Purple Scrolls: Part II - Gold P with Knotwork

In my last post I went over the process of dying purple paper. Out of my last batch I gleaned four pieces of hot press watercolor paper and six of Bristol board. I hadn't worked with watercolor paper before and decided to start with that one.

Since that last post I've learned that even with careful drying and pressing the paper likes to warp a bit. Not enough to interfere with the art surface, mind you. Just enough that it needs to be taped down while drawing or painting otherwise it likes to flop around like a teeter-totter.

I decided on my initial which was a capital P taken from the Lectionary on Purple Vellum (folio 100v) housed at the Bibliothèque nationale de France. On the last scroll I just put the letter and no other elements but on this one I decided to try a couple other elements just to see how they looked.

Initial P with Knotwork Design

The line work was completed with silver quilting pencil and, like with the black Bristol, it shows up nicely and erases well.

Once the design was completed I wasn't very happy with the braid on the left but decided to leave it because I was pretty sure even if I erased it, parts of it would still show. I just won't use it again. The knot in the lower right hand corner was drawn using a diagram from one of my macrame' books as reference which made it a whole lot simpler to complete.

P is for Purple

I completed the paint on the initial in the middle of the night (damn insomnia) and even with doing it while not completely coherent I was pleased with how it came out. See my wretched phone camera picture for detail.

 I find myself drawn to this particular style of letters because I love the way they flow and the bird in the middle is fun. The braid work gives me fits though. Still working on that. The original artist puts in some funky knot work that I still have yet to master.

Finished Blank

After completing the large braid I didn't like the way it was just floating there in the original design so I decided to frame it in gold. To my eye that only improved it marginally. I think part of the issue is the bloody thing is so big. So next time, either much smaller or not at all (likely not at all).

I was very happy with how the knot in the corner turned out though. Much smoother and cleaner than the fat braid.

And here you see the completed scroll, ready to go to a calligrapher!

Purple Scrolls: Part I - Dyed Paper

In my research for new manuscript images to inspire me (and quite by accident) while researching black medieval manuscripts, I came across mention of purple ones. Medieval manuscripts where the parchment or vellum had been painted purple. Purple being my favorite color I, of course, had to dig further.

Just a quick Google search turned up several images and digging through them to find more information was quite the process. At first most of the images were either such a dark purple they were nearly black or purple with a high red tone. Since I wanted to get them as close to the proper medieval color as possible I grabbed a couple of the reddish images to start my experimentation with.

The first image I was working with was featured on a number of sites but finding the actual source was going to take more work. I downloaded the image and decided to try to find the source of it later.

I loved the style of the initials and wanted to see more but first I had to be sure I could come up with appropriate paper to put them on.

My search for appropriate (acid free) purple paper yielded no results. The appropriate weight of Bristol only came in white or black. Water color paper only came in white. And anything else I found was not acid free nor heavy enough weight. My options at that point were very limited so I decided some experimentation was in order.

I did several searches for how to dye paper and found that it was possible but none of the posts I found were appropriate for what I was trying to do. They recommended using RIT dye and showed just basic craft dipping of things like coffee filters and light papers for making flowers or other 3d crafts. I found nothing detailing how to dye heavy paper for art.

I've never been a fan of RIT dye for anything that you want the color to last, not transfer to other surfaces, or dye a true, even color. I used to do tie-dye clothing and was always fond of the vibrant colors created with fiber reactive dye. I still had some supplies of dye from that time as well and figured since fiber reactive dye is made for natural (cellulose) fibers (cotton, linen, hemp, etc) that it would likely work well on paper.

I used Procion Fiber Reactive dye purchasable from Dharma Trading Co. online. I've done business with them for years and have always had good luck. They have a number of cloth dying and wood chip dying tutorials on their site and it was from there that I drew my technique for the dying process.

My first attempt at dying paper was a little disorganized and I didn't get pictures of the process but I still managed to create a few limited pieces to play with. In that first batch I tried to recreate the color above but couldn't find my Crimson Red so ended up combining 50/50 Grape and Fuscia Red.

The color didn't quite turn out how I wanted but I decided to keep it and continue working with it to see if I could create a usable scroll. I painted on my initial and delivered it to the calligrapher for more testing. More on that later.

Page from Lectionary on Purple Vellum

The second batch I got pictures! And by that point I'd found the source for the above image and it seems the color on it is shifted a bit off. As you can see from the below image taken from the Bibliothèque nationale de France their images of this particular manuscript show the tone to be a little less red but you can see they're still higher on the red side than the grape purple commonly thought of as "purple". Since I can't actually view the manuscript in it's original form I'm going to hope that the images presented on the BnF site are a more correct color representation. However I decided to keep my dying batch simple for the second round and just used a straight purple without the added extra red. I'm still in the testing stages and will refine as I go on. Fortunately I have found other manuscripts with more of the grape purple coloring so at least I know it's still possible.

My first batch was a sampling of Bristol and pergamenata. The Bristol performed well but the perg really wanted to wrinkle, and stay wrinkled. Those two test pieces are still in a press.

For the second batch I stayed away from the perg and dyed some Bristol and hot press watercolor paper.

Fiber reactive dye requires some extra supplies to make sure it "sets" properly. These include salt (about half a cup for the batch size I was working in) and soda ash (about 1/3 cup mixed in warm water).

I won't go through the whole mixing process as that would make this post hugely long but if anyone expresses an interest I'd be more than happy to share it. The condensed version is mix your dye and put your sheets of paper in and agitate them (move them around in the dye solution) for about 15 minutes (or until the corners of the paper start to get mushy).

Always wear gloves and cover your work surface with paper

When dying the paper I tried to keep the pages separated (I dyed multiple pieces to maximize dye use) and mostly succeeded, though even if there is some stickage it's not a total failure. I made sure that I dyed at least two pieces of each type of paper to ensure I had a "working" piece and a "testing" piece from the same batch to ensure color consistency.

Pull the pieces apart repeatedly during dye soak

Once the dye soaking was done I placed them all in a plastic tub to transport to the bathroom for rinsing. Rinsing with cold water after the dye process is complete is important to make sure you get all the excess dye particles off the paper. You don't want them all over your hands, clothes, or art table while trying to work with it later.

Rinsing in the shower

Not exactly the best setup for rinsing but it worked this time. I have plans to fix it for later batches.

Once it was all rinsed I let it hang in the shower until it was done dripping then took it out to the nice, warm garage to hang for a bit longer. At this stage it is important to not let the paper dry completely or it's going to curl, warp, and basically do it's best to be a pain to work with later. It just needs to be not drippy and just barely damp to the touch. If it starts to warp then it's time to take it down and toss it in the press.

A lot of sites out there tell you to press paper in a heavy book or heavy art pad. I've discovered that this is not a good idea when you're working with tub dyed paper. The pages of said book or pad like to pick up the remaining moisture from the paper and warp, thus causing your paper to warp as well. You get a lot of funky wrinkles that are difficult to draw or paint on.

What I used as my "press" was two pieces of 3/4 inch plywood and some cloth. Solid, heavy, and will allow the paper to dry without contact warping. Paper shouldn't be dried directly on the wood but instead on a layer of thin cloth. I used a sheet doubled over on the bottom and since I didn't have a second sheet to put over the top I used thin bath towels. The cloth will wick out the moisture without warping allowing the paper to dry flat.

My "high tech" press of plywood and bed sheet.

After everything was in place with the paper "sandwiched" between cloth and plywood, I weighted the whole thing down with boxes of books. The plywood was pretty heavy anyway but this was a precautionary measure. I wanted to keep them as flat as possible during the pressing/drying process.

Then I had to be patient, which was the hardest part of this whole thing. I waited about a week to ensure the paper was completely dry and pressed before removing it. That process might have taken longer if my garage wasn't as warm as it is currently.

