Dictionary of Art and Artists



History of

Architecture and Sculpture


















SCULPTURE - Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20

ARCHITECTURE - Part 1, Part 2



2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8



As the founders of Early Renaissance art and their immediate heirs disappeared one by one in the middle years of the century, a younger generation began to assert itself. At the same time, the seeds planted by Florentine masters in other regions of Italy were beginning to flower. (We recall Donatello's stay in Padua.) When some of these regions, notably the northeast, produced distinctive versions of the new style, Tuscany ceased to have the privileged position it had previously enjoyed.



In architecture, the death of Brunelleschi in
1446 brought to the fore Leon Battista Alberti (1404-1472), whose career as a practicing architect, like Brunelleschi's own, had been long delayed. Until he was 40, Alberti seems to have been interested in the fine arts only as an antiquarian and theorist. He studied the monuments of ancient Rome, composed the earliest Renaissance treatises on sculpture and painting, and began a third treatise, far more exhaustive than the others, on architecture. After about 1430, he was close to the leading artists of his day: On Painting is dedicated to Brunelleschi and refers to "our dear friend" Donatello. Alberti began to practice art as a dilettante, eventually becoming a professional architect of outstanding ability. Highly educated in classical literature and philosophy, he exemplifies both the humanist and the person of the world.

The design for the Palazzo Rucellai (fig. 605) may be Alberti's critique of the slightly earlier Medici Palace by Michelozzo (see fig. 589). Again we meet the heavy cornice and the three-story scheme, but the articulation of the facade is more strict and more self-consciously classical. It consists of three superimposed orders of pilasters, separated by wide architraves, in imitation of the Colosseum (see fig. 248). Yet Alberti's pilasters are so flat that they remain part of the wall, and the entire facade seems to be one surface on which the artist projects a linear diagram of the Colosseum exterior.

605. ALBERTI. Palazzo Rucellai, Florence. 1446-51

If we are to grasp the logic of this curiously abstract and theoretical design, we must understand that Alberti has met here an issue that became fundamental to Renaissance architecture: how to apply a classical system of articulation to the exterior of a nonclassical structure. Whether Brunelleschi ever coped with this problem is difficult to say. Only his exterior design for the Pazzi Chapel survives (fig. 583), but not unaltered, and it is too special a case to permit general conclusions. Be that as it may, Alberti's solution acknowledges the primacy of the wall, reducing the classical system to a network of incised lines.

For his first church exterior, Alberti tried a radically different alternative. Sigismondo Malatesta, lord of the town of Rimini, engaged him toward 1450 to turn the Gothic church of S. Francesco into a "temple of fame" and a burial site for himself, his wife, and the humanists of his court. Alberti encased the older building in a Renaissance shell. The sides consist of austere, deeply recessed arched niches containing stone sarcophagi (figs. 606 and 607). The facade has three similar niches:the large one framing the central portal and the other two (now filled in) intended to receive the sarcophagi of Sigismondo and his wife.

606. ALBERTI. S. Francesco, Rimini. Facade designed, 1450.
Plan of S. Francesco

The facade niches are flanked by columns, a scheme clearly derived from the triumphal arches of ancient Rome (see fig. 285). Unlike the pilasters of the Palazzo Rucellai, these columns are not part of the wall. Although partly embedded in it, they project so strongly that we see them as separate entities. We notice, too, that they are set on separate blocks, rather than on the platform supporting the walls, and that they would have nothing to support if the entablature had not been made to project above each capital. These projections make the vertical divisions of the facade more conspicuous than the horizontal ones, and we expect each column to support some important element of the upper story. Yet Alberti planned only one such feature: an arched niche (which remains incomplete) above the portal, with a window and framed by pilasters. Thus the second story fails to fulfill the promise of the first. Perhaps Alberti would have modified this aspect of his design in the end, but the whole enterprise was never finished, and the great dome, projected as its crowning feature, was never built.

