#artist is giorgio vasari

[diioonysus]

art aesthetics: dark acadmia

[discoursets]

— red blue dilapidated study space — ⋆˙

[aeaeaexxzd]

From Giorgio Vasari's Libro de' Disegni (Book of Drawings)

[trecciolinoooooo]

let me introduce Feanor Cellini

yesterday amaz0n publihed a new trailer for the second season of rings of power so fellowship of fans posted this

and I was "goddamn its daddy's statue!"

since I associate Feanor to Benvenuto Cellini ( they are both murderers, smiths, completely insane, anger issues and hated by Giorgio Vasari aka Pengolodh) I decided to redraw Cellini's staute with Feanor's aspect

[voyage-of-venus]

Giorgio Vasari, Allegory of Patience (Italian: L'Allegoria della Pazienza), c. 1552 

[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.

[wandering-jana]

House of the Renaissance artist Giorgio Vasari. He decorated his own house. Arezzo, Italy.

March 20, 2024

[themuseumwithoutwalls]

MWW Artwork of the Day (10/23/24) Michelangelo Buonarroti (Italian, 1475-1564) Copy of "Head of a Faun" (c. 1489) Marble sculpture The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

This is a copy of Michelangelo's first known work in marble, sculpted when he was 15 or 16 as a copy of an antique work with some minor alterations. The original has been long lost. According to Giorgio Vasari's biography of the artist, it was the creation of this work that secured the young Michelangelo the patronage of Lorenzo de' Medici.

[dalessandra01]

History repeats itself

By @dalessandra01

Benophie being oldies in love, minor description of abusive household, post-canon, Julian and Violet are minors here

Summary:

“Benedict and Sophie discuss about their daughter's future.

Meanwhile, a twelve-years-old Violet goes to the lake to find some peace and sketch some more, however, she ends up meeting a funny stranger, Julian, in the most odd of ways.

Would this meeting change her view of life completely?”

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

The story of the mysterious lady in silver had become her favourite.

Violet had lost count of how many times she'd asked her mother to tell it.

By now, any moment was a good time to hear it again: at lunch, at dinner, even at tea time.

As soon as the opportunity presented itself, Violet would bring the subject up with a new question to ask, almost fearing she had missed an important detail.

And indeed, she had every reason to think so.

The story became richer in detail each time it was retold.

The reason was obvious—her mother had deemed it appropriate to leave out certain parts until Violet was old enough to fully understand them.

And in return, she had ended up drawing the scene of the masquerade ball countless times.

That was definitely her favourite part. She filled entire sketchbooks, used up dozens of charcoal pencils, and ruined a few dresses in the process. She had become the maids' nightmare for this reason, though none of them ever complained openly.

Young Miss Bridgerton had a way of getting forgiven with just a flutter of her eyelashes, and if that wasn’t enough, she often repaid the maids' patience by creating miniatures for each of them—taking the liberty to embellish them a bit—after all, it wasn’t unlikely she’d end up making a mess again. Then, around the age of eight, she started to branch out with the subjects of her sketches, and there was probably no family member who hadn’t been captured on the pages of her albums at least once.

Sophie still laughed when she remembered her brother-in-law Gregory telling her how Violet had offered to watch over her baby cousin, only to find her sketching the sleeping infant. And then when Colin and Penelope had sent her a copy of Giorgio Vasari's ‘Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects’, her passion for art was finally solidified. Not even her mother, as avid reader as she was, had ever managed to read a book as quickly as Violet did with that volume.

She had found a kindred spirit in Leonardo Da Vinci, and this was evident from the fact that she never stopped talking about him.

Benedict had even reached the point where he wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or disappointed at the thought that he was no longer her favourite artist. «But Papa, he was a versatile artist, a real genius.» she would protest whenever the topic came up. «Perhaps, but at least I paint women with eyebrows.» he would mutter, earning a glare from his daughter. Charcoal sketches were something she certainly didn’t lack. The drawers of her desk were so full of sheets that they could hardly hold anything else. Yet, she still refused to pick up a canvas. Benedict had tried a few times, but she turned him down each time. She wouldn’t use a brush until she had experienced the same feeling that drove him to paint her mother over and over. It seemed like an absurd rule, condemning herself to charcoal until she discovered love, but it allowed her to keep her eyes open. She would keep observing the world around her, so that she’d be ready when the time came.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

During the summer months, Benedict and Sophie would usually steal a few moments in the morning before starting their daily routines.

