By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, known to his contemporaries by a variety of aliases and to the modern age as the generic Caravaggio, makes a brief and beguiling appearance in Robb's travelogue-cum-Mafia exposé Midnight in Sicily (1996). Between loving descriptions of the Capuchin catacombs in Palermo and pasta con le sarde, Robb mentions trying in vain to see a late Caravaggio altarpiece, The Adoration of the Shepherds With Saints Lawrence and Francis. The painting is described by Langdon as "sweetly devout and unchallenging," but Robb, like so many other Caravaggisiti, would never have the chance to judge the altarpiece in person. The San Lorenzo Adoration had been stolen 10 years earlier, and the "prevailing theory of its fate," writes Robb, "was that it'd never left Palermo and secretly adorned the home of a mafia boss." Now, in his own bare-fisted reckoning with the painter's life and work, M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio, Robb dismisses the same altarpiece as a toss-off and reads desperation in its traditional iconography. "M didn't havefor oncethe time or the will to resist his clients' prescriptions," Robb argues. Soon after the altarpiece was finished, the Roman avvisi, or daily news reports, published a rumor of the artist's murder in Naples, and though he managed to elude his powerful enemies until the following summer, the rest of Caravaggio's life, as well as his death in the malarial outpost of Port' Ercole, remains, to this day, an "enigma."
The art market then, as now, was ruled by a small number of collectors (most with connections to the Vatican) whose taste encouraged a uniformity of style and whose patronage effected wild swings in artists' fortunes and renown. "They all came to Rome," Robb writes with his usual colloquial verve, whether they be "painter, sculptor, architect, stonemason," and M (the name is just one novelistic technique deployed by Robb), no stranger to career ambition, left the confines of Lombardy and its rustic style for his chance at the Big Commissions. Family connections afforded M a room in the home of monsignor Pandolfo Pucci, where he copied devotional paintings; the work was "demeaning" and monotonous, as was the menu for dinner every nightsaladearning Pucci M's undying scorn and the nickname "monsignor Insalata." Next stop was the workshop of Giuseppe Cesari, a favorite painter of Pope Clement VIII, where M's talent for still life was abused on his assembly line of minor pictures.
One street fight later, M managed to sell his painting Cheats to the progressive Cardinal Francesco Maria Del Monte and entered into the "quid pro quo" of official patronage. In return for lodging, protection, and access to Del Monte's circle of wealthy collectors, M produced paintings of confounding realism for his private gallery. Del Monte, an amateur scientist, introduced M to the convex mirror and the compass, an object with "erotic allure," and played a crucial role in securing M his first large commission for the San Luigi dei Francesi church, the dark and revolutionary paintings Matthew Called and Matthew Killed. "Dazzling fame followed," writes Robb, and M played his part in this rags-to-riches story to the hilt. By 1603 the Dutch painter Karel Van Mander, while impressed with M's stylistic innovations, would note in his Lives of the Painters that "he goes out . . . with his rapier at his side and a servant behind him, moving from one tennis court to another and always looking for fights or arguments, so he's impossible to get on with."
A prime example of Robb's biographical method is his treatment of M's first Judith and Holofernes, a popular subject from the Apocrypha (earlier versions exist by Donatello, Botticelli, and Giorgione) usually depicted, as Robb points out, sometime after Judith has beheaded the Assyrian general in his chambers. Instead of painting the heroic aftermath, "M now showed the intimate and wholly private horror of the murder itself." Robb identifies the model for M's Judith, a celebrated Roman prostitute named Fillide, and traces the source for M's uncanny depiction of the beheading to the public executions, on September 11, 1599, of the young noblewoman Beatrice Cenci, her stepmother, and younger brotherall for plotting the murder of Francesco Cenci, one of the wealthiest and cruelest men in Rome. Robb's account of the Cenci trial is one of the high points of his narrative, and his exegesis of the Judith that resulted is brash and brilliant: