Daughters of the Doge (24 page)

March the 6th 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori, Cannaregio

‘Ehi,
Riccardo! How are things? Where are you off to?’ Pietro, the young fisherman, had escaped his usual position in front of his parents’ trattoria and instead was trying his luck where a side canal joined the Rio della Sensa further along the Fondamenta dei Mori.

‘Where are you off to?’ he repeated, leaving his fishing rod on the bank and running to accompany me. ‘How are you getting on at Sant’ Alvise? Have you screwed that blonde nun yet?’

I pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘Hey, don’t overdo it or I’ll chuck you in the canal.’

For a moment he tried his usual bravado:‘It would take a bigger man than you’, but when he saw I was serious, and the prospect of a good soaking was imminent, he changed his tune and put his hands up in surrender. ‘All right! Sorry! Only a joke. So, where
are
you off to?’ His short legs scampered alongside me as he tried to keep up.

I told him I was looking for the workshop of Jacopo Robusti, and he shook his head without recognition. ‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a painter. A famous painter.’

Pietro shook his head again, dismissively. ‘Nah! The only one along here is Tintoretto.’

‘That’s the man. Robusti is his proper name. Where does he live?’

Pietro pointed a short way down the
fondamenta
ahead of us. ‘This one here, look, with the flaking yellow walls.’

The wall looked old and damaged, past its best, the stucco falling away in places to reveal the brickwork beneath it. Like that of the buildings beside it, the stucco rendering was not yellow but a deep pinkish terracotta. On Tintoretto’s workshop, it was falling away in great patches, revealing rough brickwork.

The house was imposing: three large, heavy doors painted a deep blue, and each framed by strong white stonework, gave access to the studio and the living quarters above. I stood back and counted the floors – five in total. It was an impressive house, although it had seen better days.

Between this house and the one to its left was a carving of an Arab wearing long flowing robes and a huge turban. The figure itself was nearly life-size and, with the pedestal on which it stood, was taller than the doors themselves. Both the figure and the doors looked as if they had been there for hundreds of years.

I patted Pietro on the shoulder. ‘Many thanks, but this is private business.’

He looked a little crestfallen, but nodded and turned back towards his fishing rod, giving me a disappointed wave as he went. I knocked on the door.

The servant who opened it looked dark enough to be an Arab himself, but his smile was friendly, and he beckoned me inward. ‘Please! Come in. Come in. Can I help you?’

I told him I had come to discuss a possible commission with the painter Tintoretto, and he led me through a dark corridor and left me alone in a small inner courtyard, covered high above by a canvas awning, with a table and three chairs. Across the courtyard, opposite where I sat, a door stood half-open and, beside it, a wooden grille, performing the function of a window, delicately carved with Arabic scrolls and fretwork, seemed to let some air and light into the room beyond. Behind the grille, I noticed some movement and sensed somebody watching me, but the face was indistinct. Beside the grille, a large vine grew right up to roof level, and although the vine itself was not yet in leaf, climbing alongside it was another plant which, even this early in the year, was covered in bright purple flowers.

The door behind me opened again and I was joined by an energetic-looking man, perhaps in his late thirties, who carefully rubbed paint from his hand before offering it to me in greeting. His face had the laughter lines of a man who did not take life too seriously, but his eyes had a steely competitiveness, which was emphasized by his firm grip as he shook my hand.

‘Jacopo. Call me Tintoretto – everyone does.’

I introduced myself and explained my business. After my earlier visits to Titian and Veronese, I had rehearsed my speech and now I felt I was able to look and sound more knowledgeable than I had on that first, disastrous, occasion.

‘My name is Richard Stocker and I am an Englishman. I am accompanying Edward Courtenay, the earl of Devon, on an extended visit to Venice. The Earl is the last of the royal line of Plantagenet kings, and wishes to have a new portrait painted, as the previous one has been left behind in England. His preference would be for a head and shoulders portrait, but including the hands.

‘The purpose of the portrait would be to assist in potential marriage negotiations, and in this respect there is, you will understand, a degree of urgency, although we are, of course always flexible. Being from England, the earl is not able to match the superior wealth of the great Venetian families, and hopes that you will be accommodating.

‘As for the arrangements, he is at present available for sittings in Venice and has asked me to emphasize that if you do have some available time in the near future, perhaps through cancellations, he would be most pleased to accommodate you, and to fit in with your own busy timetable.

‘He and I have both seen some of your work and I, as an enthusiast rather than as a practising patron, would like to acknowledge the excellence with which you express roundness and form and the fall of light, on the human body and upon its surrounding drapery . . .’ Suddenly I had run out of things to say. I stopped, hoping that I had made a sufficiently good impression, at least to command his initial interest.

Tintoretto sat back in his chair, smiling broadly, with his arms extended, palms uppermost. ‘How could I fail to respond to such an introduction? If only the rest of my patrons could be as clear, as concise, and as communicative of their desires! Come into the workshop and let me show you some of our work.’

He led me back the way I had come and we turned into a large airy workshop, light streaming in through north-facing windows high above. A dozen men working at easels managed to acknowledge my presence with smiles and waves, without breaking the rhythm of their work. Tintoretto showed me a number of works in varying stages of completion. There were a few portraits but, as usual in Venice, many of the paintings were scenes from mythology.

