Campo dei Miracoli
Museum of the Sinopias (Museo delle Sinopie)
Duomo Museum (Museo dell’Opera del Duomo)
Imagine arriving in Pisa as a sailor in the 12th century when the Arno came to just outside the walls surrounding this square, the church here was one of the biggest in the world, and this ensemble in gleaming white marble was the most impressive space in Christendom. Calling it the Field of Miracles (Campo dei Miracoli) would not have been hyperbole.
The Leaning Tower nearly steals the show from the massive cathedral, which muscles out the other sights. But don’t neglect the rest of the Field of Miracles: the Baptistery, Camposanto Cemetery, Museum of the Sinopias, and the Duomo Museum.
(See “Pisa” map, here.)
Cost: €9 combo-ticket includes all the sights, plus the Duomo (credit cards accepted; see sidebar on here for run-down on various combo-tickets).
Hours: All of the sights on this tour share the same schedule: daily April-Sept 8:00-20:00, Oct 9:00-19:00, Nov-Feb 10:00-17:00, March 9:00-18:00, last entry 30 minutes before closing.
Getting There: The Baptistery is located in front of the Duomo’s facade. The Camposanto Cemetery is behind the church on the north side of the Field of Miracles. The Museum of the Sinopias is hidden behind souvenir stands, across the street from the Baptistery entrance. The Duomo Museum is housed behind the Tower.
Length of This Tour: Allow two hours.
(See “Pisa’s Field of Miracles” map, here.)
Pisa’s Baptistery is Italy’s biggest. It’s interesting for its pulpit and interior ambience, and especially great for its acoustics.
The building is 180 feet tall—John the Baptist on top is almost eye-to-eye with the tourists looking out from the nearly 200-foot Leaning Tower. Notice that the Baptistery leans nearly six feet to the north (the Tower leans 15 feet to the south). The building (begun in 1153) is modeled on the circular-domed Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, seen by Pisan Crusaders who occupied Jerusalem in 1099.
From the outside, you see three distinct sections, which reflect the changing tastes of the years spent building it: simple Romanesque blind arches at the base (1153), ornate Gothic spires and pointed arches in the middle (1250), and a Renaissance dome (15th century). The roofing looks mismatched but was intentionally designed with red clay tiles on the seaward side and lead tiles (more prestigious but prone to corrosion) on the sheltered east side. The statues of the midsection are by Nicola Pisano (c. 1220-1278, Giovanni’s father), who sculpted the pulpit inside.
Inside, it’s simple, spacious, and baptized with light. Tall arches atop thin columns once again echo the Campo’s architectural theme of arches above blank spaces. The columns encircle just a few pieces of religious furniture.
In the center sits the beautiful marble octagonal font (1246). A statue of the first Baptist, John the Baptist, stretches out his hand and says, “Welcome to my Baptistery.” The font contains plenty of space for baptizing adults by immersion (the medieval custom), plus four wells for dunking babies.
Baptismal fonts—where sinners symbolically die and are reborn—are traditionally octagons. The shape suggests a cross (symbolizing Christ’s death), and the eight sides represent the eighth day of Christ’s ordeal, when he was resurrected. The font’s sides, carved with inlaid multicolored marble, feature circle-in-a-square patterns, indicating the interlocking of heaven and earth. The circles are studded with interesting faces, both human and animal. Behind the font, the altar features similar inlaid-marble work.
Is this the world’s first Renaissance sculpture? It’s the first authenticated (signed) work by the “Giotto of sculpture,” working in what came to be called the Renaissance style. The freestanding sculpture has classical columns, realistic people and animals, and 3-D effects in the carved panels.
The 15-foot-tall, hexagonal pulpit is by Nicola Pisano, and is the earliest (1260) and simplest of the four pulpits by the Pisano father-and-son team. Nicola, born in southern Italy, settled in Pisa, where he found steady work. Ten-year-old Giovanni learned the art of pulpit-making here at the feet of his father.
The speaker’s platform stands on columns that rest on the backs of animals, representing Christianity’s triumph over paganism. The white Carrara-marble panels are framed by dark rose-colored marble, making a pleasant contrast. Originally, this and the other pulpits were touched up with paint, gilding, and colored pastes.
The relief panels, with scenes from the life of Christ, are more readable than the Duomo pulpit. They show bigger, simpler figures in dark marble “frames.” Read left to right, starting from the back:
1. Nativity: Mary reclines across a bed like a Roman matron, a pose inspired by Roman sarcophagi, which had been found around Pisa in Nicola’s day (on display in the Camposanto Cemetery, described later).
2. Adoration of the Magi: The Three Kings kneel before Baby Jesus in simple profile; but notice the strong 3-D of the horses’ heads coming straight out of the panel. Just below this relief, note the small statue of Hercules. Many art historians consider this the first Renaissance carving. Sculpted in 1260—200 years before Michelangelo—it’s a nude depiction of a pagan character, with a realistic body standing in a believable contrapposto pose. This was clearly inspired by carvings found on ancient sarcophagi.
