Original subtitles

After the phenomenal achievements of the Renaissance artists in 16th century Florence,

the shift in creative power moved to Venice

and into the hands of a supreme master of colour, light and sensuality,

who pioneered new techniques in oil painting.

His name? Titian.

Tiziana Vecchelio, known as Titian in the English-speaking world,

was born in Pieve de Cadore, a small mountain town in northern Italy,

into a family of lawyers and administrators.

We don't actually know the date of his birth, but it was sometime between 1487 and 1490.

And we do know that before the century had turned, and before he was 10 years old,

he and his brother Francesco were sent by the family here to Venice

to join their uncle Antonio, who was a civil servant.

But the brothers were not going to do the family tradition.

Instead, they were going to be trained to be painters.

Venice was a good choice.

For many centuries, the Venetian Republic had been one of the most powerful states in Europe,

with a vast commercial empire dominating the eastern Mediterranean as far as Cyprus.

So to the young Titian, arriving here around 1500,

it was a wealthy, beautiful and sophisticated city,

offering highly lucrative possibilities.

Titian, clearly something of a prodigy, worked in a few minor painting workshops in the city,

before finding a place with the elderly Giovanni Bellini,

then the leading artist of Venice.

By the beginning of the 16th century,

Venetian painting was beginning to display its own characteristics,

different from the central Italian artistic concern with design and draftsmanship.

Venetian art displayed a mastery of colour and an obsession with the effects of light.

The light reflected from the canals and lagoons prompted painters to try and capture its qualities.

The colour emulated the rich and dazzling fabrics and jewels imported from far-off lands.

Venice's damp climate made fresco painting,

a method of painting water-based pigments on freshly plastered walls, rather difficult.

It led artists to favour oil painting as a medium.

As a result, Venetians experimented further with oil paints than other Italian painters,

and popularised the use of oil on canvas rather than on wooden panel,

an innovation that Titian developed more than any other artist of his time.

Still in his teens, Titian went to work with Giorgioni,

the rising star of the Venetian art world, from whom Titian learnt a good deal.

This is evident in early works like the Gypsy Madonna, painted around 1510,

which shows a considerable mastery of working in oil,

a harmony of complementary colours,

and a great emphasis on landscape in composition.

An idealised landscape is the setting for another early Biblical drama,

Nolli Metangere.

The figures are powerfully integrated with their surroundings.

The resurrected Christ's shroud, with a bluish shadow,

seems to bring the sky down to earth in the picture.

Likewise, the sunlight glinting on Mary Magdalene's hair

is reproduced on the bleached, thatched roofs of the buildings in the background.

By 1514, four years after Giorgioni had become victim

to the savage plague that swept through the city,

Titian established his own workshop.

His artistic rivals had either left Venice, grown old,

or been struck by the plague,

allowing his workshop quickly to become one of the most successful in town.

Titian had painted a number of commissions in churches,

but in 1516, he got a big commission

that established his reputation throughout Venice and beyond.

It was here, in the Freari Church,

and it was this work, which is the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Now, to our eyes, at the beginning of the 21st century,

it's just another religious painting.

But, in fact, it was a dramatic image,

the like of which had never been seen before.

Now, what Titian does is divides the picture into three sections,

but he brings life to it.

The apostles are statuesque, almost muscular sculptures,

and it shows that he's been looking at Michelangelo.

Then, moving up a level, we see these angels, or putti,

holding up these willowy, wispy clouds,

on which the Virgin Mary herself is,

rather idealised, and in a way, he's been looking at Raphael.

And then, upwards, in the heavens themselves,

there's this ethereal glow that's pure Titian.

But how does he bind it all together?

Well, in two ways.

One is colour, this vibrant Venetian colour that's emerging,

and Titian becomes the master of it,

particularly red, it punctuates the painting

from God, to the Virgin, to the apostles themselves.

But, overall, it's light.

Now, we have a privilege in this painting now,

because we see it in situ, as Titian intended.

And we see this marble frame around it that he helped design,

that keeps the light out on the sides.

But when we look at it again,

we realise that that gold luminosity,

behind the Virgin herself, and behind God,

actually competes with the natural light around it.

And that's what's so radical about this painting.

In fact, it was so radical

that the friars who'd commissioned it were very uneasy.

But the imperial ambassador in Venice

offered to buy the work.

The Freari church then realised they were on to something,

said they'd keep it.

And, as a consequence,

everyone wanted Titian to paint in their churches.

And, in fact, his next big work

is just down the apse of the church,

on the right-hand side.

