Chapter 10
Mackenzie looked up casually from her magazine and was surprised to see Anthony standing next to her desk. She hadn’t heard him coming and wasn’t sure how long he had been there. It was a pleasant surprise but it was also a bit unnerving. She had just finished working on the authentication project with Ariadne and had some down time until a new project came her way. She spent it reading about the latest developments on image enhancement and restoration in the Journal of Conservation and Museum Studies.
“Good morning, Mackenzie. I am sorry if I startled you. You seem engrossed in your studies.”
Mackenzie looked down at her journal and then at Anthony, trying not to blush. “It’s nothing important. I was just trying to catch up on some reading that I’m behind on.”
“I was not sure if you had any availability, but I have a new project that I thought you might be interested in working on with me.” He paused, and smiled. “Assuming the last project was not too painful an experience.”
Mackenzie actually had mixed emotions. On the one hand, she enjoyed working with Anthony, and she always learned an awful lot. At the same time, working with him could be excruciating. She thought her father was demanding but he was a pushover compared with Anthony. She always thought of herself as a perfectionist but Anthony was borderline clinical. He was an unyielding and relentless taskmaster, not just for her, but for himself as well. Signing up to work with him was like re-upping for boot camp. But she figured it was probably worth it, or at least it was worth it most of the time.
“I’d love to,” she said hiding any misgivings. “I just finished up a project with Ariadne. I’m all yours!” She hoped that hadn’t come across like a schoolgirl with a crush, like it sounded in her head. She also wondered what he would say when she mentioned Ariadne’s name. Clearly Ariadne was not a huge Anthony Bataglia fan. Mackenzie was curious to see if he shared those feelings.
“Wonderful, meet me here tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. sharp.” He turned and calmly walked away. It seemed that either he didn’t really care about Ariadne one way or another, or he did and definitely didn’t want to talk about it.
The next morning they met just before nine. They made their way through the hallway and to the elevator.
“Are you going to tell me what the project is or are you going to keep me guessing?” she finally asked.
Anthony smiled. “I am not trying to be secretive, but I think that being surprised is an under-appreciated emotion. Do you not agree?”
“Just as long as that surprise doesn’t involve spiders falling from the ceiling or crazy men tapping me on the shoulder in the street at night, then yeah, I do like surprises.”
“Well, you know this is an old building. I cannot guarantee that there are no spiders lurking in the rafters just waiting to drop onto you. But I think this will be a pleasant surprise, no arachnids or crazy men.”
When the elevator door opened, there was a man standing behind a dolly that held a large wooden box, which Mackenzie knew was the way that paintings, especially rare, expensive, old ones were transported.
“Thank you, Thomas, I can take it from here,” said Anthony to the man.
“Certainly, Mr. Bataglia. I’ll just need your signature here,” responded the man as he handed Anthony an electronic pad for him to sign.
Once the artwork had been signed for and transferred over to Anthony, they headed back to the elevator with the painting on the dolly. When they arrived back at the lower level, they slowly wheeled their precious cargo to an empty table that Anthony had cleared off and prepared earlier. Takeshi, the Japanese restorer, and Ariadne saw them and came over to help lift the crate onto the table. While it was large and bulky, it wasn’t particularly heavy, especially for four people. It was best practice to have more people than necessary involved whenever artwork was being lifted, flipped over, moved, etc. Better to have one extra hand than one too few. Dropping a five-hundred-year-old painting was not something that anyone would forgive or want to live with.
They slowly made their way through the uncrating process. For Mackenzie, it was like opening a present on Christmas morning. She had always peeled away the paper delicately, taking off the cellophane tape so slowly that it wouldn’t tear the wrapping paper, folding the paper neatly before attacking the box itself.
