It was known as Venezia la bella, an incomparable union of art and life.
A Byzantine historian of the 15th century compared it to an exquisitely
proportioned sculpture. In its setting upon the waters, it was born to be
painted and engraved.
Some have even suggested that it looked better on paper and on canvas than it
ever did in the light of day. In the drawings and paintings of Venetian
life, from those of Jacopo Bellini in the middle of the 15th century to
those of Francesco Guardi in the latter part of the 18th century, the
setting and architecture of the city take precedence over the activities of
its inhabitants.
The physical space, and the stone face, are pre-eminent. Who can remember any
of the human figures in Canaletto? In the many images of the public
processions of Venice, the spectators and the participants become part of
the architecture; the buildings themselves seem to embody the harmony and
joy of the people.
The stone is a monument to human will but, in the process, the stone itself
becomes revered. The presence of stone — walls, stairways, balustrades and
alcoves — is very noticeable in Venetian painting.
The city might have been composed by a painter seeking symmetry and contrast,
weighing the vertical against the horizontal, combining shapes and colours
in the most harmonious whole. Latin elements are balanced against Greek
elements, Gothic against Byzantine, in order to symbolise the sway of
different empires.
The sight lines are perfect, as in the stage scenery for a play or for an
opera, and the perspective subtly diminished. The details and motifs are
carefully mingled. The co-ordinates of the public buildings were appraised
in the light of Renaissance theories of numbers, so that the vistas have a
mystical or magical enchantment. It was another form of power.
The light of Venice is as important as its space and form. The light on the
water casts illumination upwards and outwards. The sunlight plays upon the
walls and ceilings, with an incessant rippling effect; it stirs the air and
makes everything dance. What is solid is diffused. Buildings shimmer against
the surface of the water. Stone becomes colour on the water. It can make the
battered marble and the weather-stained brick, the slime on the surface of
the canal, seem marvellous.
There is a sparkling light, on winter days. But the characteristic of Venice
is a pale soft light, like a drifting haze, powdered, part wave and part
cloud. It is a pearly iridescent light wreathed in mist. It is drawn from
the horizon and the sea as much as from the sun. It lends everything unity.
That is why Venetian painters have always been drawn to the gleam of light
upon water, of the reflection of figures and of objects. There are many
mirrors, of local manufacture, in Venetian painting. The art of Bellini has
always been celebrated for its luminosity, for its ability to charge the air
with light. The diffuse sky and the bright horizon contain a glowing world.
The surfaces of his canvases emit and receive light.
As in the streets of the city itself, even the shadows become sources of
light. It is a truism that in Venetian painting colour, rather than contour,
is the key. Surely this is related to the vision of reflections in the
water?
Light was, in every context, a token of splendour and of nobility. In the
12th-century chronicles, the Basilica of Maria Assunta was celebrated for pellucida
claritas or admirable lightness. The range of associations is intrinsic
to the power of the word. The polished flooring of Venetian houses known as
terrazzo, compounded of lime and well-powdered stone, was prized for its
ability to reflect light; it was buffed and polished with linseed oil until
it shone, as everyone testified, “like a mirror”.
Venetian houses were always designed to catch the light. In the 16th century
it was noted that the windows were made of glass rather than paper or waxed
cloth; according to Francesco Sansovino they “were bright, and full of the
sun”. There were of course gloomy recesses, dark courtyards, and hidden
passages; the Venetians were affected by the chiaroscuro of brightness and
shadow. It was part of their nature. It is part of their painting.
There was a passion for artificial light. The chandeliers or lampadari
of Venice, seeming to float in the great upper spaces of Venetian
apartments, were renowned for the myriad and innumerable crystals that
seemed to vie with the sparkle of the water outside the windows.
Venice was the first city in Europe to have, in 1732, its streets lit by
lamps. London followed in 1736. In this period an English traveller, Edward
Wright, noted that “the Venetians are excessively lavish of their white wax
tapers, in their processions, at their night-litanies”.
