"Three? You mean three? Three million. It's three million lira," Jo gasped. "That's… fifteen thousand dollars Mike."

Alfredo smiled and repeated his words in Italian again. Jo turned to me and translated, "Quality. This is quality." She nodded in unison with him.

I walked over to the large, gold-plated frame and studied it's intricate patterns. It was gilded with 24-karat gold with tiny patterns incised into the wood and gold. It took him several months to finish, he told us.

Alfredo lead Jo over to a counter full of photographs, newspapers, and books. He spoke and Jo translated, "He has six? No, five kids. They are…"

He picked up a black and white photo of five smiling faces surrounded by a gold-encrusted frame.

"…they are all musicians," Jo continued while Alfredo talked. I looked up from the gold-plated frame and approached them, smiling at the picture.

"This one plays the… piano? Piano. This one plays the violin. This one… what?" Jo looked at Alfredo and cocked her head. He repeated himself, gesturing emphatically with his hands as he spoke. "Oh, this one also plays the violin. And this one the viola. And this one the cello."

Alfredo smiled and nodded.

"Wow, that's wonderful, Alfredo!" she cheered. "You must be very proud!"

He blinked, not quite understanding. Then I pointed at a small piece of art hanging on the wall.

Alfredo made a grand gesture with his hands then pointed to the lower left corner of the painting.

"That's him. Oh, he painted this picture. That's his signature."

He beamed with pride and repeated his name.

As I studied the gentle brushwork, he walked to his workbench and picked up an egg shell.

"This is made with eggs!" Jo exclaimed. Alfredo grinned and continued. "And… and what? Minerals? Eggs and minerals?"

He pointed to the back of the room and led us to a shelf full of bottles. What looked like clumps of dirt rested in those bottles.

Alfredo took a clump of dirt out and gestured with it.

"That's a mineral that he uses," Jo said.

He smiled and put it on his lip and moved his hands away. It remained stuck there. We laughed and he smiled. The clump of mineral didn't fall even when he grinned.

"That's great, Alfredo! Eggs and minerals! That's amazing!" Jo cheered. He put the clump back and scrambled back to the counter. We cast a sideways glance at the bottles before following him.

He opened a large art book and showed us a page. It was a full-color glossy photograph of him illustrating a long article about his life and his art. His name, Alfredo Barutti, stood out on top in strong, bold characters.

"This guy is famous!" Jo bellowed incredulously. "Holy shit!"

Alfredo picked up a small piece of paper and handed it to her. I walked by her side and looked at it.

It was a photocopied clip of an article from the New York Times, dated June 24, 1990.

"Alfredo Barutti, Gilder," it was titled.

VENICE - Alfredo Barutti's first love was music, but his father insisted that he learn a trade. He became a gilder, but when he had a family of his own, he encouraged his children to study music.

All five did so and became accomplished musicians. Now Mr. Barutti, who is 65 years old, has a family of musicians, but no one to continue his own dying art, which dates to the Middle Ages.

In his shop, El Dorador, at No. 4231 on the Campo Manin near the Ponte della Cortesia, Mr. Barutti designs and makes frames, mirrors and other furniture, carving and gilding it all by hand.

Jo and I stared at each other in amazement. We had no idea we had wandered into the Campo Manin.

The thrill of the Carnevale had somehow directed us in this direction, and the chill of the air forced us to seek shelter in a tiny open hallway which lead directly to Alfredo's shop.

What a random encounter. I looked back at the article and skipped to the last paragraph.

Because he doesn't have an apprentice or a child willing to learn the craft, Mr. Barutti is collecting his notes and pictures of his work in a book, which he hopes will someday benefit someone interested in pursuing his craft.

I looked up and smiled.

"Um, I'm not sure what he's saying," Jo whispered. Alfredo pointed at the article and rattled on without waiting for Jo to translate.

My mind wandered back to San Francisco, when I had decided to build an art collection. I wanted pieces that were created by friends and acquaintances, or had special meaning to them.

Part of the intent was to encourage the creative yearnings of budding artists and to support those who imbued special meaning into their work.

This random encounter with Alfredo and his artwork sparked something in me. That this father of five would spend months on one piece of art showed to me that he put a lot of heart into his work.

That he was sharing so much of himself—albeit with a healthy dose of pride—with strangers such as us stirred something inside.

I gestured towards a small gold frame.

"One… One million. That's one million lira. Uh… that's five hundred dollars Mike."

I recoiled slightly. I knew that buying art wasn't going to be cheap, especially for true quality work. But with a bunch of college loans, travel costs, a car lease, and other expenses to pay off—five hundred dollars? No can do.

"It's pure? Pure. It's pure gold on this little frame."

I looked at a slightly smaller frame. Alfredo lifted it off the hook and put it in my hands.

"Six hundred thousand lira. That's… three hundred dollars."

Gulp. Not quite at my range yet. Some art collector I was turning out to be. Guess I'm going to have to wait a few years for my savings to have enough leeway to spend on non-essential expenses. Drat.

The spark wasn't dead yet though.

Though it wasn't exactly what he was known for, I pointed at the egg and mineral painting again. Again, Alfredo pointed at his name proudly.

"Two hundred thousand. That's a hundred dollars."

I gently picked up the painting and examined it. It's monotone browns and tans over a light beige octagonal canvas revealed a scene that could only be Venice—beautiful gondolas drifting through the Canal Grande.

"This is the… San Maria della… Salute," Jo stated as Alfredo pointed to a magnificant structure in the far background of the image.

"And look! Gondolas!" she added.

There was something about this painting that took root in me. Sure, it wasn't one of the gold-gilded frames that he's known for, but it was still a beautiful piece of art—a beautiful piece of art that helped visualize this special and unique trip.

I dug into my pocket and counted out two hundred thousand lira.

"This will be to remember our trip to Venice by," I smiled at Jo. She hugged me and Alfredo gave us a big toothy grin.

. . .

Do you know any gilders?