“He did not say so when we interviewed him to come into our studio.”
“I said he is odd, but he is not a fool. He knows that there is more opportunity here for him than anywhere else in Italy, and he also knew that he would never be admitted to the Guild of Saint Luke if he did not please you.”
The Guild of Saint Luke was the artist’s enclave responsible for overseeing all the great painting commissions in Florence. To truly make a name for oneself, and a good living as an artist, one had to be a member of the Guild. And given that it had ties to the Order and the Medici, being within the good graces of both was necessary for member-
ship.
“But it will have to end somewhere, I’m telling you. He may be brilliant, but he is not one to produce quickly or proficiently when the subject matter isn’t to his liking. He has been working on a Magi sketch for months. And while he continues to add figures to it, it is going nowhere. I would bet every florin I have ever made that it will never see paint. Such genius is of no use to us, Lorenzo, if it cannot be channeled to our purposes. I can paint ten times what he sketches in a month.”
Lorenzo nodded. Sandro was full of his own abilities, but he had every right to be. He was not only a creative genius, and one who truly understood the teachings of the Order, but he was also unequaled in his productivity. He was prolific beyond any other artist Lorenzo had ever seen. And this was a tenet of the Order: to create for God, as often as possible, and with as much passion and commitment as could be channeled into the art. Angelic artists were not only gifted in terms of quality, they were able to produce in quantity without sacrificing the art.
“Leonardo is not a producer. While the rest of us pour out frescoes and major works, he is still drawing bizarre machines on his sketchpad—gigantic tools for excavating dirt, or weapons of war to chop a man to bits. Perhaps those are useful and even interesting, but they do not serve our mission. Further, he has no interest in the teachings of the Order and isn’t hearing Andrea when he conveys certain secrets.”
Sandro had Lorenzo’s full attention now, as he knew he would. That Leonardo wasn’t connecting with the teachings of the Order, and was perhaps even in opposition to the true teachings, was important. The purpose of cultivating these artists was not merely for art’s sake; it was to create a stable of divinely gifted scribes who could translate the sacred teachings into masterworks for the future.
“Do you think he is dangerous? Or a spy?”
Sandro shook his head. “I don’t see guile in him, necessarily. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be used by those who have plenty to spare. I simply don’t think he has the capacity to be loyal to you or to the Order. We are not his priority, nor do I think we can ever be.”
Lorenzo considered this and added, “Jacopo tells me that Leonardo is the greatest artist who has ever lived.”
“Bracciolini said that?” Sandro did not attempt to hide his disdain. “He would. They are similar types. Cerebral. Mental geniuses who are completely cut off from anything higher than what is in their own heads.”
“So you do not think that Leonardo should be moved to the next level, just to see how he fares?” Lorenzo asked. “I was going to send him to a private meeting with the Master for evaluation.”
Sandro shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to see what Fra Francesco has to say about him. He is the greatest judge of character on God’s earth. But I would not hold out great hope for this Leonardo. Did I mention that he writes backwards? As if in a mirror? While it is an interesting feat, what is the point of such an endeavor other than a parlor trick? I would like to see what would happen if he put that mind of his into something more diverse.”
Lorenzo nodded, taking it all in. He was disturbed by this report. Leonardo da Vinci was a rare talent, an extraordinary genius. Lorenzo had great hopes of bringing him into the fold. And on the occasions when they met, he always found Leonardo to be elegant and polite, a well-spoken young man with extraordinary intelligence and insights. To learn of these unexpected challenges was troubling. He would need to discuss them with Andrea as well as Fra Francesco.
“Oh, and there’s one more thing I haven’t told you. He hates
women.”
“What do you mean, he hates women?”
“Despises the female sex. Can’t stand the sight of them. Told me he thinks they are all deceitful whores and tricksters. He speaks as a man who was abandoned in the cradle, and perhaps he was. He has not known maternal love, which is clear when you see that he is incapable of drawing a Madonna who is connected to her child. He has no understanding of the mother-and-child bond. And he won’t stay in the room if the model is female. So I do not think he is going to be overjoyed with the teachings of the Order once he is further immersed into the requisite devotion to our Lady.
