Renaissance Tales

How the Italian Renaissance mysteriously unleashes our inner fabricator

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by the Italian Renaissance. But when a skeptical friend recently confronted me about it— “What’s all the big fuss about?  It’s just one historical period like any other, filled with bloodthirsty, power-hungry schemers vying for control; the only difference is that it self-consciously tries to elevate itself by using fancy words like “statecraft”—I had to admit that he had a point. 

I didn’t tell him that, of course, instead enthusiastically holding forth on the standard litany of factors that made that time so obviously special: the explosion of richly imaginative literature emanating from a conscious rediscovery of classical traditions and values, the cut and thrust of brilliant intellectual debate that penetrated the highest levels of the social world, the vigorously competitive culture of patronage that led to the bounteous production of some of the most beautiful art in human history. 

Even the traditionally brutal political events of the day he had alluded to, I smoothly assured him, were innovatively subjected to a remarkably acute real-time analysis through the likes of Machiavelli and Guicciardini, something that hadn’t occurred since the glory days of Thucydides 2000 years earlier. 

But I couldn’t help the nagging feeling that there was something to his dismissive attitude—not so much regarding my particular enthusiasm, but more generally.  Because it must be admitted that a resounding majority of people couldn’t care less about the exploits of Petrarch or Leonardo Bruni or Lorenzo Valla or Marsilio Ficino or any number of the other towering minds of that time, any more than they’ve taken the trouble to read what Machiavelli and Guicciardini actually wrote.

And yet “the Italian Renaissance” is clearly one of the most broadly popular general topics out there.  

Tell people that you’re passionate about beekeeping, Byzantine iconography or Bolivia and you’ll receive politely tolerant encouragement. But tell them you’re captivated by the Italian Renaissance, and more often than not they will respond with excited effusions of the greatness of Leonardo da Vinci or comments on the latest made for TV series on the Medici or the Borgias.  

Somehow, some five hundred years later (more or less), just dropping the name “Renaissance” into a general discussion immediately captures the imagination of a remarkably large number of people from all different places and walks of life, which helps explain why the internet is positively saturated with a veritable infinitude of Renaissance-related websites and blogs.  

All of which must be particularly gratifying for those in the field of “Renaissance Studies”, thereby largely sparing them from the incessant, politicized cries of “What’s the relevance of that?!” that are regularly leveled at so many of their non-Renaissance humanities colleagues (the dominant factor lurking behind my friend’s anti-Renaissance ire, I suspect).

All that popularity inevitably comes with a cost, however, as is quickly discovered by the intrepid traveler trying to enhance his knowledge of the field through the legions of books, documentaries and other available materials. A simple google search on any Renaissance-related topic will promptly reveal hundreds, if not thousands, of seemingly perfect matches to one’s query.  

But the vast majority of them turn out to be flat out wrong. And—curiously enough—not just wrong, but wrong in a remarkably confident, flagrantly detailed way. 

So it is that anyone keen to learn about the history of Raphael’s famous painting of La Fornarina will promptly find himself regaled by dozens of intricate accounts of their ill-fated love affair, while an inquiry into the exact nature of the relationship between Leonardo and Michelangelo will spontaneously reveal a tangled web of vividly lurid anecdotes whose intensity is only outmatched by their outlandishness. 

And don’t get me started on the omnipresent tales of Botticelli and Simonetta Vespucci: his lifelong muse at whose feet he so movingly requested to be buried. Except she wasn’t; and he didn’t.  

I’m not at all sure why so many people are so determined to uncritically reiterate so many obviously highly speculative stories about the Italian Renaissance. Perhaps they’re genuinely convinced that it was a time when truly epic things were always happening to everyone. Or maybe they believe that, since it all happened so long ago now, they might as well give free reign to their fantasy and indulge in the most interesting possible tales imaginable.  

But the upshot is that, however much fun it might be to grab people’s attention by sensationally announcing that the mysteriously sudden joint deaths of Pico della Mirandola and Angelo Poliziano so obviously indicate that they were lovers who contracted one of the earliest cases of syphilis, they’re significantly hindering those of us who are simply trying to understand what the hell was really going on during this truly fascinating time. Because at its root, the appeal of the Renaissance isn’t based on a video game or a Netflix drama. It’s based on what actually happened.  

And that, ironically enough, might well turn out to be considerably more exciting and thought-provoking than whatever our wildest imaginings might be able to come up with. A few years ago, for example, scientists concluded after a rigorous investigation (see here) that both Pico della Mirandola and Poliziano didn’t die of syphilis after all.  

They were poisoned.  

Howard Burton, August 29, 2024