Voices from the Past

l

ber 1

RY .

ORY

they leave: the tattlers, the oafs, the bores, the faithful. I packed them off. Yelled at them. Stormed. I had work to do, work tha

he doors, b

ttled acros

es, sheet after sheet went into t

ing me from beneath a basket. Again I sense that long afternoon, that long night... I had dried bread, cheese, and port. I remember the church bells. At dawn I sli

t: I was lying on my cot... I was dead... I was carried to a morgue and dumped there, among cadavers...blood and moul

ous member of the Sforza household, a great nose-picker, who had done nothing at all through his long life. While I worked, he sa

the outset. The employment of immense tree trunks satisfied. As I painted, I mingled knotted cords with the foliage, intermingled branches, established a rhythm. I kept my

end slept

n? I have forgotte

ry to think as I thought in those days; I would like to sense my aspirations; I would sit on a bench under t

l

ned that a scene of idling nude bathers was not the best way to depict war. He

hundred square feet of pain. All of my draughts-man-ship went into this Anghiari conflict: I pain

tch horses, sketch riders; I sketched in the Sforza stables; the stablemen posed for me; my appre

el into flesh, the grunting of frightened horse against frightened horse, men stumbling,

han the madonnas. Not Christ on the cross, but man on the cross. Pigment and light were to come together in harmony. The day that I began to

storm took over in earnest. I laid aside my brushes and pigments and dis-

BESTIAL

frain from political madness. Again

flag: I painted life-size horses, life-size men, life-size hatred: the

eems like a long walk to the chateau, sometimes it is raining. In the evening

aldry, and then decorum as they file into the studio. Soufflés, artichokes in cream and butter sauce, crê

as many kinds of nuts. Francis claims that he co

er almost everythi

ld eat this first...it's better for you that way...an

ap. What a splendid old ragamuffin she is! Too bad she has lost most of her teeth; her features are leaden, her hair is twisted under a net in lumps, her arms dang

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came and went. As I look across the lawn of the manor house I can see the little chapel of St. Hubert and the rooftops of the chateau; it often seems to me

in as I worke

look at

nce long ago, when he was about ten. It shows a bicycle. There it

riding that thing...

't any brake

ive to the pedals and adjusted the h

iovanni. "You could have gotten the bicycle out

ld of it...the cur

een made of steel

him my drawing...no, you make one for him. I can see the courti

l

w does it climb, dive, spiral, hover? I asked these questions yesterday as I watched a flock of ducks along the Loire; I asked the

umping? Just when? Why, at that given moment? Does a ner

sm of the heart we may be ab

he heart of a man? Between the heart of a cat and a man? Between the hea

notes and ana-lyze the results. There is so much to be

.. love only makes me rememb

a da braccio. Made notations. As a boy, I thought seriously of becoming a musician. Perhaps a troubadour. At Andrea's

en is the reme

t belie

s in the sides...I built three portable organs... I designed glissando recorders...I

compose some rebu

o

ear now is no

of ocean and mountain, the enigmas of the body, of sound: why was one sound more resonant than another; w

apprenti

pprenti

forgetting to eat, going for a swim in the Arno, rushing back t

r dissect-ing animals and birds. With every bird I asked: how does it propel itself? How can man go aloft? Those birds, those caged birds...

hes of the hawk in flight, the

wk, flew around our workshop. Again and a

couraging. What a fine master. What a fine artist. Now with gold leaf, now

had to find money for him and his family. Little Lila, little

ed by small things...little things crowd the important. If life is a mural then every detail is important. As I write I am learning who I was. And the omission

ever forgotten that meeting at the Duke's festa: I was playing a lute; she was introduced to me;

her's name; that me

rs. I see her in the sunlight, I see her as I sketched her, I see her as she lay dead. There is

nary. That does not matter. It matters that there were long brush strokes in the mind. There is

hear her laughing and I hear our daughter laughing, as they play

was besieged. Both were killed by the bombardment. But before they died, Mother visited us and for a while I had two C

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nds of bread, dried figs, camembert, her three-layered past

down with me. As

company...eve

ai and others had gone for

ou hom

r. She sat down and clasped her ha

should visit

no

couldn't l

month o

ong way to Vinc

urning to Flo

I can

inci would like to hear about us, how we

she got up, and shuffled aw

l

e, following the river ro

from your mother yesterday

d. Mama says that conditions are very bad in Milan

o escape...I hope n

ave a good as-sortment. I've been grinding them. We'll h

een. I suppose you bough

oad was familiar to them: the afternoon was sunny; shafts of light rebounded from the Loire; a pair of squ

y from Milan...she warns us...

Cloux is like Vaprio; beautiful coun-

d ride to

the rive

go on th

than Chambord. Let's spend a few days there. We can find new paintings, new ma

rses at the stabl

e has a son? He's my age. He wants to study

l

I talked far

ssess: last night, on the part of others, he apol

hose Gascon fools...nothing else to do...mad

rse. As he saw it, he felt he had rescued me. Had he? I turned over that thought. Recompense? Was Cloux recompense? H

ioned the monument. Divulging his si

ht in. I tried my best to avoid any embarrassing approach. Presently, he was excusing the battle of man against man. A

me give it a manorial feeling...walk about with me tomorrow...let's write down some

ords haunted us as

a child, a bend in a river, a hill...the bed drifted...the room changed... I

red as a fox; he is yellow-headed, tall. He has a wonderful laugh, a tooth-spread grin. His brown eyes are spoked with yellow. A girl-chaser. My Salai will

h them about their tools, and try to improve them. Shovels. Spades. Rakes. Forks. I have sug-gested a more efficient roasting spit-I have mad

laborers, their

ey, ox, man...the

: they are as much at log-gerheads as pope and d

yet they slept on mats, ate meat now and then, worked from dawn to sundown, shivered through the winters, s

wine press. Fishing rights have been stolen. For a few gentlemen there may be no wood for winte

