The Genius in the Design: Bernini, Borromini, and the Rivalry That Transformed Rome by Jake Morrissey, NOOK Book (eBook) | Barnes & Noble
The Genius in the Design

The Genius in the Design

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by Jake Morrissey

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The rivalry between the brilliant seventeenth-century Italian architects Gianlorenzo Bernini and Francesco Borromini is the stuff of legend. Enormously talented and ambitious artists, they met as contemporaries in the building yards of St. Peter's in Rome, became the greatest architects of their era by designing some of the most beautiful buildings in the world,


The rivalry between the brilliant seventeenth-century Italian architects Gianlorenzo Bernini and Francesco Borromini is the stuff of legend. Enormously talented and ambitious artists, they met as contemporaries in the building yards of St. Peter's in Rome, became the greatest architects of their era by designing some of the most beautiful buildings in the world, and ended their lives as bitter enemies. Engrossing and impeccably researched, full of dramatic tension and breathtaking insight, The Genius in the Design is the remarkable tale of how two extraordinary visionaries schemed and maneuvered to get the better of each other and, in the process, created the spectacular Roman cityscape of today.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Sometimes plodding but often entertaining, this dual biography of two Italian Baroque artists popularizes a tale familiar to art historians. Raised in a wealthy family with connections to politicians and cultural players, Bernini (1598-1680) was 12 when he was commissioned to do his first major piece-and he soon learned how to win the hearts and pocketbooks of rich patrons on his own. Borromini (1599-1667) lacked such connections, but climbed the guild's ladder, eventually becoming chief assistant to Carlo Maderno, the chief architect of St. Peter's. When Maderno died in 1629, Borromini was shocked that Bernini was named chief. Morrissey (A Weekend at Blenheim) finely renders the intense rivalry between these two artists, giving a reasonable if fact-heavy look at 17th-century Roman life in the process. Borromini elected to work for Bernini, but tensions soon led to a break; Bernini went on to complete the Scala Regia and the Cathedra Petri; Borromini found fewer and fewer commissions and eventually killed himself. The book doesn't do justice to the varying levels of ambition, engagement and achievement Morrissey finds in these figures, but it does an adequate job sketching their contours. (Mar.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A well-documented account follows the thread of ambition, pride, and betrayal that drove an unparalleled explosion of arts and architecture in Europe's 17th-century cultural capitol. Give Morrissey, with 20 years' architectural writing experience, credit for not just gleaning cogent commentary from previous volumes on the output of his two subjects but for enhancing it. His handling of these personalities and their divergent careers brings fresh passion (and a sense of their frustration) to the remarkable tale of two gifted talents drawn to Rome at the height of ecclesiastical extravagance (if not corruption) that sought expression in marble, bronze, and grand designs. Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini (b. Naples, 1598) was the son of a Florentine sculptor; Francesco Castelli (b. Swiss-governed Lugano, 1599), who would change his name to Borromini, was a stonecutter's son who honed his talents in Milan. When both arrived in Rome before 1620, Bernini, his work noticed by the influential Borghese family, was presented to the Pope, while Borromini went to work for a relative, Carlo Maderno, an architect charged with the daunting task of rebuilding the ancient church of St. Peter's. What began as a partnership between the two on the St. Peter's project was altered forever by the death of Maderno, when Bernini was tapped as chief architect and designer. He was less technically competent as an architect than Borromini, Morrissey notes, but had papal favor, and thus began a time where Borromini's designs and conceptual input were subtly incorporated, sans credit, into Bernini's resume. The resulting antagonism was to last for their entire professional lives, but the real difference as Bernini's star roseand Borromini's did not in a golden age of clerical commissions, Morrissey suggests, is that "if Bernini had perfect artistic pitch, Borromini was socially tone-deaf." In the end are Bernini's anointing as the period's greatest artist, Borromini's ghastly suicide. Gripping soap opera tells a tale of the Eternal City's artistic transcendence. Author tour. Agent: Suzanne Gluck/William Morris Agency

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The Genius in the Design
Bernini, Borromini, and the Rivalry That Transformed Rome


The Beginning and the End

Suicide is never an easy death, its details can be simple, its execution effortless, even graceful. But the pain that incites it in the first place, the anguish that breeds the longing for self-destruction, never fades. It stands out on the soul like a welt on tender skin, aching and raw. Even after the deed is done, the mark remains -- a last, terrible legacy of a life lived in torment.

The sad, strange suicide of Francesco Borromini was such a death, as complex and as peculiar as the man himself. At once abrupt and protracted, impulsive and deliberate, his death stunned his small circle of intimates by its curious mix of recklessness and calculation, just as the churches and palazzi he designed over his three decades as an architect startled Rome by the power of his demanding, idiosyncratic genius.

