scholar.)
What’s that I’m holding? he said.
The heart, I said.
Oh! he said.
And this’ll be, see, here, heat, I said. As if you’reexamining a heart off which heat is rising like breath from a mouth on a cold day.
He coloured : then he gave me a wry look.
You’re a politician, Francescho, he said.
No, Mr de Prisciano, I said. A painter, by the work of my arms and hands and eyes and by the worth of the work.
But he turned his back very quick then in case I asked about the money again.
On his way down the ladder backwards he looked back up at me.
Keep it up, he said.
Then he winked.
So to speak, he said.
(One night I came through the curtain over the month room door, it was only midnight, not late, a good damp night and very few others working cause I preferred it when quiet, but as I came down the room I saw by the shadows the swing of a torch up on one of the platforms at the far end of the room : I stayed in the dark by the foot of the scaffolding : the Falcon, I could hear, was somewhere up there speaking to someone –
Veneziano, yes. Piero, certainly. Castagno, maybe some Flems, certainly a bit of Mantegna, Donatello. But as if, your Grace, the work’s soaked itself deep in them all but then washed itself new and clean and come up with a freshness like nothing I’ve ever.
Your
Grace
.
Yes, the other said. I’m not sure I like the way he’s done my face.
There’s a charm, the Falcon said. A great, I don’t know what else to call it. Likeableness.
Must never underestimate charm, the other said.
Lightness of spirit, the Falcon said. Not got from anyone. Not Piero. Not Flemish.
The women’s clothes are very fine, the other said. But am I well starred throughout? The auspices? And how like the gods? I mean in inference?
Very, your Grace, but very human all the same, the Falcon said. A rare thing, to be able to do gods and humans both, no?
Hm, the other said.
Look at this woman and this child here, just standing, but in such a choreography, the Falcon said. It’s motherhood. But it’s more than motherhood. It’s as if they’re in a conversation, but a conversation made of stance.
And does this particular painter do any more of me? the other said.
Yes, your Grace, the Falcon said
and I heard them move on the platform and I ducked into the shadow of the wall.
Who is he, then, the lad? the other said then as the ladder beneath him creaked.
Not a lad at all, your Grace, the Falcon said.
I held my breath.
– full-fledgedpainter, well over 30 years, the Falcon said.
What’s his looks like? the other said.
Youthful in demeanour, sir, the Falcon said. Girlish, you might say. Youthful in the work, too. Freshness all through it. Freshness and maturity both.
What’s he called? the other said.
I heard the Falcon tell him –
and not long after, since the Falcon had liked Cosmo’s St Giorgio so much, I figured him into the fresco again, this time in the month of March (the part of the wall my work was at its best), this time as a falconer with his clothes winged up like the falcon on his hand and the torch bearer drawing he’d liked and I sat him on a horse with a stance a bit like Cosmo’s Giorgio : I made him young and vigorous : I gave him a tasselled hunting glove : above all I made the balls on his horse good and large.)
Painting the months took months.
I made things look both close and distant.
In the upper space I gave the unicorns translucent horns.
In the lower space I gave the horses eyes that can follow you round the room, cause those are the God eyes and whoever has them in a painting or fresco holds the eyes of whoever looks at the work, and this is no blasphemy, merely a reasserting ofthe power of the gaze back at us from outside us always on us.
I painted the differing skies of May and April and lastly March (cause I progressed from May to March and grew more used to the plaster from each to each, which made the work flourish) : I dared paint, in Venus’s upper
What’s that I’m holding? he said.
The heart, I said.
Oh! he said.
And this’ll be, see, here, heat, I said. As if you’reexamining a heart off which heat is rising like breath from a mouth on a cold day.
He coloured : then he gave me a wry look.
You’re a politician, Francescho, he said.
No, Mr de Prisciano, I said. A painter, by the work of my arms and hands and eyes and by the worth of the work.
But he turned his back very quick then in case I asked about the money again.
On his way down the ladder backwards he looked back up at me.
Keep it up, he said.
Then he winked.
So to speak, he said.
(One night I came through the curtain over the month room door, it was only midnight, not late, a good damp night and very few others working cause I preferred it when quiet, but as I came down the room I saw by the shadows the swing of a torch up on one of the platforms at the far end of the room : I stayed in the dark by the foot of the scaffolding : the Falcon, I could hear, was somewhere up there speaking to someone –
Veneziano, yes. Piero, certainly. Castagno, maybe some Flems, certainly a bit of Mantegna, Donatello. But as if, your Grace, the work’s soaked itself deep in them all but then washed itself new and clean and come up with a freshness like nothing I’ve ever.
Your
Grace
.
Yes, the other said. I’m not sure I like the way he’s done my face.
There’s a charm, the Falcon said. A great, I don’t know what else to call it. Likeableness.
Must never underestimate charm, the other said.
Lightness of spirit, the Falcon said. Not got from anyone. Not Piero. Not Flemish.
The women’s clothes are very fine, the other said. But am I well starred throughout? The auspices? And how like the gods? I mean in inference?
Very, your Grace, but very human all the same, the Falcon said. A rare thing, to be able to do gods and humans both, no?
Hm, the other said.
Look at this woman and this child here, just standing, but in such a choreography, the Falcon said. It’s motherhood. But it’s more than motherhood. It’s as if they’re in a conversation, but a conversation made of stance.
And does this particular painter do any more of me? the other said.
Yes, your Grace, the Falcon said
and I heard them move on the platform and I ducked into the shadow of the wall.
Who is he, then, the lad? the other said then as the ladder beneath him creaked.
Not a lad at all, your Grace, the Falcon said.
I held my breath.
– full-fledgedpainter, well over 30 years, the Falcon said.
What’s his looks like? the other said.
Youthful in demeanour, sir, the Falcon said. Girlish, you might say. Youthful in the work, too. Freshness all through it. Freshness and maturity both.
What’s he called? the other said.
I heard the Falcon tell him –
and not long after, since the Falcon had liked Cosmo’s St Giorgio so much, I figured him into the fresco again, this time in the month of March (the part of the wall my work was at its best), this time as a falconer with his clothes winged up like the falcon on his hand and the torch bearer drawing he’d liked and I sat him on a horse with a stance a bit like Cosmo’s Giorgio : I made him young and vigorous : I gave him a tasselled hunting glove : above all I made the balls on his horse good and large.)
Painting the months took months.
I made things look both close and distant.
In the upper space I gave the unicorns translucent horns.
In the lower space I gave the horses eyes that can follow you round the room, cause those are the God eyes and whoever has them in a painting or fresco holds the eyes of whoever looks at the work, and this is no blasphemy, merely a reasserting ofthe power of the gaze back at us from outside us always on us.
I painted the differing skies of May and April and lastly March (cause I progressed from May to March and grew more used to the plaster from each to each, which made the work flourish) : I dared paint, in Venus’s upper
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