Academy Bridge.

Academy Bridge.




Many people have asked me about the girl on the Academy Bridge. Many others have speculated; woven stories and tales about her. Some say she was my lover, even my wife. Some say she was the wife or a lover of a rich patron of mine. There was even a story that she was the mistress of royalty whose identity was covered up. They wonder what became of her. Some have believed her dead or to have disappeared into exile and reclusion. Some say that perhaps she never existed at all accept in my fantasy and perhaps that comes as close to the truth as anything. The reality is that I know not who she was, where she came from or where she ever went to. She is as much a mystery to me as to all those who have ever stared at her picture and wondered.

I was a young man then; a poor and struggling artist, late of the academy and trying to find the vision within me to express my art to the world. I come from Florence originally but I had been living in Venice for nearly three years; eking out an existence peddling my few skills as an artist to tourists. I sketched or painted visitors to the city as they sat before me on the side of the canal and occasionally sold oil paintings or watercolours, of the Grand Canal or other Venetian scenes, so poor that I cringe to think of them now. I lived in a tiny bedsitter in a converted attic on a diet mostly of pasta and had to move all my easels and canvasses aside just to climb into my tiny bed. There was never enough money. I drank cheap wine in backstreet cafes and hawked my sketches and watercolours to passing tourists to pay the rent. But I was young; young and free and unaware that my life was about to change one summer day on the Academy bridge.

The Ponte dell’ Accademia, the Academy Bridge, is one of the four footbridges over the Grand Canal in Venice. Back then there were only three however. The monstrosity of the Ponte della Costituzione had not yet disgraced the elegance of the Grand Canal. Unlike the other bridges the Academy Bridge is made of wood. There was talk of replacing it with a stone bridge when the old structure was demolished in 1985 but eventually an identical copy was constructed to Eugenio Miozzi’s original design from 1933. There is talk of replacing it again. I hope not, for the bridge is special to me.

The bridge is named for the nearby Accademia galleries of course and the quarter of the city is a gathering place for artists from many places. It is the place where tourists come to have themselves or their loved ones drawn or painted or to buy paintings of Venice as souvenirs of their trip from the artists plying their trade along the banks of the canal adjacent to the bridge or on the very approaches of the bridge itself. It was where I worked when the rent was due.

The competition was fierce among us artists for the tourist trade but I had a prime location right on the steps of the bridge itself. Here each day I would set out my stall and easels. I would normally work on several canvasses simultaneously and always have a few finished paintings to hand should some tourist feel like parting with their money for one of them. I kept my drawing materials close at hand and watercolours too for many would commission me for quick portraits. I painted fat women and slender women, old men and young and restless bored c***dren sullenly posing rebelliously at the command of their parents. I had some skill in portraiture. It was easy work and lucrative in the summer months.

I had a pair of old folding chairs; one for myself and another for my subject that I carried there along with my easels and paints each morning. I would work all day sustaining myself on crusty bread, cheese, salami, olives and bottles of red wine. I would pack my equipment onto a small two wheeled cart in the evening and, had the day paid well, retire to a cafe in a back square to sit and swap stories with my fellow artists over more bottles of Veneto wine. It was, I suppose, a carefree life. But then she came and took my freedom and youth away.

I remember the day as if it were only separated from this instance by a few hours of restless sleep. It was a hot afternoon in early summer when the Venetian light seemed to have that curious sparkling quality and vividness of colour that you see in Canaletto’s masterpieces. It was a slow day for all that and by the afternoon the tourists seemed more interested in the cafes along the canal. The city seemed to be in a state of languor. The throb of the diesel engines on the boats and vaparettos on the canal seemed somehow lazy and muted and even the cries and singing of the gondoliers seemed remote. There was a murmur from the crowds in the cafes and restaurant terraces by the canal and from the hordes of tourists drifting aimlessly about in the streets on each side of the canal.

There were still people crossing the bridge naturally. Many would pause to open out street maps of the city on the bridge. Venice is a labyrinth and tourists are always lost in its bewildering maze of tiny streets and myriads of canals. The Academy Bridge is a reference point; some place to orientate yourself and try to make sense of the muddle. I would smile at such efforts. The tourist street maps were almost useless. Venice is a city to get lost in. That is its greatest charm.

