Susan's place was full, and Susan herself was just then falling in love with an Italian classmate. They'd met in the canteen at the Accademia, where the authorities gave out free meals to the mud angels. So John found a room in Fiesole and, two days later, a bunk in a dank hostel. The other angeli angeli were noisy, carousing at all hours, drunk and obnoxious. It was hard to believe they were serious about anything, least of all art and beauty. were noisy, carousing at all hours, drunk and obnoxious. It was hard to believe they were serious about anything, least of all art and beauty.
After two days of trying unsuccessfully to volunteer his services, a girl he'd met told him she'd heard that help was wanted on the other side of the river in the Limonaia. She was going and John crossed with her to the Oltrarno. On the nether side of the Palazzo Pitti, they ascended through a gate, two doors, a vestibule where a group of laborers were tearing into lunchtime bread and wine, and finally through a sort of airlock. They'd arrived in an office overlooking an enormous hall, sheathed in polyethylene, threaded with shiny new air ducts, illuminated by a white, sterile glare, the whole place echoing, faintly thrumming, vastly empty.
This was the Limonaia, remade with a tenth of a million of CRIA's dollars, now sheltering some several hundreds of priceless-or, if you had to place a value on them, perhaps a hundred million dollars' worth of-artworks. Descending, John felt alone with them, entombed with them in this isolation chamber; and there, just down the steps to his right, was Cimabue's Crocifisso Crocifisso, a presence, almost a person, that it now seemed he had been brought here to meet.
In fact John was not alone, but merely blinded, disembodied, and aloft in a bubble of awe. The girl was talking to a man in an elegant suit-slight, wearing glasses, but formidable by virtue of a reserve of specialized knowledge of a very powerful kind. Maybe he was the attendant spirit, the magus, of the Cimabue, the keeper of the gate to its world.
He spoke no English, or deigned not to speak it. John and the girl came to understand that he was called Dottore Baldini, and that he might have something for John to do, and perhaps something for the girl-John noticed she was pretty-too. Baldini had lovely hands; he radiated autorita. autorita.
John was put on the mold detail. He couldn't say what had been done with the girl. His supervisor would be another dottore- dottore-they were all dottori dottori, although it seemed that Baldini was the archdoctor-named Puccio Speroni, younger and much more approachable than Baldini himself. Only Speroni was allowed to work on the painted surfaces of the artworks, but John would apply something called alchyl-dimethyl-benzyl-ammonia to the back of the panels. He'd be doing it alongside an art history graduate student from San Niccolo, Bruno Santi.
John wanted (as he'd wanted for the last three days, since he'd stepped off the train) to get to work and he kept at it until the night watchmen made him leave. He and Santi talked: Bruno told him that his father's studio had been wiped out by the flood and there'd been no insurance; that he himself was still hoping to finish his study of Neri di Bicci, but maybe he wouldn't be able to; maybe he'd have to go to work for his father, to extricate them all from the mess the flood had made of their lives.
For those first hours and into the next day, John was agape: here he was, in the Palazzo Pitti, rescuing art he'd read and dreamed about since he was a child, working in a state-of-the-art restoration facility under one of the most eminent art historians in Florence. But then, sometime into the third day, he felt doubt, a sense that not everything was as it should or could be. He'd been dutifully tending the panel paintings he'd been assigned, waiting for a crack at the Cimabue, and it seemed to him incongruous that in most cases the backs of them were still encrusted with damp mud, a perfect medium for culturing mold. Why bother to lavish attention keeping the front of each piece free from spores when you were, in effect, letting mold run riot at the back? Why install an elaborate dehumidification system when the artworks were still swathed in the muck that had made them damp in the first place?
The next day John was allowed to work on the Crocifisso Crocifisso, or rather under it. Although the Cimabue was the showpiece of the entire facility-Baldini had it positioned at the front so the press could get at it more easily-it too was sheathed with mud on the back, not to mention carpeted with black, blue, and pink mold. The problems were exacerbated by the cross's steel wall mount, still fastened to the back of the panels, which prevented him and Bruno from applying their fungicides to large areas of its underside. John brought his concerns to Speroni, who he supposed reported them to Baldini, although Baldini made no mention of the matter. John took that as a kind of consent by default to proceed as he'd proposed: to get all the mud off the cross and then find a way to inject fungicide into the inaccessible spots.
From that day, John made himself at home under the cross, took shelter there in a clubhouse or camp where he was joined by Bruno Santi and sometimes even by Speroni, who was proving to be an extremely easygoing supervisor, more a contemporary than a boss. They drank tea and smoked to keep warm and devised plans to save the Crocifisso Crocifisso, even to restore it. Speroni said the work would likely be done by Gaetano Lo Vullo from the Laboratorio, since he was the best restorer Baldini had at his disposal. Regardless, no one from outside was going to get their hands on it. There'd been talk of filling in the lost sections with white and then perhaps sandwiching a sheet of Plexiglas over it with the original details stenciled on it. John suggested that this was worse than no solution at all.
John could be a little zealous, un inglese un po' impertinente. un inglese un po' impertinente. But he worked as late as they'd let him, usually until eight in the evening. Sometimes he had the whole Limonaia to himself and he had the chance to look at the technical records and documents. The cross was indeed drying out, but in bursts, the humidity dropping precipitously over Christmas and then rebounding in the New Year. The treatments for mold had also been recorded, including those made by John. But he worked as late as they'd let him, usually until eight in the evening. Sometimes he had the whole Limonaia to himself and he had the chance to look at the technical records and documents. The cross was indeed drying out, but in bursts, the humidity dropping precipitously over Christmas and then rebounding in the New Year. The treatments for mold had also been recorded, including those made by John.
The data were meant to indicate a kind of progress, proof that things were getting better; that the cross and its companions in the Limonaia were healing. But it didn't seem that way to John. The mold came back every day, not just on the back, but on the paint on the front, the precious remnant of Cimabue's brush that Baldini himself was supposed to be monitoring. The black mold in particular was almost impossible to eradicate: John brushed on his chemicals and twelve hours later it was back, invulnerable, mocking him.
Spending so much time around and under the cross, John knew it better than anyone; or he felt he did, felt its dampness, its swollen, twisted limbs, its leprous skin, the pain and shudders running through his own body. Now, after a week in the Limonaia, he saw the Crocifisso Crocifisso was cracking. Fissures were erupting upward through the wood. It was as though the Cimabue were shifting, flexing itself, imperceptibly flailing on its bed of scaffolding, tearing itself apart with the effort. And no one seemed to be noticing except him. was cracking. Fissures were erupting upward through the wood. It was as though the Cimabue were shifting, flexing itself, imperceptibly flailing on its bed of scaffolding, tearing itself apart with the effort. And no one seemed to be noticing except him.