With four children, the moments they could actually spend alone were reduced to the early hours of the morning or the last moments of the day before going to bed.

And when the boys came home from Eton for the holidays, it seemed like they didn’t get a moment of peace. They adored their children, from the eldest to the youngest, but when they were all together under the same roof, it was inevitable that quarrels would break out, and it seemed as though they took turns interrupting their parents at every opportunity, asking them to play the role of judges.

Benedict was thankful that their bedroom maintained a certain sanctity within the house—especially after that time Charles had caught them in a situation no child should ever witness.

Those four walls were their little retreat, where they could steal a few moments to pretend they were still the newlyweds they had been before the arrival of the children.

«Stop it, will you!»

Sophie was doing her best to stifle her laughter.

«And why should I?» her husband asked, his smile evident as his lips brushed against her skin.

«I'm simply stating a fact, Mrs. Bridgerton,» he continued, resuming the soft kisses he had been trailing down her neck.

Sophie laughed again, warmth spreading to her cheeks.

«You're nothing but a flatterer,» she teased, making him pause to look into her eyes. That look still made her knees weak, she was grateful she was already lying down.

«What exactly was flattering about what I said?»

«Benedict, I'm forty.»

«And?»

«I'm old.»

«Oh... well, I hadn't noticed that.»

«Benedict.»

Her husband sighed and shook his head again, though Sophie didn’t need to hear him say it to know he found her words ridiculous.

«And yet you don't have a single grey hair, unlike me.»

«I'm lucky.»

«You're beautiful.» And though he had said it to her dozens of times, she still blushed.

It wasn’t the word itself that had that effect on her, but the tone with which he said it. He was so confident in his statement that if he had now revealed that donkeys could fly, she would have believed him.

«I think…» she murmured, «that perhaps this adjective is more suitable for our daughter.»

He chuckled as his lips once again brushed her skin. trailing a slow, soft trail of kisses that went from her chin to the hollow of her breasts.

«Our Violet is beautiful,» he said, lifting his gaze to meet hers again, «precisely because she resembles her mother so much.»

Sophie found that remark quite unfair.

Yes, it was obvious that mother and daughter looked alike; it would have been strange if they didn’t. But every time she looked at their younger daughter, no matter what she was doing, Sophie saw only Benedict.

In the way she wrinkled her nose, in her little smiles, and in her expressions when she was bent over her drawing pad sketching whatever was in front of her.

Violet was very much like her father, and perhaps that was the secret behind their special bond. Sometimes, Benedict seemed to understand her in a way that even Sophie couldn’t.

Even his aversion to Da Vinci was a testament to how exclusive their relationship was, and Sophie had reassured him many times that he would always hold an important place in their daughter’s heart. It was amusing to see how unaware he was of how much Violet admired him.

«I know you believe it’s the opposite,» he interrupted her train of thought as if he had been observing it. How he could predict what she was going to say before she even spoke was still a mystery to her.

«But if our daughter is even half the woman you are, I will consider myself a satisfied father,» he said, taking her face in his hands and pressing his lips to hers.

In that kiss, Sophie was transported back to that day nearly twenty years ago by the lake.

To that moment when, in the height of desire, their lips had met again after two years of separation. It was a bittersweet memory, she couldn’t deny it.

At that time, she thought that everything she was experiencing in that contact was destined to cause her more pain. A servant, no, an illegitimate daughter, could never marry a Bridgerton. Even though being in his arms made her heart race just like it did now, she was afraid. Afraid that sooner or later the enchantment would fade and that Benedict, having got what he wanted, would repudiate her, finding a wife more suitable to his class.

How happy she was to have been wrong.

That man, that crazy man, had been willing to do anything to have her.

To be hers and hers alone.

And Sophie had soon discovered the freedom that came from being able to kiss her husband whenever and however she wanted, without having to be ashamed.

Many said that passion waned after thirty, yet she didn’t know if that was just a lie or if she and Benedict were the exception to the rule.

