rist and of
many other models of virtue, and it also preserves the faces of men
after their death." (1513)

That pious and bourgeois realism of Germany and Flanders filled
Michelangelo with the same sort of contempt that many artists of to-day
feel for subject-painting. "It is," he says, "an anecdotal and
sentimental art, which aims only at success and obtains it easily, not
by its own value, but by the choice of its subjects. These are pious
figures for which tears are always ready, or else rags, ruins, very
green fields shaded by trees, rivers and bridges--what they call
landscapes--with many figures here and there. That sort of thing is
always popular; the least artistic spirit can find something there that
appeals to it; it is enough to be inquisitive and to have good eyes."
Again--"Flemish painting seems beautiful to women, especially to those
who are either old or very young, and to monks and nuns and to a few
people of quality who are deaf to true harmony. Although it makes a good
effect in the eyes of some people, in truth there is neither reason nor
art in it, no proportion, no symmetry, no selection, and no grandeur. In
fact, such painting is without body or vigour. The only real paintings
are those done in Italy. These are not, like the Flemish pictures, made
for the pious.[141] They will never cause anyone to shed a tear."[142]

We can well understand that disdainful confession of faith. What artist
is there who has not felt this same irritation at the success of
mediocre work exploited by the sentimentality of an uncritical public
and who will not understand Michelangelo's haughty refusal to share this
too easy success? This pride, ennobling as it is to the character, is
unfortunately perilous for art; it cuts it off from all simple souls, it
isolates it in the arrogant feeling of inner perfection and of a secret
ideal which very few can know or understand. As Michelangelo says:

"Good painting is noble and devout in itself, for among the wise nothing
tends more to elevate the soul or to raise it toward devotion than the
difficulty of that perfection which approaches God and becomes one with
him. Good painting is but a copy of this perfection, a shadow of his
pencil, a music, a melody, and only a very keen intelligence can feel
the difficulty of it. That is why it is so rare and why so few people
can attain to it or know how to produce it. Painting is the music of
God, the inner reflection of his luminous