There is a certain dimension in which we dwell that is called reality, and it is both the precursor and the finality of the realm we commonly know as our world. Whatever that reality can manifest in its existential form is the only reality that most human beings will ever know.
But what if that aforementioned reality could open a portal to a surreality, and take precedence over the established reality? Can two parallel worlds exist simultaneously and be so transparent and viable? Could such a possibility materialise in a particular way that allows one to regress and progress through time freely? If time is, or was, a mere concept of abstraction, then how could it be measured properly?
If time were eternal, then its evolution would be forever linked to the illimitable passage from reality to surreality. Thus begins our story—where reality encounters the inimitable mysteries of life. Philosophy belongs to the elite vanguard of men of wisdom, and art to the destined posterity of men of creativity. There is something peculiar, yet intriguing, about an artist—as there is about his genuine craft. It is through this craft that the artist reveals his inner thoughts and imagination profusely.
The period of the Renaissance was an age of glory from whence the greatest minds of Europe revealed their ingenuity and grandeur. Many acquired recognition, but many remained incognoscible. Magnificent men such as Da Vinci, Tintoretto, Michelangelo, Donatello, Van Eyck, Dürer and El Greco shaped the era—but there were others of transience who had been reduced to the lost pages of obscurity. Until now.
I shall present to you one of these fascinating men, rescued from the anonymity of history. His name is Filippo Ottonello, a Genovese by birth and parentage. There is nothing distinctive about this man—except for one detail I had omitted: he is presumed to be immortal within his existence.
It was a casual spring day when I first became acquainted with the name of Signor Ottonello, in the city of Genoa in the year 1930. I was at an art gallery admiring a painting by a certain artist who reminded me of one from the Renaissance period. His name had eluded me, but his artistry was masterful and nonpareil.
The painting had arrested my attention with its brilliant strokes and superb technique. I looked around to see if the painter was present in the gallery, but he was not. That did not deter me from uncovering his identity.
I returned the next day, hoping to meet him or at least speak to the curator about the mysterious artist I was seeking. Fortunately, I was able to speak to the curator of the museum where the gallery was displayed and obtained the name and address of this painter. I certainly did not expect to encounter something I can only describe in words as unthinkable in nature and impossible in events—yet it did occur.
The painter I would meet was no ordinary man. When I ultimately discovered the incredible truth, I would be confronted by a shocking revelation. An entire life is a blessing, some would say—but to exceed that is an immortal journey. A journey that no mortal man has ever effectuated within his transitory life.
Upon arriving at his residence, I knocked at the front door and was told by the caretaker that Signor Ottonello was not at home. When I enquired about when he was expected to return, I was informed that he would be back in the evening.
Thus, I thought it prudent to return later, when he was present, so that I could speak to him in person. His home was located a few kilometres from the main thoroughfare, but I managed to find it with my vehicle without much difficulty. He lived in a Genovese villa situated near a towering cathedral, surrounded by a beautiful garden that encompassed the enchanting property.
As an Italian, I had always admired Genovese architecture and its lasting legacy across Europe. In the meantime, I returned to the gallery, satisfied that I had finally found the eccentric artist I had been searching for.
What I did not know at that precise moment was that there was far more to him than I had been led to believe. What I would ultimately discover would bewilder my understanding of life and its manifold elements.
When I returned to the villa, I was able to speak to Signor Ottonello, who invited me into his comfortable home. My first impression of him was that he was cordial and receptive to my unannounced visit. He was not a tall man, but he carried himself with artistic acumen. He wore a dapper blue suit, a yellow shirt, grey trousers and grey shoes that shone with a unique lustre. In his right hand, he held a cigarette with a noticeable gesture.
The villa’s interior comprised eight ample rooms, including a cellar and a sitting room. The mezzanine floor featured a vast veranda, a central hall, reception room, dining room, living room, kitchen, study and bathroom. Upstairs were the bedrooms and guestrooms. There was a terrace and a fireplace below, and throughout the house were colourful paintings and portraits, rich silk draperies, chandeliers, tapestries of elegant Venetian rugs, a stairway, ormolu chairs and settees, illustrated wallpaper, lavender and rose candles imbued with their floral scent, and exquisite furniture crafted from the finest mahogany.
All of these priceless things reflected the eccentricity of his taste. We sat in the reception room to converse, and I was eager to know more about him personally.