She shivered as he slid a hand along her thigh.

«Benedict…»

«Relax,» he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

«But they’ll all be awake by now.»

«As if they’re not used to it.»

«Benedict!»

He burst out laughing, kissing her ankle.

«If you didn’t agree, you’d say something other than ‘Benedict!’»

Sophie laughed as well. He was so good at imitating her.

Then, suddenly, their little bubble burst, and something else demanded their attention.

It had been almost like a bolt from the blue, a shriek so piercing that if it had been a couple of octaves higher, it would have shattered every window in the house, echoing from the end of the corridor.

«Should I grab the rifle?»

«Don’t be foolish!» Sophie gave him a gentle nudge on the shoulder as someone knocked on the door.

«Mr. Bridgerton! Mrs. Bridgerton! Miss Violet is missing!» shouted the frantic voice of their daughter’s personal maid.

Evidently, poor Ruth must have gone to wake Violet as she did every morning and must have been quite alarmed to find her missing from her room. They had thought she’d gotten used to it by now.

This was the third time that week alone that their daughter had ‘disappeared’ in the morning, and they hadn’t minded it all. They knew Violet well, and in a house full of older brothers, she occasionally needed a little space for herself, and they felt secure knowing she was just a few steps away.

«When will she learn that there’s no need for hysteria?» Benedict asked with an exasperated tone.

«She’s doing her job, Benedict; I can’t bring myself to scold her,» Sophie said, even though she had reassured the woman multiple times that they knew perfectly well where their daughter was and that she wouldn’t be held responsible.

«Neither can I, but I hate being interrupted when I’m about to make love to my wife.»

«Benedict!»

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Julian felt his heart pounding in his chest as he gripped the reins of his horse tightly. Every muscle in his body was tense, as if he expected something to jump out from around the corner, and even his mare seemed to sense the tension.

The beast neighed and snorted, tossing her head in an impatient gesture, almost as if asking him to loosen his grip. He let out a long breath and, with a gentler movement than before, gave the reins a slight tug.

It didn’t take long for the mare to understand the command and come to a stop. Her hooves thudded once against the ground, the dull sound almost a form of protest from the animal.

Julian sighed softly, running a hand down her neck in apology. Then he dismounted.

«Forgive me, Periwinkle,» he murmured in a low voice, pulling a lump of sugar from his jacket pocket.

The mare looked at him with big, dark eyes, and with a quick movement of her lips, took the treat, chewing it noisily.

Another sigh escaped his lips. Whatever the right direction was, he would have to proceed on foot, at least for a while. He clicked his tongue, and Periwinkle followed him obediently, the sound of her hooves now muffled by the moss and leaves beneath them.

At this point, all he seemed to be doing was running away.

Every boy in his class at Eton was more than happy to go home for the holidays; Julian, on the other hand, was counting the days until he could leave.

He still felt shaken, in fact, downright terrified, as his father’s voice echoed in his head.

Phillip Cavender had returned from London just a few hours earlier.

His heavy footsteps and harsh, disjointed laughter had sent chills down his spine.

He had been drinking, and when that happened, it was never a good sign.

Julian had remained frozen, not daring to utter a single breath.

He had almost considered hiding in the wardrobe, as he had done as a child, but he knew that the footsteps of a sixteen-year-old boy of his height were hardly considered imperceptible.

No matter how hard he tried to make no sound, he never was completely.

It was absurd how his father scared him to the point where the ten centimeters that now separated them did nothing to increase his courage in confronting him.

Phillip Cavander was no more intimidating than other men. Yet facing him was almost like confronting the giant Goliath for Julian.

The sound of shattering glass made him jump, and when he heard his father scream his name, almost as if it were his fault, he had grabbed his boots and jacket and climbed out the window.

His father would still be angry later, but maybe the remnants of his drunkenness would make him more lenient.

Periwinkle neighed again, bringing him back to reality. He hadn’t considered how exhausted she must have been. Julian turned to her with a shy smile.

«Are you tired?» he asked, and the mare snorted, tossing her head.

«I understand,» he looked around before pulling on the reins again, inviting her to follow him.

The mare complied, though at a slower pace.

The breeze brushed against his ears, bringing a bit of serenity to his troubled heart.

