Portrait of the Vendramin Family, 1540-1550/60


This week during the course of my Renaissance history teaching I have spent quite a long time looking at a marvelous painting by Titian, the Portrait of the Vendramin Family. Titian completed the painting on a commission from the noble Venetian merchant Gabriele Vendramin in the years 1543-47. Originally Gabriele Vendramin displayed it in a prominent room in his palace. These days you can find it in the National Gallery, London. The painting is in oils on canvas and measures 206.1 x 288.5 cm – so it makes for an imposing sight:

There is a great deal to be said about this extraordinarily powerful work. I think that it is immediately clear that this is no ordinary representation of the male members of a family, although the painting serves that purpose. The three main figures are, from left to right, are Lunardo Vendramin (Andrea’s son, who died in 1547, before the painting was completed, and whose portrait was moved closer to the centre of the composition some time during the painting), Gabriele Vendramin himself and Gabriele’s brother Andrea, who also died in 1547.

There is, as I have said, an enormous amount to be said about this painting, its meanings and how it can be interpreted in the context of Venetian culture in the sixteenth century. But I don’t want to burden you with a huge amount of text. So I will say this – the painting works extremely hard, by making a range of gestures and associations, to make the Vendramin family somehow sacred, or to shine on them a powerful, sacred light.

Although it was not uncommon, long before Titian completed this painting, to include family members and commissioners in altarpieces and paintings with sacred subjects, the inclusion of an altar in a family portrait – to be displayed in a private house – was highly unusual. Upon the altar is placed a reliquary – an vessel for holding sacred relics – that supposedly held fragments from the ‘true cross’ upon which Jesus had been crucified. This was no mere coincidence.

In 1369, an earlier Andrea Vendramin, had been given the relics of the ‘true cross’ that we see in the painting – after a long journey that began with them being smuggled out of Jerusalem in 1360. Not long after Andrea became associated with a powerful miracle. During a procession the cross was accidentally dropped from the Rialto bridge. Rather than fall into the water, however, the cross allegedly floated above the water. Several of those in the procession jumped in to retrieve the cross, but only one – Andrea Vendramin himself – was able to retrieve the cross and restore it to its rightful place in the procession. The miracle was recorded in this painting by Bellini, completed in 1500:

Now we can begin to make sense of Titian’s painting. Some have suggested – persuasively in my view – that the Andrea Vendramin in the painting represents both Gabriele’s father and the Andrea who participated in this miracle. Perhaps that explains his firm grip on the altar – a suggestive gesture that indicates perhaps his rather more direct connection to the sacred than that of the others depicted. By placing the reliquary of the true cross in the painting, Titian and Gabriele reminded Venetians of the Vendramin family’s association with a real miracle – a miracle suggestive of the divine favour that the family enjoyed.

A Letter from Aretino to Michelangelo, September 1537: ‘The World has Many Kings but only one Michelangelo’

I am not a historian of the Renaissance, but this year I am teaching a ‘special subject’ (based on lots of original documents and objects from the time) about the Renaissance in Florence and Venice, 1475-1525. When reading the letters written on the subject of painting and sculpture by Pietro Aretino I have, as I mentioned in my last post, been struck by his attempts to paint pictures in the minds of his readers with words.  In my last post I gave an example of Aretino’s attempt to paint a scene in Titian’s mind (perhaps to encourage Titian to paint something similar with brushes, paints and canvas?).  Here, I want to share with you an amazingly bold letter in which Aretino sought to influence Michelangelo‘s composition of his famous Last Judgment, which Michelangelo painted in the Sistine Chapel (a chapel in the Pope’s palace in Rome) over the years 1536-1541.  Michelangelo must have been some way along with the work when he received Aretino’s letter of September 1537.

At the opening of the letter Aretino praises Michelanelo for his mastery of outlines and it is fascinating that he seems more preoccupied here with the placement of figures in the scene than in his later letter to Titian, which focuses on colour. Aretino wrote to Michelanelo long before anyone knew what the final painting would look like. But in this letter he seems to be trying to put a scene into Michelangelo’s mind, as if to anticipate or inspire the work. What follows is an astonishingly powerful word picture, a piece of preemptive ekphrasis:

Venice, September 1537:

‘I see Antichrist in the midst of the rabble, with an appearance only conceivable by you. I see terror on the faces of all the living, I see the signs of the impending extinction of the sun, the moon and the stars.  I see, as it were breathing their last, the elements of fire, air, earth and water. I see Nature standing there to one side, full of terror, shrunken and barren in the decrepitude of old age. I see Time, withered and trembling, who is near to his end and seated upon a dry tree-trunk. And while I hear the trumpets of the angels setting all hearts astir, I see Life and Death in fearsome confusion, as the former exerts himself to the utmost in an effort to raise the dead, while the latter goes about striking down the living. I see Hope and Despair guiding the ranks of the good and the throng of evil-doers. I see the amphitheatre of the clouds illuminated by the rays which stream from the pure fires of Heaven and on which Christ sits enthroned among His legions, encircled by splendours and terrors. I see His countenance refulgent with brightness, and as it blazes with flames of sweet and terrible light it fills the children of good with joy and those of evil with fear.’

Aretino, Selected Letters (translated by George Bull) (1976), pp. 110-111

How do you think Aretino did?  We can always compare this extract from his letter (which goes on a bit longer) to Michelangelo’s own completed fresco:

A Letter from Aretino to Titian, May 1544

People often assume that painting and poetry serve completely different artistic purposes; you represent static moments in time with images and tell narrative stories with words. However, the idea that you need images in order to paint is quite a modern one. In the ancient world and Renaissance poets were expected to be able to paint with the words.  Meanwhile, painters often aimed to tell narratives in painting. This is summed up by the Latin expression ‘ut pictura poesis‘, taken from Horace’s Ars Poetica. Poets often tried to evoke painting in their poetry, and this sort of poetry is known as ‘ekphrasis‘.

This is an extract from a letter written by the Italian poet Pietro Aretino to his dear friend the artist Tiziano Vecelli,  better known as ‘Titian‘. In the letter Aretino beautifully describes the colours that he saw in the sky when he one day looked out on to Venice’s Grand Canal. You can even pick out in Aretino’s words a visual stylistic sensibility that is close to Titian’s own. That is, he takes great interest in the effects of colour.

Venice, May 1544:

‘As I am describing it, see first the buildings which appeared to be artificial though made of real stone.  And then look at the air itself, which I perceived to be pure and lively in some places, and in others turbid and dull.  Also consider my wonder at the clouds made up of condensed moisture; in the principal vista they were partly near the roofs of the buildings, and partly on the horizon, while to the right all was in a confused shading of greyish black.  I was awestruck by the variety of colours they displayed: the nearest glowed with the flames of the sun’s fire; the furthest were blushing with the brightness of partially burned vermilion.  Oh, how beautiful were the strokes with which Nature’s brushes pushed the air back at this point, separating it from the palaces in the way that Titian does when painting his landscapes!’

Aretino, Selected Letters (translated by George Bull) (1976), pp. 225-6.