Sandro: The Forsaken World-Part 1 (The Botticelli Series)

As to the private orders from wealthy citizens, one of thefashionable workshops was certain to secure the com- mission. Naturally, Sandro's picture of Fortitude made somestir ; but whilst Antonio expressed unbounded personaladmiration for the daring originality of the figure, hehinted at his great anxiety lest his patrons should havefound fault with imperfections in the drawing, andended by a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders.

The hard part of Sandro's struggle lay in the veryexcellence of his establishment. Jacopo di Sallajo haddeveloped into quite a first-class workman ; it is truethat he lacked invention and that his touch was a triflehard, but, with Sandro's imagination behind him, hisfurniture-work was more decorative than any that thePollaiuoli had accomplished. Filippino, although hewas only in his teens, was already showing that faciledrawing and suave colouring which was to make him.

Sebastian the most popular master of his generation. Sandrowas the tutor of Filippino and the guiding light toJacopo ; but, as to his own work, no one wanted it. The workshop did a little work for old Soccebonel thecabinet-maker, who required a finer finish and paidlower prices than any one in Italy ; it sold a few reli-gious pictures to the smaller shopkeepers and poorertradesmen ; it made just enough to pay Jacopo's wagesand contribute a small sum towards the board of thetwo other painters in the Filepepi family. All this does not mean that Sandro vanished fromHethe artistic world.

Hisdrawings in clean, masterful line were eagerly soughtfor by his brother-artists, and his paintings of Judithand Holofernes, and several small portraits, were muchadmired. But, as the proverb hath it: First, on December 3rd, , Piero de'. Secondly, in the followingyear his brother Giovanni had been blessed with afemale child, and, yielding to Sandro's request, hadnamed this child Alessandra after Sandro's small god-daughter.

Thirdly, in , after journeying to Rometo congratulate Sixtus the Fourth on his election to thepapacy, Lorenzo de' Medici had visited Fra Filippo'sgrave at Spoleto with the object of removing his bodyto the Florentine Duomo for interment but yielding ;to the prayers of the citizens of Spoleto, his Magnifi-cence had consented to leave the painter's body in itsresting-place and erect a monument over his grave.

On his return to Florence he had sent for Sandro ;and, partly on Sandro's suggestion, partly by his ownkind thoughtfulness, had determined to commissionFilippino to design his father's memorial as soon ashe was sufficiently experienced to undertake such animportant piece of work. Sandro was now twenty-nine, and he felt that thetime had come, if it ever was to come, for his appealto the educated public.

It was a letter from Lucreziathat brought his conclusions into a definite form, anddetermined him to seek out Lorenzo the Magnificentand ask for his patronage. Sebastian i43unnoticed, but you are also losing the chance of puttingthose same talents to the test by means of work thatis worthy of them. He was seated in his private room at the Palace of thePriori, with maps of every known and unknown country—hung round the walls where details of Central Africaor the contours of America were unknown, the imagi-nation of the draftsman had supplied the deficiencyand correspondence relating to every known countrybefore him, and yet he had found the time to cross-examine this unknown artist on his private affairs andenter into the spirit of Lucrezia's letter.

Commence it immediately, and I will hangit in Santa Maria Maggiori when it is finished: Draw the picture as youhave described it paint it in Santa Maria Maggiori, so ;that you may judge the light in which it will hang ;and I will do my best for you. Now leave me, Sandro,for I am very busy.

Left to himself, Lorenzo smiled, for only that morn-ing he had met Antonio Pucci and heard from him thathe 'was ordering a picture of St. Granted that Sandro's account of—his relations with his late master were correct andLorenzo saw no reason why it should not be correctit was morally certain that the Pollaiuoli, when theyfound Sandro engaged on the same theme, would try toexcel him, and a very pretty duello should result.

Asto whether Sandro really painted as well as he professedto paint, Lorenzo could form no opinion ; but AntonioPollaiuolo would hear of the picture from the Com-panions of St. Luke, he would go to see it in thechurch, and he would try to beat it: ASandro's bottega was all excitement. Lisa and Caterina wouldcome, with various excuses, a dozen times a day ;Smeralda would toil laboriously up the stairs ; Marianowould have to consult his son on business of whichSandro had not the least knowledge.

Amidst thisSandro worked on, the only calm one amongst the lot ;for now, as always, Sandro Filepepi had the invaluablepower of detaching himself from his surroundings. The theme had been his own inspiration, and hadcommended itself to that sound critic Lorenzo de'Medici, so Sandro determined to develop the themein his own way.

