The Pantheon Interior: A Famous View
The Pantheon in the eighteenth century is epitomized in a single image: the view of the interior of the monument painted by Gian Paolo Pannini (1691–1765) and replicated in many versions by him and his school (Fig. 11.1, Plate II). When it first appeared, this famous veduta (“view”) was both a more reliable representation of the monument than those made previously and a celebration of a new veduta technique. For in addition to revealing a luminescent interior in radiant color, the magnificent interior seems also to have exploited the principles underlying the camera obscura, the instrument used to carry out a new method of view painting. Light bursts through the oculus into the dark interior – a sort of black box – and reflects on the coffered ceiling, thus allowing the viewer to observe every detail of the scene, which is shown with hitherto unknown clarity. It was this light that refreshed a view of an ancient monument that had been continuously portrayed for more than two centuries. Light revealed not only the exact arrangement of ancient marble columns and slabs but also their exact hues and all of the corrosion caused by the passing of centuries. Once they were transported home by tourists and erudites who had admired the monument in Rome, Pannini’s canvases vividly called to mind the colors and traces of time past, thus complementing the bookish culture of their owners. In a century when personal response to masterpieces was highly valued and carefully theorized, this special rendering of light over battered marbles reawakened memories and emotions experienced on the site.
11.1. Interior of Pantheon; painting by Giovanni Paolo Pannini. (Copenhagen, Statens Museum for Kunst, inv. 4694)
When Pannini conceived this veduta, therefore, he had an audience of tourists and scholars in mind, a sort of Pantheon-appreciation society that would ensure the painting’s immediate success. Indeed, from 1734 onward, he painted at least eight variations on this theme for famous and wealthy diplomats or Grand Tourists visiting the city.1 These views, carefully conceived to meet a precise demand, reveal to us the various ways in which the multifaceted identity of the Pantheon was perceived during the eighteenth century. For although contemporary visitors to the Rotunda had different ideas about the building, they would have shared three overarching questions inherited from the antiquarians, artists, and church historians who had studied the Pantheon in the previous two centuries. Who built this ancient Roman building, and when? Could previous representations of the monument – potentially a model for modern architecture – be considered reliable? What was the significance of its changing use, from a temple to a Christian church, to the appearance of the fabric from the seventh century onward?
For Pannini and his contemporaries, the first two questions had received apparently definitive attention in the form of two authoritative publications 50 years earlier. In 1682, the architect Antoine B. Desgodetz published a book entitled Les édifices antiques de Rome in Paris; 12 years later, in 1694, the architect Carlo Fontana issued his Templum Vaticanum in Rome. Throughout the eighteenth century, these two books – which differed considerably in their content, purpose, and target audience – represented the undisputed literary sources on the Pantheon. Desgodetz (1653–1728), a young protegé of the minister Colbert, was sent to Rome at the expense of the Académie Française in 1676–1677, charged with the task of carrying out a series of accurate measurements of Rome’s ancient monuments. The Pantheon was obviously the most important among them. Having compared differing details in the illustrations of Roman monuments published by Sebastiano Serlio (1540), Andrea Palladio (1570), and Roland Fréart de Chambray (1650),2 French academics wished to establish new and exact measurements. Upon Desgodetz’s return to Paris, his measured drawings were discussed in the Académie’s meetings and then lavishly published at the expense of the French crown, the text owing part of its authority to the fact that it was not the enterprise of an individual but of the leading French architectural institution.3 Fontana (1638–1714), on the other hand, published his book at the apex of his career at the papal court. As architect of St. Peter’s basilica, he dedicated a weighty tome to the church, rehearsing its long building history. An entire illustrated chapter of it was devoted to the Pantheon only because it was the largest known ancient temple; Fontana compared the Rotunda to St. Peter’s in part to demonstrate that the latter boasted the greatest dome ever built in human history.4
Both Desgodetz and Fontana had correlated their firsthand observations of the Pantheon with the written sources on the monument, namely, the inscriptions present in the portico and information contained in classical literary sources. Because these sources had all been known since the Renaissance and were known to refer to the first Pantheon, which was built by Agrippa during the reign of Augustus, then destroyed by fire, and finally obliterated by the construction of the existing fabric, both authors reached conclusions virtually identical to those advanced by their predecessors, conclusions that were, unfortunately, incorrect. Observing the formal discontinuity of the rotunda and portico, and given that the latter bore a dedicatory inscription to Agrippa, both Desgodetz and Fontana maintained that the rotunda had been constructed earlier, during the Republican Age. Because they judged the bases of the columns of the internal order to be too low, they also concluded that Agrippa had raised the level of an earlier floor on the interior. Finally, again with regard to the interior, they noted that the second order in the attic was not clearly aligned with either the principal order below or with the ribs in the vault above and, furthermore, that the attic was awkwardly interrupted by the two arches of the entrance and main apse. Desgodetz and Fontana therefore concluded that the attic dated to a later period, perhaps the empire or even to the subsequent period coinciding with the first Christian use of the building. Thus, what we now assume to be a unitary building, constructed entirely in the second century, was still thought, as in the Renaissance, to be composed of discordant parts.
Desgodetz presented his observations in brief texts as commentary for his large-scale copperplate engravings, which illustrated the building with a degree of accuracy in measurement and detail hitherto unknown. Fontana’s approach was different: rather than merely providing a series of comments on the existing building, he wrote the first illustrated history of the monument. Using a process of subtraction, he gradually removed from the existing Pantheon all of the elements that he believed to have been added over the years, ending up with the depiction of a hypothetical Republican Age temple, as distinguished from the one thought to have been built by Agrippa under Augustus. He visualized the former as a building without an external portico and without interior columns, a temple whose archaic severity was based on the absence of all elements belonging to the architectural orders. The building that he proposed as Augustus’s Pantheon resembled the existing edifice, with the addition of elements described in classical texts but presumed lost, replacing, for example, the much-discussed pilasters in the attic with the bronze caryatids described by Pliny. Accepting a possible location for the statues of the gods of the underworld between the heavens and the earth, as proposed in 1585,5 he envisioned the floor at a much lower level than the one in the existing building (Fig. 11.2). As a result, none of Fontana’s reconstructions of past Pantheons showed the controversial attic, thus reaffirming doubts about it.
