#The Florentine Letters

[amaliasnap]

Fun art history facts about this sculpture:

It was the only one Michelangelo signed but he only did it to troll people who grew up in Rome instead of Florence

If Mary stood up she would be almost twice the height of jesus

In the mid-20th century a mentally ill man smashed Mary's face with a hammer because he was having an episode. His name was Laszlo Toth and he had to be airlifted out of the city because people were going to lynch him

It took years for the conservators to get her face back together

This photo is from after it happened. I challenge you to be able to see the difference.

Also in the teenage mutant ninja turtles they should have switched the names and personalities of Michelangelo and Raphael but also Leonardo and Donatello.

Donatello was the oldest and should have been the leader

Leonardo did machines

Michelangelo as cool but crude

And Raphael was the party dude (died of alcohol poisoning in his 20s)

Michelangelo Buonarroti

[city-of-ladies]

"It’s an age-old dilemma: choosing between marriage and a career. A letter from the fifteenth century provides insight into how one woman advised another on this very question.

Cassandra Fedele (1465-1558) was arguably the most prominent female intellectual in medieval Venice. She gained fame for delivering public orations in her city and was even offered a position at the Spanish court (though the Venetian Doge forbade her from accepting it). Her reputation piqued the interest of Alessandra Scala, the daughter of a Florentine chancellor. Despite being only sixteen, Alessandra was already gaining recognition for her poetry and scholarship in Greek.

The two women began corresponding, with Alessandra seemingly seeking Cassandra’s guidance on whether she should get married. Here is Cassandra’s response, written on January 18, 1492:

From your very elegant letter, I saw clearly that you did not judge ours to be a commonplace friendship (a judgment which gave me great pleasure), since you wanted not only for me to know everything about you, but also to advise you on these same matters. And so, my Alessandra, you are uncertain whether to dedicate yourself to the Muses or to a Man? On this matter, I think you must choose that to which nature made you more disposed. For Plato maintains that any advice which is received is received according to the readiness of the receiver. For this reason, it will be very easy for you to make that choice, whereas no violently imposed decision lasts forever.

Two years later, Alessandra married Michele Marullo, a Greek poet. Cassandra herself also married in 1500, but after her husband’s death in 1520, she remained in Venice, working as a director of an orphanage. Her last public speech was delivered just two years before her death at the age of 93."

A Medieval Take on Choosing Between Love and Career, Medievalists.net

[official-linguistics-post]

Hey hello :D

So I stumbled across this article about the origin/ first recorded use of the @ symbol - and I absolutely loved it! Thought others could be interested as well. Maybe you've already covered this on your blog, maybe not... so yeah :]]

Byeee

The Accidental History of the @ Symbol

...The origin of the symbol itself, one of the most graceful characters on the keyboard, is something of a mystery. One theory is that medieval monks, looking for shortcuts while copying manuscripts, converted the Latin word for “toward”—ad—to “a” with the back part of the “d” as a tail. Or it came from the French word for “at”—à—and scribes, striving for efficiency, swept the nib of the pen around the top and side. Or the symbol evolved from an abbreviation of “each at”—the “a” being encased by an “e.” The first documented use was in 1536, in a letter by Francesco Lapi, a Florentine merchant, who used @ to denote units of wine called amphorae, which were shipped in large clay jars...

fascinating! i'd love to see a more in-depth exploration of this topic. i appreciate the author not trying to pin one definitive origin to the symbol, which is soooo infuriatingly common in pop science reporting.

this is from 2012, so if anybody knows of more recent developments, hit me up!

[artsandculture]

The Birth of Venus (1483-1485) 🎨 Sandro Botticelli 🏛️ Uffizi Gallery 📍 Florence, Italy

The painting was commissioned by Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’Medici, a cousin of Lorenzo the Magnificent. The theme was probably suggested by the humanist Poliziano. It depicts Venus born from the sea foam, blown by the west wind, Zephyr, and the nymph, Chloris, towards one of the Horai, who prepares to dress her with a flowered mantle.

This universal icon of Western painting was probably painted around 1484 for the villa of Castello owned by Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de 'Medici. Giorgio Vasari saw the work there in the mid-sixteenth century – along with Botticelli’s other well-known Primavera – and described it precisely as "showing the Birth of Venus." The old idea that the two Botticelli masterpieces were created for the same occasion, in spite of their substantial technical and stylistic diversity, is no longer accepted. However, rather than a birth, what we see is the goddess landing on the shore of her homeland, the island of Cyprus, or on Kithera. The theme, which can be traced back to Homer and to Ovid’s Metamophoses, was also celebrated by the great humanist Agnolo Poliziano in the poetic verses of his Stanze. The Venus of the Uffizi is of the “Venus pudica” type, whose right breast is covered by her right hand and billowing long blond hair partially shrouds her body. The goddess stands upright on a shell as she is driven towards the shore by the breeze of Zephyrus, a wind god, who is holding the nymph, Chloris. On the right is the Hora of springtime, who waits to greet Venus ashore with a cloak covered in pink flowers.

The seascape, stunning for its metaphysical tone and almost unreal quality, is illuminated by a very soft, delicate light. Like Botticelli’s other masterpiece, Pallas and the Centaur, the Birth of Venus is painted on canvas - fairly unusual for its time - using a technique of thin tempera, based on the use of diluted egg yolk, which lends itself particularly well to give the painting that aspect of extraordinary transparency, which brings to mind the pictorial quality of a fresco. The figure recalls classical sculpture and is very similar to the famous Medici Venus found in the Uffizi, which the artist certainly knew. The real meaning of this dreamlike vision is still under scholarly debate and investigation but is undoubtedly linked with the Neo-Platonic philosophy, widely cultivated in the Medici court.

Like the Primavera, the Birth of Venus is also associated with the concept of Humanitas,or virtuous Humanity, a theory developed by Marsilio Ficino in a letter to the young Lorenzo. According to the interpretation by Ernst Gombrich, the work depicts the symbolic fusion of Spirit and Matter, the harmonious interaction of Idea and Nature. Nevertheless, the interpretations of this painting of extraordinary visual impact are numerous and diverse. The divine ethereal figure has been viewed as an allegorical representation of Humanitas upon her arrival to Florence, while the nymph holding out the cloak of flowers for the goddess may perhaps be identified as Flora, the same depicted in this masterpiece’s “twin”, the Primavera, where she may be seen instead as the personification of the city of Florence. From this work emerges clear evidence of Botticell’s strive to reach perfection of form that could rival with classical antiquity. It is for this reason that the humanist Ugolino Verino in his work Epigrammata, presented in 1485 to the King of Hungary, Matthias Corvinus, likened the Florentine painter to the legendary Apelles of Ancient Greece.

[doubledeadstudio]

Deal with the Devil: Signed, Florentin Blanchett

(Note: Do not read this if you don’t want to be spoiled for Pygmalion’s Folly and my potential Deal with the Devil series. Also, this is largely unedited.)

GOMORRAH.

One of many night clubs in the city of San Francisco. Its red, neon letters are spelled in jagged Gothic font, with an illustration of flames behind it, rhythmically blinking from one flame to the next.

Florentin holds up the glossy, pitch black calling card to its sign. Its hellish glow lights up the back, and shows the outline of a peculiar symbol — a circular sigil with intricate lines.

To a bystander, it’s nothing but a drawing of no import, its intricacy inviting their attention to slide off from memory. To an occultist, it’s a calling card of the granter of wishes and Solomon’s fabled lost son.

He’s here. He’s finally here. How long he’s waited to meet him!

He holds his invitation to the bouncer with an expression of bored entitlement. He thinks lowly of the line behind him, waiting to get into the club, with their glazed eyes and empty heads.

If they only knew the sanctity of this temple.

But, much like him, Gabriel protected himself with a reputation of frivolity.

Florentin walks past the bar and the dance floor, steady in his march, weaving to a crowd of partygoers with careful, determined ease. The loud, thumping bass and the cacophony of voices in the crowd threaten him with a splitting migraine.

He couldn’t let this place deal the first blow against him.

He has to remain resolute.

The double doors inscribed with symbols of dragons open up for him, a pulsating, hypnotizing wash of red lights seduce him inside, swallowing him into the madness within.

