Disegno: What Michelangelo Taught Me

By no less than a miracle, I traveled to Europe in the summer of 2008 with the People to People Student Ambassador Program. I remember -- when I got the invitation -- seeing the bright image in my mind of a wonderful impossibility. Europe: a place where history and grandeur seemed to hover in the air as thickly as oxygen. Europe. It was and still is, in many respects, a magical name, rolling off my tongue, filling my mouth with great expectations.

It cost six thousand dollars. This did not include souvenir money. My family -- large and already pressed for money -- somehow pulled through for me. I sent letters to family members just about begging them for donations. I sold candy in school, the cardboard box smacking against my leg as I walked the crowded halls. It paid off the in end. The stress of getting ready blocked out most of what happened before, but I remember the airport that day. I remember never seeing a plane so incredibly large, the hostesses speaking German, the wonderful meals, the chill of traveling so close to Greenland... it is still so vivid.

Our destinations included Italy, the Vatican, Austria, Switzerland, and France in that order. I won't talk about the specifics of each and every location; only one.

Florence, Italy. I recall my chest swelling with awe as the fresh, cool breeze swept through the crowded streets. I had never been to a city so "open" before. While I was so used to American cities growing up, European cities grew out, and everything seemed much more organic, in a sense. With our special, handy-dandy name tags, we managed -- on a hot, summer's day -- to bypass the street-long line into the Galleria dell'Accademia, home of the famous Statue of David.

Our tour guide did her best to prevent us from seeing David for as long as possible. Large and small paintings preceded visiting him, and it was obvious that most of us were simply eager to see the marble man. My aunt had seen David before, and he made her cry. I hoped he was as beautiful as people put him off to be.

Though I later discovered, when our guide -- a small, tan, friendly Italian woman -- told Michelangelo's story, that David's beauty lay not within his looks, but in the craft... in his birth. I might have just imagined things, but the tour guide seemed to hone in on me as she told the story of Michelangelo, the small, unattractive man who -- at the age of 26 -- finished the masterpiece before us. While other artists portrayed David after killing Goliath, Michelangelo depicted David before. He imbued in that statue all of his ideas of intelligence, strength, and beauty. The contemplation in David's eyes choked the atmosphere.

And most of all, David was made from a discarded, decades-old block of stone. The title of this entry, "disegno," stems from this. Michelangelo believed that he did not create David. He believed that David was there, waiting in his marble womb, waiting to be freed. All he did was break the chains with his hammer and chisel. Michelangelo set David free.

And I cried, just as my aunt cried. This experience was so impacting for me, that I wrote my college essay about it. It is written from David's point of view, and I will share some of it here:

"... I see a remarkable thing reflected in those pent up tears. Her thoughts are woven plainly along the surface of each glistening bead. She looks not at me, but in me.

A story twitches on the upturned corners of her smile. Her mind festers with the tale of the small, unattractive young artist who freed me, who imbued in my rigid flesh his notions of strength, intelligence, and beauty. The man who carved so meticulously the veins running from my hands to my throat, the muscles rippling softly at my ribcage, and the deep expression of contemplation as potent in my eyes as the saline tears in hers. She has heard of my father, and it is he—not I—who has invoked her response. She sees in my lifeless body the beating, immortal heart of the person for whom she weeps.

The absence of the giant’s head at my heels fills her with intense fervor, for she understands. She knows what it is to instill within works those hidden implications, those subtle details that make something meaningful. For the first time she feels level with Michelangelo. Once humbled by him, the girl connects with him now. And instead of jealousy or worthlessness or anger, she experiences a sensation of utter joy for my father: he has done it ... He managed to create with his bare hands a work of art that perfectly exemplifies all that he wished to display. As if Michelangelo brought me here to deliver this wordless message, I unknowingly convey it to this girl. Let no one’s heart fail because of me. Give your insecurities, your doubts unto the birds of the air and the beasts of the field. It is indeed possible."

The possibility of impossibilities is what I learned. Or rather, solidified the notion into my mind. Even the fact that I was there at that moment, in Europe, thousands of miles from home, after raising incredible amounts of money, I was there. It was possible. I had done it.

And that is what I intend through this blog: I will talk about what I do. For there is no greater reward than the satisfaction of making and doing something worthwhile. Our greatness is buried within us; we must simply find those people and those tools to help us excavate.