Genius is Eternal Patience

UPSTAIRS, on my file cabinet, I have a magnet with a small image of Michelangelo. The majority of the magnet, though, features one of his quotes: “Genius is eternal patience.”

For much of my teaching career, I stuck that magnet on my classroom’s front chalkboard, hoping to spark discussion with my students. I had thought at least one of them would say, “Wait. That’s not genius. Genius is how smart you are.” Sadly, no one ever challenged Michelangelo’s claim. If they had, I would have enthusiastically defended the role patience plays in acts of genius. But not a single student spoke up, and I still have something to say about my magnet—which means I must now write a blog post.

Over the years, I've known plenty of highly intelligent people—including some who've proudly proclaimed themselves to be geniuses. I’m uncertain what criteria they used to reach this conclusion, but I think it is fair to say that many people conflate “genius” with “gifted” these days. That genius can be understood as a measurement of computational speed and accuracy.

But as I edge closer to sixty years of age, I've concluded that raw processing power is an inadequate description of genius. The results of school grades or IQ tests are better understood as measurements of potential. The what might you do. Genius, on the other hand, is best measured by accomplishment. The what did you do. We recognize genius in those tangible byproducts of dedicated activity, those grand achievements that make us stop and go, “Wow, how is that possible?”

Extraordinary ability can play a part, no doubt. But ability that was applied through years and years of hard work and yielded something monumental.

So cheers to you, Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni! Your talent and unflagging effort produced bountiful works of art that we continue to marvel at it today. As such, you are the epitome of genius. But why did you tell us patience was the key?

Imagine, if you will, how long it took Michelangelo to create his Pietà. The marble figure of Mary holding her dead son is close to seven feet tall and weighs nearly three and a half tons. The massive sculpture took Michelangelo two years to complete. Imagine how many hammer hits, chisel cuts, and rasp rubbings took place over that time. Imagine the persistence needed for him to release his sculpture from the stone. And imagine the drudgery along the way. Surely, all that labor tried his patience, but fortunately for us, he carried on until the Pietà was finished.

Michelangelo’s patience, his ability to appreciate small daily gains and endure setbacks over an extended period of time, rewarded us with an undeniable example of genius. And the Pietà is just one of his many extraordinary pieces. All told, Michelangelo finished almost two hundred works of art. There are also countless other sculptures, paintings, and sketches he left unfinished. How many hammer hits? How many sketches? How many erasures? How many failures? How much boredom and frustration marked his daily grind in order to produce so many works of genius?

How much patience?

As an author and illustrator, I can relate, albeit on a much more modest scale. My full panel paintings can take hundreds, if not thousands, of hours. Even my whimsical doodles can take days before I am satisfied with them. And while a haiku might be a project of an hour or two—I often envisage those seventeen syllables as part of a greater, illustrated collection. Thus, even the smallest projects call for more time.

And a novel? I couldn't tell you how long I take to write a novel. Only that it requires a tremendous amount of time and energy. My stories are far from off-the-cuff efforts. Even when I am not actively writing, I am often thinking about my work. And when I am actively writing, much of what I type never makes it into the completed novel. Things like world-building and character sketches, sub plots and plot twists, research and maps. Plans on top of plans, and pages on top of pages that the world will never see.

Nor am I finished once I get that first draft done. In some ways, that's just the beginning. That's when I feel like Michelangelo staring at his block of marble. After all those hours of drafting, I finally have something tangible to work with. Not a tangled mess of ephemeral thoughts. Not random bits and pieces of plot that I hope coalesce into a whole. I do all that drafting, just to have to start working all over again.

So, what comes next? I file the draft away for several months and let it percolate in the recesses of brain. I give myself a break. However, even when I'm not consciously working on a novel, my unconscious is having a go at it.

Months later, (sometimes years), when I pull that draft out and put on my revising hat, the hardest work for me begins—the meticulous detail work. The cutting, the expanding, the polishing. The slow, daily work driven by the thought, "It's still not good enough." And even when I declare I'm finished, a small part of me always disagrees.

For me, crafting a novel takes time, a ton of time, and for much of the process, the finish line is nowhere in sight. Pick a metaphor: a sailboat crossing the ocean or a sloth crossing a road. They both work for me. They both make me uneasy and they both tax my patience. I worry they won’t reach their destinations and I wish they could go faster.

