Beyond the Canvas - Francesco Furini: A Gaze of Virtue

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BEYOND THE CANVAS is an innovative project that brings art history to life by
combining literature, art, and storytelling. It aims to make art more accessible to a wider
audience.
This collection features a series of short stories inspired by the historical events that led
to the creation of famous paintings. Each story is based on biographical, historical, and
archival research, transforming artists and their creations into the protagonists of the
narrative.
The stories are developed from previous publications by M.A. Fiore, turning specialized
content into engaging experiences.
Beyond the Canvas balances the simplicity of storytelling with the complexity of art
historical analysis, making art more accessible without sacrificing depth.
Published online in Italian, German, and English, Beyond the Canvas is an international
project that encourages discussion among scholars and captures the interest of a broader
audience.
The natural evolution of the project is the creation of an international anthology television
series. Each story will be adapted into a screenplay in English, breathing new life into the
hidden stories behind masterpieces of painting.
This approach balances the promotion of art with cultural awareness, developing an
ethical and innovative art marketing model that values creativity.
"A Gaze of Virtue" explores the intersection of art and morality in 17th-century
Florence. The story follows a young, troubled prostitute who seeks refuge in the studio
of the painter Francesco Furini.
Their unexpected encounter sparks a transformation in both their lives, demonstrating
how Beyond the Canvas uses intimate narratives to explore profound themes of
redemption and the complex relationship between artist and subject.

“A battered young prostitute seeking relief enters a Florentine painter’s studio.
Their encounter will change their destinies forever.”

n that day, “Lena” (a fictitious name chosen to conceal her identity and young age)
was unable to attend to her usual affairs. The night had been rough, leaving traces
that not even the warm morning rays could soothe. Her eyes, large and drooping,
were unnaturally swollen and inflamed, as if every tear had burned her cheeks,
reminding her of the battle she had not yet won. A swelling along her right cheek
radiated to her lips, giving them an appealing and peculiar tumidity.
Unable to ignore her condition any longer, she decided to visit the “Master”: a man not yet thirty, but
highly respected by all for the “treasure” he possessed “in the tuft of his brush”. In Florence, he was
known as “Sciameròni” as his father, perhaps because of his somewhat shabby and unkempt clothes.
She, however, knew him only as “Master”, although she did not even know what he looked like,
having heard him referred to as such by colleagues who came and went from his workshop on
lucrative business. For ten or fourteen lire a day, the girls earned more than he did for every painting
he sold. In this place, among powders, balms, and potions, art was created.
It was said that he could transform these damned girls into Virgins and Saints: half-length
portraits of sinuous young women, set against an ultramarine background that shimmered under the
soft glow of a candle stump. His skillful brush and experienced eye molded, with pigments, vivid and
translucent flesh within a refined and voyeuristic game for wealthy Catholic patrons. In these
canvases, naked figures found a timeless beauty, a sensuality that defied propriety and celebrated
Eros beneath a sacred mask.
She had often considered following in their footsteps and taking the opportunity to pose nude.
However, she knew that the money earned would be taken from her with the same brutal speed by the
same one who had caused her that painful state. What she feared even more was that soon the pimp
would not hesitate to turn the same attention to her again, accusing her of not satisfying her clients.
She then convinced herself that, among the ointments and alcohols the Master used for his pigments,
he would find a way to alleviate her torment by preparing for her the oil of Mary Magdalene, a panacea
for such afflictions. She would have found a way to compensate him afterwards.
When the Master saw her approaching in the dark room, he listened and felt inclined to help her:
he was too often afflicted by jaw ailments. Then, he lifted his gaze and politely asked her to move
towards the only sunny corridor available, artfully created in the room by filtering light through a
half-open window.
As he scrutinized the woman, his mind caught fire. The signs of pain on the face of this wonderful creature
seemed to emanate an aura of ancient heroism, reminiscent of the female characters of Greek tragedies.
He noticed her furrowed brow and the particular elegance of her eyebrows, arched like the two “f’s”
that carve the wood of a viola da gamba. Then, almost forgetting her plea for help, the Master rushed
to catch the moment: with a quick stroke of chalk, he captured on paper the asymmetry of her face,
the swelling of her cheek, the languid curve of her lips, her long deer-like neck, her gathered hair, and
that elusive and proud gaze.
Like a moth, the girl promptly and gratefully dove into this bath of light and made herself
comfortable: those warm and intense rays were a comfort to her, like a lively winter fireplace.
Leaning against the table, she felt, for the first time, that she was being watched by a man in a
different way. He, unlike others, could not take his eyes off her.
At first, she thought he might truly feel pity for her, but she saw in him a strange kind of “male,”
with gentle gaze manners. She also found it endearingly amusing that he was doodling while looking
at her, and she curiously thought of a caricature.

