Artistic Patrimony and Cultural Politics in Early Seicento Venice
Taryn Marie Zarrillo
Submitted in partial fulfillment of the
requirements for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
in the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
2016
ABSTRACT
Artistic Patrimony and Cultural Politics in Early Seicento Venice
Taryn Marie Zarrillo
In the period following the Cinquecento Renaissance, contemporary seventeenth century
Venetian artists were presented with two enormous challenges. The first was to attempt to
reinterpret their visual tradition within a shifting political climate without declining into
an overt stylistic retrospection. The second was to try and retain a semblance of the
personification of state identity—those qualities that had been established and
distinguished by Venetian art in the Cinquecento —and which were present in the visual
patrimony of paintings and drawings. Carlo Ridolfi, art critic and author of Le
maraviglie dell’Arte (1648) eloquently stated the problem in his biography of Giovanni
Contarino, a student of Titian’s, when he praised the work of the Cinquecento masters as
the epitome of artistic production to the extent that he says, “it is with reason that one
could use as motto the two columns of Hercules with the words: “Ultra quid faciam?" it
is in fact vain to pretend better examples, and rarer beautiful things could be made.” 1
This dissertation considers two parallel issues at work: the stylistic legacy of Cinquecento
Venetian masters and their importance in the work of their Seicento heirs, and the
purposeful dissolution and sale of collections of work by those masters during the
1 Carlo Ridolfi, Le Maraviglie dell’arte, (Milan: Arnoldo Forni Editore, 2002), vol. 2, p. 281.
“con ragione se le potrebbe dirizzare per corpo d’impresa le due Colonne Herculee col Motto:
‘Ultra quid faciam?’ essendo vanità il pretendere documenti migliori esempi più rari e bellezze
più pellegrine.”
seventeenth century. The business activities of art dealers Marco Boschini (1602/5—
1681), Paolo del Sera (1614—1672) and their associates are examined alongside their
perceptions and criticisms of Cinquecento and Seicento artistic production, and the
voracious appetite of English collectors for Venetian pictures in the opening decades of
the seventeenth century is considered. Exploring the situations—political (the artist),
economic (the dealer), and social (the patron)—present in Venice during the early
seventeenth century and their direct relation to the perceived aesthetics of a cultural
legacy, this project provides a reassessment of how established value sets in Venetian art
were considered successful or not within their cultural context, and how those stylistic
evaluations affected artists working in Venice during the early Seicento.
i
TABLE OF CONTENTS
List of Illustrations iii
Preface xii
Chapter One: What’s the Problem with Seicento Venice? 1
Chapter Two: The Legacy of Visual Neurosis: Seicento Venetian Painters 30
Confront Their Past
1. The Venetian Workshop and its Structure: The Case of the Two 34
San Lorenzos
2. Methodology, Influence, and Production 51
3. The Neurosis Manifest: Domenico Tintoretto 72
Chapter Three: Foreign Agents in the Venetian Picture Market 88
1. Competing For Courtly Favor 93
2. Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel, Aletheia Talbot, and William Petty 97
3. Sir Dudley Carleton, Daniel Nijs (Nys) and Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset 101
4. Balthazar Gerbier and George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham 109
5. Aletheia Talbot, Countess Arundel: A Troubling Affair in Venice 116
6. ‘hunting after pictures’: Basil, Viscount Feilding and James, 123
1st Duke of Hamilton
7. Endgame: English Collections and their Venetian Pictures Dispersed 136
ii
Chapter Four: Complementary Activities: Marco Boschini, Paolo de Sera 139
and Their Associates as Merchants, Critics, Collectors
and Painters
1. Dealer, Critic, and Artist: tutto lo stesso 143
2. Boschini’s Dual Roles of Defense and Dispersal 167
Chapter Five: Venice Preserv’d 175
Images 187
Bibliography 310
iii
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. Bernardo Strozzi, Vanitas (Old Coquette), circa 1638, oil on canvas, Pushkin
Museum, Moscow
2. Paolo Veronese, Apotheosis of Venice (Triumph of Venice), 1585, oil on canvas,
Maggior Consiglio, Palazzo Ducale, Venice
3. Titian, Woman at her Toilet, circa 1515, oil on canvas, Louvre, Paris
4. Titian, David and Goliath, 1544, oil on panel, Sacristy, Santa Maria della Salute,
Venice
5. Titian, The Sacrifice of Isaac, 1544, oil on panel, Sacristy, Santa Maria della
Salute, Venice
6. Titian, Cain and Abel, 1544, oil on panel, Sacristy, Santa Maria della Salute,
Venice
7. Leandro Bassano, Family Group of a Venetian Procurator before the Madonna
and Child, 1590, oil on canvas, Museo Biblioteca Archivio, Bassano del Grappa
8. Pietro Liberi, Allegory of Time and Truth, mid 1600s, oil on canvas, Semenzato,
Venice
9. Alessandro Varotari, called il Padovanino, Bacchus and Ariadne, after Titian,
1614-1620, oil on canvas, Accademia Carrara, Bergamo
10. Paolo Veronese, Wisdom and Strength, circa 1580, oil on canvas, The Frick
Collection, New York
11. Antonio Zanchi, The Virgin Appears to the Afflicted, 1666, oil on canvas,
stairwell (left), Scuola Grande di San Rocco, Venice
12. Leandro Bassano, Berenice, circa 1600, oil on canvas, Martini Collection,
Ca’Rezzonico, Venice
13. Palma il Giovane, Venice Crowned by Victory, 1584, oil on canvas, Maggior
Consiglio, Palazzo Ducale, Venice
14. Palma il Giovane, Heraclius takes the Cross to Jerusalem, 1590, oil on canvas,
San Giovanni Elemosinario, Venice
iv
15. Domenico Tintoretto, Portrait of a Gentleman, 1586, oil on canvas,
Gëmaldegalerie Alte Meister, Kassel
16. Antonio Vassilacchi, called l’Aliense, Supper at Emmaus, 1618, oil on canvas,
San Pietro di Castello, Venice
17. Paolo Veronese, Feast in the House of Levi (detail), 1573, oil on canvas,
Accademia, Venice
18. Jacopo Tintoretto, Last Supper, circa 1570, oil on canvas, San Polo, Venice
19. Titian, Martyrdom of San Lorenzo, 1559, oil on canvas, Gesuiti (Crociferi),
Venice
20. Titian, Martyrdom of San Lorenzo, 1564-1567, oil on canvas, El Escorial, Spain
21. Titian, Martyrdom of San Lorenzo: detail of putti, 1564-1567, oil on canvas,
El Escorial, Spain
22. Titian, Martyrdom of San Lorenzo: detail of conservation xray, 1564-1567
El Escorial, Spain
23. Titian, Martyrdom of San Lorenzo: detail of legs, 1564-1567, oil on canvas
El Escorial, Spain
24. Titian, Martyrdom of San Lorenzo: detail of arch, 1564-1567, oil on canvas
El Escorial, Spain
25. Jacopo Bellini, St. John the Baptist Preaching, Model Book, circa 1450,
leadpoint on parchment, Louvre, Paris
26. Jacopo Tintoretto, Study for the Allegory of Fortune (Felicita), 1564, black chalk
on white paper, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence
27. Jacopo Tintoretto, Allegory of Fortune (Felicita), 1564, oil on canvas, Sala
dell’Albergo, Scuola Grande di San Rocco, Venice
28. Jacopo Tintoretto, Study for Mars, Venus, and Vulcan, circa 1551, black chalk,
pen, brown ink, color washed and heightened with white chalk on blue paper,
Staatliche Museum, Berlin
29. Jacopo Tintoretto, Mars and Venus Surprised by Vulcan, circa 1555, oil on
canvas, Alte Pinakothek, Munich
v
30. Odoardo Fialetti, Artists in their Studio, circa 1610, engraving, Il vero modo et
ordine per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
31. Palma il Giovane, Madonna and Child, 1608, engraving, Il vero modo et ordine
per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
32. Palma il Giovane, Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery, 1608, engraving, Il
vero modo et ordine per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
33. Odoardo Fialetti, Cross Section of Head, 1608, engraving, Il vero modo et ordine
per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
34. Odoardo Fialetti, Feet, 1608, engraving, Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar
tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
35. Odoardo Fialetti, Mouths, 1608, engraving, Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar
tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
36. Giacomo Franco, Feste o Balli, 1610, engraving, Habiti d’huomini et donne
Venetiane
37. Giacomo Franco, Torsos, 1611, engraving, De Excellentia et Nobilitate
Delineationis Libri Duo
38. Giacomo Franco 1611, Male Heads, engraving, De Excellentia et Nobilitate
Delineationis Libri Duo
39. Palma il Giovane, Frontispiece, 1611, engraving, De Excellentia et Nobilitate
Delineationis Libri Duo
40. Michelangelo, Dusk and Dawn, 1524-153, marble, Medici Chapel, San Lorenzo,
Florence
41. Domenico Tintoretto, Portrait of Procurator, circa 1595, oil on canvas, The Frick
Collection, New York
42. Jacopo Tintoretto, Baptism of Christ, circa 1589, oil on canvas, San Silvestro,
Venice
43. Domenico Tintoretto, Baptism of Christ, circa 1590-1600, oil on canvas, San
Pietro Martire, Murano, Venice
44. Domenico Tintoretto, Baptism of Christ, circa 1595, oil on canvas, Cleveland
Museum of Art
vi
45. Jacopo and Domenico Tintoretto, The Flagellation of Christ, 1590, oil on canvas,
Kunsthistorisches, Vienna
46. Domenico Tintoretto, Adoration of the Magi, circa 1595, oil on canvas, San
Trovaso, Venice
47. Workshop of Jacopo Tintoretto, Two Studies of a Figure Crawling, 1533-1594,
charcoal on blue paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
48. Jacopo Tintoretto, Study of Michelangelo’s ‘Day’, 1550, graphite on paper,
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
49. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
50. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
51. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
52. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
53. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
54. Jacopo Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, 1548, oil on canvas, Accademia,
Venice
55. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
56. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
57. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
vii
58. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
59. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
60. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
61. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, St Mark Rescuing a Saracen from Shipwreck,
circa 1600-1610, oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings,
British Museum, London
62. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto St Mark Rescuing a Saracen from Shipwreck,
circa 1600-1610, oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings,
British Museum, London
63. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
64. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
65. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
66. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
67. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
68. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
69. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
viii
70. Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, 17th
century, oil on canvas,
location unknown
71. Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, 17th
century, oil on canvas,
location unknown
72. Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, late 16th
century, charcoal on paper,
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
73. Workshop of Domenic Tintoretto, Mary Magdalene, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
74. Paolo Veronese, Mars and Venus, 1570s, oil on canvas, Metropolitan Museum of
Art, New York
75. Paolo Veronese, Wisdom and Strength, circa 1580, oil on canvas, The Frick
Collection, New York
76. Paolo Veronese, The Choice between Virtue and Vice, circa 1565, oil on canvas,
The Frick Collection, New York
77. Paolo Veronese, Hermes, Herse and Aglauros, after 1576, oil on canvas, The
Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, UK
78. Paolo Veronese, Scorn from Allegories of Love, circa 1575, oil on canvas,
National Gallery, London
79. Paolo Veronese, Unfaithfulness from Allegories of Love, circa 1575, oil on
canvas, National Gallery, London
80. Paolo Veronese, Respect from Allegories of Love, circa 1575, oil on canvas,
National Gallery, London
81. Paolo Veronese, Happy Union from Allegories of Love, circa 1575, oil on canvas,
National Gallery, London
82. Titian, Portrait of Jacopo Strada, 1567-1568, oil on canvas, Kunsthistorisches,
Vienna
83. Unknown Artist, Portrait of Sir Henry Wotton, date unknown, oil on canvas,
National Portrait Gallery, London
84. Palma il Giovane, Prometheus Chained to the Caucasus, circa 1570-1608, oil on
canvas, Royal Collection Trust, UK
ix
85. Isaac Oliver, Portrait of Henry, Prince of Wales, circa 1610-1612, oil on canvas,
National Portrait Gallery, London
86. Peter Paul Rubens, Portrait of Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel, 1629, oil on
canvas, National Portrait Gallery, London
87. Peter Paul Rubens, Portrait of Aletheia Talbot, Countess of Arundel with Sir
Dudley Carleton, 1620, oil on canvas, Alte Pinakothek, Munich
88. Sebastiano del Piombo, Portrait of Ferry Carondelet and his Secretaries,
1510-1512, oil on panel, Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid
89. Michiel Jansz. van Mierevelt , Dudley Carleton, Viscount Dorchester, circa 1620,
oil on panel, National Portrait Gallery, London
90. After John Hoskins, Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset, circa 1625-1630, oil on panel,
National Portrait Gallery, London
91. Odoardo Fialetti, Daniel Nijs, 1615, engraving, La pittura trionfante
92. Jacopo Bassano, Beheading of St John the Baptist, circa 1550, oil on canvas,
National Gallery of Denmark, Copenhagen
93. Lodewijk Toeput, il Pozzoserrato, Pleasure Garden with Maze, circa 1579-1584,
oil on canvas, Royal Collection Trust, Hampton Court Palace
94. Peter Paul Rubens, Portrait of George Villiers, First Duke of Buckingham
circa 1625, oil on canvas, Palazzo Pitti, Florence
95. Paulus Pontius (Paulus Du Pont), after Sir Anthony van Dyck, Sir Balthazar
Gerbier, 1634, line engraving, National Portrait Gallery, London
96. Titian, Ecce Homo, 1543, oil on canvas, Kunsthistorisches, Vienna
97. Jacopo Tintoretto, Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery, 1547, oil on canvas,
Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister, Dresden
98. Daniel Mytens , Aletheia, Countess of Arundel, circa 1618, oil on canvas,
National Portrait Gallery, London
99. Odoardo Fialetti, Doge Leonard Donato Giving Audience to Sir Henry Wotton,
1600-1620, oil on canvas, Royal Collection Trust, Hampton Court Palace
x
100. Daniel Mytens, James Hamilton, 1st Duke of Hamilton, 1629, oil on canvas,
National Gallery, Scotland
101. Wenceslas Hollar, Basil Feilding, Earl of Denbigh, mid 17th
century, engraving,
Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, UK
102. Tiberio Tinelli, Portrait of Lodovico Widmann, 1637, oil on canvas, National
Gallery, Washington, D.C.
103. Giorgione, Three Philosophers, 1509, oil on canvas, Kunsthistorisches, Vienna
104. Giovanni Bellini, Young Woman Holding a Mirror, 1515, oil on canvas,
Kunsthistorisches, Vienna
105. Jacopo Tintoretto, Susanna and the Elders, circa 1555, oil on canvas,
Kunsthistorisches, Vienna
106. Palma il Giovane, Bartolomeo della Nave, 1591-1592, oil on canvas, Birmingham
Museum, UK
107. Titian, Flaying of Marsyas, circa 1575, oil on canvas, National Museum,
Kroměňž
108. Titian, Concert Champêtre, 1509, oil on canvas, Louvre, Paris
109. Pietro della Vecchia, Portrait of a Gentleman, faked Giorgione, circa 1640,
oil on canvas, Palazzo Pitti, Florence
110. Niccolo Renieri, Self Portrait, 1623-1624, oil on canvas, Fogg Art Museum,
Cambridge, MA
111. Pietro Bellotto, Ritratto di Marco Boschini, circa 1660, engraving, La Carta del
Navegar Pitoresco
112. Paolo Veronese, Christ and the Centurion, 1570, oil on canvas, Prado, Madrid
113. Marco Boschini, Preaching of St Francis Xavier, circa 1650, engraving after
Pietro Liberi, engraving, Correr Museum, Venice
114. Marco Boschini, Visita del Doge alla Chiesa Santa Maria della Salute, 1644,
engraving, Correr Museum, Venice
115. Marco Boschini, La Generosità, engraving after Niccolò Renieri, circa 1660,
engraving, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco
xi
116. Marco Boschini, L’Arte maschera da vecchia la Moda, engraving after Pietro
della Vecchia, circa 1660, engraving, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco
117. Marco Boschini, Un Amorino sveglia la Virtu addormentata, engraving after
Dario Varotari, circa 1660, engraving, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco
118. Damiano Mazza, The Rape of Ganymede, circa 1575, oil on canvas, National
Gallery, London
119. Alessandro Varotari, il Padovanino, The Rape of Europa, 1635-1645, oil on
canvas, Fondazione Cariplo, Milan
120. Girolamo Forabosco, David with the Head of Goliath, circa 1670, oil on canvas,
Liechtenstein Collection, Vaduz-Vienna
121. Pietro della Vecchia, Socrates and Two Students, 17th
century, oil on canvas,
Prado, Madrid
122. Gregorio Lazzarini, Orpheus and the Bacchantes, circa 1710, oil on canvas,
Ca’Rezzonico, Venice
123. Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, The Finding of Moses, 1730s, oil on canvas, Scottish
National Gallery, Edinburgh
xii
PREFACE
This dissertation is the result of work begun during a MA course at the Courtauld
Institute of Art, London in 2001, and the many questions which were raised but left
unanswered. I feel very fortunate that the city of Venice and her art and history have
been my topic; it was a happy circumstance that I did not plan and it has left me with a
life-long passion. Since my first year at Columbia I have eagerly awaited the moment the
semester ended and I could board a plane to return to once again. My full time residence
there was supported by a Gladys Krieble Delmas Grant in Venetian Studies, two
Dissertation Research Grants from the Department of Art History and Archaeology at
Columbia University, and two Louise Fitz-Randolph Grants for Graduate Research from
the Department of Art History at Mount Holyoke College, and for that I am grateful.
There are many individuals I would like to thank for their support and friendship
through this process. At Columbia: Jessica Maratsos, for her enthusiasm peering into
restricted Venetian palazzi; Julia Seimon, for her willingness to hijack a gondola;
Alessandra di Croce, for dragging me through Umbria and welcoming me into her
Roman family; and Lynn Catterson, who gave me her couch in Florence and was always
willing to edit. Along with being valued colleagues and intrepid Italian adventurers, they
are dear friends.
For their interest in my subject, numerous discussions, countless questions
answered and peer support (in no particular order): Andaleeb Banta, Christina Anderson,
Catherine Whistler, Andrea Bayer, Philip Sohm, Colin Murray, Liz Carrol, Seung Jung
Kim, Simon Schama, Caroline Bruzelius, Francesco Benelli, Anthony Grafton, Linda
xiii
Carroll, Stefania Mason, Tom Worthen, and my advisor, David Rosand. I am sorry he is
not here to read the final version; I miss his grumpy edits of my over-enthusiastic use of
commas, and the fond look in his eye at the mention of Palma il Giovane. I am grateful
to my defense committee for seeing me through in his absence; Stephen Murray, Keith
Moxey, Andrea Bayer, Philip Sohm and my sponsor, Diane Bodart.
In Venice, for welcoming me with open arms and transforming the city into my
second home, teaching me to speak (and swear), drink, and drive a boat like a Venetian,
and declaring in the end I had become one of them: Rosella and Marino Zorzi, in whose
fabulous palazzo I lived for two years, Eros and Antonella Turchi, Franco Filipi; Antonio,
Alberto, Lupo and Flavio at Milan Bar, and my cari amici, Marco Ceresa, Simone Guseo,
Luigi Ricci, and Meital Shai. I treasure our late night boating excursions through the
city.
Stateside, for being completely disassociated from anything to do with art history
and therefore keeping me sane and planted in the real world—while simultaneously never
failing to ask if I was done yet: Jeffrey Philp, Alison Hanstead, Sandra and Bob Rivollier,
and to Tena and Emma Murphy for loving me all the time.
Finally, I would like to thank my parents Mark and Cheryl, and my sister Adriana
for their love and encouragement in all the choices I have made, no matter how bizarre.
Nathan Sawyer, with his generosity, unflagging support and calm in the eye of the storm
married me anyway, despite the fact I am an art historian. He is a brave man, and the
love of my life.
xiv
But there is only one individual to whom this dissertation is dedicated; who sat
with me for every keystroke, who listened to every rewrite, who has been by my side
throughout and always with a sunny disposition, asking only for a scratch behind the ears.
This one is for you, Asta.
1
CHAPTER 1: What’s the problem with Seicento Venice?
The Publick Stock’s a Beggar, one Venetian
Trusts not another; Look to their Stores
Of general safety; Empty Magazines,
A tatter’d Fleet, a murmuring unpaid Army,
Bankrupt Nobility, a harrast Commonalty,
A Factious, giddy, and divided Senate,
Is all the Strength of Venice.1
Bernardo Strozzi’s painting of Vanitas (fig. 1) is an apt visual metaphor for the
shifting fortunes of Venice at the opening of the seventeenth century.2 Presented with an
1 Thomas Otway, Venice Preserv’d, or A Plot discover’d, (London, 1682), p. 20. Text available
online from Project Gutenberg. Otway (1652-1685) was an English dramatist best known for his
works, The Orphan (1680) and Venice Preserv’d (1682). The story is loosely based on the actual
Spanish Conspiracy of 1618, in which the Spanish Ambassador to Venice, Alfonso de la
Cueva,1st Marquis of Bedmar conspired (unproven but most likely true) with Pedro Téllez-Girón,
3rd Duke of Osuna and Viceroy of Naples, to invade Venice and take over the Senate. Otway
used the Abbé de Saint-Real’s novel, Conjuration des Espagnols contre la Venise en 1618 (1674)
as the source for his play. The work was an instant success and Otway rose to fame; however, his
love affair with his leading lady Elizabeth Barry (also the mistress of John Wilmot, 2nd
Earl of
Rochester, who himself referenced the play on his deathbed) led to his early demise and he died
penniless, apparently choking on a piece of bread. Venice Preserv’d remained popular well into
the 19th
century; in 1865 John Wilkes Booth famously stated it was the only play he would
continue to perform in, which was later considered to be a veiled reference to the plot to
assassinate Lincoln. See Michael Kauffman, American Brutus: John Wilkes Booth and the
Lincoln Conspiracies, (New York: Random House, 2004), p. 207. For the history of the Spanish
Conspiracy, see Horatio Brown, Studies in the History of Venice, (London: J. Murray, 1907), pp.
245-295; John Julius Norwich, A History of Venice, (London: Penguin, 1983), pp. 522-525;
Richard MacKenney, “A Plot Discover’d? Myth, Legend, and the “Spanish’ Conspiracy against
Venice in 1618,” in Venice Reconsidered, ed. John Martin, (Baltimore: John Hopkins University
Press, 2000), pp.185-216.
2 It goes without saying that the thousand year history of the Venetian Republic is complex and
multifaceted. For our purposes here and the sake of summary, it is generally accepted that the
1509 defeat of the Venetians at Agnadello by the League of Cambrai was the turning point in
Venetian history from which they never fully recovered. See Felix Gilbert, “Venice in the Crisis
of the League of Cambrai,” Renaissance Venice, ed. J.R.Hale, (London: Faber and Faber, 1973).
See also Edward Muir’s essay, “Was There Republicanism in the Renaissance Republics? Venice
After Agnadello,” and Elizabeth Gleason’s counter response “Confronting New Realities: Venice
2
old coquette examining her reflection within a boudoir, we watch as her maids drape her
in fine silk ribbons, lace, flowers and exotic feathers. The gaudy finery cannot mask the
toil taken by the passage of time. An ample but wrinkled bosom spills over her
décolletage as she considers her own dark piercing gaze, pausing the action of her rising
hand that holds a flower in full bloom. Her own bloom and the flush of youth are long
gone. The knuckles are large, the neck taunt and strong, the shoulders straight. This is no
crone teetering on the edge of death; rather it is a woman who has seen life. When he
painted her in 1638, this is the Venice that Strozzi would have arrived to—a city where
political, economic and territorial erosion had taken root decades before.3 She is not
and the Peace of Bologna, 1530,” both in Venice Reconsidered, ed. John Martin, (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), pp. 137-167 and pp. 168-184 respectively. Over the
course of the seventeenth century Venice was under Papal Interdict (1606-1607), dealt with
espionage from abroad-the Spanish Conspiracy of 1618-and the Foscarini Affair in the 1620s,
assassination attempts and strife within the Council of Ten between Renier Zen and Giorgio
Corner, plague in 1630-1631, the Cretan War from 1645-1669, massive debt, and an overall
decline in territory and commercial success. For an entertaining and succinct summary, John
Julius Norwich, A History of Venice, (London: Penguin, 1982), pp. 449-575; for specifics along
with a discussion of the vecchia vs. giovane in the noble class, Gaetano Cozzi, Venezia barocca:
Conflitti di uomini e idée nella crisi del Seicento veneziano, (Venezia: Cardo, 1995); Gaetano
Cozzi, Michael Knapton, and Giovanni Scarabello, La Repubblica di Venezia nell’eta moderna:
dal 1517 alla fine della Repubblica, (Turin: Utet, 1992).
3 Bernardo Strozzi (1581-1644) was a native of Genoa. About 1597 Strozzi became a Capuchin
friar. He was allowed to leave the order to support his ailing mother through the sale of his
paintings after his father’s death in 1608. Upon his mother’s death around 1630 he was pressured
to return to his monastery; he declined and was briefly imprisoned. By 1631 he had fled Genoa
and settled in Venice where he became one of the most prolific painters in the Republic,
producing devotional works and images for private consumption as well as State commissions.
As a non-native, Strozzi faced potential difficulties with the Painters’ Guild, which typically
restricted the availability of work for outsiders—the plague of 1630 left a shortage of labour and
Strozzi therefore found himself with a wealth of commissions. See Andaleeb Banta, Bernardo
Strozzi: Defining An Artistic Identity in Early Seventeenth Century Genoa, (PhD Dissertation,
New York University, 2007); Luisa Mortari, Bernardo Strozzi, (Rome: De Luca, 1995); Walters
Art Gallery, Baltimore, Bernardo Strozzi : master painter of the Italian Baroque (1581/2-1644),
ed. Joaneath Spicer, (Sept. 10-Nov. 26, 1995); Camillo Manzitti, Bernardo Strozzi, (New York:
Allemandi, 2013).
3
Veronese’s triumphant Venice high above the chamber floor of the Maggior Consiglio,
befuddling Thomas Coryat with her allusion to the Virgin Mary (fig. 2).4 She is not a
Venus of Bellini or Titian at her toilet, secure in her beauty and position (fig. 3). This is
‘La Serenissima Repubblica’ on the downward slide from her former glory, when the grip
of decline had taken hold, and the myth of Venice was no longer as convincing as it once
was.5 There is no disguise or visual disambiguation on display. This woman, like Venice,
had a taste for life, and had lived to the fullest.
Similar to Strozzi’s aging coquette, by the early decades of the seventeenth
century the Republic of Venice was fading in her glory though still bedecked in her
4 Thomas Coryat, Coryat’s Crudities: Hastily gobled up in Five Moneth's Travels, [1611]
(Glasgow: MacLehose and Sons, 1905), p. 341. Coryat describes the ceiling of the Maggior
Consiglio and its paintings, including both the central panel by Veronese and the pendant panel
by Palma il Giovane, “All that which is comprehended within those borders is the curiousest
painting that ever I saw done with such peerelesse singularity and quintessence of arte, that were
Apelles alive I thinke it is impossible for him to excel it. In the first of these borders…is painted
the picture of the Virgin Mary in marveilous rich ornaments, with an Angell crowning of her. In
the next border, which is square and made in the very middle of the roofe, is represented the Duke
and his Ducal majesty, accompanied with the greatest Senators and Patricians, in their red damask
long-sleeved gownes, lined with rich ermins. A little above the Duke is painted the Virgin Mary
againe with a crowne on her head, attended with two Angells; shee feedes the winged Lyon with
a branch of the Olive tree, by which is signified peace.” Literature on the conflation of
Venice/Virgin Mary is extensive. See David Rosand, “Venezia figurate: The Iconography of a
Myth,” Interpretazioni veneziane: Studi di storia dell’arte in onore di Michelangelo Muraro,
(Venice, 1984), pp. 177-196 for fullest explanation.
5 A ground breaking study that has laid out the terms by which the “myth of Venice” is still
discussed: Gina Fasoli, “Nascita di un mito,” Studi storici in onore di Gioacchino Volpe,
(Florence, 1958), pp. 445-479. See also Margaret King, Venetian Humanism in an Age of
Patrician Dominance, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986); Donald Queller, The
Venetian Patriciate: Reality Versus Myth, (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1986); Ernst
Cassirer, The Myth of the State, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1946); Myron Gilmore,
“Myth and Reality in Venetian Political Theory,” Renaissance Venice, ed. J.R. Hale, (London:
Faber and Faber, 1973), pp. 431-444, and William Bouwsma, Venice and the Defense of
Republican Liberty, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968).
4
finery. Often viewed as an ideal city, she was surrounded by powerful monarchies and
her survival attributed to the perfection of her government. That concept of perfection
was embodied by the myth of Venice, and it was played out again and again by leading
artists on the walls of her churches and government buildings as a constant reminder,
despite her shifting fortunes.
Published in Latin in 1543, and then again in Italian and French in 1544, Gasparo
Contarini gave the myth definitive explanation in his De Magistratibus et Republica
Venetorum.6 Describing the interlocking system of checks and balances between
continually proliferating committees and the shifting of important cabinet assignments as
a way to combat tyranny, Contarini wrote of the noble class as objective, wise, patriotic
and self-sacrificing. To him, the physical city seemed “framed rather by the hands of the
immortal gods, than in any way by the art, industry, or invention of men.”7 Yet it was the
art and the inventions of men that gave expression to the higher ideals espoused by
Contarini, drawing travelers from far afield to see the miracle of the city that floated on
water. Travelling for pleasure was an emerging concept, and a new visitor began
appearing in Seicento Venice—the foreign gentleman of quality arriving to cultivate his
6 See Felix Gilbert, “The Date of the Composition of Contarini’s and Giannotti’s Books on
Venice,” Studies in the Renaissance, 14, (1967), pp. 172-184; Elizabeth Gleason, “Reading
between the Lines of Gasparo Contarini’s Treatise of the Venetian State,” Historical
Reflections/Réflexions Historiques, 15, (1988), pp. 251-270, for further information on Contarini;
for English translation see David MacPherson, “Lewkenor’s Venice and It’s Sources,”
Renaissance Quarterly, 41, (1988), pp. 459-466. For complete English translation see Lewes
Lewkenor, The Commonwealth and Government of Venice, (London, 1599), full text available
online.
7 Quotation in David Rosand, Myths of Venice: The Figuration of a State, (Chapel Hill:
University of North Carolina Press, 2001), p.7
5
education. Venice, with her splendor, cosmopolitanism, her pageantry and beauty, was
quickly becoming a favorite destination for the purveying of delights both innocent and
corrupt.
Furthering the dispersal of the Venice myth was Lewis Lewkenor’s (1556—1626)
English edition of Contarini, published as the Commonwealth and Government of Venice
in 1599. Lewkenor’s book did not simply translate Contarini however; it also included
excerpts from five other books on Venice and included an outline of the lives of the
Doges. These five additional sources came from a diverse group of authors: a Florentine,
Donato Giannotti; a Venetian, Bernardo Giustiniani; a German, Sebastian Muenster; and
finally Francesco Sansovino, son of the well known Venetian architect, Jacopo
Sansovino.8 Together these selections covered a variety of topics beyond the political
and historical organization of the state, including; geography, women’s fashion, the arts,
prostitution, marriage customs, and sports, alongside lists of churches, hospitals and
population figures. The end result was ostensibly a tourist guidebook to the city.
Lewkenor never actually traveled to Venice however; his perception and
adulation of the city were not marred by personal experiences or idiosyncrasies, and so
Contarini’s Myth of Venice was perpetuated in an unadulterated state. Thomas Coryat
(c. 1577—1617) on the other hand, was one of the many tourists that did stop in the city
on the course of his travels, staying for six weeks. His Coryat's Crudities: Hastily gobled
up in Five Moneth's Travels, published in 1611 gave a frank and often entertaining
account of his time in the city. His descriptions vacillate from unabashed praise and
8 For an outline of each of Lewkenor’s sources see David McPherson, “Lewkenor’s Venice and
Its Sources,” Renaissance Quarterly, 41, (1988), pp. 462-465.
6
wonder: “I will descend to the description of this thrise worthie citie: the fairest Lady,
yea the richest Paragon and the Queene of Christendome. Such is the rarenesse of the
situation of Venice, that it doth amaze and drive into admiration all strangers that upon
their first arrivall behold the same” to outrage at the gondolier’s audacity, “if the
passenger commandeth them to carry him to any place where his serious and urgent
business lies, which he cannot but follow without some prejudice unto him, these
imperious miscreants will either strive to carry him away, maugre9 his hart, to some
irreligious place whether he would not goe, or at the least tempt him with their diabolical
perswasions.”10
He was not remiss in his distrust; besides the miscreant gondoliers the streets
were full of footloose adventurers, who finding no employment as seamen or in the army
tended to join up with small bands of bravi willing to attach themselves to any potential
patron. They spoke the language, understood the customs and could provide protection,
entertainment, and anything else that was desired. By the outset of the seventeenth
century, the principal European states had firmly established their presence in Venice in
the form of embassies, banks, and trading agencies. It was inevitable that the stability of
Venetian government, rooted in her longstanding myth and underscored by a superb
communications and intelligence system, would foster an international clearinghouse for
information and opportunity.
9 Maugre: in spite of (prep), ill will (noun), also: shame, dishonor, reproach. OED online.
10
Thomas Coryat, Coryat’s Crudities: Hastily gobled up in Five Moneth's Travels, [1611]
(Glasgow: MacLehose and Sons, 1905), see p. 302-303, Coryat also states “she [Venice] gave me
most loving and kind entertainment for the space of six weeks”
7
Throughout the seventeenth century it would be the English who would continue
to laud the virtues of Venice and espouse the model of her government, becoming avid
collectors of her paintings that often visually detailed the ideals promoted in the
published works they also read. The myth of Venice was an accumulation of historical
explanation and contingent propaganda, and it was reiterated across the pictorial forum of
the city. The prevailing vision was consistent and persuasive, transmitted through
guidebooks and histories of the sixteenth century like Contarini, Lewkenor, Coryat and
the others that would follow.11
Venice presented itself as a city founded on freedom and
never subjected to foreign domination; a civic-minded patriciate that was a wise guardian
of the common good; a pious and respectful yet independent society; and a commercially
successful economy with a harmonious, tolerant and loyal populace upholding a system
of fair justice.12
11
Examples of other travel guides and logs: Fynes Moryson, Itinerary Containing his Ten Yeeres
Travell, (London, 1617); William Lithgow, The Totall Discourse, of the Rare Adventures, and
Painfull Peregrinations of Long Nineteene Yeares Travayles, from Scotland, to the Most Famous
Kingdomes in Europe, Asia, and Africa, (London, 1632); Ed., Henry Ellis, The Pylgrymage of Sir
Richard Guylforde to the Holy Land, A.D 1506, The Camden Society, 51, (London, 1851);
Thomas Crowne, Travels of Thomas Lord Howard, London, 1637, (Amsterdam & New York,
1971); B de Monconys, Journal de voyages, (Lyon, 1666) as a few examples of English and
foreign travelers documenting Venice.
12
A massive and comprehensive review of the ways in which Venice generated its own myth,
along with how these creative constructs have set the terms for modern historians is provided by
James S. Grubb, “When Myths Lose Power: Four Decades of Venetian Historiography,” The
Journal of Modern History, 58, (1986), pp. 43-94. Further historical discussions of the Myth of
Venice can be found in: Gina Fasoli, “Nascita di un mito,” Studi storici in onore di Gioacchino
Volpe, (Florence, 1958), pp. 445-479; Franco Gaeta, “Alcune considerazioni sul mito di
Venezia,” Biliothèque d’humanisme et Renaissance, 23, (1961), pp. 58-75; David Robey and
John Easton Law, “The Venetian Myth and the ‘De Republica Veneta’ of Pier Paolo Vergerio,”
Rinascimento, 15, (1975), pp. 3-59; Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Renaissance Venice,
(Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1981), pp. 13-61; and Franco Gaeta, “L’idea di Venezia,”
8
While all of these noble aspects coalesced to make Venice the “La Serenissima”
that it became within the annals of history, the reality encountered by new arrivals to the
city was closer to Thomas Otway’s unflattering description at the opening of this chapter.
In the early seventeenth century, the forces which held together the fabric of the myth
began to show their fray. The truth of Venice lay in her contradictions; for the myth there
was the anti-myth, where there was harmony there was tyranny, oppression and
inconsistency, where there was nobility and piousness, there was avarice, licentiousness
and deceit. The myth delivered the promise of what Strozzi’s coquette had once been;
the reality retained only the vestiges. As James Grubb states in his comprehensive
historiography on the subject, “as myth became exemplar it inevitably detached from
circumstances and intentions of its formulation, achieved autonomy as a model distinct
from praxis, and became illustrative of eternal verities. Since exemplary models cannot
easily admit change, the Venetian myth at the very moment of its elaboration was
diverging from the Venetian experience.”13
Storia della cultura veneta, ed. Girolamo Arnaldi and Manlio Stocchi, III, 3, (Vicenza, 1982), pp.
565-641.
13 James S. Grubb, “When Myths Lose Power: Four Decades of Venetian Historiography,” The
Journal of Modern History, 58, (1986) p.45 for a summary. For further examination of the anti-
myth, see: Camillo Manfroni, “Gli studi storici in Venezia dal Romanin ad oggi,” Nuovo archivio
Veneto, 16, (1908), pp. 352-354; Gianfranco Torcellan, “Un problema aperto politica e cultura
nella Venezia del ‘700,” Studi veneziani, 8, (1966), pp. 493-513; for corrupt political conduct see
Donald Queller and Frances Swietek, “The Myth of the Venetian Patriciate Electoral Corruption
in Medieval Venice,” Two Studies on Venetian Government, (Geneva, 1977); for fraud and
constitutional abuse see Robert Finlay, Politics in Renaissance Venice, (New Brunswick: Rutgers
University Press, 1980); and for class violence see Guido Ruggiero, Violence in Early
Renaissance Venice, (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1980).
9
In the same way, our 21st century notion of seventeenth century Venice and its
artistic production is still caught between what we have been led to expect to see and
what we find in its place. We make the assumption that as inheritors of the Venetian
High Renaissance, the early seventeenth century artists who followed some of the most
creative minds ever born within her boundaries would naturally aspire to even greater
heights. But like the foreign gentleman of quality, we seem to find ourselves surrounded
by bravi instead. And yet, separated by time, these visual half-truths do not have to be
construed as negative; they did present themselves as reality and were deliberately
conceived self-representations that were expressed as an artistic incarnation of a political
ideal at the time.14
As observers we have only to contextualize these ideas within their
historical canon, balancing the myth against reality, and reconsider why what we perceive
to be a derogatory expression of style in the early Seicento was instead welcomed by
contemporaries as appropriate and acceptable. In short, Venetian art produced in the
opening decades of the Seicento simply needs to be read within the context of the
forces—artist, dealer, and patron—that incited its creation.
In the period following the Cinquecento Renaissance, contemporary seventeenth
century Venetian artists were presented with two enormous challenges. The first was to
attempt to reinterpret their visual tradition within the shifting political climate without
declining into a stagnation of stylistic retrospection. The second was to try and retain a
semblance of that earlier personification of state identity—those qualities that had so
distinguished Venetian art in the Cinquecento—and which were present in the visual
14
David Rosand, Myths of Venice: The Figuration of a State, (Chapel Hill: University of North
Carolina Press, 2001), p.4.
10
patrimony of paintings and drawings. Carlo Ridolfi, art critic and author of Le
maraviglie dell’Arte published in 1648, eloquently states the problem in his biography of
Giovanni Contarino, a student of Titian’s, when he praises the work of the Cinquecento
masters as the epitome of artistic production to the extent that he says, “it is with reason
that one could use as motto the two columns of Hercules with the words: “Ultra quid
faciam?” it is in fact vain to pretend better examples, and rarer beautiful things could be
made.” 15
His implication was that to surpass such a degree of perfection (established in
the Cinquecento) was an impossible task; articulating the precise dilemma confronting
contemporary artists. My dissertation examines the production methodology of paintings
created by the generation of workshop students in the early decades of the 1600s; the
appeal of those paintings on the market, particularly the foreign market of the teens and
1620s; and then the codification of that generation by critics like Marco Boschini in the
latter half of the century.
Seemingly aware of the value of their visual patrimony as more than just a
commodity, Seicento artists who were members of the Painter’s Guild did exercise what
influence in government they had in an attempt to protect what they considered their
artistic inheritance.16
An example of this occurred in 1656, when the contents of the
15
Carlo Ridolfi, Le Maraviglie dell’arte, (Milan: Arnoldo Forni Editore, 2002), vol. 2, p. 281.
“con ragione se le potrebbe dirizzare per corpo d’impresa le due Colonne Herculee col Motto:
‘Ultra quid faciam?’ essendo vanità il pretendere documenti migliori esempi più rari e bellezze
più pellegrine.”
16
See Flaminio Corner’s entries on the Chiesa di Santo Spirito in Isola pp. 493-497 and Chiesa
Santa Maria della Salute pp. 452-457 in Notizie Storiche delle Chiese e Monasteri di Venezia e di
Torcello, (Padua, 1758: Reprint 1990), Jennifer Fletcher, “Marco Boschini and Paolo del Sera:
11
suppressed church of Santo Spirito in Isola were initially seized by the Venetian state to
fund the ongoing war in Candia against the Turkish siege.17
Dismayed by the prospect of
important works by Titian (figs. 4-6) and Salviati leaving Venice—among other
pictures—the Painter’s Guild petitioned the Senate to retain the paintings and decorative
objects and install them in the church of Santa Maria della Salute then under
construction, thus demonstrating an awareness of the visual patrimony that would be lost
if the sale were to take place and the works left the city. This small example is pertinent
because it illustrates the importance and esteem to which Cinquecento painting was
already held by the mid-Seicento, along with the sense of civic pride—and the desire to
hold onto it—already felt a generation later.
My dissertation, Cultural Politics and Artistic Patrimony in Early Seicento
Venice, considers the two parallel issues at work in this example: the stylistic legacy of
Collectors and Connoisseurs of Venice,” Apollo, 110, (1979), p. 418; and Anthony Hopkins,
“Plans and Planning for S. Maria della Salute, Venice,” The Art Bulletin, 79, (1997), pp. 440-465.
17
The Cretan War lasted from 1647 until 1669, through the reigns of seven Doges. Fought
predominately by the Venetian Republic (with occasional assistance from her allies, the Knights
of Malta, the Papal States and France), against the Ottoman Turks, it was an effort to retain the
territory of Crete. The Venetian fortress of Candia was able to withstand Turkish siege for
twenty-two years, defending a civilian population of less than 12,000. The financial cost to the
Republic was enormous (almost 4.5 million ducats spent in 1668 alone) however, and it was
desperate to raise funds. In an effort to raise money the government allowed the unthinkable—
the sale of political appointments and the opening of noble rank to the new rich for appropriate
monetary compensation. Despite their efforts, the Venetians lost Crete and a treaty was signed on
September 6, 1669. For full history see George Finlay, The History of Greece under Ottoman
and Venetian Domination, (London: William Blackwood and Sons, 1856); Kenneth Meyer
Setton, Venice, Austria, and the Turks in the Seventeenth Century, (Philadelphia: American
Philosophical Society, 1991); Kate Fleet, Suraiya Faroqhi, Reşat Kasaba, The Cambridge History
of Turkey: The Later Ottoman Empire, 1603-1839, (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University
Press, 2006); Molly Greene, A Shared World: Christians and Muslims in the Early Modern
Mediterranean, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000).
12
Cinquecento Venetian masters and their importance in the work of their immediate
Seicento heirs, and the purposeful dissolution and sale of collections of work by those
masters that predominately occurred during the first half of the seventeenth century.
Exploring the situations—political (the artist), economic (the dealer), and social (the
patron)—present in Venice during the early seventeenth century and their direct relation
to the perceived aesthetics of a cultural legacy, this project provides an understanding of
how established visual cues in Venetian art were considered successful or not within their
cultural context and how those stylistic evaluations affected artists working in Venice at
the time. My dissertation uses documented situations and examines known relationships
to investigate these concepts, rather than a strictly mono- or biographic approach.18
The
academic trend has been to overlook the Venetian Seicento in favor of the periods before
and after, but this is a disservice to the century that links them together. Given the wealth
of scholarship now available regarding the history of collecting, art criticism of the period
and the economic and working lives of painters, this phase of Venetian painting needs to
be re-evaluated in relation to the forces and individuals—in and out of Venice—that
influenced and drove it forward and by doing so, arrive at a new contextualization
through which to judge its product. Approaching early Seicento Venice through the lens
of connoisseurship alone; the singular examination of individual paintings in a contextual
void, is sure to result in disappointment. Assessing the modus operandi of these artists
and of the market promises a more satisfying and enlightening outcome.
18
If looking for a straightforward and comprehensive biographical listing of Seicento Venetian
painters one can be found in Homan Potterton’s exhibition catalogue Venetian Seventeenth-
Century Painting, (London: National Gallery, 1979), pp. 34-44.
13
Sixteenth-century pictures formed the stock of the seventeenth-century art market,
and many Seicento Venetian artists—especially those affiliated in some manner with a
Cinquecento master and/or involved in the market as dealers—were aware the style they
naturally revered was also commercially valuable. The maintained taste and popularity
for a certain Venetian type of picture with buyers, in Italy and beyond, meant the
liquidation of the Republic’s visual patrimony. At the same time, success in
contemporary seventeenth-century Venetian art production was based on name
recognition and the promotional and stylistic legacy of the master. The goal in my
dissertation is to re-contextualize the environment in which early Venetian Seicento
painters operated, providing a new standpoint through which to evaluate the multiple
forces influencing a relatively understudied period.
