Sofonisba. Portraits of the Soul

By Chiara Montani

Set in 16th century Europe, this is the story of a brave, passionate and truly modern woman, in love with art and life itself.
December 1579. On the deck of a galley a woman stands staring into the darkness. She is alone, bewildered and with no fight left in her. Even she doesn't know what it is that draws her to the dark swirl of the waves beneath the keel, but she can't help leaning out towards it. A jolt, a fall and a hand stretching out to save her...
This is where the journey starts as events unfold in the adventurous life of Sofonisba Anguissola, the first female artist to challenge the conventions of the time and achieve international fame in a struggle to assert her role and her identity.
Sofonisba's travels take her from the town where she was born, Cremona, in Lombardy, at that time dominated by the Spaniards, to the oppressive atmosphere of the court in Madrid under Felipe II, then to Sicily under the viceroys, in a fascinating mix of artists' colours with a backdrop of history, drama, intrigue, adventure and romance.
The fresco is painted through Sofonisba’s sensitive gaze, capable of capturing the human soul and possessing freedom of thought, inevitably destined to clash with the prejudices of her time.
Will she be able to tackle the challenges that life throws at her all the time and finally summon the courage to claim the right to be the master of her own destiny?
History, art, beauty and emotion run through the pages of this historical novel which traces the unforgettable figure of a fascinating heroine who, like Artemisia Gentileschi, was destined to occupy a place of honour among the great women in art history.
Discover right now “Sofonisba. Portraits of the soul”. The story of an extraordinary life. Unputdownable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chiara Montani
• Release date: Sep 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9788834182543

Book preview

Chiara Montani

Sofonisba.

Portraits of the soul

Translation from Italian by

Verna Kaye

Copyright 2016 Chiara Montani

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

www.chiaramontani.com

Cover design by Chiara Montani

Cover image by courtesy of

Łańcut Castle Museum

Łańcut, Poland

www.zamek-lancut.pl

Photo by Maria Szewczuk

CONTENTS

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

December 1579

BOOK 1

1532-1559

Cremona

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

December 1579

BOOK 2

1559-1573

Madrid

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

December 1579

BOOK 3

1573-1579

Palermo

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

BOOK 4

December 1579

Orazio

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

Postscript

Author's notes

Acknowledgements

Review request

Visit my website

For Giorgio

"When the artist no longer focuses on mountains

or water,

on brushmanship

or ink quality,

on antiquity

or contemporaneity,

or on 'sages',

only then can he fulfil empowerments."

Shih-T’ao, Enlightening Remarks on Painting

December 1579

Black is merely a concept, fleeting and fickle, within which all other colours vibrate. My gaze sinks into its complex darkness, which multiplies to infinity beyond a bank of cloud, in the same way black will retreat on a canvas, generously moving aside to bring out the subject. Just minute touches of white lead break through the dark, similar to the light within the iris, the touch of the brush which is indispensable to bring a glance to life.

Leaning on the stern rail, I don't feel the cold, despite the December wind puffing out my light cloak. It's sweat, though, mixed with the sea spray that makes my skin glisten, a slimy salty film forming on my face and neck as the hull plunges between the smooth hollows of water.

The foremast sways, tracing wide semicircles, and the boat's roll rocks me with an unreal lightness, as if I were walking in a dream.

I sit on the rail and look beneath me. A female figurehead, smaller but almost identical to the one on the bow, looms over the keel, motionless above the whirlpool of foam far below. There is something slightly hypnotic in the perfection of that dark vortex. Its primitive beauty, which welcomes and rejects, invites me to lean out even further.

The ship gives an unexpected jerk, which brings me to myself with a jolt. My feet feel for the firm planks of the deck, but a cable comes loose, cracking and lashing wildly like a whip. I raise my arms to protect my face, but, struck by a metal hook, I lose my balance and fall overboard. My hands grasp the figurehead and for a few seconds I hang on to her, struggling to keep my hold on the wet wood, then I realise I'm losing my grip. A flash of lightning lights up the proud profile of the roughly carved face; my fingers slide over the shape, unable to get a hold; then I close my eyes and let go.

My flight is stopped by a powerful grip on my arm. Suspended in mid-air like an injured seagull, I feel a stab of pain lacerate my shoulder and I scream out. A voice calls me and a hand stretches out towards mine. With an effort I manage to grab it and it takes my weight until I can collapse onto the deck.

For heaven's sake! What are you doing up here?

The cold and pain penetrate beneath my skin, my body shivering uncontrollably. A black hole rises from my stomach upwards, overwhelming my limbs and dimming my senses. Then just darkness.

