painted as a symbol； a memento of their lives and a sign of their riches； power
and influence—so they might always be there； standing before us； announcing
their existence； nay； their individuality and distinction。”
His words were belittling； as if he were speaking out of jealousy； ambition
or greed。 Though； at times； as he talked about the portraits he’d seen in
Venice； his face would abruptly light up like a child’s； invigorated。
Portraiture had bee such a contagion among affluent men； princes and
great families who were patrons of art that even when they missioned
frescoes of biblical scenes and religious legends for church walls； these infidels
would insist that their own images appear somewhere in the work。 For
instance； in a painting of the burial of St。 Stephan； you’d suddenly see； ah yes；
present among the tearful graveside mourners； the very prince who was giving
you the tour—in a state of pure enthusiasm； exhilaration and conceit—of the
paintings hanging on his palazzo walls。 Next； in the corner of a fresco
depicting St。 Peter curing the sick with his shadow； you’d realize with an odd
sense of disillusionment that the unfortunate one writhing there in pain was；
in fact； the strong…as…an…ox brother of your polite host。 The following day； this
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time in a piece depicting the Resurrection of the Dead； you’d discover the
guest who’d stuffed himself beside you at lunch。
“Some have gone so far； just to be included in a painting；” said my Enishte；
fearfully as though he were talking about the temptations of Satan； “that
they’re willing to be