By A Witness, I Saw You in Florence (2025)

By no means should this be taken into consideration as a historical account, and I do not pretend to deliver evidence of which to corroborate the validity of the story; in essence, this is what I remember of a time that smelled of the river and felt like a secret. This is a love story not between two people but between myself and an era. Of the heat and the humidity and the sweet sensation of your twenties when everything feels like it’s warped by the lens of stained glass in hindsight. 

I recall being led to the studio like a horse to a carriage, funneled into place to be used, to be a vessel. A small laugh bounced around the painted walls as I glided through the door; it sounded like music and landed in the small space between my ribs. The sound came from Andrea Baldovinetti’s parted lips and it was meant to land in the heart of the man across from him. When I told of our first encounter some years later, I had named the receptive man as Sandro Botticelli, however I was reminded the Florentine resided in Rome at the time, therefore rendering this memory an impossible dream. But perhaps I had not modeled for Baldovinetti at the ripe age of nineteen as I previously believed. Had the studio truly been occupied with the presence of Botticelli, which I am near certain it was for I can so clearly recall the outline of his face, the soft strings of pale hair covering his eyes, and most prominently the adoration that stirred like warm honey in the pits of my belly, my meeting with Andrea could only have been after my twenty-first year when Sandro returned from the Sistine Chapel. 

Therein lies the irony of recollection — an account of my own memory spoken from my lips and time has rendered it unreliable even to myself. Was I a teenager when I met Andrea but Botticelli was absent? Or had I been older and Botticelli was the one to make Andrea laugh?

I remember they had been close friends, so maybe familiarity has sewn Botticelli into the memory. Perhaps I am older than I remember. Maybe it does not matter how old I was when I met the painter, or who was there. But what else is sewn, planted, flowering foliage where nothing had actually grown?

Andrea stared through me for many hours. I don’t even know if he saw me as a whole person, or just as parts and outlines and shades of color. I saw him though: a wrinkle between his brows that deepened when his painting hand slowed, eyes dark but warm and glowing like gold in the light from the window, curls falling upon each other, damp with sweat and flecks of stray tempera. So I guess I did see the painter in parts as he did me. A person can only really see parts stitched together until they’ve had a conversation, before they truly know who they’re looking at. I remember upon seeing his face how plump his cheeks were, how his clothes didn’t seem to fit just right.  

When he was done stripping me of my wholeness, creating a beautiful proxy of all my parts onto canvas, he thanked me in a soft voice. I wanted to scoff. Thank me for what? 

It was a pleasure to meet him, I told him though I was unsure if I believed it. 

Some time passed through me till I saw him again. In that time I spent most of my days reading and listening to my dear friend Semiramide play her harp. Though two years younger than I, Semiramide had married, and her husband, who held liberal ideals for the time, encouraged her to indulge in the arts. Her hands floated over harp strings like an angel’s wings in the breeze.

It was in Semiramide’s home that I met Andrea again. Her husband Lorenzo invited many painters over with inquiries regarding commission for a passion project involving an edition of one of Dante’s manuscripts. 

Worry that the painter would not recognize my parts crept into my mind. I wanted to be seen, recognized. I understood at the time that perception was integral to my sense of self: if I had nobody to witness me, how could I be real? Semiramide would have remarked my concern as existentialist philosophy, something I should have had no need to dabble in. Leave it to the philosophers, she might have said if I had ever voiced my concerns. I felt foolish, then. 

Andrea’s glance of familiarity crushed my worry. He stepped towards me before being stopped by conversation with Lorenzo. I spoke with Botticelli, whom at that point in our lives I knew as Alessandro and spoke to simply as Sandro, about the poetry I’d been reading. Sandro and Lorenzo were well acquainted, friends even, and Lorenzo had commissioned a gorgeous piece from Sandro. Over the year of 1485, or perhaps the year after, I watched Sandro paint that piece. It was like watching God sculpt the Earth. Semiramide thought he’d make a good husband for me. Sandro and I were both uninterested in the prospect, partial to our relationship as close friends. 

