and then: Benci, in pen and ink, beside a juniper tree;
Andrea, at work on a bronze figurine; here is a pastel of
Ambrogia, puttering over his careful palette; here is
red-headed Filippo Lippi finishing the background for a
madonna; here is Cecelia, sipping wine, asking for
sweets...Madonna Lisa and her graceful beauty, her soft
voice, patience...
She and I had many hours for the gamboa...we ate
together...played cards, talked about my Anghiari...when
she posed I had singers for her... I loaned her little
sums; she lent me money; she sent me baskets of fruit; I
gave her sketches and drawings.
If all these friends could be with me, at Cloux, to
walk with me, visit the château and its gardens, prowl
the mirror hallways, enjoy my studio, my latest
paintings...talk...talk...
As an apprentice I longed to fix in my mind every
detail: I must look and look, a second and a third time
and a fourth. I must fill a notebook. Quickly. I must
follow that bearded Corsican and draw his face.
All of us apprentices respected Andrea del Verrochio,
as artisan, as teacher. We were at home in his workshop.
We were proud of his accomplishments, proud of our own
accomplishments; at the same time we were eager, pushy,
ready to challenge other artists. Ready to consider a
commission, evaluate it, carry it through to perfection.
And what were my best years, the best of my mature
years, I ask myself? Those dedicated to my mural, my
outcry against war, years that included many paintings?
Or was it the time dedicated to the creation of the
Sforza horse—IL COLOSSO? If I could have had the metal
and cast the statue it would have been that success above
others. And the years that went into The Last Supper:
Three years. There were also the years of dissection and
anatomical studies. Best years? There were the easel
paintings. I suppose there have never been any best
years. There were discoveries and discovery made another
discovery possible...and so the years went along.
Last night, Francesco burst into my bedroom.
“I can’t find them,” he exclaimed.
“What?”
“I have looked everywhere...your letters are missing.”
“What letters, Francesco?”
“I have your list...letters from King Francis...from
Duke Lorenzo...from Christopher
Columbus...Machiavelli...Father Pacioli...Beatrice
d’Este...Cesare Borgia...Salai...”
“Did you open the trunk in the storeroom? They may be
in there. Look carefully. I want to destroy some of
them...let’s go over everything together.”
“We had them in Milan...”
“Look again... I’m sure you’ll find them.”
(Yesterday, in the château’s hall of mirrors I saw
Caterina: she was talking with a young man, a man her
age: she had on a summer gown, with one breast almost
bare: she smiled at her companion who was dressed in
grey.)
Cloux
June 1, 1517
After I completed my silverpoint of Francis, he ordered
his tailor to cut an elegant velvet smock for me. In
carnelian. Two pockets. Belt of silver lozenges hooked
together on braided silver wires.
Francesco is framing the portrait and it will hang in
the château library, along with a Rafael, a de Predis, a
Bosch, a Dürer. Francis has his eyes on Francesco’s new
canvas, his Columbine, but I tell the King it is not
finished.
“Not finished? Of course it is finished, Mon Père.” But
Francesco listens to me.
I continue with my drawings of the deluge: I go on with
the terror, the falling of buildings, the erosion of
life, the force of wind, the weight of torrents... I go
on with this feeling... I must express it.
The gloomy air must be beaten by the wind and perpetual
hail...there must be ancient trees, uprooted trees, torn
to pieces by the fury...the fragments of mountains must
spill into valleys...immensity must burst the barrier of
rivers.
It is my last judgment...certainly there is nothing
that does not have an ending ...twisted
forms...fear...puny man...
I hear the resounding air, the lamentations.
Mountains are to be torn open for their minerals...all
animals will languish...all will be pursued or
destroyed...trees will be laid level...due to man’s
malice there will be great losses...how much better for
man to go back to hell.
Cloux
It is late.
A fire burned all evening in my studio, and King
Francis has sat by the fire with me, talking. He was
depressed because bankers have been demanding exorbitant
sums: he plans to sell royal titles to recoup funds.
“All this will take months...there are many hazards...”
Abruptly:
“Do you see something in my face, something ominous?”
“I don’t understand...”
“It seems to me...I feel that the future has something
tragic... I’m worried... Do you believe in foretelling?”
He had been jousting: I blamed fatigue. But he would
not be put aside by a few casual words.
“Mon Père...tell me...some say that you can foretell?
Is that true?”
“I can not.”
