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Walking Tours of the Great Italian Cities
Walking Tours of the Great Italian Cities
Walking Tours of the Great Italian Cities
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Walking Tours of the Great Italian Cities

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These walking tours take the reader through Florence, Venice, Rome and Pisa, looking at art and architecture, and showing how each city developed through history. Originally developed as audio tours, they are now available in e-book form, taking readers on a walk through the cities and showing the sights en route.
Readers will find macabre sights - the tomb of a Venetian general's skin, a crypt full of skeleton monks - as well as sublime paintings and sculptures; amusing stories - a mercenary captain bested by Venice's contract lawyers, Bernini's scatological revenge on a pettifogging bureaucrat, and how Michelangelo used mattresses as weaponry - alongside tragic histories. But the focus remains firmly on history and art history, from Byzantine mosaics to Bernini, from Trajan to Tintoretto.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherAM Kirkby
Release dateNov 13, 2014
ISBN9781310762185
Walking Tours of the Great Italian Cities
Author

AM Kirkby

A M Kirkby writes a wide range of fiction, including fantasy, SF and historical novels and short stories.

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    Book preview

    Walking Tours of the Great Italian Cities - AM Kirkby

    Walking tours of the great Italian cities

    A.M. Kirkby

    Published by A.M. Kirkby at Smashwords

    copyright 2014 A.M. Kirkby

    other travel books by A.M. Kirkby:

    Ultreia! The pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela

    Fragments of India (forthcoming)

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    Introduction

    Some travellers want to wine and dine. Some want to see the landscape. Some want to stretch themselves – to go bungee jumping or white water rafting or (as I foolishly did) subject themselves to the multitudinous inclemencies of the Icelandic climate while hiking shaly, rocky paths and fording glacial rivers.

    Others want to immerse themselves in the art and history of Europe's great cities. If you're that kind of traveller, Podtours are for you. We started off making audio tours, but comments from some users have suggested they prefer to have their tour in book form rather than audio. The tours will still take you through the places visited encouraging you to look in detail at the architecture and art; my intention when I wrote them was to give you the same experience as if you were visiting with a very good and learned friend who could point out interesting details personally, rather than listening to a tour guide who's shouting in order to be heard by twenty or thirty people, or reading a regular guide which simply logs the items to be seen (Mona Lisa, three stars: head of Nefertiti, three stars: interesting eighteenth century musical instrument maker's workshop, one star).

    I carried out significant research to make these tours. Every site has been visited extensively; contemporary eyewitness accounts found for some events; scholarly works consulted. But I've tried to produce something very different from a dry-as-dust list of dates and artists' or architects' names. I've tried to get behind what artists were really trying to do – what makes their paintings tick – and rather than just look at the masterpieces, I've sometimes found a painting or sculpture by a lesser master that shows the difference between good technique and sheer genius. I've read several of the art and architecture theorists of the Italian Renaissance, and I talk about their ideas in the tours of Florence so that you can see how, for instance, the Florentine palazzo develops as new ideas of architecture influence the original medieval design.

    For Venice - a city I've loved since I first went there at Christmas, more than thirty years ago, and spent my first night sleeping on the flour sacks at the back of a baker's shop because I'd arrived at four in the morning and everywhere else was closed – I spent two days tramping the less frequented ways of the Cannaregio, to show a different side to the city from the pomp, circumstance and crowds of San Marco. And for Rome, that immense sprawling metropolis which wears its history like the skins of an onion, I separated the city not just by regions, but by date – so there are separate tours of classical, medieval and Baroque Rome, the latter concentrating on the work of Bernini and Borromini, two artists who represent polar opposites – the theatrical and the intellectual poles of Baroque art.

    It was fun researching these tours. I hope you'll enjoy the Italian cities as much as I did.

    Chapter 1. Florence – Piazza della Trinità to the Medici Chapels

    This tour of the western part of the city takes you past Renaissance palaces, into a couple of fine churches, and through medieval back streets. It ends in the Medici mausoleum – one of Michelangelo’s greatest works, though never finished.

    The tour starts in Piazza della Trinità, and the round column in the middle is a good place to begin. From here, you can look around the entire square and get a sense of how it works as a piece of townscape. The column that acts as a focus was set up by Grand Duke Cosimo I – he’d been given the granite column, originally from the baths of Caracalla in Rome, by Pope Pius IV. But on top of the column is not a madonna, as would probably be the case if it were in Rome, but a figure of Justice – a commitment to the rule of law in the Florentine Republic.

