The original St. Peter’s had stood on top of its namesake’s tomb for—what? Over a thousand years?—but now, it was all coming down to make way for a new church. The public was outraged by the destruction of the venerated old building, and, even though the program was Pope Julius’s idea, people called Bramante Il Ruinate for heading up the project. If you’d ever met Bramante, you would know that he was always desperate to appease—it’s part of what made him so awkward at times—so he devised an unconventional plan: he didn’t tear down the old church all at once. No. He began construction on the new St. Peter’s at one end and only tore down the old building as necessary. I’d tracked down Bramante that afternoon at the seam of construction: on one side, hundreds of workers rolled in fresh blocks of stone into a clean, white space while, on the other side, the old church decayed like an abandoned nest after chicks take flight. Intellectually, I knew change happened, but to stand at the place where new devoured old—block by block—was terrifying. (That was—what? Twelve years ago now? Today, the new church has eaten away even more of the old—we keep hacking away at it, bit by bit—and soon, there’ll be nothing left. At some point, will people even remember old St. Peter’s? Will there come a time when new St. Peter’s is simply “St. Peter’s” and that once-glorious third-century basilica is wiped clean, not only from the landscape, but from memory, too?) Bramante growled, “I’m not going to allow some stonecutter to take resources from St. Peter’s. The pope doesn’t need a tomb. He needs a church. And any marble—or ducat—not spent on this project is a waste.”

“But maestro, that ceiling is destined to be mine. You’re papal architect. You control the pope’s artistic program. One word from you and . . .”

Bramante sidestepped a donkey hauling in a block of travertine. “I maintain control of that artistic program because I pick my battles wisely, and you, my young Raphael”—he wagged his finger—“are not a castle for which I’m willing to die.” With that, Bramante turned and marched farther into his construction site, leaving me behind. Sometimes you have to admit when a situation—or a painting or a love or a life—is beyond repair, walk away, and find a different way forward, don’t you? I pocketed my father’s paintbrush and exited through the rotting old nave.