Florence, Italy
1493
I watch the young artist as he draws the older man. He is quick, efficient, yet the lines on his tablet are gracefully true. He is a true Artist, and his talents are perhaps being underused by the commision of the portly man. But everyone must use what skills they have to provide them with a roof and bread.
I see the man on the sofa, a winning smile fixed on his face, thinking that he is choosing how he is to be represented.
But the creases of concentration on the young man's forehead, darkened by the shadow of locks of curly hair, bely a volition to show a complete person on the sketch pad. The young man's hand mocks the smile and good-naturedness of the older man, each line showing hypocrisy and a heavy history.
Philandering, theft from the city's coffers, gluttony.
It is all read and recorded. The eyes of the artist see through time and person, just as I see the artist as a short life in a greater expanse of existence. But the ephemeral artist gives birth to that which is immortal, and this is respectable.
My eyes, never closing, have seen this process of creation before and will see it again.