    There’s an intriguing story that the figure of Justice was modelled on a servant girl who was executed for stealing a string of pearls. Much later, the pearls were found in a jackdaw’s nest – the girl was innocent after all. Rossini surely knew this legend when he wrote his opera The Thieving Magpie – though in this case he made sure the story had a happy ending.

    Let’s start a more detailed look at the architecture with the church of the Trinità – a 1590s façade by Buontalenti. It’s an elegant Renaissance façade but to be honest not terribly special. What’s intriguing though is that although the shape, with a high central nave raised above the aisles, shows it’s a church, in fact Buontalenti seems to have designed it as a palace frontage with a church bit on top – you could just remove the higher part, and you’d be left with a perfectly good house front – and just look at that huge string course which divides the whole thing in two horizontally. I wonder whether you could really say that while Gothic architecture grows out of the church, and indeed there's good reason for thinking that the theology of Suger's time had a huge influence on the development of French Gothic architecture, it's secular building and secular ideas that dominate the Florentine Renaissance? The case is not proven – but it's something to think about.

    Now if you turn your back to the church and look at the buildings on the other side of the piazza, on the left is the Palazzo Bartolini Salimbeni. This dates from the 1520s, and it’s probably the first High Renaissance building in the centre of Florence. It has mullioned windows, that is, windows with stone bars dividing the lights, which are unusual in Florence. And it’s definitely influenced by Roman architecture of the time.

    It's architecture that works by contrast. There are Roman-style contrasts between concave niches and projecting triangular pediments – these too are rare in Florence – and between round niches on the first floor and square headed ones on the second. But the massive string courses that divide the floors horizontally, and the projecting cornice, are typically Florentine.

    The Roman style wasn’t particularly popular in Florence. You’ll see why when we come to the Palazzo Ruccellai – which most Florentines probably still considered the archetype of the Florentine palace. In an act perhaps of pique, perhaps of self-defence, the architect, Baccio d’Agnolo wrote over the main door carpere promptius est quam imitari – roughly, it’s easy to criticise me but I bet you can't do better! The door on Via Porta Rossa, on the other hand, is inscribed with the Salimbeni family’s motto, per non dormire – we never sleep. There’s another nice legend here to go with the thieving magpie – a clever member of the Salimbeni family, knowing a ship was coming into harbour, gave a splendid banquet for his competitors. The next morning he was down at the ship first thing, and acquired the cargo at a bargain price – while his rivals were still sleeping off their hangovers.

    It’s a great story and I really don’t care whether it’s true. It probably isn't. Does it matter?

    The next palace, in the centre, is the Palazzo Buondelmonte, and this is a stereotype Renaissance Florentine palazzo of just the kind the Palazzo Bartolini Salimbeni isn't. The Buondelmonte were one of the oldest families in Florence, and were behind the split between the Guelf and Ghibelline factions that divided the city in the middle ages. Buondelmonte del Buondelmonte was engaged to a girl of the Amidei family, but broke off the engagement and instead married Fina Donati, from a rival house. The Amidei, humiliated, bided their time. In 1215, as he rode over the Ponte Vecchio on his way back into Florence, Buondelmonte was stabbed to death by the Amidei. The Buondelmonte became the Guelf faction – and the Amidei, together with the influential Uberti family, became the Ghibellines, starting nearly two centuries of what was in effect a smouldering civil war.

    The next palace, towards the bridge, is the Palazzo Spini-Feroni, now the headquarters of the Salvatore Ferragamo fashion house. It was begun about 1290 by Geri degli Spini and it’s one of the best examples of a late medieval palace in Florence – still very much a fortress, with crenellations and a solid, defensive aspect. Note the way it bends to adjust to the line of the road. Only the large windows on the ground floor spoil the early medieval building – they were added in later times, when the need for defence against feuding factions and other families wasn’t so pressing.

    But it’s not in any way architecturally naïve. The windows are regularly spaced, the floors are already divided by strong string courses – that later becomes commonplace in Renaissance Florentine palaces – and the stonework is really quite fine. This is where Renaissance Florentine architecture started from, and you can see the story isn't quite as simple as it’s often told. The middle ages didn’t just stop and the Renaissance start – and the middle ages weren't the completely uncivilised times that the Renaissance historians claimed. Instead, there’s a strong continuity between work like this, still purely Gothic, and the early Renaissance.

    Now we’re going to take the Via del Parione, opposite the Palazzo Salimbeni, but not for long – the entrance to Santa Trinità is just on the left.

