Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Francesco Morosini's Prayer Book
Venice is a city which is not easily defined. Any search for the “real” Venice is destined for failure, because there is simply no such thing. Indeed, it seems that Venice never existed as one simple whole. In "Reconsidering Venice," Ambrosini writes, “There are simply too many Venices, too many unknown dimensions. Just when one believes one is beginning to follow the story line, Venice transmogrifies and, both in spite of and because of the richness of its archives and artistic treasures, is again a mystery, an enigma, an indecipherable maze of
interweaving stories, false and true.” They go on to explain the multifaceted Venice of the past, in terms of a myth and a counter myth. Venice could be seen as “an ideal republic, a strong maritime empire, and an independent state in which the Venetian nobles were devoted to the ideals of civic humanism and the commercial virtues of sobriety, hard work, and self-sacrifice. Venice, that is, appeared to be a city like no other… It was the Serenissima, the most serene republic.”
However, as Venice gained power and expanded, it also gained the darker counter myth. “Alongside the view that Venice was an open, just, tolerant, and benevolent republic, a countermyth portrayed Venice as a repressive state, harshly governed by a decadent and secretive oligarchy.” Many thought that “a small circle of aristocrats not only controlled the levers of political power in Venice itself but also sought to place the rest of Italy under its dominion.”
Venice has always been a place of juxtapositions and contradictions. Within the city, one can find a mix of old and new, East and West, sacred and profane. For this reason, when given the task of analyzing an object at the Museo Correr, the object I chose was not a painting or sculpture or other art object, but something a little more unique which, I think, represents Venice nicely. Tucked into the corner of a room displaying weaponry, shields, globes, and other large, noticeable items, there is a display case containing artifacts which belonged to Francesco Morosini, one of the dogi of Venice. Within the case is a small item that would be easy to overlook: a small prayer book. The book itself is not remarkable, but it is not just a book. It is also the case for a small, concealed pistol.
No doubt Morosini was justified in his belief that he needed such a thing for personal defense. He was not the most popular of people, and he is most well-known for blowing up the Parthenon while battling the Ottoman Turks. The Turks were using the building as a powder magazine, and Morosini’s cannons scored a direct hit. Morosini described it as a “fortunate shot” in his report to the Venetian government. Francesco Morosini gained his position not only through family ties but also through military service. He first became prominent as Captain-General during the Seige of Candia. He was forced to surrender that city, but later, in the Morean War, he emerged victorious and won the title “Peloponnesiacus.” He was the first Venetian citizen to have a bronze bust placed in the Grand Hall in his own lifetime, and in 1688 he was elected doge.
A prayer book is certainly an interesting choice for a pistol case. Due to the number and grandeur of churches throughout Venice, most would assume that the Venetians were, in general, very religious. However, in a museum filled with Byzantine, medieval, and Renaissance art, sculpture of all kinds, objects spiritual and beautiful, Morosini’s pistol case embodies the other side of Venice- a powerful state with imperial aspirations, the Venice that looted Constantinople and envisioned itself as the next Rome. Venice has always valued its art objects, certainly, but it has also valued its power and wealth, government and capitalism. The room full of coins in the Museo Correr certainly reflects that as well.
The Venice of today has as many faces as the souvenir shops have opera masks, and none of them could exist without the rest. The Venice most people know is the imagined Venice, an idealized version of Venice, a simulacrum. As I did before visiting the city, most people think of Venice in terms of artwork and architecture, gelato, gondola rides, and souvenirs. The imagined Venice is a romantic destination, the perfect place for a wedding, honeymoon, or other romantic getaway, or perhaps sort of an academic vacation, one centered on art appreciation. Most people wouldn’t dream of bringing their children here. In short, Venice tends to be seen as something other than the real world, a way of escaping it. In fact, Venice is often compared to Disneyland, and, as Baudrillard put it, “Disneyland is a perfect model of… simulacra.” Disneyland is a place of magic and wonder for its visitors, a way to escape the real world. Few consider the employees who run the rides, serve food and drinks, clean up after the crowds, and generally work to keep the place running. So it is with Venice. People live here, work here, go to school here, and yet it’s somehow strange every time one comes upon construction workers repairing the calle outside a souvenir shop.