During the rinsing process I discovered that some of the paper had stuck together during the dying step despite my best efforts to prevent it. Still, nothing was a complete failure and all pieces still came out workable. You can see in the below picture which ones stuck together by the large, pale patch in the center. (The one next to it is turned to show the unstuck side).

Bristol board pieces that stuck together

It's interesting to note that the Bristol board took the color more evenly than the watercolor paper, but I don't consider the inconsistent colors on the watercolor a failure. I actually rather like the look of the way it dyed. I'm fairly happy with both types and look forward to putting art on them.

Watercolor paper with dye inconsistencies

I've already tried painting on one piece of dyed paper from my first batch and while there were some adjustments to technique needed for the changed properties of the paper (it really likes to suck up water from gouache) it wasn't anything insurmountable and the first initial I painted in gold turned out lovely.

The first batch was pretty bright but those who are doing the calligraphy testing think it can still be used for something if they succeed with the calligraphy. Once the results of that come in I'll post them here. (I don't do calligraphy myself so had to bring in experts in the field for this portion of the testing).

Brighter than actual color in person

The B turned out amazing on this and I really hope it can be used for something. Even when I'm experimenting I always approach it as if I'm doing something FOR someone so it's my best work. I don't want it to fail because I didn't try my best. If something is going to fail, I want it to fail for something beyond my control (at that point). Thus, why I gave this "experimental" piece such a highly detailed initial.

I'm really enjoying puzzling through this process to reach a point where I can regularly produce purple scrolls based on manuscripts. Since I can't afford to work with vellum or parchment it's been a unique challenge to create them in materials I can work with.

When the results of the calligraphy are in I'll be sure to post them here and thanks to Richard and Eva for their willingness to participate in my crazy experiments.

Black Blanks: First Design, Second Painted

I've gotten a little behind on my blog posts so decided to talk a bit about the first black blank I designed and why it became the second to be finished.

As I discussed in a previous post, when I became interested in doing black scrolls the first hurdle was going to be putting the design on paper. I tried first using the transfer method with white carbon paper and while it worked to a degree, it wasn't terribly efficient and the lines were not as clean as I liked, however I was pretty sure I could salvage it.

The process for this one actually started out digitally. The last few years I've been doing primarily digital art and I decided to draw my design that way, print it in the appropriate size, then transfer it to the black Bristol. This gave me plenty of leeway for cleanup without damaging the paper. The finished design looked like this:

Not a bad design but turned out a bit more complex than I was used to.

After printing I put a piece of white carbon paper between this and the Bristol and used a bit of artist tape to secure it on all four sides to ensure it stayed in place. After I first started tracing I realized the first challenge was going to be making sure I got all the lines without being able to see them being placed.

I worked out a system of methodical tracing and even with regular interruptions by helpful cats, I still managed to get most of them. Most. Not all. Even with care I ended up missing a couple.

I also realized that even tiny shifts in the paper would throw the lines off which became more apparent when it was completed. Once I pulled all three layers apart I knew I was going to have to find a different way to design on black because of the numerous reasons listed in the previous post.

I started with the gold since that was the bulk of the design on this scroll and quickly noticed that the gouache I use would just roll off the applied lines. In some ways this was a good thing - reducing accidental overpaint for example - but covering lines to correct something was going to be an issue. As well, a lot of the beauty of black manuscripts is the black showing through the open spaces as the lines of the art. Instead mine was showing just the white lines.

After adding the gold I put this one aside a couple weeks while I worked on another. I was putzing around about completing it because I had the quilting pencil by this point which made designing much more efficient and clean for me. But after I finished the second scroll and started on a third, my guilt at leaving this one laying around got the better of me and I decided to finish it.

I thought about colors for a bit and decided how to work them. I knew I wanted the dragon to be green like the Midrealm dragon and white for the bird but the leaves took a bit more thought. I finally decided on red and blue for those and they turned out far better than I was expecting. However during the process of using the non-metallic colors the paint rolling off the lines was even more prominent.

I did a bit of testing and discovered black calligraphy ink would cover the carbon and blend in with the paper so only if someone was inspecting it closely would they be able to tell. With shaky hands, however, this was just one more place to make errors; and I made a few of them. More inefficiency. Eventually I finished it to my satisfaction and I'll pass it along to my Kingdom for use as a scroll. If nothing else it should make a lovely AoA or perhaps children's award.

My goal, even when experimenting, is always to produce something usable. While this isn't perfect (or even great) it is a tremendous step forward in learning for me (since I haven't ever done much work in traditional media) and I still managed to produce something that will benefit my Kingdom.

Pencils for Drawing on Black Bristol

In the SCA I dabble in scribal art. I like to paint blank scrolls to be delivered to others for calligraphy who then turn them into award scrolls. Once I was introduced to black medieval manuscripts I was hooked and knew I wanted to do some of those.

Working on black Bristol has it's own challenges. I was used to sketching on white Bristol and inking it in black then painting it. Of course when working with black I had to come up with a way to put my design on black for painting that would be visible.

When I drew out my first planned one, I originally drew it on paper then used white carbon paper to "trace" it onto the black Bristol. Even before I completed the process I could tell there were issues why I didn't like it.

First, it's like drawing the piece twice. That's terribly inefficient to me as well as painful. I have arthritis in my hands and having to do the task twice, and the second time having to apply more pressure to get the design to transfer, quickly became painful and resulted in me having to break the process up over three sessions.

Next I discovered that even the tiniest little shift of paper, carbon, or Bristol would foul the design as it was applied. My loving cat helped me discover this one. Upon completion several of the lines were off kilter and I knew I was going to have to try to fix them with paint instead. More extra work.

The lines were extremely heavy. I used my smallest lead pencil to do the transfer work but the lines were still very heavy and thick and stood out way too much on the black paper. Yes, I could see them well, but I could also tell this increased the chance of them remaining visible after painting.

You can't see where the lines are going down as you trace so it's very easy to miss one. I tried to create a methodical pattern of how I placed lines so I wouldn't forget anything but with constant interruptions; phone, rest breaks, cats hawking on the floor or spike-climbing into my lap, I found after it was done that I still had missed a line or two. I did leave two edges taped before taking the assembly apart but even with that and laying the carbon back down to correct threw those lines off.

And last I discovered when trying to paint, carbon lines don't take gouache paint well. Gouache is a type of opaque water paint and when you run it over the carbon lines it likes to roll off. With a heavy application of thickened paint you can manage to finally cover it, but it's more like stacking the paint on and does not cling well.

Sample of the carbon transfer method

After learning this I began looking for something different to try for the next one. That first one was tucked away while I started the second.

What I found through digging on the net and through Amazon was a source of "art" pencils I hadn't thought of; pencils designed to mark dark colored fabrics.

There were several types to choose from and while I mulled over four of them - chalk, soapstone, ceramic "lead", and silver quilting pencil - I eventually settled on testing three.

I found the silver quilting pencil first so that is the one that I began testing. I used it to sketch out my entire second black scroll.

• Working with it was easy; just like a regular wooden pencil with a soft lead. However because the lead is so soft, if you want a fine line you have to sharpen it more often. 
• It sharpens easily in the standard plastic back-to-school pencil sharpeners.
• It does contrast nicely on the black Bristol so your design is visible for painting later yet it doesn't stick out like a sore thumb.
• It erases easily. This is both a pro- and con. Because the lead is soft it comes off very easily with a kneaded eraser and doesn't risk damaging the paper, however it does rub off easily if you lay your hand on it while working.
• Paint lays over it very well. You have to lay down a really heavy, repeated line for it to interfere with gouache application and even then a couple extra strokes of the brush resolve it.

Sample of the quilting pencil method

Next I found a ceramic lead pencil at the local fabric store. It's built much like a mechanical pencil with replacement leads and all. I've worked with mechanical pencils for years and this aspect appealed to me so I was eager to try it out. I began a third black scroll using the ceramic lead.