“Who can?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“Divinations...those occult doings...forget them. You
must think clearly, your Majesty. Don’t let men hoodwink
you. Nobody knows tomorrow.”
“Tonight, as I walked through the tunnel from the
château...tonight I had three guards... I was
afraid...like a Borgia...assassinations...pretty bad...”
He laughed at himself.
It has been sunny and cool for several days: I have
gone on pleasant walks, along the river, through the
château gardens, through the grove that leads into the
King’s forest: paths are becoming familiar: I shake hands
with old trees. At the château I have watched the King
play tennis: they are having a tournament. Francis plays
with ugly ferocity. His partners play warily. I see that
diplomacy begins on the tennis courts.
Studio
September 3, 1517
My lamp is guttering. Candle stubs are smoking.
Was it thirty years ago, in Milan, that I understood?
Windows were open and heat-lightning was flickering
beyond my studio. My anatomy drawings were spread on the
corner table. Then I saw. Saw clearly. Knew. Saw that
man’s blood resembles the tides of the sea; from the seat
of the heart it circulated throughout the body. Let an
artery or vein burst or suffer injury and blood raced to
the injured spot. Incessant currents of the blood,
passing through the arteries and veins, caused them to
thicken and become callous. So, I had additional proof of
circulation. Each dissection revealed further
confirmation of the system. Why was I slow in grasping
the obvious?
I have explained my theory to some but was often
rebuffed and yet when I told her—using my drawings—she
grasped the significance. She understood many things. And
when she lay dying there seemed little left for me... I
held her hand. Her eyes were closed. Grey eyes. She never
spoke. God, how I stumbled down those rat infested
stairs, stairs with a cross gouged in each step. Ah,
those flooded streets!
Some men of science and art have copies of my first
treatise. Some. They hesitate. Resent. Last year I
explained circulation to King Francis. He was not
interested; he fondled his diamond-studded belt and
stared stupidly at me. I must tell Francesco that the
treatise is packed in the third trunk—the one with the
smashed lock.
I must sequence my drawings:
1 - Skin
2 - Muscles
3 - Tendons
4 - Bones
Indicate effect of emotions, labor, illness, age.
Cloux
October 15, 1517
Francesco is copying this:
I have been unable to write or work for several days.
These days she is in my mind all of the time. Maturina
begs me to eat...my appetite has gone. The weather is
perfect but I can not go outside. Here, in my studio, I
have her portrait to console me; sometimes I have to turn
away from it. I thought that she would live for many
years. I thought that she was contented. Her family loved
her.
The letter, written by her brother, says nothing about
how Mona died. Was she ill a long while? I can’t remember
when she wrote me last time...was it as much as a year
ago? Why am I confused? Did the plague kill her? Was she
with her family? How they will miss her! The letter took
four months to reach me—a hundred and twenty days! She
died in Genoa, on the 2nd or 3rd of July. I can’t make
out the date.
The King knows of her death. Francesco told him,
because I can not ride with the hunters... I can not
ride... Francis has presented me with a small jeweled
hourglass. A note accompanied it.
Life and death...old friends, old enemies.
My face is a cemetery.
Gossips said that Mona was my mistress.
We were friends.
In those days, when I was beginning her portrait, I had
Gorgio play for her: she liked his viola da gamba skill.
He would usually appear a little late, but always with a
smile, a bow. Sometimes a choir boy sang motets; it seems
to me he recited poetry too. Did he always wear a brown
cloak?
Our sittings were often far apart: there was illness in
her family: she was away from Florence for months at a
time: on her return it was hard to recapture our mood.
She was patient with me but I have often stood before her
picture quite perplexed...especially if the light had
changed...my colors had changed.
I was late for one of our sittings and she put on an
apron and scrubbed brushes and mortars, made my
apprentices scurry; then laughed at my objections.
“Next time you’re late, I’ll clean your leggio,” she
said, and smiled teasingly.
Her smile...I used to think of it as hiding family
secrets, feminine secrets, her own loneliness (“Yes,
Leonardo...yes...there are times...”)
I could not always arrange for a musician; when she
posed during those silences I felt the bonds of our
friendship...when we ate together, when she described her
travels, it was another aspect of our friendship.
I was welcome at her home. Her distinguished husband
bought fine pieces of art. They were happy to share.
At her home and in my studio we often talked about my
Anghiari and she was eager to follow its progression.
October 29th
Masculine skies...feminine skies...at this season of
the year they are mostly masculine, with snow falling,
wind blowing. My feet are cold because of the weather, or
is it because my fireplace chimney needs cleaning? Cold,
I have moved to the library.
