If you’ve ever visited Venice, you know that in just a short walk across a few bridges, you traverse centuries of style, from medieval charm to bold designs of the Renaissance and Baroque eras. Packed densely into a small, easily walkable series of islands, you’ll find an astounding concentration of medieval, Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, and Neoclassical architecture seamlessly coexisting.

Before we look back at how the architectural mosaic of Venice was built, it helps to start with the eccentric 19th-century Englishman who fell hopelessly in love with Venice and fought passionately to save it: John Ruskin.

The Critic Who Loved “Useless” Beauty

Do you think a church, a home, or a civic building should be merely functional? Or, do you believe it should also aim at beauty? For John Ruskin, beauty wasn't just decorative—it was a direct reflection of a building's higher purpose.

John Ruskin (1819-1900) was a philosopher, art critic, and cultural influencer living in Victorian England—a time of rampant industrialization where anything that wasn’t “useful, sensible, and productive” was written off as worthless. He vehemently reacted against the ugliness of factory smoke and the replacement of individual artisans by mass production.

Although he’s not a household name anymore, in his own time, he was hugely influential – arguably the first “social influencer” – though not like influencers of today. In fact, in a 1906 survey of newly elected British Labor MPs regarding the literature that most shaped their intellectual growth, John Ruskin emerged as the top author, outranking works by Shakespeare, Dickens, and the Bible!

He believed passionately in the nobility of beauty for its own sake. As he once famously wrote:

“Remember that the most beautiful things in the world are the most useless; peacocks and lilies, for instance.”

When Ruskin first traveled to Venice, he became immediately obsessed with the city: the romance, the quirky medieval-ness, the elegant decay, and above all, its unique architectural identity. He returned again and again, determined to understand what he called “the Paradise of all cities.”

Venice had always drawn for Ruskin a confusing mixture of responses. Each subsequent return had deepened his knowledge of the battered yet dazzling creation, risen from the mudflats of the Adriatic. It was a landscape wholly artificial, utterly man-made, anchored on piers of Istrian pine in fortified mudflats—a centuries-long cobbling together of precious stones, colored smalti, and looted treasure: elusive, shimmering, and rotting all at once.

– Octavia Randolph

The “Riotous Hodgepodge” of Venetian Gothic

Ruskin believed that Renaissance and Neoclassical architecture were too theory-bound, too beholden to the classical past, and therefore devoid of interest and “heart.” According to him, it didn’t work well in Venice because it looked only to the classical past for rules and inspiration. Since no creativity or originality was allowed, it contradicted Venice’s persona.

Of course, Ruskin’s assessments of classically-inspired architecture were made with a broad stroke, but the medieval Gothic style definitely appealed to him. He loved that hodgepodge, anything-goes quality of medieval design. It has no rigid rules. It is organic and evolving over time. He felt medieval architecture had more “heart,” referring to the cumulative, passionate efforts of independent artisans, all motivated by glorifying God.

And he especially loved Venice’s version of Gothic—Venetian Gothic—which was a very unique animal. In fact, Venetian Gothic architecture isn’t traditionally “Gothic” at all—at least not in the way we think of the soaring cathedrals of France or England.

As they so often did, the Venetians took what they liked from various styles and adapted them to suit their own lagoon environment:

• No Soaring Stone Ceilings: The unstable Venetian island foundations couldn’t support the weight of soaring stone ceilings. Instead, Venetians turned to wooden ceilings – and rather than camouflaging their necessary structural elements like wooden cross-beams and tie-rods needed for support, Venetians embraced and decorated them.

• Brick Over Stone: To drastically reduce a building’s weight, they constructed walls in light brick and faced them with thin marble or stone veneers.

• Few Frescoes: The damp, salty air of the lagoon quickly destroys fresco plaster. Instead, Venetians relied on oil canvas paintings and brilliant glass mosaics.

Cultural Borrowing & Global Flair: As a wealthy maritime empire, Venice actively borrowed architectural ideas from its trading partners across the East and West. They seamlessly fused Islamic pointed arches, Byzantine gold mosaics, and Gothic stone traceries into a distinctly Venetian hybrid.

Take St. Mark’s Basilica, for instance. It is an eclectic mix of Gothic, Byzantine, and Middle Eastern elements, added to over centuries by countless craftsmen. Purists hated it because it defied neat categorization. But to Ruskin, that imperfection was its glory. As he wrote in The Stones of Venice:

“To banish imperfection is to destroy expression, to check exertion, to paralyze vitality.”

In other words, John Ruskin wasn’t a fan of the creations of the four master architects we’re about to meet. Never shy about offering his opinion, Ruskin had plenty to say about the styles of each of these great architects who came before him. As we examine their creations, I’ll share a few of Ruskin’s sharpest assessments so you can decide for yourself whether his harsh judgments hold up.

Yet for all his critiques, Ruskin’s fierce love for the lagoon ultimately saved it; his writings and sketches virtually single-handedly transformed crumbling Venetian decay into an international preservation movement.

Rewinding the Clock: The Four Masters Ruskin Critiqued

Centuries before Ruskin ever set foot in the lagoon to critique classical architecture, Venice had been actively reinventing itself. While Ruskin would later worry that restrictive rules patterned after ancient Greece and Rome stripped Venice of its organic character, the architects who lived through the Renaissance and Baroque eras saw things differently.

Venice’s beauty was never static.

In fact, the city had been blessed with four giants of Renaissance and Baroque architecture: Mauro Codussi, Jacopo Sansovino, Andrea Palladio, and Baldassare Longhena.

Rather than imposing rigid architectural formulas on the city, these masters did something extraordinary: The first three excelled at fusing classical Renaissance proportions with distinct Venetian tastes, while the fourth brought theatrical Baroque emotion to the lagoon.

Let’s take a closer look at how each of these visionaries made his own mark on the floating city.

1. Mauro Codussi: The Renaissance Pioneer

Mauro Codussi (c. 1440-1504), who hailed from Bergamo, introduced Renaissance geometry to Venice without stripping away its local charm. He wasn’t theory-bound by strict mainland rules; in the true Venetian way, he adapted classical elements to suit his own creative purposes and the unique Venetian setting.

Codussi first made a name for himself with the church of San Michele in Isola on the cemetery island of San Michele (begun c. 1468). It was groundbreaking, featuring clean white Istrian stone and incorporating classical motifs of circles and semi-circles. In Christian iconography, the circle represented the perfection of God and His creation, and geometric curves became Codussi’s personal trademark.

Another major project for Codussi was the façade of the historic Venetian church of San Zaccaria. Another architect had begun designing the Gothic lower portion but died in 1481. Codussi stepped in and completed the upper tiers in an elegant, harmonious Venetian Renaissance style.

Codussi also received an important commission funded by the wealthy nobleman Andrea Loredan. The grand palazzo Codussi designed for him on the Grand Canal is now known as Ca’ Vendramin Calergi.

In 1882, composer Richard Wagner rented the entire main floor of this palazzo, which is where he died in 1883. It houses a Wagner Museum today. Ca’ Vendramin Calergi also serves as the winter home of the Venice Casino.

Finally, the best-known project attributed to Mauro Codussi is the famous Clock Tower (Torre dell’Orologio) framing St. Mark’s Square. Codussi cleverly designed the tower’s base as a monumental archway to frame the entrance to the Merceria—Venice’s main thoroughfare leading toward the Rialto.

What Ruskin thought:

Ruskin viewed Early Renaissance pioneers like Codussi as the beginning of the end, complaining that classical symmetry stripped Venetian stone of its spontaneous, human touch.

2. Jacopo Sansovino: The Civic Mastermind

Jacopo Sansovino (1486-1570) lived in Florence and Rome before settling in Venice.

According to Encyclopædia Britannica, Sansovino was “perhaps more successful than any other Renaissance architect in fusing architecture and sculpture.” This makes perfect sense, considering he was a master sculptor first. In fact, the two massive figures of Mars and Neptune at the top of the Scala dei Giganti in the Doge’s Palace courtyard are his direct work.

We have Sansovino to thank for much of the architectural harmony of St. Mark’s Square. He designed the Zecca (the former Venetian mint facing the lagoon) and the lovely Loggetta at the base of the bell tower, where visiting dignitaries waited for admittance to the Doge’s Palace.

(Tragically, when St. Mark’s Campanile unexpectedly collapsed in a mountain of rubble in 1902, it completely crushed Sansovino’s Loggetta beneath it. But in true Venetian fashion, locals salvaged the shattered marble and bronze pieces from the debris, meticulously reconstructing Sansovino’s gem piece by piece alongside the new bell tower!)

Sansovino’s absolute masterpiece, however, is the Marciana Library (Biblioteca Marciana), situated directly across from the Doge’s Palace.

Like Codussi, Sansovino achieved a thoughtful balance between classical restraint and Venice’s love of surface embellishment. His library serves as a beautiful counterpart to the older Gothic Doge’s Palace, featuring a double loggia and roofline statues that deliberately complement the rhythmic crenellations of its medieval neighbor.

Architect Andrea Palladio praised Sansovino’s library as:

“...perhaps the richest and most ornate building that there has been since ancient times up until now.”

But Jacopo Sansovino’s career wasn’t without drama. While under construction, the heavy vaulting of the library ceiling collapsed. As was the custom, Sansovino was imprisoned and expected to pay for the damage. Luckily, he had powerful friends (including Titian and Pietro Aretino) and was released with his reputation intact to complete the building with a lighter ceiling design.

By the time of his death, Sansovino was held in such high esteem that he was interred in San Geminiano. When Napoleon demolished that church in 1807, Sansovino’s remains were moved directly into the Baptistery of St. Mark’s Basilica, near the elegant baptismal font he designed.

What Ruskin thought:

Ruskin famously detested Sansovino’s Biblioteca Marciana, calling its classical Roman arcades an arrogant intrusion upon the delicate Gothic Doge’s Palace next door.

3. Andrea Palladio: The Pure Classicist

Andrea Palladio (1508-1580) is arguably the most famous “classical” architect in history. He understood ancient Roman architecture deeply and excelled at its mathematical forms. Unlike Codussi or Sansovino, Palladio was much more of a strict theorist, bringing ancient Roman discipline and symmetry directly to the Venetian lagoon.

Critics (like John Ruskin) later felt Palladio’s type of classical architecture was far too austere and formulaic for Venice’s romantic personality. Remember – in Ruskin’s view, theory-bound architecture robbed artisans of individual creativity; everything became subservient to the design of a single vision.

But Palladio’s contemporaries deeply appreciated its serene grandeur and the wonderful aesthetic variety it brought to the city.

His primary legacy in Venice rests in his sacred structures:

Il Redentore (Church of the Most Holy Redeemer) sits on the waterfront of Giudecca. This is “votive” church was commissioned in the late 1500s as a solemn memorial and thanksgiving for deliverance from a devastating outbreak of the Plague. Its stark, classical temple lines stand in impressive contrast to Venetian Gothic.

Palladio’s other Venetian masterpiece, the Basilica of San Giorgio Maggiore, is situated on its own island. It replaced an aging medieval church. While Palladio designed the entire structure, solving the problem of the front facade was his most brilliant feat. Christian churches traditionally featured a high central nave with lower side aisles—a shape that made it tricky to fit a flat, classical temple front over the building. Palladio solved this puzzle by superimposing two temple facades of different heights onto a single elevation, blending classical Greek style with the traditional Christian church plan.