'Signor Fregoni, I was told by my caretaker that you wished to speak to me in private. May I ask, what brings you to my residence today?’
'I was at the gallery where your paintings are displayed, and I was so fascinated by them that I had to meet you in person’.
‘Are you an avid painter yourself, or merely a collector, signore?’
‘I am not a painter, but I am, on the other hand, indeed a collector’.
‘I see. Then the question is—have you come to purchase one of my paintings, Signor Fregoni?’
‘Yes, signore. May I ask, how much are you willing to sell any of them for?’
‘Is there one in particular that you are interested in purchasing?’
‘Yes...the one you painted of a young woman from the Renaissance Age’.
‘I see. Are you an admirer of that time period, Signor Fregoni?’
‘Yes! I have always greatly admired the Renaissance Age and the painters of that epoch, signore’.
‘How much are you willing to spend?’ He asked.
‘As much as necessary’, I replied.
He had smiled and was impressed by my expressive candour.
'You are a resolute man, and I find that an admirable trait, but I must tell you that I am not presently planning on selling any of those paintings in the gallery'.
'I understand, Signor Ottonello. I thought I would at least attempt to make a respectable offer'.
'And I appreciate that worthy gesture and your patronage. If you would follow me into my studio now, I shall show you a portrait that is much more intriguing than the one you were interested in purchasing at the museum. That is, of course, if you have time'.
'Yes...I have some time. It would be a pleasure, signore'.
He escorted me to his studio, where he painted and had some of his remarkable paintings hung. Much to my surprise, the studio was spacious and commodious. It was evident to me that this was the place where his innovative thoughts were created and developed. I had never seen a studio like his, in all my years as a fervent collector. There were innumerable portraits, all painted by him, on display for me to see with my gazing eyes.
'I can see why you chose this studio to paint, Signor Ottonello'.
'I call it my special place, for it is a sanctuary for my artistry,' he responded.
'I see why. It is truly magnificent.'
He then showed me the specific painting he had mentioned before.
'This is the painting I was talking about'.
'Incredible,' those were my precise words.
'I shall give you this, as a token of my gratitude for coming'.
'I am flattered and don't know how to thank you, signore', I confessed.
'There is no need to thank me at all, Signor Fregoni. It is my pleasure'.
It was a particular painting of Genoa in the year 1512, according to Signor Ottonello. As a collector, I was extremely keen on the details and painting technique he used. The oil on the painting was elaborate and intrinsic to the intense colour radiated and the tonal range.
It had created an unprecedented subtlety of a unique tone, in the vivid form and description of the ancient city. The people and merchants were endowed with a graceful image and symbolised the time period of the Renaissance in the painting. I had not seen any modern painter of this era paint with such a masterful technique as Signor Ottonello. I felt that I had been witnessing something extraordinary that was directly inspired by the Renaissance, yet undeniably original.
How ironic would my observable impression reveal the relevancy of my perception. I would never have imagined there was more to this man than his superb painting, and what I would discover would be incomparable to the very essence of his persona and demeanour.
Before I left the residence of Signor Ottonello, I had passed by his personal gallery and noticed a peculiar painting that resembled him undoubtedly, dressed in the exact clothing of the Renaissance. When I enquired, he told me that it was indeed him, painted by a painter he once knew. He never gave me the specific name nor disclosed many details, but I assumed it was someone that he was very fond of, or someone he trusted deeply.
My intrigue in him had suddenly shifted from simply discovering his exquisite art to then discovering his actual identity. Life is full of plenteous mysteries, but Signor Ottonello was a mystery worth resolving. His mien of eccentricity, his penchants for fine wine and fine clothing were obvious signs of his caprices. Who was I to carp at his blandishments? I was accustomed to listening to artists speak in random vagaries or abstractions, yet he at times would be more pithy than ambiguous in his responses.
That was something I did not ignore or dismiss in a facile manner. It is natural for any man to be facetious, but reserved as well. Signor Ottonello was no exception. He was not a man of diffidence, for he enjoyed the disportment of his interactions with those who were his guests or admirers. Signor Ottonello told me that his display of paintings would be on exhibition for a whole week at the gallery of the museum. The curator confirmed this to me as well.
Therefore, I had ample time to try to convince him to paint me a painting that would be priceless. I had not expected him to give me one of his paintings, and it would be hung in the gallery at my home in Rome, once I had returned there. At the hotel room where I was staying temporarily, I began to ponder at length Signor Ottonello's origins and paintings. I considered writing an exposition on him and his incredible art, but instead I chose to concentrate on where he had learnt to paint in the Renaissant style that was so detailed and conscientious.
