Manet’s Civil Wars, part II: The Siege of Paris

“…every war is worse than expected.” – Paul Fussell

During the Franco-Prussian war everyone in Paris, whether painter, poet, or plumber, was swept up by history. Even after the abdication of Napoleon III and the birth of the new Republic that Édouard Manet and his fellow Impressionists had long dreamt of, the armies of the “Government of Defense” continued to suffer defeat after humiliating defeat across French territory. By the autumn of 1870, there seemed little hope of stopping Prussian forces in their relentless drive towards Paris.

The Siege

As bad news continued to flood in, many Parisians – if they had the means – fled from the city. Monet, who had a military exemption purchased by his father, headed north — crossing the Channel to London. There he was joined by Camille and their son where a small artists community of exiles was forming. Pissarro (who was technically a Danish citizen) came with his family, then Sisley, Daubigny, and their art dealer Durand-Ruel. Cezanne headed in the opposite direction — home to the south of France — to avoid being drafted.

1870 Paris: Manet (left) in Bazille’s studio/Bazille in uniform

Manet and Degas, however, stayed to defend their city. Partisans of the new French Republic like so many of their friends, they enlisted in the National Guard. Renoir joined the cavalry. Rodin was drafted but later dismissed because he was too nearsighted. Gauguin served in the French navy in a group that captured four German ships. Frédéric Bazille, a close friend of Monet and Renoir, was killed leading an assault on the Prussians 65 miles south of Paris. Corot, in his 70s, refused to leave his studio and donated huge sums to the poor of Paris. Courbet, Gustave Moreau, Fantin-Latour, and Daumier also remained. Berthe Morisot, who could have spent the war far from the fighting with her sister in Normandy, insisted on staying with her parents in the city’s affluent neighborhood of Passy.

As the Prussians drew closer, the battered, retreating French armies, along with farmers from the countryside, poured into Paris. The population of the capital grew rapidly – just as the new Republican government was struggling to figure out how to feed a city about to be cut off from the outside world.

The Siege of Paris began in mid-September 1870, less than two months after the war began. The overwhelming confidence at the beginning of the war had now soured into fatalism. While the defenders had many new recruits, one general said, “We have many men, but few soldiers.” The Prussian armies systematically surrounded the city and began choking its life out.

Manet was stationed on the ramparts during the Siege, sleeping on straw whenever he had the chance. He wrote to his wife:

I hope this letter will reach you. . . Paris is determined to defend itself to the last and I think their audacity will cost them dearly…. I was on guard at the ramparts yesterday and the day before. We heard the guns going all night long. We’re all getting quite used to the noise….

Much to his chagrin, his commanding officer was Ernest Meissonier, an academic artist celebrated by the Salon, whose work he despised. Meissonier, in turn, refused to acknowledge Manet as a fellow artist – even though he certainly recognized him and knew his work.

Meissonier, Napoléon III at the Battle of Solferino, 1863

Understandably, Manet (like Degas) did little work during this period. He had closed his studio and removed his paintings when the German bombardment began. But, inspired by Goya’s great print cycle “The Disasters of War,” he did one small etching – Line in front of Butcher Shop. What looks at first like a pleasant depiction of city life in the style of Japanese prints is in fact a visual record of Parisian women trying desperately to get food because their families are starving. Manet wrote,

[The] butcher shops open only three times a week, and there are queues in front of their doors from four in the morning, and the last in line get nothing.

Manet, Line in Front of the Butcher Shop, 1870

Nearly lost in the pattern of umbrellas is the only hint that we are witnessing a scene of panic — a soldier’s bayonet poking up at top center. The soldier is there to keep the crowd from getting out of control.

Even in her fashionable neighborhood, Berthe Morisot suffered during the Siege. Like so many others in Paris over those long four months, she became seriously ill, faced artillery bombardment, a bitterly cold winter (the Seine was frozen for three weeks), and near starvation. All across the city, citizens burned whatever they could find to keep warm. With little food left in the city, Parisians turned to the Zoo for meat.  Pets were eaten, then rats. The guns that had been so proudly exhibited by the Germans at the 1867 Paris World’s Fair now bombarded the city day and night.

The French surrender

October 1870 – Léon Gambetta flees.

In October, the Minister of Interior escaped Paris by balloon. At the end of November, Manet, now an officer, fought in one last attempt to break the Prussian siege. Known as “The Great Sortie from Paris,” the Battle of Villiers was a disaster. Amidst flooding and bitter cold, the French lost 5,000 soldiers and retreated the eight miles back to Paris after only five days.