    Note the tomb niches in the entrance as you go in. These are a typical Florentine form of monument. The city was divided between the great families, often feuding with each other, and the form of the tombs reflects that particular state of affairs. Each one of these niches belonged to one family, and has their coat of arms on it, typically combined with a religious motif like the Lamb of God or the Name of Jesus in the middle.

    Santa Trinità is a church of the Vallombrosan monastic order, founded by a Florentine, St John Gualberto. One of his family had been murdered, and it was his job to carry out the revenge – Florentine family politics and vendettas again; but when he finally found the murderer, he forgave him for the love of Christ. When he went into the church of San Miniato on his way home, the figure of Christ on the crucifix bowed its head to him in recognition of this very Christian act. Eventually he founded a monastery at Vallombrosa, in the mountains about twenty miles south-east of Florence.

    This church was built in the eleventh century and rebuilt in the thirteenth. It’s an austere interior, recalling the asceticism of the Vallombrosan monks. If you look at the west wall, you’ll see that though the outside is Renaissance in style, the remains of the Romanesque façade have been left embedded in the wall, with its arcade and a rose window. This is one of the many ghosts of the past that are left here – you’ll see, later on, another one, a fresco that shows the church as it was before Buontalenti built the new façade.

    Now go to the left transept and here’s rather a strange, very powerful wooden sculpture. Desiderio da Settignano carved this in 1455 and if you’re used to visions of Mary Magdalen as a luscious sinner with her jar of ointment, this is a very different view. We see her with a coat of animal hair, a gaunt face, emaciated, as a penitent hermit in the desert, an ascetic saint - though she still has her jar of ointment, so that she is easily recognisable. This statue may well have been inspired by Donatello’s Magdalen, now in the cathedral museum. Like the Donatello, it’s a powerful piece, depending on a certain ugliness to make its point.

    The east end of the church, typically for Florence, is squared off, with a series of rectangular chapels divided by party walls. This, like the tomb niches outside, served its purpose in a city of noble families, as each chapel could be effectively sold off to a different noble family as their burial chapel.

    In the chapel furthest on the left, you’ll find the tomb of Benozzo Federighi, who died in 1450. It’s the work of Luca della Robbia, the first of a dynasty of pottery artists including his nephew Andrea and grand-nephew Giovanni. Now there are many fine tombs in Florence, but if it was me, I’d like to be buried in something like this. The marble effigy is rather austere, but the terracotta fruit and flower garlands create the feeling of a springtime or early summer garden. It’s as if the outdoors has come into the church.

    There’s a tendency in art history to dismiss the della Robbia family because they stopped competing with Ghiberti and Donatello in the ‘art’ forms of the marble and bronze sculpture, and concentrated on terracotta - but though some of their designs seem a little formulaic, when you see the joy, the colour, the elegance of work like this, you realise they brought something rather special to the florentine Renaissance. To me, the della Robbias represent that grace and sweetness and gentle joy you also find in Botticelli's paintings.

    Now Santa Trinità contains one last absolute treasure and that’s the Sassetti chapel, the chapel on the right of the choir. Francesco Sassetti, who was a strong supporter of the Medici and chairman for a time of the Medici Bank, commissioned this chapel from Domenico Ghirlandaio in 1482. This is probably the best example of a fifteenth century chapel in the whole of Florence – it has all its original fittings, including the tombs and the altarpiece, as well as the frescoes.

    The sarcophagi at the sides are in fine dark stone, probably carved by Giuliano da Sangallo; Sassetti’s shows a classical funeral, with the corpse laid out on a high bed, and mourners weeping; a little skull sits under the bed, quite unregarded. Ghirlandaio has added grisaille paintings of Roman chariots, knights, and an orator in the spandrels of the tombs as if they’re carved in marble. It’s an obvious attempt to conjure up the spirit of ancient Rome.

    Ghirlandaio’s frescoes show the life of St Francis – of course, Francis was Francesco Sassetti’s name-saint. Above the altar, we see Pope Honorius III handing St Francis the scroll that authorises the order. But as Ghirlandaio often does, he puts the official subject of the scene in the background, emphasising instead the life of his own day in groups of bystanders and peripheral actions. In front, a group of figures include Francesco Sassetti himself, as well as Lorenzo il Magnifico de’Medici – Lorenzo is the younger man, with sallow skin and a squashed nose, and Sassetti is the figure between Lorenzo and the young boy – Sassetti’s son Teodoro. Angelo Poliziano, a famous humanist scholar who taught the younger Medici, leads the boys up the stairs - the last one of the boys, the blond Giovanni, de' Medici, is better known by his papal name, Leo X.

