#caravaggio paintings for sale

[bublinko]

Drawing with golden frame by me

[rrrrinmaru]

picasso (marius x fem!reader) (nsfw)

wc: 5.7k rating: E warnings: nsfw, vaginal fingering, handjob, squirting, they're both freaks for each other

“I think it’s pretty,” you say plainly. “I like the look of it. I’ve always had a soft spot for ink wash works.”

The exhibit is held in a famous glass museum in downtown Stellis. There had been a controversy about the full glass walls and privacy issues a few years ago (you had read this case once, out of curiosity, and never again), but that was eventually resolved and now the first floor of the museum was regularly used for art exhibits. 

Before you knew Marius’ secret identity, you had invited him to visit one of Z’s exhibits. And Marius, the most shameless man to ever walk this Earth, had agreed. 

Fortunately, you learnt about this secret before you bought tickets for the exhibit. Not that you wouldn’t want to see his works displayed in the gallery, but the thought of you gushing over Z’s artwork in front of Marius without knowing the truth… 

It’s embarrassing. 

Today, however, it’s a different artist’s work on display. Thomas Mikeden, a foreign painter who’s been going on an exhibit world tour. Stellis is his latest stop, and everything just lined up. Both of you had the day off and tickets were on sale. You had invited Marius to the exhibit, excited to hear his artistic insight about the paintings, but Marius has been… a little petulant.

“I can’t believe we’re looking at a Mikeden painting,” he mutters, arms folded across his chest. “The first time you invite me to an art exhibit and it isn’t even mine; I can overlook that, but Mikeden?”

“What do you have against him?”

“We’re friends,” Marius says solemnly, looking like he doesn’t even believe the words coming out his mouth, “but we suffer from creative differences. Severe creative differences. If I ever have to see the way he mixes his oil paints again, I’d end up on the news for criminal activity. And he said if he ever had to see me try to sculpt a pot again, he’d wring my neck himself. He said my clay pots were an abomination against God.”

You blink at him. “You know how to do pottery?”

“According to him, I don’t.”

And suddenly, you get it. Creative differences, more like a bunch of children arguing over who does something right, or who does something better. Like kindergarteners fighting over whose parent made them the better lunchbox. 

“What are your thoughts on his ink wash painting?” 

Marius gives you an appraising look. “Not his worst work. He’s alright with ink wash. I've personally dabbled in ink wash before. It’s not my preferred medium, but we learnt it as part of our curriculum.”

You turn to look at him, eyes bright. “Really? Do you still have those ink wash paintings hidden away somewhere?”

“Of course. I never throw my works away. I’ll bring you to one of my storage warehouses one day.” 

One of his storage warehouses? It never occurred to you that painters would need a lot of space to store their paintings, even more so if they were particularly diligent and practiced different painting techniques often. With how many easels and canvases were strewn about Marius’ house, you suppose you should have made the connection.

“I’m looking forward to it.” 

The next few works are insightful, to say the least. Marius gets up close and personal with one of them to sneakily point out to you a place where Mikeden allegedly made a mistake and had spent hours trying to cover it up. 

“This is from when he tried to lean into the Baroque style,” Marius says, using his thumb to frame certain parts of the painting to draw your eye to them. “The colors here, see, the stark contrast between the light and the dark? That’s the use of tenebrism, popularised by Caravaggio.”

“Hm,” you note, eyes wandering around the painting. It’s a stunning piece of work, and Mikeden captured the likeness of the male form well. The extreme contrast almost seems to frame the figures with a halo, a light that blooms from their very center to strike at the viewer’s attention. “They’re quite handsome.”

Marius makes a sound at the back of his throat. “You’re more into modern men, jiejie.”

You hide your laugh behind a cough. He’s like a needy kitten pawing at you for attention, and you’re helpless against someone this cute. 

“Yes, yes, look at how handsome you are,” you say, turning around to face him head-on. You reach out, smoothing the non-existent creases away from his button-down. 

Without really thinking too deeply, your fingers linger on the stretch of the fabric across his chest—the thought that you can see them if you squint hard enough comes unbidden to your mind. The small bumps under the fabric, stiff from the slight chill of the room. 

It’s the kind of thought that grips you by the throat, sitting in your mind and taking up space, holding you captive until you do something about it. 

You brush your thumb against one of them, just because they’re right there, because you can, because Marius’ hands are on your hips and you’re feeling a little… playful. 

Immediately, a hand catches your wrist. It doesn’t stop you from pressing the pad of your thumb lightly against that raised bump, and Marius’ breath hitches. His fingers flex against your wrist, hard enough that you can’t help but smile. 

He’s usually the one making you flush in public, so you mark this as a victory. The sight of him, red-faced and pouting, heart pounding so desperately you can feel it through his chest—you pull your hand back, and he lets you go. That hand drops back to your waist as you bring your thumb to your lips, and you hold Marius’ gaze as the tip of your tongue darts out to lick your thumb.

Marius goes still. It’s as if he’s nothing more than one of the paintings hung up on the gallery walls, with how still he is; his pupils are blown wide and he gives you this shaken look, as if you’ve completely disarmed him. Swept him off his feet and left him grasping at straws to find the words to say. 

Eventually, you go back to smoothing out his shirt. Properly, this time. No messing around.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Marius murmurs, his breath puffing against the curve of your throat as he leans down. His voice is soft, barely louder than a whisper, but it somehow feels deafening in the quiet of the room. 

Your hands tighten around the front of his shirt. “Marius?”

“Be quiet for a moment,” he says. His fingers rest on your hips and you swear you can feel the heat radiating off his palms. It makes you want to shuffle away, pull back and put some space between the both of you��he doesn’t do anything, doesn’t tighten his grip, but his hands somehow get heavier. Like a weighted blanket resting around your waist, shackles holding you in place without really holding you at all. 

Your heart kicks in your chest. It isn’t often that Marius gets this way, so quiet and possessive, like he has to cage you in a small corner and watch you to make sure you don’t get away. His forehead rests against your clavicle—it’s not a comfortable position, not when he’s so much taller and he’s pressed up so closely against you that you can feel the way his chest shivers when he drags in a long breath. 

“Jiejie,” Marius whispers, voice quiet. “Sometimes, I wish I could wrap you up like a piece of art and hang you on my wall.”

He’s crazy, you think, and you realise even your subconscious thoughts have taken on this air of fondness when thinking of him.