3. Presentation in the Temple: It lacks the star of the scene, the Christ Child, who got broken off, but on the panel’s right side, a powerful, bearded man in a voluminous robe epitomizes Nicola’s solemn classical style.
4. Crucifixion: Everyone faces either straight out or in profile; the Roman in front actually has to look back over his shoulder to razz Jesus.
5. Last Judgment: Christ reigns over crowded, barely controlled chaos. The pulpit’s lectern is an eagle clutching its prey, echoing the “triumph of Christianity” theme of the base.
Make a sound in here and it echoes for a good 10 seconds. A priest standing at the baptismal font (or a security guard today) can sing three tones within those 10 seconds—“Ave Maria”—and make a chord, singing haunting harmonies with himself. This medieval form of digital delay is due to the 250-foot-wide dome. Recent computer analysis suggests that the 15th-century architects who built the dome intended this building to function not just as a Baptistery, but also as a musical instrument. A security guard sings every half-hour, starting when the doors open in the morning.
Climb 75 steps to the interior gallery (midway up) for an impressive view back down on the baptismal font.
The cemetery is enclosed within the long white building (1278-1465) that borders the Field of Miracles on the north. This site has been a cemetery since at least the 12th century. Highlights are the building’s cloistered interior courtyard, some ancient sarcophagi, and the large 14th-century fresco, The Triumph of Death.
The delightful open-air courtyard is surrounded by an arcade with intricately carved tracery in the arches. The courtyard’s grass grows on special dirt (said to turn a body into bones in a single day) shipped here by returning Crusaders from Jerusalem’s Mount Calvary, where Christ was crucified.
The arcade floor is paved with the coats of arms of some 600 dearly departed Pisans. In death all are equal—the most humble peasant (or tourist) can walk upon these VIP tombstones. Today much of the marble flooring is scarred, the result of lead melting from the roof during WWII bombing.
Displayed in the arcade are dozens of ancient Roman sarcophagi. These coffins, which originally held dead Romans, were reused by medieval big shots. In anticipation of death, a wealthy Pisan would shop around, choose a good sarcophagus, and chip his message into it. When he died, his marble box was placed with the others around the exterior of the cathedral. Great sculptors such as Nicola and Giovanni Pisano passed them daily, gaining inspiration.
Circle the courtyard clockwise, noticing traces of fresco on the bare-brick walls. (We’ll see some reconstructed frescoes later.) The huge chains on the west wall once stretched across the mouth of Pisa’s harbor as a defense. Then Genoa attacked, broke the chains, carried them off as a war trophy, and gave them to Pisa’s archrival Florence. After unification, they were returned to Pisa as a token of friendship.
Straight ahead is the cemetery’s oldest object, an ochre-colored Greek tombstone. This stele, dating from the time of Alexander the Great (fourth century B.C.), shows a woman (seated) who’s just given birth. A maid (standing) shows the baby while the mother gazes on adoringly.
In the floor 10 yards away, by the corner of the courtyard, is a pavement slab dedicated to an American artist, Deane Keller. After serving in Italy during World War II, he helped rebuild the Camposanto Cemetery and restore its frescoes.
On the wall in the corner, what looks like a big, faded bull’s-eye is the politically correct 14th-century view of the universe—everything held by Christ, with the earth clearly in the center.
At the back of the courtyard—opposite where you entered—step through the door to see photos of the bombed-out Camposanto. You might also catch a 15-minute video that highlights the cemetery’s reconstruction (seating limited). By the summer of 1944, Allied troops had secured much of southern Italy and pushed Nazi forces to the north bank of the Arno. German Field Marshal Kesselring dug in at Pisa, surrounded by the US Army’s 91st Infantry. Germans and Americans lobbed artillery shells at each other. (The Americans even considered blowing up the Leaning Tower—the “Tiltin’ Hilton” was suspected to be the German lookout point.) Most of the Field of Miracles was miraculously unscathed, but the Camposanto took a direct hit from a Yankee incendiary grenade. It melted the lead-covered arcade roof and peeled historic frescoes from the walls—one of the many tragic art losses of World War II. The Americans liberated the city on September 2 and rebuilt the Camposanto.
Some of the much-damaged frescoes are displayed in the adjoining room. (After careful restoration, these are now slowly and steadily being returned to their original spots on the walls of the Camposanto.)
This 1,000-square-foot fresco (on the left wall, c. 1340, by an unknown 14th-century master) captures late-medieval Europe’s concern with death—predating but still accurately depicting Pisa’s mood in the wake of the bubonic plague (1348), which killed one in three Pisans. Well-dressed ladies and gents (left half of the painting) are riding gaily through the countryside when they come across three coffins with corpses (bottom left). Confronted with death, they each react differently—a woman puts her hand thoughtfully to her chin, a man holds his nose against the stench, while a horse leans in for a better whiff. Above them, a monk scours the Bible for the meaning of death. Mr. Death, a winged demon with a scythe, stands to the right of center and eyes his future victims.
