Even in the world of artists, the desire for recognition does not necessarily go hand in hand with saintly patience, modesty and refined conflict management. Even amongst the great figures of art history, there have been vain, touchy, competitive or simply difficult people. How fortunate that masterpieces do not need to be accompanied by a personality test for their creators!
Leonardo and Michelangelo: two geniuses, one city, zero chance of a peaceful working meeting
In Renaissance Florence, two giants met: Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. In the early 1500s, both were commissioned to paint monumental murals for the Great Hall of the Palazzo della Signoria in Florence. Leonardo was to have depicted the Battle of Anghiari, whilst Michelangelo was to have depicted the Battle of Cascina. The two artists’ works thus literally competed side by side — although ultimately neither design was realised as a completed mural in its intended form.
It is an exciting situation in itself: two exceptional artists in the same city, working on the same prestigious commission, in the shadow of each other’s achievements. It is not hard to imagine that professional rivalry also played a part.
According to a surviving anecdote, Leonardo was walking past just as a group of people were discussing Dante’s poetry. They called out to him and asked him to explain a passage from one of the poems to them. Leonardo then spotted Michelangelo passing by nearby and elegantly passed the task on to him:
– Michelangelo will explain it to you!
Whether this was a polite gesture or a subtle, well-meant dig, we cannot say. In any case, Michelangelo opted for the latter. He retorted to Leonardo, telling him to go ahead and explain the verse himself, since it was he who had wanted to cast an equestrian statue in bronze but had been unable to do so, and had ultimately abandoned the project in shame.
That certainly hit a nerve. Leonardo did indeed design a huge bronze equestrian statue for Ludovico Sforza, the ruler of Milan, but the work was never completed. Michelangelo, therefore, did not simply retort: he specifically brought up the very failure that the other man would hardly have wished to see revisited in a debate about Dante. According to the story, Leonardo blushed, whilst Michelangelo left the company in a huff.
Let’s imagine this scene in a modern-day context: at a literary discussion, someone politely hands over the floor to a colleague, who then publicly brings up an unfinished project from years ago. The professional debate quickly turns into a personal matter.
We cannot treat the dialogue in this anecdote as a verbatim transcript, but it does brilliantly illustrate how easily professional rivalry can turn into wounded pride. Because sometimes the hardest thing isn’t that someone else is talented, but that they know exactly where it hurts us the most.
Salvador Dalí: if you’re going to be an eccentric, do it properly!
Salvador Dalí was not only one of the best-known figures in Surrealist painting, but also an excellent spokesperson for himself. His distinctive moustache, theatrical demeanour and startling statements turned his public persona into a work of art in its own right.
Even as a young man, Dalí was not one to quietly accept the judgements of others. He was first suspended from, and then permanently expelled from, the San Fernando Academy of Fine Arts in Madrid; a factor in his conflict with the institution was that he did not consider the teachers to be qualified to judge him.
One can almost picture the scene: the examination board, serious faces, technical questions — and the candidate comes to realise that the problem here is not with him, but with the entire board. Self-assurance is undoubtedly a useful quality for an artist. However, there is a slight difference between self-confidence and a sense of infallibility, even if one finds it harder to recognise this when it comes to one’s own affairs.
In Dalí’s case, his role as an eccentric did not come about purely by chance: he consciously crafted his public image and understood well how to draw attention to his art — sometimes precisely by turning himself into a spectacle.
He took the exploration of the depths of the subconscious so seriously, for example, that in 1936 he took to the stage in London wearing a diving suit to give a lecture. The audience did not, therefore, have to stretch their imagination particularly far: the speaker really did look as though he were about to dive into the depths of the human soul. There was just one small technical detail that he failed to transform into a work of art: the air in his helmet was running out, and Dalí nearly suffocated; he had to be rescued.
His moustache wasn’t simply facial hair, but a personal brand – long before personal branding involved specialist consultants and online courses. The upturned ends seemed to convey a constant message: this is someone who isn’t content simply to walk into a room — he wants his moustache to arrive first. And he did everything he could to ensure he could never be mistaken for anyone else.
In 1939, the Bonwit Teller department store in New York commissioned Dalí to design two surrealist shop windows. The installation entitled „Day” featured a fur-lined, water-filled bath from which wax hands emerged, each holding a mirror; whilst the scene entitled „Night” depicted a puppet lying on a bed of glowing embers.
