Book Review: "The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome" by Alois Riegl

Today I finished reading Riegl's The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome (2009, Getty Publications). As I mentioned in an earlier post, this publication is very significant, since it is the first time that Riegl's writings on Baroque art have been translated into English. Apart from a few introductory essays, this book is comprised of Riegl's lecture notes. Riegl taught lectures on Baroque art during three different university semesters in the late 19th and early 20th century. These lecture notes were first published posthumously in 1908, and now have appeared in English almost a century later!¹

I have to say, I think that this book is very interesting in many respects, but it's not a book for someone who has a casual interest in Baroque art. Although Riegl's lecture notes are written in a relatively approachable manner (since the text was written with the intent of being spoken in a lecture hall), the publication itself is rather dense. Riegl takes many specific arguments in his lectures, and he assumes that his audience already has a solid foundation of Renaissance history. In fact, much of this book discusses Renaissance art, as opposed to the Baroque art that is commonly found in today's art history textbooks. For example, I was surprised to see more discussion of Bramante than Borromini (the latter was hardly mentioned at all!).

One of Riegl's arguments is that Michelangelo and Correggio should be seen as the earliest predecessors of the Baroque style. I think this is an interesting argument. On a whole, I think that today's Baroque scholars don't give a lot of attention or emphasis to Michelangelo, at least in comparison with Riegl. Michelangelo really is the core of Riegl's text. I think that today it is more common for people to think of Correggio as a "proto-Baroque" artist than Michelangelo. Perhaps 20th and 21st century Renaissance scholarship has such a vice-like grip on Michelangelo, that Baroque scholarship has been forced to back off a little bit?

I thought quite a bit about historiography while reading this book, and it wasn't just because I noticed a discrepancy between today's scholarship and Riegl's treatment of Michelangelo. Riegl also made a passing comment about naturalism, which caught my attention: "Naturally, for us northerners the naturalists are the most interesting [artists to discuss]."² As an Austrian art historian, Riegl realized that his geographic area and cultural origins influenced the way he responded to artistic style. Is there more scholarly interest in "naturalist" Baroque artists because so many great Baroque art historians came from Germany and Austria? Perhaps so!³

As for the publication itself, I liked that many of the key ideas and artists were highlighted in bold text. This small detail helps the viewer to maneuver and search through the text quite easily. On the other hand, I was disappointed to see so few images included in the publication - and the images that are included are only black and white! Although I have a solid foundation of Renaissance/Baroque sculpture and painting, I am less familiar with the secular architecture that is produced during those periods. Without images to help me visualize Riegl's descriptions of the architectural pieces, I found myself a little bored and frustrated in that section of the text.

That being said, I really enjoyed reading the sections about painting and sculpture; I wasn't bothered by the lack of images since I am familiar with the works of art that were discussed. Since I had this mixed reaction to the images (and lack of images!) in this book, I really would recommend this book only to Renaissance and Baroque scholars. Without many pictures to entice or engage the casual reader, this publication could disappoint. However, if you are interested in early Baroque scholarship and historiography, this is a great resource!

1 Riegl died in 1905 at the young age of 47.

2 Alois Riegl, The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2009), 216.

3 One such "naturalist" artist is Caravaggio, as opposed to more-so classical artists (or "eclectic" artists, to use Riegl's term) like the Carracci and Guido Reni. I personally think there is more interest in Baroque naturalism today, but I'm biased toward Caravaggio myself!

Thank you to H Niyazi of Three Pipe Problem, Inbooks and Getty Research Institute for supplying the review copy.

Condivi and Michelangelo's "Pietà"

Well my friends, I think I may have found another minor error in an art history textbook. The textbook I use for my Renaissance classes, The Changing Status of the Artist, says the following: "Ascanio Condivi recorded that his friend Michelangelo carved himself in the guise of Nicodemus mourning over the dead Christ"¹. This seemingly insignificant comment has captured my attention for several months, and consequently I have long wanted to read Condivi's biography of Michelangelo (first printed 1553). Now that the school quarter is finished, I finally found time to read the biography this past weekend. But when I got to Condivi's discussion on the Duomo Pietà (c. 1550, see below), I couldn't find any discussion about a self-portrait! Only in the footnote of biography did I notice this information from the editor: "The figure of Nicodemus, according to a letter from Vasari to Michelangelo's nephew Leonardo shortly after the artist's death, is a self-portrait"²

Now, in the great scheme of things, perhaps it isn't too a big deal that my textbook misattributed this self-portrait information to Condivi instead of Vasari. I understand that. But I also am in favor of historical accuracy, and I thought I would put the record straight here. If any of my past students are reading this, please make a note of the error on page 69 of your textbook!

That being said, this misattribution happily led me to become familiar with Condivi's book first-hand. Many scholars believe that Condivi's work is the best account of Michelangelo's life; this book can practically be considered an autobiography. Condivi wrote that he got his information "with long patience from the living oracle of his [master's] speech."³ It appears that Michelangelo wanted this biography to be written for two reasons: 1) to correct omissions and errors about Michelangelo that appeared in Vasari's first edition of Lives of the Artists and 2) to exonerate Michelangelo from accusations that he deceived the heirs of Julius II and embezzled sums of money (in regards to Michelangelo's seemingly-endless sculptural project for Pope Julius II's tomb).

Condivi's biography is a great resource for any Renaissance scholar, and it's a rather quick read. And although I didn't read any new information about Michelangelo's self-portrait on the Duomo Pietà, I was prompted to consider reasons why Michelangelo included his self-portrait. Condivi wrote that "Michelangelo plans to donate this Pietà to some church and to have himself buried at the foot of the altar where it is placed."⁴

So, if this was to be a funerary function in some sense, Michelangelo may have wanted to include his portrait as part of the traditional convention to represent an image of the deceased on funerary monuments. Michelangelo may have also identified with Nicodemus for either spiritual or personal reasons. For example, according to legend, Nicodemus was a sculptor.⁵

However, this Pietà never was placed next to Michelangelo's tomb. Vasari, who designed Michelangelo's tomb, unsuccessfully tried to acquire the Pietà from the family who owned the sculpture at the time. However, I think it's best that Vasari didn't get his hands on the Pietà: it appears that Michelangelo changed his mind and didn't want the sculpture for his tomb after all. In 1555, two years after Condivi wrote his biography, Michelangelo abandoned and mutilated the Pietà. He then sold the sculpture in 1561 to his friend Francesco Bandini, a Florentine banker in Rome. So if Michelangelo sold the sculpture, it's very likely that he had no intention of using the sculpture on his own tomb. In a way, I'm surprised that Vasari didn't pick up on that simple concept.

