When my mother gave birth to my sister, I listened to her birthing cries from our dim little parlor, crammed with two couches, three tables, four dressers, and countless stools. My father sipped from a strong-smelling cup of purple wine and stoked the fire. The birth lasted for hours. I missed a night’s sleep, only closing my eyes once my mother’s voice became hoarse. Anytime there was a moment of silence, I popped open my eyes, fearing she’d died. Then, came the howls of my baby sister, and a midwife escorted us into the bedroom. My mother’s face was splotched pink, and her chestnut-brown hair was matted with sweat. The bedsheet was crumpled. I crawled into bed beside her and begged, “Never do that again, Mamma.”

My mother pulled me close and whispered, “Oh, don’t worry, little one. I most certainly shall do that again. For God erases such pain from memory, so that we will walk through the tribulation of love again and again.” As the nurses laid my whimpering sister in her arms, I decided to save my arguments for another day. However, I never had another chance to make those arguments because my mother never had another chance to give birth to another baby.

Back then, I didn’t understand what my mother was saying about pain, but now I do because God must also erase the pain of birthing a painting, for if I could recall all that agony after it was over, why would I pick up a paintbrush ever again?

My Philosophy wall had been stewing in my mind for nearly two years, yet even after that prolonged pregnancy, the birthing of that painting was as tortured as any. I made thousands of sketches: from my first thoughts scribbled in inked pensieri; to detailed drawings of gestures, draperies, faces; and complex designs of figural groupings. Then, when the designs were complete, my hands turned to painting once again. I didn’t sleep much and only ate what my assistants put in front of me. I contracted a cold that turned to a cough. I wrapped wool scarves around my neck, balled my trembling fingers into shirtsleeves, and sneezed into chalky rags. My assistants tried to get me to rest—“We can do it for you, maestro. Let us help”—but no one had been able to give birth for my mother, and no one could give birth for me.