The conundrum for early seventeenth century Venetian painters wasn’t a lack of
ideas or of talent. Rather, it was the economic understanding that buyers, more often than
not those traveling gentleman of quality, didn’t want something new or something
innovative in their pictures—they wanted something they were already familiar with—
reliable (fig. 7), attractive (fig. 8), and recognizable (fig. 9). What they wanted were
Tintorettos, Veroneses and Titians; “Old masters” that would have had a place in any
serious collection, pictures that by their very stylistic nature (and often subject matter)
embodied precisely what a “Venetian painting” was supposed to be and look like.
If we compare Wisdom and Strength, c. 1580 by Paolo Veronese (1528-1588)
(fig. 10) with Pietro Liberi’s (1605-1687) Allegory of Time and Truth, from the mid-
1600s (fig. 8), we can see how the Seicento painter is taking his queues from the
14
Cinquecento master. Liberi deliberately echoes the hallmarks of Veronese’s style; from
the stage-like architectural setting to the positioning of figures in relation to one another,
and the use of a soft toned pastel palette. To the untrained, novice eye, Liberi’s picture
could easily be mistaken as a work from the Veronese bottega.
New works in the Seicento traced a return to past images, traditions, and fantasies
elevated in a rhetorical structure. The Doge’s Palace, which had suffered two great fires
in 1574 and 1577, is a demonstration of the imaginary, virtual history that was nothing
more than fable and legend—the myth of Venice.19
There is a fundamental continuity in
Venetian painting—as an independent and self-sufficient entity—that was capable of
renewing itself in response to new aesthetics and ideological principles without betraying
its own original identity. This is precisely what made Venice so different, a special allure
that lay in its “otherness” that had evolved on a fundamental premise of cultural self-
sufficiency, and was the environment along with its expectations that early seventeenth
century Venetian painters found themselves working.
This concept was perpetuated by the continued sale of Old Masters, whose literal
economic value reinforced the popularity of a particular type of painting in the minds of
both collectors and working artists, while at the same time feeding the appeal of the
Venetian “type.” Characterized by a kind of intense and occasionally debilitating
19
The first fire in 1574 had destroyed several private apartments along with the rooms of the
Collegio and Senate. The 1577 blaze was much worse, gutting the Maggior Consiglio and the
Sala dello Scrutino. Guariento’s large fresco, The Coronation of the Virgin, c. 1365, located on
the wall behind the Doge’s throne was badly damaged and would be replaced by Tintoretto and
his workshop with Paradiso. Other works by Bellini, Titian, Veronese and Tintoretto were also
lost; the last two were able to supply new works however. See David Rosand, Myths of Venice:
The Figuration of a State, (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001), pp. 18-30 for
programmatic rebuilding within the Palazzo Ducal.
15
retrospection and overwhelming self-consciousness of the past, Venetian seventeenth-
century artists were able to occasionally reinterpret and circumvent their own aesthetic
inheritance through a re-valuation (not evaluation) of their patrimony.
I would suggest that during the Seicento, and particularly during the first decades
of that century, Venetian artists arrived at the conclusion that in order to find success in
the market what they needed most was name recognition—market branding so to speak—
a defined association with quality work that justified their own artistic production;
whether through studio affiliation or direct inheritance. This is not a new idea from an
economic standpoint, nor is it necessarily particular to Venice; people buy a brand, or
“known quantity” not because it is necessarily the best of the best, but because of the
legacy of the company and the reliability and consistency of the product. The problem
for Venetian Seicento artists lay in that in order to be financially successful they needed
to produce pictures that were either reminiscent of their Cinquecento forbearers or copies
after them. In doing so, and despite their attempts at reinvention, they effectively put the
brakes on their own stylistic evolution and development by not taking the risks that were
being born out in centers like Bologna and Rome, and which had in fact been the
hallmark of the predecessors they revered.20
As Jennifer Fletcher noted in her review of the last major exhibition held on
Seicento Venice in 1979, “…we need to know as much as we can about seventeenth-
20
Stefania Mason, “How and Why the Serenissima Did Not Experience the Great Art of
Caravaggio,” Venezia Altrove, (2003), pp. 149-155 Linda Bauer, “Artist’s Inventories and the
Language of the Oil Sketch,” The Burlington Magazine, 141, (1999), pp. 520-530, Homan
Potterton, “Aspects of Venetian Seicento Painting,” Apollo, (1979), pp. 408-415.
16
century Venetian painting. If the art-historical aftermath to an exhibition of this quality is
nothing more than a handful of revised chronologies and reattributed works, a great
opportunity will have been lost.”21
Seventeenth century Venetian art has never been
given a long chapter in scholarship with most accounts describing it as a period of
slumber; only the contributions of outsiders arriving mid-century seemed to enliven it.
Born in the 1580s and 1590s, the work of Bernardo Strozzi, Johann Liss and Domenico
Fetti tends to be overstressed at the expense of native painters who would work in the
same period: Alessandro Varotari, called Padovanino, Pietro Liberi, Carlo Saraceni, who
brought Caravaggism to the Veneto, and Pietro della Vecchia are but a few names, along
with Antonio Zanchi who would finally embrace the Baroque trend (fig. 11). And yet in
his lifetime, Pietro Liberi amassed a fortune large enough to purchase a palazzo on the
Grand Canal, while Zanchi would demand the hefty sum of 34 ducats per square meter
for his paintings.22
Clearly, their accumulation of wealth indicates their market success
during their lifetimes, even if their artistic production has remained largely neglected by
scholars.
But to climb, wheezing, to the top floor of the Museo Ca’Rezzonico in Venice
and behold the egregious swath that constitutes the Egidio Martini Collection, offers a
21
Jennifer Fletcher, “Venetian Seventeenth Century Painting at the National Gallery,” The
Burlington Magazine, 121, (1979), pp. 665-669.
22
Philip Sohm and Richard Spear, Painting for Profit: The Economic Lives of Seventeenth-
Century Painters, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), pp. 214 & 235, table 27.
17
sense of why this disregard has occurred.23
To be perfectly blunt, Seicento Venetian
painting isn’t very good; in fact, it can be perfectly awful at times (fig. 12). While every
artist has the occasional flop or hiccup, it is quite astounding how spectacularly terrible
these paintings are when taken all together. But this is exactly my point: when you have
Titian, Veronese and Tintoretto as the standard by which to judge, when (nearly) every
canvas they produced is innovative and evocative so that even the most loutish of
observers stares in slack-jawed wonder at their beauty, all the rest must fall to the
wayside in deference to their splendor. When I speak of the re-contextualization and the
examination of visual inheritance for early Seicento painters, it is not with the purpose in
mind to somehow argue they have aesthetically been misunderstood, but rather to
articulate that there was no other course by which they could proceed as artists. For
buyers and the market as well there was no choice; only to yearn for one of the finite
number of works created during the lifetime of a master, or to buy and commission from
the generation that followed.
In a more positive vein, Seicento Venice should not be seen as dormant as there,
more than in any other city, was a healthy cross-fertilization of artistic trends that would
eventually lead to the development of eighteenth century artists like Piazzetta, Pellegrini,
and Giovanni Battista Tiepolo. Significantly expansive scholarship on the period
however, has been limited to disciplines outside of art history: Brian Pullan, Frederic
23
The Egidio Martini Collection at Ca’Rezzonico, Venice, ranges from the 15th
to the 20th century
(with a heavy emphasis on the 17th
) and all are of the Venetian school. It is the most important
painting donation made since the beginning of the 20th
century to the city of Venice, mainly
because it is the only one. Martini (1919-2011) was an art critic, restorer and artist, with rather
eclectic taste. See Egidio Martini, Pittura Veneta, (Rimini: Stefano Patacconi Editore, 1992).
18
Lane, Domenico Sella and Robert Rapp in economics; Oliver Logan, James Davis and
Peter Burke in social history, while Isabella Cecchini, Elena Favaro and Simone Savini-
Branca have considered collecting and the commercial art market.24
Recently, Philip
Sohm discussed at length the economic lives of painters in his chapter on seventeenth
century Venice in Painting for Profit, but did not delve deeply into issues of reception
and stylistic legacy.25
Renewed interest in the history of Venetian patronage and
provenance by Stefania Mason and Linda Borean has built on the seminal work of E.K.
Waterhouse begun in 1952, but the last major exhibition devoted exclusively to Venetian
seventeenth century paintings was held in 1979.26
24
Brian Pullan, ed., Crisis and Change in the Venetian Economy in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth
Centuries, (London: Methuen, 1968); Frederic Lane, Venice, A Maritime Republic (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973); Richard Rapp, Industry and Economic Decline in
Seventeenth Century Venice, (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976); Oliver Logan,
Culture and Society in Venice 1470-1790, (London: Scribner, 1972); James Cushman Davis, The
Decline of the Venetian Nobility as a Ruling Class, (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1962); Peter Burke, Venice and Amsterdam: A study of Seventeenth-Century Élites, (London:
Temple Smith, 1974); Peter Burke, "Conspicuous Consumption in Seventeenth-Century Italy,"
Historical Anthropology of Early Modern Italy, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987);
Isabella Cecchini, Quadri e commercio a Venezia durante il Seicento : uno studio sul mercato
dell'arte, (Venice: Marsilio Editore, 2000); Elena Favaro, L’Arte dei pittori in Venezia e I suoi
statute, (Florence: L. S. Olschki, 1975); Simone Savini-Branca, Il collezionismo veneziano nel
'600, (Padua: CEDAM, Università di Padova, 1964).
25
Philip Sohm and Richard Spear, Painting for Profit: The Economic Lives of Seventeenth-
Century Painters, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), specifically Chapter 5, pp. 206-
210, considers the problem of decline but in retrospect from 1679 to the end of the seventeenth
century, and while acknowledging a general dissatisfaction for the state of current painting
quickly returns to economic factors as the culprit.
26
Linda Borean and Stefania Mason, Il Collezionismo d’arte a Venezia. Il Seicento, (Venezia:
Marsilio Editori, 2007); E.K. Waterhouse, “Paintings from Venice for Seventeenth Century
England: Some Records of a Forgotten Transaction,” Italian Studies, 7, (1952), pp. 1-23.
Potterton, Homan, Venetian Seventeenth-Century Painting, (London: National Gallery, London,
1979).
19
David Rosand’s "The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition," published in
L'Arte in 1970, began the discussion of stylistic legacy and visual reinterpretation at the
cusp of the seventeenth century, but his later work then predominately moved back firmly
into the Cinquecento.27
The small 1979 exhibition mounted by curator Homan Potterton
provided a reprisal of the problems surrounding seventeenth century Venetian painting—
predominately issues of quality, but did not expand the issues raised by Rosand regarding
workshop legacy.28
The exhibition did succeed; albeit briefly, to return the spotlight to
artists ignored since a 1959 exhibition at Ca’Pesaro, which had been the last major show
on the Venetian Seicento prior to Potterton’s.29
Published in 1981, Rodolfo Pallucchini’s
La Pittura Veneziana del Seicento included biographies and a comprehensive list of
artists’ works but little analysis of contributing political, economic and social factors.30
Since that time art historians have focused on individual artist monographs of the period,
keeping their subjects relatively isolated with regard to influence and association and not
examining collective influences.31
27
David Rosand, "The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition," L'Arte, 11-12, (1970), pp.
5-53. See this bibliography for relevant works by Rosand.
28
Homan Potterton, Venetian Seventeenth-Century Painting, (London: National Gallery, London,
1979).
29
Pietro Zampetti, La pittura del Seicento a Venezia, (Venice: Alfieri, 1959).
30
Rodolfo Pallucchini, La pittura veneziana del Seicento, 2 vols., (Venice: Alfieri, 1981).
31
Examples of this include: Bernard Aikema, Pietro della Vecchia and the Heritage of the
Renaissance in Venice. (Florence: Istituto universitario olandese di storia dell'arte, 1990);
Bernard Aikema, "Pietro della Vecchia, A Profile," Saggi e memorie di storia dell'arte, 14,
(1984), pp. 77-100; Ugo Ruggeri, Il Padovanino, (Soncino: Ed. dei Soncino, 1993); Alberto
Riccoboni, Antonio Zanchi e la pittura veneziana del Seicento, (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1967);
Ugo Ruggeri, Pietro e Marco Liberi. Pittori nella Venezia del Seicento, (Rimini: Stefano
20
Large, focused publications that exclusively discuss Seicento Venetian painting
are not frequent. The two volume set La Pittura nel Veneto: Il Seicento, published in
2000, offers essays that provide a general survey of Seicento artworks without a full
account of the possible influences behind their production.32
Prior to it there had been
Carlo Donzelli, I pittori del Seicento Veneto, published in 1967 followed by Rodolfo
Pallucchini’s La pittura veneziana del Seicento from 1981. Pallucchini’s wife, Anna,
focused her work on Marco Boschini; her transcription of the Carta is invaluable.
Although there is an effort to cover varied topics within Venetian visual culture
during the Seicento, there is no attempt to discuss the relationships and interplay between
corresponding aspects of artist, dealer and patron, and there is simply no focused and
dedicated confrontation of the problem in scholarship. Max Friedlaender, and more
recently Richard Spear, Philipp Fehl and Maria Loh have considered issues of workshop
practice, instruction through imitation, and production of copies, but are not exclusively
focused on Venetian Seicento painters, often speaking in broader terms.33
The work of
Lionello Puppi, Marta Mazza and Giorgio Tagliaferro has centered on Titian’s studio in
Patacconi, 1996); Carolyn Valone, “Il Padovanino: A New Look and A New Work,” Arte veneta,
36, (1982), pp. 161-166; Pier Luigi Fantelli, "Nicolò Renieri «pittor fiamengo»," Saggi e memorie
di storia dell'arte, 9, (1974), pp. 77-115.
32
Mauro Lucco, ed., La pittura nel Veneto. Il Seicento, (Milan: Electra, 2000).
33
Max Friedlaender, “Artistic Quality: Original and Copy,” The Burlington Magazine, 78,
(1941), pp. 143-151; Richard Spear, “Notes on Renaissance and Baroque Originals and
Originality,” Retaining the Original. Multiple Originals, Copies, and Reproductions, ed. K.
Preciado, 20, (Hanover: Studies in the History of Art, 1989), pp. 97-99; Philipp Fehl, "Imitation
as a Source of Greatness. Rubens, Titian and the Painting of the Ancients," Bacchanals by Titian
and Rubens, ed. G. Cavalli-Björkman, (Stockholm: Nationalmuseum, 1987), pp. 107-132; Maria
Loh, Titian Remade: Repetition and the Transformation of Early Modern Italian Art, (Los
Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2007).
21
recent years, shedding light on late commissions and the careers of his followers, but
always circle back to the issues related solely to the master painter and not concerned
with the lives of his assistants and students.34
Similar work has been done with the
studios of Veronese and Tintoretto, and while these publications examine their late
careers they only occasionally touch on the issue of copying and derivative expression
among their inheritors.35
The ongoing Venetian Database Project supported by the Getty Research Institute
and the publications made available by Venezia Altrove through the Cini Foundation
continue to make accessible key provenance research for paintings produced in Venice.
Together with primary sources and archival documentation from the Archivio di Stato di
Venezia, now published by Mason and Borean, this information assists in tracing the
movement of individual paintings from workshop to collections, revealing the exchange
34
Lionello Puppi, Per Tiziano, (Milano: Skira, 2004); Marta Mazza, Lungo le vie di Tiziano: i
luoghi e le opere di Tiziano, Francesco, Orazio e Marco Vecellio tra Vittorio Veneto e il Cadore,
(Milano: Skira, 2007); Giorgio Tagliaferro, Le botteghe di Tiziano, (Florence: Alinari, 2009).
35
Beverly Louise Brown, “Replication and the Art of Veronese,” Retaining the Original:
Multiple Originals, Copies, and Reproductions, Studies in the History of Art, 20, ed. Kathleen
Preciado, (Hanover: University Press of New England, 1989), pp. 111-124; Bruce Cole, “Titian
and the Idea of Originality,” The Craft of Art: Originality and Industry in the Italian Renaissance
and Baroque Workshop, eds. Andrew Ladis and Carolyn Wood, (Athens: University of Georgia
Press, 1995), pp. 86-112; Echols, Robert, “Toward a new Tintoretto Catalogue, with a Checklist
of revised Attributions and a new Chronology.” Jacopo Tintoretto: Actas del Congreso
Internacional, ed. Miguel Falomir, (Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado, 2009), pp. 91-150; John
Garton, “Paolo Veronese’s Art of Business: Painting, Investment, and the Studio as Social
Nexus,” Renaissance Quarterly, 65, (2012), pp. 753-808; Diane Gisolfi, “Collaboration and
Replicas in the Shop of Paolo Veronese and His Heirs,” Artibus et Historiae, 28, Special Articles
in Memory of W.R. Rearick (1930—2004), Part 1, (2007), pp. 73-86; Virginia Brilliant, ed.,
Paolo Veronese: A Master and His Workshop in Renaissance Venice, (London: Scala, 2012).
22
of ownership in the Seicento. While the new accessibility to this information is
invaluable, it has yet to be considered in relation to Venetian state identity, decisions and
recognition of patrimony, and the problems of visual inheritance and reinterpretation
initially articulated by Rosand regarding Seicento artists’ attempt to redefine and
modernize their Renaissance tradition.
With the death of Veronese in 1588 and Tintoretto in 1594, Palma il Giovane
(1548-1628) stepped in as a readily able link to the Cinquecento studios and became the
most prolific painter in Venice. He had trained with Titian, was heavily influenced by
Tintoretto, and contributed countless altarpieces and canvases to the churches of
Venice.36
Though his work was occasionally routine, his Venice Crowned by Victory,
1578-1584 (fig. 13), on the ceiling of the Maggior Consiglio was pendant to Veronese’s
Apotheosis of Venice (fig. 2) and one of his finest works. His life and artistic production
bridge the generation between the old masters and their followers, and his paintings
would fill the initial dearth of works available. His production belongs firmly among the
ranks of Cinquecento artists, but among them he more often rates only as mediocre. For
example, while he takes his cues from Veronese on the ceiling of the Palazzo Ducale, the
influence of Tintoretto is obvious in the figures and action of his Heraclius Takes the
Cross to Jerusalem from 1590 in San Giovanni Elemosinario. In this painting the figures
are wooden and cartoonish, and the composition lacks any dynamism or cohesion as
36
Stefania Mason Rinaldi, Palma il Giovane, 1548-1628: disegni e dipinti, (Milan: Electa, 1990);
Heinrich Schwartz, “Palma il Giovane and His Family: Observations on Some Portrait
Drawings,” Master Drawings, 3, (1965), pp. 158-165; David Rosand, “Palma il Giovane as
Draughtsman: The Early Career and Related Observations,” Master Drawings, 8, (1970), pp.
148-161.
23
though it was completed in a rush (fig. 14). It was his fortune to outlive the masters and
provide the last living link to them that history remembers him. His onetime pupil Marco
Boschini would publish the painting guides to Venice, La carta del navegar pitoresco
(1660) and Le ricche minere della pittura (1664), and become an important figure in the
art market as a dealer and agent.37
The chapters of this dissertation progress from the early half of the Seicento with
workshop methodology to the middle of the century and the activities of Marco Boschini
and his associates as picture dealers. The relationship between master and student is
examined in Chapter Two, along with the teaching method within the Venetian
workshop, or bottega, and the issue of inheritance and legacy. The use of instructional
drawing manuals, private art academies and the reorganization of the Painter’s Guild are
discussed, along with the influence of artists from outside of Venice. Turning to the artist
biographies of Carlo Ridolfi published in 1648, this chapter considers the generation of
artists trained in the workshops of the great Cinquecento masters—Veronese, Bassano,
Tintoretto, in addition to a case study on the type of collaboration taking place in the
studio of Titian. There was a buyer’s appeal for deliberate Old Master forgeries; those
with the ability to mimic the hand of the master had the advantage.38
Name recognition
37
Jennifer Fletcher, “Marco Boschini and Paolo del Sera: Collectors and Connoisseurs of
Venice,” Apollo, 110, (1979), pp. 416-424; Anna Pallucchini, “La Posizione Critica di Marco
Boschini,” Arte veneta, 18, (1964), pp. 89-98; Philip Sohm, Pitoresco: Marco Boschini, his
critics, and their critiques of painterly brushwork in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Italy,
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991).
38
Pier Luigi Fantelli, "Breve itinerario nella pittura veneta del Seicento," Le Ricche Minere della
Pittura Veneziana. Studi sulla pittura veneta del Seicento, ed. Vittorio Sgarbi, (Rome: De Luca,
24
and branding was critical to commercial success, and will be demonstrated through the
example of the studio of Jacopo Tintoretto and his son and heir, Domenico. Using the
notarized inventories of studio contents and wills available in the Archivio di Stato di
Venezia, the physical inheritance of the Tintoretto shop can be traced alongside the
promotional legacy.
Returning to the visiting foreign gentleman of quality, Chapter Three considers art
market valuations and the competitive nature of collecting by outsiders in the early
decades through the late 1620s in Venice and how they would eventually set the tone for
Boschini, del Sera and company. English agents such as William Petty (1585—1639)
and Balthazar Gerbier (1592—1667) acquired art in Venice on behalf of their patrons,
and often political superiors, and this chapter examines how they navigated the sales,
made the deals and attempted to out-maneuver and outwit one another and their Venetian
counterparts in the market. Dignitaries and appointed ambassadors Dudley Carleton
(1573—1632) and Basil, Lord Feilding (1608—1675) also purchased on behalf of their
sovereigns, attempting to facilitate their own political ambitions. Like the published
guides and travel logs of their countryman, the desire for Venetian pictures by the
English aristocracy only served to solidify and popularize the myth of Venice abroad. 39
1982), pp. 79-102; Giuseppe De Rita, “A Cultural Diaspora with No Regrets (When the City was
a Centre of Production,” Venezia Altrova, (2002), pp. 9-27. 39
See Jonathan Brown, Kings and Connoisseurs, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994);
Jerry Brotton, The Sale of the Late Kings Goods, (London: MacMillan, 2006) for the popularity
of Venetian pictures in English collections; and on the strength of the Myth of Venice in England,
Zera S. Fink, The Classical Republicans: An Essay in the Recovery of a Pattern of Thought in
Seventeenth Century England, Northwestern University Studies in the Humanities, 9, (Evanston:
Northwestern University Press, 1945), particularly Chapter 1.
25
While agents were eager to purchase works by Jacopo Tintoretto they also had
their portraits painted by his son Domenico. Fialetti, Strozzi, and Tinelli were also
favored and on occasion offered their expert services to prospective buyers.
Connoisseurship became a pastime for the amateur. By the time Marco Boschini’s Carta
and the Le ricche minere della pittura were published in the second half of the century,
they were as much as record of remaining paintings in Venice as a promotion of
Boschini’s authority on the subject as a dealer. The erstwhile economic fortunes of the
nobility and the tenacity of foreigners eager to buy their pictures had drastically reduced
the stock of available Old Masters.
The sale of Bartolomeo della Nave’s collection had occurred twenty years prior to
the dispersal of objects from Santo Spirito in Isola and intervention of the Painter’s Guild
in 1656.40
It exemplifies an earlier attitude of Venetians toward their patrimony at a time
when Old Masters were still plentiful in the city and the removal of works was not yet
perceived as a loss. The range and quality of della Nave’s collection suggests a refined
taste and a clear awareness of value, and the fact he also bought from contemporary
Seicento painters implies their positive reputation. As a Venetian he actively pursued the
acquisition of his own patrimony, but he was equally willing to part with it.
Despite the breadth and importance of his collection, little is known about the
merchant-made-noble family of della Nave. From Ridolfi we know that he was most
likely collecting by 1608, having acquired several items from the collection of the
40
The buyer was Basil, Lord Feilding, Ambassador to Venice, on behalf of his brother-in-law the
Third Marquis of Hamilton. The transaction was completed by May 1638. Historical Manuscript
Commission, 4th Report, Earl of Denbigh MSS, 1911, p. 257-258.
26
sculptor Alessandro Vittoria after his death that year.41
In his L’Idea dell’Architettura
Universale (1615) Vincenzo Scamozzi briefly mentions that della Nave purchased works
from Cardinal Pietro Bembo, and the painter Simon Vouet mentions his request to view
the della Nave collection in a letter to Ferranta Carlo, dated 14 August 1627.42
By
1636—1637 the della Nave family had entered into negotiations with the English
Ambassador to Venice, Viscount Feilding, who was purchasing pictures for the 3rd
Marquess of Hamilton. Della Nave owned paintings by Titian as well as by Padovanino,
and of the nine paintings by Paolo Veronese in his collection several were purchased by
Feilding along with two works by Jacopo Tintoretto.43
The best source for this
information is from the Historical MSS Commission, 4th
Report (Earl of Denbigh MSS)
where the correspondence between Feilding and Hamilton illustrates the detail and
41
Bartolomeo della Nave was a silk merchant; the family was originally from Bergamo. They
were admitted to the nobility in 1653, most likely purchased under the easement of restrictions
during the Cretan War. See Note 16, this chapter. However, this would have occurred after
Bartolomeo’s death which was probably 1632. Carlo Ridolfi, Le Maraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan:
Arnoldo Forni Editore, 2002), vol.1, p. 328. Other sources for information on della Nave can be
found in E.A. Cicogna, Delle inscrizioni veneziane, (Venezia: Presso Givseppe Orlandelli, 1824-
53), VI, p. 33 and Giovanni Gaetano Bottari, Raccolta di lettere sulla pittura, scultura ed
architettura, (Rome: Per gli Eredi Barbiellini, 1754), I, p. 232.
42
Vincenzo Scamozzi, Idea dell'architettura universal, (Venetiis: Per Giorgio Valentino, 1615),
I, p. 306 references Bembo; E.K. Waterhouse, “Paintings from Venice for Seventeenth Century
England: Some Records of a Forgotten Transaction,” Italian Studies, 7, (1952), p. 5.
43
See Simona Savini-Branca, Il Collezionismo Veneziano nel ‘600 (Padua, 1964), pp. 251-254 for
a list of his pictures, also E.K. Waterhouse, “Paintings from Venice for Seventeenth Century
England: Some Records of a Forgotten Transaction,” Italian Studies, 7, (1952), pp. 1-23, his List
A is the della Nave Collection. Ridolfi mentions della Nave and Feilding in his Life of Veronese
in Le Maraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnoldo Forni Editore, 2002), vol. 2, pp. 58-61.
27
lengthy process of picture buying—mimicking the same correspondence del Sera would
have with his patron, Leopoldo de’Medici in the following decades.44
The shift from mercantile trade within the city to commerce and agriculture on the
terra firma indicated a dramatic shift for the fortunes of the Venetian nobility during the
second half of the Seicento and affected the frequency of their commissions.45
Chapter
Four introduces the relationship between Marco Boschini (c. 1602/5—1681), Paolo del
Sera (1614—1672) and their associates as art dealers within the market at the height of
their careers mid-century.46
Venetian born, Boschini dealt in pictures and false pearls
and had trained under Palma il Giovane and Odoardo Fialetti, representing the schools of
Titian and Tintoretto respectively, and he was most likely in contact with del Sera by
1640. A Florentine nobleman, del Sera was an amateur artist, collector, and personal
friend of Leopoldo de’Medici for whom he acted as agent and advisor. The majority of
letters describing his Venetian activities are held in the Archivio di Stato di Firenze,
Carteggio d’Artisti, Vols. V-VII but they remain largely unpublished.47
44
For the letters and a full discussion detailing these transactions, see Paul Shakeshaft, “’To
Much Bewiched with Thoes Intysing Things’: The Letters of James, Third Marquis of Hamilton
and Basil, Viscount Feilding, concerning Collecting in Venice 1635-1639,” The Burlington
Magazine, 128, (1986), pp. 114-178 and the letters of del Sera in the Archivio di Stato, Firenze,
Carteggi dei Artisti.
45
In particular, see S. J. Woolf, “Venice and the Terraferma: Problems of the Change from
Commercial to Landed Activities,” in Crisis and Change in the Venetian Economy in the
Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, ed. Brian Pullan, (London: Methuen, 1968), pp. 175-203.
46
Jennifer Fletcher, “Marco Boschini and Paolo del Sera—Collectors and Connoisseurs of
Venice,” Apollo, vol. 110, (November, 1979), pp. 416-424.
47
Nine letters between del Sera and his employer Leopoldo d’Medici have been published by
Gloria Chiarini de Anna, “Nove Lettere di Paolo del Sera a Leopoldo d’Medici,” Paragone, 307,
(1975), pp. 87-99. For Boschini see Lucia e Ugo Procacci, “Il Carteggio di Marco Boschini con il
28
Seventeenth century Venetian artists were hired for new commissions, but they
were also hired to authenticate Old Masters. When none were available, they were often
then hired to fabricate one. Marco Boschini facilitated such arrangements, while
simultaneously lauding the virtues of the Venetian style in his published guides to the
city’s visual patrimony. During the same period the Venetian state came to recognize the
patrimonial value that earlier pictures embodied; not just as ready commodities but as the
literal visual incarnation of the state during the height of its political and economic
power. Although copying was an important component of the learning process in the
Venetian studio, it could lead, as it did in the seventeenth-century, to a scarcity of
originality and artistic evolution.48
Together, Boschini and del Sera represented the establishment of the personal
curator and art dealer, connoisseurship as a discipline, and the collaboration taking place
to locate paintings for sale in the seventeenth century Venetian market. They exemplify
the sensali; the middlemen who knew inventories, exchange rates, customs duties, and
packing and valuation. Unlike foreign agents representing outside interests who had no
similar qualms, the relationship between Boschini and del Sera illustrates the vacillation
Cardinale Leopoldo de’Medici,” Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), pp. 85-114, and
Michelangelo Muraro, “Studiosi, Collezionisti e opera d’arte Veneta dalle lettere al Cardinale
Leopoldo de’Medici,” Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), pp. 65-83. The body of
material is available in the Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Carteggio d’Artisti, Vols. V-VII, with
additional documents such as inventories and testaments held in Venice: Archivio di Stato di
Venezia, Notarile, Testamenti, Pietro Bracchi, b. 185; Giudici dell’esaminador, Inventari, b. 6.
48 See Hans Tietze, “Master and Workshop in the Venetian Renaissance,” Parnassus, 11, (1939),
pp. 34-35, and David Rosand, “The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L'Arte, 11-12,
(1970), pp. 5-53.
29
between their dedication and protective reverence of Venetian art, and their commercial
need.49
When Thomas Coryat misread Veronese’s allegory of Venice as the Virgin Mary
on the ceiling of the Maggior Consiglio, his mistake was telling. In that moment of
honest misinterpretation in 1608, he created a metaphor for a century of Venetian art and
unknowingly discovered the underpinning of the true myth of Venice; simultaneously,
“com’era, dov’era” (as it was, where it was) and “nothing is as it seems.”50
Seicento Venice was a conflation of contradictions bundled into untidy baggage;
losing diplomatic prowess it excelled at unearthing secrets, uncertain of the future it built
propaganda to the past. Her artistic glories were sold for profit only to be realized as the
core of her unique identity, while her artists struggled to redefine their ideological
perspective and working methods and to reinterpret, acknowledge, contend with, and
catalogue the dominant traditions of the Venetian visual legacy. It was a period that
heralded the coming of the modern age, and exhibited all the growing pains of a petulant
teenager.
49
Boschini worked exclusively in Venice and the Veneto region, and represented Leopoldo
de’Medici’s Venetian interests after Paolo del Sera’s death. See Stefania Mason and Linda
Borean, Il Collezionismo d’arte a Venezia: Il Seicento, (Venice: Marsilio, 2007), pp. 245-246 and
pp. 264-265, and Edward Goldberg, Patterns in Late Medici Art Patronage, (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1983), in particular Chapter 3.
50
“Com’era, dov’era” is an expression that became popular when the campanile of San Marco
collapsed in 1902. It was, and is, a Venetian rallying cry against the onslaught to their past. The
saying also became the official motto for the rebuilding plan of La Fenice opera house after it was
destroyed by fire in 1996. It is used in Venetian slang to express a rejection of time’s dictate, to
illustrate that while everything changes, everything remains the same.
30
CHAPTER 2: The Legacy of Visual Neurosis: Early Seicento Venetian Painters
Confront Their Past
Tell me why, good Heav’n,
Thou mad’st me what I am, with all the Spirit,
Aspiring thoughts and Elegant desires
That fill the happiest Man ~ Ah! rather why
Did’st thou not form me sordid as my Fate,
Based minded, dull, and fit to carry Burdens ~
Why have I sense to know the Curse that’s on me? 1
The unique position of the Venetian Republic as a gateway to the East meant a
constant influx of foreign travelers to the city; arriving as merchants conducting their
affairs, as tourists who could afford the luxury of travel, and as diplomatic entourages on
the business of their country and king. Due to the significance and breadth of Venetian
mercantile territories, for centuries a sojourn in Venice meant accessibility to exotic
items, including art.2 Acquiring a Venetian painting or having one’s portrait done in the
1 Thomas Otway, Venice Preserv’d, or A Plot discover’d, (London, 1682), p. 9. Text available
online from Project Gutenberg. See Note 1, Chapter 1.
2 By the seventeenth century, the territorial fortunes of the Republic had already declined
significantly due to the encroachment of the Ottoman Empire into the Mediterranean. Indeed, the
Battle of the Dardanelles was the last major naval victory by the Venetians, but it was not
sufficient to win the overall war. The garrison capital city of Candia on the island of Crete was
relinquished to the Turkish forces after withstanding twenty years of siege, having been a
Venetian territory since 1211. The Turks would rule Crete until 1897. See John Julius Norwich, A
History of Venice, (London: Penguin Books, 1982), pp. 542-560 for an account of the Cretan War
(1645-1669) and its effect on Venetian society. Pietro Liberi commemorated the event with his
Venetian Victory Over the Turks at the Dardanelles, 1660-1665, in the Chamber of the Scrutinio
in the Palazzo Ducale. Despite this loss, Venice remained a clearinghouse for luxury imports and
a crossroad for trade. For a detailed account of the everyday life of a merchant and his family
living during this period, see Ugo Tucci’s excellent study, Un Mercante Veneziano del Seicento:
Simon Giogalli, (Venezia: Istituto Veneto Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 2007); for an overall
discussion see Domenico Sella, “Crisis and Transformation in Venetian Trade,” in Crisis and
31
city was de rigueur for the gentleman of quality who could afford the indulgence, and the
market for Cinquecento masters and their Seicento workshop productions was vibrant
and competitive. Domenico, the son and heir to Jacopo Tintoretto, was a prolific portrait
painter alongside his public commissions, with many foreign travelers finding their way
to his door to sit for a souvenir by the great master’s son (fig. 15).
This chapter discusses the working methodology within the Venetian studio
during the Cinquecento and following into the early years of the Seicento, focusing on
the teaching and collaborative process between master and student. The inheritors of an
artist’s workshop were typically family members who continued to produce works in the
same manner, although other followers and students who left a studio to open their own
bottega would often continue to adhere to the style of the masters they had contact with
and were influenced by. Exploring specific examples of collaboration from Titian’s
workshop, the use of drawing and subsequent publications of drawing books or primers,
and how these teaching methodologies were handed down as part of a visual inheritance
in the case of the Tintoretto shop, this chapter breaks down the complexity of influences
and interactions taking place among Venetian artists.
Briefly, let us consider the Supper at Emmaus by Antonio Vassilacchi, called
l’Aliense (1556—1629) from 1618 in the church of San Pietro di Castello as a
springboard into the panorama of early Seicento characters and their interwoven
relationships (fig. 16). Comparing his work with that of Paolo Veronese and Jacopo
Change in the Venetian Economy in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, ed. Brian Pullan,
(London: Methuen & Co: 1968), pp. 88-105; and for the art trade, the critical work by Isabella
Cecchini, Quadri e commercio a Venezia durante il Seicento, (Venezia: Marsilio, 2000).
32
Tintoretto respectively: first, a detail from the Feast in the House of Levi, 1573, now in
the Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice, but originally painted for the refectory of SS.
Giovanni e Paolo (fig. 17), and one of the many Tintoretto Last Supper canvases, this one
from 1568-1569 located in San Polo (fig. 18). Some figures, their forms twisting or seen
from behind are reminiscent of Tintoretto, while others with their inclined heads and
languid poses recall Veronese’s diners. The dense earthy tones, punctuated sharply by
patches of white indicate the strength of Tintoretto’s influence, while the attention to
detail and the balanced architectural backdrop are suggestive of Veronese’s
compositions. Indeed, l’Aliense had studied under Veronese before opening his own
studio, and would work on occasion with his brother Benedetto Caliari (1538—1598), for
example at the bishop’s residence in Treviso. He also collaborated with Jacopo
Tintoretto for the state visit to Venice of Henry III, King of France in 1574, decorating
the temporary triumphal arch which was placed on the Lido, and would work again with
both father and son Domenico in the early 1590s at the Scuola dei Mercanti.3 In
Veronese’s studio he was responsible for copying drawings and paintings, and
independently he formed his own personal collection of drawings by multiple artists.4
Beyond the confluence of the style of two masters in the work of l’Aliense, (like
that of Palma il Giovane), through this particular painting in San Pietro di Castello the
3 Rodolfo Pallucchini, La pittura veneziana del seicento, i, (Milan: Electra, 1981), pp. 44–46;
Giorgio Boccassini: ‘Profilo dell’Aliense’, Arte Veneta, xii (1958), pp. 111–125; Rodolfo
Pallucchini, ed., Da Tiziano a El Greco: Per la storia del manierismo a Venezia, 1540–1590
(Venice: Fondazione Cini, 1981), p. 231.
4 Bert W. Meijer, ‘Disegni di Antonio Vassilacchi detto l’Aliense’, Arte Veneta, liii, (1998), pp.
34–51; Carmen Bambach, “A new Drawing by Antonio Vassilacchi, Called Aliense,” Master
Drawings, 47 (2009), pp. 452-457.
33
tangled web of personal relationships can also be illustrated and teased apart. L’Aliense,
who had worked with both Veronese and Tintoretto while they were alive, also worked
with their inheritors after their deaths; he collaborated on the Castello Supper at Emmaus
with Pietro Malombra (1556—1618), who in turn had often worked alongside the self-
taught and Titian/Tintoretto influenced Giovanni Contarini—in whose biography Carlo
Ridolfi makes his allusion to the pillars of Hercules quoted in Chapter One—while
Ridolfi himself had been trained in the workshop of l’Aliense (1607—1612) before he
penned his Lives and remained a close friend with his former teacher until his death.5
While this is admittedly abstract, so was their interwoven network of relationships, and
my point is simply to show that you could not have been an artist in early seventeenth
century Venice without, by either immediate or close degrees of separation, have entered
into the circle of one or several Cinquecento masters.6
5 See Bert W. Meijer, “Per Pietro Malombra disegnatore, e per Ascanio Spineda,” Arte Veneta,
49, (1996), pp. 31-35. Interestingly, Malombra and Contarini both declined (although were later
forced) to enter the Painter’s Guild on the grounds that painting was a liberal art and not a craft
and therefore they could not be restricted from practicing it for their own pleasure and not as an
avocation. See David Rosand, "The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition," L'Arte, 11-12,
(1970), p. 38.
6 In a wholly contemporary day comparison, one could simply play a game of “Six Degress of
Tintoretto” and connect every artist in Venice.
34
1. The Venetian Workshop and its Structure: The Case of the Two San Lorenzos
Unlike the more formalized artistic training in the Accademia delle Arti del
Disegno, founded in Florence in 1563 or the Accademia degli Incamminati of the
Carracci family founded in 1582, training in the painter’s art in Venice retained a strong
semblance to medieval apprenticeship. Entering the workshop at a young age, assistants
began with the fastidious task of learning to grind and mix pigments and prepare
canvases, graduating to more complicated tasks as the years passed. Painting was a trade
like any other, and in Venice it was predominately a family enterprise that passed from
father to son.7 Artistic activity was not considered a personal affair in Venice; it held an
important position in the community because it served a critical social function as the
vehicle of state propaganda. The patriarchal management of the workshop meant that
even those who had entered from outside the family circle were eventually often
absorbed into it. Girolamo da Tiziano (c. 1510—c. 1570) had entered Titian’s house in
1525 at the age of fifteen and remained with him for thirty years, acting as witness to his
master’s wedding and eventually taking the Vecellio name as his own.8 He was
mentioned by the secretary to the Spanish ambassador in Venice, who in 1564 wrote to
7 David Rosand, “Veronese and Company: Artistic Production in a Venetian Workshop,” from
the exhibition catalog Veronese and His Studio in North American Collections, Birmingham
Museum of Art, (October 1 – November 15, 1972), p. 6.
8 Hans Tietze, “Master and Workshop in the Venetian Renaissance,” Parnassus, 11, (1939), p.
35. For evidence of Girolamo’s age, see: Gustav Ludwig, “Neue Funde im Staatsarchiv zu
Venedig: Tizians Hochzeit,” Jahrbuch der Köinglichen Preussischen Kunstsammlungen, 24,
(1903), p. 114, “Puto allora de anni quindexe incircha” (a youngster of about fifteen years) when
witness at Titian’s wedding. This was Titian’s marriage to his first wife Cecilia, the mother of
Orazio and his older brother Pomponio (b. 1522).
35
Philip II’s secretary Gonzalo Pérez about the possibility of acquiring a copy of Titian’s
Martyrdom of San Lorenzo to be painted by Girolamo.9 Along with Titian’s son and heir
apparent Orazio (c. 1522/25—1576), his cousin Marco Vecellio (1545—1611), the
German painter Emmanuel Amberger and the mosaicist Valerio Zuccato, Girolamo was
part of the core nucleus around the master that oversaw daily operations.10
Counting on
the growth of the two related painters within his shop, Titian was attempting to cement
the future of his legacy and guarantee their support as part of his dynastic prosperity.11
Philip II’s San Lorenzo commission provides us with a good example of the type
of workshop delegation and collaboration that would remain the model throughout the
seventeenth century. In the later decades of his career, the 1550s to the 1570s, and as he
9 This letter is reprinted in: J.A. Crowe and G.B. Cavalcaselle, The Life and Times of Titian,
(London: J Murray, 1881), p. 533, from a letter date 9 October 1564, “un monasterio de esta
ciudad esta un quadro de San Lorenzo que hizo el muchos años ha…y los frayles me han dicho
que le dieron por el dozientos escudos y lo copiara por cinquenta Geronimo Ticiano dendo o
criado suyo que estubo en su casa mas de treinta años” (and Girolamo Tiziano would copy it for
fifty ducats, his servant or kinsman who was in his house for more than thirty years). My
translation.
10
Lionello Puppi, Per Tiziano (Milan: Skira, 2004), pp. 27-29. Ridolfi also lists Nadalino da
Murano, Damiano Mazza, Lorenzino, Lamberto Cristoforo, Suarz ed Emanuele, Polidoro
Veneziano and Sante Zago as assistants and students of note who passed through the workshop.
See Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo Forni, 2002), pp. 284-296.
11
Titian’s plan for the inheritance of his studio by Orazio unfortunately did not work out, as
Orazio died of the plague only a month after his father’s death. Neither Titian nor Orazio left a
will (which is odd) and so the estate passed to Pomponio, the eldest and remaining son of Titian.
He applied to the Giudici del Proprio for recognition as the sole heir without contest and this was
granted October 23, 1576 (see Archivio di Stato Venezia, Quattro Ministeriali, Stride e chiamori,
reg. 174, c. 33r for the document). The following year (1577) the husband of Pomponio’s step-
sister Lavinia, named Cornelio Sarcinelli, obtained a court order against Pomponio and the result
was a protracted fight within the courts that lasted until 1582. For the fullest discussion of the
dispersal of Titian’s estate see Lionello Puppi, Per Tiziano (Milan: Skira, 2004), pp. 61-80; while
Charles Hope, “Titian’s Family and the Dispersal of His Estate,” in Late Titian and the Sensuality
of Painting, ed. Sylvia Ferino-Pagden, (Venice: Marsilio, 2008), pp. 29-42, discusses the issue as
well, but disagrees with Puppi’s interpretation of Pomponio and his motivations.
36
gave greater outside visibility to Orazio and Marco as his heirs apparent, Titian had
developed a fruitful relationship with the King of Spain as his major patron. Philip’s
father, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, had considered Titian as an Apelles to his
Alexander, and it was an association Charles’ son continued as he rounded out a
decorative program for the royal residence of San Lorenzo de El Escorial outside of
Madrid. As one of the first Spanish martyrs to defend the Christian faith, San Lorenzo as
clarissimus atleta fidei was an obvious choice for Philip to dedicate his monastery.
Titian’s original version of the Martyrdom of San Lorenzo had been completed by
1559 for the tomb of Lorenzo Massolo in the church of the Crociferi in Venice (fig. 19).
After receiving a description of it from the secretary to the Spanish Ambassador in
Venice, named García Hernández, Philip reiterated his desire to have his own painting of
the same subject.12
The Archivo Genèral de Simancas holds twenty-four letters that trace
the process of commissioning, negotiation, payment and transportation of this work—
beginning with Philip’s initial letter dated 31 August 1564 telling Hernández to make the
request to Titian. These letters follow the discussion and organization of the project
written between Hernández and Gonzalo Pérez, Philip II’s secretary, Titian to Philip, and
letters to Francisco de Vargas, the Spanish ambassador in Venice who kept an eye of the
progress of the painting.
