Category: Venetian History

Motondoso, Venetian History, Venetian Problems

get to know the mud

March 14, 2025 12 Comments

In the canals, too much mud can be a problem, but one doesn’t see it until the extreme low tides of mid-winter. When anyone asks me how deep are the canals, I usually ask “You mean at high tide? Or low tide?” The height of the water changes, but over time so does the height of the mud.

You could call it the lagoon’s base layer. There are places where there’s too much mud, mainly in the canals; it accumulates and creates problems for boats when the tide is low and, equally important, problems for buildings whose drains it has blocked, and so we have to take it away.

But there is an equal and opposite problem of there not being enough mud in places around the lagoon, where dredging has been heavy or, more frequently, where the motondoso (waves from motorboats) has loosened the soil, and the tide and waves have washed it out to sea. Waves that demolish the wetland marshes (barene) or, on the other hand, fill up channels, have been known for years to be wrecking the lagoon’s wrinkly underwater shape, smoothing it out and slowly turning it into a sort of bay of the sea. Bays of the sea are an entirely different ecosystem from lagoons, but no matter! Motors are indispensable for keeping the city going, and the lagoon is just going to have to suck up (so to speak) the consequences.

At water-level you may notice only water, but the lagoon is full of mud.

The 17th-century Venetians knew the lagoon dynamics intimately. Their survival depended on it. Fears of the lagoon silting up from the several rivers that flowed into it led them to an epic undertaking: From 1600-1604 they cut the river Po to divert it southward into the Adriatic.

In 1993 it was decided to redistribute the quantities of mud in the city and lagoon: Simple, logical, effective, positive. Dredging proceeded and the mud was deposited in various locations where it was useful, or at least not problematic. In fact, moving mud around is far from a recent phenomenon — it’s been done many times over the centuries resulting in consolidations, expansions, and entire new islands. This assortment of maps showing the Morphological Evolution of the Lagoon of Venice from the XVI Century till today is very interesting. In the 20th century Tronchetto and Sacca Sessola, to name only two, rose from the lagoon bottom created with dredgings.

And so, in the fullness of time, the dredges were at work outside our door in 2021, and they were at it again just two months ago. All seemed to be going well, but suddenly we read that things have taken an unexpected turn. The mud is unusable!

The dredger the first day of work thought it was a good idea to tie his behemoth to one of our little pilings to resist the weight of the mud he’s pulling up. He was wrong. But you can appreciate something about the mud here: It’s tenacious. Once it grabs onto something, it really doesn’t intend to let go. This went on for hours, the modest pole yanked sideways, as you can see; it simply couldn’t be dislodged, although it’s now a bit shaky. The next day he moored the monster to the metal ring on the street, and we’re trying to help our piling begin to trust people again.

The headlines have been blunt: “Unusable muds, the lagoon in crisis, the dredging has been stopped in the lagoon.” “The new Protocollo of 2023 for the sediments dug in the canals doesn’t work anymore because the parameters of ecotoxicity are too rigid.” “First they were considered clean and good for reconstructing the barene. But no more: Now there’s a risk of blocking also the dredging of the most polluted.”

This problem has come up literally in mid-dredge. It’s a little awkward to discover that the Protocollo of 2023 is invalid when the barges are full of mud, so now what? Is there a Plan B? “Strictly speaking, we don’t have one,” to quote CIA operative Gust Avrokotos in the film “Charlie Wilson’s War.” “But we’re working on it.”

So what changed all of a sudden? It’s that, as the headline noted, the standards are suddenly stricter as to what mud is classified as “ecotoxic” (either biological or chemical) and therefore where it can be dumped. (Don’t write in, I know that everything is chemical, looking at the universe. We’re roughly distinguishing here between chromium and E. coli.)

Nobody’s surprised to hear that there are toxic substances in the lagoon — just look at the Industrial Zone shoreline and draw your own conclusions. A few years ago the University of Padova and Ca’ Foscari in Venice studied some mollusks taken from the channel bordering the mainland. Researchers found that the bivalves contained a quantity of poisonous substances 120 times higher than in the rest of the lagoon.

So here we are. Where will the mud go?

Men used to do this with shovels. Not underwater, of course.

All muds are not created equal. Category A, the cleanest kind, is safe to put under the water, so it can be used “nourish” the shrinking barene. Other muds, the more toxic Category B and C, can’t be put back into the lagoon, no matter how worthy the reasons, and have to be banished to the Tresse island. And God forbid all these muds should become mixed together. Burning the mud is an interesting proposal, but it’s hard to agree on where to put the ash.