“Is that so?” You reply, voice just as hushed. From the corner of your eye, you can see another patron glance at the both of you—they glance away, then look back, as if doubting their gaze. Yes, you think weakly to yourself, Marius is indeed clinging to you in the middle of a public gallery for expensive artworks that easily go for three times the price of your apartment. “Which wall will you put me up on?”

This time, Marius’ grip tightens imperceptibly on your hips. “Any wall that jiejie wants to be put up on,” he says huskily. His voice has dropped an octave, and the tone he takes is one that you’ve become very familiar with when you tease each other. Never enough to really commit to anything, not yet, but enough that Marius gets that look in his eyes like he’d very much want to stop being a gentleman about things. 

Abruptly, you notice the double entendre. “Marius!”

“You asked,” he says smugly, lifting his head so you come face to face with the smirk pulling at his lips. He tugs you in to press your body fully up against his, hip to shoulder. “Is jiejie shy now? I can tell you about which walls I’ve thought about you up on—my bedroom, naturally, but the living room is a strong contender.”

You gape at him, too shocked to say something smart in return. “You—! Not so loud, we’re in public!”

“No one’s listening.” Marius tilts his head, giving the surroundings a cursory once over before catching your gaze. “They’re busy looking at the art on display. I’m looking at a different kind of art on display.”

He’s so shameless that it makes you want to burst out in laughter. A different kind of art on display? Who does he think he is, a host from a host club? Where did he learn these phrases from? The Internet? His brother? Worse, Vyn? 

The thought of Marius asking the one and only Vyn Richter for advice on how to pick girls up makes you laugh. 

“You think you’re so smooth,” you say helplessly, lips curving up of their own accord as you reach up to loop your arms around Marius’ neck. “You think I’m going to fall for that?”

“I’m not a gambling man,” Marius tells you, a confident glint in his eye, “but I’ve always been lucky.” 

He puts up a strong front, but you know better. The back of his neck is hot from embarrassment. The tips of his ears are flushed red. You brush a stray strand of hair past the shell of his ear and pinch the crimson tip along the way. 

“Jiejie,” Marius whines, caught in the act. “Come on, let me pretend for a bit. Don’t you want to come home with me and have a better time?” 

He gives you this beseeching look, brows furrowed and lips turned down. You’re weak to that look—it’s suckered you into agreeing to far more things than you normally would have agreed to. But how can you say no to a face like that? To a man built like that, shoulders so broad they could dwarf you in a hug, fingers so long they could encircle your wrist, a face like God himself came down to carve it from marble—when Marius looks at you with that pleading gaze, millimeters away from begging, how can you say no to anything he asks for? 

Perhaps a stronger man would be able to resist the power of Marius’ visual attack. But you never proclaimed to have a strong willpower, and you fold like a castle of cards in a stiff breeze. 

“Let’s finish looking at all the works first. And no, just because you know who the artist is and insist that you could bring me over to his studio to see his other works—that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see the works exhibited here.”

“His art isn’t even that good,” Marius says, just to be contrary. “If you really wanted to see something from him, you should see his sculptures. I’ll admit those are impressive.”

“Finish the gallery, and then we can go home. You get to pick dinner.”

He perks up. “Italian or Chinese?”

“Later,” you insist. “I want to see this painting—” you glance at the title, raising an eyebrow when you catch sight of it, “—Lotus III.”

“Inspired by the same lotus garden that was featured in Lotus 0, Lotus I and Lotus II,” Marius grumbles as he takes one hand off your waist. You slide your hands down his shoulders, his chest, and furtively pat him on the ass before letting him go. 

He jumps, eyes wide as he swivels his head around to look at you. You give him an innocent look in return. 

“If you insist on being naughty, jiejie, don’t be surprised if I snatch you away and kidnap you back home.” The hand still on your waist squeezes in warning, and heat slithers down your back at the tone in his voice. 

You put a hand over the one on your waist, sliding your fingers in between his. “Be good.”

“Good boys get rewards. Is there a reward waiting for me later, jiejie?”

Naughty, you think to yourself, side-eying him. There’s a charming smile on his face, not even bothering to hide the playfulness lurking beneath his eyes. He’s testing you, pushing and pulling at your limits to see how far you can bend over backwards. 

“Maybe,” you reply. It’s never a good thing to reveal all your cards too early when dealing with a von Hagen in a playful mood. 

Marius laughs, leaning in to press his lips against the side of your head. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

The way he practically attaches himself to your hip, thumb rubbing possessively over your waist—you can’t help the flush crawling up to your cheeks, or the heat that flares between your legs. His hold on you isn’t tight, but it isn’t loose either. It reeks of a promise, and you can’t help but look forward to what that will happen once the two of you get back to his house. Or what will happen once you get into his car, when Marius has you right where he wants you to be and there’s enough privacy for something to happen. 

You shift, thighs rubbing together involuntarily at the stray thought. Desire slips through your body like a snake coiling in your veins; if you cling a little tighter to Marius in return, your mind only half-focused on the works displayed on the walls, well, no one will know. 

You think Marius might suspect something, though, going by the way his smirk grows larger with every glance he shoots you from the corner of his eye. 

Like he’s found something he can’t take his eyes off. Like he’s found something he likes. 

You fail to give Mikeden the attention his works deserve for the rest of the time you spend in the gallery, but he’s truly friends with Marius then you think the man won’t mind too much.

==

To your surprise, Marius doesn’t immediately scoop you into his lap when you get into the car. 

He leans over to help you pull the seatbelt, and very conveniently buries his face in your neck for half a second before he pulls back. Long enough for him to press his lips against your collarbone, the tip of his tongue swiping wetly against your skin; short enough for you to wonder if you hallucinated it.

But the smug look in his eyes as he pulls the seatbelt over your chest to click it into place tells you that you most definitely did not hallucinate it. 

“Home first,” Marius tells you, pretending to be casual as he leans back in his seat and does his own seatbelt. “If you keep looking at me with those eyes, jiejie, I can’t promise I’ll keep my hands to myself while we’re on the road back.”

Right, you think dazedly. You’d forgotten Marius had decided to drive the both of you here—it wasn’t far from his place, and the both of you typically take a chauffeured car, but Marius wanted to do something special today. You haven’t been on a date in a while due to your unfortunate work schedule, and it definitely surprised you when Marius pulled up to your apartment in the driver’s seat, the window wound down, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he grinned at you. 

“What a shame,” you murmur under your breath, watching as he does his own seatbelt before pulling out of the parking lot. 

