Origins of the Renaissance
It all began with a banality,
Before there were artists or
studios,
In little workshops with
craftsmen
And apprentices, a way of
life,
A means to feed a family,
And it taught their sons
proper skills,
From generation to
generation.
No one talked of beauty or
self-expression,
But they had their pride and
loyalty
To one another, even those
slow souls
Who only swept the floor, for
brooms
And brushes were part of the
mystery,
And sometimes wives and
daughters
Did their daubs, kept designs
in order,
Curtsied to the prince or
bishop,
Whispered persuasively about
the fee.
The master visited this
church and that,
Crawled around the ceiling,
tested
The consistency of colours,
Watched the masons in the
mountains,
And passed on his insights late
at night
And checked to see that everyone
was silent
In the marketplace or in the
streets.
From time to time, a stranger
came,
Bedraggled and ambitious, who
claimed
He had defied his father and
his uncles,
Wished to become like those
young workers
And showed the men and boys
his toys,
The little dolls he carved,
the figures
Drawn on timber he had
smoothed himself.
No one ever thought of
innovation
Or of new ways to paint a
virgin
But the master liked to learn
new techniques
And found the textures of the
paint pleasant;
So long as the monks were
satisfied, why not?
But the stranger had to learn
his place,
Work slowly through the years
of practice,
Be part of the group, except,
of course,
The eyes would always be left
for him to finish
And the shadows of the
devil’s claws.