His passing marked the end of an extraordinary career, on ethat would have made him the undisputed architect of Rome and the founder of the era known as the Baroque had it not been his fortune -- or misfortune -- to have lived during the lifetime of an artist whose acknowledged talent, worldwide reputation, andenormouss success bedeviled Borromini to the very end: Gianlorenzo Bernini.

This is their story.

The two men could not have been more different. Unlike the subtle, gracious, diplomatic Bernini, who moved easily through the courts of popes and princes, Borromini found it difficult to sustain relationships with both his patrons and many of his peers. He lived quietly, never marrying or fathering children. Some speculate that he was gay. He never amassed a large personal fortune. He didn't have a wide circle of friends. When he died, his passing wasn't mourned by many -- certainly not by Rome's elite, who found him difficult and argumentative, inflexible and quick to take offense. Even in a city used to dealing with temperamental artists, Borromini was an anomaly.

Yet when he invited death, at the last moment he rebuffed it. When it came, he found he was not ready. He would die as he had lived and worked: on his own terms and for his own convoluted and very personal reasons.

The few souls who did mourn his death -- his servants, his workers, a handful of friends -- were bewildered and grief-stricken by the self-destructive compulsions of the cavaliere. But for Borromini, there was a lucid, even poetic aspect to his suicide, just as there always was in his architecture -- though not everyone saw it or understood it.

The place where Borromini was burried, the church of Giovanni dei Fiorentini, is a traditional Roman neighborhood church. It is stately but not imposing, grave but not commanding, neither large nor magnificent in a city bursting with churches that are both. Commissioned in the sixteenth century by Pope Leo X, a member of the Medici family, for the Florentines, who for generations lived in this neighborhood near the Tiber, San Giovanni stand near the north end of the Via Giulia, just where the river makes its lugubrious turn south. Begun in 1509 from a design by Jacopo Sansovino (before he left Rome for Venice) and built of traditional flat Roman brick (now gray with age and grime), San Giovanni is dedicated to Saint John the Baptist, the patron saint of Florence. It sits in a part of Rome that by the nineteenth century had, in Émile Zola's words, "fallen into the silence, into the emptiness of abandonment, invaded by a kind of softness and clerical discretion."

Visiting the church, it's clear why it has been called "so large a church along so terrifying a river." It is wedged into a narrow sliver of land whose constricted dimensions must have demanded a good deal of resourcefulness from the builders: When it was built, its altar end jutted out over the Tiber's riverbed; the stone piers supporting it had to be sunk deep into the muddy shoreline. The result is a church that even now clings tenaciously to its place, like an old, nearly forgotten watchdog that knows he is no longer needed but nonetheless refuses to cede his place at the door.

San Giovanni's two noteworthy architectural details are its elongated, crownlike dome, designed much later by the preeminent architect in Rome at the time, Carlo Maderno, and early on nicknamed the confetto succhiato -- half-sucked sweet -- by residents of the neighborhood, and its curious lantern, a tall, cylindrical shaft of slender window that alternate with equally narrow stone buttresses coiled at their base like tightly wound ribbon. This unusual concoction was designed by a Lombard stonemason who worked as Maderno's assistant, a young man named Castelli, who soon began calling himself Francesco Borromini.

Borromini knew this church well. It was one of the earliest buildings he worked on with Maderno, and the church's grandiose Falconieri chapel -- its convex high altar, a fantasy in marmi mischi (precious materials of brick red travertine and gilding) that presses out onto the congregation -- celebrates John the Baptist. It was one of Borromini's last great commissions before he died.

For most of his life, Borromini lived in a house next to San Giovanni's high, unwelcoming walls; he was familiar with the fashionable Via Giulia, the boulevard created by Pope Julius II early in the sixteenth century, and the shadowy tangle of streets of small houses stuccoed in the traditional Mediterranean colors of ocher, umber, and dun that twist out from it like cracks in glass. He knew the sounds of shouting river workers and bickering shopkeepers, the lingering odors of fetid water and rotting garbage, just as he knew the traditions of rituals of San Giovanni, which included the annual Easter blessing of the lambs. His lonely figure -- always dressed in black, trunk makers, locksmiths, tailors, grocers, and booksellers who had shops throughout the area.

It was in this sestiere, in the house where he lived, soberly and alone, that Borromini died early on the morning of August 3, 1667. The Genius in the Design
Bernini, Borromini, and the Rivalry That Transformed Rome
. Copyright © by Jake Morrissey. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

Meet the Author

Jake Morrissey has studied and written about architecture for twenty years. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, San Francisco Chronicle, and dozens of other publications and books. He is the author of the novel A Weekend at Blenheim and lives near New York City.

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