Simonetta's Shadow E-Book

Ludwig Drahosch

• Herausgeber: Verlag Margarete Tischler
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 124

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The old painter Giorgio has long since locked away all his brushes and ideals. His Renaissance-inspired art is no longer appreciated in this world. He lives a serene life in Florence, until the moment when two encounters rekindle his passion for painting and the intensity of which slowly dissolves the bridge between dream and reality. Every evening he sits in front of his favorite cafeteria until late and watches the shadows cast by passers-by on the opposite church wall, comparing the outlines with paintings. He sees it as his task to sensitize those around him to art. Giorgio shares his impressions with his muse, the incredibly sensual Genoveva, who quickly falls under the spell of the Renaissance. One night, Giorgio sees a very special shadow that reminds him of the Renaissance beauty Simonetta Vespucci. This inspiration opens a door for Giorgio, blurring the line between reality and fantasy in a passionate conversation with ghosts from the past. Doubting his perception, he confides in his muse Genoveva, who sets out with Giorgio in search of the traces of his vision.

Leseprobe

Ludwig Drahosch

Simonetta's Shadow

A Tale about the Unteachability of the Beautiful

Chapter I Giorgio

"Painting is concerned with the ten things that can be seen, these are: Darkness and Brightness, Substance and Colour, Shape and Place, Distance and Proximity, Motion and Tranquillity."

Leonardo da Vinci

As Giorgio moved into what was probably the last decade of his life, there was no wistfulness in him. On the contrary. He began to make friends with the winter of his existence and was grateful for the immeasurable amount of insight he had been able to gather through the eyes of the old painters in the course of his life. They enabled him to develop habits that helped him settle into his surroundings in such a way that he was always supplied with the dose of beauty he needed.

If you asked Giorgio what the most beautiful man-made worlds were, he would start talking about Florence and the Renaissance, about painters who were also architects, who were born with a talent for form.

His eyes, now old but trained in painting from an early age, only made him feel good when his whole being felt transported into a picture. In pictures that he loved. Paintings by Caravaggio or Titian, also Monet and sometimes even Hopper, who was born four hundred years later, which at first glance, to those who knew him better, perhaps seemed a little unusual, not least because people like to confuse time with the idea of a time, whereas Giorgio, strives for the idea of a time and finds it, rarely but nevertheless, in other times.

Every day, when the sun slowly made its mark on the horizon rather than the sky, and the shadows grew longer—in fact, when people's shadows became twice as long as they themselves were—Giorgio took his hat and left his flat, which lay somewhere between the centre and the Florentine periphery. Every day, as dusk began to make itself felt, Giorgio made his way into quieter alleys where people, signs and neon lights made way for the patina of times gone by and the street lamps won the daily battle for the reign of light. With each step Giorgio slowed down, with each step his surroundings seemed more picturesque. He took a breath and his gait gradually took on an aura similar to that of the day bidding it a dignified farewell.

It was as if he was consciously gliding through a harmony—coexisting in love—of darkness and brightness, colour and form, movement and calm. The lightness of life came as if by itself, the heaviness was left to the magnificent stone buildings that formed the image of Florence.

Giorgio's evening destination had always been the same for some time: an inconspicuous cafeteria hidden in the alleys of Florence. A narrow and dark alley, enclosed by old brickwork, led there. White sheets stretched from wall to wall hung between wrought-iron barred windows on which climbing plants grew from flower pots. Giorgio loved this scenery. Nowhere were heaviness and lightness, light and dark so close together as in this Florentine alley, in the moment of the blue hour when the light streaming in from the side only touched all the objects, drawing and formulating their shapes as if they were just being created on the easel of a painter searching for meaning. He thought each time of Tintoretto, Raphael and their draperies fluttering from the sky. Straight ahead in the approaching distance rose the façade of an old white marble-clad church, darkened by time. As Giorgio walked past a lantern jutting out of the wall and attached with black, playful, cast-iron supports, his shadow began to show on the church wall. The lantern was fixed just in front of a small panetteria smelling of fresh white bread. He climbed a five-step stone staircase towards the church wall and his shadow became smaller. Now his feet, always keeping the same direction, were also silhouetted against the wall. He crossed a narrow alley whose cobblestones were so worn that Giorgio, pausing briefly, thought each time of Michelangelo's dog-leather boots and how they must have been involved in polishing these old cobblestones. His goal was now very close. Another three metres of Florentine wall to his right and the corner building gave birth to Antonio's cafeteria in a hidden inner corner, which had the habit of only becoming visible when one stood directly in front of it. Giorgio had the habit of sitting in such a way and not otherwise that the church wall rose directly in front of him, while the long side of the cafeteria was to his right and the shorter side behind him.