BOOK 1

1532-1559

CREMONA

Chapter 1

In the beginning there was colour. And the tepid light of late afternoon which filtered through the rose window, warming its hues. I was a little under six years of age and I held tight onto my father's hand as I crossed the threshold into Cremona cathedral.

I was convinced I had walked into a temple of wonders. Its walls glowed with a life of their own, telling stories in a feast of bodies, faces, robes and adornments that bewildered and excited the senses. At the front, above the altar, the huge figure of Christ, cloaked in midnight blue, blessed everything from on high, encircled by a light of such purity that I had to half close my eyes.

I let my hungry gaze run the whole length of the central nave and over the two smaller naves at the side, where the recesses opened up, like an enchanted casket, to reveal other stories and other colours.

Then all at once I saw it: a corpse laid out, surrounded by a wailing crowd. The grief was real. It flowed from the wretched faces, the pursed lips, the upturned eyes. A movement of limbs, glances, lights and shadows which drew me inside it, leading me to the centre of all the tension, beneath the waxy cloak of the Virgin, towards the stillness of Jesus' body. It was so real, with those feet emerging from the wall towards me and the orange drape on which I could count every fold. I couldn't help but stretch out my fingers to touch it.

My father placed his hand on my shoulder. When I lifted my face, my eyes were full of tears.

* * * * *

Sofi, are you ready?

I smiled. Only my father called me that.

Coming, father. I flew downstairs, my heart singing. My sister Elena moved to one side just in time, giving me a look of disapproval.

Sofi... hurry up. We're late.

I didn't have to be asked twice. The appointment was the highlight of the week. The day when my father let me follow him to the church of San Sigismondo, where he was responsible for recruiting the artists who were to decorate the temple.

He had noticed my flair for art a few years earlier and when he was appointed trustee for the church renovations, he had tried to make me a part of the routine of his visits; at first just occasionally, then almost as a regular thing, until I had gradually become a familiar presence to nearly all the artists.

Signor Amilcare, I see you have brought your charming assistant once again today. Giulio Campi welcomed us with a huge wave from the top of the scaffolding. I looked up at him, giving him one of my broadest smiles. Though I was trying really hard, I could only see a small part of his work. A flash of whites, yellows, greens and blues, irresistible in their sparkling purity.

Good morning, Giulio. My father moved forward while I tried to peep through the boards. You have worked miracles. It looks as if your Pentecost is taking on its final shape.

Yes. It still needs some touches here and there but it's more or less finished.

He leant over to look down. Sofonisba, you'll never manage to see it from down there! You'll have to wait for the scaffolding to be removed, unless.... A smile lit up his face. Signor Amilcare, he flung out an arm pointing to the steps. I formally invite you to be the first person to admire the finished work.

My father had just put his foot on the first step when he added, Naturally the invitation is extended to your daughter too. Her graceful and discreet presence has always brightened up our workplace. From the expression on her face I would guess she wouldn't be satisfied with hearing a mere verbal description of the work.

My eyes shone and my heart missed a beat. I couldn't believe I was finally going to be allowed up onto the scaffolding that I had always admired with upturned face from below.

Papa, please....

The look my father gave me was a clear reminder that at thirteen I was no longer a child and young ladies of a certain class did not normally go climbing up ladders. However, my disappointment must have shown so clearly that he didn't have the courage to express his disapproval.

He came up to me, looked around and whispered, As a truly exceptional circumstance... and only for a few minutes. If your mother knew, she certainly would not approve.

As I shinned up the ladder, refusing my father's helping hand, I thought I was flying. I reached the top and sat down, thrilled at the different view I got from on high.

I lifted my eyes to look at the fresco and was awestruck. It was as if the church roof had been ripped open to reveal a view from below of bodies in motion, so real and alive that I could almost feel the air shifting as their garments stirred. I felt drawn upwards, beyond the figures and the outstretched hands, in a whirlwind which broke through space and the confines of reality, projecting me towards the divine and mysterious. My father too looked rapt by the power of the images.

I broke the silence. Giulio... it makes me want to climb inside. How do you make it look so real?

It's called perspective. It's an optical illusion. The things that must look as if they are up close are painted larger and the other things get smaller and smaller the further away they are. It's done following precise rules, just as our eyes see things in real life.

It seems like a form of magic.

He laughed. Well, in a certain sense, that's just what it is.

On our way home, just before the carriage drew up in front of our door, I looked at my father and said in all seriousness, Father, I've decided. I want to become a painter.

Chapter 2

Drawing. Everything starts with drawing.