One majestic figure of the martyredSaint, wounded to death yet living, must fill the panelthere must be no model to take away his mind fromthe subject itself, so he must work from his imagination. And now he felt his debt to Fra Filippo ; for hard,steady work from the living model had filled his mindand stored his memory with truth instead of fancies,and he knew that he had the power to paint his subjecttruthfully.

As he drew, something of Lorenzo crept into theface of St. This was not because Sandro wasstriving to win favour, or because Lorenzo was worthyof canonisation, but because Lorenzo de' Medici hadacquired a brave, unselfish devotion to his country,combined with a fearless resistance of all who werefoes of Florence, that was stamping his features withmany of the attributes of the soldier-saint. Winter had passed, spring had come, and thepicture was nearly finished before Sandro heard ofHethe Pollaiuoli's intentions.

Sebastian were painting a large picture of St. He had been working in the Church of Santa MariaMaggiori until the light was beginning to fail, when hebecame conscious that some one was standing behindhim. He turned round and, looking upwards, met theeyes of Hilda. The woman was growing very fat andexceedingly coarse, and a certain animal charm that usedto mark her expression was leaving her. He says that you have given the poor young manat least four mortal wounds, and that he seems tolike them.

Now I must go, for I am not pleasedwith you. He means men tosay that the little you know has been learnt from him. But I must go, for I am not pleased with you. She gazed at St. Sebastian for some momentsbefore giving her answer. Then Hilda went, whilst Sandro remained andshuddered. Sandro paints the Bardi Madonna,14S6. Lorenzo Tornabuoni marries Giovanna. Frescoes at the Villa Tornabuoni.

Sandro paints the Coronation of the Virgin for St. He hadbeen walking on the terrace of the Medici villa atFiesole, talking to Madonna Clarice, Lorenzo de'Medici's wife, until it had been time for her to retirein order to entertain her guests ; and now he was lean-ing over the balustrade which overlooked Florence. The poem itself contained adescription of the finding of Simonetta by Giulianode' Medici. Simonetta had been resting on the mossof a woodland glade ; she was clad in a white gown em-broidered with roses and rosebuds and grasses.

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Giuli-ano had appeared, and Simonetta, seeing the youth, hadraised her head a little shyly ; then with her whitehands she had lifted the edge of her white skirt,and had risen to her feet with her lap full of flowers. Perhaps andthe heavy scent of the orange blossom rose from thetrees below the parapet and hung round him in thewarm evening air. One may recollect withone's brain, but one recalls through one's nose! It had been on a warm May evening, just nineyears ago, that he had first met Madonna Simonetta. He had been invited to the Medici villa to receivethe congratulations of Madonna Clarice and MadonnaLucrezia de' Medici on the completion of his SanSebastiano ; and there, on the same terrace, he hadbeen presented to Madonna Simonetta, the youngwife of Marco Vespucci.

Madonna had detachedhim from the rest, and, after walking up and downthe terrace with him, talking with him about his St.

Sebastian, had leant over the balustrade. The sweetscent of the orange blossom had filled his nostrils asMadonna Simonetta had drawn him on to tell her ofhis life in Prato, of his experiences with the Pollaiuoli,and of his struggles to set up a workshop on his ownaccount. Gradually he had found that he was speaking toher of his ideals: After Nine Years contended that a painter should strive to paint thesoul and spirit of his subject rather than the outwardappearance ; for the outward appearance of each livingthing is moulded by the soul which vivifies it.

Is that clear, madonna?

» Why Beauty Matters

All this was recalled by the scent of the orangeblossom. A cloud passed over the moon, and, as the lightceased, so his recollections ceased, leaving him wonder-ing. During that year and the next Florence had beenfree from wars and conspiracies, and the whole of thesocial life had been devoted to festivities over whichSimonetta had reigned as queen. Plato had been thegod, Ficino and Landino his priests ; and what Ficinoand Landino evolved in the abstract, the noblespractised in the concrete with Madonna Simonetta asthe objective.

Her fragile beauty, her sweetness andgoodness and sympathy had made madonna an ideal— —queen of Platonism, and he smiled to himself theonly hint of scandal was madonna's too evidentaffection for her husband Marco Vespucci. What an empty life it had been! The lute is stilled, yet still sweet love holds sway, —For love will last when youth is past and May I As the song ceased, and his three models flungthemselves on the grass beneath the plane trees,Sandro stretched himself: It wasextraordinary how fascinating this wry-necked poet,with his indefinite nose and squinting eyes, could makehimself on occasion ; and this occasion, when he andLuigi Pulci had ridden out to the orange groves ofCastello to find the prettiest girl he had seen for manya day, dancing bare-foot on the grass, was certainly anoccasion paramount.

