Translation by Francesco Mazzaferro
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Luciano Mazzaferro
Giovan Battista Marino:
Artistic Interests Between Court Life and Art Collecting
Part Three: Marino as a Collector Throughout his Letters
The problem of copies
Part Three: Marino as a Collector Throughout his Letters
[Note by Giovanni and Francesco Mazzaferro: This text is the faithful transcription and translation of a manuscript of our father, Luciano Mazzaferro. He produced a comment to three works by Giovan Battista Marino (1569-1625), in which the interests in art of the Italian Baroque poet emerged: the first of his Dicerie sacre (Sacred Dialogues), the Galeria (Gallery) and the Lettere (Letters). The title of the writing, as well as its division into paragraphs and the notes are our editorial input.]
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| Rembrandt. Portrait of a man at the writing desk (1631) Hermitage, S. Petersburg |
The Letters:
A mirror of Marino’s collecting activity
Marino’s letters provide essential and
irreplaceable guidance on his tireless and almost obsessive activity as collector,
on his orientations and preferences, and on the relationships which he
established with artists, amateurs and with some art trade intermediaries.
He, like many others of that time, cultivated a hierarchy of genres and thought that some categories of subjects had a superior dignity and value to other types of artistic representation. However, it does not take long to realise that his "ranking" was not based on abstract evaluations, on considerations of aesthetic nature or on even moralistic flavour. For him, the "hierarchy of genres" was obedient to personal preferences and mirrored, at most, certain objective needs of the market. He was, to be precise, a person who - while sticking to his ideas - kept his feet firmly on the ground. In the lists of things he desired, reference was never made to drawings and paintings of historical commemoration. Not because he ignored their reputation or felt any antipathy towards them. He behaved so for the simple reason that he could not afford any of such pictorial accomplishments (in other words, they were not within is financial purchase power, nor could they be bartered with what he would be willing to give - or he could give - in return). He was completely uninterested of large altarpieces, because he knew very well that, by their nature , were intended to churches and religious institutions, to collectors of a first order, to noble families and gentlemen. To the pleasure for similar paintings, those gentlemen had to add commitments arising from forms of patronage of oratories, chaplaincies and institutions of higher weight. His preferences were the depictions of mythological scenes and those representations which, not surprisingly, he described in the opening of the Gallery. And speaking of scenes inspired by the classical world and representations often in conflict with the guidelines of the Council of Trent and with many things he had said for pure opportunism in his own Sacred Dialogues, he tended to show a rather nonchalant, almost daring approach. In a letter addressed to Ludovico Carracci, he asked - in addition to what already received - another "joke" maybe "of his own whim", but without too much thought to show "that much honesty ". Then, to get rid of any ambiguity, he urged him not to be "scrupled to exert his hand in obscene and lascivious fantasies, because that had to remain in the studio" of a private gentleman that would have showed the pattern (which according to Marino represented ‘Salmacis and Hermaphroditus’) "only to very close people" (p. 62). In addition to scenes anchored to the Greek -Roman literature, he also appreciated collecting portraits (mostly from the waist up), miniature paintings and, in general, the images of small size. If religious and uplifting themes remained outside the circle of his desires, however some subjects set in the old testament (and which would be represented with the same freedom of a classical myth) could get his attention, as evidenced by the "Judith and Holofernes" by Cristoforo Allori, for which he felt a real yearning for possession.
