Gold as thin as breath

A sheet of gold leaf is so thin that it drifts away on your breath, and in these streets people still work with it every day. A gilder lays it onto a layer of red clay, presses it down with a brush of squirrel hair, and polishes it with a stone of agate until it mirrors.

As you pass, glance through the open doors. The rooms are narrow and deep, a workbench near the front and darkness toward the back, and what sits inside gives the trade away: stacks of frame wood, a chair stripped of its upholstery, a gilded angel lying on its back and waiting. Many of the workshops have no sign out front, because their customers already know the way.

This is no folklore. Museums and collectors from all over the world send damaged panels, frames and furniture to these few streets, because the knowledge to restore them has been handed down here without a break. An apprentice starts by sweeping floors and boiling glue, and only after years is allowed near the real work, just as it was five centuries ago.

Cross Via dei Serragli and carry on to the wide square with its rough brick church.