XIII.

POPULARISERS OF ART Leonardo and Botticelli, like Michelangelo after them, found imitators but not successors. To communicate more material and spiritual significance than Leonardo, would have taken an artist with deeper feeling for significance; to get more music out of design than Botticelli, would have required a painter with even greater passion for the re-embodiment of the pure essences of touch and movement. There were none such in Florence, and the followers of Botticelli—Leonardo’s were all Milanese, and do not here concern us—could but imitate the patterns of their master: the patterns of the face, the patterns of the composition, and the patterns of the line; dragging them down to their own level, sugaring them down to their own palate, slowing them down to their own insensitiveness for what is life-communicating. And although their productions, which were nothing but translations of great man’s art into average man’s art, became popular, as was inevitable, with the average man of their time, (who comprehended them better and felt more comfortable in their presence than in that of the originals which he respectfully admired but did not so thoroughly enjoy), nevertheless we need not dwell on these popularisers nor on their popularisations—not even on Filippino, with his touch of consumptive delicacy, nor Raffaelino del Garbo, with his glints of never-to-be-fulfilled promise.

FRA BARTOLOMMEO Before approaching the one man of genius left in Florence after Botticelli and Leonardo, before speaking of Michelangelo, the man in whom all that was most peculiar and much that was greatest in the striving of Florentine art found its fulfilment, let us turn for a moment to a few painters who, just because they were men of manifold talent, might elsewhere almost have become masters. Fra Bartolommeo, Andrea del Sarto, Pontormo, and Bronzino were perhaps no less gifted as artists than Palma, Bonifazio Veronese, Lotto, and Tintoretto; but their talents, instead of being permitted to flower naturally, were scorched by the passion for showing off dexterity, blighted by academic ideals, and uprooted by the whirlwind force of Michelangelo.

Fra Bartolommeo, who in temperament was delicate, refined, graceful, and as a painter had a miniaturist’s feeling for the dainty, was induced to desert his lovely women, his exquisite landscape, and his gentleness of expression for figures constructed mechanically on a colossal scale, or for effects of the round at any cost. And as evil is more obvious than good, Bartolommeo, the painter of that masterpiece of colour and light and shade, of graceful movement and charming feeling, the “Madonna with the Baptist and St. Stephen” in the Cathedral at Lucca, Bartolommeo, the dainty deviser of Mr. Mond’s tiny “Nativity,” Bartolommeo, the artificer of a hundred masterpieces of pen drawing, is almost unknown; and to most people Fra Bartolommeo is a sort of synonym for pomposity. He is known only as the author of physically colossal, spiritually insignificant prophets and apostles, or, perchance, as the painter of pitch-dark altar-pieces: this being the reward of devices to obtain mere relief.

ANDREA DEL SARTO Andrea del Sarto approached perhaps as closely to a Giorgione or a Titian as could a Florentine, ill at ease in the neighbourhood of Leonardo and Michelangelo. As an artist he was, it is true, not endowed with the profoundest sense for the significant, yet within the sphere of common humanity who has produced anything more genial than his “Portrait of a Lady”—probably his wife—with a Petrarch in her hands? Where out of Venetia can we find portraits so simple, so frank, and yet so interpretive as his “Sculptor,” or as his various portraits of himself—these, by the way, an autobiography as complete as any in existence, and tragic as few? Almost Venetian again is his “St. James” caressing children, a work of the sweetest feeling. Even in colour effect, and technique, how singularly close to the best Venetian painting in his “Dispute about the Trinity”—what blacks and whites, what greys and purplish browns! And in addition, tactile values peculiar to Florence—what a back St. Sebastian’s! But in a work of scarcely less technical merit, the “Madonna of the Harpies,” we already feel the man not striving to get the utmost out of himself, but panting for the grand and magnificent. Even here, he remains almost a great artist, because his natural robustness comes to his rescue; but the “Madonna” is too obviously statuesque, and, good saints, pray why all these draperies?

The obviously statuesque and draperies were Andrea’s devices for keeping his head above water in the rising tide of the Michelangelesque. As you glance in sequence at the Annunziata frescoes, on the whole so full of vivacity, gaiety, and genuine delight in life, you see from one fresco to another the increased attention given to draperies. In the Scalzo series, otherwise masterpieces of tactile values, the draperies do their utmost to smother the figures. Most of these paintings are closed in with ponderous forms which have no other purpose than to serve as a frame, and as clothes-horses for draperies: witness the scene of Zacharias in the temple, wherein none of the bystanders dare move for fear of disturbing their too obviously arranged folds.