    The painting below this one shows a miracle of St Francis. We see an apparition of St Francis in the air restoring to life a child of the Sassetti family - they even have their own miracle. That’s class!

    In fact there’s a poignant family story here. Francesco Sassetti and Nera Corsi’s first born son, Teodoro, died in 1478 – coincidentally, the year of the Pazzi plot (which I'll tell you about a little later). Just a few months after the boy's death, Nera gave birth to a second son. This fresco showing the resurrection of a young boy, then, can be seen as a private celebration of the not-quite-miraculous birth. And it also celebrates the Sassetti and their friends by showing portraits of them – as well as a self-portrait of the artist. He’s the man on the extreme right, staring out of the picture at us.

    It’s not just portraits of people that Ghirlandaio gives us here, but a portrait of his city. Let’s take another look at the architecture shown in these two paintings. The scene of St Francis receiving the charter actually takes place in Piazza dei Signori – you can see the Palazzo Vecchio on the left, cut off by the arch of the vault, and the Loggia dei Lanzi directly ahead. He’s even put the gilded Marzocco lion, the symbol of the city, in front of the Palazzo Vecchio – a splotch of bright gold. Take a photo of the fresco and take it with you when you visit the Piazza dei Signori, and you'll be able to compare the two.

    And below, with the scene of the resurrection of the little boy, we’re even closer to home. The picture is set in the piazza outside this church, looking towards the bridge over the Arno. In the middle distance, you can see the Romanesque front of the church, as it was before Buontalenti added the new façade – with fine arcades and a high rose window. On the left, you can see the Spini palace. Half way along, a little figure falls out of one of the square windows, and you can see a small black figure below running to try to catch him – a moment of immense drama and as so often, Ghirlandaio puts it in a parenthesis, in the background, rather than making it the main subject.

    Now turning to look at the left hand wall, Ghirlandaio shows at the top, St Francis renouncing worldly possessions, and underneath, St Francis receiving the stigmata. Again I rather feel Ghirlandaio wasn’t as interested in the actual subject of the painting as he was in the opportunity to create some marvellous landscape painting.

    In the top scene Francis, stripped almost naked, is shown in the foreground, and a churchman takes him into protection under his cloak. On the left, Francis’ father, wearing a fine red hat, yellow tunic and light blue mantle, is held back by one of his companions, who whispers urgently in his ear. He’s holding the clothes Francis has rejected.

    The real focus of Ghirlandaio’s art though is the fine twilight landscape behind. We see a river, and the walls of a city, and hills behind. There are tiny figures in the distance, almost stick people, full of movement. It’s been suggested that this might be Genoa, where Sassetti had run the bank – I wonder whether Ghirlandaio is providing his patron with a geographical summary of his career? If so, this is a nice, coded, though not secret message, worthy of the da Vinci code!

    By the way, am I the only person to find it odd that a rich banker like Sassetti chose the theme of poverty for one of the paintings in his memorial chapel?

    The lower scene on this wall shows St Francis receiving the stigmata. There are birds in the sky, and there’s a pair of deer on the right; perhaps we should remember St Francis’ preaching to the birds, and the way he addressed creatures as his sisters and his brothers. The way that both the angels and the birds occupy the upper portions of the painting also perhaps shows how Francis’ spirituality didn’t divide joy in the natural world from love of God, and you can imagine how that idea appealed to Ghirlandaio with his love of well-observed detail.

    The landscape looks imaginary with its vertical cliffs and distant towers – but it isn't. At the top of the rocky crag is the monastery of La Verna that St Francis founded, albeit made rather more dramatic by a little artistic licence. And in the background, immediately behind the deer, is a view of Pisa – it’s idealised, but you can recognise the dome of the baptistery and the leaning tower, only it isn't leaning.

    If you know the Giotto painting in Santa Croce of the same subject, this isn't nearly as focused. Giotto shows St Francis as a Christ-like figure, transfused by spiritual ecstasy – Ghirlandaio doesn’t show us that, but he shows us a fresh world, a world of innocent nature and clear air, a world seen through innocent eyes. And that, too, is the world of St Francis, though in a rather different way.

