Art and Architecture in Naples, 1266-1713: New Approaches (Art History Special Issues)

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ART AND ARCHITECTURE IN NAPLES, 1266–1713

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ART AND ARCHITECTURE IN NAPLES, 1266–1713

NEW APPROACHES

EDITED BY CORDELIA WARR

AND

JANIS ELLIOTT

This edition first published 2010 r 2010 Association of Art Historians Originally published as Volume 31, Issue 4 of Art History Blackwell Publishing was acquired by John Wiley & Sons in February 2007. Blackwell’s publishing program has been merged with Wiley’s global Scientific, Technical, and Medical business to form WileyBlackwell. Registered Office John Wiley & Sons Ltd, The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester, West Sussex, PO19 8SQ, United Kingdom Editorial Offices 350 Main Street, Malden, MA 02148-5020, USA 9600 Garsington Road, Oxford, OX4 2DQ, UK The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester, West Sussex, PO19 8SQ, UK For details of our global editorial offices, for customer services, and for information about how to apply for permission to reuse the copyright material in this book please see our website at www.wiley.com/ wiley-blackwell. The right of Cordelia Warr and Janis Elliott to be identified as the authors of the editorial material in this work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except as permitted by the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, without the prior permission of the publisher. Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in print may not be available in electronic books. Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book are trade names, service marks, trademarks or registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publisher is not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold on the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering professional services. If professional advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional should be sought. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Art and architecture in Naples, 1266-1713 / edited by Cordelia Warr and Janis Elliott. p. cm. Originally published as Volume 31, Issue 4 of Art History, 2008.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-1-4051-9861-5 (pbk. : alk. paper)

1. Art, Italian–Italy–Naples. 2. Naples (Italy)–Civilization. I. Warr, Cordelia. II. Elliott, Janis,

1949-N6921.N2A68 2009

709.45’731–dc22

2009038764 Set in 10/12pt SwiftEF-Regular by Macmillan India Ltd., Bangalore, India Printed in Malaysia 01 2010

CONTENTS Notes on contributors 1 Introduction: Reassessing Naples 1266–1713 Cordelia Warr and Janis Elliott

vi

1

2 The north looks south: Giorgio Vasari and early modern visual culture in the Kingdom of Naples

Aislinn Loconte

16

3 The rise of the court artist: Cavallini and Giotto in fourteenth-century Naples

Cathleen A. Fleck

38

4 The local eye: Formal and social distinctions in late quattrocento 62

Neapolitan tombs

Tanja Michalsky 5 Building in local all’antica style: The palace of Diomede Carafa in Naples

Bianca de Divitiis

83

6 From social virtue to revetted interior: Giovanni Antonio Dosio 101

and marble inlay in Rome, Florence, and Naples

John Nicholas Napoli 7 ‘The face is a mirror of the soul’: Frontispieces and the production of sanctity in post-Tridentine Naples

Helen Hills

125

8 Patronage, standards and transfert culturel: Naples between art history and social science theory

Nicolas Bock

152

Index

176

v

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Nicolas Bock is Lecturer in Medieval and Renaissance Art History at Lausanne University, Switzerland. He studied art history at the universities of Heidelberg (Germany) and Florence (Italy). Between 1993 and 1997 he was a member of the Bibliotheca Hertziana (MPI) in Rome. He completed his PhD, on late medieval and early renaissance art in Naples, in 1997 and has since published on Neapolitan art, on medieval art and liturgy, and on text and image relations in German and French book production between the fourteenth and the sixteenth centuries. Bianca de Divitiis received her PhD at the Institute for Advanced Studies in Venice. She currently works on architecture and patronage in fifteenth-century Naples and has recently published a book on the patronage of the Carafa family: Architettura e Committenza nella Napoli del Quattrocento (Venice, 2007). Her other research interests include eighteenth-century British architecture and she has published on the work of Sir John Soane in the Burlington Magazine, in Architectural History and in the Georgian Group Journal. She was a fellow at Villa I Tatti (Harvard University) for the academic year 2008–09. Janis Elliott has published on the patronage and iconography of chapel decora­ tion and Last Judgement scenes in fourteenth-century Florence, Naples and Padua in Zeitschrift fu. r Kunstgeschichte and in various edited volumes. Her research inter­ ests focus on the patronage of the Angevin dynasty in Naples and she is the co­ editor, with Cordelia Warr, of The Church of Santa Maria Donna Regina: Art, icono­ graphy and patronage in fourteenth-century Naples (Aldershot, 2004). She is Assistant Professor of medieval art history at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas. Cathleen A. Fleck is a Lecturer and Assistant Dean at Washington University in St Louis. Her research and publications focus on the art of Italy, France and the Holy Land during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Her current book project, Papal Power and Royal Prestige in the Fourteenth Century, examines the papal court in Avignon and the Angevin court in Naples through the detailed study of the Bible of Pope Clement VII (c. 1330, London: British Library, Add. MS 47672). Helen Hills is Professor of History of Art at the University of York. Her publica­ tions include: Invisible City: The Architecture of Devotion in Seventeenth-century Neapo­ litan Convents (Oxford University Press, 2005); Marmi Mischi Siciliani: Invenzione e identita` (Societa` Messinese di Storia Patria, 1999); Architecture and the Politics of Gender in Early Modern Europe (Ashgate, 2003); and, edited with Penelope Gouk, vi

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Representing Emotions: New connections in the histories of art, music and medicine (Ashgate, 2005). She is preparing a study of the Treasury Chapel and forms of holiness in baroque Naples. Aislinn Loconte is an independent scholar based in New York. She received her doctorate from the University of Oxford and has held fellowships in the UK and in Italy. She has published on female patronage in Naples and is currently preparing a book provisionally entitled The Art of Queenship: Royal women and artistic patronage in the late medieval and early modern Kingdom of Naples. . Tanja Michalsky is Professor of Art History at the Universit.at der Kunste in Berlin. She has recently finished a study entitled ‘Projection and imagination. Concep­ tions of Netherlandish landscape in the dialogue between geography and painting’. Although she has also published articles on film and contemporary art, her main research interests are the relationship between political and artistic representation and the social network of memory, and the process of collective imagination in different visual media. She is the author of Memoria und Repr.asen­ tation. Die Grabm.aler des Ko¨nigshauses Anjou in Italien (2000) and the editor of Medien der Macht. Kunst zur Zeit der Anjous in Italien (2001). John Nicholas Napoli received his PhD from Princeton University. He currently teaches at the City University of New York and the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. His research has appeared in the Neapolitan journal Napoli Nobilissima, and he is currently writing a book on the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century decorative campaigns at the Carthusian monastery in Naples, the Certosa di San Martino. Cordelia Warr is Senior Lecturer in Art History and Visual Studies at the Univer­ sity of Manchester. She has published a number of articles on female patronage and on the representation of religious dress. Her book Dressing for Heaven: Religious clothing in Italy, 1215–1545 will be published by Manchester University Press in 2010. Her current research project, which has been supported by the AHRC research leave scheme, is on the representation and performance of stigmata in late medieval and renaissance Italy.

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INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

1 Map of Italy in the fifteenth century. Map: Janis Elliott and Laura Stennett, Texas Tech University.

1

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES

1266–1713

C O R D E L I A WA R R a n d J A N I S E L L I O T T

The city of Naples has been a major centre for more than two millennia. Its natural harbour and position on the southwest coast of Italy made it important in trade relations between Italy, Greece, Byzantium, North Africa, Spain, Holland, Flanders and Germany. Its strategic importance and resulting prosperity resulted in fierce competition for control of Naples and the surrounding area. During the period discussed by the various contributors to this collection of essays, 1266– 1713, Naples and its surrounding territory was ruled successively by the French Angevins (1266–1442), the Aragonese (1442–1501), the French (1501–04), and the Spanish Hapsburgs (1504–1713).1 Throughout, Naples was an important artistic centre yet it has suffered in art-historical literature. One of the issues that has affected perception of the city is that Naples defies art-historical definitions of a cultural centre. Traditionally, artists and styles have been linked to their geographic locations of origin.2 The conventional view of Naples is that it did not produce many famous artists or innovative artistic styles which influenced the art of other major centres; rather, it imported more art and artists than it exported. Another factor is that many art historians have followed the historiographical model of Giorgio Vasari, whose Lives of the Artists concentrates on the work of Florentine artists.3 The result is that Naples has been overshadowed by other Italian centres, most especially in this period by Florence and Rome. Physical destruction has also taken its toll. Damage to Neapolitan archives during the 1939–45 war resulted in a substantial loss of historical documents and significant damage to the artistic patrimony of the area.4 The imposing, partially polychromed, mid-fourteenth-century tomb of Robert of Anjou (d. 1343), for example, was badly damaged in a fire following an air raid on 4 August 1943. However, even before this, the work of modern historiographers reflected the attitude of northern Italy towards the south, applying to the past the twentieth-century view of Naples as underdeveloped and culturally deficient, something explored by Bianca de Divitiis in her chapter on Diomede Carafa’s fifteenth-century palace in Naples. All of the chapters in this volume seek, in different ways, to redress the neglect of Naples – particularly noticeable in English-language scholarship. The contributors focus on works of art and architecture which demonstrate the ways in which Naples can be defined as a cultural and artistic centre. Some explore the careers of specific artists and groups of artists, examining the circumstances of 1

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

their commissions and the reasons behind them. Others deal with the ways in which the convergence on Naples of foreign artists and artistic styles affected the evolution of art within the city. Questions of taste, the way in which taste was formed and acquired, and the ability of Neapolitans to make refined distinctions between local and foreign styles are also examined, as are the means by which artists disseminated styles through the cities in which they worked. One of the underlying debates throughout this volume relates to definitions of centre and periphery.5 Nicolas Bock, for example, questions the ways in which cultural centres have traditionally been defined. He argues that most theories which deal with definitions of centres, such as those espoused by such scholars as Castelnuovo, Ginsburg and DaCosta Kaufmann, exclude Naples as a cultural centre because their criteria are dominated by economics and physical geography, which quantify how much ‘culture’ a city exports. However, according to Bock, these theories overlook a number of things which cannot easily be quantified, such as prestige, social status and association with the elite – all of which Naples exported in large quantities. The importation into Naples of foreign artists and works of art should be viewed as a sign of ‘cultural enrichment’, therefore, rather than of cultural inferiority. The history of the city between the thirteenth and the seventeenth centuries clearly demonstrates Naples’s status as a ‘world city’ functioning within an international cultural network.

THE ANGEVIN PERIOD

At the beginning of the fourteenth century Naples was one of the most important cities in Europe. It had an estimated population of 30,000 inhabitants, smaller than that of Venice, Milan and Florence (each with more than 80,000), but still among the largest urban centres of Europe.6 Since 1284 it had been the capital of the so-called Kingdom of Naples: following the rebellion of the Sicilian Vespers Charles I of Anjou (r. 1266–85) had been deprived of the island of Sicily and the previous capital, Palermo.7 Despite this loss the Kingdom of Naples, stretching from the Abruzzi in the north to the southern coasts of the Italian peninsula, was by far the largest area of Italy to be ruled by a single government (plate 1). The Angevin kings of Naples came from the French royal family.8 The international connections of the Angevin dynasty meant that the kings of Naples married into some of the most powerful European royal families (plate 2). Charles I of Anjou married Beatrice of Provence; their son Charles of Salerno (future Charles II of Anjou) married Mary of Hungary (d. 1323), who was the granddaughter of the Hungarian Arpad king Bela IV (r. 1235–70). Their grandson, the third Angevin king of Naples Robert of Anjou (r. 1309–43) married Violante of Aragon (d. 1302) and, later, Sancia of Majorca (1285–1345), daughter of James II of Majorca.9 At various times during the late thirteenth and fourteenth centuries the Angevins ruled their native territories in Anjou, their dominions in Provence, the Kingdom of Naples, the Kingdom of Jerusalem10 and the Kingdoms of Hungary, Poland and Croatia.11 They introduced French court culture to Naples and thereafter Neapolitan court culture formed part of a Europe-wide network of courts. In addition to the political relations and alliances with major European kingdoms which characterized Naples as an international capital, there were also trade connections that spread across the Mediterranean. All of this had an effect 2

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

2 Diagram of the rulers of Naples (1266–1442). Diagram: Janis Elliott and Gilbert Jones, Texas Tech University.

on the art produced in and for the city. The Angevins introduced the French gothic style into the kingdom, bringing their own architects and also importing master masons, as Caroline Bruzelius has recently argued in The Stones of Naples.12 Churches such as San Lorenzo Maggiore and Santa Maria Donna Regina reflect this northern European interest and demonstrate that their royal commissioners were aware of the latest architectural innovations.13 Sculptors and artists also came to Naples, or received commissions for works to be sent to Naples. Some of the most important Italian painters and sculptors worked for members of the royal family during this period.14 The Roman painter Pietro Cavallini (c. 1250– 1330) is documented in Naples in June and December of 1308;15 although no specific works can be securely attributed to him, his style is evident in the frescoes of the Brancaccio chapel in San Domenico Maggiore, the Sant’Aspreno Chapel in the Duomo and in the paintings of pairs of standing prophets in Santa Maria Donna Regina.16 Moreover, his style had an enormous impact on the local art of Naples until the arrival of Giotto in 1328.17 The Sienese painter Simone Martini (c. 1284–1344) seems never to have visited Naples.18 However, he painted the Saint Louis of Toulouse panel, which was most likely a royal commission to celebrate the canonization in 1317 of Saint Louis of Toulouse, second son of Charles II of Anjou 3

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

and Mary of Hungary, who had renounced his claim to the throne of Naples in order to join the Franciscan order.19 The Sienese Tino di Camaino (c. 1280–1337), sculptor of the tomb of Emperor Henry VII (1315),20 moved to Naples in 1323 and stayed until his death in 1337. In Naples he worked as an architect and completed the tombs of Catherine of Austria, Charles of Calabria, Maria of Valois and Mary of Hungary (with the help of Neapolitan sculptor Gagliardo Primario).21 Humanist writers also visited Naples, including Petrarch and Boccaccio. Petrarch went to Naples in 1341 and again in 1343.22 Boccaccio (1313–75) lived there between 1326 and 1341, during which time he studied canon law and wrote Filostrato, Teseida, Filocolo and La caccia di Diana.23 Naples can, therefore, be characterized as a major centre of Italian artistic production and innovation. But the perceived lack of highly skilled local artists who could compete with the cachet of artists from outside the regno is an issue that still needs to be addressed.24 As noted above, one possible response may be grounded in the enormous influence of Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Artists.25 Do we know of the Neapolitan Gagliardo Primario, for example, only because he colla­ borated with the Sienese Tino di Camaino on the tomb of Mary of Hungary (1323–25)? Ferdinando Bologna’s magisterial work I Pittori alla Corte Angioina di Napoli, 1266–141426 brings to light the names and/or works of several Neapolitan artists who received important commissions in their native city: the Maestro di San Salvatore Piccolo a Capua, active in the 1290s and already familiar with the innovations of San Francesco in Assisi; the Maestro di Giovanni Barrile, possibly a disciple of Giotto, active in the 1330s, who decorated the chapter house in Santa Chiara; and Roberto Oderisi (active c. 1330–82). Oderisi painted the frescoes and altarpiece of Santa Maria Incoronata,27 built under the patronage of Joanna I of Naples (r. 1343–82),28 as well as a Man of Sorrows (c. 1354) now in the Fogg Art Museum (plate 3).29 In spite of their achievements, there is no indication that these Neapolitan artists were sent or invited to other artistic centres. It is possible that their names were already lost by the sixteenth century and therefore that their works could not be included in biography-based histories. Stephen J. Campbell has commented that the art-historical paradigm of art patronage in late medieval and renaissance Italy is based on the model of capi­ talistic city republics like Florence and Venice, and that in order to understand art production and the role of artists within the courts it is necessary to adjust the paradigm to include values beyond the monetary.30 The term familiaris was one of the benefits that courtiers, including artists, might earn while associated with a court. With that title came prestige and a higher social status, which in turn made the courtier more desirable to other employers. Giotto, for example, familiaris at the Angevin court in Naples from 1328 until 1333, was appointed capomaestro of all civic projects when he returned to Florence.31 In her chapter on the Neapolitan works of the Roman painter Cavallini and the Florentine painter Giotto, Cathleen Fleck addresses the ways in which famous and highly sought-after painters were expected to function in Naples as court artists. Both Cavallini and Giotto had forged careers in which they worked in a number of important artistic centres – Cavallini in Assisi, Rome and Naples, and Giotto in Padua, Assisi, Florence, Rome and Naples. While attempting to draw Cavallini out from the shadow of Vasari’s negative judgement, Fleck demonstrates that both Cavallini and Giotto performed similar functions as court 4

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

3 Roberto Oderisi, The Man of Sorrows, c. 1354. Tempera and gold leaf on panel, 62.2 x 38 cm. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Art Museums, Fogg Art Museum, Gift of Grenville L. Winthrop, Class of 1886, 1937.49. Photo: Imaging Department r President and Fellows of Harvard College.

5

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

artists. Not only did they decorate the new Angevin palaces and chapels, they were also employed to create a distinctive Angevin style, a ‘nationalist court language’ which visually established Naples as a strong ally, firstly with Assisi and Rome under the papacy (via Cavallini), and later (via Giotto) with Florence, where the Angevins had strong financial ties, especially after the papacy had moved to Avignon. Fleck undertakes in-depth investigations into the ways in which Caval­ lini and Giotto, both at home and at the Angevin court, were used by their patrons as visual ambassadors, as public relations image-makers, and as cultural capital.

THE ARAGONESE PERIOD

The role of artists as members of the court, employed to promote the identity of the court internationally, continued under Aragonese rule. Works by artists of the Florentine Renaissance, such as Donatello and Michelozzo, had already started to arrive in Naples during the reign of Joanna II of Anjou (r. 1414–35), as has been noted by both Tanja Michalsky and Nicolas Bock. The last Angevin king, Rene´ of Anjou, was defeated by Alfonso V of Aragon, who ruled Naples as Alfonso I from 1442 until 1458.32 Naples during the Aragonese period, which lasted until 1501

4 Diagram of the rulers of Naples (1442–1501). Diagram: Janis Elliott and Gilbert Jones, Texas Tech University.

6

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

(plate 4), has been described as ‘one of the most outstanding and influential cultural centres of renaissance Italy’.33 Court patronage prioritized humanistic concerns. Alfonso I iden­ tified himself with the ‘good’ Roman emperors, especially Trajan and Hadrian, who were of Spanish origin, and he paid enormous prices to obtain classical texts with which he formed a great library.34 Alfonso I, also known as ‘the Magnanimous’, gained his epithet through his generous support of artists and literary figures.35 An epitaph claimed that Alfonso ‘called in the most noble sculptors, painters, architects, and craftsmen from all over Italy, nay 5 Pisanello, Alfonso V of Aragon, 1394–1458, King of from the whole world, with great Naples and Sicily 1442, obverse, c. 1449. Bronze (late employment and fees’.36 Antonio cast), diameter 11 cm. Washington, DC: National Galateo, the author of the epitaph, Gallery of Art, Samuel H. Kress Collection, clearly wished to present Alfonso as a 1957.14.613.a. Photo: r Board of Trustees, great patron. Yet his encomium was National Gallery of Art, Washington. not without foundation. Pisanello, an artist who worked extensively for the major Italian renaissance courts, including Ferrara, Mantua and Milan, came to Naples in 1448/49 and may have stayed until his death in 1455.37 Those artists on whom the title familiaris was bestowed, such as Pisanello, were regarded as members of the ruler’s inner circle. Their salaries were set at the discretion of the `, or special talent, and some artists were knighted prince, as rewards for their virtu so that they might represent the court as diplomats when sent abroad.38 At the Neapolitan court of Alfonso I Pisanello received a salary of 400 ducats per year, compared to Cosimo Tura’s salary of 60 ducats at the court of Ferrara.39 Although he was known elsewhere as a painter, in Naples Pisanello appears to have designed artillery, embroideries, an elaborate silver service and portrait medals; there is no evidence that he received painting commissions.40 Patronage within Naples covered a wide spectrum of taste and type. The humanist revival of interest in ancient Greek and Roman models of ethics, for example, contributed towards the emulation of imperial Rome in some commissions. Alfonso I collected ancient coins.41 This was perhaps related to his interest in the power of heraldic devices to denote identity, as well as to the tradition of gift exchange among the ancient emperors. In Pisanello’s series of three medals of Alfonso, the king is portrayed on the obverse of each, in the manner of imperial coins: Alfonso, identified by his aquiline nose, appears in profile, surrounded by Latin inscriptions proclaiming either his virtues or his dominions.42 The second of the three medals of Alfonso (plate 5), dated c. 1449– 50, describes Alfonso as divus (ascribing to him the status of a deity in the tradi­ tion of Roman emperors) and declares him to be king of Aragon, Sicily and 7

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

Valencia. The reverse alludes to his triumphal entry into Naples in 1443 when, in addition to the king’s imperial carriage, there had been a long train of floats bearing personifications of the Virtues and allegorical figures – in conscious imitation of imperial processions.43 Pisanello was almost certainly called to Naples because of his ability to emulate the art of the Caesars and create an ancient imperial aura around the figure of Alfonso I. However, another factor may have contributed to his court appointment. Artists often found work by referral. Drawings attest to Pisanello’s presence in Ferrara during the Council of Ferrara in 1439.44 Pisanello worked for both the Gonzaga in Mantua and the Este in Ferrara – allies through the marriage of Leonello d’Este (1407–50) to Margherita Gonzaga in 1435. After Margherita’s death, Leonello married Alfonso I’s illegitimate daughter, Maria of Aragon, in 1444. Pisanello made a portrait medal of Leonello to celebrate the occasion. On the obverse Leonello is identified as the son-in-law of Alfonso by the letters above his head: GE R AR, standing for ‘Gener Regis Aragonum’.45 Not long afterwards Pisanello found his way to Naples. Just as they had under Angevin rule, the social networks between ruling and elite families appear to have created the patterns of patronage which explain how and why some artists moved from one place to the next. In this volume Aislinn Loconte considers the movement of artists who made use of these social networks: Vasari, for example, received his first commission in Naples through his contacts with the Olivetan order in Pistoia and Milan. Bianca de Divitiis investigates the communication between patrons by questioning the influence Diomede Carafa’s association with the Medici, de facto rulers of Flor­ ence, may have had on the construction of the Palazzo Carafa in the mid-fifteenth century. She argues for a greater emphasis on local influences. The expectations and taste of patrons in fifteenth-century Naples is further explored by Tanja Michalsky, who concentrates on ‘formal and social distinctions in late quat­ trocento Neapolitan tombs’. Those who commissioned tombs in Naples were able to draw on a wide variety of precedents by sculptors trained locally and outside the kingdom. Michalsky makes a case for a complex evaluation of the tastes of patrons in Naples during this period, based on a nuanced understanding of their ability to see and understand differences in style. The artistic influx into Naples did not exclusively comprise influences from the Italian peninsula. During the reigns of both Rene´ of Anjou (r. 1435–42) and Alfonso I of Aragon artists came to Naples from Dalmatia, Provence and Spain46 and a number of architectural projects completed during the Aragonese period display Catalan influences. Trading relationships between southern France, Spain and the Kingdom of Naples facilitated the movement of artists and artistic influences. Artists who worked at the Neapolitan court also moved on to other locations. Antonello da Messina (c. 1430–79), a painter from Sicily, worked for some years in Naples and went on to a successful career in Venice.47 Francesco Laurana (c. 1430–c. 1502), from Dalmatia, began his career in Naples as an assis­ tant to Pietro da Milano (c. 1410–73), with relief carvings on the lower portion of the entrance arch of Castel Nuovo, renamed Castel Aragonese.48 The arch, which commemorates Alfonso I’s triumphal entry into Naples, was a major architectural and sculptural achievement involving artists from Catalonia, Milan, Pisa and Rome. Laurana was present in Naples for relatively long periods in the 1460s, 8

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

1470s, 1480s and 1490s.49 After Alfonso’s death, he was called to France to the court of Duke Rene´ of Anjou and Provence, former king of Naples. During a long career he undertook commissions in Florence, Provence and Sicily, undoubtedly as a result of recommendations within the courtly network. In turn, works by French painters were also commissioned for the Neapolitan royal family: Jean Bourdichon, for example, painted a Madonna and Saints for Ferrante I of Aragon, Alfonso I’s son and successor, who ruled from 1458 to 1494.50 Frederick IV (r. 1496–1501) was the last Aragonese ruler of Naples (see plate 4). With the death of Rene´’s nephew, Charles of Maine, in 1486 the longstanding Angevin claim to Naples passed to the French crown. Louis XII of France (r. 1498–1515) then pursued the claim and ruled Naples during a brief interlude from 1501 to 1504. However, the treaties of Blois (1504–05) gave Naples and Sicily to the Spanish Hapsburgs, who ruled the two kingdoms through viceroys – one at Palermo, one at Naples – for the one and a half centuries that followed.51

T H E S PA N I S H H A P S B U R G P E R I O D

As part of the Spanish kingdom until 1713, Naples grew to become the second most populated city in Europe. In the first half of the sixteenth century, it was the largest city under Spanish control.52 By 1600 it had an estimated population of more than 300,000, and this rose to more than 400,000 before the plague of 1656.53 Important artists continued to come to Naples in search of commissions just as they had done during the Angevin and Aragonese periods. From within Italy came Marco Pino and Giovanni Tommaso Malvito. Luis Vargas journeyed from Spain, and Flemish artists, including Dirck Hendricksz Centen and Cornelis de Smet, also received commissions in Naples. Increasingly many foreign artists settled and established careers there. The Spanish painter Jusepe de Ribera (1591–1652) lived in the city from 1616 until his death.54 Artemisia Gentileschi (1593–1652/3) spent most of the last twenty years of her life in Naples (1630–c. 1638 and 1642–1652/3).55 Moreover, during the Spanish Hapsburg period local artists also began to gain international reputations. Neapolitan artists such as Andrea Vaccaro (1605–70), Salvator Rosa (1615–73) and Luca Giordano (1634–1705) found commissions in Naples and also worked abroad. Luca Giordano, for example, studied first in Naples and then worked in Rome, Florence and Venice. He spent ten years in Madrid (1692–1702) most of that time in the employ of the Spanish king Charles II (r. 1665–1700).56 The concentration of artists from very diverse backgrounds is discussed by Aislinn Loconte in the context of Vasari’s evaluation of art in Naples in the mid-sixteenth century. Whilst in Naples Vasari worked ` lvarez de hard to gain commissions from the Spanish viceroy Pedro A Toledo (r. 1532–53) and was partially successful. Nonetheless, he came away from Naples with a negative view of much of the art he had seen there. Loconte explores the reasons for Vasari’s perceptions and contends that they are rooted within his training in the less cosmopolitan centre of Florence. The Angevins and Aragonese monarchs had all made the Kingdom of Naples their home. They had maintained their capital in Naples, had invested in its beautification, and had created dynastic identities within the city. Under Spanish domination, the centre of political and military power shifted away from Naples 9

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

to Madrid.57 However, Naples continued to be a centre for artists and architects. The viceroys, who were often appointed to Naples after they had completed a diplomatic tour in Rome, commissioned or purchased paintings and sculptures to send back to Spain, either to their own palaces or to the religious foundations they supported at home, or, particularly during the reign of Philip IV (r. 1621– 1665), to the king, in order to gain his favour.58 In some cases they obtained art by unscrupulous means and left their short-lived mark on Naples by stripping the city of its treasures.59 Often they divided their patronage between Naples and Spain. Two years after an outbreak of plague decimated the population of Naples, ˜ aranda, viceroy from 1658 until 1664, Gaspar de Bracamonte, the Count of Pen contributed paintings by Andrea Vaccaro and Luca Giordano to the new cemetery church of Santa Maria del Pianto in Naples, but not without also donating works to the Carmelite monastery he had founded in Salamanca, Spain.60 However, the viceroys did not only look towards Spain. Eleonora of Toledo, the daughter of ` lvarez de Toledo, married Cosimo I de’ Medici in 1539. As Loconte notes, Pedro A Pedro de Toledo was an active commissioner during his time as viceroy of Naples. Via Toledo, one of the main thoroughfares of Naples, was set out in 1536 on his orders.61 He also founded the church of San Giacomo degli Spagnuoli in which he and his first wife, Maria Ossovio Pimental, are buried (plate 6).62 His tomb was sculpted by the Neapolitan Giovanni da Nola (1488–1558), who had re­ putedly studied in Rome under Michelangelo.63 Among many other commissions ´n de Cardona, who da Nola also created the magnificent tomb of Viceroy Ramo died in Naples in 1522 but was buried in the cathedral of his native city of Bell­ puig in Catalonia. The tomb was sculpted in Naples and then transported and reassembled in Bellpuig.64 As it had been in the fifteenth century, the display of ‘magnificence’ and ‘splendour’ was an essential component of artistic patronage in sixteenth-century Naples. Grand buildings with rich, decorative details, exotic marble revetments, intricate wood intarsia, expensive tapestries, sumptuous fabrics and lavish entertainments all served the purpose of declaring the patron’s power and international status. At the same time, such displays served to promote dynastic continuity and, at a popular level, to instil civic pride. Magnificence was also directed towards patronage of religious institutions in order to demonstrate piety.65 From the sixteenth century, religious guides to Naples, such as those by Pietro de Stefano (1560) and Cesare d’Engenio Caracciolo (1624), celebrated the rich heritage of Naples through descriptions of its churches and relics.66 Some commentators disapproved of the proliferation of religious institutions. Pietro Giannone (1676–1748) remarked that ‘it is difficult to find in Naples a street without a monastery on it.’67 Yet, the very number of religious institutions bore witness to the importance of the church in Neapolitan life. In the 1580s, for example, there were more than ninety-two religious houses in the city, the wealthiest of which were lavishly decorated.68 John Nicolas Napoli investigates the use of marble revetments in late sixteenth-century Naples through the work of Giovanni Antonio Dosio (1533–1609). He argues that whilst Dosio also worked in Rome and Florence, his commissions in Naples responded to the city’s parti­ cular situation as part of the expanding Spanish Hapsburg Empire. The use of magnificent marbles proclaimed the power of the church within Naples and made a strong statement on orthodoxy in the period immediately following the 10

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

Council of Trent (1545–63). Until the Battle of Lepanto in 1571 the Ottoman Empire was a serious threat to the Kingdom of Naples and the Church.69 Even after this celebrated victory southern Italy was subject to attack by Muslims from North Africa. Orthodoxy was perceived to be under threat internally as well. In 1541 the Jewish population was expelled from the Kingdom of Naples,70 whilst in 1561 the Waldensians in Calabria were savagely suppressed.71 Religious orthodoxy was promoted not only through the magnificence of church buildings but also through the publication of literature on the lives of holy men and women. Helen Hills considers the high number of saints’ lives produced in Naples from the late sixteenth to the early eighteenth century. She questions the disjunctions between the texts of these vite and their frontispieces, arguing that it is through their apparent discon­ nectedness from the text that the frontispieces demonstrate religious orthodoxy. The city of Naples is figured in a number of the images discussed by Hills. More than just a city, it had become a focus of religious fervour and a locus for Catholic reform. Indeed, from the beginning of the Angevin period Naples was one of the largest cosmopolitan cities in Italy and the art and architecture commissioned for Naples was correspondingly impressive and eclectic. Its French Angevin, Aragonese and Spanish Hapsburg rulers brought with them their own artists and their own tastes. They assimilated the tastes and styles already present in Naples and commissioned artists from outside the regno. This differs from the model provided by Florence, where the most successful artists came from Florence and the surrounding areas. Style in Naples had to be eclectic. The

` lvarez de Toledo and his first wife Maria Ossovio Pimental, c. 6 Giovanni da Nola, tomb of Pedro A 1553. Naples: San Giacomo degli Spagnoli. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

11

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

city became a centre in which influences coalesced from across Europe and beyond, and in which complex experiences formed complex appreciations of styles. It is because Naples can be defined as a ‘world city’ that to delineate its artistic boundaries has often proved so problematic. By bringing together these essays, all of which take Naples as their point of departure, the editors hope to engage with discussions about artistic diversity, centres and styles, all of which reach beyond the city of Naples. Notes

We would like to thank the contributors to this collection of essays on the art of late medieval and early modern Naples. It has been a pleasure to work with them all and, most especially, a pleasure to discuss all matters Neapolitan. All but one of the chapters in this volume was originally presented as part of three sessions on ‘Import/Export: Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture in the Kingdom of Naples 1266–1568’ at the Renaissance Society of America Conference, held in San Francisco in March 2006. The exception is the chapter by Helen Hills, who was unable to attend the conference. We wish to thank the respondents in those sessions – David Wilkins (University of Pittsburg), Anne Dunlop (Yale University) and Leslie Korrick (York University, Canada) – for their insightful comments. We would also like to thank all those who have commented on the chapters at various stages on their journey into print, including David Peters Corbett and the anonymous readers. In particular, we would like to thank Sam Bibby, who has kept us sane through the entire process. We would also like to thank Gilbert Jones and Laura Stennett of Texas Tech University, who provided technical assistance with the genealogical tables and the map of Italy, respectively, in the ‘Introduction’. Luciano Pedicini (http://www.pedi­ cinimages.com/) provided many of the photographs for this volume, including the cover images. Our thanks to him and to Massimo Velo for their professionalism and unfailing helpfulness and courtesy. We offer thanks to Jacqueline Scott at WileyBlackwell for making the book version of this collection of essays possible. 1 These reigns are subject to brief interruptions. Spain was formed as a result of the union of Aragon and Castile in 1479. From 1504 Naples was incorporated into the vast Spanish kingdom and was ruled by a long series of Spanish viceroys. For the history of Naples, see Vittorio Gleijeses, La Storia di Napoli dalle origini ai nostri giorni, 3rd edn, Catania, 2008; Giuseppe Galasso, Il Regno di Napoli, 4 vols, Turin, 1992–2005; Benedetto Croce, History of the Kingdom of Naples, Chicago, [1925] 1970; G.A. Summonte, Historia della citta` e regno di Napoli, 6 vols, 3rd edn, Naples, [1600–43] 1748–50. 2 Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, Toward a Geography of Art, Chicago and London, 2004, chap. 1. ` eccellenti pittori scul3 Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ piu tori e architettori nelle redazioni de 1550 e 1568, eds Rosanna Bettarini and Paola Barocchi, 6 vols, Florence, 1966–67. 4 Reconstruction of the archive continues. Riccardo Filangieri, L’Archivio di Stato di Napoli

12

5

6

7

8

durante la Seconda Guerra Mondiale, Stefano Palmieri, ed., Naples, 1996. For a discussion of centre and periphery within the Kingdom of Naples during the Angevin ` angioina period see Valentino Pace, ‘Arte di eta nel regno: vicinanza e distanza dalla corte’, in Tanja Michalsky, ed., Medien der Macht: Kunst zur Zeit der Anjous in Italien, Berlin, 2001, 241–60. Stephan R. Epstein, Freedom and Growth: The Rise of States and Markets 1300–1750, London and New York, 2000, 90–1. For the term ‘so-called Kingdom of Naples’, see Croce, History of the Kingdom of Naples, 43. For the early history of the kingdom and the loss of Sicily, see Steven Runciman, The Sicilian Vespers: A History of the Mediterranean World in the Later Thirteenth Century, Cambridge, 1958. Charles, Count of Anjou, became the first of the Angevin kings of Naples. On the Angevin ´mile Le´onard, Les Angevins de monarchy see E Naples, Paris, 1954; Carlo da Frede, ‘Da Carlo

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

9

10 11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

` a Giovanna I (1263–1382),’ in Storia di d’Angio Napoli, vol. 3, Cava dei Tirreni, 1969, 1–333. On Charles I, see Jean Dunbabin, Charles I of Anjou: Power, Kingship and State-Making in ThirteenthCentury Europe, London and New York, 1998. For a detailed discussion of Robert of Anjou, see Welbore St. Clair Baddeley, Robert the Wise and his Heirs, London, 1897; Roberto Caggese, Roberto d’Angio` e i suoi tempi, 2 vols, Florence, 1922 and 1930 [reprinted, Bologna, 2001]. For the acquisition of Jerusalem, see Dunbabin, 89–98. See the section ‘Les Royaumes d’Europe Centrale’ with articles on Angevin rule of Hungary, Croatia and Poland, in L’Europe des Anjou: Aventure des Prince Angevins du XIIIe au XVe Sie`cle, Paris, 2001, 152–245. For genealogical charts further detailing the large number of monarchs and dynastic marriages within the Angevin dynasty, see L’Europe des Anjou, 16–17; Aislinn Loconte, ‘Royal Women’s Patronage of Art and Archi­ tecture in the Kingdom of Naples 1300–1450: From Maria of Hungary to Maria d’Enghien’, DPhil thesis, University of Oxford, 2003, Part 3, Figs 1 and 2. Caroline Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, New Haven and London, 2004, 11–45; Caroline Bruzelius, ‘Charles I, Charles II, and the Devel­ opment of an Angevin Style in the Kingdom of Sicily’, in L’Etat angevin: pouvoir, culture et socie´te´ entre XIIIe et XIVe sie`cle, Rome, 1998, 99–114. On Santa Maria Donna Regina, see Janis Elliott and Cordelia Warr, eds, The Church of Santa Maria Donna Regina: Art, Iconography, and Patronage in Fourteenth-Century Naples, Aldershot, 2004. On San Lorenzo Maggiore, see Serena Romano and Nicolas Bock, eds, Le chiese di San Lorenzo Maggiore et San Domenico Maggiore: gli ordini mendicanti a Napoli, Naples, 2004. On the documents regarding Simone Martini, Giotto, and Pietro Cavallini in Naples see Fran­ cesco Aceto, ‘Pittori e documenti della Napoli angioina: aggiunte ed espunzioni’, Prospettiva, 67, 1992, 53–65. For the documentation relating to Cavallini, see Paul Hetherington, Pietro Cavallini: A Study in the Art of Late Medieval Rome, London, 1979, 152–6. On Cavallini in Naples see Alessandro Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, Milan, 2000, 120–33; Pierluigi Leone de Castris, Arte di Corte nella Napoli Angioina, Florence, 1986; Pierluigi Leone de Castris, ‘Italia Meridionale’ in Pittura murale in Italia dal tardo Duecento ai primi del Quattrocento, Mina Gregori, ed., Turin, 1995, 180–202. Leone de Castris, ‘Italia Meridionale’, 190, describes Cavallini’s impact on Naples as a phenomenon of style and of uniformity of taste which imposed itself on the court and the city. Andrew Martindale, Simone Martini: Complete Edition, Oxford, 1988, 216; Aceto, ‘Pittori e docu­ menti della Napoli angioina’, 53–5. Martindale, Simone Martini, 194.

20 Gert Kreytenberg, ‘Das Grabmal von Kaiser Heinrich VII in Pisa’, Mitteilungen des Kunsthistor­ ischen Instituts in Florenz, 28, 1984, 33–64. 21 Ottavio Morisani, Tino da Camaino a Napoli, Naples, 1945; Giulietta Chelazzi Dini, Pacio e Giovanni Bertini da Firenze e la Bottega Napoletana di Tino di Camaino, Prato, 1996; Julian Gardner, ‘A Princess among Prelates: A Fourteenth-Century Neapolitan Tomb and some Northern Relations’, Ro¨misches Jahrbuch fu. r Kunstgeschichte, 23, 1998, 29– 60 with further bibliography. 22 Jerry H. Bentley, Politics and Culture in Renaissance Naples, Princeton, 1987, 40. On Petrarch’s influ­ ence on Neapolitan court culture, see Samantha Kelly, The New Solomon. Robert of Naples (1309–1343) and Fourteenth-Century Kingship, Leiden, 2003, 1– 21, 41–8. 23 Vittore Branca, Boccaccio. The Man and his Works, trans. Richard Monges and Dennis J. McAuliffe, New York, 1976. 24 As noted by Anne Dunlop during the sessions on ‘Import/Export’ at the Renaissance Society of America Conference 2006. 25 An example of Vasari’s influence is the longstanding attribution of the Rucellai Madonna to Cimabue, even after the commissioning docu­ ment had been discovered. See Hayden B.J. Maginnis, ‘Duccio’s Rucellai Madonna and the Origins of Florentine Painting’, Gazette des BeauxArts, 123, 1994, 147–64. 26 Ferdinando Bologna, I Pittori alla Corte Angioina di Napoli, 1266–1414, e un riesame dell’arte nell’eta` fridericiana, Rome, 1969. See also the review by David Wilkins in The Art Bulletin 56, 1974, 127– 30. 27 On the frescoes in the Incoronata, see Paola Vitolo, La chiesa della regina. L’Incoronata di Napoli, Giovanna I d’Angio` e Roberto d’Oderisio, Rome, 2008; . der Lorenz Enderlein, ‘Die Grundungsgeschichte ‘‘Incoronata’’ in Neapel’, Ro¨misches Jahrbuch der Bibliotheca Hertziana, 31, 1996, 15–46. ´mile Le´onard, Histoire de Jeanne 28 On Joanna, see E Ier de Naples, 3 vols., Monaco and Paris, 1927–37. A fourth volume was planned but never published. See also Welbore St. Clair Baddeley, Queen Joanna I of Naples, Sicily and Jerusalem, London, 1893; Vittorio e Lidia Gleijeses, La Regina Giovanna d’Angio`, Naples, 1990; Giuseppe Galasso, Il Regno di Napoli, vol. 1: Il Mezzogiorno Angioino e Aragonese (1266–1494), Turin, 1992, 165–227; Loconte, ‘Royal Women’s Patronage of Art and Architecture’, Part 1, 100–73. 29 On Roberto Oderisi, or Roberto d’Oderisio, see Vitolo, La chiesa della regina, 81–95; Bologna, I Pittori alla Corte Angioina, 297–8; Leone de Castris, Arte di Corte, 374–407. On the Man of Sorrows panel, see Leone de Castris, Arte di Corte, 374–81; Bernard Berenson, ‘A Panel by Roberto Oderisi’, Art in America, 11, 1923, 69–76, reprinted in Studies in Medieval Art, New Haven, 1930, 75–81. 30 Stephen J. Campbell, ‘Introduction’, in Artists at Court: Image-Making and Identity, 1300–1550,

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31

32

33 34

35

36

37

38 39

40 41

42

43 44 45

14

Stephen J. Campbell, ed., Boston, 2004, 9–18, 10– 11. Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona, ‘Giotto Past and Present: An Introduction’, in Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona, eds, The Cambridge Companion to Giotto, Cambridge, 2004, 1–9, 4–6. Alison Cole, Virtue and Magnificence: Art of the Italian Renaissance Courts, New York, 1995, 46–7. Cole’s chapter, ‘Art and Princely ‘‘Magnificence’’’, 16–43, provides an excellent background to rela­ tionships between artists, patrons, the quality of materials, concepts of social status and civic pride, and the imperative of ‘virtue and magnificence’ in court society. Chapter two, 44–65, is dedicated to Naples under Alfonso of Aragon. Bentley, Politics and Culture in Renaissance Naples, 39. Luke Syson and Dillian Gordon, Pisanello: Painter to the Renaissance Court, exhbition catalogue, London, 2001, 124. For Neapolitan humanism and how it differed from that in other Italian centres, see Bentley, Politics and Culture in Renais­ sance Naples, 198–202. On Alfonso, see Alan Ryder, The Kingdom of Naples under Alfonso the Magnanimous, Oxford, 1976. Quoted from an epitaph written by Antonio Galateo, cited by George L. Hersey, Alfonso II and the Artistic Renewal of Naples 1485–1495, New Haven and London, 1969, 23–4. Hersey, Alfonso II and the Artistic Renewal of Naples, 85. According to Syson and Gordon, Pisanello, 39, it is unknown how long Pisanello stayed in Naples and he probably died in Rome. Cole, Virtue and Magnificence, 37–9. Cole, Virtue and Magnificence, 36–7. On Tura, see most recently Mauro Natale, ed., Cosme` Tura e Francesco del Cossa: l’arte a Ferrara nell’eta` di Borso d’Este, exhibition catalogue, Ferrara, 2007. For Tura as a court artist, see Stephen J. Campbell, ‘Cosme` Tura and Court Culture’, in Stephen J. Campbell, ed., Cosme` Tura: Painting and Design in Renaissance Ferrara, Milan, 2002, 1–30. For Pisanello in Naples, see Syson and Gordon, Pisanello, 38–41. G.F. Hill, ‘Classical Influence on the Renaissance Medal’, The Burlington Magazine, 18, 1910–11, 259–68, 260, cites the humanist scholar, lawyer and poet from Palermo, Antonio Beccadelli, known as Il Panormita, from Panormita’s De Dictis et Factis, II, 12. Syson and Gordon, Pisanello, 124, mention that the portraits on the medals were guided by ‘physiognomical stipulations’ established by the court humanist Bartolomeo Facio (Fazio). For an image of the reverse of the medal see Syson and Gordon, Pisanello, 128, figs. 3.46a and b. Syson and Gordon, Pisanello, 29–34. Cole, Virtue and Magnificence, 58. For Leonello’s portrait medal, see Syson and Gordon, Pisanello, 123, Figs. 3.43a and b.

46 Gioacchino Barbera, ‘The Life and Work of Antonello da Messina’, in Gioacchino Barbera et al., Antonello da Messina. Sicily’s Renaissance Master, New Haven and London, 2005, 19. 47 Barbera, ‘The Life and Work of Antonello da Messina’, 19. 48 Cole, Virtue and Magnificence, 62. 49 Hersey, Alfonso II and the Artistic Renewal of Naples, 31; Hanno-Walter Kruft, Francesco Laurana. Ein Bildhauer der Fr.uhrenaissance, Munich, 1994. 50 Hersey, Alfonso II and the Artistic Renewal of Naples, 17. On Bourdichon’s career, see Raymond Limousin, Jean Bourdichon, peintre et enlumineur: son atelier et son ´ecole, Lyon, 1954. 51 On the viceroys in Naples, see Giuseppe Coniglio, I vicere` spagnoli di Napoli, Naples, 1967. 52 Tommaso Astarita, Between Salt Water and Holy Water. A History of Southern Italy, New York and London, 2005, 88. 53 Astarita, Between Salt Water and Holy Water, 159, 320. 54 Carl Goldstein, ‘Painting in Seventeenth-Century Naples: A Review of Clovis Whitfield and Jane Martineau, eds, Painting in Naples 1606–1705 from Caravaggio to Giordano’, Art Journal, 43, 3, 1983, 267–70, 268. 55 On Artemisia Gentileschi in Naples, see Mary D. Garrard, Artemisia Gentileschi. The Image of the Female Hero in Italian Baroque Art, Princeton, 1989, 88–109, 121–40. 56 See the catalogue entry by Oreste Ferrari, ‘Luca Giordano’, in Painting in Naples 1606–1705 from Caravaggio to Giordano, Clovis Whitfield and Jane Martineau, eds, exhibition catalogue, New York, 1982, 168–9. Also Giuseppe Scavizzi, ‘Gli anni della Spagna’, in Oreste Ferrari and Giuseppe Scavizzi, Luca Giordano, l’opera completa, Naples, 2000, 123–58. 57 Croce, History of the Kingdom of Naples, 95–116. 58 Francis Haskell, ‘The Patronage of Painting in Seicento Naples’, in Whitfield and Martineau, Painting in Naples 1606–1705, 60–4, 60. On the commissioning of art during the viceregal period, see Eduardo Nappi, ‘I vicere` e l’arte a Napoli’, Napoli Nobilissima, ser. 3, 22, 1983, 41–57. 59 See the case of Pedro Antonio de Aragon (r. 1666– 1671) in Harold E. Wethey, ‘The Spanish Viceroy, Luca Giordano, and Andrea Vaccaro’, The Burlington Magazine, 109, 1967, 678–87, 681. 60 Haskell, ‘The Patronage of Painting in Seicento Naples’, 60. 61 On urban planning in Naples during Pedro de Toledo’s tenure as viceroy, see Damien Bayon, ` ‘Un pre´curseur de l’urbanisme moderna a Naples: D. Pedro de Toledo (1532–1553)’, in Pierre Francastel, ed., L’urbanisme de Paris et l’Europe: 1600–1680, Paris, 1969, 235–50. 62 See Roberto Middione, ‘San Giacomo degli Spagnoli a Napoli: il sepolcro di Pedro de Toledo’, FMR (Edizione italiana), n.s. 3, 2004, 99–124; Michael Kuhlemann, ‘Tugendhafte Herrschaft zwischen Renaissance-Ideal und Ritterstolz:

INTRODUCTION: REASSESSING NAPLES 1266–1713

Giovanni da Nolas Grabmal des spanischen Vizeko ¨nigs Don Pedro de Toledo’, in Joachim Poeschke, ed., Praemium virtutis: Grabmonumente und Begr.abniszeremoniell im Zeichen des Huma­ . nismus, Munster, 2002, 83–101. 63 The only monograph on Giovanna da Nola was published in 1921: Angelo Borzelli, Giovanni Miriliano o Giovanni da Nola: scultore, Milan, 1921. ´, ‘Giovanni da Nola e la 64 See Joan Yeguas Gasso tomba del vicere´ Ramon de Cardona: il trasfer­ imento da Napoli a Bellpuig e i legami con la scultura in Catalogna’, Napoli nobilissima, ser. 6, 5, 2005, 3–20; Georgiana Goddard King, ‘The Cardona Tomb at Bellpuig’, American Journal of Archaeology, 25, 1921, 279–88. 65 Cole, Virtue and Magnificence, 20–3.

66 Pietro de Stefano, Descrittione dei luoghi sacri della citta` di Napoli, Naples, 1560; Cesare d’Engenio Caracciolo, Napoli sacra, Naples, 1624. 67 Quoted in Helen Hills, Invisible City. The Archi­ tecture of Devotion in Seventeenth-Century Neapolitan Convents, Oxford, 2004, 19. 68 Franco Strazzullo, Edilizia e urbanistica a Napoli dal ‘500 al ‘700, Naples, 1995, 102. 69 On the battle of Lepanto, see Andrew C. Hess, ‘The Battle of Lepanto and Its Place in Mediterranean History’, Past and Present, 57, 1972, 53–73. 70 Cecil Roth, The History of the Jews of Italy, Phila­ delphia, 1946, 286. 71 Gabriel Audisio, The Waldensian Dissent. Persecution and Survival, c. 1170–c. 1570, Cambridge, 1999, 194–8.

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2

THE NORTH LOOKS SOUTH: GIORGIO VASARI

AND EARLY MODERN VISUAL CULTURE IN THE

KINGDOM OF NAPLES

AISLINN LOCONTE

In the early modern period the city of Naples, capital of the vast Kingdom of Naples which encompassed the southern area of the Italian peninsula, was one of the most influential cultural and artistic centres in the Mediterranean. By the sixteenth century, Naples had the largest population of any city on the Italian peninsula and was a major power not only in Italy but also on the pan-European stage.1 The panoramic view of Naples in the late fifteenth-century cityscape known as the Tavola Strozzi highlights the city’s splendid location in the Bay of Naples and draws attention to the many impressive castles, palaces and religious foundations that embellished its urban spaces (plate 1).2 Naples was an important artistic hub drawing together native as well as foreign artists and architects whose works enhanced the international and cosmopolitan character of the city.3 Throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries Naples was host to artists from a vast geographical area spanning not only the Italian peninsula but the wider Mediterranean. Artists native to the regno worked and collaborated with those from outside the Kingdom of Naples. Locally trained artists included Giovanni da Nola (c. 1488–1558), who worked on the tombs of the Spanish viceroy ` lvarez de Toledo and his consort Maria Ossovio Pimental in S. Giacomo Pedro A degli Spagnoli,4 and Girolamo Santacroce (c. 1502–c. 1537) who is credited with the tomb of Carlo Gesualdo in S. Martino and the main altar of Sant’Aniello a Caponapoli.5 The painters Andrea Sabatini (1480–1530/1), Marco Cardisco (c. 1486–c. 1542),6 Giovan Bernardo Lama (1508–79),7 and Francesco Curia (d. 1610)8 were amongst the leading artists from the regno whose work decorated numerous religious foundations in Naples and the surrounding area. Patrons in the city also employed Tuscan artists. Giuliano da Maiano (1432–90) was court architect for the King of Naples, Alfonso II of Aragon, and he worked on a number of major projects for the monarch including the provision of designs for the royal palace at Poggio Reale (1487–90, now destroyed) and the Porta Capuana (1490).9 The painter Leonardo da Pistoia (1502–c. 1548) received commissions from major secular and eccelestical patrons in Naples, including the Florentine Merchant Tommaso Cambi and the Neapolitan courtier Diomede Carafa.10 Many central Italian artists, such as the Sienese Marco Pino (c. 1525–c. 1587), came to Naples via Rome.11 In addition, northern Italian artists, including Giovan Tommaso Malvito 16

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1 Unknown artist, View of Naples (Tavola Strozzi), late fifteenth century. Oil on panel, 82 � 245 cm. Naples: Museo di San Martino. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

(d. 1524), who came from Como,12 and Cesare da Sesto (1477–1523), who trained in Milan,13 found favour in the city. Moreover, painters, sculptors and architects ´n ˜ ez from beyond the Italian peninsula, such as the sculptor Bartolome´ Ordo (1485–c. 1520) and the painter Luis Vargas (c. 1505–67), both from Spain, were given ample patronage in Naples, as was the large community of Flemish artists including Dirck Hendricksz Centen (c. 1542/43–1618) and Cornelis de Smet (d. 1590).14 Supported by the kings of Aragon in the late fifteenth century and by the powerful Spanish viceroys and members of their court in the sixteenth century, as well as local ecclesiastical and secular patrons, such as Oliviero Carafa (1430– 1511), Roberto Sanseverino (1431–74) and Bernardino Rota (1509–75), artists in Naples created a rich legacy of visual culture not just in the city and surrounding area but throughout the southern areas of the Italian peninsula.15 During the course of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the building and decoration of vast religious foundations, such as Sant’Anna dei Lombardi (from 1411),16 magnificent civic monuments like the Triumphal Arch of Alfonso I of Aragon (1453–58; 1465–71),17 as well as opulent public buildings and private residences, of which the Palazzo Carafa (c. 1466)18 and Palazzo Gravina (1513–49),19 are prime examples, enriched the urban landscape of the city. The Triumphal Arch of Alfonso I of Aragon demonstrates the international and multicultural environ­ ment of the city of Naples in the fifteenth century as Alfonso I brought together artists from a vast geographical area to work on the project. Francesco Laurana (Dalmatian), Pere Joan (Catalan) and Pietro da Milano (Lombard) contributed to the project, as did natives of the regno such as Onofrio di Giordano and Coluza di Stasio.20 Traditionally, however, the cultural and artistic wealth of early modern Naples has not been given the scholarly interest it is due, and it has long been overshadowed by more northern ‘centres’, such as Rome, Florence and Venice.21 In attempting to explain the reason for this neglect of Naples, scholars have often singled out the influential role of Giorgio Vasari (1511–74)22 and his canonical ` eccellenti pittori scultori ed architettori (plate 2).23 The influence of text, Le vite de piu Vasari’s writing on the reception of early modern artistic culture in the city of 17

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Naples was first seriously considered by the art historian Giovanni Previ­ tali, who argued for the importance of revisionist approaches to the study of Neapolitan art. In his article ‘Il Vasari e l’Italia meridionale’ (1976), Previtali dealt specifically with what he called ‘the judgement of Vasari on southern art’.24 He suggested that Vasari’s particular characterization of Neapo­ litan art and architecture had been the historic origin of the neglect of southern Italian art within the canon and was responsible for its being considered outmoded and lacking in artistic identity.25 In a similar vein, authors such as Ferdinando Bologna have characterized Vasari’s harmful impact on later perceptions of Neapolitan art and culture as parti­ cularly enduring and influential. In 1969, in his seminal text on painting in Naples at the Angevin royal court, I pittori alla corte angioina di Napoli 1266– ` 2 Giorgio Vasari, frontispiece to Le vite de piu eccellenti pittori scultori ed architettori (1568 edition). 1414, Bologna described what he Woodcut. Photo: reproduced with permission of perceived as Vasari’s neglect of Naples and its artistic culture as an ‘unex­ the Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. plainable silence’ with destructive consequences.26 While scholars have drawn attention to Vasari’s particular views about the city and his characteriza­ tion of Neapolitan art in The Lives, they have not explored the nature of Vasari’s relationship with the city in depth. After a review of the historiographical literature on Naples, this chapter explores one of the sources of Naples’s negative characterization by considering the way in which Vasari constructed Naples in The Lives through his account of his own time in the city and the commissions he received, as well as through the ways in which Naples is presented in other sections of The Lives. It raises important questions about the construction of Vasari’s Lives as a work of ‘fiction’, to use Paul Barolsky’s term. 27 Following Barolsky’s lead, scholars have increasingly made Vasari’s Vite a subject of scholarly investigation, both in relation to the accuracy of the information contained in the text,28 and also in terms of its status as a literary work.29 It is only through a conscious recognition of Vasari’s critical perspective that his characterization of art and architecture in Naples can usefully be considered, and historians can begin to unravel his text, mindful of the many tropes and rhetorical devices embedded within it. Vasari’s Tuscan preferences are well known.30 This chapter consequently goes beyond a view of Vasari’s Naples as an example of a city that does not conform to his Tuscan-centric expectations in order to explore the tensions between Vasari’s characterization of 18

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the city as backward and the reality of Naples as a thriving cosmopolitan centre, ruled, through viceroys, by the Spanish Habsburgs, whose empire stretched across Europe and as far afield as Mexico. Generally, since Vasari, and in great part as a result of his text, art historians of the Renaissance have paid little attention to Naples as an artistic centre. If they have discussed it, their judgements have been largely negative. Renaissance survey texts provide ample evidence of these approaches. Books such as Sydney Freedberg’s Painting in Italy 1500–1600 (1971) characterized the city as a minor artistic centre. After describing Naples as a ‘provincial’ school, Freedberg commented that ‘getting Naples into step with the sixteenth-century develop­ ments took a full half-century, and even then it was without conspicuous result in terms of the quality of local art.’31 Frederick Hartt admitted in his foreword to the first edition of his History of Italian Renaissance Art (1969) that he held a particular torch for Tuscan art.32 In later editions of his text he added increased coverage of ‘Northern Italian painters’ but never ventured to include Naples.33 A muchneeded recent corrective to these longstanding negative attitudes towards Neapolitan art and architecture is found in John Paoletti and Gary Radke’s Art in Renaissance Italy (2005).34 In discussing renaissance art in Naples and southern Italy, Paoletti and Radke recognize the important influence that Naples held as a centre for artistic exchange, commenting: ‘the transfer of style from one urban center to another provided opportunities for change and cross-fertilization, suggesting that the center did not always hold a dominating force when confronted by the periphery, if for no other reason than that one person’s periphery was another’s center.’35 Since the mid-1990s a growing body of specialist studies has drawn long-overdue attention to the significant role Naples played as a cultural capital.36 The recent interest shown by Anglo-American and European art historians in Neapolitan art has benefited greatly from a rich tradition of local scholarship which flourished even in the face of general widespread neglect of the artistic culture of the city. The post-unification erudite tradition of Neapolitan local history was founded by Bartolommeo Capasso (1815–1900) and prospered in the scholarship of the Societa` Napoletana di Storia Patria of which he was a longstanding president. Benedetto Croce (1866–1952), Giuseppe Ceci (1863–1938) and Michelangelo Schipa (1854–1939), amongst others, inherited this historio­ graphical tradition and gave it a popular forum in the journal Napoli Nobilissima (which first appeared in 1892). However, later in his career as an established and influential philosopher, Benedetto Croce increasingly disparaged local history. His equation of storia locale with political ideologies of regionalism ignored the broader national and pan-European scope of the scholarly tradition of Capasso and had far-reaching effects on the writing of Neapolitan history in the twentieth century. Regardless of the consequences of this polemic, the works of Capasso, Croce and their circles, published in such journals as Napoli Nobilissima and Archivio per le province napoletane, have been foundational in the development of a modern tradition of Neapolitan historiography, and their studies continue to be a rich source for documentary evidence and archival material.37 The reasons for the neglect of Naples are, therefore, diverse and complex, but Vasari’s book remains an important influence on the art-historical assessment of Naples. A brief comparison of Vasari’s view of some Italian cities will clarify 19

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further Vasari’s characterization of Naples in The Lives. During the course of his artistic career and during the research he carried out for the first and second editions of The Lives, Vasari had cause to visit a number of major Italian cities. Significantly, he first went to Rome in 1532 and returned to the city on multiple occasions throughout his lifetime.38 His characterization of Rome in The Lives demonstrates the importance it held for Vasari. Maureen Pelta has described Vasari’s Rome as not so much ‘a geographical destination but . . . an aesthetic designation, a plane of artistic accomplishment’.39 However, it was also a real destination, important because it enabled aspiring painters, sculptors and architects to study the art of classical Rome, something Vasari considered vital for their artistic education. Throughout The Lives Vasari emphasizes that the essential task of an artist is to study art from antiquity, as well as contemporary work by great masters, in order to obtain a visual inventory upon which to draw in the process of invention (invenzione). Vasari stresses the ‘transformative’ nature of the study of classical remains in Rome in the lives of some of those artists for whom he reserved most praise. In his Life of Filippo Brunelleschi, for example, he describes how, on arriving in Rome: Brunelleschi seeing the grandeur of the buildings and the perfection of the forms of the temples . . . And so, having made arrangements to measure the cornices and take the plans of those buildings, he and Donatello kept labouring continuously, sparing neither time nor expense. And Filippo was free of domestic cares and he gave himself over to the study of them, so that he cared neither to eat or to sleep . . . having two great ideas in his mind: the one to restore the knowledge of good architecture . . . the other to find a way, if it were possible, of raising the cupola of S. Maria del Fiore in Florence.40

Vasari considered a sojourn in Rome as a sine qua non for a truly successful artist. In addition to the classical remains available in Rome, the city was the centre of the Catholic Church. It therefore offered numerous opportunities for obtaining patronage from the princes of the Church. Vasari himself received commissions for the Palazzo della Cancelleria and the church of San Pietro in Montorio, amongst others. In the Palazzo della Cancelleria, Vasari painted scenes from the life of Paul III (1545–46) for Cardinal Alessandro Farnese; while in San Pietro in Montorio he undertook the decoration of the del Monte Chapel (1550–53), in collaboration with Bartolommeo Ammanati, for Pope Julius III.41 Vasari also visited Venice and here, too, he was successful in obtaining the commission for a painted ceiling for Giovanni Cornaro’s palace.42 Yet, despite his personal knowledge of the city, Vasari devoted little space to it or to Venetian artists in Le Vite. While the 1550 edition contains discussion of artists such as Giovanni Bellini and Giorgione, Vasari failed to discuss many other key artists who worked in Venice. Titian appears simply as an aside in the Lives of the Bellini and Giorgione. When he came to write the 1568 edition Vasari had greater knowledge of the city and this edition offers, in part, a corrective to some of his original oversights. For example, he edited his Life of Giorgione, corrected previously misattributed work in the Life of Sebastiano del Piombo, and added the Lives of Titian and Jacopo Sansovino. However, Vasari still paid relatively little attention to Venice. Not only did he consider Venetian painters to be mistaken in their emphasis on colour rather than disegno, he also viewed Venice 20

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as a city rooted in its medieval past. Local artists in Venice had no classical heritage of which to take advantage and they suffered because of this.43 It was only in the second edition of his text that Vasari recognized the many foreign artists who came to Venice, and it was through their knowledge of Roman art that the city was transformed.44 Yet artists in Naples had direct access to the Greek and Roman past of the city: numerous works of the fifteenth century attest to the ways in which they took advantage of their heritage.45 Vasari’s blindness to this puts his neglect of Naples in a different category to his treatment of Venice, a city without a visible classical heritage and one which was already in political decline. Throughout The Lives, Vasari makes many references to Neapolitan art and architecture. He tells us, for instance, of artists such as Giotto and Polidoro da Caravaggio, who travelled to Naples. He also mentions artists whose works, he claims, had an impact in Naples, such as the sculptors Donatello and Antonio Rossellino, who both prepared works in Tuscany which were later sent to Naples.46 In these cases, Naples is revealed through the experience of foreigners from outside the regno. In contrast, Vasari’s discussion of artists from within the regno is limited but particularly telling. Amongst artists from the regno, he gives some of his greatest praise to the Calabrian Marco Calavarese (Cardisco), to whom he dedicates a brief Life in Part 3. Vasari praises Cardisco for his altarpiece in Sant’Agostino and notes that he had many patrons amongst the Neapolitan nobles. Yet Vasari also emphasizes that Marco suffered because of the lack of competition in the artistic milieu of Naples. For Vasari, Naples had seduced the artist, who had been destined for a better place – Rome: He had been minded, on setting out, to make his way to Rome, and there to achieve the end that rewards the student of painting; but the song of the Siren was so sweet to him . . . that he remained a prisoner in body of that land until he rendered up his spirit to Heaven and his mortal flesh to earth.47

