Michelangelo didn’t want to paint the ceiling of The Sistine Chapel. He considered himself a sculptor. He didn’t know how to work quickly, and in wet cement, which is what fresco painting requires.
He was busy with other projects that he had a real interest in completing. He even fled Rome to escape the work, but was forced back to the dripping cement, the scaffolds, and the extreme discomfort of working with his neck craned upward. He was unhappy and belligerent, if you believe the portrayal in The Agony and The Ecstasy. He was even mad at God for keeping him alive so he’d have to finish the project.
But after four grueling years, Michelangelo finished.
I’ve seen his ceiling twice, once before and once after the restoration. And I feel a personal debt of gratitude to the artist.
I’ve contemplated the meaning captured in the moment where God’s all-powerful finger is about to touch Adam’s and give him life. I’ve examined the detail in The Last Judgment and been reminded that modern man has struggled with the ideas of right and wrong, judgment, punishment and forgiveness, for centuries. And I’ve stood beneath the extravagant images and thought that man was created to be creative, and that it is often worthwhile simply to do the task that is set before you, and then to do it well. And that generations of other men and women from around the world, have craned their necks to look at the ceiling, have had the same thoughts.
Editors…that’s who made the difference in the quality of the work in The Sistine Chapel. The editors who pushed Michelangelo. The editors he pushed back against. The men who thought they owned his work. Those who loved it. Those who hated it. Those who hated him. All those who challenged him, forced him to rethink, defend, improve. All of them what we’d now call stakeholders in the finished product.
Michelangelo was part of a team. He didn’t see it that way, I’m sure. That’s why he was the artist…and they were just the guys with the money to pay him, and the bare ceiling.