Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind (11 page)

After her lunchtime jog, Toniah decides to pre-empt Aurelia Tett delegating another project to her by making her own suggestion:

Aurelia,

I hope my comments on the Gauguin project are useful. Thanks for inviting me to contribute.

I’m turning my attention to the artists I mentioned during my interview for this post—those Italian artists of the early Renaissance who practised their art within nunneries. A painting has turned up in Italy that’s quite likely to be attributed to Antonia Uccello, the daughter of the recognized artist Paolo Uccello. She is the least known of the nun painters. As this painting would be the first attribution to Uccello’s daughter, I feel this offers the Academy a unique opportunity to revisit the early nun painters in Italy, some of whom are already reasonably well documented (e.g., Caterina dei Vigri, Maria Ormani, Plautilla Nelli, Barbara Ragnoni).

Regards, Toniah

She receives an almost immediate reply:
Thanks. Go ahead. A.

She shakes her head. No small talk with underlings. She responds:
Thanks. T.

At last, Toniah can slip back into the quattrocento. She pulls up the limited information that’s currently available on Antonia Uccello, plus the image of the painting that’s awaiting attribution and the all-important letter signed by the abbess of the convent of San Donato in Polverosa—found in a private archive nearly two years ago. The abbess is writing to one of the convent’s patrons. This patron is a wealthy woman, a member of the Florentine elite; as evident from the letter, she has approached the abbess for advice regarding a commission she wishes to make for a portrait of her daughter. Toniah knows from her research that the convents were active in commissioning art not only for their own use but also for various churches in their environs. In the translated letter, the abbess writes:

You could consider our own Sister Antonia. She is a trained painter, and, as you may know, she is the daughter of the esteemed master painter Paolo Uccello. Sister Antonia has experience in painting portraits, and I can reveal her talents by way of a small painting that we hold here at the convent. It is a discreet and delicately painted devotional portrait, simple and humble. The only decorative element is a scattering of blue petals, which lie at the base of a plain crucifix within a niche. Your daughter could sit for the portrait here at the convent, which would alleviate your concerns regarding propriety and your daughter’s security.

The description of the niche was specific and unusual, so the hunt began for this small portrait. It was correctly assumed that the medium would be egg tempera on wood—typical for a fifteenth-century work. And seven months after the art media first publicized the letter, a retired archivist—on hearing of the search at a lunchtime reunion with former colleagues—recalled seeing one such painting in storage during her service at a small museum in rural Tuscany. The museum rarely rotated its art collection, and according to its rather patchy records, the blue-petals painting had never reached the public galleries of the museum.

“Let’s take a closer look at you, shall we?” murmurs Toniah.

What she sees is a searingly tender portrayal of a woman approaching her middle years. Or maybe she’s older. Did the artist shave a few years off the sitter? It’s fairly safe to assume so. The woman is lost in thought; it’s dream-like.

What can be deduced by simply looking at the picture? Toniah asks herself. The sitter is wearing a plain headdress, so she’s unlikely to belong to the highest strata of Florentine society. Maybe she’s a merchant’s wife who wishes to appear particularly humble, or she’s an artisan’s wife. Alternatively, this is an informal, intimate portrait—the sitter may be a member of the artist’s own household, a servant or a relative. This would chime with the times, since a female artist would perhaps have difficulty finding sitters. How many men were willing to pay for portraits of their wives or daughters?

Certainly, a female artist would depend on the women around her as she practised her skills. Women were tied to the family home, especially younger women, who could venture out only with chaperones and maybe no farther than the church or a relative’s home. Lower-class women had more freedom, whereas Paolo Uccello’s daughter would experience many restrictions, as Paolo’s mother, Antonia di Giovanni Castello del Beccuto, came from an old family of high social status.

Toniah decides to make a stab at this painting. The painter is Antonia Uccello, and the sitter is someone in her household. This woman may be a servant—after all, Antonia would have to practise on somebody—or she’s a relative. Toniah’s best guess is that the sitter is her mother, Tomasa di Benedetto Malifici, or an aunt, or a cousin. It’s likely to remain a mystery, but she enjoys the speculation.

Putting the sitter’s identity aside, she examines the painting’s composition. These half-length devotional figures were becoming popular in the quattrocento. Toniah recalls a similar portrait—who was it by . . . Antonello da Messina? She pulls up his painting.
The Virgin Annunciate
. In this painting, the figure also gazes to the side, but downwards. Antonia’s painting is slightly more audacious by the standards of the day—the figure is looking upwards, it’s less humble, and it reveals a woman inspired by her reading. It’s more inspirational, more uplifting.

