In 1548, Jacopo Tintoretto, not yet thirty, delivered his Miracle of the Slave to the Scuola Grande di S. Marco. Initiating a cycle in the Sala del Capitolo dedicated to events in the life and legend of St. Mark, the canvas became the centre of public controversy. Although it was enthusiastically acclaimed by Pietro Aretino in a letter of April 1548, in which the grand publicist speaks for the painter’s admirers, the brothers of the scuola were evidently of divided opinion. Carlo Ridolfi reports that Tintoretto, offended by such hesitation, removed the picture and took it home. Eventually the factions were reconciled and the painting returned to the Sala Grande. While internal politics are likely to have been one source of discord, the painting itself was clearly intended as a bold public gesture, a challenge to the conventions of Venetian teleri (large scale painting), provocative especially in its radical foreshortenings and violation of the flatness of the picture plane.
The Miracle of the Slave represents a moment of arrival in the art of Tintoretto. Summarizing all the forces present in his youthful work, of which it is the culmination, its still greater energies announce the course of his future development. The Miracle of the Slave represents a synthesis of pictorial values, a demonstration of the principle Tintoretto was said to have inscribed on the wall of his studio, which read: “The drawing (disegno) of Michelangelo and the colouring (colorito) of Titian.”
Colorito, or colorire, is the term used by the Venetians, not colore, that is not the noun, but a form of the verb. They are not concerned with colour per se, but with the manner in which the colours are applied: colorito is an active, constructive concept. In theory as in practice, Venetian colouring is inseparable from Venetian brushwork; the effect of the colour depends on the touch of the painter’s brush.
Pietro Aretino, who hailed the “swift and eager youth” in his letter celebrating the Miracle of the Slave in 1548, added a caveat: “And your name would be hailed if only you would reduce your speed of execution in favour of greater patience.” Tintoretto’s speed of execution seemed to go beyond any legitimate “swiftness and sureness of hand”. Vasari declared Tintoretto “extravagant, capricious, quick and resolute, and the most terrible brain ever seen in painting… he has worked by pure chance and without disegno,” leaving “sketches for finished works,” working “by change and by boldness, rather than with disegno and judgement.”
Yet Vasari was capable of distinguishing among the paintings of Tintoretto. He admired the Miracle of the Slave of its “great copiousness of figures, of foreshortenings, of armour, buildings, portraits and other such things, which greatly embellish that work.” Evidently Vasari understood that this particular canvas was executed to be seen from a distance, the entire length of the Sala del Capitolo of the Scuola Grande di S. Marco, justifying the looser execution of this examples of “il colorito alla veneziana”.
Tintoretto developed the uniqueness of his bold style consciously and with purpose; even if that manner of painting offended some, it guaranteed notice.
Tintoretto was the only one of the dominant Venetian painters of the Cinquecento actually born in Venice, and he remained the most determinedly parochial, hardly ever leaving the city. Tintoretto seems to have claimed all Venice as the rightful arena for his art. Already by 1561 Francesco Sansovino, listing among the “notable things of the city of Venice” this painter, “all spirit, all quickness,” observed “that he alone has painted more in this city, and elsewhere, than all the other painters put together; for his hand is accompanied by his quick mind… He has abundant invention, but not much patience, which is needed to bring anything to completion, and it is certain that he takes on too much.”
Tintoretto seems to have been driven by a desire to cover the walls of Venice with his art. He was unscrupulous in securing commissions – undercutting the competition on price, offering to paint in the style of others and for less, at times even giving away his work. No other painter seems to have enjoyed such a reputation. The scandals that accompanied his canvases for the Scuola Grande di S. Marco were repeated in 1564 at the competition for the central ceiling painting of the Sala dell’Albergo of the Scuola Grande di S. Rocco, St Roch in Glory. Instead of submitting a modello for competitive evaluation, Tintoretto managed to have installed a completed canvas before the competition; then to the chagrin of the brothers, he donated the work in the name of their patron saint, a donation they could not refuse. This most Venetian of Venetian painters had a habit of challenging “el modo et ordene antiquo”.
Despite the opposition of many, Tintoretto nonetheless managed to secure for himself the decoration of the rest of the Sala dell’Albergo and, moreover, to be elected a confratello of the Scuola di S. Rocco. Following the decoration of the ceiling, he painted the great Crucifixion in 1565.
Extending over twelve meters across the long wall over the tribunal, this most impressive of Tintoretto’s paintings presents a panoramic spectacle containing a wealth of incident, all of it emanating from the central and controlling event, the Crucifixion of Jesus. Central to the expansive composition is Christ himself; set above the earth against the turbulent sky, he is the source of a circular aureole of divine light. His radiance is reflected below in the illuminated zone of the middle ground, which is defined by divergent orthogonals receding from the foot of the cross with a centrifugal energy that changes the entire picture. Figures and objects, the mechanical details and tools of the Passion, enact the counterpoint of Tintoretto’s dynamic compositional mode. Here, in particular, the physical forces of perspective and radical foreshortenings that had threatened the traditional planarity of Venetian teleri are reaccommodated to the picture plane by the larger controlling patterns of light and dark. IN this Curcifixion
In this Crucifixion are eloquently manifest the principles of Tintoretto’s art, his rethinking of traditional values, but also his continuing recognition of the importance of the plane as final determinant of pictorial coherence.
Tintoretto completed the decoration of the Sala dell’Albergo in 1566-67 with scenes of the Passion of Christ leading up to the Crucifixion.
In 1575 he volunteered to paint the central canvas in the newly redesigned ceiling of the Sala del Capitolo for nothing, and beginning with that work, the Erection of the Bronze Serpent, le laid claim to the rest of the ceiling, which he completed by the end of 1577, at the cost only of materials. At that point, he offered to paint the rest of the room, promising to deliver three teleri annually in exchange for a lifetime stipend from the scuola of one hundred ducats per annum (the normal price for a single such canvas). By the summer of 1581 the decoration of the Sala Grande was complete, with scenes from the life of Christ, and the following year he began work in the Sala Terrena (ground-floor hall), essentially a Marian cycle. By the time he finished in 1587 Tintoretto had succeeded in turning the Scuola Grande di S. Rocco into a monument to himself and his art.
And if that’s not enough Tintoretto in one place, next month Scuola Grande di S. Marco will showcase a special exhibition: Art, Faith and Medicine in Tintoretto’s Venice.
This year Venice celebrates the 500th anniversary of the birth of Jacopo Tintoretto with three special exhibitions:
Young Tintoretto at Galleria dell’Accademia (7 September 2018 – 6 January 2019)
Tintoretto: The Artist of Venice 500 at Palazzo Ducale (7 September 2018 – 6 January 2019)
Art, Faith and Medicine in Tintoretto’s Venice at Scuola Grande di S. Marco (6 September 2018 – 6 January 2019)
The exhibition at Galleria dell’Accademia will concentrate on the first ten years of Tintoretto’s working life while the exhibition at the Doge’s Palace will tell the story of Tintoretto’s later career, with masterpieces coming from major private and public collections throughout the world, such as the Louvre, the Prado and the National Gallery of London. The US conservation charity Save Venice has been restoring 13 paintings in preparation for the forthcoming exhibitions, including the four mythological allegories (permanently exhibited at Palazzo Ducale) that Tintoretto painted around 1577 to extol the unity and glory of the Venetian Republic. Placed in the Sala dell’Anticollegio, their allegorical significance was legible to those awaiting audience with the Doge of his councilors.
Many of Tintoretto’s paintings have remained in Venice exposed to a permanently damp atmosphere which is hot and wet in the summer, and cold and wet in the winter – this was the original impetus to the development of oil on canvas technique in Venetian art. Some of the paintings look quite old, despite the devoted work of conservation experts over the years.
After the tremendous fire that devastated the Sala del Maggior Consiglio in 1577, Tintoretto was given the task of completely repainting the decoration of the ceiling. His workshop made an extensive contribution to the work. It is clear that at the time, Tintoretto preferred to concentrate on the last canvases for the Scuola Grande di S. Rocco. His last effort for the palace was the huge canvas with The Coronation of the Virgin in Paradise, immediately baptised The Paradise. To assist him with this project, Tintoretto used numerous pupils, including his son Domenico.
In addition to the works at Scuola Grande di S. Rocco and Palazzo Ducale, Tintoretto found the time to create works for the:
Church of Santa Maria dei Carmini
Church of San Rocco
Church of San Polo
Church of San Silvestro
Church of San Cassiano
Church of Santa Maria Mater Domini
Church of San Simeon Grande
Church of San Trovaso
Church of the Gesuati
Church of San Giorgio Maggiore
Basilica of Santa Maria della Salute
Church of Santo Stefano
Church of Santa Maria del Giglio
Church of San Moise
Church of San Giuseppe di Castello
Church of San Lazzaro dei Mendicanti
Church of the Gesuiti
Church of San Felice
Church of San Marcuola
Church of San Marziale
Church of the Madonna dell’Orto
And Biblioteca Marciana! He really did cover the walls of Venice with his art. Tintoretto painted obsessively, leading to his nickname ‘Il Furioso’. The result of all this passion is a vast collection of more than 700 paintings in Venice, not including the works that have been destroyed over time. The speed with which he created his works means that not all of them are masterpieces.
Venezia Arte, a non-profit cultural association, has been organising monthly guided tours around the city focusing on the churches containing the artist’s works and even visiting the artist’s home. First on the itinerary is, of course, the Scuola Grande di San Rocco.
Tintoretto is one of the most innovative visual artists when telling stories. In the Origin of the Milky Way, he shows origin myth, with the Milky Way resulting from the milk which gushed in fine streams into the heavens when the infant Hercules was pulled from Juno’s breast.
While Tintoretto is best known for his gigantic religious and mythological works, the exhibitions will also reveal his skill as a portrait painter and his creative process, how he would copy Michelangelo sculptures, make dioramas to study composition, take mannequins and suspend them from the ceiling to plan his compositions.
Palladio is probably better known for the wonderful villas and palazzos he designed around Vicenza. His first solo villa was built in 1540-41, but by 1545 there were documents showing demand from people wanting villas “alla Palladiana” – in the Palladian style. More drawings survive from Palladio’s hand than all the other Italian Renaissance architects put together, thanks to two English collectors, Inigo Jones and Lord Burlington.
The Villa Rotonda near Vicenza, together with the Villa Barbaro at Maser and Villa Emo at Fanzolo are prime examples of his work. Villa Barbaro and Villa Emo were constructed in the area around Treviso, the preferred site for the villas of the Venetian noblemen.
Maser lies in a striking natural setting on a ridge below the Dolomites and above the plain that sweeps towards Asolo and Treviso. The Barbaro had held an estate here from the 15th century and an earlier house is probably incorporated into the present one.
The sloping site is well exploited by the house, which is one story at the rear and two stories at the front. Its main façade is adorned with an engaged giant Ionic Order, possibly its first appearance in Palladio’s domestic architecture. It is surmounted by a pediment bearing the Barbaro arms and the main block is flanked by low arcades, terminating in dovecotes.
It is ironic that the fame this villa enjoys is in an indirect proportion to its “Palladian” content. While it bears a superficial resemblance to the Villa Emo and other Palladian works, the eccentricities of Villa Barbaro stand out on closer inspection. To being with, the proportions of the flanking wings are ungainly in relationship to the main block, the result of those wings containing further living quarters on the upper floor – unlike the Villa Emo’s, which existed only for farming purposes. Similarly, the elaborate use of sculpture on the main façade, the arcades and the nymphaeum strikes a discordant note in terms of Palladio’s other villas; so, too, the treatment of the main block, which projects much further forward than the Villa Emo’s. The Villa Barbaro’s lateral façades also create an awkward transition between the wings and the main façade, something accentuated by the sudden change in decoration. The entablature of the Ionic order ends abruptly at the corners of the main front, and the lateral pediments lack conviction.
The presence of the Villa Barbaro in the Quattro Libri indicates that Palladio felt it to be his, but the many elements suggest that more than one hand played a part in the villa’s design. Palladio’s role here was one of coordinator, reconciling and putting a professional gloss on the intentions of two patrons who knew their own minds. These intentions led to a building that had more in common with contemporary Roman villas than with the villa farms typical of the Veneto. Already in Palladio’s lifetime, Vasari likened the nymphaeum to that of the Villa Giulia, and it is a telling comparison. Daniele Barbaro had many ties with Rome, both as an ecclesiastic and as a student of classical architecture. His translation of Vitruvius was dedicated to Cardinal Ippolito d’Este and contained praise of his antiquarian-minded architect, Pirro Ligorio. The nymphaeum and other classical resonances at the Villa Barbaro, the taste for plastic decoration and the exploitation of its hillside site finds parallels in Cardinal Ippolito’s villas at Tivoli and on the Quirinal in Rome, as well as the Villa Giulia (today the National Etruscan Museum in Rome).
