Work Text:
Paris, 1816
“Are you comfortable?”
Jannik huffed a laugh in answer, almost childish in its enthusiastic sound, as he bounced on the pillows. The bed was the only piece of furniture in the small and decrepit room that sheltered their artistic adventures that Carlos had gladly spent too much money on, as he’d wanted it to be as inviting and cosy as possible. Though they were nothing luxurious, the silken burgundy sheets had cost him a few dinners and he’d had to satisfy himself with lukewarm and insipid soup for a while after this purchase, shivering in the tiny bedroom he was renting in Paris as he dreamed of a hot and hearty meal to devour. His growling stomach was, however, worth the look of utmost delight on Jannik’s gorgeous face as he burrowed deeper into the sheets, hugging a pillow to his chest.
“Oui, Monsieur le Peintre,” the man answered him in French when he finally found a comfortable position, his radiant and cheeky smile piercing straight through Carlos’ heart.
He would never paint a rising sun again. Not when he had the most beautiful light right in front of him, shifting inside Jannik’s green gaze as it settled on his face. That fire was as dangerous as it was captivating and Carlos knew that he had burned himself already. Even on the day they’d first met, he had known that Jannik would be special, indispensable to his art - and to his life. Here they were now, the muse and the painter, the former clad in nothing but a thin, white robe that was slipping down one of his shoulders and revealed a hint of chest due to his wild wiggling, the latter wearing his heart on his sleeve and an air of vague appreciation, that he pretended was nothing but detached and dispassionate, for the beautiful man on the bed.
The notes of a piano rose from one of the adjacent rooms, the perfect addition to the already beautiful tableau in front of Carlos. The sounds were soft, halting, searching, and the painter wondered whether Terence was composing again or merely lost in thought while his fingers played the ivory and ebony keys out of habit. The walls were thin and Carlos had started to get acquainted with some of his neighbours rather intimately over the past months, although most of the time unwillingly. He was glad that Jannik’s visit would be punctuated by Terence’s musical explorations rather than the creaking of a bed frame or moans too loud to be contained within their walls.
A toe poking Carlos’ thigh brought his attention back to Jannik, who was staring at him from his spot on the mattress, his long fingers splayed across the sheets as he wiggled a bit.
“So?” he asked, impatient as often, bratty as always. “How do you want me, this time?”
How do i want you, this time? There were so many potential answers to this question that Carlos had to close his eyes and swallow around the emotions rising in his throat. He wanted so many things for and from Jannik. I want to see you happy and thriving, he could say. To bask quietly in the glow of your presence. Paint every season of yours. Hold your hand as we run under the rain through the streets of Paris. Map your skin with my fingertips. Or even crossing endless miles, until we arrive at more than just snow-laced mountains.. perhaps to find a quiet home or maybe nothing at all, except the fragile hope that somewhere, there is a family I could thank for bringing you into this world. Some of those thoughts however, he could not reveal to Jannik. He had to burry them deep inside his aching, wanting chest, unwilling to scare the man away.
“You can start by removing the robe,” Carlos told him quietly, turning away to set up his easel and stool, as well as the various canvas and colours he would use, so he could give Jannik his privacy.
It did not matter that in a few minutes, Jannik would be naked before him anyway. Carlos loved and respected this man far too much to stare shamelessly while he undressed himself, even though it was their agreement that Jannik would pose for him in whatever state of undress. He firmly believed in the importance of Jannik’s comfort with his own body and the situation and he wanted to be allowed to look, whenever he was ready: Carlos would never want to take the permission, the privilege of admiring him, for granted.
“Carlos,” Jannik called for him after a few seconds, once the fabric stopped rustling, “You can look.”
The artist turned around, his experienced eyes immediately taking in the beauty of the scene and his imagination running away, wild and unbridled. The sun shone through the windows of the bedroom, giving a golden hue to the place that suddenly looked like a palace, and it no longer illuminated a man who’d grown up on the streets but a king, lying on his bed with one long leg tangled in the sheets, while the other was bent at the knee to hide his modesty. Reclining on his hands, arms stretched behind his back, Jannik let his head fall back and closed his eyes, taking Carlos’ breath away at the same time. His hair shimmered in a rich, reddish gold, so radiant that no crown could ever rival the quiet crown it already was. How lucky was Carlos, to be alive at a time when Jannik was, too? How lucky indeed, to feel like a mortal visited by the gods, favoured by them, when this gorgeous man was his and only his to paint, to prepare for immortality with the mere caress of a brush against a canvas?
