Venice: I am not making this up

The Garden of the Forgotten Venetians – Riccardo Selvatico

July 25, 2018 No Comments

The Gardens feel bigger and lusher than they look here, I have to say. But the area must have felt very different indeed when this space was occupied by the church and convent of San Domenico, of San Nicolo di Bari, of the Conception of the Virgin Mary (otherwise known as the Cappuccine), of Sant’ Antonio Abate, and the Old Sailors’ Home. But who needs those when they can have trees?

This arch is the only survivor of all those buildings, recovered from the church of Sant’ Antonio Abate, designed by Michele Sanmicheli (the arch served as the entrance to the Lando chapel). It lay on the ground in pieces for 15 years.

On the less marbley side is a phrase referring to the reconstruction in 1822. I have no information on why this was done or what happened to the rest of the church. Maybe Napoleon wanted something that looked like a triumphal arch. L’Arc de la Devastation.

This sylvan glade was created by Napoleon when he went through Venice like the Destroying Angel, razing and demolishing scores of churches, convents, scuole and other buildings that were inconsiderately sited where he wanted something else to be, or that happened to contain things he wanted such as gold, jewels and works of art.

Nowadays the Giardini Pubblici (Public Gardens) are best-known for accommodating the original pavilions of the art extravaganza known as the Biennale. Also, being a garden, the area is full of trees and flowers and shrubs, plus an attractive little playground. It even offers a useful amount of space to handle thousands of runners at the finish line of the Venice Marathon.

However, this 13-acre piece of Venice is more than a shrine for art lovers or a bosky dell for the relief of exhausted tourists. It is a garden of remembrance(s) of people and/or events of which hardly anybody remembers anything. That’s a wild guess on my part, based on the general nonchalance with which people wander through. Look at the bronze bust of Giorgio Emo Capodilista; it has “And now the weather report from Oblivion” written all over it. Not to mention Carlo de Ghega, another extremely worthy Venetian whose crumbling memorial plaque is only about 45 seconds away.

We get an extra dollop of wit here, considering the title of the exhibition whose banner is concealing half of the too-high-to-read-and-by-now-disintegrating plaque to Carlo de Ghega. It’s one thing not to be able to read it; it’s another not to be able even to see it. But *sic transit*, dude, you had your moment.

So I’ve decided — SEEING THAT THERE ARE NO HELPFUL EXPLANATORY SIGNS ANYWHERE, THE KIND THAT MANY TOWNS WHOSE CITIZENS AND OFFICIALS FEEL SOME CIVIC PRIDE OFTEN PLACE NEAR WORTHY LANDMARKS — to remedy this oversight. I’m limiting myself to the Gardens at the moment, because I intuit that trying to address the skillions of other personages “remembered” around Venice would be a life’s work. Not a reason not to do it, just a reason to evaluate it carefully.

But the Gardens are calling. May I present Riccardo Selvatico, our first example of departed glory:

This bronze herm by sculptor Pietro Canonica bears the most modest inscription possible (and it’s not “The Thinker”): “A Riccardo Selvatico La Sua Citta’ 1903” — “To Riccardo Selvatico, His City 1903.” The date is two years after his death.

Selvatico was born in Venice in 1849 and died in 1901. Trained as a lawyer, he was mayor of Venice from 1890-95. He was also a poet and writer of comedies (I guess politics could help you with that) written in the Venetian dialect. When he wasn’t scribbling he did a number of important things. For one, he established a fund to finance the construction of healthier housing, replacing swathes of dwellings which were worthy of New York’s Lower East Side or Rio’s favelas; he would have lived through several cholera epidemics, so he didn’t need anybody to explain the problems of slums.

And if that doesn’t seem especially herm-worthy, he was also the person who came up with the idea, approved by a city-council vote in 1894, of holding an international art exposition in Venice every two years. In other words, he invented the Biennale, which now runs for at least six months, and sometimes seven, every year. It brings glory to the participants and boatloads of money to the city — I have no way of knowing which aspect inspired him more. Maybe it was a draw. The opposition party, naturally, stigmatized it as yet another example of his administration’s tendency to waste money on projects of barely discernible utility, in order to favor its friends and clients.

