The longer I live in Florence, the more convinced I am that there is some unusual magic in this place where artistic souls have not just passed through for millennia, but have come and remained, their souls still hovering among us. There’s Dante, before his exile, sitting on his Sasso, his stone by the Duomo, dreaming of Beatrice while composing eternal poetry. Michelangelo circling his Pietà Bandini, putting final touches on his own likeness in the sculpture. Brunelleschi thinking up what he could do next with eggshell halves, the basis for his Duomo plans, while Ghiberti wonders what other construction could benefit from sculptured bronze doors the way the Florence Baptistery had. There’s Leonardo mulling over his work inside the Palazzo Vecchio. There are the female artists, too often inexcusably overlooked: Sister Plautilla Nelli, the 16th-century painter-nun, and the miraculous 17th-century Artemisia Gentileschi, the first woman to be inducted as a member of the Accademia delle Arti del Disegno. These artists are living, breathing human beings and they are indeed among us. Some even deliver olive oil pressed from their own groves.