While his discussion of other artists provides evidence of his attitudes towards the city, it is in Vasari’s own Life that some of the most detailed passages about art in the Kingdom of Naples are found. In the autobiographical story of his own artistic development, which he included as the last biography in the 1568 edition of The Lives, Vasari discusses the period of approximately one year which he spent living and working in Naples.48 In the autumn of 1544 Vasari arrived in the city in order to begin his commission to paint the refectory of the monastery of Santa Maria di Monteoliveto, now known as Sant’Anna dei Lombardi. In 1411 the Neapolitan nobleman Gurello Origlia had founded the monastery. During the reign of the Aragonese dynasty the rulers of the regno had lavished privileges and donations upon it thus making it particularly wealthy.49 The monastery held an influential reputation as one of the most important renaissance foundations in the city.50 Santa Maria di Monteoliveto is mentioned in The Lives long before it appears in the autobiography of Vasari. Earlier in his text, Vasari cites the works that Benedetto da Maiano, Antonio Rossellino and Pinturicchio completed in the church, and in the Life of Giuliano da Maiano he describes the foundation as ‘a very highly honoured monastery’.51 Throughout The Lives Vasari develops the theme of artistic genealogies by building a sense of continuity between genera­ 21

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3 Giorgio Vasari, fresco decoration in the monks’ refectory, c. 1544–45. Naples: Sant’Anna dei Lombardi. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

tions of artists linked through their work at a single institution.52 Through his discussion of the work of earlier artists at the church and monastery Vasari sets the stage for his own contributions. Prior to his arrival in Naples Vasari had developed close ties to the Olivetans through the work he had completed for them in a number of their other houses on the Italian peninsula. His initial connection with the Neapolitan monastery of Santa Maria di Monteoliveto was made through his early patron and friend, Don Miniato Pitti, the abbot of the Olivetan house in Pistoia, together with Don Ippolito of Milan, both of whom helped to facilitate the commission. Further­ more, Don Miniato had previously arranged for Vasari to receive major commis­ sions from the order, such as his work at San Michele in Bosco in Bologna (1539), and it was through his influence that Vasari was offered the commission in Naples by Don Gianmatteo d’Aversa, the abbot of the Neapolitan monastery.53 Vasari was asked to paint the refectory of the monastery and to decorate the walls and the ceiling of the room with scenes appropriate for the space as the monks’ primary dining hall. At this relatively early moment in the career of Vasari the commission would have been a valuable one for the artist. In his Ricordanze Vasari notes that he was paid 749 scudi for his work at the monastery; the largest 22

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payment he had received in his career to date.54 Yet, Vasari states that initially he was not keen to take on the project. The reason he gives for this is that the refectory and the whole monastery were built in an ancient manner of archi­ tecture, with the vaults in pointed arches ‘and I doubted the work could bring me little honour.’55 Persuaded by Don Miniato who, after lengthy correspondence, convinced Vasari that he must take on the commission regardless of his initial reservations, the artist finally did commence the project and by January of 1545 he was well into the work.56 In his Life, Vasari deliberately presents himself as an artist who takes on commissions for ‘honour’ rather than money. He crafts his narrative to demon­ strate his ideas about the status of the artist as someone who works for glory and is above mundane financial considerations. Thus, Vasari’s pejorative description of the refectory as being in ‘an old architectural style’ should not be taken at face value. By describing the ‘pointed arches’ of the refectory, Vasari relegates the architecture to an outmoded ‘gothic’ style and heightens his achievement in bringing the ‘modern manner’ to the city (plate 3).57 The role he casts for himself as one responsible for bringing innovative and superior methods of art to Naples, a centre that, in his view, had still not been influenced by the work of talented and knowledgeable artists, is further reinforced in his explanation of the impact his art had upon the city. Following his account of his work in the refectory and his description of his painting of The Presentation in the Temple (plate 4), which he completed for the high altar of the Olivetan church in Naples, he concludes that: ‘It is an extraordinary thing that in this noble and great city no masters had done any painting of importance from the time of Giotto until then.’58 Vasari emphasizes his own crucial position in the development of Neapolitan artistic culture and creates a role for himself as the artist hero responsible for reviving an artistic tradition begun by Giotto in Naples, a city which he presents as lacking in adequate models and examples of technical and stylistic excellence. By comparing himself to Giotto – about whom he wrote at the beginning of The Lives, ‘after the methods of good paintings and their outlines had lain buried for many years under the ruins of the wars, he alone, although born among inept craftsmen, by the gift of God, revived that art’59 – Vasari succeeds in two major aims. He presents himself as Giotto’s successor, an extremely important role given the structure of The Lives, which proceeds from the ‘youth’ of the first age (Giotto and Cimabue) to the maturity of Vasari’s period.60 Vasari praises Giotto above every other painter of the ‘first age’, celebrating him as a follower of nature. For Vasari, truth to nature was the most important means for judging an artist.61 Secondly, Vasari demonstrates the primacy of Tuscan art. For him, it is the only art of any worth in Naples over the course of two centuries. Within the space of a few sentences, Vasari has swept away the rich legacy of Neapolitan art between the fourteenth and the sixteenth centuries. Ironically, Vasari was able to do this precisely because there was an impressive and eclectic artistic tradition in Naples, one which included the works of Roman and Tuscan artists such as Pietro Cavallini, Tino di Camaino and Donatello.62 The complicated political history of Naples ensured that local artists had access to styles from a wider geographical area than Vasari could have known. From the twelfth century Naples had been ruled, in succession, by Swabian, Angevin, Aragonese and French kings.63 By the time Vasari arrived in the city the kingdom 23

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was in the hands of viceroys answerable to the Spanish Hapsburg dynasty,64 and, as has already been noted, the art and architecture of Naples reflected its cosmopolitan history. Yet Vasari judged the work of artists in Naples according to standards developed through his own artistic experience in Florence and Rome, assuming the position of an educated and worldly master with whose superior knowledge local artists could not compete. In The Lives, Vasari had set up an Italian and specifically Tuscan paradigm, one that could not cope with the status of Naples as a world city. He exposed his investment in this perspective, and his willingness to overlook good work in the service of self-promotion, when he credited key monuments and artistic influences in the city to artists who, like himself, had trained and worked primarily in the artistic centres of Florence and Rome. Following his condemnation of local artistic culture from the time of Giotto until his arrival in the city, Vasari disclosed that during this period the imported works of both Raphael and Perugino could be found in Naples. He drew attention to the Assumption of the Virgin with St Januarius and Cardinal Oliviero Carafa (plate 5), which Perugino painted in 1508 for the high altar of the Naples Cathedral (now held in the Carafa Chapel) and the Madonna del Pesce by Raphael (plate 6), which was recorded in 1524 in San Domenico Maggiore (now in the Prado, Madrid).65 By limiting his discussion of ‘painting of importance’ in Naples to works by foreign artists from more northern cities, Vasari consciously portrays Naples as a peripheral centre which had experienced little sustained influence from signifi­ cant artists (until Vasari’s own arrival in the city) and had itself asserted no artistic influence of its own.66 Essentially, Vasari was unable to appreciate the variety of styles and international influences which co-exist in a world city. In the Life of the Florentine artist Giotto (1267–1337) he points to some of the reasons for the perceived historic dearth of a worthy local Neapolitan artistic tradition.67 In his story of Giotto’s depiction of King Robert of Anjou’s kingdom as an ass bearing a packsaddle loaded with the crown and sceptre and a similar saddle holding the same symbols of sovereignty placed at the animal’s feet, Vasari demonstrates the problems inherent in providing the stability which he believed was necessary to encourage the training and development of artists in Naples. Through the dialogue which he created between Robert of Anjou and Giotto, Vasari demon­ strated the astute perception of the artist, who was able to reduce the regno’s political history to a swiftly conceived caricature.68 The story enhances Giotto’s status (an equal of the king); and constructs Giotto as a man of great intellect and quick wit (a model for Vasari), an artist who worked with incredible facility (a model for Vasari’s peers).69 Although Robert of Anjou was, in fact, a significant patron of arts and letters who brought a number of intellectuals to his court, including Petrarch, in Vasari’s text he is represented as a patron who is outclassed by the foreign artists who work for him and who is unable to provide the conditions and knowledge necessary to support local artists.70 The theme of political stability and the interest of knowledgeable patrons in promoting the arts to support and glorify their reigns is a recurring theme within The Lives, and Vasari argues that these conditions are essential for the develop­ ment of a successful artistic culture. In his biography of Michelangelo, Vasari builds important links between the artist’s spectacular rise to an unrivalled pinnacle of artistic accomplishment and the crucial support he received from the 24

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4 Giorgio Vasari, The Presentation in the Temple, 1544–45. Oil on panel, 394 � 276 cm. Naples: Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

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5 Perugino, Assumption of the Virgin with St Januarius and Cardinal Oliviero Carafa, 1508. Oil on panel, 500 � 330 cm. Naples: Carafa Chapel, Naples Cathedral. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

Medici in Florence.71 The members of the Medici dynasty are given a vital role in nurturing and supporting the artist and, in turn, they claim the honour and fame that Michelangelo and the Florentine artistic tradition brought upon the city. Vasari’s fashioning of an image of the Medici as consistent patrons engaged and interested in the arts was intended to praise his current patron, Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici, to whom he dedicated both the 1550 and 1568 versions of his text, yet it 26

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6 Raphael, Madonna del Pesce, c. 1513–14. Oil on wood, transferred to canvas, 215 � 158 cm. Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado. Photo: Reproduced with permission of the Museo Nacional del Prado.

also enhanced the historical myth-making about the city of Florence which is at the heart of The Lives. In the Life of Michelangelo Vasari connects different generations of the Medici in order to create an impression of political stability and continuity in Florence. By linking artistic and political history in the Life of Michelangelo Vasari invents a smooth and natural transition for the city of Florence from a republic in the time of Lorenzo de’ Medici to the ducal court of Cosimo de’ Medici. Within the literary framework of The Lives, the exemplary patronage and support for the arts in Medicean Florence is strengthened by the counter-example of Naples. The Kingdom of Naples had traditionally been ruled by a succession of foreign monarchs. In Vasari’s eyes, this political instability had created conditions which made it difficult to support the growth of a rich and flourishing 27

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artistic culture. In 1544, when Vasari arrived in the city, Naples had been under the rule of the Spanish viceroys for the previous forty years.72 Between 1532 ` lvarez de Toledo and 1553, as viceroy for the Hapsburg monarchy, Pedro A dramatically expanded, altered and modernized the urban landscape of the city which served as the political and administrative centre of the larger Kingdom of Naples over which he ruled.73 As a learned and renowned patron of the arts, he not only commissioned grand architectural projects embellishing Castel Nuovo, the Certosa di San Martino and his royal villa at Pozzuoli, he was also an avid collector of antiquities.74 At his death in 1553 his substantial library of more than one hundred and twenty volumes, many of which he acquired in Naples, included architectural treatises and manuscripts on Greek and Roman antiquities.75 Despite this, Vasari did not trust the viceroys, as foreigners governing the regno on behalf of their imperial overlords, to hold a genuine interest in the cultural wellbeing and artistic development of the city. Vasari’s perception of the disastrous effects of Spanish rule in the regno and the viceroys’ alleged lack of interest in the cultural development of the city is hinted at in many of his biographies of artists who worked in the Kingdom of Naples. This theme features prominently in his Life of Polidoro da Caravaggio. As his name indicates, Polidoro was originally from Caravaggio near Milan, and he began working as an artist in Rome in the workshop of Raphael. It is now well known that between 1523 and 1524 Polidoro went to Naples, where he received many commissions from noble patrons to paint the fac¸ades and courtyards of their palaces all’antica.76 He returned to the city in 1527 and worked there for a year, completing decorative projects for noblemen, including the antiquarian and literary figure Bernardo Rota, as well as a number of altarpieces for religious institutions and confraternities. Interestingly, in his account Vasari does not mention Polidoro’s first sojourn in Naples, but instead begins his version of the artist’s activities in the city by explaining that Polidoro arrived in Naples after the Sack of Rome in 1527.77 It is extremely unlikely that this oversight was due to a lack of information. From the period he spent in Naples, Vasari would have been familiar with the great fame of Polidoro in the city. Moreover, by the time he wrote The Lives he was associated with artists such as Giulio Romano and Perino del Vaga, who had been Polidoro’s friends and colleagues in Rome and who must have been a useful source for Vasari.78 By recounting only the sojourn in 1527, Vasari does not have to explain why Polidoro would wish to return to an artistic backwater. More than this, Polidoro’s journey to Naples is presented as forced on him by necessity. It was better than staying in Rome where, according to Vasari, his collaborator Maturino had died as a result of the hardships he suffered.79 Vasari invents his own beginning for Polidoro’s work in Naples recounting that although Polidoro came to the city in hope of finding patrons, instead he found Neapolitans indifferent to his talents. His explanation is that ‘the people of that place had little interest in excellent works of painting’, so much so that ‘Polidoro was on the point of dying of hunger there.’80 Vasari goes on to point out that although Polidoro eventually did paint a number of works in Naples, in the end, ‘finding his virtues to be poorly appreciated in Naples, Polidoro was determined to depart and leave people who made more account of a horse that could jump than of a master who could give life to the paintings depicted by his hands.’81 28

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As he did in the Life of Giotto, Vasari uses an animal as a device with which to indicate the circumstances of the city of Naples and its inhabitants. In the Life of Giotto, the ass alluded to the ignorance of the people of the regno who constantly looked for new powers to govern them. In the Life of Polidoro, the horse signifies the lack of cultivation of Neapolitans whose interest in worldly pleasures was to the detriment of their appreciation of, and support for, the arts. By the midsixteenth century Tuscan chronicles and accounts reveal that this perception of Neapolitans as lacking in civility and cultural sophistication was a popular contemporary stereotype. In a letter of 1539 addressed to Alessandro Corvino, the Tuscan scholar Bernardino Daniello described Naples as one of the most marvellous and beautiful cities he had ever seen, yet at the same time he claimed that the Neapolitans squandered its riches and wasted its potential. He famously described the citizens as devils living within an earthly paradise.82 Similarly, in the fifteenth century the popular Florentine satirical text Facezie Motti e Burle del Piovano Arlotto played on the image of Naples as a city of great natural wealth which suffered, however, as its citizens had ‘little ingenuity’ and were ‘malignant, bad and full of treason’.83 Vasari must have been familiar with contemporary stereotypes that portrayed Naples as suffering under the burden of unsophisti­ cated and crude citizens, and these perceptions shape and inform his account of Polidoro’s disappointing encounters with the people of Naples. In order to stress the depths to which Naples had sunk – ravaged by the plague and the French invasion84 – Vasari failed to highlight the significance of the commissions that Polidoro did receive. The large-scale works that Polidoro painted for Santa Maria delle Grazie alla Pescheria (plate 7) and Santa Maria delle Grazie a Caponapoli (called Sant’Angelo by Vasari) are given brief mention, and Vasari offers little praise for these devotional paintings in contrast to his admiration for Polidoro’s earlier work in Rome. For Vasari, when Polidoro arrived in Naples in 1527, his strength lay in his mastery of design (disegno), evident in his scenes from Roman myth and history that decorated the fac¸ades of noble palaces throughout Rome. Polidoro found limited interest in Naples for the chiaroscuro and sgraffito designs which had previously brought him fame.85 The lengthy account of Polidoro’s artistic triumphs in Rome which forms the first part of his Life is strengthened through the contrast created by Vasari’s subsequent grim portrayal of the situation in Naples. These strategies – the downplaying of Polidoro da Caravaggio’s career in Naples and the relatively brief mention of works by Raphael and Perugino – gave Vasari the opportunity to set himself up as the heir of Giotto in southern Italy. At the same time, within the constructed framework of The Lives, which often has as much to tell about Vasari himself as the artists he describes, Polidoro’s dismal encounters with the attitudes of the Neapolitans towards art and culture prefigure Vasari’s own account of the city. Potential patrons’ lack of interest in honourable works of art and Polidoro’s resulting rapid escape from the city foreshadows Vasari’s own experiences in Naples two decades later. Vasari’s ability to attract the interest of influential religious and secular patrons in Naples thus appears far greater because he was able to succeed where he portrays artists such as Polidoro as having failed. Vasari was also able to use his account of Polidoro’s experiences as an excuse for his own failures. 29

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7 Polidoro da Caravaggio, The Carrying of Christ, c. 1527. Oil on panel, 81 � 106 cm. Naples: Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

They were not personal failures, in Vasari’s narrative, but the failures of others. Such a construction allows Vasari to excuse his own lack of success with ` lvarez de Toledo. The viceroy was a powerful patron of the Spanish viceroy, Pedro A the arts and someone from whom Vasari might have expected patronage because of his political connections to the de facto rulers of Florence, forged through the marriage of the viceroy’s daughter Eleonora de Toledo to the son of the Grand Duke Cosimo de’Medici in 1539. It is not surprising that Vasari seems to have pursued the patronage of the viceroy in the hopes of winning his influential support.86 Initially, Vasari seems to have been quite successful; he painted fres­ coes in a chapel in the garden of the royal palace in Pozzuoli and was subse­ quently offered a larger project by the viceroy for the construction of two loggie.87 Vasari gives no further details of this grand commission awarded to him by the viceroy, but focuses on explaining why the project never got off the ground. Its collapse seems to have ended his hopes for building a successful career in the city. According to Vasari, before the work could begin some of the young men who were assisting him became involved in a dispute between the Olivetans and the viceroy. After a violent encounter with the Spanish authorities, Vasari’s assistants were forced to flee the city in fear of their lives, leaving Vasari with a number of major commissions but lacking the necessary help to execute the projects. Evidence of the importance of this conflict to the shaping of relations between 30

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these two groups is found in a letter of Don Ippolito of Milan to Vasari, written in July 1545.88 Distressed over receiving what he calls ‘scandalous and most disgraceful news’, he asks Vasari to provide him with more information about this dispute.89 In the hope that Vasari will be able to use his influence with the viceroy, Don Ippolito begs Vasari to help him to repair the damage caused by this conflict. With his long-standing loyalty to his good friends and Olivetan patrons Don Ippolito of Milan and Don Miniato Pitti and also a desire to maintain the patronage of the viceroy, Vasari may have felt that he was being placed in a politically difficult situation. Indeed, from his account of these events in The Lives it seems that they greatly diminished his optimism regarding the potential for a further career for himself in Naples. Although he had fared well during the year he had spent in Naples and had been given a number of high-profile commissions by the Olivetans, the Augustinians, the local nobility and the Spanish court, following the collapse of this project Vasari decided to move to Rome to complete his remaining Neapolitan commissions for paintings at a distance.90 In 1544 Vasari may have genuinely hoped that he had found a magnificent patron in the viceroy. In his autobiography, published over two decades later, his version of the events instead emphasizes the barriers beyond his control which kept their relationship from developing further. His experience in Naples accents the recurring theme throughout the text of The Lives of the importance of rulers in establishing political stability and in providing a context in which cultural and artistic innovation are able to flourish. By the 1560s Vasari’s own long-desired association with the Medici had been fulfilled and he held a central place at the Medici court.91 In this role he assumed an instrumental position in building the myth of Florentine and Tuscan cultural supremacy that the Medici aimed to propagate through visual and textual means. From this perspective, it was important to Vasari that the virtues of his current patron, Cosimo I de’ Medici were made to contrast with perceived and fictionalized failings of his earlier patrons, such as the viceroy. Throughout The Lives, Vasari characterizes Cosimo as the destined and legit­ imate ruler of Florence, one able to bring peace and prosperity to the city and its citizens through his generous support of the arts.92 Vasari’s dedication to Cosimo I in the 1550 edition of The Lives describes the lineage of illustrious Medici patrons from whom Cosimo is descended and notes their pivotal role in the rise of artistic culture in Florence: ‘it can be said that the arts were reborn in your state, indeed in your own most happily favoured house. Thus it is to the members of your house that the world owes the benefit of these arts, restored, embellished, and ennobled as they are in the present day.’93 Furthermore Vasari emphasizes Cosimo’s place within this distinguished lineage, describing him as ‘the heir to their virtue and their patronage’.94 Vasari creates an image of Cosimo as an ideal cinquecento ` lvarez de Toledo, who failed to prince and magnanimous patron. Unlike Pedro A retain Vasari’s services, Cosimo’s cultural authority is manifest in his position within a long line of artistic patrons, and his ability to draw the most talented artists to his city and support them in developing great works. The irony is that Vasari had gone to Naples originally because he could not obtain patronage in Florence. In Vasari’s description of the year he spent in Naples and of the experiences of other artists who worked in the city he presents a view of Naples which fits within 31

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the larger aims and intentions of The Lives. For Vasari, Naples is peripheral and backward, unable to rise above the foreign rulers who have claimed dominance over her, and with citizens who display a general indifference to artistic and cultural pursuits. Lacking a tradition of artistic innovation, as well as the support of knowledgeable and cultivated patrons, Naples is presented as a rhetorical foil for more northern centres, such as Rome and Florence. The contrast between Vasari’s artistic and civic ideals and the example of the city of Naples is encapsulated in his own autobiography, where Vasari assumes the role of the noble courtier heroically engaging with Neapolitans in order to enlighten and teach them, but in the end portrays them as being unable to rise above their own political, social, intellectual and artistic constraints. The realities of the cosmopolitan artistic cultures of sixteenth-century Naples were too complex for Vasari to assimilate within the structure of The Lives. Vasari was able to characterize Venetian art through the use of colour, and was able to recognize great Venetian artists, such as Titian, through this lens. Venice also obeyed another of Vasari’s criteria for a major artistic centre: it had enjoyed a stable government since the formation of the republic in 1297.95 Vasari’s treatment of Naples, therefore, reveals much more than his long-recognized incli­ nation to privilege the Tuscan; it shows the deficiencies, not only of his frame of reference for The Lives, but also of his framework in The Lives. Vasari portrayed Naples as peripheral and provincial because he allowed himself no means of recognizing or demonstrating that it was multicultural and cosmopolitan.

Notes

Preliminary versions of this chapter were delivered at the symposium ‘Visualising Paradise: The Mediterranean’, University of Leeds, 2004, and in the sessions devoted to Import/Export: Painting, Sculpture and Architecture in the Kingdom of Naples 1266–1568, at the Renaissance Society of America Annual Conference, San Francisco, 2006. I would like to extend my thanks to all those who offered insightful suggestions and comments on both occasions. I am especially grateful to Cordelia Warr, Janis Elliott and Bianca de Divitiis, who commented on an earlier draft of this chapter. The British Academy generously provided funding for this project. Thanks are extended to Luciano Pedicini (http://www.pedicinimages.com) for the provision of images.

1 During the course of the sixteenth century the population of the city of Naples rose dramatically, from 100,000 at the start to 300,000 by the end. Giuseppe Galasso, ‘Naples and the Baroque Period’, in Thomas J. Loughman, ed., Fierce Reality: Italian Masters from Seventeenth Century Naples, Milan, 2006, 18. 2 The Tavola Strozzi is the earliest existing visual record of Naples. Recent discussion of this painting is found in Cesare De Seta, Napoli fra rinascimento e illuminismo, Naples, 1991, 11–15, 32– 3, 48; Leonardo Di Mauro, La Tavola Strozzi, Naples, 1992; M. Del Treppo, ‘Le avventure stor­ iografiche della Tavola Strozzi’, in Fra storia e

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storiografia. Scritti in onore di Pasquale Villani, Bologna, 1994, 483–515; Stefano Palmieri, ‘La ‘‘Tavola di Casa Strozzi’’: variazioni sul tema’, Napoli nobilissima, 3/4, 2007, 171–82. 3 Pierluigi Leone de Castris and Paola Giusti, Pittura del Cinquecento a Napoli, 1510–1540, forastieri e regnicoli, Naples, 1985; Pierluigi Leone de Castris, Pittura del Cinquecento a Napoli, 1573–1606, l’ultima maniera, Naples, 1991; and Pierluigi Leone de Castris, Pittura del Cinquecento a Napoli, 1540–1573, Fasto e devozione, Naples, 1996. 4 See, most recently, Francesco Abbate, La scultura napoletana del Cinquecento, Rome, 1992, 181–258; Riccardo Naldi, Giovanni da Nola, Annibale Cacca­

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vello, Giovan Domenico D’Auria: sculture ‘ritrovate’ tra Napoli e Terra di Lavoro, 1545–1565, Naples, 2007. Abbate, La scultura napoletana, 149–80; Riccardo Naldi, Girolamo Santacroce: orafo e sculptore napole­ tano del Cinquecento, Naples, 1997. See, for example, Giovanni Previtali, ed., Andrea da Salerno nel Rinascimento meridionale, Florence, 1986; and Pierluigi Leone de Castris and Paola Giusti, Pittura del Cinquecento a Napoli, 1510–1540, forastieri e regnicoli, 2nd edn, Naples, 1988, 86– 186, 226–45. Andrea Zezza, ‘Giovan Bernardo Lama: ipotesi per un percorso’, Bollettino d’arte, 76, 1991, 1–30. See Ippolita Di Majo, Francesco Curia: l’opera completa, Naples, 2002. See George L. Hersey, Alfonso II and the Artistic Renewal of Naples 1485–1495, London, 1969, 44–81; and Andreas Beyer, Partenope: Neapel und der S.uden der Renaissance, Munich, 2000, 30–58. See Leone de Castris, Pittura del Cinquecento a Napoli, 1540–1573, 85–134. See Andrea Zezza, Marco Pino: l’opera completa, Naples, 2004; and Andrea Zezza, ed., Marco Pino: un protagonista della ‘maniera moderna’ a Napoli restauri nel centro storico, Naples, 2003. Giovan Tommaso di Malvito formed part of a flourishing community of Lombard artists in Naples. Abbate, La Scultura napoletana, 3–66; Yoni Ascher, ‘Tommaso Malvito and Neapolitan Tomb Design of the Early Cinquecento’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 63, 2000, 111–30. Marco Carminati, Cesare da Sesto 1477–1523, Rome, 1994. On the work of Spanish artists in Naples, see Abbate, La scultura napoletana, 67–180; Leone de Castris, Pittura del Cinquecento a Napoli, 1540–1573, 135–84. On Flemish artists, see Leone de Castris, Pittura del Cinquecento a Napoli, 1573–1606, 31–106; Carmela Vargas, Teodoro d’Errico, la maniera fiam­ minga nel Viceregno, Naples, 1988. For Oliviero Carafa, see, most recently, Angela Dreszen, ‘Oliviero Carafa committente ‘‘all’an­ tica’’ nel Succorpo del Duomo di Napoli’, Ro¨mische Historische Mitteilungen, 46, 2004, 165– 200. For Roberto Sanseverino, see Carlo De Frede, Il principe di Salerno Roberto Sanseverino e il suo palazzo in Napoli a punte di diamante, Naples, 2000. For Bernardino Rota, see Italo M. Iasiello, Il collezionismo di antichita` nella Napoli dei Vicere´, Naples, 2003, 139–41. Cesare Cundari, ed., Il complesso di Monteoliveto a Napoli: analisi, rilievi, documenti, informatizzazione degli archivi, Rome, 1999; Erminia Pepe, ‘Le tre cappelle rinascimentali in Santa Maria di Monteoliveto a Napoli’, Napoli nobilissima, 37, 1998, 97–116. See, for example, George L. Hersey, The Aragonese Arch at Naples: 1443–1475, New Haven, 1973; Rosanna Di Battista, ‘La porta e l’arco di Castel­ nuovo a Napoli’, Annali di architettura, 10–11, 1998/1999, 7–21; Arnaldo Venditti, ‘Sagrera da Maiorca a Castel Nuovo: architetti ispanici

18 19

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nell’architettura aragonese a Napoli’, in Cesare Cundari, ed., L’architettura di eta` aragonese nell’I­ talia Centro-Meridionale: verso la costituzione di un sistema informativo territoriale documentario icono­ grafico, Rome, 2007, 19–38. See Bianca de Divitiis, Architettura e Committenza nella Napoli del Quattrocento, Venice, 2007, 43–135. See, most recently, Benedetto Gravagnuolo, ‘Palazzo Orsini di Gravina’, in Arturo Fratta, ed., Il patrimonio architettonico dell’Ateneo Fridericiano, Naples, 2004, 147–72; Francesco Divenuto, ‘Il palazzo Orsini di Gravina a Napoli: dal Cinque­ cento al ripristino novecentesco’, Palladio, 32, 2003, 53–70. While it is clear that the construction of the arch involved collaboration between architects, there is still scholarly debate concerning the roles and responsibilities of the individuals involved. Even recent studies of renaissance art, such as the trilogy of volumes in the Open University’s series ‘Renaissance Art Reconsidered’, while not ignoring art in Naples entirely, provide little discussion of visual culture in the city. See Kim W. Woods, ed., Making Renaissance Art, vol. 1, London and New Haven, 2007; Carol M. Richardson, ed., Locating Renaissance Art, vol. 2, London and New Haven, 2007; and Kim W. Woods, Carol M. Richardson and Angeliki Lymberopoulou, eds, Viewing Renaissance Art, London and New Haven, 2007. The privileged role given in art history to work from central and northern Italy at the expense of the south has been recognized by some scholars of the renais­ sance. Alison Cole attempts to assess this inequality by analysing a variety of princely courts, including Naples under Alfonso I of Aragon. See Alison Cole, Virtue and Magnificence: Art of the Italian Renaissance Courts, London and New York, 1995, 44–65. Studies of Vasari and his contributions to the early history of Italian art are numerous. These include: T. S. R. Boase, Giorgio Vasari: The Man and the Book, Princeton, 1979; Patricia Rubin, Giorgio Vasari: Art and History, New Haven and London, 1995; Philip J. Jacks, ed., Vasari’s Florence: Artists and Literati at the Medicean Court, Cambridge, 1998. Vasari’s Vite was first published in 1550 and subsequently expanded and reprinted in 1568. The text is known in English as The lives of the most excellent painters, sculptors and architects and is commonly referred to simply as The Lives. All excerpts in this chapter are taken from: Giorgio ` eccellenti pittori, scultori e Vasari, Le vite de’ piu architettori nelle redazioni del 1550 e 1568, eds Rosanna Bettarini and Paola Barocchi, 6 vols, Florence, 1966–67. Unless otherwise noted, quotations are taken from the 1568 edition and all translations are the author’s. Giovanni Previtali, ‘Il Vasari e l’Italia meridio­ nale’, in Vasari storiografo e artistica, Atti del congresso nel IV centenario della morte (Arezzo– Florence, 1974), Florence, 1976, 691–9. For the quotation, see 693.

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25 Previtali added, however, that Vasari could not be held up as the sole cause of the obliteration of Naples from the modern critical conscience. Concerned with the impact of Vasari’s work, he focused on the wide-ranging historiographical consequences of The Lives and the polemical response of later Neapolitan writers. Giovanni Previtali, La fortuna dei primitivi dal Vasari ai neoclassici, Turin, 1964, 64–9; Giovanni Previtali, ‘Teodoro d’Errico e la ‘‘questione meridionale’’’, Prospettiva, 3, 1975, 17–34. 26 Ferdinando Bologna, I pittori alla corte angioina di Napoli 1266–1414 e un riesame dell’arte nell’eta` Fridericiana, Rome, 1969, 5. 27 Paul Barolsky, ‘Fear of Fiction: The Fun of Reading Vasari’, in Anne B. Barriault, Andrew Ladis, Norman E. Land and Jeryldene M. Wood, eds, Reading Vasari, London, 2005, 31–7. 28 Charles Hope, ‘Can You Trust Vasari?’, New York Review of Books, 5, 1995, 10–13. 29 Paul Barolsky has been instrumental in bringing this aspect of Vasari’s writing to the fore. See Paul Barolsky, Michelangelo’s Nose: A Myth and its Maker, University Park, PA, 1990; Paul Barolsky, Why Mona Lisa Smiles and Other Tales by Vasari, University Park, PA, 1991; Paul Barolsky, Giotto’s Father and the Family of Vasari’s Lives, University Park, PA, 1992. The fictional and literary elements of Vasari’s Vite have most recently been explored in Barriault et al., Reading Vasari. 30 Vasari’s Tuscan bias was recognized by his sixteenth-century contemporaries, but as Edward Goldberg has argued, ‘his Tuscanophile stance was not polemical since no discordant views had yet been voiced.’ Edward Goldberg, After Vasari: History, Art and Patronage in Late Medici Florence, Princeton, 1988, 9. However, his work inspired the writing of subsequent regional art histories, such as Carlo Cesare Malvasia, Felsina Pittrice, Bologna, 1678, and Carlo Ridolfi, Mara­ viglie dell’arte, Venice, 1648, which sought to celebrate the specific local artistic cultures overlooked in The Lives. In a similar vein, Bernardo de Dominici’s Vite de’ pittori, scultori ed architetti napoletani, Naples, 1742–45, was intended to be both a continuation of the history of Neapolitan art presented by Vasari and a critical re-evaluation of this earlier work. De Dominici’s text has recently appeared in a new critical edition: Bernardo de Dominici, Vite de’pittori, scultori ed architetti napoletani, eds Fior­ ella Sricchia Santoro and Andrea Zezza, Naples, 2003. On Vasari’s Tuscan bias and the reception of The Lives, see, for example, Rubin, Giorgio Vasari, 1995. 31 S.J. Freedberg, Painting in Italy 1500 to 1600, London, 1971, 487–8. 32 ‘I admit to a personal slant in favour of Tuscany, and especially Florence’: Frederick Hartt, History of Italian Renaissance Art, New York, 1969, 7. 33 The most recent versions of the text have been by edited and revised by David G. Wilkins: 4th edn (1994), 5th edn (2001) and 6th edn (2006). Even

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Wilkins’s update of Hartt (2006) does not include Naples, out of respect for ‘Hartt’s thesis that Renaissance art evolved in Florence and had its most fulfilling later development in Rome, Siena, and Venice’. Wilkins has further inter­ esting things to say on the subject in his preface to the 6th edn, 9–11. John Paoletti and Gary Radke, Art in Renaissance Italy, London and New York, 2005, in three editions. The section on Naples has grown slightly larger with each edition – fifteen pages in the 1st edition (1997), eighteen pages in the 2nd edition (2002) and twenty pages in the 3rd edition (2005). It is pertinent to note that the image chosen for the cover of the 1st edition was from southern Italy: a detail of the wedding chest (cassone), now held in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, originally made for the marriage of the King of Naples, Ladislas of Durazzo and Maria d’Enghien, Countess of Lecce and Brienne. Paoletti and Radke, Art in Renaissance Italy, 243. For instance: Francesco Abbate, Storia dell’arte nell’Italia meridionale: Il Sud angioino e aragonese, Rome, 1998; Pierluigi Leone de Castris, Giotto a Napoli, Naples, 2006; Naldi, Girolamo Santacroce; and Zezza, Marco Pino: l’opera completa. Recent studies of visual culture during the Angevin, Aragonese and Spanish Hapsburg periods by scholars outside Italy include: Caroline Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples: Church Building in the Angevin Kingdom 1266–1343, New Haven and London, 2004; Yoni Ascher, ‘Politics and Commemoration in Renaissance Naples: the case of Caterina Pignatelli’, Zeitschrift f.ur Kunstgeschichte, 69, 2006, 145–68; and Beyer, Partenope. For further discussion of the development of local Neapolitan historiography, see Aurelio Musi, ed., Dimenticare Croce? Studi e orientamenti di storia del Mezzogiorno, Naples, 1991; Thomas ` stata opera di critica onesta, liberale, Willette, ‘E italiana: Croce and Napoli nobilissima (1892– 1906)’, in Jack d’Amico, Dain A. Trafton and Massimo Verdicchio, eds, The Legacy of Benedetto Croce: Contemporary Critical Views, Toronto, 1999, 52–87; Mario Del Treppo, ‘Bartolommeo Capasso, la storia, l’erudizione’, in Giovanni Vitolo, ed., Bartolommeo Capasso. Storia, filologia, erudizione nella Napoli dell’ Ottocento, Napoli, 2005, 15–131; and Bianca de Divitiis, ‘Building in Local all’antica Style: The Palace of Diomede Carafa in Naples’, in this volume. I am grateful to the author for sending me a copy of her chapter prior to publication. For a biographical outline of the artist’s career, see Rubin, Giorgio Vasari, 9–19. On Vasari’s views of Rome and its place within The Lives, see the collection of essays in the section ‘Vasari’s Rome and the Noble Origins of Art’, in Barriault et al., Reading Vasari, 117–68. Maureen Pelta, ‘‘‘If he, with his genius, had lived in Rome’’: Vasari and the transformative myth of

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Rome’, in Barriault et al., Reading Vasari, 154–68, 164. ‘[V]edendo la grandez[z]a degli edifizii e la perfezzione dei corpi de’ tempii . . . E cosı´ dato ordine a misurare le cornice e lever le piante di quegli edifizii, egli e Donato continuamente seguitando, non perdonarono ne´ a tempo ne´ a spesa. Era Filippo sciolto da le cure familiari, e datosi in preda agli studii non si curava di suo mangiare o dormire: solo l’intento suo era l’architettura, che gia` era spenta, dico gli ordini antichi buoni . . . Et aveva in se´ duoi concetti grandissimi: l’uno era il tornare a luce la buona architettura . . . l’altro di trovar modo se e’ si potesse a voltare la cupola di Santa Maria del Fiore di Fiorenza’: Vasari, Le vite, vol. 3, 148. Vasari describes these commissions in his own biography: Vasari, Le vite, vol. 6, 387–8, 396–7. On Vasari’s commissions in the Palazzo della Cancelleria, see Clare Robertson, ‘Il Gran Cardi­ nale’ Alessandro Farnese Patron of the Arts, London and New Haven, 1992, esp. 53–69. For the del Monte chapel, see Alessandro Nova, ‘The Chron­ ology of the De Monte Chapel in S. Pietro in Montorio in Rome’, Art Bulletin, 66, 1984, 150–4. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 6, 381–2; and Juergen Schulz, ‘Vasari at Venice’, Burlington Magazine, 103, 1961, 500–11. For example, in his life of Titian in the 1568 edition, Vasari notes that Giorgione, Jacopo Palma and Pordenone had ‘concealed beneath the glamour of colouring the painful fruits of the ignorance of design, in the manner that was followed for many years by the Venetian painters . . . who never saw Rome or any other works of absolute perfection’. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 6, 155–6. As Majorie Och has convincingly argued, Vasari recognized that, following the Sack of Rome in 1527, Venice held the potential to be transformed by the subsequent influx of foreign artists arriving in the city with first-hand knowledge of the all’antica style gained in Rome: ‘Vasari on Venice’, unpublished paper delivered by Och at the Renaissance Society of America Annual Conference, Chicago, 2008. On the presence of antique monuments in Naples and their reception by later artists, see Stefano Borsi, Giuliano da Sangallo: i disegni di architettura e dell’antico, Rome, 1985; Stefania Adamo Muscettola, ‘Napoli e le ‘‘belle ante­ chetate’’’, in Fausto Zevi, ed., Neapolis, Naples, 1994, 196–208; Adriano Ghisetti Giavarina, ‘Andrea Palladio e le antichita` della Campania, I/ II’, Napoli Nobilissima, 36, 1997, 207–14 and 38, 1999, 7–16. It is also interesting that, perhaps not inadvertently, Vasari mentions nothing in The Lives about his longstanding competitor, the Neapolitan artist and antiquarian Pirro Ligorio. While Ligorio spent much of his career outside the regno, it was in Naples, during the first two decades of his life, that he first encountered the culture of Roman antiquity which would later become a central theme in his artistic output.

46

47

48

49

50 51 52

53 54

55

See David Coffin, Pirro Ligorio. The Renaissance Artist, Architect and Antiquarian, University Park, PA, 2004, 1, 5. Antonio Rossellino’s Nativity of 1475 was carved in Florence and subsequently sent to Naples and installed in the Piccolomini Chapel in Santa Mario di Monteoliveto. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 3, 393. The tomb of Cardinal Rinaldo Brancacci was carved in Pisa by Michelozzo and Donatello and sent to Naples, where it was installed in the church of Sant’Angelo a Nido. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 3, 213. ‘[S]e bene indrizzato aveva il camino per venir­ sene a Roma, et in quella ultimare il fine che si cava dallo studio della pittura. Ma sı´ gli fu dolce ` corpo di quell il canto della Serena . . . ch’e’ resto sito, finche´ rese lo spirito al cielo et alla terra il mortale.’ Vasari, Le vite, vol. 4, 525. The exact dates of Vasari’s sojourn in Naples are not clear. It appears that he arrived in the autumn of 1544 and stayed until September 1545. Studies of Vasari’s work at Sant’Anna dei Lombardi include Pierluigi Leone De Castris, ‘Napoli 1544: Vasari e Monteoliveto’, Bollettino d’Arte, 66, 1981, 59–88; and Liana De Girolami Cheney, ‘Vasari and the Monteolivetan Order’, in Jeanne Chenault Porter and Susan Scott Munshower, eds, Parthenope’s Splendor: Art of the Golden Age in Naples, University Park, PA, 1993, 49– 80. Further examination of the work Vasari completed in Naples is found in Giovanni Previ­ tali, La pittura del Cinquecento a Napoli e nel Vice­ reame, Turin, 1978, 40–4; Roberto Pane, ‘Vasari e Dosio nella Napoli vicereale’, in Il potere e lo spazio. Firenze e la Toscana dei Medici nell’Europa del ‘500, Florence, 1980, 252–4; Pierluigi Leone de Castris, Pittura del Cinquecento a Napoli, 1540–1573, 85–134. For the early history of the foundation of the church and the subsequent change of its name in 1581, see Franco Strazzullo, ‘La fondazione di Monteoliveto di Napoli’, Napoli Nobilissima, 3, 1963, 103–11; Leone De Castris, ‘Napoli 1544’; De Girolami Cheney, ‘Vasari and the Monteolivetan Order’. See Arnaldo Venditti’s comments in Cundari, Il complesso di Monteoliveto a Napoli, 38. ‘[M]onasterio in quel luogo onoratissimo’. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 3, 255. On Vasari’s construction of fraternities of artists, see Hayden B.J. Maginnis, ‘Giotto’s World through Vasari’s Eyes’, Zeitschrift f.ur Kunst­ geschichte, 56, 1993, 385–408. For Vasari’s use of literal and figurative artistic genealogies in The Lives, see Barolsky, Giotto’s Father. De Girolami Cheney, ‘Vasari and the Monteoli­ vetan Order’, 56. Giorgio Vasari, Il Libro delle Ricordanze di Giorgio Vasari, ed. Alessandro del Vita, Arezzo, 1927, 46–8. ‘[Q]uando giunsi fui per non accettare l’opera, essendo quel refettorio e quel monasterio fatto d’architettura antica e con le volte a quarti acuti,

35

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56

57

58

59

60

61 62

63

36

e basse e cieche di lumi, dubitando di non avere ad acquistarvi poco onore.’ Vasari, Le vite, vol. 6, 384. The extensive correspondence between Vasari, Don Minato and Don Ippolito is published in Karl Frey, Der literarische Nachlass Giorgio Vasari, vol. 1, New York, 1982. On Vasari’s work at San Michele in Bosco, see De Girolami Cheney, ‘Vasari and the Monteolivetan Order’. ‘[M]i risolvei a fare tutte le volte di esso refettorio lavorate di stucchi per levar via, con ricchi partimenti di maniera moderna, tutta quella vecchiaia e goffez[z]a di sesti.’ Vasari, Le vite, vol. 6, 384. ‘Ma e` gran cosa che, dopo Giotto, non era stato insino allora in si nobile e gran citta` maestri che in pittura avessino fatto alcuna cosa d’impor­ tanza.’ Vasari, Le vite, vol. 6, 385. ‘[E] ssendo stati sotterrati tanti anni dalle ruine delle guerre i modi delle buone pitture e i dintorni di quelle, egli solo, ancora che nato fra artefici inetti, con celeste dono quella ch’era per ` e redusse ad una forma da mala via resuscito chimar buona’: Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2, 95. See also, Hayden B.J. Maginnis, Painting in the Age of Giotto. A Historical Re-evaluation, University Park, PA, 1997, 23. Vasari explains the structure of his text in the preface to Part 2, noting that he has divided his book into three chronological ages, each defined by specific characteristics. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 3, 3– 19. For further discussion of the structure of Vasari’s text, see Rubin, Giorgio Vasari, 1–7. Eric Fernie, Art History and its Methods. A Critical Anthology, London, 1995, 26. On Cavallini, see Alessandro Tomei, Pietro Caval­ lini, Milan, 2000, 120–33; and Cathleen Fleck, ‘The Rise of the Court Artist: Cavallini and Giotto in Fourteenth-Century Naples’, in this volume. I thank Cathleen Fleck for providing me with a copy of her chapter prior to publication. On Tino di Camaino, see Ottavio Morisani, Tino di Camaino a Napoli, Naples, 1945; Julian Gardner, ‘A Princess among Prelates: A Fourteenth-Century Neapo­ litan Tomb and some Northern Relations’, Ro¨misches Jahrbuch fu. r Kunstgeschichte, 23, 1988, 29– 60; and Francesco Aceto, ‘Tino di Camaino a Napoli’, Dialoghi di storia dell’arte, 1, 1995, 10–27. On the work of Donatello and Michelozzo in Naples, see Ottavio Morisani, ‘Il monumento Brancacci nell’ambiente napoletano del Quat­ trocento’, in Donatello e il suo tempo: atti del VIII Convegno Internazionale di Studi sul Rinascimento, Florence, 1968, 207–13; and Ronald Lightbown, Donatello and Michelozzo: An Artistic Partnership and its Patrons in the Early Renaissance, London, 1980, 83–127. The history of southern Italy during these periods is found in Andre´ Guillou et al., Il Mezzogiorno dai bizantini a Federico II, Turin, 1983; and Giuseppe Galasso, Il regno di Napoli: il Mezzo­ giorno angioino e aragonese (1266–1474), Turin, 1992.

64 The Kingdom of Naples became part of the vast Spanish empire in 1503. For discussion of Naples under Spanish rule, see Giuseppe Galasso, Il regno di Napoli: il Mezzogiorno spagnolo (1494–1622), Turin, 2005. 65 Vasari, Le vite, vol. 6, 385. For Perugino, see vol. 3, 605; for Raphael, see vol. 4, 184–5. Perugino painted The Assumption of the Virgin with St Januarius and Cardinal Oliviero Carafa for the Neapolitan Oliviero Carafa. In the Life of Peru­ gino, Vasari confuses the subject matter of this painting (describing it as including a tomb) and refers to it as being in Carafa’s palace. Scholars remain uncertain about the specific circum­ stances surrounding the commission for the painting by Raphael. In his famous letter to Marcantonio Michiel, Pietro Summonte places it in San Domenico. See Fausto Nicolini, L’Arte Napoletana del Rinascimento e La Lettera di Pietro Summonte a Marcantonio Michiel, Naples, 1925, 164. 66 Vasari, Le vite, vol. 6, 385. 67 Giotto worked for King Robert of Anjou at the royal court in Naples between 1328 and 1333. Useful sources on Giotto’s activity in Naples include Bologna, I pittori alla corte angioina, 179– 227; Pierlugi Leone de Castris, Arte di corte nella Napoli angioina, Naples, 1986, 313–73; Pierluigi Leone de Castris, ‘La Peinture a` Naples, de Charles Ier a` Robert d’Anjou’ in L’Europe des Anjou. Aventure des princes angevins du XIIIe au XVe sie`cle, Paris, 2001, 104–21; Leone de Castris, Giotto a Napoli; and Fleck, ‘The Rise of the Court Artist.’ 68 ‘[T]ali i sudditi suoi essere e tale il suo regno, nel quale ogni giorno nuovo signore desideravano’. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2, 109. 69 For Vasari’s interest in improving the status of the artist, see Rubin, Giorgio Vasari, 21–59. 70 For Robert of Anjou as a patron of art and literature, see Samantha Kelly, The New Solomon: Robert of Naples (1309–1343) and Fourteenth-Century Kingship, Leiden, 2003, 26–41. 71 For the relationship between the myth of Michelangelo and Florentine cultural authority in the time of Vasari, see Frances E. Thomas, ‘‘‘Cittadin nostro Fiorentino’’: Michelangelo and Fiorentinismo in Mid-Sixteenth-Century Flor­ ence’, in Mary Rogers, ed., Fashioning Identities in Renaissance Art, Aldershot, 2000, 177–87. 72 See Galasso, Il regno di Napoli: il Mezzogiorno spagnolo. 73 For the socio-economic history of Naples during this period, see Giuseppe Galasso, ‘Trends and Problems in Neapolitan History in the Age of Charles V’, in Antonio Calabria and John A. Marino, eds, Good Government in Spanish Naples, New York, 1990, 13–78. Artistic developments are discussed in Franco Strazzullo, Edilizia e urbanis­ tica a Napoli ‘500 al ‘700, Naples, 1995; and De Seta, Napoli, 95–164. ` lvarez de Toledo in 74 The particular role of Pedro A transforming the urban fabric of Naples is discussed in Giulio Pane, ‘Pietro di Toledo Vicere` Urbanista’, Napoli Nobilissima, 14, 1975, 81–95.

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75 Carlos Jose´ Hernando Sa´nchez, Castilla y Na´poles en el siglio XVI: el virrey Pedro de Toledo linaje, estado y cultura (1532–1553), Valladolid, 1994. 76 Pierluigi Leone de Castris, Polidoro da Caravaggio. L’opera completa, Naples, 2001. 77 ‘Ora, mentre che Roma ridendo s’abbelliva de le fatiche loro, et essi aspettavano premio dei proprii sudori, l’invidia e la fortuna mandarono a Roma Borbone, l’anno MDXXVII, che quella citta` mise a sacco . . . Polidoro verso Napoli preso il camino.’ Vasari, Le vite, vol. 4, 466. 78 Leone de Castris, Polidoro, 9. ` 79 ‘Per che Maturino si mise in fuga; ne´ molto ando che dai disagi patiti per tal sacco si stima a Roma ch’e’ morisse di peste’. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 4, 466. 80 ‘[E]ssendo quei gentiluomini poco curiosi delle cose eccellenti di pittura, fu per morirvisi di fame’. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 4, 466. 81 ‘Avvenne che stando egli in Napoli, e veggendo ` , delibero partire da poco stimata la sua virtu ` conto tenevano d’un cavallo che coloro che piu saltasse che di chi facesse con le mani le figure dipinte parer vive’. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 4, 467. 82 The letter is dated 22 March 1539 and was published amongst the letters collected by Dionigi Atanagi in Delle lettere facete et piacevoli di diversi grandi huomini et chiari ingegni. Scritte sopra diverse materie raccolte per M. Dionigi Atanagi, vol. 1, Venice, 1582, 203–4. See also Benedetto Croce, ‘Il ‘‘Paradiso Abitato da Diavoli’’’, in Uomini e Cose della Vecchia Italia, vol. 1, Bari, 1927, 70–1. 83 ‘[P]oco ingegno’; ‘maligne e cattivo e traditrici’. Piovano Arlotto Mainardi, Facezie Motti e Burle del Piovano Arlotto, ed. Chiara Amerighi, Florence, 1980, 232. 84 On the religious climate in Naples during the late 1520s and Polidoro’s second sojourn in the city, see Pierluigi Leone de Castris, Polidoro da Caravaggio fra Napoli e Messina, Rome, 1988, 53–62.

85 On these two styles of painted decoration used on building exteriors, see Eleonora Pecchioli, The Painted Facades of Florence: From the Fifteenth to the Twentieth Century, Florence, 2005. 86 Vasari, Le vite, vol 6, 385–6; Karl Frey, Der litera­ rische Nachlass Giorgio Vasaris, vol. 2, Munich, 1930, 862. 87 Vasari, Le vite, vol. 6, 385–6. 88 Frey, Der literarische Nachlass, vol. 1, letter 73, 155–6. 89 ‘[N]ovita` scandolosa e vituperossima’. Frey, Der literarische Nachlass, vol. 1, letter 73, 155. 90 Vasari sent twenty-four paintings for the church of San Giovanni a Carbonara, as well as works to Naples from Rome for the Florentine merchant Tommaso Cambi. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 6, 386. 91 Goldberg, After Vasari, 2. 92 On Vasari’s role in fashioning a dynastic identity for Cosimo and the Medici, see Paola Tinagli, ‘The Identity of the Prince: Cosimo de’Medici, Giorgio Vasari and the Ragionamenti’, in Rogers, Fashioning Identities, 189–96; and Goldberg, After Vasari, 3–14. ` dire che nel Suo stato, anzi nella 93 ‘[S]i puo Sua felicissima casa, siano rinate, e per benefizio de’ Suoi medesimi abbia il mondo queste bellissime arti recuperate e che per esse nobilitato e rimbellito si sia’. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 1, 2. ` loro e del lor 94 ‘Lei come erede della virtu patroncino’. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 1, 2. 95 The political stability and longevity of the Vene­ tian state was celebrated by panegyrists from the late medieval period onwards in what came to be known as the ‘myth’ of Venice. See John Martin and Dennis Romano, eds, Venice Reconsidered: The History and Civilization of an Italian City-State, 1297– 1797, Baltimore, 2000, 2.

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3

THE RISE OF THE COURT ARTIST: CAVALLINI

AND GIOTTO IN FOURTEENTH-CENTURY

NAPLES

C AT H L E E N A . F L E C K

[. . .] fu dottissimo infra tutti gli altri maestri. Lorenzo Ghiberti, 1455

In this quotation from his Commentaries on the work of earlier artists, the fifteenth-century artist and historian Lorenzo Ghiberti presents a high opinion of the Roman painter and mosaicist Pietro Cavallini (c. 1250–1330): ‘[. . .] he was most learned among all the other masters’.1 Many later writers borrowed from Ghiberti’s information about the artist’s work but their comments did not have such a positive tenor. Most influential among those later writers was Giorgio Vasari, who wrote The Lives of the Artists in the mid-sixteenth century.2 The favourable bias of Vasari towards his Tuscan predecessor Giotto (c. 1267–1337), and Vasari’s suggestion of Cavallini’s dependence on Giotto, have marked modern opinion about the Roman artist.3 Art historians have traditionally adopted Vasari’s judgements, thereby giving primacy to Florentine art and evaluating Cavallini as a competent but not truly talented artist.4 Yet current scholarship has challenged the factual reliability and reassessed the fictional creativity of Vasari’s work.5 Moreover, scholars like Bruno Zanardi have recently argued that Cavallini should be re-examined because of his possible involvement in the St Francis cycle of frescoes in the Upper Church at San Francesco at Assisi, which has led to queries about the extent of Giotto’s role there.6 Cavallini and Giotto also worked in Rome on projects associated with ecclesiastical and papal patrons, which Vasari noted and later scholars have thus studied.7 Vasari, however, undervalued the art of Naples, such that later art historians have paid little attention to the city or to the works created there by Cavallini and Giotto under the Angevin rulers, who were allies of the popes.8 As a part of the effort to reconsider Cavallini, this chapter will present a comparison of the careers of Cavallini and Giotto as court artists in fourteenth-century Naples.9 This contri­ bution will question the effect of the late medieval Neapolitan court on the status 38

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of individual artists and will also consider the general effect of Vasari’s opinions on the reception of Cavallini in modern scholarship.10 Defining the nature of Naples provides appropriate background for this discussion. Under nobles from Anjou, Naples became one of the most important Mediterranean capitals of the later Middle Ages and the capital city of the southern Italian Kingdom of Naples. The Angevin kings, placed there by the pope, ruled this realm from 1266 to 1442.11 Through marriage, and military and poli­ tical efforts, the Angevins spread their influence beyond the Italian peninsula to the Balkans, Hungary, Poland and the eastern Mediterranean.12 Charles I even purchased a claim to the throne of Jerusalem from Mary of Antioch, pretender to the throne from 1269 to 1277: the Angevins retained this largely honorific title with the support of the papacy until 1382.13 Though Angevin interests stretched over a wide geographical area, their focal point was the court in Naples. In a broad context, a court was the space in which the lord of a territory, his family, household, courtiers, nobles and officials lived as though circumscribed by invi­ sible boundaries.14 The individuals who served and influenced the character of the Neapolitan court were not fixed.15 Personnel and visitors came and went regularly from other Italian cities as well as from farther abroad.16 In a study of King Robert of Naples (r. 1309–43), Samantha Kelly has proposed that similarities and differences existed between the court of Naples and the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Italian courtly environments.17 The Neapolitan court had a consistent character, similar to later courts, based on the rituals and structures set by King Robert, his predecessors and their bureaucracy. This consistency was fostered by the overlapping and stability of the household and government administrations.18 As in later courts, a social circle existed around the Angevin ruler: the prince’s magnificence was amplified by his court, and the nobility was integrated into the realm’s administration. Kelly argues, however, that the court circle around King Robert was not closed and that he did not distance himself from his people. These two traits set him apart from later princes.19 In particular, Kelly argues that cultural patronage and extensive publicity lent a singular direction to King Robert’s long reign – and thus to the extended period of influence of the court artists Cavallini and Giotto.20 Although at a crucial time of transformation in Europe, the early fourteenth-century court in Naples defies definition as either medieval or renaissance.21 As Kelly points out, this termi­ nology was the invention of later Italian writers and has had the effect of clouding the complexities of the development from traditional to humanist concerns.22 Essential to this discussion of court art is Martin Warnke’s influential book, The Court Artist (first published in German in 1985).23 Warnke argued that the role of painters at royal courts, in contrast to republican city-states, resulted in higher prestige for the artists, their elevation from craftsman status, and freedom from the controls of the urban guild system.24 Many aspects of Warnke’s book, from the idea of the court as separate from urban markets to the teleological devel­ opment in the status of the artist because of his court position, have been ques­ tioned in a collection of essays regarding early renaissance courts published in 2004.25 The editor, Stephen Campbell, states that courts themselves were myths because they were, on the one hand, noble households with institutions of state, and on the other hand, were constructs of a conception ‘of civilized life and of 39

THE RISE OF THE COURT ARTIST

1 Pietro Cavallini, Christ Enthroned, detail of The Last Judgement, c. 1292–93. Fresco. Rome: Santa Cecilia in Trastevere. Photo: Roma, ICCD, Fototeca Nazionale, Neg. E110878.

refinement in human conduct’ – a poetic fiction.26 It is useful to explore how a cultural fiction could serve the state of Naples.27 Warnke and other scholars of court art, like Campbell, tend to pass quickly over the early fourteenth century and over Naples, if they cover it at all.28 Indeed, there is much to learn about court artists in this earlier time and place. Naples was unusual in its multicultural environment, its political and geographical position, and its artistic climate.29 The city had no apparent guild system for artists, giving the court considerable latitude, and few named painters were present in the Angevin capital before Cavallini.30 The premise for this discussion of court art in Naples is that Cavallini and Giotto had roles as part of the cultural manoeuvres of the Angevin kings to elevate the image of the court through the presence and mastery of painters imported from abroad. To study Cavallini and Giotto as court painters and visual ambassadors, a number of ques­ tions must be addressed. It will be necessary firstly to examine the evidence regarding their artistic production and secondly to compare the separate experi­ ences of Cavallini and Giotto in order to question what it meant to be a court artist in Naples. It will also be essential to consider why these particular painters from Rome and Florence were invited to Naples when they were.31 In other words, what meaning did their welcome convey? Cavallini and Giotto represented culturally specific identities, defined through style, method and geography, which translated 40

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into subtle political roles to aid the court in securing hegemony through particular, especially regional and papal, associations.32 The evidence will demonstrate that the rulers of Naples used the art of Cavallini and Giotto for their own political benefit and, at the same time, will show the high regard in which both artists were held at the Neapolitan court. In contrast to the judgement of Vasari, the evidence will also demonstrate the respected status of Cavallini in his own time. While Giotto is a more familiar name to modern ears, Pietro Cavallini requires an introduction. To understand Cavallini at the court of Naples, it is necessary first to review his work and the history of his status among other artists of his time. Modern scholarship has focused on problems of attribution, basing its suggestions about Cavallini’s production on the statements of Ghiberti and Vasari, written approximately 125–220 years after the artist’s death (c. 1330). Ghiberti and Vasari are problematic as historical sources because of the literary nature of their texts and the authors’ biases and available knowledge. Never­ theless I shall refer to those sources for what they reveal about the perception of these artists, their work, and their roles as court artists. Few proven facts or documents verify Cavallini’s direct involvement in artistic commissions or in the creation of workshops.33 The majority of the attributions to Cavallini are by scholars who, with little documentation available to them, based their arguments on the style of his Roman work and on Ghiberti and Vasari’s words.34 As the quotation at the beginning of this chapter demonstrates, Ghiberti believed that Cavallini was gifted, but never­ theless dedicated many more lines to the Florentine Giotto (fifty-six lines in print) than to the Roman Cavallini (sixteen lines).35 In the two editions of The Lives of the Artists, Vasari described Cavallini as subordinate to Giotto.36 In the first edition, he stated that Cavallini learned from Giotto when they worked together in Rome and that Cavallini tried to become known as a disciple of Giotto.37 In his more detailed second edition he claimed that Cavallini travelled to Florence and Assisi to learn from pupils of Giotto.38 Ghiberti connected Cavallini to work in several churches in Rome, including paintings at Santa Cecilia in Trastevere (c. 1293; plate 1) and mosaics at Santa Maria in Trastevere (1290s; plate 2).39 The mosaics of the Life of the Virgin in the apse in Santa Maria in Trastevere are still typically attributed to Cavallini because of the remains of his name in an inscription found in a seventeenth-century watercolour copy of the mosaics.40 Vasari gave a slightly different listing of Cavallini’s works.41 Many of these listed works are now no longer extant, in bad condition, or have been credited to other artists, yet these writings influenced opinions about Cavallini for the following 450 years. A discussion of the frescoes on the counter-fac¸ade and nave walls at Santa Cecilia in Trastevere in Rome (plate 1) will help to elucidate the influence of Vasari’s writing on subsequent scholarship on Cavallini.42 In 1900 the art historian Federico Hermanin drew attention to Cavallini’s work when he attributed these newly rediscovered paintings to the Roman artist.43 This attribution, along with the apparent quality, the subtlety of modelling with colour, and the elegant corporeality of the figures, established Cavallini as an important master.44 No more factual information was found to confirm the artist’s involvement at Santa Cecilia, but the attribution of paintings in 41

THE RISE OF THE COURT ARTIST

2 Pietro Cavallini, Annunciation, 1290s. Mosaic. Rome: Santa Maria in Trastevere. Photo: Roma, ICCD, Fototeca Nazionale, Neg. N34026.

Santa Cecilia to Cavallini by Ghiberti and Vasari was enough for Hermanin to make his attribution and to re-evaluate other monuments on that basis.45 While not firmly founded on the modern art-historical necessity for documents and facts, the early twentieth-century reconsideration of Cavallini’s work has led to the artist’s elevation among late thirteenth- and early fourteenth-century artists.46 Documents place Cavallini in Naples, though none state where he worked while he was there. Ghiberti and Vasari do not mention his time in the city at all. Nevertheless, several frescoes in Naples have been attributed to Cavallini through stylistic affinities with his Roman work: in the Cappella Brancaccio in San Dome­ nico Maggiore (c. 1308; plate 3);47 in the Cappella Aspreno and Cappella degli Illu­ strissimi (a Tree of Jesse) in the Cathedral; and in various parts of Santa Maria Donna Regina (c. 1320).48 In Naples, the example of an Apostle and Prophet from frescoes at Santa Maria Donna Regina (plate 4), and in Rome, the examples of the Annunciation mosaic from Santa Maria in Trastevere (plate 2) and angels from the Last Judgement fresco at Santa Cecilia in Trastevere demonstrate what has been defined as Caval­ lini’s style: stocky figures with generally proportionate bodies and a firm corpore­ ality. The soft shading of the faces and figures and the drapery stiffly moulding to the forms suggest the physical presence of the figures in space. While there is no firm evidence that any of these works are by Cavallini himself, they do have similar characteristics that suggest the strong influence of one artist, if not his actual involvement. 42

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3 Pietro Cavallini (?), Noli me tangere, c. 1308. Fresco. Naples: Brancaccio Chapel, San Domenico Maggiore. Photo: Roma, ICCD, Fototeca Nazionale, Neg. E63592.

4 Detail of Pietro Cavallini (?), St Thomas and a Prophet, c. 1320. Fresco. Naples: Santa Maria Donna Regina. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

43

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5 Birth of John the Baptist and the Annunciation from the Bible of Pope Clement VII, c. 1330. Miniature painting. London: British Library, Add. MS 47672, fol. 397v. Photo: Conway Library, Courtauld Institute of Art.