A lot of scholars have discussed and analyzed why Michelangelo mutilated the Duomo Pietà, and I think I will compile some thoughts in a forthcoming post. Stay tuned!

1 Catherine King, "Italian Artists in Search of Virtue, Fame, and Honor c. 1450-1650," in The Changing Status of the Artist by Emma Barker, Nick Webb and Kim Woods, eds. (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 69.

2 Ascanio Condivi, The Life of Michelangelo, translated by Alice Sedgwick Wohl, edited by Hellmut Wohl, 2nd ed. (University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999), 140 (my emphasis). I realize that the Changing Status textbook could be referring to something else written by Condivi besides his biography (such as a letter), but I highly doubt it. The editor of this Condivi text probably would have mentioned if Condivi had written anything about Michelangelo's self-portrait, instead of only mentioning this letter by Vasari.

3 Ibid., xvi-xviii.

4 Ibid., 90. Michelangelo wanted to be buried in Santa Maria Maggiore, but was actually interred in the Florentine church Santa Croce. Vasari writes details of the internment (and opening Michelangelo's casket to reveal a body untouched by decay!) in his second version of Lives of the Artists (1568). See Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, translation by Julia Conway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella (London: Oxford University Press, 1991), 486.

5 King, 69.

St. Benedict and Thornbushes

I have a new appreciation for St. Benedict of Nursia (480-547 CE) this afternoon, just having spent a few hours pulling wild thornbushes out of my backyard. I think that is the most grueling and painful exercise I have ever had while gardening, even though I was equipped with gloves and protective clothing. But back to St. Benedict: while battling these bushes, I couldn't help but think of the the saint. According to legend, Benedict cast himself into a thorn bush while naked, to escape the wily temptation of a woman.

When I discuss Benedict in my art classes, I sometimes joke with my students that the thornbush experience was the early equivalent to "taking a cold shower" today. (And it was, at least for some monks!) But since this morning I have a new appreciation for thornbush hoppers. Anyone who willingly throws himself into a thornbush - with the intent of getting pricked - deserves sainthood in my opinion. Definitely.

I thought it would be fun to post some images of Benedict and the thornbush. I was only familiar with a few examples before writing this post, and frankly, I've been surprised that I can't find more works of art dedicated to this legend online. Perhaps monastics wanted to remember that Benedict overcame temptation, but not necessarily focus on exactly how he overcame temptation? Or perhaps there are more images that exist, but they are cloistered away from the public eye? Any medievalists have thoughts on this topic?

"Saint Benedict Overcomes Temptation" (note the devil in the center scene, who is bringing the woman to tempt Benedict) and "Saint Benedict and the Thornbush" (right), Romanesque choir capital, Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire Abbey, France, 11th century

Sodoma II, Life of Saint Benedict: Benedict is Tempted, fresco cycle from Abbazia, Monteoliveto Maggiore (1505-08)

Giovanni di Cansalvo, Saint Benedict Throwing Himself into the Thornbush, ca. 1435-39, Chiostro degli Aranci, Badia Fiorentina

Hermann Nigg, Saint Benedict Writing the Rules, c. 1926

Although I don't think this painting is fantastic, I think it's interesting that the artist included a thorny bush on the side of the painting. This painting depicts Benedict writing his sacred maxims and precepts; these Rules have come to be part of the foundation for monastic living in Western society.

I found another fresco described online (without an image, unfortunately) at the Subiaco Monastery, just southeast of Rome. In this fresco, Saint Francis is grafting roses onto the thornbushes into which Saint Benedict threw himself. I think that the choice of Saint Francis is especially appropriate, since Saint Francis was also known to throw himself into thornbushes to avoid sexual temptation.

The Minneapolis Institute of Arts has proposed some interesting symbolism for thorny plants, given this context of Saint Francis and Saint Benedict. It may be that in some situations thorny plants symbolized chastity and virtue, since these plants functioned as an aid for sexual abstinence!

The Laocoön: Bandinelli vs. Michelangelo

I guess the Renaissance artist Baccio Bandinelli has been on my mind lately. I realized that somehow I managed to bring up Bandinelli in each of my classes this past week - including my ancient art class!

To be fair to myself, I better say that I didn't stray too far on a tangent with my ancient art students. I was discussing the classical statue Laocoön (1st century BC) with these students and happened to mention Bandinelli's Laocoön (1520, shown left). It is not surprising that Renaissance artists (and patrons) were interested in copying the Laocoön sculpture, because the classical sculpture was unearthed in 1506. Bandinelli's sculpture was commissioned by Cardinal Giulio dei Medici and originally intended as a gift for Francis I, the King of France. It appears that Cardinal Giulio dei Medici (who later became Pope Clement VII) liked the sculpture too well to part with it, since it eventually ended up in the courtyard of the Palazzo Medici.

Anyhow, I especially think Bandinelli's sculpture is interesting because the central figure has an extended arm above his head. When the original, classical Laocoön was discovered, the figure's right arm was missing. Bandinelli believed that the arm was extended, and other artists (such as Sansovino) ended up following this same idea for their copies. Michelangelo, in contrast, felt that the originally arm probably appeared bent. Bandinelli and Michelangelo were life-long rivals, and this difference in opinion is just one example of the opposition and tension between these artists. (I should say, though, I think Bandinelli felt the rivalry more than Michelangelo, although letters to Michelangelo (see here and here) indicate that he was keenly aware (curious?) of what Bandinelli was doing.)

Anyhow, Bandinelli's proposal for the Laocoön arm came to be generally accepted. I think this general acceptance came about because Bandinelli ended up creating a wax cast of the arm for the original sculpture. Additionally, he received the prestigious commission to make the aforementioned sculpture for Guilio Cardinal de Medici. No doubt Bandinelli relished the fact that he received these invitations instead of Michelangelo.

To add insult to injury, Michelangelo had been present the day that the Laocoön was unearthed in Rome. No doubt Michelangelo felt a certain affinity and connection with the classical sculpture. Scholars have even noted that Michelangelo's figure of Christ in the Last Judgment (Sistine Chapel, 1537-1541, shown right)) was inspired by the classical Laocoön (and note that Christ's raised arm is bent!).¹ Perhaps Michelangelo felt like he was getting "the last Word" with Bandinelli by including that visual reference in his fresco?

