One of the earliest precursors was the stele showing the map of the exhibitions. I notice that the newsstand to the left is earning some extra pelf by dedicating its magazine-display space to an important exhibitor, Lee Ufan. Let the games, so to speak, begin. The Biennale runs from May 9 to November 22.Another side of the triangular structure.
“Art is above politics,” goes the common fantasy here every year when the Biennale international art exposition is about to open. Those who were especially inclined to say (or imagine) it were the directors of the event this year, who invited not only Russia, but Israel, to join the starring lineup.
This struck the public and various political and/or cultural figures or groups as a very bad idea, and they spoke out against permitting Russia and Israel to participate. (“Spoke out” is code for “Pussy Riot made huge scenes with their bare breasts at the Russian pavilion.”) The jury resigned en masse in protest, what with the Russian invasion of Ukraine and the genocide in Palestine and all. They have not been replaced. Off to a great start.
In fact, a new term has appeared to describe the art/politics connection in Venice this year: “Artwashing.” That’s harsh but makes its point. Skipping the politics and heading straight to the art, the critic from The Guardian in London mentioned the “art that stinks.” Not figuratively, but literally. In a world in which pretentious euphemisms stand in for thought and communication, that was an invigorating change. It turns out that some artists were focusing on the excretory, with the addition in some cases of perfumes that reinforce the atmosphere. Belarus, for example, commissioned the creation of a perfume with its artwork that replicated the smell of a “freshly dug grave in the Belarus countryside in late August, laid with rotting flowers.” Is this art? Politics? Their mutant love child?
As far as I can see, politics has long since taken the Biennale hostage. Participants have something to say, and then they call it art. We even had a real protest, complete with riot-geared police and a police helicopter roaring overhead for hours.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Rupert Murdoch’s yacht “Vertigo” was the first of several luxury boats brought in presumably for publicity parties. I can’t say what happened on this yacht, it disappeared before the real activity began.
The “pre-opening” week is an experience in itself, protests or no. It began more or less on May 4, with the always entertaining international swarms of journalists, critics, maybe even some artists. They descend in their thousands on Castello for an early look at what is sometimes referred to as “the Olympics” of the art world. I get what they mean, but considering that Italy is currently evaluating the usual damage — financial and environmental — that the Winter Olympics inflicted on the Italian Alps only two months ago, it’s a term I’d suggest avoiding.
Seeing as much of the activity is concentrated outside our front door, the week is an assortment of sensations brought by streams of journalists and art-world people. The sound of many rolling suitcases at all hours, the plundered supermarket shelves, the clogging of streets and bridges by people who have to stop to talk, to consult their phones, to look at each other, or just look around. You get the feeling that it isn’t that they have stepped into your world, but that you’ve been somehow transported into theirs.
The official inauguration was Saturday, May 9, so for the next seven months (closing November 22) Venice will be chugging along powered by the engine of the Biennale. Here is an assortment of images from the week.
This was the first artwork that took its place on via Garibaldi. They don’t drag it inside at night, it will be here till winter. I’m wondering whose dog will be the first to succumb to its exotic allure.This creation is called “Marea” (“tide” in Italian). It was up for eleven days and looked very blithe when the sun was shining (not for long on a side street like this) and with the breeze blowing, which it isn’t here. Without those elements it was rather lackluster.I like the reference to resilience. I’m not sure what “artistic resilience” might be, or how this model might be a useful illustration, but Biennale-speak makes everything sound important.A few residents decided to return to domestic resilience and let the symbolism of the tide fend for itself. The sun is shining, the towels are wet. Art is all very well but the basics of life are not to be trifled with.There’s the art world, and there’s the real world. Real world wins.The little sign saying “disegno libero” means “free design,” implying you can join in to express your inner artist just like you did in kindergarten, including sitting on the ground.At least they’re not promoting some complicated theory of art or life.I didn’t even ask why. You just go with it.Raucous instruments were audible coming from somewhere up high along via Garibaldi. People stopped when they realized it was a performance by musicians from the Brittany pavilion.I love that Celtic music but these three were stuck on “Celtic” and hadn’t yet made the leap to “music” and got lost at “cacophony.” Fabulous position for their show, though. People seem to have really made an effort to use whatever space they could find. Newsstand, clotheslines, rooftop terrace. Pavement… probably a bathroom somewhere…
Friday afternoon saw the big protest against Israel’s participation in the Biennale. Not only did we have people here on the street, 20 national pavilions were closed because their staff was on strike in solidarity. For the record, they were Austria, Belgium, Egypt, Lithuania, Catalonia, Luxembourg, Poland, Slovenia, Spain, Switzerland, Turkey, Finland, The Netherlands, Ireland, Qatar, Malta, Cyprus, Ecuador, and the UK.
