Building the Picture: Architecture in Italian Renaissance Painting

National Gallery, London – admission free

30th April – 21st September

Being about the Renaissance this exhibition interested me from the start, but the super-niche subject made me curious as to its content. The function of architecture in painting is usually to provide a platform on which to depict a scene and figures, and therefore playing a secondary role. But for a Renaissance artist the background was always ‘designed’ with a consciousness of aesthetic and semantics. Known to Renaissance painters as disegno (describing both the drawing and design elements), an artist could go from being a master of his crafts to an artistic genius. It was this disegno with which they could show their talent, their virtuoso and their idea; a Renaissance term for creative intellect, rational and inspiration. This infused into all elements of a painting, the background included. It was a process of pictorial selection for a composition, and what painters of this era realised was that it could be a tool to focus the attention of a viewer and magnify the meaning of an image. It could open a visual dialogue, like a stage for a play or a set of a film. And so a backdrop could be so much more than a necessity for reading a painting, it could engage and excite.

The exhibition starts with preparatory drawings. It is obvious that in order to create convincing perspective that an artist used intersecting lines and grids in order to plot figures and objects on a canvas. Artists in fifteenth century Italy were developing upon Greek mathematical theories around pictorial perspective, specifically in Florence where Filippo Brunelleschi (1377-1446) wrote extensively about linear perspective (Alberti’s Della Pittura appers a few years after). Of course Brunelleshi did this to create accurate architectural drawings, but the system as soon adopted by all artists to create realistic space onto a two dimensional surface, and of course was applied to all Western art thereafter. Brunelleshi’s influence can be seen in Georgio Vasari’s (1511-1574), The Procession of Pope Leo X, through the Piazza della Signoria, Florence, in about 1515 (c.1558). One of the few secular images in the exhibition, it is a chalk and ink wash study which was to be enlarged for cycle of history paintings for the Sala di Leone X in the Palazzo Vecchio. The use of a grid allowed artists to enlarge studies like this easily. This drawing and the subsequent painting was envisioned 43 years after the event took place, but the scene undeniably Florentine. The architecture itself is identifiable through its mighty civic buildings including the façade of the Palazzo Vecchio to the Oltrarno district beyond. Vasari even includes two sculptures that were not built until after the event, Michelangelo’s David (erected around 1504) and Cellini’s Perseus (1545). They are both symbolic of Florence’s power, and one can only assume that they are included purely to further emphasise the power of Florence and the benefaction of the Medici. The triumphal arches, the ceremonial pomp of the Pope and his retinue, celebrate the city and signify its importance in the making of history. It is not a coincidence that Vasari went on to become the civic architect for the city, being responsible for the building which is now Uffizi.

Georgio Vasari, The Procession of Pope Leo X, through the Piazza della Signoria, Florence, in about 1515 (c.1558) Pen and brown wash over black chalk, Christ Church Picture Gallery, Oxford.

Duccio (c.1255-1260-c.1318-1319)’s Annunciation of 1307/8-1311 is an image which makes me feel transported. It is so medieval, everything from the colours, the restrained space, and the long faces. I love the combination of those typical Duccio colours; dusty pink and vivid blue offset by gold. This small panel was originally the first of the predellas for the ‘Maestà’ altarpiece from Siena’s Cathedral. It is the opening scene to the Biblical narrative. And this image portrays the development from the Medieval to Renaissance. The architecture here is minimal. The earthly setting for this holy scene is spatially imperfect, the figures don’t quite inhabit the space fully. The architecture tells us very little about the story, but does give the scene a set and a frame. I think it also adds to the emotion. Mary recoils from the angel Gabriel, as he steps into her space. She has been disturbed and is shocked, which is comprehensible through her pose and expression. The Romanesque and Gothic arches create a box around the scene, containing its privacy. The loggia-like structure looks domestic, or perhaps it is a convent. The door at the porch behind Mary, to which her finger points, is ajar. Is she planning to flee? The movement of both figures further emphasises the concreteness of the architecture. With all this happening in the foreground, why has Duccio made the landscape behind gold? Perhaps to highlight the divinity of the event, and the celestial presence on Earth. Perhaps because any other detail would be unnecessary.

Duccio Di Buoninsegna, Annunciation (Predella panel from Maestá) (1307/8-11), egg tempera on wood, National Gallery, London.

