Prima scultrice in Europa, negli anni venti del Cinquecento Properzia de’ Rossi opera nel cantiere della Basilica di San Petronio a Bologna a fianco di artisti come Tribolo, Alfonso Lombardi, Amico Aspertini. La sua presenza in uno dei cantieri più importanti dell’Europa del XVI secolo desta scalpore, come anche la sua vita irrequieta, che si conclude con la morte precoce avvenuta per peste nel 1530 presso l’ospedale di San Giobbe. La sua più grave trasgressione resta comunque l’aver affrontato un’attività prima riservata agli uomini. Accanto alla scultura su grandi dimensioni, in cui la «schultora», come è definita dalle fonti, manifesta una precoce riflessione su Michelangelo e Raffaello, Properzia si misurò nella tecnica dell’intaglio che praticò su minuscoli noccioli, suscitando lo stupore dei suoi contemporanei e ottenendo l’elogio di Vasari. Nel volume l’identità della scultrice viene ricostruita non solo attraverso il catalogo delle opere, ma anche con l’inserimento di un regesto di documenti e di un’antologia delle fonti. Saggi introduttivi ne leggono l’attività in rapporto al contesto, evidenziando la vivacità culturale e artistica di Bologna negli anni che precedono il grande evento dell’incoronazione di Carlo V a imperatore.
Informazione di servizio obbligatoria:
Giovedì 11 dicembre 2008, ore 17.30
Residenza Provinciale, Sala dello Zodiaco
via Zamboni 13 Bologna
Presentazione del libro:
PROPERZIA DE’ ROSSI
Una scultrice nella Bologna di Carlo V
di Vera Fortunati e Irene Graziani
Simona Lembi, Assessora alla Cultura e alle Pari Opportunità della Provincia di Bologna
Virginiangelo Marabini, Vice Presidente della Fondazione Cassa di Risparmio in Bologna
Beatrice Buscaroli, Storica dell’arte
Saranno presenti le autrici
Per informazioni: 051-6598144/8426/9295
“Nell’ambito delle attività del «Centro di documentazione sulla storia delle donne artiste in Europa dal Medioevo al Novecento», inaugurato nel 2007, l’assessorato Cultura e Pari opportunità della Provincia di Bologna ha promosso, con il contributo della Fondazione Cassa di Risparmio in Bologna, la pubblicazione del volume «Properzia de’ Rossi. Una scultrice a Bologna nell’età di Carlo V», di Vera Fortunati e Irene Graziani (Bologna, Editrice Compositori, 2008), prima monografia dedicata all’artista.
Il volume sarà illustrato al pubblico giovedì 11 dicembre, alle ore 17.30, nella sala dello Zodiaco di palazzo Malvezzi, via Zamboni 13, alla presenza delle autrici. Interverranno Simona Lembi, assessora Cultura e Pari opportunità della Provincia di Bologna; Virginiangelo Marabini, vicepresidente della Fondazione Cassa di Risparmio in Bologna, Beatrice Buscaroli, storica dell’arte.
Prima scultrice in Europa, di Properzia de’ Rossi sono incerti sia la data (1490 circa) che il luogo di nascita. E’ documentata la sua partecipazione fra il 1525 e il 1526 ai lavori nel cantiere della Basilica di San Petronio di Bologna a fianco di artisti come Alfonso Lombardi, Girolamo da Treviso, Nicolò Tribolo ed Amico Aspertini. L’eccezionale presenza di una donna che osa mettere le «tenere e bianchissime mani nelle cose meccaniche, e fra la ruvidezza de’ marmi e l’asprezza del ferro» desta la stupita ammirazione di Giorgio Vasari che le dedica nelle «Vite» (1550) un ritratto leggendario, riservandole un entusiastico elogio anche per il suo virtuosismo come intagliatrice di noccioli di pesche, particolare abilità che viene descritta nel volume.
Le autrici, studiose di storia dell’arte, indagano la singolare figura di Properzia sia dal punto di vista artistico che da quello biografico, raccontando le tumultuose vicende della sua vita fino alla tragica morte.