Also, the Tresse at the moment is running out of space. There have already been discussions about enlarging it, but quantity and quality, as often happens, are in conflict. Decisions lag. Bureaucratic, legal, logistical issues keep bumping into each other. Cost must be in there too, somewhere. The Morphological Plan of the lagoon was shot down in 2022 and nothing has been heard of it since.

The Isola delle Tresse began in the 1930’s as Storage Tanks island, and was expanded in 1993 with a million cubic meters of mud and other material dredged for the benefit of the Port of Venice. This raised the island by nine meters (30 feet) and doubled it in size. Now it has been proposed to deposit as much as an additional four million cubic meters of mud, which would raise the island as high as 13 meters (43 feet). May I take just a moment to recall that when UNESCO designated Venice as a World Heritage Site in 1987 it also included the lagoon? Toxic mud doesn’t sound very World Heritage Sitey.

So, back to the dredging at hand: After weeks of hardy gouging and hauling, the mud’s permission to land, so to speak, has been revoked. The Department of You Should Have Seen This Coming isn’t answering its phone.

The barene (semi-solid mud) are beautiful and crucial to the whole ecosystem. But *motondoso*, or waves caused by the anarchy of motorboats, slices away at their soft soil. This goes on all year long, but especially in the summer. Note the distance between the wooden piling and the islet. They used to be much closer together. Shrinking barene aren’t good for the health of the lagoon as a whole.

Of course the plant roots help stabilize the soil, but they only go down so far. Soon the upper layer will collapse and slide into the water, filling up the channel. We need the barene and we also need the channels, but they do not play well together. Eventually there will be too much mud in the channel, and not enough island, and dredging will be called for. And perhaps expansion afterward. Not literally inconceivable.

To resist the waves gnawing at the barene, various defenses have been tried. Above is somebody’s idea of a breakwater. The barena is clearly not reacting as the planners intended. You can see here why it was hoped that the latest batches of dredged mud could enlarge shrinking bits of land, because more and/or larger barene would be a great thing for the ecosystem. Even if you don’t care about the ecosystem — I don’t judge — more barene would serve as barriers to slow the incoming tide, the way they always did before motondoso began to tear them apart.

This construction is not destined to last long; the team behind this project seems not to have observed what happens to wooden pilings in the water.

The lagoon loses 600,000 cubic meters of sediments every year, leaving an increasing wasteland behind. You can easily see the difference between the lagoon north of Malamocco (divided by the Canale dei Petroli, about which more below), and the southern lagoon. If too much mud in one place is a problem, too little mud in another isn’t any better. Fewer barene and fewer channels mean the water can rampage around and carry even more mud away with the tide, or deposit it unhelpfully elsewhere.

1901. We see lots of squiggly channels back then (which, like the barene, slowed down the tide, and the dislodging of sediments). You also see that the shoreline was squishier and more ragged, providing more space for the water to come and go, moving more slowly in the process. But too many channels were doomed, like the little one circled in red above.

1932. Look at the little channel (*ghebo*, in Venetian) circled in red again. You see that natural processes have caused it to begin to fill in, but it was still in good shape at least ten years later because Lino remembers it well. His father would take him out fishing in their little boat and they rowed along this canal on their way to the best spot to “dig” for canestrelli, or little lagoon scallops (*Aequipecten opercularis*). Note: The different colors indicate varying depths of the water. You’ll see that change over the decades too.

In the Thirties the Industrial Zone was being built; for Venice’s post-war economy it seemed like the greatest plan ever, and in many ways it was. In their great days (now past), the chemical refineries here were the largest in Italy. Oil and chemical industries require raw materials, and those require ships, and ships require reliable channels for passage. That broad, curving channel marked in yellow on the map above that enters the lagoon from Malamocco does not look like anything a big ship would want to navigate, and of course ships also need a waterway to reach the mainland port area. And so the Canale dei Petroli (“petroleum canal,” in honor of the expected tankers) was planned.

1970. The triumph of the shipping. The broad, curvy yellow channel (which also slowed the force of the tide) was bypassed in 1964-1968 by the digging of the channel that is straight as an airport runway: The Canale dei Petroli. The resulting tons of mud went to the shoreline, reshaping it by the formation of three longish islands (generically called *casse di* *colmata*) that were created along the flank of the mainland. They were intended as the land for the Third Industrial Zone, which was never built. Left to their own devices, they’ve become a sort of oasis, especially for birds.