This altarpiece was a private commission for the Pesaro family,

who, in 1518, gave the Freari church a lot of money

so that this altar was in perpetuity a monument

to them and their offspring.

And then, a year later, they commissioned Titian

to produce an image that both celebrates the family

and the Immaculate Conception

to which this altar was initially dedicated.

So, what we see is an image of the Blessed Virgin Mary

and the Christ Child.

Surrounded by saints, we can see St Francis,

St Anthony on the extreme right-hand side,

and then St Peter, centre stage,

with the keys of heaven on the step just below his feet.

There's also a nice little twist here,

because local legend has it

that that bearded figure is not just a saint,

but it could also be a portrait of Titian himself,

a self-portrait, in other words.

Now, this is a much more sombre picture in tone

than the Assumption,

and yet it's still brought vividly to life by colour.

Red runs through it again,

but there's some neat balances.

Red and its alternative colour,

its complementary green,

but also, look at blue and orange.

That goes together rather neatly as well.

But there are two other devices

that Titian experiments with here

that makes this picture, in turn, radical.

The first is that instead of having this sacred image

perpendicular to the picture plane,

which was usual,

he tilts it,

we can see it more obviously with the steps,

as if it's 45 degrees on its axis.

And so it gives us a sense of depth.

And the second device is the columns themselves.

Now, X-rays show that he's tried a number of approaches here.

His initial idea was to have an apse

to make the picture mirror the shape

of the frame of the altarpiece itself.

But in the end,

he opts for two endless columns

that both mirror the columns on either side,

but more importantly,

take us upwards and upwards towards heaven itself.

One of the reasons for Titian's swift rise to celebrity

was his large and varied output.

He divided his time

between large-scale religious works

destined for public places

and those for private collectors,

like portraits,

and more erotically charged images.

This is flora,

painted around 1520,

an example of a courtesan portrait,

and which it's thought

the patron commissioned for his bedroom.

This type of image

has become increasingly popular

in 16th-century Venice.

Titian often used the female form

to supply his wealthy patrons

with pictures

which subtly allude to sexual love.

The paintings were often hung behind curtains

or in private quarters

and shown off only to select male visitors.

The woman is supposedly flora,

a legendary figure

from ancient Roman festivals,

known as both a courtesan

and a goddess.

Courtesans were high-class prostitutes,

well-versed in poetry,

literature and music.

The demand for both ordinary prostitutes

and courtesans

must have been extremely high.

In a city of around 125,000 people,

there were nearly 12,000 of them,

a growing service industry

for the tradesmen,

sailors and tourists

who flocked to the sensual city.

By his early 30s,

Titian was well-established

as the leading Venetian artist,

and he'd also begun

to attract attention

from patrons further afield.

The countryside around Venice

was made up of duchies

and home to a number

of wealthy families

who were central

to the development

of Renaissance art,

being the main source

of commissions

for poets and painters.

Titian became extremely popular

with two powerful Renaissance families,

the Gonzagas of Mantua

and the Deste family

from Ferrara.

The Duke of Ferrara

commissioned Titian

to paint a series of works

for his study,

and the Venetian responded

with three large,

luscious mythological scenes

devoted to orgiastic feasts

and falling in love.

And this is one of the three pictures

that Titian made

for the Duke of Ferrara,

joyful, exuberant,

slightly crazy.

It tells the story

of Bacchus and Ariadne,

and it's a narrative painting

full of detail,

full of life,

full of energy.

And what Titian is doing

is taking one of the traditional subjects

in the history of art,

mythology,

but totally revitalising it.

The scene is set

on the Greek island of Naxos,

where Ariadne here

has just woken up

to find that her lover,

Theseus,

has deserted her.

Having solicited her help

to kill the Minotaur,

he then leaves her,

and Titian alludes to that

by showing a ship there

in the distance,

sailing off over the horizon line,

and that really is the symbol

of her lost love.

But in turn,

the god, Bacchus,

the god of wine and inspiration,

appears to try and seduce Ariadne,

or indeed to cart her off.

So she's just woken up,

she's just seen love lost,

she's also then startled

by this handsome young god,

but with his lunatic entourage.

And this is the entourage

of Bacchanalian frenzy.

They're drunks,

you can see a guy

drunk on an ass

there in the background,

another carrying a barrel,

and another holding above his head

the leg with the hoof

of a cow

that they've just torn

in this kind of frenzy

with a head here

in the foreground.

The painting is filled

with symbols.

Look up in the sky,

there's a constellation of stars

set against this deep

azure blue sky

when it seems to be

the middle of the day.

Now, the symbol of that

is clear.

