Andrea Mantegna — the Camera degli Sposi, Palazzo Ducale in Mantua

Architecture, light and perspective

Vasari places Andrea Mantegna among those who, from Piero della Francesca to Luca Signorelli, had introduced “through excessive study... a certain dry, crude and harsh manner”: “in straining themselves they sought to achieve the impossible in art through their labours, above all in foreshortenings and in unpleasing views, which, just as they were hard for them to execute, so were they harsh and difficult to the eyes of those who looked at them.” The scorti (scorci, foreshortenings) are perspective views, with a marked reference, in Vasari, to those seen from below upwards.

It is enough to pause for a few minutes (the time allowed for the visit is limited) in the Camera degli Sposi, the name given at a later date to the Camera picta in the Palazzo Ducale in Mantua, to have an experience that is anything but “harsh and difficult to the eyes”. One can begin with the all too famous oculus, the false opening onto the sky above, the prototype of all trompe-l’oeil. It is undoubtedly a daring exercise in style and presents an exaggerated verticality that is rather “difficult to the eyes”, but it performs a function that is anything but merely decorative or, for the painter, a display of virtuosity. Its action is manifold: it completes the illusion of a domed space – on a ceiling with a shallow vault, little more than flat – and pushes the space above towards infinity. Another function of the trompe-l’oeil is to build a powerful vertical axis marking the position the observer should take for a perfect enjoyment of the pictorial geometry, of perspective, applied to the enlargement of an enclosed space.

The physical space of the Camera picta, intended as the duke’s study and not only as his bedroom, is in fact less than grand or princely. It is practically a squat cube: a square plan about eight metres a side (8.05x8.079), with a vault that reaches at its centre a maximum height of less than seven metres (6.93); it has only two windows and therefore enjoys scant but studied light, “guided and raking” (Giovanni Paccagnini, Il Palazzo Ducale di Mantova, ERI 1969, p. 70), so as to highlight the two decorated walls and leave the others in half-light. On the latter there are no images, only the illusion of heavy closed curtains, and the Gonzaga coat of arms above a door; all of it is badly deteriorated.

