I can't remember dying. It happened so quickly. So quietly. Like the moment of midnight passing into the morrow. Like a rainbow, its colors already faint, fading into the clouds.

For a long time I thought I was still in my room upstairs, the candle flickering by the window, the priest's voice a constant drone as he read the same verse over and again. I don't know why he insisted on Ode for the Dying, especially since I had requested a different verse. I called out to him several times but apparently he couldn't hear me.

Then I found myself in a chapel--or perhaps it was an Egyptian temple. I couldn't be sure in the darkness. Later it seemed I was sitting on a mountaintop by a lone tree. It was all too confusing. To orient myself I tried bringing to mind habitual actions. How much red pigment to mix with the yellow for a sunset. What size brushes to use when painting the eyes, the cheekbones, the hint of a dimple. How long to wait before applying the varnish.

I am grateful for these simple thoughts. They have kept me steady. Steady enough so I can now begin to focus on what is most dear to my heart. On what I need to do next. On all I must remember.

Venice, 1765

The last rays of afternoon sunlight filter through the stained glass windows of the Church of the Frari, illuminating the sanctuary with an unearthly glow.

As if transported by this light, my mind fills with lofty thoughts and questions for which I have no answers: At what point does life cease to be just a life? When does it stop being merely ordinary and become extraordinary--so extraordinary it leaps beyond itself and is remembered for all time?

And when is it that a life turns into a work of art?

For a moment I close my eyes. Long fingers of light seem to reach down from the cathedral ceiling and pull me up into its divine realms. The painting of the Assumption that has towered over me all day as I labored to reproduce it on my own small canvas suddenly seems to swoop down and embrace me completely. I find myself cradled in the arms of the Virgin, enveloped by her soft gaze. I float on the gilded pink clouds as they drift heavenward on unseen winds. Joyous and unfettered, my soul dances from cloud to cloud with the angels and the cherubim.

I see that eternity has touched my life. That all is perfect. That everything has always been and will always be, just as it is. And that I will some day bring this perfection into whatever I create.

Then, as quickly as it began, the moment is over.

I, Angelica Kauffman, stand alone again before my unfinished canvas in the chapel of the Church of the Frari. It is a late afternoon in October of the year 1765, in the city of Venice.

The balls of my feet ache from standing in one spot for so many hours. In the fading light, I become aware of how chilly and dank the empty chapel is, and of the insidious way in which its dampness has seeped into my bones. I feel tired and a bit irritable. There are so many great things I dream of accomplishing. But it has been a long day and I have to admit I have little to show for my efforts.

Footsteps echo sharply on the stone floor and the silence of the sanctum is broken. Curious, I peer over my shoulder to see who could be walking toward me with such urgency. It is Antonio Zucchi, the lodger whom my father and I met in Milan and with whom we've shared a small apartment since we arrived in Venice a few months ago. Even in the dim light he is unmistakable, with his bouncing step, his prematurely balding head and halo of frizzy hair.

"Your father sent me," he says in a loud whisper as he reaches my side." He's been delayed at the market but will be here shortly to pick you up."

How like Antonio. No greeting, no smile, just straight to the point with the business at hand. I set aside my palette and begin to clean my brushes, starting with the smallest one.

Antonio lingers. Deep furrows appear on his brow as he scrutinizes my canvas. "What's the matter? Bad day?"

I can't deny it, so I don't say anything.

"You've hardly done anything since yesterday. I thought you would have finished by now."

Slowly I run the tip of my brush along the edge of my paint box. It doesn't leave any trace of color.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Antonio flinch slightly. Apparently he senses the rebuke in my silence, but it is not enough to send him on his way. I know what he is thinking: someone as young and idealistic as I needs someone with more worldly wisdom--someone like him--to guide and protect me. I push back the strand of hair that always manages to break free from the braid atop my head, and bend over my brushes.

Gesturing disdainfully toward the huge painting that hangs over the altar, he attacks my silence. "You're wasting your time with these commissions. How could you possibly imagine you'd be able to do justice to a masterpiece like Titian's Assumption?"

"Giuseppe Morosco wasn't worried about that when he gave me the commission. He has confidence in me." Unlike you, I think as I pick up a russet red brush.

"Angelica, I'm only concerned with what's best for you--" In his urgency to defend himself, his voice is no longer a whisper.

This argument is all too familiar. I heard it at dinner last night. And the night before. I'm not about to listen one more time, and certainly not to an outburst in the cathedral. I wave my brush abruptly at Antonio, as if I could paint a stop to his words. "You know I can't afford to be choosy. Papa and I need the money. We can barely afford to pay for our food and lodging. Not to mention my painting supplies. Besides, why should I complain if I've been given a masterpiece to reproduce?"

"To reproduce!" he explodes, his hands in the air, his eyes wild. "That's just it. You might as well try to paint the sun!" Turning on his heels he rushes from the chapel.