Dredging the Canale dei Petroli created a channel 18 meters (60 feet) deep, 15 km (9 miles) long and 200 meters (656 feet) wide. If you had wanted to suck the sediments out of the lagoon, you could hardly have done better. But the wakes of the cargo ships also stir up the sediments and they don’t all reach the sea. Result: More dredging is needed periodically as the channel proceeds to silt up. Further result: The tide entered faster and with more force than ever before, and before you could say “Worst flood in Venice’s history, November 4, 1966” the city went under. Venetians weren’t slow to see a connection between the canal and the flood, but what was done was done.

And this is more or less the situation today.

Moving mud means moving water. These maps were made in 2009, so the situation may well have changed yet again since then. Looking at you, effects of MOSE. (On the right panel: This map was assembled for study use of the Committee of Public Health of Venice, from the pages published on the site https://www.istitutoveneto.it/flex/cm/pages/ServeBLOB.php/L/IT/IDPagina/1. Credit and rights to this work belong to Diego Tiozzo Netti. The indications of the tidal flows are by Umberto Sartori.)

We’re looking at tide patterns, otherwise known as the hydrostatic equilibrium of the tides in the lagoon over many centuries.

LEFT PANEL: The solid red lines show the tidal pathway from the inlet at San Nicolo’. The solid green is the water entering from Malamocco (Alberoni). The thin blue line across the center of the lagoon emphasizes what we can see where the arrows meet, the point where the two incoming tides form the spartiacque, or “division of the waters.” The dotted red lines show tidal flow before the landfills created by the Austro-Hungarians (who left in 1866) and Fascists (1922-1943). The dotted green lines show the tide before the landfills made by the post-war “democratic-clientele governments.” The dotted dark-blue lines are the principal zones of sediment deposits, which makes sense considering the movement of the tides.

RIGHT PANEL: The pattern of the rising tide in 2009. The solid red line shows the pattern of the tide entering the lagoon from the inlet at San Nicolo’. The solid green line shows the tide entering from Malamocco (and, obviously, along the track of the Canale dei Petroli.) This graphic shows the effect of losing the mudbanks, natural channels and barene, smoothing out the lagoon bottom that used to be naturally uneven and knobbly.

I think the tides and the mud matter more to many other creatures than they do to mere humans. This barena that was built next to the Certosa island is a haven for flamingoes, Eurasian oystercatchers, egrets, herons, common shelducks, and the now-ubiquitous sacred ibis. And undoubtedly more that I haven’t discovered yet.

The ibis (*Threskiornis aethiopicus*) love the mud.

Snowy egrets (*Egretta thula*) don’t particularly care about mud, per se, but they like the easy fishing when the water is shallow.

Curlews (*Numenius americanis*) absolutely love the mud, digging up worms and other little submerged treats.

The plover (*Pluvialis squatarola*) is another huge fan of mud.

The oystercatcher (*Haematopus ostralegus*) is really beautiful, unless you’re an oyster, obviously. They also wade around looking for mussels and earthworms.

The grey heron (Ardea cinerea) is the apex wader. Evidently he’ll eat almost anything.

Here the lagoon bottom is fairly firm when it’s exposed at low tide, but if you walk into the water you will sink into squishy mud up to your ankles. Pause to admire the tracks of the birds who have traversed this territory, snacking to their heart’s content.

The important thing is that the lagoon bottom isn’t perfectly flat.

This is evidently the perfect place for a feast. The shore is littered with clam and oyster shells, the casings of creatures that need the mud to live.

The mud doesn’t just feed the birds. There are indeed oysters in the lagoon and they are delectable. Lino spent one Christmas Eve afternoon out in the lagoon and brought home a batch of these for our dinner. These three clutched together, though, seem to have formed a sort of Wagnerian pact or something.

We sometimes find scallops, even though they’re not as plentiful as when Lino was a boy and would go home with a bucketful.

That was a good day out — lots of different types of clams (and this isn’t all of them, by any means). They may be pondering how unmuddy the world has suddenly become.

Regard the mud. The waves from some passing boats clearly show that the mudbank is just below the surface.

You see water, I see mud. The surface is smoother where the water is shallower as the tide rises or falls. If you’re out rowing and you see this, you have only yourself to blame if you run aground. You were warned.

If you want a lagoon, you have to want mud. Otherwise you might just as well look at your bathtub.

History, Venetian History

Steaming ahead

January 30, 2025 17 Comments

The title says “ahead” but in fact I’m going to take you back a few years, well within living memory, to the epoch when you traveled by train and the train traveled by coal. I mean steam.