The same holds true for the interior decoration. Paolo Veronese’s frescoes and their relationship to the design of the villa as a whole has been endlessly discussed. Clearly, they should not be seen in isolation from earlier villa decorations by Veronese and his circle, but rather as the culmination or, better, the apotheosis of that style. It seems clear that the frescoes at Maser were conceived independently of Palladio’s work. Palladio omitted any reference to the frescoes in his description of the villa in the Quattro Libri. That might be a sign of disapproval or is simply just a lapse. Almost immediately afterward he was at work with Veronese in the refactory of San Giorgio Maggiore and his relations with the Barbaro brothers do not appear to have suffered.
If total control over his projects lay beyond Palladio’s reach, there are times when design and decoration combine perfectly. One such case is the Villa Emo, a house that could be interpreted as a refinement upon if not an answer to the villa pattern essayed at Maser. Like the Barbaro, the Emo were Venetian nobles who held land at Fanzolo near Treviso from the middle of the 15th century; there was already a casa padronale on their property by 1509. By 1535 a foundry had been established, though it was probably not until the end of the 1550s, when Leonardo Emo was in his late twenties, that Palladio was called upon to provide designs for a new house. The villa, mentioned in Palladio’s draft manuscript for the Quattro Libri of 1561, would probably have been finished by 1565, when Emo married Cornelia Grimani.
The Emo had introduced the cultivation of grain to this area, draining much of the land to make it arable, and their success was subsequently translated into one of the most substantial villa complexes erected by Palladio. The villa is foursquare in plan and conforms unusually closely to the woodcut in the Quattro Libri. Simple arcades terminating in dovecotes mask the service buildings and align neatly with the main block, which dominates the estate. The central block is raised in height by a ground floor, with a ramp leading to the entrance.
The portico itself provides the one decorative feature in the whole of this extensive façade. Although the order is Doric, the effect is somewhat strained, with column spacing more in keeping with that use by Palladio for the Ionic order.
The simplicity of the exterior is matched by the plan of the main villa block which is among the least complex in Palladio’s domestic architecture. The portico, vestibule and stairs occupy half of the centre of the piano nobile, the other half become a square salone. The same tripartite division is reflected in the lateral suites of rooms. Exceptionally, doors from the portico lead on to these suites, making them easily accessible from the outside. The shallow vestibule goes directly into the salone, which is very much the focal point of the main floor. Its privileged position is emphasized by the height of its ceiling, which is roughly twice that of the vestibule and surrounding rooms. The lower ceiling of the lateral suites are not only in keeping with their proportions but also allow space for a mezzanine floor above them. Compact stairs to either side of the vestibule give access to the mezzanine and down to the service area on the ground floor.
The interior of the Villa Emo is as opulently decorated as the exterior is plain. The frescoes are the creation of Veronese’s sometimes collaborator Giambattista Zelotti, and though not as splendid as Maser’s, they are nonetheless striking. In the salone, the harmony of real and fictive architecture makes a pointed contrast to Veronese’s handiwork at Maser, for Zelotti strove to align his Corinthian columns with the beams of Palladio’s ceiling. In the lateral rooms, too, the interaction of real and fictive space is evident, and unlike the Villa Barbaro, the architecture has not been overwhelmed by frescoes.
Villa Rotonda draws together so many strands from Palladio’s life that it can be seen as the great summa of his achievement. Its novelty immediately recognised, the Rotonda became one of the most imitated buildings in the history of architecture. The very name of the villa indicates its indebtedness to the great rotunda of antiquity, the Pantheon, and Palladio leaves many hints about the building’s genesis in his account in the Quattro Libri.
Created for a retired monsignor, the Rotonda stands on a hillock described by Palladio as of easy ascent and surrounded by other hills “that give the appearance of a grand theatre”. The hills were cultivated and there were excellent views in all directions – hence loggias were added to all four façades.
From the stairs, one passes through the Ionic porticos, modelled on Palladio’s favourite Portico of Octavia in Rome, and enters the domed central sala by means of a short passageway. This room is still point at the centre of the building and was originally open to the elements above; an antique faun mask in the floor still recalls its early function for catching rain. The room rises to the full height of the building and a handsome wooden balustrade encircles it, marking the division between the piano nobile and the upper floor.
In plan, the Rotonda combines two aesthetically satisfying forms, the circle and the square, for the sequence of rooms surrounding the central sala describes a cube to enclose the Rotonda. Since a large living space was not a high priority for the patron, only one chamber and an antechamber define each corner of the building. Mezzanine rooms reminiscent of similar rooms in many of Palladio’s villas occupy the space between the antechambers and the upper floor, which was initially undivided and used for storage although subsequently converted into more living space.
The decoration of the piano nobile is typical of Palladio’s later works, with paintings by Anselmo Canera, Bernardino India and Alessandro Maganza, with stuccowork by Agostino Rubini, Ruggiero Bascape and Domenico Fontana, who also worked at Teatro Olimpico.
It was the inclusion of a dome in the Rotonda that has fascinated later generations, for it embodied one of Palladio’s most audacious gestures. The dome was determined by the site and its associations as well as by the four porticos and circular sala. These elements were conjured up by the architect in his studies of classical temples, but Palladio also believed the houses and temples in the ancient world were to some degree interchangeable – hence the adaptation of the temple portico. If Palladio could “borrow” the portico for a house, then it follows that the cupola could also be adapted for domestic architecture.
Palladio’s pride is his creation is evident in his commentary on the Rotonda. His hesitation over what to term it – palace or villa – is an indirect acknowledgement that he had created a new type of building, one both secular but with distinctive overtones of the sacred. Posterity has paid the architect the compliment of elevating the Rotonda into the realm of a cult object, like the Pantheon or the Mona Lisa, a confirmation, one could say, of its status as a classic. Above all, the Rotonda embodied a lifelong pursuit of an ideal, a vision of antiquity not so much rediscovered in the ruins of Rome as re-created in Palladio’s mind.
Villa Rotonda and Teatro Olimpico feature in Joseph Losey’s film Don Giovanni, which was filmed on location in Vicenza.
The Teatro Olimpico was a Vicentine initiative combining civic prestige and antiquarianism. The Accademia Olimpica, from which the theatre derives its name, was one of many private academies that sprang up in Italy during the Renaissance. The scope of such societies was partly social and partly dedicated to debates and what would now be called humanistic pursuits. Founded in 1555, the Olimpica was slightly atypical in not being restricted to aristocrats, counting Palladio and the sons of the artist Valerio Belli among its early members. This mixing of artists and aristocrats on neutral territory went back to Trissino’s academy at Cricoli and to the circle that met around Alvise Cornaro in Padua. It had also been common in the Rome of Pope Leo X where talent was recognised regardless of social background.
One of the many pastimes of the Olimpica was the production of plays, both classical and modern, for which Palladio collaborated with artists like Lorenzo Rubini and Giovanni Antonio Fasolo on the sets. The stages were temporary, generally built in the council chamber of the Basilica, and paintings of the first productions reveal a stage and auditorium not unlike the Olimpico itself.
By 1579 the academy felt that its quarters were not suitable for theatrical productions or its own activities and petitioned the city council for a more permanent site. They were given a derelict building on the edge of town, a combination of prison and arsenal located diagonally opposite Palazzo Chiericati on a corner of the Piazza dell’Isola. Given his involvement in the academy, Palladio was inevitably drafted as the designer of the new theatre.
The Teatro Olimpico was finally inaugurated in 1585, and when the curtain rose the audience saw the same spectacle we witness today: a monumental boxlike façade divided into three stories and punctuated by five doorways.
The basic metaphor of the stage is a triumphal arch, loosely based upon the arch of Constantine. The frons scenae is divided into a sequence of bays by two orders of Corinthian columns, freestanding on the ground floor and engaged above. Statues of academicians fill the aedicules between the columns and more stand above the projecting entablatures of both orders. The statues were principally executed by Agostino Rubini, Ruggiero Bascape and Domenico Fontana. Across the top of the stage runs an attic story with reliefs of the labours of Hercules, patron of Accademia Olimpica. The whole façade is effectively turned into a triumphal arch celebrating the victory of Hercules and virtue over vice.
While the Teatro Olimpico is more imposing than any other early surviving theatre, it did not really exercise much influence on the development of later theatres – indeed plays were rarely given on its stage before the 20th century, and its chief attraction lay in seeing the spectacle offered by the illumination of the theatre and the perspective streets, as was performed for Pius VI and Napoleon. Still, the Teatro Olimpico remains a potent testimonial to its creator’s imaginative recreation of the antique.
If you want to stay in a Palladian villa, Villa Saraceno in Vicenza is available for bookings through The Landmark Trust UK. Next time little bears are in northern Italy!
“They were created in a short time for all time. Each one of them in its beauty was even then and at once antique, but in the freshness of its vigour it is, even to the present day, recent and newly wrought.” Plutarch’s description of the buildings of the Acropolis provides a concise definition of classical architecture, and if any buildings since antiquity fulfil these criteria, the architecture of Andrea Palladio does. The crisp lines, elegant proportions, and classicizing porticos of his houses and churches are immediately identifiable and combine functionality with beauty in a way that is both modern and timeless.
Palladio’s career spanned most of the 16th century, the period of the High Renaissance in his native Veneto, but his career was unusual compared to that of the other great Renaissance architects like Bramante and Michelangelo. For one thing, Palladio never trained as an artist but rather as a stonemason, gradually working his way up from the workshop to become the unofficial first architect of Venice by his death in 1580. For another, his style, widely appreciated and imitated by his contemporaries, also gave rise to one of the most influential and enduring of architectural movements: Palladianism became an article of faith in the 18th century and spread Palladio’s gospel from Potsdam to Providence.
Born in 1508 in Padua in northern Italy, Andrea Palladio spent most of his adult life in the nearby city of Vicenza. Palladio’s early years were remarkable by the standard of his times. His talent was recognised and developed by the humanist poet and scholar, Gian Giorgio Trissino, and further stimulated by his encounters with Rome and with Barbaro’s systematic approach to the antique. In Vicenza, he was groomed by influential backers to assume the position that Jacopo Sansovini, Michele Sanmicheli and Giulio Romano held in their own cities, Venice, Verona and Mantua respectively. Palladio had the genius to rise to the challenge; by 1550, he would take his place among the great architects of the previous generation.
Although Palladio’s designs are not to be seen along the Grand Canal in Venice, when standing by the Punta della Dogana, the Old Customs House at the entrance to the Grand Canal, one takes in the most miraculous of all views of Venice: the Doge’s Palace and Sansovino‘s Library of San Marco stand to the east with San Giorgio Maggiore across the bay, while the Redentore closes the scene triumphantly to the west.
San Giorgio Maggiore and the Redentore were designed by Palladio and represent his contribution to the city’s appearance. They also embody his mature statement of what he would call Christian temples, a merging of the classical and contemporary in a new kind of architecture comparable to his achievement with villas and palaces.
The rebuilding of the church and convent of San Giorgio Maggiore was Palladio’s largest ecclesiastical project. The antiquity and setting of San Giorgio make it central to the history and ceremony of the city. A church had existed from 790 on the island of San Giorgio, which Doge Tribune Memmo gave to the Benedictine order in act of donation in 982. The doge and government officials visited the church every year on the feast of Saint Stephen to venerate his relics, a ceremony dating from the 12th century. The original monastic complex was extensively restored in the 13th century and again in the early 15th. Shortly before 1500, a large dormitory wing had been begun behind the pre-Palladian church, the architect for which was Giovanni Buora. Buora or his son Andrea may have been the author of a comprehensive project for renewal of the monastery and church proposed around 1521-22. This project included a new cloister already begun in 1516, but little else was accomplished except for laying out a new refectory. An oblong room some 10 by 30 meters, the refectory had only been constructed up to the height of its roundheaded windows upon Palladio’s arrival in 1560. He then transformed what would have been a conventional room into something more dramatic by endowing it with a classical cornice, cross vaulting and three thermal windows. These interventions turned the room into something reminiscent of a Roman bath, and the interior was further embellished by Paolo Veronese’s Marriage at Cana.
Equally important and even more dramatic are the sequence of spaces that bring the visitor from the cloister to the refectory. Here the main problem facing Palladio was to provide a transition within a confined area to the refectory half a story above. This he achieved by raising the height of the small vestibule and filling it with a staircase dominated by an imposing portal. The doorway is based upon a classical portal in Spoleto, one that Michele Sanmicheli occasionally employed in his architecture, but Palladio has enlarged it to a superhuman scale that rivets our attention.