11.2. Cross section as reconstructed by Carlo Fontana depicting the Pantheon under Augustus, with caryatids in the left half, near the entrance (top), and reconstructed cross section depicting the Pantheon during the Republic (bottom). (Fontana 1694, Book 7)
The tourists represented in Pannini’s views would have been familiar with such antiquarian speculation. The painter portrayed them in the act of observing the interior of a building whose individual elements they had learned to date according to the theories of the day, while reserving their greatest admiration for those parts that they believed to have originated in the Augustan Age. Nevertheless, as other figures depicted by the painter in pious attitudes near the altars show, the Pantheon was also a church. It was an extremely ancient church, whose history as such belonged to a special category: Christian antiquity. Reliable documents as well as legends and miracles narrated in hagiographic literature on the Pantheon – better known at the time as the church of Santa Maria ad martyres – had been collected since the late sixteenth century, when the early history of Christianity gained special appeal. In this field of inquiry6 – whose diffusion was limited to Roman Catholic countries – the salient event in the Pantheon’s history was its consecration as a Christian temple. This much-admired ancient edifice had been saved from the destruction inflicted upon so many famous monuments thanks to the intervention of Pope Boniface IV, who had converted it into a church.7 This event came to symbolize the survival of ancient Rome in the Christian era: after the fall of the empire, the papacy had imposed one religion that managed to ensure the city’s preservation and avoid its complete ruin. Nowhere was this more evident than at the Pantheon.
The significance of the Pantheon as an ancient monument preserved through Christian reuse was to have an important effect in the evaluation of medieval and later transformations made in order to change the pagan temple into a church. Notwithstanding the emphasis that Christian antiquarians usually put on archaeological evidence, in the case of the Pantheon no descriptions or images of altars were written or drawn. Because the edifice had become the model of perfect conservation of ancient Rome through papal authority, there was no impetus to describe small-scale, yet important, transformations that presumably occurred during the intervening centuries. Like Raphael and all artists and architects who drew the interior of the Pantheon after him, Christian antiquarians also failed to include in their books any representation of such a prominent feature as the high altar, which was surmounted by a ciborium and a series of columns with an architrave forming a pergula separating the choir from the rest of the church. The only known image that includes these elements was issued for liturgical purposes, a curious engraving representing the church exactly as it was in the late seventeenth century (Fig. 11.3).8
11.3. Interior and exterior of Pantheon showing medieval high altar, its pergola, and other decorations in the apse; drawing by G. T. Vergelli, etched by P. P. Girelli. (Arrigoni and Bertarelli 1939, no. 2574).
Up to the First Cornice: Works Carried Out during the Papacy of Clement XI
By the early eighteenth century, and despite its venerable age, Santa Maria ad martyres was hardly considered an important church. After the eclipse of Pope Alexander VII Chigi’s ambitious project for renewing the whole building under Fontana’s direction,9 the Pantheon as a religious site had but modest attractions. All of the altars were rather ordinary, except the two which were connected to Raphael’s memory. In his will, the artist asked to be buried in one of the aedicules; in 1674, the painter Carlo Maratti (1625–1713) celebrated the artist’s memory by placing a bust to either side – one depicting Raphael himself and the other Annibale Carracci.10 In 1541, an altar standing in an adjacent exedra was assigned to the Confraternity of Saint Joseph of the Holy Land, a religious association accepting only artists and granting its members the opportunity of being buried in the church.11
The lack of any estimable work of art on these two important altars – indeed on any of the Pantheon’s other altars – was due to the fact that the Rotunda was constantly under threat of flooding, an eventuality that discouraged any artistic endeavor in the church. In fact, because its floor still remained at a far lower level than the modern city, every time the Tiber burst its banks, the Pantheon would be one of the first buildings to be flooded. When the river rose past the level of the sewer outlets, the water would start running back up the pipes that normally channeled rain water down to the Tiber, to be released from the large drain cover in the center of the rotunda. In this way, the periodic and occasionally devastating floods had caused the dispersal of many of the slabs in the antique floor,12 menaced all of the altars, and continuously deposited layers of slime on the antique marble of the columns and paneling, particularly on the lower sections. A drainage system carried out in 1662–1667 proved only partially successful.13
It was not until the cleaning of a small area of one of the columns framing Raphael’s tomb that the church was to experience a major change. A contemporary chronicle reports that in the spring of 1705, on the occasion of maintenance work on the altar carried out at the expense of Pope Clement XI Albani, a small area of one of the giallo antico columns was cleaned.14 The gleaming surface that was thus revealed became an object of admiration on a par with an archaeological discovery: the same chronicle mentions that the pope himself, rushing to the church with a group of cardinals in order to admire the column, gave an order to extend the work to the entire inner circle of the rotunda, up to the first cornice. Accounts show that work started on the left and continued at a fair pace for a whole year, slowing down until 1711 when the renovation was concluded. The total cost of this project – organized mainly by the pope’s brother, Orazio Albani, and Monsignor (later Cardinal) Niccolò del Giudice – was considerable.15
The generic term pulitura (cleaning) of marbles mentioned in the chronicles actually covered a whole range of activities. Francesco Bartoli, who as superintendent of antiquities was in charge of the conservation of Rome’s ancient monuments,16 drew up a list of work considered necessary and included precise instructions on how it was to be carried out, with the intention of preserving as much of the ancient monument as possible. From this precious document, we know exactly what was scheduled for the restoration of the interior of the rotunda. Apart from cleaning all of the porphyry and marble surfaces, to be done without the use of any acid, the damaged entablature and capitals were to undergo extensive repairs using stucco so as to avoid driving metal holding rods into the antique marble; reintegration of missing pieces in the marble veneer was also proposed, but without altering the original layout.17 Unfortunately, Bartoli’s instructions relative to reintegration seem to have been largely ignored. The original porphyry and marble slabs in the band immediately below the first entablature – as documented by Inigo Jones in 161418 and by Carlo Fontana’s workshop in 1662–166719 – were in fact rearranged. Under the program of works promoted by Clement XI, all the porphyry slabs were replaced by the African marble slabs in situ today. Further extensive replacement work – recognizable by the different techniques used to anchor the pieces to the wall – was identified on the occasion of the restoration campaign carried out in 1992–1995.20 As a result, much of the marble veneer up to the first entablature of the interior, which is generally held to be ancient and extraordinarily well preserved, has been revealed to be the fruit of this extensive program of works carried out less than 300 years ago.
