Murano | Venice: I am not making this up

Boats and saints

July 4, 2020 5 Comments

Last Sunday was an unusually entertaining day. It wasn’t as entertaining as the last Sunday of June typically is, coming at the culmination of five days of festivizing at San Pietro di Castello in honor of the church’s namesake. But by the time the day was over there had been more diversion than I’d expected.

Let’s start with the festa for Saint Peter. This year — you know what’s coming — The Virus made it impossible to host the usual large and lively crowds, or execute the expected entertainment and the feeding of at least five thousand. (Yes, bread and fish are always on the menu, among other things.)

This is the way the festival always looks, give or take a colored spotlight or two. Five evenings straight, going full blast until midnight. We can hear the music from our house, and we’re not exactly next door. Depending on the direction of the wind, we can also get wafts of hot greasy things. This year, nothing.

A lot of people always came from all around Venice, and maybe the mainland too. So technically you could call them “tourists,” though they generally seemed unforeign. I wish I’d paid more attention to the little boy in the center of the image, who I now see was attempting to climb the large trash-collection bin. I’d like to have known how that came out. I don’t recall any ambulances. Those were great years.

But nobody said we couldn’t have the festal mass, complete with the Patriarch of Venice on his annual visit. Chairs were set up outside in the campo, correctly distanced, and although the usual supporting players were few (a couple of selected Scouts instead of a whole troop, four trumpeters instead of the band from Sant’ Erasmo), or even non-existent (no Cavalieri di San Marco in their sweeping mantles — soooo hot but sooooo well worth it, I’m sure they believe), there was a fine gathering of the faithful.

And may I say that seeing each other without being separated by layers of tourists has been, and continues to be, a noticeably positive aspect of the quarantine and aftermath. More about that another time. But back to the service.

As the Patriarch pointed out in his sermon, the religious aspect is the one essential element of the occasion. He didn’t specifically say “Don’t feel mournful because there were no barbecued ribs and polenta and live music and horsing around for hours with your friends and the mosquitoes,” though I’m sure he knew that’s what people were missing. At least they came for him.

To review: This was the traditional festa:

It’s a bigger campo than most, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be the person responsible for enforcing social distancing on this mob.

And this was the setup for mass, the only event of the entire festival. Down to the essentials, indeed.

The temporary platform/altar arrangement was very efficient. The backdrop is the Patriarch’s coat of arms, worked by the tireless fingers of the group “Un Filo che Riunisce” (A Thread that Brings Together).

Just a refresher: The crossed-key motif symbolizes Saint Peter.

Except for a few places in the design that called for more complicated handiwork, the fundamental element appeared to be potholders. Sorry if that seems disrespectful.

Last year’s festa was the first exhibition of the handiwork by “Un Filo che Riunisce” was this arrangement of — if not potholders, then squares to compose some titanic afghan. The components were sold for a few euros each to benefit the pediatric department of the Ospedale Civile, or city hospital, in Venice.

They struck again last Christmas, with this creation in via Garibaldi. The group, a crocheting class, was formed in January of 2019 at the Salesian convent in calle San Domenico. The idea was to create something big out of many small pieces. I like the metaphor, and it certainly cheered up the December night.

The arrival of the Patriarch aboard an elegant balotina is always a great moment (made beautiful as much by the balotina as the passenger, sorry). This year the Remiera Casteo launched the fleet — I’ve never seen that many boats from the club accompanying the guest of honor. The caorlina carried four trumpeters, the ones usually seen blasting from the bow of the bissona at the head of the corteo for the festa de la Sensa. I love the band from Sant’ Erasmo, but these were better, partly because ceremonial fanfares are fabulous in themselves, and because they came under oar-power. I can tell you from experience that following the motor-barge that carries the band means that you spend 45 minutes inhaling diesel exhaust, so it’s basically like rowing the Patriarch behind an 18-wheeler on the interstate. Not very poetic.

Behold the brass section. They sounded as good as they look.

Here the eye moves from the boat and its passengers to the dock onto which the passengers must alight (if one can use that word for a maneuver coming from so far below the objective). Hmmm….