(By the way, this is the church where Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sánchez held their controversial wedding ceremony.)

While Gothic interiors are full of eclectic embellishment, Palladio’s interiors are serene, dignified, sparsely decorated, and unified.

You could compare this to the difference between a starkly modern house and an eclectic, homey house. The former is clean, decluttered, and stylish, while the latter has an assortment of loved items accumulated over decades. Palladio brought that clean, uncluttered purity to the lagoon.

What Ruskin thought:

Ruskin saved his sharpest venom for High Renaissance classicism, dismissing Palladio’s grand church facades (like San Giorgio Maggiore) as cold, emotionless arithmetic.

And, last but definitely not least, let’s turn to our final architect, who gave us some of the most eye-catching creations on the Grand Canal.

4. Baldassare Longhena: The Baroque Maestro

Moving chronologically into the 1600s, we arrive at Baldassare Longhena (1598-1682) and the Baroque style. Longhena was the talented pupil and protégé of Vincenzo Scamozzi (Palladio’s direct successor).

Baroque architecture builds on classical forms but adds a heavy dose of drama, movement, and visual flair. If Renaissance architecture is about balance and restraint, Baroque is Renaissance on overdrive – bolder, richer, and unapologetically theatrical. It starts from classical forms but breaks free from textbook rules to create emotional impact.

Longhena’s ultimate legacy is the magnificent Santa Maria della Salute (”Saint Mary of Health”), sitting majestically on the tip of Dorsoduro at the entrance of the Grand Canal.

Like Il Redentore, La Salute is a votive church built after a 1630s plague outbreak subsided. Encircling the high central dome, giant scroll buttresses (volutes) support statues looking outward. From across the Grand Canal, La Salute’s dramatic silhouette resembles a monumental jewel—as if the church were set down upon the waterfront like Mary’s crown.

Deborah Howard, a leading expert on Venetian architecture, described Longhena as:

“...an architect gifted with that particular combination of intelligence, ingenuity, technical skill, artistic sensibility and visual imagination, which made his works stand out above those of all his contemporaries in the whole of northern Italy.”

Baldassare Longhena also designed the stunning Baroque palazzos Ca’ Pesaro (now the International Gallery of Modern Art) and Ca’ Rezzonico on the Grand Canal. On the lower levels, they are heavily rusticated with rough stone, becoming more refined on each upper level—showcasing Longhena’s signature chiaroscuro (dramatic light and shadow) effects.

Unfortunately, Longhena didn’t live to see his designs for Ca’ Pesaro, Ca’ Rezzonico, or his lovely façade for Santa Maria di Nazareth (The “Scalzi”) near the train station) completed.

Despite his massive fame, Longhena remained a humble man who got along with everyone. 18th-century Venetian architect Tommaso Temanza described him as a man small in stature who practiced his profession with the greatest decorum, noting he was remarkably civil to others and “highly esteemed.”

What Ruskin thought:

While Ruskin loathed the theatrical excess of the Baroque era, even he had to admire the sheer presence of Santa Maria della Salute dominating the Grand Canal.

Significance: Harmony in Contradiction

The architectural legacy of the Venetian Republic endures through this rich, layered conversation across time.

John Ruskin was right to celebrate the imperfect, human, “anything-goes” heart of Venetian Gothic. But the true magic of Venice is that it never locked itself in a single century or single style.

Mauro Codussi, Jacopo Sansovino, Andrea Palladio, and Baldassare Longhena didn’t diminish Venice’s soul—they expanded it.

They took classical theory, adapted it to the water, added light, shadow, and drama, and built a city where Gothic fantasy and Classical elegance live side-by-side. Centuries later, their work continues to define one of the most distinctive architectural collections in the world.

Without the daring visions of these four masters, Venice would lack its grandeur.

Without Ruskin’s passionate defense of its aging stones, much of that fragile beauty might not have survived to inspire us today.

I hope you enjoyed this guide to Venice’s unique architectural spirit. Please join me next time for another deep-dive . . . .

Today, we’re stepping past the postcard image of Florence’s iconic cathedral to reveal a dark, real-life thriller that took place right before the high altar on a sacred holiday.

Welcome to the Pazzi Conspiracy.

If you’ve ever visited Florence, you’ve probably stepped inside the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore—better known as the Duomo. You probably stood in the vast nave, looked up at Brunelleschi’s mind-boggling dome, and shuffled through a sea of tourists snapping selfies.

We live in a culture of “Now,” where history is often relegated to the this-doesn’t-concern-me-personally file. But many of these historic places aren’t just impressive to look at – they are the settings of amazing, and sometimes terrible, stories.

Case in point: Easter Sunday, April 26, 1478. High Mass. Roughly ten thousand worshippers packed into the cathedral. And a plot to murder the two most powerful men in Florence right in front of the altar.

Underneath Brunelleschi’s grand dome, a volatile cocktail of papal greed and family rivalry was about to explode.

The Dramatis Personae

Before the curtain rises on the crime of the (15^th) century, let’s look at the lineup. Like any good mystery, almost everyone here has a motive, a secret, or a dagger hidden up their sleeve:

The Targets

• Lorenzo de’ Medici (il Magnifico): The effective ruler of Florence. A shrewd diplomat, brilliant poet, and major patron of the arts who holds virtually absolute power behind a republican mask.

• Giuliano de’ Medici: Lorenzo’s younger brother. The golden boy of Florence—popular, athletic, and charismatic, but with far fewer political responsibilities. Like Lorenzo, he walked the streets completely unguarded to maintain the family’s “ordinary citizen” façade. A fatal vulnerability?

The Masterminds

• Pope Sixtus IV: The ambitious Pontiff known for nepotism and artistic patronage (he built the Sistine Chapel). He wants the Medici gone to advance his own family’s wealth.

• Girolamo Riario: The Pope’s fiercely ambitious nephew. He actively helped organize the plot from Rome, eager to seize Medici territories for himself.

• Francesco de’ Pazzi: The spark plug of the Florentine side of the plot. He is a disgruntled member of a rival banking family who takes the Medici dominance very personally.

• Jacopo de’ Pazzi: The head of the Pazzi family. He started out cautious and conservative, but was eventually dragged into the conspiracy by his hot-headed nephew.

The Co-Conspirators & Muscle

• Francesco Salviati: The Archbishop of Pisa. Appointed by the Pope but blocked by Lorenzo, he’s fueled by professional resentment and tasked with seizing the government palace during the plot.

• Bernardo Bandini Baroncelli: A ruthless Florentine conspirator who volunteered to be one of the primary assassins.

• Giovanni Battista da Montesecco: A hardened mercenary captain hired by the conspirators as their professional hitman.

• Federico da Montefeltro (Duke of Urbino): One of the most famous mercenary generals of the Renaissance. He’s waiting in the wings with 600 troops just outside the city walls.

The Setup: A Renaissance Soap Opera

To understand how such deep-seated animosity could fester in a society of high culture, we have to look at 1470s Florence. In one sense, it was a proud, prosperous republic of art, international trade, and humanism. But in another, more ruthless sense, it was a high-stakes corporate turf war settled with intrigue, shifting alliances, and vigilante justice behind the most courteous smiles.

At the apex of Florentine society sat the Medici family. They didn’t hold official government titles, but they effectively ran the city through deep pockets, strategic marriages, benevolent donations and favors, and “fixing” elections.

The family empire was built by Cosimo the Elder, the shrewd banker who kept a humble public profile and was dubbed Pater Patriae, “Father of the Fatherland.” (I see him as a sort of Renaissance version of Sam Walton.) After Cosimo’s death, the family business and political influence was maintained by his ailing son, Piero “the Gouty” from his sickbed. But when Piero died in 1469, the keys to the kingdom fell to his two young sons: Lorenzo (just 20 years old) and Giuliano.

Lorenzo was the brains and backbone of the operation. Stocky, homely, with a squashed nose that gave his voice a harsh, nasal quality, and plagued by shortsightedness, he was nonetheless the ultimate Renaissance man—a brilliant diplomat, a gifted poet, a warrior when needed, and a ladies’ man.

Lorenzo departed from his grandfather’s understated image and openly flaunted the family’s wealth. Over his lifetime, he would famously support Botticelli and Da Vinci, and even take a teenage Michelangelo into his home.

Giuliano was the charismatic counterpart—the “golden youth” and face of the family. Tall, athletic, and handsome, he reveled in life: partying, jousting, and charming women.

The brothers complemented each other perfectly: Lorenzo the art-loving cunning strategist, and Giuliano the beloved embodiment of youthful vigor. Historians like Christopher Hibbert and Paul Strathern describe them as incredibly close brothers who presented a flawless united front.

But trouble was brewing . . . .

The Bad Blood: Imola and the Pope

By the mid-1470s, resentment brewed among Florence’s old-money elites who didn’t like the power of the “upstart” Medici clan. The Pazzi family were long-established nobles and bankers who had once rivaled the Medici, but they felt increasingly sidelined. Lorenzo had tried to foster diplomatic goodwill by marrying his sister to a member of the Pazzi family, but his assertive policies reignited the rivalry.

The flashpoint was a strategic town called Imola.

Lorenzo had sought to purchase it to expand Florentine influence, but Pope Sixtus IV wanted it for his nephew, Girolamo Riario. When the Medici refused to finance the Pope’s scheme, the Pazzi jumped in and provided the funds. As a reward, they were made the new papal bankers, displacing the Medici.

Lorenzo retaliated with inheritance reforms that disadvantaged Pazzi interests and initially blocked the appointment of Pazzi ally, Francesco Salviati, as Archbishop of Pisa. These moves enraged the Pazzi and convinced them that Lorenzo had to go.

The conspiracy took shape over several years. The conspirators secured the Pope’s tacit blessing in a coded audience: Sixtus desired a change of government in Florence and the removal of the “treacherous scoundrel” Lorenzo, while carefully distancing himself from mentioning outright murder—though his words were understood as consent to whatever was necessary.

The Plan

An earlier plan to poison the brothers at a banquet in Fiesole the previous evening failed when Giuliano did not attend.

The conspirators then chose a dramatic strike: Assassinate both Medici brothers simultaneously during High Mass on Easter Sunday, April 26, 1478, inside the Duomo. The elevation of the host and tolling of the bell would serve as the signal. (On the liturgical calendar of 1478, Easter fell late that year.)

At the same moment, Archbishop Salviati would attempt to seize the Palazzo della Signoria (city hall) with the help of an armed group of mercenaries disguised as part of his clerical entourage.

The Pazzi conspirators also arranged for outside troops to intervene once the plot succeeded. A letter decoded in 2004 from the Ubaldini family archives confirms that Federico da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, had agreed to support the conspiracy and positioned approximately 600 troops outside Florence to help install a new anti-Medici government.

The Best-Laid Plans (and the Hitman with Standards)

Things started going wrong quickly.

Problem No. 1: The hired mercenary hitman, Montesecco, suddenly found his moral compass. He refused to commit sacrilege inside a church. It’s one thing to commit murder, but in a church, during solemn Mass, at the elevation of the Body of Christ, was too much even for him. So, two anti-Medici priests were recruited at the last minute to attack Lorenzo, hiding swords beneath their priestly robes.