He tried to focus on anything that could distract him from his precarious family situation.

He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

In a family like his, listening was crucial if you wanted to survive.

Since his mother had passed away, silence had become a constant companion. Especially when it could be a harbinger of many misfortunes.

He shook his head; he shouldn’t focus on that now.

He inhaled again, hearing the chirping of birds.

Another breath, and he heard the rhythm of Periwinkle’s hooves.

Another breath, and he perceived the sound of running water.

He opened his eyes and finally noticed a small clearing where he could let Periwinkle rest. He wasn’t an expert, but the grass seemed lush enough for his mare, and this was confirmed when she lowered her head to the ground.

Julian patted her head again before tying the reins to a lower branch.

«Stay here, okay?» he asked, and though his mare couldn’t speak, her snort was more eloquent than a thousand words.

The morning was particularly warm; dipping his feet in the water wouldn’t be too bad, especially since he hadn’t had time to cool off that morning.

But as soon as he took a few steps, a sound much sweeter and more melodious than the rest caught his attention. A voice, or more specifically a song, sweet as honey.

Before he could think about what to do, his feet moved on their own.

A curiosity he was sure didn’t even belong to him took over:

«Lavenders blue, dilly, dilly Lavender's green»

The closer he got, the clearer the words became.

And the more he advanced, the more he felt transported back in time, to a moment in his life when he could still afford the luxury of sleeping with his head resting on his mother’s lap.

When his childhood still held the hope of being carefree.

In an instant, he found himself beside her as she guided his small hands along the ivory keys of the piano. His father became a distant memory, and it was just the two of them in the world, with the music, accompanying their tranquility, even if it might last only for an afternoon.

Unfortunately, those melodies had been buried with her in the Cavander household. Julian hadn’t touched an instrument in years, but that voice—it deserved to be accompanied by a melody worthy of it, and he would willingly offer his faded talent.

«When I am king, dilly, dilly, You shall be queen, Who told you so, dilly, dilly, Who told you so?»

He had recognized the source of the voice coming from behind a large tree and was tempted to meet the mysterious singer to thank her.

«'Twas mine own heart, dilly, dilly, That told me so.»

But what would she think? What if she mistook him for a creep? How reliable could a sixteen-year-old in nightclothes early in the morning in the middle of the countryside appear?

He would surely come off as having just fled from some unknown place rather than being at home. No, it wasn’t worth the risk; he was about to turn on his heels and head back.

But fate can be quite unkind.

It took just one step—one damned step, and his foot landed on a twig. At that point, the melody stopped, and the singer stepped into view.

Julian swallowed hard as a pair of brown eyes met his silver ones.

She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, and judging by her expression, she hadn’t expected to find anyone else around. Especially considering the way she had flinched.

«Who are you?» she asked warily, holding the sketch pad she had in front of her like a shield.

«I…»

And for some strange reason, the words wouldn’t come out. How could he be so awkward in front of a girl much younger than him?

He took a few steps back, regretting acting so suspiciously. She had surely mistaken him for a pervert.

«If you don’t tell me who you are right now, I swear I’ll start screaming,» she warned him, «I have three older brothers; you’d better not try to harm me.»

Julian swallowed again; the collar of his nightshirt suddenly felt too tight.

«Julian…» he introduced himself with a small bow, «Please forgive me, miss, I’m here by pure chance and didn’t mean to interrupt what you were doing.»

The girl tilted her head and examined him from head to toe.

«Why are you dressed like that?» she asked with a hint of curiosity. His attire was certainly not suitable for crossing the countryside.

«I didn’t have a chance to change before coming out this morning,» he admitted, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

«Were you perhaps in a hurry for a swim?» the mysterious girl asked, glancing at the lake. He stiffened again, desperately trying to change the subject.

«Shouldn’t you introduce yourself by now?» he asked, crossing his arms.

«I’m still not sure if I can trust you,» she said. At this point, it was clear she had stopped being afraid of him. The question seemed intended solely for her amusement.

«If I were ill-intentioned, I would have already harmed you, wouldn’t I?»

«You might be a very cunning one.»

«I assure you that I am not.»

«So you’re saying you’re stupid?»

«Yes—no!»