Despite the uncertainties about Cavallini’s work in Naples, he can be cate­ gorized as an official court artist because documents confirm that two kings provided him with a salary, duties and privileges.49 The Angevin archives are problematic because of their destruction during the 1939–45 war and their present existence only in dispersed transcriptions and publications. The published information is considered generally reliable, though uneven in its coverage.50 The first archival mention of Cavallini in Naples regards King Charles 51 II (r. 1289–1309) in 1308; two others, in 1308 and 1309, regard his son and heir apparent Robert, then Duke of Calabria.52 The first of these pertain to a yearly allowance and home in Naples for the family of Cavallini, who is called ‘de Roma pictor’. This was granted by Charles II in June 130853 and confirmed by Robert in the second document in December 1308.54 The third document places Cavallini among a group of artists getting paid by the court for unspecified work.55 The wording of the Neapolitan records indicates that Cavallini worked for the kings and received benefits in return as the kings’ paid court member, though no details are given. The extant documents do not mention Cavallini with the title ‘familiaris’, yet his salary and home suggest that he was treated as such. A familiaris had a special tie to the king’s household and was entitled to free board and a salary. The term familiaris had been given at the Neapolitan court from 1267 to nobles and dignitaries, but also to upper-middle-class bankers, physicians and lawyers and, increasingly, to servants in the king’s own house­ hold.56 Thus the offering of a house to Cavallini was fitting for a familiaris of the court, though still a rare and prestigious reward for an artist to receive. Cavallini was evidently respected in his time in order to be chosen as an official court member with a yearly salary by not only one, but two, members of the Angevin ruling family, namely King Charles II and Prince Robert. Robert, who became king 44

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in 1309, may have been following in his father’s footsteps by continuing Caval­ lini’s court status, yet he would not have made such a decision lightly regarding an artist whose work would present a visual sign of his court to the public. While there were foreign sculptors and architects present in the Kingdom of Naples in the late thirteenth century, before the fourteenth century not many painters anywhere served as official court artists with a document giving special privileges.57 Because no indication of Cavallini has been found in Neapolitan documents relating to the second decade of the fourteenth century,58 it seems likely that he went back to Rome soon after 1308.59 Nevertheless, Ferdinando Bologna and Pierluigi Leone de Castris have discussed how Cavallini’s Roman style remained predominant in Neapolitan painting until Giotto introduced his Florentine artistic language into the city in the late 1320s.60 Examples of Cavallini’s conti­ nuing influence can be seen in the Santa Maria Donna Regina frescoes of c. 1320 (plate 4) and the Bible of Clement VII of c. 1330 (plate 5).61 These paintings were produced by artists who must have trained with Cavallini in monumental and miniature painting forms and who remained behind and worked with other local and visiting artists. As the documents are limited regarding Cavallini and his ties to his royal patrons, Giotto’s better-documented case sheds light on the cultural environment in Naples.62 Dante’s early fourteenth-century words in the Purgatorio of the Divina Commedia demonstrate how well-known Giotto was in his own time: In painting Cimabue thought the field

was his alone. Now the cry is Giotto,

so the fame of the other is in shadow.63

Despite Giotto’s renown amongst his contemporaries, most of the information connecting him to completed monuments throughout Italy stem from the testi­ mony of Ghiberti and Vasari, which later scholars repeated or altered on the basis of stylistic attributions. A recent essay by Hayden Maginnis provides a thoughtprovoking discussion of how little is definite regarding attributions to Giotto.64 Nevertheless, the high prestige that Giotto had in his time is apparent from the fact that, even if he was not involved in all of the monuments attributed to him, his style was. Moreover, his invitation to Naples demonstrates that his reputation had spread far beyond Florence. The documentary evidence places Giotto as an official court artist in Naples two decades after Cavallini: first in 1328 and then in 1333.65 Giotto’s expressive vitality and skilful depiction of space was powerful enough to influence art in Naples for the following several decades.66 Ghiberti mentions Giotto working in Naples in the renovated castle – Castel Nuovo – that served as the main residence of the royal family and the court and as a public meeting space for the Angevin kings.67 Vasari notes that Giotto painted a chapel in the castle.68 Monthly payments to ‘magistro Jocto de Florentia pictori’ began in December 1328.69 The Angevin registers indicate that the treasurer paid Giotto for the decoration of two palace chapels, including acquiring materials and arranging for workers and their payments in 1331 and 1332.70 Unfortunately, only fragments remain of Giotto’s supposed projects in the large main chapel of the palace, now a 45

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6 Giotto (?), bust figure in a medallion, c. 1331. Fresco. Naples: Castel Nuovo, former main palace chapel. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

museum.71 It contains a few vestiges of fresco painting that have been identified as giottesque in style (plate 6).72 Furthermore, Vasari made a still-undocumented claim that Giotto painted frescoes of the Old and New Testaments in the Neapolitan church of Santa Chiara, built by the royal couple King Robert and Queen Sancia in c. 1310–28.73 Little remains of the fourteenth-century painting in this much-restored church.74 Some fragments do remain of a giottesque fresco (plate 7) in the nuns’ retrochoir, located behind the sanctuary and the tomb of King Robert, indicating that painters working in Giotto’s style decorated at least some of the church.75 Another work by Giotto in Naples that Ghiberti and Vasari both noted was a cycle of nine uomini famosi, or famous men, in the audience hall (plate 8) next to the main chapel in the Castel Nuovo.76 Unfortunately, the altered audience hall is now devoid of any decoration, and no court documents include information about its painting.77 Because the evidence demonstrates that Robert selected Giotto as a palace painter for the adjacent chapel and other public spaces within the palace, it is possible that he also wanted the visiting master to paint the audience hall,78 which was the site of widely attended events such as the cere­ mony in 1333 designating Robert’s granddaughter Joanna as heir.79 Anonymous sonnets in several mid-fourteenth-century Florentine manuscripts described the cycle in the hall but did not ascribe it to any artist.80 The sonnets named two Hebrew figures, Solomon and Samson, and seven Greeks and Romans: Alexander, Hector, Aeneas, Achilles, Paris, Hercules and Caesar.81 The men’s exemplary characteristics of saintly wisdom, physical strength, military prowess, fine intel­ ligence and political and diplomatic acumen coincided with the persona that Robert actively attempted to convey.82 As Stephen Campbell notes, a ruler needed his practical, military, and even mercenary activities to be offset by art and themes of honour.83 Considered a prototype for other late medieval and renais­ sance uomini famosi cycles, Robert’s uomini famosi in this room of state represent a common theme of illustrious men of the past bequeathing a meritorious legacy to the patron and subsequent generations.84 The artist had an important role in 46

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7 Giotto (?), mourning figures, c. 1330. Fresco. Naples: Santa Chiara (choir). Photo: Roma, ICCD, Fototeca Nazionale, Neg. E63341.

8 Former audience hall, original construction 1279–82 with later alterations. Naples: Castel Nuovo. Photo: Soprintendenza BAPPSAD di Napoli.

47

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that arrangement as one who brought that honour into being. Regardless of Giotto’s level of involvement in the uomini famosi, the acknowledged participation of his workshop in the decoration of the large chapel adjoining the audience hall hints at Giotto’s importance as the king’s visual ambassador. The centrality and size of the chapel suggests that the court, plus other visitors, could have attended services in the chapel.85 Thus the public that mattered to a ruler – the aristocracy, foreign rulers and the educated men who served them – would have had access to the frescoes and their message.86 Giotto does not seem to have done any work in Naples for patrons other than the king, though his influence can be found in works such as the frescoes of the Sacraments in the Church of Santa Maria Incoronata by the local artist Roberto d’Oderisio.87 As in the case of Cavallini, a document confirms that Giotto had privileges and a special link to the court confirmed by oath.88 In January 1330 the court named ‘magister Joctus de Florentia’, ‘pictor’, as ‘familiaris et fidelis noster’: We gladly accept into our familia those who are recognized for their honesty of character and recommended by their special virtue. Forasmuch as Master Giotto, a painter from Florence, our familiar and faithful servant, brilliantly performs honest acts and fruitful services, we accept him as our familiaris and take him into our protection, desiring that he enter into enjoyment of the honours and privileges possessed by the other familiars after swearing of the customary oath.89

As was typical, a familiaris took an oath of service to the king in return for the king’s special protection. Yet this text does not state the contractual obligations of Giotto to produce work, nor does it praise Giotto for his painting.90 Rather the text extols his personal character in a way that indicates that the court saw him not only as a craftsman but also as an individual with something special to bring to the court.91 At the same time, the words do not give the sense that he was chosen for his characteristics of independent thinking or creative invention, qualities often given to the artist by modern art historians. The document entitled Giotto to a salary and to residence at the palace as was befitting a familiar. Giotto’s residence in the palace, near the king, may indicate that he had greater prestige than Cavallini, who had separate lodgings. However, it is also possible that Giotto’s closer proximity to the king may have been related either to a change in protocol under King Robert or to available space in the castle, which was still under construction in Cavallini’s time.92 In 1332 Robert expressed his pleasure with Giotto by granting him a lifetime annuity of twelve ounces in gold: although Cavallini had been offered thirty ounces in gold, that offer did not seem to have the longevity of Giotto’s payment.93 Could the terms of Giotto’s employment and the special wording of the document quoted above have resulted from a higher regard for Giotto than for Cavallini at the Angevin court, from a change in documentary language, and/or from different expectations two decades later? The artistic activity of Giotto as a paid court artist might suggest several things for the case of Cavallini. To be a salaried court artist in Naples meant that a painter served the king by decorating the palace and perhaps other royal possessions. Yet of what else did the exchange between artist and ruler consist? As noted by Stephen Campbell, the benefits – such as the perception of prestige – 48

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received by the artist and the returns received by the court patron – for services beyond artistic production – were not always tangible; indeed it was often the intangible elements that the parties valued most.94 Caroline Bruzelius suggests that King Charles II’s architectural patronage borrowed from Roman and indi­ genous Campanian models, not those of northern Europe as had his father’s, as a ‘part of a larger process of regeneration and reform’.95 Charles II may have first chosen the Roman artist Cavallini as a part of that trend, as he worked to beautify the new capital of his southern Italian kingdom. King Robert’s precise crafting of his political and religious image through the paintings of the uomini famosi indicates that he selected his subject matter for how it would add to his public image as a knowledgeable, pious and cultured ruler.96 Through his court artist, Giotto, who was elevated for personal qualities in addition to his work, Robert might have hoped to demonstrate his own cultural sophistication in keeping with his public image as a wise and erudite king.97 It is possible that Cavallini painted similar special subject matter that demonstrated the refinement and piety of Charles II and Robert the Wise, in addition to renovating their city through his Roman culture. Though intangible, these purposeful uses of court artists suggest that the artists had value as visual ambassadors and public relations imagemakers for the Angevin kings. What none of these documents exposes is the more mundane, though still significant, type of artwork that any court artist might possibly have been required to produce. The preparation of banners, shields and pageant decorations was a function that other court artists fulfilled. For instance, the painting of pennants, banners, harnesses and escutcheons occurred on a large scale at the ducal court of Burgundy in the late fourteenth century.98 Although these items have often been considered to be less valuable art forms, Sherry Lindquist suggests that the production of these pageant products was important in so far as they dramatized the duke’s main political and personal causes. This author has found no direct evidence of the Angevin use of such pageant regalia in Naples or of the involvement of either Cavallini or Giotto in similar preparations. Yet, if contemporary manuscript illustration is any indication, King Robert would have required special decorative elements at least in relation to his throne and military accoutrements.99 A court painter’s preparation, or at least organization, of these decorations seems possible as a part of his role of promoting the king’s public image. Kelly argues that the great quantity and range of the cultural and political patronage for the benefit of Robert and his court indicate the attention to propaganda in all forms in his realm.100 For the artists, it is probable that less attractive rewards and working conditions existed than the solemn texts from the Neapolitan court would lead readers to believe. The documentary evidence seems to show a rather sporadic system of payment that was not any more regular or secure in the courts than was the case for an independent or civic worker.101 The distinctive perception and positive reputation gained by the artists from the special nature of the court outweighed the negatives.102 Having discussed the problems of Cavallini’s and Giotto’s artistic production and roles as Neapolitan court artists, this chapter will now address the possible stylistic, aesthetic, technical and political justifications for Cavallini’s and Giotto’s acceptance at court. Warnke did not broach the importance of a court artist’s style, yet recent authors have realized its significance for cases in which 49

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perception was a key factor.103 Style is significant in enabling an assessment of Cavallini’s and Giotto’s extended artistic influences in Naples. Stylistic attribu­ tions indicate that Cavallini’s workshop – whether it was a loose gathering of artists coming together for specific projects or a multi-talented more cohesive group – worked for patrons other than the Angevin kings.104 Though Giotto seems to have been exclusively employed by Robert, the artist’s style still spread widely in the region.105 Importantly, those patrons who commissioned Cavallini, or who hired artists to copy the style of either Cavallini or Giotto, were closely tied to the king. By sharing his artist and his style, the ruler was showing his gener­ osity and spreading his refined court tastes.106 Thus, while being a court artist in Naples involved a tie to the palace and ruler, as Giotto’s case indicates, the dispersion of a new style by Cavallini, and later Giotto, visually defined the artistic parameters of the court at large. For Cavallini’s imprint to be so long-lived, the Angevin court must have appreciated his style in an aesthetic sense. The strong Roman stamp in the painting in the Upper Church of San Fran­ cesco, dated to about a decade before Cavallini’s sojourn in Naples (c. 1290–1300), demonstrates that the Roman artistic language was a` la mode on a broader scale before 1308.107 As Joan Holladay has argued in relation to art of the early fourteenth century, medieval patrons ‘chose artists not only for their ability to produce works they found aesthetically pleasing, but in some cases went to great lengths to select the artists for their commissions on the basis of their ability to fulfil specific formal requirements’.108 She calls this an ‘iconography of style’, where style refers to artistic characteristics or the ‘manner of representa­ tion’. The kings of Naples chose Cavallini, who probably worked at San Francesco, to bring to the Angevin realm aspects of Roman painting, such as monumental narrative traditions and faux-architectural Cosmati borders, also found in Assisi.109 It is unlikely that a style would have remained current for decades in the Neapolitan kingdom if it had not been enjoyed for its wider associations as well as its perceived beauty. As Castelnuovo has suggested, late medieval ‘style’ was understood not only in a connoisseurial manner in terms of a ‘look’: expressions such as opus anglicanum, or ‘English work’, referred both to a geographical region and a technique practised there.110 Cavallini was named in the Neapolitan registers as ‘de Roma pictor’. In Cavallini’s case, his celebrity may have originated in part from his reputation as a painter in Rome and in part from his association with prestigious commissions, such as that for San Francesco in Assisi.111 Parti­ cularly ‘Roman’ elements of his work, such as his skill in the medium of mosaic, for which he was praised by Ghiberti, may also have had appeal.112 Similarly, the Neapolitan documents regarding Giotto indicate the artist’s origins in ‘Florentia’, perhaps in order to indicate his skill in pictorial mural practices mastered in central Italy and his part in prominent projects.113 Caroline Bruzelius’s discus­ sion of the selection of architectural styles by the Angevin kings based on political and regional interests supports this concept of the Neapolitan recognition of regional components of style.114 For instance, Robert’s court supported southern Italian architects, though those who often turned to northern Europe for inspi­ ration.115 These architects referred both to the nothern regions of the Angevins’ heritage, where the forms of architecture were currently the most developed and complex, and to the structural forms of their realm in southern Italy. 50

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In addition to motivations of stylistic, aesthetic and technical appreciation, political forces may have led to Cavallini’s royal invitation to work in Naples. Cavallini’s stay there took place at a pivotal moment for the Angevin kings in Italy, especially in terms of their relationship with the popes and Rome.116 Although the Angevin monarchy had its origins in France, its involvement in Italian politics strengthened after Pope Clement IV affirmed the place of Charles I (1266–85) on the throne of the Kingdom of Naples in 1266.117 In doing so the papacy reclaimed the southern kingdom from the Hohenstaufen imperial family. This caused continual tensions between the Angevin kings of southern Italy and the Holy Roman emperors in northern Europe, while solidifying the relationship between the papacy and the Kingdom of Naples. Charles I took advantage of this new position of power to extend his reach further east. He established influence over Corfu, Achaea, the Aegean islands, and Albania, made alliances with Baldwin II (1217–73) – the last emperor of the Latin Empire of Constantinople (1204–61) – and bought the crown of the titular kingdom of Jerusalem (1277). On the Italian peninsula, Charles I’s election as senator of Rome in 1265 demonstrates that he was successful in forging political ties there as well.118 To consolidate this power, the next Angevin king, Charles II (1289–1309), learned to exert pressure on Rome and the papacy, still the source of his power in southern Italy. His attention turned from the east towards southern France and central Italy – and papal relations. For instance, in 1294 he joined the conclave which eventually selected Pope Celestine V, the Angevin candidate.119 Celestine’s election was soon followed by the promotion of twelve cardinals supported by Charles II. The king also fostered relations with Celestine and his successor, Boniface VIII, to gain their support in the fight with the Aragonese over Sicily.120 Close relationships between the Angevins and the papacy continued with the election of the next pope, Clement V, in 1305. Clement was elected pope while in France and never succeeded in establishing himself in Rome.121 He eventually moved to Avignon in Angevin territory and established a new residence there from 1309, the year of Robert’s ascension to the Angevin throne.122 The following period of papal absence from Rome (1309–77) allowed the Angevin influence in Avignon, Rome and across Italy to grow. The Angevins no longer had their suzerain overseeing their activities on the peninsula. At the same time they hosted the pope in their own territory of Provence, where Charles II spent much of his time between 1306 and 1307. Robert, acting first as his father’s representative on the peninsula and later, from 1309, as king, considered himself champion in the absence of the papacy. He used the role not only to help the pope ward off imperial encroach­ ments but also to help to affirm his own power in important areas like Tuscany.123 The pope affirmed the already-active role of the new king as his champion when he chose Robert as his papal vicar in the northern region of Romagna (1310–18), which bordered papal and imperial lands. Thus the pope created an even more significant link between Naples and the papacy.124 One example of the complicated papal–Angevin interactions occurred when the Holy Roman imperial candidate, Henry VII (1308–13), proclaimed his objec­ tive, with papal approval, of travelling to Rome for his coronation.125 Ghibellines and adversaries of the papal–Angevin alliance had tried to encourage the former imperial candidate, Albert of Hapsburg (1298–1308), to come to Rome and use his imperial authority in order to curb the power of the Guelfs. Also considered a 51

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menace to the Guelfs from the outset of his candidacy, Henry VII proved himself to be a serious danger by sending notice in 1310 of his intent to cross the Alps. King Robert, concerned about the threat to his own power in Italy and particu­ larly in Rome, returned from Provence to rally the opposition factions in defiance of the pope’s support of Henry VII.126 His aim was to send a message that Henry VII was not welcome in Italy and especially not in Rome. As Henry VII finally approached Rome two years later in 1312, the opposing Guelf party, supported by Robert, had control of most of the city, including Old St Peter’s basilica, where coronations normally took place. Henry VII therefore had to settle for a coronation by cardinals in St John Lateran. When he tried angrily to compel King Robert to accept his imperial authority, the pope finally intervened in support of Robert as his vassal and champion.127 After that incident Robert was named Senator of Rome in 1313.128 It cannot be coincidental that in the same period that the ties between Naples and Rome and the papacy were growing, the kings were elevating a Roman artist and his style to a prominent status at their court. By importing Cavallini and spreading his style at this strategic time, they were reminding everyone in Naples of their Roman and papal connections. Even though the popes had left Rome, the city still held a remarkable power as home to martyrs and popes over the centuries.129 The Angevin kings associated themselves with that mystique through the visual reference to Rome and the papacy via the work of Cavallini, a quintessentially Roman painter. King Robert’s associations with Florence suggest similar political motivations for inviting Giotto to visit Naples in 1328. Robert had acquired the signory, or lordship, of Florence in 1313. He ruled the city through a governor until 1322 and then through his son, Duke Charles of Calabria from 1326 to 1328.130 In The Lives of the Artists, Vasari stated that Robert wrote to Duke Charles asking him to send Giotto, thus supposing that Robert knew of the artist already.131 Though Vasari’s words are not based on documented fact, Duke Charles may have arranged for Giotto’s move south when he and his Neapolitan companions were in Florence.132 Other political connections appear through Robert’s bankers, the Bardi and Peruzzi families of Florence. They maintained branches and representatives in Naples, and Florence had special trade allowances in the Neapolitan kingdom.133 With the papacy’s move away from Rome in 1309, Florence gained in political consequence, being a Guelf city and papal ally, and grew as an economic centre, being home to the bankers of some major European powers.134 Giotto painted the chapels of the Bardi and Peruzzi in Santa Croce in Florence before leaving for Naples, so perhaps the artist came to Robert’s attention through those families. Benjamin Kohl suggests that the Santa Croce chapels are signs of the alliance between Florence, the papacy and the Kingdom of Naples, which helped to maintain the freedom of the Florentine republic.135 The close economic and political ties of the king and his court to Florence indicate that Robert chose Giotto as a way to exhibit his asso­ ciation with the important Tuscan city-state and its papal–Guelf politics. Using culture for political display was a policy practised from the beginning of Angevin rule in Naples. This process, sometimes called ‘cultural translation’, often takes place as a self-conscious, self-defining action of assimilation or appropriation.136 It is typically based on the idea of a dominant group (in this case the Angevins) being different from the ‘other’ (the Italian traditions), such that the former group can articulate or refashion its image through the select 52

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appropriation or rejection of distinct characteristics of the latter. Caroline Bruzelius has demonstrated how King Robert’s grandfather, Charles I, employed French artisans when he first conquered southern Italy in 1266 to establish his political and cultural hegemony on the peninsula. They used French style, northern techniques and the Angevin court’s French character, rejecting the local styles.137 Charles II, Robert’s father, used French styles and artisans less often and selected local ones to build churches in a manner that matched the integration and collaborative spirit of his reign.138 Rome was a special influence in his rebuilding project for the cathedral (from approximately 1294 to 1325), the focus of the urban renewal of Naples. The church’s early Christian, even Constantinian, origins and the legendary connection of Naples with St Peter, first bishop of Rome, associated the project with the past.139 As Serena Romano has noted, a theme of ‘sacred episcopacy’ in this project joined with one of romanitas – the Petrine theme in the new Minutolo Chapel, possible representations of Constantine in the new royal burial chapel, and the design of the building which included ancient columns and Roman building techniques – in order to recall its venerable beginnings.140 Following Charles II’s move away from French influence and towards Rome, Robert leaned still more towards the Italian peninsula, looking not only to Florence and Rome but also to Siena and other Tuscan cities for painters and sculptors. Robert’s cultural patronage seems to have tied his kingdom more closely to Italy than that of his father or grandfather. He assimilated the local culture to make clear his hegemony over the region. The welcome extended to Cavallini, and later to Giotto, relates to the Angevin kings’ construction of a new ‘nationalist language’ at court.141 Bruzelius implies this approach in her discussion of the key renovation project of Charles II, the Cathedral of Naples. The Angevin king wished consciously to evoke the ancient and early Christian past to serve as an ideological statement asserting Italian identity – an identity expressed for posterity through his burial chapel in the cathedral.142 Cavallini’s arrival by 1308 was a logical extension of the romanitas begun in the cathedral more than a decade earlier. Kelly argues that King Robert also ‘was aware of the utility of [a broad] nationalist language in uniting subjects around a common identity that was linked to their king and opposed to the king’s rivals’.143 Though not perhaps ‘nationalist’ in modern terminology, the cultural language of the Angevin kings helped them to develop a new identity. Like some of their artists, the Angevins were originally outsiders in southern Italy, invited into the realm by the pope. In turn, the Angevins welcomed foreign artists, in order to demonstrate their own mastery, as foreigners, over their new kingdom. Charles II and Robert were dealing with a variety of cultural factions in southern Italy. The court elite, many of whom were imported nobility, were French- and Provenc¸al-speaking, though Latin was the language of the Church and even Robert’s own sermons; the upper-class merchants and bankers were often Tuscan; and the local nobility were southern Italian.144 Charles II and Robert needed to create an atmosphere in which their varied subjects could unite. They showed respect for the many regions present at their court by importing relevant artists, as well as intellectuals and writers, thus allowing their subjects a cultural presence at the same time that they expressed control over them.145 This ‘nationalist language’ had to work within the kingdom of Naples to represent the authority of the Angevin kings, but also it had to project beyond its 53

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borders to present a strong front. The variety of styles produced by Italian artists established Angevin Naples as pluralist in nature and as capable of exerting influence in a large part of the Italian peninsula.146 The Neapolitan kingdom held a place geographically between Sicily (which the Angevins lost to the Aragonese in 1282) and Rome (which lacked its central leader the pope from 1309 to 1377), and was politically tied also to northern Italy (which comprised numerous city-states and regions allied with either papal or imperial factions that were continually vying for power). The papal–Angevin alliance was the cornerstone in the papacy’s Italian crusades against competing Christian lay powers from 1254 to 1343.147 Charles II and Robert had to protect not only their own interests but also those of the absent papacy and the Guelf party in the north.148 By inviting Cavallini and Giotto to work for the Angevin court in Naples, first Charles II and then Robert were supporting artists from traditionally papal–Guelf cities. They made these links visible through a generally ‘Italian’ painterly vocabulary for the eyes of the court and visiting dignitaries. This discussion of Cavallini and Giotto probes some received ideas about artistic patronage in fourteenth-century Naples. It reveals the disparity of scholarly opinion resulting from Vasari’s narrow focus on central Italy, which has to date led to the neglect of artists such as Cavallini. The acknowledgement of the reception of Cavallini by the Angevin kings should temper the traditional perception, created by Vasari, of Giotto’s greater importance in the larger pattern of artistic develop­ ment in fourteenth-century Italy. Cavallini, like Giotto, was treated with the privileges of a court artist in Naples. This confirms that Cavallini, two decades before Giotto arrived, had a special role in the court’s cultural programme, even if it is not possible to confirm what he may have painted. The evidence reveals that Charles II and Robert were concerned with the political impact of the art of their new employees, clearly expecting that these masters could forge, through their regional painting styles, a positive image of Angevin rule. This case study of Cavallini and Giotto validates the essential argument of Warnke: the position of the artist was changing in fourteenth-century society due to court patronage.149 Furthermore, this chapter complements Warnke’s theories by considering what the patron and the court situation reveal about the artist’s status. Warnke focused on Giotto as his starting point because he fitted into his paradigm of an artist returning to a republican city-state with a higher status after a court stay.150 Warnke ignored Cavallini who had returned from Naples to the deserted papal city of Rome, which had been left with no artists’ guilds and only limited art patronage among the Roman nobility. Yet Cavallini still garnered significant prestige, as demonstrated by his commission – one of the last papal commissions in Rome for at least a decade – for the fac¸ade of one of Rome’s principal basilicas, San Paolo fuori le mura.151 The question remains as to whether Cavallini and Giotto were seen as more than mere craftsmen by their patrons as a result of their appointments at the court of Naples – or if they were perceived as such even before their visits there.152 This analysis does not suggest, as Warnke did, a necessarily teleological development of the artist from anonymous craftsman to self-conscious intellectual starting from the early fourteenth century. The present study provides evidence to indicate that the value of artists at this time included some personal merit, though their art was still the basis of their worth to their patrons.153 54

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This chapter offers a point of departure for further examination of the broader implications of the argument that, as early as the fourteenth century, European courts turned to art and artists to promote a public image and that artists benefited from the change. The example of Pietro Cavallini suggests the prestige in which he was held before going to Naples – as an artist, a Roman and a visual ambassador – in order to be charged with such a significant appointment as court painter. Additionally, it reveals that the Neapolitan court had its own ‘iconography of style’, recognizing Italian artists’ individual skills and regional influences and using them to its advantage. The renown of the artists reflected back onto their Angevin patrons, demonstrating the patrons’ culture and prestige. As Samantha Kelly astutely states: ‘The fame of these [artists] redounded to the greater glory of their patron, and spread the work of Robert’s patronage to their various homelands and along the paths of their often international careers.’154

Notes

A version of this chapter was presented in the sessions, Import/Export: Painting, Sculpture and Architecture in the Kingdom of Naples 1266–1568, at the Renaissance Society of America Annual Conference in San Francisco in 2006. I thank Janis Elliott and Cordelia Warr for their careful organization and editing of this volume. 1

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3

4

I commentarii was written shortly before Ghiberti’s death in 1455. Lorenzo Ghiberti, I commentarii, ed. Ottavio Morisani, Naples, 1947, 36 (section 2, para. 9) and Lorenzo Ghiberti, I commentarii, ed. Lorenzo Bartoli, Florence, 1998, 86 (section 2.1). I have referenced both editions in the event that one is more accessible for the reader. I did not notice any particular differences in the texts. ` eccellenti pittori Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ piu scultori e architettori nelle redazioni de 1550 e 1568, eds Rosanna Bettarini and Paola Barocchi, 6 vols, Florence, 1966–67, vol. 2/1 (Testo). On Giotto, see Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 117, ll. 20– 4. On Cavallini, see Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 86, ll. 1–3, 18–20, and 184, ll. 8–9. For a review of the scholarship on Cavallini, see Alessandro Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, Milan, 2000, 11–21, esp. 13. The Vasarian bias was found, for instance, in Abate Luigi Lanzi, Storia pittorica della Italia dal risorgimento delle belle arti fin presso al fine del XVIII secolo, ed. Martino Capucci, 1795– 96, Florence, 1968, vol. 1, 30, 41–2, 50, and Filippo Baldinucci, Notizie de’ professori del disegno da Cimabue in qua, per le quali si dimostra come, e per chi le bell’ arti di pittura, scultura, e architettura lasciata la rozzezza delle maniere greca, e gottica, si siano in questi secoli ridotte all’antica loro perfezione, Florence, 1681–1728, vol. 4, 132. Among the first to reconsider Cavallini were Jean-Baptiste Seroux d’Agincourt, Storia dell’arte dimostrata coi monumenti dalla sua decadenza nel IV secolo fino al suo risorgimento nel XVI, 7 vols, Prato,

5

6

7

[1823] 1828–29, vol. 5, 200–1; and Giovanni Battista Cavalcaselle and Joseph A. Crowe, A New History of Painting in Italy, from the Second to the Sixteenth Century, 3 vols, London, 1864. See Paul Barolsky, ‘What Are We Reading When We Read Vasari?’, Source, 22: 1, 2002, 33–5; Anne B. Barriault and Jeryldene M. Wood with Andrew Ladis and Norman E. Land, ‘Introduc­ tion’, in Anne B. Barriault, Andrew Ladis, Norman E. Land and Jeryldene M. Wood, eds, Reading Vasari, Athens, GA, 2005, 15–18. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 100, ll. 9–13. See Bruno Zanardi, ‘Giotto and the St. Francis Cycle at Assisi’, in Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona, eds, The Cambridge Companion to Giotto, Cambridge, 2004, 32–62; and Bruno Zanardi, Federico Zeri and Chiara Frugoni, Il Cantiere di Giotto. Le storie di San Francesco ad Assisi, Milan, 1996. Regarding Vasari’s attribution to Giotto, see Patricia Lee Rubin, Giorgio Vasari. Art and History, New Haven, 1995, 308, 15–17. On Assisi’s ties to Rome, see Hayden B. J. Maginnis, ‘In Search of an Artist’, in Derbes and Sandona, The Cambridge Companion to Giotto, 10–31, esp. 28–9. On the papacy’s influence in the Upper Church cycles at San Francesco, see Hans Belting, Die Oberkirche von San Francesco in Assisi: Ihre Dekora­ tion als Aufgabe und die Genese einer neuen Wand­ malerei, Berlin, 1977. On Giotto, see Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 105–6. See also Maginnis, ‘In Search of an Artist’, 30; Miklos Boskovits, ‘Giotto a Roma’, Arte Cristiana, 88, 2000, 171–80. On Cavallini, see

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8

9 10

11 12

13 14

15

16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23

24 25

26 27

56

Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 185–8. See also Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 22–119. Vasari stated that, since Giotto’s sojourn in Naples, there had been no masters of painting who had done anything of importance in Naples, which is why Vasari attempted to do so himself. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 385, ll. 20–4. See also Rubin, Giorgio Vasari, 315. Regarding Vasari’s comments on Giotto in Naples, see Rubin, Giorgio Vasari, 313–15. Paul Barolsky, ‘Fear of Fiction: The Fun of Reading Vasari’, in Barriault, Reading Vasari, 31–5. ´mile Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, Paris, E 1954, 37–73. Tommaso Astarita, Between Salt Water and Holy Water: A History of Southern Italy, New York, 2005, 66–7. Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 129–30. Alison Cole, Virtue and Magnificence: Art of the Italian Renaissance Courts, New York, 1995, 8. On the Angevin court and its administration, see Giuseppe Galasso, Il Regno di Napoli. Il Mezzo­ giorno angioino e aragonese, Turin, 1999, 317–38; Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 82–3; and Samantha Kelly, The New Solomon: Robert of Naples (1309–1343) and Fourteenth-Century King­ ship, Leiden and Boston, 2003, 56–7. Isabelle Heullant-Donat, ‘Quelques re´flexions autour de la cour angevine comme milieu culturel au XIVe sie`cle’, in L’E´tat angevin: Pouvoir, culture et socie´te´ entre XIIIe et XIVe sie`cle, Rome, 1998, 173–91, esp. 182–4. Kelly, The New Solomon, 56–72, 137–52. Kelly, The New Solomon, 54–5. On courts in general, see Cole, Virtue and Magnificence, 9. Regarding Naples, see Kelly, The New Solomon, 56–7, 71; Galasso, Il regno di Napoli, 319–27. Kelly, The New Solomon, 70. Kelly, The New Solomon, 13–14, 70–2. Kelly, The New Solomon, 48. On the issue of humanism at King Robert’s court, see Kelly, The New Solomon, 41–9. Martin Warnke, The Court Artist: On the Ancestry of the Modern Artist, trans. David McLintock, Cambridge, 1993. Warnke, The Court Artist, xiii–xv. Stephen J. Campbell, ‘Introduction’, in Stephen J. Campbell, ed., Artists at Court. Image-Making and Identity 1300–1550, Boston, 2004, 9–18, esp. 9–10. Campbell, ‘Introduction’, 16. As Kelly states, the differences between medieval and early modern courts is not clearcut. Kelly, The New Solomon, 70–1. See also Trevor Dean, ‘The Courts’, in Julius Kirschner, ed., The Origins of the State in Italy, 1300–1600, Chicago, 1996, 136–51; Malcolm Vale, The Princely Court. Medieval Courts and Culture in North-West Europe, 1270–1380, Oxford, 2001; Ronald Asch and Adolf

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

Birke, eds, Princes, Patronage and the Nobility. The Court at the Beginning of the Modern Age, c. 1450– 1650, Oxford, 1991. Compare L’europe des Anjou: aventure des princes angevins du XIIIe au XVe sie`cle, Paris, 2001; Lorenz . Enderlin, ‘Der Kunstler und der Hof im angio­ vinischen Neapel’, in Medien der Macht. Kunst zur Zeit der Anjous in Italien, Tanja Michalsky, ed., Berlin, 2001, 61–77. For information about other royal courts and their art, several exhi­ bition catalogues are informative though none present the same situation with regard to court artists in Naples at this time. See L’art au temps des rois maudits: Philippe le Bel et ses fils, 1285–1328, Paris, 1998; Danielle Gaborit-Chopin and Franc¸ois Avril, eds, 1300 . . . L’art au temps de Philippe le Bel, Paris, 2001; Barbara Drake Boehm and Jiri Fajt, eds, Prague: The Crown of Bohemia 1347–1437, New York, 2005; J. J. G. Alexander and Paul Binski, eds, Age of Chivalry: Art in Planta­ genet England, 1200–1400, London, 1987; and Helen C. Evans, ed., Byzantium: Faith and Power (1261–1557), New York, 2004. On the diversity of the nobility, see Kelly, The New Solomon, 139–44. On the culture and the population, see Francesco Sabatini, Napoli `, Cava dei Tirreni, Angioina. Cultura e Societa 1975, 67–91. Ferdinando Bologna, I Pittori alla corte angioina di Napoli 1266–1414 e un riesame dell’arte nell’eta` Federiciana, Rome, 1969, 21–114. It is beyond the scope of this chapter to include an analysis of another relevant court artist, the Sienese sculptor Tino da Camaino, who worked in Naples from 1324 to 1337. See Kelly, The New Solomon, 59. See Stephen J. Campbell and Stephen J. Milner, ‘Art, Identity, and Cultural Translation in Renaissance Italy’, in Stephen J. Campbell and Stephen J. Milner, eds, Artistic Exchange and Cultural Translation in the Italian Renaissance City, Cambridge, 2004, 1–13, esp. 4. The first document seemingly related to him is an act of sale dated 2 October 1273 mentioning Petrus dictus Cavallinus de Cerronibus, although with no mention of his work or a title. Ales­ sandro Tomei suggests that perhaps he was already so well known as a painter that he did not need any more identification as such in the document. See Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 11, for a description and the most recent biography and historiography of scholarship on Cavallini. On Cavallini’s Roman works, see Guglielmo Matthiae, Pietro Cavallini, Rome, 1972; Marcello Fagiolo and Maria Luisa Madonna, eds, Roma 1300–1875. L’arte degli anni santi, Milan, 1984, 315–17; Miklos Boskovits, ‘Proposte (e conferme) per Pietro Cavallini’, in Angiola Maria Romanini, ed., Roma Anno 1300, Rome, 1983, 297–312, figs. 1–43. Ghiberti, I commentarii, ed. Bartoli, 83–5 and 86–7 (II.1).

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36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44 45

46 47

Regarding differences between the first and second editions, and the representation of Giotto in both editions, see Rubin, Giorgio Vasari, 186–90, 306–20. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 185, ll. 25–7 and 186, ll. 18–20: ‘. . . musaico (sic), la quale arte insieme con la pittura apprese da Giotto . . .’ and ‘. . . si ` sempre di farsi conoscere per ottimo sforzo discepolo di Giotto . . . .’ Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 187, ll. 9–10, 27–30: ‘Venne . . . Pietri in Toscana per veder l’opere degl’altri discepoli del suo maestro Giotto . . .’ and ‘Passando . . . per Ascesi [Assisi] non solo per vedere quelle fabbriche e quelle cosı´ notabili opere fattevi dal suo maestro e da alcuni de’ suoi condiscepoli . . . .’ Other works he noted were paintings at Old St Peter’s, San Crisogono, San Francesco a Ripa and San Paolo fuori le mura, and mosaics at San Paolo fuori le mura. See Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 23–51; Paul Hether­ ington, Pietro Cavallini, London, 1979, 13–28; Livio Pestilli, ‘‘‘Ficus latine a fecunditate vocatur’’: On an Unique Iconographic Detail in Cavallini’s Annunciation in Santa Maria in Trastevere’, Source, 20: 3, 2001, 5–14. The dating has been traditionally c. 1291, though it has been moved by several scholars to 1299–1300. See Vitaliano Tiberia, Il Restauro dei Mosaici di Santa Maria in Trastevere, Todi, 1996. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 95–123. Vasari added frescoes in Santa Maria in Aracoeli in Rome, in San Marco and San Basilio in Florence, and in the Duomo of Orvieto, along with a painted Crucifixion in the Lower Church of San Fran­ cesco in Assisi. On Vasari’s attributions to Cavallini in Rome, see Rubin, Giorgio Vasari, 178. On recent discussions about Santa Cecilia, see Boris Hohmeyer, ‘Rom holt wieder auf’, Art, 8, 2001, 60–6; Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 16–17, 52–95. See also Hetherington, Pietro Cavallini, 37–40. Hermanin was viceispettore, vice inspector, in the Galleria Nazionale di Roma. Federico Hermanin, ‘Un affresco di Pietro Cavallini in Santa Cecilia in Trastevere’, Archivio della societa` romana di storia patria, 23, 1900, 397–410; Hermanin, ‘Nuovi affreschi di Pietro Cavallini a Sta. Cecilia in Trastevere’, L’Arte, 4, 1901, 239– 44. See also Hetherington, Pietro Cavallini, 37– 40; and Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 16–17. The dating is traditionally c. 1292–93. Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 20. Zanardi, ‘Giotto and the St. Francis Cycle’, 32– 62. On other re-evaluations of Cavallini, see Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 16, 18, 19. See, for example, Hohmeyer, ‘Rom holt wieder auf’, 60–6. Proposed first in Bologna, I Pittori, 26, 115. See also Alessandro Tomei, ‘Qualche riflessione sull’attivita` napoletana di Pietro Cavallini: nuovi dati sulla cappella Brancaccio in San Domenico Maggiore’, in Serena Romano and

48

49

50

51

52

53

54 55

Nicholas Bock, eds, Le Chiese di San Lorenzo e San Domenico. Gli ordini mendicanti a Napoli, Naples, 2005, 126–44; Hetherington, Pietro Cavallini, 158, no. 10. Some of these Neapolitan attributions have shifted to other artists now, such as the Tree of Jesse in the Duomo, now attributed to Lello da Orvieto. See Bologna, I Pittori, 126–32. On Cavallini and the frescoes of Santa Maria Donna Regina, see Adolfo Venturi, ‘Pietro Cavallini a Napoli’, L’Arte, 9, 1906, 117–24, 120; Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 128–9. On other artists in Santa Maria Donna Regina, see Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 125; Bologna, I Pittori, 132–5. See also Serena Romano, ‘Review of Roma Anno 1300’, Storia dell’arte, 52, 1984, 232–8, esp. 236; Janis Elliott and Cordelia Warr, ‘Introduction’, in Janis Elliott and Cordelia Warr, eds, The Church of Santa Maria Donna Regina: Art, Iconography and Patronage in Fourteenth-Century Naples, Aldershot, 2004, 1–12. Martindale claims that no court status was assigned to Cavallini in Naples, but a house and salary seem to indicate differently. Andrew Martindale, The Rise of the Artist in the Middle Ages and Early Renaissance, New York, 1972, 35. The project to reconstruct the archives from published sources and handwritten notes is slowly moving forward in its chronology. Riccardo Filangieri, L’Archivio di Stato di Napoli durante la Seconda Guerra Mondiale, ed. Stefano Palmieri, Naples, 1996. See also Kelly, The New Solomon, 10. Published first in Heinrich Wilhelm Schulz, Denkm.aler der Kunst des Mittelalters in Unteritalien, ed. Ferdinand von Quast, 5 vols, Dresden, 1860, vol. 4, 127 (doc. CCCXXIV). See also Bologna, I Pittori, 8. The two documents of 1308 are published in Ottavio Morisani, Pittura del Trecento in Napoli, Naples, 1947, 125, and in Hetherington, Pietro Cavallini, 153. The third, noted by Francesco Aceto, ‘Pittori e documenti della Napoli angioina: aggiunte ed espunzioni’, Prospettiva, 67, 1992, 53–65, esp. 62, appears in Carlo De Lellis, Notamenta ex registris Caroli II, Roberti et Caroli ducis Calabriae (ms. del XVII sec.), Naples, n.d., vol. 4 bis, part 2, 884, and comes from the records of the royal chancery, the Cancelleria angioina (hereafter Canc. ang.), reg. 1306D, fol. 246. For a transcription of the text, see Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 11; Matthiae, Pietro Cavallini, 9; Bologna, I Pittori, 115; Hetherington, Pietro Cavallini, 153. For a transcription of the text, see Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 11; Hetherington, Pietro Cavallini, 153. The third document, dated between June 1308 and August 1309 (between the sixth and seventh indictions), indicates that Cavallini received extra payment to the tune of 15 ounces. Aceto, ‘Pittori e documenti’, 62 and 65, n. 85: ‘Multis servientibus Curiae provisio pro

57

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56 57

58 59 60

61

62

63

64 65 66

67

68

69

58

solutione quantitatis, inter quos Domino Nicolao episcopo Botrontino cappellano Regio, Gottifredo et Miletto Aurifabris Regiis, Magistro Petro Cavellino (sic) de Roma pittori . . ., unc. 15.’, Canc. ang., reg. 1306 D, fol. 246, cited in De Lellis, Notamenta, vol. 4 bis, part 2, 884. Warnke, The Court Artist, 9. Martindale, The Rise of the Artist, 35, claims that in England and France before c. 1300 no artists were named as having special court privileges. An example of a later French court painter is Jean d’Orle´ans. See Philippe Henwood, ‘Jean d’Orle´ans, peintre du rois Jean II, Charles V et Charles VI (1361–1407)’, Gazette des Beaux Arts, 95, 1980, 137–40. Kelly, The New Solomon, 59. Matthiae, Pietro Cavallini, 139; Hetherington, Pietro Cavallini, 108–9. Bologna, I Pittori, 126; Pierluigi Leone de Castris, Arte di corte nella Napoli angioina, Flor­ ence, 1986, 313. London, British Library, Add. MS 47672. See Cathleen A. Fleck, ‘Biblical Politics and the Neapolitan Bible of Anti-Pope Clement VII’, Arte Medievale, N.S. Anno 1 (1), 2002, 71–90. Giotto did not come alone; artists such as Maso di Banco followed him. See Alessandro Tomei, ‘Libri miniati fra Roma, Napoli e Avignone’, in Alessandro Tomei, ed., Roma, Napoli, Avignone. Arte di curia, arte di corte 1300–1377, Turin, 1996, 177–200, esp. 196. Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio, trans. W. S. Merwin, New York, 2000, Canto 11, 106 and 107, ll. 94–6: ‘Credette Cimabue ne la pittura/tener lo campo, e ora ha Giotto il grido,/sı´ che la fama di colui e` scura.’ Maginnis, ‘In Search of an Artist’, 10–31. Aceto, ‘Pittori e documenti’, 55–61. The new giottesque Neapolitan artists include Roberto d’Oderisio, Maestro di Giovanni Barile and Cristoforo Orimina. See Pierluigi Leone de Castris, ‘Pittura del duecento e del trecento a Napoli e nel meridione’, in Enrico Castelnuovo, ed., La pittura in Italia: Il Duecento e il Trecento, Milan, 1986, 461–512, 477. Ghiberti, I commentarii, Bartoli, ed., 84 (II.1): ‘. . . in Napoli, dipinse nel castello dell’uovo (sic).’ The castle was first built between 1279 and 1282, and successive kings altered and added to it. See Riccardo Filangieri, Castel Nuovo. Reggia angioina ed aragonese di Napoli, Naples, 1964, 3–10. This is noted in the 1550 edition of Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 108, ll. 30–1: ‘Nel Castello dell’Uovo (sic) fece ancora molte opere, e particolarmente la cappella (sic) . . .’, and in the 1568 edition, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 108, ll. 14–18: ‘Ma per tornare a Napoli, fece Giotto nel Castello dell’Uovo (sic) molte opere, e particolarmente la capella . . . .’ Cang. ang., reg. 1328 B, fol. 367. See F. Forcel­ lini, ‘Un ignoto pittore napoletano del sec. XIV

70

71 72

73

74

75

76 77

78 79

80

81

82

e un nuovo documento sulla venuta di Giotto a Napoli’, Archivio storico per le province napoletane, 35, 1910, 544–52, 545. See also Bologna, I Pittori, 183. Various Angevin documents, all now lost, mentioned these works. Filangieri transcribed some of these particular documents: Canc. ang., reg. 285, fol. 213–14; reg. 286, fol. 228; reg. 284, fol. 18v; and reg. 287, fol. 213, in Riccardo Filangieri, Rassegna critica delle fonti per la storia di Castel Nuovo, Naples, 1939, 26, 41, 74–5. For a chronology of the documents, see Bologna, I Pittori, 183–7; and Aceto, ‘Pittori e documenti’, 56–7. There may also have been an altarpiece painted by Giotto. On the form of the chapel, see Filangieri, Rassegna critica, 19. Bologna, I Pittori, 187; Leone de Castris, Arte di corte, 313, 17. For a summary of the scholarship, see Aceto, ‘Pittori e documenti’, 56. In the 1550 version of Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 108, ll. 25–6: ‘Fu chiamato a Napoli dal re Ruberto, il quale gli fece fare in Santa Chiara . . . alcune cappelle . . . .’ In the 1568 version, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 108, ll. 1–5: ‘. . . Ruberto re di Napoli . . . avendo finito di fabricare S. Chiara . . . voleva che da lui [Giotto] fusse di nobile pittura adornata.’ Caroline Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples: Church Building in Angevin Italy, 1266–1343, New Haven, 2004, 133–54. Compare, in particular, the Lamentation scene in the Arena Chapel, Padua. See Alessandra Perriccioli Saggese, ‘Modelli giotteschi nella miniatura napoletana del trecento’, in Il Medioevo: i modelli, Atti del convegno inter­ nazionale di studi (Parma, 1999), 2002, 661–7, esp. 661; Bologna, I Pittori, 181, 84. See also Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, 142. Ghiberti, I commentarii, ed. Bartoli, 84 (II.1); Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 109, ll. 1–5. The later Aragonese rulers altered the hall and ruined the Angevin-period frescoes in the fifteenth century. Filangieri, Castel Nuovo, 10, 18. Leone de Castris, Arte di corte, 314–20. Christiane L. Joost-Gaugier, ‘Giotto’s Hero Cycle in Naples: A Prototype of donne illustri and a Possible Literary Connection’, Zeitschrift f.ur Kunstgeschichte, 43, 1980, 311–18, esp. 316. Giuseppe de Blasiis, ‘Immagini di uomini famosi in una sala di Castelnuovo’, Napoli Nobilissima, 9, 1900, 65–7, 66, n.1. Bologna suggests a date of c. 1332–33, after Santa Chiara. Bologna, I Pittori, 187. According to Vasari, Giotto also painted a selfportrait in the room. Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 109, ll. 3–4 (only in 1568 edition): ‘fra essi [ritratti] quello di esso Giotto . . .’. On Robert’s projected persona, see Kelly, The New Solomon, 304–5. Robert’s ownership of a manuscript of the works of Livy (an ancient Roman historian) and the presence of a De viris

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85

86 87 88 89

90

91

92

93

illustribus (On Illustrious Men) volume in his library by 1343 illustrates his interest in historical personages. The former was illu­ strated in the late thirteenth century in Naples. Bologna, I Pittori, 221 and fig. I–29. See also Christiane L. Joost-Gaugier, ‘The Early Begin­ nings of the Notion of ‘‘uomini famosi’’ and ‘‘de viris illustribus’’ in Greco-Roman Literary Tradition’, Artibus et Historiae, 6, 1982, 97–115, esp. 106 (on Livy). Campbell, ‘Introduction’, 12–13. Another example includes Francesco Carrara’s Palazzo del Capitano at Padua by Guariento (c. 1350). Joost-Gaugier, ‘The Early Beginnings of the Notion of ‘‘uomini famosi’’’, 98, 100. Members of the royal family had their own private chapels near their different quarters. Filangieri, Castel Nuovo, 18. Kelly, The New Solomon, 14. Leone de Castris, Arte di corte, 374–81. Warnke, The Court Artist, 9. See also Bologna, I Pittori, 184. Translation by Warnke. Warnke, The Court Artist, 9, esp. n. 32. He quotes the original document from Canc. ang., reg. 274, fol. 20, published in Schulz, Denkm.aler der Kunst, vol. 4, 163: ‘Quos morum probitas approbat et virtus descretiva commendat, familie nostre libenter aggregamus. Sane attendentes, quod magister Joctus de Florentia pictor, familiaris et fidelis noster, fulciter providis actibus et exercitatur servitiis fructuosis, ipsum in familiarem nostrum recipimus et de nostro hospicio reti­ nemus volentes, ut illis honoribus et privilegiis potiatur et gaudeat, quibus familiares alii potiuntur, receptor provide solito iuramento.’ See also Bologna, I Pittori, 184. Regarding slightly later contracts in Italy and their elements, see Michelle O’Malley, ‘Subject Matters: Contracts, Designs, and the Exchange of Ideas between Painters and Clients in Renaissance Italy’, in Campbell and Milner, Artistic Exchange and Cultural Translation, 17–37, esp. 16–20. For comparison, see the discussion of Simone Martini at the Avignon court by C. Jean Campbell, ‘‘‘Symoni nostro senensi nuper iocundissima’’. The Court Artist: Heart, Mind, and Hand’, in Campbell, Artists at Court, 33–45, 39. See Bernhard Schimmelpfennig, ‘Ad maiorem pape gloriam: La fonction des pie`ces dans le palais des papes d’Avignon’, in Jean Guillaume, ed., Architecture et vie sociale. L’Organisation inte´r­ ieure des grandes demeures a` la fin du moyen age et a` la Renaissance, Paris, 1994, 25–46; Gary Radke, ‘Form and Function in Thirteenth-Century Papal Palaces’, in Guillaume, Architecture et vie sociale, 11–24. The annuity began in April. Canc. ang., reg. 286, fol. 74, transcribed by Morisani, Pittura del

94 95 96

97 98

99

100 101

102

103 104

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Trecento in Napoli, 141–2. See also Bologna, I Pittori, 185. Campbell, ‘Introduction’, 10–11. Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, 76. Petrarch’s praises of Robert suggest that he was successful in conveying this perception. See Ernest H. Wilkins, ‘The Coronation of Petrarch’, Speculum, 18/2, 1943, 155–97, esp. 180, 183; Kelly, The New Solomon, 42. On his public image and on the frescoes, see Kelly, The New Solomon, 10–15, 45–6. Sherry C. M. Lindquist, ‘ ‘‘The Will of a Princely Patron’’ and Artists at the Burgundian Court’, in Campbell, Artists at Court, 46–56, 54. On such products, see also Cole, Virtue and Magnificence, 41. For the pomp of his court, see the image of Robert enthroned in the Anjou Bible (Leuven, Katholiche Universiteit, Faculty of Theology, Maurits Sabbe Library, Coll. of the Archdiocese of Mechelen, cod. 1, fol. 3v) in Kelly, The New Solomon, fig. 14. Robert’s throne and its dais are painted, rich cloths hang behind him, and he holds a sceptre and orb in his hand. For Angevin military regalia, including a painted shield and pennant, see the illustration of a Latin poem dedicated to Robert c. 1335, Ad Robertum Siciliae regem, in Florence, Biblioteca nazionale, MS II I 27, fol. 24r in Sabatini, Napoli Angioina, fig. 16. Kelly, The New Solomon, 22–72. Compare Joanna Woods-Marsden, ‘Review of The Court Artist: On the Ancestry of the Modern Artist by Martin Warnke’, Speculum, 71, 1996, 220–2. See Campbell, ‘Introduction’, 18; Kelly, The New Solomon, 51. On the negative aspects of a court artist’s life, see Cole, Virtue and Magnificence, 36– 7, 42. Campbell, ‘Introduction’, 15. The Cavallini-style painting in the Brancaccio chapel of San Domenico, for instance, was not produced for either Charles II or Robert. Tomei, ‘Qualche riflessione’, 126–44. An example is found in the giottesque painter Roberto d’Oderisio, active from about 1330 and identified through a signed panel of a Cruci­ fixion from San Francesco at Eboli, now in the Museo del Duomo of Salerno. Leone de Castris, Arte di corte, 388, fig. 1. For a reconstruction of d’Oderisio’s career, see Bologna, I Pittori, 258– 74; Leone de Castris, Arte di corte, 374–407. See also the frescoes in Santa Maria Incoronata, prepared at the behest of Queen Joanna I around 1370 and also tied to d’Oderisio, demonstrating that the giottesque style persisted at court long after Giotto’s sojourn. See Leone de Castris, Arte di corte, 374–81. As Stephen Campbell states, ‘[Style] is a repro­ ducible effect, a means of extending a court artist’s sphere of operation through the collective activity of collaborators and prote´ge´s’. Campbell, ‘Introduction’, 15.

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107 Belting, Die Oberkirche von San Francesco; Enrico Castelnuovo, ‘Arte della citta`, arte delle corti tra XII e XIV secolo’, in Storia dell’ arte italiana, Turin, 1983, 165–227, esp. 204–5; Maginnis, ‘In search of an artist’, 28–31. 108 Joan A. Holladay, ‘Consciousness of Style in Gothic Art’, in Katharina Corsepius, Daniela Mondini, Darko Senekovic, Lino Sibillano and Samuel Vitali, eds, Opus Tessellatum. Modi und . Grenzg.ange der Kunstwissenschaft. Festschrift fur Peter Cornelius Claussen, Hildesheim, 2004, 303–14, esp. 304. 109 Zanardi, ‘Giotto and the St. Francis Cycle’, 53– 7; Joachim Poeschke, Antonio Quattrone and Ghigo Roli, Italian Frescoes, the Age of Giotto, 1280– 1400, New York, 2005, 65. 110 In this case, opus anglicanum refers to a tech­ nique of textile production. See Castelnuovo, ‘Arte della citta`, arte delle corti’, 168–9. 111 Zanardi, ‘Giotto and the St. Francis Cycle’, 53– 62; Maginnis, ‘In Search of an Artist’, 28–31. 112 Ghiberti, I commentarii, ed. Bartoli, 87, ll.3–4 (II.1). 113 Castelnuovo argues that the contemporaries of Giotto read his success by his commissions (in Rome, Padua, Assisi and Florence), as well as by his capacity for innovation and imagination. See Castelnuovo, ‘Arte della citta`, arte delle corti’, 205–6. Scholars continue to debate the artists who were involved at San Francesco in part because Giotto, a Florentine, also worked in Rome. He had already incorporated Roman elements into his work before going to Naples. See Maginnis, ‘In Search of an Artist’, 10–31. 114 Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, ix. 115 Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, ix, 143–4. See also Marina Righetti Tosti-Croce, ‘Architettura tra Roma, Napoli e Avignone nel trecento’, in Tomei, Roma, Napoli, Avignone, 93–128, esp. 104. 116 Norman Housley, The Italian Crusades: The PapalAngevin Alliance and the Crusades against Christian Lay Powers, 1254–1343, Oxford, 1982; Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 32–5, 204–207. 117 Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 37–73. 118 Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 54, 61, 98. 119 Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 181–3. 120 Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 181–7. 121 Guillaume Mollat, The Popes at Avignon, 1305– 1378, trans. Janet Love, 9th edn, London, 1963, 3–8. 122 Bernard Guillemain, Les Papes d’Avignon (1309– 1376), Paris, 1998; Bernard Guillemain, La Cour Pontificale d’Avignon (1309–1376): ´Etude d’une socie´te´, Paris, 1962, 77–88; Mollat, The Popes at Avignon, 3–8. 123 Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 204–6.

124 Kelly, The New Solomon, 6, 10, 104–5.

125 Kelly, The New Solomon, 7; Galasso, Il Regno di

Napoli, 117–25; Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 210–19. 126 Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 210–13.

60

127 Kelly, The New Solomon, 194–204; Galasso, Il Regno di Napoli, 124; Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 220–2. 128 Kelly, The New Solomon, 6. 129 On the contemporary mystique of Rome, see Cathleen A. Fleck, ‘Linking Jerusalem and Rome in the Fourteenth Century: Images of Jerusalem and the Temple in the Italian ‘‘Bible of Anti-pope Clement VII’’’, Jewish Art, 23/24, (1997/98), 430–52. 130 Regarding Robert and Florence, see Kelly, The New Solomon, 41, 42; Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 220; Janis Elliott, ‘The Judgement of the Commune: The Frescoes of the Magdalen . Kunst­ Chapel in Florence’, Zeitschrift fur geschichte, 4, 1998, 509–19. 131 Vasari, Le vite, vol. 2/1, 108, ll. 1–3. The presence of influential central Italian natives in Naples could account for the spread there of Giotto’s fame – among them: James of Viterbo, Giles of Rome, Ptolemy of Lucca and Remigio de’ Giro­ lami, as well as Niccolo Acciaiuoli and Cino da Pistoia. See Kelly, The New Solomon, 63; Leone de Castris, Arte di corte, 314. 132 The citizens of Florence asked Charles to be their protector in late 1325 for ten years, but he died before the end of his tenure in 1328. See Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 246–7. See also . Enderlein, ‘Der Kunstler,’ 67–8. 133 Kelly, The New Solomon, 227–35. 134 On the scope of Florentine economic activity, see a graphic summary in Gene A. Brucker, Florence, the Golden Age, 1138–1737, New York, 1984, 82–3. 135 Benjamin G. Kohl, ‘Giotto and his lay patrons’, in Derbes and Sandona, The Cambridge Compa­ nion to Giotto, 176–96, esp. 193–4. 136 Campbell and Milner, ‘Art, identity and cultural translation’, 2. 137 Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, 11–45; Caroline Bruzelius, ‘Ad modum franciae: Charles of Anjou and Gothic Architecture in the Kingdom of Sicily’, Journal of Architectural Historians, 50, 1991, 402–20. 138 Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, 3, 75–132; Caro­ line Bruzelius, ‘Charles I, Charles II, and the Development of an Angevin Style in the Kingdom of Sicily’, in L’E´tat angevin, 99–114, esp. 100–5, 114. 139 Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, 78–95. 140 Serena Romano, ‘La cattedrale di Napoli, i vescovi e l’immagine: Una storia di lunga durata’, in Serena Romano and Nicholas Bock, eds, Il Duomo di Napoli dal paleocristiano all’eta` angioina, Naples, 2002, 7–20. Bruzelius comments that the ancient columns, Roman building techniques of opus reticulatum and opus mixtum, and the high transept are particularly Roman features. See Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, 93–4. 141 On literary evidence of nationalist conscious­ ness at the Neapolitan court, see Patrick Gilli,

THE RISE OF THE COURT ARTIST

142 143 144 145

146

147

‘L’inte´gration manque´e des Angevins en Italie: le te´moignage des historiens’, in L’E´tat angevin, 11–33. Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, 94, 95. Kelly, The New Solomon, 144. Sabatini, Napoli Angioina, 8–9, 38–40. Heullant-Donat, ‘Quelques re´flexions’, 173–91; Kelly, The New Solomon, 41–9; Alessandro Barbero, Il mito angioino nella cultura italiana e provenzale fra Duecento e Trecento, Turin, 1983. On the ‘italianization’ effort under Robert, see Gilli, ‘L’inte´gration manque´e des Angevins en Italie’, 19–26. Housley, The Italian Crusades, 1–2. Though the Angevins had some conflicts with the popes, Robert’s sojourn in papal Avignon from 1319 to 1324 shows that their ties continued.

148

149 150 151 152

153 154

Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 232–5. For the term ‘cornerstone’, see Housley, The Italian Crusades, 2. Le´onard, Les Angevins de Naples, 210–22. This role meant that they had to oppose their northern Italian and imperial adversaries. On the subtleties of patronage in Naples, see Heullant-Donat, ‘Quelques re´flexions’, 182–4. Warnke, The Court Artist, 8. Tomei, Pietro Cavallini, 134–42. Fourteenth-century society was not yet cogni­ zant of the idea of the intellectual artist. See Francis Ames-Lewis, The Intellectual Life of the Early Renaissance Artist, New Haven, 2000, 30; Heullant-Donat, ‘Quelques re´flexions’, 182–4. Lindquist, ‘The Will of a Princely Patron’, 46. Kelly, The New Solomon, 51.

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4

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL

DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO

NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

TA N J A M I C H A L S K Y

The importation of ‘foreign’ artists is a familiar and much discussed art-historical phenomenon, but one that – at least in the Neapolitan context – is often discussed in narrow discipline-based terms: in discussions of stylistic classifica­ tion, the aesthetic categories meaningful to a given client, and the history of the art market.1 The recognition of the value of a comprehensive study to contex­ tualize this phenomenon has been slow to emerge. The following discussion will focus on an examination of the broader historical sensorium through which fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Neapolitans drew distinctions between local traditions and imported innovations when choosing artists, types and decorative styles for their monuments. Naples is a particularly good focus for such an investigation. The city was home to several foreign imperial and royal dynasties between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries with the result that the amalga­ mation of divergent artistic forms of expression reached a particularly high level of sophistication. That Neapolitans had the ability to make refined distinctions can be demonstrated through a study of their tomb monuments as each one alludes – by virtue of its memorial function – to both the past achievements and future aspirations of a commissioning family. By reference to several particularly eloquent late fifteenth-century examples, this chapter will investigate the possible intentions of clients, the prototypes in relation to which they oriented their decisions, and the degree to which they chose artists, forms and types for their ability to embody and represent social status. In order to develop this argument, and to examine the ability to make local and specific distinctions, it is useful to move past Michael Baxandall’s concept of the ‘period eye’ to a ‘local eye’, for, in the end, it is within local, urban society that these ‘fine distinctions’ came to be made, and where they were exemplified in public monuments.2 Since, as one would expect, these distinctions are not registered in textual form, we must rely on formal analyses of, and comparisons between, the monuments themselves. Beginning in the fourteenth century, when the Angevin rulers brought the Sienese Tino di Camaino to Naples and commissioned him and his workshop to construct their monuments, Neapolitan tomb sculpture began to be dominated by foreign sculptors.3 This process of importation may be demonstrated with reference to the oldest surviving Neapolitan dynastic tombs, those of Catherine of 62

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

1 (Left) Tino di Camaino, tomb of Catherine of Austria, 1325. Naples: San Lorenzo Maggiore.

Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

2 (Right) Tino di Camaino and Gagliardo Primario, tomb of Mary of Hungary, 1326. Naples: Santa

Maria Donna Regina. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

Austria in San Lorenzo Maggiore (plate 1) and of Mary of Hungary in Santa Maria Donna Regina (plate 2). For the freestanding tomb of Catherine of Austria, whose husband Charles of Calabria (d. 1328) was to have succeeded Robert of Anjou to the throne, Tino di Camaino worked for the first time in mosaic, collaborating with southern Italian mosaicists to create a new version of the baldachin tomb.4 The problematical character of this type of structure, which mingles various decorative traditions, was counterbalanced by means of a subtly conceived iconographic programme designed to fuse the client’s Franciscan piety with demands for dynastic sanctity.5 Unprecedented for the tomb of a woman – recognized neither for her outstanding religious or political deeds – were the caryatids of the Virtues, derived from contemporary tombs of saints, whose function was to honour the deceased as the representative of her family. In this case, both the tomb type and the principal artist were imported and adapted to specifically local conditions. Just one year later, the inconsistencies of Catherine’s tomb were eliminated in the monument to Queen Mary of Hungary (the wife of Charles II of Anjou) where Tino di Camaino is documented as collaborating with the Neapolitan sculptor Gagliardo Primario.6 The result was an unusually wellproportioned, elegant architectural ensemble with reliefs which are now more clearly accented by a few mosaic elements. Iconographically the tomb represents a highly concentrated version of elements usually contained in Tuscan monu­ mental walls tombs containing the figure of the Virgin Mary being honoured by her son. The result is an especially successful artistic solution based on local traditions. In particular, the sarcophagus relief, with its genealogical message, becomes a principal element of Angevin sepulchral sculpture from this point on. 63

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

3 Tomb of Ladislas of Anjou, 1420s. Naples: San Giovanni a Carbonara. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

Despite the obvious changes in iconography and decoration observable in the ensuing decades, this imported and modified type of monument became the symbol of Angevin power in all the mendicant churches of Naples.7 The final example of this Neapolitan–Angevin tradition is the tomb which Joanna II of Naples erected for her brother Ladislas toward the end of the 1420s in San Giovanni a Carbonara, the church of the Augustinian Hermits (plate 3).8 Almost filling the 64

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

4 Donatello and Michelozzo, tomb of Rinaldo Brancaccio, 1426–33. Naples: Sant’Angelo a Nido. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

entire rear wall of the presbytery, this tomb – whose crowning equestrian figure represents the king as ‘Divus Ladislaus’, and whose caryatids of the Virtues and enthroned figures monumentalize the dynastic program in a way far transcending familiar dimensions – impressively demonstrates the power of this typology. Once again Tuscan sculptors contributed although, in contrast to those monuments associated with Tino di Camaino, they were permitted minimal latitude.9 Simply to identify this monument’s anachronisms and weaknesses would thus be to miss both its message and its aspirations. Instead, a clear distinction should be drawn between local formal prescriptions for Angevin royal monuments, on the one hand, and attempts to modernize this form by relying on imported artists, on the other. While recognizing familiar elements and simultaneously assessing the tomb’s novel stylistic appearance, contemporaries would have regarded this monument less as disconcerting than as a reassessment of strict traditions.10 In 1688, however, Pompeo Sarnelli wrote in his guide to the city as follows: ‘. . . The sumptuous sepulchre of King Ladislas is the summit of magnificence, and although done in the gothic manner . . . is nonetheless a highly elaborate and superb work.’11 Here, he played off the gothic style (from the perspective of the baroque) against the monument’s vast scale: his perception of a formal discrepancy was crucial. The tomb of Rinaldo Brancaccio in S. Angelo a Nido (plate 4) was erected around the same time as the tomb of King Ladislas. In this monument to a Neapolitan nobleman, traditional and innovative accents have been reversed 65

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

5 Pietro da Milano, Domenico Gagini and Francesco Laurana, (detail of) triumphal arch, 1440s– 1470s. Naples: Castel Nuovo. Photo: Author.

when compared to the tomb of King Ladislas: the format is traditional while the style is innovative. The various components were shipped to Naples after production in Florence in 1426–33 by Donatello and Michelozzo.12 Beneath the canopy, there is a typical ensemble including caryatids bearing the sarcophagus and angels holding curtains. The tomb still follows the structure of Angevin prototypes. It is in the details, however, that the idiom of the artists who executed the work becomes conspicuous. Deprived now of their attributes, the caryatids no longer represent the Virtues, as in Angevin tombs; consequently, they no longer embody specific moral qualities. Donatello’s delicate low relief, rilievo schiacciato, at the centre of the sarcophagus displays far greater artistic skill than many tombs then existing in Naples, but its symbolism remains within the boundaries of Christian hopes for salvation. This tomb exemplifies how the imperative to represent social status necessitated the choice of a famous foreign sculptor while, at the same time, it shows how a local monument type might be adapted in an artistically splendid yet iconographically weak manner. In the decades following 1442 there was a shift to new forms of public representations of royal power under the Aragonese kings, as well as to a different and highly diverse group of sculptors whose members arrived from both southern and northern Italy. The best-known example is the workshop which produced the triumphal arch at Castel Nuovo, where Pietro da Milano, Domenico Gagini of Sicily and Dalmatian-born Francesco Laurana worked together (plate 5).13 The 66

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

frieze on the lower arch displays the famous scene of Alfonso of Aragon entering Naples in the guise of an emperor of antiquity. The upper arch must once have featured an equestrian statue.14 Above, the Virtues recall Angevin tomb icono­ graphy. The form and decoration of the triumphal arch, whose construction extended into the 1470s, must have been perceived by the Neapolitans as a sign simultaneously of artistic renewal and renewed occupation. Given its status as a public and royal structure, the choice of both forms and artists had a profound impact on all subsequent projects undertaken during the second half of the fifteenth century. When analysing this arch, modern scholars have without exception identified a wide-ranging network of allusions to ancient and medieval monuments such as the Roman arch in Pula (first century BCE) and the gateway of Frederick II in Capua (1230s). Such allusions were not merely elements of an erudite humanistic dialogue; they were also perceptible and comprehensible to a wide range of the inhabitants of Naples. The arch was intended (and regarded) as an extravagant masterpiece, one capable of competing with antique prototypes – even if such a double structure, with one arch set above the other, hardly appears antique to modern eyes. It epitomizes the innovative tendencies arriving from abroad that initiated changes in the visual habits of the lower nobility as its members adopted the new forms and yet employed the same local artists. Not surprisingly, the local culture was dominated to a considerable extent by the artistic choices of the sovereigns of Naples. Given the perpetual change of rulers and their artistic preferences, the Neapolitan elite was well schooled in analysing visual modes of representation and artistic styles, which functioned as codes indicating regional and social affiliations. In short: the existing Neapolitan culture of public and private monuments determined the ways in which the nobility was expected to enact social status by subscribing to a system of signif­ icant types and perhaps even of styles as well. A spectacular example of the orientation towards Tuscan forms is the Cappella Piccolomini in S. Anna dei Lombardi (plate 6) from the 1470s, designed almost entirely after a Florentine prototype. In terms of architecture and mate­ rials, as well as the iconographical program, it reflects the Chapel of the Cardinal of Portugal in San Miniato al Monte in Florence (1461–66).15 Although the specific reason for this copy has yet to be clarified, it demonstrates the precision with which chapel de´cor from other regions was imitated. The importation of whole chapel types, together with the artists who executed them, must have been perceived by contemporaries as the emulation of foreign models. As will be shown in the case of another tomb dating from the 1490s, it was precisely such extra­ ordinary monuments that would, in turn, influence later projects. Observable alongside references to contemporary tendencies in other cities is a recourse to local monuments. Social status was determined by, among other factors, the age of the family line, its anciennite´, expressed by allusions to older monuments. With its combination of renaissance and baroque elements, the chapel of the Sangro family in the Cappella del Crocifisso in San Domenico Maggiore (plate 7) clearly demonstrates this approach. A guide to the church dated 1828 fittingly captures the difficulty involved in disentangling the iden­ tities of the various individuals commemorated by the tomb: ‘The mausoleum of the Sangro family, richly decorated with statues and military trophies, and by many souvenirs of the various heroes of that noble family . . .’.16 By adding his 67

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

6 Antonio Rossellino and Benedetto da Maiano, Cappella Piccolomini, 1470s. Naples: S. Anna dei Lombardi (formerly S. Maria di Monteoliveto). Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

own bust, his trophies and an enormous plaque with an inscription, Nicolao de Sangro, who died in 1750, not only expanded and embellished the monument of his ancestors, but also, so to speak, burst its frame with the force of a baroque formal vocabulary.17 The fifteenth-century triumphal arch that once served as a setting for the tomb of his forefather, Placido Sangro, who died in 1480 and was interred according to the customs of the time, now retreats into the back­ ground.18 Also dating from the fifteenth century are the statues of Peter and Paul, housed in the lateral niches, as well as one representing the Archangel Michael. The reclining figure of a man wearing armour should probably be assigned to the sixteenth century and may have represented the other Placido Sangro referred to in the inscription on the left-hand base.19 The surviving ensemble shows that even two hundred and seventy years after its original decoration, the chapel’s patronage remained in the hands of the family, whose youngest successor deemed it appropriate to invoke his ancestors while inserting his own tomb into a far older one. Unfortunately, Nicolao de Sangro’s precise motives for choosing this 68

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

7 Tomb of the De Sangro family, 1480s/1750s. Naples: San Domenico Maggiore. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

solution can no longer be traced, although the rather banal possibility that it represented an economical alternative to decorating a new chapel should not be excluded. It is striking – and apparent even in the absence of documentation – that, despite the recklessness of the baroque interventions, the older monument has been preserved, that the elder eroi are not invoked merely through the inscriptions which name each and register his deeds, and that, even at first glance, the age of the family and of the chapel are manifest. Here a much older monument has been ostentatiously exploited so as to testify to family history at the cost of relegating earlier generations and their inscriptions to a subordinate position. Neglected, for example, is the identification of the reclining figure who 69

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

is now pressed into service as a representative of various deceased individuals. The superimposition of diverse, formally distinct layers in a single tomb monu­ ment has been utilized to stress an historical pedigree. Considerably more complex than these cases of direct imitation or the utili­ zation of existing tombs are the webs of formal allusions found in various aris­ tocratic monuments of the late fifteenth century. A variety of factors should be taken into account when studying these tombs. First, there are the wishes and associated visual expectations of the respective client; second, there are the models and forms introduced by the artists; and last, but not least, there is the vast network of relationships governing the local culture of remembrance. The settings and formal attributes of Neapolitan renaissance tombs become comprehensible only against the background of the social institution of the seggi. The five seggi represented the well-established noble families that, for centuries, had defined the individual urban districts.20 They demanded a say at court and were often successful. The term seggio also referred to a seat or a place of assembly for the nobility of a given quarter, whose origins could, according to legend, be traced all the way back to antiquity. Beginning in the later middle ages, the seggi were characterized in archi­ tectural terms by loggia-style assembly rooms that served to convey the claims to power of the various noble groups living within the city. These buildings have virtually disappeared from contemporary Naples. Little more than remnants survive, including those of the Seggio di Capuana found in the street bearing the same name and located behind the cathedral. A brief description of the city dating from 1444 demonstrates the importance of these assembly places for the organization of the city and for the aristocracy affiliated with them: The city mentioned is subdivided into five parts, the first of which is the Seggio di Capuana, [after which follow] the Seggio di Montagna, the Seggio di Portanova, the Seggio di Porto, and the Seggio di Nido: these buildings are elaborate and decorated loggias where all of the nobility of the respective districts of the city gather, just as the nobility of other cities assemble in public squares and palaces. The Neapolitan nobility gather in the Seggi after attending Mass, and remain until it is time to dine.21

The Seggio di Capuana and the Seggio di Nido, both especially influential, interred their members primarily in the cathedral, in San Giovanni a Carbonara, and in San Domenico, churches which also accommodated the tombs of some members of the Angevin and Aragonese dynasties. The seggi and their corresponding sepulchral churches were set in close proximity to one another, so that structures of political and familial representation spatially interlocked. This allowed the seggi representation alongside royal burials. Maria Antonietta Visceglia and Giuliana Vitale have dealt exhaustively with the composition of the rival Neapolitan noble families, their legacy strategies and memorial practices, and the political and social functions of the seggi.22 Their examination of wills and testaments and of the guide literature to Naples shows that the political system of the seggi is reflected in interment practices, so that several churches were almost entirely in the hands of families who shared membership in a single seggio. This system – which itself underwent changes as a result of altered political circumstances – offers a faithful image of the social and 70

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

8 Jacopo della Pila, tomb of Tommaso Brancaccio, 1492. Naples: San Domenico Maggiore. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

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THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

political order.23 Beginning in the later fifteenth century, the noble families of the city – who found themselves drawn into the court’s orbit – found it necessary to finance increasingly elaborate funeral obsequies and interment rituals to lend proper expression to their social status.24 Family chapels became indispensable status symbols. The seggi mediated in practical terms between social relationships and specific localizations within the urban sphere, as was made manifest not only in their loggia architecture, but also through the noble monuments planned and erected under competitive pressure. It is this precarious relationship between rivalry and collective affiliation that is demonstrated to some extent in the hybrid forms of these memorials. Just prior to the 1480s, when the majority of the nobility had finally exhausted the potential for social propaganda and class representation offered by the erection of increasingly numerous tombs, new monuments were commissioned primarily from foreign sculptors, among them the Florentine Antonio Rossellino and his pupil Benedetto da Maiano, Pietro da Milano, Pietro Belverte from Bergamo, Tommaso Malvito from Como and Jacopo della Pila, also from Lombardy.25 In 1492 Iulia Brancaccio signed a contract with Jacopo della Pila for the tomb of her husband, Tommaso, in San Domenico Maggiore (plate 8).26 After the usual clauses regarding materials and dimensions and mention of a preli­ minary drawing, the text reads: ‘Iacopo della Pila promises to arrange the lower part of the monument to be like the one designed for Cardinal Brancaccio in Sant’Angelo a Nido.’ The document refers to the tomb sculpted by Donatello and Michelozzo in the 1420s and discussed above (see plate 4). This approach was customary since, from the client’s perspective, comparison with existing monu­ ments, in combination with drawings, was the most reliable method for cementing the terms of a commission. To modern eyes, nonetheless, it is aston­ ishing how little correspondence exists between the two monuments. A direct comparison between these tombs offers us only the insight that Jacopo della Pila sculpted three caryatids identifiable as Justice, Temperance and Prudence. Understandably Iulia Brancaccio wanted an explicit allusion to the tomb of a wellknown relative, a monument that stood just a few steps away across the road in a nearby church in the same seggio.27 A comparison with this earlier Brancaccio monument facilitates an understanding of the contemporary capacity for making formal distinctions, and demonstrates that concerns with formal relationships were aimed mostly at introducing restrictions. The similarities between the figures of the two groups are confined to their function as caryatids, while Donatello’s style is neither cited nor imitated. A comparison with another contemporary tomb in the same important church offers additional clues. The tomb of Antonio Carafa, called Malizia (plate 9), sculpted in part by Jacopo della Pila’s workshop, demonstrates the customary inclusion of the trio of Virtues bearing the sarcophagus, and shows that this motif is not necessarily restricted to tombs of one specific family. In order to provide a visual framework for her husband’s tomb, Iulia Brancaccio simply seized upon a concrete and familiar example.28 That the artists who executed the monument, with their own interests in engaging in competition, took advantage of the existence of other locally prominent monuments in designing this tomb is clearly shown by a comparison with the tomb of Mary of Aragon (d. 1469) in S. Maria di Monteoliveto (plate 10).29 Although it is not mentioned specifically in the contract between Iulia Brancaccio 72

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

9 Workshop of Jacopo della Pila, tomb of Antonio Carafa (called Malizia), 1440s/1480s. Naples: San Domenico Maggiore. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

and Jacopo della Pila, this monument was the model for the upper tier of the tomb of Tommaso Brancaccio. It imitates a celebrated Florentine tomb – that of the Cardinal of Portugal in San Miniato al Monte – and re-introduces the motif of the partially drawn curtain, along with that of the tondo of the Virgin Mary borne aloft by angels. Jacopo della Pila also appropriated, although on a smaller scale, the back of the camera funebris, or funeral chamber, and translated it into his own stylistic idiom. To the familiar, rounded arch of the camera funebris bearing heads of angels, which was adopted from the tomb of Diomede Carafa in San Domenico Maggiore (plate 11), he added a distinctive superimposed, densely folded curtain, and set the family crest of the deceased in place of the Lamb of God. The result of this cut-and­ paste method is a form that is as elegant as it is hybrid, but which was, at least in the 73

THE LOCAL EYE: FORMAL AND SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS IN LATE QUATTROCENTO NEAPOLITAN TOMBS

10 Tomb of Mary of Aragon, 1470s. Naples: Cappella Piccolomini, S. Anna dei Lombardi (formerly S. Maria di Monteoliveto). Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

eyes of the daughter of the deceased who made the final payment on the contract in 1500, ‘not perfect, but instead defective’.30 Exactly to what this criticism was intended to refer remains unclear as is the question of whether it might have been aimed, as so often in such cases, at reducing the agreed price. More instances of citation, imitation and affiliation of the type discussed above could easily be offered. But the fundamental methodological issue remains the same: namely, that those who interpret these monuments do not only demonstrate the similarities between them, but, in effect, construct these simi­ larities in the first place. On the typological, stylistic and decorative levels, such similarities are always a question of an implicit system of references dependent upon a conjectural plane of comparison that is based on extrapolations from actual objects. Such formally and semantically coded relationships must be recognized as historical phenomena. The formal similarities – whether they were requested by patrons or created by artists – established a network of regional and supra-regional links between tombs. However, what remains to be determined is how far the Neapolitans, who were regularly exposed to tombs which were similar to one another, were capable of distinguishing such subtleties and of construing regional and historical stylistic contrasts. Would the beholder of the 1490s have perceived the tomb of Tommaso Bran­ caccio as a combination of a Neapolitan tomb type with caryatids executed by a northern Italian artist under the influence of innovations found in imported Flor­ entine prototypes? Did style matter? Even in the absence of documentary evidence establishing such an understanding, the network of simultaneously divergent yet related tombs alone gives us reason to believe that both form and style were delib­ erately chosen and not simply dictated by the restricted supply of artists on site. 74

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This assumption can be substantiated by referring to the tomb of Malizia Carafa. The atypical assembly of this tomb – set in the second left-hand side chapel of San Domenico Maggiore – becomes comprehensible only in terms of the fusion of local traditions (see plate 9). The most recent components must have been added in the 1480s, and if Francesco Abbate’s stylistic arguments are accepted, then Jacopo della Pila was the sculptor responsible for planning it.31 Multiple temporal layers are united in this monument: the sarcophagus dates from the fourteenth century, and is quite probably a remnant of the workshop production of one of Tino di Camaino’s successors.32 Upon close examination, the sarcophagus reveals a small praying figure of Malizia Carafa, which presum­ ably once (i.e. in the fourteenth century) represented a different person. It seems to have been altered, but only additional detailed analyses will show whether it has been modernized – for example, by giving the figure a different hairstyle. It is not yet known when the body of Malizia was interred in this sarcophagus nor when the inscription was engraved in clumsy Roman capitals. This inscrip­ tion reads: ‘The great knight Malizius Carrafa died on October 10 1438 (2nd indiction)’.33 According to custom, the date of death appears on the sarcophagus, while the lines of text directly below the reclining figure celebrate the deeds of the deceased – a diplomat in the service of Alfonso of Aragon: Thanks to me [Malizia], Alfonso [of Aragon] arrived on our coasts in order to bring peace to the Italians. Only the piety of his [Malizia’s] descendants is responsible for this tomb, and it is offered as a gift to Malizia.34

Based on formal criteria, the surrounding triumphal arch can be dated to the period following Carafa’s death, i.e. the early 1440s, and should be understood as a decidedly modern element. There is a compelling comparison with the tomb of Rinaldo Brancaccio (see plate 4), found in the immediate vicinity in the church of Sant’Angelo a Nido. It is conceivable that the arch was erected jointly with the tomb chamber and the caryatids of the Virtues. According to Abbate, the Virtues can be plausibly ascribed to Jacopo della Pila, who seems also to have been responsible for the camera funebris, the recumbent figure and the lengthier and more recent inscription.35 The usual fifteenth-century formal conceptions are disregarded in the camera funebris in order to create a tomb chamber appropriate to a fourteenth-century sarcophagus, on the ceiling of which the Carafa coats of arms are prominently displayed.36 It is tempting to ascribe to Diomede Carafa (1404–87), a connoisseur of anti­ quity and a humanist courtier, the ambition of associating his father’s tomb with long bygone times, thereby alluding to his family’s longevity.37 Fourteenthcentury Neapolitan sarcophagus fronts can also be found on other fifteenthcentury tombs, demonstrating that this was a widely employed solution.38 This phenomenon was not widespread elsewhere in Italy in the fifteenth century; in Tuscany it was antique sarcophagi that were routinely reused or copied. The reuse of late medieval saracophagi then, was confined to Naples, where the use of a fourteenth-century insertion in the tomb of Malizia Carafa may have been intended as an allusion to the glorious past – to which he had contributed significantly by ensuring the peaceful surrender of power by Joanna II of Naples to Alfonso of Aragon in 1420.39 In any event, the inscription stresses both Malizia’s 75

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political service and the services to society of his children, who had endowed the tomb, thereby simultaneously ensuring their father’s memory while beautifying the city. As the inscription says, it was through the good offices of Malizia Carafa that Alfonso of Aragon arrived in Italy, even if it would later fall to his descen­ dants (and not to the ruling Aragonese dynasty) to erect a tomb for him.40 The text reaches consciously into past and future to bring the generations together. This is mirrored in the monument’s formal attributes which are indebted to a local network of references. Based on these considerations, it seems reasonable to suggest that the fourteenth-century sarcophagus was integrated into a contem­ porary fifteenth-century monument designed by Jacopo della Pila and commis­ sioned by Diomede Carafa to commemorate the reputedly peaceful transition to a new ruling dynasty that had been facilitated by Carafa’s father. That Jacopo della Pila was entrusted with the execution of such a project was due to his status as a well-known artist and to Carafa’s aspirations to compete with other noblemen and with their tombs. Despite the lack of documentary evidence to corroborate this hypothesis, it is possible to identify strategies of visualization. To substantiate these observations concerning conscious citations from the monuments of older dynastic houses, more wide-ranging comparative studies are necessary: grouping together monuments by client, artist and style and attempting to identify those formal attributes that had the significance of visual status symbols for the nobility of the period. It is important to recall the omnipresence and monumentality of tombs in Naples, in particular those of the Angevin royal family. In contrast, the late fifteenth-century coffins of the Arago­ nese kings, which stood in the choir of San Domenico, were given a far more ephemeral design: covered with brocade rather than being carved from marble.41 The petrifaction of local social memory and its localization within urban space are easily underestimated. However, as a result of this entrenchment, Neapolitans seem to have had an historical perceptiveness capable of registering and differ­ entiating the formal details encompassed within a closely woven network of references. The proper investigation of this phenomenon presupposes the estab­ lishment of a formally, and simultaneously semantically-oriented art-historical method. Following this method, these analyses would be undertaken not solely to identify historical settings and dates, but also to shed light on the historical capacities of contemporaries for making distinctions that were visually legible in affiliations between monuments (if not recorded in the available documentation), abilities that can be isolated only in the context of local traditions. In deter­ mining the significance of these monuments for contemporary beholders, it is less a question of identifying specific historical protagonists than developing methods capable of determining the relevance of visual references. One final example: the tomb of the highly-regarded humanist Diomede Carafa (c. 1406–87 – mentioned earlier as the presumed commissioner of his father’s tomb), today located to the right of the altar in the Cappellone del Crocifisso in San Domenico (see plate 11), may be understood as an especially ambitious project, demonstrated by its prestigious location. In the absence of textual documentation, attributions – whether to one or more artists – remain contro­ versial. Francesco Abbate attributes various portions to Jacopo della Pila, Tommaso Malvito and Domenico Gagini.42 These observations are helpful in reconstructing workshop conditions, although the current appearance of the tomb may also be 76

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the result of later alterations. A Neapolitan contemporary from the same social sphere might, in this author’s view, have been capable of distinguishing individual hands, and going beyond this, would probably also have been cognizant of the modernity of the smooth, idealized reclining figure, of the novelty of the Virtues distributed across the containing arch, and especially of the bench, its backrest deco­ rated with a coat of arms. Perception is always guided by interest and, here, it may be assumed that at the time of its execution, the main accent was on socially relevant elements and attributes. In this case, the historical interest of the benches – which can probably be interpreted as a sign of political representation in the seggi43 – is documented by a contract concluded between Margherita Poderico and Tommaso Malvito da Como in 1506 for the double tomb of Mariano d’Alagno and his wife Caterinella Ursina (plate 12) in the same chapel.44 Unlike the first design for this tomb, mentioned in the contract, which envisioned several figures (presumably Virtues) for the lower register, the artist was compelled to place a bench there, with a panel bearing the family coat of arms set into the floor. The solution of the d’Alagno monument is unsa­ tisfactory to the modern eye, with the elements set one above the other so as to suggest a lack of feeling for space or propor­ tion. Here, in one of the most famous chapels of the period – the cappellone housed a mira­ culous crucifix said to have spoken to Thomas Aquinas – competition between families, enacted via the emulation of specific tomb elements, clearly took precedence over aesthetic decisions. The following conclusions may be drawn from the examples discussed above: the importation of foreign sculptors to Naples had its roots in royal commissions and sponsor­ ship. The nobility, accustomed to distin­ guishing between different styles and forms, was able to assimilate new and imported standards of representation. Given the specific memorial function of tombs, it was rarely

11 (Above) Jacopo della Pila, Tommaso Malvito da Como and Domenico Gagini, tomb of Diomede Carafa, 1480s. Naples: San Domenico Maggiore. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte. 12 (Below) Tommaso Malvito da Como, tomb of Mariano D’Alagno and Cater­ inella Ursina, 1506. Naples: San Dome­ nico Maggiore. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

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possible to build strictly modern monuments, which meant a marked reliance on local and familial traditions. One result of compelling foreign artists to conform to local expectations was the creation of hybrid monuments. To refer to hybridity may seem exaggerated, but the term does bring into focus the layers of tradition and innovation that would have been evident to contemporaries. Hybridity is a term familiar from post-colonial theory, where it is associated with a positive appreciation for the amalgamation of heterogeneous elements drawn from a variety of cultures.45 In this broader sense, the term is relevant for the recogni­ tion of the localized development of forms, since, in Naples as elsewhere, a real appreciation of the phenomenon of the synthesis of diverse traditions has not yet been established. Both the network of visually related monuments and the surviving contracts testify, on the one hand, to the rigour of typology and decorum given to the visual frameworks and, on the other, to the potentiality inherent in reinterpretations of earlier formulae. Notes

A version of this chapter was presented in the sessions, Import/Export: Painting, Sculpture and Architecture in the Kingdom of Naples 1266–1568, at the Renaissance Society of America Annual Conference in San Francisco in 2006. I wish to express my gratitude to the Italian Academy for Advanced Studies in America at Columbia University in New York for the fellowship in 2004–05 which enabled me to conduct part of the research for this chapter. Thanks are extended to Luciano Pedicini (http://www.pedicinimages.com) for the provision of images.

1 For the Neapolitan sculpture of the Renaissance, see Ferdinando Bologna, ‘Problemi della scultura del Cinquecento a Napoli’, Sculture lignee nella Campania. Catalogo della mostra, Naples, 1950, 153– 82; Oreste Ferrari, ‘Per la conoscenza della scul­ tura del primo Quattrocento a Napoli’, Bollettino d’arte, ser. 4, 39, 1954, 11–24; Ottavio Morisani, ‘La scultura del Cinquecento a Napoli’, Storia di Napoli, 5, 2, 1972, 721–80; Francesco Abbate, ‘Problemi della scultura napoletana del Quattrocento’, Storia di Napoli, 4, 1, 1974, 447–94; Roberto Pane, Il Rinascimento nell’Italia meridionale, 2 vols, Milan, 1975–77; Arnaldo Venditti, ‘Testimonianze brunelleschiane a Napoli e in Campania. Evidence of the Influence of Brunel­ leschi in Naples and Campania’, in Giovanni Spadolini, ed., Filippo Brunelleschi: la sua opera e il suo tempo, Florence, 1980, vol. 2, 753–77; Francesco Abbate, La scultura napoletana del Cinque­ cento, Rome, 1992; Francesco Negri Arnoldi, Scultura del Cinquecento in Italia meridionale, Naples, 1997. New approaches are found in Luciano Migliaccio, ‘I rapporti fra Italia meridionale e penisola iberica nel primo Cinquecento attraverso gli ultimi studi: bilancio e prospettive, pt. II: la Scultura’, Storia dell’arte, 64, 1988, 225– 31; Luciano Migliaccio, ‘‘‘Consecratio’ pagana ed iconografia cristiana nella cappella Caracciolo di Vico a Napoli. Un manifesto dell’umanesimo

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´n ˜ ez e napoletano e gli esordi di Bartolome´ Ordo Diego de Siloe’, Ricerche di storia dell’arte, 53, 1994, 22–34; Riccardo Naldi, ‘Nati da santi. Una nota su idea di nobilta` e arti figurative a Napoli nel primo Cinquecento’, Ricerche di storia dell’arte, 53, 1994, 4–21; Riccardo Naldi, ‘Rapporti Firenze– Napoli tra Quattro e Cinquecento: la cona marmorea di Andrea di Pietro Ferrucci per Maria Brancaccio’, Prospettiva, 91/92, 1998, 103–14. Dealing explicitly with the import of foreign sculptors is Francesco Abbate’s ‘Appunti su Pietro da Milano scultore e la colonia lombarda a Napoli’, Bollettino d’Arte, 69, 1984, 73–86. 2 Michael Baxandall’s term ‘period eye’ has already been established. See Allan Langdale, ‘Aspects of the Critical Reception and Intellectual History of Baxandall’s Concept of the Period Eye’, in Adrian Rifkin, ed., About Michael Baxan­ dall, Oxford, 1999; Adrian Randolph, ‘Gendering the Period Eye: ‘‘Deschi da parto’’ and Renaissance Visual Culture’, Art History, 27, 2004, 538– 62, in which ‘fine distinctions’ is an allusion to Pierre Bourdieu, La distinction. Critique sociale du jugement, Paris, 1979. 3 A historical interpretation of the Angevin tombs is provided by Lorenz Enderlein, Die Grablegen des Hauses Anjou in Unteritalien. Totenkult und Monumente 1266–1343, Worms, 1997; Tanja Michalsky, Memoria und Repr.asentation. Die

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4

5

6

7

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. Grabmaler des Ko¨nigshauses Anjou in Italien, Go ¨ttingen, 2000. See Julian Gardner, ‘A Princess among Prelates: A Fourteenth-Century Neapolitan Tomb and some Northern Relations’, Ro¨misches Jahrbuch f.ur Kunst­ geschichte, 23/24, 1988, 31–60. The original setting is still under discussion. Most recently, and based on new assumptions, see Francesco Aceto, ‘Le memorie angioine in San Lorenzo Maggiore’, in Serena Romano and Nicolas Bock, eds, Le chiese di San Lorenzo e San Domenico. Gli ordini mendicanti a Napoli, Naples, 2005, 67–94, with further biblio­ graphy. There was a long tradition of mosaic inlay in Naples from the twelfth century onwards. For this, and Tino’s introduction to mosaic in Naples, see Tanja Michalsky, ‘Das ¨ Grabmal Katharinas von Osterreich. Sein Programm, seine Stellung in der Grabmals­ . plastik des fruhen Trecento und sein Ort unter den Anjou-Gr.abern Neapels’, unpublished MA thesis, University of Munich, 1990, 37–44. For the iconographical arguments of saintete´ de lignage, see Tanja Michalsky, ‘Die Repr.asentation einer Beata Stirps. Darstellung und Ausdruck an den Grabmonumenten der Anjous’, in Andrea von Huelsen Esch and Otto Gerhard Oexle, eds, Die Repr.asentation der Gruppen. Texte – Bilder – Objekte, Go ¨ttingen, 1998, 187–224. For the programme’s spiritualistic background, see Tanja Michalsky, ‘Sponsoren der Armut. Bild­ konzepte franziskanisch orientierter Herrschaft’, in Tanja Michalsky, ed., Kunst zur Zeit der Anjous in Italien. Ausdrucksformen politischer Macht und ihre Rezeption, Berlin, 2001, 121–48, esp. 124–30. See also Michalsky, Memoria, cat. no. 21, 281–9. For the tomb, see Enderlein, Die Grablegen, 92–8; Michalsky, Memoria, cat. no. 22, 289–97; Tanja Michalsky, ‘‘‘MATER SERENISSIMI PRINCIPIS’’: The Tomb of Queen Mary of Hungary’, in Janis Elliott and Cordelia Warr, eds, The Church of Santa Maria Donna Regina: Art, Iconography and Patronage in Fourteenth-Century Naples, Aldershot, 2004, 61–77. See in detail Michalsky, Memoria, 41–153. On Angevin architecture in Naples, see most recently Caroline Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples: Church Building in Angevin Italy 1266–1343, New Haven and London, 2004. See Antonio Filangieri di Candida, La chiesa e il monastero di San Giovanni a Carbonara, ed. Riccardo Filangieri, Naples, 1924, 33–43; Ottavio ` in tre monu­ Morisani, ‘Aspetti della regalita menti angioini’, Cronache di archeologia e storia dell’arte, 9, 1970, 88–122; Roberto Paolo Ciardi, ‘‘‘Ars marmoris’’. Aspetti dell’organizzazione del lavoro nella Toscana occidentale durante il Quattrocento’, in Enrico Castelnuovo, ed., Niveo di marmore. L’uso artistico del marmo di Carrara dall’XI al XV secolo, exhib. cat., Genoa, 1992, 341–9; Francesco Abbate, ‘Il monumento a Ladislao di Durazzo’, in Le vie del marmo. Aspetti della produ­ zione e della diffusione dei manufatti marmorei tra Quattrocento e Cinquecento, Florence, 1994, 17–22. The monument was completed in 1431 at the

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earliest. See Nicolas Bock, ‘Antiken- und Flor­ enzrezeption in Neapel 1400–1500’, in Klaus Bergdoldt and Giorgio Bonsanti, eds, Opere e giorni. Studi su mille anni di arte europea dedicati a Max Seidel, Venice, 2001, 241–52, esp. 243. For the historical background, see Alessandro Cutolo, Re Ladislao d’Angio`-Durazzo, 2 vols, Milan, 1936–44; Nunzio Federico Faraglia, Storia della regina Giovanna II d’Angio`, Lanciano, 1904, 11ff. For the accession to power of Joanna II and the conflict between Joannna II and the wife of King Ladislas, Maria d’Enghien, see Alessandro Cutolo, Maria d’Enghien, Naples, 1929, 143ff. For the arguments concerning attribution to the workshop and its organisation, see Ciardi, ‘Ars marmoris’. Taking into account that historical cityguides are not known for their objectivity, see the impressive description of the monument in 1535 ` oltre e` la regal chiesa by Benedetto Di Falco, ‘Piu di San Giovanni a Carbonara, dove in un eminente sepolcro di marmo gentile sta seppel­ lito Re Ladislao, con tal titolo latino fatto dal Sannazaro’, in Ottavio Morisani, ed., Descrittione dei luoghi antiqui di Napoli e del suo amenissimo distretto, Naples, 1972, 32. ‘Sontuoso sepolcro del Re Ladislao di somma magnificenza, anchorche di maniera Gotica . . . opera molto ricca, e superba’, Pompeo Sarnelli, Guida de’ forestieri, curiosi di vedere, e d’intendere le ` notabili della Regal Citta` di Napoli, e del suo cose piu amenissimo Distretto, Naples, 1688, 164. Ronald Lightbown, Donatello and Michelozzo, 2 vols, London, 1980, 83–127; James Beck, ‘Donatello and the Brancacci Tomb in Naples’, in K.-L. Selig and R. E. Somerville eds, Florilegium Columbianum. Essays in honor of Paul Oskar Kristeller, Kristeller, New York, 1987, 125–40; Joachim Poeschke, Die Skulptur der Renaissance in Italien, 2 vols, Munich, 1990, vol. 1, 121. The precise date of completion is not known; in July 1427 the register taken for the Florentine catasto indicates the completion of the main elements. Lightbown, Donatello, 88. The monu­ ment was brought from Pisa to Naples no earlier than 1429. See Ciardi, ‘Ars marmoris’, 342. On Brancaccio’s vita, see Dieter Girgensohn, ‘Bran­ caccio, Rinaldo’, Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, Rome, 1960–, vol. 13 (1971), 797–9. George L. Hersey, The Aragonese Arch at Naples, 1443–1475, New Haven and London, 1973; HannoWalter Kruft, ‘Francesco Laurana, Beginnings in Naples’, Burlington Magazine, 116, 1974, 9–14; Hanno-Walter Kruft and Magne Malmanger, ‘Der Triumphbogen Alfonsos in Neapel: das Monu­ ment und seine politische Bedeutung’, Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia, ser. 4, 6, 1975, 213–305; Abbate, ‘Appunti’; Vladimir P. Goss, ‘I due rilievi di Pietro da Milano e di Fran­ cesco Laurana nell’ Arco di Castelnuovo in Napoli’, Napoli Nobilissima, 20, 1981, 102–114; Anna Alabiso, L’arco di trionfo di Alfonso d’Aragona e il restauro, Rome, 1987; Andreas Beyer, ‘. . . mi pensamiento e invencion . . . : Ko ¨nig Alfonso I.

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. von Neapel triumphiert als Friedensfurst am Grabmal der Parthenope’, Georges Bloch Jahrbuch des Kunstgeschichtlichen Seminars der Universit.at . Zurich, 1, 1994, 93–107; Arnaldo Venditti, ‘Presenze catalane nell’architettura aragonese, 1442–1501, a Napoli e in Campania’, in Cesare Cundari, ed., Verso un repertorio dell’architettura catalana: architettura catalana in Campania: province di Benevento, Caserta, Napoli, Rome, 2005, 145–64. See Alan Ryder, Alfonso the Magnanimous. King of Aragon, Naples and Sicily, 1396–1458, Oxford, 1990. For the historical event, see Ellen Callman, ‘The Triumphal Entry into Naples of Alfonso I’, Apollo, 110, 1979, 24–31; Marzia Pieri, ‘‘‘Sumptuosissime pompe’’. Lo spettacolo nella Napoli aragonese’, in Studi di filologia e critica offerti dagli allievi a Lanfranco Caretti, Salerno, 1985, 39–82; Grazia Distaso, Scenografia epica. Il Trionfo di Alfonso– Epigono Tassiani, Bari, 1999. For the related illu­ strated manuscript, see Fulvio delle Donne, ‘La Historia Alphonsi primi regis di Gaspare Pelle­ grino: il ms. IX C 22 della Biblioteca Nazionale di Napoli’, Archivio storico per le Province di Napoli, 118, 2000, 89–104. For another tournament of 1423, see Hope Maxwell, ‘‘‘Uno elefante grand­ issimo con lo castello di sopra’’: il trionfo aragonese del 1423’, Archivio storico italiano, 150, 1992, 847–75. George L. Hersey, Alfonso II and the Artistic Renewal of Naples, 1485–1495, New Haven and London, 1969, 111–15; Martina Hansmann, ‘Die Kapelle des Kardinals von Portugal in S. Miniato al Monte’, in Andreas Beyer and Bruce Boucher, eds, Piero de’Medici ‘il Gottoso’ (1416–1469). Kunst im Dienste der Mediceer, Berlin, 1993, 291–316; Francesco Quin­ terio, Giuliano da Maiano ‘Grandissimo Domestico’, Rome, 1996, 510–26; Erminia Pepe, ‘Le tre cappelle rinascimentali in Santa Maria di Monteoliveto a Napoli’, Napoli Nobilissima, 37, 1998, 97–116; For the attribution to Antonio Rossellino and Benedetto Maiano, see Doris Carl, Benedetto da Maiano. Ein Florentiner Bildhauer an der Schwelle zur HochRenaissance, 2 vols, Regensburg, 2006, vol. 1, 381–92. For the Florentine Chapel, see Frederick Hartt, Gino Corti and Clarence Kennedy, The Chapel of the Cardinal of Portugal (1434–1459) at San Miniato al Monte in Florence, Philadelphia, 1964; Linda A. Koch, ‘The Early Christian Revival at S. Miniato al Monte. The Cardinal of Portugal Chapel’, Art Bulletin, 78, 1996, 527–55. ‘Il mausoleo della Famiglia Sangro, ricco di statue, e di trofei militari, e con molte memorie di varij Eroi di questa nobilissima Famiglia.’ Vincenzo Maria Perrotta, Descrizione storica della chiesa e del monastero di S. Domenico Maggiore di Napoli, Naples, 1828, 54. See Giuseppe Sigismondo, Descrizione della citta` di Napoli e suoi borghi, 3 vols, Naples, 1788, vol. 2, 21: ‘. . . i depositi della famiglia di Sangro; ed ulti­ mamente vi fu aggiunto quello di Nicola di Sangro che servı´ il nostro Monarco Carlo

Borbone, nel quale vedesi il suo mezzo busto espresso al vivo fra le militari bandiere, e i guerrieri trofei, sotto de’quali si legge: ‘‘Ad memoriam nominis immortalis/Nicolai de Sangro/e Sancto Lucidensium Marchionibus/ Fundorum et Princibus Marsorum Comitibus/ Philippi V. Hispaniarum Regis a cubiculo/ab eodem aurei velleris honore insigniti/a Carolo utriusque Siciliae Rege/inter Sancti Ianuarii Equites adlecti/& Campane Arci Praefecti/per gradus omnes clarissimae militiae/in Hispaniis Adlegati/Neapoli ad summi Ducis dignitatem evecti/Viri avita religione/et rebus domi forisque praeclare gestis/posteris admirandi/Dominicus & Placidus fratres/pietatis officiique memores P./ Vixis ann. LXXII. Obiit ann. MDCCL’’.’ 18 See the inscription in Cesare D’Engenio Carac­ ciolo, Napoli sacra, Naples, 1624, 275, and Carlo Celano, Delle notizie del bello, dell’antico e del curioso della citta` di Napoli, ed. Giovanni Battista Chiarini, Naples, 1856–1870, 5 vols (1st edn 1692, 3 vols), vol. 3.2, 528: ‘Placito (sic) Sangrio Equiti optimo/ Ob fidem in gravissimis rebus Domi militiaequ./ probatum Alfonso et Ferdinando/Nepolitanorum Regibus/Inter primos maxime accepto/Berar­ dinus Filius Officii et Debitae pietatis/non immemor/Obiit M CCCC LXXX.’ On the family, see B. Candida Gonzaga, Memorie delle famiglie nobili delle provincie meridionali d’Italia, Naples, 1875, vol. 3, 206–17. 19 ‘Placitus (sic) Sangrius Ber. F./Difficillimis, ac pene desperatis Patriae temporibus/Pro communi bono/Ad Caesarem Carolum V. Legatus Hic quiescit/Vir certe animi constantis et Semper invicti/Ac suis magis quam sibi natus/MDLXX’, in Celano/Chiarini, Notizie, vol. III.2, 527. See also D’Engenio Caracciolo, Napoli sacra, 276. 20 The fundamental essay, containing historical documents, is still Camillo Tutini’s Dell’origine e fundazione de’ seggi di Napoli, Naples, 2nd edn, 1754. See Benedetto Croce, ‘I seggi di Napoli’ in Benedetto Croce, ed., Aneddoti di varia letteratura, Naples, 2 vols, 1942, vol. 1, 239–46; Maria Anto­ nietta Visceglia, ‘Corpo e sepoltura nei testa­ menti della nobilta` napoletana (XVI–XVIII)’, Quaderni storici, 17, 1982, 583–614; Maria Anto­ nietta Visceglia, Identita` sociali. La nobilta` napole­ tana nella prima eta` moderna, Naples, 1998; Christoph Weber, Familienkanonikate und Patron­ atsbistu. mer. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte von Adel und Klerus im neuzeitlichen Italien, Berlin, 1988, 279ff.; Giuliana Vitale, ‘La nobilta` di seggio a Napoli nel basso Medioevo: aspetti della dinamica interna’, Archivio per le province napoletane, 106, 1988, 151– 69; Giuliana Vitale, ‘Uffici, militia e nobilta`, processi di formazione della nobilta` di seggio a Napoli: il casato dei Brancaccio fra XIV e XV secolo’, in Giuliana Vitale, ed., Identita` nobiliari in eta` moderna, Naples, 1993, 22–52; Elisa Novi ` di seggio, nobilta` nuova e Chavarra, ‘Nobilta monasteri femminili a Napoli in eta` moderna’, in Maria Anonietta Visceglia, Identita` nobiliarii in eta` moderna, Naples, 1993, 84–111. Helpful but

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25

26

falling below scholarly standards is Luigi De Lutio di Castelguidone, I Sedili di Napoli (Origini, azione politica e decentramento amministrativo), Cremano, 1973. See also Bianca de Divitiis, Architettura e committenza nella Napoli del Quat­ trocento, Venice, 2007, 137–69. ‘La ditta cidade se parte in cinque parti e cinque sedie; la prima e la Sedia de Capuana, la Sedia di Montagna, la Sedia di Portanova, la Sedi de porto, la Sedia de lo Nido: le qual Sedie sono lozie lavorate e ornate, dove se reduce tuti i zentil­ huomini delle ditte contrade e parte deladicta citade, dove se reduce nele altre citade i zentil­ huomini ale piace e palaci, li napoletani zentil­ huomini se reduce ala dicte Sedia, la mattina da ` la messa per fina a ora de manzare.’ Cesare puo Foucard, ‘Fonti di storia napoletana nell’Archivio di Stato di Modena. Descrizione della citta` di Napoli e statistica del Regno nel 1444’, Archivio storico per le province napoletane, 2, 1877, 725–57, esp. 732. See Visceglia, ‘Corpo e sepoltura’, 597–600; Giuliana Vitale, ‘Modelli culturali nobiliari a Napoli tra Quattro e Cinquecento’, Archivio storico per le province napoletane, 105, 1987, 27–103; Giuliana Vitale, ‘La nobilta` di seggio’; Giuliana Vitale, ‘Uffici’. It is a ‘controllo degli spazi sacri’, as Giovanni Muto put it in ‘‘‘Segni d’honore’’. Rappresenta­ ` zione delle dinamiche nobiliari a Napoli in eta moderna’, in Maria Antonietta Visceglia, ed., Signori, patrizi, cavalieri in Italia centro-meridionale nell’eta` moderna, Rome and Bari, 1992, 171–92, quotation at 187. For the funeral pomp, see Visceglia, ‘Corpo e sepoltura’, 586ff. For the growing building activity of the nobility and its aggressive political symbolism, see Gerard Labrot, Baroni in citta`. Residenze e comportamenti dell’aristocrazia napole­ tana 1530–1734, Naples, 1979. Tanja Michalsky, ‘Tombs and Chapel Decoration’, in Andreas Beyer and Thomas Willette, eds, Art and Historical Consciousness in Renaissance Naples, New York, forthcoming. Gaetano Filangieri, Documenti per la storia, le arti e le industrie delle province napoletane, 6 vols, Naples, 1883–91, vol. 3, 15–20. The contract was concluded in 1492 with the widow of the deceased, Julia Brancatia. Iacopo della Pila promises, ‘eidem domine Julie presenti infra menses octo a presente die in antea numerandos facere et laborare seu fieri et laborare facere Cantarum unum seu sepoltura de lapide gentili et de carrara in quo sit sculpitus idem quondam dominus Thomasius ut armiger dictumque cantarum facere longitudinis palmorum octo in fructu et altitudinis palmorum quatuor in fructu manco tre data. Et quod vacuum ibi dictum cantarum sit palmorum novem inter­ cluso dicto cantaro in fructu. Itaque largitudo ubi erunt columpne seu venit lo diricto dell’arco sit palmi unius et terzii pro qualibet banda. Ipsumque cantarum infra dictum tempus facere

27

28 29

30 31

et laborare ut supra ad laudem bonorum magistrorum in taliubus expertorum cum alti­ tudine cendecenti et cum omnibus illis figuris ac eo modo et forma prout in quodam dissigno facto per ipsum magistrum Jacobum et consignato coram nobis eidem domine Julie ac etiam in eodem cantaro fecere arma seu insigna de domo de brancatiis prout voluerit ipsa domina Julia videlicet in uno capite dicti cantari arma dicti quondam domini Thomasii et in alio capite ispius domine Julie. Nec non promisit dictis magister Jacoubus facere in ipso cantaro inbassiamentum inferiorem adornatum prout est in cantaro domini Cardinalis brancatii posito intus ecclesiam sancti Angeli ad Nidum.’ In return he is to receive, ‘ducatos centum quatra­ ginta de carlenis argenti de quibus ducatis centum quatraginta prefatus magister Jacobus coram nobis presentialiter et manualiter recepit et habuit ac dicta domina Julia sibi dante ducatos quindecim de carlenis argenti residuum ipsa domina Julia promisit solvere singulis duobus mensibus a presenti die in antea ratam partem in pace.’ See also Catherine E. King, Renaissance Women Patrons. Wives and Widows in Italy c. 1300–1500, Manchester and New York, 1998, 84–7, with an interpretation of the widow’s role given in the inscription: ‘Magnifico militi tho/ masio brancatio de/Neapoli qvi cvm mo/riens de sepoltvra/nihil excogitasset/ivlia brancatia co/ nivgi dilectissimo/ac benemerenti faci/vndam cvravit/mcccclxxxxii.’ See Celano/Chiarini, Notizie, vol. 3.2, 565. Giuliana Vitale interprets the choice of S. Angelo a Nido (and not San Domencio Maggiore) for the erection of Rinaldo’s tomb as clear evidence of the intention of family autonomy. See Vitale, ‘Uffici’, 39. On the tomb and its attribution to Jacopo della Pila, see Abbate, La scultura napoletana, 23ff. For the building of the chapels in S. Maria di Monteoliveto (today S. Anna dei Lombardi), see Quinterio, Giuliano da Maiano, 510–26; Erminia Pepe, ‘Le tre cappelle’; Arnoldo Venditti, ‘La fabbrica nel tempo’, in Il complesso di Monteoliveto a Napoli: analisi, rilievi, documenti, informatizzazione degli archivi, Cesare Cundari, ed., Rome, 1999, 37– 116, with references and good new illustrations. For the foundation of the church, see Francesco Strazzullo, ‘La fondazione di Monteoliveto di Napoli’, Napoli Nobilissima, 3, 1963, 103–11. For the tomb, see Hersey, Alfonso II, 111–15. ‘. . . non perfectum sed defectivum’, in G. Filan­ gieri, Documenti per la storia, vol. 3, 20. See Abbate, La scultura napoletana, 22. De Divitiis, Architettura e committenza, 161–65. Antonio Carafa (called Malizia) had an important position at the court of Joanna II, and later at the court of Alfonso of Aragon. He managed some of the negotiations related to Joanna’s adoption of Alfonso. In the end, he stood on the side of the Aragonese, and in his last will, he requested that his children remain loyal to Alfonso. Tommaso

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Persico, Diomede Carafa uomo di stato e scrittore del secolo XV, Naples, 1899, 9–11; Franca Petrucci, ‘Carafa, Antonio’, in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, Rome, 1960–, vol. 19, 1976, 476–8; see also Faraglia, Storia della regina Giovanna II, 181ff. 32 See as a prototype the tomb of Catherine of Austria in San Lorenzo Maggiore (plate 1). See also the references in note 5. The large number of fourteenth-century tombs for the Neapolitan nobility has not been explored in detail. See some examples in Francesco Aceto, ‘‘‘Status’’ e immagine nella scultura funeraria del Trecento a Napoli: le sepolture dei nobili’, in Arturo Carlo Quintavalle, ed., Medioevo: immagini e ideologie, Milan, 2005, 597–607; Valentino Pace, ‘Morte a Napoli. Sepolture nobiliari del trecento’, in Wolfgang Schmid, ed., Regionale Aspekte der Grab­ malforschung, Trier, 2000, 41–62; and especially the works of Nicolas Bock, ‘Honor et Gratia. Das Grabmal des Lodovico Aldomoresco als Beispiel . familiarer Selbstdarstellung im sp.atmitte­ lalterlichen Neapel’, Marburger Jahrbuch f.ur Kunstgeschichte, 24, 1997, 109–13; Bock ‘Antiken­ und Florenzrezeption’; Nicolas Bock, Antonio Baboccio. Abt, Maler, Bildhauer, Goldschmied und Architekt. Kunst und Kultur am Hofe der Anjou– Durazzo (1380–1420), Munich and Berlin, 2001. 33 ‘Magnificvs dns Malicia carrafa miles obiit an di. mccccxxxviii die x octobris iie ind’. 34 ‘Auspice me latias Alfonsus venit in oras// rex pius ut pace redderet au son (ie)// natorum hoc pietas struxit mihi sola sepulcrum Carrafe// dedit hec munera Ma (licie).’ The letters in brackets stand at the right and are not visible in the illustration. 35 Abbate, La scultura napoletana, 22. 36 See the double tomb of Joanna of Anjou-Durazzo and Robert Artois in San Lorenzo Maggiore, a late example of the Angevin type. Bock, Antonio Baboccio, 131, ill. 70. 37 Diomede Carafa, Memoriali, ed. Franca Petrucci Nardelli, Naples, 1988. For Carafa’s Neapolitan palace, see Andreas Beyer, Parthenope. Neapel und der S.uden der Renaissance, Berlin, 2000, chap. 2; Fiorella Sricchia. Santoro, ‘Tra Napoli e Firenze: Diomede Carafa, gli Strozzi e un celebre ‘‘lettuccio’’’, Prospettiva, 100, 2000, 41–54. For Carafa’s political theory, see Lucia Miele, Modelli e ruoli sociali dei ‘memoriali’ di Diomede Carafa, Naples, 1989, esp. 40ff., for his recognition at the Aragonese court. 38 For another example of the tendency in fifteenth-century Neapolitan tomb sculpture to incorporate or imitate fourteenth-century ` Tomacelli. sarcophagi, see the tomb of Niccolo Michalsky, Memoria, ill. 157; King, Renaissance Women Patrons, 119–20. 39 As a typological reference to foreign tombs, see the tombs of cardinal Asciano Sforza and

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cardinal Girolamo Basso della Rovere in the choir of S. Maria del Popolo in Rome, which draw on famous tombs of the doges in Venice. Philipp Zitzlsperger, ‘Die Ursachen der SansovinoGrabm.aler im Chor von S. Maria del Popolon’, in Arne Karsten and Philipp Zitzlsperger, eds, Tod und Verkl.arung. Grabmalskulptur in der Fr.uhen Neuzeit, Cologne, 2004, 91–113. For the transfer of power from Joanna II to Alfonso of Aragon, see Petrucci, ‘Carafa, Antonio’, 476–8; Faraglia, Storia della regina Giovanna II, 181ff. See the Latin text in note 34. See Le arche dei re Aragonesi, exhib. cat., Naples, 1991. Abbate, La scultura napoletana, 18–20, dates it to the 1470s. Tanja Michalsky, ‘La memoria messa in scena. Sulla funzione e sul significato dei ‘‘sediali’’ nei monumenti sepolcrali napoletani intorno al 1500’, in Nicolas Bock and Serena Romano, eds, Le chiese di San Lorenzo e San Domenico. Gli ordini mendicanti a Napoli, Naples, 2005, 172–91. The contract between Margherita Poderico and Tommaso Malvito is dated 7 November 1506 (10th indiction). See G. Filangieri, Documenti per la storia, vol. 3, 583: ‘Maestro Tommaso da Como contratta colla Rev.da D.a Margherita Poderico . . . Die VII novembris . . . in monasterio Sancti Sebastiani et Petri ordinis predicatorum in gratis fereis dicti monasterij Reverenda domina Margarita pulderica . . . ex una parte et magistro thomasio de como marmorario ex altera prefata domina priorissa dedit . . . dicto tomasio ducatos quatraginta et in alia manu confexa fuit ducatos undecim consis­ tentes in vino et legnaminibus et sunt . . . in partem ducatorum octuaginta olim depositorum penes dictum monasterium per quondam dominam Caterinellam ursinam Comitissam de vochianico et penes ducissam suesse olim prior­ issam dicti monasterii pro faciendo uno cantaro marmoreo in venerabili ecclesia et monasterio Sancti dominici de neapoli in cappella Sancti . . . [Cappella del Crocifisso] . . . in dicta ecclesia . . . quod cantarum thomasius ipse promisit facere et complere hinc et per totas festivitates pasce resurrectionis domini primo venture cum figuris marmoreis videlicet uno arco et figuris quinque marmoreis videlicet una virgene maria cum filio duobus angelis et cum figura de relevo quondam comitis armati et alia figura a facie cantari mulieris videlicet dicte comitisse et alia secundum disignacionem factam et signatam inter eos quod designum conservatur penes dompnum petrum S . . .. quod cantarum predictum sit altitudinis xvii palmorum et largitudinis a parte inferiori x palmorum et quia in dicto designo sunt figure a parte inferiori dicte figure non debent ibidem fieri et loco ipsarum est faciendus unus sedialis et una lapis in terra cum scuto armorum ursini et de lagni . . .’. See also Pane, Il Rinascimento, vol. 2, 156. Homi K. Bhaba, The Location of Culture, London, 1994.

5

BUILDING IN LOCAL ALL’ANTICA STYLE: THE PALACE OF DIOMEDE CARAFA IN NAPLES BIANCA DE DIVITIIS

Studies of fifteenth-century art in Naples are far from numerous, but those on the city’s architecture of the period are even fewer. A rapid look at Ludwig Heyden­ reich’s book on quattrocento architecture in Italy published in 1974 is evidence for the low status given to Neapolitan architecture at the time when he was writing. Heydenreich devotes only three pages of text to Naples, accompanied by five images, in the concluding section of the chapter which bears the significant title ‘The Fringes, North and South’, just before his discussion of the transition to the following century with which he ends his study. Naples and southern Italy in general, together with Piedmont and Liguria, are seen as peripheral regions where the all’antica style, which had originated in Florence, arrived very late.1 Furthermore, Naples has remained marginal in both national and international scholarship, despite the fact that since 1975 there have been numerous books, catalogues and exhibitions on Italian renaissance architecture.2 This chapter looks at some of the historiographical prejudices which can explain the periph­ eral status held by quattrocento Neapolitan architecture, and the misunder­ standings of the specific nature of local antiquarian culture. The palace constructed in the fifteenth century by Diomede Carafa (c. 1406–87) is an important example of the way in which all’antica constructions were designed in Naples. This chapter will focus on how and when this building responded to new architectural fashions from other parts of Italy. The lack of attention given to Neapolitan architecture of this period is partly due to the scarcity of surviving material and archival evidence. The few buildings which still exist are almost all in a poor state of conservation, and form part of an urban context where traces of architectural continuity have been lost, submerged in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century baroque renovations. Moreover, it is well known that Neapolitan archives have suffered huge losses, especially as regards fifteenth-century sources, which are less numerous here than in other Italian centres. However, the lack of sources is not a sufficient explanation as to why fifteenthcentury Neapolitan architecture is regarded as marginal within the Italian and European context. While the highly negative treatment of Neapolitan art and architecture can certainly be traced back to the writing of Giorgio Vasari, the influence of his ideas would not have been so harmful if they had not been reinforced by a range of different problems which arose in subsequent centuries.3 83 .

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The attitudes of nineteenth- and twentieth-century historiographers were crucial not only in creating a homogeneous image of a backward southern Italy, which remained behind the rest of Italy and Europe, but also in interpreting the earlier history of the region in the light of this image.4 This particular historiographical approach has led to the creation of inadequate concepts such as centre and periphery, and development and backwardness, which have provided the frame­ work within which the relationship between the Neapolitan quattrocento and the Renaissance in the rest of Italy have been interpreted and evaluated, not least by Neapolitan scholars themselves.5 The so-called ‘questione meridionale’, or ‘southern question’, which arose after Italy’s unification in the 1860s, not only relegated the south to a subordinate position in the national context as a whole, but also weakened the territorial and art-historical awareness which had been prevalent in the local and regional culture.6 Indeed, the erudite local Neapolitan historiographical tradition founded by Bartolommeo Capasso at the end of the nineteenth century, which led to a series of important studies on the historical topography of the city and on its monumental buildings, was later dismissed as merely local and eventually abandoned.7 Thus, since Naples has been regarded as a peripheral city merely waiting for the influence of the new Florentine style to reach it, little attention has been paid to the original character of local architectural forms and no detailed attempt has been made to understand the specific interpretation of the new language inspired by the antique which developed there during the quat­ trocento.8 Throughout much of Italy in the fifteenth century a new conception of architecture gradually emerged which explicitly harked back to classical anti­ quity; at the same time there was a growing awareness of a new all’antica style based on an investigation of the underlying principles and motifs of classical buildings, in order that these could be re-applied in contemporary construction.9 The ‘ancient way of building’, in the words of Antonio Filarete (c. 1400–69), arose from the detachment and distance with which fifteenth-century Italian huma­ nists had begun to see both the immediate past and remote antiquity, now chosen as a new model.10 The new ways of building in Florence have always been acknowledged as forerunners of the all’antica style, which were unmatched else­ where on the peninsula; yet the solutions found there were merely one of many possible approaches to the problem of how to use the architecture of classical antiquity as a model for contemporary building. Local and regional formulations of the all’antica style are found in several different parts of Italy and have recently become the objects of study and research.11 The history of Neapolitan architecture illustrates well this fundamental aspect of the early Renaissance – a paradigmatic and precocious example of a local antiquarian tradition which had no direct link to Florence and Rome, or with the revival of classical orders, but developed from local sources and remains, which were still widely visible at the time both in the city and in its surroundings. As Nicolas Bock has shown, Naples saw the emergence, by the beginning of the fifteenth century, of an architectural style quite consciously related to that of antiquity and paralleling in many ways the new approaches in Florence.12 This early manifestation of the new style in Naples was due in part to the city’s uninterrupted links with the material evidence of classical antiquity, as 84

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1 Fac¸ade of Diomede Carafa’s palace. Naples. Drawing: Studio Tecnico Pesce/Arch. Cassano.

revealed in the continuity of the urban settlement and the abundance of ruins,13 and in part to a long tradition, dating from the medieval period, whereby the ruling elites of the city sought to acquire political legitimacy and authority by intentionally invoking the precedents of antiquity.14 Even when the Angevin dynasty judged the all’antica style to be less appropriate than the gothic for its purposes, allusions to classical buildings and sculpture still formed part of their strategical use of the inheritance from antiquity. In the monument which Joanna II commissioned for her brother Ladislas (1428–32), which in its imitation of earlier Angevin tombs, in particular that of Robert of Anjou, represents a clear assertion on Joanna’s part of her dynastic legitimacy, a fully developed appre­ ciation of the new all’antica style is already evident in the use of the round arch, the marble coffered ceiling, the ropework in the architrave and the capitals in the lower level, and the corbels with putti holding heraldic devices. In fifteenthcentury Naples, as elsewhere in Italy, the commissioning of art and architecture was a high priority among the nobility; building in the all’antica style became an important element for such patrician patrons in their search to gain immortality through the construction of palaces and funerary monuments. Even though some characteristics of the Neapolitan nobility differentiate them from their counter­ parts in other Italian cities, the importance they placed on the palaces they built is equivalent to that found in cities such as Vicenza, Venice or Florence in the fifteenth century.15 Diomede Carafa was one of the most important figures at the Aragonese court under Ferrante I (1423–94). Such was his authority that in 1472 the Venetian ambassador Zaccaria Barbaro even described him as a ‘second king’.16 Like the other great patrons of the period, such as Cosimo de’ Medici, Ludovico Gonzaga and Giovanni Rucellai, Diomede Carafa felt the need to build himself a domus befitting his status, in which he would house a notable collection of antiquities.17 Built in the mid-fifteenth century, between c. 1444 and c. 1470, in the heart of the city’s historical centre, Carafa’s palace exemplifies the specific ways in which buildings in the all’antica style were constructed in Naples. The architecture of the palace reveals not just a full awareness of the ideas and fashions which were then circulating throughout Italy, but also a striking independence in the choice and use of the available sources (plate 1). 85

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2 Drawing of the properties incorporated in Diomede Carafa’s palace. Naples. Drawing: Studio Pesce/Arch. Cassano, with additions by Bianca de Divitiis.

Research on Diomede’s palace has almost always emphasized the building’s juxtaposition of Catalan features with the new Florentine style.18 The disconti­ nuities of style which are clearly visible both on the fac¸ade and in the courtyard may, however, be interpreted not so much as an eclectic combination of different styles, but as a reflection of at least two distinct phases in the development of Diomede’s project. An examination of the individual parts of the palace reveals a change of design, which resulted in a different idea of the all’antica style and in a sudden updating of subsequent models. In order to evaluate this change it is important to understand how the palace was conceived. In the inscription in Roman lettering on the pedestal of the column in the courtyard, Diomede declares – almost apologizing for choosing such a cramped space for his new residence – that, although a better and larger site was available, the idea of moving away from the area where his ancestors had always lived was disagreeable to him.19 Apart from being an explicit declaration of the genealogical signifi­ cance of the site of the palace, the inscription also tells us that he used property which already belonged to his family.20 His new residence was not built ex novo, but united already existing properties on the site. Two newly discovered docu­ ments in the Naples State Archives – the only ones so far to have come to light on the palace – demonstrate that in 1449 Diomede obtained from his elder brother 86

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Francesco a property on the platea Domus Novae (today vico SS. Filippo e Giacomo), which in turn included within its boundaries two adjoining houses on the platea Nidi (today via San Biagio de’ Librai), which Diomede himself had acquired a few years previously from the Pignatelli family (plate 2 [nos 2–3]).21 From the archi­ tectural survey, and from a direct examination of the building itself, it is clear that an old tower was also incorporated into the new palace and that a street originally ran along the west side of the building (plates 2 [no. 1] and 3). Thus, through his acquisi­ tions, Diomede had become the owner of the entire block of buildings that faced the main thoroughfare of the Seggio di Nido. Proceeding in a similar way to the work on Leon Battista Alberti’s Palazzo Rucellai in Florence (1446–51), once Diomede had completed a first phase of acquiring properties, he began transforming his palace into a magnificent edifice, seeking to bestow symmetry and regularity within, by means of the courtyard, and on the outside enclosing the collection of disparate buildings in an imposing all’antica cover composed of equal courses of alternating grey and yellow low-relief tufa blocks, that could be read as opus isodomum (plate 4), that is, one of two types of wall construction developed by the Greeks and described by Vitruvius in the second book of De architectura.22 Without orders or stringcourse fascias, the decoration consists of imposing marble features such as the ionic portal in the centre on the main fac¸ade (plate 5); corbels intended as pedestals for busts on the ground floor (plate 6); windows with enta­ blatures on the piano nobile (plate 7); and the classicizing cornice (plate 8).

3 Tower incorporated in Diomede Carafa’s palace. Naples. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/ Archivio dell’Arte.

4 View of the fac¸ade on the platea Domus Novae, showing the opus isodomum and the windows, Diomede Carafa’s palace. Naples. Photo: Fabio Donato.

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5 Ionic portal, Diomede Carafa’s palace. Naples. Photo: Soprintendenza BAPPSAD di Napoli.

