That was writ large on each feature for when, by the week’s end, I reached his raised right hand, it had not been made perfect: it was still pierced. This was no catalogue Christ, insufferably ethereal. (And abbeys only took on the top men.) But it was the head, the face, which set a seal on his quality.įor my money, the Italian masters could have learned a thing or two from that head. And, as the first tinges of garment appeared, that prince of blues, ultramarine ground from lapis lazuli, began to show-that really confirmed his class-he must have fiddled it from a monastic job-no village church could have run to such expense. And no cinnabar on the lips that was a measure of my painter’s caliber: excitingly as cinnabar first comes over, he’d known that, given twenty years, lime would blacken it.
Yes, a very fine head indeed, sharp beard, drooped mustache, heavy-lidded eyes outlined black.
“By the end of the second day a very fine head was revealed.
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