And so I pottered about this day, fiddling in lackadaisical fashion on some awful scene of the canal which I already hated. I think at this point I had become disillusioned with my art. There was the feeling in me that there had to be something more than this tawdry merchandising of my skills; that somehow I was debasing my art by so peddling it in the street like a great courtesan forced to vend her wares as a cheap prostitute on a street corner. There lay within me the conviction that there was a great painting in me; a painting I could not see beyond the demands of survival and the monthly rent. I looked at the picture I was working on in disgust. I felt like throwing it in rage into the canal.

I placed my brushes aside with a sigh and sat down heavily on my chair. For a moment I thought of packing up for the day. How one’s life revolves around such cusp moments as that. How my own life would have changed had I followed that momentary whim just then, packed away my gear and sought solace in some cool cafe. But I did not, and so I came to my crossroads; the turning that would change my life forever.

I did not see her at first. I saw only the man. He was tall, very good looking, perhaps middle aged and impeccably dressed in a way that suggested that he was no tourist. There was something about him too; something about the cut of his clothes and the quality of his shoes that suggested that he was a man of wealth. He walked slowly but with a calm assurance and authority that fell just short of arrogance. He was a man whose demeanour spoke of strength, great character and sublime confidence. I looked at him in interest for he seemed apart from the usual tourists although I had never seen him before. Then I caught my breath for, behind him, followed a woman.

I do not use the word “follow” lightly. This woman followed the man in the most literal of ways for he led her on a silver chain attached to black choker like a collar studded with diamonds about her throat. About her slim wrists were two black and silver bands connected to each other by a short length of thin silver chain and secured with a small padlock. These accoutrements alone would have been astonishing but there was more. In spite of the hot weather, the woman was dressed in a knee length fur coat. I recognised the fur as mink in the colour known as Cerulean or Sapphire; a silvery variation with darker lines shot through it. This coat fell to her knees beyond which her exquisite legs ended in silver high heeled sandals upon her shapely feet.

The woman was beautiful. There was no denying that. Yet she was much more. Venice is full of beautiful women, and well dressed ones as well, yet, even in this exalted company, the woman would stand out. There was a sort of spiritual beauty about her that could not be explained by the classical features of her face, the form of her beautifully crafted body, the slender elegance of her hands and feet, the long slim neck or even the cascade of jet black shining hair that fell in luxury to the small of her back.

It was more a beauty of the soul. There was a fateful serenity about her; a profound submission and acceptance. She walked quietly, bound in chains, behind the man who led her, her beautiful eyes lowered demurely, like a pool of tranquillity amidst the Venetian crowds. There was peace in the expression on her face and gracefulness in her slow progress through the throngs. Crowds parted to allow her through and stared in wonderment. You see many an odd sight on the streets of Venice but a woman clad in fur, allowing herself to be calmly led in chains was a strange one even there. People stepped aside in respect; almost with reverence as if she was some vision of humility and penitence.

I sat in my chair transfixed by the dream like quality of this little tableau. All the crowds on the street seemed to fade into a misty background; the sounds of the city muting until they were like the buzzing of the bees in a quiet meadow. Only this woman seemed sharp and clear in focus; some quiet oasis of colour against the shimmering obscurity of a barren desert. Even as I watched in wonderment, I realised that the man was leading her toward the steps of the Academy Bridge and me.

I rose from my chair as the man approached. He gave me a long look of appraisal and nodded slightly. “Buon pomeriggio Signore.” He said, “Do you accept commissions for portraits?” I nodded dumbly, barely trusting myself to speak. He seemed satisfied and with a small pull on the chain about the woman’s neck he ushered her forward. “Could you paint her?” he asked.

I took a sharp intake of breath “Si.... si signore.”

“Then I would like you to do so.” He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “I will make it worth your while signore.” He told me matter of factly. “Will one million lira be ample?”

I gasped. A million lira in the old money was about the equivalent of over 500 Euros today and at least five times my usual fee for a simple portrait. I swallowed hastily. “Si signore. It is more than ample!”

“Very well then. One million to accept the commission and another million if I am satisfied with the results. Where would you like her to pose?”

I gestured toward the other chair and addressed the woman. “Perhaps you would like to take a seat Signora.” I said with what grace I could muster.

The woman made no move to comply but instead lifted her eyes and looked at the man inquiringly. “You may sit.” He told her. To my surprise, he spoke English to her. Perhaps she did not understand Italian. The woman took the proffered chair with studied gracefulness her eyes lowered once more, smoothing her fur coat beneath her.