Your words make Marius stiffen. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel as the other finds its way to your knee. 

Again with that loose grip that feels like a shackle holding you in place. Marius isn’t doing anything more than just placing his hand over your knee—there’s not even any real pressure behind, no force or flexing or tightening of his grip, but you feel weighed down. You feel held down.

You wonder, a little stupidly, if Marius would do something if you spread your legs apart. 

But you’re on the road. Despite the heat flaring insistently in your gut, you’re not actually ready to risk it all while Marius is behind the wheel. It would have been a different story if the both of you were in the back seat with the partition drawn up. The ride back is what, ten, fifteen minutes? There’s a lot you can get done in that period of time.

Right as you resign yourself to a normal, quick ride back home, Marius’ hand slips a little.

Just a little. It’s so subtle that if it weren’t for the heat practically bleeding through his palms, you think you wouldn’t have noticed. 

His hand goes from right above your knee to cupping the inside of your knee. 

You eye him speculatively. Was it inertia? The car made a turn and his hand simply slipped with the centrifugal force? 

His lips quirk up. “I’ll get shy if you keep looking at me, jiejie. I need to focus on the road.”

“Hm,” you say, feeling your cunt clench involuntarily when Marius’ hand moves further up your thigh. It’s not in direct contact with your skin, not when there’s your silk dress in between, but the material is thin and you swear you can feel the calluses from Marius’ fingers rubbing gently against the sensitive inside of your thigh. 

Fifteen minutes, you think. Surely you can’t die from a little fun on the road. 

“Your hand’s on the wrong place,” you murmur, gently placing your hand over his. 

Marius hums at the back of his throat. “Ah? Sorry, I—jiejie.”

You lift his hand off your thigh for a quick moment, draw apart the slit of your dress, and slide his hand under the fabric.

Directly on your thigh. You even curve his fingers back down so he can maintain that grip on you.

You can see his fingers flex. They’re stiff, knuckles tense as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. When you peek at him, his ears are flushed a bright red and his Adam’s Apple bobs furiously, like he’s swallowing desperately. 

And right between his thighs, you can see a tent in his trousers. You kind of want to reach out to touch it, but you hold yourself back. 

“Jiejie,” he whines, and chances a glance at you before reluctantly dragging his eyes back to the road. “I was joking—you can’t distract me while I’m driving.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you say mildly, burying the laugh that threatens to escape when his fingers squeeze pointedly around your thigh. The grave you dug is for both of you; his hand is higher now, on your thigh, so close to your core that one road bump would probably be reason enough for his fingers to slide right home. 

You almost want to pretend to jerk forward. But you have enough of your wits about you to recognise that if Marius felt the heat of your pussy through your panties press up against his fingertips at this moment, he would probably drive the car into the nearest building. 

“I’m trying to be good,” Marius complains. His fingers keep twitching against your skin, as if he’s really, physically holding himself back from doing something. 

“Good boys get rewards,” you echo, patting the back of his palm. “We’re almost home, see the gates up in front?”

He clicks his tongue. “As if I can focus on anything right now.” To prove his point, he speeds up, leg bouncing impatiently as he turns into the driveway. “Park, I have to park…”

The whole time, his hand doesn’t leave your thigh. And there’s something really sexy about it, you can’t help but realise—the slant of his jaw from the side, the way driving comes so easily to him, where he only needs one hand to maneuver the wheel. Even the way he looks over his shoulder as he eases into his parking spot makes you want to press your thighs together in a useless attempt to stave off the heat building in your core. 

“Good enough,” Marius declares, switching the engine off. “Out, out, come on—”

He snaps the seatbelt off and practically flies out the car. You’re so taken aback that you’re still in your seat when he comes to your side and yanks the door open, petulance written all over his face when he finds you still strapped in. 

“C’mon,” he whines, reaching over to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Jiejie, come on, come on—”

“Impatient,” you chide, even as you reach out to steady yourself while you exit the car. “Hold on, my heels—”

“Jiejie,” Marius says, and he seriously sounds like he’s about to burst. 

In that split second, you make a decision. Your panties are ruined as is, and you really, really want to be filled right now. You’re not sure if you can make the distance from the car to the lift, especially when the garage is so fucking huge—

“Backseat,” you murmur, and Marius reacts much faster than you expect. He pulls you up and into his chest, making you let out a sound of surprise at how aggressive he is, but he’s surprisingly gentle when he cups your jaw and slants his lips over yours. 

It’s a desperate kiss. Marius licks into your mouth, hands tight around your waist as he pulls you in close. The bulge in his slacks feels like it’s burning a brand into your hip—you want to skate your hands down, cup that swollen cock and rub your thumb over the tip. You’ve never seen it, not yet, but the two of you have fooled around every now and then so you’re somewhat familiar with the curve of his cock through his pants. 

It’s a hefty weight in your fingers, and Marius always makes the most delicious sounds when you rock your hips against him, squeezing around his thigh between your legs as you trace over the outline of his cock. 

“Fuck,” Marius curses. His fingers dig greedily into the sides of your body—the grip now is entirely different from the one at the museum. The positions are roughly the same, but this time he holds you like he’s trying to burn his brand into you, leave an imprint of bruises around your waist so you ache every time you move tomorrow morning. “Fuck, jiejie, your mouth—”

“Mmhmm,” you hum into his mouth, shoving one thigh between his legs so you can get a good seat on Marius’ thigh. It’s as if Marius has a direct line of sight into your mind—he hikes you up on his thigh so the hard line of his muscle presses right into the swell of your clit, and you groan out loud as you start rocking against his thigh. 

Fuck, you think you could cum like this. Marius’ hands have dropped lower, cupping the curve of your ass and every squeeze he makes goes straight to your cunt like there’s a livewire connection. He pulls you so high up that you’re struggling to keep your toes on the ground, and Marius is practically pulling you back and forth on his leg, helping you rut against him. 

His breath is hot. His kisses are searing, and it feels like there’s a nonstop feedback loop where your arousal pours into each other over and over again. It’s a fire in your gut, threatening to eat you alive, and when he pulls back to catch his breath, he immediately bows down to lick against your jaw. 

Marius sucks at your skin, bullying a bruise into the underside of your jaw. He isn’t satisfied with just one, and he just keeps going down the expanse of your neck, biting at any patch of unblemished skin. 

“Baby,” you whisper, one hand trailing down to press your palm over the tight bulge begging for attention. The lightest touch is enough to make Marius groan, hips stuttering as he chases your touch. “Can I—can I touch?”

