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ISBN 1-59201-008-3
Books Unbound E-Publishing Co.
http://www.booksunbound.com
Publication March, 2003
Cover Art by Tracey L. Palmer
Angelica
Jude Berman
Copyright 2001
All Rights Reserved
Prologue
I can't remember dying. It
happened so quickly. So quietly. Like the moment of midnight passing into the
morrow. Like a rainbow, its colors already faint, fading into the clouds.
For a long time I thought I was
still in my room upstairs, the candle flickering by the window, the priest's
voice a constant drone as he read the same verse over and again. I don't know
why he insisted on
Ode for the Dying,
especially since I had requested a different verse. I called out to him
several times but apparently he couldn't hear me.
Then I found myself in a
chapel--or perhaps it was an Egyptian temple. I couldn't be sure in the
darkness. Later it seemed I was sitting on a mountaintop by a lone tree. It was
all too confusing. To orient myself I tried bringing to mind habitual actions.
How much red pigment to mix with the yellow for a sunset. What size brushes to
use when painting the eyes, the cheekbones, the hint of a dimple. How long to
wait before applying the varnish.
I am grateful for these simple
thoughts. They have kept me steady. Steady enough so I can now begin to focus
on what is most dear to my heart. On what I need to do next. On all I must
remember.
Venice
One
Venice, 1765
The last rays of afternoon
sunlight filter through the stained glass windows of the Church of the Frari,
illuminating the sanctuary with an unearthly glow.
As if transported by this
light, my mind fills with lofty thoughts and questions for which I have no
answers: At what point does life cease to be just a life? When does it stop
being merely ordinary and become extraordinary--so extraordinary it leaps
beyond itself and is remembered for all time?
And when is it that a life
turns into a work of art?
For a moment I close my eyes.
Long fingers of light seem to reach down from the cathedral ceiling and pull me
up into its divine realms. The painting of the Assumption that has towered over
me all day as I labored to reproduce it on my own small canvas suddenly seems
to swoop down and embrace me completely. I find myself cradled in the arms of
the Virgin, enveloped by her soft gaze. I float on the gilded pink clouds as
they drift heavenward on unseen winds. Joyous and unfettered, my soul dances
from cloud to cloud with the angels and the cherubim.
I see that eternity has touched
my life. That all is perfect. That everything has always been and will always
be, just as it is. And that I will some day bring this perfection into whatever
I create.
*****
Then, as quickly as it began,
the moment is over.
I, Angelica Kauffman, stand
alone again before my unfinished canvas in the chapel of the Church of the
Frari. It is a late afternoon in October of the year 1765, in the city of
Venice.
The balls of my feet ache from
standing in one spot for so many hours. In the fading light, I become aware of
how chilly and dank the empty chapel is, and of the insidious way in which its
dampness has seeped into my bones. I feel tired and a bit irritable. There are
so many great things I dream of accomplishing. But it has been a long day and I
have to admit I have little to show for my efforts.
Footsteps echo sharply on the
stone floor and the silence of the sanctum is broken. Curious, I peer over my
shoulder to see who could be walking toward me with such urgency. It is Antonio
Zucchi, the lodger whom my father and I met in Milan and with whom we've shared
a small apartment since we arrived in Venice a few months ago. Even in the dim
light he is unmistakable, with his bouncing step, his prematurely balding head
and halo of frizzy hair.
"Your father sent me," he says
in a loud whisper as he reaches my side." He's been delayed at the market but
will be here shortly to pick you up."
How like Antonio. No greeting,
no smile, just straight to the point with the business at hand. I set aside my
palette and begin to clean my brushes, starting with the smallest one.
Antonio lingers. Deep furrows
appear on his brow as he scrutinizes my canvas. "What's the matter? Bad day?"
I can't deny it, so I don't say
anything.
"You've hardly done anything
since yesterday. I thought you would have finished by now."
Slowly I run the tip of my
brush along the edge of my paint box. It doesn't leave any trace of color.
Out of the corner of my eye, I
see Antonio flinch slightly. Apparently he senses the rebuke in my silence, but
it is not enough to send him on his way. I know what he is thinking: someone as
young and idealistic as I needs someone with more worldly wisdom--someone like
him--to guide and protect me. I push back the strand of hair that always
manages to break free from the braid atop my head, and bend over my brushes.