I looked at her intensely, fascinated by her servile serenity. “Are you comfortable Signora?” I asked her in my poor English.

The man laid a hand on my shoulder. “She is forbidden to speak.” He told me, “You may address your instructions to her through me.”

I blinked in surprise. “Yes... yes of course.” I stammered “But it is hot Signore! Will not the lady be more comfortable without her coat?”

“Yes I was about to order her to unfasten it.” The man looked at her. “Undo your coat!” he told her in English; his voice commanding and brooking no dissent. The command elicited a reaction from her. It was not a hesitation or any sort of reluctance but I noticed a small flush of colour rise to her cheeks. But she reached to unfasten her coat obediently, parting it and letting it slip from her shoulders to rest in the crook of her arms. I stared in astonishment. She was completely naked beneath!

I looked about nervously. Already a couple of tourists had faltered in their steps to stare. I think perhaps I might have started to protest but the man spoke with assurance and resolve. “Paint her just as she is Signore! Capture her in her nakedness for me!”

Hurriedly I prepared a full sheet of my highest quality, hot pressed, prepared water colour paper; pinning it to my easel. I laid out tubes of paint and brushes with trembling fingers. The woman sat there impassively; her nakedness framed by her fur coat and vivid against the backdrop of the Grand Canal. If she felt humiliated in her public exposure she showed it not. There was almost a tinge of pride in her naked humility. She was a woman at peace with her servility.

As I settled at my easel before her I was able to take a breath and regard her closely. She was young, perhaps some twenty years of age. Her body was slender and well formed with firm well rounded breasts; not too big but perfectly shaped. Her hips were slender too, almost boyish, and her legs long and shapely. Her shoulders were square and well proportioned; her neck long and elegant. I saw that her skin was smooth, blemishless and lightly tanned all over. With her long black hair, without the evidence of the English her master had addressed her in, I would have taken her for Mediterranean. On closer inspection however I believed I detected a hint of oriental about her; the ghost of Asia playing about the tranquillity of her features. But her face was still lowered demurely. I bit the end of my brush and addressed the man. “Perhaps Signora would care to raise her face a little Signore and look at me?”

The man nodded and spoke to her. “Raise your head and look at the artist.” I saw once again a flush of colour in her cheeks. It was, if anything, even more noticeable than the blush that had come into them when she had been ordered to bare herself before me. In a sense I could understand why. I had the feeling then that she had perhaps been ordered many times to reveal her body to strangers. To lift her face and to look straight at me however was to expose herself to an even greater degree. She would never have looked me in the eye without a direct command to do so. That she did so now underlined her fragility and vulnerability.

Now I could look into those eyes; those great dark eyes that have haunted me ever since. The old saying has it that the eyes are the windows on the soul but in this case they were more like peepholes; just little glimpses into a profound and quiet depth beyond, impenetrable dark still caverns with the flickering of secrets unobtainable on the far side of those huge brown eyes. The eyes were both a glimpse into this inner kernel and a barrier that said “beyond this point you may go no further”. This woman could be chained like a lap dog, ordered to strip naked in public and abused as a slave yet her inner core remain inviolate, untouchable and unknowable. Only the hint of buried secrets and hidden sadness would permeate through to the surface to touch those beautiful eyes.

I had accepted the commission for the million lira the man had pulled from his wallet and the promise of a million more but as I looked at this woman the money became as nothing to me. I wanted to paint this woman more than anything else I had ever done; wanted somehow to capture the mysterious essence of her, delve beyond those eyes into the very soul of her and lay it as bare as the body she displayed before me. It was as if I wanted to violate her, strip her last defences from her and leave her more naked than she now was. I wanted to expose her story; by what road she came to her slavery and why she found such peace within it. I wanted to embrace that serenity, glory in that servility and discover why it was a source of pride to her and not a thing of shame. I wanted to chain the reality of her to my portrait; enslave her anew beneath my brushstrokes.

Feverishly I began to work. I was haunted throughout with the thought that I would be interrupted before I could finish to my satisfaction. I was terrified that the police would come along and arrest her for her exposure or at least command her to cover herself. Even as I worked we attracted a small crowd about us. Many came first to ogle at this naked woman but many stayed on, I think as fascinated by her as I was, their eyes flickering between her and the portrait forming on my easel and biting their lips critically. I half expected them to start offering me advice in the execution of my work as if it had become as important to them as to me. They stood around in reverent silence or spoke in whispers among themselves as if not to disturb the fragility of the occasion. I suspect that a few people took surreptitious photographs but even that seemed respectful and the culprits motivated by better reasons than mere voyeurism. There was a sense of something important happening; a moment to say “I was there!”

