CHAPTER 27
The artworks of this era only have two themes: gods and humans.
The paintings related to the divine are already clichés—just the depictions of The Adoration of the Magi in Florence alone could form a long queue.
Many stories from the Bible have been deconstructed and reshaped in various ways, mostly praising the true, good, and beautiful aspects of the Holy Mother and God.
It is precisely because of this that Leonardo chose to paint The Last Supper—this artwork depicts the final night that Jesus spent with his twelve disciples, and both the plot and composition are quite innovative.
The other theme, however, is humans.
Artworks of this era are symbols of identity and recognition.
Brides and grooms would often commission a painting before their marriage, and wealthy families would often have self-portraits made— the affluent Medici family even hired a stack of painters to depict themselves alongside the gods, as though they were servants of God.
When Botticelli painted a group portrait, he included himself, his gaze holding just the right touch of superiority.
Leonardo and Hedy's wedding portrait was also painted by Botticelli.
Their wedding came as quite a surprise, but after much pushing and pulling, it was delayed into the following year.
The painter transformed into a general, and the lord ascended to become a queen.
The cynical Botticelli couldn't be bothered to engage in any battles, and spent six months painting a gift for these two friends, which now hangs in the queen's study.
"And the Impressionist movement... its subject matter is nature."
"Nature?" Leonardo recalled the oil painting she had made and realized something. "Does it focus only on landscapes?"
"There are people, but they aren't sitting up straight," Hedy gestured for her servant to fetch some wooden boards and paint, leisurely sitting by the side as she spoke. "Drinking tea, bathing, picnicking—painting them in casual moments of their life."
"Why is it called the Impressionist movement?" Leonardo poured her a glass of wine. "Because it captures the impression of a moment?"
"It's a very ironic story," Hedy laughed.
The founder of this movement is Claude Monet.
He returned to his hometown of Le Havre and painted Impression, Sunrise in front of the harbor at dawn.
There were no gods, no people—just a lone sun hanging high in the sky, with the sky etched in deep crimson and gray streaks. The moored ships were faintly outlined by light and shadow, the water rippling with glimmers, reflecting the pale brown sun.
Even just hearing Hedy describe it, Leonardo could vividly picture the painting in his mind.
"It must be beautiful..." he murmured. "Sometimes, nature's scenes surpass the miracles in the Bible."
"But it was also ridiculed," Hedy said calmly. "While Monet gained many friends from this painting, the conservatives denounced it as absurd, mocking them by naming it 'Impressionism.'"
But despite the controversy and slander, this name ultimately gained eternal brilliance.
"Why did they oppose it?" Leonardo instinctively frowned. "Someone created a better way of expression, finding more profound themes—shouldn't that be a good thing?"
"Anything that becomes a trend has to go through this phase—slander, attacks, mockery, stigma," Hedy lowered her eyes and smiled, a touch of relief in her expression.
It could be Impressionism, rock culture, or anyone about to reach the pinnacle of success.
Leonardo realized something and softly spoke, "You've experienced it too, haven't you?"
She looked at him with some surprise, her smile deepening. "It may not be without its own kind of coronation."
The new wooden panel was quickly brought over, and Hedy set up the easel, ready to demonstrate the technique to him based on her memory.
She felt a bit grateful to herself—if not for years of research on colors, she’d be stuck with the pungent purple instead.
"Simply put, the key to this method is to use bright, fragmented colors to express how things look under different lighting conditions."
At that moment, the light outside was softening, and the golden rays of the sun were casting a warm glow on the street, intertwining with the shadows of the orange trees on both sides.
Hedy laid down a dark brown base and began recalling the technique to reproduce the scene.
Leonardo quietly stood behind her, observing the brush's tip and the colors on the wooden panel.
The color blocks fell onto the canvas as if scattered casually, flowing with direction and momentum like water.
There was no need for precise lines; everything was hazy yet light.
Dark brown, bright yellow, pale white, deep green…
"They have emotions, don't they?" he suddenly asked.
Hedy switched to another color, smiling as she replied, "And what else?"
"Brushstrokes," Leonardo said without hesitation. "Brushstrokes that feel like breathing."
