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Knights of Art -
The Bellini On-line
images of art at Web Gallery
of Art: Almost
all the stories of the lives of the painters which we have been
listening to, until now, have clustered round Florence, the City of
Flowers. She was their great mother, and her sons loved her with a deep,
passionate love, thinking nothing too fair with which to deck her
beauty. Wherever they wandered she drew them back, for their very
heartstrings were wound around her, and each and all strove to give her
of their best. But
now we come to the stories of men whose lives gather round a different
centre. Instead of the great mother-city beside the Arno, with her
strong towers and warlike citizens, the noise of battle ever sounding in
her streets, and her flowery fields encircling her on every side, we
have now Venice, Queen of the Sea. Miracle of the True Cross by
Gentile Bellini No
warlike tread or tramp of angry crowds disturbs her fair streets, for
here are no pavements, only the cool green water which laps the walls of
her marble palaces, and gives back the sound of the dipping oar and the
soft echo of passing voices, as the gondolas glide along her watery
ways. Here are no grim grey towers of defence, but fairy palaces of
white and coloured marbles, which rise from the waters below as if they
had been built by the sea nymphs, who had fashioned them of their own
sea- shells and mother-of-pearl. There
are no flowery meadows here, but instead the vast waters of the lagoons,
which reach out until they meet the blue arc of the sky or touch the
distant mountains which lie like a purple line upon the horizon. Here
and there tiny islands lie upon its bosom, so faint and fairylike that
they scarcely seem like solid land, reflected as they are in the
transparent water. But
although Venice has no meadows decked with flowers and no wealth of
blossoming trees, everywhere on every side she shines with colour, this
wonderful sea-girt city. Her white marble palaces glow with a soft amber
light, the cool green water that reflects her beauty glitters in rings
of gold and blue, changing from colour to colour as each ripple changes
its form. At sunset, when the sun disappears over the edge of the lagoon
and leaves behind its trail of shining clouds, she is like a dream-city
rising from a sea of molten gold--a double city, for in the pure gold is
reflected each tower and spire, each palace and campanile, in masses of
pale yellow and quivering white light, with here and there a burning
touch of flame colour. She seems to have no connection with the solid,
ordinary cities of the world. There she lies in all her beauty, silent
and apart, like a white sea-bird floating upon the bosom of the ocean. Young Bacchus by Giovanni
Bellini Venice
had always seemed separate and distinct from the rest of the world. Her
cathedral of San Marco was never under the rule of Rome, and her rulers, or doges, as they were called, governed the city as
kings, and did not trouble themselves with the affairs of other towns.
Her merchant princes sailed to far countries and brought home precious
spoils to add to her beauty. Everything was as rich and rare and
splendid as it was possible to make it, and she was unlike any other
city on earth. So
the painters who lived and worked in this city of the sea had their own
special way of painting, which was different to that of the Florentine
school. From
their babyhood these men had looked upon all this beauty of colour, and
the love of it had grown with their growth. The golden light on the
water, the pearly-grey and tinted marbles, the gay sails of the galleys
which swept the lagoons like painted butterflies, the wide stretch of
water ending in the mystery of the distant skyline--it all sank into
their hearts, and it was little wonder that they should strive to paint
colour above all things, and at last reach a perfection such as no other
school of painters has equalled. As
with the Florentine artists, so with these Venetian painters, we must
leave many names unnoticed just now, and learn first to know those which
shine out clearest among the many bright stars of fame. Portrait of a Young Man by
Giovanni Bellini In
the beginning of the fifteenth century, four hundred years ago, when Fra
Filippo Lippi was painting in Florence, there lived in Venice a certain
Jacopo Bellini, who was a painter, and who had two sons called Gentile
and Giovanni. The father taught his boys with great care, and gave them
the best training he could,
for he was anxious that his sons should become great painters. He saw
that they were both clever and quick to learn, and he hoped great things
of them. `Never
do less than your very best,' he would say, as he taught the boys how to
draw and use their colours. `See how the Tuscan artists strive with one
another, each desiring to do most honour to their city of Florence. So,
Gentile, I would have thee also strive to be great; and thou, Giovanni,
endeavour to be even greater than thy brother.' But
though the boys were thus taught to try and outdo each other, still they
were always the best of friends, and there was never any unkind rivalry
between them. Gentile,
the eldest, was fond of painting story pictures, which told the history
of Venice, and showed the magnificent doges, and nobles, and people of
the city, dressed in their rich robes. The Venetians loved pictures
