The Colours of the Orient in Venice, Italy

Tribute to a Venetian Painter

‍ ‍ St. Mark’s Basilica, Venice — A Byzantine Masterpiece

Gazing upon St. Mark’s Basilica, the words that define it rise unbidden: the Fable of the East. Indeed, when I close my eyes, another thought follows naturally — the East begins in Venice. These are not idle words. They arise from images embedded deep within our collective memory, as jewels are set into the cabochons of the Pala d'Oro.

In imagination, I rise like a gull above the ancient sea routes of my Mediterranean: Istanbul, the Aegean islands, Cyprus, Antioch, Acre, Jerusalem, Aleppo, Alexandria. This legendary East is not foreign to me; I have travelled its length and breadth. Its colours and riches once flooded Venice with radiance, earning her the name of the “City of Gold” when much of Europe still lingered in the twilight of the Middle Ages.

‍ ‍ The Bucentaur’s Return to the Pier by the Palazzo Ducale, Canaletto (1728–1729)

From Byzantium came the domes of San Marco, shimmering with mosaics that echo Constantinople, the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, and the Great Mosque of the Umayyads in Damascus. Venice’s winding calli and secluded gardens find their counterparts in Aleppo; her palaces rising from the water recall the gilded caiques of Ottoman pashas; the clamour of the Rialto mirrors the markets of Crete. And above the fortresses of the Serenissima scattered along the Greek coasts, the winged lion proclaimed Venetian dominion across the Mediterranean world.

‍ ‍ Bevilacqua Tessitoria continues to weave on looms dating back to the 18th century.

Imagination nourishes me; stories enrich me; art lifts me into flight, stirring emotions tempered by reason. Between feeling and intellect I seek harmony, sustained always by beauty. This is why I am captivated by the work of my painter friend. In her Venetian subjects — rendered in bold, abstract strokes — I glimpse the vibrant tumult of the East: a fusion of luminous colour and restless energy.

Yet, on closer contemplation, structure emerges. Beneath the apparent chaos lies a disciplined European formation. Her rigorous compositional framework supports an exuberant palette, much as the bustling bazaars of the Levant conceal an intricate order beneath their heaps of spices and silks. Symmetry alone can be lifeless; harmony, by contrast, is essential. It is the steady rhythm that animates a work of art, like the bells of St Mark’s dissolving into the wind, carried across the sea until they seem to answer the peal of an Orthodox church on a Greek island, and then the distant call of a muezzin summoning the faithful to prayer.

‍ ‍ Panoramic View of Venice from the Campanile

This is our Mediterranean — a sea of voices, exchanges and encounters, in past centuries as in our own day. It unites rather than divides; it bears the commerce, culture and memories that shape our lives. Above all, it retains the power to surprise.

In the painter’s turbulent brushstrokes, I embark upon a boundless voyage. I see Gentile Bellini at the Ottoman court, seated cross-legged as he paints the portrait of Mehmed II. I hear Andrea Gritti speaking flawless Turkish in the streets of Constantinople. I watch Arab mariners instruct inexperienced Venetians in the art of navigation. I recall how the relics of St Mark were spirited away from Alexandria; how Marco Polo journeyed eastward in search of destiny; how, at a banquet in the Palazzo Ducale, a Byzantine princess astonished her companions by producing a golden fork with exquisite refinement.

‍ ‍ The Seated Scribe, Gentile Bellini (c. 1479–1481)

Yet beyond the stories remain the images. Words are fragile; they fade and scatter. Colours endure. Through my friend’s art I feel Venice and the East as a single, resplendent world. Her vision merges with my own, and I find myself wondering what truly unites painter and writer beyond pigment and prose. Perhaps it is nothing other than the shared and wondrous journey of a dream.

My treasured sojourns in Venice are recounted in the book: My Venice