Marius freezes for a heartbeat. Before you can second guess yourself, he moans into your neck, hips jerking as he pushes his clothed cock into your palm. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, nodding while avoiding eye contact with you.

His ears are crimson. So cute, you can’t help but think through the fever in your mind. It’s almost too easy to find your way around the button in his pants, and there’s some trouble with getting the zipper down from how hard he is. His briefs get caught for a moment, long enough to make Marius groan from frustration, but you shush him with another slide of your hips, cunt wet enough to drench his slacks, and Marius shuts up. 

“Good boy,” you murmur breathlessly, arching your back so you get a better angle to grind your clit against his thigh. “Be good, come on, let me—”

Unfortunately, there are no flaps in briefs for you to pull his cock out from. You reach in instead, shivering at the proper weight of it in your palm—skin on skin, you think deliriously to yourself, cunt clenching at the feeling of Marius’ cock in your hand. His cock, so thick that you can’t even really wrap your fingers around it properly, and the head is dripping. 

Marius sucks in a tight breath, cursing as he cants his hips up, almost bouncing you on his lap from the force. 

“Jiejie,” he begs, plaintive and desperate. “Nngh, please, the tip, you need to—fuck, I’m not going to—I’m going to cum, jiejie…”

And you stop thinking. You grab one of his hands and drag it to your front, so commandingly that Marius’ head flies up. His eyes are red, lips parted as he sucks in a shaky breath every time you swipe your thumb across the sensitive slit at the head of his cock. 

“In, inside,” you whine, rising as high as you can go on your toes. It’s not very high, given how far up Marius has pulled you onto his thigh, but it’s enough for your to drag his long fingers under your skirt and press them up against your cunt. 

Marius’ eyes are blown wide. “In-inside?” He stammers, fingers crooking automatically to press against the throbbing bud of your clit. Such clever fucking fingers, already familiar with the shape of your cunt to know where your clit is. 

Without needing much direction, he uses two fingers to drag your soaked panties to the side and rubs the knuckle of his index finger against your pussy. 

“A-ah,” you cry out, hips jerking. Fuck, you understand now why Marius reacted like that when you got your hand on his cock—there’s something about the texture of his skin, the calluses on his fingers that’s stroking the sides of your pussy, the sheer heat radiating off him—and the knowledge, the knowledge that it’s his hands on your cunt. After months of frotting, the most you’ve done being Marius’s palm flat against your cunt while you held eye contact and grinded against his shaking palm until you cummed—

“Inside, baby, come on,” you plead, rocking your hips insistently against his curious fingers. 

Again, it’s like Marius gets you. He sinks his index finger in; you think he wanted to go slow, because he tentatively pressed up into your cunt, but you’re greedy and you’ve been thinking of being filled since Marius made that joke about putting you up against a wall and you whine, rocking forward until you sink down, down, all the way down to the base and Marius’ breath is hitching in his throat. 

“You’re—” his finger bends, the tip brushing against this spot inside you that makes your entire body shiver, threatening to bend in half from the electricity that surges through you. “Shit, you’re—fuck, jiejie, you feel fucking incredible.”

“One more,” you beg, holding his wrist in place while you clench around his finger. Christ, you didn’t think it could feel this good. It’s so foreign, so much longer and thicker than your fingers—and again, the knowledge that it’s Marius’ hand, Marius’ finger is enough to make your gut tighten and sparks burst at the very end of your fingertips. “One more and my—”

You break off, thighs trembling when he swipes against your swollen clit with his thumb.

Marius groans at the sight of you, leaning in to bite at your lips. “One more and my thumb on your clit? Is that what you want, jiejie? Is that what you need?”

“Mmhmm—ahhhhhn, fuck, Marius—please, please, I’m so fucking close—!”

You’re not even sure if you’re still stroking the length of his cock. All your senses have narrowed down to your cunt, the pressure on your clit and the way his fingers have gained confidence with every stroke—he fucks up into you with such surety, so certain that he knows exactly where to hit to get that same, body shivering reaction from you.

The worst part is, he does. It barely takes one, two, three strokes while he whispers filthy things about how hot and wet and slick your cunt is, about how it’s soaked through just for him, about how he wants to bury his face in it, please jiejie, please let him put your thighs around his ears and eat you out, and you’re gone. 

It hits you so hard you think you almost pass out. The ascent comes too quickly; it almost feels like the orgasm is ripped from you from clever hands that know you better than you know yourself. It leaves you breathless, your entire body jerking uncontrollably as you whine, pussy clenching around those two thick fingers buried in your cunt. You’re mumbling nonsense, not even sure what you’re saying as your cunt gushes around Marius’ ruined pants and when you resurface, Marius looks at you like you’re the second coming of Christ.

It takes you both a while to get your breathing under control. Marius recovers first, gently sliding his fingers out of your cunt. You’re a little embarrassed at the absolute mess you’ve made, but Marius eyes the wetness dripping over his palm, down his wrist, and decides to drag his tongue along his skin to lick it all up.

He even looks right as you as he does it. The sight is enough to make your clit throb, as if gearing up for a second round. Oh, you could definitely do a second round, but you think you’d prefer for it to be in a room with a bed and not a garage.

Almost absentmindedly, you start to rub your thumb against the cockhead in your grip.

“F-fuck,” Marius groans lowly, free hand reaching out to grab your wrist. “Wait, wait—nnngh, sensitive. Give me a moment.”

You pause. You look down.

His briefs are stained. There’s a massive wet spot at the front, and when you drag your fingers out, they’re coated in a sticky, white fluid. 

You look Marius in the eye as you, too, lift your fingers to your lips. You stick your tongue out, wiping the threads of cum on your tongue so Marius can see how white looks in your mouth—and he flushes even redder than he already is, eyes darting away before darting back, as if he can’t decide whether he wants to look or not—and then you swallow. 

Marius is speechless for a while. 

“That was really hot,” he says eventually, voice hoarse. “I—fuck, jiejie, I can go again. I’m serious, just give me a minute.” 

You suck on your fingertips for a moment. You’re clearly ready for a second round, but you know he gets more desperate when you keep him hanging. And a desperate Marius is always a delight to work with. 

“Bedroom?” You suggest, and your cunt tightens at the way his eyes immediately go dark with desire.

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

[mybeingthere]

Italian artist Carlo Mattioli (1911 - 1994).