Florence, when I fell in love with my own Beatrice, when I was eleven or twelve years old. My Beatrice was beautiful, he

ome: his wooden door had a bronze knocker, a simple

Alighier

a housekeep

hundred and fift

e dashed of

l

dmit it: I am a pa

rs I have had ni

ndered me; each

s, sculptors, apprentices, courtiers, women, princes, jousting, masque

ions of the moon. Courtiers crowded around. A duke was there. A prin-cess. There was a

...you see, if you keep the moon under careful observation over a period of time, you'l

in Florence, in 1508. I thought it rathe

t see to it that I remember. Tomorrow I must write down exactly what I o

lo, sarai t

him: measure length, diameter, muscle curvatures. Dissect each foot, and record diffe

orrow the lan

ueal on me and I will see to it that

als), and expose me. He could. He knows how to write. Now

u are afraid of learning! For centuries you have been afraid. Afraid of

you will batter a man to shreds on the battle-field, and show your gory sword. You will dump boiling oil

ne day, a day to chuck everything and walk out of town), five or six boys and girls came in and before I could figure out what they were up to, they rushed out with two of my models. Two or three ran t

d my Red Hawk: they had it launched on a cord, and k

ir laughter, th

heir parents had died in the plague at Santa Maria; I guess it was at Santa Maria. Those were hungry weeks for all

l

y 1504 Floren

dds. We must decide where Michelangelo's David was to be placed. We must situate it where it had shade part of the day, whe

angelo was not around. He would

g the heat (and each other); then, we reached our on

ked about his David, sitting on a bench facing his work. We agreed that it equaled any classica

ed in a sling. Sometimes there were thirty of us at the job. A downpour drenched us. As we moved forward over slippery cobbles I thought the figu

anged a party. All the Florentine

m his Tuscan farm, where he is still exiled

vid to make the hunts more agreeable. After lunch, I visit an inn and throw

at court, as an envoy from Florence. Elegantly attired I enjoy the presence of great men of the past. They receive me cordially.

he thoughts

e Niccolò and inv

e won't bore you. There's a superb library. The King has welcomed

ghiari commission to him. And that night Cesare strang

ibr

can eras

a kind of s

r wall. Its mythological scene is pleasantly antique. The shelves hold parchments, vellums, velvet-bound book

ith alabaster legs where I spre

ocked Jesuit, ashen-headed, ashen-faced; he admit

th pastel water-color and gold leaf. The carpet is a mouse-chewe

, Greek, Dutch, and Hun-garian-collected by King

King Francis and I sipped apéri-tifs, the af

your army crossed the Al

s," he co

Col d'Ar

you know t

s collecting fossils. But for an army to get through,

ined to surpris

ar the fountain men were planting young columnar cypress. Other gardeners were spading paths be-cause the King was re-landscaping. So

weather," F

took me almost a m

e in no hurr

.mud...

eali

think of

d

d he use to i

the Moun

reat tactic

s...but fog was our worst problem...morning fog, thick as an elephant's hide...maybe that fog

y look. As for flowers, insects, animals, birds, they turn away from them if they serve no practical purpose. And

wizardry...alchemy

door is ba

estro...oh,

n a rogue's leg... I sew up flesh...but the sam

ue! He steals dead men's legs..

the mind's secrets..

, engraved with floral patterns; his father's armor inlaid with gold and silver (from Milan); a plumed hel

ebuses...standards...saddlery. The King admired a Toledo sword and a pair of antique Hung

Francis spoke excitedly a

t destroyed them...I fought on my great Conde, the chestnut you admired...he was wounded, badly wounded...I had to leave him...I had my visor smashed...my shoulder was

imes I felt alone...sometimes I

that 15,00

to die...peasants began pilfering, killing...maiming...our wounded filled the

oorly defend

top our entry. News of defeat had spread thr

tition: city against city: pope against duke: the stupidity seem

iful women. I sat opposite Francis and enjoyed his scarlet-gold suit, sewn with diamond chips. I believe he was wearing five or six rings; one of them is rath

a lovely woman in her forties, dressed i

..the food is fresher here than in

l of us are leaving Am-boise...we're going to Cha

les, mounted archers, stablemen, the Chamberlain, musicians, clergy, wizards, cooks, doctors...the archers wore black and red, the musicians wore yellow and green; the King wore a hat with

t was quiet

acocks and some pheasants: Francesco came: we began to

eryone): he has his father's agreeable manners. He is horseman and archer. Flutist. A painter for fifteen years, he handles chiaroscuro like a master: he is best

reflects a Florentine face-not

little too obsequious, he sometimes dabs perfume on his paint-messed hands. He has big hands, big feet, big skull-topped by curly brown hair. With him decorum comes first. He is always aware of his sedate heritage. He sings beautifully, and is an accomplished luteni

o, the Arno roared throughout that night, as we mourned his death. Many of us. Corpses lodged against supports of the Puente Vecchio. Plagues. Madness. Work. We

his workshop and yard. People. His Dolphin Boy

ned about mixing oils; he taught me silverpoint an

d. We sat about, we drank wine; then, next week, we

ys, when, like John in the Desert, we detected our own worth-in the ma

ry...weeks of work, painting delicat

enius is d

d: art and