Oil and Marble

by Stephanie Storey

  Granacci took a deep breath. “He’s revealed a new picture.”

  “What?”

  “People are already lined up around the block to see it.”

  “And on the eve of my victory, naturalmente.”

  “They say it’s a miracle to behold.”

  “Let me guess. The city hall fresco.” Michelangelo released a vanquished sigh. Leonardo’s Battle of Anghiari was already famous, even though the maestro had yet to touch brush to wall. It was supposed to be a symbol of Florentine strength and independence, housed in the Palazzo della Signoria, the same building David had been charged with guarding. If Leonardo had managed to finish the picture, no one in Florence would attend David’s unveiling, unless they happened to witness it while waiting in line to see Leonardo’s newest masterpiece.

  “No, not the fresco,” Granacci said. “It’s a portrait.”

  “Of who?” Who had Leonardo painted to make Granacci turn so pale? The King of France? The pope? God himself?

  “A housewife,” Granacci said in a tone of dread.

  Michelangelo laughed. “You had me frightened, mi amico,” he said, slapping Granacci on the back. “Calm down. It’s only a little painting. How magnificent can it possibly be?”

  Leonardo

  Looking down at the sun-drenched entrance of Santa Maria Novella, Leonardo watched a stream of fashionable Florentines trickle inside. A woman wearing a long cape and hood strode toward the entrance. When she reached up to lower her hood, his heart beat faster, and he leaned out the window to get a better look. She lowered her hood and revealed a shock of red hair. She was not Lisa.

  Leonardo had sent the lady a private, handwritten note two days before, personally inviting her to attend. Why wasn’t she there yet?

  The maestro’s studio was filled with visitors sipping wine, munching on sugary elderberry fritters, and singing the praises of his latest masterpiece. Displayed in a high-ceilinged receiving room on an easel made of dark rosewood, the portrait of Mona Lisa sat near a window so the sun could bathe it in a soft, glowing light. The picture mesmerized the visitors. “It’s so beautiful and lifelike,” one man praised, “it will make every other artist tremble and lose heart.”

  Leonardo knew why they were so transfixed: it was the look on Lisa’s face, the same one she had given him on the way out the door the last time he had seen her. It had taken him over a month to depict that slight upturn to her eyes, to adjust her pupils so she looked directly out at the viewer instead of off to one side, to add that subtle suggestion of a smile to her mouth. To an inexperienced painter, those small changes would have seemed inconsequential, but in those few strokes of paint, life had taken hold.

  Another woman strode through the courtyard, but she was not his lady either. She was too large of hips, too wide of shoulders, had too strident a march.

  That morning, Leonardo had sent Salaì to every house, stall, and workshop to tell every Florentine that his portrait of Mona Lisa del Giocondo would be displayed in his studio for one day, and one day only, before it was sealed up in Giocondo’s private collection forever. A throng of Florentines had packed into Leonardo’s studio. It was all going according to plan. When Lisa finally arrived, even if she were on the arm of her husband, she would walk into a crowd of people gazing at her. She, not anyone else, would be the center of attention. She would hear the audience murmuring about her beauty, her fine glowing skin, and that mysterious look on her face. For one day, she would know what it felt like to have people truly see her.

  Today was his gift to her.

  But in order for her receive the gift, she had to attend. He had specifically instructed her to arrive during the daytime, so she could enjoy her painting in the best possible light. As the sun set and darkness rolled in, he began to doubt she would appear at all. But, stoking an ember of hope, he brought out an army of candles to light up the portrait and posted Salaì by the door with instructions to alert him if she tried to slip in unnoticed.

  Eventually, nighttime blanked the sky and his desk clock chimed midnight. With a few guests still lingering in front of the picture, Salaì approached him with a shake of his head. Leonardo sighed with the disappointment of a gift ungiven.

  He was not going to see her that night. He might not ever see her again.

  “Salaì,” he said, staring down into the now empty courtyard, “I think the portrait is finished.”

  “Yes, Master, I believe it is.”

