There is a certain dimension that we dwell within that is called reality, and it is the precursor and finality to the realm that 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. What if that aforementioned reality could open the portal to a surreality, and it takes precedence over the established reality? Can two parallel worlds exist simultaneously and be so transparent and viable? Can the possibility of that occurrence materialise, in a particular nature that allows one to regress and progress in time freely? If time is or was a mere concept of an abstraction, then how could it be measured properly? If time was eternal, then its evolution would be forever linked to the illimitable passage of reality to surreality. Herefore, this is where our story begins, and where reality encounters the inimitable mysteries of life.
Philosophy belongs to the elite vanguard of men of wisdom, and art belongs 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 his craft that the artist reveals his inner thoughts and imagination profusely. Hitherto, the period of the Renaissance was the age of glory from whence, the greatest minds of Europe revealed their ingenuity and grandeur. Many had acquired recognition, but many had remained incognoscible. Magnificent men such as Da Vinci, Tintoretto, Michelangelo, Donatello, Van Eyck, Durer and El Greco shaped the era, but there were others of transience that had been reduced to the lost pages of obscurity, until now. I shall present you one of these fascinating men from the anonymity of history. His name is Filippo Ottonello, a Genovese by birth and parentage. There is nothing distinctive about this man, except one thing that I have omitted, the fact that he is presumed an immortal within his existence.
It was a casual day of spring when I first became acquainted with the name of Signor Ottonello, at the city of Genoa in the year of 1930. I was at an art gallery admiring a painting, by a certain painter that had reminded me from one of the old Renaissance periods. 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 had looked around to see if the painter was present in the gallery, but he was not at the moment. It did not deter me from discovering his actual identity. Therefore, I would return the next day, hoping to meet him or even speak with the curator about the mysterious painter I was seeking. Fortunately, for me, I was able to speak to the curator of the museum, where the gallery was displayed and had obtained the name and address of this painter. I was definitely not expecting to encounter something that I can only express in words was unthinkable in nature and impossible in events, yet it did occur. The painter that I would meet would be no ordinary man, and when I would ultimately discover that incredible realisation, I would discover 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.
Once I had arrived at his residence, I had knocked on the front door and would be told by the caretaker of the place that Signor Ottonello was not at home. When I had enquired about when he was returning exactly, I was told that he would be returning in the evening. Therefore, 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 had managed to find it with my vehicle, without much difficulty. He lived in a Genovese villa located, nearby a towering cathedral, with a beautiful garden that was encompassing the enchanting property. As an Italian, I had admired Genovese architecture and its lasting legacy throughout Europe. In the meantime, I had returned to the gallery with the satisfaction of at least, knowing that I had finally found the eccentric artist I was searching for. What I did not know at that precise moment in time was the fact that there would be more to him that I was not informed about. What I would ultimately discover would only bemuse my understanding of life and its compoundable elements.
When I had returned to the villa, I was able to speak to Signor Ottonello who had invited me inside his comfortable home. My first impression of him was that he was very cordial and receptive to my unannounced visit. He was not a tall man, but he did impose with his artistic acumen. He was dressed in a dapper blue suit, yellow shirt, gray trousers and wore gray shoes that had shone a unique lustre. He carried a cigarette in his right hand, with a noticeable gesture. The decorative villa inside had eight ample rooms including a cellar and sitting room. The Mezzanine floor had consisted of a huge 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 fireplace below, and there were also 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 that were imbued with their floral scent, exquisite furniture made from the finest mahogany. All of these priceless things were the predilection of his taste of eccentricity. We sat down in the reception room to converse, and I was eager to know about him personally.
''Signor Fregoni, I was told by my caretaker that you had wished to speak to me in privacy. May I ask you, what has brought you to my residence today?''
''I was at the gallery where your paintings are being displayed and I was fascinated by them that I had to meet you in person.''
''Are you an avid painter yourself or just a collector, signore?''
''I am not a painter, but I am, on the other hand, a collector, indeed.''