The crowd of spectators touched the woman not at all. I have never know such a patient and unperturbable model. She sat as still as a statue, her hands folded in her lap with the chain from the collar about her throat lightly clasped in her fingers. Occasionally I would have her alter her position slightly, always addressing the request through her master and never speaking to her directly. She obeyed the requests impeccably.

I feared the man would grow impatient and insist on my hurrying but he seemed content to sit on the carrying case I used for my materials and smoke long cigarettes. Occasionally he would rise to stand behind me for a minute or two to monitor how the work was coming along. He seemed pleased and would nod in satisfaction. After an hour or so he commandeered a young man in the audience, paying him to fetch a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses from a nearby cafe. He shared the bottle with me. He did not offer refreshments to the woman.

Fearful of interruption, I worked as quickly as I could as she sat impassive before me, her expression unreadable. The whole of creation seemed to condense into a bubble around me and the woman in front of me and the throng of admiring spectators became dim, vague shapes on the periphery of that bubble acting as a shield to our little tableau. My hand was flying over my painting, caressing the colours onto the paper in quick but loving strokes; its dexterity taking my breath away.

It sounds a cliché to say that I felt inspired. Yet I find no other word to describe the exalted state in which I worked on that painting. It felt as if I was elevated to some higher plain of reality. I have heard of the state of elevated consciousness described by great athletes when they have performed the seemingly impossible. They call it “the zone” and it must be something very like the feeling I experienced that day on the Academy Bridge. I knew as it happened that I had never painted more sublimely in my life; every technique and touch an expression of that incandescent desire to capture the soul of this extraordinary woman on my easel. Time seemed to slow as every second became infused with intensity; reality began to blur. I was hypnotised by her; caught in her enchantment as if her being was controlling my brush and leading my hand in a trance; a slave to her sorcery.

I do not know how long I worked on that picture; two hours, perhaps closer to three, but there came a time at last when I laid my brush aside knowing that, given the constraints of the circumstances, I could do no more. It was the best quick watercolour portrait I had ever executed; better indeed than any picture that I had ever painted even with time at my disposal. I took a last look at it and astonished myself with what I had achieved in that short time. Her portrait was almost luminous on the easel; her presence so intense as to give the sensation that she could step from the paper. And yet it troubled me. It troubled me because I knew it to be not quite perfect. Somehow it failed.

In uncertainty I stepped away from my easel and laid down my paints. I lit a cigarette. I noticed that my hands were trembling. Able to see my finished work clearly now, the crowd jostled closer. Then a remarkable thing happened. Somebody began to applaud. Before long the rest of the audience had taken up the applause. I blinked in astonishment. Street artists are not usually the recipients of such applause. There was an excited buzz among the crowd and much warm admiration. People were patting me on the back; plying me with compliments. Somebody even pushed a glass of wine into my hands.

The man stood to regard the picture and the crowd parted to allow him to see it properly. The woman still sat before the easel in quiet solitude. She had not even pulled her fur coat about her in modesty. I presumed she was awaiting permission to do so. The man stood and stared at the picture for several minutes without speaking. His silence continued so long that I became nervous. I cleared my throat. “Is.... is it satisfactory Signore?” I ventured hesitantly.

He shook his head at the sound of my words as if to clear it of strange thoughts. “It is more than satisfactory Signore.” He assured me. “It is remarkable..... extraordinary! You have a prodigious talent!”

I let out my breath. I could feel the perspiration on my forehead. “Grazie Signore. I am pleased that you like it.”

The man took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his brow. “It is better than I ever expected Signore. I am more than content.” He reached for his wallet once more. “I believe we said another million lira.”

I took the money with mixed feelings. On the one hand the two million lira was a tremendous boost to my meagre finances and a remarkable recompense for an afternoon’s work. There were times that I earned less than that in a whole month! On the other hand however, now that I had painted the picture, I felt a sudden sense of loss as if I could barely bear to part with it. Selling it made me feel akin to a whore. But the man had commissioned it and paid for it and there was nothing I could do. “It is yours Signore.” I mumbled abjectly.