Eventually they had made their way through the outside crate to the more form-fitted, customized cedar box and then through the wrapping and padding material that actually surrounded the painting itself. All of the conservators in the room came over to watch as Anthony peeled off the final layers to reveal the artwork below. They were all art lovers and artists in their own right, so of course they loved moments like this. It was one of the most exhilarating moments in time in what was often a slow and tedious, although rewarding, job.
The painting itself was wrapped in a thin opaque protective paper that had been sealed. They could see that there was a painting underneath it but you couldn’t make out much beyond that. Anthony turned to Mackenzie. “The honor is yours, Miss Ferrara.”
Mackenzie was nervous, but she was also very excited. She carefully pulled on both sides of the seam and a piece of art emerged before their eyes.
It wasn’t a large painting, about 171/2" x 28". It was held in a wooden frame embossed with gold leaf. Despite its age, the colors were spectacular. The striking gold leaf background contrasted beautifully with the vivid reds, greens and gold of the figures in the scene. There was clearly some fading and modest blistering on the right hand side, which was likely the reason for it being sent to them.
The left side was dominated by two figures, both angels, along with a figure in the upper left corner who appeared to be a representation of the adult Jesus or potentially a representation of God. On the right side stood a solitary figure, Mary, the eventual mother of Jesus, dressed in dark green robes.
The angel in front of Mary wore a long rose colored silk robe with a lime green lining over a gold long sleeve tunic. His wings were striped green, rose, and gold. The three-dimensionality of the folds in his robes demonstrated the growing sophistication of late pre-Renaissance painters. The second angel, who knelt slightly behind the first, wore a bright red robe with a forest green collar. His wings were green and gold.
There were clear, laser-like rays of light coming from the mouth and hands of the undefined being in the upper left hand corner, who wore a pink robe and appeared to emerge from a dark green opening in the gold leaf sky.
Mary sat with an open book on her lap in a dark green hooded robe inside a white and gold wood frame enclosure, much like a flat roofed gazebo. The walls of the gazebo were lined with a green and red flower pattern. Mary sat on a red platform patterned with green squares.
It was beautiful, Mackenzie thought. It had that ethereal, otherworldly quality that late, pre-Renaissance and early Renaissance artwork possessed. Somehow it was magical, like Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.
After carefully setting the painting on the worktable, Anthony turned to Mackenzie.
“I do not mean to put you on the spot, but as the newest member of the group it is only fitting for a bit of professional hazing. Do you recognize this painting?”
Mackenzie looked closely, deep into analysis mode. Clearly it was the annunciation, but the annunciation was one of the most frequent topics in all of Christian art and had been covered by the greatest artists of all time, from Botticelli to Caravaggio and Da Vinci. The earliest appearance dated to fourth century frescoes. This, however, was definitely much later than the fourth century.
She studied the work a bit more before making her guess. She had performed this same exercise dozens of times in art history classes. It wasn’t uncommon to be put on the hot seat in front of the class and asked to identify a painting or a painter. In fact, she didn’t mind it at all because she tended to be quite good at it. Her father had nurtured her deductive reasoning skills from a very early age.
After about forty-five seconds of careful
perusal of the entire piece, she was fairly sure of her answer, but she wanted to toss out a few possibilities as backups, just in case.
“I’m going to say that it is a fourteenth century work, which removes Fra Angelico, who painted primarily in the fifteenth century. I would guess that it is either by Simone Martini or Bernardo Daddi, who both painted an annunciation scene between 1330 and 1340.” She paused and looked at Anthony. “I’m going to go with Daddi.”
Anthony nodded approvingly.
“Very nice analysis. You are right that Martini’s work is very similar to this and was painted at almost the same time, in 1335. But Martini’s annunciation is a large triptych while this is obviously not. Therefore your very educated guess of Daddi is correct. Are there any other observations about the painting that you would like to share?”
Emboldened by his compliment, Mackenzie nodded in the affirmative. At last, she thought, perhaps this was her chance to show him that she actually did know something.
“Yes, in fact there are some very interesting points about this painting that are common to most annunciation scenes, especially those of the pre-Renaissance.” She looked at it again and began talking to no one in particular.