When these lights were seen mingling with the jewels, the gold, the crystal
and the silver there was “such a glittering, there was scarce any looking
upon them”. This is a quintessential Venetian effect, this glittering. It is
related to the glittering of the sea all around. Light is the life-giving
force. It quickens life. It is an emblem of vivacity and vitality, both
associated with the Venetian temperament.
The numinous is luminous. Light is the first created thing. If light is seen
as a spiritual substance, then it changes the way we look at the world; the
streets and buildings are illuminated by the divine, and are thus themselves
sacred. Light has always been depicted as a sign of heavenly grace. There is
a light of holiness, and a light of vision.
The Renaissance churches of Venice, designed by Codussi and Palladio, exclude
any frescoes or mosaics from their interiors; the walls are purely white. In
this way the quality of the light was preserved. The Istrian stone of Venice
is, in the sunlight, dazzling.
The passion for colour existed, as did the veneration of light, as a token of
energy and bravura. It was a symbol of being. The harmony of colours was
akin to the warmth of the sun. In Venice the term was colorito rather
than colore, intimating the active and expressive possibilities of
colour.
The 19th-century English artist William Etty described Venice as “the
birthplace and cradle of colour”. In the same century John Ruskin noted that
the Venetians resembled the Arabs in “their intense love of colour which led
them to lavish the most expensive decorations on ordinary dwelling houses”;
in addition they possessed “that perfection of the colour-instinct in them
which enabled them to render whatever they did, in this kind, as just in
principle as it was gorgeous in appliance”.
So they coated their palaces in porphyry and gold, where the northern
architects employed oak and sandstone. The inner walls of the houses were
hung with painted leather or with green and crimson damask. There is
expansive colour in the brilliant polychromaticism of their architectural
detail, in marble and in mosaic.
The Basilica of Saint Mark’s is a hymn to colour. We may also surmise that
this was a culture in which sensory experience was deeper and more intense
than our own; in which beautiful colour, and beautiful sound, had a more
direct impact upon the human consciousness. Taste, and smell, and sight and
hearing were stripped bare. Life itself was altogether more vivid. The world
had not lost its aura.
It was not coincidental, perhaps, that the city itself was the centre of the
pigment trade in Europe. The painters of the Netherlands and the rest of
Italy would purchase their colours from Venice, where there were merchants
who specialised in that trade. Here were the finest orpiment and realgar,
used for yellow and for orange, as well as vermilion and lead white.
There is the famous “Venetian red”, a red earth extracted from the Veneto and
characteristically to be seen in 15th-century Venetian painting. It was said
to be as red as the blood of Christ. The dyeing industries of the city,
indispensable in the production of luxury textiles, guaranteed the supply of
the pigment known as red lake. The history of fashions in colour – as red
lead, for example, gave way to orange at the end of the 15th century — would
also be a history of human sensibility.
The Venetian painters often pursued the most expensive colours for the sake of
their price and rarity. Thus, for example, the profound violet blue of
Bellini or Titian was taken from the ground semi-precious lapis lazuli of
what is now Afghanistan; red pigments from silver or sulphur were valued
very highly. The Venetian republic was the home of saffron imported from the
East. In his Grande Dictionnaire de Cuisine, Alexandre Dumas père
remarked that it was “to spices that we owe Titian’s masterpieces”.
What are the colours of the most serene city? There are of course the sacred
colours, Bellini’s colours, blue and gold. Many of the public buildings of
Venice were decorated with a blue sky of night irradiated by stars of gold.
Upon the Pala d’Oro, the richly metalled altar screen in Saint Mark’s, panels
of translucent blue enamel were set within golden borders. It was heaven’s
colour. Blue is the colour of calm and serenity, adopted in the most serene
city. In the paintings of the 14th and 15th centuries the most favoured
colour was a deep blue.
There was the violet blue of the sky, and the greenish blue of the soft
distance. The colours of salmon, magenta, orange and white are reflected
upon the blue and green waters. The sails of the fishing boats, upon the
lagoon through the centuries, were orange or crimson. There is also green,
so much wished for in a city of stone. Bellini luxuriated in deep green. The
Venetian builders loved green marble.
