We present an extract from Sacrifice for The Master, the debut novel by Dublin-born, London-based Nicola Onwordi.
Rome, 1598 and the Italian Baroque artist, Caravaggio, is in Tor di Nona Prison. On arrival, Caravaggio entertains the prisoners with monologues about his life, but soon becomes withdrawn, as he feels abandoned by his patron, Cardinal del Monte. Deeply affected by his encounters with Caravaggio, a prison guard is determined to help prevent Caravaggio's physical and mental deterioration, but he cannot imagine the consequences of his actions. As Caravaggio nears his freedom, the guard, tells us his story...
Prologue: Tor di Nona Prison, Rome, Papal States, July 1598
The Master is at work. My eyes catch a flicker of light on the stone and I know that the process has begun. There will be no grand gestures or loud exclamations; he has no use for them. Everything he needs is within his mind. His hands are merely tools used to transfer his vision to the canvas. A tormented soul, he thrives on memories, visions, dreams, and nightmares - anything that keeps him awake at night.
Maturity has brought a certain calmness, as perhaps has his forced confinement here, but it has also enabled him to delve deeper into his subconscious and retrieve what is out of reach to most of us. Whereas many suffer in their nocturnal torments, he treats his as something not to be afraid of, but rather to be embraced and celebrated. His mind provides him with a much deeper source of inspiration than the conscious world can ever offer him.
He celebrates the cruel in the kind, the weird in the wonderful, and then makes connections which most of us balk at. Our subsequent outrage causes him to push the boundaries of acceptability even further. He delights in those reactions precisely because they signify to him that he has been successful in pursuing his art as a means to survive, but also, more importantly, as a way of engaging the non-artistic.
He commands the attention of patrons for valuable commissions, but if at the same time he can attract the curiosity of the man in the street, he believes he has achieved something great. He has used his art as a means to cross a line, a social line, a class line, whatever you want to call it. He mixes with both aristocratic patrons and those of humble birth, and the very fact that both sets of eyes see the same work amuses him greatly. I was astounded when he told me, that except in the very first instance, all this has been consciously done.
inspired Nicola Onwordi's new novel
The new and exciting style of his work attracted great interest, but it also drew attention to him because of his use of local characters in his works. Unable to pay the fees of the recognised models, instead he used the ladies he frequented, the men he drank with, the children he saw running barefoot in the streets. Impoverished, he had little choice but to use those he knew well, those the Vatican deemed impure; real people. Although logical to him, a scandal ensued, and panicking that he would be refused further commissions, he let it be known that it was purposely done, for surely God created all and therefore loves all equally. Anyone who reads the Bible knows that God would want both rich and poor celebrated through art. All are equal in God's eyes, and who would dare contradict God? He laughed out loud as he recalled this story, because as soon as the bishops and cardinals heard his musings, they were first in line to request his paintings for their churches, often the same churches where the lowly were refused entry. He frustrated these holy men further by insisting that he could not contemplate commissions for institutions that did not welcome all mankind, and in doing so he single-handedly changed the policy of many churches, without ever actually attending himself. His only visits were to assess the position and lighting where his work was to hang. He had all the time in the world for God, but no time for the institution of the Church per se.
The kitchen maid’s footsteps were the first signal that he will work tonight. She brought his tray early in the evening, before the other prisoners had eaten. Her light step and noisy jewellery were easily recognisable, as she came down the long, damp corridors, cursing at one point, having stepped into a puddle, her feet now icy cold. As she placed the tray down for a moment, all her bracelets fell towards her wrists, and the noise was ferocious in the dark. The low ceilings caused a frightening echo and I heard her take a sharp breath, then hurriedly gather up her wet skirt and the tray and continue on, ignoring her freezing feet.
There was movement from inside the cell as she knocked once. She called out, but he will not collect the tray, someone else will fetch it, and then inexplicably that man and his fellow prisoners will sit still and watch as The Master eats alone. It is a scene that I witnessed it many times in person – when I was a prison guard - the power he has over these men. Now I merely imagine it, as a fellow prisoner in a nearby cell. The hustle of the day subsides and the men settle down quietly to watch him, while the latest leader of the cell, usually a man of no discernible talent, controls this pack of murderers and thieves. But no orders are needed as The Master commands a peaceful atmosphere. The prisoners will sit and watch, mesmerised as much by this man, as by his work. He will still be preparing his materials when the bell rings for them and they file out to eat in the great hall, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
The rules have been relaxed for him and I indulge myself the fact that I started that process. We had never experienced a man like him before, and I don't believe we will again. Unique in every way. From the moment he set foot in here excuses were made for him; he charmed us without even trying. As the men file out to eat, two guards stand outside the cell, just to keep an eye on him, but really there is no need. I suspect that they are more worried about how things will turn once he leaves us. Will his stay have ensured a legacy of calm and peace? I fear not. As his freedom nears and he fades from our presence, so will his influence fade from our minds and violence will rear its ugly head once more. Everyone knows this, so we enjoy the peace while it lasts.
I close my eyes and picture his colours that draw me into their scenes of pain, joy and hope. I see dark, rich, strong, warm colours, each one of them significant, representing something only he knows. Emotions, which never bothered me before, consume me now. As imaginary scenes spin through my mind, I am caught up in his process, without actually being involved. I am of no consequence to him now, but his genius is of great importance to me, it is infectious. Knowing nothing of the vision he possesses, or what that feels like, I am called by I know not what source, nor do I care. Although only yards apart, our physical contact is gone now, but the strength I gain from his creativity will be my sustenance through harsh times to come. I have memorised the light, the smell, the sound as he works, so that when he leaves this place, I can recall them at any time, to get through the cold, dark nights ahead of me. His time at here is coming to an end, whereas mine is just beginning.
It is hard to believe that it is only a few months since the great artist, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, arrived among us at Tor di Nona Prison. The day everything changed.
Sacrifice for The Master is available as an eBook and in paperback - find out more here.