At that point, his interlocutor burst out laughing heartily, unfortunately at his expense.

Julian sighed, feeling his cheeks burn.

Now confident of his intentions, the girl tucked the album under her arm and made him a curtsy. «Violet Bridgerton, sir.»

Bridgerton?

Julian had never been interested in gossip, but it was impossible not to hear that name at least once in a lifetime. Whether at Eton or in London, that surname was on everyone’s lips.

He often wondered what it must be like to be so prominent on the London scene as a Bridgerton; he certainly did not envy them. Far from it.

The only thing Julian Cavender wished for more than anything was to disappear.

And he could only imagine the pressure on the shoulders of the members of that family.

But Violet had a carefree, even serene air about her; he could tell from the way she had sung earlier and from how her tone was cheeky and light, despite her initial caution.

And he couldn’t really blame her; he would have done the same in her position.

But there was something about her that made her different from anyone he had ever met; there was a sense of freedom in her attitude that made her stand out.

«So, you’re the daughter of the Viscount…?» he ventured.

«No, that’s my uncle,» she said, crossing her arms with a somewhat indignant air.

«Look, we are many,» she muttered, and at that childish gesture, Julian let out a faint laugh.

«I had heard about it.»

«And yet you immediately thought I was the Viscount’s daughter,» she pressed.

«You said yourself that there are many of you,» he replied with a shrug.

On another occasion, he wouldn’t have dared to provoke, but he found it rather amusing how she wrinkled her nose.

«As far as I know about the Bridgertons, you could be the daughter of anyone.»

«It seems you’re not a very good observer,» she said, shaking her head.

Julian’s eyes widened.

«Excuse me?»

«You’re not a good observer; if you were, you would have understood immediately who my father is.»

It was so strange to hear someone speak so proudly of their father. He could say everything about his own father except that he was a loving parent, even though he was good at playing the part in front of others.

Instead, the warmth with which she spoke of and admired her father was palpable in the way she used the same term. It was clear that this girl had grown up in a much more loving environment than he could have ever dreamed.

«Forgive my ignorance, then,» he said with a slight bow.

«So, you are the daughter of…?» he asked with renewed curiosity.

«Benedict Bridgerton.»

‘That’s why the album,' he thought.

He had heard that the second son of the dowager Lady Bridgerton had a couple of landscapes exhibited at the National Gallery in his name. It was no surprise that his daughter had a similar inclination.

And in Julian’s modest opinion, only an artistic soul would have had the courage to sing by a lake as she had. Many girls of her age showed such a talent just to be admired.

«You’re right; I should have realised it,» he admitted with a half-smile.

«See?» Violet said with a lopsided smile. «And you’re Julian…?»

At this point in the conversation, he considered whether to reveal his surname or not, especially since he had always considered it more a burden than a mark of belonging.

It was perhaps the first time he felt so at ease talking to a complete stranger. Violet’s voice and her playful tone made him feel calm, as if he could trust her completely.

It was more than evident that the affection she had received in her family was reflected in her mannerisms. He had no intention of ruining it by mentioning his father’s name.

Perhaps it was a silly fear; given her age, it was unlikely she knew who his father was, but it was a risk he preferred not to take.

For once, Julian wanted to indulge in the luxury of pretending that Phillip Cavender didn’t exist.

«Hawkins. Julian Hawkins,» he said, offering his hand.

«Very pleased, Mr Hawkins,» she said with a smile as she returned the gesture.

«Julian is fine, and please call me by my first name.» he reassured her

Had only he felt a strange sensation when their hands touched?

«Same goes for you,» she replied with a radiant smile.

He found himself staring at her for a couple of seconds. That girl could have competed with the sun.

«So... I see you're an artist too?» he said, clearing his throat.

«I try. Although I've never painted on canvas,» she admitted.

«Why not?» he asked again.

It wasn’t like him to be so nosy, but Violet seemed to urge him to know more almost as much as he needed to breathe.

«I don't feel ready yet,» she said with a shrug, sitting on a rock.

Julian raised a questioning eyebrow; he didn’t know much about the art world, but he had never heard an artist say they weren’t ready.

«If you’ve never tried, how can you say you’re not ready?» he asked, sitting down opposite her.