It was an intimation of the natural world, so that we can speak of forests of
marble springing up in the city. It was a reminder of the sap and the leaf,
of the miracle of rebirth. Ruskin noted that one of the favourite chords of
Venetian colour “was the sweet and solemn harmony of purple with various
greens”.
What is the colour of the waters in the canals and in the lagoon? They have
variously been described as jade green, lilac, pale blue, brown, smoky pink,
lavender, violet, heliotrope, dove grey. After a storm the colour changes as
the water becomes aerated. On a hot afternoon the waters may seem orange.
The colours of the sky, and the colours of the city, are refracted in little
ovals of ochre and blue. It is all colours and no colour. It reflects, and
does not own, colour. It becomes what it beholds.
© Peter Ackroyd 2009. Extracted from Venice: Pure City, to be
published by Chatto & Windus on September 3 at £25. Readers can buy the
book for £23 including UK p&p by calling 01206 255800 and quoting “The
Times”
FOUR WAYS TO SEE THE CITY
Hunting down exhibitions in the Biennale (runs to November 22) is a great way
of getting off the beaten track and seeing contemporary art for nothing
(Caroline Hendrie writes). Countries such as Azerbaijan (on the Giudecca),
Luxembourg (near the Rialto Bridge) and Thailand (opposite the railway
station) that do not have their own national pavilions inside the two main
sites at Giardini and Arsenale (joint ticket €18, or £15) take
over palaces, municipal buildings and offices. These fringe exhibitions,
dozens of them, are all free. Details: www.labiennale.org
Fans of Donna Leon’s detective novels can walk in the footsteps of their hero
with their noses in Brunetti’s Venice: Walks Through the Novels (Heinemann,
£12.99) by the academic and local resident Toni Sepeda. The first of 12
detailed walks with maps starts at La Fenice opera house, where the first
Commissario Guido Brunetti mystery began. Sepeda herself takes tailor-made
guided tours from autumn to spring. E-mail: tosepeda@libero.it
Discover the hidden synagoguesin the tops of 16th-century high-rise buildings
in the orginal Ghetto. Levantine, German and Spanish synagogues are on the
tour and each has its own style, treasures and stories. Synagogue tours and
museum entrance €8 (closed Saturdays). Details: www.museo
ebraico.it
See Venice at its spookiest on a 90-minute after-dark Ghost tour. Guided walks
head from the bustling Rialto Bridge into the mysterious labyrinth of blind
alleys and dark canals led by a lively guide. About £17, details: www.viator.com
WHERE TO STAY
Top gondola
For one of the most glamorous, romantic places to stay in just about any city,
Hotel Cipriani (0845 0772222, www.hotelcipriani.com),
part of Orient-Express Hotels, is the place to go. The grand hotel, on
Giudecca Island, has just celebrated its 50th birthday and is elegantly
decorated with a fine-dining restaurant and a large swimming pool. It’s a
four-minute ride by private launch to St Mark’s square. Doubles from an
eye-watering £723, but if you check the special offers section of the
website, rooms are sometimes £410. Very special occasions only, perhaps.
Middle of the canal
Casa Verardo (www.casaverardo.it) is a
16th-century palazzo converted into a bijoux hotel full of antiques and fine
old paintings, a few steps away from St Mark’s. The hotel, which was
restored five years ago, feels tucked away and has a charming central stone
courtyard set around a well, and connected to a lounge bar. The overall feel
is relaxed, without bank-breaking prices. Some rooms have canal views and
one has a terrace from which you can see the tower of St Mark’s. B&B doubles
are from £77-£188, depending on the time of year.
A cheaper punt
Okay, the rooms may be smaller but San Samuele (www.hotelsansamuele.com)
is a charming option in the centre of town near the Rialto bridge, about a
five-minute walk away — and rates are really very reasonable. The hotel is
on a back street that does not feel caught up in the tourist rush.
Decorations are simple but stylish in a traditional way, and there are
splashes of modern art. The hotel can arrange excursions with Alexandra Hai,
the city’s first female to offer gondola trips (not to be mistaken with
Giorgia Boscolo, the first female certified gondolier). En suite doubles
from £51. But also see the special offers section on the website for deals
at its sister hotels.
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