"Pictor Ignotus," a heading reveals, is set in "Florence, 15—". In other words, the poem will take place in the heart of the Italian Renaissance—though exactly when is unclear. The generalized "15—" date lets readers know only that this is the 16th century; the poem is dealing with the mood of an era, not with specific historical events.
The poem's title, similarly, is specific and vague at once. Translated from the Latin, "Pictor Ignotus" means "unknown painter." That's precisely what the speaker of this dramatic monologue will turn out to be: an anonymous artist, a person who never stamped his name on the world.
Artistic anonymity might be a particularly painful predicament for a resident of 16th-century Florence. This is the era of Leonardo, Michelangelo, Botticelli—of legends, in short, artists whose work still inspires awe today. Or, more precisely, it's the era just after those artists' heyday, a time when a new generation of painters might be inspired to rise to their heights.
As the speaker's first words reveal, he is all too well aware he's not among this illustrious crew:
I could have painted pictures like that youth's
Ye praise so. [...]
These words drip with envy and yearning. This speaker is clearly no "youth" himself anymore, no spring chicken—and he knows that he didn't paint pictures like those of the young man whose art is apparently setting Florence afire. (Readers who know a little about art history might suspect that this youth is Raphael, the wunderkind of the Renaissance).
Worse still, he knows that this talented youth's pictures really are as good as they're cracked up to be; this kid's not just a flash in the pan. If the speaker had unleashed his full gift, he feels certain, his pictures would have been "like that youth's"—would have achieved something similar.
But he never did. Though his "soul springs up" with excitement and elation at the thought of what he could have done, he's forced to admit that he didn't do it. Nothing, he insists, held him back; "no bar," no impediment, got in his way, and "never did fate forbid" that he reach artistic greatness. This thought gives him simultaneous pain and comfort. It's "sadden[ing]" to think that he didn't achieve what he could have; it's "sooth[ing]" to go on believing that he had the stuff, even if he didn't use it.
The speaker's envy and sorrow here aren't just pettiness. They're born of a lofty and idealistic view of what it is to be an artist. Listen to the speaker's metaphors here:
—Never did fate forbid me, star by star,
To outburst on your night with all my gift
Of fires from God: [...]
Artistic talent, here, is celestial, divine:
- The speaker's image of the stars suggests that art was his fate—written in his stars, rather than forbidden by them—and that his brilliance could (and should) have lit up the heavens themselves.
- His image of his "gift" as "fires from God" suggests, even more solemnly, that art is a sacred calling. Perhaps this image even alludes to the biblical story of Pentecost, in which the Holy Spirit visits the Apostles in the form of tongues of flame hovering above their heads. This visitation grants them the ability to speak in many different languages, so that they can go forth and preach to the world.
- This subtle allusion might suggest that art isn't just a divine gift, but a divine responsibility: a power that's meant to be used in sharing sacred truths.
This speaker, then, sees art as a high and holy enterprise, one that he feels honored to have been called to. How much the more painful, then, that he never rose to the calling—and knows it.
Already, though, there are some signs that (for all his idealism) the speaker struggles with some pettier feelings about being an artist, too. The first thing he says about that brilliant youth focuses on the praise he's earned, the reputation. Perhaps this speaker liked the idea of being a brilliant artist chosen by God (and earning all the world's acclaim) a little more than he liked painting.
This long monologue is triggered by an unknown person's remarks on how remarkable that youth is. Readers never learn anything about the "ye" (or "you") the speaker addresses; they could be anyone. In some sense, it just doesn't matter whom the speaker is talking to. He's not really talking to "you" here, he's talking to himself, rehearsing a familiar grievance.
The speaker will chew over his thwarted ambitions in the course of 72 lines of iambic pentameter—that is, lines of five iambs, metrical feet with a da-DUM rhythm, as in "I could | have paint- | ed pic- | tures like | that youth's." It's a fitting form for a Renaissance tale: it makes this poem sound rather like a monologue from Shakespeare. The difference is in the rhyme scheme: a nervous ABAB pattern that seems to dither as the speaker does.