU 671 E r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.74 Pontormo, Male nude (detail), red chalk, Florence, GDSU 6727 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.75 Pontormo, Reclining Male nude (detail), c. 1519-20, red chalk, 342 x 365 mm, Florence, GDSU 6514 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.76 Naldini, Design for decoration above an arch (detail), pen and brown ink, black chalk, Florence, GDSU 510 S v. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus; Forlani Tempesti, 1968, plate CXLI, fig. 14).

5.77 Naldini, Compositional study, c. 1565-71, pen and brown ink, over red chalk, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 11v c. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

5.78 Naldini, Pentecost (detail), pen and brown ink, brown wash, squared in black chalk, 230 x 165 mm, Paris, Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques, inv. 1355 r. (Photo: Author).

5.79 Naldini, after Jacopo Caraglio, Rosso Fiorentino’s Fury (detail), c. 1565-70, black chalk, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 80.3.301v.

5.80 detail of 6.44 Naldini, Study of Belvedere Nile, 1560-62, pen and brown ink, brown wash, over black chalk, 225 x 324 mm, Lisbon, Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, inv. 1072. (Turner, 2000, no. 8, p. 32. Census 65293).

17 5.81 Naldini, San Giovannino, c. 1567-70, pen and brown ink, 324 x 222 mm, Florence, GDSU 459 F r. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus of Drawings).

5.82 Naldini, San Giovannino (detail) c. 1567-70, pen and brown ink, 324 x 222 mm, Florence, GDSU 459 F r. (Progetto Euploos). 5.83 detail of 5.82 Naldini, San Giovannino, c. 1567-70, pen and brown ink, 324 x 222 mm, Florence, GDSU 459 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.84 detail of 5.82 Naldini, San Giovannino, c. 1567-70, pen and brown ink, 324 x 222 mm, Florence, GDSU 459 F r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.85 detail of 5.69 Pontormo, Study of Niccolò Tribolo’s Eros, pen and brown ink, 398 x 278 mm, Florence, GDSU 671 E v. (Progetto Euploos).

5.86 Naldini, Purification of the Virgin, stylistically dated c. 1580, oil on panel, 146 x 115 cm. Owned, and possibly commissioned by Simonetto Anastagi. Perugia, Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, inv. 415.

5.87 detail of 5.68 Pontormo, Study of Niccolò Tribolo’s Eros, pen and brown ink, 398 x 278 mm, Florence, GDSU 671 E r. (Progetto Euploos).

5.88 Naldini, detail of Flying Putto from Purification of the Virgin, stylistically dated c. 1580, oil on panel, 146 x 115 cm, Perugia, Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, inv. 415.

5.89 Naldini, Male nude slumped over a second body, black chalk, 225 x 320 mm, Zurich, private collection, verso. (Eitel-Porter in New York & Washington, 2007, no. 16 v, p. 44).

5.90 Bastiano del Gestra, after Pontormo and Bronzino, Detail from Deluge for San Lorenzo Choir, black chalk, Paris, Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques, inv. 1026.

5.91 Jan de Bisschop, after Pontormo and Bronzino, Figures from Deluge of San Lorenzo Choir, etching from Paradigmata Graphices Variorum Artificum, c. 1668- 71, plate 12 of 57, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum inv. RP-P-1907-3985. Hollstein Dutch 6-3(3).

5.92 detail of 4.30 Naldini, Dead Christ from bozzetto for San Simone Pietà, 1566, fresco on terracotta, 60 x 61 cm, Florence, Museo degli Innocenti inv. 119.

5.93 Naldini, Detail of nymph from Diana Surprised by Actaeon, oil on copper, 300 x 223 mm, Vercelli, Museo Borgogna, inv. 1909, sala XV, 170. (© Museo Borgogna).

5.94 Pontormo, Four studies of a seated male nude, red chalk, 204 x 265 mm, Florence, GDSU 6583 F. (Progetto Euploos).

5.95 Pontormo, anatomical annotation, detail of GDSU 6583 F. (Progetto Euploos).

18 5.96 Pontormo, Study of creases formed between the external abdominal oblique and latissimus dorsi muscles, detail of GDSU 6583 F. (Progetto Euploos).

5.97 Pontormo, Study for the Castello Loggia, c. 1537-42, black chalk, 269 x 295 mm, Florence, GDSU 6584 F. (Progetto Euploos).

5.98 Pontormo, Figure from Resurrection of the Dead, for San Lorenzo choir, black chalk, Florence, GDSU 6580 F. (Progetto Euploos).

5.99 Naldini, Dead Christ from Lamentation, c. 1565-71, pen and ink, brown wash, over black chalk, heightened with white lead on paper prepared with brown wash, 139 x 104 mm, Paris, Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques, inv. 2097r.

5.100 Pontormo, Study for the Castello Loggia, c. 1537-38, black chalk, 199 x 318 mm, Florence, GDSU 6683 F.

5.101 Albrecht Dürer, Amymone abducted by Poseidon or The Sea Monster, c. 1498, engraving, 248 x 189 mm, trimmed on plate line, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 19.73.80.

5.102 Pontormo, Compositional study (detail) for Deluge in San Lorenzo choir, c. 1555, black and white chalk, 266 x 402 mm, Florence, GDSU 6754 Fr. (Progetto Euploos).

5.103 Morandini, Detail of Lamentation for Ugolino Grifoni, 1572-74, oil on panel, 320 x 220 cm, San Miniato al Tedesco (Pisa), Chiesa dei Santi Jacopo e Lucia, rededicated to San Domenico. (Giovannetti, 1995, no.17, plate V, p. 69).

5.104 Giovanni Stradano, Arno with fishermen (detail), c. 1580, Pen and brown ink, brown and blue wash, and white gouache heightening on grey paper, Los Angeles, Getty Museum inv. 83.GG.380.

5.105 Morandini, View of Tivoli, c. 1563, pen and brown ink, over black chalk, traces of stylus incision, 420 x 277 mm, Paris, private collection. (Monbeig Goguel, 2012, plate XIV, fig. 7).

5.106 Naldini, View of Tivoli, c. 1560-63, pen and brown ink, over black chalk, 374 x 281 mm, Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett inv. KdZ 22589. (Thiem, 2002, no. 17).

5.107 detail of 5.105 Signature of Francesco Morandini from View of Tivoli. (Monbeig Goguel, 2012, plate XIV, fig. 8).

Chapter 6

6.1 Vasari, Zeuxis Painting Hera (detail), 1542-54, fresco, Casa del Vasari, Arezzo. (McHam, 2013, p. 230, fig. 171).

19 6.2 Vasari, Judith presenting the head of Holofernes, 1564, pen and brown ink, brown wash, 287 x 425 mm, Rome, ICG FC inv. 124189r. (Progetto Corsini, vol. 157G1, p. 79, Cecchi, 1977a, fig. 62).

6.3 Naldini, Judith presenting the head of Holofernes, 1564, pen and brown, brown wash, black chalk on blue paper, 290 x 402 mm, Lille, Palais des Beaux-Arts, inv. Pl. 332. (Cecchi, 1977a, fig. 63).

6.4 Naldini, after Bandinelli, Finding of Moses, pen and brown ink, brown wash, black chalk, traces of white lead heightening, on paper prepared with mauve wash, 224 x 316 mm, Munich, Staatliche Graphische Sammlung, inv. 2279. (Photo: Author).

6.5 Detail of Euterpe from Muse Sarcophagus, 180-200 CE, marble, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum, inv. I 171 (Census 157776).

6.6 Francesco Salviati, Reinterpretation of Euterpe, 1535-38, red chalk, Paris, Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques, inv. 10475. (Paris & Rome, 1998, no.7, p. 95).

6.7 Anonymous Roman artist, Apollo Belvedere, 130-140 CE, Rome, Vatican Museums, Museo Pio Clementino, Cortile Ottagono inv. 1015. (Andreae, 1995-98, vol. 2, no.92. Census 150779).

6.8 recto of 5.24 Naldini, Head of the Apollo Belvedere, red chalk, 204 x 207 mm, Florence, GDSU 7498 F r. (Thiem, 2002, p. 19, fig. 5).

6.9 Left foot of Apollo Belvedere, 130-140 CE, Rome, Vatican Museums, Museo Pio Clementino, Cortile Ottagono inv. 1015. (Andreae, 1995-98, vol. 2, no.92. Census 150779).

6.10 Naldini, Left foot of Apollo Belvedere (detail) studied from opposite side of 6.9, c. 1560-63, black chalk, 324 x 233 mm, Florence, GDSU 15519 F v. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus).

6.11 Naldini, Study of a marble bust of Herodotus (detail), 1560-70, black chalk, 215 x 300 mm, Florence, GDSU 8851 S v. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus).

6.12 Naldini, Study after Funerary Altar of Amemptus, 1560-62, pen and brown ink, Florence, BNCF, N.A. 1159, fol. 30r (Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. 194. Census 48542).

6.13 Naldini, Birdcage, detail from sepulchral relief commemorating Pompeio Aspro, 1560-62, pen and brown ink, Florence, BNCF, N.A. 1159, fol. 2r. (Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. 166. Census 192876).

6.14 Anonymous, Gabbia piena di uccelli d’un augure, woodcut from Borghini’s Discorsi, 1584-85, vol. 2, p. 30. Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute, Special Collections, DG731.5.B7.

20 6.15 Naldini, Study after antique altar (detail), 1560-62, pen and brown ink, BNCF, N.A. 1159, fol. 44r. (Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. 208. Census 228444).

6.16 Anonymous, Ancient utensils, woodcut from Borghini’s Discorsi, 1584-85, vol. 2, p. 29. Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute, Special Collections, DG731.5.B7.

6.17 Anonymous Roman artist, Altar to the Lares Augusti, 2 BCE, marble, Florence, Uffizi inv. 972. (Census 194351).

6.18 Naldini, Altar of the Lares, 1560-62, pen and brown ink, BNCF, N.A. 1159, fol. 9r. (Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. 173. Census 53409).

6.19 Anonymous Roman artist, Altar to the Lares Augusti, commissioned by the masters of the vicus sandalarius, 2 BCE, marble, Florence, Uffizi inv. 972. (Census 194351).

6.20 Naldini, Altar to the Lares Augusti, 1560-62, pen and brown ink, Florence, BNCF, N.A. 1159, fol. 16r. (Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. 180. Census 53412).

6.21 Anonymous Coburgensis, Altar to the Lares Augusti, pen and brown ink, grey wash, c. 1550-54, Coburg, Kunstsammlungen der Veste Coburg, Kupferstichkabinett inv. HZ 2 (Codex Coburgensis), fol. 101. (Census 53399).

6.22 detail of 6.20 Naldini, Altar to the Lares Augusti, 1560-62, pen and brown ink, Florence, BNCF, N.A. 1159, fol. 16r. (Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. 180. Census 53412).

6.23 Anonymous, after Raphael workshop, Stories of Jacob, detail from album page, c. 1555-1578, pen and coloured inks, with opaque watercolour, 445 x 550 mm, Vienna, National Library of Austria, Cod. Min. 33, p. 105.

6.24 Raphael workshop, Dream of Jacob, 1517-19, fresco from ceiling of sixth bay, Loggia, Apostolic Palace, Vatican, Rome.

6.25 Roman artist after Greek model, The Tiber, early second century CE (80-125 CE), from the sanctuary to Isis and Serapis in the Campus Martius, Rome, marble, 165 x 317 x 131 cm, Paris, Louvre inv. MA 593. (Photo by René-Gabriel Ojéda © RMN. Census 151521).

6.26 Naldini, The Tiber, 1560-62, pen and brown ink, brown wash, over black chalk, 222 x 322 mm, Lisbon, MNAA inv. 1124. Photo: Warburg Institute Iconographic Database. (Census 65643).

6.27 Roman artist after Greek model, The Nile, early second century CE (80-125 CE), from the sanctuary to Isis and Serapis in the Roman Campus Martius, marble, height: 162 cm, Rome, Vatican, Chiaramonti Museum, Braccio Nuovo Gallery inv. 2300. Grebe, 2013, p. 434. (Census 151520).

21 6.28 Maarten van Heemskerck, View of Belvedere statue court in the Vatican from south wall, 1532-33, pen and brown, grey-brown wash, 231 x 360 mm, London, British Museum, inv. 1946,0713.639. © Trustees of the British Museum. (Census 63585).

6.29 Enea Vico, Tiber, c. 1542, pen and brown ink, over black chalk, 178 x 306 mm, New York, Morgan Library & Museum inv. IV, 50a. (Census 10156402).

6.30 Hendrick Goltzius, Tiber, 1591, black chalk, with traces of white heightening, 325 x 461 mm, Haarlem, Teylers Museum inv. K III 025. (Census 46071). 6.31 Enea Vico, Nile, c. 1542 in pen and brown ink, over black chalk, 178 x 306 mm, New York, Morgan Library & Museum inv. IV, 50. (Census 10156400).

6.32 Hendrick Goltzius, Nile, 1591, black chalk, with traces of white heightening, 351 x 580 mm, Haarlem, Teylers Museum inv. K III 021. (Census 46058).

6.33 Federico Zuccaro, detail of Nile from Taddeo studying in Belvedere Court in the Vatican, c. 1595, Pen and brown ink, brown wash, over black chalk, touches red chalk, 175 x 425 mm, Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum inv. 99.GA.6.17. (Census 10003642).

6.34 Amico Aspertini, Detail of Nile from 15th opening of Aspertini Sketchbook, c. 1532-35, pen and brown ink, grey wash, over black chalk on vellum, 248 x 184 mm, London, British Museum, inv. 1898,1123.3.15. (© Trustees of the British Museum. Census 46051).

6.35 Giovanni Battista de’ Cavalieri, Nile (detail), before 1584, engraving, Antiquarum Statuarum Urbis Romae, books I-II, plate 3. See also University of Chicago Library, Speculum Romanae Magnificentiae, no. C 753. (Census 46060).

6.36 Francisco de Holanda, Nile, c. 1538-1571, pen and brown ink, 390 x 270 mm, Real Monasterio de San Lorenzo de El Escorial, inv. 28-1-20 (Antigualhas), fol. 50r. Photo: Warburg Iconographic Database (Census 46059).

6.37 Maarten de Vos, Detail of Nile from sketchbook page, fol. 11v, c. 1550-70, pen and brown ink, over black chalk, traces of mauve wash, 153 x 225 mm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum inv. RP-T-1935-43-11(v). (Census 46054).

6.39 detail of 6.28 Maarten van Heemskerck, Nile, 1532-33, pen and brown ink, grey- brown wash, 231 x 360 mm, London, British Museum, inv. 1946,0713.639. © Trustees of the British Museum. (Census 63585).

6.40 Maarten van Heemskerck, Nile (detail), pen and brown ink, 1532-1537, pen and brown ink, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album 1, fol. 54r. (Census 46055).

22 6.41 Etienne Dupérac, Nile (detail), c. 1560-75, pen and brown ink, brown wash, Album Dupérac Etienne, fol. 38. Paris, Louvre, inv. 26409r. (Census 65272).

6.42 Nicolas Beatrizet, River god Nile, c. 1544-1577, engraving, 320 x 545 mm, University of Chicago Library no. A109. For the Speculum see Chicago, 2008. (Census 247477).

6.43 Anonymous Flemish artist (Anonymous Cantabrigensis), Elisabeth Dhanens (1963) has proposed Giambologna, Nile, after 1583, pen and brown ink, red chalk, grey-brown wash, Cambridge, Trinity College Library, ms. R.17.3 (Cambridge Sketchbook), fol. 14. (Census 46047).

6.44 Naldini, Nile, 1560-62, pen and brown ink, brown wash, over black chalk, 225 x 324 mm, Lisbon, Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, inv. 1072. Turner, 2000, no.8, p. 32. (Census 65293).

6.45. Dosio’s annotation, Lisbon, MNAA inv. 1072, detail of 6.44.

6.46 Naldini’s annotation, Lisbon, MNAA inv. 1072, detail of 6.44.

6.47 detail of 6.31 Enea Vico, Nile, c. 1542, New York, Morgan Library & Museum inv. IV, 50. (Census 10156400).

6.48 detail of 6.32 Hendrick Goltzius, Nile, 1591, Haarlem, Teylers Museum inv. K III 021. (Census 46058).

6.49 detail of 6.43 Anonymous Flemish artist, Nile (detail), after 1583, Cambridge, Trinity College Library, ms. R.17.3, fol. 14.

6.50 detail of 6.44 Naldini, Nile, 1560-62, Lisbon, Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga inv. 1072. Turner, 2000, no.8, p. 32. (Census 65293).

6.51 Cherubino Alberti, Nile (detail), 1576, engraving, 170 x 287 mm, London British Museum inv. 1874,0808.556. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

6.52 detail of 6.43 Anonymous Flemish artist, Nile (detail), after 1583, Cambridge, Trinity College Library, ms. R.17.3, fol. 14.

6.53 Anonymous Roman artist after Greek model, Bas-reliefs from the base of Belvedere Nile, early second century CE (80-125 CE), marble, Rome, Vatican, Chiaramonti Museum, Braccio Nuovo Gallery inv. 2300. (Census 151520).

6.54 Naldini, Base of the Belvedere Nile (detail), 1560-63, pen and brown ink, brown wash, 325 x 225 mm. Fermo, Biblioteca Comunale, inv. 230. (Amadio, 1988, no.1, p. 40).

6.55 Etienne Dupérac, Bas-reliefs on base of Belvedere Nile (detail), c. 1560-75, pen and brown ink, brown wash, Album Dupérac Etienne, fol. 38. Paris, Louvre, inv. 26409r. (Census 65272).

23 6.56 detail of 6.45 Nicolas Beatrizet, River god Nile, c. 1544-1577, engraving, University of Chicago Library no. A109. (Census 247477).

Chapter 7

7.1 Naldini, Female nude, c. 1565-75, black chalk on paper prepared with a red- orange ground, 113 x 69 mm, Lille, Palais des Beaux-Arts inv. W.2490r.

7.2 Baccio Bandinelli, Cleopatra, c. 1530, bronze, brown patina, and dark brown lacquer, h. 31.9 cm, Florence, Museo Nazionale del Bargello, inv. 354 Bronzi. (Florence, 2014b, no.33, p. 377).

7.3 and 7.4 Naldini, after Michelangelo, Giuliano de’ Medici and Lorenzo de’ Medici, c. 1564-70, black chalk, stumped, erased, and heightened with white gouache, on tan laid paper, 430 x 294 mm, Princeton University Art Museum nos. x1948-762 & x1948-761.

7.5 Baccio Bandinelli, Hercules Pomarius, c. 1545, bronze, brown patina, and dark brown lacquer, h. 33.5 cm, Florence, Museo Nazionale del Bargello inv. 281 Bronzi. (Florence, 2014b, no.32, p. 375).

7.6 Naldini, after Bandinelli, Two studies of Hercules, 1560-62, red and black chalk, 345 x 242 mm, Florence, GDSU 7516 F r. (Thiem, 2002, no. 32).

7.7 Naldini, after Giambologna, Mercury, black chalk, traces of red chalk, 328 x 227 mm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett KdZ 15782v. (Photo: H. Schneider-Artstor).

7.8 Naldini, Study of wax modello, red chalk, stumping, white heightening, 306 x 190 mm, Florence, GDSU 6652 F v. (Cox-Rearick, 1981, no. 240).

7.9 Follower of Michelangelo, Modello of male nude, after 1530, wax, h. 49 cm, Florence, Casa Buonarroti inv. 521. (Rome & Paris, 1998, no.12, p. 105).

7.10 Naldini, Two studies of wax modello, red and black chalk, 320 x 247 mm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett KdZ 18007.

7.11 Naldini, Studies after Samson Slaying the Philistine, 1565-71, black chalk, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fols. 6v a, 9v c, 10v c.

7.12 Naldini, after Michelangelo, Study of Samson Slaying the Philistine, c. 1565-71, red chalk, 155 x 138.5 mm, Florence, GDSU 7473 F r. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus). 7.13 After Michelangelo, Samson and two Philistines, 16th century, bronze, height: 36.8 cm, New York, Frick Collection, inv. 1916.2.40.

7.14 Naldini, after Michelangelo, Study of Samson Slaying the Philistine, c. 1565-71, red chalk, 334 x 232 mm, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art inv. 80.3.301r.

24 7.15 Naldini, after Michelangelo, Head of Giuliano de’ Medici, c. 1564-70, red chalk, 225 x 163 mm, London, British Museum inv. 1946,0713.368. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

7.16 Michelangelo, Giuliano de’ Medici (detail), 1524-34, Florence, San Lorenzo, Medici Chapel (Photo: Getty Images - De Agostini & G. Nimatallah. http://www.gettyimages.com.au/license/173454602, accessed 28 May 2017).

7.17 Naldini, Head of Giuliano de’ Medici, c. 1564-70, red chalk, 212 x 142 mm, Florence, GDSU 7481 F r. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus).

7.18 Studies of the right hand of Michelangelo’s Giuliano de’ Medici. a Naldini (detail), c. 1564-70, red chalk, 212 x 142 mm, Florence, GDSU 7481 F r. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus). b & c Michelangelo, Detail of right hand of Giuliano de’ Medici, 1524-34, Florence, San Lorenzo, Medici Chapel. (Photo: © Aurelio Amendola. http://www.flickriver.com/photos/146114071@N05/29988621194/, accessed 28 May 2017). d Bronzino, c. 1545-52, black chalk, 75 x 153 mm, Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, inv. 92.GB.40r. e Naldini (detail), 1565-71, black chalk, 113 x 164 mm, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 10v b. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati). f Morandini, before 1588, black chalk, 129 x 96mm, Florence, GDSU 4279 F. (Giovannetti, 1995, no. D37, fig. 154). g Naldini, 1565-71, black chalk, 114 x 165 mm, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 64r a. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati). h Naldini (detail), 1565-71, black and red chalk, 114 x 165 mm, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 9r d. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

7.19 Studies of head of an old man, Circle of Giovan Francesco Rustici, based on a St Jerome by Andrea del Verrocchio.

7.20 Naldini, Modification and adaptation of Rustici model as old woman.

7.21 Hendrick van Cleve III, Detail from The Gardens of Villa Cesi, 1584, oil on canvas, Prague, Národní Galerie. (Cole, 2011, figs. 1.7 & 1.8, pp. 30-31).

7.22 Agnolo Bronzino, Pierantonio Bandini, c. 1550-55, oil on wood (likely poplar), 106.7 x 82.5 cm, Ottawa, National Gallery of Canada inv. 3717.

7.23 Agostino Veneziano, after Baccio Bandinelli, Accademia di Baccio Bandinelli, 1531, engraving, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, inv. 60.67.13. (Ottawa, 2005, no. 100). 7.24 Giovanni Stradano (Jan van der Straet), Design for print The Practice of the Visual Arts, 1573, pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightened with white, 436 x 393mm, engraved in 1578 by Cornelis Cort, London, British Museum, inv. SL,5214.2. © Trustees of the British Museum.

25 7.25 detail of 7.24 Giovanni Stradano, The Practice of the Visual Arts, 1573, pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightened with white, 436 x 393 mm, engraved in 1578, London, British Museum, inv. SL,5214.2. © Trustees of the British Museum.

7.26 Bandinelli, Venus with Dove, c. 1545, bronze, height: 37.5 cm, Florence, Museo Nazionale del Bargello inv. 388 Bronzi. (Florence, 2014b, no. 28).

7.27 Parmigianino, Interior of a Painter’s Studio, pen and brown ink, 141 x 125 mm, New York, Morgan Library & Museum IV, 46. 7.28 Pierfrancesco Alberti, Academia d’Pitorj (detail), published by Pietro Stefanoni, 1600-1638, etching, sheet: 412 x 522 mm, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 49.95.12.

7.29 Baccio Bandinelli, Cleopatra, c. 1530, bronze, brown patina, h.31.9 cm, Florence, Museo Nazionale del Bargello, inv. 354 Bronzi. (Florence, 2014b, no. 33, p. 377).

7.30 and 7.31 Naldini, after Baccio Bandinelli, Female nude 'Cleopatra', c. 1565-71, red chalk, heightened with white lead, 332 x 231 mm, Florence, GDSU 9220 S r. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus).

7.32 Francesco Morandini, Vincenzio Borghini, 1570, oil on canvas, 39.5 x 29.5cm, Karlsruhe, Staatliche Kunsthalle, inv. 1755. (Athens, 2003, vol. 2, p. 578, fig. XVIII.3).

7.33 Andrea del Sarto, Hope, 1523, fresco in monochrome, Chiostro dello Scalzo, Florence.

7.34 Francesco Morandini, Study of Leda and Pomona wax statuettes, c. 1571, black chalk, 131 x 95 mm, Florence, GDSU 4271 F. (Giovannetti, 1995, no. D29, fig. 16).

7.35 detail of 7.32 Francesco Morandini, Detail of Pomona or Copia from portrait of Vincenzio Borghini, 1570, oil on canvas, 39.5 x 29.5cm, Karlsruhe, Staatliche Kunsthalle inv. 1755. (Athens, 2003, vol. 2, p. 578, fig. XVIII.3).

7.36 Naldini, Pomona or Copia, detail of verso, 1565-71, black chalk on grey-tinted paper, 137 x 99 mm, Découvert Fine Art, Rockport, Massachusetts. Exhibited during Master Drawings New York 2017. (Paris, 2013, no.13, p. 31).

7.37 Baccio Bandinelli, Leda and the Swan, c. 1530, bronze, brown patina, height: 31.2 cm, Museo Nazionale del Bargello inv. 401 Bronzi. (Florence, 2014b, no.31, p. 371).

7.39 Baccio Bandinelli, Leda and the Swan, c. 1530, bronze, height: 31.2 cm, Museo Nazionale del Bargello, inv. 401 Bronzi. (Florence, 2014b, p. 324, fig. 1).

7.41 Comparison of Morandini and Bandinelli, detail of 7.34 and 7.37.

7.42 Comparison of Morandini and Bandinelli, detail of 7.38 and 7.37.

7.43 Baccio Bandinelli, Three Graces, pen and brown ink, brown wash, Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, inv. 2034. (Florence, 2014b, p. 358).

7.44 Francesco Morandini, Three Graces, before 1588, black chalk, 131 x 97 mm, Florence, GDSU 4272 F. (Giovannetti, 1995, no. D30, fig. 148).

7.45 Jacopo da Pontormo, Study for the Three Graces, c. 1535-36, red chalk, 295 x 212 mm, Florence, GDSU 6748 F. (Falciani, 1996, no.V.7, fig.50).

7.46 Maso da San Friano, Three studies of a female nude, 265 x 198 mm, Rome, Istituto Centrale per la Grafica FC, inv. 124259r. (Progetto Corsini, vol. 157G1, p. 151).

7.47 Baccio Bandinelli, Study after an antique Venus of Cnidian type, c.1510-20, red chalk, private collection, formerly Sotheby’s, 4 July 1985, lot 49. (Florence, 2014b, p. 356, fig. 1).

7.48 Baccio Bandinelli, Venus with the dove and flowers, c. 1530, bronze, brown patina, height: 33.5 cm, Florence, Museo Nazionale del Bargello, inv. 435 Bronzi. (Florence, 2014b, no.29, p. 361).

7.49 Leonardo da Vinci, Kneeling Leda and the Swan (detail), c. 1506-1508, pen and ink over black chalk, 160 x 139 mm, Chatsworth, Devonshire Collection 717. (New York, 2003, no. 99, p. 533).

7.50 Follower of Leonardo, after design by Leonardo, Leda and the Swan (detail), c. 1505-1515, oil on panel, 130 x 78 cm, Florence, Galleria degli Uffizi, inv. 1890 (9953r).

7.51 Raphael, Apollo, fresco detail from The School of Athens, 1509-10, Rome, Apostolic Palace, Stanza della Segnatura.

7.52 Raphael, Galatea, 1512, fresco, Rome, Villa Farnesina, Sala Galatea (Photo: Artstor).

7.53 Raphael, Venus, c. 1508, metalpoint, on two conjoined sheets of pale pink prepared paper, 242 x 115 mm, London, British Museum, inv. 1895,0915.629. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

7.54 Agostino Veneziano, after Bandinelli, Suicide of Cleopatra, 1515, engraving, 222 x 148 mm, Bologna, Pinacoteca Nazionale inv. PN 21466. (Florence, 2014b, no.36, p. 387).

27 7.55 Francesco Morandini, Studies of antique sculptures (detail), before 1588, black chalk, 143 x 102 mm, Florence, GDSU 4275 F. (Giovannetti, 1995, no. D33, p. 238, fig. 150).

7.56 Francesco Morandini, Studies of antique sculptures (detail), before 1588, black chalk, 146 x 110 mm, Florence, GDSU 4277 F. (Giovannetti, 1995, no. D35, p. 239, fig. 152). 7.57 Francesco Morandini, Torso of Venus, black chalk, traces of white chalk, 328 x 163 mm, Florence, GDSU 14797 F. (Giovannetti, 1995, p. 232, fig. 135).

7.58 Francesco Morandini, Study of sculptural models (detail), before 1588, black chalk, 134 x 97 mm, Florence, GDSU 4273 F. (Giovannetti, 1995, no. D31, plate VIIIa).

7.59 Francesco Morandini, Study of sculptural models (detail), before 1588, black chalk, 148 x 105 mm, Florence, GDSU 4274 F. (Petrioli Tofani, 2008, p. 166, no.78).

7.60 Naldini, Study of Pomona or Copia and Venus Torso, 1565-71, black chalk on grey-tinted paper, 137 x 99 mm, Découvert Fine Art, Rockport, Massachusetts. Exhibited during Master Drawings New York 2017. (Paris, 2013, no.13, p. 31).

7.61 detail of 7.59 Francesco Morandini, Study of sculptural models (detail), before 1588, black chalk, 148 x 105 mm, Florence, GDSU 4274 F. (Petrioli Tofani, 2008, p. 166, no.78).

7.62 Michelangelo, Torso of Venus, 1524-1525, black chalk, 256 x 181 mm, London, British Museum inv. 1859,0625.570. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

7.63 Lambert Lombard and workshop, Studies of torso of Venus, page from Album d’Arenberg, red chalk, 1537-1538/39, red chalk, 170 x 195 mm, Cabinet des Estampes et des Dessins de la Ville de Liège, inv. N.486. (© KIK-IRPA, Brussels).

7.64 Michelangelo, Torso of Venus, 1524-1525, black chalk, 201 x 106 mm, London, British Museum inv. 1859,0625.571. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

7.65 Domenico Beccafumi, Venus torso, from album page of Vasari’s Libro de’ disegni, pen and brown ink, 130 x 58 mm, Paris, Louvre inv. 255r.

7.66 Anonymous, Torso of Venus pudica, c. 1500-50, hollow cast bronze, traces of black-brown patina, height: 25.9 cm, Trent, Castello del Buonconsiglio, Monumenti e Collezioni provinciali, inv. Municipio 3425. (Athens, 2003, vol. 1, no.X.27, p. 443).

7.67 Domenico Beccafumi, Venus with drapery, from album page of Vasari’s Libro de’ disegni, pen and brown ink, 226 x 90 mm, Paris, Louvre, inv. 255.TER r.

7.68 Pierfrancesco Alberti, Academia d’Pitorj (detail), 1600-1638, etching, 412 x 522 mm, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 49.95.12.

7.69 Giambologna, Florence Triumphant over Pisa, 1565, terracotta, height: 39 cm, London, Victoria & Albert Museum, inv. A.24-1979.

28 7.70 Giambologna, Florence Victorious over Pisa, 1565, plaster, h.280 cm (without pedestal), Florence, Palazzo Vecchio. (Photo: Google Cultural Institute).

7.71 Stoldo Lorenzi, Amphitrite, bronze, Studiolo di Francesco I, Palazzo Vecchio, Florence.(http://museicivicifiorentini.comune.fi.it/export/sites/museicivici/images/visi ta_palazzovecchio/francesco_8.jpg, accessed: 28 May 2017). 7.72 and 7.73 Vincenzo Danti, Venus Rising from the Sea (Venus Anadyomene), 1570, bronze, Studiolo di Francesco I, Palazzo Vecchio, Florence. (http://museicivicifiorentini.comune.fi.it/export/sites/museicivici/images/visita_palazz ovecchio/francesco_15.jpg, accessed: 28 May 2017).

7.74 Naldini, Diana Surprised by Actaeon, oil on copper, 300 x 223 mm, Vercelli, Museo Borgogna, inv. 1909, sala XV, 170. (© Museo Borgogna).

7.75 Naldini, Apollo and the Muses, oil on copper, 325 x 240 mm, Vercelli, Museo Borgogna, inv. 1909, sala XV, 171. (© Museo Borgogna).

7.76 Naldini, study of three young men, red chalk, 241 x 352 mm, Copenhagen, Statens Museum for Kunst, inv. 11105. (Fischer, 2001, no.37, p. 86).

7.77 Comparison of Naldini and Bandinelli, detail of 7.75 and 7.48

7.78 Anonymous Roman artist, one of the Horsetamers (Alexander and Bucephalus), c. 76-138 CE, marble, Rome, Piazza del Quirinale. (Census 150776).

7.79 Francesco Salviati, Male nude and study of antique torso, c. 1539-40, black and red chalk, 430 x 263 mm, Vienna, Albertina, inv. 4865 SC. R. 566. (Paris & Rome, 1998, no.5, p. 93).

7.80 Anonymous Roman artist, Apollo Belvedere, 130-140 CE, Rome, Vatican Museums, Museo Pio Clementino, Cortile Ottagono inv. 1015. (Census 150779).

7.81 Giorgio Vasari, Study for executioner, 1551-52, black chalk, 185 x 132 mm, Florence, GDSU 6956 F. (Härb, 2015, fig. 90, no.157).

7.82 Giorgio Vasari, Beheading of St John the Baptist, 1552, oil on panel, high altar, San Giovanni Decollato, Rome. (Härb, 2015, p. 313, fig. 157.1).

7.83 Anonymous Roman artist, Two views of the Idolino di Pesaro, 1st century CE, after Greek original of 5th century BCE, bronze, height: 148 cm, Florence, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, inv. 1637. (Arachne 6052).

7.84 Agnolo Bronzino, Standing male nude, c. 1541-42, black chalk on paper washed with mustard or pale yellow ochre, Florence GDSU 6704 F.

7.85 Naldini, Preparatory studies for Santa Croce Lamentation, 1583, red chalk, 270 x 410 mm, Florence, GDSU 17817 F. (Hall, 1979, plate 69).

7.87 Naldini, Female study, c. 1565-75, verso of 7.1, red chalk on paper prepared with a red-orange ground, 113 x 69 mm, Lille, Palais des Beaux-Arts inv. W.2490r.

7.88 Naldini, Hercules and the Nemean Lion (detail), pen and brown ink over black chalk, 195 x 319 mm, Sotheby’s London, 10 July 2002, lot. 20.

7.89 detail of 9.30 Naldini, Study for an apostle for Ottonelli Ascension, c. 1571-76, red chalk, wash of red chalk, 272 x 261 mm, Paris, Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques, inv. 10306.

7.90 detail of 9.28 Naldini, Apostle from bozzetto for lost Ottonelli Ascension, c. 1571-76, oil on panel, 49.5 x 32.4 cm, Oxford, Ashmolean Museum, inv. WA1964.41.1.

7.91 Naldini, Detail from The Three Graces, oil on panel, 205 x 144 cm, Budapest, Szépművészeti Múzeum, inv. 173. (CC image courtesy of user: Yelkrokoyade. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_Three_Graces_Battista_Naldini.jpg. CC BY-SA 3.0).

Chapter 8

8.1 Naldini, after Albrecht Dürer, Study of greyhound, c. 1565-71, pen and brown ink, 113 x 164 mm, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 64r b. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

8.2 Albrecht Dürer, Detail from Melancholia, 1514, engraving, 241 x 192 mm, London, British Museum, inv. 1912,1220.2. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

8.3 Naldini, after Albrecht Dürer, Study of two dogs, c. 1565-71, pen and brown ink, brown wash, 115 x 164 mm, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 64r c. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

8.4 Albrecht Dürer, Detail from Knight, Death and the Devil, 1513, engraving, 246 x 190 mm, London, British Museum, inv. 1868,0822.198. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

8.5 detail of 8.3 Naldini, after Albrecht Dürer, Study of two dogs, c. 1565-71, pen and brown ink, brown wash, 115 x 164 mm, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 64r c. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

8.6 Albrecht Dürer, Detail from Way to Calvary, c. 1498-1499, woodcut, 386 x 283 mm, London, British Museum, inv. E,3.80. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

8.7 Pontormo, Study for St John, preparatory drawing for Agony in the Garden, Certosa di Val d’Ema, Galluzzo, c. 1523, red chalk on pink prepared paper, 199 x 158 mm, Florence, GDSU 6682 F r. (Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.196, p. 217, fig. 188).

30 8.8 Albrecht Dürer, Agony in the Garden, 1508-1509, woodcut, 128 x 98 mm, London, British Museum, inv. 1895,0122.667. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

8.9 recto of 6.11 Naldini, after Dürer, Supper at Emmaus, pen and brown ink, over black chalk, 215 x 300 mm, Florence, GDSU 8851 S r. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus).

8.10 Albrecht Dürer, Supper at Emmaus, 127 x 98 mm, woodcut, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 19.73.202.

8.11 Naldini, after Albrecht Dürer, Study of wings, c. 1565-71, pen and brown ink, over black chalk, 112 x 164 mm, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 64r d. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

8.12 Albrecht Dürer, Nemesis or Large Fortune (detail), c. 1501-1502, engraving, sheet: 356 x 251 mm, plate: 335 x 230 mm, Florence, GDSU 4689 st. sc. (Fara, Inventario, 2007, no. 57, pp. 133-35).

Chapter 9

9.1 Naldini, Figure study of a Pietà with Saints, for Monastero di Santa Caterina a Colle di Val d’Elsa, 1578, black chalk, diluted white lead, squared for transfer in red chalk, 216 x 153.5 mm, Florence, GDSU 650 S. (Gernsheim Photographic Corpus).

9.2 Naldini, Lamentation, 1570-83, red and black chalk, brown-grey wash, heightened in white lead, 71 x 80 mm, Florence, GDSU 706 F. (Petrioli Tofani, GDSU Inventario, 1991, pp. 299-300).

9.3 Naldini, Lamentation of the Dead Christ, 1572, oil on poplar panel, 123.6 x 90.2 cm, London, National Gallery L1095. On loan from private collection.

9.4 Naldini, Lamentation, signed and dated 1572, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella, Minerbetti Chapel. (Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate IV).

9.5 Naldini, Lamentation, oil on panel, 76 x 229 mm, Sotheby’s New York, Sale 8163, 26 January 2006, lot 108. (current location unknown). 9.6 Naldini, Lamentation, c. 1577, oil on panel, 55 x 45 cm, Marano di Castenaso, Bologna, Collezione Molinari Pradelli. (Petrioli Tofani, 1980, no. 323, p. 150).

9.8 Naldini, Lamentation at the base of the cross, red chalk, 324 x 239 mm, Paris, Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques inv. 17991r.

9.9 Naldini, Lamentation at base of the cross, black chalk, grey wash, small traces of pen and brown ink lower left, 345 x 238 mm, Florence, GDSU 5127 S.

31 9.10 Naldini, Lamentation, c. 1570-71, black chalk, 165 x 114 mm, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 14v a. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

9.11 Cornelis Cort, after Giulio Clovio, Lamentation, 1568, published in Venice, engraving, first state, 345 x 265 mm, London, British Museum, inv. 1872,0511.816. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

9.12 Cornelis Cort after Taddeo Zuccaro, Lamentation, 1567, engraving, 355 x 263 mm, London, British Museum, inv. U,5.146. (© Trustees of the British Museum).

9.13 Fra Bartolomeo, Lamentation, 1511-12, oil on panel, 154 x 191 cm, Florence, Palazzo Pitti, inv. 64.

9.14 Pontormo, Pietà, 1525-26, oil on panel, 313 x 192 cm, Capponi Chapel, Santa Felicita, Florence.

9.15 Naldini, Lamentation, c. 1570-72, pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightening with white on paper prepared with brown wash, 139 x 104 mm, Paris, Musée du Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques, inv. 2097r.

9.16 Andrea del Sarto, Luco Pietà, for San Piero a Luco, 1524, oil on panel, 238.5 x 198.5 cm, Florence, Palazzo Pitti, inv. 58. (Shearman, 1965, no. 68, pl. 126. Natali, 1999, p. 158).

9.17 detail of 9.4 Naldini, Minerbetti Lamentation, 1572, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella. (Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate IV).

9.18 detail of 9.3 Naldini, Bozzetto of the Lamentation, altarpiece for the Pucci family, 1572, oil on poplar panel, 123.6 x 90.2 cm, London, National Gallery L1095. On loan from private collection.

9.19 Naldini, Preparatory study for Minerbetti Lamentation, c. 1572, red chalk, 239 x 329 mm, Florence, GDSU 879 E. (Petrioli Tofani, GDSU Inventario, 2005, p. 373).

9.20 Pontormo, St Veronica from Way to Calvary, 1523-25, detached fresco, 311 x 287 cm, Sala del Pontormo, Certosa del Galluzzo.

9.21 Naldini, after Pontormo, Way to Calvary (detail), 1582, tempera on canvas, 126 x 126 cm, Sala del Pontormo, Certosa del Galluzzo. (Bietti, 1996, p. 69, plate XVI).

9.22 Mary Magdalene, detail of 9.3 Lamentation, altarpiece for the Pucci family, 1572, oil on poplar panel, 123.6 x 90.2 cm, London, National Gallery L1095. On loan from private collection.

9.23 Mary Magdalene, detail of 9.4 Lamentation, signed and dated 1572, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella, Minerbetti Chapel. (Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate IV).

9.24 Pontormo, Way to Calvary (detail), 1523-25, fresco, 311 x 287 cm, Sala del Pontormo, Certosa del Galluzzo.

32 9.25 detail of 9.4 Lamentation, signed and dated 1572, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella, Minerbetti Chapel. (Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate IV).

9.26 Naldini, Detail from Purification of the Virgin for Giovanni da Sommaia, 1577, oil on panel, Santa Maria Novella, Florence. (CC image courtesy of Sailko https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Giovan_battista_naldini,_presentazione_di_ ges%C3%B9_al_tempio,_1572,_01.JPG, accessed 28 May 2017. CC BY 3.0).

9.27 Naldini, Detail from Purification of the Virgin for Amerigo da Verrazzano, c. 1590, oil on panel, San Niccolò oltr’Arno, Florence. (Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate V).

9.28 Naldini, adaptation of a design by Maso da San Friano, Ascension of Christ with Saints, bozzetto for lost Ottonelli Altarpiece in Santa Maria del Carmine, c. 1571-76, oil on panel, 49.5 x 32.4 cm, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford inv. WA1964.41.1 (417 Ar).

9.29 Naldini, Compositional study for lower half of Ottonelli Ascension of Christ with saints, c. 1571-1576, pen and brown ink, brown wash on pink prepared paper, 190 x 183 mm, Sotheby’s New York, 26 January 2005, lot 76. Present location unknown. (Feinberg, 1991, no. 33).

9.30 Naldini, Creative variant based on Manzuoli’s composition, study for lower half of Ottonelli Ascension of Christ, c. 1571-1576, red chalk, wash of red chalk, entirely pasted down, 272 x 261 mm, Paris, Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques, inv. 10306r.

9.31 Naldini, Detail from Adoration of the Shepherds and the Seven Archangels for Jacopo Mazzinghi, 1573, oil on panel, Santa Maria Novella, Florence. (CC image courtesy of Sailko. CC BY 3.0. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Giovan_battista_naldini,_natività_di_gesù, _1573,_05.JPG, accessed 29 May 2017).

9.32 Andrea del Sarto, Hope, 1523, fresco in monochrome, Chiostro dello Scalzo, Florence.

9.33 detail of 9.28 Naldini, The Madonna from Ottonelli Ascension, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford inv. WA1964.41.1.

9.34 Andrea del Sarto, Head of St Agnese from Sant’Agnese Altarpiece, 1524, Santa Maria Assunta, Pisa.

9.35 recto of 4.29 Naldini, Head study for the Madonna in Ottonelli Ascension, c. 1571-76, black and red chalk, 221 x 152 mm, Florence, GDSU 716 F r. (Petrioli Tofani, GDSU Inventario, 1991, p. 303).

9.36 detail of 9.28 Naldini, The Madonna from Ascension of Christ with Saints, bozzetto for lost Ottonelli Altarpiece in Santa Maria del Carmine, c. 1571-76, oil on panel, 49.5 x 32.4 cm, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford inv. WA1964.41.1.

33 9.37 detail of 4.30 Naldini, Madonna from Pietà for San Simone, 1566, bozzetto for San Simone Pietà, 1566, fresco on terracotta, 60 x 61 cm, Florence, Museo degli Innocenti inv. 119. 9.38 Naldini, Detail of Madonna from Study of heads, second bozzetto for San Simone Pietà with Saints, 1566, fresco on terracotta, 57 x 73 cm, Florence, Museo degli Innocenti inv. 121.

9.39 Marco della Robbia, Madonna, c. 1505, painted terracotta, Florence, Museo degli Innocenti. (Sandri, 1996, fig. 99).

9.40 Francesco Salviati, Lamentation over the Dead Christ, from chapel in Palazzo Ricasoli, 77 x 55 cm, Florence, Palazzo Pitti, inv. 115. (Artstor).

9.41 Francesco Salviati, detail of 9.40 Lamentation over the Dead Christ, from chapel in Palazzo Ricasoli, 77 x 55 cm, Florence, Palazzo Pitti, inv. 115. (Artstor).

9.42 Francesco Salviati, detail of 9.40 Lamentation over the Dead Christ, from chapel in Palazzo Ricasoli, 77 x 55 cm, Florence, Palazzo Pitti, inv. 115. (Artstor).

9.43 Francesco Salviati, Detail from Deposition, 1948, oil on panel, Dini Chapel, Santa Croce, Florence.

9.44 Alessandro Allori, after Bandinelli, Deposition (detail), c. 1555-60, oil on copper, 70 x 54 cm, Madrid, Museo Nacional del Prado, inv. P00511.

9.45 Alessandro Allori, after Bandinelli, Deposition (detail), c. 1555-60, oil on copper, 70 x 54 cm, Madrid, Museo Nacional del Prado, inv. P00511.

9.46 Naldini, Holy woman, detail from 9.4 Lamentation, signed and dated 1572, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella, Minerbetti Chapel. (Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate IV).

9.47 Francesco Salviati, Detail of the Virgin from 9.48 Lamentation, c. 1540, commissioned by Bernardo Moro for the church of Corpus Domini in Venice, oil on canvas, 322 x 193 cm, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera, inv. Nap. 426. (Artstor).

9.48 Francesco Salviati, Lamentation, c. 1540, commissioned by Bernardo Moro for the church of Corpus Domini in Venice, oil on canvas, 322 x 193 cm, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera, inv. Nap. 426. (Artstor).

9.49 and 9.50 Nicolas Karcher and workshop, after Salviati, details from Lamentation, tapestry, c. 1545, Florence, Gallerie degli Uffizi, Inventario Arazzi, 1912-1925, no.773. (Artstor).

9.51 Anonymous Roman artist after Greek original from 2nd century BCE, Younger son of Laocoön, marble, Rome, Vatican, Museo Pio-Clementino, inv. 1059. (Andreae, 1995-1998, no.74).

34 9.52 Naldini, Studies after the younger son of Laocoön, 1560-64, black chalk, 326 x 228 mm, Nuremberg, Museen der Stadt Nürnberg, Graphische Sammlung, Eigentum der Albrecht-Dürer-Haus-Stiftung, inv. Gr. A 2948v. (Thiem, 2002, no. 28).

9.53 Detail from plaster cast after Laocoön, Munich, Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte. (Photo: Author).

9.54 Naldini, Studies after the younger son of Laocoön, 1565-71, black chalk, Siena, BCI, S.1.7, fol. 10r b. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

9.55 Naldini, Study after the younger son of Laocoön, 1560-70, red chalk, 218 x 153 mm, Florence, GDSU 7478 F r. (Thiem, 2002, no. 29).

9.56 Naldini, Profile view, modified detail from 9.52 Studies after the younger son of Laocoön, 1560-64, black chalk, 326 x 228 mm, Nuremberg, Museen der Stadt Nürnberg, Graphische Sammlung, Eigentum der Albrecht-Dürer-Haus-Stiftung, inv. Gr. A 2948v. (Thiem, 2002, no. 28).

9.57 Anonymous Roman artist after Greek original from 2nd century BCE, Younger son of Laocoön, marble, Rome, Vatican, Museo Pio-Clementino, inv. 1059. (Andreae, 1995-1998, no.74).

9.58 Naldini, Head of Mary Magdalene, detail of 9.3 Lamentation, altarpiece for the Pucci family, 1572, oil on poplar panel, 123.6 x 90.2 cm, London, National Gallery L1095. On loan from private collection.

9.59 Naldini, Head of Mary Magdalene, detail of 9.4 Lamentation, signed and dated 1572, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella, Minerbetti Chapel. (Bocchi- Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate IV).

9.60 Anonymous Roman artist after Greek original from 2nd century BCE, Younger son of Laocoön, marble, Rome, Vatican, Museo Pio-Clementino, Cortile Ottagono, inv. 1059. (Andreae, 1995-1998, no.74).

9.61 Naldini, Study after younger son of Laocoön (detail), c. 1560-64, red chalk, 280 x 185 mm, Paris, Audap & Mirabaud, Drouot-Richelieu, Salle 6, 21 Auction, Paris, November 2014, lot 2Bis.

9.62 Naldini, Head study, c. 1577, black chalk, Florence, GDSU 7451 F r.

9.63 Naldini, Detail from Resurrection of Lazarus, 1583, Santa Marta a Montughi.

9.65 Anonymous Roman artist after Greek original from 2nd century BCE, Older son of Laocoön, marble, Rome, Vatican, Museo Pio-Clementino, inv. 1059. (Andreae, 1995-1998, no.74).

35 9.66 Naldini, Studies after older son of Laocoön, black chalk, red chalk study is same view of head but in reverse, Siena, BCI, S.I.7 fol 6v d.

9.67 Naldini, Holy woman, detail of 9.3 Lamentation, altarpiece for the Pucci family, 1572, oil on poplar panel, 123.6 x 90.2 cm, London, National Gallery L1095. On loan from private collection.

9.68 Naldini, Head studies, c. 1565-71, red chalk, Siena, BCI S.I.7, fol. 21v a. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

9.69 Naldini, Holy woman, detail of 9.4 Lamentation, 1572, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella, Minerbetti Chapel. (Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate IV).

9.70 Naldini, detail of 9.3 Lamentation, altarpiece for the Pucci family, 1572, oil on poplar panel, 123.6 x 90.2 cm, London, National Gallery L1095. On loan from private collection.

9.71 Naldini, detail of 9.4 Lamentation, 1572, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella, Minerbetti Chapel. (Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate IV).

9.72 Naldini, Studies for standing apostle in Minerbetti Lamentation, 1571-72, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fols. 12r b (Study of studio apprentice) & d (drapery study). (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

9.73 Naldini, Standing apostle, detail from Pucci Panel, and detail from Minerbetti Lamentation.

9.74 Naldini, Holy woman, detail from Pucci panel 9.3 Lamentation, 1572, oil on poplar panel, 123.6 x 90.2 cm, London, National Gallery L1095. On loan from private collection.

9.75 Naldini, Holy woman, detail from Minerbetti Lamentation 9.4, 1572, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella, (Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate IV).

9.76 Giovanni Stradano, Crucifixion, oil on panel, Santissima Annunziata, Florence.

9.77 Agnolo Bronzino, Detail of the tanto lascivo angel from The Resurrection, 1552, oil on panel, Guadagni Chapel, Santissima Annunziata, Florence.

9.78 Naldini, Personification of Night from Allegory of Dreams, 1570, oil on oval panel, Studiolo di Francesco I, Palazzo Vecchio, Florence.

9.79 detail of 9.10 Naldini, Sketch for crouching male in Minerbetti Lamentation, c. 1570-71, black chalk, 165 x 114 mm, Siena, BCI S.I.7, fol. 14v a. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

9.80 Naldini, Study of antique torso, 1565-71, black chalk, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 9r b. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

36 9.81 Naldini, Pucci panel, detail of 9.3 Lamentation, 1572, oil on poplar panel, 123.6 x 90.2 cm, London, National Gallery L1095. On loan from private collection. 9.82 Naldini, Life study for crouching figure, study of right shoulder and antique torso, c. 1570-71, red chalk, 235 x 330, Florence, GDSU 7678 S r. (Thiem, 2002, no. 56).

9.83 Naldini, Minerbetti Lamentation, detail of 9.4, 1572, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Maria Novella, Minerbetti Chapel. (Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, plate IV).

9.84 Naldini, Study of arm, with profile of old man, 1571, black chalk, Siena, BCI, S.I.7 fol. 10v a. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

9.85 Naldini, Study of antique torso, 1565-71, black chalk, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 21v c. (© Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati).

9.86 Francesco Salviati, Detail from Deposition, 1948, oil on panel, Dini Chapel, Santa Croce, Florence.

9.87 Francesco Morandini, Purification of the Virgin, commissioned for the Castellani Chapel of San Piero Scheraggio, oil on panel, 270 x 180 cm, Florence, collection of Banca Toscana. (Giovannetti, 1995, pp. 95-97, no. 39, fig. 51).

Appendix A

1 Naldini, Dead Christ surrounded by five angels, c. 1566-70, pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightened with white lead, on paper prepared with brown-yellow ochre wash, 317 x 225 mm, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera, inv. 323.

2 Naldini, The Dead Christ supported by three figures, c. 1566-1570, pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightened with lead white, over black chalk, on brown-washed paper, 324 x 231 mm, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 1972.118.261.

3 Naldini, Dead Christ supported by three angels, c. 1566-1570, pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightened in white lead, on paper prepared with yellow ochre wash, 342 x 256 mm, Bayonne, Musée Bonnat-Helleu, inv. RF 50866. (Photo © by Daniel Arnaudet, RMN-Grand Palais).

4 Michelangelo Buonarroti, Florence Pietà, 1547-53, marble, Florence, Museo del Opera del Duomo.

5 Baccio Bandinelli, Dead Christ with Angel, 1551-52, Florence, Santa Croce, cripta dei Caduti.

6 Alessandro Allori, Dead Christ with Angels for Jacopo di Alamanno Salviati, 1579- 80, fresco, Florence, Palazzo Salviati, private chapel.

37 Chapter 1

Pratico e fiero dipintore The Scholarly Reception of Battista Naldini

This thesis is about Mannerism, contorted bodies, imitation, and drawings. It investigates the artistic practice of the Florentine painter Battista Naldini. Instead of providing a catalogue raisonné, or a chapter-by-chapter chronology of his career, its overarching goal is to demonstrate the creative potential of imitation. Individual case studies examine Naldini during moments of invention, composition, study, and emulation. I analyse Naldini’s drawings to demonstrate how he adapted small-scale sculpture (modelli) in his paintings, and reveal how he engaged with the work of earlier masters, including Jacopo da Pontormo, Andrea del Sarto, Michelangelo Buonarroti, Baccio Bandinelli, and Albrecht Dürer.

The study of drawings is undergoing dramatic changes, lately directing its attention toward materiality and scientific imaging technology. Carmen Bambach demonstrates how this approach has completely transformed connoisseurship.1 Her early ground- breaking study on cartoons, and methods of design transfer like spolvero and calco, also employed meticulous historiography, which complemented and enhanced her technical analysis.2 David Rosand’s phenomenological approach to drawings rekindles the process and experience of the drawing act.3 Deanna Petherbridge expands the discourse on historical drawings with insights gleaned from contemporary drawing practice.4 My own approach to drawings, discussed in chapter two, is motivated by these same desires to privilege artistic practice and engage with historiography. Therefore, this thesis investigates sixteenth-century art theory through the historiographical discernment of Patricia Emison, Philip Sohm, and David

1 Bambach, 2014, p. 229. 2 Bambach, 1999a. 3 Rosand, 2002. 4 I have followed Petherbridge, 2010, p. 7, in rejecting the traditional label ‘Old Master drawings’, but have retained ‘draughtsman’ despite the limitations its cognate, draughtsmanship, imposes on draughtswomen. 38 Summers.5 It is also inspired by Leatrice Mendelsohn’s meticulous reconstruction of cinquecento artistic practice.6 Hence, my investigation of Naldini’s drawings aims to balance reflections on disegno with methods in the workshop (bottega), Accademia del Disegno, and most importantly, sixteenth-century theories of imitatio.

The first objective of this dissertation is to address the problematic legacy of connoisseurship for the study of imitation. And then to rethink this inheritance by using historiographical and etymological analysis to critique established terms and deconstruct drawing studies. The third chapter applies Patricia Emison’s research to counter the inherited dogma that genius is not learnt.7 I conclude that the perceived conflict between ‘effortlessness’ (sprezzatura) and ‘toil’ (stento) is at the centre of the traditional division between the ‘original’ and the ‘copy’. However, sixteenth-century art theory reveals that these opposites could be reconciled.

The fourth chapter places the larger themes of chapter three into the context of the Cinquecento. It examines the language used to describe artistic invention in sixteenth- century Italy, and subjects drawing categories such as primo pensiero, schizzo, bozzo and macchia to etymological and historiographical analysis. Its linguistic approach draws inspiration from Philip Sohm’s research on the rich semantic terrain of early modern style.8

Chapter five concentrates on the years of Naldini’s apprenticeship, and the reputation of his master Pontormo. It engages in the practice of connoisseurship by examining a small selection of drawings implicated in the Naldini-Pontormo authorship problem, and offers an extensive analysis of both ‘linear strategies.’ I also challenge the view, inherited from Bernard Berenson and Paola Barocchi, that Naldini was confused by the San Lorenzo frescoes, and that he ‘retreated’ from the contorted male nudes to the naturalism of Pontormo’s early drawings.

5 Emison, 2004. Sohm, 1991, 1999, 2001. Summers, 1981. 6 Mendelsohn, 2000, 2001, 2003. Her remarkable insights also benefitted from an earlier historiographical study, Mendelsohn, 1982. 7 Emison, 2004. 8 Sohm, 1991, 2001. 39 Chapter six revisits cinquecento imitation theory, and offers new interpretations of important commentaries by Vincenzio Borghini and Giovanni Battista Armenini. It then examines how Naldini and his contemporaries participated in a visual restoration of fragmented antique sculpture, concentrating on the Belvedere Nile. The seventh chapter expands upon this discussion to investigate how Naldini used sculptural fragments and small-scale statuettes (modelli) in his paintings. I conclude that he extracted an ideal female physiognomy from the bronzes of Baccio Bandinelli, Stoldo Lorenzi, and Vincenzo Danti.

Chapter eight investigates Naldini’s response to the prints of Albrecht Dürer. It considers the implications of the draughtsman’s close scrutiny of printed lines by reassessing drawing, imitation and emulation as self-motivated pedagogic and heuristic activities. I argue that Naldini’s absorbed study of the wings from Dürer’s Nemesis was a response to the challenge proposed by Giorgio Vasari of creating highly finished and detailed work without using white lead. His exercise combined ‘sacramental’ fidelity with the ‘heuristic’ discovery of graphic gestures to approximate engraving in pen. It was also a trial of stylistic assimilation, and an attempt to equal and surpass its model.

The last chapter establishes a larger Counter-Reformation context for evaluating Naldini’s religious paintings. It uses his Lamentation altarpiece in Santa Maria Novella as a case study to explore a broader range of problematic themes entrenched within the historiography of maniera sacred art, such as the effective representation of genuine emotional states in painted protagonists. Or how to reconstruct the devotional function of altarpieces against claims that mainera painters obscured any clear religious message beneath artifice, the classical figura, contortion, contrapposto, and nudity. Naldini’s reflections on the iconography and narration of the Lamentation are retraced by demonstrating how he adapted strategies from Giulio Clovio, Taddeo Zuccaro, Jacopo da Pontormo, and Andrea del Sarto. Naldini’s drawings reveal yet again the fundamental role that imitation played within his artistic practice. Extensive studies of the Laocoön allowed him to adapt the quivering lips and pained expressions of the ancient exemplar to the faces of holy women mourning Christ’s Passion. Similarly, his graphic experiments with Michelangelo’s Florence Pietà culminated in

40 striking demonstrations of the mannered body working effectively to serve the devotional needs of viewers.9

This first chapter is an introduction to some of the dominant themes in the study of Mannerism. It provides a brief literature review of this problematic periodisation of art, and a reappraisal of artistic imitation. An account of the critical fortune of Naldini’s drawings concludes this chapter. First, however, it is necessary to introduce our main protagonist.

Giovanni Battista di Matteo di Piero Naldini was born on 3 May 1535.10 He was raised in an orphanage because his father, working as a shoemaker (calzolaio), could not support him. He was a pupil of the imaginative and eccentric Jacopo da Pontormo, with whom he lived for more than ten years.11 During his early years Naldini maintained close contact with Vincenzio Borghini, then the governor (spedalingo) of the Ospedale degli Innocenti, and also an eminent Benedictine scholar with a broad range of intellectual interests.12 Borghini organised Naldini’s first visit to Rome in 1560, where the 25 year old produced a large amount of drawings, and an album of carefully documented antique monuments, sculpture, funerary altars, and tomb markers (cippi), with all their accompanying inscriptions. This album was most likely intended for Borghini.13 By 1564 Naldini was back in Florence, working as a collaborator in Giorgio Vasari’s large workshop. He received commissions from prominent members of Florentine society, including the Acciaiuoli, Altoviti, Davanzati, Medici, Minerbetti, Ricci, and Pucci families. He was a member of the first state-sponsored academy of the arts in Europe, the Accademia del Disegno in Florence. Like most members, he served the Academy in short-term administrative roles as care-giver (infermiere), advisor (consigliere), and four times in the higher office of consul (consolo).14 He contributed to all the major civic commissions in Florence during the latter part of the sixteenth century: the Obsequies of

9 For Naldini’s response to Michelangelo’s Florence Pietà see Appendix A. 10 Pilliod, 2001, pp. 77, 225, doc.23(a), discovered Naldini’s baptismal record. The unpublished name of his grandfather appears in ASF, Accademia del Disegno, n. 25, fol. 11v (1 May 1575). 11 Pilliod, 2001, pp. 120, 123, 222-23 doc.21(a & c). 12 Cecchi, 1977a. Waźbiński, 1985. Carrara, 2006. Scorza, 2003a. 13 See chapter 6. 14 For the various offices and organisation of the Accademia del Disegno see Barzman, 2000, pp. 205-206. For the dates of Naldini’s times in office see Zangheri, 1999. 41 Michelangelo (1564), the apparati for the marriage of Francesco I de’ Medici to Giovanna of Austria (1565), the decoration of the Salone dei Cinquecento in the Palazzo Vecchio (1565-72), and the Studiolo of Francesco I (1570-71).

Naldini also participated in the extensive renovations of the Florentine churches, Santa Maria Novella, Santa Croce, and the Badia Fiorentina (Santa Maria Assunta) under the direction of Vasari, in response to the dictates of the Counter-Reformation. Religious commissions brought him to neighbouring Tuscan towns: Camaldoli, Colle di Val d’Elsa, Granaiolo (Castelfiorentino), Limite sull’Arno, Pistoia, Prato, Scarperia, and Volterra. Naldini also enjoyed several Roman commissions, decorating the Cerretani chapel in San Giovanni Decollato, and the Altoviti chapel in Santissima Trinità dei Monti.15 Raffaello Borghini reveals that two of Naldini’s religious paintings were sent to Palermo, and two mythological narratives were sent to the gallery of Lodovico da Diacceto in Paris.16

Giorgio Vasari described Battista Naldini in colourful terms as ‘a practical and ardent painter’ (pratico e fiero dipintore), and witnessed: ‘he is rapid [spedito], and effortlessly [senza stento] produces his works.’17 Vasari valued swift execution. The author of the great, although biased, compendium of artists’ lives (Le Vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori et architettori), was also the supervisor of a large workshop responsible for the major decorative cycles in the Palazzo Vecchio. He was also one of the six founding members of the Accademia del Disegno.18 The full breadth of Vasari’s numerous projects called for expedient and collaborative ventures. Rapid production was instrumental to his success as a Medici court artist. Vasari prided himself on having painted a large chamber in the Vatican in one hundred days.19

An unexpected picture of Naldini emerges from late sixteenth-century sources. In his Riposo, the poet and man of letters Raffaello Borghini presented Naldini as the

15 For other outlines of Naldini’s career see Voss-Pelzel, 1997, vol. 2, pp. 13-17. Colnaghi, 1986, pp. 187-88. Voss, 1931. Venturi, 1967, vol. 9, part 5, pp. 252-68. Barocchi, 1965. Petrioli Tofani, 1980. Prosperi Valenti, 1983. Feinberg, 1991, p. 129. Chappell, 1996. Thiem, 2002, p. 179; and Fontana, 2012. 16 Borghini, 1984, p. 615. 17 Unless otherwise noted all translations are my own. ‘[…] si è fatto pratico e fiero dipintore […] egli è spedito, e fa l’opere sue senza stento.’ Vasari-Milanesi, 1998, p. 611. 18 Barzman, 2000, pp. 29-32. 19 McHam, 2013, p. 249. 42 ‘painter of illustrious name.’20 Borghini also gave an eyewitness account after having seen the artist at work in his studio: ‘Today, Naldini finds himself painting to great praise at forty-seven years of age.’21 Such remarks indicate that Battista was well regarded in the Florentine artistic community. Borghini reveals this contemporary interest: ‘Battista has a gentle and beautiful style and charming mode of colour, thus his works universally please everyone.’22 In his guidebook Le Bellezze della città di Fiorenza (1591), Francesco Bocchi celebrated Naldini’s now lost Ascension of Christ in Santa Maria del Carmine: ‘Similar to the best artists, whose work Naldini had accepted as his model in his own painting, he is praiseworthy in all his works, but in this painting, so all experts believe, he is wonderful.’23

These highly positive cinquecento views contrast dramatically with the troubled reception of the art produced during Naldini’s lifetime. Before any investigation of Naldini can take place, it is necessary to recognise that negative views on imitation and decline have dominated the discourse. The period of art commonly called Mannerism has shifted through a complicated critical reception, with moments of disapproval, admiration, and misunderstanding. Usage of this loaded term remains contested due to the many divergent interpretations it has attracted. Mannerism has been defined as anti-classicism, artistic decline, slavish imitation, stylish style, decadence, formal sophistication, courtly manner, working method, alienation, expressionistic angst, or the result of spiritual and socio-economic crisis.24 Some scholars have reasonably chosen to abandon the label altogether.25

20 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 299. ‘pittore di chiaro nome’ Borghini, 1584, p. 613. 21 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 301, my emphasis. ‘Hoggi ritrovandosi il Naldino in età d’anni 47 dipigne con gran sua loda […]’ Borghini, 1584, p. 618. 22 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 302. I have made some changes to Ellis’ translation. ‘Ha Batista facile, e bella maniera, e vago modo di colorire; laonde l’opere sue piacciono universalmente a ciascuno.’ Borghini, 1584, p. 619. 23 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 89. ‘[...] perché simile questo pittore a' migliori artefici, i quali nel dipignere si ha proposti, è lodevole in ogni opera, ma in questa è, come avvisa ciascuno uomo che è intendente, maraviglioso.’ Bocchi, 1591, pp. 78-79. 24 For a good summary see Cheney, 1997, preface pp. xxv-xxxii; Elizabeth Cropper’s introduction to Smyth, 1992, pp. 12-21; and the excellent online summary by Muraoka, 2012, for Oxford Bibliographies online. For a recent literature review on approaches toward imitation in the study of Mannerism see Hansen, 2013, pp. 7-11. 25 In their New History of Italian Renaissance Art (2012), Michael Cole and Stephen Campbell chose to structure two centuries in Italian art, 1400-1600, in a ‘decade-by-decade story.’ They acknowledge that their narrative ‘avoid[s] the impression that retrospectively constructed periods (the “High Renaissance,” “Mannerism”) had some determining influence on human behaviour.’ Campbell & Cole, 2012, p. 15. 43 One recurring criticism of Mannerism was that cinquecento painters imitated artistic exemplars rather than nature.26 In his Riposo, Raffaello Borghini likened the imitation of other artists to drinking tainted water instead of the pure source.27 For Giovanni Pietro Bellori, writing in 1642, artists of the late Cinquecento were guilty of two opposite extremes: they had abandoned the study of nature and relied entirely on an intellectual conceit grounded in practice. Or completely subjected themselves to nature by copying exactly what they saw.28 For Carlo Cesare Malvasia, writing in 1678, the year 1555 marked a great decline in the art of painting. The pupils and followers of the schools of Rome, Venice, and Lombardy, were at fault for turning away from the works of their masters. Among others, Malvasia blamed Francesco Salviati, the Zuccari brothers, and Vasari for producing a maniera lacking in verisimilitude, removed from nature, executed with weak disegno, and stylised painting.29

Around 1681, the connoisseur Filippo Baldinucci criticised the ‘imitators of Michelangelo.’30 He separated them from a previous artistic generation who had achieved a ‘grand manner’ in painting. Instead, these ‘imitators’ insisted on contorting the nude figure (tutti intenti al rigirar de’muscoli nell’ignudo); a ‘defect’ which endured in Florence because of Giorgio Vasari’s dominance over the city’s artistic projects.31

Painters who succumbed to the vice of imitation continued to be reproached in the eighteenth century. The Jesuit priest and antiquarian Luigi Lanzi critiqued their work in his monumental Storia pittorica della Italia (1795-1796). Manieristi and manieroso, ‘mannerists’ and ‘mannered’ in English, were his terms of choice to characterise the servile and repetitive imitation of Michelangelo and Raphael.32 Lanzi believed that after any great cultural achievement, like the Renaissance, decline was inevitable.33 He presented Giorgio Vasari as one of the painters primarily responsible

26 Smyth, 1992, pp. 22-35. 27 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, pp. 107-108. Borghini, 1584, pp. 139-40. 28 Bellori-Borea, 2009, pp. 31-32. Smyth, 1992, pp. 22-23. 29 Malvasia, Felsine pittrice, Bologna, 1678, vol. 1, p. 358. 30 Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, pp. 232-33. 31 Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 232. 32 Lanzi, 1795-1796, vol. 1, p. 437. Malvasia, 1678, vol. 1, p. 358, also used the term manieroso. Smyth, 1992, p. 24. Like Baldinucci, Lanzi grouped the artists of the third age under the heading ‘Gli’imitatori di Michelangiolo.’ 33 Akker, 2010, p. 28. 44 for promoting artistic methods that neglected nature, drew slavishly upon other artists, and valued ‘speed’ (la celerità) over quality and ‘accuracy’ (finitezza).34

Lanzi gave a very narrow view of imitative practices that failed to convey the complex and multifaceted nature of sixteenth-century imitatio theory. He reduced all the artistic production of Vasari’s lifetime to a single from of imitation. As a consequence, most early art historical literature dismissed Mannerism as ‘slavish’ imitation with artists succumbing to the ‘influence’ of a dominating ‘artistic personality’ and suppressing their own artistic ‘self’ in the process.35 Nineteenth- century criticism of Mannerism concentrated on the unsuccessful imitation of a single model, often using the ‘cult of Michelangelo’ to explain artistic decline.36 Positive readings of imitation languished under nineteenth-century praise for originality and artistic genius, concepts with very different meanings to their cinquecento precedents.37 In 2003 Francis Ames-Lewis and Paul Joannides acknowledged that these derogatory opinions had ‘certainly’ diminished.38 But they have not been completely eradicated.

Scholars now invest much more meaning in imitation, recognising that individual adaptations and commentaries lie beyond surface resemblance. Thomas Greene broadened the interpretative terrain by identifying four categories of literary imitation. Elizabeth Cropper has convincingly applied these categories to visual art.39 Greene defined the most basic type of imitation as ‘reproductive or sacramental,’ and used religious metaphors to convey the degree of its reverential ‘fidelity’ to a source. The model is rehearsed ‘liturgically’, ‘enshrined’ and ‘celebrated’; and genuine creation is only possible through ‘loving sacrilege.’40 Greene’s second category, eclectic or exploitative imitation, gathers sources irrespective of their historical contexts; it can result in elegant combination or incongruous assemblage. However, eclecticism furnishes literature with a richer vocabulary when exercised with rhetorical skill. Greene gives the example of Petrarch’s ‘Triumph of Eternity’ with allusions to

34 Lanzi, 1795-1796, vol. 1, p. 172; Akker, 2010, p. 37. 35 See succinct summary in Campbell, 2004, p. 100; Campbell 2014, p. 195. For influence see Ackerman, 2000, pp. 13-14; Baxandall 1985, pp. 58-62. 36 Smyth, 1992, pp. 24-27, 108n8. 37 For genius see Emison, 2004, pp. 303-48. 38 Ames-Lewis & Joannides, 2003, p. 3. 39 Cropper, 2005, pp. 100-101. 40 Greene, 1982, pp. 38-39. 45 ‘Cicero, Horace, St Matthew, the Apocalypse, St Augustine, and Dante.’41 As a visual equivalent, Cropper proposed the Strozzi Chapel in Santa Maria Novella painted by Filippino Lippi with its combination of many antique architectural and ornamental sources and new Quattrocentesque decoration.42 Bachiacca’s ability to merge many different artistic quotations in highly populated narratives is another example of eclectic imitation.43

The third type of imitation, called heuristic, draws attention to its derivation by alluding to the historical origin of its model, but unlike sacramental imitation resists accurately reproducing a ‘great Original’. It sometimes involves an intricate relationship with each source and tradition, but is ultimately defined by its modern transformation or aggiornamento of the source.44 Greene uses heuristic to describe a dual process of discovery: the poet’s cautious exploration of the model that is at once precise but historically other; and the personal struggle to express the material in a suitable contemporary voice and idiom.45 Raphael’s School of Athens, Michelangelo’s marble Bacchus,46 and the monochromatic façades painted by Polidoro da Caravaggio and Maturino are all examples of heuristic imitation.

Greene’s fourth category, dialectical imitation, creatively engages its model through emulation (aemulatio). The humanist text must weigh its ‘own signifying habits’ against those of its model. It is a conflict between two historical eras and rhetorical systems, and struggles between respect and rejection, and homage and dissent.47 Dialectical imitation ‘insists’ on the unique features of its own modernity, its local accent, and celebrates its anachronism.48 Cropper demonstrates how Michelangelo’s architectural innovations in the Medici chapel (San Lorenzo) are ‘actively in dialogue with antiquity while defying it […] by subverting’ the architectural canons. Similarly, his Biblioteca Laurenziana ‘parodied and inverted the principles of ancient models.’49 Parmigianino challenged both antique and sixteenth-century proportional canons with

41 Greene, 1982, p. 39. 42 Cropper, 2005, p. 100. 43 For Bachiacca see La France, 2008. 44 Greene, 1982, pp. 41-42. 45 Greene, 1982, p. 42. 46 Cropper, 2005, p. 101. 47 Greene, 1982, p. 46. 48 Greene, 1982, p. 50. 49 Cropper, 2005, p. 101. 46 his idealised elongations of the human body. Rosso Fiorentino parodied the grandeur of the Laocoön with his irreverent engraving of Fury, and as Stephen Campbell has argued, his occasional macabre subject matter suggested a necromantic challenge to the lofty artistic parallel with divine creation (deus artifex).50 The intensified corporeal torsion in figures painted by Salviati and Bronzino and sculpted by Michelangelo and Giambologna are all examples of dialectical imitation. Some share a genealogy with particular antique types or postural conventions, but dramatically distance themselves from these models.

Salviati reinterpreted an antique Victory surrounded by a swirling canopy of fabric in his design for a Resurrection tapestry (c. 1545).51 The radical elongation of Christ’s body and graceful torsion are even more striking in Salviati’s Washington drawing.52 This impressive document of heuristic imitation renders its antique source barely recognisable to exploit the forceful majesty of grazia and leggiadria in a feminised male divinity.

The agonistic impetus of dialectical imitation also motivated the creation of less transformative images. This important modification of Greene’s thesis must be kept in mind when assessing imitation during the Cinquecento. Alessandro Allori was commissioned to produce a replica of one of Florence’s most revered miraculous images, la Vergine Annunziata, whose graceful countenance was reputed to have been painted by an angel. He submitted himself to purification rituals, preparing both his body and soul for the imitation.53 Though Allori would never rival the spiritual qualities of the acheiropoieton, his replica would ultimately function as a devotional image in the Chapel of the Virgin in the Duomo of Milan.54 Lorenzo Vaiani, called lo Sciorina was also commissioned to create a copy of the Annunziata by Alessandro Acciaiuoli. His icon replica would comparably complete the cycle of six large

50 Campbell, 2002. 51 Woven by Nicolas Karcher and workshop for Cardinal Benedetto Accolti. Rome & Paris, 1998, p. 294, no.118. Hirst, 2001, pp. 76-80, admits that Salviati may have studied a range of antique nymphs or Victory figures, but singles out for comparison the winged Victory in a Roman floor mosaic, Palazzo Massimi alle Terme. 52 Francesco Salviati, Resurrection, 1545-48, pen and brown ink, brown wash, white heightening, overall (oval) 280 x 191 mm, Washington, National Gallery 2006.11.21 (recto). Rome & Paris, 1998, no.101. 53 Stowell, 2012, pp. 33-35. 54 Lecchini Giovannoni, 1991, p. 252. 47 contemporary altarpieces by Allori, Bizelli, Butteri, and Naldini for the Acciaiuoli family chapel dedicated to the Virgin at Villa Pietrafitta.55

Cinquecento attitudes toward exceptional cases of reproduction, such as Andrea del Sarto’s copy after Raphael’s Portrait of Leo X, likewise celebrate the faithful replica as a suitable vehicle for emulation.56 Naldini meticulously captured the details of Pontormo’s Way to Calvary fresco in tempera on canvas (fig. 9.21). This absorbed dialogue with his master aimed to equal, if not surpass, Pontormo at a reduced scale.57 The archaeological restoration of fragmented antique sculpture also provided opportunities for aemulatio. When sculpting his full-scale replica of the Laocoön group (1520-25), Bandinelli’s relationship with the ancient model would have involved a ‘sacramental’ dimension of celebration and esteem, which was entirely compatible with his more ‘heuristic’ modern commentary on its restoration. Bandinelli accepted the challenge to carve a single block of marble (ex uno lapide) following an ideal that Pliny credited to the ancient model.58 Ultimately, Pope Clement VII chose to keep Bandinelli’s replica rather than send it as a diplomatic gift to the King of France; a decision which clearly reveals the success of Bandinelli’s imitation.59 The sculptor was convinced he had equalled, perfected and rivalled his ancient source.60

Parody was another expression of dialectical imitation, and for some cinquecento painters it stimulated the imitation of Michelangelo. In a recent study Morten Steen Hansen examines how three mannerists independently approached the work of the master. In his Fall of the Giants (Palazzo Doria, Genova) Perino del Vaga staged a ‘battle of styles’. According to Hansen, Perino celebrated Raphael’s postural and physiognomic ideal in his Olympian pantheon, and parodied Michelangelo’s heroic male nude by exaggerating the twisted limbs of his fallen giants.61 The heavenly

55 Cifani & Monetti, 1997, p. 117. 56 See my third chapter. 57 Reproduced in Bietti, 1996, p. 69, plate XVI. 58 Lavin, 1998, p. 195-98, explains that Bandinelli actually created his replica in three pieces of marble, while the Hellenistic original was a composite of seven different pieces. See also Gabriella Capecchi in Florence, 2014b, pp. 129-55. 59 For an excellent discussion of the competing tensions surrounding this commission see Goffen, 2002, pp. 351-53. 60 Gabriella Capecchi in Florence, 2014b, pp. 140-41. 61 See also Sohm, 2001, pp. 91-92, for thoughts on Perino’s repetition of poses. 48 bodies elevated the anatomical approach of his former teacher above Michelangelo.62 In his visual narration of the life of Alexander the Great (1545) for the Sala Paolina (Castel Sant’Angelo), Perino subverted the masculinity of the robust herculean nude by ‘feminizing’ the pose of Hephaestion and incorporating erotic elements.63 In a striking adaptation, Pellegrino Tibaldi parodied Michelangelo’s Sistine Adam by transforming the creation of the ideal male body into the Blinding of Polyphemus.64

Imitation therefore functioned as a desirable vehicle for interpretation, homage, parody, adaptation, and sophisticated variation. Unlike the old model of ‘influence’, imitation offers a good explanation of the dynamics of artistic interaction because it considers the agency of the ‘copyist.’ Stephen Campbell summarises the impact of social history on the study of the interaction between art objects and individuals. Terms like ‘network’, ‘actor network’, ‘friendship’, ‘rivalry’, ‘enmity’, and ‘love’ expand and ‘even supplant’ the limited interpretative framework of ‘influence’.65

Sixteenth-century artists were motivated to imitate established artistic exemplars in order to demonstrate their expertise, to equal, emulate and surpass their model, continuing a tradition of aemulatio ‘emulation’ or ‘rivalry’ inherited from the ancient Greek agones or agon (ἀγών) meaning ‘contest’.66 They imitated esteemed works of art because they wanted to translate convincing movement to their own figures, or enhance the suggestion of life or eroticism; to reconfigure or reinterpret famous poses, to provide visual commentary on how a fragmented antique model should be restored, to select and merge the best parts of other works and natural forms (Zeuxinian imitation), to improve upon the imperfections of nature, to proudly present their own ideal proportions of the human body or their mastery of anatomy and foreshortening.67 These motivations were not the result of servile pedantry or unproductive imaginations.