Scheda sul volume e sulla figura di Properzia de’ Rossi (1490 circa – Bologna, 1530)
«Andò la fama di così nobile et elevato ingegno per tutt’Italia… »: così Vasari, in entrambe le edizioni delle Vite celebra la scultrice a cui dedica una specifica biografia. La figura di Properzia è avvolta in gran parte dall’ombra, congetture si avanzano sia sulla sua formazione che sul luogo di nascita, orientativamente individuato in Bologna sulla base dell’identificazione della scultrice con una certa «Propertia filia quondam Jeronimi de Rubeis Bononie Civis» citata nei documenti all’Archivio di Stato.
La vita di Properzia, che «fu del corpo bellissima, e sonò, e cantò ne’ suoi tempi, meglio che femmina della sua città» (Vasari), si caratterizza per inquietudini e trasgressioni. Sempre secondo lo storiografo aretino avrebbe narrato un proprio infelice amore extraconiugale nella formella Giuseppe e la moglie di Putifarre (Bologna, Museo di San Petronio), la sua opera più famosa, eseguita intorno al 1526 fra i lavori per la decorazione dei portali laterali della facciata di San Petronio, scultura in cui coniuga l’elegante «maniera» romana di Raffaello con il vigoroso rilievo plastico di Michelangelo, un «leggiadrissimo quadro» (Vasari) dove manifesta un raffinato erotismo destinato ad influenzare l’immaginario cortigiano di artisti illustri, come Parmigianino e Correggio, nell’età di Carlo V.
Nell’occasione Properzia lavora nel cantiere più prestigioso della città, insieme agli artisti più in vista del momento, da Amico Aspertini, a Nicolò Tribolo, fino ad Alfonso Lombardi e a Girolamo da Treviso, distinguendosi in quella forma d’arte che gli storiografi dell’epoca reputano di esclusivo appannaggio maschile, a causa della maggiore difficoltà, provata proprio dall’assenza di donne scultrici. Documenti conservati nell’Archivio criminale di Bologna provano che nel 1520 viene processata insieme ad Anton Galeazzo Malvasia, del quale era ritenuta «concubina»; di nuovo nel 1525 è coinvolta insieme al pittore Domenico Francia nell’accusa per l’aggressione nottetempo del pittore Vincenzo Miola.
Al processo interviene come testimone dell’accusa anche Amico Aspertini, la cui testimonianza sembra celare un’effettiva ostilità di Aspertini verso Properzia: a detta di Vasari, Maestro Amico, invidioso di Properzia, si adoperò per screditarla fino ad ottenere che «il suo lavoro» per la chiesa di San Petronio, appunto la formella con Giuseppe e la Moglie di Putifarre, «le fu pagato un vilissimo prezzo».
Alle opere di grandi dimensioni e di marmo Properzia giunge, sempre nel racconto vasariano, grazie alla fama procuratale dai lavori ad intaglio su superfici infinitesime, come i noccioli di frutta, «i quali sì bene e con tanta pazienza lavorò, che fu cosa singulare e maravigliosa il vederli, non solamente per la sottilità del lavoro, ma per la sveltezza delle figurine che in quegli faceva e per la delicatissima maniera del compartirle» (Vasari). Alla sua tumultuosa vita corrisponde un epilogo tragico. Narra Vasari che, al termine dell’incoronazione di Carlo V (24 febbraio 1530), papa Clemente VII chiese di incontrare la scultrice, ma ebbe in risposta una notizia «che li spiacque grandissimamente»: Properzia, morta di peste durante quella stessa settimana nell’ospedale di San Giobbe, era stata sepolta nell’ospedale della Morte.”
Dopo questo andò Gesù oltre il mare di Galilea, tra naufragi chimici e chiazze di petrolio, e seguiva lui gente molta, anche se non paragonabile alle cifre del Giubileo.
Or salì al monte Gesù e lì sedette coi discepoli suoi, dodici.
Alzati dunque gli occhi Gesù, e visto che di molta gente veniva a Lui, disse a Filippo: – Onde compreremo di che sfamarli?
E Andrea acquistò da un venditore ambulante di sospette fattezze extracomunitarie cinque pani d’orzo e due pesci, ma la gente era tanta e Matteo disse che essi ne avrebbero avuto meno che un minuzzolo.
– Li moltiplicherò in varie guise – disse Gesù
– Per me pancarrè e salmone affumicato – disse Tommaso, che era di gusti lassi e raffinati.