Venice’s fascinating past isn’t limited to Carnival and Casanova; there are plenty of people (Lino, for example) who still vividly remember when the mighty steam locomotives ruled the rails, and the Santa Lucia terminal was at work, day and night, with the coming and going of these behemoths. (Spoiler alert: Lino’s father was a macchinista, or train driver, so I am relying on Lino for some information.)

My curiosity awoke some time ago, when we were passing through Castelfranco Veneto on the train and Lino casually pointed out this rusty derelict beside the station tracks.

“See that?” he asked. “That was what they used to fill the steam trains’ tanks with water.” A monster faucet, in other words.

Compared to Castelfranco, the city of Feltre has a much keener appreciation of its old train relics.

Like animals, the locomotives needed food (coal) and water. These were often, though not always, carried in a tender, the vehicle attached to the engine. “Acqua” is water and “carbone” is coal. Excuse me if you figured that out. The water was topped up at important stops along the way by means of the trackside apparatus shown above. One source states that a roundtrip (distance not specified!) locomotive in the Thirties consumed 771 pounds/350 kilos of coal and 528 gallons/2000 liters of water, transporting a maximum of 80 passengers.

Let’s say trains don’t interest you much. But you might be surprised to see how many traces remain around the area of the station, if you know what you’re looking at.

First, a bit of background.

This is the church of Santa Lucia; it stood for centuries on the Grand Canal until it was inconveniently in the way of the structure that was needed by the trains. It was demolished between 1861-1863. The church of the Scalzi is still in place, a few steps further on. (Francesco Guardi, c. 1780).

Perhaps not the most memorable facade of the many Venetian churches, but it was fine until it wasn’t. But at least the name “Santa Lucia” was preserved in the name of the station.

The train station looked like this from the 1860s to the 1940’s. After the Second World War the project was to build today’s station. When he was a boy Lino knew the area as one big construction site as this station came down and the new one emerged.

Now we have this. Although today’s station was designed in the Thirties (this is evident), it was built in 1952.

So much for setting the scene. Back to the trains themselves.

Let’s imagine we’re in the Venice station on any ordinary day back in the first half of the 20th century. It was full of colossi like these. In fact, for several generations there wasn’t anything else.

I am not a train connoisseur, but I know massive when I see it. This locomotive steamed into the Santa Lucia station the night of October 29, 2021, as the “Train of Memory,” retracing the route of the coffin of the Unknown Soldier to Rome a century earlier.

This wouldn’t have impressed anybody back in the day. It was normal. And really noisy, too, between blasts of steam and assorted screeching whistles. And let’s not forget the mayhem of the crowds when the families were leaving for their summer holiday in the mountains. The trains were so full that sometimes people were passing their kids into the carriages by the windows. Not made up. My source was one of those kids.

Steam trains were still normal in Venice in 1973, here arriving at Santa Lucia (Wikipedia, not credited). The last steam locomotive in Italy was decommissioned in 1976. It operated a daily passenger service and some freight services on the Udine-Cervignano route (in Friuli). Since 2008 some steam locomotives are back in service, but only for historical trains on special occasions.

This was the engine that Lino’s father drove (that is him in the photo.) His usual route was up the Valsugana, from Venice to Trento and, obviously, back again. But he could also work the shifts required to reposition the locomotives and/or carriages into the configurations needed for the next day’s trains. That went on all night; his shift went from 6:00 PM to 6:00 AM. Note that this train didn’t use a tender for the water and coal, which went into the black box just in front of him. (Do not ask for details; I don’t have them.) The first passenger carriage is clearly right behind him.

So where did all this maneuvering of the rolling stock take place? As close to the station as the water allowed.

The red lines are bridges, yellow are where tracks were or bits still are; green is where the trains were reshuffled. Ignore Tronchetto, for the purposes of this discussion; it wasn’t built until the 1960’s.

A military photograph c. 1915 shows the area marked in green above when it was full of trains. The station is on the right side of the frame, and the bridge to the mainland is in the upper right. Those long lines that look like perforations are trains-in-waiting. The central area was used for the locomotives. (Available from Il Cantuccio del Collezionista https://ilcantucciodelcollezionista.it/index.html)

A detail of the photograph, just to make those little dots clearer. I repeat: Each of those is a train carriage. Perhaps not as impressive as Milan or Rome, but frankly they made better use of their limited space here in Venice than I’ve ever been able to do at home.

This is the *deposito*, or train-sorting area, today. We discovered this morning that the tracks strewn around for years, if not ages, are being removed. I imagine it will create more parking space.

A better view of the tracks on the left (drawn in yellow on the map) leading toward the Marittima.

Leftover tracks that were easier to just pave over than remove.

