art, creation, Creation of Adam, exhaustion, fresco, Italy, literture, Lombardy, Mannerism, Michelangelo, ordeal, pain, painting, physical discomfort, poetry, renaissance, Rome, Sistine Chapel, Sistine Chapel ceiling
Michelangelo to Giovanni da Pistoia (1509)
When the author was painting the vault of Sistine Chapel and was confronted with the difficulty and ordeal of painting frescoes on ceiling day after day
I’ve already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water’s poison).
My stomach’s squashed under my chin, my beard’s
pointing at heaven, my brain’s crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy’s. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!
My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine’s
all knotted from folding over itself.
I’m bent taut as a Syrian bow.
Because I’m stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.
My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honour.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.
- Sonnet on Hearing The Dies Irae Sung in The Sistine Chapel by Oscar Wilde (ipseand.wordpress.com)