Thus by constantly sacrificing first spiritual, and then material significance to pose and draperies, Andrea loses all feeling for the essential in art. What a sad spectacle is his “Assumption,” wherein the Apostles, the Virgin herself, have nothing better to do than to show off draperies! Instead of feeling, as in the presence of Titian’s “Assunta,” wrapt to heaven, you gaze at a number of tailor’s men, each showing how a stuff you are thinking of trying looks on the back, or in a certain effect of light. But let us not end on this note; let us bear in mind that, despite all his faults, Andrea painted the one “Last Supper” which can be looked at with pleasure after Leonardo’s.

PONTORMO Pontormo, who had it in him to be a decorator and portrait-painter of the highest rank, was led astray by his awe-struck admiration for Michelangelo, and ended as an academic constructor of monstrous nudes. What he could do when expressing himself, we see in the lunette at Poggio a Caiano, as design, as colour, as fancy, the freshest, gayest, most appropriate mural decoration now remaining in Italy; what he could do as a portrait-painter, we see in his wonderfully decorative panel of Cosimo dei Medici at San Marco, or in his portrait of a “Lady with a Dog” (at Frankfort), perhaps the first portrait ever painted in which the sitter’s social position was insisted upon as much as the personal character. What Pontormo sank to, we see in such a riot of meaningless nudes, all caricatures of Michelangelo, as his “Martyrdom of Forty Saints.”

BRONZINO Bronzino, Pontormo’s close follower, had none of his master’s talent as a decorator, but happily much of his power as a portrait-painter. Would he had never attempted anything else! The nude without material or spiritual significance, with no beauty of design or colour, the nude simply because it was the nude, was Bronzino’s ideal in composition, and the result is his “Christ in Limbo.” But as a portrait-painter, he took up the note struck by his master and continued it, leaving behind him a series of portraits which not only had their effect in determining the character of Court painting all over Europe, but, what is more to the point, a series of portraits most of which are works of art. As painting, it is true, they are hard, and often timid; but their air of distinction, their interpretive qualities, have not often been surpassed. In his Uffizi portraits of Eleanora di Toledo, of Prince Ferdinand, of the Princess Maria, we seem to see the prototypes of Velasquez’ queens, princes, and princesses: and for a fine example of dignified rendering of character, look in the Sala Baroccio of the Uffizi at a bust of a young woman with a missal in her hand.

XIV.

MICHELANGELO The great Florentine artists, as we have seen, were, with scarcely an exception, bent upon rendering the material significance of visible things. This, little though they may have formulated it, was the conscious aim of most of them; and in proportion as they emancipated themselves from ecclesiastical dominion, and found among their employers men capable of understanding them, their aim became more and more conscious and their striving more energetic. At last appeared the man who was the pupil of nobody, the heir of everybody, who felt profoundly and powerfully what to his precursors had been vague instinct, who saw and expressed the meaning of it all. The seed that produced him had already flowered into a Giotto, and once again into a Masaccio; in him, the last of his race, born in conditions artistically most propitious, all the energies remaining in his stock were concentrated, and in him Florentine art had its logical culmination.

ANTHROPOMORPHISM IN ART Michelangelo had a sense for the materially significant as great as Giotto’s or Masaccio’s, but he possessed means of rendering, inherited from Donatello, Pollaiuolo, Verrocchio and Leonardo,—means that had been undreamt of by Giotto or even by Masaccio. Add to this that he saw clearly what before him had been felt only dimly, that there was no other such instrument for conveying material significance as the human nude. This fact is as closely dependent on the general conditions of realising objects as tactile values are on the psychology of sight. We realise objects when we perfectly translate them into terms of our own states, our own feelings. So obviously true is this, that even the least poetically inclined among us, because we keenly realise the movement of a railway train, to take one example out of millions, speak of it as going or running, instead of rolling on its wheels, thus being no less guilty of anthropomorphising than the most unregenerate savages. Of this same fallacy we are guilty every time we think of anything whatsoever with the least warmth—we are lending this thing some human attributes. The more we endow it with human attributes, the less we merely know it, the more we realise it, the more does it approach the work of art. Now there is one and only one object in the visible universe which we need not anthropomorphise to realise—and that is man himself. His movements, his actions, are the only things we realise without any myth-making effort—directly. Hence, there is no visible object of such artistic possibilities as the human body; nothing with which we are so familiar; nothing, therefore, in which we so rapidly perceive changes; nothing, then, which if represented so as to be realised more quickly and vividly than in life, will produce its effect with such velocity and power, and so strongly confirm our sense of capacity for living.

