My Love - Michelangelo

"My big head is so ugly. My forehead is pressing against my mouth and chin. I don't think the little ones are biting me," he moaned.

He moved his slender body. His four brothers were still sleeping, so he was careful not to wake them. He quickly drew his face in the picture with a pencil and corrected it.

"Well, it's hard to fix your face like this," he muttered. He enlarged her cheeks. He made her lips fuller and fuller.

A bird's song came through the large window.

The speaker must be his friend Ghananachi.

He hid the drawing paper under the bed and quietly made his way down the stairs to the street, trying not to make any noise.

Francesco Gherardini was a 19-year-old, handsome young man with blond hair and bright blue eyes. He was a student of the master painter Gallandeio. He supported Michelangelo by unknowingly "sneaking" pencils and paper from his master's studio.

“You'll come with me this time, won't you?” asked Gharanachi. “Oh... that's a birthday present in return for my religion.”

The teacher asked Michelangelo's parents' names. He said he had heard the name. He asked how old he was.

“It’s been 13 years,” Michelangelo replied.

"Here, you start learning at the age of 10, where are you at in three years?"

I'm wasting my time at school,

I have to learn Latin and Greek...

The corners of the teacher's lips twitched imperceptibly.

It seems to like the answer.

"So you can draw?"

"I will try and learn"

Then Gharanakhi entered and said, “His work is good. I saw some of the paintings on the walls of his father’s house.”

"Oh... let's call him a mural painter."

The teacher laughed heartily.

I can't stand Michelangelo saying something so ridiculous.

"Oh, I've never tried it with paint before."

He replied sharply.

“Well... I don't know what other skills you have.

You have the ability to protect your own honor.

So, draw me a picture,

"What should I draw?"

Michelangelo looked around the studio with his eyes. He swallowed everything he saw with his eyes, just as young boys at the autumn grape festival swallow whole grapes.

"I'll show you the things from the studio."

The teacher laughed a little.

“Give me some paper and charcoal,” he said to his friend, Gharanakhi.

Michael sat down on a stool and began to work.

His hand could follow as far as his eyes could see. He was at work, trading. Soon he noticed someone riding over his shoulder, watching.

“And it’s not over yet,” he said.

The teacher took out the drawing paper.

"That's enough, I'm telling you the truth."

"You are a strong man."

Michael held up his hand and proudly said, "That's the hand of a stonemason."

“We don't use stonemasons here.

"Now, if you accept me as an intern, you'll have to pay me six times in the first year."

"I can't give you any money."

The teacher glanced at Michael.

"Your father is not poor, if he wants you to apprentice with me."

“My father used to beat me whenever I talked about painting.”

"So if I accept you as an intern, will he stop hitting you?"

“Oh, I have to tell you not to shoot.

"The teacher will give him six florins in the first year, eight florins in the second year, and ten florins in the third year. So, which one should I choose?"

"Huh... I've never heard of anything like that before."

"Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to come here and do this."

At that moment, the art students in the room were looking at their work, their hands still in their hands.

Michael stood before the teacher, reverently, but he did not give in.

Staring at the teacher's face.

"I'm worth that much," he said, though his eyes spoke without saying it.

The teacher, with a little hesitation, wanted to respect the boy.

"So, call your father," he said.

Michael and his two friends came back out. G Ranachi put his arm around Michael's shoulder and said, "You broke all the rules and regulations. But you still allowed me in."

Michael passed the house where Dante lived and the Basilica of Badia along the way. For him, it was like walking through a museum. The people of the Taschen region were skilled at handling stones. They held them in their arms as if they were holding their lovers. Their ancestors had worked by cutting stones from the mountains. They dragged the stones with oxen. When they got home, they cut and shaped the stones and built houses, palaces, churches, palaces, city walls, and fortresses.

The people of the Tuscan region have known the nature of stone since childhood, even by touch and smell. Since about 1500 years ago, their ancestors have been working with the “peaceful” stones from their region. The beauty of the cities built with these stones is breathtaking. So much so that even the citizens of Florence cannot separate themselves from the great cathedral of their city.

Michael entered the kitchen through the side door of his house. His stepmother, Lucrezia, was baking a torta. The torta was prepared like this. Chicken is fried in oil and then pounded with onions, turmeric, eggs, and bay leaves. Then the ham and pork are mixed with cheese, flour, cardamom, and ginger and made into small balls. They are made into small balls with flour. These small balls are placed in a bowl, one layer at a time, with the previously prepared chicken. Dates and almonds are also placed on the side. Then they are covered with a layer of flour. Then they are baked over hot charcoal.

Michael greeted his stepmother. Lucrezia greeted him, saying, "Michael, I have prepared something special for you today. You will be amazed by the delicious food."

Lucrezia got up at 4 o'clock every morning to go to the market. At that time, the farmers from the countryside were still driving their carts along the stone road. The carts were filled with fresh eggs, cheese, and meat. Lucrezia chose the best fruits and vegetables and bought them.

Lucrezia was a gentle woman. So she took in a widower with five children. Not only five children, but also a brother, a sister-in-law, and a mother. They had to cook for them. But in the kitchen, Lucrezia was as powerful as a lion king who ruled three thousand forests. Michael slept in the room next to his parents' bedroom, and before dawn he could hear his father and his stepmother arguing as they prepared to go to the market.

"'You have to buy fish and oranges every day, right?"

"Oh, you're the kind of person who would fill their pockets with money and leave their stomach empty."

"Why, there has never been a person in our family who has suffered from hunger since ancient times."

Michael entered the living room through the kitchen. A large oak chair faced the fireplace. Leather-covered chairs lined the walls. On the other side was his father's study. His father, Lodovico, was busy with his books.

Lodovico looked up as his son entered. His mustache was magnificent. It was a single beard. It was about four inches long under his chin. There was a hint of white in his hair. His dark eyes were filled with sadness. Their ancestral property, the land, was dwindling. In the past, the land was documented in deeds, showing that the land had been built in gold and silver. He himself had caught up.

"Our family is as ancient as the Medici," he once told his sons.

At one time, their family, the Brugnaroti, had served as mayors in the government. About 14 years earlier, in 1474, Lodovico himself had been appointed mayor of two hilltop villages. This was the last time that any of their family would be crowned king.

Michael stood in the sunlight streaming through the window. He remembered the house his mother had lived in when she was young. It was in the small town of Settiano in the Arno Valley. Back then, their family had been happy and loving. When his mother died, his father sat in his study, lost in thought. Aunt Cassandra looked after the household. Michael was a lonely boy. No one cared for him except his grandmother, Mona Alexandra, and the Topolini family. Mona Margherita, the wife of Topolino, a stonemason across the road from the valley, had to breastfeed Michael.

Michael's father remarried and moved to Florence. However, Michael visited the Topolino family whenever he could. In their courtyard, the peaceful stones were being cut into bricks for the construction of a palace. Michael poured his heart and soul into the work of cutting the stones precisely. The Topolino sons taught him how to cut the stones precisely and beautifully.

Michael stopped thinking about returning to his past.

"Father, I just came from Yalandaio. They're going to accept me as an apprentice."