In the 17th century, Venice was an unsurpassed epicentre of creativity, intrigue, and ambition, one that knew no sunset – or so the Venetians believed.

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Rivalling Paris, Madrid and London as the most flourishing European city of its time, the Venetian Republic welcomed the new century celebrating its greatest naval victory at Lepanto (1571). Yet, throughout the 1600s, its might had been expressed more in the arts than warfare.

In this marvellous cradle of fates and fortunes, a Franciscan friar named Vincenzo Coronelli made his name as a cartographer and globe-maker, soon emerging as one of the most prominent craftsmen and intellectuals of his time.

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Simply known as The Cosmographer of the Republic of Venice, Coronelli created intricate, monumental globes that reveal much about his era’s thirst for exploration, as well as the bold ambitions of a man cursed with an insatiable desire for knowledge.

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The Making of a Globe-Maker

Coronelli was born in Venice in 1650, the son of a tailor. Although his life began modestly, he quickly showed a skill for wood carving and, by age 15, was apprenticed as a craftsman in Ravenna.

However, his ambitions ran deeper than his trade, and by 1665, he had joined the Franciscan convent of San Niccolò della Lattuga in Venice. Here, his interest in geography and the cosmos found an outlet: his first publication, Calendario perpetuo sacro profano (1666), impressed his superiors, who sent him to Rome, where he graduated in theology in only three years.

By the late 1670s, Coronelli’s interest in cosmography and globe-making had reached new heights, and around 1680, he received his first commission, crafting two globes for the Duke of Parma, Ranuccio Farnese.

The success of his globes soon spread beyond Italy, reaching intellectuals at the French court. In 1681, Cardinal César d’Estrées invited Coronelli to Paris to construct two massive globes for Louis XIV – which can today be found at the Louvre Museum.

Nearly four metres in diameter, these globes became renowned for their flawlessness, earning Coronelli a generous pension from the king himself. But more than royal favour, this commission established Coronelli as a globe-maker known throughout Europe for his meticulous, inventive, and uncompromising approach.

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An Academia of Globe-Making

After his Parisian Period, Coronelli went back in Venice, where he continued to cultivate his globe-making craft, now with the support of the Venetian Republic.

Officially appointed Public Cosmographer of Venice, Coronelli’s task was to create maps and globes documenting the territories newly annexed by La Serenissima, which was experiencing a period of newfound military glory. Far from being simple scientific tools, these globes were also political symbols, and, just like his globes for the French king, served as beautiful vessels of Venetians’ authority and ambition.

His fame and popularity soon enabled him to express his innovative vision in unprecedented ways: in 1684, he founded the Accademia Cosmografica degli Argonauti, recognised as Europe’s first geographic society.

This institution, which didn’t survive its founder for long, had little in common with other academies across Europe. It lacked a statute, norms, and active members; instead, it was more like a community of admirers of Coronelli’s craft, providing him with both a network of patrons and a way to pursue globe-making and publishing without strictly adhering to Venice’s guild regulations.

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The Atlante Veneto and the Epitome Cosmografica

The years following the founding of his Accademia saw Coronelli reach his greatest heights, both in terms of fame and creative productivity. During this period, he produced two of his major publications, leaving a legacy that still endures.

The Atlante Veneto (1691), a 13-volume atlas, was one of Coronelli’s major projects, blending maps, city views, and commentary in a form that set it apart from the works of his contemporaries. The Atlante included other notable publications like Isolario (1696-98), Portolano (1698), and Corso Geografico (1689-97), totalling over 1,200 plates of original and compiled maps.

This ambitious work showcased both Coronelli’s skills as a cartographer and his vision for what an atlas could be—rich in detail and wide in scope, connecting Renaissance artistry with the more rigorous standards of the Enlightenment.

Coronelli’s globes, however, remained at the heart of his work. His approach to globe-making, from pocket globes – not larger than six centimetres – to massive, commissioned pieces, was known for combining precision with unique methods. Coronelli established himself as a craftsman and globe-maker who held his creations to high standards—sometimes, perhaps, even higher than his patrons expected.

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In the Epitome Cosmografica (1693), a treatise dedicated to his Accademia, Coronelli detailed all his techniques, including a method of printing copperplate sections, or “fuses,” which he adhered to plaster-coated wooden spheres. This book left a priceless record of his crafts and processes, allowing his knowledge to survive the passage of time.

See the modern-day globes I crafted following Coronelli’s techniques here.

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The Legacy of a Globe-maker

Although both the Venetian Republic and the Vatican recognised his talent—the Pope even appointed him General of the Franciscan Order for a time—the fortunes of Coronelli came to a halt at the dawn of the 18th century.

Two scandals affected his relationship with both the Pope and the Venetian authorities. Venetian printers, who worked under strict guild regulations, accused Coronelli of bypassing these restrictions by publishing independently within his convent. At the same time, complaints within his own Franciscan Order culminated in compromising charges of “relic theft”. Eventually, Pope Clement XI intervened, removing Coronelli from his position as General of the Order in 1704.

This setback, however, did little to curb Coronelli’s ambition; instead, he channelled his energy into a new publishing project: the Biblioteca Universale Sacro-Profana, a tremendously ambitious attempt to create an encyclopaedia arranged alphabetically, planned to span 45 volumes.

Coronelli likely saw the Biblioteca as the last great work of his life, and in his drive to complete it, he further strained his already fragile relationship with the Pope, ignoring direct orders to return to his Venice studio and continue his research undisturbed.

Though only seven volumes were completed due to the immense effort required—and a growing lack of funds—the Biblioteca is regarded today as the first modernly conceived encyclopaedia, a work so ahead of its time that it received varied criticism from European intellectuals when its first volume was published.

It was a failed masterpiece, and its unfinished nature remained a source of resentment for Coronelli until his death in 1718 — just before the indomitable spirit of his homeland began to decay, once and for all.

Today, Coronelli’s globes, maps, and books are preserved in museums and libraries, continuing to captivate those who study his era and his methods. His legacy as a globe-maker endures through each of his creations, still faithfully mapping all paths to the world.

My own attempts to follow in his footsteps have led me to become a member of Homo Faber 2024, the event celebrating artistic craftsmanship in Venice: discover more here.

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