Brunelleschis Dome (21 page)

Annunciation Day was an appropriate occasion for such a ceremony. The feast celebrates the appearance of the archangel Gabriel before the Virgin Mary. In most depictions of the Annunciation, Gabriel is portrayed holding a lily, the symbol not only of purity but also of the city of Florence. He delivers to the Virgin tidings of the miracle to come: the intrusion of the divine into the realm of the human. For the people of Florence in 1436 the new cathedral must likewise have seemed a feat of divine intervention — though in this case the miracle had been performed not by an angel but by a man.

Santa Maria del Fiore had been carefully prepared for the ceremony. The makeshift wall dividing the octagon from the nave — a hoarding that separated the worshipers from the laborers — had finally been removed. A temporary wooden choir was erected according to Filippo’s design, and its twelve wooden statues of the apostles given coats of paint. Linen curtains were fitted into the enormous windows of the drum in order to keep out the wind. Most noticeable of all, after fifteen years of almost continuous service the ox-hoist and its platform no longer stood in the middle of the octagon, which had now been paved with brick.

As the ceremony began, a cardinal proceeded along the new choir, moving from one of Filippo’s wooden apostles to another, lighting a candle in front of each. Eugenius climbed the steps of the altar, which was the cue for the chorus to begin singing its motet:

Lately the blossoms of roses, a gift from the Pope,

Despite the cruel cold of winter

Adorned the great edifice of the cathedral

Dedicated in perpetuity to thee,

Virgin of Heaven, holy and sanctified . . .

Eugenius meanwhile began placing all of the cathedral’s relics on the altar. Chief among these were the finger bone of St. John the Baptist and the remains of the patron saint of Santa Maria del Fiore, St. Zenobius, whose skull had been discovered in 1331 and placed inside a silver reliquary shaped like the dead saint’s head.
*
As he did so, the cardinal began christening the red crosses in the hands of each of the twelve wooden apostles. By this act the cathedral was filled with the living presences of these saints, who were now capable, the Florentines believed, of working further miracles.

For the consecration ceremony the wardens of Santa Maria del Fiore had been hoping to display the bones of St. Zenobius in a specially built shrine to be placed in his chapel. Bronze reliefs on its sides were to show a number of Zenobius’s miracles, such as the time he brought back to life a boy who had been run over in the street by an oxcart. In 1432 the Wool Guild had commissioned Lorenzo Ghiberti to cast the four-foot-high shrine, but now, four years later, despite generous advances to Lorenzo and the purchase of hundreds of pounds of bronze, the shrine had yet to be cast. The wardens, thoroughly displeased, were now threatening to cancel the contract.

If the consecration of the cathedral was a proud moment for Filippo, who would certainly have been in attendance, the occasion must have been greeted with mixed feelings by his fellow
capomaestro
. For the past ten years the dome had been recognized by the people of Florence — and by visitors such as the brilliant Leon Battista Alberti — as almost exclusively the product of Filippo’s genius. The machines used to raise the stones, the complex techniques of vaulting without a wooden center, the seemingly effortless harnessing of both men and the forces of nature — all of these stunning feats had long ago overshadowed Lorenzo’s contributions. In the final stages of construction, in fact, Lorenzo’s participation in the project had consisted mainly of designing stained-glass windows for the drum and chapels. For the next ten years his workshop would hold a virtual monopoly on these windows, most of which were executed for him by a glazier named Bernardo di Francesco. Still, even this achievement would have been tinged with regret on the day of the consecration, because two years earlier the commission to design the most important of the eight windows in the drum — one showing the Coronation of the Virgin — had gone to Filippo’s friend Donatello.

Though work had proceeded swiftly in the two years since Filippo’s release from prison, the dome itself was not actually complete. In 1434 its walls had reached the required height of just over 144
braccia
, or some 280 feet above the ground. A year later the masons had laid the fourth and final stone chain, which served as the closing ring at the top of the dome. But there was still much to be done. The exterior surface of the dome had yet to be tiled with terra-cotta, a task that would require another two years, and the facings of colored marble would take more than another generation to complete. And the marble
lanterna
, or lantern (so called because of its appearance), had to be designed and then erected on top of the dome.