Speaking of souvenirs, though, it seems that not even the kitschy objects which usually disguise the real Venice can help hinting at the existence of other dimensions. I bought something the other day that reminds me quite a bit of Morosini’s pistol case.
At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than a gondola keychain, hardly worth noticing since there are thousands of tiny representations of gondole, in various forms, to be had in Venice. However, upon close inspection, this particular gondola reveals its true nature and function, that of a switchblade. Like the pistol case in the Museo Correr, it was a strange thing to find in such a romanticized place.
interweaving stories, false and true.” They go on to explain the multifaceted Venice of the past, in terms of a myth and a counter myth. Venice could be seen as “an ideal republic, a strong maritime empire, and an independent state in which the Venetian nobles were devoted to the ideals of civic humanism and the commercial virtues of sobriety, hard work, and self-sacrifice. Venice, that is, appeared to be a city like no other… It was the Serenissima, the most serene republic.”
However, as Venice gained power and expanded, it also gained the darker counter myth. “Alongside the view that Venice was an open, just, tolerant, and benevolent republic, a countermyth portrayed Venice as a repressive state, harshly governed by a decadent and secretive oligarchy.” Many thought that “a small circle of aristocrats not only controlled the levers of political power in Venice itself but also sought to place the rest of Italy under its dominion.”
Venice has always been a place of juxtapositions and contradictions. Within the city, one can find a mix of old and new, East and West, sacred and profane. For this reason, when given the task of analyzing an object at the Museo Correr, the object I chose was not a painting or sculpture or other art object, but something a little more unique which, I think, represents Venice nicely. Tucked into the corner of a room displaying weaponry, shields, globes, and other large, noticeable items, there is a display case containing artifacts which belonged to Francesco Morosini, one of the dogi of Venice. Within the case is a small item that would be easy to overlook: a small prayer book. The book itself is not remarkable, but it is not just a book. It is also the case for a small, concealed pistol.
No doubt Morosini was justified in his belief that he needed such a thing for personal defense. He was not the most popular of people, and he is most well-known for blowing up the Parthenon while battling the Ottoman Turks. The Turks were using the building as a powder magazine, and Morosini’s cannons scored a direct hit. Morosini described it as a “fortunate shot” in his report to the Venetian government. Francesco Morosini gained his position not only through family ties but also through military service. He first became prominent as Captain-General during the Seige of Candia. He was forced to surrender that city, but later, in the Morean War, he emerged victorious and won the title “Peloponnesiacus.” He was the first Venetian citizen to have a bronze bust placed in the Grand Hall in his own lifetime, and in 1688 he was elected doge.A prayer book is certainly an interesting choice for a pistol case. Due to the number and grandeur of churches throughout Venice, most would assume that the Venetians were, in general, very religious. However, in a museum filled with Byzantine, medieval, and Renaissance art, sculpture of all kinds, objects spiritual and beautiful, Morosini’s pistol case embodies the other side of Venice- a powerful state with imperial aspirations, the Venice that looted Constantinople and envisioned itself as the next Rome. Venice has always valued its art objects, certainly, but it has also valued its power and wealth, government and capitalism. The room full of coins in the Museo Correr certainly reflects that as well.
The Venice of today has as many faces as the souvenir shops have opera masks, and none of them could exist without the rest. The Venice most people know is the imagined Venice, an idealized version of Venice, a simulacrum. As I did before visiting the city, most people think of Venice in terms of artwork and architecture, gelato, gondola rides, and souvenirs. The imagined Venice is a romantic destination, the perfect place for a wedding, honeymoon, or other romantic getaway, or perhaps sort of an academic vacation, one centered on art appreciation. Most people wouldn’t dream of bringing their children here. In short, Venice tends to be seen as something other than the real world, a way of escaping it. In fact, Venice is often compared to Disneyland, and, as Baudrillard put it, “Disneyland is a perfect model of… simulacra.” Disneyland is a place of magic and wonder for its visitors, a way to escape the real world. Few consider the employees who run the rides, serve food and drinks, clean up after the crowds, and generally work to keep the place running. So it is with Venice. People live here, work here, go to school here, and yet it’s somehow strange every time one comes upon construction workers repairing the calle outside a souvenir shop.Speaking of souvenirs, though, it seems that not even the kitschy objects which usually disguise the real Venice can help hinting at the existence of other dimensions. I bought something the other day that reminds me quite a bit of Morosini’s pistol case.