• It, too, contrasts well on the black paper; even sketches stand out nicely because the lead is white rather than silver. However it is easier to lay a too heavy line so a light touch is needed.
• It doesn't erase as easily as the quilting pencil. That is advantageous to the person that lays their hand down a great deal as it also doesn't rub off as easily but it makes cleaning up a bad line more of a challenge.
• The lead is .9mm so it lays a thicker line. I'm a fan of really fine lines and .9mm is considerably larger than what I'm accustomed to.
• Being a .9mm lead means it also makes an awful squeaky noise when you use it. That is why I was never able to use .7mm mechanical pencils either. They always squeak. It's the kind of noise that makes my skin crawl. Worse than nails on a chalkboard. I found because of the squeaking I couldn't finish drawing out the scroll with this pencil but I got enough done to provide a sample image.

Ceramic lead pencil sample

After working with both of these, I finally gave the soapstone pencil a try. I didn't do enough with it to have sufficient material for a sample photograph.

• The soapstone was difficult to sharpen. I never did succeed in getting the point small enough to be useful.
• I did try some sample lines and found it didn't contrast well, and felt strange on the paper. I can't describe it other than that. Like the paper was resisting it's application.
• It liked to indent in the paper. I found I had to use greater pressure to get it to show up well and that left too much indentation in the surface.
• I abandoned the soapstone after just a little while because I could tell it wasn't going to be suitable for my needs.

So I ended up settling on the silver quilting pencil. Fortunately they are very inexpensive and relatively easy to find (I found mine in the sewing section of the local WalMart but I've also seen them online at Amazon). Buying them at WalMart is easiest (through Amazon they're an "add-on" item. You have to buy something else worth shipping before they'll send the pencil).

So after my puttering I did end up settling on the first pencil I tried and I'm pretty happy with the results. I'll probably pick up another just to have it in reserve.

Black Hours Online Tales

Recently I've taken an interest in the black manuscripts of the middle ages. I've read two different numbers in my research about how many remain to us; 7 or 9. Either way it is a small enough number that finding good references is challenging. I do most of my reference searching online for expedience and budget reasons. As much as I'd like to spend scads of money on books, it simply isn't feasible. As well, in some ways it is easier to search for something specific directly online.

I've found some bits and pieces of black manuscripts online through digitized collections at various sites and I'm hoping to find more. But those bits and pieces are just that. Small bits in a pool of art that I find damn amazing.

For those unfamiliar with them, black manuscripts, generally Books of Hours, were illuminated manuscripts created in the middle ages. The pages were made of parchment or vellum dyed black and then painted on using period pigments or gold. Even in the few limited examples the artistic styles and techniques vary.

My first contact with black hours was a single image hosted on the Colombia University website for an unfinished black manuscript in the collection of the Hispanic Society of America Museum and Library. What can be seen online of this particular manuscript shows a single image, one left and right page, with the illumination and much of the text done in gold while some of the text is done in white. I have not yet been able to find more of this particular manuscript available to view. You can view that image HERE. (Click the image on that page to view the hi-res version)

I was hooked after seeing that and wanted to see more. Further searches revealed The Black Book of Hours digitized and hosted on the Morgan Museum & Library website. It's the most complete one I've found online yet. You can view it HERE.

I've dabbled with a piece that will have it's own article later based on that book but there were images I kept seeing on Google of another one that I wanted to study; the Black Hours of Galeazzo Maria Sforza. I was finding the same one or two images all over but no other pages. I found an old cached page where digitized images of it was hosted at one time but all the images were gone; there was nothing but little red xs left. The actual manuscript itself is housed at Austrian National Library in Vienna but as far as I can tell the manuscript is not digitized and available online. It's difficult navigating the Digital Reading Room, however, because it's in German and it could be I have just not found it yet. I'll keep looking.

However perseverance did pay off in other areas. Apparently someone else out there hosted 24 images from the Black Hours of Sforza and I was able to find them. Immediately I downloaded them (to avoid losing them all together in case the site they were at was swallowed up by the internet). They weren't particularly good resolution but some is better than none! The images are found on this blog HERE.

This is the one I've been using lately as my reference for a new black piece I'm sketching out and so far I like the look of it the best. I'll include a couple sample images here for others to see. I really love the way the black shows through the colors to provide natural shading and I'm looking forward to trying to duplicate that on my piece.

At one point facsimile copies of this particular manuscript were done but only 200 were printed and are extremely rare. I found images of one of them on a rare book dealer auction site that show much more vibrant colors and I wonder if the vibrancy was created during the copy process or if the digitized images above just fail to capture it adequately. You can see one of the images I captured below.

Either way, I feel fortunate to find what I have and I'm very excited to try my hand at creating blank scrolls for Midrealm based on this manuscript. More updates on the work will come as I progress.

Experiments and Adventures!

Recently I've been delving back into my creative side for the SCA and working on scribal arts. During these creative endeavors I love to experiment. As a matter of fact I call every project I do an experiment because I'm always trying new things.

One of the things that I love about doing nothing but experimentation is it gives me freedom to fail. I don't feel pressured to produce perfect and it allows me to try things I may not otherwise try. My goal is always to produce a usable piece, but if it doesn't work it isn't a heart-crushing loss.

What else draws me to experimentation is that I love to puzzle things out. I'm sure there are plenty of sites out there I could Google to find the "right" way to accomplish what I want, but for me there's no fun in that. I love the feeling of analyzing what I want to do and coming up with different plans to approach it, trying different techniques, evaluating the results and seeing if I can recreate it again. For me that produces an amazing feeling of accomplishment. And on occasion I sometimes come up with something different than is the accepted way of doing it "right".

So this blog isn't about "tried and true" techniques. It isn't about doing it "right" by someone else's standards. It is about creativity. It is about artistic exploration and growth. Sometimes it may be about fumbling or funny failures, but always it is about trying one's best and enjoying the art. I've never been very good at being bound by others' rules.

I decided to share my journey here just in case there are others out there that might find something useful in my adventures; maybe it sparks an idea they never thought of trying before. I don't even mind those folks that are just curious lookie-loos that want to see what I'm doing next.

Positive feedback is welcome. Comments, questions, ideas or even shared stories. I welcome them. I would love to see others who like to art off the beaten path share those stories and perhaps inspire others to break out of the box.

But trolls and those who are just here to be mean will be dealt with mercilessly. This is your only warning.

So with that out of the way, on with the game!

Reviving the Blog!

So I wanted a place where I could post my SCA stuff, especially the work I do with my scroll art, and a "page" on Facebook just wouldn't cut it.

I've decided to revive this blog as a place to dump all my SCA stuff, post photos, discuss my techniques on the scrolls I'm working on, sewing projects, or whatever other SCA silliness comes to mind.

Perhaps I'll even get inspired to revive Vinca's story.

Struggles Within

The difficulty with stucco and tiling is certainly not a matter of beauty but a matter of echo. At the moment, when I could hear the raised voices of Papa and Blasio echoing from the scrittori through the passages of the palazzo I wished Agneta would develop an attraction to rugs to place through the rooms and muffle noises. I knew what they fought over and I felt shame and guilt over my own part in it.

I sat on the window seat in my room with the casement window thrown open to the darkening sky. The door to my room opened slowly and Fina crept in like a whipped cur. I reached a hand out to her and she rushed into my arms almost near to tears. I had no words to comfort her, knowing where her pain came from, and simply held her until she felt well enough to sit on the seat calmly.

“You know why they argue?” She asked, her voice so small I could barely hear it.

“I do.” This battle of wills had grown up like an insidious weed over the few weeks since Blasio’s arrival. I felt sure Agneta quietly pushed the battle hoping for the outcome she favored. I heard Pietro’s voice raised in anger now as well. While he was young and full of fire, he would be hardly a match for Blasio’s blustering force and Agneta’s wiles. At best all he could hope for was to relieve some of the strain from Papa.

