Audio Guide Naples – The Fountains

It was built at the beginning of the seventeenth century, in the middle of the viceregal era, by two important sculptors: Pietro Bernini and Michelangelo Naccherino. The intent was clear — to embellish the area of the Royal Palace with a work that would show power and decorum. The name “of the Giant” derives from the presence, originally, of a colossal statue of Jupiter, found in Cumae and placed next to the fountain. A combination that today would make archaeologists turn up their noses, but which worked at the time.

In 1815, the fountain was moved to the pier, in front of the building known as the Immaculate Chapel, but even that arrangement did not last: in 1905, the Municipality decided to place it permanently along the new stretch of road obtained from the filling of the beach. A choice that was more functional than symbolic, dictated by the need to give a stable arrangement to a work that, in the meantime, had lost its original context.

The structure consists of three round arches. The central one houses a pool decorated with marine animals, while in the two side ones there are river statues holding aquatic creatures. On the extreme sides two caryatids support cornucopias. At the top, the coats of arms of the viceroy, the king and the city of Naples complete the decorative apparatus, remembering who had power and who exercised it.

More than an eternal symbol, the Giant’s Fountain is a concrete example of how public art is often adapted, moved and reinterpreted according to the needs of the city.

It was built in 1635, commissioned by Viceroy Manuel Zuñiga y Fonseca and designed by Cosimo Fanzago, one of the most active and influential architects of Neapolitan Baroque. The actual construction was carried out by his son Carlo and the sculptor Salomone Rapi. Originally, the fountain stood on what is now Via Cesario Console, then known as Salita del Gigante, leaning against a wall overlooking the arsenal. But as often happens in Naples, urban planning needs changed, and in 1900 the fountain was dismantled. It wasn’t until 1939, after the reclamation of the seafront, that it was relocated to the shoreline at the foot of Via Posillipo, where it still stands today.

Its structure reflects the Baroque taste: a central arch, which was once a niche, houses the statue of the Sebeto, the mythical river that once flowed through Naples. The Sebeto is depicted as an old bearded man, reclining on one side with a stern gaze. On either side, two tritons hold large amphorae from which water flows into three marble basins resting on a piperno base. At the ends, two pyramid-shaped obelisks topped with globes complete the composition. Above the arch are the coats of arms of the King of Spain, the Viceroy, and the city of Naples—clearly marking who ruled and who paid.

The fountain is a tribute to a river that no longer exists, swallowed by the depths of the city. But it is also a tangible example of how public art in Naples has always been intertwined with history, politics, and the transformation of urban space. It’s not there by chance, and it hasn’t remained unchanged. It has followed the city’s evolution, adapting, relocating, yet preserving its meaning.

Its story begins in 1869, when Onofrio Buccini and a young Francesco Jerace sculpted it to adorn the gardens of the railway station in Piazza Garibaldi. It wasn’t just decoration: it was the city’s first greeting to travelers arriving by train—a welcome carved in marble. Then, in 1924, with the opening of the Laziale Tunnel and the urban transformation of the Mergellina area, the fountain was moved to the center of the newly designed square, where it still stands today.

The composition is Baroque at heart, but executed in 19th-century style. A large, sunken elliptical basin holds a central rock from which four marine animals emerge: a horse, a lion, a dolphin, and a turtle. These are not random choices—each represents an initiatory symbol, a nod to ancient traditions, perhaps Masonic, perhaps mythological. Above them rises the Mermaid. Not just any mermaid, but Parthenope, the mythical founder of Naples. Her tail wraps around her hips, a lyre rests in her right hand, and her left arm is raised, as if still singing, searching for Ulysses among the waves.

Legend says that Parthenope, spurned by the Greek hero, let herself die on the shores of Naples. But here, in the fountain, she is not dead—she is alive, gazing proudly at the city. It is a monument that speaks of beauty and myth, of that uniquely Neapolitan melancholy that turns sorrow into art.

Today, after a recent restoration, the fountain is illuminated at night, and the Mermaid truly seems to rise from the waters. It is not just a work of art—it is a perfect synthesis of what Naples has been and continues to be: a place where history is not preserved, but reinvented.

It all began at the end of the sixteenth century when Naples was one of the most populous cities in Europe, under Spanish rule. Viceroy Henry of Guzmàn, an ambitious man eager to leave a mark, commissioned a monumental fountain that celebrated the power of the sea and, indirectly, that of the monarchy. First-rate artists were called upon to create it: Michelangelo Naccherino, Pietro Bernini, Angelo Landi and Domenico Fontana.