This was supposed to be the VIP room. A hidden strip club for premium members. Really, it isn’t titillating so much as intimidating.

The music is slowed and distant, giving the impression that it’s playing underwater, muffled by the water. The dancers are propped up in high, dangling cages with draconic architecture.

He finally ends up at Gabriel’s table. It’s sunken in the ground, circular, with black leather padding. Gabriel is seated behind the stage of a beautiful dancer, each of her practiced sways decorated with elaborate tassles and glistening jewelry.

Florentin can’t see his face in this lighting. He can only make out his golden, cat-like eyes, and black, fitted suit. He’s with two companions, but judging by the state of them, they’re more decorative than anything.

Gabriel raises a finger, and beckons him to sit.

His aura is incredible.

He does as instructed, carefully descending down the steps to sit with him. It seems like Gabriel wants him next to him. He keeps his eyes on him with a pleasant expression. He doesn’t want him to suspect he’s sizing him up.

He needs to think of an angle here. He can’t be dominated so carelessly like this. Solomon dominated the Goetia with an iron will centuries ago, but Florentin doesn’t have his name or his experience to do the same.

He’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way — as sloppy mortals, blindly grasping at the dark with awkward social cues.

Think.

Gabriel seems to like the company of beautiful women. What about men? Could he butter him up the same?

Gabriel takes a sip of his scotch, and raises the glass to him.

“Blanchett. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.” His voice is nice, a firm baritone.

He’s good-looking, too. He has a hedonistic, womanizing aura about him, but he knows well-enough that these pleasures are a way to sedate a great, untameable beast.

“Thank you for inviting me, Mr Baltimore.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Red wine, please,” he answers, almost mechanically. It’s always what he answers in places like this. People expect you to drink, and get caught off-guard if you don’t. He doesn’t want to fail his first hurdle, but he intends to only take careful sips, so Gabriel can’t dominate him without protest. “And some snacks, if you’re already being so generous!”

Gabriel’s lip quirks in amusement. I got him.

“What snacks?”

“Well, do you have a menu? Some chocolates would pair perfectly, but I’ll take nachos with cheese. I’m not high maintenance.”

Gabriel snaps his fingers, and relays Florentin’s order to a waiter.

With the awkwardness of the initial meeting dispelled, Florentin takes out his gift from his messenger bag, and presents it to him casually. An offering would put him the same as his other, simpering fans, but a gift, given carelessly, can elevate his image without the same impression.

The gift’s wrapped in gold paper adorned with silky black ribbons. It’s a carefully constructed gift box, with post cards, soaps, perfume, lotions, and jewelry with a pretty enough sum total that a person of higher stature wouldn’t find it offensive.

“I made you this. I remember you mentioned enjoying France when you stayed. It’s a bit hard to find French artisinal products here in the States, no?”

Gabriel takes the box, and Florentin studies the reaction. He looks amused, like Florentin’s a cat or a bird that offered him a shiny token. Will he open it? No. He sets it aside, but he doesn’t seem affected by the gift in either direction.

“Yes, the US has fallen in love with mass manufacturing. You’re always only going to get a quarter of what you paid for.”

A waiter offers him the wine, and he smiles brilliantly at him, offering a thanks.

“Perhaps you should move to Europe, then!”

“Europe wouldn’t be my first choice.” He flicks his cigar’s ash into a tray. “And I suspect it isn’t yours either.”

Florentin pales, caught off-guard by the abrupt segue. He swallows a lump in his throat. Back to business.

(Gabriel wouldn’t let him sedate him during a business deal. Of course not.)

“No. It’s not.”

Fifty-five missing persons, mysterious deaths, strewn across Austria, Germany, and Poland. It got a little too close one night, during a snow storm, when the cops knocked at his door at midnight. He had to hide out under the floorboards. They found two, malformed ghouls, barely able to function, writhing in pain. They were clearly constructed from the parts of the other victims.

Florentin had to escape in his car and drive out into the dark, snowy woods with nothing but what he can carry.

“You’ve certainly taken a number of risks, Blanchett. How’s your relationship with your parents?”

“…Admittedly, estranged.”

They both know what that implied.

Despite Florentin keeping up the image of a rich heir, he doesn’t have anything to his name.

“How are you funding your research now, then?”

Florentin sighs, and scratches his head. “I… used to work at local clinics and vets. It was usually enough to pay for rent. But switching residences all the time is costly. It’s difficult to do this myself.”

“Then what do you want?”

“A great number of things. I was hoping for a sponsor.”

“Why not ask for the magic to be revealed to you?”

He takes a moment to consider that.

“Because you and I both know you life and death are outside the domain of mere devils. I’m not going to let you sell me a half-baked spell.”

Life was strictly the domain of God and his angels. Death, the domain of death gods like Thanatos, Hel, and Yama, and all their little reapers.

Gabriel laughs in surprise. “You did your research. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Of course.”

“Death is outside the jurisdiction of mere humans, too.”

Florentin couldn’t hold back a flinch.

“Well, humans don’t follow their own rules, as you already know. You’ll be surprised what we can do. God said we shouldn’t fly, so we built airplanes. He said we shouldn’t speak to each other in one language, so we made translation apps.” He holds his steepled fingers in his lap. “Humans are born nothing, so we’re allowed to be everything.”

He leans in, inspecting Gabriel’s face.

“You know this too, don’t you, devil? That’s why you feed off us. For a creature ever eternal and boundless, you don’t generate your own energy. You need… a power source.”

And human life is the ultimate battery.

Gabriel thoughtfully swirls his scotch in his hand, letting the conversation dip into a tense lull. He takes a sip of his drink, again, and finishes his glass, leaving it on the table in front of him.

“So, you intend to defeat death.”

“I fully believe it’s just another handicap we have yet to triumph over, so yes. I do,” Florentin says, leaning back. Even with his casual posture, he’s all in with his approach. “I believe we will eventually. We’re too stubborn. The average human lifespan creeps up every year. I just… intend to expedite the process.”

A head with beautiful, glistening blonde hair, severed at the base.

Gabriel raises his chin, appraising him. “Tell me, if you got all the resources in the world, what would you do?”

Florentin grins. “All the resources? You have to be more specific. I’ll be running a whole research lab with a thousand of earth’s most brilliant biologists, chemists, and physicians, and endlessly feeding them the human population until we can say definitively that we’ve conquered death for good.”

“That’s a lot of bodies that’ll be fed into your machine.”

Florentin tilts his head. “But imagine how grateful the remaining population would be, free from death and disease, eternally and forever. They would be like gods.”

“And what happens after that?”

He giggles. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll board space ships, and conquer our solar system.”

Florentin crosses his legs, and peers into Gabriel’s face. Gabriel’s face isn’t without interest. “I know it sounds like science fiction, but think about it. We’ll be able to live alongside the masters, and build all our knowledge and technology alongside each other. Imagine how much Nikola Tesla could have expanded our information lines and electricity. Imagine if we never lost Marie Curie to radioactivity. Isn’t it a shame death takes all our legends away from us?”

“Death creates the legends, you know. Van Gogh would never have been discovered, if he lived a long life, healthy and happy.” Gabriel smirks, and takes Florentin’s glass from him, putting it on the table so he can lean in closer. “You know everyone could get sick of him, too, if they knew more about him. Never meet your heroes, doll. They’ll always disappoint you.”

Florentin quiets down. He can’t win with this rhetoric.

It’s dishonest.

He cups Florentin’s despairing face in his hand, and makes him look at him.

In a seductive whisper, like the serpent to eve in the book of Genesis, “How much do you want this?”

Florentin’s eyes snap open. “Bad.”

“How bad?”

“Anything. Anything! I’ll do anything to accomplish this.”

“A lot of people will do anything for their goals. Be more specific.”

Florentin reaches up, and grips Gabriel’s shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. His pupils are blown, his skin is trembling.

“This is my life’s work. I don’t intend to get fucking consumed by a force of nature like the rest of them. I know there’s endless potential with this kind of research, and I can prove it!”

He pulls out a stack of photos from his suit’s breast pocket, and presents it to Gabriel. Each one are snapshots of his research, with progress written in sharpie on each one.

This, Gabriel actually picks up, and inspects one by one.

Day 45: The magic can trigger physical motor functions. The subject has opened his eyes.