“Why?” She leaned on the window sill and stared out at nothing, her eyes huge and dark in the evening light, like great, black wells of sorrow.

I shrugged. She knew the reason they fought as well as I did and surely the closest neighbors or any passerby on the street. Though the why of the matter was very complex.

I believed it was all driven by Agneta. Without her constant prodding Blasio could not care less what I did with my time as long as I was not a financial burden on the family. On the contrary, since I helped his frail and all but useless wife take care of their child I was an asset freeing him of the need to hire a nurse.

In Agneta’s mind, though, a woman could be nothing but a breeding mare or a nun. Since the death of my Simon I was caught in that place in-between. I had some small modicum of freedom allowed by Papa as long as I did nothing to shame the family. Agneta believed my painting to be that shame though she could never convince Papa of that. She would see me married or shuffled off to the convent to live a life of seclusion as a bride of God. I would die in a convent. I know I would.

“What will you do?” Fina asked, taking my hand. We both jumped when a door slammed somewhere and the voices quieted. Moments later a horse charged out of the courtyard and its hoof beats echoed off into the gloom.

I patted her hand and rose from the window seat. “I will do as Papa bids me. If he says I must find a husband then I must. If he says I must go to the convent...” I swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the words, “Then I will go to San Geminiano.”

“Geminiano! They are dogs of the Florentines!”

I shrugged and did not answer her. Fina often parroted the political views she heard others use. I was more pragmatic. With the French always nipping at our borders I felt the great city-states of Italy would do better to cooperate than battle each other but I did not pretend to understand politics. Much like my father, I found myself more concerned with art. And war was certainly bad for art.

“Vinca,” she paused and looked at the door as if waiting for someone to walk in before she lowered her voice and continued. “Vinca you could leave. Francesca has said you could come to her in Venice.”

Francesca. How I missed my cousin but I was no fool. I knew the life she led and that she wished me to join her in that life. In her letters she spoke of her freedom and her joys but was being owned by a man of means so free? And what of her soul? When it came time to acknowledge her debt to God what ring would take a soul so stained with sin? I loved my cousin but I could not share her life.

“No, Fina. I could not live that life. I wish to present my soul to God with as little sin as possible.”

“So you would become a prisoner? You would chain yourself to a man or into a convent because Agneta cannot bear the sight of your freedom? You do have some freedom.”

“Selfish freedom. You see the damage these battles with Blasio do to Papa. And how long can it last? Already my ‘freedom’ has gone longer than should be permitted. Only the Vettori support of Papa allows me to remain ‘free’. What will happen when that protection is gone?” I had lay awake many nights asking myself that question. I didn’t know why it must be so; only that it had always been. But society is not kind to widows.

She looked so broken I suddenly understood that her fear was not just for me, but for herself as well. “Then there is no freedom, ever, is there?”

I did not wish to cause her pain but neither would I deceive her. “No,” I whispered. “Papa is far more lenient on both of us than should have been allowed. He has protected us, loved us, given us a taste of life. He will have to find you a husband soon and I fear if he does not give in to Blasio’s demands for me it will cause his health to fail. I dared to hope I could do more. I dared to hope to paint. Now I can only hope that if he does find a husband for me who will wed a widow it will be a man generous enough to allow me to paint on occasion to amuse myself. I do not hold out much hope of that.”

“Vinca, without your art you will die. Your body may walk but your soul will wither away.” I knew the truth of her statement better than she ever could. I wanted to cry, to let the sorrow I felt building inside swallow me but for her I would bury my own pain.

“I will survive. You must do the same. Now let us talk about that lovely smile of yours and how you are going to use it to catch a husband that Agneta and Blasio could never argue with. You will wed eventually but if you are lucky, you will catch the eye of someone with enough social standing to please them and perhaps with enough wit and kindness to please you as well.”

Eventually we buried our uncertainties and sorrows in stories of handsome noblemen come to sweep us off our feet who drape us in glorious fabrics and jewels and shower us with attention. She was still young enough to take comfort in such fantasies. Once she was off to her room to sleep I sat again on the window seat staring out at the darkened city.

She was right. I would die without my painting but I could not blindly watch my father be torn apart. It was then I made my decision.

***************

I found Papa in the workshop early the next morning. He did not come to breakfast and those of us that did felt weighed down by the silence laced so tight with tension. I left the table and sought him out amid his colors and powders. I knew how much peace he found in his bright alchemy of paint mixing for I found the same peace. When I came up beside him I simply stood there for several long moments drawing comfort from the movement of his hands grinding his powders.

When I felt I could speak without breaking my voice or letting loose my tears I found no easy way to broach the subject so I simply blurted it out. “Papa, you must find me another husband.”

His marble pestle dropped to the table with a heavy thud and he turned red-rimmed eyes on me. I was unsure if it was caused by tears or by drink but I knew his night had been too long and it was, in a way, my fault. I felt the guilt of his pain wash over me.

“No,” his voice came out in a broken growl, harsh from the night before.

“Papa you must. My painting—it is foolish. There is no place in this world for a woman who paints. Now the city whispers in amusement about the painter that lets his daughter play in his work shop. For now the name of Vettori protects you from this folly, but what will happen to you, to the family, when that protection is gone? I will no longer be a novelty and will be a shame instead.”

“No.” He turned back to his pestle and paused when he gripped it. “You have a gift,” he said into the silence. “A glorious gift from God himself. I do not know why He put it in your hands but I will not be the one to deny Him. You notice your horse is gone? As is the washer woman and others? They are now in the hands of one of the masters I learned from. I wait word on whether he will take you as a student.”

“Papa—“ I could not finish my sentence. I didn’t know what to say. He truly believed he could find a master that would teach me what I lacked. I was scared to hope. I wanted to let it into my heart and warm me but feared it would not come to pass. My hands trembled with how bad I wanted what he promised but could I watch as his soul was battered by those who would crush my dream?

When he turned to me I realized this was not my dream alone. He fought for this dream for himself as much as he did for me. How could I give up on him?

“Fight for it, Vinca,” he whispered fiercely. “I will fight too but you must fight harder than anyone. The fight will hurt at times. You will feel as if you are ready to give up but during those times you must fight back the hardest.”

He seemed so vehement I could not argue with him but did I dare hope? He patted my hand and turned his attention fully to his powders. “I will deal with Blasio,” he said. My father is sometimes a great deal more observant than I believe. He must have seen the worry I dared not voice. “You worry about paint. There is a wood panel in the corner for you. Paint it how you will.”

I understood the dismissal and said nothing further. Sometimes Papa needed silence and solitude and it seemed this was one of those times. I started gathering up my charcoal sticks and a few sketches I had done to take to the garden to work when Fina burst into the room, her eyes lit up and her cheeks glowing with excitement.

“Vinca! You must come to the sala! Quickly!” I laid my tools back on the workbench and hurried to my sister, her smile and excitement infectious. She took my hand and nearly dragged me through the palazzo. “Something has come for you. A delivery.”

When we reached the sala she stopped so suddenly I tripped over my own feet trying not to run into her. At the far end of the room the loggia doors stood open to the sunshine and breeze from the courtyard and standing there was a man dressed in a peculiar livery and another that bore the manner and clothing of a servant. The servant held something large wrapped in muslin and the other man watched me as I approached. I could see when he noted my simple linen gown and paint-stained apron and dismissed me as beneath his concern.

Agneta stood nearby glaring at me and I felt there was something deeper to her anger with me today than usual. I turned back to the men with the delivery, unable to withstand her gaze.