“Do you think you can hold this pose for a little while?” Carlos asked, fingers itching with the need to grab a stick of charcoal and sketch the rough outline of the angel on display.
“Anything for you,” Jannik answered him in earnest, widening the gap between his hands so the position became more comfortable, easier for him to maintain - completely disregarding the effect that his words had on Carlos.
Anything. What a dangerous word to utter, when it sounded like a whispered promise to Carlos’ ears. He needed to remember that Jannik did not really mean that. He needed to remember that he was paying Jannik to pose for him, that this was not a stolen moment between them, nor was this fake intimacy between painter and muse freely given.
Carlos would not take advantage of the man by reading in these words more than what Jannik actually meant, no matter what his heart longed for.
“This is perfect,” he whispered as he got to work, “Tell me if you need to stretch at some point.”
Jannik nodded subtly so he would not upset his own position nor the way the light fell upon him, although a small smile curled up his mouth. Notes of music were still floating in the air when Carlos put the first lines of charcoal onto the paper and they mingled with the sounds of Jannik’s breathing, quiet and peaceful as he basked in the sun, and with Carlos’ busy fingers working against his canvas, softening a line, darkening another.
“Can I speak?” Jannik asked after a few seconds of silence, barely moving his lips, but he opened his eyes to gauge Carlos’ reaction to his request.
Carlos hid his smile behind his easel. Of course the man could not stay both still and silent for long. His impetuous nature would always surge back up and he’d threatened to leave Carlos alone with his half-painted canvas more than once when he’d first started to pose for him, back when they had not yet learned to navigate each other’s needs. He had not liked the way Carlos had pushed him to stay still one more minute after he’d asked for a break, just one more minute, just one, so he could bring his brush down in a few more strokes, just so he could finish up that line, paint that hand... Carlos tended to get lost into his art but Jannik’s arms and legs cramping up one too many times and the foul mood that resulted had taught him to pay more attention to his muse’s comfort.
“Of course you can,” Carlos said, “You know that.”
“Wouldn’t want to disturb the master at work,” Jannik teased, before he launched into one of the endless tirades which he had a knack for, sometimes interspersed with French. “So, you know Ben, the tenant of le Salon des Lilas? Well, he was being an asshole yesterday, comme d’habitude, and he threw Coco out when she asked for a hot meal - she had the money and everything! Tu te rends compte? So I sneaked in through the back door...”
“Jannik...” Carlos groaned, having an inkling of what had happened then.
“What? He was refusing to feed her! A plague can kill anyone in Paris, but it always hurts more when people die of hunger!”
“So you stole... what was it this time? A loaf of bread? Two?”
“How dare you?” Jannik squeaked in mock offense, “No, Carlos! There was a perfectly cooked chicken waiting to be cut into pieces for some rich patron’s dinner. So I stole that. And a loaf of bread.”
Carlos snorted, peeking around his easel to smile at Jannik, noticing the way his fingers had crumpled the sheets where they’d clenched in fury at the reminder of Ben’s unfairness.
“Relax your fingers, please,” he enjoined his muse, who immediately complied.
“Sorry,” Jannik said, contrite.
“You’re alright,” Carlos assured him with another smile, but then his voice grew stern, worried. “You should be careful, Janni. Stealing like this will only bring trouble to you.”
“Well, it brought you to me, didn’t it?” Jannik shot back on his usual snarky tone. “It’s not so bad, I’d say.”
The painter let out a loud bark of laughter at the reminder of their first meeting and he focused on bringing the lines of Jannik’s legs onto his canvas even as he reminisced. A year ago he’d been desperately searching for inspiration in the streets of Paris, his flat purse and empty stomach a painful proof that the title of starving artist was to be taken literally most of the time and was not a hyperbole. He had not sold a painting in weeks. Picturesque sceneries and the cobbled streets of Paris, sights of Notre-Dame from the Seine were piling up in his small bedroom, where many artists had conglomerated and met, but these canvas didn’t sell. Too many artists had painted the same views of the French capital and although none of these paintings had the same technique, result or feeling, there were not many people who would buy six different paintings of the same scenery. Carlos had to find something else.
Something else had turned out to be someone else. One second, Carlos was wondering when he would be able to afford a meal and the next, a young man was crashing into him and sent him tumbling down until he was sitting on his ass in the same cobbled streets he’d painted so many times before, staring bewildered at the angel in his lap.
