David - A Renaissance Tale by Chris Turnbull

Behind the Marble: A Renaissance Tale of Art, Passion, and Michelangelo

Short stories is where it all began for me. I'd drawn inspiration from anything and everything, and the results would be anything from a couple of sentences to a couple of pages. I still enjoy writing short stories from time to time. This one come around after a visit to Florence, and just sat on my PC half finished for the longest time. Until The Authors at the Armoires event in 2024 were looking to put together an anthology, and I knew straight away that this was the story I wanted to finish and submit to be a part of it.

The Italian Renaissance was a time of extraordinary creativity, where master artists shaped the world as we know it today. Among them, none shone brighter than Michelangelo—sculptor, painter, and visionary. But what if history held a secret?

In this exclusive short story, originally published for the 2024 Authors at the Armouries anthology, we step into the streets of 16th-century Florence through the eyes of Lorenzo, a young aspiring artist in search of a master. Drawn to the brilliance of Michelangelo, he becomes an apprentice at the famed sculptor’s workshop, witnessing the creation of what would become one of the most iconic statues in history—David.

But art is more than chisels and marble. As Lorenzo stands in as a model, an intimate connection forms between master and apprentice, intertwining passion, ambition, and the weight of legacy.

Immerse yourself in a historical tale of art, desire, and inspiration—where every stroke of Michelangelo’s chisel carves out more than just stone.

- I -

The Mediterranean Sea was tumultuous as I clung to my weathered suitcase on the small boat. The struggle to maintain balance intensified as the wooden deck grew slippery beneath me, buffeted by the rain and effortlessly tossed by the vast waves.

‘Hold on tight,’ urged one of the crew over the harsh wind. He, too, grappled with the challenge of staying upright as he moved towards the front of the boat.

The compact vessel teemed with individuals from various walks of life, spanning the elderly to young families. We all gathered closely, seeking refuge from the pouring rain and striving to stay warm amid the early spring downpour. Dawn gradually unfolded around us, revealing the dark waters through the persistent rain.

A petite horn atop the Captain’s cabin sounded, prompting the assembled passengers to simultaneously look up. Land was finally discernible in the distance, and a palpable shift in atmosphere accompanied the collective smiles and tightened embraces.

As the boat accelerated towards the shore, the rain gradually relented. I strained to catch a glimpse of the eagerly anticipated shoreline, peering around a sizable man with the hope of witnessing the excitement that now animated everyone on board. 

It was a cool spring morning when I arrived in Florence, weary from a lengthy journey. Though I hailed from this city, my early departure at the age of two left me with no recollections. Almost two decades later, with my mother no longer by my side, I felt compelled to return to the place of my birth and chase the aspirations that had lingered in my dreams.

Before me, Florence unfolded like a captivating mosaic, adorned with red-tiled roofs and sunlit buildings, teeming with life, culture, and promise. As I navigated the lively streets, a mix of excitement and apprehension pulsed through my heart. A stranger in a foreign land, the weight of the unknown pressed down on me.

In an almost trance state, I wandered through the streets, marvelling at the artistic wonders that surrounded me. The cobblestone pathways resonated with the footsteps of merchants, artists, and aristocrats, all seemingly breathing in the essence of art and inspiration. Florence, a city where dreams took flight, talent was revered, and the very streets embodied a living canvas.

I had set out on a perilous quest for work, driven by the tales of opportunities in this magnificent city. The idea of an apprenticeship, the age-old tradition where a young aspirant could learn the craft from a master, had taken root in my mind. I yearned to become a skilled artist, to breathe life into my artistic aspirations, and to escape the mundanity of rural life. My mother had always disapproved of my desire to follow the artistic lifestyle, and instead pushed me towards a more solid profession, but now she is gone it is time to for fill my own dreams.

With no money after the boat fare, I spent my initial nights sleeping rough, urgently seeking work.

During my brief stay I couldn't help but notice a buzz of excitement surrounding a particular young artist in his twenties. His name was uttered with reverence on every street corner, his work praised as if divine. My curiosity led me to investigate further.

Rumours guided me to a modest workshop tucked away in a quiet alley. The entrance, unassuming and almost hidden, opened to the intoxicating scent of fresh clay and the rhythmic chiselling of stone. The space served as an art sanctuary, with dust-covered sculptures bearing witness to the craftsman's mastery.