Problem No. 2: on the day of the planned attack, Giuliano was suffering from a leg injury or severe sciatica and a painful flare-up of ophthalmia (eye inflammation). He decided to skip church.

If one brother survived, the plot would fail. So, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini Baroncelli—behaving like concerned friends—went to the Medici Palace to persuade him. According to eye-witness accounts and confessions, they embraced him warmly, patting his back and belly in apparent affection, though their true purpose was to check whether he wore protective armor. They eventually convinced the young man to come, supporting the limping Giuliano and making friendly small talk as they walked the short distance to the Duomo.

Being the Easter season, the cathedral was packed with thousands of worshippers. Nobody, except for the conspirators, suspected the horror about to unfold.

Chaos in the Cathedral

Inside the cathedral, the mass proceeded. The signal for the killers to strike would be at the raising of the communion Host and the ringing of the bell – the most sacred event of the Mass, when worshippers believed they were literally in the presence of Christ.

Finally, Giuliano, with the help of his “friends,” arrived. At the elevation of the Host, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini Baroncelli fell upon Giuliano with shocking brutality. In a frenzy of violence, they stabbed him repeatedly (contemporary accounts described 19 wounds). Francesco attacked with such savage fury that he accidentally wounded himself in the thigh. One blow even fractured Giuliano’s skull.

The golden prince of the Medici collapsed onto the church floor, mortally wounded. The sacrilege of spilling blood in the cathedral during Mass amplified the horror of the scene.

Across the church, Lorenzo was unaware of what was happening. But then one priest grabbed his shoulder. Sensing danger, Lorenzo wheeled around. The priest’s sword slashed his neck, but Lorenzo fought back with his own blade, parrying their blows.

Shouting for help amid the erupting chaos and stampede of panicked worshippers, Lorenzo bolted toward the altar area, then fled into the north sacristy (a secure chamber with thick, reinforced doors). Some of his supporters, including the poet Angelo Poliziano, slammed the bronze doors shut behind him. In the dim light, one companion desperately sucked at Lorenzo’s neck wound, fearing poison. Lorenzo kept calling out, “Giuliano!” No one wanted to tell him what they knew . . .

Eventually, when it was safe to leave, Lorenzo—shaken and heartbroken, but alive—was escorted home to the Palazzo Medici, where he showed himself to the crowd from a window to prove he had survived. The crowd went wild and howled for vengeance against the conspirators.

The Bloody Reckoning: “Palle! Palle!”

The conspiracy unraveled almost immediately. News that Lorenzo survived spread like wildfire. Archbishop Salviati’s attempt to seize Palazzo della Signoria failed miserably. Unlike some pop-history myths, Salviati didn’t break down and confess; he remained stubbornly silent and was hanged from the palace windows within hours, still wearing his clerical robes. It was actually the captured hitman, Montesecco, who had opted out at the last minute, who willingly provided a meticulous, written confession detailing the entire plot before being granted a more dignified execution by beheading.

The Florentine people erupted in vengeful support of the Medici. Federico da Montefeltro, waiting outside with his troops, had been assured by the Pazzi that the Florentines would rise up in their favor, against the Medici. However, when the populace instead threw rocks at his forces, shouting “Palle! Palle!” (referencing the red balls on the Medici coat of arms), Montefeltro held back and did not intervene. He wisely turned his army around.

Mobs hunted down the conspirators. Francesco de’ Pazzi was dragged naked from his bed, tortured, and hanged alongside Archbishop Salviati. Jacopo de’ Pazzi was captured, hanged, and his body later desecrated—dug up, dragged through the streets, and cast into the Arno River.

Around eighty people linked to the plot faced execution or lynching. Bernardo Bandini Baroncelli fled all the way to Constantinople, but he was extradited to Florence and hanged in December 1479—still wearing his Turkish clothes. A young Leonardo da Vinci actually sketched his hanging corpse and made careful notes about his clothing:

The Pazzi family was systematically destroyed: their palace confiscated, coats of arms erased, and survivors exiled or ruined. Pope Sixtus IV, enraged by Salviati’s execution and the violence against the conspirators, excommunicated Lorenzo and Florence, sparking war. Lorenzo averted catastrophe through bold personal diplomacy, traveling to Naples to win over King Ferrante.

The Unintended Legacy

In the end, the failed plot ironically strengthened Medici dominance. Lorenzo emerged more powerful, and the conspiracy allowed him to accelerate a shift toward more centralized rule, relying less on broad consensus. This “republican facade with Medici dominance” model persisted for years, the beginning of the trajectory toward a hereditary duchy later established in the 1530s–1560s.

The closeness and the contrasting characters of the brothers—the intellectual Lorenzo fighting for his life and the vibrant Giuliano cut down in his prime by men he thought were his friends—make the tragedy all the more poignant.

But the story has one final, poetic postscript.

Giuliano left behind an illegitimate son, born shortly after his death. That boy was taken in by Lorenzo, raised as a Medici, and eventually became Pope Clement VII.

And, in a profound turn of events, it was this very Medici pope who commissioned Michelangelo to paint The Last Judgment on the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel—the very chapel built and named by Pope Sixtus IV. Though Clement died before the painting began, the Last Judgment ultimately replaced the chapel’s original 1480s altar frescoes commissioned by Sixtus IV.

One of the frescoes covered up by Michelangelo’s monumental masterpiece included a depiction of Sixtus IV kneeling in a place of honor before the Virgin Mary. By ordering it to be painted over, the family the pope hoped to extinguish ended up erasing his image from the chapel—ensuring that a Medici-commissioned masterpiece would dominate the walls in its place.

If you visit Florence’s Santa Maria del Fiore, pause and ponder what once took place there. The Pazzi Conspiracy is a chilling reminder of what happens when unbridled vices like greed, envy, or political ambition overtake the human heart. Like a massive eclipse, they block out the light, abandoning the soul to total moral blindness.

For the plotters, ambition became their true god. A horrific sacrilege became a mere afterthought, making the sacredness of human life utterly secondary. When vendetta became sovereign, even the body of Christ and the shedding of innocent blood became acceptable collateral damage.

The Duomo stands not just as a masterpiece of architecture, but as a warning that forsaking goodness for expedience can unleash forces we cannot control, wherein no sanctuary on earth can save us from ourselves.

I hope you enjoyed this story from Italy’s past. Please join me next time for another deep-dive . . . .

We can do more than merely look at great art . . .

Visiting great art galleries like Florence’s Uffizi or Paris’s Louvre can be wonderful experiences, but -- amid crowds shuffling past masterpieces, it’s easy to feel like a tourist checking boxes rather than someone genuinely engaging with the work.

Yet pausing to truly “read,” say, a 15th-century Italian Renaissance painting—unpacking its symbols, composition, and meaning—transforms that fleeting glance into something far richer: a habit of close observation that deepens appreciation, sharpens the mind, and makes every future encounter with art more rewarding.

Why bother cultivating this skill? Whether you’re planning your next trip to Italy, refreshing your cultural literacy, or simply seeking a more thoughtful way to engage with the Western tradition, these exercises in “slow looking” pay dividends far beyond the museum walls:

• In an age of quick scrolls and surface impressions, the practice of sustained attention to a single painting counters distraction and cultivates patience and deeper (or different) thought processes.

• It turns passive viewing into active discovery: You begin to notice how a gesture reveals character or how a seemingly minor detail encodes profound ideas.

• Over time, this habit heightens your enjoyment of art and travel. The things you encounter become more than checklists or photo-ops.

• You might even begin to view the scenes of everyday life with a keener eye for beauty and meaning.

Trust me, it really is transformational. It forces you to slow down. Obviously, you can’t do this with every painting you encounter in a museum — but you can choose a few that make you curious and intentionally slow down to ponder them. “Ponder” is a favorite word of mine — I’m a ponderer from way back.

We’re going to go through this process with two paintings you might not have given much consideration to in the past; but bear with me as I finish “selling” you on this concept. (If you know me personally or have heard me present, you know how much I love context!)

As the great art historian E. H. Gombrich observed in The Story of Art:

“One never finishes learning about art. There are always new things to discover. Great works of art seem to look different every time one stands before them. They seem to be as inexhaustible and unpredictable as real human beings.”

That inexhaustibility is precisely what makes engaging with Renaissance masters so compelling. Their paintings were created for viewers who expected to linger, to decode, and to be engaged intellectually as well as spiritually. By learning to meet these works of art on their own terms, we not only honor that original intention but also awaken our own capacity for wonder.

The Quattrocento. Today, we’ll apply this kind of close reading to two iconic Italian paintings from the 15^th century (the Quattrocento). This timeframe of the 1400s was the Early Renaissance’s age of discovery. Artists explored classical antiquity, mastered linear perspective, and developed a fresh naturalism, working with crisp outlines and rich symbolic detail.

One of our selections is from the Louvre, and the other is from London’s National Gallery.

Let’s explore two outstanding examples from the Quattrocento that richly reward this kind of patient, attentive looking.

First, let’s take a close look at Domenico Ghirlandaio’s Old Man with His Grandson, c. 1490, in the Louvre. This portrait, in tempera on panel, is considered one of Ghirlandaio’s finest works.

The elephant in the room. Before we proceed, let’s address the first thought that has probably entered your mind: “What’s wrong with his nose?” There’s a medical condition in which the nose becomes enlarged and disfigured; it’s usually caused by severe, untreated rosacea.

The artist. Domenico Ghirlandaio was a Florentine Renaissance painter. He supposedly was so good at perspective that he did it by eye, and he also was a master of the difficult technique of fresco painting. In fact, Michelangelo learned the basics of fresco in Ghirlandaio’s workshop – something that came in handy later in life when he painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

And, speaking of the Sistine Chapel, Ghirlandaio painted one of the enormous frescos on the north wall of the chapel — a testament to his reputation as an artist.

But what makes Ghirlandaio’s Old Man with His Grandson worthy of hanging in the Louvre?

Psychological insight. When a painter can convey the psyche or character of a person solely through a facial expression or body language, that is notable. While your initial reaction to this painting might be that it’s just a picture of an old man with a weird nose . . . take a longer look. With a more thoughtful consideration, you notice the tenderness between the old man and the child.

Ghirlandaio masterfully conveys a deep and tender connection between these two people without crossing the line into schmaltz. The expression on the man’s face, the inclination of the heads, the boy’s hand touching his chest . . . .

He has managed to convince us, with a bit of paint on wood, of the genuine kindness of this man.

The composition. Ghirlandaio uses a pyramidal arrangement for the man and boy, a traditional arrangement for images of the Holy Family — perhaps emphasizing the 'sanctity’ of this interaction between the old man and his grandson.

And he uses the window, with a view of a beautiful landscape, to fill the void left by the triangular composition.

By now, you may have also noticed some of the details that underscore the deep emotional connection between these two: They gaze into each other’s eyes. The placement of the boy’s hand, the vertical ‘connector’ of the fur lining peeking out of the man’s cloak. The fact that they wear the same color.

Innovation. For the late 1400’s of the Renaissance — the era of beautiful people — this painting is bold in that it hides no flaws from the aging man’s face. Back then many people believed that a physical defect was a sign of a character flaw or punishment by God. But here, the man’s deformity (which some might see as ugly) has absolutely nothing to do with the goodness of his heart – or the beauty the child obviously sees in his face.

