Masterpieces
What Defines Them, and How They Define Us
I can’t stop thinking about masterpieces. I remember slowly approaching Michaelangelo’s David in Florence. As I walked, I saw massive blocks of marble with unfinished sculptures of men seeming to climb out of them. These almost-sculptures lined the walls of the hallway that led to the circular room housing one of the greatest, if not the most revered, sculpture of all time. I looked up to see David, bathed in light from the windowed dome above, ethereal and magnificent. Every curve, every edge was unspeakably beautiful. His hands were strong and sturdy. His eyes were knowing and brooding. His stance was powerful and confident. Looking back on this moment in my life, I wish I had thought more. I wish I had known more. I was just a young girl with dark hair in a mauve dress, flitting through life with a childlike lack of awareness. I was more concerned with my own beauty than that of the world around me. If I could go back at this point in my life, I would sit with David for hours. I would draw him, trying to capture my own perspective. I would write about him as I am now.
Everyone is taught about masterpieces. We all know the great art of the Renaissance and the revered music of the classical and baroque eras. What we are not taught is why. Why do people create these works? What do they mean? What constitutes a masterpiece? What constitutes beauty ? I feel that few people truly understand art. As hard as I try, even I’m not quite there yet. I wish I could feel exactly what Michelangelo felt when he created David. I want to know what idea he was shaping when he sculpted his three Pietas. I want to know if it is the same feeling I have; this deep longing inside the depths of my soul; this desire to create something not for any particular reason, just because I need to to feel at peace again...
Is a piece of art considered a masterpiece simply because it is beautiful? Because it is complicated? Because it is famous? I don’t think so. I believe everyone has a masterpiece inside of them. We are all like blocks of marble. The sculpture is already formed and perfect inside, but it has to be brought forth by painstaking effort and loving labor.
I keep coming back to the pietas. The memory of them fills my mind like a slow but certain flood. I remember standing in St. Peter’s Basilica in a crowd of people, glimpsing Michelangelo’s first pieta from behind a wall of bulletproof glass. I took note of its beauty, but was unmoved. It was everything a piece of art should be, but was it true? Was it too beautiful to be true? I remember gazing upon the second pieta in the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo. The lights were dim and there were few people around. The marble was darker, and the sculpture was an intricate tangle of bodies. Jesus looked weaker. Mary looked smaller. It felt more real to me. Lastly, I remember seeing the third pieta in Milan. I did not mean to see it. I found it by accident as I was walking around the grounds of Castello Sforzesco in Milan. I walked into a small side room where two Italian security guards sat at a desk. They let me in to see the sculpture free of charge since they were getting ready to close for the day, and gave me ten minutes with it alone. Rays of warm afternoon light washed over the sculpture from the windows of the small and simple grey room. This sculpture was not magnificent or particularly stunning. It wasn’t housed in a great Cathedral or famous museum, but standing alone in an empty, lifeless room. It was unfinished. It lacked the detail and intricacy of Michelangelo’s earlier works, but it struck me. It was raw. It was truth. Michelangelo sculpted three pietas in his life, one when he was young, one when he was middle aged, and one when he was near death. The pieta was a recurring theme in his life, and it matured as he did, taking on different shapes of beauty as he learned how to truly express his reality. These sculptures became less and less grand as he realized that beauty is not defined by grandeur. Masterpieces are not defined by grandeur. Humans are not defined by grandeur.
What constitutes a work of art? Is it marble? Paint? Tile or clay? I think that it’s truth. We create art every day. We paint frescoes with our vulnerability. We sculpt marble with our acceptance. We build basilicas brick by brick, truth by truth, until we stand back and see our real, genuine selves. Raw, untampered with, complicated masterpieces.
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