Venice: Andreas Torresanus, de Asula, 21 May 1487
Sabellico’s celebration of Venetian history was modelled on Livy’s Decades. The classical flavour of the text is reinforced in this copy by the elegant pen-drawn initials, attributable to a successful Venetian artist known as the Pico Master. Painted as three-dimensional Roman capitals, the faceted initials are set against coloured grounds inhabited by a remarkable cast of knights in classical armour, animals and mythological figures. The arms are of the Cornaro family, and the presence of the mounted knight suggests the commissioner may have been the Venetian condottiere Giorgio Cornaro (1454–1527).
SSS.2.3, fol. a3 recto
Illuminated in Venice by the Pico Master, 1490s
I have to confess there is something both tantalising and frustrating in having a history of Venice placed in front of me, only to find that it is written in Latin so that I cannot read it. The ultimate compensation, however, is that I can give the whole of my attention to its physical presence – and what a presence that is. There is immense pleasure to be found in the richness of the illumination; here we are in a different world, breathing a different air, and the printed page before us is suddenly calm, lucid, confident.
The opening page makes the most significant bow to decoration, with the arms of the Cornaro family, to whom this book belonged, supported by a triton with a winged putto and decorative cornucopia. The book’s power lies in the disposition and balance of the classical typeface on the page: it is as though graphic design appeared, fully formed, overnight. The crisp typography is enhanced by the beautifully decorated capitals at the opening of each section, capitals which echo the book’s precursor, the illuminated manuscript. These small pen drawings, detailed, refined and witty, yet simultaneously restrained and elegant, are by the Maestro di Pico.
The characters who inhabit his tiny canvasses wear scarcely a scrap of clothing between them, and their proportions are unworldly, as though specially designed to inhabit their small but complex world of capital letters. A nude figure seated on an urn rests on the upper opening of a letter B, as though on a window. A bearded man playing a string-less violin (or is it a cheese board?) leans his cornucopia gently against the letter F. One of two figures populating the interstices of a letter M holds a sheep by the back leg, which hangs down into the margin, whilst a cloven-footed figure behind the letter A lifts into his margin the wonderful curving gesture of his trumpet.
These miniature scenes hark back to illuminated capitals, but are more restrained in their technique of neat pen drawing, and simple coloured background. I have no doubt that these are restraints that are chosen, not imposed, so in looking at them I cannot avoid the sense that these drawings also look forwards, to the detailed full-colour illustration that contemporary printing makes a commonplace of today.
Essay by Sir Quentin Blake
