VENICE MISCELLANY

VENICE MISCELLANY

The Selfies of Venice

If it is true that to photograph someone is to capture a bit of their soul (as some societies have believed), then Venice metaphorically has had its soul sucked out many, many times over. But these days, it is tourists’ souls which mass in forlorn invisible pieces in the City’s main thoroughfares and sites.

Residents and frequent visitors well know that Venice is a city containing certain densely crowded ant runs and nests, and a lot of spaces and routes where walking and lingering are pretty much always possible without crowding. (It is said that many, if not most, of the visitors who (to use the current term which is politically correct in the UK) “swarm” into Venice do not stay overnight there, but on the mainland or on vast cruise ships; and they only have time, or inclination, to head for the obvious places, such as around St Marks and the Rialto.)

The contrast when you emerge from one of the leisurely alleys or squares into one of the runs or nests is startling. Suddenly you are weaving through unpredictably moving throngs. (It’s worse than rush hour in, say, a train station. There the direction of movement of the crowds can be anticipated.) The groups don’t just move inchoately – they stop suddenly and arbitrarily. This is because of the tyrannical demands of their cameras and smartphones.

Every bridge has on either side a line of people leaning back against the balustrades to be photographed and an inner line of photographers, all narrowing further the already narrow passage for the jostling crowds – which include many holding aloft selfie sticks, stopping every few paces to record themselves or attendant tourist or family groups.

If there is some principle in this chaos, it is that, for most of the actors in the day visiting tourist crowds, a photo record of them, their family and friends Being There is more desirable than looking at or photographing the actual There (Venice and its one or two worthy buildings). So, every famous view is foregrounded by smiling tourists who, once snapped, move on a few yards to the next position of pose.

Even narrow alleys are fair game for a sudden stop and click of, say, a child in a pushchair posed against a fetching view of a canal.

Photography even, it seems, ousts shopping. Venetians claim that the cast of day visitors don’t actually spend much in the City (or at least not sufficiently to offset the general cost of hosting such numbers). I can see why there are these complaints: in narrow central streets lined by pricey shops boasting Murano glassware or food delicacies, you see more people standing outside (and blocking the way) taking pictures of the window displays than are ever inside considering an actual purchase.

But perhaps there is another more basic reason for the reluctance to spend…

The Expense

I left Venice airport after a visit of three days and a delay of 1½ hours thinking it would have been a more honest experience if there was a visitors’ desk at Arrivals where you handed over your bank card details and a signed authority to clear out your account.

Even with a luckily strong pound, Venice is incredibly expensive, from the cost of the public water transport to the price of eating and drinking out.

It must be conceded that, in general, if you pay through the nose, you eat very well through the mouth. On the whole, lower restaurant prices means indifferent food.

There is one thing in common with all establishments – the meanest definition I’ve come across of the size of a “glass of wine”. I reckon that a Venetian “glass” equals little more than 1/8^th of a bottle. Buying by the glass at, for example, EUR 5 translates into a pro rata price of nearly EUR 40 for a bottle which would cost EUR 20 or less if ordered whole. A very tricky financial problem at lunchtime, when a whole bottle for two is not advisable on a day of c34 temperature, with walking to do.

(A few years ago, in a piano bar, I challenged the barmaid about this meanness. Like Oliver Twist, I asked for “more” (to be poured). Her stony response was “you want to pay more?”)

The Biennale

The Biennale art exhibition is undoubtedly a blockbuster, but one where it is not the art which is busting the block. The star of the show is the exhibition itself – its size, its longevity (2015 is the 56^th edition and it lasts from May to November) and, above all, its locations. The art – well, “uneven” is the diplomatic word. However, among so many exhibits, probability dictates some excellence; but only “some”.

This means that visitors to the main sites cannot be sure whether they are witnessing greatness or dross. If you go to a big Matisse or Reubens exhibition, most of the art-appreciation work has already been done for you: you know that you are in the presence of established greatness, and you can set your expectations and facial expressions accordingly. But as you tentatively enter a national pavilion on the main Biennale site, there is no such welcome assistance. So facial expressions are guarded or bemused, and only occasionally relieved by a smile of appreciation at vivid use of colour (Russia and Great Britain, for example) or witty moving trees (France).

My main reason for liking the Biennale is the opportunity to go into the usually off-limits (and walled off) Arsenale, the old shipbuilding dockyard, where once medieval triremes were built from scratch in one day, using production line methods.

The Corderie is the former ropemaking shed, hundreds of metres long, where a huge amount of art by individual contributors is hung or installed. Most can be swiftly bypassed, for the real sight is the big internal harbour. On one side are roofed docking berths, which during the Biennale contain clever installations. This year there are two large Smaug-like Chinese dragons. (Two years ago there was a Viking longboat, which “sailed” (mechanically) from berth to berth with a live small brass band onboard.)

The Arsenale is one of the great historical industrial complexes, the largest in existence before the industrial revolution.

This year, one of the best exhibitions is on the Biennale “fringe”, in the cloisters of the Maria dell’ Orto church ( a lovely building itself). Here the British sculptor Emily Young has installed a series of large heads, semi-carved from, and semi-suggested by, the natural features of, great lumps of onyx.

Here, indeed, are objects to covet. A discreet notice refers further enquiry to her dealer.

August 2015