So he wrote a little poem called “Metempsicosi” in which he imagines that if it were true that we can be reincarnated as some animal, he’d like to come back as a pigeon in the Piazza San Marco, watch the people, fly around, and poop on the hats of a couple of individuals he isn’t going to name.

Not your ordinary politician, nor even your average man of letters. If there’s one thing that comes through every word, it’s his love for his city and its people and its life. One critic praised his poetry and comedies as being “ennobled by (his) exquisite Venetianness and refined wit.”

His five years as mayor were busy, of course, partly due to an ongoing battle between his highly eclectic and non-religious government and the opposition party marshaled by Giuseppe Sarto, then patriarch of Venice but later Pope Pius X. In 1895 Sarto’s faction won the election and Selvatico was back on the street. Separation of church and state was not an important principle at the time.

His birthplace also rates a plaque (translated by me): “Here was born on April 15 1849 Riccardo Selvatico poet of the vernacular and mayor of Venice who carried the intimate sense of life into his art and in life transfused the dignity and the measure of art. The city places this 1902.” This house stands at the foot of the bridge of Sant’ Antonio between Campo S. Lio and Calle de la Bissa.

He also gets a campiello named after him. Next time you’re voyaging between Campo S. Bartolomio and Campo of the Santi Apostoli, tip your hat. All these memorials are impressive, especially as nobody now remembers who he was. If the city fathers hadn’t made all these efforts, even I might not have heard of him (apart from the fact that Lino has a copy of “I Recini di Festa” and other works of Selvatico from which he reads poetry to me).

Selvatico clearly accomplished more than your usual assortment of Bepis and Tonis (“Bepi”and “Toni” are the immemorial nicknames of the quintessential pair of Venetian friends, up to and including today). I’m glad his efforts were appreciated, though the encomiums came after his death, as usual.

This portrait must have been made toward the end of his life; he was only 52 when he died, and his somewhat wary expression might be one effect of life in City Hall. Or maybe he’s imagining himself as a pigeon.

I Recini da Festa (“The best earrings”) is a comedy in two acts set in Venice, first performed in Venice to great success at the Teatro Goldoni on April 4, 1876 (14 years before he became mayor, so people knew what they were getting into, so to speak, when they elected him). One critic calls this comedy as “light and intricate as a piece of Burano lace,” still a stellar example of the best of the theatre in Venetian dialect of the time. Then as now, everybody spoke Venetian, so it wasn’t necessarily seen as a quaint way of talking, or even typical of a particular social class.

A poverty-stricken young married couple — also, she’s pregnant — is living with her parents because the husband has been rejected by his rich father who was opposed to the wedding. This opposition is based on an old quarrel between the two fathers-in-law dating from their youth, about which the newlyweds know nothing. Her father can’t support them all, so his wife breaks the piggybank in which the money for the crib was being kept.

But the baby MUST have a crib so that the father can at least put up a good appearance, therefore the daughter (soon to be mother) decides to pawn her best earrings. The person who resolves all the twists is the big-hearted and astute midwife, who’s ready to make any sacrifice to settle the matter. In the end the two old enemies make peace, and the rich father himself gives the earrings back to his daughter-in-law. Happy ending for everybody!

One critic calls this little confection “fresh, simple, full of domestic intimacy, which even today one hears willingly.”

Regata Storica, 2013, only a minute to the finish line.

Perhaps even better-known (among Venetians) is his poem “Brindisi” (toast), written in honor of the Regata Storica of 1893, and read by Selvatico at the then-traditional dinner given for all the racers the Thursday evening before the big event on Sunday.

That year the festivities were grand — nine new gondolinos had been constructed, and six bissone were bedecked at a cost of 3000 lire ($15,678 adjusted value). The rockstar pair of rowers, the Zanellato brothers, weren’t competing, and that left three crews which were virtually equal. Emotions were high even before the wine began to flow.

Like most poetry, it’s infinitely better spoken than read in silence, and I can only imagine the exultation that greeted the last few verses. I will translate, knowing that things like this come out in translation as if they’d been soaked in bleach. The original is below.