‘Your workshop has an air of friendly efficiency.’

Tintoretto bowed. ‘Thank you. Where, then, have you experienced
un
friendly efficiency?’

‘I mentioned Titian before. I visited his workshop. The apprentices there seemed cowed, not relaxed as they appear here.’

He grimaced. ‘Titian is a complete bastard! And that pig Claudio Manzi is an even bigger bastard. They deserve each other. I worked for them when I was first apprenticed and they made my life a misery. In the end I got thrown out. I vowed to take as much work from Titian as I could and it has remained my life’s ambition. Tell me, did you see a painting of
Venus With a
Mirror
?’

I nodded vigorously. ‘I don’t know who the model was, but I will never forget that picture.’

‘Was it finished?’

‘It was just being delivered when I was there – two weeks ago.’

He smiled. ‘I will tell her it has been sent.’

I was confused. ‘Tell who?’

‘The model, of course. I stole her from him. He lusted after her and she knew it. She was his best model, but I used to sneak her in here occasionally, and now she works exclusively for me. A coup. A real coup. Come here, let me show you something.’ He led me to the back of the room and turned an easel towards me, pulling a sheet from it as he did so.

‘Here.You like form and light? I painted this five or six years ago, but it’s been in storage here because the patron is abroad and does not want anyone else to see it.
Vulcan Surprises Venus.
W
hat
do you think?’

A woman was reclining on a bed, legs spread in apparent abandon, naked but for a small strip of silk which lay across her thigh. A rough, muscular man appeared to have tiptoed up to her and was gently lifting the last of her privacy as she slowly awoke. Meanwhile, a child slept on in the cot behind her, and the whole scene was repeated in a large mirror on the wall behind.

‘Well? What do you think?’

‘Is he about to take advantage of her? She looks so vulnerable.’

Tintoretto shook his head. ‘No, you’ ve missed the point. When have you ever seen a woman lie like that?’

My mind went back to a day in Bradgate Park when I had been seduced by Lady Frances Grey, the mother of Lady Jane. I had responded with everything she had hoped for and she had lain like that afterwards, replete, satisfied, uncaring who found her there.

‘Afterwards?’

Tintoretto slapped his thigh. ‘Exactly. Afterwards! This is Aphrodite, and the man is her husband Hephaestus (Venus and Vulcan, if you prefer). He has come home to catch her with her lover, but he arrives too late. But look,’ he pointed to the right-hand side of the picture, ‘her lover, Ares, is hiding under the bed. He just got away with it, didn’t he?’

But I was not looking at the man hiding under the bed. I was captivated by the raw beauty of the half-sleeping woman. It was the same one! The same woman I had seen in Titian’s workshop. I wanted to stay and look further at the woman, but he led me onward. A number of small desks were positioned along one side of the room, and in front of these a large sculpted head stood in profile. I paused, looking at the drawings on the desks, and Tintoretto joined me.

‘It is our morning class. You have commented kindly upon form, and I believe it is essential. Titian relies on bright colours to dazzle his audience. He is a very successful painter, although a pig to work for, but in the end I must agree with Michelangelo’s comment that it’s a pity he can’t draw.

‘Here, the art of drawing well is central to our work. Every morning, for half an hour, we have drawing practice: apprentices, assistants and myself included. We draw from still-life, from sculpture and from live models. I do not allow any of my apprentices to become an assistant and start to use colour until they have shown me that they can depict form and depth and mass, and roundness and the fall of light, and the play of shadows, purely by the use of changes of tone. As you can see, that means drawing on grey or blue paper, with no more than charcoal and white chalk.

‘If you yourself are interested in drawing, you should try it. There is no substitute, and if you come here any morning just after seven o’clock, you will find every one of us practising that skill.’

We returned to the courtyard and the table. My chair scraped backward as I sat in it, and once again I thought I saw the flicker of a shadow behind the fretwork grille in the opposite wall. Tintoretto asked me a number of detailed questions about the earl, and, trusting and liking him, I answered them truthfully. He asked if Courtenay was vain or self-obsessed and I answered that he was both. In the end, he was satisfied. He gave me a price which compared with Veronese’s, and he did not demand an advance. It was a satisfactory bargain, in my view, and the best offer we had.

We shook hands and it was time to leave. However, I had to return to the question burning in my head.

‘I must ask you one thing before I leave. The model in your Venus painting. It’s the same woman as the Titian Venus. Who is she?’

He grinned, the pleasure of his secret all over his face, and tapped the side of his nose. ‘That would be telling. I pinched her from him and painted her – as you say, “afterwards”, ! Wait till Titian sees that painting. He will be beside himself with jealousy! If only the patron would return and let it be displayed.’

‘But please, just tell me, who is the model?’

He looked deep into my eyes and in his own I saw calculation. ‘If you get me a portrait commission with your English earl, I will personally introduce you to that model. Then God help you, young man . . .

I was still thinking of the painting when I reached home that night. I knew that with her image so clear in my mind, sleep would not come easily. Who was she?

C
HAPTER
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