The Perfect House: A Journey with Renaissance Master Andrea Palladio (5 page)

The final step of the makeover involved finding a more impressive name than Andrea di Pietro. Renaissance architects regularly adopted professional names. Jacopo Sansovino was born Tatti; Giulio Pippi de’ Giannuzzi, a Roman expatriate practicing in the Venetian Republic, called himself Giulio Romano, or simply Giulio. The mellifluously named Michele Sanmicheli had adopted the name of his birthplace, San Micheli,
a village near Verona. Andrea di Pietro might have become Andrea Padovano, or Andrea Vicentino. Instead he took a far grander name: Andrea Palladio. It is generally assumed that Trissino proposed the name since he later used it in an epic poem. The Latin
palladius
means pertaining to sagacity, knowledge, or study, and is derived from Pallas Athena, the goddess of wisdom. It is a name to live up to.

An architect, however impressive his name, needs clients, and in Vicenza that meant the
nobili,
or patrician class. Trissino’s judgment in such matters was widely respected. If he considered Andrea Palladio an architect, that would have been good enough for his wide circle of friends. In 1540, before the villa at Lonedo was finished, Pietro Godi recorded several separate payments to “Master Andrea, Architect.” This is the oldest surviving record in which Andrea di Pietro, now known as Andrea Palladio, is called an architect. The transition from craftsman to architect was hardly instantaneous, however, for a year later legal documents still referred to Palladio as a “stonemason.”
²⁵

One might have expected that to please Trissino and show off what he had learned, Palladio would incorporate classical elements into the design of the Godi house. He did no such thing. Although the three-arch loggia echoed a similar arrangement at Cricoli, it only served to underline the differences between the two designs. Trissino’s delicate façade, with its carefully copied classical ornament, appears brittle compared to Palladio’s sturdy proportions, his heavy massing and simplified details. Taking Cornaro’s teaching to heart, Palladio made the Godi house “comfortable and beautiful” without incorporating classical orders. This may simply have been the guarded prudence of a novice, but it was also a clear signal that while he may have owed his new name to another, he intended to be his own man.

 • • • 

I return the next day to the Lonedo hilltop where the Villa Godi is perched. The house is officially closed, but the caretaker recognizes me from my previous visit and lets me in. I want to take a more leisurely look at the interior. The walls of the rooms are a cavalcade of Greek and Roman gods, legendary heroes, and cherubs, as well as landscapes, battle trophies, cornucopias, garlands, and swags. They cover every square inch. These figures, motifs, and patterns are applied in what was called
buon fresco,
a demanding technique that involved painting with water-based pigments on fresh, moist plaster. There was no room for error; the application of the pigment had to be swift and accurate, as the plaster stayed wet only one day. The themes at Godi are distinctly classical. In one room, a heavy painted beam runs around the room, as if supporting the ceiling, and is held aloft by monumental female statues. Between the statues are glimpses of a naturally rendered countryside peopled by reclining poets and watchful muses. On the walls of another room are the ruins of
a Roman temple, with Olympian gods populating the sky above the crumbling columns. The sole plaster ceiling is frescoed with a monumental oval depicting a beautiful woman (Virtue) standing over a hideous man in chains (Vice). The walls and the vaulted ceiling of the loggia are likewise painted with allegorical themes. The grandest decoration is naturally reserved for the
sala,
which is done up like an art gallery, with grand paintings in gilt frames—the
Rape of Europa,
the
Labors of Hercules
—all frescoed.

T
HE MOUNTAINTOP OF
L
ONEDO

All the rooms are defined by a trompe l’oeil framework of architectural elements: columns, architraves, friezes, cornices, dadoes, and decorative moldings. This fictive architecture—and it is definitely architecture—is rendered in shadowed, three-dimensional perspective. The textures of faux marble and stone are so convincing that I find myself touching a door surround to check whether it is a facsimile or the real thing. Real windows and doors have imaginary counterparts on the opposite side of the room. The artist doesn’t stop there. While some of the painted figures in the niches are white marble statues, others are rendered in lifelike colors and give the spooky impression that they are about to step off their pedestals. Realistic putti cavort just below the ceiling, their pink buttocks hanging saucily over the edge of the architrave. The frescoes not only depict allegorical classical themes and an architectural framework but also represent a whimsical illusion of reality. In one of the painted doors, a life-size man lifts the curtain for his companion and beckons him into the room. Elsewhere, a mischievous little boy sits on a ledge. In the hall, where painted windows complete with window seats echo the real thing, a relaxed gentleman in doublet and hose occupies one of the seats. Although the décor refers to ancient Rome, the ghostlike personages that look out at me from the walls are dressed in contemporary—that is, sixteenth-century—clothes. They both decorate and inhabit the space.