Either way, Michelangelo finally got validation in the 20th century (ha - as if Michelangelo needs more validation in the art world!). In 1906 a bent arm was discovered in Rome, and in the 1950s it was generally accepted that this was the arm which had broken off of the Laocoön composition. The current restoration of the classical statue shows a bent arm. So it looks like Michelangelo was right all along.

Do you know any more stories about the rivalry between Michelangelo and Bandinelli? Vasari records that Bandinelli tore a cartoon by Michelangelo into small pieces (you can see Aristotile da San Gallo's copy of the cartoon, which depicted the Battle of Cascina, here). I know that the topic of rivalry and Bandinelli's jealously are of interest to many scholars. If you know of any other stories - do share!

*Some readers may remember that I touched on this Laocoön topic last year. If you're interested for a little more information (and some links), see here.

1 Michael P. Kemling, "Michaelangelo's 'Last Judgment': The Influence of 'Lacoon and His Sons,'" (University of Georgia, 2003, available online here). For the discussion of the figure of Christ specifically, see Chapter 2.

Lavinia Fontana Post on 3PP!

Hello everyone! I wanted to let people know that I have written a guest post on Lavinia Fontana and self-portraiture at Three Pipe Problem. This fantastic art history blog is regularly featuring posts about women artists, and I was very pleased to contribute to the series.

This post was very fun for me to write; I regularly discuss Fontana's self-portraiture (including her Self-Portrait at the Spinet, 1577, shown left) with my Renaissance students. If you want to see a sneak-peek at some of the topics that I discuss in my classroom, check out the post!

Titian, Mulvey, and Lacan

I've been on a Renaissance kick lately, haven't I? For several weeks I have been wanting to write a post about Titian's Venus with a Mirror (c. 1555, shown left). I think this painting is so interesting, especially because it can be applied to a few theories that are popular in art historical analysis.

I often feel a bit unsettled when looking at this painting, and it has to do with Venus' mirror reflection. The reflection of Venus' eye captures my attention the most. For one thing, only one eye is reflected in the mirror, causing goddess of love's reflection to look a little bit like the Cyclops! Ha! The eye also seems to stare out of the picture plane towards the viewer (perhaps as a way to invite the viewer into the painting, as was suggested by Obridge in a comment for an earlier post of mine). This direct gaze makes the viewer extremely aware of his (the pronoun is intentional) voyeuristic gaze. (And although I don't bring a "male gaze" to the painting, perhaps I feel unsettled because I'm a heterosexual woman; I don't want to be accused as a voyeur while gazing at a female form!) One perceives that Venus is completely aware that her nude body is on display, since her reflected eye acknowledges the viewer's presence.

But it's not only the direct gaze in the reflection that captures my interest. It's the fact that only part of Venus' body is revealed in the reflection. Through the "cropping" of the mirror frame, Venus' eye and shoulder become fetishized for the viewer. This reminds me so much of Laura Mulvey's discussion of women in film. Mulvey discusses how the film camera crops and fetishizes the female form, particularly with camera close-ups on specific parts of the female body.¹ It can be argued that Titian is doing the same thing, by having the mirror highlight certain parts of Venus' body.

I wonder what psychoanalyst Lacan would say about Venus with a Mirror. Lacanian theory discusses how the mirror stage is the most important stage of development for a child (and the child's ego) - it's the point in which an infant recognizes himself/herself in the mirror.² Lacan also is interested in the idea of the gaze, particularly how one develops awareness through looking.³ Given the usage of a mirror (and gaze!) in this painting, can anything be related to the mirror stage? Does the viewer feel compelled to recognize his own eye (and, perhaps by extension, his role as a spectator) when gazing at the reflected eye? Perhaps this is one reason that I feel a little unsettled; I am accustomed to seeing my own eye when I gaze at a mirror, and not the direct gaze of another person's eye.

Lacan discusses how a young infant experiences elation during the mirror stage, for the child imagines the mirror image to be more complete and more perfect than the child experiences his own body. Obviously, the viewer can't get a sense of completion and perfection in the mirror image that Titian has created, since Venus' body is fragmented from the viewer's perspective. The viewer expects to see (and anticipates that Venus also sees) a more complete reflection of the goddess in the mirror, but in actuality the more complete image of Venus (for the viewer, at least) is displayed on the left side of the canvas. Hence, I feel unsettled; the mirror has failed my expectations, yet paradoxically I am still given a "complete image" of Venus within the picture frame.

Does anyone else feel a bit unsettled by looking at this painting? Why or why not?

1 Laura Mulvey, "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," in Screen 16, no. 3 (Autumn, 1975): 21-22. I've written a little bit about Mulvey's ideas in a previous post.

2 Ibid, 17. See also "Lacan: The Mirror Stage" for further information and resources.

3 Jacques Lacan, The Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis (New York: W. W. Norton, 1981), 67-78.

Renaissance Art and Conception!

I hope the title of my post grabbed your attention! I've been reading a terribly interesting book this afternoon: Picturing Women in Renaissance and Baroque Italy. This book includes a chapter by Caroline P. Murphy, a scholar on 16th century artist Lavinia Fontana.¹ Murphy's chapter discusses how art was used in conjunction with the conception and delivery of children, and it's absolutely fascinating.

To introduce this aspect of her argument, Murphy mentions how people in early modern Europe were both "appalled and fascinated by the birth of monstrous children" (e.g. children with severe birth defects).² It was believed in order to avoid the conception of a monstrous child, a woman should look at pictures of beautiful figures. In essence, this beautiful image was supposed to have "a positive morphological effect on the child in [the woman's] womb."³ Consequently, some pictures with beautiful figures were designed so that they could be placed over a bed or attached to the bedframe (since the bed was the place where sexual intercourse would take place). In addition, a pregnant woman would spend much of her time resting on the bed, and she would have additional opportunities to look at the beautiful figures (and positively affect the growth of the child).

So what constituted a "beautiful figure" in 16th century Bologna, the city in which Lavinia Fontana worked? You may be think that such figures were mythological, such as Venus or Cupid. Actually, due to the Counter-Reformation and promotion of religious imagery, it is more likely that women looked at images of Mary and the Christ Child. Murphy mentions a few Holy Family paintings by Lavinia Fontana which were probably bought for married couples, one being The Virgin Adoring the Sleeping Christ Child (Boston Museum of Fine Arts).