Day 129: The subjects respond to programming. They can obey orders if they had been taught.

…

Gabriel finishes flipping through them. He taps them against his lips, appraising Florentin.

“You know the price of my sponsorship.”

“I do.”

“So you’re willing to give that up?”

“…Not so fast. My magic is tied to my being.” He shakes his head. “I was hoping for a different sort of deal. This is why I came in the first place.” He swallows. “My proposal is this… You give me every resource to succeed. Money, power, health bills, lawsuits, passports, whatever I need. And if I succeed, if I defeat death, you can use my powers for whatever you wish.”

Gabriel looks interested.

“That must be of interest to you, huh? I bet there’s a huge number of people going through your revolving doors, asking you to bring back their dead loved ones every single day. But you know you can’t.” He tilts his head. “Now, you can profit off them in the very same way, without compromising the price of your services.”

“Hm… And what happens if you don’t succeed?”

Florentin takes a deep breath, and stares at his feet. “…I’m going to hell either way. It might as well be yours.”

Gabriel chuckles.

“I’ll draft up a contract.”

He offers a handshake.

Florentin takes it.

As soon as he gives him a firm shake, he snatches his hand back as unimaginable pain spikes up his hand. Florentin’s vision blacks out for a moment, and he cries out in pain, sweat beading around his forehead as his nerves burn in agony.

It leaves almost all at once.

He tries to catch his breath, chest heaving as he watches molten gold burn on his palm, before disappearing.

(He could still feel him there, lingering in his veins, dormant but watching.)

He peeks at Gabriel’s face, who seems nonplussed as he finishes his cigar.

So, the deed is done.

He’s made a pact with his soul on the line.

The devil wins either way.

He just has to make sure that he wins, too.

He stands up, and gathers his belongings.

“I’ll draft up a list of Universities I want to study at,” Florentin says, decisively.

“Don’t bother. Give me your top pick.”

“And for my residence…?”

“Whatever, wherever you want.”

Florentin nods shakily. He’s never felt this much power and mobility before.

This will make everything so much easier.

He straightens up his suit jacket, and smiles.

“I’ll see you soon, Gabriel.”

“Mm.” Gabriel takes out a platinum credit card from his suit pocket, with Florentin’s name already on it. “Try not to spend it all in one place.”

End

[whencyclopedia]

Christopher Columbus (l. 1451-1506 CE, also known as Cristoffa Corombo in Ligurian and Cristoforo Colombo in Italian) was a Genoese explorer (identified as Italian) who became famous in his own time as the man who discovered the New World and, since the 19th century CE, is credited with the discovery of North America, specifically the region comprising the United States. Actually, owing to the early 16th-century CE popularity of the published letters of the Florentine explorer Amerigo Vespucci (l. 1454-1512 CE), detailing his three voyages to the “New World” between 1497-1504 CE, the discovery of the Americas has been credited to him on world maps beginning in 1506 CE which is why the continents bear the feminine version of his name. Columbus made four voyages to the area of the Caribbean, exploring Cuba, Central America, South America, Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, the Dominican Republic, Haiti, the islands of the Bahamas, and others between 1492-1504 CE: First Voyage: 1492-1493 CE Second Voyage: 1493-1496 CE Third Voyage: 1498-1500 CE Fourth Voyage: 1502-1504 CE Columbus never set out to discover a New World, but to find a western sea route to the Far East to facilitate trade after the land route of the Silk Road, between Europe and the East, had been closed by the Ottoman Empire in 1453 CE, initiating the so-called Age of Exploration (also known as the Age of Discovery) which launched many European sea expeditions. Columbus' first voyage brought him to one of the islands of the Bahamas on 12 October 1492 CE, which he claimed in the name of the monarchs Ferdinand II of Aragon and his wife Isabella of Castile of Spain. His next three voyages were made to consolidate Spain's control of the region and establish colonies. Columbus is acknowledged as the first to establish contact between Europe and the Americas known as the Columbian Exchange whereby people, plants, technology, and other aspects of culture passed between the Old and the New World, transforming both and establishing the foundation for the modern age. Although modern-day detractors of Columbus cite the Norse community in Newfoundland as the first “discovery of America”, the Vikings under Leif Erikson, who landed in North America centuries before Columbus, had no effect on the indigenous population and their return to Greenland afterwards inspired no further expeditions. Columbus' journeys, by contrast, opened the way for later European expeditions, but he himself never claimed to have discovered America. The story of his “discovery of America” was established and first celebrated in A History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus by the American author Washington Irving (l. 1783-1859 CE) published in 1828 CE and this narrative (largely fictional) would eventually contribute to the establishment of Columbus Day as a United States' holiday in 1906 CE, observed up through the present. In the 1970s CE, however, a revaluation of Columbus and the effects of his voyages on the culture and people of the Americas has increasingly called for discarding this tradition in favor of honoring the indigenous people adversely affected by the four expeditions he made to the New World and the poor treatment of the original population at the hands of the European immigrants afterwards. This debate continues in the present.

[immoralimmortals]

Akatsuki members as perfumes i own

I couldn't sleep last night because I am haunted by visions that are so very specific to me and my needs. These are all indie company perfumes currently available for purchase or seasonally available. I am a creature of my senses, and therefore I am not bound only with the curse of associating music with characters, but also scents.

Pain: The People You Love Become Ghosts Inside You from Death & Floral

Description: Heavenly musk, lingering funeral flowers, cold scent of vanilla in an empty corridor, handprints on a foggy window

This is a scent known by its fans to invoke deep emotion. It has funeral lillies to a T. The title is the main reason for my choice, though I can imagine him smelling like this. It's the definition of cold and formal, like the corpses he drags to do his bidding.

🥀

Konan: Mnemophilia from Nui Cobalt Designs

Description: Stately gardenia, antique sandalwood, Florentine iris, pearl musk, jasmine absolute, neroli, and liquidambar.

This is a scent which contains notes I have not experienced anywhere else. It is like...you took the idea of a mirror and gave it a smell? It is pristine, classy, and oh so very melancholy. It makes me thoughtful, it reminds me of glass or crystal. Another "cold" scent, similar to Pain's but more of a sister than an imitation of it. Less about death and more about memory, as the name entails.

I also considered Billet Doux from Possets, which is meant to evoke a perfume-stained love letter. Also very clean and classy, but actually brings the impression of paper and ink. Also noticeably a lot sweeter than Mnemophilia! Perhaps more for her when she was young and in love.

📷

Obito: The Emperor of Ice Cream from The Strange South

Description: Limp flowers on a windowsill, strawberry ice cream, tobacco leaves, tonka, and a dribble of young blood.

Saccharine with something to hide. The blood note on its own (i was able to try it) is actually very fruity, like strawberry. I think the visualization of dripping blood and strawberry syrup being the same is wonderful. The tobacco comes through as the scent fades, becoming more mature over time.

👑

Zetsu: A Roll in the Hay from Alkemia

Description: dried hay, fresh green grass, early summer wildflower honey, vanilla grass, vanilla leaf, and wild poppy.

This one really just smells authentically like true to life hay. I can't wear it all the time but it's so, so distinct when I do. It's a scent for when I want to imagine I'm all alone, deep in a field of tall, dried grass. The only thing is that it is probably far too innocent for him. He would not *want* to smell like this.

But I do. Because it's great.

...Okay he'd actually smell like Esprit de la Terre from Alkemia which smells like pine trees, but I don't like pine trees! I'm going to make him suffer and smell like vanilla.

🌾

Hidan: Damned Nightfall from Death & Floral

This scent is fucking purple lmao. The violets are a little powdery, like the visage of something pure, and the rest is DARK. It clings to my skin with those deep resins first and foremost like incense being burned. Despite all the food notes, not one lick of sweetness, frankly not a bit of edibility. This is a badass vibe like a jaguar hunting in the dark. It bites if I put too much on.

Description: the deepest and darkest amber blended with violets, black labdanum, vanilla absolute, espresso absolute, fresh cocoa beans, and honey

There are scents that exist that mean to invoke the smell of blood, but none of them are real enough to suit him. However, the metallic nature of Scythe from Possets is very impressive and real with a suitable name for the Jashinist.

