Thirty-nine years old
1519
Master’s dead.
Master’s dead!
I still can’t believe it’s true. My stomach knots and coils while I drag myself along the winding, hidden passageways leading to his workshop within the bowels of the monastery. I steady myself before opening the door, thinking about the way I’d left him. Regret tugs at my heart.
Once inside, I slowly walk around the room. Everything is still as I remembered, yet it feels incredibly empty now. At one time, I was happy here, very happy, until the day I grew jealous of another — the kind of jealousy that rips one’s insides apart. You see, I couldn’t bear to see Master with him the way he was with me.
I reach the corner with the painting, and my breath catches in my throat. The last time I was here, it was sitting on the cold floor facing the gray-stoned wall. Now, it rests on the easel once again, patiently waiting for another brushstroke. Except Master is no longer here with a brush in his hand. He’d worked on this one over many years, and I, for selfish reasons, wouldn’t let him consider this painting finished.
Staring at the familiar face, I feel a stirring inside me. She is beautiful.
My fingertips trace the woman’s lips in the painting. How many times had we talked about the story her smile should tell?
Master leaving me this painting proves I’d been wrong — he’d never stopped loving me — and I cannot imagine this world without him.
I glance toward the door with bloodshot eyes, expecting him to walk through it in a rose-colored tunic with his luxuriously long hair and beard meticulously combed.
Sadly, he doesn’t come and never will again because Master’s dead!
Only the memories remain; some claw, but most caress my aching heart. I think back to how our relationship began and see a young curly-headed apprentice in a messy corner learning the working up of colors…
oOo
Ten years old
1490
Father wanted to send me away to apprentice with a well-known artist. I’d have to obey his every command, and he’d feed me (hopefully) and let me live with him. When I fussed, Father told me, “I do this for you. You will learn important skills to raise your station in life.” I didn’t care about any of those things but doubted Father's reason anyway. Truth be told, he didn’t want me.
And so, I found myself standing in a workshop before the man I’d call “Master.”
I first noticed Master was taller than Father. Unlike my short, curly ringlets, his dark, wavy hair fell to the middle of his chest, and he wore a knee-length tunic, uncommon as most men wore longer tunics. He tried to talk to me, but I didn’t want to know him. I desperately wanted to return home, so I trailed behind him but said little. When he showed me to my room, he said I must be tired and left me alone. I didn’t want to like my room or the soft bedding against my skin. Miserable and lonely, I lay that first night, scheming how to get sent back home.
The next day, I stood outside the workshop and overheard Master ordering more clothes than I could imagine, tailored for me. I’d never had tailored clothes before and was momentarily interested before my anger returned. The moment Master left the workshop, I opened his purse and stole all his money.
I was in the workshop when the tailor arrived to measure me and collect his money. Master found his money gone.
“Has anyone else been in the workshop?”
“No, Master.” I couldn’t help but offer him a slight smile.
“The tailor is here to measure you for your clothes, and my money’s missing.”
I didn’t look away but continued to smile.
“Did you take my money?”
“No, Master.”
He stomped toward me and yelled, “So you are a liar and a thief?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“What would your father say?”
“Maybe send me back,” I offered with a grin.
Master then did something that shocked me. He stepped closer, put his hands on my shoulders, and said, “Did you know I was once a stranger in a new place and confused about being sent to a new home?”
He smiled and gently squeezed my shoulders as if no longer angry. Then, he asked the tailor to proceed with taking my measurements.
He spoke no more about the missing money, even though I knew he knew I had taken it.
Over the following years, I tirelessly tested his patience, testing if he’d send me away — like Father. I stole drawings and coins from the other apprentices, caused quite a disturbance at an elegant dinner, eating more than my fill, then spilling wine. There were no limits to my thievery either. Anything unattended might find its way into my clever hands. Master fussed from time to time and then bought me more expensive clothes and shoes. I’d never fully understand why he did those things after I misbehaved.
“You’re the Devil’s son,” he’d say, followed shortly by, “I adore you!”
As a result of his peculiar reactions to me, I grew to trust Master and discovered a love of clothes! I sometimes likened myself to a doll dressed in fancy pink stockings and jeweled, colorful clothing. And the shoes — twenty-four pairs of shoes he’d given me! Master himself didn’t own as many!
More than anything, I liked how he cared for me, and I enjoyed the other apprentices’ grumblings that I was his favorite. And while he traveled to fanciful lands, meeting kings who wished to secure his talents for their designs, he kept me attached to his side, and I believed I belonged in this world.