The first phase of work to unify the incongruent buildings already reveals Diomede’s wish to follow the antique style, seeking inspiration from other resi­ dences in Naples and elsewhere. The east side of the quadrangular courtyard is formed of a loggia on two levels modelled on the single-level loggia in the Castelnuovo (plate 9). The double-height barrel vault of the vestibule has been regarded as an example of ‘Catalan style’, as it terminates with a depressed and polylobed arch (plate 10).23 The vault is, in fact, an all’antica feature, which 88

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appears to have no precedent in Neapolitan domestic architecture and probably derives from the entrance to the Palazzo Medici, built a few years earlier, a building that Diomede must have known well as he had many connections with the ruling family of Florence.24 Diomede was aware of Medicean taste in architecture and collecting. In 1468 he asked his friend Filippo Strozzi to send him drawings of 6 Corbel on the ground floor, Diomede Carafa’s Piero de’ Medici’s studiolo and of palace. Naples. Photo: Fabio Donato. the ceiling of the Gran Sala in the Medici Palace.25 He was also one of the few recipients of important diplomatic gifts from Lorenzo de’ Medici, which considerably increased his collection of anti­ quities. The Venetian ambassador Zaccaria Barbaro mentions that, together with the famous bronze head of a horse, Lorenzo sent Diomede six antique bronze statues and a group of gemstones originating from Pope Paul II’s collection.26 The use of opus isodomum is also significant. If, on the one hand, Diomede was motivated by the need to give a sense of regu­ larity to what were disparate properties, on the other hand, in the middle of the quattrocento, not very many buildings were constructed with opus isodomum. Moreover, Diomede’s opus isodomum anticipates its use in 7 Window of the piano nobile, Diomede Carafa’s palace. Palazzo della Cancelleria in Naples. Photo: Fabio Donato. Rome, usually considered to be the earliest building where this feature is employed.27 Even though it has been established that this type of wall surface cannot be considered a direct derivative of Florentine models, palaces such as those of Cosimo de’ Medici and Giovanni Rucellai must surely have suggested to Diomede that the best way to achieve an all’antica appearance was to erect a fac¸ade made up of large hewn blocks which, according to Filarete’s treatise on architecture (c. 1460–64), befits the residences of the nobility and polite 89

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8 Upper cornice, Diomede Carafa’s palace. Naples. Photo: Author.

9 Loggia in the courtyard, Diomede Carafa’s palace. Naples. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/ Archivio dell’Arte.

10 Barrel vault in the vestibule, Diomede Carafa’s palace. Naples. Photo: Soprintendenza BAPPSAD di Napoli.

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classes.28 In order to construct his isodome fac¸ade, Diomede, unlike the Florentines, did not need to go far to find antique models which he could use. A well-known and very early example of this feature can be found in the lower part of Palazzo Penna in Naples, dating to 1406 (plate 11).29 Even the Neapolitan historian Carlo Celano in the seventeenth century noted the all’antica character of the ‘square-cut stones’ of these two palaces, a shared feature which is related in both cases to the stonework of the towers of Emperor Frederick II’s gate in Capua (plate 12).30 The connection must also have occurred to the eighteenth-century writer Bernardo de Dominici, who dated both buildings to the end of the thir­ teenth century and attributed them to the imaginary architect, Masucio Primo, who was trained ‘under a foreign military architect of great renown’ employed in the service of Frederick II.31 The existence from the early fifteenth century onwards of an architectural tradition which modelled its all’antica style on the gate at Capua is also demonstrated by the bell tower of the Pappacoda Chapel, which itself provided another impor­ tant model for the fac¸ade of Diomede’s palace (plate 13). The upper level, with its chequered pattern of regular yellow and grey tufa stones, and framed antique sculptures set into the surface, is not only an obvious precedent for the two­ coloured patterning of Diomede’s opus isodomum, but also served as a model for the manner in which he set antique sculptures into the fac¸ade.32 Even though the lack of documents makes it impossible to establish a precise chronology for the construc­ tion of the main fac¸ade and of the two lateral facades, an analysis of the

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11 Fac¸ade of Palazzo Penna, 1406. Naples. Photo: Soprintendenza BAPPSAD di Napoli.

discontinuities in the careful regularity of the isodome stonework shows that the ornamental parts in marble were added later. The same can be said of the column made up of ancient sculptural and architectural remains (spolia) in the courtyard of the Carafa palace. This appears to have replaced an earlier support, which was possibly more consistent in style with the piperno stone mouldings of the polylobed arch overhead and the facing suspended capital (plate 14). The evidence that these elements were put in place at a later date testifies further to the fact that they represent a changed way of thinking about the all’antica style. Moreover their innovative character – not only for Neapolitan architecture but also in relation to that of the rest of Italy – would seem to indicate that an expert, capable of selecting and adapting the features of classical architecture for modern buildings, had offered his advice on the design. This is the case, for example, with the seven windows with entablatures, a cornice with dentils and a frieze inscribed with moralizing phrases in roman capitals that adorn the piano nobile (see plate 7). Such windows were a complete novelty in Naples and have no precedents in Tuscan or Roman buildings. In order to find windows similar to those of the Palazzo Carafa it is necessary to look at the area round Mantua and Urbino during the 1450s and 1460s, and in particular the windows of the palace at Revere belonging to Ludovico Gonzaga, one of Alberti’s most important patrons.33 In comparison with these, the design of the windows in the Palazzo Carafa represents a further step towards the fully fledged window with entablature, much like those designed at the same time by Luciano Laurana for the ducal palace of Urbino.34 Until the building of the Palazzo Carafa the doorways of Neapolitan palaces had been in Catalan style with a flattened arch, as in the Palazzo Penna and in the 91

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Palazzo Bonifacio.35 Diomede’s style of ionic portal (see plate 5) was unheard of in Naples and it can be included among the earliest attempts to design ionic portals that were taking place elsewhere on the Italian peninsula. The inner part of the portal takes the traditional fifteenthcentury form, consisting of a simple architrave and corbels placed at the upper corners of the opening. This 12 Remains of drafted masonry in the lateral can be found in several churches and towers of Frederick’s Gate, 1234–39. Capua. chapels in Naples, such as S. Giovanni Photo: Soprintendenza BAPPSAD di Napoli. a Carbonara (1427–30), S. Angelo a Nilo (1426; also known as S. Angelo a Nido), and the Cappella Palatina in the Castelnuovo (1469–74), from which Diomede’s portal also takes the style of the door-post mouldings (plate 15). Over the architrave is placed what one might call the innovative ‘ionic section’ of the portal which, in line with Leon Battista Alberti’s precepts of the same period, is made up of two long corbels and a pulvinated fascia frieze, formed by a projecting baton of laurel bound with acanthus. The portal is completed by another smooth frieze, decorated with the Carafa family arms and Diomede’s own heraldic devices, and a cornice with an inscription in Roman lettering, bearing the date 1466. In terms of what constitutes a correct ionic portal, where the consoles frame the baton of laurel leaves on each side and support the cornice, the features of this portal – the presence of a double frieze, the extension of the pulvinated fascia beyond the jambs, and the lowered corbels – appear at first sight to be errors. However, it should be remembered that precise rules for this feature had not yet been established. Even Alberti did not adhere dogmatically to the theories he was developing, but was ready to adapt them to suit the particular situation.36 Most scholars who have written on the portal have perceived Alberti’s influence.37 On the other hand Andreas Beyer has recently questioned the existence of a direct connection between the portal of Diomede’s palace in Naples (see plate 5) and the portal of San Sebastiano in Mantua, preferring to explain their resemblance by suggesting they both draw, independently, on the same passage in Vitruvius, where the author recommends that in an ionic doorway the cornice has to be supported by consoles on each side.38 Nevertheless, Alberti’s influence on the Carafa palace portal remains clear, and there are further arguments that can be made in support of this. The presence of a pulvinated frieze is of great signifi­ cance because at this time only a few examples had been created in sculpture and architecture. Before being codified by Alberti, the pulvinated frieze was used by Donatello in the frieze of the door of the Eucharistic Tabernacle, today in the Sacrestia dei Beneficiati in the Vatican (1432–33).39 Two of the earliest examples of ionic portals are by Filarete: first, in his reconstruction of Hadrian’s Mauso­ leum on the Bronze Doors of St Peter’s (1433–45), where an opus isodomum wall is also depicted; and second, in the two side doors in the design of the fac¸ade of the Duomo in Bergamo (1457).40 Vitruvius had chosen to overlook the pulvinated frieze, preferring to describe the ionic portal in terms of the Greek model. Alberti 92

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13 Upper level of the bell tower of the Pappacoda Chapel, 1415. Naples. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

was the first to propose its use in De re aedificatoria, written in 1452, where he tried to overcome the contradictions between Vitruvius’s text and the evidence of its frequent use on the ancient Roman buldings which he could see all around him.41 It is moreover important to remember that Alberti employed pulvinated friezes not only on ionic portals, but also for the windows in the interior of the Rucellai Chapel in San Pancrazio, Florence, where his design does not follow the conventional rules (as is also the case with the frieze in the Palazzo Carafa).42 The ‘innovation’ in the smallest details of the ionic section of the portal is not matched by the lower section. On the basis of an examination of this part, it is possible to hypothesize that Diomede initially envisaged a portal with an archi­ trave like those which were still the norm in Naples in the mid-fifteenth century, and that the classicizing part above the architrave, with two friezes, side corbels and cornice, might be part of a change of design adopted after the portal had been begun. It seems plausible to suggest that authoritative advice lay behind Diomede’s decision to transform his portal with architrave into a more obviously all’antica ionic portal and that this advice came from Alberti. Luca Boschetto has recently shown that Alberti was in Naples as the guest of Filippo Strozzi between the end of March and the beginning of June 1465 – in other words, a year before the date on the cornice of the portal.43 Filippo Strozzi had long had financial dealings with Diomede, but from the later 1460s onwards he became increasingly important as a contact in artistic matters, making a notable contribution to the 93

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14 Column formed by spolia in the courtyard, Diomede Carafa’s palace. Naples. Photo: Soprintendenza BAPPSAD di Napoli.

splendours of the palace: he procured luxurious furnishings such as the ‘lettuccio’, sent him sumptuous gifts for the collection, and had drawings of the Gran Sala and Piero’s studiolo in Palazzo Medici done for him.44 It is therefore not difficult to imagine that Diomede came into contact with Strozzi’s illustrious guest. It is also known that Alberti was in the habit of giving architectural advice and it seems probable that, on arriving in Naples when the construction of Palazzo Carafa was already well advanced, he might well have shared with Diomede his reflections on palaces and ancient buildings.45 For example, he could have suggested to Diomede what he had only recently written in De re aedificatoria – that a private residence should have an ionic portal – and gone on to describe its components.46 It is possible that Diomede had seen for himself examples of classical ionic portals, and that Alberti helped him to make the 94

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connection between these and the design of a modern portal, which the reading of Vitruvius alone would not have done. In fact, it seems improb­ able that Diomede could have been inspired directly from his own reading of Vitruvius, an author who was difficult even for trained archi­ tects to understand and presumably even more so for Diomede, as he apparently did not know Latin.47 But given the brevity of Alberti’s stay in Naples and the final appearance of the portal itself, Alberti’s role must have been limited to giving advice and he is unlikely to have supervised its 15 Door-post mouldings, Diomede Carafa’s construction. Once he had chosen this palace. Naples. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/ type of portal, Diomede, guided by Archivio dell’Arte. the outlook of a collector of anti­ quities rather than the philological accuracy of an antiquarian scholar, went on to create an eclectic and personalized version of an ionic doorway in which he combined elements taken from both antique and fifteenth-century architecture, as if they were spolia. Diomede seems at first to have drawn his inspiration from Naples and then from Florence, whose models he interpreted with a Neapolitan perspective and from within a Neapolitan context. Later his choice of architectural language became more modern and the references wider. Hitherto, the only dated reference for the building is 1466, as it is carved on the cornice of the portal. All studies of the palace have taken this as a terminus ante quem for the completion of a single extended building project.48 Yet there are a number of reasons for believing that 1466 represents not the date of completion, but a turning point in the all’antica style of the palace. The years between 1465 and 1466 were particu­ larly significant in both the history of the regno and in the personal life of Diomede. By 1466 the kingdom was enjoying a new period of peace and political calm after the death of Alfonso in 1458. Ferrante had by then succeeded in suppressing the first conspiracy of the barons and had fought off French claims to the throne.49 As a close associate of Ferrante, Diomede was actively involved in these military and political events. In 1465 his loyalty was rewarded when he was made Conte di Maddaloni.50 Considering, as Giovanni Pontano did, that ‘noble works’ should only be created in happy times and not in periods of public misfortune, it seems improbable that Diomede would have undertaken work on his palace between 1458 and 1465.51 It is likely instead that construction began again in 1465, just as it did on Castelnuovo.52 Alberti’s visit to Naples occurred just at this time and Diomede could have taken advantage of his presence to ask his advice on ways of making his residence even more magnificent and splendid, as befitting his new rank as count. In conclusion, from the outset Diomede Carafa wished to keep up with the latest developments in the rest of Italy and sought inspiration in contemporary 95

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buildings and ideas, yet each architectural element was always interpreted in the context of the traditional attitude to the antique upheld in Naples. In terms of architectural vocabulary the solutions may not always have been typical – as has already been seen, for example, with the ionic portal – yet this was not necessarily a shortcoming but the result of the need to adapt external ideas to the urban context and to the patron’s demand for self-representation. Indeed, it should not be interpreted as a sign of backwardness or as a misunderstanding of more ‘advanced’ stylistic ways. Those features of the building which might be interpreted by a modern observer as mere vestiges of the past, such as the decorative crenellation formed by small, lowered arches and corbels in the internal fac¸ades and the depressed arches of the vestibule and the loggia in the courtyard, would, at the time, have been perfectly congruent with the local all’antica architecture.53 In addition to this, Diomede’s palace shows clearly how the Neapolitan interpretation of the new fifteenth-century style was notably influenced by the ways in which the antique was used in the local medieval tradition, in particular in the architecture of Frederick II and in those Angevin buildings which referred back to antiquity by means of Frederick’s gate.54 These constructions not only influenced the way the architecture of antiquity was perceived in Naples but, as in the case of isodome stonework, actually provided the direct sources of the new style. If references back to architectural styles under Frederick II can already be found in Neapolitan art and architecture during the Angevin period, Diomede’s approach is best seen as both a conscious attempt at cultural mediation with the classical past and a strategic employment of a cultural inheritance which re-awakened the interest of Aragonese humanists in the figure of Frederick II55 – an interest which Diomede actively encouraged not only in architecture with the building of his palace but also, for example, in the field of law, by commissioning an important vernacular edition of Frederick 56 II’s Liber Augustalis. Diomede’s palace rightly takes its place among the other residential buildings erected by members of the ruling classes in various Italian cities during this period and should be understood as one of the many possible responses that arose from the quattrocento desire to build in the all’antica style. The palace, with its use of entirely new features, represented a turning point in Neapolitan archi­ tecture. Even more than those found in the works commissioned by the royal family, these architectural features provided models, which members of the ruling class were quick to imitate. It is also worth noting that a number of the solutions adopted by Diomede were exported outside the kingdom: for example, drafted masonry was increasingly found in Tuscany from the end of the 1460s after Giuliano da Maiano had used it in the buildings he designed on his return from Naples.57 Diomede Carafa’s response to the local and external models he adopted is, therefore, the determining aspect of the building, since it is precisely his personal interpretation, which lays such stress on varietas, that brings out the all’antica character of the palace.58 The Carafa palace should be considered not only as one of the most significant contributions to Italian fifteenth-century architecture, but also as a manifestation of the vigorous humanistic culture and international status of Naples during this period. 96

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Notes

I would like to thank Janis Elliott and Cordelia Warr for their encouragement. I am also grateful to Stephen Parkin for translating this chapter into English, and Aislinn Loconte and Francesco Pasquale for their useful comments. Thanks are extended to Luciano Pedicini (http://www.pedicinimages.com) for the provision of images. An earlier version of this chapter was presented at Import/Export: Painting, Sculpture and Architecture in the Kingdom of Naples 1266–1568, sessions at the Renaissance Society of America Annual Conference in San Francisco in 2006. 1 Ludwig H. Heydenreich, Architecture in Italy. 1400– 1500, ed. Paul Davies, New Haven and London, 1996 (first published 1974), 130–5. 2 Paul Davies, ‘Introduction’, in Heydenreich, Architecture, 1–6, 5. 3 Giovanni Previtali, ‘Il Vasari e l’Italia meridio­ nale’, in Il Vasari storiografo e artista, Florence, 1976, 691–3, 693. On Vasari and southern Italy, see Aislinn Loconte, ‘The North looks South: Giorgio Vasari and Early Modern Visual Culture in the Kingdom of Naples’, included in this volume. I am grateful to the author for letting me read her manuscript before its publication. 4 Igor E. Mineo, ‘Alle origini dell’ Italia di antico regime’, in Francesco Benigno, Carmine Donzelli, Carlo Fumian, Salvatore Lupo and Igor E. Mineo, eds, Storia medievale, Roma, 1998, 617– 52, 650. 5 The anachronism of such concepts in relation to the medieval period was first recognized by David Abulafia, ‘Southern Italy and the Flor­ entine Economy, 1265–1370’, Economic History Review, 34, 1981, 377–88, 388; David Abulafia, The Two Italies. Economic Relations between the Kingdom of Sicily and the Northern Communes, Cambridge, 1977, 7–12, 369–71. 6 For a discussion of territorial and geographical awareness in southern culture before Italy’s unification, see Maria Antonietta Visceglia, ‘Storia regionale’, in Aurelio Musi, ed., Dimenti­ care Croce? Studi e orientamenti di storia del Mezzo­ giorno, Napoli, 1991, 13–41, 41. The influence of the ‘questione meridionale’ on the perception of southern Italy’s art-historical tradition is found in Previtali, ‘Il Vasari’, 694. 7 Mario Del Treppo has recently shown how significant the contribution of this historical school was to Neapolitan historical topography and has also identified the point of rupture in the historiography of southern Italy after Unifi­ cation in the opposition between Benedetto Croce and Bartolommeo Capasso. Mario Del Treppo, ‘Bartolommeo Capasso, la storia, l’erudizione’, in Giovanni Vitolo, ed., Barto­ lommeo Capasso. Storia, filologia, erudizione nella Napoli dell’ Ottocento, Naples, 2005, 15–131. On the influence of Benedetto Croce’s historiographical orientation on the southern Italian territorial culture, see Visceglia, ‘Storia regionale’, 22–3. 8 On the historiography of the Neapolitan renais­ sance in relation to that of the Florentine

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renaissance, see David Abulafia, ‘The Diffusion of Italian Renaissance: Southern Italy and Beyond’, in Jonathan Woolfson, ed., Palgrave Advances in Renaissance Historiography, Basingstoke, 2005, 27– 51. For a further discussion of Neapolitan quat­ trocento architectural historiography, see B. de Divitiis, ‘La committenza dei Carafa della Stadera a Napoli nel Quattrocento’, unpublished doctoral thesis, Venice: Scuola di Studi Avanzati di Venezia, 2006, 5–22. Howard Burns, ‘Quattrocento Architecture and the Antique: Some Problems’, in Robert R. Bolgar, ed., Classical Influences on European Culture. A.D. 500–1500, Cambridge, 1971, 269–87; Giorgia Clarke, Roman House – Renaissance Palaces. Invent­ ing Antiquity in Fifteenth-Century Italy, Cambridge, 2003, 163–4. Antonio Filarete praised Brunellechi for having revived in Florence ‘lo modo antico dello edifi­ care, per modo che oggi dı´ non s’usa se none all’antica’. See Antonio Averlino, detto il Filarete, Trattato di Architettura, eds Anna Maria Finoli and Liliana Grassi, 2 vols, Milano, 1972, vol. 1, 227–8. On the development of a new attitute towards the past in the fifteenth century, see, most recently, Elisa Romano, ‘L’antichita` dopo la modernita`’, Storica, 7, 1994, 9–24; Francesco Paolo Fiore, ‘Introduzione’, in Francesco Paolo Fiore, ed., Storia dell’architettura italiana. Il Quat­ trocento, Milan, 1998, 9–37, 9–10. See, for example, Richard Schofield, ‘Avoiding Rome: An Introduction to Lombard Sculptors and the Antique’, Arte Lombarda, 100, 1992, 29–44; Richard Schofield, ‘The Colleoni Chapel and the Creation of a Local all’antica Architectural Style’, in Christoph Luitpold Frommel, Luisa Giordano and Richard Schofield, eds, Bramante milanese e l’architettura del Rinascimento lombardo, Venice, 2002, 167–92; Paul Davies and David Hemsoll, ‘I portali dei palazzi veronesi nel rinascimento’, in Paola Lanaro, Paola Marini and Gian Maria Vara­ nini, eds, Edilizia privata nella Verona rinascimentale, Milan, 2000, 252–66. Marco Rosario Nobile, Un altro rinascimento. Architettura, maestranze e cantieri in Sicilia 1458–1558, Benevento, 2002. Nicolas Bock, ‘Antiken und Florenzrezeption in Neapel’, in Klaus Bergdolt and Giorgio Bonsanti, eds, Opere e Giorni. Studi su mille anni di arte europea dedicati a Max Seidel, Venice, 2001, 241–50. For the persistence of the road system and settlement in the ancient centre of Naples, see

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most recently Paul Arthur, Naples, from Roman Town to City-State: An Archaeological Perspective, Rome and London, 2002; Gabriele Capone and Alfonso Leone, ‘‘‘Griptae antique’’ a Napoli nell’Alto Medioevo’, in Marcello Rotili, ed., Incontri di popoli e culture tra V e IX secolo. Atti delle V giornate di studio sull’eta` romanobarbarica, Naples, 1998, 233–40. For the continous use of ancient infrastructures, such as the aquaduct and the sewer system, see Giuliana Vitale, ‘I bagni a Napoli nel Medioevo tra pratiche igienico-sani­ tarie, industria, luoghi di piacere’, Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane, 123, 2005, 1–48. For the wide availability of ancient remains in Naples and its surroundings, see Stefania Adamo Muscettola, ‘Napoli e le ‘‘belle antechetate’’’, in Fausto Zevi, ed., Neapolis, Naples, 1994, 196–208; Stanko Kokole, ‘Totius antiquitatis egregius admirator: Christophorus Rauber zwischen Kampanien und Krain’, in Janez Ho ¨fler and Jo ¨rg Traeger, eds, Bayern und Slowenien in der Fr.uh- und Sp.atgotik: beziehungen, Anregungen, Parallelen, 2003, 175–97. For re-use of the antique during the high medieval period, see Patrizio Pensabene, ‘Nota sul reimpiego e il recupero dell’antico in Puglia e Campania tra V e IX secolo’, in Rotili, Incontri di popoli e culture, 181–231. William F. Kent, ‘Palaces, Politics and Society’, I Tatti Studies, 2, 1987, 41–70; Richard Goldthwaite, ‘The Florentine Palace as Domestic Architecture’, American Historical Review, 77, 1972, 977–1012. For an analysis of the Neapolitan elite, see Maria Antonietta Visceglia, Il bisogno di eternita`. I comportamenti aristocratici a Napoli in eta` moderna, Naples, 1988; Giuliana Vitale, E´lite burocratica e famiglia. Dinamiche nobiliari e processi di costruzione statale nella Napoli angioino-aragonese, Naples, 2003. Zaccaria Barbaro, Dispacci. 1 novembre 1471–7 settembre 1473, ed. Gigi Corazzol, Rome, 1994, 225, n. 104, dated 31 March 1472. On Diomede Carafa, see Tommaso Persico, Diomede Carafa: uomo di stato e scrittore del secolo 15, Naples, 1899; Franca Petrucci, ‘Carafa, Diomede’, in Dizionario Biogra­ fico degli Italiani, vol. 19, Rome, 1976, 523–30. For Diomede’s collection, see Bianca de Divitiis, Architettura e committenza nella Napoli del Quat­ trocento, Venezia, 2007, 43–135; Bianca de Divitiis, ‘New Evidence on Diomede Carafa’s Collection of Antiquities’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 70, 2007, 99–117. See also I. M. Iasiello, Il collezionismo di antichita` nella Napoli dei Vicere´, Naples, 2003, 110–18; Eloisa Dodero, ‘Le antichita` di palazzo Carafa-Colubrano: prodromi alla storia della collezione’, Napoli Nobilissima, ser. 5, 8, 2007, 119–40. Giuseppe Ceci, ‘Il palazzo dei Carafa di Madda­ loni poi di Colubrano I’, Napoli Nobilissima, 2, 1893, 149–52, 168–70; Roberto Pane, Architettura del Rinascimento in Napoli, Naples, 1937, 105–13; Roberto Pane, Il Rinascimento nell’Italia meridionale, 2 vols, Milan, 1975–77, vol. 1, 209–11; A. Venditti, ‘Presenze ed influenze catalane nell’architettura

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23 24

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napoletana del Regno d’Aragona (1442–1503)’, Napoli Nobilissima, ser. 3, 13, 1974, 12–13. The complete inscription is: ‘est et forte locus magis aptus et amplus in urbe ab agnatis disce­ dere turpe putavit.’ For the genealogical significance of the palace, see Giuliana Vitale, ‘La ‘‘regio nilensis’’ nel basso medioevo. Societa` e spazio urbano’, in Irene Bragantini and Patrizio Gastaldi, eds, Palazzo Corigliano: tra archeologia e storia, Naples, 1984, 88–9; Vitale, E´lite, 138–9. Archivio di Stato di Napoli (ASN), Archivio privato Carafa di Maddaloni II/D/11; ASN, Archivio privato Carafa di Maddaloni, II/D/13. Vitruvio, De architectura, 2 vols, eds Pierre Gros, Antonio Corso and Elisa Romano, Turin, 1997, vol. 1, book 2, chap. 8, 140–3; Clarke, Roman House, 190–200. See Andreas Beyer, Parthenope. Neapel und der Su. den der Renaissance, Munich and Berlin, 2000, 118–19. See, for example, Venditti, ‘Presenze’, 12. Over thirty letters held in the Florence State Archives (Archivio Mediceo avanti il Principato) and one in Amsterdam University Library prove Diomede’s political ties with the Medici. See Francesco Novati, ‘I manoscritti italiani d’alcune biblioteche del Belgio e dell’Olanda’, Rassegna bibliografica della letteratura italiana, 2, 1894, 199– 209, 206; John D. Moores, ‘New Light on Diomede Carafa and his ‘‘Perfect Loyalty’’ to Ferrante of Aragon’, Italian Studies, 26, 1971, 1–23, 1–4. Eve Borsook, ‘A Florentine scrittoio for Diomede Carafa’, in Moshe Barasch and Lucy Freeman Sandler, eds, Art the Ape of Nature. Studies in Honor of H. W. Janson, New York, 1981, 91–6. Barbaro, Dispacci, 225, n. 104, dated 31 March 1472; 384, n. 181, dated 4–5 October 1472; de Divitiis, Architettura, 98–99. On the bronze head of the horse, see Gaetano Filangieri, ‘La testa di ` in casa Maddaloni in via cavallo in bronzo gia Sedile di Nido ora al Museo Nazionale di Napoli’, in Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane, VII, 1882, 407–20; Francesco Caglioti, ‘Catalogue Entry Horse’s Head (Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale)’, in Mina Gregori, ed., In the Light of Apollo: Italian Renaissance and Greece, exh. cat. (Athens, National Gallery – Alexandros Soutzos Museum, 22 December 2003 – 31 March 2004), Milan, 2004, 198–200 n. II.5; Laurie Fusco and Gino Corti, Lorenzo de’ Medici collector and anti­ quarian, Cambridge, 2006, 11–12. See Andreas Beyer, Parthenope, 118–19. On the wall surface of the Palazzo della Cancelleria, see M. Daly Davis, ‘‘‘Opus isodomum’’ at the Palazzo della Cancelleria: Vitruvian studies and arche­ ological and antiquarian interests at the court of Raffaele Riario’, in S. Danesi Squarzina, ed., Roma, centro ideale della cultura dell’antico nei secoli XV e XVI, Milan, 1989, 442–57, 445. Filarete, Trattato di Architettura, vol. 2, 623. See Roberto Gargiani, Principi e costruzione nell’archi­ tettura italiana del Quattrocento, Rome, 2003, 340.

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29 Giuseppe Ceci, ‘Il palazzo Penna’, Napoli Nobi­ lissima, 3, 1894, 83–6; Aldo De Rinaldis, ‘Forme tipiche dell’architettura napoletana nella prima meta` del Quattrocento’, Bollettino d’arte, 4, 1924, 168–70; Nicolas Bock, Kunst am Hofe der AnjouDurazzo: der Bildhauer Antonio Baboccio (1351–c. 1423), Munich, 2000, 197–216. 30 Carlo Celano, Delle Notizie del bello, dell’antico, e del curioso della citta` di Napoli, Naples, 1692, Quarta Giornata, 27. On Frederick’s gate, see Carl Arnold Willemsen, Kaiser Friedrichs II. Triumphator zu Capua. Ein Denkmal Hohenstaufischer Kunst in . Sudenitalien, Wiesbaden, 1953; Creswell Shearer, The Renaissance of Architecture in Southern Italy, Cambridge, 1937; Julian Gardner, ‘An Introduc­ tion to the Iconography of the Medieval Italian City Gate’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 41, 1987, 199– 213, 208–9. For discussion on the stonework of Frederick’s gate as a model for the Carafa palace drafted masonry, see Heydenreich, Architecture, 134; Beyer, Parthenope, 111; Clarke, Roman House, 196–7; Gargiani, Principi e costruzione, 185. For the drafted masonry of Palazzo Penna, see Bock, Kunst, 202–3; Clarke, Roman House, 195. 31 Bernardo De Dominici, Vite de’ pittori, scultori ed architetti napoletani (Naples, 1742–45), eds Fiorella Sricchia Santoro and Andrea Zezza, Naples, 2003, 101, 107–8. 32 Bock, Kunst, 68–75. 33 For a comparison between the windows at the piano nobile of Diomede Carafa’s palace and those of the Palazzo Gonzaga at Revere, see Clarke, Roman House, 197. For the influence of Urbino’s architecture on that of the Neapolitan quat­ trocento, see Anthony Blunt, Neapolitan Baroque & Rococo Architecture, London, 1975, 15. For the Palazzo Gonzaga at Revere, see James Lawson, ‘The Building History of the Gonzaga Palace at Revere’, in Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Insti­ tuts in Florenz, 29, 1985, 197–228; Howard Burns, ‘Alberti’, in Fiore, Storia dell’architettura italiana. Il Quattrocento, 114–65, 143. 34 Francesco Paolo Fiore, ‘Siena e Urbino’, in Fiore, Storia dell’architettura italiana. Il Quattrocento, 272– 313, 295–6. 35 Nicola Barone, ‘Il palazzo Bonifacio a Portanova’, Napoli Nobilissima, s. n. 1, 1920, 83–7. 36 For Vitruvius’ description of the ionic door, see Vitruvio, De architectura, vol. I, book 4, chap. 6, 388–91, 490–1, nn. 213–16; For Alberti’s descrip­ tion, see L. B. Alberti, De re aedificatoria, ed. Giovanni Orlandi, Milan, 1966, book 7, chap. 12, 622–23. For Alberti’s interpretation of Vitruvius’ ionic door, see Christoph Luitpold Frommel, ‘La porta ionica nel Rinascimento’, in Christoph Luitpold Frommel, Architettura alla corte papale nel Rinascimento, Milan, 2003, 35–88, 38–9. 37 Gustavo Frizzoni, Arte italiana del Rinascimento, Milan, 1891, 37; Pane, Architettura, 107; Blunt, Neapolitan baroque, 15. 38 Andreas Beyer, ‘Napoli’, in Fiore, Storia dell’archi­ tettura italiana. Il Quattrocento, 434–59, 446; Beyer, Parthenope, 88.

39 Francesco Caglioti, ‘Donatello (1386–c. 1466) e aiuti. Tabernacolo eucaristico (1432–1433)’, in Antonio Pinelli, ed., La Basilica di S. Pietro in Vati­ cano, Modena, 2000, 922–7, nn. 1824–7. 40 For Filarete’s Bronze Doors of St Peter’s, see Maria Beltramini, ‘Antonio Averlino detto Filarete (1400 ca – post 1466). Porta (1433–1445)’, in Pinelli, La Basilica, 480–7, nn. 215–1. For Filar­ ete’s design of the fac¸ade of the Duomo in Bergamo, see Richard Schofield, ‘The Colleoni Chapel’, 172–3. 41 Frommel, ‘La porta ionica nel Rinascimento’, 37–8. 42 In the Rucellai chapel the windows are surmounted by a pulvinated frieze, on which lies the complete entablature that surrounds the interior of the chapel. For this observation I am indebted to Professor Howard Burns, who does not exclude that Alberti may have provided a drawing for Diomede’s portal, which was subse­ quently executed in an imaginative way, espe­ cially for the frieze. 43 Luca Boschetto, ‘Nuove ricerche sulla biografia e sugli scritti volgari di Leon Battista Alberti. Dal viaggio a Napoli alla nascita del ‘‘De iciarchia’’ (maggio–settembre 1465)’, Interpres, 20, 2001 [2003], 180–211; Luca Boschetto, ‘Alberti e gli Strozzi tra Firenze e Napoli’, Atti del convegno Alberti e Napoli, Capri, May 2004. I am grateful to the author for allowing me to read the manu­ script before its publication. 44 See Eve Borsook, ‘Documenti relativi alle cappelle di Lecceto e delle Selve di Filippo Strozzi’, Antichita` Viva, 3, 1970, 3–20, 14, n. 2; Borsook, ‘A Florentine scrittoio’; Mario Del Treppo, ‘Le avventure storiografiche della Tavola Strozzi’, in Paolo Macry and Angelo Massafra, eds, Fra storia e storiografia. Scritti in onore di Pasquale Villani, Bologna, 1994, 483–515, 511. 45 On Alberti’s role as an influential architectural expert who served as an advisor to the leading courts of renaissance Italy, see Burns, ‘Alberti’, 142. 46 Alberti, De re aedificatoria, book 9, chap. 3, 800–1. 47 Frommel, ‘La porta ionica nel Rinascimento’, 35. For Diomede’s limited knowledge of Latin, see Barbaro, Dispacci, 360, n. 171, dated 24 September 1472. 48 Pane, Architettura, 107; Pane, Il Rinascimento, vol. 1, 209; Beyer, ‘Napoli’, 442; Beyer, Parthenope, 84. Hersey considered 1466 to be the date of the beginning of the construction of the palace. George Hersey, Alfonso II and the Artistic Renewal of Naples. 1485–1495, New Haven, 1969, 12. 49 Persico, Diomede Carafa, 73–82. 50 Persico, Diomede Carafa, 85–6, 297–304. 51 Giovanni Pontano, ‘‘‘De magnificentia’’’, in ` sociali, ed. Giovanni Pontano, I libri delle virtu Francesco Tateo, Roma, 1999, 184–5. 52 The most recent discussion of the chronology of the arch of Castelnuovo is in Rosanna Di Battista, ‘Il cantiere di Castelnuovo a Napoli tra il 1443 e il 1473’, unpublished doctoral thesis, Venice, Isti­ tuto Universitario di Architettura Venezia, 1998.

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53 Clarke, Roman House, 180, 260. For a similar statement in relation to the modillions which support the projection of the massive cornice of Palazzo Medici, see Burns, ‘Quattrocento archi­ tecture and the antique’, 273. 54 On this concept relating to fifteenth-century architecture, see Burns, ‘Quattrocento archi­ tecture and the Antique’, 270. For Frederick II and the antique, see Jill Meredith, ‘The Revival of the Augustan Age in the Court of Emperor Frederick II’, David Castriota, ed., Artistic Strategy and the Rhetoric of Power: Political Uses of Art from Antiquity to the Present, 1986, 39–56; Arnold Esch, ‘Friedrich II. und die Antike’, in Arnold Esch and Norbert Kamp, eds, Friedrich II: Tagung des Deut­ schen Historischen Instituts in Rom im Gedenkjahr . 1994, Tubingen, 1996, 201–34. 55 For the resurgence of imperial sentiment under Alfonso of Aragon and his political references to the reign of Frederick II, see Ernesto Pontieri, Alfonso il Magnimo re di Napoli 1435–1458, Naples, 1975, 99, 104–5; Alan Ryder, The Kingdom of Naples under Alfonso the Magnanimous. The Making of the Modern State, Oxford, 1976, 124–5, 324–5, 368–9. For the Aragonese artistic interest in Frederick II, see Joanna Woods-Marsden, ‘Art and Political Identity in Fifteenth-Century Naples: Pisanello, Cristoforo di Geremia, and King Alfonso’s Imperial Fantasies’, in Charles M. Rosenberg, ed., Art and Politics in Late Medieval and Early Renais­ sance Italy, 1250–1500, Notre Dame and London, 1990, 11–37, 17–18; Ferdinando Bologna, ‘DIVI IVLI CAEsaris: un nuovo busto federiciano e gli interessi dei circoli umanistici del Regno per Federico II’, Dialoghi di Storia, 1, 1996, 4–31. References to Frederick’s gate in the arch of Castelnuovo were emphasized by Demetrio Sala­

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zaro, L’arco di trionfo con le torri di Federico II a ´mile Bertaux, L’art dans Capua, Caserta, 1877; E l’Italie me´ridionale, Paris, 1903, 717; Ernst Kantor­ owicz, Kaiser Friedrich der Zweite, 2 vols, Berlin, 1927–1931, 538, 601; George Hersey, The Aragonese Arch at Naples, 1443–1475, New Haven and London, 1973, 17, 23; and Andreas Beyer, Parthenope, 54–8. It should be pointed out that the Neapolitan historiographical tradition remains too attached to the image of Frederick II as propagandist of the antique and a precursor of the renaissance despot as drawn by Ernst Kantorowicz, whereas David Abulafia (Frederick II. A Medieval Emperor, London, 1988) argues that the emperor was in every respect a man rooted in his own time. See Julian Gardner, ‘Review of Arte di corte nella Napoli Angioina’, Burlington Magazine, 1037, 1989, 562. 56 In 1472 Ferrante had confirmed the Constitution of the Reign of the Two Sicilies, of which the Liber Augustalis constituted the nucleus, thus opening the way to the compilation of com­ mentaries and other publications relating to the jus regni. For Diomede’s edition, see Domenico Maffei, Un’epitome in volgare del ‘Liber Augustalis’, Bari, 1995; Ortensio Zecchino, Le edizioni delle ‘Constitutiones’ di Federico II, Rome, 1995, 9–18; de Divitiis, Architettura, 16–17. 57 Giuliano da Maiano must have known well Diomede’s palace, for which he executed a ‘lettuccio’. See Borsook, ‘Documenti relativi’, 14, n. 2. After Giovanni Bono Boni’s palace and that of Ambrogio Spannocchi in via Banchi di Sopra in Siena, Giuliano’s interest in new forms of rustication culminated in the Palazzo Strozzi. See Gargiani, Principi e costruzione, 340–5. 58 Clarke, Roman House, 42–3.

6

FROM SOCIAL VIRTUE TO REVETTED INTERIOR: GIOVANNI ANTONIO DOSIO AND MARBLE INLAY IN ROME, FLORENCE, AND NAPLES JOHN NICHOLAS NAPOLI

INTRODUCTION: MAGNIFICENCE, CENTRES AND PERIPHERIES

The piers that form the triumphal archway over the high altar of the Carthusian monastery of Naples, the Certosa di San Martino, exhibit the spectacular and jewel-like marble revetment of the sculptor architect Cosimo Fanzago (1591– 1678). Each pier is composed of a series of pilasters. In plate 1 the left pilaster incorporates the corner of the pier and the right pilaster projects outward towards the high altar. Closer examination of the piers reveals that the projecting pilaster (the right pilaster as shown in plate 1) is sheathed in revetted marble panels with simple rounded and squared edges, differing noticeably from the more complex, floral silhouettes of Fanzago’s panels on the recessed corner pilaster (the left pilaster as shown in plate 1). Documents reveal that the marble work on the projecting pilasters (one on each side of the high altar) was installed in the eighteenth century, well after Fanzago’s departure from the monastery in 1656. The discrepancy in patterning and the late installation of the revetment led Renato Ruotolo, a scholar of Neapolitan art and architecture, to conclude that the Carthusian monks, eager to complete the marble revetment begun by Fanzago, used pre-existing components that were manufactured by a generation of archi­ tects and sculptors present in Naples prior to Fanzago in the late sixteenth century.1 The present writer finds this hypothesis convincing: the projecting high-altar pilasters, while installed in the eighteenth century, were assembled with materials left over from the decorative campaigns of the late sixteenth century. These pilasters in the Certosa di San Martino, therefore, reveal the sixteenth-century precursors of Fanzago’s revetment. Research on the Certosa of San Martino has shown that Florentine architects such as Giovanni Antonio Dosio (1533–1609) and other Tuscan sculptors and stoneworkers came to Naples in the late sixteenth century and brought the sculptural and architectural forms of the late Renaissance (derived from Miche­ langelo and even earlier Renaissance precedents) and the tradition of marble inlay to their Neapolitan projects.2 In examining the work of these architects and sculptors, scholars have answered questions related to the precedents of form: Dosio’s work in Naples – especially at the Oratorian church of the Gerolamini and 101

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the Carthusian monastery the Certosa di San Martino – provided architects like Fanzago with architectural models on which to build and elaborate. Building upon this research, this chapter focuses on the meanings embodied in Giovanni Antonio Dosio’s use of polychrome marble revetment, and argues that the practice of working in multicoloured marbles embodied a rich array of moral, intellectual, political, economic, technological and aesthetic associations in Florence, Rome and Naples in the late sixteenth century. The associative meanings inherent in the use of polychrome marble revetment were part of a broader theory of artistic and architectural magnificence that had enjoyed a pedigree of European scope since antiquity.3 This theory – discernible in the treatises and panegyrics of humanist advisers and architects from Galvano Fiamma (active as Azzone Visconti’s adviser in the 1320s and 1330s)4 and Leon Battista Alberti (author of I libri della famiglia, 1432–34, and De re aedificatoria, 1452) to Giovanni Pontano (author of De liberalitate De beneficentia De magnificentia De splendore De conviventia, 1498) – maintained that the construction of imposing buildings with sumptuous decoration could be viewed as an expression of social and religious virtue.5 Citing a broad range of classical texts, biblical passages and medieval theology, including Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Pliny’s Natural History, The Book of Psalms and St Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica, these writers provided a philosophical and moral justification for the ambitious building campaigns of the Medici in Florence (prominent in Florence from 1402), the Visconti in Milan (1287–1447), and the Aragonese monarchs in Naples (1443–1501). Interpreting the grand projects of their patrons as manifestations of the social virtue of magnificence derived from Aristotle’s notion of megaloprepeia as it appeared in the Nicomachean Ethics,6 these writers were able to create an asso­ ciation between grand architecture – including fortresses, churches and palace interiors – and social virtue. Two aspects of the virtue of magnificence, as it was conceived in the early modern period, deserve special attention. First, acts of magnificence made powerful claims about the moral character and social rank of the patron – as Aristotle postulated, ‘a state of character is determined by its activities and by its objects.’7 Both Aristotle and Aquinas characterized magnificence as a specialized version of liberality: magnificence is an act of spending or giving of extraordinarily large scale.8 Where a spirit of sincere generosity motivated the actions of the liberal person, the magnificent act was generated out of religious piety and a public-spirited ambition.9 By the sixteenth century the Italian elite recognized the close relationship between magnificent expenditure and material means, and saw the act of magnificence as confirmation of nobility of soul and aristocratic status.10 The elite laity was not the only sector of the population to be interested in magnifi­ cence. In De Cardinalatu (1510) Paolo Cortesio argued that the extravagant and wasteful expenditures of the cardinals were justified as magnificent as they should be considered princes of the church.11 In addition, both lay and eccle­ siastic princes began to perform magnificent acts that emulated antique exam­ ples. In his book on magnificence, Giovanni Pontano promoted such emulation, as he lauded the lavish funeral ceremonies that Ferdinand of Aragon (King of Naples, 1458–94) organized for his wife Isabella and his daughters alongside Hadrian’s spectacular celebrations in honour of his father Trajan.12 Imitation of ancient 102

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1 Revetment, left pilaster of triumphal arch, Certosa di San Martino, Naples. Late sixteenth-century manufacture. Courtesy of the Soprintendenza Speciale per il Polo Museale di Napoli. Photo: Author.

acts of magnificence, furthermore, would help to guarantee the appropriateness of the contemporary magnificent act. The second aspect of magnificence that merits attention were the physical and aesthetic qualities of the act itself. Galvano Fiamma and Giovanni Pontano identified the qualities of scale, craftsmanship and material preciousness as central criteria with which to evaluate the magnificent work. When describing Azzone Visconti’s fourteenth-century palace in Milan, Galvano Fiamma paid special attention to both the exquisite craftsmanship of the palace’s decoration and furnishings and to the sumptuous materials with which they were made. Physical characteristics were vital to an object’s capacity to instil admiration and wonder in the beholder; they were the means by which to achieve the final effect of admiration.13 With attention to the physical characteristics of the magnificent act and to its desired effect of inspiring awe and admiration, the theorists of magnificence began to explain the aesthetic means through which the associa­ tion of architecture and virtue operated. As an act of patronage that reflected an impressively large but appropriate expenditure and which inspired awe and admiration in its beholders, the 103

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magnificent act could encompass almost any large-scale artistic or architectural commission. In his book on magnificence, Giovanni Pontano argued that projects from illustrious palaces and temples of fine manufacture to streets and seaports could be considered magnificent. Even the sewage systems of ancient Rome – in their imposing size, spaciousness and the solidity of the vaulting of their underground channels – inspired the wonder and admiration of a grand act.14 The present examination of Giovanni Antonio Dosio’s work in Rome, Florence and Naples, therefore, focuses on a highly specific act of magnificence – the construction of interior spaces with polychrome marble revetment. The use of polychrome revetment could make an astonishing range of claims about its patron in both secular and ecclesiastical contexts: it conferred political and dynastic pretensions; it embodied the ideals of piety and spiritual renewal in a particularly powerful fashion; and it emulated ancient practices of magnificence in both form and process. Paying attention to the theory of magnificence and its implementation in late sixteenth-century Florence, Rome and Naples also casts in a new light the artistic geography of the Italian peninsula in the late Renaissance. Vasari’s The Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors and Architects, in its emphasis on the greatness of Florentine and Tuscan artists, relegated almost every other urban centre in Italy (with the possible exceptions of Rome and Venice) to the cultural periphery.15 Naples is certainly peripheral in The Lives. While the careers of artists and archi­ tects like Giovanni Antonio Dosio (1533–1609), Michelangelo Caccini (1566–c. 1612–14) and Pietro Bernini (1562–1629) began too late to receive attention in The Lives, their journeys south would appear to confirm Vasari’s thesis that Florentine and Tuscan artists, in their artistic greatness, could effect momentous change and innovation when they moved to peripheral centres like Naples. A considera­ tion of Dosio’s work with polychrome revetment, however, reveals that this movement of artists from Florence to Naples was part of a much larger artistic and cultural phenomenon. From Azzone Visconti in Milan in the 1320s and 1330s to Alfonso I in Naples in the 1440s, the commissioning of grand art and architecture as a gesture of magnificence was diffuse throughout the Italian peninsula and beyond. In other words, the cultural practice of magnificence had no centres or peripheries on the Italian peninsula. The geography of princely magnificence would be more accu­ rately modelled on an electrodynamic metaphor, hypothesized by George Kubler, replete ‘with impulses, generating centers, and relay points; with increments and losses in transit; with resistances and transformers in the circuit’.16 Dosio’s work in Naples, consequently, is no longer seen as the innovative intervention of an artist trained in the northern centres of Rome and Florence, but rather as a continuous adaptation to the needs and aspirations of his patrons in all three ` Gaddi in Florence to the Oratorian priest centres – from the antiquarian Niccolo Antonio Talpa in Naples. Dosio, however, was not merely a technician at the service of the learned and socially ambitious elites of the Italian peninsula. A review of his career demonstrates that he was an architect who was familiar with the material culture of antiquity and who collaborated closely with his sponsors to produce interiors that imitated the decorative schemes of the ancient world. With his patrons Dosio was a fully fledged collaborator in emulating the ancients in their gestures of magnificence. 104

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CONSIDERING THE CULTURES OF INLAID MARBLE IN

FLORENCE AND ROME

For Cosimo de’ Medici (1519–74, Grand Duke of Tuscany 1537–74), the raw mate­ rials needed for a revetted interior were just as important as the completed product. Both the raw materials and the polychrome revetted chapel – as exem­ plified in the Medici mausoleum, the Cappella de’ Principi in the church of San Lorenzo, Florence – communicated magnificence through sensory impact, through the practical appeals of technological innovation and political capital, and through the intellectual appeal of antiquarian enquiry.17 Cosimo de’ Medici’s interest in the raw materials of marble inlay was shared by one of his chief panegyrists: Giorgio Vasari. In both the first and second editions of Vasari’s Lives (1550, 1568), the ‘Introduction to the three arts of disegno’ introduces the reader to what could be called a culture of stone.18 In a comprehensive survey of stones and quarries in the Mediterranean, from Egypt and Greece to sites throughout the Italian peninsula, Vasari paid attention both to aesthetic qualities, such as colour and lustre, and the uses of stone in building, from statuary and architectural details to structural support. Comparing ancient and modern uses of stone, he believed that the ability to sculpt hard stone like granite and porphyry into columns was a testament to the technical expertise of the ancient Romans and Egyptians.19 Cosimo de’ Medici’s discovery of a temper for chisels, enabling sculptors to carve porphyry, was viewed as a technological breakthrough with several important implications.20 The ability to cut and sculpt porphyry, as evidenced by the work of Francesco Ferrucci del Tadda, was a significant advance in the artistic emulation of the ancients.21 Believed to be named after its purplish hue (the ninth-century Latin porphyrus), porphyry is also found in hues of green and black, but the ancient Romans prized the deep purple-red variety of the stone which came from Egyptian quarries. In his Natural History, Pliny (23–79 CE) recorded that the importation of porphyry statues from Egypt by Emperor Claudius (r. 41–54 CE) was considered an innovation.22 By the time of Emperor Diocletian (r. 284–305 CE) the colour of Egyptian porphyry carried associations with the imperial family and this connec­ tion was bolstered when its use became the exclusive privilege of the emperor.23 From the fifth century onwards, the mortal remains of Roman emperors were to be placed in porphyry sarcophagi.24 By the sixteenth century the imperial associa­ tions of the stone and its resistance to the chisel were legendary. The production of tools strong enough to cut porphyry in Grand Ducal Tuscany became an issue of governmental interest: Duke Cosimo de’ Medici’s officials required official regis­ tration for all iron products, making blacksmithing a government monopoly.25 Unlike Claudius, who imported porphyry directly from its quarries in Egypt, the patrons and artists of medieval and renaissance Italy used porphyry frag­ ments as and when they could find them in ancient monuments (frequently employing them as spolia – building materials, including bricks, marble columns and paving stones, plundered from ancient buildings) or abandoned as pre-hewn fragments in the various construction sites and quarries of ancient Rome.26 Using spolia and incorporating their building materials in modern projects provided yet another way to emulate the ancients. When spolia became more difficult to find in the mid-sixteenth century, patrons, architects and sculptors turned to quarries throughout the Italian peninsula for their raw materials.27 The act of quarrying 105

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stone or importing newly quarried stone could also be seen as an emulation of the ancients. Duke Cosimo’s discovery of coloured marble quarries at S. Giusto a Monterantoli and near the town of Seravezza gave him an exclusive supply that invited comparisons with the ancient Roman monopoly of the Egyptian porphyry quarries.28 The use of these quarries facilitated the decoration of the Cappella de’ Principi in the church of San Lorenzo in Florence.29 Vasari began to plan the decoration of this chapel in the early 1560s, and commented on his designs for it in his autobiography in the 1568 edition of The Lives; he anticipated the realization of ‘a new, truly regal mausoleum of the utmost magnificence’.30 Vasari’s choice of the phrase ‘veramente reale’ to describe the planned chapel reveals the royal aspirations of the Medici in the late sixteenth century. In late sixteenth-century Rome, the practice of decorating with polychrome marble revetment was a gesture of magnificence that sought to communicate a political and spiritual message through the use of a rigorously applied metaphor. Revetted chapels became a fitting expression of the spiritual splendour and dynamic renewal of the post-Tridentine church. This expression is visible in Domenico Fontana’s Sistine Chapel in Santa Maria Maggiore, commissioned by Pope Sixtus V (r. 1585–90). The use of polychrome revetment revived the metaphor of the Heavenly Jerusalem – a trope used by medieval poets to describe the physical church as an image of celestial paradise, made manifest as an archi­ tecture of gold and jewels – and represented a justified expenditure commensu­ rate with the spiritual wealth of the church and the piety of the commissioner of the chapel, Sixtus V.31 In addition, spaces like the Sistine Chapel sought to revive an early Christian form of decoration, symbolizing the spiritual and physical renewal of the church after the Council of Trent (1545–63).32 The use of multicoloured stone in Florence and Rome offers crucial insights into how polychrome marble interiors embodied the early renaissance theory of magnificence in the late sixteenth century. It illustrates what the magnificent gesture sought to communicate, the intended effect of the act, and how the gesture was morally justified. First, as exemplified by the case of Duke Cosimo de’ Medici’s Cappella de’ Principi, the use of multicoloured stone was a self-conscious reference to antiquity; it emulated the ancient Roman practice of quarrying rare stone from an exclusive site and using this material in the decoration of impor­ tant spaces. The second observation is, in part, a consequence of the first: the patrons who commanded the resources to quarry rare materials and to use them in architectural and decorative campaigns enjoyed an enhanced political prestige. Third, an interior decorated with intarsiated marbles, like the Sistine Chapel in Santa Maria Maggiore, represented the spiritual wealth uniquely suited to a tested and triumphant Catholic church.

G I O VA N N I A N T O N I O D O S I O A N D M A R B L E I N L AY:

ANTIQUARIAN RESEARCH AND CONTEMPORARY PRACTICE

With his activities as an antiquarian, architect, decorator and marble dealer, Giovanni Antonio Dosio’s career represented a lifelong collaboration with patrons and artists in identifying the use of polychromed revetment as an ancient Roman decorative practice, assessing its place in the architectural legacy of antiquity, and recreating similar schemes in his building commissions. 106

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Examining his graphic work (including his drawings of the interior of the Pantheon and Raphael’s Chigi Chapel) and his built commissions (the Gaddi and Niccolini chapels in Florence) reveals a process in which Dosio observed monu­ ments, identified key features of their decorative ensembles, adapted these features to new projects, and assisted in procuring marbles for the projects. ` Gaddi and Giovanni Niccolini followed the Dosio’s Florentine chapels for Niccolo precedent of Raphael’s Chigi Chapel in that they made extensive use of spolia. One of the first references to Dosio’s use of spolia is in Istoria delle Pietre (1597) by the Dominican monk Agostinio del Riccio.33 The Gaddi and Niccolini chapels contain examples of many types of stone addressed by del Riccio, including porphyry, marmo giallo, Porta Santa marble from Libya, Nero Orientale, Marmo Verde d’Egitto, Bianco e Nero Orientale, Broccatello Orientale and Breccia Pellegrina. While Agostino del Riccio was aware of the far-reaching origins of these stones (he probably relied upon Pliny for the geographical origins of the different stones) all these pieces were found on the Italian peninsula as spolia from ancient sites. Nonetheless, the exotic origins of the stone spoke to the patrons’ aspirations of the economic means to import stones as the Romans had once done. While it is not possible to speak of a geography of mercantilism, it is possible to speak of a geography of aspiration.34 Dosio’s process was central to transforming the social theory of grand, yet appropriate, expenditure into visually arresting spaces that imitated ancient precedents with archaeological accuracy and intellectual authenticity. Born in 1533 in San Gimignano, Dosio arrived in Rome in 1548, when he entered the workshop of the sculptor and architect Raffaello da Montelupo, an assistant of Michelangelo.35 He resided primarily in Rome until 1576, working both under Raffaello da Montelupo and Pirro Ligorio, Neapolitian architect and antiquarian, at the Belvedere gardens and Casino of Pope Pius IV.36 Under these mentors Dosio established himself as an avid student of both ancient and modern Rome and developed an extensive network of relations with the leading anti­ quarians and collectors in Rome and beyond. His contacts included the Florentine ` Gaddi and Giovanni Niccolini. antiquities collectors Niccolo Dosio’s association with Gaddi began in 1566 when he assisted in sculpting the funerary monument of the antiquarian Annibale Caro.37 The two men’s common interest in the architecture and material culture of Roman antiquity led them both to assess the place of polychrome revetment in the decorative strate­ gies of the ancients, and to realize Roman-inspired schemes of revetment in the burial chapels of late sixteenth-century Florence. An exchange of letters marks the association of Gaddi and Dosio in the 1570s, and in these letters the architect expressed an interest in publishing an architectural treatise that would build upon his drawings of ancient and modern monuments.38 He sent Gaddi drawings of ancient monuments, including the Pantheon (plates 2, 3 and 4),39 with commentary noting that with his drawings, ‘one can make a book as your Excellency desires. One can see what the difference is between the things that Serlio describes from the drawings that I send you.’40 In his letters Dosio described the drawings as ‘the Rotunda measured in an orderly fashion and with diligence . . . [the building] being highly regulated according to the rules of Vitruvius’.41 In these drawings we can clearly see Dosio’s interest in deriving the precise proportions of the cornices and orders that comprise the Pantheon and in emulating the presentation of the monument as it 107

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2 Giovanni Antonio Dosio, Studies of the Interior of the Pantheon. Pen, traces of chalk on paper, 43.0 � 56.0 cm. Florence: Uffizi Gallery, Gabinetto disegni e stampe, 2022/A. Photo: Courtesy of the Soprintendenza Speciale per il Polo Museale Fiorentino.

appeared in the treatise I sette libri dell’architettura of the architect and theorist Sebastiano Serlio (1475– 1554).42 There is more than an interest in the proportions of columns, capitals, cornices and pila­ sters in the Pantheon: several of these drawings illustrate how the units form a comprehensive surface interior for the monument. In two of the drawings Dosio isolated the attic register of the interior (plate 2) and a ground-level tabernacle (plate 3). Over the taber­ nacle he wrote the following: Here below one of the tabernacles of the interior of the Pantheon is represented with its incrustations of marble and mixed stones of various sorts as one still can see [. . .]

43

In Dosio’s drawings the areas of poly­ chrome revetment were part of the integrated ancient Roman decorative system as a whole (plate 4). The articulation of polychromed inlay panels within a pedimented taber­ nacle framed by pilasters reappears – and is elaborated upon – in later preparatory studies for tombs. In a later drawing (plate 6) – a 3 Giovanni Antonio Dosio, Plan of the Pantheon, preparatory study for the Niccolini Detail of Tabernacle. Black and blue ink and chalk Chapel (plates 7 and 8), which was on paper, 42.5 � 56.5 cm. Florence: Uffizi ultimately designed and executed Gallery, Gabinetto disegni e stampe, 2021/A. during Dosio’s years in Florence – the Photo: Courtesy of the Soprintendenza Speciale articulation of the chapel wall with per il Polo Museale Fiorentino. an ensemble of pilasters and poly­ chrome panelling responds to the decorative ensemble of the Pantheon (plate 5). The marble panelling that surrounds the pedimented aedicule displays a remarkable resemblance to the tabernacle ensemble of the Pantheon. Modern monuments in Rome, such as the Chigi Chapel in the church of S. Maria del Popolo (designed 1510–20), were also of interest to Dosio (plates 9, 10 and 11).44 While his drawings of the Chigi Chapel are not as comprehensive as his survey of the Pantheon, Dosio presented the chapel in a similar fashion: a section reveals the comprehensive articulation of the decorative ensemble, and the details of the chapel walls below the cornice record the precise numerical proportions of the niches, pilasters and pyramidal tombs. While the presence of 108

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marble inlay is only perfunctorily suggested in the larger section of the chapel (plate 9), Dosio makes a note about the inlay next to his plan (plate 10): ‘plan of the chapel of Agostino Chigi in the church of the Popolo in Rome – all of marbles and polychrome inlay’.45 Dosio found the use of marble inlay in this chapel to be significant, and it was especially important for the chapel’s designer Raphael. Even with Bernini’s alterations to the 4 Giovanni Antonio Dosio, Section of the Pantheon, chapel taken into account,46 several Studies of the Cornice and Column. Pen and traces of features of Raphael’s design that chalk on paper, 42.05 � 56.0 cm. Florence: Uffizi evoke the architecture of antiquity Gallery, Gabinetto disegni e stampe, 2023/A. are still discernible. The pyramidal Photo: Courtesy of the Soprintendenza Speciale tombs on the lateral faces of the per il Polo Museale Fiorentino. chapel recall the tomb of Cestius and the presumed tomb of Romulus that stood in the Borgo until 1499.47 Today it is still possible to appreciate how the architectonic elements of the wall surface were articulated with white marble and how coloured marbles filled the intervening spaces (plates 12 and 13). The inlaid marbles were an integral element in producing the effect of richness in the chapel. This effect was made explicit in written correspondence between Raphael and Pope Leo X. 5 Hadrian, Pantheon (interior). 118–125 CE. Raphael noted that in order to Photo: Courtesy of the Fototeca Nazionale, Rome. emulate the manner of the ancients, architects needed to approximate both their forms and their use of precious materials.48 He saw the use of coloured marbles in the Chigi chapels as both a register of the patron’s wealth and a decorous imitation of the architecture of antiquity.49 Dosio’s attention to the marble inlay of the Chigi Chapel and the Pantheon in his drawings attests to his sensitivity to associations made earlier by Raphael: the use of polychrome revetment imitated the decorative strategies of ancient Rome and was seen as the decorous expression of the patron’s social distinction. From 1576 to 1590 Dosio worked in Florence where he nurtured his ties to ` Gaddi. While working with Dosio in Rome, Gaddi had expressed an Niccolo interest in publishing an illustrated architectural treatise that would incorporate Dosio’s drawings of the Pantheon (like those illustrated in plates 2, 3 and 4);50 and like his architect, the Florentine antiquarian recognized how polychrome marble inlay was a critical element in the decorative system of the ancients. He helped 109

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Dosio to realize his interest in marble revetment in Gaddi’s own family chapel in the church of Santa Maria Novella.51 It is likely that the anti­ quarian helped to procure a second project: the family chapel of Giovanni Niccolini in the church of Santa Croce (plates 7 and 8).52 Like Gaddi, Giovanni Niccolini was an avid art and antiquities collector. While Dosio was able to realize his drawings of the Pantheon tabernacles in contem­ 6 Giovanni Antonio Dosio, Elevation of two porary funerary chapels, his patron’s contiguous walls of the Niccolini Chapel, Florence. Black interest in marble inlay is equally ink, blue ink, watercolor, and chalk on paper. instructive. It appears that Gaddi Florence: Uffizi Gallery, Gabinetto Disegni e himself took a particularly active Stampe, 3216/A. Photo: Courtesy of the Soprin­ interest in the Niccolini Chapel. A tendenza Speciale per il Polo Museale Fiorentino. contemporary chronicler noted that Gaddi drafted a preliminary eleva­ tion and plan of the chapel in consultation with Dosio.53 Marble inlay was of interest to Gaddi in both ecclesiastic and domestic contexts. A posthumous inventory of his palace includes four tables of stone inlay (pietre commesso) and one mostro of multicoloured inlaid marble (marmo ` Gaddi saw poly­ mischio).54 Niccolo chrome marble inlay as an integral item in an antiquities collection and 7 View of altar and tomb of Giovanni Niccolini in as a suitable decorative strategy for a Giovanni Antonio Dosio, Niccolini Chapel, funerary chapel. Church of Santa Croce, Florence. 1579–85. Beyond providing his drawings, Photo: r Alinari Archives, Florence. with their isolation of critical decorative features and their resem­ blance to the Florentine chapels, Dosio may have assisted Gaddi and Niccolini with the procurement of raw materials – both as spolia and as cut stone from quarries in Carrara. Dosio worked as Gaddi’s purchasing agent for antiquities and modern drawings while he was in Rome,55 and in 1585 he was documented as a representative of a marble agent in Carrara.56 Dosio’s mercantile activities for his Florentine patrons can also be seen as an act of emulation; they imitated the ancient practice of procuring rare materials for the realization of magnificent architecture. Dosio’s chapels for Gaddi and Niccolini did not go unnoticed by his Florentine contemporaries. In Il Riposo, Raffaele Borghini singled out for praise of its splen­ dour and opulent appearance the inlaid marble work of the Niccolini Chapel in Santa Croce. The sixteenth-century poet Antonfrancesco Grazzini, known as ‘Il Lasca’, wrote the following poem about the Gaddi Chapel: 110

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With great expense, but in more ways with his genius,

Gaddi had commissioned a chapel

That in all the world one cannot find

A work such as this that shall compare to it:

It makes everyone who sees it marvel,

How it is so graceful, bright, rich, and beautiful.

