Titian in Vittorio Veneto: the mystery of the Serravalle Altarpiece

Walking through Serravalle, an attentive ear may still catch ancient voices, and a curious eye may stumble upon details that reveal forgotten stories…

“When you enter the Duomo, walk straight down the nave, look at the altar, and if you look closely you’ll find a surprise…”

And so I did. After parking behind Piazza Flaminio, I stepped into the Duomo of Serravalle. “Such a large church,” I thought, considering the secluded position where it stood. On one side the river Meschio, on the other the road—this Duomo seemed to have been put in the corner as if in punishment, right under the hill of Saint Augusta.

“What could there possibly be to see in this church?” I wondered as I crossed the nave, still wrapped in the dim light of an anonymous Tuesday morning.

The silence was broken only by the sound of my hesitant steps and, a few minutes later, by the busy sacristan lighting candles, a sign that some service was about to begin.

“Would you like to go up?” he asked, pointing to the stairs leading to the altar.

“If I may…”

Of course, I could. And only then, after passing the pulpit, did I understand: the altarpiece, darkened by time, had not faded where the artist had painted the robe of the saint holding a large cross. That red I had noticed already from the entrance, and now that I stood before it, it was clear whose hand had laid it on the canvas: Titian.

It was then that, rising from the chiaroscuro of time, another voice reached me—drawn from the shadows, it carried me back to the mid-16th century…

“Surprised?” And just as in the master’s altarpiece the Virgin appeared to the two saints, tearing open the heavens, so too did Vincenzo Ghisi, a member of Serravalle’s Great Council, appear before me.

“I see that the painting differs from what was commissioned that day in assembly. The Master did not hesitate to replace the saint who bears my name with Saint Andrew…”

“Potestà… ehm… Messer Ghisi, the Council does not approve of such a stylistic choice, believe me, and for this reason we argued that Titian should not be paid for a work that does not match what was commissioned.”

“Although there is some truth in what you say, I would not lose my soul over the substitution of Saint Vincent, noble colleague. Rather, we should ask why the Master decided to include the scene of the Miraculous Catch there, in the background.”

“I presume it was to make clear the identity of the one who turns toward the Virgin and Child—Saint Peter.”

“Were not the keys he holds in his hand sufficient to make him known to the viewer?”

“I cannot say, my lord…”

“Look closely at the scene of the Miraculous Catch. What do you see?”

“I see the moment in which, as told in the Gospel, after the catch Peter kneels before Jesus, declaring himself a sinner, thus earning the call to become a fisher of men.”

“But is that truly Peter—that figure so young, kneeling before Christ?”

“The Gospel is clear, Messer Ghisi.”

“The Gospel, yes, is clear. But perhaps not so clear wished to be our Master. The kneeling figure is not Peter, but his brother. Peter, as we know, must have been more mature, as shown by the fact that the other man on the boat is gray-haired. That one is Peter.”

“Could it really be so, Messer Ghisi? And why would Titian have made such a mistake?”

“We are not witnesses to a mistake, but to a choice made by our painter, who here signs himself Titian, carved into a stone at the feet of Saint Peter.”

“And what reason could Titian have had not to show Peter kneeling before Christ?”

“I leave you to ponder the motivation. I have simply observed a detail.”

That voice then dissolved. What remained was only that red, still vivid as ever. As I stepped out of the Duomo, one certainty stayed with me: in Serravalle, paintings never cease to speak