There are some who tremble/Looking around/And seeing that the world/Keeps going along every day

It seems that Venice/Once so beautiful/A little at a time/She too has changed

Mincioni/Let me say it/Venice doesn’t change/No matter how much people shout (terms in italics explained below)

The calle de l’Oca/has gone to hell/But the Grand Canal/For Lord’s sake, who would touch it?

They’ve gone to hell/parties and gambling houses/Dances, country festivals/

The Forze di Ercole/the puppet shows

So fine– but there is always/our Regata/There is always the festa/That nothing can affect (literally “impact”)

Cape, wig/ hat shaped like a raviolo/They’re dead and buried/But there is still the boatman!

And as long as this breed/Of arms and lungs/Of men who are tressi/sbragioni but good

As long as this breed/I repeat, is like this/Venice doesn’t change/Venice is beautiful!

————————————————————-

Mincioni: Refers to the male member; I’ve tried and can’t confidently give an English equivalent in the sense intended here, which summarizes all the great qualities of men’s men, in a good sense, even while using a word which usually implies the opposite.

Forze di Ercole: These “strengths of Hercules” were complicated human pyramids, spectacular exhibitions of endurance and equilibrium put on during festive occasions such as Carnival.

The men appear to be supported by barrels, but don’t be impressed. Sometimes they would construct their tower with the two outer men standing on boats. The group shown above was seen in Salizzada San Pantalon in 1769.

Hat like a raviolo: Tricorn

Tressi: A person who is a “tresso” (here he is using the plural to characterize boatmen in general) is big, strong, burly, muscular. I can imagine this inspiring an enormous burst of laughter, table- and friend-pounding, general uproar. What’s even better is that “tresso” is also the piece of wood which strengthens and unites two things that without it would collapse — for example, the legs of a chair (technically known in English as the “stretcher”). Calling somebody a tresso suddenly seems like a great thing.

Sbragioni: People called “sbragioni” are those who tend to yell when talking, especially with the belief that yelling will make the shouter win the argument. More laughter.

So far we have literary, bronze, geographic, and economic memorials to Selvatico. But his earthly remains? They can be found in the extreme southeast corner of the cemetery on the island of San Michele. But first you have to circumnavigate an enormous raised tomb in the center of the walkway.

The three arches are facing the water and are currently blocked by a chain-link fence. Which is so easy to get around it might as well not be there. Selvatico’s is the plaque on the right.

He has been joined by the famous actor Cesco Baseggio, who died in 1971. Baseggio, born up the road in Treviso, was famous for his performances in Venetian dialect.

The epitaph is the same phrase incised on the plaque at his birthplace. When you’ve perfected something, just leave it alone, though accenting the letters with gold leaf seems appropriate.

This is only the first personage to be rediscovered in the Garden of the Forgotten Venetians. Next chapter coming soon.

“Brindisi” for the Regata Storica by Riccardo Selvatico 1893

Gh’è certi che trema
Vardandose a torno,
E visto ch’el mondo
Camina ogni zorno,

Ghe par che Venezia
Un dì cussì bela,
Un poco a la volta
Se cambia anca ela.

Mincioni, mincioni,
Lassè che lo diga;
Venezia no cambia
Per quanto che i ziga.

Xe andada in malora
La cale de l’Oca;
Ma el so Canalazzo,
Perdio, chi lo toca?

Xe andai in so malora
Festini e ridoti,
I salti, le sagre,
Le forze, i casoti:

Va ben, ma gh’è sempre
La nostra Regata,
Gh’è sempre la festa
Che gnente ghe impata.

Velada, paruca,
Capelo a rafiol
Xe morti e sepolti;
Ma gh’è el barcariol!

E fin che sta razza
De brazzi e polmoni,
De omeni tressi,
Sbragioni ma boni,

In fin che sta razza,
Ripeto, xe quela,
Venezia no cambia,
Venezia xe bela!

Venetian-ness

Just don’t call me late for dinner *

July 23, 2018 2 Comments

Here the deceased is remembered by all, as noted, by the nickname “Spagheto” (“Chiam.” is short for “chiamato,” or “called”). In Italian the word “spaghetto” means “twine,” or “string.” (Lots of little ones are obviously called spaghetti even if you eat them rather than tie them. Even food gets nicknames.)

