Pietro Annigoni: Pope John XXIII

Pietro Annigoni's drawing of Pope John XXIII
for Time magazine 

"The Pope seemed even more weary than usual the morning of his third - and last - sitting and spoke again of his terrible insomnia. He was clearly in no mood for conversation and I expected him to keep dozing off. I had begun to despair of getting anything done, when Monsignor Capovilla adroitly rescued me. During his sleepless night the Holy Father had written a speech which he was to deliver shortly after the sitting ended. Monsignor now offered to read the speech aloud so that he and the Pope could check it together. The offer was welcomed and had the effect of reviving the Pope, who settled down, chin in hands, to listen intently. It was my salvation for, apart from occasional interruptions when he suggested a correction, he kept the pose so well that, at last, I had a passably complete drawing. 

During a brief break, when Monsignor had left us alone, the Holy Father looked at me thoughtfully and said: 'I wrote all that last night and now, re-reading it, I realize that when we ponder over what we are writing we often have the illusion that we are saying a great deal, that we are saying important things. Instead, we miss the essential point. The people who are out there waiting for my speech would be happier if I improvised instead of reading it. Human beings prefer to be looked in the eye when they are spoken to, and I would like to look them in the eye and tell them what comes from the heart. Yes, with simplicity, what really comes from the heart and only from the heart. In their eyes I would see their hearts, and that would help me to discover more profoundly what is in my own. But it is not always possible. Speeches must be written, printed, and preserved.' It seemed to me that as he said this he was suddenly isolated in a remote solitude, utterly alone.

Before leaving he came to look at the drawing and said to Monsignor Capovilla, 'This is someone who knows his business.' Then he pointed to the voluminous ear and commented, 'Even that is really lifelike. When I was in the seminary and was rather thin, my ears seemed even bigger than usual. So much so that my classmates, who saw in them a certain resemblance to the ears of pachyderms, used to call me 'The Elephant.'

As he left, I genuflected properly - no mean feat for a man of my size - and even succeeded in snatching his hand on the wing, that hand which he afterwards laid on my shoulder, saying for his only farewell: 'Courage!' A bad model, but a truly holy man. A sweet serenity emanated from him in spite of his evident suffering. With a few words he could bring a man back to the Eternal and remind him, like no one else I have ever known, of the 'vanitas vanitatum [vanity of vanities].'"

To be continued 

(Excerpted from "Pietro Annigoni: An Artist's Life" by Pietro Annigoni, 1977.) 

 

Pietro Annigoni: Pope John XXIII and the Pietà

Michelangelo's "Pieta"

"'Time' magazine came to me with a request for a portrait of Pope John, upon which I started work in the Vatican on 5th June. A man from 'Time' took me there and presented me to Monsignor Cardinale, who in turn passed me on to the Pope's secretary, who in his turn, led me into the study of John XXIII. There, bending on one knee as I had been instructed, I kissed, and did not kiss, the hand that was extended to me and withdrawn from me at the same time. The Monsignor introduced me: 'Maestro Annigoni, who is here for the portrait.' 'Young for a maestro,' remarked the Pope with a little smile. 

During one of our conversations as I worked, our principle subject was the proposed shipment of Michelangelo's 'Pietà' to the New York World's Fair in 1964. I had been told that the Pope had promised Cardinal Spellman that the sublime sculpture would go and that there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. All the same, I felt very strongly that it should not and I said so.

He could scarcely wait for me to finish speaking and answered impatiently: 'I don't understand why this project should be so discussed and opposed in so many quarters. If it is sent to the New York World's Fair, this 'Pietà' will give satisfaction and joy to millions of people who would never have a chance to admire it, won't it? So why shouldn't it be sent? Even works of art - even the greatest of them - are things of this world, and we should not become fanatically attached to them.'

Although disheartened, I insisted on telling him that we had the duty of protecting works of art, of not exposing them voluntarily to the risk of being damaged or absolutely destroyed, if we wished to hand them down unharmed to those who come after us, whose number will be vastly greater than that of the beneficiaries of the Fair.

'That's true,' he replied. 'Even so, I was in Paris when Leonardo's 'La Gioconda [Mona Lisa]' was stolen from the Louvre, and what a rumpus there was about it. What a rumpus - for such a little thing.' With his fingers he indicated just how 'little', and continued: 'Of course the thief deserved to be punished, - he mimed the spanking of a child - but, all in all, what exaggeration!'

At that moment I remembered involuntarily how, a few days before I met him, he had been described to me as 'a good parish priest.' It was so true that I had to be careful not to address him by name or give him a comradely slap on the back."

To be continued 

(Excerpted from "Pietro Annigoni: An Artist's Life" by Pietro Annigoni, 1977.)