62 Hansen, 2013, pp. 34-38, 40. 63 Hansen, 2013, pp. 52-53. 64 Hansen, 2013, p. 118. 65 Campbell, 2014, p. 196. 66 Goffen, 2002, p. 60. 67 For the sixteenth-century reception of antiquity and the restoration of ancient sculpture see Barkan, 1999. For a compelling demonstration of how artists imitated and modified ancient art see Mendelsohn, 2000 & 2001. 49 Battista Naldini was no Michelangelo Buonarroti or Agnolo Bronzino, and it is impossible for his modest oeuvre to reflect all of these motivations. It would be a fallacy to elevate him as the best representative for Mannerism’s innovations. However, as a collective group, mid to late sixteenth-century artists working in Central Italy engaged in these practices, and an understanding of their interpretative skills ought to drive new research on imitation.

The Critical Fortune of Battista Naldini

In the seventeenth-century Filippo Baldinucci encapsulated Naldini’s graphic technique in a way that still resonates with viewers of his drawings today. He wrote that Naldini drew ‘confidently’ (bravamente) in the manner of Pontormo, but observed that he tended to duplicate lines with blunted chalk, applying them heavily and hardening contours.68 Though offering only a fleeting comment, Baldinucci touched on a definitive feature of Naldini’s ‘linear strategy’, habituated and internalised during his apprenticeship.69

Baldinucci’s biography on the painter also provides a wealth of important material. He explains that Naldini enjoyed a rather rich diet, which ultimately led to him being bedridden with gout for six months, and an early death at 55 from kidney stones (renella). Naldini was outlived by his father Matteo, and his stepmother Caterina della Nave, with whom he did not get along. Baldinucci also tells us that Naldini enjoyed the comedies of the Florentine poet and playwright Giovan Maria Cecchi and had them performed in his home with a small gathering of friends. The painter rarely left home except for religious feasts and his private devotion (le feste a sua devozione). Naldini enjoyed only the best wine and would roll his eyes and make strange gestures after tasting it, and then suddenly become embarrassed when people observed him.70 Baldinucci probably invented the anecdote of Battista shaving his long beard and

68 ‘Batista Naldini […] Disegnò bravamente, ed alquanto in sul gusto del suo gran maestro Iacopo da Pontormo, ma con un tocco più replicato, con matita spuntata, ed in sull’appiccature fortemente aggravata.’ Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 518. 69 ‘Linear strategy’ is adopted from Petherbridge, 2010, and discussed in chapter 3. 70 ‘[…] in ciò che appartiene al bere, ebbe tanto senso, che non solo volle sempre il miglior vino, ma nel gustarlo stralunava gli occhi, e faceva gesti sì nuovi, e sì strani, che egli medesimo, quasi che di se stesso si vergognasse, aveva a male d’esser in tale azione osservato.’ Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 519. 50 disguising himself as a Dominican friar in order to gain entry to the studio of his rival, Francesco Morandini.71 However, other details, like Naldini’s address: a ‘house that was from the Crocetta on the corner of della Viaccia’ are probably accurate, and suggest he was gathering information from Naldini’s former pupils.72 Significantly, Baldinucci chose to incorporate his criticism of the widespread imitation of sculpture into Naldini’s biography.73 As I discuss in chapters six and seven, this was an important feature of the painter’s practice.

During the late eighteenth century, Marco Lastri and Luigi Lanzi followed Baldinucci in praising a new generation of Florentine artists for ushering in an artistic change.74 They identified Jacopo da Empoli (1551-1640), Lodovico Cigoli (1559-1613), Domenico Passignano (1559-1638), and Gregorio Pagani (1558-1605) as reformers who developed a new style of painting and restored Florentine disegno to greatness. Lastri praised Cigoli for the formation of a school that ensured the longevity of a ‘good century of Tuscan painting.’75 Passignano was extolled for his fusion of accurate, well-defined contours with a delicate softness of colour; and for surpassing the cold, hard maniera epitomised by Bronzino and his contemporaries.76 Although Naldini was one of these contemporaries, Lastri had very positive things to say about him because before 1574 Passignano had briefly trained in his workshop.77 Lastri reasoned: ‘In the midst of much sense everyone will be easily persuaded that Naldini must have been one of the most able painters of our school, and this he was […].’78 Lastri perhaps drew inspiration from Raffaello Borghini’s extremely generous claim that Naldini’s paintings ‘universally please everyone’, written more than two centuries before.79

71 Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 516. 72 Baldinucci was correct that Naldini was buried in San Michele Visdomini. This was confirmed by a document published by Barzman, 2000, p. 342n54. Baldinucci recorded the location of Naldini’s ‘casa (che era dalla Crocetta in sul canto dalla Viaccia)’. Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 519. In 1876 Gaetano Milanesi published a receipt of Naldini’s rental payment to the Monache della Crocetta, revealing that at the age of 41 Naldini was renting a property owned by the convent in the popolo di San Michele Visdomini for 23 scudi per year. Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Conduttori del 1576, filza 3762, n.793. Reproduced in Milanesi, 1876, vol. 3, tavola to p. 218. 73 Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 516. 74 Chappell, 2005, p. 339. Lastri, 1791-1795, vol. 2, chapter LXXXIX. 75 Chappell, 2005, p. 339. 76 Lastri, 1791-1795, vol. 2, chapter LXVI. 77 Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 431. 78 ‘In mezzo a tanto senno si persuaderà ognuno facilmente, che il Naldini dovette essere uno de’ più abili Maestri della nostra Scuola; ed infatto lo fu […]’ Lastri, 1791-95, vol. 2, chapter LXVI. 79 Cited above, n19. 51

Today, it has become customary to describe the reformers of Cigoli and Passignano’s generation as ‘anti-mannerists’ who reacted against the maniera of the Studiolo masters (Vasari, Stradano, Allori, Zucchi, Naldini, Poppi), adapted to the requirements of the Counter Reformation, and developed a far more naturalistic style, thereby instigating the Baroque in Florence.80 Naldini’s position at this critical juncture still needs to be explored. As a master who contributed to the Studiolo he is not a member of this subsequent generation of reformers. However, while Naldini is characterised as a late mannerist, he was involved in the revival of early Florentine masters, such as Andrea del Sarto, Jacopo da Pontormo, and Rosso Fiorentino.81 He often displayed a Sartesque spontaneity and naturalism in his draughtsmanship, and was lauded by Francesco Bocchi (1591) for his use of Sartesque sfumato, his compelling depiction of character (costume), and his achievement of naturalistic projection (rilievo). As I discuss in my last chapter, Bocchi praised Naldini for his observance of decorum in correctly representing sacred narratives in accordance with their gospel accounts.

Around 1795 Luigi Lanzi recorded Naldini’s ‘bold touch’ (tocco ardito) and his tendency to paint half-opened eyes inflected with a bold blemish.82 Lanzi considered the latter a defect that allowed viewers to distinguish Naldini’s paintings, but his impression of these ardent brushstrokes equally applies to his drawings.

The modern study of Florentine drawings owes a great debt to the connoisseurship of Bernard Berenson. His Drawings of the Florentine Painters continues to hold a prominent place in the critical study of the graphic arts.83 In 1903 he attributed a total of 49 drawings to Naldini;84 describing them as ‘so full of spirit, so pictorial, so lively in execution that an hour spent looking over his albums at the Uffizi must count

80 Chappell, 2005, p. 339. 81 Feinberg, 1991, pp. 129. 82 ‘[…] gli occhi poco aperti, e con certa macchia che aggiugne fierezza e che il fa discernere fra molti.’ Lanzi, 1795-1796, vol. 1, p. 191-92. Roscoe partly mistranslated this passage: ‘the eyes too open, and marked with a certain fierceness, by which he may be generally recognised.’ Lanzi-Roscoe, 1828, vol. 1, p. 260; repeated in revised 1847 edition, vol. 1, p. 196. 83 First published in 1903, revised and expanded edition in 1938, and an Italian edition in 1961. For a review of the legacy of Berenson’s work see Bambach, 2009b, p. 692. 84 Berenson (1903 & 1938) catalogued 32 drawings by Naldini, the remaining 17 are mentioned in his accompanying notes. Berenson, 1969, vol. 2, pp. 245-48. 52 among the pleasures of the student of Cinquecento Florentine draughtsmanship.’85 However, his praise was not conferred without reservations. Berenson valued draughtsmen who were able to record their direct experience of nature. Unfortunately, his interpretation of mannerist drawing was conditioned by a Renaissance master- imitator binary. Under Berenson’s eyes, the highly imaginative Jacopo da Pontormo became ‘the first link in a chain of successive copyists’ whose vision of nature was ‘replaced’ by the ‘transcripts’ of Andrea del Sarto and Michelangelo.86 In turn, the graphic production of Pontormo’s pupil, Naldini, was ‘an instance of successive copying at the second remove.’87 Therefore, Berenson perceived Naldini as a window to the ‘original’ Andrea del Sarto.88 He believed that Andrea influenced most of Naldini’s drawings, labelling 25 in the catalogue as ‘based on’, ‘inspired by’, or ‘copy after’ his more famous Florentine precursor.89

Frederick Mortimer Clapp considered Naldini a ‘brilliant young draughtsman’ who displayed ‘extraordinary ease and bravura’ in imitating Pontormo.90 Janet Cox- Rearick also recognised Naldini’s ‘clever ability to ape’ Pontormo’s drawing style.91 Copying was an essential feature of artistic formation in the sixteenth-century workshop. However, for some connoisseurs the intentions behind Naldini’s copies shifted from workshop exercises to more deceitful motives. In his Andrea del Sarto catalogue raisonné (1963), Sydney Freedberg discussed Naldini’s close copies after several Andrea del Sarto drawings, and posited: ‘It may be speculated whether drawings such as these may have been intended to pass as original works by Sarto.’92 Here Freedberg limited his reading of imitation to deception, potentially allowing for early modern forgery, rather than amplifying the intentions of the copyist to include emulation, rivalry, independent learning exercise, desire to assimilate a new ‘linear strategy’, absorbed transcription, or an academic rite of passage like copying Dürer’s

85 Berenson, 1969, vol. 1, p. 321. 86 Berenson, 1969, vol. 1, pp. 304, 308-9, nevertheless distinguished Pontormo from the ‘ordinary mannerist.’ He praises him for sometimes achieving linear ‘buoyancy, a sparkle’ and ‘a daintiness of touch’, ‘vigorous’ and ‘free’ movement, and the semblance of life, although within constant negations of a ‘genuine’ understanding of nature, life, and ‘plastic values’. 87 Berenson, 1969, vol. 1, p. 321. 88 Berenson, 1969, vol. 1, p. 321. 89 Berenson, 1969, vol. 2, pp. 245-48. 90 Clapp, 1916, p. 97. 91 Cox-Rearick, 1981, p. 13. 92 Freedberg, 1963, p. 105, no.49n2. 53 prints. Paul Duro defines the copy in the Grove Dictionary of Art (1996) as a ‘non- fraudulent manual repetition of another work of art,’ and adds: the contemporary notion of authenticity has tended to obscure the fact that the exercise of copying has been a central feature of art practice since antiquity. Unlike the forger, the copyist produces a work that, while taking another work as its point of departure, is not intended to deceive the spectator.93

Freedberg returned to discuss Naldini in his magisterial formalist survey Painting in Italy 1500-1600, published in 1971. He gave Naldini’s drawings a passing mention in an endnote: ‘As a draughtsman Naldini is one of the most remarkable phenomena the sixteenth century offers, not necessarily in terms of quality.’94 This ambivalent sentence confers extraordinary praise only to deny the vital connoisseurial criterion of quality that seems necessary to justify such strong approval. However, Freedberg credited Naldini as ‘the inventor of a mode of drawing corresponding to that of his painting, but which he could turn in drawing to freer and more brilliant effect.’95 This praise must be weighed against Freedberg’s reservations of quality. He granted Naldini an ‘individuality of feeling’ that was alien to Vasari, and recognised suggestions of naturalism in his early paintings; but he perceived any innovations as formal modifications of an inherited Vasarian maniera, which Naldini then reduced to ‘congealed formula’.96 This implies that Naldini was repetitive and limited in his creative range. So much for ‘one of the most remarkable phenomena.’

Individualism plays a vital role in assessments of style, but it has been difficult to positively accommodate imitative practice within an inherited tradition of artistic genius and originality. Robert G. La France summarises his literature review on the ‘Critical Misfortune’ of the Medici court artist Bachiacca in the following way: These responses reveal the dark side of the cult of artistic genius. Art Historians often devalue artists who imitate for their perceived lack of originality and artistic innovation, regardless of that artist’s popularity and contemporary success.97

Battista Naldini was a prolific and versatile draughtsman. His oeuvre offers a rich variety of ‘linear strategies’, ranging from rapid sketches in red chalk, to concentrated

93 Duro, 1996, pp. 830-31. 94 Freedberg, 1975, p. 710n6. 95 Freedberg, 1975, p. 710n6. 96 Freedberg, 1975, pp. 610-13. 97 La France, 2008, p. 29. 54 studies in several different graphic modes. Only a portion of his artistic production was imitative of other artists. Nevertheless, his oeuvre is exceptional in providing abundant examples of direct imitation, when for most artists secure documents of an early response or first acquaintance with other works of art have not survived.98

Naldini is known to have studied the sculpture of Michelangelo, Baccio Bandinelli, and Giambologna, the painted façades of Polidoro da Caravaggio and Maturino, tapestries and frescoes by Raphael and his workshop. Prints designed by Parmigianino, Perino del Vaga, Rosso Fiorentino, and Albrecht Dürer; drawings by Giorgio Vasari, urban views, and architectural drawings by Giovann’Antonio Dosio. In Florence, Naldini studied the frescoes of Andrea del Sarto in the Chiostrino dello Scalzo, and Francesco Salviati in the Sala dell’Udienza. He quickly recorded compositions by fellow artists like Girolamo Macchietti, Mirabello Cavalori, Stefano Pieri, Giovanni Maria Butteri, and Giovanni Stradano. He certainly knew Agnolo Bronzino’s frescoes for the chapel of Eleonora di Toledo, and used the likeness of Pierfrancesco Riccio for his posthumous portrait of the maggiordomo in 1572.99 This list, while in no way exhaustive, attests to Naldini’s wide-ranging interest in different invenzioni, and also diverse maniere.

Paul Joannides recognised that Naldini was ‘something of a virtuoso, able to draw in a number of different styles.’100 Janet Cox-Rearick characterised Naldini as a ‘chameleonlike artistic personality.’101 And Elizabeth Pilliod argued that this ‘multifaceted’ nature caused the artist to ‘completely’ disappear.102 Such comments reflect a central problem in drawing studies regarding unity in style, and preconceptions in identifying a ‘hand’ that is the most stylistically consistent, displaying character traits that recur across an oeuvre. But they also convey some of the connoisseurial anxieties around artistic identity, debates about skill (ars) and innate talent (ingenium), and whether an artist can or cannot imitate another

98 Härb, 2015, pp. 8, 148-62, accepts the survival of only 26 copies after other artists by Vasari, when according to the artist’s own testimony there was no major work in Rome that he and Francesco Salviati did not draw. See also Cropper, 2001, pp. 694-95. 99 Portrait of Pierfrancesco Riccio, 1571-1572, tempera on oil, Prato, Museo Civico, Palazzo Pretorio, inv. 1744. Commissioned by the Ospedale della Misericordia di Prato to commemorate the generous endowment of the deceased. Veronica Vestri in Florence, 2011, p. 116, no.II.2. 100 Joannides, 1996, p. 144. 101 Cox-Rearick, 1981, p. 13. 102 Pilliod, 1994, p. 391. 55 convincingly without betraying himself. After all, the artistic chameleon walks a fine line between imitation and deception. And his practice encourages a discussion of authenticity, originality, the counterfeit, and the fake.

Naldini’s stylistic divergence during imitation has at times resulted in the attribution of two different authors for the recto and verso of a single sheet. Rick Scorza discussed a sheet now in a private collection. The verso displays a study of a resurrected soul from Michelangelo’s Last Judgement. Scorza argues that in copying Michelangelo, Naldini appears to have ‘suppressed his own maniera’, and were it not for the different drawing on the recto, Naldini would not have been the first author proposed.103 This refers to the problem of identifying different graphic modes in Naldini’s oeuvre. The style of the verso drawing is an extremely rare example. An unpublished drawing in Milan presents a similar problem.104 Naldini was accepted as the author of the recto study of a horse’s head, while the verso drawing remains attributed to an anonymous copyist after Perino del Vaga. This is not only due to different drawing media, but also because of a recognisable stylistic divergence between the drawings, an incongruity that affects a single author thesis.

The idea that a line is a signature, and that the creator of this line can be easily identified has an ancient pedigree in the Elder Pliny’s story of Apelles and Protogenes. Many early connoisseurs maintained a simple distinction between the unrestrained vibrating pulse of the creative individual and the hesitant or laboured lines of the copyist. This simple linear distinction was sometimes a very useful binary to separate masters from pupils, to ‘cleanse’ an oeuvre, and remove the bad fruits from the good. However, it was accompanied by assumptions that left a problematic legacy for examining imitation in drawing. As a prelude to this discussion, the next chapter addresses the subjective dimension of reading lines and my own approach to drawings.

103 Scorza, 2003b, p. 194. 104 Naldini, (r) Study of Hellenistic bronze horse head, red chalk, and white heightening (v) Studies of Jacopo Caraglio’s Jupiter and Antiope, engraved after design by Perino del Vaga, pen and brown ink, traces of red chalk on prepared yellow paper, 325 x 231mm, Milan, Castello Sforzesco, Civico Gabinetto di Disegni inv. 117. 56 Chapter 2

Reading Lines

In the first chapter of his L’art et L’ame (1960), René Huyghe celebrated historical drawings with vivid prose. He charted the dancing life of lines across the centuries and in different hands: Michelangelo’s line swells and rolls like muscles rippling; implacably the pressure of the hand conveys the assurance of a titan. Rubens’ line, more fleshly than sinewy, animated by carnal stirrings and throbbing pulses, moves more swiftly and directly than Michelangelo’s. Dürer’s line, burdened with the complexities and jagged edges of the Germanic soul, is all coils and twists; its profusion and teeming details make his drawings harsh, concentrated, and incisive to a painful degree. Tiepolo’s line is more darting, shifting direction frequently and soaring again like the swift flight of a songbird; his line is in accord with his sensibility, which is energetic and so excessively refined as almost to be fatigued. But Rembrandt was the most prodigious of all these recorders of the invisible. Rembrandt dazzles: his every line leaps and strikes at the heart with electric energy, light suddenly piercing darkness.1

This is desirable art historical writing. Huyghe’s description is inspired, entertaining, and impressive in offering a fleeting glimpse of each historical individual. Every lover of drawing offers a new perspective on graphic technique. Artists, collectors, connoisseurs, critics, curators and art historians have all attempted to describe lines. The adjectives that we use attempt to capture a draughtsman’s particular gestural habits. Felton Gibbons perceived ‘nervous vivacity’ in Naldini’s lines ‘often of dazzling freshness’, and recognised their ‘angular’ nature.2 The lines of Janet Cox- Rearick’s Pontormo ‘vibrate’, while Naldini creates ‘scrubby contours’.3 Larry Feinberg’s Naldini produces ‘splintery’ and ‘lashing strokes’.4 In his review of The Drawings of Bronzino (2010) exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of art (New York), Holland Cotter wrote: Parmigianino gave his line a swoony, ribbony lift; Jacopo Pontormo infused it with the encephalographic jitters. Bronzino does something in between, less extreme. His line, or sense of movement, is vivacious but purposeful, hot but not wild. It was the energy source for his art.5

1 Huyghe, 1962, p. 35. 2 Gibbons, 1977, vol. 1, pp. 142-43. 3 Cox-Rearick, 1981, vol. 1, pp. 238, 360. 4 Feinberg, 1991, p. 134. 5 Cotter, 2010, p. 25. 57 Though vivid and entertaining, these quick, spirited sentences drastically limit the full picture of a draughtsman. Much like a prose poem their linguistic aim must subject historical material to fresh concision. The fleeting vignette that results inevitably fails to communicate how a draughtsman’s handling of chalk might differ from his use of pen and ink. Though it leaves a positive impression of the ‘man behind the mark’, it cannot alone describe his character.6 Huyghe’s language was rhythmically charged, but his perception was sometimes Hegelian and reductive. For example, Dürer’s line was ‘burdened with the complexities and jagged edges of the Germanic soul’. Not his own soul, but rather a generalised zeitgeist. Huyghe believed this manifested in drawing as a ‘cruel graphism’, characterised by aggressive linear inflections inspired by raven’s wings, pikes, and thorns and expressive of Dürer’s violent Northern culture. Interpretations of lines, much like attributions, can be extremely subjective. Holland Cotter entitled his review ‘A line both spirited and firm’. However, not everyone shared his energetic, ‘hot but not wild’ interpretation of Bronzino’s graphic style.

In 2010 a major exhibition was dedicated to the drawings of Bronzino.7 It definitively refuted Bernard Berenson’s criticism of Bronzino’s ‘dulness as a draughtsman’ ‘singularly devoid of interest’, drawing ‘attractive’ facial types ‘with a neatness that we expect of Bronzino, but also with a feebleness of touch that renders them totally uninteresting.’8 During his own lifetime, Bronzino became the Florentine exemplar of an extremely elegant, sculptural, and ornamental form of painting that was largely influenced by Michelangelo’s figural style of the 1520s and 1530s.9 In drawing Bronzino espoused the graphic equivalent to his greatly admired polish in painting. He valued pulitezza (cleanliness in drawing technique) as revealed in the dialogue on drawing written by his pupil Alessandro Allori between 1565 and 1570.10 Bronzino featured as Allori’s primary interlocutor, and advised dilettante draughtsmen not to forget the subtlety (sottigliezza) of contours and the cleanness (pulitezza) of the

6 I have adopted the phrase from the title of Rosand’s published 1988 lecture, which effectively encapsulates the quest to extract the significance of particular graphic acts. 7 New York, 2010. 8 Berenson, 1969, vol. 1, p. 321. For the consequences of Berenson’s criticism see Marzia Faietti in New York, 2010, pp. 11-19. 9 Janet Cox-Rearick in New York, 2010, p. 25. 10 Bambach, 2010a, p. 35. Alessandro Allori’s Ragionamenti delle regole del disegno was initially composed for his admission to the Accademia Fiorentina. Allori-Barocchi, 1973. Reilly, 1999. 58 paper.11 He recommends covering parts of the drawing with a blank piece of paper to avoid smudging ink or areas densely shaded in chalk, and warns against the direct contact of the hand that might rub (stropicciare) or some way interrupt the clean application of chalk.12 This is all reasonable advice, but seems to restrain the easy movement of the hand, which is especially important when sketching.

In his review of the New York exhibition, David Franklin described the ‘smooth and accomplished finish’ of Bronzino’s drawings as ‘fastidious’, ‘clinical’, and ‘facsimile- like’.13 He then argued: ‘virtually all sketches of this period had a practical purpose and were not a means of self-expression.’14 Though inevitably communicating his personal taste, Franklin’s opinions were also the result of a pressing connoisseurial concern. He recognised that ‘Bronzino’s painstaking, almost arid style […] makes distinguishing originals from copies especially hazardous.’15

In a supplement to the catalogue of the 2010 exhibition, Carmen Bambach and George Goldner responded to Franklin’s reattributions and defended Bronzino’s style and theory of disegno:16 The Bronzino-esque notion of pulitezza has been underestimated by art historians, but deserves to be understood with some subtlety. The pristine clarity of contour and modelling in the rendering of form advocated by our artist does not at all negate the signs of suggestive, creative thinking that are typical of his design process, and which one must expect to find in his autograph works.17

Franklin voiced an important connoisseurial problem of distinguishing hands that similarly display ‘fastidious delicacy’ and ‘accomplished finish’. However, he associated Bronzino’s innovative work with our pejorative understanding of the copy by calling it somewhat ‘clinical’ and ‘facsimile-like’. The fact that Bambach and Goldner felt the need to defend Bronzino’s ‘creative thinking’ speaks volumes about the value historically afforded to some linear modes above others. Their statement acknowledges that finished drawings are commonly believed to ‘negate signs of

11 For Bronzino’s view on pulitezza in drawing see Allori-Barocchi, 1973, p. 1966. Bambach & Goldner, 2010a, p. 42. 12 Allori-Barocchi, 1973, p. 1966. 13 Franklin, 2010, p. 351. 14 Franklin, 2010, p. 351. See also Cox-Rearick’s comments on the small survival rate of primi pensieri by Bronzino. New York, 2010, p. 114. 15 Franklin, 2010, p. 351. 16 Bambach & Goldner, 2010b, p. 84. Bambach & Goldner, 2010a, p. 42. 17 Bambach & Goldner, 2010b, p. 84. 59 suggestive, creative thinking’ because they often lack pentimenti, the most eagerly sought indicators of agency, correction, and the thinking mind. It is not my intention to address specific instances in Bronzino’s graphic oeuvre that may or may not exhibit pentimenti, but rather to extract some of the general discourse behind the lack of appreciation for finished drawing. In contrast, there would be no doubt of creative thinking in Michelangelo’s most polished drawings.

David Rosand stressed that the drawings Michelangelo sent as gifts to Tommaso de’ Cavalieri demonstrated a ‘concentration of creative energy’.18 He strongly opposed previous claims that Michelangelo achieved smooth flesh tones by stippling, a graphic act that metaphorically bruises a body with repeated inflictions of a pointed chalk.19 Instead, Rosand presented a highly penetrating phenomenological analysis that was sensitive to the historical context of the drawings. He argued that Michelangelo rendered the body of Tityus in an action of ‘passing and repassing the chalk’, merging in and out of a creative and tentatively passionate act of both forming and caressing the flesh.20 He adopted the observation from Pierre-Jean Mariette, the great eighteenth-century connoisseur, who merged Michelangelo’s graphic process with touch by saying: ‘he caresses what he makes.’21 In Rosand’s interpretation, line is embodied with the love of its maker. He effectively liberates finished drawing from entrenched stylistic frameworks that interpret labour and refinement as suppressing the personal style, and by extension the individual self. The presentation drawings emerge as an example of the duration of Michelangelo’s intimate contact with the body. However, it remains difficult for even a fraction of this interpretation to be applied to the three copies after the Punishment of Tityus, which due to their attentive simulation of Michelangelo’s line, are believed to lose their authorial voice.22 Rosand was able to discern the ‘meaning of the mark’ for Leonardo, Raphael, Titian, and

18 Rosand, 2002, pp. 199-200. The first two drawings sent to Tomasso de’ Cavalieri for Christmas 1532 are believed to have been the Rape of Ganymede and the Punishment of Tityus. Rosand, 2002, p. 185-90, argued that the choice of subject matter would have conveyed the fifty-seven year old artist’s ‘confession of deep feeling’ towards the young nobleman, which is also well documented in their correspondence and Michelangelo’s poetry. 19 For Michelangelo’s ‘stipple hatching’ see Perrig, 1991, p. 65. 20 Michelangelo, The Punishment of Tityus, black chalk, 190 x 330mm, Windsor Castle, Royal Library no. 12771r. Reproduced in Perrig, 1991, fig. 19. Rosand, 2002, p. 204. 21 ‘Il caresse ce qu’il fait’ Pierre-Jean Mariette, Abecedario…, Ph. de Chennevières and A. de Montaiglon (eds.), Paris, 1851-1860, vol. 1, p. 223; quoted in Rosand, 2002, p. 204. 22 GDSU 248 F (most recently attributed to Francesco Morandini, called Poppi), Petrioli Tofani, 2008, no.77, p. 165; and two drawings from Windsor Castle, Royal Library nos. 0471 & 0472r (attributed to Giulio Clovio) see Popham & Wilde, 1949, nos.458-59, pp. 265-66. 60 Rembrandt.23 His intricate phenomenological approach to drawings is equally valid when examining copyists attempting to wield new ‘linear strategies.’ I take on this challenge in chapter eight with Naldini’s act of faithful replication.

My Approach to Drawings

Many art historians conduct visual analysis in the present tense. This tradition of ekphrasis bridges the distance between the viewer/reader and the chronologically displaced object.24 However, as Robert Gaston reminds us we should remain ‘conscious of the manipulative rhetoric of ekphrasis.’25 This is especially true for historical drawings, where the present tense reanimates the creative act. When a drawing is re-experienced as immediate, its strokes curl, run, dash, and dart. The title of this dissertation is no exception, and my own analysis of drawings involves a particular form of ekphrasis. This is entirely compatible with Deanna Petherbridge’s ‘unashamedly pragmatic and experiential methodology’ and David Rosand’s approach to drawings.26 I fully accept Rosand’s invitation to re-experience historical drawings by returning to the phenomenology of the drawing act.27 Nevertheless, I still advise caution when interpreting four-hundred-year-old lines.

I harbour strong reservations about using particular concepts from early modern Italian art theory – such as schizzo, macchia, bozzo, componimento inculto, furia, fierezza, prestezza, facilità, sprezzatura, prontezza, vivacità, sciolto or the Seicento usage of primo pensiero or franchezza – to historically validate how sixteenth-century viewers perceived drawn lines. These terms sometimes cover a text in a spurious veneer of historical accuracy. Philip Sohm’s early study of painterly brushwork and Patricia Emison’s innovative interpretation of ingegno, arte, sprezzatura, grazia, and studio, tempered my own reading of Cinquecento art theory.28 I acknowledge that my disproportionate attention on Giovanni Battista Armenini, with his clear preference for polished finish, has partly conditioned this reading. Armenini features throughout

23 Rosand, 1988 & 2002. 24 For ekphrasis see Gahtan, 2013. 25 Gaston, 2013b, p. 83. 26 Petherbridge, 2010, p. 3. 27 Rosand, 2002, pp. 13-22. 28 Sohm, 1991. Emison, 2004. 61 this dissertation because he presents sixteenth-century workshop practices in explicit detail. Nevertheless, I have also consulted different opinions from Leon Battista Alberti, Leonardo da Vinci, Baldassare Castiglione, Giorgio Vasari, Paolo Pino, Lodovico Dolce, Francisco de Hollanda, Raffaello Borghini, and Francesco Bocchi. They led me to the conclusion that a preference for polish, finish (finito), and cleanliness (pulitezza) dominated taste in cinquecento Florence.

I was also very convinced by Paul van den Akker’s historiographical examination of an eighteenth-century perceptual shift away from figuration toward line, colour, shape and stylisation, which remained dominant into the twentieth century.29 This paralleled Thierry Lenain’s historiography of how particular theories of attribution developed during the early Seicento, and followed Giulio Mancini’s ideas on the difficulty of imitating resolute brushwork.30 Both arguments compelled me to separate later connoisseurial perceptions from sixteenth-century Florentine preferences. Hence, I have become extremely critical of a related tendency that identifies the usage of cinquecento terms like furia, vivacità, fierezza, and prontezza with lines, rather than the subjects or persons they represent. This also led me to abandon Rosand’s otherwise useful theoretical distinction between linear skill or virtuosity (the line of Apelles) and contours as mimetic representation (the line of Parrhasios).31 In his review of Rosand, Patrick Maynard interpreted this dichotomy as ‘a standard dualism of self and other “reference”.’32 This immediately conjured up the connoisseurial binary of unbridled expression against a kind of impersonal reproduction. Hence, when I view four-hundred-year-old Florentine lines now, I am mindful of enforcing linear abstraction and constantly qualify linear virtuosity as representation. I still accept that some Florentine collectors or intendenti d’arte must have had a taste for sketches, abbozzato forms, and the non-finito.

The rough sketch exemplifies Naldini’s approach to drawing. To identify his ‘hand’, connoisseurs have repeatedly sought out his rapid jolts of chalk. However, I decided to avoid any narrative that elevated his sketches in terms that would clearly resonate with a modern audience, such as self-expression, gestural drawing, or linear

29 Akker, 2010. 30 Lenain, 2011. 31 Rosand, 2002, pp. 6-9. 32 Maynard, 2005, p. 83. 62 abstraction. In contrast, sixteenth-century viewers valued Naldini’s representation, his concetti, human anatomy, proportion, pose, and volumetric projection (rilievo). My third and fourth chapters, therefore, attempt to deal with the legacy of connoisseurship and its historical implications for cinquecento Florence.

The Size of Naldini’s graphic oeuvre

The most extensive account on Naldini’s career remains Paola Barocchi’s 1965 article, with its ample citation of primary sources and rich Italian formalism.33 Barocchi published and illustrated 65 drawings by Naldini, and her references recorded a wealth of comparative material. Anna Forlani Tempesti subsequently ascribed an additional 54 drawings to Naldini’s graphic oeuvre.34 The 28 studies from Christ Church, Oxford were attributed to Naldini by A.E. Popham and Philip Pouncey and have long been recognised to date from the period he spent in Rome, between 1560 and 1563.35 The only book published to date on Naldini is Christel Thiem’s catalogue of 2002, where she reconstructed the draughtsman’s Roman sketchbook, including 60 entries, of which 34 are new additions.36 In 2009 Eliana Carrara attributed a further 98 drawings to Naldini’s first Roman period, from collections in Florence, Fermo, and Lisbon.37 The Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe degli Uffizi (Florence) preserves 296 drawings attributed to Naldini, the majority of which remain unpublished.38 117 further sheets from a number of other collections bring us to a total number of 664 drawings,39 counting recto and verso together (when known).

Art historians and connoisseurs constantly attribute, re-attribute and ‘discover’ new drawings. Not only does this reduce or amplify the size of an oeuvre, it also affects

33 Barocchi, 1965. 34 Forlani Tempesti, 1968, pp. 298-299n2. 35 Byam Shaw, 1976, nos.195-208, pp. 82-85. 36 Thiem, 2002. 60 catalogue entries, including figs. 5, 7, 8, 10,12, 14, and figs. 1 & 3 on pp. 174-75. 37 77 sheets from the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze, a further 18 sheets from the Biblioteca Comunale di Fermo and 3 drawings from the Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga in Lisbon. ‘Sia dal trattamento delle linee e dall’abbondante acquarellatura, così come dalla scrittura possiamo risalire con certezza al Naldini.’ Carrara, 2009, pp.155, 157, especially n28. 38 Several were published by Barocchi, 1965. Forlani Tempesti, 1968. Petrioli Tofani, GDSU Inventario, 1986, 1991, 2005. 39 From many collections including: Bayonne (Pyrénées-Atlantiques), Berlin, Budapest, Cambridge (Massachusetts), Chapel Hill, Chicago, Copenhagen, Dresden, Dublin, Edinburgh, Frederikssund (Denmark), Lille, London, Los Angeles, Milan, Munich, New Haven, New York, Ottawa, Paris, Princeton, Rome, Siena, Stuttgart, Turin, Vienna, Worms (Rhineland-Palatinate), and Würzburg. 63 our grasp of the technical range of certain draughtsmen. Every modern re-viewer, whether modifying an existing graphic corpus or building one anew, subjects historical drawings to a personal taxonomy. Both expansionist and revisionist approaches can condition readings of the historical record.40 Each estimate should therefore be understood as a modern assemblage subject to revision. The survival rate of historical drawings should also be carefully considered before interpreting smaller graphic oeuvres as evidence of a lack of productivity. The oeuvres of other cinquecento draughtsmen offer an interesting comparison: Correggio around 100 sheets;41 Andrea del Sarto around 180 drawings;42 Pontormo: 383 drawings;43 Vasari about 550 sheets;44 Baccio Bandinelli: 569 drawings;45 Battista Franco near to 574 drawings;46 Michelangelo around 600 sheets.47 Or exceptionally large survival rates like the 1000 sheets preserving Parmigianino’s oeuvre;48 or the 4100 sheets of Leonardo’s drawings and extensive manuscripts.49 Once positioned accordingly within this broad spectrum, the size of Naldini’s graphic oeuvre is reasonably large.

This thesis is not a catalogue raisonné, and does not present Naldini’s oeuvre in a traditional way. Nor is it a chapter-by-chapter chronology outlining the artist’s career. Instead, it offers a variety of critical discussions that each feature Naldini and his near contemporaries. Much of the thesis is motivated by the desire to reconstruct Naldini’s practice as an artist in moments of study, emulation, invention, and composition. Each chapter engages and carefully considers drawings from across his oeuvre.

40 Wolk-Simon, 2005. 41 DeGrazia, 1984, p. 64. London & New York, 2000, p. 17. 42 Julian Brooks argues that Andrea’s graphic oeuvre must have been much more substantial and hundreds of sheets have been lost. Los Angeles & New York, 2015, p. 5. 43 Cox-Rearick, 1981, vol. 1, p. 4. 44 Härb, 2005, p. 326. Revised to about 500 sheets in Härb, 2015, p. x, excluding collected drawings in Libro de’ disegni. Compare with Bambach, 2010b, p. 103. 45 Roger Ward in Florence, 2014b, p. 333, with interesting comments on the growth of graphic oeuvres. Compare with 432 drawings recorded in Ward, 1982, p. 36n1. 46 Lauder, 2009, p. 59. 47 Estimations of the size of Michelangelo’s graphic corpus vary greatly between scholars. I have followed the judgment of Hugo Chapman and Achim Gnann. Chapman, 2005, p. 23; Gnann, 2010, p. 15. Paul Joannides, 2003, p. 230, comes to a similar number of total sheets, and counting the recto and verso individually arrives at 870 drawings. Michael Hirst, 1988, pp. 16-17, had counted 785 individual drawings. See also Bambach, 2010b, pp. 100-103. 48 A.E. Popham published 823 autograph sheets in 1971. Parmigianino’s corpus was later enlarged after more of his drawings came to light, see Ekserdjian, 1999. 49 Bambach, 2009a & 2010a, p. 103. 64 Classification and the Catalogue Raisonné

The quintessential storage unit for prints and drawings is the Solander box, a close- fitted case designed by the eighteenth-century botanist Daniel Solander to store and preserve botanical ‘specimens’.50 It marks an important moment in the history of drawings under the modern science of taxonomy, where drawn ‘specimens’ were classified according to their ‘species’ or ‘school’. The taxonomic system devised by Pasquale Nerino Ferri (1851-1917), and still used in the GDSU, contains an ‘exhibited’ (Esposti) category, which preserves an important record of drawings selected for public consumption in late nineteenth-century Florence.51 However, at any given time classification is conditioned by different criteria, conventions, and entrenched stylistic frameworks, as Kenneth Bailey argues: ‘a classification is no better than the dimensions or variables on which it is based.’52 If modelled on a traditional hierarchy of value, classification inevitably raises implications with judgments on the suitability of certain ‘specimens’. The innocuous label ‘study for’ grants any drawing a specific place within an artist’s oeuvre. However, drawings that do not fit together with a known painting are sometimes placed in a miscellaneous group, for example Sydney Freedberg creates a category of ‘Authentic unassociated drawings’ in his catalogue raisonné of Andrea del Sarto.53 Scholars harbouring reservations about previous attributions can similarly gather together any questionable works into a newly demoted category of ‘unattributed works’. Copies have also been traditionally downgraded and marginalised.

Nevertheless, the successes of connoisseurship outweigh its failures and are the foundation of our current understanding of graphic oeuvres. I believe that connoisseurship, classification, and cataloguing drawings all remain crucial. However, most scholars would agree that some historical investigations are better

50 Caldararo, 1993. 51 Maria Elena De Luca in London & Florence, 2010, pp. 83-84. 52 See Bailey’s example where three individuals are asked to sort and group a mixed pile of knives, forks and spoons according to ‘similarity’. One chooses materials and separates between plastic, wood and silver, another divides them into two groups according to size, distinguishing tall from short. The third person forms the common utensil categories: knives, forks, and spoons. Bailey asks: ‘Which system of classification is the best? […] The lesson here should be obvious − a classification is no better than the dimensions or variables on which it is based.’ Bailey, 1994, p. 2. 53 Freedberg, 1963, p. 203. 65 served by concentrating on a selected group of drawings.54 The traditional catalogue raisonné must also inevitably select a smaller group of drawings for an introduction to a draughtsman’s graphic range, media, and technique. Hence, this thesis does not present a complete catalogue of Battista Naldini’s drawings. I intend to direct my attention towards a catalogue in the future. John Shearman correctly admitted that a catalogue remains ‘a fallible interpretation’ of our own time and is conditioned by the art historian’s interests.55 David Rosand also posed the important question: ‘Is there a discourse beyond the catalogue raisonné? If so, how is it to be continued?’56

Accompanying my critique of connoisseurship, classification, and the catalogue raisonné comes the ambition to rethink the graphic oeuvre of a mannerist artist in terms more favourable to a cinquecento context immersed in theories of imitation. When the oeuvre of a maniera painter contains many copies, whether studies after antique sculpture or compositional records of near contemporary works, this can be seen as evidence of the artist’s desire to assemble a comprehensive storehouse of ideas. By placing positive attention on the recurrence of motifs as evidence of imitatio theories in practice (figs. 7.18-20 & 7.85-91 & 9.51-66), a revised catalogue structure and ample commentary hopes to modify the predominately negative reception of imitation. The graphic oeuvre of the maniera painter ought to be reconceived as a compositional and figural repertory. A catalogue structure that better accommodates this reality of sixteenth-century artistic practice would present a more historically sensitive reading for mannerists like Battista Naldini.

54 For example, research on imitation, economic value, art theory, life drawing and eroticism, sexuality, the body, anatomical adaptation and elongation, reaction and response to antiquity, and visual restoration. 55 ‘An accepted canon for an artist’s drawings is in any case to be recognised as a fallible interpretation of recent date and not something directly linked to what actually happened…it must be appreciated, with appropriate scepticism, for what it is: something that we have made, of which the artist himself was unaware.’ Shearman, 1965, vol. 1, p. 149. 56 Rosand, 2002, p. 3. 66 Chapter 3

Deconstructing the Cherished Assumptions of Traditional Connoisseurship

Handmade objects have historically attracted the idea that their creator can be glimpsed within.1 The examination of drawings is no exception to this ostensibly self- evident belief. Drawings would never have been described in terms of ‘personality’ or artist’s ‘touch’ without the enduring legacy of two general assumptions: first, that an individual, whether living or deceased, is inherently bound to any object he or she makes; and second, that a drawing captures the trace of an artist’s hand and is therefore a record of human presence. These assumptions share a common foundation in the presumed natural relationship between a maker and made object. They form the essential core, and justification, of additional beliefs.

The main assumptions of traditional connoisseurship can be outlined as follows: (A) drawings are the most immediate and intimate records in all the visual arts, (B) drawings reveal ‘personality’. (C) Effortlessness, simplicity, and freedom in drawing are sure signs of ‘genius’ or the intellect; (D) labour and refined finish conceal

‘personality’; and (E) the ‘personality’ of the draughtsman cannot be imitated. This chapter does not attempt to definitively refute the truth of these claims, but rather to problematise them and subject them to enquiry. I explore how connoisseurs have voiced these assumptions in the past and what problems they have created for a contemporary investigation of imitation. I have limited my discussion to selected voices from the seventeenth to early twentieth century rather than offering a complete history of connoisseurship.2 An extensive discussion of cinquecento art theory follows, concentrating on attitudes toward natural talent, learnt skill, effortlessness, labour, speed, and diligence. This section provides a context for evaluating

1 For a discussion of the ‘secularized Eucharistic’ conflation of signifier and signified and ‘the metaphysics of quiddity’ see Preziosi, 1989, pp. 90-110. 2 For the history of connoisseurship: Gibson-Wood, 1988. Sohm, 1991, pp. 63-87. Akker, 2010. Lenain, 2011. 67 cinquecento precursors to the more exaggerated Romantic concepts of genius and originality.

In his late nineteenth-century biography of Michelangelo Buonarroti, John Addington Symonds voiced most of these assumptions: If we seek to penetrate the genius of an artist […] probing his personality to the core, as near as this is possible for us to do, we ought to give our undivided study to his drawings [B]. It is there, and there alone [A], that we come face to face with the real man, in his unguarded moments, in his hours of inspiration, in the laborious effort to solve a problem of composition, or in the happy flow of genial improvisation […] The simplicity of a sketch, the comparative rapidity with which it is produced, the concentration of meaning demanded by its rigid economy of means, render it more symbolical, more like the hieroglyph of its maker’s mind [C], than any finished work can be [D]. We may discover a greater mass of interesting objects in a painted picture or a carved statue; but we shall never find exactly the same thing, never the involuntary revelation of the artist’s soul, the irrefutable witness to his mental 3 and moral qualities, to the mysteries of his genius and to its limitations [A+B].

Of course the study of art history has changed dramatically since 1893. Nevertheless, up until the early 1990s the study of Old Master drawings remained dominated by connoisseurship, and as a result research was limited to determining their author, date, and function. Though nineteenth-century expressions like ‘soul’ and ‘genius’ no longer pervade our daily vocabulary, the notion of singular authorship and ‘artistic personality’ still command respect. The study of drawings has transformed rapidly in the last fifteen years, but connoisseurship remains a fundamental method.

According to Carmen Bambach, scientific techniques have ‘entirely revolutionized’ drawing connoisseurship.4 Bambach advocated an ‘archaeological’ and technical approach to the material traces of design transfer as early as 1999, in her pioneering research on early modern cartoons.5 Since then, her meticulous contributions to numerous drawing catalogues reveal an unwavering commitment to materiality, drawing technique, scientific imaging, and a detailed evaluation of fifteenth and sixteenth-century Italian art theory. I agree with Bambach that connoisseurship is not a method to be replaced, but rather improved with scientific imaging techniques.

3 Symonds, 1893, vol. 1, pp. 284-85. This passage encompasses almost every assumption studied here. It has also been quoted by David Rosand, 2002, pp. 182-83, but I disagree with his argument that it voices only one assumption. 4 Bambach, 2014, p. 229. 5 Bambach, 1999a, p. 25. 68 Scientific imaging technology has greatly enriched the connoisseurial foundations of drawing studies. Analytical imaging techniques, such as infrared reflectography, UV- induced luminescence, X-ray fluorescence spectroscopy, and (Micro-) Raman spectroscopy, have long been recognised as important tools for the examination of panel painting and underdrawing.6 Infrared imaging was used on drawings during the mid-twentieth century;7 however, it is only recently that larger drawing exhibitions have begun to incorporate the results of specialist studies.8 A considerable amount of research on drawings is now interdisciplinary, combining the skills of conservators and scientists with those of the art historian and connoisseur. There is a strong interest in materiality, drawing technique and the paper support.9

Despite these scientific developments, for some, the study of drawings is still very conservative and inherently esoteric. In 2010 Deanna Petherbridge argued that ‘connoisseurial scholarship easily slips back into a separatist, self-contained and self- referential time warp.’10 Many European graphic collections are open only to ‘specialists’ and not the general public, making access privileged. However, there are several notable exceptions, as this is gradually changing.11 The scholarship on drawings has also traditionally retained this conservatism. Exhibition catalogues and catalogues raisonnés constitute most of the literature on historical drawings, and their discussions are more often a long stream of disagreements on authorship and date, than of broader art historical questions.12 Although the situation has changed dramatically in recent literature on the graphic arts, even today, the opinions of revered experts continue to hold an important place. However, there are important exceptions.

6 London, 2002. Verougstraete & Van Schoute, 1999; 2001. Verougstraete & Couvert, 2006. Verougstraete & Janssens de Bisthoven, 2009. 7 For an overview of the early infrared examinations of Leonardo da Vinci’s drawings see Bambach, 2014. 8 London & Florence, 2010, accompanied by a separate publication, Ambers, Higgitt & Saunders, 2010, detailing the scientific examination of drawings. Seracini, 2006. 9 See the important contributions to Faietti, Melli & Nova, 2008. 10 Petherbridge, 2010, p. 11. 11 Petherbridge, 2010, p. 435n17, explains that the Department of Prints and Drawings of the British Museum is generously open to the general public. She mentions less welcoming experiences at other European graphic collections. For an early opinion on accessibility, and a cautious position on ‘over- handling’ drawings see Joannides, 1981, p. 679. See also Brothers, 2005, p. 126. 12 In 1979 David Rosand wrote that ‘catalogue entries […] too easily become ritualistic bearers of the tradition, affirming authority through a litany of pious repetition.’ Rosand, 1979, p. 50. See also Rubin, 1991, p. 33. Wolk-Simon, 2000. 69 The Euploos Project at the Uffizi is a good initiative to open up the study of drawings to new avenues of research, and hopefully a larger audience. The Project, under the direction of Marzia Faietti, is an incredibly meticulous online catalogue for the enormous graphic collection of the Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe degli Uffizi. In its mission statement the project is described as ‘interdisciplinary’ and encourages a younger generation of scholars to contribute research. The completed catalogue entries reveal remarkable expertise, and have in my opinion set a new standard of online collection catalogues that will be hard to equal.13 These talented early career researchers and graduates make a refreshing contribution to the voices of established authorities, and encourage broader inclusion. In a related example, several public exhibition spaces now feature in-house glass-walled conservation laboratories that allow museum visitors to see conservators at work.14

Although these changes are taking place, drawings are by nature fragile, safeguarded records. Marzia Faietti, director of the GDSU, described the vast collection under her care as a ‘museum living in shadow’ (museo viva all’ombra).15 This phrase captures the reality of fragile works on paper that demand special conservation. Drawings, out of necessity, are locked away to survive the blinding burn of sunlight. They spend most of their existence segregated from paintings and sculpture, in the protection of close-fitted Solander boxes.16 Atmospheric pollution, microorganisms, and insects are well known enemies of paper. However, even within a regulated environment unsuitable conditions can accelerate the process of decay. Without a controlled atmosphere paper is vulnerable to variations in light, temperature, and humidity.

13 The GDSU houses over 150,000 works on paper. As with the online catalogues of other institutions, collector’s marks, watermarks, and inscriptions are noted when available. Every citation of a drawing in the literature, from manuscript inventories to recent publications, is listed with the utmost care. The GDSU catalogue entries are often long and extremely meticulous. See the website for the Euploos Project: http://www.polomuseale.firenze.it/gdsu/euploos/#/progetto [accessed 4 June 2014]. 14 Drago, 2011. 15 Faietti, 2011. 16 Every graphic collection faces the same reality. Despite their vast holdings, institutions can only display a selection of drawings and prints periodically. London, British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings contains around 50,000 drawings and over 2 million prints. See https://www.britishmuseum.org/about_us/departments/prints_and_drawings.aspx [accessed 22 January 2016]; Paris, Musée du Louvre, Département des Arts graphiques, the Cabinet des Dessins comprises more than 150,000 drawings (verso included) see http://www.louvre.fr/en/departments/prints-and- drawings [accessed 25 July 2014]; Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, the Kupferstichkabinett contains 550,000 prints and around 110,000 drawings, watercolours, pastels, and oil sketches. See http://www.smb.museum/en/museums-and-institutions/kupferstichkabinett/home.html [accessed 13 June 2014]; and the Albertina in Vienna comprises 50,000 drawings and 900,000 prints. 70 Paper is hygroscopic, that is, it can absorb a considerable amount of water from a humid environment causing it to swell or buckle. At the opposite extreme, desiccation will cause paper to contract. It is therefore crucial to maintain the relative humidity in a storage room or exhibition space. Despite this, the most common cause behind paper’s deterioration is light; even exposure to artificial light. For this reason the duration of an exhibition of drawings must be curtailed.17 The recommended length of time for works on paper is three months with a rest period of three years.18 Marie Rose Greca explains that ‘any exposure to light’ contributes to the gradual disintegration of paper and therefore ‘a drawing will always be better preserved in the dark.’19

Therefore, it should come as no surprise that these fragile conditions led to the segregation of drawings, and fostered traditional assumptions nurtured by early collectors and connoisseurs. Deanna Petherbridge is surely correct in arguing that ‘drawing constitutes a discrete, if enjoined, discourse within visual art.’ Though it belongs to the same cultural context as painting and sculpture, drawing ‘has its own techniques, its own typologies, codes, systems and strategies, its own power relations, its own market and collectors, and a very specific history.’20

17 Marie Rose Greca in James et al., 1997, pp. 178-187. 18 This is the standard followed by the Département des Art graphiques, Musée du Louvre, see http://www.louvre.fr/en/departments/prints-and-drawings [accessed 19 August 2015]. Artificial lighting should be limited to 50 Lux (approximately 5 foot candles). The relative humidity should be kept between 45% and 60% and the temperature should be maintained at 20°C. The ‘Code of Practice’ issued by the International Advisory Committee of Keepers of Public Collections of Graphic Art acknowledges that opinions on what is the correct level and intensity of illumination vary between conservators. They establish the acceptable range of between 50 and 107.6 Lux (approximately 5 and 10 foot candles/lumens). Macandrew, 1974, reprinted in James et al., 1997, p. 177. 19 Greca in James et al., 1997, p. 181. 20 Petherbridge, 2010, p. 2. 71 [A] - Drawings are the most Immediate and Intimate of all the Visual Arts

In his introduction to Picasso: Fifty-five years of graphic work (1955), Bernhard Geiser explained that Picasso, still alive at the time, preferred to talk about present experiences: ‘all his thoughts and aspirations spring from immediate experience’. On the rare occasions that he did talk about his life, Picasso described ‘a forgotten episode or a unique experience.’21 With this preamble, Geiser argues that viewers can ‘learn most’ about Picasso from his art: A study of his etchings, lithographs, and woodcuts reveals him in the most personal and intimate aspect. I cannot have a print of his in my hand without feeling the artist’s presence, as if he himself were with me in the room, talking, laughing, revealing his joys and sufferings.22

Geiser restates several common assumptions about graphic art, and these beliefs have a longer history in the reception of drawings. Drawing records an artist’s experience at different points in his or her life. However, Geiser presents Picasso’s graphic arts as a good, if not better, substitute for talking with Picasso directly. Even if only encouraging viewers who will never have that privilege, he elevates the graphic arts for their ‘personal and intimate’ creation, and embellishes their power of recording human presence.

Drawings have long been celebrated as immediate and intimate. In 1969, Philip Rawson said: ‘Nowadays everyone accepts that an artist’s drawings are specially revealing, that they convey his thoughts in a particularly intimate way.’23 Keith Andrews wrote of Pontormo’s drawings ‘in them his true and most intimate personality stands revealed.’24 More recently Julian Brooks described drawings as ‘intimate and beguiling’;25 and Charles Ryskamp explained his taste for the ‘immediate, graphic qualities’ of drawings.26

The simple, economic nature of drawing is among the most suited to communicate the raw and urgent act of artistic creation. For this reason sketches, whether drawn or

21 Picasso, 1955, p. v. 22 Picasso, 1955, p. v. 23 Rawson, 1987, p. 283. 24 Andrews, 1966, p. 577. 25 Brooks, 2010, p. 4. 26 Ryskamp, 2010. 72 painted, often attract strong admiration. Creative spontaneity is a remarkable phenomenon to appreciate, but it has also encouraged absolute claims that elevate drawing above other visual arts.27 In 1937 Otto Kurz described drawings as ‘documents more intimately expressive than any others of the artist’s innermost personality.’28 In 1942 the connoisseur Max Friedländer ranked drawings higher than paintings, because he perceived their fresh execution to be closest to the ‘personality’ of the artist.29 Friedländer described drawing ‘as an immediate, personal, intimate utterance of individuality.’30 Edmund Capon also elevated the graphic arts: ‘Drawings are arguably the most revealing and spontaneous renderings of the human imagination’ and ‘the most direct of sensory experiences in the visual arts.’31 These statements are connected to a long tradition privileging the most economic and fast- paced of all drawing modes over finished work. This ‘cult of the sketch’ dominated drawing connoisseurship from the seventeenth to the nineteenth century.32

Drawing has regularly been celebrated as the most responsive record of thought. In 1990 Louis-Antoine Prat described the delight that many drawing collectors experience: ‘the feeling of finding oneself face to face with something intact and immediate, having sprung forth straight from the artist’s brain.’33 G. Bailey argues: ‘More deeply than any other form in the visual arts, drawing immediately betrays how the draughtsman thinks.’34 As I demonstrate in my discussion of primo pensiero in the next chapter, these voices had clear renaissance precursors. Disegno, as the concept was conceived by Italian art theorists, describes both the drawn product and the intellectual process of design. Quattrocentro and cinquecento art theorists maintained that the hand obeyed the intellect and recognised disegno as the principal means to visualise the mental concetto.35 In 1537, Pietro Aretino recommended contemplating both literary and artistic works: ‘I judge that other things are good to see for the talent

27 Compare John Robinson’s concern not to allow his ‘special predilection’ for drawings to ‘over- estimate’ their ‘relative importance’. Robinson, 1870, p. ix. 28 Kurz, 1937, p. 1, a view that he believed motivated Vasari to collect drawings. 29 Friedländer, 1946, p. 220. 30 Friedländer, 1946, p. 219. 31 Capon, ‘Director’s Foreword,’ in Sydney, 1999. 32 I have borrowed this term from Deanna Petherbridge, 2010, p. 26. 33 Prat, 1990, p. 74. 34 G.H. Bailey, ‘Drawing and the drawing activity: a phenomenological investigation,’ PhD Thesis, London Institute of Education, 1982, p. 339, quoted in Harty, 2012. 35 Barzman, 2000, pp. 143-51. Summers, 1981, pp. 203-33. 73 of others, against which your own [talent] is stimulated and corrected.’36 Following Pliny, Giovambattista Adriani wrote that the designs left in unfinished works allowed viewers to see ‘the thoughts of the artist.’37 However, no cinquecento author exaggerated the belief that a disegno or schizzo could act as a vehicle to its author in terms of divulging the draughtsman’s soul, innermost secrets, or emotions; nor did sixteenth century-viewers identify the ‘essence of art’ with a draughtsman’s lines.38 These views were nurtured within a seventeenth and eighteenth-century culture of appreciation, taste, and connoisseurship attracted by the possibility of a direct link to the dead artist. They came to their height during the nineteenth century and overestimated what could be extracted and preserved within a graphic record.

[B] - Drawings Reveal Personality

Historians, curators and theorists of drawing often use the label ‘personality’ to describe individual linear style. This frequently encountered term communicates the intimate nature of the drawing act. It also strengthens the notion of human presence behind the graphic mark. However this term has a history that raises more implications than solutions for the interpretation of drawings.

The nineteenth century saw the rise of several pseudo-scientific disciplines that purported to accurately determine the character of human beings. Phrenologists asserted that irregularities in the size and shape of the cranium were accurate indicators of a person’s character and intelligence. Similarly, writers on the ancient pseudo-science of physiognomy maintained that the size or structure of features of the human face could be evaluated as signs of a person’s true character. Both of these early disciplines departed from a small sign, the microcosm, and made deductions on a macrocosmic scale about a human being. As Carlo Ginzburg recognised, connoisseurship uses this same ‘evidential paradigm’ to identify ‘hands’ or ‘personalities’ from unique linear ‘traits’.39

36 ‘Giudicio, dico: ché l’altre cose son buone per vedere gli ingegni degli altri, onde il tuo si desta e si corregge […].’ Pietro Aretino to Fausto da Longiano, 17 February 1537, Aretino-Camesasea, 1957, vol. 1, pp. 101-104. 37 ‘[…] vedendosi in lori, per i disegni rimasi, i pensieri dello artefice.’ Giovambattista Adriani in Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. XIX. 38 Consider Akker, 2010, pp. 311, 341-355. 39 Ginzburg, 1989. 74 During the nineteenth century, drawings were perceived as ‘psychological documents’40, disclosing innermost secrets, true intentions, and the ‘character’ of a ‘personality’. Painting was generally considered to conceal the visible characteristics of an individual. The great connoisseur Giovanni Morelli believed that paintings ‘disfigured’ by time or restoration obscured the ‘hand and mind of the artist.’ In his Italian Masters in German Galleries (first published in 1880), Morelli described bad restoration as concealing ‘the physiognomy of a master’.41 ‘In drawings, on the contrary,’ Morelli asserted, ‘the whole man stands before us without disguise or affectation, and his genius with its beauties and its failings speaks directly to the mind.’42

The study of drawings shares assumptions with graphology, another pseudo-scientific discipline that claimed to determine human character by examining handwriting.43 In 1896, the American graphologist John Harington Keene described the central aim of his craft: The true graphologist is a laborious and minute observer of human mind and character; and he seeks with persistent care to find its manifestations […] in the unfeigned and practically unconscious tracery of the pen.44

The French graphologist Jules Crépieux-Jamin explained his method in 1888 with more precision: The meaning of a trait in handwriting is investigated by considering it as a physiological movement, and by bringing it into general connection with the corresponding psychological state […].’45

Crépieux-Jamin argued against interpreting ‘graphologic signs’ in an ‘absolute non- relative way’.46 He accounted for more variables than most other graphologists, recognising that the same sign could have different meanings in different hands. But he nevertheless made reductive judgments based on rank and class, and ‘superior’ and ‘inferior’ intellects.47 Furthermore, by qualifying graphic features as ‘typical signs’ of his primary interpretation, he was still able to make absolute claims in a generalised

40 Tolnay, 1972, p. 1, ascribes this perception to distinguished dilettanti, academicians, and collectors who were often not professional artists. 41 Morelli, 1883, p. 2. 42 Morelli, 1883, p. 7; also cited by Rosand, 2002, p. 19. 43 For a general introduction to the emergence of graphology see Crépieux-Jamin, 1892, pp. 1-9. Crystal, 2010, p. 197. 44 Keene, 1896, p. 1. 45 Crépieux-Jamin, 1892, p. 32. 46 Crépieux-Jamin, 1892, p. 149. 47 Crépieux-Jamin, 1892, pp. 94-98, 147-48. 75 form.48 For example, he believed a vertical stroke in the letter ‘d’ indicated ‘a passive mind’, ‘want of originality’, and ‘arrested development’. A long, low curve in the same letter, dragged right to left signified ‘constraint’ and a ‘reserved imagination’, but a secondary loop meant a ‘lively imagination’ and ‘enthusiasm’.49 In 1904 Clifford Howard extended the possible meanings of the humble ‘d’ even further: a backward curve could indicate an ‘introspective’, ‘critical disposition’.50 However, if formed with a loop it recorded a ‘sensitive’ individual, who was ‘easily offended’ and prone to ‘morbid prejudices’.51

Authors writing on art were also influenced by the assumptions of graphology. In his Art as Experience (1934), John Dewey argued: ‘A person with a knack can easily jot down lines that suggest fear, rage, amusement, and so on. He indicates elation by lines curved in one direction, sorrow by curves in the opposite direction.’52 Crépieux-Jamin had argued: ‘Ascending handwriting belongs to sanguine, ambitious men’ while ‘descending handwriting tells us of sadness.’53 He proposed the latter as a suitable ‘pathologic indication’ for the ‘observant physician.’54 E.H. Gombrich analysed the physiognomic foundations of many assumptions and rebutted Dewey’s claims decisively: ‘No line as such, whether drawn by an artist or merely by a “person with a knack”, can alone and unaided “convey the grief of an individual person.”55 Gombrich directly challenged absolute judgments made on the basis of impressions without any grounding in a specific context. He also criticised the emerging interest in the ‘expressive’ meaning of forms, shapes, and lines that was becoming increasingly popular in the 1960s but which he argued was prone to the same untenable and flexible interpretations of the physiognomic perception.56

Both graphologists and connoisseurs have historically thought themselves capable of the most probing interpretations. In 1708 the collector Sebastiano Resta prided himself on having unique access to Correggio’s artistic thoughts: ‘I entered into the

48 Crépieux-Jamin, 1892, pp. 93-94. 49 Crépieux-Jamin, 1892, pp. 78-79. 50 Howard, 1922, p. 199. 51 Howard, 1922, p. 195. 52 Dewey, 1958, p. 90, quoted from Gombrich, 1963, p. 53. 53 Crépieux-Jamin, 1892, pp. 17, 38. 54 Crépieux-Jamin, 1892, p. 40. 55 Gombrich, 1963, p. 53. 56 Gombrich, 1963, pp. 53-54. 76 artist’s mind because the embryos of his thoughts fell to me.’57 In 1873 the French critic Alfred Sensier described his profound examination of drawings: ‘You become like a confessor, you hold a man by his body and by his heart, and you judge him to the depths of his soul.’58 John Harington Keene believed he penetrated ‘the sanctum sanctorum of some minds’ during his analysis of their handwriting.59 Bernard Berenson was convinced he could reach down ‘to the inmost heart of the great master.’60 Luigi Grassi, writing in 1955, sought to extract the ‘secret of the personality’ from the work of art.61 In her important study The Drawings of Pontormo, first published in 1964, Janet Cox-Rearick readily accepted that an investigation of drawings promised ‘the expected revelation of the total artistic personality.’62

The French art historian René Huyghe, writing in 1960, maintained the central assumptions of graphology, and attempted to legitimise them with modern psychological theory. In his chapter entitled ‘How art translates the spirit of man’ he described the work of art as infused with its creator’s ‘innermost being’. Similar to Morelli’s conviction of the ‘whole man’ captured on paper, Huyghe maintained that the artist unconsciously transferred idiosyncratic features: ‘He is whole and entire in his work, at once concealed and yet irrefutably present with all the evidence of his being.’63 Huyghe interpreted art as a ‘text to be read’, however he did not mean iconographically. He distinguished between a general impression of conscious content, displaying the artist’s character in ‘plain language’ and the minute expression of line, gestural marks, and graphisms that needed to be interpreted by a graphologist.64 He then established two categories entitled ‘affectionate graphism’ and

57 ‘Io son entrato nella mente dell’artefice futuro perche à me son toccati li embrioni suoi […].’ Translated by Warwick, 2000, pp. 173, 264n6. Discussed at more length in my fourth chapter. 58 ‘Vous devenez là comme un confesseur, vous tenez l’homme par le corps et par le coeur, et vous le jugez jusqua’au fond de l’âme.’ Alfred Sensier, Etude sur George Michel, Paris, 1873, quoted from Tolnay, 1972, p. 1n2. 59 Keene, 1896, p. 2. 60 Berenson, 1948, pp. 194-195. 61 ‘[…] il critico si giove di queste ricerche grammaticali e filologiche, per addentrarsi nel mondo della individualità, risalendo poi all’immagine interna che, nata dalla coscienza estetica, cela il segreto della personalità, quale si reflette nell’opera d’arte, da interpretare e giudicare criticamente.’ Grassi, 1957, pp. 97-98. 62 Cox-Rearick, 1981, p. 15. 63 Huyghe, 1962, p. 28. 64 Huyghe, 1962, p. 28. 77 ‘cruel graphism’ to broadly distinguish French and Italian linear attitudes from Dutch and German counterparts. ‘Fifteenth-century Parisian drawings,’ Huyghe argued, were animated by noble draperies falling in waves and loops, with banderoles undulating at the slightest breath of air, and clouds that curl like angels’ hair.65

In contrast, ‘German drawing […] becomes openly aggressive’ and possesses

an instinctive feeling for the visual equivalents to cruelty [...] it imitates everything that cuts, claws, pierces, or tears.66

The recurring use of the term ‘personality’ in drawing studies is the last vestige of this physiognomic tradition. ‘Personality’ contributes to a quasi-mystical impression that connoisseurs conduct psychological readings of character, especially when merged together with the expected revelatory power of drawing. It is now necessary to reasonably limit the extent to which a drawing can reveal something about its maker. Changes in the pressure, direction, and force of a draughtsman’s hand have an immediate impact upon the appearance of the line produced. However, this does not mean that all the intentions and emotions behind linear variation can be determined. Historians of drawing rarely discuss their insights into the character, personality, and emotional or psychological mental states of draughtsmen. Yet, use of the term ‘personality’ implies that they have discovered something profound about historical individuals. Consider statements like: ‘his true and most intimate personality stands revealed’. Drawings document ‘the artist’s innermost personality.’ Or the eager search for the ‘secret of the personality’ as some central truth of individuality. A connoisseur’s objective is most often to assemble and refine an oeuvre, which is the most accurate corpus of an artist’s known works. This extremely difficult and meticulous enterprise aims to provide a coherent, comprehensive, and definitive presentation of an historical artist. However, such a task rarely involves psychoanalysis. It is important to recognise that the indexical, metonymic process that makes attributions possible cannot reconstruct an ‘individual’ or ‘artistic personality’ in their entirety.

Our received understanding of style as idiosyncratic also requires some modification. As Deanna Petherbridge explains, gestural marks, drawing techniques, and styles are learnt, assimilated and internalised to become habitual, and ‘seem unconscious or

65 Huyghe, 1962, p. 48. 66 Huyghe, 1962, p. 48. 78 natural’.67 While these styles are to a large extent idiosyncratic, they may still be subject to change as the artist continues to experiment, adsorb, learn, and compete with new sources. As I argue in chapter eight, learning in the cinquecento workshop includes both ‘sacramental’ and ‘heuristic’ imitation, motivated by the intention to faithfully assimilate the style of the master of the workshop, while at the same time learning and discovering the potential applications of this style. Connoisseurs have traditionally assumed that imitation is an early phase of artistic immaturity, which an artist eventually outgrows.68 However, Francesco Salviati continued to copy and learn from other artists well into artistic maturity;69 and Andrea Boscoli produced copies throughout his artistic career.70 Likewise, Naldini did not stop copying or studying artists after a ten-year apprenticeship. If there was something to be gained from a fashionably new artistic model or a recently unearthed antiquity then an artist took out his sketchbook and drew.

Petherbridge frequently uses the terms ‘drawing tactics’ or ‘linear strategies’ to facilitate her ambitious ‘trans-historical’ narrative that discovers the recurrence of graphic approaches across time.71 I view ‘linear strategy’ as an excellent alternative to ‘artistic personality’, though the term does not explicitly serve this purpose in her book.72 The term still conveys all of the linear ‘characteristics’ or traits that a draughtsman has gradually internalised, or features that in the connoisseur’s view ‘personalise’ and allow them to identify a ‘hand’. However, the words ‘strategy’ and ‘tactic’ introduce a flexibility that is suited to artistic practice, and that was long absent from traditional studies. ‘Linear strategy’ is furthermore appropriate to a culture of imitation. In contrast to ‘artistic personality’, one individual can employ several or multiple ‘linear strategies’. The term also lends a deliberate agency to imitative acts that have been traditionally read under a model of influence, or the notion of suppressing personal expression.

67 Petherbridge, 2010, p. 152. 68 Charles Blanc, the director of the Beaux-Arts, responsible for the Musée des Copies in Paris, equates imitation with naivety in his evolutionary model of art: ‘In his infancy art is naïve: he imitates. / In his youth he is intelligent: he interprets. / In his virility art is grand and proud: he idealizes, he transfigures.’ Blanc, Grammaire des arts du Dessin, 1870, p. 14; quoted in Song, 1984, p. 38. 69 Joannides, 2010. 70 Brooks, 2003, p. 66. 71 For usage and definition see Petherbridge, 2010, pp. 152-54, 452n2-3. 72 For thoughts on authorship see Petherbridge, 2010, pp. 9-11. 79 [C & D] - Effortlessness in Drawing is a Sign of Originality and genius. Labour and effort mask Personality.

Connoisseurs have long regarded sketches as unique statements of originality, perceiving their free and loose lines to betray the identity of their maker. Sketched lines, impregnated with energy and passion, become sure signs of unbridled expressive confidence. No matter how much the chalk has smeared, the paper faded, or the ink oxidized, these lines are perceived to burn with the same intensity even hundreds of years after they were inscribed onto paper. The same level of appreciation is not expressed for laboured lines in copies or finished drawings. Labour and effort in drawing are considered to conceal, or suppress, individuality.

Most of the assumptions about artistic practice derive from basic rules for making attributions. The fresh appearance of confidence was recommended as a criterion to distinguish painted originals from copies. In the early seventeenth century, the medically trained Giulio Mancini advised contemporary art buyers to search for the master’s ‘boldness’ (franchezza), reasoning that details like ringlets of hair would be painted resolutely, in contrast to the copyist who imitates them with ‘labour’ (stento).73 Abraham Bosse, writing in 1649, believed that highly polished and finished manners were easier to imitate than liberal sketches.74 In 1681, the connoisseur and curator of drawings Filippo Baldinucci argued that rapid brushstrokes ‘carelessly and almost thrown at random’ (disprezzati e quasi gettati a caso) were rarely seen in copies, and therefore afforded the most secure attributions.75 Like Mancini, he reasoned that copyists had greater difficulty imitating rapid and subtle strokes with the same ‘boldness’ (franchezza) as the original. Baldinucci called this a ‘general rule’ (universal regola) for distinguishing between originals and copies, whether paintings or drawings.76

73 ‘[...] si veda quella franchezza del mastro, et in particolare in quelle parti che di necessità si fanno di resolutione nè si posson ben condurre con l’immitatione, come sono in particolare i capelli, la barba, gl’occhi. Che l’anellar de’ capelli, quando si han da imitare, si fanno con stento […].’ Mancini- Marucchi, 1956-1957, vol. 1, p. 134. 74 Bosse, 1649, pp. 60, 64, 68. See also Muller, 1989, p. 144. Sohm, 1991, p. 71. Warwick, 2000, p. 174. Filzmoser, 2014. 75 Baldinucci, 1681. 76 Baldinucci, 1681. Muller, 1989, p. 144. 80 In 1689 Sebastiano Resta praised Raphael for his ability to fashion an entire composition in a single stroke.77 This trope was directly linked to Castiglione’s concept of sprezzatura, which described a casual, natural effortlessness that disguised art and skill.78 Genevieve Warwick argues that Resta and his immediate circle of friends prized draughtsmen who were capable of combining all their studies in a single compositional sketch.79 They appreciated sketches for their sprezzatura. Executed quickly and effortlessly, sketches dissimulated all of the diligence and labour that had been essential to training and loosening the hand.

The sketch eventually became the hallmark of originality and the most genuine expression of the artistic self. In 1762 Antoine-Joseph Dézallier d’Argenville declared: An artist, in painting a picture, corrects himself and represses the ardour of his genius; in making a drawing, he throws out the first fire of his thought; he abandons himself to his self; he reveals himself as just what he is.80

During the Salon of 1765, Denis Diderot observed: Sketches frequently have a fire that finished paintings lack; they’re the moment of the artist’s zeal, his pure verve, undiluted by any carefully considered preparation, they’re the painter’s soul freely transferred to canvas […] Rapid sketches characterize everything with a few strokes.81

In 1777 an anonymous expert at the Varanchan de Saint-Geniès sale exclaimed: There is a certain type of connoisseur who goes into throes of ecstasy over a single sketch; he searches for the soul and the thoughts of the man of genius, whom he is able to see and recognize.82

This appreciation for the sketch was linked to the development of a new concept of genius promoted by literary critics and later Romantics, based on creative inspiration, spontaneity, and intuition rather than rational intelligence.83 Breaking from the yoke of tradition, several eighteenth-century English authors, including William Sharpe, Edward Young, George Colman, William Duff, and Alexander Gerard advocated the idea that genius was born, not made. It was not the product of learning, but rose

77 Resta letters to Magnavacca, 16 November 1689. Warwick, 2000, p. 175. 78 See discussion of sprezzatura below. 79 Warwick, 2000, pp. 174-75. 80 Dézallier d’Argenville, 1762, vol. 1, pp. xxxiii, translated in Rosand, 2002, p. 21. 81 Diderot on art, translated by John Goodman, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995, vol. 1, p. 104; quoted in Petherbridge, 2010, p. 42. 82 Quoted in Rosenberg, 2000, p. 209. 83 Wittkower, 1973, p. 305. 81 spontaneously from the artist’s ‘creative imagination’, which Immanuel Kant defined as the ‘true source’ and ‘basis of originality’.84 It did not require diligence or study, was independent of rule and precept, and elevated the individual to immortal fame.85 The cult of genius fundamentally opposed the veneration of tradition, ancient authors, literary imitation, and academies of painting.

Simplicity in drawing was also valued as a distinctive feature of genius. The draughtsman’s easy command of chalk or pen and ink was frequently described with the trope of sketching only a few strokes. This trope had an ancient origin in Pliny and was repeated by sixteenth-century authors, and later used to endorse the spontaneity and appearance of the sketch.86 In 1741 Pierre-Jean Mariette wrote: ‘One single stroke with pen or charcoal answers the unspoken questions that everyone is asking.’87 In 1762 Dézallier d’Argenville remarked: ‘First ideas, sketches made with one stroke of the pen, or crayon by a free hand can be regarded as originals.’88 In 1794 William Gilpin described sketching freely without constraint, and suggesting parts ‘for the whole’ as ‘the laconism of genius.’89 In the nineteenth century Eugène Delacroix viewed the initial sketch of the idea as ‘pure expression’ and ‘truth issuing from the soul.’90 He argued that ‘a simple sketch is sufficient to allow one to brood over an idea [in its] summary execution, one can attain the loftiest feeling as well as one can with the complex execution of a picture.’91 This natural appreciation extended into the twentieth century. In 1960 Otto Benesch associated linear simplicity with experience, reasoning that great artists avoid ‘complicated and refined technical processes’. Instead, ‘The simplest ones, which give direct expression of personality, are just the right ones.’92

84 Kant, Critique of Judgment, 1790. Wittkower, 1973, p. 307. 85 Wittkower, 1973. 86 See discussion below. 87 Mariette, Réflexions sur la manière de dessiner des principaux peintres (1741); quoted in Petherbridge, 2010, p. 36. 88 Dézallier d’Argenville, 1762, vol. 1, pp. lviii-lix, translated in Meder-Ames, 1978, vol. 1, p. 519n77. 89 Gilpin, ‘Essay on Picturesque Beauty’, in Three essays, on Picturesque Beauty, 1794, pp. 61f; quoted in Wind, 1985, p. 40. 90 Wittkower, 1973, p. 305. 91 The Journal of Eugène Delacroix, Wellington (ed.), p. 397; quoted in Petherbridge, 2010, p. 36. 92 Otto Benesch, Rembrandt as a Draughtsman, London, 1960, pp. 30-31; quoted in Rosand, 2002, p. 380n34. 82 [E] - The Personality of a Draughtsman Cannot be Imitated

The belief that ‘personality’ will never be successfully captured or forged by another artist is founded on assumption B: every artist will leave a trace of themselves in their work that they will never be able to conceal. In the mid-fifteenth century the architect Antonio Averlino, known as Filarete, claimed: ‘everyone, no matter how greatly he may vary [his work], is known by his hand.’93 Centuries later in 1719, Jonathan Richardson wrote: ‘there is in all the masters, though not in all equally, a certain character and peculiarity that runs through their works in some measure.’94 Closer to our own time, Oliver Sacks has argued: ‘neurologically, [style] is the deepest part of one’s being, and may be preserved, almost to the last, in a dementia.’95 This self- evident belief leads to the conviction that copyists also betray themselves through automatic, subconscious, and idiosyncratic traits that an experienced connoisseur will eventually, if not immediately, recognise.

According to Carlo Ginzburg, the conviction that personal style is inimitable began with Giulio Mancini around 1620. He argued that Mancini took the premise that every individual’s handwriting was unique and could not be imitated from Camillo Baldi, the inventor of graphology.96 This opinion was not supported by literary theory, where imitation featured prominently. According to Philip Sohm, the ‘physiognomist’s view of style’ posited that unavoidable gestures escaped the hand, and that the writer or painter was not in complete control.97 However, Sohm distinguished a second approach to style that allowed for more manual agency. Baldassare Castiglione’s promotion of dissimulated gestures was motivated by standards of etiquette within a courtly society, while the lawyer Giovanni Bonifacio sought to determine the true intentions and emotions concealed behind the feigned gestures of his witnesses and clients. Bonifacio still subscribed to the physiognomic view by believing that some gestures rooted in the soul would provide a ‘window to

93 Filarete-Spencer, 1965, vol. 1, p. 12; also discussed in Akker, 2010, p. 265. 94 Jonathan Richardson the Elder, ‘The Science of a connoisseur’, first published in 1719, reprinted in Richardson, 1773, p. 307. 95 Oliver Sacks, The man who mistook his wife for a hat and other clinical tales, New York: Harper Perennial Library, 1990, p. 20; quoted in Sohm, 1999, p. 101. 96 Ginzburg, 1989, pp. 110, 208n67. Baldi, 1622. 97 Sohm, 1999, p. 114. 83 the heart.’98 However, both authors clearly recognised that gesture could be deliberately manipulated and deceptive.

