Botticelli’s primavera: The work that slept for four centuries in the medici’s shadow
Imagine Florence in the year 1497. The streets echo with the cries of flagellants, the flames of the bonfire of the vanities rise toward the Tuscan sky. A monk with a fiery gaze, Savonarola, harangues the crowd from his pulpit in Santa Maria del Fiore. "Burn the vanities!" he shouts, and the Florent
By Artedusa
••10 min read
Botticelli’s Primavera: the work that slept for four centuries in the Medici’s shadow
Imagine Florence in the year 1497. The streets echo with the cries of flagellants, the flames of the bonfire of the vanities rise toward the Tuscan sky. A monk with a fiery gaze, Savonarola, harangues the crowd from his pulpit in Santa Maria del Fiore. "Burn the vanities!" he shouts, and the Florentines, seized by a purifying fever, throw illuminated books, silver mirrors, silk robes—and perhaps, in some patrician palace, paintings deemed too pagan, too sensual—into the fire. Among them, a mysterious canvas, painted fifteen years earlier for a young Medici: nine mythological figures dancing in a garden of orange trees, beneath a sky where Cupid draws his bow. No one yet calls it Primavera. No one knows it will disappear, as if swallowed by history.
For four hundred years, this masterpiece by Botticelli would slumber in the shadows. Not destroyed, not sold, not displayed—simply forgotten, as if Florence had decided to erase from its memory this too-audacious celebration of pagan beauty. Why? How could a work commissioned by one of Europe’s most powerful families vanish so completely into the limbo of art? And above all, what does this disappearance reveal about the secret tensions of Florentine Renaissance?
When the gods become cumbersome
The scene takes place in 1482, in Botticelli’s workshop on via Nuova (today via del Porcellana). The walls are covered with sketches: Venus crowned with myrtle, the Three Graces in transparent veils, Mercury chasing away clouds with his caduceus. The painter, then at the height of his fame, is working on commission for Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici, a young cousin of Lorenzo the Magnificent. The painting is destined to adorn the Villa di Castello, a Medici property acquired not long before. In this residence with terraced gardens, where the orange trees perfume the air as early as March, the canvas is to be placed in a private chamber—a cabinet of curiosities where rare books, ancient cameos, and musical instruments mingle.
But then history accelerates. In 1492, Lorenzo the Magnificent dies. His son Piero, weak and indecisive, fails to maintain Florence’s political balance. Two years later, Charles VIII of France enters Italy with his armies. The Medici are driven out, their palaces looted. And in their place, a Dominican with a gaunt face, Savonarola, installs himself, transforming Florence into a theocratic republic where joy is suspect and beauty dangerous.
In this climate of religious terror, what becomes of Primavera? No one knows for certain. The Medici archives, meticulously kept until then, suddenly fall silent. The painting no longer appears in any inventory. Was it hidden in some attic of the Villa di Castello? Rolled in a shroud and buried in the cellars of the Pitti Palace? Or simply relegated to a secondary room, where no one thought to look?
What is certain is that Botticelli’s work embodies everything Savonarola detests. With its half-naked figures, its allusions to pagan mythology, its atmosphere of sensual celebration, Primavera is the very antithesis of the puritanical Florence the monk seeks to impose. In his sermon of February 7, 1497, Savonarola rails against "these lascivious paintings that excite the passions." He does not name Botticelli, but the painter, who had worked for the Medici, seems seized by remorse. According to Vasari, he even considered throwing his own mythological paintings into the bonfire of the vanities. Fortunately, friends dissuaded him. But the damage was done: after 1498, Botticelli abandoned pagan themes to devote himself to religious works of almost morbid austerity.
The enigma of the patron
Who, then, was this Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco who commissioned Primavera? A nineteen-year-old young man, a distant cousin of Lorenzo the Magnificent, but wealthy enough to afford the services of Florence’s most sought-after painter. Historians long believed the painting was created to celebrate his marriage to Semiramide Appiani in 1482. A seductive hypothesis: the Three Graces, symbols of beauty, joy, and abundance, would then represent the virtues expected of a young bride. The luxuriant garden, the presence of Flora, goddess of flowers—all would evoke fertility and marital harmony.
But this theory has a major flaw: nothing in the archives proves that Primavera was destined for a nuptial chamber. On the other hand, an inventory from 1498 mentions "a painting on wood depicting nine mythological figures" in Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco’s chamber at the Villa di Castello. The painting was indeed hung in his private apartments—but not necessarily as a wedding gift.
Another, bolder hypothesis sees Primavera as a political allegory. Venus, at the center of the composition, would represent Florence. The Three Graces would be the virtues of the city: beauty, wisdom, prosperity. Mercury, with his caduceus, would embody Lorenzo the Magnificent, protector of the arts and guarantor of peace. As for Zephyr and Flora, they would symbolize external threats (the French invasions?) transformed into renewal by the will of the Medici.
This reading would explain why the painting was so quickly forgotten after the family’s fall. In a Florence where the Medici were reviled, a work celebrating their power suddenly became embarrassing. Better to hide it than risk incurring Savonarola’s wrath.
The painting that did not want to be seen
To understand why Primavera disappeared for four centuries, one must also consider its technique and style. Botticelli painted this canvas in tempera on poplar panel—a traditional Florentine technique, but already considered archaic by the late fifteenth century. In Venice, painters like Giovanni Bellini were already using oil paint, which allowed for far more subtle effects of light and transparency.
