Daughters of the Doge (31 page)

Early morning, March the 21st 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori

I kept my word and she kept hers. I had arrived at the
bottega,
as Jacopo Tintoretto liked to call his workshop, just after seven o’clock, in order to make sure I did not get in the way. Although looking forward to meeting Veronica again and seeing her model for the painters, I was preoccupied by the need to tell Tintoretto about the earl’s decision to postpone or even cancel his portrait. Having got myself here on the basis of securing a commission, how could I tell him that Courtenay was soon to leave for Ferrara and was no longer as committed to the idea as he had been? I decided to say nothing and to wait for a suitable moment.

Gentile Bassano – ‘Michelangelo’ – took me under his wing and gave me instructions. Unlike his namesake, who had a reputation for roughness and rudeness, our Michelangelo was kind, thoughtful and helpful.

‘You will understand the significance of what we are doing if you try to draw yourself; it will make you aware of the light, and how the edges of shadows fall away on the far side. We have a large painting already started using La Franco as a model, and you will see the
maestro
painting her direct as she sits. However, in order to save time and to use her presence to the best effect, I shall be confirming some of the details by making an
abbazato –
a sketch – which we can use later to refine our base drawing on the canvas.

‘As the painting progresses, you will see that our approach is different from the Florentine painters’. They still tend to use oil paints the way the fresco painters use tempera – in very thin glazes, with the original drawing showing through, sometimes even in the finished painting. Since the early days of Giorgione, we in Venice have moved away from that style, and we now use the paint more thickly. The result is that we often lose sight of the drawing as we progress. That’s when the reference sketches are useful. Mind you, not everybody uses them – Titian rarely refers back to
abbazati
once his paintings get going, and he often changes them completely from the original composition, scraping the old paint off or painting over the top, depending how dry it is. He is a terrible fiddler, and goes back again-and-again. I am glad Jacopo does not do that. He paints very quickly – faster than any of us – but only when he has the original composition clear in his mind. Ask him to show you his theatres. He has little boxes in which he arranges clay models. Then, he or I draw them. That way, we can try all sorts of compositions without having to pay for models or use lots of paint.’

I took the drawing-board he gave me, with blue paper, charcoal and white chalk, and sat in the corner as he had indicated. Soon I was forgotten as the
bottega
moved into action, the younger apprentices, or
garzone,
lifting easels into position and mixing paint, the more senior
assistenti,
including Gentile, setting up the pose for the model, while Jacopo himself worked a series of levers which opened and closed the shutters on the high windows, until a single shaft of light was concentrated on the model’s chair.

Just as everything was in position, Veronica arrived, wearing a long-belted silk robe, and carrying a piece of white silk drapery She nodded to the team of painters and acknowledged my position in the corner as she walked to the chair. Approaching it, she leaned over to look at the part-completed canvas, and I saw her move her body as if practising the pose. She stepped on to the platform, approached the chair and, with a single lithe movement, slipped out of the robe, catching it in her left hand and dropping it out of sight behind the chair.

With easy grace she placed the drapery over her shoulder and allowed it to slip until the required position was reached, then, lifting the trailing end, she swung it over her thigh. Gentile stepped in front of the canvas and looked at it, then at her, then back at the canvas again. Veronica looked at him and he nodded.

‘Perfect. The pose exactly as we left it last week. Thank you.’

With the ease of a cat, Veronica relaxed into her pose and held it. Sitting in the corner, in line with her right shoulder, I tried to put myself in her position. I knew I would have been stiff and muscle-weary within minutes, but Veronica seemed to have the ability to hold the position and to relax without slumping or dropping her shoulders.

‘Ready, Veronica?’ said Tintoretto.

Veronica gave the smallest of nods.

‘Half an hour, then.’

Jacopo concentrated on the drapery over her leg and began painting the fall of the shadows in varying shades of grey, his brush moving quickly, his eyes pivoting from the model to the canvas and back. Never did he seem to look at his palette, and I realized how important it was for a professional painter, working at speed, to place his mixes of paint in the same place each time, so they could be picked up by the brush without thought or diversion.

Now he took a second brush and, to my amazement, began to paint the light shapes with his left hand and the dark shapes with his right hand. I had seen that painters often carried two, three or four brushes under the thumb of the hand which held their palette, but this was the first time I had ever seen a painter put his palette down on the table beside him and paint simultaneously with two brushes.

Gentile stood behind him, looking over his shoulder and capturing the way the light fell on her forehead and lit her eyebrow and the top of her ear. I could see him lifting the inverted handle of a brush with his left hand and checking measurements, then transferring them to the paper before him, initially making light marks with his charcoal, then building up the shapes as he was satisfied the overall proportions were right. Every now and again he would put down the charcoal and blend the drawing with his fingertip, or use the end of a feather to flick off the marks and try them again.