Thierry Lenain argues that Mancini made an important exception to the inimitability of personal style by praising the existence of perfect copies that surpass their original models.99 For Lenain, Mancini did not ‘recoil from confessing’ that inimitability was ‘not universally valid’. He admitted that some talented imitators managed to deceive even the most knowledgeable experts.100 Jeffrey Muller and Sohm demonstrate that subsequent connoisseurs, including Karel van Mander, Abraham Bosse, Jean-Baptist Dubos, and Filippo Baldinucci repeated anecdotes on copies that deceived experts and fellow artists.101 One of the most famous examples was Andrea del Sarto’s copy of Raphael’s Portrait of Pope Leo X. According to Vasari, the brushstrokes even deceived Giulio Romano, who had assisted Raphael in the painting. Upon learning of the truth he exclaimed: ‘I value it no less […] it is something out of the course of nature that a man of excellence should imitate the manner of another so well.’102

Vasari also celebrated pupils who assimilated and surpassed the maniera of their master: Leonardo exceeded Verrocchio and Raphael outshone Perugino. Bronzino imitated the work of Pontormo so closely that some of their works could not be told apart, and Titian was similarly mistaken for Giorgione.103 During the seventeenth century authors continued to praise copies that deceived viewers.104 For Muller, these anecdotes challenged the criteria for identifying signs of authenticity, raised the ability of the artist above the connoisseur, and elevated copies as works of art in their own right.105

In 1719 the Abbé Jean-Baptiste Dubos admitted that an artist could not counterfeit ‘the genius of great men’ but he recognised that they ‘may sometimes succeed’ in

98 Sohm, 1999, p. 115. 99 Lenain, 2011, pp. 206-208. 100 Lenain, 2011, p. 208. 101 Muller, 1989, pp. 144-45. Sohm, 1991, pp. 64-67. 102 Vasari-De Vere, 1912-1914, vol. 5, pp. 108-109. Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, pp. 153-64. See also Barolsky, 1995, pp. 5-6. Sohm, 1991, pp. 66-67. 103 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, pp. 806, 862. 104 Sohm, 1991, p. 67n13. For the role of wit in forgery and imitation see Lenain, 2011, pp. 280-82. 105 Muller, 1989, pp. 145-46. 84 imitating the handling of colour, drawing strokes, and air of facial expression.106 Dubos questioned connoisseurship, the ‘art that boldly supposes it cannot be deceived by any counterfeit strokes.’107

Antoine-Joseph Dézallier d’Argenville responded by mounting a strong defence for connoisseurship in his Abrégé de la vie des plus fameux peinteres (1745-52): Let no one claim that the knowledge of paintings and drawings is very uncertain. Recently someone [the Abbé Dubos] made a mistake when he proclaimed that the art of discovering the maker of a painting by recognising the master’s hand is filled with more errors than any other art […] If this author had had just a little practical knowledge of painting, or just a little more knowledge of this art, then he would have understood that just a single touch of the brush, a single free stroke in a painting reveals its creator, and that the copyist’s personal touch is always sufficiently present in the work to betray himself. The same goes for drawings; the hand gets tired of copying; it cannot continue long in strained circumstances; it allows for traits which are more familiar to him; and it is these traits that ultimately betray the imitator, and the deception is uncovered.108

The notion that the ‘single free stroke […] reveals its creator’ belongs to a long tradition theorising line as signature. It is the underlying doctrine of modern attribution, called the ‘trace paradigm’ by Lenain.109 But was first recognised by Ginzburg as an ‘evidential paradigm’ (paradigma indirizario) that established a diagnostic and deductive framework for many early modern fields of enquiry, including physiognomy, graphology, forensics, fingerprint analysis (dactylography), and more ancient practices like divination, palmistry, and the tracking of animals.110 In the ‘single free stroke’ collective graphic traits are reduced to one indexical trace, from which the expert immediately identifies the author. The single stroke reaches back to the story of the line of Apelles, and was preserved in the rhetoric of artistic creation. In the sketch, the artist’s ‘soul is freely transferred’ as Diderot claimed, and he ‘reveals himself as just what he is’ wrote Dézallier d’Argenville. Conversely, in the copy he submits to an ‘other’, even if temporarily. This entrenched connoisseurial framework perceives spontaneous lines as genuine emanations of individuality, and

106 Dubos-Nugent, 1748, vol. 2, p. 92. 107 Dubos-Nugent, 1748, vol. 2, p. 283. ‘Que penser de l’art qui suppose hardiment qu’on ne puisse pas si bien contrefaire la touch de Raphaël & du Poussin qu’il ne le reconnoisse.’ Dubos, Réflexions critiques sur la poésie et sur la peinture, 1719, vol. 2, p. 364. 108 I have made some additions to Paul van den Akker’s translation. Akker, 2010, p. 274. Dézallier d’Argenville, 1762, p. xxxix. 109 Lenain, 2011, pp. 234-40. Rosand, 2002, pp. 6-8, 17-18, 139. 110 Ginzburg, 1989. 85 by implication copied and laboured lines as deceptive and against an artist’s true nature. For Dézallier d’Argenville the copyist inevitably returns to his ‘more familiar’ traits. Whether the copyist sketches freely or labours in vain, Jonathan Richardson asserts that on both accounts he will fail to deceive the expert connoisseur: Every man will naturally and unavoidably mix something of himself in all he does, if he copies with any degree of liberty: If he attempts to follow his original servilely and exactly, that cannot but have a stiffness which will easily distinguish what is so done from what is performed naturally, easily, and without restraint.111

The twentieth-century British forger Eric Hebborn provides an easy solution is to this kind of connoisseurial hubris. With intense self-satisfaction, Hebborn asks: Does my forgery like ‘all forgeries’ reveal itself by its ‘pedantically anxious execution’? Can you see me squinting in all directions, painfully picking my way, knowing that I can only succeed if my copy is exact, and being careful not to yield to any personal impulse? Well, I very much doubt you can.112

Hebborn reflected on the theoretical implications of his success and compiled a list of connoisseurial assumptions. He proposed that their absolute premises could be easily revised by simply substituting ‘sometimes’ for ‘always’: 1. The forger always betrays himself by personal mannerisms. 2. The forger always lacks freedom of execution and originality. 3. A forgery is always of lower quality than the original. 4. Forgeries always reveal the taste of their time.113

The copy or imitation is conditioned by the same connoisseurial disdain for forgery. However, in sixteenth-century Italy imitation was never regulated in such absolute terms. Naldini assimilated Pontormo’s drawing style to a remarkable degree in a sketch of a female holding a scroll (fig. 5.13).114 The febrile intensity of his vibrant red chalk incised in crisp angular lines immediately evokes the graphic language of his master’s early drawings. Naldini was also entirely capable of imitating the prints of Albrecht Dürer.115 He manoeuvred a finely sharpened quill with masterful control to find equivalent pen lines for Dürer’s fine engraving. The scale of Naldini’s drawings after Dürer, tucked away in the pages of his palm-sized sketchbook, indicate that his intention was not to deceive or gain monetary reward for being mistaken as Dürer. Their meticulous nature instead reveals a desire to understand, find, and test

111 Richardson, 1773, p. 230. Lenain, 2011, p. 228, also discusses this passage. 112 Hebborn, Confessions of a Master Forger, London, 1997, p. 307; quoted from Lenain, 2011, p. 301, who also draws on Hebborn to counter the entrenched connoisseurial discourse. 113 Hebborn, 1997, p. 363; quoted in Lenain, 2011, p. 301. 114 See chapter 5. 115 See chapter 8. 86 complex linear properties on a minute scale through close scrutiny and replication. As he learned by example in absorbed meditation, Naldini’s search may also have entailed an emulative dimension to equal, and potentially surpass his model.

This chapter does not intend to criticise the remarkable achievements of connoisseurship, or to challenge its importance as a fundamental method for the study of historical drawings. Rather, this critique has demonstrated how entrenched stylistic frameworks and assumptions leave a problematic legacy for the reception of imitation. In order for a new enquiry of Battista Naldini’s imitation to take place, it is necessary to redefine the systems of valuation from a sixteenth-century perspective. The following discussion explores Cinquecento art theory, while theories of imitation are explored at greater length in chapter six.

Several binaries operate at the heart of the simple connoisseurial distinction between original and copy. These include effortlessness (facilità, sprezzatura) and labour (fatica, stento), spontaneity and finish, speed (prestezza) and care (diligenza), and natural talent (ingenium) and learnt skill (ars). However, their perceived incompatibility, like the dichotomy between original and copy, was not as diametrically opposed during the sixteenth century as it was for eighteenth-century connoisseurs and later Romantics. The following discussion will argue that cinquecento art theory reconciled these opposites.

87 Cinquecento Context

Ars & Ingenium

In order to better understand the inherited opposition between original and copy it is necessary to explore the theoretical underpinnings of artistic skill in a binary of natural and learnt. The term ingenium is a crucial part of the etymology and historiography of artistic genius. Together with its cognates ingenio and ingegno, it has been variously translated as ‘mind’, ‘intellect’, ‘mental gift’, ‘talent’, ‘excellence’, ‘wit’ and ‘genius.’116 However, as Patricia Emison reasons, ingegno cannot be neatly translated into a single term, nor can its appearance in the artistic literature of the period be taken as the definitive indicator of the reputation of artists. Ingegno has long been defined by an antithetical relationship with ars.

In classical Latin the word ars could be used interchangeably for skill, craft, profession, theory, or treatise, but at its core it signified something that could be taught or learnt. In contrast, the word ingenium designated the innate talent that could not be learnt.117 Quintilian succinctly expressed this division in his Institutio Oratoria

(c. 95 CE): ‘the greatest qualities of an orator are inimitable: his talent [ingenium], invention, force, fluency, everything in fact that is not taught in the textbooks.’118 Michael Baxandall argued that Italian humanists, intent on reviving classical Latin and producing good Ciceronian prose, adopted ars et ingenium as a formulaic device, and perceived it as ‘a critical and polemic weapon.’119 Humanists placed a high premium on ars and ingenium, and praised each other for their possession of both qualities. As an indivisible pair, the association was so strong that praising a person for their ars alone, implicitly denied their ingenium, and could not be considered as positive or laudable.120 Humanists could praise artists for their ars or arte, their ‘skill’

116 See Patricia Emison’s excellent critique, ‘The historiography of ingegno,’ in Emison, 2004, pp. 321-48. Erwin Panofsky, Renaissance and Renascences in Western Art, New York, 1972, pp. 14, 15, translated the term both as ‘genius’ and ‘mental gift.’ Emison, 2004, p. 337, is perhaps unfair to David Summers, 1981, p. 132, who rendered ingegno as ‘striving’ following Reverend H. F. Cary’s translation of Dante’s Purgatorio, canto XI, 7-9. For the reception of ingegno in Renaissance England and its translation as ‘wit’ see Marr, 2015. 117 Baxandall, 1986, p. 15. 118 Institutio Oratoria, X.2.12. Quintilian-Russell, 2002, vol. 4, p. 327. Emison, 2004, p. 331. 119 Baxandall, 1986, p. 15. 120 Baxandall, 1986, p. 16. 88 or ‘workmanship’, therefore emphasising their manual qualities, and as a consequence fail to mention their intellectual or innate gifts.

In Baxandall’s reading, ars and ingenium became extremely rigid categories that drew their meaning from a traditional antithetical relationship. However, the weight that Baxandall placed upon Quintilian for endorsing this inseparable compound was not completely justified. As Patricia Emison has demonstrated, Quintilian did not habitually bind ars et ingenium. Instead he was much more flexible in treating them separately and in accommodating studio.121 Quintilian recognised that ars and ingenium were mutually beneficial: Without natural gifts technical rules are useless […] while, similarly, they are of no profit in themselves unless cultivated by skilful teaching, persistent study and continuous and extensive practice.122

He also advised orators not to rely on their ‘native talents’ (ingenium) of improvisation, but rather gradually develop and bring their ‘impromptu facility’ to perfection, and maintain it through regular practice.123 Horace had come to the same conclusion earlier. In the Ars poetica (c. 10 BCE) Horace shrewdly reasoned: For my part, I do not see of what avail is either study, when not enriched by Nature’s vein, or natural talent [ingenium], if untrained; so truly does each claim the other’s aid, and make with it a friendly league.124

Vitruvius expressed a similar relationship between ‘natural aptitude’ (ingenium) and ‘learning’ (disciplina). The architect ‘must be naturally gifted and ready to learn, for neither natural aptitude without learning nor learning without natural aptitude will make a perfect practitioner.’125

In Quattrocento Italy, Leon Battista Alberti assumed a dubious position toward unlearnable traits. Emison demonstrates that Alberti distrusted the notion that certain artists possessed unique abilities that could not be learnt by others. For example, he did not repeat the Elder Pliny’s assertion that Apelles possessed a ‘graceful charm’,

121 Emison, 2004, p. 332. 122 Institutio Oratoria, I.26-27; H.E. Butler’s translation quoted in Emison, 2004, p. 38. 123 Institutio Oratoria, X.7.18; quoted in Emison, 2004, p. 44. Quintilian-Russell, 2002, vol. 4, p. 381. 124 Ars Poetica, 408-411. Horace-Fairclough, 1926, p. 485. I have revised Fairclough’s translation of ingenium from ‘native wit’ to ‘natural talent’. See Marr, 2015, for English tradition of ingegno as ‘wit’. 125 De architectura, I.I.3. Vitruvius-Schofield, 2009, p. 5. Emison, 2004, p. 20n6. 89 venustas in Latin or charis (χάρις) in Greek, ‘which was distinctly his own.’126 In Pliny’s reading, the venustas of Apelles, together with his use of glazes, ‘could never be imitated.’127 Quintilian had similarly singled out the natural ability (ingenio) and gratia of Apelles that distinquished him from other artists.128 As a humanist, Alberti instead placed more importance on educative values such as disciplina and arte. In both his vernacular manuscript, composed around 1435-1436, and his later Latin edition of De pictura, Alberti advised that ‘the gifts of Nature should be cultivated and increased by industry, study, and practice.’129

Alberti reasoned that the exercise of art activates the mind: The mind [l’ingegno] moved and warmed by exercise turns easily and more readily to work; and that hand follows most rapidly that is well guided by the sure rule of the mind.130

Alberti used this metaphor of motion and heat to describe the mind adapted or accustomed to work promptly (l’ingegno mosso e riscaldato). This exercise of the mind implicitly rests on the activity of the hand. Alberti’s statement therefore acknowledges the place of manual exercise, arte, studio and pratica. He also maintains the notion that the hand remains obedient to the mind. Both the manual and intellectual are reconciled, bringing together arte and ingegno as mutually beneficial agents.

126 Natural History, XXXV.79; quoted from Emison, 2004, p. 32. Pollitt explains that Roman authors translated the Greek charis with the term gratia or venustas to describe the externalised grace of a work of art. Pollitt, 1974, pp. 299-301, 378-79, 448-49. Pliny-Jex-Blake, 1896, pp. 120-21, translated praecipua venustas as ‘grace of his genius’ prompted by Quintilian’s mention of ingenio. I have followed Harris Rackham’s translation in Pliny, 1938-1963, vol. 9, p. 319. 127 Pliny-Jex-Blake, 1896, pp. 133. Emison, 2004, p. 32. 128 Institutio Oratoria, 12.10.6. Quintilian-Russell, 2002, vol. 5, p. 285. 129 Alberti-Grayson, 1972, p. 103, discussed in Emison, 2004, pp. 32-33. For a translation of both vernacular and Latin editions see Alberti-Sinisgalli, 2006, p. 265. 130 ‘E l’ingegno mosso e riscaldato per essercitazione molto si rende pronto ed espedito al lavoro; e quella mano seguita velocissimo, quale sia da certa ragione d’ingegno ben guidato.’ Alberti-Grayson, 1972, p. 59; quoted in Rosand, 2002, p. 32. 90 Sprezzatura, fatica e stento

In cinquecento art theory effort (fatica) and labour (stento) associated the artist with the physically demanding, menial and manual aspects of his work. Sprezzatura, in contrast, denoted nonchalance, effortless talent, and the art of hiding art. Baldassare Castiglione coined the term sprezzatura in 1528 with the publication of his etiquette manual The Book of the Courtier.131 In a sense the new term explained an existing system of valuation, where the difficulties of art, such as the accurate representation of the human body, were only praiseworthy once surpassed with facility or ease (facilità).

For Emison, ‘sprezzatura bridges the gulf between’ arte and ingegno, and draws its meaning from their multivalent relationship.132 She argues that sprezzatura was not strictly understood as an innate, natural gift, and could be used to celebrate grazia ‘when it comes from art rather than nature’.133 Below, I discuss how Castiglione acknowledged that studio and fatica could improve even the most impressive performance of sprezzatura, revealing that he recognised that arte continued to play a role in what appeared natural and effortless.

In Cinquecento art theory, grazia was often associated with ingegno and natura, rather than arte.134 Castiglione reveals that the idea that grazia could not be taught had become almost a proverb by 1528.135 For the Venetian Paolo Pino, writing in 1548: ‘The swift, but steady hand is a grazia granted by Nature.’136 Unlike Alberti a century before, his observation considers talent the product of ingegno, not the result of practice, study, or diligence. Vasari also devised a strategy to justify the manual activity of art making. Art should always be accompanied by ‘a graceful ease’ (grazia di facilità) and brought to perfezzione, but never with the ‘toil of cruel suffering’ (stento di passione crudele). The artist ought to rejoice ‘that his hand has received from heaven the lightness of movement [agilità] that renders his works finished with

131 Baldassare Castiglione, Il libro del cortegiano, Venice: Aldine Press, 1528, I, chapter xxvi, p. 62. Castiglione-Singleton, 1959, p. 43. 132 Emison, 2004, p. 48. 133 Emison, 2004, p. 47. 134 Summers, 1981, p. 67. Emison, 1991, pp. 432-34. 135 Castiglione, 1528, book I, chapter XXV. Castiglione-Singleton, 1959, p. 42. 136 ‘La prontezza e sicurtà di mano è grazia concessa dalla natura’; quoted in Rosand, 2002, p. 139. 91 study and effort yes, but not with toil [istento].’137 Manual work, as opposed to excessive toil, was therefore subsumed into the easy mastery of divinely legitimised painting.138

In his biography of Battista Franco, Vasari argued that the qualities of ease (facilità), grace (grazia), and boldness (fierezza) are in the majority of cases gifts of nature.139 However, he conceded that these qualities could be partly acquired through studio and arte, perhaps only to point to the irony that for all his diligence, Battista was late to learn that there was more to painting than labouring on the ‘minutae of muscles’.140 Elsewhere in the Vite, these qualities are granted by nature alone, allowing Vasari to then strategically deny heaven’s gifts, for example Andrea del Sarto never achieved the monumental grandeur of the Roman maniera because his timid soul lacked fierezza and forza; and Baccio Bandinelli possessed the ambition and ardent desire to excel in the arts, rather than any nimbleness or natural ability.141

In 1586 Giovanni Battista Armenini argued that painters could not rely solely on their ingegno or natural ability. Artists should not ‘presume’ to sufficiently possess the qualities of greatness (grandezza), variety (varietà), beauty (bellezza), novelty (novità), and ornament (ornamento) with their natural ability (ingegno) alone. Much like Quintilian, Horace, and Alberti, Armenini respected that there was a place for studio, pratica and diligenza in the acquisition of these difficult technical skills. He also gave ample space to imitation. He argued that relying on memory alone could potentially spoil an image. Though an artist may have drawn and studied his subject thousands of times he should never rely on his own ability, but always have before him natural models and sculptural reliefs.142 For Armenini, the prevailing exemplary

137 ‘[…] di maniera che l’arte sia accompagnata sempre con una grazia di facilità e di pulita leggiadria di colori, e condotta l’opera a perfezzione, non con un stento di passione crudele, che gl’uomini che ciò guardano abbino a patire pena della passion che in tal opera veggono sopportata dallo artefice, ma da ralegrarsi della facilità, che la sua mano abbia avuto dal Cielo quella agilità, che renda le cose finite con istudio e fatica sí, ma non con istento.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, pp. 45-46. Vasari- Maclehose, 1907, p. 211. 138 Marina Gorreri in Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 72n16, recognised the artistic debate between the ‘stentatezza’ of quattrocento artists and a ‘certa convenevole sprezzatura’. 139 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 588. 140 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 589. Vasari-De Vere, 1912-1914, vol. 8, pp. 95-97. 141 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, pp. 149-50, 426. 142 Armenini stresses the importance of staying in Rome so that artists may ‘enrich’ their works with ‘grandezza, varietà, bellezza, novità e ornamento, le quali cose difficili [sono]. Dunque nissuno di voi mai si presumi possedere abastanza le cose dette con l’ingegno solo, ma è ben che si vegga sempre o 92 status of nature and antiquity validated the continual practice of imitation to enhance one’s maniera.

Diligence

The four editions of the Vocabolario degli Accademici della Crusca defined diligenza as ‘exquisite and assiduous care.’143 Like study (studio) and learnt skill (ars), effort and diligence do not sit comfortably beside Romantic theories of originality and artistic genius. Classical Roman authors used diligentia to distinguish the craftsmanship of slaves, and the manual work of artisans from the intellectual gifts of poets, orators, and philosophers.144

Alberti was much more positive in his estimation of diligence, stating that ‘diligence is no less welcome than native ability in many things.’145 He advised painters to combine ‘swiftness of action’ and ‘diligence’ (prestezza di fare, congiunta con diligenza).146 Like sprezzatura and fatica, this combination is best understood as a mutually beneficial relationship. For Alberti, diligenza is entirely compatible with speed, because this marriage avoids the pitfalls of either extreme: excessive diligence or careless dependence on natural talent.147 Alberti reasoned that this combination would ‘avoid the bother and tedium of working and that eagerness to finish things that makes us botch the work.’148 He therefore repeated the Plinian maxim voiced by Apelles, but also expressed reservations about furia, that fire that spurred the imagination. Alberti was against the artist who displayed his overly restless talent (l’ingegno dell’artefice troppo fervente et furioso) in histrionics and agitated movements.149 col proprio natural di quello o il suo rilievo, né mai si confidi in se stesso, se ben quelle cose dissegnate e studiate da lui mille volte state fossero, perché siate pur certi che con la sola maniera non si può supplier al tutto, né quella vi può mai arrivare abastanza per tutte le parti.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 250. Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 292. 143 Crusca, 1612, p. 267; 1623, p. 263; 1691, vol. 2, p. 512; 1729-1738, vol. 2, p. 120. 144 Gaston, 2013a, p. 110 with bibliography. Roman authors translated the Greek akribeia, meaning ‘precision’, ‘exactitude’ or ‘detail’, as diligens or diligentia, ‘diligence’ or ‘care’. Pollitt, 1974, pp. 122, 354-57. 145 Alberti-Grayson, 1972, p. 105. ‘Né in poche cose più si pregia la diligenza che l’ingegno.’ Alberti-Sinisgalli, 2006, p. 268. 146 Alberti-Sinisgalli, 2006, p. 267. See discussion in Summers, 1981, p. 65. 147 Emison, 2004, p. 33, suggests that Alberti considered avoiding either of these to be a worthy goal for the painter. 148 De pictura, III, 61. Alberti-Grayson, 1972, p. 105; passage discussed by Rosand, 2002, p. 31. 149 Alberti, De Pictura, II, 44. Alberti-Sinisgalli, 2006, p. 220. 93 Armenini remained faithful to the tradition of sprezzatura and the achievement of difficultà by means of facilità. However, he recommended that this ease of execution should be accompanied by cleanliness (pulitezza) and diligenza. He urged that paint must be applied by a sure and skilled hand, together with such pulitezza and diligenza that no aspect of the painting seems laboured or badly done or finished; everything must appear to have been placed with wonderful skill and facility [con mirabil arte e con facilità].’150

Armenini repeated Alberti’s reflections: ‘In many endeavours diligence is no less necessary than natural talent [ingegno].’151 He had no problems merging arte and facilità, much like Vasari combining studio and grazia in his life of Raphael.152 Armenini’s ideal painter worked with facilità, but he was also ‘extremely accomplished and very diligent’ (accuratissimo e diligentissimo). He reasoned that viewers yearned above all else for beauty, loveliness, and perfection. However, they would be disappointed if a work of art lacked ‘all that care and diligence.’153 Even Armenini’s description of the ideal, well-trained hand, which is ‘free, diligent, practiced and very sure’ combines opposite qualities: the carefulness and perseverance of diligenza with the looseness and nimble agility of sciolto.154 His recommendation to merge these qualities was essential for artists painting on fast- drying plaster.155 This seemingly paradoxical union of speed and care ultimately contributed to a second meaning of diligenza.

150 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 210. ‘Conoscasi similmente quelli [colori debbono] essere stati maneggiati con una destrezza e prattica ben rissoluta, accompagnata poi da una pulitezza e diligenza tale, che non vi paia fatta cosa con stento o male adoperata né finita, ma apparisca esser posta con mirabil arte e con facilità per tutte le parti sue […]’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. 162-63. 151 ‘[…] nel vero è manifesto che si trova in molte cose non esser men grata la diligenza che l’ingegno.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 150. Olszewski translates l’ingegno as ‘genius’. Armenini- Olszewski, 1977, p. 198. 152 Emison, 2004, p. 41, argues that unlike Pliny’s Apelles, Vasari’s Raphael was associated with studiousness, a quality that Pliny would have considered incompatible with venustas. 153 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 212. ‘[…] gli occhi bramano molto la bellezza, la leggiadria e la perfezzione e, non vi essendo, la desiderano grandemente e molto restano offesi se non vi trovano tutta quella cura e diligenza, che por vi potrebbe un accuratissimo e diligentissimo artefice.’ Armenini- Gorreri, 1988, p. 164. 154 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 121. ‘[…] una sciolta e diligente mano, la qual sia prattica e ben sicura.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 65. 155 Undertaking a giornata in fresco requires a ‘hand that is very steady [sicurissima], sure [rissoluta], and swift [ben disciolta], guided by clear and expert judgment.’ Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 181-82. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. 131-32. Armenini was repeating Vasari’s advice that the hand should be ‘skilled, resolute, and quick’ (dèstra, resoluta e veloce) when painting fresco, but Vasari did not mention diligente. Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 50; translated in Bambach, 1999a, pp. 69, 396n206. 94 Apart from signifying ‘assiduous’ and ‘careful’ application, diligenza was also used during the sixteenth century to denote ‘readiness’ and ‘haste’. In his Vita, composed after 1558, Benvenuto Cellini described being summoned by the Cardinal de’ Medici to return to Rome ‘with great speed’ (con gran diligenza).156 Similarly, the adverbial in diligenza meant ‘readily, in haste, and promptly’.157 Although this phrase did not appear in the Vocabolario degli Accademici della Crusca until the early eighteenth century, there are several sixteenth-century examples of its use.158 Niccolò Machiavelli urged for a messenger to be sent ‘in haste’ (in diligenza) to the Pope.159 Traiano Boccalini described a swift run from the University of Paris ‘with great speed’ (in grandissima diligenza).160 During the seventeenth century, the French carrosse de diligence ‘coach of speed’ or public stagecoach also derived from this second meaning of diligenza.161 This connotation distanced itself from the element of ‘assiduous care’ found in the word’s root meaning, but retained and ameliorated the ‘perseverance’ of diligenza by means of speed. Other Italian words, such as premura and sollecitare, have similarly carried connotations of ‘care’ and ‘haste’.162 In his Italian-English dictionary of 1611 dedicated to Queen Anne, John Florio translated the verb diligentare as ‘to hasten with diligence’, thereby combining these two qualities.163 This compound term best approximated the reality of artistic practice. Working with diligenza and prestezza reflected the reality of the craftsman’s hand, seeking to legitimise its manual toil within the prevailing contemporary theory on

156 ‘Trovai lettere che venivano dal cardinal de’ Medici [Robert Cust suggests Ippolito de’ Medici], le quali mi dicevano che io ritornassi a Roma con gran diligenzia e di colpo me ne andassi […].’ Benvenuto Cellini, La Vita, G. Cattaneo (ed.), Milan, 1958, book 1, chapter 69, p. 166; quoted in Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 4 (1966), p. 453. Cellini-Cust, 1935, vol. 1, pp. 262-63. 157 ‘Prontamente, in fretta, sollecitamente.’ Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 4, p. 453. 158 The adverbial in diligenza is defined as ‘without delay, swiftly, with haste’ in the fourth edition of the Vocabolario, see Crusca, 1729-1738, vol. 2, p. 120. 159 ‘Narrai la deliberazione per voi fatta di mandare un uomo in diligenza al Pontefice, per intendere più dappresso sua volontà.’ Niccolò Machiavelli, Legazioni e commissarie, S. Bertelli (ed.), Milano, 1964, vol. 3, p. 383; quoted in Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 4, p. 453. 160 ‘Per corriere espresso in grandissima diligenza spedito dalla virtuosissima università di Parigi […].’ Traiano Boccalini, Ragguagli di Parnaso e scritti minori, L. Firpo (ed.), Bari, 1948, vol. 1, p. 17. First published 1612-13; quoted in Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 4, p. 453. 161 Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 4, p. 454. 162 Compare premura in the third edition of the Vocabolario degli Accademici della Crusca, defined as ‘gran desiderio, cura’ with modern definitions of the term. Crusca, 1691, vol. 3, p. 1250. Compare solecitare and solecito in Florio, 1598, pp. 377-78; and the Crusca: sollectio ‘to work without delay, accurate, diligent’ (Che opera senza indugio, accurato, diligente) and sollecitare ‘to work with speed, hurry’ (Operar con prestezza, affrettarsi). Crusca, 1612, p. 812; 1623, p. 803; 1691, vol. 3, pp. 1590- 50; 1729-1738, vol. 4, pp. 575-76. 163 Florio, 1611, p. 147. Florio’s first edition of the dictionary defines diligente as ‘diligent, carefull’ and diligentare as ‘to solicite, to hasten, to ply, to hye.’ Florio, 1598, p. 102. Diligentare does not appear in any vocabolari of the Crusca. 95 sprezzatura and facilità. These changes bridge the division between the manual and the intellectual, leading to a more constructive understanding of effortlessness by means of labour.

As we have seen above, Emison suggested that sprezzatura was learnt and cultivated. Several cinquecento authors reveal that this was also true of facilità or effortlessness. In a passage from the Four dialogues on painting (1548), Francisco de Hollanda’s interlocutor Michelangelo admits the difficulty behind making art appear effortless: […] after much labor spent on [a painting], it should seem to have been done almost rapidly and with no labor at all, although in fact it is not so. And this needs most excellent skill and art. Sometimes, but very rarely, such a result is obtained with little labor; the important thing is that it should seem done very easily, although it has cost hard work.164

This reveals both the reality of a pretence in art making and the intentional end result of the appearance of effortlessness. Francesco Bocchi, writing in 1591, made the same admission. He praised Michelangelo’s sculpture of Night in the Medici Chapel of San Lorenzo: In this masterful facility [felice agevolezza], this unlaboured care [studio senza stento], in this delicate vitality that reveals no effort or sweat, the most famous artists clearly recognise how much effort [quanta fatica], how much sweat [quanto sudore], and how much drudgery [quanto stento] one must endure just to arrive at the smallest part of it.165

Bocchi is one of the rare contemporary voices to acknowledge what every painter, sculptor, and architect certainly knew from personal experience: effort, labour, toil, and sweat were an inevitable part of work. In order to achieve even a minimal appearance of effortlessness or facilità, these undesirable factors had to play a role in the practice that leads to the illusion of perfection.

Patricia Emison corrected the entrenched opposition between natural talent (ingenium) and learnt skill (ars). She suggested that they had been conflated into the more contemporary ‘nature/nurture controversy’, and concluded that during the Renaissance, ars and ingenium were never coupled in a formula of ‘mutual

164 Quoted from Summers, 1981, p. 66. 165 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 245. ‘la Notte del Buonarroto [...] è salita in tanta stima, che dalla lode in fuori, non si trova pregio, che tanta perfezzione, così mirabile, così eccessiva possa agguagliare. In questa felice agevolezza, in questo studio senza stento, in questa vivezza dilicata, ove non si conosce fatica, non si vede sudore, ben conoscono i più chiari artefici, quanta fatica si duri, quanto sudore e quanto stento, onde ad una minima parte si arrivi.’ Bocchi, 1591, pp. 269-70. 96 antagonism’ as Baxandall maintained, but rather used together ‘to promote moderation via their admixture.’166

Our Romantic inheritance has similarly led to a perceived contradiction between individual style, with it associated concepts: imagination, genius, originality; and on the opposite side of the spectrum: learning, study, and imitation.167 The criteria frequently used to differentiate originals from copies in modern connoisseurship had related cinquecento precursors in effortlessness (facilità, sprezzatura) and labour (fatica, stento), speed (prestezza) and care (diligenza), natural talent (ingegno) and learnt skill (arte). Although early connoisseurs perceived these qualities as incompatible, and Romantic ideologies treated them as antithetical, they were far more complementary in sixteenth-century art theory.168 This attempt to break down the connoisseurial discourse to first principles has not fully engaged with drawn examples. I make a definitive case in favour of the creative potential of imitation, and closely examine Naldini’s drawings, in chapters six and seven.

Evaluations of the Sketch in Cinquecento Florence

In a pioneering article on the ‘Early appreciation of drawings’ (1963), Julius Held distinguished Northern preferences for finished drawings from Italian predilections for sketches.169 He based this upon a general impression of the language used by Italian authors to describe drawings. Vasari employed ‘ardent’ (fiero), ‘boldness’ (fierezza), ‘liveliness’ (vivacità), ‘force’ (gagliardia), and ‘whim’ or ‘fantasy’ (capriccio). Baldinucci prized the qualities of ‘brilliant skill’ (bravura), ‘liberty’ or ‘ease’ (franchezza) and ‘fancifulness’ (bizzaria) and used adjectives like ‘spirited’ (spiritoso), ‘lively’ (vivace), and ‘bold’ (franco).170 Malvasia used terms such as ‘rumbling’ (strepitoso), ‘soft’ (tenero), ‘flickering’ (guizzante), spiritoso, bizzarro, and ‘aflutter’ (svolazzante).171 These terms give the overwhelming impression that

166 Emison, 2004, p. 344. 167 Chapter 6 resolves one of the contradictions that Luigi Grassi perceived in Armenini’s advice to imitate other artists while possessing an individual style. Grassi, 1948. Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 8-9, 312-13. 168 I have adopted this idea from Emison’s observation that nineteenth-century authors were more antithetical in their interpretation of the Renaissance and the rhetoric of divino ingegno. In contrast, fifteenth and sixteenth-century attitudes were defined more by analogy. Emison, 2004, p. 345. 97 Italian authors were extremely fond of the power and animation of sketches, and can be used to locate the force of movement in lines and strokes, rather than represented subject matter. However Ridolfi, Baldinucci, and Malvasia were all writing in the seventeenth century and it is necessary to consider Vasari independently in order to understand the value of non-finito and sketchiness during the Cinquecento.172

Giorgio Vasari praised the drawings of Giulio Romano for their ‘vitality, boldness, and feeling’ (vivacità, fierezza et affetto), and believed they always captured his ideas (concetti) better than his final paintings. Giulio could dash off a drawing in an hour ‘filled with the boldness and passion of working’, but in painting he consumed months and even years, often going to great pains and exercising much labour. Vasari recognised the importance of retaining the creative spark kindled at the beginning of an artistic project to its very end. Because Giulio’s paintings did not preserve that ‘fervent and burning love’ (vivo et ardente amore) they could not display the ‘complete perfection visible in his drawings.’173 Elsewhere, Vasari argued that ‘a beautiful sketch [bella bozza] has greater vivacity and force than a highly finished work.’174 But what appearance did Vasari envision when he praised this bella bozza?

Some cinquecento authors used the trope of sketching a subject ‘in a few strokes’.175 When read together with the premium that Vasari placed on speed (prestezza), and the ‘vivacity, boldness and feeling’ that he perceived in Giulio’s drawings, it is easy to imagine a loose and energetic sketch: kinetic, vibrant, pulsing with animating force, powerful and brilliant in its summary evocation of life. However, Vasari was not endorsing mere spontaneity or an extreme non-finito that verges on the non-

169 Held, 1963, pp. 82-87. 170 Philip Sohm reveals that Baldinucci’s stylistic vocabulary amounted to around 80 terms and reflected his profession as a connoisseur. Sohm, 2001, p. 181. 171 Held, 1963, p. 84. 172 Held’s discussion ranges from the late sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, but he concentrates on the seventeenth century. Held, 1963, pp. 72-73. 173 Vasari-Bondanella, 1998, pp. 362-63. ‘[…] si può affermare che Giulio esprimesse sempre meglio i suoi concetti ne’ disegni che nell’operare o nelle pitture, vedendosi in quelli più vivacità, fierezza et affetto: e ciò potette forse avvenire perché un disegno lo faceva in un’ora tutto fiero et acceso nell’opera, dove nelle pitture consumava i mesi e gli anni. Onde venendogli a fastidio, e mancando quel vivo et ardente amore che si ha quando si comincia alcuna cosa, non è maraviglia se non dava loro quell’intera perfezzione che si vede ne’ suo’ disegni.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 327. 174 ‘[…] hanno più fierezza e maggior forza se sono una bella bozza che se sono finite.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 263. 175 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 104, 125. Petherbridge, 2010, pp. 35-36. 98 representational.176 A modern viewer might identify Vasari’s description above with Giulio Romano’s sketch of Jupiter hurling a thunderbolt.177 Jupiter’s forward charge is captured in rapid strokes of the pen with fluid curls describing buoyant fabric thrown aside, and brown wash streaked across the face; features that all suggest urgent, windswept power. Though attractive, this may not have been the kind of drawing that Vasari had in mind. Vasari fondly remembered viewing Giulio’s vast collection of drawings in Mantova in 1541. It comprised copies after antique monuments and the plans of ancient buildings in Rome, Naples, Pozzuoli, and the Campagna, and an enormous cupboard full of all of Giulio’s architectural designs. Vasari valued Giulio’s accurate and precise plans because they recorded the most innovative and beautiful ideas for buildings.178 Vasari’s Libro de’ disegni contained Giulio’s more detailed pen and wash studies, the refined compositional study for the Fall of Icarus, elaborate preparatory studies for two altarpieces, and only one distinctly rapid sketch.179 Most of these are not the kind of drawings a modern viewer may expect to be described in terms of ‘vivacity, boldness and feeling’. Vasari was more concerned about the length of time it took to create a work of art, and was far more flexible in his application of the rhetoric of artistic creation.

It is difficult to avoid our received modern appreciation for drawing as self- expression, gesture, or linear abstraction when considering drawing in sixteenth- century Italy. The tendency to perceive the essence of art in stylisation rather than figuration can also encourage modern viewers to identify cinquecento terms like furia, vivacità, fierezza, and prontezza with lines, rather than the subjects or persons

176 I view Emison’s observation that for Lodovico Dolce, Titian’s sprezzatura is ‘assurance rather than mere spontaneity’ as equally valid for most sixteenth-century viewers. Emison, 2004, p. 46. 177 Giulio Romano, Jupiter Hurling a Thunderbolt, study for vault of Camera dei Giganti in Palazzo Te, Mantua, c. 1530-31, pen and brown ink, brown wash over traces of black chalk, 168 x 193mm, Switzerland, Private collection. Reproduced in New York, 1999, no.29, pp. 106-7. 178 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 337. 179 Monbeig Goguel, 1979, pp. 273-76, identified Louvre, inv. 3499r as the drawing described by Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 332. Forlani Tempesti, 2014, p. 37. Album page with 4 studies dated 1526- 1532, from Libro de’ disegni, mounting and framework by Vasari. Louvre inv. 3573. Cox-Rearick in New York, 1999, p. 27n95, argues that only the two Victories on this album page are by Giulio, and considers the dog study and David with the head of Goliath as ‘unrelated to Giulio’s style.’ Madonna and Child with saints, c. 1534, pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightened in white lead, squared in black chalk, 432 x 330 mm, Louvre inv. 3581. Madonna and child with four saints, c. 1534, pen and brown ink, brown wash, black chalk, 395 x 320mm, Louvre inv. 3464. Angelucci & Serra, 2012, nos.25, 34-35, 41, pp. 72-73, 75, 77. 99 they represent.180 After all, passion, liveliness, boldness, and readiness best describe the urgency and creative power of sketching. It is well known that cinquecento authors extensively theorised about drawing and elevated disegno as the fountainhead of painting, sculpture, and architecture. Artists sketched constantly, and many preserved their own drawings as records of useful compositions, a storehouse of ideas, or a legacy to bequeath to their artistic heirs. Drawings were also increasingly valued beyond their preparatory nature, and collected voraciously by Giorgio Vasari, Vincenzio Borghini, and Niccolò Gaddi.181 Though an appreciation of sketches and the sketched form (abbozzato) developed among dilettanti and intendenti d’arte during the late Cinquecento and into the Seicento, this must be balanced against an overwhelming preference for finito within a Florentine context.

Joost Keizer recently argued that the first decades of the sixteenth century saw drawing become an end in itself.182 Michelangelo’s cartoon for the Battle of Cascina (1504-1505) was displayed in the Sala del Gran Consiglio for seven years as a substitute for the never completed fresco.183 Keizer argues that this marked a moment of ‘unprecedented autonomy for drawing’ to serve his larger argument for the emergence of an art not bound by textual subject matter or the Albertian istoria, and his objective to prioritise art making and invention over iconographic content.184 Carmen Bambach recognised the value given to drawing with the exhibition of the Cascina cartoon, as well as Leonardo’s cartoon of the Madonna and Child and St Anne (1500-1501) and the Battle of Anghiari (1505), but never as marking such

180 For the perceptual shift away from figuration toward line, colour and shape and stylisation see Akker, 2010. 181 For Vasari see Ragghianti Collobi, 1974; Forlani Tempesti, 2014; for Gaddi see Acidini Luchinat, 1980; Catherine Whistler in Brooks, 2003, pp. 13-14. For Borghini see Scorza, 2003a; 2012. Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici also possessed a volume of drawings, and other Florentine noblemen including Bartolomeo Gondi, Ridolfo Sirigatti, and Bernardo Vecchietti also collected drawings. Forlani Tempesti, 2014, pp. 42, 47n5. 182 Keizer, 2011, pp. 309-10. 183 Keizer cites a document, dated to August 1505, recording that Michelangelo’s cartoon was attached to the ballatoio in the Sala del Gran Consiglio. Keizer notes that ballatoio can also be translated as ‘gallery’ or ‘balcony’, but interprets it as the podium upon which the Dodici Buonomini of the Signoria sat in council. Keizer, 2011, pp. 309-10, 321n43. 184 Keizer, 2011. Williams & Keizer, 2013, pp. 657, Robert Williams raises the crucial problem of arguing for the autonomy as opposed to centrality of disegno, and a ‘new institution of art’. I agree with Williams that Keizer’s insistence on the non-textual autonomy of art does not accord with cinquecento art theory. Moments of iconographic fluidity in the practice of disegno, as in Sebastiano del Piombo’s recommendation that Michelangelo change his drawn Ganymede into St John the Evangelist by adding a halo, exist at the heart of the tension between regola and licenza, tradition and innovation, but in their very recognition of attributes recognise the continuing standards of decorum. 100 pivotal perceptual shifts from narrative to figure, or content to art, or the non-finito as a desirable end in itself.185 Vasari explained that Michelangelo sketched (abbozzate) the figures in his cartoon in a variety of different ways. He perceived charcoal contours, figures ‘drawn in strokes’, and others ‘shaded and illuminated in white lead.’186 In the procedure of the cinquecento workshop, the cartoon came closest to the painting in its scale and realisation of the concetto, and in its degree of finish. Bambach demonstrates that two approaches to cartoon making prevailed in sixteenth- century Italy: outline cartoons which reduced pictorial details to contours, and more refined cartoons that aspired to an ideal of ben finito, characterised by volumetric projection (rilievo) and chiaroscuro modelling.187 Keizer concentrates on the second category, correctly arguing that cartoons could be ‘self-sufficient works of art.’ He acknowledges that the Cascina cartoon was ‘carefully polished’, but then concludes that Michelangelo’s patrons appreciated his ‘sketchlike strokes’ and ‘the work’s lack of finish’, initiating a ‘giant leap’ from existing systems of value.188 In drawing, Keizer argues, ‘meaning resides foremost in style, expressed with the pen or stylus.’ In order to endorse his formalist claim and concentrate on line, Keizer cites the ancient contest between Apelles and Protogenes as a precedent for lines governed by non-representational goals.189

The attractive fiction of the revealing ‘single free stroke’ voiced by many connoisseurs had a venerable precedent in the story told by Pliny the Elder in his

Historia Naturalis (77-79 CE). Apelles journeyed to Rhodes to visit Protogenes whom he knew only by reputation. Upon entering his studio he found an old woman keeping watch over a large panel on an easel. She explained that Protogenes was not home and asked the name of his visitor. Apelles picked up a brush and painted an ‘extremely delicate line’ (linea summae tenuitatis), and responded: ‘here it is’. When Protogenes returned the woman told him what had happened, and after contemplating the subtlety of the line, Protogenes declared that it was Apelles who had visited ‘for no one else could have drawn anything so perfect.’ He chose a different colour and brushed a

185 Bambach, 1999a, p. 249-50. 186 Vasari-Bondanella, 1998, pp. 430-31. ‘V’erano ancora molte figure aggruppate et in varie maniere abbozzate, chi contornato di carbone, chi disegnato di tratti, e chi sfumato e con biacca lumeggiato, volendo egli mostrare quanto sapesse in tale professione.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 725. 187 Bambach, 1999a, pp. 257-83. 188 Keizer, 2011, p. 310. 189 Keizer, 2011, p. 310. 101 ‘finer line’ over the first. Apelles returned and ‘ashamed to be beaten, drew a third line in another colour cutting the first two down their length and leaving no room for any further refinement.’ Protogenes finally conceded his defeat and went out in search for his visitor.190

Thierry Lenain argues that it is anachronistic to read Pliny as a precedent for the ‘trace paradigm’ of attribution in modern connoisseurship.191 He argues that when Protogenes recognised the ‘subtlety’ and ‘utmost fineness’ as the distinguishing feature of the line of Apelles, he was not identifying a trait of his style or personality, but logically deducing that only the most talented artist alive could have produced this line. For Lenain: ‘The aim of the story is to extol levels of craftsmanship. It deals with an objective and quantified value of mastery, not a qualitative, expressive sign of the artist’s subjectivity.’192 Despite this, some authors have accepted that Pliny’s account implies the identification of the self with the effortless stroke.193 Lenain’s interpretation serves a narrative that delays the emergence of an ‘obsession with art forgery’ and by extension the theoretical underpinnings of artistic originality and ‘style as an individual expression’. For those arguments instead privileging narratives of genius, originality, and appreciation of the non-finito, the lack of any mention of representation in Pliny’s account renders him an excellent ancient precedent. Norman Land discusses two additional ancient sources that describe the self-portrayal of Apelles. One anonymous undated verse from The Greek Anthology states: ‘Apelles painted himself in the picture’ and the Roman poet Statius praised the knowledge of the collector Novius Vindex, particularly his recognition of the ‘line [that] proclaims Apelles from afar.’194 Land interprets these fleeting voices sensitively, proposing that the first may have described a self-portrait by Apelles; and the second, by way of Pliny, likely recognised Apelles’ skilled perfection or charm (charis in Greek, translated as gratia and venustas in Latin) in this characteristic feature of his art.195

190 Natural History, XXXV.81-83. Pliny-Jex-Blake, 1896, pp. 121-23. Pliny, 1938-1963, vol. 9, pp. 321-23. 191 Lenain, 2011, pp. 58-60. 192 Lenain, 2011, p. 59. 193 Rosand, 2002, pp. 7, 18. 194 Greek Anthology, IX.595; translated by W.R. Paton, 1917, LCL 84, vol. 3, p. 331. Statius, Silvae (c. 89-96 CE), IV.29; Statius-Shackleton Bailey & Parrott, 2015, p. 267. Land, 2006, pp. 1-2. 195 Land, 2006. For definitions of these terms see Pollitt, 1974, pp. 299-301, 378-79, 448-49. 102 The ancient contest of lines attracted many different explanations.196 Lorenzo Ghiberti felt the need to furnish the linear contest with more representational purpose. In his interpretation Apelles and Protogenes each offered conclusions on a problem of perspective.197 Alberti suggested the ancient painters competed over the contours of a figure.198 In a variant of the story told by Filarete, Apelles and Zeuxis drew perfect lines with no mechanical aids. Apelles won the competition by drawing a perfect circle without a compass, like Giotto’s O.199 Baldassare Castiglione also drew inspiration from Apelles’ virtuosic performance in his discussion of sprezzatura.200

In his Book of the Courtier (1528), Castiglione’s Count Ludovico da Canossa explains that the briefest action performed with sprezzatura gives the impression of excellence. As examples he cites the ready stance of the fighter, one step or graceful movement of the dancer, and a singer’s single note ending in a sweet tone. All of these actions are unforced and executed gracefully and ‘immediately reveal’ (súbito scopre) the knowledge of who performs them. It is important to recognise his comments on painting as but one example among these others: Often too in painting, a single line which is not labored, a single brush stroke made with ease and in such a manner that the hand seems of itself to complete the line desired by the painter, without being directed by care or skill of any kind, clearly reveals that excellence of the artist.201

Castiglione celebrates artistic virtuosity, but his words can be used to shift the focus from representational function to line, expression and abstraction. His words can be interpreted as a continuation of the virtuosity of Apelles’ extremely subtle line or used to promote visible brushstrokes in painting as the locus of talent. Like Pliny’s description of the ancient contest of lines, Castiglione makes no mention of representation.202 However, it is unhistorical to suppose that he envisioned pure linear

196 Waal, 1967. 197 Ghiberti, Commentari, p. 24. Summers, 1981, p. 507n7. 198 Waal, 1967, p. 7. 199 Filarete-Spencer, 1965, vol. 1, p. 298. Land, 2005, p. 7. Land, 2014, pp. 81-82. 200 McHam, 2013, pp. 261-63. 201 Castiglione-Singleton, 1959, p. 47. The same passage is also discussed by Rosand, 2002, p. 139; and McHam, 2013, p. 263. ‘Spesso ancora nella pittura una linea sola non stentata, un sol colpo di pennello tirato facilmente, di modo che paia che la mano, senza esser guidato da studio o arte alcuna, vada per sé stessa al suo termine secondo la intenzion del pittore, scopre chiaramente la eccellenzia dell’artefice, circa la opinion della quale ognuno poi si estende secondo il suo giudicio.’ Il Cortegiano, I, 28, Maier (ed.), 1955, p. 129. 202 I agree with Sarah Blake McHam that Castiglione would have had a representational act in mind despite the fact that Castiglione never defines exactly what visual exercise motivates the intenzion del pittore. McHam, 2013, p. 263, argues that Castiglione’s example ‘concerned the best artists’ ability to 103 expression or abstraction. The passage also invites a second assumption: that Castiglione implied that a single effortless stroke reflected the identity of its creator. For example, David Rosand argues: ‘Appreciating the natural movement of the line, Castiglione here assumes that basic tenet of connoisseurship: by his line shall the artist be known.’203 This was certainly evoked when Francisco de Hollanda’s repeated the Plinian account: ‘in a mere straight line Apelles was known by Protogenes.’204 From this Rosand decides: ‘The line is recognised as the natural expression of the artist, an extension of his very person, the means by which the viewer gets to know him.’205 Petrarch, Boccaccio, Bernardo da Imola, Marsilio Ficino, and Angelo Poliziano all recognised the author’s self-portrayal as either mirroring the creator’s physical body or reflecting their intellect, talent or soul.206 Leonardo used the maxim ogni dipintore dipinge se to stress that the painter must avoid his natural tendency to represent his own physical defects.207 Paolo Pino explained that a well-proportioned painter was more likely to paint perfect figures and endow figures with grace if he possessed the internal quality of grazia.208 But this Neoplatonic and physiognomic reasoning did not extend to single lines. It is unlikely that Hollanda’s understanding of the Plinian account invested as much individuality in Apelles’ line as Rosand supposes. Lenain’s interpretation of Pliny – that line serves as a means to recognise talent rather than the ‘artist’s subjectivity’ – also applies in this context. Francisco de Hollanda’s words properly belong to the expert’s easy ability to pass judgment on art: A painter of strength will only have to trace a simple profile, as one who only begins a drawing, and from this he will be recognised for an Apelles, if an Apelles he is, and he will be recognised for ignorant if he is merely ignorant. No more is needed; longer or more attentive examination is unnecessary to the eyes of him who understands.209

Castiglione also revealed how a typical sixteenth-century spectator might have responded to sprezzatura in action, watching the performance of a fighter, dancer, singer or painter. This bystander may reflect ‘he who does well so easily, knows much more than he does, and if he exercised these things with study [studio] and capture an object’s form with a single perfect contour line or brushstroke.’ Alberti had also interpreted Pliny’s account of the linear contest between Apelles and Protogenes as a competition revolving around contour lines, suggesting a figurative exercise. 203 Rosand, 2002, p. 138. 204 Rosand, 2002, p. 139. Summers, 1981, p. 66. 205 Rosand, 2002, p. 139. 206 Land, 2001. 207 Kemp, 1976. 208 Pino-Barocchi, 1960, vol. 1, p. 133. Land, 2001, p. 26. 209 Quoted in Summers, 1981, p. 66. 104 effort [fatica] he could do far better.’210 Castiglione’s last remark suggests that a typical bystander thinks there is always room for improvement, a view that challenges the more modern interpretation of the perfect sleight of hand as the ultimate expression of talent. The single effortless line, like the single pose, step, or note, offers the bystander a strong impression of the courtier’s excellence, implying greater expertise than he or she really possesses. Each action of sprezzatura may function as a trace or index of this talent, shifting from the microcosm to the macrocosm in the beholder’s mind, but Castiglione does not describe the line, step or note as an identifying trait of the individual. Nor does he explicitly mention the final product. One step does not make a dance, nor does one note make a song, but we live during a time when a single line or brushstroke can be celebrated in isolation for its spontaneity, velocity, or rhythm. A sixteenth-century viewer would have expected each gesture, no matter how graceful, to partake in a larger whole, and in the realm of the visual arts this was always going to be representational.

Francisco de Hollanda also argues that it is a gift to paint rapidly what others took days to achieve, and yet this also comes with the warning: ‘the strong and excellent painter has no right to give himself up to errors of taste in his quickness [presteza], when he in some parts neglects the great burden of perfection, which he ought to seek.’211 Armenini also criticised contemporary painters who regarded working with prestezza as the distinguishing mark of talent: ‘Wise experts do not inquire whether a work was made quickly or slowly, but only whether it is good or bad.’212 Like prestezza, therefore, sprezzatura was conditioned by existing systems of valuation.

During the Cinquecento, the term abbozzato meant ‘sketched’ or ‘painterly’ and carried implications as an ‘unfinished’ and ‘imperfect’ form. One of the most pressing problems when considering Central Italian attitudes toward non-finito, is explaining Vasari’s use of the term abbozzato. Vasari proudly declared that his paintings were ‘more sketched than finished ’ (piuttosto abbozzati che fatti), when they were among

210 Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, translated by Leonard Eckstein Opdycke, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1903, p. 38. ‘[…] negli animi delli circunstanti imprime opinione, che chi cosí facilmente fa bene sappia molto piú di quello che fa, e se in quello che fa ponesse studio e fatica, potesse farlo molto meglio.’ Castiglione, 1528, I, chapter 28. Castiglione-Singleton, 1959, p. 46. 211 Translated in Summers, 1981, p. 66. 212 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 142-43. ‘Imperò che gl’intendenti e’ savii non vanno cercando se quell’opera fu fatta all’improviso o pur con tempo, ma se quella sta bene o male, e quivi sta il fondamento de’ loro giudizii.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 88. 105 the most smoothly polished and distinctly unpainterly works in Florence.213 According to Philip Sohm, Vasari used abbozzato not to describe surface finish or rough execution, but rather as part of the rhetoric of artistic creation. The sketch was ‘provisional’, preparatory, a means to a ‘more polished’ end. Sohm argues that when Vasari spoke of the ‘magic of the brush’ (tocco magico di pennello) he was describing the power of representation and the ability to capture and render convincing life with the brush.214 Therefore, Vasari’s identification of the rhetoric of artistic invention with the ‘sketchy form’ of finished painting was ‘partly a linguistic illusion.’215

Vasari criticised Tintoretto for creating painterly work and ‘leaving as finished sketches [bozze per finite] still so rough that the brushstrokes could be seen, done more by chance and vehemence [fierezza] than with judgment and design.’216 This statement would seem to caution against untamed fierezza and sketchiness as an end in painting. Vasari’s self-adulation: ‘I know too well how to paint expeditiously [tirar via di pratica]’ also raises implications because he criticises the Venetian for exactly the same reason.217 Vasari argued that if Tintoretto had not tirato via di pratica, he would have been one of the greatest painters in Venice.218 He believed that brushstrokes ought to be applied judiciously, following a Central Italian and Florentine tradition of disegno, where the concetto was first captured in the schizzo, and then gradually refined toward the cartoon stage prior to being transferred to the final painting support. Vasari certainly differed in his estimation of Central Italian and Venetian abbozzato work. Though he valued furore and fierezza, he clearly perceived some paintings as more extreme than others.

Paola Barocchi suggests that Vasari was aware of the ‘limits and dangers’ of furore.219 She argues that he understood that few painters were able to maintain the furore kindled at the beginning of the work without deadening the passion or

213 Vasari-Milanesi, 1998, vol. 7, p. 724; quoted in Sohm, 1991, p. 27. 214 Sohm, 1991, p. 30. 215 Sohm, 1991, p. 34. 216 Vasari-De Vere, 1912-1914, vol. 8, p. 102. ‘Ha costui alcuna volta lasciato le bozze per finite, tanto a fatica sgrossate, che si veggiono i colpi de’ pennegli fatti a caso de dalla fierezza, più tosto che dal disegno e dal giudizio.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 592. 217 Translated and discussed by Sohm, 1991, p. 34. 218 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 592. 219 Barocchi, 1958, p. 223. 106 diligently loosing themselves in details.220 However, she reasons that furore could be a negative quality when it led an artist to mere improvisation and easy practice. The best way to prevent this was with an adequate fierezza, which Barocchi interprets as ‘clarity of conception and force of synthesis.’ Here, Barocchi modifies fierezza by incorporating features of disegno and giudizio in order to justify Vasari’s contradictory usage of the term; where fierezza is praised in Tuscan paintings and drawings, but disparaged in Tintoretto’s overly sketchy work. Barocchi then quotes Vasari’s thoughts on Titian to conclude that the ideal style was furioso and studioso at the same time.221 The reality was that the concepts of fierezza and furore, gleaned from the rhetoric of literary composition and poetic inspiration, were subsumed into existing systems of valuation, and were secondary to Vasari’s personal tastes and patriotic leanings.

In a well-known passage Vasari contrasted the creative force of the sketch to the slow pedantry of laboured execution: It seems often that in sketches [bozze], arising from the furor of art, the concetto is expressed in a few strokes, and on the contrary effort [stento] and too great diligence sometimes take the force and skill [sapere] from those that never know when to take their hands from what they are making.222

Speed, force and passion are central to what it means to sketch. They were also woven into the rhetoric of poetic composition. Vasari perpetuated the central precept from the famous anecdote recounted by Pliny the Elder, where the ancient Greek painter Apelles criticised Protogenes of not knowing when to lift his brush.223 However, Vasari was not describing the ‘sketchiness’ that a modern viewer might expect, nor for that matter was he discussing rough drawing.224 In this passage from the Vita of Luca della Robbia, Vasari praised the sketchy (abbozzata) quality that he perceived in the sculpted figures of Donatello’s Cantoria for Santa Maria del Fiore. He then contrasted these against the more finished marble figures in the pulpit by Luca della

220 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 240. 221 Barocchi, 1958, p. 224. 222 ‘[…] pare anco che nelle bozze molte volte, nascendo in un sùbito dal furore dell’arte, si sprima il suo concetto in pochi colpi, e che per contrario lo stento e la troppa diligenza alcuna fiata toglia la forza et il sapere a coloro che non sanno mai levare le mani dall’opera che fanno.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 263. 223 Natural History, XXXV, p. 80. Rosand, 2002, p. 351n16. 224 Sohm, 1991, pp. 45-50, correctly discussed the passage within its context. 107 Robbia.225 Vasari’s appraisal was, furthermore, conditioned by the belief that Donatello’s ‘sketchiness’ was successful only when viewed from a distance. This comment was likely prompted by a passing remark in Asciano Condivi’s Life of Michelangelo (1553), where the master criticised Donatello for not having the patience to polish his sculptures, arguing that although they appeared wonderful from a distance, they lost all their value when viewed up close.226

Vasari’s Libro de’ disegni

Vasari organised his graphic collection into large drawing albums. He symmetrically ordered individual drawings on the large pages and drew elaborate architectural frames around them in pen and ink. The artist’s woodcut portrait, from the 1568 edition of the Vite, sometimes featured as the centrepiece of the assemblage, accompanied by Vasari’s attribution inscribed below in a scroll or decorative cartouche.227 Vasari called his graphic collection ‘our book of drawings of the most famous painters,’ but he also included examples he considered mediocre.228 Agnolo Gaddi ‘was not excellent in drawing, as some sheets by his hand testify in our book.’229 The Florentine painter Dello was also ‘not a very good draughtsman’, but Vasari still included him in the libro because he was one of the first to reveal muscles in nudes with some judgment.230 Vasari also collected copies. The miniaturist painter Gherardo del Fora engraved copies after prints by Martin Schongauer and Albrecht Dürer ‘extremely well […] as one can see in certain pezzi that are in our book.’231 According to Vasari, Giovann’Antonio Lappoli was driven to ‘incredible exertions’ (fatica terribilmente) out of rivalry of Pontormo’s star pupil, the ‘diligent’ Agnolo Bronzino. Lappoli ‘drew continually’, working for months making copies after

225 In Vasari’s example, the nude angels of Luca della Robbia were ‘brought to a clean finish’ (condotti molto pulitamente). In contrast, Donatello’s figures were ‘almost completely sketched’ (quasi solamente abbozzata) and not cleanly polished. 226 ‘Donatello […] non haveva pacienza in repulire le sue opere, di sorte che riuscendo mirabilia à vista lontana, da presso perdevõ [= perdevono] riputatione.’ Condivi, 1553, fol. 14r, see Davis, 2009, p. 22. 227 Forlani Tempesti, 2014, p. 34. 228 ‘nostro libro di disegni de’ più famosi dipintori.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 391. Life of Fra Filippo Lippi. 229 ‘Non fu eccellente nel disegno per quello che mostrano alcune carte che di sua mano sono nel nostro libro.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 199. 230 Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 258. 231 Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 454. 108 Pontormo’s paintings and drawings.232 Irrespective of the effort behind these copies, Vasari was pleased to include some in his libro as a testament to Lappoli’s skill.233

Vasari’s libro also contained many drawings by Andrea del Sarto, but he singled out his compositional study for the Triumph of Caesar fresco in the Medici villa at Poggio a Caiano. Vasari prized this drawing as a cosa rara because it was finito, unlike the majority of Andrea’s sketches which were ‘extremely sketchy’ (schizzi così abbozzati).234 Another folio of the libro assembled drawings by Filippino Lippi, Raffaellino del Garbo and Sandro Botticelli, which Vasari all attributed to Filippo Lippi.235 The place of honour was given to a coloured drawing by Raffaellino del Garbo, elaborately framed between two pilasters and surmounted by a large entablature and pediment like a painted altarpiece.236 Two niches with metalpoint drawings of draped women by Filippino Lippi flank this central frame. A dancing putto is pasted above between two angels all drawn by Filippino. Vasari valued the graphic production of the elder Filippo Lippi, the author he perceived in all these drawings, stating that ‘he drew very well’.237

Lippi’s rapid sketch of an Angel carrying a torch was pasted in the upper left of the album page. Curiously, its final placement reveals Vasari’s respect for the most abbreviated lines.238 Vasari drastically trimmed this drawing, leaving a thin margin of the original paper support as he turned his blade around every feature. The angel was pasted down and contextualised, brushed over in grey wash, and placed on a bed of clouds heightened with white lead. At the very top of the sketch Vasari intruded into Lippi’s space to redraw the shadowed recess of his projecting entablature. This was a compromise between the original size of Lippi’s sketch, precisely positioned to include the full expanse of the angel’s wing, and the decorative demands of his

232 Vasari-De Vere, 1912-1914, vol. 6, p. 256. 233 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 382. 234 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 169. 235 Album page with 10 drawings dated 1480-1504, from Libro de’ disegni, mounting and framework by Vasari after 1524, 567 x 457 mm, Washington, National Gallery of Art, inv. 1991.190.1. 236 Raffaellino del Garbo, Saint Roch between Saints Anthony Abbot and Catherine of Alexandria, c. 1485-1495, gouache and brown wash heightened with white, 153 x 156 mm, Washington, National Gallery of Art, inv. 1991.190.1.h. For observations on fictive altarpieces see Forlani Tempesti, 2014, pp. 36, 40. 237 ‘Disegnò Fra Filippo benissimo.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 391. 238 Filippino Lippi, Angel carrying a torch, c. 1500-1504, pen and brown ink and grey wash, overall (maximum dimensions): 206 x 130 mm, Washington, National Gallery of Art, inv. 1991.190.1.f. 109 symmetrical layout. Vasari’s alternative would have been to cut away the ardent pen strokes, which unlike those nearby did not effectively describe a flaming torch. Instead, Vasari chose to keep these rapid, abbreviated strokes. As a result, Lippi’s dancing lines, inflected with the accent of urgent creation, are projected beyond Vasari’s architectural illusion, much the same way the arm in a portrait may lean on a painted parapet and break out from her frame. The attention given to sketched lines here, which display the most rudimentary non-finito and sit on the cusp of the non- representational, is brought into stronger relief because Vasari removed so much of the paper support, but chose to retain every line of Lippi’s sketch.

On another page of the libro, dedicated to Maso da San Friano, Vasari pasted the drawing of a bent, draped figure in the upper left corner.239 Vasari must have been fraught with constant compromises when he arranged these ordered assemblages. He balanced the placement of this sketch on grey paper, in sharp contrast to the cream ground of his album page, by choosing another sketch on brown paper for the upper right of the sheet.240 Again, rather than amputate the lightly sketched hand of the figure, Vasari allowed his small extending arm to partly cover his elaborately drawn frame, revealing his respect for the sketch as an integral whole, still a representational unit despite its lack of finish.

In his 1591 guidebook Le Bellezze della città di Fiorenza, Francesco Bocchi used the terms fierezza, prontezza, vivacità, and even sciolta, meaning ‘loose’, ‘free’ or ‘quick agility’, to describe how artists captured animation and life in figures, not lines or brushstrokes. A bronze portrait bust captures its sitter as if speaking publically ‘with prontezza così viva, così fiera, così sciolta as is found in living persons.’241 Bocchi’s use of fierezza similarly focuses entirely upon representation, rather than manual technique, or the appearance of marks or lines. Francesco Salviati’s frescoes representing the Story of Camillus in the Sala dell’Udienza of the Palazzo Vecchio display ‘daring and fierce’ (ardito e fiero) figures attired in heroic armour, all

239 Tommaso Manzuoli, Standing draped figure, black chalk on grey paper, 180 x 87 mm, Louvre inv. 1306.Ar. 240 Tommaso Manzuoli, Friar with hands clasped in prayer, black chalk on brown paper, 183 x 75 mm, Louvre inv. 1306.Br. 241 Bocchi, 1591, p. 46. 110 represented in readiness for battle (prontezza battagliaresca).242 He describes the protagonists in Giuliano Bugiardini’s Abduction of Dina ‘with poses così sciolte, così vive that they seem real.’243

The guidebook also furnishes important details about drawings in Florentine collections. Bocchi celebrates an ‘extremely prized’ Deposition drawn in pen by Baccio Bandinelli in the collection of Francesco and Lorenzo Salviati.244 Bandinelli’s figures ‘have so much power’ (hanno tanta forza) and their varied poses are drawn with ‘bold skill’ (fiera industria). Though Bocchi stresses fiera industria to bring attention to the execution of the drawing, he soon qualifies the achievement in terms of the drawing’s perfezzione, rather than energy, or fierce passion. Bocchi instead concentrates on Bandinelli’s figuration and representation, where the human figures are ‘understood with such acute and alert intelligence.’245 Another Bandinelli pen drawing of many nude figures is praised as ‘a work of unbelievably exquisite perfection.’246 Bocchi uses ‘boldness’ (fierezza) to describe the draughtsman’s intelligence, indicating once again that he is focused on Bandinelli’s concetto, representational qualities, rather than passionate or energetic lines.

Baccio Valori, the librarian of the Biblioteca Laurenziana, owned one of Pontormo’s preparatory drawings for the San Lorenzo frescoes, with the Last Judgement drawn above the Martyrdom of St Lawrence.247 The picciolo disegno was displayed in a small decorative frame, three-quarters of a braccio (c. 43.5 cm) high and protected beneath a cover painted with a Noli me tangere by Naldini.248 Francesco Bocchi

242 Bocchi, 1591, p. 41. Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 59. 243 Bocchi, 1591, p. 106. 244 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 175n506, the authors identify as Bandinelli’s lost preparatory drawing for the sculptural relief he presented to Emperor Charles V in 1529. See also Ward, 1988, pp. 51-52. 245 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 176. ‘sono intese con senno così accorto, così svegliato, che lodata senza fine da tutti, di una somma perfezzione, da cui sono state fatte […]’ Bocchi, 1591, p. 185. 246 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 176; ‘perfezione incredibilmente rara’ Bocchi, 1591, p. 187. 247 Bocchi, 1591, p. 183. Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 174n504, argue that none of Pontormo’s surviving preparatory studies precisely match Bocchi’s description. 248 ‘Di quest’opera ha un picciolo disegno molto ben fatto qui M. Baccio con un ornamento a uso di spera, il coperchio del quale è stato dipinto da Batista Naldini e vi è figurato un orto bellissimo e Cristo in forma d’ortolano apparito alla Maddalena.’ Borghini, 1584, p. 485. Unfortunately both Naldini’s cover and Pontormo’s drawing remain untraced. I agree with Cox-Rearick, 1981, p. 325n33, that Bocchi and Borghini describe the same drawing by Pontormo in Valori’s collection. Scorza, 2003a, p. 119n218, believes the dimensions recorded by Bocchi make it ‘surely too big’ to be identified with 111 valued Pontormo’s drawing more than his final frescoes, but not because it was a sketch or in any way unfinished. Raffaello Borghini reported that it was ‘very well made.’249 Bocchi said it was drawn in black chalk ‘with stupendous skill and wonderful care.’250

Bocchi’s long description of Pontormo’s drawing is a defence of the artist’s advanced anatomical knowledge against criticism of the San Lorenzo frescoes, but it also provides additional data. He uses the term pulitezza, literally ‘cleanliness’ or ‘polish’, to describe extremely refined workmanship. It is telling that when Bocchi explicitly mentions Pontormo’s lines – ‘the contours [linee] drawn with exquisite refinement [rara pulitezza]’ – they are celebrated for their accuracy and cleanliness, rather than energy or force. In fact Bocchi mentions contours, together with the ‘positions of limbs’, ‘beauty of hands and heads’, and the ‘structure of the human body’ as features that have ‘dumbfounded’ and ‘delighted’ art experts.251 These sixteenth-century viewers perceive contours as performing their representational function, what Rosand called their ‘mimetic responsibility’ in the tradition of the line of Parrhasios.252 The varied and difficult poses in Pontormo’s drawing and the way he moves limbs or represents action bring the ‘sweetest pleasure to the eyes.’253 Therefore, anatomy, figuration, narrative and composition condition the entire perception of these knowledgeable Florentine viewers (intendenti).

Sixteenth-century anecdotes reveal another side to the preference for finito. Vasari’s ‘Life of Perino del Vaga’ records the painter’s sojourn in the house of an intimate friend, the chaplain (cappellano) of San Lorenzo, Ser Raffaello di Sandro de’ Casellesi.254 Perino desired to reward his friend for his hospitality, but the lame priest said: ‘I would be fully paid by having a scrap of paper from your hand.’255 Perino unrolled four braccia of canvas and painted Moses and the Israelites safely across the

Pontormo’s ‘picciolo disegno’ described by Raffaello Borghini. On frames made for uso di spera see Scorza, 2003a, p. 77. The phrase is incorrectly translated in Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 231 as ‘for devotional purposes.’ 249 Borghini, 1584, p. 485. 250 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 174; ‘con artifizio stupendo e con diligenza maravigliosa.’ Bocchi, 1591, pp. 183. 251 Bocchi, 1591, p. 183. 252 Rosand, 2002, pp. 7-9. 253 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 174; Bocchi, 1591, pp. 183-184. 254 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 382. Baldini, 2012b. 255 ‘E’ mi basta un tratto avere un straccio di carta di tua mano.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 358. 112 red sea, and Pharaoh drowning with the Egyptian army. The colour palette imitated bronze, and the painting, identified as the canvas in Milan, was completed in ‘a day and a night’.256 The anecdote was intended to demonstrate Perino’s rapid execution (prestezza di fare) and exceptional ease (facilità). Although the work was achieved in an extremely short amount of time, Vasari describes the painting as finita, not ‘sketched’ (abbozzata).257 The success of the resulting image rests on its representational value, rather than its brushstrokes. This anecdote closely compares to another recounted by Armenini.

A young potter from Ferrara begged Michelangelo to draw him a standing Hercules. After several moments of deep thought, Michelangelo deftly executed the most perfect drawing, handed it to the young man and then departed. Michelangelo’s drawing was ‘finished in a short time’ (finitolo in breve tempo) and ‘so well outlined, shadowed and polished’ (così ben lineato, ombrato e finito), that all who saw it were ‘completely stupefied’ (stupor grande).258 The drawing’s degree of finish was central to its value, but measured according to the time it took to achieve. Armenini explains that many would have judged the drawing the result of ‘a month’s effort’ (la fatica di un mese). The drawing in this anecdote does not preserve signs of its rapid execution, and only the bystanders who saw Michelangelo perform the act can knowingly praise his achievement.

Both of these anecdotes revolve around sprezzatura, but instead of highlighting summary sketching or energetic lines, they celebrate the mastery of difficultà in a brief amount of time. Vasari’s often-cited anecdote of Giotto’s perfect circle brushed in red paint and handed to a stunned papal emissary at first appears completely different. When Pope Benedict XI received Giotto’s O, and learned that it had been

256 Antonio Natali in Florence, 1996, p. 286, expressed doubts regarding the Perino attribution of the Uffizi painting. A near exact canvas in the Pinacoteca di Brera was considered of better quality by Natali and published by Matteo Ceriana, 1997, pp. 295-299, as Perino’s original. The meticulous archival investigations of Baldini, 2012a, pp. 467-69, result in the compelling conclusion that Giovann’Antonio Lappoli did not author the Uffizi replica. She proposes instead Domenico di Bernardino del Cammello. 257 ‘La quale finita, lasciò per amorevolezza a ser Raffaello, al quale fu cara tanto quanto s’e’ gli avesse lassato il priorato di San Lorenzo; la qual tela fu tenuta dipoi in pregio e lodata […].Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 358. 258 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 146-47. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 93. The anecdote is also discussed by Sohm, 1991, p. 31. 113 executed without a compass he recognised the artist as the greatest of his age.259 Several scholars have recognised the allusions to Pliny’s story of Protogenes and Apelles in Vasari’s anecdote.260 While the Plinian and Vasarian accounts celebrate virtuosity, they both revolve around representation. Apelles and Protogenes’ subject will forever remain a mystery, but the apparent simplicity of Giotto’s circle can be read as an encoded form that educated sixteenth-century viewers may have considered resonant with allusions to perfection, heaven, and the Holy Sacrament.261

These anecdotes conclude with the beholder’s marvel and surprise. The lame priest, Ser Raffaello would be grateful for ‘a stroke’ (un tratto) from Perino’s hand, and he is given a finished painting. The young potter from Ferrara provides Michelangelo with a sheet of paper and requests a drawing in the same way as one would a signature. He is left with a highly polished drawing completed in an impossibly short amount of time. This system of valuation is not limited to anecdotes; it also appears in everyday correspondence.

The painter Stefano Veltroni lavished Giorgio Vasari with abundant praise after having received a drawing from him: I did not expect much, and in truth I was expecting a little sketch [un poco di scizo] and not a finished and beautiful drawing [disegnio finito e bello]. It is the best [drawing] I have ever had, and even if I [kept] a sketch fondly [avevo caro un scizo], let that not diminish my assertion of how much this would have been dear to me. In truth, I cannot satisfy myself just looking at it, and do nothing else in the day. And it is even more dear to me […].262

It is clear that Veltroni would have valued any drawing made by his more successful cousin Vasari, whether it was a sketch or a finished drawing. He states that he would have considered a sketch by Vasari just as precious, or dear to him. Nevertheless,

259 Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 123. For Vasari’s misidentification as Benedict IX see Land, 2014, p. 80n11. 260 Rosand, 2002, pp. 138-39. Land, 2005. 261 See Rosand, 2002, pp. 121-22 for a brilliant discussion of Raphael’s circling penmanship, together with circular church planning by Bramante and his followers, or Leonardo’s codification of the Vitruvian ideal of squaring the circle. 262 ‘Non prima ho risposto a la vostra di 9 del stante, perché non ho auto comodità e ricevei con essa il disegnio come dite tanto spettato. Io non spettavo tanto, e invero spettavo un poco di scizo e non un disegnio finito e bello; è il meglio che io abi auto, e se io avevo caro uno scizo, non scade che io vi acerti quanto questo mi sia stato caro, ché in vero non mi posso saziare a guardarlo, che non fo mai altro il giorno; e tanto più m’è caro e vi ho magiore obligo quanto so e lo penso, sensa che la mi l’avesi scritto che sete stracco e avete de li altri inpacci.’ Stefano Veltroni da Monte San Savino to Giorgio Vasari, 19 September 1568. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, p. 405. 114 Veltroni reveals a general opinion that finish in drawing, as much as in painting, is a desirable end for Florentine viewers. A sketch can of course be valued, but being summarily executed, Veltroni qualifies a scizo as something little or less (un poco di scizo), and in contrast associates finish with beauty (disegnio finito e bello).

A second letter to Vasari, dated 9 May 1565, from the bishop of Pistoia, Giovanni Battista Ricasoli, gives some indication of the time expected to execute a sketch. Ricasoli wrote to Vasari: ‘I fooled myself into believing that your infinite occupations would allow you half an hour to spend on a little sketch (un poco di schiccio) of the ciborium and the angels […]’263 Ricasoli was still asking Vasari for the design of the tabernacle for the consecrated host (ciborio) the following month on 21 June 1565. He writes that has sent his manservant Rinieri, presumably with his letter, to stay with Vasari and rob him of two hours of his precious time to get this drawing done.264 These telling details counter the far more attractive fiction encapsulated in the trope that a schizzo is captured ‘with four strokes of the pen’.

Paolo Giovio requested ‘a nice sketch’ (un bello scizo) from Vasari from which he would be able to evaluate whether the painter understood the female form as good as he did the male.265 Even though he used the word scizo (schizzo) it is clear that Giovio was not after rapid lines or spontaneity, but a demonstration of Vasari’s skill in representation. Giovio deliberately requests that the scizo be bello, a modification of the noun that like poco di schizzo suggests its general identification as a lesser category.

Sixteenth-century Florentine viewers appreciated sketches because they preserved the thoughts of the artist. Cinquecento authors generally do not offer any clear indication that the ‘roughness’ of the sketch was formally appreciated nor, as Philip Sohm

263 ‘Io mi sono inganato a creder che l’infinite vostre occupazione vi concedessino una mezza ora di tempo, per spenderlo in un poco di schiccio di quel ciborio et angioli, però ora, che io mi sono accorto dell’eror mio, non v’astringo più a tal cosa, ma sì bene al dar al presente lattor, mio servitore, quel poco di disegno, vi mandai de l’altar maggior del domo di Siena; e non sendo la presente ad altro effetto, me vi racomando.’ Ricasoli to Vasari, 9 May 1565. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, p. 169. 264 Ricasoli to Vasari, 21 June 1565. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, p. 203. 265 ‘Mi farete bene singular grazia, se la pigliate a farne un bello scizo e mandarmelo, acciò possa conoscere se havete così buono iudizio in femine, come havete in masci […].’ Paolo Giovio in Rome to Giorgio Vasari in Florence, 19 March 1547. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 1, pp. 195-96. 115 explains, was it ‘an aesthetically desirable quality in itself.’266 In one instance, Vasari could say that his paintings were ‘more sketched than finished’, and in another, he could say that they were the result of ‘study, and diligence, and loving effort’.267 Vasari’s inconsistency was really the result of adapting different rhetorical strategies to excuse the appearance of his work within an established system of valuation. He may have criticised Venetian painters such as Tintoretto for leaving sketches as finished and tirar via di pratica, but he also admired Andrea Schiavone’s figure of a mother breastfeeding her child ‘who is executed in a certain manner that is used in Venice – dashed off, or rather, sketched, without being in any respect finished.’268 In Vasari’s own writing, his artistic production seems to bridge the theoretical division between spontaneity and labour, ingegno and arte, or genius (natural talent) and studious skill. In reality, despite Vasari’s enormous success he was an extremely mediocre painter when compared to the artists of his lifetime.269 At large, Vasari expressed an appreciation for finito that reflected his central Italian heritage. However, he collected and prized all kinds of drawings for their historical value. His libro de’ disegni included architectural drawings by Filippo Brunelleschi, the bold sketches of Andrea del Sarto beside his rare finished compositional study, red chalk copies by Giovann’Antonio Lappoli, and Filippino Lippi’s vigorous sketch of an angel.270

266 Sohm, 1991, p. 34. 267 ‘[l’opere] sono state da me con istudio, diligenza et amorevole fatica lavorate.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, pp. 980-81. Chosen as the subtitle for Arezzo, 2011 and Cheney, 2005. 268 Vasari-De Vere, 1912-1914, vol. 8, p. 108. ‘[…] ma la migliore figura che vi sia è una donna che allatta un putto et ha addosso un panno giallo, la quale è fatta, con una certa pratica che s’usa a Vinezia, di macchie overo bozze, senza esser finita punto.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 596. 269 Gombrich, 1976, p. 126; or reservations in Härb, 2015, p. xvi. 270 Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 320. 116 Chapter 4

Marks of Invention

Artistic invention is often described in terms of urgency, conviction, and confidence, and has historically attracted metaphors of spirit, fire, heat, and force.1 The animating spark kindled during the sketching act is especially evocative of the fury and madness (furor) of Platonic inspiration; but it was the inventive zeal of furore that was retained in Renaissance theories of poetic improvisation (furore poetico).

