Voices from the Past - BestLightNovel.com
You’re reading novel Voices from the Past Part 64 online at BestLightNovel.com. Please use the follow button to get notification about the latest chapter next time when you visit BestLightNovel.com. Use F11 button to read novel in full-screen(PC only). Drop by anytime you want to read free – fast – latest novel. It’s great if you could leave a comment, share your opinion about the new chapters, new novel with others on the internet. We’ll do our best to bring you the finest, latest novel everyday. Enjoy
Madonna's hand 243
Prisoner 248
Sforza horse 251
Birds in flight 261
Plants and designs 264
Mona Lisa 278
Christ's hand 283
Bicycle 296
Head of man 308
Glider 317
This journal was kept by Leonardo da Vinci during the years 1516 to 1519 while he lived in France as the guest of King Francis I; there, he lived in the small residence of Cloux, near the King's summer palace at Amboise on the Loire River. Leonardo writes of his boyhood, his mother, his friends, his easel and mural paintings, his dissections, his colossal bronze horse.
He tells of his attempts at flying, his inventions...
This is a codex of his mind as he divulges his art and the scope of his interests.
To the end of his life he was painting, map-making, carrying out architectural commissions, arranging his treatises on perspective, anatomy, horses, flight, and the arts. His patron, King Francis, called him "Mon Pere." Da Vinci's last years, at Cloux, near Paris, were friendly years.
1516
Cloux
December 10, 1516
MEMORY ...
MEMORY...
I
remember that hot, dusty afternoon in Florence. I ordered everybody out of my studio. I got up from my workbench and demanded that they leave: the tattlers, the oafs, the bores, the faithful. I packed them off. Yelled at them. Stormed. I had work to do, work that would keep me until dawn. I had to have serenity, no ribaldry, no disgruntled silence, no questions, no interruptions of any sort.
I slammed the doors, bolted them.
A mouse scuttled across the room.
Until I resolved the perfect angles, sheet after sheet went into the making of that pelvic drawing.
Queer how memory is: I can see that messy workshop, easels, clay figures on stands, rags, canvases, frames, chisels, pigments, brushes... I can see the mouse watching me from beneath a basket. Again I sense that long afternoon, that long night... I had dried bread, cheese, and port. I remember the church bells. At dawn I slid my work into a special portfolio, then concealed it.
I was often hiding things in those days, hiding sketches, hiding determination, hiding frustrations, goals.