The trouble began when the shop’s management redesigned the shop windows whilst Dalí was away, because customers were outraged by what they saw. The artist returned, saw the changes, and became so angry that he leapt into the shop window and tried to move the bath — eventually smashing the shop window and falling out onto the street. He was arrested and subsequently given a suspended sentence for disorderly conduct.
In Dalí’s eyes, the shop window was not merely a decoration, but a work of art — and when someone tampered with it, he took it as a personal insult and literally tackled the problem head-on.
For him, art did not end at the edge of the canvas: his own personality was also part of the performance. However, there is sometimes only a shop window’s width of difference between artistic freedom and a capricious, even (self-)destructive scene. Self-confidence and the spectacle we build around ourselves are not the same thing — although sometimes they are both concealed by the same moustache.
Picasso – when the artist is always right
Pablo Picasso was not one of those who modestly kept to the background and quietly waited to be discovered one day. He was regarded as an extraordinary talent even in his youth, and later became one of the most influential figures in modern art. He was ambitious not only in painting: his belief in his own genius was also remarkable.
Take, for example, the American writer Gertrude Stein, a key supporter of the Parisian avant-garde, who was also a friend and patron of Picasso. Picasso worked on her portrait for a long time, and the result was ultimately quite different from what we are used to in traditional portrait painting. Stein’s face took on a stern, mask-like form, and the painting was based not so much on external resemblance as on the painter’s own unique perspective.
When someone remarked that the portrait did not really resemble Stein, Picasso is said to have replied:
– Never mind. It’ll be similar enough.
Gertrude Stein herself later recalled the remark. We do not know to what extent Picasso intended it as a joke, a provocation or a completely serious statement. In any case, the effect is perfect: if the model does not resemble the painting, one might think the painter ought to start afresh. Picasso, however, seems to suggest that we should wait patiently until reality catches up with the work of art.
That’s not the sort of self-confidence you see every day. Most of us would, at most, just change our profile picture if we didn’t like the look of our nose. Picasso, on the other hand, redefined the very concept of likeness.
A great artist, of course, can afford to turn the rules on their head. Picasso did indeed break new ground in art. However, creative courage and human generosity are not one and the same quality. One can be a revolutionary on the canvas, whilst refusing to budge an inch from one’s own convictions in everyday life.
Perhaps that is why the human side of great artists is so entertaining. When faced with masterpieces, we tend to forget that their creators were made of the same human stuff as us: they craved recognition, wanted to be special, and weren’t necessarily pleased when someone else took centre stage.
Talent is not a personal development course
The three stories do not feature the same character. Perhaps the only lesson they have in common is that talent does not come as a package deal with emotional maturity. Just because someone sees the world with genius does not necessarily mean they always see themselves clearly. Someone who is innovative in art is not necessarily flexible in debates; someone capable of capturing the subtleties of the human soul may not necessarily be able to deal easily with their own hurt feelings.
Of course, this isn’t exclusively a problem for artists. We, too, can cling to our own version of the truth as if the future of humanity depended on it. We take offence at criticism, whilst in the reverse situation we ourselves were, of course, „merely being honest”. We crave recognition, yet we act as though we couldn’t care less about it. And sometimes it is not our work that we defend so fiercely, but the image we wish to maintain of ourselves.
Artists are fortunate that the world occasionally even forgives them for their difficult nature — provided, that is, that they create something lasting in the process. For us mere mortals, it is rarer to have a museum that preserves our finest moments.
Perhaps this is why it is worth looking upon the human frailties of great artists with kindness. Not because genius exempts one from everything, but because human imperfection does not negate the value of what we create.
The next time we find it hard to take criticism, or feel annoyed that someone else has received the praise, let us remember: even the greatest figures in art history did not always rise above their own egos. They were human beings too; they just had a paintbrush, a chisel — or a particularly well-groomed moustache.
The stories of great artists also remind us that talent, success and emotional maturity are three different things. But what actually makes us mature adults? How do we deal with our hurt feelings, our vanity and our mistakes, and to what extent can we laugh at ourselves? I wrote about these questions in more detail in my article published on the Valeomed Health Centre website: Have we grown up, or have we simply learnt to look like adults? – What makes a person’s character mature?
Bernadett Takács
Qualified psychologist, art therapist, ICT therapist