A Tribute to Art

By Josh Tyrangiel / Urbino

Before we praise one the of the great Italian man-made wonders, let us wonder over the greatness of Italian Man, specifically the Italian man behind the car-rental desk at Bologna airport. While it's true he lost my reservation, had no cars left and appeared close to violence when I hinted that this was something of an inconvenience, eventually, after some sparkling conversation with my beautiful, Italian-speaking wife, he remembered that, yes, he did have one last vehicle, a 12-seat Mercedes van. This he handed over magnanimously and insisted that we visit his favorite wine bar, not 10 minutes from the airport. Only in Italy.

Our man in Bologna may be a broad type, but one of his cultural ancestors, Duke Federico da Montefeltro (1422-1482), was also quick to anger, though once you got to know him, he would build you a palace. Like all great Renaissance men, Federico was a liberal humanist with diverse interests. He also happened to be the most accomplished military strategist in 15th century Europe, and he used his immense profits as a freelance killing machine to turn Urbino, his hometown in the Marche region on Italy's eastern coast, into the Greenwich Village of the Quattrocento, a place where architects, soldiers, intellectuals and painters could commune under the umbrella of his largesse.

Federico's greatest achievement was the construction of the Palazzo Ducale. Today, the palace looms over Urbino much as it did then, like a giant yellow-brick wedding cake, but what's notable is what's missing. Every contemporaneous castle in

Italy had a moat to ward off invaders, but Federico didn't need one. He was that kind of powerful. Urbino is now a university town with a population of just 15,000, and maneuvering through its narrow, walled streets takes about five minutes, even in a van the size of Pavarotti. We entered the palace and immediately realized that this was not just another of the extravagantly fussed-over behemoths that dot Italy like diners on Route 66. Standing in the Cortile d'Onore, with its perimeter framing a perfect square of sky, you feel the exuberance of Renaissance design, the mix of simple geometric forms with impossible parabolic flourishes, like the vaulted ceiling. You also feel the duke. A lengthy inscription runs across the double cornice that trumpets Federico's unrivaled beneficence and undefeated record in battle. To paraphrase, it says, "I'm a special guy."

We made our way up the grand staircase under gold-filigreed FE-DVX engraved lintels (the duke, it seems, had a little P. Diddy in him) and began exploring from the top down. The palace doubles as the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, and the paintings within are a reminder that Renaissance art was heavily religious. But the paintings on the first floor lean toward the secular. One in particular, Ideal City, belongs near the top of any list of great Renaissance works. The painting, by an unknown artist, is a dream of a city so pure and precise that the creator actually left people out of it. The pictures at the overstuffed, overcrowded Uffizi in Florence may be better, but at the Palazzo Ducal you move at your own pace or relax on one of the centuries-old marble window seats and actually get to know the images. Like all meaningful brushes with history, visiting the Palazzo Ducale plays constantly with your sense of time. Look at Ideal City or peer down the seemingly endless spiral staircase in one of the towers, and you feel the chasm between past and present. Then you turn a corner into the duke's study, and the centuries disappear. From eye level to the floor, the room is a series of wood panels with exquisite inlaid images of Federico's favorite things--musical instruments, suits of armor and loads of books. Above, there are 28 portraits arranged in two rows. The lower row is devoted to great religious figures; the upper pays tribute to thinkers and writers. The room is so lovingly and casually preserved, you never doubt that a great man once passed happy hours here.

The wonders of the palace are fairly ceaseless. There's a massive subterranean layer where wines were stored and baths taken. Just off the duke's study are two alcoves: the Temple of the Muses and the Chapel of Forgiveness. (Between his battlefield deeds and the generally agreed-upon fact that Federico was complicit in his half-brother's rubout, there was much to absolve.) I sat on the floor in both rooms and absorbed the feel of history, whistling to hear the little echoes and gently rubbing my hands over the stone floors. Maybe I was being a tad presumptuous, but I don't think the duke would have minded.