There’s a passage in the Old Testament where God says, “People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” I wonder if that verse came to Ghirlandaio’s mind as he worked on this.

If you go to the Louvre, pay a visit to this lovely old painting. Pause to notice the details, like the wispiness of the old man’s hair and the gentleness of his gaze. Because of its beauty and profound psychological intimacy, this is widely considered one of the absolute masterpieces of Renaissance portraiture.

Art historian Bernard Berenson wrote about it, saying:

“There is no more human picture in the entire range of Quattrocento painting, whether in or out of Italy.”

(If you’re enjoying these explorations and would like to support the newsletter, I’ve created a small collection of art-themed products on my website.

Here’s one of my favorites — a coffee mug with Michelangelo’s David. (Just click on the photo for the link.) Every purchase helps cover the time and cost of producing these monthly letters. No pressure at all — I’m truly grateful you’re here reading.)

Ghirlandaio’s painting drew us in through its quiet emotional power — the tender human connection between the old man and his grandson. Now let’s turn to a very different kind of masterpiece: Antonello da Messina’s St. Jerome in His Study, where the rewards come less from psychological intimacy and more from reading its rich layers of symbols and iconography.

First glance. This small oil-on-panel painting (about 18 x 14 inches / 46 x 36 cm), created around 1474–75, hangs in London’s National Gallery. Although it’s modest in size, it is packed with architectural features, details of everyday life in the 1400s, as well as its meaningful symbols.

At first glance it looks like merely a quiet scene of a scholar at work. But take a longer look, and you realize you’re peering through a fictive stone archway into a miniature, perfectly ordered world.

The artist. Antonello da Messina came from Sicily, in the far south of Italy. He probably trained in Naples. The royal court there collected works by the great Netherlandish masters, and that’s where Antonello absorbed the astonishing precision and luminous quality of Netherlandish painters like Jan van Eyck — the kind of detail and light that Italian tempera painting simply couldn’t achieve at the time.

Later, when Antonello spent time in Venice in the mid-1470s, his oil technique and powerful sense of space had a real impact on local artists, including Giovanni Bellini. In other words, this Sicilian painter became one of the important bridges between Northern and Italian Renaissance art.

Context. Here’s some important background information about Saint Jerome:

Jerome (c. 347–420) was one of the great early Church Fathers. He is most famous for translating the Hebrew Bible and Greek New Testament into Latin — the Vulgate — which became the standard Bible of the Western Church for over a thousand years.

In art, Jerome can be shown in different ways. Sometimes he appears as a cardinal of the Church, wearing red robes and holding a Bible. Other times he is depicted as a hermit and penitent in the wilderness, beating his breast with a stone. Here, Antonello combines elements: We see the scholarly Church Father at work, with his cardinal’s hat placed on a bench nearby, but we also see references to his hermit lifestyle.

By the way, Jerome wasn’t actually a cardinal. He lived before the office of cardinal really existed. In art, depicting him as a cardinal was a visual way of asserting his immense status as one of the four original “Doctors of the Church.”

Now, take a moment to view all the precise details in this small painting – the architectural space, the items on the shelves, his slippers at the foot of the stairs, and even the views out the windows.

The lion. One of the most charming parts of the painting is the lion. You can just spot him lurking in the shadows on the right.

Thanks to a popular medieval legend (later collected in The Golden Legend), Jerome once removed a thorn from a lion’s paw. The grateful lion became his devoted companion, following him around like a house cat. The legend was evidently borrowed from one of Aesop’s fables, “Androcles and the Lion.”

But the real delight of this painting is decoding the symbols. In sacred art of this period, almost no detail is random.

The birds. For example, in the foreground stand two birds placed back-to-back. On the left is a red-legged partridge. In the art of this time, partridges often symbolized deceit, or the sins of the flesh. They were believed to steal eggs and raise chicks that weren’t their own – a metaphor from the natural world for Satan, who attempted to steal the souls of the children of God.

On the right, Antonello has placed a peacock, a classic symbol of immortality and resurrection, because people then believed its flesh never decayed. So we have this beautiful tension: The old life of sin on one side, and the promise of new, eternal life in Christ on the other.

Right in front of the peacock you’ll see a brass basin. Only one bird is being fed. Have you heard the old story of the man who said to his son, “A fight is going on within me – a terrible fight between two wolves over which one will control me. One wolf is evil and one is good.”

His son asked, “Which wolf will win?” And the man answered, “The one I feed is the one who wins.”

Because the peacock is being fed, Antonella seems to be showing us that Jerome, in his war with sin (as he is often portrayed in desert scenes while beating his breast with a stone), he has chosen to feed the God-ward part of his soul.

Here’s a slightly later version of this same theme, by Vicenza Catena, from 1508-1512 – again with the symbol of the partridge:

The towel. Another indication of Jerome’s intentional purification of himself from sin is the towel hanging on the wall nearby. The towel is a sign of purity — the soul washed clean of sin. You’ll find the same motif in some Annunciation paintings, where it appears in the Virgin Mary’s room, such as The Merode Altarpiece:

The cat. Did you notice the cat in Antonello’s painting? Scholars kept them to protect precious manuscripts from mice. To a Renaissance viewer, seeing a cat in a library was a sign of a well-maintained collection. The cat is there to guard the very books Jerome is translating.

The windows. Through the windows on either side, you catch glimpses of peaceful landscapes bathed in light.

The scene on the left is a ‘worldly’ scene – of a city, people, and manmade things like roads and boats. The landscape view on the right, however, excludes all worldly elements. Some scholars read this as referencing Jerome’s dual modes of life – worldly existence in the city (scholarship, service to the Church) and the contemplative, penitent life of a hermit in the wilderness.

The symbolic interpretations in this painting are seemingly endless, but my intention is not to wear you out with iconography, but to make you aware of its presence in the art of this era. If you would like a better look at this painting online, Wikipedia has a high-resolution version, where you can search for other interesting details in this small, fascinating painting.

If you ever find yourself in the National Gallery in London, be sure to seek out this little gem. If you’re lucky to be there without crowds, stand in front of it long enough for all the details to reveal themselves. You’ll understand why this small painting had such an influence on later artists — and why it still rewards anyone willing to slow down and really look.

Thank you so much for joining me in this exercise in looking closely at art.

These two Quattrocento masterpieces remind us that the greatest rewards in art come not from a quick glance, but from the patient, attentive looking we’ve practiced together today.

Hello!

It’s travel season, and today we take another deep dive look at a famous site in Italy.

• Did you know that the majority of tourists who visit Saint Mark’s Basilica in Venice know little to nothing about it?

• Did you know that in 2025, UCLA published a study indicating that older adults who maintain high levels of curiosity and engagement in new learning can offset or even prevent Alzheimer’s disease, while those with "muted curiosity" or disinterest show a significantly higher risk for dementia?

So, if you plan to visit Venice, Italy — or if you just like to learn new things, welcome.

Spring is when I get restless to travel, take on new projects, or learn new things. I’m at my most optimistic, it seems. Perhaps the same is true of you.

In this month’s newsletter, we’re returning to Venice – to take a close look at its most famous site and ponder some things most visitors miss.

Speaking of Venice, I recently met with a small group of savvy travelers who wanted a deep-dive into the art and lives of Titian and Tintoretto, two Venetian masters who were opposites in almost every way. It was a fun evening!

(Part of what I do in connection with Beautiful Histories is to study the

sometimes tedious scholarly sources and condense them into a

user-friendly format for travelers and curious minds alike.)

A week earlier, I had the pleasure of talking about Christian Art and Architecture for a lovely group of people who afterward presented me with a “history of art” coffee mug to add to my collection. Perfect!

Let me ask . . .

Have you ever traveled to a marvelous destination where you saw magnificent things you didn’t know very much about? Sometimes, even with a terrific tour guide, it can be just too much information to absorb all at once.

Here’s an opportunity to take an informed yet leisurely look at something every visitor to Venice sees, but few look at intently . . . and even fewer understand:

Reading the story told in gold and glass

The great churches of Europe carry meaning in their architecture, but none so literally as St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice, Italy. In fact, the story of the basilica itself is told in the mosaics over its doorways — a bit like a gorgeous golden comic strip.

Even if you never set foot inside the basilica, there are plenty of marvelous things to see on its exterior. For today, our focus will be on its western façade.

But before our deep dive into the topic, here’s some helpful context about saints and relics in the Middle Ages.

Heavenly Guardians: Why Patron Saints Mattered

In the journal, Classica et Mediaevalia, Luca Ricci provides a good overview of the medieval mentality about patron saints. To paraphrase him, in medieval European cities, patron saints were far more than religious figures; they were the heavenly guardians of the urban community. Their presence was central to a city’s legal, political, and social identity.

· A patron saint was the primary expression of a community’s identity. Cities often “invented” or adapted the sacred biographies of saint to better reflect the specific needs or origins of their community, as we’ll see in the case of Venice.

· In many cases, choosing a patron saint was a strategic move to assert independence from outside authorities. For example, many scholars assert that Venice adopted St. Mark (one of the four Evangelists, so a very important saint) as its patron to signal its independence from Constantinople and Rome.

· Cities viewed their patrons as active defenders against catastrophe. The patron was believed to intercede with God to protect the city from war, famine, and plague.

With that historical framework in mind, we’re equipped to better understand the incredible narrative Venice carved into the very face of its basilica. It begins, of course, with the man himself: Saint Mark. He was one of the four Evangelists (gospel writers) and a disciple of Paul and Peter.

Rome had Saint Peter, Florence had Saint John the Baptist, and Venice had Saint Mark.

Scholars believe that Mark wrote his gospel in Rome, between 60-70 A.D., and historical evidence suggests that the target audience for Mark’s gospel were Roman Christians and Latin-speaking Gentiles living in the region. So, he was considered a specifically Italian apostle.

Ricci mentioned that cities often invented or reshaped saints’ biographies to suit their purpose. And, in fact Venice did just that, adapting part of Mark’s story to suit their purpose:

According to the legend, as Mark was traveling from Aquileia back to Rome, his boat was caught in a storm. He was forced to seek shelter on one of the small, marshy islands of the Venetian lagoon—long before the city of Venice actually existed.

While Mark was sleeping, an angel appeared to him in a dream and greeted him with the famous Latin phrase, the beginning of which you see on the book held by Venetian lions:

“Pax tibi Marce, evangelista meus. Hic requiescet corpus tuum.”

It means, “Peace be with you, Mark, my evangelist. Here your body will rest.” In other words, it was a promise and prophecy that Venice would be the final resting place for Mark’s body and that he would find devotion and honor there.

By the way -- each of the four Evangelists has an iconographic symbol:

• Matthew: An angel

• Mark: A lion

• Luke: An ox

• John: An eagle

If you’ve been to Venice, you probably noticed lions everywhere because the Lion of Saint Mark is the symbol of Venice.

Legend marks the specific spot of Mark’s angelic visitation as the site where the church of San Francesco della Vigna stands today.

This story was used by medieval Venice to prove that they didn’t just “steal” the saint’s body from Alexandria in 828 AD, but were actually fulfilling a divine prophecy. (More about this famous theft in a moment.)

