Painter of Time

by Matthew O'Connell

  Sunday services at San Frediano were typically well attended, but today the congregation was especially large. In addition to a considerable number of worshippers, a dedicated group of both Benedictine and Franciscan monks were also in attendance because this was to be followed by a formal unveiling ceremony and banquet for Bonaventura’s panel honoring Saint Francis.

  The panel itself was standing on the right side of the altar, covered with a shimmering red silk sheet. When the mass ended, the congregation exited the church and milled about in the large piazza outside. Inside, church workers readied it for the unveiling ceremony. They closed the large, intricately carved wood screen, or tramezzo, which divided the chancel or altar area from the nave where the congregation sat. In this way, the church was transformed into a large ornately decorated meeting hall.

  It was not uncommon for the church to be used for more secular gatherings such as town meetings or guild meetings. The church not only provided one of the largest enclosed places for people to meet, but its construction was funded largely by contributions made by guild members and other citizens. It served as an integral part of the community.

  The choice of San Frediano for today’s ceremony was in many ways more out of convenience as well as respect to Berlinghiero himself. After all, the church in which it would formally reside, San Francesco in Pescia, was not yet complete. The altarpiece would therefore reside at San Frediano for the next several years until another formal ceremony could be held in Pescia.

  Berlinghiero always enjoyed unveiling ceremonies, now even more than when he was a young artist. Back then he was so nervous, hoping that people would find his painting to be worthwhile, that he couldn’t enjoy the splendor of the whole event. Now, having established himself as the premier artist in Lucca, he carried a quiet confidence that gave him perspective. He was able to look around, to appreciate the spectacle of richly dressed nobility and merchants mingling with high-ranking church officials. It was an opportunity for everyone in the community, or at least the wealthy ones, to connect with old friends, meet new ones, share the latest news of the day, much of which was nothing more than gossip. Nonetheless, it was a feast day. People turned out in mass and there was great festivity. By this point in his life he knew that most of the people were less interested in the artistic value of the piece being unveiled than about whom they were able to talk with and be seen with, but he didn’t care. He, and now his son Bonaventura, were why such events were possible. Despite the superficial nature of the whole gala, at its core was a work of art. That, if nothing else, was something that they could control.

  Preparations were finished and the congregation was ushered back into the church. Bonaventura stood just in front of the altar area to the left of his still covered panel. He looked uncomfortable with all of the attention directed towards him. He was used to the quiet of the studio, not the stage. Next to him were several wealthy benefactors who had helped finance the painting. On the right side of the panel stood the local prior as well as a bishop from Pescia, two Franciscans in brown robes and a Benedictine monk.

  After several minutes of introduction and explanation by the prior, who loved being at the center of such events, they were ready to unveil the artwork. As was the artist’s honor, Bonaventura took hold of a silk tie at the bottom of the sheet and, with a nod from the bishop, pulled firmly. The cloth fell gracefully to the floor in red shimmering folds. The massive panel with its brilliant gold leaf illuminated the front of the church, giving off what would later be recounted by observers as a “divine aura.” The entire audience took in a collective breath and stared in wonder at the beauty of the panel and the figure of St. Francis at its center. The silence was broken by applause that came first from the bishops and then from the rest of the congregation. The applause rolled through the basilica. There were shouts of joy and bravo, unbecoming of a church service but quite appropriate at an unveiling. People made the sign of the cross and bowed their heads. Somewhere in the back a woman swooned and was caught by the man next to her. Bonaventura peered out at the audience, bowing slightly, as his father had instructed him.

  Berlinghiero looked around him and took in the entire spectacle with great pleasure. Well-wishers shook his hand, kissed his cheeks, and patted his shoulder in congratulations. The adulation was, of course, directed at his son and he absorbed it, as would any proud father.

