Madonna and Child – Filippo Lippi

In Prato, near Florence, having been commissioned by the Nuns of S. Margherita to paint the panel of their high-altar, there came before his eyes a daughter of Francesco Buti, a citizen of Florence, who was living there as a ward or as a novice. Having set eyes on Lucrezia (for this was the name of the girl), who was very beautiful and graceful, Fra Filippo contrived to persuade the nuns to allow him to make a portrait of her for a figure of Our Lady in the work that he was doing for them. With this opportunity he became even more enamored of her, and then wrought upon her so mightily, what with one thing and another, that he stole her away from the nuns. Whereupon the nuns were greatly disgraced by such an event, and her father, Francesco, who never smiled again, made every effort to recover her; but she, either through fear or for some other reason, refused to come back–nay, she insisted on staying with Filippo, to whom she bore a male child, who was also called Filippo, and who became, like his father, a very excellent and famous painter. – Vasari, Lives of the Artists

Vocals – Veronica Mansour

Guitars – Ted Stafford

Bass – George Rush

Drums – Mark Brotter

Percussion – Aaron Latos

Dulcimer sample – Greg Pliska

Clarinet – Peter Hess

Cello – Kate Spingarn

Clarinet and cello arranged by Greg Pliska

Lead and backing vocals – Veronica Mansour

Guitars – Ted Stafford

Bass – George Rush

Drums – Mark Brotter

Percussion – Aaron Latos

Dulcimer sample – Greg Pliska

Clarinet – Peter Hess

Cello – Kate Spingarn

Clarinet and cello arranged by Greg Pliska

Mother Superior said: there’s a friar,

He’s a painter, he likes your face.

A perfect Madonna.

Mother Superior said: there’s a good girl,

He’s a painter, wipe your face.

A perfect Madonna.

Be an angel, be a saint,

Sit for him, sit with him.

I sat, blind with modesty.

I sat, set my eyes to the floor.

I sat, you filled my ears with stories.

I sat, then you shut the door.

Pirates off the coast of Ancona tied you to the mast.

Chains in the desert of Morocco held you hard and fast.

Two years a slave, till your lips bled red in the desert sun

Two years a slave, till your thirsty brain began to come undone.

One day, you sat, in the ashes of a fire,

One day, you drew, with the ashes of a fire,

You drew the face of your master on the wall,

You drew the portrait of your master on the wall,

You drew a portrait in a country without art.

A portrait of your master, you touched his heart,

You played your part,

A perfect artist, you drew your freedom.

You said: I’m a friar,

I’m a painter, I like your face.

A perfect Madonna.

You said: come around my easel

Got a special place for

A perfect Madonna.

Be an angel, be a saint,

Sit with me, Sit with me.

I sat, no more modesty.

I sat, set my eyes to the floor.

I sat, you filled me with my beauty.

You sat, then I shut the door.

Paint me blue, paint me tall

Paint me up against the wall

Paint my breasts, paint my thighs,

Paint my vows, paint my lies.

A friar, painter out of Florence chained me to his art.

Kept me from my vows in the convent, held me far apart.

Nine months I sat, like a saint till your work was done.

Nine months I sat, till my belly burst and we had a son.

We had a son.

I said, look at us now,

I said, the friar’s family,

I said, the painter’s family,

I said, the holy family,

Father, son,

And a perfect Madonna.

I sat, too late to draw,

I sat, how can I draw my freedom?

I sat.

I sit.