This bridge connected the station area to the right with the train yard. Fun fact: Decades ago the rectangular space just to the right of the bridge was used as a pool by the Rari Nantes swimming club. There was a similar setup along the Zattere for swimming in the Giudecca Canal. Not made up.

The same bridge seen in real life. The Santa Lucia station (with red train) is just on the other side of the Grand Canal.

One of the perks of working for the railway was the allotment of coal you were given for your own use, and it was distributed in the area on the right side of the bridge. The railway workers would come in their (or someone’s) boat — rowed, no motors — and tie up five or six deep parallel to the embankment when they went to collect it. One reason for doing it there may have been because the station where the freight trains were handled was on that side.

This was the building where the organizing of the freight train maneuvering was done.

Freight trains carrying fruit and vegetables would slide onto the special tracks along the waterfront facing Piazzale Roma.

The trains stopped along the edge of the embankment and off-loaded the fruit/veg onto boats (again, not motorboats, but big boats such as caorlinas or battellos that were rowed) that took the produce to the neighborhood vendors. The building served as a warehouse for whatever had not been taken away that day.

The railway bridge connecting the station to the deposito seen from the water.

That’s a serious underbelly. It would have to look like this if it was going to support countless tons of iron machinery 24 hours a day.

Let’s shift our attention to the tracks that carried the freight trains to and from the waterfront at the Marittima area (Santa Marta and San Basilio).

This bridge enabled the freight trains to cross from the yard down to the Marittima.

Here is a look at the bridge indicated on the map just above. We’re heading toward Santa Marta. The top bridge carries the little “People Mover” train that connects Piazzale Roma on the left to the parking area at Tronchetto (and until just a few years ago, to the cruise-ship Venice Passenger Terminal, now empty and useless). The middle bridge is a simple footbridge for the people going from their parked cars to the city. And the third bridge carried the freight trains to San Basilio.

A closer look at the ex-railway bridge, as we proceed toward Santa Marta. The flat roofs are part of the Venice Passenger Terminal complex at Tronchetto.

The same bridge as seen when going toward Piazzale Roma.

A general view of the Santa Marta waterfront, where the tracks used to be. A group of the houses to the left of the University IUAV were built expressly for the families of the train workers. The only catch was that when the worker died, the family had to move out. Logical! And awful!

Flanking the Scomenzera canal, the tracks are just behind that transparent wall.

That zone behind the wall is something of a railway graveyard.

But when the trains were working, the tracks just snaked their way around the church of Santa Marta.

This was Santa Marta when the trains and the port were working at full capacity (c. 1930).

The warehouses and offices at San Basilio are now almost entirely dedicated to non-maritime pursuits.

Lino’s father’s official train-driver’s watch is still running. The plastic case was crucial protection from the coal dust blowing everywhere.

The caption says this scene was at the station, but Lino says it was in the deposito area where the trains were assembled. The process of electrification has begun, as the cables show. I’m not romanticizing anything. Just saying that the trains were a huge part of Venetian life.

Venetian History

towering Venice

September 26, 2023 14 Comments

Venice, as drawn by Friedrich Bernhard Werner in 1730. This engraving is part of a large assortment of similar city-views produced by German printers. For the record, these are two conjoined sheets printed in Augsburg by Johann Friedrich Probst in about 1750. Interesting to see that Werner managed to squash some of the more eastern churches into the background on the right-hand edge of the engraving. Inexplicably missing, though, is the church of Sant’ Elena, or rather, its tower, which had been standing there since 1558. Napoleon deconsecrated the church in 1810 and tore down the tower. The regrettable replacement that we see today was built in 1920.

When you think of Venice, you think of canals. I take that as a given. But unless you are a maniac for old maps, you may not have noticed how many towers punctuate the city.

Many (most?) medieval cities in Europe were spikier than a drove of porcupines, and the Venetian skyline in the 1730 engraving can still be discerned. I was all set to blame Napoleon for any that are missing, but he was focused primarily on despoiling churches, not dismantling towers.

The prime destroyer was lightning. It took Venice a surprisingly long time — i.e., more than one disaster — to address the problem of lightning’s propensity to ignite a disastrous fire, but eventually lightning rods were installed on many belltowers. (Along the same lines, gunpowder was originally stored in the Arsenal, and strange to say it took more than one lightning bolt for the administrators to grasp the importance of storing it on neighboring islands. One such island is called San Angelo delle Polvere — Saint Angelo of the Powder. The wisdom of storing gunpowder outside the city was confirmed on August 29, 1689, when lightning struck the island and all 800 barrels exploded.)