  The congregation was invited by the bishop to come closer and see the painting in more detail. The pews emptied rapidly as lines formed to make their way to the altar and view the icon up close. A throng of people moved towards the painting and to Bonaventura as well. He was soon surrounded by a crowd of admirers. They were quick to shake his hand and express how much the painting moved them and did service to the saint. He accepted their thanks while at the same time looking ill at ease. Berlinghiero couldn’t help but feel for Bonaventura. He knew what it was like to have strangers grasping at you like they were trying to touch the relics of a dead saint. He originally hated the feeling. It scared him. He grew to accept it, although it was never comfortable for him. He imagined that Bonaventura would never get used to it. He was a shy boy who was happy to stand in his father’s shadow. But now he was the one casting the shadow, leaving no place for him to hide.

  After the crowds left, Berlinghiero stood alone by Bonaventura’s side next to the panel.

  “This was a huge success!” he exclaimed with his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You need to relish days like this. Your name will now be famous as will this panel. The offers for new paintings will start rolling in and you will be able to set your price.”

  Bonaventura, still looking lost, said, “Thank you, Father, I am glad that you are happy.” He paused a bit, biting his lower lip, trying to find the right words. “But I do not paint to make money or to be famous. That became even clearer to me today. This ceremony seemed hollow to me because this was really the painting you wanted to paint, not the one I wanted to. I painted it as you instructed and you were correct, it was received very well, probably more than any painting I would have done on my own.”

  Berlinghiero could not believe his ears. This should have been one of the happiest moments of his son’s life and yet he acted like he was at a funeral rather than a celebration. But he knew Bonaventura. He was dutiful but he was also dark. He was never truly happy with anything. Fame and fortune were something that would take him a while to embrace.

  “Bonaventura, you are talking nonsense,” interrupted Berlinghiero. “This is your painting and the adoration is for you, not for me. You will be a famous painter because of this and you will carry on the Berlinghieri name with pride.”

  At his father’s words, Bonaventura looked down at his hands that were folded in front of him and then looked up at his father.

  “I understand that, Father, and I will always do everything in my power to bring honor to our family name. But being wealthy or becoming famous is not why I paint.”

  “Then why in the world do you paint?” he asked his son.

  “Because I love to paint. I love creating something beautiful that did not exist before. I love taking what I see and making it come to life. When I paint, I feel alive. I feel happy. If people like what I have painted, that is wonderful. But if I feel that I painted something to the best of my ability, then I am content. Whether people like it or not is out of my control at that point.”

  Ah, so that was it, thought Berlinghiero, the guilt of the true artist who feels that commercial success must mean that you have traded your soul for a bag of gold.

  “Of course, that is one of the great things about art, to create something new and original. I understand that and feel the same way. But people obviously love your work. They will have banquets for you. Bishops and noblemen will seek you out. They will praise your work and call you a master. You will be famous throughout Tuscany. Certainly, you cannot ignore that there are benefits to being well received.”

  Bonaventura listened closely to his father’s words
with reddened eyes. He had heard these same words many times.

  “I am happy that my work has been received positively by people, and I hope that it is seen positively hundreds of years from now. But those external factors are why I am allowed to paint, not why I paint. If I am afforded a good income for myself and my family because people like my work, then I will be eternally thankful. But being an artist must be something personal, something you feel. I do not know how else to say this, Father, but I need to paint. If I could not paint, I would fade away and cease to be who I am. Being a painter defines my existence.”

  Berlinghiero listened to his son and saw the pain in his face. Bonaventura had always been loyal to him and obeyed him without question. Had he steered him astray? Had he pushed him down a path that he would not have chosen on his own? All Berlinghiero wanted was success for his sons. Was that wrong? How could a father be blamed for wanting his sons to be successful, to have more than their father? What was true art after all? Being a true and pure artist was a noble concept, but at some point you still needed to feed your family ad make a name for yourself. Bonaventura would understand in time. He was sure of it.