The Power of Relics

It’s hard to over-estimate the importance of relics in the Middle Ages, and a relic is central to our story.

In the medieval mind, saints were intermediaries between lowly humans and the unapproachably holy God. The belief was (and still is, for many people) that in coming in contact with a saint – even the remains of a saint – a blessing would be imparted to them – much like the people in account related in Acts 5:15:

“As a result of the apostles’ work, sick people were brought out into the streets on beds and mats so that Peter’s shadow might fall across some of them as he went by.”

The Bible doesn’t say if those people were healed as a result, but it points to a precedent for the belief that perhaps a person with faith could be blessed even in proximity to a saint.

Finally, if a church wanted to be a pilgrimage church (which was very lucrative and also gave status to the church), they needed a famous relic, which was usually a body part of a saint. Of course, the more important the saint, the better—and the complete remains of an Apostle represented the pinnacle of the relic trade.

The value of important relics was immense. For example, scholars estimate that the physical relic of the Crown of Thorns cost more than three times the amount of money it took to build the entire cathedral designed to hold it (Sainte-Chapelle in Paris).

So, now, with this important context, let’s look at the story of St. Mark’s Basilica, as told on its façade.

The Great Heist: The Translatio of St. Mark

The mosaics over the entry portals tell the story of the ‘Translatio,’ (or sacred relocation) of the body of Mark. For a simple comparison: A pilgrimage is when people travel to visit a relic; a translatio is when a relic travels to the people.

The belief was that a relic would only be relocated (or “translated”) if the saint wanted it to be relocated.

If you’re facing the church, the visual narrative reads from RIGHT to LEFT over each of the entry portals. This feels backward to us, but most scholars believe that the Basilica was designed to be “read” by people approaching from the Piazzetta (the area between the Doge’s Palace and the water).

• Historically, the Doge and high officials often approached the Basilica from the Doge’s Palace or the waterfront.

• Moving from right to left mirrors the ceremonial procession that would have taken place during major feasts. As the viewer walks toward the main entrance from the South/East (the direction of the sea and the Palace), the story unfolds in chronological order alongside them.

A Story Told in Gold: Reading the Façade

We’ll follow the order of the narrative, starting at the portal on the far right:

In the year 828, two Venetian merchants went to Alexandria, Egypt, and ‘stole’ the body of Saint Mark.

Alexandria is the city where Saint Mark, the Evangelist, was likely martyred and buried. He was believed to have been the apostolic missionary to the Northern Adriatic, so the Venetians regarded Mark as one of their own.

Although Alexandria had been an important city in early Christianity, by the 9^th century it was under the control of Muslims.

Portal 1

The story goes that two Venetian merchants, Rustico da Torcello and Buono da Malamocco, heard that the Muslims in Alexandria were going to desecrate or destroy the place where the body of St. Mark was kept. So they took the body of Mark and put the body of St. Claudian its place. Then they hightailed it back to their ship.

Muslim customs officials demanded to search the ship. But the Venetians had hidden the body in a basket of cabbage and pork. Forbidden to touch pork, the Muslim officials recoiled in disgust—leaving the body of the saint safely hidden beneath the meat and cabbage.

In the mosaic above, the customs official in blue is holding his nose. The Venetian to his left, wearing green, seems to be saying, “Would I lie to you? Trust me. There’s nothing to see in here but pork.”

By Venetian standards, this mosaic is not very old. It was created in the 1600s and is a replacement of the original, older mosaic.

Portal 2

Over the second doorway from the right is the arrival of the body of St Mark to Venice. This mosaic is also from the 1600s.

The two Venetian merchants safely “translated” the body to Venice, where immediately plans were set in motion for a great basilica to house the relics of St. Mark. Construction began in 829.

Can you find the body in this mosaic? When I first began visiting Venice, I used to wonder why the body isn’t visible, and why everyone in the scene is looking up.

Eventually, I learned the answer. On the voyage, they wrapped the body in a sail and hoisted it up the mast to keep it safe and hidden. So that’s where St. Mark is in this scene – rolled up in the sail!

Portal 3

Now we’re at the third portal from the right. This mosaic is the “newest” of all the portal mosaics, dating from the 1700s. Stylistically, it’s quite different than the others. It almost has the look of a painting, with perspective, foreshortening and more realistic looking, three-dimensional figures.

Mark was given a warm welcome upon arrival to Venice. This shows the Doge, Dogaressa, and members of the Signoria (the Senate) along with members of the clergy paying homage to the body, draped in blue.

Portal 4: A 13th-Century Time Capsule

The final portal is the oldest of the exterior mosaics and the only one that is original to the basilica. It dates from around 1260-70, so it’s about 500 years older than the others.

This doorway is called the Porta Sant’ Alipio. In this mosaic, Mark’s body is about to be welcomed into its new home — a magnificent church built especially for him.

Notice how many varieties of marble are in the columns surrounding this doorway.

(A loose translation of the Latin inscription above the mosaic is: “The people place him here with worthy praises and reverence him with hymns so that he will always guard and protect the Venetians against their enemies.”)

This doorway is more than just a beautiful entrance; it’s a historical mirror. Because this mosaic dates back to the 1260s, it gives us a rare, 'contemporary' snapshot of what the basilica looked like eight centuries ago. In fact, it is the oldest known contemporary depiction of the current basilica.

You may have noticed in this mosaic that the four horses (the “Quadriga”) are already in their place, though the mosaics in the portal arches and lunettes aren’t there yet.

Below the lower arch, on the greenish-blue background, are the symbols of the four Evangelists; just below those are window grills that reflect a style borrowed from the Islamic world that gave Venice its unique, exotic character.

The Gift of Context

If you find yourself in the Piazza San Marco, I hope you’ll take a moment to pause and let the bustling energy of the square fade into the background. Look up at those shimmering, mosaic-filled lunettes.

Most visitors see a beautiful church and a photo-op. You’ll see an epic chronicle of ‘rescued’ relics, divine dreams, and a city’s determination to claim its own identity.

It’s a reminder that in Venice, even the walls are speaking—if we only know how to listen.

Context is the difference between a tourist sight and an encounter. It takes us beyond merely seeing something to comprehending it in light of the bigger picture -- whether you’re standing there in person or exploring from your favorite armchair.

A Note from Shelli

I’m so grateful to have you here. This newsletter is free, but if you’d like to help support the time and research that goes into Beautiful Histories, I’d be honored if you took a look at my online shop and purchase a small art-inspired gift for yourself or a friend. Your support truly makes this work possible!

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From the Archives:

If you missed my previous newsletters, you can catch up on prior explorations here:

Beyond the Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel

Honor and Brutality in Fiesole

Reading Torcello's Last Judgment

Regaining Cultural Fluency

My own spring has been a bit of a whirlwind; I’ve been playing catch-up after being away for parts of February and March, but it’s good to be back in the swing of things.

Lately, my “office” has looked like a messy stack of notes and art history books, and I can’t resist taking outdoor coffee breaks whenever possible! I’ve been deep in the pages of Sheila Hale’s Titian and Tom Nichols’ Tintoretto: Tradition and Identity as I prepare for an upcoming presentation. I’ve enjoyed diving into the lives of these Venetian masters and discovering more about them.

In that spirit of discovery, I wanted to share a deeper look at a place we all think we know, but that has other layers left for us to uncover. Let’s head to Rome . . .

Beyond the Ceiling: Looking at the Rest of the Story

As we know, the Sistine Chapel is one of the most recognizable sites on earth. On any given day, as many as 20,000 visitors crowd into the small rectangular chapel, eyes turned upward. In 2019 alone, over six million people stood within its walls. Most of them came for one reason: Michelangelo.

Michelangelo’s ceiling and his Last Judgment are undoubtedly among the greatest artistic achievements in human history and the most celebrated features of the chapel. However, in the narrative of that particular space, they are chapters in a much larger story.

Viewing the chapel only in terms of Michelangelo’s contributions is like reading the beginning and the ending of a script while missing the pivotal middle. The chapel tells a complete story in pictures. It contains a unified biblical narrative that begins and ends with Michelangelo’s designs: the creation of the world (ceiling) and the culmination of history with return of Christ and the final reckoning or reward for all of humanity (altar wall).

But what do we know about the rest of the story — not just of the artwork but the chapel itself?

I’ve only visited the Sistine Chapel twice, but both times I was surprised by hearing snippets of conversation that revealed how little visitors actually knew about the space they had come to see.

To fully comprehend the chapel, it’s best to look at it in its complete context, from its defensive medieval architecture to its intricate geometric floors and its gorgeously frescoed walls and ceiling.

A Fortress for the Faith

The Sistine Chapel was always intended as the pope’s primary liturgical space, but its architecture reflects the volatile realities of the 15th century as well as deep spiritual connections to the past.

Built between 1473 and 1481 to replace the crumbling Cappella Magna, the building was designed by architects with expertise in military engineering. The result was a “fortress-chapel”—a sacred interior encased within a defensive exterior.

At the time of its construction, Rome faced threats from both internal rivalries and external invasions. Consequently, the chapel was built with massive, inclined base walls and a perimeter defense gallery at the roofline.

Above the vaulted ceiling was a functional guardroom, allowing the Vatican’s garrison to be stationed directly above the chapel.

But the fortified architecture also has sacred dimensions -- literally. It measures roughly 134 feet long by 44 feet wide, intentionally modeled after the measurements of Solomon’s Temple as described in the Old Testament. Using those dimensions could have been an act of homage, of hubris, or a way to signal that Rome was the new center of God’s kingdom on earth.

Order and Power: The Chapel Floor

While visitors are busy looking up, they often forget to look down. The magnificent floors feature inlaid stonework in complex geometric designs. To the Renaissance mind, geometry wasn’t just decorative; it represented the perfect, intricate order of God’s universe.

The chapel also serves a vital political function. It was first used as the site of the Papal Conclave in 1492.

For a time in the 15^th and 16^th centuries, cardinals were locked inside the chapel for days — the beautiful floor concealed by their privacy ‘cubicles’ — until a new pope was chosen. Sometimes they remained in there for weeks in unhygienic conditions. Today, the cardinals stay in nearby lodgings but still return to the chapel to deliberate and vote under the watchful eyes of the ceiling’s painted prophets.

Schematic Organization: The Architectural Narrative

The chapel contains roughly 12,000 square feet of painted surface. Although the chapel’s decoration took sixty years to complete, the entire room functions as a unified story of the Christian faith divided into four distinct eras:

1. The Ceiling (Ante Legem): Painted by Michelangelo (1508–1512), depicting the time “Before the Law”—from the Creation to the era of Noah.

2. The South Wall (Sub Lege): Painted in the 1480s, depicting the life of Moses, or the time “Under the Law.”

1. The North Wall (Sub Gratia): Also painted in the 1480s, depicting the life of Jesus, or the time “Under Grace.”

2. The Altar Wall: Michelangelo’s Last Judgment (1536–1541), representing the end of time.

(The lower walls were painted to look like hanging fabrics, where Raphael’s famous tapestries were originally intended to hang for special occasions.)

The “Other” Renaissance Masters

Even if Michelangelo had never picked up a brush, the Sistine Chapel would still be world-famous. Years before he began painting the ceiling, the most famous Renaissance artists in Italy, including Sandro Botticelli, Domenico Ghirlandaio, and Pietro Perugino, were commissioned to paint the side walls.