12
Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1325, fol. 45, 416, 9 October 1564; see Note 9
above for quotation regarding Crociferi San Lorenzo, and is also reprinted in Matteo Mancini,
Tiziano e le Corti d’Asburgo: Nei Documenti degli Archivi Spagnoli, (Venice: Istituto Veneto di
Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 1998), pp. 322-323.
37
It had initially been the friars of the Crociferi who suggested to Hernández that a
copy of their San Lorenzo could be obtained from Girolamo, “y los frailes me han
dicho…lo copiaría por cinquenta Geronimo Ticiano” which he relates in the 9 October
letter.13
Meanwhile, Hernández had already written to Philip the day before (8 October
1564), informing him that Titian would shortly be commissioned for the requested San
Lorenzo as soon as he returned from Brescia.14
Hernández is thorough; he responds to
Philip just to say he will follow the given orders once Titian returns to Venice, and then
immediately writes again the following day to say an additional option for the
commission is possible.
The following week on 15 October, Hernández again wrote to the king to say that
Titian had accepted the commission for El Escorial and he would begin working on it in a
few days time; he also sent a letter to the king’s secretary Gonzalo Pérez, repeating the
same information.15
There are no further developments until mid November, when
between the 16th
and 27th
of the month Hernández, Philip, and the secretary Pérez are
again in contact. Hernández reminds Pérez of his 9 October letter and the possibility of a
13
Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1325, fol. 45, 416; also reprinted in Matteo
Mancini, Tiziano e le Corti d’Asburgo: Nei Documenti degli Archivi Spagnoli, (Venice: Istituto
Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 1998), pp.322-323. My translation.
14
Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1325, fol. 44, 412, “Ticiano…y en bolviendo
[volviendo] de Bressa donde fue más ha de XV dias…y le solicitaré que dé principio al del
glorioso Sant Laurencio” Reprinted in Matteo Mancini, Tiziano e le Corti d’Asburgo: Nei
Documenti degli Archivi Spagnoli, (Venice: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 1998), p.
321. My translation.
15
Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1325, fol. 47, 422 for the letter to Philip, and
Est. leg. 1325, fol. 48, 425 for the letter to Pérez. Reprinted in Matteo Mancini, Tiziano e le Corti
d’Asburgo: Nei Documenti degli Archivi Spagnoli, (Venice: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed
Arti, 1998), pp. 324-325.
38
copy of the Crociferi San Lorenzo by “Hieronimo Ticiano,” and in the margin of this
letter, Philip makes an interesting notation. He writes, “…yo mandaré que sea con
brevidad y [que] haga sacar del pariente de Ticiano el quadro de Sant Lorenzo por los 50
ducados, y no por esto dexe Ticiano de hazer el otro, más que lo haga que sean
differentes el uno del otro, que desta manera puede haver dos.” He indicates that he
wants both paintings as soon as possible—the new original by Titian, and the copy of the
Crociferi version to be commissioned from Titian’s assistant Girolamo for 50 ducats.
Philip adds the caveat that “this does not mean that Titian should cease working on the
other one [the new version]; rather, he should see to it that they are different from each
other, as that way there will be two.”16
Philip is clear and specific in his request; he
wants two paintings, and this is critical to note. A new, original composition of the
Martyrdom of San Lorenzo painted by Titian, and a copy of the 1559 version painted by
his former assistant Girolamo.
Between November 1564 and December 1565—just over an entire year—there
continues a series of correspondence from Philip to his agents expressing both his
eagerness and impatience to receive the painting from Titian. For his part, Titian’s letters
are vague and evasive regarding the progress he is making, but clear and direct when
asking the king to settle the money he is owed from prior jobs. The painter is shrewd;
Titian knows he is in a position to make demands because he possesses a talent few
others can provide. He laments, “…mi è stata ritenuta la somma di alcune annate, sì
16
Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1325, fol. 51; reprinted in Matteo Mancini,
Tiziano e le Corti d’Asburgo: Nei Documenti degli Archivi Spagnoli, (Venice: Istituto Veneto di
Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 1998), pp. 327-328. My translation.
39
ch’io vengo a patire cotal incomodo, oltra che nel pagamento del restante mi è stata
assignata una tratta di riso, della quale volendone cavar dinaro, mi è convenuto perder più
di centro ducati” but then concludes, “Intanto andrò riducendo a compimento la pittura
del beato Lorenzo, la quale credo che sarà di sodisfattione alla Maestà Vostra Alla cui
buona gatia humilmente mi raccoomando.”17
Titian later promised to finish the painting
by Lent 1566, but when Vasari visited his house in Biri Grande on the northern edge of
Cannaregio at that exact time, he noted seeing the picture and says that it is only
“abbozzate e cominciate” –sketched out and just begun—and far from finished.18
Finally, in December 1567 the painting is delivered to the Spanish consul in
Venice, Tomás de Zornoza. By this point, Hernández has died and the Ambassador de
Vargas has been reassigned. Zornoza duly packs the San Lorenzo and another picture, a
Venere ignuda, off to Genoa to be shipped onward to Madrid. They remain stored in
Genoa at the home of Ambassador Juan Gómez Suárez de Figueroa until May 1568,
17
Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1324, fol. 237, 440. Titian complains that he
was paid in rice on his last commission and it was inconvenient, due to low resale value, but
despite this he will go on to complete the San Lorenzo. Reprinted in Matteo Mancini, Tiziano e
le Corti d’Asburgo: Nei Documenti degli Archivi Spagnoli, (Venice: Istituto Veneto di Scienze,
Lettere ed Arti, 1998), p. 335. My translation. The spelling is Titan’s own.
18
Titian’s promise to complete the San Lorenzo by Lent 1566 is mentioned in a letter to Philip
from Hernández, Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1325, fol. 210 minuta,
“entendimos lo que os dixo Ticiano que en toda esta quaresma acabaría el quadro de Sant
Lorencio, de que holgamos y assí se lo agradescereis de mi parte y le solicitareis si fuere
menester, y en estando en perfection me le embiareis puesto de su mano, a todo buen recaudo.”
Reprinted in Matteo Mancini, Tiziano e le Corti d’Asburgo: Nei Documenti degli Archivi
Spagnoli, (Venice: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 1998), p. 340. My translation.
Vasari’s comment in full reads, “ha in casa l’infrascritte abbozzante, e comincate, il Martirio di
San Lorenzo simile al sopradetto, il quale disegna mandare al Re Cattolico.” Giorgio Vasari, Vite
de' più eccellenti pittori scultori e architetti, (Siena: Pazzini Carli, 1793), v. IX, p. 279.
40
when safe passage was assured aboard a vessel owned by the Duke of Savoy and
captained by Antonio Doria. Figueroa assures Philip that the paintings remained in the
cases they arrived in from Venice and have not been touched. They made port in
Barcelona harbor in July, and finally are delivered to the Alcázar palace in Madrid for the
king’s inspection at the end of the summer, 1568. They are not installed in El Escorial
however, until April 1574.19
With such a full correspondence detailing the progress of the San Lorenzo
commission, it is interesting to note that after Philip’s decision to also commission a copy
of the Crociferi version from the assistant, Girolamo Tiziano, no mention is made of that
second painting anywhere again in any of the correspondence. There is no indication of
another San Lorenzo in either the palace inventories or the main sources related to El
Escorial, nor is there any question regarding its completion or its whereabouts made by
Philip to any of his agents, or from any of his agents to Titian or Girolamo.20
It is
19
For Titian’s explanation for the delay and inclusion of the second painting in the shipment, see
Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1326, fol. 319, 456; for receipt of the paintings by
Zornoza and his sending them to Genoa see Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1326,
fol. 38, 461; for Philip’s concern for the paintings care and cost of the shipment, see Archivo
Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Casa y Sitios Reales leg. 258, fol. 14, 464 and Archivo Genèral de
Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1397, fol. 21, 465; safekeeping in the ambassador’s residence, Archivo
Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1397, fol. 24; the paintings untouched condition and travel
arrangements, Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1397, fol. 48; arrival in Barcelona,
Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1397, fol. 67; confirmation to Genoa of arrival,
Archivo Genèral de Simancas (AGS), Est. leg. 1397, fol. 79. Reprinted in Matteo Mancini,
Tiziano e le Corti d’Asburgo: Nei Documenti degli Archivi Spagnoli, (Venice: Istituto Veneto di
Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 1998), pp. 343-354.
20
See Fr. Patricio de la Torre, “Inventario de los efectos que se ban recogiendo en Madrid
pertenecientes al Real Monasterio de San Lorenzo del Escorial,” Ciudad de Dios, 76, (1908);
Alfonso E. Pérez Sánchez, Pittura italiana del siglo XVII en España, (Madrid: Fundación
Valdecilla, 1965).
41
entirely possible that after waiting four years for the painting from Titian—which took
precedence—the requested copy was simply forgotten. The painting, if there ever was
one, is conspicuously absent. Yet Philip had been clear in noting his instructions and the
importance of his wishes to Hernández and Pérez that he wanted two paintings; that they
should differ from one another, and that Titian should “see to it” himself, providing the
king with a new composition of the same subject.
Comparing the El Escorial Martyrdom of San Lorenzo (fig. 20) with the Crociferi
version in Venice clearly shows a superficial difference between the settings depicted in
the martyrdom of the saint, while the majority of other features remain the same. The
positioning and number of the main figures in the foreground mimics those of the Venice
picture, as does the plinth and statue of Minerva. The immediate difference is that the
Crociferi Martyrdom places the scene squarely in an urban Roman setting at the base of a
flight of stairs, at the top of which figures emerge from between the building’s columns.
The El Escorial San Lorenzo architecture is more obtuse and unidentified; a large arch
frames the suggestion of craggy landscape beyond, with the outline of a figure looking
toward the source of firelight out in the dark. Two putti hang suspended over Lorenzo
(rather frozen in place), and a waxing moon shines just below the arch (fig. 21). The
Venice picture is a pala painting, arched at the top and fitted for the altar of the Crociferi,
while the other is a more versatile large rectangle that was eventually hung on the high
altar in the Old Church of El Escorial, where it has remained.21
21
The painting was installed at El Escorial on 15 April 1574, see AGP. Patronatos, San Lorenzo,
leg. 1995, Entrega Primera, 1574, fol. 196, “A large canvas of the martyrdom of St. Lawrence at
night, by Titian…which is sixteen feet high and thirteen feet wide, which serves as an altarpiece
42
The Patrimonio Nacional, Madrid published the most current documentation
based on technical findings from the cleaning and restoration completed on the painting
in 2003.22
They tactfully, but unconvincingly reiterate their claim that the El Escorial
San Lorenzo was painted entirely by Titian himself, and a masterpiece of his later years
on par with the Flaying of Marsyas. I would like to suggest several points to refute this
claim, positing instead the authorship of Girolamo Tiziano as the dominant hand in the
work.23
It is my belief that while Titian may have started to lay out the new composition
of Philip’s San Lorenzo, which may have been what Vasari saw during his visit in 1566,
he did not finish it. Instead, it was Girolamo Tiziano’s commissioned copy of the
for the main altar of the said church,” printed in Fr. Jose de Sigüenza, La Fundación del
Monasterio de El Escorial (1605), (Madrid: Aguilar, 1988), p. 52. See also G. de Andrés,
“Relación anónima del siglo XVII sobre los cuadros del Escorial (h. 1698),” Archvio Español de
Arte, (1971), p. 63; A. Custodio Vega, “Verdadero orden de las pinturas del Escorial en los sitios
que están colocadas con los nombres de sus autores. Año 1776,” Documentos para la historia del
Monasterio de San Lorenzo el Real de El Escorial, (1962), pp. 260-262; Fr. D. Bermejo,
Descripción artistic del Real Monasterio de San Lorenzo de El Escorial y sus curiosidades
después de la invasion de los franceses (Madrid, 1820), p. 207; V. Álvarez, Descripción del
Monasterio de El Escorial, (Madrid, 1843), p. 179; V. Poleró, Catálogo de los cuadros del Real
Monasterio de San Lorenzo Ilamado de El Escorial, (Madrid, 1857), p. 114, no. 471.
22
Carmen García-Frías Checa and Esperanza Rodríguez-Arana Muñoz, Tiziano y el Martirio de
San Lorenzo de El Escorial: Consideraciones historic-artísticas y técnicas tras su restauración,
(Madrid: Patrimonio Nacional, 2003).
23
The authors of Tiziano y el Martirio de San Lorenzo, p. 92 cite several modern critics to
substantiate and verify their claim including: Wilhelm Suida, Titian, (Paris: A Weber, 1935), p.
134; Hans Tietze, Titian. Leben und Werk, (Vienna: Phaidon, 1936), I, p. 238 and II, p. 288;
Francesco Valcanover, L’opera complete di Tiziano, (Milan: Rizzoli, 1969), p. 133; A. Cloulas,
“Les peintures du gran retable au Monastère de l’Escurial,” Mélanges de la casa de Veláquez, IV,
(1968), pp. 176-179; Charles Hope, Titian, (New York: Harper and Row, 1980), pp. 146-147,
149, 160; Fernando Checa, Felipe II, mecenas de las artes, (Madrid: Nerea, 1992), p. 345.
However they do note one voice of slight dissent: Harold Wethey, who in his Paintings of Titian:
Complete Edition, vol. 1, (London: Phaidon, 1969), pp. 140-141, no. 115 expresses his belief that
Titian was assisted in his undertaking of the Escorial San Lorenzo by Girolamo Tiziano, although
concedes it must have been painted under Titian’s direct supervision.
43
Crociferi version that was modified from its copied work and delivered as Titian’s new
original composition. This idea is supported by the x-radiographic evidence provided by
the Patrimonio Nacional, Madrid; in fact they attempt to gloss over the discrepancy
between their findings and their claim of Titian’s authorship by stating, “…Titian, as
commissioned by Philip II, started off by copying the composition of the Martyrdom of
San Lorenzo he did for the church of the Gesuiti in Venice and subsequently altered it
several times.”24
From the archival documents referenced above, there is no indication,
nor any need for Titian to have copied the Venetian picture. Indeed, he had explicit
instructions, written by Philip, to create an image entirely different from the original
version. Certainly he could have begun to work up the canvas with a compositional
outline similar to that of the Crociferi—in the very least to get started. The x-ray imaging
done by the Escorial in fact shows that the painting beneath the current image mirrors the
Crociferi painting beyond a rough outline. It is, rather, a mostly finished copy that sits
below a slightly altered version above.
I suggest that it was Girolamo who made the copy and then retouched it to alter
the details slightly, perhaps directed by Titian to change one thing or another, but
performing the work himself. As the conservation scientist notes, paint layers are built
up in the middle right of the painting, obscuring an architectural structure that follows the
form of a flight of steps and columned portico found in the original (fig. 22).
Additionally, the pose of San Lorenzo initially mimicked the first rendition with both legs
24
Esperanza Rodríguez-Arana Muñoz, “The Restoration of Titian’s Martyrdom of St Lawrence,”
in Tiziano y el Martirio de San Lorenzo de El Escorial: Consideraciones historic-artísticas y
técnicas tras su restauración, (Madrid: Patrimonio Nacional, 2003), p. 105.
44
extended; the right leg of the figure was then re-adjusted to bend at the knee and pulled
closer to the torso (fig. 23). The result is awkward at best and doesn’t change the overall
composition in any explicit way. Other than these two modifications, the rest of the
picture is an almost exact copy of the Crociferi version. There are three main figures to
the left of the saint; all posed in the same way standing in front of the same plinth with
the same statue pointed in the same direction as the original. Even the type of torch
brazier is the same. The only differences are that a torch has been added to the bas-relief
of the plinth (which mimics the decoration of the original plinth) and that one of the
figures is now wearing a red hat. To the right of the saint there are still five figures,
although a small boy has been added, but again the poses are almost exactly the same.
The horse on the far right of the picture plane has changed direction and his rider given
contemporary dress; otherwise it is again the same. Through the archway, a shadowy
figure appearing only in outline holds a staff—in the exact pose of the figure which
emerges from between the columns of the Crociferi painting. Indeed, the area where he
stands is precisely where the x-radiography shows there was a similar architecture of
stairs painted in and then repainted as landscape (fig. 24).
The painting has all the trademark components of a work by Titian; the painterly
manner, the loose handling of the brushwork, the anatomical form and figural
composition of the characters in their setting. But upon closer inspection, and in
comparison with the original painting in Venice, the differences in quality are glaring
while the actual composition becomes more evidently similar. Careful scrutiny reveals
sloppy handling and quickly dashed passages; the musculature of the executioners back
45
for example, is muddy and undefined, while the details added to the soldiers to give them
a Spanish flavor seem almost too deliberate. It is my belief that Titian, after continued
pressure to produce the San Lorenzo picture for Philip II, went to Girolamo who had
already begun his copy and told him to alter it to appear slightly different—thus fulfilling
the requirement. They then sent Girolamo’s finished work to Madrid as Titian’s,
accompanied by the extra painting of the Nude Venus as mollification for their tardiness.
Obviously, there is no documentation to prove this conjecture, but it deserves
consideration. I can add one extra bit of credence to this idea; in his Life of Polidoro
Veneziano, Ridolfi tells us: “…these different followers of Titian; they recalled that when
he used to go out of the house he would hide the keys to the room of his masterpieces.
But not long after his leaving they [the followers] would make copies of the beautiful
works with one as a lookout. After some time, Titian recognized these copies and
collected them, retouched with his hand, and so many things made by disciples became
the hand of the master.”25
It is not inconceivable to believe the same thing happened with the San Lorenzo
commission; indeed, the precedence had already been set and within the structure of the
workshop was considered entirely acceptable. When the copy of the San Lorenzo was
offered in 1564, Girolamo Tiziano was likely working out of his own bottega and no
25
“Furono I detti discepoli in poco differente tempo in casa di Tiziano; e si racconta che
nell’uscir ch’egli faceva di casa, lasciava a belle posta le chiavi nel camerone dove teneva le cose
pregiate, ma non tantosto partito, quelli si davano a far copie delle opera piu belle, stando un di
loro alla scrota. Poscia a qualche temp ravvisando Tiziano I quadri, raccoglieva le copie fatte
da’discepoli, le quail da lui ritocche passavano come di sua mano; e di qui e che molte cose dei
discepoli si stimano del maestro” from Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo
Forni, 2002), vol. 1, pp. 294, my translation.
46
longer on Titian’s staff, but that does not negate their collaboration on filling the order
that was requested. If it suggests anything, it is that Girolamo produced the painting
without Titian’s direct supervision, perhaps only at the end touching up passages and
making corrections together. As a competent and well-trained assistant for many years,
Titian would have trusted Girolamo’s abilities.26
The Vecellio family was following a method of workshop consolidation that had
been established for generations, for better or worse; the Quattrocento families of the
Vivarini and Bellini had managed their botteghe in similar fashion. Antonio Vivarini
collaborated with his brother Bartolomeo and son Alvise; Gentile Bellini became head of
his father’s shop after his death in 1471, inheriting the entire artistic inventory including
Jacopo Bellini’s sketchbooks. After Gentile’s death in 1507 these passed to his younger
brother Giovanni, who subsequently passed them on to his nephew Vittore Belliniano.27
The Cinquecento families of Bassano, Veronese and Tintoretto organized their
workshops the same way. Francesco Bassano (c. 1475—1539) was the father of
26
Erica Tietze-Conrat, “Titian’s Workshop in his Late Years,” The Art Bulletin, 28, (1946), pp.
76-88, points out the passage from Ridolfi and her comments support my argument regarding
copying and collaboration under the master’s supervision and outside the workshop. Also,
Harold Wethey, Paintings of Titian: Complete Edition, vol. 1, (London: Phaidon, 1969), pp. 140-
141, no. 115 suggests a similar interpretation of events though he concedes his point in the face of
opposition.
27
John Steer, Alvise Vivarini: His Art and Influence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1982); L. Grassi, ‘La “mano industriosa” di Jacopo Bellini nei disegni dei suoi due libri,” Atti e
memorie - Accademia clementina, 30–31, (1992), pp. 9–37; C. L. Joost-Gaugier, “Considerations
Regarding Jacopo Bellini’s Place in the Venetian Renaissance,” Arte Veneta, 28, (1974), pp. 21–
38. This sort of business arrangement was not limited to painters; other artisans organized their
shops in a similar manner, see Anne Markham Schulz, “The Sculpture of Giovanni and
Bartolomeo Bon and Their Workshop,” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society,
New Series, 68, (1978), pp. 1-81.
47
Giambattista Bassano (1517—1548) who worked directly as his assistant, and Jacopo
Bassano (c. 1510—1592), who after his father’s death took the lead in the bottega.
Jacopo Bassano had four sons, two of whom, Francesco Bassano, il giovane (1549—
1592) and Leandro Bassano, (1557—1622) had considerable success as painters in
Venice. The other two, Giambattista Bassano (1553—1613) and Gerolamo Bassano,
(1566—1621) were artists of more modest ability serving as support staff. Giambattista
was known mainly for his copies of Jacopo’s work.28
Benedetto Caliari (1538—1598)
was the younger brother of Paolo Caliari (1528—1588), called Veronese; both sons of a
sculptor. He worked as an assistant in Veronese’s studio as did Paolo’s sons, Carletto
(1470—1596) and Gabriele (1568—1631). After 1588 they ran the workshop together
with their uncle, completing unfinished paintings and working in Veronese’s style;
signing their works, Haeredes Pauli Veronensis, “heirs of Paolo Veronese.”29
28
Andrea Moschetti, “Un dipinto di Francesco da Ponte il Vecchio,” Bolletino Museo Civico
Padova, 3, (1927), pp. 71; William R. Rearick, “J. Bassano 1568–9,” Burlington Magazine, 54,
(1962), pp. 524–533; L. Alberton Vinco da Sesso and F. Signori, “Il testamento di J. Bassano,”
Arte Veneta, 33, (1979), pp. 161–164; Bernard Aikema, Jacopo Bassano and his Public:
Moralizing Pictures in an Age of Reform, ca. 1535–1600 (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1996); Michelangelo Muraro, “Gli affreschi di Jacopo e Francesco da Ponte a Cartigliano,” Arte
Veneta, 6, (1952), pp. 42–62; Lionello Puppi, “Da essersi buttato giù d’un balcon per fernesia”: la
sfida impossibile di Francesco Dal Ponte,” Arte Documento, 12, (1998), pp. 86–93; T. Fomiciova,
“I dipinti di Jacopo Bassano e dei suoi figli Francesco e Leandro nella collezione dell’Ermitage,”
Arte Veneta, 35, (1981), pp. 89–94.
29
Wilhelm E. Suida, “Paolo Veronese and His Circle: Some Unpublished Works,” Art Quarterly,
8, (1945), p. 175; David Rosand, “Veronese and Company: Artistic Production in a Venetian
Workshop,” Veronese and His Studio in North American Collections, Birmingham Museum of
Art, (10/1-11/15, 1972), pp. 5-11; Diana Gisolfi, “Collaboration and Replicas in the Shop of
Paolo Veronese and His Heirs,” Artibus et Historiae, 28, Special Articles in Memory of W.R.
Rearick (1930—2004), Part 1, (2007), pp. 73-86; John Garton, “Paolo Veronese’s Art of
Business: Painting, Investment, and the Studio as Social Nexus,” Renaissance Quarterly, 65,
(2012), pp. 753-808.
48
Of no less familial complexity was the Tintoretto shop, which will be discussed in
greater detail later in this chapter. Jacopo Tintoretto (1519—1594) employed an
amorphous group of painters, including Giovanni Galizzi, Antonio Vassilacchi, called
l’Aliense, Lionardo Corona and Andrea Michieli, along with several Netherlandish
artists, including Marten de Vos (1532—1603), Pauwels Francke and Lodewyk Toeput,
called Pozzoserrato. His children, Domenico (1560—1635), Marco (d. 1637), and his
daughter Marietta (1554—1590) were all painters and foremost among his assistants.
Domenico would go on to lead the shop after Jacopo’s death, bequeathing it and all of its
contents to his brother-in-law Sebastiano Casser upon his own death. The husband of his
sister Ottavia, Casser had entered the workshop as a condition of his marriage contract.
As another example, in his will of 1627, Palma il Giovane bequeathed his studio
to his ten year old grandson and expressed the wish that he assume the name of Palma.30
Philip Cottrell describes Palma as a painter of social and artistic pretension, suggesting
that his effort to associate himself closely with Titian’s workshop and his obsession with
his great uncle and namesake could be seen as way of denying he had actually been
named for his maternal grandfather, Jacopo Brunello—who had been a basket maker.31
Venetian society itself was divided into a rigid hierarchy of castes: the patriciate,
known as zentilhuomini, composed of families that had been active in the Great Council
for four years prior to the Serrata (the closure of the Great Council) in 1297; the cittadini,
30
Stefania Mason, Palma il Giovane, L’opera completa, (Milan: Electa, 1984), p. 70
31
See Philip Cottrell, “The Artistic Parentage of Palma Giovane,” The Burlington Magazine, 144,
(2002), pp. 289-291, specifically p. 291 for his suggestion.
49
or citizens, divided between originarii and ordinarii, and who could prove that neither
themselves, their fathers nor grandfathers had earned a living through manual labour; and
the popolani that comprised the remaining ninety percent of the populace with
occupations that ranged from wealthy merchants and artisans to shopkeepers, lawyers and
unskilled labourers. These were social and political groups—not economic distinctions.
Although mobility between social rank was extremely restricted it should be noted that it
was not impossible; just as it is important to recognize that while there were many poor
noble families, there were even more rich families who were not noble.32
However, among all Venetian families no matter their social station, the same
modus operandi of family structure was at work. The dominant form of business
partnership was the fraterna, or “brotherhood.” All the property inherited would be
entered into account books and inventory ledgers along with expenses, and shared jointly.
Since painting was considered manual labour, artists generally counted among the ranks
of the popolani. The seventeenth century did see several painters who were members of
the nobility by right of birth: Giovanni Contarini, Andrea Visentini and Angelo Trevisani.
Dario and Alessandro Varotari (Padovanino) came from Paduan nobility, while Claudio
Ridolfi and Dario Dal Pozzo came from the Veronese nobility.33
These were exceptions
to the rule.
32
Patricia Fortini Brown, Private Lives in Renaissance Venice, (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 2004), chapter 1; Brian Pullan, “Wage-Earners and the Venetian Economy, 1550-1630,”
The Economic History Review, 16, (1964), pp. 407-426.
33
Philip Sohm and Richard Spear, Painting for Profit, (New Haven: Yale University Press,
2010), p. 227
50
While the majority of painters ranked among the popolani, as noted above, that
did not always indicate poverty. On the contrary, based on the average commissions paid
for history paintings, taxes levied, and the amount of rent paid, by the second half of the
seventeenth century forty-one percent of painters were considered rich or wealthy.34
Like
their patrician counterparts, brothers and their wives and children either shared the same
household or at least kept within close proximity to one another. Homes tended to also
double as studios, providing a literal “in-house” education. While children of rich artists
who did not follow their parent’s profession showed an upward mobility in their
marriages, those children that did become painters tended to marry into the families of
other painters or related professions.
34
Philip Sohm and Richard Spear, Painting for Profit, (New Haven: Yale University Press,
2010), p. 235, Table 27 for average prices for paintings, p. 217, Table 18 for taxes, pp. 252-253,
Apendix 2 for rents paid by artist and location.
51
2. Methodology, Influence, and Production
In 1548 Paolo Pino observed of Venetian painting that “the things pertaining to
coloring are infinite and it is impossible to explain them with words.”35
Despite his
apparent inability to articulate the complexities and subtlety of the Venetian coloring
technique, Pino’s statement was apt. It would be this very problem of definition that
would continue to vex subsequent art theorists in their attempt to contextualize the
nuances of Venetian painting practice and pin down how that sense of “otherness,”
mentioned earlier, was expressed. Any good undergraduate student of Italian
Renaissance art quickly learns the debate between disegno (drawing) versus colorito
(coloring) as the pre-eminent artistic ability, and conveniently tends to identify Florentine
and Venetian paintings by these respective monikers. But art is never created within a
void, and while it is easy to categorize paintings off a checklist of attributes, doing so
often ignores the deeper issues at work.
Venetian artists did draw; certainly the wealth of drawings they left behind is a
testament to that fact. But perhaps it is better to qualify their use of the medium by
saying that the role which drawings played in their creative process differed from other
schools, rather than to suggest that they disregarded its use altogether. Venetian
draftsmanship is, and was, admired for its luminosity, freedom of handling and
35
Paolo Pino, Dialogo di pittura in Trattati d’arte del Cinquecento, ed. by Paola Barocchi (Bari:
Laterza, 1960-62), p. 117. The original Italian reads, “Sono infinite le cose appertinenti al
colorire et impossibil è isplicarle con parole…”
52
sensuousness, but there has been a widespread perception that the intellectual interests
that accompanied disegno were lacking.36
Giorgio Vasari’s 1550 publication of the Vite, or Lives of the Artists, championed
the concept of disegno, and stood as counterpoint to the Venetian concept of colorito.
The two major schools of the Italian Cinquecento, the Roman-Florentine and the
Venetian, were divided by the level of importance to which they assigned the ideas of
disegno and colorito in the artistic process. As one of the most active and vocal of
advocates for disegno, Vasari stated clearly the critical foundation drawing played within
the entire production procedure from initial idea to final execution. He tracked this
progress with each subsequent biography of the Vite, beginning with Giotto and ending in
the penultimate abilities of Michelangelo.37
Despite his allegiance to the Florentine model however, Vasari was compelled to
acknowledge the achievements of the Venetian school and its own Herculean
36
Catherine Whistler, “Life Drawing in Venice from Titian to Tiepolo,” Master Drawings, 42,
(2004), pp. 370-396 offers an excellent discussion of these issues, see p. 370 for this particular
sentiment. See also Lee Rensselaer, Ut Pictura Poesis: The Humanistic Theory of Painting,
(New York: Norton, 1967) and Linda Bauer, “’Quanto si disegna, si dipinge ancora:’ Some
Observations on the Development of the Oil Sketch,” Storia dell’Arte, 32, (1978), pp. 46-51for
development of drawing concepts.
37
Actually, The Lives begins with Cimabue and ends with Luca Signorelli, but for the sake of
making a more sweeping statement of recognition I name Giotto and Michelangelo as bookends.
Scholarship on Vasari and his work, both written and visual, is extensive so I list only several of
particular interest: Hellmut Wohl, “The Eye of Vasari,” Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen
Institutes in Florenz, 30, Bd., H. 3, (1986), pp. 537-568; Andrew Ladis, Victims and Villains in
Vasari's Lives, (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2008); Paul Barolsky, “What
Are We Reading When We Read Vasari?,” Source: Notes in the History of Art, 22, (2002), pp.
33-35; Hayden B. J. Maginnis, “Matters of Money: Vasari on Early Italian Artists,” Source:
Notes in the History of Art, 14, (1994), pp. 6-9; and of course, Juergen Schulz, “Vasari at
Venice,” The Burlington Magazine, 103, (1961), pp. 500-509+511.
53
representative in the figure of Titian. After his 1566 visit the Republic (when he saw the
unfinished San Lorenzo in Titian’s studio), Vasari published a second edition of the Vite
in 1568, including those northern Italian artists he deemed worthy of historical
recognition. In the meantime Venetian artists had found their own theoretical champions;
first, in the person of Lodovico Dolce, who had published his Dialogo della pittura in
1557 and was successful in his apologia for Titian and his claim on the mastery of perfect
colorito. For Dolce the ability of an artist to form the soft contours of the body and of
nature was the real test of skill.38
And second, Carlo Ridolfi, who despite publishing his
Lives of the Venetian Artists almost a century after Vasari, was critical in cementing and
acknowledging the importance of the Venetian school beyond the Veneto region.
The skills highlighted by Dolce were especially evident in the work of Giorgione,
who by building up his pigments from a brown or middle ground rather than a white
gesso base, was able to pull his figures out of the shadows of the spatial plane while
simultaneously blurring their edges as they would appear in real space. This tonalism
was further articulated by Giorgione’s literal acknowledgement of the surface on which
he painted; the canvas itself and the brushstroke over the weave were used to the
advantage of added animation and depth. The practice of painting directly onto the
canvas without the use of prior design, a method continued by later Venetian
38
Thomas Puttfarken, “The Dispute about Disegno and Colorito in Venice: Paolo Pino, Ludovico
Dolce and Titian,” in Kunst und Kunsttheorie 1400-1900 (Wolfenbüttel, 1991), pp. 74-100;
Juergen Schulz, “Vasari at Venice,” The Burlington Magazine, 103, (1961), pp. 500-509+511.
See David Rosand, “Titian and the Eloquence of the Brush,” Artibus et Historiae, 2, (1981), pp.
85-96 for a full discussion on Venetian brushwork.
54
Cinquecento masters such as Titian, was seen by Vasari to be a fundamental error
regardless of Giorgione’s position as a painter of the modern era.39
It is worth noting again that the fabric of Venetian society, and in particular the
strictures of the Arti dei Depentori, or Painter’s Guild, discouraged the type of academy
environment that had been present in Florence since the inception of the Accademia delle
Arti del Disegno there in 1563, or the Bolognese Accademia degli Incamminati founded
in 1582. Simply put, the Venetian guild system maintained the autonomy of the
disciplines of painting, sculpture and architecture, and without their cross-pollination
Venetian artists were considered by outside critics to be at a disadvantage. Grounded in
mathematics and perspective and with the formative presence of classical texts for
reference, architecture was the thinking man’s art. The very nature of architecture
demanded the ability to draw, and to draw accurately and precisely in order to articulate
the thought and expression behind the design. Working in fresco had similar
requirements; due to the nature of the medium it was necessary to know the exact layout
of the image before beginning work with the use of cartoons, otherwise the project could
be ruined. Fresco was not an effective medium in Venice because of the atmospheric and
environmental detractors of salt and humidity; thus the preparatory practice did not hold
the same importance in the education of a Venetian apprentice as it did for a Florentine.
Venetians also supplanted large scale frescos with the use of canvas; by 1474 onward
39
David Rosand, Painting in Sixteenth Century Venice: Titian, Veronese, Tintoretto (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 12-14, also Rosand, “Giorgione e il concetto della
creazione artistica,” in Giorgione: Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studio per il 5˚ Centenario
della Nascita (Castelfranco Veneto, 1979), pp. 135-139.
55
they had gradually begun to dominate and replace damaged works in the showcase of the
Palazzo Ducale.40
Conceptual drawing was not unknown in Venice however; the drawing books of
Jacopo Bellini are testament to the importance of passing on design models and ideas to
successive workshop generations (fig. 25).41
The cartoons of Titian for paintings in
multiple, the Danae for example, acted as models in the studio for assistants to work
from, and certainly from Ridolfi’s anecdote mentioned earlier we know this to be true.42
40
Michelangelo Muraro, Pitture murali nel Veneto e tecnica dell’affresco (Venezia: Pozza,
1960), and David Rosand, Painting in Sixteenth Century Venice: Titian, Veronese, Tintoretto
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 11-12.
41
Jacopo Bellini’s two books of drawings are in the British Museum and the Louvre. The British
set is done in leadpoint on paper, while the Louvre drawings are on vellum, made 1430-60. The
Louvre drawings are mostly executed in drypoint, with pen additions whose origin remains
unclear. Bellini's sketchbooks do not set out to tell a story or explore a coherent theme; there is no
link between the various subjects represented in either group. Neither are they preliminary
studies: the drawings are works of intrinsic value, among the earliest examples of the use of the
medium to create works of art in their own right. The subjects represent a mix of the sacred and
the secular, with a particular interest in scenes of Venetian life. Architecture often plays a leading
role, sometimes to the point of obscuring the picture's ostensible subject matter. Bellini's
drawings exploit his immediate environment while at the same time re-working motifs and
themes from classical antiquity. The British set remained in Venice, eventually passing into the
Vendramin collection and eventually to G.B. Mantovani from whom the museum purchased them
in 1855. The provenance of the Louvre set is more traveled; from Jacopo and his widow Anna
Rinvers they were inherited by Gentile Bellini, his son, in 1471, and taken by him to
Constantinople in 1479 where they were presented or sold to Sultan Mehmed II. Eventually they
were rediscovered in Smyrna in 1728, entered the Marquis de Sabran-Pontevès Collection, and
were acquired by the Louvre in 1884.Which is very lucky for the rest of us. See Hans Tietze and
Erica Tietze Conrat, The Drawings of the Venetian Painters in the 15th and 16th Centuries, (New
York: Collectors Editions, 1970), pp. 106-11, no. 364; E. Carli, "Jacopo Bellini, l'Album dei
disegni del Louvre,” Antichità Viva, XXIII, (1984), nos. 4-5, p. 65; Terisio Pignatti, "L'Album dei
disegni del Louvre di Jacopo Bellini," Arte Veneta, XL, (1986), pp. 242-243; Colin Eisler, The
Genius of Jacopo Bellini: The Complete Paintings and Drawings, (New York: Harry N. Abrams
Inc, Publishers, 1989).
42
See the recent publication by Miguel Falomir, Titian: Danaë y Venus y Adonis: Las primeras
poesie, Boletin del Museo del Prado, (Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado, 2014) for an in-depth
discussion of the production of multiples by the Titian workshop, particularly this painting.
56
The move made from fresco and panel onto canvas by Venetian painters, along with the
use of oil rather than tempera, allowed for the constant re-working of an image in
subsequent and modified layers. Correcting and adjusting the composition over the
course of its execution rendered the need for systematic preparatory drawing
unnecessary, turning the practice from a means to an end into a place to explore ideas and
work out problems. For example, Jacopo Tintoretto would on occasion use grids on his
drawings; to understand bodily proportion and observe the balance of limbs or to
comprehend different aspects of the formal qualities of the composition.43
Such is the
case with a study for the Allegory of Fortune (Felicita) on the ceiling of the Albergo in
the Scuola San Rocco (fig. 26). Of further interest is the fact that the painted figure is
clothed, while the study is in the nude (and most likely a male model) (fig. 27). Here,
Tintoretto appears to be solving the problem of how to fold the extremities of his figure
into the available space and the location and relationship between elbows and knees—
even though in the final product they are covered—he still needs to know where they will
be. His study of Venus and Mars Surprised by Vulcan (fig. 28) serves a different
purpose; without the use of gridlines, he is playing out an idea for a composition that
does not include all the final details, but notes how his subjects and storyline will
ultimately be expressed (fig. 29).
43
Lucy Whitaker, “Tintoretto’s Drawings after Sculpture and his Workshop Practice,” The
Sculpted Object: 1400-1700, Stuart Currie and Peta Motture, eds., (Aldershot: Scolar Press,
1997), pp. 177-191 and William R. Rearick, “From Drawing to Painting: The Role of ‘Disegno’
in the Tintoretto Shop,” Jacopo Tintoretto nel quarto centenario della morte: Atti del convegno
internationale di Studi, Venice, November 1994, eds. Paola Rossi and Lionello Puppi, (Venice: Il
poligrafio and Quaderni di Venezia arte, 1996), pp. 173-181 discuss the use of gridlines.
57
The acts of painting and drawing became mutually exclusive, with one being an
aid more than an absolute guide.44
Venetians tended to draw the way they painted—with
loose fluid strokes rather than hard edges and delineated contours. The “out of the box”
hard edged colors that filled in the outlined forms of Florentine and Roman painters were
blurred and softened by the Venetian brush into a flexible contour of form more
appropriate to nature and human flesh. Dolce demanded of the painter “una certa
convenevole sprezzatura,” where colorito is an additive process of a swift hand over the
surface.45
He goes on to assert that the excellence of Art is the ability to hide art,
suggesting that it is not the technical function and specificity that qualifies an image but
instead the effortlessness of the artist to make that image. If the viewer is aware of how
or what the trick is composed of, then the magic—the art—or sleight of hand, is lost.
Despite Vasari’s criticisms on their perceived lack of artistic education, the
Venetian masters of the Cinquecento appeared undeterred in their output and bolstered by
their own success. It was not until the end of the century and the opening of the next that
any sense of stylistic stagnation began to emerge. The younger generation of assistants
and students coming from the studios of Titian, Veronese, Bassano and Tintoretto were
left with a rich inheritance but an equally large sense of duty. The responsibility of that
heritage and the need to expand upon it set up a formula of failure in the eyes of many
44
David Rosand, Painting in Sixteenth Century Venice: Titian, Veronese, Tintoretto (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 17, and especially the entirety of Rosand’s Drawing Acts:
Studies in Graphic Expression and Representation, (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,
2002) for an exploration of “what does drawing signify?”
45
Lodovico Dolce, “Dialogo della pittura,” in Trattati d'arte del Cinquecento, fra manierismo e
Controriforma, ed. Paola Barocchi, (Bari, G. Laterza, 1960-62), p. 149.
58
later critics, as the production quality of those successors fell short of their master’s
initial innovation.
Looking to the stylistic developments arising in Bologna and Rome, early
Seicento artists in the Veneto sought to engage and transform their Renaissance tradition,
questioning aesthetic attitudes and attempting to redefine their social position to more
modern standards.46
The traditional values and order of the Venetian painter’s guild
discouraged innovation—however progress was precisely what was needed to breathe in
new life and the new expression emerging from the Baroque, into Venetian art. That type
of progress was precisely what was occurring in the Bolognese school of the Carracci.
While there are no documentary sources to confirm Annibale Carracci in Venice
or his contact with Venetian artists, it is evident from his marginal annotations in his copy
of Vasari’s Lives that he traveled somewhat in Northern Italy and was influenced by the
paintings he saw, and certainly by the prints after Venetian artists made by his brother
Agostino.47
Annibale and Agostino initially opened their own academy in the studio of
their cousin Ludovico, who was already a member of the painter’s guild in Bologna.48
As a gathering place for like-minded young artists, the Carracci eventually turned from a
46
David Rosand, “The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L’Arte, 11-12, (1970), p. 5.
47
For an assessment and a new study on the subject of Annibale’s reception of Venetian painting
see Catherine Copp, The Carracci and Venice: Annibale Carracci’s Stylistic Response to
Venetian Art and the Intermediate Roles of Ludovico and Agostino Carracci, PhD Dissertation,
(Ontario: Queens University, 2014); also Charles Dempsey, “The Carracci Postille to Vasari's
Lives,” The Art Bulletin, 68, (1986), pp. 72-76 for Annibale’s notes.
48
For a good discussion and overall primer on the Carracci Academy, see Gail Feigenbaum,
“Practice in the Carracci Academy,” Studies in the History of Art, 38, Symposium Papers XXII:
The Artist's Workshop, (1993), pp. 58-76 and Henry Keazor, Il vero modo“Die Malereireform
der Carracci, (Berlin: Gebrüder Mann Verlag, 2007).
59
loose assembly to an actual teaching institution with a proscribed curriculum. The
Carracci were dissatisfied with Mannerist practice; the deep rooted trend of the late
1500’s.49
Their artistic reform was entrenched in a commitment to north Italian
naturalism and colore. In order to escape the sterility of maniera, they turned to the study
of nature and of the paintings of non-Mannerist artists such as Correggio, Titian and
Veronese. As their style progressed, elements of central Italian disegno were added and
fused with northern Italian colorito and chiaroscuro. This synthesis of stylistic elements
from a variety of sources was not just a goal, but the means to create a new style that was
as much an expression of personal conviction as it was of contemporary artistic and
religious concerns. The Carracci sought a new, persuasive verisimilitude of form that
could stand in opposition to the dominant Mannerist trend. It was Agostino Carracci,
Annibale’s elder brother, who organized and prepared anatomical models for study
within the academy. This direct observation of the human figure, whether it be through
the use of sculpture or the actual dissection and examination of cadavers, was considered
critical in the learning process of students.50
Securely based in the study of nature, this
adhesion to sketching and drawing created a conjunction with central Italian disegno (fig.
30).
The Carracci must be mentioned, albeit briefly, because it was the pedagogical
methods and activity of Agostino within his Bolognese academy and the resulting
49
Carlo Cesare Malvasia, Malvasia's Life of the Carracci: Commentary and Translation, trans.
Anne Summerscale, (University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania University Press, 2000) and Charles
Dempsey, “The Carracci Postille to Vasari's Lives,” The Art Bulletin, 68, (1986), pp. 72-76.
50
See M.J. Lewine, The Carracci, A Family Academy, (New York, 1967).
60
proliferation of study drawings that would eventually influence Odoardo Fialetti (1573—
c. 1638) during his working career in Venice. Additionally, Agostino had, by 1590,
already collaborated with the Venetian print-publisher Giacomo Franco, who would in
turn enter into a partnership with Fialetti in the early 1600s. Aware of the activities of the
Carracci academy—initially through his own teacher, Giovanni Battista Cremonini (d.
1610)—Fialetti brought the practices of the school with him when he arrived in Venice
by 1590. Born in Bologna in 1573 he received some early training there, and had a brief
sojourn in Rome before he moved to Venice. He was associated with Jacopo Tintoretto
in the last years before his death in 1594, and Fialetti’s name appears in the Venetian
painter’s guild from 1604 until 1612.51
Ridolfi records that the elder Tintoretto
admonished Fialetti always “…should draw, and still draw: estimating with reason that
the design was the one that gave the grace and perfection of the painting.”52
Although no clear documentary evidence places Fialetti directly in the school of
the Carracci, his Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo
humano (1608) produced together with Palma il Giovane is similar in nature to the
anatomical sketches used by Agostino in his teaching, and implies a familiarity with their
working method. This publication, and others that would follow, can be considered the
51
See Giorgio Marini, “Notes,” Print Quarterly, 13, (June, 1996), pp. 187-189; Carlo Donzelli, I
pittori del Seicento Veneto (Florence: R. Sandron, 1967), pp. 177-179; Bartsch, Le peintre-
graveur, XVII, (Vienna, 1803-1821), p. 261; Malvasia, Felsina pittrice, I, (Bologna, 1678), p.