“So while you might get a few decent John the Baptist paintings out of him, I’m thinking that he may not be the best portrait artist for our beloved Madonnas.”
There was an air about Leonardo da Vinci, a controlled yet tangible energy that radiated from the young man. Lorenzo, after spending several hours with him in the studio, had no doubt that Leonardo was an angelic. His talent was staggering. To look through his sketches was to be stunned by the exquisite precision with which he worked. And like the others who had been identified by Lorenzo and his grandfather before him, Leonardo had a certain charisma that was found in all the divinely gifted artists. On the surface, there was nothing about this man that should not be exciting and promising to all who valued artistic talent. And he was unerringly polite to both Lorenzo and the Master. While Sandro and the others artists had complained that Leonardo’s temperament was often one of well-displayed hubris, Lorenzo did not witness this himself.
“You honor me, Magnifico,” Leonardo said in a warm voice with a southern Tuscan inflection. “I wish to create in a way that is pleasing
to you.”
Lorenzo thanked Leonardo as they worked through his sketches. The infamous Adoration of the Magi sketch, which Sandro had complained about, was the focus of their discussion. It was indeed a very busy sketch, but also a grand one. The scope was magnificent, and there was an elaborate narrative woven through the work. It was beautiful and powerful, and yet as Lorenzo examined it, he was beginning to understand what Sandro meant when he said it would always be incomplete.
“You do not like it, Magnifico?”
Leonardo da Vinci was genuinely concerned. Again, Lorenzo was not witnessing the grand pride that the other artists accused him of, nor did Leonardo appear to be playing the innocent for his patron. And yet there was something happening here with this artist that Lorenzo had not experienced with any of his other angelics. With the other artists, even the extremely temperamental ones, there was an ease of communication. It amounted to a sheer passion for art and the process of transmitting the divine into the work that they all shared and all celebrated. That passion could not be seen in Leonardo, for all his extraordinary talent.
Lorenzo stared at the Adoration of the Magi, willing his mind and spirit to work together to help him to identify exactly what was missing in the sketch. As Sandro had pointed out, there was no feeling of relationship between the Madonna and her child. But there was something else here that was disturbing, and Lorenzo was trying to grasp it. Leonardo was waiting for him to reply, and it was cruel to leave an artist to believe his work was not appreciated.
“Actually, Leonardo, I like it very much. What you have created here—this background with the staircase, the horses here and how they help create perspective, the use of the kings spaced across the foreground on either side—it is stunning. Truly magnificent. It’s just . . .” Lorenzo ran his finger along the edges of the paper as he considered, then jumped when he cut himself on the corner, drawing blood. He sucked on the offended finger for a moment to stop the bleeding, and as he did so, the realization came to him.
“It’s just that . . . all of these figures appear to be afraid. Here is a scene of the most sacr
ed event in human history, the birth of our Lord, the prince who will show us the most divine love. And yet you have given all those in attendance of the holy event an expression of fear.”
Leonardo was quiet for a long moment before responding. “I do not see it as fear. I see it as awe.”
Lorenzo considered this for a moment before responding. “Awe? Really? But look at this figure here, the king who is Balthazar,” Lorenzo pointed out, animated with both the realization and the challenge now. “He is cowering from the infant Jesus. Clearly, that is fear rather than awe. And this figure above the holy child. He appears to be recoiling, almost as if in horror. I’m afraid, my friend, I do not get the sense that this is a celebration of our Lord’s birth.”
Leonardo shrugged, his mouth twitching a bit, as he let his careful guard down for the first time. Perhaps it was Lorenzo’s honest assessment of the work that allowed him to slip, but slip he did. When he replied, Leonardo’s voice was soft but sure, although he could not look Lorenzo in the eyes as he spoke.
