CHAPTER 8. THE IDEALIZED GENIUS

April 8, 1546.

"...Waking up this morning, I once again thought about how brilliant the human form is in its insignificance: everything about it is perfect, and yet at the same time, it is as fragile and ephemeral as a teenager's first love. Man is weak, for he must eat, sleep, exercise, and procreate—man is strong, for he has the power to think and to feel... Right now, I am standing before a snow-white canvas—in these moments, my being realizes that every person at the beginning of their journey is just such a snow-white canvas, on which, in turn, all sorts of feelings and thoughts are ceaselessly painted throughout our lives... No! This snow-white canvas should not be compared to a person—how foolish that comparison is! Every canvas is initially a tabula rasa, but every person is born with instincts and other primal qualities and characteristics. Every canvas is not limited by anything, its nature does not constrain it: anything and anyone can be created on its surface. From a person, in turn, it is true that much can be made, but only within the category of 'human'..."

"Titian! Hurry to the city well and fetch some water in this vessel!" his wife said quite irritably, which, it must be noted, instantly interrupted the stream of the aforementioned thoughts of that exceptional philosopher. This, in turn, immediately stirred a considerable feeling of sincere displeasure in his being. "And before you go to the well, don't forget to wash your hands, which are completely smudged with paint!"

"And my mind—of thoughts? And my soul—of feelings?" Titian exclaimed to himself in indignation, though in reality he merely gave a kind smile to his earthly wife, who was so extraordinary in her ordinariness.

Hurriedly doing everything necessary to once again drink the so-desired and sweet nectar of knowledge, Titian, with unspeakable joy, like a perpetually moving and trembling moth, returned to his furiously glowing flame of the comprehension of good and evil, which was now before his eyes and had the very ordinary appearance of a truly extraordinary canvas for a genuinely seeing eye: "In the beginning, all great masterpieces, just like all truly great people, are no more than an unremarkable stain... A stroke... another stroke... I watch as an idea first arises before my eyes, then an image... and then, a woman! She is magnificent! Her beauty deprives me of my reason—she contains as many flaws as she does merits! I feel that this work is entirely permeated with the thread of genius—a truly brilliant painting is not one that consists only of perfect territory, but one whose surface also contains fragments of flaws. What is brilliant is that which alternates between charms and flaws—what is brilliant is that which is harmonious!.. Her image—it beckons my gaze, and as my mind and my feelings approach it—it stings! It is quite likely that the most important purpose of a woman in this world is to become, for some man, a Fornarina for Raphael, a Galatea for Pygmalion, or a Laura for Petrarch: to become the one for whom and in whose name he will transfer the stars from the heavens onto a canvas, onto marble, onto the pages of books, or, what is many times more difficult, into everyday life... A stroke... another stroke! I see her! Her image here, on the canvas, is not at all like her in reality: here—she is silent, but in reality—she talks ceaselessly... This work will preserve only the positive about her in history—it will capture only a moment where she is exceptionally beautiful, beautiful in the way a genuine person is capable of being beautiful. Her continuous, permanent flaws will remain with me every day of my life—I am idealizing her here, she will be my idealized hero! Perhaps, one day, I too will become such a person for someone—someone will remember me, Titian, as a spark, as a flame, as ashes!... A memory! This is what I will be for those who come after me—this is what those who are no longer here are for me... I remember those who have long since passed away—so what is the main treasure in our life? Isn't it memory?!.. No! Memory betrays! Like any treasure—memory is perishable! Our memory is a stomach that for a time stores the sweetness or bitterness of experienced memories, after which, succumbing to the processes of decay to a significant degree, it is destroyed, transforming at the same time into the thin fibers of the essence of our soul!... What an image! How happy I am that it is silent—I would spend eternity in its company, just as here in Rome, where today the Council of Trent adopted the Vulgate as the basis of all things. So too did I once accept beauty as the basis of all things... Rome! Great Rome! You are great in your virtues and courage, but you are even greater in your vices and crimes!... A stroke... another stroke... The canvas is becoming more and more smeared with colors—a day... another day... so I, with each day, am becoming more and more smeared by the worldly vanity... Ah! How, how much I want to burn up as quickly as possible in the hypostasis of these human feelings and thoughts, to turn into ashes in that form—to lie on the Tuscan grass and think of nothing, to become a stone, a drop in a river, a blade of grass... a clean canvas, a clean sheet of paper, so that... no, not at all to create new lines, new images, new thoughts and feelings on them... but to enjoy being in an absolutely filled emptiness, while not giving that whiteness and purity to anyone, even if I, in turn, create nothing on my surface... My heart, as well as my mind, are overflowing with images—in those moments, it is difficult for me to grasp the tragedy and sadness of those creators who in these moments do not possess this happiness: the happiness of experiencing inspiration! In the eyes of this person, as in his heart, as in his soul, there is a white canvas—there are no figurative thoughts and no figurative feelings, there is only emptiness. Perhaps he should paint a portrait of his beloved? Perhaps a portrait of a nobleman? Or, perhaps, some kind of battle scene? No, he will think, everyone paints that, and I don't want to be like everyone else, I want to create something new, something exceptional, something great! Not having made a single stroke, he will continue to exist before the white canvas, leaving behind nothing but a white canvas—just like many people in their lives, and especially when they, not trusting their own 'I,' their intuition, do not want to act, and therefore want to be inactive... A stroke... another stroke!.. When an artist doesn't know what to paint, he should create water, for water is the most majestic hero and image of all possible ones—it exists in all forms and in all states, it is in everything, like a person or a blade of grass, and, as paradoxical as it may sound, in nothing, like vapor and clouds: it is not only in destruction, but in creation, it is not only in life, but also in death, it is not only purity, but also dirt... A stroke... another stroke... My thoughts and feelings are extraordinarily sweet at this hour—I feel like a spider, wrapping them in my own web of pleasure: I hope, I sincerely hope that no objective factors will interrupt the labors of my being, thereby freeing my thoughts and feelings from that happy imprisonment... A stroke... another stroke! Here, on the canvas, I see the image of a person—it is many times more difficult to create a person here on the canvas than in real life: hundreds of my creations are my genuine children, because in each of them I am myself—my thoughts and feelings! It is many times easier to create a person than a work of art, because a person can be created by everyone, but the creation of a work of art is a sign of exceptionality..."