Lorenzolo and the Medici

This is a conversation said to have transpired between an unnamed Medici and a portrait artist named Lorenzolo. The painter was mixing pigments to complete one such portrait for his client, who was patiently gazing from his balcony overlooking the town of Sesto Fiorentino. The Medici remarked,

Lorenzolo, do you derive pleasure from mixing your pigments, as I do from peering over this balcony?

The young painter chortled from behind his easel.

Nay, my lord. You pay for the privilege to spend your while regarding the horizon. If you inquired a fee for my mixing of pigments, why, I would nary touch a brush ever again.

The Medici did not turn to look at Lorenzolo. He fell silent, his expression unseen except to the Italian sun and the gentle hills of Sesto Firoentino. Lorenzolo, after a brief pause, continued,

That would not be to say I do not enjoy creating a fine work. It is indeed a skill and there must be love behind all art. Suffice to say, however, I have a loathing for art that is paid for. True art is mutually exclusive from commercial work.

As Lorenzolo concluded his thought, the Medici turned slightly so that he showed a part of his profile. He spoke again,

Lorenzolo, I take offense to the implication that a painting of my profile cannot be called “true art.”

The Medici harshly spit the words “true” and “art” much to Lorenzolo’s distress. The painter stopped his work and gestured with his brush.

My lord, any transgression on my part was a stray thought and nothing more. I would not disparage a patron, much less one of your esteem. I merely wished to convey that when art is paid for, something is lost as compared to when art is divinely inspired, or crafted from pure passion.

Lorenzolo dragged his brush along silk, and the Medici commented further,

 Is that to say, art that is patronized is always inferior to art that is painted at one’s leisure?

Lorenzolo stopped again for a second, considering the chain of the conversation. The Medici appended,


This is not a question of the quality of your work today. I merely wish to hear the thoughts of an artist.

Exhaling, Lorenzolo nodded before explaining,

Perhaps to compare one and another, inferior is not always the appropriate phrase. However, a painting created for a client is brought into this world mechanically, like how one might walk from this estate to that town at the horizon. This work is accurate, but the task itself burdensome. Works of my own taste, however, are created much like how one would make love, with passion and fury that is both intoxicating and pleasurable.

A pregnant pause was felt before the Medici turned his body toward Lorenzolo, folding his arms across his fine garments and replying,

Would you consider the subject matter as principal in what art is borne of passion, and what art is merely commercial?

There was hardly a moment’s breath before Lorenzolo expounded,


Why, of course! Commercial art is by definition created at the behest of a client. A work of my own choosing and subject matter is of no cost to me but materials and my time, and thus is fueled not by a desire for compensation, but by a desire to produce something magnificent.

The Medici, upon hearing this, opened his hand and extended it slightly towards Lorenzolo, saying,


In this instance, you are fashioning a portrait in my own visage. A portrait of Lorenzolo would be at no man’s request except by Lorenzolo.

The Medici opened his other hand, as if to demonstrate the balancing of scales between his two upturned palms, and continued,

Therefore, the portrait of any man, save for Lorenzolo, could never be true art, lest that man was befitting to Lorenzolo’s tastes. No?

A puzzled look crossed Lorenzolo’s face. He dragged his brush against the silk fabric and shook his head, cautiously pondering,

My lord, any work I produce can be elevated to the status of a masterpiece, commissioned or not. My opinion is not an observation on whether my portrait is true art, while a portrait of a distinguished man is merely paint pressed to paper. Rather,

Lorenzolo set his brush down and motioned with his hand towards the Medici,

what I expressed was that what can be called true art is the tastes of the painter, which is the boon of the artist. As a man born to wealth has the fortune to commission fine art, Lorenzolo has the fortune to craft fine art to his specification, even without needing to pay in anything other than his passion.

The Medici set his hands on his trousers and leaned forward with interest. He spoke in turn,

And of what logic is the artist’s tastes superior to the tastes of every other man?

Once again confounded by the Medici’s reply, Lorenzolo made no attempt to hide his bewilderment. The Medici, seeing this, expanded,

In all history, a man with talent has no right to utilize his skills for his own benefit exclusively. It was Cicero who said, and Plato before him, that “we are not born for ourselves alone, but our country claims a share of our being, and our friends a share.”

Now, Lorenzolo could not help but guffaw at the Medici’s claim. He quickly replied, unrestrained by convention,

Why, then, should it be the case that all men receive a share of my labor? The art I would produce are of my tastes to be sure, but there is value to what is produced. Furthermore, this is not the case for every profession. A weaver does not thread a tapestry to the whims and tastes of every client, nor would the baker box a loaf of bread to rise only to a precise height. It is only the artist who lives, and who dies, by the discerning tastes of his clients.

The Medici did not hesitate to retort, abruptly,

Ah, but you are incorrect, Lorenzolo. The weaver would never thread a tapestry so ugly to be a permanent fixture in his stock, nor a baker lace his dough with some foul-tasting substance simply by whim. Every profession, whether art or trade, is commercial. This is not by manner of greed, nor a statement about the mercantile Italy. Commercial viability is no measure of merit, in that you are correct, but it is indeed a measure of taste of your fellow men.

To this, Lorenzolo wasted no time and spun his hands round his wrists so quickly they may have landed in Sesto Fiorentino, asking,

And yet the artist, whose work transcends the baker’s and the weaver’s trades, must obey the tastes of the world? Of what use is developing a skill in the arts, to become a poet or painter of portraits, if one is relegated to a trade profession? Is the romance and passion not extricated and the fallible husk of unappreciative taste all that remains? Is the very essence and soul of art not a factor in a work’s legacy?

Lorenzolo was forced to take a breath, of which the Medici allowed a few seconds to ferment before he turned his body back slightly towards the balcony. The Medici smiled slightly, and opined,


You trade your labor and your refined taste for a legacy, Lorenzolo. Virgil is remembered hardly for his poetry save for The Aeneid, which was commissioned by the Augustans, not by himself. Aristotle’s dialogues were not for one man, but for all men, and not for his time, but for all of time. Even now, I commission you to produce a painting with my own wealth. This is wealth that I can relinquish, and wealth that you require. No, Lorenzolo, talents are not for saving for oneself, but to share with a race of men. Your legacy is not what you did for yourself, or to satisfy your tastes; but what you offered back to us.

The Medici turned his eyes back to the horizon, and Lorenzolo considered what he had said. Lorenzolo’s eyes darted to the lanscape as well, and he smiled as well. After a brief pause, Lorenzolo said,

Perhaps, my lord, you have assumed I mix pigments because I enjoy painting, and not that I enjoy regarding the horizon as you do.

The Medici, without looking back, said,

If that is so, then why are you Lorenzolo, and not a Medici?

Lorenzolo retrieved his brush and returned to mixing his pigments, and replied,

I prefer to be paid to regard the horizon, my lord.

The Medici laughed, and did so quite merrily, but did not reply. He watched invisible people do invisible things somewhere in the town miles away, not seeing them but knowing they were there. Lorenzolo returned to his portrait of the Italian nobleman, both unwitting to the silent observer who, six centuries later, would ponder these same thoughts a time and world away from this conversation.

How fascinating indeed that a painter whose commercial works have all been lost, and a Medici whose identity is frustratingly unknown, in a place this observer has never before seen with their own eyes, spoke in a foreign language and touched upon a subject this third party could listen to and contemplate as an equal, but not participate in. Perhaps, then, there is truth in true art, and to resent art as a trade is to be Lorenzolo but never this silent observer.