An Annunciation almost the opposite of Duccio’s interpretation is by Carlo Crivelli (c.1435-c.1495), commissioned in 1486 for the church Santissima Annunziata in Ascoli. Civic significance would enforce a personal connection with local churchgoers to Santissima Annunziata (named after the ‘most holy Annunciation’), and a feeling that miracles happen among the everyday. This is a concept seen continually through religious art of the Renaissance. The composition is complex labyrinth, which I find to be a distraction from the scene at hand. Saint Emidius, the city’s patron saint, holds a model of the city and kneels beside the Angel Gabriel. The Virgin Mary, when you eventually spot her, is at prayer when a shaft of golden light from cloudy whirlpool strikes her head. This divine occurrence happens without much disruption in this urban setting. Mary herself hardly seems to acknowledge what has happened. As the viewer we have a front row view of the scene unfolding, we are at street level. The words Libertas Ecclesiastica, ‘freedom of the church’ in Latin, are carved into a plinth at the base of the painting. Resting precariously on the frame is an apple and some sort of marrow. The chromatic pallet is rich, yellowy gold, royal reds, colours which show Crivelli’s love of Northern Renaissance painting but also add to the feeling of opulence. We have a privileged view into a doorway of a house. Virgin Mary herself is seen as a ‘porta coeli’, a doorway to heaven. The street recedes into the background, which is dotted with citizens going about their daily business. The architecture is typical of its time, from the carved pilasters to the right, the open arcade above Mary’s room, the triumphal arch leading to the crenelated wall at the very back of the painting. The backdrop gives a sense of wealth, civilization and security.

Carlo Crivelli, Annunciation (1486), oil on wood transferred to canvas, National Gallery London.

Environmental setting can put the onlooker in their place, either including and inviting into the scene or restricting and denying access. And viewer’s eye can be guided around an image, where information can be gleaned, to tell a story. With Antonello da Messina (c.1430-1479)’s St Jerome in his Study (c.1474-75) we are on the threshold of the saint’s house. But are we allowed to enter? To me it feels like we are not included, we are peering through an opening. We can inspect and snoop around the interior. The perspective is quite weird. We are level with Jerome, looking through an elevation of the building. His study is modest, and little personal details bring the otherwise minimal image to life; his slippers by the foot of the stairs, his hat on a bench behind him, a shawl hanging on the wall, his cat sitting beside his desk. The view through the windows behind hint at a time and place, the trefoil lancet windows set in the vaulted ceiling and the arcade to the far right are church-like. It is a bright clear day, we see rolling hills spotted with trees. The scenery is peaceful. Overall the image is particularly sparse, as the viewer we scour the canvas in order to read it. Symbols tell us what is going on, and would have been clear to onlookers throughout history. St Jerome is reading and is surrounded by books, which represent knowledge. The lion is St Jerome’s companion, which keeps him company after he pulled a thorn from his paw. The peacock on the window ledge is a symbol of immortality, the partridge stands for truth. These identifiers would have been important to those who were illiterate, and specifically relating to biblical scenes like this as they would narrate the story and become instantly recognisable.

Antonello da Messina St Jerome in his Study (c. 1474-1475) Oil on wood, National Gallery, London

The connections made by the viewer are related to visual semantics; the things we use to read a painting. A clear narrative paired with a sense of reality a painting, regardless of its subject matter, can be moving and believable. It is all contextual, whether realistic or fantasy. Sandro Botticelli (c.1445–1510) painted several versions of the Adoration of the Kings/Magi. This version shows this merge of celestial and earthbound perfectly, because although the scene is noisy and hectic it brings the godly into the realm of men in a comprehensible way. The architecture here feels both ancient and familiar. The rustic wooden canopy structure echoes the stable in which Christ was born, but shows some architectural sophistication. This contrasts with the stone ruins, which although they bring the scene into our world (possibly Rome specifically) they are not the architecturally secure. Look at the loose keystone that has slipped from the arch above Mary, threatening fall at any moment. The architecture emphasises a compositional pyramid, with the Virgin and child at the centre. You can visualise the lines the artist would have used to create perspective, converging against the rough wall which could be an altar. We view the scene from what could be a nave. Our vantage point is high, so high in fact that we drop our gaze to the Virgin. Our eyes seek a path through the multitudes of people. It could be said that the remains on the left were once a transept. Beyond is a town on the horizon. The backdrop for the scene, and provides a contrast to the circular canvas. The rolling hills and buildings in the distance separate the scene from the world beyond. But through the throng of people flocking to Mary and Jesus an overall feeling of calm among chaos endures. They stand for permanence, a beacon of hope among the ruins and crowds of onlookers. Some of the people aren’t paying any attention to the sacred presence. A miracle at the very centre reminds us of the origins of Christianity, which endures through time, change and downfall.

c.1470–5, tempera on poplar, National Gallery Londond

To conclude, building a picture in Renaissance art meant to both flex the artist’s creative intellect (combining knowledge of perspective with either real or imagined space) as well as enhance an image’s narrative with meaning. It could be architecturally accurate like Vasari’s Florentine procession, or strange and ambiguous like Donatello’s. It could create a secular or sacred atmosphere. As a viewer we could be made to feel included or denied full access. Vitruvius wrote in a manifesto for architecture that beauty, strength and function were elementary. For a painter beauty is key, the visual and aesthetic. A structure within a painting could be vehicle of limitless imagination or scrutinised study and for the viewer a means for understanding and feeling. This beautiful exhibition explores the possibilities.