“Grand Dieu!” the man he’d come to know as Jannik had exclaimed in panicked French, jumping to his feet and helping Carlos up in turn, patting him everywhere to brush away the dirt and dust of the street. “Je suis désolé! Est-ce que vous allez bien?”
Taken aback, Carlos had stammered what little French he knew, je ne comprends pas - I don’t understand. What he’d understood though, a few seconds after Jannik had apologised in broken English for running into him and then left, was that it hadn’t been accidental at all: his purse was missing.
Carlos had never run as fast in his life as he did that day to track Jannik down, slithering between carriages and well-dressed Parisian women gasping in offense at the dishevelled painter sprinting past them. There had been just enough coins in that purse so he could buy a stale loaf of bread that night, that he’d have to make last until the following week at least. The thief had just ruined it for him... but Carlos had found him.
He hadn’t gotten a proper look at the man who’d run into him - or pushed him down, rather. When he’d caught up to him though, cornering him in a narrow, dead-end alley, Carlos had lowered the clenched fist he’d been ready to punch the thief with, suddenly swallowed by the wide, green eyes that had stared at him in fear. For all his bravado, Carlos would later learn that while Jannik may be a brat, a thief and a runner, he was not a fighter. Oh, he was not a coward, he was possibly even too brave for his own good, but violence was not an option Jannik chose often.
So Carlos had stared at the man, tall but making himself smaller, ready to flee but cornered, scared but unwilling to beg. Came back for this? he’d asked in perfect English this time, taunting Carlos with a wide but forced smile as he shook the purse in his hand and listened to the weak clinking of coins. Carlos hadn’t even noticed. Wondering whether he was walking in a dream, for it was the only explanation to his sudden stumbling upon such beauty, Carlos had only been able to focus on the captivating eyes of the thief, curly hair, his lips, freckles, and his long neck, the sheer bravery rolling off him in waves as he challenged the man who’d been ready to punch him. The sight had settled the worries in his heart at once. He’d found the missing piece to his art. Pose for me, he’d blurted, I’ll pay you, and he’d had the pleasure to see relief, disbelief and then happiness colour the face of this man who could have been Michelangelo’s lover, turned into his most beautiful sculpture.
For once, indeed, trouble had been good to Jannik.
“Of course it’s not so bad,” Carlos snorted, “I’m paying you to laze around in silk, it could have been much worse.”
He was brushing his finger against the charcoal lines so they would fade and be less visible once he switched to the actual aquarelle, when he realised that Jannik was uncharacteristically quiet. Looking up, he caught the fleeting expression on his face - a man less attuned to emotions and to Jannik himself would have missed it but to Carlos, it was obvious: Jannik looked sad, suddenly.
“Are you quite alright?” he asked in confusion, “Did I say something that...”
“I’m good,” Jannik answered sullenly - proof if need be that he was lying. “Je suis rien qu’un idiot.”
That last part had been whispered, most likely to himself, but even with his limited French, Carlos understood that Jannik wasn’t being kind to himself with these words. At a loss to say or do anything to help his muse, when he wasn’t even certain that he was not responsible for Jannik’s sudden sadness, Carlos put his stick of charcoal down.
“Do you need a break?” he suggested hesitantly.
“No,” Jannik answered abruptly, refraining from shaking his head at the last second. “Paint me.”
The artist nodded, although he still felt thrown off, aware that Jannik was retreating within himself and away from Carlos. He would not be surprised if the man decided to end their session earlier than planned - still, he tried not to rush the sketching, lest he ruined it.
The piano was quiet now, he noticed. Unable to bear the silence, especially not coming from the one who usually could not stop babbling as it helped him pass the time, he glanced at his model and desperately tried to find anything to fix in his posture, just so he could use that as an excuse to speak to him.
Jannik was literally perfect, however. He had closed his eyes again but was otherwise keeping still, even though Carlos knew it cost him, and his breathing was controlled, almost relaxed, despite the light tension in his round shoulders. The artist took in the long lines of Jannik’s legs, his pale thighs and narrow waist, the smooth skin of his stomach, a bit too sunken to be healthy, and the freckles.. glimmering, even on his earlobes. From the tip of his toes to the tip to his fingers, there was nothing to fix about Jannik - still Carlos tried to find something off in the scene.
“Can you lower the sheets down to your right knee?” he asked without even looking, “I need to see your thigh better.”