309.
52
Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, vol. 2, (Milan: Arnaldo Forni, 2002), p. 248, the Italian
reads, “…e dimandatolo di nuove il Fialetti se gli desse altro ricordo, il vecchio soggiunse, che
dovesse disegnare, e ancora disegnare: stimando con ragione che il disegno fosse quello che desse
la grazia e la perfezione alla pittura.” My translation.
61
first of this type of Carracci-inspired guide, and were not necessarily intended for the
training of artists, although later they would be used this way.53
These books should be
seen in the context of luxury items for the growing market of collectors and gentlemen
amateurs that were swarming to Venice during this period and who will be discussed
further in the next chapter.54
Fialetti’s partner, Palma il Giovane (1548-1628), had become the most prolific
painter in Venice after the death of Tintoretto in 1594. He had begun his artistic training
first with his father and then later moved to the court of Urbino. He was in Rome in
1567, returning to Venice three years later and falling under the influence of Titian.55
In
his later years Palma’s style somewhat mimicked that of Tintoretto, but he was not
successful in synthesizing the dynamic nature of the master’s brushwork or capturing the
intensity of his figural relationships. Palma’s career straddled a moment of artistic and
53
David Rosand, “The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L’Arte, 11-12, (1970), p.
15; S. Buffa, Italian Artists of the Sixteenth Century (1983), 38 [XVII/v] of The Illustrated
Bartsch, ed. Walter Strauss, (New York: Abaris Books, 1978–); Sue Welsh Reed, Italian Etchers
of the Renaissance and Baroque, (Boston: Museum of Fine Arts, 1989), pp. 248, 251, and
especially Catherine Whistler, “Life Drawing in Venice from Titian to Tiepolo,” Master
Drawings, 42, (2004), p. 382.
54
The argument that these drawing manuals were for amateurs is made by Michael Bury, The
Print in Italy, (London: British Museum, 2001), pp. 198-200, contrary to the argument made by
Rosand, “The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L’Arte, 11-12, (1970), pp. 12-22
who argued they were primarily for artists. Philip Sohm, “La critica d’arte di Carlo Ridolfi e
Marco Boschini,” La Pittura nel Veneto. Il Seicento, ed. Mauro Lucco, vol. 2, (Milan: Electra,
2000), pp. 735-736 also suggests a skepticism of these publications in Venice, and Catherine
Whistler, “Life Drawing in Venice from Titian to Tiepolo,” Master Drawings, 42, (2004), p. 382
agrees with his sentiment.
55
For a full discussion of Palma’s early years and his drawing practice, see David Rosand,
“Palma il Giovane as a Draughtsman: The Early Career and Related Observations,” Master
Drawings, 8, (1970), pp. 148-161.
62
stylistic fluctuation in Venice which his work noticeably captures, caught between the
influence of Titian and Tintoretto.
Palma contributed two etchings for Fialetti’s Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar
tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano. His Madonna and Child (fig. 31) and Christ
and the Woman Taken in Adultery (fig. 32) are included at the end of the book, after forty
or so pages of anatomical drawings detailing specific parts of the body. There are pages
for ears, chins, torsos, and how to go about drawing the human head from a foreshortened
perspective; Fialetti effectively provides a complete guide on drawing the human figure
(figs. 33-35). More a manual or pamphlet than an actual book, it lacks any significant
text and relies solely on visual instruction.
The importance of Fialetti’s drawing book is the clear interest in providing some
sort of instruction for aspiring artists whether they were amateur or professional; there
was no discrimination. As mentioned previously, the restrictions of the Venetian
painter’s guild were tightly controlled, and it was not until 1754 that an actual Accademia
di Pittura e Scultura was founded in Venice.56
Figure painters, or figureri, had
complained of their associates who traded in the more mechanical aspects, such as house
painters and other decorators, and in 1682 a Collegio dei Pittori had been formed.57
They
were a far cry from a true academy however, and instruction of students remained
entrenched in the workshops of those masters they assisted. It is possible that Aliense or
56
David Rosand, Painting in Sixteenth Century Venice: Titian, Veronese, Tintoretto (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 10.
57
Alice Binion, “The Collegio dei Pittori in Venice,” L’Arte, 11-12 (1970), pp. 92-101.
63
Malombra, who were both collectors of drawings, occasionally hosted a life drawing
school, but there is no documentary evidence of this ever taking place. Ridolfi records
the desire of Domenico Tintoretto to open an academy of his own, addressed later in this
chapter, but it did not come to pass. By the time of Marco Boschini’s publications in the
mid-1600s—which catered to the same type of buyer of Fialetti’s drawing manuals—
group life drawing classes were taking place in the homes of Pietro Liberi and Pietro
della Vecchia, as well as later under Antonio Zanchi.58
Fialetti’s work, though not of the highest production quality and by no means
comprehensive, still indicated a desire and interest to look beyond the lagoon for other
sources of inspiration. The curriculum of the Carracci academy was a successful one
with students ranging from Bologna to Naples; it is not surprising that with such
proximity to Venice its influence would be felt. The commercial prospects for such an
endeavor must have also been strong. Librai, or booksellers, and engravers were often
also co-publishers, challenging the idea that the engraver was commissioned for work
and paid by the publisher, who then claimed ownership of the plates. 59
Engravers as
independent artists, like Fialetti, would have valued their status in relation to that of the
merchant bookseller.60
Defining the term “print publisher” is not a straightforward task,
58
Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco [1660], ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venice and
Rome: Istituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), mentions their drawing academies, or more
appropriately “study groups”, pp. 534-537.
59
David Landau, The Renaissance Print (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), pp. 287-289.
60
For direct example this type of co-publishing, see Michael Bury’s discussion of Domenico
Zenoi and Donato Bertelli in The Print in Italy (London: British Museum, 2001), pp. 172-173.
64
especially as those who may have only marketed a handful of original prints each year
having much of their time also devoted to the publishing and selling of books.61
A shop
also attempting to maintain a certain level of production may have sub-contracted work
to specialists. The seventeenth century source Tempesti tells us a printer could expect to
turn out eighty to a hundred prints a day and those who could not compete would look
elsewhere for assistance.62
Fialetti’s first work, Il vero modo, was printed by the shop of Justus Sadeler
(1583—1620). A family of northern printers who had settled in Venice by 1595/96,
Justus, his father Johannes (1550—1600) and his uncle Raphael Sadeler (c. 1560—1628)
were active in applying to the Venetian Senate for printing privileges. They opened their
print shop in 1597, something no other Northerner in Venice had yet done, and took
maximum advantage of their position as both engravers and publishers.63
After the death of his father, Justus managed the shop in partnership with his
uncle. Within his print stock, over fifty percent derived from copies of engravings
already printed by colleagues.64
The predominance of plates were Northern, with
61
For broader discussion see Gert Jan van der Sman, “Print Publishing in Venice in the Second
Half of the Sixteenth Century,” Print Quarterly, XVII, (2000), pp. 236-247.
62
For Tempesti, see David Woodward, Maps and Print in the Italian Renaissance: Makers,
Distributors, and Consumers (London: British: Library, 1996), p. 47.
63
Gert Jan van der Sman, “Print Publishing in Venice in the Second Half of the Sixteenth
Century,” Print Quarterly, XVII, (2000), p. 240.
64
Besides the plates by Justus himself, numbering around 350, see Philippe Sénéchal, “Justus
Sadeler: Print Publisher and Art Dealer in Early Seicento Venice,” Print Quarterly, VII, (1990),
pp. 28-29, for new research, and for the plates of his father Johannes, Hollstein counts 622, and
his uncle Raphael, Hollstein counts 343, there also would have been plates by other Flemish
engravers. It is reasonable to guess the Sadeler’s plate stock numbered in the thousands.
65
approximately one hundred after Italian masters, comprising less than one third his
output.65
Odoardo Fialetti and his Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar tutte le parti et
membra del corpo human was the only Italian etcher whose individual work Sadeler
published, suggesting the interest in academic apprenticeship growing in Venice and its
obvious marketability.66
Considered the Sadeler’s main commercial rival, the Venetian printmaker and
publisher Giacomo Franco (1550—1620) opened his calcografia in the Frezzaria,
all’Insegna del Sole, between the Piazza San Marco and the Ponte di Rialto in 1595.67
The son of Giovanni Battista Franco, known as ‘il Semolei’ (c. 1510—1561), upon his
father’s death Franco inherited all of the equipment, designs and numerous printing plates
from his workshop.68
Only eleven years old at the time, it is unlikely that Giacomo had
much training from his father, probably receiving it instead from another member of
Battista’s workshop. Due to his later collaboration with Agostino Carracci on the
publication of Tasso’s La Gerusalemme Liberata and his own bold, free style of
engraving, it has occasionally been suggested that Agostino mentored the young
65
Philippe Sénéchal, “Justus Sadeler: Print Publisher and Art Dealer in Early Seicento Venice,”
Print Quarterly, VII, (1990), p. 28.
66
See David Rosand, “The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L’Arte, 11-12, (1970),
pp. 5-53 for a detailed comparison between the treatises of Fialetti and Franco.
67
Carlo Pasero, “Giacomo Franco, editore, incisore e calcografo nei secoli XVI e XVII,” La
Bibliofilia, 37, (1935), pp. 332-356.
68
For further information on the life and work of Giovanni Battista Franco, see William. R.
Rearick, “Battista Franco and the Grimani Chapel,” Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, 2,
(1958-1959), pp. 105-140.
66
Franco.69
This hypothesis seems implausible, however, as we know that Agostino was
not working in Venice until 1588-89 and his association with Franco is limited to only
one book. Yet the completion of the Gerusalemme Liberata project in April 1590 does
speak to a widening circle of artistic contacts and ventures for Franco of which Agostino
Carracci was one, and like Fialetti, was influenced in some manner by the Bolognese
artists.
While Franco did not open his own publishing house until 1595, he was active as
an engraver from about 1579 onwards, producing illustrations for Zenaro, Da Sabbio,
Ziletti, and Francesco de’Franceschi among others in Venice.70
It is possible to draw a
distinction between the bodies of work produced by Franco as an engraver before this
date and as an established publisher after it.71
It is among the latter group that Franco’s
best known works are found; Habiti d’huomini et donne Venetiane (1610), De
Excellentia et Nobilitate Delineationis Libri Duo (1611), La Città di Venetia con
l’origine e Governo di quella (1614), and Habiti delle donne Venetiane (1614) (fig. 36).
By 1590 Franco must have made the association of Palma il Giovane as well, with
whom he would later publish De Excellentia et Nobilitate Delineationis Libri Duo
69
This is suggested as early as 1785 by Joseph Strutt, from his Biographical Dictionary of all the
Engravers (London, 1785), reprinted Geneva 1972, p. 307.
70
For further discussion see Carlo Pasero, “Giacomo Franco, editore, incisore e calcografo nei
secoli XVI e XVII,” La Bibliofilia, 37, (1935),, pp. 337-342; Gert Jan van der Sman, “Print
Publishing in Venice in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century,” Print Quarterly, XVII,
(2000), pp. 236-247.
71
See Chiara Stefani, “Giacomo Franco,” Print Quarterly, X, (1993), p. 269.
67
(1611).72
His book, similar to Fialetti’s earlier manual and most likely spring-boarding
off the success of that publication is also intended as a primer in the art of drawing.
Franco includes more textual instruction however, and his plates are dense with examples
to be copied (fig. 37-38). The anatomical models of the first section were designed by
Palma but engraved by Franco, and with the inclusion of two title pages (one for each
part of the book) Palma takes a more active role in this publication than he did with
Fialetti’s work (fig. 39). The second section uses designs from Franco’s father Battista
for ornaments and decoration in the all’antica style.
Although Franco had the legacy of his father’s artistry and the history of his city
to draw upon, he limited himself to entrepreneurial economy and did not venture much
further. The defined outlines and basic structure of Franco’s Habiti d’huomini et donne
venetiane suggests the prints were made to be mass produced and marketed in either
bound versions or thinner leaflets and sheets, and a similar observation can be made with
the De Excellentia et Nobilitate Delineationis Libri Duo. Like Fialetti, Franco’s primary
purpose was to provide a group of models focused on the idea of disegno. In this respect,
both manuals are fusing the teaching method of the Carracci with the theory of Vasari,
effectively recognizing the foundation of disegno in the art of painting, and formalizing it
within a Venetian context.
Fialetti and Franco demonstrate a shift in the Venetian climate of the early
Seicento toward a reinterpretation of artistic attitude, but their books could not serve as
72
For a complete discussion of this association and its ramifications, see David Rosand, “The
Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L’Arte, 11-12, (1970), pp. 5-53.
68
replacement for actual hands-on workshop experience. Instead, they point to an interest
in associating the craft of the artist into the realm of an academic.
Venice, with its conservative and stable government remained the most backward
in respect to the establishment of academies of art and the freeing of painters from social
and intellectual restrictions.73
The Accademia Veneziana della Fama, founded in 1557
was a grouping of philosophers, poets, scientists, rhetoricians, and even musicians;
representing all of the liberal arts except painting. Its second incarnation in 1593, the
Accademia Veneziana seconda, followed the same activities but did list among its
members several artists, including Jacopo Tintoretto and his son Domenico.74
The
younger Tintoretto was more inclined toward intellectual pursuits than his father; he
wrote poetry and associated with Venetian literary circles.75
The role of drawing had in
fact played as a continuous part of an assistant’s education in the Tintoretto workshop,
making use of plaster casts as well as models of Michelangelo’s sculpture of Dusk and
Dawn from the Medici Chapel (fig. 40). These had been expressly ordered by Tintoretto
from the Florentine Daniele da Volterra.76
These were only available to those admitted to
the studio however, and it was Domenico who after the death of his father briefly
73
David Rosand, “The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L’Arte, 11-12, (1970), p.
26.
74
Emmanuele Antonio Cicogna, Corpus delle iscrizioni di Venezia e delle isole della laguna
veneta, (Venezia: Biblioteca orafa di Sant'Antonio abate, 2001), pp. 52-53; David Rosand, “The
Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L’Arte, 11-12, (1970), p. 35.
75
Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo Forni, 2002), p. 509.
76
Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo Forni, 2002), p. 175. Ridolfi also
makes note of the famous phrase “Il disegno di Michelangelo, e il colorito di Tiziano” written on
Tintoretto’s wall (possibly only a myth).
69
considered opening his door to those interested parties wanting to draw without formally
entering the workshop as apprentices.77
Had Domenico in fact succeeded in creating a gathering place for aspiring
artists—those who wished to join the workshop and those who were only of amateur
inclination—Venice may have found itself with a facility akin to the Carracci academy.
Not purposeful in goal so much as in practicality, for Annibale and Agostino Carracci
had a clear purpose in reforming the dominant trend of Mannerism which they considered
stale, but instead as a focused location in which artists could explore and learn outside the
boundaries of the Venetian guild. If Domenico, with his more academic interests in
conjunction with the resources of the Tintoretto shop had made a different choice, it is
entirely possible that Venetian Seicento painters would have bypassed the onus of
stagnation ascribed to them through literal creative cross-pollination. A new mode of
thinking, or more correctly an availability of information, was already present with the
publishing of Fialetti and Franco’s drawing books but what was additionally required—
which the Carracci had provided in Bologna—was a physical space to gather. Instead—
as discussed earlier—learning the painter’s craft remained solidly within the bottega of
each individual master, whose teaching methodology continued to revolve around
learning to mimic their own particular style rather than providing a broad base of
knowledge and skill and encouraging individual invention.
77
For a summary, see R. Tozzi, “Disegni di Domenico Tintortetto,” Bollettino d’arte, XXXI,
(1937), p. 19 and David Rosand, “The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L’Arte, 11-
12, (1970), p. 32.
70
Due to outbreaks of plague in 1576 and again in 1630, the painter’s guild had
opened its rolls to non-matriculated painters out of literal need, but at the same time lost
some control of the standards it did have.78
Instead of fostering an institution that could
rectify and correct the lack of fundamental artistic basics, such as disegno, the guild
remained resistant. Established artists like Aliense, Palma, Malombra, and the Caliari,
Bassano and Tintoretto heirs, had begun to explore and alter attitudes on their own, but
their attempts to copy the stylistic success of Tintoretto’s terribilità or the grande
maniera veneziana fell short. Portraits by Domenico Tintoretto and Palma are examples
of the best attempts, relying on a methodical approach and attention to detail (fig. 41).
But in larger historical works these early Seicento canvases become overwhelmed and
only exhibit half-hearted naturalism, and even the brushstroke which had distinguished
Venetian art becomes circumspect, as in the Aliense Supper at Emmaus mentioned earlier
(fig. 16).
The inheritors of the Venetian High Renaissance, though steeped in a rich
tradition and aware of the new stylistic movements of the Carracci and their Roman
connections, were unable to further reconcile the potential of those associations in order
78
Philip Sohm and Richard Spear, Painting for Profit, (New Haven: Yale University Press,
2010), pp. 214-219 for demographics of painters in Venice. The Giustizia Vecchia finally
approved the separation of the Arte dei Depentori (those of the liberal arts) from those of the
mechanical arts in 1680. Elena Bassi, La Regia Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia, (Florence:
Le Monnier, 1941), p. 128. Other painter types included, gilders (doratori), decorative and house
painters, i.e. walls (dipintori), musical instrument painters (cimbanari), stationers (cartolari),
miniaturists (miniatori), leather painters (coridori), and wax fruit and still life (naranzeri,
fruttarioli) painters.
71
to break new visual ground.79
The attempts of individuals like Fialetti and Franco to
capitalize on the situation by bringing attention to disegno as a foundation rather than an
ancillary aspect to painting practice is noteworthy but did not significantly alter the
situation. Compounding this problem was the conservative nature of the Venetian social
atmosphere, and in particular the painter’s guild which was resistive to change.
Additionally, their manuals became popular with a new class of collector and
connoisseur—the gentleman of quality—who now felt educated in their purchasing
decisions. The combination of these issues placed Venetian artists in an untenable
position, unable to fully embrace the emerging naturalism of the Baroque, and incapable
of relinquishing the commercially viable perception of their glorious past.
Odoardo Fialetti and Giacomo Franco, whatever their personal motivations may
have been behind their production of drawing manuals—be it commercial gain or a
rooted interest in proliferating the working concept of disegno—inhabit a moment of
fluctuation and uncertainty. Their publications would inspire similar works in later
decades, eventually acting as a bridge between successful innovation occurring elsewhere
in Italy and the quagmire of facility Venetian painters found themselves trapped in. It
was only a question as to whether or not a Venetian artist was capable of reconciling the
traditions of their past with the lessons of their present, and thereby embracing the
challenge.
79
David Rosand, “The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L’Arte, 11-12, (1970), p.
41 for this idea.
72
3. The Neurosis Manifest: Domenico Tintoretto80
The wealth that the generation of Cinquecento masters left to their heirs was not
only measured by the notaries who arrived to list their worldly possessions; it also resided
in the popularity of the paintings they left behind as public works and private
commissions. The continued desirability for the style of these artists along with the
methodology of their teaching—through imitation—meant that while they may have
established financial security for their offspring they had effectively clipped the wings of
any emerging creativity and stylistic innovation. Therein lies the difficulty their
inheritors faced; did they dutifully soldier down a path already established and secured,
or did they throw caution to the wind in an attempt to make their own artistic mark?
The answer lies somewhere in the middle I believe, where balancing between
what is prudent and what might be a reckless endeavor could cause anxiety. This visual
“neurosis;” this inability to let go of the past and the uncertainty of how to proceed into
the future inherited by the early Seicento generation is personified by Domenico
Tintoretto, who surely must have felt the overwhelming presence and legacy of his
larger-than-life father Jacopo at every turn. Though Domenico met with success and
never wanted for commissions, living to a respectable age in comfort, his is a prime
80
This chapter section has been published by the author, Taryn Marie Zarrillo, “The Neurosis of
Visual Legacy: Seicento Venetian Painters Confront Their Past” in The Enduring Legacy of
Venetian Renaissance Art, ed., Andaleeb Banta, (Surrey: Routledge, 2016). It is a modern notion
to use the term “neurosis,” but the implication here is not to provide psychoanalysis of Domencio
Tintoretto, it is simply to capture the flavor of the meaning—otherwise it would be a protracted
discussion on the imbalance of his humours and potential melancholia, which is much too obtuse
for this author.
73
example of the sort of visual neurosis that plagued the painters of his generation as he
trod the path set out by his father. Did these artists maintain the status quo of production
and style inherited from their masters, or did they attempt their own innovations and risk
losing commissions?
Ridolfi, biographer of this generation and their forbearers, provides us with
observations regarding the position in which Seicento artists found themselves. The
opening lines of his biography for Domenico read: “If Domenico had understood the
state in which Heaven had created him, by arranging that he be born to such a fine father
through whose example he could have aspired to great things by following the direct
path, he would, without doubt, have left a more worthy record of his achievements.”81
Ridolfi seems to be in favor of maintaining the status quo set by Jacopo, and is not
entirely sympathetic to Domenico. He continues, “disdaining to continue on the true
path, he strayed from his father’s manner in order that the world could certify that it is
more improbable for Tintorettos to be reborn than it is that there be more than one
Apelles.”82
If we are to take Ridolfi’s words at face value then it would seem he felt that
81
My emphasis underlined, see Carlo Ridolfi, The Life of Tintoretto, trans. Catherine Enggass
and Robert Enggass (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1984), p. 87. The
Italian reads, “Se Domenico avesse conosciuto lo stato nel quale il Cielo avevalo costituito,
facendolo nascere di padre così eccellente, col cui esempio, seguendo l’orme incominciate,
poteva aspirare a cose grandi, avrebbe senza dubbio lasciate più egregie memorie della sua
mano.”
82
Carlo Ridolfi, The Life of Tintoretto, trans. Catherine Enggass and Robert Enggass (University
Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1984), p. 87, “ma sdegnando egli di continuare
l’intrapreso sentiero, traviò da quella maniera: il che ha potuto certificare il mondo, che più
difficilmente nascono I Tintoretti, che gli Apelli.”
74
Domenico had made a mistake in attempting to somewhat chart his own course—that he
had disregarded the collaborative lessons of his father’s bottega in favor of being more
stylistically self-sufficient. This is not the case however; Domenico mimicked Jacopo
and purposefully marketed the family brand. Instead, I believe Ridolfi is referring to
Domenico’s lack of invention, and not the manner in which he painted. Jacopo’s true
legacy and what differentiated him from others was his ability to innovate; that was his
true legacy and path and what Domenico lacked. Important research published in
conjunction with the 2007 Tintoretto exhibition at the Prado Museum, Madrid is the latest
illustration of the difficulty faced by academics in untangling works by Jacopo from
works done in conjunction with other assistants including Domenico, and works by
Domenico himself.83
If Domenico had in fact strayed from Jacopo’s stylistic manner as
we could assume Ridolfi suggests, then the authorship of their respective visual records
would not be so difficult to assign.
In Jacopo’s testament, made the year he died, 1594, he charges Domenico to
“…finish my works that remain imperfect, by your own hand, using the manner and
diligence that you always used on many of my works.”84
Clearly, Jacopo had faith in his
son’s abilities to complete unfinished commissions to his standard and following his
83
Miguel Falomir, ed., Jacopo Tintoretto: Actas del Congreso Internacional Jacopo Tintoretto
(Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado, 2009), especially. pp. 120-150.
84
The Italian reads, “finisca l’opere mie che restassero imperfette, di sua mano, usando quella
maniera e diligentia che ha sempre usata sopra molte mie opera.” See Giovanni Prosdocimo
Zabeo, “Elogio a Giacomo Robusti.” Discorsi letti nella I.R. Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia:
in occasione della distribuzione de’Premi degli Anni 1812-1815, ed. Antonio Diedo, (Venice,
Picotti: 1815), pp. 23-93, for the full text of Jacopo’s will, see pp. 57-58.
75
method, as though the paint had flowed from his own brush. Ridolfi uses the words
“egregie memorie della sua mano,” to describe what could have been Domenico’s own
legacy if he had followed his father’s path more directly. His words translate less as
“worthy record of his achievements” and more literally as “distinguished memory of his
hand.”85
In stating that Domenico could have aspired to great things (poteva aspirare a
cose grandi) and could have had a “distinguished memory” Ridolfi is not commenting on
the manner or quality of Domenico’s brushwork, which he admires, but on the
compositional structure of his canvases and the type of paintings he produced.
Ridolfi goes so far as to say “though Domenico drew much praise and profit from
painting portraits, it is to be (he) regretted that they were given precedence over his other
work.”86
By painting such a glaring number of portraits, a large portion which he takes
the time to list—including his own—Ridolfi implies that Domenico had descended from
the high plane of historical and religious subject matter into easy lucrative commissions
(thus less distinguished). Though he is described as creative and with an interest in
literature, there is no suggestion from Ridolfi that Domenico ever pushed the boundaries
of his compositions beyond what Jacopo had already done, and even then he was
85
The Italian reads, “…poteva aspirare a cose grandi, avrebbe senza dubbio lasciate più egregie
memorie della sua mano.” See Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo Forni,
2002), p. 501. Enggass translates as “worthy record of his achievements,” see Carlo Ridolfi, The
Life of Tintoretto, trans. Catherine Enggass and Robert Enggass (University Park: Pennsylvania
State University Press, 1984), p. 87, my translation reads “distinguished memory of his hand.”
86
Carlo Ridolfi, The Life of Tintoretto, trans. Catherine Enggass and Robert Enggass (University
Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1984), p. 92, the original Italian reads: “Ma sebbene
Domenico traesse molta lode ed utilità dal fare ritratti, dolevasi nondimeno che quelli fossero
anteposti alle altre sue opere, pretendendo il primo onore nelle figure.”
76
conservative. Ridolfi’s issue wasn’t with the style of paintings Domenico produced
(which was Jacopo’s), but with the actual type they were and the lack of imagination they
exhibited. Domenico’s conflict was that he literally did not, or could not, meaningfully
differentiate himself and his work from his father and workshop legacy, and so blundered
on in Jacopo’s shadow, neither exceeding nor departing outright from the Tintoretto
house-style in any purposeful manner. Ridolfi’s “distinguished memory of his hand” is a
two-fold verbal allusion; it suggests both what would be the memory of Domenico’s own
production “of his hand,” and the legacy of what was “distinguished” by Jacopo to push
the boundaries of innovation.
It is clear from Domenico’s production that he consistently reused his father’s
compositions, often combining elements from multiple sources into one canvas. He
frequently rehashed established figural poses—a well-known and good example would be
the Baptism of Christ. If we compare Jacopo’s initial version from San Silvestro in
Venice (fig. 42) with two versions by Domenico; one from San Pietro Martire on Murano
(fig. 43) and another from the Cleveland Museum collection (fig. 44), the viewer can see
how the poses of John the Baptist and Christ are the lynchpin of the composition. In all
three pictures, Christ leans in toward John, his head bent beneath the stretched out arm of
the Baptist, while their knees bend in mirrored unison and they create a circular sense of
motion and space between their bodies. But where Jacopo is focused and limited in his
arrangement, Domenico elaborates—his additions suggesting a concentrated effort to
label his work as “Tintoretto.” Jacopo’s figures dominate the canvas; the landscape of a
craggy rock and small waterfall that John stands on only serve to root him, reinforce and
77
mimic the act of baptism taking place between the two men. In Domenico’s version the
details of landscape compete with his protagonists. There is more sky, more clouds,
more rocks and water, populated by additional figures observing the scene and making a
private moment crowded; as though he includes as much as he can to inform the casual
observer that this painting is a Tintoretto production. Where the waterfall beside John
was unobtrusive in Jacopo’s Silvestro version, it has become overly ornate in the
Cleveland canvas with water spilling forth from a cornucopia held by a life-size sculpture
of a pagan river god. Instead of creating a sense of juxtaposition between old and new
religions however, it appears to have been included simply because it was attractive.
Domenico’s paintings are more visually involved and specific, but they do not
resonate with the same level of dramatic power Jacopo is able to invoke by focusing
more deeply on the figures and capturing subtle nuances to create an intimate mood. The
Murano and Cleveland paintings try to revolve around the figures, but the additions are
distracting and the quiet gravity of the moment is lost in the details. I would suggest
instead that after Jacopo’s death, there was a purposeful effort under Domenico’s
leadership within the bottega to produce pictures that remained true to the “Tintoretto”
house type. Carrying on the manner and level of production as though Jacopo had never
left, Domenico attempted to remain true to the mandate laid out in his father’s will
whether he was successful or not.
It was the very nature of Venetian workshop practice, perfected in the family
studios of the Cinquecento that facilitated the commercial marketing that occurred in the
shops of their Seicento inheritors. It was already common practice to accept that
78
paintings coming out of a master’s workshop were by the master, meaning that they had
his stamp of approval as being up to par with his own standard of quality even if he had
not touched them himself—as we saw with the earlier case of Titian’s San Lorenzo.
Perhaps Ridolfi’s statement regarding the “the improbability of Tintorettos to be reborn”
alludes to this direction taken by the studio under Domenico’s leadership—the pictures
could be fabricated by assistants and students to an established standard, but with the
assertion that while what amounted to a pastiche would remain desirable to commission,
the original inventions and ideas of the master were impossible to generate without him.
Domenico must have realized that genius (like his father’s) was not necessary to
create Venetian state propaganda or appealing compositions so long as the model that
genius had already established was followed. He also understood that his clients wanted
pictures that were the “Tintoretto” type, even if they lacked that sense of sprezzatura that
had initially made them so unique. As Hans Tietze succinctly put it, ‘Sometimes, from a
scientific point of view, a creation vastly indebted to assistants may bear a more
convincing evidence of the master's genius than one which no hand other than his has
touched.”87
Which brings us back to Ridolfi’s disparaging opening remarks—that
Domenico could have followed his father’s path but chose otherwise. Perhaps that’s the
irony here, and where the neurosis sets in: in his attempt to give his clients what he knew
they wanted, instead of picking up the reins of innovation which was Jacopo’s true
legacy, Domenico simply continued with a manner that had become routine and safe. To
87
Hans Tietze, “Master and Workshop in the Venetian Renaissance,” Parnassus, 11, (1939), p.
45.
79
an extent, his artistic education had undermined any originality or personal improvement
while simultaneously bringing him success.
In the works he assisted with or painted the majority of, Domenico’s hand can
often be seen alongside his father’s. The Flagellation of Christ, dating from the 1580s or
early 1590s in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna is a good example (fig. 45). The
focal point of the central figure and its anatomical distinction can be ascribed to Jacopo,
while the rest of the composition was completed by Domenico.88
After Jacopo’s death,
however, locating Domenico’s individual hand becomes more difficult to establish—as
though there is a conscious decision to try and mask and tone down the style of his youth.
His manner is still evident in the Birth of the Virgin, from the early 1590s in the
Accademia, Venice, where Jacopo was most likely involved in the compositional design,
but the execution reveals Domenico’s “pretty” mode and the additional figures display
his stylistic characteristics.89
Returning to focus on the comparison of the San Silvestro
and St Pietro Martire Baptisms, the difference in handling is evident after making a side-
by-side comparison, but Ridolfi himself lists the Pietro Martire Baptism as being by
Jacopo, although it is now known to have been done entirely by Domenico. Conversely,
Ridolfi correctly assigns the Adoration of the Magi in San Trovaso (fig. 46) to Domenico,
88
Robert Echols and Frederick Ilchman, “Toward a new Tintoretto Catalogue, with a Checklist of
revised Attributions and a new Chronology” Jacopo Tintoretto: Actas del Congreso Internacional
Jacopo Tintoretto, ed. Miguel Falomir, (Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado, 2009), pp. 91-150,
and specifically 135, n 286 for attribution of the Flagellation.
89
Robert Echols and Frederick Ilchman, “Toward a new Tintoretto Catalogue, with a Checklist of
revised Attributions and a new Chronology” Jacopo Tintoretto: Actas del Congreso Internacional
Jacopo Tintoretto, ed. Miguel Falomir, (Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado, 2009), p. 136, n.
306.
80
but then misattributes his Expulsion of Joachim from the Temple in that same church to
Jacopo.90
Even Ridolfi, it would appear, could be fallible.
The late pictures produced in the Tintoretto studio continued to capture the
dynamic nature of the figures in relation to one another due to Jacopo’s involvement in
the design and layout, but the quality of execution itself degrades in dynamism lacking
the seemingly effortless handling that had been the standard. Once Domenico takes
control of the workshop after his father’s death, the production quality increases
somewhat but the compositional unity then breaks down and appears more jumbled.
After 1594, the bottega remained busy and continued to take in assistants and students.
From his testament we know that Jacopo left the entire contents of his studio, including a
large number of drawings, to Domenico. Sketches had always played an integral role in
the delegation of work when Jacopo was alive. As a competent draftsman, Domenico
followed his father’s practice, and judging from the large number of drawings left to his
own subsequent heirs, he was clearly prolific.
That the Tintorettos made ample use of disegno is an established and accepted
fact, so it is not far-fetched to suggest that sketching and drawing continued to take place
in the workshop as a standard teaching method after Jacopo’s death.91
When we further
90
Robert Echols and Frederick Ilchman, “Toward a new Tintoretto Catalogue, with a Checklist of
revised Attributions and a new Chronology” Jacopo Tintoretto: Actas del Congreso Internacional
Jacopo Tintoretto, ed. Miguel Falomir, (Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado, 2009), pp. 135-136,
n. 301-303.
91
See Paola Rossi, “Per il Catalogo di Jacopo e Domenico Tintoretto: novita e precisazioni,” Arte
Veneta, 55, (1999), pp. 31-47; and William R. Rearick, “The Uses and Abuses of Drawings by
Jacopo Tintoretto,” Master Drawings, 42, (2004), pp. 349-360; Catherine Whistler, “Life
81
consider Domenico’s attempts to try and resuscitate the idea of a Venetian academy
along with his associate Odoardo Fialetti—a publisher of drawing manuals that take their
cues from the Carracci school as discussed—it is not unreasonable to come to this
conclusion.92
If assistants and students were always involved in the stages of production
going on in the workshop, then surviving examples of them practicing to learn the
technique are not hard to accept. It is clear from the large number of existing drawings
we know to have been produced while Jacopo was alive that many of the sheets are by
assistants with multiple drawings copied and worked over to learn the logistics of the
master’s form and style (fig. 47). The ability to differentiate authorship is visible in the
unsure and weak nature of the student line on the paper when compared with a confident
and bold example by the master, such as Jacopo’s rendering of Michelangelo’s figure
Day (fig. 48).93
The developed gradation of shading and form is practiced and effortless,
with each mark of the chalk purposeful and cohesive.
Drawing in Venice from Titian to Tiepolo,” Master Drawings, 42, (2004), pp. 370-396 for a more
general discussion.
92
See David Rosand, “The Crisis of the Venetian Renaissance Tradition,” L’Arte 11-12, (1970),
pp. 5-53 for an excellent discussion of drawing practice by Venetian artists.
93
Ridolfi tells us that Jacopo Tintoretto ordered models of Michelangelo’s Medici tomb
sculptures: Day, Night, Dawn and Dusk from the Florentine artist Daniele Volterrano and that he
would sketch them from various angles, see Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo
Forni, 2002), p. 175. This drawing is in the collection of the Print and Drawing Department of
the Metropolitan Museum of Art, accession number 54.125. See also Claus Virch, "A Study by
Tintoretto after Michelangelo" The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, 15, (1956): 111-116
and more recently Linda Wolk-Simon and Carmen C. Bambach, An Italian Journey. Drawings
from the Tobey Collection: Correggio to Tiepolo, exhibition catalogue (New York: The
Metropolitan Museum of Art, May 12 - August 15, 2010), 76, no. 21.
82
Taking these factors into consideration, a group of oil sketches currently in the
collection of the Print Department of the British Museum might represent the same sort
of training and teaching Jacopo supported, except this time taking place under the
leadership of Domenico.94
Rather than representing preparatory drawings by Domenico,
to whom they have been attributed, the majority of this group, numbering ninety in total,
may in fact be the practice sketches of Domenico’s assistants and students learning the
parts and process of the established Tintoretto house style. These sketches, or pennellati,
entered the collection in 1907 bound together and were initially given attribution to
Jacopo.95
Hans and Erica Tiezte then reattributed them to Domenico in the 1940s.96
Scholarship has debated their purpose and use by Domenico. On one hand they have
been described as an example of how he broke away from his father’s style and working
method, pushing into a sort of grotesque realism, and were indicative of the social and
political turbulence and decline taking hold within the Republic.97
Alternatively, they
have been considered a new type of preparatory model by Domenico, his way of working
94
The group is in the collection of the British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, acc#
1907,0717.1-90. The sketchbook has been disassembled and the drawings mounted individually. 95
Sidney Colvin, “Tintoretto at the British Museum-I,” The Burlington Magazine, 16, (1910):
189-191 + 194-195 + 198-200; Sidney Colvin, “Tintoretto at the British Museum-II,” The
Burlington Magazine, 16, (1910): 254-257 + 260-261.
96
Hans Tietze and Erica Tietze-Conrat, The Drawings of the Venetian Painters in the 15th and
16th Centuries, (New York: J.J. Augustin, 1944), pp. 262-266.
97
This interpretation is put forward by Stefania Mason in her article “Domenico Tintoretto e
l’eredità della bottega,” Jacopo Tintoretto: Actas del Congreso Internacional Jacopo Tintoretto,
ed. Miguel Falomir, (Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado, 2009), pp. 84-90.
83
through a composition, despite the fact that there is no known painting for many of the
groupings.98
Subjects include sketches of The Miracle of the Dying Slave (figs. 49-53), with
the detail of the slave and surrounding figures after Jacopo’s version in the Accademia,
Venice (fig. 54); a Reclining Nude, or Danae (figs. 55-60); and St Mark Rescuing a
Saracen from Shipwreck (figs. 61-62). Over thirty sketch versions of the Temptation of
St Anthony in the British Museum group displays a consistency among the figures in
terms of pose, figural grouping, action, and iconography (figs. 63-69). Each rendering is
not significantly altered or developed as if working through any compositional
problems—they are simply repeated. Notice the female figure on the left of six of these
sketches; her pose remains exactly the same, but in reverse and switching to the right-
hand side in one drawing. There is the occasional shifting of a figure, but nothing to
significantly adjust the strength of the overall composition or suggest organizational
problems were being reconsidered. Further, if each sketch is examined in detail,
differences in style and manner begin to appear—especially when the anatomical
representation is closely scrutinized. Rather than one single hand repeatedly reworking
the same subject matter over and over again as is currently accepted, the sketches appear
to be by different artists all working off of the same master composition.
The only mention of a painting of the Temptation of St Anthony by Domenico
comes from Ridolfi, who gives its location as the church of San Giacomo di Rialto,
98
See Linda Freeman Bauer, “’Quanto si disegna, si dipinge ancora:’ Some Observations on the
Development of the Oil Sketch,” Storia dell’Arte, 32, (1978), pp. 45-57 for this interpretation.
84
mostly likely commissioned by the Goldsmith’s Guild.99
Paola Rossi published two
paintings of the Temptation of St Anthony in a 1999 article and linked them to the British
Museum sketches; prior to that, they were last mentioned in a 1982 sale catalogue (figs.
70-71).100
Since that sale their whereabouts are unknown and there is no documentation
to link either one with San Giacomo di Rialto. Furthermore, while the sketches and the
paintings are clearly compositionally linked, there is also no indication or documentation
of the chronology of the sketches in relation to the paintings.
We know that the British Museum group was purchased by Don Gasparo de Haro
y Guzman, Marqués del Carpio, through his Venetian agent Antonio Saurer, and
mentioned in the inventory of his collection in 1687.101
In 1678, Saurer had visited the
Tintoretto studio, inherited by Sebastiano Casser through his wife Ottavia, Domenico’s
sister. She had died in 1646, and Saurer reported to his employer that Casser was
99
The location of this painting is unknown. An examination of the interior of this small church
also leaves one wondering where it would have been placed, as there is literally not enough wall
space. Lionello Venturi, Le Origini della pittori veneziana 1300-1500, (Venice, 1907), p. 224.
100
Paola Rossi, Paola Rossi, “Per il Catalogo di Jacopo e Domenico Tintoretto: novita e
precisazioni,” Arte Veneta, 55, (1999), pp. 35-36, note 8, mentions the painting and cites the
auction catalogue, Franco Semenzato & C.Sas, Arredamento antico e oggetti vari, (Venice,
1982), p. 40, n. 638, but does not give an exact date of sale or location other than Venice.
Semenzato held sales in Venice in April, September and December 1982.
101
Stefania Mason, “Domenico Tintoretto,” Jacopo Tintoretto: Actas del Congreso Internacional
Jacopo Tintoretto, ed. Miguel Falomir, (Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado, 2009), p. 88;
Fernando Marias, “Don Gaspar de Haro, marqués del Carpio, coleccionista de dibujos” in Arte y
diplomacia de la Monarquía Hispánica en el siglo XVII, ed. José Luis Colomer, (Madrid:
Fernando Villaverde Ediciones, 2003), pp. 208-219. Haro (1629-1687) was a major art collector
who owned several paintings by Tintoretto, a Magdalene by Titian, Christ Crowned with Thorns
by Messina (now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York), and Velazquez’s Rokeby
Venus in the National Gallery, London—to name just a few. See Beatrice Cacciotti, “La
Collezione del VII marchese del Carpio tra Roma e Madrid,” Bolletino d’Arte, 86-87, (1994), pp.
133-196.
85
extremely advanced in age when they met. The workshop itself was in a state of ruin
with no real works of value left in it, but Casser assured Saurer that he had held back
several items. These “vestiges of Tintoretto” as they were described, were sold to del
Carpio as the real thing; but I believe they were in fact the remnants of student work
made under Domenico’s tutelage, compiled together to give the impression of greater
value. If they truly had been the work of Jacopo or Domenico Tintoretto, they would not
have been left to molder and gather dust in an unused studio—Casser was too savvy for
that.102
A final comparison can be made through a study by Jacopo of Michelangelo’s
Day (fig. 48) and a reclining nude by Domenico (fig. 72), both from the Metropolitan
Museum of Art, and an oil sketch of Mary Magdalene, made by a student of Domenico’s,
from the British Museum group (fig. 73).103
Despite the difference in media, it is
important to note how the drawings of Domenico and his student are derived from a
precedent set by Jacopo. Domenico’s nude works to imitate his father’s understanding
and representation of anatomy. He has added minimal shading to define the physical
102
For Saurer’s full account of his meeting with Casser, his impressions and the visit to the
studio, see Fernando Checa, “El Marqués del Carpio (1629-1687) y la pintura veneciana del
Renacimiento. Negociaciones de Antonio Saurer,” Anales de historia del arte, 4, (2004), pp. 193-
212. Additionally, Domenico’s heirs found themselves in difficult financial straits; after his death,
his sister Ottavia appealed to the Doge directly for a reprieve on their taxes, stating that “the
industry of the Tintoretto children will be lost otherwise.” Her letter reads, “hora seguita la morte
delli predetti figlioli di Jacopo è con la vita restata estinta lindustria.” See Rodolfo Gallo, “La
famiglia Tintoretto,” Ateneo Veneto, 128, (1941), pp. 83-84, for the text. This supports the notion
that after her death, Casser would have continued to feel pressed and be inclined to sell whatever
was left in the studio.
103
Metropolitan Museum of Art, Department of Drawings, accession #54.125 and #1975.1.539
respectively, and British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, accession #1907,0717.7.
86
density of the figure, and the outline of the arms and thighs show a similar interest in the
curvature and expressive folds of flesh made with bold strokes. Effort is concerted to
render the human form in a way similar to Jacopo; the flesh is given substance. The
Magdalene on the other hand, appears an almost comical attempt to mimic the
established style, and suggests the work of a novice. The foreshortened perspective is
amateur, and the lines of the body have no definition or clear anatomy and seem
unsteady. Lacking the qualities of a preparatory sketch but at the same time including too
many superfluous details, it is as if the artist is copying another work in an effort to
practice compositional arrangement. The overall result implies working within the
boundaries of another’s design; the type of repetition labored through to grasp a
particular style and eventually reproduce it. Just as this was Domenico’s lesson from
Jacopo, so he taught his students to do the same.
The neurosis of visual legacy faced by Seicento Venetian painters is the true
inheritance from their Cinquecento predecessors. This is why their production often
suffers—they were stymied by the burden of that heritage. Where they should have had
the most to gain from their temporal proximity, their work is too often jumbled and over-
embellished in an attempt to include as many visual allusions to their master as possible
to legitimize their production. They were too close to gain the critical distance and
perspective required to reshape the past as their own, and so what might have been their
greatest asset became a liability. Because of their unwillingness to step away from an
successful established model, and despite their realization of that fact, they could not
advance beyond it. Everything about their workshop education and the training of
87
subsequent students would have cemented the value of repetition. Confronting the past
does not always necessitate change; Domenico Tintoretto and his students are just one of
many examples of studios that continued working within an accepted model without
questioning it. Insofar as Domenico was not his father, he did recognize and accept the
incentive of emulating him. Training the next generation to carry on—albeit in a
derivative form—Domenico was always looking over his shoulder to the past, even as he
attempted to define his own future legacy.