The man shook his head sadly. “It is not for me Signore.” He told me. He looked up at the woman as if just remembering that she was still there. “It is for her!” He nodded at her. “You may cover yourself.” He told her. She showed no gratitude at this permission, merely compliance; folding her fur coat about her and lowering her eyes. He beckoned her. “Come! See your picture.”

She rose gracefully from her seat and walked around the easel to regard her portrait. She stared at it for a long time; no expression showing on her face. Inwardly my mind was pleading for her to say something; begging her to express an opinion of it.... anything that could tell me if it touched that deep soul I had tried to reach with my brush. But she stood in silence. Only one reaction could I see. A single tear appeared in the corner of her eye and trickled down her lovely cheek. She made no move to brush it away.

The man took her gently by the shoulders and turned her to face him. He placed his fingers beneath her chin to raise her face and look into her eyes. “I leave today Michaela.” He told her. “This painting is my parting gift to you. You may do with it as you will. I set you free!” With that he reached up and unclipped the chain from the collar about her throat and placed it in his pocket. She took a sharp breath and raised a hand to her throat as if her release had scorched her. “You are free!” he told her again. “Your life belongs to you once more.” She made as if to speak but he raised a finger to her lips. “No words my lovely! Remember this moment only. I will walk away presently. Do not follow me. Once I am out of sight your new life begins. Walk away from this bridge with your head high; a free woman.” Her lips were parted slightly and quivering. She was close to tears.

The man turned once more to me. “I have a last favour to ask of you Signore.” he told me. I nodded numbly, caught in the solemnity of the moment. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small key which he presented to me. “This is the key to the cuffs about her wrists. When I am gone will you please unfasten them from her and lock them to the railings on the bridge?”

I swallowed. My voice seemed to be failing me. “Si.... si Signore” I managed to croak at last. It was fitting. It is an old custom for lovers to attach padlocks to the hand rails on the Academy Bridge; love locks they are called.

He nodded, lowering his eyes for there was sadness in them. “Grazie Signore. You have done me a single service this day. I am grateful.” Then he turned back to her and held her face tenderly in his hands, stooping to kiss her brow. “Be at peace my lovely one.” He told her gently. “You are free. Think of me sometimes.” Then he turned his back and walked away from the bridge.

She stood rooted to the spot watching him walk away; her eyes wide and her thoughts unfathomable. He never looked back but just walked slowly away until the crowds along the banks of the canal swallowed him up and he was lost to view. When she could no longer see him she lowered her head in melancholy. There were tears in her beautiful eyes.

Tentatively I approached her and held out the little key. “Please miss?” I ventured in my poor English.

She raised her head to look at me hauntedly. She seemed puzzled. I held the key up and pointed to the cuffs about her wrists. Comprehension seemed to dawn in her features and she held out her hands; the short chain hanging between them. With trembling fingers I fitted the key into the little padlock and liberated her wrists. She rubbed her wrists slowly, regarding them oddly as if the sight of them unbound was unfamiliar to her. Then she raised her eyes to look at me. “Thank you.” she said in a small voice. It was the first time I had heard her speak.

She seemed lost and bewildered; cut adrift from the certainties of her slavery. I realised that this was a great parting in her life. “Can I help you Miss?” I asked her gently. “Perhaps I am able to bring you to your hotel or your house?”

She shook her head slowly. “I have no place to go.” she told me calmly and resignedly.

I looked at her aghast. “But... but your things.... your.... clothes? Where are they?”

“All I have in the world is what I am now wearing.” She paused to stroke the fur of her coat. “It is enough.”

I gestured at the portrait on my easel. “You have my painting also!”

She shook her head. “No sir. You may keep the painting. I watched you paint it. It belongs properly to you. I want no reminder of this day.”

“But where will you go Miss? What will you do for money? Do you need a place to stay?”

She shook her head firmly. “No sir. I will be fine.”

I ran my hand through my hair in agitation. She was not yet penniless. She could sell her fur coat for a good deal of money doubtless and the collar about her neck was studded with diamonds. Nevertheless, she could hardly pawn her fur coat and walk from the shop naked! I sudden decision I reached into my pocket and took the last million lira the man had given. “Here! Take this!” I urged her. “It will pay for someplace to stay and perhaps a railway ticket if you are leaving.”

“I cannot take your money sir.”

“But of course you can! If you are not wanting the painting then the money is yours!” I insisted.