''I see now. Then the question is, have you come to purchase one of my paintings, Signor Fregoni?''
''Yes, signore. How much if I can ask, are you willing to sell any of them?''
''Is there one in particular that you are interested in purchasing?''
''Yes...the one that you have painted of a young woman from the Renaissance Age.''
''I see. Are you an admirer of this time period Signor Fregoni?''
''Yes! I have always admired the Renaissance Age and the painters of that epoch tremendously signore.''
''How much are you willing to spend?'' He asked.
''As much as necessary,'' I replied.
He had smiled and was impressed by my 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 it is much more intriguing than the one that 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 at. 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 that he had mentioned to me before, ''This, is the painting I was talking about.''
''Incredible,'' those were my precise words expressed.
''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 had 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 of 1512, according to Signor Ottonello. As a collector, I was extremely keen on the details and painting used by him. The oil on the painting was elaborate and intrinsic to the intense colour radiated and 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 endued with a graceful image and had 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, from the Renaissance that was undeniably original. How ironic would my observable impression reveal the relevancy of my perception. I would have never imagined that 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 had resembled him undoubtedly, dressed in the exact clothing of the Renaissance. When I enquired, he had told me that it was him, painted by a painter he once knew. He never gave me the specific name nor disclosed many details, but I had assumed that it was someone that he was very fond of or was someone of his confidence. My intrigue in him had suddenly changed from simply discovering his exquisite art, to then discovering his actual identity. Life was 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 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 that I did not ignore or dismiss in a facile manner. It was 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 had enjoyed the disportment of his interactions with persons that were his guests or admirers.
Signor Ottonello had told me that his display of paintings would be on exhibition for a whole week at the gallery of the museum. The curator had confirmed this also to me. Therefore, I had ample time to try to convince him to paint me a painting that would be priceless. I did not expect 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 room of the hotel, I was staying at momentarily, I had started to ponder at length, Signor Ottonello's origins and paintings. I thought about writing an exposition on him and his incredible art, instead, I chose to concentrate on where did he learn 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 that could investigate for me, concerning Signor Ottonello. I thought perhaps it was wise of me to have invited him over to a local café, not far from the hotel that 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 of which he had kindly accepted for the following afternoon. In the morning of that day, I had spent at the gallery once more contemplative and observant of the details of his paintings. I had wondered how many years of toilsome practice did he need to ascertain, the absolute technique that required his precision and knowledge? It was not common to meet such a gifted man every day, nor one that was deeply shrouded in an enigma, but Signor Ottonello was worth the time and effort. When we met again, it was at the café, as it was intended. We began the conversation talking about his paintings at the museum. He was carrying an umbrella in case it had rained, although the rain was not expected until the evening. After several minutes had transpired, I then asked him about his background. I had met previously a year ago, a painter from Vienna that had exhibited talent, but his talent would pale in comparison to Signor Ottonello's timeless abilities. As I had mentioned before, there were few in my humble opinion that had 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 had 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 had 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 my 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 others, what few people see with their ordinary eyes Signor Fregoni. We see the artistic expression and life personified by the images painted, where the 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 Michangelo and Da Vinci had 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 that does 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 had offered me the insight to 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 in the centre of Genoa, where we had discussed the quintessence of immortality and how it was connected to our nature. He began to talk in length about the history of the city and the great contributions to art the city had developed with 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 had enhanced the beauty of the city. I had genuinely felt that he was speaking as if he was an emblematic part of the permanence of Genoa. His knowledge of the centuries in particular of the 16th, 17th, 18th and 19th century was so precise that I was envious of his selective memory exhibited. Wherever Signor Ottonello came from, he did not conceal his self-effacement nor his inhibitions, when describing his beloved city. This was abundantly clear to me.
