The best art in Florence - Citimarks
citinotes

Rinascita!

A detail of the magnificent decoration adorning the vaulted ceiling of the Galleria degli Specchi (Mirror Gallery) by Luca Giordano at the Palazzo Medici Riccardi. The frescoes (1682–1685), which span the entire ceiling, showcase a rich and sophisticated iconography filled with countless mythological figures, distinguished by their radiant light and vibrant, luminous colors.

Citinotes

"The arts flourished on all sides. Brunelleschi was raising his churches, Donatello carving his statues, Orcagna sculpting his porticoes, Masaccio adorning walls with his frescoes. Public prosperity, advancing hand in hand with the progress of the arts, made Tuscany not only the most powerful, but also the happiest land in Italy."
Alexandre Dumas, Une année à Florence, Dumont, 1841
chapter 1

Santa Maria del Fiore, the Crown Jewel

The architect had calculated everything for the construction of the dome —everything, that is, except the brevity of life. Two years after the first stone was laid, Arnolfo died, leaving his creation barely begun in the hands of Giotto, who added the campanile to the original design. Then the years slipped by once more; Thaddeo Gaddi succeeded Giotto, Andrea Orcagna followed Gaddi, and Filippo came after Orcagna, yet none of these great heapers of marble dared to begin work on the dome.

The monument had already worn through five architects and still remained unfinished when, in 1417, Filippo Brunelleschi undertook this colossal work, a feat with no precedent, save Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, and destined to have no equal in the future except Saint Peter’s in Rome.

And so masterfully did this sublime craftsman accomplish his task that, a hundred years later, when Michelangelo was summoned to Rome by Pope Julius II to succeed Bramante, he cast a final glance at the dome—opposite which he had chosen his own tomb, to gaze upon it even in death—and declared:

– “Farewell. I shall try to make your sister, but I cannot hope to make your equal.”

Alexandre Dumas,
Une année à Florence, Dumont, 1841

On the east gates of the Baptistery, Lorenzo Ghiberti was entrusted with crafting golden panels that brought biblical scenes to life in breathtaking, intricate relief.

The mosaics in the Florence Baptistery, dating back to the 13th century, are celebrated for their detailed depictions of biblical stories, including a striking Last Judgment scene. Ongoing restoration efforts, which began in 2017 and are expected to span over a decade, focus on preserving their vibrant colors and delicate artistry.

Michelangelo famously referred to Lorenzo Ghiberti’s bronze panels of the Florence Baptistery as “the Gates of Paradise” due to their unparalleled beauty and masterful craftsmanship.

chapter 2

Giotto’s bell-tower: the joy of life

Perhaps the best image of the absence of stale melancholy or wasted splendour, of the positive presence of what I have called temperate joy, in the Florentine impression and genius, is the bell-tower of Giotto, which rises beside the cathedral.

No beholder of it will have forgotten how straight and slender it stands there, how strangely rich in the common street, plated with coloured marble patterns, and yet so far from simple or severe in design that we easily wonder how its author, the painter of exclusively and portentously grave little pictures, should have fashioned a building which in the way of elaborate elegance, of the true play of taste, leaves a jealous modern criticism nothing to miss.

Nothing can be imagined at once more lightly and more pointedly fanciful; it might have been handed over to the city, as it stands, by some Oriental genie tired of too much detail. Yet for all that suggestion it seems of no particular time—not gray and hoary like a Gothic steeple, not cracked and despoiled like a Greek temple; its marbles shining so little less freshly than when they were laid together, and the sunset lighting up its cornice with such a friendly radiance, that you come at last to regard it simply as the graceful, indestructible soul of the place made visible.

The Cathedral, externally, for all its solemn hugeness, strikes the same note of would-be reasoned elegance and cheer; it has conventional grandeur, of course, but a grandeur so frank and ingenuous even in its parti-pris.

It has seen so much, and outlived so much, and served so many sad purposes, and yet remains in aspect so full of the fine Tuscan geniality, the feeling for life, one may almost say the feeling for amusement, that inspired it.

Its vast many-coloured marble walls become at any rate, with this, the friendliest note of all Florence; there is an unfailing charm in walking past them while they lift their great acres of geometrical mosaic higher in the air than you have time or other occasion to look. You greet them from the deep street as you greet the side of a mountain when you move in the gorge—not twisting back your head to keep looking at the top, but content with the minor accidents, the nestling hollows and soft cloud-shadows, the general protection of the valley.

Henry James,
Italian Hours, William Heinemann, 1909

chapter 3

A Loggia of the Arts

The  name  Loggia  dei  Lanzi  comes  from  an  old  barracks of  lansquenets,  or  foot-soldiers,  which  formerly  existed  not  far  from  there,  when  the  foundations  were laid  under  the  tyrannical  rule  of  the  Duke  of  Athens. The object of these buildings was to shelter the citizens from sudden showers and to permit them to transact their business or that of the State under cover.

It was under this gallery, raised a few feet from the level of the Place, that the magistrates were invested with their powers, that knights were created, the decrees of government published and the people harangued from a raised platform.