Gesturing disdainfully toward
the huge painting that hangs over the altar, he attacks my silence. "You're
wasting your time with these commissions. How could you possibly imagine you'd
be able to do justice to a masterpiece like Titian's Assumption?"
"Giuseppe Morosco wasn't
worried about that when he gave me the commission. He has confidence in me."
Unlike you, I think as I pick up a russet red brush.
"Angelica, I'm only concerned
with what's best for you--" In his urgency to defend himself, his voice is no
longer a whisper.
This argument is all too
familiar. I heard it at dinner last night. And the night before. I'm not about
to listen one more time, and certainly not to an outburst in the cathedral. I
wave my brush abruptly at Antonio, as if I could paint a stop to his words.
"You know I can't afford to be choosy. Papa and I need the money. We can barely
afford to pay for our food and lodging. Not to mention my painting supplies.
Besides, why should I complain if I've been given a masterpiece to reproduce?"
"To reproduce!" he explodes,
his hands in the air, his eyes wild. "That's just it. You might as well try to
paint the sun!" Turning on his heels he rushes from the chapel.
I glance up at the Virgin. Her
gaze is as soft as ever. Maybe she hasn't even perceived the commotion. So who
am I to worry?
After all, what does Antonio
know about reproductions? He is just an artisan who works on architectural
trimmings and decorative ornaments. What does he really know about me, about my
goals, my secret hopes and desires? If I want to paint the sun, then I'll paint
the sun. And it will be magnificent!
Still, I have to admit, the
blazing sun of inspiration hasn't exactly been shining on me today.
As I place my paints in their
case, I notice several people enter the chapel. One gentleman dressed in deep
mourning offers a votive candle before the altar, then wanders over in my
direction. "Is your work for sale?" he inquires, his tall form hunching a bit
too closely over my shoulder. As he reaches up to adjust his monocle, a giant
ruby ring flashes on his finger.
"No. It's a commission. It's
been sold already."
"What a pity." He steps back so
he can take in both the original and its reproduction. I feel his eyes on me,
too. For no apparent reason I'm ill at ease, as if this man could steal
something from my soul with his piercing glance. "You can tell the new owner
he's very fortunate to be acquiring such a beautiful rendition," he says before
turning away, "almost as beautiful as its creator."
Next a young couple comes over.
"How lovely," the woman whispers to her companion. "You know, I think I
actually prefer the copy. It's such a perfect size, don't you think?"
More people enter the church
and a small group gathers around my easel. Some are silent onlookers. Others
discuss the painting among themselves as if I, the artist, were an invisible
part of the scenery. I tie the ribbon around my paint case, smiling at the
irony of their different responses. What each person sees says more about that
person than it does about the merits of my work. In fact, it is as if my
painting has multiplied through the eyes of each viewer--becoming not just one
but many paintings.
The crowd drifts slowly away
and I begin to feel impatient for my father's return. Of course that means
Antonio will be back, as well. I vow not to make matters worse by arguing with
him.
*****
It is hard not to argue with
someone who feels he always knows what's best for you. Or so I have discovered.
Last night, Antonio labored
over an engraving for a dinner plate while I sketched before the fireplace in
our little living room. I was rendering the figure of Penelope, a favorite of
mine from the Trojan legend. We worked in peace until Antonio decided I could
make better use of my time by doing some sketches for him to engrave. "If you
just try it, Angelica, I know we can sell them."
"I worked all day on a painting
I've already sold."
But that didn't matter to him.
Besides, he always has to have the final word. Having decided how I should
spend my evening, he wouldn't let it go. Like a dog on a bone, he gnawed away
at me until I finally gave up, and taking my sketchpad and chalks, retired for
the night.
To be friends with him means to
contend continually with his contrary temperament. If I want to be his
friend--and
if
is the key word--I must listen to him express even his devotion in critical
terms.
And devoted to me, he
definitely is. Devoted, but also jealous and overprotective. It is no secret he
envies the attention my paintings have generated in the Italian art world. Not
only is he fifteen years older, but the acclaim I have already won at the age
of twenty-three is far beyond anything he could ever hope to receive himself.