My conversation was cut prematurely by Andrea gently kissing Botticelli’s flush cheek. Sandro you must be making this poor woman’s ears ring like church bells, Andrea said to my friend. 

I rather enjoy my ears filled with Botticelli’s words, I responded. Da Vinci turned heads as he waltzed into the room and Sandro pardoned himself to make conversation with his friend. 

I painted you did I not? 

Yes, I told him. You did some years ago. 

I remember the outline of your back and the fragility of your fingers. 

My worry had been realized. So you remember me in parts?

The unfortunate manner of recollection that comes with the eyes of an artist; I too often see only anatomy, muscles underneath skin. I would like to know what lies deeper. 

Is that so? I questioned his tone. 

Sandro speaks highly of your character, he said. I trust his evaluation. 

Sandro doesn’t speak much of you to me, I told Andrea. But I trust his choice in friendship. You seem close. 

He’s my most dearest friend, Andrea confides in me. 

Is he your mentor? When I asked this Andrea’s face puckered like my words landed sour on his tongue. He looked like a young girl in his moment of repulsion. He just shook his head and offered no further explanation. 

Botticelli had been born twenty some years before me; I had much to learn from his friendship and so did Andrea in my opinion. It struck me as odd that Andrea stood in opposition to mentorship by one of the greats. 

Andrea and I met many times during the next few weeks. My family began to question whether or not I’d been putting our name to shame, but I cared very little. They wanted me to marry, I wanted to know who I was before giving myself to another to figure out. 

Andrea, I said once when the sun bent through the windows of his studio. I continued with: do you think me to be unattractive?

Fishing is unattractive, but my intention lay elsewhere. Or maybe the language I needed for the feeling eluded me. The painter continued working, paying slight mind to my question. 

Try again, he said. 

I did: Why have you not expressed your interest in me in words? 

Who says I have an interest? 

Your eyes blossom like flowers, you fold open like a book when I walk into a room; it’s impossible to miss the quiet affection you hold in the space between yourself and I. 

My words proved jarring this time. Andrea released his gaze from the sketch in front of him and directed it to me. 

You should leave, he told me. I’ll fetch your chaperone. 

I do not want to leave, I told him. He moved across the room to where I sat, glided like an angel to a weeping prayer. He sat next to me and stroked my cheek with tempera speckled hands. At this moment I can’t remember what he looks like. He haunts featureless in my mind. I think it’s because this memory is less of an experience with another person, but a glimpse into myself. Andrea remains unfinished in this memory because he was merely a mirror to me at that specific point in my life. 

He kissed my lips gently and I returned the kiss with lazy affection, soft as a bruise, and the taste of him was clear of shame. Then Andrea placed his hands atop of mine and if I hadn’t been so breathless I may have noticed how small his hands truly were. He guided the tips of my fingers most improperly up the side of his ribs until I felt a rough thickness enveloping his skin, covering his heart. 

I pulled away from him and my eyes trailed down to his chest. I saw it then, the reason his clothes never seemed to fit just right. 

You should leave, he repeated, this time like a plea to stay. 

Silence carved the room in half so sharply my ears rang. I said that I did not want to leave. 

Andrea fetched my chaperone anyway. 

In the days following the interaction, I was cracked open, confusion leaking everywhere. At its root, the confusion sprouted from the stir in my gut at finding out Andrea was a woman: I wasn’t shocked, I was relieved. And that relief was obliterating. 

Whatever is the matter with you, Semiramide huffed when I appeared at her door. I must have looked crazed: the Florentine humidity and quarreling parts under my skin flushed my cheeks. 

I think I’ve fallen in love with Andrea Baldovinetti. 

Semiramide closed her eyes and sighed. My poor dear, come inside. 

I couldn’t tell my friend of Andrea’s secret, of course, but that didn’t seem to bother Semiramide who took care of me all the same. I never had had quite a grasp on myself as a human, an entity, a being with an existence of the tangible variety. A sense of self seemed like a mirage that glimmered just out of my reach, or a shattered vase with too many missing pieces. 