When eventually,

Bacchus and Ariadne married,

he gave her a diadem,

a jewelled crown

or headpiece

for the wedding present,

which in turn,

later on in the mythological story,

becomes a constellation

of stars.

And there it is

above her head

as a kind of symbol

of the union,

a wedding ring if you like,

between these two figures.

When you first look

at this picture,

there are two overriding

characteristics that you notice

and it's those that give

the picture its real strength.

The first is colour.

Titian, even at this early stage

in his career,

is a masterful colourist.

These wonderful deep blues,

sometimes heightened

by their complementary orange,

sometimes made to sing

against the red or the green.

And there's always

a fantastic sense

of colour balance.

And in fact,

this painting looks

as if it's lit from behind.

It has a graphic

and striking sense

of luminosity.

And the second characteristic

is the frozen moment.

It's as if the most wild party

has suddenly been stopped

by the press of a pause button

on a video.

This is one of the great

suspended frozen moments

in Titian's career.

And it's because of this

that Titian is able

to reinvigorate this subject.

There are thousands

of mythological paintings

in the history of art,

but there are very few

that are as visually energetic

as this one.

By the time Titian

had completed the commission

for the Duke's study,

he was in his mid-thirties.

Due to his shrewd business sense

and the prodigious output

of his studio,

he'd by now amassed

considerable wealth.

But not everything

was flourishing.

Tragedy struck

in his personal life.

His wife Cecilia died

in 1530.

Certain scholars believe

that Cecilia was used

as a model

in some of Titian's works,

not least this one,

the Madonna and Rabbit,

thought to be painted

around the time

that she died.

But it's a view

that's perhaps

a bit more romantic

than based on any fact.

Shortly after the death

of his wife,

he moved with his children

to a large house

in one of Venice's

more refined districts.

Here he lived the life

of a distinguished

Phoenician gentleman

and entertained

the city's most illustrious

men and women.

He was at the height

of his success

when he came to the attention

of his most prestigious

patron yet.

In 1530,

Titian went to Bologna

to attend the coronation

of Charles V,

and he was introduced

to the new

Holy Roman Emperor,

who at that time

was the most powerful man

in the world.

As Holy Roman Emperor,

he effectively ruled

throughout Central Europe,

and as King of Spain,

he ruled territories

in the Spanish Netherlands,

as well as numerous places

in the New World.

He commissioned Titian

to paint a portrait

immediately,

and that's now lost.

But three years later,

Titian began a succession

of royal portraits,

of which this is

the most impressive

and important.

Unusually,

it's a full-length image

of the emperor,

who stands before us

with a suggestion

of calm,

strong authority.

When you get close up,

the brushstrokes

are feathery,

move away though,

and the image

crystallises.

Likewise,

Charles emerges

out of the darkness

behind,

into the light.

The painting

was a great success

for Titian.

He was immediately

invited to become

a court painter,

and join the Order

of the Golden Spur,

which gave him rights

as a courtier.

In effect,

he was becoming part

of an important

imperial propaganda machine,

where,

in an age before photography,

the portraits

of the emperor

were an extension

of his rule

in places where

he himself hadn't been.

In turn,

for Titian,

it made him

the most sought-after

painter in the West,

an artist who could

pick and choose

his commissions

rather than depend

on the will of others.

Titian's client list

was reading like a

who's who

of mid-16th century Europe.

As well as his

associations with

Charles V,

and regular visits

to the Gonzaga

court in Mantua,

Titian also devoted time

to another important

dynastic family,

the Della Rovarese

of Urbino.

This is one of the

more famous pictures

in the history

of Western art.

It's called

the Venus of Urbino

because it was

acquired by a man

who became

the Duke of Urbino,

Guido Baldo

de la Rovarese.

It's an image

of wonderfully

sensual eroticism.

Glazed with a

classical veneer,

she's called Venus,

but she's every woman

in a way,

a beautiful figure

lying on a bed,

covering up her genitals,

but at the same time

enticing our gaze there,

but returning our gaze

with a vengeance

as she stares back

nonchalantly at us.

Guido Baldo

had got married

four years before

in 1534

to a child bride.

The dog is a symbol

of marital fidelity.

The roses that she holds

is a symbol

of the pleasure of love,

but also the constancy

of love,

as is the myrtle plant

in the background

visible against the window.

The servants

seem to be showing

how you run

a steady household.

So on one level,

this picture

is almost a manual

for a young woman

learning to be

a dutiful wife.

But it's an image

that begins and ends

with flesh.