“Signora Soletti of the house of Vettori sends gracious appreciation to Signora Vinca Taviani for creating a portrait of beauty featuring Signorina Luca Vettori. As a gift the House of Vettori presents cloth imported from far away China. It is requested that it be used for a gown for the upcoming Vettori Masquerade.” With a flick of his wrist he flipped back the muslin to reveal silk of deepest purple with gold vines woven into it and blossoming into flowers. I could not have imagined and painted such beauty on my finest day.

“Tell your mistress the gift is most generous.” I tried not to stumble over my words but knew I must sound like a talking horse to him. “I will be quite honored to wear it for the Vettori Masquerade.”

He nodded and motioned the servant to hand the precious bundle over to one of the palazzo servants Agneta had called for. I stood there numb and watched the servant carry it off to the sewing room. Agneta saw the visitors out and when she returned I could not read her expression completely though I what I did see frightened me. I most assuredly saw anger and envy but the cunning she let slip scared me the most. She said nothing as she crossed the sala and went upstairs. I heard her enter her own chamber then nothing more. Once she was gone Fina grasped my hand and pulled me through the palazzo to the sewing chamber.

The fabric had been left on the cutting table and she immediately peeled back the muslin to run her hands over it. “Oh, Vinca! It's beautiful! You will look so lovely in this.”

I could not argue with her. Like many women I did enjoy beautiful gowns. I felt strange in them, like a sow wearing brocade, but that did not stop me from enjoying them. My vanity was yet another sin. I should be content with my simple linen gowns and not long for velvet and silk and though I did not pursue such luxuries, I did enjoy them on the rare occasions when they came to me. This was the finest cloth I had ever touched, however. I think even finer than anything Agneta had touched (and she did have a craving for silks and velvets far beyond my own!).

I carefully laid my rough, paint-stained hand on the fabric. It felt so smooth and I felt my skin snag against it as I touched it. My mind began to worry and fret, however, about the cost of such a thing. Three of Papa's finest paintings could not buy this silk, let alone one of my own. I worried about the generosity then began to wonder if truly Imilia's hand was the only one involved in this gift.

“The seamstress will have to begin right away if it is to be done in time for the masquerade,” Fina fretted as she, too touched the fabric. When she noticed how my rough fingers caught on the threads she grabbed my hand and examined it. “Oh this will never do! We must do something with these hands.”

I let her lead me to her chamber clucking her tongue and fussing about my fingers as my own thoughts chased themselves like a puppy after its own tail. Surely he would not have been involved? His game was to insult me, annoy me, anger me beyond all reason. Was this some new tactic to catch me unaware?

“You have that look again,” Fina muttered as she scrubbed my hands with some ointment that smelled so awful I did not want to know what it contained. It did seem to be working the stains off my fingers and it did feel soothing and softening to my skin.

“What look?” I watched her work, her fingers as expert with ointments and cosmetics as mine were with paint. Whenever Agneta felt my hair needed extra work or my face needed to be painted, Fina was the one given the task because I invariably made a mess of it. Already she had worked the pigments from most of the cracks of my skin though around my fingernails would take a great deal longer. I did not have the heart to point out to her that I would likely stain them again before the masquerade arrived, ruining all of her hard work.

“Your 'I'm thinking too much' look. Tell me what you are thinking.” She said, her voice as soothing as the fingers that now worked out stiffness I did not realize had settled into my hands.

“I.,.” how could I tell her I felt like a rabbit sniffing the bait? Felt like this was a silken trap laid for the unwary. “I wonder the true price of it,” I said.

She was silent so long I felt she would never answer and I felt my mind beginning to drift into relaxation as she worked. I loved my sister for many things. Her ability to relax the stiffness from my hands was one of the gifts I appreciated the most.

“You think about him, don't you?”

I could not help it. I jumped at her sudden statement and nearly jerked my hand out of hers. She held fast despite the ointment and gave a tug on it letting me know I would not get free.

“I do not...”

“You do. Do not lie to me. That is a sin.” She pulled a sharpened stick of wood from her box of cosmetics and ointments and used it's fibrous, softened tip to scrub her ointment into the stains about my fingernails. “I know you think I am young, my sweet sister, and that you should protect me, but I know things that would shock you. You think of him. Just as he thinks of you. He watches you. Like a cat at the rat hole. He rarely takes his eyes off you. I have been in Papa's workshop or studio when he is there. If you enter the room it is a wonder he notices what Papa says at all.”

“It is because he hates me,” I frowned watching vermillion disappear from around my left index fingernail ever so slowly. “He plans his next verbal attack upon me. I am his favorite sport.”

She shrugged. “You watch him too.”

“Only to guard myself!” I tried to pull my hand away again but she would have none of it. I did not want to hear what she was saying but if I could not get away from her I could not stop it. And God forgive me, in the hearing I began to listen and to think and wonder.

“Believe what you will, sister,” she said sounding older than I had ever heard her. “But I am not blind. Neither is Agneta. She knows we could never afford a dowry into Vettori but anything she could use as a weapon against you, she would.”

She said nothing more as she worked and I found I had nothing to say. Each time I opened my mouth nothing came out or my thoughts were too confused to make sense. Each denial I thought of sounded more foolish and forced. She just did not understand. Domenico was a beast! A fiend; frightening and callous. He terrified me. From the beginning he wished more to torment me than anything else. The silk could have come from Imilia or it could have come from him as a way to put me off my guard so he could attack from another angle.

As for Agneta, the more I thought about it the more frightened I became. Rumors could do more damage to a woman than a man. If she grew bold enough, rumors about the times I had been alone in the presence of Domenico could do serious harm to my reputation. Serious enough that I would have no choice but to capitulate to her wishes or be turned into nothing but rubbish in the streets.

Angels and Demons

I thought my plan was brilliant in its simplicity. What a fool I was. I should have known something so simple was easily foiled by forces I failed to contemplate in my own naiveté'. I knew today was the day Domenico would be in the workshop for his first sitting for his portrait. No doubt he would wear the fine black velvet gonella with its silver thread and buttons with the matching black calze with the rampant lions of silver thread clawing their way up his legs. Even I, with my fear and dislike of him was not immune to what a fine figure he cut in that outfit. So simply I decided in the darkness of my room the night before to not go to Papá's workshop today.

Unfortunately I forgot to factor in Papá's desire to turn a mere woman into something society would tolerate as an artist. I had to have a finer brush than any man born and he would have me in the workshop every day save Sunday perfecting my skills. And so it was that I found myself once more subject to the scrutiny and biting wit of Domenico Vettori.

To look back on it honestly I must admit half of my irritation with Domenico was indeed with myself. Never have I been gifted with words nor even greatly educated. I am able to read quite well and even enjoy it but our status was not always so well as it was with Domenico as Papá's patron and books were a rare treasure in our home. La Divina Comedia, while as fine a work as any I have read, gave me nightmares and I found I could read no more of Dante's works for fear of losing sleep. Agneta would not allow me to read Plato or Socrates saying they spouted hearsay and pollution for the mind. Fortunately I was still allowed Petrarch and while his work was quite skilled, it was seen as “just poetry”. Sweets that were mild and suitable for the mind of a woman.

Thus my vocabulary was lacking though my mind sometimes felt to burst with ideas and concepts I could not form adequately into words. In my youth, when I did attempt it, I often found myself the subject of ridicule by my brothers and so I learned quickly to keep my thoughts to myself. So it was with great frustration I found myself embroiled in battles of wits and words with Domenico and I lacked ammunition to defend myself. He was never quite cruel, not like Blasio had been to me as we grew up, but his constant jabs at my wit seemed aimed more at raising my ire. Shamed am I to admit he was able to manipulate my anger to the fore faster than any of my brothers ever were.

