Seeing red

This isn't blood, nor is it paint.  It is the color reflected from the red awning at the Rialto fish market.
This isn’t blood, nor is it paint. It is the color reflected from the red awning at the Rialto fish market.

I wanted to title this post “My Name is Red,” even though doing so would have meant stealing it from Nobel Prize-winner Orhan Pamuk.  I was happy to exploit him because his novel of that name is one of the most extraordinary books I’ve ever read.  Anybody who can start a story with “I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of a well,” has my vote.

Back to red.  For some reason I notice it early and often. I have no theory as to why; maybe it’s that red has been throwing itself in front of my face.  It is, after all, one of the more assertive colors in the spectrum.

Venice and red have a long and glorious coexistence, and I do not refer to the torrents of hemoglobin spilled in its incessant wars. (Speaking of bloodshed, did you know that arterial blood is bright red, while venous blood is a dark maroon? If anyone wants to know my source, it isn’t Johns Hopkins Hospital — it’s “13 Ways to Make Fake Blood.”)

No, the marriage of Venice and red takes us back to the Great Days, when Venice’s claim to fame was supported, among other things, by a number of exceptional products: glass, of course, and there was teriaca, a three-weird-sisters preparation believed to cure everything you can name, and many that you can’t even imagine.

And then there was the sumptuous color known as “Venetian red,” first documented in 1753, though I assume it had already been in use for a number of centuries.

“The skilled dyers of Venice, in particular, were known for their ability to create gorgeous red dyes,” writes Amy Butler Greenfield in her book, “A Perfect Red.”

“The deepest and most resplendent reds,” she goes on, “collectively known throughout Europe as ‘Venetian scarlet,’ were the envy of all who saw them.  Throughout Europe, dyers tried to imitate these reds without success, perhaps because no one thought to add arsenic, an ingredient used by the Venetians to heighten the brilliancy of their dyes.” Perhaps the arsenic supply was being diverted to other uses.

Like any trade secret upon which fortunes were built, Venetian dyers did everything to conceal their recipe, to the point of inventing macabre tales of specters haunting the dyeworks, to keep the curious at bay.  (I would have thought the stench alone would have been enough of a deterrent.  But what I call “stench” was clearly the ravishing odor of money.)

Although I did find a recipe for Venetian red dye, I’m not going to share it, partly because it’s pretty complicated and not something you should consider trying in your kitchen, and partly because I’m convinced that whatever result you obtain wouldn’t truly match the refulgence of the original.

Then there were the Venetian painters, who also found a way to make red their own.  Even on canvas, “Venetian Red is a pure iron oxide with real wow factor,”  as Matisse Professional Artist Acrylics and Mediums  puts it in its catalogue.

“It gets its name because the natural iron oxide deposits inland from Venice were this color which was midway between the deeper violet iron oxides found near Pozzuoli and the common red oxides found elsewhere,” Matisse continues. “The Venetian painters used this color with flair and particularly as a result of Titian’s usage of it, it became a famous color throughout Italy…This same shade of red oxide is found in the stone age cave paintings in France and when discovered they were clearly as vibrant as the day they were painted 16,000 years earlier…”

I would continue this treatise but feel my mind wandering away into foggy byways of minutiae.  And anyway, maybe you don’t care about red, even though eight seconds of research reveals that it represents just about everything in human existence: fire and blood; energy and primal life forces; desire, sexual passion, pleasure, domination, aggression, and thirst for action;  love, anger, warning or death; confidence, courage, and vitality.

I forgot to add danger, sacrifice, beauty, national socialism, socialism, communism, and in China and many other cultures, happiness.

Also hatred and sin.

If you have any urges left over, you can distribute them among the greys and fawns, or devote them to cornflower, saffron, or Mughal green. I’m taking the high road.

