The Painting

Do people ever really know the impact of their words on others? Do they actually comprehend the depth of joy or sorrow words can bring? This is a question I have been asking myself from an early age. In fact from as far back as I canremember.

It all started with the whispers from the adults around me, talking to my parents, or behind my parents’ back whilst towering above me as a young child. I was not the best looking child amongst my siblings or in our neighbourhood, but to hear people’s comments such as

“My goodness, not very pretty is she?”

“Poor child, she is no oil painting, bless her”.

They would say it with a mixture of disdain, superiority, pity and even plain enjoyment at saying something hurtful to my parents and in turn, later on, hurtful to me. Why would they want to do that to an innocent child?

I guess the reason was that people were jealous that I was born in a powerful family in days gone by, so they relished the fact that we had lost everything and, through their words, they were adding to our shame and disgrace and enjoying a subtle revenge for the lack in their own lives. Still, it was hard to understand their reasons for such unnecessary nastiness. I had never done anything bad or hurtful to them, I was just being me.

I was loved by my family and that is all I needed. I guess unkindness to some comes more easily than compassion.

As I grew up, I carried on frequently hearing “Hey Liz, you are ugly, by God you are no oil painting. Look at you, ha-ha who will ever want you?” I would be with my siblings who would

try to protect me from the nastiness of the children. Of course being only children they repeated what they had heard their parents say. It did hurt but I was fortunate that, when becoming a teenager, I started to change and after a while the comments stopped bothering me. I was too busy applying myself to learning all that I needed to be a good wife, as I knew that soon I would be married. My parents had already promised me to Francesco. Being 14 years older than me, he seemed so old to me but I did not have any say in it.

Our families had known each other for a long time so it was obvious I would marry Francesco. I was growing up anyway, my body and my face were changing and I was getting prettier. At least this is what I thought.

So it was, that, when I turned 15, I married a 29 year old man. Yes, in my eyes he was old. However he was wealthy and sort of kind, so my life was not too bad. I had grown into a young woman by then and I knew that he found me pretty. I knew because he told me often.

We lived in a lovely house in a beautiful town full of cathedral, churches and art. Soon our

marriage was blessed with children (in fact I ended up having 6 of them). We had three boys and three girls.

I felt sad when we sent my eldest daughter to a convent when she was 12. I know it was a necessary tradition as, by then, we could not provide her with a dowry for a suitable marriage, but it broke my heart.

A few years into our married life, through our church,Francesco met a young artist who lived with his father. So,when my second son Andrea was born, Francesco asked the young man to paint a portrait of me. He wanted to hang the painting in our home. I felt such a mature woman posing for a portrait. I was officially a Dona, a respected married woman, despite my youth.

It was a lengthy process though, which took hours of my time,sitting looking serene when all I felt at times was sadness inside me just thinking of my poor girl in the convent. It took a good few years of sitting for most of the portrait to be painted. During that time my daughter died in the convent. She was only 19 and from then on, sadness left its imprint on my face, robbing me of joy, and life in general became a struggle.

Leo was very good, he understood my sorrow and he knew I would not, and could not, smile for him any more. Thinking back, I had never envisaged anyone ever wanting to paint me, Lisa Da Gioncodo, let alone being painted by one of the rising artists in Florence. Little did I know that, centuries later, thanks to Leonardo’s skills, my face would end up being one of the most expensive and the most famous portraitin the entire world?

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have been able to see the faces of the people commenting on my looks all those years ago? Quite honestly this feels to me like Poetic Justice…

" Régine Demuynck originally from France, has a passion for the word and has written several poems and flash fiction. She is a linguist, a language teacher and lives in West Sussex. 

Régine, who writes under the name of Andrée Roby, published her first novella called "Double Vision" in January 2019. It was voted "Book of the month for April 2019" by the publisher Tredition.  She is currently writing a sequel called "Failed Vision".