With winter setting in and Paris starving, the National Government could see no alternative to surrender. On January 26, 1871, France agreed to a ceasefire and an armistice with Germany. As part of the agreement, the Germans were given Alsace-Lorraine, the historically French territories west of the Rhine.

 

German Soldiers at the Arc de Triomphe, Paris, 2 March 1871

With the German guns finally silent, Manet and Degas, like many other Parisians, left the wounded city for the French countryside. On March 2, the French nation suffered the  humiliation of seeing the German armies marching victoriously down the Champs-Elysees and through their Arc de Triomphe. 

Civil War: The Commune

But peace did not last long in Paris. The treaty with the Germans was considered treachery by the local defenders, who refused to accept defeat or turn over their arms and cannons to the National Government. Instead, they formed a local governing body which they called “The Commune.”

Barricades, March 18, 1871

Battles broke out in the streets — a civil war between the French military desperately trying to keep control and the local National Guard, radicalized by the war and supporting the new revolutionary city government. Barricades were raised all over the city.

The French national government in response ordered their troops to retake control of the city. But many soldiers, already convinced of the incompetence of their generals, refused to fire on their own countrymen. Rather than pointing weapons at the rebels, soldiers stripped off their uniforms and joined the rebellion. In one incident, rather than following orders to fire on a crowd, they shot the generals. After dragging them into the gutter, citizens took turns peeing on them. Control of the city by the federal government quickly began to collapse. In a few days, the local forces succeeded in raising the red flag of the Commune in public buildings all over the city. The humiliated remnants of the French national forces had no choice but to leave the city. 

In the minds of the French government, now headquartered in Versailles, this was only a temporary tactical retreat. Declaring an independent Paris unacceptable, plans were made for an assault by French forces on its own capital.  The Communards were open to a negotiated settlement, saying their goal was not an independent state but some degree of self-rule.

The government response was swift and deadly.  Cracking down on the rebellion, the army turned their cannons on Paris. The first bombardment hit the western side of the city, not far from Berthe Morisot’s family home.

Manet, now in southwestern France, was horrified to learn what his long dreamed of French Republic had devolved into.  He wrote bitterly to his fellow artist Félix Bracquemond, about their “unhappy country” and “the appalling depths to which we have fallen.”

The battle for Paris

The Communards had spirit but were never an effective army. A band of independent thinkers of many political flavors who shared mistrust of any central control, they chose to fight when and where they saw fit. Their leadership style was characterized as “perpetual improvisation.”

Yet, even though outnumbered five to one, the ragtag worker army ended up being more effective fighters than the regular, conscripted government soldiers. They were inspired not only by their cause, but because they were defending their homes and families. Sadly, their heroism and tenacity only resulted in adding more weeks to the months of destruction in Paris.

Notre Dame in flames, April 15, 2019

To get some sense of what Parisians suffered during this period, think back to the shocking scenes from 2019 when Notre Dame Cathedral was burning. As upsetting as the damage to that iconic, beautiful landmark was, it was only one building. That single disaster cannot compare to the devastation of Paris during the Terrible Year — first in the futile war with Prussia and then at the hands of the French military.

French guns pounded the city for weeks, even hitting their own Arc de Triomphe several times. The Palais de Justice, the Palais-Royal and the Hotel de Ville were turned into rubble. The Barbizon painter Millet wrote, “Isn’t it frightful what these wretches have done to Paris? Such unprecedented monstrosities make those Vandals [who sacked Rome] look conservative.” 

Burning of Tuileries Palace (Louvre at top), May 23, 1871

The Communards themselves set fire to the Tuileries Palace, directly across from the Louvre. Once the magnificent residence of French kings and Napoleon, it burned for two days and became a pile of smoldering ruins. Today, only its famous gardens remain.

The Louvre, too, ended up in flames. Its priceless art collection survived only by luck, when a heavy rain put out the fires. Sadly, its library and the adjacent Finance Ministry were destroyed.

Finance Ministry, 1871

Most civilians were trapped in their homes by the bombardment and fighting in the streets. In April, when a delegation from the Commune pleaded with the leader of the French government for mercy, President Adolphe Thiers answered, “A few buildings will be damaged, a few people killed, but the law will prevail.”

Thiers had once been a radical journalist but, not surprisingly, was now detested by most Republicans. Flaubert in a letter to George Sand called the President an “abject pustule.” Manet referred to him as “that little twit” and proof that France was ruled by “doddering old fools.”