However, I think there is one more painting by Fontana which should be added to Murphy's discussion. Given Murphy's emphasis on childbirth, I think it's surprising that she did not discuss Fontana's Holy Family with Saints Margaret and Francis (1578, shown right) in her article.* Not only do these beautiful figures fit with other Holy Family images that Murphy discusses, but this painting also includes a depiction of Saint Margaret: the patron saint of childbirth! (Saint Margaret is identified on the left, through her symbol of the dragon.)

Couldn't this image have been a source of comfort to pregnant women at the time? Murphy mentions how some images of the Holy Family include St. Elizabeth; the inclusion of St. Elizabeth would have been comforting for a female viewer, particularly a woman who was attempting to get pregnant (since Elizabeth conceived in old age). Although this painting does not depict Elizabeth, I think this inclusion of St. Margaret in this painting would have served as a source of comfort too (and it seems to be an even more appropriate connection, given St. Margaret's role and patronage!).

Interestingly, the Davis Museum and Cultural Center of Wellesly College (which has this painting on loan), does not make any mention of Murphy's argument in their webpage for this painting (and their bibliography does not cite Murphy). I'm going to have to write them - I think they need to slightly modify their discussion of this painting!

*Update: the comments section for this post discusses Murphy's reasoning for not including this painting in her argument.

1 Caroline P. Murphy, "Lavinia Fontana and the Female Life Cycle Experience," in Picturing Women in Renaissance and Baroque Italy, edited by Geraldine A. Johnson and Sara F. Matthews Grieco (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 111-138.

2 Ibid., 120.

3 Ibid., 121.

Diana of Ephesus: Keeping Abreast with Iconography

Some of my long-time readers will remember my previous post on Saint Lucy, whose iconography (or visual symbol) is a pair of eyeballs. I remember being struck by how St. Lucy's iconography was so unusual (and kinda grotesque, in my opinion). Some comments on that previous post mentioned another unusual example of hagiographic iconography: Saint Agatha carries her breasts on a platter (see an example by Zurbaran here). Today, though, I remembered another female figure associated with kinda bizarre iconography: Diana of Ephesus. Although Diana (or "Artemis" to the ancient Greeks) isn't a Catholic saint like Lucy and Agatha (she's a fertility goddess from classical mythology), I would have to say that her iconography might be the most unusual of all. Take a look:

Artemis of Ephesus, 1st century CE Roman copy (Museum of Efes, Turkey)

Lady of Ephesus, 1st century CE (Ephesus Archaeological Museum)

With breasts aplenty, it's easy to tell that Diana of Ephesus was an ancient goddess of fertility, but her iconography might be little more complex than one would suppose! In 1979 a scholar name Gerard Seiterle pointed out that none of the supposed breasts of Diana/Artemis figurines have nipples. Seiterle argued that instead of breasts, Diana is laden will bull testes.¹ This is an interesting argument for two reasons: 1) the bull was symbol of fertility in ancient times and 2) the altar at Ephesus would have been large enough to sacrifice a bull. Although Seiterle's argument is not accepted by all scholars (I personally don't feel quite convinced), it does add an interesting element to the discussion of Diana's iconography, don't you think?²

Even if early depictions of Diana do not include nipples on her breasts, I noticed that later depictions do include nipples:

Diana of Ephesus, detail from The Discovery of the Child Erichtonius by Peter Paul Rubens, c. 1615

Fountain of Diana of Ephesus, Villa d'Este, 16th century

Diana of Ephesus was a very popular goddess in ancient times (in fact, some readers may be interested to know that worship of Diana is mentioned in the Bible (see Acts 19:28 and Acts 19:35). Additionally, Diana's temple at Ephesus was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. I get the sense, though, that she wasn't as popular (and more specifically, her traditional iconography wasn't as popular) in more recent artistic periods like the Renaissance (although some examples from later periods exist, as I've shown above).³ Perhaps Diana of Ephesus' multi-breasted appearance was too far from the Renaissance standards of idealization?

If you can put forward a more unusual type of iconography than Diana of Ephesus, speak up!

1 See Gerard Seiterle, "Artemis: die Grosse Göttin von Ephesos" Antike Welt 10 (1979): 3-16. Seiterle is also mentioned (although his name is misspelled) in Vicki Goldberg, "In Search of Diana of Ephesus" in New York Times 21 August 1994 (citation available online here). I also found some scholars discussing Seiterle's argument on this WikiTalk.

2 Wikipedia mentions here that Seiterle's argument was "accepted in the 1980s by Walter Burkert and Brita Alroth, among others, criticised and rejected by Robert Fleischer, but widely popularized." For an argument against Seiterle, see Fleischer, "Neues zur kleinasiatischen Kultstatue" Archäologischer Anzeiger 98 1983:81-93; Bammer 1990:153.

3 It's interesting to note that a Renaissance humanist scholar might have been interested in Diana of Ephesus, though. It's possible that Andrea Odoni is holding a statuette of Diana of Ephesus in his portrait (painted by Lorenzo Lotti, 1527). See portrait and discussion here.

Lorenzo Ghiberti and Vittorio Ghiberti

Art historians have previously discussed how Ghiberti's self-portrait on the "Gates of Paradise" doors (shown on the far left of the image, 1424-52, see detail image here) can be interpreted not only as a signature portrait, but also as a promotional image.¹ By placing his portrait in such a prominent public location, there is little doubt that Ghiberti was interested in promoting himself as an artist. Catherine King also records that "the Latin inscription alongside [the doors] reads in translation: 'Made with wonderful skill by Lorenzo Ghiberti.'"²

This past week, when looking at dates and details regarding the "Gates of Paradise," I was struck with an additional idea. The "Gates of Paradise" were completed in 1452, when Ghiberti would have been about 74 or 75 years old. Therefore, at such a late point in the artist's life, it is not surprising that Ghiberti decided to include his son Vittorio's portrait on the door as well (see portrait on right side of the image). Vittorio inherited the family workshop after his father's death (which was in 1455, only three short years after the "Gates of Paradise" were finished). I think that Lorenzo has anticipated his death (at least to some degree) by including his heir's portrait. That way, even after Lorenzo died, the Ghiberti family business would still be promoted on the baptistery doors.

Smart thinking, Lorenzo.