    Now we’ll turn our attention to the right hand wall of the chapel and here are another two scenes, both conventional scenes in the life of St Francis. At the top we see him passing through the fire as he tries to convince the Ottoman Sultan to embrace Christianity. And at the bottom we see the death of St Francis. This is another picture that can be compared with one of the Giottos in Santa Croce and here, I rather feel, Ghirlandaio does fall short of the earlier master. The Giotto, while a poised and harmonious painting, shows real extremes of emotion in the monks’ faces and gestures, but here I feel that Ghirlandaio’s painted a bunch of schoolboys and teachers at the school Harvest Festival – one of the monks carrying a candlestick turns to swap a bit of gossip, the one on the right looks bored, the older monk behind them is putting on a pious expression to set a good example, and the avuncular bishop squints at his prayer book through a pair of spectacles. (Yes, that is interesting, at this date. Fourteen-eighty-something and he’s wearing specs.) None of these bystanders are paying much attention to St Francis at all. Where Giotto's painting is an act of worship, Ghirlandaio's is a piece of gossip.

    In fact the central figure here isn't one of the grieving Franciscans, but the layman dressed in red and blue who puts his hand out to feel the wound in St Francis’ side almost as if he’s taking a pulse. And this St Francis is a grey, grey, stiffening corpse – not Giotto’s enigmatic smiling saint. Now I may be taking this a little bit too far, but for me, this figure is the spirit of scientific inquiry, a physician perhaps or even a painter, and there’s no doubt that Ghirlandaio is much more in sympathy with him than with any of the religious personages in this picture.

    Above, in the vault, I’d expected to see the four Evangelists, who often appear in this role to fit the four sections of a ribbed vault. But instead, we get the Sibyls – ancient prophetesses who foresaw the birth of Christ. Again, as with the sarcophagi, Ghirlandaio sets out to use classical reference, to bring ancient Greek and Roman culture into the church.

    Now in many chapels in Florence, we’ve only got the frescoes left to look at. But here, all of the original furnishings have been preserved, and that includes the altarpiece that Ghirlandaio painted for the chapel. And if you thought the frescoes were good, this is marvellous.

    Ghirlandaio shows the birth of Christ, but as always that’s just a pretext for him to create a world and a background of extraordinary depth and detail. It’s a classical world too, in which Jesus is born not in any old stable, but in the ruins of a Roman building, and lies in front of a classical sarcophagus rather than a manger.

    Joseph, the white haired man with the beard just behind the Virgin Mary, is giving us a cue to look further into the painting. Follow his eyes, and you can see that he is looking at the shepherd and angels on the hill. A procession is winding down the road below them – under a Roman triumphal arch, whose columns seem to echo the two columns of the ruin on the right.

    The diagonal road takes us even further back into the painting, and if you look at the far hills you’ll see at least three hill towns, and the road continuing in a series of curves into the far distance. And on the left hand side of the painting you can see how the road swings round and curves down below the ruin – the two riders on their horses are turning their heads to look at what’s going on in the foreground, but they’re not coming here, they’re going on somewhere else. There’s a marvellous sense in this picture that the birth of Christ is not the be-all and end-all, that this is a world in which other individuals live equally valid lives, with their own intentions and histories. I’d love to know where these two are going and what they’re thinking.

    And the foreground too is full of detail. The Holy Family has just arrived and unpacked, so there’s a saddle laid on the ground on the left hand side of the picture, and a water flask beside it – typical travel equipment of the time. This is a very realistic picture - full of detail, almost obsessively so. But there are symbolic values too – the goldfinch right at the front of the painting is a symbol of the passion of Christ, for instance, because it feeds among the thorns.

    Ghirlandaio even puts himself in the painting – as the second shepherd from the right. He looks up at the shepherd next to him, and points with one hand to himself, and with the other hand to the Christ child. Yet again he uses the direction of his glance – looking out of the painting, in the opposite direction to everyone else – to suggest his status as the painter – in the painting but not part of it.

    Now this is very nice but where are the donors? They’d normally be shown in a picture like this, and Ghirlandaio has of course already shown Sassetti in one of the st Francis pictures.

    Well, look down, either side of the altar. Here they are - Francesco Sassetti on the right and his wife Nera Corsi on the left – and they actually are looking at the altarpiece, that is, looking at the Christ child, present in a symbolic way at the birth of Christ. So the fresco and the oil painting interlock, and create a special meaning. Of course when the altarpiece has been carted off to an art gallery or a museum you lose this connection – that’s why it’s so marvellous that the whole of this chapel is preserved, just as it was on the day it was finished.