At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than a gondola keychain, hardly worth noticing since there are thousands of tiny representations of gondole, in various forms, to be had in Venice. However, upon close inspection, this particular gondola reveals its true nature and function, that of a switchblade. Like the pistol case in the Museo Correr, it was a strange thing to find in such a romanticized place.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Orsoni Furnace and Acqua Alta
Today, we had to plan around a general strike of the public transportation union. This was not as difficult as it may sound. Apparently, strikes happen fairly often here and there is a certain order to it. Strikes are planned and announced in advance, and while most of the vaporetti and busses will not run throughout the day, they still run in the morning and evening so people can still get to and from work. Some vaporetti, like the one between San Zaccaria and San Servolo, run as usual so that people on outlying islands won't be stranded. So, all told, it just took a little extra walking this morning before our visit to the Orsoni furnace, the only glass making factory on Venice. There, they produce glass for mosaics, including all of the tiles with gold leaf which are used in the restoration of St. Mark's Basilica. We weren't allowed to take pictures of the furnace itself, but here are some from the rest of the tour.
This is the color library, where mosaic artists can choose the specific colors they need. They can then have the glass cut at the factory or buy it in large pieces and cut it themselves.
Here's some glass being cut.
To prepare the gold leaf, it is first put on a very thin piece of glass using steam.
Then, in the furnace room, molten glass is poured over the other side and the whole thing is flattened. The resulting glass pancake is picked up with a sort of spatula and put to the side to cool for just a few moments before it is collected and put in a container with the others.
These pieces are cut by hand, I assume with a diamond-tipped tool. After a grid has been drawn, the plate of glass is just snapped apart into separate tiles. The excess glass is tossed aside to be melted down and reused.On the way back to our boat stop at San Zaccaria, we passed by the Piazza San Marco. It rained yesterday, and we are experiencing our first acqua alta (high water). The water hasn't been high enough yet to be much of an inconvenience- I haven't needed to buy boots- but that's still a possibility.
Periods of acqua alta occur several times a year and are caused by normal environmental factors, but the problem has been aggravated by human actions. For example, the use of underground water supplies once accelerated the sinking of Venice. The wells are no longer in use, but, more recently, global warming has caused sea levels everywhere to rise.
Acqua alta is a problem not just because it's wet and creates inconvenience; in addition to erosion from the usual beating of waves, the saltwater is caustic. We've been warned not to walk in it without boots, because it would ruin our shoes. The higher the water gets, the greater the damage is to buildings and streets. Acqua alta also threatens priceless works of art, not only in the form of architecture or outdoor mosaics and frescos, but also, for example, to works stored in the Guggenheim Museum, which sits right at the edge of the Grand Canal.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Discussion of the politics of Gothic architecture
Liberation in Gothic Architecture
When describing Gothic architecture, one of the first words that come to mind is “massive.” This is a form of architecture that intends for buildings to be large, impressive, imposing, and awe-inspiring. A prime Venetian example of this, a building which simply cannot be missed, is the Doge’s Palace. Apparently, according to Francesca Furlanis, there is no complete, official record of the dimensions of the palace, but the main façade is 71 meters long and the west façade is 75 meters long. The largest room, the Sala di Maggior Consiglio (Grand Council Chamber) measures 1340 square meters (http://www.capriweb.com/Venezia/Ducale). Gothic architecture was, for a time, also the style of choice for many churches. With high, vaulted ceilings and long naves, the space inspires in the visitor a feeling of smallness, of insignificance in comparison with God. On a smaller (though still quite large and impressive) scale, Gothic palazzos were meant to showcase their inhabitants’ wealth and prestige. It could be argued, then, that buildings in the Gothic style are meant to create emplacement, to remind the viewer of where they belong. Knowing one’s place could be a thing of safety, but emplacement could also be an instrument of oppression. However, I would argue that Gothic architecture encourages the opposite, freedom rather than oppression, and personal significance over emplacement.
