The Gondola's Gearbox

Essay on the forcola of the gondola.

OK. I admit it. Maybe we were lost…but in a good sort of way, if you know what I mean. We’d come over the Ponte dell’Accademia and meandered along the maze of narrow calle’s, rio terra’s and sotoportegio’s that lead nowhere and everywhere in the sestiere of Dorsoduro in Venice. At one point, we chanced upon a celebratory gathering of graduating medical students who were parading along drinking and eating in a reenactment an age-old tradition of Venice. We came across a small shop that sold fine hand-made paper and right next door a traditional bookbinder. Then, there was the shop that traded in what I can only describe as small “treasures”; there were hand-shaped porcelain glove molds, intricately carved wooden models of people and animals that artists use, precious glass spheres to gaze into the future and brass door-knockers with faces of mythical creatures.

Walking into these shops was like going through the looking glass. The creak of the door, the tinkle of the bell, the not-overly-friendly smile of the minder gazing over his reading glasses from the chiaroscuro of his perch and the feeling that one is intruding, that one does not really belong in this world of ancient secrets. I guess we are creatures of fluorescent light, mass-produced objects and overly friendly but meaningless service. I would move to Venice tomorrow if I could.
We were headed in the general direction of Campo Santa Margherita, the social epicenter of Dorsoduro when we came upon the sign in a shop window: Remi e forcole. Inside was a man wielding a small adze shaping a piece of wood held in a traditional carpenter’s vice.
The piece looked like a work of modern sculpture and so I concluded we were watching an artist at work. Turns out I was not entirely wrong…nor was I exactly right. Mounted on the farthest wall in the shop were a dozen or so oars. Oars? Long and slender these were, with fine sharp blades. The floor was covered in wood shavings and scattered around the shop were pieces nearly identical to the one being worked on. We ventured in.
We’d had a good lunch with wine; good thing since my Italian is always improved dopo pranzo. Friendly greetings and firm handshakes all round. “I’ve got to ask you what it is you are carving.” I said. He smiled, paused and answered, “…una scatola del cambio di gondola.” “Scusi ma non capisco.” I replied. Did he say a gondola’s gearbox? He did. The man just said he’s carving a gondola’s gearbox! “Yes, yes. I make the gearbox for the gondola.,” he said in his broken English. He had my attention.
Turns out we were in the presence of a remèr, a member of the dying breed of Venetian woodworkers who specialize in making the oars (remi) and oarlocks or oar posts (forcole) for traditional Venetian watercraft, the most well known being the gondola. In 1307, the remèri joined forces to form a corporation and by 1773, there were 244 registered members. Today, they are so few that they can be counted on one hand.

So let’s get back to the gondola’s gearbox. This man was sculpting a forcola. To understand the forcola one needs to understand the Venetian method of rowing.
Known as voga alla veneta, this unique rowing style evolved to suit the narrow canals of Venice. The rower stands, faces forward and uses a single oar on the starboard side. Forward propulsion is achieved by dipping the blade and pushing the oar shaft against a fulcrum that is the oar post or forcola. Why, you may wonder does the gondola not veer to the left in circles given that the thrust is exclusively on the right? The main reason is that the gondola is flat bottomed and is constructed with longitudinal asymmetry…think of a banana floating on its side, right side concave. The natural tendency of the gondola making headway is to veer to starboard. This is counteracted by the thrust of the oarsman exclusively on the starboard side as well as his stance on the portside of midline causing a slight port list. In this way, the gondola can move in a straight line in spite of being rowed only on one side. Furthermore, the unilateral oar arrangement is ideally suited to the narrow canals of Venice.



Voga alla veneta is a pleasant rowing technique. Not only does it give the gondolier an excellent vantage point while navigating the narrow canals but it also affords enhanced maneuverability. Recent studies have also demonstrated that the technique is extremely efficient. The energy expended by a gondolier rowing the 400kg gondola with 3 passengers aboard is nearly the same as for walking the same distance.
The forcola has evolved into a highly complex form. Its beginnings, however, were quite humble. We know that in the XVI Century, the forcola was nothing more than a flat board, usually scavenged from scrap wood in shipyards, affixed to the side of the craft and serving as a simple oar post. But, even in this most primitive of forms, we begin to see what our friend the remèr meant by his use of the word “gearbox”. In general terms, a gearbox is a system that transmits mechanical power from a prime mover to some form of useful output device. The oar post acting as a fulcrum for the oar permits the gondolier, the prime mover, to transmit the work of arm extension and walking aft, to the dipped oar blade resulting in forward movement of the gondola. This is the simple oar post serving as a “forward” gear. By pulling the oar against the front edge of the oar post, we have a “reverse” gear.
One can imagine wear marks forming on the oar post on the most frequently used surfaces. Eventually, oarsmen came to rely on these wear marks as the ideal leverage points on the forcola. These wear marks were known as morsi or “bites” and remèri began to design them into the oar post.
In the XVIII Century, we find the development of the sanca or “elbow” of the forcola. This elbow or bend in the forcola allows for some of the leverage points or morsi to be at various distances from the side of the gondola. This resulted in the equivalent of “high” and “low” gears for the gondolier giving his craft even more versatility of movement. The need for extreme maneuverability eventually led to the refinement in the number and placement of morsi on the forcola resulting in a “gearbox” that not only permitted forward and reverse high and low gears but also stern thrusting and rudder functions. The modern gondola stern forcola has no fewer than 8 functional leverage points i.e. 8 gears!
Usually made from walnut, the modern forcola has taken on a truly sculptural form. Much of its present-day shape has no doubt resulted from natural design modifications based on functional wear patterns as well as intentional and well thought out mechanical innovation. However, most experts agree that as for many beautiful objects, some of the forcola’s present shape results from modifications that were purely aesthetic. Indeed, the authentic forcola is sought after by art collectors all over the world. Examples can be found in a number of important museums including the Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum in New York City.

I do not own a forcola. This may surprise you. It’s not that I have not had opportunities to purchase one over the years. I want one really badly. What I’m trying to say is that it would not be enough for me to just “buy” a forcola. I want to spend some time in Venice with the express goal of visiting as many remèri and squeri (small shipyards where gondolas are built) as I can. I want a forcola with a story. I have a feeling the journey will end up being as important as the destination.

Joseph Froncioni

Comments

[Andy Froncioni]

Who would've thought that there was so much richness in such a ... seemingly mundane object. The forcola really is a thing of beuty - I'll look forward to seeing one in your home, Joe.

I also wonder how the forcola would fare under the scrutiny of modern structural analysis tools? Or would that ruin it all? :-)