Section by section, as the restoration of the interior progressed, the church, too, underwent a major transformation. Missing columns were replaced in the aedicules; all altar settings carried out on behalf of families or corporations during the previous centuries were removed; and the exedras, which had at the time already lost most of their original marble facings, were stripped of their remaining ornament and subjected to a new unified decorative scheme. The architect charged with carrying out the work was Alessandro Specchi (1668–1729), who had collaborated with Fontana on his Templum Vaticanum and was famous in his own right for having designed the new Porto di Ripetta (1703–1704). The general intent – as stated in the 1711 Giornale de’ Letterati d’Italia – was to enhance both the much-admired antique architecture and its Christian reuse. The project would restore the Pantheon – described as a “corpse bared of all its ornaments” – to its earlier beauty; the church, stripped of any material memory discordant with the ancient building, would be endowed with renewed altars and chapels in harmony with the overall ancient scheme.21 Specchi’s drawings show that the altars and chapels were to be distinguished by simple forms, though richly decorated (Fig. 11.4);22 but only a small part of these Baroque stucco garlands, scrolls, and putti – criticized by Commissioner Bartoli in 1705 as “ornaments of very hackneyed elements,” would actually be realized.
11.4. Project for Chapel of S. Giuseppe di Terrasanta in the Pantheon; drawing attributed to Alessandro Specchi. (Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett, Italienische Zeichnungen, Kdz. 23821)
In the most important exedra, the one opposite the entrance, extraordinary care was needed. The demolition work in this area after 1711 had resulted in the destruction of the high altar, the ciborium above it, and the pergola. All were architectural features dating from the Middle Ages and renewed as late as the fifteenth century. They had been made of ancient marble slabs and columns taken from elsewhere in the building or from the Baths of Agrippa nearby (Fig. 11.3). Although this altar composition testified to the antiquity of Santa Maria ad martyres, in a renovated church where all of the marbles had been returned to their original positions, the use of spolia had come to be seen as historically inconsistent. Now, the removal of every trace of the church’s postclassical past raised new questions: Should the altar be replaced? And what was to be put in its stead? An amateurish project, drawn up as a sketch plan with written notes, provides a possible solution (diagrammed in Fig. 11.5). The anonymous designer suggests occupying the empty exedra with the great porphyry urn that was a celebrated antiquity long associated with the Pantheon, documented as being located on the exterior since the Renaissance, and traditionally believed to have been Agrippa’s sarcophagus. Both the project23and a contemporary chronicle24 reveal that the urn was proposed either as the base of the new main altar, for which it was to prove too high, or as part of a sculptural group depicting the Virgin at the moment of her assumption. These two rather different proposals would both have served the same purpose, placing within the exedra an ornament in keeping with the rest of the building, as well as recalling the Church’s definitive victory over the pagan world by the conversion of the urn to Christian use. Employing the urn to hold the remains of the holy martyrs, as specified in the chronicle, would have repeated the theme of the ritual adopted 12 centuries earlier to convert the entire Pantheon into a church.25
11.5. On left: reconstruction of altar and related components predating the restorations of Clement XI (1700–1721), including the high altar and its pergula in the choir. (Scheme based on Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Chigi P VII 9, f. 108). On right: the choir as described in an anonymous drawing of 1711, including choir and passage from the choir to the altar platform, a porphyry urn, a trench showing the original floor, the altar platform, an altar and altar step (predella), a bench for the clergy during solemn mass, and steps to the altar. (Based on Royal Library, Windsor Castle, Albani vol. n. 188, fol. 10636).
The works actually carried out differed somewhat from the schemes inspired by pious Christian antiquarianism. The urn remained at the portico of the Pantheon until 1732, when it was taken to S. Giovanni in Laterano to be used as the sarcophagus of Pope Clement XII. The choir of Santa Maria ad martyres was not refurbished until 1724 when, following the deaths of both Orazio Albani (1713) and his brother Pope Clement XI (1721), the project passed into the hands of Del Giudice, now a cardinal. Drawings by Specchi are related to this late period, and the work proceeded as designed with some significant variations. They show the apse decorated with a new mosaic, and in it a rather traditional altar dedicated to the Virgin, surmounted by a baldachin presumably intended to recall the older ciborium. A program intended to enhance the church’s early Christian history was carried out only in the two aedicules to either side of the tribune, for these two altars were consecrated to Saints Erasius and Anastasius, whose relics had been rediscovered during the restoration project.26 The decision to place a statue by the artists Bernardino Cametti and Francesco Moderati in each of the two aedicules was dictated by the intent to evoke elements from the ancient temple. The two aedicules were suppliedwith new column shafts made of giallo antico marble, finely fluted to resemble the two ancient columns to either side of the main exedra. Between them, the new statues were intended to replace those of the ancient gods.