Alberti's goal was to superimpose a classical temple front on the traditional basilican church facade. If the classical system of the Palazzo Rucellai is in danger of being devoured by the wall, that of S. Francesco retains too much of its ancient Roman character to fit the basilican shape. (For the medieval approach to this task, see the facade of Pisa Cathedral in fig. 418.) Only toward the end of his career did he succeed in accomplishing this seemingly impossible feat. In the majestic facade of S. Andrea at Mantua (fig. 608), his last work, designed in 1470, he superimposed the triumphal-arch motifnow with a huge center nicheupon a classical temple front, and projected this combination onto the wall. He again uses flat pilasters that acknowledge the primacy of the wall surface, but these pilasters, unlike those of the Palazzo Rucellai, are clearly differentiated from their surroundings. They are of two sizes. The smaller ones sustain the arch over the huge center niche. The larger ones are linked with the unbroken architrave and the strongly outlined pediment and form what is known as a "colossal" order for all three stories of the facade wall, balancing exactly the horizontal and vertical impulses within the design. So intent was Alberti on stressing the inner cohesion of the facade that he inscribed the entire design within a square, even though it is appreciably lower in height than the nave of the church. (The effect of the west wall protruding above the pediment is more disturbing in photographs than at street level, where it is nearly invisible.) While the facade is physically distinct from the main body of the structure, it offers a "preview" of the interior, where the same colossal order, the same proportions, and the same triumphalarch motif reappear on the nave walls (fig. 609).

Comparing the plan (fig. 610) with that of Brunelleschi's Sto. Spirito (fig. 587), we are struck by its revolutionary compactness. Had the church been completed as planned, the difference would be even stronger, for Alberti's design had no transept, dome, or choir, only a nave terminating in an apse. The aisles are replaced by chapels alternately large and small, and there is no clerestory. The colossal pilasters and the arches of the large chapels support a barrel vault of impressive span (the nave is as wide as the facade). Here Alberti has drawn upon his memories of the massive vaulted halls in ancient Roman baths and basilicas (compare fig. 254), yet he interprets his classical models as freely as in his facade design. They no longer embody an absolute authority that must be quoted literally, but serve as a valuable store of motifs to be utilized at will. With this sovereign attitude toward his sources, he was able to create a structure that truly deserves to be called a "Christian temple."

608. ALBERTI. S. Andrea, Mantua. Designed 1470.
ALBERTI. Interior of S. Andrea, Mantua.
610. Plan of S. Andrea, Mantua (transept, dome, and choir are later additions)

Leon Battista Alberti
. Sant'Andrea, Mantua. Fasade. 1472-92
Sant'Andrea, Mantua. Interior. 1472-92


Leon Battista Alberti. Self-Portrait.
c. 1435
Bronze, height 20 cm
National Gallery of Art, Washington


Leon Battista Alberti

Leon Battista Alberti, (born Feb. 14, 1404, Genoa—died April 25, 1472, Rome), Italian humanist, architect, and principal initiator of Renaissance art theory. In his personality, works, and breadth of learning, he is considered the prototype of the Renaissance “universal man.”

Childhood and education
The society and class into which Alberti was born endowed him with the intellectual and moral tendencies he was to articulate and develop over a lifetime. He belonged to one of the wealthy merchant-banker families of Florence. At the time of his birth, the Alberti were in exile, expelled from Florence by the oligarchical government then dominated by the Albizzi family. Alberti’s father, Lorenzo, was managing the family’s concerns in Genoa, where Battista was born. Shortly thereafter he moved to Venice, where he raised Battista (Leo or Leon was a name adopted in later life) and his elder brother, Carlo. Both sons were illegitimate, the natural offspring of Lorenzo and a Bolognese widow, but they were to be Lorenzo’s only children and his heirs. An affectionate and responsible father, Lorenzo provided his sons with a Florentine stepmother (whom he married in 1408), and he attended carefully to their education.

It was from his father that Battista received his mathematical training. The useful intellectual tools of the businessman inspired in him a lifelong love for the regular, for rational order, and a lasting delight in the practical application of mathematical principles. “Nothing pleases me so much,” Alberti was to have a figure in one of his dialogues remark, “as mathematical investigations and demonstrations, especially when I can turn them to some useful practice as Battista here did, who drew from mathematics the principles of painting [perspective] and also his amazing propositions on the moving of weights.” As in Leonardo da Vinci’s case, mathematics led Alberti into several seemingly disparate fields of learning and practice. At one stroke, it resolved a diversity of problems and awakened an appreciation of the rational structure and processes of the physical world.

