Ancient Greeks believed a soul could be taken from a body and live in another form. Unfortunately, that belief was ingrained in the mind of a pale-faced boy born in 1496. His name was Alissio DeLuca and the stars made note of it from the moment his mother had breathed it onto his newborn face. Sir DeLuca, however, was a patron and would sometimes take along his pale son to town square art displays.
On one occasion when it was sweltering hot, and the sun was beating against the skin of conversing patrons, art-loving peasants, and foreign aristocrats that lumbered their way down to the rich island of Italy, the archaic bricks of the surrounding buildings that stood tall enough to kiss the clouds, created a painful orange hue. The crowd, thus, had to gaze at another's eyes or to look at the mingling colors on the canvases around. It was beautiful, the way art brought the ragged into the arms of those who had only known lapping luxury.
Even amidst the bustling, Alissio's words rang true. "I think the painting is dull."
The crowd ceased their discussions. Many would've believed they were hallucinating and that such a youngster couldn't say Marriage of the Virgin by thee Raphael was dull if it weren't for the reaction of others. Sir DeLuca quickly rebounded to scold his son and the people were expecting the apology his father demanded of him, but to the contrary, he continued, "It has no soul."
That was the first time Alissio's father had struck him.
Under the blanket of that night, Alissio's cheek finally relinquished its sting but his belief of Raphael's painting followed him into manhood, even after his father passed.
"My good friend, Romani- you know Dr. Romani, right?" Alissio ignored his uncle and kept eating. Lorenzo DeLuca's utensils clattered onto his plate making his wife jump. He despised nephew's cold shoulders, "You're 16, your future is here and Noble pursuits, like medicine, will guarantee it. Not art. I mean- look at your father." he sneered.
"I'm going to bed." The next day, Alissio was gone with nothing but a forged letter and a mission:
Make proper art.
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"...And folks, here we have another painting from De Luca. This piece is called The Maiden. The woman you see here was one of many lovers of Alissio...thought to have affected the painting with such a melancholic atmosphere..." The Museum interpreter rambles on about things I have no interest in, even if it is about me.
For centuries, museum interpreters have been known to get the story of my paintings wrong. So the crowds, which ranged from old couples gripping the others' trembling hands to eager teenagers practically bouncing on the balls of their heels, believed the version the present interpreted was pouring into the air.
The novel in front of me written and titled Seek Souls, Learn Minds and Break Hearts by some historian from 1986 is the only scripture that has so far understood my life. Not wanting to waste any more time than the few seconds I've already given to the museum tour, I flip the page and keep reading.
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Ophelia was a rich French girl who, like most, was buzzing to define the Italian Renaissance. Perhaps, that's why Alissio caught her eye during displays because he was one of those aspiring artists fueling the new era or it could've been the bored look on his face. Weeks had passed since Ophelia arrived and Alissio had yet to notice her hair tosses and rosy cheeks. Just as her hopes of being at Alissio's arm were diminishing, the two suddenly became lovers.
Ophelia at the time thought it was fate, but Alissio knew it was just an experiment.
To most scholars and passionate learners, Greek philosophy is greatly respected and Alissio was no different. It was a chilly autumn day under the roof of the Vatican Library when he saw the famous Greek belief about souls so the question became 'How could you take a soul if you did not wield death's hand?'
The answer came much later in his readings. "Learn a mind." so Alissio acted as her rag doll and let Ophelia do what she pleased.
Little by little, secrets she had locked away came pouring out and he had learned of the memories and dreams she should've kept hidden but she was young and didn't understand the ways of men like Alissio. When the last drop of her mind had been revealed, Alissio wasted no time in parking her in front of his canvas. With each line he had drawn, a memory was included, and every color he splattered held a dream.
Supporting his hypothesis, the painting was successful. Aristocracy and peasants alike oohed and ahed whilst Patrons practically begged him to take their money, so they could claim such success.
The 'breaking hearts' part was Alissio's design. When he no longer needed a subject, he discarded them, but Ophelia couldn't have understood. All feelings are foreign when your soul is stuck in a painting.
She went on to have an unexplainably painful life.
This was only the start of the repetitive seeking, learning, and breaking.
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November 4th, 1521.
Alessio at 25 drunkenly walked down his enclosed gallery. His pieces had now bore a sadness as Alissio had forgotten that a soul needs a host and a hollow canvas just wasn't enough.
There was a great rumbling and bright lights that broke the gallery windows. They found Alissio the next morning pressed to the floor. Nobody seemed to notice that his paintings had lost their light while his eyes' grew tremendously.
The souls had a new host. His chest became heavy with the errors of youth but painted with life.
He stopped aging.
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I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in the polluted air of the 21st century, and say to myself, "Damn those Greek philosophers." sighing, I rest my belongings in the messenger bag.
I was gone with nothing but a forged passport and a mission.
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