“Perhaps not everyone believes that the birth of Jesus was something to be celebrated. Perhaps for some it was an event to be feared, or even despised. If art is meant to be truth, then I would paint it as such.”
Lorenzo was taken aback by the harshly heretical statement. He glanced up at Fra Francesco, who was utterly silent, an observer of what he sensed to be a grand drama playing out quietly before him in the studio of Andrea del Verrocchio.
“You do not believe that the birth of Jesus is an event to be celebrated, Leonardo?” Lorenzo kept his voice calm and casual. He wanted a true answer, and not a reaction.
“It does not matter what I believe, Magnifico. If you are my patron, and you want figures who are smiling at the birth of Jesus, then it is my job to please you. I can assure you that when these images are translated into paint, I shall adjust the facial expressions to provide you with whatever it is that you require.”
It was a careful answer, and a brilliant one. Leonardo did not answer the question of what he did or did not believe. He avoided it completely, giving the correct reply to please a patron.
Lorenzo smiled and thanked him, assuring Leonardo again that he was an artist of consummate skill and that he, Lorenzo, would look forward to seeing what he produced in the future. He then called for Andrea to meet with him and the Master later that afternoon back in the Via Larga for dinner to discuss what was now being called the Leonardo problem.
Andrea del Verrocchio had been unerringly loyal to three generations of Medici, but he was not going to lose the greatest sketch artist he had ever trained without a fight.
“Leonardo’s is a rare talent, Lorenzo. He is a genius.”
“I’m aware of that. I have eyes, Andrea. I also have ears. Did you hear what he said about the birth of our Lord being an event to be feared and despised? He may be a genius, but unfortunately, he is not our ge-
nius.”
“Give me more time with him. We work well together. Perhaps he can be brought around . . .”
“You cannot make a man what he is not.” Lorenzo smiled wanly at the man whom he loved and trusted so completely. “Even you, my friend, as brilliant a teacher as you are, cannot transform a man who does not want to be thus changed. No man ever achieved true greatness using just his mind. One must also engage the heart. I do not think Leonardo will do that, because he does not desire to.”
Andrea looked at Fra Francesco, who had taught them both the meaning of love as it had been brought to them all through the teachings of Jesus Christ. “And what do you think, Master?”
Fra Francesco answered carefully. “What do I think? Or what do I feel? Because that is what this comes down to, isn’t it? Leonardo knows how to think, but he does not know how to feel, and he chooses to stay in that place of isolation. I do not think anyone will draw him away from that choice, as he holds it too close. There is great darkness in that heart, a darkness that comes from sadness. It is not of his own making or of his own doing, but it is there all the same.”
“Do you think he is an angelic?” This was Lorenzo’s question.
“Undoubtedly,” the Master answered, startling both men with his certainty. Never before had any artist, no matter how difficult, been dismissed if it was determined that he was born with the angelic gifts. Would Fra Francesco insist on keeping him, then?
“But I think he is an angel who has been damaged by his human experiences, and this happened at a very young age. It would take great love to crack him open and release the pure divinity that is trapped within his spirit. I do not foresee that happening. However, we are taught through the greatest of prayers that forgiveness must be for all men, and we must therefore allow Leonardo to continue awhile longer under Andrea’s tutelage. We will treat him with love, tolerance, and forgiveness, as our Lord has taught us through his commandments, and see if that brings about a change in him.”
“And if it does not?” Lorenzo asked.
“If it does not,” Fra Francesco said with a little smile, “then we find him a new patron, elsewhere in Italy, some noble family whose favor you wish to secure who will celebrate the name of the Medici for selflessly surrendering their most talented young artist as an act of friendship.”
Lorenzo raised his glass to the ancient man with the scarred face. Now that was genius.
