They have been making glass for over 700 years. The industry has survived invasions, competition, wars, the invention of plastic, changing fashions, and previous economic collapse. In spite of the broken windows in the abandoned foundries, the rotting boards on the docks that speak of hard times being endured on the island, it is difficult to believe that Murano will not once again undergo a revival of its craft
The shrine was made of glass: a glass mosaic Virgin and Child in the Byzantine style. The floral offerings on the ledge below the icon were moulded glass in red, pink, yellow, orange, and blue. The virgin bore her child like a medallion on her chest. Her glance, alert, almost fearful was caught by something to her right. Her gaze, intense yet distracted, rendered irrelevant the opulent ornamentation surrounding her. What, the observer could only wonder, was she looking at? On this damp grey day in early spring the shrine gleamed, refracting the light caught by the glass mosaics.
On Fondamente Cavour the shop windows glowed. Glass in a myriad of colours and forms illuminated the town’s shopfronts.
Glassmaking probably began in Mesopotamia 4,500 years ago, but it was the Romans who industrialized it. During that period glassmakers travelled throughout the empire freely exchanging ideas and techniques.
Twenty years after the death of Jesus Christ, the technique that revolutionized glass production, glassblowing, was developed in Jerusalem . Glassmaking became a portable industry, producing lighter weight vessels than the available pottery and metal. It was cheaper as well, for glass is easy to recycle.
Some historians believe the original glassworkers of Northern Italy were descendants of freed Syrian and Judean slaves who spread their craft through the Roman Empire . Whoever these early craftsmen were, the tradition of glassmaking has deep roots in the area. By the first century AD Northern Italy was exporting small coloured glass bowls.
In Hemingway’s Across the River and Into the Trees Richard Cantrell extols the masculine virtues of the Muranese – their resilience, their fishing and duck hunting skills, their fecundity.
With its rows of solid brick buildings along the seafront and the workmanlike steel bridge over Murano’s Grand Canal , there is something masculine about Murano, in spite of its delicate, dazzling products.
Yet Murano’s early history is not about glass. Unlike the nearby island of Torcello , during the first millennium Murano produced no glass. The Muranese were refugees from besieged Roman cities, hunters, fishermen, salt harvesters and boatmen.
The Via Annia, a Roman road followed the Adriatic coast as far as the glassmaking centre of Aquileia . The road passed through the ancient settlement of Altinum, and here it came close to the shore of the Venetian lagoon, close to the inner lagoon islands, including Murano.
Refugees from Altinum escaped Attila the Hun’s invasion of Italy in 452 A.D. by fleeing to these sparsely populated islands. Within a few decades twelve of the lagoon communities, including Murano, formed a cooperative council, the first step towards a Venetian Republic .
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Then in 1291 the Venetian Doge Tiepolo changed Murano forever when he closed down the glass furnaces in Venice and moved them to the island.
The move benefited both the Venetians and the Muranese. Venice acquired the space left vacant by the departing glassmakers, and ensured that only Venetians would trade in Venetian, now Murano, glass.
In return the Muranese were provided with their very own medieval-style state of the art industrial estate. They were elevated socially and their daughters married into the families of rich Venetian merchants. The craftsmen immediately began to expand their product range, revived ancient glassmaking techniques, invented new ones. They kept the balance of trade with Europe on the plus side for the merchants.
Today tourists visit Murano as part of the Venetian experience to tour the glass museum and those glass factories open for inspection.
Within two hundred years all Murano’s ‘secret’ manufacturing processes had been copied in other parts of Europe and it was no longer the remarkable destination it once had been.
In 1797 Napoleon invaded Venice , ending over a thousand years of republican government. After Napoleon the Austrians took over as occupiers. During the following decades travellers in the lagoon risked being pulled over by customs patrols. Books, food or jewellery in their possession were often confiscated and heavy on-the-spot fines imposed.
By the mid-1800s few people risked visiting the islands, except for the young and adventurous. Byron, Shelley and James Fennimore Cooper were numbered among those who braved the lagoon trip.
Glassmaking did not die out entirely, however. Although only five foundries survived, by the late 1800s Murano was back in commercial production. The foundries turned out glass mosaic tiles as part of the restoration of Venice ’s churches, in particular the mosaics in St Mark’s.
The resilience of the Muranese saw them ride the economic roller coaster of the 20th century, the wars, the sudden shifts in fashion. Vittorio Tosa Borella led the glass revival on Murano in the early part of the twentieth century. He was followed by equally talented and farsighted artisans. But the Second World War brought hard times for the industry and in the years after the war Muranese craftsmen worked hard to regain their popularity and their customer base.
By 2001 Murano was once again turning a profit. One third of the 5,000 people on the island worked on their own as artisans or shopkeepers. 27 industrial glassworks processed 13,000 metric tons of raw glass a year.
On a damp grey day in early spring in 2010 small groups of tourists wandered past the brightly lit windows of the glass shops, or sipped coffee in the restaurants. Few were buying.
By afternoon the rain was falling, rivulets of light flowed from the front of the shopfronts into the canal. A sudden surge of children released from school filled the street. The children skittered across the iron bridge. Their mothers, impeded by prams and strollers, calling warnings as they struggled to keep up with their charges. Soon they were gone, mothers and children, down the lanes and alleys.
A Venice bound vaporetto pulled in. The few tourists rushed from the café beside the stop, jostled to board it without getting wet.
In the momentary silence that followed the departure of the vaporetto the icon glimmered through the rain, the virgin still alert to whatever danger lurked nearby.
Observer
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