When I had persisted on answering 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 had 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 had returned to the gallery, whilst I had returned to the hotel I was staying at. Once at the room at the hotel, my intuition had 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 was observing attentively, my perception had vastly been keen on the images portrayed by the painting. I had stared at them pensively and fixated, cogitating 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 I was able through my perception, see the scene transpiring. It was as if the individuals painted were alive and moving, within the background of the landscape. This I could not fathom nor believe it was a possibility, let alone an actuality. How could this be? Were my eyes merely seeing what I had wanted to see in the first place? Was fatigue causing me to blur my vision unwillingly? Whatever it was, it seemed so genuine and real. It had lasted for a few brief minutes in duration, before I was interrupted by the sounds of the cars outside of the hotel. The unusual experience I had experimented was related to Signor Ottonello. Thereafter, I had returned to the museum, hoping to find him there.
When I had arrived, I searched for him. I could not locate him throughout the museum. I had asked the curator afterwards, yet he could not provide an answer to me. What the curator did not know was that Signor Ottonello was no longer there. My curiosity had impelled 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 could not know precisely was, at what hour would he be returning home? Thus, I had remained at the gallery, looking at his paintings that were still displayed. As I was observing his paintings, I could not surmise, how could he be so detailed and convincing? He had told me previously that he crafted his artistry, with his toils and determination. What was more unbelievable was that he was not that well-established, as other modern-day painters in the world, or so I was under the impression. Whoever taught this man to paint was no ordinary teacher and whatever he had dared to paint, it was uniquely flawless. For a man that was born and raised in Genoa, he certainly was endowed with a natural sapience and percipience that few men could attest to their veracity. Signor Ottonello was no ordinary man.
Late that same afternoon, I had 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 at the residence. It wasn't that he had not returned home, it was that he had not been living there at all, according to the caretaker. Oddly enough, this incredible realisation would be proven, when I had entered the home. I had been waiting outside for several minutes, when the caretaker had seen me and asked me what I was doing outside. He appeared normal in his conduct towards me, but I had sensed something inexplicable was occurring that I was unaware of its factual nature. Afterwards, I requested to be let inside the house by him of which he had no objection nor quarrel about my entrance. The thought that Signor Ottonello was no longer living at the residence had obfuscated me. I could not believe that he was gone, nor the fact that he had never lived there before recently. If this was true, then who was the man that I had met and had been addressing, since the beginning? Was this man only an illusion or an apparent ghost? No—this could not be the case. I had dismissed this absolute absurdity, using my ratiocination.
Inside, I had walked around looking for immediate clues to find. I had passed the gallery and saw that the paintings were still there attached to the walls, but there was no evident sign of Signor Ottonello. After that, I headed towards the vicinity of the study. When I had entered, I saw that his precious paintings that he had personally shown me were covered in cobwebs and dusts, as if they had been like that for centuries. It was a stark contrast from when I had last saw it. It looked badly untidy and unused. The caretaker had informed me that the room had been closed and not entered for decades. When I asked him why, he told me that the proprietor had decided that no one would enter the study, as ordered. When I asked him who was the proprietor, he said the name of Vittore Ottonello. The name was not familiar to me, but I instinctively made the connection, between him and Signor Ottonello. The mystery would be, where was he at, or where was Signor Ottonello at that I could not locate him? He would reveal to me that Vittore Ottonello was indeed related to Signor Ottonello. This information did connect the two, but it did not solve the question of who had I been speaking to all of this time, at the residence, at the museum, at the café? The only pertinent fact that he 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 had searched for him throughout the city of Genoa, but I was unable to find him, amidst the active throng of individuals. I had returned to the hotel and my room, uncertain of what I had experienced with the man that I had assumed was Signor Ottonello. I looked at the painting he had given me, and what would shock me was that upon a closer look, I could see Signor Ottonello in the painting. He was not in the composition of the original painting. How did he suddenly appear 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 the expression of an artist, for it illustrates the depth of the mirifical mind of human creativity and intellect. Seldom does it ever demonstrate the opposite, nor the 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 that are comprehensive, would be attempting to grasp the meaning or entirety of something that is 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 in person Signor Ottonello, four hundred years in the present or someone that had 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 people dare to speculate, is immortality an incompossibility or an unknown sublimity?
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