VALUE OF THE NUDE IN ART Values of touch and movement, we remember, are the specifically artistic qualities in figure painting (at least, as practised by the Florentines), for it is through them chiefly that painting directly heightens life. Now while it remains true that tactile values can, as Giotto and Masaccio have forever established, be admirably rendered on the draped figure, yet drapery is a hindrance, and, at the best, only a way out of a difficulty, for we feel it masking the really significant, which is the form underneath. A mere painter, one who is satisfied to reproduce what everybody sees, and to paint for the fun of painting, will scarcely comprehend this feeling. His only significant is the obvious—in a figure, the face and the clothing, as in most of the portraits manufactured nowadays. The artist, even when compelled to paint draped figures, will force the drapery to render the nude, in other words the material significance of the human body. But how much more clearly will this significance shine out, how much more convincingly will the character manifest itself, when between its perfect rendering and the artist nothing intervenes! And this perfect rendering is to be accomplished with the nude only.

If draperies are a hindrance to the conveyance of tactile values, they make the perfect rendering of movement next to impossible. To realise the play of muscle everywhere, to get the full sense of the various pressures and resistances, to receive the direct inspiration of the energy expended, we must have the nude; for here alone can we watch those tautnesses of muscle and those stretchings and relaxings and ripplings of skin which, translated into similar strains on our own persons, make us fully realise movement. Here alone the translation, owing to the multitude and the clearness of the appeals made, is instantaneous, and the consequent sense of increased capacity almost as great as can be attained; while in the draped figure we miss all the appeal of visible muscle and skin, and realise movement only after a slow translation of certain functional outlines, so that the sense of capacity which we receive from the perception of movement is increased but slightly.

We are now able to understand why every art whose chief preoccupation is the human figure must have the nude for its chief interest; why, also, the nude is the most absorbing problem of classic art at all times. Not only is it the best vehicle for all that in art which is directly life-confirming and life-enhancing, but it is itself the most significant object in the human world. The first person since the great days of Greek sculpture to comprehend fully the identity of the nude with great figure art, was Michelangelo. Before him, it had been studied for scientific purposes—as an aid in rendering the draped figure. He saw that it was an end in itself, and the final purpose of his art. For him the nude and art were synonymous. Here lies the secret of his successes and his failures.

MICHELANGELO First, his successes. Nowhere outside of the best Greek art shall we find, as in Michelangelo’s works, forms whose tactile values so increase our sense of capacity, whose movements are so directly communicated and inspiring. Other artists have had quite as much feeling for tactile values alone,—Masaccio, for instance; others still have had at least as much sense of movement and power of rendering it,—Leonardo, for example; but no other artist of modern times, having at all his control over the materially significant, has employed it as Michelangelo did, on the one subject where its full value can be manifested—the nude. Hence of all the achievements of modern art, his are the most invigorating. Surely not often is our imagination of touch roused as by his Adam in the “Creation,” by his Eve in the “Temptation,” or by his many nudes in the same ceiling of the Sixtine Chapel,—there for no other purpose, be it noted, than their direct tonic effect! Nor is it less rare to quaff such draughts of unadulterated energy as we receive from the “God Creating Adam,” the “Boy Angel” standing by Isaiah, or—to choose one or two instances from his drawings (in their own kind the greatest in existence)—the “Gods Shooting at a Mark” or the “Hercules and the Lion.”

And to this feeling for the materially significant and all this power of conveying it, to all this more narrowly artistic capacity, Michelangelo joined an ideal of beauty and force, a vision of a glorious but possible humanity, which, again, has never had its like in modern times. Manliness, robustness, effectiveness, the fulfilment of our dream of a great soul inhabiting a beautiful body, we shall encounter nowhere else so frequently as among the figures in the Sixtine Chapel. Michelangelo completed what Masaccio had begun, the creation of the type of man best fitted to subdue and control the earth, and, who knows! perhaps more than the earth.