Jannik complied without a word.
“And tilt your head toward me, maybe?” he added, hoping that Jannik would finally talk to him. “Just a bit.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” the man suggested brusquely.
“What?” Carlos asked in surprise.
“I thought painters arranged their models the way they liked,” Jannik explained, his voice barely louder than a furious whisper, although the angry tone seemed to be hiding something else, something...
“What?” Carlos repeated, feeling a bit dumb, but he had always told Jannik how to position himself, he had never proceeded any differently so why was he asking for it now?
“Why won’t you touch me?” Jannik finally blurted out.
... something desperate.
Jannik wasn’t merely thinking about the painter moving his limbs to make him hold whatever position struck his fancy, and Carlos understood that. He stopped breathing for a second or two when it hit him - that Jannik wanted his hands on his skin, his caresses along his sides, his thighs, everywhere.
“It... it w- wouldn’t be proper,” Carlos stammered, even though he wanted nothing else but to push his easel away and climb on the bed next to Jannik, over him, and to press his lips against his throat with the reverence that was usually reserved for kings. This Italian man had ruled his heart since day one.
“Carlos,” Jannik growled, fisting his hands in the sheets, “I’m a man, posing naked for another man. Nothing about this is proper.”
“I’m paying you for this, Jannik,” Carlos pointed out, just as desperate as Jannik, only to show him that they shouldn’t, he couldn’t, not like this, he...
Jannik recoiled at the reminder, as if slapped - and Carlos finally understood what he’d said earlier that had upset the young man so much.
“Is that all you can say?” Jannik asked, hurt bleeding through his eyes, that he quickly adverted. “Is that all I am to you? A handful of coins?”
Carlos gasped at the awful accusation and shook his head, scrambling to his feet so he could cross what little distance separated him from Jannik. He climbed onto the bed in a hurry, kneeling in front of his muse and reaching up to hold his beautiful face between his hands, forcing the man to look at him.
“You mean everything to me,” he whispered, stressing his words. “Everything, Jannik, do you hear me?”
It seemed to placate the man a little, as he blinked with eyes that were filled with hope. Still, Carlos had to put an end to this, as gently but firmly as he could.
“That’s why I can’t... I can’t touch you like that,” he explained softly, his thumbs circling Jannik’s cheekbones in reassurance that he was not going to disappear - whether he meant himself or Jannik, he was not sure. “I don’t want you to do this just because I’m paying you, I...”
This was the wrong thing to say. Jannik’s expression twisted into one of fury and he slapped Carlos’ hands away before jumping off the bed, grabbing the discarded robe as he made his way toward the door of the small room.
“Je ne suis pas une putain, Carlos!” he shouted, offended and hurt beyond measure at the implication, still finding it in himself to translate for the artist who was staring at him in confusion. “I’m not a whore!”
“That’s not what I meant!” Carlos exclaimed, horrified at the way the situation was quickly slipping out of his control, “Jannik, I swear! I... God damn it all, I want you in the same way!”
This stopped Jannik dead in his tracks, although he didn’t turn around to face Carlos. Slowly, afraid that one more mistake would push Jannik out of his life for good, he approached the man until he could wrap his hands around his waist and press his forehead between Jannik’s shoulder blades. He felt him tremble, heard him gasp, but he didn’t dare interpret those signs.
“Listen to me,” he pleaded, his breath warm on the other man’s skin. “I meant it, Jannik. I want you - all of you, and not just as a model to my paintings, but I... I am paying you, right now, and I don’t want you to feel like you owe me. You owe me nothing, you understand that? I want you to want me for real, from deep inside your heart, like I do you. I wouldn’t bear it otherwise.”
Shaky fingers gently pushed him away and Jannik broke free of his loose embrace. He turned around. His eyes were glassy. His breathing uneven. His lips trembled as though holding back words that had waited far too long to be spoken. There was no smile, only a fragile kind of bravery, stretched thin over the fear of being rejected.
He swallowed, his gaze never leaving Carlos’, as if searching for something he had never quite been given. “I’ve spent entire nights wishing you were by my side,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “Hours posing for you, wondering when you were going to kiss me. I watched you while you painted me, wondering what I had to do to make you stop, make you put your brushes down and actually look at me. See me.” His voice weakened, nearly breaking. “You, the artist who sees beauty in every breeze of the wind… but can’t see the love in his model’s heart.”
