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Venice, first half of the 1500s, San Canciano Ai Biri Grandi
The young man hurried up the steps to the artist's quarters, as if his urgency could clear the air saturated with the fumes of varnish, and speed up the completion of the painting. The servant followed more calmly, shuffling his feet on the stone, already bored by the hours of waiting ahead of him. The man longed for his home and was also tired of the task entrusted to him: to protect the young master until the portrait was finished. In this strange water-filled world, with all those colorful people and odors of spices, it became increasingly difficult to maintain serenity and control over one's thoughts.
Venice was a place that gave him some chills, especially in the evening, when the echo of footsteps behind him made him jump and immediately reach for his dagger. Deep down, he regretted having left the horses beyond the Lagoon with the other servants.
The young aristocrat also couldn't wait to return to Mantua and set foot on the solid, fragrant earth that was already awakening in spring. His falcon and horse rides along the riverbanks awaited him. He recalled the sweet, warm days with the solid leather of the saddle between his legs and, unconsciously, sniffed the leather gloves he carried with him as a seeming whim, but instinct suggested he keep them to remember the musky smell of his bay gelding, now for too long standing in an unfamiliar stable.
Tiziano Vecellio, standing before the large open window, was waiting for him.
The artist was a famous painter, and his legendary ability to use the brush like the hand of God had crossed lands and mountains. Too busy delivering canvases with saints, Madonnas, and beautiful deities, he could not undertake any journey outside Venice. Now he compelled his clients to reach him in his studio, within those narrow and crowded islands.
After Rialto, the young man, flanked by his servant, had left the gondola to continue on foot and cross the maze of alleys and canals, to the outer banks. Along the piers, animated by continuous and foreign chatter, they encountered sailors with sinister looks and fishermen sitting working on the shores, who responded to the boatmen's insults:
- Galioto, cancaro, barca in cao, barca dei gai...
From windows and doors, cheeky and garrulous women and insolent kids called out in a sweet singsong, mixed with the squawking of seagulls high in the clear sky.
Once arrived at the painter's house, the view enjoyed from the last bank northward was surprising, all noise faded, leaving only the lapping of the water against the bank, and some calling from the rio dei Mendicanti:
- Ohè, ohè pope ...
Tiziano Vecellio stood motionless before the large open window, the light coming in was as clear as a reflection on crystal, perfect for an artist.
The young gentleman knew how and where to lean, but first, he had to take off his cloak as the artist had kindly suggested and follow his directions:
- Eccelenza me fazza el ben de sentarse qua viçin.
Tiziano told him in that language he was now learning, indicating each time a different spot, here and there in the room, near or far from the window.
The young man dressed according to Spanish fashion, in black clothes and breeches, with a cloak and sleeve lined with fur trim. He had also learned to choose some shiny and precious fabrics to take home because certain fineries could only be found in Venice.
For the portrait, however, he continued to wear the old dark clothes, with which he felt more at ease. Under his jacket and doublet, he wore a light white muslin shirt adorned with lace at the wrists and neck. And no jewelry, except for a long coral string Vecellio made him wear around his neck with a topaz pendant. He had his ring and nothing else, jewels seemed an unnecessary artifice. He kept his gloves, and strangely, the painter hadn't said anything about his way of wearing them. Often, the young man looked out the window, unable to imagine what Tiziano thought when he looked at him with those dark, deep, and attentive eyes. What he had not yet seen was the result of all that traffic on the canvas, and that constant scrutinizing gaze of the artist on his face made him uneasy.
Sometimes the young man couldn't stay still. He would turn his gaze aside to escape those eyes and look at the hands with nails dirty with paint and feel recklessly restless. Then Tiziano would speak to him:
- Qua xe tuto ciaro fin a le barene. L'aqua tagiada dal garbìn smove el pesse dal fondo e le cane che cresse nel palùo col vento fa un rumor de ossa....
Eccelenza, el pitor no scava e no 'mpasta fango e piere. Noaltri se camina in fondo al mar o andémo a lumàr e a pituràr sora na nuvola in çiel.
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