Gesù non lo degnò di uno sguardo, giunse le mani invocando Santa Beatrice, la santa fotocopiatrice, prese i pani e i pesci e s’apprestava a moltiplicarli quando apparve a lui dinanzi un Arcisacerdote inquisitore, vestito di oro e porpora, e gli disse: – Nazareno, non osare donare, si comincia coi pani e i pesci e si finisce coi miscugli genetici, il sesso in vitro, Blade Runner e le bambole gonfiabili.
Pur non intendendo il linguaggio astruso e post-aramaico dell’Arcisacerdote, Gesù rispose:
– Mi sembra importante che costoro mangino, lo faccio perciò a fin di bene.
– Queste sono pratiche genetiche e stregonesche, l’unica moltiplicazione da noi consentita è quella delle rendite.
Nessun nuovo pane o pesce nascerà, perché tratterebbesi di spermateisfora, fecondazione eretica, a distanza e senza contatto.
– E come la mettiamo con lo Spirito Santo? – disse alquanto arrabbiata Maria, madre del Nazareno, che da tempo covava quell’assillo.
– Quello lo abbiamo arrestato ieri – disse l’Arcisacerdote ghignando
– con l’imputazione di fecondazione artificiale, adulterio e rotta aerea non autorizzata.
– Posso almeno predicare? – sbuffò Gesù.
– Aspetti la troupe televisiva – disse l’Arcisacerdote – per chi vuole parlare, per poche migliaia di pezzenti?
Allora Gesù e gli apostoli se ne andarono e capirono che quello che stavano insegnando sarebbe rimasto nel cuore, nella coscienza e nelle azioni generose di molti, ma nell’animo di altri sarebbe diventato potere, intolleranza, razzismo e roghi.
Ma poiché Gesù era un bel caratterino, fece un miracolo ittico-eretico e in cielo misteriosamente apparvero una pagnottona toscana e una carpa di trenta chili, che precipitarono sulla testa dell’Arcisacerdote, facendone paté.
Questo non è riportato in alcuna scrittura, ma ve lo garantisco io, come è vero che sono l’arcivescodiavolo Fobio Azazello Stregatto Amelia Scopriti, amen.
Stefano Benni, da Dottor Niù, corsivi diabolici per tragedie evitabili
A Pair of Silk Stockings, Kate Chopin (1851-1904)
Little Mrs Sommers one day found herself the unexpected possessor of fifteen dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and the way in which it stuffed and bulged her worn old porte-monnaie gave her a feeling of importance such as she had not enjoyed for years.
The question of investment was one that occupied her greatly. For a day or two she walked about apparently in a dreamy state, but really absorbed in speculation and calculation. She did not wish to act hastily, to do anything she might afterward regret. But it was during the still hours of the night when she lay awake revolving plans in her mind that she seemed to see her way clearly toward a proper and judicious use of the money.
A dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid for Janie’s shoes, which would insure their lasting an appreciable time longer than they usually did. She would buy so and so many yards of percale for new shirt waists for the boys and Janie and Mag. She had intended to make the old ones do by skilful patching. Mag should have another gown. She had seen some beautiful patterns, veritable bargains in the shop windows. And still there would be left enough for new stockings – two pairs apiece – and what darning that would save for a while! She would get caps for the boys and sailor-hats for the girls. The vision of her little brood looking fresh and dainty and new for once in their lives excited her and made her restless and wakeful with anticipation.
The neighbors sometimes talked of certain ‘better days’ that little Mrs Sommers had known before she had ever thought of being Mrs Sommers. She herself indulged in no such morbid retrospection. She had no time – no second of time to devote to the past. The needs of the present absorbed her every faculty. A vision of the future like some dim, gaunt monster sometimes appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never comes.
Mrs Sommers was one who knew the value of bargains; who could stand for hours making her way inch by inch toward the desired object that was selling below cost. She could elbow her way if need be; she had learned to clutch a piece of goods and hold it and stick to it with persistence and determination till her turn came to be served, no matter when it came.
But that day she was a little faint and tired. She had swallowed a light luncheon – no! when she came to think of it, between getting the children fed and the place righted, and preparing herself for the shopping bout, she had actually forgotten to eat any luncheon at all!
