The Art of Loving Venice
Oct. 13th, 2004 01:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootIt has taken me a couple of days to pull myself together and write this entry, not least because for the first time ever I have felt the desire to plaster photos all over my lj, and mucking around with webspace is too much like hard work for me. So instead, I return to beloved words, many too many of them. Which is why I will now use the cut...
The last time I went to the city was for Carnevale, the festival of masks before Lent in February 2002, and the city's palette was one of soulful greys against which all the kitsch and colour of the carnival blazed. Vikings mingled with lions, Christ and his cross wandered among a posse of 12 foot butterflies, a baby dressed as a hedgehog snuggled up on his mother's back papoose-style, and the maschera in all their glory wandered the streets, kings of camera.
But that was then. I saw something different this time.
Venice is a living city. The boats don't just carry lovers and tourists; they carry mundanities, groceries, the staples of living. Venice has children playing on skateboards in her streets, she has graffiti, she has a sadly garlic-light habit of cuisine. But at the end of the tourist season she is warm enough for shirt sleeves at midnight, the sky and sea are bathed in colour and light. Winter Venice is Garbo, summer Venice is Loren. And she is beautiful, as beautiful when she smiles as when she gazes mysteriously across the waters. I am lucky to have seen her.
This holiday focused more around culture vulture activities than the last visit(let's face it, the last one was all about finding the best place to pose in kit and be photographed by adoring hordes).
We visited the Ca' Rezzonico, the city's finest example of what a palazzo would have been like when it was lived in. Very impressive. The place was full of Tiepolo masterpieces, and at last I learned that it is possible to have a surfeit of allegory. Virtue accompanied by Nobility throwing down Perfidy, the three graces, five virtues and four continents accompanied by Merit and Wisdom vanquishing, er, everyone else on the ceiling. There were some wonderful witty depictions of eighteenth century life depicted on the higher floors thank god. One can weary of endless puttis, beards and breasts, however glorious, but maybe that's just me...
By complete contrast, the Peggy Guggenheim collection in the Palazzo Venier Dei Leoni sparked us up and made us think about the nature of art (i.e, Me saying, 'Some of this stuff is interesting,' and Larians saying, 'Most of this stuff is rubbish!') It began with Yoko Ono's contribution of an olive tree, and the sculpture garden (very very interesting indeed and the main reason I wanted to add photos to this entry) and went through Picasso, Chagall, Magritte,Miro, Pollock, many famous pieces, many famous artists... strange how little most of their efforts touched us, perhaps because the city outside is one of the greatest examples of living art to be seen in all the world.
We went to the island of Torcello, a place once inhabited by pagans and settled by Christians from the east in the 5-6th centuries. It was full of ancient statues dotted here and there, pomegranate trees, fig trees and very lazy cats. There in the tiny church of St Fosca, we found Germans being peculiar. Now, far be it from me to adhere to racial stereotypes but by the Lord Harry, surely German tourists do not sing, and if they do, surely they do not sing hymns in a distinctly non-lutheran teeny catholic church of Greek Orthodox/Byzantine origin. But if they are going to sing, they most certainly do what these did, tuning up to perfection, lalala-ing and mememe-ing till they got the acoustics just right. We could not move, petrified and English in our embarrassment. I thought we were witnessing some teutonic form of the rapture. Then they sang, and the sweetness of it nearly reduced me to tears. Always something new to learn, I find.
Music played a central part in the holiday. A Vivaldi concert in the beautiful church of San Vidal sent our spirits soaring, though my favourite piece was not by that gifted son of the city, but by someone I've never heard of, Tartini, whose concerto in D (adagio? what does that mean? I am woefully ignorant of music) was simply magnificent. I can still hear it in my head now.
This holiday saw us capitulating to the charm of Florians far too often. Let me explain about Florians, dear LJ. I think, though I am not certain, that it is the oldest chocolate/coffee-house in Europe, 17th or 18th century, and very plush and expensive indeed. When Venice was taken over by the Prussians, Venetian sympathisers took their coffee in Florians, Prussian supporters (including, eventually, that strangely priggish creature, Wagner) took theirs in the Cafe Quaddri across the square. Cafe Quaddri is only marginally less prestigious than Florians. Both have bands and seating outside in the warm months; the Florians band will play opera and (without a trace of irony) Viennese waltzes, the Cafe Quaddri band will play themes from Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, reason enough, I think, to avoid it forever.
It was wonderful to sit outside Florians and listen, drinking excellent wine and watching the stories of the square; the double-bass player, clearly the band's own Jack Dee, whose lugubrious grins lit up every tune he enjoyed, the beautiful blonde lady sipping her red wine waiting for the lead violinist to finish the set and walk her home through moonlit streets, the dude in the adidas shirt who waltzed his girlfriend in fine gentlemanly fashion round the square; and then the great sonorous bells of the Campanile sounding at midnight to send all the revellers home. Not that this is the end, nor even the best part of the story; if you are going to travel the Grand Canal at all with your love, do it then, when the night and the lights and the water all conspire in the dream. Ignore the robust crashing sounds of boat meeting dock. It'll toughen up your romance muscles.
The holiday didn't end when we came home. We drove straight to friends in order to celebrate a birthday and play Stabface for the weekend. The session was magnificent, the company terrific and all in all, the last ten days have been incredible. Don't tell me it's time to work, I am nowhere near the earth yet.
