Italy xviii--Basilica di San Marco, Venice (i)

Rick Steves claims that the architectural style of St. Mark's Basilica, in Venice, is "early ransack" because so much of what that immense cathedral features is taken from other places and even other times--including, by the way, the relic bones of Saint Mark himself, St. Mark, the disciple of Christ. They were something of a heist. 

If you simply look over this shot of the incredible facade, you'll see what Steves means. What's not showing here, but what you can't miss when you walk up is the domes, the onion domes, so reminiscent of a mosque. All told, it's wild. The place seems less of a church than a carnival. (Let me borrow a shot of the exterior.)

Just plain "wow!" The immense bronze horses prancing proudly over the central front door--there are four of them--are the basilica's pride and joy, I'm told.

And, no, they're not "native." They're imports, booty from Constantinople, stolen during the Fourth Crusade, when Venice, the city/state, was flexing its powerful military muscle.

At the top of the facade is a roofline of French Gothic pinnacles that stand proudly above pillars that belong to a whole different era and differing (Roman and Greek) cultures. Honestly, to call the place eclectic does justice to neither the word or the edifice. It's one immense collage of images and styles, including some jaw-dropping mosaics, like this one over the left front door. 

I wish I could tell you what you're looking at here, but I'm not sure myself, and--here as elsewhere all over Italy--the images simply don't quit. Taking time to study any one of them means missing a huge gathering of others, all of them just as interesting. I'm guessing the man on the cot or bier is Mark the apostle. Those gathered around him, non-haloed, are perhaps church men come to pay him homage (one of them carries a staff with a cross). The gallery on the right features a group from a different era or station, looking on. I'm sure there's more, but if you stand here any longer, you won't get inside at all.

When you do, there are no words.

I'd taken only my phone. I don't know that I'm a good enough photographer to take a picture like the one above anyway, but this one I'm borrowing does give you something of a sense of what's inside. The ceiling and much of the wall space is given to ancient golden mosaics that create light that seems, well, unearthly. All of the images tell a story. Every one. Here's the Ascension Dome, high atop the basilica. (You're looking straight up.)

Jesus is at the pinnacle, his hand raised in a gesture that seems, perhaps, more Orthodox than Roman Catholic (but then, this place has history, believe me). Some angels attend him on his slight throne, while around him, in a circle, stands Mary (in blue, traditionally), accompanied by angels on either side, and the apostles. Just beneath their ring are the windows, which, I'm told are meant to separate this world from the heavenly realms. By the way, don't expect to see this unless you bring a heavyweight lens and you can stand for a considerable length of time looking straight up in the air. 

Amid all that spectacle, you feel a bit like Saul on the road to Damascus, struck suddenly dumb, or Zechariah, the priest, who wouldn't believe his wife could get pregnant. There are no words.

Then, slowly, you breath, your eyes stop wandering, you relax a bit, people jostle you (there's always a crowd), and you get some kind of sea legs back beneath you. Having looked up upon a vision the next world, you slowly return to this.

Tomorrow, that story.