88
CHAPTER 3: Foreign Agents in the Venetian Picture Market
Mix with hir’d slaves, bravoes, and common stabbers,
Nose slitters, alley-lurking villains! Join
With such a crew, and the ruffian’s ways
To cut the throats of wretches as they sleep.1
Thinking back to the opening decades of the seventeenth century when several of
the greatest sales of Venetian picture collections had taken place—the della Nave,
Renieri, and Priuli—Marco Boschini lamented the availability of Old Masters on the
market by the 1660s, nostalgically writing “piture adio; Venezia saria senza.”2 Both he
and del Sera arrived late to the game of acquisition that had reached its zenith in the
buying excursions of the generation before. This chapter tells the story of English
collectors and their agents chasing pictures in early Seicento Venice, all undoubtedly
influenced by the writings of Coryat and Lewkenor, and all eager to build a collection
worthy of bragging rights. While there were other occasional interested parties; the
Spanish, French, other Italians and representatives of the Low Countries, it was the
English at the beginning of the seventeenth century who cornered the market and
competed against one another with an appetite so voracious it put everyone else to
1 Thomas Otway, Venice Preserv’d, or A Plot discover’d, (London, 1682), p. 32. Text available
online from Project Gutenberg. See Note 1, Chapter 1.
2 See Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini (Venezia-Roma:
Instituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), pp. 22-23, for quote p. 23, line 6, “adieu pictures;
Venice is without (any).” My translation.
89
shame.3 One has to wonder at the unflagging popularity of Venetian pictures with the
English buyer; was it an underlying affinity for the myth of Venice, or particular taste for
the sensuous style of painting? In either case, the massive number of paintings brought
home to England either in bulk by the nobility or individually by the traveling gentleman
often still grace the walls of British country homes today.4 For those that passed into the
hands of another enthusiast, their provenance typically traces the rise and dissemination
of great collections across Europe as fortunes shift, armies conquer and time goes by.5
These first decades of collecting in Seicento Venice were critical; they expanded the
popularity of Venetian masters and set the tone for workshop production in the latter half
of the century, when original paintings were no longer available and the market for
copies muddled connoisseurship.
In the sixteenth century, outside of the public and private commissions within
Venice, the desire for paintings by the Cinquecento masters came from the rulers of other
European territories.6 As we have seen in Chapter Two, Philip II of Spain commissioned
3 This was a rather particular cultural movement, see Walter Houghton, “The English Virtuoso in
the Seventeenth Century,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 3, (1942), pp. 51-73.
4 Edward Chaney, ed., The Evolution of English Collecting: Receptions of Italian Art in the Tudor
and Stuart Periods, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003)
5 Giuseppe De Rita, “A Cultural Diaspora with No Regrets (When the City was a Centre of
Production,” Venezia Altrova, (2002), pp. 9-27; Francis Haskell, “Some Collectors of Venetian
Art at the End of the Eighteenth Century,” Studies in Renaissance and Baroque Art presented to
Anthony Blunt on his 60th Birthday, (London: Phaidon, 1967), pp. 173-178; Fabio Isman, “My
Lord, Here is the Sales Catalog (Chronicles of a Total Depredation),” Venezia Altrove, 2, (2003),
pp. 29-45.
6 For an overall discussion see Patricia Fortini Brown, “Where the Money Flows: Art Patronage
in Sixteenth-Century Venice,” in Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese: Rivals in Renaissance Venice, ed.
90
new works in addition to being an insatiable collector; fueled by the inherited paintings
from his father, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V who had been one of Titian’s
greatest patrons. These buyers were able to go directly to the source if they wanted an
original.7 The new consumers in the opening decades of the Seicento, notably from the
court of King James I and his son, King Charles I of England, perceived the act of
collecting art as a way to garner attention, gain favor, and increase their status at home.
Making use of diplomats, ambassadors and personal agents, by the end of the 1630s they
had effectively swept the market, exporting as many Venetian old masters as they could.8
It would be left to Boschini, del Sera and their associates to scrounge through the
remains.
Rudolph II (1552—1612), Philip II’s nephew and the eventual Holy Roman
Emperor, owned large scale mythologies by Veronese; Mars and Venus United by Love
(fig. 74), the Allegory of Wisdom and Strength (fig. 75), the Allegory of Virtue and Vice
(fig. 76), and Hermes, Herse and Aglauros (fig. 77), which ultimately entered the
collection of Christina of Sweden after the fall of Prague in 1648.9 While the acquisition
documentation for these works is unclear it may have been Rudolph’s father Maximilian
Frederick Ilchman, (Boston: Museum of Fine Arts, 2009), pp. 41-59, specifically pp. 56-59 for
noble patronage outside Venice.
7 Although as we have seen with Philip II, that may not have exactly been the case.
8 Fabio Isman, “My Lord, Here is the Sales Catalog (Chronicles of a Total Depredation),”
Venezia Altrove, 2, (2003), pp. 29-45, and Edward Chaney and Timothy Wilks, The Jacobean
Grand Tour: Early Stuart Travelers in Europe, (London: Tauris, 2014).
9 In order, these paintings currently reside in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, acc#
10.189; the Frick Collection, New York acc#’s 1912.1.128 and 1912.1.129, and the Fitzwilliam
Museum, Cambridge, acc# 143.
91
II who made the purchases. Rudolph independently acquired a suite of four ceiling
canvases, the Allegories of Love (figs. 78-81), from his agent in Venice, Jacopo Strada
(1507—1588) (fig. 82).10
Rudolph had also purchased, with some forcing, the collection of Cardinal
Antoine Perrenot de Granvelle, a minister of Charles V and “friend and patron to Titian”
from Granvelle’s nephew and heir.11
The Gonzaga of Mantua and the Este of Ferrara
were also major patrons, as was Duke Carlo Emanuele of Savoy, the grandson of the
French King Francis I.12
These individuals had the disposable income required for
commissions and large scale purchases, and they would build the picture collections that
would inspire a succession of new collectors to follow suit in the opening years of the
seventeenth century.
10
Now in the National Gallery, London, acc# NG 1323-1326. For Strada in Venice, Heinrich
Zimmermann, "Zur richtigen datirung eines Portraits von Tizian in der Wiener kaiserlichen
Gemälde-Galerie," Mittheilungen des Institutes für österrreichische Geschichtsforschung, 6,
(1901), pp. 830-857; for Strada as art dealer, Dirk Jacob Jansen, "Jacopo Strada et le commerce
d'art," Revue de l'art, 77, (1987), pp. 11-21 and John F. Hayward, "Jacopo Strada, XVIth century
antique dealer, Art & Auction 1971-72, (1973), pp. 68-74. Since details of these canvases which
date from 1575 appear in Van Dyck’s Italian sketchbook started in 1621, one might assume they
were acquired after Rudolph’s death—however, as David Jaffé rightly points out, their
appearance and sketchy quality suggests they may have been copied from a intermediary record,
possibly a cartoon. See David Jaffé, “New Thoughts on Van Dyck's Italian Sketchbook,”
The Burlington Magazine, 143, (2001), pp. 614-624, specifically p. 616 for this suggestion. The
Van Dyck sketches appear on fol. 35 and 35v of the sketchbook, in the collection of the
Department of Prints and Drawings of the British Museum, acc# 1957,1214.207.1. The entire
sketchbook has been reproduced in Michael Jaffé, The Devonshire Collection of Northern
European Drawings, vol.1, (Torino: Umberto Allemandi & C., 2002).
11
Hugh Trevor-Roper, Princes and Artists, Patronage and Ideology at Four Habsburg Courts
1517–1633, (London: Thames & Hudson, 1976), p.112 for Rudolph’s less than genial techniques.
12
William R. Rearick, The Art of Paolo Veronese, 1528-1588, (Washington DC: National Gallery
of Art, 1988), p. 123 and Terisio Pignatti and Filippo Pedrocco, Veronese, (Milan: Electra, 1995),
I, cats. 332-333.
92
The Venetian collections the English buyers courted had been amassed by noble
families and wealthy merchants, who typically added to their hoard with each successive
generation. As economic conditions fluctuated individually, as well as for the Republic
during the seventeenth century, portable paintings were seen as an easy commodity to sell
in a pinch.13
In Venice, paintings numbered in the tens of thousands and almost every
household owned them; having art objects befitting one’s social status was almost a duty.
The city had never been invaded or sacked, and so the dispersal of its art came only from
sale. But behind the idea of the Venetian art collection was the love of homeland, and it
was felt in the great public collections of the Doge’s Palace, Library, and Rialto offices;
in the religious institutions; the collections of the Scuole, confraternities large and small;
and finally among the personal collections of private individuals.
13
Jack Hinton, “By Sale, By Gift: Aspects of the Resale and Bequest of Goods in Late Sixteenth
Century Venice,” Journal of Design History, 15, (2002), pp. 245-262.
93
1. Competing For Courtly Favor
Sir Henry Wotton (1568—1639) arrived in Venice on 23 September 1604 to take
up his post as English Ambassador to the Republic (fig. 83). Considered the bottom rung
of the English diplomatic ladder for postings, the Venetians themselves saw the position
as particularly important; they now had a permanent representative of a Protestant state—
and the most powerful one at that. For Wotton, Venice remained a uniquely stimulating
city despite the fact her greatest days were now over.14
He would serve as Ambassador
to Venice on two occasions: from 1604 to 1610, and again from 1615 until 1623. In the
five years between his appointments the post was held by Dudley Carleton (1573—
1632), who had no great love for the city, nor initially for her art, stating that “the
Imployment I am now entering into, is of little more use then my other in Ireland; for
there is small difference between sticking in Boggs or being environed with Waters.”15
Upon his arrival in Venice, Wotton began a stream of correspondence to his
superior, Robert Cecil, Lord Salisbury and Secretary of State (1563—1612), describing
the complex and colorful world of Venetian ceremony and politics. His audiences in
front of the Doge brought him face to face with the great works of the Venetian masters,
14
Gerald Curzon, Wotton and His Worlds: Spying, Science and Venetian Intrigues, (New York:
Xlibris, 2004), pp. 91-92. While Curzon is not a specialist, until his publication there was no
dedicated biography of Wotton, only Logan Pearsall Smith, ed., The Life and Letters of Sir Henry
Wotton, 2 vols, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1907). See also Chapter 1, note 2 of this
document.
15
Carleton was writing to Sir Ralph Winwood, Ambassador to the Hague, London 25 July 1610,
in Edmund Sawyer, ed., Memorials of Affairs of State in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King
James I, collected chiefly from the original papers of Sir Ralph Winwood, (London: Thomas
Osborne, 1727), 3, p, 200-201, full text available online from Google Books.
94
including when he had been the company of Thomas Coryat, and in his daily activities he
must have encountered numerous artists at work in their studios. During both Wotton’s
postings to Venice, Domenico Tintoretto, Aliense, Malombra, Fialetti, Palma,
Padovanino, Tinelli, and the Bassano—to name but a few—would have been active in
Venice. He soon realized the benefits of satisfying the demand for pictures at home in
London and the favor it would bring to his position. In 1607 he sent Cecil what he
described as “Prometheus devoured by the eagle, done by Giacobo Palma in concurrence
with Titiano, which for the emulation between two painters (both of no small name) I
dare say to be worthy of a corner in one of your Lordship’s galleries” (fig. 84).16
The
addition to his growing collection at Hatfield House pleased Salisbury, who then sent
word to Prince Henry (the elder son of James I) about the Palma; the response was that
the prince “desires you come before one of clock with your pictures.”17
Unlike his father James I, Henry was an avid art collector and those courtiers
around him in Whitehall saw the advantages of keeping up, if not feigning interest (fig.
85). In fact, the Palma purchased by Wotton and sent to Salisbury would be given to
him. By 1610 Wotton had left Venice for a new appointment as Ambassador to the
Hague and his replacement, Dudley Carleton, found himself pressed to continue the
16
Logan Pearsall Smith, ed., The Life and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton, 2 vols, (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1907), 1, pp. 419-420 for quotation.
17
Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts 9: Calendar of the Manuscripts of the Most
Honourable Marquess of Salisbury, vol. 21, (London: Printed for H.M.S.O. by Eyre and
Spottiswoode, 1883-1976), p. 39. For Salisbury’s collections see Erna Auerbach and C.K.
Adams, Paintings and Sculpture at Hatfield House, (London: Constable, 1971). This picture
would eventually wind up in the Prince’s collection.
95
tradition of dealing in pictures that he had established. In a letter sent to him by Sir
Walter Cope, Carleton was told, “if you meet with any ancient Master pieces at a
reasonable hand, you cannot send a thing more gracious, either to the Prince, or to my
Lord Treasurer (Salisbury).”18
But Carleton never had the chance to act on Cope’s
advice; Salisbury died in May 1612, and was soon followed the same year by the sudden
death of Prince Henry, on 6 November.
Although Prince Henry had made the trend of collecting art fashionable, the
majority of works in his collection were received as gifts rather than chosen specifically
by him; therefore the choices tended to be the result of someone else’s taste.19
No will or
detailed inventory of his household was made prior to his death, and when Richard
Connock made an audit of his possessions, he omitted reference to “pictures, plate, and
sylvan vessel, rich hangings, and furniture of his house with other things of great worth,
not here valued.” 20
Instead of quelling the interest of English courtiers in collecting art,
Henry’s death only seemed to intensify it. Eventually, once he was able to shake his
taciturn shell, it would be the prince’s younger brother Charles who would become the
18
Quotation cited by Timothy Wilks, The Court Culture of Henry, Prince of Wales, 1603-1613,
D.Phil thesis, (Oxford University, 1987), p. 181.
19
Catherine MacLeod and Timothy Wilks, The Lost Prince: The Life and Death of Henry Stuart,
(London: National Portrait Gallery, London, 2012) and Roy Strong, Henry Prince of Wales and
England’s Lost Renaissance, (London: Random House, 1986).
20
Timothy Wilks, “Art Collecting at the English Court from the Death Of Henry, Prince of Wales
to the Death of Anne of Denmark,” Journal of the History of Collections, 9, (2001), pp. 31-48;
quotation cited by Timothy Wilks, The Court Culture of Henry, Prince of Wales, 1603-1613,
D.Phil thesis, (Oxford University, 1987), p. 162. As a decision to deter James from liquidating his
son’s collection, the scheme appeared to work.
96
center of the craze for picture collecting at the English court.21
In the meantime,
aristocratic Jacobean gentlemen assumed that displaying an impressive collection of
paintings and objects was essential to improving their social status.
21
While the development of Charles as an art collector and the building of his collection is a
fascinating bit of history, it is tangential to the discussion of English buyers specifically in
Venice, except of course where both topics may cross paths. Sufficient to say, King Charles I
was a collector as monumental in scale as Philip II of Spain, halted only by his unfortunate
decapitation in 1649. See Pauline Gregg, King Charles I, (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1984); Arthur MacGregor, ed., The Late Kings Goods: Collections, Possessions and
Patronage of Charles I, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989); Jonathan Brown, Kings and
Connoisseurs, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995); Thomas Corns, ed., The Royal
Image: Representations of Charles I, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999) and
Jonathan Brown, The Sale of the Century, (New Have: Yale University Press, 2002) for the
history of his life, art collection, and its eventual dispersal.
97
2. Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel, Aletheia Talbot, and William Petty
Thomas Howard, 2nd
Earl of Arundel (1585-1645) had been one of Henry’s
closest advisors, and was granted permission to travel to Italy only weeks before the
prince’s death (fig. 86). Due to the ill-advised politics and personal convictions of his
grandfather, Thomas Howard, 4th Duke of Norfolk (1536–1572) and his father Philip
Howard, 1st Earl of Arundel (1557–1595), his early circumstances were meager.
22
Reinvested with his titles in 1604 by King James, he was granted Arundel Castle, West
Sussex, and his Norfolk estates along with the incomes they provided, and would come to
build a reputation as one of the pre-eminent collectors of the Stuart period.
Arundel made a good match with Aletheia Talbot (d. 1654), youngest daughter of
the rich and powerful Gilbert Talbot, 7th
Earl of Shrewsbury (1553–1616), whom he
married in 1606 (fig. 87). Her dowry and the fortune they inherited upon Shrewsbury’s
death allowed them to build a considerable art collection and spend long periods on the
Continent. Arundel owed much of his political advancement and knowledge of art to the
Earl of Shrewsbury’s encouragement; the most valuable help he received being the
22
Arundel’s grandfather, the 4th
Duke of Norfolk intrigued against Queen Elizabeth to marry
Mary, Queen of Scots and was imprisoned in the Tower of London in 1569. He was attainted
(convicted without trial) and executed in 1572. Arundel’s father Philip Howard, named for his
godfather Philip II of Spain, never renounced his Catholicism and was arrested attempting to
leave England without permission. Committed to the Tower in 1585, he was never formally
charged with treason and in fact given several opportunities to recant, which he dismissed. He
died of dysentery ten years later in 1595, never having seen his son (Arundel) who had be born
after his imprisonment. He was canonized by Pope Paul VI in 1970 as one of the Forty Martyrs of
England and Wales. John Hungerford Pollen, “Ven. Philip Howard,” The Catholic Encyclopedia,
vol. 7, (New York: Robert Appleton Company, 1910). As an additional note, Henry, Earl of
Surrey, the grandfather of Philip and great grandfather of Arundel was executed in 1547 by Henry
VIII. The family did not have the best track record.
98
services of Thomas Coke, secretary and artistic adviser to Shrewsbury, who became the
first agent he employed to assist in forming his collection.
On his 1612 permission to travel, Arundel, his wife, and their entourage went to
Spa, near Liège in Belgium, to take the waters for health purposes. Stopping at Brussels
and Antwerp, he made the acquaintance of Rubens and visited the collections of the Duke
of Aarschot and the Postmaster-General at Antwerp, where he greatly admired Sebastiano
del Piombo’s Ferry Carondelet and his Secretary, a picture he believed was a self-
portrait by Raphael and which he eventually acquired in 1618 (fig. 88).23
In the autumn of 1612 Arundel and his party left the Low Countries for Padua,
intending to undertake a prolonged tour of Italy, but his plans were frustrated by the news
of the death of Prince Henry and caused their return to England. By the following April
1613, Arundel managed to return to Italy after accompanying Elizabeth, daughter of
James I, to Heidelberg for her marriage to Frederick V, Elector Palatine (1596–1632).24
Arundel and his wife, with an entourage of thirty-five that included Coke, the architect
Inigo Jones, and their agent William Petty, went first to Milan and were in Venice and
Vicenza by the early autumn of 1613. Spending two weeks in Venice, Arundel was
accompanied by Dudley Carleton, who was now halfway through his appointment there
as ambassador. Although their itinerary through the city is not known, it is assumed
23
Mary F. S. Hervey’s The Life, Correspondence and Collections of Thomas Howard Earl of
Arundel, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1921); David Haworth, Lord Arundel and His
Circle, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985).
24
Lionel Cust and Mary Cox, “Notes on the Collections Formed by Thomas Howard, Earl of
Arundel and Surrey,” The Burlington Magazine, 19, (1911), p. 279.
99
Arundel would have viewed collections such as the Grimani and been reading Francesco
Sansovino’s Tutte le cose notabili che sono in Venetia (1556) as his guide.25
Perhaps it
was through the intensive crash course in Venetian art while spending time with the
Arundel’s, but in a meeting with the Doge and his cabinet in September 1613 Carleton
admitted, “I, who have been here three years, may say that until now I had not seen
Venice,” suggesting his prior lethargy was at an end.26
Carleton’s association with
Arundel was to provide him with the opportunity to act on the advice given to him by
Cope three years earlier.
The Arundels then spent six weeks in the Monasterio delle Grazie in Siena
studying Italian before an excursion to Rome, which undoubtedly represented the climax
of the Italian tour. In June 1614 the earl and countess turned for home, travelling by way
of Siena once more and arriving in England in 1615. In the following years Arundel
would be kept at court or travelling, first on behalf King James and then for Charles, but
his wife Aletheia would return to Italy in 1620 and remain in the Veneto until 1623.
25
David Howarth, Lord Arundel and His Circle, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985), pp.
34-37. Since Boschini had not yet written his Carta or Ricche Minere, Arundel would have to
make do with Sansovino. The Grimani collection, primarily of antique sculpture but containing
some Flemish paintings as well (in particular Bosch), was a public one, having been donated to
the State in 1523 by Domenico Grimani. Marilyn Perry, “Cardinal Domenico Grimani’s Legacy
of Ancient Art to Venice,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 41, (1978), pp. 215-
244 for donation and history of the collection.
26
Robert Hill, “The Ambassador as Art Agent: Sir Dudley Carleton and Jacobean Collecting,”
The Evolution of English Collecting: Receptions of Italian Art in the Tudor and Stuart Periods,
ed., Edward Chaney, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003), p. 244. Rawdon Brown, ed.,
Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice, (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1869-
1883), see 1613-1615, Carleton to the Venetian College, 13 September 1613, p. 42.
100
William Petty (1585—1639) had entered the earl’s household in 1613 as a tutor,
just prior to the second Italy trip. He had been part of Shrewsbury’s circle, and it is most
likely that he came to the attention of Arundel through his father-in-law.27
In 1623
Arundel’s advisor Coke died and Petty succeeded him as the earl’s chief art agent abroad.
The extent of the Arundel collection during this time is difficult to gauge. Purchases
were made during the initial excursions to Italy but they were not in bulk. Rather, it
would seem that the earl used his time to develop his eye and refine the tastes that had
influenced him to travel.28
It is important to note that of all the English collectors,
Arundel had a vested interest in acquiring knowledge of the subject as much as he had a
desire to obtain paintings and objects. His pursuit was founded on a passion for art and
not simply on the favors and attention it could buy him at court; this would be a major
distinction between him and his rivals George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham and James,
3rd
Marquise of Hamilton.
27
David Howarth, Lord Arundel and His Circle, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985),
pp.127-148.
28
This trip was important not only for what Arundel saw, but who he made the acquaintance of
while there. Francesco Vercellini served as the Earl’s Venetian secretary, while Gregorio
Barbarigo, the Venetian ambassador-elect to England served as an escort. Barbarigo, an
intellectual and follower of Paolo Sarpi, had purchased the contents of Titian’s house from his
son Pomponio, see Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo Forni, 2002), vol. 1,
pp. 261-262. Jennifer Fletcher, “The Arundel’s in the Veneto,” Apollo, 144, (1996), pp. 63-69.
101
3. Sir Dudley Carleton, Daniel Nijs (Nys) and Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset
While Dudley Carleton (fig. 89) was escorting the Arundels through Venice, he
was also gathering a consignment of fifteen paintings and ancient sculpture to be sent to
Robert Carr, Viscount Rochester and 1st Earl of Somerset (1587—1645), the current
favorite of King James (fig. 90).29
Carleton, his awareness of artistic matters growing,
had already made contact with Domenico Tintoretto on behalf of John Finet. Finet had
commissioned paintings from Tintoretto during his visit to Venice in 1610, and requested
that Carleton keep track of the progress.30
On behalf of William Cecil, Lord Roos, the
grandnephew of Salisbury, he was also negotiating with Tintoretto for another four
paintings: a Judgment, a Mary Magdalene, a portrait of Doge Donato, and Roos’ own
portrait. These had been ordered during several visits to the city in 1612-1614.31
Carleton must have liked what he saw in the Tintoretto workshop, since according to
Ridolfi he had his own portrait painted there as well.32
29
For Somerset as a collector see A.R. Braunmuller, “Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset, as Collector
and Patron,” The Mental World of the Jacobean Court, ed. L. Peck, (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1991), pp. 230-250.
30
Carleton wrote to John Chamberlain, “I have sent Mr. Finet a letter from Signor Tintoret,”
Public Record Office, State Papers, 99/9/116, Carleton to Chamberlain, Venice, 3 April 1612,
reprinted in Maurice Lee, ed., Dudley Carleton to John Chamberlain 1603-1624 Jacobean
Letters, (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1972), p. 126.
31
This list comes from J.P. Feil, Sir Tobie Matthew and his Collection of Letters, PhD
dissertation, (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1962), p. 86 and is transcribed from British
Library, Add. MS 18, 639/18, 19, 95 and 96.
32
Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo Forni, 2002), v. 2, p. 506. On the same
page as Carleton, spelled “Duodlien Carleton” is listed the portrait of the French Ambassador, no
name given, and “il conte d’Arundel e la Contessa sua moglie con figliuoli.”
102
For the Somerset shipment Carleton was out of his depth however, and turned to
the Flemish art dealer Daniel Nijs (1572—1647), who had been living in Venice since the
1590s (fig. 91). There is no record of Nijs and Carleton meeting in Venice, despite the
amount of time it took to put the group of paintings together, and Carleton had little say
in the selection Nijs made. Of the fifteen paintings: six were by Jacopo Tintoretto
(Susanna, a Benediction of Jacob, Queen of Sheba, a Samaritan Woman, a Ceres, Baccus
and Venus, and a Labyrinth), five by Veronese (three Life of Hercules and two Poetic
Histories), a Venus by Titian, a Shepherds by Schiavone, and two were paintings by
Bassano (Beheading of St John and a Creation) (fig. 92).33
Carleton had purchased the
works on speculation, assuming he would be reimbursed by Somerset once they were
received and he seemed to think he was getting a good price; two thousand Venetian
ducats for the lot, or half his annual salary.34
Since he bought them sight-unseen
however, it is impossible to say whether it was a brilliant deal or Nijs had sold him studio
works of original paintings; the majority of the pictures have disappeared.35
Even if
Carleton had examined them, the inexperienced Englishman would not have known the
33
For the list, see Timothy Wilks, “The Picture Collection of Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset (c.
1587-1645), reconsidered,” Journal of the History of Collections, 1, (1989), p. 171 and Jeffrey
Müller, Rubens: The Artist as Collector, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), pp. 82-82,
published in the Italian.
34
Francois Portier, “Prices Paid for Italian Pictures in the Stuart Age,” Journal of the History of
Collections, 8, (1996), p. 56. The prevailing exchange rate was about £1 to 4 ducats.
35
The Bassano Beheading of John the Baptist in the Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen is a
likely candidate, acc# KMSsp132. It is sloppy, with an unfinished look to it and appears to have a
stronger influence from Veronese than that of Bassano. See A.R. Braunmuller, “Robert Carr, Earl
of Somerset, as Collector and Patron,” The Mental World of the Jacobean Court, ed. L. Peck,
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), p. 235.
103
difference. It was a standard practice for painters to increase their incomes by making
copies of Old Masters, whether they were prestige copies or purposefully done to pass as
originals and deceive the buyer, and that may have been the case here.36
Given the
reputation of Daniel Nijs, this was a distinct possibility. A successful but unpredictable
businessman, Nijs was known for his temper, flattery, and unscrupulous business deals.
Not just an art dealer, he trafficked in anything that stood to make a profit, including
arms, intelligence, and art. When he arrived in Venice he went to work for his cousins
Jean, Jacques and Pierre Gabry, who were originally from Tournai and had established an
international trading firm, becoming part of a small, yet conspicuous, expatriate
community of Flemish merchants. He soon took over the Venetian branch when Pierre
departed Venice for Germany, and would go on to broker the greatest art deal of the
seventeenth century; the 1627 sale of the Gonzaga collection to Charles I.37
Ambassador Carleton dutifully shipped the consignment of paintings from Nijs to
London in April 1615, but by the time they arrived Somerset was already falling from
favor with King James. Once again, Carleton had lost out on an opportunity to ingratiate
36
See Philip Sohm and Richard Spear, Painting for Profit, (New Haven: Yale University Press,
2010), pp. 218-219.
37
Christina Anderson, “The Art of Friendship: Daniel Nijs, Isaac Wake and the Sale of the
Gonzaga Collection,” Renaissance Studies, 27, (2013), pp. 724-737. By the time of the Gonzaga
sale, Isaac Wake had been appointed as English Ambassador to Venice. He had been Dudley
Carleton’s secretary during his appointment, and had been present for the Somerset deal. Nijs bit
off more than he could chew with the Gonzaga sale however. His tactics were untrustworthy;
when he attempted to charge the King for items not received, Charles refused payment and Nijs
went bankrupt. He alienated Carleton, who by that time had become Secretary of State, and spent
his final days in London trying to recuperate his losses. The story is decidedly complex with all
manner of duplicity, double-dealing and backstabbing, for an excellent retelling see Jerry Brotton,
“The Italian Job,” The Sale of the Late King’s Goods, (London: Macmillan, 2006), pp. 107-144.
104
himself with a political superior in the final moment. When he arrived at court in
October 1615, having been recalled from Venice and reposted to the Hague, he
discovered that Somerset was already incarcerated in the Tower over his involvement in
the poisoning of his secretary Sir Thomas Overbury.38
This left Carleton in an awkward position; the fifteen paintings had arrived and
had been hung in Somerset’s apartments in Whitehall, but the earl, who had a bad habit
of not settling his debts, had not paid him and was currently residing in the Tower.39
Carleton owed Nijs the money for the paintings; not being reimbursed was out of the
question. Fortunately Sir Henry Fanshawe, a friend and fellow collector was sent by the
Lord Treasurer as part of the committee to make an inventory of Somerset’s possessions,
and he located the paintings for Carleton.40
They were hanging in the ‘Bowling Alley.’
Carleton then set about trying to find another buyer for a group of pictures he didn’t
want; precipitously, Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel arrived yet again.
Arundel bought twelve of the fifteen paintings for two hundred pounds; the
remaining three, including the Bassano Creation, were purchased by Lord Danvers.41
38
While it is generally believed that Somerset was involved in the murder of Overbury, his guilt
was never more than presumption rather than actual fact and no charges were ever brought. He
remained in the Tower until 1622, but was not officially pardoned until 1624. Anne Somerset,
Unnatural Murder: Poison at the Court of James I, (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1997).
39
For Somerset’s unreliability as a patron see Anne Somerset, Unnatural Murder: Poison at the
Court of James I, (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1997), pp. 219-221.
40
Mary F. S. Hervey’s The Life, Correspondence and Collections of Thomas Howard Earl of
Arundel, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1921), p. 145, Ware Park, Fanshawe’s house,
was “replete with pictures, drawings, medals, books and other objects of interest.
41
W.N. Sainsbury, ed., Original Unpublished Papers Illustrative of the Life of Sir Peter Paul
Rubens as an Artist and Diplomatist Preserved in H.R.M State Paper Office, (London: Bradbury
105
Where these paintings finally settled is a mystery, though it has been suggested that the
‘Tintoretto’ Labyrinth is the painting known as The Pleasure Garden with a Maze at
Hampton Court Place (fig. 93). This painting is most likely by Lodewijk Toeput, called il
Pozzoserrato (1550—1605) who was a Flemish member of Tintoretto’s bottega in the
final years of the master’s life.42
In the small community of Flemish merchants and
artists living in Venice in the 1590s to early 1600s, it is not a stretch of the imagination to
assume that Nijs and Toeput had known one another. If the Hampton Court painting is
the one sent by Nijs it is possible he passed off Toeput’s work as a Tintoretto; he had
worked in the master’s studio, and for some buyers that was sufficient.
Carleton was also in possession of twenty-nine crates of antiquities that had been
meant for Somerset. After taking a loss on the paintings he was eager to unload them as
well, attempting to sell them to Arundel who showed no interest since he had just
received all of the antique sculpture from the collection of Lord Roos.43
For the moment,
Arundel came out the winner in 1616; he had bought Carleton’s pictures at a reduction,
been given Roos’ sculpture collection for free, had inherited what remained of
Somerset’s confiscated possessions, and assumed the title of Earl Marshal—making him
& Evans, 1859), p. 271; Public Record Office, State Papers, 14/86/145, Edward Sherburn to
Carleton, London, 25 May 1616.
42
Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo Forni, 2002), vol. 2, pp. 277-279; R. A.
Peltzer, “Per la conoscenza di Lodewyck Toeput (Pozzoserrato),” Arte Veneta, 5, (1951), pp.
122–125; L. Menegazzi, “Giunta a Ludovico Pozzoserrato,”Arte Veneta, 15, (1961), pp. 119-26;
Stefania Mason Rinaldi, Toeput a Treviso: Ludovico Pozzoserrato/Lodewijk Toeput, pittore
neerlandese nelle civiltà veneta del tardo cinquecento: Atti Seminario, (Treviso, 1987).
43
W.N. Sainsbury, ed., Original Unpublished Papers Illustrative of the Life of Sir Peter Paul
Rubens as an Artist and Diplomatist Preserved in H.R.M State Paper Office, (London: Bradbury
& Evans, 1859), pp. 272-273 for Roos’ sculpture.
106
the head of all English nobility. Within days of receiving the honor he led the procession
installing Charles Stuart as Prince of Wales; he had become one of the most powerful
men in England and a distinguished collector in just a few years.
Dealing in Venetian pictures had not worked out for Carleton the way he had
hoped, although he remained in contact with Nijs during his next posting to the
Netherlands and continued, from 1616 until 1622, to organize shipments of Venetian
paintings back to England.44
These shipments contained what Nijs described as
“paintings not over large by several good hands,” and “small pictures of the best
masters,” “portraits,” and a “selection of small old pictures,” –one can only imagine what
he was sending to Carleton, especially since many were valued at only a ducat each.45
In 1618 he would finally trade the crates of Somerset’s sculpture with Rubens in
exchange for nine of his own paintings.46
By this time, Carleton had become somewhat
savvier regarding the production of paintings; when Rubens initially offered him twelve
pictures, six “Original, by my hand,” and the rest studio pictures “done by one of my
44
There are 14 letters in the State Papers, Venice and 54 letters in the State Papers, Holland
between Carleton and Nijs, dating from March 1616, Carleton’s arrival at the Hague, until
October 1624.
45
Public Record Office, State Papers, 84/77/179, Daniel Nijs to Carelton, Venice, 2 June 1617;
Public Record Office, State Papers, 84/79/251, Daniel Nijs to Carelton, Venice, 31 October 1617;
Public Record Office, State Papers, 84/99/26, Daniel Nijs to Carelton, Venice, 4 January 1621;
Public Record Office, State Papers, 84/103/188, Daniel Nijs to Carelton, Venice, 2 November
1621; and Public Record Office, State Papers, 84/105/100, Daniel Nijs to Carelton, Venice, 25
January 1622 for the ducat value given.
46
For the exchange see letters in W.N. Sainsbury, ed., Original Unpublished Papers Illustrative
of the Life of Sir Peter Paul Rubens as an Artist and Diplomatist Preserved in H.R.M State Paper
Office, (London: Bradbury & Evans, 1859), pp. 23-44.
107
pupils, but the whole retouched by my hand,” he declined.47
That Carleton was unwilling
to take studio productions from Rubens is rather telling. Ten years earlier, an English
agent would not have cared who painted the pictures they commissioned, as long as they
had the right look and a well-known name attached to them. In a phrase that must have
eventually struck a note with Hans Tietze, Rubens protested the dismissal of his studio
work, saying “Your Excellency must not think that the others are mere copies, for they
are so well retouched by my hand that they are hardly distinguished from the originals.”48
While Carleton’s insistence on originals probably stemmed from his fear of being duped
(yet again), if he had not been physically present in the studio of Rubens and had instead
received his paintings from afar—as he did with the pictures Nijs was sending—he would
have never known the difference. In the end, Rubens and Carleton would come to a
happy resolution; the painter getting ninety classical statues and the ambassador nine out
of the twelve paintings, additional tapestries, and two thousand florins in cash.49
Carleton was to regard Arundel as the patron on whose favor he could rely, since
the others had fallen short. It may have been at the earl’s urging that Carleton continued
to bring consignments in from Venice; regardless, Carleton would be sure to continue to
47
Ruth Magurn, ed., The Letters of Peter Paul Rubens, (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1971), pp. 102-103.
48
Ruth Magurn, ed., The Letters of Peter Paul Rubens, (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1971), pp. 102-103; in Hans Tietze, “Master and Workshop in the Venetian Renaissance,”
Parnassus, 11, (1939), p. 45, his conclusion reads, “…a creation vastly indebted to assistants may
bear a more convincing evidence of the master’s genius than one which no hand other than his
has touched.”
49
Jeffrey Müller, Rubens: The Artist as Collector, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989),
p.77.
108
ingratiate himself with the earl, with the Marquise of Hamilton, and George Villiers,
Duke of Buckingham and the king’s new favorite.50
50
Despite the questionable outset of his career in politics; he was associated with the Gunpowder
Plot against the King in 1605, Carleton managed to keep his head above water and do rather well
for himself for the rest of his career. Though he tended to always arrive late to the finish; as was
the case with Prince Henry and the Earl of Somerset, and occasionally back the wrong horse, as
would be the case with Buckingham, he managed to avoid any sort of incarceration. He was
elevated to the peerage in 1626 as Baron Carleton, and made Viscount Dorchester in 1628, the
same year he became Secretary of State. While he sought security and political position during
his career, he was never wealthy nor was he overly corrupt. He left no heirs, dying of a fever on
15 February 1632. He is buried in Westminster Abbey. Oxford Dictionary of National Biography,
online edition. Also Linda Levy Peck, Court Patronage and Corruption in Early Stuart England
(London: Taylor & Francis, 1993).
109
4. Balthazar Gerbier and George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham
If there ever was a living example to describe the phrase, “fortune favors the
bold,” it would have been George Villiers, 1st Duke of Buckingham (1592—1628) (fig.
94). The son of a small landowner from Brooksby, Lancashire, Villiers arrived in
London in 1614 where he caught the eye of King James. He soon usurped Robert Carr’s
position as the king’s favorite, assisted by a new set of clothes and the support of
interested parties looking to remove the Earl of Somerset’s influence within the court.
Elevated to Royal Cupbearer, he quickly had James’ undivided attention and in 1615 was
knighted and made a Gentleman of the Bedchamber. By this time Somerset was in
disgrace, and Villiers, through his charm, dashing good looks, and dancing abilities,
quickly rose through the ranks of the peerage.51
In 1616 he was made Baron Whaddon,
Viscount Villiers and a Knight of the Garter; in 1617 made Earl; in 1618 made Marquess
of Buckingham, and in 1619 made Lord Admiral of the Fleet, despite having no
knowledge of boats or seamanship.52
The Dukedom of Buckingham was recreated for
him in 1623 and Villiers remained James’ closest advisor until the king’s death in 1625.
51
Alan Stewart, The Cradle King: A Life of James VI & I, (London: Macmillan, 2003), pp. 264-
278.
52
Alan Stewart, The Cradle King: A Life of James VI & I, (London: Macmillan, 2003), pp. 279;
Roger Lockyer, Buckingham: The Life and Political Career of George Villiers, Duke of
Buckingham, 1572-1628, (New York: Routledge, 1981).
110
Never to miss an opportunity, Villiers had in the meantime made himself the best friend
of Charles, the now heir apparent.53
In 1623 the prince and Buckingham went to Madrid where they viewed the
extensive collections of Philip IV of Spain, inherited from Philip II.54
Charles had
observed the collection of the Earl of Arundel already, but although they shared an
interest in art, they were a generation apart and the earl was a serious and introspective
collector; essentially, not much fun. Additionally, the earl had been banished to his
country estates (after a brief imprisonment) due to his son’s unauthorized marriage to a
relation of the royal family. George Villiers on the other hand, had bravura, charisma and
impetuousness on his side along with the favor of the king; he was the perfect companion
for a young man who lacked all those qualities in himself, and he was quick to launch an
offensive to win the young prince over. The desire to acquire fine art provided the
perfect entrée; indeed, everyone noticed the prince’s interest—the Venetian Ambassador
53
There are many questions regarding the relationship between James and Villiers, speculated
upon during their lifetimes as well. Villiers did marry in 1620, to the Earl of Rutland’s daughter
Lady Katherine Manners with whom he had four children. But his relationship with James was
most likely a physical one as well as emotional. James nicknamed him “Steenie” after St.
Stephen, who was said to have the face of an angel. For further discussion see David Bergeron,
"Writing King James's Sexuality," Royal Subjects: Essays on the Writings of James VI and I, ed.
Fortier Fischlin, (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2002).
54
For Charles’ Spanish trip see Alexander Samson, ed., The Spanish Match: Prince Charles’s
Journey to Madrid, 1623, (London: Ashgate, 2006); and for the impression left by the art
collection, Sarah Schroth, “Charles I, the Duque de Lerma, and Veronese’s Edinburgh Mars and
Venus,” The Burlington Magazine, 139, (1997), pp. 548-550.
111
Girolamo Lando was already informing the Senate in 1622 that the heir to the English
throne loved “old paintings, especially those of our province and city.”55
By the time of his promotion to Lord Admiral in 1619 Villiers determined that an
art collection was a necessary attribute of noble status, and thus set about forming one as
quickly as possible with the greatest flair and aim to impress—the complete antithesis of
Arundel’s method.56
He bought in haste with a reckless manner, yet he achieved
remarkable results. His chief agent in this endeavor was Balthazar Gerbier (1591—
1667), a Huguenot refugee whose parents had arrived in England in 1616 (fig. 95).57
He
entered Buckingham’s household in 1619 and promptly set out in search of worthy
objects.58
Clever, resourceful, and unsavory in his own right, Gerbier was a shrewd
match for Daniel Nijs, with whom he would do much business in Venice.
55
“The Relation of England” of Girolamo Lando, addressed to the Doge and Senate, 21
September 1622, Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice,
(London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1869-1883), see, 1621-1623, 17, p. 452.
56
Jonathan Brown, Kings and Connoisseurs, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), p. 24.
57
Edward Chaney, “Notes Towards a Biography of Sir Balthazar Gerbier,” The Evolution of the
Grand Tour, ed. Edward Chaney, (London: Cass, 1998), pp. 215-225.
58
Gerbier solicited Buckingham for employment, offering his services as a “common pen man”
as he referred to himself. The Bodleian Library, Oxford has letters from Gerbier to Buckingham,
MS. Tanner 73, ff. 119-123. Six of these are reprinted in Godfrey Goodman, Court of King James
I, (London: Richard Bentley, 1839), the complete text which is available online. One cannot
judge Horace Walpole too harshly for dismissing Gerbier as he did; the letters are saccharine
drivel that would embarrass a rabid preteen fangirl of any boy-band on the market today. “I feel a
thousand regrets at setting out without having seen your face and presence” p. 266; “your
Excellency’s happy voyage makes my heart leap with joy” p. 261; “my hand trembles as it forms
the word adieu” p. 267; even in the context of the literary style of the period, one’s gag reflex is
triggered. Horace Walpole, Anecdotes of Painting in England, 3 vols., (London: Henry Bohn,
1849), text available online.
112
By this time Henry Wotton had returned to the city for another appointment as
ambassador. With his assistance and that of Nijs, Gerbier purchased eleven paintings
including Titian’s Ecce Homo, now in Vienna (fig. 96), and Tintoretto’s Christ and the
Woman Taken in Adultery, now in Dresden (fig. 97).59
The Ecce Homo was painted in
1543 for the Flemish merchant Giovanni d’Anna, and it remained in Venice until
Gerbier’s 1621 purchase.60
It is possible Nijs and his Flemish connections may have
helped in the transaction, but firm evidence has yet to come to light. We do know that
both paintings, despite their sizes (7’x11’ respectively) were rolled and wrapped in
waterproof cloth and packed in cases for their transport over the Alps and onward to
England. While it is interesting to see what expenses Gerbier was listing and the amount
each one was costing the Duke, it is also interesting to see what he does not list.61
For
example, Gerbier notes the four occasions he had to pay a customs fee; Milan and
Montserrat, Lyons, Paris and Boulogne. In Lyons he had to pay to have the crates
unpacked and repacked for the customs examination; in Boulogne he had to pay to
remove goods from the country, but he paid no customs or exit tax when leaving Venice.
59
Kunsthistorisches Wien, acc# Inv.-Nr. GG 73; Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister, Dresden, acc#
Gal.-Nr. 270 A. It is difficult to give solid attribution to the Tintoretto, it may be Domenico rather
than Jacopo.
60
The painting entered the Kunsthistorisches collection in 1649, the date of Charles I death; it
passed into his hands after the death of Buckingham in 1628. See object provenance information
on the museum website.
61
This information comes from the Tanner documents in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS
Tanner 73, ff. 119-123. See I. G. Philip, “Balthazar Gerbier and the Duke of Buckingham’s
Pictures,” The Burlington Magazine, 99, (1957), pp. 155-156 for a transcription of the full
document.
113
This suggests that some bribery took place on his way out of the city; either by Nijs or by
Wotton, who would have known the right low level bureaucrat to pay off. Given the
chance to make some extra money, no one would ask questions about the rolls of canvas
be loaded aboard ship. Certainly, it makes more sense that Gerbier would choose to
remove the paintings from their frames and ship them rolled; they would draw less
attention than if they were packed into giant unwieldy crates. Unlike Wotton, Carleton
and as we shall see, Lord Feilding, Gerbier did not have an official position of State
which he could use to garner favors such as customs waivers from the Venetian
government.
Buckingham chose well when he hired the resourceful Gerbier as his agent
abroad, and he in turn made use of the duke’s political connections and purchasing
power. Gerbier had secured his reputation in London with the purchase of the Ecce
Homo; at £275 (1100 Venetian ducats) it was unprecedented.62
Even Arundel had never
spent that amount on a single painting. The collection was placed in his rooms in
Whitehall, where his rivals could see it. In many ways the trend of these English
collections was similar, though on a smaller scale, to the preferences of the Hapsburg
dynasty. Emperor Charles V, Philip II, and Rudolph II had dominated Europe from
Spain, across Italy and to the Low Countries. Their patronage and buying power
reflected the idea that power promotes culture, and that political power was physically
expressed in the art that was produced—which was precisely the same concept extolled
by the Venetians in the pictures they created. By virtue of subject matter; historical
62
Lita-Rose Betcherman, “Balthazar Gerbier in seventeenth-century Italy,” History Today, 11,
(1961), pp. 325-331.
