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.
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Doge's Palace
Chiesa di Santa Anastasia in Verona
Looking out from Ca'D'Oro
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.
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.
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