I had my connections in the art world and knew many important people who could investigate for me concerning Signor Ottonello. I thought perhaps it was wise to have invited him to a local café, not far from the hotel he was staying at. There, I could converse with him and become more acquainted intuitively with his way of thinking and expression. Thus, I sent him an invitation, which he kindly accepted for the following afternoon.
That morning, I spent once more at the gallery, contemplative and observant of the details of his paintings. I wondered how many years of toilsome practice he had needed to master the absolute technique that required such precision and knowledge.
It is not common to meet such a gifted man every day, or one so deeply shrouded in enigma, but Signor Ottonello was worth the time and effort. When we met again, it was at the café as intended. We began the conversation talking about his paintings at the museum. He was carrying an umbrella in case it rained, although the rain was not expected until the evening.
After several minutes had passed, I then asked him about his background. I had met, a year ago, a painter from Vienna who had exhibited talent, but his talent would pale in comparison to Signor Ottonello's timeless abilities. As I mentioned before, there were few, in my humble opinion, who demonstrated his technique.
'Signor Ottonello, are you originally from Genoa?'
'Yes, I am originally from here'.
'And you, Signor Fregoni?'
'I am from Rome'.
'What brings you to Genoa, signore?' He queried.
'I came here to visit the art gallery at the local museum, where your paintings are being displayed'.
'Are you enjoying your stay here in the city?'
'Presently, I am'.
'As an art collector, you must have seen quite an array of paintings at the gallery.'
'Naturally, I have.'
'I am certain you did not come just to see my paintings'.
'I must admit that I did not, but your paintings have captivated me in the most extraordinary way'.
'In what way, if I may enquire?'
'In your technique and artistic vision'.
'You seem to me like an innovative man'.
'I am always seeking to enhance my perspective on art'.
'And I seek to enhance my art with my vision'.
'Please elaborate, Signor Ottonello. What exactly is your vision?'
'My vision, you ask? Perhaps you might not even understand my explanation'.
'I insist. You must have a muse', I replied.
'A muse? Life, Signor Fregoni, is my eternal muse, and it has been that way ever since the first day I picked up a brush to paint as a child. As for my vision, I have, through the lens of my eyes, seen centuries of splendid art, and have mastered my technique with the diligence of effort and practice'.
'Centuries...you speak as if you have lived for centuries, Signor Ottonello'.
'Would you believe me if I said I have?'
'Impossible. No man is an immortal by birth'.
'That is where you are wrong, Signor Fregoni'.
'I am afraid that I don't quite understand. Are you jesting?'
'No, I am not, but I shall explain in simplistic words, so that you can understand me more clearly'.
'Proceed'.
'Painters see in their paintings, or in those of others, what few people see with their ordinary eyes, Signor Fregoni. We see the artistic expression and life personified by the images painted, where ordinary people see only the relevance of the canvas and brush. In other words, Signor Fregoni, the secret of my painting is the same secret that Michelangelo and Da Vinci once discovered long ago'.
'What was that?'
'Life—that is the authentic essence of painting, Signor Fregoni. The true wonders of life are what inspire me'.
'But how does that equate to immortality or make you assume you are immortal?'
'If you will join me after we have finished here at the café for a walk, I shall gladly elaborate'.
'Of course!' I responded.
It was a pronounced confirmation of what his inspiration was in magnitude, yet at the same time, it offered me insight into the creative mind of a genius, despite his insinuation of his immortality.
After we had finished our conversation at the café, we took a stroll through the centre of Genoa, where we discussed the quintessence of immortality and how it was connected to our nature. He began to speak at length about the history of the city and the great contributions to art it had developed through its artists.
Naturally being a painter, he was instinctively linked to its magnificent evolution and history. His parlance was not glib, and his mansuetude was reflected in his enacture. The manner in which he described every single detail enhanced the beauty of the city.
I genuinely felt that he was speaking as if he were an emblematic part of the permanence of Genoa. His knowledge of the centuries—particularly the 16th, 17th, 18th and 19th centuries—was so precise that I was envious of the selective memory he exhibited. Wherever Signor Ottonello came from, he did not conceal his self-effacement or his inhibitions when describing his beloved city. This was abundantly clear to me.
