The Perfect House: A Journey with Renaissance Master Andrea Palladio
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The Count was a restless spirit, and he spent much of the next two years traveling, often accompanied by his protégé Andrea. There were extended stays in Padua, which was not only larger than Vicenza but also the seat of an ancient university and the intellectual center of the Venetian Republic (there was no university in Venice proper). Andrea, who had left Padua as a sixteen-year-old apprentice, now found himself moving in very different circles. One of Trissino’s friends who had a lasting influence on Andrea was Alvise Cornaro, a successful businessman and dynamic patron of the arts. He was an unusual character who, after an intemperate youth, had adopted strict dietary rules and preached moderation (years later—he would live to ninety-one—he published his celebrated Treatise on the Sober Life). Like Trissino, Cornaro was an architectural dilettante, but with an original bent; he was not a nobleman, and his ideas about architecture were those of a bourgeois. Cornaro described architecture as “ministering to the good comfort of men in their lodging, and to their other necessities . . . and in addition to this, it is beautiful as well.”18 He stressed the importance of personally examining ancient Roman buildings rather than simply reading about them in Vitruvius. Yet his approach to the past was pragmatic. “A building may well be beautiful and comfortable, and be neither Doric nor of any such order,” he instructed, “as are in this city [Venice] the church of S. Marco and in Padua the Chiesa del Santo.”19 Such down-to-earth thinking provided Andrea a practical counterbalance to Trissino’s more theoretical view of architecture.
Padua offered several architectural examples of the all’antica style, most by the recently deceased Veronese painter and architect Giovanni Maria Falconetto. Falconetto had been a protégé of Cornaro, and a decade earlier had built two structures in his patron’s garden: a loggia used for theatrical presentations—some of the earliest comedia dell’arte was performed here—and the so-called Odeo, a pavilion used for musical performances. Both buildings were skillfully designed and contained the first examples of architectural frescoes in the Veneto. Cornaro taught that frescoed décor, which the ancient Romans also used, was both attractive and economical. Falconetto’s designs obviously served as an inspiration for the Cricoli loggia, and his drawings, including his measured drawings of Roman antiquities, were available to Andrea for copying. Unlike Vicenza, Padua also offered significant examples of actual Roman ruins, including an impressive amphitheater, an open-air theater, and a ceremonial gateway. At Cornaro’s house, Andrea was introduced to several Venetians who were studying at the University of Padua: the young noblemen Vettor Pisani, his cousin Daniele Barbaro, and Giorgio Cornaro (no relation to Alvise), as well as Pietro Godi, his future client’s older brother.
Andrea also met two architects. One was Sebastiano Serlio, an elderly man and a friend of Giangiorgio Trissino; he is believed to have helped the Count with the design of the Cricoli villa. Serlio was a Bolognese who had been trained as a painter by his father and had then gone to Rome, where, at the age of thirty-nine, he decided to become an architect. His life was turned upside down in 1527 when the besieged city fell to the army of the Holy Roman Emperor, whose Lutheran mercenaries went on a weeklong rampage pillaging and destroying hundreds of churches. The calamitous Sack of Rome, which a contemporary observer described as “rather the fall of a world than of a city,” marked the end of an era.20 It was also the end of papal patronage—at least for the moment—and many artists and architects left Rome in search of work. Serlio, now in his sixties, moved to Venice. His career did not flourish. He had a prickly disposition and was by inclination a scholar rather than a builder. He published several prints illustrating the classical orders, and in 1537 brought out the first volume of a treatise ambitiously titled Tutte l’opere d’architettura, et perspectiva (All the works of architecture and perspective), which would become an influential architectural handbook. In Serlio’s book Andrea could study the ancient monuments of Rome. It is also likely that Serlio taught the young stonemason proper draftsmanship while he was in Padua, since Andrea’s earliest surviving architectural drawings date from this period.21
The other architect was the Veronese Michele Sanmicheli, whom Palladio may already have known, since he was a distant relative of Porlezza. Sanmicheli was then about fifty, his career in full swing. Raised in Verona, as a youth he had gone to Rome, trained under the great Bramante, and, together with his friend Antonio da Sangallo, worked for the papacy. After the Sack, he, too, sought employment in the Venetian Republic. Sanmicheli’s specialty was military architecture, and he was engaged by the Venetians to refit the battered fortifications of their terraferma towns and cities. At the time of Andrea’s visit, Sanmicheli was rebuilding the walls of Verona. A skilled engineer, he was also a superb architect. Of Verona’s Porta Nuova gate, Vasari would write that it was “done with so much judgment, cost, and magnificence, that no one thought that for the future there could be executed any work of greater grandeur or better design.”22 Sanmicheli had recently completed the magnificent Palazzo del Tè in Mantua, which Palladio visited, and he was building three more palazzos in Verona. His domestic architecture exemplified the latest direction in Renaissance classicism. Whereas an earlier generation of architects—Bramante and Raphael—had sought harmony and repose, Sanmicheli—like Michelangelo and Giulio Romano—stressed drama and originality. He was interested in the past, but he freely interpreted classical rules to great scenographic and emotional effect.