In the heart of the workshop, the artist, hands strong and skilled, moulded clay into a figure brimming with life. His deep, contemplative eyes and wise lines on his face bespoke a creativity beyond his years. His captivating aura held me in thrall as I entered.

He glanced up, meeting my eyes with a keen, appraising gaze. ‘Who are you, and what brings you here?’ he inquired, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

Swallowing hard, I mustered the words, ‘My name is Lorenzo, a newcomer to Florence seeking work. I've heard of your talent and come to inquire if you are taking on an apprentice?’

The artist regarded me thoughtfully as he walked towards me, as if assessing the raw material from which a masterpiece might emerge. ‘Lorenzo, you say?’ he mused. ‘Well, young man, my name is Michelangelo.’ He paused for a moment as he looked me up and down with curiosity. ‘My last assistant left a couple of months ago. An apprentice you wish to be? Let's start with assistant for now, and if you prove capable, we can discuss that apprenticeship.’ 

- II -

In the days that followed my first meeting with Michelangelo, I became a frequent visitor to the small workshop tucked away in the heart of Florence. Every morning, I arrived with a heart filled with both anticipation and trepidation, ready to immerse myself in the world of art that Michelangelo had so graciously opened up to me.

As the sun cast its golden glow across the city, Michelangelo would already be at work, his hands caressing the rough surface of a stone sculpture. He greeted me with a nod, his dedication to his craft evident in the intensity with which he carved and chiselled. I would watch in awe as he coaxed life from the unyielding marble, his every movement a testament to his mastery.

‘Come, Lorenzo,’ he beckoned one morning. ‘I see that you are eager to learn. I shall teach you the art of sculpting.’ His voice was soft but carried a sense of authority that compelled me to listen closely.

With an eagerness born of genuine passion, I joined him at the sculpting table. He showed me how to hold the chisel and mallet, guiding my hands as I tentatively struck the stone. I could feel the vibrations travel up my arms and into my core, as if I were connecting with the very essence of the material. Michelangelo's touch was gentle yet firm, a paradox that mirrored his character.

In the afternoon, he generously provided me with marble offcuts and granted permission to practice shaping them. Additionally, he lent me some of his old tools for the task. While I recognized that I was far from achieving the elegance he effortlessly displayed, the straightforward assignment infused me with a remarkable adrenaline rush.

As the days turned into weeks, Michelangelo and I got to know each other better. He shared stories of his youth, his struggles, and his relentless pursuit of perfection. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, it was with a deep sense of purpose.

One afternoon, after a gruelling session of carving, Michelangelo wiped the sweat from his brow and looked at me with a glint of mischief in his eyes. ‘I think it's time I show you the rest of this place," he said. "There is more to learn about art than just what happens in the studio.’

We climbed a narrow, creaking staircase that led to a modest apartment just above the workshop. Michelangelo pushed open the door, revealing a cosy living space filled with books, paintings, and sculptures. It was a sanctuary of creativity, a place where the art extended beyond the studio walls.

‘This is where I sketch my inspirations,’ he explained, gesturing to the paintings and drawings that adorned the walls. ‘Here, I study the human form, anatomy, and the works of great masters. It is essential for an artist to understand the world, both within and without.’

I nodded in agreement, taking in the wealth of knowledge and inspiration that surrounded us. It was a privilege to be welcomed into this inner sanctum of art.

As our tour continued, Michelangelo led me down a narrow corridor and stopped in front of a small, unassuming door. He pushed it open to reveal a compact room with a single window that allowed a shaft of sunlight to pierce the shadows. ‘This, Lorenzo, will be your space. A humble abode, but it is here that you will rest, dream, and absorb the art that we create together. Should you work late, you are welcome to stay here instead of travelling through the city in the dead of night.’

My heart swelled with gratitude, and I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of belonging. ‘Thank you, Maestro,’ I whispered, overwhelmed by the generosity and trust he had bestowed upon me. It was at that moment that I confessed to him my living arrangements. I had not yet found a place to live in these weeks, and had been sleeping by the river, just a short walk away.

With a nod and a small smile, Michelangelo told me that the room was mine. He didn’t seem surprised by my revelation of being homeless.