This chapter examines the language used to describe inventive drawings. It will address a selection of drawing categories that have become generally accepted to form the design sequence of Central Italian sixteenth-century art. To a cinquecento audience our category of primo pensiero would have been known simply as schizzo or ‘sketch’. The now commonly used modello described sculptural and architectural models, not drawings. This chapter does not discuss the important category of cartoni at length, because no examples by Battista Naldini have yet come to light or are known to survive.2 Instead, the definition and etymology of the terms schizzo, bozzo, bozzetto, and macchia are thoroughly examined in order to shed light on how they were used during the sixteenth century. Naldini’s contribution to the collaborative decoration of the Salone dei Cinquecento in the Palazzo Vecchio features prominently throughout the discussion.

In Naldini’s small, palm-sized sketchbook, copies sit side by side with inventive sketches (fig. 4.1).3 This can be a problem for the connoisseur who approaches both the elevated and demoted category with rigid rules and stylistic frameworks. However, as many scholars have recognised not all copies are characterised by

1 Petherbridge, 2010, pp. 39-45. 2 Naldini certainly used cartoni. In chapter 5, I propose that he learnt spolvero and calco transfer methods during his apprenticeship. The payment record for his contribution to the Salone dei Cinquecento, discussed below, makes specific mention of cartoni. Naldini used calco to transfer his architectural design to the background of his Allegory of Dreams (1570). Unfortunately it was outside the financial limitations of this project to undertake a scientific examination to discern material traces of spolvero or calco in Naldini’s paintings. 3 See chapter 8 for this sketchbook. 117 hesitation, weakness, or labour.4 The doubled and accented lines in some of Naldini’s copies are so similar to the vigorous, fast-paced lines of his inventive sketches so as to almost blur the distinction.

The sketchbook contains a very energetic red chalk drawing (fig. 4.3) after one of the central panels in the ceiling of the Salone dei Cinquecento (fig. 4.2).5 Naldini may have been confined to a small sketchbook page, a mere 112 x 165 mm, but this did not impede the bold movements of his hand. Short, decisive inflections of his wrist create striking accents of chalk. The bearded cleric in the left foreground is layered in sharp angular strokes, which loosen and dishevel his robes to create a vibrating effect. At the centre of the drawing, a Guelph captain kneels to receive the insignia from Clement IV. Three tiny, two millimetre lines, repeated in quick succession, create the immediate impression of the man’s eyebrow, nose, and lip. These marks are dense and sharp, and slightly thicker than the softer traces surrounding them. Their exact position attests to the weighted assurance of the hand that pressed them into the page: a confident right hand, with strong but nimble fingers, imprinting a few short strokes to instantly capture the impression of a profil perdu.

Alessandro Cecchi first published the drawing in 1980.6 No additional preparatory drawings, or invenzioni, were identified for this Salone ceiling panel (fig. 4.2), nor have been discovered since. Naldini’s sketch was executed with freedom and spontaneity, and these would have been legitimate criteria to elevate the drawing to preparatory status. However, because his sketchbook also contains copies after two other Salone ceiling panels with accepted preparatory drawings by Giovanni Stradano and Vasari, the consensus now is that Naldini’s drawing of Clemente IV is also a copy.7 Tucked into the pages of his small sketchbook, these drawings served Naldini

4 Haverkamp-Begemann & Logan, 1988. 5 Reproduced in Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, no.54(22), p. 254. The painting is adjacent to the Apotheosis of Cosimo, in the centre of the ceiling and was completed in 1565; see illustration in Muccini, 1990, p. 109. 6 Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, no.54(22), pp. 253-54. 7 (Fig. 4.1 above left) Naldini, after Giorgio Vasari and Giovanni Stradano, Battaglia di Marciano in Val di Chiana, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 14v c. Reproduced in Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, no.54(18c), p. 253. Naldini, copy after Giorgio Vasari and assistants, Allegoria dei Quartieri di Santa Croce e Stanto Spirito, Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fol. 64v a. Attributed to Naldini by Monbeig Goguel 1971. Pillsbury, 1976, p. 142n51, considered the sketch to be ‘possibly by Naldini’ and a copy after ‘final modello’ or finished painting. Reproduced in Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, no.54(38d), p. 254, ‘forse di Naldini, copia 118 as compositional ricordi made after the finished panels. He had displayed similar interests in 1564, recording the compositions designed by fellow artists during the decorations for Michelangelo’s funeral.8

The inspired sketch can also attract contentions in attribution. Perceiving Naldini where others had seen Vasari, Paola Barocchi and Anna Forlani Tempesti elevated him to a primary role in the design of the Salone ceiling. Barocchi believed he sketched several Allegories of Tuscan Towns (fig. 4.4), representing an early and important stage in the design.9 These drawings were traditionally given to Vasari, who together with Vincenzio Borghini was responsible for developing the iconographic programme of the Salone according to the wishes of Duke Cosimo I.10 Although Barocchi later recognised Vasari’s authorship, at the time she argued that the inventive Uffizi sketches were too bizarre and capricious to have been produced by him. She perceived spirited strokes of the pen in the draughtsman’s scrawl (ghirigoro), hatching (tratteggio), and in the macchia; and credited their expressive appearance to Naldini’s artistic formation under the eccentric and animated Pontormo.11 Forlani Tempesti went so far as to suggest that Vasari might have viewed these inventions as a ‘danger’ to the official commission.12 Notwithstanding Barocchi’s attribution, the language she used to describe the invention of the Allegories had clear cinquecento resonance. Macchia, meaning ‘stain’ or ‘blotch’, was a crucial characteristic of the sketch for Leonardo, Vasari, and Armenini.13 The form of the liquid stain, its spread and seepage, conveys the raw nascent appearance of generative sketching, and suggests a conflict with order and restraint. Vasari’s sketch (fig. 4.4) attests to the quick and easy movements of his hand. Ink wash is brushed in fluid translucent pools and lines dance whimsically as his pen rushes

del dipinto’. Alessandra Baroni in Arezzo, 2011, p. 132, instead proposed it might have served a preparatory phase prior to being transferred to the cartoon. 8 Lille, Palais des Beaux Arts inv. Pl. 426-427. Brejon de Lavergnée, 1997, no.455, p. 161. GDSU, 7286 Fr. Budapest, Szépmüvészeti Múzeum inv. 1797; Budapest, 1998, no.51, pp. 134-35. 9 GDSU 961 S, 962 S, 963 S & 964 S. Barocchi in Florence, 1963, no.79, p. 62. Naldini’s inventive role was also partly exaggerated by the misattribution of GDSU 1490 & 1490 bis O; 119 O; and a drawing from the Janos Scholz collection, New York. For an overview see Pillsbury, 1973, p. 174; Pillsbury, 1976, pp. 128-30; Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, pp. 251, 254; Petrioli Tofani, 2008, p. 105. 10 Arezzo, 2011, pp. 118-33. 11 Paola Barocchi in Florence, 1963, no.79, p. 62. 12 ‘[...] è comunque da credere che le possibilità più libere dell’inventiva del Naldini potevano forse parere al maestro [Vasari] un pericolo, in una decorazione ufficiale […].’ Forlani Tempesti in Florence, 1963, no.80, p. 63. 13 See the discussion of schizzo and macchia below. 119 across the page. Barocchi perceived Vasari as a scrupulous impresario and this limited her identification of his more bizarre invention.

In 1976 Edmund Pillsbury published several important documents and conclusively demonstrated that Naldini did not provide primi pensieri for the design of the Salone ceiling. Naldini began his employment under Vasari in the Palazzo Vecchio on 2 September 1564, a time when the majority of the ceiling panels had already been painted.14 However, Cecchi agreed with Barocchi’s proposal that Naldini painting the three panels in the irregular trapezoidal area of the ceiling above the Udienza.15 These ceiling panels are marginal to the main Medician political propaganda, but contain many playful putti, the main inscription, and portraits of the master craftsmen who had contributed to the ceiling.

The frescoes for the Salone walls are another matter entirely. Alessandro Cecchi, Annamaria Petrioli Tofani, and Alessandra Baroni all agree that Naldini collaborated in the execution of these frescoes.16 Their opinions vary considerably because it remains difficult to form conclusions about the working methods of all the members of Vasari’s équipe. Scholars have struggled to identify the ways each collaborator contributed to individual narratives and allegories.17 Pillsbury reasoned that even though Vasari encouraged ‘suggestions’ for the Salone from Jacopo Zucchi, Giovanni Stradano, and Battista Naldini, he never allowed the members of his workshop to complete a final compositional model.18 Vasari himself was responsible for producing finished modelli, which Pillsbury argues, ‘incorporated’ the ideas of his assistants.19

The walls of the Salone were painted between 1567 and 1571. At the beginning of this period Vasari sent Naldini to Pisa and Campiglia to sketch landscapes and topographical views of the countryside for the frescoes depicting the Florentine

14 Pillsbury discovered that Giovanni Stradano was the first to be hired, beginning work in the Palazzo Vecchio on 3 May 1563 and remaining until 22 September 1565. Jacopo Zucchi was employed for twenty-eight and a half months. Naldini worked in the Salone for less than fifteen months. His daily salary, 2 lire 6 soldi 8 denari, was less than that of his other two colleagues. ASF, Fabricche Medicee, filza 10, fols. 71v–128. Pillsbury, 1976, pp. 127-30. 15 Barocchi, 1965, p. 250. Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, nos.54(1-3), pp. 236, 238. 16 Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, p. 256. Petrioli Tofani, 2008, p. 105. Baroni in Arezzo, 2011, pp. 144- 146. 17 Petrioli Tofani, 2008, no.48, p. 105. 18 Pillsbury, 1976, p. 137. 19 Pillsbury, 1976, p. 137. 120 battles against Pisa. A payment record, dated to 14 June 1567 and discovered by Pillsbury, reveals that Naldini spent a period of twelve days preparing his sketches and was paid 53 lire for his travel expenses.20 A second document shows that Naldini was paid 28 fiorini 5 lire for painting and preparing cartoons (dipigniere e fare cartonj) for the Salone, during a period of 67 days, between 19 May 1567 and 9 August 1567.21 Taken together with entries from Vasari’s Ricordanze, both Pillsbury and Cecchi argued that these documents corresponded precisely to the execution of the first fresco for the Salone, representing Emperor Maximilian lifting the Siege at Livorno.22

These are the only known records of payment to confirm Naldini had an active role in the preparation of at least one of the six military frescoes. However, three letters by Vasari to Giovanni Caccini, the Ducal administrator (provveditore) in Pisa, provide a wealth of additional data.23 Vasari ordered Caccini, with the authority of Duke Cosimo, to accompany and oversee Naldini’s accurate topographical survey of Pisa and its environs.24 He specified that Battista should draw the entire fortress of Stampace, extending from the Porta San Marco to the old city gate. He was to portray the ruins caused by the Florentine artillery, together with the ditch and the bastion that the Pisans built. Vasari expected Naldini to correctly record all these details. He demanded a reconstruction of the tower of Stampace, which now lay in a crumbled ruin. Battista was instructed to either copy an old representation of the tower or to match the description of a local veteran who recalled its former glory. Naldini was

20 The payment comprised 53 lire for travel on horseback and expenses incurred during Naldini’s 12 days away, and a further 51 lire for a total of 17 days which included 5 days spent in Florence in the service of Vasari. ‘MDLXVII / di 14 di gugnjo / Item spese p[er] conto del opera del salone del palazzo ducale Lire centoquat[r]o piccioli si fano bonj a batist[a] di mateo di naldino pitore p[er] ordine di gorgo vasarj pitore darezo e sono Lire 53 p[er] vetura di 12 gornj duno cavalo tenuto p[er] andare a pisa e acanpiglia e per ispese bate in detto viagio andato aritrare piu luoghi p[er] ordine di deto gorgo ce sia apartengono nella istoria dele guere pisane e Lire 51 p[er] 17 sua gornate e Lire 2 el gorno conpresovj gornate 5 istato quj in Firenze al servizio di deto gorgo p[er] tale conto come al qu[a]de[r]no de conti apare c. 30______fiorini 14 Lire 6.’ ASF, Fabbriche Medicee, filza 5, p. 10; quoted from Pillsbury, 1976, p. 144n67. 21 Both documents were discovered by Pillsbury. ‘MDLxx/Item di p[rim]o di L[ugli]o/. . . Item spese su dette Lire dugentouna piccioli si fano boni a batista di mateo di naldino pitore p[er] 67 gornate istato a dipigniere e fare cartonj p[er] conto delle istorie dele fac[a]te cesi fano facate del salone grade p[er] ordine di gorgo darezo pitore da dì 19 di magio 1567 a t[utt]a dì 9 dagosto 1567 fiorini 28 Lire 5.’ Pillsbury, 1976, p. 144n68. 22 Pillsbury, 1976, p. 144n68. Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, p. 262. Vasari recorded that the painting was completed in 1567, between 1 August and 11 November. Ricordanze, fol. 27v. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, no.319, p. 879. 23 Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 3, pp. 138-146. 24 Vasari to Caccini, 28 April 1567. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 3, pp. 139-142. 121 then directed to draw guards and sentinels, the landscapes of Campiglia, Livorno, Pisa, fields of battle, and the Tower of San Vincenzo. Vasari stressed that Battista should capture ‘every detail precisely and with diligence’ (et puntalmente con diligenzia ogni minuzia).25

Unfortunately, few of these drawings have survived.26 However, in light of this documentary evidence, Alessandro Cecchi reasonably argued that Naldini contributed to the second and third frescoes, representing the Capture of the Fortress of Stampace in Pisa (fig. 4.5) and Defeat of the Pisan Forces at the Tower of San Vincenzo (fig. 4.7).27 The topographical details that Vasari requested were included in these two frescoes, and it is reasonable to believe that members of the workshop would have continued to use Naldini’s accurate drawings when they composed the cartoons for these frescoes. Cecchi argued that Naldini collaborated more extensively in the third fresco commemorating the Defeat of the Pisan Forces.28

Annamaria Petrioli Tofani provides a more sceptical view. Taking the copies after the Salone ceiling in Naldini’s sketchbook as a point of departure, she argues: ‘Contrary to previous assertions, I believe that these drawings do not constitute preparatory studies for these paintings but are copies made for the purposes of practice and study.’29 Unfortunately, this conditions her reading of the enormous number of drawings that Naldini produced for the Salone frescoes: ‘Very few drawings by Naldini actually relate to the walls of the Salone, however, especially if we expunge from the group the Uffizi Battle series […] which seem to have nothing in common with these compositions.’30 Ultimately, Naldini’s inventive sketches are rejected to re- establish Vasari as the principal designer of the cycle. Although this latter objective is justified, Petrioli Tofani subscribes to the end-determined conception of drawing

25 Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 3, pp. 139-142. 26 Only 3 drawings have been identified so far: View of Arno in Pisa with Santa Maria della Spina, GDSU 7450 Fv. Barocchi, 1965, p. 248, fig. 94a. Pillsbury, 1976, p. 144n67 & plate 14, suggested a View of the Duomo and Campanile of Pisa, Victoria & Albert Museum no. 3436-65. This important sacred centre appears in the background of the second fresco, but Naldini seems to have worked from another lost or unidentified drawing representing the city from an oblique angle. Alessandro Cecchi correctly identified Naldini’s sketch of a naval battle (GDSU 16501 F) as preparatory for the background of the first Salone fresco. Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, no.55(5e), p. 266. Reproduced in Petrioli Tofani, 2008, no.48, pp. 104-5. 27 Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, pp. 257, 260-61. 28 Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, p. 256. 29 Petrioli Tofani, 2008, p. 105. 30 Petrioli Tofani, 2008, p. 105. 122 practice. She similarly reads the drawings in Morandini’s sketchbook as lacking ‘specific pictorial destinations.’31 According to this line of reasoning, if ‘few’ of Naldini’s drawings correspond exactly to the Salone walls, he did not play a major part in their design. Her position may also be seen as a reaction against the exaggerated inventive role previously given to Naldini by Paola Barocchi. However, this case compels us to become more flexible with the standard convention of identifying a drawing as a ‘study for’ a finished painting.

Naldini actually prepared a very large quantity of drawings for the Salone dei Cinquecento. The surviving sheets amount to forty-two drawings. Thirty-two of these were drawn in response to the Defeat of the Pisan Forces. While five of these are studies of helmets and six are studies of horses, the majority are compositional sketches, characterised by speed, vibrant expression, and confidence.32 They therefore possess all the hallmarks of invention. Before examining Naldini’s striking compositions, I will argue why it is important to modify the category of primo pensiero in favour of the existence of multiple variants.

The large number of surviving sheets compares to Raphael’s eighteen drawings for the Baglione Entombment (1507) in San Francesco al Prato, Perugia (now Galleria Borghese, Rome).33 Parmigianino also produced close to thirty studies in preparation for his Madonna of St Jerome commissioned by Maria Bufalini in 1526 (now National Gallery, London).34 However, unlike his more talented predecessors, not all of Naldini’s battle sketches are sequential in nature, nor can categories be effectively or accurately applied to them in a logical development from primo pensiero to modello. It is important to recognise Naldini’s battle sketches as multiples or compositional variants. Such an alternative accords entirely with cinquecento art theory, as both Dolce and Armenini explain.

31 Petrioli Tofani, 2008, p. 167. For a similar case with Francesco Salviati see Rome & Paris, 1998, no.24, p. 126. 32 18 Battle scenes related to Defeat of Pisan Forces: GDSU 500 S, 501 S, 502 Sr, 503 Sr, 504 S, 506 S, 508 S, 509 S, 512 S, 513 S, 652 F r&v, 795 S. Lille, Palais des Beaux-Arts inv. Pl. 412r & 412v. Paris, École des Beaux-Arts, inv. M. 2356r. Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fols. 22v c & d. Horse studies: Dresden, Kupferstischkabinett inv. C93. GDSU 773 Or. Lille W. 2489v. Louvre, inv. 1051 & 2097v. Milan, Civico Gabinetto dei disegni inv. 117r. Helmet studies: GDSU 518 S & 519 S. Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fols. 10r c, 21v d, 22r c. Topographical views of Pisa: GDSU 7540 F, London, V&A Museum inv. 3436-65. Preparatory landscape drawing: Siena, S.I.7, fol. 21r d. 33 Joannides, 1983, pp. 163-68. 34 London & New York, 2000, pp. 22, 134-42, nos.88-93. 123 In his Dialogo della pittura intitolato l’Aretino (Venice, 1557), Lodovico Dolce recommended that artists produce many inventive solutions for a single project. Dolce describes these sketches in the plural as ‘first sketches’ (primi schizzi), and argues that the painter should ‘discover’ many inventions, not being content with only one sketch. From these multiple invenzioni he should make his choice, considering the group as a whole and examining each separately. Dolce then gives the example of Raphael who produced four to six different inventions for a single subject (istoria).35 Lisa Pon has considered Dolce’s testimony to be clear evidence of Raphael’s ‘visual eloquence’ and ‘graphic intelligence’, reflecting his extensive research and invention.36 For Luigi Grassi, Dolce’s definition of schizzi is the most accurate description of the creative act.37

The art theorist Giovanni Battista Armenini, writing in 1586, also advised artists to make ‘many sketches, each different from the first, until one is satisfied.’38 Like Dolce, he recommended Raphael’s method of looking over many sketches and using them to rapidly sketch new inventions, arguing that the ‘multitude’ of these drawings ‘helped and enriched’ Raphael’s mind.39 This emphasis on multiple invenzioni stands in contrast to the taxonomic precision of seeking out a primo pensiero as the very first compositional sketch or ‘study for’ a finished work of art.

35 ‘Voglio ancora avertire che, quando il pittore va tentando ne’ primi schizzi le fantasie che genera nella sua mente la istoria, non si dee contentar d’una sola, ma trovar più invenzioni e poi fare iscelta di quella che meglio riesce, considerando tutte le cose insieme e ciascuna separatamente; come soleva il medesimo Rafaello, il quale fu tanto ricco d’invenzione, che faceva sempre a quattro a sei modi, differenti l’uno dall’altro, una istoria, e tutti avevano grazia e stavano bene.’ Roskill, 1968, p. 128. 36 Pon, 2004, pp. 113-14. 37 Grassi, 1957, p. 100, interprets Dolce’s schizzi as gestural drawings that rouse the fantasia. 38 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 144. ‘[…] è bene che se ne faccia piú schizzi, che siano eziamdio diversi da’ primi, per fino a tanto ch’egli ben si compiaccia. Conciosiacosaché, con piú attenzione si dissegna di novo che non si fa rivedere solamente quella macchia […].’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 90. 39 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 146. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 92. 124 Primo Pensiero

Since the seventeenth century, connoisseurs and art historians have frequently described drawings as pensieri or thoughts.40 The term remains faithful to the legacy of fifteenth and sixteenth-century Italian art theory, where disegno was theorised as a fundamental intellectual process.41 However, cinquecento authors did not regularly describe drawings as pensieri.42 Furthermore, unlike Dolce’s primi schizzi, the compound term primo pensiero or ‘first thought’ was never used to name a particular drawing type. In one instance Vasari qualified a schizzo as primo to acknowledge Raphael’s ‘first design’ for the Villa of Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici (Villa Madama, Rome).43 However, Vasari was not celebrating a drawing that recorded Raphael’s pensiero, but rather the final realisation of his architectural vision. The first Italian author to use primi pensieri was Filippo Baldinucci, writing in 1681. Baldinucci’s decision to qualify the term: ‘primi pensieri or schizzi as we want to say’ suggests it was less well known.44 He described primi pensieri as ‘made at a whim’ and expressing the painter’s ‘concetto with a single stroke of the pen or stylus, without labour (manifattura).’ They possess properties of ‘the stain’ (macchia), ‘boldness of touch’ (franchezza del suo tocco), and very rapid and subtle strokes (velocissimi e sottilissimi tratti). Ever the connoisseur, Baldinucci elevates these sketches as the most difficult to convincingly imitate, within a larger discussion on how to distinguish originals from copies.45

In 1708, the collector of drawings and Oratorian priest Sebastiano Resta, prided himself on having unique access to Correggio’s artistic thoughts:

40 Emilio Santarelli called Naldini’s rough sketch representing the Sacrifice of Isaac (fig. 4.24) a ‘pensiero’. Santarelli, 1870, p. 606, no. 2 (attributed to Niccolò dell’Abate). Baldini described Naldini’s compositional variant for Maximilian lifting the siege at Livorno (GDSU 7064 F) as a ‘pensiero’. Mostra vasariana, 1950, p. 50; cited in Arezzo, 2011, p. 142. Ward, 1982, p. 21. 41 Rosand, 2002, pp. 24-60. 42 For example, in a letter to Pier Filippo Vandini, dated to 10 January 1560, Michelangelo mentions ‘dissegni et pensieri’, but in order to describe the ‘plans and ideas’ of a lady named Cornelia, not drawn designs. Michelangelo, Lettere, Concordanze, 1994, vol. 2, p. 303. Il Grande Dizionario della lingua Italiana cites no cinquecento uses of pensiero as synonymous with disegno or schizzo, or to describe a product of thought. Pensiero was used in a concrete sense to describe the project for an architectural elevation, but this usage dates to the eighteenth century. 43 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 325. 44 ‘[…] primi pensieri o schizzi che vogliamo dire.’ Baldinucci, 1681. Baldinucci did not include the term in his Vocabolario Toscano dell’arte del disegno. 45 Baldinucci, 1681. 125 I alone have seen [Correggio’s cupola] when it was in the artist’s mind, because I have had the drawings of his first thoughts [primi pensieri] […] his second [thoughts] […] his third […] I entered into the artist’s mind because the embryos of his thoughts fell to me […].46

Resta clearly believed he could penetrate the artist’s mind. Two distinct qualities pervade his conceited report: privilege, ‘I alone have seen’ and possession ‘I have had.’ This is also one of the earliest articulations of primi, secondi and terzi pensieri.

French connoisseurs also used the qualified form of pensiero (première pensée). In 1732, Anne-Claude-Philippe de Thubières, the count of Caylus, joyfully reported the benefits of peering into premières pensées.47 The gentleman viewer could ‘delve into the different changes’ the draughtsman made and ‘form his taste’ by examining them, and ‘finally see him in his proper cabinet’ or correctly position his work.48 Writing before 1745, the connoisseur Antoine-Joseph Dézallier d’Argenville described pensées as ‘the first ideas [premiéres idées] that the painter throws out on paper’. He also provided the terms esquisses and croquis that better described pensées as ‘sketches’.49

Former uses of primo pensiero in modern exhibition catalogues suggest the germination of a single idea for a work of art.50 This is often the outcome of a desire to reconstruct a clear and logical progression of design development. However, some proposed sequences are rigidly linear in their course or potentially misleading in their use of early modern terms.51 Previous attempts to classify pensieri in separate

46 ‘Io solo l’ho vista quando era nella idea dell’artefice perche ho hauto i disegni delli primi pensieri […] i secondi […] i terzi. Io son entrato nella mente dell’artefice futuro perche à me son toccati li embrioni suoi […].’ Resta letters to Magnavacca, Reggio Emilia, Archivio della Biblioteca Comunale di Correggio, carteggio no. II6, vol. 3, no. I, 7 January 1708. Translated by Warwick, 2000, p. 173, 264n6. 47 Comte de Caylus, 1859, p. 318. 48 Caylus-Holt, 1982, p. 322. Comte de Caylus, 1859, p. 318. 49 Dézallier d’Argenville, 1762, vol. 1, pp. xxxv-xxxvi. 50 Joachim & Folds McCullagh, 1979, pp. 2-3, provide good descriptions, but primo pensiero is taken as a singular moment of creative germination. The authors argue that ‘some fundamental stages of preparatory drawing became codified’ in Raphael’s workshop – primo pensiero, individual studies from life, anatomy, drapery, facial studies, figure groups, modello, cartoons, and ricordo. Patricia Rubin, 1991, p. 38, explicitly rectified the error of ascribing these categories to Raphael. For more recent definitions of primo pensiero see Franklin, 2005, p. 21; Van Cleave, 2007, p. 23; Brooks, 2010, p. 103. For alternative definitions of this early stage in the design process see Rawson, 1987, pp. 294- 98. 51 The implications of taxonomy and a sequential arrangement of drawing types reach their acme when categories are asserted in absolute ways. Patricia Rubin argues that the categories in which drawings are placed determine the form of knowledge that we can hope to glean from them. However, 126 categories have also proved unsuccessful.52 It is safer to conclude, from our distant historical position, that an identified drawing is perhaps one of the first ideas for a narrative, or the earliest example that we know to have survived. As Dolce explained, although artists conceived different invenzioni separately they were often envisioned as alternative solutions to a single creative problem or narrative. It is now much more common in the literature on drawings to describe these sketches in the plural as primi pensieri.53 Once rendered in the plural, primi pensieri can embrace multiples and resolve the problem of a firmly fixed linear design sequence by becoming more sympathetic toward the artistic method described by Dolce and Armenini.

As both the product of thought and its very namesake, the pensiero seized from the mind and realised as an image on paper takes on a particular appearance. It is always a schizzo: indeterminate, inchoate and often illegible. The sketch appears this way because it is the product of speed and necessity. In a related literary example, the Sienese diplomat and philologist Claudio Tolomei praised the use of concise words. He argued that brief phrases would prove a more effective vehicle of cognitive expression: Words being pictures of thought, itself brief and rapid; certainly that language is worthy of great praise that lends more quickness to thought, more ability with sparse words to picture clearly human emotions, to be developed later at greater length and where afterwards one wants to elaborate them copiously.54

our categorisation, under the guise of early modern Italian terms, does not represent an artist’s natural working tendencies. Rubin reasons: ‘[…] any analysis that proposes a rigid sequence as its structure, overlooks the simultaneity, complexity and absurdity of experience. No amount of historical eavesdropping can ever overhear the artist’s dialogue with his drawings […].’ Rubin, 1991, p. 47. 52 For example, Charles de Tolnay posited three categories of pensieri, but seems to have conflated second and third pensieri. Tolnay, 1972, p. 20. 53 See Lauder, 2009, p. 62; London & New York, 2000, p. 169; St Lewis & London, 2012, p. xiii. Bambach, 2010b, p. 105. Simona Lecchini Giovannoni groups together three drawings by Alessandro Allori, including: Albertina 582, a richly refined pen and ink compositional study, which would usually attract the label modello. GDSU 736 F, a figure study, and GDSU 10205 F, another figure study. Nevertheless, all three drawings are described as primi pensieri for Allori’s altarpiece of the Marriage at Cana (1600, convent of Sant’Agata, Florence). Lecchini Giovannoni, 1991, no.156, p. 292. 54 ‘essendo le parole imagine del pensiero, essendo breve & veloce, certo quella lingua è di maggior lode degna, che più avinca alla prestezza del pensiero, & più s’avicina alla prestezza del pensiero, & può con manco parole figurarci chiaramente li affetti humani, & ove poscia voglia, con molte copiosamente distenderli.’ Claudio Tolomei, Il Cesano: De la lingua Toscana, written around 1528, published in Venice and Florence in 1555, p. 94; quoted in Emison, 2004, p. 118. Compare with Hélène Cixous’ 1991 description of writing and thought: ‘[…] there is constantly a race between thought, which speaks its own language, a language lightning-like in its rapidity, and writing, which transmits, transcribes, records these lightning flashes, as well as it can, as fast as possible.’ Translated in MacGillivray, 1993, p. 88. 127 Tolomei’s view of language has obvious parallels to the relationship between disegno and thought. His observations can also clearly explain how pensiero comes to define a type of drawing. The ‘quickness of thought’ (prestezza del pensiero) finds its natural uninhibited form in the motions of sketching.

Art historians often recognise that artists return to drawings made many years before, for figures and compositional ideas. However, the understated reality of cinquecento artistic methods is that this figural reuse and imitative practice denies the very notion of a completely original first idea, encapsulated within the term primo pensiero. This thesis will privilege the English equivalent ‘early sketch’ to this seventeenth-century compound term and its hierarchical connotations. Vasari and his contemporaries would have called the initial ideas they captured on paper schizzi, disegni, or more rarely abbozzi. They did not call them primi pensieri.

Schizzo – The Gushing Squirt of Inventive Passion

It is only in mathematics that the use of the Italian word schizzare has a recognisable classical origin in the Greek word σχίζειν (schizein), which means ‘to split’ and is also the root of the English words schism and schizophrenia.55 Leonardo Fibonacci and Piero della Francesca used schizzare to describe numerical division.56 However, in the visual arts, schizzare meant to sketch or draft, and was recognised as an act that resulted in something unfinished and imperfect.

The root meaning of the verb schizzare is ‘to squirt, spray, spout or jet a liquid or semi-liquid substance.’57 The noun schizzo also describes the spot or blot that this

55 T.F. Hoad (ed.), The Concise Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology, Oxford, 1996. Catherine Soanes (ed.), The Oxford Compact English Dictionary, Oxford, 2003, p. 1022. 56 Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 17, p. 1040. 57 Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 17, pp. 1037-38. Schizzo derives from schizzare, which is considered to be of onomatopoeic origin by the editors of the Grande Dizionario della lingua Italiana. The Oxford English Dictionary argues that schizzo, together with its English cognate sketch, ultimately derives from the Latin schedius ‘made suddenly’, from the Greek σχέδιος (schédios) ‘done or made off-hand, extempore.’ OED Online, accessed 30 March 2015. However, the lexicographers of the Vocabolario degli Accademici della Crusca maintained an etymology to the Latin graphis ‘a drawing, draught, or design’ and Greek γραφίς (graphís) in their first two editions (1612 and 1623). The Crusca editors also proposed the Latin erumpere ‘to burst forth’ as the origin for the primary meaning of schizzare: ‘Saltar fuora, proprio de’ liquori, quando scaturiscono, per piccioli zampilli, con impeto: o, quando, percossi, saltan fuora con violenza.’ Crusca, 1612, p. 764; 1623, p. 756. 128 splash produces.58 In the context of l’arti del disegno, schizzo carries these associations with stains (macchie) and inchoate forms. At the same time, these imperfect forms, once translated to the realm of drawing, come to be understood as the results of speed and urgency.

Amongst the many different meanings of schizzare used during the Cinquecento, including to spit, jump out, vomit, emit, escape, defecate, and move suddenly, only one of these refers to producing a draft, whether a text, musical score, or drawing.59 It is important to recognise that even though schizzo eventually came to designate a preparatory drawing, the word does not truly define the function of a draft within a larger body of work. Schizzo was rather etymologically apt because it communicated the action of rapid drawing. The word preserves the kinetic power of sketching, and emphasises the moment of the act, rather than the purpose or significance of its product.

Sketches (schizzi) were the only drawing type to be described by Vasari in any detail: Sketches […] are a first kind of drawing which are made to find the manner of poses, and the initial composition of a work. They are made in the form of a blotch [machia] and briefly suggested by us as a rough draft of the whole. Out of the artist’s furor they are captured rapidly, with pen or other drawing instrument or with charcoal, only to test the spirit of that which occurs to him.60

Vasari accurately defined sketches according to the speed (con poco tempo) and creative passion (furor dello artefice) that roused them. He also described sketches as ‘born suddenly’ (nascendo in un sùbito) and an image as ‘expressed in a few

58 In the four editions of the Vocabolario degli Accademici della Crusca, schizzo retained its association with liquid. Schizzo is consistently defined as ‘quella macchia d’acqua, o di fango, che viene dallo schizzare.’ Crusca, 1612, p. 764; 1623, p. 756; 1691, vol. 3, p. 1465; 1729-1738, vol. 4, p. 389. 59 Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 17, pp. 1037-40. 60 ‘Gli schizzi, de’ quali si è favellato di sopra, chiamiamo noi una prima sorte di disegni che si fanno per trovare il modo delle attitudini et il primo componimento dell’opra; e sono fatti in forma di una ma[c]chia e accennati solamente da noi in una sola bozza del tutto. E perché dal furor dello artefice sono in poco tempo con penna o con altro disegnatoio o carbone espressi solo per tentare l’animo di quel che gli sovviene, perciò si chiamano schizzi.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 46. Modern translations of this passage preserve the kinetic urgency of the act of sketching. Louise Maclehose renders the phrase ‘Out of the artist’s impetuous mood they are hastily thrown off.’ Vasari-Maclehose, 1907, p. 212. Philip Sohm, 1991, p. 31, translates: ‘they are rendered very quickly, because of the artist’s furor.’ 129 strokes.’61 Armenini repeated these essential qualities of the sketch: the stain (macchia), speed (tempo brevissimo), and passion or impulse (furor).62

The quality of furore, which in the liberal arts signifies a state of ‘inspired exaltation’ or ‘ecstasy’, derives from the Latin word furo, which means ‘to be mad, behave wildly, rage with anger, rush furiously, or be fierce.’63 Horace and other Latin authors forged connections between ‘poetic inspiration’ (furor poeticus) and ‘Bacchic fury or frenzy’ (furor Bacchicus).64 These authors maintained the Platonic belief that inspiration was a form of divine possession. Plato had likened poetic inspiration to a strong magnetic force, or a maenad possessed by Dionysus (Bacchus), the god of fertility and wine.65 In Italian art theory of the Cinquecento, the terms furore and furia remained a part of the rhetoric of artistic inspiration.66 Armenini and Vasari used furor to describe the spontaneity of creation, and both authors compared the act of sketching to poetic improvisation.67

Leonardo da Vinci was the first artist to subject his own creative process to intense scrutiny.68 He gave ample attention to the act of sketching in his planned treatise on painting (Libro di pittura).69 Leonardo stressed that sketching should be free of the concern for details: The sketching of narrative scenes [il bozzar delle storie] should be rapid, and the limbs not too detailed; be content with only the position of the limbs, which you can finish at your leisure, when it pleases you.70

61 ‘[…] pare anco che nelle bozze molte volte, nascendo in un sùbito dal furore dell’arte, si sprima il suo concetto in pochi colpi […]’ Life of Luca della Robbia. Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 263. 62 ‘[…] si vien facendo sul furor di quel concetto, che subito si espone a guisa di macchia, che da noi schizzo o bozza si dice; conciosiaché si accenna diverse attitudini di figure e di altre materie in un tempo brevissimo, secondo che confusamente ne soviene […]’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. 89-90. 63 P.G.W. Glare (ed.), Oxford Latin Dictionary, Oxford, 2012, vol. 1, p. 823. In Classical Latin, furere can signify the mad passion of love, as Cicero: ‘inflamed with raging lusts’ (libidinibus inflammatus et furens), or atrocious weather conditions, Horace describes ‘the raging waves’ (furens Neptunus). D. P. Simpson, Cassell’s Latin Dictionary, New York: Wiley, 1968, p. 260. 64 Horace, Epistle 1.xix. & 2.ii; and Odes, 3.25; cited by Bober, 2000, p. 242n18. 65 Plato, Phaedrus 245C; Apology 22C; Ion 533D-E; Laws 719C; cited by Bober, 2000, p. 242n16. 66 Summers, 1981, pp. 34-37, 60-70. 67 Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 263. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 90. 68 See David Rosand’s important examination of Leonardo’s theories of art and creative practice. Rosand, 2002, p. 61. 69 McMahon, 1956, vol. 1, pp. xi-xiii. For the popularity of Leonardo’s treatise in late sixteenth- century Florence see Williams, 2009. 70 Codex Urbinas Latinus 1270, fol. 34. McMahon, 1956, p. 107. 130 Naldini regularly sketched out compositions in red or black chalk before revising figures in pen and brown ink. The speed of his hand remains visible even after several layers of different media. A battle scene (fig. 4.6) related to the Defeat of the Pisan Forces (fig. 4.7) reveals Naldini’s confident command of the pen.71 He prepares the ground with a light blue ink wash, and after quickly sketching soldiers and horses in red chalk; he picks up the pen to redefine their forms. Their outlines thicken and quiver with the rapid turn of his hand. Naldini swiftly hatches minor details in thin parallel lines and darkens his ground to lift the kicking horse hooves. He then brushes patches of shadow in fresh pools of brown wash and applies white lead for highlights.

Rapid invention of this kind requires not only a controlled hand, but also advanced visual knowledge of human and equine anatomy. Naldini would have needed to absorb an enormous range of contemporary prints and paintings, imitating battle scenes and antique sculpture.72 In the Siena sketch (fig. 4.6), Naldini displays the receding posterior of a horse reminiscent of many depictions of horse and rider available in contemporary prints.73 He also represents victims trampled under kicking hooves in postures modelled upon Michelangelesque conventions, often with a bent arm brought across their chest.74 Naldini does not precisely detail the anatomy of his figures. They rather appear schematic and standardised forms that can be thrown off with ease. The battle sketches demonstrate that by 1569 Naldini had completely assimilated a Central Italian figural vocabulary, characterised by dynamic contrapposto, strong foreshortening, backward glances, heightened corporeal torsion, and powerful movement.

71 Siena, S.I.7, 22v c. Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, no.55(4c), p. 265, but not reproduced. 72 Naldini would have learnt much from Giovanni Stradano when they worked side by side in the Palazzo Vecchio. Stradano prepared several drawings in 1567 featuring hunters on horseback. Baroni Vannucci, 1997, pp. 354, 244. Between 1576-1578 Stradano advertised his advanced knowledge of horses with a series of 43 engravings, which according to Borghini’s Riposo, ‘demonstrate every kind of horse from every province’. Baroni Vannucci, 1997, no.692, p. 366. Stradano’s drawings do not offer a direct source for any single figure or horse in Naldini’s battle sketches, but they provide a similar sense of movement and robust anatomy. 73 Raphael, Meeting of Leo the Great and Attila, after 1513, Vatican Palace, Stanza di Eliodoro; Giulio Bonasone, after Giulio Romano, Constantine defeating the tyrant Maxentius, 1544, engraving, New York, MET inv. 53.600.4230; Enea Vico, after Francesco Salviati, The Conversion of St Paul, 1545, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale inv. Eb 11fol. Rome & Paris, 1998, no.29, pp. 136-37. 74 For the origin of these conventions in ancient sculptural reliefs see Smyth, 1992, pp. 51-54, 119- 120n77. 131 Naldini drew many of the details included in Leonardo’s description on how to represent battle. Leonardo urged painters to depict a captain marshalling his troops, a squadron full of hope and caution, the pale faces of the conquered creased in pain, shrieking with grief, bearing their teeth; a horse dragging his dead master, the dusty trail following galloping hooves, soldiers fighting and staggering in the mud, broken shields and swords, dead soldiers and horses strewn across the ground.75 Naldini rapidly sketches horses in full gallop, with hooves kicking the air. Soldiers gore their enemies with pikes and swords. In both subject matter and form, many graphic moments evoke the madness and ferocious power of furia.

Naldini’s eighteen battle sketches are clearly related to the frescoes of the Salone dei Cinquecento, though as a group they offer few exact correlations. Differences between the frescoes and Naldini’s drawings have often been explained as the results of Vasari’s controlling hand. Barocchi argued that Vasari only partly accepted Naldini’s ideas, but corrected them by ‘levelling his personal accents with a more anonymous and encyclopaedic order.’76 Forlani Tempesti argued that Vasari profited from Naldini’s ideas, but ‘pompously’ transformed them, and suppressed his ‘youthful enthusiasm and brilliant variety, in favour of more erudite and elegantly composed solutions.’77 We have seen how early views on Naldini’s contribution to the overall programme for the Salone were partly exaggerated due to the misattribution of several drawings. However, this should not prevent an examination of the remarkable range of his artistic inventions.

Forlani Tempesti recognised a recurring figure in three of Naldini’s drawings (figs. 4.14-16), portraying a mounted solider with ‘bent shoulders’ leaning to the right of his saddle.78 Though she is correct that this figure resembles the rider at the centre of the Defeat of the Pisan Forces (fig. 4.7), I believe Naldini explored his expressive potential at greater length, and used the pose to experiment with alternative compositional formats. The final fresco does not reflect the great range of Naldini’s inventive solutions.

75 Codex Urbinas Latinus 1270, fol. 85v [no. 283]. McMahon, 1956, vol. 1, p. 116. 76 Barocchi, 1964a, p. 58. 77 Forlani Tempesti, 1968, p. 296. 78 ‘guerriero di spalle piegato sul fianco destro del cavallo’. This figure appears with some variations in GDSU 501 S, 502 Sr, and 506 S. Forlani Tempesti, 1968, p. 295. 132 The fresco (fig. 4.7) commemorates the great Florentine victory on 17 August 1505, over the forces of Bartolomeo d’Alviano, an ally of Pisa.79 This was celebrated as the victory of Ercole Bentivoglio, the condottiere who commanded the company of mercenaries (compagnia di ventura) in service of the Florentine Republic.80 At the centre of the fresco (fig. 4.21) three mounted soldiers lead a forward charge. They form a close and ordered front, and their swords are held above their heads ready to strike with precise synchrony. In contrast, most of their enemies on the right struggle to prepare their weapons. A soldier yells out as his standard is grasped and easily deflected. Behind, his fellow solider rests his sword uselessly by his waist. Only the spiked mace of the solider in a golden cuirass is raised to strike, but he barely stands a chance. Against this parody of Pisan weakness, the disciplined charge of the three riders suggests valorous Florentine soldiers of rank, possibly the three condottieri mentioned in Francesco Guicciardini’s account of the battle: Ercole Bentivoglio (governatore), Antonio Giacomini Tebalducci (commissario di guerra), and Marcantonio Colonna.81

The fresco represents several moments from the battle simultaneously. In the background (fig. 4.10), executed largely by Battista Naldini, the Florentine cavalry enters the ruins of San Vincenzo, a small town on the Ligurian coast. In Guicciardini’s account Bentivoglio sent two bands of light cavalry, one to hack at the enemy’s tail and the other to meet the enemy headfirst. The condottiere then led the remaining half of his forces against the enemy’s flank and broke their ranks by pushing them out to the sea.82 In the background of the fresco, trumpets blare, and the two forces face one another and gallop into a charge. Naldini also painted the decisive turning point in the battle (fig. 4.11) when Bentivoglio gave the order to fire the six falconet cannons (falconetti) that had been strategically positioned on top of the

79 Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, no.55(4), p. 260. For the vicissitudes of fortune in the wars between Pisa and Florence see Butters, 1985, pp. 83-139. 80 Francesco Guicciardini reports that the gonfaloniere Piero Soderini took the glory of the victory for himself. The standards and armour of the enemy featured as prominent spoils in the Sala del Gran Consiglio, the chamber that would later become the Salone dei Cinquecento. Guicciardini-Palmarocchi, 1968, p. 278. 81 For further information on these condottieri see DBI, vol. 8 (for Bentivoglio), vol. 27 (for Colonna), vol. 54 (for Giacomini Tebalducci). The caparison of the foremost rider left of the central cavalry combat (fig. 4.9) is decorated with four golden zigzag lines (dancetté) on a red ground (gules, four bars of dancetty or). This closely resembles the colours of the Bolognese Bentivoglio family (fig. 4.8). Bologna, 1605, fol. 35r. Guicciardini-Panigada, 1967, vol. 2, p. 157-58. Guiccardini-Palmarocchi, 1968, p. 278. Nerli, 1728, p. 95. 82 Guicciardini-Panigada, 1967, vol. 2, p. 158. 133 embankment of the trench. This broke the enemy lines, throwing the Pisan soldiers into disorder, and the Florentines were soon victorious.83

In the combat between heavy cavalry (fig. 4.21) at the centre of the Defeat of the Pisan Forces, the mounted soldiers raise their weapons ready to strike. The use of contrapposto in this scene has a profound impact on how an early modern viewer would have read movement. In Naldini’s sketches, the torsos and waists of horse riders are full of torsions. They effectively communicate each soldier’s forceful turn. Naldini often represented the sword-wielding arm drawn back across the torso (fig. 4.12), both advancing the shoulder and pivoting the waist.84 The action was meant to be read with all the force and dread of a backhand swing. The cavalrymen in the Defeat of the Pisans fresco may draw back their arms, but their blows are less powerful when confined to a lateral narrative, parallel to the picture plane. The foreground of the final fresco essentially conforms to the ideal of bas-relief sculpture preserved in many antique sarcophagi, which served as models for grand historical paintings in the ‘relieflike style’.85 Some of Naldini’s sketches also feature prominent moments of combat in their foregrounds, with actions performed parallel to the picture plane.86 However, each action is vigorously captured with figures twisted in powerful contrapposto and mounted troops charging at oblique angles (figs. 4.13- 15).87 Furthermore, these schizzi also reveal that Naldini considered alternative compositional formats.

Naldini relentlessly experimented with dynamic perspectives. One sketch of a battle (fig. 4.15) reveals that he orchestrated a striking entry point to the composition by tilting the central horse and huddling the shoulders of the rider to encourage a forceful turn. The rider charges into the maelstrom of battle at an acute angle, a single hero acting as the only barrier between the viewer and a menacing horde of enemy cavalry, charging directly against the picture plane. Banners billow in the wind, spears and

83 Guicciardini-Panigada, 1967, vol. 2, pp. 158-59. 84 Consider the forceful double (or chiastic) contrapposto of the mounted soldier gripping his sword in a dynamic backhanded swing on the right of GDSU 512 S; or the soldier seated in the left foreground of 508 S. 85 Smyth, 1992 and Hall, 1999, pp. xiii, 143-44. 86 Such as the leaping horse in GDSU 500 S or 652 Fr, or the main combats in 509 S or 512 S 87 Naldini experimented with a cavalry collision at an oblique angle in GDSU 502 Sr, 506 S, and 795 S. 134 pikes are hurled overhead, and horses rear. Naldini flanks this central cavalry combat with two separate figural assemblages. On the left he loops the oval heads of infantrymen and on the right he scribbles a fallen horse and rider collapsing in a heap beneath their assailant. He devises this swirling mass to act as a repoussoir, framing the composition, and directing the viewer’s eye to the powerful central event.88 This extremely well judged composition results in a captivating two-point perspective that involves the spectator to a far greater degree than the final fresco.

Naldini continued to explore different ways to intensify the representation of war. In one sketch (fig. 4.17), a rider, straddling high atop his falling steed, futilely plunges his spear into the shield of his enemy only to be speared under arm. Naldini attempts to capture each fleeting action in this heated clash. The infantryman turns to avoid the charging rider and deflects his spear. Naldini’s hand returns to seize the soldier’s darting feet, scratching several rapid lines with his pen. The horse’s head tilts and falls as he swerves around the infantry soldier and stumbles over a corpse. Each action is captured in a single moment of narrative cohesion, circular in its transition, but dynamic in its impact. In another sketch (fig. 4.18) Naldini foreshortens the forward thrust of a spear. The dynamic angle of the weighted fall increases the tension, and the spear is hurled directly against the picture plane to confront the viewer’s space. Naldini curves the horses and soldiers around this central event to intensify the downward assault, thereby involving the spectator to a greater extent.

The energy of these impressive designs does not transfer to the final fresco. Not merely because of the furor of sketching, but also due to a problem of representation. The horses of the cavalry combat in the centre of the fresco (fig. 4.21) lack the powerful charge of their sketched counterparts. They do not leap as dynamically and twist back their heads (fig. 4.19), or complement the actions of their riders as effectively (fig. 4.20). Naldini’s graphic experiments may have partly filtered into the background scenes of the fresco. However, the foreground privileged the ordered cohesion of disciplined regiments over the chaos of hand-to-hand combat.89

88 Naldini also used repoussoirs in other battle scenes: GDSU 795 S, and the shadowed grove of trees that forms a coulisse on the verso of GDSU 652 F. 89 See also Mendelsohn, 2009. 135 Ultimately, Vasari’s designs communicated an ordered military enterprise that was more favourable to Duke Cosimo’s propagandistic intentions.

A small tempera fresco painted on terracotta by Naldini (fig. 4.22) preserves the central cavalry combat for the final fresco of the Defeat of the Pisan Forces.90 Naldini most likely executed this as a ‘trial’ in fresco before undertaking the full-scale work.91 This painting is the culmination of Naldini’s ruminations on representing battle. It also reveals a compromise between two very different perspectives: one representing the dynamic collision of cavalry galloping at an oblique angle and the other maintaining the easy legibility of a lateral narrative. The horses are not precisely parallel to the picture plane, but they have been aligned to it as closely as possible.

Among Naldini’s drawings, a sketch from Paris (fig. 4.23) comes closest to this final cavalry combat (fig. 4.21).92 Again, Naldini insists on intensifying the lateral narration with his experiments in obliquely angled cavalry. The horseman on the left charges into battle at an acute angle, encouraging the viewer to enter the composition and witness the imminent collision head-on. As we have seen, Naldini tended to favour oblique entry points for his foreground riders (figs. 4.14-15). In the final fresco, the mounted soldier wearing a golden cuirass owes much to these graphic investigations, but he does not communicate as dynamic an entry point.

Although the Paris drawing (fig 4.23) approaches the central collision of the final fresco and painted bozzetto, this fact does not justify labelling the drawing a primo pensiero for the final composition. This labelling system implies the drawing is the clearly recognisable origin for the central cavalry combat. Neither lines impregnated with speed, nor the cadence of their wavering course can be firm criteria for reconstructing an exact sequence for Naldini’s designs. Every sketch in this series is impregnated with energy, and the poses of soldiers and warring clusters are endlessly reconfigured. It is important to recognise all of Naldini’s battle sketches as the multiple schizzi that Dolce and Armenini advised artists to prepare. Filippo

90 Reproduced in Arezzo, 2011, no.30, pp. 144-47. The tablet remained under the name Vasari for many years before being correctly attributed to Naldini by Alessandro Cecchi in Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, pp. 256, 260. Thiem, 1960, p. 122, fig. 26 (as Vasari). 91 See discussion of modello below. 92 École des Beaux-Arts, Mas. 2356r. This is especially apparent when the drawing is viewed in reverse. 136 Baldinucci described Naldini as ‘varied and copious in his inventions’ and subsequent scholars have recognised the fertility of his imagination.93 A strict linear production sequence should not be imposed on these initial sketches; it unnecessarily limits Naldini’s tireless experimentation.

Macchia – Invention and the Illegible Stain

The seventeenth-century painter and theorist Marco Boschini elevated the macchia, literally meaning ‘stain’ or ‘blotch,’ as an appealing quality, counting it among the greatest achievements of Venetian painting.94 However, before the seventeenth century, macchia was never a desirable quality for a finished painting. This was especially true of sixteenth-century Florence, where the majority of patrons commissioned and expected finished and polished work. Armenini criticised the display of macchie in paintings partly sketched (parte abbozzate) and half finished (mezo finite) with some parts well rendered but many blotched with labour (molte a fatica macchiate).95 The appearance of the macchia was, however, entirely justified during the inventive stage of disegno.

Leonardo da Vinci passionately recommended stains (macchie) as imaginative aides. ‘To stimulate the mind to various inventions’ (à destare lo ingegnio à varie inventioni), Leonardo urges that the painter should:

Look at walls splashed with a number of stains [machie] or stones of various mixed colors. If you have to invent some scene, you can see there resemblances to a number of landscapes, adorned in various ways with mountains, rivers, rocks, trees, great plains, valleys and hills. Moreover, you can see various battles, and rapid actions of figures, strange expressions on faces, costumes, and an infinite number of things, which you can reduce to good, integrated form.96

93 ‘Fu il Naldini vario e copioso nell’invenzioni […]’ Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 518. 94 See Philip Sohm’s thorough examination of the term macchia. Sohm, 1991, pp. 36-43, 141-155. Sohm, 1999, pp. 116-24; and Sohm, 2001, pp. 144-164. 95 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 149. 96 McMahon, 1956, vol. 1, p. 50. ‘[…] è di grande uttilità à destare lo ingegnio à varie inventioni e’ quest’è se tu riguarderai in alcuni muri imbrattati di varie machie o’ pietre di varij misti se harai à inventionare qualche sito potrai li vedere similitudini de diversi paesi, hornati di montagne, fiumi, sassi, alberi, pianure grande, valli,e’ colli in diversi modi anchora vi potrai vedere diverse battaglie, et atti pronti di figure strane arie di volti, e’ abitti, et infinite cose le quali tu potrai ridure integra e’ bona forma.’ Codex Urbinas Latinus 1270, fol. 35v. 137 According to Leonardo, initial composition should be ‘untidy’. He advised the painter not to linger on the ‘beauty and goodness’ (bellezza e bontà) of figures and their members, rather he instructed: ‘painter, compose the parts of your figures crudely [componi grossamente].’97 Leonardo specifies a particular type of sketch, the ‘untidy composition’ (componimento inculto), because it is the most likely to capture the mental concetto of the artist.98 He places importance on movements that will grant figures the appearance of life: motions appropriate to a protagonist’s mental attitudes (accidenti mentali). However, Leonardo does not equate the beauty of these new inventions (belle inventioni) with the stain (macchia) which first ignited the imagination, rather he values stains on walls for the great range of suggestive images they stimulate in the mind. Leonardo suggests that neither bellezza, nor bontà are the goals of sketching. Refining an image in ‘good form’ (bona forma) comes later. Leonardo’s advice to sketch ‘untidy compositions’ actually led many connoisseurs to dismiss his authorship of more finished drawings. Carlo Pedretti summarised this early assumption: ‘The unwritten rule is that when a Leonardo drawing is too slick it should be given to a pupil.’99

In a rough sketch (fig. 4.24), Naldini approximates the primitive chaos of the macchia.100 The sheet also carries a liquid stain, but Naldini’s sketch is itself a chalk stain. At first glance, it is difficult to identify a clear subject from the smudged black chalk. Naldini’s intentions only become clear when the sheet is compared to a more legible image, such as Abraham sacrificing Isaac (fig. 4.25) for the monumental altarpiece (1567-1569) in Santa Croce at Bosco Marengo.101 A sharp flick of the chalk, inscribed six centimetres into the sheet from the left, describes the folded hem of Abraham’s robe. But the pentimenti swell and amplify the drapery, attesting to Naldini’s returning hand. He continued to revise the contour of Abraham’s body, protruding his pelvis to form a graceful arc. The pose created by these layered lines

97 Codex Urbinas Latinus 1270, fol. 62r. McMahon, 1956, vol. 1, p. 108. 98 McMahon, 1956, vol. 1, pp. 108-9. ‘[…] pittore componi grossamente le membra delle tue figure […] per che tu hai a’ intendere che se tal componimento inculto ti reussira apropriato alla sua inventione.’ Codex Urbinas Latinus 1270, fol. 62r. 99 Pedretti in New York, 2003, p. 97. 100 GDSU 8965 S. 101 Reproduced in Merlano, 2010, p. 12; and Barocchi, 1964b, p. 128, fig. 13 (as Francesco Morandini). 138 evokes the wonderful torsion and movement of Salviati’s St Andrew (fig. 4.26), who drew inspiration from Myron’s Discobolus.102 Abraham’s head could have been lost in the cacophony of crooked lines where it not for Naldini’s delineation of part of the cranium, an eye and ear, and a strange nose in pen and brown ink.

The sketch (fig. 4.24) serves as a vivid example of how a restless search for forms can dominate an entire sheet, and completely suffocate the composition itself. Naldini dashes out lines to define the contours of Isaac’s kneeling form. The chalk is smudged beneath his rapid hand. His tracts are heavy, sharp, coarse, and splintered. He does not loop his forms, but drags and cuts across the paper in angular jolts. Anatomical accuracy and narrative clarity are lost to a thick maelstrom of black chalk. Below the legs of Isaac, the lines disperse in broken stops and starts. These sharp inflections are less descriptive than caught in an absent-minded repetitive gesture.103 Each line is lost under a succession of layers until the entire form generates a macchia.

Roughly sketched forms must eventually be abandoned and started afresh. In his dialogue In difesa della lingua fiorentina, et di Dante (1556), Carlo Lenzoni wrote: […] one adopts a very good and refined finish, but over crude and badly blocked [male abbozzate] out figures, to which one can never give the finishing touch. As the very divine Michelangelo says, it isn’t worth the effort.104

Irreversible errors in carving stone also have parallels, albeit on a much smaller scale, with the indelible ink of pen drawing. However, any drawn composition that accumulates many layers over badly sketched figures becomes increasingly difficult to refine. Naldini began to delineate Abraham’s head in pen and brown ink, but chose not to retrace the entire composition in pen. He took out a new sheet (fig. 4.27) and revised the poses of Abraham and Isaac afresh.105 Armenini recommended constantly ‘correcting and remaking’ new sketches in order to ‘embellish and refine’ the idea in the mind. He reasoned: ‘For one’s attention is better focused when drawing anew than

102 Salviati’s painting is reproduced in Shearman, 1986, p. 85, fig. 43. 103 For a convincing interpretation of repetitive drawing in an example by Gregorio Pagani see Petherbridge, 2010, pp. 160-61. 104 ‘[…] adopera una sottilissima & buona Lima sì; ma sopra grosse & male abbozzate figure, alle quale non dà mai fine: Et come dice il divinissimo Buonarrato, non ne cava la fatica.’ Carlo Lenzoni, In difesa della lingua fiorentina, et di Dante, Florence, 1556, p. 33, translated by Emison, 2004, p. 48. 105 Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett, KdZ 17481. 139 by revising a single sketch [quella macchia].’106 By using macchia as a synonym for schizzo, Armenini also implied the necessity of detaching from the stain. Leonardo subjected his own macchia to the same fate. The much-cited London sketch (fig. 4.28) for his Madonna and Child with Saint Anne, now in the Louvre, had to be eventually abandoned. But this macchia preserved a concetto that could still be extracted with the forceful incisions of a dry stylus.107

The closer the sketch approximates the macchia the more illegible it becomes. On the verso of a head study, Naldini briskly sketched a composition (fig. 4.29).108 The rapid motions of Naldini’s hand mark familiar angular forms, however these result in an illegible figural gathering from which no clear subject can be conclusively identified. Due to its ambiguous forms, Naldini’s macchia offers more than one interpretation: Is it an Adoration of the Magi, Nativity, or Pentecost?109 This product of Naldini’s fantasia, bridges the divide between macchia and componimento inculto. Its dishevelled angular splinters describe an unrefined concetto, which remains difficult to read.

Bozzo

In the visual arts bozzo refers to a rough draft. Bozzare and abbozzare mean to fashion the first form of an idea. Similarly, within a literary context, bozza can describe a written draft. For example, Jacopo Nardi and Francesco Guicciardini refer to a draft of civic statutes (una bozza di capitoli).110 As an architectural term, bozza designates rusticated masonry, and unlike the first definitions concentrating on drafting, is perhaps closest to the root meaning of the word. Bozza derives from the old French

106 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 144. ‘Conciosiacosachè con più attenzione si dissegna di novo che non si fa a rivedere solamente quella macchia, laonde l’intelletto più si abbellisce e si lima, perciò che la mano, ministra dell’intelletto, aiuta molto più l’ingegno, perchè nel rivederli e nel rifarli bisogna che la mano, con la penna, ogni atto et ogni minuzia riformi e riduca a miglior termine con alquanto spazio di tempo, nel quale l’intelletto et il giudizio può far meglio il suo ufficio […]’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 90. 107 Victoria Budny proposes an accurate sequence to Leonardo da Vinci’s sketches for the Virgin and Child with St Anne and St John the Baptist. She also summarises previous attempts to discern the limbs and identify Leonardo’s protagonists. The constant lack of scholarly consensus is not new to drawing studies, and perhaps serves as a good introduction to the difficult, and even futile, task of determining the represented details of a rough sketch. Budny, 1983. 108 GDSU 716 Fr is discussed in chapter 9. 109 Petrioli Tofani, GDSU Inventario, 1991, p. 303: ‘Rapido schizzo di una composizione difficilmente identificabile, forse una Adorazione dei pastori.’ 110 Battaglia, 1961-2004, vol. 2, p. 336. 140 bosse, from boce meaning ‘swelling’, ‘bump’ or ‘protuberance’.111 Vasari intends this three-dimensional sense when he describes several Florentine façades as fatte di bozze, or encased in rectangularly hewn stones that protrude from the wall, as characteristic of l’ordine rustico.112

Bozzo was therefore etymologically suited to sculpture. The verb bozzare adequately described the action of carving out protruding forms in marble or lumping clay to produce small-scale models (called bozzetti).113 However, bozzare and abbozzare also extended to fashioning a two-dimensional image in paint.114 In 1586, Armenini used bozza and bozzando to describe swiftly sketching figures with pigments on fresh plaster. He explained that when working a fresco, the colours of the ‘first sketch’ (prima bozza) are soon absorbed by the plaster and need to be enhanced with a second layer of paint.115

In 1681, Baldinucci defined abbozzare as the painter’s ‘first effort’ on canvas or panel, handling paint alla grossa, before returning with other colours.116 The product of this early stage of painting or drawing was bozzato or abbozzato, and was often described in these terms because it waited to be properly finished, and was considered imperfect.117 For example, Lodovico Castelvetro considered bozzo to be synonymous with ugly and stained.118 Despite this imperfection, Pietro Aretino, Benvenuto Cellini,

111 Battaglia, 1961-2004, vol. 2, p. 336. 112 ‘Ma molto più è dotata la città di fabriche stupendissime fatte di bozze, come quella di casa Medici, la facciata del palaz[z]o de’ Pitti, quello degli Strozzi et altri infiniti.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 21. See also the Crusca, 1612, p. 130: ‘bozzo diciamo a un pezzo di pietra lavorato alla rustica.’. Baldinucci also describes the particular form of these stones as bozze. Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 1681, p. 23. 113 Ragionieri, 2000. 114 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, pp. 425, 441, 462. 115 Armenini uses the verb bozzando to describe the preliminary painting of a giornata, or the portion of a large-scale fresco that a painter would undertake in a day. The wet plaster is ‘immediately sketched and covered with the mixed colours’ (si vien di subito con le mestiche bozzando e coprendo ogni cosa). This stage follows transferring the design from the cartoon to the wet plaster whether by means of spolvero or calco, and outlining the resulting marks in paint. Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 182; Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 132. 116 ‘Abbozzare, altrimenti imporre, dicesi a quella prima fatica, che fanno i Pittori sopra le tele o tavole, cominciando a colorire così alla grossa le figure, per poi tornarvi sopra con altri colori.’ Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 1681, p. 1. 117 Michelangelo’s Florence Pietà is described in the inventory of Pierantonio Bandini’s estate as ‘statua o figura di mamoro della pietà abozzata’. Wasserman, 2003, doc.17, p. 231. Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 67, explained that sculptors and painters refined imperfette bozze. 118 Pozzi, 1988, p. 633. 141 and Francesco Bocchi praised some abbozzato work.119 However, modern tendencies to interpret these instances as definitive evidence of a taste for the non-finito, especially in a Central Italian Cinquecento context, should be balanced against predominant taste for polish, finito, and pulitezza. Praise of abbozzato work still centred on representation, and capturing a concetto. Although this involved a celebration of speed (prestezza), readiness (prontezza), and the impulse (furia) of creative passion, it was more about confidence and directness, than the appearance of the rough sketch.

Modello & Bozzetto

In the modern literature on historical drawings the term modello is often applied to a small-scale composition study, particularly to drawings that appear to have developed an acute level of presentation. Most compositional drawings intended as preparatory for paintings would eventually have to be enlarged and transferred, either onto a large-scale cartoon, or directly onto the final painting surface. Arriving at this stage of enlargement suggests that a composition had been largely resolved (though this does not exclude the possibility that artists made later changes to their design). Signs of enlargement, such as a squared grid, are often taken for granted by scholars as evidence that a drawing functioned as a modello.120 Besides enlargement, drawn modelli were often presented to patrons for approval, and functioned as prototypes for apprentices and workshop collaborators involved in the project.121

Drawings labelled modelli in contemporary catalogues were rarely given this term during the Cinquecento. Carmen Bambach demonstrated that fifteenth and sixteenth- century sources did not consistently apply the term modello to drawings. Modello is more frequently applied to three-dimensional objects, such as sculpture in terracotta,

119 Aretino stated ‘[…] i buoni pittori aprezzano molto un bel groppo di figure abozzate […]’ quoted from Battaglia, 1961-2004, vol. 1, p. 29. Cellini remarked that in its sketched state (così bozzato), a statue of God the Father demonstrated more excellence (virtù) than the wax modelletto. Battaglia, 1961-2004, vol. 2, p. 337. Bocchi praised Michelangelo’s non-finito sculpture ‘sketched out with incredible and wonderful mastery’ and ‘more wonderful than they would have been, had they been completed.’ Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 83. Bocchi, 1591, pp. 69-70. 120 Joannides, 1983, p. 12, includes enlargement through squaring and transfer to a cartoon in his definition of modello. 121 Bambach, 1990, p. 497. 142 wax, or stucco and wooden architectural models.122 These were not the sole domain of architects and sculptors. Vasari advised painters to prepare small-scale wax or clay statuettes (modelli) to control the lighting and shadows of their painted protagonists.123 Bandinelli, Salviati, Pontormo, Morandini, and Naldini all used modelli.

Naldini’s close friend, the architect and sculptor Giovann’Antonio Dosio, mentioned a modello of the new chapel that he was designing for Niccolò di Sinibaldo Gaddi in Santa Maria Novella. Dosio indicates that another artisan, maestro Luigi, possibly a carpenter or falegname, was preparing the modello. Like most architects, Dosio was delegating the construction of a three-dimensional wooden architectural model.124 In another letter, Dosio sends his patron Gaddi a sketch of an invention (schizzo d’una invenzione) for the vault of the chapel. He invites his patron to review the drawn design and inform him of his preferences regarding its ornament.125 In this way Dosio’s schizzo serves the same function as a modello, but the architect does not use this term to describe his drawing.

Bambach correctly argued that among Vasari’s classification of drawing types – schizzo, disegno, cartone – modello is the only term that does not describe a drawing.126 She also reasoned that Giovanni Andrea Gilio used the term to describe sculptural models, despite its proximity to the same drawing categories: ‘the painter must make gli schizzi, i cartoni, i modelli.’127 Elsewhere, Vasari clearly made the

122 Bambach, 1990, pp. 497-98. Hirst & Bambach, 1992. In 1681, Filippo Baldinucci described modelli as objects made by architects and sculptors, but he did not mention painters. Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 1681, p. 99. 123 Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, pp. 34-35. 124 ‘Venni sabato in Fiorenza per danari da pagare quaggiù, e cercai Vostra Signoria, ma il poco tempo che m’era concesso, fece che non lo trovai. Andai dal maestro Luigi che fa il modello, e intesi e vidi il tutto, e so che ella ha proceduto intorno all’esaminarlo con quella maniera che si conviene al grado suo, ed anco con quel buon animo, che la sua bontà e cortesia gli ha fatto sempre mostrare verso di me […]’ Giovanni Antonio Dosio to Niccolò Gaddi, 14 June 1574. Bottari & Ticozzi, 1822-1825, vol. 3, no.CXLI, pp. 302-4; quoted in Barletti, 2011, p. 748. For architectural models see Matteoli, 1974. 125 ‘[…] mando a Vostra Signoria uno schizzo d’una invenzione per la volta della sua cappella. Potrà vederla e dirne il suo parere, se la vorrà o più semplice, ovvero con più ricchi ornamenti. Non resterò di pensare in questo mezzo a qualche altra invenzione […]’ Giovanni Antonio Dosio to Niccolò Gaddi, 28 October 1575. Bottari & Ticozzi, 1822-1825, vol. 3, no.CXLIII, pp. 305-306; quoted in Barletti, 2011, p. 748. 126 Bambach & Hirst, 1992, p. 173. 127 ‘esso [pittore] ne deve fare gli schizzi, i cartoni, i modelli, e non si confider ne la mente, perché è labile.’ Gilio, 1564, p. 29; quoted in Bambach & Hirst, 1992, p. 173. 143 distinction: ‘many disegni, cartoni and beautiful clay modelli.’128 Historians of drawing may label a squared compositional drawing a modello, but when Vasari and Armenini discussed this type of drawing in relation to large-scale cartoons they called it simply a ‘small drawing’ (disegno piccolo).129 Despite this, modello now appears to be generally accepted and is frequently used in the literature on historical drawings.130 According to Filippo Baldinucci’s Vocabolario toscano dell’arte del disegno (1681): The modello is the first and principal effort of the entire work, in which by unmaking and reforming, the artist [artefice] arrives at the most beautiful and most perfect.131

Baldinucci described schizzi and primi pensieri in relation to the germination of an artistic idea or the concetto an artist conceived in his mind.132 These drawn products record an artist’s initial design without concentrating on details.133 When reading Baldinucci, it is important to recognise the modello as the culmination of this early design process. Baldinucci defined the modello as the ‘first and principal effort’ of a work and likewise the verb abbozzare as the painter’s ‘first effort’ on canvas or panel, shifting the focus from initial design toward the opening stages of final execution.134 The modello becomes a new starting point for the large-scale final work because it serves as the central point of reference for its completion. Keeping this seventeenth- century source in mind, it is interesting to note that for Armenini the perfettissimo

128 Description of objects found in Pontormo’s house after his death. Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 495. 129 Vasari included the term in his discussion of the process of enlargement and design transfer to a cartoon: ‘[…] si vanno con una canna lung ache abbia in cima un cardone riportando sul cartone, per giudicar da discosto tutto quello che nel disegno piccolo è disegnato con pari grandezza; e così a poco a poco quando a una figura e quando a l’altra dànno fine.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 46. Armenini also calls these disegni piccoli after clearly distinguishing them from three-dimensional statuettes (modelli). He discusses how the design is transferred ‘guistamente su’ cartoni, secondo la misura de’ disegni piccoli […].’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. 16, 121. 130 In 1999 Bambach again argued that modello was not standardised in primary sources as a term for drawings until the eighteenth century. Bambach, 1999a, p. 379n82. However, despite these sensitive critiques of the term, Bambach has since used the term to categorise particular drawing types. In the catalogue for the exhibition on Correggio and Parmigianino: master draughtsmen of the Renaissance, modelli are succinctly defined as ‘small-scale composition drawings’. Bambach also mentions their ‘squaring grids’ as characteristic of their function as aids for enlargement, see Bambach in London & New York, 2000, p. 23. In the The Drawings of Bronzino catalogue, modelli accurately describes Bronzino’s highly developed and extremely polished drawings, which would serve as the only point of reference for the Flemish tapestry weavers who realised his designs. Bambach, 2010a, pp. 39-40. Paul Joannides, 1983, applies modello to the drawings of Raphael without any qualms. Modello is also applied to Annibale Carracci’s expressive pen studies enhanced with white heightening. See Washington, 2000, no.12, p. 75. Ward, 1982, p. 21. Ward, 1988, p. 33. Scorza, 1984. New York, 1999, pp. 19-21. Monbeig Goguel, 2001. Pilliod, 2006. Lauder, 2009, p. 62. Gregory, 2012, pp. 195-97, 247. 131 ‘È il modello prima e principal fatica di tutta l’opera, essendo che in essa guastando e raccomodando arriva l’artefice al più bello e al più perfetto.’ Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 1681, p. 99. 132 See section on primo pensiero above. 133 Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 1681, p. 148. 134 Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 1681, p. 1. 144 essempio et modello for the whole work is the ben finito cartone rather than the small- scale composition drawing (disegno piccolo).135

Baldinucci similarly defined bozza as ‘almost the beginning of a work’, however he grouped small-scale paintings and three-dimensional models under this label, rather than drawn schizzi: Bozza – is said of some small models [piccoli modelli], or pictures, which artists execute and then enlarge in the final work; almost the beginning of a work, whether a painting, sculpture, or other.136

Baldinucci therefore suggests that some artists used small-scale paintings (bozze), in the same way that sculptors used piccoli modelli, as models for a larger work. The diminutive of bozza, bozzetto, aptly describes the small-scale objects that artefici produced, whether the three-dimensional models made by sculptors or architects or small paintings produced by artists.137

Naldini often executed small-scale paintings in preparation for major commissions. He developed this practice early in his career. A Pietà with Saints (fig. 4.30) painted in fresco on a small terracotta tablet may be considered the earliest example of this type. In a letter to Vasari, dated 6 May 1566, Vincenzio Borghini reveals that he was responsible for encouraging Naldini to experiment with distributing colours on a small scale before undertaking the main work. Borghini also described Naldini’s painting as a ‘trial’ (prova) in fresco. In the end he absolutely treasured the result and

135 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 120. 136 ‘Bozza […] si dice ad alcuni piccoli modelli, o quadri, che conducono gli Artefici, per poi farli maggiori nell’opera, quasi principio di lavoro, o sia di pittura, di scultura, o altro.’ Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 1681, p. 23. 137 Linda Freeman Bauer recognised that the terms used to describe sketching in paint – abbozare, bozzo, and macchia – were also employed by authors to describe drawing, particularly chiaroscuro wash drawings. Bauer cites examples by Vasari and Aretino that use abbozzato, abbozzo, and abbozzatura to describe unfinished work and underpainting. She identifies changes in inventory descriptions of oil sketches between the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, from disegno ad oglio or dissegno colorito to abbozzo or bozza. And argues that this accompanied an increasing taste for unfinished work and the loose brushwork of preparatory oil sketches. She also notes that some Seicento authors used the terms bozzetto and modello interchangeably. Bauer, 1978, pp. 46-51n42. The first edition of the Vocabolario degli accademici della Crusca defines bozza as the ‘prima forma non ripulíta, nè condotta a perfezione’ of a sculpture, painting or piece of writing. Crusca, 1612, p. 130. However, bozzetto is not defined as an artistic object until the fourth edition, published in the early eighteenth century: ‘Bozzetto chiamano i pittori lo Schizzo in piccolo d’un’opera grande.’ Crusca, 1729-1738, vol. 1, p. 459. In the early nineteenth century, Luigi Bossi, similarly defined bozzetto as ‘schizzo in piccolo di opera grande.’ Bossi, 1821, vol. 2, p. 40. 145 had Naldini’s terracotta tile cemented above the arch to his private chambers.138 Naldini’s Cavalry combat (fig. 4.22), painted in preparation for the Defeat of the Pisan Forces fresco, can also be considered a ‘trial’ in colours, this time in tempera.

Naldini continued to produce small-scale paintings before commencing large altarpieces. Linda Freeman Bauer explains that painters produced oil sketches, both in monochrome and colour, to determine chiaroscuro values.139 These bozzetti, or painted modelli, allowed Naldini to experiment with the distribution of tonal values, explore colour harmonies, and create the appearance of relief (rilievo).

Naldini frequently revised small details in his narratives even after many of the elements had been determined. He painted two compositional studies in oil for his Purification of the Virgin (1577) in Santa Maria Novella, and two also for his Lamentation (1583, fig. 4.31) in Santa Croce. They contain interesting compositional details that were lost during subsequent revisions. For example, his first and second oil studies for the Lamentation preserve the decision to change the position of Mary Magdalene. In the earlier bozzetto (fig. 4.32) her head is lowered as she kisses Christ’s shins, while in the second (fig. 4.33) her arms retain the open embrace of Christ’s legs but her lips are no longer in contact with his flesh.

A comparison of the two bozzetti (figs. 4.34 & 4.35) for the Purification of the Virgin (fig. 4.36) reveals that Naldini removed the large column and plinth that dominated the right side of the composition and covered St Joseph. This modification, possibly made at the request of Naldini’s patron Giovanni da Sommaia or at Vasari or Borghini’s recommendation, opened up the composition, allowing the viewer greater freedom in navigating between protagonists.140 However, even after presenting his second oil study, Naldini’s advisors appear to have requested additional changes. He retracted the extending leg of the female repoussoir and revised her pose to create a

138 ‘Batista lavora in San Simone e mi ha fatto in su una tegola grande di più d’un braccio per ogni verso quel medesimo disegno in fresco che gliene ho fatto fare per una prova e per distribuire e’ colori; e torna tanto bene, che io l’ho fatta murare sopra l’arco di camera mia.’ Vincenzo Borghini to Giorgio Vasari, 6 May 1566. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 236-38. Borghini was instrumental in securing Naldini’s first independent commission, a painting of the Pietà with Saints for the Church of San Simone. Rick Scorza, 2003a, p. 114, describes Naldini’s bozzetti for this commission as ‘vibrant fresco trials on terracotta’. 139 Bauer, 1978, pp. 46-47. 140 See also Hall, 1979, p. 70. 146 clear entry into the composition.141 Naldini also drew a studio apprentice as St Joseph in a new pose (fig. 4.37), asking him to lift the basket in both hands rather than letting it dangle from the left hand as in the second bozzetto.142 By raising the basket to the height of the Christ Child, the two doves contained within could be easily read as symbols for the purification ritual releasing the firstborn from the obligation to serve the temple.143 Naldini’s ongoing revision in this example demonstrates that his painted modelli did not only serve as trials in chiaroscuro and chromatic value. They contributed significant changes to his final design.

This reflection on the primo pensiero, schizzo, macchia, bozzo, modello, and bozzetto, has revealed a rich, and sometimes ambivalent, semantic field for inventive drawing. Many sixteenth-century authors used these terms interchangeably (disegno for schizzo, modello for bozzetto) and applied them liberally across the fields of painting, sculpture and architecture. Though the use of sixteenth-century words gives the impression of historical accuracy, the terms themselves are far from any rigid codification or precise modern taxonomy.

The category of primo pensiero, even in its plural form primi pensieri, by its very namesake seeks to locate the earliest possible beginning of a work of art, but proves less applicable in cases of abundant creation like Naldini’s many sketches of battle. Out of the initial stirrings of his fantasia Naldini shaped forms on paper. The rapid jolt of his angular stroke became engrossed in the furia of battle and the chalk stain. These schizzi conveyed the burgeoning fertility of his unbridled invention. The illegible macchia, itself the product of urgent creation, forced the draughtsman to detach and disentangle his concetto from its chaotic linear mass. The swelling and protruding bozzo, etymologically suited to the third dimension, also described the ‘first effort’ or sketch in paint on a canvas, panel, or fresco. Naldini was still revising his compositions during the penultimate stages of production. Even after painting two modelli for several commissions, he kept on drawing and fashioning figures anew.