The author of the radical remodelling of the room was the Florentine architect Luca Fancelli, commissioned to transform the military setting of the Castello di San Giorgio (a solid fortress in a strategic position on the Mincio, the work of Bartolino da Novara and completed in 1406) into a sumptuous residence for Ludovico Gonzaga. Fancelli, in the service of the Gonzagas from 1450 to 1484, had already worked on good collaborative terms with Mantegna, for instance in the castle chapel; he had often let himself be dominated by the painter’s personality (Paccagnini, op. cit., pp. 50, 68), and it is certain that in the Camera picta too he followed Mantegna’s directions, as far as structural problems allowed. The placing of the windows at the ends of the walls, spatially off-centre compared with all the others in the towers, is no accident; a view from outside clearly shows the shift that was made. There are few fresco works in which the painter was able to avoid adapting to an existing situation and could afford to attend to the angle of the light destined to fall on the future work; this alone makes the Camera degli Sposi a place of privileged experience, for which no description or reproduction can substitute. Thanks to the position of the windows, the undecorated walls, closed off by false curtains, seem to produce an effect of shadow that is in fact due to the play of natural light; conversely, the painted composition illusionistically gives off a light of its own, with a substantial difference in brightness between the north wall (that of the “Court”) and the west wall (where the so-called “Meeting” appears), which has as its background an open landscape and a wide expanse of sky. The west wall in fact benefits from a window placed – almost – opposite it, unlike the north wall, which is seen against the light, softened by the raking illumination from the opening to the east. In this room one can see at work the use of mathematical and geometrical knowledge in matters of perspective, which Mantegna exploits with consummate mastery and without the “dry manner” Vasari speaks of – the exploit of the oculus apart, which nonetheless remains the most “popular” feature of the Camera, perhaps somewhat neglected by the critical literature. We shall try to return to it. In his popular Story of Art, Gombrich observes, with regard to the frescoes of the Stories of St. James in Padua, lost in a bombing raid, that Mantegna did not make use of the art of perspective as Paolo Uccello did, who flaunted the new effects that could be drawn from it, but rather to give solidity and physical presence to the figures portrayed. And to create architectural illusions: in the Camera the few elements that actually project are the frames of the doors, of the fireplace and of a small wall cupboard, and the corbels that feignedly support the triple lunettes joining the vault of the ceiling to the walls. The rest is painted architecture, and this helps us to read in the name Camera picta (or also camera magna picta) no longer simply a “room decorated with paintings”, but one built with images and geometries and made “magna” by them. The crowd of the court and the family on one side, the figures in plein-air and the landscape on the other, and finally the vault rising up to the sky, create in the viewer the very convincing illusion of being at the centre of a space whose boundaries are only those set by one’s own powers of sight. A few details can help us understand Mantegna’s geometrical and perspective technique. The imposing horse on the left of the Meeting, for example, is set obliquely, with vanishing lines that do not bring it into the scene, towards the viewer, but make it “break through” the wall on which it is painted, outwards. Paccagnini (op. cit., p. 69) speaks of visual pyramids formed by the compositions and by the vault, with converging vertices indicating the viewpoint chosen by the painter; in the oculus, formed by a series of concentric circles that grow progressively smaller, we have a cone that recalls a telescope seen from the wrong end – and used the wrong way round, given the effect of very rapid recession it produces. The objects that physically project are exploited to heighten the illusion: the fireplace cornice supports the carpet (which at the end of the shelf forms a hanging fold) and serves as the floor for the false staircase on which some of the figures stand. The shelf extends into the wall until it supports a figure with his back turned to a column. Another cornice, that of the door on the west side, serves as a support for the winged putti who are very busy – not all of them – holding up the bronze scroll (false, it goes without saying) with the dedication. The monochrome medallions of the Roman emperors, on the spandrels of the ceiling, work in the opposite way: with their false and perfectly deceptive high relief they “enter” the room, and create the illusion of a vault high enough to hold marble busts like those the visitor will already have seen on the way to the room. The relief of the festoons in the lunettes also acts as an inverted pyramid: in this case to help detach the vault, or rather the ceiling.

Characters, events - and dogs A more than justified curiosity, once one has overcome a certain sense of disorientation felt on first entering the Camera picta, concerns the figures depicted. Who are they? At what moment were they captured? (And, a perhaps childish question but one that captures Mantegna’s skill: how do they all fit on such small walls? But this would bring us back to talking about perspective and mathematical formulas.)