Spring and summer passed by so quickly that I can hardly remember it at all. I just remember the heat in the studio being unbearable on those particularly blistering days.

- III -

The arrival of winter brought a different kind of magic to Michelangelo's studio. While the chill gripped Florence and the city wrapped itself in a quiet blanket of snow, the artistic flames within our small enclave burned brighter than ever. It was during those cold months that I delved into the world of drawing and painting, my hands trading the chisel and mallet for brushes and pencils.

Under Michelangelo's guidance, I began to discover the power of lines and shadows, of capturing life on a canvas. He patiently taught me the intricacies of sketching, emphasizing the importance of observing the world around us. Our mornings were dedicated to sketching studies of the human form, practicing anatomy and proportion, while the afternoons were reserved for painting, as we explored the nuances of colour, light, and shadow.

With every stroke of the brush, Michelangelo's wisdom infused my work. He was a demanding teacher, never satisfied with mediocrity, and his exacting standards pushed me to the limits of my abilities. Yet, each critique and correction served as a stepping stone towards mastery.

As the days grew longer and the promise of spring whispered in the air, Michelangelo unveiled his plan for the upcoming season. ‘Lorenzo,’ he said, his eyes bright with excitement, ‘I have been invited to showcase my sculptures and paintings in an art exhibition that will gather the finest artists of Florence. It is an opportunity to display our talents, and I intend to make a mark.’

His words ignited a fire of anticipation in me. To contribute to the preparations for such a prestigious event was a privilege beyond measure. Michelangelo's determination was unwavering, and he expected nothing less than perfection from each of his creations.

We spent weeks perfecting his sculptures, making every chisel mark count. The marble dust filled the air like a fine mist, and the sculptures themselves seemed to come to life under our touch.

The paintings, too, demanded our attention. We chose the most vibrant pigments and delved into the world of chiaroscuro, seeking to capture the essence of life on canvas. Each brushstroke was a testament to the passion and vision of our master.

As the days melted into weeks and the colours of spring began to bloom, Michelangelo and I toiled tirelessly, driven by a shared commitment to excellence. The studio became a whirlwind of creativity, with the anticipation of the art show hanging over us like a tapestry of destiny.

‘Lorenzo I want you to choose one of your own paintings for the show. Your art is coming on spectacularly and people deserve to see it.’ I could find the words to thank him enough. Having one of my pieces shown was such an honour, I would have to work even harder to make sure I had something suitable.

The winter had transformed me from a wide-eyed novice into an artist in my own right, and I was grateful for Michelangelo's patient mentorship. With every stroke of the brush, every touch of the chisel, I felt a deeper connection to my Maestro and to the world of art that had become my home. As the spring exhibition approached, I couldn't help but wonder how our art would be received, especially the piece with only my name upon it.

- IV -

The evening of the art show arrived, and the atmosphere in Florence was charged with anticipation. The exhibition was to be held in a grand gallery, where artists from all corners of the city had gathered to display their works. The name on everyone's lips was Michelangelo, and the weight of expectation seemed to hang in the air as we made our way into the event.

Michelangelo's creations were displayed with an aura of reverence, commanding the attention of all who entered the gallery. The sculptures, the paintings, each piece seemed to exude life, embodying the very essence of art itself. The room buzzed with admiration, and the visitors spoke in hushed tones, their voices filled with awe.

As we stood together, watching the crowd's reaction, Michelangelo's eyes glimmered with pride. He had every reason to be proud, for his work had left an indelible mark on all those in attendance. Although other artists were being featured at the event, it was clear that Michelangelo had been given the largest of the rooms.

My own painting, which was hung in the gallery just before that of Michelangelo’s, was a painting of my employer himself. I had captured him working on a small sculpture, surrounded by many more in his workshop. Even now, looking at the paining I could smell the dusty sweaty workspace.

The highlight of the evening came when a group of influential city officials approached Michelangelo, their faces lit with admiration. They spoke of a grand project, a vision to honour Florence with a statue that would grace the city square for all to see. They proposed that Michelangelo be the one to create this masterpiece. It was an offer that left him visibly overwhelmed.