Palladio’s flair and ingenuity here convinced the Benedictine monks to entrust him with providing a model for their own basilica in 1565. By this date, the dilapidated nature of the old church would have been glaringly apparent, especially since the other main monastic churches in Venice had been rebuilt in the 14th and 15th centuries. A wooden model of the new church was fashioned by March 1566 and work began soon afterwards. The Venetian Senate encouraged the project by authorising the monastery to fell one thousand oaks from one of its estates near Treviso to provide foundations for the new building. The foundation stone was laid in 1566 in the presence of the doge, the patriarch and the abbot Andrea Pampuro, then acting head of the Cassinese congregation. One year later the piers were being constructed, and contracts were issued for the walls, chapels and vaulting in 1568. The cupola was underway when the French king Henry III inspected San Giorgio during his visit in 1574, and the body of the church was finished the following year. The choir was began the year of Palladio’s death (1580) and finished in 1589. Decoration of the interior continued through the 1590s with paintings by the Tintoretto and Bassano workshops as well as sculptures by Girolamo Campagna and Niccolo Roccatagliata.
San Giorgio Maggiore offered Palladio the opportunity to establish himself as the major architect in Venice. The Carita, San Francesco della Vigna and Santa Lucia were markers along the way, but the Benedictine project gave him the scale and means to realise his ideas.
San Giorgio sometimes suffers by comparison with the Redentore, as if churches, especially church façades, were abstract exercises in problem solving. Such an approach ignores the differences in function and scale between Palladio’s churches.
A large Benedictine monastery had specific needs that made for a complex brief, and Palladio’s solution was as masterful as it was unexpected. The beauty of the design lies in his ability to reconcile potentially conflicting elements while endowing them with a style at once saturated in a classical vocabulary and yet not completely unconnected with Venetian traditions. The main body of the church is conceived as a classical basilica, inspired by Palladio’s reconstruction of the Basilica of Maxentius, which he ranked among the most beautiful in Rome.
As an experience, the interior of San Giorgio Maggiore overwhelms any visitor through its scale and the grandeur of its architect’s imagination. A giant Composite order frames the nave while supporting a barrel vault above, and a smaller Corinthian order articulates the aisles, which have cross-vaulting. The side chapels are uniformly designed and elevated three steps above the floor; their tabernacles have a Corinthian order, and the principal altars in the transept are further distinguished by column shafts of coloured marble.
In his orchestration of the different scales and spaces, Palladio applied the lessons learned from his study of the baths: each component is distinguished from the others, and all interlock in a tradition that looks back through Codussi to Bruneleschi.
In the choir, the scale and style change, this time to a more intimate effect with alternating niches and aedicules above the richly carved walnut stalls. Though built after his death, the choir must reflect Palladio’s original intention as well as the reformist tendencies of the Cassinese congregation, which advocated retro-choirs so that the celebration of mass could be seen by all present rather than exclusively by the monks.
More controversy has surrounded the façade of San Giorgio Maggiore that any other aspect of Palladio’s religious architecture. There has been a persistent tendency to see the extant façade as a departure from the architect’s intentions even though an early elevation shows a clear connection with his experience at San Francesco della Vigna as well as with the finished project. Taking into account the small campo in front of the church and the body of the church, the façade combines the illusion of a portico, when seen from across the water, together with a dynamic overlapping of engaged columns and pilasters, when seen from nearby.
View from the bell tower of San Giorgio Maggiore across San Marco Basin.
The church of the Redentore was the product of a very different type of commission, one that involved the highest councils of the Venetian Republic, and it owed its existence to one of the most devastating bouts of plague suffered by Venice since the Black Death of the Middle Ages. The first outbreaks occurred in the later part of 1575 and flared until July 1577, by which time more than fifty thousand people had perished. The losses amounted to a quarter of the city’s population, and as the poor were disproportionately affected by the epidemic, the social and economic fabric of the city underwent acute strain.
Whenever there was an outbreak of plague, there was a revival of devotion of saints like Roch and Sebastian as well as the veneration of Christ the Redeemer, to whom the votive church of 1576 was dedicated. An annual pilgrimage by the doge and government on the feast of the Redeemer was decreed and ten thousand ducats were initially set aside for the church. Two noblemen were entrusted with the task of selecting a site, and one owned by the Capuchin friars on the Venetian island of Giudecca was chosen, probably because it was unbuilt and presented no prospect of interference by the local clergy. As soon as the site was chosen, Palladio received the task of preparing models for the new church.
Although the Redentore is neither so large nor so opulently appointed as San Giorgio Maggiore, it pays handsome tribute to the investment by the Venetian government, which finally amounted to some sixty thousand ducats. It also reflects the triumphalist mood of church and state in the first years of the Catholic Reformation. The Capuchins protested against the church’s splendour but their complaints were ignored. Like San Giorgio, the Redentore demonstrates Palladio’s ability to tailor his style to the site of the building, as well as to its functions, which in this case were ceremonial, votive and monastic.
The Redentore’s ceremonial quality is the first called to mind as one approaches the church today, and it is easy to conjure up the procession of dignitaries who visited there on feast day. Every year in late July a pontoon bridge is floated from the Zattere to the Redentore allowing thousands of visitors easy access to the church to enjoy the celebrations (Festa del Redentore) which culminate in a magnificent fireworks display.
The façade was conceived for the view across the Giudecca Canal and is built up from a variety of elements, from the Corinthian pilasters and segments of pediments to the frontispiece proper, which modulates from colossal Composite pilasters to engaged columns. The colossal order supports a pediment set into the attic but conveys the illusion of a portico in antis, much as was the case at San Francesco della Vigna and San Giorgio Maggiore.
On the interior, one finds the same clear and rational arrangement of elements as in San Giorgio Maggiore, here allied to a plan of equal ingenuity. The Capuchins were a preaching order, an offshoot of the Franciscans, and their basic need was for a large, uninterrupted nave for sermons. Lateral chapels were required for private devotions and smaller masses. As at San Giorgio Maggiore, the chapels are raised three steps above the floor of the nave. This motif derives from the Roman baths but was filtered through Palladio’s study of Rafael’s St Peter’s and works inspired by it.
Like San Giorgio Maggiore, the Redentore reveals Palladio’s intensive study of the baths, but the church is much more than a compendium of motifs or influences. It is a harmonious blending of many elements into an organic whole, something that makes the experience of a Palladian church as complex and satisfying as a church by Borromini.
In the Proemio to his Four Books on Architecture, with reference to Venice, and to Sansovino’s library in particular, Palladio asserted:
One is beginning to see buildings of merit [in Venice], since Giacomo Sansovino, sculptor and architect of great renown, began for the first time to make known the bella maniera [beautiful style], as one can see, (leaving aside many other fine works of his) in the new building of the Procuratia, which is the richest and most ornate that has probably ever been erected from antiquity to our own day.
Born and educated in Tuscany, Jacopo Sansovino (1486-1570), both an architect and a sculptor, succeeded in competing with the great Michelangelo. He won important commissions in Florence and Rome where, in the church of S. Marcello, he carved the tomb of Cardinal Sant’Angelo, one of his masterpieces. After working in Rome, mainly as an architect, he left the city in 1527 after the Sack of Rome and took refuge in Venice where his talents were soon appreciated. He rapidly received many important civic and ecclesiastical commissions: the façade of S. Francesco della Vigna, the Scuola della Misericordia and Palazzo Corner at S. Maurizio are all from this period. When the new plans for the area surrounding Piazza San Marco were proposed, Sansovino was commissioned to design the complex buildings that were to enclose the great area. Here his genius is truly revealed. The complex, inspired by the classical world of ancient Rome, provided impetus for other architects, especially Palladio, who admired Sansovino’s Library and acknowledge it in his own façade design for S. Giorgio Maggiore.
Since his first appearance in Venice in flight from the Sack of Rome in 1527, Sansovino dominated the architectural scene in the city. At the time of his arrival he had little architectural experience. His chief reputation lay in his talent as a sculptor: “He is a great man after Michelangelo”, remarked Lorenzo Lotto in a letter reporting his flight. In Rome he had begun two churches, S. Marcello al Corso and S. Giovanni dei Fiorentini, both of which suffered technical problems and were eventually assigned to his more technically experienced contemporary, Antonio da Sangallo the Younger. His most successful Roman building was the palace for the Florentine banker Giovanni Gaddi, and it was Gaddi who accompanied him in his flight and initially offered him hospitality in Venice.
Despite his uncertain credentials in technical matters, Sansovino was immediately engaged to restore the domes of S. Marco, which were thought to be on the point of collapse. Vasari records the virtuosity of this restoration in graphic detail: indeed, the records of the Procuratia de Supra confirm that, within two days of Lotto’s first report of Sansovino’s arrival, the exceptional sum of five hundred ducats was provided for the repair. A year later, the procurators were still incurring “maximum expenses”. Vasari tells us that Sansovino was recommended for this task by none other than Doge Andrea Gritti himself, “who was a great friend of genius”. It is in the context of Gritti’s personal agenda for the renewal of Venetian culture that Sansovino made his architectural contribution.
On the death of Bartolomeo Bon, proto to the Procuratia de Supra, Gritti recommended Sansovino as his successor. This was the section of the Procuratia de Supra that was responsible for the upkeep of the church of S. Marco as well as most of the other buildings in the Piazza, apart from the Palazzo Ducale. On his appointment in 1529, Sansovino was given a house in the newly reconstructed Procuratie Vecchie near the Torre dell’Orologio, overlooking the Piazzetta, with its distant vista of S. Giorgio Maggiore between the two great columns.
The new proto was preoccupied with the state of the buildings around the Piazzetta, because his job required him to keep these properties in good repair. Opposite Palazzo Ducale stood a row of five hostelries of ill repute, known as Peregrin, Rizza, Cavaletto, Luna and Lion, while at the end of the row, facing the Bacino, stood the Beccaria, or meat market. These buildings were Veneto-Byzantine structures dating from the early 13th century, with a row of lean-to bakery stalls in front that obscured their ground-floor arcades. The are clearly visible in the view of the Piazzetta attributed to Lazzaro Bastiani, now in Museo Correr. The south side of the Piazza, where the procurators themselves lived, was of similar age and equally decrepit. The Ospendale Orseolo occupied the east end of this range of buildings, which enveloped the Campanile on two sides. The rest of the Campanile was surrounded by money changer’s stalls.
The decision to rebuild the north side of Piazza S. Marco after the fire of 1512 had been taken despite the deep crisis induced by the wars of the League of Cambrai (1509-16) which had seen Venice pitted against the major European powers and in danger of losing her terraferma possessions. Through this bold resolution, the procurators had already demonstrated their awareness that renewal could be justified as a capital investment because of the reductions of maintenance costs and the increased revenues from the rent of shops and apartments. What was lacking, though, in this new wing, where Sansovino’s own house lay, was any statement of artistic renewal.
By 1530, however, the Republic had fully recovered, economically and politically, from the traumatic Cambrai wars. Moreover, the cultural context has been transformed by the romanizing policies of the early years of Gritti’s dogate. But it was the intellectual revolution made possible by the rise of Venice as a major European centre of printing and publishing that most effectively transformed the place of architecture in the culture.
The Zecca was begun by Sansovino in 1536. On the façade, a row of nine shops selling cheese and salami were incorporated into the building, with the silver smelter behind and the gold smelter above. The courtyard at the rear was surrounded by workshops and storerooms. The cheese shops are dignified by the use of simple rustication in the manner of the ancients. The function of the mint itself – merely industrial, yet vital to the economic viability of the state – is enhanced by the choice of a rusticated Doric order. The finesse of Sansovino’s sculptural imagination is evident in the superb quality of the stone carving. Around the shops, every alternate stone projects slightly, to give subtle gradations of light and shade. On the piano nobile, correct and precisely cut Doric details are juxtaposed with rough-hewn stones as white and shaggy as fleece, and the effect of tension is enhanced by the heavy lintels clutched threateningly over the windows. The third order, in rusticated Ionic, was added in 1538, within Sansovino’s lifetime, though probably not to his design, as his employers, the Procuratori de Supra, were engaged in a bitter dispute with the Zecca at this time.
For the site in the Piazzetta that faced the Palazzo Ducale, Sansovino designed a two-storey elevation, intended to extend all around the main Piazza as far as the church of S. Geminiano at the west end. This was the building now known as the Library which was praised so fervently by Palladio. Construction was begun at the end nearest the Campanile in 1537, the year after the start of work on the Zecca. The hostelries were demolished and relocated one by one over the next twenty years, although Sansovino – despite enormous efforts in the last decade of his life – never managed to find an alternative site for the Beccaria. The range was finally completed after his death by Scamozzi in 1588-91.