Red paint, red liquids, red pomegranates.  This must be the place.
Red walls, red drinks, red pomegranates. This must be the place.
Whoever lives in that apartment realizes what a tremendously dull corner it is, and clearly is doing everything possible to combat and vanquish it.
Whoever lives in that apartment realizes what a tremendously dull corner it is, and has decided to combat it with National Wash Red Things Day.
As soon as you start to look around, you begin to see red everywhere. Not to be confused with "seeing red." That's what happens when the vaporetto skips a run in the fog.
As soon as you start to look around, you begin to see red everywhere. Not to be confused with “seeing red.” That’s what happens when the vaporetto skips a run in the fog.
Wild grape provides shade in summer and color in the fall.  Unfortunately, it provides wine never.
Wild grape provides shade in summer and color in the fall. Unfortunately, it provides wine never.
It seems that everyone wants to sit, or try to sit, on one of the red marble lions by the basilica of San Marco.  I'm not sure how many bears have succeeded so far; this may be a first.  Erin go Bragh, or whatever the Swiss say.
It seems that everyone wants to sit, or try to sit, on one of the red marble lions by the basilica of San Marco. I’m not sure how many bears have succeeded so far; this may be a first. Erin go Bragh, or whatever the Swiss say.
The red of the Venetian flag, or gonfalone, is so much more impressive than just plain old red.
The red of the Venetian flag, or gonfalone, is so much more impressive than just plain old red.
The patriarch of Venice, mons. Francesco Moraglia, has an exceptionally lovely smile, and his way with people is surpassed only by his garb.
The patriarch of Venice, mons. Francesco Moraglia, has an exceptionally lovely smile, and his way with people is surpassed only by his garb.
Gondolier Said Rusciano pounds the final blows onto his forcola before the regata of SS. Giovanni e Paolo.  Red is the color of the winner's pennant, but in this case, it wasn't the color of the winner's boat.
Gondolier Said Rusciano pounds the final blows onto his forcola before the regata of SS. Giovanni e Paolo. Red is the color of the winner’s pennant, but in this case, it wasn’t the color of the winner’s boat.
I love the rain, it scatters so much of the city around.
I love the rain, it scatters shards of the city all over the streets.
I presume the red boat was staying within the posted speed limit; it would have been hard to have exceeded it.
I presume the red boat was staying within the posted speed limit; it would have been hard to have exceeded it.
I wonder if she has any trouble falling asleep at night.
I wonder if she has any trouble falling asleep at night.
I'm sorry for the crabs, but when boiled they turn out to be a great color.
I’m sorry for the crabs, but when boiled they turn out to have a great color.
The traditional "bocolo," or single long-stemmed red rose, which is bestowed on April 25 to one's beloved, has in this case evidently inspired some pensive
On April 25, St. Mark’s feast day, men are expected to bestow a “bocolo,” or single long-stemmed red rose, on their beloved.  He seems to be unaware that she is looking so pensive.  Pensive and red roses are not a good combination, at least when she’s not looking at you.
And speaking of flowers, here the seller is in red and the bloom is white.
And speaking of flowers, here the seller is in red and the blooms are white.  And the fog is grey, as usual.
What are the odds of getting a red tourist, carpet and broom in the same frame? In the Piazza San Marco, the odds appear to be excellent.
What are the odds of getting a red tourist, carpet and broom in the same frame? In the Piazza San Marco, they appear to be excellent.

 

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The Bermuda Triangle of garbage

The rain was a nice touch.  So was the careful positioning.  Only a clod would just put it down on the ground -- it takes an artist to see the potential of balancing it on the corner of a step.  Did I say artist?  Of course!  It must be something from the Biennale!
The rain was a nice touch. So was the careful positioning. Only a clod would just put it down on the ground — it takes an artist to see the potential of balancing it on the corner of a step. Did I say artist? Of course! It must be something from the Biennale!

I’ve freely indulged myself in remarking on garbage which is left where it happened to fall.  Or drift.  Or be blown.  Or put.

The computer terminal was just one item.  Bags and bags of rubble and assorted refuse of every sort are others.

The other morning, a TV joined the throng.

Same place as the terminal.

Same stupid time (I saw it Sunday morning — but maybe it came to rest on Saturday night.)  But what difference does it make? It’s out of somebody’s house now, and that’s all that matters.