His family moved to Parma in 1925, where Carlo Mattioli spent the rest of his life. He began his artistic training at the Art Institute and later devoted himself to painting, inspired by the experience of artists such as George Morandi.

In the forties and fifties, Carlo Mattioli stands out for his evocative figurative tonalism. During this period, he develops culturally and demonstrates an interest in literature and poetry, establishing a deep bond with Attilio Bertolucci It is Mario Luzi. He also began working as a book illustrator, producing etchings and lithographs for works by authors such as Pietro Aretino, Stendhal, Guido Cavalcanti It is Machiavelli.

In the 1960s, Carlo Mattioli achieved success and made a name for himself among the general public. His production is characterized by a continuous search for new forms of expression, exploring the possibilities of the pictorial language through thematic cycles. During this period, he made series of paintings such as i Offers, the Still lifes they Studies on Caravaggio's Basket, obtaining important awards such as the Florin Award in Florence in 1964 and the appointment as a member of prestigious academies.

In 1970, his first anthological exhibition was organized in Parma, which was subsequently also exhibited in Carrara. In the seventies, he continued to explore new forms of expression, focusing on the representation of nature and emotions. Make paintings of beaches, fields of poppies, lavender and broom, experimenting with a wide range of pictorial techniques and using different colours to convey suggestive atmospheres.

[merelygifted]

Newly verified Caravaggio goes on show in Madrid

...  Ecce Homo is believed to have belonged to the private collection of Spain's King Philip IV, before being exhibited in the apartments of his son, Charles II.

It resurfaced in Madrid in April 2021, when it was described as the product of an artist belonging to the circle of 17th Century Spanish painter José de Ribera.

But after experts at the Prado voiced their suspicions about the painting's true authorship, the Spanish culture ministry stepped in to block its sale.

It will be on display until October in a special one-off exhibition following an agreement with its new owner, believed to be a British national who lives in Spain.

After that, the canvas will move to the Prado’s permanent collection for another four months.

According to Spanish media reports, the painting changed hands for €36m (£30.6m).

Jorge Coll, the lead of London art gallery Colnaghi, which handled the sale, told El País newspaper that the painting would remain on loan to public collections rather than ending up in the owner's home.

[claudiotrezzani]

Alba o mezzogiorno.

Pari sono, se il fotografo sa cavare sogno da oscurità.

"London awakening", titola Andreas Heumann.

Poetico risveglio, quello che Andreas sa rendere.

Intriso di lirismo, quasi inumidisse l'erba del prato da segmenti percorso.

Segmenti che contraltano la squadrata erettità del retrostante edificio, le cui luci danzano alla distanza con il bagliore del primo piano.

E brume, oniricamente soffondono.

Con Andriy Solovyon siamo invece a mezzogiorno.

Sì, titola "Noon", Andriy.

Ma è tra Caravaggio e De Chirico, Andriy.

Perché se beve - le deliba, se ne pasce -  le ombre come Michelangelo Merisi sa fare, del Giorgio pittore ha la capacità di trattarle, le ombre, come inclinati architettonici segmenti.

Maestro della sottoesposizioni a fini espressivi, eddunque, Andriy.

Grazie Andriy, grazie Andreas.

Con Voi le tenebre sgorgano ispirato canto.

All rights reserved

Claudio Trezzani

[whatsonmedia]

Art Odyssey: Explore the World's 7 Best Exhibitions!

Embark on an artistic journey through 2024's most exciting exhibitions! Dive into immersive retrospectives and thought-provoking thematic explorations. Discover groundbreaking works and intriguing themes across continents. Join us for an unforgettable adventure in the world of contemporary art! M.F. Husain: The Rooted Nomad Where: Magazzini del Sale, Venice When: April 18 – November 24 Explore the captivating life and artistry of M.F. Husain, a trailblazer of Indian modernism, in this immersive exhibition running parallel to the Venice Biennale. Supported by prominent art collector Kiran Nadar, delve into Husain's innovative works that transcend cultural boundaries and explore themes of exile and identity. Website: The Rooted Nomad Christina Ramberg: A Retrospective Where: The Art Institute, Chicago When: April 20 – August 11 Christina Ramberg: A Retrospective at The Art Institute, Chicago Experience the groundbreaking art of Christina Ramberg, a key figure of the Chicago Imagists movement, in her first major retrospective in over three decades. Delve into Ramberg's thought-provoking paintings, which challenge societal norms and offer poignant reflections on femininity and power. Website: Christina Ramberg Anna Park: Look, Look Where: Art Gallery of Western Australia, Perth When: April 20 – September 8 Anna Park: Look, Look at Art Gallery of Western Australia, Perth Uncover the thought-provoking commentary on media and reality in Anna Park's mesmerizing black-and-white drawings. Through her satirical style, Park sheds light on the illusions of fame and perception in contemporary culture, inviting viewers to question the narratives presented by the media. Website: Anna Park Figures on Earth & Beyond Where: Gallery 1957, London and Accra When: Through May 25 (London), late 2024 (Accra) Figures on Earth & Beyond at Gallery 1957, London and Accra Embark on a journey of interconnectedness with a diverse group of artists exploring themes of nature, belonging, and ecological change. From surreal collages to abstract cartographies, immerse yourself in artworks that challenge perspectives and evoke wonderment. Website: Figures on Earth & Beyond Thomas Nozkowski: Everything in the World Where: Pace Gallery, Manhattan When: Through April 20 Thomas Nozkowski: Everything in the World at Pace Gallery, Manhattan Celebrate the influential legacy of Thomas Nozkowski through a retrospective of his remarkable career. Explore his intimate yet powerful paintings, which defy artistic conventions and invite viewers to explore the depths of personal experience and perception. Website: Thomas Nozkowski The Last Caravaggio Where: National Gallery When: April 18 – July 21 Experience the dramatic works of Caravaggio in his possibly final masterpiece, "The Martyrdom of Saint Ursula." Immerse yourself in a world of darkness, violence, and passion in this captivating display of Renaissance artistry. Website: The Last Caravaggio Marina Abramović Retrospective Where: Stedelijk Museum When: March 16 – July 14 Marina Abramović Retrospective at Stedelijk Museum Journey through five decades of groundbreaking performance art with Marina Abramović's retrospective at the Stedelijk Museum. Engage with iconic works and live reperformances, offering a unique opportunity to participate in the transformative power of performance art. Website: Marina Abramović Read the full article

[themadscene]

Caravaggio: Swirl & Vortex by Larry Levis

In the Borghese, Caravaggio, painter of boy whores, street punk, exile & murderer, Left behind his own face in the decapitated, swollen, leaden-eyed head of Goliath, And left the eyelids slightly open, & left on the face of David a look of pity

Mingling with disgust. A peach face; a death mask. If you look closely you can see It is the same face, & the boy, murdering the man, is murdering his own boyhood, His robe open & exposing a bare left shoulder. In 1603, it meant he was available,

For sale on the street where Ranuccio Tomassoni is falling, & Caravaggio,

Puzzled that a man would die so easily, turns & runs.

