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| Tourist barges and boats stream down the Grand Canal every day |
Serenity imbues Venice
at dusk. A haze of flame bathes the lagoon, dappling the rippled waters with
golden specks. Shadows prance. Glow streaks dance. Sunspots dance off the
incandescent waters. Silhouettes wax and wane over the permeating shimmer.
Clouds streak patterns onto the pristine sky. Strokes of
light paint the sunset canvas. Airborne waves, lightning-bright, waft through a
momentary rainbow. Sun-flaked shades irradiate the tranquil plane, cooled by
breezes wafting off the waters. An orange-glazed tranquillity drifts over
Venetians and their settlement. At that magic moment, serenity is all.
Even the palaces and buildings, some of 12th
century vintage, that line the burnt red waters seem to live a double life at
this hour of metamorphosis. Gurgling waters gather earthsounds into their
ripples. The cries of seagulls ride the crested waves. Transformed by the
flickering lights, the crenellation-studded roofs, the lace-fine stone
traceries, the dialogue of voids and solids appear as mirages on the canal,
awash in rays that reflect and refract tenderly between sea and sky.
Closer to earth, life skims the sweeping double curve of the
Grand Canal and the 180 smaller water passages through the 118 original
Venetian islands ~ blue ambulance boats weave past red fireboats and police
speedboats, their priority assured; grey garbage scows flow with the tide,
burdened by their load; bright soft drink and ice-cream barges vend their
wares; black-tasselled funeral gondolas anchored by the hospital bays await a
final call; tall-masted fishing boats sail out in search of a haul, as customs
cutters and tugs toot their notes of existence.
Aboard a diesel-powered water bus (or passenger boat), we
feel our senses stilled. We catch our breath as the lights go on in the
palaces, churches and public buildings along the canalside. The cupola of Santa
Maria de Salute (built to mark the end of the plague in 1630) stands edged
against the moody sky; the pastel-hued marble mosaic of ikat-like motifs outside
the Doge’s or ducal palace exudes an oriental flavour; the basilica of San
Marco dazzles with its jewel-rich finish. Even the bustle of the teeming Piazza
San Marco, the heart of the city, is hushed at dusk.
La Serenissima, the most serene city. That’s how Venice (Venezia to
Italians) was fondly referred to over the ages. And it rejoices daily in its
serenity.
For at the very hub of the lagoon city, we are astonished to
find that there are no cars, no trains, no buses, no horse-drawn carriages, no
auto-rickshaws, not even bicycles. As pedestrians, we are the lords of all we
survey.
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| Sunset over the buoys in the lagoon |
We are told this was even truer until Venice lost its island character in 1846,
when a railway causeway first connected it to the Italian mainland. And the
first cars to intrude over a parallel track drove in only in 1932. Even today,
all wheeled vehicles are garaged at the landward end of the island.
What sets Venice apart from
canal-linked Amsterdam or Bangkok? In this Italian pedestrian’s
paradise, we don’t need to dodge speeding vehicles at every step. Nor do we
choke on exhaust fumes from wheels whizzing by. And the little ones are free to
hop, skip and jump their way to daily delights. Even among the crush of
tourists from every clime in the three summer months, we sense a carefree swing
to every stride past hawkers who cry their goods between the ridged bridges ~
carnival masks, baubles of glass, fans of ethereal lace. Because individualism
is the buzzword in this northern Italian port, from where Marco Polo once set
out to explore the world.
It is evident in the swish of style through the cobbled
streets and aboard the boats on this watercourse. We watch a pencil-trim teen
in a lime-green mini skirt draped sarong style, topped by a halter, sashaying
over the Rialto bridge made legendary by Shylock in Shakespeare’s ‘Merchant of
Venice’ (1596), offering a glimpse of pearl-blue toenails, while an American
diamond flashes from her navel.
Languid Venice
is obviously a lover’s haven, proclaimed from every nook and corner. Couples
nuzzle at the water’s edge as their feet trail the lapping waves. As ebony
giant waltzes over a bridge at midnight, partnering a fragile living ivory
doll. Stargazing, starry-eyed youngsters fervently entwined jet over the waters
in a speedcraft. Hidden by gargoyles in a cranny, courtship rites wax warm even
at dawn in winter.
At night, Venice
wakes to a secret life. That’s when the bridges are crammed with animated
folks, a motley assortment from around Planet Earth, often arm-in-arm, trilling
raucous songs in unison. Children and adults alike play tag with abandon on the
teeming star-canopied squares as the sophisticated sip their aperitifs at
cafes. Avid anglers fish for a catch by lunar light, blessed by the jocular
advice of every stranger strolling past.
For by the Venetian yardstick, statements of freedom must be
unconventional. Almost dramatic. We watch the gondoliers clad in traditional
striped jumpers, work over black trousers, who often sport a jaunty beret, as
if cocking a snook at life drifting past. Their gondolas, gliding across the
dancing waters, have been painted black since 1562 to legally curb public
ostentation, following traditional displays of wealth through watercraft. Still
built lopsided at traditional boatyards, these typically Venetian craft today
have dwindled from 10,000 to under 400. Why does one side of the gondola curve
further outwards than the other, we wonder. To balance the weight of the
oarsman at the stern, they say.
