ON THE WALLS

In a way, you could say that life is about architecture. Because the question about life's meaning is a personal one, I am pretty certain I can make this self-hypothetical argument. I am simply saying that life is about what we give ourselves, which is, in a way, architecture. An art, a necessity, a reading into ourselves, architecture embodies much of the human experience and equally extends our survival not only daily but also far into the future. Venice, for instance, has been an active city for nearly one-thousand years. Structures have protected its citizens since its beginning; I admit that they have also created dangers in the same ways when fires destroy difficult to reach buildings and injuries go unattended because one hundred linear feet to a hospital may equal a Venetian mile by foot during ambulance-halting low tides. Still, on both a day to day period and throughout the centuries, Venice as a living place has survived because of its designs. Long ago, structure made the city useful as a protective environment and as it became useful it grew in size and in variety of architectural features. Given to us by the ages and the visions of our predecessors, the architecture of Venice, or any city, is an accumulation of links to the past that mirror our history and even our nature as a species. Both basic structures but, more usually, aesthetic features like these invoke interest in a place that can preserve it's existence through the evocation of memory. As we discussed Foucault's "heterotopias" in class, I believe each architectural embellishment on the walls of this city are heterotopias, or objects representing paradisiacal ideas about Venice. These embellishments, that each contribute to a collection of architecture that creates the solid, stationary Venice, are gifts from the past that have helped Venice to survive to the present day. Venice is a beautiful location of human history whose importance in what is written on its walls has made it strong enough to survive; we have given ourselves the lasting pleasure of the Venetian walls. They are more solid and lasting than life, and, when written like a book, they are not only useful as protective enclosures but also as signs. If life is what we give ourselves, and if architecture can lead us back or forward into an utopia, then surly we can say that the gift of good architecture is worthy of the meaning of life at some macroscopic point.

To better understand such significant signs in Venice, I chose a campo, or square (literally "field"), to look at in detail. The pictures above are from Campo San Bartolomeo just south-east of the Rialto Bridge. I was going to study this campo originally, because, without a cathedral to help me with finding various architectural features, it would have been interesting to demonstrate how even when lavish detail is not present in an area Venice still offers great variety, but I discovered another wonderful campo, Campo San Maurizio, that I liked better. There were plenty of architectural features in Campo San Bartolomeo, even including crenellations and a blind arcade, but I thought pictures of both the outside and inside of a campo (meaning a church is included) would be more interesting to the reader. But before I talk about my campo, I have to add that even though it may look like it, the statue in Campo San Bartolomeo above is not a patriot, or Benjamin Franklin; Carlo Goldoni was a notable, 18th century, comedic Venetian playwright who dressed like everyone seems to have in those days. Just to clear that up.

Campo San Maurizio, a campo west of the Piazza San Marco near Ponte Accademia, was a somewhat quiet campo. Rain was drizzling when Maria and I wandered into San Maurizio on our way to the Venezia Santa Lucia train station yesterday, but, as simply a through-way from the Piazza to Accademia, only one section of the campo receives traffic, so the rain was not the only reason for San Maurizio's slightly barren atmosphere. Already focused on architecture due to the approach of this assignment and the reminders from Professor Felluga to notice it, I immediately recognized the rich diversity of styles present in Campo San Maurizio and decided to forget Campo San Bartolomeo and the memorable statue of Carlo Goldoni. As we walked in from the calle (above on right), the first thing Maria and I saw was the four-light window consisting of ogee, or pointed, arches decorated in cusps and supported by Corinthian capitals (above on left). As you can see in the photo, whoever lives here had draped their window shades over the balustrade and had covered the corbels bearing the overhang with boxed flowers. As with nearly any campo in Venice, lancets, ogee arch windows, are not the only style of window in Campo San Maurizio; the building beside this one, for example, shows rounded windows with Ionic capitals, including volutes of course, and rounded arches (right). With a little research online, I discovered that this building is the Palazzo Bellavite, built in the 16th century, which has been home to various Venetian poets. The Palazzo Bellavite has two Venetian windows, or serliane, that were either never completed or have been filled in as you can see in the photo.

Walking across the campo and turning around we saw more ogee arches, this time in groups of five (below left). Looking at the windows and doors on the ground and first floor, lintels, or sheets of stone over the tops, are visible against the brick. In the top right-hand corner of the photo on the left is a set of biforate windows, special only in that they form a pair. In the photo above on the right, you can see what seems to be dog-tooth moulding along the top of this building. With distinct differences in style, filled windows, and age, the entire building side looks eclectic. Even the ogee arches seem added, especially with presence of both Composite and Doric pilasters between them. Below and in the corner of the campo, a doorway seems to lead into an atrium (right).



Turning left from that building, we see a large Renaissance style church facing in from the north with a leaning campanile in the background, a well (which itself is decorated in relief) in front, and a bay of arches visible in the top right corner of the photo. This is St. Maurice. On the top there is a large pediment bordered with dentilled molding and decorated with the relief of a battle scene (above right). Below that, the entrance to the church is a great example of an aedicule, with Ionic pilasters and a wide frieze along the entablature at the top whose cornice supports another pediment (above left). The church is symmetrical, a characteristic of the Renaissance style. The big thermal window directly between the pediment of the door and the grand pediment above displays this symmetry (below left), as do the two matching front windows adorned with segmental pediments on either side. Inside the church, Maria and I found an exhibit on old instruments rather than pews and alters, and there was a sign asking us not to take photos. We walked around for a while, carrying our umbrellas because we were not sure where the umbrella street sellers found umbrellas cheap enough to sell for 2 euros; then I snuck a few pictures... At the back of the church, which did not seem to have a nave, there was an apse whose semi-dome is shown in the picture below on the left. To both sides of the church were transepts in which I found pendentives, cupolas, and Corinthian style columns (below right). In the center was a larger cupola with a lantern (second photo below left).



The campanile behind the church is leaning, as I said, although it may not appear to be in my photo (right). A machicolation around the top, three open windows on each side, were probably used as a perch for archers during attacks on the city. Above that a decorative blind arcade, or a row of closed arches, circle the tower, and below two blind arches stretch the length of the campanile on each side.

A complex system of architectural history, Campo San Maurizio is just a tiny portion of Venice. Eclectic and imperfect, its features cannot hide the randomness of their placement, which reveals the presence of a hidden narrative. Although the story of how these features came to be a part of Campo San Maurizio is not written on the walls, we can pretend to understand it by seeing reflections of the wider world here. In a way this works, especially considering the campo as a heterotopia. Perhaps the best part of the architectural gifts are their mystery that allow us to enter our own utopias, and in this case leading us towards utopias of the past that help us to remember and to appreciate history. Of course, they cannot teach us truth, but they can remind us of it. I love this side of Venice because it is beautiful, it speaks, and at the same time is silent. Walking into Campo San Maurizio, for instance, I read the walls and read almost what I wanted to read in what I could find there, even with the remnants of reality in my way. It is like a dance in which the walls lead and I choose to follow what reminds me of image of Venice, and I easily skim over what does not. Without words or sound the pleasure of what is on the walls of Venice can entertain the tourist, work for the Venetian, and support a medium between the then and the now of the city.