🌒

Kakuzu: JFK and Jackie from Possets

First and foremost, this scent is old school. The leather reminds me of what Kakuzu's skin may be like; I read a fic way back describing his earth grudge causing it to have that kind of texture. Perhaps this is what he'd smell like if you somehow convinced him to give you a hug. You know. Somehow.

Description: A snap of the finest leather, a bit of oakmoss, combined with tabac blonde essence, a whiff of tea, and the warmth of silk. 

There are scents that smell like money, but I do not actually like the scent of money. I'm sorry Kakuzu.

☕

Deidara: Morton Salt Girl from Death & Floral

I know salt doesn't smell. I know it doesn't. But this is what salt smells like. If you ever get opportunity to try this, do it. It's so unique. I think this would be a wonderful scent to imagine for his clay; it is so distinctly earthy, and the salty aspect reminds me of smelling playdoh as a kid (and putting it into my mouth).

Description: yellow musk, salt, and rain on concrete.

🧂

Sasori: Forbidden Library from Nui Cobalt

This is what his puppets smell like. It's what they smell like! I do not make the rules! It is deep, it is softly masculine, it is beautifully woody. This is the phantom that haunts the abandoned castle library, who crawls out of the ancient tome in your fingers.

Description: The vanillic scent of aging paper infused with ceremonial incense, venerable bookshelves of black oak and sweet himalayan cedarwood, a hint of mossy stone, and an undercurrent of faded suede.

Bonus points: this is one of the few perfumes I reach for on the weekly. It's so, so pleasant.

📜

Kisame: Two Cups of Tea, a Monsoon, Me and You from Death & Floral

Description: rain on cracked soil, wet creosote, a swelling monsoon, desert cedar, black tea. 

I am one of the only people that seem to take this as floral. The storm is there, it is humid and sticky and moist like rain in the summer, but I distinctly get flowers behind it all. I think it suits him. (And it is one of few aquatic scents that don't smell like laundry to me nor like cut grass).

☔

Itachi: Ghostfire from Alkemia

Has the distinct impression of paleness against a night sky, like a star or a will-o-wisp. It's a strange but haunting combo of melting candle wax and melon. There is a sugared and floral version of this scent called Foxfire, which perhaps encapsulates him before everything went downhill.

Description: A luminous attraction of ethereal white ambers. Hauntingly beautiful.

Another Alkemia scent is Burning Roses, which is exactly what it says on the tin but with the unfortunate addition of labdanum, which this iteration of hates my skin chemistry with a passion. Oh, what could have been...

🎇

[hlficlibrary]

Hi! Can you please recommend historical AUs that are plot heavy? Something like outropeace fics. Thank you!

Hi, anon! You're very welcome! Here are some plot heavy historical AUs for you!

De amore ex tempore by @persephoneflouwers

"Jump! For fuck's sake, Louis, jump!"

Louis looks down curiously at the ground and notices that the backpack is gone. The grass appears greener than it did before; a minute ago there were streetlights in front of him - why is there no light now? His brows furrow.

“Is there a blackout tonight?”

He starts coughing uncontrollably as if water has flooded his lungs. He brings his hands around his neck, feeling like he cannot talk nor scream for help – he can’t breathe.

“Louis, jump!”

And he can’t see, feel or hear anything, but trusts the voice. He jumps. Then it’s just cold and dark.

Or: the Middle Ages AU where Harry is a philosopher, whose thoughts happen five centuries too soon and Louis is a painter, whose art happens five centuries too late.

& Or: the Time Travel AU where alternate versions of themselves live simultaneously in different realities and their paths collide every time, until somehow, they converge into one.

The Blood of Love by @mugglemirror

Harry is a nurse and Louis is a painting worth more than a thousand words. As desire and darkness encompasses him, Harry has to learn the secrets of Thorne Hills manor before he succumbs to the mystery that surrounds him.

The Florentine Letters by @forreveries

Oxford University, June, 1935.

The edge of summer has just begun to dawn over the university campus, exams are almost over and the dust is just beginning to settle over the desks. Harry Styles, in the last years of his PHD study of The Renaissance, has managed to maintain a safe existence within the walls of his books and classes and late night romances. He's made a place that's safe from the expectations of high brow society and the cold stare of his father. That is, until an all too sharp, all too witty, and all too handsome man walks into his life. Louis, the cocky man with the smile, brings with him a strange object - declaring that it's a puzzle piece from the one and only Leonardo Da Vinci. He speaks of age old mysteries, and puzzles that cannot be solved without Harry's help. Immediately, Harry is quite literally swept off his feet, and together they take their chances on the find of a life time - Da Vinci's lost works. But what Louis doesn't mention is the high stakes game of cat and mouse that comes with chasing things that do not belong to you. A game where nothing, and no one, is as they seem.

[sgiandubh]

Dear 'Hi, darling' Anon

You are so polite and I am so sorry. But I am not going to publish your ask here. The question has been asked before, in many different ways, which tells me a lot about this fandom's - maybe understandable - impatience. The reason I will not answer it in here is simple: as tempted as I might be, I will not write the damn script.

I am an optimist and I believe these two are good people. It is as simple as that.

However, what I can and will do for you, is to tell you a real French story I will try to sum up as best as possible. You take out of it whatever you want. I am just the narrator, here.

I suppose you are not very familiar with this guy, are you?

His name was François Mitterrand, and from 1981 to 1995 he was the President of the French Republic. A cunning, even ruthless politician, he managed the feat of uniting a French Left in shambles and leading it back to power after more than twenty years on the opposition benches. He truly was the master of all combinations, with an almost diabolic sense of human nature and a cult for secrecy and privacy. So much so, that even in a country like France (where people are rather fond of gossip and backstage gaming, provided all of this is masterfully executed) he was nicknamed both 'The Florentine', in an expected parallel to Machiavelli, by politicos & pundits, and 'Tonton' (Uncle), by all the rest of the nation.

His only weakness was to have led a double life for 30 years.

A scion of a deeply Catholic bourgeois family of vinegar distillers from Jarnac, Mitterrand married the atheist and radical Danielle Gouze in 1944. They met in harsh times, while he was one of the chiefs of the French Résistance, after being an underling of Marshal Pétain's Nazi collaborating puppet regime, based in Vichy. They never divorced, even if the couple became increasingly estranged after the birth of three sons, in rapid succession. She found solace in the arms of a Corsican sports instructor and he, by now a rising star of French politics, went his merry way with probably hundreds of affairs. I bet you couldn't tell, by simply looking at his official portrait, but hey - never judge a book by its cover.

By the autumn of 1965, Mitterrand started his lifelong affair with Anne Pingeot, an Art History student at the fabulous Ecole du Louvre, hailing from a well-heeled family in Clermont-Ferrand. She met him in 1957, while vacationing with her parents in Hossegor, a posh summer resort on the Atlantic coast. Both families stroke up a polite holiday friendship, so when Anne went to study in Paris, Madame Pingeot naturally asked 'François' to keep an eye on her daughter. It took him two years to seduce her, with flowers, daily letters, books, midnight walks, art exhibitions, concerts, lies, stories, restaurants and drama - Frenchmen really, really are unparalleled at this cat and mouse game. They never broke up and if Mitterrand never was exclusively attached to her, she remained the love of his life until his very last day on Earth.

The only real crisis moment in this stars aligned story came in 1973, when Anne really wanted out of the whole charade. She wanted a younger partner, an easier plot and (of course) a child. He relented. Mazarine was born in December 1974, in the deepest possible secrecy, somewhere in Southern France (this is a well-known plot device in any good French Nineteenth century novel, by the way). Her father legally recognized her only in 1984, via a simple notary statement. From 1981 to 1995, the second family shared an apartment in a building reserved for the Elysée Palace top level public servants, on Quai Branly, in Paris. At the same time, Mitterrand kept his usual home on rue de Bièvre, steps away from Notre Dame cathedral, on the Left Bank and made sure he was regularly seen there by the press, the paparazzi and the odd passerby. Anne and Mazarine were always monitored by the President's security detail, of course.

