Authors: Sara Downing
Maybe one day I’ll get round to writing about it; I have so many notes, after all, I’m sure I could knock up a volume of a similar size to Antonio’s in no time. One day, when I have some time on my hands. Maybe then I’ll tell my family how I came by the knowledge…
Anyway, here I am gazing at Flora instead – also Maria, I know, but I’ve never had the same pull to this or any of Titian’s many other works of art. Strange really, but I do feel quite safe looking this way whilst Evie gets her fill of
Venus
. There she is now, muscling in on a tour guide – an English-speaking one at that – and staring interestedly as the woman recounts the history of the painting in great length.
Huh that’s what you think,
I chuckle to myself as the guide explains how the exact identity of the model is still a mystery.
Oh no it’s not….
Sneaking another quick glance at Venus, I can’t help wondering what happened to Bella, Maria’s little dog. I hope she ended up with Clara; I’m pretty sure she would have taken care of her when her mistress left. Despite that final snippet of unfinished business I can’t see Maria wanting to summon me back to dreamland to tell me about her dog’s fate, much as I’d love to go there again, just for one last time.
I needn’t have worried about introducing Vincenzo to my sister. Half an hour in, Evie is chatting to him as though they have known each other for years. I suppose it helps that Vincenzo has called upon his huge reserve of suave, Italian charm, and as I glance across the table at them, he has her pretty much eating out of his hand.
James is trying to have a serious conversation about art with me, so I have one ear on that, making sure I nod and make a few noises in the right places, occasionally contributing with an interesting fact that he probably wouldn’t have known, and the other ear on what my boyfriend and sister are talking about, just to make sure they don’t stray into dangerous territory. But what likelihood is there that I might have to leap to Vincenzo’s defence and rescue him from my sister’s clutches? Let’s face it, this is a man who has been brought up on a diet of charm, and somehow I don’t think he’ll need my help.
I used to wonder if there was some sort of secret Italian charm school that adolescent boys got whisked off to for a couple of years. Or maybe it’s just passed down from generation to generation: a lifetime spent watching your elders behave around women and learning to emulate them. Either way, our lads back home could certainly learn a thing or two from them, that’s for sure.
After best part of a year here, I know now that this charm stems from a deep-rooted admiration and respect for women, and has nothing whatsoever to do with disrespect or finding women easy prey. At first glance, the amount of attention they pay to women
might
seem sleazy, but Italian men grow up with a deep respect for their
Mamma
and their sisters, which they never lose as the Italian family unit is so strong. This coupled with the fact that they simply adore women for their beauty and grace and the fact that they are so
different
from them, gives them the ability to make women feel as special as we know we are.
Vincenzo certainly makes me feel like that. I look over at him and pass him a look with an implicit ‘You OK?’ and he smiles back, twisting round in his seat to include me in the conversation once more, his body language letting me know he’s missing me all the way across from the other side of the table. He reaches across and takes hold of my hand.
‘
Your sister, she is as lovely as you,’ he says in perfect English, with the aforementioned bucket of Italian charm. ‘
Almost
as lovely,’ he adds with a giggle, glancing at James to make sure he hasn’t overstepped the mark.
Later as we are saying our goodbyes, Evie and James heading back to their hotel, and Vincenzo and I to his apartment, Evie pulls me to one side.
‘
He’s lovely,’ she says. ‘Mad about you, too. Totally head over heels.’
Thirty
England, One Year Later
My parents are glowing with pride. The smile on Dad’s face as I leave King’s Hall
says it all: ‘My clever girl, graduating from university with a First Class Honours Degree.’ He couldn’t look more proud if he was at Buckingham Palace, receiving a knighthood from the Queen.
Mum fusses around me, adjusting my mortar board and gown, and squeezing in a few quick snaps as I stroll across the lawn to meet up with the others, who hadn’t been allowed into the graduation ceremony. They are all here: Sophia, Leonora, Dante, Stefano and Lanzo. All of them have made the journey to see me graduate, wanting to support me on my big day; it was just a shame I couldn’t get enough tickets for them all to come inside. But still, they’re here for the party afterwards, and that’s the most important part. It’s lovely to have them here. All of them, even Stefano. Despite what happened between us, I can safely say we have remained firm friends, which I’m so pleased about.
They are all quite taken with Newcastle, these sophisticated Italian friends of mine, and for some of them it’s their first taste of UK life. They’d arrived yesterday afternoon, and I’d managed to shirk a quiet meal with my parents in favour of showing my friends a few of the sights.
And
some of the nightlife too, which I have to say I’m regretting slightly this morning. Although it could be the level of euphoria and general feeling that the rest of my life begins today which is making my head spin.
They’ve all fallen for this quaint old northern city with its grey skies, rows of terraced houses – and amazingly – stotties. I’d tried to explain Newcastle’s answer to the
focaccia
to them, but there is no substitute for popping into a little corner café and ordering one stuffed to overflowing with bacon, egg and sausage. Blissful, especially on the back of the teensy weensy hangovers we all have today. I think it’s safe to say they are all converts already; they appreciate good food when they see it, after all.
Stefano hands me a little parcel. ‘From Antonio,’ he says.
I rip off the paper to reveal a tiny book, with a perfect reproduction of a Titian painting on each page. It’s beautiful. The label reads, ‘To my dearest Lydia on your graduation day. Much love as always, your cousin Antonio Di Girolamo.’
My cousin. Yes, he is, however many times removed, which is something we will never be able to calculate. All that matters is that we are two members of the same huge family who have been privileged to share in the same story from five hundred years ago.