  Michelangelo

  Sitting on a shadowy stoop across from Santa Maria Novella, Michelangelo and Granacci watched guests leave Leonardo’s studio. “She is so alive,” a stylish wife exclaimed, “it must be a miracle.”

  “God has touched his hand,” her husband added as they strolled away.

  Granacci had wanted to go inside and view the portrait with the rest of the public, but Michelangelo didn’t want to give Leonardo the satisfaction of spotting him among the other admirers. They had camped out across the street for hours, waiting for the party to end.

  Finally, the last guest filed out and each candle in the studio was blown out, one by one, until every window was dark.

  After the studio had been quiet for almost an hour, Michelangelo whispered, “It’s time.” He turned to Granacci, but his friend was lying on the stoop, snoring softly. Michelangelo considered waking him, but instead rose silently and approached the church. He preferred to face the painting alone.

  When he was an apprentice, Michelangelo had worked in this church alongside Granacci with their teacher, Domenico Ghirlandaio, decorating the Tornabuoni chapel with stories from the lives of Mary and St. John the Baptist. It was here, on these very walls, that he had honed his drawing skills and learned how to prepare and paint a fresco. He had become a professional artist in this church. He remembered every staircase and room as well as he recalled his father’s old house before the fire.

  He crept through the sanctuary and up the stairs. From the street, he had taken note of which windows were lit up by candles during the party. The room filled with the most guests had been at the end of the hall.

  He moved down the shadowy hallway. The first door was wide open. Two figures snored in bed. A shaft of moonlight struck one of their faces. That was Leonardo da Vinci, sleeping soundly. Michelangelo held his breath as he passed that room. He didn’t want Leonardo to catch him skulking around the studio. At best, it would give the old painter an excuse to taunt him. At worst, Leonardo could have him arrested.

  Exhaling at last, he reached the room at the end of the hall. It was a proper, high-ceilinged salon decorated with upholstered chairs, a thick red carpet, and a pianoforte. This was a room in which to receive guests. He entered and quietly closed the door behind him. The curtains were drawn, so he opened one, letting in a bit of moonlight.

  There in a corner was an easel, covered by a curtain. Unlit candles were arranged all around it. Did he even want to see it? Maybe it was better not to know. Michelangelo took hold of one corner of the thick velvet curtain and, his heart clattering like a cymbal, pulled the fabric off.

  Underneath was a small panel picture.

  The sliver of moonlight shining in through the window gave little illumination, but the portrait seemed to be an average picture of an average woman painted from the waist up. Michelangelo let out a half-sigh, half-chuckle. Why were people raving? Was it only because the great Leonardo da Vinci had painted it, so therefore viewers were expected—no, required—to swoon?

  Feeling emboldened, he took one of the candles and located a small tinderbox sitting on the windowsill. Lighting a candle was a risk. It might attract attention. But he wanted to see the portrait to confirm his growing suspicion that the only miracle in the room was Leonardo’s overblown reputation.

  He lit the candle. Once he had a steady flame, turned back to the picture. He expected to feel joy rise up and erupt on his face in a triumphant smile. Instead, his throat closed.

  Michelangelo had never seen a portrait so alive. It was as
though the lady herself were sitting in the room. Her skin glowed from within, her eyes sparked with life, and her chest seemed to rise and fall with breath. Leonardo hadn’t captured the likeness of a woman; he had captured the lady herself.

  Michelangelo held the candle close to the picture; still, he couldn’t discern a single brushstroke, though he knew there had to be thousands of them. He hadn’t known paint could be applied so delicately. Every edge blurred and blended in with the next. Just as in real life, there were no lines between light and dark, only varying degrees of shadow.

  And this lady. She did not look demurely away in a suggestion of modesty and humility. She looked directly, challengingly, right into his soul. Whenever he tried to look away, her gaze seemed to follow, drawing him back in. Why? When he looked closely at her face, there was nothing exceptional about it, no hint of a smile, but the moment he averted his gaze, she began to smile and beckon him back.