Did people know? Many did and at least as many didn't have a clue. Mitterrand was a master at separating his social life into concentric zones, but even as such, lots of people in his intimate circle had no idea he was a new father to that little girl whose toys they sometimes saw in the trunk of his official car, or who happened to be around at political gatherings. They simply assumed the toys belonged to his grand-daughters, the fugitive appearance was a relative and in general, they knew better than asking questions. Sometimes, he joked in interviews, as in 1986, when he told, on a very relaxed tone, to French TV star journalist Yves Mourousi "a certain little miss of my acquaintance told me I have to be more chébran (slang for also slang branché - trendy) and as you see, I am doing my best". Nobody batted an eyelid. When Mazarine dutifully wrote on her first day at school, sometime around 1983, "President of the French Republic" under the Father's job entry on the yearly data sheet every pupil must fill in, the headmistress thought she was joking and never brought it up again. Some of her school friends were even invited for pajama parties at Souzy-la-Briche, at the time the week-end residence of the French President, and even met Mitterrand. Nobody ever spoke.

But some people did know and could not exactly remain silent. When Françoise Giroud, a legend of French journalism, published, in 1983, at the Mazarine publishing house (!), her roman à clef (novel with a key), Le bon plaisir (As He Saw Fit), heavily alluding to the Mitterrand situation, she was forced by her editor to write a very clear frontpage disclaimer. She also had to tinker a bit with details: it was a boy, not a girl, etc. But when venomous polemist Jean-Edern Hallier, disgruntled that his support efforts were left unrewarded, wrote a tell-all pamphlet  L'Honneur perdu de François Mitterrand (François Mitterrand's Lost Honor), in 1984, the manuscript mysteriously vanished without a trace (the book appeared, however, after Mitterand's death, in 1996).

All was revealed in 1995, by a paparazzi photograph being published by the reliable people's magazine Paris Match, with no intervention of the French Presidency administration to stop it. On its cover, a by now terminally ill with cancer Mitterrand was seen standing with Mazarine in front of the (wonderful) fish restaurant Le Divellec, in Paris, under the caption (I will never forget it): La fille cachée du Président (The President's Hidden Daughter). Body language was very clear (another caption: The tender gesture of a father):

And the good people of France could finally see Anne and Mazarine mourning him, on January 11, 1996, after he let himself die upon finding out that the disease attacked his brain:

First row, near the official family.

As I said, draw your own conclusions, Anon. I am not implying anything and I do not think, by any means, this is a copycat scenario. Two fifi la plume (= scoundrel, but also naïve) B-listers are not a powerful French politician, with a decisive influence on the country's society, media and secret services. The UK or the US are not France, never will be. The Eighties had no Facebook, no Twitter, no Internet and no cell phones, able and willing to turn just about anybody into a paparazzo. Mitterrand's fandom, if you want, was the Socialist Party and its army of ambitious technocrats, not the considerable mess that is the OL circus.

What I am implying, is that no secret, no matter how deeply buried, stays forever in the shadows. Have a little more patience and, damn it, faith.

I rest my case.

PS: Anne Pingeot is a Taurus. Don't mind me. I am just babbling, as usually. ;)

[therepublicofletters]

Paul McLean, The Art of Network, 41.

The thought that relationships didn't exist outside of letters and that Florentines didn't have friends that weren't explicitly useful to them is one of the most tragic things I've ever read.

[foxholewriting]

Until death do us part

Florentin/Male Reader - fluff(?) - Words/ 951

Pronouns - He/Him ; Pet name(s) - None

Mention - I love this man so expect a lot of pieces written about him.

Please note that i'm writing off very limited information of Florentin, if the creator finds this misrepresents the character he will correct me.

-----------------------------

Y/N looked around confused, the space was dark but cold. A thin white sheet covered his body but barely gave him any warmth, his hands felt around the space. Cold metal all around him, the air felt thick and frozen. He gently pushed the door which took some strength to give way, after rolling over and crawling out he stumbled into an empty lab. The room was filled with vials, beakers, books, anatomy diagrams, maps, and more, nothing that felt familiar. 

The tile under his feet echoed softly as he stumbled around, he didn’t remember any of this. Everything before this current moment he couldn’t remember, the desk was piled high with papers attracting his attention. He felt heavy as he started to stumble over, opening the first file resulted in him not reading anything. All the words mushed together growing more frustrated he shoved the pile over sending it across the floor. 

“That wasn’t very appropriate was it?” Y/N turned around staring at a young man, he looked angelic with long black hair, a streak of white hair in the front and seemed sickly with pale skin. Several seconds passed before the man stepped closer, seeming to eye him, Y/N watched him confused. The man looked pleased as he  looked over Y/N taking in his nude figure. 

“Where am I? Who are you? Who am-” The strange man raised his hand to silence him, not a single word was exchanged as the man handed Y/N some clothes. Then pointed to the files and papers sprawled on the floor. 

“Pick this up.” Y/N furrowed his brow as he put the clothes on and stumbled around picking up the files, putting them back on the desk under the scrutiny of the man. Once the papers and files were placed back where they were before he spoke again. Just as he was about to speak Y/N’s hand clamped shut in an act of rigor mortis earring a howl of pain from him, he hissed as he dug his fingers into the muscle loosening the tight muscle. His wrist was pulled towards the man, gloves wrapped tight moving and rotating the limb. 

Y/N attempted to pull his wrist free earning an icy glare from the man stumping any act of defiance. 

“You really don’t remember me? Your husband?” Y/N tilted his head, which he wasn’t expecting this type of reveal. That still didn’t answer most of his questions but he didn’t have any reason to not trust this man, even if he seemed like he’d sell his own child for a gold coin. 

“Husband?” The man released his wrist looking at him with a smile before moving back to the desk pulling out a license with black cursive sprawled on it, he showed it to Y/N diligently. 

“Can’t read it.” Y/N mumbled as he squinted at the paper, his eyes still not focusing on any words, a shard smack to the back of his head seemed to knock his eyes into place enough to focus again. He grumbled as he read the paper, sure enough they were married seemed to have been only a week before. 

What Y/N lacked the knowledge of was within the last week this new husband thought he had seen him flirt with the carriage boy, when Y/N was asking if any packages had arrived for him as a new gift for his husband. What also didn’t help was random letters showing up as a secret admirer, fights had ensued. Y/N wanted to leave the newly wed home for some time to think but his new husband insisted on one more supper together. 

“Florentin, that’s beautiful.” Y/N nodded, if they were truly married then that meant at some point Y/N trusted him fully with his heart and had no reason to think he’d do anything to harm him. How strange it is that people can find so much of themselves to get what they want, especially for love. 

“But how did I end up here?” Florentin had put the license back and busied himself with whatever thing he found in the lab as he seemed to float around. Y/N walked behind him watching waiting, there were parts of him that institually just followed Florentin around and other parts of him said to run. 

“You had a tragic accident on the third night of our marriage.” His voice sounded dismissive and almost irritated by the persistent questions. Y/N rubbed his neck, his fingers brushing against stitching, he used his finger to feel that it went all the way around his neck. 

“So I died?” He tried to pick at the stitchs earning a hard slap to his hand from Florentin, those stitches were the best he’s ever done and he didn’t want his husband to ruin it with his picking. 

“Yes, you died. But as you can tell, not for long.” Florentin jestered to Y/N’s body, he walked towards the doors only opening it once Y/N was close walking out together. 

“But this doesn’t make any sense, if I died how did I come back.” Florentin glanced at him and sighed as they took a walk in the garden under the full moon. 

“You promised me until death do we part but I promised even death you couldn’t escape me, you promised me forever.” Florentin grabbed his face, digging his nails into Y/N’s cheek, yanking him close to his face. 

“You are mine, you can’t escape me. Don’t try, don’t think about it.” Y/N nodded, since he woke up he could feel his heartbeat to life. 

“Of course Angel.” 

-----------------------------

@doubledeadstudio

[thetudorslovers]

"The Medici were not loved; they were feared. The assassins aimed at the fear factor, hoping that the Florentines would conclude that they were not invincible and would flock to the Pazzi banner. Their mistake was to underestimate the raw courage of Lorenzo, who survived their attack, and to kill Giuliano, who might have been able to lead a successful defense." - Paul Strathern, "The Medici: Power, Money, and Ambition in the Italian Renaissance"

The assassination of Giuliano de' Medici was mentioned in several primary sources from the time period, including contemporary chronicles and letters. One of the most important primary sources is the "Diary of Luca Landucci," a Florentine wool merchant who witnessed the events of the Pazzi conspiracy and recorded them in his diary. Landucci's diary provides a detailed and vivid account of the conspiracy and the events leading up to the assassination of Giuliano de' Medici.