Seeing myself through Andrea’s paintings, through his eyes and words, I felt I was finally molding myself together. My love for Andrea made me more of a person than I had ever before been. I don’t know what melted me more: my realization that my affection and desire hadn’t ceased upon feeling the female flesh of Andrea’s breast, or that it grew deeper than I had ever felt for anyone in my life. 

Mide, I whispered. Her small body was curled up next to mine in her bed; she moved my tangled hair from my eyes with dainty fingers. I swallowed the sob that had been stuck in my throat for some time before saying: I don’t know who I am. 

You are a flame of love too hot for your own flesh, she said to me, it seeps from your skin and warms even the coldest of souls around you. 

What she neglected to say was that when you love like a flame it’s difficult to see what you really look like under the charred skin. Was I destined to exist for someone else? To be a light in others lives while I still search for myself in the dark? 

To have revelations is to dismantle what you know and that can be raw as exposed tissue. I imagine those who have been visited by angels must have felt visceral, bare. My angel, however, was all too human. Each second passed like a chisel to a block of marble and I was coming out whole, finally. 

You came back, Andrea said, morose, as I entered his empty studio some days later. When I said nothing he said, you can ask. 

Who are you? I asked. A woman or a man?

I’m a painter, he said. Who are you? 

I stayed quiet for a long moment, then: I think I’m starting to figure that out. 

Andrea wouldn’t move an inch, he just sat on his stool, paintbrush in hand, dark eyes fixed on my flushed face. Michelangelo must have carved him out of the same block of marble he did David. My feet carried me to him. Then I sat on his lap, the inside of my thighs on either side of his waist, don’t move — I won’t.

My lips connected where he formed his beautiful words. Try again. I did. Again. I did. 

I love you. 

You don’t know me. 

I do. 

I don’t know me, I stated. 

I do. 

Florence sang outside but I could barely hear over the bliss of discovering Andrea’s body and her discovering mine. 

I asked once, during a visit to Rome after sneaking into Andrea’s room and making love, do you prefer that I refer to you as a man even when we are alone? 

He said he didn’t even notice the language I used when we were alone. He didn’t care. As long as he could keep up the appearance that he was a man and thus could keep painting and become one of the greats. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at this, but I couldn’t quite place where it came from. I didn’t want to be a man, I didn’t want to be a painter, and yet I wished I could present another version of myself to the world, one wholly different from the self that I maintained behind closed doors. In a way, I was doing just that being an extension of Andrea’s secret. He was my secret in return. 

From the river, I watched us grow older with the revolving seasons; I watched my face change through Andrea’s brushstrokes. 

I believe it was Christmas at Mide and Lorenzo’s, because I remember the smell of dripping candle wax and rosemary roasted meats, when Sandro introduced me to his old schoolmate, Amerigo. Sandro knew of my affair with Andrea, and in the interest of keeping my public perception in good graces, continuously pressured me to marry one of the many Florentine men available. 

Amerigo smelled of wine, but didn’t reek of it. He had returned from Paris to work for Lorenzo as a manager, but held a heavy interest in geography. Our conversations lasted the entirety of Mide’s lavish party. Even during dinner I found myself sneaking whispers to him, and late into the night my throat felt raw from all of the words it had to form. 

Amerigo listened intently, and spoke only when he had something to add. And over the following months I began to notice Amerigo occupied my company more than Andrea. 

Mide chaperoned me to Andrea’s workshop one late spring evening, the golden breeze carrying wisps of brine in from the river. Before I entered, Mide embraced me in a way she had never done before. She kissed my cheek with a shudder as if my flesh was the frigid slate of a tombstone. What was that for, I asked her. 

I just wanted to hold you as you are now, she told me. When I asked her to explain what she meant, she told me: I believe Amerigo is soon to propose and you two shall marry. And when you do, it will no longer be proper to visit Andrea’s studio like this. I fear you will no longer be the darling angel I’ve known you to be once your wings are clipped by this wedding band.

Perhaps my memory is not always reliable, but her inflection on the word — this — cut though my mended soul so sharply it split seams. I can still hear it, her voice, the doubt. Mide never questioned why Andrea and I hadn’t married, which to my belief meant she knew Andrea to be a woman. And she did not care. Because she wanted me to be happy above all else. But she knew my heart beat for two people that specific spring, and she obviously held opinions for who I truly belonged with. 

