Artist at Work

Author: Lady Antonietta DMedici

Date: 09-18-04 11:50

"Right, perhaps a little more green here for these trees…yessss…ack! No! That's the wrong shade! Oh, come on, work with me here! Wait, yes, yes there we go! That's the effect that I wanted!"

Standing atop the tallest rolling hill I could find, I stood before my buckskin canvas vigorously depicting the nature that surrounded me. It was a cool, crisp afternoon; mundane and quite tranquil, the precise kind of atmosphere that I relished working in. Since my arrival in America just months ago, I was pleased with the generally warm climate here which made for a lovely contrast from the chilly and almost ceaseless rain in my own country. The lands were too soiled to grow crops, the water bodies were overflowing and for weeks on end the entire country was in danger of flooding.

Perhaps it was nature's method of mourning with the people. All of Italy was still in tragic lamentation. Even after fifteen years had come and gone.

Grasping my large mixing pallet between the bottom of my thumb and my other four fingers, I scraped the side of my small brush in one of the paint less spaces, and carefully applied a deep russet red to the base of the canvas. The hearty woodland around me was fresh and healthy. The trees stretched tall and dominantly into the air, presiding over the surrounding bushels and the soil that glistened with fertility beneath my feet. My attention was brought to the sound of a small chirping blue bird in the near distance, ruffling its feathers, its beady little eyes riveted on the woman that had spent hours depicting its territory.

Taking several steps away from the large canvas, I cocked my head to one side and meticulously observed my work. For several moments I allowed my eyes to avert back and forth between my painted rendering of nature and the actual nature itself. Satisfied, I moved directly before the canvas again. I had painstakingly included every little detail…no leaf or twig or pebble on the ground was too insignificant for my eyes to catch. Now all there was left to paint was the man made lake some yards away and the little animals that had congregated in and around the trees.

I sighed, shifting from one foot to the other, my ankles and back sore from standing hunched over for so long. I decided to take a break from the canvas for a short while and return to the hotel were I resided for a refreshing drink.

The hotel manager, Harry Shetfield, was a kind but slightly paranoid gentleman with a heavy belly, a bearded face, a balding head and a brow that furrowed intensely whenever he worked. He almost always seemed to be on the edge about something, and I suppose, not without reason, for he had been robbed on more than one occasion. When I came through the open doors, he set aside whatever he was writing and smiled at me as I approached. I was not exactly the epitome of clean; there was paint smeared on one cheek and it was caked all across my finger tips from blending colors together by hand.

"Working hard, I see my lady," he said cheerfully. "What might I do for you?"

I pushed a mass of semi matted thick black hair from my face with my dirty fingers and flashed a delighted smile at him.

"Yes, I have been working hard, Sir. But I take such pleasure in standing for hours at my easel! The greenery that surrounds this hotel is so lush and marvelously sweet smelling. An artist's paradise."

He laughed behind his desk at my exaggerations, his heavy belly bouncing up and down beneath his white linen shirt and black tie.

"Well, I don't know how it compares with the countryside in Italy, although I must agree, it is quite beautiful this time of year. That's why I built the hotel here. Guests love the escape from the rush and pollution of the city." He paused to swat at a fly that had come in through the open doors. "But Italy, now that is THE place to be in the summer months. Usually, they have nice, hot weather even in the fall and winter sometimes. Although I read that they are experiencing some unusually precipitous rainfall now. Flood watches all throughout the land."

"Yes….I heard." I hesitated after that for a long moment as thoughts of my homeland entered my head. Twirling my fingers as I usually did when I was in deep thought, I averted my eyes to the polished wood floor and only after Harry called for me did I dare to look up again.

"My lady, are you all right? I remember how much you told me you missed the country of your birth, and here I am going on about it. I apologize if I offended you."

The corners of my lips flipped upright again at the manager's facial expression, creased with concern, remorse and age.

"You didn't offend me, Sir."

He smiled, relieved. "Oh, that's good. And oh, if you could please just call me Harry? I'd appreciate it. 'Sir' makes me feel much older."

I chuckled with him. "All right then. Nothing you said was offensive, Harry. And to be fair, you can just call me Antonietta."

Harry laughed. "It's a deal then. Antonietta it is."

He stopped to run his fingers through his graying matted beard. "So, is there anything you'd like? I don't reckon you want to be kept too long from your painting."

At this mentioning, I turned my head to be sure that my canvas was still on its easel outside. Turning back to Harry I made my request,

"A glass of acqua would be wonderful, grazie."

"Prego," he promptly replied.

