by Marco Lazzarato
It all began during a conversation with Gianfranco Guarise, an architect, skilled designer, and expert on the history of furniture. He pointed out that a characteristic element of Verona furniture inlay decoration was, in his words, “a kind of dragon.” In ornamentation, a stylistic feature is either present or absent, with no middle ground. Expressing oneself in such terms means that the accumulation of replicas over time has distorted the initial model to the point of making it unrecognizable. Therefore, it is necessary to retrace the sequence of replicas to get as close as possible to the initial model.
In our case, the catalog from the 1994 Antichi Mobili Veronesi exhibition at the Miniscalchi-Erizzo Museum in Verona proved to be very useful. On the pages dedicated to a chest of drawers made between the end of the 16th century and the beginning of the 17th century, there is a photographic reproduction of the inlay motif we are discussing 〈1〉. Although the caption refers to a “dragon,” the motif clearly depicts a bird. The date of the piece’s manufacture is a guarantee in itself; it would be difficult to trace this ornamental motif’s Veronese genealogy further back, at least in the field of inlay. However, as is often the case with decoration, this discovery is inconclusive and complicates matters further.
What kind of bird is it? Why that one? And why is it always that one? The answer to the last question is the simplest. This type of inlay motif typically has a superficial quality, featuring a sketchy design and simplified composition. These designs are typical of a workshop’s repertoire and consist of patterns that cabinetmakers trace from existing artifacts. In other words, these are decorations that the furniture maker recovered and executed personally rather than designs created by professional ornamentalists. This explains the degeneration that occurred as the replicas were layered on top of each other. Most likely, no one had direct knowledge of the original source or its contents, so the ornamental motif was accepted as depicted in the available cardboard.
Nevertheless, the final inlaid image on the furniture had to be pleasing to the eye, which brings us to the second question. In terms of ornamentation, the motif undoubtedly has what it takes. The slender body forms a whole with a long, curled tail. The open wings are punctuated by visible feathers, and the backwards-turned head gives the whole piece a curvilinear shape. The result is a dynamic composition created by the alternation of solids and voids (the tail, wings, and individual feathers) and punctuated by the bird’s movement as it turns to peck at the grapes. From a technical standpoint, the thick, full lines that characterize the composition are easily achieved through inlay work. In short, it is a beautiful motif, excellent as a decoration. It is easy to copy and execute, which explains its success.
This brings us to the key point; understanding what kind of bird it is and where it comes from. The ease with which copies can be made from other copies suggests that the original tracing was not done from a piece of furniture, but rather from another type of artifact. This hypothesis is supported by the vegetal context in which the figure is placed. The scene appears chaotic, as if it had been cut out elsewhere and adapted to the cabinet. The whole piece has a strongly pictorial appearance, as if it had been painted with a brush rather than traced graphically. Even though the inlay decorations are complex, their clear, sharp shapes facilitate cutting them out of wooden veneers. In other words, they are designed so that the curves are clean, the lines are clear, and the volumes are well-defined. However, in our case, everything is soft and flowing with irregular contours, which are typical of pictorial decoration. The bird, in particular, is characterized by a long, compact tail that widens into a trumpet shape and ends in a curl. The wings are open. One wing is seen from the side, covering the space created by the arching of the body. It is characterized by well-separated feathers. The other wing is depicted from the front and has a rounded shape that is only understandable thanks to the overall composition. A prominent detail is the trilobed tuft crest on the head.
But let’s set aside the late 16th-century version of our inlay motif for a moment and examine two later, derivative variations on the same theme. Our goal is to analyze the replication process that gradually led to the motif’s degeneration. The first variant is the inlay decorating an early 18th-century writing desk exhibited in the 1994 exhibition 〈2〉. Clearly, this is a replica of the previous subject, but it is executed in a grainy, coarse, and summary manner. Note the crest, which is modeled after a peacock’s. Unable to comprehend the trilobed crest, the craftsman must have decided to reduce it to something more familiar.
The other variant comes from an unpublished, privately owned chest of drawers dating back to the late 1700s. It presents a very different situation than the first two. The crest and wing, which are depicted frontally, have disappeared. The wing in profile retains its well-defined feathers, but it ends in a scroll, giving it the regular, elegant appearance of an acanthus leaf. The tail remains prominent, yet it is regularized by the symmetry of the final curls. The bird’s figure has also split in two: one looks forward while the other continues to turn toward the bunch of grapes.
The three stages examined together form a fairly precise parabola. In terms of precision of detail and quality of execution, there is no doubt that the 16th-century inlay offers the version closest to the original source. By the early 18th century, the effects of the replication process are evident, and the motif appears grainy and distorted. The late 18th-century version is characterized by an almost neoclassical elegance. In this version, the motif has become a stylistic feature. It has been regularized and standardized in terms of ornamental repertoire, purging elements considered incongruous. However, the creators of the various inlays must have been almost completely unaware of the real identity of the subject represented. The crest’s evolution (first a tuft, then resembling a peacock’s, and finally absent) suggests they worked by trial and error, knowing little or nothing about the original subject.
Assuming the image carved into the 16th-century chest of drawers is the oldest and most faithful to the original inspiration, let us turn our attention back to it. There are two possible hypotheses: either the image is not what it seems, or it is exactly what we see. The first hypothesis suggests a local origin, while the second suggests an exotic one. But let us proceed in order. A bird with a crest and long tail that was familiar to a 16th-century Veronese carpenter and worthy of being used as furniture decoration can only be a peacock. However, the contrast between this animal’s small head, large body, and enormous tail would have been obvious even to the most inexperienced decorator. Yet, there is no trace of this contrast in the 16th-century version. Furthermore, due to its proportions, a peacock is never depicted with its wings spread, which rules out its presence in the 16th-century version.
