The Poet Prince (40 page)

“And Leonardo doesn’t do that?”

“He can’t. I watch him, and he works only from the neck up. He also has a very high opinion of himself and listens to nobody.”

Lorenzo was slightly irked that Sandro might be brushing aside Leonardo’s talent too readily because of personality conflicts—or jealousy. He responded, “Andrea says that Leonardo creates the most technically perfect sketches he has ever seen. We need that kind of talent, Sandro. We must work with him. The Master needs that kind of talent for what we are creating.”

Sandro snapped at his friend, “
I
can and will create whatever Fra Francesco needs. He does not require the services of someone who has no reverence for our Lord.”

“What does that mean?”

“I told you. Leonardo is not one of us. He cannot engage his heart when he is given tasks that involve our Lord or our Lady. He’s from
Baptist country, Lorenzo. The extreme side. He believes that John was always the true messiah.”

“He did not say so when we interviewed him to come into our studio.”

“I said he is odd, but he is not a fool. He knows that there is more opportunity here for him than anywhere else in Italy, and he also knew that he would never be admitted to the Guild of Saint Luke if he did not please you.”

The Guild of Saint Luke was the artist’s enclave responsible for overseeing all the great painting commissions in Florence. To truly make a name for oneself, and a good living as an artist, one had to be a member of the Guild. And given that it had ties to the Order and the Medici, being within the good graces of both was necessary for member-
ship.

“But it will have to end somewhere, I’m telling you. He may be brilliant, but he is not one to produce quickly or proficiently when the subject matter isn’t to his liking. He has been working on a Magi sketch for months. And while he continues to add figures to it, it is going nowhere. I would bet every florin I have ever made that it will never see paint. Such genius is of no use to us, Lorenzo, if it cannot be channeled to our purposes. I can paint ten times what he sketches in a month.”

Lorenzo nodded. Sandro was full of his own abilities, but he had every right to be. He was not only a creative genius, and one who truly understood the teachings of the Order, but he was also unequaled in his productivity. He was prolific beyond any other artist Lorenzo had ever seen. And this was a tenet of the Order: to create for God, as often as possible, and with as much passion and commitment as could be channeled into the art. Angelic artists were not only gifted in terms of quality, they were able to produce in quantity without sacrificing the art.

“Leonardo is not a producer. While the rest of us pour out frescoes and major works, he is still drawing bizarre machines on his sketchpad—gigantic tools for excavating dirt, or weapons of war to chop a man to bits. Perhaps those are useful and even interesting, but they do not serve our mission. Further, he has no interest in the teach
ings of the Order and isn’t hearing Andrea when he conveys certain secrets.”

Sandro had Lorenzo’s full attention now, as he knew he would. That Leonardo wasn’t connecting with the teachings of the Order, and was perhaps even in opposition to the true teachings, was important. The purpose of cultivating these artists was not merely for art’s sake; it was to create a stable of divinely gifted scribes who could translate the sacred teachings into masterworks for the future.

“Do you think he is dangerous? Or a spy?”

Sandro shook his head. “I don’t see guile in him, necessarily. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be used by those who have plenty to spare. I simply don’t think he has the capacity to be loyal to you or to the Order. We are not his priority, nor do I think we can ever be.”

Lorenzo considered this and added, “Jacopo tells me that Leonardo is the greatest artist who has ever lived.”

“Bracciolini said that?” Sandro did not attempt to hide his disdain. “He would. They are similar types. Cerebral. Mental geniuses who are completely cut off from anything higher than what is in their own heads.”

“So you do not think that Leonardo should be moved to the next level, just to see how he fares?” Lorenzo asked. “I was going to send him to a private meeting with the Master for evaluation.”

Sandro shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to see what Fra Francesco has to say about him. He is the greatest judge of character on God’s earth. But I would not hold out great hope for this Leonardo. Did I mention that he writes backwards? As if in a mirror? While it is an interesting feat, what is the point of such an endeavor other than a parlor trick? I would like to see what would happen if he put that mind of his into something more diverse.”

Lorenzo nodded, taking it all in. He was disturbed by this report. Leonardo da Vinci was a rare talent, an extraordinary genius. Lorenzo had great hopes of bringing him into the fold. And on the occasions when they met, he always found Leonardo to be elegant and polite, a well-spoken young man with extraordinary intelligence and insights.
To learn of these unexpected challenges was troubling. He would need to discuss them with Andrea as well as Fra Francesco.

“Oh, and there’s one more thing I haven’t told you. He hates
women.”

“What do you mean, he hates women?”

“Despises the female sex. Can’t stand the sight of them. Told me he thinks they are all deceitful whores and tricksters. He speaks as a man who was abandoned in the cradle, and perhaps he was. He has not known maternal love, which is clear when you see that he is incapable of drawing a Madonna who is connected to her child. He has no understanding of the mother-and-child bond. And he won’t stay in the room if the model is female. So I do not think he is going to be overjoyed with the teachings of the Order once he is further immersed into the requisite devotion to our Lady.

“So while you might get a few decent John the Baptist paintings out of him, I’m thinking that he may not be the best portrait artist for our beloved Madonnas.”

