“So, did you accept it?”
“Of course, I had to; it was the Pope who asked!”
“But you’re a sculptor – you hardly paint!”
“Christ was a carpenter. Sometimes you have to change your profession if a higher authority
asks you to.”
Michelangelo Buonarroti and his apprentice Silvio walked down the rest of the steps of the
Papal residence in silence. It was a warm summer day at Rome and everyone hoped it would
rain soon. However the villa of Pope Julian II, surrounded by vineyards and farms, was on
the outskirts of the city where the weather was more clement. A horse-drawn carriage with
the Papal emblem on it was waiting for them at the bottom of the marble steps. They got in
and it sped off across the pebbled driveway and towards Rome.
“So what exactly do you have to do?” Silvio broke the silence, interrupting Michelangelo’s
train of thoughts. He was known for his short temper, but somehow it never reflected on
Silvio. He just couldn’t be angry at his 18 year old apprentice. Silvio talked too much, but he
was the best student he ever had. He remembers the first time Silvio came to him. His father
was a Florentine fruit merchant and had brought him to the master. Michelangelo had looked
at Silvio for a moment, and then asked him to draw the most beautiful thing he had ever seen,
in under a minute. This was how the master tested. Most aspiring candidates would attempt
portraits of mythical heroes, gods and churches, and would break down in tears after
Michelangelo handed them back their unfinished sketches. But what Silvio did was
something extraordinary; Michelangelo shook his father’s hand and kissed Silvio on the
forehead, a sign of his acceptance as an apprentice.
Silvio had drawn a perfect circle – the most beautiful thing in the world.
“So what exactly do you have to do?” Silvio asked again. The only reason Michelangelo
brought him along was because he was his favorite student. He was beginning to regret that.
Nevertheless he replied.
“Do you know of the Capella Sistina at the Vatican?”
“The Sistine Chapel? In the Apostolic Palace?”
“Yes. That one.”
“Aren’t all the walls painted there? I think Ghirlandaio and Botticelli got there before you.
You don’t have an inch to paint!”
“I do, young Silvio.” Michelangelo said calmly. “Sometimes one must look up to the
heavens. The walls are covered, but the ceiling isn’t. Pope Julian II asked me to paint the
ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”
“It will be a difficult task, Signor Michelangelo. Painting vertical at that great height; and the
ceiling must be a quarter of an acre!”
Michelangelo smiled. “That is the least of my problems, son. I haven’t got the first clue of
what to paint on it.”
They didn’t speak a word for the rest of the journey. When they reached home, Michelangelo
locked himself in his study. He didn’t even open the door for food or drink. Silvio returned
to the studio and idly scribbled on a paper with a piece of charcoal.
The next morning they traveled to the Sistine chapel. Silvio had been there hundreds of
times, but this was different. Today the chapel was a bit too silent, like a gigantic beast
waiting, slowly breathing. Silvio watched as Michelangelo paced walls, stroking his fingers
over all the frescoes on the walls, as if to find some help, some guidance.
Then they both looked up.
The white ceiling of this chapel spread over their heads like a vast snow desert. Its blank
expanse was haunting.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” muttered the master. He closed his eyes and put his hand over
his face.
“Maybe you could paint scenes from the Bible.” Silvio suggested.
“Yes, but what? Have you seen that vast ceiling? I would die before I could cover that
behemoth with paint.”
He closed his eyes again. A few moments later, he opened them, pointed a bony finger at
Silvio and said, “Go to the Papal Archives. Read the Old Testament properly. See if you can
find anything useful.”
“Will I be allowed there? I mean, I’m just a -”
“Tell them Michelangelo Buonarroti sent you.”
When Silvio returned that evening, Michelangelo was already home. He was making some
sketches. Crumpled sheets of paper and broken wood pencils were strewn everywhere. He
checked Silvio’s notes and tossed them aside. Silvio was disappointed, but he couldn’t
complain. If the greatest artist of the times couldn’t come up with an idea, how could his
novice.
Three days passed. Every morning they would go to the Chapel, stare at the walls and the
ceiling for hours, and come back. Michelangelo would lock himself up in his room and
wouldn’t come out. He was getting frailer by the day.
One night Silvio was in his study, buried in texts, treatises and theses. Michelangelo was in
barricaded his room. The servants were reheating his food for the fourth time when there was
a knock on the door.
A servant went to open it. Silvio came out to see who it was. He saw the visitor and froze. He
stood there gaping with awe.
It was the genius and his master’s greatest rival, Leonardo da Vinci.
“Greetings, is your master home?” asked the bearded man. Like always, he was dressed quite
shabbily.
“Y-y-yes, Signor Leonardo,” stammered Silvio. The servants hurried away to fetch wine for
the guest. “Go right in.”
Da Vinci walked up to Michelangelo’s study door and called, “Michel, open, it’s Leo.”
A few moments later the door unbolted from the inside and Da Vinci walked in. He closed
the door behind him. Silvio sat outside, his mind racing, wondering what they were talking
about inside.
After an hour Da Vinci left. Silvio rushed inside his master’s room, forgetting strict
instructions against doing so. He found Michelangelo looking outside the window.
“What did he say, signor?” cried Silvio.
Michelangelo whispered. “The origin, the beginning…”
“What does it mean? Say something!” screamed Silvio, getting very impatient.
“I have got it Silvio; I know what to do…” Michelangelo said, his eyes gazing across the
Roman night sky.
“What? What will you paint?”
Michelangelo did not speak. Instead, he pointed towards his table. Silvio ran to it. There was
only one book which was open. It was the Bible, translated by St Jerome. Silvio read the
familiar verse that had been marked by a red pencil. He had read that verse several times
throughout his life. But this time, it meant something else, something new to him.
It was Genesis 2:7.
“And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground…”
Silvio looked towards Michelangelo. The great man was still staring out of the window,
crying.
Student: Krishnaroop Chaudhuri