The cross, of course, received constant attention, but not the kind it really needed: reporters and photographers came almost every day, the office door flapping open with another gale of superheated air of exactly the kind that John believed was causing the damage. The week he'd noticed the cracks, an athletic-looking man-apparently English, but speaking Italian like a native-took pictures for two days. He was supposed to be from the most important magazine in America.
The day after the photographer left, Baldini came in to do his afternoon inspection, his rounds of the ward and its two hundred fifty patients. John steeled himself and approached the dottore. dottore. He spoke in stammering, childish Italian, explaining what he'd seen under the cross: the cracks, the mold he couldn't treat because he couldn't reach it. Baldini stood listening, unperturbed, steely in his faint amusement, not exactly imperious; or perhaps he was imperious, this being his empire. He spoke in stammering, childish Italian, explaining what he'd seen under the cross: the cracks, the mold he couldn't treat because he couldn't reach it. Baldini stood listening, unperturbed, steely in his faint amusement, not exactly imperious; or perhaps he was imperious, this being his empire.
John had an idea to get at the inaccessible mold behind the metal frame: he could buy a perfume atomizer from a farmacia farmacia, fill it with fungicide, and puff the vaporized chemical into the unreachable spots. Baldini told him to go ahead, and John pressed his luck a little further: he told Baldini about the cracking and proffered his theory to explain it. Every time the office door next to the cross opened, a blast of dry, hot air blew against it, defeating the steady, slow dehumidification process the cross was supposed be undergoing. What made matters worse, John pushed on, was that while the heating and dehumidification plant CRIA had provided was quite effective in the center of the room, the effects dissipated toward either end, at one of whose extremes the cross was now resting. John didn't say it ought to be moved-his Anglo-Saxon impertinence wouldn't go quite that far, not with Baldini-but the implication was clear. Baldini decided the two of them should hang a sheet of polyethylene between the office and the Cimabue to fend off the gusts from the opening of the door; and so they did, Baldini's suit seeming miraculously to evade any spot or crease despite the effort.
That night, at dinner at Ottavio's in the Via del Moro, John and Bruno talked politics. They agreed about everything, a consolation to John who a few hours before had despaired of being understood by anyone in Italy. All of them except Bruno, it seemed, were satisfied by half measures, a patch here, a dab there. For all their talk about their precious Cimabue, their tears and hand-wringing, John sometimes felt, under the cross, brushing, scraping, and spraying, that the weight of the whole thing rested on him.
John Schofield had a week left in Florence. Then his money and time would run out. The weather had turned bitter and ice was edging farther out into the river channel. Downriver, beyond Pisa and the delta, Shelley's storming Tyrrhenian Sea was still pitching detritus from the flood up onto the beaches; trees, of course, but also the odd incongruous natura morta natura morta, still lifes: a shoe, a cafe chair, a demijohn filled with sand and red wine. Now too there was a final death toll: in the province of Tuscany, 121; in Florence, 33. There were also six people missing. In Florence, of course, no one believed any of this. It was worse: it had to have been worse.
Every day John came into the Limonaia and every day there was mold on the Crocifisso. Crocifisso. It had been black mold for a while, but now the white mold was back. Maybe it was the weather; or maybe each mold preferred a different component of the cross-wood, gesso, pigments of one shade or another, a favorite color as anyone might have a favorite color. He was not optimistic about what would happen once he left, but he hoped his absence would only be temporary. CRIA was going to give Baldini grant money to hire people to do the work John had been doing: there would be no point in finding someone new and untrained when they already had him-he who'd spotted so many problems, who took such initiative. He'd spoken to Speroni several times about coming back, and he assumed he'd talked to Baldini; that they'd see what could be done and be in touch. It had been black mold for a while, but now the white mold was back. Maybe it was the weather; or maybe each mold preferred a different component of the cross-wood, gesso, pigments of one shade or another, a favorite color as anyone might have a favorite color. He was not optimistic about what would happen once he left, but he hoped his absence would only be temporary. CRIA was going to give Baldini grant money to hire people to do the work John had been doing: there would be no point in finding someone new and untrained when they already had him-he who'd spotted so many problems, who took such initiative. He'd spoken to Speroni several times about coming back, and he assumed he'd talked to Baldini; that they'd see what could be done and be in touch.
In that last week he and Bruno went to see some of the artworks John had always wanted to see in Florence, but until now had been too busy to visit. They went to Santa Maria Novella and Santa Croce, using Baldini's name to get past the guards. In the refectory at Santa Croce, he saw some mold at the bottom of the Gaddi Cenacolo Cenacolo that must not have been noticed. He'd remember to tell Dottore Baldini about that. that must not have been noticed. He'd remember to tell Dottore Baldini about that.
John looked at the place where the Crocifisso Crocifisso had hung, the sawn-off, rusting stumps of the iron that had supported it. He supposed they'd bring the cross back when they'd done whatever it was they decided on: leave it a ruin, fill in the lacunae with white or black, cover it with plastic, or even paint in the missing bits. Regardless, he imagined a lot of people would come to see it someday. had hung, the sawn-off, rusting stumps of the iron that had supported it. He supposed they'd bring the cross back when they'd done whatever it was they decided on: leave it a ruin, fill in the lacunae with white or black, cover it with plastic, or even paint in the missing bits. Regardless, he imagined a lot of people would come to see it someday.
For all Baldini's asperity, hauteur, and rumored womanizing-John had heard reports from female angeli- angeli-the dottore dottore arranged some special favors for John and Bruno that final week. The day before John was due to leave, Baldini gave them the key to a room in a far wing of the Pitti where Donatello's arranged some special favors for John and Bruno that final week. The day before John was due to leave, Baldini gave them the key to a room in a far wing of the Pitti where Donatello's Maddalena Maddalena was now being stored. The room was pitch-dark and unheated, and the was now being stored. The room was pitch-dark and unheated, and the Maddalena Maddalena lay on her back in a far corner, a thread of light across her body from a crack in a shutter. lay on her back in a far corner, a thread of light across her body from a crack in a shutter.
John and Bruno switched on the single overhead bulb and made their way toward her. Whoever was minding the sculpture (assuming anyone was) had put a swath of white paper underneath to catch the flakes of gesso, polychrome, and splinters falling off her. It looked-the light was too poor to be sure-as if they'd gotten most of the oil off. From the waist down, she was swaddled in rice paper. Her thighs were cracked, cleaved in two places as though by a hatchet.
He knew he shouldn't, but John touched her. She was cold, colder than the room, cold as ice or damp stone. He put his hand over her hand. Her hands, unlike her face, were young; her fingers delicate, longer than his. There was a crevice where her collarbone met her neck and John put his fingers into it. That was colder still, the hollow where the sheath of her flesh met her old bones. Her eyes were blank and staring. She'd been ready for the flood: it hadn't fazed her. She'd drowned long before.