114
event, mythological and allegorical association, and portraiture, these families were
constantly reasserting their position, their control, and their ties to one another through
their patronage.
The English, always separate and by the seventeenth century differentiated by
their religious standpoint (and unlike the Netherlands never occupied), approached
painting and patronage only as connoisseurs. Their interests valued the aesthetic
qualities—composition, color, proportion and style—of their purchases before anything
else. That is not to say these considerations were lacking in the Hapsburg dynasty, but it
was balanced by their political and religious concerns. According to Henry Wotton,
connoisseurship was the most admirable intellectual accomplishment of the king himself,
“for what more learned than to behold the mute eloquence of lights and shadowes and
silver poesy of lineaments, and as it were living marbles?”63
Stars that burn brightest burn the quickest, and Buckingham’s meteoric rise was
not to last. His political and military ineptitude, corruption, overspending, and egotism
finally caught up to him, and on 23 August 1628 he was stabbed to death at an inn in
Portsmouth by a man named John Felton.64
King Charles had to bury his friend in
Westminster Abbey at night to avoid an uproar, and Buckingham’s collection would be
63
Henry Wotton, A Panegyrick to King Charles, (London, 1646), pp. 102-106.
64
Roger Lockyer, Buckingham: The Life and Political Career of George Villiers, Duke of
Buckingham, 1572-1628, (New York: Routledge, 1981); Kevin A. Sharpe, “The Earl of Arundel,
His Circle and the Opposition to the Duke of Buckingham,” Faction and Parliament: Essays in
Early Stuart History, ed. Kevin A. Sharpe, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), pp. 209-244.
Buckingham’s assassination was one of those random acts of violence that everyone was
planning, but no one would perform.
115
the one of the first available during the Commonwealth Sale of 1649.65
Gerbier would be
absorbed into Charles’s household where he was sent to serve as resident agent in
Brussels from 1631—1641. After the execution of the king he cobbled together a living
through a series of ventures, none of which were ever thriving. Always the chameleon,
he pledged his loyalty to Cromwell and the republican government only to then attempt
to win royal appointments during the Restoration. He was unsuccessful.66
65
Randall Davies, “An Inventory of the Duke of Buckingham’s Pictures at York House in 1635,”
The Burlington Magazine, 10, (1907), pp. 376+379-382; Philip McEvansoneya, “A Note on the
Duke of Buckingham's Inventory,” The Burlington Magazine, 128, (1986), p. 607 and Philip
McEvansoneya, “The sequestration and dispersal of the Buckingham collection,” Journal of the
History of Collections, 8, (1996), pp. 133-154; finally for the sale itself, Jonathon Brown, The
Sale of the Century, (New Have: Yale University Press, 2002); Arthur MacGregor, ed., The Late
King’s Goods: Collections, Possessions, and Patronage in the Light of the Commonwealth Sale
Inventories, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989).
66
Lita-Rose Betcherman, Buckingham’s Man: Balthazar Gerbier, (New York: Bev Editions,
2011).
116
5. Aletheia Talbot, Countess Arundel: A Troubling Affair in Venice
When the Countess of Arundel (fig. 98) returned to Venice in 1620 with her two
sons in tow, she settled into the Palazzo Mocenigo and quickly became a larger than life
presence within the city. Her sons were sent to the university in Padua, and she remained
living without her husband in the Veneto until 1623. Always an avid shopper, well
versed in art and architecture, and fluent in Italian; she had an extravagant temperament
which had to be rather vexing to Henry Wotton, who was on the last leg of his diplomatic
post and therefore responsible to her needs.67
Equally disagreeable to him was her
interest in the arts; she was a collector in her own right, quite apart from her husband.
Wotton, still working for Buckingham, wasn’t interested in any competition—especially
in his own backyard.
While nothing specific is known of her collection purchases during this period
in Venice, it is known the countess attempted to lure artists back to England with her,
though she was unsuccessful. One of these artists was Tizianello, the grandson of Titian,
who after being paid by the countess ran off with the funds without providing services.
In a bid to mollify her, he dedicated his Breve compendio della vita del famoso Titiano
Vecellio di Cadore (1622) to her, praising her patronage and noting the works by Titian
in the Arundel collection.68
His attempt failed and she complained to the Senate that
67
See David Howarth, “The Patronage and Collecting of Aletheia, Countess of Arundel 1606-
54,” Journal of the History of Collections, 10, (1998), pp. 128.
68
Tizianello Vecellio, Breve compendio della vita del famoso Titiano Vecellio di Cadore,
(Venetia: Santo Grillo & fratelli, 1622). British Library, Rare Books, 810.i.3. A copy exists in the
117
“Not content with deceiving her and taking her money he has gone on to slander her
saying he did not go because he feared she would take him to Spain, whither she was
going from Genoa.”69
The Advogador Vendramin was accordingly dispatched to make
the arrest.
The countess had commissioned Odoardo Fialetti to engrave the portrait of Titian
for Tizianello’s biography; the same Fialetti who published Il vero modo et ordine per
dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano in 1608. The Arundel’s owned a
copy of his book, and long after her death Boschini recalls that her nipotino, or nephew,
was still using it to practice drawing.70
Fialetti also dedicated his reproductions after
Pordenone’s Udine Palazzo Tinghi frescos to the Earl of Arundel and worked with Henry
Wotton and Daniel Nijs, who sold to the earl on occasion.71
At some point during
Wotton’s tenure as ambassador, (the date is unclear), Fialetti painted one of his audiences
before Doge Leonardo Donato and his councilors (fig. 99).72
Meanwhile, Lady Arundel
Bibliothèque National de France, BNF, Tolbiac – Rez-de-jardin–magasin, RES–K–689 (5) and is
also available online.
69
Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice, (London: Longmans,
Green & Co., 1869-1883), see 1623-1625, 18, item 849, 11 March 1625, p. 607. It was Isaac
Wake, Wotton’s replacement in Venice who officially made the complaint before the Venetian
Senate.
70
David Howarth, Lord Arundel and his Circle, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985), p.
239, n. 15.
71
See Deborah Howard, The Image of Venice: Fialetti and Sir Henry Wotton, (London: Paul
Holberton Publishing, 2014) for their association.
72
Wotton bequeathed the painting to King Charles in his will. It is now at Hampton Court Palace,
acc# ML 484. Doge Donato was elected 10 January 1606 and served until his death 16 July
1612; we can assume the painting was made during those six years.
118
also tried to help Antonio Moretti, a painter who was in jail for debt but there is no record
of his travel to London either.
It is not surprising then that a scandal in Venice would eventually find the
countess; foreigners, no matter how rich, were treated with suspicion and it is important
to understand that the Venetian government was ever-watchful. Alone in a foreign land
with a conspicuously absent husband, by nature independent and used to getting her
way—through funds or sheer force of will—the Lady Arundel was headed for disaster,
hurried along by Wotton who wished her to be gone, and arrived in the person of Antonio
Foscarini.
Venetian patrician, ambassador in London from 1611 to 1615; he had been
knighted in France and was prone to licentious and eccentric behavior. While living in
London it was reported that “some Catholic women of very noble birth were invited to
dinner….Ambassador Foscarini took a glass in his hand, which had the form of a virile
member; he filled it with wine and invited one of the women to drink from it…she
inclining her eyes with a modest blush, got up from the table. Lord Foscarini placed the
glass in the front opening of her underwear and distressed her by embracing her. As she
fled he grabbed her by the shoulders…she exclaimed saying she would make it known at
Court….Lord Foscarini responded, “Excuse me, this is how we behave in Venice.”73
73
Archivio di Stato di Venezia, Inquisitori di stato, 80, busta 155, unpublished document; from
the list of accusations used in the interrogation during the trial of Foscarini, January 1616.
119
He had attempted to have an audience with Lady Arundel when in London, but
she refused him—goodness knows why.74
On his recall to Venice he would be replaced
by Gregorio Barbarigo, another Venetian contact of the Arundel’s and as mentioned,
buyer of the remainder of Titian’s studio from his son.75
Perhaps it was Foscarini’s lewd
behavior; perhaps he had simply stopped caring about the supposed seriousness of his
position, but the character flaws began to rack up. “Lord Luca Tron blamed Foscarini for
irreverence at Mass, having made a fart at the elevation of the host.”76
Or, “When
important business had to be dealt with the Ambassador Foscarini…had recourse to the
drawing of lots.”77
And most damning of all, “When the strength of the Republic was
praised he likened it to a little drunken ape masquerading as a fierce lion.”78
Foscarini
was in trouble.
If it wasn’t another patrician tattling on him, then it was his secretarial staff at the
London embassy reporting to the Senate about his misconduct. The atmosphere with his
74
Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice, (London: Longmans,
Green & Co., 1869-1883), see 1617, 13, p. 507.
75
Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo Forni, 2002), vol. 1, pp. 261-262.
Jennifer Fletcher, “The Arundel’s in the Veneto,” Apollo, 144, (1996), pp. 63-69.
76
Archivio di Stato di Venezia, Inquisitori di stato, 49, busta 155, unpublished document;
Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice, (London: Longmans,
Green & Co., 1869-1883), see, 1615, 14, 26 September 1615, p. 29. Having been to mass in San
Marco, I can say with authority that the acoustics (and air flow) are such that it would be
impossible to tell from which direction a fart came. I believe this is a 17th
century case of “he who
smelt it, dealt it,” or in the Italian, “colui che annusò, ha fatto.”
77
Archivio di Stato di Venezia, Inquisitori di stato, 49, busta 155, unpublished document.
78
Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice, (London: Longmans,
Green & Co., 1869-1883), see 1615, 14, p. 594, no. 19.
120
first secretary, Giulio Muscorno, was so poisoned that he left Foscarini and returned to
Venice in 1615, only to be replaced by a man name Rizzardo.79
Having heard about
Foscarini’s antics already, Rizzardo came with the instruction to spy on his superior and
report home. This was standard policy in any Venetian embassy, but now Rizzardo knew
he had something specific to look for.80
By 1622 Foscarini was back in Venice with a questionable reputation when the
attention of Gerolamo Vano fell upon him. Vano was the low level handler of several
embassy spies, including those in the Spanish house who tipped Foscarini for passing
information to their superiors. Vano passed on this intelligence to the Council of Ten,
who quietly had Foscarini arrested and two weeks later discreetly strangled in prison.
Not so subtly, his body was displayed hanging upside-down by one leg from the gallows
in Piazza San Marco; the sign of a traitor.81
Unfortunately for the countess it was also
reported that Foscarini had been seen at her home:
“[It] is generally agreed that Foscarini went out at night alone,...dressed
bizarrely, to the house of the Countess of Arundel…[T]hey say that
Foscarini initially began to visit her as a compliment, and that…after a
short while meetings with the Imperial resident were arranged, which
inevitably led to Spain…[I]t is publicly said that the countess has been
79
Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice, (London: Longmans,
Green & Co., 1869-1883), see 1615, 13, pp. 467, 482-483.
80
Jonathan Walker, “Antonio Foscarini in the City of Crossed Destinies,” Rethinking History, 5,
(2001), pp. 305-334. Spying was standard practice for Venetian diplomats and politicians; if they
weren’t reporting on foreigners they were reporting on each other. Every ambassadorial
household in Venice had at least one spy (if not two, for confirmation) including the English.
Everyone was aware of the practice, therefore everyone was naturally suspicious.
81
See Jonathan Walker, Pistols! Treason! Murder! The Rise and Fall of a Master Spy,
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007) for the full sordid tale.
121
secretly ordered to leave Venice within three days.”
23 April 1622, Dispatch of the Florentine Resident82
There are two implications being made. The first is one of an adulterous sexual nature;
the second is one of espionage. To further complicate matters for the countess, her co-
conspirators were all Catholics. While she was Catholic herself there was still an uneasy
balance with Protestantism in England, and Catholics were generally viewed with
suspicion. This would be a problem both abroad and at home.
It is unclear whether it was purposeful or simply inept, but Wotton waited a
fortnight before informing the countess that she was believed to be complicit in a plot to
pass information to the Spanish and that Foscarini was the one to implicate her. By
stalling on the news he may have tried to frighten her into a sudden departure, but he
miscalculated her response badly. Instead of taking flight she demanded an audience
with the Doge and Senate, who heard her case and claimed they had never considered her
involved at all. In fact they had come to believe Foscarini was innocent as well, but the
declaration came too late for him. Hastening to repair the damage the Venetians feted the
countess across the city and sent numerous gifts, but she had decided it was time to go
and shortly thereafter, left Venice in October 1623.
When she departed the customs officials released seventy bales of goods, listed as
“used” materials from her household. This suggests there were no paintings or art
82
Documented and printed in S. Romanin, Storia documentata di Venezia, vol. 7, (Venice:
Naraovich, 1858), p. 586.
122
objects, but they could have been omitted or considered as “gifts” and not listed.83
She
did manage to bring a gondola, several maids, a Moorish servant and live snails home to
London, as she trundled her way northward with her sons in tow. Thanks to the happy
resolution of a potentially dangerous political situation, she always retained a regard for
Venetians at home, inviting them to masques and banquets at Arundel House.84
Provided
of course, they did not arrive bearing novelty glassware.
83
The Arundel’s were afforded a ‘passport’ by the Venetian authorities allowing them to
transport art without the usual customs declaration. While references are scattered there is record
of Arundel (through his agent William Petty) transporting ‘little paintings’ and ‘designes’ through
the Venetian embassy in the Hague in 1636, see British Museum, Add. MS. 15970, fol. 63, letter
the Petty from Arundel dated 3 February 1637. Christina Anderson, “Daniel Nijs's Cabinet and its
Sale to Lord Arundel in 1636,” The Burlington Magazine, 154, (2012), pp. 172-176. These may
be Arundel’s purchases from the Nijs collection. It is not remiss to assume the same privileges
were given the Lady Arundel on her departure--given their desire to appease her--and any art
works were sent separately or not listed at all for that reason.
84
See Jennifer Fletcher, “The Arundels in the Veneto,” Apollo, 144, (1996), p. 67 for a list of
items in her baggage, and her hospitality toward Venetians. Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of
State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice, (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1869-1883), see 1640-
1642, 25, p. 190 and 359 for hosting Venetians. David Howarth, “The Patronage and Collecting
of Aletheia, Countess of Arundel 1606-1654,” Journal of the History of Collections, 10, (1998),
pp. 125-137 for a summary of the details of Foscarini and her time in Venice.
123
6. ‘hunting after pictures’: Basil, Viscount Feilding and James, 3rd
Marquis, 1st
Duke of Hamilton85
James, 3rd
Marquis of Hamilton, (1606—1649) (fig. 100) entered the chase for
paintings later than Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel and George Villiers, Duke of
Buckingham, but he managed to win and lose them in a spectacular fashion. Born into
the leading family of Scottish nobility with a direct line of succession to the throne of
Scotland, the 3rd
Marquis, and from 1643 Duke of Hamilton, found himself a pawn in
Buckingham’s machinations early in life. His father, also James, and 2nd
Marquis of
Hamilton (1589—1625) had died suddenly at the age of thirty-six; some suggested by
poisoning.86
Prince Charles invited Henry Wotton to investigate the matter, and he
described Hamilton as the ‘near friend and ally’ of Buckingham. Of course, Wotton also
said that when Hamilton was shown a list of people Buckingham intended to poison he
‘read it and put it in his pocket.’87
85
See Paul Shakeshaft, “To Much Bewiched with Those Intysing Things:” The Letters of James,
Third Marquis of Hamilton and Basil, Viscount Feilding, Concerning Collecting in Venice 1635-
1639,” The Burlington Magazine, 128, (1986), p. 124, xix for quote.
86
This claim was circulated widely by George Eglisham who published Forerunner of Revenge
in 1626, alleging that Buckingham had poisoned Hamilton and King James, see John Malham,
ed., Harleian Miscellany, vol 2, (London: R. Dutton, 1809), pp. 69-81; and Anne Somerset,
Unnatural Murder: Poison at the Court of James I, (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1997), for
the availability and ease of using poisons at court.
87
For this information and Wotton’s quotes, see pp. 291-297 in Logan Pearsall Smith, The Life
and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton, vol. 2 (Oxford, 1907). Clearly Buckingham was walking around
with a hate list, and Hamilton did what any rational person would do—especially if his name was
on it.
124
The elder James had been a political supporter and confidante of Buckingham’s
since 1617, when through the duke’s influence he was made a Privy Councilor.88
Their
political alliance continued almost until James’s death, right before which their
relationship had badly deteriorated, but it was enough time, unfortunately for his son, to
allow Buckingham to solidify their families association. By 1620, the teenage Earl of
Arran (as the 3rd
Marquis was known) was brought to court by his father and underwent a
sort of “trial by fire” initiation in the Whitehall cult of collecting. In June of 1622 he was
married, in front of the king, to the nine year old daughter of Buckingham’s sister Susan,
named Mary Feilding. It was a marriage he would bitterly resent. Susan was married to
William Feilding, made 1st Earl of Denbigh in September 1622, and she also had a son
named Basil, who was five years older than his wedded little sister.89
The young Hamilton would have witnessed the collection building going on at
Whitehall during his sojourn at court; at the time of his own marriage, Balthazar Gerbier
and Henry Wotton were preparing to send the first consignments from Venice to
Buckingham.90
He also would have known the budding tastes of Prince Charles, who had
yet to make the 1623 trip to Madrid that Arran would accompany him on. It was from his
own father, the Lord Steward, that he would learn the most however. The elder Hamilton
88
See Roger Lockyer, Buckingham: The Life and Political Career of George Villiers, Duke of
Buckingham, 1572-1628, (New York: Routledge, 1981), p. 36, “by my Lord of Buckingham’s
means.”
89
Philip McEvansoneya, “An Unpublished Inventory of the Hamilton Collection in the 1620s and
the Duke of Buckingham’s Pictures,” The Burlington Magazine, 134, (1992), p. 524.
90
I. G. Philip, “Balthazar Gerbier and the Duke of Buckingham’s Pictures,” The Burlington
Magazine, 99, (1957), pp. 155-156.
125
had traveled to Venice in 1610, where he had been presented to the Doge by Wotton (on
his first stint as ambassador) and received permission from the Senate to view the State
Treasury and Armory.91
An early bias for Venetian pictures had taken root, and between
1617 when his position at court became secure and his death in 1625, the 2nd
Marquise of
Hamilton was actively building his own collection.
By 1622 Hamilton’s collection was significant enough that he is mentioned by
Tizianello in his Breve compendio della vita del famoso Titiano Vecellio di Cadore,
dedicated to Lady Arundel, alongside the prince, Arundel, Pembroke and Buckingham as
the most important of English collectors. It is likely that he built his collection on his
own initiative rather than inheriting a group of pictures, and it is also likely that Wotton
and Carleton could have been supplying him.92
As we saw earlier in the chapter, it was
during this same period from 1617 to 1624 that Carleton was still receiving shipments
from Daniel Nijs in Venice. While the descriptions from Nijs’ letters don’t match the
majority of descriptions from Hamilton’s inventory, in some cases they could. Nijs
describes “portraits” and “small works by good old masters”—Hamilton records “a cup
with fruits and grapes,” and “5 pictures of divers masters,” with “2 little landscapes of
91
Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice, (London: Longmans,
Green & Co., 1869-1883), see 1607-1610, pp. 408-409.
92
For a list of the principal patrons of art in England at the time, see Henry Peacham, The
Gentleman’s Exercise, (London, 1612), where the Earls of Arundel, Worcester, Southampton,
Pembroke, Suffolk and Northampton along with ‘many Knights and Gentleman’ are listed, pp. 7-
8.
126
Andrea Chiavon,” and “2 peeces of little children of old tintoret,” to list just a few.93
It is
entirely possible he was fleshing out the better and larger works of his collection with
smaller pieces from Carleton.
Additionally, it is not clear that this list of forty six paintings is the extent of his
collection. The inventory was drawn up and presented to Buckingham after Hamilton’s
death; on the understanding, either through the duke’s own presumption or through an
accord agreed upon at the marriage of Arran and Mary Feilding, that Buckingham had
choice of the lot before handing off the remains to Hamilton’s son. They also may just be
the paintings found in the Whitehall apartments of Hamilton, or only a selection of those
he kept with him in London.
After his father’s death, the now 3rd
Marquise of Hamilton remained at court for
the coronation of King Charles in February 1626 but left for Scotland soon after. He was
uneasy as a member of the inner circle and his rivalry with Buckingham became
intolerable. Retreating to his country estates in Scotland offered relief, and he did not
return to London until after the assassination of Buckingham in 1628.
Once the duke was dead, Hamilton was free to make his rise at court and was
soon appointed Master of the Horse, then Privy Councillor. He spent several years
93
The complete list, numbering 46 items is reprinted by Philip McEvansoneya, “An Unpublished
Inventory of the Hamilton Collection in the 1620s and the Duke of Buckingham’s Pictures,” The
Burlington Magazine, 134, (1992), pp. 524-526, list on p. 526. The original document is in the
Duke of Hamilton’s collection, Lennoxlove, Hamilton MSS M4/3, and see this article for the
history of the 2nd
Marquis’ collection. It should be noted that Wotton wrote to Buckingham in
December 1622 regarding a picture of ‘a dish of grapes’ he had sent to the Countess of
Denbigh—possibly the same picture in Hamilton’s collection. Logan Pearsall Smith, ed., The Life
and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton, 2 vols, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1907), vol. 2, p. 257.
127
abroad campaigning with Gustavus Adolphus and finally returned from Saxony in 1632.
It was between his homecoming and new campaigns in 1638 that Hamilton would be
constantly by the king’s side, and it was during this time of relative calm that he would
turn to collecting to further solidify his place at court. Hamilton shared the king’s
company, trust, and interests, and their friendship was marked by their exchange of
pictures.94
It may have been at Hamilton’s urging that Basil, Lord Feilding (1608—1675)
was appointed Ambassador to Venice on 14 September 1634 (fig 101). Hamilton’s
brother-in-law by marriage to Mary Feilding, the deceased Buckingham’s niece, Feilding
was the son of influential courtiers—his mother was principal lady in waiting to the
queen and his father was Master of the Kings Wardrobe—and he was familiar with the
major Whitehall collections, well traveled and ‘of a good manner and the best
education.’95
He would be the ideal agent for Hamilton in Venice. From 1635 until
1639, spanning the entirety of his post in Venice, Feilding and Hamilton communicated
on a regular basis,96
with Feilding responsible for all of Hamilton’s major purchases
94
Paul Shakeshaft, “To Much Bewiched with Those Intysing Things:” The Letters of James,
Third Marquis of Hamilton and Basil, Viscount Feilding, Concerning Collecting in Venice 1635-
1639,” The Burlington Magazine, 128, (1986), pp. 114-178, p. 115 for this sentiment.
95
Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice, (London: Longmans,
Green & Co., 1869-1883), see 1632-1636, 23, pp. 234-244.
96
It is interesting to note that the letters often have two dates; Feilding used the Gregorian
calendar, while Hamilton preferred the English, or Julian calendar. The difference is ten days.
The Julian calendar was adjusted in 1582 by Pope Gregory XIII but was only adopted in Catholic
countries and territories, the English did not adopt its use until 1752.
128
including the collections of Bartolomeo della Nave, Procurator Priuli, and Nicolo
Renieri.97
King Charles was underwriting the purchases made by Hamilton who could not
otherwise afford such massive investments; consequently the king felt he had a claim to
the paintings as well.98
Feilding, for his part, was attempting to please both the king and
his brother-in-law while following the initiative of his predecessors Wotton, Carleton and
Wake as ambassador turned art agent. When his official charge of diplomacy faltered, he
would compensate by redoubling his efforts at purchasing art.99
Their correspondence
reflects that in the space of two and a half years Feilding viewed and considered
obtaining ten different collections in the Veneto. He was such a presence in the city that
Ridolfi refers to him by name in the lives of Titian, Schiavone, Pordenone, Veronese,
Bassano, Catena, Nadalino da Murano, Palma Vecchio, Zelotti, Tinelli, and Tintoretto.
The Venetians were reluctant, even in the 1630s, to use state pictures as a political and
97
For the lists of paintings purchased from della Nave and Renieri, see E.K. Waterhouse,
“Paintings from Venice for Seventeenth Century England: Some Records of a Forgotten
Transaction,” Italian Studies, 7, (1952), pp. 1-23; for their correspondence see Paul Shakeshaft,
“To Much Bewiched with Those Intysing Things:” The Letters of James, Third Marquis of
Hamilton and Basil, Viscount Feilding, Concerning Collecting in Venice 1635-1639,” The
Burlington Magazine, 128, (1986), pp. 114-178 reprinting a selection concerning art. Fifty letters
from the Marquis and one hundred sixty letter from Feilding survive in the Warwick County
Record Office, Newnham Paddox Papers, CR 2017, MSS C1/52-101 (Hamilton) and the Scottish
Record Office GD 406/1/9443-9589 (Feilding).
98
H. L. Rubenstein, Captain Luckless, James, First Duke of Hamilton: 1606-1649, (Edinburgh,
1975), p. 46.
99
The Senate was displeased by Feilding’s handling of the Andrea della Nave and the Buoni
scandals, Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts, Venice, (London:
Longmans, Green & Co., 1869-1883), see 1636-1639, 24, p.137-171 (unrelated to della Nave
collection family).
129
diplomatic balm in their relations; but they did make concessions for the English not
recorded for other parties. For example, Feilding was allowed to view the collection of
Senator Domenico Ruzzini, which, had the Senator not been granted official permission
to do would have been a treasonable offence.100
Unlike the buying and selling environment of Boschini in the 1660s, where
quality paintings were difficult to come by and families were reluctant to part with their
minimal and meager remains, the first three decades of the seventeenth century were a
consumer’s paradise. Del Sera had only arrived in Venice in 1632 at the age of eighteen;
he was a young twenty-something trying to curry the favor of the Medici when Feilding
was making his biggest acquisitions. Renieri had arrived about ten years earlier and
benefited from the opportunity; he would be selling to Feilding. In April 1637, the first
eighteen paintings from Renieri arrived in London; Hamilton would buy thirty two in
total.101
Renieri’s taste included examples by a younger generation of painters, including
Varotari and Fetti, and outside Venice Reni, Poussin and Lanfranco; he was informed by
his own training as a painter and recognized talent. This preference appears to have
rubbed off on Feilding, whose appreciation of modern painting was more advanced than
100
For the permission see Rawdon Brown, ed., Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts,
Venice, (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1869-1883), see 1632-1636, 23, p. 373. For the
restrictions on ambassadors while in Venice see Francis Haskell, Patrons and Painters, (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 1980), p. 245.
101
E.K. Waterhouse, “Paintings from Venice for Seventeenth Century England: Some Records of
a Forgotten Transaction,” Italian Studies, 7, (1952), pp. 21-23 for the list of Renieri’s paintings.
See also Simona Savini Branca, Il Collezionismo Veneziano nel’600, (Padua: CEDAM, 1965),
pp. 264-268 for Renieri’s collection. He would continue to build his collection and eventually sell
it by public lottery in 1666. Also, Jaynie Anderson, “A Further Inventory of Gabriel Vendramin’s
Collection,” The Burlington Magazine, 121, (1979), pp. 639-648 for the origin of some of
Renieri’s paintings.
130
Hamilton’s; his response to the Renieri offer is unenthusiastic, and upon seeing the
shipment complains that Feilding had bought copies, not originals.102
The issue of copies mixed in with originals was a problem with the della Nave
collection as well. In his first viewing, Feilding judged the majority to be studio works,
although in consultation with Renieri, the artist Tiberio Tinelli, and his purchasing
competitor William Petty (who was working on behalf of Arundel), he eventually gave a
higher opinion on some of the pictures.103
On a side note, Tinelli had studied under
Giovanni Contarini (mentioned in preceding chapters) and was known as a portrait
painter for Venetian aristocrats and merchants. His best known work, dated 1637, is a
portrait of the wealthy merchant Lodovico Widmann, who had amassed an impressive art
collection of his own (fig. 102).104
The della Nave group had become available in 1636,
102
See letter xvi for the Renieri offer, Scottish Record Office, GD 406/1/9573, Feilding to
Hamilton, Venice, 3 April 1637, “The pictures are all originalls though some of them made by
modern painters” Letter xxviii for Hamilton’s lackluster response and issue of copies, Warwick
County Record Office Feilding MS C1/84, Hamilton to Feilding, Whitehall, 22 July 1637,
“manie of them be bot ordinaire peisses” and “sume coppies lykwys as those of guido and the
night peeis of Bassan.” All from Paul Shakeshaft, “To Much Bewiched with Those Intysing
Things:” The Letters of James, Third Marquis of Hamilton and Basil, Viscount Feilding,
Concerning Collecting in Venice 1635-1639,” The Burlington Magazine, 128, (1986), pp. 114-
178.
103
Letter xxv for the problem of copies, Warwick County Record Office, Feilding MS C72/2,
Hamilton to Feilding, Whitehall, no date, “I cannot knoe which are coppies and which are
originalles you having alredie discovered some to be coppies thatt was sett doune for originalles
makes the rest to be more fered.” Letter xxxvii for Petty and Feilding together at the study of
della Nave, Scottish Record Office, GD 406/1/9508. Feilding to Hamilton, Venice, 8/18
September 1637, “Yesterday I carri’d Mr Petty with me to view Bertolo della Naves study wch he
found to be so perfect, and full of rare peeces, that itt was estimated by him att 14m ducats” in
Paul Shakeshaft, “To Much Bewiched with Those Intysing Things:” The Letters of James, Third
Marquis of Hamilton and Basil, Viscount Feilding, Concerning Collecting in Venice 1635-1639,”
The Burlington Magazine, 128, (1986).
104
Francesca Bottacin, Tiberio Tinelli "Pittore e Cavaliere" (1587-1639), (Mariano del Friuli:
Edizioni della Laguna, 2004); Fabrizio Magani, Il collezionismo e la commitenza artistica della
131
but negotiations stretched on until 1638, with bidders including Feilding, Petty and the
Spanish ambassador. Hamilton was extremely suspicious of Petty, having formed an
avid dislike of his employer, the Earl of Arundel. This may have been due to the earl’s
shameless manipulation of the art market for his own gain, or simply a remaining vestige
of the Buckingham/Arundel competition that Hamilton would have been privy to.105
He
warns “beware Master Petty,” but Feilding had made up his own mind.106
It would only
be after buying the collection for 15,000 ducats (£2500) that Feilding would realize Petty
had bid up the price on purpose, and was only interested in securing a few particular
items.107
famiglia Widmann, patrizi veneziani, dal seicento all'ottocento, (Venice: Istituto Veneto di
Scienze Lettere ed Arti, 1989), pp. 23-24.
105
For example, Arundel bought the Nijs cabinet in 1636, after he’d gone bankrupt from the
Gonzaga sale and was trying to recoup his loss. Nijs was in a desperate situation and Arundel had
no qualms about taking advantage. He was also known to encourage his agent Petty to bid up a
sale if it looked as though he wasn’t going to get it. Christina Anderson, “Daniel Nijs's Cabinet
and its Sale to Lord Arundel in 1636,” The Burlington Magazine, 154, (2012), pp. 172-176. The
argument for the Arundel/Villiers rivalry and subsequent bargaining methods in Kevin Sharp,
“The Earl of Arundel : His Circle and the Opposition to the Duke of Buckingham,” Faction and
Parliament, ed. Kevin Sharp, (London: Methuen, 1981), pp. 209-244.
106
Letter L, for Feilding’s view of Petty, Scottish Record Office, GD 406/1/9493, Feilding to
Hamilton, Venice, 5/15 December 1637, “setting aside this profession of hunting after pictures,
wherein his [Petty’s] eagerness doth bring himselfe, and others into inconveniences, he is a very
honest, and able man…”
107
Letter L, for a discussion of Petty’s actions, Scottish Record Office, GD 406/1/9493, Feilding
to Hamilton, Venice, 5/15 December 1637, “I finde since to be his treating formerly with la Nave
to separate those two statues of brasse with a Ritratto of Corregio, or of Leonardo da Vince from
the collection promising to assist him in the selling thereof att as high a rate, as if they should be
added on to itt, in case he might buy those laid aside att a low rate, or as I rather beleive have
them in recompense”
132
The list of works sent to London at the start of negotiations numbered two
hundred and twenty-four, though it is unclear if they were all taken.108
Included were
some of the greatest masterpieces of Venetian art: the Three Philosophers by Giorgione
(fig. 103), the Young Woman holding a Mirror by Giovanni Bellini (fig. 104), and
Tintoretto’s Susanna and the Elders (fig. 105); all now in the Kunsthistorisches Museum
in Vienna.109
Della Nave (1571/9—1632) (fig. 106) had started collecting by 1608, having
acquired several items from the collection of the sculptor Alessandro Vittoria after his
death that same year.110
In his L’Idea dell’Architettura Universale (1615) Vincenzo
Scamozzi briefly mentions that he purchased works from Cardinal Pietro Bembo
including ‘20 di Tiziano rari.’ The painter Simon Vouet mentions his request to view the
della Nave collection in a letter to Ferranta Carlo, dated 14 August 1627, and Ridolfi
108
E.K. Waterhouse, “Paintings from Venice for Seventeenth Century England: Some Records of
a Forgotten Transaction,” Italian Studies, 7, (1952), pp. 14-21 for the inventory sent to Hamilton.
Also, Simona Savini Branca, Il Collezionismo Veneziano nel’600, (Padua: CEDAM, 1965), pp.
251-254 for the della Nave collection.
109
The Kunsthistorisches inventory collection numbers are: Giorgione, Inv.-Nr. GG-111, Bellini,
Inv.-Nr. GG-97, Tintoretto, Inv.-Nr. GG-1530. The provenance records of the Kunst indicated
that the Giorgione and bellini entered the collection from the collection of Leopold Wilhelm
(1659) by way of Hamilton (1638-1649). The Tintoretto however, seems to have passed into the
museum in 1712 from Giovanni Roetta who had it 1677 from Nicolo Renieri as reported by
Ridolfi (1648).
110
Carlo Ridolfi, Le Maraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnoldo Forni Editore, 2002), vol.1, p. 328.
Other sources for information on della Nave can be found in E.A. Cicogna, Delle inscrizioni
veneziane, (Venezia: Presso Givseppe Orlandelli, 1824-53), VI, p. 33 and Giovanni Gaetano
Bottari, Raccolta di lettere sulla pittura, scultura ed architettura, (Rome: Per gli Eredi
Barbiellini, 1754), I, p. 232.
133
attests to della Nave’s friendship with Palma il Giovane111
A merchant of silk, spices,
and various drugs, the family was originally from Bergamo; his great-grandfather had
arrive in Venice by the late 1480s. Married into a Venetian family, his great-grandfather
was able to obtain cittadinanza, or citizenship status. After settling his father’s numerous
debts—hence the sale of the collection— Bartolomeo della Nave’s own heir, Zuanne
della Nave, eventually bought his way into the Venetian aristocracy in 1653.112
At the same time that he was bidding for the della Nave collection, Feilding was
also in competition—again with Petty—for the Procurator Priuli collection. Michiel
Priuli was a reluctant vendor; it was one thing for a citizen to sell their paintings, it was
quite another for a noble to do the same. The Procurator probably found himself buffeted
by the continued disintegration of the Venetian commercial base, which would only
become worse as the years progressed.113
However, the economic misfortune of
Venetian families was to the benefit of eager collectors. Although Feilding would walk
away from both sales as the overall winner, Petty managed to snap up choice works on
111
Vincenzo Scamozzi, Idea dell'architettura universal, (Venetiis: Per Giorgio Valentino, 1615),
I, p. 306 references Bembo; E.K. Waterhouse, “Paintings from Venice for Seventeenth Century
England: Some Records of a Forgotten Transaction,” Italian Studies, 7, (1952), p. 5; Carlo
Ridolfi, Le Maraviglie dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnoldo Forni Editore, 2002), vol 2, p. 426.
112
For the fullest biography of della Nave with archival evidence see Stefania Mason and Linda
Borean, Il collezionismo d’arte a Venezia. Il Seicento, (Venice: Marsilio, 2007), pp. 258-261. As
mentioned earlier, the Libro d’Oro, or golden book of the Venetian aristocracy was
controversially re-opened during the Cretan War in order to raise funds. The male line of the
della Nave went extinct with Zuanne’s son Bernardo. Through Elena, the daughter of Zuanne’s
second son Piero, the feminine line continued; she married in to the Querini family in 1678. It
would be slightly ironic, yet somehow fitting if Zuanne used a portion of the funds he received
from a foreign nobleman to buy his way into the rolls of his own Venetian nobility.
113
Domenico Sella, "The Rise and Fall of the Venetian Woolen Industry," Crisis and Change in
the Venetian Economy in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, ed. Brian Pullan, (London:
Methuen, 1968), pp. 106-126.
134
behalf of Arundel. From della Nave, a portrait thought to be by Corregio and two
bronzes; and from Priuli, one of Titian’s last great works, The Flaying of Marsyas (fig.
107).
In the end, Feilding would return to London in 1639 after five years in Venice.
After all of his efforts for Hamilton he was rewarded the lowly rank of Gentleman of the
Prince’s Bedchamber, and was not to advance any further at court. In 1643, while
Hamilton was being elevated to a dukedom, the title of Earl of Denbigh came to him. He
eventually sided with the Parliamentarians against Charles I. Under the Commonwealth
he would become a member of the Council of State, and he would live to see the
Restoration of Charles II, in whose bedchamber he had served.
Hamilton and Feilding found themselves on opposing sides of the Civil War;
metaphorically similar to how they found themselves on opposing sides of life. Hamilton
was from an ancient noble line; he had money and eventual success as a courtier, he was
staid and traditional in his tastes. Feilding was a made-man; he owed his title to the
unscrupulousness and nepotism of his uncle, he did not advance socially, and he looked
to the modern, both in art and government. They were tied together by an unwanted
marriage, and the tone of Feilding’s letters always displays a slightly apologetic
undertone, as though through his efforts of acquisition he might repair the relationship.
The collection they had dedicated themselves to building numbered close to six hundred
items in the end, and though it had only taken them a few years to create such a vast
135
collection, it would be dispersed in just a fraction of that time.114
The Hamilton
collection would be the first of many to be confiscated and sold by the Commonwealth,
and Feilding was present when, on 9 March 1649, for his support of the king, James, the
3rd
Earl and 1st Duke of Hamilton was executed by decapitation in front of the tumultuous
crowd. One has to wonder what Feilding felt worse about; the loss of the art, or the loss
of his brother-in-law’s head.
114
Klara Garas, "Die Entstehung der Galerie des Erzherzogs Leopold Wilhelm," Jahrbuch der
kunsthistorischen Sammlungen in Wien, 63, (1967), p. 69-75 for the inventory of 1643.
136
7. Endgame: The English Collections Dispersed
Nobles fleeing from the troubles and the Commonwealth Sale of 1649 dispersed
the collections that had been built by the Whitehall group. Those who could leave for the
Continent did so with their possessions, while others had their paintings sent to them
once they had settled abroad. Many of these collections were so large it was impossible
to take everything.
Buckingham’s son sent some of his inherited works to the Netherlands, but they
were soon pawned off to support his family and it is not known how he got them out of
the country. The best of Hamilton’s collection, about a third of the six hundred paintings,
were taken by his brother William, the Earl of Lanark, when he fled in February of
1649.115
Both of those collections were bought by Archduke Leopold Wilhelm.116
Arundel had left England for good in February 1642 in the company of the queen
and her children. He sent sixty cases of his belongings to Antwerp, where he and Lady
Arundel went initially before she finally settled in Amsterdam. What remained in
England was taken by the Parliamentarians. Arundel returned to Italy, alone, in 1645 and
died in Padua. Lady Arundel lived until 1654, selling off parts of their collection
piecemeal to pay for support of the Royalist army and personal expenses, but when she
died her youngest son suddenly found himself in possession of almost six hundred
115
Jonathan Brown, Kings and Connoisseurs, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), p.
60.
116
Klara Garas, "Die Entstehung der Galerie des Erzherzogs Leopold Wilhelm," Jahrbuch der
kunsthistorischen Sammlungen in Wien, 63, (1967), pp. 39-80.
137
paintings—which he immediately began to sell.117
The dispersal of the Arundel
collection is the most difficult to trace because it occurred over a longer period of time;
Lady Arundel was living off the income sales of individual pieces generated, and when
she died she left no will. Her estate was disputed by her son and his nephew, but one was
in England while the other was in the Netherlands and it is difficult to know the
remaining works they each had. The ambassador of Spain, Alonso de Cárdenas, saw his
opportunity and purchased twenty-six paintings, all Venetian, from the group in
Amsterdam. Although we have his list, very few can be identified.118
Everhard Jabach
and his nephews, Frans and Berhard von Imstenraedt also purchased pictures; Titian’s
Concert Champêtre was bought by Jabach in Utrecht in 1662, and then he flipped it and
sold it to Louis XIV in 1671 (fig. 108).119
His nephews had less luck trying to make a
resale on their Arundel pictures; they finally sold low to Carl von Liechtenstein, bishop
of Olmütz, who took the Flaying of Marsyas.
The misfortune of these early English collectors is the wealth of today’s major
European museums, and through their guardianship, our own fortune. Each of these men,
and lady, delved into the Venetian market to form a dazzling display in the galleries of
117
See Lionel Cust and Mary Cox, “Notes on the Collections Formed by Thomas Howard, Earl of
Arundel and Surrey,” The Burlington Magazine, 19, (1911), pp. 278-286, 323-325 and F.H.C.
Weijtens, De Arundel-Collectie. Commencement de la Fin, Amersfoort, 1655, (Utrecht:
Rijksarchief, 1971).
118
Jonathan Brown, Kings and Connoisseurs, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), p.
62, notes 15 and 16.
119
F. Grossman, “Notes on the Arundel and Imstenraedt Collections,” The Burlington Magazine,
84, (1944), pp, 151-155, 173-176.
138
Whitehall.120
Their motives of personal gain and advancement may not have been the
purest, but their recognition of the aesthetic and intrinsic value of their purchases cannot
be denied. As much as they had a passion for the arts, the purchase of pictures was a
sound financial investment.
Through the subsequent sales and changes of ownership that would form the
provenance of these paintings, the knowledge, significance and awareness of the
Venetian visual model grew exponentially. Until the arrival of the dogged English to her
islands, the myth of Venice was only described in words and only visually expressed to
those in the corridors of her palazzos and government antechambers. Now suddenly at the
midpoint of the seventeenth century, it had been dispersed out into the world.
120
The sale of paintings owned by King Charles is an expansive subject. For the purpose of
focusing exclusively on buyers and their agents with direct access to Venice, he has been omitted
here. He relied on the individuals discussed in this chapter to either make arrangements for him,
gift him with a work or simply to absorb what he wanted into his own collection. He was hands
off in this regard, and it can be assumed he felt that all the pictures in Whitehall belonged to him
on some level. See note 15, this chapter, for scholarship on his collection and its sale.
139
CHAPTER 4: Complementary Activities: Marco Boschini, Paolo del Sera and Their
Associates as Merchants, Critics, Collectors and Painters1
On the Ryalto every Night at Twelve
I take my Evenings walk of Meditation,
There we two will meet, and talk of pretious
Mischief. 2
In a letter to Cardinal Leopoldo de’Medici, dated 7 September 1675, the art dealer
and critic Marco Boschini recounts his arrival at the home of Signor Guasconi
accompanied by his associate and friend, the painter Pietro della Vecchia. They had gone
to view two portraits that were of interest to the Cardinal.3 Like della Vecchia, Guasconi
was a business associate of Boschini, and his home was often used as a venue to view
1 Portions of this chapter are published by the author, Taryn Marie Zarrillo, “Complementary
Activities: Boschini, del Sera and Renieri as Merchants, Collectors and Painters in Seicento
Venice” in Merchants as Collectors, ed. Christina Anderson, (Surrey: Ashgate, 2015).
2 Thomas Otway, Venice Preserv’d, or A Plot discover’d, (London, 1682), p. 9. Text available
online from Project Gutenberg. See Note 1, Chapter 1.
3 The letters are reprinted in Michelangelo Muraro, “Studiosi, Collezionisti. E opera d’arte venta
dalle lettere al Cardinale Leopoldo de’Medici,” Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965),
pp. 65-83; Lucia e Ugo Procacci, “Il Carteggio di Marco Boschini con il Cardinale Leopoldo
de’Medici,” Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), specifically letters XLIII, XLIV and
XLV. Cardinal Leopoldo de’Medici (1617-1675) was the brother of Grand Duke Ferdinando II
and son of Cosimo II. A disciple of Galileo, Leopoldo founded the Accademia Platonica and the
Accademia del Cimento to promote the observation of nature through the Galilean method.
Intensely interested in science he experimented with telescopic lenses and all manner of scientific
instruments, and commissioned thermometers, astrolabes, calorimeters, quadrants, hygrometers
and other mechanical devices. A collector of rare books, paintings, drawings, sculpture, coins and
self-portraits, his collection is the basis of the Palazzo Pitti collections today. He carried on
correspondence with leading artists and collectors of the day, including Christiaan Huygens in the
Netherlands. In 1667 he was elevated to Cardinal by Pope Clement IX; his frequent trips to Rome
continued to fuel his artistic interests. By the time of his death in 1675 he owned over 700
paintings. His initial agent in Venice was Paolo del Sera; upon his death, the role was assumed by
Marco Boschini . For 1675 inventory and related documents see http://www.memofonte.it/
ricerche/ cardinal-leopoldo-de-medici.html, an invaluable online resource.
