Artistic Licence

by Vivienne Lafay

  Francesca gave a knowing smile. ‘It’s not what it’s called that matters. It’s what it does that counts. The stuff is guaranteed to have any man swooning at our feet in seconds, isn’t it Livia?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s powerful stuff all right. Shall we try it out on this young fellow? Always assuming we can find it.’

  ‘If you’d care to wait until the apothecary returns, I’m sure he’ll find it for you,’ Carla said. ‘He said he wouldn’t be long.’

  To her great relief she saw the old man framed in the doorway, a huge smile further wrinkling his already lined face. ‘Ladies, ladies! I pop out for a moment and miss the sun coming out from behind a cloud. How you brighten my day, Monna Livia, Monna Francesca.’

  Carla was sickened by his obsequiousness but knew she must hide her feelings if she were to get her reward. She stood aside while he found the perfume, and soon a heavy cloying scent filled the shop. The ladies seemed delighted, but Carla didn’t care for it at all.

  When the women had gone, well pleased with their purchases, Bondino said, ‘Did they tease you, lad? Never mind them. They’re just candle courtesans.’ In response to Carla’s mystified look he explained, ‘Prostitutes, you know. They sell their bodies to men. You must have seen them hanging out in the candle makers’ shops round the market.’

  Carla was amazed. She had taken them for noblewomen, but now she realised that their fine clothes had been acquired sinfully she was not so much in awe of them. The idea of letting a man do what Stefano had done to her for the sake of a few lire appalled her. Did they enjoy it, or just endure it? Her curiosity was roused, but she would never contemplate doing such a thing herself. She had set her heart on making money from her talent.

  Bondino went into the back of the shop and brought out some small wooden boxes which he dumped on the bench. ‘Here you are, scrape around in there and see what you can find.’

  Carla was pleased to salvage the pigments. She carefully mixed them with gum and Bondino helped her put them into small screws of paper. He gave her a quantity of chalk, too, and some charcoal. Finally he let her have some tattered sheets of paper that he said he couldn’t sell. ‘Mind you make good use of them,’ he told her. ‘They are best quality, only that fool of a delivery boy managed to ruin them in transit.’

  Delighted with her good fortune, Carla left the shop and set out for the great square of the Signoria. She planned to set up shop there, where she could easily be seen by the crowd. Under the high-vaulted loggia at the side of the paved square she would be protected from the weather too. She felt sure she would make her reputation as a portrait artist in no time.

  It was noon and the streets were almost deserted as everyone fled the scorching sun. The loggia was reserved for the city fathers during public ceremonies and displays, but artists and beggars occupied it at other times. Carla was glad of the shelter as she gazed out across the huge expanse of paving in front of the town hall. There were a couple of artists sketching, so she moved towards them hesitantly, wondering if they would accept her as one of them.

  ‘What do you want?’ one of them asked, rudely, as she approached.

  ‘I want to be an artist.’

  The man laughed, displaying his gappy teeth. ‘Do you belong to the Guild?’

  ‘Guild?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The man continued with his drawing of the sun between two lions, depicted on the plaque over the door of the Signoria. ‘They’ll never let you practise as a proper artist if you don’t belong to the Guild, and that costs money. If they catch you practising illegally you’ll be fined for idleness and if you can’t pay you’ll go to jail.’

  ‘Are you a Guild member?’

  ‘Used to be. Got thrown out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t ask so many questions, young ’un.’

  ‘I want to know how to become an artist, that’s all.’

  ‘The most you can get to be outside the Guild is a two-bit dauber and scribbler like me, Claudio the piss-artist. If you’re lucky, you’ll make a few florins a year. But don’t get your hopes up. You’d probably earn more by straight begging.’

  Carla refused to be discouraged. She sat herself down near the man called Claudio, who seemed friendly enough in a lugubrious sort of way, and took out her paper and pigments, deciding to use him as her first model.

  The man regarded her askance for some minutes and finally said, ‘Where did you get your materials – did you steal ’em?’

