With an artist as famous as Canaletto, looking up his birth and death dates should be the easiest thing in the world, whether in books or on the internet. But if you do so, you will find many different versions, and will immediately become confused.
Most of us would accept the imprecision and leave it at that. After all, many crucial dates remain unknown to us—most art historians would go to a reliable source, look up the dates and be satisfied—but I was mystified and felt that some detective work was necessary.
Going back to the source The obvious place to start was the Curia Patriarcale di Venezia, where the registers of most births, marriages and deaths in Venice are kept, parish by parish. Knowing where Canaletto lived, I asked for the baptisms and deaths recorded in the parish of San Lio in Castello. The only consistent dates were the years, but what differed in many cases was the day. Faced with this inconsistency, the detective then has to ask certain questions. First, how? Where writers copy from books and articles, a classic case of Chinese whispers occurs: one ascribes one date and the next another, and so we end up with many unverified variants. Then, who? The most important thing is to trace the original source of the date that appears in books and in articles, to identify for the scholar and art historian from whose work these dates have been copied. And finally, why? Having discovered the source of the original date, it can sometimes be discovered why the mistake or misinterpretation of the original manuscript document was made. In other words, it is that crucial historical approach: research on research. And this was the case with the process of identifying the facts about Canaletto’s life.
Of the books that are available in the Biblioteca Giorgio Cini, on the island of San Giorgio in Venice, none published before 1962 records the day—or, in some cases, even the year—of Canaletto’s birth or death. The first to quote the day, month and year was W.G. Constable’s magisterial book on the master, published in 1962. On reading his text, the errors he made in interpreting the dates eventually became clear.
When carrying out primary research in archives, the biggest headache is often the actual handwriting. One can be lucky and find oneself in the presence of a scribe with a clear and beautiful script—or, instead, struggle to read writing that looks as though a spider has walked across the page. The day can go from delight to sheer despair. This applies not only to the writing of individual letters, but also to numbers, and it is just this problem that Constable encountered.
He quoted Canaletto’s date of birth as 28 October 1697, when in fact it is 17 October. The number one in the document is dotted, which was common practice among Venetians at that time, and it could easily be interpreted as a two. The figure that Constable read as an eight is in fact a seven. It is very badly formed, but, looking at the whole page, the parish priest clearly formed his sevens in this way. The entry reads:
No. 356
Adi 30 detto
Zuane Antonio fio del signor Bernardo
q. Cesare Canal pittor, et della Signora
Artemisia fia del signor Carlo Barbieri,
nato adi 17 detto. Compare
Signor Polo q Vendramin Lamberti sta
In questa contrà. Comare la Ruschi
B. il Piovan
The entry was written on 30 October, the day Canaletto was baptised by the parish priest. The infant’s first name was Zuane (Venetian for Giovanni) and his second name Antonio. He was the son of Mr Bernardo (fio being Venetian for figlio), son of the late Cesare, a painter (pittor), and Artemisia, the wife of Bernardo and daughter (fia, Venetian for figlia) of the late Carlo Barbieri (the “q” is an abbreviation of the Latin “quondam”, meaning former or late).
Canaletto was born “on the 17th day” of October: having been mentioned at the top of the page, the month is not repeated in full, but is referred to as “detto” (meaning “of the said month”). His godfather was Mr Polo, son of the late Vendramin Lamberti, who lived in this parish (San Lio); the midwife was La Ruschi. “B. Il Piovan” stands for “baptised by the parish priest”.
The death certificate looks straightforward, but is in fact more complicated. It reads:
S.S.mo
@ 20 Aprile 1768
Il Signor Antonio del q. Bernardo Canal in ettà
d’anni 71 in circa da Febre continua con
Infiamazione nella viscia per il corso di giorni 5 circa
finì di vivere la notte scorsa all’ore 7 circa visitato
dal Eccellente
Masolo. Fa sepellir li Comisari con Capitolo.
Constable wrote: “Canaletto died at around seven in the evening on 19 April 1768 of fever with inflammation of the bladder, which lasted for around five days. He was buried in its communal tomb by the Confraternity of the Santissimo Spirito of S. Lio, as indicated by the contraction ‘issimo’, which heads the record of his death… he must have been a member of the confraternity, although no specific record has been found. He was buried ‘con Capitolo’, ie with twelve priests and candles. In S. Lio, there are three slabs inscribed ADDICTIS CULTUI S.S. SACRAMENTI: one at the west portal, two in front of the chapel south of the chancel. But there is no means of knowing beneath which his body was placed.”
Compounding an error Constable made several errors here. Starting with the word “issimo”, it is the writing that caught him out: the reading should be “S.S.mo”, but the letter S looks like an I. The abbreviation “S.S.mo” signifies “Santissimo”, which means that Canaletto wished to be buried beneath the Altar of the Blessed Sacrament. In any Catholic Church, there is a candlelit red lamp showing the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. In the Church of San Lio, this is on the right-hand side of the High Altar, and Canaletto is buried there, in what was, as Constable points out, a communal tomb. The “Confraternity of the Santissimo Spirito” that Constable invented to explain his misreading of the abbreviation simply does not exist, which is why no records were found. The Church of San Lio has now put a notice at the altar saying that Canaletto is buried there.
The date Constable gives for Canaletto’s death is 19 April; he states clearly that he died on that date at seven in the evening, as the death record shows. The entry is headed 20 April, having been made the following day, so this sounds logical, simple and clear-cut, but further research upsets the apple cart for a second time.
What Constable did not know was how the time was told in Venice during the 18th century. The Venetians used a 24-hour clock, and their new day began one hour after sunset, with sunset being reckoned as hour 24. If Canaletto died seven hours after sunset, as the death certificate states, it was already 20 April: converted into modern time, sunset on 19 April is at 19.01, so the new day would begin at 20.01, and seven hours later would be 3.01am.
The entry reads, in full:
“Signor Antonio, [son] of the late Bernardo Canal, aged c. 71, in the course of five days, suffering from fever and inflammation of the bladder, died at hour seven thereabouts last, visited by the Excellent Masolo. Buried with full chapter by his executors.”
So now, finally, the confusion over Canaletto’s dates can end: Giovanni Antonio Canal, called Canaletto, 17 October 1697 to 20 April 1768. Requiescat in pace.
• Micky White is the author of Antonio Vivaldi: a Life in Documents (2013). She has lived in Venice for 30 years