The last time I went to the city was for Carnevale, the festival of masks before Lent in February 2002, and the city's palette was one of soulful greys against which all the kitsch and colour of the carnival blazed. Vikings mingled with lions, Christ and his cross wandered among a posse of 12 foot butterflies, a baby dressed as a hedgehog snuggled up on his mother's back papoose-style, and the maschera in all their glory wandered the streets, kings of camera.
But that was then. I saw something different this time.
Venice is a living city. The boats don't just carry lovers and tourists; they carry mundanities, groceries, the staples of living. Venice has children playing on skateboards in her streets, she has graffiti, she has a sadly garlic-light habit of cuisine. But at the end of the tourist season she is warm enough for shirt sleeves at midnight, the sky and sea are bathed in colour and light. Winter Venice is Garbo, summer Venice is Loren. And she is beautiful, as beautiful when she smiles as when she gazes mysteriously across the waters. I am lucky to have seen her.
This holiday focused more around culture vulture activities than the last visit(let's face it, the last one was all about finding the best place to pose in kit and be photographed by adoring hordes).
We visited the Ca' Rezzonico, the city's finest example of what a palazzo would have been like when it was lived in. Very impressive. The place was full of Tiepolo masterpieces, and at last I learned that it is possible to have a surfeit of allegory. Virtue accompanied by Nobility throwing down Perfidy, the three graces, five virtues and four continents accompanied by Merit and Wisdom vanquishing, er, everyone else on the ceiling. There were some wonderful witty depictions of eighteenth century life depicted on the higher floors thank god. One can weary of endless puttis, beards and breasts, however glorious, but maybe that's just me...
By complete contrast, the Peggy Guggenheim collection in the Palazzo Venier Dei Leoni sparked us up and made us think about the nature of art (i.e, Me saying, 'Some of this stuff is interesting,' and Larians saying, 'Most of this stuff is rubbish!') It began with Yoko Ono's contribution of an olive tree, and the sculpture garden (very very interesting indeed and the main reason I wanted to add photos to this entry) and went through Picasso, Chagall, Magritte,Miro, Pollock, many famous pieces, many famous artists... strange how little most of their efforts touched us, perhaps because the city outside is one of the greatest examples of living art to be seen in all the world.
We went to the island of Torcello, a place once inhabited by pagans and settled by Christians from the east in the 5-6th centuries. It was full of ancient statues dotted here and there, pomegranate trees, fig trees and very lazy cats. There in the tiny church of St Fosca, we found Germans being peculiar. Now, far be it from me to adhere to racial stereotypes but by the Lord Harry, surely German tourists do not sing, and if they do, surely they do not sing hymns in a distinctly non-lutheran teeny catholic church of Greek Orthodox/Byzantine origin. But if they are going to sing, they most certainly do what these did, tuning up to perfection, lalala-ing and mememe-ing till they got the acoustics just right. We could not move, petrified and English in our embarrassment. I thought we were witnessing some teutonic form of the rapture. Then they sang, and the sweetness of it nearly reduced me to tears. Always something new to learn, I find.
Music played a central part in the holiday. A Vivaldi concert in the beautiful church of San Vidal sent our spirits soaring, though my favourite piece was not by that gifted son of the city, but by someone I've never heard of, Tartini, whose concerto in D (adagio? what does that mean? I am woefully ignorant of music) was simply magnificent. I can still hear it in my head now.
This holiday saw us capitulating to the charm of Florians far too often. Let me explain about Florians, dear LJ. I think, though I am not certain, that it is the oldest chocolate/coffee-house in Europe, 17th or 18th century, and very plush and expensive indeed. When Venice was taken over by the Prussians, Venetian sympathisers took their coffee in Florians, Prussian supporters (including, eventually, that strangely priggish creature, Wagner) took theirs in the Cafe Quaddri across the square. Cafe Quaddri is only marginally less prestigious than Florians. Both have bands and seating outside in the warm months; the Florians band will play opera and (without a trace of irony) Viennese waltzes, the Cafe Quaddri band will play themes from Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, reason enough, I think, to avoid it forever.
It was wonderful to sit outside Florians and listen, drinking excellent wine and watching the stories of the square; the double-bass player, clearly the band's own Jack Dee, whose lugubrious grins lit up every tune he enjoyed, the beautiful blonde lady sipping her red wine waiting for the lead violinist to finish the set and walk her home through moonlit streets, the dude in the adidas shirt who waltzed his girlfriend in fine gentlemanly fashion round the square; and then the great sonorous bells of the Campanile sounding at midnight to send all the revellers home. Not that this is the end, nor even the best part of the story; if you are going to travel the Grand Canal at all with your love, do it then, when the night and the lights and the water all conspire in the dream. Ignore the robust crashing sounds of boat meeting dock. It'll toughen up your romance muscles.
The holiday didn't end when we came home. We drove straight to friends in order to celebrate a birthday and play Stabface for the weekend. The session was magnificent, the company terrific and all in all, the last ten days have been incredible. Don't tell me it's time to work, I am nowhere near the earth yet.
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no subject
Date: 2004-10-13 12:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-13 04:58 pm (UTC)All in all, this year's holidays have completely blown me away. I feel very spoilt!
no subject
Date: 2004-10-13 01:09 pm (UTC)I'm glad you had a lovely time.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-13 05:17 pm (UTC)Venice
Date: 2004-10-13 01:17 pm (UTC)Gray
Re: Venice
Date: 2004-10-13 04:55 pm (UTC)