Nicknames grow spontaneously here, like the shrubbery sprouting from the bridges. (I think I’ve mentioned this in other posts.) They’re not like stage names; you can’t plan them, and you can’t nickname yourself. Something just happens and voila’ — you’ve got a nom de guerre for life, and not only you but, as you’ll see shortly, also your descendants.

On our way to the nicknames we need to detour through the numbers of the Neapolitan “smorfia,” or scheme by which items are assigned a particular occult number; the purpose of this is to facilitate your translating elements of your dream last night into numbers which you will use to play the lottery.

I was in Naples some years ago and dreamed of a flying rainbow-colored turtle, so being almost certain of having received a mystic message which would soon be translated into cash, I went to the lottery-shop and a wizened lady behind a window looked up the numbers corresponding to flight, turtle, and rainbow. I played them and I won, almost immediately, nothing. But the numbers are sacrosanct so it obviously wasn’t My Day and so, I ask myself, why did I bother playing? For the same reason everybody plays, to one degree or another. Because you NEVER KNOW.

The classic number I remember best is 47: “Morto che parla” — Dead man who talks. Immortalized in an unforgettable instant in the film “Gli Onorevoli” with the incomparable Toto’, who is running for office and yells out his condominium window for everybody to vote for him by checking box 47. Voices from hundreds of surrounding windows bellow “Morto che parla!”

Or 8: “Otto fa culo, otto fa porco, otto fa marinaio” — Eight makes butt, eight makes pig, eight makes sailor. Lino says this sometimes, and I’m not taking this one any further.

If you want to read the list from one to 90 according to the usage in Naples (where fortune-telling is as basic to life as bread), here’s a chance to learn some new Italian and also some Neapolitan.

And so we come to the number 14, which is why I brought up nicknames. Lino has an ancient cousin who was telling me the other day that her father was called “Fourteen.” (She didn’t say “nicknamed,” which would have helped.) Someone trying to place her would say “Oh — you’re Fourteen’s daughter.” I, in my innocence, thought he was the fourteenth child, which 90 years ago wouldn’t have been totally improbable. I’ve known people of a certain age named “First,” or “Second,” and there was even “Decimo” — tenth. Useful for the parents, probably scarring for the children, but really efficient.

But when I asked Lino later if her father had been the 14th child, he laughed. “Heavens no,” he said. “Her father was always drunk. Fourteen stands for drunk.” (Certainly better than nicknaming him “Drunk.”) It even has a sort of affectionate little fillip to it, as in “We all know, but he’s our guy.”

In another case, there is a certain tightly-wound guy who is known in all the rowing clubs he’s belonged to (he keeps getting moved on) by the nickname “Cagnara” (ka-NYA-ra). It means a quarrel, of the sudden and belligerent type. I suppose that’s an affectionate term, in its way. Maybe in this case it also serves as a warning label for people who’ve just met him. He might volunteer at the hospice, he might adopt 20 Patagonian orphans — he’ll still be Cagnara because of something that may well have happened 50 years ago.

This is Khufu carved in ivory. Doesn’t look much like Lino. (photo: Chipdawes)

There are also plenty of names which you can’t explain. Lino went to work at the airport when he was 15, and at some point (maybe even his first day) he was dubbed “Cheope” (kay-OH-peh). It means Cheops, as in the pharaoh Khufu. He still has no idea why, but that was his moniker and he could decide whether to respond or not, but there would be no substitutions made.

One of his co-workers was dubbed “Piangi” (PYAN-jee). It means “whiner,” “complainer,” “crybaby.” This person was obviously in the habit of communicating in laments of various grades. Did this person hate the nickname? Too bad. He should have thought of that sooner.

There’s a gondolier nicknamed “Cinese” — “Chinese.” He’s not Chinese. Another gondolier with a perfectly banal baptismal name is known by all as “Cicciolina” (chih-cho-LEE-na), which was the stage name of a certain Ilona Staller, a Hungarian-Italian porn star. Two generations of the Dei Rossi family of gondoliers/racers have been known by their nickname “Strigheta” (Strih-GHE-ta), or” little witch.” And so it goes: “Five lire.” “Mosquito.” “Pastry.” “Raft.”