Sanmicheli, an extremely successful practitioner, had an unusual background: he was not a painter or sculptor; both his father and his uncle were architects. He must have been a compelling model for Andrea. There is every reason to suppose that despite his humble origins, the Vicentine stonemason was welcomed by these sophisticated and accomplished men. Cornaro was no snob, and Serlio and Sanmicheli would have been sympathetic sounding boards. The learned conversations, the study of plans, the sketching of buildings, the drawing lessons, and the contact with men for whom architecture was a subject of everyday vital concern, deepened Andrea’s interest and inevitably influenced his thoughts of the future.
Trissino had his own reasons for encouraging his protégé to pursue an architectural career. The Count was a patriot. Not that he was devoted to the Republic—quite the opposite, like many Vicentine noblemen he considered Venice an oppressive power (and had sided with Venice’s enemies during the War of the League of Cambrai, which later caused him problems). His allegiance was to his native city. He had great hopes that his academy would promote the dissemination of humanist culture, including architecture, and raise the level of intellectual life in Vicenza. Postwar prosperity had arrived, and new construction would follow: palazzos in the city, houses on country estates. But Vicentines lacked their own architect; there was no Sanmicheli waiting to come home. They could import an outsider, as the Venetians had done in commissioning the celebrated Florentine architect Jacopo Sansovino. But Trissino understood that greater honor would come to his city if it nurtured a homegrown talent, and in his estimation, Andrea di Pietro could be that person.
Of course, there’s more than a little Professor Higgins and Eliza Doolittle here.II Andrea, whatever his abilities, was a diamond in the rough when Trissino met him. The nobleman had the wit to recognize Andrea’s amiable nature and innate talent, and the foresight to perceive that his experience as a stonemason could be an invaluable asset. But the Count, a diplomat and courtier, wanted more. Renaissance architects and painters were generally uncouth, rough individuals who belonged to the artisan class.23 He resolved to teach his protégé genteel manners—how to behave, speak, and dress. The stonemason might be a commoner, but he would be a man of refinement and taste to better command the confidence of noble clients. Andrea must have learned these lessons well, for later firsthand accounts invariably mention his gentle and well-bred disposition; according to Gualdo, he was a “most extraordinarily able and attractive conversationalist.”24
The final step of the makeover involved finding a more impressive name than A
ndrea di Pietro. Renaissance architects regularly adopted professional names. Jacopo Sansovino was born Tatti; Giulio Pippi de’ Giannuzzi, a Roman expatriate practicing in the Venetian Republic, called himself Giulio Romano, or simply Giulio. The mellifluously named Michele Sanmicheli had adopted the name of his birthplace, San Micheli, a village near Verona. Andrea di Pietro might have become Andrea Padovano, or Andrea Vicentino. Instead he took a far grander name: Andrea Palladio. It is generally assumed that Trissino proposed the name since he later used it in an epic poem. The Latin palladius means pertaining to sagacity, knowledge, or study, and is derived from Pallas Athena, the goddess of wisdom. It is a name to live up to.
An architect, however impressive his name, needs clients, and in Vicenza that meant the nobili, or patrician class. Trissino’s judgment in such matters was widely respected. If he considered Andrea Palladio an architect, that would have been good enough for his wide circle of friends. In 1540, before the villa at Lonedo was finished, Pietro Godi recorded several separate payments to “Master Andrea, Architect.” This is the oldest surviving record in which Andrea di Pietro, now known as Andrea Palladio, is called an architect. The transition from craftsman to architect was hardly instantaneous, however, for a year later legal documents still referred to Palladio as a “stonemason.”25
One might have expected that to please Trissino and show off what he had learned, Palladio would incorporate classical elements into the design of the Godi house. He did no such thing. Although the three-arch loggia echoed a similar arrangement at Cricoli, it only served to underline the differences between the two designs. Trissino’s delicate façade, with its carefully copied classical ornament, appears brittle compared to Palladio’s sturdy proportions, his heavy massing and simplified details. Taking Cornaro’s teaching to heart, Palladio made the Godi house “comfortable and beautiful” without incorporating classical orders. This may simply have been the guarded prudence of a novice, but it was also a clear signal that while he may have owed his new name to another, he intended to be his own man.
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I return the next day to the Lonedo hilltop where the Villa Godi is perched. The house is officially closed, but the caretaker recognizes me from my previous visit and lets me in. I want to take a more leisurely look at the interior. The walls of the rooms are a cavalcade of Greek and Roman gods, legendary heroes, and cherubs, as well as landscapes, battle trophies, cornucopias, garlands, and swags. They cover every square inch. These figures, motifs, and patterns are applied in what was called buon fresco, a demanding technique that involved painting with water-based pigments on fresh, moist plaster. There was no room for error; the application of the pigment had to be swift and accurate, as the plaster stayed wet only one day. The themes at Godi are distinctly classical. In one room, a heavy painted beam runs around the room, as if supporting the ceiling, and is held aloft by monumental female statues. Between the statues are glimpses of a naturally rendered countryside peopled by reclining poets and watchful muses. On the walls of another room are the ruins of a Roman temple, with Olympian gods populating the sky above the crumbling columns. The sole plaster ceiling is frescoed with a monumental oval depicting a beautiful woman (Virtue) standing over a hideous man in chains (Vice). The walls and the vaulted ceiling of the loggia are likewise painted with allegorical themes. The grandest decoration is naturally reserved for the sala, which is done up like an art gallery, with grand paintings in gilt frames—the Rape of Europa, the Labors of Hercules—all frescoed.