Carlos felt it then, a trembling truth curling in his chest. Every word, every falter in Jannik’s voice, every ache behind those wide eyes was no longer just confession; it mirrored the same longing he had buried in himself for months. Jannik felt it too. He… he wanted him, just as desperately.
“Janni…”
“Don’t..” his voice hitched, breath catching, “don’t call me that, I-” The words dissolved into a small, broken sob he couldn’t quite hold back.
And something in Carlos gave way.
“I love you, Janni,” Carlos whispered against the tightening of his throat, raising his hands to pull Jannik against him in a gentle hug. “I love you so much.”
For a few seconds, Jannik didn’t move. His body stayed rigid in Carlos’ arms, as if the words were too much to take in all at once. His breath stilled, then came back, shaky and uneven. Carlos felt it. That shift. From tension… to hesitation… to something slowly unraveling.
“I have always loved you, Janni. I painted you, and somewhere between each stroke, I found myself sinking into thoughts I could no longer control, wondering what could ever be enough to make you stay with me for more than just three or four hours. I… I kept searching for a reason, a way, something worthy of asking you to remain as someone who belonged around me, if only you would let yourself.”
Jannik’s fingers curled into the fabric of Carlos’ shirt, gripping tightly, like someone who had finally found something to hold onto.
“I love you too,” the man said softly as he made himself smaller and buried his face into Carlos’ neck, “The way you admire the world and the way you care about people - you chose kindness when you met me, even though I’d just stolen from you. You shared your bread with Ugo the other day, even though you had barely enough for yourself. I love you for all of this, all of you.”
Carlos felt his chest tighten at those words, something warm and aching blooming beneath his ribs. All this time, he had tried to keep it contained, to reduce Jannik to lines and shadows, to colors on canvas, to something he could study without admitting how deeply he was affected. But there was nothing he could deny now. Not the reckless kindness that had first unsettled him, not the quiet softness hidden beneath Jannik’s defiance, not the way his face seemed to hold light differently from anyone else’s, as if it had been made to be seen, to be remembered. Jannik had become more than a subject, more than a fleeting presence - he was, in every way that mattered, everything Carlos had never dared to hope for, and yet somehow found standing right in front of him.
Carlos pressed his hands against Jannik’s shoulders and pushed, enough to dislodge the man, but he didn’t give him the time to doubt what was happening between them. The back of his hand gently brushed over the dampness on Jannik’s cheek, wiping it away with quiet tenderness. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, breathless already.
“I... Yes, yes, of course! Viens là...”
It was Jannik who kissed him, in the end. Jannik who grasped the lapels of his jacket and pulled him in, swooping down to catch Carlos’ lips in a soft kiss that was over too quickly, but that they savoured until the last second. Even after, as Carlos kept his eyes closed and held onto Jannik’s hand, in need of an anchor as he felt himself teetering.
“I love you,” he whispered when he was certain that he would not collapse into Jannik’s arms, although he trusted that he would have caught him. “I am a poor artist, with nothing to give you but my love, Janni. Could that be enough for you?”
“It is,” Jannik murmured against his lips, kissing him once, twice, unable to stop it seemed, until a shiver ran along his body.
“Are you cold?” Carlos asked, suddenly remembering that he was still naked.
“Quite the opposite,” he mumbled, briefly glancing down at himself and blushing when Carlos followed his gaze.
“I suppose it would be a bit hard to resume the session now, would it?” Carlos snorted, amused.
Another kiss answered him, more pressing this time, and Jannik let go of the robe he’d picked up before, using both hands to push him toward the bed again, on which they fell gracelessly.
“I think you should get better acquainted with your model’s body before resuming any sketching,” Jannik said with wide, innocent eyes that were betrayed by the cheeky smile he was sporting.
“That would only be professional, I suppose.”
“Yes,” he breathed, “Paint me with your hands, Charly, right here, every inch of me. I want you to know all of me.”
Charly. The name landed somewhere deep inside Carlos. He eagerly complied. His fingers, tainted black with charcoal, left dark marks all over Jannik’s back and thighs. He painted him the only way he knew how - not with brushes this time, but with touch that lingered. It’s slow and deliberate, as if blending color into warmth, coaxing that soft flush to bloom deeper beneath his skin.
He moved lower with quiet intention, mapping the line of his neck like an artist following a composition he already knew by heart, yet still chose to rediscover. Each press of his lips left a mark like strokes of red against a living canvas, deepening the contrast of breath and pulse beneath his touch.