Rome and Venice, have patience,

For in this part you should cede to Florence.57

` Gaddi Il Lasca’s poem confirms the desired effect of the family chapel of Niccolo and epitomizes the ultimate purpose of the magnificent act. The chapel was realized thanks to both the material means and the intellectual virtue of its patron; its beauty instils awe in the beholder; and consequently its fame reso­ nates to an importance beyond the Gaddi family to all of Florence. FA S H I O N I N G A N A R C H I T E C T U R E O F P R E C I O U S M AT E R I A L S I N N A P L E S

Scholars generally approach Naples as an artistic centre either by stressing its connection to artistic trends at work elsewhere on the Italian peninsula or by emphasizing the city’s uniqueness and its autonomy from other Italian centres.58 Comparable identifications of similarity and difference between Dosio’s work in Naples and his projects in Rome and Florence can be made, but the present discussion aims to view these points of comparison and contrast as two aspects of a common social practice. In this practice, Dosio and his Neapo­ litan patrons adapted the rich claims of the magnificent act to the specific political, religious and demographic conditions of late sixteenth-century Naples. His work for two religious orders in Naples, the Oratorians (the congregation of secular priests led by St Philip Neri in Rome, which received papal institution in 1575) and the Carthusians (the monastic order founded by St Bruno of Cologne at the monastery of La Grande Chartreuse outside Grenoble in 1084), carried the full richness of associative meanings that have been demonstrated for Rome and Florence. These projects epitomize the emulation of antiquity, the statements of political alliance, and the resolution of moral conflict by appeals to justified expenditures that had also characterized the 8 Detail of tabernacle and tomb of Giovanni expressions of magnificence in Flor­ Niccolini from Giovanni Antonio Dosio, Niccolini ence and Rome. Both the Oratorians Chapel. Photo: r Alinari Archives, Florence. 111

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9 Giovanni Antonio Dosio, Section of the Chigi Chapel in the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome. Black and blue ink on paper, 42.7 � 25.9 cm. Florence: Uffizi Gallery, Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe, 166/A. Photo: Courtesy of the Soprin­ tendenza Speciale per il Polo Museale Fiorentino.

and the Carthusians had ambitious architectural plans for their complexes, and key personalities in each corporation appreciated the associations between precious building materials and ancient architectural practice. While Dosio’s patrons in Naples certainly used these interventions to express the social virtue of magnificence, their positions within the social, political and religious life of Naples distinguish their pretensions and claims from other Italian centres. As one of the largest cities in Western Europe and the capital of a kingdom that was perilously close to the infidel incursions of the Ottoman Empire, Naples was a prime theatre for the implementation of the reforms of the Council of Trent. Ge´rard Labrot mentions that, after the treaty of CateauCambre´sis (1559), Spain used Naples and her kingdom as a bulwark against the Ottoman incursion in the Mediterranean.59 Given these demographic, political and geographical factors, Naples was a city that was eagerly colonized by the religious orders of recent (sixteenth-century) foundation, including the Discalced Carmelites, Jesuits, Theatines and Oratorians. It was also a city that accom­ modated the renewal efforts of orders of much earlier foundation, including the Benedictines, the Franciscans and the Carthusians.60 The construction of dignified churches and complexes were prime interests of all these orders. The expenditure of large sums on a sacred building had been an appropriate means to display magnificence since Aristotle,61 and Charles Borromeo’s recommendations for church construction and remodelling in the Instructiones Fabricae et Supellectilis Ecclesiasticae (1577) outlined a modest programme of magnificence (if magnificence can ever be considered modest) for churches after the Council of Trent. Borromeo (1538–84), Cardinal of Romagna 112

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10 (Left) Giovanni Antonio Dosio, Chigi Chapel, Studies of the Plan, Elevation, and Cornice. Red and white chalk on paper, 45.6 � 34.0 cm. Florence: Uffizi Gallery, Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe, 3204/ A. Photo: Courtesy of the Soprintendenza Speciale per il Polo Museale Fiorentino.

11 (Right) Giovanni Antonio Dosio, Chigi Chapel, Elevation of Tomb, Detail of Cupola. Red and white

chalk on paper, 45.6 � 34.0 cm. Florence: Uffizi Gallery, Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe, 3204/Av.

Photo: Courtesy of the Soprintendenza Speciale per il Polo Museale Fiorentino.

and the March of Ancona, Archbishop of Milan and Counter-Reformation leader, advocated that churches should be constructed with a dignity commensurate with the Eucharist and holy relics contained within.62 His notion of appropriate dignity meant privileging key locations within the church, such as the main chapel, the high-altar tabernacle, and the tombs and reliquaries of saints. For these locations (and especially the tabernacle) he specified the use of precious materials such as gold, silver and valuable marbles.63 While the ambitions of the monastic patrons of Naples would push Borromeo’s ideal of a dignified church interior to the limits of reasonable interpretation, the Cardinal’s logic of demarcating the holy and the sacred infused ecclesiastical decoration in the city.64 Dosio’s contact with the Oratorians began in 1580 when he served as an advising architect during the construction of side chapels in Santa Maria in Valli­ cella, the congregation’s seat in Rome, and it is likely that the prefect of the building workshop at the Roman church, Father Antonio Talpa, who was trans­ ferred to Naples in 1586, encouraged his participation at the Gerolamini, the Neapolitan complex of the Oratorians.65 Father Talpa joined Philip Neri’s congre­ gation in 1570, and was one of the eight senior clerics of the congregation (along with Francesco Maria Tarugi and the historian Cesare Baronius) by 1583.66 In 1586 Talpa was one of the two priests sent down to Naples to establish a new branch of the congregation; and even though Tarugi was the rector of the Neapolitan chapter, he ceded the internal government of the community to Talpa.67 While in Rome, Talpa had served as prefect of the library and the building workshop at Santa Maria in Vallicella; and he was eager to build an Oratorian complex of commensurate splendour in Naples.68 Talpa’s initiatives in constructing the church of the Gerolamini coincided with a series of institutional changes in the Neapolitan branch of the Oratorians. The two priests transformed what was a secular corporation in Rome into a more highly regimented monastic institution in Naples. They instituted the communal housing of members with rooms open to the visit of superiors, established that no member 113

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12 View towards altar of Raphael, Chigi Chapel, Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome. 1516. Photo: Courtesy of the Fototeca Nazionale, Rome.

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13 View of west wall and tomb of Sigismondo Chigi from Raphael, Chigi Chapel. Photo: Courtesy of the Fototeca Nazionale, Rome.

would exit the complex in Naples without a companion, and declared all personal possessions, from furniture to books and clothing, to be common property.69 While Philip Neri disliked the aggressively communal and monastic tenden­ cies of his congregation in Naples, the two branches of the order had to deal with the same challenges facing a newly founded institution. Historians of the Oratory have observed that while the group sought to maintain the humble character of its founder, the institution was bolstered by papal recognition in 1583 and received numerous requests for chapters throughout Italy, including the repeated entreaties of Charles Borromeo for a chapter in Milan. The peninsula-wide popularity of the order encouraged the founding members of the group to envision an ambitious expansion; but ultimately this would require substantial funding and external support to train large numbers of rectors and clerics and to establish numerous chapters. The nascent Oratorians faced a moral dilemma: poverty and humility were ideals to be emulated, but they were also impediments to the survival and flourishing of the order.70 Talpa’s initiatives at the Gerolamini appear to have favoured the interests of institutional survival over the ideal of humility to be practised by the individual members of the congregation. Talpa’s aspirations for the Neapolitan chapter of St Philip’s congregation were made explicit after he died in the second decade of the seventeenth century.71 In a funeral eulogy for him, Father Maccione recalled: He [Talpa] considered that the church – being the most dignified part of the universe, where every day sacrifices are made to God, not the meat of rams or lambs as before, but the very Son of God – deserves all those sorts of embellishments that can ever be summoned from the force of human ingenuity with the assistance of all heaven [. . .]72

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14 View of nave of Giovanni Antonio Dosio, Church of the Gerolamini, Naples. 1593. Photo: r Alinari Archives, Florence.

As related by Maccione, Talpa’s justification for constructing the Neapolitan church with all possible splendour recalls the associations that motivated the construction of the Sistine Chapel in the church of Santa Maria Maggiore. As the place where the Son of God is sacrificed, the church was uniquely deserving of every possible splendour. In its spatial arrangement, its learned use of classical orders and its materials, Dosio’s solution at the Gerolamini (plate 14) satisfied Talpa’s expectations for the church. Using single rows of Corinthian columns to support an arcade and to divide a broad, flat-roofed nave from lower aisles vaulted with a series of small saucer domes (called cupolette or volte a vela) that covered each individual bay, the architect imitated Filippo Brunelleschi’s spatial organization of the church of San Lorenzo in Florence (1421–40).73 As a church that has been hailed by commen­ tators since the fifteenth century as one of the first buildings constructed 116

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according to the rules of perspective and harmonic proportion, San Lorenzo was a ground-breaking structure in the history of renaissance architecture.74 Observers of the Gerolamini have seen Dosio’s design as both an echo of the early Renais­ sance master and, even more important for Talpa and the Oratorians, a return to the early Christian basilica form.75 In his history of the Oratorians in Naples, Talpa praised the newly constructed church of the Gerolamini and paid special attention to the Corinthian columns in the nave – made from single shafts of granite. He wrote that the granite mono­ liths were ‘quarried with the favour of Ferdinand the Grand Duke of Tuscany on the island of Giglio, brought to Naples with universal admiration for being an enterprise modelled after the ancient Romans’.76 Dosio’s design of the Gerolamini presents the architectural embodiment of the Oratorians’ aspirations for the congregation in several ways. As mentioned above, his adoption of the basilical form, while imitating Brunelleschi at San Lorenzo, represented a return to the early Christian basilica form. The changes in rules that were instituted by Talpa and Tarugi could also be seen as an effort to make the Oratorians resemble the older contemplative orders of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. A venerated architectural model suited a respected paradigm for monastic life. By noting that the congregation was able to obtain granite columns from the island of Giglio in emulation of the ancients, Talpa was co­ opting ancient practice into the mission of the Neapolitan congregation at the turn of the seventeenth century. The Oratorians were to be a congregation that revered the medieval ideals of the monastic life, but would look to the ancient, pre-Christian past for expressions of grandeur. Referring to antiquity and the more recent – but still time-honoured – era of early Christianity and medieval monasticism, the followers of Philip Neri in Naples laid claim to an architectural timelessness, substantiating the mission of the congregation. Talpa and the congregation also enjoyed the support of the Carthusians at San Martino, who made an important donation to the order in the late 1580s, only a few years before Dosio’s arrival in the city.77 Severo Turboli was the prior at San Martino at the time of this donation, and it was under his leadership that the Carthusians began their own ambitious redecorating campaigns. While less is known about Turboli than Talpa, the details of Turboli’s career suggest that he appreciated the rich associations of Dosio’s work in marble revetment, and wanted a decorative ensemble of comparable effect at San Martino. Coming from a prominent family in Massa Lubrense (near Sorrento), Severo Turboli rose quickly through the Carthusian ranks, becoming prior of San Martino in 1582, co-visitor (a position of administrative oversight of Carthusian monasteries) in 1586, and principal visitor of Lombardy in 1586.78 He was transferred to Pavia in 1597, where he continued to serve as prior, and returned to the same post in Naples in 1606.79 In addition, in 1607 Turboli donated his collection of Greek codices to Charles Borromeo’s library, the Ambrosiana, for which he received special thanks from Borromeo.80 Upon his employment at the Certosa in 1591, Dosio assumed the role of supervising architect over a group of Carrarese marble workers, who were hired to procure, cut and install marbles in the monastery. The first documentary refer­ ence to Dosio at the Certosa is in a contract between marble workers at San Martino and Father don Iustino de Urso, the Carthusian procurator of the 117

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building workshop. In the agreement, the master marble workers Raymo Bregantino, Felice de Felice and Fabritio de Guido agreed to work in solidum, or in partnership, in delivering, cutting, and installing marbles for the church of the monastery to the approval of the prior and the monastery architect, Giovanni Antonio Dosio.81 Thanks to the eighteenth-century installation of un-used panelling from the late sixteenth century, the revetted work of Dosio’s generation at the Certosa is still discernible in the pilasters of the triumphal archway over the high altar (plate 1). The documentary sources related to Dosio and his assistants at San Martino attest that the importation of marble for decoration was a significant feature of the Carthusian decorative campaigns. Three marble workers from Carrara had procured marbles for San Martino under Dosio, and in future decades the Carthusians would continue to purchase marbles (both the classic white Carrara marble and different varieties of mischio) from this city.82 No documentation survives indicating that the Carthusians viewed their purchase of materials as an emulation of antique practice. However, it is likely that the monks appreciated these potential associations. While subsequent decoration at the Certosa leaves the modern viewer with only the smallest glimpse of the late sixteenth-century revetment, Fanzago’s work produces the effect that Dosio’s inlay originally sought to realize. In the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries Carthusian monks not resident at San Martino visited the monastery during scheduled chapter visits. Several of the records of such visits, the Cartae de visita, record the visitors’ awe as they witnessed the decorative ensemble of the church of the Certosa. These accounts refer to the interior of San Martino as ‘that New Jerusalem descended from heaven’, and as ‘an ornamented bride appears to her husband’. The report of 1700 also described ‘the Divine Temple, which was by estimation set apart from all other chapels, bulging as it was with precious stones, decorated with extraordinary pictures, flowers, candelabras, and other ornaments of silver’.83

THEORIZING ARCHITECTURAL MAGNIFICENCE IN EARLY MODERN NAPLES

Dosio’s work at the Gerolamini and the Certosa di San Martino involved the importation of raw materials from Carrara and the island of Giglio, and designs for a basilica-plan church and for revetted interiors. At the Gerolamini, Antonio Talpa understood the association between importing valuable building materials and ancient building practice. At the Certosa, Severo Turboli’s donation of Greek codices to Charles Borromeo suggests that he appreciated the meanings embo­ died in references to the antique as well and probably also the associations inherent in revetted interiors and in importing valuable marbles from Carrara. Both projects were motivated by a desire to communicate the spiritual wealth of the church and the preciousness of the Eucharist. Dosio’s work in Naples embraced the full range of associative meanings inherent in using polychrome marbles and valuable materials in the construction of churches and revetted interiors. In terms of artistic centres and peripheries, Dosio’s collaboration with patrons and antiquarians in all three cities demands that not only the movement 118

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of artists be considered, but also the social geography of expressing magnificence, the religious geography of the church after Trent, and the commercial geography of assembling materials for a revetted interior. These overlapping geographies allow for a reconsideration of Neapolitan architecture in the late sixteenth century. When the position of Naples as a bulwark of imperial Spain in the Mediterranean is kept in mind, Dosio’s work at the Gerolamini and San Martino can be seen to evoke the pretensions of a new religious, political and commercial empire of breathtaking geographic scope. Responding forcefully to the infidel threat of the Ottoman empire to the east and celebrating Christian converts in lands beyond the Atlantic, this empire extended from Naples to Madrid and ultimately to Manila in the Philippines, far surpassing the geographic expanse of ancient Rome. Dosio’s collaboration with workshop assistants and patrons in Rome, Florence and Naples was part of a complex interchange of technical expertise, mercantile ties, and modes of expressing social prestige and religious piety. While his work for the Oratorians and the Carthusians evoked a political and religious network of global reach, Dosio’s legacy in Naples is equally significant. Future innovations in marble inlay in Naples were not merely the adaptation and perfection of an imported decorative tradition; they were also the expression of magnificence that re-enacted ancient building practices and imitated the surviving decoration schemes of antiquity. Notes

A version of this chapter was presented at Import/Export: Painting, Sculpture and Architecture in the Kingdom of Naples 1266–1568, sessions at the Renaissance Society of America Annual Conference in San Francisco in 2006. I would like to thank the session chairs Janis Elliott and Cordelia Warr for coordinating this session at the RSA and for their patience and conscientiousness as co-editors of this volume. I would also like to thank the anonymous reader of this chapter for providing suggestions that have greatly improved its quality. Finally, I would like to thank Leslie Melvin, Curator of Visual Resources in the Division of Art at Bard College, for her kind assistance in digitizing illustrations.

1 Renato Ruotolo, ‘La Decorazione in Tarsia e Commesso a Napoli nel Periodo Tardo Manier` Viva, 13, 1974, 48–58, 50. ista’, Antichita 2 Ruotolo, ‘La Decorazione in Tarsia’, argued that Dosio, along with the marble workers Mario and Costantino Marasi (from Carrara), and Francesco Balsimelli and Giovanni Caccini (from Florence), executed marble-revetted projects in Naples in the final decades of the sixteenth century and the opening decades of the seventeenth century. See also Raffaele Tufari, La Certosa di San Martino in Napoli, Naples, 1854; Vincenzo Spinazzola, ‘La Certosa di San Martino’, Napoli Nobilissima, 11, 1902, 97–103, 116–21, 133–9, 161–70; Roberto Pane, Architettura dell’eta` barocca in Napoli, Naples, 1939; Mario De Cunzo, ‘I documenti sull’opera di Fanzago nella Certosa di San Martino’, Napoli

Nobilissima, ser. 3, 6, 1967, 98–107; Maria Ida Catalano, ‘Per Giovanni Antonio Dosio a Napoli: il puteale del chiostro grande nella Certosa di San Martino’, Storia dell’arte, 50, 1984, 35–41; Daniela del Pesco, ‘Alla ricerca di Giovanni Antonio Dosio: Gli anni napoletani (1590–1610)’, Bollettino d’Arte, 71, 1992, 15–66. These scholars have recognized the cloister of the Certosa di San Martino and the church of the Gerolamini (del Pesco only) as influential projects for Neapolitan architects of the seventeenth century. 3 Recent studies that have explored this theory include Guido Guerzoni, ‘Liberalitas, Magnifi­ centia, Splendor: The classic origins of Italian renaissance lifestyles’, in Neil De Marchi and Craufurd D. W. Goodwin, eds, Economic Engagements with Art, Durham, NC, and London, 1999,

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4

5

6

7 8

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10

332–78; Alison Cole, Virtue and Magnificence: Art of the Italian Renaissance Courts, New York, 1995; Louis Green, ‘Galvano Fiamma, Azzone Visconti and the Revival of the Classical Theory of Magnificence’, Journal of the Warburg and Cour­ tauld Institutes, 53, 1990, 98–113; and A.D. Fraser Jenkins, ‘Cosimo de’ Medici’s Patronage of Architecture and the Theory of Magnificence’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 33, 1970, 162–70. Galvano Fiamma’s chronicle of the Visconti in Milan covers the family from 1319 to 1342. Green, ‘Galvano Fiamma, Azzone Visconti’, 98, n. 4. Leon Battista Alberti’s Della Famiglia (1430s) discussed the rules that may apply to the reconstruction of churches. Giovanni Pontano’s De Magnificentia (1486) discussed a variety of building initiatives that are suited to the magnificent ruler. Galvano Fiamma (1283–1344) justified the architectural projects of Azzone Visconti in the Opusculum de rebus gestis ab Azone, Luchino et Johanne Vicecomitibus, which was the fourth book of the Chronicon Maius, in turn part of a series of work on the history of Milan. See Fraser Jenkins, ‘Cosimo de’ Medici’s Patronage’, 163; Green, ‘Galvano Fiamma, Azzone Visconti’, 101. Aristotle, ‘Nicomachean Ethics’, in Richard McKeon, ed., The Basic Works of Aristotle, trans. W. D. Ross, New York, 1941, 988–91, cited in Fraser Jenkins, ‘Cosimo de’ Medici’s Patronage’, 166–7. Aristotle, ‘Nicomachean Ethics’, 935–1126, esp. 989. Aristotle, ‘Nicomachean Ethics’, 988, presented an elegantly simple definition of magnificence: ‘For, as the name itself suggests, it is a fitting expenditure involving largeness of scale.’ Aquinas defined magnificence in the following way: ‘As for magnificence, its function is to make good use of money in relation to a highly specialized interest namely expenditure for the accomplishment of some grand enterprise.’ Saint Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiæ, vol. 41, trans. T. C. O’Brien, London and New York, 1972, (2a2æ, 117, 3), 229. Aristotle, ‘Nicomachean Ethics’, 989: ‘Magnifi­ cence is an attribute of expenditures of the kind which we call honourable, e.g. those connected with the gods – votive offerings, buildings, and sacrifices – and similarly with any form of reli­ gious worship, and all those that are proper objects of public-spirited ambition . . .’. Reflecting on this phenomenon, Guido Guerzoni observed that the practice of magnificent or lavish spending, possible for anyone with mate­ rial means, became a form of social distinction that destabilized the hereditary social order. Guerzoni argued that sumptuary laws and the closure of noble ranks in Italian city-states were a response of the hereditary nobility to this upheaval. See Guerzoni, ‘Liberalitas’, 360–2. Furthermore, some renaissance theorists of

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magnificence, including the Dominican Galvano Fiamma and Buonacorso da Montemagno (in his De Nobilitate of 1429), argued that the magnifi­ cent expenditure was suitable for the prince and that wealth was a useful additional aspect to nobility of blood. See Guerzoni, ‘Liberalitas’, 356–7. Paolo Cortesio’s argument is paraphrased in Guerzoni, ‘Liberalitas’, 360. ` della magnificenza’, Giovanni Pontano, ‘La virtu ` sociali, trans. Francesco Tateo, in I libri delle virtu Rome, 1999, 165–219, esp. 200–3. Pontano reported that Hadrian had sprinkled balsams and saffron on the stairs of the theatre where the funerary ceremonies were staged. Galvano Fiamma’s description of Azzone Visconti’s palace paid attention to these criteria. Fiamma’s description is in Green, ‘Galvano Fiamma, Azzone Visconti’, 102–3. Pontano noted that ornament, grand scale, quality of construc­ tion materials, and sound assembly would allow the magnificent work to achieve sumptuousness and make an imposing impression. Pontano, ‘La ` della magnificenza’, 179. While he does not virtu pay much attention to the physical qualities of the magnificent act, Aristotle also affirmed that magnificence, like a work of art, inspires admiration upon contemplation. ‘Nicomachean Ethics’, 989. ` della magnificenza’, 167, 179. Pontano, ‘La virtu ` eccellenti pittori scul­ Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ piu tori ed architettori, ed. Gaetano Milanesi, Florence, 1878–85 [1568], 7 vols. George Kubler, The Shape of Time: Remarks on the History of Things, New Haven, CT, 1962, 9. There has been much recent research into the technological, political, religious and artistic significance of sculpture and decoration in multicoloured stone in early modern Florence and Rome. This includes Suzanne Butters, The Triumph of Vulcan: Sculptors’ Tools, Porphyry, and the Prince in Ducal Florence, Florence, 1996; Andrew Morrough, ‘Vasari and Coloured Stones’, in Gian Carlo Garfagnini, ed., Giorgio Vasari tra decorazione ambientale e storiografia artistica, Florence, 1985, 309–320; Steven F. Ostrow, ‘Marble Revetment in Late Sixteenth-Century Roman Chapels’, in Marilyn Aronberg Lavin, ed., IL60: Essays Honoring Irving Lavin on his Sixtieth Birthday, New York, 1990, 253–76. See Morrough, ‘Vasari and Coloured Stones’, 310–11. Vasari (Milanesi), Le vite, vol. 1, 107–127. Suzanne Butters summarized these observations in The Triumph of Vulcan, 149–58. For contem­ porary accounts see Vasari (Milanesi), Le vite, vol. 1, 111–12. Francesco Bocchi’s guidebook to Flor­ ence (written in 1591) attributes the discovery to Cosimo de’ Medici. Francesco Bocchi, Le Bellezze della Citta` di Firenze, Bologna, 2004 [reprint of Florence, 1677 edn], 193–4. Benvenuto Cellini’s autobiography and treatises of 1569 credit Francesco Ferrucci del Tadda, who worked under

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21

22

23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30

31

32

the close supervision of Duke Cosimo. Cellini: La Vita, I trattati, intro. P. Scarpellini, Rome, 1967, 552. Morrough, ‘Vasari and Coloured Stones’, 312. Geologically speaking, porphyry is an igneous stone with comparatively large crystals (frequently quartz or feldspar) in a distinctly finer-grained ground mass. See Antony Wyatt, ed., Challinor’s Dictionary of Geology, 6th edn, Cardiff, 1986, 248. Pliny, Natural History, ed. G. P. Goold, trans. D. E. Eichholz, Cambridge, MA, 1962, vol. 10, bk. 36, ch. 11, 44–5, ll. 56–8. Raniero Gnoli, Marmora Romana, Rome, 1971, 98. Gnoli, Marmora Romana, 98. Butters, The Triumph of Vulcan, 164, 191–3. Butters, The Triumph of Vulcan, 41. Derek A. R. Moore, ‘Notes on the Use of spolia in Roman Architecture from Bramante to Bernini’, in Cecil L. Striker, ed., Architectural Studies in Memory of Richard Krautheimer, Mainz, 1996, 119– 22, 120–1. Morrough, ‘Vasari and Coloured Stones’, 313–14. Morrough, ‘Vasari and Coloured Stones’, 315–16. Vasari (Milanesi), Le vite, vol. 7, 712: ‘. . . come chiaramente vedrassi in una terza sagrestia che vuol fare [Duke Cosimo de’ Medici] a canto a San Lorenzo, grande, e simile a quella che gia` vi fece Michelangnolo, ma tutta di vari marmi mischi e musaico, per dentro chiudervi in sepolcri onor­ atissimi e degni della sua potenza e grandezza, l’ossa de’suoi morti figliuoli, del padre, madre, della magnanima duchessa Leonora, sua consorte, e di se`. Di che ho io gia` fatto un modello a suo gusto, e secondo che da lui mi e` ` stato ordinato; il quale, mettendosi in opera, fara questa essere un nuovo mausoleo magnifi­ centissimo e veramente reale.’ Andrew Morrough has called attention to this passage in ‘Vasari and Coloured Stones’, 315–16. The Cappella dei Prin­ cipi had a long period of gestation. While Vasari envisioned its design as early as 1563, the execution of the chapel did not begin until the 1590s. Morrough, ‘Vasari and Coloured Stones’, 315–17. For an explanation of the metaphor of the Heavenly Jerusalem, see Ostrow, ‘Marble Revet­ ment’, 263, and Meyer Schapiro, ‘On the Aesthetic Attitude in Romanesque art’, in K. Bharatha Iyer, ed., Art and Thought: Issued in Honour of Dr. Ananda K. Coomaraswamy on the Occasion of his 70th Birthday, London, 1947, 130–50, 141–2. Ostrow, ‘Marble Revetment’, 257, 266. Ostrow also noted that early Christian churches including the Lateran basilica, its adjacent baptistery, the Oratory of the Holy Cross, the Church of Santa Costanza, and the Church of SS. Cosma and Damiano featured instances of polychromed revetment or opus sectile.

33 Agostinio del Riccio, Istoria delle Pietre, eds Raniero Gnoli and Attilia Sironi, Turin, 1996 [1597], 89–111. 34 The use of spolia in polychrome revetted chapels of the sixteenth century, including the Chigi Chapel in Rome, and the Gaddi and Niccolini Chapels in Florence, is discussed by Lex Bosman, ‘Spolia and Coloured Marble in Sepulchral Monuments in Florence, Rome and Bosco Marengo. Designs by Dosio and Vasari’, Mittei­ lungen des Kunsthistorischen Instituts in Florenz, 49, 2005, 353–76. 35 Several sources mention that Dosio began his career as a goldsmith and engraver. See Christian . Hulsen, Das Skizzenbuch des Giovannantonio Dosio im Staatlichen Kupferstichkabinett zu Berlin, Berlin, 1933, vol. 3. A complete biography of Dosio can be found in Ludwig Wachler, ‘Giovannantonio Dosio: Ein Architekt des Sp.aten Cinquecento’, . Kunstgeschichte, 4, 1940, Ro¨misches Jahrbuch fur 143–251. 36 Franco Borsi, ‘Introduzione’, in Franco Borsi, ed., Giovanni Antonio Dosio: Roma Antica e i Disegni di Architettura agli Uffizi, Rome, 1976, 10–11. 37 The Gaddi were once part of a group of Flor­ entine bankers in Rome who had relinquished their banking activities by the late sixteenth century in favour of ecclesiastical careers and positions in the ducal court of Florence. See Carolyn Valone, ‘Giovanni Antonio Dosio and His Patrons’, PhD diss., Northwestern University, 1972, 166–7. 38 Wachler, ‘Giovannantonio Dosio’, 228–9. 39 It is not known whether these drawings, conserved at the Gabinetto disegni e stampe in the Uffizi, are the ones Dosio sent to Gaddi, but they are certainly comparable to those mentioned in Dosio’s letters. ` Gaddi, 8 maggio 40 Dosio, ‘Letter to sig. Niccolo 1574’, in G. G. Bottari and S. Ticozzi, Raccolta di lettere sulla pittura, scultura ed architettura, 8 vols, Hildesheim and New York, 1976 [reprint of 1822 edn, Milan], vol. 3, 301: ‘Partimenti, e altre simili cose, ne ho assai [drawings of ancient and modern monuments], dove che si potra` fare un libro, come desidera V. S. Potra` vedere che differenza e` dalle cose che descrive il Serlio a queste che le mando.’ While Pliny, Natural History, vol. 10, bk. 36, ch. 6, 36–7, l. 47, mentioned that the Palace of Mausolus at Halicarnassus (fourth century BC) was one of the oldest exam­ ples of polychrome revetment, and Lucan, Phar­ salia/The Civil War, trans. J. D. Duff, Cambridge, MA, 1928, bk. 10, 598–9, ll. 109–19, described Cleopatra’s palace as decorated with polychrome stone, the Pantheon was one of the few ancient monuments with marble revetment that Dosio could have seen in person. 41 Dosio, ‘Letter to Gaddi’ in Bottari and Ticozzi, Raccolta di lettere, vol 3, 300–1: ‘In quattro ho messo tutta la Ritonda ordinatamente, e ` misurata con diligenza . . . So che ne restera

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42

43

44

45

46

47

48

soddisfatto, essendo molto regolata e secondo le regole di Vitruvio.’ These observations were made by Cristina Acidini, ‘Roma Antica’, in Borsi, Giovanni Antonio Dosio, 109–110. The original transcription is from Cristina Acidini, ‘Roma Antica’, cat. no. 105, 112: ‘Questa raprese[n]ta la pia[n]ta di sop[r]a della ritonda ritirandosi jn dentro qua[n]to e il portico come si vedra` nel suo profilo se dimostro ancor jn questo medesimo disegnio la cupola jn piano p[er] mettercj le sue misure di gradi et alter cose . . . Qui di sotto s e` rappresentato u[n] de’ tabernacoli di dentro della Ritonda con[n] le sue jncrostature di marmo e misti di varie sorte come ancora se ne veggono e vestigi (. . .)’. Julius II conceded the Mellini Chapel in the church of S. Maria del Popolo in 1507, and scho­ lars date Raphael’s design for the architecture and decoration of the chapel between 1513 and 1520. See John Shearman, ‘The Chigi Chapel in S. Maria del Popolo’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 24, 1961, 129–60; Christoph Luitpold Frommel, ‘Raffaello e la sua carriera architettonica’, in C. L. Frommel, S. Ray, and M. Tafuri, eds, Raffaello Architetto, Milan, 1984, 13–46, 23. The first documentary reference to Raphael at the chapel, however, dates to 1519. See Enzo Bentivoglio, ‘La cappella Chigi’, in Frommel, Ray and Tafuri, Raffaello Architetto, 125–42, 125. The transcription of the note written on the drawing is from Cristina Acidini, ‘Roma del ‘‘500’’’, in Borsi, Giovanni Antonio Dosio, 162: ‘. . . pianta della cappella di Agostino Chigi nella chiesa del popolo di Roma. Tutto di marmi e misti’. See John Shearman, ‘Pentimenti in the Chigi Chapel’, in Moshe Barasch and Lucy Freeman Sandler, eds, Art the Ape of Nature. Studies in Honor of H. W. Janson, New York, 1981, 219–22; Shearman, ‘The Chigi Chapel in S. Maria del Popolo’, 131–2; T. A. Marder, Bernini and the Art of Architecture, New York, 1998, 283–8. While the design of the pyramidal tombs is attributed to Raphael, alterations to the cornices that flank each tomb suggest that the pyramids were not a part of the original conception for the chapel. John Shearman, ‘Pentimenti in the Chigi Chapel’, 219–22. The first explicit reference to them in the documentary record does not appear until 1552 when the Chigi and Lorenzetto (Raphael’s assistant) arbitrated the payments for the completion of the sculpture and revetment of the chapel. Enzo Bentivoglio, ‘La cappella Chigi’, 127. On the tomb of Romulus, see Shearman, ‘The Chigi Chapel in S. Maria del Popolo’, 133–4. Raphael’s passage appears in Vincenzo Golzio, Raffaello: nei documenti, nelle testimonianze dei contemporanei e nella letteratura del suo secolo, Vatican City, 1936, 85. The passage was cited by Shearman, ‘The Chigi Chapel in S. Maria del Popolo’, 154.

122

49 Shearman, ‘The Chigi Chapel in S. Maria del Popolo’, 154. 50 Despite the mutual interest of Gaddi and Dosio, the treatise was never published. The drawings for this treatise were later considered by Nicola . Gaburri in 1720 and by Christian Hulsen, Das Skizzenbuch, in 1933. See Wachler, ‘Giovannan­ tonio Dosio’, 228–32. 51 Wachler dated the Cappella Gaddi from 1575 (when Dosio wrote to Gaddi about the preli­ minary plans) to 1577/1578, the years of the consecration inscriptions on the sarcophagi. See Wachler, ‘Giovannantonio Dosio’, 161. ` Gaddi colle­ 52 Cristina Acidini Luchinat, ‘Niccolo zionista e dilettante del cinquecento’, Paragone, 31: 359-61, 1980, 141–75, esp. 148. ` Gaddi’, 147–8, fig. 141. 53 Acidini Luchinat, ‘Niccolo The Niccolini Chapel was begun in 1579, and the completion date is written in the chapel under the pediment that crowns the entrance door, 1585. Wachler, ‘Giovannantonio Dosio’, 188–9. 54 Acidini Luchinat published this inventory, conserved in the Archivio di Stato in Florence, in ` Gaddi’, 154, 157–8. ‘Niccolo 55 Carolyn Valone, ‘Giovanni Antonio Dosio and His Patrons’, 168, cited five letters from Dosio to Gaddi, dating from 1574 to 1579, that were published in Bottari and Ticozzi, as evidence of Dosio’s activities as a purchasing agent for Gaddi in Rome. For the original letters, see Bottari and Ticozzi, Raccolta di lettere, vol. 3, 299–300, 304–5, 308–9, 310–11 (letter numbers CXXXIX, CXLII, CXLIV, CXLV, CXLVI). 56 Dosio’s connection to Jacopo Strada is mentioned by Ruth Olitsky Rubinstein, ‘Intro­ duction’, in Emanuele Casamassima and Ruth Rubinstein, eds, Antiquarian Drawings from Dosio’s Roman Workshop, Milan, 1993, xii. For Dosio’s activity as a representative of a marble agent, see Giuseppe Campori, Memorie Biografiche degli Scul­ tori, Architetti, Pittori, ecc. Nativi di Carrara, Bologna, 1969 [reprint of Modena, 1873 edn], 309. 57 This poem has been published in Acidini ` Gaddi’, 141, and Lex Bosman, Luchinat, ‘Niccolo ‘Spolia and Coloured Marble’, 353–76, 359. The original Italian reads as follows:

Con grande spesa il Gaddi ha fatto fare,

` col suo ingegno, una cappella,

ma vie piu ` trovare

che in tutto il mondo non si puo opera tal, che paragoni quella:

fa chi la vede ognun maravigliare,

tant’e` leggiadra, allegra, ricca e bella.

Roma e Venezia, abbiate pacienza,

in questa parte cedete a Fiorenza.

58 Roberto Pane, Architettura del Rinascimento in Napoli, Naples, 1937, 3–11. Pane recognized the importance of Tuscan architects, including Francesco and Luciano Laurana, Giuliano and

FROM SOCIAL VIRTUE TO REVETTED INTERIOR

Benedetto da Majano, Francesco di Giorgio Martini and Giuliano da Sangallo in Naples. While he conceded that the surviving buildings suggest that the Baroque found a distinctive expression in Naples, the city’s renaissance buildings appear to be imports in an alien land. Pane noted, however, that this image has no historical foundation: Naples, after all, boasted a distinguished Greek and Roman past. Anthony Blunt, Neapolitan Baroque & Rococo Architecture, London, 1975, 5–34. Observing a similar situa­ tion, Blunt contrasted the importation of archi­ tects from Tuscany and Lombardy to Naples during the Renaissance to the distinctive nature of the Baroque in Naples. See also Daniela Del Pesco, ‘Napoli: l’architettura’, in Claudia Conforti and Richard J. Tuttle, eds., Storia dell’architettura italiana: il secondo cinquecento, Milan, 2001, 318–47. Del Pesco emphasized the non-Neapolitan origins of the principal archi­ tects in the city in the late sixteenth century, 318–21. An alternative to this approach can be found in the introduction to Andreas Beyer’s Parthenope: Neapel und der Su. den der Renaissance, Munich and Berlin, 2000, 7–11. Paying attention to the broader project of renaissance humanism in Naples, Beyer argued that Homer’s image of Naples as the home of the siren Parthenope guided the philosophical, judicial and artistic developments in fourteenth- and fifteenthcentury Naples. 59 Ge´rard Labrot, ‘Territorio, citta` e architettura nel regno di Napoli’, in Conforti and Tuttle, eds, Storia dell’architettura italiana, 288–317, 288. Also Romeo De Maio, Pittura e Controriforma a Napoli, Bari, 1983, 24–5; Franco Strazzullo, Edilizia e Urbanistica a Napoli dal ’500 al ’700, 2nd edn, Naples, 1995, 129. Strazzullo cites an anonymous letter to the viceroy of Naples in which the threat of landings by the Turkish fleet is mentioned. With regards to population, a census (or numer­ azione) from 1606 resulted in a figure of 270,848 people (10,916 of them were residents of convents, conservatories, hospices or were incarcerated). Strazzullo, Edilizia e Urbanistica, 132–3. An explosive growth in monastic institu­ tions in the city accompanied the rise in popu­ lation. Noting that the number of female convents in the city rose from twenty-five in 1591 to thirty-seven by 1650, Helen Hills observed that by the seventeenth century Naples was the second most populous city after Paris. Helen Hills, Invisible City: The Architecture of Devotion in Seventeenth-Century Neapolitan Convents, Oxford, 2004, 28. Hills also characterizes the increasing number of convents in the city as ‘the aggressive process of conventual urbanism’. Invisible City, 20–1. 60 While it is acknowledged that orders of older foundations like the Dominicans and Francis­ cans greatly increased their membership between 1500 and 1700, and that orders like the Benedictines and Cistercians sought to institute stricter monastic observance, modern studies on

61 62

63 64

65

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67

68

69 70 71

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the Counter Reformation give more attention to the Jesuits, Discalced Carmelites and Theatines. See Robert Bireley, The Refashioning of Catholicism, 1450–1700: A Reassessment of the Counter Reforma­ tion, London, 1999, 27. See note 9 above. Evelyn Carole Voelker, ‘Charles Borromeo’s Instructiones Fabricae et Supellectilis Ecclesiasticae, 1577. A translation with commentary and analysis’, PhD diss., Syracuse University, 1977, 12– 13. Voelker notes that Borromeo’s instructions were composed in response to the much more vague prescriptions regarding church construc­ tion that were formulated during the Council of Trent. Charles Borromeo, cited in Voelker, ‘Charles Borromeo’s Instructiones’, 92, 124–5, 160, 207. Monastic institutions in Naples benefited from aristocratic membership, giving them the mate­ rial means to decorate lavishly. Hills, Invisible City, 90–119. Del Pesco, ‘Alla ricerca di Giovanni Antonio Dosio’, 20, 26, 43. Antonio Talpa, from San Severino in the Marches, joined the Oratory in 1570. Louis Ponnelle and Louis Bordet, St. Philip Neri and the Roman Society of his Times (1515–1595), trans. R. F. Kerr, London, 1932, 378–9. Antonio Gallonio, a disciple of Philip Neri, described him as ‘a learned lawyer’. See Antonio Gallonio, The Life of Saint Philip Neri, trans. Jerome Bertram, San Francisco, 2005. Ponnelle and Bordet, St. Philip Neri, 477. Tarugi had been in Naples earlier in the decade trying to arrange the foundation of the order in the city. The full delegation sent down to Naples in 1586 included the priests Tarugi and Talpa, the subdeacons Antonio Carli and Prati, the clerics Francesco Bozio and Tommaso Galletti and two lay brothers. Ponnelle and Bordet, St. Philip Neri, 455. Del Pesco, ‘Alla ricerca di Giovanni Antonio Dosio’, 18–34, presents information on Antonio Talpa and his history with the Oratorians. Ponnelle and Bordet, St. Philip Neri, 477–8. Ponnelle and Bordet, St. Philip Neri, 381. The date of Talpa’s death is unclear. One of the final references to him is from 1616, in which the priest, described as old, is called in to mediate a dispute between two Oratorian priests from Fermo. Antonio Cistellini, San Filippo Neri: L’Oratorio e la congregazione oratoriana. Storia e spiritualita`, 3 vols, Brescia, 1989, vol. 3, 2074–5. Funeral eulogy of Father Maccione, cited in Del Pesco, ‘Alla ricerca dı` Giovanni Antonio Dosio’, 33: ‘Considerava che la Chiesa, essendo la parte ` degna dell’Universo, dove ogni dı` si sacrifi­ piu cava a Dio, non gia` carne di arieti e d’agnelli, ma il figlio stesso d’Iddio, con l’assistenza di tutto il Paradiso, meritava tutte quelle sorte di abbelli­ menti, che dalla forza dell’ingegno umano potevansi gia`mai ritrovare . . . .’

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73 Dosio’s authorship of the Gerolamini design has been debated. The first modern study to docu­ ment Dosio as a designer of the Gerolamini was published by Gaetano Filangieri, Indice degli artefici delle arti maggiori e minori, Naples, 1891, vol. 1, 173. Since then, the attribution to Dosio has been supported by Roberto Pane, 299, 314f; and by Daniela del Pesco, ‘Alla ricerca di Giovanni Antonio Dosio’, 20, 55–6. In the 1960s Mario Borrelli published documents that recorded another Tuscan architect active at the Gerolamini, Nencioni Dionisio di Bartolomeo, as early as 1587 (at least three years before Dosio’s arrival in Naples). See Mario Borrelli, L’architetto Nencioni Dionisio di Bartolomeo 1559–1638, Naples 1967, 43f. This documentation has led other scholars to attribute the Gerolamini design to Nencioni Dionisio di Bartolomeo, including Anthony Blunt, 36–7; and Gaetana Cantone, ‘L’architetttura’, in Civilta` del Seicento a Napoli, Naples 1984, vol. 1, 55. Del Pesco has argued that while both Nencioni Dionisio di Bartolomeo and Dosio were present at the Gerolamini in the late sixteenth century, Dosio, as the more senior architect (he was born in 1533 while Dionisio di Bartolomeo was born in 1559) must have been the guiding designer for the church. I find del Pesco’s argument to be convincing. See Daniela del Pesco, ‘Alla ricerca di Giovanni Antonio Dosio’, 20. Dosio’s work with the Oratorians in Rome as early as 1580 also recommends his authorship of the Gerolamini. The similarities between the Gerolamini and San Lorenzo (despite the differing attributions of authorship) have been observed by Anthony Blunt, 36–7; Gaetana Cantone, vol. 1, 55; and Daniela del Pesco, ‘Alla ricerca di Giovanni Antonio Dosio’, 33. 74 One of the first commentaries on San Lorenzo was A. Manetti, Vita di Filippo di Ser Brunelleschi, eds G. Tanturli and D. De Robertis, Florence, 1976 [c. 1490]. See also Eugenio Battisti, Filippo Brunel­ leschi: the complete work, trans. Robert Erich Wolf, New York, 1981; and Gabriele Morolli and Pietro Ruschi, eds, San Lorenzo 393–1993: Celebrazione per il seidecesimo centenario, Florence, 1993. 75 Del Pesco, ‘Alla ricerca di Giovanni Antonio Dosio’, 33. 76 Antonio Talpa, Principio e progresso de la Congre­ gazione de l’Oratorio di Napoli da l’anno 1586 fino a l’anno 1615, n.d. This is an archival source from the Archivio della Congregazione Oratoriana di Napoli, vol. 20, 4. It has been published in M. Borrelli, Le costituzioni dell’Oratorio napoletano, Naples, 1968. This specific passage from Talpa’s chronicle is cited in Del Pesco, ‘Alla ricerca di Giovanni Antonio Dosio’, 34: ‘La Chiesa e` fatto a la forma antica (sic) con tre navi con colonne di palmi (24) . . . d’un pezzo cavato col favor di

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79 80

81

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Ferdinando Gran Duca di Toscana ne l’Isola del Giglio, condotto a Napoli con ammirazione universale, per essere impresa intentata dopo gli antichi romani . . . .’ An important donation from the Carthusians was mentioned in a letter from Gigli to Tarugi in 1589. See Ponnelle and Bordet, St. Philip Neri, 483, 3ff. This was the Carthusian administrative territory called Lombardia Propinquiore. The review of Severo Turboli’s career comes from the eight­ eenth-century historian of the Carthusians, Benedetto Tromby (a Carthusian himself). Bene­ detto Tromby, Storia Critico-Cronologica Diplomatica del Patriarca S. Brunone e del suo Ordine Cartusiano, Salzburg, 1981 [1773–79], vol. 10, part 2, book 942. Tromby, Storia Critico-Cronologica, vol. 10, part 2, book 942. Aemidiius Martini and Dominicus Bassi, Cata­ logus codicum Graecorum Bibliothecae Ambrosianae, Hildesheim, 1978 [1906], vi–vii. This document from 1591, a protocol of the Notary Aniello Rosanova, was published by Spinazzola, ‘La Certosa di San Martino’, appendix I, 168. In turn, the Carthusians paid a third party, the Milanese marble worker Cesare Bascape, for marble he sold to Bregantino, de Felice and de Guido. The opening passage of the document tran­ scribed by Spinazzola, ‘La Certosa di San Martino’, appendix I, 168, reads as follows: ‘Die septimo mensis Iunii 4.e ind.is 1591 Neap. mastro Raymo Bregantino, Felice de Felice et Fabritio de Guido de Carrara magistri marmorari . . . in solidum . . . atque R. Padre don Iustino de Urso de Neap. Promettono consignare dicto monasterio Sancti Martini tutte le marmore seranno nicessarie per la ecclesia di detto monasterio . . .’. This document does not expli­ citly say that Bregantino, de Felice and de Guido brought marbles from Carrara, but given that they were natives of Carrara and were respon­ sible for procuring marbles, their export from Carrara to Naples is likely. A document in the Carthusian archives in the Archivio di Stato in Naples (ASN) records the payment of 400 Neapo­ litan ducats for marbles brought from Carrara by patrone Francesco Botto and patrone Giovanni Antonio Castagnola in 1643. ASN, Monasteri Soppressi, fasc. 2143, 133. ASN, Monasteri Soppressi, fasc. 2165; Carta Visita­ tionis, 1674, 1692, 1700. These documents were published in John Nicholas Napoli, ‘Fashioning the Certosa di San Martino: Ornament, Illusion, and Artistic Collaboration in Early-Modern Naples’, PhD diss., Princeton University, 2003, 249–51.

7

‘THE FACE IS A MIRROR OF THE SOUL’:

FRONTISPIECES AND THE PRODUCTION OF

SANCTITY IN POST-TRIDENTINE NAPLES

HELEN HILLS

Maria Villani [aged six years] locked herself in her room and there, prostrate before a Crucifix, bared her breast across her heart and again and again with an iron point punctured the flesh that covered it, so that her blood seemed to be drawn up almost from the heart, as if she wanted to dig out from it the blood with which she should write the deed that claimed to document her giving herself to God. Whenever I received Communion from the Lord, my soul would be infused with such light and warmth of love, that for many years, each time that he communicated me, the sweetness and tenderness in my heart was such that it dissolved in tears, which, without the slightest tumult but with greatest sweetness, streamed from my eyes, and hollowed in the ground a little pool large enough to hold my tears, where I used to prostrate myself after Holy Communion.1 Domenico Maria Marchese, 1674

These passages from Domenico Maria Marchese’s Vita della venerabile Serva di Dio Suor Maria Villani dell’Ordine de’ Predicatori, first published in Naples in 1674, are typical of the intense, intimate and sometimes violent language of Lives of wouldbe saints – particularly of women. Far less typical is the frontispiece portrait which adorns the book (plate 1). Remarkably, Maria Villani, founder of the convent of Divino Amore in Naples, who had died only four years earlier in 1670, is portrayed as a writer and intellectual, pen poised, surrounded by works of theology and religious devotion. But, for all its inherent interest, what is most striking about this image is the curious disjuncture between its cool detachment, its focus on Villani’s external world, and the heated language and emotive figuration of spiritual experience which drives the accompanying text. To the modern eye there is a sharp dissonance between the language of the text, suffused at once with carnal imagery and with visions of the divine, and the stiff austerity of the portrait, which conjures with neither heavenly glimpses nor sensation. Image and text seem to be at odds. Nor is this an unusual disjuncture. Similar discrepancies occur in almost all Vite of would-be saints adorned with frontispiece portraits published in Naples.2 Why were lives of holy men and women, whose saintly reputations depended on their eschewal of fleshly pleasure and earthly recognition, given portrait frontispieces at all? 125

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1 Frontispiece to Domenico Maria Marchese, Vita della serva di Dio Suor Maria Villani dell’Ordine de’Predicatori Fondatrice di Santa Maria del Divino Amore di Napoli, Naples: Giacinto Passaro, 1674 (in 41). Photo: Massimo Velo.

Ascetic lives – whether of canonized saints, blesseds, or would-be saints – might seem most appropriately clothed in books of the most austere form, but a considerable number were graced with frontispiece images.3 This chapter examines the development of the frontispiece image to Lives of both saints and would-be saints published in Naples, an important hub in the generation of both saints and saints’ Lives in Counter-Reformation Italy. It locates frontispiece images of saints in relation to the wider generation of new faces for Catholic Reform. The production of new faces of sanctity in frontispieces was a distinctive, and to date unexamined, part of the production of Reform. Distinguishing between frontis­ piece images of canonized saints and those of portraits of would-be saints, this essay delineates their principal developments between c. 1589 and 1750. It analyses the shift in the depiction of canonized saints from impersonal, remote and hieratic to intercessional and human, apparently afflicted by an unpredict­ able divine force. I argue that frontispiece images of saints operated less as passive adornment of the Lives they accompany, than as re-routings of the authority of sanctity in relation to specific interest groups within the city. Thus, they conjured a new Naples as a pious city in special relation to their pious readers. I argue that the city of Naples became an increasingly significant, though often ‘hidden’, 126

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subject of these images. Indeed, the new faces of sanctity in Naples were part of a new face for a new (holier) Naples. I then return to the portrait frontispieces of would-be saints to suggest that they worked to reframe the transgression inherent in their subjects’ lives, particularly those of female would-be saints, and that they were a further aspect of the fashioning of a particular sort of pious reader for a particular sort of pious city. In short, the production of frontispiece images of saints and would-be saints was crucial to production of the new face/s of Catholic Reform, faces which in Naples bore the features of that city. T H E FA C E O F C AT H O L I C R E F O R M

The production of the saintly body was crucial to the Counter Reformation (c. 1545 – c. 1720). During most of the sixteenth century (1523–1588) no canoni­ zations occurred. Then, after this dead spell of sixty-five years, fifty-six new saints blazed into glory between 1588 and 1769.4 This rebirth of saint-making has rightly received much scholarly attention.5 While Reform in Rome, particularly in the centralized machinery of the papacy, has, in recent years, absorbed many scholars, it is important not to adopt a centrist viewpoint; nor to overlook devo­ tional practices which treated hundreds of people as saints; nor to assume that the Roman model applied elsewhere. Even correct canonization did not make a saint. That depended on a cult, which, in turn, depended on effective visualiza­ tion of the saint. While saints’ bodies were glorified through relics, a relic betrayed nothing of what the saint looked like: it was the reliquary that was on show (and that produced the relic inside).6 But what did a saint look like? Reform meant desire not just for new forms of churches and monasteries, but for new forms and faces – and new possibilities, therefore – of sanctity. Inventing saints assumed many forms, including the finding and identifying of relics, building churches and chapels dedicated to specific saints, and their depiction in sump­ tuous altarpieces. Much has been made of the reinvention of ancient saints, the significance of relics and the blood-soaked soil of Rome itself.7 Far less attention has been paid either to the generation of new saints, especially those whose bids for canonization simply drained into the sands, or to how sanctity was imagined outside Rome.8 And no attention at all has been paid to their pictorial repre­ sentation in frontispieces. Yet the constant generation of holy figures was one of the most distinctive cultural features of this period and, in this, Rome had no monopoly. In Naples there were one hundred and five cases of fama di santita` (reputed sanctity) between 1540 and 1750.9 It was not simply that the cult of saints and their visual production (pictorial, sculptural and architectural) char­ acterized the post-Tridentine Catholic Church.10 Increasingly, the Catholic Church’s struggle for authority shifted its focus from history and past martyrs to living and future saints. Indeed, the production of ‘living saints’ was one of the most distinctive features of the Italian post-Reformation cultural landscape.11 Inventing new forms of sanctity also involved the publication of thousands of Vite, or Lives, spiritual biographies of both canonized and would-be saints, which recounted the exemplary life of the individual and his or her miracles and claims to sanctity. These formed part of more or less concerted attempts to bolster devotion and to achieve beatification and canonization for their subjects. During the late sixteenth century, frontispiece images depicting their saintly subjects began to appear in the holy Lives of living and would-be saints; by the mid-seven­ 127

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teenth century engraved portrait frontispieces of would-be saints were not uncommon.12 Moreover, because of their portable form, their modest appearance and their intimate address, frontispieces became important sites for producing and exploring new conceptions of sanctity in this period. Frontispiece portraits, parti­ cularly those of female subjects, imagine a fusion of modern sanctity and quotidian holiness. To imagine the faces and sufferings of saintly beings, past and present, and to represent them as living humans, still present, fundamentally altered what Catholic Reform could be, and at once expanded and curtailed the potential of Catholic Reform. Frontispiece images, which conjured faces in a mode both inti­ mate and portable, drew a particular connection between exemplary subject and devout reader. In short, they mobilized Catholic Reform. Thus a sensitive exam­ ination of frontispiece images published in Naples in this period may not only help to dislodge the current Roman-centric analysis of Catholic Reform, but may also help to identify a distinctively modern visual mode for the fashioning of pious readers and pious place (Naples, as variously defined) in relation to each other. Images of saints (affirmed at the Council of Trent) and their control rapidly became intrinsic to Reformed Catholicism.13 Regulation of the processes of beatification and canonization were closely followed by attempts to regulate the depiction of non-canonized saints.14 In an important move Urban VIII tightened papal control over the visual representation of ‘servants of God’ who were not beatified or canonized, thereby treating the visual as more definitive than the textual. In 1625 he prohibited the representation of servants of God with super­ natural attributes, such as haloes or rays of heavenly light.15 After that, candi­ dates for canonization had to be without public cult. The ruling appears to be anti-popular in inspiration and intent (the visual, rightly or wrongly, equated with the unlettered). If a halo signified sanctity, then only the Pope could be allowed to bestow one. Intended to centralize control in the Papacy, to rein in local cults, and to foreclose undue involvement of the poor, this ruling para­ doxically resulted in the potentially revolutionary depiction of ‘living saints’ as remarkably unremarkable, as will be seen below.

N E A P O L I TA N P R O D U C T I O N O F S A I N T S ’ L I V E S

The publication of Lives of canonized saints, blesseds and would-be saints in Counter-Reformation Italy increased rapidly. Naples was no exception to this; indeed it was exemplary.16 While before 1600 saints’ Lives represented fewer than five per cent of books published in Naples, during the seventeenth century this figure rose to between six and seven per cent (nearly a quarter of all religious publications), reaching its height in the 1660s and 1670s. There then followed a scaling down, back to turn-of-the-century numbers.17 To put these figures in proportion, Jean-Michel Sallmann has suggested that between 1570 and 1750 southern Italy, with a literate population of no more than 300,000, absorbed 350,000 copies of saints’ lives produced in Naples, and even more than that if those imported from Rome, which were fairly numerous in Neapolitan libraries, are included.18 Many volumes were dedicated to the lives of protector saints (including those elected as protectors from the 1620s), who were often of antique origin. Religious orders vied with each other to promote their own heroes and to establish their own spiritual prominence in the city. Thus, the Sagro diario domenicano, a 128

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2 Frontispiece to Girolamo Maria `, di S. Anna, Istoria della Vita, Virtu e Miracoli di S. Gennaro, Naples: Stefano Abbate, 1733 (in 41). Designed by Francesco Solimena and engraved by Antonio Baldi. Photo: Massimo Velo.

massive six-volume folio menology of the Dominicans by Domenico Maria Marchese, himself a Dominican, was published in Naples between 1668 and 1681.19 A considerable number of these Vite, although fewer than half, boast portrait images of their saintly and venerable subjects – usually as frontispieces, some­ times fashioned as part of an elaborate title page, and occasionally bound deeper inside the book. Images, if metal engravings, had to be printed separately from the text, hence their insertion in books outside pagination. If printed in large numbers, however, they could be sold separately, at bookshops, shrines or sanc­ tuaries. They thus had existence beyond the book.20 Depictions of canonized saints occurred in very few sixteenth-century Vite, but their number increased steadily during the seventeenth century.21 Visually, the distinction between canonized saint and would-be saint was not sharply drawn before 1625, but portrait frontispieces of would-be saints appear only from the 1650s onwards. The engravings cover a remarkable range: from the sophisticated images of St Januarius designed by Francesco Solimena published in 1733 (plate 2) to crude woodcuts or coarse engravings, such as the frontispiece portrait of Giuseppe Imparato of Castellammare in his Vita of 1686 (plate 3); and from simply pro­ ` duced small pamphlets to elaborately illustrated quarto volumes, such as Niccolo Carminio Falcone’s L’Intera Istoria di San Gennaro (Naples: Felice Mosca, 1713, see plate 12).22 What were the purposes of such images? 129

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Unappealing though they often may seem to modern eyes, these images reward scrutiny. It would be incorrect to dismiss them as aestheti­ cally or technically limited or simply as ‘illustrations’ to (more important) written texts, thereby reducing them to the Lives they adorn. They constitute new visual forms of imagining sanctity in the Counter Reformation and, in the case of portraits of would-be saints, they produced a new form of image: the portrait of the modern saint. These portraits gave face to the search for new saints which was central to Counter-Reformation Italy. Thus they formed part of the new pathology of the saint’s body and interrogation of the holy subject. Moreover, they rendered the Vite more effective as works of devotion, producing a new 3 Frontispiece to G. B. Pacichelli, Vita del Servo di form of devotional reading, as frames Dio P. Gioseppe Imparato, Naples: Camillo Cavallo & for spiritual biographies, antiporte to Michele Luigi Muzio, 1686 (in 241). Photo: (the reading of) exemplary lives. Thus, Massimo Velo. these images paradoxically both constituted an aspect of programmatic attempts to propel their extraordinary subjects towards sanctification, and offered imitable models of holiness.23 In them saintliness became both extraordinary and quotidian, elevated but familiar. The portrait frontispieces pivot on these paradoxes. The increase in production of saints’ Lives does not account for their illus­ trations. Mortification of the flesh, the search for the divine, and the experience of devotional rapture not only present considerable challenges in terms of pictorial representation, but seem to repel the very idea. The paradox of the task is that while saints’ virtues may be imitable, their special powers were seen as signs of God’s presence on earth. Saints do not perform miracles; God performs them through saints.24 A miracle is not an imitable event. Miracles suspend the natural order of things, which only God should do. Thus a paradox is at work in both text and image in the biography of a saint, depicting the features of sanctity as if that which works through the individual is constituted by him or her. Moreover, saints were remembered corporeally in relics; and relics seem to defy the need for portraits. After all, the likeness of the individual through whom miracles were performed is irrelevant to the miraculous. If mystical union and rejection of worldly pleasure and beauty presented challenges to pictorial representation, baroque art nevertheless put such subjects at its heart, and used visuality both to stir viewer’s emotions and offer glimpses of holiness. It was often suggested that painting makes the absent present.25 Thus Luca Giordano’s altarpiece for the Solitaria church, The Madonna of the Rosary (1657), transforms the viewer’s sense of the figuration of the world (plate 4). The 130

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4 Luca Giordano, Madonna of the Rosary, 1657. Oil on canvas, 253 � 191 cm. Naples: Museo di Capodimonte. Photo: Massimo Velo.

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obscure location transports the observer to an unfamiliar viewpoint. The land­ scape is almost featureless, the horizon low; the earth seems to have shrunk, as if seen from a vast distance or from a divine point of view, while gigantic saints tower, detached, in unspecifiable relation to it. While the book and lily at the bottom left, and the scattered stone mouldings (on which Giordano has signed his name), like antique ruins, are clearly earthbound, the saints are not. Discon­ certingly, they occupy an ambiguous space between the heavenly realm of the Virgin and the earthly region below; their habits float just above the ground, except where they tumble over the cut stones. Even the putti, bearing St Cathe­ rine’s flaming heart and lily, tread more securely than the saints on mundane territory. Giordano’s saints occupy a world of endless ambivalence, somewhere between heaven and earth, where time and space are abolished, where they operate eternally as intercessors. Such altarpieces conjured a new sense of sanc­ tity, in which glorious intercessors marginalized both the human and the divine. But what of the humble frontispiece portraits to Vite? They dispense with the sensuous colours and impressive size of altar paintings, and are stripped of visual pleasure. Thus the question of why saints were imagined visually in the Vite goes beyond issues of market and technical problems of representation. Frontispiece portraits apparently work in counterpoint to the sensuous and emotional pitch of both texts and altarpieces. Paradoxically, they mobilize, authorize, and curtail the texts that they accompany. Indeed, many Vite of both canonized saints and venerables were un-illu­ strated, and this, at first glance, seems the obvious solution to the conundrum of portraying an individual best known for their self-mortification and rejection of the vanities and preoccupations of this world. A book like Domenico Maria Marchese’s Vita del Servo di Dio Fra Marco da Marcianis, published in Naples by Girolamo Fasulo in 1675, is a good example of austerity throughout. It is small, in octavo, of 90 pages, crudely printed on poor-quality paper. Even though it is dedicated to Giacomo Capece Galeota, knight of the Order of St James, king’s counsellor in the Consiglio Collaterale, and Reggente of the Cancelleria Reale, it has no images or embellishments. Likewise, many of the Vite of canonized saints were un-illustrated or simply adorned with non-figurative cartouches.26 Such books aptly evoke humility and self-denial in their very appearance. To understand why saints’ lives were illustrated, I turn now to a closer examination of frontispiece images, considering first canonized, and then wouldbe, saints. IMAGES IN VITE OF CANONIZED SAINTS

Images in canonized saints’ Vite changed between the late sixteenth and early eighteenth centuries from stark, hieratic and usually full-length depictions of individual saints in non-specific settings (including multiple images grouped around a central rectangular figure or title) to more emotive images of saints as recognizably human intercessors, and to more ambitious, sometimes aestheti­ cally sophisticated, narrative scenes closer to baroque altar paintings. Over this period, too, the city of Naples became increasingly the real subject at issue. During the sixteenth century saints and blesseds were usually represented in distant and hieratic manner, as ahistorical, remote, disinterested and decontex­ tualized figures. The depiction of Blessed Giacomo della Marca on the title page of 132

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5 Frontispiece to Paolo Regio, La Vita del B. Iacopo della Marcha, Naples: Giuseppe Cacchii, 1589 (in 41). Photo: Massimo Velo.

his biography by Paolo Regio, Bishop of Vico Equense, published in Naples by Giuseppe Cacchii in 1589, is typical in both its simplicity and in his emotional remoteness (plate 5). Full-length in friar’s habit, standing within an arch (evoca­ tive of a cloister or a church arcade), he holds simple attributes – an open book and chalice – as if sanctity were a straightforward matter. Although at the time of this publication, Giacomo della Marca, who died in 1476, had not yet been offi­ cially beatified, the image, which pre-dates Urban VIII’s prohibition of 1625, figures him as a saint. Holiness is explicitly marked by his aureole and by the IHS emanating from his chalice. Deliberately impersonal though the representation is, there is to be no mistake: his name is inscribed behind him. His identity is marked not by facial features, even less by heroic actions, but by name and 133

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standard attributes. He is a saint by virtue of his aureole: there is no attempt to conjure up a narrative of heroism or martyrdom. Time and context are shown to be irrelevant to sanctity: saints exist simply because they are chosen apodeicti­ cally by God. Human reason and explanation are ruled out of account. The implicit authority of such an image explains the Vatican’s wish to control the use of signs of the supernatural as the most readily recognizable markers of sanctity. The presentation of saints as tutelary and remote supernatural protectors remained standard in frontispieces until Urban VIII’s reforms, but its early austerity did not last long. Although the depiction of St Onuphrius in Paolo Regio’s Vita di S. Honofrio Heremita (Naples: Giovanni Giacomo Carlino, 1601) similarly suppresses history, with no narrative of heroism or martyrdom, he is nevertheless firmly located in his remote eremitical desert, his rejected worldly honours at his feet (plate 6).27 From about this date onwards sanctity was increasingly evoked in relation to setting. It was given special place, not anchored to the saint’s lifetime through place of martyrdom, but to the place which sought the saint’s particular protection. Typical is Benoıˆt Thiboust’s engraving of St Francis Borgia, published in Naples in 1671 (plate 7). As noted above, scholarship to date has tended to adopt a Rome-centric perspective and to view post-Triden­ tine sanctity in reactionary terms, as a search for authority based on ‘history’, largely in response to Protestantism, and centred on the retrieval of ancient saints’ relics from the catacombs. However, what is striking about frontispiece images of saints published in Naples before the mid-seventeenth century is their eschewal of historical narrative in claiming spiritual authority. Even while individual saints continued to be depicted in hieratic, full-length, non-narrative manner, a title page or frontispiece featuring multiple saints allowed the construction of a narrative and, once this occurred, holy locus emerged as key protagonist. The title page of the Vita, e Miracoli di S. Gregorio Arcivescovo e Primate d’Armenia (Naples: Lazzaro Scorigio, Ettore Cicconio, 1655), engraved by Nicolas Perrey, is a good example of this development (plate 8). It assumes the authoritative, apparently objective, semi-architectural format of an aedicular altar. At centre top a bust of St Gregory of Armenia blazes inside a curling cartouche. However, in spite of initial appearances, the main player here is less St Gregory of Armenia himself than the Neapolitan convent of San Gregorio Armeno, canny possessor of his relics. On the pedestals below stand St Benedict (representing the convent’s rule), St Blaise (whose head the convent treasured as a relic), St John the Baptist (whose miraculously liquefying blood was also one of the convent’s prized relics) and St Nicholas, Bishop of Myra. The text around which the images are orchestrated names St Gregory, the convent and the two aristocratic abbesses who sponsored the publication. On the pedestal bases are the arms of the prime movers here: Abbess Leonora Pignatelli (responsible for the first edition, published in 1630) and Abbess Beatrice di Somma (patron of the 1655 edition). Thus the convent’s enclosed nuns harnessed this eloquent title page to traverse the limits of their own enclosure, in order to promote the spiritual authority of their own institution, coupling a celebration of St Gregory of Armenia, its dedicatee, with that of their religious order, the convent’s valuable relics, and the social standing and powerful familial connections of their abbesses. Thus an illustrated title page to a celebrated saint’s life could be a useful – deceptively modest – tool for an enclosed convent to propel to prominence its 134

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6 Frontispiece to Paolo Regio, Vita di S. Honofrio Heremita, Naples: Giovanni Giacomo Carlino, 1601 (in 121). Photo: Massimo Velo.

claims to spiritual primacy in the city. Here sanctity is glimpsed as possession. The frontispiece is (among other things) an apparently modest public advertisement of that possession. During the early decades of the seventeenth century, the old hieratic powerful supernatural protectors steadily gave way to something more accessible and emotive: to the saint as intercessor, clearly marked as human with individualized features. Concomitantly, the hieratic figure of saint with attribute was trans­ formed into an articulation of a privileged relationship with the divine. The depiction of miraculous events in saints’ lives became increasingly common in 135

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7 (Left) Frontispiece to S. Sgambati, Ragguaglio della Vita di S. Francesco Borgia, Naples: Novello de

Bonis, 1671 (in 81). Photo: Massimo Velo.

