An Artist in Venice. Adam Van DorenЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Theodore K. Rabb

      Most people can remember how it felt when they first saw Venice. It’s not quite like the “where were you when …” moment, associated in every generation with traumatic events, such as those of 9/11. This one is not only more pleasurable, but also evokes many senses rather than a solitary stab of memory. And it tends to be followed by a stream of images and recollections, resolving finally into an overall impression that each one of us can sum up as “our” Venice.

      This book tells us about one such Venice – Adam Van Doren’s – which crystallizes through the eyes and hands of an artist. It is not a common Venice, and in fact its precedents can be found only in the past three hundred years, even though the city itself can trace its origins back to the fifth century. For the notion that Venice’s buildings and urban spaces are worthy subjects in and of themselves is a relatively new idea. We can see them in the background of famous paintings, such as Gentile Bellini’s Corpus Christi Procession in Piazza San Marco, but they only became a focus of artistic interest in the years around 1700.

      Why that happened we are not entirely sure, but in the late seventeenth century pioneers like Carlevaris and Vanvitelli began to find a market for “vedute,” or views, of the city, and in the following century, in the work of Canaletto, Bellotto, and Guardi, these subjects became enormously popular. They appealed especially to tourists, who had been flocking to Venice since the Middle Ages, and who wanted to return home with colorful souvenirs of their visits. Eventually, though, the challenge of capturing the shimmering city on paper or canvas became the preoccupation of a galaxy of foreign artists as well as natives. Some of them, such as Turner and Sargent, are among Van Doren’s heroes, and he makes sure we realize how aware he is of the footsteps in which he is treading.

      That he has a few favorites is inevitable, and there will probably not be many who demur from his choices: the Ca’ d’Oro, the Piazza San Marco and the structures that surround it, the major Palladian designs, and Santa Maria della Salute. Among the non-“vedute” painters, he is particularly drawn to Tiepolo. This may be a short list, but it is formidable, especially when one realizes that the buildings and canvases he identifies represent a tiny fraction of the countless masterpieces of art and architecture produced in a place whose population was probably never larger than 150,000. When faced by such riches, all one can do is sample.

      What is amazing is how regularly one’s own “Venice” overlaps with those of other people. I might put the Carpaccios in the Scuola degli Schiavoni nearer the top of my list, or the tombs of the early doges in San Zaccaria; but I wouldn’t argue over the architecture, nor press the case that the altarpiece in San Alvise is Tiepolo’s finest painting. Even more noteworthy are the small coincidences. When my wife and I first visited Venice, we stayed in the Calcina, as did Van Doren – and as did one of his inspirations, John Ruskin, more than a century before. It also happened that we got to know Regina Resnik and Arbit Blatas, and visited them on the Giudecca. Indeed, I spoke at a gathering in memory of