Voices from the Past

l

ry 6,

chateau bridge, I sat where I could study the supports, estimating their bulk and weight. No not

elf, pigeons were flying about. Wings again. What are the correct angles for fly

mbed the Tour Hurtault and was a boy again, as I watched the rain, as I had watched it at my

on and on. Yesterday, I sketched the Tour des Minimes-emphasizing its massive base line, the skillful masonry; as I sketched a playful squirrel climbed a birch, fli

der

and

one or with

s, people. A door opens and there is someone. A door shuts, and you are alone with a dozen doors. Cold windows

ire in my fireplace. She has the table set for Francesco and me. Glaring at me she scolds me for my damp clothes. "Your cough...you know! You neve

grey mane and a black splotch across his face. Since one of his paws was crippled, he limped badly. As he walked or stretched out in the summer sun, a friendly ibis often pecked

no one listened. When I designed a cage for a lion on

to cure the female. Running amok through town, she cre-ated quite a scare until she was trapped in a

udio to the menagerie and I often h

ou

a

, brutalities, our pettin

uscades, military gear trapped in mud, mules and horses floundering, deso-lated

ions. It would have been wiser had I confined myself to my atelier. Among my drawings, sketches, cartoons, models, among my plants and fossils, I should have gone on and on

as in my youth, I am putting

s a rainy day we will try the next day. I think he is overly concerned with

I am lucky to have F

pt more than three or four hours a night. There were too many plans, sketches, paintin

r in that old white wash basin. Tie sketch pad onto belt. The town is sleeping; the birds are waking

the David...rows of crooked cypress...marbl

a thousand yea

l

ished; the castle has gone; there is no stalemate; instead, we are walking across checkered fields, Caterina and I. Soon

al staircase, by designing a parachute or estimating the cost of draining a marsh i

w the rules-those unwritten rules-a

ules in life...checkmate..

burdened with people (b

s chea

e folly w

art drif

t matter, who can create a common pi

o be able to trace these impulses: the thought, as it takes place in the brain, the thought

sketch). Must there be limitations to the mind's probings? Exper

I was free as a boy. I was above the earth. Galloping along a road, my cape fluttering, I was outside myself. Trotting undern

roked his head, thanki

h 2,

t dinner that a Spanish explorer, Juan Ponce de León, had discovered a land, and

orida? Is it

e as if he had divulged a state secret. The arrogant officer's face still bothers me, l

t fountain, that cures all diseases," the officer said, push

vel

in the afternoons, maybe when the warm sun is in our western windows, maybe at the pergola, if

tory. Perhaps Francesco is mine. When I visited Polo's prison cell in Genoa someone showed me the painstaking calendar he

on camelback; I imagined visiting the Khan's great cities; I dreamed of sketching palac

f his Italy, his Vaprio. I am afraid he considers that I have stolen years from his homeland by keeping him h

and Tony ha

ony has serious family problems and is needed. Salai plans to build a house for himself, on my vineyard property. I will miss them... I will miss them! They have been an important part of my life! Francesco is pleased there

he related another of his wild boar stories as he glanced over some of my

passed away: Time...today'

l

ll I r

e mare, both of us a little to the front of the Medici pennants, flags, and jousting

ou like him! Tell the stable boys

le, n

died him, studied him as I had studied Cermonino. Cheppo had a way of shaking his mane, flopping out his upper lip-nuzzling. He was a competent begg

n him more competent training than the Duke. I was so pleased to have him

asses that of the right. There were reasons for my mirror writing: for abbreviations and symbols, the prying of idle

e, writing: the ma

throughout the day. The fire in the fireplac

d. Again I heard the intruder. The rain beat on the door; the door shook. I heard the lock give. Picking up a

should g

evotion to one's art. Cer-tainly my devotion to Fr

re those who care, it is as if one's atelier continues on and on. And, if the apprentices th

o in Milan. Perhaps there will come a time when he places a canvas and sits on his stoo

say to

he old man lo

hind him...shall I paint some ro

ile, this foreignness, this remoteness, were it not for Francesco. When he is away, at the chateau, in th

seed, a leaf, a rock...he tells me what happened, details. He's good at verbal paintings

't it Greek, the nose, the forehead? And this gypsy woman, what about her?

a bench bes

Chambord...now is the time to visit Chambord, when the court's away...we ought to see how y

make me feel like I

ncesco, how he arrived at my studio in the pouring rain. Drenched. He had ridden from Vaprio. I don't forget that rain, that stormy Florentine afternoon, that eager, wet face of his, his mud-sp

s at my door, b

ci...I want to

son, but this young man, this gracious young man, is friend and ardent disciple. Painter! When I have been his guest at Vaprio, I am honored. Fr

ss upset

ck! Frances

doctors; I sent for Francesco's father. His uncle came instead. Other doctors came. And in his delirium, Francesco painted a large canvas, with a flock

rio, I vaca-tioned there. The family purchased my portrait of A Boy. That rolling land, the swift Adda, those canals, the villa gardens with th

hed and

the one with the apple trees. Good food, good wine, summer, that wa

l

. Small rooms sometimes discipline the mind. I have explained that my studio, in the m

rpentine...brushes?" He is impat

nia (along with malaria): iridescent vases, bronze and alabaster lamps, household figurines, a few coins. I have one with a porpoise leaping. The Greeks were master minters-designers. F