Interior of the Dome and Attic: Work Carried Out during the Papacy of Benedict XIV
The grandiose scheme envisaged for the Pantheon by Pope Alexander VII (1655–1667) was the first in modern times to call for the renovation of its vault. Some of the plans drawn up by the architect Carlo Fontana for the occasion show new ornaments decorating the bare coffers, and the oculus was to be closed by a glazed lantern. Work on the ceiling, which started in a segment of the inner surface, or intrados, was interrupted immediately after the pope’s death because, as the Senator of Rome stated, “the new ornaments deform the ancient monument instead of improving it.”27 The English architect James Gibbs (1682–1754), who had been a student of Fontana in Rome until 1708, mentions that the planned glazing of the oculus also met with similar resistance:
There is another thing much wanted, and that is to put some sort of covering over the skylight, which would keep the rain and damps from discouloring the beautiful columns, linings of marble, and the fine paviment and likewise from rotting the pictures.... There can be no reason against it, unless it to be the folly of some whimsicall Antiquarys, who would finde fault with it, by saying, it would take away from the forme of its Antiquity, and make it looke too much like a modern building.28
With the resumption of work on the building, now according to the program envisaged by Clement XI, the issue was raised again. In 1711, a literary magazine, the Giornale de’ Letterati, expressed the hope that with the marble cleaned, the pope would finally restore the dome to its “ancient splendour, obtained by adding some noble ornaments,” comparable to the gilded bronzes described by the ancient sources. Yet once the level of the first entablature had been reached, work petered out. Count de Caylus, during his 1716 visit to Rome, entered the building and noted the great dome still “toute noire”; Charles De Brosses in 1737 found it to be “a heavy dome made of rough stones.”29 When restoration was finally resumed in the mid eighteenth century, it was unrelated to these grandiose projects, and was motivated instead by a chance event. In May 1753, a huge piece of lead fell down from the interior of the dome onto the pavement. The lead, which had originally served to anchor the decorations in the coffers, probably broke away from the ancient concrete surface because of dampness or age-related wear and tear. Its weight would have been sufficient to kill a visitor had the church not been empty at the time. Orders were given for repairs to be undertaken without further delay.30
In the absence of a major papal-sponsored project governing the restoration, the Pantheon lapsed into its usual condition: a building where many could claim rights, owing to the overlapping jurisdictions of the ancien régime. The ancient temple was under the jurisdiction of the Campidoglio, Rome’s local government;31 the operation of the church was the responsibility of the Canons of Santa Maria ad martyres; and some chapels, even after the overall reorganization under Clement XI, were still the property of confraternities. Nevertheless, after the incident of 1753, it was the exceptional scale of the project that determined who would be responsible for the urgent works needed. The representatives of the city government on the Campidoglio, whose right it was to carry them out, claimed to be incapable of even supplying an estimate of the expense involved. Only the Fabbrica di San Pietro that was overseeing the maintenance of St. Peter’s basilica possessed the necessary equipment – wooden scaffolding, ropes, and nails – and the technical skills required to restore the interior surface of the dome. In June 1755, the two leading master builders of the Fabbrica di San Pietro, Tommaso Albertini and Giovanni Corsini, signed an agreement to carry out the work requested for the sum of 600 scudi; in June of the following year, a second contract raised the figure to 1,670 scudi.32 We can assume that jurisdictional disputes took place during the intervening period, for the Campidoglio protested that the works were carried out crudely. As a result, and as a comparison of the estimated expenses shows, methods were then changed. But in response to the criticism, Cardinal Gerolamo Colonna, who was in charge of paying for the works and running the Fabbrica di San Pietro, took advantage of the occasion to eliminate all outside interference. He assigned the jurisdiction of the entire building, first informally and then in a papal bull of February–March 1756, to his office alone.33 From that moment on, the Pantheon was officially removed from the list of antiquities protected since the Middle Ages by the civic government of Rome, thus becoming a church like any other under the jurisdiction of the popes, at least as far as the administration of building works was concerned.
During this transition, which was to culminate with the exclusion of the superintendent of antiquities, Ridolfino Venuti, works were unexpectedly extended to include operations for which no estimates had been previously carried out. In the course of 1756, after the completion of repairs on the ceiling, executed by making use of a spectacular mobile scaffold fixed to the oculus (Fig. 11.6), the attic also underwent restoration. The first step probably involved an attempt to remove all marble veneer in order to fix the fragile pieces on bigger slabs before remounting them at their original place, a procedure successfully employed by Specchi a few decades earlier for the restoration of the lower walls of the rotunda. However, this approach failed, and most of the marble slabs of the attic, already badly damaged, crumbled irremediably when removed.34 Thus, as it seemed too difficult to remount the original marbles, it was further decided to remove all of the ancient veneer. Little is known about what happened to these original marble and porphyry pieces. A last mention of them describes the pieces left in heaps in front of the portico ready to be taken away.35 Only the most recognizable parts, such as the 64 capitals crowning the pilasters, left a more durable memory. By September 1779, most of them were documented in the property of someone in Rome, possibly a master mason. However, when the then–superintendent of antiquities, Giovan Battista Visconti, tried to secure them for the newly established Vatican Museums, they swiftly vanished in the meanders of the antiquarian market. They disappeared from Rome, only to reappear a few years later in prominent antique collections in London, Potsdam, and elsewhere in Europe.36
11.6. Mobile scaffolding invented and realized in 1756 by Tommaso Giovanni Corsini to restore the interior of the Pantheon dome. (Piranesi 1790, Figs. I–II of Plate XXIX)
Was the complete destruction of the attic a deliberate act or the result of a succession of improvident decisions? The contracts drawn up with the master builders specify that the final color of the repaired dome was to match the color of the only section already restored by order of Alexander VII (Fig. 11.7). Yet upon the completion of works in 1756, the ceiling had been rendered uniformly white with “two or three layers of whitewash” (due o tre mani di calce).37 It is then possible that the new brightness of the whitened dome, paired with the gleaming marbles of the walls, as restored under Clement XI up to the first entablature, contrasted too starkly with the attic. Perhaps the desire to lessen the contrast led to the unexpected extension of the restoration program. In any case, Fontana’s documents showed that by 1666–1667, extensive areas of the original marble and porphyry were already missing, and that the sections replaced with painted stucco, as accurately documented in Pannini’s paintings in the eighteenth century, were already in a poor state.38 Moreover, the attic was universally believed to date from well after the Augustan Age, when the existing Pantheon was supposed to have been built. An accurate restoration of this section of the rotunda may have been thought a waste of time and money, both by Cardinal Colonna, who was in charge of works, and by Antonio Baldani, a protégé of Cardinal Alesandro Albani who, as canon of the church of Santa Maria ad martyres, had assumed the unofficial role of antiquarian in guiding the enterprise.39
11.7. Detail of Figure 11.1 showing traces of decoration in the interior of the dome that were added by Carlo Fontana’s workshop during the reign of Alexander VII, 1655–1667. (Copenhagen, Statens Museum for Kunst, inv. 4694)
The demolition of the attic revetment marked the beginning of a new phase of work. For the second time in a matter of decades, works undertaken in the interior of the Pantheon had created a void that needed to be filled, just as was the case when the old high altar was demolished. Moreover, while Clement XI’s campaign had involved the replacement of the medieval ciborium that was thought to clash with the original antique setting, the detachment of the marble veneer again affected a part of the fabric as it had been universally known for centuries. In order to conceal the now-bare masonry cylinder between the first and second entablature, an effort would be made to coordinate all vertical alignments by creating a new architectural scheme. For this historic task the Vatican overseers proposed a rather ordinary solution: they summarily awarded responsibility for the design to the committee’s chief architect, the Sienese Paolo Posi (1708–1776), who was mainly distinguished for his personal attachment to Cardinal Gerolamo Colonna.40
During the early months of 1757, Posi proposed various projects documented in two presentation drawings (one seen in Fig. 11.8)41 and a medal struck for the occasion (Fig. 11.9).42 All of the designs are distinguished by their reliance on the antiquarian tradition of the immediate past, consistent with Fontana’s reconstructions of the Pantheon. The attic windows were transformed into niches housing statues, while their frames were surmounted by pediments. In the definitive design (Fig. 11.10),43 the window frames were lengthened to create niches evoking the same features in the aedicules below, at the expense of the ancient porphyry band above the first entablature. Their shape, far from being directly inspired by ancient examples, was simply drawn from Fontana’s “Augustan Pantheon”(Fig. 11.2) and therefore reflect the proclivities of the late seventeenth century rather than an ancient model. Seventeenth-century tradition is also evident in one of the architect’s proposed schemes (Fig. 11.9), where a richer ornamentation was presented, especially evident in the arch of the main exedra, which is surmounted by a huge cartouche held by two reclining figures.