140
pictures.4 Of the two paintings, one was purported to be by the hand of Giorgione, while
the other was reported to be by Marietta Tintoretto (Fig. 109).5 In his letter to the
Cardinal, Boschini describes how upon seeing the Giorgione portrait, della Vecchia “lui
si pose a ridere e confesso che era di suo mano” (began to laugh and confessed it was by
his hand), saying that he had painted it thirty years earlier at the request of his father-in-
law Niccolo Renieri, a southern-Netherlandish painter and art dealer who had settled in
Venice.6 The transaction through which the painting left Renieri’s hands is unknown,
although the collector trying to sell the picture the day it was displayed in Guasconi’s
4Although Guasconi’s name appears several times in Boschini’s correspondence to Cardinal de’
Medici he does not reveal much information about the man or the level of their acquaintance
beyond business. The location of the house where their meetings were held is unfortunately not
mentioned. What is clear from correspondence is that Guasconi acted as a sort of “finder” of
pictures that were then cherry-picked by Boschini; he also seems to have made initial inquires
regarding the provenance of the pictures he presented—although in this particular case his home
only served as neutral ground. See Chapter 3 for further discussion, see note 6 this chapter.
5 Lucia e Ugo Procacci, “Il Carteggio di Marco Boschini con il Cardinale Leopoldo de’Medici,”
Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), pp. 107-108. Marietta Robusti (1560-1590), “La
Tintoretta,” was Jacopo Tintoretto’s eldest daughter. She was trained in painting by her father,
and along with her brother Domenico took a leading role in the workshop. She was married to
Mario Augusta, a jeweler and goldsmith and lived in the vicinity of her father’s home and shop in
the sestieri of Cannaregio in Venice. Considered an excellent portraitist by Ridolfi, few
autographed works have come down to us, and even by 1675 her works were highly prized.
Unfortunately Marietta died at the young age of thirty, and her loss was deeply felt by her father.
See Carlo Ridolfi, The Life of Tintoretto and his children Domenico and Marietta, trans. Robert
and Catherine Enggass, (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1984), pp. 97-99;
and Melania Mazzucco, Jacomo Tintoretto e i suoi figli. Storia di una famiglia veneziana, (Rome:
Rizzoli, 2009) for the most recent research on the Tintoretto family and the close relationship
between father and daughter.
6 Lucia e Ugo Procacci, “Il Carteggio di Marco Boschini con il Cardinale Leopoldo de’Medici,”
Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), see letters XLIV, XLV. Ironically (as it would
turn out) it was de’Medici’s suggestion to Boschini to bring della Vecchia “per riconoscere la
qualità e conservazione di ciascheduno di essi quadri,” (letter IX) although they frequently
consulted together anyway regardless of his suggestion.
141
home was named Cavalier Fontana.7 In further correspondence dated the following
week in September, we find that the “Giorgione” was purchased regardless of its
authenticity, shipped to Florence and entered the collection of the Cardinal. In
subsequent letters dated through until the end of October 1675, Boschini is still
addressing the Cardinal’s confusion as to whether he received a painting by Giorgione or
by della Vecchia—for it appears he in fact wanted one of each. In a letter dated 5
October 1675, Boschini impatiently writes, “dico che il quadro inviato dal detto Vecchia,
è una delle cose che lui fa ad immitazione di Giorgione…” (I say that the painting sent is
by that [Pietro della] Vecchia, it is one of the things he did in imitation of Giorgione).8
Pietro della Vecchia was seventy-two years old in 1675; economically stable,
socially mobile, and reaping the rewards of an established career.9 When he was born in
1603 however, the artistic community he would eventually join was still struggling to
reinvent itself in the wake of the legacy left by their Cinquecento predecessors. The last
of the great masters, Jacopo Tintoretto, had died in 1594. The challenge laid out in
7 Lucia e Ugo Procacci, “Il Carteggio di Marco Boschini con il Cardinale Leopoldo de’Medici,”
Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), specifically letters IX, X, XI, and document XV.
Cavalier Fontana appears to have come to Cardinal Leopoldo’s attention through his sister, by
way of the court in Parma, “Mi è stato fatto sapere dalla Ser.ma di Parma mia sorella come gl’era
stato scritto di costà e proposti alcuni quadri del Sig.r Cav.re Francesco Fontana…” (letter IX, p.
92) and then Boschini is directed to go and view the pictures. We can assume from the documents
that Fontana was from Parma and living in Venice, as his paintings were located there. It was
with a letter of introduction from de’Medici that Boschini was granted access and they were
viewed in Guasconi’s home.
8 Lucia e Ugo Procacci, “Il Carteggio di Marco Boschini con il Cardinale Leopoldo de’Medici,”
Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), see letters XLVII-XLIX, and specifically
XLVIII for quotation cited.
9 Philip Sohm and Richard Spear, Painting for Profit, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010),
p. 227.
142
Chapter One—the need to reinterpret the Venetian visual tradition and the ability to
continue to retain the qualities that had distinguished it during the Cinquecento, had
fallen to the assistants and students who inherited the artistic legacy and the stock capital
from the botteghe of their masters.
143
1. Dealer, Critic, and Artist: tutto lo stesso
This chapter considers the business practices of and working relationships
between Marco Boschini (1602/05-1681), Paolo del Sera (1614-1672), and Niccolo
Renieri (Nicolas Régnier) (1588-1667) in Venice during the mid-to-late seventeenth
century. Of the three men, only Boschini was Venetian by birth. The others had settled
in the city by way of Florence and French Flanders, respectively.
Del Sera had arrived from Florence in 1632, with the purpose of establishing his
family’s commercial interests in the silk trade and remained until his death in 1672. By
July 1640, the date of his first letter to Cardinal Leopoldo de’Medici, he makes mention
of two portraits that already had been sent to Florence and their favourable reception by
the Cardinal. Whether he was already in service to the Medici household when he
arrived in Venice, or whether he became the Cardinal’s agent after his arrival, is
unknown. The correspondence between them however, would last for thirty years.10
Niccolo Renieri (fig. 110), in the Italianized version of his French-language name,
was born in Maubeuge-in-Hainault and trained as a painter in Antwerp. He spent several
years in Rome where he came under the influence of the followers of Caravaggio before
eventually settling in Venice around 1626. By the late 1630’s, Renieri had established
10
The correspondence between del Sera and de’Medici is unfortunately one-sided, as only del
Sera’s letters are available. They are detailed and meticulous however, and it is possible to infer
the requests and responses he received. For a detailed study of Paolo del Sera’s activities as
Cardinal de’Medici’s agent in Venice, see Edward Goldberg, Patterns in Late Medici Art
Patronage, (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), pp. 54-78. The del Sera letters
covering 7 July 1640 – 23 September 1672 are available in the Archivio di Stato di Firenze
(ASF), Carteggio dei Artisti, V, VI, VII, and are unpublished.
144
himself as an art dealer as well as a painter, attending to the collecting interests of the
then English Ambassador, Basil Feilding, who was, as we have seen, in turn acting on
behalf of his brother-in-law, the Marquess of Hamilton.11
Renieri further embedded
himself in the artistic community with the marriage in 1648 of his daughter, Lucrezia, to
another Flemish painter living in Venice, Daniel van den Dyck, and his second daughter,
Clorinda, to Pietro della Vecchia, the Venetian painter and his business associate,
mentioned above, in 1649.
Marco Boschini (fig. 111), the longest lived of the three, had studied painting with
Palma il Giovane but dealt in false pearls and pictures as his main source of income. He
is best known for his two books about Venetian painting, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco
(1660) and Le Ricche Minere della Pittura Veneziana (1664/1674), in which he takes up
a history and commentary of Venetian painting and painters. Following the model of
Giorgio Vasari’s work on Florence, The Lives, and Carlo Ridolfi’s Venetian counterpart
published twenty years earlier, Boschini’s work was both guidebook and commentary.12
Brought to Cardinal de’Medici’s attention by del Sera on several occasions through
11
For a recent study of Renieri, see Annick Lemoine, Nicolas Régnier (alias Niccolò Renieri) ca.
1588-1667 peintre, collectionneur et marchand d'art, (Paris: Arthena, 2007); for biography see
Stefania Mason, Il Collezionismo d’arte a Venezia. Il Seicento, (Venezia: Marsilio, 2007), pp.
301-303. For his relationship with English collectors, see E.K. Waterhouse, “Paintings from
Venice for Seventeenth-Century England: Some Records of a Forgotten Transaction,” Italian
Studies, VII, (1952), pp.1-23.
12
For background on Boschini see Philip Sohm, Pittoresco: Marco Boschini, His Critics, and
Their Critiques of Painterly Brushwork in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Italy,
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); Anna Pallucchini, “La Posizione Critica de
Marco Boschini,” Arte Veneta, 18, (1964), pp. 89-98; and Roberto Grazia, “Contributi
Boschiniani,” Studi Secenteschi, XVIII, (1977), pp. 207-245, which also provides extensive
bibliography (most by Italian scholars and too lengthy to list here) on Boschini in Note 1.
145
business dealings and personal association, Boschini would eventually take over as his
replacement in Venice as art agent for Cardinal de’Medici.13
Del Sera had been dead for three years by the time of the meeting at Guasconi’s
house, but he had known both Renieri and the painter della Vecchia well. He had
consulted with them independently of his acquaintance with Boschini, making mention of
both men’s expertise as well as problems of attribution with some of the works that
passed through their hands in his correspondence with the Cardinal. It is predominantly
through events documented in letters written to de’Medici, first by del Sera and then by
Boschini, that we have insight into their methods of conducting business and the level to
which they were connected socially.14
In the small community of artists, dealers and collectors in Venice, these three
men were bound by common interest; and by patron, competition, friendship and
sometimes marriage. When del Sera died, it was Boschini who made an inventory and
appraised the value of his remaining collection.15
In one of the many instances where
13
Del Sera’s first mention of Boschini to de’Medici seems to have occurred in the initial letter
written 7 July 1640; del Sera relates the purchase of simulated pearl necklaces (of which Boschini
was a merchant) and that the man in question was also familiar with paintings, “huomo intendente
di pittura e che attende a senserie di quadri…per profesessione mercante di perle false” see
Archivio di Stato di Firenze (ASF), Carteggio dei Artisti, V, 1, unpublished.
14
A selection of transcribed letters is available in: Michelangelo Muraro, “Studiosi, Collezionisti.
E opera d’arte veneta dalle lettere al Cardinale Leopoldo de’Medici,” Saggi e Memorie di Storia
dell’Arte, IV, (1965), pp. 65-83; Lucia e Ugo Procacci, “Il Carteggio di Marco Boschini con il
Cardinale Leopoldo de’Medici,” Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), pp. 85-114; for
a generalized overview of these relationships see Jennifer Fletcher, “Marco Boschini and Paolo
del Sera-Collectors and Connoisseurs of Venice,” Apollo, 110, (1979), pp. 416-424.
15
Lucia e Ugo Procacci, “Il Carteggio di Marco Boschini con il Cardinale Leopoldo de’Medici,”
Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), specifically letter XLII for Boschini’s role in the
appraisal.
146
camaraderie and consultation met, del Sera writes in a letter to de’Medici dated
November 1659, describing how “abbiamo questa settimana fatto la recognizione di
disegni (per illustrissimo) insieme con i pittori, Niccolo Renieri e Pietro Vecchia” (this
week I have identified the drawings [for your illustriousness] together with the painters
Niccolo Renieri and Pietro Vecchia). This was a positive meeting where a selection of
drawings intended for de’Medici was assigned solid attribution through their group
consultation.16
Boschini conducted his business in a similar manner to del Sera, consulting with
della Vecchia and often competing with Renieri for clients. Once paintings or drawings
that could be of interest to a buyer were located, authorship was assigned to the work;
either thorough historical knowledge of the purchase from the seller and his family (not
always reliable or true), or through the connoisseurship abilities of dealers like del Sera,
Boschini and Renieri. If they felt unable to make a solid attribution they had no
hesitation asking for assistance from their associates, as the 1659 letter illustrates. In a
city such as Venice, with such an overwhelming wealth of art to be bought, sold, traded
and commissioned, the search for the next great find began at the street level. Almost
anyone could be found to sell from their collection, whether it was an impoverished
parish priest looking to unload an altarpiece, a noble family selling due to financial need
or simple disinterest, or leftover stock from the studio of a deceased artist. For these
dealers, their initial order of business was to cull the quality works on offer from the junk
and establish a selection for the buyer to which they could apply an attribution. Even if
16
Archivio di Stato di Firenze (ASF), Carteggio dei Artisti, V, 309, unpublished.
147
works of art in private hands were not yet on offer, knowing who was in possession of
certain pictures could prove beneficial in the future. For example, del Sera relates how
he attended an open viewing at the Palazzo Grimani Calergi wearing a mask to retain his
anonymity, but recognized the agent of the Earl of Arundel who was there as well.17
In the Venetian art market of the mid-seventeenth century, Boschini, del Sera, and
Renieri were powerful and well connected individuals, and their status was maintained
for the course of their mature careers as art dealers and occasional collectors. All three
played multiple roles: Renieri was an established painter who still accepted commissions
but made most of his money and a name for himself as a dealer. Del Sera was a merchant
who procured luxury items for the Medici court, but just happened to spend a large
amount of time buying paintings for himself and for the nobility as part of that role.18
As
native Venetians, Boschini and della Vecchia already knew the city’s painters and major
collectors who might be looking to sell—by virtue of birth they had entry into those
houses that were often closed to foreigners. Acting as agents and middlemen on behalf of
their illustrious patrons, keeping a ready eye out for any possible paintings entering the
market, and evaluating in consultation among themselves those paintings for sale: they
were an insular, self-promoting, and savvy group. All of them sold, or ‘found’ pictures
17
Personally, I would like to imagine that del Sera was wearing a traditional Venetian bauta
mask, but he doesn’t specify. Archivio di Stato di Firenze (ASF), Carteggio dei Artisti, V, 6, it
should be noted that this page is torn along one side, words are missing and del Sera does not
name the Arundel agent, unpublished.
18
Ridolfi mentions him several times, mostly to record that he is in possession of one painting or
another, but takes the time to describe del Sera as a, “Florentine gentleman of genteel custom who
has shown himself to be well versed in the art of painting.” Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie
dell’Arte, (Milan: Arnaldo Forni, 2002), v. 2, pp. 236.
148
for their patrons as primary income, all of them were trained in the art of painting, and all
of them were in possession of art works at any given time—sometimes for their own
enjoyment but typically for their obvious investment value.
Renieri and del Sera collected paintings for personal pleasure but also with the
express purpose of selling them off as a group.19
They were not simply merchants who
collected paintings, they were merchants of paintings. Paolo del Sera’s personal
collection—sold to Cardinal de’Medici in 1654 after a not-so-subtle hint that Queen
Christina of Sweden was interested in buying it—was of such importance that Boschini
spent eighty-three quatrains describing it in his Carta del Navegar Pitoresco.20
He then
promptly started collecting again, with the intention of making another sale, but died
before he had the opportunity. His 1654 sale to de’Medici forms what is today the core
of Venetian paintings in the Palazzo Pitti collection.21
19
See Simona Savini Branca, Il Collezionismo Veneziano nel’600, (Padua: CEDAM, 1965), pp.
264-268 and E.K. Waterhouse, “Paintings from Venice for Seventeenth Century England: Some
Records of a Forgotten Transaction,” Italian Studies, 7, (1952), pp. 21-23 for inventories of
Renieri’s collection. See Branca pp. 277-279 for del Sera’s collection and pp. 111-112 for two
wills by del Sera.
20
Archivio di Stato di Firenze (ASF), Carteggio dei Artisti, V, 64 and V, 75, unpublished, “Si
ritrova qui il Sig. David Bechs Olandese pittore della sua Regina di Svezia, venuto a posta in
Italia per comperar pitture, disegni e statue, et ha contratto meco grand’amicizia, havendomi
tastato se venderei il mio studio, che gl’e in estremo piaciuto, gl’ho risposto che non lo venderei il
mio studio se non me ne fussi fatto venir voglia con un offerta da Re, perche alli prezzi che puo
comperar un gentiluomo ordinario compero io, m’ha risposto che non ho detto male, e che ho
ragione, e che verra il tempo che mi potra replicare con piu fondamento per che al presente non
ha recapiti di danaro per somme grosse, ma che la Regina ha concetti grandi” 1 November 1653.
It is unclear whether Christina ever made a firm offer, but it is interesting to note that del Sera
gives the name of her own agent working on her behalf in Venice.
21
Works in del Sera’s collection included pictures by Titian, Veronese, Moroni, Paris Bordone,
Tintoretto, Salviati, Savoldo, Pordenone, Palma Vecchio, Andrea Schiavone and Strozzi. See
149
In 1665, two years prior to his death, Renieri obtained permission from the
Provveditori di Comune to hold a lottery for his painting collection the following year.22
The state would benefit from a 5% commission, and for the two-ducat price of a ticket,
the gambling public had a chance to win one of the 76 paintings on offer, each with an
average value of 237 ducats.23
The total value of the collection had been given at 18,000
ducats, although the total ticket sales only garnered 12,400 ducats.24
While the numbers
suggested Renieri was taking a loss, the best explanation is that he knew appraised values
were generally inflated over actual sale prices.25
Cardinal de’Medici expressed his interest in the lottery to del Sera, but del Sera’s
response was less than enthusiastic, stating plainly that the paintings were no good,
Boschini’s list in Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini
(Venezia-Roma: Instituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), p. 395f.
22
The Provveditori di Comune was one of the many committees that comprised Venetian
government, composed of magistrates who (among many tasks) approved or denied particular
activities to take place. Since a lottery of this type was unusual, Renieri needed to obtain special
permission for it. The Provveditori were appointed by the Senate and reported directly back to
that legislative body. Interestingly, the Provveditori di Comune was initially responsible (1173)
for the administration of the wool guild. For a fuller explanation of the complexities of Venetian
government and her administrative bodies, see Elisabeth Crouzat-Pavan, Venice Triumphant: The
Horizons of a Myth, (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), pp. 195-228.
23
Simona Savini Branca, Il Collezionismo Veneziano nel ‘600, (Padova: CEDAM, 1965), pp. 56-
59, and 93-107 for the documents and letters to the Provveditori.
24
Assigning value in today’s market for the ducat is tricky. See Philip Sohm, Painting for Profit,
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), pp. 205-209 for price graphs of food and material
objects in 17th
century Venice. Further, it is not stipulated whether the lottery was held in silver
ducats (typical currency) or gold. Assuming (unscientifically) the value of a gold ducat at $4.50,
that would make ticket sales worth $55,800—this is only to provide a sense of relative value in
today’s market.
25
A small number of Renieri’s paintings came from the collection of Gabriele Vendramin; see
Jaynie Anderson, “A Further Inventory of Gabriel Vendramin’s Collection,” The Burlington
Magazine, 121, (1979), pp. 639-648.
150
referring to many of them as faragine — which translates roughly to ‘muddled’.26
The
fact that del Sera calls attention to Renieri in a negative manner allows us to question
their relationship. Was del Sera jealously guarding his patron’s attention, not wanting
him to buy from anyone else? Or was he simply familiar with Renieri’s habit of
commissioning his son-in-law Pietro della Vecchia to paint copies (as he did with the
Giorgione discussed at the beginning of this chapter) and was looking out for the
cardinal’s best interests? From the attitude of his letters, it would appear to be a bit of
both.
Boschini, though spending the majority of his time writing about other people’s
painting collections in Venice, did not appear ever to have had his own. The tone of his
correspondence with the Cardinal takes a different cast than del Sera’s: gone are the easy
conversational manners and everyday anecdotes interspersed within discussions
regarding art. Instead, Boschini utilises a succinct business manner. With the publication
of his Carta del Navegar and Ricche Minere in 1660 and 1674, Boschini had established
himself as the champion of Venetian art. As such, he condemned the practice of
exporting pictures, which he considered a cultural loss to Venice. As a dealer, however,
he consistently engaged in their sale for his livelihood.27
Furthermore, as in the case
illustrated by his afternoon in the house of Guasconi, there was a relatively large amount
26
Faragine is defined as a mess or hodgepodge. Archivio di Stato di Firenze (ASF), Carteggio
dei Artisti, VI, 395, and VI, 476, unpublished. For Renieri’s collection and lottery see Simona
Savini Branca, Il Collezionismo Veneziano nel ‘600, (Padova: Casa Editrice Leo S. Olschki,
1965), chapter 4, and documents 1-5, pp. 93-96.
27
Marco Boschini, La carta del navegar pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venezia-Roma: Istituto
per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), pp. 22-24.
151
of confusion during the seventeenth century among collectors regarding authorship of
pictures as being by a master, his studio assistants, or copies by a follower.28
By the time of the meeting with Guasconi in September 1675, Boschini probably
had fond memories of earlier decades when paintings by Renaissance masters up for sale
were plentiful and the Venetian State had not yet entered into a conservationist mood. A
dramatic shift had occurred in the mid 1600’s, with the Arte dei Depentori, or Venetian
Painter’s Guild taking a vested and active interest in the fate of their forbears’
production—specifically that of the Cinquecento masters.29
The decision, for example,
not to sell the contents of the church of Santo Spirito in Isola, located in the Venetian
lagoon, which included the Sacrifice of Isaac, Cain and Abel, and David and Goliath by
Titian (figs. 4-6), and instead to remove all artworks to the newly completed church of
Santa Maria della Salute, was an important step in the awareness of the physical, and not
simply ideological, artistic patrimony in Venice and its potential loss.30
The literal
28
As we have seen with the cases illustrated in Chapter 2, this issue is often unclear. Additional
helpful reading on this concept can be found in Studies in the History of Art, ed. Kathleen
Preciado, Retaining the Original. Multiple Originals, Copies, and Reproductions, with essays by
Beverly Louise Brown, “Replication and the Art of Veronese,” pp. 111-124; Jeffrey Muller,
“Measures of Authenticity: The Detection of Copies in the Early Literature on Connoisseurship,”
pp. 141-149; and Richard Spear, “Notes on Renaissance and Baroque Originals and
Originality,”pp. 97-99, (Hanover, 1989). For an intense scientific discussion of the subject, see
Gianfranco Mossetto and Marilena Vecco, eds., The Economics of Copying and Counterfeiting,
(Milan: FrancoAngeli, 2004).
29
For a history of the painter’s guild in Venice and list of further reading see Valentina Moncada,
“The Painter’s Guilds in the Cities of Venice and Padua,” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, 15,
(1988), pp. 105-121.
30
For the history of Santo Spirito in Isola, the fate of its church and the monastic residents of the
lagoon island, see Flaminio Corner (1693-1778), Notizie Storiche delle Chiese e Monasteri di
Venezia e di Torcello, (Venezia, 1758), pp. 492-497. For the history and building of Santa Maria
della Salute, see Flaminio Corner, Ecclesiae venetae antiquis monumentis nunc primum editis
152
glorification and attendant reverence of Venetian art, achieved through public
commissions and display, especially of art of the Cinquecento, was in and of itself a form
of glorification of the Venetian State and all it represented.31
In other words, even in
Boschini’s time it was understood that what made Venice special—what made the city
unique and defined it in a way no other city could be—was the art that it produced.
Painting of the Venetian High Renaissance, of the Cinquecento, was considered the
epitome of this expression.32
Therefore, the desire to own examples by Cinquecento masters—Titian,
Tintoretto, Veronese, and Giorgione, for example—meant works by these artists were at
the top of any serious collector’s list. Those dealers who were able to provide these
coveted paintings for sale found they could not only make a tidy profit but also steadily
increase their social standing through the favours granted by their happy patrons.33
The
illustratae ac in decades distributae, 18 vols, (Venezia, 1749), 7, pp. 1-79; Andrew Hopkins,
“Plans and Planning for Santa Maria della Salute, Venice,” The Art Bulletin, 79, (1997), pp. 440-
465, and Andrew Hopkins, “Longhena’s Second Sanctuary Design for Santa Maria della Salute,”
The Burlington Magazine, 136, (1994), pp. 498-501. Rudolf Wittkower, “S. Maria della Salute:
Sceneographic Architecture and the Venetian Baroque,” Journal of the Society of Architectural
Historians, 16, (1957), pp. 3-10 is a useful and seminal contribution on the interior and exterior
architectural vocabulary; for plague churches and their role in Venetian civic ritual see Rona
Goffen, Piety and Patronage in Renaissance Venice, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986);
Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Renaissance Venice, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981).
31
Robert and Catherine Enggass, Life of Tintoretto, (University Park: Pennsylvania State
University Press, 1984), p. 8.
32
See David Rosand, Myths of Venice: The Figuration of a State, (Chapel Hill: University of
North Carolina Press, 2001) for the most comprehensive explanation of this idea.
33
Edward Goldberg, Patterns in Late Medici Art Patronage, (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 1983); Philip Sohm and Richard Spear, Painting for Profit, (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 2010), pp. 205-252.
153
extant number of such paintings meant that the possibility of owning one was relatively
slim, while even finding one for possible sale could be a daunting task, especially from
afar. What the potential collector really needed was an agent working on their behalf in
the city itself; someone to make discrete inquires and inspect the painting in person,
someone who could be trusted to act as proxy and make needed arrangements. This is
the need that Boschini, del Sera and Renieri answered.
More often than not it was to the workshop and studios of contemporary Seicento
artists that agents and merchants would turn when looking to fill a request. A picture that
could be associated with the style of a Cinquecento master was always readily available
from the students and assistants who had opened their own shops and were working in
the style that they had been taught. It was already common practice to accept that
paintings that came out of the master’s workshop were considered to be by the master;
meaning that they had his stamp of approval as being up to par with his own standard of
quality even if he hadn’t touched them himself.34
More savvy buyers who could afford
the price and knew enough to demand a certain level of attention from the master
expected that he would paint the face and hands in a portrait, for example, but an assistant
would paint the clothing and background. Most buyers were either oblivious or simply
didn’t care, as long as the initial design and organization had been developed by the head
of the studio.35
Assistants and students who had inherited their master’s stylistic legacy
34
The best introductory discussion of this issue remains Hans Tietze, “Master and Workshop in
the Venetian Renaissance,” Parnassus, 11, (1939), pp. 34-35+45.
35
A good example of this is Titian’s Venus with a Musician, of which there are at least six
versions: two in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, two in the Prado, one in Berlin, and one in the
154
could still claim a legitimate association, and by virtue of “the style is the master” could
provide canvasses for sale. The challenge for connoisseurs like Boschini and del Sera
occurred when the painting had already changed hands several times before coming to
them, and they were in a position to sort out whether a painting had been made by an
assistant during the master’s lifetime, or had been made to mimic the master after his
death. This is when their visual memory and the ability to recognize and tease apart
separate individual hands within a work became critical to their business.
While buying art often provided a thrill for collectors, the need to sell it—usually
precipitated by the steady economic downturn the Republic faced in the 17th
century, bad
investments, and the worsening financial straits many Venetian nobles found themselves
in—was cause for embarrassment.36
Additionally, if patricians should find themselves
needing to sell, doing so within the confines of Venetian social structures, polite niceties,
Cambridge Fitzwilliam Museum. Titian developed the design for the composition and probably
worked on several of them, but he did not complete them or do the majority of work. See
catalogue entries for the works, accessible from each museum’s website. Published discussion is
extensive: most recently, Andrea Bayer, Art and Love in Renaissance Italy. Exh. cat., The
Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York, 2008, pp. 327–29 and Frederick Ilchman, Titian,
Tintoretto, Veronese: Rivals in Renaissance Venice. Exh. cat., Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
Boston, 2009, and Miguel Falomir, Titian: Danaë, Venus and Adonis. The Early Poesie. Exh.
cat., Museo Nacional del Prado, 2014. Nonetheless, these paintings were considered by their
owners to be by Titian and accepted as such.
36
For the shift in commercial practice see Domenico Sella, “Crisis and Change in Venetian
Trade,” in Brian Pullan, ed., Crisis and Change in the Venetian Economy in the Sixteenth and
Seventeenth Centuries, (London: Metheun & Co, 1968), pp. 88-105; for unkind commentary
regarding selling pictures, Paul Shakeshaft, “To Much Bewiched with Thoes Intysing Things:’
The letters of James, Third Marquis of Hamilton and Basil, Viscount Feilding, concerning
collecting in Venice 1635-1639,” Burlington Magazine, 128, (1986), p. 131, no. 59, “good old
Procurator Priuli, who lately sold your lordship the St. Margaret of Raphael, entangling his foote
in his gowne, fell downe a paire of staires, and is since dead; which has moved the Broglio
[scheming crowd] at St Marks to say that it was impossible he should live, after he parted with his
sainte...”
155
and rigorous State watchfulness was not something that could be advertised openly even
if everyone was aware of arrangements being made. The Venetian patriarchy, ever
mindful of political and social persecution, was a cautious but willing participant. Del
Sera’s letters to de’Medici are full of gossipy tidbits that relate information not just about
the artwork for sale, but often the reason (frequently scandalous) that the work of art
came to be on the market.37
The Grimani Calergi family, for example, had mismanaged
their financial affairs so terribly they were pleased to receive just one thousand ducats for
their Christ and the Centurion by Veronese (fig. 112), so that they could provide a dowry
for their sister.38
Further difficulties were raised by the restrictive socializing of Venetian noble
families. Any foreigner (in other words, any non-Venetian) was kept at a distance, and
certainly not permitted open access to their homes. To do so would invite accusations of
foreign bribery and espionage.39
Hence, the need for an individual who could work with
37
Michelangelo Muraro, “Studiosi, collezionisti e opera d’arte veneta dalle lettere al Cardinale
Leopoldo de’Medici,” Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), pp. 65-83; Lucia e Ugo
Procacci, “Il Carteggio di Marco Boschini con il Cardinale Leopoldo de’Medici,” Saggi e
Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), pp. 85-114.
38
As a comparison to this price, del Sera also relates that the Servi monks were holding out for
10,000 ducats for their Feast in the House of Simon by Veronese. The point here being that
Venetian families in need of cash were willing to sell low. See Archivio di Stato di Firenze
(ASF), Carteggio dei Artisti, V, 5 and 214, unpublished. However, the sale of the Servi painting
was ultimately not to take place, as the State intervened and gave it to Louis XIV of France in
1664—a move where diplomatic relations took precedence over artistic patrimony.
39
The labyrinth of Venetian politics and the fallout from this type of involvement can be found in
the case of Antonio Foscarini, a Venetian nobleman and the Countess of Arundel, wife of the
famous art collector Lord Arundel while they were living in Venice. Charged as co-conspirators
assisting in a Spanish plot to overthrow the Venetian government, Countess Arundel was later
exonerated, but Antonio Foscarini was put to death. See Jonathan Walker, “Antonio Foscarini in
the City of Crossed Swords,” Rethinking History, 5:2, (2001), pp. 305-334.
156
the staff of the household, take care of all the details, including getting the painting out of
the city and past customs officials, or simply moving it from one house to another across
town. It’s important to keep in mind here that any of our three gentlemen could be acting
on behalf of the buyer or the seller, or vice versa. Although they consulted among
themselves, that does not mean they did not often wind up on opposing sides of the
negotiation. As we have seen, del Sera accepted the assistance of Renieri for an
attribution, but later warned against the quality of his collection, while Boschini moved
pictures to the home of his associate Guasconi only to discover he was buying a copy that
had been commissioned by Renieri.
How did all of this work practically? Instructions and stipulations would be given
by the family to a household steward or secretary, who would then make contact with
Boschini, Renieri or del Sera, and pass on any requirements and the financial goals to be
met by the sale. The items in question would then be removed from the household and
taken to an agreed-upon location where they could be examined thoroughly along with
any associates they wished to consult. Potential buyers would then be contacted; a
detailed description of the work in question given, a price named, and negotiations would
begin. When dealing at this level, the sensali or art dealers, acted more as facilitators for
a process with an already predetermined outcome—the expected sale of the picture.
Money from the sale would not be handled; they would simply perform the abhorrent
task of wrangling the price; favourable to the 5% commission discretely taken for
157
themselves.40
The shipment of the work would then be arranged once an agreement had
been reached.
The knowledge and skills of individuals like Boschini, del Sera, and Renieri
therefore became indispensible to buyers who were located outside of Venice, along with
those newly arrived in the city seeking expertise. In the cases of Boschini and del Sera,
who both eventually found service with the same patron; Cardinal Leopoldo de’ Medici,
we know that Del Sera mentions Boschini in many of his letters, referring to him as ‘a
very dear friend’, and sent a copy of the Carta to Florence. Eventually it would be
Boschini who took over the role as de’Medici’s agent in Venice after the death of del
Sera in 1672.41
However, while del Sera cultivated friends and contacts within the
Venetian art community, de’Medici was his only patron. Boschini on the other hand
knew almost every painter in Venice and maintained business relations with as many
clients as he could; acting on behalf of not just the Medici, but the Gonzaga, Este and
Hapsburgs as well. While the business of paintings was a pastime for del Sera, for
Boschini it was a livelihood.42
40
Del Sera mentions the standard 5% senseria paid by the buyer of a Veronese, Archivio di Stato
di Firenze (ASF), Carteggio dei Artisti, V, 216, unpublished. Unless they were selling a work in
their own possession (and thus required direct payment), neither del Sera nor Boschini make
mention of transfer of funds in their correspondence. This leads me to believe, at least in the case
of de’Medici, that his secretary was probably involved in the payment process to the seller. All
del Sera and Boschini needed to do was be sure that de’Medici wanted to purchase the painting.
41
Gloria Chiarini de Anna, “Nove Lettere di Paolo del Sera a Leopoldo de’Medici,” Paragone,
307, (1975), pp. 87-99.
42
Del Sera can be very liberal in his correspondence, for example, he expends a lot of ink
describing to the cardinal his attempts at ousting two whores who had taken to plying their trade
in front of his house, but he at least mentions that he lives “sul Canal Grande e dirimpetto a
158
While his social position may not have been as genteel as del Sera’s, whose
distinguished family was well-established among the Florentine mercantile nobility,
Boschini, in his letters to de’Medici, is careful never to overstep himself and ask for too
many favours (a flaw of del Sera’s which in his correspondence often descends into a
rather whiny pleading regarding the lack of good wine or his families problems in Venice
and Florence).43
Boschini, moreover, consistently makes sure to angle the situation to his
best advantage, usually with another potential sale in the works; his letters de’Medici
look to possible future acquisitions and works on the market.44
. As the business of
dealing in art developed, the parameters of new social boundaries had to be created
between picture dealer and patron.
Del Sera represented a traditional role stemming from a courtly appointment that
was typically found outside of Venice. He was a merchant of goods other than
paintings—but he spent a large amount of time acting as a “finder” for de’Medici—
buying works with an eye toward the Cardinal’s likes and dislikes.45
From his letters in
Rialto, su la piazza di Santa Sofia” Archivio di Stato di Firenze (ASF), Carteggio dei Artisti, VI,
441, unpublished.
43
Paolo del Sera’s father was a Florentine senator, occupying an important role in the Granducal
household. Little is known about Boschini’s extended family, but he seems to have come from
the Venetian citizen class. See Edward Goldberg, Patterns in Late Medici Art Patronage,
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), pp. 58-60; Lino Moretti, “Marco Boschini:
‘compendiosa informazione,” Ricche Minere, 1, (2014), pp. 7-19.
44
Michelangelo Muraro, “Studiosi, collezionisti e opere d'arte veneta dalle lettere al Cardinale
Leopoldo de’Medici,” Saggi e Memorie di Storia dell’Arte, IV, (1965), pp. 65-83.
45
Del Sera dealt in luxury goods for the nobility: beaver hats, lace collars, jewelry, books and
glassware, were purchased as a sort of 17th century mail order for the Medici, their relations and
anyone else willing to pay. See Edward Goldberg, Patterns in Late Medici Art Patronage,
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), p. 59.
159
the Florence Archive, it is clear that del Sera purchased paintings knowing he could sell
them forward; if not immediately individually then as a group in the future. He bought
paintings because he personally enjoyed collecting them, but if he could make a profit on
them then he did not hesitate to do so.46
Regarding another Tintoretto picture, on 2
December 1656 he writes to de’Medici, “I assure your Highness that if I didn’t have such
a great need of cash for my business, I should wish to buy it as an investment.”47
Boschini and Renieri acted as free agents unlike del Sera, who was part of
Cardinal de’Medici’s household and filled a nebulous role as “agent abroad.” He was
free to conduct his own business in Venice as a merchant of luxury goods, but through
the relationship he cultivated and established with Cardinal de’Medici in the end he
exclusively sourced pictures for the Cardinal.48
The sensali, or art dealers, lived on their
income of sales alone.49
Obviously maintaining good relations among all involved
parties buying and selling was imperative; at the very least it could lead to additional
patrons, but sensali also had the option of offering a work to more than one collector at a
46
Edward Goldberg, Patterns in Late Medici Art Patronage, (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 1983), p. 54.
47
Archivio di Stato di Firenze (ASF), Carteggio dei Artisti, V, 179, unpublished, “Posso dire
all’AV, confermandole che se non fusse che io ho troppo bisognio de danari per il mio negozio,
vorrei comperarlo per incetta.”
48
Del Sera may have claimed he had other potential buyers in order to help de’Medici come to a
purchase decision, but his letters do not reveal that he ever actually sold a painting to anyone else.
49
Simona Savini Branca, Il Collezionismo Veneziano nel ‘600, (Padua: CEDAM, 1965), pp. 47-
59.
160
time. If a patron began to drag out the sale or suddenly backed out, they could always try
to find another buyer.
By 1629 Boschini and his family had settled in a house owned by the Scuola di
San Rocco in the Calle Figher near San Marcuola, listing his occupation not as
‘merchant’ (which he never officially referred to himself as) but as ‘painter’ on the
contract.50
Considering that his associates refer to him as a merchant—del Sera describes
him as a merchant of false pearls and glass in his first letter to the Cardinal—it is
interesting that he makes this distinction. Indeed, Boschini had studied briefly with
Palma il Giovane, and like Renieri, he was also inscribed in the Confraternità dei Pittori
as a painter, miniaturist, and printmaker. Only two paintings by his hand are known:
Entry of Jesus into Jerusalem and a Last Supper, both in the monastic church of San
Girolamo.51
Unfortunately the first was destroyed by a fire on 28 September 1705; the
second was lost without a trace after the church was closed during the Napoleonic
occupation. 52
Prolific as an engraver and probably better known as such, Boschini’s
50
Stefania Mason, Il Collezionismo d’arte a Venezia. Il Seicento, (Venezia: Marsilio, 2007), pp.
245-246, and Lino Moretti, “Marco Boschini: ‘compendiosa informazione,” Ricche Minere, 1,
(2014), p. 9.
51
Novelli describes the architectural setting of a pen drawing of the Presentation of the Virgin by
Boschini in his own collection as being Paolesca, that is, is the manner of Paolo Veronese. This
reference is available in a manuscript in the Seminario Patriarcale, Venice, P. A. Novelli,
Memorie di Marco Boschini, MS 854(7). For Boschini’s paintings in San Girolamo see Della
pittura veneziana. Trattato in cui osservasi l’ordine del Bushing…, t. II, (Venezia, 1797), p. 98.
52
Marco Boschini, Le Minere della Pittura, (Venezia, 1664), p. 461; Lino Moretti, “Marco
Boschini: ‘compendiosa informazione,” Ricche Minere, 1, (2014), p. 9-10. Moretti’s article is
really just a reiteration and condensed version of the work published by Roberto Grazia,
“Contributi boschiniani,” Studi Secenteschi, 18, (1977), pp. 207-245 which is extensive and
comprehensive.
161
earliest known subject was a currency conversion table, published as Tariffa del cambio
degli scudi forestieri in 1635.53
He also engraved images related to the Cretan War,
including a map of the island, Topografia di Candia, 1645, and in 1651 a follow up
edition titled, Regno tutto di Candia describing important localities of the island.54
He
also produced a portrait of Nicolò Dolfin in 1647, (Andrea Cornaro’s replacement) as
defender of the town of Rettimo during the Cretan conflict.55
Although no paintings of
Boschini’s remain, his engraved copy after Pietro Liberi’s The Preaching of St. Francis
Xavier altarpiece in the Gesuiti (fig. 113) and a processional print of Sant Maria della
Salute shows reasonable proficiency (fig. 114).56
Interestingly, though not entirely
surprising given the number of his publications, the only known portrait of Marco
Boschini depicts him as a writer with quill in hand and eyes cast down at his text in an
engraving by Pietro Bellotti. He studied engraving with Odoardo Fialetti, and produced
twenty-five original works that are fantasies of imaginary paintings done in the manner
53
Emmanuele Antonio Cicogna, Delle inscrizione Veneziane, (Venezia: Presso Giuseppe
Orlandelli, 1824-1853), vol. 4, p. 695 records this engraving, and Nicolo Papadopoli, Le monete
di Venezia, (Venezia: Tipografica Libreria Emiliana, 1919), vol. 3, p. 378 notes Boschini was
paid for similar work in 1665.
54
Marco Boschini, Topografia di Candia e descrizioni di Guerra, 1645, engraving preserved in
the Museo-Biblioteca Correr, Collection Correr, 12/4719, and Il Regno tutto di Candia delineato
a parte et intagliato da Marco Boschini venetiano together.
55
Marco Boschini, Ritratto di Nicolò Dolfin, Provveditore Generale di Creta, 1647, Museo-
Biblioteca Correr, Collection Correr, Vol. St. A 12/ Cl. XXXIV n. 4469.
56
A copy of the St Francis can be found in the Print Collection of the British Museum, accession
#1953,0214.134. The Salute print is in the Procuratie Nuove Museum, Venice, accession
#ST.PAL.DUC.0565.
162
and style of various contemporaries—many of whom were his friends—with each
accompanied by several verses (figs. 115-117).57
Renieri continued to produce paintings throughout his career as a dealer, never
relying solely on one form of income. For Boschini, perhaps his guild membership served
two purposes; on the one hand he continued to be part of the painter’s community in
Venice fostering a sense of camaraderie, while also presenting himself as a practitioner
(thus expanding his expertise) to his patrons.
Often, as with the faux Giorgione discovered in the house of Guasconi, Boschini
would turn to Renieri and his son-in-law, Pietro della Vecchia, for a picture. Della
Vecchia, though successful in his own right—he was commissioned to design mosaic
cartoons in the Basilica San Marco—was known for his excellent imitation of
Cinquecento masters, particularly Titian.58
Pietro Liberi (1605—1687), another Venetian
painter and contemporary of della Vecchia, was also especially good at copying the style
of Veronese, and when the availability of paintings by Old Masters was not consistent,
the demand to acquire them could lead to occasional misattribution.59
57
Boschini tended toward engraved copies after other Venetian artists and friends; including
Padovanino, della Vecchia, Liberi, Forabosco, Maffei, Langetti and Stroiffi (Bernardo Strozzi’s
student) to name a few. For his graphic work see G.A. Moschini, Notizie su Marco Boschini,
(Nozze Sorgato-Feruzzi) 1883; Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna
Pallucchini, (Venezia-Roma: Instituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), figs. 1-43 for
images of his work.
58
Nicola Ivanoff, “Nicolas Regnier,” Arte Antica e Moderna, 29, (1965), pp. 12-24 for della
Vecchia’s assistance to his father-in-law.
59
Ugo Ruggeri, Pietro e Marco Liberi: pittori nel Venezia del Seicento, (Rimini: S. Patacconi,
1996) and for the most recent work, Chiara Accornero, Pietro Liberi cavaliere e fenice dei pittori
dalle avventure di spada alle lusinghe dell'accademia, (Treviso: Zel, 2013).
163
This was another skill that connoisseur dealers, or sensali, such as Boschini, del
Sera, and Renieri could promote: the ability to identify a painting and its artist, as well as
the capacity to convince a buyer the painting was legitimate through weeding out the
imposters, or maintaining an economically viable deception depending on the parties
involved. In his Ricche Minere, Boschini spends many pages encouraging the idea of
connoisseurship and the careful study of paintings, essentially endorsing his own
usefulness and suggesting to his readers that he would never purposefully pass off a
forgery for the real thing when he had dedicated himself so completely to their
identification.
How skilled any of these individuals actually were is up for debate—while
Boschini clearly knew the hand of Venetian painters, he experienced difficulty with
works produced outside his own region. The Bolognese art critic and biographer
Malvasia relates that Boschini was unable, for example, to tell the difference between
Ludovico and Annibale Carracci.60
From Boschini’s own correspondence we know
about the incident with the Giorgione—and while to us it showcases what was clearly a
market for forgeries, it also provided Boschini with a superb opportunity to show off his
abilities to recognize the truth and be in on the joke. Of course, he may not have known
if della Vecchia had not given the game away. However, despite any provenances
provided by individuals selling paintings, such information needed to be treated with
skepticism.
60
For the comment, Carlo Malvasia, Felsina Pittrice, (Bologna: Tip. Guidi all’Ancora, 1844), I,
p. 351.
164
Renieri, on the other hand, actively commissioned della Vecchia to paint copies.
Indeed he was keeping business in the family considering that della Vecchia was married
to Renieri’s daughter Clorinda. As mentioned earlier, he was a painter by trade before
entering the market as an art dealer. As a painter, Renieri’s specialization was
Caravaggesque genre pictures of fortune-telling, concerts and assemblies of soldiers
before turning to historical and biblical scenes once he settled in Venice. Although
Renieri was relied upon for careful assessments—he and della Vecchia appraised the
Widmann collection in 1659 for example—as we have seen in the case of his personal
valuations he was rather liberal.61
Del Sera, in contrast, often approached paintings more as precious items and less
as commodities. In many ways he probably saw them as an equalizing force because,
while his station was nowhere near that of Cardinal de’Medici, discussing and collecting
paintings was an activity that they both enjoyed and could speak about as equals.
