Chapter 5 Chapter Four

During the meal, I kept a straight face and didn't talk to Maria in protest; I went back to my room very early, quickly pulled a chair behind the door, and buried my head in my closet.It's important not to put all your eggs in one basket, if some are discovered, the others will remain.Remove the shirt at the bottom of the wardrobe, and there is a full-length quill ink sketch. I chose the opening scene of the Annunciation for my first painting in a series.The Virgin was accidentally taken away by an angel, and her hands danced around her, reflecting her fear and sorrow; her body twisted in the air, as if there were invisible threads between her and her.

Gabriel tugged back and forth.It's a popular theme because the intensity of the action provides good practice, but I chose it mainly because of the Madonna's apparent agitation—although in theology classes I was often directed to focus on the obedience and violence of the later scenes. grace. I used our own upscale drawing room as a backdrop, with window frames behind to accentuate the perspective.I think it's a good choice.At certain times of the day, the sunlight refracts through the glass and looks so beautiful that one really believes that God is attached to these rays. But my Holy Mother was different.She was rising from her chair, her hands fluttering like frightened birds against the gale of God's presence, and this perfect virgin disturbed prayer.I focus most on depicting their clothing (which is the closest world I can get to at least learning about fabrics and styles at will).Gabriel wore a shirtdress of my father's most expensive linen, with thousands of cream-yellow pleats falling from the shoulders and tied loosely at the waist; speed.I painted the Madonna very stylishly, her sleeves were open at the elbows to reveal the clothes inside, the belt was high, and the long silk skirt was pleated, surrounding her legs like a waterfall, flowing on the ground .

After finishing the outline, I started painting the shadow areas with different shades of ink, and brushed a layer of white lead powder on the light receiving areas.If a mistake is made at this time, it is not easy to correct it; and my hand has become unsteady from tension.I can't help feeling sorry for the apprentices in Bartolomeo's studio.In order to settle myself down, I first drew those floor tiles that are getting farther and smaller to practice my perspective skills.At this moment, someone shook the door handle, and the door panel and chairs rattled. "Wait." I grabbed a sheet from the bed and covered it on the drawing paper. "...I'm undressing."

Tommaso found me here a few months ago and "accidentally" poured a jar of linseed oil I used to make tracing paper into the lead powder Irilah had managed to get me from the pharmacy.In order to keep him a secret, I had to help him translate Ovid's poems of Ovid, which gave him a headache.But it must not be Tommaso now.How could he not be wasting his time torturing me by going down the street chasing girls in high heels touting men?I could hear him upstairs, the creaking of the floorboards under his feet; needless to say, he was walking crookedly, trying out what color stockings and the bouquet the tailor had just delivered. The waist coat is the best match.

I moved the chair away and Ilila slipped in, a bowl in one hand and a piece of almond cake in the other.Ignoring the painting (though she was my accomplice, it was best for her to pretend not to know it), she sat down on the bed and gave me the cake; Make a paste and apply it on my skin. "What? What happened? Did Maria expose you?" "Let's say she's lying. Ah! Be careful... I got a cut there." "Too bad. Your mother said if your hands aren't white by Sunday, she'll put you in sheepskin gloves for a week." I let her paint it for a while.I love the way her fingers push against my palm, and even more the contrast of jet-black skin against mine; though if I were to paint her, it would take a lot of charcoal.

In addition to having a wealth of day-to-day knowledge, she is also somewhat intelligent and has been able to keep me in check and entertain me since I was a kid.I think my mother must have set her sights on Ilila when she was praying for the healthy growth of her extraordinary daughter, so she became mine very early on.But no one can really have Ilila.Although legally she is the property of my father, who can dispose of her as he pleases; but she always has the independence and secrets like a cat.She wanders the city, bringing back tidbits of fresh fruit and selling them to others.She's been my best friend in the house since I could remember, describing to me in vivid detail the places I can't go.

