This time three years ago, after a relatively unfettered and glorious summer, Italy was entering a second phase of lockdown. Just the thought of it inspires bone-aching weariness so I shan’t look up what exactly it entailed, but from memory movement between regions was once again halted and museums, cinemas, and galleries were closed. Just before, the whiff of closures in the offing, I rented an apartment on piazza Santo Spirito in Florence for a week, doing my Zoom talks from there instead. I spent the days wandering deserted museums and churches, and took night-time walks through eerily empty streets.
As soon as I got off the train I went to the Uffizi and in the first room I stood, entirely alone, before the Rucellai Madonna, commissioned from Duccio di Buoninsegna in 1285 for the chapel of the Laudesi (a confraternity founded by St Peter Martyr and dedicated to the Virgin) at Santa Maria Novella.
The contract, dated 15 April 1285, is the oldest such document to survive. It establishes that Duccio would be paid 150 lire; that he should use ultramarine for the Virgin’s mantle and gold leaf for the ground; that he must paint the panel entirely by himself, without help from his workshop; and that the Compagnia dei Laudesi had the right to refuse it for any reason if it didn’t meet their approval. Duccio was somewhere between 25 and 30 years old when he accepted the commission. The enormous panel was somehow even more breathtaking on this occasion than on others. For a few moments time stood still and unbidden tears, entirely divorced from sadness, pricked my eyes.
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