He saw her fall silent suddenly, her gaze lost on the grass, giving her a few moments to reflect. Meanwhile, he made sure not to utter a sound; it wasn’t hard, it was practically what he did for a living.

«I think... that art is something that has to be lived,» Violet replied thoughtfully,

«I can’t paint something if I’ve never experienced the feelings I want to convey.»

«Yet you draw with charcoal, as I can see,» he said, noticing the black smudges on her fingers.

«Those are just sketches.»

«But you do it.»

«But it’s not the same thing.»

«I don’t think so.»

«Yes, it is.»

«And, actually, you’re wrong. Art, as I see it at least, is always a way to explore something unknown.»

He felt quite satisfied seeing her open her mouth without having anything to counter, and seeing her at a loss for words, he decided to continue.

«Let me give you an example,» he began, looking at the lake's water, «I don’t know what it’s like to be a fish, yet I can imagine it by listening to the sound of the waves.»

Violet laughed, bringing a hand to her lips, a smile on her face.

«Do you want to be a fish, by any chance?»

«I wouldn’t mind,» he admitted with a faint smile.

��Their life is much less complicated than ours.»

«But they face many dangers.»

«I’m used to that.»

And silence fell again.

Julian bit his tongue, realising he had said too much.

«What do you mean?» she asked, her brown eyes scrutinising him from head to toe, searching for confirmation of his words.

He cleared his throat again and turned his head.

«Never mind.»

Before Violet could say anything else, they both turned their heads towards another voice calling out for her. Julian was the first to jump to his feet.

«I think it’s time for me to go.»

«Look, my father won’t eat you, you know?»

«I don’t think so, but do you really think he’d be happy to see his daughter alone with a stranger?»

Violet fell silent.

«Well... maybe it’s better if you go.» with a nod of his head, Julian moved to leave.

«It was a pleasure, Ms. Bridgerton. I hope to see you again,» he said politely.

But before he could take another step towards where he had left his horse, she stopped him again, surprising him, if possible, even more.

«Maybe tomorrow?»

«Tomorrow?» he repeated.

«Yes, maybe tomorrow afternoon,» she continued, «I enjoyed talking to you.»

He almost thought he noticed a slight blush on her cheeks, and her voice had suddenly become softer. But he brushed it aside to reflect for a moment.

After all, it had been a pleasant conversation for him too, and she had the ability to bring out a side of him that he thought was buried for years. And perhaps it was better to give her an answer soon, as the sound of her father’s voice was growing nearer.

«After lunch?» he asked. Violet nodded.

«Alright, I’ll do my best to be there.»

«You’d better, it’s bad manners not to show up after receiving an invitation. And maybe this time dress appropriately.» Julian laughed, an audible laugh without shame.

That girl was truly something special.

«I wouldn’t dream of it, Ms. Violet.»

«Violet. Just Violet,» she corrected him, and that only made him smile more.

«See you tomorrow then.» he said before disappearing among the trees.

As he made his way home, he didn’t care how his father would react to his escape.

For the first time in his life, he could hope for a bit of serenity.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Benedict continued to call for his daughter until he reached the lake himself. Not receiving any response. He knew that Violet had a tendency to shut out the world when she was absorbed in her sketches, but it wasn’t like her to give no sign of life after the fourth or fifth call.

The lack of response made him quicken his pace.

He was still her father, for heaven’s sake, and he had every right to be concerned.

When he finally reached her, he was relieved to see that she was safe and sound. However, noticing how she was staring blankly to her right, he couldn't help but look at her in confusion.

«What are you looking at?» he asked, curious.

Violet shook her head and looked him in the eyes with a polite smile.

«Nothing, Dad. I saw a hare running in that direction and wanted to see where it was going.» Honestly, he didn’t believe her at all, especially since he found it hard to believe a hare would be around there. But there was no point in arguing about it.

His mother would arrive any moment now, and the time he could spend investigating was better used taking her home so she could change her clothes.

«Maybe you'll find it again tomorrow. But for now, let’s go. We don’t want to keep Grandma Violet waiting, do we?» he said, offering his arm.

His daughter chuckled before accepting the offer.

It felt almost strange that she was finally tall enough to walk arm in arm with him, as a young lady should. It was moments like these that made him realize how much his little girl was growing up.