T
HE FRESCOES AT THE
V
ILLA
G
ODI DEPICT HUMAN FIGURES AS WELL AS TROMPE L’OEIL ARCHITECTURAL DETAILS.

Many of Palladio’s villas are frescoed. It is impossible not to be struck by the extreme contrast between the vivid style of the interiors and the simplicity of the exteriors, particularly in the case of the austere Godi house. In the past this led some historians to conclude that the frescoes were an afterthought. Lacking evidence to the contrary, it was also assumed that Palladio had nothing to do with the design of the frescoes, which were therefore regarded as distinct from his architectural vision. This attitude was summed up by Banister Fletcher, who observed that “interior decoration seems to have been somewhat neglected by our master, owing no doubt to a shortage of funds.”
²⁶
According to others, the rich décor actually undermined Palladio’s design intentions.

The Godi frescoes were not begun until about 1552—that is, a decade after the villa was completed. The painter Gualtiero Padovano completed the loggia and the rooms in the south wing, and then unexpectedly—he was in his fifties—died. His replacement was a talented young painter named Giambattista Zelotti, who finished the work (except for one room that was painted by Battista del Moro). Before the painting began, Palladio was called back to Lonedo for additional work. He was asked to design a new main window for the
sala.
The original window was a thermal or Diocletian window—that is, a high, arched opening modeled on the windows found in Diocletian’s Roman baths, or
thermae.
Palladio replaced this with the
serliana
that is there today. It is unclear exactly why this expensive alteration was made. Maybe Pietro Godi, who supervised this phase of the work, had his own ideas of what was fashionable. Some historians believe the window was altered to make more space for the frescoes.
²⁷
In any case, an entry in Pietro Godi’s account
book reads: “Palladio. Gave him today, 4th July [1550] for the drawing of the Hall, one Hungarian crown [worth] 7 lire 14 soldi.”
^III
,
28

The drawing in question has recently come to light.
²⁹
It is of paramount importance, writes Douglas Lewis, a curator at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., who unearthed it, “because its subject represents an aspect of Palladio’s artistic creativity that has been unsuspected.”
³⁰
The drawing is what architects call an interior elevation, a view of one of the walls of the
sala,
the west wall opposite the
serliana.
It shows the frescoed architectural elements—pediment, pilasters, niches, dado. The entrance door and a ventilating grille are skillfully integrated into the composition (the east wall has a frescoed version of the same grille). The area for the figurative painting (Zelotti’s
Rape of Europa
) is blank, and the statues in the niches are likewise left to the painter’s discretion, but detailed notes specify the character of the surrounding decorative elements: “military trophies,” “festoons,” “gold frames,” “cornice similar to the other [wall].” This drawing, in Palladio’s hand, is conclusive evidence that the trompe l’oeil architectural framework frescoed on the walls of the Villa Godi is, in fact, his design. Since there is a record of eight comparable payments, it appears likely that he made similar drawings—since lost—for the other rooms. The frescoes, far from being extraneous, are an integral part of the architectural conception.

Palladio, who must have been inspired by Alvise Cornaro’s endorsement of frescoes as a practical alternative to tapestries and wall hangings, probably recommended Padovano, who was part of Cornaro’s Paduan circle. Nor is there any doubt that
Palladio was pleased with the results. “This gentleman [Godi], who has the most exquisite taste, has entirely ignored the expense and chosen the most gifted and remarkable painters of our time,” he wrote.
Per redurla a quella eccellenza & perfettione, che sia possibile
: “In order to make it as outstanding and perfect as possible.”
³¹
And so it is.

^I
The
serliana
originated in antiquity and was revived by Bramante. It is named after the architect Sebastiano Serlio, who popularized it in a widely read treatise.

^II
Not in any sexual sense—Trissino had a reputation as a ladies’ man.

^III
A modest payment since a pair of men’s trousers cost about three lire.

must have driven by the house without realizing it. I know that I’m in the right hamlet—Bagnolo di Lonigo—but there is no sign of a Palladio villa. The building is supposed to be next to a river, but there’s no water either; the highway is lined with small houses on one side and a massive grassy embankment on the other. A marker announces the next town, confirming that I’ve gone too far, so I turn the car around and head back. Rounding a curve, I glimpse a small arrow indicating “Villa Pisani.” I miss the turnoff and again make a U-turn, not easy with trucks barreling up and down the road. A narrow track ramps up to the top of the embankment, which turns out to be a dyke enclosing the narrow Guà River. On the other side, a large roof sticking out of the trees must be the villa.

The road crosses a small bridge, and a short, tree-lined gravel drive leads down to a closed gate. There are two cars parked haphazardly among the trees, and I pull up beside them, get out, and ring the buzzer. A young woman dressed in jeans and a white shirt appears.

“Is it possible to visit the house?” I ask hopefully, knowing that some villa owners restrict access to visitors.