She thought for a moment or two. I think the reality of her situation was beginning to dawn on her. I took her hand and pressed the money into her palm and closed it over the notes. She looked at me steadily in the eye for a second before lowering her gaze once more. I thought I could detect thankfulness and perhaps just the glimmer of hope beyond her solitary despair. She nodded slowly and clutched the money in surrender. “Thank you sir.” she whispered softly. “Thank you for your kindness.”

I pressed my card onto her as well. “Here take my card!” I urged her. “If you need a place to stay or any help there is my telephone number on it.”

“Thank you.” she repeated softly. She looked up and around her and bit her lip. “If you will permit me I think I must go.”

“You are not needing my permission!” I reminded her. “You are free woman now!”

“Yes,” she paused in uncertainty “Free.” She mulled over the unfamiliar word, gathering her courage, it seemed to me. Freedom was a frightening future to walk into. “Free” she repeated as if testing the concept in her mind. She took a breath. “Then I must ask you to excuse me.”

“Of course Signora!”

“Thank you for your kindness sir.” Then she lowered her eyes and, with great deliberation, she walked away. She did not walk in the same direction as the man had departed in. Instead she mounted the steps onto the bridge and began to walk across it. I think she had more than one bridge to cross. The earlier slow grace of her walk had deserted her temporarily it seemed for she appeared to be unsteady on her legs, clutching often at the handrail of the bridge. It almost seemed to me that she was newborn into a new life and must learn to use her legs all over again. I watched her progress over the bridge with bated breath, willing her to find strength and praying that she not stumble. At the highest point of the arch of the bridge she paused, leaning against the rail while she collected herself. Then she disappeared over the other side.

I think I stood for a few moments staring at the apex of the bridge and feeling the emptiness of her departure. Then I dashed up the bridge suddenly consumed with a desire to see her a last time. When I reached the top of the bridge she had already stepped off it on the far side and she was walking away into the streets through the summer crowds. She was walking more certainly now with some slow purpose to her steps. She didn’t seem to wend her way through the crowded street. Instead she walked deliberately in a straight line; the crowd opened up before her and closed in behind never hindering her stately progress. I watched her from the bridge as she walked away; walked away into freedom although I remember wondering if a woman such as she could ever be truly free. In but a minute or two she had been swallowed up in the labyrinth of Venice and was lost to view.

With a melancholy I could not explain I returned to my pitch and sat down facing my easel, glowering at the picture of her on it. I think I must have sat there, staring at the picture, for over an hour. It was as if I was trying to lock the memory of her into my consciousness and at the same time understand my failure. People came and made inquiries but I ignored them, lost in my own thoughts and tormented by her elusiveness.

I had failed you see. In some way I could not understand, I had somehow failed to capture the essence of her. It was undoubtedly the finest painting I had ever produced there on the Academy Bridge but yet it did not quite catch her. It was as if she was some will of the wisp dancing through the mists before me, never quite in focus and always just tantalisingly out of reach. It was a picture that asked questions but the answers remained as mysterious as ever.

And so I sat there staring at my work, consumed by my frustration and tortured by my inadequacy. At last I leapt to my feet in sudden decision. I packed all my materials away in a feverish haste for it was late in the afternoon now and there was a shop I needed to visit before it closed. Driven now by a powerful urge and terrible purpose, I hastened through the streets in search of it.

There are many shops catering to the artist in Venice but my favourite was a little shop in the back streets just behind the Piazzo San Marco run by my good friend Alessandro. I used some of my new found wealth to buy a large prepared canvas of good quality linen sized with gesso and mounted on a wooden stretcher frame. To save money I had normally prepared my own canvasses for oil painting but this day I was in a hurry to begin. I also purchased some new brushes and oils and, thus equipped, rushed home to my little studio.

Once back in my studio I threw everything aside; all the mediocre pictures I had been working on in desultory fashion and set my new canvas onto my best easel. I placed the watercolour I had made of her that day on an easel alongside for reference and, taking charcoals, I began to sketch the outlines of the picture onto the fresh canvas. I referred constantly to the watercolour and closed my eyes often to bring back the image of her posing on the bridge with the Grand Canal as the background; the image that was indelibly tattooed into my memory. I was driven by my urge to capture her at last. This time it would be perfect!

I worked like a man possessed for the next six weeks. I barely paused to eat or sleep. My unshaven face looked haggard in the tiny bathroom mirror. I lived on whatever snacks I could grab whilst painting and snatched small naps in an old armchair. I worked long into the night each day but during the daylight hours I would rush to my pitch on the Academy Bridge to sketch small studies to capture the exact light or the details of the scenery, determined that nothing would be left untouched in my determination to make the picture perfect. On these days I was approached with commissions on several occasions but I turned them down. I was obsessed! Nothing could make me deviate from my quest.