Back to towers. There are a few churches whose bells (or budget) didn’t even merit a tower. Exhibit A: The magnificent basilica of SS. Giovanni e Paolo.

Take whatever time you need to locate the bells. Rockstar church, roadie belltower. This certainly never had a chance to feature on the engraving. (Credit: Didier Descouens, own work, CC BY-SA4.0, Wikipedia).

True, this is not the same perspective as the engraving above. I put this picture here just because I like it. Someone who had come to Venice specifically to draw the skyline, however, might have had second thoughts on seeing this.

On closer inspection, the newcomer would discover that there are plenty of towers, as we see here. It’s just that only a few stick up in any noticeable way. The artist solves that little problem by simply stretching them all skyward, making the city look pricklier than a pincushion.

Venice buffs can amuse themselves by identifying the towers. No fair looking at the engraving.

Indulge me as I conduct roll call. I will follow the sequence of church names printed in Latin below the engraving, but I’ll translate them into the common Italian versions we know. The German names, printed above the towers, will be left for you to decipher for whatever weird crossword you may be working that actually asks for this information.

Bear in mind that the image shows three dimensions, so don’t think the churches are all lined up like the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, meaning no disrespect. To churches or Rockettes.

1. **San Biagio and Cataldo** nuns (on the Giudecca, if it isn’t clear). The Blessed Catholdus of Eichstatt was a 7th century Benedictine monk. All that remains of the church is a very worn plaque in Latin on the wall of the present church of Santa Eufemia. 2. **Santa** **Marta** 3. **San Trovaso** 4. **Santa Maria Maggiore** nuns 5. **San Nicolo’ (dei Mendicanti**, I am supposing by the location) 6. **Sant’ Agnese** 7. **Santa** **Maria della Carita’**. The belltower fell into the Grand Canal on March 27, 1744, crushing two houses and causing such a huge wave that the nearby gondolas were thrown onto the street. The church is now part of the Accademia Gallery. The belltower is nowhere to be seen. 8. **Santo Stefano** 9. **Sant’** **Angelo** 10. **La Salute** (Salus is Latin for “health”). 11. **San Lucius** (a 13th-century shepherd and patron saint of cheese-makers. The church no longer exists). 12. **San Vidal** 13. **San Simeone** (doesn’t indicate “grande,” which is small, or “piccolo,” which is large) 14. **San Sebastiano** 15. **San Samuele** 16. **Santa Maria Benigna** (I am still seeking information about this lovely-sounding church, but I am not feeling optimistic). 17. **San Leonardo**

Four towers to rest your tired eyes. (L to R): Far left: The tiniest tower, just visible above the trees, belongs to the church of San Cristoforo on the cemetery island of San Michele. Center left: Torre di Porta Nuova, at the eastern water entrance to the Arsenale; built in the early 19th century for masting ships, it fell into disuse not long afterward due to changing naval engineering. It is occasionally open to visitors. The interior has been redesigned for various uses as a cultural center, but a visit is well worth it if only for the view from the top. Center right: The white belltower of San Pietro di Castello. Yes, it is leaning slightly, but please remain calm, everything is under control. Far right: The brick tower of the church of Santi Maria e Donato on Murano.

18. **Santa Margherita** 19, **San Beneto** 20. **Carmini** 21. **San Luca** 22. **San Pantalon** 23. **San Nicolo’ dei Tolentini** 24. **Conventual** (Frari). 25. **San Polo** 26. **San Moise’** 27. **San Bonaventura Riformati** (Franciscan Minor friars from S. Francesco del Deserto) 28. **Carmelitani Scalzi** 29. **Sant’ Apollonia** 30. **Sant’ Alvise** nuns 31. **San Silvestro** 32. **San Giacometto** 33. **San Boldo** 34. **Sant’ Aponal** 35. **San Cassian**

36. **San Stae** 37. **San Mattia** 38. **San Salvador** 39. **Torre di San Marco** 40. **San Lio** 41. church of the **Apostoli** 42. church of **San** **Marco** 43. **Santa Catarina** 44. **Padri Gesuiti** (the Jesuit fathers) 45. **San Marino** 46. **Santi Miracoli** 47. **San Canciano** 48. **Santa** **Maria Formosa** 49. **San Lorenzo** 50. **SS. Giovanni e Paolo** 51. “Mandicanti” **San Lazzaro dei Mendicanti** 52. **San Zaccaria** 53. **San Provolo**

This one’s fun because the zoom has tried to confuse things. But intense cross-checking reveals (L to R): The Madonna dell’Orto, the dome of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, the white belltower of San Giorgio dei Greci, San Martino, San Francesco della Vigna.