However, there is one area of decoration in which naturalistic and mimetic rigor can take a backseat to the speed of execution and, consequently, the value of the final product: painting on ceramics. In the case that interests us here, it is not top-of-the-line tableware intended for elegant settings, but rather industrial tableware for everyday use. As we mentioned, the motif appears to be painted with a brush rather than drawn with a pencil or other graphic tools, as would be appropriate for a wood inlay decoration. Deriving from a motif created for ceramics rather than inlay would explain why a peacock was executed so summarily, sacrificing realism for speed and economy.
Assuming this is correct, it’s easy to imagine a peacock pecking at grapes being painted offhand on a plate or jug. This could have been the iconographic source for the first in a long line of cabinetmakers who, in search of decorative motifs, reproduced the ceramic design exactly. It’s normal for a woodworker to lack the skills to anatomically correct the subject or recompose the scene in the new space. Assuming this is how things went, we would be faced with a “wrong” peacock, yet still a peacock. The second of the three examined versions, despite its crudeness, would become confirmation, not an arbitrary interpretation.
A different scenario emerges if we consider the image to be reliable and corresponding to a specific iconographic theme. In western decorative iconography, the only bird that displays an imposing tail and outstretched wings is the Phoenix. However, it lacks a crest, and the esoteric symbolism associated with it makes it an uncommon subject. After all, it’s hard to imagine a 16th-century cabinetmaker influenced by an alchemical manuscript intended for a few wealthy initiates. Additionally, the Phoenix’s igneous nature means its image is characterized by open, airy, and sinuous lines as it rises into the sky, not pecking at grapes.
However, there is another mythical bird with all the aforementioned attributes: the Simurgh of persian tradition 〈3〉. It has a tufted crest, a large tail, open wings with clearly defined feathers, and overall proportions that correspond to our model. Depicted since the sixth century AD, it is the mythical king of birds. Of course, we are not interested in the myth itself here, but rather in the fact that its popularity inspired many ornithological motifs in textiles and goldsmithing. These were the two main channels through which decorative motifs migrated between East and West during the Middle Ages, as demonstrated by Jurgis Baltrusaitis in his seminal essay, Le Moyen Âge fantastique 〈4〉. The pictorial nature of the motif is compatible with textile decoration, embroidery, and the embossing work typical of silverware. On the other hand, the influx of persian textiles, carpets, silverware, and ceramics into Italy, particularly the northeastern sector, by sea via Venice and by land via Eastern Europe and the Balkans, is a well-known and documented reality throughout the Renaissance, and there is no need to discuss it further here 〈5〉.
What conclusions can we draw from this necessarily hypothetical discussion, which is nonetheless entirely consistent with the historical and cultural dynamics at play between antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the early modern period? One thing is certain; the iconographic source is Persian. The comparison between the “dragon” on the 16th-century chest of drawers and our reconstruction leaves no doubt; it is the same animal. However, from a stylistic point of view, that model appears to be derived from ceramics. The quick strokes, thickness of the lines, and fluidity of the details lead to this conclusion. Creating a decorative motif through the stylization of nature is extremely difficult. The first artist to do so will set a precedent. Each culture develops certain motifs based on its own symbolic needs, but these motifs then take on a life of their own. If they work as decorative elements, they are adopted by other cultures as part of their ornamental repertoire.
This explains the apparent contradiction between the Simurgh and the “wrong” peacock hypothesis. The genre scene – the mythical bird that becomes a farmyard animal pecking at grapes – fits perfectly into the mechanism of using exotic models for their form while ignoring their content. Therefore, the most likely hypothesis is that the master ceramist came into contact with persian models and adapted them to his purposes, while the inlayer limited himself to tracing them.
At this point, we should ask ourselves what the significance of what we have seen so far is. Manufacturing districts would pay a fortune to have their own historical motif to use as a brand symbolizing excellence. The Verona furniture district has this motif, but apparently is unaware of it. Transforming a historical motif into a district brand is obviously a complex process. The first step is recognizing and naming it, which is our goal.
〈1〉 G.P. Marchini (ed.), Antichi mobili veronesi. Secoli XVI – XVIII, Fondazione Museo Miniscalchi-Erizzo, Verona 1994, pp. 30-31. 〈2〉 Ibidem, pp. 28-29. 〈3〉 About Simurgh (or Simurgh, or Semuru, or Senmurv), see: A. Bisi, Senmurv, in Enciclopedia dell'Arte Antica, Treccani Roma, vol. VII, 1966; M. Compareti, The elusive Persian Phoenix. Simurgh and Pseudo-Simurgh in Iranian arts, Persiani, Bologna 2021. The AI-generated image accompanying this text provides a clear, albeit abstract, synthesis of the classic iconographic attributes of the Simurgh. Many thanks to Elham M. Aghili for collaborating on this research. 〈5〉 An essential collection of essays on the subject: R. Wittkover, Allegories and the Migration of Symbols, Thames and Hudson, London 1987. Homepage: Persian art (Samanid dynasty), bowl with depictions of Simurgh, 10th century, glazed ceramic, ∅ 35 cm, height 12 cm, Lugano, Franz Jost Art Collection. Below: an image entitled “Gallus Indicus auritus tridactylus” (the Simurgh?), from a plate in Ulisse Aldrovandi's posthumous work “Monstrorum Historia,” Nicolò Tebaldini, Bologna 1642.
