27 ...

The evening was winding down. Coffee had been served, and finally Donatello and Michelangelo were chatting quietly, while Mondrian was trying to answer my questions about Broadway Boogie Woogie. Having seen the painting at the Museum of Modern Art earlier in the week, I had been struck by the edges of the painted squares, rectangles and lines. 


"Your edges are not especially sharp; I mean that they could have been much more precise, yet you chose to leave them slightly rough, less defined. Common practice in the past few decades, if one wanted crisp edges, would be to tape around the area to be painted, seal the edges of the tape with a polymer medium or gel, and when that is dry, apply the paint and remove the tape. The edges are razor sharp. Why, and I suppose how, did you leave your edges a bit fuzzy?"

Mondrian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You must remember David, that I was working with oils, not acrylic paint. So there was that limitation – it is a little more difficult to use a method such as you describe to define edges in an oil painting. But, you are correct; it was a conscious decision. If I had wished to make crisp edges, I'd have found a way. No, that was never my aim.

"I am a painter David. Like you, I enjoy the physical properties of the paint, and I make decisions intuitively. People see the structure of my later paintings – the neo-plastic paintings – and because of the vertical and horizontal regularity of these works and perhaps after having read something about my particular nature, they assume that everything about the paintings is rigid and fastidious. That simply isn't true.

"Now I grant that it's easy to make this mistake; but in fact I love the properties of paint. I enjoy the painterly use of brushes, and I have never intended that my touch, as they say today, should be invisible.

"I used strips of paper to define the edges of shapes. And then sometimes I would later add a little 'kerf' to those edges by laying down another strip of paper and repainting. Or I might paint to the edge freehand if necessary. Either way, one can see my hand at work. After all, this is a human process, is it not?"

It was time to go. 

Noisily pushing back our chairs, we stood, stretched and left the restaurant. It was dark now, but the streetlights, restaurant windows and passing cars were enough to suggest a twinkling Roman liveliness. Pausing on the sidewalk, Mondrian lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Traffic had quieted somewhat, and the smell of the evening air carried the promise of rain, as well as that nostalgic aroma of tobacco. Across the piazza, the empty theatre awaited its next performance, tomorrow. 

Mondrian had decided to head home straight away. I planned to accompany Donatello back to Firenze in the morning, and Michelangelo had chosen to stay here in Rome. We shook hands, exchanged good wishes and parted, and again I wondered where each of them was really going, and whether they had been here at all. Nevertheless, Donatello and I arranged a time and place to meet at the Termini in the morning.

The hotel Rex on Via Torino was just a few short blocks away. Still preoccupied, I found the nondescript entrance, climbed the few stairs to the reception desk where I picked up my key, and made my way along the hallway to the left. 

The room was almost satisfactory, if predictable. It was just a hotel and no more, a room that showed signs of wear and tear: the dark carpet was spotted in a couple of places, paint was chipped here and there, and the bathroom appeared to have been cleaned by someone who years ago had grown weary of the cleaning routine. But I was only here for a few nights, and the hotel was a short walk from the Termini - Rome's main railway station. 

My laptop woke quickly. I googled “Donatello,” found the Vasari biography, and refreshed my memory. Tomorrow’s train trip, I thought, should be very interesting.