  ‘No!’ she said indignantly. ‘I helped an apothecary and he let me have them.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Bondino.’

  ‘You picked a good one there, anyway. He supplies some of the best artists in town. Get on the right side of him and you might just get somewhere.’

  ‘Really?’

  Claudio leaned over to look at what she had done. Although there was little more than an outline in red ochre on the buff-coloured page he nodded his head in approval. ‘You have the talent, I’ll give you that. How did you learn?’

  ‘I just used chalk and charcoal and began to draw my brothers and sisters, on anything I could find. My first efforts weren’t very good, but I improved over the years.’

  He nodded, calling to his friend. ‘Hey, Lucca. Come and look at this!’

  Carla felt self-conscious as the two artists discussed her work over her head. She was not sure whether their praise was genuine, or whether they were mocking her, but she went on steadfastly completing her sketch and when she had finished, Claudio asked if he could keep it.

  ‘I’ll let you have some more colours in exchange,’ he grinned.

  ‘Thank you!’ she beamed.

  ‘A gift like yours should be encouraged. Just one thing, though. Promise you’ll stay away from the loggia. Go and ply your trade somewhere else.’

  ‘Why?’

  The two artists grinned at each other and Lucca said, ‘You’re too good, that’s why. We don’t want the competition. Bugger off and find another pitch, there’s a good chap.’

  Carla knew it was no use arguing. They might turn nasty if she objected. So she put the scraps of pigment into her bag with the rest and sauntered out into the sunshine again. Although she was disappointed at losing her spot in the shade, at least they had not tried to beat her up or rob her of what little she had.

  She was encouraged, too, by their approval of her work. If real artists saw merit in it, surely others would be prepared to pay good money for their portraits. She wandered through the half-deserted streets until she found herself amongst the leather workers’ shops. There all kinds of luxurious leather goods were sold, from beautiful supple boots to tooled belts and purses of softest suede. Nearby was the street of the spice merchants, where the apothecaries were. It seemed an ideal place to attract the attention of the rich and fashionable.

  She found a quiet corner with a flight of steps and sat down where she could watch people passing by. At first she felt very conspicuous, but after a while she realised that most people were far too busy with their own affairs to bother about her. Carla took out her chalks and began to draw on the flat paving stones in front of her, making the outline of a madonna and child. Soon she was absorbed in her work, so much so that she failed to see the small crowd that was gathering around her.

  ‘He’s good!’ someone said, making her look up. ‘Look how delicately he’s drawn the features. But what’s he doing on the streets?’

  Carla gave a shy grin. The man seemed prosperous, judging by his elegantly quilted green jacket embroidered with gold at the collar and cuffs. She seized her chance. ‘Would you like your portrait painted, sir? I have paper, and colours. It will only take me about a quarter of an hour, if you have the time.’

  The man laughed, and she was afraid he would turn her down. But a young man next to him said, ‘Go on, Agnolo, why not? Your wife will love it.’

  ‘Not as much as my mistress!’ Agnolo laughed. ‘All right, I don’t mind helping a budding artist. Where
do you want me to sit?’

  Embarrassed, she realised she could hardly expect him to squat in the dirt like herself. But then a man who had been listening from a doorway brought out a folding stool and the nobleman sat on that. The crowd thickened, some of them recognising Messer Agnolo, and all of them curious about the street artist they had never seen before.

  Carla knew she must do her very best work as her future reputation, and therefore her livelihood, was at stake. Carefully she observed her subject’s features: slightly bulbous forehead receding into dark, straight hair; small brown eyes beneath beetling brows; straight nose. She began to sketch it out and soon the fine detail was appearing, every little furrow and shade faithfully represented as far as her materials permitted. Lost in her art, she saw nothing but the face taking shape beneath her fingers, heard nothing but the beating of her heart in calm concentration.

  At last, satisfied with the likeness, she held it up for all to see. There were gasps of admiration. ‘More lifelike than the man himself!’ someone said. ‘A flattering study,’ said another. ‘He’s hoping to get a good fee!’

