Michael Gruber - The Forgery of Venus

“Of course, unclothed! Nude. Naked, whatever you call it. There’s a woman under that tent, you’ll see. And, my man-you’ll make haste, will you? I have other things I want you to do as well.” With that he claps me on the shoulder and departs the room.

As soon as the door closes she dismisses the model, who takes her plaster baby and rushes out, and then my lady removes her smock right before me, not bothering to retire. Beneath is a dress of fine russet silk with a falling collar, good lace; a stomacher strung with gold cords; lace at the sleeves, but not much, and not cut as low at the bosom as some Roman ladies wear. They do not wear the guardinfante in Rome, preferring to round out their hips with petticoats. A remarkably thin waist. Off comes the turban and she shakes her ringlets out, they have red lights in them. Some bracelets of amber, some of gilt, no jewels that I can see. I think of what the marqués said of her body; I have never heard a woman spoken to so, except a whore, and this is no whore. These Romans are blind to honor. In this city I have heard men use words and make gestures to one another that would have earned a fight in Seville, perhaps a coffin too.

She moves to her painting and speaks.

“Alas, you are entirely correct about my work, Don Diego. I can draw well enough, I can mix colors, and my perspective is true, but I cannot find the balance of the forms, or not very well. It is something that must be taught, I think, and no one will teach me.”

“No one taught me,” I say. “When I was your age I knew as little as you. Don Pedro Rubens advised me to go to Italy and look at paintings, and I did, and so learned the art of composition and how to make solid forms appear on a flat plane.”

“Yes,” she says with a laugh, “but unfortunately I am in Italy already, and I am not Velázquez. So, tell me, do you too think it scandalous that a woman paints?”

“Not scandalous,” I say. “Futile, maybe, as if you were learning to fight with a sword. I am surprised your husband permits it.”

A sour face, and she says, “My husband is a Roman count with a great deal of money and no chin. He collects enamels and boys, and if he does not mind that I lie in the bed of the marqués de Heliche, do you think he cares spit about my painting, as long as I don’t publicly acknowledge my sad little commissions and drag down his ancient name? Or piss on the altar at St. Peter’s during the Pope’s Mass-that would be nearly as scandalous. I am sorry, sir, I have shocked you, a fine Spanish gentleman such as yourself, but this is how we Roman courtesans learn to speak. Anyway, no one bothers to stop me from painting. Heliche thinks it amusing, like a monkey taught to dance for a grape.”

I ask, “Then why do you do it?”

“Because I love it. It gives me pleasure to make a world appear upon a white canvas, which I can order as I will. You must understand this.”

“Must I?”

“Of course. Painting as you do, you must love to paint.”

I said, “I love my honor, my kin, my king and my church, and as for painting, I paint as I breathe and eat. It is how I live and make my place in the world. Had I been born a marqués, I might never have lifted a brush.”

She stared at me as if I had said something coarse.

“That is remarkable. I know many painters and sculptors. Bernini, Poussin, Gentileschi-”

“I know Gentileschi’s work,” I said. “The best of the Caravaggisti, I think.”

“That is the father. I was speaking of the daughter, also a painter, quite aged now, but I knew her when I was a girl. She helped corrupt my mind, as my husband tells me. In any case, it is common for painters to seek to outdo one another. They bring passion to their desire to excel in their art, to confound their rivals. And have you none of this passion, Don Diego?”

“I have no rivals,” I say, and she laughs and says, “Forgive me, sir, I forgot for a moment you are Spanish. Don’t we in Italy send our perfumers to Spain to collect your night soil? It would not dare to stink of anything but violets.”

“The señora will have her joke,” I say, “but I do not care to be the butt of it. I wish you good day, señora.” I make to bow out, but she gives a little “oh!” and dashes forward and places her hand on my sleeve. I can feel the warmth of it through the cloth.

“Please, please,” she cries out, “let us not part so. Of all the men now in Rome, you are the one I most wished to meet, and now I have spoiled all. Oh, Madonna! You have no idea, sir. When your painting of the black man was on display at the Pantheon I went every day. I wished to fall on my knees and worship it, as they did in ancient times when the Pantheon was a temple of the pagans. It is the greatest portrait ever seen, sir, every painter who saw it desired to cut your throat, and you just brought it into being out of…what? Pure spirit? Any cardinal in Rome would have weighed you out in gold for such a promise of immortal fame, and you did it for a slave ? It is the greatest stroke of bravura this age.”

Her hand still on my arm, and I wish to go now, but I also wish her to leave her hand there. And now I recall what the marqués has demanded and I almost tremble. I do tremble as I say, “You are kind, señora, but we have arrangements to make, I believe.”

“Yes,” she says, “my painting. Obviously, my face cannot be seen, or it must be disguised. Is Venus ever masked?”

“I have never seen her so depicted, but we will arrange something, I am sure.”

“Certainly. You are at the Villa Medici, are you not? Perhaps the second hour after noon would be the most discreet. All Rome is sleeping then. Let us start tomorrow.”

I think of my pocket book and all my tasks and appointments. Impossible! “Not tomorrow, señora, nor the next day, I’m afraid. A week from tomorrow, perhaps?”

“No, it must be now,” she says. “Heliche is like a great baby, and now his mind is set on this Venus of me. He is dismissing me, or will in the next few weeks; as you will observe when we descend to the salon in a moment, he is besotted with the Contessa Emilia Odescalchi, who is more beautiful than I am and more stupid, both desirable traits in a mistress. He will palm me off on one of his train, to salve his conscience, but before that he wishes a souvenir of our liaison, and this is your painting. And don’t imagine that it will be just one painting. So you must begin now, nor should you suppose he will accept excuses. Heliche is vicious, but he is not a fool, and you will not want to displease him, for you are not a fool either. You do not need his enmity in the courts of Madrid.”

Icannot recall the remainder of that day. I attended my lord for some time at his palazzo and drank more wine than I am used to. I returned to my rooms and slept badly, more dreams of Rome transformed into hell. Thank God I can remember little of it but the roaring and the stench, or else I would paint like that Flamenco the late king favored, Geronimo Bosco, who they say was driven mad by his visions of eternal torment.

The next day I send boys out with letters to those I cannot see at the time I have appointed, yet I must go out myself to the foundry shop where they are casting my Laocoön, such begging I did to gain permission from His Holiness and the camerlengo, the bribes dispensed…I must be there to ensure it is done correctly, and then I must rush to return in time to meet this accursed woman, driving as fast as we dare through a cold rain; this Roman winter makes my bones ache. The bells are striking twice as I enter the villa; the place is silent as a tomb for the siesta.

I set up my easel and prepare my paints; there is no time to fetch a proper gilt mirror, so I have Pareja bring the plain one from the room the servants use and then dismiss him and the other boys, arrange a red drape behind the couch, and cover it with a linen sheet. There is a canvas already primed that I was going to use for another view of the gardens, but it will do. When all is ready I wait, for of course the woman is late-who can count on a woman to be anywhere at the hour!