There was an air about Leonardo da Vinci, a controlled yet tangible energy that radiated from the young man. Lorenzo, after spending several hours with him in the studio, had no doubt that Leonardo was an angelic. His talent was staggering. To look through his sketches was to be stunned by the exquisite precision with which he worked. And like the others who had been identified by Lorenzo and his grandfather before him, Leonardo had a certain charisma that was found in all the divinely gifted artists. On the surface, there was nothing about this man that should not be exciting and promising to all who valued artistic talent. And he was unerringly polite to both Lorenzo and the Master. While Sandro and the others artists had complained that Leonardo’s temperament was often one of well-displayed hubris, Lorenzo did not witness this himself.

“You honor me, Magnifico,” Leonardo said in a warm voice with a southern Tuscan inflection. “I wish to create in a way that is pleasing
to you.”

Lorenzo thanked Leonardo as they worked through his sketches. The infamous
Adoration of the Magi
sketch, which Sandro had complained about, was the focus of their discussion. It was indeed a very busy sketch, but also a grand one. The scope was magnificent, and there was an elaborate narrative woven through the work. It was beautiful and powerful, and yet as Lorenzo examined it, he was beginning to understand what Sandro meant when he said it would always be incomplete.

“You do not like it, Magnifico?”

Leonardo da Vinci was genuinely concerned. Again, Lorenzo was not witnessing the grand pride that the other artists accused him of, nor did Leonardo appear to be playing the innocent for his patron. And yet there was something happening here with this artist that Lorenzo had not experienced with any of his other angelics. With the other artists, even the extremely temperamental ones, there was an ease of communication. It amounted to a sheer passion for art and the process of transmitting the divine into the work that they all shared and all celebrated. That passion could not be seen in Leonardo, for all his extraordinary talent.

Lorenzo stared at the
Adoration of the Magi,
willing his mind and spirit to work together to help him to identify exactly what was missing in the sketch. As Sandro had pointed out, there was no feeling of relationship between the Madonna and her child. But there was something else here that was disturbing, and Lorenzo was trying to grasp it. Leonardo was waiting for him to reply, and it was cruel to leave an artist to believe his work was not appreciated.

“Actually, Leonardo, I like it very much. What you have created here—this background with the staircase, the horses here and how they help create perspective, the use of the kings spaced across the foreground on either side—it is stunning. Truly magnificent. It’s just . . .” Lorenzo ran his finger along the edges of the paper as he considered,
then jumped when he cut himself on the corner, drawing blood. He sucked on the offended finger for a moment to stop the bleeding, and as he did so, the realization came to him.

“It’s just that . . . all of these figures appear to be
afraid
. Here is a scene of the most sacred event in human history, the birth of our Lord, the prince who will show us the most divine love. And yet you have given all those in attendance of the holy event an expression of fear.”

Leonardo was quiet for a long moment before responding. “I do not see it as fear. I see it as awe.”

Lorenzo considered this for a moment before responding. “Awe? Really? But look at this figure here, the king who is Balthazar,” Lorenzo pointed out, animated with both the realization and the challenge now. “He is cowering from the infant Jesus. Clearly, that is fear rather than awe. And this figure above the holy child. He appears to be recoiling, almost as if in horror. I’m afraid, my friend, I do not get the sense that this is a
celebration
of our Lord’s birth.”

Leonardo shrugged, his mouth twitching a bit, as he let his careful guard down for the first time. Perhaps it was Lorenzo’s honest assessment of the work that allowed him to slip, but slip he did. When he replied, Leonardo’s voice was soft but sure, although he could not look Lorenzo in the eyes as he spoke.

“Perhaps not everyone believes that the birth of Jesus was something to be celebrated. Perhaps for some it was an event to be feared, or even despised. If art is meant to be truth, then I would paint it as such.”

Lorenzo was taken aback by the harshly heretical statement. He glanced up at Fra Francesco, who was utterly silent, an observer of what he sensed to be a grand drama playing out quietly before him in the studio of Andrea del Verrocchio.

“You do not believe that the birth of Jesus is an event to be celebrated, Leonardo?” Lorenzo kept his voice calm and casual. He wanted a true answer, and not a reaction.

“It does not matter what I believe, Magnifico. If you are my patron, and you want figures who are smiling at the birth of Jesus, then it is my job to please you. I can assure you that when these images are trans
lated into paint, I shall adjust the facial expressions to provide you with whatever it is that you require.”

It was a careful answer, and a brilliant one. Leonardo did not answer the question of what he did or did not believe. He avoided it completely, giving the correct reply to please a patron.

Lorenzo smiled and thanked him, assuring Leonardo again that he was an artist of consummate skill and that he, Lorenzo, would look forward to seeing what he produced in the future. He then called for Andrea to meet with him and the Master later that afternoon back in the Via Larga for dinner to discuss what was now being called the Leonardo problem.

Andrea del Verrocchio had been unerringly loyal to three generations of Medici, but he was not going to lose the greatest sketch artist he had ever trained without a fight.

“Leonardo’s is a rare talent, Lorenzo. He is a genius.”

“I’m aware of that. I have eyes, Andrea. I also have ears. Did you hear what he said about the birth of our Lord being an event to be feared and despised? He may be a genius, but unfortunately, he is not
our
ge-
nius.”

“Give me more time with him. We work well together. Perhaps he can be brought around . . .”