The fountain was born near the Arsenale, but it has no peace. In 1625 it was moved to Largo di Palazzo, today Piazza del Plebiscito, but there it hindered popular festivals and processions. And so off we go, we change again: we take it to Santa Lucia, where Cosimo Fanzago, a brilliant and restless sculptor, enriches it with new figures. But even there it did not last: in 1000 six hundred and thirty-eight it was transferred to Via Medina, where it underwent major expansion works. It’s as if the city can’t find the right place for this marble and bronze creature, which always seems too bulky or too precious to be left alone.

In 1647, during the Masaniello revolt, the fountain was mutilated. It is no coincidence: when the people rise up, the statues become targets, symbols of a power that is no longer recognized. And then, in 1672, the viceroy Pedro Antonio of Aragon plundered it, taking away some ornaments. But the fountain resists. It was restored in 675 and, probably, moved near the Molo Grande. At the end of the nineteenth century, the Municipality decided to place it in Piazza Borsa, where it remained for more than a century, until 2000. And then, once again, it moves: for the subway work it is restored and brought back to Via Medina, as if it had finally found a home.

Its structure is complex and theatrical, a large basin surrounded by a balustrade, with lions spitting water from their jaws and clutching coats of arms between their paws. Sea monsters, dolphins ridden by tritons, satyrs and nymphs holding a cup, and above all, Neptune, the god of the sea, with the trident from which the water gushes. It is a sculpted tale, an allegory of dominion over the sea, but also a celebration of beauty and power.

The year was 1669. Viceroy Don Pietro Antonio d’Aragona, a zealous servant of the crown, sought to honor young Charles, then just four years old, with a monument fit for an emperor. But sculpting a child in bronze was no easy task. So they chose to depict him as an adult, complete with crown and regal posture. The problem? Charles was deformed, the product of generations of intermarriage among cousins, uncles, and nieces. He had a protruding jaw, motor difficulties, and an insatiable love for sweets. They called him el Hechizado—“the Bewitched”—and not without reason.

The fountain was built with great opulence: a three-lobed basin adorned with lions and eagles, symbols of strength and power, bearing the coats of arms of the king, the viceroy, and the city. At its center rises a pyramidal obelisk topped by the bronze statue of the monarch, sculpted by Francesco D’Angelo from a design by Cosimo Fanzago. But the statue is small, disproportionate to the grand structure. A tiny king atop a colossal pedestal—the perfect symbol of a power that sought to appear mighty, but was already in decline.

The construction took years, marked by changes in sculptors, revisions, and controversy. And today, the fountain remains—somewhat forgotten, somewhat neglected, yet still capable of telling its story. It speaks of a crumbling empire, a suffering king, and a city that, as always, knew how to turn tragedy into beauty.

It’s the late 1950s. Mayor Achille Lauro, a controversial and charismatic figure, decides to leave his mark on the city’s urban landscape. It’s no coincidence that the fountain is placed in Piazza Trieste e Trento, just steps from Piazza Plebiscito, in a strategic and central location. Lauro, who was not only mayor but also president of the Napoli football club, wanted a monument that spoke to the city—one that was his, yet popular. And so, the Artichoke Fountain was born.

The project was entrusted to engineers Carlo Comite, Mario Massari, and Fedele Federico. The structure is simple: a large circular basin, surrounded by a small garden, with a central bowl from which water spurts out of a floral element. But it’s not just any flower. Its shape resembles that of an artichoke, and the Neapolitans—never ones for formalities—immediately dubbed it as such. From that moment on, the name stuck. No official plaque, no dedication: just a popular nickname that became definitive.

The fountain was inaugurated in 1956, after the High Council of Fine Arts rejected the proposal to relocate the Monteoliveto Fountain there. Lauro, in response, had a new one built. It was a political gesture, almost a provocation. Over time, the Artichoke Fountain also became a gathering point for Napoli fans, who would meet there during celebrations and victories—often damaging it in the fervor of their festivities.

Today, after several restorations, the fountain still flows—discreet, yet present. It doesn’t have the nobility of ancient fountains, but it has something the others don’t: it’s the child of a specific era, of a mayor who wanted to be king, and of a city that knows how to turn even an artichoke into a monument.