Wasn't it like this, after all? And this self-portrait, David holding him by a lock Of hair? Couldn't it destroy time if he offered himself up like this, empurpled, Bloated, the crime paid for in advance? To die before one dies, & keep painting?

This town, & that town, & exile? I stood there looking at it a long time.

A man whose only politics was rage. By 1970, tinted orchards & mass graves.

~

The song that closed the Fillmore was "Johnny B. Goode," as Garcia played it, Without regret, the doors closing forever & the whole Haight evacuated, as if Waiting for the touch of the renovator, for the new boutiques that would open—

The patina of sunset glinting in the high, dark windows.

Once, I marched & linked arms with other exiles who wished to end a war, & . . . Sometimes, walking in that crowd, I became the crowd, &, for that moment, it felt Like entering the wide swirl & vortex of history. In the end,

Of course, you could either stay & get arrested, or else go home.

In the end, of course, the war finished without us in an empty row of horse stalls

Littered with clothing that had been confiscated.

~

I had a friend in high school who looked like Caravaggio, or like Goliath— Especially when he woke at dawn on someone's couch. (In early summer, In California, half the senior class would skinny-dip & drink after midnight

In the unfinished suburb bordering the town, because, in the demonstration models, They finished the pools before the houses sold. . . . Above us, the lush stars thickened.) Two years later, thinking he heard someone call his name, he strolled three yards

Off a path & stepped on a land mine.

~

Time's sovereign. It rides the backs of names cut into marble. And to get Back, one must descend, as if into a mass grave. All along the memorial, small Offerings, letters, a bottle of bourbon, photographs, a joint of marijuana slipped

Into a wedding ring. You see, you must descend; it is one of the styles Of Hell. And it takes a while to find the name you might be looking for; it is Meant to take a while. You can touch the names, if you want to. You can kiss them,

You can try to tease out some final meaning with your lips.

The boy who was standing next to me said simply: "You can cry. . . . It's O.K., here."

~

"Whistlers," is what they called them. A doctor told me who'd worked the decks Of a hospital ship anchored off Seoul. You could tell the ones who wouldn't last By the sound, sometimes high-pitched as a coach's whistle, the wind made going

Through them. I didn't believe him at first, & so then he went into greater Detail. . . . Some evenings, after there had been heavy casualties & a brisk wind, He'd stare off a moment & think of a farm in Nebraska, of the way wheat

Bent in the wind below a slight rise, & no one around for miles. All he wanted, He told me, after working in such close quarters for twelve hours, for sixteen Hours, was that sudden sensation of spaciousness—wind, & no one there.

My friend, Zamora, used to chug warm vodka from the bottle, then execute a perfect Reverse one-&-a-half gainer from the high board into the water. Sometimes, When I think of him, I get confused. Someone is calling to him, & then

I'm actually thinking of Caravaggio . . . in his painting. I want to go up to it

And close both the eyelids. They are still half open & it seems a little obscene

To leave them like that. 

[biglisbonnews]