141 Naldini, drapery and head study for revised figure, GDSU 7447 F. 142 GDSU 9053 F. Published by Thiem, 2003, p. 52, fig. 5. 143 Luke 2.22-24. Schiller, 1971-1972, vol. 1, p. 90. 147 Chapter 5

Battista Naldini’s Early Drawings & Tuition

Battista Naldini was the curious product of two divergent artistic traditions. Around the age of twelve he became a pupil of the imaginative and eccentric Jacopo da Pontormo, who was unfairly characterised by the biographer Giorgio Vasari as a neurotic, poor, and melancholy painter, living in squalor. Pontormo was criticised for working painstakingly slow, and producing unpleasant and confusing art during the last years of his life. Naldini lived with Pontormo in a close bond for ten years, precisely during the period that Vasari described, when his elderly master was painting the choir of San Lorenzo. After 1564 Naldini went to work as a collaborator in Vasari’s large workshop. At the time Vasari was at his height, court painter to Duke Cosimo, author of the large compendium of artists’ lives, and one of the founders of the Accademia del Disegno. Naldini is therefore historically positioned at a critical juncture between the lessons of a master inculcated during his impressionable years and the artistic theory of the new court painter Vasari, who had usurped Pontormo’s place and come to dominate the vast majority of Medici sponsored art commissions.

Vasari was on relatively good speaking terms with Pontormo during the 1540s. Don Miniato Pitti wrote to Vasari in 1546: ‘Maestro Jacopo da Pontormo is all yours and he sends his greetings, as do Bronzino and Cecchino [Francesco] Salviati […] Pass on my good wishes to all our dearest friends [nostri amici più cari].’1 Paolo Giovio also finished several letters with a greeting to Pontormo, Bronzino, Salviati, and Bachiacca, suggesting that Vasari saw them often. The only exception was the bad- tempered sculptor Baccio Bandinelli. Giovio asked Vasari to extend his greeting to Baccio ‘if he lets you speak.’2 By the time Vasari came to write his biography of Pontormo for the 1568 edition of his Vite, the painter seems to have fallen out of his favour. He characterised Pontormo as so fearful of death that he forbade any mention of it and avoided contact with dead bodies. Pontormo was indifferent to money,

1 Don Miniato Pitti to Giorgio Vasari, 22 August 1946. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 1, p. 169. 2 Paolo Giovio to Giorgio Vasari, 8 July 1547. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 1, p. 199. 148 extremely melancholy, and solitary beyond belief. He rarely emerged from his home, not even on religious feast days. He had a little room to which he could withdraw with a retractable wooden ladder so that no one could reach him. He would not let anyone see his paintings until they were finished;3 sometimes he wasted days thinking about art without producing anything. He laboured on projects for years when most painters would have completed them in half the time.4 Almost all of these claims were wild exaggerations.

Elizabeth Pilliod went to great lengths to reveal the extent of Vasari’s lies, and with exceptional success. She discovered new archival documents and deduced Pontormo’s financial and property holdings from his will, urban plans, and the proceedings from the dispute over his estate. Pilliod demonstrated that the painter did not live alone, and often met with his friends and attended carnevale. Furthermore, Pontormo was relatively wealthy. His assets amounted to more than 1000 florins, he owned two properties, and his annual income for the last two decades of his life was 100 scudi.5 Pilliod argues that Vasari strategically downplayed Pontormo’s status as a Medici court artist by weaving themes of poverty, financial indifference, and solitude throughout his biography on the painter.6

As a result, Vasari’s biography has attracted many different interpretations and these potentially affect the way we perceive Naldini. The strongly entrenched view of Pontormo as a solitary individual conditioned how Frederick Mortimer Clapp approached his workshop and legacy: In so solitary a life, to a nature so intense and lonely as his, the training of pupils was impossible […] what was best in his art was too personal to be easily imitated, too subtle and too various to become a canon to young artists.7

In contrast, late cinquecento Florentines celebrated Pontormo’s artistic legacy.8 Pontormo also employed several pupils over the course of his career, including Agnolo Bronzino, Giovann’Antonio Lappoli, and Giovanmaria Pichi.9 Pontormo also

3 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 862. 4 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 495. 5 Pilliod, 2001, p. 124. 6 Pilliod, 2001, pp. 22-23. 7 Clapp, 1916, p. 94. 8 Feinberg, 1991, pp. 15-22. 9 Pilliod, 2001, p. 43. 149 kept a diary during the last years of his life that records the names Battista and Bastiano. These pupils carried out small errands like purchasing food, cooking, and bringing cartoons and painting supplies to San Lorenzo. The identity of the first has been recognised for some time as Battista Naldini following supporting evidence from Vasari.10 Pilliod definitively revealed that the latter was Bastiano di Benedetto del Gestra.11 This chapter will discuss Naldini’s apprenticeship under Pontormo and examine how he absorbed and assimilated his master’s graphic style. I offer a new analysis of a selection of drawings that belong to the Pontormo-Naldini authorship problem, and consider how Naldini imitated his master’s late approach to the body.

Naldini’s Apprenticeship

The traditional source for information on Naldini’s apprenticeship has been Pontormo’s diary, written between 1554 and 1556 when Battista was between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one. In some passages Jacopo yearns for Battista’s attention. When suffering severe bouts of diarrhoea he laments: ‘My Battista went out in the evening and did not return, knowing that I was feeling ill. This is something that I will always remember.’12 And in fleeting passages: ‘it is the first time he has slept away from home’13 ‘Battista locked himself in his room’14; ‘Battista doesn’t want to have dinner.’15 ‘I asked Battista to cook’16; ‘Battista did not return’17; ‘Battista left a note saying he was not coming back.’18 Together these excerpts give the impression of an uncooperative, headstrong twenty-year old, fighting for his independence. However, the diary should not be viewed as a complete record of Pontormo and Naldini’s relationship, because it does not preserve the early years of a long apprenticeship.

10 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 495. 11 Pilliod, 2001, pp. 45-51, 210, 243n52, 278n148. 12 ‘El mio Batista andò di fuora la sera e sapeva che io mi sentivo male, e non tornò, talché io l’arò tenere a mente sempre.’ 10 July 1555. Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, p. 61. 13 ‘è la prima vol[ta] che gl’à ’bergato fuora […].’ 4 July 1555. Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, p. 60. 14 ‘Adì 13 venerdì cenai da me e cominciai a fare da me e Batista si serrò in camera.’ 13 December 1555. Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, p. 66. 15 ‘Batista non volle cenare.’ 2 January 1556. Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, p. 68. 16 ‘Martedì chiesi che Battista cocessi.’ 21 July 1556. Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, p. 76. 17 ‘e Battista non tornò.’ 22 July 1555. Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, p. 62. 18 Translated by Mayer, 1979, p. 161. ‘[…] Batista lasciò la poliza che diceva che non tornava, che fu quando egli acattò el giachio.’ Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, pp. 76 & 94n191, Salvatore Nigro interprets poliza as receipt for the rent, but argues that Pontormo is more concerned with Battista. 150 The many records of Battista’s absence from the house at Via Laura should not be interpreted as a norm.19 Pontormo’s personal need to record Battista’s comings and goings from July 1555 onwards suggests that he was used to having his young apprentice around. Similarly, only a few entries imply that Battista and Pontormo shared a meal, with just one explicitly recording that they ‘had dinner together’, but we must suppose that they ate together more than three times when living under the same roof.20 As a former ward of the Ospedale degli Innocenti, Battista was entitled to a regular delivery of staple goods (commesso) before the age of 20, which included flour, wine, oil, wood, and charcoal. When Battista moved to Pontormo’s home and bottega in Via Laura, these goods came with him.21

After Pontormo’s death in early January 1557 a long legal dispute began over his estate and rightful heir. Naldini was called to court as a witness. His testimony, published by Pilliod, furnishes important facts about his apprenticeship. He revealed that he had been living with Pontormo ‘in the house in the parish of San Pier Maggiore in Via Laura’ for ‘about eleven years’.22 The notary recorded: ‘with whom he shared bread and wine [a un pane et un vino] and expenses, and lived by day and night.’23 Pilliod explains that the phrase describes the ‘communal living arrangements of extended families’, and argues that Jacopo was raising Battista as his son.24 As both Robert Gaston and Pilliod demonstrated, Bronzino’s adoption of Alessandro Allori was more formally recognised when the painter became protector and effective head of the family after the death of Tofano Allori.25 Michele Tosini was similarly adopted by Ridolfo Ghirlandaio and became the head of his workshop when the latter

19 For Pontormo’s house see Pilliod, 2001, pp. 67-79. 20 ‘Adì 23 [genaio] giovedì cenai castrone: ebi andare con Batista a bel ochio e reca’ne e cenamo insieme, e ucelòmi duo dì dicendo che non ne trovava.’ 23 January 1556. Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, p. 69. I agree with Nigro, 1984, p. 91n145, and Sara Fanucci, 2014, p. 52, that belochio describes pleasant surroundings and the passage describes a country walk, rather than visiting a precise location. See notes 14 & 16 above for other entries that revolve around Battista and food. 21 Pilliod, 2001, pp. 77-78. Pilliod explains (p. 124) that Pontormo had established his own commesso with the Ospedale in 1549 with an endowment of 100 scudi. Naldini’s commesso therefore supplemented his own. 22 Translated by Pilliod, 2001, p. 123. ‘Giovambatista di Matteo di Naldino calzolaio […] che sette con maestro Jacopo da Pontormo circha anni xi, et nella casa posto [sic] nel populo di Santo Piero Maggiore in Via Laura […]’ 6 March 1557. Pilliod, 2001, doc.21(c), p. 223. 23 Translated by Pilliod, 2001, pp. 78, 120. ‘Baptista di Matteo di Naldino […] esser stato garzone di Jacopo di Bartolomeo da Pontormo […] con quale è stato a un pane et un vino, et a spese, et di dì et di nocte, col prefato Maestro Jacopo.’ 13 February 1557. Pilliod, 2001, doc.21(a), p. 222. 24 Pilliod, 2001, p. 78. Clapp, 1916, p. 97, first described Naldini as Pontormo’s ‘adopted son’. 25 Gaston, 1991, pp. 285-286n105. Pilliod, 1992, pp. 95-96. Pilliod, 2001, pp. 81-95, 97-112. 151 died in 1561.26 However, Battista’s father Matteo was still alive; Pontormo even mentioned him in his diary.27 The seventeenth-century biographer Filippo Baldinucci remembered both Battista and his father Matteo for their affectionate assistance (l’affetuosa servitù) and extremely patient care (pazientissima servitù) of the elderly Pontormo.28

Battista’s involvement in the craft of his artistic profession receives scant mention in Pontormo’s diary. From this source alone his apprenticeship would appear to involve little more than carrying art supplies: ‘Battista came for all the ground colours, brushes, and oils’ Pontormo wrote on Saturday 20 July 1555.29 Two days later, Pontormo complained of a pain in his throat preventing him from swallowing. He recorded that Battista did not return that evening, and that during the day he himself ‘pricked’ (apuntai) the cartoon that Battista had brought, presumably from their home in Via Laura to San Lorenzo.30 The pricking of a cartoon preceded the technique of spolvero, or pouncing, used to transfer a design from paper to painting surface. The drawn outlines of an enlarged design were perforated at close intervals with a needle or stylus and the cartoon was then laid over the moist freshly applied plaster. A cloth bag full of black chalk was dusted over the small holes and once the cartoon was cleanly detached, small dots of chalk remained on the plaster. The alternative method of transferring a design by incising (calcare) the outlines often led to the destruction of cartoons.31 Pontormo’s mention of pricking a cartoon at mid-century is unusual because by this time most painters preferred the calco technique to spolvero.32

Pontormo himself used calcare in his earlier frescoes between 1514 and 1528.33 The only reference to his use of spolvero for the San Lorenzo frescoes is the singular appearance of the word apuntai in his diary. Pontormo may have combined both

26 Hornik, 2009, pp. xv, 1-2. 27 Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, p. 60. 28 Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 511. According to Baldinucci (p. 519), Matteo outlived his son. 29 ‘Sabato Batista è venuto per tucti e colori macinati e penegli e olio.’ Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, p. 62. 30 ‘Adì 22 Lunedì desinai con Daniello e la sera cenai con Bronzino e ho difetto in su la gola che io non posso inghiottire, e Batista non tornò; el dì apuntai quello cartone che Batista portò.’ Pontormo- Nigro, 1984, p. 62. 31 For these methods see Bambach, 1999a, pp. 56-80, 296-361. 32 Bambach, 1999a, p. 355. 33 In his Madonna di San Ruffillo (1514); Visitation (1514-16) for the Chiostrino dei Voti in Santissima Annunziata; the Passion cycle (1523-24) for the Certosa del Galluzzo; and Annunciation for the Capponi chapel (1525-28). Bambach, 1999a, p. 355. Pontormo did not use cartoons for the Life of Joseph series (c. 1515), see Plazzotta & Billinge, 2002, p. 670. 152 methods. One of the distinctive features of the San Lorenzo frescoes was the pre- eminence of the nude figure. At its most rapid, calco was suited to tracing the straight and angular folds of drapery, but the subtle curves of a nude figure, especially those recorded in Pontormo’s finely modelled black chalk studies (fig. 5.97-98 & 5.100), may have led to a preference for spolvero for more detailed passages. Unfortunately, the evidence to confirm this disappeared with the frescoes.

The tedious task of pricking a cartoon was usually delegated to studio assistants, and it is possible that Pontormo recorded the fact that he had to perforate the cartoon because Battista had not done this himself. Naldini may also have assisted in the preparation of the San Lorenzo cartoons by assembling individual paper sheets on the floor and gluing their margins. Pontormo annotated the verso of one preparatory study, revealing that he used 8 fogli imperali to create one of his cartoons for the choir.34 Preparing cartoons involved a lot of work and many artists delegated this task to other artisans and pupils. In 1504 Leonardo paid a paper supplier (cartolaio) for squaring (quadratura) and flattening (apianatura) uneven handmade paper in preparation for his Battle of Anghiari cartoon.35 Working at the same time, Michelangelo hired the young Piero d’Antonio to assist a cartolaio for 5 days in gluing together (impastare) all the sheets of his Battle of Cascina cartoon.36 Pontormo may have similarly delegated this time-consuming labour to others. It is also tempting to entertain the possibility that Naldini was asked to enlarge and rough out some of Pontormo’s designs onto the cartoon, but none of this can be conclusively confirmed. Pilliod has considered Naldini’s apprenticeship at length and convincingly argues that his training concentrated on the disciplined copying of his master’s drawings.37 This view accords with what we know about the tradition of training in the Renaissance bottega.

34 GDSU 6508 Fv. ‘8 fog[l]i imperale/nel cartone grande’. Following the Bolognese standard, the dimensions for the foglio imperiale ranged from 498 x 726mm to 510 x 741mm, see Bambach, 1999a, pp. 43, 390n63. Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.380, pp. 342-43. 35 Bambach, 1999a, p. 49. Bambach, 1999b, pp. 116-17. 36 Bambach, 1999a, pp. 43-49. Bambach, 1999b, pp. 116-19. 37 Pilliod, 2001, pp. 44-47, may be correct that Naldini was not taught to paint under Pontormo. She has discovered documents that have him painting candles in 1554-55, but no records indicate that he contributed to the San Lorenzo frescoes. Before his more important commissions in 1566, Naldini contributed paintings to many ephemeral decorations (apparati): for the wedding of Principe Alberico I di Massa to Isabella di Capua (1563), the funeral of Michelangelo (1564), and the Florentine entry of Francesco I de’ Medici and Giovanna d’Austria (1565). Cecchi, 1977a, also dates Naldini’s painting after Vasari’s design of a Judith to 1564. Unfortunately these early paintings remain lost or untraced, but they indicate Naldini must have been painting from 1563 at the latest. 153 Copying was instrumental to Renaissance workshop practice. It was a method to train young artists, to consolidate or preserve important image types or models, and to integrate the style of the bottega as a whole under the master’s hand.38 Giovann’Antonio Lappoli’s apprenticeship under Pontormo also concentrated on drawing. Lappoli was encouraged to change his style (mutasse maniera) by imitating Pontormo. Vasari explains that he was ‘continually drawing’ under Pontormo, suggesting that the successful acquisition of the master’s maniera concentrated on practicing the hand at copying Pontormo’s drawings and paintings. Lappoli was ‘spurred to incredible exertions’ out of emulation or rivalry (concorrenza) with his master’s favourite pupil Agnolo Bronzino.39 Vasari would later praise Bronzino’s ability to paint works that could not be distinguished from those of his master.40 His success was credited to the way he approached Pontormo: ‘with goodness, untiring diligence, and loving submission.’41 Cox-Rearick logically reasons that Bronzino learnt to draw by copying his master’s drawings.42 He imitated Pontormo’s graphic style as much as he did his painted maniera.43 Both Lappoli and Bronzino give some indication of Naldini’s training under Pontormo. Instruction by means of constant drawing would have been especially important to a master who advocated disegno as the noblest of the arts. In 1547 Benedetto Varchi requested an epistolary response from the Florentine artistic community, regarding whether painting or sculpture was the greater art, a debate known as the paragone. Pontormo replied: ‘there is only one thing that is noble, and at the very foundation [of both], and that is drawing.’44

Many drawings have been accepted as products of Naldini’s apprenticeship under Pontormo.45 Opinions on the authorship of these drawings frequently differ.46 The

38 Bambach, 1999a, p. 82. 39 Vasari-De Vere, 1912-1914, vol. 6, p. 256. ‘Il Lappoli […] si mise col Pontormo, appresso al quale continuamente disegnando, era da due sproni per la concorrenza cacciato alla fatica terribilmente.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 382. 40 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 862. 41 Vasari-De Vere, 1912-1914, vol. 6, p. 256. ‘l’altro (e questi lo stimolava più forte) era il vedere che Agnolo chiamato il Bronzino era molto tirato innanzi da Iacopo per una certa amorevole sommessione, bontà e diligente fatica che aveva nell’imitare le cose del maestro, senzaché disegnava benissimo […].’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 382. For Bronzino’s amorevole sommessione see Campbell, 2014. 42 Cox-Rearick in New York, 2010, p. 22. 43 For similarities in draughtsmanship see New York, 2010, nos.1, 6, 8, 9, 12, 47, 48 & plates 1-4. 44 Translated in Costamagna, 2005, p. 284. ‘una cosa sola c’è che è nobile, che è el suo fondamento, e questo si è el disegno.’ Pontormo in Varchi, 1549, p. 132. 45 These drawings will be subjected to more rigorous scrutiny in my forthcoming catalogue of Naldini’s drawings. The following provides a summary of my opinions: The sophisticated contour 154 inclusion of some of these drawings to a period roughly dated between 1546 and 1560 demonstrates some stylistic incongruities when compared to Naldini’s most secure early drawings.

Any consideration of Naldini’s early drawings ought to begin with the Pontormesque putti (figs. 5.1-2) sketched on the versos of two studies of antique sculptural reliefs executed during Naldini’s first visit to Rome between 1560 and 1563.47 These drawings belong to Naldini’s earliest sketchbook, documenting an abundant study of diverse ancient and modern Roman art, making them perhaps the most securely attributable drawings of Pontormesque figures in Naldini’s oeuvre.48 Both versos display a pudgy putto with sharp fingers and unfinished feet. Paola Barocchi identified the two drawings as copies after Andrea del Sarto.49 However, their poses also resemble Pontormo’s figure studies (fig. 5.3) for the Pucci Madonna and Saints (1518, San Michele Visdomini) and the salone of Poggio a Caiano (c. 1519-21, fig. 5.4).50 Whichever proved to be Naldini’s source, his studies suggest a clumsy grasp of anatomy. Limbs are thick and square; details like toes are scribbled or abandoned. The head and cheeks are laden with repeated contours, and the internal modelling does not describe volume. Pontormo was able to suggest figural perspective, recession, and foreshortening with the least amount of lines. Here Naldini produces flat bodies with no anatomical presence. Barocchi recognised that Naldini’s drawings ‘quietened’ Pontormo’s rhythm and varying inflections, diminishing his ardent hatching and additions in pen to Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett KdZ 4626 suggest Pontormo. The recto and verso of the Berlin sheet were also copied by the draughtsman of the dismembered album in Lille, Palais des Beaux-Arts nos. W 2369r (after recto), W. 2376r (after verso). Because this album also contains copies after Naldini’s meticulous studies of Michelangelo (Princeton), together with copies after Salviati and Andrea del Sarto, their author may be Giovanni Balducci. The precise copy (GDSU 442 F) after Lille Pl.162 is not by Naldini. Following Pillsbury, 1977, p. 179, fig. 2, the seated male nude (GDSU 6603 Fr) is by Pontormo. The study has also been heavily incised with stylus attesting to later usage. I disagree with ascribing the seated male nude (GDSU 6743 F) to either Pontormo or Naldini. Following Forlani Tempesti, 1967, p. 70, fig. 46, I accept the leaning male nude (GDSU 6575 Fr) as by Pontormo. The ink wash copy of Pontormo’s Madonna and Child with Saints (GDSU 13850 F) is not by Naldini. Following Pagliano, 2003, pp. 71-73, I concur that Orléans, Musée des Beaux- Arts inv. 1540 is a copy by Giovan Battista Vanni after Pontormo (Louvre inv. 1015). The four copies in the Louvre (nos. 1020-1023) have shifted between Pontormo, Naldini, and Cecco Bravo. I remain uncertain about their correct authorship, but exclude the first two artists. 46 For the debate see Cox-Rearick, 1981, p. 13n35. Barocchi, 1965, p. 245. Andrews, 1966, pp. 581- 82. Forlani Tempesti, 1967. Pillsbury, 1977. 47 Byam Shaw, 1976, p. 82, nos.195v-196v. Thiem, 2002, pp. 78, 84. 48 For Naldini’s sketchbooks see chapters 6 and 8. 49 Barocchi compares Oxford 0832v to the Scalzo Baptism of the People, and 0833v to similar studies by Andrea del Sarto in GDSU 314 F; reproduced in Florence, 1986, no.60. Barocchi, 1965, pp. 248, 271n49. 50 GDSU 7452 Fr, 675 Er, 6651 F. Cox-Rearick, 1981, nos.39, 74, 160. 155 strokes and flickering contours to produce immobilised forms.51 Nevertheless, we should recognise the Oxford sketches as attempts to wield a highly complex graphic shorthand; a ‘linear strategy’ that was rapid in its apprehension of living and imagined bodies.

The seventeenth-century connoisseur Filippo Baldinucci recognised Naldini’s replication of lines as a distinctive trait of his drawings. In his estimation, Naldini drew ‘confidently’ (bravamente) in the manner of Pontormo, but he tended to duplicate lines with blunted chalk, applying them heavily and hardening contours.52 This graphic tendency was the inevitable result of Naldini’s exposure to Pontormo’s searching lines, rapid jolts, corrections, and pentimenti. What anatomical lesson could Naldini have hoped to extract from the limbs of a seated nude (fig. 5.5) submerged beneath layers of urgent revisions?53 Sometimes the contours of Naldini’s figures (fig. 5.6) maintained a thin replicated membrane; never consistent and often broken into many segments. At other times (figs. 5.7-8) Naldini was so engrossed in sketching that he did not stop to resharpen his chalk. When it blunted in the midst of his fervour the lines thickened and merged to produce bulky contours, which lost Pontormo’s incisive resolve. Despite this, there were cases of successful assimilation.

Naldini’s study of a Nude man carrying a platter (fig. 5.9) is a clear example of his ability to wield Pontormo’s early linear strategy.54 Anna Forlani Tempesti first recognised this as a copy after Pontormo’s study of a male nude (fig. 5.10) entering the doorway in the background of his Joseph sold to Potiphar (c. 1515).55 Prior to her identification the drawing was considered a copy after Andrea del Sarto.56 Pontormo

51 Barocchi, 1965, p. 245. Feinberg, 1991, p. 134, also makes important distinctions between Naldini’s tendency to ‘bind’ and ‘sodify’ figures, in contrast to Pontormo’s ability to endow figures with movement and ‘unfold in space.’ 52 ‘Batista Naldini […] Disegnò bravamente, ed alquanto in sul gusto del suo gran maestro Iacopo da Pontormo, ma con un tocco più replicato, con matita spuntata, ed in sull’appiccature fortemente aggravata.’ Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 518. 53 Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.30, p. 125. 54 For the verso of GDSU 311 F, not discussed here, see Cox-Rearick, 1981, p. 101. Barocchi, 1965, p. 245, fig. 88b. 55 Pontormo’s authorship of GDSU 6524 Fr is confirmed by the verso with kneeling figure study for the sculpture painted in Joseph’s Brothers beg for Help; see Forlani Tempesti, 1967, p. 71; and revised opinion of Cox-Rearick, 1981, Addenda, no.19a, p. 365. 56 The following connoisseurs attributed both GDSU 311 Fr & 6524 F to Naldini as copies after a figure in Andrea del Sarto’s Dance of Salome: Berenson, 1903, vol. 2, p. 124 (1938, vol. 2, no.1759A, p. 246). Clapp, 1914, pp. 130-31. Freedberg, 1963, vol. 2, p. 105. Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.A64, pp. 101n5, 371; and Barocchi, 1965, p. 245. 156 achieves greater volumetric presence than Naldini. He manipulates chalk dust with his finger to create subtle under shading with a pastel-like texture, and overlays broader dry strokes with thin chalk lines. This technique effectively differentiates the intense muscles of the left leg. Pontormo describes the rotundity of the upper right leg (fig. 5.12) by layering dark diagonal parallels above light broad strokes turned with a gentle curve. Together with the chiaroscuro rendered below the left elbow, these areas are much more volumetrically convincing than those in Naldini’s drawing (fig. 5.11). Both draughtsmen described light values with a diluted application of white lead. Pontormo applied a faint brushstroke below the ear, left shoulder and forearm, and left thigh; his pupil streaked thin brushstrokes on the left leg. Naldini also dramatically transformed Pontormo’s anatomy. He reduced the figure’s height, broadened the torso, thickened the neck, lowered the left arm, displayed the platter, and added a tightly fitted cap on the head.

Naldini therefore interprets his model. His drawing is not a stroke-by-stroke transposition. He layers contours in sharp accents of chalk along the back, chest, buttocks, and the thigh and calf muscle (gastrocnemius) of the right leg. He is therefore drawing upon his knowledge of Pontormo’s pentimenti, acquired from a long experience of his master’s drawings from 1519-23. Here in dialogue with the young Pontormo from 1515, Naldini exploits these lessons, enhancing and animating the figure with his own pentimenti, and emulating Pontormo, while preserving all of his force.

Naldini’s study of a Female figure holding a scroll (fig. 5.13) records his assimilation and emulation of Pontormo. This impressive drawing immediately evokes Pontormo with the febrile intensity of its vibrant red chalk and crisp linear incision. The face displays a typical Pontormesque expression with self-conscious oval eyes and an open mouth. Pontormo executed similar studies of figures wearing headscarves (figs. 5.14- 16) between 1518 and 1525.57 Berenson thought the Harvard drawing ‘too poor for Pontormo’ and recognised Naldini’s hand.58 Agnes Mongan and Paul Sachs believed

57 GDSU 6551 Fv, 6520 Fv, 6627 Fr. Cox-Rearick, 1981, nos.31-32, 275; and 6998 Fr. Reproduced in Forlani Tempesti, 2001, p. 533, fig. 5. 58 Berenson, 1938, vol. 2, no.1754G, p. 246. 157 the drawing as ‘obviously’ ‘too weak’ for Pontormo.59 Janet Cox-Rearick supported the attribution to Naldini, and identified the source for the turbaned woman (fig. 5.17) drawn on the verso (fig. 5.18).60 Barocchi considered Naldini to be familiarising himself with the Northern influences in Pontormo’s St Cecilia (fig. 5.19) and Certosa studies.61 In 1986 Philip Walsh returned the drawing to Pontormo.62 Larry Feinberg settled on Naldini as the likely author, and suggested it was copied after a lost Pontormo original. Feinberg reasons that the stability of the figure is undermined by a disproportionate emphasis upon the upper body, which fails to convey Pontormo’s anatomical accuracy and understanding of movement and volume.63

The attribution to Naldini can be confirmed by closely examining his graphic tendencies. The draughtsman of the Harvard sheet (fig. 5.13) quickly describes drapery, coupling some lines with a thin parallel in the fabric folds, up the spine, and along the right leg. Volume is modelled from a cacophony of grouped parallel lines. The longest lines mark out the ground behind the figure in fluid regularly spaced intervals, while the shortest parallels layer other hatching across the back, the inner thigh, or the drapery. Instead of curving to describe the furrows in the fabric they are dashed haphazardly over fold lines, and scribbled in a zigzag above the forehead. These same graphic tendencies are visible in Naldini’s most rapid sketches (5.21-23). But the coarse, quick incisions for fabric compare most clearly to Naldini’s preparatory drawing for the Madonna (fig. 5.24) in his altarpiece for Giovanni da Sommaia.

Naldini wields Pontormo’s shorthand to remarkable success in another example. A preparatory drawing (fig. 5.26) for the Allegory of Dreams (Studiolo of Francesco I de’ Medici) documents his particular interpretation of Pontormo’s early graphic style around 1570-71, more than a decade after his apprenticeship.64 Naldini captures the

59 Mongan & Sachs, 1946, no.131, p. 78. 60 Cox-Rearick, 1981, nos.236, A13, p. 361. Feinberg, 1991, p. 136n3. 61 Barocchi, 1965, p. 245. 62 Recorded in Feinberg, 1991, p. 136n1. 63 Feinberg, 1991, p. 136. 64 Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.A69, pp. 371-72, followed Michael Rinehart’s suggestion that GDSU 6540 Fr was a study for the figure in the left foreground of the Allegory of Dreams. This interpretation was maintained by Barocchi, 1965, p. 255; and Petrioli Tofani, 2008, p. 157. The nudity of the painted figure (identified as the personification of Day by Gandolfo, 1978, pp. 275-76; Hamburgh, 1996, p. 690; Conticelli, 2005, p. 110) supports the presumed ‘preparatory’ status of the drawing. However, 158 male body quickly, tracing the contour of the left arm deftly. His hand returns to correct the right side of the body and in its repeated motions thickens the contour. Naldini makes the faintest suggestions of internal modelling and detaches his figure by hatching the ground in fluid, regular parallels. The cropped male body on the verso (fig. 5.29) evokes Pontormo’s graphic style even more strikingly. As Naldini searches for linear boundaries, encasing and enclosing the leg, his repeated corrections emit vibrating movement. These angular pentimenti compare closely to the left arm of his earlier male nude (fig. 5.9).

Naldini approximated Pontormo most in the incoherent rapid sketch. His study of a Male nude (fig. 5.30), executed around 1590, testifies to his assimilation of Pontormo’s most kinetically charged graphic shorthand. The man juts forward, grasping the railing before him. He leans out and turns sharply to the right. Naldini throws down his contours with ease in long angular incisions and minimal curves. His hand returns to adjust a limb, loop the cranium, or bend a knee. Contours fracture in splinters and appear animated by outer membranes, where pentimenti communicate movement and life. Now aged 55, Naldini has completely absorbed his master’s distinctive style as his own idiosyncratic shorthand.

Pen drawings

Our received knowledge of Pontormo’s technique of drawing in pen is limited because of his preference for chalk,65 and a lack of scholarly consensus over some pen drawings. It is now generally accepted that Pontormo outlined two compositional studies (figs. 5.31-32) for the lunette in the salone at Poggio a Caiano in pen and brown ink and modelled forms with diluted ink wash.66 Likewise, that he used golden brown wash to explore the illumination of drapery in his annunciate angel Gabriel (fig. 5.33) for the Capponi Chapel.67 And that Pontormo also exploited wash to

Naldini reused the pose with minor variations (fig. 5.28) for his second Studiolo painting (the Gathering of the Ambergris), reminding us that the singular intention we ascribe to a preparatory ‘study for’ sometimes limits drawings that served multiple ends. 65 Cox-Rearick, 1981, pp. 4-5. 66 Cox-Rearick, 1981, nos.131-132. 67 Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.279, pp. 263-64, believed a later cinquecento draughtsman added this ink wash, followed by Berti, 1965, no.XLV. The strongest evidence against this claim is that the red chalk lines used to square the design for transfer cross over the wash. Pillsbury, 1977, p. 179; and Falciani, 1996, p. 134, both accept the wash as autograph. 159 describe the volume of the elongated figures in his Scene with nudes around a fire (fig. 5.34).68 These drawings share a preference for thin contours and controlled chiaroscuro rendering in wash. When Pontormo does delineate in pen (figs. 5.31-32) parallel hatching is used liberally to differentiate the ground, but sparingly to describe the volume of figures. It is limited to drapery and suggestive anatomical details.69

Many connoisseurs have instead regarded four drawings representing putti (figs. 5.35, 5.51, GDSU 445 F, 526 E, 671 E, 6699 F) to be more complete examples of Pontormo’s pen hatching.70 Edmund Pillsbury criticised Janet Cox-Rearick for ‘streamlining’ Pontormo’s graphic oeuvre by re-attributing these ‘original’ pen drawings to Naldini.71 He returned the four Uffizi drawings to Pontormo, making an exception for the drawing of San Giovannino (459 F).72 In 2008 Annamaria Petrioli Tofani stressed that their attribution to Pontormo remained ‘absolutely valid.’73 However, the particular hatching techniques of Pontormo and Naldini demonstrate that they were both capable of producing these pen drawings. As Pillsbury and Carlo Falciani recognised, there are enough examples of Pontormo’s chalk hatching to serve as a foundation for assessing his technique in pen.74

The authorship of GDSU 526 E (fig. 5.35) has shifted between Pontormo and Naldini for many years.75 The Flying putto (fig. 5.37) rapidly sketched on the verso has long

68 GDSU 6602 F. Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.A94, pp. 377; & Addenda, no.346b, p. 357-8 (as copy after Pontormo). Pillsbury, 1977, p. 179 (Pontormo). Falciani, 1996, p. 146 (Pontormo). Bambach, 1997, p. 449, argues that the black chalk underdrawing was ‘mechanically traced’, transferred from another drawing using ‘carbon copy’ method that Armenini described. She nevertheless supports the attribution to Pontormo, likening the application of wash to Pontormo’s brushstrokes in the Martyrdom of the Ten Thousand. 69 For example under the outstretched arm of the male figure standing in the upper right of 455 F, and fleeting patches of grouped parallels in many of the figures in 454 F. 70 GDSU 445 F, 526 E, 671 E, 6699 F. 71 Pillsbury, 1977, p. 178. 72 Pillsbury, 1977, p. 178. 73 Petrioli Tofani, 2008, p. 157, discussing GDSU 445 F, 671 E, 6699 F. 74 Pillsbury, 1977, p. 179. Falciani, 1996, p. 69; supported by Bambach, 1997, p. 449. 75 Baldinucci 1673 (Pontormo). Pelli 1784 (Pontormo). Ferri, 1879-1881 (Raphael, with later revision to Pontormo). Ferri, 1881, p. 32 (‘Raffaello?’ with subsequent revision to Pontormo, ‘certo’ and endorsement of Giovanni Morelli: ‘così anche il Morelli’). Ferri 1890, p. 115; 1895-1901 (Pontormo). These previous attributions are cited in Petrioli Tofani, GDSU Inventario, 1986, pp. 235- 36. Berenson, 1903, no.1984 (Pontormo). Clapp, 1914, p. 108 (Pontormo). Cox-Rearick, 1964, no.A46, p. 368 (Naldini). Barocchi 1965, p. 270 (Naldini). Andrews, 1966, p. 581 (Naldini). Pillsbury 1977, p. 178 (Pontormo). Petrioli Tofani, 1984, note on mount (Pontormo). Cox-Rearick, 1981, p. 415-1 (again Naldini). Costamagna, 1994, pp. 13n24, 233n1. Falciani, 1996, pp. 69-70 (Pontormo). Bambach, 1997, pp. 448-49 (Pontormo). 160 been recognised as Pontormo’s creation and used to attribute the recto.76 However, we should not exclude the possibility of two authors for a single sheet, as Naldini drew on the verso of Pontormo’s preparatory study for the Certosa (fig. 7.7).77 The recto of 526 E contains a study after Marcantonio Raimondi’s engraving of God appearing before Noah and his family (fig. 5.36), designed by Raphael for the vault of the Stanza di Eliodoro in the Papal Apartments. As several scholars have recognised, the Uffizi drawing is a creative variant of Marcantonio’s engraving, adding two cherubs to the floating heavenly host.78 Drapery is also approached differently in the drawing. Raimondi’s fabric (fig. 5.40) gathers in narrow folds forming dark pockets with tightly curled edges. The draughtsman of the Uffizi drawing (fig. 5.39) creases Noah’s garment in angular folds that immediately evoke Dürer. Pontormo is known to have imitated and assimilated Dürer’s approach to drapery very closely.79 However, as I discuss in chapter eight, Naldini was also able to approximate the hooked folds of Dürer’s drapery (5.38) after his absorbed meditations on the Small Passion series.80 From this perspective alone, either of the two draughtsmen may have authored the recto pen study. Marcantonio (fig. 5.41) detailed a profusion of curls issuing from the head and beard of God. However, these were completely transformed (fig. 5.42) to a long straight beard and reduced to accentuate the curve of the cranium. The dark cavities with soulful eyes, and the protruding ear and hooked nose are even more revealing Pontormesque adaptations (fig. 5.43).

Naldini instead comes close to the particular handling of the pen as it describes the facial features of Noah’s wife in his detailed studies after Polidoro da Carravaggio (figs. 5.45-46). The clusters of parallel hatching behind Noah’s wife (fig. 5.47) are a further argument in Naldini’s favour. Many of Naldini’s studies of ancient monuments, executed between 1560 and 1563, are hatched in precisely this way (fig. 5.49). He found this linear strategy an effective descriptor for the flat marble ground

76 Pasquale Nerino Ferri, 1879-1881: ‘Questo putto serve ad accertare che il disegno è indubbiamente del Pontormo’; cited in Petrioli Tofani, GDSU Inventario, 1986, p. 236. Falciani and Bambach have since followed this line of reasoning, see references above. 77 Pontormo, (r) Study for Nailing to the Cross, intended for the Certosa del Galluzzo but never painted, 1523-24, red chalk, squared for transfer, (v) Naldini, study of Michelangelesque wax modello (Casa Buonarroti inv. 521), red chalk, stumping, white heightening, 306 x 190mm, GDSU 6652 F. Cox-Rearick, 1981, nos. 211, 240. 78 Falciani, 1996, p. 69. Bambach, 1997, p. 448 as ‘free copy’. 79 Cox-Rearick, 1981, pp. 53, 230, nos.196, 210, 219-221. Smith, 1974. Gregory, 2009 & 2012, pp. 241-45. 80 Fara, 2008, pp. 109-10. Thiem, 2002, nos.54-55. Gregory, 2012, pp. 204-209. 161 of ancient sculptural reliefs. Although his goal was to form a neutral and consistent backdrop, the duration of his ink demanded separate parallel clusters, which were then merged, sometimes haphazardly in varying directions (fig. 5.48), and other times uniformly corresponding in angle.

The draughtsman of the Uffizi drawing deftly loops the heads and limbs of cherubs (fig. 5.50), wrapping plump flesh in bracelet curls and often leaving a thin margin of white as the liminal field of the outer contour (a lesson likely learnt from Dürer). These cherubs display an advanced knowledge of human anatomy, and compare exactly with putti studied on GDSU 445 F, 671 E and 6699 F. Together, these drawings belong to the Pontormo-Naldini authorship problem.

Cox-Rearick reasonably proposed that 445 F (fig. 5.51) was a study for the putto on the right side of God the Father.81 Its volumetric projection results from a systematic distribution of contour hatching and near consistency of thin lines (fig. 5.52). Subtle parallel lines curve and gather over the cherub’s stomach, waist, and right leg with the same gentle modulation of Pontormo’s chalk (fig. 5.53). Pontormo regularly endowed lines with ‘mimetic responsibility.’82 At his most spirited (figs. 5.54-58), he was able to capture figures accurately, and quickly model limbs with contour hatching.83 He could wield cross-hatching judiciously, and convincingly represent foreshortened limbs.84 In more refined drawings (figs. 5.59-60) Pontormo carefully layered separate groups of parallel and contour hatching to articulate volume.85 These graphic tendencies recur in the pen hatching of the four Uffizi drawings.

Naldini’s approach to contour hatching was very different. In the angel flying above the Sacrifice of Isaac (fig. 5.61), Naldini uses contour hatching quickly and carelessly. His habitual hooked stroke, weighted at the beginning of each line, inflects the parallel curls so that they catch the flesh rather than convey the illusion of the

81 Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.A35, p. 366. 82 This description of the representational intention and purpose behind lines is from Rosand, 2002, pp. 7-9. 83 Pontormo, Lille, Palais des Beaux-Arts, Pl. 162r. GDSU 465 Fr, 6530 Fr, 6677 Fv, 441 Fv. Cox- Rearick, 1981, nos.26, 104, 177, 183. 295. 84 The detailed cross-hatching describing the putto reclining at the base of 671 Er compares closely with Pontormo’s nude study for Poggio a Caiano. GDSU 6599 Fr. Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.137. 85 Pontormo, Study for the Three Graces, c.1535-36, red chalk, 295 x 212mm, GDSU 6748 F. Cox- Rearick, 1981, no.321. 162 disappearing edge. This graphic gesture differs distinctly from the internal modelling used in each of the four Uffizi drawings. However, Naldini was capable of more refined modelling. In his study after Caraglio’s print of Jupiter and Antiope (figs. 5.62-63), Naldini constructs the sleeping Antiope with a significant amount of linear diversity. He layers different groups of contour hatching to describe the volume of the torso, arms, and legs. These frequently change direction, pressure and inflection. In order to shade Antiope’s face (fig. 5.64), Naldini angled his nib to its thinnest extreme to reduce the flow of ink, and as a result created thin lines and incisions in the paper. Her breasts (fig. 5.65) are not gently cupped in graceful arcs, but rather interwoven in a series of short lines. Furthermore, Naldini’s hooked stroke sometimes interferes with his description of volume, for example his marks begin along the midsection of Antiope’s right arm (fig. 5.66) and thigh (fig. 5.67) rather than inflecting upwards to taper and fade across the surface.

In contrast, the draughtsman of 671 E (figs. 5.68 & 5.69) consistently draws lines with a haptic sensitivity for volume. He loops parallels from both extremities of a limb (fig. 5.70), sometimes leaving an open illuminated space without intersecting, and at other times merging fluidly with their counterparts. Their stops and starts, and subtle broken rhythm reflect Pontormo’s linear strategy in chalk (figs. 5.57 & 5.71- 72).86 Other compelling features (figs. 5.73-75) support Pontormo’s authorship: oval eyes, quickly circled heads, looped fingers, rolling, varied contours, and an advanced ability to capture foreshortened limbs. When Naldini rapidly sketched putti in pen, he was more generous with the dispersal of ink (fig. 5.76). Like Pontormo, he also rapidly circled the heads of the putti, producing many pentimenti. Though these evoke some Pontormesque traits, Naldini often simplified their faces. He tended to use contour hatching intermittently in more fast-paced pen studies (figs. 5.77 & 5.78). But these fleeting suggestions of internal modelling reveal that he did not significantly break from his inherent parallelism.87 When he studied Rosso Fiorentino’s design of Fury (fig. 5.79), Naldini drastically reduced the abundant variety of contour hatching that Caraglio had engraved. He repeated curved parallel lines in black chalk to describe the coiled serpents and tail of the monster, but limited its illusionistic

86 GDSU 6740 Fv, 6677 Fv. Cox-Rearick, 1981, nos.166, 183, figs. 156, 174. 87 GDSU 135 S, 500 S, 504 S, 506 S-510 S, 513 S. 163 potential to faint suggestions.88 Naldini’s most refined chalk studies do achieve a haptic understanding of volume with blended chalk strokes, and sometimes he would incise short parallel accents over modulated chalk strokes or subtle ink wash (fig. 5.80).

Naldini’s San Giovannino (fig. 5.81) stands in contrast as a compelling example of his cross-hatching technique in pen. The drawing has attracted similar debates over authorship.89 However, the lines describing rock, shrubs, and vegetation (figs. 5.83- 84) reveal the same rapid graphic habits as Naldini’s Roman drawings.90 His judicious command of hatching and his directional control (fig. 5.82) indicate a long engagement with prints. Naldini achieves a meticulous level of detail in the internal modelling indicating a more advanced understanding of volume, suggesting a date around 1567-70. The watermark can be interpreted in support of this date.91 San Giovannino reveals Naldini’s full understanding of the volumetric potential of line.

Pontormo clearly authored most of these pen studies. His intricate description of putti also played an important part in the work of his pupil. Carlo Del Bravo first recognised that the studies on 671 E were multiple viewpoints of Niccolò Tribolo’s Eros for the fountain of the Medici Villa Castello.92 Naldini did not use Pontormo’s multiple studies in his Allegory of Dreams for the Studiolo as is often argued.93 However, the two cherubs in Naldini’s Purification of the Virgin (figs. 5.86 & 5.88) are direct adaptations of his master’s studies.94 The putto in the upper right of the

88 I arrived independently at a similar conclusion to Gregory, 2012, p. 207. 89 Traditional attribution to Daniele da Volterra maintained by Baldinucci, 1673 and Pelli, 1784. Ferri, 1887, 1890, 1895-1901 (Pontormo); previous attributions cited in Petrioli Tofani, GDSU Inventario, 1991, pp. 198. Berenson, 1903, no.1978 (Pontormo), Berenson, 1938 (‘Very close to Fra Bartolommeo’). Gamba, 1912, no.14, plate 14r (Pontormo). Clapp, 1914, pp. 102-103 (Pontormo). Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.A42, p. 367 (Naldini). Barocchi, 1965, p. 250 (Naldini). V. Pace, 1976, note on mount (Naldini). Pillsbury, 1977, p. 178 (‘rightly given to’ Naldini). Petrioli Tofani, GDSU Inventario, 1991, pp. 197-98 (Copy after Pontormo?). 90 See Thiem, 2002, nos.9-10 (for loops describing foliage, branches of trees and shrubs), 16-17 (for rocks and trees, suffused by parallel hatching), 30 (for looped leaves and tuffs of grass at San Giovannino’s feet). 91 Crown with a six-pointed star corresponding to Briquet 4835, similar to that on Frankfurt folio inv. 3905, in Thiem, 2002, nos.40-41. Together with Briquet 4832 & 4834, this supports a broad date range (1556-1575) when limited to Italian sources. 92 Del Bravo, 1985, p. 86, figs. 18 & 19, attributed the sheet to Naldini. 93 Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.A48, p. 368. Barocchi, 1965, p. 255. Schaefer, 1982, p. 128. Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, p. 349. 94 For Naldini’s Purification of the Virgin see Santi, 1985, no.203, pp. 200-201. Garibaldi & Mercurelli Salari, 2006, p. 93. 164 recto (fig. 5.87) and the putto in the upper left of the verso (fig. 5.85) correspond precisely with those in Naldini’s Purification. This explains the incision marks made with dry stylus along the contours of the Pontormo’s putti, attesting to Naldini’s technique of extraction.95 None of the other figures from 671 E are incised. Pontormo’s expertise at capturing complex foreshortening clearly attracted Naldini, who then added wings and coated their bodies in rosy flesh.

Late Drawings for the San Lorenzo Choir

Most connoisseurs have argued that Naldini focused his study on Pontormo’s early drawings. This view raises implications for Pontormo’s oeuvre as a whole, and the reception of his San Lorenzo frescoes.

The majority of Pontormo’s drawings produced between 1514 and 1530 are full of pentimenti, energy, and animation. However, after 1530 his drawing technique fundamentally transformed when he modelled his maniera strongly on the example of Michelangelo. This is most evident in Pontormo’s preparatory drawings for the frescoes of San Lorenzo (1545-1556), where he adopted a much finer technique of applying black chalk, preferring to delineate figures in clean contours, and render volume in careful concentrations of linear hatching.96 In his earlier drawings produced during the 1520s, Pontormo always managed to convey his sophisticated understanding of human anatomy. He achieved volume and perspectival recession in an extremely economical stroke system; a ‘linear strategy’ that was rapid and captured bodies precisely.

With Pontormo’s change of drawing technique came a different approach to the body. Pontormo had created elongated bodies prior to 1530,97 but after this period his human figures mutated. The bodies Pontormo fashioned for the Medici Villas at Careggi and Castello, and for San Lorenzo display a pliant extension of limbs,

95 The incision marks for the recto putto are mostly visible along the right contour. 96 Cox-Rearick, 1981, pp. 72-73. 97 Examples include: the northern-inspired figures in Pontormo’s Passion cycle for the Certosa di Galluzzo: (1523-25, GDSU 447 Fr & v), the long, bulbous limbs of God the Father for the Capponi Chapel cupola (GDSU 6613 Fr), and a study for one of the holy women in the Capponi altarpiece (1525-26, GDSU 6576 Fr); and the carefully arranged long limbs of St Jerome folded into a kneeling pose (1528, GDSU 441 Fr). 165 increased torsion, anatomical exaggeration, and more gracefully manipulated figuration.

Berenson argued that Naldini developed his own graphic style from Pontormo’s early style, rather than his late manner.98 Paola Barocchi presented the image of a stunned pupil standing before his master’s fantastical and contorted interpretations of Michelangelo in San Lorenzo. She suggested that Naldini found the frescoes unsettling (sconcertanti affreschi) with their ‘Michelangelesque transfigurations’ and northern-influenced ‘deformations’. As a result he developed an archaic preference for Pontormo’s early drawings, imitating only those produced before 1530.99 Barocchi was probably influenced by Vasari’s own documented confusion upon seeing the frescoes, and his calculated efforts to list everything that they lacked: narrative order, proportion, and variety in the faces, rule, measure, and perspective.100 However, both Berenson and Barocchi reflect a taste for ‘High Renaissance’ drawing and naturalism; and followed an early twentieth-century reading of mannerism’s perceived failures.

As we have discussed, Battista began his apprenticeship at roughly ten years of age around 1545-1546. During this period, Pontormo was awarded two of the most important Medici commissions in his career: the tapestry cycle portraying the life of Joseph and the decoration of the choir of San Lorenzo (now lost).101 Therefore, it is curious that Naldini’s training in drawing should not reflect the particular mode of draughtsmanship refined by his master at this time. Naldini did develop a technique of smoothly modelling forms in black chalk. This is especially visible in his studies of Michelangelo’s sculptures for the Medici tombs. His drawings of Giuliano, Lorenzo, (figs. 7.3 & 7.4), and the reclining nude Night are considered among the most detailed studies of the sculptures produced during the Cinquecento, and served as models for Cornelis Cort’s engravings after the tombs.102 Naldini produced another polished black chalk drawing after one of the resurrected souls from Michelangelo’s Last

98 Berenson, 1969, vol. 1, p. 321. 99 Barocchi, 1965, p. 245. 100 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 494. 101 Pilliod, 2001, pp. 78, 40-41. 102 Rosenberg, 2003, pp. 127-29. 166 Judgment.103 However, no finely modelled black chalk studies by Naldini after Pontormo’s late figural style have yet been identified.

The only exception I make is a small study in a private collection in Zurich. Rhoda Eitel-Porter has convincingly identified the subject of the recto as Episodes from the Life of Joseph, and she gives the broad date range of ‘1564/1580’.104 The verso (fig. 5.89) displays an inert, flaccid male nude with head slumped over his shoulder. Traces of black chalk describe the back, neck and head of a second body beneath the main figure. These flexible curves of pliant flesh and bony protrusions evoke some of Pontormo designs for the lost San Lorenzo frescoes. Several drawings document Pontormo’s lost Deluge, representing a collapsing heap of naked bodies, tightly packed, twisted, and overlapped, with limbs and heads submerged beneath one another.105 Naldini’s corpse compares with a figure in the lower part of the fresco copied by Bastiano del Gestra (fig. 5.90) and later recorded in an etching by Jan de Bisschop (fig. 5.91).106 Naldini would later use this study for the upper body of his Dead Christ (fig. 5.92) in the Pietà with Saints (fig. 4.30) for San Simone. His experimentation with Pontormo’s elongated nudes contradicts previous claims that the young pupil was confused by these figures. Some additional examples attest to Naldini’s creative engagement with his master’s pliant physiognomy.

The nude nymph reclining in the foreground of Naldini’s Diana Surprised by Actaeon (fig. 5.93) shares a common figural vocabulary with Pontormo’s late approach to the body. Pontormo examined the body of a male studio apprentice from several related viewpoints on a single sheet (fig. 5.94). He was interested in articulating the supple bend of the back; particularly the creases formed between the external abdominal oblique and latissimus dorsi muscles. In the upper right study (fig. 5.95) he annotated

103 Naldini, (verso) Study of a resurrected soul after Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, black chalk, 229 x 338 mm, USA, Private Collection. Reproduced in London & New York, 1994, no.7, fig. 1. See also Naldini’s detailed studies after Michelangelo’s small bronze portraying Samson Slaying the Philistine; Siena BCI S.I.7, fols. 6v a, 10v c (fig. 7.11). 104 Eitel-Porter in New York & Washington, 2007, no.16, p. 44. 105 GDSU 6752 F, 6753 F, 6754 Fr, Cox-Rearick, 1981, nos.373-75. 106 Also the designs for the Resurrection of the Dead: GDSU 6528 Fr, 17411 Fr. Cox-Rearick, 1981, nos.377-78. Parts of the Deluge are recorded in two drawings convincingly attributed to Bastiano del Gestra by Elizabeth Pilliod, 2001, pp. 49, 243n56, figs. 43, 45: Louvre inv. 1026, and a drawing formerly at Sotheby’s, New York, 27 January 1999, lot 208. Jan de Bisschop etched three figures from the Deluge in his Paradigmata Graphices Variorum Artificum, c. 1668-71, plates 12-13. Rijksmuseum RP-P-1907-3985 & RP-P-1907-3986. Hollstein Dutch 6. 167 this area of the body with a ‘4’ to record the number of creases produced by this posture, and then detailed these winkles again in another study in the lower left (fig. 5.96).107 Then he feminised the male apprentice in another drawing (fig. 5.97), removing all signs of his testicles and adding a breast without changing the figure’s pose.108 Pontormo exploited the graceful torsion of the curved spine in a related figure (fig. 5.98) for the Resurrection of the Dead in San Lorenzo.109 Naldini responded to these anatomical features by elongating the spine of his nymph (fig. 5.93) and pulling back her shoulder to accentuate her crescent shape. Her supple elegance complementes the poses of Diana and the other nymphs, themselves creative variants of a Bandinellian physiognomic ideal.110 Naldini celebrated their pliant forms in soft milky flesh that gleams against the copper support.

In a design for a Lamentation (fig. 5.99), Naldini demonstrates his full understanding of Pontormo’s approach to corporeal torsion.111 Naldini glided his pen freely across the page, forming his figures with quivering lines. The pliant upper body of the dead Christ is moulded into a graceful arc; bent with the same forced, almost disjointed waist as a reclining nude that Pontormo designed around 1537-38 (fig. 5.100).112 With its protruding pelvis, this study for one of the female allegories of the Castello Loggia was almost certainly Naldini’s point of departure. Vasari criticised Pontormo’s personifications at Castello as deformed large women (femminone) full of contortions (stravolgimenti) and strange attitudes.113 Pontormo’s pose may have been a response to the reclining nude in Dürer’s Amymone abducted by Poseidon (fig. 5.101). But he departed significantly from Dürer by forcing the upper and lower body into a discordant relationship. Her pelvis protrudes prominently while her chest is propped

107 GDSU 6583 F. Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.317, fig. 307. A small ‘9’ may indicate the vertebrae in the lower back that catch the light. Pontormo sensitively models these in GDSU 6605 F. 108 GDSU 6584 F. Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.316, pp. 290-91, fig. 306, suggests the figure is a personification of Justice for Careggi Loggia, c. 1535-36, p. 288. Falciani, 1996, pp. 152-54, as Allegory of Philosophy for Castello loggia. 109 GDSU 6580 F. Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.A88, fig. 365, as copy after Resurrection of the Dead. Falciani, 1996, p. 206 (Pontormo). 6745 F r. Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.A159 (as copy). Pillsbury, 1977, p. 179, attributes both to Pontormo. 110 See Chapter 7. 111 Louvre, inv. 2097. The dimensions, technique, style, and worn edges of this sheet suggest a possible folio from Naldini’s palm-sized sketchbook preserved in Siena. 112 Pontormo’s drawing is preparatory for one of the six female allegories of the Liberal Arts and Ceres for the loggia at the Medici villa called Castello, painted in oil on dry plaster 1538-1543, and long since deteriorated. Cox-Rearick, 1981, no.344, pp. 302-308, fig. 321. Falciani, 1996, p. 158, fig. 102. 113 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 492. 168 up and disjointed from her abdomen, features that in a living figure would induce wincing sciatica.

Pontormo exercised his fantasia to manipulate the pose of his studio apprentice.114 The body he drew on paper (fig. 5.100) was the product of an accumulated experience of the nude lived body and small-scale statuettes (modelli) made of wax and clay; filtered through a physiognomic ideal that radically reinterpreted Michelangelo. Pontormo achieved convincing volume by meticulously layering lines. He coated the rib cage in a thin membrane of carefully modulated black chalk. The lines join fluidly to produce a single graceful arc above the resting right hand. The ribs would have protruded here had a young studio apprentice adopted this pose, but the bones sink into the pliant soft flesh. For the pelvis to project in a living body, the right leg needs to withdraw beneath the advancing left knee. Dürer understood this, and represented his Amymone accordingly. But Pontormo was determined to swell and protrude the waist. He effectively merged the halves of two different bodies. The navel had to appear slightly higher in the lower section of the body to follow the twisting abdomen and align with the chest, but as a result it unbalanced the median in the lower half. By raising the right arm behind the head, Pontormo was able to slant the chest so that it receded at a diagonal. This contorted body was probably motivated by the intention to animate an otherwise dormant nude. Pontormo ultimately achieved a chiastic contrapposto, his own interpretation of the figura serpentinata, in a reclining pose.

Pontormo exploited his interpretation of the swivelled waist in other reclining nudes.115 He also reused the pose of the female allegory for several figures in his San Lorenzo frescoes (fig. 5.102).116 Both Naldini and Francesco Morandini, called il Poppi, drew lessons from this figure in its various forms. Naldini (fig. 5.99) portrayed Mary Magdalene in her traditional place at Christ’s feet, but unusually engaged her in the act of moving his left leg. Naldini validated the torsion of Christ’s chest by

114 Falciani, 1996, p. 158, rightly noted that we cannot be certain if Pontormo based his study after a life model, and recognised that his imagination must have intervened. 115 GDSU 17405 F, 6630 F, 15662 F see Cox-Rearick, 1981, nos.342, 343, 369, figs. 320, 323, 354. 116 GDSU 6754 F r, 17411 F r, 6560 F, 6567 F see Cox-Rearick, 1981, nos.375, 378, 381, 381b, figs. 359, 361, 364, 364b. The protruding pelvis of an adolescent male angel serves as Christ’s foot rest in Pontormo’s study for Christ in Glory: GDSU 6609 F, no.359, fig. 345. The female figure in a copy after the San Lorenzo Resurrection of the Dead also displays the twisted pelvis: Oxford, Christ Church Library B. 30: no.A237, fig. 367. 169 dropping his left arm as a counterweight, and cradling his torso in Joseph of Arimathea’s arms, whose pointed fingers appear to trace a linear arc across Christ’s chest. These interesting gestures gave reason to the contorted animation of the dead Christ, and visually encouraged the dead flesh to bend. Far from repulsed, Naldini found the protruding waist and forceful curve of Pontormo’s figure to effectively communicate the collapsing weight of Christ’s dead body.

Pontormo’s pose also attracted Morandini in 1572. He used the motif of the lower body for his dead Christ in the Lamentation (fig. 5.103) for Ugolino Grifoni.117 Giovanni Stradano also drew inspiration from Pontormo’s invention for his river god Arno with fishermen (fig. 5.104), executed around 1580 in preparation for a series of 44 hunting and fishing scenes to be printed by Philip Galle.118 In the mid-1580s, Morandini returned to the figure, and reversed and exploited its twisted pelvis to brilliant effect in his Lamentation for the convent and church of Santa Chiara.119 Three serial replicas of the central theme of this Lamentation indicate that there was a demand for Morandini’s design.120 The body of the dead Christ effectively became the vehicle of the most inventive torsions during the Counter Reformation, attesting to the legacy of Pontormo’s physiognomic ideal.

117 Giovannetti, 1995, no.17, plate V, p. 69. 118 Miles Chappell in Florence, Chicago & Detroit, 2002, no.207, p. 345. 119 Morandini, Lamentation, c. 1584-85, 280 x 168cm, Castiglion Fiorentino, Palazzo Comunale (formerly in the Chruch of Santa Chiara), see Giovannetti, 1995, no.51, fig. 65, p. 169. 120 Giovannetti, 1995, nos.52-54, figs. 66-68. 170 Naldini as Teacher

Vasari recorded the achievements of Naldini’s apprenticeship: ‘under his master’s discipline he made no little proficiency in disegno.’121 Naldini must have been reasonably talented because he was employed as a teacher of drawing to the young wards of the Ospedale degli Innocenti. A document discovered by Pilliod reveals that the nineteen year old was paid on 28 August 1554 after having taught for 5 months; therefore when he was still Pontormo’s apprentice.122 On 16 July 1555 Pontormo recorded in his Diary that Battista ‘era stato gridato da nocenti’, suggesting he may have been having some difficulties with the youngsters.123

The young Francesco Morandini seems to have benefitted from Naldini’s early tuition. Giorgio Vasari’s brother Piero marvelled at Francesco’s faithfully drawn imitations of prints, executed when he was still a young boy (fanciullo). And these essentially became his passport to Florence, and the prospect of an apprenticeship under Giorgio Vasari. Raffaello Borghini records that Francesco was received with every courtesy by Don Vincenzio Borghini (about whom Raffaello tellingly mentions no familial relations).124 Francesco would be associated with the Ospedale degli Innocenti from that time on. He features, together with Naldini and another innocente Livo, in the concluding salutations of Vasari’s letters to Borghini from 1567.125 Francesco would have been around 10 or 11 years old at the time Naldini was teaching at the Innocenti in 1554.126 It is unlikely he was among Naldini’s students at this age, but the possibility cannot be disproved. Even if the payment records do not

121 ‘[…] sotto la disciplina di lui fece non piccol frutto nel disegno, anzi tale che se ne spera ottima reuscita.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 495. 122 ‘Martedì adì 28 detto [August 1554] A spese lire xvii soldi x piccioli per loro a Giovambatista di Matteo di Naldino dipintore, postò havere al quaderno E, [carta] 12, et sono per suo servito di 5 mesi finiranno per tutto agosto presente, a ’nsegnare disegnare a’ nostri fanciulli…a Libro Bianco h scudi 2.3.10 –.’ Pilliod, 2001, doc.9, p. 216. AOI, CXXII 104 (Libro Entrata ed Uscita, AA, 1554), fol. 76v. 123 Pontormo-Nigro, 1984, p. 61. 124 Borghini, 1584, p. 640. As Scorza, 2003a, p. 73n47, explains, Vincenzo was not Raffaello’s great uncle as previous authors have supposed. Remo Cesarani in DBI, vol. 12 (1971), p. 677. 125 Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 312-15, 635-36. Scorza, 2003a, p. 67. 126 Francesco Morandini’s conventional birth year 1544 is calculated by backtracking from the publication of the Riposo in 1584, on the basis of Raffaello Borghini’s statement that Francesco was 39 years old at the time of writing. The same logic was applied to determine Naldini’s birth year as 1537, before Pilliod discovered his baptismal record and revealed he was born on 3 May 1535. That fact meant that Borghini was at the very least writing his biography of Naldini around 1582. If this same reasoning is to be followed, Morandini may have been born around 1543. 171 support Naldini’s teaching after March 1555, he remained affiliated with the Ospedale and Vincenzio Borghini through much of his early career.

Catherine Monbeig Goguel recently discovered a Landscape with view of Tivoli (fig. 5.105), which is an exact stroke-by-stroke imitation of a drawing by Naldini (fig. 5.106), now in Berlin.127 As Monbeig Goguel explains, were it not for the name of Francesco Morandini deliberately disguised by the draughtsman in the curling foliage of the grassy cliff (fig. 5.107), an attribution to Naldini would have been maintained.128 Naldini had been in Rome since September 1560 continually drawing, copying, and learning from antique sculpture, architecture, and Polidoro’s painted façades. He also drew many landscapes and urban views of contemporary Rome.129 When Naldini finally returned to Florence around 1563,130 his former pupils would have been excited to receive his fresh insights into the uncovered ancient Roman world and contemporary art. The View of Tivoli (fig. 5.106) clearly attracted Morandini. Now a young man affiliated with the Ospedale, Morandini attempted to wield the ‘linear strategy’ of his older fellow innocente. Morandini, the son of a notary, challenged Naldini, the son of a shoemaker, by performing a feat of emulation that rivalled its model through the exactitude and propinquity of his graphic gestures. In so doing, Morandini perpetuated an important tradition of imitation that he practiced with prints while still a boy. Imitation also lay at the foundation of Naldini’s apprenticeship under Pontormo and his study of antiquity. It is not hard to imagine that imitation and emulation also featured in Naldini’s teaching of drawing.

127 Morandini, View of Tivoli, c. 1563, pen and brown ink, over black chalk, traces of stylus incision, 420 x 277 mm, Paris, private collection. Monbeig Goguel, 2012, pp. 91-92, plate XIV, fig. 7. Naldini, View of Tivoli, c. 1560-63, pen and brown ink, over black chalk, 374 x 281 mm, Kupferstichkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin inv. KdZ 22589. Thiem, 2002, no.17, pp. 68-69. 128 Monbeig Goguel, 2012, p. 92. 129 Thiem, 2002. Carrara, 2009. 130 I have followed Fontana, 2012, p. 672, in prolonging Naldini’s Roman sojourn. 172 Chapter 6

Imitation

The sixteenth century was rife with debates on language and literary imitation. Quattrocento Italian humanists had sought to purge ancient Roman Latin of its medieval mutations and return to the classical vocabulary of Cicero. Erasmus of Rotterdam censured these Ciceronians in his 1528 dialogue, reflecting a concern with the limited and dogmatic imitation of one author as opposed to the imitation of many sources.1 Angelo Poliziano, Paolo Cortesi, Gianfrancesco Pico della Mirandola, and Pietro Bembo discussed which approach to literary imitation was the most beneficial.2 Thomas Greene explains that this debate over singular or multiple literary exemplars encompassed a broader and more complex set of oppositions between invention (inventio) and the natural gift for eloquence (elocutio), spontaneity and discipline, or impulse and method, the facts or content (res) and how they are expressed in words (verba), and variety and universality.3 These discussions also informed la questione della lingua in the vernacular, a prolonged debate over the superiority of the Italian dialects. Those who advocated the pre-eminence of the Tuscan language and Florentine dialect presented philological arguments for or against introducing foreign words, and disputed whether Boccaccio, Petrarch or Dante was the best model to follow.4

Gianfrancesco Pico della Mirandola believed that along with ‘a certain native genius’ every individual possessed an innate idea of beauty. In oratory this was often described in terms of elocutio or eloquence.5 Pico advocated the imitation of many authors, but cautioned that this should be undertaken in harmony with one’s natural style.6 Pietro Bembo reflected that during his youth before his study of literature he

1 Erasmus-Gambaro, 1965. Scott, 2013. 2 Santangelo, 1950. Pico-Bembo, 1954. Greene, 1982. McLaughlin, 1995. Rowland, 1998. 3 Greene, 1982, p. 175. 4 Hall, 1942. Migliorini, 1949. Greene, 1982. Pozzi, 1988. McLaughlin, 1995. Payne, 1999, pp. 61- 62. 5 Greene, 1982, p. 172-73. 6 G.F. Pico della Mirandola, Opera Omnia, Basle, 1573, p. 1266; translated by McLaughlin, 1995, p. 255. 173 had probed his inner self and found no inner idea.7 For this reason he believed it essential to draw close and imitate one model as intimately as possible. In his opinion the best model for Latin prose was Cicero and the best model for poetry was Virgil.8 Bembo’s approach involved imitating (imitari), then equalling (assequi), and ultimately surpassing (praeterire) a single model.9

In his Latin treatise on literary imitation composed between 1542 and 1544, Vincenzio Borghini argued that vocabularies were best compiled from many sources. However, he promoted the imitation of one model, Cicero, as a safeguard against the pitfalls of incongruent assemblage.10 Borghini also supported the imitation of Dante in the debate on the lingua volgare.11 In 1544 Giulio Camillo argued that Cicero combined the best qualities of many authors, and reasoned: ‘He who imitates one perfect [author] imitates the perfection of a thousand gathered into one.’12 The same reasoning would be applied to the visual arts. When Giovanni Battista Armenini ranked the Roman façades by Polidoro da Caravaggio and Maturino as ‘among the first’ things an artist should study, he justified imitating these for their universality. Sixteenth-century Rome could boast more than 40 of Polidoro’s decorative frescoes.13 Though long since deteriorated, these façades attracted scores of artists.14 Vasari and Armenini praised their abundance of figures, animals, diverse dress, strange and varied ornament, buildings, grotesques, and landscapes.15 Vasari stated that all who desired universality in art had imitated Polidoro.16

Armenini’s pedagogic programme embraced the imitation of many models, but he could not break from an inevitable foundation in the maniera of one master. He recommended Polidoro’s façades because being monochromatic they were the closest

7 Greene, 1982, p. 174. 8 Greene, 1982, p. 177. McLaughlin, 1995, p. 262. 9 McLaughlin, 1995, p. 264. 10 Borghini-Barocchi, 1973, p. 1546. 11 Woodhouse, 1971. Woodhouse, 1988. 12 ‘[…] colui che imita un perfetto, imita la perfettion di mille raunata in uno.’ Camillo, 1544, p. 40v. Camillo-Barocchi, 1973, p. 1551. Greene, 1982, pp. 172-73. 13 Leone de Castris, 2001, pp. 494-503, catalogues a total of 45 different locations; nos.1, 5 & 45 are internal frescoes. 14 Brooks, 2007, pp. 70-93. 15 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 203. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 73. 16 ‘[…] dopo lui chiunche ha cercato d’essere universale l’ha imitato.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 203. Raffaelle Borghini, 1584, p. 433, added an element of personal compulsion to his paraphrase of Vasari: ‘[…] chi vuol essere universale è forzato ad imitare [Polidoro].’ 174 contemporary paintings to approximate antique sculptural relief, and logically followed the imitation of prints and drawings.17 He urged all artists to imitate Polidoro: Let no one abandon this task before he has mastered it fully, for as we have said, there is nothing more dangerous for beginners who do not yet possess an established style [maniera ferma] of their own than to try to imitate the styles of many.18

This reasoning troubled some twentieth-century scholars. Luigi Grassi believed that Armenini contradicted himself by asserting the importance of both possessing an individual style and imitating other artists.19 Denis Mahon also underestimated the high regard for imitation and ‘eclecticism’ during the sixteenth century.20 In a related case, Stefano Pierluigi perceived contradictory changes in Vasari’s account on disegno, believing he advised artists to begin by drawing from nature in 1550, and then shifted attention to the imitation of ancient sculpture in 1568.21 Vasari and Armenini did not share this need to release personal style from the shackles of imitating other artists.

Philip Sohm identified contradictions in Vasari’s Vita of Mino da Fiesole.22 He interpreted these as the result of an attempt to stabilise personal style. Vasari believed that the imitation of nature was ‘fixed [ferma] in the style of that artist whose long practice [lunga pratica] has become style.’23 He used lunga pratica to explain the training that developed an artist’s style, and ferma to convey the inevitable process where by the appearance of natural objects is modified under this learnt and habituated representational mode. Sohm reduced Vasari’s statement to the tautological premise: ‘style determines imitation, and imitation makes style.’ Vasari then complicated things further by defining imitation as ‘the fixed [ferma] art of […] grasping nature directly without the style of your teacher or other artists.’24 Here,

17 Smyth, 1992, pp. 52-54. 18 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 128. ‘né si lasci da niuno questa via giamai, se prima essi non si sentono di esserne ben possessori, conciosiaché, si come si è detto, non è cosa peggio a i principianti, quanto che, non avendo maniera ferma, cercar di voler pigliarne molte.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 74. 19 Grassi, 1948. I have summarised Grassi from the précis of his argument in Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 8-9, 312-13. 20 Mahon, 1953, pp. 317-20. Cropper, 2005, p. 102-3. 21 Pierguidi, 2011. 22 Sohm, 2001, p. 105. Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, pp. 419-20. 23 Sohm, 2001, p. 104. Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 419. 24 Sohm, 2001, pp. 104-5. Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, pp. 419-20. 175 Vasari intended to distinguish imitating nature (mimesis) from imitating art. Sohm perceives Vasari’s contradictory use of ferma as resulting in the paradox: ‘style limits imitation to itself and imitation proceeds without style.’25 However, Vasari was not so decidedly against the imitation of other maniere or styles. He criticised Mino da Fiesole for his exclusive imitation of one master, Donatello, and his complete neglect of nature and other works of art. His solution to this problem was simpler than Sohm would have us believe: imitate maniera together with nature.26 Craig Hugh Smyth first drew attention to Vasari’s concluding remark because he recognised the interpretative repercussions of this passage.27 Smyth explained that much nineteenth- century literature used the cinquecento criticism of the unsuccessful imitation of one model, such as Vasari’s criticism of Mino da Fiesole, to justify claims that art declined because Mannerism promoted artistic imitation.28 Both Vasari and Armenini suggested that the imitation of nature ought to be constantly supplemented and enhanced by the study of antique and contemporary exemplars.

Zeuxis and the Beautiful Maidens

The story of Zeuxis and the maidens of Croton provided an important theoretical ideal for central Italian painters during the Cinquecento.29 In order to create a paragon of feminine beauty worthy of Helen, the ancient Greek painter Zeuxis had chosen five beautiful young maidens and selected, extracted, and combined the best and most beautiful parts of each.30 This was only one of many different analogies that authors used to describe the assemblage and harmonious combination of multiple sources. Other metaphors included bees and honey, food and digestion, silkworms, and the resemblance of fathers and sons.31 Vasari frescoed the Zeuxis anecdote in monochrome (fig. 6.1) for his home in Arezzo. Significantly, he increased the number of female beauties, emphasising the process of selection from a large group, and also

25 Sohm, 2001, p. 105. 26 ‘[…] ché s’eglino [molti de’ nostri artefici] avessino studiato la maniera e le cose naturali insieme, arebbon fatto maggior frutto nell’opere loro che e’ non feciono.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 420. 27 Smyth, 1992, p. 114n26. Gregory, 2014, p. 231, correctly quotes the passage in full; however, without discussing these implications. 28 Smyth, 1992, p. 114n26. 29 For the sixteenth-century reception of the story see Barkan, 2000. 30 Cicero, De inventione, II.I.1-3. Pliny the Elder, Natural History, XXXV.64. 31 Pigman, 1980. Loh, 2004. 176 included a small-scale sculpture (modello) on the artist’s workbench, which lent a distinctive central Italian interpretation to the working method of the ancient painter.

The ancient anecdote proposed a solution to the imperfections that many cinquecento viewers perceived in nature. Cicero had argued that Nature did not create a single perfect form, but rather bestowed beautiful features and defects upon each body.32 By the Cinquecento the notion that nature was flawed had been disseminated by Neoplatonic and Aristotelian authors and had become a norm in artistic circles.33 Lodovico Dolce advised painters ‘not to merely imitate, but to surpass Nature.’ He praised those able to display in a single body ‘that entire perfection of beauty which nature barely exhibits in a thousand bodies.’34 In 1567 Vincenzo Danti made an important distinction between copying (ritrarre) and imitation (imitare). He was generous in allowing for the faithful replication or copying (ritrarre) of beautiful objects, whether natural or artistic, as they existed without modification. However, deficient objects were to be improved through imitation, which ‘makes things perfect as they should be seen.’35 ‘I have to laugh,’ wrote Armenini in 1586, ‘at those who deem every natural thing good, as if Nature could not make errors.’ Armenini criticised painters for relying too heavily on Nature and not improving upon her with their maniera, revealing that style was central to imitation.36

Vasari explained that beautiful style (bella maniera) was the product of frequently copying the most beautiful things and from those most beautiful hands, heads, bodies, or legs, adding them together to make a figure of as many beauties as are possible, and employing them in every work for all the figures.37

Leatrice Mendelsohn has identified a direct correlation between this passage and Vasari’s description of bronze casting techniques.38 She reconstructs the fascinating workshop practices behind Vasari’s statement, demonstrating how Francesco Salviati

32 Cicero, De inventione, II.I.3. 33 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 30. 34 Roskill, 1968, pp. 130-31. 35 See translation in Gregory, 2014, p. 226. 36 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 160. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 108. 37 Translated by Mendelsohn, 2001, p. 109. ‘La maniera venne poi la più bella dall’aver messo in uso il frequente ritrarre le cose più belle, e da quel più bello, o mani o teste o corpi o gambe, aggiugnerle insieme e fare una figura di tutte quelle bellezze che più si poteva, e metterla in uso in ogni opera per tutte le figure, che per questo si dice esser bella maniera.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 2. 38 Mendelsohn, 2000 & 2001. 177 and his contemporaries formed composite bodies from a common supply of antique models, which resulted in a desirable, and ‘intentionally replicable’ style.39 Her work remains the best interpretation of maniera as working method.40 Sharon Gregory has likewise written the foremost account on Vasari’s view of imitation, meticulously discussing his use of Quintilian, Paolo Giovio, Claudio Tolomei, and Giambattista Gelli, against Bembo’s promotion of a single model.41 Gregory recognised that Vasari’s definition was based on the ancient anecdote on Zeuxis.42 She traced developments through both editions of the Vite, and identified passages where Vasari redefined his position on imitation more explicitly. She has also meticulously examined how cinquecento artists studied and used prints.43 Florian Härb revealed that Vasari’s early graphic oeuvre displayed his imitation of many sources, including Parmigianino, Raphael, Rosso Fiorentino, and Andrea del Sarto.44 In what follows I will limit my discussion to Vincenzio Borghini and Armenini and offer a new reading of these sources, before discussing how Naldini responded to antique monuments during his first visit to Rome.

Borghini on Imitation

In 1564 Vincenzio Borghini wrote a commentary on Benedetto Varchi’s seconda disputa on whether painting or sculpture was the nobler art. This debate, known as the paragone, had taken place over fifteen years previously as the second lecture that Varchi delivered in Santa Maria Novella in March 1547.45 Borghini’s commentary included a critique of the letters in favour of sculpture written by Niccolò di Raffaello, called il Tribolo, Battista del Tasso, Benvenuto Cellini, and Michelangelo.46 He succinctly defined imitation in his commentary of Tribolo’s letter:

39 Mendelsohn, 2001, p. 137. 40 To be placed beside other positive reassessments of artistic practice among maniera painters: Akker, 1999a & 1999b. Akker, 2010, pp. 385-413. Bambach, 1999a. Bambach, 2010a. Baroni Vannucci, 2011. Feinberg, 1991, pp. 8-36. Härb, 2005. Nova, 1992. 41 Gregory, 2009, pp. 4-16. Gregory, 2012, pp. 229-33. 42 Gregory, 2014, p. 226. 43 Gregory, 2012, chapters 4-5. 44 Härb, 1998. 45 Mendelsohn, 1982, pp. 89-90. 46 Mendelsohn, 1982, p. 148. 178 Imitation, or using our own language, contrafare, is nothing other than wanting to make something appear as in reality it is not.47

The sculptor Tribolo had argued that his profession was the supreme art because unlike painting it represented what was true and did not deceive nature. He argued that painting copied the lie (la Bugia), following the Platonic view of painting as three removes from the true Idea or perfect Form.48 Borghini reasoned that neither painters nor sculptors aim to make a living figure in flesh and bone, only a likeness in paint or marble. Some authors used contraffare to signify the intention to defraud, similar to the modern term counterfeit; or alternatively to describe animals or human activities that involved mutation, mimicry, and camouflage in order to deceive.49 Alessandra Giannotti has demonstrated that Tribolo created a novel genre of sculpting animals with accurate natural details.50 Leonardo, Castiglione, Cellini, and Vasari used contraffare to signify close, faithful, or exact imitation, whether of natural or artistic objects.51 Similarly, Borghini’s definition of imitation uses contraffare to emphasise the pictorial illusion of both sculpture and painting.

