A Bolt from the Blue

The traditional golden nimbus about his bowed head identified the figure as that of the Christ. But this version of our Lord was far different from any I’d ever seen. While not as young as the boy who had astounded his elders in the temple, neither was he the Christ of middling years already embarked upon his glorious mission of salvation. Instead, the dark-haired youth appeared little older than I, his handsome face with a hint of a beard retaining traces of the soft roundness of boyhood.

He wore but a snowy loincloth, revealing the tanned limbs and broad chest of a young man who engaged in physical work… as a carpenter, perhaps.

But most compelling was his pose. Legs crossed as if seated upon the ground, he instead appeared to float several feet above it, eyes shut and head bent in prayerful attitude.

Not surprisingly, a crowd had gathered around him to observe this miracle. Men and women, boy and girls, dark-skinned and light, they appeared to have come from many lands. Some knelt, and others stood… while a few had prostrated themselves, hands over their heads lest their unworthy eyes glimpse such glory. All were united, however, in the looks of joyful awe upon their faces as they bore witness to this marvelous sight.

“It is beautiful,” I breathed, swept by awe of my own as I took in every detail.

Appearing gratified by my compliments, the Master smiled. “It is a minor piece,” he said with a casual wave of his hand, “though I am pleased with it, nonetheless. But I did not bring you here to admire what I have done. Rather, I intend to put my apprentice Dino to work.”

When I gave him a puzzled look, he pointed to a section of blank plaster not far from the painted image of the young Christ. Perhaps half the size of a giornata-the traditional amount of wall space that could be painted in a single day before the fresh plaster dried-the empty space was strangely out of place amid this finished work. Even the plaster appeared recently applied… as I suspected that it had been, from the telltale flecks of white I noticed on the Master’s left sleeve.

“You will recall that, before all this sad business happened, I told you it was time for you to put aside the plaster blade and pick up a brush. And so, I have saved this spot for you,” he said, pointing to the unblemished square.

I was aware that my mouth had dropped open in a most unseemly manner. “You-you wish me to finish a portion of your fresco?” I finally managed, hardly daring to believe this could be so. When he nodded, I could only shake my head in return.

“But what shall I paint?”

“Whatever you wish. The spot is yours to do with as you will. Everything you need is already here.”

He gestured to a small table, upon which had been laid out jars of fi nely ground pigment, along with a jug of water and a bowl of fresh egg yolks. Combined, those simple ingredients would make the soft shades of tempera that would seep into the plaster and bring it to life. A row of shells, shallow with pearllike inner bellies, waited to be used as dishes for each color. Beside them, a short vase held brushes of all sizes.

“Do not tarry,” he went on, idly picking up a jar of pigment and then putting it aside. You have but a few hours before the plaster dries.” Before I could make a reply to that, he turned and strode out the chapel door, leaving me alone with the fresco.

I stood transfixed for several long moments, staring at the blank plaster and wondering again how I could possibly fill it. But as I gnawed at my lip in frustration, fearful lest I disappoint the Master in this final task, a familiar voice seemed to speak in my head.

It’s easy, Dino, I heard Constantin’s soothing words, sounding as real as if he were standing beside me. Just paint what you know… Paint from your heart.

And suddenly I knew what I was meant to depict upon that pristine square of plaster. Smiling, I pulled my tunic over my gown and reached for the bowl of egg yolks. Piercing each yellow globe, I poured their contents into the various shells. Carefully, I added water and pigment, until each new mixture of tempera was the shade and consistency that I sought. Then, taking up a soft brush, I began to paint.

It was well into the afternoon when I put down the brush a final time. Stripping off my tunic, I stepped back to survey my work. Though my hands and arms ached with the hours of effort, and my injured leg throbbed from standing upon the cold stone floor, I felt a swell of excited satisfaction. Surely the Master would be pleased, I told myself… but if not, somehow it mattered little. I had accomplished what I had set out to do, and I could point with no little pride to this small bit of fresco as being my finest work.