The job description for Patriarch of Venice ought to include “Boats, ability to climb into and out of.” His Eminence Francesco Moraglia has always shown remarkable aplomb in nautical moments that have every potential for disaster. Perhaps being born in Genoa and former bishop of La Spezia, site of an important naval base, has had some effect.

Nothing easier. And he’s always quite conscientious about showing appreciation to the crew.

A squirt of the semi-obligatory hand sanitizer, then on to greeting the notables, beginning with the woman representing the city government bedecked with the colors of the national flag. As you see, masks are not obligatory because we are all outside. But many people are still taking the safe route.

Assorted greetings follow, in this case to a divisional general of the Guardia di Finanza, as he walks toward the church, where he will add some garb and prepare for the mass.

Four priests administered communion from various positions around the area; they were easy to find by a white umbrella held aloft by a Scout.

And then it was time to take everything down.

Some of these ladies may have cataracts and any other sort of visual problem, but there is at least one who still manages to miss nothing. What is she looking at? She, and nobody else?

A batch of balloons has broken free. Up and away… Of course I have no idea where they’re going, but as for me, I’m off to the races this afternoon.

Sunday afternoon it was time to segue from the sublime to the secular. Every year, on the last Sunday in June, the city of Venice organizes two races in honor of Saints Giovanni and Paolo. The reason it isn’t called the race of Saint Peter is because it is held in the water between Murano and the Fondamente Nove, and the finish line is in front of the hospital, which is on the campo SS. Giovanni e Paolo.

The first race involves pairs of men on a boat called a pupparino; the second race is for young men up to age 25, rowing solo on gondolas. Sound simple? Of course it is, as long as everything goes well.

But sometimes it doesn’t…..

For both races, the starting line is in front of Murano; the race then follows the path indicated here, and the finish line is in front of the hospital. Until this year, the gondolas lined up in the canal in front of the campo SS. Giovanni e Paolo for a blessing. Hence the name of the regata is the two saints, and not “race of the City Hospital.” That would always sound sketchy, but these days it would be inconceivable.

The men on pupparinos go first, and go they certainly did. I’m usually watching from the shore, but this time I was able to follow the race on a friend’s motorboat.

The men on pupparinos are off to a fast start, leaving Murano behind to the left and heading west past the cemetery toward Sant’ Alvise and the first turn. All the boats, regardless of type, are painted these colors and yes, the two boats in the lead (orange and green) have made an impressive start. They will pretty much run their own race and finish first and second respectively. The real race is what transpired in the scrum following them.

This is what we like to see — the boats strung out in an orderly line. Except there are a few issues lurking in the lineup. Green has left the group and gone left, hoping to find some advantage in the tide (problem: it will soon have to rejoin the group at the first turn). And there is the pink boat, side by side with white. I foresee problems because boats arriving at the turn side by side — especially the boat on the inside — are inevitably going to be facing consequences.

The plot is rapidly thickening here as the boats try to get into the best position (as defined by each one) for rounding the first turn, anticlockwise around a piling.

It’s enough just to look at the race judge with the loudspeaker to realize that things are not going well. Orange has turned and is clean away; blue has just completed its turn, and green has rejoined the pack in third position. But blue made its turn very close to the piling in order to prevent green from having space to turn (a maneuver that is forbidden for reasons which are already obvious. The judge would have been justified in disqualifying blue right there, but events have gotten out of control). So green is now destined to run into the blue boat — destined also by the decision of its stern rower not to swing wide at the last second, which he could have done. Meanwhile….

Why is blue still here? It should already be gone, but its calculations went a little screwy and instead it is now stuck, grappling with green, and white and pink are both coming up at high speed to make the turn with two boats essentially standing still in front of them. Pink was gambling on having room to turn from the inside, even though the rules prohibit putting yourself between the piling and another boat, for reasons which are already obvious. White could have swung wide here, but for some reason decided not to (probably it doesn’t want to lose time), and right about now they both realize that they have no room at all to avoid the pile-up. An expert later explained that blue had probably deliberately made the turn closer to the piling than is permitted in the hope of preventing the following boat to sneak past on the inside (also forbidden). Everybody’s supposed to leave room for at least minimal functioning, but blue decided otherwise. And so, as the expression now goes, here we are.

