I hate it when people are angry with me. I hadn’t meant to break her heart; I never mean to break their hearts, but I didn’t follow after her. Instead, I sat down, pulled out my sketchbook, and began to copy my own altarpiece. There were so many details that still needed perfecting: the Madonna’s head was too small, the priest’s feet were awkward, and—uffa—although the boy in red tights breaking a stick over his knee was good (he was inspired by a figure in Luca Signorelli’s panel of the same subject), his weight shifted so far back over his hips that, if he’d been a real boy, he would’ve toppled over. My painting might have been good enough to beat Perugino, but it wasn’t perfect. Not yet. It was time for me to chase after the painters who were even better than Perugino— the Botticellis, Ghirlandaios, Leonardos of the world. It was time for me to find those painters, study them, copy them—copy, copy, copy, copy them—until I could take what they did and best it, too. Until there was no painter above me—except me.

Chapter III

Chapter III

September 1504

Florence

T hank the Blessed Mary that sculptor is not a painter.

That’s what I thought the first time I saw that giant. Have you seen it? Not copies of it, but the actual thing standing guard outside of city hall. He’s overwhelming, isn’t he? Is it his size? His glare? All that gleaming polished whiteness? I approached quickly, hoping it would shrink upon closer inspection, but it only grew taller. Staring up at him that first time, I felt how the shepherd boy must’ve felt when facing down his own giant: fearful, anxious, doubtful, and yet flush with faith that I could—somehow—find a way to defeat that undefeatable foe. It’s ironic that I felt that way not while staring up at a statue of Goliath, but of David.