The next day Speroni let them put Nystatin directly onto the front-previously off-limits to nonprofessionals-of the Crocifisso. Crocifisso. There was mold along the edges that no one had treated since they'd brought it here in December. Bending down close to work, John could see Cimabue's brushwork through the veil of the rice paper, the green-gold edge he and his assistant-Vasari had said it was Giotto, hadn't he?-had laid down around the body of Christ. Then he checked the back again: there was, of course, mold, as there was every day. He wondered who would take care of it after he left. He wondered if he was being derelict in leaving Florence. He couldn't imagine anyone else would bother. There was mold along the edges that no one had treated since they'd brought it here in December. Bending down close to work, John could see Cimabue's brushwork through the veil of the rice paper, the green-gold edge he and his assistant-Vasari had said it was Giotto, hadn't he?-had laid down around the body of Christ. Then he checked the back again: there was, of course, mold, as there was every day. He wondered who would take care of it after he left. He wondered if he was being derelict in leaving Florence. He couldn't imagine anyone else would bother.
His train left that night. At eight he'd met Bruno one last time on the Ponte Vecchio, and they'd walked to the station. John had done his bit for Florence. People in his family had even died for art's sake. His uncle Peter had taken up flying gliders, and the sensation of flight-silent, as though borne on his own wings-poured into his canvases until it seemed he surely needed to fly in order to paint. One day he crashed badly on the coast of Cornwall and died of his injuries, broken like the fellow in the myth.
Baldini never did get in touch with John about coming back. He had hundreds of artworks to tend, and Florence was full of young people who wanted to save one or another of them. But on January 17, the day after the boy had left, Baldini rechecked the data on the Cimabue. It seemed things were turning around: the humidity had dropped 7 percent since they'd last measured. The cross was finally drying, evenly and steadily. Why, just now, no one could say. But soon they could begin.
7.
By the end of January, Procacci and Baldini had sixty restorers working for them together with an incalculable number of angeli. angeli. Forty of the restorers were Italian, six British, and between two and four each from the United States, Germany, Scandinavia, Switzerland, Czechoslovakia, Poland, and Russia. Forty of the restorers were Italian, six British, and between two and four each from the United States, Germany, Scandinavia, Switzerland, Czechoslovakia, Poland, and Russia.
The British dominated the salvage effort at the Biblioteca Nazionale, but Joe Nkrumah, the Ghanian-perhaps the only Ghanian in Florence-was often the most visible and ubiquitous figure. At the railway boilerhouse, Nkrumah was supervising three binders and eight apprentices plus forty-two general workers and double that number of angeli. angeli. Even now, five truckloads of books arrived each day, and it seemed there would always be an infinite supply: Casamassima figured there were 1.3 million items to deal with, not to mention 8 million cards from the catalog, without which the Biblioteca was no longer a library but a chaos, a black hole of damp paper. Even now, five truckloads of books arrived each day, and it seemed there would always be an infinite supply: Casamassima figured there were 1.3 million items to deal with, not to mention 8 million cards from the catalog, without which the Biblioteca was no longer a library but a chaos, a black hole of damp paper.
There was, for the moment, sufficient money: the British Art and Archives Rescue Fund had raised 115,000 to date, primarily through Zeffirelli's Per Firenze. Per Firenze. But with the books, the issue was never just money, nor was it precisely labor. Book conservation, which up to now had consisted of a handful of artisan bookbinders in England and a few other places, was being more or less invented on the fly in the boilerhouse and at the Biblioteca by Waters, Cains, Clarkson, and Nkrumah. That in itself was a challenge, but the greater challenge had the features of a conundrum you might encounter in higher mathematics or physics: given a nearly infinite quantity of books-of pages and words-and a finite number of conservators, space, and time, would there ever be an end point, a time when the job would be done, or even a point of equilibrium, where input and output would be in balance? But with the books, the issue was never just money, nor was it precisely labor. Book conservation, which up to now had consisted of a handful of artisan bookbinders in England and a few other places, was being more or less invented on the fly in the boilerhouse and at the Biblioteca by Waters, Cains, Clarkson, and Nkrumah. That in itself was a challenge, but the greater challenge had the features of a conundrum you might encounter in higher mathematics or physics: given a nearly infinite quantity of books-of pages and words-and a finite number of conservators, space, and time, would there ever be an end point, a time when the job would be done, or even a point of equilibrium, where input and output would be in balance?
Waters and his colleagues were at most forty years old, Nkrumah twenty-five. He'd begun his working life at the age of six in Accra, rising at three A.M. A.M. to go down to the beach to unload the fishing boats, afterward peddling newspapers in the street, and then selling yams for his mother. Between times, he'd go to the British colonial school. Work, he knew, was endless-that was life-but a single task was not; not until now, not until this one. He'd guessed it would go on for years, maybe a decade. The to go down to the beach to unload the fishing boats, afterward peddling newspapers in the street, and then selling yams for his mother. Between times, he'd go to the British colonial school. Work, he knew, was endless-that was life-but a single task was not; not until now, not until this one. He'd guessed it would go on for years, maybe a decade. The angeli- angeli-scarcely more than teenagers, for whom a short hitch like John Schofield's was a long time-couldn't even conceive of it.
The Florentines were used to thinking in centuries. Time passed very quickly, or seemed not to move at all, in the manner of trains rolling off from a station in opposite directions, the future stalemated by the past in a tug-of-war. It could make you take the longer view or render you shortsighted. In March Eugene Power, who'd made a fortune with University Microfilms in Ann Arbor, Michigan, offered to microfilm every single book in the Biblioteca Nazionale-the ultimate insurance policy against future disaster-gratis, for art's sake. Casamassima, who had been so receptive to the British book restorers, turned him down. There were mysteries in Florence that surpassed both reason and art.
On February 24 there was, however, some clarification of the role of the dams on November 3 and 4. Four ENEL employees were indicted for falsifying records, but ENEL itself continued to maintain that the dams had played no role in the flood. This was conceivable. The engineers and watchmen said they'd altered the logbooks to make sure nothing could be misinterpreted, not because they'd done anything that required covering up. It was a matter of appearances, of adjusting the ratio of shadow to light, of managing the chiaroscuro. Anyone could understand it and would have done the same.
The Crocifisso Crocifisso of Cimabue was continuing to dry and shrink, and the mold had abated since January, almost miraculously. But the rice paper of Cimabue was continuing to dry and shrink, and the mold had abated since January, almost miraculously. But the rice paper velinatura velinatura covering the painted surface had been applied when the cross was still soaked, and now the paint-adhering to the rice paper-was in danger of distorting or peeling away from the gesso and canvas underneath it as the dimensions of the cross shifted. covering the painted surface had been applied when the cross was still soaked, and now the paint-adhering to the rice paper-was in danger of distorting or peeling away from the gesso and canvas underneath it as the dimensions of the cross shifted.