Purple and yellow have cut their losses by swinging wide; they lose some seconds of time but at least they can maneuver. White and pink are still stuck inside, trapped by green and white, and now we have brown coming up on the inside, stuck between the piling and yellow. Blue has managed to disengage itself and accelerated, speeding away and leaving everybody to deal with the effects of its little duel with green. Looking good? There’s still plenty of race to go….

Yellow and purple are fleeing, while brown is trying to stop the boat to avoid running into pink; pink is sitting there because white and green can’t move. Everyone’s so close there’s no room to work their oars.

The stern rower on pink has actually reached down and is grabbing the metal point on brown’s bow to keep it from colliding. You can understand the instinct, but it is totally forbidden to touch your adversary’s boat. So pink could have been disqualified here, but too much is going on. Blue, bless its heart, probably thinks the day is won and is already envisioning that beautiful white pennant for second place. But the race is far from over.

Things are starting to look a little better for everybody except for red, who is now hurtling into the mix. But red manages to make it around without incident, and so everybody’s back on track. Yellow and purple, out of the frame at the moment, are turning around to get back into contention. Orange is so far in the lead by now he must be wondering where everybody went.

Well, that was exciting. Now back to normal, here in the back half of the race.

Now what? For some reason the blue boat (remember those few seconds when it seemed like it was zooming away? The other boats have caught up) has swerved off its trajectory right into white’s path. The usual term is either “losing” the boat or the boat has “fallen.” You might do it on purpose and pretend it was an accident if you’re willing to sacrifice yourself for the sake of eliminating your rival, but it’s a risk and I’m not saying that happened here because blue had plenty of space to race. It could be that white got too close to blue and ran over blue’s oar (forbidden!!), a contact that renders the victim helpless, as you see here.

Blue is now trying to get moving again as white speeds away. Blue’s race seems to not be following whatever wonderful plan was implied at the fateful turn. So blue decides to chance its arm by abandoning this flight path, to so speak, and heads across the channel to the right to seek some better current (or fewer adversaries).

As you see, blue has disappeared, and now we have a delightfully orderly line of boats. This is refreshing, we haven’t seen this for quite a while. Think I’ll look back at what’s happening with the last boats.

Excuse me? Yellow has completely stopped because his partner in the bow has collapsed.

And he’s staying collapsed, too. Meanwhile, the show — I mean race — must go on. I would never presume to know what goes through racers’ minds, but I’d be willing to bet that after “Holy yikes!” some version of “One less boat!” has flitted through their brains. No real worries, because the judges’ boat is right there.

There is always an ambulance nearby — the race can’t be held without one. So help is at hand (and the man was resuscitated, though they didn’t finish the race).

So that’s taken care of. How are things going with the race up ahead? The last three boats have peeled off to the right, seeking some advantage with the tide that will put them ahead of the rest of the boats along the line of pilings to the left. I see blue in the lead, followed by purple and red.

But wait! Why is purple suddenly heading toward the embankment — or more precisely, toward the red boat?

Purple has lost control, has run into red, and they’re both heading straight toward the ponderous white vaporetto moored at the dock. (Ignore the blue motorboat — it’s not dangerously close.)

It’s every man for himself. Red swerved right to avoid hitting the white vaporetto, purple managed somehow to swerve left (hidden by the vaporetto), and blue continued on its merry way.

But never say die, they’re still in the race.

We didn’t follow the race beyond this point, but waited near the finish line. The judge’s dock, with the blue awning and gonfalone of San Marco, is moored to the fondamenta on the right.

The anarchy of the after-race half-hour is almost as entertaining as the anarchy of everything else. The mix of boats, people, relatives, and racers in various states of anger or joy is pretty entertaining. Center stage here is a pupparino from the rowing club of the DLF, or Dopolavoro Ferroviario, the after-work sports club of railway workers. Coming to see a race is just as good an excuse for amateur rowers to come out on a sunny Sunday afternoon as it is for the families in motorboats.