First, the style itself is not constrained. As John Ruskin puts it, the style has a certain “savageness” or “rudeness.” It is imperfect; bricks are left rough, stones are not made uniform. There is no finish to smooth over the façade. Despite the connotations of the words “savage” and “rude,” this aspect of the Gothic style should not be considered detrimental. In fact, Ruskin declares “I believe that it is in this very character that it deserves out profoundest reverence” and “the demand for perfection is always a sign of a misunderstanding of the ends of art.” Furthermore, Gothic architecture is known for being asymmetrical. Perhaps the windows on one side don’t form a mirror image of those on the other, or perhaps the columns are made from different types of stone. There might be round columns as well as square piers. Decorative elements, on the capitals of columns or elsewhere will not match.
This leads me to another point. Ruskin speaks very romantically about the role of the worker in architecture in general. He believes that humanity evident in the work is of far greater importance than the work itself. For example, “stones will be held sacred because [the workers’] hands have touched them.” He condones preservation, but speaks out emphatically against restoration, because it covers or replaces that which was, setting a lie in its place. Restored work can no longer claim “that spirit which is given only by the hand and eye of the workman can never be recalled.” Further, he says, “We have no right whatsoever to touch them. They are not ours. They belong partly to those who built them and partly to all of the generations of mankind who are to follow us. The dead have still their right in them…” Although Ruskin applies these ideals to architecture as a whole, I think they apply in a very special sense to Gothic architecture. Because of its imperfection and asymmetry, Gothic architecture allowed for a certain amount of freedom of expression among the workers. For example, along the lower colonnade, there are thirty-six columns, yet no two capitals are alike.
Stone workers were not the only people given a taste of freedom by Gothic architecture. It important to consider as well the type of space these buildings constitute. A church is most certainly a public place. It is a gathering place, and a place that facilitates a sense of community. Not all of the rooms in the Doge’s Palace were open to the public, and in fact not everyone had a voice in the government, but it was still a place of democracy (and therefore lent significance to “the people”) and also of civic pride. Palazzos were private spaces on the inside, but still somewhat public, since architecture as a rule is a public art form.
Finally, there is the question of emplacement. I will not argue that Gothic architecture doesn’t inspire the feelings it is meant to – awe, smallness, and so on. On the contrary, I think it would be impossible not to be affected in some way by the grandeur of the style. However, I don’t think that awe necessarily leads to insignificance. A sublime experience, such as that which might be had in a Gothic cathedral, is a personal experience. If it is a religious experience, this suggests, for example, that it is possible to know and understand religion without the aid of a mediator. In turn, the most important aspect of the experience becomes no the subject, but the observer. I do not mean to say that Gothic architecture, as a rule, is liberating. Michael Foucault puts it best when he says, “I do not think that there is anything that is functionally – by its very nature – liberating.” However, I think that some of the effects in the style are indicative of a shift in ideology. The same shift can be found in art, from Byzantine, to Gothic, to Renaissance. Medieval iconography, for example, appears to people today as a very crude art form. It is not until the Renaissance that we see perspective and realism (though the shift was gradual; experimentation in the use of perspective began in the late medieval period). However, it is not the skill of the artists that changed, but the ideology behind the art. Medieval art placed emphasis on the subjects and their symbolism. Compared to them, the viewer was meaningless. Toward the Renaissance, the ideology became more humanistic. Thus, Gothic architecture doesn’t necessarily offer any sort of change in power relations, but it marks a step in the movement toward personal significance.
.jpg)
Doge's Palace
Chiesa di Santa Anastasia in Verona
Looking out from Ca'D'Oro
When describing Gothic architecture, one of the first words that come to mind is “massive.” This is a form of architecture that intends for buildings to be large, impressive, imposing, and awe-inspiring. A prime Venetian example of this, a building which simply cannot be missed, is the Doge’s Palace. Apparently, according to Francesca Furlanis, there is no complete, official record of the dimensions of the palace, but the main façade is 71 meters long and the west façade is 75 meters long. The largest room, the Sala di Maggior Consiglio (Grand Council Chamber) measures 1340 square meters (http://www.capriweb.com/Venezia/Ducale). Gothic architecture was, for a time, also the style of choice for many churches. With high, vaulted ceilings and long naves, the space inspires in the visitor a feeling of smallness, of insignificance in comparison with God. On a smaller (though still quite large and impressive) scale, Gothic palazzos were meant to showcase their inhabitants’ wealth and prestige. It could be argued, then, that buildings in the Gothic style are meant to create emplacement, to remind the viewer of where they belong. Knowing one’s place could be a thing of safety, but emplacement could also be an instrument of oppression. However, I would argue that Gothic architecture encourages the opposite, freedom rather than oppression, and personal significance over emplacement.