Jannik’s skin became something more than form beneath his hands, it was movement, heat, response. And those green eyes, glistening with want and mischief, undressed him in a single glance, daring him to finally capture their fire - a challenge almost impossible to resist. A painting that answered him back.
Their fingers found each other again, instinctively, interlacing until their grip tightened, knuckles paling not from strain but from the quiet urgency of holding on. As if letting go would break the piece before it was finished.
And when their mouths met, again and again, it felt less like hunger and more like refinement - soft, unending strokes, each kiss building upon the last, layering something intangible between them.
Carlos didn’t rush. He couldn’t. Because for the first time, he wasn’t trying to capture beauty. He was inside it. Sighs and cries dying against each other’s mouth. He hoped that, in between his breathless gasps and behind his closed eyes, Jannik could see it too - the fleeting bursts of color dancing and shimmering, blooming like quiet fireworks from within, as beautiful as the feeling he could never fully paint.
And when it finally quieted, when the urgency softened into something slower, warmer.. he felt it shift beneath his hands, that fragile intensity giving way to rest. Jannik’s breathing steadied, his body growing heavier against him, no longer reaching, no longer holding on so tightly. For the last time, Carlos kissed his temple, his heart soft and lingering with warmth every time he looked at those freckles along the edge of his ear. Enchanting. Spellbinding. Carlos would count them the next time they were alone. But deep down, he wished he would never finish, so he could linger like this forever, tracing and tracing them again and again, always with him.
When Jannik fell asleep, he did so with his head on Carlos’ chest and the spaniard’s hand softly petting his hair. Jannik was a canvas made out of love, the most beautiful piece he had ever painted, and he tried not to jostle his companion as he reached for a sketchbook abandoned on the floor.
The piano started playing again when Carlos put his charcoal to the paper. This time, the notes were confident, as were his fingers while he drew his lover in his glorious and well-loved nakedness. He drew as if he had been standing next to the bed, adding his own hand in Jannik’s hair, his own chest beneath his ear, his own face gazing down adoringly at his muse.
As ephemeral as his existence was, he had found the one who would make it timeless.
Musée de Montmartre, Paris, 2026
May 5, 2026 to August 16, 2026 the exhibition “Carlos Alcaraz: the Art of Love” invites you to (re)discover the famous Spanish painter who lived in the 19th century.
While his quick dabble into neoclassical art is well-known, as well as his numerous sketches and aquarelles of Paris (some of which offer unique sights onto early 19th century Montmartre) and romantic pieces, his most personal paintings and sketches remained hidden for years after their discovery. Revealing the artist to be homosexual, or according to other hypotheses, at least bisexual, these works also convey the deep emotions Alcaraz poured into his art. The numerous paintings and sketches of his lover - anonymous on most pieces but for a few that may have been intended for sale - reflect not only the intensity of his passion, but sometimes a quiet, almost imperceptible shadow of longing, leaving traces of what might have been lost.
This exhibition is a deep dive into eroticism as well as the language and art of love, of which the highest form might be the immortality Carlos Alcaraz gifted to his lover through his portraits.
- The Thief, aquarelle painting, dated 1815.
- The Beauty, aquarelle painting, dated 1815.
- Love, charcoal, dated 1816.
- Self-portrait series, n°1, Moonlight kiss, aquarelle painting, dated 1817.
- Janni, oil painting, dated 1817.
- Lilacs in bloom in Montmartre, aquarelle painting, dated 1818.
- Autumn on the Seine, aquarelle painting, dated 1819.
- La petite mort, oil painting, dated 1819.
- Bañarte en blanco, aquarelle, dated 1820.
- Self-portrait series, n°2, Aftermath, oil painting, dated 1820.
- Self-portrait series, n°3, Hands and knees, pastel sketch, dated 1822.
- My Love, My Janni, oil paiting, dated 1822.
- Sesto, oil painting, dated 1823.
- Neve d’inverno, pastel sketch, dated 1823.
- Self-potrait series, n°4, Fai di me ciò che vuoi, oil painting, dated 1824.
- Self-portrait series, n°5, Rings, oil painting, dated 1824.
- My Life, My Janni, oil painting, dated 1824.
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- My Last, My Lost, My Angel, unfinished charcoal sketch, dated 1831.
- Miré Atrás, Amor, charcoal sketch, dated 1835.
- In Ashes I Remember you, charcoal sketch, dated 1838.
More into our museum!