Beyond the Canvas - Francesco Furini: A Gaze of Virtue

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.