    I wonder about Sassetti. His career nosedived after problems were found in the London and Lyons branches of the Medici bank, and he became more of a scholar and less of a businessman – perhaps trying to find in his patronage of the arts the respect he used to have as the chairman of the bank. But he seems a mellow character here with his weary, gently humorous face. And note how both he and his wife seem to be painted in subdued colours and quite simple clothes, compared to the richness on display all around them. He’s even given up the traditional place of honour, to the left of the altarpiece, to his wife.

    So maybe his celebration of the values of poverty and humility was sincere, after all.

    Now we’ll leave the church, and turn left down Via del Parione, right at the next proper crossroads (not the little byway under an arch) and straightway left again into Via del Purgatorio – purgatory street.

    There’s a Piazza del Limbo in Florence too; I wonder whether Limbo place and Purgatory street are related?

    Palazzo Rucellai stands at the end of the street. Famously, this is where the classical orders were used properly for the first time in Florence. It was designed by Leon Battista Alberti, for Giovanni Rucellai, head of a family that had made its fortune out of purple dye, and built in the 1440s by Bernardo Rossellino. (Think a bit about that dating. King's College, Cambridge, was founded in 1441, and the famous chapel was started about the same time as this palace, and finished much later. While Florence was enjoying the first flush of the Renaissance, England was still deeply immersed in the Gothic. It was a good hundred years till the Renaissance spread from Italy to the north of the Alps.)

    The whole surface area is rusticated, creating a texture that's full of character, robust and masculine, and allowing the smooth, flat pilasters that divide each bay to stand out. Strong friezes separate each floor, showing clearly the internal structure of the building. Every bay, every floor, is divided from the rest of the building in some way – the wall stops being just a flat surface, as it is in many of the medieval palaces, and becomes instead the sum of units added together, a complex articulated space. The pilasters divide the façade into a set of panels. It’s remarkably symmetrical; you have the feeling that it's been made by a geometer or a mathematician as part of an arithmetical operation, as much as designed by an architect.

    The capitals of the pilasters become more ornate towards the top of the building. The ground floor has plain Doric capitals, which look almost as if they’re just more blocks of the rustication, then the first floor has Ionic, with little curls, and on the top storey we have florid Corinthian capitals. This is what I meant by the proper use of the classical orders – all three of the basic orders of architecture, used in their proper sequence to create a feeling of greater lightness as they rise towards the top of the building.

    All the decoration conforms to a rigid logic – but it’s opulent in its way. And the contrast between the rustication and the flat pilasters, as well as the strong rhythm of the round headed arches over the windows, make it interesting, and stop it being flat. The little circles in the lunettes above the windows, too, provide a piquant accent that livens it all up.

    It’s a masterpiece of sobriety and logic – of mathematical exactness, of human reason. Perhaps the early Renaissance is a little severe. But then it’s never boring, either. It balances the need for rationality in architecture with the need for beauty.

    Alberti was a writer and theorist, not just a designer. He had other accomplishments too – it's said he could jump over another man’s head, and could ride any horse, however wild – but his legacy to Florentine art was as the writer of books on archiecture, and of course as an architect. He saw architecture as a social art – creating buildings that you could live a good and useful life in, buildings that helped society as a whole – and I can't help thinking that in some ways he must have thought like Le Corbusier – the palazzo was a machine for living fifteenth century Florentine life. It’s admirably suited for its purpose. The ground floor has small windows, it’s heavy, it protects the privacy of the Rucellai family – and potentially protects the Rucellai and their supporters against marauding mobs, and the business against theft. Above, though, there is light and space provided by the large windows. And below, in a nice touch, there are benches you can sit on, again making the palace useful in a social function.

    This palace, elegant and sophisticated, marks a break with the medieval past, the palace-as-a-fortress. And it became the prototype, indeed the stereotype, of the Florentine Renaissance palace. Look at the Palazzo Strozzi, the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi, the Palazzo Antinori – they’re all descendants of this one, ground-breaking building.

    Opposite the palace is the Rucellai loggia, with the Rucellai coat of arms – a ship’s sails flying in the wind, which comes out as a zigzag, and symbolises fortune.

    Now take the street on left hand side of the palace and you’ll see that beauty is only skin deep – the façade only wraps around for about three feet. Take a right fork into Piazza San Pancrazio. This was the Rucellai family’s parish church, and has a triumphal arch façade – but this isn't due to Alberti, it was remodelled in the eighteenth century in strict neoclassical taste. Then in the nineteenth century the church became a tobacco factory, and now it’s been made into a museum devoted to the 20th century sculptor Marino Marini. Rather a patchy record!