They continued along the path in silence for a couple of seconds before she turned her head towards him.

«Dad?»

«Yes?»

«Have you ever imagined being a fish?"

«A what?»

He looked at her with evident confusion, adjusting their pace.

«And where did that come from?»

«The hare told me.» she replied, laughing.

«Maybe you shouldn’t talk to hares,» he joked, ruffling her hair.

«Why not? They’re very intelligent beings,» she said with a smirk that matched his own.

Benedict rolled his eyes with a sigh.

«Will there ever be a day when you’ll listen to me?» he asked.

«I doubt it,» Violet said, «I’m your daughter, aren’t I?»

[salantami]

Arezzo Centro Storico In the beautiful Piazza Grande in Arezzo, the multicolored covers have covered all the bricks! A wonderful event to raise funds for the fight against tumors made by artists from Arezzo Arezzo is a city in eastern Tuscany, Italy. Known as the city of gold and of the high fashion, Arezzo was home to artists and poets such as Giorgio Vasari, Guido of Arezzo and Guittone d'Arezzo and in its province to Renaissance artist Michelangelo.

Photo by: romina.cicina (IG)

[acrosscenturiesandgenerations]

▪︎ Judith and Holofernes.

Artist: Giorgio Vasari (Italian, 1511–1574)

Date: ca. 1554

Medium: Oil on panel

[aeaeaexxzd]

From Giorgio Vasari's Libro de' Disegni (Book of Drawings)

[trecciolinoooooo]

hello people another post no one will care about 👍

[artsandculture]

Mona Lisa (1503-1517) 🎨 Leonardo da Vinci 🏛️ The Louvre 📍 Paris, France

One of the most iconic and recognizable paintings in the world is the Mona Lisa (ca. 1503-1519) painted by Leonardo da Vinci. The unique appeal of the portrait lies in its enigmatic nature, Mona Lisa’s smile radiates mystery, sensuality and contentment. This was achieved through sfumato, Leonardo’s painting technique that softened the transition between colors. This depth and complexity of expression is the reason the Mona Lisa is regarded as the pinnacle of portraiture. The interest in the portrait was further amplified by its mysterious history: the identity of the sitter, who commissioned the painting, how long Leonardo worked on the portrait and how it entered the French royal collection are all topics of scholarly debate.

It is thought that the sitter was Lisa del Giocondo, the wife of a wealthy Florentine merchant Francesco del Giocondo. For this reason, the painting is sometimes called La Gioconda. The earliest identification of the painting was provided by the Renaissance art historian Giorgio Vasari. In Vasari’s 1550 biography of Leonardo, he wrote about the magnificent portrait of Lisa del Giocondo, which Leonardo worked on between 1503 and 1506. Many were skeptical of Vasari’s account; however, a 2005 discovery at the University of Heidelberg provided compelling new evidence that confirms Vasari’s assertion. In a volume written by the ancient philosopher Cicero from 1477, there was a handwritten marginal by Leonardo’s contemporary, the secretary and assistant to Niccolò Machiavelli, Agostino Vespucci. In the note dated October 1503, Vespucci praises Leonardo’s skill by comparing him to the Greek and painter Apelles, and states that Leonardo is working on a portrait of Lisa del Giacondo.

The Mona Lisa was the earliest example in Italian portraiture that portrayed the sitter in a half-length format. Leonardo presented a new artistic formula: the figure is shown at half-length sitting in armchair in front of a loggia - a gallery or room with one or more open sides. The incorporation of the loggia allowed Leonardo to present an imaginary landscape as the backdrop of the portrait. This significant innovation influenced Leonardo contemporaries: Raphael adopted the composition and pose in his portrait Young Woman with Unicorn (ca. 1506). Still it is important to note that Leonardo was indebted to Flemish portraiture of the second half of the 15th century, particularly the portraits of Hans Memling such as Portrait of Barbara van Vlaendenbergh (ca. 1470-1472) and Man with a Roman coin (ca. 1480).