The million lira soon ran low. My friends began to worry about me and even bring me food to my studio. My landlady was threatening me with eviction for the unpaid rent. I cared not. The reality of the world was suspended in my single minded obsession for the essence of her. I carried her picture in my mind all my waking moments. My sleep was troubled by haunting dreams of her. I grew thin and hollow cheeked; my eyes took on the look of some terrible addiction as if she had become some d**g to which I was hopelessly dependant upon. She had walked away into freedom and left me enslaved in her place!

Each day on the Academy Bridge, as I worked on the studies for the painting, I would scour the crowds with feverish eyes hoping against hope that I would see her again; hoping that perhaps she was still in Venice and that one day she might return to the bridge. Perhaps I hoped that she would come and liberate me from my slavery. But her absence persisted and fed my craving for her soul and I would walk back to my studio in desolation and set once more to my canvas with renewed fervour. The days began to merge one into another; the mystery of her the only constant as the vibrant life of the city blurred into a hazy backdrop of irrelevancy.

There came a day at last when I laid my brushes down in exhaustion and knew that I could do no more. The painting, such as it was, was finished. I had poured everything I had into it; torn my soul apart for it. Even then, in desperation, I knew I would never equal it again. They say that every artist has one masterpiece in him. This was mine; the culminating apex of my creative output. I would never reach such heights again.

With this knowledge, I took the picture from my studio for the first time. I took it back to the Academy Bridge and placed it on an easel in just the same place where she had posed in her nakedness before me. I stared at it for a long time. I had failed once more but now at least I understood the nature of my failure. I had sought for answers to this woman’s soul but now I knew at last that there were none. There was no answer to her. She was a question only; mystery in person; enigma incarnate. It was her very nature to be elusive. The essence of her soul was unfathomable ambiguity. She was the unknowable slave. You could chain her body but never catch her soul. Her spirit lived in some unreachable dimension beyond the grasp of any man.

Even as I stared at the picture I became aware of an audience gathering about me. Before long this audience had swelled so much that it was difficult to pass onto the bridge. They were pressing about the painting in a mixture of astonishment and excitement. People were admiring my painting and talking animatedly among themselves. My artist friends left their own pitches to come and view the painting. Their praise was effusive and garrulous. Tourists were even taking photographs of it! A rich venetian patrician that I knew slightly stepped forward. “How much do you want for that picture?” he demanded imperiously.

“It is not for sale Signore.” I told him.

“Five million lira!”

I shook my head. “Mi scusi Signore! It is not for sale!”

“Ten then!”

“I repeat Signore.... the picture is not for sale!”

My refusal to sell was a sensation. My artist friends thought me mad! Ten million lira would be 5,000 Euros in today’s money; an unheard of sum for a street artist. Before long the story that I had turned down an offer of ten million lira for a picture was all over the town. Soon it had turned into a legend.

Obtaining commissions was easy after that. Each day I would return to the Academy Bridge and place her painting in its appointed place for the admiration of the crowds and each day I was inundated with requests for new commissions. I painted few pictures on the bridge however for I accepted private commissions for nude portraits. I painted wives, lovers, concubines, television and theatrical starlets. Before long I was having to turn commissions down for I lacked the time to execute them and I was charging whatever the market would pay. I moved into a larger studio and soon local galleries were featuring my work. The nude portrait became my signature and I was soon the most sought after portraitist in all Venice.

The success brought me fame and some modest wealth. I have my own gallery in Venice now. The oil painting holds pride of place within it. The original watercolour of her however hangs now in my little villa on Torcello island in the Venetian Lagoon where I can see her every day. My paintings appear in many places and regularly show in publications but “The Girl on the Academy Bridge” remains my most famous picture and is valued at a breathtaking price few artists achieve within a working life. Yet I will never sell it. I remain a captive of it and the woman on the Academy Bridge; enslaved to her enigma for the rest of my days.

I do not know whatever became of her and in some ways perhaps it is better so. She was the ultimate mystery and mystery she must remain. Even to this day I close my eyes every night as I go to sleep and my last conscious image is her.....serene, unfathomable and taunting me with her ambiguity, in chains and naked on the Academy Bridge.

Michaela