Did you know there’s a number you can call, and the trash-collectors will come pick up any item measuring up to 3 cubic feet for free?

But I admit that calling a number is much more burdensome than hauling it outside under cover of darkness and leaving it there.  It’s certainly less entertaining.

There must be something about this corner that literally drags people and their garbage to it and compels them to leave it there, even against their will.  Flee from this baneful point!  Mark it on your maps and nautical charts:  45 degrees 25 minutes 57.306 seconds latitude, 12 degrees 21 minutes 23.457 seconds longitude!

Does my Mystic Force theory sound crazy?  So does somebody deciding to do this, and going home feeling fine.

I’m watching for what appliance could be next.  A hydraulic olive-oil press?  An incubator?  A cyclotron?

Heigh-ho, as they don’t say in Venetian.

Later that same day, I passed the same spot, and saw that another occult hand had corrected the unlovely or inappropriate or offensive angle at which the television had been placed.  Probably the same person who helpfully folds down the tag on the neckline of strangers' clothes.
Later that same day, I passed the same spot, and saw that another occult hand had corrected the unlovely or inappropriate or offensive angle at which the television had been placed. Probably the same person who helpfully folds down the tag on the neckline of strangers’ clothes.

Bonus:  The orphan battery, the Flying Dutchman of batteries, rejected, abandoned, and doomed to sit on the street for all eternity.  (That’s longer than just some eternity.)  Everybody must know it’s there by now, and everybody ignores it, even the garbage collectors, for obvious reasons.

The only recognition it receives is to be shifted from time to time, by the all-powerful occult hand, which belongs to nobody.  It goes farther down the side street, then it’s put out on the main street by the corner, where everybody can see it.  Then it goes back down the side street.

Before long, I’m going to make it my mascot.  Give it a little sweater and hat in my team colors.  And pompoms.  Then I’ll give it a name, but I haven’t decided what yet.  I’m not even sure if it’s a girl or a boy.

Looking down the street -- which is clearly inhabited, so it's not exactly hidden -- you can just make out its little black body, pushed into a niche on the left.
Looking down the street — which is clearly inhabited, so it’s not exactly hidden — you can just make out its little black body, pushed into a niche on the left.  I think the empty bottle felt sorry for it and stopped to talk for a while.  They might have been discussing who had a better future — the bottle, which eventually will end up in that massive plastic island floating in the ocean, or the battery, which will see generations be born and die without being able to participate, like Scrooge before his transformation.
It's not that the battery will live in total isolation.  There's always somebody who, seeing one object thrown away, considers that to have thereby become sanctioned as a general throw-your-trash-here location.  I'll be watching to see if the garbage collector removes all the detritus but leaves the battery behind.
It’s not that the battery will live in total isolation. There’s always somebody who, seeing one object thrown away, considers that space thereby to have been sanctioned as a general throw-your-trash-here location. I’ll be watching to see if the garbage collector removes all the detritus but leaves the battery behind.

 

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Smiling allowed. Just don’t overdo it

I was walking along, head down, pondering, when suddenly I saw this just lying on the ground. I promise you I did not touch it, even with my foot. What I'll never know is how or by what agent these pieces came together. The "why" seems obvious, though.
I was walking along, head down, pondering, when suddenly I saw this just lying on the ground. I promise you I did not touch it, even with my foot. What I’ll never know is how or by what agent these pieces came together. The “why” seems obvious, though.

It’s so easy to get dragged down by the undertow (or do undertows drag out? another of the endless questions that fill my brain) — dragged on, let’s say, by the daily, hourly, secondly force of aberrant behavior here that you might wonder why I’m still here if it’s all so, well, aberrant.

Answer: It’s not ALL so aberrant.

Life here can also be really entertaining.  I try to stay alert to the brighter side, even if I don’t always write about it.  Things may calm down soon, and more brightness will be able to leave the Witness Protection Program where I’ve kept it while the summer rampaged on.

Here’s some of what I’ve seen lately that made me smile.