  Chapter 8

  Mackenzie and her father sat at the kitchen table. A bowl of mixed green salad sat in the center alongside a rectangular casserole dish with bubbly hot goulash, one of her father’s favorite dishes. She had convinced him that it would be a good idea to have the side salad even though his goulash “Already had a bunch of vegetables in it.” It was a small victory on the road to healthy eating that she knew would have made her mom proud. She had to admit that she loved coming home to hot casseroles, even in the summer. It reminded her of growing up when one of her parents, usually her mom, would have been responsible for dinner. They always ate together. It was part of who they were as a family and something she cherished.

  While her mother was alive, her father’s cooking had consisted of hamburgers, meatloaf, spaghetti and meatballs, the occasional steak, and goulash. Since he took over full time cooking duty following her mom’s passing, he had broadened his repertoire, but not by much. Mackenzie had a glass of red wine and her father had a cold can of Budweiser. Octavius had already eaten his canned food for the evening and was now curled up in one of the kitchen chairs. He seemed to enjoy evening meals with the family as well.

  “I was talking with Tom Lombardi down the street today,” her father said, after finishing a mouthful of goulash. He had eaten about three pieces of lettuce to satisfy Mackenzie and was into his third helping of “real food.” “He asked how you were doing and I told him that you were working at the Cloisters as a restorer. He said, ‘Wow Joe, that’s top end in that field.’ I told him I didn’t really know what the hell you did but it had something to do with fixing old paintings. He said that there are probably about ten places in the whole world that restore paintings on the level that they do at the Cloisters.” He paused and took a sip from his Bud. “Didn’t know he knew anything about art or art restoration. Sort of caught me by surprise. But then, hell, he’s drunk half the time anyway, so I’m not sure what to make of it. Anyway, he was pretty impressed.”

  Mackenzie smiled to herself while she listened to her dad. She knew how satisfied that comment from Mr. Lombardi must have made him. Her dad didn’t brag about his daughter because that would be like bragging about himself, and he certainly never did that. This was his way of telling her how proud he was of her.

  “Yeah, the Cloisters is one of the top conservatories in the world and in terms of Middle Ages artwork from Europe, it’s probably number one or number two.” She was careful not to boast because he wouldn’t approve of it.

  “So you’ve been there for two months. How are things going? You settling in all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m working with some people that just totally blow me away and the artwork that we get to work on is incredible. I’m working on a famous Italian artwork from the thirteenth century right now.”

  They ate quietly for a while. It was always like this when they ate together. Sporadic conversation mixed in with focused eating.

  “Sounds pretty good, I guess. Thirteenth century's pretty old,” said her father after making it through most of his plate of goulash.

  “Yes and no,” admitted Mackenzie. “When I say that I’m restoring a thirteenth century painting, I should really say that I’m serving as the personal assistant to the person who’s restoring it.”

  “And who’s actually doing the work, that you were just about to take credit for?” asked her father with a smile without looking up from his plate.

  “His name is Anthony and he’s Italian. He looks to be in his early thirties, but he’s so worldly and knowledgeable that he seems like he’s at least twenty years older. He’s an incredible artist, and not particularly bad looking either.” Mackenzie couldn’t help but giggle when she said this.

  “Ah, looks like you have fallen for the charms of the sophisticated European man. Tell me more of this Don Juan, or should I say Don Giovanni.”

  “His name is Anthony Bataglia. He’s here on loan from the Ufizzi. He only works on Italian paintings between 1200 and 1500, but for that particular niche, he’s considered one of the best in the world, if not the best. Seriously, we get museums all around the world to loan us priceless works of art just so that he can restore them.”

  “I can see why you’re enjoying your work. What a name, Anthony Bataglia. You sure he’s not Cosa Nostra or anything, right? Maybe he goes by Little Tony Bats and does some cleanup work for Tony Soprano.”