Lino added, “What about Burielo?” “What does that mean?” “I have no idea.”

I saw the lightning-flash birth of a nickname last Saturday. Our little group had a new addition, the French boyfriend of one of the girls. He was introduced as “Gaby,” and hearing this, Lino’s brain bounced and he immediately responded “Gabi ocio!” (GAH-bee OH-cho). This is Venetian for “Have an eye,” meaning “Be alert! Pay attention! Watch out!” and similar warnings. It was evidently his Venetian destiny to be known this way, and that’s how Lino addressed him for the rest of the day. If the kid lived in Venice, that would almost certainly be printed on his death notice.

Tattoos are everywhere, but it’s a bit unusual to see a cross on a chain tattooed on an ankle — and even more to see the phrase “mea culpa” written beneath it. (Sorry for the bad quality; I only got one shot with my phone before he walked away.) This is the ankle of a prisoner who belongs to a group whose members are reaching the end of their sentence and are working during the summer as dock-masters on the vaporetto docks to help manage the crowds. When you reflect on his being a convict, and that the inscription is Latin for “my fault,” all sorts of possible sobriquets come to mind. Or he may not have had one at all. I hope he isn’t going to spend the rest of his life being referred to as “mea culpa.”

A few years ago the Italian postal service made an exception to the rules by allowing mail to be delivered in Pellestrina if the address bore the addressee’s nickname. This was vital, because there are basically four last names in Pellestrina, and not all that many different first names, so nicknames help everybody understand who’s being talked about. The letter-carrier could spend all day going door to door looking for the right Marco Zennaro (made up) if you didn’t write the nickname to clarify things. Plus this would help you avoid leaving letters at the wrong house, where they could be read by the wrong persons, which in a small village with only four last names would be equivalent to standing at your front door shouting somebody else’s private news to the entire street.

For the record, if I have a nickname, I’ve never heard it. Hope I don’t have to discover it on my death notice.

No idea if this pair has a nickname (separately or together). Maybe they’re twins? Maybe it’s Crash and Eddie?

* It’s an American joke: “I don’t care what you call me, just don’t call me late for dinner.”

Events

Redentore 2018: hang that boat, tote that bale

July 16, 2018 3 Comments

The fireworks on Saturday night for the annual festa of the Redentore were in the top five I’ve ever seen in my life — beyond spectacular — full of new designs and gorgeous combinations, an exhibition that ran almost 15 minutes over the usual 30. It was thrilling.

There was a thunderstorm at 9:30 for a while that made it unclear whether the show would go on at 11:30 as usual, or if all those little bombs would still be combustible if lit in front of what might have been only a scattering of drenched, diehard boats. Also, restaurants all along via Garibaldi were forced to implement their disaster procedure, staff racing to clear tables and carry them inside (the customers were figuring out their own strategies, some of which were “Well hey, let’s just keep on singing in the rain”).

But the rain stopped, the people took heart, and the pyrotecnics proceeded.

Sunday morning dawned bright and shiny, and as we strolled we came upon one of the most eloquent demonstrations I’ve ever seen of what taking your boat to the Redentore means. It’s the aftermath that reveals the truth about you and your boat.

Somebody didn’t remember — if they knew — that the tide goes out (meaning down) every 6 hours. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tie your boat to a railing, even though obviously the line won’t slide downward along with the descending boat. But it does mean that you should allow lots and lots and lots of slack. As was not done here. In ordinary parlance, the boat is “impiccata” — hanged. As in what you do to criminals on the gallows.

Any seadog with a shred of foresight — let’s even posit that he/she doesn’t drink — might have considered consulting the updated daily forecast of the tides (height and depth of) so usefully provided by the Tide Center of the Comune of Venezia. Italian language skills not required. I appreciate that after a festive evening, which might have begun at 3:00 PM, one’s thoughts on caring for one’s boat might turn more naturally to preventing its floating away than toward its dropping a few feet straight down.

This owner was extremely lucky in one way: At this moment, the tide had already begun to rise, which meant that although the boat was still hanged, it wasn’t drowned as well. Because it isn’t the hardest thing in the world for the rising water to begin to go over the gunwale of the boat and peacefully and efficiently fill it up. I have seen this and it is not a happy sight; you can bail out the boat, but the effect of salt water on your submerged engine is a catastrophe. Those horses will never run again.