When I persisted in seeking an answer to my question about his immortality, he turned to me and said with audacity, 'I have met Bellini, Da Vinci, Filippino and Michelangelo. Would you believe me?'
I asked him what he meant by that. 'How, Signor Ottonello?'
'Soon, you will understand. For now, let me just say that a painter never reveals all of his inner secrets, until it is time'.
He returned to the gallery, whilst I returned to the hotel at which I was staying. Once back in my room, my intuition compelled me to observe the painting he had given me as a token gift. Perhaps I could better understand Signor Ottonello's mind and thoughts.
As I observed attentively, my perception became increasingly keen on the images portrayed by the painting. I stared at them pensively, fixated, cogitating on the vivid scenes that were captured by Signor Ottonello of the ancient city of Genoa.
It was then that I began to be drawn even more profoundly into the scenes, and through my perception, I could see the scene transpiring. It was as if the individuals painted were alive and moving within the background of the landscape.
This, I could neither fathom nor believe to be possible—let alone an actuality. How could this be? Were my eyes merely seeing what I had wanted to see all along? Was fatigue causing me to blur my vision unwillingly? Whatever it was, it seemed so genuine and real.
It lasted for only a few brief minutes, before I was interrupted by the sounds of the cars outside the hotel. The unusual experience I had undergone was surely related to Signor Ottonello. Thereafter, I returned to the museum, hoping to find him there. Upon arrival, I searched for him. I could not locate him anywhere in the museum. I asked the curator afterwards, yet he could not provide an answer. What the curator did not know was that Signor Ottonello was no longer there.
My curiosity compelled me to find him—not only to offer my gratitude, but to speak to him about my inusitate experience. I knew where to find him: at his residence. What I did not know precisely was at what hour he would be returning home. Thus, I remained at the gallery, looking at his paintings still on display. As I observed them, I could not surmise how he could be so detailed and convincing.
He had told me previously that he crafted his artistry with toil and determination. What was more unbelievable was that he was not as well-established as other modern-day painters—or so I had believed. Whoever taught this man to paint was no ordinary teacher, and whatever he dared to paint was uniquely flawless. For a man born and raised in Genoa, he was certainly endowed with a natural sapience and percipience that few men could truthfully claim. Signor Ottonello was no ordinary man.
Late that same afternoon, I visited him at his residence. I was extremely eager to see and talk to him, but I was not expecting to discover that he was no longer living there. It wasn't simply that he had not returned home; rather, he had not been living there at all, according to the caretaker.
Oddly enough, this incredible realisation was proven true when I entered the home. I had been waiting outside for several minutes, when the caretaker noticed me and asked what I was doing there. He appeared normal in his conduct, but I sensed something inexplicable was occurring—something I was unaware of in its factual nature.
Afterwards, I requested to be let inside, to which he raised no objection. The thought that Signor Ottonello no longer lived there confounded me. I could not believe that he was gone, or that he had never lived there to begin with.
If this were true, then who was the man I had met and conversed with—at the residence, at the museum, at the café? Was he merely an illusion or some apparent ghost? No—this could not be the case. I dismissed this absurdity with reason.
Inside, I walked around, searching for immediate clues. I passed the gallery and saw the paintings still attached to the walls, but there was no evident sign of Signor Ottonello. I then headed towards the study. Upon entering, I saw that his precious paintings, the ones he had personally shown me, were covered in cobwebs and dust, as though they had been untouched for centuries.
It was a stark contrast from what I had last seen. The room looked badly untidy and unused. The caretaker informed me that the room had been closed and not entered for decades. When I asked why, he told me the proprietor had ordered it. When I asked who the proprietor was, he replied, ‘Vittore Ottonello.’ The name was unfamiliar to me, but I instinctively made a connection between him and Signor Ottonello. The mystery remained: where was he—where was Signor Ottonello—that I could not find him? The caretaker revealed that Vittore Ottonello was indeed related to Signor Ottonello.
This information connected the two, but it did not solve the question of who I had been speaking to all this time. The only pertinent fact the caretaker could divulge was that Vittore Ottonello had moved to another city in Italy.
As for Signor Ottonello—he had perished four centuries ago, never to be found again. He was presumed dead. I searched for him throughout the city of Genoa, but I was unable to find him amidst the active throng of people. I returned to my hotel and my room, uncertain of what I had experienced with the man I had assumed was Signor Ottonello.