Speaking of families (or people, anyway) in motorboats, you get used to the fact that everybody in a motorboat is a fan of rowing. I know. Crazy.

The rule — not always observed — is that motorboats aren’t allowed to get out ahead of the race and create waves that would disturb the first boats in the race. The second through ninth boats have to deal with whatever waves come their way. Yes, I freely recognize that I too am in a motorboat.

If it floats and has a motor, you’ll probably find it at the races. Here we have a better-than-usual assortment of spectator boats.

This is the quintessential summer-Sunday-in-lagoon boat: A classic wooden sampierota (could be rowed, or even sailed with the right rigging), with a tiny motor and lightly toasted family and friends of various shapes and ages. There’s a cooler (extra points) but no baby or dog (points subtracted). You could easily see all this on a shiny plastic motorboat, but it wouldn’t be this beautiful.

If anyone is interested, here are the results of the race of the men on pupparinos, from first to last: Orange, green, pink, white, brown, blue, purple, red. (Yellow withdrew, obviously.)

As for the race of the young men on gondolas, I have no strength left to report on it or anything else. Happily, there is nothing noteworthy to report. It seems that the day’s double-ration of drama was expended completely on the first race.

Now I’m going to lie down for a while.

History

The name game

October 27, 2014 3 Comments

According to the article, there are TK people in Venice with the last name Vianello. — “The Vianellos beat everybody,” the headline states. “The foreigners increase.” According to the article, there are 4339 people in the Comune of Venice with the last name Vianello. I’m sorry to see that the Barbarigos and Mocenigos have gone the way of the great auk, though some once-noble families (Moro, Dona’) are on the list.

Not a game at all, but shards of information I consider interesting, in an ephemeral sort of way. My favorite kind.

Meeting people here, or even just reading about them in the paper, will fairly quickly give you the sensation that there is only a handful of last names in Venice. Reading Venetian history has the same effect. There were 120 doges, and every five minutes it’s a Mocenigo or a Morosini or a Barbarigo or a Contarini (I feel a Gilbert and Sullivan patter song coming on).

In daily life nowadays, it’s Vianello or Zennaro or Busetto or Scarpa, all at some point from Pellestrina, where so many with these surnames dwell — and have dwelled — that the town is divided into four sections, each named for one of those specific tribes. This situation was created by doge Andrea Contarini, who in 1380 sent the four eponymous families from Chioggia to Pellestrina to reconstruct and inhabit the former town which had been destroyed by the Genoese in the “War of Chioggia” (1378-1381).

The density of these four names in Pellestrina is such that the post office finally gave permission to put nicknames on addresses, to give some hope of distinguishing between the scores of individuals with the same first and last name, some of them even living at the same location.

In the Comune at large, Costantinis and Penzos abound, and every year there is a bumper crop of D’Estes and Dei Rossis. Each name has its own provenance; some of them are obvious (“Sartori” means “tailors,” “Tagliapietra” means “stonecutter,” with which Venice had to have been infested) and some are more obscure (“Ballarin” meant “sawyer,” and “Bastasi” were the porters, specifically for the Customs or the quarantine islands).

Now comes the tricky part: The list enumerates — As we see, there are more Hossains now than Senos or even than Chens. But after 500 years they might well be on the list of Venetians, if there’s still a Venice.

I’ve been here long enough — and it doesn’t mean you need to have spent a LONG time — to recognize the provenance of many of these names. If you hear one of these, you have a good chance of knowing where the person comes (or came) from:

Chioggia: Penzo, Pesce, Boscolo, Tiozzo, Padoan, Doria

Burano: Vio, Costantini, Zane, Tagliapietra, Seno

San Pietro in Volta: Ballarin, Ghezzo

Murano: Toso, Gallo, Ferro, Schiavon

Cavallino: Berton

Venice (Dorsoduro): Pitteri

A few tidbits from the article, which are not evident in the table of numbers but are obvious to anyone living here:

First is that during the past ten years, the number of individuals bearing each surname has diminished. That’s just part of the well-known shrinkage of Venetians.

