The Perfect House: A Journey with Renaissance Master Andrea Palladio

by Rybczynski, Witold

  THE PORTICO AND STAIRS OF THE VILLA BADOER ARE AMONG PALLADIO’S MOST MONUMENTAL.

  • • •

  Between 1776 and 1783, the Vicentine architect Ottavio Bertotti-Scamozzi published a four-volume compilation of Palladio’s works that included measured drawings of most of the surviving buildings. The elevations of the Villa Badoer show an inscribed masonry pattern, which would have softened the rather sterile effect of plain white stucco. A discerning observer, Bertotti-Scamozzi characterized the villa as having “an air of magnificence which is surprising.”8 Surprising is exactly the right word. The house has a small and rather awkward floor plan, a rudimentary sala, flat ceilings, unpretentious frescoes, almost no stone details, and undecorated fireplaces. Yet it also boasts a majestic portico, elaborate exterior staircases, and, of course, the curved loggias. Palladio generally pitched his architecture at a consistent intensity: manly simplicity at the Villa Poiana; lordly magnificence at La Malcontenta; and archaeological refinement at the Villa Barbaro. By these standards, the Villa Badoer is strikingly inconsistent.

  Given Palladio’s concern for convenienza, one can only surmise that the villa’s unexpected blend of modesty and extravagance had something to do with his client. We do not know much about “the magnificent Signor Francesco Badoer.” Despite Palladio’s characteristically high-flown accolade, he has been described by a modern historian as “a modest figure whose public career was devoid of outstanding episodes.”9 Although he served the Republic as a senator and a member of the ruling council, Badoer belonged to an undistinguished branch of a famous Venetian family. The second of three surviving sons, he received a modest inheritance when his father died but married well—his wife, Lucietta Loredan, was wealthy. In 1538, Lucietta’s only brother, Zorzi, the head of the family, died at twenty-six. He left no heirs and no will. Following the custom of the time, the bulk of the vast Loredan fortune, which consisted of palazzos and warehouses in Venice and several estates on the terraferma, was divided among his brothers-in-law: his widow’s two brothers, and his two sisters’ husbands. It took ten years to sort out the complicated inheritance, which left Francesco Badoer owner of 460 acres of farmland in the Polesine. The estate was exceptionally valuable since the region had recently undergone massive drainage and reclamation that turned it into the breadbasket of the Republic. Badoer must have been excited by this windfall, but at the same time he was a cautious man, for it was another eight years before he built a house. The site was a seven-acre plot in Fratta, next to the newly dredged Scortico River, which provided easy access to Venice.

  The Villa Badoer was designed in 1556, and construction started the following year.10 This was a busy period for Palladio. In Vicenza, he continued to oversee the building of the Basilica and two new palazzos, one for Count Giovanni Valmarana and another for his old client Bonifacio Poiana. There were several new Vicentine villa clients—the Counts Odoardo and Theodoro Thiene (relatives of the brothers for whom he had earlier designed a villa at Quinto), the Counts Francesco and Lodovico Trissino (no relations to Giangiorgio Trissino), and Signor Francesco Repeta. Thanks to the patronage of the Barbaro brothers, Palladio’s reputation among high-born Venetians continued to grow. In 1559, Sanmicheli died, leaving Palladio as the leading architect of the terraferma, and second only to Sansovino in the Republic.

  VILLA BADOER

  Palladio did not have an office staff in the modern sense, although at this time he was assisted by his sons. The eldest, Leonida, has been identified as the draftsman of several drawings and is usually referred to by historians as an architect; Marc’-antonio, a stone carver (who died in the 1560s), also helped with drawings; and Silla, the youngest, appears to have been a kind of secretary.I In addition, Palladio’s nephew Marc’antonio, also a stone carver, occasionally lent a hand. Palladio’s personal responsibilities did not end with providing plans and details to the builders and masons. He negotiated with contractors on behalf of the client, kept accounts, ordered materials, and generally oversaw the work. The last was important, since the all’antica style was a novelty in the out-of-the-way places where his villas were built, and it needed his close supervision to ensure that the classical details were carried out correctly. In that regard, Palladio also functioned as a teacher. For example, his description of his own simple method of making the gentle tapering, or entasis, of a column sounds like the sort of practical advice he might give to a provincial stonemason.