Borghini also recognised the perils of the exclusive imitation of a single model. Imitative failures in art visually enforced his example of errors in literary imitation. Writing between 1570 and 1575, his analogy concludes a critique of the corruption of the Tuscan vernacular: […] Some inexperienced painters go about extracting and imitating particular things from Michelangelo and Raphael. And scarcely taking a little of that art or general form, they leave behind the goodness, proportion and charm and as a result make a botched copy.52

47 ‘Lo imitare, o parlando nella nostra lingua, contrafare non è altro che voler mostrare che una cosa sia quello che in fatti non è, e questo è il proprio fine dell’una e dell’altra arte.’ Borghini-Barocchi, 1971, p. 614. 48 Tribolo in Varchi, 1549, pp. 150-51. Borghini-Barocchi, 1971, pp. 613-14. 49 Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 3, p. 673-74. 50 Giannotti, 2007. 51 See passages in Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 3, p. 674, definition 5. Raffaello Borghini similarly uses contraffare in his biography of Morandini: ‘Francesco […] hebbe occasione di ritrarre alcune stampe […] le quali egli contrafece così bene che ciascuno si maravigliava, che le vedea.’ Borghini, 1584, p. 640, my emphasis. According to Baldinucci, some Seicento authors use contraffare interchangeably with ritrarre. Baldinucci, Vocabolario, 1681, p. 39. See also Gregory, 2014, p. 224. 52 ‘[…] questa lor lingua italiana sarà come uno specchio che si rompe, ché ne riusciranno tanti tanti specchini e ognuno fare’ da sé […] come interviene a certi dipintori che poco sanno, ma vanno cavando e imitando certe cose di Michelangelo e di Raffaello […] e non pigliano però se non un po’ poco di quella arte o forma generale, ma lasciano la bontà, la proporzione, la vaghezza […] e in somma fanno un ritratto malconcio [...] Così conosceranno i buoni ingegni e pratichi nelle buone lettere che eglino non aranno fatta una nuova lingua, ma guastata o imbastardita come io dicea una vecchia e buona.’ BNCF, ms Q, 11, X, 110, pp. 138-39, transcribed in Borghini-Woodhouse, 1971, p. 345; 179 Borghini nevertheless believed that it was possible to properly imitate Michelangelo, and included more positive thoughts in his commentary on Cicero’s De Oratore: By imitation I intend, not that one takes [pigli] the same things and words exactly, and then interposes them heavily into their own compositions, like those who copy [ritrae] a panel of another painter exactly; but rather that one carefully ponders and considers each part of their writing, and transfers the force, grace, agility, ease, resonance, strength, and spirit of the model to their own work. In such a way that one recognises not the words, but the goodness [bontà] of the model. Similarly, one recognises in a good disciple, the design, relief, grace, and boldness, of Michelangelo for example, and yet one cannot say: ‘this is that exact figure from the Sistine ceiling or Last Judgment.’53

Borghini described plagiarism as ‘heavily interposing’ words (traportin di peso). He stressed that imitazione was not copying (ritrarre) or taking (pigliare), but rather the careful meditation and transference of a model’s many qualities. Good artistic imitation in Borghini’s estimation is attentive to the disegno of the original model. It understands and retains the qualities that make painted figures appear alive, with grazia and fierezza communicating their graceful, bold, or vivacious movements, and rilievo describing their volumetric projection or three-dimensional presence.

Borghini’s private collection of paintings (quadreria) included copies after Fra Angelico, Andrea del Sarto, Michelangelo, Raphael, and serial replicas by Vasari and Allori.54 In 1564 Borghini specifically requested Naldini to paint Vasari’s design for a Judith presenting the head of Holofernes (fig. 6.2), and also Bandinelli’s design for a Finding of Moses.55 Naldini experimented with both themes on paper before he undertook either painting (figs. 6.3-6.4). From the ample documentary evidence for the lost Judith painting it is clear that he remained faithful to Vasari’s design and

passage also quoted in Payne, 2000, p. 197n15. Woodhouse argues that a precise dating for the manuscript is impossible, but suggests it was compiled between 1570 and 1575. Borghini-Woodhouse, 1971, p. LXIX. 53 ‘[…] intendendo imitazione, non che si pigli le medesime cose e parole appunto e si trasportin di peso nelle proprie composizioni, come chi ritrae appunto la tavola d’un altro pittore, ma che, considerando bene e pesando per ogni parte gli scritti loro, si trasferisca nei suoi la forza, la grazia, la destrezza, la facilità, la gentilezza, il suono, il nervo, lo spirito di quel tale, talché vi si riconosca non le parole, ma la bontà di colui come in un buon discepolo si riconosca il disegno, il rilievo, la grazia e la fierezza v. g. di Michelangelo, e non si possa però dire: “Questa è la tal figura appunto o della Volta, Giudizio.” Sed de hoc alias.’ BNCF, ms. Q. 11, X, 86, pp. 22-23, transcribed in Borghini-Woodhouse, 1971, p. 223. Woodhouse (p. LXVII) dates the manuscript to c. 1570-75. 54 Scorza, 2003a. 55 Neither painting is known to have survived. For the Judith see Cecchi, 1977a. Carrara, 2006, pp. 135-38. Scorza, 2003a, pp. 81, 121, makes a compelling case for Naldini’s authorship of a ‘quadro a olio abbozzato che viene dal Bandinello’, though it is by no means conclusive. 180 Borghini’s detailed instructions on the nocturnal setting and iconography.56 Borghini must have recognised that by copying Vasari and Bandinelli, Naldini was not only translating the designs into another medium, but also bringing them to perfection in his own maniera. He would not have entrusted either commission to Naldini if he did not think him capable of absorbing the qualities of the original.

Armenini on Imitation

Giovanni Battista Armenini did not publish his De’ veri precetti della pittura until 1586; however he remains one of the most important sources for the theories and methods of Central Italian painters working at mid-century.57 Armenini drew upon his early memory of Rome; having lived there for almost seven years between the ages of fifteen and twenty-three (1549-1556).58 He left Rome in 1556, four years before Naldini arrived. Though they likely never met, they shared a mutual acquaintance, Marco da Faenza.59

Armenini presented two views of imitation that at first appear difficult to reconcile. In the first instance, imitation involves making something appear so close to its artistic model that the original and copy cannot be told apart.60 However, conversely, it is also through imitation that a work can become one’s own (con l’imitare l’altrui farle sue) ‘in different styles and ways.’61 He therefore appears to define imitation as both exacting replication and transformation. Armenini does not use Vincenzo Danti’s

56 Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 89-93, 100-103, 105-106, 112. Cecchi, 1997a, figs. 61-63. The single document for Naldini’s Finding of Moses (fig. 6.4), makes it impossible to gauge the extent of his fidelity or adaptation from Bandinelli, providing of course that Scorza’s identification with the inventoried painting is correct. Scorza, 2003a, p. 121 Appendix III, item 6. 57 Mendelsohn, 2001, p. 133. 58 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. xv, 247. Davidson, 1983, p. 588. 59 Armenini must have known Marco Marchetti, a fellow painter from Faenza, who is documented working alongside Ponsio Jacquio, Francesco Salviati and other Faentine and French masters in Palazzo Ricci in 1553. Jong, 1992, pp. 137, 155. Armenini explains that he lived in Rome with two French sculptors, Ponzio and Bartolomeo, and that they were visited one evening by Salviati. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 251. Armenini may have collaborated together with Marco da Faenza and other painters around 1554 on a detailed series of copies after the Vatican Loggia decorated by Raphael and his workshop, discussed in this chapter below. Davidson, 1983, pp. 589-90. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. xvi, 205-206. Naldini may have met Marco da Faenza while the latter was working in the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence under Vasari between 1555-1558; however, they also visited the ancient sites of Rome together in 1560. Naldini included Marchetti’s portrait with the maestri who decorated the Salone dei Cinquecento, reproduced in Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, no.54(2), pp. 237-38. 60 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 69. 61 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 145. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 91. 181 distinction between ritrarre and imitare because he is referring to the imitation of other artists, rather than of nature. Nevertheless, Armenini’s understanding of these different approaches becomes apparent when he argues that mediocre painters are excellent at portraiture and capturing the likeness of a sitter; but more talented artists are less skilled in portraiture because they want to modify what they see.62

It is interesting to explore the context in which Armenini’s apparently conflicting views of imitation occur. ‘All the force of imitation consists in forming one’s own [copy] so well, that were it possible you could by no means discern which of the two was the imitation.’63 This statement appears within a discussion on how to successfully copy drawings and prints by diligently imitating ‘every minute detail, in fact every dot.’64 Armenini writes his statement in the subjunctive, with the qualification ‘were it possible’ suggesting the complexity of precisely equalling one’s model. Within his larger pedagogic programme, Armenini fully endorses faithful imitation, significantly describing the skill as a ‘force’ or ‘power’ (forza), not ‘effort’ (fatica) or ‘toil’ (stento). I explore the implications of this fidelity in chapter eight.

Armenini instructs the artist (artefice) on how ‘to be able to mirror in oneself’ (da potervi specchiar in esso) ‘the good of the ancients’ (quel buono dell’antico).65 His use of specchiare, ‘to mirror’, suggests a familiarity with imitation in religious devotion.66 The term complements Armenini’s positive views on the exact replication of a single model, but expands to encompass the assimilation of an ideal from a broad range of sources. Armenini stated that it was the duty of ‘noble minds’ (ingegni elevati) to ‘mirror themselves’ (specchiarsi) in the beautiful works of Raphael,

62 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 216. 63 ‘Conciosiacosaché tutta la forza dell’imitare consiste in formare il suo così bene, che se fosse possibile non si potesse per verun modo discernere qual di questi due fosse l’immitato.’ Armenini- Gorreri, 1988, p. 69. 64 Discussed in my eighth chapter. Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 124. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 69. 65 I have deliberately extracted and merged these phrases from a longer statement because they raise an important feature of imitation. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. 76-77. The phrase specchiar in esso is omitted from Olszewski’s translation. Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 130. 66 Armenini became a priest after 1564, working in the church of San Tommaso da Faenza at the time he wrote his Veri precetti. Olszewski, 1977, p. 2. He may have been familiar with Jacopo Passavanti’s Lo specchio della vera penitenza (1354). Giovanni Dominici (1357-1419) advised his parishioners to specchiare, mirror or imitate God in order to correct their vices and learn universal virtues. Dominici, Lettere spirituali, M.T. Casella and G. Pozzi (eds.), Freiburg, 1969, p. 208; quoted in Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 19, p. 761. 182 Michelangelo, Titian, Correggio, and Domenico Beccafumi.67 Armenini also used Petrarch’s example of capturing the likeness between a father and son to describe this goal of imitation.68

Despite these positive comments on faithful imitation, Armenini cautioned against excessive diligence. He warned artists not to obsess over intricately printed details or the minutiae of muscles.69 He accepted that artistic education involved moments of fidelity to a single exemplar. Here he followed the established tradition of the bottega, which conferred a model of imitation based on the relationship of a pupil to his master. However, Armenini held reservations about directly copying compositions from prints and using them in paintings. He called the artefici who resorted to direct copying ‘lazy’ (pigri) ‘miserly’ (avari), ‘contemptible’ (vili), and ‘slothful’ (infingarde). He also expressed his boredom at recognising the famous designs of Raphael and Parmigianino in the paintings of these copyists, enlarged and coloured, but appearing essentially the same without any modification.70 Similarly, Vincenzio Borghini described the authors who took a phrase from Cicero and merely changed two words to be ‘not imitators, but thieves.’71

Armenini’s second type of imitation concludes a section on the dangers of imitating Michelangelo. In his estimation, Perino del Vaga’s copies were the best example of transformative imitation. He praised Perino’s skill in copying inventions ‘extracted’ (cavati) from Raphael and Michelangelo, from Italian and German prints and making them completely his own. As Perino ‘copied’ (ritrarle) antique monuments, and ‘changing’ (mutando) some, he also ‘added’ (aggiungeva), ‘removed’ (levava), and ‘enriched’ (aricchiva) broken antiquities to such an extent that experts no longer recognised them. Ultimately, Perino ‘reduced’ or ‘adapted’ (riduceva) all of these sources to his own elegant style.72 Francesco Salviati engaged in this kind of

67 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. 100, 150. For different translation see Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 198. 68 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 82. 69 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 124-125, 134. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. 70, 80. 70 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 225. 71 ‘non imitatores sed fures.’ Borghini-Barocchi, 1973, p. 1550n1. 72 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 136. ‘[…] nel ritrarle, le veniva tuttavia mutando quando una cosa e quando un’altra, et a quelle ch’erano rotte o non molto gagliarde gli aggiungeva, li levava e le aricchiva, et insomma le riduceva in modo tale, con quella sua leggiadra maniera, ch’era cosa difficile 183 reinterpretation when he studied the muse Euterpe (fig. 6.6).73 He extracted her from the Roman sarcophagus (fig. 6.5), bent her waist, restored her broken arm, loosened the tresses of her hair, enlarged the lyre, and amplified her drapery.74 Where the ancient sculptor had represented drapery billowing behind the muse, buoyant and caught in mid flight, Francesco used the weight of its trailing expanse to heighten the projection of her curving pelvis. Though he retained the essential features of his ancient model, by extending her right arm, he advanced her shoulder ever so slightly and increased its oppositional tension with her twisting backward glance. Thus, Salviati adapted the antique model to his own sixteenth-century bella maniera.

For those lacking in invention, Armenini provides simple instructions on how to properly imitate and transform another artist’s figures. An artist could: reverse (rivoltarle) a figure, slightly change (mutarli un poco) the head or raise the arm, remove (torli via) or add (giungerne) drapery; or reverse (rivoltar) a drawing by oiling (ungerlo) the sheet following the carta lucida technique.75 Artists could also imagine a figure in round relief (tondo rilievo), and thus turn the figure in their mind by shifting between the second to third dimension. All of these changes would result in a creative variant.76

Armenini frequently used the term ridurre to describe how the individual style of the artist transformed the model he copied. Apart from meaning to vary dimensions, both to reduce and enlarge, ridurre could also mean: to curtail, limit, lead or bring back,

da’ ben prattichi a conoscere di dove egli cavate le avesse.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 82. For other discussions of this passage see Hall, 1999, pp. 113-14; Mendelsohn, 2001, pp. 110-11. 73 Monbeig Goguel in Rome & Paris, 1998, no.7, p. 95. 74 Muse Sarcophagus, 180-200 CE, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum inv. I 171. (Census 157776). Located in Rome, Santa Maria Maggiore during the 15th and 16th centuries, see Bober & Rubinstein, 1986, no.38, p. 79. 75 See Galassi, 1999, p. 207, for the correct interpretation of this passage in Armenini. For Vasari’s use of carta lucida see Baroni Vannucci, 2011. 76 ‘[…] qualunque figura, per poca mutazione d’alcuni membri, si leva assai della sua prima forma, perciò che, col rivoltarle o con mutarli un poco la testa o alzarli un braccio, torli via un panno o giungerne in altra parte o in altro modo, o rivoltar quel dissegno overo ungerlo per minor fatica o pur con l’imaginarselo che sia di tondo rilievo, pare che non sia più quello, che considerando bene così fatte mutazioni con quali e con quanti modi di una sol figura un solo atto variar si possa.’ Armenini- Gorreri, 1988, p. 95. Jacobs, 2000, p. 58, adds that changing the sex of the figure was another method artists used. Gregory, 2012, p. 233, uses this passage to argue that Vasari employed some of these techniques in his own imitative practice. 184 gather, re-unite, translate, or modify.77 The phrase ridurre a perfezione means ‘to bring’ a design to refinement, thus to finish a painting, sculpture or building.78 Armenini also uses ridurlo a miglior forma to describe refining a drawing.79 Some uses of ridurre correspond to our modern understanding of adaptation. For example, when Armenini states that Perino drew the nudes from Michelangelo’s Last Judgment and ‘adapted’ (ridotti) them to his sweet style (dolce maniera) to such as extent that they appeared his own inventions, rather than ‘copied’ (ritratti) from others.80 Armenini emphasised the importance of remaining firmly grounded in one’s own style so that an artefice could ‘adapt’ (ridur) another’s figures.81 The possession of a personal style, variously called ‘good’ (buona) or ‘fixed’ (ferma), was essential for imitation to be successful. Armenini states this repeatedly.82 The lesson to take from this example is that an artist who has gained bella maniera ‘can make use’ (si può servire) of the inventions of others as if they were his own without incurring censure from anyone.

Like Vasari, Armenini recommended the imitation of many models. He advised artists to ‘always copy’ (sempre ritrar) those things that are most beautiful, most learned, and approximate the best ancient works.83 The authority of ancient sculpture was founded on the belief that its authors had produced a perfect form through this same process of selective imitation, regulated by their excellent judgment.84 Several cinquecento artefici were believed to have assimilated the best aspects of the ancients into contemporary forms. Thus, Armenini also recommends the study of Italian prints, painting, and sculpture. After this ‘continual study’, and ‘continual copying’, Armenini believed ‘the good of the ancients’ (quel buono dell’antico) would be so

77 Battaglia, 1961-2002, vol. 16, pp. 207-19. As a modification of condurre, ridurre could mean lead back or bring back. See Crusca, 1612, p. 707, first definition: ‘ricondurre, far ritornare’; Florio, 1598, p. 322. 78 Sohm, 2001, pp. 92-93. For the many other uses of the phrase ‘ridurre a…’ see Battaglia, 1961- 2002, vol. 16, pp. 217-19. 79 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 69; Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 124. 80 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 81. Olszewski translates ridotti and ridurle as ‘adapted’ and ‘adapt’. Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 136, 149. 81 ‘[…] esser prattico e fondato di maniera su quelle [diverse cose migliori], che ridur possa le altrui figure, che paiano esser nate da lui.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. 80-81. 82 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. 84, 95. Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 138, 149. 83 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 130. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 76. 84 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. iii. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 77. 185 familiar that it would ‘marvellously appear’ in one’s own works.85 This ideal guides the work of the aspiring artefice and eventually leads to the acquisition of a buona maniera that is defined by its fermezza as a stable or determined style.

Naldini’s Study of Multiple Sources

The drawings of Naldini reveal that he embraced the imitation of many artists. Battista was encouraged to follow this broad theory of imitatio around 1560 at the age of 25. Vincenzio Borghini, the prior of the Ospedale degli Innocenti, wrote to Giorgio Vasari on 21 September 1560.86 His letter explained that Battista Naldini was leaving for Rome the very next day in the company of the young abbot Alessandro Pucci.87 Borghini asked Vasari to provide ‘four verses, advising him of all the best things in Rome that pertain to his profession’ as a painter.88 He explained that this would be a great benefit to the ‘honest young man’ (giovane virtuoso), who at the time did not know much about the artistic achievements of Rome. On 27 September 1560 Vasari forwarded two letters to Borghini, one addressed to Giovan Battista and another to the painter Marco Marchetti da Faenza, whom he had chosen as Naldini’s guide.89 Though Vasari’s letters and list of exemplary works do not survive, it is possible to gain a sense of what they may have contained from the prefaces of his Vite.

According to Vasari, the imitation of ancient sculpture had been essential to the emergence of the maniera moderna among artists of the third age. He praised the ‘most famous antiquities mentioned by Pliny the Elder: the Laocoön, the Hercules (Commodus), the great torso of Belvedere, the Venus (Felix), the Cleopatra (Ariadne), and the Apollo.’90 To Vasari’s group, Armenini added the river god Nile, the bronze equestrian monument of Marcus Aurelius in the Campidoglio, ‘i Giganti di

85 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 130. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 76. This passage is also discussed in Mendelsohn, 2001, p. 133. 86 Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 1, p. 582; quoted and discussed by Carrara, 2006, pp. 148-49. Cecchi, 1994, p. 91. Thiem, 2002, p. 11. 87 For Alessandro di Pandolfo di Roberto Pucci (c. 1539-) see Bonavoglia & Parrini, 2011, p. 507. 88 ‘[...] che voi gli scrivessi quattro versi, avertendolo di tutte le migliori cose circa alla professione sua che sono in Roma [...].’ Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 1, no.CCCXX, p. 582. 89 Vasari in Arezzo to Borghini in Florence, 27 September 1560. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 1, pp. 586- 87. Vasari names Marco da Ravenna, identified as Marco da Faenza by Gaetano Milanesi, Vasari- Milanesi, 1998, vol. 8 (1882), p. 337; Barocchi, 1965, p. 247; Cecchi, 1977b, Paragone, no. 329, p. 18; Waźbiński, 1985, p. 287n8. 90 Vasari-Bondanella, 1998, p. 279. Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, pp. ii-iii. The majority of these sculptures were placed in the Belvedere courtyard by Julius II, see Brummer, 1970. 186 Monte Cavallo’;91 the Pasquino, the sculptural reliefs around the columns of Trajan and Antoninus, and many other statues and fragments dispersed among Roman collections, of which he singles out the Casa de’ Massimi and della Valle.92

Naldini certainly knew the majority of these sources. He studied the two sons of Laocoön (figs. 9.51-9.66) and the head and left foot of the Apollo Belvedere (figs. 6.7-6.10).93 He accurately recorded the two reclining river gods, the Nile and the Tiber (figs. 6.26 & 6.44).94 However, Naldini’s study of antiquity also went beyond this canonical group. He worked closely beside the architect and sculptor Giovann’Antonio Dosio to produce a large series of detailed pen and wash drawings of funerary cippi and altars (fig. 6.12) with accurately transcribed inscriptions.95 He studied the sculptural reliefs of ancient sarcophagi, portrait busts (fig. 6.11), and important Roman monuments like the Colosseum, the Arch of Septimius Severus, and the Vatican Obelisk.96 He also produced urban views of mid Cinquecento Rome and contemporary architectural projects, such as St Peter’s and the Vatican Belvedere courtyard.97

Naldini’s numerous studies are executed in a variety of media, but several folios share the same watermark and similar dimensions. When assessed together as a whole it appears that Naldini compiled three different sketchbooks between 1560 and 1571, now dispersed among several collections. Two of these – a large group of studies published by Christel Thiem, and a palm-sized sketchbook of 56 sheets (fig. 4.1),

91 In 1558 Onofrio Panvinio identified the pair as two portrayals of Alexander and his horse Bucephalus. Haskell & Penny, 1981, p. 136. 92 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 131-32 & n3. Armenini-Gorreri, 1588, p. 78. Mendelsohn, 2001, pp. 133-34. For the original location and reception of the sculptures see Haskell & Penny, 1981; Bober & Rubinstein, 1986. For problems regarding modern identifications of antique sculpture, Renaissance names, and ‘philological back-formation’ see Barkan, 1999, pp. 175-85, 233-47. 93 Naldini studied both sons from the Laocoön, but does not appear to have made a study of the whole sculptural group, see Thiem, 2002, nos.28-29, pp. 90-93, and BCI, S.I.7, fols. 6v d, 10r b. I discuss how Naldini used these studies at more length in chapter 9. For the history and reception of the Laocoön group see Bober & Rubinstein, 1986, no.122, pp. 151-55. For Naldini’s drawing after the Apollo Belvedere (fig. 6.8) see Waźbiński, 1987, fig. 98; Thiem, 2002, fig. 5, p. 19. The drawing was first published in Barocchi, 1965, pp. 266, 283n212, fig. 111d. Barocchi recognised that Naldini’s study was ‘anticheggiante’ and quoted Baldinucci’s important discussion on drawing from plaster casts, but did not identify the sculptural source. 94 For the sculptures see Bober & Rubinstein, 1986, nos.66-67, pp. 102-4. Naldini’s drawings are reproduced in Turner, 2000, no.8, p. 32, and appendix I, no. 70, p. 298; both as ‘Bartolommeo Neroni, il Riccio (or a close follower).’ 95 Carrara, 2006 & 2009. Marciano, 2015. 96 Thiem, 2002, nos.6, 8, 23, 24, 30, 31. 97 Thiem, 2002, nos.11-14, 35-37, p. 169. 187 which has not been published in its entirety – likely remained in Naldini’s possession as a storehouse of compositional ideas.98 The third book, an album of detailed drawings after sepulchral monuments now dispersed in Florence, Fermo, and Lisbon, appears to have been compiled especially for an antiquarian, intendente d’arte, or collector. I will summarise some of the previous literature regarding this codex and its patron, before discussing how Naldini approached the Belvedere river god Nile.

The Mantuan antiquarian dealer and artist Jacopo Strada (1515-1588) has long been recognised as the intended recipient of several drawings by Giovann’Antonio Dosio. Strada proudly served the Habsburg imperial court as Antiquario della Serenissima Cesarea Maestà from 1559 until his death.99 Strada had begun collecting drawings of antique monuments while he was in Mantua.100 His encyclopaedic projects included: a genealogy of imperial sovereigns, 3 volumes of European heraldry, 7 volumes of ancient inscriptions, 9 volumes describing over 20,000 coins, and an enormous dictionary of 11 languages (Italian, French, German, Spanish, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Chaldean, Arabic, Persian, and Turkish).101 Dirk Jansen more correctly describes this dictionary as an ‘illustrated encyclopedia’, since according to Strada it reproduced ‘antique coins, inscriptions, statues and other things.’102 Many of these ambitious projects were begun around 1551, but they could not all be completed before Strada’s death in 1588.103 The letter ‘A’ of his illustrated dictionary filled 14 volumes alone.104

Strada requested copies after buildings, coins, and antique monuments from several artists.105 Dosio marked many drawings in his now dispersed sketchbook106 with

98 Thiem, 2002. For the smaller sketchbook see chapter 8. 99 Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. xii. 100 Rubinstein, 1989, p. 210. 101 See Strada’s own description of his multivolume works in Barocchi & Gaeta Bertelà, 1993, pp. 133-34; Rubinstein, 1989, p. 210. Jansen explains that Strada’s Index sive catalogus… (surviving in several copies in Vienna, Florence, and Rome) describes around 50 items. Jansen, 1991, p. 64. 102 Jansen, 1991, p. 71. 103 According to the letter of Francesco I de’ Medici to Maximilian II, [June 1576], Strada began his project 25 years previously. Barocchi & Gaeta Bertelà, 1993, p. 116. 104 Jansen, 1991, p. 71, reads the number as 16. I have followed the transcription in Barocchi & Gaeta Bertelà, 1993, p. 134. 105 Among others, Strada employed Armenini, Giovanni Battista Scultori, Ippolito Andreasi, and Giovanni Battista Bertani. Jansen, 1991, pp. 60-62. 106 Dosio’s drawings are in Florence, Biblioteca Marucelliana, Stampe vol. C, 100, nos. 148-161 (Codex Marucellianus); Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett, 79 D 1 (Codex Berolinensis); Berlin, Staatbibliothek, ms. lat, fol. 61. Christian Hülsen, 1933, separated Dosio’s drawings between two main groups: larger sheets originally pertaining to an ‘album’ (epigraphisch-archäologische Album), and smaller sheets constituting a ‘libro’ (Zeichnungsbuch in Kleinfolio). Giovanna Tedeschi Grisanti 188 Roman numerals and asterisks and specifically explained his purpose: ‘All those which will have a * as sign are made for messer Jacopo Strada, I do this so as not to fall into error.’107 Emanuele Casamassima and Ruth Rubinstein reasoned that these drawings were earmarked to be copied; and matched them directly with the more refined pen and wash drawings in codex N.A. 1159 of the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale in Florence.108 This codex was traditionally attributed to the ‘circle of Dosio’, but Eliana Carrara demonstrated definitively that its contents were executed by Battista Naldini.109 His drawings (figs. 6.12, 6.13, 6.15, 6.18, 6.20) accurately document funerary urns, altars, cippi, and other sepulchral monuments with their inscriptions. Naldini used brown wash to describe the shadows and articulate the projection of relief carving. Dosio thought that wash obscured numbers. He believed that the measurements of architectural drawings were more legible left unadorned and without shading.110 Thus it was left to Naldini to add his own particular style to the objects he copied from Dosio’s shorthand sketches.

discovered an additional codex by Dosio in Florence (BNCF N.A. 618). Its first 14 folios (280 x 420mm), with the same watermark (Briquet 7558), pertain to the larger album. The remaining cut and pasted 59 folios (of varying dimensions perhaps originally 230 x 330mm) derive from the smaller sketchbook. Tedeschi Grisanti, 1983; Tedeschi Grisanti & Solin, 2011, pp. 13-16. 107 Codex Berolinensis, fol. 8v. ‘Tutti quegli che avranno u[na+] per contrasegno son fatti [per mr.] Jac°. Strada lo fo a causa [che non si] pigl[i] errore.’ Based on Hülsen’s transcription. There are several lacunae as the folio was trimmed, see Hülsen, 1933, p. 7, plate XI. Tedeschi Grisanti, 1983, p. 70; Amadio, 1988, p. 39; Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. xii. In her most recent publication, Tedeschi Grisanti gives several alternative explanations for Dosio’s asterisks, arguing that his exact criteria have still not been conclusively determined. Tedeschi Grisanti & Solin, 2011, pp.16-19 & n21. 108 Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. xii. Amadio carefully compared both BNCF codices. She found that 33 of the 72 studies of antique monuments in N.A. 1159 compared to drawings in codex N.A. 618. Amadio, 1988, pp. 35, 64n22. Despite several problematic variables, Rubinstein, 1989, p. 204, argued that 29 of Dosio’s starred drawings were copied into codex N.A. 1159. Among other contemporary antiquarian drawings by Boissard, Ligorio, Panvinio, Dupérac, and the draughtsmen of the Codex Pighianus and Coburgensis, Dosio appears to be the ‘main source’ for N.A. 1159 and provides 93 ‘comparative drawings.’ Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. xix. 109 BNCF, codex, N.A. 1159. The codex – composed of 77 folios, 325 x 225mm, and bound in a reused eighteenth-century vellum binding – was published in its entirety by Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993; and first attributed to Naldini by Arnold Nesselrath. In 1993 Ruth Rubinstein attributed the codex to ‘an intelligent, but much less sophisticated artist than Naldini, probably Florentine.’ Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. XXIII. More recently, Tedeschi Grisanti & Solin, 2011, p. 40, cited Nesselrath’s attribution but maintained the anonymity of the author. The codex is listed as ‘corpus dosiano di disegni dall’antico’ in Barletti, 2011, p. 745. Eliana Carrara is the only scholar to confidently attribute the entire codex to Naldini, substantiating her argument by examining the handwritten annotations that accompany his drawings. Carrara, 2006 & 2009. Antonella Marciano, 2015, p. 1488-89, accepts Carrara’s findings, but emphasises the collaboration between Dosio and Naldini, with implied reservations about Naldini’s complete authorship. 110 See Dosio’s letter to Niccolò Gaddi, 8 May 1574, transcribed in Tedeschi Grisanti & Solin, 2011, p. 461; Bottari & Ticozzi, 1822-1825, vol. 3, p. 301. 189 Adele Amadio and Rubinstein identified the same hand in 18 drawings in Fermo and related these to codex N.A. 1159.111 Catherine Monbeig Goguel discovered an additional 3 drawings in Lisbon, which Carrara correctly attributed and placed in relation to Naldini and Dosio.112 These 98 drawings are related in style and technique, and share the same watermarks and annotations in both Naldini’s and Dosio’s hand.

In 2006 Eliana Carrara named Vincenzio Borghini as the probable recipient of this group of drawings. She demonstrated how two inscriptions from codex N.A. 1159 were transcribed into Borghini’s manuscripts.113 The erudite Benedictine prior, was also a historian, iconographer, genealogist, and philologist. He supported artists throughout his life, promoting Naldini and his fellow innocenti, Francesco Morandini and Ventura Ulivieri.114 Borghini possessed an acute historical sensibility and a profound admiration for the ancient world.

The concentrated epigraphic focus of codex N.A. 1159 supports Borghini’s probable ownership. Carrara demonstrates how eager Borghini was to possess accurate copies of ancient monuments and inscriptions. In 1550 he wrote to Vasari: If you get your hands on antique objects, where there are inscriptions, epigrams or other things, because they are ancient, be sure to remember me, because I infinitely value these things that are good whether for their history or for the things of Ancient Rome. Any little copy will satisfy me [….].’115

Borghini also took advantage of his innocenti, asking Morandini to collect inscriptions from the tombs of popes and bishops for his ecclesiastical research.116 On 19 December 1574, Morandini, the son of a notary, admitted his shortcomings with the old abbreviations of the Latin inscriptions: ‘Forgive me,’ he wrote to Borghini, ‘I

111 Amadio, 1988, pp. 34-40. 112 Monbeig Goguel, 2000, attributed to Marco da Faenza. Carrara, 2006, pp. 146-47; Carrara, 2009, p. 156. 113 Carrara, 2006, p. 143-44. Latin poem in 16 verses recorded in Borghini’s manuscript in 1550: BNCF, ms. II X 70, fol. 22v; appears in N.A. 1159, fol. 39r (Census 62873). Carrara suggests that Naldini was directed to verify this inscription. The Greek inscription in honour of Emperor Antoninus Pius was transcribed by Naldini in N.A. 1159, fol. 6r (Census 192856), then copied and corrected by Borghini in ms. II X 109, fol. 22v. 114 Scorza, 2003a. 115 ‘Et se venissi alle mani cose antiche, dove fussi scritto o epigrammi o altre cose, purché siano antiche, ricordatevi alhor di me, ché queste cose, che son buone et per le historie et per le cose romane antiche, io le stimo infinitamente, et ogni poco di copia mi satisfà, massime se fussino tavole, ché credo che sia sparso per le case de’ private in cotesta città molte belle antichità.’ Borghini, Carteggio, 2001, p. 304; quoted in Carrara, 2006, p. 144. 116 BNCF, Magliabechiano, XXV.551, fols. 113r, 115r-116r. Carrara, 2005, pp. 90-91. 190 extracted them with as much diligence and knowledge as I could.’117 No existing documents explicitly tell us that Borghini asked Naldini to gather inscriptions during the 1560s. However, as Carrara has reasonably argued, it is likely that when Borghini organised Naldini’s first trip to Rome this came with a request to collect valuable information from ancient monuments.118

Carrara’s most compelling evidence shows that five details were extracted from Naldini’s drawings in N.A. 1159 to illustrate Borghini’s study of Florentine heraldry, published in his posthumous Discorsi.119 Borghini discussed a selection of ancient utensils: the flute (aulos or tibia), measuring cane, tools of the carpenter, and ‘a cage full of birds’. The last object, he explained, signified the ancient office of an Augur, called Pullario.120 The redactor of Borghini’s manuscript published a woodcut of this birdcage (fig. 6.14), a small detail taken from a sepulchral relief commemorating Pompeio Aspro, which Naldini had studied (fig. 6.13) in the Cesi Collection in Rome.121 Naldini’s four other drawings (figs. 6.12 & 6.15) similarly represented ancient utensils,122 and served Borghini’s argument on the humble origins of many Florentine families with ancestors toiling as craftsmen in the arti meccaniche. Some coats-of-arms preserved signs of these original occupations, which several Florentines had attempted to purge in their quest to earn nobility.123

There remains an unanswered connection between Dosio and Jacopo Strada, and an inscription in black chalk on the facing page of Codex N.A. 1159, which reads: ‘IAC DANII’.124 Rubinstein identified the individual named as Jacopo Dani (c. 1530-1598),

117 ‘[…] la mi scusi, l’ho bene cavate con quanta diligentia ho potuto e conoscimento.’ Francesco Morandini to Vincenzo Borghini, 19 December 1574. BNCF, Magliabechiano, XXV.551, fol. 115r. 118 Carrara, 2006, p. 148. 119 Borghini, Dell’Arme delle famiglie Fiorentine in Borghini, 1584-1585, vol. 2, woodcuts reproduced pp. 29-30. Carrara, 2006, p. 142-43. 120 Borghini, 1584-1585, vol. 2, p. 29; passage cited in Carrara, 2006, p. 143. The Pullarius was the ‘keeper of the sacred chickens’, which were used to determine whether it was favourable or unfavourable to appoint a new magistrate or go to war. Cicero, De divinatione, I.XXXV.77-78. & II.XXXIV.71-74, translated by W.A. Falconer, LCL 154, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1923, pp. 309, 453-55. 121 Naldini annotated his drawing: ‘Nel cortile del Reverendissimo Cardinale Ciesis’. Naldini, pen and brown ink, BNCF, N.A. 1159, fol. 2r (small detail cropped from larger monument). (Census 192876) Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, pp. 9-10, reproduced p. 166. 122 For the drawings not reproduced here see Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, nos.11 & 50. 123 Borghini, 1584-1585, vol. 2, pp. 29-32. 124 Casamassima believed the inscription (fig. 1, p. 245) ‘di mano moderna.’ Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. xviii from Casamassima’s notes of 1976. Amadio, 1988, p. 39, also argued that it was added at a later time. 191 a secretary of Cosimo I de’ Medici, who regularly corresponded with Strada in the 1570s.125 However, Strada may have met his ‘amico’ in Vienna between 1558 and 1561, when Dani served Lorenzo de’ Medici as legate to the imperial court.126 Unfortunately, there is no documentary evidence to conclusively connect Strada, Dani, Dosio, and Naldini around 1560 and 1562, the time when the drawings in codex N.A. 1159 were produced.127 Although Borghini was the probable recipient of Naldini’s drawings, Strada’s particular requirements for copies after antique objects provide a valuable comparison.

In 1573 Strada wrote to Dani to request copies after antique monuments and inscriptions in the collection of Dani, Pietro Vettori and ‘other learned men.’128 Strada was especially interested in a bronze Chimera and its lettere etrusche for his corpus of ancient inscriptions.129 Strada specified that anything sent to him in Vienna should be ‘well drawn’ (ben dessignate), with accurately transcribed inscriptions (lettere ben scritte) ‘imitated exactly as they are on the marbles’ (immitate a punto) including ornament, correctly ruled lines and accurate dimensions.130 The drawings of codex N.A.1159 exhibit all the hallmarks of Strada’s requirements.131

Naldini’s drawing of the Altar to the Lares Augusti (fig. 6.18) reveals how he carefully positioned the faces of the monument on his sheet by ruling centre lines in black chalk, and then measured and marked intervals by perforating small holes.132

125 For Dani see Carlo Vivoli in DBI, vol. 32 (1986), pp. 584-85. 126 ASF, Mediceo di Principato, Relazioni con stati italiani ed esteri, filza 4323, 21 December 1558- 26 March 1561. ASF, 1951, p. 147. For different dates see Rubinstein, 1989, p. 211. Strada calls Dani his ‘amico’, and describes their ‘longa nostra amicizia’. Letter, June 1573, as below, n128. 127 Rubinstein, 1989, p. 213, speculates whether Strada commissioned the copies in codex N.A. 1159 from Dosio and used them for his corpus of ancient inscriptions, before sending them to Dani in Florence. Alternatively, she suggests that Dani could have acted as an agent to procure this codex for another antiquarian or ‘uomo dotto’. Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. xxi. 128 Barocchi & Gaeta Bertelà, 1993, pp. 51, 87. Rubinstein, 1989, p. 211. 129 Strada to Dani, 17 June 1573, Barocchi & Gaeta Bertelà, 1993, pp. 50-51. The letter is also quoted and discussed by Rubinstein, 1989, pp. 211-12. On the Chimera see Mendelsohn, 2000, pp. 278-79. Gáldy, 2009, pp. 124-132, & 361-62, no.1, fig. 24. 130 Strada to Dani, 17 June 1573. Barocchi & Gaeta Bertelà, 1993, pp. 50-51. 131 See also Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, p. xiii. 132 The altar (fig. 6.17) was produced in 2 BCE and dedicated to the family of Augustus, with portraits of the emperor, his grandson and adopted heir Gaius Caesar, and his wife Livia or daughter Julia. One side of the altar (fig. 6.19) features the household gods, the Lares, holding cornucopia, incense burner and patera to perform libations to the gods. Originally commissioned by the masters of the vicus sandalarius, one of the roads of ancient Rome lined with artisans and sandal vendors. Naldini would have studied the altar in the della Valle-Capranica collection, where it remained until 1584 when it was purchased by Ferdinando de’ Medici. Florence, Galleria degli Uffizi, inv. 972. Romualdi, 2006, pp. 114-120. (Census 194351). 192 Naldini presented the four sides of the altar in an early modern form of orthogonal drawing. He recorded the front and right side of the altar on one folio (fig. 6.18), and the reverse and left side on another sheet (fig. 6.20).133 This was a different approach to the anonymous artist of the Coburg codex (fig. 6.21) who displayed all the sides of the monument in a continuous horizontal band on a single sheet.134 Naldini nevertheless ensured that Borghini would be able to read the two separate sheets together by annotating one folio (fig. 6.22): ‘these 2 sides are the counterparts of those signed Θ’ and placing the omega symbol on the corresponding folio.135 He also indicated how the monument could be reconstructed by labelling the respective sides with the letters ‘A’ and ‘B’.136

Strada’s request for objects to be immitate a punto mirrors Armenini’s similar advice to diligently imitate ogni punto of a print with the ultimate goal of creating a copy that cannot be told apart from its model.137 Both recommendations stress exactitude in observing and replicating details. However, as Dirk Jansen reveals, Strada’s own approach to numismatics involved enlarging coins on fogli reali to around 25 cm, and refining their fragmented state of preservation. Strada was against representing the coins in Emperor Ferdinand I’s collection accurately with crude and chipped edges; instead he had them recorded without their abraded rims.138 Armenini likewise advocated the transformative imitation of antique objects, as we discussed above; however, he made exceptions to this rule when circumstances and patrons demanded. Armenini participated in a collaborative effort to reproduce the Vatican Loggie of Raphael as faithfully as possible, yet another project under the direction of Strada.139 This resulted in an extraordinary series of finely painted reproductions (fig. 6.23), retaining every detail from the original frescoes (fig. 6.24) in vibrant colour at a reduced scale without modification. They were bound in a codex for a member of the Fugger family in Antwerp, and were so highly prized that Strada presented a second

133 BNCF, N.A. 1159, fols. 9r, 16r. Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, pp. 19-20, 28, 173, 180. 134 I have followed Amadio, 1988, p. 62, for the dating of the Codex Coburgensis. 135 Inscription, pen and brown ink, upper left: ‘faccia di dietro’, lower right: ‘queste 2 faccie sono le compagn[ie] di quelle segnate Θ’. BNCF, N.A. 1159, fol. 16r. Casamassima & Rubinstein, 1993, pp. 28, 180. 136 Accurate save for one error: the left side of the monument (inscribed: ‘LARIBVS AVGVS[TI]’) was labelled on either side with two ‘B’s, when an ‘A’ should to have appeared on the right. 137 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 124. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 69. 138 Jansen, 1991, p. 64. 139 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. XVI, 205-206, & plates I-V. 193 manuscript copy to King Philip II.140 At the very least these examples demonstrate that Strada applied different criteria for the reproduction of antique objects and contemporary art.

The humanist project of recuperating and restoring antiquity to its former glory attracted different artistic and antiquarian approaches.141 In an illuminating anecdote the sculptor Guglielmo della Porta successfully restored the fragmented legs of the Hercules Farnese. However, after the original legs were discovered the patrons debated whether or not to remove his modern additions. Michelangelo intervened and defended Guglielmo by proclaiming: ‘the works of modern sculpture can stand on a par with the ancients.’142 Similarly, many cinquecento draughtsmen engaged in a visual ‘restoration’ of antique monuments.143 Drawn copies after the antique therefore do not conform to modern expectations of accurate archaeological documentation, which makes it difficult to reconstruct the condition of a sculpture prior to the physical restorations carried out by modern sculptors.144 Prints also allowed artists to restage fragmented marble as a fully restored sculpture or to re-imagine monuments in new settings. Even some of the most diligent antiquarians took liberties with the objects they studied.

In his encyclopaedic corpus of antique monuments, Libri delle antichità, Pirro Ligorio regularly reconstructed fragmented sculpture. A ruined Greek inscription on the base of a statue of Septimius Severus was ‘made somewhat whole’ (fatta alquanto intera) after careful consideration.145 Ligorio ‘supplied’ (supplite) the missing parts of a Mithraic idol from related sources, but similarly reinterpreted the sculpture anew.146

140 Davidson, 1983. One codex is now in Vienna, National Library of Austria, Cod. Min. 33. The second codex remains untraced. 141 Grafton, 2001, pp. 31-61. 142 Translated in Barkan, 1999, p. 204. See also Florence, 1987, p. 87; Howard, 1968. 143 Bober & Rubinstein, 1986, p. 44, use the term ‘restored’ to indicate ‘that the artist has not copied the damaged statue or relief exactly but has added the missing parts in his drawings.’ See also Barkan, 1999, p. 174. 144 Mendelsohn, 2000, p. 282. 145 Ligorio discusses the ‘molto rovinata’ inscription on the base of the statue in San Pietro in Vincoli: ‘non di meno, parte con quel ch’ivi si vede et parte con consideratione, si è fatta alquanto intera.’ Ligorio-Orlandi, 2008, pp. x, 382. 146 Ligorio interpreted the winged Mithraic idol encircled by a serpent as an Egyptian symbolic representation of the world that contained allusions to Argus, the zodiac, Saturn, Proteus, Priapus, Isis and Osirus. Ligorio explained that the original antique was ruined, but ‘quelle che li mancano l’habiamo supplite con quelle cose sculpite nelli intaglio de le pietre.’ Ligorio-Orlandi, 2008, p. 392, 194 His drawing of a statue of Diana appears to be a carefully detailed record, however in the accompanying text Ligorio reveals: ‘[…] only some fragments are visible towards the feet, nevertheless, I drew her whole, taking facts from the little that can be seen, and more so from other statues of Diana that perform the same action.’147 These interpretative reconstructions testified to Ligorio’s erudition. In Vincenzo Danti’s definition of imitare, in contrast to ritrarre, this improvement was entirely justified. Armenini also advised artists on the correct way of drawing from sculpture and reliefs. He affirmed: ‘To the experienced draughtsman alone is granted the ability to take what is broken or damaged and bring them to completion through his judgment.’148

These approaches toward antiquity paralleled the work of humanists and philologists reconstructing the lacunae in manuscript sources preserving the work of Lucretius and Festus.149 They complemented the work of cinquecento architects assembling ruined fragments with the objective of reconstructing ancient Roman architectural orders. Alina Payne has reasonably called this phenomenon the questione dell’ornamento, in league with literary debates over the questione della lingua.150 Payne also demonstrates the important role that decorum played in imitatio theory as a recurring concern for appropriate and harmonious synthesis, which regulated extremes of artistic license.151

also Silvia Orlandi’s introduction, p. x. For a discussion of Ligorio’s composite figure, with the eyes of the giant Argus and Kalathos headdress see Palma Venetucci, 2011, pp. 148-49. 147 The sculpture is described as in the vigna of the Cardinal Carpi: ‘[…] la statua di quella dea, de la quale solo si vedano poche reliquie più verso i piedi; non di meno l’ho disegnata integra, prendendo argomento da quel poco che se ne vede, et anchora per altre statue di Diana che anno l’attion medesima.’ Ligorio-Orlandi, 2008, pp. x & 42; BNN, Codex XIII B.7, p. 42. Also discussed in Mandowsky & Mitchell, 1963, no.15, p. 63. 148 ‘[…] a i prattichi solo è concesso tutto quello che vi è di rotto o di guasto condurle finite col suo giudizio.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 108. Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 160. 149 Mandowsky & Mitchell, 1963, p. 47. 150 Payne, 1999, pp. 60-65; Payne, 2000. 151 Payne, 1999, pp. 52-60. 195 River Gods

Naldini interpreted the Tiber and Nile river gods (figs. 6.25 & 6.27) in the Belvedere courtyard as fully ‘restored’ sculptures.152 The river gods had been installed in the centre of the courtyard as fountains at least since 1523.153 Maarten van Heemskerck gives us an impression of how they appeared in situ around 1532 (fig. 6.28). Baccio Bandinelli described the courtyard as a garden ‘paradise’, surrounded by Bramante’s admirable architecture and eminent ancient sculpture. He said the lulling murmurs of falling water put listeners to sleep and the shady orange trees always attracted songbirds.154

Among the many drawings after the Tiber and Nile, Enea Vico’s meticulous pen and ink studies (figs. 6.29 & 6.31) are rare documents that appear to record the sculptures in their former ruined state.155 Vico’s drawing of the Tiber (fig. 6.29) corresponds correctly to a description written in 1512 by Grossino, an agent of the Gonzaga, soon after the sculpture was unearthed.156 Vico precisely details the fractures in the marble: the stumped fingers of the Tiber’s right hand, the base of the cornucopia, the snout and ear of the she wolf, the right leg, heads, and arms of Romulus and Remus. Pietro

152 For the sculptures see Bober & Rubinstein, 1986, pp. 103-104. 153 ‘In mezzo al giardino sono due grandissimi uomini di marmo [...] L’uno è il Tevere, e l’altro è il Nilo, figure antiquissime; e da questi escono due bellissime fontane.’ Anonymous Venetian, ‘Sommario del viaggio degli oratori veneti che andarono a Roma a dar l’obbedienza a Papa Adriano VI,’ 1523; quoted in Brummer, 1970, p. 266. In 1556 Ulisse Aldrovandi described a small fountain (fonticella) on a triangular antique pedestal between the two river gods. Aldrovandi, 1556, p. 116. Also recorded by Gamucci, 1565, p. 199. 154 Bandinelli, Libro del disegno, c. 1550-60, Florence, Biblioteca Moreniana, Palagi 359, insert 2, fol. 7. Waldman, 2004, p. 902. Bandinelli describes fondly walking past the orange trees engaged in long discussions with Baldassarre Castiglione, or Pietro Bembo, and sometimes Leonardo da Vinci several years before. ‘E molte volte m’achad[d]e cho’ sopradeti e altri simili ispasegiare tra queli aranci cho’ lung[h]i ragionamenti molto gravi e utili.’ Waldman, 2004, p. 903. 155 I have followed Brooks, 2007, p. 87, for the date of Vico’s drawings. Brummer accepts Vico’s drawings as a credible record of the ‘repaired but not fully restored’ sculptures, especially when considered together with Goltzius’ ‘accurate renderings’. Brummer, 1970, p. 195 & n27. Giulio Bodon believes Vico represents the sculptures with ‘eccellente accuratezza.’ Bodon, 1997, p. 73. 156 ‘Tiberinus, la qual ho visto con li ochi mei et tocho tuta com le mane […] il volto ben formato et integro, eceto che li mancha un pocho del nasso. Ne la man sinistra ha un pezo de un troncho […] non si pò veder se non una gamba integra dal piede in fora, et è rota essa gamba apresso il piede, de l’altra gamba non si vede anchora se non un pocho di cossa […] Romullo e Remo […] a l’uno li mancha il capo et una gamba, et a l’altro li mancha il capo et il resto del corpo è assai guasto. La lupa è tuta integra, da un pocho dil mostazo et una oregia che li mancha.’ Grossino to Federico Gonzaga, January 1512. Brummer, 1970, p. 192; Luzio, 1886, p. 535. See also letter of Stazio Gadio to Isabella d’Este, 2 February 1512, describing the ruined state of Romulus, Remus, and the she wolf. Bertolotti, 1885, p. 70. 196 Antonio da Seminiatto restored the Tiber and the Nile in 1524.157 However, two drawings by Hendrick Goltzius (figs. 6.30 & 6.32), securely dated to 1591, reveal that both sculptures retained many fragmented features long after Naldini’s visit to Rome.158 Goltzius is the only artist to carefully document the cracks along the Tiber’s left leg, details that may indicate one of the restorations undertaken by Pietro Antonio. The sculptures were not fully restored until 1774 by Gaspare Sibilla.159 When Naldini came to study the Tiber (fig. 6.26) between 1560 and 1562, he reconstructed the fragments he perceived.160 This was not uncommon, unlike Vico and Goltzius, the vast majority of draughtsmen engaged in a visual restoration of the Tiber and Nile.

The marble fragment allowed its cinquecento viewer to propose many different interpretations for its reconstruction. Thus it is no surprise that almost every draughtsman who viewed the small broken bodies surrounding the colossal Nile settled on a different number of putti: Federico Zuccaro drew 8 (fig. 6.33);161 Amico Aspertini sketched 10 (fig. 6.34); Giovanni Battista de’ Cavalieri engraved 12 (fig. 6.35); Francisco de Hollanda reconstructed 13 (fig. 6.36); and Maarten de Vos rapidly looped 14 (fig. 6.37). The number of the putti was especially relevant to the iconography of the sculpture as Pliny the Elder revealed: ‘playing around the Nile were sixteen figures of children, through which are conveyed the total number of cubits which the river rises at its high point flood.’162 Pliny was describing a basalt sculpture that he saw dedicated by Emperor Vespasian in the Templum Pacis. However, this Hellenistic sculpture is believed to have been a spoil taken from Alexandria by Nero.163 Alessandro Allori proudly displayed his modern interpretation

157 Pietro Antonio was paid in July and August 1524 for having ‘repaired the Nile’ (a conciato il nillo) and the putti of the Tiber. Brummer, 1970, p. 195n25. 158 Goltzius produced a series of 43 drawings during his visit to Rome, between 10 January and 3 August 1591. Brandt, 2001, p. 135. Brummer, 1970, p. 195. Françios Perrier’s etchings extend this ruined state into the seventeenth century. Perrier, 1638, plates 91, 93 & 94. 159 The restoration, ordered by Clement XIV (1769-74) before his death in 1774, was completed during the pontificate of Pius VI. Brummer, 1970, p. 195. Bober & Rubinstein, 1986, p. 104; Amelung & Lippold, 1903-1956, vol 1, p. 133. Census 151520. 160 Naldini seems to have only truncated a head and two arms of Romulus and Remus. 161 See Brooks, 2007, no.17, pp. 24, 34. In his well-known drawing, Federico Zuccari represents his brother Taddeo studying antique sculpture in a fictional Belvedere court with a distant view of Raphael’s decorated rooms in the papal apartments of the Vatican, Trajan’s column, and the unfinished dome of St Peter’s. Only one of the putti surrounding the Nile appears fragmented. 162 Natural History, XXXVI.58; quoted in Bober & Rubinstein, 1986, pp. 103-104. Lamont, 2014, explains that Lucian and Philostratus the Elder used the ancient Greek term pecheis (οἱ πήχεις) to describe the children playing around the Nile, and recognised their bodies to directly correspond to the length of a cubit. 163 Lamont, 2014. 197 of this sculpture in the Banquet of Cleopatra (fig. 6.38) for Francesco de’ Medici. He drew upon his memory of the Belvedere marble, but darkened his palette in imitation of basalt, painted 8 putti, a crocodile and a cornucopia, and then modified the standardised pose of the reclining male nude by bending the limbs with his distinctive sixteenth-century maniera. His ‘heuristic’ imitation was appropriately displayed in an imagined Egyptian setting as a plausible all’antica reconstruction of the lost masterpiece.

The significance of the putti surrounding the Nile is brought into even sharper relief in Pliny’s fifth book. He explained Egypt’s dependence on the Nile’s annual inundation. If the Nile did not rise more than 12 cubits (18 feet) famine would certainly follow. At 13 cubits there was still hunger, 14 cubits brought cheerfulness, 15 cubits ‘complete confidence’, but the most desirable height (iustum incrementum) at 16 cubits (24 feet) brought luxury. Any higher inundation would leave the soil too moist and delay the sowing season.164

Several cinquecento artists appear to have trusted Pliny enough to find 16 children among the marble fragments. The earliest artist to record the Nile after it was installed in the Belvedere courtyard was Maarten van Heemskerck. He outlined the forms of 16 putti (fig. 6.39).165 Etienne Dupérac also detailed 16 in a slightly fragmented state (fig. 6.41); the anonymous Flemish author of the Cambridge sketchbook fully reconstructed 16 (fig. 6.43); and Nicolas Beatrizet also engraved 16 putti (fig. 6.42). Beatrizet’s print was published by Antonio Lafreri as part of his Speculum Romanae Magnificentiae and included a detailed description of the Nile and its iconography that amplified Pliny’s account.166

164 Natural History, V.58 and XVIII.168. Pliny, 1938-1963, vol. 2, p. 263; vol. 5, p. 295; vol 10, p. 47 note b. 165 Heemskerck also studied the back of the sculpture (fig. 6.40) recording 2 putti standing behind the colossal right leg, the heads of these same 2 putti appear in the London drawing bringing the total to 16. His drawing is dated to before July 1533 because the Laocoön behind the Nile does not yet have Giovanni Montorsoli’s restored right arm, added between July 1532 and July 1533. Prandi, 1954, p. 83; Nesselrath, 1998, p. 165. By this line of reasoning, Heemskerck accurately records all of the sculptures, indicating that the Nile was also restored by this time. Matthias Winner considers Heemskerck’s drawing to be a ‘reliable’ record, but also recognises that the draughtsman enlarged the size of the Laocoön, and ‘corrected’ the position of the Venus Felix by shifting her to the left so that she would not be obscured by the colossal foot of the Tiber. Winner, 1998, p. 119. For a complete reassessment of the purported accuracy of Heemskerck’s drawings see Christian, 2012. 166 For the Speculum see Chicago, 2008. 198 Naldini’s drawing of the sculpture (fig. 6.44) preserves brief annotations, which record an informed discussion with Giovann’Antonio Dosio. In the upper left of the sheet (fig. 6.45), Dosio wrote: ‘Others say that the putti that stay on the said Nile are the reason that the river floods more or less according to the times and at great heights.’ In the bottom right corner (fig. 6.46), Naldini wrote the location of the sculpture and stated: ‘they say those puttini that surround him to be 17.’167 Despite this Naldini only drew 15 putti. The annotations accompanying many of his drawings after antique monuments frequently state ‘they say’ (dicono), suggesting a general discourse among artists and antiquarians, though never specifying any authority or source. Dosio clearly possessed some knowledge about the significance of the putti for the measurement of the Nile’s annual inundation. However, Naldini appears to have been misinformed about their exact number. It is possible that they followed Bernardo Gamucci’s opinion.

Like Dosio, Gamucci was a native of San Gimignano and he praised him as a ‘giovane virtuoso, architetto et antiquario di non poca espettatione.’168 As Eliana Carrara recognised, Dosio provided drawings of ancient Roman monuments for some of the woodcuts in Gamucci’s Libri quattro dell’antichità della città di Roma (Venice, 1565).169 This publication incidentally recorded that Donato Bramante believed ‘17 children’ surrounded the Nile sculpture. Gamucci seems to have recognised that Bramante’s interpretation was very different to Pliny’s: ‘enigmatically,’ he writes, ‘the talented architect wished to signify with the seventeen children the seventeen kingdoms, which in Egypt receive perpetual nourishment from the river’s waters.’170 Fifteen years before Gamucci, the Bolognese scholar, and later

167 Inscription, upper left, pen and brown ink, Dosio: ‘Altri dicono che e putti che stanno sopra a detto nilo esser la cagione questo per lo inondazione che e’ fa più e manco secondo e tempi et a più altezze.’ Inscription, lower right, pen and brown ink, Naldini: ‘Statua del nilo antiqua di belvedere e quei puttini che à da torno dicono essere 17 [loss].’ Unfortunately the sheet was trimmed by a later collector. Naldini’s number has been variously transcribed as ‘il’ by Antonella Marciano, 2015, p. 1488, fig. 5; and in the Census (ID 65293); as ‘14’ by Nicholas Turner, 2000, p. 32; and ‘17’ by Eliana Carrara, 2009, p. 156. Because Naldini draws 15 putti, it is logical to infer that he wrote ‘15’. However, he tends to slant his ‘5’s in a narrow, tightly bent loop. Compare with two examples of Naldini’s handwriting in Milanesi, 1876, vol. 3, p. 218; and Carrara, 2009, fig. 4. I would like to thank Robert Gaston and Angelo Lo Conte for sharing their opinions; oral communication 15 December 2015. 168 Carrara, 2009, p. 152. 169 Carrara, 2009, pp. 152-54. 170 Traslation from Barkan, 1999, p. 364n72. ‘[…] misteriosamente l’ingegnoso architetto ha voluto inferire per li XVII figliuoli i XVII regni, che nel Egitto ricevono dalle sue acque perpetuo nutrimento.’ Gamucci, 1565, p. 199; Brummer, 1970, p. 271; Haskell & Penny, 1981, p. 272. Given the association 199 natural philosopher, Ulisse Aldrovandi also perceived 17 putti.171 His opinion was in print by 1556 at the latest, and remained unchanged in subsequent editions of his guidebook.172

Ultimately, Naldini reconstructed the fragmented bodies that he perceived, and gave a new interpretation for their restoration. Comparison of Naldini’s drawing with those by Heemskerck, de Hollanda, Dupérac, the anonymous Flemish artist, and the engraving by Beatrizet shows that he omitted the putto represented beside the river god’s left knee (fig. 6.49), near the small crocodile. Enea Vico’s drawing (fig. 6.47) reveals that during the mid Cinquecento only a minor trace of this putto remained. Vico himself seems to have interpreted its small fragmented hand as the claw of the crocodile, and Goltzius (fig. 6.48) left only faint traces of his fingers.173

The poses that Naldini invented shared a common figural vocabulary with those by his near contemporaries. However, he distinguished himself by reconstructing the putto coming out of the cornucopia with both arms raised balancing fruit atop his head (fig. 6.50). Cherubino Alberti and the Flemish draughtsman (fig. 6.52) were the only artists to follow Naldini’s suggestion for this restoration. Alberti (fig. 6.51) omitted every putto except this figure, which he reinterpreted as an adult male at a reduced scale. Anja Grebe has recently explained that among all the sixteen children, the one denoting the highest point of the rising water stood in the cornucopia to signify fertility.174 The iconographic concord between the Horn of Plenty and the most desirable inundation of the Nile must have motivated Naldini, Alberti and the Flemish draughtsman to extend his bounty above his head. Other artists either represented this putto with arms by his side or in a fragmented state. On the whole they tended to elevate the putto sitting on the Nile’s right shoulder to the highest position.

between Dosio and Gamucci, Carrara’s interpretation of Naldini’s numerical inscription as ‘17’ is reasonable. See Carrara, 2009, p. 156. 171 According to Phyllis Bober, Aldrovandi began compiling his Delle statue antiche between 1549 and 1550, with an ‘alleged’ private printing in 1553 for his laurea dottorale. Bober, 1996, p. 31. 172 ‘[…] gli sono di ogni intorno sopra XVII. putti del marmo istesso.’ Aldrovandi, 1556, p. 115 & 1562, p. 115. 173 Perrier, 1638, plates 93 & 94, did not record any trace of this putto in the seventeenth century. The fragmented ‘crocodile’ was ultimately restored as an Egyptian Mongoose (Herpestes ichneumon). Grebe, 2013, p. 435. 174 Grebe, 2013, p. 435. 200 Naldini truly imitated the monument by improving upon its ruined state. Like Perino del Vaga in Armenini’s estimation, Naldini began his study by ‘copying’ (ritrarre) the sculpture. He then restored the putti by ‘adding’ (aggiungeva) to the marble fragments; and in so doing he ‘enriched’ (aricchiva) the ancient monument. Eventually, his model was ‘adapted’ (ridotto) to his own style.

Naldini was rare among the artists in displaying the sculpture at an oblique angle rather than the more common frontal view.175 Like Dupérac and Beatrizet, he also recorded the sculptural reliefs below the river god.176 Naldini divided these long narratives, representing life along the Nile, into four separate portions on two carefully ruled sheets. And then indicated the joins with an ‘A’ and the corners of the rectangular base with a ‘B’ to make it possible for his patron to reconstruct the monument in his mind.177 Curiously, Naldini was more faithful to the protruding backside of one of the pygmies (fig. 6.53) than either Dupérac or Beatrizet (figs. 6.55 & 6.56), who straightened and naturalised its forceful torsion. Naldini’s summary pen lines (fig. 6.54) suggest the pygmy’s open-mouthed surprise at the hippopotamus, moments away from snapping his jaws around the stern of the vessel. Naldini respected all the visible features of his ancient model and was careful to record them intelligibly by exercising his innate giudizio to improve upon its fragments.

175 Nicholas Turner has recognised that the viewpoint was ‘unusual’, noting that it allowed the draughtsman to display some of the surface of the base, and the profiles of the river god and sphinx. Turner, no.8, p. 32, perceives some differences between the Vatican sculpture’s low relief detail describing flowing water and its simplification in the Lisbon drawing. As a result, he suggests it may have been based on a ‘small-scale reproduction’ of the Belvedere Nile. 176 Naldini, Bas-reliefs from the Belvedere Nile, pen and brown ink, brown wash, 325 x 225mm. Fermo, Biblioteca Comunale, inv. 230-231. Reproduced in Amadio, 1988, nos.1-2, pp. 40-42. 177 ‘questi animali sono nel basamento del nilo che sta in belvedere et questa è la parte di dietro et va congiunto tutto insieme dove è la lettera ·A· e dove sono le lettere [loss] sono le cantonate’ ‘dicono trovarsi detti animali nel nilo’. Fermo, Biblioteca Comunale inv. 230. Amadio, 1988, no.1, p. 40. 201 Chapter 7

Naldini’s use of Sculpture

In a vigorous sketch Naldini captures a female body in quivering lines (fig. 7.1). The woman sways to the left and stares out at the viewer beneath an upraised arm. Naldini quickly loops two oval eyes and an open mouth, suggesting her unguarded surprise. Her pose adds to this impression, not the Venus pudica, but rather more vulnerable and exposed. Naldini’s hand returns to retrace her breast, arm, and pelvis, enhancing her form by doubling each contour. The chalked lines lend rhythm to her body, and she appears to exude animation and life.

The simplified features of her face are a graphic shorthand inherited from Pontormo, and compare with several life drawings by Naldini’s master (figs. 5.3, 5.14, 5.73-75). Despite this remarkable semblance to nature, Naldini’s source was a small bronze sculpture of Cleopatra (fig. 7.2) designed by Baccio Bandinelli.1 Philippe Costamagna’s discussion of life drawing in the Florentine workshop demonstrates that the purported ‘natural appearance’ and ‘spontaneous freshness’ of rapid figure drawings does not guarantee they were all drawn after living bodies.2 The same graphic habits – for example, confident pressure, strong fervent lines, sharp accents of chalk, and repeated contours taking on the appearance of corrective pentimenti, and giving the impression of movement – could resurface when drawing from the imagination (da se), or copying a painting, sculpture, or another drawing.3 This is especially pertinent to Naldini because his graphic shorthand frequently communicates vivacity.

The research of Leatrice Mendelsohn has been instrumental in drawing the attention of scholars to how sixteenth-century artists reconfigured sculptural sources.4

1 David Ekserdjian first identified the recto drawing as a copy after Bandinelli’s Cleopatra bronze. Correspondence with Palais des Beaux-Arts in 1996. Brejon de Lavergnée, 1997, no.456, p. 162. 2 Costamagna, 2005, p. 284. 3 Costamagna, 2005. For the distinction between drawing from life (dal vivo) and from the imagination, or relying on memory (da se) see Härb, 2005. Also Härb, 2015, pp. 96-119, reservations regarding Vasari’s life drawings. 4 Mendelsohn, 2000 & 2001. 202 Mendelsohn has discussed the importance of sculptural fragments for Bandinelli, Salviati, and Bronzino, and concentrated on a period roughly between 1530 and 1550. My investigation applies her observations to Batista Naldini and Francesco Morandini in the 1570s. However, the legacy of their Florentine forbearers (Pontormo, Salviati Bronzino, and Vasari) remains essential to their own artistic practice.

The protagonists that populate Naldini’s paintings betray a common supply of figures; a repertory of related poses or postural schemata. He studied many sculptural sources. He closely scrutinised Michelangelo’s innovations in the Medici Chapel of San Lorenzo. The two graphic meditations on the Medici capitani (figs. 7.3 & 7.4) attest to Naldini’s understanding of sculptural presence and his ability to convey convincing volumetric projection with careful gradations of black chalk and white lead. Raphael Rosenberg has demonstrated how Cornelis Cort used these two drawings in his accurate engravings of the chapel.5 Naldini also studied many small-scale sculptures or modelli made of clay, plaster, or wax, besides the usual marble and bronze. Many were after well-known contemporary works: three of Bandinelli’s bronzetti, including the Cleopatra (fig. 7.29-31), Leda and the Swan (fig. 7.39), and Hercules (fig. 7.5); Giambologna’s Mercury (fig. 7.7), Niccolò Tribolo’s Eros; Michelangelo’s wax statuette of a Standing male nude (fig. 7.9), his crucified thief, and Samson and the two Philistines (figs. 7.11-14). Naldini’s investigations extended to plaster casts after the heads, hands, and feet of Michelangelo’s sculptures (figs. 7.15-18);6 the head of an old man (figs. 7.19-20) perhaps associated with the workshop of Andrea del Verrocchio, and replicas after antique sculptures, including a fragmented torso of Venus (fig. 7.60), the so called Ignudo della paura, an Hellenistic horse head, and an armless female figure with billowing garments (fig. 7.36), representing Pomona or Copia.

Naldini probably began to study small-scale sculpture or modelli during his apprenticeship. Pontormo’s convoluted bodies (fig. 5.98 & 5.102) for the San Lorenzo frescoes betray an affinity with the plasticity and pliancy of clay and wax models. Such materials allowed for the elongation of forms and the bending and stretching of

5 Rosenberg, 2003, pp. 127-29. Naldini, Princeton, inv. nos.1948-761 & 1948-762. For Cort’s engravings see London, British Museum inv. 1979,U.321 & 1982,U.2214. 6 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 54. Borghini, 1584, p. 20, records full-scale plaster casts after Michelangelo in the collection of Ridolfo Sirigatti. 203 established anatomical norms. Vasari explained that Pontormo made modelli for almost every individual figure in the frescoes, and after his death these ‘beautiful clay models’ were found in his home together with many drawings and cartoons.7

Sculptors frequently sketched small figures in clay. These bozzetti served the better- known preparatory function of reduced scale models for larger sculptural commissions. However, sixteenth-century sculptors also produced small-scale copies after antique works. This act of imitating an antique sculpture was a fundamental tactile response to the work of an exemplar. Michael Cole identifies a sculptor engaged in precisely this task in a painting representing The Gardens of Villa Cesi (fig. 7.21).8 The sculptor kneels in front of a marble plinth, using the ruin as a table while he works both hands over a large piece of clay or wax. His colleague sketches a drawing on a wooden support propped against his lap. Both artists examine and validate their own emerging work against the antique sculpture of Hercules, using imitation as their means of study. Cardinal Pietro Bembo witnessed artists arriving in Rome every day from many distant places. He remarked that in their keen study of ancient figures in marble and bronze, and triumphal arches, bathhouses and theatres, they strove to reproduce their models despite ‘the small space of their papers or wax.’9 When Armenini was lodging in Rome with two French sculptors named Ponzio (Jacquio Ponce) and Bartolomeo, he remembered an evening visit by Francesco Salviati. The painter presented the sculptors with a sketch of a male nude and asked if one of them could fashion it for him into a soft wax model.10 Armenini’s fleeting record reveals the crucial relationship between painting, disegno and sculpture.11 Draughtsmen translated ancient sculpture into two-dimensions during their fervent moments of study,12 and extracted new poses from different views of the

7 Vasari-Bondanella, 1998, p. 412. Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, pp. 494-95. Curiously, the inventory listing the contents of Pontormo’s house and workshop makes no mention of modelli. Pilliod suggests they may fall under the rubric of ‘equipment’ or were considered preparatory for the San Lorenzo choir together with the group of drawings given to Bronzino. Pilliod, 2001, pp. 123, 223, doc.22(e), 258n66. See also Falciani, 1998. 8 Cole, 2011, p. 31. 9 Bembo-Barocchi, 1973, vol. 2, p. 1535. 10 ‘[…] da costoro capitovvi una sera messer Francesco Salviati, e loro diede un schizzo di sua mano, e li pregò che un di loro li facesse di cera morbida quello ignudo, che su quel schizzo era di due palmi di altezza.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 251. 11 Armenini praises Ponzio’s easy command of rilievo, a quality that gave Michelangelo superior advantage over painters. 12 Mendelsohn, 2001, p. 133, emphasises: ‘the fundamental importance of drawing lies in effecting the translation of three-dimensional sculpture into two-dimensional, linear form.’ 204 same source (figs. 7.11-14).13 They reconfigured sculptural fragments, drew from living models, and sketched new figures directly onto paper that could then be translated back into the third-dimension. This cyclical process was a commonplace for all sixteenth-century artefici: sculptors, painters, and also architects working from the ruins of ancient buildings. Small sculptures or modelli also formed an integral part of everyday practice for Central Italian painters. Pontormo, Vasari, Salviati, Naldini, and Morandini either made modelli themselves or creatively elaborated upon poses devised by other artists.

Vasari described modelli as figures of ‘more or less half a braccio’ (around 29 cm) made of clay, wax or stucco.14 Raffaello Borghini explained that small wax models (modelli piccoli di cera) were made by mixing ‘tallow, turpentine, [and] very finely ground wheat flour,’ known to sculptors as fuscello flour. One can then ‘add cinnabar red’ to colour a modello or ‘some pitch’ to make it black.15 Armenini mentioned other ingredients that could be mixed with the wax: ‘one-third of linseed oil with a little red earth’, or alternatively ‘turpentine and white lead.’16 There is a curious blue statuette in the background of a portrait in Ottawa by Bronzino (fig. 7.22). The sitter may be Pierantonio Bandini though not everyone agrees with this identification.17 Catherine Johnson argues that the blue statuette is the painter’s own ‘conceit’ possibly reflecting the taste for carved Lapis Lazuli.18 However, Mendelsohn’s proposal that it may be a ‘painted or waxed gesso’ incorporating the expensive blue pigment is more reasonable in light of these different recipes.19 Like clay and stucco, wax was a pliable and affordable alternative to marble or bronze; however, unlike these other materials it offered an additional level of manipulation. Wax allowed for greater experimentation and revision over time. Armenini argued that Michelangelo freely ‘twisted’ (torceva) the limbs of his wax modelli by first immersing them in hot

13 Vasari, 6 studies after Hellenistic horse head, Louvre inv. 2787. Reproduced in Arezzo, 2011, no.31, pp. 148-49. Morandini, 9 studies after head of old man (see fig. 7.19), GDSU 4259 F. Giovannetti, 1995, no.D23, p. 217, fig. 143. 14 Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 33. 15 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 110. Borghini, 1584, pp. 149-50. 16 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 169. Armenini-Gorreri, 1588, p. 117. 17 Catherine Johnson identifies the sitter as Pierantonio Bandini, see Ottawa, 2005, no.85, pp. 244- 47; followed by George Goldner in New York, 2010, p. 210. 18 According to Johnson, infrared reflectography revealed that Bronzino completely altered his former design for the base of the statue, from a stepped base to a round drum with festooned drapes and female herms. This suggests that he was not accurately replicating ‘an existing base.’ Johnson in Ottawa, 2005, p. 349n16. 19 Mendelsohn, 2001, p. 119. Mendelsohn, 2000, p. 283. 205 water.20 Borghini explained ‘the wax always waits [la cera sempre aspetta] and one can remove at any time that which does not please.’21

Borghini and Armenini emphasised how useful modelli were for painters. They were extremely well suited to personal study, and considered acceptable substitutes for live models or other good figures.22 Armenini explained that models made of plaster (gesso) and other materials were adequate substitutes for antiques, being cheap, lightweight, and portable. He reported having seen many plaster casts in homes and studios scattered throughout Italy, and accepted them as viable alternatives to a prolonged and expensive period of study in Rome. He praised a small wax model of the Laocoön group to be the original in reduced scale.23 The sculptor Ridolfo Sirigatti, a close acquaintance of Naldini, displayed ancient bronzes and small wax modelli (a braccio high, 58 cm) on shelves between his collection of paintings.24

The inventories of the Accademia del Disegno, dating between 1563 and 1595, partly published by Waźbiński, record a truncated clay torso by Michelangelo. Of the few sculptural sources inventoried, this seems to have been the most portable; described as having two bars (stanghe) made of chestnut attached to its wooden base.25 The portability of plaster casts and modelli was very important. It was necessary to rotate and adjust a sculpture to illuminate different features of its surface, details of musculature, and to bring a modello to the centre of a room in order to accommodate several students to examine it in the round. The often cited engravings of Baccio Bandinelli’s Accademia are among the most striking visualisations of the study of modelli and plaster casts during the Cinquecento, particularly in Agostino Veneziano’s print (fig. 7.23) representing the group of students, both young and old,

20 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 169. ‘Né ci sono mancati c’hanno detto quivi ch’egli [Michelangelo] n’aveva alcune fatte di cera di man sua e che li torceva le membra a modo suo, immollandole prima le giunture nell’acqua calda, acciò quelle a rimorbidir si venisse.’ Armenini- Gorreri, 1988, p. 118. 21 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 110. Borghini, 1584, p. 150. See also Avery, 1984. 22 ‘I quali modelli sono molto a proposito per istudiarvi sopra, sì da altre figure buone, come dal naturale.’ Borghini, 1584, p. 150. 23 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 79; passage also cited in Mendelsohn, 2001, p. 132. For the replication and portability of antique copies see Settis, Anguissola & Gasparotto, 2015. For small bronze of Laocoön group attributed to Jacopo Sansovino see Athens, 2003, vol. 1, no.VII.41, p. 352. 24 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 54. 25 ‘Un torso di terra cruda mano propria di Michelagniolo su una basa di legnio d’albero con dua stanghe di castagnio da portare detto torso. […]’ Inventory of 1591, ASF, Accademia del disegno, n. 27, fols. 131v-133v. Waźbiński, 1987, vol. 2, pp. 483. 206 gathered around a table, copying and intently studying modelli under candlelight.26 Modelli also feature in Parmigianino’s imaginative representation of his studio (fig. 7.27). Giovanni Stradano’s design for The Practice of the Visual Arts (fig. 7.24) includes the activity of drawing from modelli together with painting frescoes, engraving, sculpting marble, studying skeletons and écorché models.

Apart from studying existing modelli, many academicians would have also created new sculptures. Pierfrancesco Alberti’s etching of the Academia d’Pitorj (fig. 7.28) represents two young academicians fashioning modelli with both hands in fresh clay or pliant wax. Members of the Florentine Accademia del Disegno also participated in this activity. In 1571 it was decided by vote in Florence, that those academicians wishing to undertake study would create modelli from clay, dress them in drapery, and draw from them two times a week, on Sunday and Thursday. After casting lots, modelli would then be passed between academicians allowing members to draw from each other’s work. Futhermore, no one was permitted to enter and watch the others without drawing.27 Therefore, the study and production of modelli remained an important part of the Academia’s curriculum during the early 1570s.

Baccio Bandinelli

Bandinelli was an important artistic exemplar for Florentine artists working at mid- century. Ulrich Middeldorf and Janet Cox-Rearick demonstrated that the sculptor provided the invenzione for Allori’s painting of the Deposition (figs. 9.44-45) and Bronzino’s Lamentation for Duchess Eleonora di Toledo.28 Naldini instead appears to have been most interested in Bandinelli’s small bronzes, studying the Hercules Pomarius, Cleopatra, Venus with Dove, and Leda. In the following discussion I will demonstrate how he extracted an ideal of feminine physiognomy from these sculptures.

26 See Ottawa, 2005, no.100. 27 ‘Ancora la medesima matina [16 gennaio 1570 ab Incarnatione = 1571 modern style] si mandò il partito per conto dello studio el quale si fa al presente nella accademia cioè che ciaschuno debba fare un modello di terra e messovi su panni e si debba ritrarre due volte la settimana cioè la domenica el giovedì e finito quello abbisi a tirare per sorte a chi debba toccare l’altro e nessuno non possa venire a vedere se non disegna e così si vince il partito per fave nere diciasette e dua bianche.’ ASF, Accademia del Disegno, n. 24, fol. 30r. Waźbiński, 1987, vol. 2, p. 493. Barzman, 1991, pp. 43-44. Barzman, 2000, p. 56. 28 Middeldorf, 1932. Cox-Rearick, 1989. 207

An impressive red chalk drawing in the Uffizi (fig. 7.30) reveals Naldini’s interest in the play of light across the smooth back of Bandinelli’s Cleopatra (fig. 7.29).29 The charms of this female nude were not lost on the nineteenth-century Florentine collector Emilio Santarelli, who attributed the drawing to Parmigianino.30 Naldini achieved a remarkable sense of volume and luminosity by judiciously applying white lead and carefully rendering internal modelling. Bandinelli had chosen to bend Cleopatra’s right knee in order to enhance her contrapposto and gracefully protrude her pelvis. Naldini’s hand returned to redefine the right leg (fig. 7.31), thickening the contours and gradually encouraging Cleopatra’s knee to advance into the light. His thin applications of white lead circle and wrap the knee. There are three small dots of white lead on Cleopatra’s ankles, and a thin line following the right shin that indicates his intention to record reflected light. Naldini continued to shape the form, by heightening the left side of the pelvis and crossing over the white lead with chalk to draw several new contour lines. These constantly adjusted contours blend into the darkened ground, a dense backdrop of multi-directional hatching, and elevate Cleopatra’s illuminated limbs.

Bandinelli’s Cleopatra was located in the Guardaroba of Duke Cosimo I.31 Inventory records reveal that the bronze was moved, together with Bandinelli’s Leda (fig. 7.39) and Venus, to Cosimo’s scrittoino in the first room of the guardaroba segreta.32 By 1589 the large and small Venus (figs. 7.26 & 7.48), Hercules (fig. 7.5), and Cleopatra were displayed in the Tribuna.33 In Stradano’s Practice of the Visual Arts the academicians work in a dense hive of industrious production. In the foreground (fig. 7.25) artists study an elegant female statuette standing on a turned base. Her pose appears to be a creative variant on Bandinelli’s Venus with Dove (fig. 7.26),34 and despite Stradano’s fantastical vision, the Accademia del Disegno may have owned a

29 For Bandinelli’s Cleopatra see Florence, 2014b, no.33, p. 377. 30 Santarelli, 1870, p. 629, no.19. 31 Volker Krahn in Florence, 2014b, p. 325. Waldman in Ottawa, 2005, p. 271. 32 Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, p. 297. ‘[A dì 7 di novembre 1553] 3 figure di metallo di 1/2 braccio, una Venere, Cleopatra, et Leda di mano del cavaliere Bandinelli’ ASF, GM 28, Inventario della Guardaroba 25.X.-22.XI.1553, fol. 41r. Transcribed in Gáldy, 2009, p. 230. 33 Waldman in Ottawa, 2005, p. 352n3. 34 For Bandinelli’s Venus with Dove see Florence, 2014b, no.28, p. 359. 208 replica or plaster cast after this bronzetto. Naldini, however, most likely studied Bandinelli’s designs from the wax replicas in Vincenzio Borghini’s collection.