Bernardino Campi's tone brooked no argument. I watched him as he paced the floor of the studio. In a corner Elena and I were quietly attentive, perched precariously on excessively high stools with purple cushions. For a second I let my eyes drink in every detail of the room. On the table were strewn various kinds of brushes, spatulas, containers of all sizes, strange coloured pouches, pestles and mortars, palettes, a couple of plaster busts, pieces of black and pinkish charcoal and a considerable number of rolls of paper. Small and large easels, each with its own canvas, were positioned at various points of the studio, always next to a source of light. Draped on a seat, multicoloured remnants of fabric offset each other, producing surprising combinations.

I studied the paintings that were leaning on a shelf against the back wall, in different stages of completion, before glancing back at the table, irresistibly drawn to the bowls in which pure pigments glowed like jewels. Some were in pieces, others were reduced to the finest powder. They all looked teeming with promise and I couldn't wait to touch them. Bernardino stopped, as if he had intercepted my flow of thoughts.

Forget colour, for the time being, he declared and frowned, "as well as blending, flourishing touches and technique. All that comes later. Drawing, drawing and yet more drawing, to train the hand to copy reality, filtered through the eye of the great masters. Till you come to see that shade is no less important than light and that sfumato is the gentle point of transition from one to the other."

He showed us some white chalky looking sheets.

Tinted paper... it's prepared with glue and bone powder. You can get different hues by adding a tiny bit of pigment.

Then he picked up a shiny stick. For drawing we'll use the silverpoint. Alternatively we could use charcoal or red chalk, but I prefer this method. I'm going to teach you how to prepare the paper. Always take a supply with you to fix any detail that attracts your attention. It's an indispensable exercise. He leant on the table, stroking his beard. The secret that makes a painter great, whatever kind of painter, is knowing how to capture reality, seeing it each time with fresh eyes. And that becomes essential if the subject of your painting is another human being. Knowing how to capture the movements of the soul behind a glance and behind every imperceptible shade of expression. This is the real magic, which gives the artist almost divine powers. He paused and smiled. But it's also the one thing that I am unable to transmit to you.

I decided that I liked Bernardino and was grateful to my father for choosing him.

It had not been easy to find a candidate who, given his own commitments and commissions, was willing to teach women. The proposal was already disconcerting in itself, never mind that it also brought with it a great number of limitations. No other apprentices, no perspective, no geometry and, above all, no anatomy. The subject was absolutely forbidden. In our case it was decided to restrict learning to portraiture and copying of other masters' works to the total exclusion of creative painting which would have required tuition in the forbidden subjects. I was fully aware that these limits would always influence me, but what I was being offered was already much more than I had hoped for.

I had sometimes seen Bernardino at work on the frescoes in the central nave of San Sigismondo, but we had exchanged only a few words. He wasn't given to distractions and worked in total concentration, in silence. Although he was young, his severe look and profoundly black beard put me in awe of him.

I was delighted to discover, on the other hand, that he was a kindly man and a generous teacher, willing to transmit all his knowledge without reservation. I liked his directness, his open gaze and above all I admired him for his ability to portray the human being, capturing the depth beyond the pose.

Elena didn't seem quite as enthusiastic about our lessons. Perhaps they shouldn't have compelled her to follow me on this adventure, which was not hers. Our mother, though, had been adamant. She would never have agreed to send me on my own to a man's home, even if the presence of Bernardino's wife ensured the necessary frame of respectability. So, it had to be both of us or neither of us.

* * * * *

Shy, reserved, modest, Elena had been my discreet companion all through childhood. Born two years after me, she had an innate mature wisdom which made her seem older than her years and a melancholy resignation which at times cast an imperceptible shadow over her hazel eyes.

We had shared our room, our toys, tears and laughter, summer afternoons among the poppies and willows on the banks of the river Po and the long winters before the fire, when the frost drew arabesques on the windowpanes and our imagination was given free rein inventing stories of princesses, wizards and knights to the delight of our younger sisters Lucia, Europa and Minerva.

Together we had both had a share of our mother's harshness too, for she was authoritarian and far from generous in temperament. The daughter of a count and from one of the most prominent families in the town, her every gesture was rigorously controlled and she seemed incapable of any sweetness. I had few memories of her presence during our childhood. She was always remote, always elsewhere, never interested in our lives, unless it was to make sure that demeanour and decorum were maintained at all times.

For just a few months, after the birth of the longed-for son, a shadow of tenderness would light up her face when she held the little one in her arms. In years gone by I might have felt a pang of jealousy at this difference in treatment. I might have, if I hadn't long ago buried any expectations and healed my wounds by relegating my mother to a remote corner of my family universe.

My affection was all for my sisters and my father, together with Maria, the maidservant, who had brought us up and loved us as if we were her own. Elena was my haven and her serene sweetness a resource I could draw on to calm my misgivings and dampen my excessive enthusiasms. We had always leant on one another and we were so close that we often shared the same thoughts.