A Hidden Caravaggio Masterpiece, An Inheritance Feud, and a Roman Villa up for Sale This story was originally published on The Conversation and appears here under a Creative Commons license. I teach Italian Renaissance and Baroque art, so when I was visiting Rome in January, how could I not try to see a notorious villa that was up for sale and involved in a nasty inheritance dispute? The Villa Aurora, named for the masterful fresco by the 17th-century artist Guercino that adorns the ground-floor salon, also happens to house a rare ceiling painting by Caravaggio, the 17th-century “rebel artist,” whose name makes the art market salivate. I wanted to see the Caravaggio, and not just because its assessed value of US$331 million drove up the estimated price for the villa, apparently scaring off buyers. Perhaps because of the difficulty in reproducing the work or even viewing it, the Caravaggio has received remarkably little attention from art historians. The villa, which has gone through five failed auctions—the first one asking a cool $502 million—needs maintenance, and Italian law dictates that the Caravaggio and other art cannot be removed. It is not easy to see privately held art, and given the ongoing controversy, I figured my chances were especially slim. But I duly wrote to the email address I found online. A week later I got a response, and after some back and forth, on the day before I was to leave Rome, I was invited to come to the villa at 6 p.m. sharp. A woman named Olga met me at the door: “The principessa will be with you in a moment,” she said. The current inhabitant of the villa is an American-born princess named Rita Boncompagni Ludovisi. A former Texas GOP opposition researcher, she was once married to a congressman caught in the Abscam scandal and posed for Playboy twice in the 1980s. Her second husband, Nicolò Boncampagni Ludovisi, was Prince of Piombino. He owned the villa and promised her usufructuary rights, meaning she should be allowed to occupy the villa until her death. But the prince’s three sons from his first marriage are forcing the sale because, according to Italian law, inheritances must be divided between the surviving spouse and any descendants. It’s a media story to die for: old-world aristocrats face off against a supposed bimbo and gold digger from Texas—with a Caravaggio thrown in for good measure. The villa was historically known as the Casino Ludovisi, but it became famous among art historians for its ceiling painting by Guercino. In a tour de force of illusion, the ceiling is painted to look as through the architecture opens up to the sky with the goddess Aurora, or Dawn, driving her chariot across the space above. The Caravaggio, by contrast, barely registers in the voluminous scholarship on the artist. I looked down in dismay at my sneakers, my corduroy pants, and my purple Eddie Bauer jacket that has seen better days: I hadn’t anticipated meeting the principessa herself. Olga guided me into a second room and introduced me to the principessa. She is most definitely American – tall, blond and looking much younger than her age of 73. After talking extensively about the villa and its works of art, Rita, as she calls herself, introduced me to a dapper Italian man from the Ministry of Culture, whom, she explained, could hopefully stop her imminent eviction from her home. She then showed me the magnificent painting by Guercino. Then a journalist from the Italian newspaper La Stampa appeared, and the principessa was whisked away for an interview. She told me, in parting, “Olga will show you the Caravaggio.” Olga led me up a spiral stairway to the second floor: “Here is the other Guercino,” she said. I looked up to see a second illusionistic fresco, the same size as the one on the ground floor, this one depicting the figure of Fame flying through the sky. I hadn’t known this one even existed. Then Olga turned on the lights in what looked like a small hallway, its walls painted a bright, hospital white. I looked up to see Caravaggio’s painting, which depicts muscular nude men surrounding a translucent white globe. The detail is intense, the colors bright and sharp in a way that is exceptional for a ceiling painting. Caravaggio managed to make the three-headed dog Cerberus look as though it really existed, bringing to life the creature’s soft black and white fur, the red of its eyes, the pink ribbing of one upper mouth and the white glint of its teeth. I later learned that the picture had not been painted in the traditional fresco technique, on wet plaster, but with the unusual application of oil on dry plaster, allowing Caravaggio to execute the precision, color, detail, and texture. Although some art historians have questioned the attribution, there is no doubt in my mind that this is Caravaggio. Only he would—even could—paint such a seemingly plausible Cerberus. The composition works only in its original location, since the scale, height and curvature of the ceiling transform the work. The painting purports to show a rectangular opening in the ceiling through which viewers can see the sky and clouds. In the center, within a white globe depicting the universe, one sees the Sun, Moon and signs of the horoscope. On each side of the globe are the nude, burly he-men: on one side, Jupiter, awkwardly flying through the sky on an eagle, pushes the sphere; on the other, Jupiter’s brothers, Pluto and Neptune, stand as if at the edge of the opening in the ceiling, looking down. Perhaps Caravaggio did this for his friend and patron as a kind of joke. Given its lack of scholarly attention, the Caravaggio is much more compelling than I expected. One 17th-century biographer, Pietro Bellori, claimed that Caravaggio painted the work to silence critics who alleged that he lacked the technical skill to pull off the tricks in perspective required for ceiling art. But I think Caravaggio was up to something more complicated. His aim was not so much to prove he could paint with foreshortened figures and receding architecture, but rather to make fun of the fad for illusionistic ceiling paintings that render scenes “as if seen from below”—“di sotto in su,” as it is termed in art history. Running with the concept of “di sotto in su,” Caravaggio cheekily gives onlookers a graphic view from below of Pluto’s penis and testicles, not to mention a novel perspective on his buttocks. Caravaggio didn’t stop there. Jupiter’s pose is almost incomprehensible, his face concealed, his limbs flailing in different directions—very undignified, particularly for an oversize Olympian god. It’s an NFL linebacker riding an overmatched eagle. From between Jupiter’s legs emerges the very phallic long neck and beak of the eagle with his bright, dark eye glaring down at the mortals below. (In Italian, “bird” is slang for penis.) Pluto and Neptune also have their pets, which are themselves rivals: Pluto’s snarling dog frightens Neptune’s seahorse. Neptune, who is Caravaggio’s self-portrait, in turn looks threateningly at Pluto. And then there is the juxtaposition of Cerberus’ bared teeth and Pluto’s very exposed “equipment.” When I consider the patronage of the painting, it all makes sense. Caravaggio painted the ceiling in 1599 or 1600, when the villa was owned by his first important patron, Cardinal Francesco del Monte. Caravaggio lived in del Monte’s palace in town, and there is evidence to suggest that they both enjoyed the company of young men, and they may even have been lovers. While it is difficult to confirm the men’s sexual preferences, there is no question that the ceiling is a product of their shared sensibility: locker room art for sophisticated, 17th-century cultural “jocks.” The room was Del Monte’s “studiolo,” a type of small room usually used by members of the wealthy elite to get away from it all and “study” (whatever that might entail). The ceiling was to be shared by a bon vivant, learned cardinal with a select audience of like-minded men. Caravaggio never painted another ceiling because tricks of perspective were fundamentally incompatible with his realist inclinations, but perhaps he did this one for his friend and patron as a kind of joke. I left the Villa Aurora that night with a new perspective on 17th-century art and full of thoughts about the role these works of art, created for members of an extraordinarily privileged elite of the past, play in our modern democratic society. The same day as my visit, the judge in the inheritance dispute ruled that the principessa would be evicted from the villa to facilitate its sale. I suspect this is devastating for her, given how much effort she has put into preserving her husband’s legacy. But I also wonder what will happen to this villa and its unique collection of 16th- and 17th-century ceiling paintings. I think it would be a travesty for them to remain in private hands, because everyone, including my students, should be able to see these works. Art historians know about the tensions between private property and cultural heritage, but this is a real opportunity for the new Italian Minister of Culture, Gennaro Sangiuliano, to set an example, as his predecessors have done with the Palazzo Grimani at Santa Formosa in Venice. Once the residence of a wealthy and powerful noble family, Palazzo Grimani fell into disrepair until it was purchased in 1981 by the state. After many years of renovation, it opened as a public museum in 2008. The frescoes in the Palazzo Grimani are not nearly as artistically significant as those in the Villa Aurora, but the museum today is one of the most interesting monuments in Venice. I believe the Villa Aurora, restored and open to everyone as a museum of Renaissance and Baroque ceiling painting, could do the same for Rome. Monika Schmitter is a professor and chair of History of Art and Architecture at UMass Amherst. https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/caravaggio-art-hidden-villa-aurora

[wallpaperpainting]

The Death Of Caravaggio Paintings | Caravaggio Paintings

Worldwide absolution of Award-Winning Clear Atypical “Caravaggio: A Light Before the Darkness” by Ken Mora. Mora’s clear atypical adventures of the acclaimed artisan Caravaggio is now accessible common via all above online retailers in both book and accepted electronic-reader formats, as able-bodied as above concrete retail storefronts.

This will be the Aboriginal International Copy (English Language) and will be appear beneath the advocacy of the UK’s better administrator of affection Independent Clear Novels, Markosia Enterprises, helmed by administrator Harry Markos.

“We are captivated to accept active Ken Mora’s Caravaggio: A Light Before the Darkness.