I began drawing. The only sounds in the room were the scratching of charcoal and the soft grinding sound of the pestle and mortar which Biffo was using to mix fresh pigment, before oil and a few drops of turpentine were added to it later. His powers of concentration appeared limited and his hands seemed to work independently of his eyes, which leered at Veronica, as she sat, breasts exposed and with only a small drape of silk across her thigh.

I tried to copy what Gentile was doing, and used the handle of a brush held vertically in my left hand, as a measuring stick. It was harder than it looked and the first marks were all over the place.

I was sure I could smell her perfume, despite the heavy scent of oil and turpentine hanging in the air. The sun caught her right breast and it seemed to glow as if lit by a lamp from inside. Down the right-hand side of her neck a small vein pulsed, the area slightly redder than the rest of it. Her hair was the colour of horse chestnuts newly opened on an autumn morning, yet the light catching it reflected gold and yellow, whilst the shadows were a deep greenish-brown. The tip of her nose, catching the light, was almost pure white, whilst the bulb of her nose, facing towards me, appeared in one small spot almost as red as an eating apple. It was amazing how much local colour you could see when you really concentrated.

How could you begin to capture such subtlety of form and colour in a painting? Where could you start? Watching Tintoretto and Gentile at work, I began to mimic the way they followed a contour with the brush or charcoal, as if feeling its shape, before transferring the same movement to the canvas or paper.

I had begun to get the profile of her forehead right, and was working down to her throat, when I became aware of a small movement on the edge of my field of vision; a tiny movement – just a flash of light. I looked at Veronica’s face. She was still in the same pose, but I could see that her eyes were focused on Biffo as he mixed his pigment across the room to my right. His mixing had grown faster, his knuckles white as he gripped his implements, and he was leering at her in an aggressive and suggestive manner. I wondered whether I should do or say something, for Jacopo was immersed in his brushwork and the others were similarly hard at work. I decided that, as a visitor, it was not my role to disturb their concentration.

There it was again – a tiny change in the reflected light. Slowly, ever so slowly, Veronica was moving her right leg towards me and away from the other. There was no change to the expression on her face, but I realized that Biffo’s mixing was becoming frenzied and he was staring between her legs. With the smallest of movements, she spread her legs even more and I realized that she was exposing her sex to him. Biffo, face red, finally lost control completely and the mortar and pestle crashed from the bench, spilling precious pigment across the floor.

‘Biffo, you bloody fool!’ yelled Tintoretto, putting down his palette and grabbing the red-faced boy by the collar. He pushed Biffo’s face down into the bright blue mess on the floor.

‘Do you know what this is? It is ultramarine – powdered lapis lazuli crystals from far across the seas, and worth a thousand times what you are, weight-for-weight. Not that that’s saying much, you useless lump. Now get down there and sweep up every speck of it. If there is any left when I inspect it at the end of this painting period, you will be sent home to your father as a complete and utter failure. This is your final warning.’

I cast my eyes back to Veronica. She sat impassive, the same expression on her face. The only difference in her position was that her knees were drawn together again, the drape replaced.

I looked across at Gentile, who continued to draw. He saw my glance and winked, just once. Now it was clear: Veronica Franco was a lady to be watched and learned from.

They soldiered on for a few more minutes, but everyone’s concentration had been disturbed and Biffo’s frantic brushing on the floor did not make it easy to regain. Finally Jacopo called a halt.

‘Let’s have a short break. I am sure Veronica would like to stretch her legs.’

Nobody responded, and I decided that even if everyone did know what had happened, there was an unspoken pact not to refer to it, and I should do the same.

She rose from her throne-like chair and came over to me, seeming in no real hurry to put on the gown as she approached. Never before had I met a woman who appeared so relaxed with her nakedness, yet the events of the last few minutes had shown she would go so far as having Biffo sacked in order to protect her privacy. It appeared the model was there to be seen but not to be consumed.

‘Richard! How nice to see you again. You decided to accept my invitation. I am pleased. And to see you drawing also, that was a surprise; I did not know you could draw. May I have a look?’

My stomach turned over. It was bad enough seeing the inadequacy of your own drawing, and worse still to have it examined by experts like Gentile and Jacopo, but to have the model herself ask to see the mess you had made of drawing her face, her neck, her body, was deeply uncomfortable.

‘It’s my first time.’ I lifted the drawing board and allowed her to see my efforts. One or two features were all right – I had caught the light on her forehead and her hairline was nearly right – but the remainder was an embarrassment.

‘Your first time? Is it really? You should practise, Richard.’ She managed to say the words loudly enough that Tintoretto and the others all heard. ‘Perhaps the
maestro
will let you join his apprentice class? Who knows, within a few years you might turn into another Il Furioso and learn to paint with both hands at once?’

Jacopo grinned. Yes, of course I could join the class. My work was promising; I had a good hand.