We were sitting with a bunch of friends in an osteria when this trio of lovelies wafted in. The visitation was clearly part of her wedding-eve bachelorette celebration (if that's what it's called anymore). Hence the wedding veil and flowers. The rabbit ears are original, though -- assuming she's not marrying a rabbit. They gave each man a special little gift.....
We were sitting with a bunch of friends in an osteria when this trio of lovelies wafted in. The visitation was clearly part of her wedding-eve bachelorette celebration (if that’s what it’s called anymore). Hence the wedding veil and flowers. The rabbit ears are original, though — assuming she’s not marrying a rabbit.  I’m a little concerned about her less-than-festive expression, but I don’t know how much wine they’d already given her.  I hope that’s the explanation, anyway.  Before wafting away, they offered each man a special little gift…..
It's chocolate.  It needs no explanation.
It’s chocolate. It needs no explanation.
This is the lion that triumphantly tops the entrance to the Arsenal, placed (with Santa Giustina above) in commemoration of the victory of the Battle of Lepanto. I've photographed him many times, but the other morning he was looking exceptionally crisp. Perhaps he'd been starched and ironed.
This is the lion that triumphantly tops the entrance to the Arsenal, placed (with Santa Giustina above) in commemoration of the victory of the Battle of Lepanto. I’ve photographed him many times, but the other morning he was looking exceptionally crisp. Perhaps he’d been starched and ironed.
The gondoliers' station at the Molo, which is almost always a scene resembling Grand Central Terminal at rush hour. Seeing this trusty gondolier ready for work, all by himself, on an early, diabolically hot July morning, was astonishing, and even a little distressing. Of course he had his little postage-stamp of shade. But I had the strange feeling he was waiting for an event for which he was either early or late.
Here we are at the gondoliers’ station at the Molo, which is almost always a scene resembling Grand Central Terminal at rush hour. Seeing this trusty gondolier ready for work, all by himself, on an early, diabolically hot July morning, was astonishing, and even a little distressing. Of course he had his little postage-stamp of shade, but it’s really unusual to see a gondolier all by himself.  I had the strange feeling he had been put there for a big Time Out.
I love reflections, but I never thought a rained-on gondola would take it upon its highly varnished self to continue the reflection of the palace already underway in the canal.  You get my reflection too, no extra charge.
I love reflections, but I never thought a rained-on gondola would take it upon its highly varnished self to continue the reflection of the palace already underway in the canal. You get my reflection too, no extra charge.
Speaking of gondolas and their intractable urge to reflect anything that comes in at the correct angle, I only discovered a slice of the church of San Lazzaro dei Mendicanti after I congratulated myself on taking a picture of the oars.
Speaking of gondolas and their intractable urge to reflect anything that comes in at the correct angle, I discovered a wavy slice of the church of San Lazzaro dei Mendicanti only after I congratulated myself on taking a picture of the oars.
Watching people has been more than usually entertaining this summer.  I'd like to have known if this pair had consulted on the green-white configuration, or if they are so conjoined mentally that they don't have to confer.
Watching people has been more than usually entertaining this summer. I’d like to have known if this pair had consulted on the green-white configuration, or if they are so conjoined mentally that they don’t have to confer.
Same thing here -- or maybe there was a memo that morning that went around the neighborhood. Which I didn't get, by the way.
Same thing here — or maybe there was a memo that morning that went around the neighborhood. Which I didn’t get, by the way.
As I looked at this young woman, I had to admit that despite the divergence in our taste, she had actually spent much more time planning and perfecting her appearance that morning than I had. I have to admire that.
As I looked at this young woman, I had to admit that despite the divergence in our taste, she had actually spent much more time planning and perfecting her appearance that morning than I had. I have to admire that. So please note her left shoulder-strap, which is red.  Sorry I didn’t make more effort to show the entire ensemble but I preferred to stay where I was.
She isn't a door-knocker, that's for sure.  I'm not certain what she's doing on this ironwork arabesque. With wings that small, she probably has to stop every few minutes to rest, like those animals who have to eat every five seconds or they die.
She isn’t a door-knocker, that’s for sure. I’m not certain what she’s doing on this ironwork arabesque. With wings that small, she probably has to stop every few minutes to rest, like those animals who have to eat every five seconds or they die.