  As the crowd started to move on, Agnolo took the portrait and studied it carefully. ‘You have talent, young man. How much do you charge for your fifteen minutes’ work, eh?’

  ‘Whatever you care to give me, sir. What is it worth to you?’

  He turned to his friend. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘His materials are cheap, but I’d give him 25 lire for his brush.’

  ‘For my brush?’ Carla was nonplussed. ‘But I only used crayons.’

  Both men laughed. ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ Agnolo explained. ‘He means for your skill and labour. 25 lire it is, then.’

  It seemed a small fortune. Carla took the money gratefully and once the men had passed on down the street she squeezed the coins to her chest in glee. The man who had lent the chair came back to collect it and noticed her joyful expression.

  ‘Your first commission?’ She nodded. ‘Well it’s a more honest living than some, I suppose. But if you want to get on in this city you need to get off the streets. They’re no place for a good-looking lad like you. Sooner or later someone will want you to do more for them than just paint their picture.’

  Carla knew he meant well, but she did not want anyone to spoil the joy of her first real wages. What should she spend it on: a good meal, some new clothes, a bed for the night? It was hard to make her choice but eventually she decided on some new hose with a treat at a pie-shop if she could afford it.

  Over the next few days Carla found herself a small, but steady, stream of customers. Most gave her very little money but one or two were more generous, and she was beginning to save her earnings in the cloth pouch she wore at her belt. Soon her chief fear was that, without a secure hiding-place, someone would steal her hard-earned wages. If only she could earn enough to get off the streets, to rent, a room where she might stash her money beneath the floorboards or up the chimney, she would be quite content with her way of life.

  Then, one fine June morning, a young man walking by with a jaunty stride paused to watch her sketching a pretty young whore at the request of one of her customers. Carla was making a good job of it, conveying the subtle contours and proportions accurately and suggesting the fresh radiance of the girl’s skin with chalk highlights. When the job was finished, and the people had dispersed, he came up to her.

  ‘Good morning, it’s nice to watch a fellow-artist at work,’ he began, pleasantly enough.

  Carla blushed, still not used to being thought of as an artist. ‘It’s kind of you to say so, sir.’

  She looked up into the young man’s open, handsome face and felt a faint stirring within as their eyes met. He had very expressive eyes, dark and velvety, that were regarding her with an admiration she found flattering. But his next words threw her into confusion. ‘Are you apprenticed? I haven’t seen you in the Guild. Who do you work for?’

  Suddenly she was afraid that he had been sent to spy on her from the Guild, that she would be accused of working illegally. She gathered up her things quickly, ready to make a dash for it if things turned awkward.

  ‘Wait!’ His hand was on her arm, making her heart beat all the faster. ‘Please don’t go. I wanted to talk to you.’

  Something made her trust this stranger. He didn’t seem unkind. ‘I belong to no Guild, sir,’ she confessed. ‘If I am breaking some law it is through ignorance. I’m just trying to get by as best I can. I have no family to look after me.’

  ‘You are an orphan?’ She nodded, ashamed of the lie yet not knowing what else to say. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Carl – o!’ She caught herself just in time.

  ‘Well, Carlo, my name is Marco and my master is Piero Cortoni. I have a feeling he would be very glad to meet you.’

  ‘To meet me?’

  ‘Yes. He’s looking for a lad to help out. You wouldn’t be apprenticed, not yet anyway. More of a labourer than an artist. But it has to be better than being on the streets. You’d get bed and board and, who knows, once he discovers your talent he might take you on officially.’

  It did not take Carla long to make up her mind. She knew she might wait a long time before she got a better offer. Marco seemed the sort she could trust, and she could do with a friend. She thought wistfully of Stefano. He had been her great companion when she was young. Oh, why did he have to spoil things? He had changed her life forever but at least he hadn’t ruined it, as he would have done if he had got her with child.