54. The Capuchin nuns of the church of the **Madonna of the Weeping**. Napoleon closed it in 1810; in 1814 it was divided into two floors. The upper floor was a little theatre and the ground floor was a factory making pots and pans. Not made up. It was reopened as a church in 1851, but after other vicissitudes, such as the departure of the last nun in 1970, it was definitively closed. You can see its melancholy outlines standing behind SS. Giovanni and Paolo 55. **Santa Giustina** 56. **San Giorgio dei Greci** (“Greek church“) 57. **San Severo** 58. **San Francesco della Vigna**, the Minor Observant Franciscan friars 59. **Celestia**. A church and convent dedicated to Santa Maria Assunta in Cielo — St. Mary Taken Up to Heaven, founded in 1119. The usual sequence of events follow, including destruction by a violent fire that began in the nearby Arsenal, rebuilt several times, till 1810, when Napoleon, the Great Suppressor and Closer of Religious Establishments, gave the complex to the navy. Eventually the church was demolished. Many thanks to Herr Werner for leaving us a glimpse of its belltower. 60. **Arsenal** 61. **San Giovanni in Bragora** 61. **Santa Maria delle Vergini**, nuns. Founded in 1224, rebuilt after two fires, the second in 1487. It was given to the Navy in 1806 and used as a prison. Demolished in 1844 and the area dug as a careening basin of the Arsenal. 63. **San Daniele**, nuns. The buildings have been converted to an apartment complex for Navy officers and their families. Lots of greenery (nice) hosting armies of mosquitoes at summer twilights (not so nice). 64. **San Pietro di Castello,** patriarchate (at that time the seat of the patriarch, or bishop, of the diocese of Venice). 65. **San Domenico**. Church and convent gone, demolished by The Little Corporal to make space for the Public Gardens (Giardini). There are some Dominican nuns lodged in a modern building on the earlier land. 66. **San Nicolo’** Demolished to leave space for the Giardini. 67. **Sant’ Anna** As with many convents in Venice, unwilling girls were sent here to remove them from the complications (and cost) of being married off. The 17th-century protofeminist Sister Arcangela Tarabotti minced no words in her famous books *The Patriarchal Tyranny* and *The Monastic Hell*. Fun fact: Two of Tintoretto’s daughters were nuns at Sant’ Anna. 68. **Sant’ Antonio** 69. **San Biagio**

There used to be a notable quantity of gardens on the Giudecca. Many of them are gone, along with the fabulous boats and ships. Speaking of gardens, not indicated here is the much later women’s prison on the Giudecca. The ladies have been cultivating a vegetable garden since 2001, and also produce a line of natural cosmetics using their flowers and herbs.

70. **Le Prigioni** 71. **Palazzo Ducale** 72. **Procuratie Nuove** 73. **La Zecca** (the Mint). The first mint, in the 9th century C.E. was at the Riva di Ferro (Embankment of Iron) near the Rialto Bridge. The name refers to its iron coins. The mint was transferred to San Marco in 1277, to make it easier for the Great Council to oversee its work. This mint continued under the Austrians, and was closed only in 1870, shortly after Venice joined the new Republic of Italy. 74. **La Sanita’** 75. **La Dogana** 76. **Spirito Santo** 77. **Le Convertite** 78. **San Cosmo e** **Damiano** friars 79. **Santa Eufemia** 80. **San Giacomo Serviti** 81. **Redentore Capuchin friars** 82. **La Croce** nuns 83. **Zitelle** more nuns 84. **San Giovanni Battista** 85. **San Giorgio Maggiore** Benedictine monks 86. **Gulf of Venice**. The “Gulf of Venice” more typically referred to the Adriatic sea, but Herr Werner had to save space and opted to use the bacino of San Marco as a symbolic stand-in. It is somewhat justifiable to call the lagoon part of the Adriatic, but seems a little forced.

The more I look around, the more I admire Herr Werner’s ability to list them all, not to mention fit them onto two small pieces of paper.

Of course it’s merely an obelisk, but it certainly looks towerish. The obelisks seen atop important palaces indicate that one of the family’s sons had been elevated to the rank of *capitano generale da mar*. He was the supreme commander of the Venetian fleet in times of war. Chatting aimlessly with a little Venetian boy years ago, I asked if he would like to become a capitano da mar one day and he didn’t hesitate even one second. “No,” he said, quite firmly, as if it didn’t even need thinking about. And why not? He was ready for that one too. “*Troppo faticoso*,” he stated. Too tiring.