The cross was at war with itself, the wooden body wrenching and pulling away from its painted skin. From one point of view, it seemed imperative to save the painted image, with or without the wood underneath it, to amputate the afflicted part that was endangering the picture. Thinking aesthetically, in the mode of Berenson, Forster's "viewy young men," or many museum curators, the Crocifisso Crocifisso consisted essentially of its painted surface-or not even its physical surface but an essentially disembodied phenomenon, an impression received and reconstituted in the mind of the viewer. Yet the consisted essentially of its painted surface-or not even its physical surface but an essentially disembodied phenomenon, an impression received and reconstituted in the mind of the viewer. Yet the Crocifisso Crocifisso was assuredly physical, both a painting and a sculpture, a painting of Christ placed on a sculptural cross. On the raised tilted wedge that contained the head and halo of Christ, the painting erupted from its two dimensions to become three-dimensional, not quite panel or crucifix. Cimabue's creation was no simple canvas to be hung on a wall, but a large and heavy complex of different materials and media. As a restoration problem, it was formidable. was assuredly physical, both a painting and a sculpture, a painting of Christ placed on a sculptural cross. On the raised tilted wedge that contained the head and halo of Christ, the painting erupted from its two dimensions to become three-dimensional, not quite panel or crucifix. Cimabue's creation was no simple canvas to be hung on a wall, but a large and heavy complex of different materials and media. As a restoration problem, it was formidable.
Florence had been dealing with the conservation of its own artworks for centuries and restorers had at one time taken extraordinary liberties with the pieces under their care, not just cleaning them but brushing on concoctions to brighten them up or, alternatively, to add "patina." They'd repainted both missing and even perfectly intact sections with an eye to "improving" them. Now such interventions seemed an outrage to the integrity of both the artist and the artwork, which surely deserved to survive in its authentic form, the one intended by its original creators and audience.
With that in mind, restauro restauro had become a good deal more sensitive, perhaps at times to a fault. Under this newer approach the aim was not only to conserve the artwork but to keep it as close as possible to a hypothetical "mint" condition: its state as it left the studio, exactly as the artist intended, unaffected by subsequent change or mishap over time, save the natural accretion of patina. That meant, in many cases, not simply maintaining it, but undoing the work of earlier restorers: removing misguided "improvements" and any kind of overpainting that attempted to replace or replicate lost or damaged paint. had become a good deal more sensitive, perhaps at times to a fault. Under this newer approach the aim was not only to conserve the artwork but to keep it as close as possible to a hypothetical "mint" condition: its state as it left the studio, exactly as the artist intended, unaffected by subsequent change or mishap over time, save the natural accretion of patina. That meant, in many cases, not simply maintaining it, but undoing the work of earlier restorers: removing misguided "improvements" and any kind of overpainting that attempted to replace or replicate lost or damaged paint.
In some paintings, however, where larger areas-whole faces and bodies-had been lost and repainted, the removal of such accretions resulted in there not being much left to look at, a loss not just of detail but of recognizable figures and even subject matter. At the end of the process, you undoubtedly had an "authentic" remnant of the work, but not the work itself, whose original appearance had been lost to whatever mishaps and inevitabilities time had imposed upon it. This was perhaps good archeological practice-displaying the bones and broken pottery exactly as they'd been found at the excavation site-but what did it have to do with art art, with seeing the beauty and transcendent value in these works that were supposed to make them worth looking at in the first place?
In fact the rationale for most of the art of Cimabue's and Giotto's time had not been aesthetic but liturgical, didactic, or devotional. The accretions in such work might have nothing to do with "improvement" but rather with allowing it to continue to serve the function for which it had been made. A crucifix or Madonna was, in the mind of Cimabue, Duccio, or Giotto, above all an aid to prayer and worship. Restauro Restauro in the name of aesthetics could conflict not only with historical truth but also with religious faith. in the name of aesthetics could conflict not only with historical truth but also with religious faith.
Procacci's counterpart in Rome, Cesare Brandi of the Istituto Centrale per il Restauro, was perhaps the first person to attempt a theory-a set of first principles-that might govern a more sensitive restauro restauro, and in particular the problem of the "gap," lacunae or heavily damaged spots in an artwork in which part of the image had been lost. The gap both was and was not a part of the work: in one sense, it was a deficiency, a loss, but in another sense it became part of the artwork in the way that a scar does a body, a piece of its history if not of its original essence. To fill a gap was to falsify that history, but to leave it untreated was to falsify the work's soul, the artist's intent, the life of its meaning.
Brandi's solution was a kind of neutral inpainting, designed neither to hide nor to highlight the gap, called tratteggio tratteggio, "hatching," the infilling of gaps with lines or cross-hatching in neutral tones based on the color of the intact surrounding painted surface. From a distance, the eye would fill what was missing, but close up the gaps would still be subtly but clearly gaps. The integrity of both art and history would be respected.
Not everyone was persuaded. Florence versus Rome was a perennial rivalry going back to Dante, and it would prove to be so in the field of art restoration. Ugo Procacci saw Brandi's point, but he thought the logic of tratteggio tratteggio did a little surreptitious inpainting of its own. You couldn't simply dodge the whole engine of history or fudge the fact that Brandi's modern restorer, the "neutral" did a little surreptitious inpainting of its own. You couldn't simply dodge the whole engine of history or fudge the fact that Brandi's modern restorer, the "neutral" tratteggiatore tratteggiatore, would always and necessarily impose his own personal, time-bound preferences-his brushstrokes-on the artwork. Brandi and Procacci had disagreements about both the theory and practice of restauro. restauro. But provided neither encroached on the other's realm-and if Italy contained half the significant art in the West and Florence contained half of that, there was plenty for both of them-they could coexist by ignoring one another. But provided neither encroached on the other's realm-and if Italy contained half the significant art in the West and Florence contained half of that, there was plenty for both of them-they could coexist by ignoring one another.
Unlike Casamassima of the Biblioteca, where the British had been given much of the authority over the restoration work, Procacci and Baldini had complete charge of the rescued art. Americans like Frederick Hartt knew the history of Florence's art as well as anyone, but no one at CRIA could claim to possess similar expertise-never mind experience-in restoration. Hartt, it went without saying, both liked and trusted Procacci, and felt he had been to Hell and back to save his city's heritage, two times over. Hartt's fellow board members had no reason to doubt him, although for all of them Baldini remained an unknown quantity. But CRIA would adopt a mostly hands-off approach beyond insisting on an adequate accounting of the funds it was dispersing.