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| Looking out at the canal from the Doge's palace |
For the dollar-rich American or Japanese tourist, cushioned
on velvet seats by flickering lanterns, the gondoliers serenade their big bucks
on the accordion or the guitar, as their oars dip in rhythm with the minutes
floating by. For the genuine Venetian or the everyday passer-by, the gondoliers
who loll at the transfer points along the sinuous Grand
Canal -- once described as
‘the finest street in the world’ by the 15th century chronicler
Philippe de Commynes – row us across from bank to back for about INR 50, a
service known as traghetto.
To outsiders like us, daily life in Venice appears strange. Even comic. No wonder
American humourist Robert Benchley once cabled home to New York: ‘Streets full of water. Please
advise.’ As we walk through one of the 3,000-odd solid streets or passageways
with intricate paving that dot the ten principal islands aside from the mother
city, whose historic centre is built upon an archipelago of islets and mudbanks
3.2 km by 1.6 km, we realize an unusual fact. That the house numbers in Venice ~ which is divided
into six sestieri or wards ~ run by the district, going up streets, through
alleys and over the canals. Thus, hunting for a friend’s house in Venice causes us much
merriment because house numbers can run into six digits!
Sauntering through Venice,
we sense a threat to its very existence, though laws bar the alteration of
Venetian properties to preserve its historic character. ‘Venice today is sinking three times as fast
as before, at 300 mm per century,’ explains a conservationist. How come?
Because of the sheer weight of the city on the alluvial silt overlying the
solid strata under the lagoon floor.
Is it linked to the aqua
alta or high water that Venetians are ever alert about, we ask. That’s when
the squares ~ each built around a church ~ turn into lakes and the roads are
gushing rivers. Undaunted, Venetians don their raincoats and galoshes, unfurl
an umbrella, and step high onto the platforms that are assembled as temporary
stepways through the water, shopping and eating out as naturally as fish in a stream,
abetted by the official alarms that warn of high water at least 12 hours ahead.
Having missed a personal encounter with the aqua
alta, we find a photograph of the phenomenon at the Plaza San Marco in an
Indian daily in Bangalore.
Of the aqua alta,
some say these could be spring tides atop the lagoon. Or is it an underground
movement of Italian peninsula, tilting the southwest upwards and the
northeastern coast downwards, as a popular theory claims? Or even the dredging
of the canals to allow mammoth ocean liners passage? Theories apart, our
friends point to the facts ~ between 1957 and 1967, at least 30 floods about a
metre above normal occurred. We find these waters have rendered the ground
floors of most buildings, over 450 palaces and old houses of artistic merit
among them, unfit for occupancy or even for storing merchandise. Venice is now the poorer
for these disasters. Between 1958- 1968, over 40,000 Venetians fled to the
Italian mainland or other safer spaces.
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| The exquisite inner courtyard of the Doge's palace |
How was old Venice
constructed? ‘Originally built on pilings or stone fill over which planking was
laid, the bricks of these canal-facing dwellings were often saturated with
damp,’ explains an architect. According to local norms, the higher the floor,
the lower the social strata of the inhabitant once was. Quaintly, most roofs
had an altana, a platform on which
ladies sun-bleached their hair!
Current fashions apart, the contemporary world seems to pass
Venice by. This
former maritime republic, whose economic and political power was felt for over
a thousand years, is rich with lodes of cultural history. Here are some facts
we cull. “It was at the 16th century Palazzo Vendramin- Calergi here
that German composer Wagner died, while English poet Robert Browning breathed
his last at the Ca’ Rezzonico (Ca’ is short
for casa or house, a guide tells us). Lord Byron was often a guest at
the Palazzo Benzon, where Countess Marina Querin-Benzon held her famous
literary salons. American author Henry James was magnetically drawn to the
Palazzo Barbaro, which inspired scenes in The
Wings of the Dove. German writer Thomas Mann set his novel Death in Venice (1912) here. American
Peggy Guggenheim’s extensive collection of contemporary art is housed in the 18th
century Ca’ Venier dei Leon. As for Antonio Vivaldi, he was the music master at
the hospital of Maria della Pieta. Walking past, we
gather that it was at the exquisite Teatre La Fenice, now being restored, that
Verdi’s Rigoletto was premiered in
1851. Venice, no longer anchored merely in the past, now hosts an international
film festival at the Lido island every August, while the Gardens of the
Biennale warm to art trends every second year.
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| At the Venice Biennale, 1997 |
We are dazzled by hundreds of canvases that have recorded
the diverse faces of Venice
down the centuries. Its painters have marched in a glorious line of talent
through European art ~ Bellini, Paolo Veronese, Titian, Tintoretto, Tiepolo and
Canaletto, among them. We admire their work at venues citywide ~ on the walls
and ceilings of the Doge’s palace, at the Museo Correr rich with the historical
and artistic collections of the City of Venice, at the Ca’ Rezzonico, in the
cycle of over 50 paintings by Jacopo Tintoretto at the Scuola Grance di Sam
Rocco, among them.