Leda & Venus

Naldini enjoyed a long relationship with the Ospedale degli Innocenti, as a former ward and part-time teacher of drawing. He also had access to the art collection of the spedalingo Vincenzio Borghini, which included seven small wax modelli, each individually displayed on a walnut base inlaid with semi-precious stones. All of these modelli were replicas after existing sculptures: two after the antique, four after bronzes by Bandinelli, and one made by the sculptor Vincenzo Danti after his Judith.35 Scorza proposes the latter was displayed beside Naldini’s lost panel of Judith presenting the head of Holofernes (fig. 6.3), which he painted after Vasari’s design (fig. 6.2) in 1564.36 Francesco Morandini’s portrait of Borghini (fig. 7.32) displays the prior of the Innocenti holding two of his statuettes.37 Resting on the table to the right is a personification of Hope, which was a three-dimensional translation of the figure painted by Andrea del Sarto (fig. 7.33) in the Chiostro dello Scalzo.38 This creative extraction is another example of the fundamental relationship between painting, disegno and sculpture, as well as replication and reuse. The second draped female figure is based on an untraced antique sculpture. Morandini and Naldini both studied the billowing garments of this statuette, and recorded its broken arms. Morandini (fig. 7.34) sensitively detailed the navel seen through the diaphanous robe, while Naldini (fig. 7.36) examined the windswept fabric from an oblique angle. In his portrait of Borghini (fig. 7.32), Morandini ‘restored’ her broken arms and added a dish with fruits. Philippe Costamagna and Alessandra Giovannetti proposed that the statuette

35 ‘Figure di cera con sua base di noce et pietre accommodatevi dentro, in una base una Iudetta di mano di Vincenzo Perugino. Quattro che vengono dal Bandinello et 2 dall’antico, con sua base come di sopra.’ Scorza, 2003a, p. 122. Scorza identified three of the four replicas after Bandinelli as Leda and the Swan, Cleopatra, and ‘Venere piccola’ or Venus with the dove and flowers. Scorza, 2003a, p. 108. Volker Krahn argues that these wax statuettes were Bandinelli’s originals and accepts their survival as evidence that the Bargello Leda and Cleopatra were not produced from the direct lost wax casting technique, but rather retained the original wax modelli. Krahn in Florence, 2014b, pp. 326-28. However, because the inventory consistently uses ‘dal’ or ‘from’ to describe derivation, it is unlikely that Borghini’s wax modelli were by Bandinelli himself. The Judith is the only statuette to be described as the product of Danti’s (Vincenzo Perugino) own hands. 36 Scorza, 2003a, p. 108. Cecchi, 1977a. 37 Reproduced in Giovannetti, 1995, p. 124, fig. 13, no.7; and Athens, 2003, vol. 2, p. 578, fig. XVIII.3. Scorza, 2003a, p. 65, fig. 1. 38 Source identified by Alessandra Giovannetti, 1995, no.7, p. 80. 209 represents the Roman agricultural deity Pomona, and forms an allegory of profane and sacred with Sarto’s personification of Christian Hope.39 Pietro Cannata argues the figure portrays Copia, a personification of copiousness that signifies ‘the abundant and fertile imagination of the sitter.’40 The statuette is significantly raised in the portrait, and deliberately supported by its walnut base so as not to detract from Morandini’s creative restorations and the direction of her beckoning arm. These artistic decisions support Cannata’s interpretation.

Morandini’s meticulous drawing of Bandinelli’s Leda and the Swan (fig. 7.34) is an additional document that has allowed scholars to amplify the inventory record of Borghini’s collection.41 Drawn beside the wax statuette of Pomona or Copia owned by Borghini, the Leda was clearly one of the replicas after Bandinelli. Several scholars have recognised that Morandini quoted Bandinelli in his Bronze Foundry (fig. 7.38), one of his two contributions to the Studiolo of Francesco I de’ Medici.42 However, Naldini’s use of the same source in the background of his Allegory of Dreams (fig. 7.40) has not attracted the interest of scholars. Each painter used the Leda in different ways. Naldini galvanised her calm equipoise with a forward surge. He kicked back her left leg to create a rushing advance, and gave her facial expression a suggestion of agency and purpose. He exploited the features of her chiastic contrapposto by intensifying the weighted diagonal of her left arm. Now holding a bundle of transparent silk, this arm drags a thin loop of fabric across her body, creating a dynamic flourish that amplifies the twisting thrust of her shoulder and quickens her urgent steps. As Valentina Conticelli has demonstrated, velocity was an important feature of this figure’s iconography, identifying her as one of the ‘swift- stepping Hours’ (Horae) personifying the rapid passing of time.43 Her urgent advance follows the wake of Dawn, represented in the central foreground of the Studiolo panel, and her red robe distinguishes her as the Hour of Day, flicked and rippled

39 Costamagna, 1994, p. 311. Giovannetti, 1995, p. 80. 40 Cannata in Athens, 2003, vol. 1, p. 558. 41 For Bandinelli’s Leda see Florence, 2014b, no.31, p. 371. The inventories of Borghini’s collection have been published by Scorza, 2003a, pp. 120-22. 42 Giovannetti, 1995, p. 83. Volker Krahn in Florence, 2014b, p. 370. Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, p. 329. 43 Conticelli, 2005, p. 118 & n52. The passage is from the Thebaid (92 CE) of Statius, III.410: rapidis accurrunt passibus Horae, translated in Statius-Shackleton Bailey, 2004, vol. 1, p. 179. 210 around her hurrying feet.44 Naldini clearly recognised that Bandinelli’s Leda had the potential to communicate a vigorous forward rush.

Morandini (fig. 7.42) instead chose to celebrate Leda’s grazia and elegance. As he studied the sumptuous curves of her nude back, Morandini exploited the features he most admired about the pose. The view over Leda’s supple shoulder (fig. 7.41) revealed her furtive backward glance, with eyes turned to look at the viewer and the faintest suggestion of an open mouth, features not present in the bronze. Morandini’s quotation was also a commentary on proportion. He significantly reduced the size of the head and elongated her body. He extracted the same lithe elegance from an antique sculpture of the three Graces (fig. 7.44), revealing a preference for tall slender bodies. It is curious to compare how Bandinelli approached a different antique version of the three Graces (fig. 7.43), which displayed a similar proportion to his other female nudes, for example, his sculpture of Eve for Santa Maria del Fiore. The physiognomy of Morandini’s women shares features with that of Bandinelli: a compact chest, small hemispherical breasts, and legs tapering to thin ankles. However, unlike Bandinelli’s female types, these women have low knees and longer thighs (femur bones), and their abdomens are supple and long. This subtle attenuation is brought into sharper relief when compared with the more extreme elongated female types of Pontormo (fig. 7.45) and Maso da San Friano (fig. 7.46). In his study of the antique Graces and the Leda, Morandini was interested in reducing the girth of the pelvis while extending the length of its curve.

Bandinelli offered the results of his own particular Zeuxinian imitation, forming a style from a broad range of sources, including the ancient marbles of the Belvedere statue court, sculpture by Donatello and Giovan Francesco Rustici, and recent artistic

44 Conticelli, 2005, pp. 116-118. While I agree that Naldini intended this Ora to correspond to the male personification of Day reclining below, I do not accept that he painted ‘tongues of flame’ around her feet, or ‘completely inflamed’ her left foot. Conticelli is correct that a female actor was dressed in red as the Hour of Day, and accompanied the Chariot of the Sun in the Mascherata degli Dei de’ gentili, devised by Vincenzo Borghini and performed on 2 February 1566, during the wedding festivities of Francesco I and Johanna von Habsburg. However, neither Ovid’s story of Phaeton, nor Baldini’s description of the Mascherata mentions flaming feet. I believe Naldini intended to represent buoyant red fabric, and partly overpainted the drapery with the architectural backdrop. 211 innovations by Leonardo, Raphael, and Michelangelo.45 Bandinelli’s female sculptures displayed an ideal of beauty extracted from his extensive study of ancient sculptures of the Cnidian Venus. A meticulous drawing (fig. 7.47) documents Bandinelli’s attentive meditation on this Praxitelean physiognomy. In fine red chalk he patiently details a small head with sloping shoulders, compact torso with small hemispherical breasts, broad hips, plump thighs tapering to small ankles, with feet placed close together to subdue the contrapposto.46

Armenini believed it was essential for artists to ‘always copy’ (sempre ritrar) the most beautiful features and to capture the essence of ancient sculpture.47 He also praised the work of Michelangelo, Baccio Bandinelli, and Guglielmo della Porta, recommending them as suitable exemplars who had assimilated the antique into a contemporary form.48

In his two bronze statuettes, the Leda (fig. 7.39) and Venus (7.48),49 Bandinelli successfully merged an antique canon of proportions with early Cinquecento developments in double (or chiastic) contrapposto, principally devised by Leonardo in his Standing Leda. ‘Put opposite parts of the body forward,’ Leonardo advised, ‘that is, if you push the right foot forward, the left arm must also come forward.’50 This illusion of movement operated in a crosswise arrangement or chiastic opposition between the upper and lower registers of the body. In 1584 the Milanese painter Gian Paolo Lomazzo amplified this formula, observing that if the right arm thrusts forward the left should recede; and if the left leg advances, the other should be lost to sight.51 Armenini later stressed how unattractive it was to see a standing figure projecting his

45 Weil-Garris, 1981, pp. 230-35. Ward, 1988, pp. 28-29, 37-38. Roger Ward records 21 known drawings by Bandinelli after antique sarcophagi, the Laocoön, Venere del Belvedere, and works by Donatello and Masaccio. Ward in Florence, 2014b, p. 612. 46 For a more extensive discussion of the drawing see Ward, 1988, no.16, pp. 37-38. 47 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 130; Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 76. 48 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 132; Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 78. Mendelsohn, 2000, p. 283, demonstrates that artists looked to Michelangelo as ‘a mediator for antiquity’; discussed in Mendelsohn, 2001, pp. 115-18, 141. 49 For Bandinelli’s Venus with the dove and flowers see Florence, 2014b, no.29, p. 361. Scorza, 2003a, p. 108, explains that this Venere piccola was a pendant to the Leda. It is smaller than the Venus with Dove (fig. 7.26), with a subtle contrapposto that reverses Leda’s pose. 50 McMahon, 1956, vol. 1, p. 116, vol. 2, fol. 85r. 51 Lomazzo, Trattato dell’arte della pittura, scoltura, et architettura, Milan, 1584, p. 296; quoted in Summers, 1981, p. 412. 212 right shoulder together with his right leg.52 He likewise advocated torsion: ‘It is certain that nature clearly teaches us this straining [storcere] and twisting [trivellare], so that we see that grace and liveliness are to be given to all the limbs.’53

David Summers has demonstrated how cinquecento painters crafted these complex poses in response to ancient sculpture, which paralleled rhetorical devices like contrario, antithesis, and chiasmus.54 To illustrate these developments in chiastic or double contrapposto, Summers contrasts Leonardo’s Standing Leda (fig. 7.50) to Raphael’s Apollo (fig. 7.51) from the School of Athens, the latter displays a pose full of movement but with one side of the body slanted in recession.55 Raphael instead appropriated Leonardo’s postural schema for his Galatea (fig. 7.52),56 and Venus (fig. 7.53), bending her whole body in a long graceful arc.57 Several years later, Bandinelli published his knowledge of these developments in his design of Cleopatra (fig. 7.54) engraved by Agostino Veneziano.58

One ancient precedent for the chiastic female nude, known to both Morandini and Naldini, was a fragmented torso with broken arms, legs, and neck, and a loose tress of curly hair on the right shoulder. Morandini studied this sculpture extensively, and documented its fragmented state meticulously from a number of different viewpoints. He celebrated her lean body (fig. 7.55), taking advantage of her broken arms to trace the contours of her exposed breasts. He lingered over the plump curves of her back, favouring this posterior view on three separate occasions (figs. 7.57-59), and carefully modelled the surface of her skin (fig. 7.61) in patient concentrations of hatching.59 In Naldini’s only known drawing of the torso (fig. 7.60), he studied the sculpture from a low oblique angle, revealing a similar interest in her posterior but from a sotto in su

52 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 95. 53 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 149-50. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 96. 54 Summers, 1972, 1977, 1981. 55 Summers, 1981, p. 77. 56 Hall, 1999, pp. 23-28. Carmen Bambach explains that Raphael must have studied Leonardo’s Standing Leda in Florence before leaving for Rome in 1508. Bambach in New York, 2003, p. 535. For Raphael’s drawing (Windsor, RL 12759) see Hall, 1999, p. 28, fig. 16. 57 Engraved by Marcantonio Raimondi. Raphael, Venus, metalpoint, on two conjoined sheets of pale pink prepared paper. London, British Museum inv. 1895,0915.629. It is tempting to believe that Raphael himself cut and swivelled the legs to adjust the pose, but there is no way to prove this. It is more likely the work of a later collector. 58 Michela Zurla in Florence, 2014b, no.36, pp. 386-87, 475-76. 59 For these drawings see Giovannetti, 1995, nos.D15, D31, D32, pp. 214, 219. Petrioli Tofani, 2008, p. 166, no.78. 213 view.60 Naldini and Morandini may have been studying a plaster cast of a marble torso known to Michelangelo (figs. 7.62 & 7.64) and artists in the circle of Lambert Lombard (fig. 7.63).61 Domenico Beccafumi also studied the torso in its fragmentary state (fig. 7.65), celebrating and exaggerating her chiastic core by lowering her navel and abdomen. He then offered his own creative commentary on its restoration in a full figure study (fig. 7.67). Vasari admired Beccafumi’s drawings and included them in his Libro de’ disegni on the same album page.62

Although the original antique marble remains untraced, the sculpture is preserved in an early Cinquecento bronze (fig. 7.66).63 At 25.9 cm high, this hollow cast bronze indicates that at least one version of this torso, if not the antique marble itself, was smaller than life size. Morandini’s source was likely of the same dimension and available to artists working in Florence. Naldini significantly drew the torso beside the antique Pomona or Copia statuette, tantalising evidence that this was the second wax replica ‘dall’antico’ in Borghini’s collection.64 In his seventeenth-century etching of the Academia d’Pitorj, Pierfrancesco Alberti represented this smaller torso (fig. 7.68) on the upper shelf together with other plaster casts.65 Giambologna’s terracotta bozzetto for Florence triumphant over Pisa (fig. 7.69) also suggests direct knowledge of the Venus torso. The pose, now reversed, may be considered a commentary on the antique, heightening the torsion of the model by intensifying the protrusion of the pelvis.

Stoldo Lorenzi also reinterpreted the chiastic female nude in his Amphritrite bronze (fig. 7.71) for the Studiolo. The postural schema was reconfigured in different guises following other antique Venus types, for example in Vincenzo Danti’s Venus Anadyomene (figs. 7.72-73) also for the Studiolo. Naldini drew inspiration from all these sources. The nymphs that bathe together with Diana, and the Muses that

60 For Naldini’s drawing see Paris, 2013, no.13. 61 For these drawings see Florence, 1987, nos.29-30, pp. 75-78. For the drawing attributed to Lambert Lombard and workshop see KIK-IRPA, Brussels: www.balat.kikirpa.be. This drawing may or may not correspond to Census ID 64322, said to be fol. 75r of d’Arenberg Album. 62 See also Florence, 1987, p. 75. Giovannetti, 1995, p. 214. 63 For the bronze see Francesca de Gramatica in Athens, 2003, vol. 1, no.X.27, p. 443. 64 Scorza, 2003a, p. 108n180, similarly uses Morandini’s drawings after this torso to amplify Livo’s inventory, but suggests the source was a red wax modello of Giambologna’s Psyche (15.3 cm high, Private collection, dated c. 1570 by Charles Avery, 1987, pp. 100, 241, 274, no.173, fig. 285). 65 Relationship to Morandini’s drawings identified by Giovannetti, 1995, p.214. Print reproduced in Waźbiński, 1987, vol. 2, fig. 95. 214 accompany Apollo in Naldini’s two mythological narratives in Vercelli (figs. 7.74 & 7.75) display the same elegant legs with thin ankles, small hemispherical breasts, and elaborately coiffured hair gathered above the shoulders in decorative bundles. Clear physiognomic features that link him to these Studiolo bronzes, and back to Bandinelli’s early Cinquecento meditations on a Praxitelean Cnidian Venus.

In one preparatory study (fig. 7.76) for his Apollo and the Muses (fig. 7.75), Naldini drew three nude studio apprentices.66 It is tempting to imagine the drawing as evidence of a kind of tableau vivant staged in the studio. The rapport created between the two external figures, turned to face one another, supports this impression. However, Naldini could have easily studied a single male apprentice in these different poses, like Pontormo had done before him.67 Though all of the nudes would be transformed into female Muses in the final painting, the standing male on the left displays the most feminine characteristics.

Baccio Bandinelli often had apprentices adopt the poses of famous antique sculptures.68 Francesco Salviati’s nude twisting his waist (fig. 7.79) followed an antique torso studied on the same sheet, but extended its limbs into a pose that referred to one of the Horse Tamers of Monte Cavallo (fig. 7.78).69 Giorgio Vasari’s male nude (fig. 7.81) for the Beheading of St John the Baptist (fig. 7.82) was modelled on the Apollo Belvedere (fig. 7.80).70 Bronzino patiently defined the supple flesh of his nude male apprentice (fig. 7.84), whose pose was a modern commentary on the recently unearthed Idolino bronze (fig. 7.83).71 Gaston’s important discussion of Bronzino compels art historians to consider the potential ‘erotic recharging’ of antique sources in instances where the ‘prototype’ was recast in the studio with life models.72 Naldini similarly sketched a nude male apprentice (fig. 7.76) for the pose of his Muse. He lightly chalked his penis, but modified the male anatomy that he

66 See Fischer, 2001, no.37, p. 86. Thiem, 2002, pp. 174-75. 67 Pontormo, Male nude studies three times, for Joseph sold to Potiphar, 1515, red chalk, Lille, Palais des Beaux-Arts inv. Pl. 162. 68 Barkan, 1999, p. 316, calls these Bandinelli’s ‘studio re-creations’. 69 Rome & Paris, 1998, no.5, p. 92. 70 Identified by Härb, 2005, p. 329, figs. 5-7. Härb, 2015, no.157, p. 314, argues that Vasari was not drawing from a model in his studio posed as the Apollo, but instead relying on his memory and drawing da se. I believe that Vasari’s denser reworking of both clavicles supports this interpretation since they were added once Apollo’s mantle was removed in this mental visualisation on paper. 71 See also Mendelsohn, 2001, p. 115n24. Bambach in New York, 2010, no.26, pp. 129-31. 72 Gaston, 1995, p. 256. 215 perceived to create a feminised protruding pelvis. This contrapposto clearly mediated through his collective visual experience of the antique Venus torso and recent contemporary variants.

Naldini was soon able to easily throw off this chiastic pose when needed. A preparatory drawing survives for a figure in the background (figs. 7.85-86) of Naldini’s Santa Croce Lamentation (1583).73 This drawing reveals that more than ten years after his Allegory of Dreams (fig. 7.40), Naldini returned to his experience of Bandinelli’s Leda and Venus, the Studiolo bronzes of Lorenzi and Danti, and the antique Venus torso. This study (fig. 7.85) is almost certainly a drawing after a nude studio apprentice, together with its accompanying figure, demonstrating that Naldini’s experience of these sculptures sometimes mediated through life drawings.74 What may have started with simply turning a figure in the round to glean many different views, and other common workshop practices, eventually became assimilated (figs. 7.87-91) as a useful postural schema.

73 GDSU 17817 F. Reproduced in Hall, 1979, plate 69. 74 Most scholars have accepted the study as a life drawing. Forlani Tempesti in Florence, 1963, p. 66. Barocchi, 1965, p. 264. Hall, 1979, p. 149. Thiem, 1999, p. 233. Cristiana Garofalo in Arezzo, 2011, p. 180. 216 Chapter 8

Battista Naldini’s response to Albrecht Dürer

Many Italian artists were drawn to the prints of Albrecht Dürer. The Large and Small Passion series by this famous German artist offered viewers balanced and legible biblical narratives. They were also a rich storehouse of useful artistic details, gestures, figures, and compositions. Dürer’s prints were imitated and translated into a range of different media, from the forged prints by Raimondi to maiolica and painted enamel.1 The collector and moralist Fra Sabba da Castiglione (c. 1480-1554) gives some sense of the experience of viewing Durer’s prints during the mid Cinquecento: I set myself to looking at a print by Albrecht Dürer, which is certainly divine, and which had recently arrived from Germany. With delight and great pleasure I admired and considered the figures, animals, perspectives, houses, distant views and landscapes, and other marvellous depictions which would astonish Protogenes or Apelles.2

Albrecht Dürer was also an important artistic exemplar for Naldini. It is well known that Naldini’s master, Pontormo, actively responded to the work of Dürer. Between 1523 and 1525, Pontormo painted five frescoes portraying The Passion of Christ, for the main cloister of the Carthusian monastery at Galluzzo, on the outskirts of Florence.3 Pontormo’s frescoes and accompanying preparatory drawings reveal that he absorbed the style of Dürer to an incredible degree. After Pontormo died, Naldini entered the large workshop of Giorgio Vasari, the artistic biographer responsible for a severely denigrating vita of Pontormo. Vasari held a particular view of artistic imitation, and his pro-Tuscan agenda meant that he would never have defended a submissive imitation of the German artist. Sharon Gregory was the first to extensively consider Naldini’s response to Dürer’s prints, and propose that his technique of pen hatching was learnt from German woodcuts, rather than from Pontormo.4 This chapter examines three rediscovered drawings, published in 2014, which document Naldini’s

1 Bartrum, 2002, p. 239. 2 Fra Sabba da Castiglione, I Ricordi, Venice, 1560, no. 118. First published in Bologna in 1549; quoted from Bartrum, 2002, p. 239. 3 Florence, 2014a, pp. 191-213. 4 Gregory, 2012, pp. 204-209, however, without exploring further implications. 217 most absorbing meditations of Dürer.5 Though many cinquecento artists looked to this famous German exemplar, Naldini presents an interesting case study.

Naldini scrutinised Dürer’s engraved line in three small drawings now in Siena. Unlike his copies after Andrea del Sarto, these drawings do not display corrections (pentimenti) or the draughtsman’s tendency to retrace contours.6 The majority of Naldini’s drawings are actually fast-paced, angular, and animated. Speed was a quality that contemporaries associated with his work. Vasari described Naldini as a ‘rapid’, ‘practical and ardent painter’, who worked ‘effortlessly.’7 Because the three Siena drawings do not present Naldini’s more familiar graphic traits, an attribution to the painter would normally be discouraged. But their context confirms the attribution.

The Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati in Siena holds an album of around three hundred drawings obtained from the Florentine marchese Leopoldo Feroni (1773- 1852), and previously owned by the Cibo Malaspina family. Among its large album folios are fifty-six small sheets, pasted four by four to a page. They preserve a dissected, palm-sized sketchbook once owned by Battista Naldini.8 An early collector cut windows through some folios of the album, revealing the versos of sixteen of the pasted sketchbook sheets, and bringing the total number of visible drawings to seventy-two. However, forty versos remain pasted down. The sketchbook contains rapid jolts of chalk and fluid sketches in pen, copies after ceiling compositions for the Salone dei Cinquecento, studies after antique and sixteenth-century sculpture, helmet studies, battle scenes, and landscapes. Several drawings indicate that the sketchbook was compiled between 1565 and 1571.9 The three studies after Albrecht Dürer

5 Much of the material that follows was published in Quabba, 2014. 6 For Baldinucci’s perception of Naldini’s ‘replicato’ see chapter 4. Baldinucci, 1681-1728, vol. 3, p. 518. 7 See chapter 1. Vasari-Milanesi, 1998, vol. 7, p. 611. 8 I would like to thank Lisa Goldenberg Stoppato and Cara Rachele for bringing the drawings in Siena to my attention. Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fols. 5r, 6v, 9r, 9v, 10r, 10v, 11r, 11v, 12r, 12v, 14r, 14v, 21r, 21v, 22r, 22v, 64r and 64v. For previous attributions see Ciampolini, 2002, p. 34n60. Although the sketchbook drawings have been known for many years, only 13 have been published and reproduced. See Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, nos.27(13c) p. 125; 54(18c) p. 253; 54(22) p. 254; 54(38d) p. 255; 55(1c) p. 264; 55(1d) p. 264; 55(4i) p. 266. Cecchi, 1982, fig. 62. Ciampolini, 2002, p. 24, figs. 6 & 7. Quabba, 2014, figs. 1, 3, 6. Anna Forlani Tempesti is currently researching the provenance and collection of the 300 drawings in the Album as a whole (Milena Pagni, oral communication, 26 November 2012). 9 The ceiling of the Salone dei Cinquecento was completed in 1565, see Allegri & Cecchi, 1980, pp. 248-51. Three sheets contain helmet studies (S.I.7, fols. 10r c, 21v d, 22r c), others are rapid 218 complement the breadth of Naldini’s artistic interests. In the first drawing (fig. 8.1), Naldini meticulously renders the greyhound in the background of Dürer’s Melancholia (fig. 8.2) with a succession of hooked pen strokes.10 In the second drawing (fig. 8.3) he extracts two dogs from Dürer’s Way to Calvary woodcut (fig. 8.6) and the Knight, Death and the Devil engraving (fig. 8.4).11 Naldini’s third drawing (fig. 8.11) preserves his attentive study of the wings from Dürer’s Large Fortune or Nemesis engraving (fig. 8.12).12

Naldini has extracted the details that most interest him from Dürer’s prints. These drawings share a direct relationship with many of his other sketchbook studies of sculptural fragments and body parts drawn from a variety of different viewpoints in their selective extraction and study.13 Furthermore, by including Albrecht Dürer in his sketchbook, Naldini demonstrates that he considers the northern artist as equally important as any canonical antique or central Italian exemplar. His close and exacting study of fragments suggests an intention to reuse these figures.

The 1580s saw a resurgence of imitation after Dürer’s work. According to Giovanni Maria Fara, copying the prints of Albrecht Dürer formed ‘a rite of passage’ for young members of Florentine Accademia del Disegno. This seems especially true for the artistic generation after Giorgio Vasari. Many examples survive by Santi di Tito, Andrea Boscoli, Ludovico Cigoli, Bernardino Poccetti, and Domenico Passignano.14 Dürer was lauded as the quintessential northern artist in Counter-Reformation treatises; a man of piety and integrity, unaffected by the Lutheran reformation. In 1582 Gabriele Paleotti wrote that Dürer was very sensitive to the santità and onestà of his religious subject matter.15 Romano Alberti (1585) asserted that Dürer had lived an extremely virtuous life.16 He was thus prescribed as a model for life and art.

compositions of battle related to the Salone frescoes commemorating the Florentine victories over Siena and Pisa, painted between 1567-71. 10 For Durer’s Melancholia engraving see Bartrum, 2002, no.128, p. 188. 11 For Dürer’s Way to Calvary see Fara, Inventario, 2007, no.89g, pp. 188-90. For Dürer’s Knight, Death and the Devil see Bartrum, 2002, no.126, pp. 186-87. 12 For Dürer’s Nemesis or Good Fortune engraving see Bartrum, 2002, no.72, p. 138-40. 13 This mannerist practice has been most successfully analysed by Leatrice Mendelsohn, 2001. 14 Fara, Inventario, 2007, pp. 27-29, n121. Fara, 2008, pp. 109-15, figs. 34-37. 15 ‘Di Alberto Durero, pittore e geometra germano, è reso nella vita sua chiaro testimonio, quanto egli nelle opere sue fosse osservante della santità et onestà […].’ Quoted in Fara, Inventario, 2007, p. 9n31. 219 Naldini’s interest in Dürer may have been initially prompted during his ten-year apprenticeship under Pontormo. He would have been extremely familiar with his master’s attempts to imitate and assimilate Dürer’s figures and compositional structure. Pontormo’s often cited preparatory study for the apostle John (fig. 8.7) in the Certosa Agony in the Garden is an excellent example. Its thickened chalk lines, and heavy treatment of fabric, falling in angular folds are clearly modelled on northern representations. Janet Cox-Rearick observed that Pontormo simulated the hooked strokes of Dürer’s woodcuts, which described dark pockets of fabric. These linear tendencies marked a dramatic change from Pontormo’s previous style, where the sharp, accented line of his earlier drawings was replaced by a softer ‘unassertive and introverted style.’17

In his biography of Pontormo, Giorgio Vasari criticised the artist’s particular use of Dürer’s prints.18 Even though Vasari had used northern prints himself during his early career, he contrived an extremely denigrating account of Pontormo.19 Sharon Gregory has argued that Vasari sought to emphasise the perils of the imitation of a single model in his life of Pontormo as a ‘moral lesson’ to young academicians.20 One of the dominant themes in debates on literary imitation centred on the question of whether it was better to imitate many or a single author.21 Vasari’s stance on imitation in the visual arts, within this larger literary debate, was to select the most beautiful parts from many artistic exemplars.22 In his view, Pontormo’s portrayal of Christ’s Passion for the Certosa del Galluzzo, revealed that the artist had sought to imitate Dürer ‘in everything: drapery, poses, and facial expressions.’23 As a result, the charm, sweetness, and grace of Pontormo’s first and natural manner, was altered by that ‘new study and labour’ that captured Dürer’s manner so thoroughly.24 As Sharon Gregory has persuasively argued, Vasari was not against the use of Dürer’s invenzioni, but

16 ‘fu di onestissima vita.’ Romano Alberti, Trattato della nobilià della pittura, Roma, per Francesco Zannetti, 1585, in Barocchi, 1960-1962, vol. 3, p. 232; quoted in Fara, Inventario, 2007, p. 9n31. 17 Cox-Rearick, 1981, pp. 52-53. 18 Vasari-Milanesi, 1998, vol. 6, pp. 266-70. 19 For Vasari’s use of northern prints see Ronen, 1977. For Vasari’s negative portrayal of Jacopo da Pontormo see Pilliod, 2001. 20 Gregory, 2009. Gregory, 2012, pp. 241-47. Gregory, 2014, pp. 238-40. 21 See chapter 6. 22 Vasari’s early drawings document his imitation of many sources, see Härb, 1998. For Vasari’s theory of imitation see Gregory, 2009, pp. 7-16; and Gregory, 2014. 23 Vasari-Milanesi, 1998, vol. 6, p. 270. 24 Vasari-Milanesi, 1998, vol. 6, pp. 266-67. 220 rather Pontormo’s complete submission to his style.25 Some cinquecento art theorists established important rules to explain the acquisition of a personal style through learning and imitation.

One important precept of cinquecento art theory was for painters to possess a strong style. As we examined in chapter six, Giovanni Battista Armenini explained that in order to secure a good style (buona maniera) one must first possess excellent judgment (bonissimo giudizio) and enhance this natural gift through assiduous study and the imitation of the best things by excellent masters.26 A stable or firm style (ferma maniera) would ensure that the parts culled from another’s inventions would be recognisably different from their source.27 However, the standard pedagogic activity of copying drawings inevitably created a close relationship between the imitator and his model. Armenini encouraged such a connection when he outlined a procedure for the diligent imitation of drawings. He emphasised an acute attention to exact linear placement, stating that one must imitate ‘every minute detail, in fact every dot [ogni minuta cosa, anzi ogni punto].’28 Armenini asserted: ‘All the force of imitation consists in forming one’s own [copy] so well, that were it possible you could by no means discern which of the two was the imitation.’29

A dedicated and diligent graphic act, which concentrates on the linear preferences of another draughtsman, can prove an extremely rewarding lesson. Deanna Petherbridge has observed that faithful copying can be a ‘liberating’ experience. While ‘enmeshed within’ an unknown and new graphic system, there can be ‘exhilarating moments’ of discovery.30 Petherbridge invites us to explore copying in greater detail as a ‘heuristic’ activity, and seek out moments of pleasure, deviation, or mimetic bravura.

25 Gregory, 2009, p. 17. 26 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 75. 27 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 82. 28 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 124. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 69. 29 ‘Conciosiacosaché tutta la forza dell’imitare consiste in formare il suo così bene, che se fosse possibile non si potesse per verun modo discernere qual di questi due fosse l’immitato.’ Armenini- Gorreri, 1988, p. 69. 30 Petherbridge’s reflections are worth quoting at length: ‘There are exhilarating moments when artists actively enjoy discovering, or attempting to discover, aspects of another’s practice, celebrating the manner in which a copy becomes an intimate dialogue with another artist […] Enmeshed within another’s production, as in the parental bosom, there is security to test skill, to learn, change and digress, and to explore desire through the mediation of someone else’s desire […] Through effacement and transformation, the appropriation of the other’s work can be extremely liberating.’ Petherbridge, 2010, p. 283. 221 This learning experience is more appropriate to the training of a young and impressionable pupil within the sixteenth-century workshop (bottega); and compares to Greene’s category of ‘sacramental’ imitation when motivated by loyalty, the desire to earn a master’s respect, or even love.31 Stephen Campbell has recently revealed this important dimension of imitation in his discussion of ‘loving submission’ (amorevole sommessione); an ‘emotively loaded’ phrase that Vasari devised to precisely qualify Bronzino’s imitation of Pontormo.32

Learning and imitation are commonly believed to lack autonomous will, making them less favourable to narratives celebrating artistic originality. However, as David Mayernik has recently argued, even the pupil can be an emulator seeking to equal, if not surpass, his master by imitating his work.33 Admiration has existed beside emulation in the rhetorical tradition of imitation since Quintilian. As Daniel Bender explains, ‘imitative pedagogy’ strives to transform the initial attraction to a model into ‘formative encounters’, which either encourage ‘emotional proximity with the model’ or an ‘adversarial’ reaction that seeks to outshine the model.34 In the workshop, this emulative dimension may modify ‘sacramental’ fidelity. Though not as acutely innovative as Greene’s ‘dialectical imitation’, it nevertheless contains a ‘heuristic’ dimension in its personal quest to respond and discover. Petherbridge’s meditations on copying can be plausibly considered in relation to cinquecento imitative practice; and ought to encourage scholars to challenge a legacy of connoisseurial disdain for copies. David Rosand was able to discern the ‘meaning of the mark’ for Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo, Titian, and Rembrandt.35 However, his intricate phenomenological approach to drawings is equally valid to the analysis of copyists attempting to wield new ‘linear strategies.’ In what follows I will demonstrate that a diligent and faithful study of prints was very important for Battista Naldini.

31 Greene, 1982, pp. 38-39; see my first chapter. Contrary to Greene, I view this reproductive category as equally valid to any period where an interaction occurs between a source and viewer/receiver, irrespective of historical distance. 32 Campbell, 2014, p. 197. 33 Mayernik, 2013, p. 31. 34 Bender, 1996, p. 345. 35 Rosand, 1988. Rosand, 2002. 222 In his copy after Dürer’s Supper at Emmaus (fig. 8.9), Naldini, like his master Pontormo, demonstrates an acute awareness of the linear properties of the woodcut.36 The small curls describing Christ’s hair are less characteristic of Naldini’s usual handling of pen. He describes the curve of the hat of the right hand figure with thick pen strokes, meshing different linear clusters to encourage the bend of the hard fabric. He also attempts to capture the slight ripple of movement in the tablecloth by joining thicker convex contour hatching with thinner concave curves. These linear tendencies reveal a concentrated effort to work within the graphic language of the woodcut.

Naldini’s study of the wings from Dürer’s Nemesis (fig. 8.11) attests to a diligent commitment of time and labour. He responds to Dürer’s print (fig. 8.12) in two significant ways. First, he extracts the descriptive values of the printed lines and translates their properties into pen. Second, he simulates chiaroscuro effects within the monochromatic restrictions of the engraving. Naldini chose a thin-nibbed pen to approximate intricate printed line. Dürer had left parts of his copperplate untouched while he engraved the individual barbs for the feathers. This technique would allow the paper to delineate each overlapped feather in a thin white line. Dürer was applying his innovations in the representation of reflected light, frequently used to enhance the volumetric projection of bodies against a dark ground. Naldini absorbed this lesson and simulated these untouched spaces by leaving the white of his sketchbook page as the only contrast to his ink.

In his Vita of Giulio Romano, Vasari made special mention of a finely executed self- portrait by Albrecht Dürer rendered in watercolours and gouache. He admired Dürer for finishing the picture ‘without using white lead’, and instead using the white base of the fine linen canvas to highlight the hairs of the beard. Vasari lauded Dürer’s work as ‘something impossible to imagine, let alone achieve.’37 He appears to have verified the absence of white lead by holding the canvas up to the light; and after turning the

36 GDSU 8851 S r. The drawing was first attributed to Naldini by Alessandro Cecchi in 1993, inscription on old mount, see Fara, Inventario, 2007, no.90nn, p. 240. 37 ‘Fra le molte cose rare che aveva in casa sua, vi era in una tela di rensa sottile il ritratto naturale d’Alberto Duro, di mano di esso Alberto, che lo mandò, come altrove si è detto, a donare a Raffaello da Urbino; il qual ritratto era cosa rara, perché essendo colorito a guazzo con molta diligenza e fatto d’acquerelli, l’aveva finito Alberto senza adoperare biacca, et in quel cambio si era servito del bianco della tela, delle fila della quale, sottilissime, aveva tanto ben fatti i peli della barba, che era cosa da non potersi imaginare, nonché fare […].’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, pp. 336-37; this passage does not appear in 1550 edition. 223 fine linen to either side, he observed light shine through the unpainted details.38 Vasari owned a chiaroscuro wash drawing by Andrea Mantegna which employed the same technique for highlights.39 Mantegna captured ‘strands of hair and other subtle details’ with such precision that they appeared ‘executed very diligently with a brush.’40 In his 1550 edition, Vasari had described this technique of drawing in pen as masterful.41 Raffaello Borghini and Benvenuto Cellini also valued pen drawing as difficile or difficilissimo.42 Unlike chalk, which could be erased, pen was understood as less forgiving. Diligent and detailed work was valued when ease of execution led to the mastery of difficultà. It is not an exaggeration to imagine a young artist in Vasari’s circle as faced with the challenge of achieving similar detailed work without using white lead.

A recent examination under Ultraviolet-induced luminescence confirmed that there were no traces of white lead on Naldini’s drawing.43 It would have been much easier for Naldini to brush over his ink with white lead for the finer details, like the central white shaft of each feather. Naldini used this medium often in other pen drawings and frequently in his chalk drawings. But on his small sketchbook page, he deliberately challenged himself with the more difficult working method. He carefully laid two ink parallels for the central white shaft of each feather, and determined their curved confines prior to hatching the individual barbs. At such a reduced scale (112 x 164 mm) it would have been easy for his hand to slip or for the ink to splatter from the nib of his pen. The indelibility of ink leaves no room for error, and had been prescribed by Armenini precisely to restrain and keep the hand dexterous, agile, and sure.44

38 ‘al lume traspareva da ogni lato’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, pp. 337. Vasari-De Vere, 1912-1914, vol. 6, p. 165. Dürer’s self-portrait was first mentioned in the life of Raphael, which also explains: ‘che da ogni banda mostrava parimente e senza biacca i lumi trasparenti.’ Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 78. 39 Identified as GDSU 404 E, signed and dated to 1491. Forlani Tempesti, 2014, p. 36. In my opinion, the notable presence of white lead for selected details has been added by a later hand together with the heavy outlines in dark ink. 40 Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 491. Vasari-De Vere, 1912-1914, vol. 3, p. 285. Vasari-Bondanella, 1998, p. 248. 41 ‘Molti altri fanno con la penna sola, lasciando i lumi della carta, che è difficile, ma molto maestrevole.’ Vasari, 1550, p. 75. Vasari, 1568, vol. 1, p. 46. 42 Bambach, 2010a, pp. 37, 48n23. 43 The sketchbook drawings pasted in album S.I.7 were examined under a ultraviolet light on 26 November 2012 in the Gabinetto dei disegni, BCI, Siena. I am grateful to Milena Pagni for making this examination possible, and for sharing her invaluable observations on the graphic techniques and watermarks in the album. Naldini used white lead on 5 of his sketchbook drawings (fols. 21r b & d, 21v b & d, 22v c). 44 ‘[…] questa via mantien la mano destra, leggierissima e sicura […].’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 69. 224 Armenini encouraged young draughtsmen to spend time studying prints (tanto studio e tempo), until they had convinced themselves they were capable of imitating them.45 He recognised the how demanding this activity was, and added the challenge of reproducing them in pen and ink. Nevertheless, he cautioned: I do not mean, nor do I counsel, anyone to become enamoured [che si voglia invaghire] of those very minute strokes which may be seen in some prints, like those of Albrecht Dürer. One wastes time by not knowing how to avoid these fine lines which, although very beautiful, are useful only to engravers, and not to draughtsmen, who must be shown ways that are quick and without difficulty.46

Armenini recognised that his instructions on imitating prints could lead to excessive diligence. However, by describing such close scrutiny with the verb invaghire he unwittingly communicated a pleasurable feature of the copyist’s task, qualifying this kind of excessive imitation as a captivated moment of enrapture. Invaghire shares the same etymology with vaghezza. Both derive from vagare meaning ‘to wander’, and vago meaning ‘vague’ or ‘indeterminate’. Cinquecento authors used vaghezza to describe the alluring charm of feminine beauty and colour. The term also had negative associations with fleeting, seductive beauty. In this sense the word invaghire ‘to fall longingly in love’ or ‘become enamoured’ retains the enchantment and charm of fleeting vago.47 Writing in the early twentieth century, Guido Luzzatto interpreted Armenini’s admonition as evidence of a love for the subtlety of Dürer’s line that the author witnessed among many contemporary painters.48 As mentioned earlier, there was a revival of interest in Dürer during the 1580s and many Florentine academicians imitated his prints. However, Naldini’s studies after the German master are interesting because they were produced between 1565 and 1571. This was around the time that

45 Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 69. 46 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, pp. 124-25. ‘Ma dipoi, perché molti in ciò si perdono troppo, io non intendo né manco consiglio niuno che si voglia invaghire su quei trattolini troppo minuti, i quali sono in alcune carte in stampa, sí come sono di quelle d’Alberto Durero, di maniera che da essi si consuma il tempo per non sapersi levare da quelle loro minutezze; perciò che, se ben quelli son bellissimi a vederli, quanto all’utile poi sono giovevoli alli intagliatori, ma non a i dissegnatori, a i quali li devono esser mostrate quelle vie, le quali per essi siano espedite e senza stento.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 70. This passage is also quoted by Rosand, 2002, p. 151; and Gregory, 2012, p. 212. Gregory argues (p. 206) that Naldini’s studies after Dürer’s Small Passion woodcuts set out to copy ‘every mark’, but he was ultimately attracted to compositional elements and figures and reduced Dürer’s ‘complex’ linear range to ‘generalized hatching’. She then proposes (p. 213) that Naldini’s approach to Dürer approximated the ‘strategy’ that Armenini would later recommend: to copy Dürer’s prints, but ‘avoid copying every single line.’ However, she does not discuss the implications raised by Armenini’s advice to imitate ‘every dot’ when learning from a drawn example. 47 See Philip Sohm’s discussion of vaghezza. Sohm, 2001, pp. 194-200. See also John Florio’s English translation of invaghire and invaghito. Florio, 1598, p. 190. 48 Luzzatto, 1933, p. 380. 225 Vasari published his critique of Pontormo’s imitation of Dürer, and outlined which artistic models were acceptable for young academicians.

Armenini had recommended diligently imitating prints and drawings in pen as a method to control excessively loose draughtsmanship, because it ‘restrains and makes careful the many who make haste [furia] in drawing.’49 The vast majority of Naldini’s drawings are in fact marked by speed, unbridled expressive power, and often chaotic angularity.50 Examples of Naldini’s finished graphic modes are less well known. However, they demonstrate that he was extremely flexible in alternating between a liberal sketching mode and a concentrated linear system. The finished and faithful copy is one of the most problematic drawing types for the connoisseur because it displays less recognisable idiosyncratic marks, and makes it harder to identify an author. Despite this understandable limitation, we should refrain from applying the label ‘copy’ without modification. A legacy of connoisseurial disdain has led to pejorative connotations that fail to communicate the purpose of these imitative acts.

Naldini’s study after Dürer was a pedagogic exercise that combined ‘sacramental’ fidelity with the ‘heuristic’ discovery of graphic gestures to approximate engraving in pen. It was a trial of stylistic assimilation, and an attempt to equal, and likely surpass, its model. It documents a moment of absorbed transcription at an incredibly reduced scale. Naldini manipulated the white ground of his paper support to highlight small details in response to the challenge of surpassing difficulties (difficultà) with ease (facilità). Indeed, it appears that Naldini became enamoured by the subtleties of Dürer’s line many years before Armenini voiced his warning. Like his master Pontormo before him, he entered into a dialogue with Dürer and scrutinised his printed line.

49 Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 124. ‘[…] a molti poi, per la furia ch’essi hanno in dissegnare, li raffrena e li tiene avertiti […].’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 69. 50 For animated examples of Naldini’s draughtsmanship see Thiem, 2002, nos.56-60, pp. 158-67; and Feinberg, 1991, nos.30-33, pp. 132-39. 226 Chapter 9

Reading Naldini’s religious images in Counter-Reformation Florence

In 1563 during the concluding session of the Council of Trent, the Roman Catholic Church legitimised the function of sacred images.1 In response to Protestant criticisms of idolatry, the decree emphasised that images instructed the faithful so that they ‘may order their own lives and manners in imitation of the saints; and may be excited to adore and love God, and to cultivate piety.’ The decree explicitly rejected any image that could incite superstition, unseemly behaviour, or sensuality, arguing that ‘all sensual appeal must be avoided, so that images are not painted or adorned with seductive charm.’2

In response to the Tridentine decrees, Giovanni Andrea Gilio da Fabriano censured contemporary religious painting and especially Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. In his dialogue of 1564 Gilio argued that modern painters had debased sacred imagery; dishonouring the religious protagonists of their narratives by painting them nude; and mocking devout figures by straining and twisting their limbs. This was a crucial loss for Gilio because the attitudes of the religious protagonists were no longer contemplative.3

Individual bishops were to ensure the churches in their diocese followed the prescriptions of the Council of Trent. The Vatican did not issue a formal set of norms or impose an official regulation of images, such as the Index of forbidden books

1 The decree addressed the ‘invocation, veneration, and relics, of saints, and on sacred images.’ 2 Tanner, 1990, vol. 2, pp. 774-76; quoted in Paleotti-McCuaig, 2012, p. 11. See also O’Malley, 2013. Gaston, 2013b, pp. 84-87. 3 ‘Le sacre imagini oneste e devote, con que’ segni che gli sono stati dati dagli antichi per privileggio de la santità, il che è paruto a’ moderni vile, goffo, plebo, antico, umile, senza ingegno et arte. Per questo essi, anteponendo l’arte al’onestà, lasciando l’uso di fare le figure vestite, l’hanno fatte e le fanno nude; lasciando l’uso di farle devote, l’hanno fatte sforzate, parendoli gran fatto di torcerli il capo, le braccia, le gambe, e parer che più tosto rappresentino chi fa le moresche gli atti, che chi sta in contemplazione. Et hanno tanto quel santo uso sbassato con questa nova loro invenzione […].’ Gilio, 1564, p. 111. The passage is translated and cited in Barnes, 1998, p. 85; and Jong, 2011, p. 379. For a consideration of Gilio’s rhetorical strategies see Gaston, 2013b, pp. 85-87. 227 (Index librorum prohibitorum).4 The reforming archbishop of Bologna, Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti, considered the example of the Index and reasoned: ‘the same may also serve as a guideline in determining which pictures a Christian ought to seek out and which he ought to shun.’5 The surviving table of contents for the projected fourth volume of Paleotti’s Discorso intorno alle immagini sacre e profane (1582) indicates that he intended to publish a theological commentary on individual iconographic themes in lieu of an official index for sacred images.6

There is an ongoing scholarly debate concerning which artists adhered to the Tridentine decrees and came closest to creating a style that would arouse feelings of devotion in viewers.7 Many artists have been put forward: Giuseppe Valeriano and Scipione Pulzone working in Rome during the 1580s.8 Santi di Tito and Jacopo da Empoli in Florence,9 Federico Barocci in Bologna.10 Titian, Tintoretto, and Paolo Veronese in Venice;11 and especially Annibale Carracci and Michelangelo da Caravaggio.12 Nicola Courtright explains that much of this early literature argues against a single Counter-Reformation style, suggesting rather an artistic pluralism resulting from regional differences and the recommendations of local bishops.13 Even the work of the Michelangelo Buonarroti has been reappraised. Historically perceived as the father of Mannerism, Michelangelo is more readily remembered for his lascivious nudes than religious devotion. However, Alexander Nagel presents Michelangelo as an early reformer of religious images. Nagel’s Michelangelo successfully balances an historical awareness of the frontal presence of the icon tradition with the social demand for new sacred images employing complex narrative and formal devices.14

4 Paolo Prodi in Paleotti-McCuaig, 2012, p. 13. 5 Paleotti-McCuaig, 2012, p. 159. 6 Subjects range from scenes in the lives of Christ and the Virgin to the dress and insignia of angels, prophets, apostles, saints, and martyrs. Paleotti-McCuaig, 2012, pp. 331-37. 7 I have modelled this section on Jan L. de Jong’s summary, but made some important additions. Jong, 2011, p. 371. See also summary in Scavizzi, 1992, pp. 253-59. 8 Zeri, 1957. Gaeta, 2013. 9 Spalding, 1983. Empoli, 2004. 10 Lingo, 2008. For a review of Barocci’s recent rise in art history see Witte, 2015. 11 Cooper, 1991. Hall, 2011 & 2012. 12 Boschloo, 1974. Dempsey, 1987. 13 Courtright, 2000, pp. 126, 140n4. 14 Nagel, 2000. 228 Much research on Italian artists working in the Counter-Reformation period has had to challenge the entrenched periodisation of art history.15 Hans Belting’s strict demarcation between a medieval era of the ‘sacred image’ accompanied by a genuine religious consciousness and an ‘era of art’ that ruptured the close devotional bond between sacred image and worshipper has increased the difficulty of interpreting the devotional function of Central Italian religious art during the sixteenth century.16 Stuart Lingo explains that past literature often used the art produced in Italy roughly between 1560 and 1590 as a ‘foil’ for artists who herald the Baroque, such as the Carracci.17 Lingo’s study of Federico Barocci breaks this pattern decisively by examining the artist’s extraordinary innovations, and much like Nagel, demonstrates Barocci’s awareness of archaic forms of sacred representation. Megan Holmes countered Belting’s position by revealing the existence of cults thriving around miraculous images in Renaissance Florence. During this period, sacred images were approached in novel ways but still engaged in a ‘dialogic encounter’ with traditional understandings of the religious image.18

Twentieth-century formalists have often regarded Maniera narratives as spatially implausible and overcrowded; otherwise populated by sensual nudes and artificial figures in unnatural poses, performing dynamic gestures that compete for the viewer’s attention and detract from a unified narrative.19 Sydney Freedberg argued that High Renaissance masters devised clearly legible narratives. Maniera artists, in contrast, were deliberately elusive with their allegorical content, ‘masking’ narrative meaning

15 Periodisation reversal is another strategy that authors have employed. For example, designating Correggio as a ‘proto-baroque’ painter. Freedberg, 1975, pp. 268, 279, 606-7. Ekserdjian, Correggio, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997, pp. 162, 166, with important qualifications of the term when considering precursors and legacy, p. 296. Or the anachronistic title for a survey of Italian painting: ‘Seventeenth-century painting in Florence and Tuscany in the last quarter of the sixteenth century.’ Contini, 2000. 16 Belting, 1994. 17 Lingo, 2008, p. 3. See for example Sydney Freedberg’s interpretation of Prospero Fontana’s Annunciation (c. 1575, Milan, Brera), where ‘a code of highly stylized, fancy behavior almost excludes the sense of any narrative sincerity’ in contrast to Ludovico Carracci’s naturalism and ‘prose style’. Freeberg, 1983, p. 83. But Fontana is more religiously observant than Freedberg would have his reader believe. He depicts the angel Gabriel with a dynamic forward stride and illuminated finger pointed to God and portrays the humility of the Virgin with bowed head and crossed arms, accurately following the established iconography of representing her attitude of submission (Humiliatio), the ‘fourth laudable condition’ of the Blessed Virgin described by Fra Roberto Caracciolo da Lecce in 1489. See Baxandall, 1988, pp. 51-55, 164-65. 18 Holmes, 2013, pp. 13, 15. 19 See Smyth, 1992, for a good summary of these criticisms. 229 beneath layers of ‘indirect allusion.’20 They ‘aestheticized’ ‘feeling’ in an endeavour to ‘evade emotion’ and had ‘no sympathy with passion.’21 Freedberg reduced the experience of maniera sacred art to a kind of aesthetic ‘exaltation’ of ‘abstracting beauty’, which he described as an intellectual ‘equivalent to devotion.’22 John Shearman opposed Freedberg’s interpretation in his analysis of Pontormo’s Pietà for Lodovico Capponi.23 He admitted Pontormo’s ‘abstraction of style’ but emphatically defended the altarpiece as ‘lucid’, ‘coherent’, ‘unified’, ‘functional’, ‘entirely explicit’ and not ‘ambiguous.’24 Pontormo represented emotion with great subtlety. Shearman scrutinised red-rimmed eyes that expressed ‘recent or present weeping.’ He argued that emotion may be ‘elusive’ but it ‘is far from abstract’ being present in ‘every expression and gesture.’25

Despite this, Freedberg’s school of thought has been perpetuated by recent claims that maniera painters replaced emotion with beauty, and deliberately used ornament as a substitute for religious meaning and content.26 This attempt to explain why post- Tridentine authors such as Gilio disapproved of religious paintings like Michelangelo’s Last Judgment drastically generalises the intentions of individual artists. As Stuart Lingo reminds us, Late Cinquecento painters had to negotiate between the demands of decorum and contemporary developments in dynamic representation.27 Expertise in representing the human body remained fundamental for Central Italian painters. It was the focal point of their talent in emulation and rivalry, complex corporeal torsion, anatomy, proportion, foreshortening, expression and gesture. As Michael Cole reveals, some post-Tridentine authors such as Raffaello Borghini, Federico Borromeo, Francisco de Roija, and Francisco Pacheco complained that contemporary painters had concentrated on individual figures and complex poses

20 Freedberg, 1965, p. 192. Robert Gaston, 2007, pp. 65-66, first recognised the consequences of Freedberg’s position for the iconographic research of mannerist narratives. See his illuminating critique of the reception of Bronzino’s frescoes for the chapel of Eleonora di Toledo. See also Gaston, 1995, p. 250. 21 Freedberg, 1965, pp. 191-93. 22 Freedberg, 1965, p. 193. 23 Pontormo, Pietà, 1525-1526, oil on panel, Florence, Santa Felicita, Capponi Chapel. 24 Shearman, 1971, pp. 25-27. 25 Shearman, 1971, p. 27. 26 Marcia Hall recently discussed ‘The failure of maniera sacred images’ in her introduction to Hall & Cooper, 2013, p. 12. She argues: ‘For the painter of religious images, it is as if the multiplication of bellezze would serve as a substitute for the evocation of emotion.’ And again: ‘[…] ornament was not acceptable when used – as the maniera artist did – as a substitute for meaning and content.’ Hall & Cooper, 2013, p. 16. 27 Lingo, 2013. 230 at the expense of a united narrative. They believed this impeded devotional communication with the spectator.28 Jan L. de Jong has argued that Gilio and Ambrosius Catharinus made ‘no necessary connection between artistic quality and feelings of devotion’ rather they suggest that ‘artistic quality is an obstacle.’29 This is certainly supported by the Northern participants in the debate on the use of images in religious worship.30 However, their opinions were conditioned by an essentially negative view towards external beauty.31 For the art theorist Giovanni Battista Armenini, bellezza posed no obstacle to sacred function. His thoughts are particularly valuable because they were written after 20 years of service as rector of San Tommaso a Faenza.32 The priest declared: ‘It is certain that beautiful and lively paintings [belle e vivaci] are extremely effective and suited [conveniente] to lead men to piety and divine worship.’33 He strategically justified these qualities with the common decorum term conveniente, and encouraged the aspiring artist to fill his sacred works with all the perfection beyond imagination to stupefy the viewer.34 It remains important to assess how maniera painters represented the emotions of their protagonists while at the same time responding to the demand for dramatic narratives.

28 Cole, 2014, pp. 1-5. 29 Jong, 2011, p. 377n33, explains that he uses ‘artistic quality’ to describe ‘mannerist art’. 30 In his 1522 treatise defending the use of images in churches, the German theologian Hieronymus Emser voiced his reservations regarding artistic beauty: ‘the more artfully images are made the more their viewers are lost in contemplation of the art and manner in which the figures have been worked.’ Mangrum & Scavizzi, 1991, p. 86; quoted from Nagel, 2000, p. 14. Several years earlier the Lutheran peasant narrator Karsthans admitted: ‘I often had base thoughts when I looked at the female images on the altars. For no courtesan can dress or adorn herself more sumptuously and shamelessly than they nowadays fashion the Mother of God, Saint Barbara, Katherine and other saints.’ Morrall, 1998, p. 83. Some Italian authorities shared this view. In 1552, the Dominican bishop of Minori, Lancelotto Politi, known as Ambrosius Catharinus wrote: ‘Some images [are] so extravagant that you can hardly recognize the human figure in them […] And elsewhere you see compositions made with such artifice that at times among so many improper gestures they ignore the decorum of the figures, and do not have any dignity and do not excite to devotion at all.’ Ambrosius Catharinus, Disputatio de cultu et adoratione imaginum in his Ennarationes in quinque prioia capita libri Geneseos, Rome: Antonius Bladus, 1552, p. 144. Translation from Scavizzi, 1992, p. 251; quoted from Jong, 2011, p. 377. 31 Northern attitudes toward beauty were internalised, frequently through self-directed meditation and visualisation. Andrew Morrall argues that German and Flemish painters of sacred images often resorted to ‘deliberate and exaggerated ugliness’ to direct the viewer on Christ’s suffering, and emphasise his human nature. Morrall, 1998, p. 84. 32 See my earlier chapter 6 n66 with bibliography. Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, pp. xvii, 230n3. Consider also Ferino Pagden, 1990. 33 I have revised Edward Olszewski’s translation. Armenini-Olszewski, 1977, p. 218. ‘Et è certo che per indrizzar gli uomini alla pietà et al culto divino, molto possono e sono conveniente le belle e vivaci pitture.’ Armenini-Gorreri, 1988, p. 173. 34 Gaston, 2013b & 2014, urges art historians to reconsider the rhetoric of decorum. 231 Battista Naldini experimented with the Pietà and Lamentation throughout his life, producing many variations on these traditional themes.35 On some occasions he posed apprentices in his studio as the Virgin and dead Christ (fig. 9.1), and at other times he relied solely on his fantasia to sketch rapid inventions (fig. 9.2). He constantly adapted the theme to new commissions, painting a Trinity and sketching three variations on a Pietà with angels (Appendix figs. 1-3). Naldini also discovered different solutions to representing Christ Carried to the Tomb.36 Throughout these examples he demonstrates an acute awareness of the Florentine visual tradition, and engages creatively with Michelangelo and near contemporaries. Florentine authors such as Raffaello Borghini and Francesco Bocchi perceived decorous gestures and emotions in Naldini’s painted protagonists, and believed him entirely capable of communicating a religious message.

The remainder of this chapter is divided into four sections, which address: (a) the patronage and troubled commission of the Minerbetti Lamentation; (b) the composition and sources for the Lamentation; (c) emotion in ‘maniera sacred art’; and (d) the male nude in religious painting. The appendix contains an additional study of Naldini’s experiments with the Angel Pietà theme. I argue that Naldini’s early four-figure arrangement documents a response to Michelangelo’s Florence Pietà, which he then transforms by exploiting the mannered body to serve a viewer’s devotional needs.

35 For definitions of the Pietà and Lamentation see Schiller, 1971-1972, vol. 2, p. 174. Hall, Dictionary, 1974, pp. 246-47. 36 Christ Carried to the Tomb, GDSU 709 F; Christ Carried to the Tomb, Prato, Collezione Loriano Bertini. Reproduced in Petrioli Tofani, 1982, p. 81, fig. 39. 232 The Minerbetti Lamentation

The Minerbetti Lamentation (fig. 9.4) was Battista Naldini’s first contribution to the post-Tridentine renovation of the Dominican church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence.37 It was to serve as the altarpiece for the newly built Minerbetti family chapel. The family lived around the Via Vigna Nuova, which F.W. Kent described as the ‘most exclusive residential street’ in the gonfalone of Leon Rosso.38 The eminent historian Francesco Guicciardini placed the Minerbetti, together with the Strozzi, Rucellai, Temperani, and Della Morotta, among the ‘ancient and noble popolani’ of Leon Rosso.39 They had owned a chapel in Santa Maria Novella since the fourteenth century dedicated to Saint Thomas a Beckett, the Archbishop of Canterbury.40 However, due to its location it was to be destroyed under Vasari’s renovation programme.

At the order of Duke Cosimo I, and in a cost-effective implementation of Tridentine reforms, Vasari removed the old wooden medieval rood screens, known as tramezzi, which separated the laity from the clergy in most of the Florentine churches.41 The removal of the tramezzi would allow all worshipers to have direct access to the High Altar and the tabernacle (ciborio) of the Holy Sacrament. This would visually enhance belief in the miracle of transubstantiation and facilitate the liturgy of the Eucharist.42 The old Minerbetti chapel was located on the inner east side of the rood screen, and had to be moved as a result of Vasari’s drastic renovations of the Dominican church.43

37 Hall, 1979, pp. 100-2. 38 Kent, 1982, p. 86. Leon Rosso was one of four gonfaloni in the quartiere of Santa Maria Novella. For the location of the family’s palazzo see Ciabani, 1992, vol. 3, pp. 756-57. 39 Kent, 1982, p. 78. 40 The saint was reputed to have been the great ancestor of the family. For the genealogy of the Minerbetti see Ciabani, 1992, vol. 3, p. 756-57. For the dedication of the old family chapel see Hall, 1979, p. 100. An eighteenth-century inventory described Naldini’s Minerbetti altarpiece as ‘l’imagine del S. Arcivescovo.’ Baldovinetti, 1748-1753, fol. 20r. However, none of Naldini’s figures qualify as representations of St Thomas a Beckett. 41 Hall, 1974. Hall, 2006. Roberto Lunardi, 1988, p. 404, argues that Cosimo’s desire to gain the Grand Ducal crown was so strong that he instigated the renovation programme of Florentine churches a decade before Carlo Borromeo in Milan, who had genuine motivations. Gregory Murry, 2014, pp. 210- 11, demonstrates that Cosimo had been trying to reform the conventual Dominicans and Franciscans many years before the renovations of the two main mendicant churches began, by manoeuvring his own men into elevated positions as protector or general of the orders. 42 Hall, 1979, pp. 13-14. Cresti, 1996. 43 Hall, 1979, p. 167. 233 Cosimo also gave Vasari the authority to demolish the old chapels along the walls of the nave.44 These places were of enormous religious and social significance for the families that had paid expensive endowments to see them established. Their existing owners were given two choices: they could either pay for the decoration of a new chapel or be forced to renounce their ownership and watch as the remains of their ancestors were dug up and relocated.45 The great expense demanded meant that some patrons were dispossessed of their chapels irrespective of their ancestral claims.46 With the removal of the tramezzo, the Minerbetti family was given the option of relocating to a new chapel, designed by Vasari, along one of the aisles at their own expense.47 Any affiliation with the former resting place their ancestors would therefore have to be relinquished.

Bernardetto d’Andrea Minerbetti (1507-1574) oversaw the commission of Naldini’s Lamentation.48 He was one of the founding members of the Accademia degli Umidi and a close acquaintance of Michelangelo Buonarroti and Benedetto Varchi.49 Bernardetto became bishop of Arezzo in 1537.50 He ordained Vincenzio Borghini in 1541 and maintained an amicable relationship with Vasari.51 Duke Cosimo also made him an ambassador to Mantua, Naples, London, Brussels, and Madrid.52 Cosimo described him as ‘singularly much honoured and loved.’53 Antonfrancesco Grazzini’s comedy La gelosia (1550) was dedicated to Bernardetto and performed in the family palazzo.54 He admired the work of Giovann’Antonio Lappoli, Pontormo’s earlier pupil. Vasari explains that Bernardetto owned two works by Lappoli: a Judith with the head of Holofernes and a Young John the Baptist in the desert.55

44 Hall, 1979, p. 21. 45 Hall, 1979, pp. 20-27. 46 Hall, 1979, p. 26, estimates that the construction of a new chapel in Santa Maria Novella would have cost a patron between 800 and 900 florins (comprising 300 florins for endowment, 300-400 for construction, and 200 for the altarpiece). 47 Hall, 1979, p. 101. 48 His full patronymic appears in Salvini, 1782, p. 77, as ‘Bernardetto d’Andrea Senatore del Cav. Tommaso Minerbetti de’ Medici.’ See also Paola Volpini in DBI, vol. 74 (2010), pp. 590-93. 49 For a deeply personal sonnet dedicated to Bernardetto see Varchi, 1573, p. 59. 50 Salvini, 1782, p. 77, no. 511. 51 Volpini, 2010 in DBI, vol 74, p. 591. 52 Volpini, 2010, pp. 591-92. 53 ‘persona molto honorata et amata da me singularmente.’ Cosimo I de’ Medici to Filippo II of Spain; quoted from Volpini, 2010, p. 591. 54 In his dedicatory preface, Grazzini writes: ‘[…] in casa Minerbetti ebbe principio e origine il suo essersi recitata: e messer Donato, e messer Andrea vostri ne furono principale e potentissima cagione.’ Antonfrancesco Gazzini, called il Lasca, La gelosia, Florence: Giunti, 1551, pp. 2r-2v. 55 Vasari-Milanesi, 1998, vol. 6, p. 15. 234 The primary sources reveal that the altarpiece had a troubled beginning.56 As he toiled in his studio painting for days on end, Naldini was fraught between two choices: whether he should yield to the demands of his master Vasari or honour his new patron Bernardetto Minerbetti. The Medici court painter Vasari, now sixty years old, was in Rome decorating three new chapels in the Torre Pia of the Vatican.57 Vasari persistently implored Naldini to come to his aid in Rome.58 In order to undertake the Roman commission, Vasari had abandoned work on the Salone dei Cinquecento. Vincenzio Borghini repeatly urged Vasari to return to Florence and finish the Salone.59 He also tactfully told him to stop pestering the young painters who were trying to finish their contributions to the stanzino of Francesco I de’ Medici.60 In Rome, Vasari complained he was becoming a solitary Pontormo in old age, but he was not working alone in the Vatican.61 He had a team of assistants and workshop collaborators whom he called ‘giovani miei creati’.62

In order to meet his master’s demands, Naldini would have to abandon the Minerbetti Lamentation. Vasari did not seem to care, even though Bernardetto was one of his close friends. The patron wrote to him explaining that he had already paid Naldini half of the agreed sum, and that for all Vasari’s pleading, Naldini was contractually bound to finalise the commission.63 Borghini’s replies to Vasari reveal that Naldini

56 Many of the letters discussed here have been quoted by Paola Barocchi, 1965, pp. 255-57; and Marcia Hall, 1979, p. 101-2, but they have not being translated. 57 For the three chapels see Aurigemma, 2012. Härb, 2015, pp. 584-98. 58 Vasari’s letters have yet to be traced, however the replies from Vincenzo Borghini and Bernardetto Minerbetti reveal that his demands were relentless: ‘Io ragionerò più volentieri a bocca con voi, se però io viverò tanto, del caso di Giovan Batista pittor, sopra di che tanto risentimento fate che per lettera.’ Benardetto Minerbetti to Vasari, 24 February 1571. Frey 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 574-75. 59 Borghini to Vasari, 15 February 1571; Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 567-72. Borghini to Vasari, 2 March 1571; Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, p. 575. Borghini to Vasari, 7 April 1571; Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 578-80. 60 ‘[…] et questa opera del principe non è aproposito punto interromperla o torgli gli uomini che fanno, che si potre’ far male effetto.’ Borghini to Vasari, 15 February 1571. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 567-72. 61 Vasari to Francesco de’ Medici, 10 February 1571. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 565-67. 62 Vasari, 1568, vol. 2, p. 1006. In his letter to Francesco Busini, 31 December 1570, Vasari hopes to have completed the Vatican commission by the coming winter: ‘Io sono a Roma con tutti e mia giovani, mandato da loro Altezze a servire il santissimo Papa Pio V, et spero finirvi questo verno.’ Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 3, pp. 152-55. For Vasari’s worshop during the Roman commission see Härb, 2015, pp. 135-37. 63 Borghini explains that the bishop Minerbetti in Arezzo recently sent a courier to Florence with the second payment for the altarpiece. He says that Battista should have written to Vasari yesterday (20 January 1571) and informed him of his obligations to the patron: ‘Il qual Batista vi dovette scrivere ieri che que’ Minerbetti et il vostro vescovo, che ha mandat’uno a posta qui e datoli la 2a [seconda] paga de’ danari, lo serron forte e vogliono che e’ metta mano a finir ora, et trovandosi obligato loro per scritta et osservando essi dalla parte loro, veggo mal modo che e’ possa tirarsi indietro di non osservar 235 worked himself to exhaustion, and always intended to join Vasari in Rome for the prestigious papal commission. Borghini praised Battista for not abandoning a commission like other painters, and for honourably fulfilling his legal obligations to the Minerbetti.64 Borghini regularly attempted to mitigate Vasari’s indignation. On the 23 December 1570, he wrote that the blank altarpiece still needed ‘hundreds of brushstrokes,’ and that Naldini was ‘labouring day and night’ as well as on feast days.65 On 5 January 1571, Borghini reported: ‘Battista makes haste, but I have not seen him for many days and I marvel because he stays closed up working.’66 Vasari’s relentless demands even caused the patron to question Battista’s reliability. On 15 February 1571 Borghini reveals that Minerbetti sought by all means to give the altarpiece to maestro Giovanni, most likely the mature Flemish painter Giovanni Stradano.67 When Minerbetti drastically withdrew his funding, Battista was immediately motivated to fight for the commission. Borghini explains that Naldini ‘was resolved not to be defeated [sgarato], or be surpassed [scavalcato] by maestro Giovanni [Stradano].’68 By March 1571 Naldini had strained his eyes to exhaustion.

anch’egli quel che ha promesso; onde comincio a dubitar forte del poter lui venire, che a me dispiace et allui molto più, ma i patti rompon le leggi.’ Borghini to Vasari, 21 January 1571. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 563-64. Hall, 1979, p. 101. Minerbetti’s own response to Vasari is preserved in a letter dated to 25 January 1571: ‘Molto Magnifico messer Giorgio dilettissimo. Io son venuto in Firenze con licenza dì Nosto Signore a terminar questa mia lite della iurisdizione, se così piacerà a Dio et loro Altezze. Né prima son giunto, che io ho trovato sollevato Gianbatista pittore, per esserli stata fatta molta instanzia dal signor Spedalingo a nome vostro, che egli sene venga costà. Messer Giorgio mio, questi non sono i patti: egli ha imposta la tavola, ha quasi la metà del pagamento; e se celo levate di qua, la tavola si finirà tardi, e quei padri di Santa Maria Novella con molta ragione si dorranno di noi. Vi prego, che non procuriate questo disordine e vogliate bene a questo vescovo, che è tutto vostro e prega sempre per la vostra salute e consolazione.’ Bernardetto Minerbetti to Giorgio Vasari, 25 January 1571. Frey 1923- 1940, vol. 2, pp. 564-65. Hall, 1979, pp. 101-102. 64 Borghini to Vasari, 15 February 1571. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 567-72. 65 ‘Batista sollecita e lavora dì e notte e dì di lavoro et dì di festa, et ha più voglia di venire che voi che e’ venga; ma la tavola è grande e vacci su molte centinaia di pennellate et vi doverà scriver da sé.’ Vincenzo Borghini to Giorgio Vasari, 23 December 1570. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 556-58; quoted in Barocchi, 1965, p. 255; Hall, 1979, p. 101. 66 ‘[…] Batista sollecita, ma sono parecchi giorni che non l’ho veduto e me ne maraviglio, perché sta rinchiuso a lavorar […].’ Borghini to Vasari, 5 January 1571. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, p. 560. Barocchi, 1965, p. 277n130. 67 Identified as Stradano by both Barocchi, 1965, p. 256; and Hall, 1979, p. 102. 68 ‘[…] un di que’ Minerbetti, che ha certe albagie, ha cerco per ogni via di dar questa tavola a maestro Giovanni et in su questa partita di Batista gli parve aver buona presa al venire all’intento suo, e così strinse tanto che e’ cavò questi danari che si doveano per la scritta quasi per miracolo, et serrò il basto adosso a Batista, talche e’ si risolve di non esser sgarato da colui, né scavalcato da maestro Giovanni […].’ Borghini to Vasari, 15 February 1571. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 567-72. For a slightly different interpretation of this passage see Hall, 1979, pp. 28, 102. 236 Battista’s eye illness, which Borghini first reported in February, had worsened with serious bleeding.69

In spite of all Naldini’s travails, Vasari continued to resent him. He eventually gave in and resigned to the fact that his young workshop collaborator was not coming to his aid. However this did not stop him from using Naldini as a scapegoat for delays in the Vatican chapels. He wrote to Francesco I in his second monthly report: And in truth, I will be forced to stay [in Rome] longer that I thought, because Batista of the Innocents, who assisted me in the palazzo [Vecchio] for ten years and was meant to come and help me, has abandoned me. These are some of those things that masters teach unwillingly, and he has wronged me.70

The primary sources therefore reveal that Naldini decided to remain loyal to his patron. His commitment resulted in an image that Francesco Bocchi described in 1591 as ‘more beautiful and excellent’ than his other altarpieces.71 According to Raffaello Borghini, the altarpiece established Naldini’s reputation (gli diede tanto nome).72 The Pucci, another prominent Florentine family, were also interested in Naldini’s composition and obtained an earlier version of his design painted at a reduced scale (fig. 9.3).73

As a leading member of the clergy, Bernardetto had been entrusted with overseeing the completion of the family chapel. Although far less extravagant than the lavishly embellished chapels of wealthy quattrocento Florentines, this open walled allotment between two piers of the nave belonged to the Minerbetti family.74 It would still serve the family’s religious purposes, in spite of the aesthetic, architectural, and financial restrictions imposed upon all the patrons by Cosimo and Vasari. The old Minerbetti

69 ‘Batista è stato male degli occhi et ancora si sta in casa. Cavossi sangue e già parecchi giorni non l’ho veduto.’ Borghini to Vasari, 2 March 1571. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, p. 575. Barocchi, 1965, p. 257. 70 ‘E nel vero io sarò forzato star più che non pensavo, perché Batista de' Nocenti, che ci ha servito in palazzo X anni, che doveva venire aiutarmi, m’ha piantato; che son di quelle cose che i maestri insegniano mal volentierii, e m’ha fatto torto.’ Vasari to Francesco I de’ Medici, 10 February 1571. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 565-67. Barocchi, 1965, p. 256. 71 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 116. 72 Borghini, 1584, p. 614. 73 Raffaello Borghini remains the only primary source to provide information on this panel, which may have served as a private devotional image. He writes: ‘[…] d’un deposto di croce simile a quello, che è nella tavola de’ Minorbetti in Santa Maria Novella e questo l’hanno i Pucci.’ Borghini, 1584, p. 614. It is reasonable to identify this picture with the panel currently on loan from a private collection, in the National Gallery of London, inv. L1095. 74 For an interesting debate on the ownership one of these piers between the Minerbetti and Rucellai families in 1448 see Howard, 2006, p. 389. 237 tombs had been recently moved to the new chapel.75 And though Bernardetto himself would not be buried there, he was committed to completing the chapel on behalf of his family. One of his replies to Vasari, reveals how eager he was for Naldini to finish the altarpiece: ‘[…] you conceded him to me, because he could quickly rid me of my anxiety to see this chapel finished in my days, which may be few.’76

Each of the twelve altars in Santa Maria Novella was framed by a classical tabernacle; carved and assembled in pietra serena according to Vasari’s design. The painted altarpieces were flanked by two Corinthian columns and crowned by either a triangular or curved pediment. Projecting from the centre of each tympanum was the twelve-rayed sun disc with the Christogram IħS.77 The entablature of each altar was accompanied by a biblical quotation that directed the reading of the painted narrative.78 Naldini’s panel would complete the new Minerbetti altar. Together, its architectural and painted elements would function as an integral whole, and become the focal point of masses officiated for Bernardetto’s ancestors.

Sources, Composition, and Narrative

Critics of ‘maniera sacred art’ emphasise how ineffective this mode of painting was in communicating a religious message and rousing viewers to devotion.79 Marcia Hall recognised that Naldini’s Lamentation for the Minerbetti (fig. 9.4) distanced Christ from the viewer, but did not explore the implications at any length.80 By distancing Christ, Naldini potentially hindered an important connection between Christ’s body and the altar, and in turn the religious viewer. I will explore the sources of the

75 Hall, 1979, p. 101; Paatz, Die Kirchen von Florenz, vol. 3, p. 703. 76 ‘[...] vi ridurrò a memoria che poiché avevi disegnato di condurlo costà, melo concedeste perché egli mi sbrigasse di questa ansietà di veder a mei dì, che possono essere pochi, finita quella cappella.’ Bernardetto Minerbetti to Giorgio Vasari, 24 February 1571. Frey, 1923-1940, vol. 2, pp. 574-75. 77 Carlo Cresti argues that Vasari was quoting two specific motifs in his design: Michelangelo’s architectural innovations of 1533 with circular and triangular pediments for the Biblioteca Laurenziana; and the monogram of Christ the Redeemer placed above the entrance of the Palazzo Vecchio in 1528. Cresti argues that the second serves as the only distinguishing sacred feature of an otherwise civic architectural mode. This christogram is an appropriate response in the wake of Trent, which affirms the central significance of the Eucharist. Cresti, 1996, p. 17. 78 Unfortunately all of Vasari’s altars were destroyed during the nineteenth-century Gothic renovation, together with their accompanying biblical quotations. Hall, 1979, p. 9. 79 Hall, 2012, pp. 232-34. Hall & Cooper, 2013, pp. 11-16. 80 Hall, 1979, p. 68. 238 Minerbetti Lamentation and consider how Naldini constructed his compositions in order to explain why he settled on a distant view of Christ.

Naldini often devised compact compositions that intimately grouped mourners and positioned Christ close to the picture plane. In his earliest commission for San Simone (fig. 4.30), Christ is draped over the Virgin’s knees and the actions of the mourners unfold around his centrally placed body.81 In another small panel (fig. 9.5) that may have formed part of a predella, Naldini confined the principal protagonists to a narrow horizontal band that allowed him to lay Christ’s body out across the ground. When he designed two additional Lamentations in small dimensions (figs. 9.6 & 9.7), Naldini again limited the number of protagonists and ensured Christ’s body featured prominently in the foreground. Naldini’s general arrangement of figures, landscape setting, and use of the white shroud over the anointing stone looks back to important Florentine Lamentations by Fra Bartolomeo (fig. 9.13) and Andrea del Sarto (fig. 9.16).82 When Naldini came to design Lamentations for vertically oriented altarpieces (figs. 9.8 & 9.9), he often placed Christ nearer to the middle ground in order to accommodate foreground repoussoirs.

Naldini adapted motifs from contemporary prints, especially the designs of Giulio Clovio and Taddeo Zuccaro. An early Lamentation (fig. 9.10), preserved in his dismembered sketchbook,83 appears to be a creative variant based on two specific prints: the Lamentation (fig. 9.12) engraved by Cornelius Cort after Zuccaro’s design,

81 The numerous preparatory drawings for the fresco explore the same orientation. All reproduced in Viatte, 1967. The fresco was surmounted by a lunette painted with God the Father surrounded by angels which would have extended and balanced the horizontal Lamentation below. The preparatory drawing for the lost lunette (GDSU 17221 Fr) is reproduced in Barocchi, 1964b, p. 126, fig. 10; Barocchi, 1965, p. 252, fig. 100a. 82 The iconography of the anointing stone is rarely mentioned in discussions of Florentine Lamentations. The anointing stone may have referred to the relic in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, which Leo Steinberg, 1996, p. 162, recognised as a forgery first documented in the twelfth century. The Lamentations of Fra Bartolomeo, Andrea del Sarto, and Francesco Salviati feature a stone block covered with the white shroud, suggesting a possible allusion to this relic despite not meeting any of Steinberg’s four conditions which qualify it as the stone of unction. Eastern church embroidered shrouds called epitaphioi frequently depicted the sacrificed Christ lain on a rectangular stone slab or upon a flat and smoothly laid out shroud. See Belting, 1980-81, figs. 20-21. It was eventually replaced by a sarcophagus when the iconography of the Lamentation merged with the Entombment in Italian art. Schiller, 1971-72, vol. 2, p. 174. For the view that the stone covered with the white shroud symbolises the altar see Lecchini Giovannoni, 1996. In Naldini’s drawings the stone slab may not directly refer to the anointing stone, but he partakes in the tradition by following his Florentine precedents. 83 See previous chapter for this sketchbook. 239 and a second Lamentation (fig. 9.11) also engraved by Cort after Clovio. Both prints closely date to the time when Naldini produced the sketchbook, between 1565 and 1571.84 Naldini followed Clovio and Zuccaro by dividing his pictorial field into three parts. The group of mourners is gathered in the foreground, and separated from a distant view of Golgotha by the rocky confine of the tomb behind them. However unlike Clovio and Zuccaro, Naldini distanced the tomb from the central event. In Clovio’s design (fig. 9.11) the dead Christ is supported in a seated pose upon a marble block that may signify the anointing stone.85 The roughly hewn square portal to the tomb appears on the left, immediately behind John and the Virgin. Zuccaro’s tomb (fig. 9.12) is a monumental cave that dwarfs the mourners. In contrast, Naldini’s tomb (fig. 9.10) has become a small, distant portal neatly cased in stone. Near the tomb, Naldini includes several small figures and a stone slab fitted with two rings. These important iconographic features recur in Naldini’s subsequent designs of the Lamentation and demonstrate that he sought to merge the last events in Christ’s passion into one image. The mount of Golgotha records Christ’s recent Crucifixion and the figures preparing the sepulchre announce his coming Entombment. All three artists expand upon the traditional theme and chronologically place the Lamentation in the foreground.