Consider Botticelli’s The Trials of Moses. It uses a “continuous narrative” style, similar to a modern comic strip without the dividing panels.

In this single composition, Moses appears in seven different episodes:

1. Bottom Right: Killing an Egyptian guard who was beating a Hebrew slave.

2. Right of Center: Breaking up a fight between two Hebrew slaves.

3. Right: Fleeing to the land of Midian.

4. Lower Center: Watering the flocks Reuel’s daughters.

5. Upper Left: Encountering God in the burning bush.

6. Upper Center: Removing his shoes on holy ground.

7. Lower Left: Leading the Israelites out of Egypt.

Botticelli kept Moses in the same gold tunic in each scene, making him easy to identify.

Nearby, Perugino’s vibrant tour de force, Christ Giving the Keys to St. Peter, remains a masterclass in Renaissance perspective. This painting was so significant to the papacy’s authority that for the cardinals in a Papal Conclave, it was considered a good omen to have one’s “cubicle” placed beneath this fresco.

In fact, by providence or political maneuvering, Pope Julius II was stationed under this painting when he was elected in 1503. And the same was apparently true for Pope Paul III in 1534.

The Art of the Giornata

All these masterpieces are painted in fresco, a difficult and unforgiving technique. Artists applied pigments to wet plaster, meaning the paint became a physical part of the wall as it dried.

Because plaster dries quickly, artists worked in sections. Each section was called a giornata, or “a day’s work.” In some frescoes, if you look closely at the paintings, you can see the faint seams between these sections.

Painting in fresco was a high-stakes race against time; if the plaster was too wet, the expensive pigments wouldn’t bind properly and the plaster could mildew. However, if the plaster was too dry (a secco), the paint would not adhere. This is basically why Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper in Milan, painted on dry walls, has suffered such significant deterioration.

The Big Picture

The Sistine Chapel we see today is the culmination of decades of artistic and theological planning, resulting in a masterpiece that is far greater than the sum of its famous parts.

Its grand vision was brought to life by a succession of patrons and artists who navigated radical changes in the religious and political landscape. Michelangelo ALONE worked for nine different popes over his career, returning to the chapel decades after finishing the ceiling to paint the Last Judgment. In the years between those two projects, the world had changed: Martin Luther had launched the Reformation (1517), and Rome itself had been stunned by a brutal sacking by the soldiers of Charles V in 1527.

When you finally stand in the center of the chapel, your eyes naturally will go up to the ceiling. It is the undisputed climax of the room’s design. However, having knowledge about the space beneath the ceiling—its defensive nature, its sacred dimensions, the geometric floors, and the foundational masterpieces of the earlier Renaissance greats—deepens the experience.

Michelangelo didn’t paint in a vacuum; he provided the crowning achievement to a decades-long conversation between art, power, and faith. Seeing the chapel in its full context makes the entire room a more profound experience.

Traveler’s Toolkit: 6 Tips for Navigating the Sistine Chapel

1. To truly appreciate the “masterworks in plain sight,” you have to beat the crowds. As of 2026, early morning partner tours remain the best way to avoid the mid-day “sardine effect.” Here are some of my recommendations:

• I recommend The Roman Guy (a/k/a ‘The Tour Guy’) for their excellent pacing and early access.

• For the History Buff: Context Travel offers smaller groups led by historians who speak the language of art.

• The Ultimate Experience: Look into the “Key Master” tours by Walks if you want to be among the first to see the lights flicker on over Michelangelo’s ceiling.

• To the extent your budget allows, be mindful that the fewer people in the group, the better. You’ll get more out of a tour for 6-10 people than a tour for 25 people. And, after all, for most people, the Sistine Chapel is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, so it’s worth a splurge!

• (I suggest looking at recent reviews before booking any tour.)

2. The less-known Evening Slot: If you aren’t an early bird, consider a Friday or Saturday night tour (available April through October). The Museums stay open until 10:30 PM, and the atmosphere is magical. Both The Tour Guy and Walks offer dedicated evening itineraries. It’s a bit more “atmospheric” and significantly less crowded, though keep in mind that St. Peter’s Basilica is not accessible during these evening hours.

3. Book early! Sistine Chapel tickets sell out weeks in advance (or more).

4. IMPORTANT: The Vatican now enforces a strict “Nominal Ticket” rule. This means your ticket must match your ID exactly. Make sure to have your passport (or a very clear photo of it) ready at the entrance. Because these tickets are non-transferable and sell out, booking through a trusted tour partner is more important now than ever to ensure your logistics are handled correctly.

5. A word about tour guides: In general, the more entertaining and ‘juicy’ a tour guide’s information is, the less-reliable it is. Which leads me to my final point:

6. You’re going to Rome! You’ll have the amazing opportunity of visiting the Sistine Chapel in person! The amazing chapel wasn’t built in a day, and it certainly can’t be ‘absorbed’ in an hour. Before you go, invest some time (with me or on your own) to learn about what you’re going to see. No matter how good a tour guide is, trying to process an abundance of information on location, all at once, will be like trying to drink out of a fire hydrant.

Whether you’re joining me for a consultation or seminar or doing your own deep-dive, remember that context is the difference between a ‘tourist sight’ and a profound encounter. Give yourself the gift of learning a little now so you can connect more deeply later.

Here’s to making your journey to the Eternal City truly unforgettable!

Digging deeper into the wonders of Italy – I’d love to help!

If you’re dreaming of a future trip, reminiscing about past travels, or looking to dive deeper into Italy’s artistic legacies from home, please keep me in mind.

My passion is “art history for the everyman”—taking the sometimes dry, scholarly world of art and architecture and making it accessible, relatable, and grounded in Italy’s incredibly rich Christian heritage.

I offer live online sessions for those groups or individuals who want informative, engaging deep-dives into the stories behind the masterpieces, as well as itinerary-planning assistance, or targeted cultural prep for travelers heading to Rome, Venice, or Florence.

Think of these as ways to enhance your travel investment—or simply to enrich your own understanding and appreciation of some of the Old World’s cultural gems. Either way, my goal is to help you move beyond the surface — and experience a more profound understanding of the masterpieces that define Christendom’s artistic legacy.

Send me a message if you’d like more information – or you can visit my website to learn more:

Beautiful Histories

Don’t just see. Comprehend.

Fiesole is a charming, ancient town in the hills above Florence. For centuries, wealthy Florentines—including the Medici—built villas here to escape the summer heat. It’s a wonderful place to spend an afternoon or a week, but the town has known profound sorrow.

Whenever I visit, I climb the steep hill to a jagged, modern monument. The story behind it was told to me by a man whose grandfather lived in Fiesole at the time.

In 1944, as WWII neared its end, the Nazis began retreating from Florence, bombing the city’s bridges as they left. However, they still occupied the heights of Fiesole.

The Nazis had forced Fiesole’s Carabinieri (national military police) to work for them them; however, the carabinieri officers were secretly aiding the Resistance.

When the Nazis discovered the subversion, they rounded up ten random civilians from the town. The ultimatum was simple and brutal: The hostages would be executed unless the missing carabinieri surrendered.

The ten hostages were locked in the basement of the Hotel Aurora, located on the town’s main square.

Three young officers—Alberto La Rocca, Vittorio Marandola, and Fulvio Sbarretti—had been hiding nearby in the town’s ancient Roman ruins. When they heard of the threat to the townspeople, they turned themselves in.

The Nazis interrogated them at the hotel, but the men refused to name names. Realizing they would never break, at 10:30 p.m. on August 12, 1944, the Nazis took the three young men, all in their 20s, into the hotel garden and executed them by firing squad.

This is a simplification of a more complex history; other officers were tortured and killed during the occupation as well. But these three are specifically honored because they voluntarily gave their lives to save ten neighbors.

Today, this stark monument sits in a beautiful setting, memorializing both the ugliness of hate and the beauty of a noble act.

I hope you’re enjoying the new life this season brings. March certainly blew in like a lion in my hometown!

For part of February and March I journeyed to some of my favorite places in Italy -- my first time visiting in the very early spring. I was alone quite a bit, so I was free to take my time to really look at and think about the things I saw.

Once, when I was visiting the Sistine Chapel, I noticed how many people weren’t really ‘looking,’ but only taking photos. I could tell by their comments that most of them knew very little about what they were looking at. It makes me think about how we “see” the world around us . . . and how often we miss the deeper story.

In this edition, I’d like to take you on a journey to really look at and analyze a 12^th-century masterpiece. For this, we’ll head to a small, quiet island in Italy.

Afterward, I’ll share an episode of my own back story: the chaotic but wonderful experience that changed my travel philosophy and led (years later) to the creation of Beautiful Histories.

Let’s go!

READING A LAST JUDGMENT SCENE THROUGH MEDIEVAL EYES

There’s something charming and mysterious about the medieval art and architecture of Western culture. It has a quirky innocence, perhaps born from the unique historical period in which it was created: an in-between time in Christendom when civilization was rebuilding and mankind did not yet view itself as the measure of all things.

Today we’re going to examine a medieval treasure through the lens of someone living around the year 1050 A.D. I’m excited to explore this with you because I find it so fascinating.

It’s in an old church on the marshy, almost uninhabited island of Torcello, in the northeast edge of the Venetian lagoon. But first, a bit about Torcello . . .

Torcello’s Past: The Island Where it All Began

Long before the Rialto Bridge or St. Mark’s Square existed, Torcello was the lagoon’s powerhouse. In fact, it was one of the earliest large settlements in what we know as Venice. Here’s a brief summary of its history:

· Way back in the 5th and 6th centuries, it became a sanctuary for people fleeing the chaos of “barbarian” invasions on the mainland. However, archaeological excavations indicate that long before those first refugees arrived, Torcello was a 1^st century Roman outpost.

· For a few hundred years, Torcello was a flourishing Byzantine trade hub, with a population of perhaps as many as 20,000. It was actually bigger and wealthier than its “younger sister,” Venice proper.

· Around the 12th century, the tide turned—literally. Trade moved to the deeper waters of Venice, the population dwindled due to relocation and malaria, and Torcello was slowly reclaimed by the silt and silence. Eventually, most of its palaces and buildings were scavenged for construction projects on the other islands.

Today, only a handful of people live there, with a few surviving structures that whisper about a lost population. One of those survivors is the Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta, and inside its doors is a panoramic vision of the afterlife that remains as startlingly vivid today as it was nearly a thousand years ago.

Entering the Cathedral

We enter the cathedral from the west, looking toward the altar on the east end, which is the traditional, liturgical orientation of the church.

If we turn around and look back at where we just entered, we’ll see the incredible 11^th - 12^th century mosaic cycle of The Last Judgment. It’s sometimes still referred to as the “Doomsday Mosaic” – doomsday being an archaic word for the day of judgment.

(By the way, if you notice me using both “cathedral” and “basilica” referring to this church, that’s because it’s both a former cathedral – the seat of a bishop, and also a minor basilica, notable for its historical importance as well as its basilica architectural style.)