Needs no translation.“Artwashing is a criminal act.” Finally art and politics have to look at each other.Suddenly all that Biennale-speak has been pushed aside for clear, declarative sentences.
Everybody seems to have been somewhere before coming here. The Biennale was bursting with itself.
Very tall young person from the Baltics. The person, however self-defined, had a lovely deep voice. I make no guesses or assumptions. The flag resembles the Breton flag but no — it’s of the United States of Baltics, as you see. The shirt’s makers explain the design on their site: “3 stars represent the three Baltic states, and 13 stripes the countries that have owned us.” You could easily have one yourself (note: I get no benefit from this mention, I just think it’s extremely cool): https://pood.dokfoto.ee/tootekategooria/riided/This is a big question. My own question is: Which country? Any country? All countries?Answer: South Korea. I didn’t know we had to worry about them too.The Turkish pavilion weighs in. No soul-crushing comments here, which is nice.I didn’t pay enough attention to how people were dressing this year, but this girl cried out to be immortalized. She is literally shedding money. The dress-like wrapping is amazing all on its own and I’m guessing it cost plenty of bahts. The Luisa Spagnoli shopping bag makes it clear she hadn’t been spending all day looking at art. But the shoes were the crowning (so to speak) touch.The shoes are called “Unicorn” and are made by Balmain, the French haute couture house. They cost 995 euros ($1,172).Just over the bridge leading toward San Pietro di Castello a boatyard has joined the crowd in hosting exhibitions. Forget repairing taxis and barges in the old shop, there’s art to be shown.Yes, blue crabs made of iron are art. At least it looks like iron. At the Biennale it could be ground-up extruded distressed cowrie shells made to look like iron.Smaller crabs clinging to the netting. Ahoy matey.And in viaGaribaldiWorld life is proceeding in a totally normal way.This bar/cafe is where the local fans of the Venice soccer (football) team gather before the game. Or any time they feel like it, like today.Sunday morning you can see that the festivities have peaked and passed. The pizza-eaters deserve a compliment for trying to put the trash away neatly. Lack of sufficient bins and more than enough seagulls have created this scene. Or wait — maybe this is an art work?
Just remember — and I’m not being sarcastic — the Biennale is better than Carnevale. Because Carnevale is full of people dressing up and pretending to be something or someone they’re not. The Biennale people aren’t pretending anything. They’re absolutely serious about all this.
The 38 boats at the starting line stretched across most of the Giudecca Canal between the Maritime Zone and Sacca Fisola. (City of Venice, uncredited photo)
Last Sunday morning was special: Several very different events were rolled into one efficient package, and the sun came out and burned off the mist, and also there were leftovers.
The amalgamated elements were: A Venetian-rowing race, a deft promotion of the next Winter Olympics, and an appeal for world peace that was ingeniously linked to the preceding two. And there was food — oh, right. I already mentioned that.
The prize- and speechgiving stand being prepared Sunday morning in the area by the basilica of the Madonna della Salute. Several people are attaching the pennants for the first four boats to finish to their respective little metal sticks.
The race is called the “regata of the 50 caorlinas” to indicate the type and number of the boats involved. Allow me a bit of backstory to help you appreciate it more fully.
