Blood and Gold - Anne Rice [130]
I left the door open to the studio in the hope that the teachers might wander in there by day.
As it turned out they were far too timid to do it.
I proceeded to create another painting, and this time I chose the Crucifixion—an approved theme for any artist—and I rendered it with tender care—and once again I used the backdrop of the ruins of Rome. Was it sacrilege? I couldn’t guess. Once again, I was sure of my colors. Indeed, this time I was sure of my proportions, and of the sympathetic expression on Christ’s face. But was the composition itself somehow something that should not be?
How was I to know? I had all this knowledge, all this seeming power. Yet I didn’t know. Was I creating something blasphemous and monstrous?
I returned to the subject of the Magi. I knew the conventions. Three kings, the stable, Mary, Joseph, the Infant, Jesus, and this time I did them freely, imputing to Mary the beauty of Zenobia, and glorying in the colors as before.
Soon my giant workroom was full of paintings. Some were correctly hung. Others were simply propped against the wall.
Then one night, at supper to which I’d invited the boys’ more refined instructors, one of them, the Greek teacher, happened to mention that he had seen into my workshop through an open door.
“Oh, please, tell me,” I said, “what did you think of my paintings?”
“Most remarkable!” he said frankly. “I’ve never seen anything like them! Why, all of the figures in the painting of the Magi . . .” He broke off, afraid.
“Please go on,” I said instantly. “Tell me. I want to know.”
“All of the figures are looking out at us, including Mary, and Joseph, and the three kings. I have never seen it done in that way.”
“But is it wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said quickly. “But who’s to say? You paint for yourself, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered. “But your opinion matters to me. I find at moments I’m as fragile as glass.”
We laughed. Only the older boys were interested in this exchange, and I saw that the very oldest, Piero, had something to say. He too had seen the paintings. He had gone inside the room.
“Tell me everything, Piero,” I said, winking at him, and smiling. “Come on. What do you think?”
“The colors, Master, they were beautiful! When will it be time for us to work with you? I’m more skilled than you might think.”
“I remember, Piero,” I said, referring to the shop from which he’d come. “I’ll call upon you soon enough.”
In fact, I called upon them the very next night.
Having severe doubts about subject matter more than anything else, I resolved to follow Botticelli in that regard.
I chose the Lamentation for my subject matter. And I made my Christ as tender and vulnerable as I could conceivably do it, and I surrounded him with countless mourners. Pagan that I was, I didn’t know who was supposed to be there! And so I created an immense and varied crowd of weeping mortals—all in Florentine dress—to lament the dead Jesus, and angels in the sky torn with anguish much like the angels of the painter Giotto whose work I had seen in some Italian city the name of which I could not recall.
My apprentices were quite astonished by the work and so were the teachers, whom I invited into the huge workroom for the initial view. Once again the faces I painted elicited special comment but so did the bizarre qualities of the painting—the inordinate amount of color and gold—and small touches I had added, such as insects here and there.
I realized something. I was free. I could paint what I wanted. Nobody was going to be the wiser. But then again, I thought, perhaps that’s not true.
It was desperately important for me to remain in the middle of Venice. I did not want to lose my foothold in the warm, loving world.
I drifted out in the following weeks to all the churches once more in search of inspiration for my paintings, and I studied many a grotesque and bizarre picture which amazed