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pictures.”
“Paint what you see, painter,” the Pope ordered. “What is before an artist is what he
The artist pauses before he spoke. Then Michelangelo answered, stretching each
syllable, “Should I paint what I see, Your Highness, you will not like it.”
“Tell me what you see, artist,” Alexander commanded.
“My job is not to tell what I see, but what people want to see,” Michelangelo
cooed. “Because what I see often is not pretty. It is not often what people want to see.”
“In that case, artist,” Alexander intquired, “how do you reckon what people would
like to see?”
“By what they wear,” Michelangelo replied, “you know what they like, who they
want to be, rather than who they actually are.”
“Make me who I want to be,” said the Holy Father, “not who I really am.”
“None of my clients care to know who they are,” Michelangelo gasped. “They hire
me to make them other than they are.”
“You like to play God, don’t you?” Pope Alexander asked.
“Others make a God out of me,” Michelangelo responded, “those who want me to
make them different from whom God made them. Those running away from the design of
their creator.”
“Are you a god then?” Alexander asked the artist.
“I am not a God, Your Holiness,” Michelangelo said, “But I am here to enhance His
holy works.”
At this point, Don Michelotto, from his closet, saw Lucrezia and Doudu enter the
gallery, the eunuch carrying her so weightlessly in his arms. She was giggling as they
entered. She appeared tipsy, although it was still morning. She heard Michelangelo’s last