It also didn't help that he sat there in his finery looking so very handsome even in his arrogance and I did not want to admit that I saw him so! When first I entered the workshop and saw him standing with Papá I felt my heart give a strange little dance in my chest and I swore I would not look upon him again the rest of the day. I pray God will forgive me for I found myself unable to keep that promise and each time I glanced at him I met his eyes as if he knew exactly every time I would raise mine. Though he did not strut like the young peacocks in the street, for he was a great deal more mature than the men on the prowl in the city, he knew when a woman admired him and the slight smirk of his smile, the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, told her he could read her secret. He could read my secret. And it infuriated me.

I spent the morning sketching angels; angel hands, angel wings, angelic faces and hair and halos. Perhaps some part of my mind thought if I drew images of such serenity and piety I could banish my sinful anger for was that not the sin of those in the fifth circle of the Inferno? I refused to acknowledge then other thoughts that might be conjured into my mind. I tried not to see his form so fine and his face so strong with his neatly trimmed beard and shining brown curls. So when I did not dwell on my anger I focused on angels.

“Very well done,” I jumped at the sound of Papá's voice so close by my shoulder. I did not even realize he had moved away from his own workbench. Domenico strolled about the room moving his shoulders and neck, stretching him after his long seat.

“Thank you, Papá,” I said meekly with no sign of the emotions that spawned my mad flight of angels.

“Venturing into the biblical imagery is good for you but enough angels for now. You have mastered that form. I have seen no demons in your art. Sketch me some. I want to see your rendition of the horrific as well as the beatific, hm?”

I stared at him agape for a moment before I heard Agneta's voice in my head admonishing me to close my mouth before a fly found his way in. “Papá! That is not appropriate for a woman.”

He smiled and kissed me on top of my head like he used to when I was being a foolish child and for some reason I could not fathom, I felt foolish all over again. “Just a test of your skill, hm?” He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Sketch me a few then I will release you from the workshop. I can tell you do not wish to be here today so perhaps you could go take some sun in the garden when you are done, hm?”

The thought of spending time among the lilac buds doing nothing but enjoying the beautiful sunshine I could see streaming through the waxed paper windows sent a thrill through me that I could only describe as ecstatic. The last few days had been gray and dark with fat clouds of rain hanging over us and now that there was light once more I wanted some time out in it.

“Three demons?” I asked hopefully. I could easily throw out imitations of some of the hybrid creatures I had seen in examples of some illuminations and call them demons. He may recognize where I had seen them from but I could easily tell them that was how my simple mind saw demons. He may humor me on the point for today and dismiss me to my garden.

“Six demons,” he countered as if this were a bargaining session for the best price on a bolt of wool.

“That's too many! Four. Just four?” I pleaded with him and tried to turn on to him the eyes I had used in my childhood to win such arguments.

He tried to frown but I could see the smile in his eyes and knew that I had one. “Very well. Four demons.” He raised his finger and waggled it at me. “Today. I will return in a few moments. Keep our guest company.” He patted my shoulder then and left.

So I had won the battle today but would have to present him with more another day. At least it was a victory, however small. The instruction to “entertain our guest” however was not a victory in any sense. I wondered if it was some subtle punishment for being so stubborn about drawing his demons. Certainly I had nothing intelligent enough to say to entertain Domenico so it seemed the best course was to wait until Domenico decided he wanted to be the subject of my poor conversation. With that thought to justify ignoring him, I returned to my sketching.

Even though our fortunes had turned for the better when Papá caught the attention of Domenico, there was no waste permitted so following his thrifty commands, my paper was turned over and I began my sketches on the back side.

“I find it curious you did not argue more. Demons are not a subject for women to concern their heads about except to bow them in prayer to keep them from corrupting them in their weakness.”

I felt my ire rising again at the same vitriol I heard spewed sometimes from the more fanatical of the holy men. Because in the tale of the Bible, Eve brought the apple to Adam and thus corrupted him with temptation, all women were seen as corruptors and more easily subjugated by the whims of the Devil. Secretly, though I did not ever dare to voice such thoughts, I thought it rather cruel and unfair to lay all of the evils of the world upon poor Eve for was she not tempted by the serpent? And if she was indeed the weaker sex (as all women are apparently) then how was it she forced Adam to partake of the forbidden fruit? If her power was so great over him then how is it that she (and again, all women) is so weak of will, mind and body as to be useless save for bearing children and keeping a man's home?

As well, having been a wife and therefore having experienced the attentions of a man, I find it hard to believe that she could be tempted into the sweating, grunting rut that seemed to please them so and left the woman with naught but the stink of his lust on her skin and a babe in her belly. Though I loved my Simon and my heart aches over his death, the time in our bed was distasteful. A necessary evil I suppose, for the good wife that would bring forth the next generation of her husband's line. In that I failed.

Yet here in the middle of Papá's workshop Domenico was spewing this vile perception of women again. When I glanced up at him I truly saw him in that moment. I saw him watching me, waiting as if a lion ready to pounce on prey. My anger amused him and he would continue to bait me into such unseemly emotions. It irritated me further to be his amusement.

It was in that moment that wickedness stole into my heart and I, in my (female!) weakness, gave it free rein. I took up my charcoal stick and set upon my paper like a woman possessed determined to ignore him and his vile tongue. Every word he spoke to me, every tilt of his head, every look, every nuance of tone was subtle manipulation. He played me as if I were a game, molding my moods into his entertainment. Anything further he wanted from me he would have to force from me for I swore my mouth would become as tight as my marriage chest.

“Have you no remarks?” I heard it in his voice. It actually annoyed him that I did not respond to his bait and at last I had my own game to play.

“No,” the answer was simple and sweet delivered in my most demure voice. Why, the angelic tones that carried it from my lips could not have been spoken sweeter by the Madonna herself.

“You admit to the weakness of your sex so freely? Come come. I do believe we have discussed this before.”

In actuality there was no discussion involved but he used the term as if there had been. Previously he had made the point, seen how irritated it made me, and continued to drive the point into me though he knew I would not reply as I would have liked with my Papá listening to the conversation. So I kept my answer sweet again as my charcoal slashed across the paper. “Yes.”

He prowled for a few moments and though some dark part of me wished to look at him and take satisfaction in witnessing his own annoyance, a crueler piece of my mind was quite determined to inflict further aggravation upon him by simply ignoring him. Schooling my expression into one of beatific serenity, black lines danced faster across my paper drawing forth images to make maidens blush and matrons turn away in fear.

His prowling brought him to my work table just as I heard Papá’s voice outside the workshop door. With him so close suddenly I was awash with fear and shame for my crime and reached for another sheet of paper to cover my sketches. Domenico’s hand on my wrist stopped me when I would have hidden it from his view. Resigned I looked up to meet his gaze prepared for whatever backlash my actions would bring. He studied my sketches with interest and when he looked up to me I refused to show him my fear.

Dancing across my paper were my demons; the most benign of them looked as a satyr, his naked chest melting into his fur-covered goat legs that ended in cloven hooves. A small tail flicked from the base of his spine and he danced with a flute to his mouth, his body carefully turned to hide his masculinity from the viewer. The expression on his face was one of wicked temptation; a look of passion and play carefully crafted to capture the unwary in his spell.

Two more were creatures of nightmare; gargoyles with huge black wings spread out behind them, their bodies grotesquely distended and misshapen, claws dangling from hands too long and feet shaped like those of a carrion bird. Tongues of snakes slithered from their gaping mouths as they stood in combat over the hapless soul being rendered between them.

A fourth was more animal than even the satyr with horns protruding from thick dark fur on his head; his leonine body crouched onto hands and feet like a beast. A tail covered in scales like a lizard extended from his spine, splitting the air with its stinging end, poison dripping from the tip like black ooze.

The last dominated one whole side of the page. The body of a serpent, thick with dark scales that shone oily in the light, coiled around a woman crushing her. Arms sprouted from the body of the serpent, thickly muscled and holding an apple offered to the viewer. Scales transformed into dark curled hair surrounding the face attached to the serpent body and, like each of the other drawings, bore the face of Domenico.

