Recordia

Editor’s Note: The Venetian Atlas is a recently rediscovered work of the 14th-century Genoese cartographer Petrus Vesconte, thought to have been completed towards the end of his Venetian period (c. 1330). Though the geographer has long been renowned for the accuracy of his nautical maps of the Mediterranean and Black seas, this long-lost portolan chart is particularly notable for its extensive marginalia. Vesconte’s notes, written in Latin, describe in fascinating detail the lands and seas which his map depicts, but, tantalisingly, not all of his locations have yet been accounted for. While we await the results of the ongoing forensic inspections – including pigment and fibre sampling and analysis – Apocrypha, in an exclusive collaboration with the Università di Padova, is very excited to announce the publication of, for the first time ever, a translation of Vesconte’s marginalia.

There is a country far to the west, beyond the Sea of Darkness, that is notable for a strange practice among its citizens. Recordia is a particularly beautiful place, with rugged coastlines, lush forests, and picturesque mountains. Her villages are quiet and quaint, her towns well-gardened and clean, and her cities resplendent with architecture of the most refined taste. 

So proud are the Recordians of their country that the primary occupation of most of the populace lies in trying to capture its beauty in some capacity. Artists dot the countryside, painting its landscapes; writers are found in every coffee shop, penning descriptions of their homeland in novels and poetry; musicians whistle along the streets, attempting to put into songs, operas, and anthems, the very essence of their country. Nowhere else on Earth has inspired so many travel guides – authored by a thousand Recordian travel writers – which detail every hidden gem, every secluded beach, every restaurant recommendation. With such enthusiastic reviews, the tourists dutifully flock to Recordia’s shores. 

At first, this trickle of visitors was welcomed by the Recordians, who were only too proud to have others marvel at their country. But as the number of tourists began to swell, so did the ire of the locals, who now not only had to compete with one another in their art, but also the sightseers, who too wanted to spend their brief time in Recordia capturing its beauty. Of course, the more visitors who came, the more they told of her charm on their return home, and thus the more tourists who travelled from far and wide to record the country for themselves. 

The obsession has grown and grown to the point where now almost the entire economy of Recordia is involved in some function in the production and sales of attempts – whether in paint, prose, or song – to capture something of the country’s soul. 

Many buy these reproductions not to enjoy them in themselves, but in order to learn from their faults; for no  piece of art, no matter how good, can wholly capture something as changing and complex as a country like Recordia. Here a man turns over sketches of his country produced by another citizen-artist – yes, she has captured perfectly the streaks of golden dawn that brush over the church tower first thing in the morning, but, alas, she misses the air of expectation one normally feels walking the streets at that time; this scene is good, he thinks, but fails to adequately reflect all of Recordia’s many faces. So reviewed, the man sets out himself to do a better job, and later, in turn, it is his work that will be picked apart, and, hopefully, improved upon.

Of course, with having so many of the citizens concerned with recording Recordia, much of what’s recorded is records of others recording: paintings of painters at their easel; songs of musicians in song; plays of playwrights struggling to write their plays. In fact, so much effort and attention is spent in the anxious activities of record-keeping, that none of the residents or visitors are actually able to spend any time enjoying Recordia’s beauty, and so barely know her at all.