During my summer holidays, I took a Michelangelo on an Easyjet flight. We were in the cheap seats and didn’t even do Speedy Boarding. Conservators and registrars may wish to look away, but let me explain.
Some months ago I noticed a small crucifix in an online auction in Madrid. Dated around 1600, it was damaged and cheaply estimated. I am quite ignorant about sculpture but something about it shone from the catalogue. The cast (said the description) was based on a model originally by Michelangelo which, according to an early source, was brought to Seville from Rome in 1599. From there it was much reproduced, mainly in bronze and silver, and became a popular portable object of devotion. Some models were painted in polychrome by Francisco Pacheco, Velázquez’s father-in-law, and indeed Velázquez, in his portrait of the nun Jerónima de la Fuente, shows her holding an example.
Bronzes “by Degas” can be deemed originals, even though he never cast a single bronze in his life
Now I should say immediately that I did not think the crucifix coming up for sale was by Michelangelo himself. His original model—likely of wax or clay, or perhaps wood—has not survived. This example was said to be made of lead and was missing most of its polychrome decoration. But I have always been interested in how the attribution of sculpture differs from painting. A copy of a Michelangelo painting, for example, can replicate his original composition or idea but nothing of the personal touch we so value in an “autograph” painting. With sculpture, on the other hand, a good cast of an artist’s model can get you much closer to their technique, as well as their original idea. It’s why bronzes “by Degas” can be deemed originals worth millions, even though he never cast a single bronze in his life.
Michelangelo was preoccupied by the subject of the crucifixion, searching repeatedly in both drawing and sculpture for that moment of profound vulnerability which the dying Christ represents. The sculpture I had seen online seemed, to me at least, to convey the sensitivity of such an approach. Of course, it was just another copy, and estimated as such, but it was probably the closest to a Michelangelo I could ever afford. I took a punt and bought it.
From Spain to Scotland
That was the easy part. Getting it from Spain back to Scotland, where I live, was another matter. First, any Spanish artwork more than 100 years old requires an export licence. Then there were some eye-watering shipping quotes (thanks, Brexit). I worked out it would be cheaper to go and get the crucifix myself, but by the time the export licence was approved, it was July. So I had to persuade my wife and daughter that this year we should take our summer holiday in Madrid.
Happily, Madrid is a superb city to visit. You cannot go wrong with the food, and the people are so nice. Then there’s the art. I wondered how many museums my ten-year-old daughter could take. My advice is to join the Friends of the Prado before you visit; breezing past the main queue (which went along the entire museum) into the “Amigos” entrance gets you good Dad points.
At the airport for the flight home we watched the “Michelangelo”, packed in a specially selected tupperware box, pass through the X-ray machine. On the screen, among the iPads and clothes, appeared our crucified Christ. It was a solid black mass (and I took this as confirmed technical analysis that it was made of lead). To our surprise, it did not pique the interest of the security guard. In Spain, it seems carrying around a crucifix is still perfectly normal.
