Daughters of the Doge (35 page)

March the 28th 1556 – Bottega di Tintoretto

‘Come, Richard, look at this.’

A storm had blown in earlier that morning. Rain hammered on to the windows above us and the light was very poor; hardly good enough to paint by. The group took it all philosophically and there was a relaxed mood as everyone tidied up and did odd jobs, preparing for when the light improved again. Jacopo Tintoretto took me across to a canvas on the far side of the studio workshop. The work was unfinished, but already the chubby angels were soaring above us, looking down on the Madonna below and at the sweeping scenery behind her.

‘What do you see?’

This was difficult: to have Tintoretto himself show me what I assumed was one of his paintings and to ask me what I thought. I cast my mind back to previous teaching sessions, when he had let me sit in with his
garzone
and the
assistente
who formed the working group under his guidance and leadership.

‘Although it is unfinished and the colours are not completed, already I feel comfortable with it, as if it tells me the story and if I had to, I could fill in the incomplete parts.’

‘Excellent.’ Jacopo smiled broadly at my reply.

‘Now, do you know why you feel so comfortable?’

‘Is it the composition?’

‘Yes, in part. We say that oil painting is based on the “trinity”. First we have
invenzione –
the development of the subject matter of the picture and the way it is laid out on the canvas – to tell a story. Second comes the precise use of perspective and the excellence of the drawing itself, giving form to the figures, so they do not look as if they have been cut from drawing paper and stuck on to the background scenery. We call this
disegno –
the detailed design of the painting, and the creation of life through tonal differences, light and shade. What follows is
colorato –
the choice and application of colour – but we will come to that later. The point I want to make to you now is that, eight years ago, the man who created the image before you could not draw as well as you do now. It is a learned skill, and he has learned it well.’

I was surprised. ‘Whose work is it?’

‘Gentile’s. I will tell you in private that he can draw better than I can – but don’t tell him so. That’s why we call him Michelangelo – that and his lumpy great face!’

He called across the studio.
‘Ehi,
Michelangelo!’

Gentile looked up and walked over, smiling.

‘How long have you been with us here, Gentile?’

‘Eight years,
maestro.
I came when I was fourteen and I am now twenty-two.’

Tintoretto nodded. ‘And how well could you draw when you came here?’

‘Not at all,
maestro.
I remember the first day you told me to draw a straight line and a perfect circle. They took me a week, and even then they were not as good as they should have been. I never understood why you accepted me.’

Jacopo smiled and put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Because you were keen, you listened, you did everything I told you to . . .’ There was a pause and Gentile began laughing as they finished the sentence together:
and because your father asked me to
!’

Jacopo slapped his senior assistant on the back and let him return to his other painting.

‘If you really want to study art properly, Richard, you must understand deeply what we are about. Some people out there believe painting is an art, given by God, but it isn’t – it’s a craft which can be taught and learned. Gentile is an outstanding example of how a man with some talent and a lot of application can develop his skill. If you worked as hard as Gentile, you could produce work of that quality, or perhaps close to that quality, in as many years, but there is more to understand than
disegno
and
colorato.
The key skill is in understanding the market and meeting its needs. Sit down, and let me explain.

‘I don’t know whether you have visited the other Republics, Florence and Rome?’

I shook my head.

‘Well, if you studied there you would soon see two large differences compared with Venice. The first is artistic, the second political. You have visited the Palazzo Ducale and many of our churches, and seen the fresco paintings. What impression did they make on you?’

‘I thought they were wonderful, but in most cases, in poor condition.’

‘Correct. That is because of our position in the centre of the lagoon. We are surrounded by humidity and salinity. The saltwater of the lagoon gets in the air and soaks into the plaster on the walls. This quickly corrodes the paint and makes it peel off in a powder. For that reason our patrons have moved away to a large extent from
fresco
painting, meaning painting direct on to fresh plaster, and now adorn their
palazzi
and churches with paintings made with oil-based paints, painted on to stretched canvas. The canvas is coated with
gesso
before we paint and is much more able to withstand the ravages of the salt air.

‘This change has had an important effect upon our painting technique. When I first learned the trade with Jacopo Sansovino and Bonifacio dei Pitati, also called Bonifacio Veronese, I followed the traditional style. Much of the time we mixed distilled water into the dry paint pigment to make
tempera.
It absorbed well into the plaster for fresco painting and also, with the addition of egg yolks to make egg
tempera,
painted well on wooden panels.

