Deare Sister (selections)

The Portrait

My dearest Nannerl,

Of course you have a right to be upset about the portrait. After all, you performed right alongside your brother; in fact, your father had the bills printed to read “Two World Wonders.” Two, not one. You were with Wolfgang on the 1762 tour through Passau and Linz to Munich and Vienna; I remember Count Zinzendort called you (not Wolfgang) “a little master”. And you went again through Germany, in 1763, this time to Augsburg and Ludwigsburg as well as Munich, on to Paris, and then to London where the two of you performed that sonata for the Queen of England. And in 1765 you performed in Holland. No, do not doubt yourself, Nannerl: you were quite correct in calling Carmontelle’s portrait inaccurate because it shows Wolfgang at the keyboard, your father at the violin, and you merely holding the music for them. And he said you insulted him! I do know how you feel about the matter and I am completely on your side. Nevertheless, I must ask you to apologize.

And I know that your father’s recent decision to leave you at home and take only Wolfgang on this next tour doesn’t make it any easier. Though I admit to being glad not to be left at home by myself for once, I know it is terribly unfair. And I am writing this letter not to excuse or justify your father, but to explain. Nannerl, you are not to take his decision personally. It is not, as you first thought, that you are not good enough. Recall the Elector of Munich insisted on hearing you play the clavier, not Wolfgang; and there are many who share his high regard for your abilities. Nannerl, you are an excellent musician, a great performer. Nor is it that you have fallen out of favour with your father; he loves you as much as he ever did. (Which is, unfortunately, not as much as he loves Wolfgang. He is a man of his times. Didn’t you ever wonder why he started Wolfgang on lessons at a younger age than he started you? Surely you noticed he spent more time with Wolfgang? And it wasn’t until Wolfgang was ready to appear in public that he let you perform. You were young then, and perhaps did not notice... All the better. But I know Wolfgang had a head start right from birth and—but enough, I am getting ahead of myself.) Nor is the reason for your father’s decision, as you also suggested, that he considers you too frail to withstand life on the road. Wolfgang too came down with typhus in Holland.

Then why, you must be crying out! Let me try to explain. There is a time in every girl’s life when, suddenly, people stop treating her as a person—and start treating her, instead, as a mere woman. All of the doors that until that time were open are suddenly shut. All except one. It happens to every one of us, some time between twelve and twenty. It is happening now to you. (And later, when that door has been passed through, it too will close, and there will be nothing left: nothing left open to go back to, and nothing open yet to go forward to. As soon as I gave birth to a boy, your father’s attention rapidly shifted: I was of no more importance and Wolfgang was everything—but again I digress.)

This time of life is particularly difficult for someone like you, someone for whom the open doors promised such glory and richness. Why, when still a youth you were performing in all the great centers of Europe, you received excellent reviews and return engagements, you were meeting with all the important musicians of the day, you had a knowledge and experience of the outside world forbidden to others of your sex and age. And you were beautiful too, I know enough of the world to know this is an asset. Oh Nannerl, you had it all! Not even your brother had your beauty! But he had something more important: the right sex.

It’s a betrayal, I know it. It dashes to the ground all of the things you thought mattered: ability, dedication, desire. I had a talent for singing. I found it hard too, when I realized that I was not destined to become a famous singer. But, alas, I loved your father and wanted a family, so I accepted that loss for another gain. But you, Nannerl, I suspect it will be a long time before you marry, if at all, and perhaps you will not have any children. So it must be particularly frustrating and painful to have the only door you ever wanted open, suddenly closed.

I know this is little consolation, and indeed in a less generous heart, it would be salt to the wound, but remember, without you, Wolfgang would not be where he is today. You helped him become what he is. Much as your father likes to take all the credit for Wolfgang, it is simply not true. He had a family to support, a job to do, and while he was away playing in the consort, and directing the choir, it was you Wolfgang learned from. Remember in London, when Wolfgang was introduced to Johann Christoph Bach and the two of them, taking turns, with Wolfgang seated between Bach’s legs, the two of them played a sonata together and afterwards improvised. What a delight that was to everyone! Of course I knew it was with you he learned how to do that. I remember you, as a mere girl of ten, taking your little brother, then six, and ‘babysitting’ him just like that. And there was so much more. All the musical games you made up, and the time you spent helping his little hand form the notes on the staff when he could not yet write the letters of the alphabet. When I saw how much more valuable it was to have you spend time with your music and with your brother, well, I did not force upon you all the domestic duties it is common for daughters to bear. Besides, how many women get to do the washing and cooking to the music of such artistic genius!