 

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Could you make change for me?

Despite the fact that he represents a doge (see ducal "corno"), this lion looks just like lots of Venetians when told they're going to have to change something.  Even if it's something dangerous and futile, it's change.  We don't want that!
Despite the fact that he represents a doge (notice the ducal “corno”), this lion looks surprisingly like lots of Venetians when told they’re going to have to change something.  Baffled.  Apprehensive.  Disbelieving.  If it’s change, make somebody else do it!

My recent silence would typically have been due to the winding down of the summer, the winding down of me, an annual process which usually is distinguished by….nothing.  Sloth, heat, tedium, what the doctors might call general malaise.  (The tedium, unhappily, is also caused by the endless, predictable procession of homicides, femicides, drownings, drug overdoses, fatal mountain accidents, political did-so-did-not, and miles of traffic backups on the major days of departing and returning from vacation.)  It’s practically a tradition.

There are usually some slight variations.  Today we read “After he slit his friend’s throat, he went out to drink a beer.”  That’s a little different.  Or the young man who was accosted by a prostitute on the street in a town out on the mainland who got fined 450 euros for the verbal exchange even though he turned her down.  The law says clients are criminals too, and it appears that even telling her no counts as much as hiring her for the weekend.  But on the whole, a typical 30 summer days, not so unlike what people experience in many other parts of the world.

By now, though, we all know that August, which is supposed to be the Nothing Month, was very much a Something Month, for the gondoliers, ACTV, and city as a whole. Which also explains my recent silence because (A) I was trying to keep up with the constantly evolving situation and (B) doing so made my brain seize up, therefore (C) we went to the mountains for a few days where my brain wasn’t needed for anything but maintaining basic life functions.

Returning to Venice, we immediately fell into the groove, right where we had left it.  There is a traditional sequence of events in this sliver of time, which involves lots of people moving ceaselessly around the city, especially in our neighborhood, not to mention the Lido.

Plenty of visitors are still going to see exhibitions of the Biennale; every evening, when the doors close at 6:00, we sit at our favorite cafe and watch the migration moving sluggishly from the distant Arsenal outposts toward and along via Garibaldi, in search of food, drink, and a place to sit.  I’ve seen a lot of really nice dresses this year, if anybody wants to know.

The Venice Film Festival opened three days ago, so although actors and fans aren’t to be seen in our little cranny of the city, there are plenty of badge-and-totebag-and-camera-bearing journalists around (a reported 3,000 have come to cover the festival. How could there be that many outlets in the world that want hourly bulletins about movies and their makers?).

Here's a Film Festival tradition I really like: the megayachts.  They're not for going anywhere, they're merely for parties.
Here’s a Film Festival tradition I really like: the megayachts. They’re not for going anywhere, they’re merely for parties.  But if you’re looking for a film contract, these boats will take you somewhere, if you’re lucky.

In fact, a number of traditions here are pleasant, even reassuring.  I enjoy the eternal cycle of seasonal food; right now the grapes and the warty, gnarly pumpkins (suca baruca, “the veal of Chioggia”) are appearing in the market. And I feel the onset of the Regata Storica, to be fought out tomorrow, and there are the signs in the shop windows selling new backpacks and school supplies. That’s the happy side of tradition.

Then there is the also-traditional way in which events have been unfurling since the death in the Grand Canal.  Everything that has happened since two weeks ago today has been as predictable as dusty bookshelves, but they are not positive developments.  In fact, they’re not really developments at all.

In the days following the accident, there was a mighty outcry from all sides demanding change.  That was predictable.

What is also predictable is that change is now being resisted with every weapon that comes to hand.  Life here obeys Newton’s Third Law, the one about equal-and-opposite-reactions. Newton’s Laws are among the few edicts nobody objects to, mainly because Newton isn’t around to argue with.