That bookkeeping included knowing which art its money was being spent on. There was an "adoption list" of artworks on which CRIA funds could be spent, and obviously not every piece in Florence could be on it. Aesthetic judgments unavoidably got jumbled up with financial ones, as they had since the days of BB: the larger the number of famous or prestigious works CRIA could claim to be rescuing, the more funds it could raise from the public. In theory this should have meant that the money raised by promoting the masterpieces CRIA was saving would underwrite their less celebrated artistic kin, but in practice it seemed only to increase the pressure to find and repair more masterpieces. People wanted their money spent on something important, on the work of certifiable geniuses.
CRIA's adoption list therefore had to be periodically trimmed of lesser, inessential, or unappealing art. The first deletions were made in April 1967, four months after the flood. Among the artworks that failed to make the cut was a "tavola, c. 1546, loc. Santa Croce: L'Ultima Cena L'Ultima Cena di Giorgio Vasari." di Giorgio Vasari."
On May 15, 1967, Nick Kraczyna finally got his show. It was hung at the Casa di Dante, a block off the Piazza del Duomo, the physical and symbolic heart of Florence. The night of the flood-the night he'd gone to bed at three in the morning, imagining that the roar of the Arno was no more than a strong wind-he'd been working on a Pieta of Icarus, and that too was in the show. So were the rag paper drawings the printer had found crushed against his ceiling.
Among those was Nick's Requiem in D Minor for Icarus. Requiem in D Minor for Icarus. He'd made the drawing using an extremely fine nib to produce hairlines and a maze of cross-hatching He'd made the drawing using an extremely fine nib to produce hairlines and a maze of cross-hatching-tratteggio in a different mode than Brandi's-more etched than drawn. The effect was of something woven, a fabric with a whorl of bodies and limbs at the center. It might have been an image of the flood-junk and flotsam, eddies and spouts, death and consolation-prior to the flood, in the mode of Leonardo's deluge drawings. But at the center of it, in the lap of the Madonna, there was rest: requiem, in a different mode than Brandi's-more etched than drawn. The effect was of something woven, a fabric with a whorl of bodies and limbs at the center. It might have been an image of the flood-junk and flotsam, eddies and spouts, death and consolation-prior to the flood, in the mode of Leonardo's deluge drawings. But at the center of it, in the lap of the Madonna, there was rest: requiem, requiescat in pace requiescat in pace; the promise that this was not the annihilation of death but mere sleep. Except for the fact it was drawn a year beforehand, you might have imagined this was Nick's commentary on the flood and the spring that was just now following it.
Amy and Nick's baby daughter, Anna-who had been with them, in utero, on the trembling Ponte Santa Trinita that day of November 4-had been born just before the opening. Now they were moving house, from their cold-water aerie near Santo Spirito to a stone house up the hill beyond the Porta Romana, a long way from the Arno. They'd have to furnish it, and for a moment the memory returned of the flotilla of antiques they might have netted coursing down their street on November 4. But they'd found two nice leather sofas. Of course, like so many things in Florence, they needed a little help, some restoration. But Joe Nkrumah conjured up something in his lab, and, once it was applied, like everything he touched, the sofas were practically good as new.
Between January and May 1967, David Lees had been back three times, first to the Limonaia-Procacci and Baldini's "Painting Hospital," as the editors in New York were going to call it-in January, again in February, and finally in May to shoot an additional feature on the restoration's progress to date. After he'd finished at the Limonaia, he went to the Palazzo Davanzati, where Donatello's Maddalena Maddalena had been moved from its storeroom in the Pitti. had been moved from its storeroom in the Pitti.
David found her laid on her back, tended by a sculptor named Pellegrino Banella. He was clad in a white coat, working under a spotlight, looking through a pair of microscope lenses with a tiny awl in his hand, bent over the Maddalena Maddalena's head in the manner of a dentist. Her face, set in its haggard rictus, seemed to be imploring the sculptor to stop; her left arm was raised, those long fingers John Schofield had compared to his own about to seize Banella's wrist.
Banella's work on the Maddalena Maddalena would prove to be a situation in which the would prove to be a situation in which the restauro restauro would not only bring an artwork back to its preflood condition but perhaps even much closer to the way it looked when it left Donatello's studio. For as long as anyone could remember-certainly before Ruskin if not Vasari-the would not only bring an artwork back to its preflood condition but perhaps even much closer to the way it looked when it left Donatello's studio. For as long as anyone could remember-certainly before Ruskin if not Vasari-the Maddalena Maddalena had been considered a monochrome sculpture, the wood ranging in color from dark umber to ebony to black. But that assumption was washed away in the course of Banella's meticulous deep cleaning. The had been considered a monochrome sculpture, the wood ranging in color from dark umber to ebony to black. But that assumption was washed away in the course of Banella's meticulous deep cleaning. The Maddalena Maddalena was, in fact, a polychrome, scarcely gaudy, but undeniably tinted in a range of terra-cotta and flesh tones. The dirt and residues of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century restorers' chemical concoctions had dissolved to reveal Donatello's was, in fact, a polychrome, scarcely gaudy, but undeniably tinted in a range of terra-cotta and flesh tones. The dirt and residues of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century restorers' chemical concoctions had dissolved to reveal Donatello's Maddalena Maddalena rather than history's. She was still penitent but also redeemed. Life had been restored to her flesh as well as her soul. rather than history's. She was still penitent but also redeemed. Life had been restored to her flesh as well as her soul.
When she was finally put on exhibition three years later, the Maddalena Maddalena would be a triumph for both the Superintendency and for CRIA. And as things stood now, in May 1967, you might have imagined it would be one of many. CRIA's efforts were yielding both attention and cash; its chairman, Bates Lowry, curated a special exhibition, "The Italian Heritage," while Jackie Kennedy's favorite designer, Valentino, staged a benefit fashion show, and when they were done CRIA had raised $1.75 million to date. Such success redounded not only to the restoration work in Florence, but to CRIA's board. At the end of the year Lowry was named a curator of the Museum of Modern Art and six months later was appointed its director, the most visible museum post in New York. would be a triumph for both the Superintendency and for CRIA. And as things stood now, in May 1967, you might have imagined it would be one of many. CRIA's efforts were yielding both attention and cash; its chairman, Bates Lowry, curated a special exhibition, "The Italian Heritage," while Jackie Kennedy's favorite designer, Valentino, staged a benefit fashion show, and when they were done CRIA had raised $1.75 million to date. Such success redounded not only to the restoration work in Florence, but to CRIA's board. At the end of the year Lowry was named a curator of the Museum of Modern Art and six months later was appointed its director, the most visible museum post in New York.