In the right half of the painting, young people gather in a garden (bottom right) to play music (symbolizing earthly pleasure), oblivious to the death around them. Winged demons swoop down from above to pluck souls from a pile of corpses, while winged angels fight them for the souls. The action continues in the next fresco (the room’s far wall), where Jesus and Mary judge the dead at the Last Judgment. The wicked are led away to hell (the right wall of the room) to be tortured by a horned Satan. Grim stuff, but appropriate for the Camposanto’s permanent residents—and to anyone alive who needed a reminder of the fleeting and corruptive nature of wealth and worldly pleasures.
As you leave the fresco room, look left to see a third-century A.D. Roman sarcophagus carved with mythological scenes. Near the corner, another sarcophagus features a couple—the deceased—relaxing atop their coffin.
Stepping back into the piazza, consider how this richly artistic but utilitarian square fit into the big picture of life. The ensemble around you includes the Baptistery, the cathedral, the bell tower, the hospital (present-day Museum of the Sinopias), and the Christian cemetery you just visited. The Jewish cemetery is adjacent but just outside the walls. Pisa, a pragmatic port town, needed the money and business connections of the Jews and treated them relatively well for the age. Unlike in Rome or Venice, there was no Jewish ghetto here in the Middle Ages.
Housed in a 13th-century hospital, this museum features the preparatory sketches (sinopias) for the Camposanto’s WWII-damaged frescoes. If you loved The Triumph of Death and others in the Camposanto, or if you’re interested in fresco technique, this museum is worthwhile. If not, you’ll wonder why you’re here.
Whether or not you pay to go in, you can watch two free videos in the entry lobby that serve to orient you to the square: a 10-minute, 3-D computer tour of the complex and a 15-minute story of the Tower, its tilt, and its fix.
Just past the ticket-taker, you’ll see the multiringed, earth-centric, Ptolemaic universe of the Theological Cosmography. Continue to your right to find a faint Crucifixion and scenes from the Old Testament. At the end of the long hall, climb the stairs to the next floor to find (midway along the right wall) the red-tinted sinopias for The Triumph of Death and the Last Judgment and Hell.
Sinopias are sketches made in red paint directly on the wall, designed to guide the making of the final colored fresco. The master always did the sinopia himself. It was a way for him (and for those who paid for the work) to see exactly how the scene would look in its designated spot. If it wasn’t quite right, the master changed a detail here and there. Next, assistants made a “cartoon” by tracing the sinopia onto large sheets of paper (cartone). Then the sinopia was plastered over. To put the drawing back on the wall, assistants perforated the drawing on the cartoon, hung the cartoon over the wall, and dabbed it with a powdered bag of charcoal. This process printed dotted lines onto the newly plastered wall, re-creating the cartoon. While the plaster was still wet, the master and his team quickly filled in the color and details, producing the final frescoes (now on display at the Camposanto). These sinopias—never meant to be seen—were uncovered by the bombing and restoration of the Camposanto and brought here.
Near the Tower is the entrance to the Duomo Museum, which houses many of the original statues and much of the artwork that once adorned the Campo’s buildings (where copies stand today), notably the statues by Nicola and Giovanni Pisano. You can stand face-to-face with the Pisanos’ very human busts, which once ringed the outside of the Baptistery. Giovanni Pisano’s stone Madonna del Colloquio solemnly exchanges gazes with Baby Jesus in her arms. The most charming piece is Giovanni’s carved-ivory Madonna and Child. Mary leans back gracefully to admire Baby Jesus, her pose matching the original shape of what she’s carved from—an elephant’s tusk. Here, too, are the Duomo’s original 12th-century bronze doors of St. Ranieri, with scenes from the life of Jesus, done by Bonanno Pisano.
You’ll see a mythical sculpted hippogriff (a medieval jackalope) and other oddities brought back from the Holy Land by Pisan Crusaders. The museum also has several large-scale wooden models of the Duomo, Baptistery, and Tower. The church treasury is here, with vestments, chalices, and bishops’ staves.
On the next floor up are the illuminated manuscripts, along with fine inlaid woodwork that once graced the choir stalls of the sacristy. The collection of antiquities includes Etruscan funerary urns with reclining people—the inspiration for the Roman sarcophagi that inspired the Pisanos. Beyond the ancient sculptures are beautiful small-scale copies of the Camposanto frescoes, painted in the 1830s. There’s also a scene that shows the building’s appearance before it was bombed.
The museum’s grassy interior courtyard has a two-story, tourist-free view of the Tower, Duomo, and Baptistery.