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Authors: John L'Heureux
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said, so nervous that I told the truth.
“Good,” he said, “ designe sempre . Drawing helps to train the eye as well as the hand. Drawing . . .”
As he spoke, it was clear that he was reciting merely and that his mind was elsewhere.
“You will learn from the others, and from me too, I hope. By watching. And doing. You’ll like them. That meager boy with the red hair is Pagno di Lapo. We call him Rosso. He is in first youth, only twelve or thirteen, but he shows promise of being very good with stone. And, in time, with fine marble.” He paused, thinking, and then he said, “I like him.” He shook his head, as if dismissing some thought. “The boy over there is Francesco Bottari. Even at his young age he shows clear to be a carver in relief.” He smiled to himself. “He is very fair. And the others, Rinaldo Franco and Caterina Bardi. Caterina is family.” He gestured to a far corner where a young woman was applying gesso to a panel. She was dressed like a boy—her skirts were hitched up about her legs—but she was very clearly a girl and, seeing her, I longed for Alessandra. “My cousin’s daughter. She paints.” He did not mention Masaccio’s brother, Lo Scheggia, who I noticed had returned to the posing stool.
Donato stood up suddenly. “Go and give a greeting to Rosso and the others. I have to get on with this.” As he left the worktable and moved toward his sculpting stand, he turned back to me and said, “If you have need of money, there’s some in the basket.” He pointed up to the ceiling where a small wicker basket hung from a rope.
At that moment he seemed to disappear. Certainly he stood there, square and solid in front of the wax head, but the Donato who had welcomed me and made pointless, polite conversation was gone. I felt a deep hollow in my chest. I was too nervous to think what this meant. While he talked to me he had seemed an ordinary man, but as he moved away he became once again the terrifying artist I had first seen at work. I clutched to my chest the ivory-handled stylus he had given me.
I met the others, nervous likeable young men who frightened me by their quick wit and their rare accomplishments and by how comfortable they all seemed at work in Donato’s bottega . I was not comfortable with them. I was new and a possible threat, I suppose, but I sensed they made a show of politeness because I was older and came recommended by Ghiberti. Caterina alone seemed pleased to see me.
In truth I gave them only half my attention. My mind was fixed on Donato who stood motionless before his work stand as if incapable of movement. He did not stir. The air itself seemed to have congealed around him. He was looking only, from the wax head beneath his hands to the model posing for him, and again back and forth, and again. He said nothing and there was no expression I might read on his face. He seemed resolved to stand there forever.
“You can go now,” I heard him say at last.
Lo Scheggia slipped from the posing stool, grateful, and went outside to the privy closet.
Donato stood looking at the empty stool. Then he looked long and hard at his unfinished sculpture. At last, expressionless still, he leaned forward and drew the sculpture to him. He crouched above it, lowering his chin to the crown of the wax head and hugging it close, embracing it hard. He pressed the sculpted face against his chest, harder and harder, until there was a small cracking sound and the head shattered. A long minute passed. He pulled away from the ruined sculpture finally—bits of wax and clay clung to his shirt—and, still with no expression on his face, he placed a rag over the shattered head and held it there for a moment.
The apprentices continued talking, knowing it was better to pretend not to notice, and I joined in their talk, thrilled and frightened at what I had seen and what it all meant to my new life.
CHAPTER 9
M ORE THAN A year would pass before Donato took any real notice of me and
“Good,” he said, “ designe sempre . Drawing helps to train the eye as well as the hand. Drawing . . .”
As he spoke, it was clear that he was reciting merely and that his mind was elsewhere.
“You will learn from the others, and from me too, I hope. By watching. And doing. You’ll like them. That meager boy with the red hair is Pagno di Lapo. We call him Rosso. He is in first youth, only twelve or thirteen, but he shows promise of being very good with stone. And, in time, with fine marble.” He paused, thinking, and then he said, “I like him.” He shook his head, as if dismissing some thought. “The boy over there is Francesco Bottari. Even at his young age he shows clear to be a carver in relief.” He smiled to himself. “He is very fair. And the others, Rinaldo Franco and Caterina Bardi. Caterina is family.” He gestured to a far corner where a young woman was applying gesso to a panel. She was dressed like a boy—her skirts were hitched up about her legs—but she was very clearly a girl and, seeing her, I longed for Alessandra. “My cousin’s daughter. She paints.” He did not mention Masaccio’s brother, Lo Scheggia, who I noticed had returned to the posing stool.
Donato stood up suddenly. “Go and give a greeting to Rosso and the others. I have to get on with this.” As he left the worktable and moved toward his sculpting stand, he turned back to me and said, “If you have need of money, there’s some in the basket.” He pointed up to the ceiling where a small wicker basket hung from a rope.
At that moment he seemed to disappear. Certainly he stood there, square and solid in front of the wax head, but the Donato who had welcomed me and made pointless, polite conversation was gone. I felt a deep hollow in my chest. I was too nervous to think what this meant. While he talked to me he had seemed an ordinary man, but as he moved away he became once again the terrifying artist I had first seen at work. I clutched to my chest the ivory-handled stylus he had given me.
I met the others, nervous likeable young men who frightened me by their quick wit and their rare accomplishments and by how comfortable they all seemed at work in Donato’s bottega . I was not comfortable with them. I was new and a possible threat, I suppose, but I sensed they made a show of politeness because I was older and came recommended by Ghiberti. Caterina alone seemed pleased to see me.
In truth I gave them only half my attention. My mind was fixed on Donato who stood motionless before his work stand as if incapable of movement. He did not stir. The air itself seemed to have congealed around him. He was looking only, from the wax head beneath his hands to the model posing for him, and again back and forth, and again. He said nothing and there was no expression I might read on his face. He seemed resolved to stand there forever.
“You can go now,” I heard him say at last.
Lo Scheggia slipped from the posing stool, grateful, and went outside to the privy closet.
Donato stood looking at the empty stool. Then he looked long and hard at his unfinished sculpture. At last, expressionless still, he leaned forward and drew the sculpture to him. He crouched above it, lowering his chin to the crown of the wax head and hugging it close, embracing it hard. He pressed the sculpted face against his chest, harder and harder, until there was a small cracking sound and the head shattered. A long minute passed. He pulled away from the ruined sculpture finally—bits of wax and clay clung to his shirt—and, still with no expression on his face, he placed a rag over the shattered head and held it there for a moment.
The apprentices continued talking, knowing it was better to pretend not to notice, and I joined in their talk, thrilled and frightened at what I had seen and what it all meant to my new life.
CHAPTER 9
M ORE THAN A year would pass before Donato took any real notice of me and
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