Although he cared for me and, despite our ages, I never viewed him as a father. No, I’d never do that. He was much too kind to me.
oOo
Seventeen years old
1497
Oh, no!
I returned to my bedchamber to find Master standing at my desk, thumbing through my sketches I’d forgotten to put away.
He stopped at a particular graphic picture of two men. I didn’t know what to expect from Master, but he surprised me.
He calmly asked, “What prompted these drawings?”
I cannot look him in the eyes. “Just thoughts I’ve had. Pictures I’ve seen in my mind.”
He released the sketches and turned to face me. “Your lovers?”
That question shocked me, but his gentle tone told me I could answer truthfully.
“In my mind, yes.”
“You’ve yet to take a lover?”
I simply shook my head back and forth.
Master picked the sketch back up. “Which one are you?” he asked.
Unable to find my words, I simply took the sketch from his hand and wrote my name above the one I wished to be.
Then, Master pointed to the other. “And who is this… in your mind?”
My head bowed in embarrassment, but I rolled my eyes to look at his handsome face. “It’s you, Master,” I mumbled.
“I see,” he quietly replied.
We both stood silently for a moment, just staring at one another. The lines around his eyes softened, and he reached his hand to touch my cheek. He smiled as his gaze roamed my face as if seeing me in a new light.
He finally spoke. “Come with me.” And I followed him to his bedchamber.
He closed the door behind me and pulled me into an embrace. Master had hugged me from the side many times, but this hug felt different. I lay my head on his shoulder, enjoying our new closeness.
He raked his fingers through my curls, caressing my scalp. I trembled.
“This is our sanctuary, and we can be uninhibited here. Understand?”
I pulled away and nodded, not yet understanding what would happen between us but excited. I liked the way his eyes were gazing at me, somehow different than before.
“Let us show ourselves to one another,” he said and began undoing his belt…
oOo
When I awoke with the light of the new day, I lay facing Master and found him smiling at me. I smiled back, noticing his messy hair and beard. That was a first, as I’d always seen both well-groomed. Somehow, I found him even more handsome, knowing I was the cause of his unkempt appearance.
“Master, what do you see in me?” I had always wondered and found the courage to ask after what we’d just experienced in his bed.
He answered without hesitation. “You add color to my world.” Chuckling, he added. “Maybe a peculiar thing for a painter to say, but it’s true.”
After that night, I spent more nights in his bedchamber than my own, and I fell in love for the first time.
I trusted him enough to tell him my greatest secret: at times, I thought myself more likened to a woman than a man — wished it even. Master sympathized with my inner turmoil with my sex and never once made me feel ashamed.
As our intimate talks drew me closer to him, I began to hate that we were a secret. Pouting, I complained, “Master, I wish the world to know of your love for me!”
He tenderly stroked my cheek. “We must keep this to ourselves because the Church says what we enjoy is unnatural. They say that sex is supposed to be for procreation only.”
I didn’t care what the Church said! “And what do you say, Master?”
His tone grew serious. “You know of the boxes of the street known as ‘holes of truth’? We must keep this a secret lest someone might drop a letter in the box about us.”
oOo
Twenty-three years old
1503
I awoke to find Master staring at me from his favorite chair.
“What is it?” I grew concerned over the intensity of his gaze.
His eyes softened. “Did you know that if an artist loves someone, that person lives forever?”
I shifted onto my side beneath the sheets to face him. “No. How so?”
He smiled at me, not quite answering my question. “I wish to paint you.”
“But, you’ve already painted me, Master. I’ve sat for you many times.”
“Yes, you’ve been my muse for other portraits, but this time, I want to paint you — the intimate you only revealed to me — the woman you sometimes wish to be.”
He walked over and sat down on the bed, studying my curls before reaching out and twirling one around his finger.
“How do you envision your hair, if a woman? Perhaps something more demure to go with the benevolence I intend to capture in your eyes, along with the devilry.”
I always smiled when he compared me to the devil, yet with a hint of amusement in his tone.
“I would like my hair to be longer and darker, like yours. But straight. A woman with my golden curls would look too childish and silly.”
Master’s eyes lingered on my hair as if picturing what I’d described.
“I will paint how you wish me to see you.”