When she approached him to look at the small face sketched on the hazel paper, she was astonished
and asked if it was really her. This man not only gazed into her eyes and not at other “merchandise”,
but had managed, with just a few strokes, to depict her sad and combative soul.
“You are beautiful even so,” he said with disarming sincerity as he offered her the potion. His fingers
were stained with a bluish hue, a typical consequence of constantly grinding lapis lazuli. Like a
summer night sky, the intense, warm colour sparkled in her eyes. “It's for the flesh”, he explained,
referring to the way skin tones would appear more vivid when painted over ultramarine.
With his foot, he gently pushed aside the cloth covering the sketches piled against the wall, and
Lena immediately recognized one of her colleagues, more beautiful and vivid than in real life. With
a surge of pride, she locked eyes with the Master and decided to return to the table.
The enclosed and protected environment, his courteous manners, and the initial calming effect of
the oil of spikenard instilled in her a sense of confidence and energy, barely restrained by the still
vivid and throbbing pain. She sat down comfortably, supporting her head with one hand while her
elbow found a cushion in the open pages of a book. She started waiting further benefits from the
potion, and occupied herself by observing him, engaged in his art.
The Master understood her intentions and was flattered in his own way. He placed a canvas of
lapis lazuli, already prepared for use, on the easel and asked gently, "May I?".
She responded by quickly and sensually loosening her collar, revealing the precocious maturity of
a body that, though still, seemed to dance between strength and vulnerability.
For the first time, she undressed only for herself and not others.
Lena seemed to be asking the Master to clothe her of the feminine virtue she felt she had lost.
He scrutinized her with a stern demeanor, peering over the easel.
Unable to see his full face, she thought he might be angry. She wanted to find a way to please him
and make him smile, but she remained resolute, standing still for hours, proud and seductive, in the
very position in which he had begun to portray her.
In his heart, the Master was deeply fascinated by her temperament as well as her undeniable
beauty, and he tried to remain focused on his art at all costs. When suddenly, Lena decided to loosen
the tie of her soft collar to the right, like a resurrected Amazon, she revealed to his gaze her
voluptuous flesh and a firm breast, sensually framed by the ample curve of her elbow.
His strong will made him determined to capture on canvas the uniqueness of that very moment.
She managed to be seductive despite the pain and possessed soft yet sturdy limbs that could have
inspired Praxiteles for his finest sculptures.
Leaning against the table for what seemed like an eternity, and with increasing somnolence and
weariness caused by the remedy, Lena pressed her knuckles to her face with her left hand to support
her increasingly thoughtful and heavy head. With her elbow resting on the soft pages of an open
book, she continued to ease the pains on her face—which were now occurring at longer intervals—
by clenching her knuckles and offering the still aching part to the rays of the sun and the Master's
benevolent gaze.
Once he had finished painting her face, the Master found himself unable to resist his playful nature
and his desire to entertain such an agreeable person. Therefore, he started to entertain his guest with
a recitation of verses, at times improvised, in a comic and cheerful style, peppered with sarcasm and
a moderate use of obscenities and trivialities.

Lena, no longer absorbed in the Master's creative silence, suddenly felt light-hearted and let out a
bright and festive laugh that echoed through the dark room like summer swallows. Freed by this
surge of joy, Lena suddenly felt inside her the pride, strength, and dignity of a Greek goddess. Lena
herself had decided to reclaim her own identity by showing the Master her naked soul, which was
emanating from that marble-like body.
It was now up to him to complete the work and give concrete form to this artistic ideal of tragic
femininity. And so, while he busied himself with brushes and pigments, verses and jokes, she became
the priestess and oracle of a liturgy that transcended the art of painting. The pain that drove them
was no longer a burden, but a symbol of redemption for a life sublimated by the light and artistic
talent of this man.
It was only when the picture finally came to life, shaking off the Master's brush, that Lena was
filled with heady satisfaction. She was not a muse like her other colleagues. Her features bore the
royal mark and epic story of a tragic heroine capable of transforming her suffering into eternal
beauty. When the Master captured the uniqueness of this sorrow and transformed it into art, she
finally found a mirror in which she saw her pain in a different light. It was sublimated.
The Master poured some of the potion into a cylindrical silver case, the kind used to hold holy oil,
before bidding her farewell. "Use it and keep the vessel for yourself," he told her as he led her to the
door.
As he placed the unexpected gift in her hands, Lena kissed the Master's hand.
After this meeting, we do not know what happened between them.
Certainly, the Master decided to never take a wife, preferring to become a priest out of social
necessity, perhaps to remain faithful to her.
Surely, he would never forget her. He would declare his love for her in every work where he would
now reproduce her face and limbs from memory. He would spend almost two decades of his entire
artistic life reinterpreting the eternal youth of that wonderfully tragic and simply unique face, dying
at the age of forty-three, mourned by all and leaving behind a few debts.
An illustrious fellow-citizen, Filippo Baldinucci, wrote about the Master that “this was also the
great cause of the long work he put into his paintings and the great quantity of ultramarine blue he
always used in the same, I mean in the flesh and even in the same sketches, and the intolerable
expense he always made of the natural forms of women”.
The pictorial universe of Francesco Furini (real name of the “Master”) was mostly composed of
female faces in profile, three-quarters, or even frontal views. However, the eyes he represented were
always lost upwards or absorbed downwards, usually lost in deep thought or even invisible, as in
the cases of portraits entirely painted from behind. Lena’s gaze would be the one and only capable
of breaking the fourth wall, offering to anyone who admires her the conscious choice of a woman
who dares to be observed.
Aphrodite, Erato, Irene, Judith, Ghismunda, Magdalene, Sorceress, Moira, Nymph—these are just
a few of the artistic roles Lena would play forever on canvas. This is the gift, the elixir of youth, from
a special man to a unique woman whose existence History (with a capital H) would not record,
misleading many contemporary scholars to believe that no girl with such a face ever existed.

Some four centuries later, the discovery —first of the drawing (in 1998, currently in the
Marucelliana Library in Florence) and then of the Portrait of a Young Woman in Nature (in 2015,
currently in the possession of an Italian art collector)— will bring Lena historical justice and social
redemption, allowing her to tell us once again about herself, her life, and her tormented gaze.
Anonymous and innocent hands, one after the other until very recently, have tried in every way to
preserve the delicate fabric stretched on a fragile frame. Over the centuries, they reinforced the layers
of canvas with new ones, then proceeded with removing the whole painting from its frame and fixing
it onto an additional layer of board.
The long and meticulous restoration of this precious material evidence has lovingly survived the
ravages of time. The woman who has spent too long in oblivion is now being given back her pride
and beauty.
For Lisa, my love.