  I usually make the profile of this swelling like this. I divide the shaft of the column into three equal parts and leave the third at the bottom plumb vertical; beside the lowest point of the column I place on edge a very thin ruler as long as the column or a little longer, and take that part which extends from the lower third upward and curve it until the end reaches the point of diminution at the top of the column under the neck: in line with that curvature, I mark it, so that I obtain a column which is a little swollen in the middle and tapers very gracefully.11

  Paolo Gualdo, who knew Palladio in later life, gave a particularly endearing picture of the architect on the building site: “He kept [his workmen] constantly cheerful, treating them with so many pleasant attentions that they all worked with the most exceptional good cheer. He eagerly and lovingly taught them the best principles of the art, in such a way that there was not a mason, stone cutter, or carpenter, who did not understand the measurements, elements, and rules of true architecture.”12

  Fratta is about fifty miles from Vicenza, which is a long ride on horseback, and since the Badoer commission was relatively small, it has been suggested that Palladio may not have closely supervised the construction.13 If that was so, the local builders must have followed the plans with exceptional care, for the drawings in Quattro libri and the finished house are remarkably alike. The curved loggias are slightly shorter—six bays instead of ten—than those shown in the treatise, but this may simply have been the result of fitting the house onto a tight site. It is not known why the rear portico was never finished. Perhaps Badoer changed his mind in midconstruction, for there are attic and basement windows in the spaces that would have been occupied by the portico and its stairs. There are no surviving design drawings or sketches of the Villa Badoer, so it’s impossible to be certain about such changes, which may simply reflect a client torn between magnificence and frugality, wishing to “put on a good front”—and saving money in the back. There may be another explanation. Two coats of arms are frescoed over the front door of the villa, the Badoer and the Loredan. Francesco Badoer and Zorzi Loredan had been friends, so it was natural for the grateful villa-builder to commemorate his benefactor. What is odd is that the two crests are of equal size and intertwined. It would have been customary for the Badoer crest to be dominant, unless, of course, it was Lucietta who insisted on equal billing for her brother—and herself. This suggests a strong-willed and perhaps ambitious woman. Is it farfetched to imagine that the striking architectural contrasts in the Villa Badoer reflect the wishes of a second client, one who could claim that the finances to build at all came through her line? It would hardly be the first time that a husband and wife made conflicting demands on their architect.

  Was it Lucietta who encouraged Palladio to incorporate the impressive curved loggias into his design? He had invented this device a few years before the Villa Badoer, in 1554, when he was designing a villa for Cavaliere Leonardo Mocenigo, a valued Venetian client.14 The Villa Mocenigo was a house planned around a courtyard, like the Villa Sarego, and in his preliminary sketch plan Palladio drew a square-doughnut, with the formal entrance, from the Brenta canal, through a rectangular U-shaped cortile flanked by straight barchesse. After finishing the plan Palladio must have had second thoughts, for on top of the barchessa he drew a curved loggia. One can sense the excitement of discovery in this hurried scrawl. The magnificent Mocenigo villa on the Brenta canal took about ten years to build. Since the house was demolished in 1835, we cannot be sure of its final design; Palladio’s last sketch plan shows curved loggias on
the entrance side and rectangular loggias on the rear, but the plan in Quattro libri has curved loggias on both sides. Inigo Jones saw the villa in 1613, after the house had been drastically remodeled by Mocenigo’s son but when the curved loggias were still intact. “This villa is otherwise ordered for I saww yt and yt is les and as I remember hath these circular loggias,” he noted.15 He was so impressed by the “circular loggias” that he used them in a design for a country house in Northamptonshire.16

  THE VIEW FROM ONE OF THE CURVED LOGGIAS OF THE VILLA BADOER DELINEATES THE COMPLEXITY AND RICHNESS OF PALLADIO’S STAIR DESIGN.