And all of that makes this last bit even harder to tell you. You suggested that I ask Carmontelle to re-do the portrait. That is an excellent idea, but it cannot be done. You see, the one you saw was already a second version, done at my insistence. Nannerl, in the first one, you were not there at all. The man had excluded you completely, left you out altogether. (And the portrait you see now is his idea of atonement.)

Love,

Mother

***

The Stone

February, 1510

Benetta—

So you really did it! I saw your marble come from the quarry today. It is a very big piece! Where will you put it? It won’t fit in your apron pocket like your peach stones— But I guess you’re no longer going to hide your work. I envy you that. People will know now, they will be saying ‘Benetta, the sculptor’!

And ‘Properzia, the notary’s daughter’. If I am lucky, ‘Properzia, Raphael’s friend’. No—if I am lucky, ‘Properzia, Benetta’s friend’!

No, if you’re lucky. Benetta, do you really think that by doing something big you will become famous? You know quantity has nothing to do with quality! The size is irrelevant. Not to mention impractical. You won’t be able to hide it—and I don’t mean from your husband now—well, you hear the talk of invasion as much as I do. And you won’t be able to carry your work with you wherever you go—around the house, around town, around the country. What if your husband gets posted somewhere else, again? You will even have to build a separate room to work in (I do wonder where the money is coming from), and then you will be able to work only there—what of the summer days we spent in the meadows with our tiny stones?

Benetta, it seems like such a risk. To do something so big. I mean, well it had better be good, because it may be the last piece you do—it will take you so long! Yesterday you had ideas for ten different pieces. You won’t have time for them all now—are you sure you really want to spend five years on one piece? (And that is with assistants—who will want to be paid. Tell me, do you honestly look forward to collaboration or do you now, like Michelangelo, just want to give orders to other people?)

But all right, you have made your choice. Big it is. But why marble? Why not wood? (I’ll use the peach pits and you can use the peach trees!) There’s lots of it and it’s far cheaper. Is that it? Do you believe that the rarer it is, the more valuable it is? But that’s silly! I need only go to the orchard and the ceramic artists simply go down to the river—but so what! How will having to order your material from far away make your piece any better? And why should something expensive be more valuable? Air is free, but I consider it valuable indeed. Just because you have to pay dearly for your marble— And again, consider the risk—I mean, suppose it isn’t great—all that money—

And listen, there’s more to it than all of that: don’t you see, by using marble, by using material that’s rare and expensive, you’re helping to make art rare and expensive—its production andits acquisition.

And in our society, who is it who has the money? Not us! Our husbands, our fathers, our men! So it’s not only elitist, it’s also sexist! Benetta, as it is, only men are ‘allowed’ the desire to be an artist (of all Marcantonio’s students, we two are the only women—and if it weren’t for the fact that we also had to audition, we’d never be able to withstand the comments, you know that). Don’t give them a monopoly to the meansas well!

Either way, size, or rarity, or expense, it’s formyou’re focussing on. Pretence, not substance—not essence! Tell me, which is of greater value: an inconsequential, meaningless figure done of an eighteen cube feet of solid gold, or a piece so strong in emotion you weep or so disturbing to the mind it shakes some fundamental belief—made out of a handful of clay?

Benetta, you’re breaking with tradition—women have a long line of work in miniatures: Anastasie with her paintings, continuing what Laya did as far back as 100 B.C., and the jewelry artisans, the petite-pointistes— And yes, sometimes it’s good to break out of the mold, but you’re merely taking up a fad! This obsession with bigness, it’s only the result of the current fusion of sculpture with architecture—and certain male egos. Are you trying to outdo Michelangelo’s David? Is yourmarble nineteen feet high? I’m not saying I don’t admire his work. It is good. Just not necessarily better.

Yet if we must compare, I do think ‘ladies’ art’ wins out. It requires a far greater sensitivity of touch, such fine motor control, exacting precision skills— Could your Michelangelo do a crucifix on an apricot stone? On a cherry stone? Could he have done the set I just finished—eleven stones with Apostles on one side, saints on the other? We don’t need science to tell us that women’s fingertips are more sensitive: we knowmen’s touch is coarse, and clumsy—fit only to handle rock.

with great affection,

Properzia

***

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