Although the blue-petals painting is simple at first sight, Toniah can see the artist’s mind at work. The line of the table’s edge leads your gaze to the woman’s hand, and from there, the folds of the headdress take you to her face. Her eyes are blue, and, no doubt by design, there’s a niche in the wall on a level with her shoulder with a simple wooden cross and
blue
petals sprinkled at the base. That’s clever. And then, the folds in the headdress lead you from the petals back to the sitter’s hands. There’s a strong contrast, a chiaroscuro effect, created by a raking light, which accentuates all the folds.

She makes a note:
A sophisticated composition, but the handling of the paint may be slightly less accomplished.
She would love to stand in front of this painting. Maybe she’ll send Aurelia a proposal. See if the Academy might send her to Italy while she’s still on a temporary contract.

Carmen and Toniah meet in the plush reception of the gestation clinic attached to Guy’s Hospital. Their tour starts in fifteen minutes, so they sit together on a sofa. Instantly, the latest news bulletins appear over their coffee table: the latest fine art auction sales for Toniah and a report on the London property scene for Carmen. They both wave the bulletins away. It seems absurd to Toniah to watch the news in this setting. Why would people focus on mundanities when they’re thinking about bringing a child into being?

“I think I can afford this. I’ve been looking at the prices,” says Carmen quietly.

“How much does it cost?”

“It’s not straightforward. There’s a basic package, but the options are so tempting. The sky’s the limit. Tests for this, tests for that. But
then
if they find something wrong, or if something needs a bit of tweaking”—she shrugs—“it costs more.”

“I
did
have colleagues at the university who carried their pregnancies, and they were mostly happy . . . Well, not exactly happy, but, you know . . . They survived.” Which didn’t sound as light-hearted as Toniah intended.

“I mentioned the idea to my boss last week. He looked at me like I was mad. I think he took it personally, like I was saying the company didn’t pay me enough. Even the others, the other property agents, weren’t too impressed.”

“None of their business.”

“Except they think I’d be having doctor’s appointments all the time. And all those antenatal classes.”

“Is that what they actually said?”

“No. Amy, the office manager, asked what I’ll do about morning sickness. Would I be cancelling early viewings?”

“Oh. Very caring.”

“They made me feel, you know, really skanky. Like I was letting the side down. I reckon they’d take me off the high-worth properties. Wouldn’t want me waddling around like trailer trash.”

“You could take them to court if they downgrade your job.”

“No way. I’d never do that . . . I think I’ll bite the bullet, take the basic package.” She leans into Toniah and whispers, “But I’ll tell them at work that I’m having
all
the extras.” She laughs. “Just to piss off Amy—she wanted all the adjustments, but she and her fella couldn’t afford it.”

They stand in the viewing gallery above the second-trimester ward with a young administrator. In the dim light, they peer down through a tangle of tubes, which partly obscure a precisely ordered grid of “baby bottles,” as most people call them.

“There’s no need to see the first- and third-trimester wards,” says the woman. “There isn’t much to see in the first ward—the foetuses aren’t visible from the viewing gallery. And in the third ward, the technicians are a little too busy for us this evening—I believe there are six foetus flasks being transferred for birthing. We schedule most of our births for the evenings—it’s more convenient for the parents.”

Toniah feels a shiver.
Our
births. The administrator talks as though the hospital has joint custody.

“Where do the births take place?” asks Toniah. In her mind’s eye, she conjures a surreal vision—a bunch of technicians pushing the flasks across the car park to the main building of Guy’s Hospital.

“In the birthing suites, alongside the third-trimester ward.”

A technician passes through the ward below and is tracked by a pool of light. She stops in the middle of the front row of flasks. Eight rows of—Toniah counts up—twenty flasks.

“Why’s the background lighting so low?” says Carmen.

“The foetuses are sensitive to light. We try to mimic conditions in an organic womb. We also play the voices of their parents, plus the maternal heartbeat, and any music requests—music that the foetus might hear if the mother were relaxing at home.”

“You play this continually?” says Toniah.

“No.” She laughs. “We switch off the voices and music at night-time and simply play the maternal heartbeat. We do
try
to keep everything as natural as possible.”

Toniah hesitates and then asks, “Do the babies thrive the same . . . whether they have one or two parental voices?” Carmen looks at her quizzically.

“I wouldn’t know; you’d have to ask a clinician.” The administrator points their attention to a bank of screens at the end of the ward. “We monitor all the vital signs, around the clock, as well as nutrient levels, oxygen feed, waste removal. It’s safer than a natural pregnancy once the fertilized egg has bonded with the womb lining—that all happens in the first-trimester ward. In here, our technicians monitor the data stream,
and
, for rows A and B”—she points to the authoritative serif capitals suspended from the ceiling—“they administer a range of interventions according to the optional extras selected by parents in their gestation contracts.

“Now, let me tell you about visiting hours . . .”