She sat herself upon a revolving stool before a counter that was comparatively deserted, trying to gather strength and courage to charge through an eager multitude that was besieging breastworks of shirting and figured lawn. An all-gone limp feeling had come over her and she rested her hand aimlessly upon the counter. She wore no gloves. By degrees she grew aware that her hand had encountered something very soothing, very pleasant to touch. She looked down to see that her hand lay upon a pile of silk stockings. A placard near by announced that they had been reduced in price from two dollars and fifty cents to one dollar and ninety-eight cents; and a young girl who stood behind the counter asked her if she wished to examine their line of silk hosiery. She smiled, just as if she had been asked to inspect a tiara of diamonds with the ultimate view of purchasing it. But she went on feeling the soft, sheeny luxurious things – with both hands now, holding them up to see them glisten, and to feel them glide serpent-like through her fingers.
Two hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up at the girl.
“Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these?”
There were any number of eights-and-a-half. In fact, there were more of that size than any other. Here was a light-blue pair; there were some lavender, some all black and various shades of tan and gray. Mrs Sommers selected a black pair and looked at them very long and closely. She pretended to be examining their texture, which the clerk assured her was excellent.
“A dollar and ninety-eight cents,” she mused aloud. “Well, I’ll take this pair.” She handed the girl a five-dollar bill and waited for her change and for her parcel. What a very small parcel it was! It seemed lost in the depths of her shabby old shopping-bag.
Mrs Sommers after that did not move in the direction of the bargain counter. She took the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor into the region of the ladies’ waiting-rooms. Here, in a retired corner, she exchanged her cotton stockings for the new silk ones which she had just bought. She was not going through any acute mental process or reasoning with herself, nor was she striving to explain to her satisfaction the motive of her action. She was not thinking at all. She seemed for the time to be taking a rest from that laborious and fatiguing function and to have abandoned herself to some mechanical impulse that directed her actions and freed her of responsibility.
How good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh! She felt like lying back in the cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the luxury of it. She did for a little while. Then she replaced her shoes, rolled the cotton stockings together and thrust them into her bag. After doing this she crossed straight over to the shoe department and took her seat to be fitted.
She was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could not reconcile her shoes with her stockings, and she was not too easily pleased. She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her head another way as she glanced down at the polished, pointed-tipped boots. Her foot and ankle looked very pretty. She could not realize that they belonged to her and were a part of herself. She wanted an excellent and stylish fit, she told the young fellow who served her, and she did not mind the difference of a dollar or two more in the price so long as she got what she desired.
It was a long time since Mrs Sommers had been fitted with gloves. On rare occasions when she had bought a pair they were always ‘bargains’, so cheap that it would have been preposterous and unreasonable to have expected them to be fitted to the hand.
Now she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and a pretty, pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a long-wristed ‘kid’ over Mrs Sommers’s hand. She smoothed it down over the wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both lost themselves for a second or two in admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical gloved hand. But there were other places where money might be spent.
There were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few paces down the street. Mrs Sommers bought two high-priced magazines such as she had been accustomed to read in the days when she had been accustomed to other pleasant things. She carried them without wrapping. As well as she could she lifted her skirts at the crossings. Her stockings and boots and well fitting gloves had worked marvels in her bearing – had given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging to the well-dressed multitude.
She was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings for food until reaching her own home, where she would have brewed herself a cup of tea and taken a snack of anything that was available. But the impulse that was guiding her would not suffer her to entertain any such thought.
There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors; from the outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask and shining crystal, and soft-stepping waiters serving people of fashion.
When she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation, as she had half feared it might. She seated herself at a small table alone, and an attentive waiter at once approached to take her order. She did not want a profusion; she craved a nice and tasty bite – a half dozen blue-points, a plump chop with cress, a something sweet – a crème-frappée, for instance; a glass of Rhine wine, and after all a small cup of black coffee.
While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely and laid them beside her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced through it, cutting the pages with a blunt edge of her knife. It was all very agreeable. The damask was even more spotless than it had seemed through the window, and the crystal more sparkling. There were quiet ladies and gentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables like her own. A soft, pleasing strain of music could be heard, and a gentle breeze, was blowing through the window. She tasted a bite, and she read a word or two, and she sipped the amber wine and wiggled her toes in the silk stockings. The price of it made no difference. She counted the money out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray, whereupon he bowed before her as before a princess of royal blood.