North wall - The Court

Legions of scholars have identified everything identifiable, and have also noted certain significant absences. Historical archives, medals, commentaries and the political events of the time have made it possible to give a name, sometimes certain, sometimes hypothetical, to every person present or even merely hinted at. These are praiseworthy and illuminating efforts, useful for the historical placing of the scenes represented, but open to conflicting interpretations and a source of disputes that start from a pair of debatable assumptions: that Mantegna followed to the letter his patron’s instructions about the events to be recorded, and that he “photographed” them rather than re-created them. We prefer to stay on safe ground. In the Court scene the protagonist is Ludovico, who has just received a note from his secretary Marsilio Andreasi (though according to some this is an unknown messenger: the identification rests on a medal, there being no other portraits of Andreasi). The marquis is in his dressing gown and slippers, not overly struck by what he has read. What the sheet contained is a matter of conjecture: it might have been the announcement of the appointment as cardinal, in 1461, of his son Francesco (then seventeen), a political achievement of great importance that sealed the official recognition of the Gonzagas by the Roman Curia. In that case Ludovico would be showing remarkable aplomb, because the diplomatic success came with good prospects of financial recovery for the ever-ailing coffers of the marquisate. The other figure dominating the scene is that of Barbara of Brandenburg, Ludovico’s wife, significantly placed in a central position and surrounded by her children: Gianfrancesco resting his hands on the shoulders of his little brother Ludovico, Paola about to bite into an apple, Rodolfo standing behind his mother, the beautiful Barbara beside a nurse. According to other studies, the latter would be Paola Malatesta Gonzaga, Ludovico’s mother, who died in 1449 and is portrayed here in the monastic habit in which she had wished to be buried. For the figures in dark clothes behind Rodolfo and Gianfrancesco the names put forward are those of the great architect Leon Battista Alberti and of Vittorino da Feltre, the celebrated humanist summoned in 1423 by Marquis Gianfrancesco to teach his children. On the right appear other court dignitaries, recognisable by clothes in the Gonzaga heraldic colours – a white-bordered tunic and two-coloured hose, red and grey – and a figure set apart by his red hose, who seems to be waiting for an audience (an ambassador?). These last figures stand out against the closed curtain, which on the left-hand side, by contrast, is almost completely drawn back; the newcomers push it aside to enter, and provide, besides a sense of depth, a good contrast with the composure of the group formed by Ludovico and his family. Finally, it is impossible not to notice the unsettling dwarf, not least because she is the only one who “looks into the camera”, with a rather stern gaze fixed on the viewer. No identification has been proposed for her, whereas we know (thanks to the research of Rodolfo Signorini) that the dog crouching under Ludovico’s chair, one of his favourites, was called Rubino and died in 1467, thus well before the work was completed. West wall - The Meeting The meeting depicted between Ludovico and some of his sons is said to have taken place at Bozzolo on 1 January 1462. The marquis (who was also lieutenant general of the Lombard duchy) was on his way to Milan, summoned by Bianca Maria Visconti to ensure the continuity of power during an illness of her husband Francesco Sforza that was feared to be fatal. Federico and Francesco, on the other hand, were returning from Milan, where they had gone to thank Sforza for the support he had given to the appointment of the first cardinal of the house of Gonzaga. On the left a large vertical section of the fresco has been irretrievably lost because of water seeping into the cavity, a flue, above the small opening intended to hold lamps and candles. All that remains is a hand with a finger outstretched to point at the scene, and a welter of hypotheses about whom it belonged to. The scene is dominated by the powerful presence of Ludovico’s horse, decorated with the emblem of the radiant sun set within the crescent moon. Its massive build – it manages to hide one of the attendants, of whom only the legs can be seen – has suggested a Hungarian breed. Other attendants hold dogs on the leash, probably Great Danes and hounds. Beneath the rock arch and in front of a distant walled city bristling with towers, a curiosity: some dromedaries are sketched in, now monochrome, which would allude to the procession of the Magi towards Bethlehem and would confirm the date of 1 January. Partly behind the false pillar, the two figures in profile, one with a note in his hand and the other with a sheet tucked into his cap, might be interesting characters, but their faces were almost entirely redone during a restoration. In the middle panel the architrave of the door, off-centre in relation to the middle of the wall, serves as a support for the angels holding up – wearily, two have given up – a large plaque of false bronze on which is inscribed the dedication with which Mantegna offers his work in homage to Ludovico and Barbara. This dedication is a novelty, unusual for the period: the marquis and marchioness do not appear as the patrons of the work; rather, it is Mantegna himself who takes the liberty of dedicating it to them, in an almost equal relationship. Besides, the esteem Mantegna enjoyed with Ludovico was enormous, and is well documented. The inscription is in the letters of the early Roman capital alphabet, recently rediscovered by humanists such as Vittorino da Feltre and admired by Leon Battista Alberti for its geometric