This was in stark contrast to the popular methods of the time.
Whether it was icons or portraits, there was a constant striving for precision in the contours and lines, making sure they were clear and easy to understand.
But Hedy's painting—its brushstrokes were fragmented, like a glass bottle shattering on the ground, with thousands of tiny pieces reflecting off each other like countless mirrors. The delicate and varied colors created atmosphere and emotion.
"Your painting... it has strong emotions," he said, his tone more intense. "You interpret them with color blocks?"
"I think you're almost getting it," Hedy thought for a moment, uncertain. "No, you already know these things."
She had seen firsthand Leonardo's ability to express light and shadow.
For many artists, light is simply white, and darkness is black. Aside from black, white, and gray, there’s nothing else to consider or blend.
But in the year she first met him, she had already seen his Florence.
The morning fog was dull and unclear—yet he used a grayish-blue to contrast with the daylight, handling the sense of edges with remarkable finesse.
"Why don’t you give it a try?" Hedy suddenly stood up and handed him the paintbrush.
The man gazed at the brush for a while before taking it.
The street scene on the canvas already had its divisions and outlines, and the play of light and shadow was clearly sketched.
Each stroke on the canvas seemed like a school of swimming fish, as if it were her breath.
He dipped the brush in purple and began sketching the shadowed parts of the walls and trees.
Hedy didn’t need to tell him where to enhance and refine, where to emphasize or highlight—he seemed to intuitively know her thoughts, handling it all with perfect precision.
The deep purple and light blue balanced the contrasts between light and dark, while the deep red glow would shift its color because of the snow-white walls, turning into a gentle and bright orange-red.
They stood, she beside him, silent, yet it felt as though they were dancing together, floating and gliding in the entire church.
When Leonardo focused, his mind could hold nothing else.
He continually glanced out the window, comparing the street scene and twilight, using brushes of different sizes to create an atmosphere and the mood of the painting. His hand never paused, never hesitated.
Hedy smiled as she stood behind him, her expression relaxed and soft.
They were always in sync in everything they did.
Whether it was the work in the mechanical workshop, the drafting and issuing of decrees, or even playing a piece of music together.
No need for extra glances or words—just the awareness of each other's presence, and a mutual understanding and resonance that needed no explanation.
They should have shared the same pain—talent unable to be fully expressed, the frustration of unfulfilled ambitions, being falsely accused and arrested, being the subject of public gossip, mockery, and humiliation, the dire financial situation, and the never-satisfied need to perfect their work.
She watched as the painting continued to evolve under his brush, and her thoughts drifted to other things.
If it had been him who was taken away that time in the palace of Genoa, she thought, she would probably have done the same thing.
Without a second thought, suppressing all fear and trembling, perhaps even alone, she would have crossed the entire peninsula to Rome to bring him back.
If there was a soul exactly like hers in this world, it was only he whose soul could align perfectly with hers.
Perhaps even their pulses and heartbeats resonated in unison, like a song that never ceased.
When Leonardo came back to himself, he realized that it was already from midday to evening.
They hadn’t even had dinner.
“Hedy?” He turned to look at her, offering a wry smile, apologetic as he had many years ago. “I got so lost in the painting, I forgot about you.”
“I was like that just a few days ago,” she handed him the wine glass, “Now we’re even.”
The technique in this painting spanned three hundred years, yet the effect it presented was no different from the works that would come in the future.
As the sunset light bathed the quiet street, the light through the church's stained-glass windows resembled a shattered rainbow. The trees on both sides varied in depth, and the stone of the walls and the long street affected the color of the daylight.
Everything was flawless—no one would notice that this was the result of their joint creation.
It wasn’t until they walked back to the Old Palace together that Hedy suddenly remembered something. “Hey?”
“What is it?”
“I just remembered why I came to find you at noon,” she paused in her steps and looked at him. “Your birthday is coming up—I don’t know what to get you.”
Leonardo was momentarily stunned, his expression slightly confused. “When is my birthday?”
“Next week, it’s really soon,” Hedy rubbed her forehead. “Getting you a jewelry bouquet or something feels weird... Leonardo, is there anything you want?”