I glance up at the Virgin. Her gaze is as soft as ever. Maybe she hasn't even perceived the commotion. So who am I to worry?

After all, what does Antonio know about reproductions? He is just an artisan who works on architectural trimmings and decorative ornaments. What does he really know about me, about my goals, my secret hopes and desires? If I want to paint the sun, then I'll paint the sun. And it will be magnificent!

Still, I have to admit, the blazing sun of inspiration hasn't exactly been shining on me today.

As I place my paints in their case, I notice several people enter the chapel. One gentleman dressed in deep mourning offers a votive candle before the altar, then wanders over in my direction. "Is your work for sale?" he inquires, his tall form hunching a bit too closely over my shoulder. As he reaches up to adjust his monocle, a giant ruby ring flashes on his finger.

"No. It's a commission. It's been sold already."

"What a pity." He steps back so he can take in both the original and its reproduction. I feel his eyes on me, too. For no apparent reason I'm ill at ease, as if this man could steal something from my soul with his piercing glance. "You can tell the new owner he's very fortunate to be acquiring such a beautiful rendition," he says before turning away, "almost as beautiful as its creator."

Next a young couple comes over. "How lovely," the woman whispers to her companion. "You know, I think I actually prefer the copy. It's such a perfect size, don't you think?"

More people enter the church and a small group gathers around my easel. Some are silent onlookers. Others discuss the painting among themselves as if I, the artist, were an invisible part of the scenery. I tie the ribbon around my paint case, smiling at the irony of their different responses. What each person sees says more about that person than it does about the merits of my work. In fact, it is as if my painting has multiplied through the eyes of each viewer--becoming not just one but many paintings.

The crowd drifts slowly away and I begin to feel impatient for my father's return. Of course that means Antonio will be back, as well. I vow not to make matters worse by arguing with him.

It is hard not to argue with someone who feels he always knows what's best for you. Or so I have discovered.

Last night, Antonio labored over an engraving for a dinner plate while I sketched before the fireplace in our little living room. I was rendering the figure of Penelope, a favorite of mine from the Trojan legend. We worked in peace until Antonio decided I could make better use of my time by doing some sketches for him to engrave. "If you just try it, Angelica, I know we can sell them."

"I worked all day on a painting I've already sold."

But that didn't matter to him. Besides, he always has to have the final word. Having decided how I should spend my evening, he wouldn't let it go. Like a dog on a bone, he gnawed away at me until I finally gave up, and taking my sketchpad and chalks, retired for the night.

To be friends with him means to contend continually with his contrary temperament. If I want to be his friend--and if is the key word--I must listen to him express even his devotion in critical terms.

And devoted to me, he definitely is. Devoted, but also jealous and overprotective. It is no secret he envies the attention my paintings have generated in the Italian art world. Not only is he fifteen years older, but the acclaim I have already won at the age of twenty-three is far beyond anything he could ever hope to receive himself. None of this is a good reason to argue with him--to argue with anyone, for that matter.

I hear a soft rustling and look up to find an elegant lady standing beside me in the cathedral. Dressed most regally in white silk, with laced bodice and grey fur trimmings, she is clearly a personage of great importance. The overlapping strands of pearls woven through her upswept hair shimmer like distant stars. Each time she gives a slight wave of her jeweled fan, the scent of rose perfume wafts toward me. It is slightly intoxicating.

The lady says nothing, just tilts her head and regards my painting with dreamy eyes. Stepping back, I cast my eyes demurely toward the ground as if to say, "It's your painting now. You can look at it for as long as you wish."

Something about her intrigues me and I search for the right words to address her. Before I can think of anything to say, my attention is drawn to the back of the cathedral, where two men have entered. They make no effort to temper their heated discussion in the sanctuary.

A minute later Antonio and my father are standing next to me. Oblivious of the elegant stranger, who looks on with shocked surprise, my father grabs my canvas from its easel. His hands are trembling, his voice a hoarse whisper. "What's this I hear? Tell me..." His voice breaks.

"What is it, Papa?" It pains me to see him so upset.

"Tell me--tell me it's not true!" His eyes are wide, pleading. "Antonio insists you're unable to paint. But I keep telling him that's not possible. Not after all the success you've already had!"

"John Joseph!" Antonio interrupts. "Please, be gentle with her!" Now that his criticisms have caught fire in my father's mind, Antonio is quick to jump into the opposite role--as my protector.

"Perhaps you can afford to be idle, Antonio. But my daughter and I don't have that luxury--not even for one day." He turns to me. "Please, my child, you know how much I'm counting on you."

"I know, Papa!"

"Then why aren't you painting?"

Antonio shifts nervously between my father and me, trying to anticipate the right moment to intervene. He doesn't like the position he finds himself in, though he has created it himself. He knows I have a special touch with my father, that I can usually calm him down with just a smile or reassuring word. He's waiting for me to do that now.

