Have you ever been to the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova in Florence? It’s the oldest hospital in all of Tuscany. I hope you’re never in need of its services—I wouldn’t wish sick on anyone—but you should visit sometime, because there’s a wonderful collection of art inside, including a detached fresco of The Last Judgment by Fra Bartolomeo. It’s an obscure painting, so I’m not surprised you haven’t seen it. I, myself, had forgotten all about it until I came across my copy of it. I flattened out the paper and pulled a candle down close to see. In the top half of Fra Bartolomeo’s altarpiece, Christ sat in a glorious heaven thick with clouds, surrounded by angelic figures, while in the bottom half, earthly figures writhed on terra firma . . .

My heart tapped fast, and I took out a fresh piece of chalk. Pull up sleeves, roll wrist, start to draw. Whereas Bartolomeo’s space felt constricted—figures pressed up against the picture plane—I used perspective to give the scene a grand scope. I removed the cross-bearing angels from the middle space to clearly delineate between the earthly realm and the heavenly. On Earth, my figures didn’t scream and cry for release from damnation like Bartolomeo’s but gathered around a central altar, in civilized groups, rising and falling in a rhythmical debate. Above, in heaven, I copied Bartolomeo by placing Christ in a large, golden halo and surrounded him with saints, angels, and clouds—heaven triumphant over the chaos of Earth—but I added a large semicircle of heavenly light to the top of the arch that I would eventually slather with gold leaf. It took me all night, through the next morning, and late into the next afternoon, but eventually, I sat back and looked at my drawing: the composition was clear, yet regal; dramatic, yet harmonious. Perfect. This was it. This would be my design for my Religion wall.

I got up and splashed water on my face. I hadn’t slept much in the last few days so went back to my bedroom to nap. I was sound asleep—dreaming of gold leaf—when a rap on my door jolted me awake. I sat up, confused and bleary.

“I can get you up the scaffolding.”

I rubbed my eyes. The room was dark; had night fallen? Who was in my doorway, holding a torch? “Maestro Bramante? Buongiorno, I . . .”

Bramante grabbed a jacket off the back of my chair and tossed it to me. “Andiamo.”

I got up and checked my appearance in my old mirror. My hair was disheveled, I hadn’t had a shave in two days, and there were red creases along my cheek. “Where are we going?” I pulled a wooden comb through my hair.

“I can get you up Michelangelo’s scaffolding.”