As I mull over my papers I observe the great books
around me. I must concentrate. I must push on. There is
so much to be done with the organization of my treatises.
So much.
Maturina rouses me.
“You are cold, Maestro...it is chilly in this room.”
So, I am cold!
Perhaps I have cathedral sickness!
It is good to be writing again. My journal suffers when
my hand is unsteady.
Francesco is away; that troubles me.
I wish I were young and could bend horseshoes instead
of two sheets of paper.
Maturina has found a bird stricken by the cold; we
hover over it. A dove. A flyer. Where are my sketches for
the glider? The one Francesco and I tested. He must find
it for me when he returns.
Interruptions...interruptions...
Francesco has adopted a stray cat, from among the
dozens that haunt the château. The cat beds under his
easel, among cleaning rags. He always stinks of
turpentine and oil.
I have never seen a cat so eager to sleep; perhaps half
of his life has gone into carousing. He is bone white,
has one orange ear, a twisted nose, one orange foot, and
a black-tipped tail. His greenish eyes glare out of
skinniness.
Crabby.
Maturina hates him.
Francesco calls him “Michelangelo.”
My four-poster must have been made for a cardinal or
bishop, or someone’s mistress. I am tempted to remove the
garnet canopy and drapes. But it’s a snug bed when it’s
cold. I often lie there and watch the fire playing about.
It’s a chance to weigh the past—and plan ahead.
Sometimes, when I am very tired and have turned in
early, Francesco rolls his easel into the room, and sits
on the side of the bed and we talk brush strokes or ways
of grinding the new pigments, how much overpainting is
feasible, the dangers of black as an under pigment. Shop
talk.
Cloux
ANDREA SALAINO—Why did I adopt him in the first place?
That’s an easy answer: because I loved him!
What a waif Salai was! I took him into my household, my
studio, twenty-some years ago. It can’t be possible that
so much time has lapsed.
He stole...stole shirts, shoes, brushes, gold leaf. He
stole gold leaf and sold it. He took money. I was right
to christen him “Salai.” It took months to straighten him
out...if I really did. Yellow-headed, curly-headed, tall,
foolish, loveable... when he puts his arm around me...
He is a capable artist, incapable of continuous effort;
perhaps time can change him but I doubt it.
Now that he is gone...I often think I hear his voice...
I think, ah, he has come back for a while...
The King and Queen have asked me how I had hoped to
cast Il Cavallo, so I placed my drawings on tables in the
salon, and we walked from one to another and I explained
them.
“Mon Père,” Francis mumbled, as he examines drawings
and sketches, “Mon Père...these are workable.”
I am silent.
“When did you begin actual casting?” the Queen asks. I
try to disregard her obvious skepticism.
She is dressed in white and gold; he has on one of his
dark cloaks lined with down; he has rings set with
emeralds; she reeks of cologne and sweat. Her pinched
face is regally ugly—somehow provincial.
“I began casting the horse in December...’93...casting
it on its side. I placed the mould in a shallow cavity. I
opened it on the left side. I could have completed the
casting if there had been sufficient bronze. I am sure
you know that cannons had priority at that time.”
They knew, too, about the Gascon bowmen.
I understand they had watched the archers, as they used
my clay model for target. Watched my Cavallo
disintegrate.
I watched, hating, hating those bowmen. How they
cheered as arrows pierced the model.
Now I watched the King and Queen.
“In Milan, in those days, the Sforza stables were at my
disposal. I chose a magnificent horse—Cermonino—as my
model. Alone, or with a groom, I would ride into the
country, where it was pleasant and we were free of
gapers. I would dismount and sketch my horse. Or the
groom would lead him back and forth, while I sketched, to
record a sense of motion.
“Other times I would ride Cermonino, race him, sweat
him; then I’d draw his distended mouth, his swollen
nostrils, his wild mane...
“Leaning forward in the saddle, baton in hand, the Duke
was to symbolize leadership and power...he was
pleased...his baton would have been more than thirty feet
above the ground.”
Visitors and courtiers annoy me, though I do not show
my annoyance. I have learned how to patronize. I pretend
I have nothing to do...my life is one of leisure. Then,
at night, through most of the night, lamps and candles
burning, Francesco and I work with my drawings and texts.
