Walking through the Doge’s Palace, there are moments when time seems to stand still. You lift your gaze, and among the gilded frames of the ceilings, Venice appears.
Against the backdrop of a lapis lazuli sky, she continues to reign as the immutable Queen of the Seas. Blonde, triumphant, holding a scepter, dressed in gold and ermine, or receiving a crown: Venice as a queen. This is how Paolo Veronese portrayed her during the Renaissance, and, two centuries later, Tiepolo, his prolific successor, did the same.
In the Renaissance, Venice was the capital of a powerful Republic, and its image had to be entrusted to artists capable of translating the government’s cultural strategy into art, celebrating, with each brushstroke, the myth of an invincible and enlightened Serenissima.
When Paolo Veronese was called to contribute to the decoration of the Hall of the Council of Ten in the Doge’s Palace, he was not yet twenty-five years old, but he already possessed extraordinary talent in the use of luminous, rich, and vibrant colors.
In Venice Receiving the Symbols of Power from Juno, Veronese depicted a youthful Venice in ecstasy before the goddess: her right arm outstretched to receive the gold coins, the ducal horn, and the royal crown that consecrate her as Queen of the Seas. The exchange of gestures and glances between the two queens seals the alliance between Venice and the most powerful goddess of Olympus.
More than twenty years later, Veronese left another majestic image of the Queen of the Seas in the Hall of the Collegio: seated on a throne beneath a canopy, her gaze fixed on an invisible horizon. At her feet, Justice and Peace, dressed in silk and brocade, stand as the handmaidens of a just and secure realm. One holds a sword and scales, the other an olive branch; together, the three figures form a composition in which the fate of the Venetian Empire appears to rest in steady female hands.
A few years later, Veronese was commissioned to create a Triumphant Venice for the ceiling of the Great Council Hall, where the nobles gathered to govern the Republic. The Queen appears again, resplendent in gold, surrounded by twisted columns and a multitude of people who acclaim her. Victory approaches with the crown, but this time, despite the exuberance of the draperies and colors that surround her, Venice seems to feel the full weight of this honor. Her gaze turns toward her people, but it is a more uncertain, perhaps melancholic look compared to the splendid sovereign depicted for the Collegio.
On the balustrade, noblewomen appear alongside their children and nurses: once again, the allegory of power is expressed through female figures—who, in reality, held little autonomy and even less political influence.
Observing these works in chronological order, Veronese’s queen seems to age alongside the Republic: from the dreamy young woman before Juno to the imperturbable sovereign supported by Justice and Peace, to the Triumph, burdened by a heavy cost.
Two centuries later, Gian Battista Tiepolo, the last great seducer of Venetian art, a creator of a sensual world of bare flesh, jewels, and silks, offered in the Hall of the Four Doors an image of a Queen that, in both theme and vibrant colors, recalls Veronese.
The braided blonde hair, the crown on her head, and the ermine cloak evoke the distant master, but the shimmering light that almost dissolves the matter, the darker blue of the sky, and her heavy eyelids tell of a magnificent and weary ruler. A power slipping away, leaving room for an ineffable presence destined to remain in memory.
Venice was leaving history, ready to cross the threshold into myth.