Leonardo spent his final years in France, where his patron the King of France, Francis I, purchased Mona Lisa for the royal French collection. From 1797, the portrait is on permanent display at the Louvre and is the crown jewel of the museum collection. On the morning of August 22 1911, Louvre employees were shocked to discover that the painting was stolen the previous night. Two years later, Louvre employee Vincenzo Peruggia was identified as the thief. Peruggia claimed his motives were patriotic: he believed Leonardo’s masterpiece belonged in Italy and was caught trying to sell the painting in Florence. After its discovery, the Mona Lisa was exhibited throughout Italy before its celebratory return to the Louvre in 1914.

[art-portraits]

Raphael and the Fornarnia

Date: Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres (French, 1780–1867)

Genre: History

Date: 1814

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: Harvard Art Museums, Boston, Massachusetts, United States

Depicted People:

Raphael 

Margarita Luti

Description

This composition, the first of six versions, articulates Ingres’s conception of the art of painting. For him, the oeuvre of the Renaissance artist Raphael was the pinnacle of artistic achievement. Here Ingres draws on Raphael’s relationship with the woman known as “La Fornarina” (the Little Baker), which, according to the biographer Giorgio Vasari, led to the young artist’s death from an excess of lovemaking. Raphael has just sketched the famous portrait of her, and his beloved subject sits on his knee. But Raphael has eyes only for his own creation, which, like Ingres’s representation of its model, meets the viewer’s gaze. This triangle of glances is complicated by the presence of the Virgin in Raphael’s Madonna of the Chair, seen against the back wall, where she resembles the artist’s lover.

[linipikk]

I was doing my silly lurking bit in twitter and this gem appeared:

and you know what? I am gonna say it:

His name was Giorgio Vasari , the renaissance painter, and I, personally, fucking hate that guy.

He was the one silly man to bring to modernity (well to the more modern times in the 1500s) the idea that artists had this "natural creative divine talent". It is his goddamn fault that artist is given the Born Genius treatment. Not sure he invented the myth, but he did the whole bit of "this poor little shepherd kid is drawing fruit so realistic with a stick in the mud flies are drawn to his scribbles, God gave him the innate artistic skills to fool nature with his Gift so he must follow his true calling as an Artist" and brought it back to the public imaginary.

You see, back in the more medieval days being a renowned artist was not common or looked after, but then many things happened, the printing press and money flowing to different classes in society, the pictorial interest shifted to imitating nature, blablabla, and, within the renaissance, Giorgio wrote this cursed thing: Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects. A selected group of biographies of artists that created this narrative that artists are born and that talent was necessary to be an Excelent artist.

Long story short, this collection of biograpgies was for a long time, the primary source of the biography of many Renaissance artists and the base for writing about artists since "the guy who wrote it was an artist himself so he must be right ", making it the be all end all in terms of who is who in the history of art... And well, it is just full of Florentine and Roman artists that Giorgio liked very much himself. Leonardo, Michelangelo, Giotto, etc, some contemporaries of him, but it also included the ones that lived before him, and he knew nothing about it. Girogio did his research and wrote his book filled with his personal heroes.

My guy Vasari basically invented Art History as a Subject with capital S, but, as all guys set in a historical period, his views were painfully biased. Filling his book with anecdotes that were closer to gossip and in line with the idea of the renaissance at full speed, remarking the existance of this set progressive timeline where art evolves to imitate nature, elevating artists to an exceptional born-talented person who was put on this earth because, idk, the Holy Spirit illuminated them to partake in the adoration of God's perfect creation from the moment they exited the womb by drawing perfectly?? Not sure, I read it long ago. still, you get the point.

But, as we gotta do from our postmodernist perspective, we gotta ask about the context, the point of view: who was writing those biographies and why. And Vasari , helpfully, in his book of Most Excellent Artists... included himself. He positioned himself among his heroes, placing himself in the middle of his own narrative. He said, "Look at them and look at me." He had the political agenda to set his homestate (Florence and Rome ) and himself as the cradle and centre of the Good Arts and "not like those barbarian others. " Even if this belief was widely spread at the time, having it on print solidified it as some kind of undeniable truth. He was the first to write about it, widely publish it and subsequently he fucked up how people wrote about artists for the next centuries.

And if you ask yourself, "Who invented the idea that artists are jealous of each other and compete to get the attention of the rich and powerful and are nasty and cocky about it?" ..it was also him.

Fuck Vasari.