Some years ago (I’m estimating as many as 15), there was formed a type of consortium of the local rowing clubs called the Coordinamento Associazioni Remiere della Voga alla Veneta (Coordination of the Venetian Rowing Associations). The consortium still exists in a suspended-animation sort of way, but while it was young and glowing it organized an annual boat festival and race on Saint Andrew’s Day (Nov. 30, as you know) because Andrew is the patron saint of boatwrights, among many other things.
Almost all of the rowing clubs have at least one caorlina — a trusty boat created generations ago for lugging cargo around — and it’s very useful for fun because six people can row it even if they aren’t all at any particular level of skill. It’s a social sort of thing.
The rowing group of the railway’s after-work sports club was looking fine. As you see, height is no handicap — or, barring extremes, advantage — in rowing. And speaking of work, to their starboard is a four-oar sandolo rowed by members of the Generali Insurance company, out to cheer on or loudly denigrate their team.
So for a few years this race was a great occasion for everybody to just throw themselves into the scrum. Your correspondent participated in one edition and our little crew was quite the mixed bag. I can’t remember our position at the finish — we were pretty far back. Maybe we’re still rowing. Your correspondent also participated for several years in the clubhouse kitchen, preparing and slinging vast amounts of pasta at the ravenous rowers and their relatives and friends afterward. The fame of this little jamboree spread across the Venetian-rowing world, so crews came from Cremona and Florence and Milan and Pavia, and so on. That’s how the number of participating boats rose to a mighty 50. If there was a party for just us rowers, that was it.
The last edition was held in 2018. Then Covid and the lockdown and many other things happened, and no more festa until now. And why now, considering that St. Andrew is on vacation in the month of April? Because April 6 was designated by the United Nations as the International Day of Sport for Development and Peace. And so once again, Venice provides the perfect setting for initiatives or ceremonies that have little, if anything, to do with it.
I’m thinking back to the years when one of the more active and public members of the Coordinamento was vehement in his opposition to traditional rowing events being exploited for touristic or other purposes of promotion. He would shout “We’re not figuranti!” (the costumed performers who parade in period dress to enliven certain events or ceremonies).
But here, in the fullness of time, it appears that what was once something truly local, that had nothing to do with anything but its participants, was suddenly the perfect way to draw attention to other things that have nothing to do with the city or its people. This, without a squeak from the former paladin of Venetian-ness. They like to say that Venice is the world city of peace, but I think it’s more like the world city of irony. But let’s get back to the events.
This brings us to the second element: Sport. Not Venetian rowing, per se, but the 2026 Winter Olympics. The venues will be divided between two regions — Lombardy and Veneto — and naturally Cortina d’Ampezzo, the Pearl of the Dolomites, represents the Veneto. Cortina is arguably one of the most famous names in winter sports, having hosted the winter Olympics in 1956. So Sunday’s race was an extra-Venetian way of publicizing the Olympics, and also — did you notice? — the Veneto Region. It was a match made, if not in heaven, certainly in many offices, bars and restaurants.
It took me more time than it should have to decipher the ultra-designed emblem. The Veneto is identified as “host region,” and the two star cities, as you see, are Milano Cortina. The three-swirl symbol on the right is for the Paralympics.
Third and final element: Peace. We all need it and want it, and the Olympics were a fine reason to ask Antonio Silvio Calo’, president of the Fondazione Venezia per la Ricerca sulla Pace (Venice Foundation for Research on Peace) for his thoughts on the subject.
Bonus points: The regional councilor for sport, Cristiano Corazzari, drew our attention to the “Ancient memory of the ‘Olympic truce,’ that it should continue to be the central theme to evoke the profound value of the Olympics.” If the long jump and the luge can promote peace, I say let’s extend the Olympic truce for the next 250 years.
Fun fact: The sacred truce did not put a stop to all warfare, only to conflicts which hindered the games. (Always check the fine print before signing anything, especially a truce.) The truce protected travelers on their way to the sanctuary and only forbade military operations against and by the organizing city. But even this truce was breakable. In 420 BC, the Spartans were excluded from the Olympic games because they had attacked a part of the Elean territory. In 364 BC, Arcadian soldiers even attacked the holy domain of Olympia during the games. So seek it as you will, peace appears to remain an elusive and fickle ideal.