Second — also fairly obvious to locals — is the addition of foreign surnames. Of course, my surname is foreign too (German-Swiss), but I’ve been happy to disappear among many Venetians whose last names also begin with “Z,” and they aren’t German, either: Zane and Zanella and Zuin and Zuliani. It’s great down here at the end of the alphabet, I’ve finally got company.

As you easily notice, Muslim and Asian names are becoming more numerous. (I realize that “Muslim” is not a nationality, nor a geographical area, but while the bearers of these names are most likely from Bangladesh, I decided not to guess).

So where would the “Vianello” clan come from? According to my dictionary of Italian surnames, it springs from Viani, which isn’t a place, as far as I can determine, but a basic root-name. Lino hypothesizes that it could derive from “villani” (pronounced vee-AH-nee in Venetian), which means farmers, tillers of the soil — “villein,” in the feudal terminology, a partially-free serf. You can still hear someone around here vilify another person by calling him a “villano,” and they don’t mean “villain” — they mean clod, churl, oaf.

“Rossi” means “reds.” It’s the most common surname in Italy, though in the Southern half it is often rendered “Russo” (the second-most common surname in Italy). It most likely came from a personage with some strikingly red attribute, such as hair, beard, or skin. Or all three.

“Scarpa” — It means “shoe,” so I’m guessing their forebears were shoe-makers, though then again, it’s possible that it was once somebody’s nickname (in Venice, at least, nicknames are fairly common and the person bears it for life and even sometimes leaves it to his children.) However, another hypothesis holds that it could be a variation of Karpathos, the Greek island known as “Scarpanto” in Venetian, and which formed part of the Venetian “Sea State” from 1306 to 1538, plenty long to germinate names. Thousands of Greeks lived in Venice, so the place name may have shifted to a personal name.

There are lots of names that come from places, sometimes Venetianized, such as:

Visentin (vee-zen-TEEN): Vicentino, or from Vicenza

Piasentini (pya-zen-TEE-nee): Piacentino, or from Piacenza

Veronese: from Verona

Trevisan (treh-vee-ZAHN): from Treviso

Furlan (foor-LAHN): from Friuli

Schiavon (skyah-VOHN): from Schiavonia, later Slavonia, which is now the easternmost part of Croatia. The Venetians were known to trade, among other valuable merchandise, in slaves, which often came from Central Asia or the Balkan hinterland. “Schiavo” (SKYA-voh), conveniently shortened, means “slave.” Slav – Slave. Not made up.

The names and the centuries may change, but the crime described on a plaque inside the Arsenal remains the same (translated by me): — The names may change, but the activity described on a plaque inside the Arsenal remains the same regardless of time, nation, or blood type (translated by me): “5 June 1743 Gabriel di Ferdinando was the Adjutant of the Admiral of the Arsenal He was banished under threat of hanging for being an unfaithful administrator guilty of enormous extremely grave detriments inflicted in the management of the public capital.”

Venetian-ness

Farewell Bruno

October 7, 2014 5 Comments

The gondola bearing the casket from the church of San Zaccaria to the Lido was rowed by Vittorio Orio -- known for his dedication to the New York firemen -- and Franco Dei Rossi "Strigheta," son of the deceased's lifelong friend "Gigio." The other rowers are undoubtedly important racers, probably d'Este and Tezzat. The picture would have been better if I hadn't snapped it from a moving vaporetto. The daily traffic stops for no man. — The gondola bearing the casket from the church of San Zaccaria to the Lido was rowed by retired gondolier Vittorio Orio — known for his dedication to the New York firemen — and Franco Dei Rossi “Strigheta,” son of the deceased’s lifelong friend “Gigio, as well as Giampaolo d’Este and Ivo Redolfi Tezzat. The boat to the right is a 10-oar gondola belonging to the Francescana rowing club. The picture would have been better if I hadn’t snapped it from a moving vaporetto. The daily traffic stops for no man.

I’ve been noticing all sorts of interesting things around the city over the past few days, and while I regret to imply that a funeral qualifies as “interesting,” I will state that often the deceased is extremely interesting and makes me sorry I never knew him or her, and often never even heard of them until the dread news was published.