LAST WORKS OF MICHELANGELO But unfortunately, though born and nurtured in a world where his feeling for the nude and his ideal of humanity could be appreciated, he passed most of his life in the midst of tragic disasters, and while yet in the fulness of his vigour, in the midst of his most creative years, he found himself alone, perhaps the greatest, but alas! also the last of the giants born so plentifully during the fifteenth century. He lived on in a world he could not but despise, in a world which really could no more employ him than it could understand him. He was not allowed, therefore, to busy himself where he felt most drawn by his genius, and, much against his own strongest impulses, he was obliged to expend his energy upon such subjects as the “Last Judgment.” His later works all show signs of the altered conditions, first in an overflow into the figures he was creating of the scorn and bitterness he was feeling, then in the lack of harmony between his genius and what he was compelled to execute. His passion was the nude, his ideal power. But what outlet for such a passion, what expression for such an ideal could there be in subjects like the “Last Judgment,” or the “Crucifixion of Peter”—subjects which the Christian world imperatively demanded should incarnate the fear of the humble and the self-sacrifice of the patient? Now humility and patience were feelings as unknown to Michelangelo as to Dante before him, or, for that matter, to any other of the world’s creative geniuses at any time. Even had he felt them, he had no means of expressing them, for his nudes could convey a sense of power, not of weakness; of terror, not of dread; of despair, but not of submission. And terror the giant nudes of the “Last Judgment” do feel, but it is not terror of the Judge, who, being in no wise different from the others, in spite of his omnipotent gesture, seems to be announcing rather than willing what the bystanders, his fellows, could not unwill. As the representation of the moment before the universe disappears in chaos—Gods huddling together for the Götterdämmerung—the “Last Judgment” is as grandly conceived as possible: but when the crash comes, none will survive it, no, not even God. Michelangelo therefore failed in his conception of the subject, and could not but fail. But where else in the whole world of art shall we receive such blasts of energy as from this giant’s dream, or, if you will, nightmare? For kindred reasons, the “Crucifixion of Peter” is a failure. Art can be only life-communicating and life-enhancing. If it treats of pain and death, these must always appear as manifestations and as results only of living resolutely and energetically. What chance is there, I ask, for this, artistically the only possible treatment, in the representation of a man crucified with his head downwards? Michelangelo could do nothing but make the bystanders, the executioners, all the more life-communicating, and therefore inevitably more sympathetic! No wonder he failed here! What a tragedy, by the way, that the one subject perfectly cut out for his genius, the one subject which required none but genuinely artistic treatment, his “Bathers,” executed forty years before these last works, has disappeared, leaving but scant traces! Yet even these suffice to enable the competent student to recognise that this composition must have been the greatest masterpiece in figure art of modern times.

That Michelangelo had faults of his own is undeniable. As he got older, and his genius, lacking its proper outlets, tended to stagnate and thicken, he fell into exaggerations—exaggerations of power into brutality, of tactile values into feats of modelling. No doubt he was also at times as indifferent to representation as Botticelli! But while there is such a thing as movement, there is no such thing as tactile values without representation. Yet he seems to have dreamt of presenting nothing but tactile values: hence his many drawings with only the torso adequately treated, the rest unheeded. Still another result from his passion for tactile values. I have already suggested that Giotto’s types were so massive because such figures most easily convey values of touch. Michelangelo tended to similar exaggerations, to making shoulders, for instance, too broad and too bossy, simply because they make thus a more powerful appeal to the tactile imagination. Indeed, I venture to go even farther, and suggest that his faults in all the arts, sculpture no less than painting, and architecture no less than sculpture, are due to this self-same predilection for salient projections. But the lover of the figure arts for what in them is genuinely artistic and not merely ethical, will in Michelangelo, even at his worst, get such pleasures as, excepting a few, others, even at their best, rarely give him.

CONSTANT AIMS OF FLORENTINE ART In closing, let us note what results clearly even from this brief account of the Florentine school, namely that, although no Florentine merely took up and continued a predecessor’s work, nevertheless all, from first to last, fought for the same cause. There is no opposition between Giotto and Michelangelo. The best energies of the first, of the last, and of all the intervening great Florentine artists were persistently devoted to the rendering of tactile values, or of movement, or of both. Now successful grappling with problems of form and of movement is at the bottom of all the higher arts; and because of this fact, Florentine painting, despite its many faults, is, after Greek sculpture, the most serious figure art in existence.

INDEX TO THE WORKS OF THE PRINCIPAL FLORENTINE PAINTERS.

NOTE.