quality and elegance, and reads: ILL. LODOVICO II M.M. / PRINCIPI OPTIMO AC FIDE INVICTISSIMO / ET ILL. BARBARAE EJUS / CONIVGI MVLIERIVM GLOR. / INCOMPARABILI / SVVS ANDREAS MANTINIA / PATAVUS OPUS HOC TENVE / AD EORV­­ DECVS ASBOLVIT / ANNO MCCCCLXXIIII. That is: “To the most illustrious Lodovico, second marquis of Mantua, excellent prince of unsurpassed faith, and to the most illustrious Barbara, his wife, incomparable glory of women, their Andrea Mantegna of Padua completed this slight work in their honour, in the year 1474.” The date marking the completion of the work is considered reliable, while hypotheses on its duration range from a span of almost a decade (on the basis of the inscription 1465. D. 16 juni carved on the splay of the north window) to just two summers. The divergence is too great to be tackled here; we prefer to look at the butterfly wings of some of the little angels. These butterflies, all different and apparently not imaginary, could perhaps be identified by name, or at least by species. Better to move on. Before passing to the crowded “Meeting” it is worth pausing at the false pillar to the right of the door. Of interest is the added depth given by the movement of the curtain drawn over the architrave, almost an exercise in drapery, which here shows its blue reverse (whereas the curtain of the third panel has a grey back). Vasari writes of the Camera picta: “And although his manner of drapery was rather crude and thin, and his style somewhat dry, there are nevertheless things there worked by him with great artifice and excellence and well executed.” Concise, and one can only agree. Climbing up the luxuriant floral decoration of the pillar, roughly level with the faces of the standing angels, there is a little surprise: Mantegna’s hidden self-portrait. It is set at an odd height, at about three quarters (or rather five eighths) of the decoration; perhaps so as not to place it at eye level and make it less conspicuous, perhaps for some geometrical reason, as a point of the golden section of the pillar. The off-centre position of the door, too, emphasised by the symmetry of the false pillars, follows mathematical calculations governed by the “divine proportion”. In this regard, the three dogs beside the left-hand pillar can be inscribed in a golden rectangle, which Mantegna breaks with the brilliant idea of the hound with its muzzle raised, gazing at the strange butterflies above the door. In the last part of the west wall the meeting between Ludovico and his son Francesco takes place. The marquis, in perfect profile, wears military dress and carries his sword; his son is already in cardinal’s robes and holds by the hand his little brother Ludovico, who in turn holds out his hand to Sigismondo, son of Federico (who appears at the right-hand edge of the scene, with his cloak thrown over his shoulders in a particular way). Among the other figures Signorini has recognised, on the basis of solid documentary evidence, the Emperor Frederick III in the figure turned towards Federico, and King Christian of Denmark, the marquis’s brother-in-law, set back between the two and wearing a purplish captain’s cap. It should be said that in the past this last figure had been read as a self-portrait of Mantegna, or as a portrait of Leon Battista Alberti or of Vittorino da Feltre. The dog peeping out from behind Ludovico, at any rate, is a charming specimen of Lagotto di Romagna. The boy between Ludovico and Francesco is Gianfrancesco, another of Federico’s sons. The presence of these children is an anachronism with respect to the date of the event; in 1462 Gianfrancesco and Sigismondo had not yet been born, and Ludovico was less than a year old. But what would the problem be, when the theme was the celebration of the Gonzaga family, perhaps hinting at the hopes the marquis placed, beyond those already fulfilled in his son, in his grandchildren too? Pitiless portraits Mantegna was not inclined to make great allowances for the people he portrayed: no flattery and no embellishment; at most he used a few little tricks to hide the most obvious defects, such as having Federico wear a cloak “in the antique manner” to hide, in the Meeting, his hunched back. The hump was a hereditary trait among Ludovico’s descendants, so much so that Marchioness Barbara acknowledged having had, out of ten children, at least four who were “damaged” – but the others were not exactly “handsome and straight” as she claimed, and the little Gonzagas of the Camera picta look rather ugly and rickety. The profile of the little girl with the apple is as heart-rending as the sharp face of her little brother behind her, and the comparison with the chubby angels without jutting foreheads holding the scroll is cruel. Ludovico looks tired, his wife has rather hard features, Gianfrancesco’s stoutness seems emphasised, Cardinal Francesco does not shine for expressiveness. The daughter Barbara, attractive but not stunning, was known simply as “the Beautiful”. The Camera degli Sposi has also been the subject of an article in an endocrinology journal, examining dwarfism as a consequence of marriages between blood relatives, a widespread policy for cementing alliances and strengthening dynasties. Confirming Mantegna’s scant willingness to produce flattering portraits is the episode of Isabella d’Este, who judged a portrait of herself that he had painted unacceptable: “he has made it so badly… it has none of our likeness”. And Galeazzo Maria Sforza had some drawings for a portrait of himself burned, “as it seemed to him that he had not done it well”. But neither Isabella nor Galeazzo was yet ready to accept Mantegna’s “natural” style of representation, which in Mantua had aroused no protests, even though the marquis and his offspring had been portrayed pitilessly. Of course, Ludovico admitted that “Andrea could have more grace in portraiture”.