    However, if you go round the corner of the church to the left side you’ll find a piece of Alberti’s best work. And also a highly unusual piece of work. You should find a little door in the church wall which will let you into the Cappella Rucellai.

    Giovanni Rucellai commissioned Alberti to restore this chapel in 1467, and asked him also to build the magnificent and rather unusual feature inside - an idealised model of the Holy Sepulchre itself. Rucellai ordered precise measurements to be taken of the original – the Florentine merchants traded everywhere, including in the Middle East – and these measurements were used by Alberti to create the fine work you’re about to see. (At least, as long as the chapel is open, which it isn't always. It seems to be a bit hit and miss.)

    The chapel itself is a fine piece of work, with barrel vaults and pilasters dividing up the wall space. But it’s very plain. Its only job is to contain the little tomb, and it’s the tomb that is without doubt the masterpiece. It’s a little jewel-like building, every inch faced with marble, the sides divided by small pilasters, and with marble inlays and intricate rosettes ornamenting the walls and an inscription around the cornice. Alberti finishes it off with a little battlement of fleurs-de-lis.

    And this is a perfect doll’s house; just too small to be a real building. You have to kneel down to look through the low door into the tomb chamber; perhaps that is deliberate. It feels as if there is a secret and only you are here to see it.

    Of course this is an empty tomb – the tomb of the resurrected Christ. But the chapel is not empty – for Giovanni Rucellai himself is buried here.

    Now turn right on Via della Spada, and ahead you’ll see the corner of another rusticated palace. This is the Palazzo Strozzi, and it’s nearly fifty years later than the Palazzo Rucellai.

    In the meantime you can see that Florentine families had become much more ambitious. The Strozzi palace has kept the three-storey elevation of the Palazzo Rucellai, but it’s a real skyscraper – each floor has been blown up to heroic scale. While Alberti’s work is the epitome of the early Renaissance, this palace is a High Renaissance work par excellence, with its splendid monumentality and ambition.

    Perhaps it’s too monumental. Filippo Strozzi commissioned Benedetto da Maiano to build it in 1489, but within 50 years, all the Strozzi had been exiled from Florence. The Strozzi's ambition was too obvious, and that's one of the factors that led to their downfall. In fact the cornice on one side is still not finished, so the Strozzi hadn’t even completed the palace before they had to leave. They were back thirty years later but never held political power again.

    The Medici were more canny. When Giovanni de’Bici de’Medici told his son Cosimo not to build anything too flashy, he was accurately reading the temper of politics in the Florentine Republic.

    The Medici survived, the Strozzi didn’t.

    The palace is consciously traditional, with its three storey elevation and fortress like exterior, and the rustication of the façade throughout. The huge overhanging cornice is traditional, too, though this one is exceptional in both size and sophistication; and heavy string courses divide the floors, another standard feature. Even the fenestration reflects the Palazzo Rucellai, with small square windows on the bottom floor, and two-light, round-arched windows on the floors above.

    The only untraditional element is its massive size. Fifteen older buildings were demolished to make way for it; Filippo Strozzi must have been buying up parcels of land for years before he could build here. And the palace dominates the piazza in front of it – a new, authoritarian claim to pride of place that other palaces had not made before.

    The Palazzo Strozzi is rigorously symmetrical – even the inside plan, down to the placement of the staircases and doors, all on a central axis. Each façade has a central door into the courtyard; and if you go into the courtyard you can see how even though it remains rigorously, mathematically planned, an effort has been made to enable gracious living – there’s a Corinthian loggia, a first floor of huge windows, and finally an open loggia at the top.

    The feature I like best though is the wrought iron dragon on the corner of the palace, who would have held a blazing torch in his mouth at night, and the fine lantern with the Strozzi three crescent moons displayed between the spikes that crown it. This is one of the lanterns executed by the blacksmith Niccolo Grosso, who was known as ‘Il Caparra’ - which roughly translates as ‘Mr Payment in Advance’. Perhaps he was canny enough to have guessed that the Strozzi wouldn't be around long enough to pay their bills!

    Carry on now along Via Tornabuoni, and on the left, just past the church, is the Palazzo Antinori, about twenty years early than the Palazzo Strozzi.

    Giuliano da Maiano built it for the Boni family – it passed to the Antinori, silk merchants and bankers, later on – and seems to have modelled it at least partly on the Palazzo Rucellai. There’s definitely a family resemblance. But everything here is shallower – the rustication, the windows– and frankly, it’s not as good as the earlier building.

    At the Palazzo Antinori turn left, and you will soon come out at a small piazza with a column.

