Twee afbeeldingen van Korinthische kapitelen van de San Marco in Venetië before 1885

Editor: Here we have a photographic print titled "Two images of Corinthian Capitals of San Marco in Venice," attributed to Carl Heinrich Jacobi, created sometime before 1885. The grainy texture of the image lends a certain antiquity to the classical subject. What strikes you about it? Curator: It’s funny, isn't it, how a photograph meant to capture objective reality can instead evoke a sense of faded grandeur, a melancholic echo of past empires. It’s almost as if the artist isn't just showing us these capitals but whispering a story of Venice’s rise and, perhaps, its inevitable metamorphosis. Do you see how the light plays on the acanthus leaves? They seem to breathe. Editor: They do have a kind of soft vitality! What would it have meant for someone to photograph these details then, compared to our experience today? Curator: Now, you can snap a pic of the same capital in seconds and slap it on the 'gram, instant gratification and fleeting attention. But back then, this was an act of preservation, a testament. Jacobi wasn't just documenting, he was carefully curating our gaze. He understood that these details—these leaves frozen in stone—held the soul of the city, accessible, albeit filtered, for future admirers. Editor: So, it’s not just about the columns themselves but about the act of choosing to capture them? Curator: Precisely. Photography, then, became a conversation across time, and we are a part of it now. Do you feel Venice calling? Editor: Definitely, especially the way the photograph isolates these ornate forms, and suggests stories far grander than they suggest alone. Curator: Wonderful - just how art should do. Make us ponder what we truly perceive!