I do not think that he made much of a difference between originals and replicas, provided, of course, the latters were jobs re-run by the same artist. He was instead clear on the gap between original and copy entrusted to another hand. But touching this topic, one has to have very clear ideas. To "copies" Marino never had that sort of disdain or disgust, which is typical of the last two centuries and of those critics and art historians on whose writings we all we formed ourselves. In line of principle, Marino was not contrary to the copies and, in most cases, also required them with some insistence. For him, a copy could play an indisputable value of documentation and testimony. And with this way of thinking he did not have to feel completely isolated, as it is clear to anyone who has read - with a little patience - the catalogue that Cardinal Federico Borromeo compiled for the collection he established in Milan. [18] While giving free access to copies and while avoiding considering them like a plague corroding any collection of artistic goods, Marino always had the wisdom to distinguish them from the originals. He did it for various reasons, definitely including the different economic value attributed to the work of a master and the refurbishment by some follower. His attitude is clear on several occasions. It is true that more than once he asked some friends to lend works to be able to make copies of them; but it is also true - and this attitude seems far more significant - that he never granted the originals in his possession to the same friends who he had previously disturbed to obtain originals and make copies from them. No, this never happened. To this aim, he always used painters of his confidence. And when he found himself in real difficulties, he came up with rhetorical sentences which would have a certain effect in the world of amateurs. He never spoke of his fears of a possible fraud to his detriment; he carefully avoided arousing suspicion, shyness or dangerous resentment, but blamed his particular character, waving a kind of jealousy that would prevent him to accept the request. An echo, albeit indirect, of this attitude can be seen in a letter of 1603. In it the poet claims to be so closely linked to the art work he wanted receive from another person to want to remain "tyrannically" the only "enjoyer" (pp. 42 sg.). Some other words of the same tone are easy to find it in this beautiful collection of letters. It is however evident, a mile away, that Marino was primarily led by the suspicion of being deceived. He definitely wanted to avoid that he would be returned a copy instead of the original work. Hence the denial to which I have just referred. Hence also some gesticulations and tricks to defer commitments or to absolve them (when no alternative existed) without having to remove the original. And always this fear explains the number of warnings issued for shipment to his home of just produced works straight out the studio of painters, or when it happened, of works purchased on the market. The works were to be delivered in safe hands, both because it avoided the risk of any accidental loss, or because they were not in the hands of people who, having an excessive attraction for them, would be tempted to resort to the good offices of some copyist, thus taking the original and delivering the counterfeiting (p. 45).
The drawings
The author of the Adone loved the drawings (as I
already said talking about the Gallery), collected them carefully and
was induced to differentiate on the basis of characteristics that went far
beyond the usual classification for depicted subjects. An examination of the
letters suggests that Marino thought of three types of works. He took in most account
those designs which were conceived as autonomous creations and as finished
products (and not just as an intermediate stage between ideation and final
rendering of images in paintings or sculptures). For this first group of
drawings he was induced to behave as he were in front of the paintings, and
often he signalled the size and stated to the artist the colours he mostly
preferred and both the technical process that it would be appropriate to follow.
In a second group or category were instead included the drawings required for
the final execution of some works and which by their nature could suffer changes
due to some new insight. These "preparatory" drawings represented an
interesting document on the path followed by the artist, but it was for Marino
inevitable that the finished work (it does not matter whether painting or
statue) would further repel them to a lower floor. It seems significant a passage
of a letter sent from Paris in 1622 and addressed to Don Lorenzo Scoto,
chaplain of the Savoy: "you wrote me that you had received a drawing ...
of which you also hold a picture. What is the most and what is the least
valuable? And if you have the coloured painting, what is the black-and-white
design for? Come on, do not chitchat; send it to me unless you do not want that" otherwise I would start speaking ill of you (p. 318). There is irony. There
is confidence and there is also the desire to play. However, it is also
understood that similar concepts and differences (such as the gap between the
"figurative" and his "shadow" or between the "more"
of the painting and the "less" of the purely graphic labour, which
has been produced for pure technical necessity) are dished out when it comes
to speaking about a preparatory drawing only and in any other circumstances.
There was one final set of drawings, the third, consisting of the so-called "sketches" that the buyer of a painting had the right to require for two purposes: either – first - to preview, with the typical flair of the wise man, the beauty of the work that he intended to buy or – second - to verify to the extent possible if the artist had properly understood the instructions he had been given. Please read what the poet wrote to the aforementioned Don Lorenzo to obtain a painting of Morazzone: "the subject which is lacking [note of the editor: in my collection], and which I desire, is the contrast between Minerva and Neptune, that is when the former one gives rise to the olive tree with a blow of a stick, and the latter one gives rise to the horse with his trident. If this object will be in line with his genius [note of the editor: he obviously alludes to the Morazzone], it is fine. If it is not the case, please inform me: I will swap it with any new painter..." . Which brings us to the point: " Let him make first the design and send it to you before ...: and dexterously take out of his mouth the price that he demands because I do not want the transaction would fail for the cause of money " (p. 317). The drawing, here understood as a simple outline of the design, is something that allows you to imagine the work and - after a good reciprocal understanding - to complete negotiations by setting the due fee.