It was only after the start of work on this Piazzetta wing that it was decided to house the Biblioteca Marciana, a celebrated collection of Greek and Latin texts, in the part of the building nearest the Campanile. This underlies the role of the new buildings as scenery for the open space outside, rather than simply as a design appropriate to the use of the interior.
The design of the Library must have impressed the architecturally informed audience by its abundant references to the buildings of Rome, both ancient and modern. The rich Doric order, for example, is based on that of the Basilica Aemilia, illustrated by Giuliano da Sangallo in his Vatican sketchbook. This ruin also inspired the ingenious corner solution, by which Sansovino succeeded in placing an exact half metope at the end of the Doric frieze, as prescribed by Vitruvius. Sansovino also followed the Vitruvian recommendation that libraries, like bedrooms, should face the east, to receive good morning light. The reading room falls in the seven bays of the piano nobile nearest the Campanile, its rich coffered ceiling embellished with tondi painted by the best Venetian painters of the day. The significance of the Library entrance in the very centre of the 21-bay wing is enhanced by the fact that it lies exactly opposite the medallion of Justice on the Palazzo Ducale.
Finally one reaches the Logegetta, begun by Sansovino at the foot of the Campanile in 1538 as a meeting place for the procurators, to replace the old loggia that had suffered damage by lightning over the centuries. Just as the Zecca had combined Rustic and Doric, and the Library Doric and Ionic, the Loggetta combines the Ionic and the Corinthian into a single order, as the end point in this overlapping series. The Composite was an order especially suitable for the expression of triumph, and this meaning is also explicit in the Loggetta’s design, based on three overlapping triumphal arches. The richness of the materials also underlines the role of this building as the summit of the hierarchy. Not only were the procurators themselves framed by triumphal arches as they sat in discussion inside, but the Loggetta also served as the ceremonial backdrop for ducal processions emerging from the Porta della Carta.
By separating the Library and the Campanile, Sansovino ensured that the Palazzo Ducale would be visible from any point in the Piazza.
In his painting Procession in Piazza San Marco, dated 1496, Gentile Bellini manipulated the true arrangement of the buildings in Piazza S. Marco by moving the whole south side of the Piazza sideways to reveal the Palazzo Ducale which would otherwise have been hidden behind the Campanile.
The Venetian nobility viewed their own palaces as extensions of the imagery of the buildings in the Piazza – as the visual manifestations of their corporate identity and power. Soon after his arrival in Venice, in about 1527-28, Sansovino seems to have planned a huge palace at S. Samuele for the procurator Vettor Grimani, for which a large drawing of the ground plan survives in the Museo Correr. Sansovino’s second major project for a Venetian patrician family, to rebuild the great palace of the Corner family at S. Maurizio, destroyed by fire in 1532, was delayed by legal difficulties until the mid 1540s and the design was surely revised at that time.
The first of Sansovino’s Venetian palaces to be executed was the palace of Giovanni Dolfin, the Venetian merchant and ship owner. The preparation for the design fell in the very same years as the start of Sansovino’s three new buildings in the Piazzetta: the Zecca, the Library and the Loggetta.
In his first book of his Quatro Libri, speaking of ornament, Palladio commented that “nothing enhances the building more than columns, provided that they are conveniently placed and well proportioned in relation to the whole”. That was the challenge which Sansovino was to solve triumphantly in Venice: how to apply the classical orders to a palace façade in a way that reconciled the dictates of convenience and proportion. The traditional Venetian palace façade, with its fenestration concentrated in the centre, is not easily adapted to the rigors of the classical system, which requires bays of equal width. In the Palazzo Dolfin, Sansovino provided the clearest possible exposition of the correct superimposition of the Doric, Ionic and Corinthian orders, to impress an audience that would be already familiar with the rudiments of classicism.
Sansovino resolved the need for uneven illumination by placing two arched windows in each bay of the central portion of the upper storeys, over a single arch in the arcade below, a solution already found in Palazzo Ducale and the Procuratie Vecchie. Unfortunately, the interior of the Palazo Dolfin was completely rebuilt by Selva at the end of the 18th century, preserving only the façade.
The Palazzo Corner at S. Maurizio was finally begun after the legal difficulties in dividing Zorzi Corner’s estate among his heirs were resolved in 1545. The exuberant sculptural richness of the S. Maurizio palace is far removed from the distilled classical essence of the Palazzo Dolfin; indeed, it is more reminiscent of the lavish three-dimensionality of Sansovino’s work in the Piazzetta. This affinity was intentional. The Corner family, one of the nobility’s case vecchie, had achieved almost regal status by the marriage of Caterina Corner to the king of Cyprus. When she was widowed in 1473 and persuaded by her brother Zorzi to abdicate, the family received huge estates in Cyprus in compensation and their enormous wealth was legendary.
The network of scuoli grande across the city provided a focus for the ceremonial life of the great citizen confraternities as well as the headquarters for their charitable duties. The Misericordia had already decided to replace its huge Gothic scuola in 1498, but the Cambrai wars subsequently prevented the start of work. In 1531, Jacopo Sansovino, the newly appointed proto of the Procuratia de Supra, was called in to advise on the prewar model by Alessandro Leopardi. Sansovino must have been critical of the old design, for in the same year, an additional four models were commissioned, including one by Sansovino himself. In a ballot held later in the same year, it was Sansovino’s model that was chosen, and work began on site in 1532. The bold ambitions of the scuola were already evident in the choice of the refugee Florentine, whose only works so far in the city had been the restoration of the domes of S. Marco, the erection of a few vegetable stalls and the continuation of Bon’s still unfinished Procuratie Vecchie.
It is impossible to understand the history of the Misericordia without reference to the parallel activity at the rival cantiere of the Scuola Grande di S. Rocco. Scarpagnino had taken over at S. Rocco in 1527 after the previous proto, Bartolomeo Bon, had left in 1524 because of a dispute over the form of the staircase. The Misericordia was forced to revise Sansovino’s initial design of 1531 in response to an objection from the site’s landlords, the Moro family, to its projecting columns. Sansovino’s revised model, with engaged rather than free-standing columns, was approved in 1535, whereupon S. Rocco immediately seized the opportunity to emphasize the Misericordia’s discomfort by adding two orders of projecting Corinthian columns to its own façade. S. Rocco seized similar advantage when Misericordia failed in 1544 to agree on the form of its staircase, a crucial element in the ceremonial scenery of any scuola grande. In 1545, in direct challenge to the vacillations at the Misericordia, S. Rocco ostentatiously demolished its newly built double-ramped staircase designed by the elusive Tuscan known as “Il Celestro” and expeditiously erected the present imperial-style staircase block to Scarpagnino’s design. Whereas the Misericordia never managed to resolve its state of perpetual financial crisis, the wealth of the Scuola Grande di S. Rocco increased dramatically during the century, thanks to donations from Venetians anxious to protect themselves from the plague. By 1581, not only was S. Rocco’s building completed, but it was also decorated throughout by Tintoretto, whereas the Misericordia, lacking its roof and staircase, was still unusable. The Misericordia was finally inaugurated in 1589, but its stone facing was never applied, and its massive brick carcass came to excite admiration for qualities of terribilità that had never been intended.
Sansovino was responsible for five complete churches in Venice, in addition to the façade of S. Geminiano in Piazza San Marco. Of these six churches, three – S. Spirito in Isola, the church of the Incurabili and S. Geminiano – were demolished during the Napoleonic period. No record survives of the drawings of “sixty plans of temples and churches of his invention, so wonderful that from antiquity until now on cannot see any that are better conceived or more beautiful than these,” which according to Vasari were left to Francesco Sansovino at this father’s death, and the son intended to have them engraved for publication.
Despite Vasari’s praise, Sansovino’s religious works are his least celebrated, in contrast to those of other Renaissance masters such as Brunelleschi, Alberti and Bramante. Yet, throughout his career he cared for the upkeep of S. Marco and his sculptural works, tapestries and intarsia designs transformed the appearance of the presbytery.
His first ecclesiastical commission in the city, for the rebuilding of the church of S. Francesco della Vigna, was a contradictory one. On the one hand, this was a project with direct ducal involvement, for Doge Andrea Gritti, whose family palace lay just in front of the church, promoted the scheme and bought the right to use the chancel as his family burial chapel, while the side chapels were purchased by the richest and most powerful noble families in the city. On the other hand, this monastery belonged to the austere Observant Franciscans, who wanted a design appropriate to their ascetic ideals.
Sansovino’s design is closely modelled on that of the sister church in Florence, S. Salvatore al Monte, begun for the Observant Franciscans by Cronaca in 1499. From Cronaca’s church he borrowed the fluted Doric capitals and plain frieze, the arched side chapels and aisleless plan, and the two-storey pilastered nave with clerestory windows.
Palladio was to learn much from S. Francesco della Vigna, especially with regard to the arrangement and lighting of the presbytery and its retrochoir, the latter secluded behind the high altar to allow the congregation an unimpeded view of the nave.
Though conceived in the 1540s, S. Martino at the Arsenal was begun in 1553. The previous church of S. Martino had been planned longitudinally. Sansovino changed the axis, placing the entrance on the north side, but retaining as many foundation walls as possible from the older structure. This was a much poorer parish and no wealthy donor was at hand to pay for an Istrian stone façade. Indeed funds were so short that building proceeded very slowly, and a mere half of the church was complete by Sansovino’s death. The reminder was only finished in 1633.
In addition to his architectural projects, from the middle of the 1530s, Sansovino also embarked on a variety of sculptural projects for his employers. In Venice, Sansovino returned to a Quattrocentesque style of sculpture that drew upon his own roots in Florentine art in the late 15th century and blended in with what he judged to be the prevailing artistic climate in Venice.
Fortunately most of his sculptures still remain in situ so that the best way to appreciate his work and that of his school is by walking around the city. Probably his earliest work seen by the Venetian public was the Arsenal Madonna, which occupies the same niche in which it was first placed in 1534.
Sansovino also began to acquire important private commissions from the Venetian State and nobility. This forced him to rationalize his working procedure: the slow procedure of autograph works was generally abandoned in favour of a system in which he designed models that would be subsequently turned over to others for execution. Bronze proved crucial for many of these Venetian projects and became increasingly the sculptor’s chosen mode for sculptural expression. It was also a medium with a long tradition in Venetian sculpture but one in which Sansovino had little experience. The great advantage of bronze lay in in the ease with which an artist’s model could be transformed into a durable work of art, a facility just right for the demands imposed on Sansovino by his growing architectural commitments.
Sansovino’s bronze reliefs are among the most beautiful and original of the 16th century, a tribute to his narrative skill and to the superior capabilities of Venetian bronze casters. Bronze was the most prized and the most expensive medium for sculpture and its use in S. Marco had recently been established by the chapel of Cardinal Zen, which set a new standard for bronze sculpture in Venice. When Sansovino was asked to redesign the furnishings of the choir of S. Marco, the inclusion of relief panels in the two pergola, or tribunes, must have seemed a natural component in upgrading the appearance of the sanctum sanctorum of the church. The eight panels, six narrative reliefs and two separate figures of St Mark and his lion celebrated the miracles of the patron saint of Venice.
The painterly style of Sansovino’s reliefs for S. Marco reached its apogee with the sacristy door. Conceived around 1545, this is one of only a few bronze doors executed in the 16th century. The door is difficult to interpret in the ill-lit conditions of S. Marco, but it repays careful looking. It is the great masterpiece of Venetian bronze relief casting, and the dramatic scenes of the Entombment (lower portion of the door) and Resurrection (upper portion of the door) show how gifted a narrative artist Sansovino could be.
Of all of Sansovino’s contributions to the Venetian cityscape, the Loggetta is the most celebrated. Like the sculpture adorning the façade of the Palazzo Ducale opposite, the Loggetta’s decoration invoked the virtues of the Venetian Republic, especially the bronzes: Minerva or Pallas representing martial vigilance, Apollo, political harmony, Mercury, persuasive eloquence, and Peace, that divine gift conferred on the Venetians by their Evangelist, St. Mark.
One could not find a greater contrast between the Loggetta bronzes and the other great works of Sansovino’s last years as a practicing sculptor than the “giants” for the staircase of the Palazzo Ducale (by Antonio Rizzo) and the tomb for Doge Francesco Venier in the church of S. Salvatore.