8 (Right) Domenico Gravina, Vita, e Miracoli di S. Gregorio Arcivescovo e Primate d’Armenia, Naples:

Lazzaro Scorigio, Ettore Cicconio, 1655 (in 41). Title page engraved by Nicolas Perrey. Photo:

Massimo Velo.

frontispieces through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Thus seven­ teenth-century frontispieces regularly depict saints as between heaven and earth, witnessing heavenly visions while borne aloft by angelic beings. Characteristic is Thiboust’s frontispiece to Scipione Sgambata’s Ragguaglio della vita di S Francesco Borgia (Naples, 1671, see plate 7). Title and dedication are carried aloft by two winged putti while the saint himself floats on a cloud towards a flaming osten­ sory inscribed with the Jesuits’ IHS device. Light radiates from the ostensory, as from a gyroscope, cutting radially through the saint’s arm, suggesting simulta­ neously presence and absence, suffusion of the human with the divine, an admixture of sanctity and divinity. The saint is here not so much powerful supernatural protector as intercessor interceded. Yet while his airborne elevation renders St Francis Borgia distinct from ordinary mortals, more divine than human, stretching earth up to heaven; frontispieces also show saints bringing heaven down to earth. Increasingly, saints were depicted as experiencing the divine while on earth. An unusually early example of this appears at the end of a small Latin pamphlet Vita et Obitus Sanct­ issimi Confessoris Guilielmi Vercellensis by Felice Renda (Naples: Giovanni Battista Cappello, 1581) – a simple woodcut (plate 9). The saint, alone in a harsh landscape, drops to his knees at a vision of the Trinity with Crucifixion. Unlike Giacomo della Marca (see plate 5), it is St William’s earthly experience of the divine that renders him a saint, animates the image and provides its excitement. Such depictions of 136

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visions of the divine and of saints as apodeictically addressed by God became more common in the increasingly elaborate frontispieces of early eighteenthcentury Naples.28 A good example is the frontispiece to Giuseppe Giovanni Gualtieri’s Vita del Glorioso S. Pasquale Baylon (Naples: Erede del Pittante, 1729), which shows St Pasquale kneeling on earth, picked out by a ray of light from the miraculous ostensory above him, surrounded by cherubim (plate 10). By this date, sanctity is both more accessible and more affective; the divine is now figured less as an attribute possessed by an inaccessibly remote saint than as an apodeictic affliction of someone recognizably human. While male saints were increasingly conceived as beneficiaries of miraculous visions and of direct contact with the divine, female saints were more usually depicted in prayer. A rare depiction of the divine afflicting a female saint is the frontispiece to Antonio Barone’s Vita di Santa Domenica (Naples: De Bonis, 1690; plate 11). Even here, however, St Domenica, virgin and martyr, protector saint of Tropea, is shown, not performing a miracle or experiencing a heavenly vision, but at the moment of her martyrdom, ravaged by wild dogs and lions, while angels approach to bear her to heaven, and putti descend with symbols of martyrdom. Artists and patrons apparently shrank in trepidation from depicting female saints as working miracles in frontispiece engravings – a form that could enter any reasonably well-to-do household.29

9 (Left) Endpiece to Felice Renda, Vita et Obitus Sanctissimi Confessoris Guilielmi Vercellensis, Naples:

Giovanni Battista Cappello, 1581 (in 41). Photo: Massimo Velo.

10 (Right) Frontispiece to Giuseppe Giovanni Gualtieri, Vita del Glorioso S. Pasquale Baylon, Naples:

Erede del Pittante, 1729 (in 41). Photo: Massimo Velo.

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11 Frontispiece to Antonio Barone, Vita di Santa Domenica, Naples: De Bonis, 1690 (in 41). Photo: Massimo Velo.

THE SOUL OF NAPLES

Early frontispiece depictions of canonized saints usually place them out of doors, in a non-specific location, whether in the sky between heaven and earth, or, if on earth, in the countryside and alone, with an abbey or church in the background to suggest a holy community. During the late-seventeenth and early-eighteenth centuries location became increasingly specific. Sanctity was given special place, not anchored to the locus of a saint’s life or death through the relic but to the place blessed by a saint’s special protection. In particular, the city of Naples became the principal, albeit half-hidden, protagonist of these images, and it is to these that we now turn. Naples, its teeming population second only to Paris, generated insecurities and anxieties about social control, and an unequalled discourse of unruliness and moral depravity. Just as the monasteries, convents, conservatories and other religious institutions that came to dominate seventeenth-century Naples 138

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attempted to reform the city fabric in terms of moral decorum and holiness, so hagiographies and their illustrations imagined reformed spiritual and moral behaviour amongst its inhabitants. Control over the city’s soul was always at issue; and the ever-present threat of natural calamities, earthquake, plague and volcanic eruption intensified the hunger for divine protectors. The wealth of Naples as regards its religious institutions and spiritual publications was part of a self-conscious spirituality that was deeply divided and rivalrous.30 Citizens of Naples were both drawn together and divided by institutional adoption and promotion of numerous protector saints. After St Thomas Aquinas was recognized in 1600 as eighth patron saint of Naples – the first proclaimed in early modern Naples – the number of protector saints quickly spiralled to fifteen within seventy years.31 The elevated number of patron saints in Naples indicates not a homo­ genous and close-knit city, but its obverse – a city in which holiness was a prin­ cipal fissure for the contestation of relative authority. Frontispieces to Vite formed part of the contestation of relationships between place and holiness, city and saint. As with maps of the period, they imagine the city from a divine point of view, in the distance, as a controllable entity.32 Consider the representation of St Januarius stemming the eruption of Vesuvius of 1631 (plate 12), one of a series of beautiful engravings representing episodes in the life of St Januarius, principal patron saint of Naples, which adorns Niccolo Carminio Falcone’s lavish L’Intera Storia di San Gennaro (Naples: Felice Mosca, 1713). Here the city of Naples, delineated in loving detail, is both source of anxiety (under threat from Vesuvius) and subject of divine protection. The ostensibly apolitical and disinterested viewpoint adopted for the image elevates the viewer above its mean streets, halfway to heaven, slightly below the figure of St Januarius himself, who surges upwards on momentous hierophanic clouds, surrounded by winged putti, to intervene between heaven and earth, his hand raised to protect the city by staunching the deadly lava flow. The saintly is all elevation, movement and mediation in order to preserve the city in its orderly immobility. Vesuvius’s effusions of flame and smoke echo, in threatening but minor key, the saint’s triumphal soaring. Saintly intervention, volcanic eruption, Naples’s natural topography, and the spires, towers and domes of her churches and castles are bound together in a dramatic transcendental economy, based on verticality and might. Drama is safely transposed from the earthly to the super­ natural zone. The distant view of Naples adopted in Falcone’s book is typical of the repre­ sentation of the city in relation to sanctity. Naples is presented from without (conceived externally): none of its inhabitants are figured; neat streets and elegant buildings imply an orderly and uncontentious populace. In one unusual and particularly sophisticated engraving, however, the artist swoops down to earth to depict St Januarius in relation to readily identifiable buildings in Naples. `, e Miracoli di The frontispiece to Girolamo Maria di S. Anna’s Istoria della Vita, Virtu S. Gennaro (Naples, 1733), designed by Francesco Solimena and engraved by Antonio Baldi, shows the saint, not as human being or intercessor, but remark­ ably in the form of reliquary bust (see plate 2).33 It is closely related to a painting by the same artist made a couple of years earlier, Saint Januarius visited in prison by Saints Proculus and Sossio, for which a preparatory drawing survives (plate 13), but the transformation of the saint into reliquary bust and of Proculus and Sossio 139

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12 ‘St Januarius stems the flow of lava during the eruption of Vesuvius in 1631’, from Niccolo Carmine Falconi’s L’Intera storia della famiglia, vita, miracoli, traslazioni, e culto del glorioso martire San Gennaro, Naples: Felice Mosca, 1713 (in folio). Image facing p. DXIV. Photo: by permission of the British Library. Shelfmark 663.k.20.

into divine messenger angels transforms the subject from a miraculous historical narrative into a perpetual divine celebration of the famous relics in Naples.34 The frontispiece shows the saint as a portrait bust, which is treated with special veneration. An angel, who has wrapped the cloak around the shoulders of the bust and set the mitre on its head, presents it with a martyr’s palm. Another angel holds the ampoules of St Januarius’s blood, while a winged putto struggles under 140

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13 Francesco Solimena, Saint Januarius visited in prison by Saints Proculus and Sossio, c. 1729. Black chalk on paper, 18.9 � 25 cm. (Preparatory drawing for the painting in Rohrau-Graf Harrach’sche Familiensammlung [W.F.221], c. 1729–31. Oil on canvas.) Photo: Courtauld Institute of Art Gallery, London.

the weight of the Gennaro family arms. The bust refers to the famous silver ´tienne Godefroyd, Guillaume de reliquary bust of Saint Januarius, made by E Verdelay, and Milet d’Auxerre, donated to the city of Naples by Charles II of Anjou in 1305, and venerated in the Treasury Chapel dedicated to San Gennaro in Naples Cathedral.35 When exposed to public veneration, the bust was dressed with mitre and cloak for the occasion. Originally it was adorned with a precious mitre ‘entirely garnished with pearls’ and other gems, which was replaced in 1712–13 by 141

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14 Duomo, Treasury Chapel looking east. Naples. Photo: Author, by permission of the Deputazione della Cappella del Tesoro di San Gennaro, Naples.

a dazzlingly bejewelled mitre made by Matteo Tregli (studded with 3,694 precious stones, including 3,328 diamonds).36 But the frontispiece is not a literal celebration of these treasures. Rather, that the bust is adored and adorned lends it ambiguous status, as both lifeless bust and living saint. Saint Januarius is honoured as simul­ taneously alive and dead, his relics worthy of divine concern. Furthermore, the relic’s miraculous capacity is now centre stage. The engraving evokes the moment of the repeated miracle, when blood and skull are brought together, and the blood liquefies and boils – which occurred three times a year: on the first Sunday in May (with the procession the preceding Saturday), 19 September, and 16 December.37 More than simply illustrational, in figuring the bust in relation to Naples, the engraving responds to controversy over whether St Januarius or St Dominic was principal patron saint of Naples, and whether the former properly belonged to Naples or to Benevento.38 But it rises above these historical disputes to celebrate the miracleworking relics and the devotion to them at the heart of Neapolitan spiritual topo­ graphy. Solimena depicts in the background not simply Francesco Grimaldi’s Treasury Chapel, the dedicated resting place of San Gennaro’s blood, but the gable and tower of Naples Cathedral in which the chapel stood. He thereby alludes to the politically delicate situation in which the Treasury Chapel, although under the aegis of the aristocratic Deputation of the Treasury and therefore independent of arch­ bishop and cathedral canons both financially and administratively, was nevertheless housed within the cathedral. By this date the chapel was one of the most venerated 142

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15 (Left) Giovanni Battista Manso, Vita et Miracoli di S. Patricia Vergine Sacra con il compendio delle reliquie, che si

conservano nella Chiesa del monasterio di detta santa in Napoli, Naples: Constantino Vitale, 1619 (in 41). Photo:

Massimo Velo.

16 (Right) Frontispiece to Paolo Regio, Vita di S Patricia Vergine Figlia dell’Imperator Costante e Protettrice della Citta`

e Regno di Napoli, expanded by Cleonte Torbizi at the instigation of the nuns of the convent of Santa Patrizia,

Naples: Francesco Savio, 1643 (in 41). Photo: Massimo Velo.

sanctuaries in the city, decorated to an unsurpassed degree, glittering with silver reliquary busts of Naples’s panoply of patron saints, and adorned with frescoes and paintings by famous artists, including Solimena himself (plate 14). In unequivocal terms, the image fuses the reliquary and Januarius’s awesome, hieratic presence imbued with the authority of antiquity, with the spiritual geography of contem­ porary Naples. The very mobility of frontispieces made them a particularly useful medium for advancing claims to spiritual authority – claims which were always highly politicized and particularized. For enclosed convents with spiritual ambition, the frontispiece, which could vault over the walls of enclosure without violation, was a particularly useful instrument, as has been seen in the case of San Gregorio Armeno (see plate 8). In the case of the convent of Santa Patrizia, two slightly different versions of a composite frontispiece to the Vita of St Patricia, whose relics the convent housed, mark its leap from introverted to urbanized spiritual ambition. The first of these appeared in Giovanni Battista Manso’s Vita et Miracoli di S. Patricia Vergine Sacra con il compendio delle reliquie, che si conservano nella Chiesa del 143

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monasterio di detta santa in Napoli, published in Naples by Constantino Vitale in 1619 (plate 15); the second was published in 1643, frontispiece to the Vita di S. Patricia Vergine Figlia dell’Imperator Costante e Protettrice della Citta` e Regno di Napoli, by Paolo Regio and expanded by Cleonte Torbizi at the instigation of the nuns of Santa Patrizia (Naples: Francesco Savio; plate 16). Consisting of a central image of St Patricia, surrounded by seven small medallions of scenes from her life, both frontispieces weave saint, place and relic tightly together. They are identical, apart from the background to the central scene, its inscription, and the verse below. In both versions the central image shows St Patricia, kneeling, gazing up at an image of the Madonna and Child, hand on heart, holding lilies and wearing the relics of St Helena.39 In the version of 1619 she kneels before an altar on which rest the convent’s prized ampoules of miraculous blood (plate 15).40 In 1643, however, the altar is substituted by a bird’s-eye view of the city of Naples seen from the sea, on whose behalf St Patricia intercedes with the Virgin (plate 16). In this image, which Sallmann has described as ‘the first example of contamination of ancient sanctity with the baroque aesthetic in Naples’, the saint is not an unreachable being in a mythic past, but is rooted in Naples, on whose behalf she intercedes.41 As the inscription records, St Patricia was elected as patron saint in 1625. What prompted the publication, however, was the transla­ tion of St Patricia’s reliquary bust to the Treasury Chapel of Saint Januarius in Naples Cathedral in 1642, an event which allowed her to bask amongst the city’s protector saints, but which risked reducing her to simply one of many (see plate 14).42 The central scene in the frontispiece of 1643, therefore, re-emphasizes St Patricia’s privileged relationship with the city, as if she were its unique inter­ cessor; and the city itself replaces the relics as object of the saint’s devout attention. Thus a scene of the saint’s private devotion, which also celebrated the convent’s relics (plate 15), was replaced by a claim to her civic significance, advancing through the saint the convent’s growing urban ambitions for spiritual authority (plate 16). Thus the convent exploited the mobility and malleability of successive frontispiece images further to detach its claims to spiritual leadership from the confines of enclosure. Throughout the seventeenth century, frontispiece images of canonized saints were used increasingly to strengthen links between saints and specific institu­ tions and places, thereby re-drawing the geographies of holiness. A frequent emphasis on Neapolitan topography, whether through the evocation of specific buildings (see plate 2) or of the whole city (see plate 12), is an important aspect of this development. Frontispieces bind saints increasingly to identifiable places: the frontispiece images of Saint Januarius and St Patricia (see plates 15 and 16) are far removed, for instance, from the detachment of Blessed Giacomo della Marca (see plate 5). The city of Naples – and implicitly its people – ostensibly became the key protagonist in the drama of sanctity. FRONTISPIECE PORTRAITS OF WOULD-BE SAINTS

It is remarkable that, even as the city of Naples became the ‘secret’ subject in frontispiece images of canonized saints, it did not figure in those of would-be saints who had recently lived and died there and whose bids for sanctity would depend on local support. Instead, these portraits tend to dispense with recog­ nizable topographies, and pare back settings to present simple bust-length 144

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portraits of the venerable person, with virtually no hints of immanence or transcendence (see plate 1). Atten­ tion is concentrated on the face and a few religious trappings to represent intense religious devotion as a private and demanding undertaking. After the visual excitement of presentations of canonized saints, these are indeed stark and austere. Yet they were an important new form of portrait: a portrait of the mundane as divine, of the living saint as self-effacing mortal, of the ‘saint’ who, though not yet officially recog­ nized by the church, is nevertheless capable of awakening holiness in the reader. In other words, here we see representations of saints-in-the­ forging. This innovation in the visual representation of holiness, especially of female holiness, provides a useful 17 G. Silos, Vita del ven. Servo di Dio D. Francesco counterpoint to claims emphasizing Olimpio dell’Ordine de’ Chierici Regolari, Messina: the continuities in devotional life Paolo Bonacotta, and Naples: Salvatore Castaldo, between the middle ages and the 1685 (in 41). Photo: Massimo Velo. modern period.43 The recovery and celebration of ancient saints and their relics was the best-known aspect of Catholic Reform, but these spiritual examples depart from heavy reliance on historical example, turning towards an emphasis on self-discipline and introspection. Thus the role of both example and reader changed. There is a shift from past to present, from evidence available only in texts to evidence visible in the everyday world.44 During the late sixteenth century, frontispiece images depicting their saintly subjects began to appear in the holy Lives of living and would-be saints. After Urban VIII’s decree of 1625, visual distinction between canonized saints and would-be saints became sharp. Unlike canonized saints, venerables were usually shown, not fulllength with a halo, but in bust-portrait form, within a frame or medallion. By the mid-seventeenth century engraved portrait frontispieces of would-be saints were not uncommon. The portrait engraving, often also a frontispiece to the saint’s Vita, became the usual mode for depicting venerable subjects, recently dead and uncanonized, such as the Theatine Francesco Olimpio, who died in Naples in 1639, or sister Maria Villani, who died in Naples in 1670 (see plates 1 and 17). The frontispiece portraits indicate, particularly in the case of female subjects, a fusion of modern sanctity and quotidian holiness. These engravings drew on portraiture’s established traditions of celebrating illustrious individuals, aristocrats and authors; on the well-developed relation­ ship between portraits and biographies; and on the established tradition of author-portrait frontispieces.45 Portraying holy men and women who had with­ drawn from the world in order to deny its values – including those of vanity, 145

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beauty and worldly success – posed problems that the celebration of the physical appearance of authors or men of action did not. But in replacing the portrait of the author with the portrait of the biographical subject, the Vite of venerables implicitly elevated the latter to the role of author of their spiritual lives. Their author-style frontispieces evoked them as self-conscious shapers of their holy experience, rather than as arbitrarily afflicted by an imponderable deity from without. On opening these holy Lives, the reader immediately encountered the portrait frontispiece. Such frontispieces worked as a ‘hinge’ or gateway, gesturing towards the text, helping readers to enter the book and to interpret it ‘correctly’. The portrait frontispiece functioned both independently of the text, and in close relation to it, acting as a sober counterweight to the text’s rapturous ecstasies, safely anchoring the life and reader in sturdy conventionality. In their positioning, these images affected devotional reading practices. They defined a holiness, especially in female religious engagement in Counter-Refor­ mation Italy, that is often pain-filled, disciplined and demanding to the senses, rather than the sort of blissful ecstasy fulfilling the senses that is often assumed. The effects that accumulate in the spectator are repetitive, evoking stasis, isolation, austerity and discipline, rather than ecstatic transport and union or theological rigour. That spectator/reader would often have been a pious female.46 Portraits of holy women functioned both to mediate between reader and text, and to serve female readers as models for the appearance of modern female holiness. Their emphasis on virtuous modes of behaviour are not simply the result of Urban VIII’s prohibitions, but are ideal models to be imitated by any Christian as part of her path to holiness. Good women were not saints; to become a female saint, women had to transgress, if only to become visible. Too much has been made of the supposed shift from a medieval sanctity demonstrated by the possession of super­ natural powers to an early modern sanctity which emphasized moral and social virtues. Early modern Vite continue to describe supernatural and socially trans­ gressive acts, even if they represent them always as performed by God through the saint.47 The spiritual biographies of would-be saints are not conventional accounts of self-sacrifice and demure virtue. They demonstrate, instead, strong, independent men and women whose activities ran counter to conventional behaviour in early modern Italy. As Elizabeth Petroff has observed, female saints were doubly trans­ gressors, both by their nature as saints, stretching the boundaries of human limits, and by their nature as women, in breaking rules and flouting boundaries.48 The texts skilfully mediate and even deny transgression in their subjects’ lives, presenting independence and insubordination not as necessary for achievement by ambitious nuns, but as obedience to God’s will, while repeatedly emphasizing the subject’s humility and obedience to ecclesiastical authorities. Thus, while descrip­ tions of abject humility and self-mortification play the major key, the counterpoint sounds the discordant notes of self-assertion and political ambition. Just so, the images work to weave their subjects back into realms of acceptable convention­ ality.49 Thus the contradictory message of the narrative of saints’ transgressive lives – imitate/don’t imitate these saints – is rendered by many of these frontispiece portraits safe and unambiguous: this is the behaviour to imitate; this is the appearance of true holiness – patience, submissiveness, chastity, strenuous piety, and, above all, self-effacement. 146

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CONCLUSION: REFRAMING TRANSGRESSION

‘The face is the mirror of the soul,’ insists the author of Francesco Olimpio’s spiritual biography, and dedicates several pages to his beautiful appearance and its relationship with his spiritual life.50 The engraved portrait of Olimpio, however, opts in favour of piety and loss of self, rather than physical beauty (plate 17). The portrait format automatically carried with it resonances of respectability and honour. This format, together with the emphasis on self-denial and austerity drawn in the venerable’s face, served to re-frame the transgressions that his life inevitably represented. Thus the frontispiece portrait acted as a point of entry to the would-be saint’s life that also reframed it in terms of conventional respectability. Visual depictions of saints and would-be saints accompanying their biogra­ phies were more than just a vital part of the production of the face of Catholic Reform; they altered its course. De Certeau has demonstrated that the production of a body played an essential role in mysticism, arguing that what appears to be a rejection of ‘the body’ or of ‘the world’ – ascetic struggle, prophetic rupture – was but the necessary and preliminary elucidation of an historical state of affairs.51 It constituted the point of departure for the task of offering a body to the spirit, of ‘incarnating’ discourse, giving truth a space in which to make itself manifest: ‘contrary to appearances, the lack concerns not what breaks away (the text), but the area of what makes itself flesh (the body).’52 I suggest that the delineation of the spiritual and divinely gifted body in frontispieces to holy biographies was part of Catholic Reform’s energetic production of the body and – more specifically, and increasingly through the seventeenth century – of the face of holiness. The saintly body was the intended goal of a journey that moved, like all pilgrimages, towards the site of a disappearance. There was discourse (a logos, a theology, etc), but it lacked a body, either social or individual. In reforming a church, founding a community, constituting a (spiritual) ‘life’, and preparing (for oneself and others) a body to be raised in glory, the production firstly of a body (relics, churches, chapels), and then a face (altarpieces, frontispiece portraits) was fundamental to the production of Counter-Reformation holiness. The frontispiece portrait of the would-be saint attacks the tradition of portraiture, subverting it from a secular celebration of life and achievement to a spiritual suggestion of death. Simultaneously it converts the image of the transgressive suffering saint to one of socially respectable hero/ine. While the practice of combining biography and portrait to bestow fame was well estab­ lished, and readily mobilized in relation to campaigns for canonization, the Counter Reformation produced a new form of portrait – that of the venerable, the would-be saint, in frontispiece form accompanying a Life and a devotional work, to imagine the saint before sanctification. Thus the traditional humanist principle of a close partnership between men of action and men of letters in a shared quest for glory and fame became a close partnership between holy men and women and their biographers in a quest for the recognition of (respectable) religious glory and immortality. But, paradoxically, these portraits show ‘saints’ in everyday form, not arbitrarily chosen for visions, miracles, or martyrdom by an external God, but fashioned from within by a life of unflinching attention to the holy. Although an increased aristocratic grace marks some eighteenth-century portraits of female would-be saints, their abiding characteristics are the austerity 147

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and self-denial of their faces and bodies, along with a concomitant absence of both narrative and the miraculous. In this they contrast markedly with images accompanying Vite of canonized saints, which, between the late-sixteenth and mid-eighteenth centuries, turned from solitary, stiff, hieratic figures, devoid of topographical or narrative context, to miracle-working figures, interceding between earth and heaven, yet still recognizably human. These figures, freed from the force of gravity, were nevertheless also increasingly rooted in Naples. Indeed, their relationship to the city came to define them. To that extent, we can observe that spiritual control over the city of Naples was centrally at issue. Between the late-sixteenth century and the early-eighteenth frontispiece depictions of cano­ nized saints became at once more miraculous and more locally rooted, even as would-be saints, especially female would-be saints, usually stripped of their miraculousness and of their locality, tended to adopt austere hieratic qualities, combined with a social and political authority drawn from the tradition of portraiture they adopted. Frontispiece depictions of canonized and would-be saints sought to produce not just a new face for a new and holier Naples, but a more socially disciplined one, too. Between c.1580 and c. 1720 three principal developments occurred in frontispiece images to saintly Vite. Firstly, canonized saints became less hieratic and ever more involved in the city. Second, portraits of would-be saints began to emerge and by c. 1650 were not uncommon. Third, as the city became (in fron­ tispiece depictions) the privileged object of intervention by canonized saints, so the holiness of would-be saints depended not on external intervention from God (miracles, martyrdoms), but on disciplined dedication of the individual from within. In both cases, the investment produced the body, not the other way about.

Notes

I am pleased to thank the British Academy for a Research Readership during which this chapter was researched and written, and for a Small Research Grant which supported research trips to Naples. I am grateful to my colleagues at York for their insights and stimulating company. In its earliest stages this chapter benefited in particular from Mark Hallett’s creative response. My thanks also to Amanda Lillie and Alessandra Pompili for helpful Italian insights. 1 Vita della ven. Serva di Dio Suor Maria Villani dell’Ordine de’ Predicatori. Fondatrice del Monastero di S.M. del Divino Amore di Napoli, Naples, 1674, 15, 423. The book was republished in 1717 by Novello de Bonis with additional information about Villani’s posthumous miracles, and with a slightly modified frontispiece portrait. 2 The distinction between ‘would-be saint’, ‘holy’ individual and ‘saint’ is that of sanctio, official recognition by an auctoris, which sanctity requires. See Anna Benvenuti, ‘Introduction’, in H. C. Peyer, ed., Citta` e santi patroni nell’Italia medievale, Florence, 1998, 9. The uncanonized subjects of the seventeenth-century Vite are

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usually referred to as ‘venerabile’ (or ‘venerable’), or as ‘santo’ or ‘santa’ (‘holyman’ or ‘holywoman’, or ‘saint’ in the non-canonical sense). I have adopted here the term ‘would-be saint’ as best encompassing the ambition of the Vite. Although this chapter is concerned with frontispiece portraits of would-be saints and the city of Naples, portrait frontispieces were not restricted to that city. 3 On frontispieces, see Margery Corbett and Ronald W. Lightbown, The Comely Frontispiece: The Emblematic Title-Page in England 1550–1660, London, 1979.

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4 Diego d’Alcala, canonized in 1588, was the first new saint since 1523. In addition, hundreds achieved canonizatione equipollente and even more enjoyed local fama sanctitatis. See Peter Burke’s pioneering study, The Historical Anthropology of Early Modern Italy, Cambridge, 1987, 48–62. 5 The literature on sanctity after Trent is vast and is steadily relinquishing its erstwhile overconcentration on Rome. See Anna Benvenuti, Sofia Boesch Gajano et al., eds, Storia della santita` nel cristianesimo occidentale, Rome, 2005. Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity, Chicago, 1981, remains funda­ mental. 6 A bone without a reliquary was just another bone. On the cult of relics, see especially P. Dinzelbacher & D.R. Bauer, eds, Heiligen Verehrung in Geschichte und Gegenwart, Ostfildern, 1990; Caroline Walker Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336, New York, 1995; P. Geary, Living with the Dead in the Middle ´ky and A.-M. Helve´­ Ages, Ithaca NY, 1994; E. Bozo tius, eds, Les reliques: Objets, cultes, symboles, Turnhout, 1999; Hans Belting, Likeness and Presence. A History of the Image before the Era of Art, trans. Edmund Jephcott, Chicago and London, 1994, esp. xxi. On relics in baroque Naples, see Helen Hills, ‘Nuns and Relics: Spiritual Authority in Post-Tridentine Southern Italy’, in Cordula van Wyhe, ed., Female Monasticism in Pre-Industrial Europe, Aldershot, 2008. 7 See, for example, Simon Ditchfield, ‘Leggere e vedere Roma come icona culturale’, in L. Fiorani and A. Prosperi, eds, Roma, la citta` del papa (Storia d’Italia, Annali XVI), Turin, 2000, 34–72. 8 The outstanding exception remains J.-M. Sallmann, Santi barocchi: Modelli di santita`, pratiche devozionali e comportamenti religiosi nel regno di Napoli dal 1540 al 1750, trans. C. Rabuffetti, Lecce, 1994, 190–303. See also G. Fiume, ed., Il santo patrono e la citta`, Venice, 2000. 9 Sallmann, Santi barocchi, 158. 10 Protestant and Catholic churches produced histories – such as John Foxe’s Actes and monu­ ments of these later dayes, touching matters of the Church, published in Latin by V. Rihelius in Strasburg in 1554 and in English by John Day in London in 1563; and Cesare Baronio’s Martyro­ logium romanum, Rome, 1586 – architecture and paintings to elevate their own martyrs and make claims about contemporary spiritual authority. 11 For the term ‘living saints’, see Gabriella Zarri, ‘Le Sante Vive. Cultura e religiosita` femminile nella prima eta` moderna’, in Annali dell’Istituto storico italo-germanico in Trento, vol. 6, Bologna, 1990, 371–445. 12 The anonymous reader has usefully observed that the saintly ‘portrait type’ was found by the 1622 canonization of saints Teresa, Francis Xavier and Ignatius Loyola and may be derived in part from Loyola’s death mask. Of concern to me here is their deployment as frontispieces to Vite. Frontispiece portraits of would-be saints actually

constitute a new genre of portraiture, hitherto ignored. I explore its development in greater detail in my forthcoming book. 13 ‘Moreover, that the images of Christ, of the Virgin Mother of God, and of the other saints, are to be had and retained particularly in temples, and that due honour and veneration are to be given them; not that any divinity, or virtue, is believed to be in them, on account of which they are to be worshipped; or that anything is to be asked of them [. . .] but because the honour which is shown them is referred to the prototypes which those images represent.’ The canons and decrees of the sacred and oecumenical Council of Trent, ed. and trans. J. Waterworth, London, 1848, 233–4. On the Council of Trent, see H. Jedin, Geschichte des Konzils von Trient, 4 vols, Freiburg im Breisgau, 1958–75; John W. O’Malley, Trent and All That: Renaming Catholicism in the Early Modern Era, Cambridge, MA, and London, 2000. 14 The establishment of the Congregation of Rites in 1588 sought to clarify the procedures for, and to centralize control over, the pressurized production of new saints (while also recognizing the local authority of the ordinary process), while their representation (whether pictorial or textual) was overseen by the Congregation of the Index and, increasingly, by that of the Holy Office. Meanwhile, the Council of Trent made bishops responsible for overseeing the proper veneration of saints in their diocese. See J.-M. Sallmann, ‘Image et fonction du saint dans la re´gion de Naples a` la fin du XVIIe et au de´but du XVIIIe sie`cle’, in Me´langes de l’Ecole Franc¸aise de Rome, 1979, 827–74, 827–30. In spite of these reforms, the first four canonizations processed by the Congregation were dealt with according to long-established procedure, essentially unchanged since the Middle Ages. New after Trent was the papal determination to distin­ guish between the local nature of the ordinary trial and the universal authority of the apostolic trial; and to ensure that the former did not either constitute official recognition of sanctity, or determine the outcome of the second stage. M. Gotor, ‘La fabbrica dei santi: la riforma urbana e il modello tridentino’, in Fiorani and Prosperi, Roma, la citta` del papa, 677–727, 696–708. 15 G. Papa, Le cause di canonizzazione nel primo periodo della Congregazione dei Riti (1588–1634), Rome, 2001, 319–21; F. Veraja, La Beatificazione: storia, problemi, prospettive, Rome, 1983, 122–8. The process had started earlier. In a despatch or avviso of 2 June 1601, Clement VIII was reported to have ordered the seizure of all the impressions and original plates of the engraving made the previous year by Francesco Villamena of Ignatius Loyola, with aureole, surrounded by his miracles, inscribed ‘BEATUS IGNATIUS SOCIETATIS IESU FUNDATOR’, on the grounds that Ignatius had not been canonized. Nor had Ignatius been officially beatified at this point (this did not occur

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16

17

18 19 20

21 22

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until 1609); nor had any of his miracles been formally acknowledged by the relevant autho­ rities. Michael Bury, The Print in Italy 1550–1620, London, 2001, 131. Naples was the third most important publishing centre in seventeenth-century Italy – nowhere near Venice, but close to Florence, and far above Milan and Bologna. Sallmann, Santi barocchi, 27. Between 1501 and 1550 only three saints’ lives were published (in one edition each), while between 1601 and 1700 as many as 250 editions of 189 hagiographies were issued. Paolo Regio’s output marks the start of the increase in production of saints’ lives. Regio, the most significant late-sixteenth-century hagiographer, published no fewer than twenty-one volumes between 1573 and 1612 in collaboration with the most famous printers of the time, including Orazio Salviani, Giovanni Battista Cappelli and Giuseppe Cacchii. Sallmann, Santi barocchi, 28– 31. The publication of saints’ lives was driven in part by increased literacy, perhaps especially amongst women. The surge in production in the 1660s and 1670s was probably spurred by fear, following the devastation of the plague of 1656, which killed at least a third of the inhabitants of Naples. Sallmann, Santi barocchi, 29. Domenico Maria Marchese, Sagro diario domeni­ cano, 6 vols, Naples, 1668–81. Sallmann, Santi barocchi, 54. While woodblocks could be printed using the same presses as for letterpress, copperplates could not. Michael Bury, The Print in Italy, 13–120. Good research on the (undoubtedly huge) market for engraved images of saints is yet to be done. L’Intera Istoria di San Gennaro della Famiglia, Vita, Miracoli, Traslazioni, e Culto del Glorioso Martire di S. Gennaro Vescovo di Benevento, Cittadino e Principal Protettore di Napoli, Naples, 1713. The lavishness of the book is striking. Three hundred and fifty large-format pages, it boasts a full-page frontis­ piece image, and seven full-page images, including the saint giving alms to the poor, the saint unharmed in the furnace, his decapitation and halting the eruption of Vesuvius. It was ` Maria di Gennaro, Prince of dedicated to Niccolo San Martino, Duke of Cantalupo and Belforte, Marquis of San Massimo, and descendant of Saint Januarius (the Gennaro family). Such devotion is sometimes termed ‘para­ liturgical’, as enacted alongside the liturgy, in tandem with Mass or Divine Office. Jeffrey F. Hamburger, Nuns as Artists: The Visual Culture of a Medieval Convent, Berkeley and London, 1997, 51– 2. Though helpful in some ways, the term tends to an under-individuation of the non-liturgical. Thomas Aquinas regarded saints as ‘temples and organs of the Holy Spirit which lived in them and which worked in them’. He argued that no form of veneration should be paid to dead saints, but that they should be accorded religious honour. ‘Quae fuerunt templa et organa Spiritus

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31

32 33

Sancti in eis habitantis et operantis’. St Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologicae 3a, 25, art. 6, ed. & trans. C. E. O’Neill, London, 1965, 202–203. See also J.A. Hardon, ‘The Concept of Miracle from Augustine to Modern Apologetics’, in Theological Studies, 15, 1954, 229–57. I am grateful to Cordelia Warr for this reference. See, for instance, Gabriele Paleotti, Discorso intorno alle immagini sacre e profane (1582), eds S. Della Torre & G.F. Freguglia, Vatican City, 2002, 125. Publications with minor generic adornments were common, such as the Neapolitan Theatine ` della Serva del Sebastiano Paoli’s Della Vita e Virtu Signore Elisabetta Albano, Naples, 1715, the title page of which is enlivened with a small cartouche decorated with dragonflies and flowers. This is the only Neapolitan woodcut frontispiece to be signed. The initials ‘P.F.’ may refer to Felice Padovano (‘Padovano fecit’). Sallmann, Santi barocchi, 54–5. In part, this resulted from a technical shift: engraving on metal, especially copper, allowed greater precision and subtlety than wood. However, to a greater extent the growing sophistication of these images was driven by increasingly ambitious aims in terms of depicting sanctity. On technical aspects of print production, see Bury, The Print in Italy, 13–120. On the cost of prints, see Bury, The Print in Italy, 44–6. Bury, however, focuses on high-quality prints. It is clear from Neapolitan seventeenthcentury sources that cheap prints of saints were routinely readily distributed – during Jesuit missions, for example. See Antonio Barone, Della Vita del Padre Francesco Pavone della Compagnia di `, Naples, 1700. Giesu For the discourse of moral depravity, see Jennifer D. Selwyn, A Paradise Inhabited by Devils: The Jesuits’ Civilizing Mission in Early Modern Naples, Aldershot, 2004. On the building of religious institutions, particularly female convents, and institutional rivalries in baroque Naples, see Helen Hills, Invisible City. The Architecture of Devotion in Seven­ teenth-Century Neapolitan Convents, Oxford, 2004, 120–38. Naples was not only a focus of spiritual anxiety, but also a holy locus. Sallmann has pointed out that two thirds of all southern Italian saints died in Naples, and their reputation for sanctity was forged in and through the city. Sallmann, Santi barocchi, 192. In its ability to produce local sanc­ tity, Naples remained remarkable. This was largely because of the politics of the Seggi and of the great families that dominated them. For this and the holy protectorship of St Thomas Aquinas, see Giuseppe Galasso, Napoli capitale. Identita` politica e identita` cittadina. Studi e ricerche 1266–1860, Naples, 1998, 144–64. See Helen Hills, ‘Mapping the Early Modern City’, Urban History, 23, 1996, 145–70. `, Girolamo Maria di S. Anna, Istoria della Vita, Virtu e Miracoli di S. Gennaro, Naples, 1733. Thanks to

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34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41 42 43

44

Rodney Palmer for pointing out that this fron­ tispiece is rare, even amongst the 1733 editions. The painting is oil on canvas, Rohrau-Graf Harrach’sche Familiensammlung (W.F.221), c.1729–1731. Emile Bertaux, ‘Les Artistes Franc¸ais au Service des Rois Angevins de Naples’, Gazette des BeauxArts, 33, 1905, 265–81; Elio Catello and Corrado Catello, Scultura in Argento nel Sei e Settecento a Napoli, Naples, 2000, 14. The contract of 1712 between the deputies and Matteo Tregli is in the Archivio del Tesoro di San Gennaro (ATSG), 12/2, 194; the mitre is described on 21 January 1665 (ATSG, AB/11-1602, f.49r) as ‘tutta guarnita di perle’. The deputies occasion­ ally sold valuables to buy new jewellery for St Januarius, as on 18 October 1679, when they sold jewellery to pay for a new necklace (ATSG, AB/12, f.79v). For the original mitre, see A. Lipinsky, `’ in Atti del ‘L’arte orafa napoletana sotto gli Angio II Congresso nazionale di Studi danteschi, Florence, 1966, 169–176. See also the not always reliable Vincenzo Cerino, San Gennaro: Un Santo, un Voto e una Cappella, Naples, 2005, 123–4. Respectively, these dates were the date of St Januarius’s translation to Naples, his martyrdom and his intervention after the eruption of Vesu­ vius in 1631. Girolamo Maria di S. Anna, Istoria, 288–9, 377. On this controversy, see O. Liguoro, La vanita` trionfata di Mons. Sarnelli . . . per la vera gloriosissimo San Gennaro protettore della citta` di Napoli, Genoa, 1717. St Patricia herself had worn on her arm four precious real relics of impeccable genealogy (‘probably inherited from St Helena’). These relics prompted both Patricia and the nuns to a more virtuous life. Regio and Torbizi, Vita di S. Patricia, 41–3. The depiction is compositionally similar to the successful image of Blessed Filippo Neri published in Antonio Gallonio’s Vita Beati R. Philippi Nerii, Rome, 1600; or Mattheus Greuter’s engraving of 1606. See La Regola e la Fama: San Filippo Neri e l’arte, exhib. cat., Milan, 1995, 39. Sallmann, Santi Barocchi, 60. For the anxieties of the convent of Santa Patrizia in this regard, see Hills, ‘Nuns and Relics’. See E. Ann Matter, ‘Interior Maps of an Eternal External: The Spiritual Rhetoric of Maria Domi­ tilla Galluzzi d’Acqui’, in U. Wiethaus, ed., Maps of Flesh and Light: The Religious Experience of Medieval Women Mystics, Syracuse, 1993, 60–73, 60. An analogous shift occurred in early modern writing, which undermined the figure that tied the past to the future through the present as an example. From Machiavelli to Lafayette there is an increasing doubt that what has happened before will necessarily happen again, a doubt given a peculiar twist by Descartes and Pascal. See John D. Lyons, Exemplum: The Rhetoric of Example in Early Modern France and Italy, Princeton, 1989.

45 See Peter Burke, ‘Reflections on the Frontispiece Portrait in the Renaissance’, in Andrea Ko ¨stler & Ernst Seidl, eds, Bildnis und Image: Das Portrait zwischen Intention und Rezeption, Cologne and Vienna, 1998, 150–62; G. Zappella, Il ritratto nel libro italiano del Cinquecento, 2 vols, Milan, 1988, 13–23. 46 Saints’ lives were perhaps especially important to women, as the most accessible form of spiri­ tual literature available to lay women and nuns who could not readily read Latin: the increased publication of saints’ lives was driven in part by increased literacy, especially amongst women. Evidence in the texts of saints’ lives supports this suggestion. For instance, Sister Rosaria Celestina ` (1668–1716) often read ‘books Alias di Gesu of perfection’, especially lives of the saints of her own (Dominican) order. Domenico Maria Marchese, Vita [di] ... Suoro Teresa Benedetta, Palermo, 1744. See also Laura Antonucci, ‘Scri­ `. ‘‘Vite esemplari’’ di donne nella vere la santita Roma barocca’, in Fiorani and Prosperi, Roma, la citta` del papa, 651–76. 47 For the alternative view, see Gabriella Zarri, ‘‘‘Vera’’ santita`, ‘‘simulata’’ santita`, ipotesi e ` tra riscontri’ in G. Zarri, ed., Finzione e santita Medioevo ed eta` moderna, Turin, 1991, 12–15. For a useful discussion of transgression in medieval Lives of Italian women saints, see Elizabeth Petroff, Body and Soul: Essays on Medieval Women and Mysticism, Oxford, 1994, esp. 161–77. 48 Petroff, Body and Soul, 161–3. 49 For instance, women’s key role as founders of religious institutions is not indicated in their portraits. An exceptional instance is the portrait of sister Chiara Maria (Vittoria Colonna, daughter of Filippo Colonna, Gran Conestabile of Naples, and niece of St Charles Borromeo), who is shown in the frontispiece to Biagio della Purifi­ catione, Vita della Ven. Madre Suor Chiara Maria della Passione, Rome, 1681, in front of the church of the Regina Coeli convent she founded in Rome. Yet it was reputedly a portrait of Blessed Maria de’ Fornari Strata (1562–1617), founder of the Annunziata in Genoa, which convinced Camilla Orsini to found an order in Rome. Camilla Orsini had a painting of this foundress brought from Genoa, and placed in her oratory, where she often contemplated it. The image seemed to reprove her with the slowness of the execution of her own plans, ‘as if the Blessed were saying ‘‘when will you build a convent for me?’’ ’. F. Dumortier, Compendio della Vita della beata Maria Vittoria de’ Fornari Strata, Genoa, 1690, 89. 50 ‘Specchio dell’animo e` il volto’, Giuseppe Silos, Vita del Venerabile Servo di Dio D. Francesco Olimpio dell’Ordine de’ Cherici Regolari, Messina: Paolo Bonocotta, 1664, Naples: Salvatore Castaldo, 1685, 40. 51 Michel De Certeau, The Mystic Fable, Vol. I. The Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, Chicago, 1992, 7. 52 De Certeau, The Mystic Fable, 80.

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PATRONAGE, STANDARDS AND TRANSFERT

CULTUREL: NAPLES BETWEEN ART HISTORY

AND SOCIAL SCIENCE THEORY

NICOLAS BOCK

As the only kingdom on Italian soil, Naples ought to have occupied a more prominent place in history and art history. This is not the case and unfortunately Naples has never really found its place in ‘official’ art history. The reason for this is simple: Naples is different. Dealing with Neapolitan art in relation to Italian art in general is often problematic because the most important Neapolitan artists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries came from elsewhere – their works thus belong to non-Neapolitan traditions. On the other hand, local traditions do not seem to have exerted much influence on important places of artistic production like Florence or Rome. Is Naples therefore to be classified as peripheral to Italian mainstream art? In order to determine the position of Naples as a centre or periphery it is important first to consider the demand for artistic models used in- and outside the city. The use of imported foreign artistic ideas should be seen in relation to local traditions. Cultural importation can be interpreted as a proof of modernity and innovation, fruitful for the local artistic scene. However, it can also be seen as provincial behaviour typical of smaller, less powerful centres. Important centres establish their own traditions and export them. If one wants to know why foreign artists and their works were brought to Naples, one must ask why local artists and local artistic traditions were only strong enough to withstand foreign imports for a limited period of time. How does the Neapolitan importation of art relate to other centres, such as Florence, Milan, or Rome? Two moments in the history of Naples seem to be especially suitable for this type of analysis. The first is the period c. 1300, when Naples had become the capital of the Angevin empire, a large city and an international metropolis. The French invaders had established themselves in their new lands for nearly two generations and had become an integral part of the social structure of the kingdom. Naples was the centre of administration and the residence of the royal family, and artistic commissions had a high social prestige. The second stage, nearly a hundred years later, was the period of transition from the Neapolitan Anjou to the Spanish Aragonese, with the short intermezzo of the French King Rene´ d’Anjou between 1435 and 1442. During this second period, the interests of some of the most important states of the Mediterranean focused on Naples. 152

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C E N T R E A N D P E R I P H E R Y: F R O M C A S T E L N U O V O A N D G I N Z B U R G T O

D A C O S TA K A U F M A N N

The interrelationship of cultural centres is of great importance for the creation of revolutionary new art and its spread to the inferior periphery. This has been discussed by several prominent art historians: Kenneth Clark (1962), Enrico Castelnuovo with Carlo Ginsburg (1979) and Thomas da Costa Kaufmann (1995). Kenneth Clark described the history of art as a chronological sequence of metropolitan centres in which styles and artistic ideas were created and from whence they diffused into the periphery. Enrico Castelnuovo and Carlo Ginsburg refused to accept the definition of artistic evolution as an untroubled sequence of phases, and proposed instead a process of conflict. Their aim was to integrate the results of stylistic criticism into a broader narrative approach, including histor­ ical as well as geographical aspects.1 Both authors argued convincingly that the problem is much more complex than had been envisioned by Clark and should include geographical, political, economical, religious and artistic issues.2 However, they concentrated mostly on towns of northern and central Italy in the early modern period, scarcely touching the middle ages or internationally oriented court societies such as Naples. Thomas da Costa Kaufmann underlined the essential role of ‘court, cloister and city’ for art production, consumption and cultural diffusion.3 However, he bases his arguments mainly on examples from early modern central Europe, and it is questionable whether his approach can also be applied to Italy during the late middle ages. A re-examination of this question is therefore necessary in order to assess the importance of Naples as a prominent example of an artistic centre and to understand its relationship to other centres, such as Florence or Rome. I propose that, in order to do so, models of centrality developed in the social sciences must be taken into account. The World System Theory developed by Immanuel Wallerstein in the late 1970s offers an especially interesting approach to the evaluation of exchanges in a polycentric system.4 The methodological discussion of this theory by Hannerz and Sassen in the 1990s allows for the inclusion of cultural phenomena and for the adaptation of this theory to art-historical questions.5 Castelnuovo’s and Ginzburg’s definition of a centre reflected debates of the 1970s. They criticized the rather simplistic point of view expressed by Kenneth Clark and developed a more complex model of the relationship between centre and periphery in art history.6 In their view, a place with a great density of artists, artefacts and clients does not necessarily define an artistic centre, which must also be a centre of artistic innovation. In contrast, the periphery can be char­ acterized by a certain delay (scarto) in artistic development as well as by the presence of self-perpetuating dynasties of artists or foreign artists, who are not competitive outside their own town or region.7 The authors emphasized the competitive element found in the relationship between artists and patrons as well as between different centres. In contrast to earlier monocentric theories, common since Vasari, they underlined the fact that Italy was characterized by polycentricity. They compared this situation to a ‘club’ where one has to be admitted and where the competition between the different members has to follow certain rules.8 In short, they emphasized the social dimension, discussing centrality in terms of competition between patrons and artists for the most innovative artworks. 153

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A more recent discussion of this issue is offered by Thomas DaCosta Kauf­ mann.9 Basing himself mainly on the writings of George Kubler and Fernand Braudel,10 Kaufmann underlined the importance of geographical factors as a category that should be given equal importance to chronology in any art-histor­ ical assessment. He therefore proposed a ‘Geography of Art’ that is both opposi­ tional and complementary to the traditional ‘History of Art’.11 Kaufmann traced the origins of geographical concepts in art history back to antiquity. However, he gave particular attention to two more recent schools of thought: firstly, the German tradition of Kunstgeographie, with its very problematical political and nomothetical methodological implications; and secondly, the more ideographical French concept of ge´ographie humaine, as inspired by the works of Henri Focillon and Lucien Febvre.12 For a definition of centrality, Kaufmann based his explications on a flexible model with the centre at its core, surrounded by a region called a periphery at the outer edges of the region.13 In order to define further the characteristics of a centre, he referred to Arnold Toynbee’s definition: ‘metropolises are great in the sense that they have made a mark on the subsequent history of civilization.’ Thus, Kaufmann underlined the importance of culture in defining a centre, as opposed to a concentration of political functions and economic success. He foregrounded the double cultural role of a centre as a magnet for a wider common cultural entity (koine´) and as a radiating point for the dissemination of cultural values into the surrounding regions. Centres, for Kaufmann, have a civilizing function. But how is it possible to measure culture? Kaufmann implicitly equated art with culture when he traced the production and export of art in different regions of Central Europe. This multifaceted method promises interesting results when applied to Neapolitan art.

I M P O R T A N D E X P O R T I N N E A P O L I TA N A R T I N T H E F O U R T E E N T H A N D

FIFTEENTH CENTURIES

The history of Naples is packed with an impressive number of events involving murder, love and betrayal. However, there were also significant periods of political stability and cultural flowering, such as the long reigns of Robert the Wise (1309– 43) and Alfonso the Magnanimous (1442–58). The most interesting moments for this discussion, though, are the preceding periods of transition. They allow the opportunity to analyse the origins of artistic currents before they become firmly established. Two periods will be briefly presented and analysed here: the time around 1300, when the Angevin rulers began to invest more broadly in cultural life; and that around 1400, when Naples saw the rapid succession of three dynasties to the throne, each asserting its rule by different artistic means. Charles I’s (1266–1285) main sphere of interest was architecture.14 He parti­ cipated directly in several building campaigns and probably had personal contact with the architects.15 Several of them acquired important positions like provisor or prepositus operum (they were also in charge of castles and defensive architecture) and became members of the royal familia with the status of a vallectus (valet). The French clergyman Petrus de Chaulis, who had been the supervisor of the royal workshop since c. 1270, was responsible for all questions concerning archi­ tecture.16 Written sources as well as the style of the buildings provide informa­ 154

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tion about the attempt to import not only French masons and workmen but also the French style in architecture, and to pass French technical know-how to local craftsmen.17 The local architectural tradition of the regno was not up-to-date enough for the demands of the new Angevin rulers, who were accustomed to the high standards and gothic innovations of their home country. For this reason, they chose not to continue the previous Hohenstaufen style with its many references to the antique. The situation changed rapidly under Charles II (1285–1309).18 Demand for luxury goods, together with expenditure, was increasing rapidly. Under Charles I, the production of illuminated manuscripts had fallen far below the Hohen­ staufen level both in quality and in quantity.19 But under Charles II, manuscript production, especially French romances, increased. The twenty-three manuscripts of this period still extant today form the largest surviving group of Italian medieval illuminated manuscripts.20 Both the royal family and Neapolitan court society helped to establish Naples as a centre of manuscript illumination and this type of widespread patronage remained characteristic of Naples under Robert of Anjou (1309–1343). After Robert’s return from Avignon in 1324 production increased. Later, manuscript illumination reached a new peak in the 1350s and 1360s under the rule of Joanna I of Naples (1343–82).21 Naples became an autonomous centre of manuscript illumination of international importance. But no real export seems to have taken place. There was no impact outside the city, and no periphery existed. The importance of Naples is, however, defined by international competition, for instance, with the distant French court.22 The rule of Charles II was equally important for panel painting. Painters did not play any major role under Charles I, but his successor invited to Naples artists like Montano d’Arezzo and Cavallini (c. 1250–1330), from Arezzo and Rome respectively, and gave them positions as court artists.23 Not only were foreign artists integrated into Neapolitan court society, there was also a shift in respon­ sibilities in court administration relating to artistic projects. Under Charles I, Petrus de Chaulis had occupied a position shaped specifically for him. However, by the time of Charles II’s reign his role had been institutionalized by the creation of the office of the cambellanus (chamberlain). The cambellanus was not only the keeper of the king’s jewels and responsible for all the king’s public appearances, but also the prefect of all royal castles, strongholds and constructions.24 With the establishment of this institution, art and artist had found their place at court and were an integral part of courtly representation. This kind of development required wide acceptance and it indicates how much the formerly foreign French nobility had established itself in the kingdom and mingled with the old local families. The Church also rapidly developed large-scale artistic aspirations. A good example is provided by the construction of Naples Cathedral, begun in 1294. Under the guidance of the bishops of Naples, it became a major centre for the selfrepresentation and promotion of the Neapolitan nobility and clergy.25 As in other Neapolitan church projects of the same period, construction included a large number of private chapels. The chapels in the most privileged positions to either side of the main apse were dedicated to the two apostles Peter and Paul, while the adjacent chapels to either side proclaimed episcopal tradition and the power of the bishops as well as that of the nobility. In contrast, the Angevin royal family 155

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was confined to an architecturally independent chapel with some less prestigious funeral monuments because their principal burial ground was still in Provence. The culmination of the building project was reached, as Serena Romano has shown, by archbishop Umbert d’Ormont (d. 1320) who created a sophisticated chapel program, which stressed the long tradition of Naples as an episcopal see going back to early Christian times.26 This development led to the archbishop’s own funeral monument being decorated with a portrait, presumed to be the first one since antiquity. In this way art production was highlighted through the revival of a local tradition that could be seen in the catacombs of Naples. Beginning with the monument to Catherine of Austria in 1323, the Angevins looked for international models for their funerary monuments.27 For political reasons, they referred to developments in other centres of power, namely to the imperial monuments in Pisa (Henry VII, d. 1313) and Genoa (Margaret of Brabant, d. 1311), which Robert the Wise had seen en route from Avignon.28 Another model for the royal monuments was offered by the sarcophagi of saints, which were elevated on columns. To construct the new monuments of the royal family, artists like Tino di Camaino from Tuscany were hired to come to Naples. It is not too speculative to draw the conclusion that the tradition of episcopal monuments with their reference to antiquity and local Neapolitan tradition was abruptly contrasted with the new type of royal funeral monuments, this Angevin model then setting the new standard for the nobility, varying only according to financial and political power. The local non-royal model, though equally innovative, was no longer appreciated.29 The situation c. 1300 can thus be summarized as follows: court and church both invited artists from outside Naples. The city does not appear to have offered either a strong enough local tradition or enough skilled artists to be able to meet demand by carrying out works to a high standard and translating the required representational needs into new forms.30 Patrons were able to choose between different iconographical and representative traditions such as those embodied in episcopal and royal or imperial monuments. The royal family chose models that could compete on an international stage – with the curia in Avignon, with the imperial funeral monuments in Pisa and Genoa, and with the French court – whilst the episcopal tradition referred to Rome and, internally, to Naples. However, patrons in Naples had little choice among local artists and workshops. Artists were mostly hired from outside the city, and there does not appear to have been very much competition between different artists at the Neapolitan court. Strong royal rule and the tight bonds between the Angevins and the nobility were probably the reasons that royal monuments became the main models for the nobility, eclipsing local and episcopal alternatives. At the beginning of the fourteenth century, Naples changed its status: having been an important locality in the European periphery it became a centre which exerted influence on other regions. Despite this, the importation of art works and luxury goods still exceeded exportation and there was no real local periphery around the city. Because of the political organization of the kingdom with the Neapolitan court as a centre of a supra-regional area, the nobility did not invest much in the surrounding regions or in their places of origin.31 Within the city, though, the nobility played an important role in the increasing competition to reinforce social status through artistic representation. Naples thus became a 156

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. regional artistic centre with a kind of ‘Speckgurtel’ (region of economic strength around a city) around it.32 As artistic production increased, Naples underwent a process of standardi­ zation and selection. This is clearly shown in the evolution of funeral monu­ ments. Imported Angevin taste and the models brought in from Tuscany, the north of Italy and France rejected references to the antique in the local tradition. It is possible to understand this process as one of ‘modernization’ in the form of the introduction of gothic art. It can therefore be interpreted as an international form of artistic innovation. The royal family aimed at an international level of acknowledgement (Anspruchsniveau) and at recognition within the ‘club’, as Castelnuovo and Ginzburg would have expressed it.33 In turn, the nobility imitated royal models and played an important role by enlarging supply and demand in the art market. This situation changed when, a hundred years later, the Angevins (now represented by the Anjou-Durazzo branch of the family) survived one of the most difficult periods in their history. Having repelled a series of French invasions, the Angevins were able to return to the once-rebellious city of Naples.34 Within the next few years, the situation improved rapidly. The young king, Ladislas of Anjou– Durazzo (d. 1414), extended the northern border of his kingdom as far as Perugia, and even tried to re-establish his former claim to the Hungarian crown.35 This political consolidation was accompanied by a new cultural flowering in Naples. After the long years of civil war, palaces, funeral monuments and churches were once again built and richly decorated, this time in the international gothic style. The most important artist at this time, Antonio Baboccio (1351–post-1421), came from outside Naples.36 Only a very few traces remain of other sculptors, and their works are not of the same artistic quality.37 Artistic interest in Naples began to shift more and more towards antiquity without, however, abandoning the elegance of international gothic. Initially, it manifested itself in the insertion of single motifs, but it soon became program­ matic and integral. This important step can first be observed in 1415 in the bell tower of the Pappacoda Chapel where several antique marble gravestones were inserted, enhanced by a black stone frame (plate 1). This museum-like display publicly demonstrated the ancient origins – the vetustas – of the family, which, ironically, had been en-nobled only shortly before by King Ladislas. The existence of humanist circles in Naples, which were in direct contact with artists and patrons, is proved by inscriptions at a very early date. Antique capital letters appear in Naples as early as 1406 in the founding inscription of the Palazzo Penna (plate 2), whereas they are used only much later in Florence in the works of Donatello and Ghiberti.38 This Neapolitan humanist tradition reached its peak in the 1420s and led to a classicizing style in sculpture. The frame of the doorway of San Giovanni a Carbonara (plate 3) and the funeral monument to Ser Gianni Caracciolo in the same church are the most revealing examples (plate 5–7). Reference to the antique is not a phenomenon unique to Naples – similar orna­ mentation to that on the doorway of San Giovanni Carbonara can be seen in the slightly earlier Fonte Gaia by Jacopo della Quercia in Siena (1414–19; plate 4) – but it is representative of international taste and learning in aristocratic society. The monument to Ser Gianni Caracciolo shows the close association between international gothic and humanist circles. One need only compare the telamones 157

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1 Antique gravestone, framed and inserted into the bell tower of San Giovanni dei Pappacoda, framed in 1415. Naples: San Giovanni dei Pappacoda. Photo: Author.

2 Inscription recording the foundation of the Palazzo Penna, 1406. Naples: Palazzo Penna. Photo: Author.

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3 (Left) Detail of church portal, after 1441. Naples: San Giovanni a Carbonara. Photo: Author.

4 (Right) Detail of Jacopo della Quercia, Fonte Gaia, 1414–19. Siena. Photo: Section d’histoire de l’art, UNIL, Lausanne.

