She racked her brain for a plausible reason.
“My guess is that the restorer failed to clean up or prepare the original surface adequately and therefore ended up with a poor medium for the paint to adhere.” She looked at him with the confident feeling of having aced the final.
Anthony looked at her impassively.
“While that is a good textbook answer and in fact may have something to do with this situation, it is not the root cause of the problem.” He directed her to look through the magnifying glass again. “Whether or not the previous restorer prepared the surface adequately or not is irrelevant because his effort was doomed before he ever picked up his brush.” He continued while Mackenzie focused her attention on the right arm of the Madonna, at the elbow.
“This painting was completed in 1231 in Lucca, Italy. The only binding medium used in Europe at that time was tempera, and specifically egg tempera. Notice the very fine crosshatch pattern of the brushstrokes in the rest of the painting. Look at the rest of her arm and her fingers. The pigment sits in the tempera and is applied in very thin layers. It was almost three hundred years before oil-based paints were introduced into Europe from Afghanistan and Asia Minor. What our previous restorer has attempted to do, either because of haste, convenience or ignorance, is to touch up a tempera-based painting with oil-based paint. You can see that the brushstrokes are smoother and the paint is thicker in that area, which I think we will find in other problem areas of this painting as well. Oil is a much easier medium to work with than tempera and leads to smooth, thick brushstrokes. This would be like touching up an oil painting with acrylic today. It may be fine for fifty or even a hundred years but eventually the oil will start pulling away from the egg base, just like we see here.”
Rain pounded against the windows from the summer storm raging above them. It created a type of white noise that quieted and insulated everything. Although there were half a dozen other restorers working on projects all around them, to her it seemed as if they were alone in their subterranean lair. Their ancient panel, painted by an Italian master over seven hundred years ago, was the only thing that existed in the world, or at least the only thing that mattered. If someone had asked her at that moment where she was, the day or the time, she would have been hard pressed to give an answer.
“But why would a restorer use oil instead of tempera?” she asked while continuing to look through the glass at the painting.
“Like I said, either because he was in a hurry or lazy, he did not know how to mix tempera-based paints, or because he did not know any better. Remember, the science of restoration is relatively new, especially compared with seven-hundred-year-old paintings. There were a lot of well-intentioned artists who tried to restore classical masterpieces without thinking about the history of the materials used in the original or what implication mixing mediums might have on the painting.”
Mackenzie pulled away from the magnifying glass and turned to Anthony, who had been staring at her. She blushed slightly. “So what is our plan for correcting this?” she asked, trying to sound as professional and detached as she could.
Anthony sat down on his stool, pressed the palms of his hands together with the tips of the fingers resting under his chin and his elbows on his knees and took a few breaths.
“The plan is pretty straightforward. We are going to go over every inch of this painting using the magnifying glass and you are going to record every irregularity and apparent defect, whether it was caused by a flawed restoration process, sunlight, moisture, or just plain aging. I want you to take copious and detailed notes on everything we find. I want your descriptions to detail exactly where on the painting the defect existed, what the problem is, and what was the likely cause.”
Mackenzie nodded and began to write notes down on a pad she had on the workbench.
Anthony continued talking while he looked upwards towards the ceiling as opposed to looking directly at Mackenzie. He’s probably told apprentices this same thing about a hundred times, she thought as he continued.
“After that, we are going to do the same thing using infrared light. That should help us identify anything we might be missing on the surface and will definitely help determine whether the problem was with the original work itself or from a subsequent restoration. You are responsible for making sure that everything is logged and documented in the permanent file. We will take photos of everything and include it in the documentation.”
He placed the palms of his hands on his knees and looked directly at her with a slight smile that caused tiny crease lines to form on the outer corners of his eyes. God, this guy is handsome, she couldn’t help thinking.
“Then we will set about correcting what needs to be fixed. We have a good couple of weeks ahead of us before we start doing any of that, though. Tell me,” Anthony continued, “have you ever mixed raw pigments with egg yolk to make tempera paint?”
“No,” responded Mackenzie. This was not the time and certainly not the person to try to impress by saying she could do something that she couldn’t. “I’ve always used off-the-shelf oils or acrylics when I painted.”
Anthony nodded, seeming pleased. “Good. Then you have not had a chance to pick up any bad habits.”
He redirected his gaze into the magnifying glass and focused his attention to the upper left hand corner of the painting.
“Let us get started. I want you to write down everything I say about the painting. In fact, if you want to use a recorder for now that might be best. You can type it all up later. We are going to start in the upper left and work our way across from left to right, top to bottom. I will want you to confirm everything I find once I go through it, just to make sure that I am not missing something.”
Mackenzie pulled a small hand held digital recorder out of her work drawer and directed it towards Anthony. She felt like a reporter at a news conference trying to get that key tidbit of information that would later help her write her story.
