Pontormo’s Martyrdom of the Ten Thousand served to mirror the explosive events linked with the siege of Florence. A Medici, the painting implies, can be every bit as cruel and un-Christian as the antique emperor who tortured the soldiers under Achatius’s command for converting to the true faith.

Pontormo’s painting adopts a clear stance against the Medici rulers. The legend of Achatius was an allegory of the situation in which the defenders of the Florentine Republic found themselves. In 1528, the town citizens had symbolically elected Christ their king. Like the legendary army of Achatius, the beleaguered Florentines saw themselves as courageous contenders for their Christian freedom, which was under threat from a tyrannical ruler.

An ambitious and alert leader: the gaze of the young Duke Alessandro de’ Medici rests on the city of Florence. Its silhouette – complete with the monumental dome of the cathedral – rises up on the distant horizon in full splendour.

The ruin in the foreground alludes to the siege that preceded his accession to office. The flourishing city in the distance represents the era that followed. This we know from a detailed description by Vasari, the portrait’s painter. The written account served as a special accompaniment to the painting. Vasari wrote it to aid the reader in deciphering the symbols, but also cleverly wove in a eulogy to his patron Alessandro.

The portrait of Alessandro is the first ever to show a Medici in armour. The demonstration of military strength and power unmistakably takes centre stage. The young Medici had a reputation as a vicious tyrant. And indeed, he proceeded against his opponents with merciless rigour. His reign came to an abrupt end. In 1537 he was treacherously murdered by a confidant and distant relative.

The young ruler was compelled to defend his vulnerable position against numerous adversaries. With strategic skill and foresighted planning, he not only preserved Florence’s independence in the years that followed, but also successfully laid the cornerstone for a dynasty that would rule without interruption for the next two hundred years.

Cosimo has his right arm propped loosely on his hip. He stands at a slight angle, so that he must turn his head to look at the viewer. In his right hand he holds a book as a symbol of his education. The handle of a weapon – an allusion to military strength – is just barely discernible at his hip. His dark doublet with its high collar corresponded to the fashions of the Spanish court. It originally served as a military garment worn under the armour to provide padding.

In the 1540s and ’50s, Bronzino was very busy performing his duties as the official portrait painter to the Medici court. He thus shaped the “image” we still hold of that clan of rulers today. Despite his abundance of orders, he did not overlook even the tiniest detail. The fine brushstrokes are hardly discernible.

Bronzino portrayed the Medici and life at the court as a display of aloof splendour and glory. The fashion-conscious Eleonora had probably worn the gold-embroidered reddish velvet gown to her first encounter with Cosimo I de’ Medici in 1539, when she was seventeen. Shortly thereafter, she was wedded to him in Florence.

The foundation of academies in sixteenth-century Florence rendered the city a centre for the theoretical study of art.

The focus of the discourse was the paragone, the “contest of the arts”. This heated debate revolved primarily around the rank order of painting and sculpture. Yet it was also concerned with the social status of artists and the question as to which of the two media represented the greater challenge. The constant pressure to compete also fuelled the discussion, and the artists’ patrons fomented the rivalry further by initiating public competitions.

The sculptor Pygmalion has devoted his entire life to his work. One day, however, he falls in love with an ivory sculpture he has made of a beautiful woman.

A model of the vestibule of the Biblioteca Laurenziana was built especially for the exhibition. The library is considered a classic example of Mannerist architecture in Florence. A wall has been omitted in the model, allowing an instructive view of the imposing edifice.

It was the Medici Pope Clement VII who granted Michelangelo the prestigious commission for the work. Paradoxically, the monumental columns do not stand in front of but virtually in the wall. By playfully applying the formal language of an exterior façade to an interior, Michelangelo achieved a surprising effect. The sculptor-architect conceived of the staircase like a sculpture – once again, entirely in the spirit of the paragone.