First, the style itself is not constrained. As John Ruskin puts it, the style has a certain “savageness” or “rudeness.” It is imperfect; bricks are left rough, stones are not made uniform. There is no finish to smooth over the façade. Despite the connotations of the words “savage” and “rude,” this aspect of the Gothic style should not be considered detrimental. In fact, Ruskin declares “I believe that it is in this very character that it deserves out profoundest reverence” and “the demand for perfection is always a sign of a misunderstanding of the ends of art.” Furthermore, Gothic architecture is known for being asymmetrical. Perhaps the windows on one side don’t form a mirror image of those on the other, or perhaps the columns are made from different types of stone. There might be round columns as well as square piers. Decorative elements, on the capitals of columns or elsewhere will not match.
This leads me to another point. Ruskin speaks very romantically about the role of the worker in architecture in general. He believes that humanity evident in the work is of far greater importance than the work itself. For example, “stones will be held sacred because [the workers’] hands have touched them.” He condones preservation, but speaks out emphatically against restoration, because it covers or replaces that which was, setting a lie in its place. Restored work can no longer claim “that spirit which is given only by the hand and eye of the workman can never be recalled.” Further, he says, “We have no right whatsoever to touch them. They are not ours. They belong partly to those who built them and partly to all of the generations of mankind who are to follow us. The dead have still their right in them…” Although Ruskin applies these ideals to architecture as a whole, I think they apply in a very special sense to Gothic architecture. Because of its imperfection and asymmetry, Gothic architecture allowed for a certain amount of freedom of expression among the workers. For example, along the lower colonnade, there are thirty-six columns, yet no two capitals are alike.
Stone workers were not the only people given a taste of freedom by Gothic architecture. It important to consider as well the type of space these buildings constitute. A church is most certainly a public place. It is a gathering place, and a place that facilitates a sense of community. Not all of the rooms in the Doge’s Palace were open to the public, and in fact not everyone had a voice in the government, but it was still a place of democracy (and therefore lent significance to “the people”) and also of civic pride. Palazzos were private spaces on the inside, but still somewhat public, since architecture as a rule is a public art form.
Finally, there is the question of emplacement. I will not argue that Gothic architecture doesn’t inspire the feelings it is meant to – awe, smallness, and so on. On the contrary, I think it would be impossible not to be affected in some way by the grandeur of the style. However, I don’t think that awe necessarily leads to insignificance. A sublime experience, such as that which might be had in a Gothic cathedral, is a personal experience. If it is a religious experience, this suggests, for example, that it is possible to know and understand religion without the aid of a mediator. In turn, the most important aspect of the experience becomes no the subject, but the observer. I do not mean to say that Gothic architecture, as a rule, is liberating. Michael Foucault puts it best when he says, “I do not think that there is anything that is functionally – by its very nature – liberating.” However, I think that some of the effects in the style are indicative of a shift in ideology. The same shift can be found in art, from Byzantine, to Gothic, to Renaissance. Medieval iconography, for example, appears to people today as a very crude art form. It is not until the Renaissance that we see perspective and realism (though the shift was gradual; experimentation in the use of perspective began in the late medieval period). However, it is not the skill of the artists that changed, but the ideology behind the art. Medieval art placed emphasis on the subjects and their symbolism. Compared to them, the viewer was meaningless. Toward the Renaissance, the ideology became more humanistic. Thus, Gothic architecture doesn’t necessarily offer any sort of change in power relations, but it marks a step in the movement toward personal significance.
.jpg)
Doge's Palace
Chiesa di Santa Anastasia in Verona
Looking out from Ca'D'Oro
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Saturday in Verona
Ten travelers, all alike in dignity,
In fair Verona where we lay our scene
From Venice school break to new scenery
Where city card makes students' wide eyes gleam.