His observations were crisp and exact, almost surgical. It reminded her of watching autopsies on TV where the coroner would describe the most gruesome details of the deceased in a detached, clinical manner. But there was also something more human about how Anthony approached this. He was clear and focused, but he wasn’t detached. He was engaged and intent on identifying every flaw, every mistake, so that they could bring this work of art back to life. He was less a coroner describing a cadaver than a surgeon preparing to save a severely injured patient. She felt that there was compassion, a deep sensitivity in his observations that made them feel more personal, almost intimate. It was obvious to her that this painting was somehow special to him. Maybe that’s what made him such a good restorer.
Chapter 5
Lucca, Italy, August 1231
Despite the mid-morning heat, the inside of the studio walls remained comfortable, almost cool. Beams of steady light streamed in from the windows. Iron tripods, each holding five wax candles, were placed throughout the room, providing additional light. Although it was only a single room, the studio itself was quite large. Poplar wood panels of various lengths and widths were stacked four and five-deep against the walls, arranged in stacks according to their color, which reflected their progress in the seasoning process.
Berlinghiero Berlinghieri was joined in his studio by his three sons, Marco, the youngest, who was just ten, Barone, who was fourteen, and Bonaventura, his oldest son who was just about to turn twenty. Berlinghiero was putting the final touches on his painting, Madonna and Child, which was commissioned by the bishop of Lucca and would be the focal point of the newly renovated church of San Giovanni. He was pleased with how the colors came out as well as the general look and feel of the painting itself and hoped the bishop would feel the same way.
Berlinghiero sat down next to Marco, who was hard at work grinding azurite with a mortar and pestle. He worked quietly and with a focused attention. At last Marco stopped and showed the bowl to his father. Berlinghiero ran the deep blue grains through his f
ingers.
“This is close,” he said, “but still a bit too coarse. This is too rough to use as a pigment. It will not stick to the surface. A little bit more and it should be ready to wash. There is a very fine balance. If you grind too much, then it will become too pale in color. I want this deep azure blue color to hold.” He handed the pestle back to Marco and watched him continue to grind away diligently. After a few more minutes he stopped and held the pestle in front of his father.
“What do you think?” Berlinghiero asked without touching the azurite. Marco looked down at the pestle again and ran the grains through his fingers.
“I think that this is the right consistency, Father. Not too fine. It is still a dark blue, but the grains are less coarse.” He said this with the unquestioned confidence of a ten-year-old boy.
“It looks good to me too. Now, get it washed and graded.” Berlinghiero stood up, as Marco made his way to the barrel of water in the corner. After minerals such as azurite were ground to the proper consistency, they were washed in clean water to remove whatever mud and other impurities still remained. The impurities tended to float to the top, leaving the minerals at the bottom. They would then be divided into different grades based on size and color, ready to use as pigments. The process was similar for most minerals, from malachite and celadonite, which were used for various shades of green to yellow ochre and lapis lazuli. Marco was a good student and learned quickly. He probably had the most potential of all his sons. He relished his father’s approval and worked hard to get it.
Berlinghiero walked over to his middle son, Barone, who stood in front of several easels supporting large wooden panels varying in size from four to six feet tall. The poplar that grew in the region served as an effective medium on which to paint. Although inexpensive and abundant in that area, the wood was soft and tended to warp. It needed to be treated to help strengthen the wood and to hold the paint. These panels had been dried, or seasoned, in a warm, dry area for over two months.
Barone was applying the first coat of size, a glue made from animal skins. This would be a long, detailed process that would later involve laying a piece of linen soaked in water over the front of the panel to conceal any surface flaws, such as knots or nicks. Over this, coats of gesso, a mixture of gypsum and animal glue, would be applied before the panel would be ready for preliminary drawings.
“How are these coming?” Berlinghiero asked, standing beside Barone.
Barone looked perplexed, “I do not know, Father.” He motioned towards three large planks to his left. “These keep warping. They were fine before I put on the first coat of size and then they started warping from the center.”
“Take them down and put them outside for another two weeks. Let us see what happens. We might need to cut them down and use them for smaller paintings. These others look good, though. They look ready to apply the linen.”
“I was going to put one more coat of glue on them first,” responded Barone in a serious tone. Barone was quiet, meticulous, and thoughtful. He was more of a perfectionist than either of his brothers, or even Berlinghiero himself, for that matter.
Berlinghiero held up one of the planks, turning it sideways, and looked at the surface from different angles before setting it down.
“That sounds good. But do not put too much on it before you start with the linen or they might start cracking. I think they are ready now, but one more coat will not hurt,” added Berlinghiero. He knew that Barone always wanted things to be perfect but he also needed him to keep moving forward with his work. Barone was meticulous. He was also slow.
Berlinghiero made his way to a large wooden table with various manuscripts and books strewn on its surface. Most of these were copies of paintings and pattern books that provided examples of faces, hands, feet, and other shapes that artists used to make their paintings. There were sable hairbrushes of various sizes, styles, and shapes in leather pouches on the table and hanging on the nearby easels. His eldest son, Bonaventura, was making notes on a piece of parchment.
Berlinghiero had recently secured an important commission for Bonaventura, his first commission as the primary artist. He had high hopes for Bonaventura to become a great artist, even though Bonaventura often lacked the drive of either of his brothers. In preparation for the new work, he had sent Bonaventura to interview the monks in Assisi about the life of Saint Francis.