THE MOUNTAINTOP OF LONEDO
All the rooms are defined by a trompe l’oeil framework of architectural elements: columns, architraves, friezes, cornices, dadoes, and decorative moldings. This fictive architecture—and it is definitely architecture—is rendered in shadowed, three-dimensional perspective. The textures of faux marble and stone are so convincing that I find myself touching a door surround to check whether it is a facsimile or the real thing. Real windows and doors have imaginary counterparts on the opposite side of the room. The artist doesn’t stop there. While some of the painted figures in the niches are white marble statues, others are rendered in lifelike colors and give the spooky impression that they are about to step off their pedestals. Realistic putti cavort just below the ceiling, their pink buttocks hanging saucily over the edge of the architrave. The frescoes not only depict allegorical classical themes and an architectural framework but also represent a whimsical illusion of reality. In one of the painted doors, a life-size man lifts the curtain for his companion and beckons him into the room. Elsewhere, a mischievous little boy sits on a ledge. In the hall, where painted windows complete with window seats echo the real thing, a relaxed gentleman in doublet and hose occupies one of the seats. Although the décor refers to ancient Rome, the ghostlike personages that look out at me from the walls are dressed in contemporary—that is, sixteenth-century—clothes. They both decorate and inhabit the space.
THE FRESCOES AT THE VILLA GODI DEPICT HUMAN FIGURES AS WELL AS TROMPE L’OEIL ARCHITECTURAL DETAILS.
Many of Palladio’s villas are frescoed. It is impossible not to be struck by the extreme contrast between the vivid style of the interiors and the simplicity of the exteriors, particularly in the case of the austere Godi house. In the past this led some historians to conclude that the frescoes were an afterthought. Lacking evidence to the contrary, it was also assumed that Palladio had nothing to do with the design of the frescoes, which were therefore regarded as distinct from his architectural vision. This attitude was summed up by Banister Fletcher, who observed that “interior decoration seems to have been somewhat neglected by our master, owing no doubt to a shortage of funds.”26 According to others, the rich décor actually undermined Palladio’s design intentions.
The Godi frescoes were not begun until about 1552—that is, a decade after the villa was completed. The painter Gualtiero Padovano completed the loggia and the rooms in the south wing, and then unexpectedly—he was in his fifties—died. His replacement was a talented young painter named Giambattista Zelotti, who finished the work (except for one room that was painted by Battista del Moro). Before the painting began, Palladio was called back to Lonedo for additional work. He was asked to design a new main window for the sala. The original window was a thermal or Diocletian window—that is, a high, arched opening modeled on the windows found in Diocletian’s Roman baths, or thermae. Palladio replaced this with the serliana that is there today. It is unclear exactly why this expensive alteration was made. Maybe Pietro Godi, who supervised this phase of the work, had his own ideas of what was fashionable. Some historians believe the window was altered to make more space for the frescoes.27 In any case, an entry in Pietro Godi’s account book reads: “Palladio. Gave him today, 4th July [1550] for the drawing of the Hall, one Hungarian crown [worth] 7 lire 14 soldi.”III,28
The drawing in question has recently come to light.29 It is of paramount importance, writes Douglas Lewis, a curator at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., who unearthed it, “because its subject represents an aspect of Palladio’s artistic creativity that has been unsuspected.”30 The drawing is what architects call an interior elevation, a view of one of the walls of the sala, the west wall opposite the serliana. It shows the frescoed architectural elements—pediment, pilasters, niches, dado. The entrance door and a ventilating grille are skillfully integrated into the composition (the east wall has a frescoed version of the same grille). The area for the figurative painting (Zelotti’s Rape of Europa) is blank, and the statues in the niches are likewise left to the painter’s discretion, but detailed notes specify the character of the surrounding decorative elements: “military trophies,” “festoons,” “gold frames,” “cornice similar to the other [wall].” This drawing, in Palladio’s hand, is conclusive evidence that the trompe l’oeil architectural framework frescoed on the walls of the Villa Godi is, in fact, his design. Since there is a record of eight comparable payments, it appears likely that he made similar drawings—since lost—for t
he other rooms. The frescoes, far from being extraneous, are an integral part of the architectural conception.
Palladio, who must have been inspired by Alvise Cornaro’s endorsement of frescoes as a practical alternative to tapestries and wall hangings, probably recommended Padovano, who was part of Cornaro’s Paduan circle. Nor is there any doubt that Palladio was pleased with the results. “This gentleman [Godi], who has the most exquisite taste, has entirely ignored the expense and chosen the most gifted and remarkable painters of our time,” he wrote. Per redurla a quella eccellenza & perfettione, che sia possibile: “In order to make it as outstanding and perfect as possible.”31 And so it is.