Da Vinci's Tiger by L. M. Elliott

Author:L. M. Elliott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-09-04T16:00:00+00:00

15

“LOOK OUT, SIGNORA!”

Leonardo called out too late. Just as he released a pair of doves from their cage, Sancha and I stepped through the gate into the inner garden of Verrocchio’s studio.

“Oh!” I cried, shielding my face. The birds flew straight for me on their way out to open sky. But when I felt the fan of air from their wings and heard the rhythmic swoosh of each flap, I dropped my hands to look up into their snowy plumage as they fluttered past me.

“For God’s sake, man! How many times have I told you not to do that in here!” Verrocchio whacked Leonardo with his cap as he hurried toward me. “Are you all right, signora?”

“Yes,” I replied as Sancha fussed with brushing off my skirts, muttering curses and looking for bird droppings. I laughed, a little breathless. “In truth, that was rather extraordinary. I have never looked up straight into a bird in flight that close up. It is a wonderment, isn’t it, that they are able to lift themselves off from the earth like that.”

Leonardo strode toward me, his handsome face alight with questions. “What did you see?”

“It was as if they swam in the air, pushing and sweeping it as a man can the water.”

He pulled out a small notebook and scribbled.

Verrocchio sighed with exasperated affection. “Leonardo thinks he can build some contraption that will allow man to fly. I have suggested he visit the Duomo’s stone relief of Icarus plummeting to earth, the sun having melted the wax on the wings he built for himself. Man’s vanity!” He swatted Leonardo once more. “God did not give us wings.”

“But he did give us minds, Andrea, and the ability to imagine,” Leonardo said.

“Bah.” Verrocchio waved him off and spoke to me. “Always, this one has other ideas in his head that pull him from the work at hand. He’s interrupted sketches of the Madonna and child that Giuliano de’ Medici awaits with fantastical drawings of . . . I struggle to know what to call the thing. An enormous turtle shells with wheels . . .”

“That is an armored wagon to protect soldiers as they attack a castle!” Leonardo protested.

“And who has commissioned you to do that?” Verrocchio laid his hand on Leonardo’s shoulder. “Yes, God gave us minds and imaginations and hopes and dreams. But he also gave us stomachs, Leonardo! I know you like to understand the causation of things. Well, think on this: to purchase food requires coin and coin comes from work and work comes from commissions. By all means, go with your flights of fancy, but do so after you have finished your paid work. It is not as if we work the dye vats. Our paid work is tremendously fulfilling. We create art, Leonardo, art!”

Verrocchio turned to me. “And that brings me to you, my lady. We have been asked to paint you.” He put his hands to his hips and gazed at me intently. Leonardo did the same.

Under their scrutiny I felt horribly shy.

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