As other historians have noted, Lorenzo was quite a "shrewd" and "keen" businessman.³ The inclusion of Vittorio's portrait seems to be further evidence for this fact.

1 Catherine King, "Italian Artists in Search of Virtue, Fame, and Honour c. 1450-1650," in The Changing Status of the Artist by Emma Barker, Nick Webb and Kim Woods, eds. (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 60-63.

2 Ibid.

3 Ibid., 59. See also Gary M. Radke, ed., The Gates of Paradise: Lorenzo Ghiberti's Renaissance Masterpiece (London: Yale University Press, 2007), 67. Citation available online here.

Strange and Unusual Portrait by Fontana

Yesterday I came across the strangest portrait I have ever seen. Take a look at Lavinia Fontana's portrait of Antonietta Gonzalez (also written as "Gonzales," c. 1595, on left). At first, I didn't know what to make of this painting. Was it a joke? Why would young girl be depicted with a hairy face?

This is no joke, my friends. In fact, it's a rather unusual story. Antonietta Gonzalez (as well as her father, two sisters and other family members) had hypertrichosis (also commonly called "werewolf syndrome"). This is a rare genetic disorder which causes an abnormal amount of hair on the body. (You can read more about the disorder and see some interesting images here.) Antonietta's father, Pedro (sometimes written as Pedrus) Gonzalez, was the first known person to be affected with this disorder. Given the rarity of the disease, it seems a little surprising that so many people within the Gonzalez family were affected by hypertrichosis. One writer noted that in terms of pathology, "the Gonzales sisters were one in a billion - all three of them."¹

Luckily, though, Antonietta and her sisters were not shunned by society, but welcomed into the courts of Europe. Although I'm sure that these girls served as objects of curiosity to some degree, they also were subject to medical investigations and, obviously, portrait sittings. Antonietta explains a little of her personal history in the handwritten note which she holds in the portrait: "Don Pietro, a wild man discovered in the Canary Islands, was conveyed to his most serene highness Henry the king of France, and from there came to his Excellency the Duke of Parma. From whom [came] I, Antonietta, and now I can be found nearby at the court of the Lady Isabella Pallavicina, the honorable Marchesa of Soragna."²

Historian Merry Weisner-Hanks has speculated that Lavinia Fontana met Antonietta in Parma. I hope to find more information about the portrait in The Marvelous Hairy Girls: The Gonzales Sisters and Their World a relatively new book by Weisner-Hanks. It looks really interesting.

Okay, so here's my question: do you know of a portrait more unusual or strange than this one? Let's make it a little game; I'm curious to see what people might submit. And I'll let you, dear readers, decide what constitutes "unusual" or "strange" (e.g. the sitter, the artistic presentation of the sitter, the medium, etc.).

P.S. As I was finishing up this post, my two-year-old looked at the Fontana portrait and said, "Hey, is that you?" Ha ha! I didn't realize that I was having such a bad hair day!

1 Jason Zasky, "Hair Apparent," in Failure Magazine (n.d.), located here (accessed 12 January 2011).

2 Merry Weisner-Hanks, "Hairy Marvels and Beastly Sex," in National Sexuality Resource Center (1 October 2009), located here (accessed 12 January 2011).

Historia Paintings: Here's Looking at You, Kid

I'm getting ready to teach a lecture on Alberti's theories regarding the type of painting called historia (also seen as istoria). In his treatise On Painting (1435), Alberti argued that historia painting is the highest goal and achievement for an artist. A historia is a narrative painting which includes a complex composition and a large number of figures. Furthermore, these figures should be displayed in several dramatic and emotive poses. Alberti felt that "everything the people in the painting do among themselves, or perform in relation to the spectators, must fit together to represent and explain the 'historia.'"¹

One of Alberti's most interesting ideas about historia has to do with how the painting communicates and involves the viewer. Alberti found that a historia painting is most effective if there is a figure in the painting who directly communicates with the viewer. He wrote, "I like there be someone in the 'historia' who tells the spectators what is going on, and either beckons them with his hand to look, or with ferocious expression and forbidding glance challenges them not to come near, as if he wished their business to be secret, or points to some danger or some remarkable secret, or by his gestures invites you to laugh or to weep with them."²

I think one of the best ways for historia figures to communicate with the viewer is through an outward glance (as if the figure was actually looking at the viewer).³ I know that there are tons of examples of such outward glances, but here is just a small sample of my favorites:

Two figures gaze outwards (while one of them beckons toward the viewer - Alberti would be so pleased!) in Ghirlandaio's Adoration of the Magi (1488). The staring figure near the top of the detail is a supposed self-portrait of Ghirlandaio.

Christ stares out at the viewer, amid all of the hustle and bustle found in Veronese's The Wedding Feast at Cana (1562-63)

An alleged self-portrait of Botticelli. The artist is gazing at the viewer from the foreground of his painting, Adoration of the Magi (c. 1475)

This one is also a supposed self-portrait of the artist Perugino, found within his painting Christ Giving the Keys to Saint Peter (1481)

I think it's interesting that so many painters decided to include themselves as the token "communicating figure" within their paintings. The examples by Ghirlandaio, Botticelli and Perugino are a small sampling of the staring/communicating self-portraits which exist. (To give you an idea, other such self-portraits were done by are Jacopo Pontormo (see here), Raphael (see here) and Fillipo Lippi (see here and here). But, the more that I think about it, the inclusion of the self-portrait is very fitting for historia painting, particularly when considering Alberti's thoughts on communication. After all, if at least one figure is responsible for communicating to the viewer (and drawing the viewer into the scene), shouldn't that figure be the artist?!? Makes sense to me.

What about you? What paintings do you enjoy where a figure is staring outwards at (or beckoning toward) the viewer? I know there are tons of them out there - especially from the Italian Renaissance period!

1 Leon Battista Alberti and Martin Kemp, On Painting (New York: Penguin Press, 1991), 78. Citation available online here.

2 Ibid., 77-78.

3 It should be noted that many painters followed Alberti's advice by including a figure in communication with the viewer, but not directly looking at the viewer. For example, Ghirlandaio's Adoration of the Shepherds (1485) shows a shepherd who is pointing (to communicate with the viewer), but the shepherd's gaze is toward another figure in the painting.

The Capitoline Wolf is Medieval?!?