which showed forth the glory of their city, and very soon Gentile was
invited to paint the walls of the Ducal Palace with his historical
pictures. Madonna of the Meadow by
Giovanni Bellini
Now
Venice carried on a great trade with her ships, which sailed to many
foreign lands. These ships, loaded with merchandise, touched at
different ports, and the merchants sold their goods or took in exchange
other things which they brought back to Venice. It happened that one of
the ships which set sail for Turkey had on board among other things
several pictures painted by Giovanni Bellini. These were shown to the
Sultan of Turkey, who had never seen
a picture before, and he was amazed and delighted beyond words. His
religion forbade the making of pictures, but he paid no attention now to
that law, but sent a messenger to Venice praying that the painter
Bellini might come to him at once. The
rulers of Venice were unwilling to spare Giovanni just then, but they
allowed Gentile to go, as his work at the Ducal Palace was finished. So
Gentile took his canvases and paints, and, setting sail in one of the
merchant ships, soon arrived at the court of the Grand Turk. Portrait of a Condottiere by
Giovanni Bellini He
was received with every honour, and nothing was thought too good for
this wonderful painter, who could make pictures which looked like living
men. The Sultan loaded him with gifts and favours, and he lived there
like a royal prince. Each picture painted by Gentile was thought more
wonderful than the last. He painted a portrait of the Sultan, and even
one of himself, which was considered little short of magic. Thus
a whole year passed by, and Gentile had a most delightful time and was
well contented, until one day something happened which disturbed his
peace. He
had painted a picture of the dancing daughter of Herodias, with the head
of John the Baptist in her hand, and when it was finished he brought it
and presented it to the Sultan. As
usual, the Sultan was charmed with the new picture; but he paused in his
praises of its beauty, and looked thoughtfully at the head of St. John,
and then frowned. Portrait of Doge Loredan by
Giovanni Bellini `It
seems to me,' he said, `that there is something not quite right about
that head. I do not think a head which had just been cut off would look
exactly as that does in your picture.' Gentile
answered courteously that he did not wish to contradict his royal
highness, but it seemed to him that the head was right. `We
shall see,' said the Sultan calmly, and he turned carelessly to a guard
who stood close by and bade him cut of the head of one of the slaves,
that Bellini might see if his picture was really correctly painted. This
was more than Gentile could stand. `Who
knows,' he said to himself, `that the Sultan may not wish to see next
how my head would look cut off from my body!' So
while his precious head was still safe upon his shoulders he thought it
wiser to slip quietly away and return to Venice by the very first ship
he could find. Meanwhile
Giovanni had worked steadily on, and had far surpassed both his father
and his brother. Indeed, he had become the greatest painter in Venice,
the first of that wonderful Venetian school which learned to paint such
marvellous colour. With
all the wealth of delicate shading spread out before his eyes, with the
ever-changing wonder of the opal-tinted sea meeting him on every side,
it was not strange that the love of colour sank into his very heart. In
his pictures we can see the golden glow which bathes the marble palaces,
the clear green of the water, the pure blues and burning crimsons all as
transparent as crystal, not mere paint but living colour. Portrait of Teodoro del Urbino
by Giovanni Bellini Giovanni
did not care to paint stories of Venice, with great crowds of figures,
as Gentile did. He loved best the Madonna and saints, single figures
full of quiet dignity. His saints are more human than those which Fra
Angelico painted, and yet they are not mere men and women, but something
higher and nobler. Instead of the angels swinging their censers which
the painter of San Marco so lovingly drew, Giovanni's angels are little
human boys, with grave sweet faces; happy children with a look of heaven
in their eyes, as they play on their little lutes and mandolines. But
besides the pictures of saints and angels, Giovanni had a wonderful gift
for painting portraits, and most of the great people of Venice came to
be painted by him. In our own National Gallery we have the portrait of
the Doge Loredan, which is one of those pictures which can teach you
many things when you have learned to look with seeing eyes. So
the brothers worked together, but before long death carried off the
elder, and Giovanni was left alone. Though
he was now very old, Giovanni worked harder than ever, and his hand,
instead of losing power, seemed to grow stronger and more and more
skilful. He was ninety years old when he died, and he worked almost up
to the last. The
brothers were both buried in the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, in the
heart of Venice. There, in the dim quietness of the old church, they lie
at rest together, undisturbed by the voices of the passers-by in the
square outside, or the lapping of the water against the steps, as the
tides ebb and flow around their quiet resting-place.
Return to: Stories of the Italian Painters
by Amy Steedman