The door opened at that moment and Domenico glanced up when Papá stepped in, still speaking with someone on the other side. Domenico looked at me and something inscrutable passed across his face and tugged at the corner of his mouth. He released my hand and slid the blank paper over top of my drawings hiding them from view. He stepped away from my work table and I felt my face burning in embarrassment for what I had done. If Papá saw them he would be very upset with me and Domenico, the victim of my foolish endeavor, knew my secret and took steps to conceal it from Papá. I should have been grateful but something inside nagged at me that he kept my secret for his own purposes and would dangle it over my head like the sword of Damocles.

Domenico moved back to his seat and smiled at Papá. Papá paused by my table and I noticed something seemed to be bothering him though his look told me now was not the time to ask. “No demons?” He said, though I could tell his thoughts were on something else. “No Papá. May I sketch more later? My hand grows tired.”

He nodded. “Clean up then before you depart. The beautiful day should not be wasted in work.” His words were half-hearted and I grew concerned for him. I was already dismissed, however, as he turned his attention back to Domenico. His patron also picked up on his changed mood but said nothing as Papá took up his own charcoal again.

I quickly put away my own tools and began on those Papá would not need for the rest of the sitting. The damning sketches I carefully folded and hid them within the waist of my skirt. The silence in the room grew uncomfortable and troublesome. I could even see it affecting Domenico who stared at my father with an intensity that most people would feel. Papá seemed not even to notice.

“Girardus,” he said finally and I saw Papá jump, so engrossed was he in his own thoughts.

He looked up at his patron with a false smile plastered on his face. “Signore?”

I am not sure if Papá saw through the cloak of cool indifference his patron wore, so distracted he was by what bothered him. I saw it though. I knew for many months that Domenico truly appreciated my father’s skill as a painter but in that brief flash of insight I saw that he held concern for my father’s well being too. That knowledge would never erase all the annoyance or insult he directed toward me but it would mean I would have greater tolerance of him.

“I am hosting a great masquerade at my home in the country.” He spoke casually about the event, as if the entire city didn’t already know it. Half the well-to-do merchants and politicians were hoping to gain invite to his estate for the chance to see or be seen with others of import who would be present. Generally the celebration lasted for days and the guests stayed for weeks at a time.

“I have heard, Signore. It sounds as if it will be a grand event. Young Luca was most excited by the prospect.” Domenico had Papá’s attention now, though he was just as puzzled as I was.

“I should like for you to attend with your family. Your work has been well received and I should like to show my appreciation of it. It will be good for you to get out of the city for a few days as well.” He spoke as if the matter was already decided, and when I looked at Papá’s nervous face I realized likely it was. I knew how much work Papá had waiting and taking so much time away from it would be a hardship, however maybe a rest from his busy schedule was in order.

“Signore, you are most kind. It is indeed a generous offer—“

“Excellent! We are in agreement then.” Domenico stood before Papá could protest. “I shall send a cart for you and your family. You will be honored guests in my home. Today you must excuse me, however as my time grows short.”

Papá seemed at a loss for words and when I stepped over to him I could see him floundering for something to say.

“Your generosity is most kind, Signore Vettori,” I said rescuing my father from his own stumbling tongue. “He will be honored to attend you.”

Domenico smiled at me and I felt as if I had sprung a trap. It would seem the sword was dangling already. “I would be pleased to see your lovely wife and daughters as well.”

“Of course, yes, yes. Very kind of you.” Papá stood then, gaining his voice once more as he escorted Domenico to the door. “We will be ready, Signore, and most grateful of your kindness.”

I had hoped to escape this holiday to the country, having no desire to be trapped in the territory of the predator. I finished packing away the tools and slipped from the workshop before Papá returned from his farewells to Domenico. I rushed through the palazzo to my room and closed the doors heavily behind me, my heart crashing against my ribs. I drew forth my sketches and unfolded the paper just staring at them for several moments. It seemed I would be drawn into the Vettori lair and he had a weapon against me and I had no way of knowing how or why he might use it.

OT: Style Change

The last few days I have been struggling to get words written on the page that weren't garbage. I haven't been succeeding very well. So since this blog is not just a story but a way for me to attempt to capture my writing skills again I am going to be trying some different things.

Most noticeably starting with the next story post I will be writing first person point of view rather than third. I am hoping it will flow a little easier if I see the stories differently. This means I have several pages of already written bits and pieces that I will have to scrap and completely start over so there may be a bit more delay of any story. I hope it turns out to be worth it.

I apologize for the disruption to those who are actually reading here (as opposed to the spammers from Russian and China that keep pinging this blog and throwing my stats off! I wish you the inconvenience of falling off a cliff!).

As always, comments and suggestions are welcome.

~Vinca's author

Letter to Francesca from Vinca - IV

To Francesca de Savona

My dearest cousin and friend, how I miss your experience and advice. Such strange happenings do occur here that I find myself unable to address them without distress. I am unsure what even to do.

Blasio has arrived with his wife Margherita and young son. When first they arrived I was most excited to have my brother and his family returned. However it seems that he has joined with Agneta in trying to find a second marriage for me. The things he says to me make it quite clear that he believes my painting has no worth and that my time would be better spent embroidering or birthing children. I fear it may not be long before he convinces Papa that I should be wed again. Though I still retain my dowry it was small to begin with. I fear that there is little I could do with it and may have to bend to the wishes of Agneta.

The guests she invites to join us for dinner has increased and to hear her talk is quite distressing. She parades Fina and I about like prize mares and while once I sat meekly and felt it my duty to abide by her wishes, I find now that I have sipped of the goblet of hope, a hope of freedom, of being my own person, that her politics turn my stomach.

Blasio takes after Agneta in many ways and the gentleman he brought to meet Fina just last night is a despicable creature that I would not wish upon a rat. He is easily older than Papa and looks upon both of us as if we are nothing more than a meal, of which it seems he has seen a great plenty! I wonder that he can afford the fabric to cover his great girth! I spent hours comforting poor Fina last night and hoping I was not telling an untruth when I assured her Papa would never marry her to such a creature.

Despite the quiet acclaim that is spreading about a portrait I completed for the Vettori family, there have been no other offers for me. I often despair that Blasio is right and there is no place in the world for a woman who paints. He admonishes me that I am not nearly modest enough either and I should not pollute my mind with such things as reading and art. I realize my duty is to the family but I do not have to enjoy it. I cannot help but long for more than what is being offered. Perhaps it is a sin for me to do so, but I cannot shed such longings, though I have tried.

I find it disturbing as well how often Papa’s patron visits the workshop. I have taken to painting more and more often in the garden to avoid him. Sometimes he is most solicitous and polite, ever the pleasant gentleman. Upon other visits though, it seems he tries to raise my ire and I feel as if I am sparring against him with words, of which I have no skill! I always fear I will say something to anger him and he will revoke the favors he has granted Papa.

I believe, for a time, Agneta had ideas of wedding Fina into the Vettori family through one of Domenico’s many brothers. Apparently she has realized what a tremendous dowry that would require and even with as well as Papa does now, it would take more florins than he would ever see in his lifetime! I have considered talking to Papa on Fina’s behalf in the hopes that he would take a more active role in choosing her husband. I believe he would find her as good a match as he found me in my Simon.

Recently Signora Soletti invited me to join her and young Luca for a visit. I was both flattered and nervous by the meeting but found Luca’s endless chatter amusing. I believe the wishes of the girl for me to visit were the motivation. She has the loveliest sitting room where we sipped wine and looked out over the garden of her palazzo. When I complimented it, Luca was quite eager to tell me how small it was to the one on their country estate. Such grandness in one family leaves me overwhelmed!

Signora Soletti was most gracious, however, and again praised the portrait I painted of Luca. She is a curious woman to me. I hear stories about what a force she is in the political fields of Siena yet she is such a quiet woman. So polite and demure I find it difficult to believe that she could have any such power. I find it a relief that she does not seem as intimidating as her son!