The progress thus far had been splendid, and if you doubted it, there were David Lees's photos of white-coated restorers at work in the Limonaia in their "Painting Hospital." But while the Limonaia looked impressive, photographs could not capture all the details, nor record the gradual deterioration in its operations over the last few months. During the summer of 1967 CRIA's board received a confidential report that confirmed everything John Schofield had sensed earlier in the year about the Limonaia, and much worse.
To begin, the building was filthy and infested with crawling and flying insects. And while a technically advanced dehumidification plant had been installed the previous December, there was neither heat nor, with Florence's customary infernal summer weather coming on, air-conditioning. The artworks were suffering, but, through the winter and cool spring, so were the staff. Colds and respiratory infections had become almost epidemic, and aside from the man-hours lost to sick days, people didn't want to come in for fear of catching or aggravating something, not to mention plain dislike of the chill.
If they did come in, there was no guarantee they'd be paid. CRIA had been sending money for their wages, but the money wasn't getting disbursed: April's paychecks hadn't been issued until May 20. The pay was scarcely lavish to begin with: 700 lire (a little over $1) per hour for the laborers and the angeli angeli who'd been hired on and up to 1,100 lire (about $1.75) per hour for trained restorers. As a final insult to almost half of the staff, foreigners were paid 200 lire less per hour than their Italian counterparts. Volunteers and restorers from abroad were expected to be not only who'd been hired on and up to 1,100 lire (about $1.75) per hour for trained restorers. As a final insult to almost half of the staff, foreigners were paid 200 lire less per hour than their Italian counterparts. Volunteers and restorers from abroad were expected to be not only angeli angeli but martyrs. but martyrs.
Bad morale of such magnitude might have prompted a mutiny but for the fact there was rarely any senior personage present against whom to revolt. Speroni, whose easygoing manner John Schofield had found congenial, was nominally in charge, but pretended in effect not to be: when asked to make a decision or issue instructions, he demurred, saying he really knew nothing about restoration or art outside his own ambit. But there was no one else to go to: one much esteemed and experienced restorer had been told that he could not approach Baldini (whose visits were increasingly infrequent and brief) directly, but only through an intermediary. The impertinente impertinente Schofield hadn't realized quite how cheeky he really was. Schofield hadn't realized quite how cheeky he really was.
The report laid the blame entirely on what it acidly called "the troika" of Baldini and his two chief restorers at the Laboratorio, Masini and Lo Vullo. There were further absurdities-one pair of tweezers and one lamp to be shared by three restorers-but one grave and overarching problem: art wasn't being saved or even being protected from further degradation. Staff were either sick, slacking off, or quitting, and no replacements would be hired who were not considered reliable and loyal by the troika. In any case, the word was out: the Limonaia was a dirty, cold, thankless place to work and no sane restorer in Florence would now willingly take a job there.
It might be imagined that Baldini, directly or through Procacci, would be told that this state of affairs was unacceptable and be made more accountable. But Baldini was a moving target, always one step ahead: the Limonaia, to be sure, was a disaster, but Baldini was already converting buildings at the Fortezza da Basso, the huge fortress near the railway station, using funds under his rather than CRIA's control. He'd shortly pack up the Limonaia and move the entire operation there, miles from the prying eyes of CRIA's office at the Pitti.
Throughout the autumn letters came from New York insisting that Baldini make the nature of what he called his "consulting" for CRIA clearer; detail his "moonlighting" on who-knew-what; list his hours more precisely; and generally make the full scope of his activities known. Again and again New York implored Florence to get Baldini under control through the intercession of Procacci, but Procacci couldn't or wouldn't do this. He and Baldini were, if not joined at the hip, comrades in arms in the rescue of Florence's art: that summer of 1967, National Geographic National Geographic printed a fanciful, corny reimagining in pastel of the two of them salvaging paintings in the Uffizi as the rising waters swirled around them. They were a heroic and, now, iconic duo. printed a fanciful, corny reimagining in pastel of the two of them salvaging paintings in the Uffizi as the rising waters swirled around them. They were a heroic and, now, iconic duo.
Not everyone was so impressed or malleable. Leonetto Tintori, perhaps the most eminent restorer in Florence, let it be known that if Baldini wasn't reined in, he'd stop cooperating with him and the Superintendency. But by the end of the year, Procacci, far from restraining Baldini, named him director of the new and largely independent Laboratorio at the Fortezza, with authority over most of the restoration in Florence, now even freer from anyone's interference, including Procacci's.
Procacci himself seemed to be losing his touch. His unselfconsciously fervent love of art and Florence-an almost Franciscan compassion-that had earned and sustained his staff's loyalty and respect was wearing away. At a meeting held on the first anniversary of the flood to thank and salute the various angeli angeli, workers, and restorers for their labor, Procacci failed to so much as mention the entire sculpture and polychrome team based at the Palazzo Davanzati. If it wasn't a snub-and conditions at Davanzati were at least as spartan as at the Limonaia-it was an extraordinary omission that was also utterly out of character. Who, of course, knew what the flood had really done to Procacci, especially in those first few days when he'd been so fragile, had seemed to be coming apart; who could say what it was still doing to him? On a normal day, before the flood, he bore the daily responsibility for what many people would say was the ark of Western civilization. And then there had been the flood to deal with. Maybe if you were humane enough to want to do the first job, you were insufficiently hardened to do the second. But somehow Procacci had found the strength-perhaps he found it in Baldini, for all of people's complaints-even if he'd lost a little of his instinct for weeping or saying thank you. Maybe that gap couldn't be restored.
8.
By June 1968 the humidity inside the Cimabue Crocifisso Crocifisso was down to 25 percent after almost a year and a half in the Limonaia. It had shrunk an inch across the foot of the cross. It was time to move it to the Fortezza, time to get down to business, or at least to begin to think about it. was down to 25 percent after almost a year and a half in the Limonaia. It had shrunk an inch across the foot of the cross. It was time to move it to the Fortezza, time to get down to business, or at least to begin to think about it.
At the Fortezza a room had been prepared in which the ambient humidity would be maintained at the same level as in the Limonaia, albeit at a higher temperature. But within three months of the move, the cross had shrunk a further half inch, faster than the wood could withstand without cracking. The paint too was moving. With its canvas and gesso ground still adhering to the wood at some points but not at others, the paint, although still attached to its protective covering of rice paper, was being pushed and pulled in every direction: breaking apart, crumpling, flaking, overlapping, or thrusting upward like arctic ice under compression.
No one had planned on that. Baldini had assumed that the Crocifisso Crocifisso would be allowed to rest until, like a hospital patient, its vital signs became stable; that a gradual drying process over several years with the painted surface held in stasis by the rice paper would end with the cross ready for whatever restoration had been decided upon. But this was an emergency, and the worst option-separating the paint from the cross-seemed to be the only option. The work, performed by a restorer named Vittorio Granchi, began in October 1968. would be allowed to rest until, like a hospital patient, its vital signs became stable; that a gradual drying process over several years with the painted surface held in stasis by the rice paper would end with the cross ready for whatever restoration had been decided upon. But this was an emergency, and the worst option-separating the paint from the cross-seemed to be the only option. The work, performed by a restorer named Vittorio Granchi, began in October 1968.