[…] The Loggia is a species of Museum in the open air. The “Perseus” of Benvenuto Cellini, the “Judith” of Donatello, the “Rape of the Sabines” of John of Bologna are framed in the arcades. Six antique statues – the cardinal and monastic virtues – by Jacques, called Pietro, a Madonna by Orgagna adorn the interior wall. Two lions, one antique, the other modern, by Flaminio Vacca, almost as good as the Greek lions of the arsenal at Venice, complete the decoration.

The “Perseus” may be regarded as the masterpiece of Benvenuto Cellini, that artist so highly spoken of in France, without scarcely anything being known about him. This statue, a little affected in its pose, like all the works of the Florentine school, has a juvenile grace which is very attractive. The young hero is about to cut off the head of the unfortunate Medusa, whose body with its members convulsed with agony, makes a stool for the foot of the conqueror. Perseus, turning away his face, on which compassion is mingled with horror, holds his sword in one hand, and with the other lifts the petrifying head, immobile and dead in the midst of its hair of twisting serpents. […] We shall freely praise the Perseus for its heroic charm and the beauty of its delicate forms. It is a charming statue, a delicious jewel; it is worth all the trouble it cost. […]

The “Rape of the Sabines” was an admirable pretext for Jean of Bologna to display his knowledge of the nude and to exhibit the beauty of the human form under three different expressions: a beautiful young woman, a vigorous young man, and a stately old man. […]

The David of Michael Angelo, besides the inconvenience there is in representing under a gigantic form a Biblical hero of notoriously small size, seemed to us a trifle common and heavy, a rare defect with this master; his David is a great big boy, fleshy, broad-backed, with monstrous biceps, a market porter waiting to put a sack upon his back. The working of the marble is remarkable and, after all, is a fine piece of study which would do honor to any other sculptor except Michael Angelo; but there is lacking that Olympian mastership which characterizes the works of that superhuman sculptor.

Théophile Gautier,
Journeys in Italy, translated by Daniel Vermilye, Brentano’s, 1902

Let us sit for a moment before the Palazzo Vecchio and, without even noting the bold bell tower that soars powerfully into the sky, take in the Loggia dei Lanzi nearby. The statues gathered in this beautiful space seem to sing, perhaps too fervently for a philhellenic taste, a raw hymn to effort.

It is an effort crowned with a kind of triumphant joy, giving it a certain grace; yet it remains a fierce and intense effort—one that strains tendons, pushes muscles to their limits, and stretches the forms of heroic figures as they seem to surge toward the sky.

Charles Maurras,
Anthinéa, d’Athènes à Florence, Editions G. Grès et Cie, 1922

subscribe to our newsletter
chapter 4

Piazza della Signoria

So great was the idea I had formed in advance of the Piazza della Signoria, that I must confess, the reality exceeded even my lofty expectations as I beheld this mass of stone, so powerfully rooted in the earth, crowned by its tower that threatens the sky like the arm of a Titan. Old Florence, with all its Guelphs and Ghibellines, its balia (note: council of guilds) and priors, its lordship and guilds, its condottieri, its tumultuous populace, and its haughty aristocracy, appeared before me as though I were about to witness the exile of Cosimo the Elder, or the support of Salviati.

Indeed, four centuries of history and art surround you on the right, the left, in front and behind, enveloping you on all sides, speaking simultaneously through the stones, the marble, and the bronze: the voices of Niccolò d’Uzzano, Orcagna, Rinaldo degli Albizzi, Donatello, the Pazzi family, Raphael, Lorenzo de’ Medici, Flaminio Vacca, Savonarola, Giovanni Bologna, Cosimo I, and Michelangelo.

Let one search throughout the world for a place that brings together such names, not to mention those I have forgotten, like Baccio Bandinelli, like Ammannati, like Benvenuto Cellini.

I would like to impose a bit of order on this magnificent chaos and classify chronologically the great men, the great works, and the grand memories, but it is impossible; when one arrives in this marvelous square, one must go where the eye leads, where instinct guides.

Alexandre Dumas,
Une année à Florence, Dumont, 1841

chapter 5

Donatello, the Florentine touch

If a statue need not serve as an ideal extension or expressive line of a building—if statuary is not bound to be an organ of architecture—then Donatello stands as the supreme master of all sculptors. Dante and Michelangelo, on the other hand, are prodigies and singular forces in Florence and beyond. They are less defined by their Florentine roots than by an intense individuality, imposing a rigorous discipline upon themselves yet rebelling against anything that challenges their will. They seem to emerge from the ancient depths and shadowy realms of Etruria, reaching back through the ages, more so than from the common soil of Tuscany.

Donatello embodies Florence itself, sculpting and carving images in its likeness. Through his long life of eighty-five years, he represents the entirety of the fifteenth century—a flourishing Fiorenza, triumphant in both politics and the arts, still republican, yet already under the emerging order of the prince, wholly Christian in morals, yet subtly pagan in spirit.