The staircase received its name following Sansovino’s arrangement of the statues of Neptune and Mars in 1556. The coronation ceremony of the doge was held here against a splendid theatrical backdrop.
The classical simplicity of this funerary monument distinguishes it from the grandiloquence of other funerary monuments in Venetian churches. But still pompous! Though largely executed by Sansovino’s assistants, the tomb succeeds through its controlled opulence and the high quality of its sculptural details.
Sansovino dominated Venetian sculpture around the middle of the 16th century much as his close friend Titian did painting. He was able to do so through an extensive network of followers and collaborators who perpetuated his style long after his death in 1570. The superb Scala d’Oro in the Palazzo Ducale, reserved for magistrates and other illustrious persons, gave access to the private ducal apartments and to the magistrates’ meeting rooms on the piano nobile. The stairway was executed in the second half of the 16th century following a Sansovinesque design and was brought to completion by Scarpagnino. The barrel-vaulted ceiling was richly decorated with white and gilded stucco reliefs by Alessandro Vittoria.
The island of Murano in the Venetian lagoon is most famous for the art of glassblowing which has been practiced there for centuries without any major interruptions and has survived the many and varied vicissitudes of Venice’s long history.
Glass manufacture in the Venetian lagoon has its roots in the remote past: the first document in which a dominicus fiolarius, or glassmaker, appears dates from 982 (the term fiola denotes a globular glass bottle with a long neck). By 1224 a flourishing industry must have existed, since in that year the Venetian glassblowers formed a gild, or arte. In 1271 its statutes, the Capitulare de Fiorlariis, also known as matricula, or mariegola, set standards and regulations for production. A new version in Italian was produced in 1441, followed by others, the last dating from 1776.
In 1291, by decree of the Maggior Consiglio, all the furnaces still in existence in the city of Venice itself were destroyed. We can suppose that by this stage glass production was concentrated on the island of Murano. What little evidence of have of medieval glass reveals an industry geared to the production of everyday items such as bottles, glasses and bowls, which were already being exported to German-speaking countries as well as England and France.
The art of glassblowing reached new levels of artistic expressiveness in the refined products of the Renaissance, thanks largely to the technical innovations of Angelo Barovier, the most famous glassblower of the 15th century. Through a series of complicated operations he succeeded in obtaining a particularly pure glass which, on account of this quality, became known as crystal. Between the end of 15th century and the beginning of the 16th, the most refined Murano glass, whether coloured or not, after having been shaped, was entrusted to painters who specialised in the art of decoration with polychrome fusible enamels and gold leaf. Two other varieties of glass date from the second half of the 15th century: chalcedony, which imitated striped agate, and white opaque milk glass, which was decorated with fusible enamels and imitated the Chinese porcelain that had first arrived in Venice in the mid-1450s.
The art of glassblowing continued smoothly into the 16th century, with many major technical and decorative innovations. In formal terms, there was a clear preference for simplicity. Colourless glass assumed a crucial role and there was a move away from painted decoration and forms copied from ceramics or metallurgy. The most significant expression of the elegance characteristic of Murano glass of that time was the crystal chalice or goblet, with its pure lines in which measured harmony regulates the relationship between the various parts, the base, the stem blown in the form of a small balustrade and the bowl.
The complex technique of filigree, still in use today, dates from 1527 and is linked to the name of the Serena glassblowers who obtained a ten-year franchise for producing glass a facete con retortoli a fil: crystal decorated in parallel bands with threads of milk glass or coloured glass twisted to form spiral patterns. The generic term filigree covers the different types of glass decoration that incorporate glass threads. From the 16th century onward, one of the most famous and successful versions was vetro a reticello in which slender canes of opaque white glass were laid in a crisscross pattern to form a fine netting, with a bubble of air in each lozenge.
Another type of glass typical of the 16th century was known as ice glass, from its rough translucent – but not transparent – surface. In the field of decoration, Vincenzo di Angelo del Gallo, toward the middle of the century, introduced the technique of diamond-point engraving, which enabled delicate and elegant patterns to be incised on the surface of the glass.
The technical innovations that Murano glassblowers developed spread rapidly and the fame of their products increased, especially after the frequent departures of master craftsmen whose skills were in great demand throughout Europe. Attracted by the possibility of higher earnings, these craftsmen developed, beyond the confines of the Republic, a type of product based on the art of Murano which became known as glass à la façon de Venice (in the style of Venice). This exodus of craftsmen placed the Venetian trade in great danger since Murano had had a near monopoly on the art of blown glass and its trade brought not only great wealth but also prestige to the city. The rigid regulations and harsh penalties enacted by Venice in order to punish those who transgressed the laws forbidding them to leave the island did not hamper the emergence of numerous glass furnaces in France, Austria and the Netherlands, where Murano glassblowers passed on their skills to local craftsmen, adapting the resulting products to local style.
In contrast to the formal rigor of the 16th century, 17th century glass reflects the influence of the Baroque. Purity of line, typical of the Renaissance, was abandoned in favour of free creativity, especially in search of illusionistic effects. The colourless glass was replaced by glass decorated with coloured threads in yellow and red while from the formal point of view fantasy and superabundance led to a product that was less and less functional – one created with purely ornamental aims. Once again, it was the chalice or goblet that exemplified the stylistic changes. In contrast to the preceding century, alette (little winglike forms) were now applied to the stem, while the sometimes asymmetrical bowl was frequently decorated with fine chains.
Despite the uninterrupted activity of the furnaces, the 17th century was a difficult period for Murano. In addition to natural disasters such as famine and plague, and the consequent economic crises, there were also major problems following a fall in demand for Murano glass. Two new types of glass had appeared and were competing directly with that of the Venetians. Bohemian and English crystal, with their deep cuts and brilliance, were rapidly taking over the market. On the whole, the 17th century revealed, despite the now consolidated skills of the glass masters, the first symptoms of a major crisis that would become fully apparent during the following century.
18th century glass is characterised by a wide variety of forms, techniques and materials. In addition to the traditional vitreous materials, which were reworked with great ingenuity, the prevailing fashion for colour expressed itself in the use of vitreous pastes such as aventurine, which was often, like hard stone, cut to form boxes, snuffboxes and buttons, and chalcedony and other mixtures tinged with various colours.
The production of milk glass was also widespread. It employed 16th century decorative techniques with polychrome fusible materials and aimed at imitating porcelain, especially Chinese porcelain, extremely fashionable at the time in Venice. The Miotti family, famous for this type of glass, were the first on Murano to mark their products, which had until then remained anonymous, with a symbol that allows us to recognise their work even today.
Murano glassblowers concentrated their efforts on imitating Bohemian crystal, competition from which was strong, even within the Republic itself. One of the most successful was Giuseppe Briati, responsible for several original creations for which Murano became famous. The most celebrated of these was the Venetian candelabrum with several branches known as ciocche, to which was applied a wealth of decorative detail, usually floral, in coloured glass.
Giuseppe Briati is also credited with transforming the Venetian mirror into a refined element of interior decoration. He placed the old lacquered or gilded wooden frame with one composed of elements of carved, engraved or enamelled glass, which was then fixed to a wooden backing.
Contemporary sources also indicate that Briati was the inventor of the great table centrepieces known as deseri (from the French for dessert), made up of many elements which formed complex compositions and decorated the doge’s banqueting table on important occasions. Despite this intense activity, however, problems remained unsolved, even after a radical revision of the gild’s statutes. The fall of the Republic in 1797, the dissolution of the various gilds and the series of foreign governments dealt a fatal blow to the art of glassblowing.
The first signs of a rebirth appeared during the 1840s, thanks largely to two glassblowers, Domenico Bussolin and Pietro Bigaglia, who began to produce filigree glass. The various interlacing patterns of these filigree differed from the traditional 16th century ones in the chromatic vivacity of their fabric, highlighted by the formal simplicity of the object itself, with a slight hint of Biedermeier influence.
The rebirth of Murano is marked by various important events. The furnaces began to reopening. Among the first to do so was that of the Fratelli Toso (Toso Brothers). In 1861 an archive was begun in which documents relating to the history of the island were preserved. Examples of glassware were also included. This formed the beginning of the museum which during these early years also functioned as a guide to the recovery of the styles, techniques and skills of the great masters of the past. Two exhibitions were mounted, in 1864 and 1869, both of which stimulated further efforts on the part of the new generation of glassblowers.
In 1866, the year in which the Veneto region became part of a united Italy, Antonio Salviati opened a furnace on Murano. He was keenly aware of the popularity of the island’s products abroad, especially in Britain, and a few months later formed a company with a group of Britons, Salviati & Co., which in 1872 became the Venice and Murano Glass and Mosaic Company Ltd.
A search for technical and formal perfection characterises the late 19th century. Small cups, large chalices, opalescent vases and bottles all tended to be modelled on the past but strove for greater constructional precision, reviving a tradition that only a few years earlier had seemed doomed. Another problem that occupied this new generation of glassblowers was reproducing ancient glass, from pre-Roman glass with a friable core, the so-called Phoenician glass, to Roman pieces, known in general as murrini, and on Murano itself as glass-mosaic.
The intense activity that characterised Murano during the later 19th century, concentrating as it did principally on the recovery and study of the past, isolated the island from the cultural climate of the rest of Europe and North America, where Art Nouveau was dominant. A certain amount of innovation, with quotations from Art Nouveau, can be seen in a group of extremely delicate goblets in the form of flowers produced during the early years of the 20th century by Fratelli Toso, in the decorations on very fine glass by Francesco Toso Borella, and, especially, in the glass-mosaic creations by another artist, Vittorio Zecchin.
In the years immediately following WWI, the furnaces stepped up production. From a stylistic point of view, they followed the rationalistic trend with its principles of simplicity and functionalism. At the same time new companies were opening up on the island and an increasing number of designers were working there. In the years between the two World Wars, artists such as Vittorio Zecchin, the sculptor Napoleone Martinuzzi, the painter Guido Cadorin, the architect Carlo Scarpa, and the etcher Guido Balsamo Stella, were collaborating with Murano glass manufacturers, contributing to stylistic and formal innovations and creating new vitreous materials and mixtures.
After the enforced lull during WWII, the furnaces reopened with renewed vigour, concentrating mainly on the study of the chromatic effects of glass and on emphasising its sculptural qualities. These new refined colours and their crucial role in the composition of original and often sophisticated vitreous materials, constitute the distinctive element of the many new companies which sprung up in the 1940s and the 1950s. During this period, a reinterpretation of the traditional Murano techniques was combined with a strong predilection for simple forms, in harmony with the criteria of functionalism.
Today, the Murano glassblowing industry is facing another crisis. The current slump, glass impresario Adriano Berengo suggests, has not simply been occasioned by the influx of Chinese copies in recent decades; it is also due to the fact that many of the surviving glass factories have pandered to the demand of tourists for objects that represent a historical idea of Murano. Where the forms of the past galvanised the 19th century glass revival, in other words, now they might be said to hold back contemporary work by clinging to an opportune market for pastiche.
Berengo has looked to counter this by introducing international artists to the properties and practicalities of glass, pushing them to experiment with this uniquely ductile, transparent material. The extraordinary Murano marionettes that feature in the final film of Wael Shawky’s Cabaret Crusades trilogy were developed at the Berengo Studio; artists taking part in the 2017 Glasstress exhibition, which Berengo has mounted at Palazzo Franchetti every two years since 2009, included Ai Weiwei, Thomas Schütte and Laure Prouvost.
It is heartening to see contemporary artists exploring a traditional material that requires so much patience and care, and for which chance as much as conceptual precision plays such a role. Something comparable – and equally welcome – is perhaps happening in the growing prominence of contemporary ceramic art at leading international museums and galleries. Also to be praised are those dealers, such as Adrian Sassoon, who have worked so hard to promote the place of historical materials in the production of contemporary pieces.
The future of Murano also requires sustained attention to its past. That means well-curated museum displays and exhibitions to illuminate the skill of historical glassmakers and the variety of their working methods, as well as the originality of 20th century designers. It requires the clean presentation of individual objects (or groups of objects), ensuring that they are no more relegated to crowded cabinets with poor lighting (although there is of course value in looking at glass in the context of other types of object).
In Venice, thankfully, the Stanze del Vetro on the island of San Giorgio Maggiore has now been creating this kind of exhibition for several years. Since its inauguration in 2012, the gallery’s displays of modern and contemporary glass have offered a lucid reminder of the recent strength of glassmaking in Venice – and as such, as a rejoinder to those who would give up on Murano altogether.