5 Funeral monument of Ser Gianni Caracciolo, before 1432. Naples: San Giovanni a Carbonara. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

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with the copies of figures from the destroyed cycle of the uomini famosi painted by Masolino, an artist closely association with the international gothic, for Cardinal Orsini in Monte Giordano in 1432 (plate 8). On the other hand, the substitution of the traditional caryatids or telamones in the form of virtues by profane histor­ ical figures referring to a private family mythology is a typical renais­ sance choice. The patrons of these works were mostly members of the Neapolitan 6 Detail of the sarcophagus from funeral nobility and of the court, not of the monument of Ser Gianni Caracciolo, before 1432. Naples: San Giovanni a Carbonara. Photo: royal family. The nobility demanded innovative works of art. Royal fune­ Author. rary monuments no longer set the standard for nobility as they had in the trecento. The monuments to the royal private secretary Antonio Penna (c. 1410/12; plate 9), to the admiral Ludo­ vico Aldomoresco (1421; plate 10), and to the chancellor Ser Gianni Carac­ ciolo show a surprisingly great variety of styles, types and programs which cannot be explained by a simple de­ velopmental model. They bear witness to a conscious search for different types of stylistic, programmatic and representative expression. Within the sphere of influence of the Kingdom of Naples, two kinds of peripheries existed. In the north – that is in the provinces of Latium, Umbria and the Abruzzi – local centres of power acted in a more international field, contrary to those in the south like Calabria and Basilicata. This ‘better’ northern periphery was served by a series of minor artists. Among them, Paolo Romano is the most eminent.39 He maintained particu­ larly close contacts with the work­ shops in Naples and used the same ornaments as Antonio Baboccio. 7 Detail showing a telamones from funeral monument of Ser Gianni Caracciolo, before 1432. Neapolitan models were varied and Naples: San Giovanni a Carbonara. Photo: Author. adapted to the needs and require­ 160

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ments of local nobility as far away as Todi (Umbria). By the fifteenth century, therefore, Naples was a centre with a widespread artistic radiation surpassing its political borders. After Antonio Baboccio left Naples for Messina around 1421, no local artist was able to attain a similar dominant position in the art production of the city. The workshop active in San Giovanni a Carbonara found itself facing rivalry from newly imported artists and trends from Tuscany. Once again foreign artists brought new ideas and inno­ vations not congruent with local artistic tradi­ tions. In 1428, Queen Joanna II of Anjou-Durazzo sought out Tuscan sculptors to make the funerary monument for her brother and predecessor Ladi­ slas of Anjou-Durazzo in San Giovanni a Carbonara (plate 11).40 Surprisingly, she did not hire the workshop with humanist and antiquarian 8 Leonardo da Besozzo, copy of tendencies working at the same time and in the Masolino da Panicale, King Nius, same church on the doorway and on the monu- c. 1430. Rome: Palazzo Orsini (now ment of Ser Gianni Caracciolo. She sent instead for destroyed). From the Crespi foreign masons from Tuscany.41 These second-rank Chronicle, fol. 1v. Milan: Tuscan artists sculpted and constructed a huge Crespi-Morbio Collection. Photo: monument which, following her wishes and Author. financial resources, took as a model the monu­ ment made for Robert the Wise (d. 1343) in Santa Chiara (plate 12). As a royal monument it promised more prestige than the humanist antiquarian Neapolitan current of sculpture. Once again the royal ‘apparatus’ became a model for subsequent commissions by the nobility despite its artistic weaknesses. This can be seen, for example, by a comparison of the caryatids from the tomb of King Ladislas of Anjou-Durazzo (plate 13) with those of the Miroballo monument by Jacopo della Pila e Tommaso Malvito in San Giovanni a Carbonara (plate 14), or those of the monument to Antonio Carafa in San Domenico Maggiore (plate 15). Another important commission was the funerary monument to Cardinal Brancaccio (d. 1427) sculpted by the Donatello – Michelozzo workshop in Pisa and assembled in the cardinal’s private family church, San Michele Arcangelo, which he had founded around twenty years before (plate 16).42 This monument is one of the most eminent examples of Florentine taste in Naples and had a great impact on local art production as shown, for example, by comparison with the funerary monument to Antonio Carafa (d. 1438) by Jacopo della Pila in San Domenico Maggiore. The cardinal, a learned man who travelled extensively during his life, had originally indicated in his testament two works by Antonio Baboccio as models for his church and funerary monument.43 For him, the Neapolitan version of international gothic evidently stood for good taste and represented Naples as a modern cultural centre and international city. The decision to have the monument produced by Donatello and Michelozzo was made by the Flor­ entine Medici bank, which was responsible for its realization, and for which they commissioned local Florentine artisans. 161

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At the beginning of the fifteenth century, therefore, Naples was a supraregional centre. The artistic models developed in the capital and the interna­ tional gothic style were adopted far beyond the surrounding periphery of the city as shown, for instance, by the works of Paolo Romano. At the same time, a humanist culture had developed rapidly within the nobility of the royal court and expressed itself in antiquarian tendencies in art. Within this artistic current, the patronage of the royal family did not have great relevance. The leading artists active in this period in Naples either came from outside the kingdom or had previously worked there. There is no sign of any competition between different

9 (Above) Antonio Baboccio, sarcophagus of Antonio Penna (d. 1409/10), 1410–12. Naples. Santa

Chiara. Photo: Author.

10 (Below) Antonio Baboccio, sarcophagus of Ludovico Aldomoresco, 1421. Naples: San Lorenzo

Maggiore. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/Archivio dell’Arte.

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11 Marco and Andrea da Firenze, funeral monument of King Ladislas of Anjou-Durazzo (d. 1414), 1428. Naples: San Giovanni a Carbo­ nara. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/ Archivio dell’Arte.

artists and their workshops. Rather, the market seems to have been dominated by a few court artists. However, royal commissions did become influential again. This development manifests itself still most clearly during the reigns of Rene´ of Anjou (1435/8–41) and Alfonso of Aragon (1442–58). Rene´ of Anjou brought with him some of the first Netherlandish artists to work on Italian soil, such as Barthe´lemy d’Eyck and Pierre de Billant.44 Alfonso of Aragon began a hispanization of Naples though his transfert culturel was not as radical as the French ‘cultural imperialism’ of the first Angevins.45 He brought with him new artists and a new taste. He ensured that his fier familier and pintor de camera, Jacomart, was always present at court ˜ orios and appointed him two years later (1443) ‘pintor parra todas las terras e sen del monarca’.46 The king also adapted himself to the new international frame­ work of his rule by calling upon the most renowned Italian international gothic artists.47 In order to have an equestrian statue like the one he could see every day on the funerary monument of Ladislas of Anjou-Durazzo, and like several condottieri of the regno had had made for themselves, Alfonso attempted to make 163

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12 Pacio and Giovanni Bertini, funeral monument of King Robert the Wise (d. 1343), 1343–45. Naples: Santa Chiara. Photo: r Alinari Archives, Florence.

Pisanello and Donatello come to Naples, albeit without success. With the help of Cosimo de’ Medici, in 1456 he was successful in hiring some of Donatello’s pupils to work, if not on the equestrian statue, at least on the triumphal arch which formed the monumental entrance to the king’s residence in Castel Nuovo (plate 17).48 The ‘Florentinization’ of Neapolitan sculpture in the following years is well known. One of Cosimo de’ Medici’s great diplomatic successes had been the introduction of the Florentine style into Naples. The commission of the funeral monument for Cardinal Brancaccio and the diplomatic correspondence between Florence and Naples about Fra Filippo Lippi’s painting, which the Medici had sent to Naples, bears witness to the importance given to these messengers of Florentine gusto (plate 18).49 In both commissions, the artists adapted themselves to the exigencies of courtly taste. Indeed, Lippi’s retable was 164

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characterized by Oertel as exception­ ally lavish and ‘gothic’ in taste. This kind of artistic dialogue was to become a pattern in Florentine diplo­ macy.50 Cosimo de’ Medici did not hesitate systematically to supply Flor­ entine artists to other Italian courts in a way that might be termed conscious cultural politics.51 The propagation of Florentine art was one of the most secure means of assuming cultural supremacy and of dominating the competition amongst other courts.

T H E O R I E S O F C E N T R A L I T Y:

CULTURE AND ECONOMY

How do these Neapolitan develop­ ments fit into modern theories of centrality? Florence was a centre, fulfilling all the requirements listed by Castelnuovo and Ginsburg. The 13 Detail showing the Caryatid of Magnanimity production and export of art works from Marco and Andrea da Firenze, funeral occupied an important place in Flor­ monument to King Ladislas of Anjou-Durazzo entine economics.52 Important artists (d. 1414), 1428. Naples: San Giovanni a Carbo­ from the surrounding areas moved nara. Photo: The Conway Library, Courtauld into Florence while major Florentine Institute of Art, London. artists were ‘lent’ to other cities. Most importantly, there was stiff competition between the artists themselves as well as between the patrons. On the contrary the most important criteria of centralism – concentration and competition of artists as well as exportation of art works – are not met in the case of Naples where a few artists appear to have dominated available patronage without significant competition between workshops. Both Castelnuovo and Ginsburg, however, operate with categories of different levels. There were ‘typical’ cities, such as Florence, Siena or Venice, which had their own strong artistic traditions and which produced art destined for export. There were also less typical cities, such as Genoa, to which Castelnuovo and Ginzburg attributed the role of a centre-relais due to the massive presence of foreign artists.53 While the economic approach of Castelnuovo and Ginzburg provides a convincing explanation for the pre-capitalistic nature of art production in some middle Italian communities, it offers no explanation of its ‘failure’ in other places. One reason is that although both authors were well aware of the different territorial organization of the polycentric north in comparison to the oligocentric south of Italy, they did not differentiate between city-states and court society.54 In addition, they did not pay enough attention to the fundamental differences between various ‘members of the club’. In what way, for instance, did fifteenthcentury contemporaries differentiate between Naples and Florence? Was the importing of art an acknowledgement of cultural inferiority? 165

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14 (Left) Detail of the Caryatid of Temperance from Jacopo della Pila and Tommaso Malvito,

funeral monument of the Miroballo family. Naples: San Giovanni a Carbonara. Photo: The

Conway Library, Courtauld Institute of Art, London.

15 (Right) Detail of the Caryatid of Temperance from Jacopo della Pila, funeral monument of

Antonio Carafa (d. 1438), 1440s/1480s. Naples: San Domenico Maggiore. Photo: The Conway

Library, Courtauld Institute of Art, London.

The same problem is apparent in the model proposed by DaCosta Kaufmann. As he measures the strength of cultural emanation in terms of artistic produc­ tion, his definition of centrality relies mainly on economic criteria. Economies with lesser art production are judged to be of inferior artistic importance. According to these criteria, Naples would have to be seen as a centre which dominated the regno and its adjacent regions, that is, those spheres under its political influence, with its artistic production. On a more international (although still Italian) level, Naples would occupy only a peripheral position when compared to artistic evolution elsewhere. This model does not contribute anything to a deeper insight into the historical situation. But what are the theoretical grounds on which these models are based? Are there any new approaches in sociology which could help resolve the difficulties encountered? Historically, research on problems of centrality has gained impor­ tance since the 1930s.55 Definitions and hierarchies of centres became one of the main interests within the academic disciplines of geography and history.56 In 1933 Walter Christaller developed the ‘central-places-theory’ as a systematic 166

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16 Donatello and Michelozzo, tomb of Rinaldo Brancaccio, 1426–33. Naples: Sant’Angelo a Nido. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/ Archivio dell’Arte.

approach to the relationship between cities and their surrounding areas, using the dialectic terms of centre/periphery for the first time to characterize different regional structures.57 This systematic approach became more and more impor­ tant in the following years, eventually replacing the older, purely descriptive approach to geography which focused on physical phenomena.58 The creation of a hierarchy of centres was first accomplished by the so-called ‘telephone-method’ where the number of telephones in each place served as a quantifiable indicator for its ranking. In the 1970s it was replaced by better-differentiated methods.59 New factors were introduced, in order better to understand the different processes of centralization and peripheralization. Economic interests do not give sufficient explanation either for general developments or specific historical events either in the modern period or in relation to Neapolitan court society of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Socio-cultural and socio-economic aspects, as well as those relating to communication and interpretation, gained in importance. It is therefore not surprising that new theories of centrality arose primarily in the fields of economic geography,60 political economy,61 sociology62 and history,63 concentrating mainly on administrative functions. Art history also used this approach, privileging the idea of the ‘Kunstlandschaft’ as a stylistically recognizable area.64 Physical space was considered more and more as a purely fictive quality. Distance was now to be mirrored in personal structures, and social aspects, as 167

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17 Pietro da Milano, Domenico Gagini and Francesco Laurana, Triumphal Arch, 1440s–1470s. Naples: Castel Nuovo. Photo: r Luciano Pedicini/ Archivio dell’Arte.

well as those relating to communication and interpretation, became relevant factors of new theories.65 Centres were consequently defined as entities containing social and political ruling classes. The highly communicative elites pass their ideas on to the periphery, that is, to other groups of people more and more distant and excluded from the inner communication circles. This theory of transfer touched upon an important point of sociological research: the definition of elites. Under the growing influence of anthropology, cultural aspects came to be considered more and more important.66 More subjective factors thus replaced ‘objective’ measurable economic parameters. The development of regional discrepancies was linked to the invention and modification of standards by a centre.67 Centres were now seen as developing norms of interpretation and possessing interpretative power. These norms are reflected in visible hierarchies, 168

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18 Reconstruction of the altarpiece by Filippo Lippi sent to Alfonso I of Aragon, 1456–58. Photo: Author.

that is, in the status of the people involved. This approach therefore focuses on the dynamics of the relationship between centre and periphery.68 Recently, this dynamic has resulted in research on urbanism in various disciplines. Cities are no longer regarded as being contained solely in a national framework. They are now seen as nodal points in an international network of ‘world cities’,69 relating thus to the Marxist-orientated World System Theory.70 However, economic and cultural analyses and theories, such as those of Sassen and Hannerz respectively, are contradictory within this context.71 Cultural theories, which are of more relevance here, differentiate between cities with a strong orthogenetic cultural tradition and those with a heterogeneous, and in many respects, imported culture.72 The strongest characteristic of these ‘world cities’ is their cultural leadership as they ‘offer a variety of dernier cri’.73 As Hannerz points out, there are a number of reasons for this.74 Firstly, there is the inherent tendency of the market framework towards diversification based on competition and innovation. However, competition and innovation are not the result of economic obligations but are consciously sought after. They rely on intention and willpower to produce new cultural values.75 Furthermore, there is a concentration of ability. As Hannerz argues: ‘The world cities draw, surely not all, but presumably a greater than average proportion of, ‘‘the best and the brightest’’ ’.76 Residing in one of these cities increases the market value of everyone concerned with cultural production. Finally, their cultural diversity makes these cities into a destination of choice. The international relationships found in these cities operate on different social layers. They can be created by a mixing of populations of different origin as well as by internationally active managers and by their networks. 169

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N A P L E S A G A I N – A N D S O M E Q U E S T I O N S A B O U T PAT R O N A G E

The criteria described above provide the key for a definition of Naples as a ‘world city’ in its time. They discard the narrow view of artistic production functioning independently within a national framework of pure economics, and propose instead an analysis of the city within an international cultural web. The impor­ tance of sociological discussions for the discipline of art history lies, furthermore, in the differentiation between the economics of production and the establish­ ment of cultural standards. It is not the production of art which is important but its consumption. This assumption permits the inclusion of the role of court societies into the discussion of centrality. The importation of foreign artists and works of art is therefore not primarily a sign of cultural weakness but a sign of an intentional cultural enrichment and an essential foundation for freedom of choice, which is one of the criteria defining a centre. Naples and Assisi, for instance, are the only places in Italy where the works of Simone Martini (c. 1280/ 85–1344) and Giotto (c. 1266–1337) exist side by side. This model of cultural diversity leads us to a new evaluation of Naples as a centre of art. The importation of foreign artists to Naples demonstrates the patrons’ search for what can be defined as the dernier cri or most up-to-date fashion. The diffusion of artistic production should not be used as the only criteria for centrality, as proposed by Castelnuovo and Ginzburg. Strong artistic traditions could radiate into the periphery but they might still seem rather provincial.77 The criteria Hannerz set forth for a cultural definition of a world city can be applied as convincingly to fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Naples as to modern cities. The incongruities between the culturally and economically based theories on today’s world cities also provide an explanation as to why the purely economically orientated centre – periphery model of Castelnuovo and Ginzburg is unable to explain either the artistic situation in Naples or its importance. These contemporary theories open a different view on the diffusion of ‘models’, ‘taste’ or, sociologically speaking, ‘standards’. The export of Florentine art and artists to Naples and other aristocratic courts was not a one-sided affair. It was balanced by the ‘import’ of ideals and standards from the aristocratic courts of Italy and Avignon to Florence and its rulers. This is shown by two examples of Florentine art and patronage. When Florence temporarily became the pope’s residence at the beginning of the fifteenth century a wave of internationally renowned artists arrived, attracted by the opportunity to compete for new and highly prestigious commissions.78 These migrant artists adhered to the interna­ tional gothic style and represented courtly refinement and luxury. They did not remain long in Florence but soon departed elsewhere. Their artistic impact, though, was to be felt for a long time. The second example is characterized by Giovanni Previtali as a return to feudalism (svolta neofeudale) and concerns direct Medici patronage.79 Cosimo de’ Medici was clearly more interested in those artists who had already gained international recognition than in artists who could only be defined as Florentine. Members of the Medici family chose to give their patronage to Fra Angelico, Filippo Lippi and Benozzo Gozzoli rather than Paolo Uccello or Andrea del Castagno.80 Artists with a refined and aristocratic taste were clearly preferred to those with a more radical style.81 The dynamics of patronage needs to be studied with more attention to sociological methods.82 This applies both to the presence of knightly, aristocratic 170

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and royal ideals and standards in Florentine83 and Neapolitan patronage. It is especially important for Naples, where this type of research still lags behind.84 Art-historical research has always stressed the important role of the king as arbiter elegantiarum and royal commissions have therefore been seen as the driving force of artistic development in Naples. Patrons from other social ranks, from the nobility or the clergy, have not received their due attention – neither those of the first half of the fourteenth nor those of the beginning of the fifteenth century. How did political relations between specific groups of patrons influence the decision for or against an artist, a style or a model? The complex dynamics of patronage are, one may conclude, a question of polycentricity, not only geogra­ phically but also socially.85

Notes

I would like to thank Hanno Scholz for helpful suggestions regarding sociological problems. Digby Thomas and Lynne Peuker helped me with the English version of this text. Thanks are extended to Luciano Pedicini (http://www.pedicinimages. com) for the provision of images. Earlier versions of this chapter were delivered at the conference ‘Napoli `e tutto il mondo. Arte Napoletana e Cultura Europea dall’U­ manesimo all’Illuminismo’, held in the American Academy in Rome in 2003, and in the sessions, Import/Export: Painting, Sculpture and Architecture in the Kingdom of Naples 1266–1568, at the Renaissance Society of America Annual Conference in San Francisco in 2006. Special thanks go to the editors, Janis Elliott and Cordelia Warr, for their encouraging support.

1 Enrico Castelnuovo and Carlo Ginzburg, ‘Centro e periferia’, in Storia dell’arte italiana. vol. 1. Questioni e metodi, Turin, 1979, 283–352, 285, n. 3. for the citation of Kenneth Clark, ‘Provincialism’, The English Association Presidential Address, London, 1962. 2 Martin Wackernagel, Der Lebensraum des K.unstlers in der florentinischen Renaissance, Leipzig, 1938. More recently, Werner Jacobsen, Die Maler von Florenz zu Beginn der Renaissance, Munich and Berlin, 2001. 3 Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, Court, Cloister and City. The art and culture of Central Europe, 1450–1800, Chicago, 1995. 4 Immanuel Wallerstein, The Modern World-System. I. Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the Euroean World-Economy in the sixteenth Century. II. Mercantilism and the Consolidation of the European World­ Economy, 1600–1750. III. The Second Great Expansion of the Capitalist World-Economy, 1730–1840s, New York, San Francisco and London, 1974, 1980, 1982. 5 See, for example, Saskia Sassen, The Global City. New York, London, Tokyo, 2 vols, Princeton, 1991/ 2001; Saskia Sassen, Cities in a World Economy, Thousand Oaks, London and New Delhi, 1994; Ulf Hannerz, Cultural Complexity. Studies in the Social Organization of Meaning, New York, 1992; Ulf

Hannerz, ‘The Cultural Role of World Cities’, in Anthony P. Cohen and Katsuyoshi Fukui, eds, Humanising the City? Social Contexts of Urban Life at the Turn of the Millennium, Edinburgh, 1993, 67–84. 6 Castelnuovo and Ginzburg, ‘Centro e periferia’, 286, n. 4, explicitly underline the opposition between their ‘conflictual model’ and the consensual model proposed by Edward Shil, Center and Periphery. Essays in Macrosociology, Chicago, 1975. N. McKenzie, ‘Centre and Periphery: The Marriage of Two Minds’, Acta Sociologica, 20: 1, 1977, 55–74. For the discussion of the succession of economic periods they refer to Daniel Chirot, Social Change in a Peripheral Society. The Creation of a Balkan Economy, New York, 1976. Also Daniel Chirot, Social Change in the Twentieth Century, New York, 1977. 7 Castelnuovo and Ginzburg, ‘Centro e periferia’, 305ff., 320–5. The choice of the expression scarto, which signifies a sudden lateral displacement from a given trajectory, aims at avoiding a negative connotation of anything outside the artistic mainstream developments, that is, the current artistic language. 8 Castelnuovo and Ginzburg, ‘Centro e periferia’, 298 ff. The view of Federico Zeri is slightly more simplistic. He argues against a current ‘discri­

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mination’ in art history between a number of interdependent minor and major centres (regardless of how different they might be) and the rest of Italy as peripheral. Consequently, he argues that it will be necessary to overcome all these differentiations in order to arrive at an allembracing and all-Italian art history. Federico Zeri, ed., Inchieste su centri minori, Turin, 1980, XLV. Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, ‘Das Problem der . Kunstmetropolen im fruhneuzeitlichen Ostmit­ teleuropa’, Evamaria Engel, Karen Lambrecht and Hanna Nogossek, eds, Metropolen im Wandel. . in Ostmitteleuropa an der Wende vom Zentralitat Mittelalter zur Neuzeit, Berlin, 1995, 33–46. Georges Kubler, The Shape of Time, London, 1962; Fernand Braudel, The Perspective of the World, vol. 3, Civilization and Capitalism, New York, 1984; Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean in the Age of Philip II, New York, 1972. Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, Towards a Geography of Art, Chicago and London, 2004. Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, ‘Introduction’, in Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann and Elizabeth Pilliod, eds, Time and Place. The Geohistory of Art, Burlington, VT, 2005, 1–9, 8–9. Kaufmann, Geography of Art, 155. Caroline Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, New Haven and London, 2004. Caroline Bruzelius, ‘Ad modum Franciae: Charles of Anjou and Gothic Architecture in the Kingdom of Sicily’, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 50, 1991, 402–420. Especially important are the stonemason Petrus de Angicuria and the carpenter Johannes de Tullo. Ernst Pitz, ‘Das Aufkommen der Berufe des Architekten und Bauingenieurs’, Quellen und Forschungen aus italienischen Archiven und Biblio­ theken, 66, 1986, 40–74; Lorenz Enderlein, ‘Der . Kunstler und der Hof im angevinischen Neapel’, in Tanja Michalsky, ed., Medien der Macht. Kunst zur Zeit der Anjous in Italien, Berlin, 2001, 61–77, here 62. On Petrus de Chaulis (Pierre de Chaules), see Bruzelius, The Stones of Naples, 31, 201, 204. Christian Freigang, ‘Kathedralen als Mendi­ kantenkirchen. Zur politischen Ikonographie der Sakralarchitektur unter Karl I., Karl II. und Robert dem Weisen’, in Michalsky, Medien der Macht, 33–60, 38. In architecture, Freigang, ‘Kathedralen’, 39 f., 47, 49, speaks of a ‘Paradigmenwechsel in der Architekturikonographie’. According to him, the churches built under Charles II of Anjou are to be seen as an intentional continuation of southItalian building traditions and as a concious refusal of innovation. Charles I of Anjou bought a version of the Roman de Godefroi de Bouillon and ordered two other books of uncertain content to be written. No more is known of his library. Alessandra Perri­ cioli Saggese, I romanzi cavallereschi miniati a Napoli, Naples, 1979, 26.

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20 Andreas Br.am, ‘Illuminierte Breviere. Zur Rezeption der Anjou-Monumentalkunst in der Buchmalerei’, in Michalsky, Medien der Macht, 295–317. 21 Andreas Br.am, ‘Neapolitanische Bilderbibeln des Trecento. Ein Beitrag zur Anjou-Buchmalerei’, Ms. Habil., Freiburg im Breisgau, 1999. 22 The role of the court as a model is made explicit by the reference to a ‘missale secundum consuetudine regiae curiae’ in the missal now in the Bibliotheca Nazionale in Naples (ms. I.B.22) dated about 1282/3. Perricioli Saggese, I romanzi cavallereschi, 71. 23 Serena Romano and Nicolas Bock, eds, Le chiese di San Lorenzo Maggiore et San Domenico Maggiore: gli ordini mendicanti a Napoli, Naples, 2004, especially Pierluigi Leone de Castris, ‘Montano d’Arezzo a San Lorenzo’, 97–125; and Alessandro Tomei, ` napoletana di ‘Qualche riflessione sull’attivita Pietro Cavallini: nuovi dati sulla cappella Bran­ caccio in San Domenico Maggiore’, 126–43. 24 Leon Cadier, Essai sur l’administration du royaume de Sicile sous Charles I et Charles II d’Anjou, Paris, 1891, 213–28. Camillo Minieri-Riccio, Cenni storici intorno i grandi uffizi del regno di Sicilia dal 1265–al 1285, Naples, 1872, 159–61. Beginning with the reign of Charles I of Anjou, members of the middle class could more easily obtain the status . of a familiaris. Enderlein, ‘Der Kunstler’, 71, n. 24. 25 Serena Romano and Nicolas Bock, eds, Il Duomo di Napoli dal paleocristiano all’eta` angioina, Naples, 2002, especially Serena Romano, ‘La cattedrale di Napoli, i vescovi e l’immagine. Una storia di lunga durata’, 7–20; Caroline Bruzelius, ‘Ipotesi e proposte sulla costruzione del Duomo di Napoli’, 119–31; and Nicolas Bock, ‘I re, i vescovi e la cattedrale: sepolture e costruzione architetto­ nica’, 132–47. 26 Serena Romano, ‘Die Bischo ¨fe von Neapel als Auftraggeber. Zum Bild des Humbert d’Ormont’, in Michalsky, Medien der Macht, 191–224. 27 Lorenz Enderlein, Die Grablegen des Hauses Anjou in Unteritalien. Totenkult und Monumente 1266–1343, Worms, 1997; Tanja Michalsky, Memoria und . Reprasentation. Die Grabm.aler des Ko¨nigshauses Anjou in Italien, Go ¨ttingen, 2000; Nicolas Bock, Kunst am Hofe der Anjou-Durazzo. Der Bildhauer Antonio Baboccio (1351–um 1423), Berlin and Munich, 2001. 28 On Tino da Camaino’s tomb of Henry VII, see Gert Kreytenberg, ‘Das Grabmal von Kaiser Heinrich VII. in Pisa’, Mitteilungen des Kunsthistor­ ischen Instituts in Florenz, 28, 1984, 33–64. On Giovanni Pisano’s tomb of Margaret of Brabant, see Max Seidel, ‘Studien su Giovanni di Balduccio und Tino de Camaino’, St.adel Jahrbuch, n.s. 5, 1975, 37–84. Max Seidel, ed., Giovanni Pisano a Genova, Genoa, 1987. 29 This situation can be compared with England where, for the building of Westminster Abbey, a French architect was chosen. This represents a consciously sought break with the local English

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36 37

38

tradition from the beginning of the thirteenth century, as exemplified by Lincoln and Canter­ bury. Paul Binski, Westminster Abbey and the Plan­ tagenets. Kingship and the Representation of Power 1200–1400, New Haven and London, 1995, 49. I refer here to the medieval idea of repraesentatio, which can relate to different forms of action as well as to certain dimensions of the perception of reality. It is, therefore, much more than a sumptuous mise en sce`ne of rule and political power and includes visual reference to abstract concepts. See Hedda Ragotzky and Horst Wenzel, eds, Ho¨fische Repr.asentation. Das Zeremoniell und die . Zeichen, Tubingen, 1990. There are exceptions in the case of a few noble families with important political positions, such as the Sanseverino in Mercato Sanseverino and Teggiano, the Sangineto in Altomonte, and the Del Balzo-Orsini in Galatina. See, for instance, the funeral monuments in Nola (Orsini), Mercato Sanseverino (Sanseverino), or Caserta Vecchia (de la Rath). The international orientation of courtly patronage is one of the standards or ideal para­ meters within art theory: Filarete sought the best craftsmen in every field from all Europe for the realization of Sforzinda. Antonio Averlino detto il Filarete, Trattato di architettura, eds Anna Maria Finoli and Liliana Grassi, 2 vols, Milan, 1972, vol. 2, 249, 251. Martin Warnke, Hofku. nstler. Zur Vorgeschichte des modernen K.unstlers, Cologne, 1985, 118. For the history of Naples, see Benedetto Croce, History of the Kingdom of Naples, trans. F. Frenaye, Chicago, 1970. The claim is based on the succession of the Angevins to the Hungarian throne, first de jure by the marriage of Charles II of Anjou to Mary of Hungary in 1269 and then de facto since 1308 by the rule of Charles II’s grandson Charles Robert (Charles I of Hungary, d. 1342). Bock, Kunst am Hofe, passim. For works by other artists in Naples at the beginning of the fifteenth century see Bock, Kunst am Hofe, cat. nos 16–20. A further development in the revival of antique lettering is found in 1410/12 on the funerary monument of the owner of Palazzo Penna, the royal secretary Antonius de Penna. For Florence, it seems that it was first Ghiberti (on the north doors of the Baptistery, 1424), then Donatello (on the funeral monument to Giovanni Pecci in Siena cathedral), who introduced antique capital letters into sculpture. See Bock, Kunst am Hofe, 190–7, 204–7 with further reading. Among the painters who used renaissance capital letters Gentile da Fabriano (Adoration of the Magi, 1423) and Masaccio (Cascia Triptych, 1422) should be specially noted. See Anna-Silvia Go ¨ing, Masaccio? Die Zuschreibung des Triptychons von San Giovenale, . Hildesheim, Zurich and New York, 1996, 33; Dario Alessandro Covi, ‘Lettering in Fifteenth-

39

40

41

42

43 44

45

46

47

48

49

Century Florentine Painting’, Art Bulletin, 45, 1963, 1–17. Cristina Pasqualetti, ‘Paolo da Gualdo Cattaneo: uno scultore umbro a Roma e nel Lazio agli inizi del Quattrocento’, Paragone, 103/104, 2001, 12–46. Francesco Abbate, ‘Il monumento a Ladislao di Durazzo’, in Le vie del marmo. Aspetti della produ­ zione e della diffusione dei manufatti marmorei tra Quattrocento e Cinquecento, Florence, 1994, 17–22. For the history of the commission, see Roberto Paolo Ciardi, ‘ ‘‘Ars marmoris’’. Aspetti dell’or­ ganizzazione del lavoro nella Toscana occi­ dentale durante il Quattrocento’, in Niveo de marmore, exhib. cat., Sarzana, 1992, 341–9. Nicolas Bock, ‘Antiken- und Florenzrezeption in Neapel. 1400–1450’, in Klaus Bergdolt and Giorgio Bonsanti, eds, Opere e giorni. Studi su mille anni di arte europea dedicati a Max Seidel, Venice, 2001, 241–52. Ronald W. Lightbown, Donatello and Michelozzo. An Artistic Partnership and its Patrons in the Early Renaissance, 2 vols, London, 1980, vol. 1, 83–127. Lightbown, Donatello, II, Appendix B, 294 for the funeral and 296 on the decoration. They were preceded by Jan van Eyck who passed through Naples in 1426 on his way to Jerusalem. For a good overview, see Till Holger Bochert, ‘Mobile Maler. Aspekte des Kulturtransferts . zwischen Sp.atmittelalter und Fruhneuzeit’, in Till Holger Borchert, ed., Jan van Eyck und seine Zeit. Fl.amische Maler und der S.uden, 1430–1530, exhib. cat. (Bruges, 2002), Stuttgart, 2002, 33–45, esp. 43–5. The term transfert culturel is borrowed here from anthropology. It has been applied to antiquity as well as to German–French relations in the eighteenth century by Michel Espagne and Michael Werner. See Marc-Ade´lard Tremblay, ‘Le transfert culturel: Fondement et extension dans le processus d’acculturation’, in Anthropologica 4, ˆge 2, 1962, 293–320; Laurier Turgeo, Denys Dela and Re´al Quellet, Transferts culturels et me´tissages Ame´rique/Europe, XVI–XXe sie`cle, Paris 1996; L’horizon anthropologique des transferts culturels, Revue Germanique Internationale, 21, 2004. ‘Painter of all the lands and dominions of the king’. Most recently on pictorial culture in Naples between Rene´ d’Anjou and Alfonso, see Quattrocento aragonese. La pittura a Napoli al tempo di Alfonso e Ferrante d’Aragona, exhib. cat., Naples, 1997. For instance, Leonardo da Besozzo from Milan, who was named his familiaris and pictor camere domusque nostre. George L. Hersey, The Aragonese Arch at Naples, 1443– 1475, New Haven, 1973; Hanno-Walter Kruft and Magne Malmanger, ‘Der Triumphbogen Alfonsos in Neapel: das Monument und seine politische Bedeutung’, Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia, 6, 1975, 213–305, here 283. The painting was begun after 12 May 1456 and completed before 27 May 1458. The two wings with SS. Anthony Abbot and Michael are in the

173

PAT R O N A G E , S TA N D A R D S A N D T R A N S F E R T C U L T U R E L

50

51

52

53

54 55

56

57

Cleveland Museum of Art, (nos. 64.150 and 64.151), the drawing showing the Adoration of the Christ Child is by an anonymous Florentine (London, British Museum no. 1860-6-16-4) and presumably reflects the centrepiece. The sketch of the frame is drawn by Lippi in a letter written to Giovanni de’ Medici 20 July 1457 (Florence, Archivio di Stato, MAP, f. VI c. 255). Jeffrey Ruda, Fra Filippo Lippi. Life and Work with a Complete Catalogue, London, 1993, 194–9, pls 113, 114, cat. no. 49, 442–4. Megan Holmes, Fra Filippo Lippi. The Carmelite Painter, New Haven and London, 1999, 155–6. It was a pattern followed by his successors. Lorenzo de’ Medici, for instance, sent Filippino Lippi to Rome, Antonio Pollaiuolo to Milan and Giuliano da Sangallo to the Duke of Calabria. That Naples offered a promising market for Florentine art is shown by the tax declaration (catasto) of the painter Piero di Massaio in 1458 which indicates that he sent ‘4 Nostre Donne picholine’ to Naples to be sold there on commis­ sion. Jacobsen, Maler, 152, 624. See also Gino Corti and Frederick Hartt, ‘New Documents Concerning Donatello, Luco and Andrea della Robbia, Desiderio, Mino, Uccello, Pollaiuolo, Filippo Lippi, Baldovinetti and Others’, Art Bulletin, 44, 1962, 155–67, about the art merchant Bartolomeo di Paolo Serragli trading with Naples. . Warnke, Hofkunstler, 65. See already Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Leben des Benventuo Cellini, eds Hans-Georg Drewitz and Wolfgang ProX, Frank­ furt, 1998, 492. Jacobsen, Maler, 65, states that the number of painters amounted to two thirds of bakers or butchers, in any case, many more than smiths or innkeepers. The word centre-relais could be translated as a ‘centre and stopover for travellers’ and was chosen to account for the position of Genoa between France and Italy. Castelnuovo and Ginzburg, ‘Centro e periferia’, 344. Castelnuovo and Ginzburg, ‘Centro e periferia’, 303. Ulf Hannerz, ‘Center–Periphery Relationships’, International Encyclopedia of the Social and Beha­ vioral Sciences, Amsterdam, 2001, vol. 3, 1610–13. The theories of centrality used by modern historical science are difficult to apply to medieval art history because of their specializa­ tion on administrative and political functions. Helmut J.ager, ‘Zentraler Ort, Zentralit.at’, Lexikon des Mittelalters, 9 vols, Stuttgart and Weimar, 1999, vol. 9, 541–3 with bibliography. Walter Christaller, Die zentralen Orte in . Suddeutschland. Eine ¨konomisch-geographische o . die Gesetzm.

Untersuchung uber aX igkeit der Verbrei­ tung und Entwicklung der Siedlungen mit st.

adtischen Funktionen, Jena, 1933, re-edn Darmstadt, 1986; Walter Christaller, Das Grundger.ust der r.aumlichen Ordnung in Europa. Die Systeme der europ.aischen zentralen Orte, Frankfurt, 1950. His theory was to

174

58

59

60

61 62 63

64

65

have a significant resonance especially in poli­ tical aspects in regards to democratic legitima­ tion. Keith S.O. Beavon, Central Place Theory: A Reinterpretation, London and New York, 1977. Ernst Neef, ‘Die zentralen Orte als Glied der Kulturlandschaft’, in Tagungsbericht Deutscher Geographentag 1951, Remagen, 1952, 149–53; Peter Weber, ed., Periphere R.aume. Strukturen und Entwicklungen in europ.aischen Problemgebieten, . Munster, 1979, esp. the introduction, 5–8. . Eugen Wirth, ‘Zum Problem der Nord-Sud­ Gegens.atze in Europa’, in Jahrbuch f.ur fr.ankische Landesforschung (Festschrift f.ur Otto Berninger) 23, 1963, 138–54, who intergrated political and historical as well as climatic-physiographic factors in his analysis. Eugen Wirth, Theoretische Geographie. Grundzu. ge einer theoretischen Kulturgeo­ graphie, Stuttgart, 1979; Peter Scho ¨ller, ed., Zentralit.atsforschung, Darmstadt, 1972. Ludwig Sch.atzl, Wirtschaftsgeographie 1. Theorie, . Paderborn, Munich, Vienna and Zurich, [1981] 1992, 141–7; G. Schmidt-Renner, Elementare Theorie der ¨konomischen o Geographie, Gotha and Leipzig, 1966; Stein Rokkan et al., eds, Centre– Periphery Structures in Europe. An ISSC Workbook in Comparative Analysis, Frankfurt and New York, 1987; Karl Stiglbauer, ‘Die Entwicklung hochrangiger Zentren als Problem der ZentraleOrte-Forschung’, Zum System und zur Dynamik hochrangiger Zentren im nationalen und inter­ nationalen MaX stab, Frankfurt 1989, 9–32. Andre Gunder Frank, Capitalism and Under­ development in Latin America, New York, 1967. Wallerstein, The Modern World-System. Emil Meynen, ed., Zentralit.at als Problem der mittelalterlichen Stadtgeschichtsforschung, Cologne and Vienna, 1979; Neithard Bulst, Jochen Hoock and Franz Irsigler, eds, Bevo¨lkerung, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft. Stadt-Land-Beziehungen in Deutschland und Frankreich 14.–19. Jahrhundert, Trier, 1983; Peter Johannek, ed., Vortr.age und Forschungen zur Residenzbildung, Sigmaringen, 1990; Hans Hein­ rich Nolte, ed., Internal Peripheries in European History, Go ¨ttingen, 1991. Especially the much older question about the role of geography and Kunstlandschaft in art history, discussed mainly in German art-histor­ ical reserarch. Castelnuovo and Ginzburg, ‘Centro e periferia’, 285, n. 2, with a small bibliography. For further indications, see ‘Kunstgeographie’, Lexikon der Kunst, 7 vols, Leipzig, 1992, vol. 4, 126 ff., Wolfgang Schmid, ‘Kunstlandschaft, Absatzgebiet, Zentralraum. Zur Brauchbarkeit unterschiedlicher Raumkon­ zepote in der kunstgeographischen Forschung’, in Uwe Albrecht and Jan von Bonsdorff, eds, Figur und Raum, Berlin, 1994, 21–34. Edward Shils, The Intellectuals and the Powers, Chicago, 1972; Edward Shils, Center and Periphery, Chicago, 1975; Brian Goodall, ‘Peripherality’, in The Penguin Dictionary of Human Geography, Harmondsworth, 1987, 350.

PAT R O N A G E , S TA N D A R D S A N D T R A N S F E R T C U L T U R E L

66 Bernard Cohn, An Anthropologist among the Historians and other Essays, Delhi, 1987, 78; R. Redfield and M. Singer, ‘The Cultural Role of Cities’, Economic Development and Cultural Change, 3, 1954, 53–73. 67 Thomas Schwarze, Die Entstehung peripherer R.aume in Deutschland. Regionale Images in der Sp.atphase des . Alten Reiches und Untergang ‘uberlebter’

Territor­ .

ialstrukturen um 1800, Munster, 1995, 7 68 For the resistance and adaptation of cultural models pertaining to centre or periphery, see Nikos Hadjinicolaou, ‘Kunstzentren und periphere Kunst’, kritische berichte, 11: 4, 1983, 36– 56; Liah Greenfeld and Michel Martin, eds, Center. Ideas and Institutions, Chicago and London, 1988. 69 Ulf Hannerz, Exploring the City, Chicago, 1980; Hannerz, ‘The Cultural Role of World Cities’; Ulf Hannerz, Transnational Connections: Culture, People, Places, London, 1996; G. Dematteis, ed., Urban Networks, Bologna, 1995; Walter Prigge, ed., Peripherie ist u. berall, Frankfurt am Mainz and New York, 1998. 70 Daniel Chirot, Social Change in the Twentieth Century, New York 1977; Daniel Chirot, ‘World Systems Theory’, International Encyclopedia of the Social and Behavioral Sciences, 2001, 16609–13; David Snyder and Edward L. Kick, ‘Structural Positions in the World System and Economic Growth, 1955–1970: A Multiple-Network Analysis of Transnational Interactions’, American Journal of Sociology, 84: 5, 1979, 1096–1126. The beginnings of the World System are seen in the sixteenth century by Wallerstein, Modern World System. 71 Sassen, The Global City; Sassen, Cities in a World Economy. For the anthropological, culturalist point of view, see primarily Hannerz, Cultural Complexity; Hannerz, ‘The Cultural Role of World Cities’. See also Anthony D. King, ‘Re-presenting World Cities: Cultural Theory/Social Practice’, in Paul L. Knox and Peter J. Taylor, eds, World Cities in a World System, Cambridge, 1995, 215–31. 72 Robert Redfield and Milton Singer, ‘The Cultural Role of Cities’, Economic Development and Cultural Change, 3, 1954, 53–73; Hannerz, ‘The Cultural Role of World Cities’, 66 ff; Marina Dmitrieva and Karen Lambrecht, eds, Krakau, Prag und Wien. Funktionen von Metropolen im fru. hmodernen Staat, Stuttgart, 2000, especially the article by Matthias Middel, 15–51. 73 Hannerz, ‘The Cultural Role of World Cities’, 77. The expression dernier cri designates the ultimate

74 75

76 77

78 79

80

81

82

83

84

85

developments and is normally applied to ques­ tions of fashion. Hannerz, ‘The Cultural Role of World Cities’, 69–73. See Liah Greenfeld, Different Worlds. A Sociological Study of Taste, Choice and Success in Art, Cambridge, New York and Melbourne, 1989. Hannerz, ‘The Cultural Role of World Cities’, 77. One has only to think of the funeral monuments of the nobility in the second half of the four­ teenth century built in the areas surrounding Naples. See above nn. 29, 30. Jacobsen, Die Maler, 67 ff., 198 ff., 239 ff. Giovanni Previtali, ‘La periodizzazione della storia dell’arte italiana’, in La storia dell’arte italiana, I. Questioni e metodi, Turin, 1979, 3–95, 40. Jacobsen, Die Maler, 313, argues that Donatello had to go to Padua in 1443 to work at the church of Sant’Antonio because the Medici did not give him any patronge. Ernst H. Gombrich, ‘Die Medici als Kunstm.azene. . . Ein Uberblick uber die Zeugnisse des 15. Jahr­ hunderts’, Die Kunst der italienischen Renaissance, 3 vols, vol I. Norm und Form, Stuttgart, 1985, 51–78. . Warnke, Hofkunstler, 67, speaks of a stylistical mood suitable also to courtly taste. Everett M. Rogers and F. Floyd Shoemaker, Communication of Innovations. A Cross Cultural Approach, New York and London, [1962] 1971; Everett Rogers, Diffusion of Innovations, New York, [1962] 1995. . Max Seidel, ‘Die Kanzel als Buhne’, in Bewgeg­ nungen. Festschrift f.ur Perter Anselm Riedl zum 60. Geburtstag, Worms, 1993, 28–34; Lorenz Bo ¨ninger, Die Ritterw.urde in Mittelitalien zwischen Mittelalter . und Fruher Neuzeit, Berlin, 1995; Stephen J. Campbell and Stephen J. Milner, eds, Artistic Exchange and Cultural Translation in the Italian Renaissance City, Cambridge, 2004, esp. the article by Bruce Edelstein, 187–220. But see, for instance, the research of Rosalba di Meglio, Il convento francescano di San Lorenzo di Napoli, Salerno, 2003. Peter Burke, ‘Decentering the Renaissance. The Challenge of Postmodernism’, Stephen J. Milner, ed., At the Margins. Minority Groups in Pre-Modern Italy, Minneapolis, 2005; Peter Burke, The European Renaissance: Centers and Peripheries, Oxford, 1998.

175

INDEX

Note: page numbers in italics refer to illustrations. Abbate, Francesco 76 all’antica architecture 83, 84–96 see also Palazzo Carafa Alagno, Mariano d’, tomb of 77, 77 Albert of Hapsburg 51–2 Alberti, Leon Battista 87, 102 De re aedificatoria 92–3, 94–5 Aldomoresco, Ludovico, sarcophagus of 160, 162 Alfonso I of Aragon 7, 8–9, 75, 76, 95, 163–4 Triumphal Arch 17, 66, 66–7 Alfonso II of Aragon 16 Alfonso V of Aragon 6, 7, 7–8 Alvarez de Toledo, Pedro 9, 10 tomb of 11, 16 and Vasari 28, 30, 31 Ammanati, Bartolommeo 20 Andrea del Castagno 170 Angelico, Fra 170 Angevin dynasty 1, 2–3, 11, 51–4 and and and and

all’antica architecture 85 art history 152, 154–65 Cavallini 38, 39, 40, 44–5, 49, 53 Giotto 38, 39, 40, 45, 48–9, 53

and the papacy 51–2, 54 tomb monuments 62–5, 63, 64, 66, 67, 70, 76 Antonella da Messina 8 Aquinas, Thomas 77, 139 Summa Theologica 102 Aragonese rule in Naples 1, 6–9, 11, 85, 152 Aristotle 112 Nicomachean Ethics 102

176

art history and Naples 152, 153–4 Auxerre, Milet d’ 141 Baboccio, Antonio 157, 160, 161 Baldi, Antonio 139 Barbaro, Zaccaria 85, 89 Barolsky, Paul 18 Barone, Antonio, Vita di Santa Domenica 137, 138 Baxandall, Michael 62 Bellini, Giovanni 20 Belverte, Pietro 72 Besozzo, Leonardo da, King Nius 161 Beyer, Andreas 92 Billant, Pierre de 163 Blois, Treaty of (1504–05) 9 Boccaccio, Giovanni 4 Bock, Nicolas 6, 84 Bologna, San Michele in Bosco 22 Bologna, Ferdinando 18, 45 I Pittori alla Corte Angiona di Napoli 4, 18 Book of Psalms 102 Borghini, Raffaele, Il Riposo 110 Borromeo, Charles 117 Instructiones Fabricae et Supellectilis Ecclesias­ ticae 112–13, 115 Boschetto, Luca 93 Bourdichon, Jean, Madonna and Saints 9 Bracamonte, Gaspar de 10 Brancaccio, Julia 72 Brancaccio, Rinaldo, tomb of 65, 65–6, 72, 75, 161, 164, 167 Brancaccio, Tommaso, tomb of 71, 72, 73, 74 Braudel, Fernand 154

INDEX

Bretantino, Raymo 118

Brunelleschi, Filippo 20

church of San Lorenzo, Florence 116–17

Bruno of Cologne, St 111

Bruzelius, Caroline 49, 50, 53

The Stones of Naples 3

Caccini, Michelangelo 104

Calavarese, Marco (Cardisco) 21

Cambi, Tommaso 16

Campbell, Stephen 4, 39, 40, 46, 48–9

Capasso, Bartolommeo 19, 84

Capua, gateway of Frederick II 67, 91, 92,

96

Caracciolo, Cesare d’Engenio 10

Caracciolo, Ser Gianni, funeral monument of

157, 159, 160, 160, 161

Carafa, Antonio (Malizia), tomb of 72–4,

73, 75–6, 161, 166

Carafa, Diomede 1, 8, 16, 75, 85

tomb of 73, 76–7, 77

see also Palazzo Carafa

Carafa, Francesco 86–7

Carafa, Oliviero 17

Cardisco, Marco 16

Caro, Annibale 107

Carthusian religious order 111–12, 117–18,

119

Castelnuovo, Enrico 153, 157, 165, 170

Castel Nuovo 28

Capella Palatina 92

Giotto’s projects 45–6, 47

Triumphal Arch 17, 66, 66–7, 168

Castris, Pierluigi Leone de 45

Catalan influences 8

Cateau-Cambre´sis, treaty of (1559) 112

Catherine of Austria, tomb of 4, 62–3, 63, 156

Catholic Church see Counter-Reformation

Italy

Cavallini, Pietro 3, 4–6, 23, 41–5, 49–51

and the Angevin dynasty 38, 39, 40, 44–5,

49, 53

Annunciation 41, 42, 42

Birth of John the Baptist and the Annunciation

44, 45

Christ Enthroned 40, 41–2

Last Judgement 40, 41–2

Noli me tangere 42, 43

St Thomas and a Prophet 42, 43, 45

Ceci, Giuseppe 19

Celano, Carlo 90

Centen, Dirck Hendricksz 9, 17

central-places-theory 166–9

Certosa di San Martino 28, 101, 102, 103, 117–

18

Charles of Calabria 63

tomb of 4

Charles I of Anjou 2, 39, 51, 53, 154–5

Charles II of Anjou 2, 3, 44, 49, 51, 53, 54, 63,

141, 155

Charles II, king of Spain 9

Charles of Maine 9

Christaller, Walter 166–7

Clark, Kenneth 153

classical antiquity, and all’antica architecture

84–5

Claudius, Emperor 105

Clement IV, Pope 51

Cornaro, Giovanni 20

Cortesio, Paolo 102

Corvino, Alessandro 29

Counter-Reformation Italy

church construction and remodelling 106,

112–13

frontispiece images of saints 125–48

Croce, Benedetto 19

cultural theories 168–9

Curia, Francesco 16

Daniello, Bernardino 29

Dante, Divina Commedia 45

del Riccio, Agostinio 107

Diocletian, Emperor 105

Domenica, St 137, 138

Dominici, Bernardo de 90

Donatello 6, 21, 23, 157, 164

Eucharistic Tabernacle door 92

tomb of Rinaldo Brancaccio 65–6, 72, 161,

167

Dosio, Giovanni Antonio 10–11, 101–2, 104

Certosa di San Martino 117–18

Chigi Chapel 107, 108–9, 112, 113, 114, 115

177

INDEX

church of the Gerolamini 113–16, 116, 117,

118, 119

Gaddi chapel 107, 109–10

and marble inlay 106–11

Niccolini chapel 107, 108, 110

Pantheon 107–8, 108, 109, 109

Elenora of Toledo 10, 30

Este, Leonello d’ 8

Eyck, Barthe´lemy d’ 163

Fabritio de Guido 118

`, L’Intera Istoria di San Gennaro

Falcone, Niccolo 129, 139, 140

familiaris title for artists 4, 7

and Cavallini 44–5

and Giotto 48

Fanzago, Cosimo, revetment, Certosa di San

Martino 101, 102, 103, 118

Farnese, Cardinal Alessandro 20

Febvre, Lucien 154

Felice, Felice de 118

Ferdinand of Aragon 102

Ferdinand, Grand Duke of Tuscany 117

Ferrante I of Aragon 9, 85, 95

Ferrara 8

Ferrucci del Tadda, Francesco 105

Fiamma, Galvano 102, 103

Filarete, Antonio 84, 89–90

Flemish artists 9, 17, 163

Florence 1, 4, 6, 11, 27

art and patronage 170

culture of inlaid marble 105–6

Gaddi chapel 107, 109–10

Medici Palace 89, 94

and Neapolitan architecture 83

and Neapolitan art 152, 165

and Neapolitan sculpture 164–5

Niccolini chapel 107, 108, 110, 110–11, 111

Palazzo Rucellai 87, 89, 93

Rucellai Chapel 93

San Lorenzo church 105, 106, 116–17

San Miniato al Monte church 67

Focillon, Henri 154

Frederick II, Emperor

178

gateway in Capua 67, 91, 92, 96

Liber Augustalis 96

Frederick IV of Aragon 9

Freedberg, Sydney, Painting in Italy 19

French rule in Naples 1

frontispiece images of saints 125–48

canonized saints in Vite 132–7

Neapolitan production of saints’ Lives 128–

32

` 104, 107

Gaddi, Niccolo Gagini, Domenico 66–7, 76

Galateo, Antonio 7

Galeota, Giacomo Capece 132

Genoa 156, 165

Gentileschi, Artemisia 9

Gerolamini, church of the 113–16, 116, 117,

118, 119

Ghiberti, Lorenzo 157

Commentaries 38, 41

Giacomo della Marca, Blessed 132–4, 133, 144

Gianmatteo d’Aversa, Don 22

Giannone, Pietro 10

Ginzburg, Carlo 153, 165, 170

Giordano, Luca 9, 10

The Madonna of the Rosary 130–2, 131

Giordano, Onofrio di 17

Giorgione 20

Giotto 3, 4–6, 21, 23, 24, 45–55, 170

and the Angevin dynasty 38, 39, 40, 45,

48–9, 49, 53

Bust figure in a medallion 46, 46

Castel Nuovo audience hall 46, 47

familiaris status 48

Mourning figures 46, 47

uomini famosi cycle 46–8

Vasari on 38

Giovanni Barrile, Maestro di 4

Girolamo Maria di S. Anna, Istoria della Vita,

`, e Miracoli di S. Gennaro 129, 139

Virtu ´tienne 141

Godefroyd, E Gonzaga, Ludovico 85, 91

Gonzaga, Margherita 8

Gozzoli, Benozzo 170

Grazzini, Antonfrancesco (Il Lasca) 110–11

Gregory of Armenia, St 134–5, 136, 143

INDEX

Grimaldi, Francesco 142

Gualtieri, Giuseppe Giovanni, Vita del Glorioso

S. Pasquale Baylon 137, 137 Hartt, Frederick, History of Italian Renaissance

Art 19

Henry II, Holy Roman Emperor 51–2

Heydenreich, Ludwig 83

Holladay, Joan 50

humanism 157, 162

ionic portals 92–4

Palazzo Carafa 87, 88, 92, 93–4, 95, 96

illuminated manuscripts 155

Imparato, Giuseppe 129, 130

Ippolito of Milan, Don 22, 31

Jacopo della Pila

tomb of Diomede Carafa 73, 76–7, 77

tomb of the Miroballo family 166

tomb of Tommaso Brancaccio 71, 72, 73

Jacopo della Quercia 157

Januarius, St 129, 129, 139, 139–43, 140, 141,

144 Jews 11

Joan, Pere 17

Joanna I of Naples 4, 46, 155

Joanna II of Naples 6, 64, 75, 85, 161

Kaufmann, Thomas da Costa 153, 154, 166

Kelly, Samantha 39

Kohl, Benjamin 52

Kubler, George 104, 154

Labrot, Ge´rard 112

Ladislas of Anjou 157

tomb of 64, 64–5, 66, 85, 161, 162, 163, 165

Lama, Giovan Bernardo 16

Laurana, Francesco 8–9, 17, 66–7

Leo X, Pope 109

Lepanto, Battle of (1571) 11

Ligorio, Pirro 107

Lindquist, Sherry 49

Lippi, Filippo 164–5, 169, 170

Louis of Toulouse, Saint 3–4

Maccione, Father 115–16 magnificence 102–4

Maiano, Benedetto da 21, 72

Maiano, Giuliano da 16, 96

Malvito, Giovanni Tommaso 9, 16–17, 72, 76

tomb of Mariano D’Alagno and Caterinella

Ursina 77, 77

tomb of the Miroballo family 166

Manso, Giovanni Battista, Vita et Miracoli di S.

Patricia Vergine... 143, 143–4

Mantua 91

portal of San Sebastiano 92

manuscript illumination 155

marble inlay

cultures of 105–6

and Dosio 106–11

Marchese, Domenico Maria

Vita del Servo di Dio Fra Marco da Marcianis 132

Vita della venerabile Serva di Dio Suor Maria

Villani dell’Ordine de’ Predicatori 125, 126,

128–9

Maria of Aragon 8

Maria of Valois 4

Martini, Simone 170

Saint Louis of Toulouse panel 3–4

Mary of Antioch 39

Mary of Aragon, tomb of 72–4, 74

Mary of Hungary 2, 4

tomb of 63, 63

Medici, Duke Cosimo I de’ 10, 26–7, 30, 31, 85,

89

and marble inlay 105, 106

and Neapolitan sculpture 164, 165

and patronage 170

and Vasari 26–7, 30, 31

Medici, Lorenzo de’ 89

Medici, Pietro de’, studiolo in the Medici

Palace 89, 94

Michalsky, Tanja 6

Michelangelo 101, 107

Vasari’s biography of 24–6

Michelozzo 6

tomb of Rinaldo Brancaccio 65, 65–6, 72,

161, 167

Milan, and Neapolitan art 152

Miroballo family, tomb of 166

Montelupo, Raffaello 107

179

INDEX

Naples

Cappella Piccolomini church (S. Anna dei

Lombardi) 67, 68

as a cultural centre 2, 19

Duomo (Cathedral) 3, 42, 141–2, 142, 155–6

reasons for neglect of 1–2

rulers of 1, 2–12

San Domenico Maggiore 3, 24, 42

Cappella del Crocifisso 67–70, 68

tomb monuments 71, 72, 76–7, 78

San Francesco church 50

San Giacomo degli Spagnuoli church 10,

16

San Giovanni a Carbonara church 64–5,

70, 92, 157, 159, 161

San Lorenzo Maggiore church 3, 63

Santa Chiara church 46

Santa Santa Santa Santa

Maria del Pianto church 10

Maria di Monteoliveto church 72, 74

Maria Donna Regina church 3, 63

Maria Incoronata church 4

Sant’Angelo a Nido church (also known as

Sant’Angelo a Nilo) 75, 92

Sant’Anna dei Lombardi church 17, 21, 22–

3, 23

Sant’Aspreno Chapel (Duomo) 3

View of Naples (Tavola Strozzi) 16, 17

as a world city 12, 24

Napoli, John Nicolas 10

Napoli Nobilissima 19

Neapolitan historiography 19

and the ‘southern question’ 84

Niccolini, Giovanni 107, 110

Nola, Giovanni da 16

tomb of Pedro Alvarez de Toledo and his

first wife Maria Ossovio Pimental 11

northern Italian artists 16–17

Oderisi, Roberto (also known as Roberto

d’Oderisio) 48

Man of Sorrows 4, 5

Olimpio, Francesco 145, 145, 147

Oratorian religious order 111–12, 113–15, 117,

119

´n ˜ ez, Bartolome´ 17

Ordo

180

Origlia, Gurello 21

Orsini, Cardinal 160

Ottoman Empire 11, 112, 119

Palazzo Bonifacio 92

Palazzo Carafa 17, 83, 86–96

barrel vault in the vestibule 88, 90

classicizing cornice 87, 90

column from spolia in the courtyard 91, 94

corbels 87, 89, 96

door-post mouldings 95

fac¸ade 85

ionic portal 87, 88, 92, 95, 96

loggia in the courtyard 88, 90

opus isodomum 87, 87, 89–91

piano nobile windows 87, 89, 91

properties incorporated in 86, 86–7

tower 87

Palazzo Gravina 17

Palazzo Penna 90, 91, 91

founding inscription 157, 158

panel painting 155

Paoletti, John, and Gary Radke, Art in Renais­

sance Italy 19

papacy, and the Angevin kings 51–2, 54

Pappacoda Chapel 90–1, 93, 157, 158

Pasquale, St 137, 137

Patricia, St 143–4

patronage 170–1

Paul II, Pope 89

Pelta, Maureen 20

Penna, Antonio, sarcophagus of 160, 162

Perino del Vaga 28

Perrey, Nicolas 134

Perugino, Assumption of the Virgin with St

Januarius and Cardinal Oliviero Carafa 24, 26

Petrarch 4, 24, 29

Petroff, Elizabeth 146

Petrus de Chaulis 154, 155

Philip IV, king of Spain 10

Philip Neri, St 111, 115, 117

Pietro da Milano 8, 17, 72

Triumphal Arch at Castel Nuovo 66, 66–7, 168

Pimental, Maria Ossovio, tomb of 11, 16

Pino, Marco 9, 16

Pinturicchio 21

Pisa 156

INDEX

Pisanello 8, 164

medals of Alfonso V of Aragon 7, 7–8

Pitti, Don Miniato 22, 23, 31

Pius IV, Pope 107

Pliny, Natural History 102, 105

Poderico, Margherita 77

Poggio Reale (royal palace) 16

Polidoro da Caravaggio 21, 28–9

The Carrying of Christ 29, 30

Pontano, Giovanni 95, 102, 103, 104

porphyry 105–6

Porta Capuana 16

Previtali, Giovanni 18

Primario, Gagliardo 4, 63

Primo, Masucio 90

Pula, Roman arch in 67

Radke, Gary, and John Paoletti, Art in

Renaissance Italy 19

´n de Cardona, Viceroy 10

Ramo Raphael 28

Chigi Chapel 107, 108–9, 112, 113, 114, 115

Madonna del Pesce 24, 27

Regio, Paolo

La Vita del B. Jacopo della Marcha 132–4, 133

Vita di S. Honofrio Heremita 134, 135

Vita di S. Patricia Vergine 143, 144

religious foundations 17

religious orthodoxy 10–11

Renda, Felice, Vita et Obitus Sanctissimi

Confessoris Guilielmi 136–7, 137

Rene´ of Anjou 6, 8, 9, 152, 163

Ribera, Jusepe de 9

Robert of Anjou 2, 24, 39, 46, 54, 156

and Cavallini 44–5, 49, 50

and Giotto 48, 52

as Senator of Rome 52

tomb of 1, 85, 161, 164

Romano, Giulio 28

Romano, Paolo 162

Romano, Serena 53, 156

Rome 1, 4, 6, 10, 53, 54

Chigi Chapel 107, 108–9, 112, 113, 114, 115

culture of inlaid marble 105–6

and Neapolitan architecture 83

and Neapolitan art 152

Palazzo della Cancelleria 20, 89

Sacrestia dei Beneficiati (the Vatican) 92

St Peter’s Basilica 92

San Pietro in Montorio, Del Monte Chapel

20

Santa Cecilia in Trastevere frescoes 40,

41–2

Santa Maria in Trastevere 41, 42

sewage systems of ancient 104

Sistine Chapel 106, 116

Vasari on 21

Rosa, Salvator 9

Rossellino, Antonio 21, 72

Rota, Bernardino 17, 28

Rucellai, Giovanni 85, 89

Ruotolo, Renato 101

Sabatini, Andrea 16

saints

canonizations of 127, 128

female 125, 126, 137, 138, 146, 147–8

frontispiece images of 125–48

Lives of 127, 128–32, 130, 146, 147

and Naples 138–44

would-be 144–7, 148

Sallmann, Jean-Michel 128, 144

Sancia, queen of Naples 46

Sangro, Nicolao de 68–9

Sangro, Placido 68

Sansovino, Jacopo 20

Sansverino, Roberto 17

San Salvatore Piccolo a Capua, Maestro di 4

Santa Maria di Monteoliveto (Sant’Anna dei

Lombardi) 21, 22, 22–3

Santacroce, Girolamo 16

Sarnelli, Pompeo 65

Schipa, Michelangelo 19

Second World War, damage to Neapolitan

archives 1

seggi, and Neapolitan renaissance tombs

70–2

Seggio di Capuana 70

Seggio di Nido 70

Serlio, Sebastiano, I sette libri dell’architettura

108

Sesto, Cesare da 17

181

INDEX

Sgambata, Scipione, Ragguaglio della vita di S

Francesco BoBorgia 136, 136

Siena 165

Silos, G., Vita del ven. Servo di Dio D. Francesco

Olimpio dell’Ordine de’ Chierici Reglari 145

Sistine Chapel 106, 116

Sixtus V, Pope 106

Smet, Cornelius de 9, 17

` Napoletana di Storia Patria 19

Societa Solimena, Francesco

images of St Januarius 129, 129, 139

Saint Januarius visited in prison by Saints

Proculus and Sossio 139–43, 141

southern question, and Neapolitan historio­

graphy 84

Spanish Habsburg period 9–12, 11, 19, 24,

26–7

spolia, and marble inlay 105–6, 107

Stasio, Coluza di 17

Stefano, Pietro de 10

Strozzi, Filippo 89, 93–4

Talpa, Antonio 104, 113, 115–16, 117, 118

Tavola Strozzi (View of Naples) 16, 17

Thiboust, Benoıˆt 136

engraving of St Francis Borgia 134, 136

Tino di Camaino 4, 23, 62–3, 75, 156

Titian 20, 32

tomb monuments 4, 8, 11, 62–78, 156, 157

Antonio Carafa (Malizia) 72–4, 73, 75–6,

161, 166

Antonio Penna 160, 162

Catherine of Austria 4, 62–3, 63, 156

Diomede Carafa 73, 76–7, 77

and hybridity 78

Ladislas of Anjou 64, 64–5, 66, 85, 161, 162,

163, 165

Ludovico Aldomoresco 160, 162

Mariano d’Alagno and Caterinella Ursina

77, 77

Mary of Aragon 72–4, 74

Mary of Hungary 63, 63

Miroballo family 166

Rinaldo Brancaccio 65, 65–6, 75, 161, 164, 167

Robert of Anjou 1, 85, 161, 164

182

Sangro family chapel and tomb 67–70, 68, 69

and the seggi 70–2

Ser Gianni Caracciolo 157, 159, 160, 161

Tommaso Brancaccio 71, 72, 73, 74

Torbizi, Cleonte 144

Toynbee, Arnold 154

Tregli, Matteo 142

Trent, Council of see Counter-Reformation Italy Turboli, Severo 117, 118

Tuscan artists 6, 21, 23

tomb monuments 62–6

Uccello, Paolo 170

Umbert d’Ormont 156

Urban VIII, Pope 145

Urbino 91

Ursina, Caterinella, tomb of 77, 77

Vaccaro, Andrea 9, 10

Vargas, Luis 9, 17

on Naples 31–2

Vasari, Giorgio 8, 9, 17–32, 153

biography of Michelangelo 24–6

on Giotto and Cavallini 38, 41, 54

Lives of the Artists 1, 4, 17, 18, 18–23, 27–32,

52, 104, 105, 106

and Neapolitan architecture 83

The Presentation in the Temple 23, 25

Ricordanze 22–3

Venice 165

Vasari on 20–1, 32

Verdelay, Guillaume de 141

Villani, Maria 125, 126, 145

Visceglia, Maria Antonietta 70

Visconti, Azzone 102, 103, 104

Vitale, Giuliana 70

Vitruvius, De architectura 87

Wallerstein, Immanuel 153

Warnke, Martin, The Court Artist 39–40, 49–

50, 54

William, St 136–7, 137

World System Theory 153, 169

Zanardi, Bruno 38