Although the painted surface of the Cimabue and its ground of gesso were laid down on canvas rather than painted directly on the wood, it was no simple matter to detach the canvas and slip it free from the cross. The canvas was, for one thing, not a single piece of fabric but a jigsaw of irregular parts, the result both of Cimabue's original construction and of splits and seams that had occurred over time, through previous damage, or from the previous interventions of restorers. In places, the floodwater had already dissolved the original animal glue; in others, Granchi could use a syringe to inject a neutral solvent between the canvas and the wood; and in some he simply had to pry the two apart with the thinnest of spatulas. It was nerve-wracking work.
But it was done in a month. No more difficult operation would be attempted on the Crocifisso Crocifisso than this than this trasporto trasporto, or separation, although Granchi was not much remembered when everything was finished. Credit, like heat, humidity, and glory of all kinds, tended upward. Dante, Vasari, even Icarus, could have told him so.
Now, what precisely were they going to do? There'd been talk around Florence-at least among the restorers-about what Baldini would decide. The practical and theoretical challenges were considerable, and perhaps given the Cimabue's status as la vittima piu illustre la vittima piu illustre, there ought to be some sort of larger discussion among the experts-not just from Tuscany, but from the rest of Italy, even from the outside world-or perhaps a civic commission. But that was not the way the fate of artworks was decided, not in Florence. A fiat would be laid down by someone secretly or, alternatively, maybe in the manner of a force of nature, like the Arno or a Medici. A joke went around that the Superintendency should turn what was left of the Cimabue over to a certain restorer in the Via delle Belle Donne, whose studio rather blurred the line between restauro restauro and forgery. The artisan in question was good-a master. Let him have it for six months. Then Procacci could pull the curtain off. The cross would look as good as it had on November 3, 1966, maybe a little better. Procacci could say that after careful consideration the Superintendency had determined that in fact the Cimabue wasn't really so badly damaged after all. That would be the genuine, the classic Florentine solution. and forgery. The artisan in question was good-a master. Let him have it for six months. Then Procacci could pull the curtain off. The cross would look as good as it had on November 3, 1966, maybe a little better. Procacci could say that after careful consideration the Superintendency had determined that in fact the Cimabue wasn't really so badly damaged after all. That would be the genuine, the classic Florentine solution.
Baldini doubtless had a plan, but he wasn't saying what it was. At this point he had a bare wooden cross that still hadn't completely dried out and that would need considerable repair when it finally did. And he had a detached canvas, or rather one large piece of canvas-the bulk of Christ's head, torso, and legs-and a number of smaller pieces ranging from near scraps to larger sections of the two arms. Edo Masini, his second in command, was working on the canvas's cleaning and consolidation, and Baldini himself might have been said to be consolidating the Fortezza; or, from CRIA's point of view, his own position.
Baldini was also enlarging his staff and recruiting and training new talent. One was a pretty, recently married twenty-five-year-old named Ornella Casazza. She'd been a graduate student in art history and, like so many of her fellows, worked as a mud angel. She was smart and willing, she could manipulate tools and brushes with skill, and she had the theoretical grounding to write scholarly papers. Ornella bore watching. Baldini put her to work directly with Masini.
Unlike some of their predecessors at the Limonaia, Ornella and the cohort she was part of were being paid regularly, if still scarcely handsomely. The staff of the Fortezza were officially employed by the government, but when they worked on "adopted" pieces, their hours (plus what one New York official referred to as the " so-called overtime hours of Baldini") were billed to CRIA along with more nebulous "administrative costs." The latter made up about a quarter of the amount invoiced, with Baldini's personal share representing about half of that. At various times during 1968 and 1969, in addition to paying the bills for work on its "adopted" art, CRIA effectively paid the entire payroll of the Fortezza when the authorities in Rome were disinclined to meet it.
CRIA kept the Fortezza afloat for six months. The fact that Baldini was presiding over an enterprise that some people might describe as technically bankrupt seemed to have no effect on his continuing ascent nor his amalgamation of other offices and institutions: within another year, he was not only running the Fortezza but had been appointed the director of the Opificio delle Pietre Dure, Florence's other principal restoration laboratory, which specialized in sculpture, mosaic, and decorative objects. It was a final benefice from Ugo Procacci, who retired from the Superintendency that year.
Later in 1969 Ornella Casazza had been joined by another young restorer-in-training, Paola Bracco, and together they assisted Masini in performing a trasporto trasporto on Allesandro Allori's on Allesandro Allori's Deposition Deposition from Santa Croce. The from Santa Croce. The Deposition Deposition, hung a few yards away from the Cimabue Crocifisso Crocifisso, had been severely damaged, and only detaching the pigment from its support could save it. Unlike the Cimabue, most of the paint on the Deposition Deposition was intact: the group of was intact: the group of angeli angeli and young restorers that had included Marco Grassi had secured it with rice paper and Paraloid at the same time as they had Vasari's and young restorers that had included Marco Grassi had secured it with rice paper and Paraloid at the same time as they had Vasari's Last Supper. Last Supper. Like the Vasari, the Allori Like the Vasari, the Allori Deposition Deposition was painted directly onto wood, and as the swollen panels expanded and then began to contract back to their original size in the Limonaia, the paint underwent a microscopic but wrenching set of stresses. Now dry, the surface of the Allori was ridged and channeled, the pigments and their underlying gesso alternately bunched up and pulled apart like tiny parallel mountain ranges. was painted directly onto wood, and as the swollen panels expanded and then began to contract back to their original size in the Limonaia, the paint underwent a microscopic but wrenching set of stresses. Now dry, the surface of the Allori was ridged and channeled, the pigments and their underlying gesso alternately bunched up and pulled apart like tiny parallel mountain ranges.
To be restored, the irregularities of the distorted surface would have to be flattened out, pressed back to their original dimensions, and only then cleaned and restored. But the painting's surface and its underlying wood panels were no longer the same size. (In fact, the dehumidification and drying process at the Limonaia often shrank the wood to dimensions smaller than its original ones.) The only way to save the paint was to sever it from the panel beneath it, placing the Deposition Deposition facedown and scraping and gouging away all the wood, right down to the gesso. The freed surface, almost tissue-thin, was now smoothed out and reattached to a new backing, in the case of the facedown and scraping and gouging away all the wood, right down to the gesso. The freed surface, almost tissue-thin, was now smoothed out and reattached to a new backing, in the case of the Deposition Deposition, a single piece of canvas that was then retouched by Casazza and Bracco.