To be recognized by Venice
at the height of its glory was often considered the mark of a man. A
Venice-watcher narrates: “When the strategic wooden Rialto
Bridge over the Grand Canal, the only one over
the waters upto the 19th century, was to be replaced, an open
competition was announced. Among the great 16th century architects
who participated were Palladio, Sansovino, and Michelangelo, before Antonio da
Ponte was chosen the winner. In a contest of Renaissance giants, a new talent
came to light.” This was while Venice dominated
east-west trade in Europe for three centuries, with the Rialto at its core. Today, though, the Rialto market deals
mainly in fish, fruits, vegetables and other foodstuffs.
In transit at the Cemeterio island, we are entranced by the
perfectly-maintained family burial vaults vases of fresh flowers cradled in
every cranny, as if a scene from Romeo
and Juliet had come alive. As we move from one burial ground to another, we
chance upon the graves of musical giant Igor Stravinsky and ballet impresario
Sergei Diaghilev. Though we trail families who arrive to place memorial wreaths
at the tombs of dear ones, a site we seek eludes us ~ the grave of American
litteratteur Ezra Pound.
Even in the present, Venice
celebrates the past. Though we miss these celebrations, native sons tell us of
the popular ten-day, pre-Lent Carnival when the whole city turns into a stage
on which social differences disappear behind masks and balls, games and
festivities. And during the historic regatta on the first Sunday of September,
a tribute to all the regattas dating back to the 13th century, a
grandly-attired procession in gondolas goes down the Grand
Canal past palace windows aflutter with banners. But the city’s
favourite festival is probably the Vogalonga on the first Sunday of May, in
which any Venetian who is oar-savvy can set out in any boat of his/her choice.
We can only imagine what a joyous gathering the regatta is.
As is the nodal square of the Piazza San Marco, which has
the most renowned Venetian buildings. We are charmed by the Basilica of San
Marco dating back to 1063, which contains the body of St. Mark, the city’s
patron saint, brought to Venice from Alexandra
in Egypt.
And the magnificent Doge’s Palace, the Gothic symbol of Venetian might for
centuries; the red-brick vertical Campanile or defence tower, which collapsed
in 1902, and was replicated exactly; and the Biblioteca Marciana, with its
900,000 volumes and precious manuscripts.
“The theatre of history came uniquely alive between these
corridors until the fall of the Venetian
Republic in 1797 ~ when
the navy returned victorious, when an envoy or monarch arrived from distant
shores, or when a religious ceremony was celebrated,” a historian explains.
Aptly, the winged Lion of St. Mark, the emblem of Venice, is most dramatically displayed against
a starry blue field on the clock tower here.
The buzzing Piazza San Marco monitors the city’s ebb and
flow. Around the grey trachyte slabs that line the square, café tables push out
like summer breakwaters into the tide of tourists. All around us, pushy guides
declaim while bands play waltzes and jazz with gusto. Those longing for a taste
of the high life throng the Caffe Florian in the arcade, where men of letters
and travellers gathered in the last century amidst walls displaying current
art. The picture would seem incomplete without the hundreds of tourists who
feed the petted pigeons that flock the square.
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| A life on water for centuries |
Wandering through Venice at
the mouth of the Adriatic, we come across more
lore. “It was over the Bridge of Sighs that undertrial prisoners crossed to the
Doge’s court from the dark, dank prions Byron once sang of, where the 18th
century Venetian adventurer Giacomo Casanova was once imprisoned and then
escaped,” a schoolgirl points out. Casanova’s recorded adventures in 1788 later
became a bestseller. Even as visitors, we wished we had been Venetians under
the Doge, for every citizen was then assured of the right to protest. The city
is dotted with bocca de leone, the
lion-faced stone letterboxes into whose mouth people could drop even unsigned
denunciations to the once ruling Council of Ten, which always led to judicial
action. It was between the ninth and tenth columns outside the Doge’s palace
that death sentences were pronounced until Venice abolished capital punishment.
Growing out of yesterday, in tune with today, Venice thrives on culture
and history. Each plinth and plank speaks of family fortunes that have dipped
and soared. Each new exhibition venue tracks back to an old palatial home, each
Italian or European organizational headquarter echoes time past. Tourists
today, like invaders of yore into this blend of the orient and the occident,
are faced with a schism of time that the city constantly contends with.
For it all began for Venice
around 568 AD. After the fall of the Roman Empire in the west, when the
Lombards invaded Altino and Aquileia in the
northern Adriatic, their inhabitants fled to
the lagoons, where fisherman and salt workers lives in shanties. Aeons later,
after a flood disaster in 1966. UNESCO appealed for international help to save
historic Venice.
La Serenissima has risen and fallen with the tides of time
since then. And is now ready to go with the flow. With its stirring clarion
call down the ages: For “St. Mark and the Lion!”