I was stood beside Michelangelo as he accepted the offer, his mind racing with plans for the project evident in his eyes. The news of this offer quick spread around the gallery, and the whispers grew louder, their voices filled with respect and reverence for the artist who had been chosen for such a prestigious task.

As the evening continued and the celebratory atmosphere grew, we found ourselves drawn into the merriment of the occasion. We shared laughter, wine, and the camaraderie of fellow artists, celebrating Michelangelo's well-deserved triumph. In the midst of the revelry, a spark of connection blossomed between us, a connection that had been growing silently but steadily.

As the night wore on and the wine flowed more freely, I could see the hesitant barriers that Michelangelo would often hide behind, began to soften. It was late when we finally left the celebrations, walking home together through the dark streets.

I don’t recall what we talked about on the walk home, but it was clear how happy he was with the evening. Arriving back, I had not realised the barriers between Michelangelo and myself beginning to blur. In a moment of shared elation, a celebratory kiss was exchanged, a fleeting connection between two souls who had become entwined in the tapestry of art, friendship, and something deeper.

The kiss hung in the air, a silent acknowledgment of a bond that defied definition. Our gazes locked for a moment, and then, with a mixture of emotions, we retreated to our separate bedrooms, leaving the night's revelations to linger in the quiet darkness.

- V -

The following morning, I stepped into the studio, anticipating a certain tension after the unexpected kiss. However, as I entered, Michelangelo was already engrossed in his work, barely lifting his gaze from the marble as I entered the workshop. The awkwardness I feared hung in the air, and I grappled with whether I should address it or let the incident fade into the background. The apprenticeship I had longed for was everything to me, and I couldn't help but worry if that moment of impulsiveness had jeopardized it.

Throughout the morning, we worked side by side in silence. Questions and uncertainties swirled in my mind. Was I expected to say something, or should I pretend as though the kiss had never occurred? The weight of uncertainty clung to me, and I wondered if our professional relationship could withstand the unexpected intimacy.

By the afternoon, however, the atmosphere shifted, and conversation flowed as naturally as before. Michelangelo made no mention of the kiss, and the routine of our work settled back into its familiar rhythm. A part of me felt a twinge of disappointment that the incident wasn't acknowledged, but the importance of my apprenticeship took precedence.

It wasn't until Michelangelo's stern voice broke the comfortable silence that I realized the gravity of his next artistic endeavour. ‘Lorenzo,’ he began, ‘I've been contemplating the creation of the sculpture for the city. Before any work on marble can begin, I will need to spend time sketching the male form and conceptualizing the final sculpture.’

Intrigued by his passion, I listened intently, eager to contribute. ‘How can I assist?’ I asked.

Michelangelo paced the room, his mind abuzz with ideas. ‘I require a model,’ he explained, ‘someone whose physique embodies the essence of strength, grace, and perfection. I need a living, breathing representation to guide my hands in shaping David with unparalleled detail.’

The weight of Michelangelo's request settled upon me. After a brief moment of contemplation, I offered myself as a temporary solution. ‘If it would aid your vision, I would be pleased to help. While I may not possess the idealized physique, I'm willing to lend myself for the lesser sketches, perhaps for the hands, until we can find somebody perfect.’

A contemplative silence filled the room as Michelangelo studied my earnest expression. A faint smile played on his lips. ‘Lorenzo, your willingness to contribute to the creative process is commendable. If you are comfortable with the idea, I would appreciate having you as the model for the time being.’

I nodded, a mixture of excitement and nervousness coursing through me. ‘It would be an honour, maestro.’

‘Well I suppose there’s no time like the present.’ 

Anticipation coursed through me as I followed him to a corner of the studio where a small table was set with parchment, quills, and ink. The air seemed charged with creative energy as Michelangelo carefully prepared his tools.

‘Your hands,’ he remarked, looking at me with a discerning gaze, ‘they possess a certain character and strength that I believe will convey the essence I seek for David's hands.’

The scratching of the quill against parchment echoed through the studio, and I marvelled at Michelangelo's ability to transform simple lines into a three dimensional sketch of my own hands. His eyes, filled with an artist's focus, never wavered from the task at hand. It was as if the world around us faded away, leaving only the dance between the artist and his subject.