And then there is the Museo del Vetro in Palazzo Giustinian on Murano, which reopened in 2015 with refurbished and expanded exhibition spaces that feature a chronological display focusing on the island’s production. Though the museum has been in its current location since 1861, it now has a greater responsibility than ever: inspiring visitors to Venice to value Murano glass correctly, while encouraging the maestri to innovate afresh.
We brought home Murano glass… in the form of cherries, what else?!? Miss Honey shows off the cherry necklace we got from Pauly & Co. in Piazza San Marco. One of the many stores that stock authentic Murano glass pieces, not the cheap Chinese copies.
Did someone say cocktail? In Venice? On a boat? Little bears have signed up!
This is the trabacolo, the last cargo ship still at sea in Venice. It has just been restored and now you can book a guided tour, with a cocktail on board 🙂
The story is by Luisella Romeo, tourist guide in Venice, on SeeVenice.
A boat is for sure the most iconic thing you can imagine describing the city of Venice. I am sure you are thinking of a black lacquered, slow and silent gondola, possibly at sunset. Alternatively, suppose you think of the past of Venice, as a maritime mercantile empire. You may imagine a powerful and fast galley or even a “galeazza” that won at the famous naval battle at Lepanto.
Surely both gondolas and warships are part of the Venetian history soul. But there’s more that needs our attention when it comes to Venice’s maritime heritage. A boat that enabled Venice to become a real wonder was the “trabacolo”. Only one in Venice is still at sea and this is its story.
Its name is “Il Nuovo Trionfo”, the New Triumph. It was not built in Venice but at Cattolica further south along the Adriatic coast in 1926 by one of the most respected boat-building experts of the time, Ferdinando Ubalducci, some said, “with greater than usual care and attention”.
It survived WW2 and the risk of being bombed, sunk or simply requisitioned and in 1951 it passed to Carlo Pinatti in Grado to be acquired in 1970 by a Viennese engineer, Hugo Herrmann, who took care of the boat till 2007 and turned the trabacolo into a cruising vessel with beautiful wooden boiserie. The Compagnia del Nuovo Trionfo now led by Massimo Gin (president) and Alfredo Zambon (honorary president) was given the trabacolo in 2007.
What’s so special about the Nuovo Trionfo boat? In a trabacolo one can observe the constant development and improvement of the cargo vessels in the area starting from the Byzantine age. While strictly speaking the trabacolo was born over two centuries ago, the technical tradition it refers to goes back to the lateen ships, to the “cocca veneta” and the “marciliana” boats.
With just one deck, two masts with dipping lugsails, high sides and capacious storage, it combined the advantages of a large vessel with those of a small ship. Safe at sea and easy to manoeuvre in ports and canals. The different sails, called “vela al terzo” or “trabacolo sail” made it easier to control the boat and sail close to the wind. You didn’t need a large crew (three or four men) and you could reach a higher efficiency with lower costs. Which is the reason why thousands of trabacoli were built in the Northern Adriatic Sea area, in the Marche up to the Romagna, the Veneto, the Istrian peninsula and the Dalmatian coastline as far south as Albania. When a good idea works, it becomes common heritage.
Even when becoming a pure, technological innovation, the trabacolo preserved some of its archaic heritage. Two wide open, colourful eyes, surrounding the actual hawse holes, watch ahead to avoid a shipwreck in the storms or foggy winters of the Adriatic sea. And still on the prow, there’s a wooden piece that used to be covered in sheep’s fur skin, an echo of superstitious rites to ask gods’ protection while crossing the seas.
If you think about it, it’s quite clear that whatever you see in Venice came from somewhere else and was shipped in. An artificial city needed to be delivered construction materials such as timber, Istrian limestone, clay, sand, gravel, coal. So when we look at the miracle called Venice in all its elements, we should not forget those cargo ships like the trabacolo that brought to the lagoon what you needed for that miracle. Surely we need to thank the expertise of the architects that contributed to Venice’s beauty. But as we know a lot of the ship engineers and “arsenalotti” (ship builders) shared the knowledge to build on marshland, it’s also thanks to those boats like the trabacolo that we can explain why Venice is now here.
And not just. Because Venice needed food, well yes…, the trabacoli were used to bring flour, wheat, wine and fruit like watermelons to the city, which were grown extensively in the area nearby. And next to the watermelons, I hope you don’t mind if I mention the timber that the glass furnaces in Murano needed to produce more colourful crystal wonders.
The Compagnia del Nuovo Trionfo has committed itself to the task of saving the last Trabacolo. After a first philologically faithful restoration in the shipyard run by Luca Casaril, it became clear that the beautiful wooden boiserie had unfortunately allowed for the rotting of major parts of the hull, with its ribs and centre girder. And while in the past, trees were grown in a distorted form so to be perfect for the construction of some boat’s parts, now this is no longer possible and new techniques are needed for such a restoration.
The project therefore became an excellent opportunity to work in synergy with universities, innovative businesses and young people, too. The University Institute of Architecture in Venice and in particular the laboratory of photogrammetry with Elisa Costa was involved. You can then retrace with a 3D model the several interventions. At the same time, Nasiertech, a start-up business born within the University of Venice Ca’ Foscari, specialised in nanotechnology developed, with the help of Irene Scarpa, a new product to get rid of mould and fungi.
Many Venice’s lovers have contributed financially to the project. A new association has been established, the Friends of the Nuovo Trionfo, hoping to get more people involved.
Il Nuovo Trionfo is ready to offer educational services to schools, create an itinerary via water among the Arsenale, the Maritime Museum of Venice, the Custom’s House and the Lazzaretto islands in the Venetian lagoon, and participate in the traditional festivities of Ascension, Vogalonga, the Redentore, the Historial Regatta and the Salute.
Much of the Venice that we know today is the product of a flurry of artistic output during the 15th, 16th and 17th centuries — at a time when the republic had already begun its slow decline. This is not to say that Venice was not beautiful before the 15th century, but it had a very different sort of beauty. Venice lived in the West, but its gaze was ever on the East. As a child of the Byzantine Empire, Venice naturally adopted the artistic style of its sophisticated parent. This can still be seen, staring out from the mosaic-covered walls of scattered churches in Ravenna that escaped the plundering of conquerors and the zeal of iconoclasts. Venetians most admired this style of art during their first millennium, and they used it to adorn their holy places.
Artists in the Middle Ages were craftsmen — much like goldsmiths, cobblers, or blacksmiths — trained to create a product. And just as blacksmiths did not sign horseshoes, the identity of medieval artists and architects has almost always remained unknown. Yet the beauty of their creations still testifies to their skill. Although the church of San Marco was modelled on the Church of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople (demolished in 1461), the identity of the person who oversaw its construction remains a mystery. Greek artists were surely employed to produce the mosaics adorning the interior of San Marco, most of which were executed in the 12th, 13th and 14th centuries. Like that of all Byzantine churches, San Marco’s beauty is internal. The open area beneath the grand cupolas was designed to draw the worshipper’s attention skyward, toward the heavens. Biblical scenes, the lives of saints, and important events in Venetian history cover the upper walls and ceilings. Lit by hundreds of candles, the interior powerfully evokes the presence of the sacred.
The exterior of San Marco was another matter. Following Byzantine practice, the church’s outside wall consisted of exposed brick with very little ornamentation. Over the centuries, as San Marco and its Piazza became more important to the people of Venice, that changed. The greatest improvements occurred after 1204, when ships laden with treasures from conquered Constantinople arrived in Venice. Rich marbles and reliefs were mounted on the exterior of San Marco in almost haphazard fashion. Similarly, items such as the dark tetrarchs (mounted on a corner), the “Acre” columns (placed before a now-closed entrance on the Piazzetta), and the bronze horses (set on the front balcony) were used to decorate the church at the centre of Venetian civic life.
Beyond San Marco one must look hard to find evidence of Venetian art before the 15th century. The best example is Torcello’s church of Santa Maria Assunta, which has along its back wall a breathtaking mosaic of the Last Judgment produced in the 12th century.
At one time all the churches in Venice were decorated in this way. But then came the Italian Renaissance, and zeal for this new artistic style quickly swept away the medieval mosaics and frescoes. Few churches were spared. However, in a quiet part of Venice there is still a place where one can get a feel for the medieval parish church: San Giovanni Decollato (St. John the Baptist Beheaded) in Santa Croce, tucked away between San Giacomo dall’Orio and the Fondaco dei Turchi. At least a thousand years old, the little church is a precious gem, covered in a traditional ship’s keel roof and adorned with Byzantine columns. Overshadowed by the larger San Giacomo dall’Orio, it did not see much use during the Renaissance or baroque periods, and so it was largely left alone. At some point in the early 19th century the church was abandoned entirely. Its inside walls were plastered and it was used for storage. In 1994, however, San Giovanni Decollato was reopened after extensive restorations, revealing a window to a Venice that had long since passed away. Chipping away the plaster exposed beautiful medieval frescoes depicting St. Helena, the Annunciation, the four Evangelists, and St. Michael defeating Satan as a dragon. It is a place of quiet reverence — something almost extinct in the modern city.
Venice’s earliest palazzi were likewise built along Byzantine lines, although with uniquely Venetian modifications. One of the oldest is Ca’ Farsetti, which stands very near the Rialto Bridge. Built by Ranieri Dandolo before 1209, the palazzo exhibits the classic rounded arches opening to doors, windows, or balconies all across its façade. The Ca’ Farsetti has many of the features that would become standard for Venetian palazzi. The ground level, which opened directly onto the Grand Canal, was designed for commerce. There a merchant vessel could be loaded or unloaded and goods stored. The family also kept smaller boats on the ground floor, along with oars, sails, and occasionally a bedroom for a servant or slave. At the back of the ground floor a door opened to a private courtyard with a well and stairs to the upper levels, where the family lived. Upstairs could be found a wide hallway flanked by a ballroom, dining room, and sitting room for entertaining. Family quarters frequently spread across several floors as different nuclear families claimed separate sections of a palazzo owned by a common ancestor.
Venice’s palazzi are most striking for their open doors and windows, designed to facilitate communication, commerce, and the circulation of air. Elsewhere in Italy, aristocrats built fortified compounds with iron bars on the doors and windows, thick walls, and mighty towers to defend the family during the factional warfare that so often raged across their cities. Such precautions were unnecessary in Venice. Nothing speaks more eloquently of the genius of the Venetian republican system than the rows of rich and utterly defenceless palazzi that still crowd the sides of the Grand Canal, and every other canal in Venice. The owners of these ornate palaces were powerful men with all of the enemies that power brings. Yet they never conceived of the idea that those enemies, who were fellow Venetians after all, would wage war against them in their homes. Venetian politics was rough and often treacherous, but it rarely turned to violence. Allegiance to the republic, rather than to any one man or dynasty, served Venice very well.
By the 14th century Venetian architects began joining together two foreign influences often encountered by their well-travelled merchants. The Gothic style of pointed archways had swept through France and, by extension, the crusader states in Syria. So, too, Islamic architecture seen in Alexandria made its way into Venetian designs. The result is what is often called Venetian Gothic. It is characterized by pointed arches accentuated with various designs along an open façade. The Ducal Palace is the prime example of this style, yet it can be seen in numerous other private palaces, such as the Ca’ d’Oro, with its coloured stones and ornate traceries of golden colours.
The Italian Renaissance was born in Florence in the 14th century and quickly travelled to Venice by way of Padua. It was characterized by a rebirth of classical models of architecture, sculpture and literature. Renaissance artists, like Renaissance humanists, searched the ancient past for a way forward. They rejected the flat medieval styles, perfecting instead new techniques that sought to breathe life into their art. Unlike medieval craftsmen, these new artists cultivated a celebrity status, not only signing their works, but overseeing busy studios of apprentices.
Venice’s adoption of these Renaissance styles was itself a remarkable break with the past, for the Venetians had always favoured the sophisticated East when it came to artistic expression. But times were changing. The flame of Byzantium was flickering and even Venice turned its attention to the Western terra firma. Among the earliest Renaissance artists in Venice was Jacopo Bellini. The son of a Venetian tinsmith, Bellini worked under Gentile da Fabriano, who produced various now-lost works for the Great Council in 1408. Bellini accompanied his master to Florence, where he remained for some years learning the new artistic techniques pioneered there. Later, Bellini travelled to Bruges, where he was introduced to the use of oil paints on canvas — a medium that would forever change Venice.
The seat of high culture in 15th century Venice was not at the governmental centre, but in its outskirts at Padua. There, since 1222, a university had flourished that drew the best minds in Europe and provided an excellent education for Venice’s elite. After returning to Venice, Bellini set up shop in Padua with his two sons, Gentile and Giovanni. They were likely influenced by the arrival in 1443 of Donatello, who lived in Padua for about a decade. His masterwork during those years was the equestrian statue of the condottiere Erasmo da Narni, otherwise known as Gattamelata (Honey Cat). This magnificent life-size bronze was the first such statue produced since the days of ancient Rome. It remains there still, just outside the main entrance of the Basilica of St. Anthony.
