"Colour is the key. The eye is the hammer. The soul is the piano with its many chords. The artist is the hand that, by touching this or that key,

sets the soul vibrating automatically."

- Wassily Kandinsky (1866–1944)

In the Louvre, I was about to leave when I realized that I had not gone to visit the Archimboldos. The Louvre has two of the Four Season series, famously familiar for his use of flowers and vegetables in the visual sculpting of this series of portraits. The effect is mesmerizing, the features grand but grotesque, the portraits of these unknown members of an Italian Renaissance Court. I have always been fascinated by this set of paintings, and by Archimboldo's reaction to the Renaissance's visual realism - he was centuries ahead of his contemporaries, seeing an abstract view of his subjects that compels the viewer to dig beneath the surface; the overall portrait is fascinating and lovely - the individual features slightly horrifying. It is this intermingled sense of being simultaneously drawn and repulsed that I think is what makes me wish there had been more -

Paul Klee's Bauhaus portrait of a Man sinking into senility is the closest comparison I think I can draw to the Archimboldo; the portraits share the same banal expression, but like the Renaissance predecessor, Klee's portrait draws the viewer into the subject's jumbled sense of reality. Again, the features are hideous, the face is tortured and torn in a world moving on around him, but the effect is mesmerizing and beautiful.

Like Klee, Kandinski painted a portrait of a man reflected in the mechanization and structure of the twentieth century; his features are reduced to the angles provided in architecture. Kandinski took the elaborate definition of Archimboldo's labored archetype and distilled it to a few lines - keeping the mystery of the man behind the panel alive. Kandinski, like Klee, like Archimboldo was able to express in a nameless man's face, the reaching story of his time. The man is environment, crime, war, love and disturbed silence.

I am glad I went back to visit the Archimboldo's. I had read that to see them in a book is as real as to see them in life. That they are flat, that they are more curiosity than art. I disagree; to me they have a very real life, and seeing them in person only served to confirm to me that I may only be beginning to understand his mind.

"we painters take the same liberties as poets and madmen"

- Paolo Veronese
The Accademia in Venice is one of the true high points of a visit there. Across the Grand Canal from San Marco, walking over the Academy Bridge (Ponte dell'Accademia) is itself a moment to remember - as one of only three bridges crossing the GC, this one is still a wood supported structure. It was built in 1985 to replace the prior one built in 1930, which had in turn replaced the original steel. While not old, it is reminiscent of the past. On the North end of the bridge is a cluster of Palazzos, and a bramble of pink roses, in the center of which is a stone lion standing guard. On the South end, there is the bustle of the piazza in front of the Accademia, a port of call for the Vaporetto and a busy collection of tourist booths and food stalls. Entry to the Accademia - once a Monastery - is a time-stamp ticket, controlling carefully the number of visitors; this like so many of the great museums of Italy is not air-conditioned, so the humidity and temperature is monitored, regulating the flow of visitors. The control however is welcoming, allowing for contemplation of the great building; up the stairs and into the first gallery, a large room filled with 15th century Icons, I could not help but be drawn upward to the ceiling, a mesmerizing grid work of gold, with winged cherub faces centering each square against a field of blue - the stuff of Christmas Cards, created in the Renaissance and carefully preserved. Room after room of masterworks, but the one that perhaps stands above the rest is the massive Veronese known as the "Feast in the House of Levi". At almost 18 feet tall by 50 feet long, it is inescapable. Furthermore the painting of stairways and arches demonstrating Veronese's extraordinary sense of perspective invites the viewer to enter the painting - and in fact the near-life size figures virtually breathe. The painting was originally commissioned to replace a large Titian lost in a fire at the Basilica di Santi Giovanni. It was commissioned as "The Last Supper" - a name it originally bore when unveiled in 1573. The painting caused a furor, peopled not just with the Disciples but with dozens of German soldiers, animals, common people and comics and dwarfs. Veronese himself is among the crowd, as a disinterested viewer. The story it told through details and often undecorative, unsavory elements was a thinly guised blast at the Inquisition, and in fact was cause to have Veronese himself pulled in front of the Counter Reformers to explain its meaning. The painting had strayed from the august inference of the disciples - it demonstrated the power of a church-sanctioned circus losing sight of the important central figure. His hearing was carefully poised as a "caution", rather than a punishment; Veronese carefully stepped through the Inquisitors' rings, stating "we painters take the same liberties as poets and madmen" - and by changing the name of the masterwork to a less-sacramental, lesser feast at the House of Levi - wherein the added figures became an ebullient crowd. Veronese and the painting survived; today it hangs as a magnificent reminder that politics and controversy were then as they are today a part of the work's importance.
Posted by Dan at 2:17 PM 0 comments

San Zaccharia

In Venice, we stayed in a hotel on Campo Zaccharia just facing the church of San Zaccharia which was one of the more intriguing points of interest at the beginning of our journey. I say this because the church was far less grand and even somewhat unkempt than the great Renaissance cathedrals we were to encounter along the way, and certainly a pale comparison to San Marco just a few hundred feet away.


The foundations to the church date to the ninth century, and much of the Romanesque structure dated from the tenth. It was rebuilt in 1483 in an odd mixture of Gothic and renaissance styles which adding to the solid Romanesque structure gives it a quality that is far more commanding than many of its counterparts along the Grand Canal. Entering it there is a dusky smell that permeates some of the old structures in Venice, and this one had a number of canvasses and fabrics that had absorbed the centuries of mold spores. It was dark, the electric lighting was placed as conveniently as possible, but it had obviously never had a modern lighting designer come through to highlight the art and architecture. The result was to walk into another time, where light came in through relatively small windows and shot trails though the dusty interior.

