It's strange being in a place that feels like it shouldn't exist. As I walked over canals and rode gondolas, I couldn't help asking why people chose to create the city of Venice at all. It was beautiful. The water is stunning. But there is a coast that they could live on a few kilometers back. Why go right to the water's edge? Why build on a series of small islands? I couldn't help but think of the artificial islands of Dubai, which is perhaps an appropriate modern equivalent to explain the difficulty of establishing a city like Venice. As could be seen on any building by the algae growth, tide varies tremendously day-to-day to say nothing of seasons or storms.
Today there is a new problem that Venice faces. In the next century, Venice may be underwater due to climate change and rising sea levels. But, for centuries it worked. Monumental buildings arose and beneath them paddled gondoliers who turned the inconvenience of canals into an art. The city took on its peculiarities as an aesthetic, allowing it to become one of the most recognizable cities in the world.
Yet, there was no Icarian fall — the Venetians did not bring their own downfall from building too much or spreading to new islands. They're responsible insofar as they are human in our anthropocentric global warming, but with their lack of cars, probably less so than many others.
The hubris and pre-fall pride that Icarus displayed is certainly a part of their history, however. A sense of self-importance is clearly articulated in much of the art I encountered in the Gallerie dell'Accademia. Religious scenes often had lavish detail in the coats of dogs playing in their periphery. Some of the art is so lavish in earthly detail that it was condemned. For example, Veronese's Feast in the House of Levi was originally a depiction of the Last Supper, until Veronese was called in by an Inquisition panel to defend the inclusion of dwarves and dogs in this specific episode in the life of Christ. These details marked visual splendor and captured the luxurious beauty of wealthy Renaissance lifestyle, yes, but they do not necessarily bespeak the particularly Venetian excess that I was noticing.
Instead, it became apparent to me before a work showing God and the holy spirit in clouds above the Piazza San Marco. The deity graced the skies of their city, but I soon realized this was not a single image, but part of a triptych. It was the Annunciation and to read the narrative of the Angel Gabriel speaking to Mary, you would literally have to read it through Venice. One's eyes are lead from the speaker to the receiver of this divine information, as if the whole transaction occurred in this specific city in this specific historical moment.
Theological arguments about the importance of Venice seemed to be made with every painting, from the subtle, yet decidedly Venetian window frames in the background of Biblical scenes to the various representations of Saint Mark in and around Venice. Lending power to the scenes were the vibrancy of their colors, with engaging darks and lights, swirls of warm and cool color centuries prefiguring Turner.
And yet, the bold skies of Venice appear excessive in real life too. The spotted skies found in most paintings of the city — lit by dramatic light at sunset or sunrise— were overhead as we left the museum, as if to say that the excess is justified, that religious importance and luxury go hand-in-hand in this surreal city by the water and that, perhaps, the visual history could only capture a small fraction of the inherent beauty and wonder of Venice, a city that truly lives in excess and, in a way then, resists being condemned as excessive.