Lives of the Most Eminent Painters Sculptors and Architects, Vol. 01 (of 10) Cimabue to Agnolo Gaddi — Context and Discussion

Vasari's Prefatorial Architecture

The volume's opening pages do more than introduce; they establish authority. The translator, Gaston du C. De Vere, includes a preface explaining the edition's origins, followed by Vasari's own dedications to Cosimo de' Medici from both the 1550 and 1568 editions. The inclusion of the imprimatur from Pope Pius V further underscores the work's official sanction. These elements frame the lives that follow as both a historical record and a cultural artifact shaped by patronage and religious approval. Readers encountering these preliminaries should note how Vasari positions himself as a mediator between the artists and their princely audience.

The Giotto Entry: A Case Study in Method

The excerpt from Giotto's life reveals Vasari's typical structure: a narrative of major works, interspersed with anecdotes and judgments. He describes Giotto's panel for the Frati Umiliati, noting that Michelangelo praised its truthfulness, and recounts how a later owner “carried off” the work. Vasari also includes a technical detail about the Campanile's foundation, dug “twenty braccia deep,” and its height of “one hundred and forty-four braccia.” These specifics ground the biography in observable fact, while the mention of a crucifix “with the name of Giotto in his own hand” shows Vasari's reliance on autograph evidence. The entry balances documented commissions with personal testimony, such as his own visit to Camaldoli.

Recurring Motifs: Lost Works and Veneration

Across the excerpts, Vasari repeatedly notes works that have been lost, damaged, or dispersed. He mentions that a panel by Giotto “afterwards fell to pieces” and that another was “carried off by someone unknown.” These losses are treated with regret, and Vasari often records who later sought out fragments—like Baccio Gondi, who “sought out the pieces of this panel with great diligence.” This motif of loss and recovery underscores the fragility of artistic heritage and positions Vasari's own text as a preservative act. The veneration of surviving pieces, such as the crucifix kept in a monastery cell “as being a very rare work,” reinforces the idea that these objects are worthy of pilgrimage and care.

The Translator's Role and the Edition's Materiality

Gaston du C. De Vere's 1912 translation, published by Macmillan and the Medici Society, is itself a historical document. The title page announces “five hundred illustrations” and a ten-volume set, indicating a lavish production. The translator's preface (present in the front matter) likely explains his approach to rendering Vasari's sixteenth-century Italian into early twentieth-century English. Readers should consider how De Vere's choices—such as retaining Italian names like “Giotto” rather than anglicizing them—affect the text's tone. The volume's illustrations, listed in detail, also shape the reading experience by providing visual references for the works described.

As you read through these lives, pay attention to how Vasari shifts between first-person observation and third-person reportage. His own voice emerges in phrases like “I saw in a cell” or “I hold it as of the truest,” reminding us that this is a personal account, not an impersonal encyclopedia. The prefatory materials and the translator's apparatus are not mere ornaments; they condition how the biographies are presented and received. Let the specific measurements, named patrons, and surviving objects anchor your sense of what Vasari considered worth recording.

Reading Vasari’s careful, sometimes gossipy accounts, I remembered sitting with my grandfather’s old art books, the plates faded, and feeling how a life’s work could be told like a friend’s story. That same quiet intimacy returned with History of Ancient Art — Context and Discussion, where the past felt less like a monument and more like a conversation I’d walked into late.