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Why should love cease withMay time? I understand marriage very well indeed! I should like to see myself marrying! Thank God Iam not such a fool! In the New Manner You think that true love between man and maidshould be thus binding, Madonna Alessandra? True love will never fade. Petrarch loved Laura with—constant ardour young, mature, living, dead. True affection will never wither!

Daylight had faded, and the moonlight was minglingwith the last of the afterglow. Sandro and Politian andthe rest had been joined by Lorenzo de' Medici andhis two cousins di Pierfrancesco, and the tables hadbeen spread on the orange-scented lawn, and the moon-beams were glistening on the silver and crystal andsparkling in the girls' eyes as the men lingered overtheir wine. The air moved softly, for nature wasbreathing after the heat of the day. Presently, at a nod from Lorenzo, Politian struckhis lute, and sang: Naught ye know of what may chance to-morrow Youth and maiden, live and love to-day!

The thin, reedy notes of. In the New Manner pipes sounded from the grove, and the voices of unseensingers trilled an elfish melody: Weaving nets to catch their loves in bowers, Spreading snares to trap them in the groves, Capturing them at length amidst the flowers. Care they not for what may hap to-morrow. Nymph and Satyr live and love to-day. Morals were as a forgottendream, for this was nature! The measure changed ; the music softened and grewmore full ; the old gods, the gods of Lucretius andSandro and Politian, walked the glade: Goddess of the Springtime;Primavera!

Over all rules Venus, gently, firmly,Teaching us her Springtime Laws are these'Care ye not for what may hap to-morrow,Lass and lover, love and live to-day! This was the reality. Theywere living in the age when the world was young. Alessandra was swept by new emotions, which seemedas though they were no emotions, for she was caughtin the wheel of nature. She felt Poliziano's hand touch hers softly, and touchedit back again. Again the music changed, reaching its full joyfulness.

Thus your youth will lose its Springtime ardour: Seize its joys and blossoms whilst ye may 1 Caring not for what may hap to-morrow, Youth and maiden, love and live to-day. Then Alessandra came to earth with a crash. But, oh, Sandro mio! For amoment she felt too tired even to pick it up ; then,curiosity awakening, she stooped down and opened it,and read: But what doth it profit me,if I, who parch for her, cannot speak with her alone.

For—the human love of the expression of beauty whetherthe beauty be wrought by the human hand, or fashioned—by the human brain is a part of human nature thatwill last until the end of the world and when ;Christianity slew paganism, and buried pagan art inthe same grave, this art was only stunned, not killed ;and when, after the sleep of ten centuries, art was ex-humed, pagan art brought something of the spirit ofpaganism from her resting-place. This was the spirit of—the Renaissance the revival of the spirit of paganism. Now when the revival of classical art was unreason-able, as in the case of Messer Leon Battista Alberti,who adorned the Christian church at Rimini withreliefs of Venus, or in the case of those Romanphilosophers who strode about in sandal and toga, menonly laughed, and morals were untouched ; but where Love the revival was reasonable, as in the hands of Lorenzo de' Medici, Christian morals received an Injury.

For what is paganism except the worship of nature? And what are the pagan gods except the embodimentof man's joys and fears as they are felt through hisintellect, senses, and passions? Keep Venus amidsther Grecian groves, drape her with Grecian thoughts,trap her with classical allusions, and, although she mayperchance appear somewhat artificial, one may sing herpraises from morn till night without doing an atom ofharm to any one. But revive Venus in the form of aFlorentine maiden, place her in some familiar chamberor in the woods of Careggi, sing of her in the languageof warm flesh and blood, and one is singing a songthat is at once the hymn and gospel of paganism.

IfLorenzo de' Medici sometimes sang of Venus as thoughshe were a goddess of the ancients, he seldom failedto press the gospel of Venus right home. It must not be imagined for one moment thatLorenzo regarded his paganism as more than a classicalrefinement ; it must not be imagined that the licenceof his love songs was other than a poetic licence, to belaid aside when he laid aside his lyre ; it must notbe imagined that his pageants were Intended to doaught except amuse his friends or occupy the mindsof those who might otherwise be plotting ; but thefact remains that his carnivals, triumphs, and dance-songs must have excited the senses and swayed thepassions of those who shared in them.

The dawn broke ; the sun gained power ; and, asthe strange woodland creatures that had been playing. The tester-curtains were the same ; theroom, with the small round Madonna by Filippinohanging opposite her couch, was unaltered ; her whitegown was still hanging over the foot of the bed ; andAyet, something was changed. It was an impalpable change that had come to her,the indefinite change that comes over water as it growsstale or to wine as it grows flat ; she was not the samegirl who had woke up yesterday and the day before.