There was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented itself in the shape of a matinée poster.
It was a little later when she entered the theatre, the play had begun and the house seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacant seats here and there, and into one of them she was ushered, between brilliantly dressed women who had gone there to kill time and eat candy and display their gaudy attire. There were many others who were there solely for the play and acting. It is safe to say there was no one present who bore quite the attitude which Mrs Sommers did to her surroundings. She gathered in the whole – stage and players and people in one wide impression, and absorbed it and enjoyed it. She laughed at the comedy and wept – she and the gaudy woman next to her wept over the tragedy. And they talked a little together over it. And the gaudy woman wiped her eyes and sniffled on a tiny square of filmy, perfumed lace and passed little Mrs Sommers her box of candy.
The play was over, the music ceased, the crowd filed out. It was like a dream ended. People scattered in all directions. Mrs Sommers went to the corner and waited for the cable car.
A man with keen eyes, who sat opposite to her, seemed to like the study of her small, pale face. It puzzled him to decipher what he saw there. In truth, he saw nothing – unless he were wizard enough to detect a poignant wish, a powerful longing that the cable car would never stop anywhere, but go on and on with her forever.
An Egyptian Cigarette, Kate Chopin (1851-1904)
My friend, the Architect, who is something of a traveller, was showing us various curios which he had gathered during a visit to the Orient. “Here is something for you,” he said, picking up a small box and turning it over in his hand. “You are a cigarette-smoker; take this home with you. It was given to me in Cairo by a species of fakir, who fancied I had done him a good turn.” The box was covered with glazed, yellow paper, so skilfully gummed as to appear to be all one piece. It bore no label, no stamp — nothing to indicate its contents. “How do you know they are cigarettes?” I asked, taking the box and turning it stupidly around as one turns a sealed letter and speculates before opening it. “I only know what he told me,” replied the Architect, “but it is easy enough to determine the question of his integrity.” He handed me a sharp, pointed paper-cutter, and with it I opened the lid as carefully as possible. The box contained six cigarettes, evidently hand-made. The wrappers were of pale-yellow paper, and the tobacco was almost the same colour. It was of finer cut than the Turkish or ordinary Egyptian, and threads of it stuck out at either end. “Will you try one now, Madam?” asked the Architect, offering to strike a match. “Not now and not here,” I replied, “after the coffee, if you will permit me to slip into your smoking-den. Some of the women here detest the odour of cigarettes.” The smoking-room lay at the end of a short, curved passage. Its appointments were exclusively oriental. A broad, low window opened out upon a balcony that overhung the garden. From the divan upon which I reclined, only the swaying treetops could be seen. The maple leaves glistened in the afternoon sun. Beside the divan was a low stand which contained the complete paraphernalia of a smoker. I was feeling quite comfortable, and congratulated myself upon having escaped for a while the incessant chatter of the women that reached me faintly. I took a cigarette and lit it, placing the box upon the stand just as the tiny clock, which was there, chimed in silvery strokes the hour of five. I took one long inspiration of the Egyptian cigarette. The grey-green smoke arose in a small puffy column that spread and broadened, that seemed to fill the room. I could see the maple leaves dimly, as if they were veiled in a shimmer of moonlight. A subtle, disturbing current passed through my whole body and went to my head like the fumes of disturbing wine. I took another deep inhalation of the cigarette. “Ah! the sand has blistered my cheek! I have lain here all day with my face in the sand. Tonight, when the everlasting stars are burning, I shall drag myself to the river.” He will never come back. Thus far I followed him; with flying feet; with stumbling feet; with hands and knees, crawling; and outstretched arms, and here I have fallen in the sand. The sand has blistered my cheek; it has blistered all my body, and the sun is crushing me with hot torture. There is shade beneath yonder cluster of palms. I shall stay here in the sand till the hour and the night comes. I laughed at the oracles and scoffed at the stars when they told that after the rapture of life