  Palladio wrote that curved loggias “make an immensely pleasing sight,” and used them several times.17 They are a perfect blend of utility and delight. Like a barchessa, they provide a sheltered space for various activities, but they are not parts of barns, serving chiefly as covered walkways, linking the house to distant outbuildings. Architecturally, the low loggias create an attractive setting that leads the eye to the higher pedimented temple front, which is the center of the composition. By curving the loggias, Palladio also achieved a startlingly novel effect: parallax—that is, the experience of the ever-shifting views between the staggered columns as one walks around the curve. Palladio was obviously influenced by his recent visit to the Villa Giulia in Rome, whose large hemicycle faces the garden, but his use of low, curved loggias to define a welcoming entrance court as well as to dramatize the main building was entirely original.

  Since the Villa Mocenigo has been demolished, and both the Villa Trissino and the Villa Thiene at Cicogna—the other Palladio villas with curved loggias—were never completed, the remote Villa Badoer is the only surviving example of Palladio’s curved loggias. However, thanks to Inigo Jones—and to the designs in Quattro libri—circular loggias became one of the most popular British Palladian motifs. Robert Adam and James Gibbs both used curved loggias in country houses, and through Gibbs’s treatise, the device migrated to America, where it was adopted by eighteenth-century planters. Mount Airy in Richmond County, one of the largest Virginia plantation houses, has enclosed curved loggias leading to outbuildings. George Washington built curved loggias when he expanded Mount Vernon. The delicate open loggias lead to outbuildings containing the kitchen and servants’ quarters.18 Mount Vernon incorporates other Palladian elements: a large pediment over the entrance; a rear portico that serves as a grand garden piazza, or porch; and a beautiful serliana window in the main dining room. The contemporary American architect Allan Greenberg, who admires Washington, has built a handsome modern version of Mount Vernon in Connecticut.19 The outbuildings contain a pool house and staff quarters. In another house with a distinctly Palladian plan, Greenberg enclosed the curved loggias to make a kitchen and a garden room, and used the outbuildings for a bedroom suite and the garages.20 The two wings embrace a gravel entrance court and still “seem like arms, to gather in those who approach the house,” as Palladio poetically wrote more than four centuries ago.21

  Palladio’s impact on classical architecture was decisive. He developed a simple set of architectural elements (vocabulary) and straightforward rules (grammar) that inspired and were used by succeeding generations of architects. In that regard, his influence on the language of building is comparable to the lasting impact that William Shakespeare has had on the English language. Palladio and Shakespeare both belong to the sixteenth century—Palladio was born in 1508, Shakespeare in 1564—yet, like the playwright, the architect does not seem a distant figure. Not because of his buildings, which relatively few people have seen, but rather because his way of making architecture—with noble porticoes and welcoming curved loggias—has become our own.

  • • •

  The front doors to the Villa Badoer are more than twelve feet high, surrounded by a beautiful carved stone frame. Above the doors are the intertwined stemmi of the Badoer and the Loredan, and on each side frescoed grotesques of welcoming jesters surmounted by festoons; larger panels are repeated over the two smaller doors that lead to the rectangular rooms on either side. The portico ceiling consists of extremely deep wooden coffers, mimicking the masonry coffers of ancient Roman vaults.

  The floor of the portico is raised high above the ground and provides a vantage point overlooking the courtyard. Directly in front of the villa gates is a small bridge, and on the other side of the Scortico River the busy shopping street of Fratta. It’s nearing lunchtime, and there are people on the sidewalks. Suddenly I feel vulnerable and exposed, an interloper who has wandered onto the stage.

