Michelangelo’s Pietà was famously housed inside that old basilica. I could feel the marble masterpiece calling to me, but I couldn’t face it, not that day, so instead I focused on the ceiling, counting each crack. As I approached the exit, a gold tile dropped off a crumbling mosaic. I squinted up and identified the picture quickly. That was Navicella, Giotto’s legendary depiction of Christ walking on water. Oh, how I regret not sitting down right then and sketching that masterpiece. What I wouldn’t give to be able to show you a drawing or describe the original in detail. Instead, I only have a hazy memory of a large-sailed ship, halos, and angels trumpeting in the sky. Even back then, I knew that Giotto’s famous mosaics were coming down with the rest of the church. However, even when change is ordained, it’s difficult to fathom how fast it will come and how unrecoverable it will all be, isn’t it?

It didn’t take me long to find Michelangelo’s studio; every-one—priests, beggars, children—could point me in the direction of “the marble,” which I assumed was some local way of referring to a sculptor. But then I entered that piazza and saw that it was filled with about forty giant blocks of actual marble, all standing on end, every piece taller than I, like a forest of great, white, branchless trees. I knew what this was: Michelangelo’s marble for Pope Julius’s tomb.

It didn’t take an alchemist to divine the location of the sculptor’s studio. One door handle was powdered thick with marble dust. I knocked like a wryneck woodpecker. “Michelangelo?” I swear the door fell open; I didn’t even have to push. Inside, a long, narrow staircase—low ceiling and lower light—led up to another door at the top of the stairs. As I ascended, I rehearsed: “A sketchbook is like a man’s heart, maestro. You’ve already taken my ceiling, you aren’t also going to steal my heart, are you?” You know how Michelangelo is when he’s at home: like a wolf, making a lot of noise to let you know he’s ready to defend his den. But that day, I didn’t hear a thing. “Michelangelo?” The door at the top of the stairs was open, too; not only unlocked, but left ajar. Believe me when I say that I assumed he was inside. I never, not once, thought I was entering his studio when he wasn’t home. You make sure and tell him that.