In Venice, we stayed in a hotel on Campo Zaccharia just facing the church of San Zaccharia which was one of the more intriguing points of interest at the beginning of our journey. I say this because the church was far less grand and even somewhat unkempt than the great Renaissance cathedrals we were to encounter along the way, and certainly a pale comparison to San Marco just a few hundred feet away. 
The foundations to the church date to the ninth century, and much of the Romanesque structure dated from the tenth. It was rebuilt in 1483 in an odd mixture of Gothic and renaissance styles which adding to the solid Romanesque structure gives it a quality that is far more commanding than many of its counterparts along the Grand Canal. Entering it there is a dusky smell that permeates some of the old structures in Venice, and this one had a number of canvasses and fabrics that had absorbed the centuries of mold spores. It was dark, the electric lighting was placed as conveniently as possible, but it had obviously never had a modern lighting designer come through to highlight the art and architecture. The result was to walk into another time, where light came in through relatively small windows and shot trails though the dusty interior.
The church had been largely paid for by the Doges of Venice, in gratitude for the sale of land in 1200, adjacent to the convent by the nuns - for the expansion of Piazza San Marco. They had given up their pea-patch and gained a patronage that would last for several centuries. In thanks, the Doge would spend Easter services in San Zaccharia, making an annual pilgrimage and procession which sometime in the twelfth century necessitated the construction of a great ambulatory. Eight of the Doges are buried in the crypt, along with the often-questioned remains of Zaccharia, father of John the Baptist.Once you adjust your vision to the dusty interior, you begin to make out the shapes of a number of Renaissance masterpieces which are often overlooked by the usual Venetian tours. Almost every inch of every wall is covered by paintings, mostly from the seventeenth and eighteenth century, surrounding a 1505 masterwork by Bellini of the Madonna and Four Saints.
This piece by itself is incredible, but one of the great novelties of this church as well; by dropping a few coins into a slot, now-ancient and probably highly flammable lighting bursts forth, to illuminate a frame built into the wall which continues on into the Bellini painting as an early form of trompe d'loile. The painting had been looted by Napoleon in the nineteenth century and the frame left behind - a top section missing as it had been cut away but that somehow just adds to the historic ambiance. The effect is tremendous, made even more so as the light goes out with a "pop" and the frame recedes back into the gloom.
This piece by itself is incredible, but one of the great novelties of this church as well; by dropping a few coins into a slot, now-ancient and probably highly flammable lighting bursts forth, to illuminate a frame built into the wall which continues on into the Bellini painting as an early form of trompe d'loile. The painting had been looted by Napoleon in the nineteenth century and the frame left behind - a top section missing as it had been cut away but that somehow just adds to the historic ambiance. The effect is tremendous, made even more so as the light goes out with a "pop" and the frame recedes back into the gloom. The main altar c 1358 has only recently been discovered and restored, a seven panel Predella by Veneziano, the earliest celebrated Venetian artist. It is kept company by two equally great altarpieces "anconas" or composite altarpieces by Vivarani and Alemagna both c. 1443. The Vivarani is dedicated to San Sabine, who is buried beneath it.
On the right wall is a doorway, tightly curtained and up a few steps. It is locked, and when you approach it you are accosted by a tiny monk who looks as if he has been there a good many years, who is looking for the donation that will entice him to turn the key for you. 
Entering, the door clicking behind you, offers a private pilgrimage inside the Cappella di Sant'Anastasio and behind it the Capella di San Tarasio. Dusty furniture, broken pedestals line the walls, but there in a huge niche is Tintoretto's Birth Of John the Baptist, one of the great masterpieces of Venice. It is unprotected, and the informality of the setting, the fact that you are all alone makes you want to touch it - but in respect you hold back. It is a great rush of emotion to have that moment there in the dusty room with such a piece of history.
Entering, the door clicking behind you, offers a private pilgrimage inside the Cappella di Sant'Anastasio and behind it the Capella di San Tarasio. Dusty furniture, broken pedestals line the walls, but there in a huge niche is Tintoretto's Birth Of John the Baptist, one of the great masterpieces of Venice. It is unprotected, and the informality of the setting, the fact that you are all alone makes you want to touch it - but in respect you hold back. It is a great rush of emotion to have that moment there in the dusty room with such a piece of history.Passing through the sacristy, looking at the floor there are holes chipped away to reveal the original mosaics that had been covered over - maybe a project for future restoration. around a corner and without a sign is a tiny staircase downward. Keeping in mind that this is Venice, peering down into its depths is a mystery - not many basements are anticipated . I followed it down, around its curve, the tiny chipped stone stairs leading into a room at the bottom barely lit by a few random light bulbs. 
The floor was flooded, and small wooden walkways had been set up to pass through the vaulted chamber. I realized that I was beneath the main altar, in the ancient ninth-century crypt; there in the dark recesses was a sarcophagus, surmounted by a statue and reflected in the pool of murky water. It was spooky and wonderful, a fitting last stop in this ancient piece of the city. 
On the other end of the room was a second tiny stairway leading up to a small room behind the altar. I exited; the monk had once again disappeared into whatever dark corner he kept. The quiet and somber quality of the church was anything but sad, it was a soft reminder of how tiny we are in the centuries that have passed by.
The floor was flooded, and small wooden walkways had been set up to pass through the vaulted chamber. I realized that I was beneath the main altar, in the ancient ninth-century crypt; there in the dark recesses was a sarcophagus, surmounted by a statue and reflected in the pool of murky water. It was spooky and wonderful, a fitting last stop in this ancient piece of the city. 
On the other end of the room was a second tiny stairway leading up to a small room behind the altar. I exited; the monk had once again disappeared into whatever dark corner he kept. The quiet and somber quality of the church was anything but sad, it was a soft reminder of how tiny we are in the centuries that have passed by.