His early formal education was humanistic. At the age of 10 or 11, Alberti was sent to boarding school in Padua. There he was given the classical Latin training that was to be denied to Leonardo, illegitimate son of a poor notary in a rustic village of Tuscany. The “new learning” was largely literary, and Alberti emerged from the school an accomplished Latinist and literary stylist. Relishing his skill as a classicist, he wrote a Latin comedy at the age of 20 that was acclaimed as the “discovered” work of a Roman playwright—and was still published as a Roman work in 1588 by the famous Venetian press of Aldus Manutius. But it was the content rather than the form of the classical authors that absorbed Alberti as a youth and throughout his life. As for most humanists, the literature of ancient Rome opened up for him the vision of an urbane, secular, and rational world that seemed remarkably similar to the emerging life of the Italian cities and met its cultural needs. He brought his own emotional and intellectual tendencies to “the ancients,” but from them he drew the conceptual substance of his thought.

Alberti completed his formal education at the University of Bologna in an apparently joyless study of law. His father’s death and the unexpected seizure of his legacy by certain members of the family brought him grief and impoverishment during his seven-year stay at Bologna, but he persisted in his studies. After receiving his doctorate in canon law in 1428, he chose to accept a “literary” position as a secretary rather than pursue a legal career. By 1432 he was a secretary in the Papal Chancery in Rome (which supported several humanists), and he had a commission from a highly placed ecclesiastical patron to rewrite the traditional lives of the saints and martyrs in elegant “classical” Latin. From this point on, the church was to provide him with his livelihood. He took holy orders, thus receiving in addition to his stipend as a papal secretary an ecclesiastical benefice, the priory of Gangalandi in the diocese of Florence, and some years later Nicholas V conferred upon him as well the rectory of Borgo San Lorenzo in Mugello. Although he led an exemplary, and apparently a celibate, life, there is almost nothing in his subsequent career to remind one of the fact that Alberti was a churchman. His interests and activities were wholly secular and began to issue in an impressive series of humanistic and technical writings.

Contribution to philosophy, science, and the arts
The treatise “Della famiglia” (“On the Family”), which he began in Rome in 1432, is the first of several dialogues on moral philosophy upon which his reputation as an ethical thinker and literary stylist largely rests. He wrote these dialogues in the vernacular, expressly for a broad urban public that would not be skilled in Latin: for the non litteratissimi cittadini, as he called them. Based upon classical models, chiefly Cicero and Seneca, these works brought to the day-to-day concerns of a bourgeois society the reasonable counsel of the ancients—on the fickleness of fortune, on meeting adversity and prosperity, on husbandry, on friendship and family, on education and obligation to the common good. They are didactic and derivative, yet fresh with the tone and life-style of the Quattrocento (the 1400s). In Alberti’s dialogues the ethical ideals of the ancient world are made to foster a distinctively modern outlook: a morality founded upon the idea of work. Virtue has become a matter of action, not of right thinking. It arises not out of serene detachment but out of striving, labouring, producing.

This ethic of achievement, which corresponds to the social reality of his youth, found ready acceptance in the urban society of central and northern Italy in which Alberti moved after 1434. Travelling with the papal court of Eugenius IV to Florence (the ban of exile against his family was lifted with the restoration of Medici influence), Bologna, and Ferrara, Alberti made several congenial and fruitful contacts. The writings, both the Latin and vernacular ones, that he dedicated to his new associates are imbued with his characteristic notions of work, practice, and productive activity; and he took upon himself in turn the technical and practical problems that were absorbing his friends and patrons. In Florence his close associations with the sculptor Donatello and the architect Brunelleschi led to one of his major achievements: the systematization of the painter’s perspective. The book On Painting, which he wrote in 1435, set forth for the first time the rules for drawing a picture of a three-dimensional scene upon the two-dimensional plane of a panel or wall. It had an immediate and profound effect upon Italian painting and relief work, giving rise to the correct, ample, geometrically ordered space of the perspectival Renaissance style. Later perspectival theorists, such as the painter Piero della Francesca and Leonardo, elaborated upon Alberti’s work, but his principles remain as basic to the projective science of perspective as Euclid’s do to plane geometry.