Marino and Bernardo Castello
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| Bernardo Castello, Madonna and Child with Saints, 1626 |
Probably, the most interesting aspect of the
Letters is provided by the quantity of information and assessments, allowing to
get a precise idea on the collector and to clarify his relationship with the
performers of the works, which he requested and often solicited with great
insistence. In a note like this one, there cannot be - it seems obvious – all the
necessary space, as one would like, to deal with a topic of this kind, which is
rich of motivations, thoughts and even fun episodes. One must simply grasp the
essential features of some of the most significant trends. Two or three, not
more. Thus, for example, is not bad to mention some points or passages from the
letters sent to the painter Bernardo Castello, already mentioned, who is the
artist to whom the poet wrote the highest number of epistolary notes in his
correspondence. Castello, a disciple of Cambiaso, was known for various works;
had illustrated the " Gerusalemme Liberata " [note of the
translator: an epic poem by Torquato Tasso, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerusalem_Delivered],
was in constant contact with the Genoese aristocracy and maintained excellent
relations with the Chiabrera [note of the translator: an
Italian baroque poet, see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gabriello_Chiabrera].
The first letters of Marino date back to 1603 and they immediately let understand
what purpose the sender aimed at: "I would say, I am ambitious to share some
particle of the miracles of your hand" but - Marino adds - I know that
mine is "overpowered boldness" (p. 34). It goes without saying that these
are simply only compliments. After the pleasantries, the poet runs to the core
of his request, "strongly" pleading Castello to provide something from
him and offers - in exchange for this - his support in Roman circles. Laudatory
expressions increase further in the next letter, and with them, the insistence
of the collector. It seems that - at least at that moment - any work sent from
Castello would please Marino, whatever the theme touched: "As to the work
of your hand, please be aware that there is nothing else which I would wish most
ardently in this life; not having any sufficient merit diminishes however the
hope of obtaining the favour from you. If you ever wanted deigning me of this, I
would put in all respects the choice of the conditions to your will and your
courtesy; whether a profane or a sacred painting, provided this would be
created by you, I would consider myself as fortunate..." (p. 36). As an
experienced collector, however, Marino shows in a short time how to bring the
painter on the closer ground to his tastes; and Castello agrees to send him, no
doubt in homage, a painting with a Venus which unfortunately arrived to the
poet in rather damaged conditions, due to a packaging defect . "I now received
- I read on p. 39 - the Venus of Your lordship, but it had suffered so much of
misadventure that it arrived in my hands with many failures. I watched at it
with equal displeasure, as much as I was waiting for it with great desire. In
fact, as the painting was very fresh in the package where it was enveloped, all
colours were erased ...". To remedy the damage, Marino delivers the canvas
to the Cavalier d'Arpino [note of the translator: Giuseppe Cesari, called the
Cavalier d’Arpino, an Italian painter, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giuseppe_Cesari
] who had "promised to restore it" as far as possible. While showing
saddened by the incident, the poet lavishes thanks and ensures that, in spite
of the fault suffered, the painting would always remain very dear to him.
Unfortunately - according to another letter - the Cavalier d'Arpino merely made
a few modest tweaks "because it did not turn he could fix the rest of it, both
for modesty as well because it seemed difficult he could imitate well” the
author's style "and make sure the new and fresh colours would not be
recognised from those tempered by another hand" (p. 40). The compliments follow
each other another without any pause: Marino wrote again to the painter to tell
him that, hit by annoying attacks of fever, he had found "consolation and
refreshment" continually admiring the Venus. He had made her place "in
front of the bed and all day" admired it (p. 41). However faulty it was, the
Venus seemed to have assumed the virtues of a miraculous icon. And, as proof of
its quality, it soon made two miracles: Marino (this was actually almost
obvious) healed and Castello (and this, admittedly, was not equally predictable)
committed himself, and promised a new Venus, "the other figure" like
Marino promptly baptized it. And, striking while the iron is hot, the latter
addressed a further letter addressed to the former: "I look forward to the
promised figure" - I find in the letter 27 at p. 43 - "with such an
intensity, that it seems to me I will see it only in thousand years; and would pray
Your lordship to excuse my voraciousness here, because I respect more a single
brush work of your hand that all the treasures of the world." Shortly
thereafter he communicates to the Genoese painter that d'Arpino (informed of
the imminent arrival of the second picture) had expressed the "desire to
see it as soon as possible" (p. 44). Finally - and we are now in 1604 - the
new Venus is delivered in the house where Marino was staying. "The Venus
of Your lordship" – I see at page 48 - "arrived, so dear as desired
she was. And here was seen and admired by many... I render to Your lordship
infinite thanks for the favour, which I so supremely enjoy, as much as I will supremely
glory myself, ensuring you that I will retain in perpetuity the sculpted memory
of so much courtesy, not less than the painted figure." The last word is
very eloquent: that of Bernardo Castello is not a job to be paid, but a
courtesy that should be repaid in the same way. When it will be the right
moment, the poet will dedicate him verses of praise.