I don't know how I missed this news (it's over two years old), but I thought that I would post it for others who may not have heard. In recent years scholars have questioned whether the "Capitoline Wolf" (an iconic statue of a she-wolf that is related to the mythological founding of Rome, see left) is Etruscan. Winckelmann first attributed this statue to the Etruscan period; he based his reasoning on the way that the wolf's fur is depicted. In turn, it generally became accepted that the statue was created in the 5th century BC.

However, a couple of scholars have questioned this attribution since the 19th century. The most recent critique was published by art historian Anna Maria Carruba in 2006. Carruba noted that in the 1997 restoration of the statue, it was observed that the she-wolf was cast as a single unit - a technique that was common during the medieval period.

Carruba's work eventually led to radio-carbon dating tests on the sculpture. About twenty dating tests were conducted at the University of Salermo, which resulted in the announcement that the she-wolf was created in the 13th century AD! In other words, she was created at least 1,700 years later than we originally thought. Wow. Sorry Winckelmann: it looks like you've struck out again. Ouch.

This is a crazy paradigm shift for me. I've always connected the Capitoline Wolf with the Etruscans (and the Romans by extension, since she is connected with the story of how Rome was founded). I've always known that the Romulus and Remus figures underneath were made during the Renaissance (they were fashioned in the late 15th century AD, probably by Antonio Pollaiolo), but it's crazy to think that the Capitoline Wolf is medieval.

I should note, though, that the attribution of this statue is still far from resolved. Not only can one get a sense of the ongoing debate here and here, but right now the Capitoline Museum still has the Etruscan date on their official website. As for me, though, I'm currently inclined to go with the radio-carbon tests and the several scholars which have questioned the attribution. (And maybe I feel this way because I often question Winckelmann's judgment, even outside of this Etruscan attribution.)

Is this news for anyone else? Maybe I'm just behind the times. What do other people think about this new date?

"La Bella Principessa" by Von Carolsfeld?

My longstanding readers may remember a short post that I did last year, expressing reservations that the painting nicknamed "La Bella Principessa" (shown left) was a work by Leonardo da Vinci. (You may recall that a fingerprinting method was used to attribute this painting to Leonardo.)  I question this attribution for a couple of reasons, including the fact that this painting was done on vellum, a medium which Leonardo never used. I'm not the only art historian or curator with reservations about this attribution, and now people are coming forward to suggest who the actual artist might be.

I just read this news release about a new attribution: Fred R. Kline (an independent scholar) has come forward to suggest that the actual artist is Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, a lesser-known 19th century artist who belonged to the Nazarene Brotherhood in Germany. Kline's argument is supported by a sketch called "Half-Nude Female" (shown below) which Klein discovered in the State Art Museum in Mannheim, Germany. Not only was this sketch created on vellum (just like "La Bella Principessa"), the model and braided hair are quite similar. Kline thinks that "La Bella Principessa" could have been a gift from Von Carolsfeld to this model.

This is a really interesting idea, and I congratulate Klein on his sleuthing. If this painting is by Von Carolsfeld, "La Bella Principessa" would be one of the best paintings that he ever created. I'm not familiar with all of Von Carolsfeld's work, but I haven't been terribly impressed with the paintings that I have seen.¹ I do really like Von Carolsfeld's sketches, though (for example, his sketches Seated Boy Playing a Pipe (1818) and Portrait of Victor Emil Jansen (n.d.) are very good). In my opinion, Von Carolsfeld was a much better draftsman than a painter, and I kind-of doubt he could create as fine of a painting as "La Bella Principessa."  Even though Von Carolsfeld's Klara Bianka von Quandt (1820) is an alright painting (despite the fact that the lute looks like it's been cut-and-pasted into the model's hands - sorry, I couldn't help myself), it lacks the sfumato and modeling that gives the Principessa's image a sense of depth and richness.

So, there you have it. We may have found a possible artist for "La Bella Principessa," but (yet again!) I'm still not quite sure. I wonder, though, if "La Bella Principessa" might have been painted by another person associated with Nazarene Brotherhood. Perhaps someone who used the same model as Von Carolsfeld's "Half-Nude Female" sketch, but also had more talent as a painter?  Does anyone know any information about Ludwig Schnorr von Carolsfeld (Julius' older brother)? I know that he was a painter too, but so far I can only find information about Julius' son, who was given the same name.

1 Let me explain some of my reasoning. I think a lot of Von Carolsfeld's painted figures seem a little too static. Consider The Family of John the Baptist Visiting Christ (1817), where the Christ child is awkwardly spread out like a lifeless doll. Or look at The Annunciation (1818): it seems strange that the Gabriel's drapery is flowing behind him (suggesting movement), when the angel appears absolutely frozen in its stance. I realize that "La Bella Principessa" doesn't allow for much comparative analysis in terms pose (since it is a bust portrait), but I still think that the face and upper figure of the "Principessa" seem much more relaxed and natural than any of the Von Carolsfeld paintings which I have seen.

Baroque Scrolls and Titian Fire Disaster

When I visited Europe several summers ago, there were a couple of things that inspired me to pick up a sketch pad. And I'm not really an artist, so when I'm motivated to draw (and put aside the impulse to self-criticize), I've gotta be pretty darn inspired. Santa Maria della Salute (Venice, 1631-1687, shown right) was one of the things that inspired me to draw for a bit. Really, it was the huge baroque scrolls along the drum of the dome that I sketched (click on the image to see the scrolls in better detail).  They are awesome, and I couldn't help but think about the large volute scrolls that flank the top of some Greek vases (like this one).

Anyhow, tonight I read here that there was a fire in seminary building near Santa Maria della Salute. (When I read about the initial fire, I immediately gasped and thought, "Are the baroque scrolls alright?" But it seems like the fire was concentrated at the nearby seminary.  Perhaps firefighters doused the roof of Santa Maria della Salute to prevent the fire from spreading. Nonetheless, my scrolls were spared! Yay!) However, water did seep in through the roof of Santa Maria della Salute, which has permanently damaged Titian's David and Goliath (1542-44, shown right). David and Goliath was hung on the ceiling of the church, and seemed to have received the brunt of the damage. There are eight other Titian paintings located in the church, but an initial examination suggests that no damage has been done.

That's good news, but it's sad to hear about the ruined work.  I actually gave an empathetic moan when I read a quote by Vittorio Sgarbi (head of Venice's museum agency) on The History Blog, which has a great post about this unfortunate disaster. Sgarbi rushed to the museum scene after seeing the fire from a nearby restaurant. He then relayed to the press that he saw "water dripping from the painting for over an hour."