And in fact,

Titian is pioneering

a new way of painting

human flesh

that involves

slow-drying oils

that he applies

in thinned layers

almost to the point

of translucency.

And he builds up

the flesh

rather than the way

that human flesh

is made in layers.

And there's this eroticism

that seems to burgeon

from this work

and in fact

it heralds a new style

of painting.

This is for private eyes

as well as a manual

for a young woman

to learn how

to be a good wife.

And in that respect

it becomes a landmark

in the history

of erotic art.

And it's a picture

that is reinvented

and reinterpreted

and obsesses artists

as great as

Goya, Manet,

Picasso and onwards.

In 1545,

in his mid-50s,

Titian visited Rome,

invited by the grandson

the son of Pope Paul III.

He stayed in an apartment

overlooking the Vatican.

In a letter to Charles V,

he wrote of his interest

in the city's

numerous classical monuments,

saying,

I am learning

from these marvellous

ancient stones.

But the primary purpose

of the trip

was patronage

and he painted portraits

of the Farnese family

whose members included

cardinals

and the Pope himself.

In 1555,

Charles V abdicated

and his son,

Philip II,

inherited the title

of King of Spain.

Titian found Philip

to be as powerful

and sympathetic a patron

as his father had been

and produced some

of the most dramatic

and ambitious work

of his life.

Philip initially commissioned

Titian to paint

two large mythological scenes,

which became part

of an epic series,

perhaps the most striking

of which is this

one called

Diana and Callisto

held in the National

Gallery of Scotland.

The subject matter

is classical.

Titian called

these his poesies,

poems that were

otherworldly

and also erotic.

And it tells the story

of Diana.

She's the goddess

of hunting.

She's also the moon goddess.

And one day,

she and her merry band

of huntresses

have been out

and they come back

and they discover

that something

is not quite right

with one of them.

The figure lying

here being stripped

by her fellow

huntresses.

That's Callisto.

And what had happened

previously

is that she'd been

raped by Jupiter,

chief of the gods,

and she was pregnant.

Now, chastity

was valued above

all else

in this gathering

of women.

And when it was

suspected that she

might be pregnant,

she stripped open.

And this is that

moment of revelation.

What happened

subsequently

in the story

is rather tragic.

Callisto

is cast out

of the group.

In turn,

when Jupiter's wife,

Juno,

hears about what's

happened,

she banishes

Callisto

and turns her

into a bear.

In turn,

the child that's

in Callisto's stomach

at this moment,

Arca,

her son,

sees the bear,

pursues what turns

out to be his mother,

but he doesn't know that,

kills her.

But,

in kind of recompense,

Jupiter discovers

all of this

and turns Callisto

into Ursa Major

or the great bear,

a constellation

of stars in the sky.

And Titian acknowledges

that part of the saga

implicitly,

because look at the action.

It moves from Diana

to Callisto.

Diana is pointing

at admonishment.

Go.

You're out.

It's that moment

of revelation.

But our eyes,

through this snaking water,

are taken back

and round

to the forest

where Callisto

will end up shortly.

And then finally,

we're taken off

into the sky itself

where she'll also end up.

The sky is also

the dominant colour area

of the whole painting.

It's that wonderful

orange glow

balanced by the blueness

of the hills

that you find rhymes of

all over the painting.

Orange and blue

are complementary colours

and it's colour

that really excites Titian.

He turns paint itself

into something like flesh.

He used to smear it on

with brushes

and his fingers.

And as he gets older

and he's in his 70s

when he paints this,

everything is starting

to lighten up.

What's most noticeable

about these works

is their rough

and almost unfinished nature,

most evident in the last

in the series,

The Death of Action,

in which line

is almost non-existent.

It also supports the idea

that in his later years,

Titian painted as much

with his fingers

as he did with his brush.

The elderly Titian's final years

saw him continue to paint

prolifically with works

defined by a dramatic intensity

in an increasingly loose

and liberated style.

An acute awareness

of impending death

seems blatant

in the last painting,

Pietà,

on which Titian was working

in 1576

when Venice was ravaged

by yet another gruesome plague.

Titian died

on the 27th of August

of that year,

although not actually

of the plague,

but it got his son

soon afterwards,

along with nearly

70,000 Venetians.

And so Titian was buried

in the splendid

Frari church

surrounded by two

of his most accomplished

masterpieces.

Titian was the brightest star

in the dazzling firmament

of 16th century Venice,

whose use of colour

and light

transformed European art

and whose physical expressiveness

began a revolution

in painting.

His work was sought

and owned by many

of the most powerful people

in his world,

making him perhaps

the first truly

international artist.