The relationship between the painter and the poet were - to my knowledge - never interrupted, and in the Gallery Marino described, paying tribute to them, various Castello’s works and included in it, considering himself as a friend, a sonnet for a mourning that had struck him. Yet, with the passing of years, something was bound to change: gradually – as much as his own reputation was consolidating - Marino tended to dampen the tone of embellishment and to give more detailed and less pliable guidance; at the same time he was induced to contain, or at least, to channel the requests that he considered excessive and too demanding for him. Marino felt that he was confronted with a weak man and, quite possibly, he sometimes he took advantage of it. From Turin, a few years after the events of the two Venuses, the author of the Adone wrote again to Castello, in order to get in a short time a new design. In the following letter, waiting impatiently for it, he tells him: "I do not want that time is prolonged so much. Dear Signor Bernardo, I know that, when you want, you may be equally quick and excellent. "He added in a concise, almost trivialising way: "I wish the design were on blue paper, illuminated with white, but with exquisite diligence, because it has to be shown together with many other designs produced by different talented men. The measure will be a facade of this same paper in which I write to Your lordship, somewhat smaller, with the figure for this verse"(p. 114). Then, in just six words, no more than a ritual greeting. The old embellishments have disappeared. A couple of years later he uses an only seemingly softer language: "Remember that I love, estimate and admire you... But please also remember the promises. Your lordship owes to me a head and I do not know what else. In short, if you have some little nice thing, do not hesitate to send it to me immediately, because time has already passed... If you did, I would reciprocate with some sign and witness of the love that I bring to Your lordship in some literary composition" (p.132). But it is in any case out of the question that it will be up to him, that is to Marino, to decide what will be written and on what occasion to write. Two letters, also sent from Turin, prove it. Castello had asked Marino some verses that would return to some use for him. And Marino agreed, but putting such conditions as to make his availability deprived of any interest to the eyes of the Genoese painter. In short, Marino says that he wrote the verses required only "when he [note of the editor: Castello] agreed not to publish his name as author, but were content to put any other name, or his own name, or the one of a close friend..." ( p. 142). The concept is reiterated in the immediately following letter, no. 98. Castello had probably really needed Marino’s authority and signature, but the latter absolutely did not want to make any step back from his positions: "I repeat anew to Your lordship that, if he wants to accept making these arguments under his own name, or of his son, or a friend, I will certainly accommodate his request; and I promise and swear word, in infamy for me, that nobody will ever know, and I will put the originals in fire..." (p.143). I do not know what happened then, but I have more of one reason to conclude that the query of the painter finally fell into nothing: Marino was willing to give anything, but his own name. Maybe it was brought to concede so much for a basic reason: namely, that he knew that such "a lot" was of no interest for Castello. A number of years passed before finding another correspondence; then, when we least expected to be, two letters appear in the collection published by Einaudi publishers, no. 193 (p. 356) and n. 198 (p.363), both short and both of 1623. In the second (i.e. in letter 198), the poet speaks of a picture by Castello and comes to say: "I think I will hold it close to bed, to make my prayers to the Blessed Virgin..." But, I wonder, did he had not already said, several years before, to hold right there, next to his bed, another work by Castello? Did he change taste? Did he perhaps think that time had come (given the many ailments he suffered) to remove the Venus and put the Madonna? Or was this matter of the paintings placed next to the bed nothing but a rhetorical device, a phrase with reliable rhetorical effects?
