The Crucifixion of Barna, Part 1 of 2

(In the late 1300's, veteran painter Barna of Siena was killed when he fell from the scaffolding whilst working on "The Crucifixion", the final panel of his fresco cycle in the Church of the Collegiata, in San Gimignano, central Italy.) I'll mount the scaffold first, sir. Mind the rail - at one point there, it's not reliable. Oh, careful, sir. I'm flattered you should come from - Monteriggione, is it? - here to view the work in progress. As you see, - that rail, sir - the scheme is an ambitious one. You have the standard scriptural episodes arranged before you. Here, my Crucifixion - unfinished, need I say? - in pride of place. The pinnacle, and culminating piece! Oh sir, you're kind. You like the cobalt ground? I know my limitations. No, it's true. I'm past the time in life when confident morn returns upon the awareness, like a song remembered. See my hair? Once chestnut-gold, where now it is not knotted with hard paint, the years have slowly snowed the color off. I'll never go to Florence now. No, no, I mean it. I'm no longer sure I want to. We work on this commission - there's my son below, mixing the plaster - which is fine. I'm not an angel. God chose not to shower astounding gifts on me - no, hear me, sir! - as on his Chosen Ones. I don't resent it - not now. For man, there's no escape from work. Our ambit was determined by The Fall. And if I do this task, and do it well, do I not please my God? And think again - a thousand toilers in December mud in earshot of these bells would switch with me tomorrow, counting themselves blessed. Here I'm quiet, I direct the work, and if not warm, I'm neither rained nor spat upon - that's something. No, I can't say that I'm happy. It seems to me that few are born to that, lead lucky lives, have touched the Savior's hem. Who of the rest of us, if honest, can claim to be happy? Well, I certainly can't.