Then, as her full waking senses returned, Alessandraremembered the doings of Castello. There had beena luxurious supper in the twilight, with the clever talkof the most cultured men in Florence to amuse her,and the incense of deference and admiration to intoxi-cate her.

The moon had risen ; Messer Poliziano hadsung a verse in his honey-sweet voice ; nymphs andsatyrs had trooped out into the moonlight, and she hadbeen carried away, without any volition on her part,into a sensuous world of love and passion.

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The findingof the note in her girdle flashed into her memory, and,flushed and miserable, she scrambled out of bed to seeexactly what this man had dared to write. Love which qualities, veiled by her modesty, she is the rivalof the Graces. At first she felt sick with disgust ; then, as she readand re-read the note, Politian's declaration began toHefall into perspective. He had sought and sighed for a dream-maiden ofinfinite perfection ; he had found her, but what did thisprofit him unless he could speak with her alone?

Ofcourse he meant her to understand that she was themaiden in question and had taken care that his meaningshould be very plain ; but he had only, so to speak,metaphorically touched her hand, and waited for her toreturn the touch before he actually committed himself. She might ignore this letter of Politian's, but thatwould only leave him free to suppose that it hadslipped from her belt during her ride home, and leaveherself open to a fresh approach.

She mustanswer this epistle in a way that would be a meta-phorical withdrawal from the contact of his touch. Of course, since no Italian parent was foolish enough—to confound innocence with ignorance Lucrezia least—of all Alessandra could read between the lines ofPolitian's declaration ; but she saw that by taking thestatement of her accomplishments literally, and assum-ing that he merely wished to hold converse with thisaccomplished maiden, she might pen a very pretty.

As she dressed herself, fetched somethingwith which to break her fast, and sat down to write toPoliziano, the world looked brighter. But as forthy dreams, have a care that thou interpret them truly! Thy lady's accomplishmentsare things as light as the flowers and the dew, and yetthou desireth to hold converse with her! Alessandra laughed as she wrote the concluding pro-verb ; then, as she read through the letter, she smiledjoyfully at the impulse which had made her insert thepoet's supreme accomplishment in the midst of hisarithmetic, law and medicine. The touching of Poli-ziano's hand fell into its proper place amongst thevenial sins of unpremeditated and impulsive foolish-ness, and she resolved to tell Sandro of her indiscretionand show him the letter.

This would at once safe-guard her against any unpleasant consequences that mightarise from the correspondence and relieve her feelings,and she was sure of Sandro's affectionate sympathy. Again she dipped her pen in the ink, and subscribedAherself: Love the sleep of utter exhaustion, the man had retired withthe memory of the ride home filling his mind, and thegirl's touch still warm on the arm which had supportedher. But why attempt to describe Sandro's night,when there is his own account in Anonimo Gaddiano? But to return to Alessandra. After waiting until she judged that the journeymen and apprentices had departed to eat their dinner, Sandrina concealed Politian's letter and her reply in her girdle, and, with a glance in the mirror, and a touch to her locks, she went along the passage and up the stairs that led to Sandro's studio.

Here, at the door of the studio, she paused, for she heard a voice that was not Sandro's. What is it that every proper man woulddie for and yet lack? It is you who are stupid, not I! Havingdied for the smile, how should he lack it? Truly the gods have made yousomewhat mad! The smile faded at his death.

As you say, I must be a littlemad this morning. In , the Parisian art critic Jacques Mesnil is assigned to uncover a secret about one of the greatest artists who ever lived During Botticelli's time, Florence was ruled by the wealthy and powerful Medici family who bore a dark secret. The corrupt Pope Alexander VI, who wanted to wrestle control from the Medici family, decried that all power in Italy should be for himself Standing in his way was Florence's crazed priest Giralamo Savonarola with his forceful, n-religious ways, even going as far as to have a mass burning of art.

In an age when conspirators, betrayers and assassins wove their ways through the lives of common people, Sandro and Ernesto are thrown into a family's dark secret, resulting in jealousy, mystery, adventure and death. Sandro Botticelli left his mark on the world Vincent F Porzio is an engaging debut writer entering the literary world. Born and raised in New Jersey, he graduated as an art major with a degree in art history.

THE ROMANCE OF SANDRO BOTTICELLI

Yearning to see the world, he found himself among people from all walks of life, learning from them throughout the continental United States. His travels took him worldwide where he roamed dark dingy basements throughout ancient churches in the U. His travels enabled him to not only study people, but to observe their struggles, triumphs, loves and passions. As a result, creativity and passion for the written page was born. He enjoys visiting his family in the beautiful Tuscan region of Italy where he never takes for granted the beauty that is all around. Having raised two girls, he now resides in a small country suburb of Atlanta, Georgia with his wife.

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