Yep, that’s writing a novel. Or painting an elaborate picture. Or making a short film. They all demand patience.

Seems obvious, I'm sure. And yet the idea that “Rome wasn’t built in a day” often feels like a hollow platitude after eight weeks of labor that have only produced three chapters—or worse, have sparked a sudden realization I need to rethink my entire approach. Go ahead, tell me to be patient in such a moment.

This morning, for instance, the nagging negativity of "Are we there yet?" tried to pull me down. Much like my children used to whine from the backseat during car rides, I questioned myself about my current project’s progress. And it's not the first time such a thing has happened. More often than not, my early passion for a story or a painting devolves into a quagmire of monotony. Eventually, I wonder if all the effort is worth it.

Michelangelo likely had similar moments. After all, he left many of his projects unfinished. And in reflection, he apparently decided that patience was the key to his success. That's just conjecture, of course. But as I considered his words today, I thought, I bet other creatives feel this way too. Feel the pressure to have finished something yesterday that still requires tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, a thousand tomorrows, before it is truly done.

We live in a world of instant gratification, which further erodes our patience. For example, events like Nanowrimo suggest talented writers can crank out a novel in thirty days. Likewise, self-publishing is awash with a quantity-over-quality mindset since the number of books in your backlist is what supposedly drives sales. Not to mention the new advancements in artificial intelligence that can craft quality work in a fraction of the time a human can.

So much pressure to go faster, right? To be impatient … and just deliver our work to an audience as soon as possible. Patience be damned.

But I also see many authors wondering why their advertising campaigns only work early on. Why their readers go no further than the first chapter. Could it be that readers only want quantity when the work is high quality? Is rushing to get the work done really leading to greater financial gains? To success? To genius?

So remember, "Genius is eternal patience." Develop a mindset that says, Focus on what you can create today. Take the time to hone your craft. Do the same tomorrow and the next day. Push and pull and grind and chop a little each day, and that impossible mountain will be molded into a true accomplishment. Learn to enjoy each day's minor victories. Accept each day’s setbacks as part of the process. Take as much pleasure from the journey as the destination, and you will craft great things.

Maybe even works of genius.

P.S. The Pietà is the only sculpture Michelangelo signed. Cut into the sash crossing Mary’s torso are the words, “MICHAELA[N]GELUS BONAROTUS FLORENTIN[US] FACIEBA[T].” Translated, the statement reads, “Michelangelo Buonarroti, Florentine, made this.”

Why Michelangelo signed the Pietà and nothing else remains up for debate. But Giorgio Vasari, a sixteenth-century art historian, claimed that Michelangelo had learned a rival artist, Christoforo Solari, was receiving credit for the Pietà. To set matters right, Michelangelo chiseled in his name across his sculpture to guarantee everyone knew who created the masterpiece. However, he regretted the impetuous act and swore to never again deface his artwork with his signature.

Other historians, though, feel the prominent display of Michelangelo’s name had nothing to do with Solari. Rather, Michelangelo intentionally signed his work for all to see, hoping to gain recognition as a great artist.

Either way, good for Michelangelo. After all that patient work, his genius deserved to be recognized.

TL;DR

I asked ChatGPT to write this essay. Far fewer words to say the same thing.

Michelangelo's statement "Genius is eternal patience" means that the key to success, particularly in creating great works of art, is the ability to persistently work through challenges and difficulties with patience and determination. He believed that true genius involves not only talent, but also the persistence and discipline to see a project through to completion, even when it may take a long time and require a lot of effort. By having patience, one can overcome obstacles and eventually achieve greatness.

You can try ChatGPT for yourself here:

https://openai.com/blog/chatgpt/

Sources:

“Carving Marble with Traditional Tools.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWUuGDovHEI

“Michelangelo: A Guide to Michelangelo’s Life and Paintings.” https://www.masterclass.com/articles/michelangelo-life-and-work.

“Michelangelo’s Pieta: The Story of His only Signature.” https://artistryfound.com/michelangelos-pieta-signature/.

“Restored Pieta Shown; Condition Near Perfect.” https://www.nytimes.com/1973/01/05/archives/restored-pieta-shown-condition-near-perfect-marks-on-marys-cheek.html.

 “The Pieta by Michelangelo.” https://www.statue.com/site/michelangelo-pieta.html.