From forth the rocking train the student goes
Where pair of star-cross'd lovers took their life
Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
Did with their deaths bury their parents' strife.
The pleasant passage, with the sun above,
And exploration without guide book's page,
To arena, tower, and house of love
Was the few hours' traffic of our stage.
To which if you with patient ears attend
What here shall miss, my blog shall strive to mend.
On Saturday morning, all ten of us set out on our first weekend trip, a one-day excursion as sort of a pilot to all of our trips to come. It's about two hours by train from Venice to Verona, and there are plenty of attractions in a small area, perfect for a short trip. Once there, we split into two groups. Purely by luck, my group discovered a wonderful thing called the "Verona Card," a ten-euro day pass that grants admission to a whole list of places- the Roman arena, the Casa di Giulietta (House of Juliet), museums, churches, and so on. Despite our limited time, we managed to visit six of the locations on the list.
Our first stop was the Chiesa di San Fermo, an awesome church with another church underneath.
Down another street, we (practically literally) stumbled upon some Roman ruins, and after that we found our way to La Casa di Giuletta, where we posed for pictures touching Juliet's breast (for good luck) and standing on her balcony. Of course I realize Romeo and Juliet is a work of fiction and La Casa di Giuletta is nothing but a tourist trap, but it was fun.
Next, we visited the Torre dei Lamberti and braved lots of stairs for a great view of the city.
The view from the tower was also a great way to orient ourselves and decide where to go next and how to get there. Next was the Chiesa di Santa Anastasia and then the Complesso del Duomo.
Our final stop was the Roman arena which offered more photo opportunities and an unobstructed view of a marching band performing in the Piazza below. We just happened to be in the city during a festa.
(Oh yeah, by the way: Purdue beat Ohio State!)
It was a long day, but a nice break from our busy schedule. And, now that we've negotiated the trains and another Italian city on our own, we're ready to travel more in the weekends to come...
In fair Verona where we lay our scene
From Venice school break to new scenery
Where city card makes students' wide eyes gleam.
From forth the rocking train the student goes
Where pair of star-cross'd lovers took their life
Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
Did with their deaths bury their parents' strife.
The pleasant passage, with the sun above,
And exploration without guide book's page,
To arena, tower, and house of love
Was the few hours' traffic of our stage.
To which if you with patient ears attend
What here shall miss, my blog shall strive to mend.
On Saturday morning, all ten of us set out on our first weekend trip, a one-day excursion as sort of a pilot to all of our trips to come. It's about two hours by train from Venice to Verona, and there are plenty of attractions in a small area, perfect for a short trip. Once there, we split into two groups. Purely by luck, my group discovered a wonderful thing called the "Verona Card," a ten-euro day pass that grants admission to a whole list of places- the Roman arena, the Casa di Giulietta (House of Juliet), museums, churches, and so on. Despite our limited time, we managed to visit six of the locations on the list.
Our first stop was the Chiesa di San Fermo, an awesome church with another church underneath.
Down another street, we (practically literally) stumbled upon some Roman ruins, and after that we found our way to La Casa di Giuletta, where we posed for pictures touching Juliet's breast (for good luck) and standing on her balcony. Of course I realize Romeo and Juliet is a work of fiction and La Casa di Giuletta is nothing but a tourist trap, but it was fun.
Next, we visited the Torre dei Lamberti and braved lots of stairs for a great view of the city.
The view from the tower was also a great way to orient ourselves and decide where to go next and how to get there. Next was the Chiesa di Santa Anastasia and then the Complesso del Duomo.
Our final stop was the Roman arena which offered more photo opportunities and an unobstructed view of a marching band performing in the Piazza below. We just happened to be in the city during a festa.
(Oh yeah, by the way: Purdue beat Ohio State!)
It was a long day, but a nice break from our busy schedule. And, now that we've negotiated the trains and another Italian city on our own, we're ready to travel more in the weekends to come...Saturday, October 10, 2009
Pick a campo, any campo...
When given the task of choosing a campo and seeking out its architectural features, I saw it as a chance to venture out on my own for some more personal exploration of Venice. I wanted to go somewhere I hadn't been before, so I wanted a campo that was far from the Piazza San Marco and in the middle of the city, but should still be easy to find. My choice, after opening up my map of Venice, was the Campo Nazario Sauro. To reach it, I took the number one vaporetto to the Riva de Biasio stop, and from there it was just a short walk.