Back to Venice. Boats, Olympics, and peace got wrapped up together, and then we ate bigoli in salsa and went home. The caorlinas and their rowers went home, the Olympics went back to the offices and the construction sites, and peace is yet to be found. If only we could remember where we put it the last time we used it.
Some members of the Bucintoro club came out on their six-oar gondola to watch the proceedings. Anything on the water looks better when seen from something on the water.The gondolas that are usually tied up here are either at work or have been sent elsewhere for the morning. Thirty-eight caorlinas have to find somewhere to dock.Several clubs sent more than one boat. The orange-and-blue rowers from the Voga Veneta Mestre were out in force.Ditto the hardy members of Voga Veneta Lido, who rowed not only their own two caorlinas but borrowed one of the city’s set used for official races.The Canottieri Mestre, green and white, sent their best.The Olympics mascots were bouncing around. Tina (Cortina) on the left represents the full-bore Olympics. Milo (Milano) on the right stands for the Paralympics. As you can somewhat see, his tail and right foot are not like hers. The story is that he was born with only three legs, and has learned to use his tail instead to help him walk. His motto: “Obstacles are trampolines.”A slightly better look at Milo’s right foot. The normal right foot of the costume has been covered by the end of the tail, which is looped around the foot. The animals are stoats, otherwise known as ermines. I haven’t discovered why they were chosen, but I’m sure there’s some significance somewhere.Finally the refreshments. In a departure from the usual vats and cauldrons and countless plastic plates, the Art & Food Group catering organized portions of bigoli in salsa — one of the most basic and primordial Venetian dishes — neatly boxed in recyclable and/or compostable materials. Incredibly efficient. The leftovers were sent, it was said, to the Emporio della Solidarieta’, a type of local food bank and assistance organization.
If you’re in the mood to live the race, here goes. The race itself begins at about 6:00.
“Carnival hotels sold out in 600,000 for the festival.” I didn’t investigate this — 600,000 people will be staying in hotels? Unlikely. Perhaps a comma after “esauriti” could have clarified the statement. Still, I don’t doubt that that many people could be Venice-ing in some way and to some degree till Feb. 21. Can’t say we weren’t warned.
If you should happen to hear a loud rasping sound, it’s not a swarm of locusts warming up for mating season. It’s Venetian merchants rubbing their hands together. It’s Carnival time again!
The first weekend has just passed, but it seems to have gotten off to a curiously restrained start. The Gazzettino says there were 75,000 people, which is more than I’d want to spend a weekend with, but fewer than the 100,000 they report from pre-Covid days.
The novelty of an evening boat parade in the Grand Canal , a monster show on what appears to be a disguised dredge being pushed along by motor (the oars were fake — no wait, the oars were real, but the rowers were fake) did not enthuse the Venetians. It was a massive floating Las Vegas.
The boat parade the next morning, by Venetians who were rowing, was shorter than in past years, and there were fewer boats, as well. There were objections and protests about that, too, because truncating the trajectory meant that the mob scene that was so festive in the Cannaregio Canal was reduced to a simple mini-mob in the Erbaria at Rialto. Naturally all the merchants along the Cannaregio Canal have made their voices heard. Their palms are no longer rasping.
The uber-traditional “Flight of the Colombina” over Piazza San Marco was not held. Some explanation about the piazza being all torn up for the high-water-defenses work does not convince me, nor many others, either, but in any case no Colombina flew. Not Las Vegas-y enough? It used to be one of the major draws of the entire festival. Just more things I don’t understand.
No matter. We’ve got Carnival down here in via Garibaldi and environs, and that’s plenty entertaining for me. It’s wonderful how you can dress little kids up as anything and yet they still know exactly who they are. Some of them are pretending, but none of them is as good at it as some adults I know.