Other primary sources that mention the assassination of Giuliano de' Medici include the letters of the Medici family, particularly those of Lorenzo de' Medici and his mother, Lucrezia Tornabuoni. These letters provide insights into the personal reactions of the Medici family to the events of the conspiracy and the death of Giuliano.

It was also a significant event in the history of Florence, as it marked the beginning of a period of political instability and violence known as the "War of the Eight Saints." In the aftermath of the conspiracy, the Medici family consolidated their power and launched a ruthless campaign of revenge against their enemies, which included the execution of many of the conspirators and their supporters.

"The Pazzi conspiracy was a daring and ambitious plot that ultimately failed, but not before claiming the life of one of Florence's most beloved sons. Giuliano de' Medici was a true Renaissance prince, cultured, handsome, and beloved by all who knew him. His death was a tragedy for Florence and a blow to the cause of humanism and progress in Italy." - Christopher Hibbert, "The House of Medici: Its Rise and Fall"

[cellabella-illuminates]

I'm proud of myself for finally finishing this illustration. I painted it in my sketchbook and then did some final edits digitally.

I'm considering trying out giclée printing and I might start with this one. What do you think?

Here's the "about the image" and description of my process, if you're interested:

St. Catherine of Siena was one boss lady from the 14th century. She is known for a lot of things, but for this depiction of her I wanted to focus on her mission of returning the Pope to Rome (he was in France, there was a lot of political nonsense going on at the time). Her mission was a success. She was involved in peace negotiation between the Pope and the Florentines (again, lots of nonsense going on, sorry I'm not giving you the details here) and has written a great many letters that I feel called to look into. Anyway, she was working against the antipope and just overall doing a lot of diplomacy throughout her life on top of her spiritual writing and other things.

Before I began gathering reference images to put together for inspiration, I knew I wanted to focus on the aspect of her returning Pope Gregory from France to Rome.

Of all of the images I had found, I decided to include the following symbols/aspects from her life: the stigmata, crown of thorns, a rose, a lily, and the crucifix (pointing to the Vatican behind her). The red shape in front is an outline of a part of the coast of France and the green shape behind her is an outline of Italy, with the shape inside being the Vatican.

Most images of her that I found of her made her seem demure and looking away from the viewer, but for my image, I wanted her to be looking directly at you, with her arm outstretched. The lily is a symbol of purity but we know this was a bold and direct woman of God, not someone hiding in a soft expression. So, not only is she reaching out to Pope Gregory, asking for his return to Rome, but also, reaching out to you, personally, to return to the Church, if you have fallen away.

This was my collage that I made to use for reference as I painted:

Her left hand that is outstretched is my own hand, lol, so I still ended up using myself as a reference (idk why, I hate using my stubby fingers as reference so if you have dainty slender fingers feel free to let me know and I'll reach out to you next time haha)

On a personal note- this image was a commission to be given as a gift to my cousin who graduated with a degree in mediation or diplomacy (I forget) and I thought St. Catherine of Siena, a well known peace negotiator, was the best choice. My cousin is also not a practicing Catholic (as far as I know) and most of her siblings are the same. I wanted to paint this illustration with that in mind, which is why I have St. Catherine extending her hand. I want to be closer with my family but sometimes I don't know how. There's been a lot of drama between my aunts and uncles, pushing so far that many of them are no longer speaking to one another. I know painting this image of St. Catherine may not act as a bridge in the regard but maybe it could be a small stepping stone.

[malkaleh]

How old was Thomas Cromwell when he married Liz Wykes and had Gregory? Did Liz ever know about Norwich?

(with the caveat that I have done some handwavey magic math to make this work and also that I’m still figuring out this part of the backstory).

He was fifteen, she was sixteen and it was very much a whirlwind love and first sight thing going on (I really do know though that if Liz had lived it would have been one of those beautiful loving marriages) - partly they were able to be married because (a) Thomas got befriended by the son of a Florentine Banker (prominent) and (b) Liz’s parents saw he was bright/promising etc and (c) Liz was entirely capable of just Getting Married Regardless (Liz very much was the one to kiss him/equivalent of going ‘is anyone going to put a ring on the hot boy with dark curls?’ and not waiting for an answer.

I think he told her the story, maybe because he got triggered by something. Maybe before they married because he felt he was too tainted to be married and she was like ‘FUCK THAT FUCK HIM I’LL KILL HIM MYSELF’

(In universe historically it’s not known if she knew - mostly because Thomas’ first marriage is kind of not a huge topic of study - pre reveal mostly people focused on his career in England rather than Florence because that’s when the records really start - so they know he was in Florence in the household of [probably a Medici] and they know he was married and had three children but there’s very little else).

(Maya’s work may in fact include having found that Liz Wykes could both read and write - possibly in at least two languages - because there’s a record somewhere of her having signed contracts/replied to a letter and that letter/some of Thomas and Gregory’s papers is where we get a sense of her but they were both very private about their feelings).

[rhetoricandlogic]

Savonarola's women

Sarah A Smith enjoys the painterly textures of Sarah Dunant's quattrocento Florentine tale, The Birth of Venus

The Birth of Venus by Sarah Dunant

Genre writing has provided fertile ground for feminist fiction. Detective stories, thrillers and historical novels have been pressed into service to explore gender-based issues of psychology, morality and injustice. Sarah Dunant, the author of eight widely praised thrillers, has switched allegiance with The Birth of Venus, a seductive and ambitious novel set in late 15th-century Florence.

Dunant's themes are archetypal: women and self-determination, women and creativity, women and marriage, women and God. Her spirited heroine, 14-year-old Alessandra, has a lineage that stretches back to the earliest novels by women: not pretty, but handsome; poor at dancing, but brilliant at Latin and Greek; she lives for art rather than romance, but is still susceptible to emotion. The antecedents of The Birth of Venus are clear, and sometimes quite recent - the picture Dunant draws of convent life as a "republic of women" at the book's close owes something to Michèle Roberts. The puzzle is, how has Dunant created a story that is so fresh, vibrant and utterly compelling?

Part of her success lies in the setting. The last 10 years of the quattrocento were politically tumultuous for Florence. The city's ruler, Lorenzo de Medici, died in 1492, leaving a void his weak son Piero could scarcely fill. The Dominican reformer Girolamo Savonarola held the populace in his sway for four terrifying years, preaching against moral corruption, material wealth and women (whom he banned first from church and then from the streets). All of this is eagerly dissected by Alessandra and her middle-aged husband Cristoforo, himself a political player and in mortal danger from "God's militia". And it is tempered with just enough detail (the prostitutes with their regulation bells, the lemon paste used to whiten Alessandra's inky hands) to prick one's imagination.

But when one thinks of Renaissance Florence, one thinks of art, and it is through her descriptions of frescoes and altar pieces, painted wedding chests and fine linens that Dunant hooks the reader. The colours, the textures, the feel of the brush in Alessandra's uncertain hand as she paints a figure in her family's newly commissioned chapel; all are so vividly realised it is hard not to share the heroine's intoxication. This book is a love letter to the glories of the city (the writer now divides her time between Florence and London), and an extremely persuasive one.

If the historical aspect of the novel is a departure for Dunant, she utilises the narrative skill she developed writing mysteries. Sometimes this can go awry: the subplot involving the murder of several sexual miscreants is not especially convincing, and the book's denouement is hurried and unlikely. But for the most part this author knows how to turn a plot, whether she is writing about the unravelling of complex family tensions or the nearly disastrous impact Savonarola has on an impressionable artist brought to the city from the Low Countries.

With its painterly background (Michelangelo has a shadowy role) and its heart-thumping emotional twists, this book could easily have been self-indulgent. Dunant's passionate knowledge of her subject, the fluidity of her prose and her commitment to storytelling instead make it an accomplished delight.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Hello, ✨Marsilio ✨ question. I was reading a selection of his letters on internet archive, and came across one to young Lorenzo (1474) which … surprised me . I was aware of the romantic (albeit Platonic in the original and technical sense) nature of his relationship with Cavalcanti , but assumed that with Lorenzo was a more straightforward pupil and student thing, and then I come across this:

“Marsilio Ficino to the magnanimous Lorenzo de' Medici: greetings.