In old churches like this, it was traditional to place depictions of the Last Judgment on the west side, either on the exterior, or just inside the west entrance. The idea was to keep the reality of a final judgment before worshipers as a constant reminder that the choice they made in life was extremely important and would determine their fate in the next world. (If you travel and visit historic churches, look for examples on the west end.)

So, as you enter from the west, you figuratively pass through judgment, and you progress eastward toward redemption, represented by the altar.

Our focus is this famous The Last Judgment.

Three things before we get started:

1) Once you know how to ‘read’ this version, you’ll be well-equipped to interpret other medieval depictions of the Last Judgment you may encounter in your travels, such Michelangelo’s in the Sistine Chapel, Giotto’s in the Scrovegni Chapel, or the carved depiction on the façade of Amiens Cathedral, to name a few.

2) Photos aren’t allowed in Santa Maria Assunta, so the quality and number of my photos are limited.

3) It’s helpful to remember that back then, art wasn’t mere decoration. It preached, exhorted, inspired, and warned. Everything carried meaning.

Why is this very old mosaic cycle relevant, you may be wondering? In Western civilization, as the knowledge of our history, culture, and scripture diminishes, it falls on those of us who care about these things to preserve the stories about the wonders of the past.

This incredible image – a wall-full of tiny bits of gold and colored glass, unfolds its narrative in stratified segments. We’ll start at the beginning and read it from the top down:

1^st Register: The Crucifixion of Christ

· The cycle begins with the crucifixion of a Savior who died, not in defeat but to achieve a great victory.

o In artistic tradition, the two people most typically present in a crucifixion scene are Mary, the mother of Jesus, and John the Evangelist.

· Mary presents Jesus to us as “the Way.” In His death, He provided the way to life. When we see Mary presenting Him to us like this, she’s called a Hodegetria – “she who shows the way.”

· John, the youngest evangelist, is traditionally depicted beardless, with soft features, to indicate his youth. (Such standards for representing the saints were for the purpose of allowing everyone to identify the people in the image.)

· The scene contains many of the hallmarks of a Crucifixion scene:

o The sign above Jesus’ head, placed there in mockery, though ironically true: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”

o Christ’s pierced hands, feet, and side

o The small black mound under the cross represents Golgotha (the “Place of the Skull”), the hill on which Jesus was crucified. And a tiny skull that carries a dual meaning: It represents both Golgotha and also Adam – signifying the curse of death that came to the world because of the sin of the first man, which has been atoned for and reversed by the death of God in the flesh.

2^nd Register: The Harrowing of Hell

Depictions like this are also called “Descent into Limbo,” and, in the context of Byzantine and Eastern Christian art, “Anastasis.” In this event (which isn’t literally included in the New Testament), immediately after Christ’s death and resurrection, He descended into hell (probably actually Hades or Limbo), preaching the good news of His salvation and liberating faithful souls.

A brief comment about Hades or Limbo: From the earliest days of Christianity there has been a tradition that there is some kind of in-between place after death but before the final judgment -- for people who lived before Christ, for example. Or a place souls went to in the interim between their death and Christ’s resurrection. It’s usually understood as the place of death, rather than the place of punishment -- a “holding place” for the dead. It should not be confused with the concept of Purgatory.

· On the far left are two large figures, King David and King Solomon, royal ancestors of Jesus.

· On the right, behind John the Baptist, are the 16 prophets of the Old Testament (Isaiah through Malachi) – who foretold the coming of a Savior.

· The tiny figures below are souls awaiting liberation in prayer. (These, with raised hand gestures, palms outward, are called orant figures, which means they are praying.)

· The whole scene of the Harrowing of Hell is framed on either side by two imposing figures of the archangels Michael and Gabriel.

3^rd Register: Heavenly Intercession

Moving down to the third level, we see those who have already been gathered to heaven, with Jesus – the risen Christ, seated on the throne. Behind Him are what appear to be martyrs, holding stylized palm branches. Let’s examine some of the details:

· The Greek letters on either side of Christ are an abbreviation for Jesus Christ.

· The oval that encircles Christ is called a “mandorla,” basically a full-body halo.

· On either side of Jesus, Mary and John the Baptist intercede for the salvation of humanity. (When you see a grouping of these three in a Last Judgment scene, with Mary and the Baptist in the orants position, it’s called a deësis, which literally means ‘humble petition.’

· Seated on either side of the deësis group are the apostles, with Peter and Paul in the places of highest honor.

o Peter is on Christ’s right (our left), and still holds the keys to the kingdom (so that we can recognize him). True to artistic convention, he has short gray hair and a short square gray beard. He looks out at us, making the sign of blessing.

o Paul is on Christ’s left (our right). True to artistic convention, Paul holds a book (representing his writings), and he has brown hair, a receding hairline, and a long, tapered beard.

· Below Christ’s feet are some strange-looking creatures and symbols:

o In the center, the wheels and the river of fire flowing downward from the throne are references to visions of the prophets Daniel and Ezekiel.

o The odd-looking angels (cherubim) are described in the books of Ezekiel and Revelation. These represented in the mosaic are a composite of the descriptions in Ezekiel and Revelation: Heavenly beings with multiple wings, four faces (man, eagle, lion, and ox), and covered with eyes.

4^th Register: Preparing for the Final Judgment

In the center is an Etimasia (or Hetoimasia), which is an empty throne prepared for the Last Judgment. This concept of an Etimasia is very rare in the West, and was rarely depicted after the Middle Ages.

· A Bible (or, alternatively, “the Book of Life”) rests upon the throne, which awaits Christ, the righteous Judge.

· Behind the throne are the symbols of Christ’s suffering (the cross, crown of thorns, spear, and sponge) that make Him worthy to sit upon the throne.

· Two cherubim and two archangels guard the throne.

· Adam and Eve, representing all of humanity (which is their offspring), kneel in supplication before the throne.

On the far left, angels sound the last trumpets and the earth and beasts give up the dead.

· People wrapped in shrouds and strips of linen rise from their graves, and wild animals (including, interestingly, an elephant) spit out the dead.

· This indicated that no matter how you die, in the last day you’ll be recalled to life for the final judgment.

Just to the right of the center throne, we see an angel with a star-covered scroll, a quaintly literal depiction of Revelation 6:14: “The sky receded like a scroll when it is rolled up.”

Farther to the right, angels summon the seas to give up the dead.

· The waters of the earth are personified here as a woman.

· The fish in the seas and the beast on which she sits spit out the bodies (and body parts) of the dead who perished in the waters.

5^th Register: The Final Reckoning – Reward or Punishment

In the center, above the doorway, we see the Archangel Michael, who traditionally weighs the souls of men. He holds the scales as two demons try to tip the balance in order to send souls to hell. (In the Bible, Satan is called “the accuser of the brethren,” indicating that perhaps he himself will be testifying against God’s people in an attempt to damn them.)

In the center of all this, directly over the door, Mary (orants) intercedes for humanity. There is an inscription above her that calls on her to pray to her divine Son to cleanse us from sins.

On the left are the blessed, those who have believed in Christ’s offer of life and have been gathered to heaven.

On the right, the damned are driven into the fiery realm of Lucifer.

· Among the damned are images of rulers, religious figures, and different nationalities.

· This seems to make the point that, when we stand before God, we will all be equal and judged by the same standards.

· Satan (Lucifer) is enthroned in the flames, holding the Antichrist – a blasphemous counterfeit to God and His Chosen One.

6^th Register: Souls Enter Heaven or Hell

In the bottom level and final chapter of the story, souls receive their eternal rewards. To me, this is the most interesting level.

Let’s look first at the left side:

· The setting is paradise, lush with grass, flowers and trees.

· On the far left, we see Abraham, the Patriarch of the faith. He holds a tiny soul, and others gather around him. Three passages of Scripture are helpful in understanding this reference:

o First, in the twelfth chapter of Genesis, God calls Abraham to set out and leave his home. Abraham believes God and obeys. God makes a promise to him that “all peoples on earth will be blessed through you.” God counted Abraham’s belief as righteousness.

o Then, in the New Testament Letter to the Galatians, the apostle Paul writes that “those who have faith are children of Abraham,” and that “if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.”

o Finally, in Luke’s gospel, Luke records a story told by Jesus about a rich man, who had everything he could possibly want, and a wretched beggar named Lazarus, who was weakened by illness and covered with sores. Lazarus had been dumped outside the rich man’s gate and hoped to be fed by the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table. At some point, both men died. The rich man, tormented in the flames of hell, looked up and saw the beggar Lazarus embraced in the bosom of Abraham.

o So, the souls in this image are being welcomed to Abraham’s embrace. Because they chose to believe (like Abraham did), they are home and recognized as true members of the family of God – regardless of how poor, sick, or messed up they were on earth.

· The center figure is the Virgin, praying. (She’s everywhere!)

· Next, on the far right of this left-hand section, we see St. Peter, kneeling by the door to paradise, waiting to welcome souls in.

o An angel stands behind him, and one of the cherubim stands inside the doorway guarding the entrance.

o Just to the left of the door of paradise is the thief on the cross from the gospel of Luke, who, in the last moments of his life, said to Christ, “Jesus, remember me when you come into Your kingdom,” and Jesus replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

And finally, let’s decipher the grim scenes on the right side of the doorway, where six categories of sins are represented. The punishments follow the principle of lex talionis (an old legal principle whereby the punishment reflected the crime). Moving from left to right, top to bottom:

· First are the lustful, consumed in the flames of their passions.

· Next to them are four naked gluttons, two of them biting their own hands.

· The next is almost impossible to make out today, but it represents two wrathful souls. Here, the punishment for anger is submersion in cold, dark waters.

· On the bottom left are the envious, reduced to skulls in utter blackness, with snakes coming out of their eye sockets.

· In the center are the misers – those who were selfish and mercenary in life. They are severed heads, but even in the flames, some still wear the jewels that in life, showed off their wealth.

· Finally, in the bottom right – again in utter darkness – are the lazy, or indolent, who didn’t want to use their minds, hands or feet to do honest work.

These medieval images may seem strange or even disturbing, but once you understand the “grammar” of the era, the shimmering gold and glass begin to tell a profound tale of justice, hope, and the medieval Christian worldview.

In some ways, these mosaics are a window into a distant past, but they were intended as a threshold: As you leave the holy space of the basilica to re-enter the world, you’re confronted with a vision of the end of history. For the worshippers at Torcello, the Last Judgment was the final image they carried back into the sunlight of the lagoon. It was a powerful visual mandate to live with a consciousness of eternity long after the church doors closed behind you.

If you plan to visit Torcello to see this remarkable work in person, keep reading for some tips and recommendations!

Traveler’s Toolkit: Torcello and Santa Maria Assunta

My first and most important tip for seeing the church: Check beforehand, including on the day you plan to visit, that the church will be open. (It’s generally open from 10:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.)

Best times to visit: In tourist season (which is basically April – October, summer being the worst), I recommend going in the morning, to be there as it opens, or in the late afternoon when crowds are beginning to thin. Since Burano is nearby, you might consider visiting both islands the same day. I recommend seeing Torcello first, because Burano has gotten very crowded – often, the later you visit Burano, the better.

How to get there: Unless you want to pay for an expensive water taxi or take an excursion, it’s easy to get there by vaporetto from Fondamente Nove on the northern edge of Venice.