A glass of port wine, the contents of which were almost as old as he was, waited for him on his table every evening. The first sip of the wine, which had become thick with age and almost oily-sweet, dissolved almost completely on his palate and made Giorgio forget his own presence from within.

A lightness spread through him and outweighed any of his heavy thoughts, which Giorgio constantly carried with him. He stealthily slipped off his shoes, felt the warmed stone floor and absorbed Florentine history with the soles of his feet. Michelangelo's dog-leather boots came to mind again, and the dedication with which he had spent the last six months working or sleeping, so oblivious to himself that he never took them off. A brief painful moment of self-mockery occurred. Compared to Michelangelo's, Giorgio's own will felt like a wish awakened in youth and blown away by life.

Antonio, the owner of the cafeteria, a dark-haired and thoroughly baroque man with a genuine laugh, who was a waiter, cook and talkative host all in one, loved his guest not only because he tipped well, he said of him: ". . . Giorgio is the last person with culture that I know!" As luck would have it, Antonio suffered from an acrylic fibre allergy that forced him to wear only pure, undyed linen shirts, which in turn was all the more reason for Giorgio to approach this man with some appreciation. The sharp sidelight, with the Renaissance walls rising in the background, combined with raw linen, gave the illusion of walking in a painting by Caravaggio. Antonio's daughter was called Chiara. Nomen est omen, thought Giorgio every time he met this creature with her bright and clear charisma. Chiara sometimes helped out in the cafeteria. But mostly she sat at a small round table, engrossed in books of veterinary medicine. Sometimes she glanced furtively over at Giorgio, who reminded her of a white leopard that had grown old. Chiara and her father were one reason why Giorgio felt so at home here. But the main reason was the shadow plays on the wall of the church. They were created by the lantern light and the customers of the panetteria under the five steps in the narrow alley, crossed by the somewhat smaller shadows of the strolling Florentines who passed by via the cross alley with the old cobblestones. On the church wall grew worlds of images with which Giorgio communicated. Silhouettes that flitted forwards and backwards, walked straight past, stopped, talked, flowed into and out of each other. Every evening, these shadows produced seemingly playful coincidences and Giorgio possessed the gift of transforming these coincidences into a painterly destiny. The shadows placed themselves in the bay windows of the church wall, framed by fragmentary columns, and while Giorgio watched them lurking, Antonio knew exactly when the moment had come, the moment when Giorgio captured the shadow image. That fleeting shadow image that came from art history. ". . . do you recognise it, Antonio!?" Antonio looked tensely at the wall of shadows, his elbow propped in his stomach, his hand leaning on his chin as if his head needed support to think. ". . . a boy Jesus in an old icon, Giorgio?" "Yes, Antonio! A wonderful example of a meaning perspective!" In front of the panetteria stood a man with a small child on his shoulders. The curly head of the young boy was almost at the same height as the lantern and thus conjured up an oversized shadow in the middle of the church wall. Giorgio's eyes flashed with joy. "In Gothic painting, the figures were depicted according to their importance, Antonio! The lesser man was small, the mighty great. Since the church had the power of decision over every motif, the saints were usually depicted as giants. The infant right in the middle, very close to the light . . . you see, much too big as a shadow, that is the boy Jesus. All that's missing now are the lesser Magi, who should stand somewhat dwarfed around the boy Jesus. So we would have a nod from the Gothic in front of us!" Chiara, who was somewhat unmotivatedly absorbed in her studies at the next table, jumped up and pranced to the side of the imaginary boy Jesus. Antonio did the same and went to the other side of the oversized shadow. "Is that all right, Giorgio?" Chiara called out and made a flirtatious pose, a little too flirtatious for the style in question. Giorgio smiled. These evenings made him happy. "That's right Chiara. You know, in painting everything is fluid. A few years later, the young Masaccio put an end to this spook and gave the figures back their true size through lifelike perspective. For which I am very grateful to him.” Antonio nodded understandingly. Giorgio remained seated for a while while he thought about how, from century to century, man attributed to himself more and more the greatness of a deity.