That you esteem me, Lorenzo, I have known for a long time, since you have given me many clear proofs. That you love me I have recently realised from this sign in particular; that you get angry, as though you were jealous, at the most trifling and imaginary offences. Get angry if you like, jealous man; provided you get passionate. The fire of anger and the fire of love are alike; for when I become angry with you, which I often do, then I burn with the fire of love. You too are on fire with no ordinary passion; I know what I am saying. And if ever we appear to grow cool, even so, our coolness burns with more heat than the passion of others; and our hatred, by Jupiter, is more loving and more lovable than their love. For, my Lorenzo, your anger seems to me more soothing than the kindness of others. Your bite is sweeter than sweetness. Oh how sweetly you bite, how sharply you kiss! You mingle a magic sweetness with the sharp, and a sharpness with the sweet, as does Nature in the most succulent tastes. And as your sharpness grows more bitter, so, like wine vinegar, it smells more sweet."

To the modern ear this sounds quite steamy , but since I’ve never seen a scholar interrupt their relationship in this way, I’m wondering if that is simply an anachronistic reading . There is a classical precedent of course for very passionate letters of friendship a la Cicero and Atticus . Are the florentines simply so drunk on the re-emergence of Catullus that they enjoy throwing this stuff around even between friends 😂?

(for my sins, I have written you over 3,000 words and the coherency and flow of this is...not my best.)

Oh I am always here for a Marsilio ask! His relationship with Lorenzo is an interesting one. A lot of people have diverging reads on it from Hook to Unger to O’Leary to Kristeller and so on however the majority do tend to position it as a broadly positive/good relationship. I differ. I think those boys were Messy and Complicated. Therefore, I will give my opinion on them below, but it might not fully align with the broader consensus.

(I am obliged, by law, to say that I think there’s an argument to be made that there may have been a little more physical Earthly Venus between Giovanni and Marsilio than uhhhh otherwise thought. But that is for another time.)

The tl;dr is that no one in academia, to my knowledge, has read Marsilio and Lorenzo’s relationship as romantic. Everyone puts it in line with tutor/pupil and client/patron and I tend to agree with this assessment (now, Lorenzo and Angelo Poliziano on the other hand…).

There are absolutely erotic overtones and undertones in some of their letters to one another – particularly in 1474 when Lorenzo was in Pisa helping set up the university there – but their actual relationship I personally have never read as being anything more than a Complicated (At Times [Very] Messy) Friendship. (Folks, 1478 was a Bad year.) And, as noted, my read is pretty bog-standard amongst historians. I’m not discounting the possibility of a new cache of letters being discovered that throws all of this to the wind, but that would be one hell of a find and the likelihood is very low.  

----

Before we get into it, I need to provide you the full letter that Marsilio wrote since what was shared was simply an excerpt. The translation I am sharing is from The Letters of Marsilio Ficino Vol. 1 second edition, 2018. There will be minor differences from the translation you shared (note: any typos are mine alone):  

Marsilio Ficino to the magnanimous Lorenzo de' Medici: greetings. That you like me, Lorenzo, I have known for a long time, since you have given me many clear proofs. That you love me I have recently realised from this sign in particular; that you get angry, as though you were jealous, at the most trifling and imaginary offences. Get angry if you like, jealous man, provided you get passionate. The fire of anger and the fire of love are alike; for when I become angry with you, which I often do, then I burn with the fire of love. You too are on fire with no ordinary passion; I know what I am saying. And if ever we appear to grow cool, even so, our coolness burns with more heat than the passion of others; and our hatred, by Jupiter, is more loving and more loveable than their love. For, my Lorenzo, your anger seems to me more soothing than the kindness of others. Your bite is sweeter than sweetness. Oh how sweetly you bite, how sharply you kiss! You mingle a magic sweetness with the sharp, and a sharpness with the sweet, as does Nature in the most succulent tastes. And as your sharpness grows stronger, so, like Malvatic vinegar, it smells sweeter than sweet. But what fault do you find in me, stringent accuser, most stringent lover? Is it not brevity? But you are the cause. The scale of your affairs make me brief, but the greatness of your love makes me appear briefer still. You accuse my silence, suspecting that it springs from forgetfulness, and forgetfulness from absence. But you ought to remember that if Lorenzo is not absent, neither is Marsilio, for Marsilio dwells in Lorenzo if the soul is everywhere at the same time, as you yourself truly proved in your recent letter. How, therefore, does the divine Christopher prevent me from seeing you? Especially since he is clear and transparent, and in Christopher I see Lorenzo, just as through Lorenzo I see and embrace Christopher. Do you want me to confess the truth? The eclipse which prevents me from seeing or being heard is not caused by the interposition of Christopher. No, it is you with your flashing lightning and thunderclaps that have stunned me and rendered me blind and speechless. Ah! Impudent young man, you triumph overmuch in your victory, however fairly won! What more do you leave for yourself, or anyone else? For you, that you conquer yourself; for others, that they allow themselves to be conquered with equanimity. Certainly, if I may speak first for myself, I rejoice at being overcome by you almost as much you rejoice at overcoming me and others. What shall I say of others? The morning sun gathers the clouds, and the mid-day sun disperses them. Youthful virtue arouses envy, but virtue in a mature man dissolves it and overcomes that jealously which previously dominated every other idea. You have converted almost everyone’s envy to admiration. Many now openly praise Lorenzo who previously envied me. But although hardly anyone who praises Lorenzo speaks falsely, no one except the Platonists praise him justly. Since the Aristotelians see Lorenzo so successful in whatever he does, they praise all things in him. For when they consider how quickly he has become master of each art, they realize that these arts have not been acquired by labour, but supplied by nature and granted from God. And so it is that I esteem your character in myself, and I love my own in you. I praise you in art, and I value art in you. I honour you in nature, and I marvel at nature in you. I revere you through God, and I worship God through you. And so God alone be all glory sung from age to age by everyone. Farewell.

------

My Many (Many) Thoughts (oh my god I am so sorry)

First off, this letter was written in response to a letter from Lorenzo complaining that Marsilio had not written him enough. Which is certainly something because Marsilio was one of the most prolific letter writers of his age. Infamous for it. Even his intimate friends would occasionally write and ask him to slow his roll because he sent them too many letters and they need time to reply to them all (looking at you, Giovanni Cavalcanti).

This is important to know because the letter that Lorenzo sent complaining that Marsilio hadn’t written enough (letter 28 in Vol. 1, 2nd edition), the one Marsilio replies to, is not the first time Marsilio has not written enough.

Letter 28 opens:   

“How wrong was my judgment of you, and how right the old saying ‘out of sight, out of mind’. Who would have believed it? Indeed, I can scarcely believe my own eyes. I sent two letters to you; you sent scarcely one to me, and it was so sparing in words that if you leave out the greetings at the start, the farewell at the end, the date and address, there is almost nothing left. A philosopher should not talk too much—but nor should he say nothing!”

There are three other letters I can think of where Lorenzo complains of Marsilio not writing enough (23 and 25 in Vol 1; also a letter in Lorenzo de’ Medici, Lettere vol 1) and therefore not doing his duty as client to his patron. A patron who secured a benefice for Marsilio (San Cristoforo a Novoli, at the time it was considered outside of Florence. Modern day, it’s on the tram line only two(ish) stops from the airport).

A clear push-pull is happening wherein Marsilio is thankful to Lorenzo for his patronage in pulling some strings for him, but he is also dedicated to his parish, his parishioners, and so on. He cannot always be at Lorenzo’s beck and call. The intimacy of their younger years – when Marsilio was Lorenzo’s tutor – is changing. Lorenzo wants Marsilio to be his follower, his client. Marsilio wants to be Lorenzo’s teacher, advisor, friend.

With two strong-minded and opinionated men, this natural transformation in their relationship was never going to be easy.

In terms of the letter’s language – it is much as you suggested at the end of your ask which is that Marsilio is very much following in a lot of the traditions of the time. Marsilio comparing their little tiff to a lover’s quarrel follows the tropes and imagery used in a lot of classical letters and poetic conventions. Though it is interesting to note that Ficino doesn’t immediately follow the letter writing models of Cicero and Seneca – but the linguistic flourishes are very much present in his prose.