Francesco realizes that I am homesick but he does not
quite realize that I am homesick for a Florence that does
not exist. I don’t admit it but I am also remembering
Vinci, the only home I ever had. I would like to walk
into the rambling stone house and sit by a front window.
I would like...but why go on?
Botteghe or ateliers have their points but they are
never home. Guilds, with their rivalries, their
rascalities, are continually broiling. Greedy
apprentices. Raw apprentices. Rowdiness. So many crowns
for this piece of work, so many soldi for this job.
Dissension over models. Spats about religion. Muddy sex.
Perhaps I should have lived out my life in my vineyard.
Much sun. Quietude. Animals. Olive trees in the sunset.
The mistral. Peasants. Fidelity.
What delusions.
Tomorrow I look forward to working again on my Saint
John. I have decided to darken the background.
I knew Sandro Botticelli well. Now that he is dead and
I am far away, leaving this personal journal to a mere
boy, I can write about him. We called Sandro “Our Little
Barrel.” He was fat enough, to be sure. Success favored
his belly. Drink gave him a pleasant stupor.
I thought his Primavera a piece of ostentation: the
picture flaunts showmanship in many ways. The background
is especially weak. I have shied away from gigantic
canvases. A painting should not pretend to be a mural or
a fresco.
However, Sandro’s illustrations for Dante have a
lightness: his lines are right.
Maybe I am not respectful of Sandro. Michelangelo
dislikes my work. Who is right?
When my fellow Florentines legally murdered Savonarola
I was repelled. Savonarola was reformer, dictator,
fanatic. His bigotry alarmed me; all bigotry alarms me. I
prefer the Alpine heights and passes to heavenly
promises; I prefer rivers and lakes to the Dantesque.
Savonarola’s ashes were thrown into the Arno... I
anticipate further degradations...ashes... whose ashes
were thrown into the river? Ours? No matter what we say
in defense of religion there seems to be another road.
Some things surpass religion. My mother’s gentleness, for
one thing. I say, let us worship beauty. Now, in my old
age, I say let us worship beauty.
Thinking of beauty, I hoped for many years to do a
bronze of Hercules, Hercules firing his arrow at the
Stymphalian birds, head back, eyes upward, his right arm
tensing the cord, fingers ready to let the arrow go:
Hercules in the nude, among rocks, one knee cocked at the
same angle as his bow arm.
1518
Cloux
February 1, 1518
I
t is snowing again.
The ground is white. Trees are white. About two years
ago, on our long ride from Milan, we stayed at the
Pericord Monastery; snow was falling. Outside my one-eyed
cell lay a deep drift. A path led nowhere through the
snow.
While at Pericord, most of us ate in the refectory or
the kitchen. Were there thirty monks at the monastery?
All of them were dirty and resentful. This hermitage
wanted no outsiders. Although we paid, we were gross
intruders. This order had the Biblical fish engraved on
its coat-of-arms but these men no longer remembered what
that symbol meant.
Bread, cheese, dried fruit, sunflower seeds, eggs,
wine, herbal tea—they offered us these and we tried to
express our thanks.
Each enormous deal table had IHS chiseled in its
center. IHS...smoke from cheap table candles mixed with
kitchen smoke as we ate with shutters closed against the
snow and cold.
Painted black, a large wooden cross leaned against a
corner of the refectory.
Fealty far from any hamlet—what is this monastic
fealty?
As I stayed there, recovering, troubled, I compared
those thirty faces with the faces of the disciples in my
Last Supper: I understand more about human nature now
than I did twenty years ago. So did the artist who had
painted a primitive fresco of demons in the Pericord
Library. His demons are Borgian nightmares.
We have more snow this winter than in many winters, I
am told. The Loire has frail ice edges and some of that
ice traps leaves and twigs and resembles tortured stained
glass. I like to walk alone, along the river—snow
tracking: fox, rabbit, deer, raccoon, and boar.
Snow crystals in my hand, on my glove, I analyze their
geometry.
In the comfort of my studio I sketch from memory: I am
able to reproduce plants, birds, people, machines. Years
ago I lost an important sketchbook and was able to
reproduce more than fifty drawings. Any capable artist
should be able to do this.
As the snowfall continues, I shall go on tonight, red
chalk and charcoal.
Rome proved to be a harsh experience.
Living in the Vatican was an impoverishment: the roof
of my apartment leaked with every rain; the light was
bad; sewage odors were frequent. Gamins—so many gamins!