I would open my arms inviting death, and the waters would envelop me. Oh! how the sand blisters my cheek! and I have no tears to quench the fire. The river is cool and the night is not far distant. I turned from the gods and said: “There is but one; Bardja is my god.” That was when I decked myself with lilies and wove flowers into a garland and held him close in the frail, sweet fetters. He will never come back. He turned upon his camel as he rode away. He turned and looked at me crouching here and laughed, showing his gleaming white teeth. Whenever he kissed me and went away he always came back again. Whenever he flamed with fierce anger and left me with stinging words, he always came back. But to day he neither kissed me nor was he angry. He only said: “Oh! I am tired of fetters, and kisses, and you. I am going away. You will never see me again. I am going to the great city where men swarm like bees. I am going beyond, where the monster stones are rising heavenward in a monument for the unborn ages. Oh! I am tired. You will see me no more.” And he rode away on his camel. He smiled and showed his cruel white teeth as he turned to look at me crouching here. How slow the hours drag! It seems to me that I have lain here for days in the sand, feeding upon despair. Despair is bitter and it nourishes resolve. I hear the wings of a bird flapping above my head, flying low, in circles. The sun is gone. The sand has crept between my lips and teeth and under my parched tongue. If I raise my head, perhaps I shall see the evening star. Oh! the pain in my arms and legs! My body is sore and bruised as if broken. Why can I not rise and run as I did this morning? Why must I drag myself thus like a wounded serpent, twisting and writhing? The river is near at hand. I hear it — I see it — Oh! the sand! Oh! the shine! How cool! how cold! The water! the water! In my eyes, my ears, my throat! It strangles me! Help! will the gods not help me? Oh! the sweet rapture of rest! There is music in the Temple. And here is fruit to taste. Bardja came with the music — The moon shines and the breeze is soft — A garland of flowers — let us go into the King’s garden and look at the blue lily, Bardja. The maple leaves looked as if a silvery shimmer enveloped them. The grey-green smoke no longer filled the room. I could hardly lift the lids of my eyes. The weight of centuries seemed to suffocate my soul that struggled to escape, to free itself and breathe. I had tasted the depths of human despair. The little clock upon the stand pointed to a quarter past five. The cigarettes still reposed in the yellow box. Only the stub of the one I had smoked remained. I had laid it in the ash tray. As I looked at the cigarettes in their pale wrappers, I wondered what other visions they might hold for me; what might I not find in their mystic fumes? Perhaps a vision of celestial peace; a dream of hopes fulfilled; a taste of rapture, such as had not entered into my mind to conceive. I took the cigarettes and crumpled them between my hands. I walked to the window and spread my palms wide. The light breeze caught up the golden threads and bore them writhing and dancing far out among the maple leaves. My friend, the Architect, lifted the curtain and entered, bringing me a second cup of coffee. “How pale you are!” he exclaimed, solicitously. “Are you not feeling well?” “A little the worse for a dream,” I told him.
Vide la testa bionda e la bella chioma stillante ambrosia e il candido collo e le rosee guance, i bei riccioli sparsi sul petto e sulle spalle, al cui abbagliante splendore il lume stesso della lucerna impallidiva; sulle spalle dell’alato iddio il candore smagliante delle penne umide di rugiada e benché l’ali fossero immote, le ultime piume, le più leggere e morbide, vibravano irrequiete come percorse da un palpito. Tutto il resto del corpo era così liscio e lucente, così bello che Venere non poteva davvero pentirsi d’averlo generato. Ai piedi del letto erano l’arco, la faretra e le frecce, le armi benigne di così grande dio.
Videt capitis aurei genialem caesariem ambrosia temulentam, ceruices lacteas genasque purpureas pererrantes crinium globos decoriter impeditos, alios antependulos, alios retropendulos, quorum splendore nimio fulgurante iam et ipsum lumen lucernae uacillabat; per umeros uolatilis dei pinnae roscidae micanti flore candicant et quamuis alis quiescentibus extimae plumulae tenellae ac delicatae tremule resultantes inquieta lasciuiunt; ceterum corpus glabellum atque luculentum et quale peperisse Venerem non paeniteret. Ante lectuli pedes iacebat arcus et pharetra et sagittae, magni dei propitia tela.
Apuleio, La favola di Amore e Psiche, dalle Metamorfosi
Altre immagini qui.