The sun slipped into the waiting night and when Andrea said rumors of a wedding were tearing through Florence my face didn’t slip from its resting place. Andrea asked do you love Amerigo? 

I answered with an honest yes. Andrea just nodded like he knew it to be true as well. My fingertips brushed his tempera coated curls from his eyes. Are you upset? 

No, Andrea said. Well, yes, but I knew we were never going to marry. 

Because we’re women? I asked already knowing the answer:

Because I’m a painter. 

I kissed his soft lips, slid my knee between his thighs, and cradled his face in my hands. I told him, I love you too, I love you and you love painting and I hold no anger in my heart over that. 

I removed Andrea’s coat, then his tunic, and then the wraps he tied around his breasts. Not even a moment passed before my undergarments dropped to the ground beneath my dress, my headband pulled clean off, letting my hair bounce in coils down my shoulders. My mind was so loud with pleasure that I missed Mide’s shouts of warning. 

The workshop door gave way with ease from one kick from Amerigo’s boot. The shock on his face pierced my heart and my whole body trembled with hot fear and shame. I had never been ashamed of Andrea, and even in that awful moment, I still was not. I was ashamed of myself. I felt split. 

However, as Amerigo screamed obscenities at us, the heat in my chest dissipated. Like all of those times I’d been present when Andrea and Sandro finished a painting, I watched the entirety of my life come together in a single moment. 

I did not need someone to paint me to see who I was. At that moment, I was blessed with the answer to my question: Was I destined to exist for someone else? I had lost Amerigo, I never had Andrea. And yet I was whole. I knew myself so deeply — what I loved, what I didn’t, where I belonged and who I belonged with. Being witnessed proved needless; I existed on my own. I was real, because I was. 

Amerigo and I did not marry; Lorenzo and Mide paid him quite a large sum to move to Seville on business and never speak of me or Andrea again. I missed him dearly for a short while, but the grief of losing him seemed to be overshadowed by my newfound wholeness. 

Andrea and I did not see much of each other after Amerigo left. After all, he loved painting, and I loved everything else. I married not long after, to a man from Venice who did not have much of an affinity for painting, but read well and cared for me dearly. 

Andrea attended my wedding, as did many painters and poets and musicians, and as a patron of the arts they all gifted me wonders of their own creation. Andrea presented a painting of a young woman, uncertainty spackled into every feature of her face. The portrait was of a woman made of parts. I stared at her and then at Andrea. The painting was of me, the first painting of me. 

Andrea’s eyes, over a decade older than when I first met them with my own, welled with tears. As did my own. The girl in the painting was unrecognizable, but that painting was the first step towards the wholeness I’d been searching for. 

Lorenzo passed at the beginning of the next decade, and then Sandro and Semiramide, and finally Andrea. I fell ill not long after my friends; I had lived a long life for someone in that time, and I was ready to see my friends again. But when I died I did not go to heaven as I’d been promised. 

I closed my eyes on my deathbed, and when I opened them, I was looking down upon my body from across the room. I watched the staff carry me out. I watched the room change with the seasons. Then I was moved to a villa I’d never been to but I had come to find out was the Castello. People glanced at me as they walked by. Some lingered. 

A few hundred years later I was put in the Uffizi where I’ve been gawked at ever since. Across from where I’m hung, I can see some of Sandro’s best work. People often look at me with inferiority compared to their looks of adoration at Venus. There is a plaque below me with the words Portrait of a Young Woman by Unknown Pupil of Botticelli. 

The world does not know Andrea. I’m unsure why, of course, because I cannot leave the confines of my brushstrokes. I cannot communicate with the other faces painted in the gallery. But I wonder if they see me. I wonder if Sandro is here. I wonder if Andrea is here with me, all these years later. 

A woman is looking at me now, eyes fixated on the gentle expression Andrea painted on my face. What is she thinking of me? Does she know that I am whole, or does she only see that beautiful proxy of all my tempera parts? If I could move, I would squirm at her witness.