I flashed him the anticipatory, loving smile reserved only for him.
oOo
Nothing made me happier than sitting for Master, knowing his eyes and thoughts were only on me. Even though it required traits not commonly associated with me: stillness, patience, and obedience. But this time was different, knowing the portrait would be me and not someone else merely bearing my likeness. Doesn’t he see that I only truly shine when I’m the object of his uninterrupted focus?
I tugged at my nondescript clothing. “Why am I dressed in this drab frock instead of my usual finery?”
He smiled. “Anything fanciful would draw attention from your beautiful face — which must remain the focus of the painting.”
Every fiber of my being tingled when he called me ‘beautiful.’
He shifted his eyes from me back to his painting. “And you are never more beautiful than when you sit for me. You glow.”
And I was sure that my cheeks, warmed by his words, were indeed glowing.
oOo
The day finally came when he allowed me to see his progress on my portrait after exhausting prodding from me.
I studied the painting, emotion welling up inside of me. Master had managed to capture more than mischief in my eyes. “I like my eyes. They’re quite mesmerizing, aren’t they?”
“Yes. I know what lies beneath your surface and draw what only I can see,” he said with his usual gentle tone. “Do you like the curve of your bosom?”
“Yes.” I dragged my finger down the cleft visible from her clothing.
“Again, just enough not to steal the focus from your face.”
I couldn’t describe the time we spent together on my painting except to say those were the best days of my life. I felt beautiful and adored by Master as if I, myself, was an elegant piece of clothing made of the finest fabric and perfectly adorned with sparkling jewels. That’s the way his eyes looked at me while he painted my portrait.
oOo
On another day, my backside fell asleep from sitting. Curious more than impatient, I asked, “Master, you’ve been staring at the painting for hours, only making a single brushstroke. What is it about me that causes you trouble?”
“Your smile.” He ran a hand through his beard. “We’ve discussed it many times, but it’s still not quite there. It must be perfect. Something only you and I will understand.”
I quieted and let him continue his exhaustive study. Finally, he spoke to me again, “Show me the smile you give me when you come to my bedchamber. That’s the subtle look I want to capture. Something that would be mysterious to anyone but us.”
I envisioned our lovemaking, and it proved easy to find the smile that had eluded his brush.
oOo
Twenty-eight years old
1508
Unexpectedly to me, a new apprentice arrived. It wouldn’t have been that remarkable as apprentices had come and gone many times over the years, but I sensed this one was different.
I called him “M” because even his name was more beautiful than mine, and therefore, it grated my insides to speak it.
It wasn’t long before I overheard the whispers about M. “He’s so gracious and stunning in every way.”
But I knew what Master’s friends thought but wouldn’t dare say. “Why does he keep ill-mannered Sal in his midst when he has the cultured, affable M now?”
Was M truly everything I wasn’t?
It began with M benefiting from many hours of private tutoring from Master on his craft. It pained me to witness M’s rapidly developing talents.
No longer a little boy who could steal for attention, I acted out in other ways. Became obstinate. Argumentative. But, Master only grumbled and gave more attention to M.
You know me! My ways! I need your focus on me!
I sulked, looking at my painting — my painting — now lying untouched, unfinished, and facing the cold stone wall in the corner as if it were a naughty child being punished. How long had it been since I’d last sat for Master? How long had it been since I’d had the opportunity to show him her smile? Had he found another to love?
Whenever my eyes bore witness to Master standing behind M with hands on his shoulders, leaning forward to where M must feel Master's warm breath on his neck, my eyes burned hot. My ears overheard him instructing M on brushstrokes, but my mind heard words of passion between them. I’d storm out before they saw tears form; my stomach lurched, coiled in barbed knots.
This became a torture like no other, and so I left… left Master before he could ultimately cast me aside like one of the many projects he’d started, then later abandoned. I wouldn’t survive that from the only person who’d ever shown me love and understanding. And unlike my childhood impulsive tantrums, he didn’t come after me.
oOo
Thirty-nine years old
1519
I take a few last lingering looks around his workshop, proud of the frescoes I’d painted, mixed in with those from Master. My time here is the only piece of my childhood I wish to remember.
With the setting sun, and as if handling a fragile baby, I wrap up the painting for travel to my new home. I’ve decided he’d finished her after all, so maybe someday I should be unselfish and share the painting. I think the rest of the world might love her.
Maybe someday, but not yet.
As I walk out the door, I smile, thinking about how only Master and I will ever know her secret… and what prompted her enigmatic smile.