Marino and Bartolomeo Schedoni
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| Bartolomeo Schedoni, Entombment (1613) National Gallery pf Parma |
I think I said enough on Bernardo Castello. I am
therefore turning to another artist. I refer to the Modena-borne artist Bartolomeo
Schedoni, a man of a stronger temperament than the Genoese painter, a more
outspoken artistic personality, but a nature which was not always predictable
in its responses. The relationship with the poet, difficult and even controversial
for a number of years, did settle only much later, not long before the untimely
death of the painter. Schedoni (we learned it in the past few decades) was a
painter of high quality and Marino, who had understood his greatness, did not
step back, and persevered in his demands, alternating praise with reproaches. Eventually,
with the help of two friends (Fortuniano Sanvitale and Guidubaldo Benamati), he
was able to achieve what he wanted. Although Marino says he wrote several times
directly to the artist , none of these notes has come down to us , and we must
inevitably be content with the letters addressed to Sanvitale and Benamati,
which are in reality sufficient to display the difficulties encountered by
Marino and his obvious moments in a bad mood. The poet began to take an
interest in the artist from Modena in 1609 (or even before 1609), but his
efforts began to produce some results only after several attempts and several (real
or simulated) outbursts. In 1613, perhaps in 1614, he turned to Sanvitale, his
close friend living in Parma, saying, or rather, shouting: "To Mr Schedoni
- I am calling a capital duel; and if he waits in the field, he should know he
has to duel with me. He should please weapon himself with pencil and colours. If
he will not offset past failures to stick to promises he made simply with some small
thing of his taste, I will cancel him out of my book, or tell a thousand ills on
him in the praise of modern painters, that I am keeping updated" (p. 149).
This is a clear reference to the Gallery. Shortly after, always pointing
to Sanvitale, Marino writes in such a way that the letter, if shown to Schedoni,
would achieve a twofold objective: to make sure he would understand Marino’s
disappointment and, at the same time, he would appreciate his assessment for
the activity that Schedoni was unfolding. I read a passage from the letter 84 at
page 150: "... I should delete him in all respects from my soul, as I
think he is not only a capital enemy of courtesy, but of civilization, not
deigning to reply to letters... . Nevertheless, so great is the power of
virtue, that I love, (or rather – to say it better – I did not love him, but his
value), and I honour, and preach and glorify him, as briefly some of my works
marked by his name will testify." But nothing changes. This time Marino
turns to Benamati: "The design of Mr. Schedoni is expected from me with so
much desire, that I continue counting the lateness of the hour and I am
yearning to exhaustion. Your lordship should please remind that promised favours
gain in values as much as they are expedited: I am therefore supplicating him
again to want to satisfy my greed and get rid of my annoyance" (p. 154).
Benamati receives other letters, one of which starts like this: "The
promises of Mr Schedoni have vanished, Your lordship does not need to be disturbed
any more, since these are all words thrown to the wind". (p.158). It is
however, a temporary failure, perhaps a calculated move. Benamati receives a
new letter, after which the poet asks if there was still "any hope for the
design of Schedoni" (p.162). Marino is then informed that the artist is
getting married and immediately takes the opportunity to launch a proposal through
Benamati: "...Your lordship should please tell him in my name that, if he
will send me [editor's note: the design], I will send you a sonnet on his
wedding, and I will print it out together with these rhymes that are going to
be published soon" (p. 164), i.e. in the third part of the Rhymes in
print in Venice. Schedoni liked the idea and Marino, warned about the positive
reaction, promptly put his hands forward: "About the wedding’s sonnet,
when the design will have come, we will talk on it; because, to put it bluntly, I do not trust him, so many times he has failed to keep his promises" (p.165).