Primavera is a transitional work. Botticelli blends medieval elements (the gold background, the Gothic drapery) with Renaissance innovations (atmospheric perspective, idealized faces). But this synthesis, which seems so brilliant to us today, may have already been perceived as outdated by Botticelli’s contemporaries.
Above all, the painting’s iconographic complexity makes it difficult to decipher. Unlike The Birth of Venus, where the story is clear (Venus born from the sea foam), Primavera is an enigma. Who are these nine figures? What do their gestures mean? Why does Mercury turn his back on the other figures? Interpretations diverge: a Neoplatonic allegory for Warburg, a celebration of spring for others, a political metaphor for some.
This ambiguity may have worked against the painting. In an era when art was becoming increasingly narrative (with the great fresco cycles of the sixteenth century), such a mysterious work could seem disconcerting. Collectors of the Cinquecento preferred more legible subjects: biblical scenes, portraits, landscapes. Primavera, with its obscure references to ancient mythology, interested no one.
The rediscovery: when Botticelli becomes romantic
Primavera resurfaces in 1716, in the storerooms of the Villa di Castello. No one knows exactly where it had been hidden all this time. Perhaps in an attic, perhaps in a secondary room of the Pitti Palace. In any case, Grand Duke Cosimo III de’ Medici, while inventorying his collections, comes across this forgotten canvas. He has it restored and hangs it in his personal gallery.
But it is not until the nineteenth century that the painting regains its glory. In 1815, it is transferred to the Uffizi Gallery, where it is exhibited to the public for the first time. Romantic travelers, who roam Italy in search of Renaissance masterpieces, are fascinated by this strange and poetic work. Stendhal, in his Promenades in Rome, describes Primavera as "a dream of ideal beauty." The Goncourt brothers, in their Journal, evoke "these ethereal figures that seem to float in an unreal world."
It is also during this period that the painting receives its current name. In 1853, a Uffizi catalogue mentions it for the first time under the title Primavera. A name that fits it like a glove: the painting perfectly embodies the Romantic spirit, with its dreamlike atmosphere, its pastel colors, its almost immaterial figures.
The English Pre-Raphaelites, in particular, would make Botticelli an icon. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Edward Burne-Jones, and John Everett Millais saw in his work an artistic purity they opposed to the academism of their time. The poses of the Graces, the idealized faces, the flowing drapery of Primavera inspired paintings like The Lady of Shalott or The Love Song. Botticelli became the painter of eternal beauty, a reference for all those seeking to escape the materialism of the modern world.
What X-rays reveal
In 1982, a major restoration of Primavera is undertaken by the Opificio delle Pietre Dure in Florence. The restorers remove layers of oxidized varnish that had yellowed the painting for centuries. And beneath these layers, they discover an unsuspected Botticelli.
X-rays reveal that the painter modified several elements of the composition. Mercury, for example, was initially turned toward Venus, as if he wanted to speak to her. Botticelli ultimately decided to have him look toward the sky, adding a more allegorical dimension to the scene. The Three Graces were also retouched: their veils were originally less transparent, and their poses more static.
Even more surprising: infrared analyses show that Botticelli erased a figure. To the left of Venus, where an orange tree now stands, traces of a female figure that was painted over can be seen. Who was she? A fourth Grace? An allegory of Virtue? No one knows.
These pentimenti prove that Botticelli did not paint Primavera in one go. It is a thoughtful, worked-over piece, where every detail matters. And these modifications also suggest that the painting may have been completed by the painter’s workshop after his death in 1510.
Botticelli’s secret garden
One of the most fascinating aspects of Primavera is its garden. Botticelli depicted more than five hundred plant species with a botanical precision that has fascinated scientists. The orange trees, of course, recall the Medici coat of arms. But one also finds roses, violets, forget-me-nots, columbines—and even medicinal plants like belladonna, whose black berries were used as poison during the Renaissance.
This garden is not merely a backdrop. It is a metaphor for the Renaissance itself: a place where nature and culture intertwine, where ancient paganism is reborn in a new form. In medieval symbolism, flowers often represent the fleeting nature of life. But here, they seem eternal, as if frozen in an endless spring.
Botanists have also noted that some plants are depicted at different stages of their flowering. As if Botticelli had sought to capture the passage of time in a single image. An idea that recalls the work of the humanists of the time, who sought to reconcile the cyclical time of the Ancients with the linear time of Christianity.
Why Primavera still fascinates us
Today, Primavera is one of the most famous works of the Renaissance. But why does it continue to captivate us? Perhaps because it embodies an idea of beauty that transcends eras. In a world where everything moves faster and faster, where images are ephemeral, Primavera offers us a timeless vision of harmony.
Contemporary artists continue to draw inspiration from it. Andy Warhol made a silkscreen of it in 1984, isolating Venus’s face to turn it into a pop icon. Fashion designers like Dolce & Gabbana have borrowed the drapery of the Graces for their collections. And in Godard’s Contempt, Brigitte Bardot poses like Venus, transforming the painting into a metaphor for modern desire.
But beyond these reinterpretations, Primavera remains an enigma. A work that resists any definitive explanation. Is it a Neoplatonic allegory? A celebration of spring? A political metaphor? Perhaps all three at once. And it is this ambiguity that gives it its power.
Four centuries of oblivion have not succeeded in erasing its magic. Botticelli’s Primavera is like the flowers it depicts: it is reborn endlessly, offering each generation a new reason to marvel. And perhaps that is the most beautiful mystery of all: a work that, despite the vicissitudes of history, continues to speak to us, as if it had always known that one day, we would rediscover it.
Botticelli’s primavera: The work that slept for four centuries in the medici’s shadow | Art History