A case in point is Bruno Fusato Signoretti.

The “interesting thing” was his funeral cortege this morning, which didn’t completely surprise me when I saw it from the #1 vaporetto. I had only heard of him two days ago, when his obituary in the Gazzettino alerted me to the human behind a name with which I was familiar in exactly one way: Glass. That is, I knew that the name Signoretti was an important one on Murano, and that this company, or person, had begun (like many commercial ventures here) to sponsor some of the racers of the major Venetian regatas.

But there was much more to say about him, which I have learned now that he’s gone.

I have mashed up a few biographies, one written by Tullio Cardona in the Gazzettino, and the other by Maurizio Crovato on the website veneziaeventi.com. Here goes:

Gondoliers and Murano are in mourning. On October 5, Bruno Fusato “Signoretti” passed away in his house on the Lido. He was 74 years old, and had been fighting a difficult disease since last March.

Fusato began working as a gondolier, son of a centuries-long tradition; his family was noted among gondoliers since 1600. In more recent times, his grandfather Vincenzo, nicknamed “Cencio,” was chosen by Prince August Wilhelm of Prussia for his excursions in the lagoon in 1907, and when Cencio got married, the Prince sent him a silver coffee service and 1000 lire. (The new gondola he was able to order cost 300 lire, to give some idea of the magnitude of this gift.)

Bruno’s father Luigi was the gondolier of Princess Margaret and Queen Elizabeth II.

When young Bruno began his career as a gondolier, he was known for being able to make six “murane” a day (roundtrips in his gondola from San Zaccaria to Murano). He became the substitute gondolier for Albino Dei Rossi, the legendary Venetian-rowing champion known as “Gigio Strigheta,” filling in while Gigio was training for the races. “Thanks to this young man,” Strigheta quipped, “when I’m not working, I make twice as much.”

What with his love for the gondola, and for the regatas, and for his city, Bruno began to diversify. He retired from gondoliering and began to organize tourist traffic to Murano. Then he opened stores in London, and finally, in 1986, he acquired an abandoned glass furnace on Murano and established an important center for glassmakers and designers.

He also lived a kind of parallel career of philanthropy and benefaction. As Crovato states, he always kept the “old gondolier” in him. There was not one racer, not one aged gondolier, alone and forgotten, who didn’t receive help from him in moments of need.

In 1991 he dusted off the abandoned tradition of the “disnar” (dinner) of the competitors before the Regata Storica. He sponsored difficult art restorations, and when La Fenice opera house went up in flames in 1996, he was a founding member of the reconstruction fund-raising initiative, and its first private contributor.

After September 11, 2001, he created the idea of the “Baptism of Venetian-ness” (battesimo di venezianita’). I can’t tell you how it worked, but it raised funds for the firemen of New York.

His last joy, as they put it, was the victory of Giampaolo d’Este and Ivo Redolfi Tezzat of the Regata Storica 2014, a team which he had sponsored.

In remembering him, Tezzat gave Signoretti the baptism of gold, at least in Venetian terms:

“What he said, he did.”

In a city where words outnumber deeds by an impressive margin, this is a statement whose brevity conceals a universe of meaning.

Racers are now permitted to wear a sponsor's badge, and Signoretti's name was on several champions' backs -- here, Franco "Strigheta" Dei Rossi, at the regata of Redentore 2014. Notice the addition of the link with the firemen of New York -- "per non dimenticare" -- to not forget. — Racers are now permitted to wear a sponsor’s badge, and Signoretti’s name was on several champions’ backs — here, Ivo Redolfi Tezzat at the regata of Redentore 2014. Notice the addition of the link with the firemen of New York — “per non dimenticare” — to not forget.

Last glimpse of the two gondolas rowing toward the Lido, and his final resting place. The air didn't look so misty in front of San Zaccaria, but gazing eastward, it's a different atmosphere. — Last glimpse of the two gondolas rowing toward the Lido, and his final resting place.

Venetian Curiosities

Seeing red

October 29, 2013 7 Comments

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.

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 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 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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