"Oh. Any news?" "Maybe, maybe not." "Oh, Elila!" But I knew better than to rush her. She grinned: "There is good news. A man was hanged today in the Plaza de Justice. A murderer. He chopped his wife's lover into pieces. They hung him for an hour and a half, cut the ropes, and cast him Into the body van. He sat up in the body van, complained of a sore throat, and asked people for water." "He's not dead! What did they do to him?" "Take him to the hospital, soak bread in milk and feed him. When he can swallow, they'll hang him again."

"No! How did those onlookers react?" She shrugged: "They yelled and cheered at him. This fat Dominican with his face like a pumice stone, he muttered sermonically that Florence was a cesspit where evil was floating around so that the wicked flourished and the good The good suffers." "But so what if it's not evil? I mean, what if it's just a display of God's magnanimity to the sinful? Oh, if only I could be there! What do you think?" "Me?" She smiled. "I think the executioner made a mistake. Here, your hands are washed." She took my hand and looked at it carefully.This is the first time in many days that it is so clean, the pink nails are shining, but I can't tell if my skin has become whiter.

"Here." She took out a small pot of ink from her pocket (sufficient for my brothers for a month's ink, but for me it lasted a week) and a delicate little paintbrush made of ermine tail hair. Used to brighten the Madonna's face and attire.I was so happy that I wrapped my arms around her neck. "Well, you're in luck. I got a bargain. But don't use it before Sunday, or I'll be in trouble." After she left, I lay in bed, thinking about the man and the noose.How do people tell the difference between God's mercy and a wrong knot?Or are they the same thing?If this thought is impure, I pray God for forgiveness.Then I prayed to Our Lady to intercede with God for my actions, so that my hands could be stabilized so that I could reproduce her goodness on the screen.

There were many nights like this when my mind was racing and I couldn't sleep, and I ended up having to slip out of bed and out of the bedroom. I love the dark nights in the house.I have imprinted the intricate topography of my home so that even in the dark of night I know where the doors are and which direction to turn to avoid bumping into furniture or accidentally running up the stairs.I went down the stairs and the yard was like a deep dark well.A family dog ​​opened sleepy eyes as I passed, but he was used to me wandering late at night.Instead, one should be wary of mother's peacocks. They have sharp hearing and scream like a chorus of ghosts from hell. If you wake them up, everyone will wake up.

I pushed open the door of the winter drawing room to find the polished tiles beneath my feet, the new tapestry in heavy shadows, and the beloved oak table that my mother was so proud of as if it were meant for ghosts.I curled up, carefully avoided the window hooks, and sat on the windowsill.Needless to say, my brothers' eyesight must now be diminished for the same reason.Although they could see less clearly, the noise was louder; their drunken laughter fell on the pebbles, bounced back double, and rose above the windows.Sometimes they woke Dad up, but there was no such orgy tonight.My eyelids started to droop, and suddenly I noticed something underneath. In the street beyond our house a figure emerged, outlined in the light of the torches.He was thin, and wore a close-fitting cloak; but he was bareheaded, and I could see the light dancing on his fair skin.Ah, it is our painter who is walking into the night.There was very little art he could see at this time.What did mother say?He found the city noisy after he got used to the silence of the monastery.Maybe it's his way of sucking on loneliness, though the way he walks with his head down, longing to be lost in the dark, is more deliberate than natural. I am both curious and jealous.So simple?Wrap yourself in the cloak, find the door on the right, and step into the night.If he walked faster, he could reach the Church of Our Lady of the Flowers in ten minutes.Then go through the baptistery and head west to the Church of Our Lady of the Novella, or go south to the river, and you may hear the bells of the women.That's another world.But I don't like to think that way, I remember his painting of the Madonna, too graceful and light to be human. After watching him go out, about an hour later, I started to feel sleepy.Not wanting to risk being discovered, I walked back to the upstairs room.I slipped under the covers, unsympathetic satisfaction at the sight of Protila's wrists that had begun to swell from mosquito bites.I curled up and hugged her warm body.She hissed like a horse and continued to sleep.