(above images are from Google Maps)
Campo Nazario Sauro turned out to be a very small campo without a church, so at first I was disappointed that I wouldn't find much. It didn't help that it was raining when I ventured out. However, once I started taking pictures and really paid attention to detail (which, of course, was the point) I began to notice things.
In this first picture alone, I found eight of the architectural features listed on our terms page. This building features a pediment at the top, balustrades along the roof and string courses below, stilted arches over lunette windows, two circular exedras on either side of the topmost window, and corbels supporting that window's balcony. At the bottom left and right of the picture, you can see lintels over two of the other windows.
The middle window, shown in the bottom center of the previous picture, features a balcony with a balustrade, and, again, corbels.
This building is also a wealth of architectural features. Starting at the bottom, there is an aedicule around the door, with an arch around the lunette window supported by pilasters. There are lintels above the door and first floor windows, and the spandrels above all of the arches have been raised for a decorative effect. The center floor appears to be a mezzanine, and there is an entablature along the roof.
Here's a closer look at that door.
This door isn't quite as ornamented, but it also has a lunette, and above there is an oculus.
This building has a birfotate window, in addition to an entablature, a square and circular exedra, and corbels supporting the balconies.
This building has a balustrade, windows with lunettes, stilted arches, and a decorative exedra. To the side, somewhat hidden, is another rectangular exadra.
Here are more pediments, entablatures, corbels, and stilted arches.
My favorite part of the Campo Nazario Sauro was this window, a Gothic lancet window.
No two campi are the same. The Campo dei Tedeschi, which was basically attached to Campo Nazario Sauro held many more biforate windows and oculi.
The nearby Campo S. Giacomo da l'Oro is a very large campo with a church and a campanile (bell tower).
I walked through it on my way back to Piazza San Marco, and I nearly changed my mind about Campo Nazario Sauro because it had so many interesting features. However, I decided that it's not the size of the campo that matters, but the features that make each one unique. I walked through several campos on my way back to the San Zaccaria vaporetto, and it would be impossible to pick one I didn't like.
(above images are from Google Maps)
Campo Nazario Sauro turned out to be a very small campo without a church, so at first I was disappointed that I wouldn't find much. It didn't help that it was raining when I ventured out. However, once I started taking pictures and really paid attention to detail (which, of course, was the point) I began to notice things.
In this first picture alone, I found eight of the architectural features listed on our terms page. This building features a pediment at the top, balustrades along the roof and string courses below, stilted arches over lunette windows, two circular exedras on either side of the topmost window, and corbels supporting that window's balcony. At the bottom left and right of the picture, you can see lintels over two of the other windows.
The middle window, shown in the bottom center of the previous picture, features a balcony with a balustrade, and, again, corbels.
This building is also a wealth of architectural features. Starting at the bottom, there is an aedicule around the door, with an arch around the lunette window supported by pilasters. There are lintels above the door and first floor windows, and the spandrels above all of the arches have been raised for a decorative effect. The center floor appears to be a mezzanine, and there is an entablature along the roof.
Here's a closer look at that door.
This door isn't quite as ornamented, but it also has a lunette, and above there is an oculus.
This building has a birfotate window, in addition to an entablature, a square and circular exedra, and corbels supporting the balconies.
This building has a balustrade, windows with lunettes, stilted arches, and a decorative exedra. To the side, somewhat hidden, is another rectangular exadra.
Here are more pediments, entablatures, corbels, and stilted arches.
My favorite part of the Campo Nazario Sauro was this window, a Gothic lancet window.
No two campi are the same. The Campo dei Tedeschi, which was basically attached to Campo Nazario Sauro held many more biforate windows and oculi.
The nearby Campo S. Giacomo da l'Oro is a very large campo with a church and a campanile (bell tower).
I walked through it on my way back to Piazza San Marco, and I nearly changed my mind about Campo Nazario Sauro because it had so many interesting features. However, I decided that it's not the size of the campo that matters, but the features that make each one unique. I walked through several campos on my way back to the San Zaccaria vaporetto, and it would be impossible to pick one I didn't like.
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