On top of the letter writing conventions of the time, Marsilio is also using this as a brief opportunity to continue his broader Platonic letter writing scheme.

Ficino’s style is distinctive from contemporaries in some respects which is the result of his attempts to emulate Plato and the particular frenzied poetic rhythms that Plato writes in. Therefore, there is a tendency to surge high and head-long into passionate and effusive modes of writing – which Ficino does with everyone (from his lover Cavalcanti up to the pope). I believe Erasmus, in one of his works assessing Ciceronian rhetoric and writing styles of previous thinkers, said that he would not dare to speak on Ficino’s style…so make of that what you will.

Ficino uses his style to emphasize several of his philosophical points: that contemplating beautiful things (art, music, poetry) allows you to ascend towards Truth (eventually joining with Truth becoming Divine. Ficino went full heretic in some of his beliefs), that participating in poetic frenzies helps you self-reflect which is also an integral part of ascending to Truth (and his writing style is frenzied at times. In essence, it is the written version of what he wanted people to experience), that sight is one of the quickest ways to transmute knowledge and beauty into the mind then the soul/heart and so reading about Beauty (and Plato’s philosophy) in Ficino’s writing, which also leads to an experience of poetic frenzy akin to divine ecstasy, will help facilitate your ascension to Truth.

But we’re not here to get into Ficino’s Platonism. The point is that the reflective, discursive qualities of Plato’s dialogues is sometimes also modelled in Ficino’s letters where Ficino emphasizes a self-reflective yet mirroring quality in order to unite people and ideas. We see a few examples of it in this letter to Lorenzo. Namely:  

“But you ought to remember that if Lorenzo is not absent, neither is Marsilio, for Marsilio dwells in Lorenzo if the soul is everywhere at the same time […]” “…in Christopher I see Lorenzo, just as through Lorenzo I see and embrace Christopher.” “And so it is that I esteem your character in myself, and I love my own in you. I praise you in art, and I value art in you. I honour you in nature, and I marvel at nature in you. I revere you through God, and I worship God through you.”

It’s part of a larger epistolary game that Marsilio was playing not only with Lorenzo but most of his many correspondents. Therefore, when we read something like “if Lorenzo is not absent, neither is Marsilio, for Marsilio dwells in Lorenzo” we should understand that Marsilio is participating in a Platonic dialogue of sorts.

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And yet not everything in the letters is purely philosophic. There are also subtle political implications and personal shifts of relationships that we can glean within the text.

We return, of course, to the fact that I cannot stress enough how fundamentally shocking and important it is that Marsilio isn’t writing enough. That he is choosing to prioritize other people, other business, other things in general, over replying to Lorenzo.

Lorenzo’s letter has a lot of language around betrayal in it. Again, much of this is following the conventions of the day so the overwrought nature of the verbiage is to be expected. But there is something in the tone of the following lines that always struck me:

“Yet I am amazed and I really cannot find the words with which to accuse you, for there is no word so harsh or so abusive that Marsilian taciturnity does not far surpass it. By this you have betrayed your faith and our friendship. I am indeed hurt in your breaking faith with me, and by the blow you have dealt to our friendship. But much more wounding still is that, in setting the love between us at naught, you have separated me from the goodwill of all other men, and there seems no one left now to whom I can entrust my faith. For there appeared to be nothing so perfect, so constant, so true, as our friendship which had grown by your virtue and the passage of time, to such an extent that, if this has now evaporated, there is no friendship left which I can safely trust.”

He goes on to say that he is exceedingly angry but a letter from Marsilio would mend everything and “not only cure the wound itself, but even remove all trace of a scar.”

By 1474 Lorenzo has been in power as the de-facto head of the Florentine Republic for five years – ascending, as he did, as head of the family on his father’s death in 1469. In the subsequent years, Lorenzo began accumulating greater amounts of power in Medici hands, even attempting to amend the constitution to grant him greater control of the government. Naturally this led to some grumbling and concern on the parts of other leading families in the city and lines were being drawn, as early as 1474, between who was a Medici supporter and who was not. (Lines that would, of course, be a bit blurry in places since everyone was married to each other and nothing is ever wholly cut and dry in these matters.)

We know from Marsilio’s many letters his views of princes and they are not, necessarily, positive. He did have a hope for Lorenzo to fit the mould of the Philosopher Prince that Socrates and Plato so popularized but by 1474 I believe he knew that this was not going to be happening.

Therefore, all of Lorenzo’s letters to Marsilio accusing him of not writing enough – but saying it’s because of Marsilio’s new benefice taking up his time, or what have you – carry an undercurrent of Lorenzo asking him: “Are you my friend? Can I trust you to be on-side should I ever need your unconditional support?”

Never ask Marsilio for an absolute that isn’t related to God or Plato. (And even then, his can theologize his way out of many weird pretzels he got himself into.)

And yes, there is a lot of very strong and warm language in the 1474 letters between each other that is quite, as we would term it, spicy – but even so, Marsilio is very careful to note that Lorenzo is his patron. That Lorenzo should be praised and is the “hope of the country”. The effusiveness doesn’t have the same depth of intimacy – real, equal intimacy – as, for example, the Giovanni letters. They are through and through letters of client/patron, former tutor/pupil playing epistolary games.

Then beneath those games, the other political games.

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Over 1474 and into 1475 we see the tone and language of the letters shift. From the flamboyancy of early 1474 to the more formal language by September, October, November of that year indicates that something shifted. Something happened to cause a slow coolness between them.

The cause of the coolness can only really be speculated on since there was no sudden rupture of any kind between them until 1478 (aside from Lorenzo favouring Luigi Pulci over Marsilio). But by 1476 Marsilio is writing screeds venting about how “philosophy has no home in the courts of princes” to Giovanni and there is no doubt who he means by it (even though he includes the 15th century equivalent of “#not all Princes” at the end about the Medici and how they’re different/special/I wasn’t talking about them).

Some idle thoughts include Lorenzo getting his feet as a leader and not appreciating Marsilio’s tendency towards unsolicited advice. One such letter in late 1474 is from Marsilio after a bout of sickness wherein he writes to Lorenzo saying that his brush with mortality had reminded him that it is important to spend our time here on earth well and not wasting it with pointless activities.

And Lorenzo’s reply is, essentially, “Glad you’re not dead. Thanks for the advice. Not interested. But still glad you’re not dead.” Now, the tone could be read as jesting and Lorenzo did have a charming, if sardonic, sense of humour and it could easily be that. But given that he wasn’t providing the patronage Marsilio was expecting of him, that their letters had overall cooled in tone and vibe, I can’t quite get myself there.

Other thoughts on the drift is that because Lorenzo was never as generous to Marsilio as Cosimo and Piero were, Marsilio was starting to drift and seek new patrons. This includes the Pazzi, Salviati, and Riario family all of whom would later, of course, prove to be key instigators of the Pazzi Conspiracy. Marsilio tutored many of the young Pazzi men who would later take part in the Conspiracy, he received patronage and support in the church from Francesco Salviati and so on.

After 1478 Lorenzo’s largesse all but dissipated with Marsilio – though they remained on speaking terms and somewhat friendly. Whatever intimacy that had extended from the late 1460s through to the early 1470s was gone. Though, to Lorenzo’s credit, he had Ficino made canon of Florence’s cathedral in 1481 in order to help alleviate financial stress Marsilio was experiencing as he had to take care of various nieces and nephews after two of his brothers died. The next time Lorenzo would really seek to play big patron with Marsilio wouldn’t be until the 1490s when he sought, unsuccessfully, to get him a bishopric.

However, by Lorenzo’s death in 1492 (at the strikingly young age of 43) they had apparently somewhat reconciled and Marsilio was present at Careggi towards the end and certainly deeply mourned Lorenzo’s death once he had passed.

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I always read these two has having a fundamentally complicated relationship though they did, always, at the end of the day, care about one another. It gives me vibes of “I like you, I might even love you, but I also am angry with you for many reasons and I haven’t killed you/exiled you/eviscerated you in my writing yet because Cosimo loved you and I love Cosimo.” Like, the mutual love of Cosimo, the memory of Il Vecchio, carried a lot of weight for their very tense and complex friendship.