Although we do not know the content of the Cardinal’s responses, del Sera’s letters show
him to be comfortable and confident with the subject of art and painting; sure of his
convictions in the face of his superior. He was an active collector, and although he
eventually did sell his collection, his purpose in doing so seems slightly less about the
possibility of profit and more for the satisfaction of the search. When he writes, only
61
The Widmann family settled in Venice in the 16th century from Carinzia and were successful
metal merchants. They amassed a large art collection in their palazzo near the church of San
Canciano in Venice. Boschini, del Sera and Renieri all came into contact with the family, but it
was Renieri who inventoried the collection. See Fabrizio Magani, Il collezionismo e la
committenza artistic della famiglia Widmann dal Seicento all’Ottocento, (Venezia; Instituto
Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 1989).
165
three months before his death, “For twenty two years I have been to the point of love with
the most beautiful portrait ever created by the great Tintoretto, esteemed as such by all of
these connoisseurs, as much as one can judge from the works of his that one sees. Finally
last Tuesday it became mine...I keep it in my own room in order to have it always before
my eyes, and the more I look at it, the more I am amazed...”62
It is easy to see the deep affection for the art of painting that he holds; as it
requires no effort to recognize the pride taken by Boschini in the artistic achievements of
his native city spelled out within his publications. Even Renieri shows his fondness for
his craft alongside his mercantile prowess; he continued to paint and take commissions
until his death and was genuinely concerned over the dispersal of his collection. More
than just merchants with an eye only for profit, these men inhabited a still undefined
territory, setting a precedent where a passion, and what had been for the wealthy and
noble class just a pastime, could become a profession of unique distinction. Seventeenth
century social classes were rigid in their definition; but knowledge, and more importantly
appreciation and discernment of artistic nuance opened doors previously closed. These
merchant connoisseurs were sought after because they were experts in their field in a
market of visual goods that was becoming increasing complex and muddled. As
connoisseurs they could wade through and determine the good from the bad (or the real
from the copy); as merchants they could execute the buying desires of their clients. It
was the sensali who would facilitate the process of transition and eventual opening of the
62
Archivio di Stato di Firenze (ASF), Carteggio dei Artisti, V, 348, the full document is
unpublished, but this specific quotation is reprinted in Edward Goldberg, Patterns in Late Medici
Art Patronage, (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), pp. 58-59.
166
art market to a larger buying audience, and would usher in the tastemakers and
trendsetters of the coming centuries.
167
2. Boschini’s Dual Roles of Defense and Dispersal
Unlike his associates del Sera and Renieri, Marco Boschini was a native Venetian,
and as such was invested with a more personal sense of civic pride regarding the
paintings he sold. His publication, mentioned earlier, La Carta del navegar Pitoresco,
served several purposes. It was at once a guidebook to the numerous artworks spread
across the city of Venice for the connoisseur and traveling gentleman, an effusive history
of the Venetian artistic tradition, and an overall calculated response to the criticisms of
Vasari. It was also, for lack of a better description, a potential sales catalogue. Given
his profession as an art dealer, he could not have remained ignorant of that fact. Carlo
Ridolfi on the other hand, had provided a more straightforward work with his 1648 Lives,
simply moving from biography to biography without the pretense of excessive
interpretation, and often misattributing paintings. While Boschini’s Carta is part of a
larger tradition of dialogues on art, including Pino’s Dialogo (1548) and Dolce’s Aretino
(1557), discussed earlier in Chapter Two, the Carta format was one of more casual
conversation than strict academic theory.63
63
Mitchell Merling discusses this in Marco Boschini’s “La Carta del navegar pitoresco”:Art
Theory and virtuoso culture in 17th century Venice, PhD Dissertation, (Brown University, 1992).
It is not my intention to delve into the traditions of seventeenth century academic theory here. See
Giovanni Getto, "Letteratura e poesia," La civiltà veneziana nell'età barocca, ed. Andre Malraux,
(Florence: Sansoni, 1959), pp. 145-84; Luigi Grassi, Teorici e storia della critica dell’arte. Parte
seconda: L’età moderna: il Seicento, (Rome: Multigrafica Editrice, 1973), and of course Philip
Sohm, Pittoresco: Marco Boschini, His Critics, and Their Critiques of Painterly Brushwork in
Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Italy, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991) for
the subject.
168
It is important to realize that by the time Boschini published his work in 1660, the
generation of artists that had been the direct inheritors of the Cinquecento masters were
dead, and had been for twenty to thirty years. Through his teacher Palma il Giovane (d.
1628) he must have known the majority of them as a young man, or at least been given
the oral history of their career by Palma through his relationship with them. Though it is
a grim accounting, it is necessary to understand that by the time Boschini was writing, his
remaining association with the Cinquecento was already twice removed; any family
members or original students of the master were by then deceased. Marco Vecellio, the
nephew of Titian, had died in 1611, but his son Tizianello—who dedicated his work Vita
di Tiziano (1622) to the Countess of Arundel—would have been a brief contemporary of
Boschini, dying in 1650. Leandro Bassano, son of Jacopo Bassano, died in 1622;
Gabriele Caliari, son of Veronese, in 1631 from the plague, and Domenico Tintoretto in
1635 from old age. Pietro Malombra (d. 1618), Aliense (d. 1629), Odoardo Fialetti (d.
1638), Tiberio Tinelli (d. 1639), and Alessandro Varotari, il Padovanino (d. 1649), all
directly influenced or taught in the workshops of the old masters were gone, as were the
artists who had settled in Venice: Domenico Fetti (d. 1623), Johann Liss (d. 1629) and
Bernardo Strozzi (d. 1644). Ridolfi had died in 1658, while Renieri and del Sera died in
1667 and 1672 respectively. Boschini was, for lack of a better term, the last man
standing. The working artists that did surround him were the students of the inheritors of
the Cinquecento masters by the time he reached his maturity as an art dealer.
When English collectors and their agents were streaking through Venice, bent on
acquisition, it was the men listed above with whom they dealt. By the time it was
169
Boschini’s turn, his associates were Pietro della Vecchia and Pietro Liberi, once the
students of Padovanino. It is not altogether surprising that the Carta would have the
nostalgic, poetic mien that is does, with the wistful impression from Boschini of a desire
for times past. Laid out in eight venti (winds), or sections, that follow a route of paintings
through the city—and written in the Venetian dialect— he inserted both an added level of
patriotism and difficulty to the text, distinctly instilling pride of place.64
The dichotomy of his publication is that Boschini is attempting to set up his
contemporaries as worthy inheritors of the Cinquecento masters in order to
simultaneously praise the old masters, while finding patronage for those artists currently
working.65
Successfully, though perhaps inadvertently, by doing so he raises the
economic value of old master works and strengthens the commercial viability of his
contemporaries to mimic their style in a derivative form. He claims Venetian painters
were adept enough in their ability as to appear as if they were not even considering the
final outcome of the painting, stating:
“Prima la giera leze de Natura,
Che se imitava quel che se vedeva
64
It is interesting to consider that the problema della lingua was also occurring during this
period; Boschini’s insistence on using the Venetian dialect could be viewed as another foil to the
dominance of Tuscany (and Vasari) across cultural media. Robert A. Hall, Jr., “The Significance
of the Italian "Questione della Lingua," Studies in Philology, 39, (1942), pp. 1-10; Alfredo
Schiaffini, "Aspetti della crisi linguistica italiana del Settecento," Zeitschrift Fur Romanische
Philologie, 57, (1937), pp. 275-295. For further discussion on the terminology and vocabulary
used by Boschini on a more technical level, see Philip Sohm, Pittoresco: Marco Boschini, His
Critics, and Their Critiques of Painterly Brushwork in Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Italy,
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). My concern here is the overall impression of
Boschini’s work as a mannered type that has a uniquely Venetian handling.
65
Merling, Marco Boschini’s “La Carta del navegar pitoresco”:Art Theory and virtuoso culture
in 17th
century Venice, mentions this possibility, pp. 280-281, which seems most plausible.
170
Ne totalmente alora i possedeva
L’Arte, che tanto importa in la Pittura
Adesso la xe leze stabilida,
Fata dala Maniera veneziana;
E a quei che perdera sta tramontana,
La calamita sara sempre infida.
E quest xe fonda sui spegazzoni
(A dir co’dise tal bel inzegno);
Ma quei gran spegazzoni e quell dessegno
Chi non intende, e gofi e babioni.
Quela xe una maniera artificiosa
Che tra la diligenza int’un canton;
Quela xe quela che da perfezion
E la Pitura fa miracolosa.”66
He writes that it is the law of Nature to imitate what is seen, and it should be done in the
Venetian manner which is founded on loose brushstroke. He then calls them (Vasari and
his followers) “gofi e babioni” (fools and baboons) who do not understand that this kind
of brushstroke and disegno has superseded diligence and is that which “makes perfection
and Painting miraculous.” An image had to have verisimilitude in order to convince the
spectator of the higher truth it conveyed.67
This came in part from the Venetian
experience, where naturalism was a means to an end, and to the expression of an abstract
truth beyond experience. Further, Boschini suggested that the Venetians were advanced
66
Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini (Venezia-Roma:
Instituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), p. 74, “First there was the law of Nature: imitate
what is seen. Now the law has been ordained this art: is the most important in Painting: now do in
the Venetian manner: founded on loose brushstrokes and design: they are fools and baboons who
do not understand this artifice: and the diligence of the work: It is what makes perfection, and
Painting miraculous” My translation. I would like to thank Anne and Andrea Vendramin for their
kind assistance in helping me decipher portions of Boschini’s Venetian dialect throughout this
work.
67
Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venezia-Roma:
Instituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), pp. 509-524; Carlo Malvasia, Felsina Pittrice,
(Bologna: Tip. Guidi all’Ancora, 1844), p. 270.
171
enough in their preparation and execution of painting that the two activities were
concurrent. “Study then and draw after anatomy, reliefs, statues and the natural, but the
ends of painting are such that a painting rather than a drawing must be made.”68
Essentially, Boschini believed a true connoisseur of painting would never be disappointed
by the Venetian school no matter how stylistically derivative it might be, given the
natural, fluid abilities that her artists employed.
Palma il Giovane and il Padovanino are treated as the greatest inheritors of the
Venetian High Renaissance but not as innovators, and this is a fair assessment. Boschini
praises Padovanino for being skilled in the depiction of “Le donne, i Cavalieri, l’armi e
gli Amori” to use Ariosto’s phrase, and says that he is able to form a bon composto as a
moderate and courtly painter.69
Padovanino was very close to the early style of Titian
and used a similar vocabulary of the brush, though with less forcefulness. The addition
of his fourth Bacchanal, now in Bergamo, to Titian’s first three proved to Boschini his
ability as a modern follower of the master, but also demonstrated Padovanino’s inability
to formulate compositions at the same level of originality as Titian (fig. 9). The
illusionism practiced in Cinquecento Venice involved more than just replication of the
68
Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venezia-Roma:
Instituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), p. 163, “Studiè pur; dessegnè l’Anotomia, I
rilievi, le statue e i naturali; i fini de Pitura è certo tali, che un quadro s’ha da far: la xe fenia.” My
translation.
69
Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venezia-Roma:
Instituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), p. 199 for his praise of Padovanino; Mitchell
Merling, Marco Boschini’s “La Carta del navegar pitoresco”:Art Theory and virtuoso culture in
17th century Venice, PhD dissertation, (Providence: Brown University, 1992), pp. 310-311. See in
particular Maria Loh, Titian Remade, (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2007) for an
examination of Padovanino as an artist.
172
model, it required interpretation of nature. This occurs, according to Boschini, when,
“the Venetian painter, with the foundation of study behind him, draws while he paints.
He has symmetry in his head, and his understanding thus disdains to follow (existing)
nature,” and was something that Seicento followers did not completely comprehend.70
The Carta would remain the focal point of Venetian art history well into the
eighteenth century, but it was Boschini’s second publication, the Le ricche minere della
pittura veneziana, published in 1674, that would be the more accessible of the two. The
Minere was not written in a lyric format or dialect, instead laid out as normal guidebook
to paintings in public spaces. Most compelling, he included a section titled Breve
Instruzione, or “Brief Instructions on How to Understand the Styles of Venetian
Painters,” published in the second edition, suggesting a definitive shift from his earlier
polemic position toward straightforward connoisseurship.
Boschini is clever and bold in his statements about contemporary critics, and
embraces the expressive quality of language in the same manner he expounds on the
expressiveness of Venetian art. For example when he says, “There are some blockheads
that think that those brushstrokes were done in a hurry, but in them there is a diligence
itself, the product of extreme effort. One sees that in those brushstrokes there is a
patience and that a man aims all his life, with great assiduity, study and suffering, to
70
Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venezia-Roma:
Instituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), p. 323, the original reads, “El Pitor venezian, col
fondamento, Da studio fato, in operar dessegna. La semetria gh’è in testa, e in parte sdegna,
D’aver col natural l’intendimento.” My translation.
173
arrive there at such intelligence.”71
For Boschini, Venetian Cinquecento painters held
together those elements which “modern” artists threatened to separate—what he
misunderstood however was that those Cinquecento artists had been modern in their own
right, in their own moment of artistic creation. His preference led him to support a less
original but rooted strain of their legacy. Typically, when contemporary painters appear
in the Carta, it is usually to praise the Venetian Cinquecento artist and acknowledge their
influence. For Boschini, “il buon gusto Venexian” meant lots of figures, movement,
glowing color, and clever (if not overzealous) foreshortening all applied with bold,
confident strokes. For him, “a picture without a nude is like a meal without bread.”72
While Venetian art certainly needed a champion, Boschini only served to
perpetuate the problem Seicento painters faced by lauding the tropes that were holding
them back. Further, by promoting the style of the Venetian old masters—in the pages of
the Carta, but especially in the pages of the Minere, which had become more of a tourist
publication than anything else—he set up a demand they could fill, but did not set up or
pose a challenge they could strive against. Economically he helped them, himself, and
the market along; even while he recognized the pitfalls of selling the visual patrimony of
71
Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venezia-Roma:
Instituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), p. 86-87, which reads, “Ghe xe tanti balordi che
se pensa, Che quei colpi sia fati in pressa in pressa; E si ghe xe la diligenza istessa, E forsi fati
con fadiga imensa. La veda se in quei colpi gh’è pacienza, Che un omo tuta la so vita mena Con
molto assiduità tra studio e pena, Per arivar a quela inteligenza.” My translation.
72
Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venezia-Roma:
Instituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), p. 380, “Un quadro senza nudo è come aponto un
disnar senza pan.” On a personal note, this is one of the best phrases I’ve ever heard in art history,
considering how many paintings could do with a little more nudity. My translation.
174
Venice, and essentially confirmed that Seicento painters could not surpass their
forbearers. In an unintentional way, he looped back to the question posed by Ridolfi,
when he asked “Ultra quid faciam?”73
Unlike del Sera, who expressed none of these qualms, Boschini was aware of the
dichotomy of purpose he had established as both art dealer and art critic/champion.
When he praised the purchase of de Sera’s collection of Venetian paintings by the Medici
in the Carta, he made the pun that they have “healed the wounds” of Vasari’s denigration
of Venetian colore—and yet simultaneously they had opened new wounds with their
loss.74
Del Sera, Boschini and their associates were not the only art agents and dealers at
work in seventeenth century Venice; they faced purchasing competition from a host of
foreign buyers. The opening decades of the century had witnessed a surge in appetite for
Venetian pictures from foreign collectors—particularly the English. These outsiders did
not share Boschini’s later reservations regarding the removal and loss of paintings from
the city, nor del Sera’s passion of art for art’s sake, motivated as they were by political
and financial gain. They did however stimulate the market for Venetian paintings in a
larger populace of consumers, which subsequently created the demand that Seicento
painters were ready to fill.
73
Literally, “what more can I do?” as discussed in Chapter One, Carlo Ridolfi, Le Maraviglie
dell’arte, (Milan: Arnoldo Forni Editore, 2002), vol. 2, p. 281.
74
For issues of Leopoldo de’Medici’s despoliation of Venetian art treasures see Francis Haskell,
“Some Collectors of Venetian Art at the End of the Eighteenth Century,” Studies in Renaissance
and Baroque Art Presented to Anthony Blunt, (London: Phaidon, 1967), pp. 173-178. Marco
Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venezia-Roma: Instituto per la
Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), p. 404 for the pun.
175
CHAPTER 5: Venice Preserv’d
…I plung’d into the Sea,
And, buffeting the Billows to her Rescue,
Redeem’d her Life with half the Loss of mine.
Like a rich Conquest, in one Hand I bore her,
And with the other dash’d the saucy Waves,
That throng’d and press’d to rob me of my Prize:
I brought her, gave her to your despairing Arms:
Indeed you thank’d me; but a nobler Gratitude
‘Rose in her Soul: For from that Hour she lov’d me1
The influence of the Venetian Cinquecento cast its shadow long into the following
century; the visual legacy of the great masters Titian, Veronese, and Tintoretto both
haunting and inspiring their followers. In his Carta del Navegar Pitoresco, using the
metaphor of a “ship of pictorial style,” Boschini began by assigning each of the masters a
relevant task aboard ship as an allegory for their role in the history of Venetian painting.
Giorgione tends to the rudder, while Bassano provides light for the workroom and the
captain’s quarters; Veronese is quartermaster and adorns the navigational light, Tintoretto
tends the bronze artillery, leaving Titian as “the vero Armiragio,” or true Admiral,
guiding the ship.2 Boschini lists no contemporary painters, but says “del resto, che tende
a le gomene, chi a le Ancore, che è Soldai, e chi Marineri” suggesting all others make up
the ship’s crew and kept it running. His venti, or winds, then propel the ship through
Venice, outlining and listing the artworks of particular note. The dichotomy of the Carta
1 Thomas Otway, Venice Preserv’d, or A Plot discover’d, (London, 1682), p. 10. Text available
online from Project Gutenberg. See Note 1, Chapter 1.
2 Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco [1660], ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venice and
Rome: Istituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), pp. 3-4.
176
is in the conjunction of criticism and commerce it presents. Although Boschini rejected
the exportation of art from Venice in his printed work, considering it theft, in his waking
life he pursued that goal even while there were fewer Old Masters to be found for sale
mid-century. To make my own visual metaphor; Boschini’s boat was running into rather
shallow waters (in terms of available paintings), and the navigation had begun to falter
(regarding any continued production association with a master).
As I have discussed in earlier chapters, the foundation of a painter’s education in
Venice was in the bottega of their master where they learn to produce pictures in a
manner similar to his own. The images these students painted in the method of their
masters were commercially viable on the market both at home and abroad, specifically
because they referenced the master. They were carried to foreign shores where by virtue
of literal distance from any masterwork they were substituted as such. Even today, when
we look at the art market for Venetian old masters, we find scads of paintings described
as “circle of,” “manner of,” and “style of,” precisely because they are examples of these
derivative works. We have the greater luxury of the ability to make a visual comparison
to an original with the ease of an internet search; Boschini and del Sera had to rely on the
strength of their own memory.
Obviously, this situation is not particular to Venice alone; but Seicento Venice
makes an interesting case because it is bookended by two strong periods of art production
that defined themselves as recognizably “Venetian” styles, and because during that
bracketed period there was a concurrent and active art market that did not perceive these
works as mediocre. Additionally, the teaching method in Venice fostered an environment
177
of repetition and deference to established concepts of visual propaganda formulated by
the myth of Venice. In essence their production was a cyclical, self-fulfilling prophecy
that relied as much on the compositional choices as on execution of brush on canvas.
No artist in early Seicento Venice was able to step in and take the rudder, or the
admiralty. There was no Venetian painter who could take the place of Titian and provide
strong guidance in seventeenth century Venice. The modus operandi of the bottega was
not one to promote the type of individuality, talent or free agency that flourished in the
academies elsewhere. When Tintoretto displayed these tendencies in Titian’s workshop
he was promptly kicked out—yet he requested that his own son Domenico carry on in his
established manner rather than develop a strong individualism. As we have seen,
students learned from their masters by copying works, often to the point of the inability to
identify one hand from another. The practice of drawing was used in Venice to cement
workshop lessons, and although there was a passing interest in drawing manuals they
were more commercial than instructive in purpose. The Venetian master did not want
competition; he wanted conformity.
This viewpoint parallels the social structure of Venice and her government.
Lewkenor may have lauded what he perceived as a happy citizenry governed by a
benevolent and democratic patrician class, but on the other side of the looking glass was a
class of people unable (unless they could afford it) to cross social boundaries, who were
left to tow the party line for a grinding bureaucratic machine. This again is the myth vs.
anti-myth of Venice; the only variable in the equation was money. The buyers who
purchased art in the early Seicento vied with one another in fierce competition, increasing
178
the market demand and commercial interest. Like anywhere else at any other time in
history, wealth opened doors. It opened the door to Senator Ruzzini’s palazzo for
Feilding; it purchased nobility for Zuane della Nave; it kept Domenico Tintoretto in
business, and it bought Pietro Liberi a house on the Grand Canal. It was in the best
interest of a painter to conform and do what paid the most, and turning out canvases that
drew from established trends was appealing to buyers. When Ridolfi lamented in his
biography of Domenico Tintoretto that the artist spent too much time making portraits,
one can almost hear Tintoretto respond, “that’s because it keeps bread on the table.”
For Titian and Veronese in the Cinquecento, they had the standards of the Bellini,
Pordenone, and Giorgione to follow. For them, the new critical “establishment” or canon
of Venetian painting was in the process of developing into how we identify it today.
Tintoretto learned at the (metaphorical) feet of Titian and Veronese, and it would be this
slightly younger upstart who would strike out in his own manner and terribile way.3
In his own time, Jacopo Tintoretto was considered a modern painter. When
Boschini assigns him the job of gunner onboard his literary vessel, it is because of his
approach to painting; later, in the Ricche Minere, he would describe Tintoretto as un
tuono, a thunderbolt.4 But simply because he was modern did not mean that everyone
enjoyed his work. Federico Zuccaro’s Lamento della Pittura (1605) casts Tintoretto as
the beginning of the end for the art of painting in Venice; what had grandly started with
3 The development of these artists in relation to one another is examined in Titian, Tintoretto,
Veronese: Rivals in Renaissance Venice, (Boston: Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 2009).
4 Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco [1660], ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venice and
Rome: Istituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), p. 730.
179
Bellini, Giorgione and Titian was described to have degenerated with the audacity of
Tintoretto’s brushwork, writhing figures and brilliant lighting. 5
In the forty plus years to pass between Zuccaro’s judgment made in 1605 and
Ridolfi’s Lives published in 1648, the perception of Tintoretto as an artist would shift
again, as Maria Loh has rightly pointed out.6 Ridolfi massages Tintoretto into a
venerable Old Master, so he may take his place beside Titian. He has an ulterior motive
however, because the Lives is the first biography dedicated solely to Venetians, standing
as counterpoint to Vasari. Ridolfi needed Tintoretto to conform—yet again that
distinction—so that Venice could show something greater than Michelangelo and
potentially even greater Titian; a union of them both.
The moment Tintoretto scrawled ‘il disegno di Michelangelo ed il colorito di
Tiziano’ on his studio wall, his fate was sealed.7 The very fact he would conceive of
mixing these two styles together is what defines him as modern to my mind more than
any stylistic thunderbolt; the act of taking bits of things that are disparate but known
quantities, mixing them up together, and formulating something entirely new. The result
5 Maria Loh makes an interesting case for the perceived modernity of Tintoretto in “Huomini
della nostra età: Tintoretto’s Proposterous Modernity,” Jacopo Tintoretto: Actas del Congreso
Internacional, ed. Miguel Falomir, (Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado, 2009), pp. 188-195. See
also Anna Lepschy, Tintoretto Observed: A Documentary Survey of the Critical Reactions from
the 16th to the 20th Century, (Ravenna: Longo, 1983) for the history of critical sources on
Tintoretto.
6 Maria Loh,“Huomini della nostra età: Tintoretto’s Proposterous Modernity,” Jacopo Tintoretto:
Actas del Congreso Internacional, ed. Miguel Falomir, (Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado,
2009), pp. 191-193.
7 Perhaps only a myth of Ridolfi’s, but a good one nonetheless, Carlo Ridolfi, Le Meraviglie
dell’Arte, 2 vols., (Milan: Arnaldo Forni, 2002), p. 174.
180
is familiar in some ways, completely foreign in others. Ridolfi glossed over this
however, along with Tintoretto’s many character flaws, and turned him into another
benevolent figure of distinction produced by the lagoon. I have tried to demonstrate how
through their education of repetition and the easy lure of market success it provided, the
immediate inheritors of the Cinquecento masters were not modern, not creatively
nuanced, and not trailblazing in the least when it came to stylistic ingenuity in the way
that a painter like Tintoretto was. Instead they were pedantic and mediocre, and above all
else: safe. They did not rock the boat, or make waves—they did not need to. I have also
posited that this is the reason why early Seicento Venice does not have a very good
reputation today, and why it is often dismissed as derivative in scholarship.
As I have demonstrated through example, collaboration and a collective mentality
was a fundamental characteristic of the Venetian workshop. Although this allowed for a
high turnout rate of pictures, with multiple large scale commissions able to happen at the
same time, it left no time for a student to develop their own style. It also linked success
to larger shops with more assistants; which solidified the dominance of Titian, Veronese
and Tintoretto by virtue of regard and sheer numbers. It is not difficult to understand
why the style of these painters is so prominent when the literal number of students and
assistants they had was so high, leading to greater numbers of paintings produced.
The result of all this output was a plethora of works on the market; to be bought
by the traveling gentleman, by an agent collecting on behalf of a superior, or later by
dealers like Renieri or Boschini. And this would lead to their difficulty in sorting out and
identifying the correct hand of the right artist; since by the time Boschini was at the
181
height of his merchant career, he was already interacting with a generation of artists
removed from the initial studio inheritors themselves. To handle this distance, Boschini
took his cues from Ridolfi, and while his publication was a more ardent defense of
Venetian painting and its practitioners, he didn’t have to work as hard to cast the crew of
his ‘pictorial ship’ in a favorable light. If anything, Boschini constantly had
contemporary artists doing the work for him. When Boschini sent Alessandro Varotari, il
Padovanino, to the Scuola Grande di San Rocco, he fed him the words:
Co’arivo in sto Salon più che divin,
Devento un’oca, un zane, un mezetin;
Stago oto dì, che no xe ben de mi.
E giera in la Pitura sì ecelente.
Ma la va ben cusì: che chi più intende
Più amirazion dela Virtù se prende,
E forma gran conceti in la so mente.
La vede qua, se gh’è dei studiosi,
Che dessegna sti quadri con dileto
Oh più che uman, sublime Tentoreto,
Che è nassù per dar lume ai Virtuosi!8
The over the top enthusiasm and eager delivery of his words would probably
garner a violent response if Tintoretto had heard them; he was not one to suffer fools.
But it is the ideal situation for Boschini and Ridolfi to have a considerable amount of
8Marco Boschini, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco [1660], ed. Anna Pallucchini, (Venice and
Rome: Istituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1966), p. 123 reads, “When I arrived in this room
that is divine, I was a goose, a slave, a madman; I stayed for eight days beside myself spinning
with these pictures so excellent. It is good to be thus if you intend to admire the virtue that takes
and forms a grand concerts, to see this and to make a study, the designs of the paintings are
delightful, Oh what a man, sublime Tintoretto, who was born for giving light with(through his)
Virtuosity!” My translation.
182
distance from their subjects, allowing the author to remember them as he wants them to
be, rather than as they were. Even Zuccaro, less than a decade after Tintoretto’s death
felt justified in disparaging him from afar without fear of reprisal.
Where does this leave the early Seicento Venetian artist? Boschini reinforced the
idea, the intrinsic value, and the aesthetic quality of Old Master paintings. By doing so
he was selling a concept more than a commodity since few were readily available, due to
scarcity and price. However, there were plenty of pictures that paid homage to the
Cinquecento masters, whether as a pastiche or an outright copy. These came from the
students and followers that had been in the workshops of the grand masters at the end of
the 1580s and 1590s. By the time Boschini had started dealing in art in the 1630s and
1640s these works probably had already changed hands several times, and with additional
copies made the result was a muddled authorship.
Initially Palma il Giovane filled the void in the period when English picture
purchasing was particularly active, working in a Tintorettesque manner and turning out a
prodigious number of paintings until his death in 1628.9 The problem was that in the
early decades of the seventeenth century, there was no artist who expressed any sense of
the modern in the way that Tintoretto had. The forward momentum of stylistic
development that had been happening in the old master studios ceased in favor of
repeating established models; a prime example was Ridolfi’s greatest criticism of
Tintoretto’s son, Domenico.
9 See Stefania Mason Rinaldi, “Paintings by Palma il Giovane in British Collections,” Apollo,
110, (1979), pp. 396-399.
183
When he wrote “…disdaining to continue on the true path, he strayed from his
father’s manner…” about Domenico, he wasn’t talking about the Tintoretto ‘style’—that
was easy enough to imitate. What Ridolfi was referencing was the very thing that
probably got Tintoretto expelled from Titian’s studio; his ability for creative invention—
the exact thing that Boschini would wax poetic over in the stanzas of his Carta. The
immediate inheritors of the Cinquecento didn’t seem to realize that cutting and pasting
stock figures from a master’s oeuvre onto an embellished background did not make a
good painting. But those same paintings sold because they were reminiscent in character
to a Veronese or a Bassano, or a Titian or a Tintoretto, and that is what patrons liked, and
that was what they were willing to pay for.
Often mentioned is Alessandro Varotari, il Padovanino (1588—1648) and his
Bacchanals copied after Titian as an example (fig. 9).10
He was the antithesis of Palma’s
style, returning to Titian’s early work and style and influenced by his collaborator and
imitator, Damiano Mazza (act. 1573—1590). When Feilding questioned the quality of
the Titians he saw in the della Nave collection, he was probably looking at a painting by
Varotari or one of his students. While he shifted the focus away from the late sketchy
type of the masters and back to a more classical form, Varotari did not develop or
reinterpret (as Boschini advises a painter should do) what Titian had made into an
established model; he simply followed that model without significant interpretation or
10
Maria Loh, Titian Remade: Repetition and the Transformation of Early Modern Italian Art,
(Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2007).
184
derivation. As the head of a large bottega with many students, including Boschini’s
occasional business associate Pietro della Vecchia, Varotari was in a position to influence
the reception of old masters by mid-century artists. We certainly know this to be true
when della Vecchia provided the copy of the Giorgione painting.
It is through Varotari and his students that one can trace a line from Titian in the
Cinquecento to Tiepolo in the Settecento, and see the morphing of one Cinquecento
recipe into the next—whether it be compositional, brushwork, lighting—so that by the
time one arrives mid-century it could be any or all of the old masters. Laying out the line
of descent, it follows: Titian had Damiano Mazza (fig. 118) in his bottega, who taught
Varotari (fig. 119), who in turn had as students Girolamo Forabosco (1605—1679) (fig.
120) and Pietro della Vecchia (fig. 121), who both taught Gregorio Lazzarini (1657—
1730) (fig. 122), who in turn taught Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (1696—1770) (fig. 123),
and thus, the influential centuries of Venetian art are linked in a direct line of descent
through the Seicento—though they seem to have been a bit stylistically squeezed in the
middle.
If we ask ourselves if early seventeenth century artists were economically
successful, we must respond in the affirmative. They sold their paintings; there was a
market for their production. Every well-to-do home, no matter how modestly appointed
would have had at least one painting or one engraving hanging on the wall. While della
Nave had sold his pictures, other Venetian collections flourished and grew during the
seventeenth century. Notable at the start of the Seicento included those owned by the
Venetian noblemen: Federico Contarini, Giacomo Contarini, and Andrea Vendramin. By
185
mid- century the largest collection was that of Domenico Ruzzini—who had inherited
from Federico Contarini, and the Widmann family. Venice was a vast market for all
types of goods, and this was true for art as well. As we have seen in the case of English
buyers, putting together a collection from scratch was possible to do in very little time.
Early Seicento painters always had a market, because there always was a demand.
My first chapter raised two challenges facing the early Seicento inheritors of the
Venetian old masters; first, a reinterpretation of their visual tradition not solely dependent
on retrospection, and second, the retention of qualities inherent to Venetian art that
defined it as unique. They succeeded at the second challenge, because they failed
completely in the first. The defining characteristics of Venetian art of the Cinquecento;
the brushwork, the loose handling of paint, the dynamic poses, the elaborate theater-
esque backgrounds, and most importantly the subject choices and concentration on
propagandistic tools of the state, were the root of any artist’s education within the
workshop of a master. It was what they knew—and had always known—and it was all
around them in the city of Venice; rolling over itself in a never-ending visual wave. If
they were not native by birth, like Strozzi or Toeput for example, they would still be
sucked in as long as they remained in the Republic. So retaining the qualities of Venetian
art was not so hard to do; not a true challenge per se. When it is coupled with an attempt
to reinterpret that tradition—the first challenge—is when we as future viewers can see
their inability to succeed, and why we consider their production lacking compared with
their predecessors.
186
Ultimately, my purpose here has been to show that we should recognize the very
real obstacles faced by the generation of painters to succeed their Cinquecento masters.
We should not dismiss their work because we find it to fall short aesthetically, ignoring
the reasons of that outcome. Instead we should consider the context of the time in which
it was produced and the forces of market and reception that were driving the product. To
state it plainly; it is acceptable that their work isn’t so fantastic, because everything else
contributing to its production tells us so much more about the period and the rational of
artist and buyer. As future observers, we learn more from a historical period of transition
than if there had only been a steady upward trend. It allows us to question the
motivations and collective social flexing that occurred before a new moment of growth
began.
The allegory of the Venetian state remained intact in its visual expression through
repetition, even while much of the physical patrimony that had been its original source
material made an exodus from the Republic. As decades progressed, Seicento Venetian
painting would eventually, albeit slowly, embrace the sweeping drama and violent effects
of light and shadow taking place in painting elsewhere in Europe, but in this moment it
was content to look toward the past, rather than the future. Understanding the context of
the market, the desires of patrons and how through their artistic education, artists were
groomed to visually reaffirm the accepted stylistic standards and manner of the
Cinquecento, we can acknowledge this period for what it was—a pause before the
gathering storm.
188
2. Paolo Veronese, Apotheosis of Venice (Triumph of Venice), 1585, oil on canvas,
Maggior Consiglio, Palazzo Ducale, Venice
191
5. Titian, The Sacrifice of Isaac, 1544, oil on panel, Sacristy, Santa Maria della
Salute, Venice
193
7. Leandro Bassano, Family Group of a Venetian Procurator before the Madonna
and Child, 1590, oil on canvas, Museo Biblioteca Archivio, Bassano del Grappa
195
9. Alessandro Varotari, called il Padovanino, Bacchus and Ariadne, after Titian,
1614-1620, oil on canvas, Accademia Carrara, Bergamo
196
10. Paolo Veronese, Wisdom and Strength, circa 1580, oil on canvas, The Frick
Collection, New York
197
11. Antonio Zanchi, The Virgin Appears to the Afflicted, 1666, oil on canvas,
stairwell (left), Scuola Grande di San Rocco, Venice
198
12. Leandro Bassano, Berenice, circa 1600, oil on canvas, Martini Collection,
Ca’Rezzonico, Venice
199
13. Palma il Giovane, Venice Crowned by Victory, 1584, oil on canvas, Maggior
Consiglio, Palazzo Ducale, Venice
200
14. Palma il Giovane, Heraclius takes the Cross to Jerusalem, 1590, oil on canvas,
San Giovanni Elemosinario, Venice
201
15. Domenico Tintoretto, Portrait of a Gentleman, 1586, oil on canvas,
Gëmaldegalerie Alte Meister, Kassel
202
16. Antonio Vassilacchi, called l’Aliense, Supper at Emmaus, 1618, oil on canvas,
San Pietro di Castello, Venice
207
21. Titian, Martyrdom of San Lorenzo: detail of putti, 1564-1567, oil on canvas,
El Escorial, Spain
208
22. Titian, Martyrdom of San Lorenzo: detail of conservation x-rays, 1564-1567
El Escorial, Spain
209
23. Titian, Martyrdom of San Lorenzo: detail of legs, 1564-1567, oil on canvas
El Escorial, Spain
210
24. Titian, Martyrdom of San Lorenzo: detail of arch, 1564-1567, oil on canvas
El Escorial, Spain
211
25. Jacopo Bellini, St. John the Baptist Preaching, Model Book, circa 1450,
leadpoint on parchment, Louvre, Paris
212
26. Jacopo Tintoretto, Study for the Allegory of Fortune (Felicita), 1564, black chalk
on white paper, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence
213
27. Jacopo Tintoretto, Allegory of Fortune (Felicita), 1564, oil on canvas, Sala
dell’Albergo, Scuola Grande di San Rocco, Venice
214
28. Jacopo Tintoretto, Study for Mars, Venus, and Vulcan, circa 1551, black chalk,
pen, brown ink, color washed and heightened with white chalk on blue paper,
Staatliche Museum, Berlin
215
29. Jacopo Tintoretto, Mars and Venus Surprised by Vulcan, circa 1555, oil on
canvas, Alte Pinakothek, Munich
216
30. Odoardo Fialetti, Artists in their Studio, circa 1610, engraving, Il vero modo et
ordine per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
217
31. Palma il Giovane, Madonna and Child, 1608, engraving, Il vero modo et ordine
per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
218
32. Palma il Giovane, Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery, 1608, engraving, Il
vero modo et ordine per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
219
33. Odoardo Fialetti, Cross Section of Head, 1608, engraving, Il vero modo et ordine
per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
220
34. Odoardo Fialetti, Feet, 1608, engraving, Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar
tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
221
35. Odoardo Fialetti, Mouths, 1608, engraving, Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar
tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano
223
37. Giacomo Franco, Torsos, 1611, engraving, De Excellentia et Nobilitate
Delineationis Libri Duo
224
38. Giacomo Franco 1611, Male Heads, engraving, De Excellentia et Nobilitate
Delineationis Libri Duo
225
39. Palma il Giovane, Frontispiece, 1611, engraving, De Excellentia et Nobilitate
Delineationis Libri Duo
227
41. Domenico Tintoretto, Portrait of Procurator, circa 1595, oil on canvas, The Frick
Collection, New York
229
43. Domenico Tintoretto, Baptism of Christ, circa 1590-1600, oil on canvas, San
Pietro Martire, Murano, Venice
230
44. Domenico Tintoretto, Baptism of Christ, Cleveland Museum of Art, circa 1595,
oil on canvas, Cleveland Museum of Art
231
45. Jacopo and Domenico Tintoretto, The Flagellation of Christ, 1590, oil on canvas,
Kunsthistorisches, Vienna
233
47. Workshop of Jacopo Tintoretto, Two Studies of a Figure Crawling, 1533-1594,
charcoal on blue paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
234
48. Jacopo Tintoretto, Study of Michelangelo’s ‘Day’, 1550, graphite on paper,
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
235
49. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
236
50. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
237
51. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
238
52. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
239
53. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Miracle of the Dying Slave, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
241
55. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
242
56. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
243
57. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
244
58. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
245
59. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
246
60. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
247
61. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, St Mark Rescuing a Saracen from Shipwreck,
circa 1600-1610, oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings,
British Museum, London
248
62. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto St Mark Rescuing a Saracen from Shipwreck,
circa 1600-1610, oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings,
British Museum, London
249
63. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
250
64. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
251
65. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
252
66. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
253
67. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
254
68. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
255
69. Workshop of Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, circa 1600-1610,
oil and wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum,
London
256
70. Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, 17th
century, oil on canvas,
location unknown
257
71. Domenico Tintoretto, Temptation of St Anthony, 17th
century, oil on canvas,
location unknown
258
72. Domenico Tintoretto, Reclining Nude, late 16th
century, charcoal on paper,
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
259
73. Workshop of Domenic Tintoretto, Mary Magdalene, circa 1600-1610, oil and
wash on paper, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London
261
75. Paolo Veronese, Wisdom and Strength, circa 1580, oil on canvas, The Frick
Collection, New York
262
76. Paolo Veronese, The Choice between Virtue and Vice, circa 1565, oil on canvas,
The Frick Collection, New York
263
77. Paolo Veronese, Hermes, Herse and Aglauros, after 1576, oil on canvas, The
Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, UK
264
78. Paolo Veronese, Scorn from Allegories of Love, circa 1575, oil on canvas,
National Gallery, London
265
79. Paolo Veronese, Unfaithfulness from Allegories of Love, circa 1575, oil on
canvas, National Gallery, London
266
80. Paolo Veronese, Respect from Allegories of Love, circa 1575, oil on canvas,
National Gallery, London
267
81. Paolo Veronese, Happy Union from Allegories of Love, circa 1575, oil on canvas,
National Gallery, London
269
83. Unknown Artist, Portrait of Sir Henry Wotton, date unknown, oil on canvas,
National Portrait Gallery, London
270
84. Palma il Giovane, Prometheus Chained to the Caucasus, circa 1570-1608, oil on
canvas, Royal Collection Trust, UK
271
85. Isaac Oliver, Portrait of Henry, Prince of Wales, circa 1610-1612, oil on canvas,
National Portrait Gallery, London
272
86. Peter Paul Rubens, Portrait of Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel, 1629, oil on
canvas, National Portrait Gallery, London
273
87. Peter Paul Rubens, Portrait of Aletheia Talbot, Countess of Arundel with Sir
Dudley Carleton, 1620, oil on canvas, Alte Pinakothek, Munich
274
88. Sebastiano del Piombo, Portrait of Ferry Carondelet and his Secretaries,
1510-1512, oil on panel, Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid
275
89. Michiel Jansz. van Mierevelt , Dudley Carleton, Viscount Dorchester, circa 1620,
oil on panel, National Portrait Gallery, London
276
90. After John Hoskins, Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset, circa 1625-1630, oil on panel,
National Portrait Gallery, London
278
92. Jacopo Bassano, Beheading of St John the Baptist, circa 1550, oil on canvas,
National Gallery of Denmark, Copenhagen
279
93. Lodewijk Toeput, il Pozzoserrato, Pleasure Garden with Maze, circa 1579-1584,
oil on canvas, Royal Collection Trust, Hampton Court Palace
280
94. Peter Paul Rubens, Portrait of George Villiers, First Duke of Buckingham
circa 1625, oil on canvas, Palazzo Pitti, Florence
281
95. Paulus Pontius (Paulus Du Pont), after Sir Anthony van Dyck, Sir Balthazar
Gerbier, 1634, line engraving, National Portrait Gallery, London
283
97. Jacopo Tintoretto, Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery, 1547, oil on canvas,
Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister, Dresden
284
98. Daniel Mytens , Aletheia, Countess of Arundel, circa 1618, oil on canvas,
National Portrait Gallery, London
285
99. Odoardo Fialetti, Doge Leonard Donato Giving Audience to Sir Henry Wotton,
1600-1620, oil on canvas, Royal Collection Trust, Hampton Court Palace
286
100. Daniel Mytens, James Hamilton, 1st Duke of Hamilton, 1629, oil on canvas,
National Gallery, Scotland
287
101. Wenceslas Hollar, Basil Feilding, Earl of Denbigh, date unknown, engraving,
Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, UK
288
102. Tiberio Tinelli, Portrait of Lodovico Widmann, 1637, oil on canvas, National
Gallery, Washington, D.C.
290
104. Giovanni Bellini, Young Woman Holding a Mirror, 1515, oil on canvas,
Kunsthistorisches, Vienna
291
105. Jacopo Tintoretto, Susanna and the Elders, circa 1555, oil on canvas,
Kunsthistorisches, Vienna
295
109. Pietro della Vecchia, Portrait of a Gentleman, faked Giorgione, circa 1640,
oil on canvas, Palazzo Pitti, Florence
297
111. Pietro Bellotto, Ritratto di Marco Boschini, circa 1660, engraving, La Carta del
Navegar Pitoresco
299
113. Marco Boschini, Preaching of St Francis Xavier, circa 1650, engraving after
Pietro Liberi, engraving, Correr Museum, Venice
300
114. Marco Boschini, Visita del Doge alla Chiesa Santa Maria della Salute, 1644,
engraving, Correr Museum, Venice
301
115. Marco Boschini, La Generosità, engraving after Niccolò Renieri, circa 1660,
engraving, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco
302
116. Marco Boschini, L’Arte maschera da vecchia la Moda, engraving after Pietro
della Vecchia, circa 1660, engraving, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco
303
117. Marco Boschini, Un Amorino sveglia la Virtu addormentata, engraving after
Dario Varotari, circa 1660, engraving, La Carta del Navegar Pitoresco
305
119. Alessandro Varotari, il Padovanino, The Rape of Europa, 1635-1645, oil on
canvas, Fondazione Cariplo, Milan
306
120. Girolamo Forabosco, David with the Head of Goliath, circa 1670, oil on canvas,
Liechtenstein Collection, Vaduz-Vienna
307
121. Pietro della Vecchia, Socrates and Two Students, 17th
century, oil on canvas,
Prado, Madrid
308
122. Gregorio Lazzarini, Orpheus and the Bacchantes, circa 1710, oil on canvas,
Ca’Rezzonico, Venice
309
123. Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, The Finding of Moses, 1730s, oil on canvas, Scottish
National Gallery, Edinburgh
310
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