works of art because he is inspired by love, then this is a gift from God that none of us has the right to question. Whom he chooses as his muse is not my business, nor yours. And how he chooses to love that muse is even less for us to consider or judge. Love is love. It is God-given, and a sacrament. It is not for any man to judge. I stand by that pronouncement, and I stand by the fact that I thank God every day for any man who can love so deeply that he is able to create art that is so very obviously divine!”
Only silence greeted the end of Cosimo’s speech, for what man could argue with the eloquence of what had just been invoked within that chamber?
Donatello was pardoned and Lorenzo was left with one of the most powerful lessons of his life, along with a piece of wisdom that rang in his ears for the rest of his days.
Love is love. It is God-given, and a sacrament. It is not for any man to judge.
Lorenzo accompanied his grandfather to Donatello’s studio to advise the artist of the positive outcome. The door to his workshop was opened not by the temperamental artist himself but by a calm and friendly face, a man Lorenzo had met on other occasions and liked tremendously. He was Andrea del Verrocchio, a master sculptor and art teacher in his own right, but more important, he was a key member of the Order and one of Cosimo’s most trusted artists. Verrocchio had once been apprenticed to Donatello and was one of the few who ever survived the maelstrom.
“Andrea, what a wonderful surprise!” Cosimo embraced the tall man with the gentle demeanor. “What kind of torment do you inflict upon yourself that you return to be abused by your former master?”
“I heard that!” The unmistakable voice of Donatello rang out from the adjacent room.
“You were meant to,” Cosimo shouted back. “And do let us know if you intend to grace us with your presence, will you? I have a commission for you, but I can give it to Andrea here if you prefer.”
They could hear the grumbling and scurrying in the other room. For all Donatello’s temperament, he worshipped Cosimo and would never keep him waiting too long.
Verrocchio turned to call forward a young man, a teenager who was grinding pigments across the room. The youth was beautiful; covered in golden curls and with deep-set amber eyes, he had the appearance of a young lion. The young man stood up and smiled a crooked, endearing smile at the visitors. He came forward, bowed gracefully in obvious recognition of the esteemed company, but then looked down at his hands apologetically. “Vermilion. It is messy, so I dare not touch anything or anyone.”
Verrocchio made the introductions. “Cosimo and Lorenzo de’ Medici, I present to you Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi. We call him Sandro. You shall be hearing more from him and soon, as I can say with absolute certainty that I have not before seen such raw natural talent in an apprentice, perhaps ever.”
Sandro, well aware of his talent yet determined to appear humble,made a face at Lorenzo and shrugged. It was a self-effacing yet strangely confident gesture for one so young. Lorenzo laughed, liking him immediately, and asked Sandro to show him how the messy vermilion pigment was made. Lorenzo had grown up splattered with paint, watching in awe all the great artists who were integral to the Medici household and protected by Cosimo and Piero alike. He had always been fascinated by the pounding of minerals and the elaborate mixing that went into the creation of the paint and was excited at the prospect of getting his own hands a little dirty.
Cosimo raised a questioning eyebrow in Sandro’s direction as the boys wandered off. Verrocchio explained in a lowered voice. “He’s extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not just his talent but his understanding. He is a natural.”
“An angelic?”
Verrocchio nodded. “He may be
the
angelic we have been waiting for. His abilities are unnatural.
Only silence greeted the end of Cosimo’s speech, for what man could argue with the eloquence of what had just been invoked within that chamber?
Donatello was pardoned and Lorenzo was left with one of the most powerful lessons of his life, along with a piece of wisdom that rang in his ears for the rest of his days.
Love is love. It is God-given, and a sacrament. It is not for any man to judge.
Lorenzo accompanied his grandfather to Donatello’s studio to advise the artist of the positive outcome. The door to his workshop was opened not by the temperamental artist himself but by a calm and friendly face, a man Lorenzo had met on other occasions and liked tremendously. He was Andrea del Verrocchio, a master sculptor and art teacher in his own right, but more important, he was a key member of the Order and one of Cosimo’s most trusted artists. Verrocchio had once been apprenticed to Donatello and was one of the few who ever survived the maelstrom.
“Andrea, what a wonderful surprise!” Cosimo embraced the tall man with the gentle demeanor. “What kind of torment do you inflict upon yourself that you return to be abused by your former master?”
“I heard that!” The unmistakable voice of Donatello rang out from the adjacent room.
“You were meant to,” Cosimo shouted back. “And do let us know if you intend to grace us with your presence, will you? I have a commission for you, but I can give it to Andrea here if you prefer.”
They could hear the grumbling and scurrying in the other room. For all Donatello’s temperament, he worshipped Cosimo and would never keep him waiting too long.
Verrocchio turned to call forward a young man, a teenager who was grinding pigments across the room. The youth was beautiful; covered in golden curls and with deep-set amber eyes, he had the appearance of a young lion. The young man stood up and smiled a crooked, endearing smile at the visitors. He came forward, bowed gracefully in obvious recognition of the esteemed company, but then looked down at his hands apologetically. “Vermilion. It is messy, so I dare not touch anything or anyone.”
Verrocchio made the introductions. “Cosimo and Lorenzo de’ Medici, I present to you Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi. We call him Sandro. You shall be hearing more from him and soon, as I can say with absolute certainty that I have not before seen such raw natural talent in an apprentice, perhaps ever.”
Sandro, well aware of his talent yet determined to appear humble,made a face at Lorenzo and shrugged. It was a self-effacing yet strangely confident gesture for one so young. Lorenzo laughed, liking him immediately, and asked Sandro to show him how the messy vermilion pigment was made. Lorenzo had grown up splattered with paint, watching in awe all the great artists who were integral to the Medici household and protected by Cosimo and Piero alike. He had always been fascinated by the pounding of minerals and the elaborate mixing that went into the creation of the paint and was excited at the prospect of getting his own hands a little dirty.
Cosimo raised a questioning eyebrow in Sandro’s direction as the boys wandered off. Verrocchio explained in a lowered voice. “He’s extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not just his talent but his understanding. He is a natural.”
“An angelic?”
Verrocchio nodded. “He may be
the
angelic we have been waiting for. His abilities are unnatural.
Similar Books