Thiers mocked in a Commune newspaper. “Forward! F**k of a f**k, and watch out for Parisians!”

As the battle for Paris dragged on, fires burnt throughout the city’s center, destroying thousands of homes. Berthe Morisot’s mother wrote:

Paris is on fire! This is beyond any description…A vast column of smoke covered Paris and at night a luminous red cloud, horrible to behold, made it all look like a volcanic eruption. There were continual explosions and detonations…It is unbelievable, a nation destroying itself!

By May, starvation and illness were rampant – just as they had been during the Prussian Siege. Added to these miseries were the vicious reprisals by both sides.

The last week of May would become known as “the Bloody Week.” Government firing squads and civilian vigilantes roamed the streets, conducting executions all over Paris.  Suspicion ruled – suspected spies were dragged away and shot without trial. When it was rumored that women were firebombing buildings, the federal forces began shooting any woman seen carrying a bottle on the street. The Archbishop of Paris, who had organized relief for his city during the Prussian siege, was arrested then shot by a Communard firing squad. In one day, the French army rounded up hundreds of rebels in the beautiful Luxembourg Gardens and executed them. Degas’s father wrote to him “one had to climb over [bodies] in order to walk down the street.”

Commune barricade defended by women soldiers

Using guerilla tactics, Communards fought neighborhood by neighborhood against government forces. But they were outgunned and finally overwhelmed. After weeks of street fighting, on May 28th, the French army forced the surrender of the last holdouts in Montmartre – where the uprising had begun. The civil war and Bloody Week were finally over. It is estimated that as many as 30,000 Parisians died during these final months of unrest.

Paris after “The Bloody Week”

Manet was back in Paris when the Commune surrendered. He had returned from the Pyrenees to join the Communards in the final struggles against the French army. As Manet wrote to Morisot, even with all the destruction and suffering, he had found it “…impossible to live elsewhere.”

End of Part Two

Manet’s Civil Wars

In June 1864, the painter Édouard Manet was trying to recover from the brutality of the critics’ response to his Salon entries that January. This had followed on the heels of being treated as a laughingstock the year before when he exhibited a painting that became infamous in Paris, Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe (Luncheon on the Grass), at the Salon des Refusés (the Salon of the Refused). Despite his desire to be accepted by the academic community, Manet found himself described as a radical artist, ignorant of the basic tenets of art. Somewhat bewildered, he was searching for a subject that could revive his reputation and ensure his admission into the next Salon.

Édouard Manet, Le Déjeuner sur L’herbe, 1863

What was the Salon?

In today’s art scene with its myriad pathways for exhibiting, the importance and power of the Salon is hard to comprehend. Begun in the early 1800s to show off the work of academic prize winners in the Louvre’s Salon de Carré (hence its name), by the 1860s it had become essentially the only exhibition in Paris that mattered. If you were a young artist, you had to be accepted to the annual Salon to receive any kind of notice. An academic jury consisting of members of the Ecole de Beaux-Arts and prizewinning artists from previous Salons served as either your gateway to a future in art or your roadblock. The judges expected paintings with historical, uplifting subject matter or scenes from mythology. All submissions were expected to be “skilled,” in other words, have a polished, finished appearance.

Édouard Dantan, A Corner of the Salon

Unfortunately, acceptance to an annual Salon was only the first step. Where and how your work was hung in its many rooms also mattered.  In the 19th century, artworks were displayed in rows stacked up along the walls. A small painting hung high near a doorway would never attract notice, while a work placed at eye level in a grand room could mean a great deal to an artist’s reputation.

The Battle

While preparing for the annual family vacation along the Normandy coast of France, Manet read in the Paris newspapers about an exciting naval battle of American ships that had just taken place off the harbor of Cherbourg. In one of the most important sea battles of the American Civil War, the Union’s USS Kearsage, which had crossed the Atlantic on a mission to sink one ship — the Confederate navy’s CSS Alabama — finally caught it.

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When Clement Greenberg met Norman Rockwell

After World War II, the center of the art universe shifted and New York City replaced Paris as the home of the avant-garde. In Manhattan’s downtown bars and studios, passions ran high. Arguments about art and ideas often turned into celebrated drunken brawls. Amidst the turbulent turf wars, one art critic reigned supreme – Clement Greenberg. His discovery of Jackson Pollock led to the rise of Abstract Expressionism as the dominant art form in the post-war art world. His opinions were followed intensely, even feared, by artists, dealers, and collectors.