Chapter II Genoveva

"Man—the ocular being—needs the image."

Leonardo da Vinci

The next morning, Giorgio sat at his desk, where a landscape of pens, books, sketches and small boxes spread out. He casually leafed through sketchbooks of his youth—witnesses to a lively debate on female anatomy and his sometimes remarkably successful search for grace—when an out-of-town soundscape through the window to his left caught his attention. The house on the opposite side of the street was a view that was still half tolerable for him. The façade clothed itself in an architectural patchwork where the Renaissance still flashed in places, especially on the loggia-like, three-arched balcony that dominated the view directly opposite his window. Yet Giorgio felt time gnawing at it daily, and the quiet sensual moments that blinked out of the Renaissance fought ever more threateningly for their existence. He just noticed life stirring on the balcony opposite, which, apart from the pigeons cavorting there, had not been the case for a long time. A blush fluttered across his old cheeks as he spotted a woman with a strikingly sensual appearance. She was estimated to be in her mid to late thirties and had curly hair, the colour of which immediately caught Giorgio's attention: neither white nor blonde, nor even light grey, it radiated from itself as if it needed no light, reminiscent of opals that had lain in the water overnight. But Giorgio was not quite satisfied with the comparison until he managed to spur his mind so that now, at the sight of these hairs, he thought of iridescent inner surfaces of French oysters and caught himself in rapt excitement when he realised that "the foam-born" had moved into his neighbourhood in person. Visibly in a good mood, the stranger, surrounded by stone railings with stories that no one knew how to tell anymore, spread flower pots on her balcony. She looked around alternately joyfully excited and haphazardly until she suddenly noticed Giorgio. His obvious attention embarrassed her and slowed her movements until she came to a complete stop and didn't quite know how to behave any further. She felt entirely watched by the tall, old man who by now was standing at his window opposite, staring at her motionlessly. She gathered all her courage. "Can I be of any help!?" Giorgio winced slightly as if waking from a daydream and his gaze turned to the here and now. "My lady, I would like to introduce myself, now that we are obviously neighbours. My name is Giorgio and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance!" The embarrassment in the beautiful woman gave way. "I am Genoveva and, as you have just noticed, I have just moved in!” "I am glad that my view will be busier in the future, especially when my new neighbour has been so imaginatively gifted by nature," he replied gallantly. "But I have a small apprehension which, if you will permit me, I should like to express!" A small break filled the space between the balcony and the window. The foam-born brushed one of her oyster curls from her forehead. "I don't know what apprehension you might have, but please, give it free rein. Perhaps it will dispense with itself!" "You don't see yourself, but I see you . . ." Giorgio began. "Aha . . . !" Genoveva shifted her hips almost imperceptibly from right to left and back again. This tiny rotation of the female hip seemed to Giorgio like a warning force of nature. ". . . standing here on the balcony, you don't see yourself, but I see you!" "Yes, I suppose so, but what are you getting at?" Genoveva replied, somewhat helplessly, in view of the rather strange situation. "Do you think it would be alright if I helped a little with the design of your balcony, as it will set the tone for my mornings in the future!" "Ah, so! Yes, like that . . . " Genoveva did not know what else to say and grabbed her hair again as if looking for something there, but found only perplexity and a rose petal that the Boboli Gardens had secretly given her during her morning walk. "So, may I perhaps make a few comments to refine your current balcony situation?", Giorgio asked in a selected yet determined politeness that was basically suited to him. Genoveva propped both hands on her hips. "Get on with it!" Giorgio propped his elbows on the window sill and took a breath. "Thank you! First of all, we should note that this house you live in is from 1570! That obliges us, out of respect for the builders, the architect and the craftsmen of that era, to be true to colour, so to speak!" ". . . I see!" Genoveva also propped her elbows on the balcony railing while Giorgio continued. ". . . and of course we also owe due appreciation to the patina that has ensured over centuries that in this summery hazy morning mood we could imagine ourselves to be in a painting by Francesco Guardi. You will not discover colour disharmony in any of his paintings."