Naldini also reinterpreted Clovio’s figures. This is significant because the biblical protagonists present at Christ’s burial were recognised as assuming particular roles. Any variation built upon an established set of conventions, and made a contribution to how religious audiences imagined these protagonists. Clovio (fig. 9.11) separates the turbaned Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus from the foreground mourners. They appear to have just arrived from the road, and Nicodemus clasps a large jar between his hands. The extremely influential Meditations on the Life of Christ, probably composed between 1336 and 1364 by an unknown Franciscan author, explain that Joseph and Nicodemus brought ‘about a hundred pounds of myrrh and aloes, for they

84 Vincenzo Borghini was also accumulating a large print collection around this time. Borghini ordered prints from the Roman print publisher Antoine Lafrery through the Giunti book publishers in Florence. His inventory of purchases from the Giunti records ‘un Cristo di don Giulio.’ Borghini purchased this print in February 1567. Evaluating the inventory, Sharon Gregory and Eliana Carrara have proposed this was an earlier Lamentation engraved by Cornelis Cort after the design by Giulio Clovio published by Lafrery in 1566. Carrara & Gregory, 2000, pp. 12-13, no.13. Borghini’s inventory seems to indicate that he did not own the two engravings after Glovio and Zuccaro mentioned here. 85 Naldini also raised Christ’s body upon a stone in the Pesaro panel (fig. 9.7). 240 were coming to bury the Lord.’86 Naldini (fig. 9.10) cleverly transforms Clovio’s Nicodemus. In a flurry of strokes he captures a dramatic and inventive figure, leaning over the mourners with his head turned sharply to the left, projecting a profile view. Nicodemus urgently thrusts out his urn of myrrh. The vessel of precious spices hangs precariously above the seated Virgin’s head. In complete contrast to the slow, calm tenderness of the other mourners, he appears extremely eager to anoint and bury Christ’s body. Clovio’s Mary Magdalene (fig. 9.11) wraps her right arm under Christ’s legs and touches his calf muscle. Naldini retains this gesture, leaving a few quick loops to suggest the fingers of her hand. He pivots her upper body, drops her left shoulder and she appears to draw closer to Christ. Naldini preserves the huddled intimacy of the central figures, but intensifies the actions of the surrounding protagonists.

Pontormo’s method of arranging protagonists in circular compositions had a profound influence on his pupil.87 The protagonists of Pontormo’s Pietà (fig. 9.14) for the Capponi Chapel in Santa Felicita are grouped to crowd the entire composition. Their compact gathering, brought close to the picture plane, flattens and challenges the spatial plausibility of the setting. However, Pontormo cleverly combined the conventional iconography – the bearing of Christ’s body to the tomb, the swoon of the Virgin, and gestures of grief – to devise a complex circular transition between actions. John Shearman perceived two dominant movements in Pontormo’s composition: one operating on the horizontal register, where Christ’s body is carried from left to right

86 Ragusa & Green, 1961, p. 340. This important devotional text, traditionally attributed to ‘pseudo- Bonaventure’, survives in over 200 manuscript versions in both Latin and almost every European vernacular. Its authorship remains contested though often given to Giovanni de’ Cauli (Johannes de Caulibus) of San Gemignano, see Stallings-Taney, 1997, pp. ix-xi. More recently McNamer, 2009 & 2010, has proposed an anonymous Tuscan nun ‘probably, but not necessarily, a Poor Clare’. For another study of the Meditationes in the context of Franciscan female spirituality see Flora, 2003 & 2009. 87 Pontormo experimented with circular compositions on many occasions; see his preparatory drawings for the Lamentation, c. 1519, San Michele altar, Empoli; Vertumnus and Pomona, c. 1519- 21, Villa Poggio a Caiano; Christ in Glory (1545-1556) San Lorenzo, Florence. Cox-Rearick, 1981, vol. 1, nos.103, 131, 359; figs. 105, 123, 345. It is important to note that like other early modern artists, Pontormo would not have visualised his compositions as a series of curves or serpentine lines. To modern eyes, lines sometimes appear written with the body, because maniera painters tempered anatomical accuracy with contrapposto and visually effective postural schemata. Our perception of early modern paintings as systems of curves, circles, or particular two-dimensional geometric shapes (like the pyramidal compositional template), must be subjected to the complex system of figuration that determined this period. In describing some of Pontormo’s compositions as circular, I do not accept an historically flawed perception of Mannerism as stylisation or abstraction. This has been emphasised at length by Akker, 2010. 241 and at the same time lowered forward, and the other along the vertical axis, with the Virgin falling backward in a swoon. Together these movements function ‘inwards and outwards’ and convincingly create a ‘rotational effect’.88

Naldini experimented with a similar cycle of movement in a rapid pen drawing (fig. 9.15). The drawing was executed around the same time as the sketch inspired by Clovio and Zuccaro, and preserves an alternative solution to the vertical orientation of the altarpiece.89 Three figures dominate the centre and foreground, huddled intimately around the dead Christ. The event unfolds horizontally within the vertical dimensions of the image. Other surrounding mourners direct the viewer’s attention to Christ in the centre with extended arms. Naldini appropriates the foreshortened arm of Saint Paul from Andrea del Sarto’s Pietà (fig. 9.16) for San Piero a Luco. He arranges the poses of the foreground figures – Joseph of Arimathea, the Madonna, Mary Magdalene, and the dead Christ – so that they bend and overlap in an intimate circle. The eye easily meanders through their grieving gestures and Christ’s twisted limbs in a continuous loop. In his Minerbetti Lamentation (fig. 9.4), Naldini settled on a similarly dense band of mourners arranged horizontally across the middle ground.

For reasons that are not immediately apparent, Naldini placed Mary Magdalene in the left foreground (fig. 9.23) of the Minerbetti Lamentation. There was a former chapel in Santa Maria Novella dedicated to the penitent Mary Magdalene, but after Vasari’s renovations it was destroyed and no new chapel was re-dedicated to the saint.90 No member of the Minerbetti family is known to have been connected to the cult of Mary Magdalene. However, later in his life Naldini became a member of a lay confraternity of the disciplinati, la Compagnia dei Bianchi. New documents found by the author

88 Shearman, 1971, p. 14. 89 The dimensions of the sheet closely correspond to the pages of Naldini’s palm-sized sketchbook in Siena, which contains several preparatory studies for the Minerbetti altarpiece. 90 According to the eighteenth-century Cronaca annalistica del convento di S. Maria Novella compiled by Vincenzo Borghigiani, and partly published by Marcia Hall, an altar dedicated to the penitent Mary Magdalene was located next to the tomb of Jacopo Altoviti in the sixth bay of the left aisle, adjacent to the west transept. Hall explains that the old altar was dismantled when the entire bay transferred to Alessandro Strozzi. Borghigiani writes ‘[...] secondo alcuni scrittori, v’era l’Altare eretto e dedicato a S. Maria Maddalena Penitente dal Vescovo di Fiesole Maestro Iacopo Altoviti, assai devote di detta Santa.’ Stefano Orlandi, ‘Necrologio’ di S. Maria Novella, 1955, vol. 2, p. 401; quoted in Hall, 1979, p. 108. And ‘Lo Altare di S. Maria Maddalena Penitente situate di là dalla Pila de’ Regnadori verso mezzodì.’ quoted in Hall, 1979, doc.2, p. 167. Therefore, the new Minerbetti chapel in the forth bay of the right aisle was a fair distance from the former altar of the penitent Mary Magdalene. 242 reveal that this same confraternity was dedicated to Mary Magdalene.91 It is not clear whether this directly motivated her prominent placement in the panel.92 In the absence of further archival studies, I argue that Naldini’s reasons for placing Mary Magdalene in the foreground were motivated by competing compositional interests and more importantly by his decision to combine two narrative events: the Lamentation and the Carrying of Christ’s body to the Tomb.

Naldini removed Mary Magdalene from her traditional place at Christ’s feet, and exchanged her with a semi-nude young man. This sensuous figure will be discussed below. To his left (fig. 9.17), rushing in beside the turbaned Joseph of Arimathea is another young man. He supports Christ’s arm with his right hand, and the shroud interrupts his direct contact with the sacred flesh. His left hand grasps the twisted folds of the white shroud and stretches them above. When we combine the actions of these two young men together it becomes clear that we are moments away from the Bearing of Christ’s body to the Tomb.93 This event was often treated as an independent subject, and two additional drawings document Naldini’s experiments with the theme.94 Naldini planned to capture this moment just before Christ’s body

91 ‘Compagnia del Crocifisso di Santa Maria Maddalena de Bianchi’. ASF, Capitoli delle Compagnie Religiose Soppresse, Capitoli della Compagnia de Bianchi, 537, see title on cover; described as ‘caritativa fraternità’ on fol. 3. A legal agreement drafted between the confraternity and the Celestine friars of San Michele Visdomini suggests that the titles were interchangeable: ‘Compagnia della Maddalena altrimenti del Crocifisso de Bianchi’. ASF, Compagnie Religiose Soppresse da Pietro Leopoldo, 328, San Michele Visdomini, Filza 15 [Compagnia de Bianchi], lodo, 22 March 1580, unpaginated [fol. 1]. 92 For Northern examples of Mary Magdalene directly engaging with viewers as a ‘mediating witness’ of Christ’s Passion see Trowbridge, 2011. 93 For the time-bound nature of religious narratives see Shearman, 1992. 94 Naldini employs a lateral orientation of Christ’s body in his drawing of Christ carried to the tomb (Florence, GDSU 709 F). Raphael’s Entombment (1507, Galleria Borghese, Rome) has long been considered the iconographic model for this subject. See Alexander Nagel’s different interpretation on the relationship between the Entombment for Atalanta Baglioni and the Meleger sculptural relief. Nagel, 2000, pp. 113-140. I have applied Nagel’s distinction between lateral narrative and the frontal presence of the icon tradition to my observations on Naldini. In many ways the lateral orientation most effectively communicates the transportation of a body. Naldini’s second drawing (private collection, Prato) reveals that he also experimented with a frontal display of Christ’s body. (Battista Naldini, Entombment, Prato, Collezione Loriano Bertini, reproduced in Petrioli Tofani, 1982, p. 81, fig. 39). In the Prato drawing Naldini still represents Christ carried to the sepulchre laterally, but as he is lifted, his upper body is drastically turned to face the viewer. Occupying the central position of the narrative, lifted up, and rendered with the minimum use of wash, Christ’s body gleams. Naldini clearly reveals that he intended the pallor of Christ’s dead flesh to be strongly illuminated against the dark rocky outcrop of the tomb. Moreover, by positioning Christ in direct communion with the viewer, Naldini created a stronger and more affective image. Hovering in transient time, in the precise center of the composition, Christ’s body demands the viewer’s attention. This frontal orientation of Christ’s body would have had greater potential to evoke feelings of devotion than his lateral portrayal of Christ (Uffizi 709 F). To my knowledge, neither of Naldini drawings were realised in paint. 243 was lifted from the ground. This is especially clear in the preparatory study for the central group of figures (fig. 9.19), where the shroud is sharply defined in red chalk. Its heavy lines describe tightly stretched fabric lifted high above the kneeling Joseph of Arimathea. Unfortunately, the final painting (fig. 9.17) loses much of the force of this sudden action, when Naldini decides to represent the shroud hanging loosely from the young man’s grasp.95 Naldini’s initial intentions are clearly visible in the meticulously painted bozzetto (fig. 9.18) for the altarpiece. Here the shroud extends and partly overlaps Joseph, intensifying the action of the young body bearer.

All of these narrative features are crucial to communicating the agonising separation of Christ from his mother, from the mourners, and from the viewer.96 Medieval devotional literature, particularly the Meditationes vitae Christi, addressed this moment of rupture. When Joseph implores the Lady Mary to allow them to bury Christ, she answers: ‘My Friends, do not wish to take my Son so soon; or else bury me with Him.’97 After much mourning, the dead Christ is prepared for burial and the Madonna finally relinquishes his body after reflecting on their joyful life together and her acceptance of this ‘hard and exceedingly painful’ redemption of humankind and then she exclaims: ‘O my Son, how terrible this separation is.’98 According to John Shearman, Pontormo’s Capponi altarpiece (fig. 9.14) captures the moment when the Madonna loses contact with her son’s body. He convincingly argues that Pontormo represented ‘the rupture of one group into two’, on the right, the holy women begin to cluster around the swooning Madonna, and on the left, Christ’s body is being carried to the tomb.99 Naldini represents the event several seconds before. The Madonna remains in contact with her son, tenderly lacing her fingers around his wrist.100 Joseph of Arimathea and the two youths prepare to lift Christ’s body, and his distance from the picture plane (fig. 9.4) heightens this moment of separation.

95 This seems to be because he needed to display the outstretched hand of the female figure behind. 96 I have been strongly influenced by Alexander Nagel’s discussion of Michelangelo’s London Entombment, and his thoughts on the viewer’s imagined participation in the gospel event. Nagel, 2000, p. 33. John Shearman first stressed the importance of understanding the exact moment captured in paintings of the Lamentation and Entombment. He interprets Michelangelo’s Entombment panel as presenting the viewer with ‘the experience of the rupturing group seen from within.’ Shearman, 1992, pp. 79-94. 97 Ragusa & Green, 1961, p. 342. 98 Ragusa & Green, 1961, p. 344. 99 Shearman, 1992, p. 89. 100 This gesture, as Sherman demonstrates, derives from antique representations of the Death of Meleager, and featured prominently in many Cinquecento Lamentations since Raphael’s Entombment (1507). Shearman, 1992, pp. 86, 89, figs. 65-67, 70. 244 This representational choice no doubt influenced the position of Mary Magdalene, who has left the company of the Madonna and her former place at Christ’s feet. She now dominates the foreground. Her jar of ointment (fig. 9.23) has become an enormous urn, wreathed in ribbons of fabric. Naldini also wanted to display the legacy of his teacher by reworking one of his famous figures into his pose of Mary Magdalene. Both the Pucci panel (fig. 9.22) and Minerbetti altarpiece (fig. 9.23) reveal that Naldini directly appropriated Pontormo’s Saint Veronica (fig. 9.20) from the Certosa Way to Calvary.101 Naldini’s quotation was not the result of an inability to devise his own figure. He was proud to acknowledge his teacher. He also adapted the pose of Pontormo’s soldier (9.24) into the figure of his young body bearer lifting the shroud (fig. 9.25), substituting flowing robes for the soldier’s tights and doublet with slashed sleeves. Naldini knew his master’s Way to Calvary extremely well, especially after painting a meticulously copy of the fresco.102 From this discussion it is clear that Naldini experimented with several creative variants before settling on a composition that retained the huddled intimacy of Christ’s mourners within the vertical orientation of the altarpiece. Naldini paid homage to Pontormo by adapting his figures and also by devising a circular transition between gestures for his central protagonists.

101 Pontormo’s Way to Calvary was one of the five frescoes painted for the large cloister of the Carthusian monastery, la Certosa del Galluzzo, between 1523 and 1526. 102 Reproduced in Bietti, 1996, p. 69, plate XVI. 245 Emotion in maniera painting

For religious viewers to fully grasp the significance of Christ’s ransom, it was essential that painters represent the pathos of his passion. Therefore, the claim that a sixteenth-century artist deliberately evaded emotion in his paintings is entirely misguided.103 Naldini’s close Florentine contemporaries offer abundant evidence that they perceived emotional states in his painted protagonists.

Francesco Bocchi provides a close contemporary perspective on sacred images produced in the wake of the Council of Trent. His guidebook, Le Bellezze della città di Fiorenza (1591), generously praised many Tuscan artists. Bocchi granted Naldini epithets that expressed his talents and implied his observance of decorum. He called Naldini a ‘wise’ (savio) and ‘considerate artificer’ (discreto artifice) for devising impressive aesthetic solutions and correctly representing sacred narratives in accordance with their gospel accounts. Naldini’s Nativity for Jacopo Mazzinghi occurs at night, correctly following the facts (come chiede la ragione del fatto) and ‘evokes in one’s mind what is written in the Gospel.’104 Naldini’s Ascension of Christ (fig. 9.28) expresses ‘that which the holy scriptures narrate […] with effortless study and unlaboured craftsmanship.’105

Bocchi especially valued painters who were able to represent the dispositions of their protagonists, a quality he termed costume, roughly translated as ‘character depiction.’106 He describes expressions in terms of affetto and affettuoso, words potentially more emotive in meaning for cinquecento Florentines than their English

103 According to Hall, 1979, p. 41, the typical maniera artist resorted to quotation because, among other reasons, he was ‘embarrassed to express emotion.’ She also argues that individual figure studies gave Naldini ‘the means for avoiding the expression of emotion.’ Hall, 1979, p. 100. 104 Bocchi, 1591, p. 111. Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, pp. 114-16. Since Marcia Hall’s discovery of additional documentation, this Nativity has been more accurately called Adoration of the Shepherds with the Seven Archangels. Hall, 1979, pp. 97-98. 105 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 89. Bocchi, 1591, p. 78. 106 Bocchi first mentioned costume in his 1567 Discorso sopra l’eccellenza dell’opere d’Andrea del Sarto, pittore fiorentino. Of the five qualities held to pervade the paintings of Andrea del Sarto, Bocchi considered the didactic quality of costume to be the most important for the general viewer. He compared costume to character portrayal in drama. In the Discoro, Bocchi’s Andrea del Sarto is able to fashion protagonists that act as exemplary models of virtue for viewers. Williams, 1989, pp. 112-15. Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, pp. 13-14. 246 equivalents ‘affect’ and ‘affectionate.’107 Bocchi celebrated the ‘unique affection’ (singular affetto) of the Virgin in Naldini’s nocturnal Nativity (fig. 9.31) as she adored her child and conveyed her devotion.108 He commended Naldini’s Purification of the Virgin (fig. 9.26) for representing the Madonna’s ‘graceful and chaste movements’, and praised the ‘graceful humility’ with which she was imbued in his later painting of the same theme in San Niccolò oltr’Arno (fig. 9.27).109 Bocchi gave special attention to Naldini’s Ascension of Christ (fig. 9.28) painted for Lena Ottonelli.110 The didactic quality of costume emerges once again in his reading of the Virgin: The Madonna is marvellous, rendered with infinite grace. With her hands clasped she turns her sight toward the Saviour, and it seems as if she were sighing. All the figures around her turn their hands and faces towards her with appropriate [dicevole] movements and decorous poses [attitudine onesta].111

Bocchi concludes: ‘Thus, devotion and holy thoughts are born in of those that contemplate [this work].’112

Naldini prepared two compositional sketches (figs. 9.29 & 9.30) of the large assembly gathered on the Mount of Olives to witness the ascension of Christ. Together they document his consideration of the centrally directed focus of the apostles and accompanying saints. The sighing expression that Bocchi so admired in Naldini’s Madonna (fig. 9.36) began with the attentive examination of a male apprentice (fig. 9.35); but it was an expression that Naldini had used several years before in his San Simone Pietà of 1566 (figs. 9.37 & 9.38). For the Madonna’s pose, Naldini looked to

107 See definitions of affetto, affettuoso, dolere and dolente in the Crusca, 1612, pp. 25, 301-302; and Florio, 1598, pp. 9, 111. 108 ‘[…] con dolce colorito è stata la Vergine effigiata di singular affetto, et adorando il suo figliuolo spira in suo sembiante divozione.’ Bocchi, 1591, p. 111. Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 114. 109 Purification of the Virgin (1577) for Giovanni da Sommaia in Santa Maria Novella: ‘[…] la Madonna con movenza graziosa e molto onesta si presenta […]’ Bocchi, 1591, pp. 111-12. Purification of the Virgin (c. 1590) for Amerigo da Verrazzano in San Niccolò oltr’Arno: Bocchi delights in the movement of the Virgin as she hands the Christ child to Simeon: Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 125. ‘È fatta la madre del Salvatore con graziosa umiltà e, mentre che porge il figliuolo al sacerdote, fa movenza, che è molto dicevole all'atto che adopera.’ Bocchi, 1591, p. 124. 110 The altarpiece was formerly located in the Chapel of the Compagnia di Sant’Agnese in Santa Maria del Carmine, Florence. Naldini took over the commission for the altarpiece in 1571 after the death of Maso da San Friano. See Cannon Brookes, 1965, pp. 195-96; Clover, 1999. Although the altarpiece was destroyed in the fire of 1771, its design is preserved in the painted bozzetto (fig. 9.28) in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, WA1964.41.1 (417 Ar). 111 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 89. ‘È mirabile la Madonna et è fatta con infinita grazia la quale, con le man giunte, volge la vista quasi con sospiri verso il Salvatore e così chiunque a lei è d'intorno con le mani e col volto si drizza a quella con movenza dicevole, con attitudine onesta […].’ Bocchi, 1591, p. 78. 112 ‘[…] onde in chi contempla nascono santi pensieri e divozione.’ Bocchi, 1591, p. 78. For an alternative translation see Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 89. 247 a renowned Florentine exemplar: Andrea del Sarto’s personification of Hope (fig. 9.32) in the Chiostro dello Scalzo. Bocchi explained that artists praised Andrea’s Hope for her ‘extraordinary and unique pose, with clasped hands and face turned to heaven with great longing, a gesture that reveals a devout and pious emotion.’113 As was discussed in chapter seven, Vincenzio Borghini owned a sculptural rendition of Andrea’s Hope in wax, to which Naldini had access. The Ospedale degli Innocenti also housed a sculptural ensemble of life-sized painted terracotta figures representing the Nativity.114 These Neo-Quattrocentesque sculptures by Marco della Robbia would have been familiar to Naldini, and included a statue of the Madonna (fig. 9.39) in a similar devout pose.115 Three drawings also document Naldini’s study of the St Agnese Altarpiece by Andrea in Pisa.116 The saint’s sighing expression (fig. 9.34) may have been Naldini’s earliest inspiration, possibly recorded in an untraced drawing and recreated with a garzone in the studio.

Bocchi reveals that maniera painters portrayed appropriate emotions and roused feelings of devotion in viewers. This is especially evident in his discussion of how religious protagonists lament the dead Christ. Bocchi described a Lamentation of ‘rare beauty’ by Francesco Salviati (figs. 9.40-42) in the private chapel of the Palazzo Ricasoli: ‘the Marys are shown in a variety of poses and their faces reveal a grief befitting [dicevole molto] the great love they feel for their master.’117 Bocchi described the ‘pained expression’ (volto addolorato) of these protagonists with the decorum term dicevole to emphasise that these emotional states were suited to the holy women.118 The Virgin (fig. 9.43) in Salviati’s Dini Deposition (1548) is

113 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 221. Bocchi, 1591, p. 237. 114 Sandri, 1996, p. 62. 115 Marco della Robbia, Madonna, c. 1505, Florence, Museo degli Innocenti. Laura Cavazzini in Sandri, 1996, pp.140-41, fig. 99. Scorza, 2003a, p. 103, fig. 20. 116 Naldini studied three of Andrea’s Saints: Catherine of Alexandria (Oxford, Christ Church Picture Gallery, inv. 0838v); Margaret (Florence, GDSU 14443 Fv) Both reproduced in Thiem, 2002, nos.2-3; and St Peter (London, British Museum inv. 1947,0412.152v). No drawing of Sant’Agnese is known to survive. 117 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 111. ‘Mostrano le Marie in atti diversi sembiante di volto addolorato, dicevole molto al grande affetto di amore, che portano al suo maestro.’ Bocchi, 1591, p. 107. The altarpiece is identified as the panel in the Galleria Palatina (inv. 115) by Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 111, fig. 43. Philip Costamagna proposed Giambattista Ricasoli, bishop of Cortona as the patron and dated the Salviati’s altarpiece to c. 1543-1545, see Rome & Paris, 1998, no.35, p. 144. 118 Robert Gaston’s research on the language of decorum has been instrumental in demonstrating the rhetorical strategies that art theorists used to legitimise contemporary painting. Gaston, 2013b & Gaston, 2014. 248 described as portrayed ‘with great understanding: her appearance is sad, and she weeps as she looks at her Son, creating devout thoughts in the onlooker and fully expressing her overwhelming feeling of love.’119

The female mourners in Naldini’s Minerbetti Lamentation (fig. 9.17) were similarly described: ‘The expression of suffering [vista dolente] of the Marys, where each is most knowledgably depicted, is full of affectionate thought.’120 Raffaello Borghini, writing less than a decade before Bocchi, misinterpreted the pose of Naldini’s Virgin as a swoon. However, he also recognised that the holy Marys revealed a ‘great feeling of grief’ (grandissimo affetto di dolore) in their facial expressions.121 These expressions of grief (volti addolorati) stand at odds with Marcia Hall’s argument that maniera painters avoided representing emotion. Consider her description of the same protagonists: ‘Naldini’s figures are gentle shadows, moving silently in a world where emotion scarcely exists.’122

Protagonists do not scream in the Lamentations of Naldini or Salviati. There are no women pulling their hair; no women gasping for air or distraught in states of inconsolable grief. There was an established iconographic convention to represent some of the holy women attending Christ’s Crucifixion and burial in extreme emotional states. One particularly passionate tradition portrayed a wailing, grief- stricken woman throwing her arms up in the air.123 Naldini’s contemporary

119 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 153. ‘[…] la Vergine è fatta con gran sapere e nel sembiante mesto e, mentre che mira il suo figliuolo, lagrimante, crea in altrui pensieri di divozione et a pieno fa fede dell'affetto suo eccessivo di amore.’ Bocchi, 1591, p. 160. For the altarpiece see Hall, 1979, pp. 122-23. 120 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 116, I have slightly modified the authors’ translation of the following passage: ‘La vista dolente delle Marie (dove è ciascuna con gran sapere effigiata) è colma di affettuoso pensier [...]’ Bocchi, 1591, p. 112. Compare Frangenberg and William’s translation of the related phrase: ‘San Paolo, che aprendo le mani mostra di dolore pensiero affettuoso’ as ‘St Paul, who spreads his arms, expressing the most affecting sorrow.’ Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 138. Bocchi, 1591, p. 145. 121 ‘[…] è nella tavola de’ Minorbetti in Santa Maria Novella e questo l’hanno i Pucci. Dipinse poscia quella tavola che gli diede tanto nome, in cui è Cristo morto in braccio alle Marie, le quali nel viso mostrano grandissimo affetto di dolore e la Vergine è in atto di svenirsi et il corpo del Nostro Signore non si può disiderare fatto con più arte, né che meglio rappresenti il naturale.’ Borghini, 1584, p. 614. 122 Hall, 1979, p. 68. 123 This gesture remained a prominent feature of Italian Lamentations throughout the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries. Barasch, 1976, pp. 60-86, 103-15. In 1937 Frederick Antal and Edgar Wind traced the origins of this mourning Christian figure to the maenad, the female devotee of Dionysus, dancing ecstatically in her religious revels. Aby Warburg instigated this investigation in his bilderatlas of 249 Alessandro Allori perhaps came closest to retaining these more emphatic gestures from the Quattrocento in his painting of the Deposition (figs. 9.44 & 9.45) after a bronze relief by Baccio Bandinelli.124 Bandinelli in turn had absorbed these gestures from Donatello.125 Naldini incorporated the gesture in one of the holy women (fig. 9.46) standing behind the Virgin. But where Donatello’s holy women and even Bandinelli’s are more Dionysian in their emotional extremes, owing to their iconographic origins in the Maenad, Naldini quells the drama considerably.

Expressions of mourning in maniera Lamentations may not be heightened, but they still exist. Francesco Salviati left subtle signs of grief in his Lamentation (fig. 9.48) commissioned by Bernardo Moro for the church of Corpus Domini in Venice.126 Silver tears glide down the Madonna’s cheek (fig. 9.47).127 The design was reused in the tapestry woven around 1545 by Nicolas Karcher’s workshop for Duke Cosimo.128 The weavers detailed a profusion of tears pouring out over the Madonna’s tightly clasped hands (fig. 9.49), and over Christ’s hand, tenderly held by Mary Magdalene (fig. 9.50). The pathos captured in these expressions must have satisfied Duchess Eleonora di Toledo, who used Salviati’s Lamentation tapestry as a panno d’altare in her private chapel for several years after Bronzino’s altarpiece was sent to France.129 Candace Adelson argues that the composition was designed so that the worshipper kneeling before the altar could partake in the event as an additional mourner.130

Naldini drew upon his recent studies of the Laocoön (figs. 9.51-57), the famous Hellenistic exemplar of emotional distress.131 The Siena sketchbook contains many pathosformeln, and discussed maenads briefly in his 1905 lecture on ‘Durer and Italian Antiquity’. Warburg-Britt, 1999, pp. 552-55. 124 Lecchini Giovannoni, 1991, p. 231, no.36, fig. 72. Middeldorf, 1932. 125 Antal, 1937, p. 72. Barasch, 1976, pp. 103-115, figs. 48, 49, & 53a. Viatte, 2014. 126 Rome & Paris, 1998, no.23, p. 124. 127 Salviati’s composition contains other important iconographic details. He includes a gentle flow of blood from the wound in Christ’s side to his groin, a feature that Leo Steinberg, 1996, pp. 168-71, termed the ‘blood-hyphen’ which links the last emission of Christ’s blood from the lance of Longinus to his first letting of blood during the Circumcision. Salviati provides a generous knot in Christ’s blue- tinged loincloth as a clear indication of Christ’s manhood and an essential feature of his Incarnation. The arma Christi (nails, crown of thorns, lance of Longinus, and vinegar sponge) are not laid out before the viewer in the foreground, but rather held aloft by an angel as sacred relics. 128 Rome & Paris, 1998, no.117, p. 292. 129 Cox-Rearick, 1993, pp. 82, 341, doc.20, reveals that the tapestry was inventoried as ‘panno d’altare’; cited in Bosch, 2014, pp. 199-200. 130 Adelson in Rome & Paris, 1998, p. 292. 131 For the history and reception of the Laocoön group see Bober & Rubinstein, 1986, no.122, pp. 151-55. 250 preparatory studies (fig. 9.72) for the Minerbetti altarpiece together with studies of sculptural fragments.132 The Laocoön offered Naldini a contortion of pain, extreme contrapposto, dynamic movement, and three of the most anguished expressions in classical sculpture.133 However, Naldini subjected the model to different purposes. He favoured a three-quarter view, and tilted one of the heads (fig. 9.66) to describe a downcast profile. In several other studies (figs. 9.54-56) he experimented with the profil perdu by viewing the sculpture at a different vantage point. Naldini’s multiple view points of the sculpture indicate that he was studying plaster casts after Laocoön’s sons and complement his usual practice of extracting body parts from sculptural fragments.

Another sketchbook page preserves two head studies (fig. 9.68) that appear to be modelled closely on those in the earlier sheet (fig. 9.66). These drawings concentrate strictly on the face, and drastically cut down the physical turmoil preserved in the antique model. They distinctly lack the open wailing mouth and the creases of anguish that furrow the brow.134 Nevertheless these studies appear to have been Naldini’s point of departure for two figures in the Minerbetti Lamentation: the male litter bearer standing beside Joseph of Arimathea (figs. 9.70 & 9.71), and the holy woman with arms extended in grief behind the Virgin (figs. 9.67 & 9.69).135 The drawings from Nuremberg (fig. 9.52), Siena (9.54), and Florence (9.55), reveal more definitively that Naldini used the younger son of Laocoön for Mary Magdalene’s profil perdu (figs. 9.58. & 9.59).136 In fact, he appears to have extracted a facial type from the sculpture (figs. 9.60-62), which he continued to use into the 1580s (figs.

132 Siena, BCI, S.I.7, fols. 5r c, 10r a, 10v a & d, 12r b & d (fig. 9.72), 12v b & d, 14v a. 133 Ettlinger, 1961. 134 On closer inspection Naldini may have left subtle traces of their more dramatic origins. A thin line suggests that the lips of the face in profile are slightly parted (fig. 9.68), even if not agape in agony. Naldini’s pupil Francesco Curradi also quelled the expression of pain when he studied the sculpture. Rome, Istituto Centrale per la Grafica, inv. F.C. 126155, vol. 157 G 11. Reproduced in Rome, 1983, no.57, pp. 119-20. 135 In the Pucci panel (fig. 9.3) the face compares more closely to Naldini’s study after the antique model, preserving the open mouth of Laocoön’s son more visibly. However, faint similarities do not appear in the final painting, where the woman’s nose and forehead have merged to create a Grecian profile. 136 Paola Barocchi, 1965, p. 258, fig. 97c, first identified GDSU 7478 Fr as a preparatory study for Mary Magdalene in the Minerbetti Lamentation. Christel Thiem compared the Uffizi drawing to another sheet in Nuremberg (fig. 9.52), and recognised both as studies after the younger son of Laocoön. Thiem, 2002, nos.28-29, pp. 90-93. The Siena drawing has not been published. Annamaria Petrioli Tofani tentatively proposed that GDSU 7451 Fr (fig. 9.62) may also be a study after the Laocoön. Undated note on mount. 251 9.63-64). Much like his study related to the sighing Sant’Agnese, Naldini seems to have recast this Laocoön-inspired expression in the studio with life models. He may equally have relied on his memory by drawing da se as Vasari had insisted, or otherwise returned to his personal graphic storehouse of ideas, body parts, and compositions.137 These drawings suggest that nature and antiquity were complementary to Naldini. His fascination with the profile demonstrates that while the Laocoön offered heightened expressions of physical torment, which could have been easily adapted to the faces of Christian mourners in the Lamentation, Naldini was more interested in how the two parted lips varied and articulated the disappearing profile. He turned a poignant expression of suffering almost completely out of view, but left subtle signs of a mouth open in anguish. Mary Magdalene’s profil perdu (fig. 9.59) contributed enormously to the qualities that Francesco Bocchi most admired. He praised Naldini’s figure (fig. 9.23) to be without equal in ‘study’ (istudio) and ‘subtle workmanship’ (dolce artifizio), and was amazed by her relief (rilievo) or naturalistic projection.138 The slanted recession of her face was an essential ingredient of this illusion.

Within the traditional meditative texts on Christ’s Passion, the Lamentation offered religious viewers the chance to identify with biblical mourners, and see them as models of appropriate devotional behaviour.139 The Meditationes vitae Christi encouraged devotees to imaginatively position themselves within historically sacred events.140 Viewers could also contemplate and emulate the attitudes and gestures of painted protagonists.

The mourners in Naldini’s Lamentation (figs. 9.17) were designed to serve a similar purpose. All of the protagonists direct their eyes toward Christ or otherwise meditate on his Passion independently. The elder apostle (fig. 9.73) standing behind the young body bearer raises his head to the heavens with his hand on his heart and contemplates the divine.141 Mary Magdalene (fig. 9.23) has been presented in the foreground to act as an exemplar of proper devotion for the viewers standing or kneeling in front of the

137 Härb, 2005. Härb, 2015, pp. 5, 96-119. 138 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 116; Bocchi, 1591, p. 112. 139 Schiller, 1971-1972, vol. 2, p. 174. 140 Nagel, 2000, p. 33. 141 This figure is neither Nicodemus, standing in the foreground to the right, nor the turbaned Joseph of Arimathea, lifting Christ’s body. 252 altar.142 Subtle changes can be glimpsed between the earlier bozzetto (fig. 9.18) and the final altarpiece (fig. 9.17). Naldini shifts the standing figure (fig. 9.74) behind the Madonna with her back turned to the viewer in order to reveal the hands of the old woman which are clasped tightly in heartfelt prayer (fig. 9.75). By representing these details, Naldini reveals that he purposefully devised his composition to facilitate the devotional needs of viewers, and painted appropriate emotional states to serve the same end.

Raffaello Borghini and the Male Nude in Religious Painting

Raffaello Borghini’s Riposo responded to the criticisms recently voiced by theologians regarding inappropriate religious paintings. Borghini provided a simplified set of criteria to evaluate religious works, which were voiced by his most conservative spokesman, Bernardo Vecchietti. When painting sacred narratives, he advised artists to first follow inventions derived from the bible or other patristic sources. Second, they should ‘add to their inventions with very great consideration and judgment.’143 However, not every narrative could be elaborated since in most cases modifications bring ‘disgrace’ and ‘inappropriateness’ (disconvenevolezza). Third, every sacred image should communicate ‘modesty, reverence, and devotion’, and therefore move viewers to penitence, instead of lasciviousness.144 These criteria adhered to the decree on sacred images established by the Council of Trent.

142 Mary Magdalene has also been described as adopting this role elsewhere, see Nagel, 2000, p. 32. Lingo, 2008, p. 94. Compare with her direct address to the viewer in Northern Lamentations. Trowbridge, 2011. 143 Compare with the positions of Molanus and Vincenzo Borghini. Borghini-Barocchi, 1971, pp. 663-64; discussed by Currie, 1998, p. 153. As Robert Gaston has demonstrated, Johannes Vermeulen (Molanus) used the rhetoric of decorum when advising artists they could supplement their visual rendition with what was ‘probable and fitting’ (probabiliter & convenienter) to the sacred account. Molanus, De Picturis et Imaginibus Sacris, Louvain, 1570, chapter 13, fol. 35v. Gaston, 2013b, p. 87. 144 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 73. ‘la prima, che egli dee l’invenzione dalla sacra scrittura derivante semplicemente e puramente dipignere, come gli evangelisti o altri santi dottori della chiesa l’hanno scritta; acciò che le persone idiote, che nella pittura apparar vogliono, ricevano fedelmente nell’animo loro i santi misteri; la seconda, che con grandissima considerazione e giudicio aggiungano l’invenzion loro, conciosiacosaché non ad ogni istoria stia bene l’aggiugnerlavi, anzi il più delle volte mostri disgrazia e disconvenevolezza grande non essendo ben posta; la terza, e che sempre osservar deono nelle lor pitture, è l’onestà, la riverenza e la divozione; acciò che i riguardanti in cambio di compugnersi a penitenza nel rimirare quelle, più tosto non si commuovano a lascivia.’ Borghini, 1584, pp. 77-78. 253 Raffaello Borghini introduces Naldini’s Lamentation for the Minerbetti family under the subheading ‘A Christ deposed from the Cross painted without devotion.’145 This is not exceptional as almost every contemporary religious work is criticised in the first book of the Riposo for breaches of decorum ranging from representing the Madonna as an eighteen year old to the anachronistic inclusion of saints born centuries after Christ.

The conservative Vecchietti admits he is pleased by the painting, but he voices a serious scruple: the dead Christ (fig. 9.17) ‘appears to be a body coming out of the bath rather than one taken down from the cross.’146 Vecchietti explains that he would have been more pleased if Christ’s body displayed ‘evidence of the flagellation and of death.’147 Borghini was responding to Gilio’s 1564 dialogue addressing the abuses committed by painters. One of Gilio’s interlocutors Troilo Mattioli, a doctor of canon law, declared that viewers were moved to greater compassion by seeing Christ ‘bloodied and deformed, instead of beautiful and delicate.’148 Gilio’s speaker explains that there is a place for ‘the delicate body, beauty, lightness, and muscles’ in scenes of the Nativity, Circumcision, and Adoration of the Magi. Painters can display their knowledge of ‘anatomy and all the secrets of their art’ in the Baptism of Christ. Gilio ensures that Christ’s nudity accords to the rules of decorum, displaying the ‘virtue and force of beauty, the decorum of modesty and the wonder of holiness’. However, in representations of Christ’s Flagellation, Crucifixion, and Burial, the male nude should be ‘bloodied, ugly, deformed’ and truthful to his torment, suffering, and death.149

As an author aware of both his artistic and ecclesiastical audience, Borghini often counters the strong and conservative voice of Vecchietti with opinions of the artistically conscious Girolamo Michelozzi. The dialogues that result, address breaches of decorum and reprimand painters, while at the same time alleviating their severity with entertaining remarks.

145 ‘Cristo deposto di croce, dipinto senza divozione.’ Borghini, 1584, p. 103. 146 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 89. 147 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 89. ‘Ma passando all’altra tavola del Naldino, in cui è il deposto di croce, dico che mi piace; ma molto più mi piacerebbe quando il corpo del Cristo avesse più del flagellato e del morto, che egli non ha; che così par più tosto un corpo uscito del bagno, che sconfitto di croce.’ Borghini, 1584, p. 103. 148 ‘Molto più a compunzione moverebbe il vederlo sanguinolento e difformato, che non fa il vederlo bello e delicato.’ Gilio-Barocchi, 1960, p. 39. 149 Gilio-Barocchi, 1960, p. 40. 254 The lack of torn and lacerated flesh in Naldini’s Lamentation was of course not new in Italian painting. The prominent tradition of the male nude in Central Italian painting made little concessions for gruesome evidence of Christ’s suffering. In the painter’s defence, Borghini’s Michelozzi replied that the Marys in Naldini’s Lamentation have recently cleaned Christ’s body with precious ointments. Thus ‘Naldini has made him so soft [così dilicato] to show when he was washed and anointed.’150 The last comment on Naldini’s portrayal of Christ appears after the dialogue in Borghini’s biography on the painter: ‘[…] the body of Our Lord could not be desired to be done with more art nor represented more naturally.’151

Vecchietti made one exception to the lacerated, suffering Christ during his consideration of Giovanni Stradano’s Crucifixion in Santissima Annunziata. His comment immediately follows his friend’s carefree remark about the ‘very lascivious’ (tanto lascivo) near-nude angel in Bronzino’s Resurrection (fig. 9.77), installed the nearby Guadagni Chapel. Michelozzi freely admits he would gladly have this figure at home because it is among the ‘most delicate and soft figures it is possible to see.’152 Vecchietti is unwilling to speak of this ‘indecent’ (discovenevole) angel, and instead turns to praise of the Crucifixion (fig. 9.76) by the Flemish painter Stradano. Michelozzi interjects: ‘doesn’t the body of Christ appear to you rather delicate for someone suffering?’ Vecchetti agrees but justifies Stradano’s portrayal of the moment when Christ pardoned the good thief. Christ is therefore represented alive and Vecchietti says the ‘vital spirits still sustain’ his limbs in place.153 In his discussion of Allori’s Lamentation in Santa Maria Nuova (St Egidio), Vecchietti admits that ‘Christ’s body was beautiful’ but he cannot condone artists who deliberately represent his body ‘so soft and delicate’ (così molle e delicato) with parts ‘more alive than dead’ in order to display their art rather that move viewers to devotion.154

150 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 89. ‘ “Ricordatevi”, disse il Michelozzo, “che le Marie il lavarono e l’unsero con preziosi unguenti; et il Naldino l’ha fatto così dilicato per dimostrarloci quando fu lavato et unto […].’ Borghini, 1584, p. 103. 151 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 299. ‘[…] il corpo del Nostro Signore non si può disiderare fatto con più arte, né che meglio rappresenti il naturale.’ Borghini, 1584, p. 614. Sirigatti also praises Christ’s body as ‘bellissimo’. Borghini, 1584, p. 198. 152 Borghini, 1584, p. 116. 153 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 98. Borghini, 1584, p. 116-17. 154 Borghini, 1584, p. 105. 255 Naldini painted a more alluring figure crouching over Christ’s legs in his Lamentation (figs. 9.17). This semi-nude youth is a quintessential classical figura. The young man reaches forward with his billowing garments, and is a creative variant of figures from Naldini’s Allegory of Dreams for the studiolo of Principe Francesco I, painted a year before Naldini began designing the Minerbetti altarpiece. The youth compares closely to the nude female personification of Night (fig. 9.78) reclining on the step in the right foreground of the studiolo panel. She too slips out of her gown and turns rhythmically, with a similar billowing garment enhancing her movement.

The young man’s yellow robe loops behind to expose a muscular back as he reaches forward (figs. 9.81 & 9.83). Apart from this thin ribbon of yellow fabric, the man is as unclothed as Christ.155 Had Naldini painted a scantily clothed Mary Magdalene at Christ’s feet he would have undoubtedly attracted criticism. When Mary does touch Christ in scenes of the Lamentation the placement of her hands is an important concern of religious decorum. It would be highly indecorous for Mary to touch Christ above his knees.156 Although Naldini’s young man does not appear to have visible contact with Christ’s flesh, the right leg of the Savour disappears behind the young man’s outstretched arm, concealed between the shadowy recesses of the man’s thighs.

Stuart Lingo has persuasively demonstrated the contradictory dilemma that post- Tridentine artists faced. On the one hand, they were encouraged to paint lifelike figures that were compelling and alluring; while on the other, they were prohibited from any display of lasciviousness.157 Naldini exposed the young man’s flesh to clearly display his skill in creating a complex foreshortened lean. The curved back allowed Naldini to exploit his anatomical knowledge, in this case derived from a study of a live model and an antique torso (figs. 9.80-85). His palm-sized sketchbook

155 The slim yellow fabric curls down the man’s right leg, but there is no indication of yellow paint over his waist or above the advancing left leg, which is illuminated as it breaks out of shadow. This would have been an extremely difficult pose to convincingly represent with a fully clothed figure. 156 Early Lamentations by Botticelli (c. 1490-91, Munich, Alte Pinakothek; and c. 1495 Milan, Museo Poldi Pezzoli) and Fra Bartolomeo (c. 1511-12, Florence, Palazzo Pitti) veil the hands of Mary Magdalene as she touches Christ’s flesh. Gaston, 2013a, p. 109, comments on how Bronzino’s Pietà for Eleonora da Toledo ‘provocatively’ repositions Mary Magdalene’s hand to touch Christ beneath the thigh. Consider also Bronzino’s Pietà for Lorenzo Campi, and the proximity of St. John’s hand to Christ’s groin in Bronzino’s small Pietà on copper (c. 1568-69) for Francesco I. Reproduced in Florence, 2010, no.VI.II, p. 316. Compare with the teasing advance of Mary Magdalene’s hand in Jacopino del Conte’s Lamentation (c. 1547-1553), Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica, Palazzo Barberini inv. 2501. Vannugli, 1991, p. 83, fig. 18. 157 Lingo, 2008, pp. 143-48; and 2013, pp. 115-17. 256 contains two studies after this sculptural source (figs. 9.80 & 9.85). Naldini must have had a plaster cast of the torso close at hand when he drew his near-nude studio apprentice, because he studied the sculpture again in the bottom right corner of the page (fig. 9.82).158 He asked his apprentice to crouch and lean his upper body, and looked to the antique model to properly articulate the bent abdominal muscles. In the Pucci panel (fig. 9.81) the young bearer exposes more of his back, and the shoulder blades (especially the right scapula) protrude to a greater extent because Naldini relies more on the sculpture; whereas in the final altarpiece (fig. 9.83), the young man’s head and neck are adjusted to a more natural position.

Naldini’s intention was most likely to capture a vivid, realistic figure that would earn the respect of fellow artists. Bocchi praised another dynamic figure in Salviati’s Deposition in Santa Croce that was ‘almost entirely nude’ (quasi è tutta ignuda). This figure (fig. 9.86) was ‘greatly admired and endlessly praised by artists’ and Bocchi explained: ‘One could not express how alive and made of flesh he seems, and how the pose of his body makes him seem not painted, but almost real and in relief.’159

Given the amount of exposed flesh, Naldini’s figure is arguably the strongest sensual element in the Minerbetti Lamentation. However, Raffaello Borghini’s interlocutors are strangely silent, despite his proximity to Christ and the central istoria. In similar moments of silence, Stuart Lingo reasons that the speakers in the dialogue ‘implicitly accept’ certain nude figures because they are ‘marginal’ to the main narrative.160

The conservative Vecchietti makes a rare exception to a beautiful figure (this time clothed) that challenges established conventions. When the friends stop to discuss Francesco Morandini’s Purification of the Virgin (fig. 9.87), Vecchietti asks why a graceful young woman has usurped the place of the old Prophetess Anna. Sirigatti answers that Francesco painted her as Anna, but he did not want to represent her as an old woman who would give little pleasure to the eye in the most beautiful aspect of his panel.’161 The gospel account in Luke describes Anna as an extremely devout

158 Reproduced in Thiem, 2002, no.56, pp. 158-59. The study in the lower right of the sheet seems to derive from a sculptural source because of the faint circle suggesting a fragmented neck. 159 Bocchi-Frangenberg & Williams, 2006, p. 153. Bocchi, 1591, p. 160. 160 Lingo, 2013, p. 128-30. 161 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 89. 257 woman of eighty-four years.162 To those that insisted Anna was missing, the painter replied that ‘if they like’ they can identify her in the face of an old woman at the edge of the scene.163 Vecchietti laughs, and excuses the painter for being young and wanting to see a ‘graceful girl’ instead of an old woman.164

Vecchietti’s carefree concession may lend support to Marcia Hall’s argument that maniera painters substituted bellezza for iconographic content. Gilio was describing a similar substitution when he wrote that modest and devout figures had been replaced by nudes and contorted acrobats. However, this substitution is not at the cost of genuine emotional expression, for the young woman in Morandini’s Purification still acknowledges the Christ Child with joy. The ornamental features of the panel are given a prominent presence in the poses of the foreground figures, and the main narrative is minimised in the middle ground.

Lingo’s explanation of an unresolved tension between the demands of art and devotion in late Cinquecento Florence presents a more accurate account of the complex situation that artists faced. Lingo demonstrates that Borghini’s Riposo presents several different voices, and argues that the conservative ‘Tridentine’ Vecchietti does not have the final say on nudity in sacred paintings.165 As to Naldini’s young male figure, his alluring soft flesh may have appealed especially to the patron Bernardetto Minerbetti.

Vasari wrote that Bernardetto treasured a Young John the Baptist in the desert painted by Giovann’Antonio Lappoli. This was very ‘dear’ to the bishop (da lui tenuto caro) because the ‘almost entirely nude’ saint displayed a ‘most good figure’ (bonissima figura).166 Vasari strategically chose a more neutral term (buono) that could describe

162 Luke 2:37. 163 Borghini, 1584, p. 102-3. 164 Borghini-Ellis, 2007, p. 89. ‘“Voi mi fate venir voglia di ridere”, soggiunse il Vecchietto, “e son forzato a dire lui aver ragione, essendo egli ancor giovane, a voler più tosto vedere una leggiadra fanciulla, che una vecchia grave per gli anni […].’ Borghini, 1584, p. 103. In 1755 the Jesuit Giuseppe Richa remarked that Poppi’s ‘much praised’ work portrayed the Purification of the Virgin ‘very well’ (si bene). He read this passage from Borghini’s dialogue as setting out ‘not to censure, but as a joke’. Richa, 1989, vol. 2, p. 17. 165 Lingo, 2013, pp. 124, 128. 166 ‘Fece [Giovann’Antonio Lappoli] […] una Iudith che mette la testa d’Oloferne in una sporta tenuta da una sua servente, la quale ha oggi monsignor messer Bernardetto Minerbetti vescovo d’Arezzo, il quale amò assai Giovan Antonio, come fa tutti gl’altri virtuosi, e da lui ebbe, oltre all’altre 258 the figure’s saintly qualities, rather than emphasise his physical charm with words like bello or vago. Like Borghini’s Vecchietti, the Bishop of Arezzo may have privately tolerated Naldini’s scantily clad ‘classical figura’, in spite of his close proximity to Christ. By including this pose, Naldini was able to narrate the transition from the Lamentation to Christ being carried to the tomb, therefore merging two events from Christ’s Passion, which he treated as independent subjects on other occasions. Naldini presented his knowledge of anatomy to his artistic audience, but the figure also contributed to communicating the agonising separation of the dead Christ from his mother, and in turn addressed the devotional needs of the religious viewer.

cose, un S. Giovan Batista giovinetto nel deserto, quasi tutto ignudo, che è da lui tenuto caro, perché è bonissima figura.’ Vasari-Milanesi, 1998, vol. 6, p. 15. 259 Conclusion

Like many inspired by the kinetic bravura of rapid drawing, the eighteenth-century connoisseur Antoine-Joseph Dézallier d’Argenville wrote passionately about sketching. ‘When making a drawing,’ he asserted, the artist ‘throws out the first fire of his thought; he abandons himself to his self; he reveals himself as just what he is.’1 The revealing ‘single free stroke’ that contains the most genuine artistic self is an attractive fiction. As we saw in the third chapter many connoisseurs held similar convictions. Experience teaches the connoisseur, and can lead to a more comprehensive grasp of the draughtsman’s ‘linear strategies’, learnt traits, and habituated graphic preferences. However, even the most experienced connoisseurs continue to refine graphic oeuvres, adding and subtracting, reattributing and rejecting. Where is the copy placed within this taxonomic history, and what value is it afforded? Entrenched stylistic frameworks that interpret labour and refinement as suppressing personal style, and by extension the individual self, cannot effectively engage with copies, because much of their meaning is limited to this traditional suppression- expression binary.

Connoisseurs often reduce multiple graphic investigations to the singularity of ‘personal style’ or ‘artistic personality.’ Style is of course personal, however, these containers, and their related history, are ill-equipped to assess moments of faithful imitation. How can concepts conditioned by a legacy of artistic genius explore the intentions of a draughtsman who made copies after so many different artists? Naldini explored and casually recorded the compositions of Jacopo da Pontormo, Andrea del Sarto, Michelangelo, Francesco Salviati, Polidoro da Caravaggio, Giovann’Antonio Dosio, Baccio Bandinelli, Giorgio Vasari, Albrecht Dürer, Jacopo Caraglio, Perino del Vaga, Rosso Fiorentino, and Parmigianino. He closely scrutinised the linear traits of at least seven of these artists by imitating drawings or prints after their works. As we saw in the fifth chapter, Naldini assimilated Pontormo’s drawing style to a remarkable degree in a sketch of a female holding a scroll. The febrile intensity of his vibrant red chalk incised in crisp angular lines immediately evokes the graphic

1 Dézallier d’Argenville, 1762, vol. 1, pp. xxxiii; translated in Rosand, 2002, p. 21. 260 language of his master’s early drawings. Naldini was also entirely capable of imitating the prints of Albrecht Dürer. As he learned by example in absorbed meditation, Naldini’s search involved a desire to equal and surpass his model by hand; taking on the challenge of masterful pen drawing without using white lead.

Naldini was equally gifted in inventing new compositions. Out of the initial stirrings of his fantasia Naldini threw down the most striking inventions for battle. He sketched more than eighteen alternative solutions for the fresco commemorating the Florentine victory over the Pisan Forces. These schizzi are poorly served by the category primo pensiero, a seventeenth-century compound term that even when qualified in the plural as primi pensieri draws its meaning from an end-determined conception of artistic practice where drawings are identified as ‘studies for’ known works. Naldini’s schizzi convey the burgeoning fertility of his unbridled invention. The rapid jolt of his angular stroke became engrossed in the furia of battle and the chalk stain (macchia).

Naldini also absorbed lessons from Michelangelo. He experimented with contemporary developments in bodily torsion to enhance the divinity of the dead Christ in scenes of the Pietà with angels. His experiments with the Angel Pietà offer clear examples of the mannered body working effectively within a religious image to serve the devotional needs of viewers.2

Naldini absorbed an ideal feminine physiognomy from Bandinelli’s small bronzes, including the Cleopatra, Leda, and Venere piccola. While Morandini interpreted their anatomy in subtle ways, Naldini intensified their gentle chiastic contrapposto. His two mythological narratives in Vercelli attest to a complete assimilation of Bandinelli’s feminine physiognomy, displaying small hemispherical breasts, legs tapering to thin ankles, and hair bundled in elaborate coiffures. One of the reclining nude females in Naldini’s Diana and Actaeon was a knowledgeable display of Pontormo’s late approach to the body. At a time when fellow painters were creatively engaged in a Pontormo revival, Naldini was proud to quote his master, and articulate the pliant physiognomy of a female nude.

2 For a discussion of Naldini’s response to Michelangelo’s Florence Pietà see Appendix A. 261 The artists of sixteenth-century Florence were extremely talented individuals. This may seem obvious, but it bears repeating because it is often lost in grand schemes contrasting masters against their imitators. Their skill set ranged from the more basic tasks of reversing a two-dimensional pose, drawing from live models, free-standing sculpture or small-scale statuettes, repositioning a limb of a modello by melting the wax, and accurately rescaling large to small and vice versa. However, they were also capable of complex internal visualisations of the human body, and many possessed an advanced knowledge of anatomy. They were able to translate complex postural schemata, including contrapposto, double or chiastic contrapposto, and the figura serpentinata, onto a two-dimensional surface. They could foreshorten an arm or leg and make it convincingly appear to recede into the distance. They possessed the ability to turn a figure in their mind and reconfigure its posture. They had a subtle understanding of human proportion, and could lengthen and reduce body parts with relative ease. The human body was submitted to tireless reinterpretation, ranging from graceful attenuation and elongation to robust, muscular expansion. Many artefici preferred specific body types and had the ability to capture their particular physiognomy time and again. These were highly sophisticated artistic skills. And they formed part of the technical toolkit that a cinquecento painter was expected to possess. What must have seemed an everyday commonplace to these artists was in reality extremely difficult to master. When we examine the results of artistic imitation it is essential to withhold modern expectations of ‘originality’ as we understand it today. We should never lose track of the practices that artists used in order to respond and adapt exemplars.

262 Appendix A

Pietà with Angels

Naldini’s design for a Pietà (fig. 1) portrays a forcefully twisted body of Christ surrounded by five angels.1 The fluid, loose pen lines attest to Naldini’s easy command of the medium. However, there is as much bravura in his representation of the human body as in his handling of the pen. In the following discussion I will closely examine how Naldini represents Christ’s body, and uses contemporary developments in contrapposto to communicate a religious message.

Naldini produced three drawings of the Pietà with angels, but no known painting on the iconographic theme.2 These drawings have been compared with Naldini’s altarpiece in the Tuscan town of Limite, representing the Holy Trinity with donor.3 The pose of God the Father in the Trinity corresponds closely to the central angel in all three drawings of the Pietà, however Naldini reused his figures often, and these two themes are iconographically distinct. If we put aside the desire to secure a final destination, these sketches are more recognisable as creative variants on Michelangelo’s large four-figure sculpture, known as the Florence Pietà (fig. 4).4 The sculpture was intended for the artist’s own tomb, but remained unfinished when he died.5 However, his Pietà was still accessible to artists working in Rome during the latter half of the sixteenth century, before it was transported to Florence in 1674.6 Several scholars have recognised the influence of Michelangelo’s sculpture on

1 Battista Naldini, Dead Christ surrounded by five angels, c. 1566-1570, pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightened with white lead, on paper prepared with brown-yellow ochre wash, 317 x 225 mm, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera, inv. 323. Reproduced in Thiem, 1999, p. 226, fig. 2. 2 Battista Naldini, Dead Christ supported by three angels, c. 1566-1570, pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightened in white lead, on paper prepared with yellow ochre wash, 314 x 228 mm, Bayonne, Musée Bonnat, inv. RF 50866. Thiem, 1999, first published the three drawings and identified their subject matter. 3 Holy Trinity with donor, c. 1577-78, oil on panel, 240 x 160 cm, Oratorio della Compagnia della Santissima Trinità, Limite, Tuscany. See Antonio Paolucci in Florence, 1980, no.7, p. 208. Petrioli Tofani, 1980, no.328, pp. 151-52, compares the Trinity composition with the Bayonne drawing. Reproduced in Barocchi, 1965, p. 254, fig. 98d. 4 Wasserman, 2003. 5 For the view that Michelangelo intended to have the sculpture installed in his own funerary chapel in Santa Croce in Florence see Wasserman, 2003, pp. 25-31. 6 Trinchieri Camiz, 2003, pp. 106-7. 263 Naldini’s drawings, who was working in Rome from September 1560 to 1563.7 Michelangelo’s Pietà may have been in the possession of Francesco Bandini as early as 1555;8 and by March 1564, the sculpture was most likely located in the gardens of the suburban villa (vigna) of Francesco’s son, Pierantonio Bandini, on the Quirinal Hill (Monte Cavallo).9

Naldini’s three drawings share the same four-figure arrangement as Michelangelo’s Pietà (fig. 4). The New York drawing (fig. 2) comes closest to documenting Naldini’s response to the sculpture.10 The central figure, bearing the weight of the body, leans his left shoulder like Michelangelo’s sculpted Nicodemus, and the upper body of the figure on the right compares very closely to the Virgin Mary.11

In the Milan and Bayonne drawings (figs. 1 & 3), Naldini refashioned the subject as a Pietà with Angels, adding wings and instruments of the passion (the arma Christi), including the cross, the crown of thorns, the lance of Longinus, and the vinegar sponge held atop a reed.12 The Pietà with Angels is a variation upon the tradition of the imago pietatis or ‘image of pity’. In the Italian visual tradition this iconographic

7 In her brief entry on the Bayonne Pietà, Petrioli Tofani argues that ‘the composition is inspired by Michelangelo.’ Petrioli Tofani, 1980, no.328, p. 152. Christel Thiem first published the three drawings as a group. Her notable iconographic study discussed Michelangelo’s Pietà as the probable source of Naldini’s composition. Thiem, 1999, p. 227. Jack Wasserman lists Naldini’s New York drawing in his ‘Catalogue of Derivations of the Florence Pietà’. Wasserman, 2003, p. 226 no.29. 8 Opinions differ on the date that Francesco Bandini acquired the Florence Pietà (either 1555 or 1561). Wasserman, 2003, pp. 75-76, 157n24, 159n6-7. Upon the death of Francesco Bandini in September 1562, his estate was divided among his three sons, Alemanno, Alessandro, and Pierantonio. Pierantonio was officially recognised as the owner of the sculpture, with the final settlement of his inheritance, on 23 March 1564. Franca Trinchieri Camiz argues that although Pierantonio is not documented as owning the sculpture prior to 1564, ‘he may already have had de facto possession of the work’. It is safe to say that Michelangelo’s Pietà was in Pierantonio’s possession at least by 18 March 1564, the date of Vasari’s letter to Lionardo Buonarroti, entreating Michelangelo’s nephew to purchase the Pietà from Pierantonio. As Trinchieri Camiz argues, this brief interval of five days between Vasari’s letter and the settlement of the inheritance indicates that Pierantonio was already recognised as the owner of the Pietà. Wasserman, 2003, pp. 75, 99, 229 doc. 5 & 6. 9 Trinchieri Camiz, 2003, p. 99 & 161n6. 10 Battista Naldini, The Dead Christ supported by three figures, c. 1566-1570, pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightened with lead white, over black chalk, on brown-washed paper, 324 x 231 mm, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 1972.118.261. 11 For multiple perspectives of Michelangelo’s Pietà see Wasserman, 2003, plates 2, 6, 29 & 30. Wasserman identified the ‘right oblique’ view as the source for the New York drawing. However, I believe that Naldini’s sketch relates to the sculpture when viewed at left oblique. Wasserman, 2003, p. 226n29. 12 Christel Thiem, 1999, p. 228, first identified the lance and the vinegar sponge in the Milan drawing. For the arma Christi see Cooper & Denny-Brown, 2014. 264 type is most commonly known as the Man of Sorrows.13 It represents the dead Christ, sometimes in a half-length portrait, cropped at the waist with his arms crossed against his chest.14 At other times Christ is portrayed alive or dead, wearing the crown of thorns, with his arms open to display the wounds of his crucifixion. He is often standing within his sepulchre or sitting on its edge.15 Richard Viladesau explains that the image represents the theological idea of Christ suffering for humanity, in a non- narrative devotional image, and ‘timeless’ portrayal of his real presence.16

By the late Middle Ages, it had become common for the Man of Sorrows image to be interpreted within a Eucharistic context. In a Roman Missal dated to 1254, a miniature with the Man of Sorrows is illustrated beside the Canon of the Mass, becoming an explicit visualisation of the consecration of the Host.17 Colin Eisler proposed the Anima Christi prayer as the possible origin of this Eucharistic function of the Man of Sorrows image.18 The prayer was popularised through a papal indulgence by the Avignon Pope John XXII in 1330.19 In his reconstruction of the mass of the Roman Catholic Church, Josef Jungmann positioned the Anima Christi prayer at the Elevation of the Host as a prayer said privately by the laity.20 It was precisely at this moment during the mass that the Franciscan mystic Angela of Foligno (1248-1309)

13 The Eucharistic context, development, and emergence of the imago pietatis, from its origins in Byzantium and diffusion to Italy, has been extensively studied, see Panofsky, 1927. Os, 1978. Hans Belting, 1980-81, demonstrated the Byzantine origins of the imago pietatis in the Akra Tapeinosis icon, meaning ‘extreme humiliation’, or ‘extreme humility’ in New Testament Greek, and based on Isaiah 53:8. The name emphasised the shame and abasement of Christ during the passion. The icon had a clear liturgical and theological meaning. It represented the humanity of Christ in the ‘sleep’ of death, and his divinity in a state of constant wakefulness. See also Belting, 1990. Viladesau, 2006, pp. 159- 161. Turnbull, 2009. Puglisi & Barcham, 2011. 14 Ringbom, 1984. 15 Viladesau, 2006, p. 159. 16 Viladesau, 2008, p. 76. See also Hourihane, 2013, p. 23, for a critique of earlier definitions of the Man of Sorrows by James Hall, Jennifer Speake, and Gertrud Schiller. 17 Cividale, Museo Archeologico, Roman Missal, 1254, Codex LXXXVI, fol. 167. Reproduced in Ewald M. Vetter, ‘La iconografia del ‘Varón de Dolores’: Su significado y origen,’ Archivo Español de Arte, 36, 1963, pp. 197-231, esp. p. 218. Cited in Nagel, 2000, pp. 49, 228n3. 18 Eisler, 1969, p. 237. 19 Samuel Frisbee, ‘Anima Christi,’ in The Catholic Encyclopedia, New York: Robert Appleton, 1907, vol. 1, http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/01515a.htm [accessed: 9 October 2014]. Nagel, Verdon and Waldman have argued that John XXII urged worshipers to visualise the Man of Sorrows during the mass. Nagel, 2000, p. 263n28. Verdon, 2003, p. 132. Louis Waldman in Ottawa, 2005, p. 156. Colin Eisler, 1969, p. 237, compared this visualisation to the miracle at the Mass of St Gregory the Great. As far as I know a more precise understanding of the place of the Anima Christi and the Man of Sorrows image within the liturgy of the Mass celebrated in early fourteenth-century Avignon has not been thoroughly examined. 20 Jungmann, 1951-1955, vol. 2, pp. 215-16. 265 witnessed a vision of Christ. She observed: ‘There appeared to me the image of that blessed crucified God and man, as though just taken down from the cross.’21

According to Alexander Nagel, late fourteenth-century French and Italian images of the Man of Sorrows added figures to support Christ’s lifeless body, for example the apostle John and the Virgin Mary, and later Joseph of Arimathea or Nicodemus. However, some images replaced these familiar protagonists from the Crucifixion and Lamentation, with ‘suprahistorical’ figures such as God the Father or angels. Their inclusion created new image types that, like the Man of Sorrows, existed outside biblical and historical time.22

Naldini continued to experiment with the representation of Christ’s body. His variations suggest that he desired to create a compelling image of the full-length dead Christ brought close to the picture plane. As a religious subject centralising Christ’s body, the Angel Pietà and other variants on the Man of Sorrows tradition, allowed artists like Jacone and Francesco Salviati to exhibit their skills with corporeal torsion.23 Figures of this kind were often devised as conspicuous displays of skill. They have been variously called ornato figures or ‘classical figure’, and are familiar characters in both religious and mythological ‘maniera’ narratives.24

The seventh chapter discussed developments in chiastic contrapposto or the crosswise arrangement of the body. We saw how Leonardo’s innovations with the Standing Leda (fig. 7.50) were followed by Raphael, Bandinelli, Giambologna, Lorenzi, and Danti. David Summers was the first to extensively explore these developments in contrapposto. He demonstrated how Michelangelo elaborated upon these postural devices to create figure serpentinate in sculptures like the Apollo-David, the

21 Translation from Viladesau, 2006, p. 164. Arnaldus, Vita of Angela of Foligno; quoted in Belting, 1990, p. 71, n10. Nagel, 2000, p, 228n4. Belting, 1990, p. 78, argues that Angela of Foligno was expressing a convention. 22 Nagel, 2000, pp. 65-66. 23 Francesco Salviati, Pietà, c.1549-1550, Rome, Santa Maria dell’Anima. Jacopo di Giovanni di Francesco, called Jacone, Deposition, 1500-50, pen and brown ink over black chalk, 222 x 287 mm, London, British Museum, inv. 1862,0712.189. 24 For the ‘classical figura’ see Robert Gaston’s crucial contribution to our understanding of eroticism in sixteenth-century art, and the reality that much of this history has been repressed in art historical literature. Gaston, 1995. 266 Resurrected Christ, and his personification of Victory.25 By 1570, Naldini had completely assimilated a version of this central Italian figural vocabulary, characterised by dynamic contrapposto, strong foreshortening, heighted corporeal torsion, and powerful movement.

Alexander Nagel has argued that Michelangelo infused his portrayals of the dead Christ with suggestions of his living divine nature. He imitated Bacchic sculptural reliefs and represented Christ in a state of pleasurable repose, and later experimented with the convoluted collapse of his body in his Florence Pietà. These innovations contributed to the Eucharistic significance of the Man of Sorrows tradition by implying ‘agency and radiance in the body’.26 As Hans Belting and Richard Viladesau have explained, the Man of Sorrows image traditionally embodied Christ’s dualistic divine and human nature. The image contains ‘ironic and paradoxical juxtaposition[s]’ because ‘Jesus is dead, but not dead, he is the object of compassion, yet he is the one who can exercise compassion.’27 The doctrine of real presence in the Eucharist, accepted as the ‘tangible reality of Christ’s flesh’ since the twelfth century, made it possible to conceive of the living Redeemer residing within the broken, sacrificial body.28 The living and dead Christ referred to his divinity and resurrection.29 Both Michelangelo and Rosso Fiorentino concentrated on this moment before Christ’s resurrection, and represented his body with energy in a state of repose, or in Nagel’s words ‘a quasi-animate quality, an incipient stirring of a life force.’30

Naldini followed this tradition and twisted his body of Christ (fig. 1) in contrary movements. Christ’s upper body swivels at the waist and bends drastically backward; his neck is turned and tilted to breaking point, while the lower body shifts in forceful opposition on a dynamic diagonal. Christ appears to jolt and thrust out his right leg. He achingly curves back his spine. He is both falling and rising, twisting and writhing; almost appearing alive, but slumping, heavy and dead. His angelic

25 Summers, 1972, 1977 & 1981. 26 Nagel, 2000, p. 150. 27 Viladesau, 2006, p. 161. 28 Belting, 1990, pp. 68, 78, 239n5. 29 Viladesau, 2006, p. 161. 30 Nagel, 2000, p. 156. Nagel discusses Michelangelo’s designs for Sebastiano del Piombo’s Úbeda Pietà (1533-1539), drawings that document his response to the antique sculptural relief, known during the cinquecento as the Bed of Polycleitus. His observation on Rosso Fiorentino refers to the Dead Christ with Angels (c. 1524-27) in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. 267 companions may be gently lowering his body into the sarcophagus, but their actions are deliberately poised at a moment where the sacramental body can be presented to the viewer. Christ’s right leg lifts as his body is lowered. Each forceful twist and pliant curve effectively communicates Christ’s collapsing weight. Naldini therefore captures a moment suspended between two extremes and uses his advanced knowledge of contrapposto movement to breathe life into Christ’s dead body.

In mid-sixteenth century Florence, Bandinelli’s Dead Christ with Angel (fig. 5) linked the Man of Sorrows image directly with the liturgy.31 The large sculpture was installed upon the high altar in Santa Maria del Fiore, and served as a visual embodiment of Christ’s presence during the celebration of the mass.32 Alessandro Allori’s Dead Christ with Angels (fig. 6) for Jacopo di Alamanno Salviati, directly followed Bandinelli’s earlier image.33 Painted in the ceiling of Salviati’s private chapel, this image reflected a heavenly version of the earthly altar below where the actual Mass was performed. Allori placed the arma Christi (nails, Lance of Longinus and vinegar sponge) beside his dead Christ, together with utensils of the Eucharist (chalice, blood, and wafer). He created several variations upon the Angel Pietà and almost always included liturgical instruments that immediately communicate the central place of the Eucharist.34

Affective devotion also formed a common part of worship. During religious meditation the implements of Christ’s passion could be subjected to rigorous penitential contemplation.35 In Pietro da Lucca’s Arte del ben pensare et contemplare la passion del nostro Signor Jesu Christo, published in 1527,36 the crown of thorns appears within a poignant imaginative exercise, directly addressed to the reader:

31 See Francesca Petrucci in Florence 2014b, repertorio xviii, p. 596. 32 Massimo Firpo in Florence 2014b, pp. 245-61. 33 Lecchini Giovannoni, 1991, no.70, p. 248, fig. 144. 34 Allori, Deposition with angels, San Egidio, 1579, Lecchini Giovannoni, 1991, no.72, p. 250, fig. 164; Christ in Sepulcre, 1580, Arezzo, Museo Statale, Lecchini Giovannoni, 1991, no.76, pp. 252-53, fig. 173. 35 For the prominent place of meditation in religious devotion see Enenkel & Melion, 2011. Gaston, 2005, demonstrates that affective devotion was an important feature of early Dominican meditation and prayer. 36 Gaston, 1995, p. 252n47, first drew the attention of scholars to this important devotional text. Nagel, 2000, used a different passage to read the contemplative attitudes of protagonists in Michelangelo’s Entombment. Zarri, 1990, provides the most extensive study of Pietro da Lucca’s career, revealing his direct association with Raphael’s St Cecilia, as the patron’s private confessor. 268 Bathe me in your precious and sacred blood. Wash me with that sweetest and clearest water. Crown my proud head in your crown of thorns. Pierce my vain feet and sinful hands with your metals and hard nails. Put me in your sacred breast. Do so that I am always with thee in soul and body crucified.37

In Florence, young devotees were similarly encouraged to partake in penitential contemplation of Christ’s Sacramental body and Passion. Fra Benedetto Onesti da Lucca wrote an Invocation of the Most Holy Name of Jesus for the young novices of Santa Maria Novella around 1568, a few years after Naldini executed his Pietà drawings, and before he painted the Lamentation altarpiece for the Minerbetti chapel.38 Two marginal annotations in the manuscript reveal that Father Onesti intended the prayer to be sung and to serve as a litany.39 As the young novices sung the prayer they entered into a colloquium with Christ:

Jesus, bread of angels and of men, sustain us on our pilgrimage. / Jesus, true food of the soul, make us long for Your most holy body. / Jesus, most delicious food, make it so that we always hunger for You.40

The novices therefore evoked the Sacramental body and imaginatively partook in the Eucharist. They also drew personal meaning from each event, and instrument, of Christ’s Passion: Jesus, out of love for us mocked and ridiculed, give us the strength to withstand all injuries willingly. / Jesus, out of love for us flagellated against the column, heal the wounds of the sinful soul. / Jesus, crowned with thorns out of love for us in order to crown us in Glory, allow us to understand this great reward.41

37 ‘Bagnami di quello tuo precioso e santo sangue. Lavami con quella suavissima e limpidissima acqua; In corona la mia superba testa di quella tua spinea corona. Transfige li miei vani piedi e le mie peccatrici mani con quelli toi ferrei e duri chiodi. Mettemi dentro nel sacro tuo costato. Fa che teco sempre io sia in anima et in corpo crucifisso.’ Pietro da Lucca, 1527, p. 111v. 38 Fra Benedetto Onesti da Lucca, Invocatione al santissimo nome di Giesù per excitarsi al fervore, 1568, Lucca, Biblioteca Statale, ms 2473, fols. 66r-68v; quoted from Grossi, 1980, pp. 571-73. Onesti (1513-1595) was master of novices at the convent of Santa Maria Novella in Florence from 1567 until July 1569, after having served as confessor for several monasteries across Tuscany. Grossi, 1980, pp. 508-9, n15. 39 The first annotation reads: ‘et si può cantare nel sexto tono’ (fol. 66r). Onesti also proposed adding the responses of the faithful: ‘Si potrebbe interpuorre tra uno verso e l’altro: “Laudato sia il nome santo di Giesù”. Dua cantino i sopra detti versi, et tutti gli altri ripiglino: “Laudato sia il santo” ecc.’ Fol. 68r, quoted in Grossi, 1980, p. 573. 40 ‘Giesù, pane degli angeli et delli huomini, sosteneteci in questa nostra peregrinatione. / Giesù, cibo vero dell’anima, fateci famelici del vostro sacratissimo corpo. / Giesù, vivanda suavissima, fateci che sempre habbiam fame di voi.’ Onesti, 1568; Lucca, Biblioteca Statale, ms. 2473, fol. 67v; quoted from Grossi, 1980, p. 572. 41 ‘Giesù, per amor nostro sbeffato et schernito, dateci fortezza a sopportar volentieri tutte le ingiurie. / Giesù, per amor nostro alla colonna flagellato, senate le piaghe dell’anima peccatrice. / Giesù, per amor nostro di spine coronato per coronar noi di Gloria, fateci conoscenti di tanto beneficio.’ Onesti, 1568; Lucca, Biblioteca Statale, ms. 2473, fols. 67v-68r; quoted from Grossi, 1980, p. 573. 269 The appearance of the arma Christi in Naldini’s Pietà with Angels (fig. 1) was intended to stimulate similar responses. By representing the vinegar sponge and lance held aloft by heavenly beings and placing the crown of thrones at Christ’s feet, Naldini provided the viewer with mnemonic relics. They were intended to immediately recall how Christ suffered to redeem humankind, and would stimulate feelings of penitence and devotion.

Naldini then used contrapposto movement to direct the viewer’s attention to the crown of thorns. He brushed thin strokes of white lead to illuminate Christ’s body from the left, suggesting that he intended the Man of Sorrows to break out of the shadows.42 His right leg, which should dangle in death, thrusts forward over the sarcophagus. This dead limb acts with the living force of Christ’s divinity. Naldini’s impressive use of foreshortening links him to a tradition of placing Christ’s arms and legs within a liminal zone, between the picture plane and religious viewer. This was a technique used with brilliant success by Giovanni Bellini and Carlo Crivelli, who both painted limbs over a fictive parapet.43 Naldini cleverly devised Christ’s leg to act as a directional device. Strongly defined in the light and projecting forward into the viewer’s space, this leg leads the eye to the crown of thorns. Naldini strategically placed this instrument of Christ’s passion in the central foreground, propped up on its side to attract the viewer’s gaze and immediately invite penitential contemplation.44 Naldini therefore clearly envisioned his subject to function as a devotional image.

42 The angel on the left is the least illuminated, despite faint touches of light along his windswept garment. Naldini directs light on Christ’s body and the angel opposite. 43 Giovanni Bellini, Pietà, 1467-70, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera inv. 228. Carlo Crivelli, Lamentation over the dead Christ, 1485, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. 44 Naldini leaned the crown of thorns against an urn (of myrrh and aloes) in the Pucci panel (1572) based on the Minerbetti Lamentation. He also often projected the crown over a rocky ledge to better describe the three-dimensional loop. For example in the Pietà with Saints, 1578, Museo di Colle Val d’Elsa; and the Lamentation for Lodovico da Verrazzano, 1583, Florence, Santa Croce. 270 Abbreviations

BCI – Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati, Siena. BNCF – Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze. BNN – Biblioteca Nazionale di Napoli ENSBA – École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris. GDSU – Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe degli Uffizi, Florence. ICG – Istituto Centrale per la Grafica, Rome. Louvre – Département des Arts graphiques, Musée du Louvre, Paris. MNAA – Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, Lisbon. V&A – Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

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Illustrations

Illustrations for chapter 4 through to Appendix A.

Total of 396 Illustrations. All images have been removed from this redacted version of the thesis due to copyright restrictions.

310

Minerva Access is the Institutional Repository of The University of Melbourne

Author/s: Quabba, Marco

Title: Darting strokes & wild lines: The drawings of Battista Naldini (1535-1591)

Date: 2017

Persistent Link: http://hdl.handle.net/11343/160143

File Description: Redacted Thesis (Open Access)-Darting Strokes & Wild Lines: The Drawings of Battista Naldini.

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