  Real people, Michelangelo knew, didn’t hold posed expressions for long periods of time, as most portraits portrayed them. Their expressions were always changing. But he had never seen that effect captured in paint. This lady’s expression seemed to be perpetually in the process of either becoming or fading. But unlike a real woman, who would eventually either smile or frown, her smile would never fully form. It was always appearing, but would never appear. It was simultaneously full of hope and disappointment.

  A rock grew in Michelangelo’s chest and sank into his belly. His seventeen-foot giant would be slain by one look from this woman. Michelangelo was decades of practice and study away from this level of mastery, and even with a hundred patrons, a hundred jobs, a hundred years, he still might never achieve such genius. What was the point of competing when he could never win?

  Michelangelo backed away. He considered dropping his candle and letting the whole studio, including that picture, go up in flames.

  Instead, he blew out the candle and ran away. He didn’t stop to gather Granacci, but sprinted as fast as he could toward the city walls. He would leave Florence and never come back. Let them unveil David without him. He didn’t need to be there. He couldn’t be. Because, no matter what he did now, he knew he could never beat the Master from Vinci.

  Leonardo

  September 8

  Sitting on a wooden stool in his studio, hands folded in his lap, Leonardo gazed silently at the portrait. His eyes scanned the panel from top to bottom, corner to corner, burning every detail into his memory. This was the last time he would lay eyes on Lisa. He didn’t want to forget her. He smiled and waited for her to smile back, but she did not, and she never would.

  Leonardo carefully wrapped the painting in a piece of linen, tying it up with burlap string, to protect it during its journey across town. “Please allow me to reschedule, sir.” Salaì said, standing in the doorway. “I’ve planned the delivery too early.” The young assistant always treated his master so tenderly. When Leonardo grew old and decrepit, he knew it was Salaì who would care for him.

  “That won’t be necessary, amore mio.” He could put off the delivery forever. “Art, after all, is never finished. Only abandoned. But it is finally time to abandon this one.” He thought back to that day, four and a half years before, when he’d discovered his Last Supper’s peeling paint. At the time, he thought he could abandon the fresco without regret, but now he knew that letting go of a piece of art was as heartbreaking as burying the dead.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to drop it off? It’s a simple delivery.”

  “No. It is part of what the patron pays for. A private meeting with the maestro to crow over the beauty of his new possession.” He checked his appearance in the mirror. Beard trimmed. Stockings neat and clean. Bird ring recently shined. And yes, his green taffeta jacket was sure to impress any silk merchant.

  Leonardo and Salaì departed the studio solemnly. Outside, Leonardo was surprised to see men, women, grandparents, and children laughing and dragging one another toward the center of town. It was an overcast Sunday afternoon. Morning mass was long over. Sunday was usually for rest, reflection, and prayer. This bustling atmosphere felt like a holiday. “What’s going on?”

  “The unveiling of Michelangelo’s David.” Salaì gave a rueful shrug. “I hoped that choosing today for the delivery might distract you.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes your trickery is very clever, Giacomo.”

  Portrait tucked under his arm, Leonardo fought his way against the tide of revelers. As he and Salaì walked farther away from the Piazza della Signoria, the crowd thinned. The laughter dimmed in the distance. Leonardo strolled more and more slowly, but eventually, they turned up the Via della Stufa. Strange—the street no longer looked as bright and glimmering as it had in his youth or when he first started coming there to sketch Lisa. The road was narrow. Grimy. Fresh coats of paint did not erase hundreds of years of dirt and mold.

  He arrived at Giocondo’s front door. It was time to return the lady to her husband. Giocondo owned her image, just as he owned her. Her husband had the right to hang her in his family parlor forever, where visitors would glance at her, but never really look at her. They would see her only as the mistress of the house, wife of the husband, subject of that picture by the Master from Vinci. That’s who she was. Lisa had long ago learned to accept her place in the world. He needed to learn to live with it, too. He took a deep breath and knocked.

  Michelangelo

  Mouth dry and stomach rumbling, Michelangelo checked his satchel again. There was a pile of gold florins, but no wine, no bread, no dried fish. He had eaten his last morsel of food at supper the night before and swigged his last bit of wine that morning. He sucked on a metal coin, hoping to satiate his hunger, and lamented how useless money was when there was no place to spend it. If he wanted to eat or drink, he would have to go to the market. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not today.