And yet at times I felt excluded. For some time now an unexpected and uncalled for sadness occasionally enveloped her like a wisp of mist and her efforts to conceal it sounded false, like the evasive replies she gave to my pressing questions.

It never lasted long, often just a few minutes. Yet that unknown hidden side to her frightened me because in those moments I was able to sense quite clearly what loneliness meant.

Chapter 3

The damp air in late October made us pull our cloaks tightly round us as we left Bernardino Campi's house. Mist was rising from the meadows and the trees along the avenue had started to turn to tints of brown and ochre with unexpected flashes of crimson, a sight I couldn't tear my eyes away from. With a sorrowful glance I turned to look at the doorway I had been going in and out of for over three years now. Important work commitments were calling Bernardino back to Milan, putting an end to our apprenticeship with him.

Like a powerful illusionist, Bernardino had taken us by the hand, gradually introducing us to the alchemy of artistic materials and bestowing on us the power to create harmony from the laws of chemistry and nature.

We had learnt to prime the canvases with glue and thin gesso, to create a smooth and flawless surface. The background colour had to be chosen with care since it gave a particular tint to the subsequent layers, where they were grey, yellowish, reddish, or brown, or where some parts were left white to give the maximum concentration of luminosity.

The world of colour, elusive and ethereal, could never, by its very nature, give certainties, changing constantly depending on the light, the reflections of objects or simply because of the proximity of other hues. The pigments sat there in silence, each with its own characteristics and texture, grainy or finer, some crumbly while others were hard to grind. You had to get to know them and love them like loyal friends, paying attention to their needs and their limits, combining them knowledgeably and delicately, adding resins or essence of turpentine, bringing out their nature or damping it down and juxtaposing them in an orchestra of carefully calculated contrasts and affinities in order to create the miracle of tonal harmony.

The creator of this unity was the oil that blended the pigments in an indestructible bond, generator of all light and softness. Walnut oil was best for the light shades and linseed oil, which tends to turn yellow with age, for the darker tones. I was fascinated by their transparency, which made it possible to overlay glazes, opening the door to the land of the indefinite, half way between revealing and concealing, in a world of light which filters through the shadows, of blended hues which chase each other in a perpetual game of shade and iridescence. An indispensable effect to mould volumes, shape the folds of garments and above all to give life and truth to flesh.

* * * * *

Before getting into the carriage I turned towards Elena, who on that particular day had been even quieter than usual.

I think we're going to miss Bernardino terribly.

She nodded distractedly, her gaze carried away on the autumn breeze. During the ride she said nothing at all until we got to the doorway of our home.

Sofonisba... her voice was as fragile as crystal.

I moved closer to her, brushed her arm.

Elena, what's the matter? Do you feel alright?

Yes.

She went into the house and, without a word, headed towards our room. I followed her to the threshold.

So are you going to tell me what's the matter with you?

I... need to talk to you.

I sat down beside her, biting my tongue so as not to badger her. My gaze wandered over our twin beds with their flowered counterpanes and the almost identical chests at the foot of each one. My glance encountered the walnut writing desk, with the oil-lamp burning, the peach coloured wall covering and the picture with the bowl of fruit. I had never liked it, but I knew it so well that I could have conjured up every detail even with my eyes closed.

I have never been like you, she began.

I know. But what's that got to do with it?

I'm not enamoured with life. Not at all. Its complexity terrifies me. If I think that one day I might find myself outside these four walls... I'm sure that I wouldn't be able to look after myself and I'd end up drifting like a twig carried by the current.

I don't understand you. What are these thoughts? You aren't alone. You have your family. You have me... and you know that I'll always be here.

You can't say that, she interrupted with a vehemence she had never displayed before. How can you know where life will take you? Your eyes are always searching for something new and your mind thirsts for knowledge. Maybe you'll get married one day and perhaps you'll go away from here. And even if that isn't going to happen, you'll never be alone because you'll always have your painting. I've watched you lots of times with a brush in your hand. It's as if a flame lights you up from inside... she looked away. You have no idea how envious I am of this.

Elena…

No, let me finish. I'm glad you've found your way. Really I am... But now you have to accept that I'm going to follow my way too.

She broke off, wrapping a thread from the coverlet round her fingers. I kept quiet, bewildered by her enigmatic words and her determined tone of voice.

I have already spoken to our mother and our father, she went on. And they have given me their blessing.

I didn't understand what she was getting at and started to feel strangely apprehensive.

Will you please tell me what you are talking about?

About the fact that I'm going to take my vows. Next month I'm going to enter the convent of San Vincenzo in Mantua.

It was like having a bucket of icy water thrown at my face.