Mercedes Matter, Willem de Kooning, Philip Guston, Frank O’Hara, and Elaine de Kooning at Cedar Tavern, NYC, 1960. [Photo: Arthur Swoger]

Yet, despite the New York School’s position as the foremost movement in Modern Art, if you asked most Americans in the 1950s to name their favorite artist, they would probably have said Norman Rockwell, the beloved illustrator of covers for the Saturday Evening Post. For decades, the Post had been the most popular magazine of its time. Self-proclaimed as “America’s Magazine,” its covers depicted an ideal small-town America, not unlike the New England towns where Rockwell spent most of his adult life. In fact, his models were often his neighbors. His covers were regularly turned into posters and found their way onto the walls of homes across the country.

Norman Rockwell, “The Discovery,” Saturday Evening Post, December 29, 1956

This frustrated Clement Greenberg, who was justifiably proud of the emergence of New York as the global center of art. In his best-known essay, “Avant-Garde and Kitsch,” he struggled to understand how such a strange state of affairs was possible and why the citizens of his country were not embracing their great cultural victory. At the end of its very first sentence, he almost calls out Rockwell by name:

“One and the same civilization produces simultaneously two such different things as a poem by T. S. Eliot and a Tin Pan Alley song, or a painting by Braque and a Saturday Evening Post cover.”

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Kokoschka’s Alma Mahler doll

A strange, life-size doll is at the center of one of the Modern era’s most bizarre episodes. Its inspiration was the sudden end of an intense love affair between the Expressionist painter Oskar Kokoschka and the fascinating Alma Mahler.

Born in 1879, Alma Maria Schindler grew up surrounded by the best of Viennese society. Her father was a noted painter; Crown Prince Rudolf was one of his patrons. While she would become a composer and a writer, it is her love affairs with some of the most important artists, architects, and composers of the 20th century that have kept her celebrity alive since her death in 1964. Continue reading

Florence News: New Botticelli rooms open in Uffizi

The long awaited new Botticelli rooms at the Uffizi opened in mid-October after being closed for fifteen months. The heavy dark planked ceiling is gone and the Early Renaissance master’s works are now spread across three rooms with white walls and brighter lighting. While most paintings are still covered in glass, it is less obtrusive. Glare has been minimized.The most famous works, the Birth of Venus and Primavera, are given generous space and recessed into gallery walls.

In the new layout, all Botticelli’s works have been restored and given more space. There is a fresh feeling like a newly constructed home compared to the old dark and crowded spaces. While you can’t actually smell the new paint, you can still see the marks of the suction cups used to place the glass in front of the Birth of Venus.

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A Director’s tour of Florence’s new Duomo Museum

The opening of the Museo del Duomo in 2015. Photo: Andrea Paoletti

The opening of the Museo del Duomo in 2015. Photo: Andrea Paoletti

The reviews for Florence’s Museo dell’Opera del Duomo highly anticipated reopening in 2015 after an expansion and extensive renovation were enthusiastic. The Florentines were thrilled about finally having a truly 21st century museum in their city center. But when I made my first visit that November, my reaction was very different. I was stunned by the many unaesthetic choices made by its designers, left cold by its grand gestures, and particularly disturbed about how it had intentionally eliminated the possibility of intimate contact with so many of its iconic works – like Donatello’s Magdalene – something that was a hallmark of the old museum. This past summer I returned again, hoping that my initial reaction was simply shock at seeing big changes in an old favorite museum. Yet the second visit only reinforced my disappointment and frustration.

This Fall, however, I had an extraordinary opportunity to understand the philosophy behind the changes to the Museo dell’Opera by joining a tour given to Museum Studies students. The leader of the tour was none other than its Director, Monsignor Timothy Verdon, who, I came to learn, was behind all of the design decisions for the new museum. If anyone could convince me of the wisdom of these changes – this was the man.

Monsignor Timothy Verdon

Monsignor Timothy Verdon

Timothy Verdon has had an extraordinary career. While originally from New Jersey, he has lived and worked in Florence for more than half a century. An expert on sacred art, with a PhD in Art History from Yale University, he has curated important exhibits and written many books on the subject. Today, besides being Director of the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, he teaches at Stanford University’s Florence campus and is the Canon of the Florence Cathedral complex, which includes the Baptistry, Giotto’s Campanile (or Bell Tower), and the Duomo.