I stroll over to Vincenzo, who is looking gorgeous in his dark suit and designer sunglasses, kiss him on the cheek and take hold of his hand. Oh yes, here’s here too, of course. This day wouldn’t be complete without him, would it? In fact, he’s been staying with me for the past week, as we finalise our plans for our return to Florence together.
Yes, I’m going back. For good this time. England is still my home, and I have to keep reminding my parents of that, to help them deal with the fact that I’m going; they’re struggling a little bit to come to terms with their baby daughter leaving them to live overseas. But Italy isn’t far away, is it? They can quite easily hop on a plane and come and see me any time they like. And vice versa.
Vincenzo has been across to see me whenever he can during this past year, which has been fantastic to help ease the pain of having to leave behind not just him but my beloved Florence. Every time he came over it was like he brought a little bit of Florentine life with him. I’m pleased to say our love has survived the test of time and distance – but then we both knew it would.
I’ve also secured myself a job. With a little influence from my lovely friend Antonella Pasi, who I met that wet day at the archives, and the contacts she has in the world of galleries and museums, I have managed to land the grand position of Junior Curator, Sixteenth Century Art, at the Uffizi, of all places. It sounds very grand, but really it’s a very junior position and there are loads of us. Still, it’s a start, a foot in the door of my career in Art, and therefore just what I want and need. I’m going to do a Masters alongside it, I think. I need to carry on my academic studies, particularly in the light of what I learnt from, and about, Maria. There’s more to Renaissance life than just the paintings, I know that now.
The best thing of all about getting the job is that it gives me a valid reason for going to Florence to be with Vincenzo. He’s always said I could come out and he would support me, job or no job, but I need a reason to be there, other than him, and I think he understands that. He knows I love him and I want us to be together, but I need to think of the
me
in all this, and not lose sight of what I want for myself and my career too.
We’ve bought a little house, Vincenzo and I, a tiny, picturesque villa high on the hill overlooking the centre of Florence, up near the Piazzale Michelangelo. This has to be the scariest, most grown-up thing I’ve ever done! It’s a gorgeous little place – it needs a lot of work doing to it but it’s going to be our home. Vincenzo has already bought me something to hang on the walls – a print of the
Venus of Urbino
, just a small one, beautifully framed. When the renovations are finished it will take pride of place on the wall in the loo; Vincenzo fails to understand this quirky element of British interior design which can lead to an Old Master hanging in the smallest room of the house.
And I am planning to write that book about Maria. Life’s going to be busy, isn’t it? My book is going to be available to the wider public straight away – I’m not going to keep it under wraps like Antonio did – provided I’m lucky enough to secure a publishing deal of course, although both Vincenzo and Antonio have several contacts in that area, so here’s hoping...
Actually, Antonio is thinking of doing a third edition of his book, and braving the outside world with it. I’m going to publish mine as a historical novel, then there will be no worries in the future about my reputation as a serious art scholar (a reputation I have yet to earn) being called into question.
I’ve chosen a title for it already,
Urban Venus
,
A Renaissance Love Story.
Author’s Note & Acknowledgements
The
Venus of Urbino
painting first ‘hooked me in’ on a writing course back in 2009. Under the tutelage of the lovely Allegra Taylor, we aspiring writers were tasked with selecting a postcard and writing about it in the first person. I chose
Venus
, and hastily scribbled two pages about a girl who dozed off in front of the painting, and dreamt she was the artist’s model.
From then on, I felt there was an awful lot more I wanted to write about the painting. On a trip to Florence later the same year – including a tour of the Uffizi – a full-length story started to form in my head. When a little early research revealed that Titian had an illegitimate daughter whose name was Emilia – also my daughter’s name – then it felt like fate, and I knew I had to carry on.
But I don’t profess to be a historian, even an amateur one, and I have used artistic licence by the bucket-load to put this story together. Whilst Titian and Emilia are of course real historical figures, most of the events surrounding them – and many of the dates – come entirely from my imagination, as does the padded bench in room twenty-eight where Lydia has her dreams. If only that bench really existed!
Titian was born around 1491 and painted the
Venus of Urbino
in 1538, but it is 1540-41 before my Maria sits for the painting, whilst pregnant with Emilia, and to make her young enough to be the girl in the painting, I have assumed she was born in 1519. This would have given the lovers a couple of years of blissful existence in Venice, after that chance meeting at the brothel in Bologna in 1537, before their daughter was conceived.
The real Emilia was born much later, some time in the 1550’s, by which time Titian would have been in his sixties. I didn’t want him to be too old in this story, and I wanted the Pope’s visit to Bologna (a real historical event, during which Titian actually
did
paint the Pope) to be the occasion which brought Titian and Maria together. So I brought this papal visit forward from 1543 to 1537, which would have made Titian a quite elderly (by sixteenth century standards only!) forty-six, but still young enough to be attractive to a girl like Maria.
Florence continues to fascinate and amaze me more than any other city I’ve been to; I’ve learnt so much about it, as well as Venice, Bologna and the Renaissance era, in carrying out the research for this book. I am indebted to the following publications for their insight into the life and times of that richly exciting period of history:
Italy in the Age of the Renaissance
– John M. Najemy
Titian
– National Gallery Company
At Home in Renaissance Italy
– Marta Ajmar Wollheim & Flora Dennis
Thanks are due too to my posse of supportive friends and family: to my readers Alli Neal and Ginny Getting for their valued input, to Manuela Cherchi for her checking of my sometimes dubious Italian, to Liz Bryan for another wonderful cover design, and to Wadham for his unerring belief that I can do this writing thing. And of course to my children, just for being lovely.