The following lists make no claim to absolute completeness, but no genuine work by the painters mentioned, found in the better known public or private collections, has been omitted. With the exception of three or four pictures, which he knows only in the photographs, the author has seen and carefully studied every picture indicated, and is alone responsible for the attributions, although he is happy to acknowledge his indebtedness to the writings of Signor Cavalcaselle, of the late Giovanni Morelli, of Signor Gustavo Frizzoni, and of Dr. J. P. Richter. For the convenience of students, lists of the sculptures, but the more important only, have been appended to the lists of pictures by those artists who have left sculptures as well as paintings.

Public galleries are mentioned first, then private collections, and churches last. The principal public gallery is always understood after the simple mention of a city or town. Thus, Paris means Paris, Louvre, London means London, National Gallery, etc.

An interrogation point after the title of a picture indicates that its attribution to the given painter is doubtful. Distinctly early or late works are marked E. or L.

It need scarcely be said that the attributions here given are not based on official catalogues, and are often at variance with them.

MARIOTTO ALBERTINELLI.

1474-1515. Pupil of Cosimo Rosselli and Pier di Cosimo; influenced by Lorenzo di Credi; worked in partnership with Fra Bartolommeo.

ALUNNO DI DOMENICO.

Descriptive name for Florentine painter whose real name appears to have been Bartolommeo di Giovanni. Flourished last two decades of fifteenth century. Assistant of Ghirlandajo; influenced by Amico di Sandro.

AMICO DI SANDRO.

An artistic personality between Botticelli and Filippino Lippi.

ANDREA (Vanucci) DEL SARTO.

1486-1531. Pupil of Pier di Cosimo; influenced by Fra Bartolommeo and Michelangelo.

FRA ANGELICO DA FIESOLE.

1387-1455. Influenced by Lorenzo Monaco and Masaccio.

BACCHIACCA (Francesco Ubertini).

About 1494-1557. Pupil of Perugino and Franciabigio; influenced by Andrea del Sarto and Michelangelo.

ALESSO BALDOVINETTI.

1425-1499. Pupil of Domenico Veneziano; influenced by Paolo Uccello.

FRA BARTOLOMMEO (Baccio delta Porta).

1475-1517. Pupil of Pier di Cosimo; influenced by Leonardo and Michelangelo.

BENOZZO GOZZOLI.

1420-1497. Pupil possibly of Giuliano Pesello, and of the Bicci; assistant and follower of Fra Angelico.

BOTTICELLI (Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi).

1444-1510. Pupil of Fra Filippo; influenced early by the Pollajuoli.

FRANCESCO BOTTICINI.

1446-1498. Pupil of Neri di Bicci; influenced by Castagno; worked under and was formed by Cosimo Rosselli and Verrocchio; influenced later by Amico di Sandro.

BRONZINO (Angelo Allori).

1502(?)-1572. Pupil of Pontormo; influenced by Michelangelo.

BUGIARDINI.

1475-1554. Pupil of Ghirlandajo and Pier di Cosimo; assistant of Albertinelli; influenced by Perugino, Michelangelo, Francesco Francia, and Franciabigio.

RAFFAELLE DEI CARLI (or Croli).

1470-after 1526. Started under influence of Ghirlandajo and Credi, later became almost Umbrian, and at one time was in close contact with Garbo, whom he may have assisted.

ANDREA DEL CASTAGNO.

Died rather young in 1457. Influenced by Donatello and Paolo Uccello.

CIMABUE.

About 1240-about 1301.

The following works are all by the same hand, probably Cimabue’s.

COSIMO, see [PIER DI COSIMO].

LORENZO DI CREDI.

1456-1537. Pupil of Verrocchio.

DOMENICO, see [VENEZIANO].

FILIPPINO and FILIPPO, see [LIPPI].

FRANCIABIGIO.

1482-1525. Pupil of Pier di Cosimo and Albertinelli; worked with and was influenced by Andrea del Sarto.

RAFFAELINO DEL GARBO.

1466-1524 (?). Pupil of Botticelli and Filippino Lippi; influenced by Ghirlandajo and Perugino.

DOMENICO GHIRLANDAJO.

1449-1494. Pupil of Baldovinetti; influenced slightly by Botticelli and more strongly by Verrocchio.

RIDOLFO GHIRLANDAJO.

1483 to 1561. Pupil of Granacci, and eclectic imitator of most of his important contemporaries.

GIOTTO.

1276-1336. Follower of Pietro Cavallini; influenced by Giovanni Pisano.

GIOTTO’S ASSISTANTS.