Our group met the Director in the lobby, which remains at the old entrance to the Museum. Msgr. Verdon greeted us with a sweet and friendly smile, acknowledging his enthusiastic introduction by a faculty member with endearing modesty. He began the tour by explaining the goals of the renovation.  His words revealed the central role he had played in developing its new vision. “My vision” was to re-connect the museum with the historical sites of the Cathedral piazza. He pointed out that the Duomo museum is unlike a typical museum, since almost all of its art is from one place – the buildings of the Piazza del Duomo — the same place where it is shown. Thus, unlike almost any other major world museum, it provides a unique opportunity to talk about the place itself and to have what Verdon called a ‘narrative.’

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Update on the Missing Botticelli

Botticelli St Augustine restored bannerIt was a stormy afternoon (not night), when I nervously entered Florence’s Ognissanti Church to check if Botticelli’s St. Augustine had finally returned. My last meeting had run late and I was out of breath. Tomorrow my flight was leaving at sunrise, so this would be my last chance. I walked at top speed nearly the whole way, because it was close to closing time. There was no time to take more than a few irresistible last looks at the city (Santa Maria Novella, the Arno).  Luckily, a thunderstorm had just ended, thinning the crowds of tourists, but the stone pavement was slippery in spots along the way.

For the past three years, I had made this pilgrimage, only to experience disappointment. Ognissanti, one of the important neighborhood parish churches of Florence, has quite a few treasures, like its beautifully restored, spectacular 15 foot tall crucifix by Giotto. It is also the final resting place of Sandro Botticelli, his tomb near the feet of his unrequited love, Simonetta Vespucci, the model for The Birth of Venus and other masterpieces. Visitors from around the world leave love notes addressed to the artist there.

But one of my favorite Botticelli frescoes, St. Augustine in his Study (1480), has been missing for years, its place taken by a mounted, fading color photocopy. Just across the aisle hangs a fresco designed to be the other half of a pair — Domenico Ghirlandaio’s St. Jerome in his Study (1480).  St. Jerome appears to be looking across at St. Augustine. Leaning his head in his hand, he seemed to, while trying to be philosophical, share my frustration looking across at the poor copy.

Domenico Ghirlandaio, St. Jerome in his Study (1480)

Domenico Ghirlandaio, St. Jerome in his Study,  1480

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Vigée Le Brun’s unfortunate marriage

Lebrun,_Self-portraitThe odds were stacked against Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, yet she became one of the most successful court portrait painters in France during the reign of Louis XVI. Many troubles would come her way during her life. But the worst may not have been the French Revolution, it may have been her husband.

Born in Paris in 1755, Élisabeth Vigée demonstrated great artistic promise as as a young girl. Her father, a pastel artist himself, told her, “You will be a painter, my child, if ever there was one.” Still, her application to train at the painter’s guild was denied because she was a female (even though her father was a member). Forced to learn at home, she set herself on a course that mirrored academic training by copying plaster casts and engravings. While her father helped with lessons, her mother took her to exhibitions and acted as her chaperon when the young Élisabeth visited homes to work on portraits.

By the age of 19, she already had a successful career. Too successful — she attracted the attention of the local authorities, who closed her studio down because she was not a member of the artist’s guild. To make matters worse, after her father’s untimely death when she was 12, her mother had married a wealthy jeweler who collected the young artist’s fees and was not eager to share them with her.

Young Self-Portrait

Young Self-Portrait, c. 1782?

Vigée managed to gain admission to the painter’s guild after they unsuspectingly exhibited her paintings at their annual exhibition in 1774. By then, the daughter (whom her mother once thought homely) had become a beautiful young woman who attracted not only commissions but the attentions of many important people, including Jean Baptiste Pierre Lebrun, the most successful art dealer in Paris. Le Brun was one of the first dealers to sell artworks as investments and was an innovator in making art a much more international trade.

Jean-Baptiste Pierre Le Brun (1748-1813), Self-Portrait, Salon of 1795

Jean-Baptiste Pierre Le Brun (1748-1813), Self-Portrait, Salon of 1795

According to Vigée, Le Brun invited her often to his mansion, which was filled with art. “I was enchanted at an opportunity of first hand acquaintance with…works of the great masters. M. Lebrun was so obliging as to lend me, for the purposes of copying some of his handsomest and most valuable paintings.”

To her surprise, in 1776, Le Brun asked her to marry him. Already a favorite portrait artist of Paris’s aristocratic women, she wondered if it was wise to give up the name by which she had become well known. But her home-life was becoming miserable. Her stepfather had retired, was becoming increasingly ill-tempered, and was hoarding her earnings.