But when the Benamati tells him that the work has been delivered by the painter,
with the task he would send it to Marino, the latter does not delay any more
his action: he wants to know immediately name and surname of the bride, to
mention her in the verses he had promised. He openly expresses his satisfaction
and, as usual, he recommends that the design is well protected, to preserve it
from the possible ravages of the expedition (p. 172). When he receives it in
Turin, he exults: "I have received the picture ... which has been considered
here by all art connoisseurs as a miracle. There are many who have sworn this
would be a Parmigianino or Correggio, because they cannot believe that any
living modern painter would reach such excellence; the serene Duke of Savoy has
been informed and wanted to see him, and he was so pleased, that I had some
trouble to take it back from his golden hands. In short, it's beautiful, and I
am grateful therefore to both the author and the intercessor..." (p. 173).
It is true that the size does not correspond to the measures that I had shown
and that "I have not been well understood by Mr Schedoni about the posture
of the figures", but the overall rating could not change and the work was
always considered of high quality: "I will keep it between my dearest joys"
(ibid.) [editor's note: perhaps, next to the bed?]. The Schedoni died a year
later, in 1615, but in the few months remaining to him he sent other material to
the poet and - there are good reasons to suppose - to the full satisfaction of
the recipient.
A few rejections
On numerous occasions Marino used the usual pattern, offering - now with flattery now with a firm voice - an exchange between art and laudatory verses. The scheme worked, and various painters willingly played the game that was proposed to them. In the pages that Baldinucci dedicated to Francesco Albani [note of the editor: an Italian painter, see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francesco_Albani] there is a passage that, in my opinion, deserves to be remembered. Albani - wrote Filippo Baldinucci (Vol. IV, page 58.) [19] - while kind in his behaviours, pretended that he had never donated any of his works. He even refused it to her doctor and at the same "Cavalier Marino, who promised to celebrate him with his rhymes." What, of course, seemed so unusual that Baldinucci wanted to record it (it is unclear if it was meant to be a peculiarity or a reason for public praise). It is pretty obvious that Marino was a kind of systematic "free-rider", as Samek Ludovici described him in 1956 using the Roman expression “Portoghese” [note of the translator, meaning here: to benefit of a service without paying it] [20]. He was impudent or, rather, he assumed the typical behaviour and physiognomy of an impudent, when he was captured by the burning desire to get in his hands a work that was or was considered beautiful. What happened with Tommaso Stigliani, at first a friend and then a fierce opponent, borders on the incredible. In the days when the conversation between the two had not yet become harshly controversial, Stigliani showed a portrait of him to Marino, who managed to let him promise to give it to him as a gift. Time passed and now, when bilateral relations were hopelessly spoiled, Marino recalled the old promise, and wrote to his declared enemy, asking he would abide by his commitment and send the canvas. The former, i.e. Stigliani, did not miss the opportunity to be as scathing as possible. He remembered this promise and even remembered that, in front of the half-length portrait, Marino had ruled that it was so good and similar, that it was incredible it couldn't speak. And it was indeed true, Stigliani snickered him in Marino’s face. When I read aloud your letter, my picture "broke out into these words: O Tommaso ... that greedy man wearing great mustachios at the use of the Tatars, to whom you promised me for my misfortune as a gift, did not fool me. Since, when he was here, and he looked at me with his so smart face and with those so catlike and jaded eyes, I suspected that he greatly desired me for a bad purpose, as I am clean-shaven. This - you now see it clearly – indeed happened could be true, however with some diversity: while I believed that sin would be lust, it turned to be avarice..." And Stigliani let even his portrait tell: against the "original sin, which is lust, I was not afraid (because I lacked the part from the waist down); but of the second [note of the editor: i.e. namely avarice]... I'm afraid, unfortunately, as I could receive not little damage from him." To a note of this kind, full of insults that wanted to be particularly sharp, Marino did not give much importance and came back with another letter, stating that he had considered this work as his own for years: after having donated it, Stigliani could no longer perform any other role than that of a guardian. At this point, Stigliani lost any orientation. He thought perhaps (but this is unlikely that happened) that his answer may have never reached its destination or that Marino had forgotten its contents (and here the thing becomes really unlikely, if not impossible). However, he realised that it was better to put aside any flourishes and, in reply, took care to say the essential: he would have never delivered that picture to him. I refrain from providing any further details and I will only refer to some particular more or less tasty details at pages. 266-269, second volume, of the Epistolario (epistolary) of Marino, Achillini and Stigliani, published by Laterza publishers in 1912 [21].