  I slip out of the front gate, replacing the chain, and look for a place to eat. Sure enough, a sign advertises a Ristorante Palladio. The large dining room is full of workers. A noisy group of fifteen or more men with ruddy faces and overalls occupies a long table in the center; the rest of us, alone or in pairs, sit at smaller tables. No menu is offered, and for ten minutes nothing happens. Service in such local eateries—the Italian equivalent of American diners—is usually pretty quick. Suddenly a flurry of waiters appears, wheeling carts loaded with steaming plates. They fan out into the room bringing us the first course. There is a lull while we dispose of the dishes—gnocchi for me—and soon after the empty plates are whisked away, a second convoy of carts appears. This time the choice is between fish, chicken, and a dish that I don’t recognize. I’ve treated myself with the gnocchi, so I virtuously opt for the fish—some sort of small perch or trout—even though I dislike picking bones out of my teeth. A final cart carries desserts, and I choose something that resembles flan.

  The noise in the room has diminished considerably, in inverse proportion to the rising general level of contentment. I finish a cup of espresso that dampens the effect of a half-liter of wine and call for the bill. The waiter brings a small, tulip-shaped glass of clear liquid.

  “Signore,” he says with a flourish.

  It is not a question. Not wishing to appear rude, I accept the complimentary drink. The grappa is delicious.

  Leaving the restaurant considerably lighter-headed—and heavier-bodied—than I was when I arrived an hour ago, I walk down the street. Passing the villa, which still appears to be empty, I have a sudden urge to go back in and take a second look. But while I was eating someone has secured the padlock. Was my ingression observed? Or was the man in the lane really the caretaker? I mentally tip my hat to him, and make my way back to the car.

  * * *

  IPalladio’s other son, Orazio, was studying law.

  VIII

  Emo

  he back of the Villa Emo at Fanzolo looks out over a vast, featureless lawn, ending in a line of trees, that has replaced the “square garden of eighty campi trevigiani, through the middle of which runs a stream that makes the site very pretty and delightful,” as it was described by Palladio.1 Beyond the trees lies the plain of the Trevigiana, flat as a billiard table, a patchwork of plowed fields, hedgerows, and irrigation ditches. It is a hazy day, otherwise I could see the foothills of the Dolomites far to the north. In the same direction, only seven miles away, is the Villa Barbaro.

  So close and yet so far. The rear of Barbaro is characterized by a secret garden with an ornate nymphaeum and a tinkling fountain; the back façade of Emo is almost bleak. There is no portico nor, according to Quattro libri, was one intended; no pediment, no columns or pilasters, no serliana, no thermal window, not even the usual line of modillions beneath the eaves—no classical motifs of any kind. The simplest of fascias, or horizontal bands, marks the division between the tall basement and the main floor. The window openings don’t have frames. Someone has painted the shutters green, but the touch of color only serves to emphasize the plainness of the architecture. The house is flanked by two lower wings whose backs are a utilitarian assortment of doors and windows. The roofs are punctuated by more than a dozen stubby chimneys. At the end of each long wing is a dovecote in the form of a squat watchtower.

  The building is astonishingly long, stretching about four hundred feet between the two towers. The left wing shows signs
of once having been a warm ocher color, but its plaster walls, long without paint, are dark with patches of mold. Yet the weather-beaten condition, while hardly charming, does not undermine the architect’s intentions, quite the opposite. This is the most antique of Palladio’s villas, but instead of recalling the ancient city of majestic temples and monuments, it makes me think of another Rome: the orderly world of frugal military engineers, hard-traveling centurions, and implacable colonial administrators. This could easily be a barracks outpost in one of the farflung reaches of the empire. The architectural historian Vincent Scully called Emo “ruthless,” which accurately describes its soldierly, unsentimental soul.2

  A gravel path takes me to a curving double stair—an eighteenth-century addition that replaced the original straight stair—in the precise center of the house. The stair leads to a pair of doors that open into the sala. The imposing room is a large cube, about thirty feet high. My eye is drawn to the ceiling, coffered like a deep egg-crate, which is unique among Palladio’s villas. The coffers were discovered in the late 1930s hidden behind an ornate nineteenth-century plaster ceiling.3 They are unpainted wood, carried on intersecting beams. The entablature and giant fluted Corinthian columns, like the rest of the décor of this dazzling room, are frescoed by Palladio’s old collaborator Giambattista Zelotti.