    This is the Croce del Trebbio, a fourteenth century work with the four evangelical beasts on the capital and a cross at the top. It’s nothing special I suppose, but it’s one of those little things like the shrines on house corners and the lanterns and horse-tying rings on the palaces that gives the city its flavour.

    Now take the road to the left of the cross, which leads us into Piazza Santa Maria Novella.

    To the left is the Loggia San Paola, with terracottas by the della Robbia. A relief over the door commemorates a meeting of St Francis and St Dominic which took place here. To the right is the church of Santa Maria Novella, which retains its Romanesque campanile, thin and high, a square counterpart to the slender hexagonal tower of the Badia Fiorentina.

    In the middle of the piazza are obelisks, with lilies on the top – the symbol of Florence. Today, the piazza is rather scruffy, but it was a fashionable square in Medici days, and horse races were run here, using the obelisks as the turning points for the race course. If you go closer to the obelisks you’ll see they’re supported by rather cute little tortoises. The artist Giambologna created these – as well as the lilies – and I find them extremely appealing.

    Now let’s take a closer look at the façade of the church. It seems all one piece, but in fact the lower half was built in about 1360, and Alberti finished the top half in 1470.

    If you've been wandering round Florence for a while you may wonder why Alberti seems only to have built in this part of the city. You’re not quite right – he was involved in a couple of other projects – but his work is very much concentrated around this area, and that’s because his main patrons were the Rucellai. This was their parish church and if you look closely at the frieze that runs across the front of the church, you’ll see what might just be leaves but are actually the ship’s sail emblem of the Rucellai. If you can't take the hint, the inscription across the front of the church also tells you – Iohannes Oricellarius Pauli Filius, Latin for Giovanni Rucellai son of Paolo – and gives the date, 1470.

    Alberti inherited the tomb niche arches at the bottom of the façade and the two side doors. You’ll recognise the tomb niches – they’re the same model as we saw in the entrance to Santa Trinità. You’ll see later that there are more along the right side of the cloister. And you’ll see they’re in that classic contrasting pattern of green and white marble that is so common in Florence. That goes all the way back to the Romanesque period, and it's a feature of Tuscan cities from Pistoia and Pisa down to Orvieto, and of Tuscan architecture from the Romanesque – seen in Florence at San Miniato del Monte – all the way through the Gothic to the Renaissance.

    So Alberti immediately picks up this green-and-white theme, and uses marble panels like those we saw on the tempietto in the Cappella Rucellai to create a sense of rhythmic, geometric unity. He accommodates the Gothic vertical thrust of the lower arches in a new series of round arched inlays, making a transition between the style of the earlier work, through these arches, to the more purely Renaissance style of his top storey. He then puts a strong horizontal element – the frieze with the Rucellai sails and the square panels above - right across the façade, enabling him to change the rhythm in the top portion. And look, he mirrors those horizontally striped green and white pillars that guard the corners of the church in the pillars at the side of the central element in the top storey, again binding together the two periods of building work and fusing them into a single whole.

    Having started from the Gothic arches below, by the time he gets to the top he has gone wholly classical with a pediment that wouldn't be out of place on the front of a Roman temple. But he’s not a slavish copier of ancient Roman architecture – he rethinks the typical Gothic sloping roof of the aisles, and comes up with a completely new device, an S-curved volute construction built around an inlay circle, which mirrors the rose window in the centre and the image of the sun in a circle in the top gable. And he makes the whole façade mathematically pleasing by creating geometrical relationships between the parts. The height to the top of the pediment is equal to the width, for instance.

    An intriguing addition to the façade are the two astronomical instruments put up by Fra Ignazio Dante, Cosimo I’s astronomer, in 1572. The one on the left is an armillary sphere, which can be used to solve some astronomical problems; the one on the right is a gnomon, basically enabling you to use it as a sundial.

    Go into Santa Maria Novella and start by going to the west end to take a look at the architecture of the church.

    Until recently most people followed the Renaissance art historian Vasari, who said Santa Maria Novella was designed by Arnolfo di Cambio. In fact, it was probably designed by the Dominican friars Sisto Fiorentini and Ristoro da Campi, in the 1240s, and was completed by 1360.

    It’s a huge open space, very much a preaching church for the Dominicans who were a preaching order. It’s not unlike the Franciscan church, Santa Croce – both orders were founded to preach, not to live apart from the world like monks, but to get involved in it. In some cases perhaps too involved, like the Dominican preacher Savonarola who effectively took over the government of the city – but

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