Jacopo Bellini and his sons later moved to Venice, where they found their expertise in the new Renaissance style in high demand. Under their influence, the Venetians abandoned the fresco and adopted canvas and oil paintings. This was a matter of pure practicality. Although frescoes were generally easier to produce, they did not fare well in the humid, salty air of the Venetian lagoon. To avoid the peeling and fading that plagued Venetian frescoes, patrons began ordering the new oil paintings on canvas. Often these were giant canvases specifically constructed to cover entire walls. In the Great Council Chamber on the second floor of the Ducal Palace, 14th century frescoes that depicted the Peace of Venice, the Fourth Crusade, and the Coronation of the Virgin had badly faded during the last hundred years. Gentile and Giovanni Bellini produced large canvases of the same subjects, although updated in style, which were then hung over the original frescoes.
Both Bellini brothers remained in demand in Venice and beyond. Gentile commanded extraordinary sums for his exquisite portraits. Indeed, in the 1470s he became the portrait artist of the doges. The honour of having one’s image executed by Gentile Bellini was so great that the Senate employed it as a diplomatic tool. Gentile was, for example, sent to Germany, where he painted a portrait of Emperor Frederick III. He was not only well paid, but even given a knighthood by the grateful monarch. Similarly, in 1479 the Venetians sweetened the deal for peace with the Turks by agreeing to send Gentile to Constantinople to paint a portrait of the sultan. Mehmed the Conqueror, who hoped to soon rule Italy, was intrigued by the artistic innovations of the Italian Renaissance and eager to be immortalized by its techniques. Gentile’s portrait of Mehmed, which today can be seen in London’s National Gallery, remains a fascinating study of this enigmatic man.
Wealthy patrons for Venetian Renaissance painters could also be found in the city’s various scuole. Despite their name, these were pious fraternal organizations with a devotion to a particular saint or relic. Although nobles and non-nobles could join, by the 15th century the men of Venice’s scuole were usually well off and politically connected. At a scuola’s meetings and banquets members had an opportunity to network and generally enjoy one another’s company in a grand hall. The scuole also undertook numerous charitable works, provided some death benefits for their members, and routinely staged elaborate processions in the city. In other words, with the exception of the religious element, the scuole were not unlike fraternal organizations today.
The various scuole in Venice engaged in some competition with one another, which manifested itself in the size and lavishness of their processions and halls. They were eager to adorn their walls with the latest and most beautiful art extolling, of course, their own organizations, and here they turned to the Bellinis. Gentile was commissioned to produce several canvases depicting scenes in the history of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista’s greatest relic, a fragment of the True Cross. Around 1496 he painted The Procession of the True Cross in Piazza San Marco, and then a few years later The Recovery of the Relic of the True Cross at the Bridge of San Lorenzo. Both of these works (now in the Accademia Gallery in Venice) were commissioned to tell the story of miracles: the first about a cure and the second about a discovery. Yet the miracles in these two paintings are lost amid a busy panorama of the people and places of Venice. The Procession is really a depiction of the Piazza San Marco, filled with the members of the scuola and a host of other Venetians of all ranks. The Recovery is much the same, set on the canal of San Lorenzo. The object of both paintings is Venice itself and the people who lived there. This narrative style — filling the canvas with people, events, and structures tangential to the subject of the work — would remain an enduring feature of Venetian Renaissance paintings. It was a marked change from Roman or Florentine methods, which populated their paintings with stylized classical architecture or ideal forms.
Giovanni Bellini had as successful a career as his brother, although he tended to focus more on religious subjects for Venice’s churches and monasteries. Among his most famous are the Transfiguration (now in Museo di Capodimonte, Naples) and St. Francis in the Desert (now in the Frick Collection, New York). After Gentile’s death in 1507, Giovanni became the unquestioned master of oil painting in Venice. His studio was filled with young artists, responding to the rising demand for art among Venice’s institutions and elite, and fuelled by the extraordinary wealth of the city.
Giovanni Bellini’s most famous pupil was Tiziano Vecelli, better known as Titian. It is impossible in so short a space to do justice to the life and artistic output of this giant of Venetian painting. During his long life, Titian produced hundreds of canvases and acquired a fame that spanned Europe. Titian, more than any other artist, cemented Venice’s reputation as a leader in art. Like his predecessors, he composed works for the government, churches, and scuole. His magnificent Presentation of the Virgin in the Temple was produced for the Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Carità. It remains there still, in the Accademia Gallery, which is the heir of the old scuola building. Titian’s most famous work, though, is surely his Assumption of the Virgin, completed in 1518. For more than two years he laboured over this massive canvas, to be hung over the high altar of the Franciscan church of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, where it remains today. Titian’s rich use of light and colour in this masterpiece draws the observer ever upward, from the terrestrial to the angelic hosts bearing the Virgin Mary and finally to God in heaven.
As Titian’s fame spread, the courts of Europe called him to paint the portraits of leaders such as Pope Paul III and Empress Eleanor of Portugal. He was summoned to Augsburg, where he painted a series of portraits of the ruler of the largest empire in history, the Holy Roman emperor Charles V. His famous equestrian portrait of Charles V was the first of its kind, establishing a new genre of royal portrait style. Titian remained active until his death at around ninety, when he was one of thousands of victims of a plague that ravaged Venice in August 1576. So great was his fame that the government made an exception to its law about the disposal of the bodies of plague victims, which were usually dumped onto an island or into the sea. Instead, Titian was buried with full honours, as he had wished, in the glorious church of the Frari, made more glorious by his own works.
Although not as famous as Titian, his contemporary Vittore Carpaccio flourished by providing paintings for the usual clientele of patricians, scuole, and the government. Much of his work for the Ducal Palace was lost in fires, but his famous Lion of St. Mark, executed in 1518 for the Treasury Office, not only survives but has become a symbol of the city to this day. Like his teacher, Gentile Bellini, Carpaccio filled his backgrounds with the sights and people of Venice. His winged lion strikes a familiar pose, one paw on the open Gospel, yet in the background can be seen the Bacino San Marco with ships, faraway campaniles, and the Ducal Palace itself. Carpaccio’s biggest customers were the scuole. He painted a number of works on the life of St. Ursula for the scuola dedicated to her. Like the works of Bellini, Carpaccio’s Healing of the Madman has precious little miraculous in it, but much that is mundane. Set in the Rialto area, the scene is filled with people, gondolas, and the old wooden Rialto Bridge. In the distance can be seen many houses and the forests of chimneys that defined Venice’s cityscape then, as now.
Artistic culture in Venice benefited greatly from current events in Rome, although that was not immediately evident at the time. The lavish patronage of the pope had made Rome the centre of the Renaissance. That changed in 1527 when Charles V invaded Italy and his unruly and largely Protestant soldiers sacked Rome. Talent quickly fled the Eternal City, much of it landing in Venice, where the demand for art coincided nicely with the money to pay for it. One transplant was the brilliant architect Jacopo Tatti, known as Sansovino. Doge Andrea Gritti commissioned him to repair, update, and beautify the main civic centre of Venice around San Marco. The Piazza and Piazzetta were no more dirty, noisy, or disorderly than before, but Doge Gritti hoped to transform them into something akin to the beautifully decorated open spaces found in Rome. At great expense the government began buying out the owners of stalls in the area, some of whom had done business there for centuries. In their place, Sansovino built the Biblioteca Marciana, directly across the Piazzetta from the Ducal Palace. It was later expanded to include the state mint, or Zecca. Almost immediately after its construction, the vault over the main hall of the library collapsed and, in good Venetian fashion, Sansovino was arrested and charged with gross negligence. He was forced to rebuild the structure with a flat roof at his own expense.
The mishap did not damage Sansovino’s career. Indeed, he was appointed Proto of the Procurators of San Marco, the highest architectural position in the city, and in this capacity he redesigned several parts of the Ducal Palace. His best-known additions, though, are the stairways. He replaced the old ceremonial stairway in the palace’s courtyard with the new Scala dei Giganti, a sweeping marble staircase flanked on both sides by massive statues of Mercury and Neptune, representing trade and the sea. Sansovino also designed the famous Scala d’Oro (Golden Staircase) in the palace’s east wing, leading to the chambers of the Senate and the Ten. His work extended to churches, updating their form to the latest styles. He designed, for example, San Francesco della Vigna, San Martino, San Giuliano, and San Geminiano. For twenty years Sansovino worked on the palace of the Corner family, known today simply as Ca’ Grande. Like all of his designs, and those of his contemporaries, the styles of classical Rome, evoking the humanism of an ancient age, were used to replace the medieval Gothic wherever possible.
Among Venice’s architects, however, none can rival the reputation and legacy of Andrea Palladio. The son of a miller in Padua, the young Andrea was apprenticed to a stonecutter, who apparently treated him badly. In 1524 he fled Padua, taking up residence in Vicenza. There he gained the attention of Gian Giorgio Trissino, a humanist who recognized the young man’s talent for architecture. Since Andrea had no surname, Trissino called him Palladio, meaning “wise one”. With Trissino’s patronage, Palladio was able to travel to Rome to study and measure ruins, seeking to re-create the glory of the ancients. His reading there included Vitruvius’s De architectura, a first century treatise on Roman methods and the only architectural work to survive from antiquity. After Trissino’s death in 1540, Palladio went to Venice, where he met the wealthy and powerful patrician Daniele Barbaro. Like many Venetian nobles in those days, Barbaro was a well-educated man of letters. He had served as ambassador to the court of Elizabeth I in England and as representative to the Council of Trent, which had set the reform agenda for the Catholic Church after the disruption of the Protestant Reformation. Barbaro was later made a cardinal and even elected patriarch of Aquileia. He encouraged Palladio’s genius, bringing him to Rome in 1554. Two years later Barbaro and Palladio published a new edition of Vitruvius.
Palladio’s architectural style, based firmly on classical models, found its most energetic employment in the magnificent mainland villas of wealthy Venetian nobles. He designed dozens of them, including Daniele Barbaro’s own Villa Barbaro. The Palladian style, as it came to be known, would become the new face of Western architecture for centuries. It was, in short, a revival of antiquity. Within its solid, clean lines and towering columns, it celebrated a Roman and Greek past reborn in a new age of virtue and self-confidence. Palladio spelled out its elements and methods in his seminal work, The Four Books on Architecture, published in 1570. During the 18th century Enlightenment, Palladian architecture became the embodiment of reason in building, dispelling the superstition of the medieval “Gothic” (that is, barbarian). It spread across Europe and into the colonies, even arriving in British North America. There the well-educated country gentlemen embraced Palladio as the architect of a new age. Thomas Jefferson read Palladio and used his methods when designing his own estate at Monticello. Likewise, the design of public structures in Washington, D.C., was largely based on Palladio’s work. American government buildings so often resemble ancient temples precisely because of the architectural styles forged by Palladio.
It is no exaggeration to say that Andrea Palladio changed the face of Venice. As the classical style became the rage, he was in high demand to design new buildings or redesign old ones. In some cases he simply placed a new classical façade over a medieval structure, as at San Pietro di Castello, where the white steps, columns, and capitals replaced the bare bricks of the medieval building. In other cases he designed entirely new buildings, such as the Redentore church on Giudecca or the church of Santa Lucia (where the train station now stands). His most visible masterpiece, however, was the new church of San Giorgio Maggiore, facing the Bacino San Marco — an unmistakable part of the Venetian cityscape. With the creation of this church the Bacino had become majestically framed much as it is today. The last element in the group, the church of Santa Maria della Salute, was added during the next century. Like the Redentore, the Salute was built in thanksgiving for the departure of a terrible plague. Although it owed much to Palladio, the Salute, which was completed in 1687, is very much a product of the baroque period, with its elaborate decoration so favoured in Venice.
In 1577 a disastrous fire broke out in the Ducal Palace and quickly destroyed most of the sections toward the sea, including the Great Council Chamber. The Venetian government asked architects to submit ideas for the palace’s repair, reconstruction, or rebuilding. Given the tastes of the time, it is not surprising that most architects considered the fire to be a providential opportunity to rid themselves of a medieval eyesore. Palladio favoured tearing the whole thing down and starting fresh with a new, classical structure. In another city, one ruled by a monarch with a penchant for the arts, Palladio would surely have had his way. But Venice was a republic, and the people of Venice — steeped in a conservative commercial culture that valued stability — would hear nothing of such alterations to their house. The Ducal Palace was a cherished part of their history. It belonged to them and they would not give it up.