Threatened. While others hunted rabbits in the Coliseum,
I sought libraries and worked in my own laboratory. But
work was difficult because my old kidney complaint
afflicted me. For a time I was at the Hospital Spirito. I
became as desolate as Hadrian’s Tomb. I ate only fruit
and nuts, but fruit is often scarce in Rome at certain
seasons.
Rafael was friendly; Paciola was faithful; Bramante was
friendly. I blame the city, its somber tufa buildings.
Cities, like mistresses, betray. Fleeing Rome, I visited
my vineyard; then, again lured by the wrong magnet, I
returned for more Roman punishment.
Tibullus and Ovid were there. I opened their pages and
read. But my optical experiments were thwarted: a violent
quarrel with my optical expert undid the work of months.
He smashed all the equipment in my laboratory. As soon as
possible, half-recovered, I joined Salai and Francesco in
Milan. They had located an apartment for me, Salai
lauding its grand style, its perfect studio. But the stu-
dio was not for me. Milan was not for me. At Vaprio, I
began to recover in the bracing air. My friends helped
deceive me: I was not growing old; so, I began a little
fresco for the Melzis.
Throughout my life I have been willing to attempt
various disciplines. I am alien to most men because they
limit their interests. Almost all of my friends thought
in terms of a single field of endeavor. Ambrogio cared
nothing for geology. De Predis shunned mathematics.
Boltraffio scorns cartography. Fra Luca shrugs off all
but church music. Luini favors frescos. Who is interested
in oceanography? Or flying?
I think men should reach out. A rut can lead to a dead
end. The portrait artist need not paint portraits all his
life. Andrea was one of those rarities (an inspiration!):
his world was brush, pastel, oil...marble, bronze,
porphyry...cenotaph, altar, sarcophagus...portrait.
Cloux
March 12, 1518
Sleep comes hard: there is frequent pain in my back and
legs: insomnia exhausts me: I think of stairways, dikes,
weaving machines, cylindrical sails, cadavers, faces...
Many times I have seen Christ’s face—as I painted him
in my fresco. I remember him, lying in his ghetto... I
remember him so ill he could scarcely walk... I remember
taking food to him...there, over there, on the wall, is
his face in the candlelight.
Sleepless, I have gotten up and sketched those who have
been dead for years. Friends, neighbors, filthy seamen on
the coast, mountaineers, shepherds, brigands at the
Borgia castle.
Here, at Cloux, I have found a girl whose profile is
perfect: I have asked her to pose for a silverpoint.
Here, in the heart of France, when I am listening to
Francesco talk French I am listening to a clever
Frenchman. He could speak the language fairly well before
coming—he has perfected his pronunciation, his pauses. He
says he learned from a boyhood tutor. I ask him to
correct me but he never does. Most of our château friends
speak several languages. When I am explaining technical
drawings to the King or members of his court I have to
have help when it comes to the vocabulary relating to
hydraulics, gears, fossils, and such.
March 18, 1518
My journal is in danger.
Time is leaving me.
I go weeks without adding a thought.
If I see a horse riddled with arrows, a mural that is
scaling off—where is the joy? Where the beauty?
Let’s go to that valley along the Adda River, in May.
We were laughing then: being alive pleased us. Let’s go
to Piombino where I sketched the little ships in the
harbor, ships and pounding waves. Let’s walk in the
castle garden, among the senatorial statues; I played the
lute and both of us sang. And Rustici’s! What about
Rustici’s and that pet porcupine of his?
In Pavia, I lost my way among narrow lanes; it was
dusk; it was summer; it became dark; a lantern appeared,
another; I found myself at a house of prostitution: the
loveliness of that meeting, those unexpected caresses,
that girl... O, sleeper, what is sleep? Sleep resembles
death. Yet, there are happy dreams. And actual dreams,
such as rolling the Colossus into the square and seeing
the Milan populace mill around it. And another...my
mother, Caterina, embracing me when last we met.
There have been other dreams: working with wood and
silk, to perfect a wing...there was that brief moment of
flight...my wing...being aloft...lifted above trees and
town... I feel that lift as I write. Joy. Beauty.
There were rows of candles and water-lamps shining in
front of my Last Supper; I stepped back to contemplate my
work; I looked around; I realized that the fresco was
finished. I felt tears of joy, tears that never fell, yet
existed. I felt another overwhelming satisfaction in my
Anghiari: the horses were alive and came to me as I
looked at them... I remembered their names.
Andrea Verrochio came through the refectory door and
shook my hand. When I write to him I will remind
him...but he is dead.