make a brigh

e...I have ha

a few: Marco d'Oggiono, Vitelli, Tomaso Masini, Amalia, Father Pacioli, Fer

ze figurine; here is a pastel of Ambrogia, puttering over his careful palette; here is red-headed Filippo Lippi finishing the backgrou

out my Anghiari...when she posed I had singers for her... I loaned her little sums;

h me, visit the chateau and its gardens, prowl the mirror ha

and look, a second and a third time and a fourth. I must fill a note

We were proud of his accomplishments, proud of our own accomplishments; at the same time we were eager, pushy

rza horse-IL COLOSSO? If I could have had the metal and cast the statue it would have been that success above others. And the years that went into The Last Supper: Three years. There were also the years of dissectio

ancesco burst

nd them," h

ha

rywhere...your let

tters, F

Lorenzo...from Christopher Columbus...Machiavelli...Fath

y be in there. Look care-fully. I want to destroy

them in

I'm sure you'

king with a young man, a man her age: she had on a summer gown, with one

l

1,

r to cut an elegant velvet smock for me. In carnelian. Two pocket

long with a Rafael, a de Predis, a Bosch, a Dürer. Francis has his eyes on F

t is finished, Mon Père."

he falling of buildings, the erosion of life, the force of wind, the

ancient trees, uprooted trees, torn to pieces by the fury...the fragments of

e is nothing that does not have an endi

ounding air, t

..all will be pursued or destroyed...trees will be laid level...due to man's

l

is

e fire with me, talking. He was depressed because bankers have been de

e months...there a

upt

hing in my face,

t under

ure has something tragic... I'm worri

fatigue. But he would not be

some say that you can

an n

o c

bod

bod

em. You must think clearly, your Majesty. Don'

chateau...tonight I had three guards... I was afra

hed at

hat leads into the King's forest: paths are becoming familiar: I shake hands with old trees. At the chateau I have watched the King play tenn

ud

mber

ering. Candle s

s blood resembles the tides of the sea; from the seat of the heart it circulated throughout the body. Let an artery or vein burst or suffer injury and blood raced to the in-jured spot. Incessant currents of the blood, pas

understood many things. And when she lay dying there seemed little left for me... I held her hand. Her eyes were closed. Grey eyes. Sh

ned circulation to King Francis. He was not interested; he fondled his diamond-studded belt and stared stupid

quence my

-

Mu

Te

Bo

of emotions, lab

l

er 15

o is cop

petite has gone. The weather is perfect but I can not go outside. Here, in my studio, I have her por-trait to console me; sometimes

time...was it as much as a year ago? Why am I confused? Did the plague kill her? Was she with her family? How they will miss her! The

not ride with the hunters... I can not ride... Francis has pres

...old friends

is a c

that Mona was

re fr

da gamba skill. He would usually appear a little late, but always with a smile, a bow. Sometimes

hs at a time: on her return it was hard to recapture our mood. She was patient with me but I have often

an apron and scrubbed brushes and mortars, made my

ll clean your leggio," she

ily secrets, feminine secrets, her own loneline

silences I felt the bonds of our friendship...when we ate together, w

inguished husband bought fine piece

en talked about my Anghiari and she

ber

line, with snow falling, wind blowing. My feet are cold because of the weather, or

me. I must con-centrate. I must push on. There is so much

na rou

estro...it is chi

I am

ave cathedr

again. My journal suffers

away; that

ould bend horseshoes inst

. A dove. A flyer. Where are my sketches for the glider? The one

ons...inte

that haunt the chateau. The cat beds under his easel, amo

into carousing. He is bone white, has one orange ear, a twisted nose, one ora

ab

na hat

alls him "M

empted to remove the garnet canopy and drapes. But it's a snug bed when it's cold. I often

oom, and sits on the side of the bed and we talk brush strokes or ways of grinding the new pig

l

did I adopt him i

answer: becau

sehold, my studio, twenty-some years ago. It

oney. I was right to christen him "Salai." It took months to straighten him out...if I really

of continuous effort; perhaps ti

nk I hear his voice... I think, a

Il Cavallo, so I placed my drawings on tables in the salo

e examines drawings and sketches,

sil

ing?" the Queen asks. I try to

lined with down; he has rings set with emeralds; she reeks of col

n a shallow cavity. I opened it on the left side. I could have com-pleted the casting if th

o, about the

ers, as they used my clay model for ta

ose bowmen. How they cheered

ed the King

Alone, or with a groom, I would ride into the country, where it was pleasant and we were free of gapers. I would di

im, sweat him; then I'd draw his distended

to symbolize leadership and power...he was pleased...his b

ronize. I pretend I have nothing to do...my life is one of lei-sure. Then, at night, through

that does not exist. I don't admit it but I am also re-membering Vinci, the only home I ever had. I wo

calities, are continually broiling. Greedy apprentices. Raw apprentices. Rowdiness. So many crowns for

neyard. Much sun. Quietude. Animals. Olive trees

delus

g again on my Saint John. I have

al journal to a mere boy, I can write about him. We called Sandro "Our Little Barrel." He

ship in many ways. The background is especially weak. I have shied away from

tions for Dante have a lig

f Sandro. Michelangelo disl

ly promises; I prefer rivers and lakes to the Dantesque. Savonarola's ashes were thrown into the Arno... I anticipate further degradations...ashes... whose ashes were thrown into the river? Ours? No matter what

t the Stymphalian birds, head back, eyes upward, his right arm tensing the cord, fingers ready to l