But today I've been caught off guard. I don't know how to humor my father. I'm too confused. Perhaps Antonio is right. Perhaps my dreams of creating masterpieces of my own are just dreams. So what if I can see the paintings in my mind's eye each night as I fall asleep? What good is that if I can't trust my ability to produce a fair copy?

"Think of all the sacrifices your mother and I made for you." My father isn't angry, just worried, and his words tumble out with little regard for their effect. "Since you were small, we thought only of your talents, your future, your success. Now I've put aside my own work to support your career. Everything rests in your hands."

I want to reassure him, to promise I will start first thing in the morning and make up for lost time. I will work quickly--even more quickly than usual--and have the painting finished by tomorrow evening. But I feel the pressure bearing down on me. It is one thing to dream of grand success. It is something else to live up to everyone else's expectations.

"I'm sorry, Papa," is all I can say.

My father falls silent. It is as though the artist he expects me to be has dissolved and I am now hardly more than a child in his eyes. He sets the unfinished painting back on the easel and puts his head in his hands. "What is going to become of us?" he moans.

Antonio shoots me a look that says, "Didn't I tell you? You can't be a dreamer."

I stare back at Antonio, then at my father, then at the canvas. Tears come to my eyes. "What are you asking of me?" Everyone wants something else. How can I please them all?

The elegant lady, who has been watching us from the shadows of a marble archway, suddenly steps forward. "Would you allow a stranger to ask a favor?"

With one quick motion I wipe away my tears.

She steps closer. "I'm leaving Venice shortly. I'd love to have a painting to take with me, one that would remind me of the happy times I've enjoyed here. I'd like nothing better than to have this young artist execute it for me." She turns to my father, addressing him with dignified grace as though he were one of her own rank. "Would you permit me, sir, to take your daughter home in my gondola this evening?"

My heart leaps up. You are so beautiful, I think. I'd love to paint you just as you are!

The lady turns to me. "Perhaps I could consult with you and get your ideas about the picture. I hope you'll agree to paint it for me."

Antonio draws my father aside. "It's her Excellency Lady Wentworth," I hear him whisper under his breath. "Wife of the British Ambassador!"

My father bows low. "Of course--I'm sure--you are too good to us!" He trips over his words in an effort to acquaint himself with the Lady. "Perhaps you don't know--this is my daughter, Angelica Kauffman. If I may say so, her art is already well known throughout Italy. We have just come from Naples, where all the galleries--"

"Papa!" I feel my face flushing. "There's no need to explain. The Lady has already been so kind--"

Lady Wentworth extends her hand. "I'm truly honored to meet you," she says. Her voice is polished yet relaxed, and I feel immediately comfortable. "In fact, I half-suspected you might be Angelica. I've heard so much about you and the brilliant work you do. Just the other day I received a letter from a friend of mine in Rome praising one of your portraits. I knew I had to have one for myself!"

Within a few minutes everything is settled. I will go home with Lady Wentworth to visit her estate and dine with her family. She will show me the studio where I could work, and we will have a chance to get acquainted and discuss the commissioned painting. Then, if everything is acceptable, I will begin work the following day--or a few days after that, since I need time to finish my work in the cathedral first.

As we walk out of the church, Lady Wentworth and I, something tugs at my heart. I glance back. Antonio is standing there, his chin tucked down, watching us disappear through the marble archway. He looks so helpless, so lost, as though all his dreams are slipping away on the elegant arm of the Lady.

I know Antonio wants to protest, to warn my father to be more careful about where--and with whom--he allows his daughter to go. He wants to explain how these important, wealthy people often take a fancy to artists because it is the fashion of the moment, only to drop them unceremoniously a short while later. But having heard my father's effusive gratitude, he knows his objections would fall on deaf ears.

Besides, it is too late. I've already entered a new world, one beyond his reach. There is no point protesting. The truth is, he has lost that which--if he were to be honest with himself--was never really his.

I take my seat in the damask gondola across from Lady Wentworth and pull a thickly woven wool blanket over my lap. Not only will it keep me warm in the cool night air, but I'm also glad it will hide the frayed edges of my skirt.

While my new friend gives instructions to the gondolier, I settle more deeply into the soft cushions. I watch as the large brass lantern swings gently back and forth, casting off a thousand tiny sparkles of light that catch on the tips of the waves. Even an hour ago I had no idea the day would end as perfectly as this!

The gondolier pushes off from the dock and the boat glides through the water. Holding my blanket tightly to me, I lean over the side of the gondola and peer into the dark swirling water. Looking into its depths is like staring into the vast palette of the unknown. Anything could be created--and anything dissolved--in each moment.

Before a brush is dipped into paint, who can predict if a masterpiece will emerge? And who can say at what point the work of the artist ceases and life itself begins?