“According to the gospel of Luke, the archangel Gabriel was sent by God to inform Mary that she had been chosen above all women to be the mother of the savior of the world, Jesus Christ. Gabriel is represented here as the angel in front of Mary. You can see that he holds a lily branch, which represents the eternal purity of the Virgin Mary. Gabriel was sent to the town of Galilee, to a virgin betrothed to a man named Joseph, of the house of David. He came upon Mary who was reading a book in her courtyard, and said to her, ‘Ave, gratia plena. Dominus tecum.’ ‘Hail, full of grace; the Lord is with thee.’
“The angel behind Gabriel is Mary’s guardian angel. The figure in the upper left is the adult Jesus, who points to Mary signaling that she has been chosen as his mother. There is a small green Seraph, one of the caretakers of God’s throne.’
She pointed out several additional features to the group, who listened intently.
“You’ll notice that there is a clear distinction between the gold leaf on the left hand side from that of the right, where Mary sits. There’s no gold leaf at all on the right side. This is a remnant of the classical Byzantine separation of heaven, the divine, from the secular earth. Later Renaissance painters, including Giotto, would move away from this distinction of the divine and the secular.
“Very astute observations,” admitted Anthony. Mackenzie tried not to blush at his praise, but she knew she probably was in spite of herself.
Anthony continued. “There is an interesting feature of this particular painting that has probably been lost over time. Gabriel holds a lily flower, which is the classical representation of purity, and which appears in almost all subsequent annunciation scenes. But the lily flower, or fleurs-de-lis, was also the heraldic symbol of Florence at the time. If this had been painted by an artist from Siena, Gabriel would have held an olive branch, which would have represented Siena,” Anthony added and then turned to Mackenzie.
“Well, Miss Ferrara, let us get started on this. We need to get it X-rayed, scoped and documented to see what needs to be done.”
“I’ll get everything set up,” replied Mackenzie, still feeling the excitement of the moment. He had actually said the word astute about her comments. Thank goodness she had studied hard in school. It was times like these that made those sleepless nights sipping stale coffee and eating packets of twenty-five-cent ramen noodles seem worthwhile.
But why did she care so much what this man thought about her, especially about her intellect, pondered Mackenzie as she started on her preparations. Was it because she doubted herself? Didn’t everyone? He was too young to be a father figure, and besides, she already had a very well established father figure. No, this was different. She worked hard to please her father. He had always wanted her to follow in his footsteps and become a detective. He had taught her how to think like a detective, how to dissect complex problems into small pieces and then assemble those pieces into a solution. But being a detective wasn’t really what she wanted to do. She was good at solving problems, she knew that. She was also good at art, maybe not good enough to make a living as an artist, but good nonetheless. Maybe she wanted Anthony’s respect because he was himself respected in the field she had chosen for herself. It meant validation of the career choices she had made. Perhaps it was because he didn’t give out praise easily, or at least that was what she had been told by the other restorers. Maybe it was part of all of those things, and possibly something more.
Chapter 11
Florence, Italy, September 1312
It was that time of day when afternoon and evening challenge each other for supremacy. Afternoon had lost all but its last remnants of heat and raw energy while evening had not yet truly emerged with its calming darkness. The day’s heat had quickly subsided and calmness settled on the bustling city. Merchants still hawked their wares to the ever-diminishing passersby. Smells of garlic, olive oil, fish, grilled meats, and sautéing vegetables filled the air. Of course mingled in with those more pleasant aromas were the acrid smells of horse manure, rotting garbage, and open sewage.