[An attempt to distinguish in the mass of work usually ascribed to Giotto the different artistic personalities engaged as his most immediate followers and assistants.]

A.

B.

C.

VARIOUS.

GOZZOLI, see [BENOZZO].

FRANCESCO GRANACCI.

1477-1543. Pupil first of Credi, and then of Ghirlandajo, whom he assisted; influenced by Botticelli, Michelangelo Fra Bartolommeo, and Pontormo.

LEONARDO DA VINCI.

1452-1519. Pupil of Verrocchio.

Note:—An adequate conception of Leonardo as an artist can be obtained only by an acquaintance with his drawings, many of the best of which are reproduced in Dr. J. P. Richter’s “Literary Works of Leonardo da Vinci,” and in B. Berenson’s “Drawings of the Florentine Painters.”

FILIPPINO LIPPI

1457-1504. Pupil of Botticelli; influenced by Amico di Sandro, and very slightly by Piero di Cosimo.

FRA FILIPPO LIPPI.

1406-1469. Pupil of Lorenzo Monaco and follower of Masaccio; influenced by Fra Angelico.

LORENZO MONACO.

About 1370-1425. Follower of Agnolo Gaddi and the Sienese.

BASTIANO MAINARDI.

About 1450-1513. Pupil and imitator of his brother-in-law, Domenico Ghirlandajo.

MASACCIO.

1401-1428. Pupil of Masolino; influenced by Brunellesco and Donatello.

MASOLINO.

1384-after 1435.

MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI.

1475-1564. Pupil of Ghirlandaio; influenced by the works of Jacopo della Quercia, Donatello, and Signorelli.

SCULPTURE.

MONACO see [LORENZO].

ANDREA ORCAGNA AND HIS BROTHERS.

Andrea, 1308(?)-1368. Pupil of Andrea Pisano; follower of Giotto; influenced by Ambrogio Lorenzetti of Siena.

Of the brothers, Nardo, who died in 1365, was scarcely his inferior.

The only painting certainly from Andrea’s hand is the altarpiece at S. Maria Novella. The frescoes in the same church are probably by Nardo.

SCULPTURE (by Andrea).

FRANCESCO PESELLINO.

1422-1457. Pupil possibly of his grandfather, Giuliano Pesello; follower of Fra Angelico, Masaccio and Domenico Veneziano, but chiefly of Fra Filippo Lippi.

PIER DI COSIMO.

1462-1521. Pupil of Cosimo Rosselli; influenced by Verrocchio, Signorelli, Filippino, Leonardo, and Credi.

PIER FRANCESCO FIORENTINO.

Known to have been active during the last three decades of the fifteenth century. Pupil possibly of Fra Angelico or Benozzo Gozzoli; influenced by Neri di Bicci; eclectic imitator of Alesso Baldovinetti, Fra Filippo, and Pesellino. Some of the best of the following are copies of the two last and of Compagno di Pesellino.

THE POLLAJUOLI.

Antonio. 1429-1498. Pupil of Donatello and Andrea del Castagno; strongly influenced by Baldovinetti. Sculptor as well as painter.

Piero. 1443-1496. Pupil of Baldovinetti; worked mainly on his brother’s designs. (Where the execution can be clearly distinguished as of either of the brothers separately, the fact is indicated).

SCULPTURE, ETC.

PONTORMO (Jacopo Carucci).

1494-1556. Pupil of Andrea del Sarto; influenced by Michelangelo.

COSIMO ROSSELLI.

1439-1507. Pupil of Neri di Bicci; influenced by Benozzo Gozzoli and Alesso Baldovinetti.

ROSSO FIORENTINO.

1494-1541. Pupil of Andrea del Sarto; influenced by Pontormo and Michelangelo.

SARTO see [ANDREA].

JACOPO DEL SELLAJO.

1441 or 2-1493. Pupil of Fra Filippo; influenced slightly by Castagno’s works; imitated most of his Florentine contemporaries, especially Botticelli, Ghirlandajo, and Amico di Sandro.

PAOLO UCCELLO.

1397-1475. Influenced by Donatello.

DOMENICO VENEZIANO.

About 1400-1461. Probably acquired his rudiments at Venice; formed under the influence of Donatello, Masaccio, and Fra Angelico.

ANDREA VERROCCHIO.

1435-1488. Pupil of Donatello and Alesso Baldovinetti, influenced by Pesellino.

SCULPTURES.

VINCI see [LEONARDO]

INDEX OF PLACES.