My thoughts are going no deeper. You can certainly upholster yourself as Giacomo Casanova, if that’s your thing. My own Carnival is kids, galani and frittelle.
The Christmas lights are keeping the festive spirit high in via Garibaldi.How can one little word contain so much carnival?You can have your newfangled frittelle filled with cream, zabaioni, and even pieces of apple. The classic Venetian variety is a heavy, dense, somewhat cake-like object. There’s nothing inside but raisins.Galani (known elsewhere around Italy as bugie or chiacchere, among other names) have reached their culinary peak at the Pasticceria Melito just below via Garibaldi. The secret is rolling the dough to a translucent sheet, then deep-frying it. Carnival means nothing without this apotheosis of fat and sugar.Bags of confetti (“coriandoli” in Italian) and other festive trifles are on sale in the supermarkets.Go in for a bottle of laundry detergent and some toothpaste and come out with your Carnival costume.The faithful ambulant amusement park has permission to stay from Christmas till Carnival, and if the weather cooperates it really adds to the madcap atmosphere.
Best of all are the shows — marionettes, magic tricks, juggling. The parents seem to love them as much as the kids do, though the dogs are a little harder to impress.Are we going to be stuck here much longer?
The puppet dog was a huge success. He never obeyed commands, and they even found a way to rig him up so he peed. The kids were ecstatic.
Night falls by 6:00 PM, and yes, the show must, and does, go on.The aristocrats manque’s can strut around the Piazza San Marco all they want. I like it better down here.
As everyone knows, April 25 is a big date on the Venetian calendar: Not only is it the Feast of San Marco, but also Liberation Day, commemorating the end of World War II.
Seeing that San Marco gets precedence, having been around for some years before World War II, I like to focus on that part of the big day. And arguably the most important element is the long-stemmed red rose known as a “bocciolo” in Italian, and “bocolo” (BOH-ko-lo) in Venetian.
It’s simple: Any and every Venetian man gives a bocolo to the dearest ladies in his life, from wife to mother to sister to whoever else really matters to him. Or they just stick to mother and wife.
We went out early in our little boat to row around the city for a while, and the first step — literally, as we have to cross a bridge to get to the boat — was to buy a rose from the young man prowling on the bridge with a fistful of roses. Lino planned to give me a much more glamorous bocolo a little later, but it was unthinkable to appear in Venice in a roseless boat.
So until we finally reached the florist nearest to our hovel, we rowed around the city on a sampierota proudly bearing its very own bocolo, totally in tune with the day.
P.S.: Any reader who wants to chance his or her arm in plotting our route based on the photos is very welcome to let me know where we went. It’s just a game — if I’d wanted to make it really difficult, I’d have showed mainly reflections and walls.
You are looking at one of the main reasons why starting early is such a good idea — mirror-like water. It has become more common over the past year with the economic collapse of Venice (fewer boats of many types), but don’t let that mitigate your appreciation for seeing the canals as they all were when Lino was a boy.The roses are almost always inserted into a plastic sleeve. One reason might be to keep the petals in place until you’ve paid your money and are walking away. The cheap roses, such as this one, seem to be cut sometime between Epiphany and Easter (made up) — I’ll never forget the shower of petals that fell from the bloom-downward rose I bought at the last minute from a street vendor to put on our boat a few years ago. Precious little was left in the sleeve by the time I got aboard. This rose, though, seems to be of hardier (or more recent) stock.The meeting of the Venetian symbols. I just learned that you could call this an example of syzygy, but that would be pretentious even if accurate. It exists in Italian, though (sizigia), so I’m going with it.Not the first image ever made that shows the bacino of San Marco as it is without traffic, but in the pre-2020 era you’d have had to be out at 2:00 AM to see no waves. Here it’s 9:00 AM on a sunny Sunday morning, and there ought to be phalanxes of taxis and tourist launches. I want you to enjoy this as long as you can, even though we know it represents a world of hurt.The entrance to the Grand Canal, with the slightest wavy trace of the passage of one (1) motorized vehicle, going slowly — specifically, the very small motorboat heading upstream in front of the red dock. Seems only fair that I acknowledge that there is still some sort of traffic. I know things have to change, but I am going to miss this.Speaking of traffic, this is a scene that I have savored — small boats being rowed on glass-like water, usually on weekend mornings — more than I can say.A typical sandolo — a private boat, I notice, which is nice — set up to be rowed alla valesana (notice the momentarily unused forcola on the port side). The square of wood attached to the stern, however, reveals that he, or someone, set up the boat to use an outboard motor sometime.Another private boat — as I’ve discovered in the trafficless Canal, plenty of them still exist — in this case a mascareta rowed by two doughty ladies.