11.8. Design proposal for Pantheon attic; drawing by Paolo Posi, ca. 1757. (Archivio di Stato di Torino, Archivio Castelli Berroni, cart. 5, fasc. 109)
11.9. Commemorative medal by O. Hamerani, officially represented in 1757, showing proposed attic design by Paolo Posi. (Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Gabinetto numismatico)
11.10. Posi’s attic design. (Represented in Visentini 1771, p. 20)
The design of the attic as finally realized is simpler than any of the projects initially proposed by Posi. Once he had determined the limited potential of a solution obtained by adding engaged columns corresponding to the columns and pilasters below (Fig. 11.8), he abandoned any further attempt at creating vertical alignments and restricted the ornament to squared panels. As a result, all of the parts long considered critical to the character of the composition, such as the intersection of the attic with the arches of the entrance and main exedra, were sacrificed to the decision to avoid difficulties rather than thoroughly resolve them in a manner reflecting the building as inherited. This strategy, possibly motivated by the need to curtail expenses or the duration of the work, was to have other consequences. The new attic was realized in painted stucco, even though Posi himself installed large amounts of fine marble veneer in the Museo Sacro in the Vatican for Cardinal Colonna during the same years. The statues that were to have been housed in the niches were replaced by less expensive grisaille paintings in trompe l’oeil, which soon deteriorated. Extant documentation suggests that the attic as seen today was the result of compromises in design resulting from the desire to create an architecture relying on the authority of Carlo Fontana’s reconstruction but addressing the contradiction in formal logic so often noted in the attic register.
Criticisms Whispered in Rome and Proclaimed Abroad
Pope Benedict XIV fell seriously ill in the spring of 1756 and died two years later without having recovered his health. The accession of Clement XIII Rezzonico did not lead to any changes in the progress of the work, which remained under Posi and Cardinal Colonna’s charge. In 1758, a proposal to glaze the oculus was rejected,44 and all masonry work was completed. Finally, in 1759, repairs began on the large bronze doors that had collapsed while being taken down two years earlier, killing the unlucky master mason Corsini. Neither of the two popes paid an official visit to inspect the works, nor was any special ceremony organized to mark the reopening of the church for worship. There may have been little to celebrate. The events that had taken place, including the clumsy removal of the marble from the attic, the disastrous fall of the door, and the evident disregard for the fate of ancient stones (two huge granite slabs fixed on either side of the main entrance were removed only to become two tables in the Museo Sacro in the Vatican)45 provoked criticism. Behind the rigid screen of censorship controlling the official Roman press, at least two libels were circulated. One accused the master masons of having undertaken work with the sole aim of taking possession of the ancient lead that still lined the coffers; the other directly attacked the work of the architect Posi.46 Even the canons of Santa Maria ad martyres raised objections, but these were confined to their own recorded minutes. One of them reported that although Benedict XIV had on several occasions expressed the intent “to bring the church to perfection without removing its ancient parts,” it was precisely “the ancient” that seemed to have been removed.47
Opinions of the connoisseurs who may have directly observed the outcome of the work are harder to detect. No public statements on the subject are known to have been made by the antiquarian Ridolfino Venuti, the superintendent excluded from surveying the works in the Pantheon. Nor did Johannes Joachim Winckelmann, living in Rome from November 1755 onward and a close associate of Antonio Baldani, the canon of S. Maria ad Martyres involved in the works, apparently write anything on the matter. Nonetheless, a letter, sent from Rome in February 1757 and published in The Monthly Review in London, gave voice to criticism that the strict censorship of papal government did not allow to be expressed in Rome.48 According to this letter, published anonymously, the restoration of the interior surface of the dome and the subsequent removal of ancient marbles from the attic were held to be part of a comprehensive plan to restore the church at the expense of the ancient temple. For the sake of the church, some of the ancient marble slabs of the floor were to be replaced, the oculus of the dome was to be covered by glass, and the dome itself was to be adorned with blue mosaics and rosettes in each of the coffers.49 This plan was denounced as a public scandal and blamed on Posi, who was accused of the capital sin of “borrominism,” that is, willful disregard of tradition.