Purcheses
Only in the last period, and never in a systematic
fashion, Marino decided to take the customary way of purchasing paintings. He
felt famous, revered, wealthy as well as surrounded by many attentions: he had
a lot of money and did not seem the most absurd (indeed, it seemed quite
natural) use of it to foster the collection that he was planning since some
time for a mansion on the outskirts of Naples. Since time he was collecting a
rich collection of books, "all very well chosen and bound" (p. 286),
and was satisfying his "whim" of putting together prints predominantly
of the previous century. You could add drawings, paintings and miniatures, and
you would have an idea of the very material of which, of course in recent years
(those of recognised prosperity), he had come into possession. He felt to
control substantial valuable assets and, as happens to most amateurs, he had
the need to finally fill-in some gaps and to add value to what already owned with
a few pieces increasing the prestige of the collection. He was very demanding,
and to achieve the desired result, he understood the need to commit his money,
removing unnecessary costs between artists and mediators. The Museum which was
little more than an ambitious mirage or a fragile and messy set of works, at
the time in which the Galery was conceived, now tended to assume rather
defined contours. Sometime before returning from Paris, he let Sanvitale know
that every financial mean he could have availability of would be spent on such
purchases. And he confirmed the same concept on several occasions in his
letters. With all this, however, you should not assume that he had completely
given up on old tricks and that suddenly had become careless and even prodigal.
He granted authority to Ciotti, his printer and representative in Venice, to
spend especially for those small format paintings that were particularly dear
to his heart, but then added opinions that had all the air of being binding.
And, in most cases, in order to avoid unpleasant surprises, he asked his friends
and business attorneys to send him cost estimates which would be detailed
enough. And, if it had already been difficult to make him happy previously, he now
felt that – once he was paying – his critical spirit was aggravating and tried
in every way to work to make sure the designs were executed and the painting finished
with full commitment and without any unacceptable laxity. An episode may,
perhaps more than others, lay bare the folds of his character. The painter Palma
the Younger – it looks like a joke - had become old, approaching the age of
eighty. Marino had asked him several canvases: the first that came to Paris did
not please him very much and he began to think that those who were arguing for
some years that the painter - with increasing age - had lost his "graceful
and gracious manner" were possibly right. And here two letters were sent from
Paris to Venice, directed to Ciotti. In the first letter, Marino prepares the
ground, saying that the works had not fully satisfied him; he discusses the current
judgments on the latest efforts of the painter and then concludes by hiding the
hand that had pulled the stone: "Please do not make any reference to it
with [note of the editor: Palma the Younger], and indeed thank him by my side..." (p. 304). In the second letter he outlines the strategy to be
followed to ensure that the old artist would improve the quality of the still unfinished
and perhaps sketchy paintings. It makes me smile when I read the instructions
given to Ciotti: "Do not leave any occasion, without ceasing to
continuously annoy Mr. Palma, and tell him from me that his paintings here are
expected as the Messiah, and there are many painters who say he will not do
much well, now being old. I knew well how to respond in kind, and I shocked them
making them shut up, showing them the drawings of his hand, whose excellence
and perfection does not have any other talent who would know how to do it".
He, Marino will continue to behave in this way and, to reiterate his point of
view, will make use of the new works that will come. "I would, therefore,
like to make sure" - said the poet - "that he [note of the editor: Palma] would take great care of it and would put any energy and try to honour me, all
the more as they will be seen by the king, the queen and most of the court
" (p. 306) .
Are you surprised? Really not, Marino was like that.
NOTES
[18] Federico Borromeo, Musaeum, edited by Gianfranco Ravasi, Milan, Claudio Gallone publisher, 1997. Owned by this library.
[19] Filippo Baldinucci, Notizie dei Professori del disegno (News of the drawing professors), 7 volumes, S.P.E.S. Studi per Edizioni Scelte, 1974-1975. Owned by this library.
[20] Sergio Samek Ludovici, Vita del Caravaggio (Life of Caravaggio), p, 123, Edizioni del Milione, Milan, 1956. Owned by this library.
[21] Giambattista Marino, Epistolario seguito da lettere di altri scrittori del Seicento, Letters followed by letters of other writers of the seventeenth century, Volume II, edited by Angelo Borzelli and Fausto Nicolini, Bari, Laterza, 1912
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