Do you remember the musician I spoke of in my previous letter? Marin by name with as sweet a voice as could ever be imagined from God’s own heralds. I was saddened when he came to me for the last time before returning to Venice. Though our time together was short I enjoyed his company and his sweet kiss and will miss him. Agneta finally forbade me to see him but she sleeps too deeply to enforce such. She believes I would give Marin more than a kiss, though that is shameful enough in her eyes. She has no further worries since his departure. He promised to return to see me again but I do believe him fickle and will forget me once he sets foot in his home city.

My dear Francesca I have filled this page with enough of my formless chatter. I wish again you were closer and we could spend time together as we did when we were children. I miss your company and I know Fina does as well. Do take care of yourself and I hope not too many days pass before I hear from you again.

Vinca

Challenge Accepted

Despite the successful completion of the portrait, Vinca’s life settled back into a quiet routine. She spent her days working in the workshop painting a variety of objects and faces. She found this rather comforting even if the idea of her moving toward becoming an artist in her own right had been a bit thrilling. And though her own life had calmed, life in the palazzo became busier when Blasio and his wife and child arrived. In the rush Vinca found herself and her triumph quickly forgotten, though, in some ways, she was glad to return to her quiet days.

Marin had returned twice more to sing to her beneath her window and the annoyed glances Agneta gave her over the breakfast table surely meant she knew of his evening visits. Vinca was unsure why she would hold her tongue, however. Surely she wanted nothing more than to give her a verbal lashing over her shameful behavior. She sighed and smiled, her brush gliding through the paint on the canvas before her. She wouldn’t worry about Agneta until she pushed the issue. She enjoyed Marin’s attention, even though she began to suspect it was fleeting.

Today she enjoyed the quiet of the workshop by herself. Papa had taken Blasio somewhere to look at offices to set up his business. Vinca took to the workshop early when the wailing of her newly arrived nephew split the air of the palazzo starting before sunrise and had only stopped for brief intervals since. She frowned and wondered if something was wrong with her that she had not the womanly gift of patience with young children. Fortunately the door from the workshop to the rest of the palazzo was heavy and blocked out the noise of the child.

She stood back from the canvas and studied the dark horse taking shape there. The barding told of his control by the hand of man but she had crafted his shape and facial expression such that it was obvious to all who looked upon him that his spirit would never be held. A wildness radiated from him, his muscles thick and tightly bunched as if he might spring from the canvas at any moment. Clouds of dust swirled around his feet while great, black storm clouds, fat with rain, loomed behind him. Yet even with the power of the storm building to match his great rage, the promise of golden sunlight peeked around one edge of the clouds. She had never been particularly good at painting animals but she was rather proud of how this one was turning out. It also reminded her how much she missed riding through the country. She liked to imagine she was painting a bit of her longing for that freedom into the work.

The door from the street opened and she started, silently cursing herself for not bolting it. Likely someone wanting to commission her father and she could do nothing but apologize for not being able to aid them.

Her heart jumped and her hand tightened around her brush when Domenico stepped into the room. She felt like a mouse trapped by the hungry cat when his gaze settled on her and held her for several moments. It may have only been a few heartbeats his gaze lingered on her before sliding around the room to search it but it seemed like an age for her.

“Your father is not here today?” His gaze returned to her and held her once more. He moved slowly into the center of the room and stopped before drawing too near. She noted his trim frame moved with all the grace of a cat and his footfalls were nearly as silent. She wondered what appointment had brought him to the workshop today. The black velvet of his gonnella stood out in the scattered sea of brushes, pallets and paints in various states of disarray around the workshop. Sunlight streaming in through the windows high on the walls glinted off the silver thread embroidered around his cuffs and collar and off the silver cast buttons marching down the front. Silver lions carefully embroidered around the bottoms of his calze showed the finest needlework she had ever seen. He seemed so out of place in his finery in the midst of the chaos of the workshop.

She absently brushed at the worn and paint stained apron she had pulled on to protect her simple linen gown this morning before she started painting, feeling self-conscious about her own appearance. As fiercely as she did not wish to admit it, she could not help but notice what a fine form he made. “He is not here, Signore Vettori.” She at last responded, realizing she was just standing there gawping at him. “He will return this afternoon.”

“He lets you romp about in his workshop unchecked when he is not here?”

She bristled at the verbal jab and stepped out from behind her easel. “I work in here whenever I need to.”

“Hm.” He flicked a glance at the canvas. “And what 'work' are you doing today? Attempting another portrait?”

She clenched her jaw and tried to remain polite but found it increasingly hard. “I am painting simply for the pleasure of it,” she said.

“Let me see.” The command left her seething and she moved to block the canvas just as he stepped closer.

“No.” She took a hasty breath and continued when he quirked an eyebrow at her. “It is not complete yet. It is not ready to show.”

“It must be terribly wretched then if you can let no other eyes upon it.”

“It is not wretched at all.” She realized he was baiting her. Intentionally he said things to irritate her simply because it amused him. She could see it in the set of his face, and yet she still bristled in anger at him. She also understood he had every intention of standing there all day either to see the unfinished painting or just to chafe her temper. With a huff she turned the easel around and stood back so he could examine it.

His smile of triumph was the final dollop that pushed her anger from simmering to boiling and while he examined the painting with all signs of true interest she imagined the horse leaping from the canvas and pummeling him into the terracotta tiles of the floor.

“Not bad. I want it.” He turned and started away from her as if that were the end of the conversation.

“No,” she said. She moved in front of the canvas and set her hands on her hips. She didn't know why she didn't want him to have this one. Perhaps because he so casually demanded it. But he would not get it.

He turned pinning her with his eyes. She began to tremble but she wasn't sure if it was fear or anger driving it. “No?”

“That is right. No. You cannot have it.” She clenched her hands at her sides to hide her nervous shaking. She knew she should not say such things to this man but her tongue had already run off with her sense; it was far too late to call it back now.

“Is it promised to someone already? I will pay more for it.”

“No.” Papa would call her foolish for this stubbornness but Domenico's careless assumption that he could walk in and claim her painting was more than her temper would abide. “It is not promised to anyone. But you cannot have it.”

The smile that spread across his face as he glided back over to her was terrifying and enthralling all at once. She stood her ground when he stopped within a handspan of her as if testing her will and resolve. His touch as he ran his hand slowly down her arm and took her hand sent a shiver down her spine. His deep brown eyes held hers and he brought her hand to his mouth whispering over it, “Do you truly believe there is anything in this city I could want and not have?”

She could not speak nor could she look away. He did not hold her hand tightly and though she knew she should break this spell, she did not. His hand was warm on hers; soft and enticing. His eyes seemed at once both dangerous and alluring. When a slow smile spread across his face her anger began to simmer again. This was yet another game to him. Another manipulation, and not about the painting at all.

“You may not believe it,” she said, finally finding her voice. She slipped her hand out of his and stepped away with a toss of her head she hoped looked as indifferent as she tried to project, “but truth is, there are some things in this city you cannot have, no matter how badly you desire them.” She turned back to the painting, her courage nearly spent, and pulled the protective cloth over it. Though she knew she should have expected it, she still jumped slightly when he stepped up and whispered in her ear.

“Challenge accepted.”

At that moment the door from the street opened again and Papa's voice echoed into the room. Domenico turned with a gracious smile and greeting for the painter.

“Domenico! So glad I am you have come! You must meet my son, Blasio. Vinca, daughter. Go fetch some wine. Be a sweet child for your Papa. We will be in the sala.”

“Yes, Papa,” she muttered as she rushed from the room. She could still feel the touch of Domenico's hand on hers; could still feel his warm breath on her neck as he whispered to her. Both made her tremble and though she wanted to believe it was fear, she was shamed to admit it was something else entirely.