Apart from this anonymous critic and the architect Vanvitelli writing to his brother50 expressing minor reservations concerning Posi’s design, the Pantheon’s most attentive observer was the architect and antiquarian Giovanni Battista Piranesi (1720–1778). His interest in the restoration is attested by his possession by 1757 of the original drawings related to Corsini’s innovative scaffolding.51 It was probably while the work was still in progress that Piranesi, observing the dome and attic stripped of their revetment, first advanced his long-debated hypotheses concerning the arrangement of the building’s inner structure (see Fig. 4.7). In addition to these speculations, he left precisely measured drawings of the demolished attic. It is also probable that, in 1757, he intended to write an entire book dedicated to the Pantheon, presenting all of the new evidence that had emerged during the renovation. But at a time when any treatise on the Pantheon ran the risk of being interpreted as contributing to the controversy surrounding the renovation, he preferred to set this project aside. His related drawings were to be published, deprived of any polemical text, long after his death by his son, who incorporated them in the plates of the Seconda parte de’ templij antichi (1790).52
Compared to the building project promoted by Clement XI 40 years earlier, the works in 1756–1759 produced an uncomfortable compromise between the renovation of the Christian church and the ancient temple that it occupied. Such an unprecedented conflict between the needs of the Pantheon as a church and an ancient monument was to create a rift in public opinion outside of Rome.53 Far from the papal court, all comments were radically negative. The Abbot of Saint-Non, when visiting Rome in 1759, barely recognized the ancient building:
Yet what is most painful for those who have received from Nature some sentiment and taste is the bad idea recently proposed, to whiten the entire vault of this building; the stateliness that struck anyone who entered has disappeared; one no longer finds the mysterious, the beautiful, respectable tones that thousands of years had contributed to spread; now the building is no more than a large, round hall, a huge coffee-house amazing only for its shape and vastness.54
In particular, the destruction of the ancient attic shocked the illustrious cosmopolite Francesco Algarotti, who in August 1757 wrote: “What would Serlio, Palladio and Desgodetz say, after all the toil they endured to measure the parts of this classical edifice? What will Pannini say, he who so many times represented it?”55
Algarotti’s rhetorical questions vividly evoke the general disdain for Posi’s restoration. It is also worth noting that in his formulation, only Serlio, Palladio, and Desgodetz are cited as the leading authorities on ancient architecture, while during the late 1750s, outside of Roman circles where his renown as architect was still esteemed, Carlo Fontana’s hypothesis on the Pantheon seems to have fallen out of favor. A most striking feature in Algarotti’s text is the inclusion – with the same authority as the authors of long-celebrated books on Roman antiquities – of a living painter like Gian Paolo Pannini. Calling upon his authority implies that his views of the interior of the Pantheon were widely trusted representations of that building. Pannini had added to the architecture, already presented in analytical detail by authors such as Palladio and Desgodetz, the color deposited by the passing of time on its marbles and ceiling, the very color that the most recent restorations had banished. After the destruction of the ancient attic,Pannini’s paintings preserved the memory of what had disappeared, giving rise to a curious paradox: most of the criticisms expressed by visitors to the Pantheon in the second half of the eighteenth century were based not upon a comparison of the restored building with its previous appearance but on the building as depicted in the canvases of this painter. Even today, modern observers, admiring the representation of the Pantheon in Pannini’s canvases, still mourn the loss of the attic of one of the few classical monuments to have otherwise survived in all its parts.
In view of these reactions, it is ironic that Pannini’s interiors of the Pantheon are more than objects of nostalgia for what had been lost for, in truth, each of the versions shows elements that never existed while omitting elements that did exist. The two statues that he shows in the aedicules to either side of the entrance were never there, although in his time, two paintings did hang above their altars. Furthermore, the wall decorations and altars in the exedras represent Specchi’s intentions, not reality. In at least two of the versions, the existing floor – whose documented losses of marble were never shown by Pannini in any of his canvases – is replaced by a more regular floor with a radial design (Fig. 11.1). Thus, Pannini’s views did not accurately portray the scene in front of him, but rather as he would have liked it to be. In the Rotunda, either of his own choice or on the advice of a special patron, the painter included all of the elements added during Clement XII’s refurbishing, as well as others that had only been planned. In accordance with what was believed to be the original ancient arrangement, for example, each of the aedicules was to have a statue, and the chapels in the exedrae were to be uniform in design. Moreover, none of Pannini’s versions of the interior shows the renovated choir, probably because the painter refused to represent the new high altar surmounted by the baldachin, which he thought clashed with the architecture of the ancient temple. Consequently, his views of the Pantheon’s interior illustrate something more and less than the coexistence of pagan temple and Christian church as it had evolved over the course of centuries. He pictured the monument not as it was but as it might have looked if it had been restored according to the project conceived but never fully executed by Clement XI.
With these realities in mind, Pannini’s omission of Posi’s executed work becomes even more striking. The refusal by both the painter and his public to cultivate or indulge an image of the Pantheon as restored gives evidence of a larger issue. Until the first decades of the eighteenth century, it was generally assumed that contemporary Roman architecture could rival the ancient monuments, yet by the second half of the same century, this was no longer the case. In the eyes of many artists and Grand Tourists in Rome, the failure of the restored Pantheon came to represent a broader crisis in contemporary Roman art.
Universal Pantheon versus S. Maria ad martyres
In one detail in particular, we can identify firm evidence in Pannini’s views of the beginning of a new story that, just few decades later, was to give to the Pantheon a new function and influence. In all of his paintings of the interior of the rotunda, a pair of oval niches appear on the walls alongside each aedicule, and almost all of them are represented as empty (Fig. 11.1). When the restoration of the lower part of the rotunda was completed, all of the tombs of the artists who, following Raphael’s example, had chosen to be buried there were removed. Uniform niches were then commissioned by Cardinal Del Giudice in order to reinstall these funerary memorials and to renew interest in this practice. In 1713, Cardinal Ottoboni, protector of the Confraternity of Saint Joseph in the Holy Land, was the first to place a bust unrelated to a tomb in one of these niches, to honor the memory of the musician Arcangelo Corelli.56 Other busts were added in the following years.
Whether or not the empty niches testify to the difficulties of completing the program in the succeeding decades is unknown. Their later use was eventually encouraged in a completely different spirit, heralding a new role for the entire Pantheon. Around the 1780s, the Spanish diplomat Nicolas de Azára, the French art critic Jean-Baptiste Seroux D’Agincourt, and the German agent Johannes Friederich Raffenstein, all living then in Rome and in close contact with artists, each placed in the Pantheon a bust of his most famous countryman who had drawn inspiration from the city. The painters Anton Mengs and Nicolas Poussin and the art critic Johannes Joachim Winckelmann were thus honored. None of them was buried there, nor were they connected to the church of Santa Maria ad martyres or to any of its confraternities. These new busts – soon to be joined by a host of similar homages to better- and lesser-known painters, sculptors, architects, and literati – were instead associated with Raphael’s tomb, and, as a group, they celebrated something more consequential than their individual nationalities, trumpeting Rome’s importance as the artistic capital of the world. Although in existence for only a brief period – in 1820 the busts were transferred elsewhere57 – the Pantheon of artists for a time seemed almost to supplant the significance of both the ancient and Christian heritage of the building, becoming the model for the many successive pantheons of Romanticism. The Temple des Grands Hommes in Paris, the Walhalla in Regensburg, and the tombs in S. Croce in Florence are but some of the examples of the Pantheon’s universal legacy.
Translation of Chapter Eleven by Oona Smith; with thanks to Ann Giletti and Louise Rice for their help in revising the text. All issues presented here are extensively documented in Susanna Pasquali, Il Pantheon: architettura e antiquaria nel Settecento a Roma, Modena 1996; Pasquali, “From the Pantheon of Artists to the Pantheon of Illustrious Men: Raphael’s Tomb and Its Legacy,” in Pantheon: Transformation of a Monumental Idea, ed. Richard Wrigley and Matthew Craske, Aldershot 2004, pp. 35–56; Pasquali, “L’attico del Pantheon. Nuovi documenti sui marmi e sulla controversa ricostruzione del 1757,” in Bollettino d’arte 85, 2008, pp. 111–122.
