Something from my travels

Rome (2025): What’s your favourite buddy cop movie?

The Patron Problem

There’s an ancient Florentine family you’re likely heard of, and undoubtedly, for the ‘right’ reasons: the Medici.

But why do we remember them?

The Medici family built their fortune through banking, political manipulation, and the occasional assassination. They effectively controlled despite the city supposedly republic.

They were corrupt. They were ruthless, lawless, and morally compromised by any reasonable standard. But they’re now remembered primarily for funding the Renaissance.

Michelangelo, da Vinci, Botticelli, Brunelleschi, and Donatello are all artists you know largely because of the Medici. And when I sat down to think about this, while researching Machiavelli (who you also know of largely because of the Medici) it became obvious that the reason was something more than a light lick of paint to whitewash their sins.

It would be one thing for the Medici to commission a few paintings as a PR exercise, though that was certainly a motivation. It would be another for them to fund all the signs of heaven in hopes of saving their souls.

But the Medici did far more than may strictly have been necessary to simply launder their reputations for an eventual age of softer sensibilities where some of their villainy would be looked at more scornfully.

They funded an entire cultural movement over generations. They built libraries, academies, architectural masterpieces. They made the Renaissance possible.

Their reputation survives not despite their crimes but because what they built was substantial enough to stand alongside – or overshadow – those crimes in historical memory.

Explosive potential

Alfred Nobel, of Nobel Prize fame, might otherwise be better known for the invention of dynamite.

He made his fortune selling explosives that killed people efficiently. But late in life, supposedly after reading a premature obituary calling him a “merchant of death,” he established the Nobel Prizes. Now his name is synonymous with significant contributions to peace, literature, and science.

Andrew Carnegie built his steel empire through brutal labour practices. He was, once, known for Homestead Strike. For violent union-breaking and dangerous working conditions.

Then he spent the second half of his life funding libraries across America and the world. Most people know Carnegie Libraries. Fewer remember the dead workers.

John D. Rockefeller was a ruthless monopolist who crushed competitors and exploited workers to build Standard Oil. Then funded universities, medical research, and philanthropic foundations that still operate today. His name on institutions carries prestige, not infamy.

Thomas Jefferson enslaved hundreds of people throughout his life whilst writing that all men are created equal. He’s remembered primarily for the Declaration of Independence and his contributions to American democracy, not his profound moral contradictions.

But this isn’t strictly a hagiograph to dangerous men and their dastardly deeds who later turned repentant.

I guess it’s more about our capacity to continually shape our destinies.

There’s time and time enough

Nelson Mandela could have died in prison, largely labelled as a terrorist. Instead, he lived long enough to lead reconciliation in South Africa and become a symbol of moral leadership.

Sustained, substantial contributions can reshape what you’re known for. These efforts can’t erase the past. They won’t undo or magic away the things you’ve done. But your most meaningful contributions are shaped by their aggregates.

The point isn’t simply in the moral absolution of wrongdoing; the Medicis likely didn’t feel especially guilty about their political murders. They largely controlled the papacy and produced four Popes of their own, who could supposedly wave them into heaven.

Likewise Jefferson didn’t, at the time, think slavery was his great failing requiring redemption.

But these people just built things. They contributed substantial efforts over sustained periods. Contributions that had independent value beyond their creators’ character.

Your failings don’t have to define you. Not because you can erase them, but because you can build something alongside them substantial enough to compete for how you’re remembered.

Your output matters because your output is real.

This only works at scale and over time, though. Token gestures. A single charitable donation can’t counterbalance a lifetime of exploitation. It’s never too late to reshape your story. Mandela was 71 when he left prison. Carnegie started serious philanthropy in his fifties. Nobel established the prizes late in life after reading his own obituary.

You don’t need to wait for yours.

History largely remembers what you built as who you were. Your contributions, on whatever scale, are your legacy.

Your failures remain, but they don’t have to be the whole story.