His friendship with the Florentine cosmographer Paolo Toscanelli was of comparable practical and scientific importance. It was Toscanelli who provided Columbus with the map that guided him on his first voyage. Alberti seems to have collaborated with him in astronomy rather than geography, but the two sciences were closely bound at the time (and bound to perspective) by the conceptions and methods of geometric mapping rediscovered in the writings of the ancient astronomer and geographer Ptolemy. Alberti’s distinctive contribution to this current of thought took the form of a small treatise on geography, the first work of its kind since antiquity. It sets forth the rules for surveying and mapping a land area, in this case the city of Rome, and it was probably as influential as his earlier treatise on painting. Although it is difficult to trace the historical connections, the methods of surveying and mapping and the instruments described by Alberti are precisely those that were responsible for the new scientific accuracy of the depictions of towns and land areas that date from the late 15th and early 16th centuries.

At the Este court in Ferrara, where Alberti was first made a welcome guest in 1438, the Marchese Leonello encouraged (and commissioned) him to direct his talents toward another field of endeavour: architecture. Alberti’s earliest effort at reviving classical forms of building still stands in Ferrara, a miniature triumphal arch that supports an equestrian statue of Leonello’s father. Leonello inspired a great humanistic undertaking as well as a mode of artistic practice on Alberti’s part by urging him to restore the classic text of Vitruvius, architect and architectural theorist of the age of the Roman emperor Augustus. With customary thoroughness, Alberti embarked upon a study of the architectural and engineering practices of antiquity that he continued when he returned to Rome in 1443 with the papal court. By the time Nicholas V became pope in 1447, Alberti was knowledgeable enough to become the Pope’s architectural adviser. The collaboration between Alberti and Nicholas V gave rise to the first grandiose building projects of Renaissance Rome, initiating among other works the reconstruction of St. Peter’s and the Vatican Palace. As the Este prince was now dead, it was to Nicholas V that Alberti dedicated in 1452 the monumental theoretical result of his long study of Vitruvius. This was his De re aedificatoria (Ten Books on Architecture), not a restored text of Vitruvius but a wholly new work, that won him his reputation as the “Florentine Vitruvius.” It became a bible of Renaissance architecture, for it incorporated and made advances upon the engineering knowledge of antiquity, and it grounded the stylistic principles of classical art in a fully developed aesthetic theory of proportionality and harmony.

During the final 20 years of his life, Alberti carried out his architectural ideas in several outstanding buildings. The facades of Sta. Maria Novella and the Palazzo Rucellai, both executed in Florence for the merchant Giovanni Rucellai, are noted for their proportionality, their perfect sense of measure. They are worthy successors to the art of Brunelleschi, initiator of the Florentine Quattrocento style of architecture. Other buildings look forward to the 16th century, particularly to Donato Bramante, the architect of St. Peter’s. The classical severity of Alberti’s Tempio Malatestiano, commissioned by Sigismondo Malatesta, the ruler of Rimini, and the new sense of volume and amplitude of the majestic Church of San Andrea, which he designed for Ludovico Gonzaga, the humanist Marquess of Mantua, announce the fullness of the High Renaissance style. Alberti was not only the foremost theorist of Renaissance architecture: he had become one of its great practitioners as well.

Architecture preoccupied him during the 1450s and 1460s, and he traveled a great deal to the various cities and courts of Renaissance Italy, but Rome and Florence remained his intellectual homes, and he continued to cultivate the interests they had always stimulated. In Rome, where republican life was precluded by the papal government, he was absorbed by technical and scientific matters. His response to certain problems entertained by members of the Papal Chancery led to two highly original works in this category. One is a grammar book, the first Italian grammar, by which he sought to demonstrate that the Tuscan vernacular was as “regular” a language as Latin and hence worthy of literary use. The other is a pioneer work in cryptography: it contains the first known frequency table and the first polyalphabetic system of coding by means of what seems to be Alberti’s invention, the cipher wheel. Although he had been dismissed from the Papal Chancery in 1464 because of the retrenchment ordered by Pope Paul II, Alberti undertook this study, of obvious importance to the papacy, at the request of a friend who stayed on as a papal secretary.

In all his projects, Alberti employed his intellectual gifts in some “useful” work—useful to the artistic, cultivated, and courtly circles in which he moved, including painters and builders, mapmakers and astronomers, humanists, princes, and popes. In all of his work, his versatility remained bound to the social outlook that characterized the “civic Humanism” of Florence.