None of this is a good reason to argue with him--to argue with anyone, for that
matter.
*****
I hear a soft rustling and look
up to find an elegant lady standing beside me in the cathedral. Dressed most
regally in white silk, with laced bodice and grey fur trimmings, she is clearly
a personage of great importance. The overlapping strands of pearls woven
through her upswept hair shimmer like distant stars. Each time she gives a
slight wave of her jeweled fan, the scent of rose perfume wafts toward me. It
is slightly intoxicating.
The lady says nothing, just
tilts her head and regards my painting with dreamy eyes. Stepping back, I cast
my eyes demurely toward the ground as if to say, "It's your painting now. You
can look at it for as long as you wish."
Something about her intrigues
me and I search for the right words to address her. Before I can think of
anything to say, my attention is drawn to the back of the cathedral, where two
men have entered. They make no effort to temper their heated discussion in the
sanctuary.
A minute later Antonio and my
father are standing next to me. Oblivious of the elegant stranger, who looks on
with shocked surprise, my father grabs my canvas from its easel. His hands are
trembling, his voice a hoarse whisper. "What's this I hear? Tell me..." His
voice breaks.
"What is it, Papa?" It pains me
to see him so upset.
"Tell me--tell me it's not
true!" His eyes are wide, pleading. "Antonio insists you're unable to paint.
But I keep telling him that's not possible. Not after all the success you've
already had!"
"John Joseph!" Antonio
interrupts. "Please, be gentle with her!" Now that his criticisms have caught
fire in my father's mind, Antonio is quick to jump into the opposite role--as
my protector.
"Perhaps you can afford to be
idle, Antonio. But my daughter and I don't have that luxury--not even for one
day." He turns to me. "Please, my child, you know how much I'm counting on you."
"I know, Papa!"
"Then why aren't you painting?"
Antonio shifts nervously
between my father and me, trying to anticipate the right moment to intervene.
He doesn't like the position he finds himself in, though he has created it
himself. He knows I have a special touch with my father, that I can usually
calm him down with just a smile or reassuring word. He's waiting for me to do
that now.
But today I've been caught off
guard. I don't know how to humor my father. I'm too confused. Perhaps Antonio
is right. Perhaps my dreams of creating masterpieces of my own are just dreams.
So what if I can see the paintings in my mind's eye each night as I fall
asleep? What good is that if I can't trust my ability to produce a fair copy?
"Think of all the sacrifices
your mother and I made for you." My father isn't angry, just worried, and his
words tumble out with little regard for their effect. "Since you were small, we
thought only of your talents, your future, your success. Now I've put aside my
own work to support your career. Everything rests in your hands."
I want to reassure him, to
promise I will start first thing in the morning and make up for lost time. I
will work quickly--even more quickly than usual--and have the painting finished
by tomorrow evening. But I feel the pressure bearing down on me. It is one
thing to dream of grand success. It is something else to live up to everyone
else's expectations.
"I'm sorry, Papa," is all I can
say.
My father falls silent. It is
as though the artist he expects me to be has dissolved and I am now hardly more
than a child in his eyes. He sets the unfinished painting back on the easel and
puts his head in his hands. "What is going to become of us?" he moans.
Antonio shoots me a look that
says, "Didn't I tell you? You can't be a dreamer."
I stare back at Antonio, then
at my father, then at the canvas. Tears come to my eyes. "What are you asking
of me?" Everyone wants something else. How can I please them all?
The elegant lady, who has been
watching us from the shadows of a marble archway, suddenly steps forward.
"Would you allow a stranger to ask a favor?"
With one quick motion I wipe
away my tears.
She steps closer. "I'm leaving
Venice shortly. I'd love to have a painting to take with me, one that would
remind me of the happy times I've enjoyed here. I'd like nothing better than to
have this young artist execute it for me." She turns to my father, addressing
him with dignified grace as though he were one of her own rank. "Would you
permit me, sir, to take your daughter home in my gondola this evening?"
My heart leaps up. You are so
beautiful, I think. I'd love to paint you just as you are!