I looked at the painting he had given me, and what shocked me was that, upon closer inspection, I could see Signor Ottonello in the painting. He had not been in the original composition. How had he suddenly appeared in the painting of Genoa? Signor Ottonello had once told me that the indisputable essence of his painting was life!
Art is the mechanism of expression for the artist, for it illustrates the depth of the mirifical mind of human creativity and intellect. Seldom does it demonstrate the opposite, or a facile representation of its complete embodiment. It is the realm and passage where ideas become reality, places become actuality, and where surreality becomes an undeniable feasibility.
To attempt to explicate art and immortality in layman's terms would be to attempt to grasp the meaning or entirety of something beyond our reasoning. Whatever mystery of immortality awaits us, it can only supersede our most rudimentary concept of its existence and congruency.
Perhaps I did meet Signor Ottonello in person—four hundred years in the present—or someone who claimed to be him. I suppose the truth I shall never decipher, but I must assume it lies somewhere between the ephemeral portals of reality and surrealism. The surrealities of life are the paradoxes thereof. Ergo, the question that many dare to speculate: is immortality an incompossibility or an unknown sublimity?
The days that followed my encounter with the caretaker and the disquieting revelation concerning Signor Ottonello were marked by a persistent sense of unrest. Not a night passed that I did not contemplate the possibility that my entire experience was a fabrication of the imagination—an elaborate dream born of solitude, awe, and a deep aesthetic sensitivity that blurred the edge between perception and reality. And yet, the painting remained. It was not a relic of my dreams. It was tangible, present, and disturbingly conscious of me.
I could no longer remain idle. Genoa, with its narrow winding alleys, its palazzos flanked with carved facades and mythic emblems, had become a city veiled in intrigue. Every corner I turned, every echo of footsteps on the cobblestones, suggested a hidden life pulsing beneath the visible one. In my obsession, I took the painting to a local art historian by the name of Professor Andrea Luzzati. He was a meticulous man, one whose entire life had been devoted to the cataloguing of Genoese art and antiquity.
I arrived at his studio, located in a modest villa perched above Corso Italia, where the Ligurian Sea could be heard crashing faintly against the rocks beyond the windows. When he unwrapped the cloth covering the painting, a look of astonishment crossed his face. His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted his glasses and leaned closer to examine the brushwork.
'Dio mio', he whispered. 'This technique...the layering, the composition—it is reminiscent of the late Cinquecento, yet...it bears strokes that predate that era, and others that suggest...no, it cannot be'.
'What is it?' I asked, leaning in. 'What do you see?'
Luzzati turned to me with a gaze filled with reverent incredulity. 'There are whispers of a legend, scarcely documented, about a Genoese painter named Vittore Ottonello, whose works were believed to be lost—or never completed. But this...this matches a description written by a certain Pietro Del Neri in a letter addressed to Giorgio Vasari'.
'You’re saying this could be the Ottonello?' I asked, heart pounding.
'I am saying', he continued cautiously, 'that the painting you hold is either the most brilliant forgery I have ever encountered, or it is a relic that defies all modern artistic chronology. And that...man'. He pointed at the figure now clearly visible in the painting—the figure of Ottonello. 'He appears nowhere in any archival record, no self-portraits, no depictions. And yet, here he is. This is strange'.
'Would you believe me if I told you I spoke to him?'
Luzzati gave me a curious look, and for a moment, I saw the rigid academic posture dissolve into the wonderment of a boy presented with a ghost story.
'Go on', he said, eyes narrowing in fascination.
I recounted the entire tale—our encounter, the café conversation, the stroll through the streets of Genoa, the vanished studio, the deserted house, and the caretaker’s cryptic information. I told him everything, omitting nothing, watching his face shift between skepticism and awe. When I finished, there was a long silence. Then he spoke.
'Some artists, my friend, do not live merely in time. Their work anchors them in something older, something deeper. The great painters—those like Caravaggio, Titian, even El Greco—left fragments of themselves in their brushwork. Perhaps, Ottonello did more than that. Perhaps he discovered how to breathe entirely into his art'.
He paused. 'But such ideas belong to myth, not scholarship'.
'Perhaps myth is simply truth without proof', I replied.
That night, I dreamed vividly.