  Then she remembered the cheerful bustle of her home, and sighed. Were her family missing her? Perhaps one day she would return to visit them, but for the moment she must remain in exile, with loneliness her greatest enemy. How she longed to be part of some kind of household again!

  ‘Cheer up!’ Marco grinned. ‘Is it yes, or no?’

  ‘Oh yes – please!’

  Marco was on his way to Bondino’s and invited her to join him. He was surprised when the apothecary recognised his companion. ‘So, you are a bona fide artist after all!’ the old man said, seeing her enter with the apprentice.

  ‘Not yet!’ She made a face. ‘But I hope to be some day.’

  She listened attentively while Marco reeled off the list of his master’s requirements and, when the time came to leave, she didn’t mind being given a couple of packages to carry. They walked back down the street of the shoemakers and began to cross the town hall square. There, in the loggia, Carla saw Claudio sketching a woman with a basket of produce. Beside him, to her astonishment, was the study she had made of him displayed on an easel. There were some words scrawled on a tile underneath it, but Carla couldn’t read.

  She tugged at Marco’s sleeve. ‘See that painting next to the man in the loggia,’ she said. ‘What does it say on the tile?’

  He squinted at it then read aloud, ‘Self portrait.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Why, don’t you think it’s a good likeness? It seems very like the man to me.’

  Carla smiled to herself but decided to say nothing. Let Claudio pass her work off as his own if it brought him more custom. She could afford to be generous now that she had far better prospects than those poor souls in the loggia.

  They continued through a dark warren of narrow streets with Carla fending off her new friend’s questions as best she could. She did not want to lie to him, but her answers about where she had lived before were evasive. At last they ended up near Santa Croce outside a tall, narrow building that bore an escutcheon over the doorway.

  ‘This is both home and workplace to me,’ Marco said. ‘All four floors of it. Piero rents it from the Pazzis. Come in and meet the gang!’

  There were five apprentices in the Cortoni workshop and Carla was introduced to them all. The baby was Antonio who, at twelve years old, had only been apprenticed three months. He had an open, moon-round face and a mass of light brown curls. Carla thought he looked like a little cherub. The two juniors, Matteo and Luigi, were strapping l
ads who looked as if they enjoyed a good joke and a bellyful of wine.

  More sober was Giovanni, the eldest of them all. At eighteen, Marco explained, he was old enough to matriculate, but the fee of 25 florins could not yet be met so Piero paid him wages. Carla had the impression that this prolonged indenture rankled with him, that he would rather be a journeyman, working for himself. He was the only one of the apprentices that she felt wary of, distrusting his brooding expression and the haunted look in his eye.

  At last it was time for her to meet the master. After climbing past rooms full of materials, tools and evidence of work in progress in which Carla longed to linger and inspect, they reached the upper floor which was entirely occupied by Piero.

  ‘Let me go in first,’ Marco whispered, outside his workshop.

  Carla strained to hear the conversation through the half-open door. She suffered an apprehensive few minutes before she was invited to join them. When she went in she saw a room filled with all kinds of brushes, canvases, boards, pestles and pigments in terrible disarray, but, in the midst of it all, two wonderful works of art were in progress. In one corner was a marble statue, the rugged face and figure half chiselled out, and in another was a triptych obviously intended as an altarpiece. It gleamed with warm tones of red and gold.

  Piero Cortoni was a strikingly handsome man, well built and with a burning energy that seemed to fill the room. Carla looked into his gold-flecked eyes and saw lurking there a huge appetite for life, in all its forms. For some reason, it scared her a little. She reminded herself that this man could be her passport into the Guild and a proper training as an artist, so she would do her level best to make a good impression.

  ‘So, you’re this Carlo who is so talented an artist that my man here wants to rescue you from the gutter!’ he began. ‘Well you look like a guttersnipe, that’s for sure. Has he explained I don’t want any more damned apprentices right now? Got my hands full with this lot. But when one of them goes there will be a vacancy. Until then, you’d have to be general dogsbody. Are you prepared for that?’