But you don’t honestly believe that he painted that ceiling while lying on his back, do you? How would he crawl in and out— his body only an arm-length from the ceiling—without smearing the paint all the time? And how would he have moved? Wriggled about on his shoulder blades and hindquarters? Perhaps once or twice, when he was up against a particularly steep curve of a spandrel, he had no choice but to lie on his back for few moments, but let’s bury the myth right now: Michelangelo painted—like the rest of us—standing up. Don’t believe me? Look at his own drawings. He sketched himself painting that ceiling: head tilted back, arm stretching overhead, standing on his feet. So, no, Michelangelo was not some subjugated hero forced to lie on his back by an intransigent pope.

I’m not angry with him for the story. I only wish I’d thought of it.

And tell me, per favore, that you don’t believe that he hates to paint. Yes, he repeats the lie often as the Nicene Creed, but that doesn’t make it true. During the four years when he was painting the Sistine—not carving any marble at all—he still insisted on signing his letters “Michelangelo, sculptor in Rome,” as though he hates to paint so much that he’s incapable of calling himself a painter. But have you ever walked into the Sistine on a quiet Tuesday morning and looked up at those colors? Santa Madonna, those colors. Were you moved to tears, too? Now, tell me that he could’ve painted such a thing while hating it. Is that what you tell your children? Find something you hate, force yourself to do it, and Ecco! A masterpiece!

I know what people say about me. They say that Raphael Santi of Urbino is the ideal courtier: polite, generous, humble. They say I was born with such happy countenance that nothing ruffles me. They say my good looks reflect the beauty on the inside. They say my talent comes easily; they say everything comes easily. But don’t strip me of my humanity because I’m good at playing a part. You do it, too, I’ll wager, put on a smile sometimes even when you’re feeling foul, so don’t deny me those same basic human talents. In real life, no one could be as generous and loyal and charming as I pretend to be. No one.

You imagine me—if you imagine me at all—the way he describes me, don’t you? Standing in the background, easy to forget, an easy rival to vanquish. When I look back on those years, I picture the events the way he tells them, too: him in the center, me in the corner . . .