When I say “laws,” I am referring specifically to the recent regulations that have been proposed to establish order on the traffic in the Grand Canal.  Because even if you say you need them and want them, when you get them, you have to fight back.

The mayor and assorted sub-mayors and people who wear uniforms worked mightily and also rapidly to devise a new way of organizing the assorted boatly categories.  In record time, a 26-point plan was presented, and published in the Gazzettino.

This plan contained a number of dramatic innovations, such as collecting garbage at night, and requiring the barges to have finished their chores by 10:00 AM.

But this is the point at which the true, fundamental, guiding-more-surely-than-a-compass tradition took over.

The tradition is: I’m not changing anything.  Somebody else can change if they’re that dumb, but not me.

I knew the minute I read it that night work wasn’t going to fly.  If people hate working by day, which it seems many do, they would hate even more doing it by night.  Then the barge drivers said that working those hours would make everything more expensive. And so on.

So the very people who clamored for change in the heat of the moment have shown that they don’t want it.  They want somebody else to want it.  This is tradition!

People hardly had time to finish reading the list of 26 proposed changes to the traffic on the Grand Canal before the protests began.  The Nuova Venezia says:
People hardly had time to finish reading the list of 26 proposed changes to the traffic on the Grand Canal before the protests began. The Nuova Venezia says: “Limits in the Grand Canal, it’s a revolt,” and the Gazzettino says: “Revolution in the Grand Canal: Immediately there’s a storm about stopping the #2 line and garbage collection at night.”  I could have read these with my eyes shut.

I can tell you how things are going to go in the next few months, or perhaps merely weeks: Some tiny tweaks will be made, and everything will return to the way it was.  The #2 vaporetto is scheduled to go out of service on November 3, because it’s a high-season traffic-overflow adjunct.  The proposal to cut it earlier makes moderate sense, but it’s really window-dressing, because then there would have to be more #1 vaporettos to handle the traffic.

The “Vaporetto dell’Arte,” an enormous, lumbering, amazingly underused and overpriced vehicle, will also stop on November 3.  They could stop it now and nobody would notice, but it must be somebody’s pet project because it keeps on going.  Empty and big and expensive and pointless.  (The “pointless” part is a special ACTV sub-tradition.)

As for what everybody else thinks about revising the way things are done, Grug from “The Croods” put it best: “Change is always bad.”  As his son replied: “I get it, Dad!  I will never do anything new or different!”  Just a cartoon?  Maybe not.

By the staircase in the Palazzo Grassi, the original owner, Angelo Grassi, had the following phrase incised in 1749:  CONCORDIA RES PARVAE CRESCUNT, DISCORDIA ETIAM MAXIMAE DILABUNTUR.”  With harmony the small things grow, but with discord even the greatest things are brought to ruin.

One thing you can really count on is the instigation of new rules (otherwise known as "change") on the vaporettos.  The ACTV must have a team of people dedicated only to devising new and preposterous regulations which are almost impossible to enforce. But they take them so seriously, I don't want to hurt their feelings by laughing.  I might scoff, but I would never laugh.
Here’s a tradition that never fails: the invention of new rules (otherwise known as “change”) on the vaporettos. The ACTV must have a team of people dedicated only to devising new and preposterous regulations which are almost impossible to enforce. But they take them so seriously! Here’s the latest, in the so-called effort to eliminate freeloaders who don’t pay for their ticket.  This says “People found without a validated ticket on the floating pontoons will receive a fine.”  How will these deadbeats be found?  By whom?  The ACTV doesn’t have enough ticket-checkers on the boats themselves — they can spare them to roam around the city looking for unticketed people just standing on the dock?  Most of the world is satisfied to have people buy a ticket to take the bus.  Here, they have to buy a ticket just to wait for it.  You’re stuck in the rain waiting for your friend?  You have to buy a ticket.  You want to help your grandmother get her shopping trolley onto the boat?  You have to buy a ticket.  Hard as I try to grasp this concept, it just slips away.

 

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