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The Monk and the Missing Botticelli: A Florence Story

botticelli closeup

One of the treasures of the Ognissanti Church in Florence has been missing for years. Ognissanti, known for being the burial place of Sandro Botticelli and Amerigo Vespucci, and for its huge and recently restored Giotto crucifix, is a pilgrimage site for art lovers and romantics. In 1480, the Vespucci family commissioned a pair of frescos that face each other across the main nave:on the left, Saint Jerome at his desk, painted by Domenico Ghirlandaio; on the right, Saint Augustine in his study by Botticelli.

Domenico Ghirlandaio, St. Jerome in his Study.

Domenico Ghirlandaio, St. Jerome in his Study, 1480.

Sandro Botticelli, Saint Augustine in his Study

Sandro Botticelli, Saint Augustine in his Study, 1480.

Sadly, the Botticelli  is no longer there. In its place is a photograph of the fresco. For years now, whenever I visit Florence, I go to Ognissanti hoping to see the original fresco has returned, only to be disappointed. The print at this point is fading badly, its colors turning a pale blue like an old family Kodachrome.

While I always assumed the fresco was only temporarily removed for restoration, about a month ago I decided to investigate. On a cold February morning, I approached a monk who was huddled in a corner near the entrance, wrapped in his robes, a stocking cap under his hood. I recognized him from my previous visits as the guardian of the church. He appears to be Asian, possibly from the Philippines. Even though we have never talked, I had a fond feeling for him because I believed he was responsible for the lovely recorded religious music that fills the church.

I asked in my weak Italian, “the Botticelli fresco, is it being restored?” The question seemed to rouse him. Over the next ten minutes, I would get an earful from the monk in a mix of Italian and English.

“In restauro? (restoration?) That’s what they said. Two years ago! But it is not being restored at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is on tour of Japan to earn money for the state.”

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Triumph and Travesty in Florence: Baptistry cleaned and Museum reopens

Baptistry before and during cleaning

Baptistry before and during cleaning

This fall, there is good news and bad news from Florence. Lovers of the city rejoiced during the last week of October when, just before the visit of Pope Francis, the scaffolding and giant canvas tarps around the Baptistry finally came down. Since February 2014, the nearly thousand year old Florence Baptistry has been wrapped and blocked from view while its walls were given their first top to bottom cleaning in seventy years. Like a giant gift box finally opened, all can finally see what has been missing from the heart of the city for almost two years.

The cleaned walls of the Florence Baptistry

The newly cleaned walls of the Florence Baptistry

The $2 million restoration was a huge undertaking not just because of the size of the building or its age, but also due to the variety of marble found on the Baptistry’s exterior. According to the Opera di Santa Maria del Fiore, which manages all the historic buildings in the piazza, its cladding ranges “…from Apuan [Carrara] marble to the oldest marble recycled from ancient Roman buildings and tombs.” Most difficult to handle of all is the green serpentine of Prato, a very fragile stone. Depending on the material, conservators used chemical softeners, sponges, scalpels and lasers along the eight sided building.

Florence-Duomo-4

Roman relief sculpture in Baptistry wall

Roman relief sculpture in Baptistry wall

Yet I am happy to report from a visit earlier this month that the results are simply spectacular. The white marble looks bright and fresh. It contrasts beautifully with the black and green marble, which now appear deep and resonant. The Baptistry’s designs seem crisper and more abstract than before – almost modern.  In comparison, the nearby 19th century facade of the Duomo’s entrance, cleaned not so long ago, seems not just overly complicated, but also tired and grimy.

Detail of Baptistry wall

Detail of Baptistry wall

Perhaps most shocking is the change in the Baptistry’s roof. In the past, it had a gray metallic color with what looked like some random splashes of whitewash.  Now, one can see that it is not made of lead at all but stark white marble.

Marble roof of the Baptistry

Marble roof of the Baptistry

The success of the restoration is good news to art and architecture lovers. Unfortunately, the news is not so good concerning the long awaited expansion and reopening of the Museo dell’Opera di Santa Maria del Fiore. The two and a half year renovation tripled the exhibition space of the museum and allowed for a complete reconsideration of its exhibits. It now has a great hall, the largest exhibition space in Florence, which features a life-size reconstruction of the original Medieval façade of the Duomo and the newly cleaned Baptistry doors by Lorenzo Ghiberti, “the Gates of Paradise”. Continue reading