“This,” he says, in front of a freestanding display case in the corner.
Lili frowns. “There are literally hundreds of these iterations,” she says,looking around. “Madonna and Child, it’s probably the most replicated image in Western art.”
“There’s more to this one, though.”
His hand comes to her hip. Gently but firmly, he guides her to stand in front of him and to look at the painting. Lili concentrates, trying to ignore his presence behind her, the heat of his hand on her.
Sealed away in its display case, the painting is smaller than a piece of paper. The more she looks, the more it invites her in. “It’s an intimate, devotional image.” He leans down to speak against her ear. A conversational tone, but her breath still hitches. “Likely wasn’t kept in a church, but rather a home. A personal altar, the type of thing the household passed by daily. Away from public eyes. There’s a tenderness to that quotidian intimacy, a carelessness that speaks to affection rather than a lack of it. You can see, in the bottom edge of the frame, burn marks where candles were placed too close. Some small, sacred world that was treasured.”
It is soft and subtle, but there is magnetism to the painting that’s hidden until Lili lets her gaze relax. Once she lets it absorb her, it’s steadily immersive. Hypnotic and sinking, more so than the bright Giottos and Lorenzettis around them. The delicate tracing of Mary’s halo, laced like filigree in gold; the draping of her veil; the worn shine of the frame, splintered wood. A blink and she’d miss it.
“It’s deceptively simple, honestly. We’re inured to Madonna and Child images because of their prevalence, but this small picture—sometime around 1300, it was a turning point for Western art. Duccio introduced a human dimension to representing divine figures: the foreknowledge in Mary’s expression, how Christ is almost consoling in how he pushes back his mother’s veil. That’s remnants of the Eastern Orthodox tradition, the Christ Child depiction. Intended to convey a sense of his godliness, balance the perception of him as both fully human and fully divine, his two natures. The sense of souls, not just symbols.”
“Are you religious?” she asks, a little surprised.
“No, I’m a rather staunch atheist,” he replies. “State atheism made that lasting impression, at least.”
Lili knocks her hips back against him, not appreciating his quip. Aleksandr laughs, his free hand coming to rest on her other hip, pulling her closer against him. “Anyway, a turning point. The paintings from here onout, even those that aren’t overtly religious, owe a debt to this one. It’s one of the masterpieces of the Met, but the way they’ve curated it, it’s subtle. It allows the power of the piece to draw you in, rather than through any forced staging.” He makes a sound of consideration, close to amusement. “It’s meant to be seen on your knees, actually. A devotional item, meant to be worshipped.”
Lili’s face heats slightly.
“I tried to buy it,” he concedes.
She rolls her eyes, letting the magnetism of the painting, its golden intimacy, fade a little.
“Why not just let it be?” she asks. She turns to look at him, and—he’s very close.
There’s a warmth that’s not entirely kind in his eyes. Intent, as he looks down at her.
“Indeed,” he says.
His voice, falling low and just to her in empty galleries, makes her remember the weight of his grip on her throat; the wet chill of marble, holding her through hurt.
Lili’s hands tighten into fists. She steps away, walking through the rest of the gallery.
She doesn’t like him.
She doesn’t like him at all.
She’s just—using him.
It’s a feminist act of reverse objectification, subjecting him to what the patriarchy has enacted on women for millennia. She just wants his body, and what it can offer her.
“Is that a reaction to your childhood, do you think?” she asks, willing abrasive distance into her tone. “This desire to own things—because you weren’t supposed to?”
“Ownership is a form of power.”
She snorts. “And you like that?”
“I enjoy power,” he says simply.
Lili winces. “Jesus. Maybe you are hopeless.”
“Have you ever really been powerless? Choices made for you, entirely beholden to others?”
“You’re speaking as a white man, in a world where everything is made for you.”
“I concede that, but privilege isn’t power.”