In 1436, however, the time seemed ripe for celebration. Therefore, on August 30, five months after Pope Eugenius had consecrated the cathedral, the cupola itself was consecrated — a full sixteen years and two weeks after construction had begun. This ceremony was performed at nine o’clock in the morning by the bishop of Fiesole, who climbed to the top of the dome to lay the final stone. Trumpets and fifes were played, church bells rang, and the rooftops of the surrounding buildings were crowded with onlookers. Afterward the
capomaestri
and the wardens descended from the cupola and indulged themselves with a meal of bread, wine, meat, fruit, cheese, and macaroni. The bulk of the enormous task lay behind them. The people of Florence had at last been given the dome they had dreamed of for almost seventy years, and Filippo had succeeded in performing an engineering feat whose structural daring was without parallel.

M
OST DOMES FROM
the Renaissance onward feature lanterns at their summits. These usually serve a practical as well as a decorative purpose, admitting light into the interior of the dome as well as promoting ventilation. Neri di Fioravanti’s model had included such a feature, as did Filippo’s 1418 version, but with both of these models demolished — Filippo’s one year after Neri’s — no definitive design for a lantern existed.

Filippo must have felt by this point that the Opera del Duomo should automatically select him to design the lantern. But typically they announced another competition. In the summer of 1436 Filippo therefore began work on a model, as did Lorenzo Ghiberti and three other hopefuls. One can imagine Filippo’s resentment: he would have been all too aware of the fact that, when Lorenzo finished the Baptistery doors in 1424, he was immediately commissioned to cast a further set — the “Doors of Paradise” — without having to endure another competition. For Filippo the insult was no doubt worsened by the fact that one of his competitors for the design of the lantern was a lowly leadbeater. Another, worse still, was a woman.

The size and form of the lantern had been under discussion for several years. They would depend in part on the base on which its substructure was imposed — the sandstone chain at the top of the dome. Not installed until 1435, this chain had been the subject of considerable deliberation. As early as June 1432 a wooden model had been ordered by the Opera in order to determine its size and whether it should be octagonal like the first sandstone chain or circular like the arch rings. Two months later the model was studied by the wardens, who selected an octagonal design but, at Filippo’s behest, decided to reduce the diameter of the chain from 12
braccia
to 10, or roughly 19 feet. A year later the diameter was again reduced slightly, this time to just under 10
braccia
. Giovanni da Prato cannot have been pleased with these shrinking dimensions, for now even less light would be admitted into the church.

Filippo began constructing his model of the lantern with the help of a 31-year-old carpenter named Antonio di Ciaccheri Manetti. Antonio (not to be confused with Antonio di Tuccio Manetti, Filippo’s biographer) was well known to the
capomaestro
. He had assisted Filippo with the wooden model of the closing ring, as well as with Filippo’s design for the choir. The
capomaestro
would draw sketches of the lantern and send them to Antonio’s workshop near the cathedral. Very soon, however, he had reason to regret his choice of collaborator. According to the biographer Manetti, Filippo was a better architect than a judge of character, for Antonio betrayed him by constructing a model of his own in which he unscrupulously incorporated many features of Filippo’s design. This was exactly the sort of plagiarism the
capomaestro
had feared since the beginning of his career. But there was nothing to be done: Antonio’s model was submitted to the Opera along with his own, Lorenzo Ghiberti’s, and two others.