Landscapes

The west wall is certainly not limited to the figures. The greater space available (without the obstacle of the fireplace on the north wall) allowed Mantegna to devote about half of the painted surface to a landscape that stretches away in perspective to suggest cities made tiny by distance and peopled by very small and very busy figures. On the right, above the actual meeting and behind a tree with frankly absurd leaves, appears an “ideal” or perhaps merely imaginary city; according to some it would be Rome as imagined by Mantegna, who had not yet visited it. It is girded by high walls and studded with towers, full of churches, bell towers, noble houses, and military buildings even within the ramparts. There is a hint of a possible Colosseum and strange examples of northern architecture; the houses are often topped by Venetian chimneys. Outside the walls appear ruined arches, broken columns, a pyramid, a round basin and a large statue. Everything, given the distance, is rapidly sketched; what is most striking, however, is the teeming activity inside and outside the walls. One can see tiny peasants, hunters, shepherds, cowherds, quarrymen at the entrance to a cave and stonecutters at work, soldiers on patrol and ordinary passers-by, people on horseback, people at windows, then vineyards, fields, woods, farm implements. Nor is the hanged man missing, perhaps as a stern warning, a common sight in the landscape of the time: he is above the columns of the ruined temple and below the folds of the false curtain. Above the door, the angels holding the scroll have a hilly, rocky background rich in vegetation; on the left appears the building recognised as Hadrian’s Mausoleum, a round structure rising on a series of concentric bases resting on a large cube in which a portal in the form of a triumphal arch opens. In the left-hand part the horse and the grooms stand out against a rich screen of vegetation, a hedge (or a wood?) of fruit trees; higher up, steep rocks bearing castles, a natural arch and, finally, clouds. One of the two castles has a tower under construction, and with a little attention the builders can be made out on the scaffolding. The circle of the rock arch opens onto a walled city that fades in the haze of distance, just as the tree that appears beneath the arch is monochrome.

The lunettes and the vault

The three divisions of each wall are surmounted by lunettes in which the motif of festoons, or garlands, is repeated in high relief and which, except for the central ones, contain tondi depicting the “imprese” (devices) of the house of Gonzaga. The garlands, surmounted and sometimes surrounded by ribbons fluttering in various ways, are made up of leaves and fruit (apples, pears, grapes, pine cones…) and are all different. They hang, like the ribbons, from a ring fixed with a nail at the centre of the arch of the lunette – all of it painted, of course, even the nail. From the same ring hang slightly tilted tondi in false marble, to make them easier to read, which contain the heraldic devices. Generally the “impresa” is less fanciful than the emblem, and consists of a motto (the soul) and a figure (the body) that explain each other, and symbolically represents an intention or a line of conduct. In the Camera picta there appear a Ghibelline tower, a doe, the radiant sun, a stump surrounded by waves with a turtle dove, a rock topped by a diamond, a ring with wings (a lure, the instrument used by the falconer to recall the falcon), a hydra, a dog in profile. The mottoes accompanying these symbols are not – for us – very explanatory; in French and German, elsewhere in Greek, some are barely legible or missing because of damage suffered by the frescoes. “Vrai amor non se chiange” is the motto accompanying the turtle dove; “Par un désir” is the one that, in the document by which Ludovico grants Mantegna the use of the device, is paired with the radiant sun.