Another point: There are scores of boating knots, the most important qualities of which are reliability, ease of tying and — most important — ease of untying. This person has succeeded impressively with the first, and perhaps with the second. But the weight of the boat has jammed this knot beyond recovery.

Different knot toward the stern, but the same problem remains. I have no idea how one would release this knot even in the best conditions. Lino took one look and said, “He’ll never be able to open that knot. His only solution will be to cut it.” Well, fine — what difference does that make? None, I suppose, except that it’s the nautical equivalent of the white flag. And before you start bragging that you’re totally in control of knotting, a very old salt once told me, “You can’t say you know how to tie a knot until you can tie it at night, upside down, in a storm.”

Lino teaches his students a few knots, but naturally they forget everything in the moment of necessity. At which point he says “Just make the knot you use to tie your shoes!” Not something Commander Hornblower might have said, but actually it works just fine.

Venetian Events

Just open wide….

July 10, 2018 5 Comments

Last Sunday the people of Malamocco celebrated the annual festa of the Madonna di Marina. Like a few other festivals — the one at Pellestrina on the first Sunday of August comes to mind — it is based on a legend involving a miraculous apparition of the Madonna. I’ll get to that in a moment.

What is reliably involved each year at Malamocco is a small sale of old and often eccentric stuff. I would say “antiques,” but that might be glamorizing them too much.

So forget the glamour, and while you’re waiting in line to pick up your plate of spaghetti alla malamocchina (with tiny clams called bevarasse), feast your eyes and your memory on this item. Anybody under the age of 50 probably has no recollection of it, but for the rest of us, I’m betting it still can bring on the shudders.

If Proust had ever sat in one of these, “Remembrance of Things Past” would have had a dramatically different beginning. Of course the column with the lamp and the small sink for endless spittings-out are not in their correct position, which I suppose means you could have bought them separately. But that would be crazy.

This sink was especially grotesquely huge when I was six, or however little I was when the dentist began his oral excavations. The sound of the water swirling around the inner edge only slightly masked the sound of the drill. End of reminiscences, you can go back to Proust now.

Speaking of Malamocco, you might want to know that the name is derived from Metamauco, by way of Medoacus, the Roman name of the Brenta River, which emptied into the Adriatic here. Could be useful on a crossword puzzle sometime?

It was originally a small settlement of families who cultivated vegetables, fished, and worked in the salt pans. The population grew in 452 A.D. with the fleeing dwellers from the lagoon shoreline seeking refuge from Attila’s Rome-bound hordes. It became the seat of the Venetian government between 742 and 811. In that year the new doge, Agnello Partecipazio, moved what was becoming Venice to the Rialto area and Malamocco returned to its earlier dimensions.

As for the Madonna di Marina herself, a legend springing from around the year 1300 tells of a certain Felice Dario, native of Malamocco, who found an enormous stump of wood lying on the beach and took it home to chop it up as firewood. (To give a more precise idea of this object, it’s called a ceppo [CHEH-po] in Italian, and while you certainly can burn it, it is more typically used as that heavy block on which you chop wood, or on which a butcher cuts meat, or on which a blacksmith places his anvil, or on which the public executioner places his customer’s head, etc.) In Venetian, the word is zoco (SOH-koh).

The ceppo disappeared three times, and three times Signor Dario found it back in its original place on the beach, at which point the Virgin appeared to him. The story ends there, though I suppose we could risk imagining miraculous cures and victories at sea and and platoons of male children and other beautiful things as a result. For the first years — no idea how many — the miracle was attributed to the “Madonna del zoco,” the “Madonna of the stump of wood used for chopping things on.” Somebody clearly thought that didn’t have the right ring to it, but I disagree.

I would tell you more about the festa, but the real point of this post isn’t the regata, or the procession, or the band, or even the (excuse me) Madonna and her chopping block. It’s the dentist’s chair. If I’d anywhere to put it, I’d have bought it and sat in it and rinsed my mouth and laughed triumphantly all day at the ghosts of all those dentists I’ve worn out.

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