The lady turns to me. "Perhaps
I could consult with you and get your ideas about the picture. I hope you'll
agree to paint it for me."
Antonio draws my father aside.
"It's her Excellency Lady Wentworth," I hear him whisper under his breath.
"Wife of the British Ambassador!"
My father bows low. "Of
course--I'm sure--you are too good to us!" He trips over his words in an effort
to acquaint himself with the Lady. "Perhaps you don't know--this is my
daughter, Angelica Kauffman. If I may say so, her art is already well known
throughout Italy. We have just come from Naples, where all the galleries--"
"Papa!" I feel my face
flushing. "There's no need to explain. The Lady has already been so kind--"
Lady Wentworth extends her
hand. "I'm truly honored to meet you," she says. Her voice is polished yet
relaxed, and I feel immediately comfortable. "In fact, I half-suspected you
might be Angelica. I've heard so much about you and the brilliant work you do.
Just the other day I received a letter from a friend of mine in Rome praising
one of your portraits. I knew I had to have one for myself!"
Within a few minutes everything
is settled. I will go home with Lady Wentworth to visit her estate and dine
with her family. She will show me the studio where I could work, and we will
have a chance to get acquainted and discuss the commissioned painting. Then, if
everything is acceptable, I will begin work the following day--or a few days
after that, since I need time to finish my work in the cathedral first.
*****
As we walk out of the church,
Lady Wentworth and I, something tugs at my heart. I glance back. Antonio is
standing there, his chin tucked down, watching us disappear through the marble
archway. He looks so helpless, so lost, as though all his dreams are slipping
away on the elegant arm of the Lady.
I know Antonio wants to
protest, to warn my father to be more careful about where--and with whom--he
allows his daughter to go. He wants to explain how these important, wealthy
people often take a fancy to artists because it is the fashion of the moment,
only to drop them unceremoniously a short while later. But having heard my
father's effusive gratitude, he knows his objections would fall on deaf ears.
Besides, it is too late. I've
already entered a new world, one beyond his reach. There is no point
protesting. The truth is, he has lost that which--if he were to be honest with
himself--was never really his.
*****
I take my seat in the damask
gondola across from Lady Wentworth and pull a thickly woven wool blanket over
my lap. Not only will it keep me warm in the cool night air, but I'm also glad
it will hide the frayed edges of my skirt.
While my new friend gives
instructions to the gondolier, I settle more deeply into the soft cushions. I
watch as the large brass lantern swings gently back and forth, casting off a
thousand tiny sparkles of light that catch on the tips of the waves. Even an
hour ago I had no idea the day would end as perfectly as this!
The gondolier pushes off from
the dock and the boat glides through the water. Holding my blanket tightly to
me, I lean over the side of the gondola and peer into the dark swirling water.
Looking into its depths is like staring into the vast palette of the unknown.
Anything could be created--and anything dissolved--in each moment.
Before a brush is dipped into
paint, who can predict if a masterpiece will emerge? And who can say at what
point the work of the artist ceases and life itself begins?
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This is a sample chapter from
Angelica
by
Jude Berman
We at
Books Unbound E-Publishing Co.
www.booksunbound.com
hope you will enjoy the entire book!
Author's Biography
Jude Berman studied art (her
first love in life) as well as educational psychology. She earned a Doctorate
in Education, which turned out to be an umbrella degree that kept her gainfully
and eternally employed as a writer, researcher and editor. A few years ago, she
decided to take "semi early retirement" from her booming freelance business in
order to focus on all the things she never seemed to have quite enough time to
do. Combining her love for creative writing and love for art, she wrote the
historical novel
Angelica
. And she and co-author Alan Crisp wrote
The Healing Zone
. She also spent five transformational years living and working in a yoga
ashram.
Now Jude resides in Northern
California, doing freelance work on a part-time basis and writing another
novel. She is also pursuing her interest in art, particularly pencil drawing.
She has developed a meditative style of artwork she calls "transcendent art" or
the "The Art of the Self" and is seeking like-minded artists to start a new art
movement. "That might sound a tad grandiose," she admits, "but hey, why not try
to create what one is able to envision?"
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