1 For the variations see Ferdinando Arisi, Gian Paolo Panini e i fasti della Roma del ’700, Rome 1986; Michael Kiene, ed., Pannini (Exposition-dossier du département des Peintures, no. 41, Musée du Louvre, 15 October 1992–15 February 1993), exh. cat., Paris 1992. A comprehensive study of all Pannini’s views of the interior of the Pantheon has yet to be done; the view once in Marble Hill House, Twickenham, is dated 1734.
2 S. Serlio, Il terzo libro dell’architettura, Venice 1540; A. Palladio, I quattro libri dell’architettura, Venice 1570, Book IV; Roland Fréart de Chambray, Parallèle de l’architecture antique et de la moderne, Paris 1650.
3 Antoine B. Desgodetz, Les édifices antiques de Rome dessinés et mesurés très exactement, Paris 1682; on Desgodetz’s book: Wolfgang Herrmann, “Antoine Desgodetz and the Académie Royale d’Architecture,” Art Bulletin 40, 1958, pp. 23–53.
4 Carlo Fontana, Templum Vaticanum et ipsius origo. Cum aedificiis maxime cospiquis antiquitus & recens ibidem constitutis …, Book 7, Rome 1694, pp. 454–474.
5 Ludovicus Demontiosus [L. de Montjosieu], Romae Gallus Hospes, ubi multa antiquorum monimenta explicantur pars pristinae formae restituuntur …, Rome 1585; Fontana’s debt to Demontiosus is discussed in Pasquali 1996a, pp. 12–14.
6 Simon Ditchfield, “Leggere e vedere Roma come icona culturale (1500–1800 circa),” in Storia d’Italia. Annali 16, 2000, pp. 33–73; pp. 33–55.
7 In eighteenth-century Rome, an entire book was dedicated to this topic: G. Marangoni, Delle cose gentilesche e profane trasportate ad uso e a ornamento delle Chiese, Rome 1744.
8 “Prospetto interno ed esterno dell’antico tempio romano,” drawing by G. T. Vergelli, etching by P. P. Girelli, Rome 1692, with a second edition in 1773 (P. Arrigoni and A. Bertarelli, Piante e vedute di Roma e del Lazio nella raccolta delle stampe e dei disegni Castello Sforzesco, Milan 1939, no. 2574).
9 Richard Krautheimer, The Rome of Alexander VII, 1655–1667, Princeton 1985, pp. 104–109; Tod A. Marder, “Bernini and Alexander VII: Criticism and Praise of the Pantheon in the Seventeenth Century,” Art Bulletin 71, no. 4, 1989, pp. 628–645; Marder, “Alexander VII: Bernini and the Urban Setting of the Pantheon in the Seventeenth Century,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 50, 1991, pp. 273–292.
10 Giovanni Pietro Bellori, Vite di Guido Reni, Andrea Sacchi e Carlo Maratti, ed. Marcello Piacentini, Rome 1942, p. 124. Raphael’s bust was commissioned to the sculptor Pietro Paolo Naldini.
11 Pasquali 2004, pp. 35–38.
12 Missing slabs are carefully signaled as late as in 1813 (Ecole nationale supérieure des beaux-arts, Restauration de 1813 par M. Leclère Architecte Pensionnaire du Roi à l’Académie de France à Rome, Paris 1813, tav. XXI).
13 Works on the drainage system in Piazza della Rotonda were carried out by Padre Giuseppe Paglia.
14 Pasquali 1996a, pp. 141–142.
15 Pasquali 1996a, pp. 142–143 and p. 46, n. 10.
16 Ronald T. Ridley, “To Protect the Monuments: The Papal Antiquarian 1534–1870,” in Xenia antiqua 1, 1992, pp. 117–154.
17 Pasquali 1996a, pp. 143–144.
18 Inigo Jones on Palladio; Being the Notes by Inigo Jones in the Copy of I quattro libri dell’architettura di Andrea Palladio 1601 in the Library of Worcester College, Oxford, ed. Bruce Allsopp, Newcastle upon Tyne 1970, pp. 81–82.
19 Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Chigi P VII 9, cc. 111–113; for which see bibliography in n. 9 of this chapter.
20 Restoration work up to the first entablature was carried out by the soprintendenza of Rome, 1992–1995; information on techniques employed by Alessandro Specchi was kindly provided by Mario Lolli Ghetti, architect in charge at the time.
21 Giornale de’ Letterati d’Italia (Rome) 7, 1711, pp. 447–456, speaks of the cadavere nudo di tutti gli ornamenti (Pasquali 1996a, p. 144).
22 Sabine, Jacob, ed., Italienische Zeichnungen des Kunstbibliotheck Berlin. Architektur und Dekoration 16. bis 18. Jahrhundert, Berlin 1975, p. 144; Tod A. Marder, “Specchi’s High Altar for the Pantheon and the Statues by Cametti and Moderati,” Burlington Magazine 122, 1980, pp. 30–40.
23 Royal Library, Windsor Castle, Albani Volumes, n. 188, f. 10636; Allan Braham and Hellmut Hager, Carlo Fontana: The Drawings at Windsor Castle, London 1971, n. 601; Pasquali 1996a, pp. 144–145.
24 Pasquali 1996a, pp. 42–44, n. 38.
25 Christian reuse of pagan temples was at the time a much debated topic. Rites of Christian consecration of ancient edifices and altars were carefully described in 1744 in Marangoni 1744; the Jesuit Lazeri, in order to deny the existence of such past practices, claimed that the ancient Pantheon had never been a temple but only a large bath hall (P. Lazeri, Della consacrazione del Pantheon fatta da Bonifacio IV, Rome 1749).
26 Marder 1980.
27 Krautheimer 1985, p. 185: “le nuove decorazioni deformano più che migliorano l’antico monumento”; C. Fea, Annotazioni alla memoria sui diritti del Principato sugli edifizi pubblici sacri e profani, Rome 1806, p. 114.
