My new novel, The Echoes of Love, opens on the evening of the famous and flamboyant Venice Carnival, in which the city comes alive with revellers, many of whom attend masquerade parties and don the masks that are so much a part of Venetian heritage.

The hero, Paolo, and the heroine,Venetia, first cross paths during that time and it is at such a party that they meet again, each shrouded in mystery – the mask concealing the true form, and creating an at once unsettling and alluring distortion.

In writing the masquerade party scene, I often had in my mind the painting ‘Il Ridotto’ by Venetian artist Pietro Longhi (1702–1785). Indeed, Venetia herself thinks of the painting upon entering the surreal scene; and she recalls the artwork as being ‘spooky, with its macabre eighteenth-century figures disguised in masks and shrouded in shadows’.

In fact, ‘Il Ridotto’ depicts a scene in a gambling hall in Venice – these were quite the rage in the 1750s, in which era the painting is set. The figures are a mixture of masked and unmasked, but it is to the masked characters that the eye is drawn – specifically, the central couple. The woman is demure and innocent in white; her counterpart – dark but for his ghostly mask – is lifting her dress. The meaning in the painting is tangible: through wearing the masks, inhibitions are cast aside and deepest desires come into play. Here, in a single work, is one of the foundation’s of Venetian romance laid bare. Here is exactly why I chose to begin my novel during the Carnival, during a masquerade: the perfect atmosphere from which to build a story of romance and passion, but with a dark undercurrent of deceit and mystery lurking beneath, ready to shatter at any moment the fragile awakenings of love.

Were I to choose an artist to represent the dark side of The Echoes of Love, Pietro Longhi would be he. Although he began his painting career creating religious-themed works, he grew increasingly well known for his depictions of Venetians at play, and many of his works included somewhat sinister, puppet-like figures who were rendered faceless by the Carnival masks they wore. Art critics infer that these figures (which make up around half of all those in his genre paintings) are all of the upper classes, and the masks are a source of liberation for them. Certainly, the proliferation of masks create a strong sense of duality in the artworks, which pulls you in, as the viewer, to really explore the meaning behind the paintings – surely the mark of the best of art.

If, like me, you find the masquerade compelling, you’ll perhaps enjoy this clip from the most recent film version of The Phantom of the Opera: the setting is Parisian, but the influence in the costumes distinctly Venetian – and what passion!