By 1972 Baldini had enough pieces of restored artwork from the flood to merit a show. He conceived it as a public demonstration of his progress so far, a celebration of the fortieth anniversary of the foundation of the Laboratorio, and a grand parting salute to the Laboratorio's founder, Ugo Procacci. Baldini decided to house the exhibition inside the Fortezza: his laboratory would be, in a sense, the star of the show. "Firenze Restaura" opened on March 18, 1972, and was a triumph for Baldini, a deserved one. The entire enterprise had brought out the best in him: not just his energy and organizational skills, but a considerable knack for curating and structuring an exhibition. You entered through a series of rooms that laid out the history of restoration in Florence and of the Laboratorio and its beginnings as Procacci's Gabinetto dei Restauri at the Uffizi, then continued past a succession of works rescued from the flood, including the Maddalena Maddalena and the Allori and the Allori Deposition Deposition, and finished in a chamber holding the naked wooden spine and crossbeam of the Cimabue Crocifisso. Crocifisso.
"Firenze Restaura" also revealed another aspect of Baldini's creativity. His theoretical and technical papers on restoration were inert and stuffy, but in the catalog for the exhibition-he wrote most of its 150 pages-he was a sensitive, even moving, writer. His descriptive entry for the Cimabue was a near meditation on art, spirit, and redemption. He imagined the Crocifisso Crocifisso at the moment when the painter began his work-"we see it as Cimabue first did"-but also as it was transfigured by the flood: "a leafless tree," "an enormous wooden machine," "the devastated body of Christ himself, denuded and wracked." Baldini's essay was a reverie in the manner of Ruskin. For all his empire-building, evasions, and pride, here was something Baldini seemed to love. at the moment when the painter began his work-"we see it as Cimabue first did"-but also as it was transfigured by the flood: "a leafless tree," "an enormous wooden machine," "the devastated body of Christ himself, denuded and wracked." Baldini's essay was a reverie in the manner of Ruskin. For all his empire-building, evasions, and pride, here was something Baldini seemed to love.
As for the Cimabue's restoration, there would be no half measures: "Nothing, absolutely nothing more will be lost of this extraordinary first page of Italian art," he wrote, paraphrasing Vasari. Nor would it become a "reconstruction," which would be no more than "a copy." Previous conceptions of restoration would be bypassed and surpassed by a new "mental reconstructive synthesis" that would take enormous quantities of labor and thought. But if they were successful, their work would cause "the sparse leaves" to bloom again on the reunified flesh of this wooden Christ.
Baldini was not promising the Crocifisso Crocifisso would be returned to its original condition. What, in any case, would "original" mean? Its condition the day Cimabue finished it; or just before midnight on November 3; or as it looked, dimly glazed with centuries of patina, when Vasari had it taken down from above the high altar of Santa Croce? Baldini wasn't going to falsify history with a replica of the cross at some reconstructed moment in its past, nor would he falsify aesthetics with an artwork that manipulated rather than moved the spectator. With the surviving remnant of the Cimabue-less than a third of the original painted surface-Baldini aimed to extract its essential artistic beauty and historical truth; if not a masterpiece, then something very much to be reckoned with. would be returned to its original condition. What, in any case, would "original" mean? Its condition the day Cimabue finished it; or just before midnight on November 3; or as it looked, dimly glazed with centuries of patina, when Vasari had it taken down from above the high altar of Santa Croce? Baldini wasn't going to falsify history with a replica of the cross at some reconstructed moment in its past, nor would he falsify aesthetics with an artwork that manipulated rather than moved the spectator. With the surviving remnant of the Cimabue-less than a third of the original painted surface-Baldini aimed to extract its essential artistic beauty and historical truth; if not a masterpiece, then something very much to be reckoned with.
When the show closed on June 4 the bare cross went back to its laboratory. It would be almost three more years until Baldini decided it was dry enough to proceed. In the meanwhile, there were other things to do-hundreds of artworks that needed attention-and it was perhaps then Baldini and Ornella Casazza began to notice each other, not that Baldini, with his fine eye, had not yet noticed Ornella. They were not unhappy people, but they had large aspirations and impulses to go with them.
They would not run out of art to occupy them, not now or ever. The Fortezza was crammed with potentially intriguing projects as well as works that were of less interest. The Last Supper The Last Supper of Vasari had been hauled over when the Laboratorio vacated the Limonaia, but was taking up valuable space at the Fortezza. That same summer of 1972 it was moved to a Superintendency storage room and then, twenty years later, another one. For three decades, no one would give it a thought. of Vasari had been hauled over when the Laboratorio vacated the Limonaia, but was taking up valuable space at the Fortezza. That same summer of 1972 it was moved to a Superintendency storage room and then, twenty years later, another one. For three decades, no one would give it a thought.
On May 21 that year, Pentecost Sunday, a Hungarian armed with a hammer leaped over an altar rail in St. Peter's Basilica in Rome and attacked Michelangelo's Pieta. Pieta. He battered Mary's face and shouted that he was Jesus. Afterward a good proportion of public opinion decried the vandalism, but others, recalling the "No more masterpieces" graffiti painted on canvases at the Louvre during the He battered Mary's face and shouted that he was Jesus. Afterward a good proportion of public opinion decried the vandalism, but others, recalling the "No more masterpieces" graffiti painted on canvases at the Louvre during the evenements evenements of 1968, interpreted it as an act of aesthetic radicalism, a protest against the twin repressive apparatuses of Christianity and cultural elitism. of 1968, interpreted it as an act of aesthetic radicalism, a protest against the twin repressive apparatuses of Christianity and cultural elitism.
David Lees was sent to photograph the damage. It was his last assignment for Life. Life. He and He and Life Life went back twenty-five years, and there was nothing personal intended in the end of their relationship: went back twenty-five years, and there was nothing personal intended in the end of their relationship: Life Life had simply gone out of business. There was no longer a market for a weekly picture magazine that depended on static images-photography-and text set in type, not when you could have moving, real-time electronic images with sound. had simply gone out of business. There was no longer a market for a weekly picture magazine that depended on static images-photography-and text set in type, not when you could have moving, real-time electronic images with sound. Life Life, too, was an artifact of the pre-1968 world that had to undergo demolition.
His talents, however, remained in demand. He still got assignments from other Time-Life publications as well as freelance work. He also had a new assistant, Lorenzo, one of his twin sons. In the manner of his own father, Gordon Craig, David was estranged from the other son, and for a long while he and Lorenzo hadn't been close either. They hadn't lived together for as long as Lorenzo could remember. Before he was born, before she married David, Lorenzo's mother had been a widow. As it turned out, Lorenzo might have thought, she'd become a widow twice over.