Aw. Poor man. That definitely won't be the highlight of his career.

Luckily for us, it sounds like this painting will be able to be restored.  I don't know if the painting can ever be "good as new" (or, er, good as it was before this deluge), but at least this painting isn't lost forever.

Michelangelo and Damage

This morning I came across an interesting post at Ponte Commedia, which mentions some of the mishaps and damage that have occurred to Michelangelo's David.¹  One particular event stood out to me in this post: the 1991 attack of the David by a disturbed artist, who broke off part of a toe with a hammer.  This post instantly reminded me of another post from When Art History Goes Bad, which discusses the damage that has happened to Michelangelo's Pieta (including when Laszlo Toth infamously attacked the statue with a sledgehammer in 1972).  If you're interested, you can see some footage of the attack and damage below:



I don't know of any other sculptor whose work has caused mentally disturbed people to attack it.  (But if you know of similar attacks on other sculptures, please comment! I'd be interested to learn about them.)  Does Michelangelo's work get the brunt of such attacks, since these sculptures are some of the most well-known pieces of art in the Western world?  I think so.  It's sad to think that Michelangelo's fame and artistic beauty have had such an adverse side effect.

1 You can read an amusing BBC article about some damage and restoration work on the David here.

Giorgione's Gypsy?

Recently I have been reading some back-and-forth discussion on Three Pipe Problem regarding interpretations of Giorgione's Tempest (c. 1505, shown right).  Whenever I teach this painting to students, I give some background on the extant interpretations and scholarship, but I have never promoted one theory above another.  The reason?  In my opinion, it's just too hard.  I haven't found one interpretation that completely satisfies all of my questions regarding the enigmatic subject matter and composition.

One of the more popular arguments is that this painting is a Flight into Egypt scene, although that argument still leaves me with some questions.  X-ray scans of the painting reveal that Giorgione first painted a woman on the left side of the painting (see below, as reconstructed by Morassi in 1939), and then later changed his mind and painted the woman on the right (which is why both women appear in the x-ray scan.  For someone who is familiar with the final painting, this scan almost seems creepy at first glance, since the male figure eerily nonexistent.).

Anyhow, the woman revealed through x-ray is not holding an infant, nor is she positioned so that an infant could have been painted in her arms afterward.  This suggests to me that the female figure was not initially intended to be a Madonna (at least for a Flight of Egypt scene, since Mary is always depicted as the one holding the Christ Child).  Giorgione obviously could have changed his mind afterward in regards to the subject matter, but this initial female figure makes me wonder if the painting was intended to be (and still is) secular in nature.

I am especially intrigued by Paul Holberton's argument that the woman in the painting is a gypsy.¹  Holberton's article, "Giorgione's 'Tempest' or 'little landscape with the storm with the gypsy': more on the gypsy, and a reassesment" discusses the clothing and iconography for gypsy women, and also gives some great examples of gypsies in the art of Giorgione's contemporaries.  I think there are some interesting ideas presented, and I can see how both the man and woman can be interpreted as gypsies.  However, I have to admit that I don't agree with everything Holberton suggests (e.g. I don't think that the two figures seem "united by a bond of love." They are too far separated across the canvas to fully suggest that idea to me).¹

Do you latch onto a certain interpretation of Giorgione's Tempest? Why?

1 Paul Holberton, "Giorgione's 'Tempest' or 'little landscape with the storm with the gypsy': more on the gypsy, and a reassesment," Art History 18, no. 3 (September 1995). Available online here. Holberton isn't the first person to put forth the gypsy argument, but I like much of the logic and ideas that he presents. I also like that Holberton discusses a little bit of the historiography of the Tempest, which makes this article a useful resource for scholars.

2 Ibid. Available online here (p. 14).

Ghiberti's North Doors

Excuse me, Marilyn Stokstad, but I found an error in your art history textbook.  Granted, I own a dated version (1999) of Art History (Revised Edition, Volume Two), and I'm hoping that subsequent editions have corrected this error.  My copy states the following on p. 647:

"In 1402, a competition was held to determine who would provide bronze relief panels for a new set of doors for the north side of the Florence Baptistery of San Giovanni." (my emphasis)

This is incorrect.  Although the doors resulting from this competition have now ended up on the north side of the baptistery, at the time of the competition these doors were intended for the eastern side of the building.¹

The competition to create a set of doors for the baptistery helped revive a project that had been put-aside for several years.  When Andrea Pisano had created a set of doors about seventy years before (dated 1330), it was intended at the time that doors would be completed in a similar fashion for the remaining two portals.

Ghiberti won the competition and a set of doors were completed between 1403-1424 (see above left).  At the time of completion, Pisano's doors were moved from their original location on the east side, in order to accommodate Ghiberti's new doors.²

Although Ghiberti's doors were installed on the eastern side, later they were moved to their current location: the north side of the building.  The same year that Ghiberti completed these now-northern doors, he was given a second commission to complete the last set of doors for the baptistery.  This second commission resulted in the famous doors which are known as "The Gates of Paradise" (1425-52, see below right), and are currently located on the east side of the building.³

I feel like there's a lot of confusion regarding Ghiberti's doors.  So much emphasis is placed on "The Gates of Paradise" (and for good reason), that no doubt many people think that these are the doors which immediately resulted from the competition in 1401-02.  If you think about it, though, that assumption doesn't make a lot of sense.  Ghiberti's submission piece for the competition, The Sacrifice of Isaac (1401) was designed within a quatrefoil shape.  Likewise, Brunelleschi (Ghiberti's rival) completed his submission (also called The Sacrifice of Isaac (1401)) for the competition in a quatrefoil.  It's easy to see Ghiberti and Brunelleschi's logic for using the quatrefoil; they wanted their doors to match the already-existing door by Pisano. After winning the competition, Ghiberti's used the quatrefoil shape for all the panels in his now-northern doors. Ghiberti only abandoned the quatrefoil shape when he created the doors for his later commission, "The Gates of Paradise."

It's easy to look at the competition submissions and see that the north doors resulted from that historic competition.  But you need to be able to see the north doors in order to make that association.  Many art history textbooks include images of Ghiberti's and Brunelleschi's competition panels (see this example in the most recent version of Gardner's Art Through the Ages), but then don't include pictures of the north doors.  Instead, "The Gates of Paradise" is shown.  It's too confusing to discuss the 1401 competition and then display doors that weren't directly associated with the competition!  If textbook writers could include just an image of the north doors (even a small one), it could help students keep their facts (and doors!) straight.