As Michelangelo completed the sketch, he stepped back to admire his work. A satisfied smile played on his lips, and he looked at me with gratitude. ‘Lorenzo, you have lent your hands to the birth of David, and for that, I am grateful. This is just the beginning of the journey in bringing this chef-d'oeuvre to life.’

- VI -

In the days that followed our initial sketching of my hand, our collaboration deepened and expanded. Michelangelo's desire for perfection, his relentless pursuit of capturing the essence of the human form, led us to embark on a series of sittings. Each session focused on a different aspect of the human body.

The quiet of the studio became our sanctuary, a place where time seemed to stand still, and the world outside faded into insignificance. In this cocoon of creativity, we explored the subtleties and intricacies of my body. Every session was a journey of trust and discovery, a shared venture that felt like a secret we alone held.

He moved onto sketching my feet, Michelangelo's hands gently cradling each one as he sketched the curves of my arches and the graceful lines of my toes. With each touch of his pencil, I could feel a subtle connection forming, an intimacy that went beyond the ordinary boundaries of friendship.

The ears followed, with Michelangelo's eyes studying the delicate contours and the intricate folds. He rendered every detail with a precision that mirrored the dedication he had for his sculptures. I could feel his breath against my face as he memorized the details of my ear.

The sketches of my eyes were perhaps the most revealing of all. As Michelangelo focused on them, I felt his gaze pierce through the windows to my soul. His eyes met mine with a depth of understanding and connection that transcended words. It was as though, through the art, he was exploring the very core of my being.

Finally, the sittings for my mouth were a testament to the sensuality and desire that had quietly simmered between us. As his pencil traced the contours of my lips, the memory of our shared kiss hung in the air, a reminder of a connection that had never truly faded.

The sketches were completed with meticulous care, and Michelangelo's eyes lingered on his work, as though he was committing it to memory. With a soft exhale, he finally broke the silence. ‘Lorenzo,’ he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of vulnerability and longing, ‘you are a work of art in your own right.’

I remained silent, taken aback by this unexpected compliment. Michelangelo didn't wait for a response; instead, he gently placed down his sketchbook and ascended to bed for the evening.

- VII -

The sketches of my features had become my favourite part of the day. It had now been weeks since my first sitting, and I confess I had yet to even begin looking for a model to take over. He must have known this, yet he never once asked me to get on with it.

As our collaboration continued, it was only a matter of time before we arrived at the most intimate subject matter of all—the sketching of my torso. The anticipation of the session had been building within me, a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

The day of the sitting arrived, and as I disrobed and took my position, the atmosphere in the studio grew charged with a palpable intensity. The afternoon sun filtered through the window, casting a warm, honeyed light upon my bare skin. Michelangelo's eyes were upon me; a gaze I couldn’t read.

As he sketched, I could feel his intense scrutiny, his pencil capturing the contours of my chest and abdomen. His hands moved with a slow and deliberate grace, tracing every line and curve with a precision that mirrored the dedication he had for his sculpting. The intensity of his focus seemed to draw me in, like a moth to a flame.

And then it happened. In the midst of the sketch, as Michelangelo worked to perfect the lines of my torso, his hand left the canvas and found its place on my chest. The touch was electric, igniting a fire of desire that had been simmering within me for far too long. I looked into his eyes, and the unspoken longing that had bound us seemed to demand action.

In that moment, we kissed—passionately, desperately, as though it were the culmination of every unspoken desire and longing we had ever felt. The studio seemed to dissolve around us, and all that existed was the warmth of our embrace, the taste of his lips on mine, and the feeling of his hands on my body.

The world spun with a dizzying intensity, and time seemed to blur as we lost ourselves in the depths of our desire. It was a moment of surrender, an acknowledgment of a connection that could no longer be denied.

 When I awoke the next morning, I found myself in Michelangelo's bed. The memories of the night before flooded back, and I felt a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. I turned to face him, but he was not in the bed next to me. I looked around to see him sitting on a stool in the corner of the room, a sketchpad in his hands. He had been drawing me, laid there naked on his bed. He gave a gentle smile in acknowledgement, before continuing with his drawing. He must have been there a while as he had sketched the whole of me and the bed in considerable detail.

To my relief, Michelangelo did not act weird about our shared intimacy. He looked at me with a mixture of affection and understanding, as though he had finally come to terms with his own desires and longings.

