Waiting outside in the grand, sunny piazza, I expected St Mark’s Cathedral in Venice to be beautiful — as beautiful as the rest of its Italian gothic surrounds, as beautiful as the other, abundant basilicas of Italy. I couldn’t tell you the exact mental image; probably colourful frescoes, maybe the pretty painted wood of Santa Croce, or the magnificent marble floors of St Peter. But going into St Mark’s didn’t feel like entering a church, so much as a catacomb — deep underground, dark, mysterious. The rays of sunlight that did enter, far above, set alight the glimmering mosaics; it felt like looking up at the ocean, the domes a relentless echoing of waves, the sun dancing and sparkling its way across the surface. It was cold, ancient, vast. The more I looked, the more I was amazed; staggered by the sheer size, almost disorientated. I was shocked again, walking through a barrier that separated the nave and the altar, by the blindingly gold Pala D’Oro, coated with a kaleidescope of precious gems.
It was no coincidence that I had never seen anything like it. St. Mark’s Basilica is Venice’s declaration of its deep ties to Byzantium, its radical design echoing a time in which ‘Italy’ was barely an idea. Mosaics—one of the defining artistic traditions of the Eastern Roman Empire—dominate its interior, while the endless domes and floating upper galleries recall the distant Haiga Sophia. And that sense of loss, a lack of guidance, was from the architecture, which abandoned the typical rectangular layout for a Byzantine design that is centred, and deliberately manipulated space to give an impression of vastness. The architecture mirrors Constantinople’s Church of the Holy Apostles, the resting place of the Emperor Justinian who subjugated Venice to Byzantine rule; and so it first appears an homage to this Eastern Empire, its decadent golden style and its position as ruler.
Such a statement could never have existed in a vacuum, and art, as it so often does, gushes through its surrounding society. Not only is Venice dotted with referential details — ornate decoration, domed churches, mosaic apses — but the importing of Byzantine mosaicists added a layer of practicality to the influx of a foreign artistic movement. Venice, in readily adopting Eastern art and architecture, was embracing a power which sought to dominate them; but did they really see themselves as victims, or as equal participants, in this tremendous empire?
To understand the Venetian perspective, it is necessary to acknowledge that the flowing in of Byzantine art was not the only force dominating artistic endeavours in the lagoon. Absorbing Eastern ideas and styles, in the details we can observe how the city transformed them into something uniquely Venetian. While the mosaics of St. Mark’s are undeniably Byzantine in execution, many of their scenes were inspired by the Cotton Genesis, an Egyptian manuscript; other documents such as the Vienna Genesis, and those we only suspect to have existed, fed into the artistic inspiration of the piece. The bold, harsh lines of the mosaics also subtley display local style. Gothic influence permeates the facades of not only St Mark’s but the Palazzo Dario, the Church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli, and so many others. When repairing damaged art in their primary basilica, the Venetians called on Florentine and local artisans, who were trained in Greek tradition but nonetheless incorporated their own artistic preferences. The amalgamation of style reveals a sense of agency in Venetian architecture, as the references to Byzantium and others portray them not as a previous victim of Empire but as a strong commercial and mercantile power. Not just a passive recipient of Byzantine culture, Venice selected and manipulated these influences, blending them into a new and distinct identity.
This dynamic relationship is further called into question by the Basilica’s treasure. The spolia were the result of sacking Constantinople in the Fourth Crusade, in a definitive betrayal and reversal of power by the city over which they once ruled. Venice had supplied the fleet, and in the process they collected much of the loot — incredible artwork that is the physical evidence of invasion and victory. They were proudly displayed: the purple-red sculpture of the Four Tetrarchs attached to the corer of the facade, or the Quadriga, four magnificent bronze statues of horses mounted on the roof. As you stand in Venice’s main piazza, you are surrounded: the real Byzantine works on the roof, the emulation of their style in the columns of San Marco and San Todaro.
The symbolic significance of these is perhaps most obvious in the icon of the lion. Inextricably tied to the choice to display Byzantine treasure, and copy Byzantine style, is the mythology Venice told about its own adoption of Saint Mark as their patron saint. Not only did the Venetians claim to have actually stolen the sacred body, smuggling him out under pork, but they then proceeded to turn Constantinople’s patron saint into their own. The Columns themselves tell us the narrative — he who was to the Byzantines called Saint Theodore, was renamed by the Venetians, changing not only his physical location, but his identity too. Dislodging a fundamental religious figure, to claim him as their own, symbolised Venetian defiance against the Byzantine rule that had inspired them, and definitively demonstrates that the appropriation of Byzantine aesthetics was not a sign of deference but of triumph.
Venice did not inherit Byzantium—it conquered and redefined it. By adopting the artistic and architectural language of its former ally-turned-opponent, Venice positioned itself not as a mere successor, but as a consolidation of powers which produced an Empire ready for commercial and cultural domination.
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Hanny, Suzie, "Byzantine and Islamic Influences on the Art and Architecture of the Basilica di San Marco in Venice", Lindenwood University, 2021, https://digitalcommons.lindenwood.edu/student-research-papers/7
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