*7/25: I made a couple of revisions to this post, having found more information about the original location of Andrea Pisano's doors and the nature of the 1401-02 competition.

1 See Laurie Schneider Adams, Italian Renaissance Art, (Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press, 2001), 60.  In truth, at this time the Florence baptistery needed two portals to be decorated.  The aim of the 1401-02 competition was to begin work on this project.  For a little bit more information regarding the nature of the competition, see Manfred Wundram and Gustina Scaglia, "Ghiberti." In Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, http://www.oxfordartonline.com/subscriber/article/grove/art/T031929pg1 (accessed 26 July 2010).

2 Ibid. Today Pisano's doors are located on the south side of the baptistery. Manfred Wundram and Gustina Scaglia write that Pisano's doors were originally moved to the west portal, in order to create room for the doors from Ghiberti's first commission.

3 The now-northern doors were moved from the east side in 1452, soon after "The Gates of Paradise" were finished.

Lorenzo de' Medici: Destroyer of Art?

Lorenzo de' Medici (also known as Lorenzo the Magnificent) is well known for being a great patron of the arts during Renaissance in Florence.  However, it is also supposed that Lorenzo de' Medici may have destroyed (in part) a series of paintings in his collection: Paolo Uccello's The Battle of San Romano (c. 1435-56).

Paolo Uccello's The Battle of San Romano consists of three different panels, which unfortunately are now separated into museums within three different countries.  During the Renaissance, though, these paintings hung in the bedroom of Lorenzo de' Medici.  Here are the panels (as they appear today), shown in sequential order of their intended left-to-right placement:

 Paolo Uccello, The Battle of San Romano (Niccolò da Tolentino Leads the Florentine Troops), c. 1438-40; National Gallery of Art, London

Paolo Uccello, The Battle of San Romano (Bernardino della Ciarda Thrown Off His Horse), c. 1456; Uffizi Gallery, Florence

Paolo Uccello, The Battle of San Romano (Micheletto da Cotignola Engages in Battle), c. 1435-40; Louvre Museum

Do you notice anything curious about these paintings?  There aren't any depictions of the sky, and the large flag in the National Gallery panel has been cropped. And, surprisingly, the panels were probably cut under Lorenzo de' Medici's direction.  After Lorenzo de' Medici gained possession these panels (he stole at least one of them from its rightful owner), Lorenzo probably cropped the paintings so they would better fit on his bedroom wall.  Originally, Uccello's panels were arched at the top (they were originally commissioned to be placed on walls with vaulted ceilings) and likely included bits of sky.  Restorer Leo Stevenson has recreated one of the Uccello panels to how it may have appeared originally (see right).

Do you like the panel better with a patch of sky?  I do.  But as J and I watched "The Private Life of a Masterpiece" episode on the Uccello panels, he commented that he actually liked the cropped paintings better.  J thinks that the confined, restricted scenes help to emphasize the chaotic feeling of battle.  I think this is an interesting idea.  Would Lorenzo de' Medici have preferred the cropped painting for this same reason?  Maybe.  But it seems like Lorenzo's motives were more practical than aesthetic.  I'm disappointed, though, to know that such a well-known patron of the arts took the liberty to hack off a portion of Uccello's panels.

The Battle of San Romano is one of the featured works of art in "The Private Life of a Masterpiece" BBC series. If you're interested, you can win a copy of this episode by entering my giveaway to receive a free DVD set of "The Private Life of a Masterpiece" BBC series.  Hurry and enter!  The giveaway ends tomorrow, 30 June 2010.

Hallucinogenic Plant or Exploding Cucumber?

Over the past few weeks or so, there has been some fascinating discussion about Botticelli's Mars and Venus (c. 1485).  I've tweeted about this a bit, but I wanted to write out some of the details about this discussion.

About two weeks ago, a Times article publicized a new argument that the plant located in the lower right-hand corner of Botticelli's painting (underneath the hand of the satyr) could be datura stramonium, a plant which is known for its hallucinogenic properties.  In essence, this article suggested that Mars is swooning due to effects from this drug plant.

This news was picked up in several places in the art history community of blogs, including the Art History Newsletter (see here) and Three Pipe Problem (see original post here).  I'd encourage you to read the comments for both of these posts, so you can follow the different arguments and ideas that were presented to critique this argument for the hallucinogenic plant.  Hasan Niyazi from Three Pipe Problem researched the history of datura stramonium even further, and came to the conclusion that the plant depicted is actually quite different (see his fascinating findings here).  Instead of datura stramonium, Niyazi finds it more likely (and I agree) that the plant depicted is ecballium elaterium, commonly known as the "exploding cucumber" plant. For one thing, the plant depicted simply looks a lot more like an "exploding cucumber" than datura stramonium.  I also think the phallic shape and properties of this plant are unmistakable, which makes this plant a more appropriate fit for the Mars and Venus theme of love.

Congratulations to Niyazi on some great research!  This is a very convincing argument, especially since Niyazi can assert that the "exploding cucumber" would have been commonly found in Europe during Botticelli's day (which cannot be confirmed for the datura stramonium).

Although it can be disappointing to realize that the painting may not contain a reference to drugs or hallucinogenics, I think it's quite fun to know that an "exploding cucumber" could be located on the canvas instead.

Brain Depicted in the Sistine Chapel Ceiling?

I've heard people joke that the Michelangelo's Creation of Adam scene (Sistine Chapel ceiling, 1508-1512) looks like it displays a cut-away section of the human brain (with the oval-shaped cloth depicting the shape of the brain, and all of the heads and bodies suggesting brain matter). You can imagine how surprised I was to learn that scientists are currently arguing that there is a connection with Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel and depictions of the brain, although not with the Creation of Adam scene.

Instead, Ian Suk and Rafael Tamargo argue that the scene Separation of Light from Darkness contains a depiction of a human spinal cord and brain stem. You can read the Scientific American article about these findings here. And take a look at this image:

I think this is an interesting connection, but I do have some doubts.  Michelangelo often made his figures extremely muscular and bulky (almost overly-idealized, in my opinion), and this detail of God the Father's neck could just indicate the artist's penchant for muscles and chiaroscuro/modeling.  But, like I said, this brain theory is still interesting. I'm not familiar with enough scientific or anatomical imagery to make a definite conclusion on this new argument, but it's fun to consider.