How an art restorer sneaked Giorgia Meloni into a church fresco

The basilica of San Lorenzo is the Roman church most closely associated with politics. The prime minister’s official residence is just a few hundred metres away. Giulio Andreotti, a devout prime minister, worshipped here, and the lawyer who defended him against charges of abetting the Mafia is said to as well. Near the altar a chapel commemorates the last king of Italy, Umberto II. Frescoed on the wall above, two winged female figures hover beside a bust of the monarch. One holds a map of Italy.

On January 31st La Repubblica, a daily, noted something odd: after a recent restoration, the figure holding the map bore a striking resemblance to Giorgia Meloni, the current prime minister. Opposition parties were appalled. The Green-Left Alliance said it reflected “a personality cult of a kind not seen since Fascist times”. Rome’s Vicar-General, Cardinal Baldassare Reina, denounced the restoration: “Images of sacred art and Christian tradition cannot be misused or exploited.” The culture minister launched an inquiry.

The prime minister played it down. “I definitely do not look like an angel,” she wrote on Instagram. There is nothing to suggest she was in any way involved. The restorer, Bruno Valentinetti, at first insisted that Ms Meloni was not the model: “I restored the faces to how they were 25 years ago.”

Mr Valentinetti is no mere dauber. His credentials include restorations in the Sistine Chapel and the home of the late Silvio Berlusconi’s wife. By February 4th he had beaten an ignominious retreat: he erased the face, saying “the Vatican told me to,” and admitted it had been based on Ms Meloni. The culture ministry said the basilica would need to apply to the civil and ecclesiastical authorities to redo the restoration—“with a sketch attached”, it prudently added.

Politicians have been sneaking into religious art for centuries. The Byzantine emperor Justinian had himself depicted in a mosaic in the basilica of San Vitale in Ravenna. But even in medieval times, as Claudio Strinati, an art historian, put it, “no one appears to have dared become an angel.”■