· From Fondamente Nove, take Line 12 (usually departing from the Fte Nove “A” platform). Sometimes it goes straight to Torcello, and sometimes you have to get off at Burano and change to Line 9. Just ask the attendant after you board, between stops.

· Have your ticket or pass to scan as you enter the loading platform.

· It’s about a 40-minute ride northeast across the water to Torcello.

Once you land, just follow the long walkway along the canal – it will lead you to the church. Actually, there are two churches side-by-side. The first one you’ll see is the 11^th-12^th century Santa Fosca.

Before you enter:

In front of the basilica, you’ll see the remains of the 7^th century baptistry. The walls are gone, but a large shallow basin remains. Sometimes it’s filled with water. Last time I was there, some baby ducks were paddling around in it.

In the courtyard are architectural fragments salvaged from Torcello and the ancient Roman city of Altino. They include:

• Roman Remains: Look for fragments of funerary altars, sarcophagi, and classical capitals dating back to the 1st and 2nd centuries AD.

• Architectural “Orphans”: Early medieval capitals and parts of columns.

Many of the fragments aren’t just lying on the ground; they are spolia, physically built into or attached to the walls.

Many of the fragments aren’t just lying on the ground; they are spolia, physically built into the walls.

The most famous “fragment” in the courtyard is the large stone chair known as the Throne of Attila, which had no actual connection with Attila, but was a 5^th or 6^th century bishop’s or magistrate’s seat. Traditionally, if you sit in it, you’ll one day return to Torcello.

The Campanile

If you’re in good physical condition, and don’t have mobility issues, and it isn’t too hot, climb the thousand-year-old bell tower. The reason I emphasize your physical condition is because it is a steep, sometimes slightly slippery ascent, and there’s not really a good place to stop and catch your breath on the way up.

It’s the oldest preserved bell tower in the entire Venetian archipelago and has great views of the island and the distant Venetian skyline.

Inside the Basilica

In addition to taking in the magnificent Last Judgment mosaic, be sure to notice:

· The impressive medieval flooring

· The pulpit (believed to be one of the basilica’s oldest surviving items – from the original church of 639 A.D.

· And the iconostasis, made of 11^th-century carved marble slabs (plutei) below, and thirteen icons depicting Mary and the twelve Apostles above. It was recently restored by Save Venice in collaboration with the Patriarchate of Venice.

The Island

There are public restrooms nearby, behind the museum area. You’ll probably need coins. I think they close at 4 p.m.

After you visit the church, take a stroll behind it or follow some of the other footpaths and try to picture Venice proper once looking like this in its early days.

Dining

There are a few good places to eat on the island. Here are some suggestions (and please, if you’ve found another good dining option on the island, I’d love to hear about it!):

· Ristorante Villa ‘600: This is my personal favorite – for lunch, dinner, or just a glass of prosecco and some gelato. In nice weather, you sit outside with a lovely view of the grounds. The staff is generally very nice. It’s a 2-minute walk from the basilica, as if you’re heading back to the vaporetto landing. Not cheap, but not outrageous, either.

· Locanda Cipriani: If you want to splurge on fine dining for your Torcello outing, make reservations for Locanda Cipriani. (Note: It’s been closed for a while, but should be reopening sometime this spring, as far as I know.)

If you enjoyed this journey through the “Doomsday Mosaic” and the suggestions for visiting Torcello, would you consider sharing this edition with a friend?

Beautiful Histories grows best through word-of-mouth among fellow travelers, history lovers, and armchair culturalists. You can simply forward this email or click the “Share” button below to share it on your favorite social space.

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(And, if you’d like to read more about Torcello or medieval mosaics, I’d be happy to share my bibliography with you.)

How an experience with a bunch of theater people changed me (the most undramatic person in the Western Hemisphere) and led to Beautiful Histories

Picture this: A shy history major, knee-deep in the British past, hears about a study abroad opportunity to England, Wales, and Ireland. Yay! But there’s a catch. It’s a drama department program. My life was (and still is) guided by the mandate: Avoid drama.

But this was my best shot at the U.K. for a low cost, so I signed up.

For six weeks before we flew out, we lived in seminars. We studied the U.K.’s geography, transportation, theater culture, currency, key historic sites, and “the King’s English.” At the same time, I was immersed in British history and literature in my own degree program.

Because of this targeted preparation, when we finally arrived, we could fully focus on what mattered, rather than processing a truckload of new information all at once.

We arrived with context and built-up anticipation — two pillars of great travel.

But it was DRAMA. All the time. Dance routines on motorcoaches. Singing in restaurants. Scenes from Kiss Me Kate on the Tube. Showtunes in castles. Monologues in monasteries.

Over time my memories have faded and I don’t remember each individual, but I do remember Belinda, my roommate, who immediately looted each hotel room we stayed in.

And me? Even though I was in a perpetual state of embarrassment, I was over the moon! Everything felt familiar. In Ireland I cried over tombstones of entire families who died, one by one, in the Potato Famine. I wandered among ruins inflicted by Oliver Cromwell’s troops. In England I walked in the footsteps of William Shakespeare, Queen Elizabeth I, John Wesley, the Brontës, Winston Churchill . . . and because I knew their stories, the places associated with them came alive.

That trip redefined how I travel. For one thing, I learned to loosen up and be more flexible! But I also learned the immense value of pre-travel preparation. Although these days my focus is in Italy, the reality is the same. There are basically two ways to visit a country:

1. The Blur: You arrive knowing nothing, spend your energy on logistics and/or follow a tour guide around in a state of information overload. You leave with vague, superficial memories. (I can’t tell you how many long lines of shuffling, dead-eyed, audio-headset-wearing tourists I’ve seen in Venice.)

2. The Pre-Immersion: You arrive equipped because you know the “how-to’s” and the context. You’re prepared for a meaningful, memorable engagement with the destination and able to break free from tour guides.

Think of the Sistine Chapel or St. Mark’s Basilica. Without context, they’re just crowded spaces covered with art. But with the right preparation? You aren’t just looking at a ceiling; you’re ‘reading’ Michelangelo’s account of the Creation and witnessing the result of his intense four-year creative process. You aren’t just standing in a church in Venice; you’re standing inside a medieval masterpiece that tells the story of a seafaring empire, every surface covered with shimmering mosaics that depict the Bible in pictures.

This is exactly why I created Beautiful Histories. To help mindful travelers step straight into the story and have the best possible experience in Italy.

Beautiful Histories is for the traveler who wants to move past “hit-and-run” sightseeing and swap information overload for meaningful engagement. If you’re contemplating a trip to Italy and want a deep-dive experience in Italian art and architecture before you go – as well as travel tips -- I’d love to help.

Learn More about BH!

Don’t Just see. Comprehend.

Thanks for reading to the end – this was a long one! If you made it this far, please say hello in the comments; I’d love to hear from you. Watch your inbox next month for our next “deep dive”!

I hope your year is off to a beautiful start and you’re feeling motivated for the year ahead. It’s currently chilly where I am, and here I sit in my warm bathrobe with a mug of coffee and pocketful of chocolate -- but my mind is already halfway across the Atlantic.

There’s something about the start of a new year that makes us dream about where we want to go and who we want to be. That’s why, for this first edition, I wanted to start with a bit of a manifesto — what I call my ‘soapbox.’ It’s about the cultural treasures we’ve inherited in the West and why reacquainting ourselves with them is beneficial and worthwhile.

The Gift of Cultural Fluency: No Longer Strangers to Our Own Heritage

Imagine inheriting a magnificent palace. It’s filled with the world’s greatest art, wisdom, and history, yet the doors are locked because you never learned to turn the key.

Or, imagine standing inside a soaring Gothic cathedral. Without context, it’s just stone and mortar. But when we have a bit of context and understanding, those stones begin to speak of history, devotion, and age-old traditions.

We in the Americas and Europe are the inheritors of wonderful treasures of Western civilization, but in general, we know little of them. From the masterpieces in our great museums to awe-inspiring architecture, these tangible reminders of our past hold great meaning, yet we’ve forgotten how to read them. We need to reclaim cultural fluency.

Did you know that...

• The 29-Second Glance: While millions flock to museums every year, studies published in 2001 and 2017 showed that on average a visitor spends less than 29 seconds looking at a masterpiece? And, for most visitors in the study, it was more like 10 seconds. We’ve mastered the art of “seeing,” but we’ve lost the habit of “beholding.”†

• The Architectural Gap: A 2020 Harris poll showed that although the majority of people said they appreciate historic architecture, fewer than 1 in 4 could identify the basic styles or the stories behind the symbols – even those that define their own cities. ††

• Passive vs. Active Engagement: A 2021 study by the American History Association indicated that while 43% of Americans frequently watch history-focused shows, only 17% frequently research historical topics to gain a deeper understanding. ††† This suggests a shift from active literacy (research/reading) to passive consumption.

• We’re living in a “Great Disconnect”: We have constant access to more art and history than any generation in human history, yet for the most part, we are less equipped than ever to understand the Christian and classical languages they speak.

  

  By the way, I’m using the term ‘cultural fluency’ to describe something different than just schooling: It’s a basic understanding and appreciation of the art, traditions, history, and faith of our past – the essential ‘grammar’ of Western civilization that lets us go beyond awareness to comprehension.

  To be culturally fluent is to stop being a stranger in our own culture. (The good news: It’s never too late!) It’s the satisfaction of looking at a Renaissance canvas or a classical facade and understanding its meaning – as well as the spirit and circumstances that brought it to life. By reconnecting with the art, faith, and thought that built the West, we become partakers and preservers of a grand tradition.

  

  I promise I’ll try to stay off soapboxes in future newsletters, where we’ll be exploring the beauty of our European cultural heritage. These explorations, I hope, will be of interest to travelers and non-travelers, alike! Each month we’ll take a deep-dive exploration of a famous work of art or architecture, and I’ll also share things like travel tips and suggestions of great places to visit or read about.

  And now, it’s almost time for me to ditch my bathrobe, get dressed, and face the day!

  I’m glad you’re here. Let’s stop being strangers to our own culture and engage with it together.

  P.S.: I’ve put together a little something to go along with today’s thoughts—a printable guide for those of us trying to reclaim a bit of ‘cultural fluency’ in our busy lives. You’ll find the link at the bottom of this letter.

Coming Up Next Month: A Medieval Masterpiece

In our next edition, we’ll set out from the shores of Venice and cross the lagoon to the quiet island of Torcello to “read” its magnificent 12th-century Last Judgment mosaic.

Plus:

• Traveler’s Toolkit: How to get to Torcello, the best time to visit, and my personal dining recommendations for the island.

• The Origin Story: I’ll be sharing some highlights from my very first trip to Europe — where I, a shy history student, found myself traversing the U.K. with the university drama department. It was a study in contrasts, to say the least!

Don’t just visit the monuments and masterpieces of the past—learn to speak their language.

† Empirical Studies of the Arts (2001) and Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts (2017). †† 2020 Harris Poll for the National Civic Art Society. ††† 2021 National Survey, “History, the Past, and Public Culture,” American Historical Association (AHA).

Thank you for reading! Are you ready to start brushing up on your cultural fluency? Download this free guide called “The Armchair Culturalist” that has six simple (and painless) ways to reconnect with the foundations of Western Civilization right from your own home.

Download The Armchair Culturalist