The year 1475 was turning out to be an important one for Lorenzo, one in which the blessings of God were being showered on all of Tuscany through the arrival of several children, deemed to have potentially angelic gifts, based on their parentage combined with the position of the stars at their time of birth. The astrological and numerological predictions of the Magi had foretold that this would be an exalted year. Indeed, Clarice was expecting again, due in December, and the Magi were predicting a son with a destiny to carry the mission of the Order into the future. Lorenzo had great hopes for this expected child, as his elder son, little Piero, was already showing signs of being a product of his mother. He was sullen and spoiled, and Lorenzo argued with Clarice regularly about the boy’s pending education. He was still too young for these battles to matter overmuch, but in the next few years Lorenzo would have to be firm in guiding the direction of Piero’s education. Clarice wanted him schooled from the Psalter, learning to read and write only from the sanctified teachings of the Church. Lorenzo, of course, wanted him immediately immersed in the classics.
Lorenzo’s greatest joy as a parent came from his daughters. The elder, named after his mother, Lucrezia, was a sweet girl who loved to sing for her father. But his baby, the joy of his life, was little Maria Maddalena. Madi was precocious and playful and had her father wrapped around her pudgy little finger. The first thing Lorenzo did when he entered the palazzo after a day away was scoop her up and toss her about until she squealed with delight. Maddalena was special, not just for her sunny, feisty personality—she was born under the star sign of Leo, on the twenty-fifth of July—but because she had healed Lorenzo’s broken heart after the loss of the twins. In the previous year, Clarice had given birth to twin boys, but they were tiny and weak and did not survive longer than a few days. He was shattered by the loss, as was Clarice. But the arrival of Maddalena restored him. Strangely, Clarice had the opposite reaction and seemed less inclined to favor Maddalena than she was the other children. This caused Lorenzo to pamper his Madi even further.
Still, the Medici dynasty required boys to continue with their grand plan, particularly one whom they could devote to the Church. Piero was not shaping up to have the personality, temperament, or intelligence of his father. He was young enough to change, perhaps, but he was Clarice’s child so completely that such a thing seemed unlikely. What Lorenzo needed was a son with Maddalena’s intelligence and temperament. He prayed daily for the safe delivery of this new son. And he prayed for the other baby.
Colombina was also expecting.
They no longer bothered with the charade where Niccolò was concerned, but for the rest of Florence and for the sake of t
his baby’s name and future, it had been necessary to ensure that Niccolò Ardinghelli was in Florence long enough to appear to have impregnated his own wife. Then Lorenzo shipped him off again. He had an agreement with Niccolò now, which was very lucrative for the Ardinghelli family. As a result, Niccolò maintained the appearance that he and Colombina were man and wife and did exactly as Lorenzo bid in public. Most of all, Lorenzo insisted that Colombina have absolute freedom to live any way she pleased.
Still, it was widely rumored in Florence that the Ardinghelli marriage was a sham. Supporters of the Medici defended it, but their detractors were quick to gossip and point out the various pieces of evidence that indicated that Lorenzo and Madonna Ardinghelli were engaged in adultery and had been for years. Sandro was nearly imprisoned for breaking the nose of one of these loose-lipped men, an old drinking partner from Niccolò’s bachelor days, in the Tavern at Ognissanti. The lout had shouted in response to the news that Colombina was expecting, “The Medici balls really are everywhere in Florence—but particularly in Lucrezia Ardinghelli!”
The loudmouth had it coming, Sandro said simply in his own defense. Besides, it was a great risk to the hands of any painter to punch someone that hard. Sandro had suffered enough for the offense. The judge, from a long line of Medici supporters, agreed and let Sandro go with no penalty and chastised the plaintiff for attempting to sully the good name of Madonna Ardinghelli. The judge was later given a lovely portrait of his wife by the grateful Sandro.
Lorenzo’s commitment to his one true love never wavered, and it was devastating for him that he could not be with her during her pregnancy. Colombina, heavy with his child, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Lorenzo sent Sandro over to sketch her, as he wanted her captured in this ripe beauty, looking like Venus incarnate. The drawings Sandro returned with were stunning, and Lorenzo and Sandro pored over them for hours, trying to determine precisely how they would want to include them in a painting that would grace Lorenzo’s private studio.