28 John Soane Museum, London, James Gibbs Ms, AL 39A, p. 6.
29 Anne-Claude-Philippe Comte de Caylus, Voyage d’Italie 1714–1715, ed. A. A. Pons, Paris 1914, p. 184; Charles de Brosses, Lettres d’Italie, ed. F. D’Agay, Paris 1986, letter 39, p. 52.
30 Pasquali 1996a, pp. 144–150, 154–156; budget of works: pp. 150–153.
31 The local government, an elective body with a tradition going back to the Middle Ages, had special jurisdiction over the conservation of all ancient monuments in Rome; the privilege came from what was presumed to be a continuity of the modern government on the Capitoline Hill with the ancient Roman Senate.
32 Pasquali 1996a, pp. 150–153.
33 “Ad Summi Sacrorum Christianorum,” February–March 1756, in Benedicti Papae XIV Bullarium, IX, Venetiis 1784; Pasquali 1996a, pp. 158–160.
34 Pasquali 1996a, p. 75, n. 43.
35 Pasquali 1996a, p. 75, n. 43.
36 A. Uncini, “Due capitelli dal Pantheon nella Collezione del Museo Gregoriano Profano ex Lateranense,” in Bollettino dei monumenti musei e gallerie pontificie 8, 1988, pp. 55–63.
37 Evidence of the works begun on the vault by Pope Alexander VII is visible in one of Pannini’s canvases (Copenhagen, Staten Museum for Kunst, inv. n. 4694; Pasquali, Fig. 33). Whitewash is documented in Pasquali 1996a, pp. 73–75.
38 Pasquali 1996a, p. 78, n. 10.
39 Pasquali 1996a, pp. 92–101.
40 Bruno Contardi and Giovanna Curcio, eds., In urbe architectus. Modelli, disegni, misure. La professione dell’architetto a Roma 1680–1750, Rome 1991, pp. 422–424.
41 Only one of Posi’s original drawings is known (Archivio di Stato Torino, Archivio Cestelli Bessoni, cart. 5, fasc. 109); another project by a pupil, Giuseppe Piermarini, may be a copy of a lost original or a personal interpretation of the theme (M. Tabarrini, “Catalogo del fondo piermariniano di Foligno,” no. 1.3, p. 66, in Giuseppe Piermarini. I disegni di Foligno. Il volto piermariniano della Scala, exh. cat., Milan 1998). Both differ from the project as realized.
42 Franco Bartolotti, La medaglia annuale dei romani pontefici da Paolo V a Paolo VI, 1605–1967, Rimini 1967, p. 174.
43 Posi’s final project was first published (and censured) in A. Visentini, Osservazioni di Antonio Visentini Architetto veneto, che servono di continuazione al trattato di Teofilo Gallaccini, Venice 1771, pp. 16–23; an alternative design is proposed on p. 22.
44 From surviving descriptions, the proposed glazing was made of an iron frame and glass (Pasquali 1996a, p. 45).
45 The gratuitous removal of the two large granite slabs from their original position is first documented by Piranesi (in G. B. Piranesi, Vedute di Roma, Roma n.d.: “Veduta interna del pronao del Pantheon,” letter D). About the monumental tables (more than 3 meters long), now in Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, see Chiara Felicetti, ed., Cristoforo Unterperger. Un pittore fiemmese nell’Europa del Settecento, exh. cat., Rome 1998, pp. 64–68.
46 When in Rome, the Abbot of Saint-Non heard rumors about the presumed interest of the contractors of the works (Pierre Rosenberg, ed., Saint-Non, Fragonard. Panopticon italiano. Un diario di viaggio ritrovato 1759–1761, Paris 1986, pp. 134–135). In May 1757, the architect Luigi Vanvitelli commented in a private letter on a defamatory libel written against Posi (Luigi Vanvitelli, Le lettere di Luigi Vanvitelli della Biblioteca Palatina di Caserta, Galatina, 1976, n. 465, May 15, 1757).
47 Pasquali 1996a, p. 77.
48 Pasquali 2008.
49 Pasquali 2008.
50 Vanvitelli 1976, no. 454, March 29, 1757.
51 In 1757, Piranesi had Corsini’s drawings in his hands (Pasquali 1996a, p. 72, n. 33); later, they were published by his son (Francesco Piranesi, Seconda parte de’ templij antichi che contiene il celebre Pantheon …, Rome 1790, Plate XXIX).
52 An anonymous drawing proposing a different attic was recently attributed to Piranesi (Elisabeth Kieven, ed., Von Bernini bis Piranesi. Römische Architekturzeichnungen des Barock, exh. cat., Stuttgart 1993, no. 134) and connected to Posi’s work (Lola Kantor Kazovsky, “Pierre Jean Mariette and Piranesi: The Controversy Reconsidered,” in The Serpent and the Stylus: Essays on G. B. Piranesi, ed. M. Bevilacqua, H. Hyde Minor, and F. Barry, Ann Arbor 2006, pp. 149–168). No documents have since emerged, and during the 1750s, a Piranesi’s involvement as architect of the Pantheon seems highly improbable.
53 In his correspondence, Vanvitelli had occasion to criticize Posi’s project, regarding it as an undertaking of modern architecture that he did not like (Vanvitelli 1757, no. 454, March 29, 1757). He did not, however, protest against the destruction of the attic.
54 Mais ce qui fait le plus de peine à ceux qui ont reçû de la Nature un peu de sentiment et un peu de goût, c’est la mauvaise idée que l’on a eu en dernier lieu de blanchir toute la voûte intérieure de cet édifice; ce majestueux dont ont étoit frapé [sic] en y entrant est évanoüi, l’on n’y retrouve plus ce mistérieux, ces beaux tons respectables que les milliers d’années y avoient repandus; ce n’est plus, enfin, qu’un grande salle ronde, un grand café qui n’a rien d’étonnant que sa forme et sa grandeur (Rosenberg1986, pp. 134–135).
55 Che direbbe il Serlio, il Palladio, il Desgodetz, che hanno durato tanta fatica a misurare i membri di quel classico edifizio? Che dirà il Pannini che lo ha tante volte ricopiato nell’antica sua forma? (Giovanni Gaetano Bottari and Stefano Ticozzi, eds.,Raccolta di lettere sulla pittura, scultura e architettura, vol. 7, Milan 1822, pp. 405–408; the letter, here dated 1756, was in fact written in 1757).
56 Pasquali 2004, pp. 38–43.
57 Pasquali 2004, pp. 43–49.