My apprenticeship continued, as did our collaboration of sketches.

- VIII -

Two years had passed since that fateful day when Michelangelo and I had first crossed the boundary from mentorship and friendship into an intimate and passionate relationship. During that time, our connection had deepened in ways I could have never imagined. Our love was a secret that only a select few knew, hidden beneath the surface of our shared world of art.

Our intimacy had become woven into the fabric of our creative collaboration. As we worked on numerous paintings, sculptures, and art exhibitions together, our passion for one another fuelled our artistic pursuits. The studio had transformed into a place where our desires and creativity flowed freely, each project a reflection of the love we shared.

 One of the most significant undertakings during those two years was Michelangelo's grand sculpture for the Florence square. The project had begun to take shape, the colossal block of marble had finally arrived and his attention was now completely fixed on it every day.

Despite my own artistic pursuits, I frequently found myself mesmerized, observing Michelangelo at work on the massive marble. After many weeks, the form had yet to resemble a person, and I understood that his pursuit of perfection would see him toiling over this colossal piece for years to come. The sculpture demanded his unwavering dedication, and the weight of his artistic legacy pressed heavily upon him.

The day arrived when I had to bid farewell. My apprenticeship had reached its conclusion, and the time had come for me to venture out on my own. Michelangelo had been immersed in the marble for approximately six months, and it still bore only a vague semblance to a person. Recognizing that he needed the space to complete his magnum opus and that I needed to explore new artistic horizons, the parting was inevitable.

We both knew that the day of my departure would eventually arrive, but neither of us anticipated it so soon. The farewell proved more challenging than either of us could have imagined. The final kiss he bestowed upon me seemed to carry a weight that would endure for eternity.

Though I left behind much of my artwork, some of which I had managed to sell in the square to help fund my journey, there was one piece I couldn't bear to part with. It was the very first painting I created of Michelangelo, capturing him sculpting shirtless in his studio—the same piece I had proudly displayed during that initial show I attended.

- IX -

Ten years soon passed since that bittersweet day when I had left Florence. I had watched the city disappear into the horizon, knowing that the love we had shared would forever be a part of my heart.

Over those years, I ventured far and wide, refining my artistic skills and exploring realms beyond Florence. Despite the physical separation, my connection with Michelangelo remained an unwavering wellspring of inspiration. His mentorship, influence, and the tender intimacy we once shared had etched an enduring mark on the canvas of my life.

The longing to see the completed statue of David, had never waned. I yearned to behold the sculpture that had been the labour of Michelangelo's passion for so long, knowing that I had played such a small role in its creation. With anticipation weighing heavily on my heart, I returned to Florence, the city where our artistic journey had commenced.

Approaching the square, the imposing figure of David came into view. I was speechless by the sheer scale of it. Bathed in the golden embrace of sunlight, the marble statue stood as a testament to Michelangelo's genius. The precision in the proportions, the fluid lines, and the purpose evident in the sculpted figure left me breathless.

However, it was when my gaze met the eyes of the statue that I was truly moved. There, in the gaze of David, I saw a reflection of myself, a resemblance that left me jaw hanging in disbelief. The eyes seemed to hold my gaze, an unspoken connection that transcended the boundaries of time and space. It was then I realised much more the of statue resembled me, from the ears, mouth, hands and even feet. True it was not a statue of me, but he had clearly used the sketches as his inspiration on some of the finer details.

It felt as though Michelangelo had not only captured the physical form but also the essence of our intimacy. The statue became a celebration of the male form—my form—a lasting testament to the love, intimacy, and shared passion that once bound us.

My brief return to Florence stirred memories of the artist who had indelibly shaped my life. I longed to see Michelangelo once more, to hear his voice, to tell him how much I adored his statue, but it was not to be. Learning he was in Rome on a commission, dashed my hopes of a reunion during my visit. Our paths did not cross, leaving me with the bittersweet yearning for what could have been.

I spent only a week in Florence, and each day I visited David. Reflecting on the memories from the studio where it was crafted brought a smile to my face daily. On my last morning in the city, I made a point to pay one last visit. With a lingering gaze at the sculpture, I quietly expressed my gratitude to Michelangelo, the master artist who had not only fashioned a masterpiece but also etched an enduring chapter into the story of my life.