The decoration of the vault, in false white marble and gold divided into false mosaic tesserae, is the realm of geometry and illusion, furrowed by ribs painted so that invented shadow alters their dimensions, always to the benefit of the relief. The protagonist is the circle of the oculus, set in a square from whose sides spring two pairs of rhombuses separated by triangular spandrels, which have as their base an ellipse that serves to create an illusory depth. On the false capitals rest corbels ending in classical-style vases or plant elements, on which stand the marble putti holding the medallions with the busts of the Caesars. The medallions are surrounded by laurel garlands; the faces of the emperors in false high relief recall ancient coins, but carefully avoid the use of the profile, so as to increase the sense of space. In the spandrels dividing the rhombuses with the medallions appear scenes in monochrome relief taken from the myths of Orpheus, Arion and Hercules, twelve episodes in all. The whole decoration, thick with rosettes, racemes and garlands, and with the famous oculus, forms a play of false relief and perspective that serves to raise the ceiling as high as possible (illusionistically). Striking is the contrast between the two walls frescoed with scenes of real life, however elaborated by the artist, and the learned classicism of the vault, almost as if they were two different worlds. Someone has spoken of “vernacular pages” on one side and of “literary pages in old Latin” on the other – that is, up above. By “vernacular” is meant, following Dante, something living and current.

The oculus

As a rule the visitor devotes little of the time allowed (five minutes) to looking at the vault, taken up rather by the colours, the open spaces and the vitality of the frescoed walls, while “feeling” above him a space larger than the real one. If he raises his head, his gaze is inevitably caught by the opening of the oculus rising up to the sky and by the faces leaning over the false balustrade. In a dizzying perspective, one sees a host of winged putti in various positions (from behind, from the front, outside the balustrade and inside it; of three only the heads protrude, of one the hand gripping a small stick), a peacock, a large vase with a citrus plant in a precarious position, and two groups of women. To tell the truth, the dark-skinned figure with the turban could also be a man. The putti are variously occupied, paying little attention to the scenes taking place below them; one is placing a small laurel crown on his head, another holds an apple in his hand as if about to throw it down, two seem to be making an attempt on the peacock’s life with their sticks (perhaps flutes). The women watch and smile, even the one absent-mindedly combing her hair. And this is remarkable (the smile, which is not mocking, but only serenely amused): in the whole Camera picta there is not one figure with even a vaguely cheerful air. Not even the children, often sulky – little Paola seems to be asking with her eyes for permission to taste the apple, already knowing that it will be refused – nor the little angels, excused because they are subjected to the hard labour of holding up the heavy bronze scroll. Even Rubino, the dog under Ludovico’s chair, looks glum. Up above, on the other hand, the women have a serenity worthy of the gods of Olympus, absorbed in their tasks and in a conversation whose subject is, presumably, the events and triumphs of the house of Gonzaga.

The interpretation of the oculus as an opening towards Olympus (all very well, but are the deities the serving maids? A male face hidden in a cloud, between the vase and the woman with the ribbon in her hair, might allude to the invisible God of the Christians rather than to multiform Jupiter) is suggested by the inscription “AB OLYMPO” carved on one of the doors of the inner courtyard of Mantegna’s house, probably designed by him. The relationship between the house and the oculus is made evident by their shared plan (the circle inscribed in a square in accordance with the proportions dictated by the golden section), while the structure of the building is marked in an original way by being a cube in which a cylinder has been carved out. The cylinder has as its base the circle of the inner courtyard, one of the most original in Renaissance architecture and with strong references to the work, theoretical as well, of Leon Battista Alberti; above, only the sky, captured and made his own by the artist. The house is the oculus made concrete. If the authorship of the design were certain, to the praise of Mantegna – expressed at the time in a sonnet by a certain Ulisse – as one who “sculpts in painting” one could add that he knew how to “paint in architecture”. That he could paint architecture he had amply demonstrated in the Camera picta.