The church had been largely paid for by the Doges of Venice, in gratitude for the sale of land in 1200, adjacent to the convent by the nuns - for the expansion of Piazza San Marco. They had given up their pea-patch and gained a patronage that would last for several centuries. In thanks, the Doge would spend Easter services in San Zaccharia, making an annual pilgrimage and procession which sometime in the twelfth century necessitated the construction of a great ambulatory. Eight of the Doges are buried in the crypt, along with the often-questioned remains of Zaccharia, father of John the Baptist.

Once you adjust your vision to the dusty interior, you begin to make out the shapes of a number of Renaissance masterpieces which are often overlooked by the usual Venetian tours. Almost every inch of every wall is covered by paintings, mostly from the seventeenth and eighteenth century, surrounding a 1505 masterwork by Bellini of the Madonna and Four Saints. This piece by itself is incredible, but one of the great novelties of this church as well; by dropping a few coins into a slot, now-ancient and probably highly flammable lighting bursts forth, to illuminate a frame built into the wall which continues on into the Bellini painting as an early form of trompe d'loile. The painting had been looted by Napoleon in the nineteenth century and the frame left behind - a top section missing as it had been cut away but that somehow just adds to the historic ambiance. The effect is tremendous, made even more so as the light goes out with a "pop" and the frame recedes back into the gloom.

The main altar c 1358 has only recently been discovered and restored, a seven panel Predella by Veneziano, the earliest celebrated Venetian artist. It is kept company by two equally great altarpieces "anconas" or composite altarpieces by Vivarani and Alemagna both c. 1443. The Vivarani is dedicated to San Sabine, who is buried beneath it.


On the right wall is a doorway, tightly curtained and up a few steps. It is locked, and when you approach it you are accosted by a tiny monk who looks as if he has been there a good many years, who is looking for the donation that will entice him to turn the key for you. Entering, the door clicking behind you, offers a private pilgrimage inside the Cappella di Sant'Anastasio and behind it the Capella di San Tarasio. Dusty furniture, broken pedestals line the walls, but there in a huge niche is Tintoretto's Birth Of John the Baptist, one of the great masterpieces of Venice. It is unprotected, and the informality of the setting, the fact that you are all alone makes you want to touch it - but in respect you hold back. It is a great rush of emotion to have that moment there in the dusty room with such a piece of history.

Passing through the sacristy, looking at the floor there are holes chipped away to reveal the original mosaics that had been covered over - maybe a project for future restoration. around a corner and without a sign is a tiny staircase downward. Keeping in mind that this is Venice, peering down into its depths is a mystery - not many basements are anticipated . I followed it down, around its curve, the tiny chipped stone stairs leading into a room at the bottom barely lit by a few random light bulbs. The floor was flooded, and small wooden walkways had been set up to pass through the vaulted chamber. I realized that I was beneath the main altar, in the ancient ninth-century crypt; there in the dark recesses was a sarcophagus, surmounted by a statue and reflected in the pool of murky water.

It was spooky and wonderful, a fitting last stop in this ancient piece of the city. On the other end of the room was a second tiny stairway leading up to a small room behind the altar. I exited; the monk had once again disappeared into whatever dark corner he kept. The quiet and somber quality of the church was anything but sad, it was a soft reminder of how tiny we are in the centuries that have passed by.

Everyday Icons --

Anyone that knows my recent paintings, knows that I have dedicated myself to bringing an ancient form of art back into everyday life. While I started with classic Icons, my purpose is to make a very wonderful art form into something that is a living, joyful modern experience.

When we were in Venice last year, I was very taken with the presence of Icons in every corner-literally. While here in the United States we tend to think of Icons as beautiful but slightly quaint reminders of zealous Church oversight, what came across to me last year was the presence of shrines everywhere. Most major public buildings had a corner dedicated to some Saint, and every courtyard, alleyway and Piazza was incomplete without some form of architecture protecting a painting or or occasionally a statue placed to give comfort or resolve.

These shrines came in all shapes and sizes, the most common were built into the sides of buildings like windows, with the Icon itself behind a grille or glass, and generally they had shutters to protect them against the wind-driven rains off the Adriatic that are common in the winter months. The saints stare out, and like their counterparts lining the insides of the hundreds of churches and cathedrals they have a cold deportment that has softened with the aging of the paint. The eyes always stare striaght into yours, and for all the stiffness of the subject, the suffering of the martyr, the despair of the onlookers at their feet, the saint's gaze pierces your heart with a look that gives you a reason to stop. Even a non-believed would have to admit that the expression in those eyes. like a those of a loving mother, gives strength to go forward.

What I found intriguing too, was the fact that these little offerings are very much alive. They are a piece of everyday life there, and commonly have fresh flowers or small tokens left behind. Of course during the day hours most of the people on the streets are tourists just as Mary and I were, but it really is not hard to imagine locals visiting these spots in the morning before the tour boats arrive.

This is my inspiration. Not necessarily to re-create these devotional spots in my artwork, but rather to capture the essence of a dedication to art in an everyday enviornment. Art in this enviornment is alive, even if centuries old. It lives and lurks around every corner. It is not just hidden away in a dusty alcove or hung on a wall above a sofa. It breathes. It is a part of everything we do. When we forget that we become sterile and useless.