Saturday, May 19, 2012

La Serenissima

Some say 'serene', I choose 'mad'. Venice is indeed mad, on the verge of toppling over into the waters that are intrinsic to its madness. It is not serene as much as it is in a constant state of stasis. Despite the infamous influx of visitors, both reverent and obnoxious, Venice remains uniquely grotesque in its loneliness. The only city to boast such architectural follies, built in the most lavish styles but on most dubious grounds. I find it difficult to consider Venice as Italian.. Venice cannot be anything but Venetian.. replete with harlequin spirit, and a lost sense of industry and initiative; filled to satiation with decadence best exemplified by gold cornices atop marbled pedestals. Even the pasta is mad: all stripey and colourful. The pace so slow it allows, or rather, traps you into believing you belong. I'll go back. I'll go through the difficult parting over again. Twice is not enough. I need more escapades. I'm prepared to suspend my disbelief and let as elite a city as Venice to dupe me into feeling welcome. I am suspicious of this city.. I think it's exuberant fa├žade is a foil for corruption my inexperienced lens will never be able to capture. Venice you're crazy but I love you; mind you, it's a case of 'because of' rather than 'even though'!

Dusky colours that would make many a bathroom and bedroom happy. A generous helping of mould has the inherent potential to make everything look just like I've always dreamt it should.

prosecco + campari/aperol/etc + soda water + the all important olive = hours of blissful rocking of a seemingly all too familiar cradle.

When the scene from outside your window is as, if not more, engrossing than the exhibited work inside, you simply know you're in a good place. (Elliot Erwitt, DOG - New York City 1946)

Where I fell in love with Josef Hoffman as much as I've always been with Klimt.

speechless.. all stillness and light.

more stillness and some foreboding. Mr Digby's Giudecca is more shrouded than serene. Also the swirling seaweed would have been a nice accompanying treat (on the head) with the crushing black eye I was about to gift the rude ticket lady at the pier.

I rarely feel this small in Italy, Venice no less. For all I know this tower may be made out of paper, out to trick me into believing this place is real. The city holds within it the charm of a freshly pressed, still-humid sheaf. I will not stretch the metaphor, I just wish to explain myself better. Venice smells like paper.

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