  He’d been in hiding for nearly a week. After fleeing Leonardo’s studio, he hadn’t left town, but had instead gone to his favorite spot: the abandoned guard tower near the bridge of San Niccolo, on the far east side of town. The three-story tower had been built in the 1300s, but as long as Michelangelo had been alive, there had never been anyone stationed inside. He had been using it as a hiding place ever since he was a teenager.

  He had some chalk and paper in his bag, so he’d spent most of his time on the roof, sketching and writing a few lines of awkward poetry. “After being happy many years, one short hour may make a man lament and mourn,” he wrote. Using his chisel, he’d etched a calendar into the wall to carefully record each passing day. According to his calculations, it was finally the second Sunday of September.

  Michelangelo stood up. From the roof, he could see Palazzo della Signoria towering over the city. Under that famous bell tower, his David would finally be unveiled to the public that afternoon. Michelangelo would watch from this spot. Perhaps he would hear a distant whoop of joy or a cry of anger. From there, he would watch the proceedings without the proceedings watching him.

  As he squinted across the city, his gaze landed, as it always did, on the gleaming orange dome of the cathedral. When he’d first arrived back in Florence over three years before, he had looked on Il Duomo with relief and love, but today he felt only anxiety. Florence was home to so much glorious history, so much beautiful art, so much greatness. What if he fell short?

  When Michelangelo first started work on the Duccio Stone, he had harbored secret childish dreams that his clash with Leonardo from Vinci would be counted among the great rivalries of the city’s long history. Florence was legendary for such battles.

  In 1401, to commemorate the new century, the city had held a competition to pick an artist to design a set of bronze doors for the Baptistery. Many of the city’s best artists had competed for the honor, but the final contest came down to two goldsmiths: Filippo Brunelleschi and Lorenzo Ghiberti. Brunelleschi was older and more experienced, already a member of the goldsmith guild, while Ghiberti was trained primarily as a painter
. Each man was eager to make a name for himself, and each believed he was the best artist for the job.

  As a tie breaker, the city ordered the men to design a sample bronze panel depicting the sacrifice of Isaac, the Old Testament story about God ordering Abraham to sacrifice his son to prove his devotion to the Almighty. Brunelleschi and Ghiberti toiled day and night to outdo each other, pouring their souls into their work.

  In the great tradition of ancient art, Brunelleschi depicted realistic human figures suffering raw agony. Harsh lines and shapes underscored the mental and spiritual anguish of a father sacrificing his own son. Every bone and muscle was visible in Isaac’s scrawny body. The panel was so physically and psychological realistic, the Romans themselves would have embraced it as one of their own. The city’s judges could not imagine anyone creating a better representation of classical design.

  Then Ghiberti presented his work. The younger, less experienced artist used as many dynamic and original poses as Brunelleschi. He included as many, if not more, naturalistic details of human anatomy and landscape. But Ghiberti added something more. His panel was pure grace, building to a climax right at Isaac’s face, staring up at the heavens, begging God for mercy. Every element worked in harmony to make the viewer feel an overwhelming mix of sadness, fear, and hope.

  Brunelleschi’s panel hearkened back to the ancients. Ghiberti’s surpassed them. He won the contest. It took Lorenzo Ghiberti over two decades to complete all twenty-eight panels for those bronze doors. When they were finished, everyone agreed the best man had won. A hundred years after they were made, Michelangelo believed the doors were so beautiful that they were worthy of being the Gates of Paradise.

  Brunelleschi, however, was devastated by the loss. He abandoned sculpture and moved to Rome, where he began to study architecture. Twenty years later, he returned to Florence to enter another competition. Once again, his competitor was Lorenzo Ghiberti, but this time, Brunelleschi was the victor. In this second contest, Brunelleschi won the right to remodel the city’s cathedral, and he went on to build the now famous, fever-inducing, orange-tiled Duomo.