Criminal records paint the clearest picture of Caravaggio’s game.
Rome was an oppressive police state in 1592 when the Lombard swashbuckled in, emotionally unripe as one of his figs. The ambitious gutterpunk, having survived a bleak post-plague upbringing, arrived ready to paint fruit, play pallacorda, and raise hell.
Caravaggio compiled a lengthy rap sheet on his rapid ascent through Roman society, per police reports in the Rome state archives. He abandoned Pandolfo Pucci’s hospitality over excessive salad. He pulled a knife on a waiter for undercooked artichokes. Even after he began mau-mauing the flak-catchers, Caravaggio continued to slash ex-soldiers, and—even more contemptibly—don all-black rags to match his unkempt hair. Che orrore!