While the architects and officials argued, the Great Council held its meetings at the Arsenale, in a warehouse used to store the fleet’s oars. The members were naturally eager to see things moved along. At last the decision was made to repair the Ducal Palace, restoring the lost portions just as they had been. It was also decided to remove the prison from the palace, building a new structure across the canal for that purpose. To avoid the problem of having to cross the canal with guards and criminals, the famous Bridge of Sighs was extended between the two buildings. Although decorated ornately on its exterior, the Bridge of Sighs was meant to be a maximum-security construction.
The restoration of the Great Council Chamber posed a problem when it came to decoration, for the paintings and frescoes depicting the Peace of Venice, the Fourth Crusade, and the Coronation of the Virgin had been lost in the fire. So long had these scenes decorated the council room that it seemed unthinkable not to replace them. The large canvases that today adorn the walls of that vast room are the results of a major government project to restore what was lost to the flames. Certainly the most spectacular is Paradise by Jacopo Robusti, otherwise known as Tintoretto. The largest oil painting on canvas in the world, Paradise dominates the head of the room. Tintoretto, who was in his seventies, prayed that he would be awarded the commission, saying that he hoped to experience paradise by painting it. He painted the massive 22 by 9 meters (about the size of a tennis court) canvas largely in sections at the Scuola della Misericordia, which was not far from his house. The pieces were then transported to the Ducal Palace, where they were stitched together and the final work was done. Because the aged Tintoretto found it difficult to climb ladders, his son, Domenico, completed many of the final details. While Tintoretto kept the Virgin Mary as the focal point of his work, he greatly expanded its depiction of heaven and its inhabitants. Indeed, the work consists of a great sea of faces, most painted from live subjects, who people the heavenly realm. It was a constant reminder to the assembled council members of the reward for good and honourable service to God and to Venice.
As his name suggests, Tintoretto was the son of a dyer. When he was young and had demonstrated a talent for art, his father placed him as a pupil in the workshop of Titian. For some reason, Titian took a dislike to Tintoretto and within a few weeks the pupil had departed to begin his own career. Without Titian’s connections (and, indeed, with the active dislike of Titian’s partisans), Tintoretto had to be particularly aggressive in seeking contracts. He was a whirlwind of energy, bidding for projects wherever he found them, and there were many projects to be had. Unlike Titian, Tintoretto hardly ever left Venice, being always busy with the next job. The Scuola Grande di San Rocco numbered among his best customers.
Tintoretto’s muscular style typified the Mannerism that was popular during the High Renaissance, but his use of colour and light was unique to him. The speed with which he produced his paintings won him plenty of contracts with the Venetian government, particularly after the fire of 1577 when there was a rush to restore the governmental complex. These included the famous Bacchus with Ariadne Crowned by Venice and The Forge of Vulcan. Tintoretto’s political work shared a style with other Venetian artists, such as Paolo Veronese — a style evident on the walls of the Ducal Palace, where there are many pictures that include multiple doges, but few portraits of a single doge. As citizens of a republic, Venetians were careful never to extol one man too much. This was a marked departure from artistic subjects elsewhere in Europe, which often depicted a king, pope, or other ruler in grand style. Instead, the focus of the paintings in the Ducal Palace was on the institutions and people of Venice. Occasionally, Venetians would adopt the ancient Roman practice of depicting their republic as an allegory. This can be seen marvellously in Palma il Giovane’s Allegory of the War of the League of Cambrai (1582) or that masterpiece of nostalgia, Neptune Offering to Venice the Riches of the Sea (ca. 1745) by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo. Tintoretto’s own contribution to this genre, Venice, Queen of the Sea, can be still seen on the ceiling of the Senate chamber.
The 16th century also saw the creation of Venice’s most famous bridge, and the only one before the modern era to span the Grand Canal — the Rialto Bridge. Because of the frenetic activity at the Rialto markets, a bridge had been a necessity since at least the 13th century. Several wooden bridges had been built at Rialto over the centuries, each with a pulley system to allow sailing vessels bearing their cargoes to pass through. This was no longer a consideration in the 16th century, however, since the large galleons docked and unloaded their goods at warehouses near the Bacino San Marco. The Venetian government, therefore, announced a competition to design a new stone bridge — one that need only be high enough to allow local traffic and state galleys to pass under it. The greatest architects of the day, including Palladio and Michelangelo, submitted proposals. But the government declined to fund a work of art in the middle of a marketplace unless it had some commercial application. Instead it gave the contract to Antonio da Ponte, the lead architect overseeing the restoration of the Ducal Palace after the 1577 fire. His design was not only graceful but useful. With its three separate pathways, it could move traffic quickly and efficiently. Its market stalls, which faced inward toward the central path, allowed the government to rent out new space in an area in which property values were astronomical. In short, the Rialto Bridge perfectly answered the Venetians’ desire for both beauty and profit, while maintaining the honourable traditions of the past.
The extraordinary demand for artistic and architectural products among Renaissance Venetians was fuelled by two things they had in abundance: education and money. The money came, as it always had, through international commerce and trade. Yet by the 16th century much of Venice’s wealth was also generated by a boom in local industry. The wars on the mainland had played havoc with Italian craftsmen, who found it difficult to conduct business amid the cannon fire and raids of mercenary armies. Venice, a city that no enemy had ever captured, seemed extremely attractive for those looking for a new place of business. After all, the extensive trade routes that terminated in Venice ensured that any craftsman could find the materials that he needed to produce finished goods. Populous Venice also had plenty of ready, sometimes educated workers.
The largest industry to take root in 16th century Venice was woollen textiles, followed closely by silk production. By 1600, in a clear sign of the times, more people worked in the silk industry in Venice than built boats. Numerous other specialty industries also developed in the lagoon, including leatherwork and jewellery. Lace made on the island of Burano soon became coveted across Europe, just as it remains among tourists today. This century also saw the rapid development of the glass industry on Murano. Venetian glass gained a wide reputation for excellence and the artistic skill of Murano’s glassblowers became legendary. Aside from producing glassware and decorative items, the craftsmen also created precision hourglasses, crucial in an age of oceanic voyages.
Education levels in Venice had always been among the highest in Europe. Merchants, after all, must be able to read, write, and count. By the late 14th century a humanistic education, preferably at the University of Padua, was becoming a standard for Venetian patrician men. Humanism thrived on a diet of classical literature — a commodity that was extremely expensive before the 15th century. However, around 1450 Johannes Gutenberg created the first movable-type printing press in Europe. The printing press dramatically reduced the cost of books, which previously had to be copied by hand. Coupled with new techniques in paper production, the printing press ushered in a new age of education, communication, and thought that would ripple through the centuries. Few people in medieval Europe learned to read because there was nothing for them to read. The printing press changed that.
Movable-type print was invented in China, yet there it had nothing like the effects that it would have on Europe. The reason is simple. In China, printing presses were controlled by the imperial government and used for the needs of a complex bureaucracy. In Europe, the printing press was controlled by no one. It was, instead, an entrepreneurial opportunity. Anyone with money and some idea of which books would sell could purchase a printing press and set up shop. For Europeans, therefore, printing became a craft, not unlike making barrels, caulking ships, or painting portraits. Because it had the potential for great profits, printing expanded rapidly.
It should not be too surprising, then, that printing soon arrived and flourished in Venice. The Venetian government was, by its nature, business friendly, and certainly Venice was safe. By the 16th century, printers also had to contend with local governments or church tribunals, both Catholic and Protestant. While the Inquisition in Venice paid attention to what flowed from the city’s presses, it tended to move slowly and often gave the publisher the benefit of the doubt. Paper and ink were readily available in Venice, along with the technical know-how to build and maintain machines. Most importantly, the high literacy rate among Venice’s elite sustained a strong local market for books.
By 1500 nearly a quarter of all publications in Europe were produced in Venice. The most famous, and probably the largest, press in the city was that of Aldus Manutius. A humanist from Bassano, Manutius invested much of his fortune in the publication of Greek classics for the growing audience of humanists in Europe. He established his press in Venice not only because it had become a centre for printing, but because it had a large library of Greek manuscripts from Constantinople, as well as a population of Greeks who could help with their publication. The Aldine Press soon gained a reputation for producing the best scholarly works in Europe. In 1501 Manutius adopted the now-famous symbol of a dolphin around an anchor for his press. This image became so associated with excellence in publishing that it was quickly copied by presses everywhere — and, indeed, until recently was the logo of Doubleday. The organization and capacity of the Aldine Press were truly extraordinary. It employed dozens of printers, scholars, and proof-readers.
Among the latter was the young Desiderius Erasmus, who would go on to become one of the most famous humanists of his age. As he looked back on his first job, though, Erasmus had little good to say about it. He complained of the long hours, poor working conditions, stingy bosses, and bad food (“a morsel of shellfish caught in the sewer”). Whatever Erasmus’s complaints about the Aldine Press, it seems to have taken the young scholar in stride. The busy workshop was always in need of help. According to one of Erasmus’s biographers, the Aldine Press had a sign above its door that read:
Whoever you are, Aldus earnestly begs you to state your business in the fewest possible words and be gone — unless like Hercules to weary Atlas, you would lend a helping hand. There will always be work enough for you, and all who come this way.
To increase sales, Manutius developed several innovations that fundamentally shaped Western book production. During the Middle Ages, books came in all sizes, but in general they tended to be large. Since most books were religious, it made sense to produce larger codices designed to stay put on an altar or at a table in a monastic library. Since the first printed books competed for sales with traditional manuscripts, it is not surprising that they, too, were large. The Gutenberg Bible, for example, is 30 x 45 centimeters. Most printed books were produced in quarto, which meant that a large sheet of paper was printed with four pages on each side and then folded into four parts, cut, and bound into a book. Manutius wanted to bring the size, and thereby the cost, of the book down. He therefore produced the world’s first octavo book — eight pages were printed on each sheet, which was then folded one more time before cutting and binding. This produced a book not much larger than a modern paperback. To fit more print on each page, the Aldine Press adopted a new compact, slanted script, later (and still) called italic. These smaller books were not only cheaper but also portable. The octavo was a huge success — so much so that it was immediately copied by other presses across Europe.
By the end of the 16th century Venice had firmly established itself as a centre for arts and culture. The rude community of fishermen, sailors, and merchants had grown up. In later centuries Venetians would continue to innovate in other cultural fields, particularly in music. However, on the canvas, the great period of innovation was winding down. Giants like Titian, Tintoretto, and Veronese proved difficult acts to follow. By the 18th century the epicentre of European culture had clearly shifted to Paris. Still, Venice remained important. Tiepolo, who perfected the ceiling painting, was in great demand outside Venice.
As European wealth grew in the 18th century to unprecedented levels, art collectors began to cast their gaze on Venice. The Venetian practice of using canvases rather than frescoes seemed good fortune to art lovers with deep pockets, who began buying up Renaissance masterpieces from Venetian families and churches that were down on their luck. The problem became so acute that the Council of Ten ordered a detailed inventory of all canvas paintings in Venice and strictly regulated their purchase by foreigners, a desperate attempt to hold on to a legacy that was slipping out of their fingers.
The greatest of all of Venice’s artistic masterpieces, however, was Venice itself. The city of the lagoon, adorned by some of the greatest artists of all time, had become a showplace like none other. Wealthy visitors in the 18th century, many of whom were English tourists, paid large sums for newly executed paintings of the city. To meet the demand, an industry of Venice-scape painters arose — one that still flourishes today. The most famous of these was Giovanni Antonio Canal, known as Canaletto. An accomplished landscape artist, Canaletto turned his considerable talents to producing highly realistic scenes of Venice. English tourists snapped up his works, bringing them home to remember their trip. When war on the Continent in the 1740s disrupted English travel to Venice, Canaletto moved to England to be closer to his clientele. Although his early scenes were painted from life, his later ones obviously were not. Indeed, Canaletto produced many capriccios — fantastic scenes of an imagined Venice with monumental statues, classical temples, and non-existent bridges. His other works, though, still preserve the image of the city in the 18th century — an image that is surprisingly similar to the Venice of today.
The beauty of Venice’s landscape is unusual, for it is an entirely artificial one. Imposing buildings seem to float on a water canvas that both frames and reflects their splendour. It is an image frozen in time — a Renaissance city that remains unchanged, unmoved. Its magnificence is an enduring monument to a wealthy, powerful, and culturally vibrant republic at the peak of its history.
And yet, unlike the monument of stone and water, that greatness would not last. At the age of one thousand, Venice was entering old age.