  “You’re funny. Anyway, he is so experienced at these types of restorations that I’ve spent the past two months taking notes, helping him mix pigment with egg yolks, and cleaning his brushes in turpentine. That’s pretty much what I am at this point, a painter’s helper. Heck, I’m not even sure I’m that good at doing those things,” continued Mackenzie, sounding dejected.

  “Kenz, you’ve only been doing this for two months!” encouraged her father. “You didn’t think they were going to hand you a thirteenth century painting and just say, ‘Fix it,’ did you?”

  “I guess not,” she said, frowning and taking a bite of salad. “I just thought I’d be doing more than mixing paints and cleaning brushes. Do you know that we’ve spent three weeks, eight hours a day, just mixing paints and testing them out on canvas surfaces to see how they will look? The first week was terrible. No matter how I mixed it, he hated it. Too thin, too thick, too pasty, too dark, too light. I thought I would die.”

  “Boo hoo,” chided her father. “Listen to yourself. You said this guy is one of the tops in the field, maybe the top. He’s giving you a chance to learn his craft, and you’re bitching about it. Three weeks is nothing when you consider you’re trying to match the color and texture of a seven hundred year old painting with something you mix up today. I’m surprised it only took that long.”

  “I know, you’re right,” Mackenzie grudgingly admitted. “I think my problem is that I was trying to impress him and in reality I’m just an extra thumb. He could have mixed all of it up by himself in a day or so and been done with the damn thing already. I’m just holding him back.”

  “Well, you’re probably right about that,” nodded Joe.

  “Nice! Thanks for your support,” Mackenzie laughed. Her dad always knew how to bring her back to reality.

  “But he must like you or think there’s something there, or he wouldn’t spend the time working with you. You should see that as the compliment it really is. Maybe he likes you, ever think of that?”

  “I’m not sure that he thinks of me that way.”

  “You want me to slip him a note during recess and see if he likes you?” asked her father, snickering. “Seriously, if you like the guy and you want to see if likes you, you need to slowly raise the heat a bit and see how he reacts. If he’s interested in you, he should respond in kind. I’ve never known Italian guys to miss those types of cues.”

  Her father finished off his plate of goulash
, pushed his chair back from the table and took a big swig from his beer. It always amazed Mackenzie that a man with the eating habits of a truck driver could have such good insights into human behavior.

  Chapter 9

  Anthony and Mackenzie put the finishing touches on the Berlinghiero restoration and she subsequently found herself with nothing to work on. Mackenzie was anxious to keep moving forward, to learn more, and to hopefully do more. Grinding pigments had been a real learning experience, and watching Anthony work was a treat. But she felt like she was doing just that, watching. Fortunately, the first person she reached out to, Ariadne, was working on an authentication project and said she’d be happy to have Mackenzie help out. Authentication was more investigative work than restoration, which appealed to her inner detective. At least she wouldn’t have to grind pigments for a while.

  The two of them sat in front of a late fifteenth century wood panel. The painting depicted a bearded man, likely a saint, given his halo, dressed in green with a red cape holding a gold chalice filled with snakes. He appeared to be blessing a dour yet attractive woman dressed in black robes and ermine cuffs, indicating royalty, who was kneeling with her hands held together in prayer. Behind them was a castle on a lake set in rolling fields studded with trees. It was in excellent condition. This was definitely not in need of any restoration. The colors were vivid and the images were sharp.

  “The Cloisters is in the midst of buying this and several other pieces from the estate of a wealthy family from Avignon in the south of France. They’ve asked me to authenticate this and two other pieces before they finalize the deal,” Ariadne explained to Mackenzie as they looked over the painting, which sat on an easel in the corner of the workroom, where most of the sophisticated equipment was kept. Mackenzie hadn’t spent much time in this part of the workshop. It was tucked away from most of the other restorers in what was almost a cave-like alcove with little natural light. Several moveable floor lamps provided most of the light, allowing the restorer more control over how much and what type of light was directed at the artwork in question.