Chimneys evidently want to be towers, so I said fine. Upside down? Also fine.

The Molino Stucky, imposing even as it is dissolving.

San Pietro di Castello. Summer dusk and festival lighting are perfectly happy together.

San Marcuola: It’s a bell, it’s up in the air. They threw in a clock, too. Who needs to add a stack of bricks?

San Giorgio dei Greci, with SS. Giovanni e Paolo in the background. Forget the towers — this is the battle of the domes. San Giorgio wins, having placed a dome atop the tower.

The worse the weather, the better the belltower at Torcello appears. This view is looking from Burano during the last Venetian-rowing race of the official season. I realize that Herr Werner didn’t range far afield from Venice, but I think we need to add this.

One of the Arsenal watchtowers, now standing guard over the drying laundry. Also a worthy occupation.

Obviously not a tower. It’s a work of art, created by somebody for the Biennale a few years ago to represent something. Not what you think, but something ethereal and conceptual. Belltowers are beautiful and useful, while this is neither. It does take courage to install something that you present as beautiful or meaningful in Venice, which is already so full of creations that are both, so I suppose this artist gets a few points for that.

It’s easy to remember the central church’s name — San Simeon Piccolo — simply because it is so big. (Irony alert: “Piccolo” means “small.”) The dramatic disproportion between the building’s elements is its main claim to fame. Napoleon, on seeing it for the first time, is reported to have quipped “I’ve seen plenty of churches with a dome, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen a dome with a church.”

Come back, Herr Werner. The towers are waiting for you.

Venetian History, Venetian-ness

I brake for justice

April 23, 2021 4 Comments

Another great lion of San Marco, this time painted by Donato Bragadin, also known as Donato Veneziano, in 1459.

This lion is holding a book, as usual, but the message is not the traditional “Pax tibi Marce Evangelista Meus,” etc. It reads: “Legibus quibus immoderata hominum frenatur cupiditas quenpiam parere cogatis.” “Compel everyone to obey the laws by which one restrains the immoderate greed of men.”

What great ideas! Make everybody obey the laws! And put the brakes on greed! Looking at the lion’s expression, however, one intuits that he knows this is a battle that he’s not only losing, but lost. I’ve made an effort to discover what was significant about the year 1459 to inspire this painting, but haven’t found anything out of the ordinary, which is a disheartening realization: The “ordinary” is exactly the situation that the statement was referring to and it has been valid every year since the Cambrian Explosion. To review: Need for brakes, need for laws that will apply brakes, need to force people to obey the laws. Find me one person (or lion) who would disagree with that.

The Sala dell’Avogaria is fairly small, especially compared to the magnitude of the tasks the three avogadori had to deal with. The room is decorated not only with pithy sayings, but with portraits of the trio of avogadori, decked in Venetian scarlet and ready to mete out justice and pump the brakes. (Pere Garcia, on Wikipedia)

The painting was originally placed in the Sala dell’Avogaria in the Palazzo Ducale. The Avogaria de Comùn was an ancient magistrature composed of three members elected from the Great Council who were responsible for the maintenance of constitutional justice. Hence the paintings in the room were intended to reinforce the principles of good government.

So our rainbow-winged lion above is flanked by two Doctors of the Church: St. Jerome on the left of the image, and St. Augustine on the right. St. Jerome holds a white banner that says “nihili quempiam irati statuatis,” or “Do not sentence anyone for anything when you’re angry.” St. Augustine, complete with bishop’s mitre and crozier, displays this thought: “hominum uero plectentes errata illa non tam magnitudine peccati quam uestra clementia et mansuetudine metiamini,” or “In reality, in punishing the errors of men (you must) measure not so much the size of their sins as of your clemency and goodness.”

There was a marble plaque in the Sala dell’ Avogaria incised with the following reminders: “‘First of all, investigate always with diligence, sentence with justice and charity, and do not condemn anyone without having first held a fair and truthful judgment, do not judge anything on the basis of arbitrary suspicions; instead, first test and only afterward utter a sentence inspired by charity; THAT WHICH YOU WOULDN’T WANT DONE TO YOU, REFUSE TO DO TO OTHERS.’

Essentially the same simple dicta that have been expressed over the centuries and that are often inscribed in courtrooms and City Halls and anywhere else that people and the law are destined to meet.

But the lion says it best: Hit the brakes already.

“*Venezia in veste di Giustizia*” — Venice attired as Justice, a role she often played in decoration as well as life. The sword and the scales held in her hand are fine on their own, but she is often buttressed by lions. To keep order in the court? (by Jacobello del Fiore).

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