It is fitting that his final and finest dialogue should be set in Florence and be written in the clear Tuscan prose he had helped to regularize and refine. Although the republicanism of Florence was now eclipsed, and Alberti now moved as a familiar in the circle of the princely Lorenzo de’ Medici, De iciarchia (“On the Man of Excellence and Ruler of His Family”) represents in full flower the public-spirited Humanism of the earlier bourgeois age to which he belonged. Alberti is its chief protagonist, and no more appropriate figure is conceivable. For this dialogue, more than any other, celebrates the union of theory and practice that Florentine Humanism had attained and the ethic of achievement and public service that he himself had come to exemplify. De iciarchia was completed just a few years before his death. He died “content and tranquil,” according to the 16th-century biography by Giorgio Vasari.

Alberti was in the vanguard of the cultural life of early Renaissance Italy. He has been admired for his many-sided nature, as has Leonardo da Vinci, who followed him by half a century and resembles him in this respect. Yet in Alberti’s case, unity as much as versatility typifies the man and his accomplishments. Leonardo’s genius carried him further than Alberti: he saw more and saw more deeply. But Leonardo’s vision has a “modern,” fragmentary character, whereas Alberti attained a completeness in thought and life that fulfilled the Renaissance ideals of measure and harmony. His intellectual and artistic pursuits were all of a piece, and he struck a unique balance between theory and practice, realizing this dominant aspiration of his age at the very moment social and political events had begun to cause it to fade.

Joan Kelly-Gadol

Encyclopædia Britannica

Santa Maria Novella, a church in Florence, Italy.
Santa Maria Novella, Interior

Santa Maria Novella



Because it occupies the site of an older basilican church (note the Gothic campanile next to the facade), with consequent limitations on the designer's freedom, S. Andrea does not conform to the ideal shape of sacred buildings as defined in Alberti's Treatise on Architecture. There he explains that the plan of such structures should be either circular, or of a shape derived from the circle (square, hexagon, octagon, and so forth), because the circle is the perfect, as well as the most natural, figure and therefore a direct image of divine reason.

This argument rests, of course, on Alberti's faith in the God-given validity of mathematically determined proportions. How could he reconcile it with the historical evidence? After all, the standard form of both ancient temples and Christian churches was longitudinal. But, he reasoned, the basilican church plan became traditional only because the early Christians worshiped in private Roman basilicas. Since pagan basilicas were associated with the dispensing of justice (which originates from God), he admitted that their shape has some relationship to sacred architecture, but since they cannot rival the sublime beauty of the temple, their purpose is human rather than divine.

In speaking of temples, Alberti arbitrarily disregarded the standard form and relied instead on the Pantheon (see figs. 250-53), the round temple at Tivoli (see figs. 242 and 243), and the domed mausoleums, which he mistook for temples. Moreover, he asked, had not the early Christians themselves acknowledged the sacred character of these structures by converting them to their own use? Here he could point to such monuments as Sta. Costanza (see figs. 306-8), the Pantheon itself (which had been used as a church ever since the early Middle Ages), and the Baptistery in Florence (then thought to be a former temple of Mars).

Alberti's ideal church, then, demands a design so harmonious that it would be a revelation of divinity and would arouse pious contemplation in the worshiper. It should stand alone, elevated above the surrounding everyday life, and light should enter through openings placed high, for only the sky should be seen through them. That such an isolated, central-plan structure was ill-adapted to the requirements of Catholic ritual made no difference to Alberti. A church, he believed, must be a visible embodiment of "divine proportion," which the central plan alone could attain.

When Alberti formulated these ideas in his treatise, about 1450, he could have cited only Brunelleschi's revolutionary, but unfinished, Sta. Maria degli Angeli as a modern example of a central-plan church (fig. 588). Toward the end of the century, after his treatise became widely known, the central-plan church gained general acceptance. Between 1500 and 1525 it became a vogue reigning supreme in High Renaissance architecture.

ALBERTI. Fasade of the Tempietto. 1467. Cappella Ruccelai, San Pancrazio, Florence
ALBERTI. View of the Tempietto. 1467. Cappella Ruccelai, San Pancrazio, Florence


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