The gates had been manned by two black slaves dressed in startling yellow, an opulent fruit garden leading towards the studio. Look the building seemed to say, see how rich I am, how successful my owner must be. And yet here you come, with your worn breeches and your dyer father, hoping to be accepted here...
“You must be polite, my son, you hear? Titian is the greatest painter in Venice, in Italy even.” His father had hissed into his ear, both of them staring at the figure which approached.
A little below six feet in height, Titian had been wearing breeches and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His burly arms were clean without the usual paint spots seen on most artists, his face refined, the short trimmed beard a dark auburn, his eyes unexpectedly blue. His appearance was a surprise to Tintoretto; he might have been a wealthy merchant, a banker at the Doge’s palace, even an elegant cardinal. But not a painter. Not the usual kind of unkempt, pre-occupied artist that ran a frenzied studio and touted for business across Venice with their portfolio under one arm.
“Welcome,” Titian said graciously, his voice autocratic as he explained that he was occupied with commissions for the Doge and for the court and he had no need for more apprentices.
“But, signor Titian, my son has talent —”
“I do not doubt it, but talent alone is not enough to succeed in Venice.” The artist had replied, flicking through the drawings handed to him. “There are many competent painters in the city.”
Tintoretto’s father had not been willing to cow to anyone. Even the Republic’s premier artist.
“He is very quick, we call him Il Furioso because of his speed. He can paint a wall in the time another man would struggle to reproduce a child’s head. People come to watch him.” he nudged his son, “Show the Maestro what you can do. Show him!”
“Show him?”
Sighing, Tintoretto’s father handed his son a piece of charcoal and a sheet of paper. “Draw something boy!”
The apprenticeship which followed had been a matter of triumph for Tintoretto’s father. He was a dyer and considered his son’s success as a badge of honour for the family. But it didn’t last, the association coming to a bizarre and sudden halt. And this time Tintoretto’s drawings did not work in his favour.
He remembered the day, white and hot, the sea without its usual horizon marker. As ever he had arrived at Titian’s studio soon after dawn, exchanging a greeting with the cook newly returned from the market. With his drawings under his arm, Tintoretto had glanced into the mirror in the hallway leading to the studio. His curly hair had looked dusty, his eyes challenging, almost hostile. Surprised, he had tempered his expression, then moved onto the courtyard, crossing the cool marble flags and pushing open the wrought iron doors to the studio.
The smell of paint had been strong, mixing with the odour of stale wine and perfume over laden with oleander and orange blossom. The previous night the scent would have been lyrical, but it had become jaded, almost sour. As his eyes had adjusted to the shuttered light, Tintoretto had tripped over a small dog, almost colliding with a black woman carrying a bowl of fruit. Keeping her eyes averted she had guided past him, the painter suddenly aware of laughter coming from a curtained alcove.
“How clumsy you are,” a man said, pulling back the curtain and then opening the studio shutters to allow the daylight to enter.
Tintoretto had flushed, his awe of Titian obvious, his palms sweaty as he laid the drawings down on a table under the window, aware that there was someone else in the studio behind the alcove. A woman? Maybe, but not likely, Titian, unlike many of his Venetian cohorts, was faithful to his wife.
“I brought the drawings you asked for, maestro. And others, a number of others.”
Titian had looked at the work, his shrewd blue eyes alert, his knife-shaped eyebrows rising. “So many? Why so many?”
“I wanted… I just…” Tintoretto had trailed off. Was quantity a sin? Were his master’s words a comment or a rebuke?
“I was excited —”
“Over excited.” Another voice had said suddenly, the barrel like figure of Aretino coming into the light. “How very busy you have been.” He had looked over to his friend, Titian staring at the drawings in silence. “And how are they? Is this avalanche of expression worthy of praise? Or has our little dyer been too busy and too fast for his own good?...”
Titian had said nothing, just continued to flick over the drawings, one by one, then once again. Tintoretto could see the charcoal images activated in front of him, women moving, embracing, men on horseback leaping and falling, and several shifting figures of Jesus swept up in the shuddering melee.
“... So is industry akin to talent?” Aretino had continued.
Still Titian had said nothing.
“… Or should talent be weighed and measured like a precious oil?” Smiling, Aretino had taken an orange off the fruit platter and begun to peel it, staring at Tintoretto. “Are you trying to impress your master, little dyer?”
“I was just drawing –”
“Just drawing?” Aretino had repeated, “Of course, I see that you wish to be as good as Titian.”
“I could never be that —”
A sudden noise had made him jump as Titian slammed the leather portfolio closed, one corner of a drawing trapped like the broken wing of a bird.
“I can teach you nothing.”
“But I am your apprentice!”
“No longer, Tintoretto,” Titian replied, “There is nothing I can teach you. You are not in need of my tutoring.”
Aretino had paused with the half eaten orange in his hand, his sly gaze moving from Tintoretto to his friend and back again.
“You think this little fellow has nothing to learn?” he asked mockingly. “Titian, you must show a little mercy, Venice will not support a painter you have dismissed as your apprentice.” He had dropped the sucked orange onto the platter and wiped his hands on a serving cloth. Mischief had flickered like a light inside him. “Is Tintoretto an indifferent painter?... Or a great one?”
Titian had not answered. Not in words. He had simply turned his back to indicate that Tintoretto had been dismissed.
The doctor was losing his patience, his fretful voice dragging Tintoretto back to the present. “Are you coming? Come on!” Norillo whined, opening the metal studded door beside the anatomy theatre. It was a place well known to Tintoretto, a narrow ante room off the morgue in which was one central stone slab. At the base ran a trough to catch the blood, a table with old dissecting instruments set against the wall.
Fifteen years had passed since Titian had so summarily dismissed Tintoretto and, as Aretino had predicted, Venice had made its judgement. The Doge and the nobility had not welcomed the little dyer, his lack of polish and courtly manners had alienated him almost as much as his talent had ostracised him from his master. Titian had been Venice’s glory; Tintoretto was merely the brilliant upstart. And so it remained; Tintoretto admiring Titian’s genius, Titian wary of Il Furioso and determined – in collusion with his cohorts - to deny him access to the patrons and the court.
“Good God, what happened to her?” Tintoretto said, glancing over to the grotesque torso of a woman lying on the stone slab and putting a cloth up to his nose. “She has been dead a while.”