Until Rodin, no one had ever brought such painterly qualities to sculpture as Donatello did. He is the Da Vinci of statuary. […] 

Donatello’s powerful genius conveys strength by concealing it rather than flaunting it, always seeking grace and harmony. In the modern age, he is like Victory tying her light sandal. His works—the Annunciation of Santa Croce, the Saint George of Orsanmichele, and Saint Cecilia—are worthy of the Panathenaea and stand as the only truly Attic creations in Italy. Above all, his little David at the Bargello is perhaps the most enchanting of bronzes: with his winged foot resting on Goliath’s head, his flowery torso, and his joyous grace, he radiates with a smile as captivating as Leonardo’s finest. 

Every woman might fall in love with this David, who is delicately built with the soft lines of youth. His form—small breasts and the gentle curve of his thighs—is playfully poised, with knees that seem to hinge perfectly.

Yet his masculine strength is evident, unhidden and undeniable. He severs Goliath’s head as one might pluck an oversized apple, a melon, or a pumpkin. Smiling, brimming with youthful pleasure, he is vibrant, alive. His hat, an unmatched elegance adorned with flowers, hints at the daisy-clad petasus, the youthful glow on his lips making him seem destined to join hands with Botticelli’s Primavera. It’s as though he has a rendezvous awaiting her, perhaps at Titania’s fairy castle near Athens. With that mischievous smile and wreath, he embodies Shakespeare’s Mercury.

André Suarès,
Voyage du condottiere, Édouard cornély & Cie, 1901

Donatello’s bronze statue of David, crafted in the 1440s for the Medici palace in Florence, is the first free-standing nude sculpture of the Renaissance, reviving classical ideals of beauty and humanism. Its innovative use of bronze and sensuous realism marked a departure from medieval styles, cementing Donatello’s role as a pioneer in Renaissance art.

Donatello’s Madonna Pazzi, crafted around 1420–1430 for the Pazzi family in Florence, is a marble relief showcasing his exceptional skill in conveying depth and emotion. It stands out for its use of stiacciato (a very shallow relief technique), which creates a sense of spatial depth and intimacy, elevating the Virgin and Child’s tender interaction.

Donatello’s Judith and Holofernes statue (1455-1460), was originally commissioned for the Medici Palace but was later moved to the Piazza della Signoria as a symbol of civic virtue and the triumph of justice over tyranny. The bronze sculpture stands out for its dynamic movement and psychological intensity, capturing Judith mid-action as she beheads Holofernes, embodying Renaissance ideals of storytelling and human emotion.

chapter 6

Botticelli's women

Botticelli — A thinness marked by long prayer, asceticism, and self-denial. His figures are bodies where the material contour is softened, refined, as though thinned by spiritual aspiration—dry, angular forms.

Flesh like flowers blooming in shadow, pale and bloodless, with amber-tinted shadows that seem almost translucent. His figures hold dreamy, pensive postures, detached from earthly matters, draped in fabrics with broken folds reminiscent of Albrecht Dürer’s work

[…] Oh! The mysterious, haunting figures of women, with sharply defined, restless mouths hinting at an enigmatic melancholy in their smiles. Their eyes—a dark point within a hazy, bluish-green pupil—are no longer mere features in a drawing; they have become windows into the mind or the heart.

This Botticelli, a master of a subtly supernatural art, seems intent on capturing in his paintings the fantastical visions of German poetry. He is the creator of that fair-haired Venus with her striking blue eyes—a shade rarely seen in Italy—emerging in his Uffizi painting like an aurora borealis.

This painting depicts The Birth of Venus, where Venus is no longer the dark-haired figure of Antiquity but rather a Venus who seems to have been born on Walpurgis Night—a vision of the fair-haired woman of the North. Her golden-threaded hair cascades around her pale body, poised on one hip and illuminated by a kind of winter moonlight. She retains from paganism only the modest gesture of the Venus de Medici, one hand across her breast, the other covering her sex with a lock of hair.

Botticelli’s Venus stands, outlined in her nudity, in a cascade of nearly ideal lines down to her feet, which rest upon a large shell. On the ground, a servant draped in a white cloth sprinkled with small, heraldic-like flowers offers a cloak to the goddess. In the sky, two little gods of love hover—one scattering roses into the air, the other releasing a delicate trickle of ambrosia from his parted lips onto Venus’s shoulders. These small gods or angels, with an elegantly delicate suffering, resemble beautiful, frail English children, almost consumptive in appearance.

Edmond and Jules de Goncourt,
L’Italie d’hier, notes de voyage, 1855-1856, Librairie L. Conquet, 1894

Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, created around 1486, is a masterpiece of Renaissance art, depicting the mythological birth of Venus from the sea foam, elegantly standing on a shell. Its ethereal beauty and symbolic richness make it one of the Uffizi Gallery’s most iconic works; it is often considered the most photographed painting in the museum due to its fame and timeless appeal.

Florence, a Renaissance marvel

Places to feel the artistic flair of the city

Florence