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“When the columnist Ken Mora beatific it over it didn’t booty me continued to recognise how able-bodied produced it was, and as such we are appreciative to be the administrator of such a book. I attending advanced to accepting it out to the mes.” – Harry Markos, Publisher, Markosia Enterprises (UK)

Markosia.com

Caravaggio (b. Michelangelo di Merisi, da Caravaggio, 1571-1610) was the premiere adept of Baroque era painting. He pioneered a appearance of rendering, termed Chiaroscuro or Tenebrism, to accentuate the an uncompromised accuracy in apery the adversity of angelic ancestors and saints. While his works brought the affectionate

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from Wallpaper Painting https://www.bleumultimedia.com/the-death-of-caravaggio-paintings-caravaggio-paintings/

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is an uptown view from the living room of Architectural Designer Brian’s masculine, drool-worthy penthouse, including a charming penthouse across 9th Street and the top of the Empire State Building in New York City. This place is too classy. 

An amber alabaster urn glows in the entryway to Brian’s Greenwich Village apartment.

Brian’s foyer also functions as a dining space and a gallery for his collections of objects.

Looking across the dining room into the adjacent wet bar, perfectly located for conversing with friends while mixing cocktails.

Mahogany shelves above the wet bar are arranged with cocktail glasses and other favorites items including horn bowls purchased in the East Village, terracotta jars from Bulgaria, and a group of Delft porcelain flower bricks from the estate sale of Bunny Mellon.

An upright piano in the dining room provides another display surface.

The wall ledge is lined with some of Brian’s taxidermy collection, much of it inherited from his great-uncle, a grocer, who ran a taxidermy side business for hunters.

A wall dividing the living room from the dining room was also designed to house books and a flat screen TV. The sliding pocket doors are original to the apartment.

Brian selected glossy black porcelain tiles and a marble washstand for the guest bath.

The ceiling of the guest bath is actually a photo of a Caravaggio painting re-invented as wallpaper.

Brian bought an adjacent unit and enlarged what was a one-bedroom apartment into a three-bedroom and added this full-size kitchen.

In the kitchen area, Ruhlmann-inspired leather chairs surround a round glass table.

In the guest bedroom, an original marble fireplace mantel displays more taxidermy and a blue-and-white Chinese porcelain canister.

Double closet doors painted in a high-gloss black paint are original to the apartment.

Views of the West Village from the guest bedroom windows.

In the master bedroom, abstract paintings purchased in Sag Harbor hang above a bed from Crate & Barrel.

Bookcases are filled with bedtime reading, more favorite objects and photos of family and friends.

https://www.newyorksocialdiary.com/brian-sawyer/

[ninakainart]

Tiny Caravaggio study I gave as a Christmas gift 🌟🖼️

© instagram: @ninakain.art / @ninakain.portraits ✨ original art and paintings for sale & commission.

[claudiotrezzani]

Subordinati ai voleri altrui.

Di un Dio, come Ηλιος.

O di un oggetto elevato al culto di un Dio, come una vetrata policroma di chiesa.

Così, noi fotografi.

Così, noi fotografi quando la luce non dipende da noi.

Dai nostri flash, o dai nostri aggeggi a luce continua.

Così, non ci resta che aspettare.

O subito trovare, sperando nel Fato.

Il Fato che ci conceda la desiata angolazione, intendo.

Così, in una silente cattedrale.

Filtrata luce batte ove si agognava accarezzasse.

Così, in una deambulazione stradale.

Sapete, noi almeno ci possiamo spostare, o farlo con gli oggetti entro nostra disponibilità.

Gl'ignari passanti, no.

Vanno dove vogliono, loro.

E non sanno cosa luce fa su di loro.

Luce benigna al fotografo, qui.

Perché se imprime, contestualmente cela.

Ed è quello che vogliamo, noi fotografi.

Perché se Caravaggio o Velasquez giostravano soggetti a loro arbitrio, in queste robe qui dei chiaroscuri, a noi tocca la normativa irriconoscibilità.

Niente lineamenti, se solo il cranio emerge, si può.

Ma a noi fotografi interessano altre parzialità.

Se inquadrare è scegliere, andare ove luce colpisce è scegliere ancor di più.

Perché lo spazio negativo, parla.

Noi fotografi non siamo persone del Tutto.

Vogliamo la Parte, noi.

Per esclamare:

sei Tu importante.

All rights reserved

Claudio Trezzani

[blueiscoool]

A $547 Million Italian Villa with World's only Caravaggio Ceiling Mural  

A stately villa in the heart of Rome, which houses the world's only ceiling mural by the Italian painter Caravaggio, will be auctioned at a starting price of 471 million euros ($547 million) in January, a court in Rome has confirmed.

While most of the infrastructure was demolished in the 19th century, Villa Aurora is the only remaining part of the larger Villa Ludovisi, a 16th-century house which was considered "one of the wonders of the world," according to art historian Claudio Strinati in a column published on the daily Repubblica on Friday.

Barely a stone's throw away from Via Veneto, the iconic street memorialized by "La Dolce Vita" director Federico Fellini, Villa Aurora is flanked by a garden and various garages, and covers a total of 2,800 square meters (just over half an acre), according to public sales documents published by the Justice Ministry.

The six-floor property houses a myriad of artworks including an oil wall painting attributed to Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, better known simply as Caravaggio, whose body of work became synonymous with the artist's visceral depictions of violence.

Spanning the ceiling of a small 2.75 square meter room (approximately 30 square feet), Caravaggio's Villa Aurora mural represents three gods -- Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto -- as they gather around a translucent globe.

It was commissioned by cardinal Francesco Maria Del Monte in 1597, who would have used the room as an alchemical laboratory, according to the expertise commissioned by a tribunal, published by the ministry.

The painting has an estimated value of more than 310 million euros ($360 million), according to Alessandro Zuccari, a history of modern art professor at Sapienza University of Rome.

Zuccari, who was called by the tribunal to estimate the work of art inside the property, concluded in his evaluation ordered by the tribunal that Caravaggio's painting is "priceless, being the only mural by one of the greatest painters of the modern age."

The villa is also frescoed by the Baroque painter Giovanni Francesco Barbieri, known as Guercino, who worked in the villa between 1621 and 1623. Among Guercino's works are the fresco of the Aurora, the Roman goddess of dawn, which was painted for the nephew of Pope Gregory XV, Alessandro Ludovisi.

Villa Aurora belongs to the Boncompagni Ludovisi family, who are descendants of Pope Gregory XV. However, no detail of the judicial reasons that underlie the auction sale have been disclosed.

But maintenance of the property will not be cheap. One of the conditions for whoever will buy the property will be to spend 11 million euros in restoration expenses.

As a protected art site, the state will have the right of first refusal over the villa.

Auction company Fallco Zucchetti is handling the sale.