Bernardo Daddi sat at a corner table in a small enotecca, locked in conversation with another man. In front of them on the table were two silver chalices of red wine, a plate of bright green olives, and a platter of warm crusty Tuscan bread, along with a ceramic bowl of pungent freshly pressed olive oil. To the other patrons, they were simply two well-to-do gentlemen, relaxing after a day of work with a simple antipasti and some refreshment before dinner. To those who knew better, they were two of that city’s and, indeed, the entire city-state of Florence’s most renowned artists. Daddi’s companion was an older man, dressed in forest green stockings, a deep blue tunic with a flowing crimson cape. He was the city’s most well known artist. His name was Giotto di Bondone, but his fame was such that those who knew him, or knew of him, simply called him Giotto. In years to come he would take over the design and construction of the duomo, the largest cathedral in all of Italy and, at that time, the world.
Daddi, a young man in his early thirties, was quickly gaining renown among the city’s art community, and was himself a disciple of the great Giotto.
But as they sat there, they were simply two men discussing their trade.
“It is still too Byzantine. It is two-dimensional and lifeless. You have to move forward in order to grow,” said Giotto as he bit into a green olive dripping with oil and fresh rosemary.
“You keep saying that, but the modern paintings lack the grandeur, the splendor of their predecessors. They are not worthy of the honor bestowed on those masterpieces. The masses want to be awed and inspired, not just to look at images of things they see every day,” protested Daddi.
“Do not get me wrong, my friend,” said Giotto calmly, as he took a deep pull of his wine. “Those artists are indeed masters in their own rights. They have brought us beauty and reverence. When I look at the altarpiece in Pescia by Berlinghieri, I am humbled.” Giotto paused. “The first time I saw the way he painted the Saint in such grandeur, I was almost brought to tears. I felt the same way when I looked upon the work of his father, Berlinghiero, who was clearly the superior artist. His Madonna and Child influenced artists for the past fifty years.” Giotto poured off the remainder of the carafe of wine, took another long sip, and slowly chewed on an olive and moved the pit with his tongue. “But, Bernardo, we must move on. While I love the works of the Byzantine masters, they create awe through their use of colors, not by reflecting reality. I was awed, yes, but I also knew that it was not what I wanted to paint. Look closely and you will see that all of the faces, everyone in those paintings are the same.” He waved over the server to bring them more bread and wine, both of which he dug into eagerly.
“Of course they are,” countered Daddi, sipping his wine at a decidedly slower pace than his master. “They
were painted based on style books. Everyone used them. The faces themselves were not important. They are just elements of the overall effect of the painting. Just like gold leaf is an element, the indigo, the angels above the saint, the intricate borders, each thing onto itself is just part of the whole. The overall effect and how it makes the observer feel is what is important.”
“Of course, that is true. But if all the pieces make up the overall effect, why not make all of the individual pieces as good as they can be? Why not give life and emotion to each of the individuals in the painting? Why not make them seem real, lifelike? Does that detract from the overall effect of the painting?” Giotto tore off a large piece of the thick crusted, rustic bread and plunged it into the bowl of pungent olive oil, and then threw the whole chunk into his mouth and chewed voraciously as the viscous oil dripped from his lips. He took a deep pull of his wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and continued.
“Look at what they were doing in Rome, and Greece well before the Byzantine artists. They were able to capture human emotion better than any of us and that was centuries, no, millennia ago.” He slapped his hand down on the table excitedly, which elicited stares from several of the patrons. “We need to bring back emotion, reality. That is what stirs the hearts of men.” He tapped his heart with his fist to bring home the point.
Daddi sat back in his chair and took a long pull from his chalice. He nodded to Giotto, and to himself. Daddi felt like a wise child who has been exposed to a new truth that had shattered and disrupted his comfortable world. He knew it to be true. Whether he truly understood it or not, he knew that what he had heard was the truth and that what he had believed before then was wrong, or if not wrong, then incomplete. He needed time to assimilate this new information into his worldview. He never stopped being impressed with Giotto’s insights, nor by his seemingly endless ability to drink copious amounts of wine and remain cogent. Most mortals would have dropped by this point, but Daddi knew that Giotto was just warming up.
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