Michelangelo's best work was also the one he hated the most
We have all heard of Michelangelo.If I ask you about him, I bet you are going to tell me about the Sistine Chapel ceiling, that Michelangelo painted between 1508 and 1512. But did you know that Michelangelo's most famous work was also the one he hated the most?
To understand that, let's turn the time back to 1508. Pope Julius II, who feared that the Sistine Chapel would collapse, had it strengthen before asking Michelangelo to decorate it. First, Michelangelo disagreed: he wanted to be recognized as a sculptor, not as a painter. But after a lot of negotiations, presumably about the complexity of the paintings, he was forced to sign the contract.
In order to do his best work, Michelangelo also designed his very own scaffold. A common myth wants him to paint while laying on his back, trying to avoid drops of painting falling from the ceiling but it is wrong. Michelangelo was actually standing up, trying to paint with his arms up. In addition to the vertigo he certainly had to deal with, this work left him with back issues, cramps and headache.
It took him 4 long years to achieve it. After that, he never really painted anymore and had to deal with the results of this work on his aging body. Nevertheless, he died in 1564, leaving us with this incredible piece of art.
But is it the only thing left from this incredible adventure? Actually, not. While he was working on the ceiling, Michelangelo wrote this ironic poem, letting us know how much he hated this work:
"I've grown a goitre by dwelling in this den– As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy, Or in what other land they hap to be– Which drives the belly close beneath the chin: My beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in, Fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly Grows like a harp: a rich embroidery Bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin. My loins into my paunch like levers grind: My buttock like a crupper bears my weight; My feet unguided wander to and fro; In front my skin grows loose and long; behind, By bending it becomes more taut and strait; Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow: Whence false and quaint, I know, Must be the fruit of squinting brain and eye; For ill can aim the gun that bends awry. Come then, Giovanni, try To succour my dead pictures and my fame; Since foul I fare and painting is my shame."