The Painter's Apprentice by Laura Morelli

Author:Laura Morelli
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: historical fiction, Venice, Venice Italy, Venetian painting, Italian Renaissance, bubonic plague fiction, historical romance, interracial romance, plague fiction, coming of age, family saga, cultural heritage
Publisher: The Scriptorium
Published: 2017-10-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 27

“Do you see, Maria?” Master Trevisan says, reaching out as if to grasp my arm. He hesitates just before his fingers brush the ragged trim of my sleeve. “See how the paint has been built up in thin layers? The oil captures and reflects light in ways tempera cannot.” His hand leaves my side and his finger traces a drapery fold on an elaborate red cloak of Saint Jerome.

“Mmm.” I try to concentrate on the picture, but I am distracted. Pascal Grissoni’s workshop is overwhelming, a feast for the eyes. There is a pinkish, blown-glass chandelier suspended from an iron hook in the coffered ceiling. An arched loggia overlooking the wide canal. Light streaming from leaded windows on three sides, making bright streaks along the marble floor. Smiling angels swooping from a lofty ceiling painted to resemble the sky. Crackled mirrors along one wall. Velvet-upholstered chairs and impressive-looking swords and halberds mounted on the walls. Pascal Grissoni’s home could be that of a nobleman rather than a humble painter.

Yet there are paintings. Dozens and dozens of paintings. As in Master Trevisan’s studio, pictures are hung floor to ceiling, with others stacked haphazardly along the walls or propped on wooden easels. I recognize some old panels, but there are also new canvases stretched and nailed across wooden frames.

Grissoni’s father, a strapping man with a broad chest and a generous beard, guides us to an elegant room filled with men. In addition to the four of us who have traveled to Pascal Grissoni’s studio, there are a handful of others who have come to see the pictures before they are sent to a monastery where no one other than the brothers will see them.

Master Trevisan and his journeyman join the group of guildsmen, but I hesitate, unsure where I should stand, or where I belong in the makeup of this esteemed group. I hang back with the painter’s wife, close enough to hear the conversation but not in a position to join it. Alongside us, a portrait of a woman with a small dog stands on an easel. I pretend to examine it with great concentration, and in truth, I am captivated with the rich colors on the canvas surface.

“Exactly right.” I hear the voice of Master Bellini, the most well-regarded painter in our guild. I know him only by reputation and by his pictures, but have never seen the man himself. All of us turn our attention to him. “The oil pigments are slow to dry, which means that they can be blended better than egg tempera. They also account for the translucency and light reflection that I’m sure all of you can see.”

Master Bellini is now, unbelievably I think, standing alongside me, after I’ve spent a lifetime imagining him as our enemy. What would my father say? Bellini is one of the men my father faulted for the demise of our trade, his name spit out with a strange mixture of disdain and admiration. He is one that I, as a girl, imagined seeing outside my window, the one who would take our gold away.

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