‘Tempera
is a thin paint, best applied in thin glazes, so the technique used for panel work repeated that for plaster. We made a separate drawing on paper, which we called a “cartoon”, then transferred it on to the plaster or panel and tidied it up with fresh charcoal. Once we were satisfied with the
disegno
stage, we brushed off the excess charcoal with a feather, then applied the first glaze to fix it to the ground. Because we could continue to see the drawing through our glazes, it became to many the critical part of the painting. Michelangelo – the real one – paints this way today, allowing the white background and the drawing marks upon it to shine through the finished work.

‘Here, it’s different. About eighty years ago, Flemish painters began to travel to Venice with the German merchants – especially the Fuggers – and exhibited their work at the Fondaco dei Tedeschi and elsewhere, selling many paintings. From them, painters like Giorgione and Titian learned the way of using the paint thicker and opaquely. The result was that the detail of the underlying drawing often disappeared. We did not let that worry us, but simply refound the design we wanted in fresh paint, and even scraped off parts of the original or painted over them if we changed our minds about the design as we went along. You probably saw some of Titian’s paintings defaced in that way, as he is well known for clinging to them and repainting whole sections time and again.’

I was fascinated by Tintoretto’s ability to stand back from his art and analyse it with such clarity. ‘Jacopo, I have noticed that the ground in many of these paintings is not white, as you described, but grey or brown. Why is this?’

He smiled, encouraged by my interest.

‘You are right, Richard. What we Venetian painters have discovered is that we can best achieve the results we want, not by drawing shapes and filling them in with colour, but by staining the early canvas with blocks of light and dark. The Flemish painters used soot dissolved in wine or urine to make a thin wash, or
bistre,
and we do something similar.

‘Leonardo da Vinci, Paulo Veronese, Titian and I use a style of under-painting that could, if we wished, stand alone as a finished work of art, without any colour whatsoever. This method is known by many names, such as
grisaille,
using grey, and
verdaccio,
using greenish-grey, but the principle is the same. It differs from the Flemish
bistre
because we use opaque mixtures of paint to lay in the entire composition, rather than inks. The under-painting can be as detailed as the finished work, but often we make it looser, so we can develop as we continue with colours. This method creates a great sense of presence in a painting. While the underpainting cannot be seen, except perhaps by another painter, its structure, tonal range and brushwork serve to make the finished work in colour appear more vivid. That is how to identify work of the Venetian school.

‘My ambition in this house is to maintain the best of both traditions. Many say that Titian cannot draw, but while draughtsmanship is not his greatest skill, I have to admit that his use of colour is exemplary. That is why I have this sign on the wall, to remind us all.’ He pointed to the wall opposite.

‘Michelangelo showed us that drawing is not just line, but
chiaroscuro –
the management of light and shade to emphasize form and depth.’

‘But where does politics enter into it?’

I could see that Jacopo enjoyed explaining his art to those who were interested, and although the morning was disappearing fast, the light was still poor and he continued enthusiastically.

‘In Rome, Florence and Genoa patronage of the arts reflects political power. Rome is dominated by the Pope, Florence by the Medicis and Genoa by the Doria family. Their approach to everything is to keep everyone guessing and competing one with another. This has produced a lot of new ideas and some great individual artists, but there is no sense of continuity.

‘Here in Venice the state controls everything, but with a sense of tradition and the soft hand of stabilized and continuing patronage. Ever since the days of Giovanni and Gentile Bellini, the state has encouraged us to develop organized family houses, which they can know and trust and to whom the responsibility of work can safely be delegated. It has certain disadvantages: the Council of Ten are very conservative and much of the time they want the same schemes to be repeated, often with very similar design themes, and this can be a bit constricting. It has its advantages, though, for an artist can hand down his design books to his son and thereby continue the family reputation.’

The rain had stopped, and almost immediately the clouds cleared and a bright shaft of sunlight broke through. Tintoretto looked up. ‘I had better get back to work. Richard, would you go to Veronica’s house and tell her we are able to paint again? She was due here earlier, but knows us well enough not to bother coming in a storm.’

I jumped up and made for the door. He called after me. ‘I know it is no hardship to ask you to go and see her, but make sure you bring her back with you. The sun is out and we must get painting.’

He need not have sent me, for I met her walking along the Fondamenta, in the direction of the studio. I turned and walked back with her, happy yet awkward in her company after watching her with Courtenay, but she chatted as if nothing had happened, and to my pleasure agreed to show me around the city the following day

I started counting the hours.

C
HAPTER
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