Location: Basilica de Santa Maria Novella, Florence, Italy.
Approximately +5 others in the church’s gallery
The sky was clear, but the air cold and thick as it settled over the waterways and old stone structures of firenze. Winds bit at the cheeks and noses of passers by, flushing their olive skin red, and prompting their further burrowing into their coats and accessories, desperate to stay warm on their way to wherever it was they were headed. Since it was early in the afternoon, they may well have been going, still, to the market, or their workplaces, however as usual, there was a considerable gathering within the church’s walls- some who come to pray, others to bask in the architecture of masterful hands- those of Alberti, and Vasari, Romoli and Florentino. And still more, who would admire the art in the Basilica- the paintings aside from the walls and ceilings. The paleness of her skin and hair put the Finn apart from some of those around her, but otherwise she went unnoticed, unassuming in her demeanor and appearance. An admirer, like any other traveler that passed through. She stood in the heart of the Turnabuoni Chapel, eyes fixed forward on one of the scenes in the ‘Life of Mary’
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it.” she posed in humble, friendly chatter to the person who came to stand next to her, “Ghirlandaio had the largest workshop in Florence at the time when it was painted, and was commissioned by Giovanni Tornabuoni on September the First, 1485 to paint the main chapel. This chapel, that is. Andrea Orcagna’s paintings came before his, but said Frescoes were in very sad condition by the late 15th century. I must say, I’m curious to see the former, but Ghirlandaio’s hands certainly brought a blessing to this holy place.” The delicate fingers on either of her hands moved together, rubbing in quick succession to generate a bit of warmth, before again moving behind her back, folded neatly above her tailbone. “La Natività di Maria is my favorite scene in this part of the chapel. Absolutely stunning.”
“Yes… yes it is quite incredible,” Hakuba offered, glancing sideways at the woman with a faint grin of appreciation. He was no artist, nor historian, but he’d attended enough lectures, museums, and galleries to have a moderate grasp on the subject. Even if he hadn’t, the passion that she’d displayed had been more than enough to enchant him, drawing him in. This was one of those people – someone whose work and feeling for life genuinely mattered. And it was irresistible.
He turned to look at her more fully, taking the whole of her in context with the building they were in. His own hands were nestled snugly in the pockets of his overcoat, scarf tucked under his chin, and he let his grin grow in to a genuine smile.
“I’m curious, miss… if you don’t mind my asking, of course; are you a religious person as well as an art enthusiast?”