In my dream, I stood once again before Ottonello's painting, only this time it no longer hung on the wall. It floated in the centre of the room, surrounded by lightless shadows. From the painting emerged a faint whisper, a susurrus of voices calling my name in a language I could not decipher. I stepped closer. The canvas expanded. The brushstrokes unraveled, each one revealing another scene of Genoa—a city not decayed by time but thriving in some otherworldly brilliance.
Then I saw him.
He was walking through the street within the painting, as real as he had been days before. He turned to me and smiled knowingly. His lips moved, though I could not hear the words. But I felt them resonate within my chest, as if my heart understood before my mind could comprehend.
'Life is not lived in one lifetime alone'.
And then I awoke.
The next day, driven by a newfound determination, I ventured into the oldest quarters of Genoa—places tourists seldom walked, where plaster peeled from stone and the air was thick with silence. I wandered past San Donato, past the Castello d'Albertis, deeper into the soul of the city. I felt I was being pulled—not physically, but perceptually—towards something inevitable.
Eventually, I found myself before a decaying building marked with a plaque I had never noticed before: Casa di Ottonello – Pittore del Tempo Perduto.
My breath caught. I realised that I was before the house of Ottonello.
The door, ancient and warped, creaked open at the slightest push. Dust filled the air like incense in an abandoned cathedral. I entered what appeared to be an atelier. A long window shed golden light upon rows of canvases draped with linen. My hands trembled as I lifted the first cloth.
Each painting beneath was more haunting than the last. There were faces of men and women whose eyes followed mine with an eerie sentience. Scenes of Genoa that defied architectural timeframes—some showing structures that had never existed together in recorded history. Then, one canvas struck me to my core.
It was a painting of me.
There I stood, unmistakably—my expression frozen in quiet contemplation, my hand resting upon the very painting Ottonello had given me. It was not possible. The details were exact: my coat, the fold of my scarf, the scar on my wrist, the cufflink gifted to me by my late father. I stepped back, breath short, and turned to see something more shocking.
Behind me, through the tall arched mirror in the atelier, Ottonello stood—not as a reflection, but in the mirror-world beyond.
'You’ve returned', he said calmly.
'Am I dreaming?'
'No. But you are seeing, finally', he paused. 'You have touched the eternal, and now the eternal has touched you'.
'I don’t understand', I said, feeling as though the air had thickened.
'You asked me once if I had met Bellini, Da Vinci, Michelangelo. I have. Time to me is no longer a tyrant, but a canvas. One we stretch, distort, and revisit. I exist where memory, perception, and artistry converge'.
'Then...you are immortal?'
He gave a slight smile. 'I am...expressed in the flesh and in the portals of time'.
'What does that mean?'
'It means my soul has transmuted through paint, through vision, through the will to remember and to create. My body has died. But my being—that has lingered. Through those who see. Through you'.
I could feel tears swelling. 'But why me?'
'Because you looked. You did not merely see. You observed. You listened to the rhythm of silence, to the breath of color, to the pulse of form. And in doing so, you opened a door that few ever approach'.
I stepped closer to the mirror. 'Can I follow you?'
He shook his head gently. 'Not yet. You still have to live. To carry this story, to share it. To awaken others'.
'But what will happen to you?'
He looked beyond me. 'I shall remain, until the last stroke fades. Then I shall return to the blank canvas. But you must promise me something'.
'Anything', I whispered.
'Preserve the painting. Speak of it only to those whose eyes burn with wonder, whose minds are not dulled by the cynical world. For they will see me, too. And I will speak again'.
He placed his hand upon the other side of the mirror. I mirrored the gesture. There was no coldness—only the sensation of vibrance and calm.
And just like that, he was gone.
I awoke the next morning in my hotel bed, unsure how I had returned. The painting was beside me, as it had always been. But now, in the corner of the canvas, where there had once been a signature, new words had emerged—faintly:
'Non tutto ciò che è reale si può toccare. Non tutto ciò che è immortale si può capire'.
('Not all that is real can be touched. Not all that is immortal can be understood'.)
I spent the following weeks in quiet reflection, documenting the experience in a journal no one else has seen. Professor Luzzati published a paper on 'The Ottonello Enigma', though he was wise enough to leave out the painting of me.
As for the painting itself, I wrapped it and sealed it away—waiting for someone else whose eyes, like mine, may one day awaken.
And should you ever find it...listen. Look closely. Do not merely admire. Observe.
You may find that time, like art is not as linear as we think.
You may even meet Signor Ottonello like I have done.
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