“Flung from the tower
the Archbishop swings,
the only one left to survive.
He bites and he gasps
while everyone laughs
For no more Pazzi-led lies!
For no more Pazzi-led lies!
Swing! Swing! Dance and sing!
And come join us in- “
“Niccolò!” Federico shouted. “For the love of all that is holy and pure, can you please stop singing? I am trying to paint but I can’t get any work done over the sound of that wretched voice!”
“Sí Niccolò,” Petruccio agreed from his corner of the studio where he was struggling to sketch the intricate shadows of light hitting a curtain. “Stick to drawing, it will do you much better in the long run.”
Niccolò waved them off, “it has been so quiet this morning, who can better liven up this bottega than I?” There was bravado in his voice as he lounged lazily on a cushion. In front of him were a pencil and a blank piece of paper.
“Anyone that can breathe,” Reggiano quipped from behind his slab of marble. “Come Niccolò, you must admit, you are not a very good singer.”
“But then again, Reggiano,” Orsino Lucardi chimed in, “was Giotto a master artist when he was any of your ages? In time, all who practice get better.”
“You see!” Niccolò exclaimed, “Messer Lucardi believes I’ll become a great singer as long as I practice! Is that not what I’m doing?”
“No, Messer DiPietro,” Orsino replied, “it is best you stick to painting. I do believe that you lack a certain talent when it comes to singing.”
The entire bottega burst into laughter at Niccolò’s expense.
“You must admit, they are pretty good lyrics,” Niccolò grumbled to himself.
For the four young apprentices, the Bottega was an aspiring artist’s playground. Located in one of the many windy alleyways off il Mercato Vecchio, the room was large and open with high ceilings, and windows flooded the room with natural light. On one end of the room where Messer Lucardi and Reggiano were working, two slabs of marble stood ten feet high. One of them was practically untouched, but from the other, a rough outline of a female figure with her curves just barely distinguishable was being carved out of the stone. It was as if she was trapped under the marble and waiting to be released. The floor was covered in white from marble dust as fragments of marble laid scattered about. On the other end of the room, a series of three velvet curtains hung from the ceiling, dangling just a few inches from the ground. The light from the nearby window illuminated certain areas of the curtain a shimmering red, and the shade in between the drapery created chasms of darkness. It was here, sitting in one of the four chairs that surrounded the cluster of curtains, that Petruccio failed to capture the contrast between light and dark. In between the two ends stood a line of five easels with painted canvases of various completion. The curls of the Virgin Mary’s hair was the only item remaining to be completed for Federico’s painting; Antonio’s unattended painting of Leda and the Swan was still being sketched. It was right across from these easels that Niccolò lounged about and now quietly strummed his lute, procrastinating his work.
Giancarlo opened the door to the workshop and the light from outside the bottega illuminated his tall figure to give the appearance that he was basking in divine light. As he walked in, his face still stricken by love, Antonio followed behind, quietly sulking.
“Ah, look who decided to show up today!” Messer Lucardi announced, “Messer Vetecelli, I have needed your assistance for the last thirty minutes. Come, grab a chisel, we will not find Holofernes’ head buried in the marble by diddling about.”
“My apologies Messer Lucardi,” Giancarlo replied in a singsong voice, “but as I was in the Mercato this morning, God in his infinite glory decided to bless me.” He walked across the room to gaze out of one of the windows right next to Niccolò before walking towards the slabs of marble. As he walked through beams of light, his curly light brown hair that caressed his shoulders would illuminate and bask in the light, turning the hair into a golden blonde, before reverting to light brown in the shadows.
“Bless you how?” Niccolò asked skeptically.
“He in all of his wisdom had desired me to chance upon the truest form of beauty.”
“The truest form of beauty? Antonio, what’s he talking about?” Petruccio asked.
By now, Antonio was already seated at his painting of Leda and the Swan that he had yet to begin. He stared at the canvas with an annoyed expression. “It means,” he said. “That Giancarlo has a crush on a girl.”
“A girl!?” Niccolò sprang up from his cushion and immediately ran to Giancarlo who was now by the unfinished sculpture of Holofernes. However, in his excitement, he had almost bumped into the statue and Messer Lucardi let out a small gasp.
“Pezzo di
Niccolò took a step back from the sculpture, brushing Messer Lucardi’s false threat aside. “Tell me, il
“I know her not,” Giancarlo said with a sigh, “although I do know that she is the embodiment of love and joy and God has blessed her with the most beautiful figure known to man.”
“Well, what did she look like?” Niccolò asked.
“A woman of sixteen, tall and slender in
“Wait,” Reggiano chimed in, “I think I know that girl.”
Giancarlo’s eyes widened as he turned to face Reggiano. “Really?” He asked in disbelief.
“It sounds like you are describing Francesca Ruscello.”
“Francesca Ruscello?” Giancarlo asked in shock. “As in daughter of Stefano Ruscello, the member of the Signoria?”
“Si, that’s the one. I’ve seen her a few times when both of our fathers were in the Signoria at the same time.” Reggiano replied.
Federico looked up from his painting. “Giancarlo, if that’s true, then you must stay away from her,” he warned. “No good can befall on you from this. Messer Ruscello is a very powerful man and I’m sure he wouldn’t want someone of your status around his daughter.”
“God would not present to me such an object of purity and beauty only to forbid me from it.”
Antonio laughed condescendingly. “Yes, he would,” he said, “or do you forget about the forbidden fruit that cast us out of Eden?”
Giancarlo stiffened, “This is diff- “
“Enough!” Messer Lucardi shouted. “I will hear no more of this. You come in late, you almost destroy my masterpiece, and now you spend your time here talking about girls! You are to come here to work, not gossip like a bunch of maidens! All of you, start working before I throw you out of my Bottega for good!”
Header Picture: The School of Athens. Raphael. 1511.