Lorenzo’s submission shows how he still hoped to involve himself in the cupola project despite the fact that he was no longer on the payroll of the Opera: his career as
capomaestro
had officially come to an end two months before the dome was consecrated, when he received his final payment from the wardens. (Filippo, on the other hand, would be paid by the Opera, and would remain
capomaestro
, for the rest of his life.) It was surely optimistic of him to believe he could win this competition given that he had recently fallen out of favor with the wardens over his failure to deliver the shrine of St. Zenobius on time for the consecration. Lorenzo had in fact earned himself a notorious reputation for missing deadlines. This unreliability was partly due to the fact that casting in bronze was a precarious operation, especially when the works were as delicate or as large as Lorenzo’s. But he was also proving to be undependable because his ambition for both artistic recognition and financial gain had led him to accept ever more commissions, none of which, despite his large foundry and numerous apprentices, he was able to complete on time. After winning the contract to design two bronze reliefs for the baptismal font in the Duomo in Siena in 1417, for example, he had managed to antagonize its wardens by shelving the commission year after year as he took on various other, larger projects. Originally to be executed in under two years, the small reliefs would finally take him almost ten, and they were finished only after much pleading from the long-suffering wardens, repeated visits by them to Florence, and even threats to cancel the contract.

Mindful of this reputation, and also of the fact that it took him over twenty years to cast his first set of Baptistery doors, the Guild of Cloth Merchants, upon commissioning the second set in 1425, stipulated that Lorenzo was not to take on other work until the doors were finished. This was wishful thinking, for barely four months later he agreed to cast a larger-than-life bronze statue of St. Stephen for the Wool Guild, and in the ensuing years his workshop remained as crowded and as busy as ever. In fact, he would not begin work on the new set of doors until 1429, a full four years after they were commissioned, and they would take him, in the end, almost twenty-five years to complete. Given this standard of unreliability, the wardens of the Opera could hardly have regarded either Lorenzo or his model of the lantern with too much indulgence.

On the last day of 1436 the wardens met to examine the five models of the lantern. Perhaps aware that their decision could prove controversial, they consulted widely: masters of theology, doctors of science, masons, goldsmiths, painters, and a mathematician, as well as various influential citizens, including Cosimo de’ Medici himself — all were called upon to offer their opinions. Their judgment, in the end, found in favor of Filippo’s design, stating that his model would make for a stronger, better lit, and more waterproof lantern. The wardens did, however, attach an important clause to their ruling, commanding Filippo to “put aside all rancour remaining in him” (obviously they knew him well) and accept a number of suggested modifications to his design, however insignificant they might seem. The reason for this qualification was that Antonio had appealed to the wardens to allow him to make yet another model. Evidently impressed by Antonio, they assented. Filippo suddenly found himself faced with a new rival.

Once again the carpenter went to work, this time producing a model that was an even closer replica of Filippo’s. This model was nonetheless rejected by the wardens, at which point the
capomaestro
reputedly told them, “Fategliene fare un altro e fara el mio” — that is,“Let him make another and he will make mine.” Thereafter the relationship between the two former collaborators deteriorated, culminating (as Filippo’s battles so often did) with an exchange of insulting sonnets. The episode evidently erased from Filippo’s memory his earlier vow to forgive injuries and lay down all hatred. Alas, the lines of wit and vitriol inspired by this conflict have long since been lost to the world. It is sadly ironic that although Filippo’s plan prevailed, it was Antonio who had the last laugh: in 1452 he would become
capomaestro
of Santa Maria del Fiore, overseeing the construction of the lantern, complete with a number of his own alterations.

Octagonal in shape, the lantern sits on a marble platform supported by the sandstone chain. Its eight buttresses rise in line with the eight ribs of the dome to support 30-foot-high pilasters crowned with Corinthian capitals. Between the pilasters are eight windows, each also 30 feet in height. The interior features a small dome above which a spire rises 23 feet, to be topped by the bronze ball and a cross. Inside one of the buttresses (all of which are hollow in order to decrease the weight of the lantern) a stairway leads to a series of ladders, which in turn lead up through the spire and into the bronze ball itself. This giant ball is fitted with a small flap-window that, at 350 feet above the streets, offers Florence’s loftiest panorama.

In all, over a million pounds of stone would need to be raised to the top of the cupola. Since the cathedral was now in use, it was impossible to have a large hoist at ground level. This meant the hoist had to be manually operated from the working level and, therefore, had to be small in scale — small enough, that is, for several men to operate in the limited space at the top of the dome. Yet it also had to be capable of raising marble blocks weighing as much as two tons.