After the months of staying at the hotel, where Harry had allowed me to live for free because he admired me so much, my using Italian words was nothing new to him. On some occasions, we had even conversed in Italian. Mine was naturally lucid and perfectly accented, his a little less so, but still commendable. So with a nod of his friendly head, he slipped into the hotel parlor to bring my beverage.

I closed my eyes briefly and fingered the chain around my neck. I was transported back in time to 1980, when I was five years old.

I could hear her sweet, soothing voice even now like a gentle rush of familiar wind in my ear.

"Antonietta………"

She loved to say my name, for she had named me after her own mother. She always used to sit me on her knee and tell me how beautiful I was and how proud she was to have me as a daughter. Forces that were out of her control had made her unable to bear any more surviving children, but she was content with me. Even after all these years I was able to relive the loveliness of her features; the feel of her smooth olive flesh as she stroked a strand of hair from my face, wiped my cheeks after I'd fallen in mud, or clutch me close to her on a cold winter's night.

The Medici Duchess possessed exotic Mediterranean features. She had a perfectly rounded almost childlike face, full lush red lips, a nose that was subtly hooked at the end and a mass of hair so thick and delightful that I couldn't keep my child fingers away from the dark auburn strands. I was her little doll, which she relished in cherishing. To me, she was like an 80's version of "My Size Barbie."

But what I remembered the most were her eyes. Ah, those deep, majestic, thoughtfully oceanic eyes. Eyes on me with a mother's pride as I performed well at my piano recital. Eyes guarding after my every movement and activity. Eyes filling with tears whenever she witnessed neglect and suffering.

She was the enigma…my mother. A woman of clandestine but compassionate nature, one who never turned her back on a person in need, and one who never used her royal position as an excuse for greed. She was always giving, giving, giving. She took pleasure in knowing that she made somebody feel better.

My father, the Medici Duke was a fervent patron of the arts and he had made much of his fortune through his paintings. He was a tall, handsome gentleman with dark gelled black hair, a pointedly protruding nose and a deeply set stare. He was rarely seen without a cigar between his fingers. Every day after work he'd call out, "Bambina! Come look what I brought for you!" before presenting a box of biscotti biscuits before my widened eyes.

I turned my mental clock forward to five years later…when my life changed forever.

I had been in the company of my nanny when the news arrived. She came into the lounge where I was lying, watching cartoons.

"Antonietta darling, there is something I must tell you," Ill never forget the look on her face for as long as I live. "Perhaps you should sit on my lap."

That's when the news was relayed to my ten year old ears. My nanny dissolved into tears as she began to speak, but I still understood her perfectly. And yet, I did not cry. Even while the double homicide made headlines in the periodicals for weeks I could not shed a tear. Instead, I resorted to months of silence and seclusion. At the funeral, I sat with the rest of the household diddling my fingers without a word.

In the months that followed, it seemed that all of Italy had slipped into silence. People cried in the streets and masses were conducted every day at cathedrals throughout the country. On the first anniversary of my parent's murder, the Vatican in Rome observed a long moment of silence in memory of the much loved royal couple.

Life went downhill after that. I was placed in the care of the nanny that had been with me when I learned of my parent's death, but she had very little money. The royal treasury was drying up and the expenses of the household became too much. Yearning to get away from it all, I left Italy for good in search of a new beginning.

I opened the locket and peered at the thumbnail sized photograph of my parents when they were courting as teenagers. Fighting tears, I kissed the locket and closed the clasp. I looked up just as Harry reappeared with a pitcher of ice cold water, a glass cup and a platter of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

I beamed gratefully. "Harry, you didn't have to bring all this….."

He set the platter in my hands. "Don't worry about it. It's on me."

The aroma of the cookies was divine. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now go on and enjoy."

I thanked him and carefully brought the platter with me back outside. Clearing the small table I kept for my artist materials, I set the treats down. Sinking my teeth into the soft brown dough, I eyed a flock of birds as they flew harmoniously across the sky. The little bird that had served as my spectator perked its head upright and spread its wings to join the others.

With a heavy heart and a knot of that all too familiar loneliness churning in the pit of my stomach, I watched them as they disappeared into the grey blue clearing and thought of a short consoling Italian verse that I had written myself:

"Anche se su terra siamo contagiati con la sofferenza, qualche giorno conosceremo quel regno di eternity blissful dove tuttele anime meritevoli prendono il volo......"

Translation : Although on earth we are plagued with suffering, we shall someday know that realm of blissful eternity where all deserving souls take flight……

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