Ca' Pesaro

Stand at the edge of the Grand Canal and listen for a moment. Water slaps against old stone. A vaporetto engine growls, then fades. Across the water, or right beside you, a great white palace rises from the canal. Its lower walls are not smooth. They are cut into hundreds of pointed blocks, like the facets of a jewel. Light catches every edge, so the whole base of the building seems to glitter and shift as the water moves below.

This is Ca' Pesaro. In Venice, "Ca'" is short for "casa", which means house. But this is no ordinary house. It is one of the grandest Baroque palaces on the Grand Canal. Baroque is the dramatic, richly decorated style that spread across Europe in the seventeenth century. Today the palace holds two museums. One is Venice's International Gallery of Modern Art. The other, on the top floor, is a museum of Asian art. We will visit both in a moment.

First, the family behind the name. The Pesaro were a wealthy Venetian noble family. Their name comes from the town of Pesaro, on Italy's Adriatic coast, where their ancestors came from. Over the generations, they rose high in Venetian society. One member, Giovanni Pesaro, became Doge, the elected ruler of the Venetian Republic, in the seventeenth century. Families like this did not simply want a home. They wanted a statement on the Grand Canal, where every passing boat would see it.

To make that statement, the family turned to Baldassare Longhena. He was the leading Venetian architect of his age. If you have seen the white domes of Santa Maria della Salute, near the mouth of the Grand Canal, you have already seen his work. Longhena began Ca' Pesaro around the middle of the seventeenth century. The project was enormous. It required buying and joining several older properties to create one continuous site. Building went on for decades.

Here is something many visitors do not know. Longhena died before the palace was finished. Another architect, Antonio Gaspari, completed the work in the early eighteenth century. Look up at the facade and you can follow the story in stone. The base is heavy and rough with those diamond-pointed blocks. Above it, two upper floors open into tall arched windows, framed by columns and carved figures. The building grows lighter as it rises, almost like a wedding cake built in marble.

Now look at the waterline. You will see two water gates, wide arched entrances opening directly onto the canal. In old Venice, important guests did not arrive on foot. They arrived by boat. A gondola could glide straight into the ground floor of the palace. Beyond the water gates lies an inner courtyard with a well head at its centre. Venetian palaces collected rainwater in cisterns under courtyards like this, because the city had no fresh springs.

The Pesaro family line eventually came to an end, and the palace passed through other hands. Its modern story begins with a remarkable woman, the Duchess Felicita Bevilacqua La Masa. In 1898 she left the palace to the city of Venice. Her wish was generous and clear. She wanted the building to help artists, especially young artists who were struggling to find space and recognition. That spirit of support for new art still shapes the palace today.

The timing was perfect. Just a few years earlier, in 1895, Venice had launched its great international art exhibition, the Biennale. It soon became one of the most important art events in the world. The city began buying works shown at the Biennale, and many of them came here. So the collection inside is not random. It is a record of what Venice saw, admired, and argued about in the first decades of modern art.

Inside, climb to the gallery floors and you will find some famous names. One of the highlights is a painting by Gustav Klimt, the Austrian artist known for his gold and patterned surfaces. It shows a pale, intense woman, often called Judith or Salome, her fingers tense like claws. Venice acquired it after it was shown at the Biennale. There is also a cast of Auguste Rodin's "The Thinker", the bronze man resting his chin on his hand, deep in thought.

Walk on and the names keep coming. Marc Chagall, Wassily Kandinsky, Joan Miró, and many Italian painters and sculptors of the twentieth century. Notice how the old palace and the new art meet. Painted ceilings and heavy Baroque doorways frame canvases that broke every rule of their time. It is a strange and wonderful conversation. The building speaks of power and tradition. The art on its walls often questions both.

Now climb higher, to the top floor, for a second surprise. This is the Museum of Oriental Art, and it feels like a different world. Much of the collection was gathered by Prince Henry of Bourbon-Parma, the Count of Bardi, during a long journey through Asia in the late nineteenth century. He brought back a huge number of objects, especially from Japan. Expect samurai armour, swords, lacquer boxes, painted screens, and delicate porcelain, crowded into dim rooms under the roof.

The contrast is part of the pleasure. On one floor, Klimt and Chagall. On the next, Japanese armour from the Edo period, the long era when Japan was ruled by the Tokugawa military government. Few museums put these worlds together under one roof. Here they share the same staircase, simply because of how Venice collected art and received gifts over time. It is a reminder that this city has always looked outward, to the East as much as to Europe.

When you step back outside, take a slow look at the neighbourhood. This is Santa Croce, a quieter district on the northern bend of the Grand Canal. The vaporetto stop of San Stae is close by, beside a white church facing the water. Narrow lanes lead away from the canal into small squares, laundry lines, and local bars. Stand on the waterfront once more. Watch the light move across those faceted stones, and listen to the water against the gates where gondolas once slipped inside.