A pause to run to the fancy florist for the fancy bocolo.Plenty of people have had the same idea, and as we left the line was even longer. There used to be more florists, as I recall….Not that these aren’t worth waiting for.Waiting for his friend inside the shop. Better get home soon, the wife is waiting…Off you go, gents. Well done. Note to apparently undecided man on the right: A bocolo-colored jacket is not going to save you. The florist is right there — make that decision now!Technically there’s nothing wrong, I guess, with a lady buying her own bocolo. But it seems somehow slightly askew. It’s like any present you buy for yourself: Not the same as someone giving it to you.Mission accomplished, and he’s walking fast. No telling how far he’s got to go (see: lack of florists in town).The two musketeers have paused at the end of the street for some light refreshment. The pastry shop unseen at the right dispenses all sorts of wonderful things, but Sunday was the last day in months in which we were required to stay outside to consume them. We had to drink on the street, and not even stand — we were supposed to move along and drink while walking. All this was to avoid cramming people together, especially because, as you see, eating and drinking pretty much depends on not covering your mouth. Danger is still lurking everywhere. I will go to my grave wondering what has happened to the second bocolo.Like all the other bars/cafes, this one blocked the doorway with a table, which was useful also for the placement of items being bought, or in this case also the customer’s (Lino’s) detritus. The sign on the door says “Orange Zone, Only Takeaway.”Lino boatward-bound with our very glamorous bocolo.Our little bocolo still doesn’t know that we’re about to put a rock-star rose into the boat. Not sure what the horticultural equivalent of “I was here first” is, but I hope they’ll work it out.Not wanting to disrespect Bocolo 1, still standing so firmly in its bracket, I laid the stately Bocolo 2 on the bow. Then I began to worry, and so did Lino, about the wind possibly blowing it around and deranging its perfection. So down it soon went (see below) onto the cruddy floorboards next to the cake in the pink box.The cruddy compartment was covered by the small wooden door for most of the return trip, but here you can see how we arranged the most important bits: the cake, the rose, the folded boat cover, also the sponge…. I bet Bocolo 1 was snickering because Bocolo 2 was lying down there in the hold where nobody could see it.The home stretch. The area looks only slightly better for having the compartment covered. Now that you know that Bocolo 2 is prone you can slightly make out its plastic sleeve. And finally we’re back to home itself. The boat is moored and ready to be covered and put away for a day or two. Our little bocolo has really gone the distance, not one petal out of place. Bocolo 2 still prostrate.Walking past us is a man with a mission: It looks like he’s carrying three bocolos (bocoli?). It’s going to be a fun day for him and the family. Hope all the relatives have had their shots.On the left, the boat’s bocolo, and on the right, the 3-foot monster from the fancy florist. Tradition maintains that the greater your love, the longer the stem, so I’m happy with the monster even though my secret favorite is the runt of the litter. I suppose they’ve reached an agreement, I didn’t hear any scuffling during the night.Outside on the fondamenta, the monument to the Partigiane (female partisans of World War II) is more than usually floral this year. On the left is the traditional laurel wreath offered by the city, and on the right the traditional mass of roses from the national Partisans Association. The other flowers have obviously come from individual hands and hearts.Gerbera daisies also welcome. Anything red will do. They earned every blossom countless times over.April 25. Bocolo. Bring it.