“Tell me more about what you learned from your conversation with the monks. What type of man was this newly Sainted Francesco?” asked Berlinghiero.
Bonaventura looked at the notes he had made during his conversation with the Prior in the monastery in the hills of Assisi the previous week.
“He was a very interesting man, born to a wealthy family in Assisi. His father, Pietro, was a cloth merchant who was very fond of France. In fact, he was originally baptized Giovanni Bernardone, but his father renamed him Francesco to help demonstrate his love of France and to hopefully pass along that love to his son.”
Berlinghiero listened while he straightened out the patterns on the table. Bonaventura could be such a slob when he worked.
“As a young adult, he spent most of his time drinking and carousing with a group of young people, of which he appeared to be the group leader. Like his father, he also fell in love with France, mostly the songs, the romance and particularly the troubadours who wandered through Europe. He became wealthy working in his father’s business.
“Like many wealthy men he dreamed of becoming a nobleman. He joined Assisi when they attacked the nearby town of Perugia. It was not a successful fight for Assisi, though, and they were defeated. Because of his wealth, he was captured and held for ransom. He spent almost a full year in a dungeon. After his father paid the ransom, he went back to partying with his friends.”
“Up to this point he does not sound like anything more than a spoiled, rich brat,” grunted Berlinghiero.
Bonaventura was used to his father’s blunt comments. “He still dreamed of becoming a nobleman and decided that the quickest way to do that would be to go on Crusade. He had a beautiful suit of armor, inlaid with gold, made for himself and his horse. He started on his way and had only ridden one day from Assisi when he had a dream in which God told him that he had it wrong and that he should return home. His return was not greeted fondly by the people of Assisi. He was laughed at, called a coward by the villagers, and raged at by his father for wasting so much money on his suit of armor. He was twenty five years old when this happened.”
Berlinghiero grew impatient. “Please tell me this gets better because I am starting to question why you are even painting this person.” Bonaventura had been blessed with the gift of patience, thought Berlinghiero, or so his wife constantly told him. Unfortunately, as far as he was concerned, his patience manifested itself in procrastination and an inability to get to the point. Patience may be a virtue, Berlinghiero thought, but it did not help one get work done.
“Yes, Father, it does,” defended Bonaventura. “He began praying for long periods of time and often snuck away to a cave in the hillside where he cried to God to forgive his sins. One day, when he was riding in the countryside, he came face to face with a leper. He was of course repelled by the sight and smell of the leper but nonetheless leapt from his horse and kissed the leper’s hand. The leper returned his kiss and Francis was filled with joy. As he rode off, he turned to look at the leper one last time, but even though he had only gone several paces, the leper had disappeared. He saw this as a test from God, and one that he had passed.
“While he was praying at the ancient church at San Damiano, he heard Christ on the cross talk to him and say, ‘Fix my church.’ He thought that the Lord meant the physical church itself, which had fallen into disrepair over the centuries. He sold cloth from his father’s company to repair the church. Francis’s father was furious with him and dragged him in front of the bishop.
“The bishop was kind to Francis and told him that he needed to return the money and that God would provide.�
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Berlinghiero couldn’t help himself. “Now I know the story must be fiction. I have yet to meet a bishop who willingly gave any money back to anyone.”
Bonaventura continued, undeterred. “Francis renounced his father right there in front of the crowd. He went off into the frigid woods where he was beaten and robbed of his clothes. He spent the next several months begging for stones to rebuild San Damiano church with his own hands.”
Berlinghiero sat back and laughed. “It sounds like he might have become a man of God, but he does not sound like a very good son. All his father did was provide him with a wonderful life, money, and a good career. I can see why he was so unhappy! I assume he did a number of good works after that to justify his Sainthood. They do not usually make you a Saint for wasting other people’s money and spending your life drinking and womanizing. If they did, then every father in Lucca would have at least one Saint in his house.”
Bonaventura couldn’t help himself and laughed as well. “Of course, Father. The Saint went on to live a very pious life and gathered a large following. They are even called the ‘Franciscans’. There was an interesting story about a wolf that was killing people in the village when they were out in the fields. The villagers wanted to hunt down and kill the wolf. But Saint Francis went to the wolf and talked to him about changing his ways. The wolf ended up becoming a pet of the village and the townspeople fed him and he helped protect the village. He was also known as a healer and helped cripples walk, blind men see, and also preached to the poor and ill. Apparently he was blessed at the end of his life with the Stigmata,” said Bonaventura.
“The Stigmata. So he had the wounds of Christ on the cross. That is significant. It is something that needs to be highlighted,” said Berlinghiero. “Make a note of that.”
Bonaventura grudgingly nodded his agreement. “I was not thinking of making it a focal point but perhaps you are right. At the very end of his life, he went blind. He kept on preaching and people flocked around him. He died in 1226 when he was forty-six years old. Pope Innocent III, who actually met Saint Francis, canonized him two years after his death.”
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