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A couple of weeks ago now, Ben and I went to Venice for the weekend. It is a special place — despite the thousands of tourists I felt priveliged to have seen the place.

John Ruskin, writing in 1853, summed it up in a way that only a Victorian could:

[Tyre’s] suceesor, like her in perfection of beauty, though less in endurance of dominion, is still left for our beholding in the final period of her decline: a ghost upon the sands of the sea, so weak—so quiet,—so bereft of all but her loveliness, that we might well doubt, as we watched her faint reflection in the mirage of the lagoon, which was the city and which the Shadow.

There is a melancholy about Venice that is hard to shake off — she is, like Ruskin says, a ghost. Everywhere you go there is a feeling of what was, of the life that once teemed in the streets, of the hope and hubris that built such a stunningly beautiful city, of the knowledge that despite our best efforts she will crumble and sink.

At the same time, she is like a signpost to what could be — to what we as humans can do if we aspire to do something beyond the mundane. Venice is a city where life became art, where no wall was too poor to be adorned with a statue.

Where cities are concerned, Venice is the other — there are no cars, only 3 bridges cross the Grand Canal, life would be impossible for a person who is wheelchair bound. It is a labyrinth — a maze for adults — seemingly uniform but in truth a mess of styles and conflicting influences — romanesque, baroque, arabesque. Somehow it works, and somehow it has survived all the horrors of the last two centuries as a reminder of what we are capable of.

Riding the Vaporetto along the Grand Canal at night, glimpsing baroque painted ceilings and crystal chandeliers in the palazzos, watching the slow waving of the reflections in the water is a sublime experience.

And sitting in St Mark’s Square at 1am, knowing that you have to catch a 7am flight back to London for work, but so entranced by the view that to leave is impossible — well suffice it to say that after 3 days in Venice, I was homesick for it on leaving. As Ruskin says of the Palazzo Ducale — it is the central building of the world.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, July 15th, 2003 at 10:48 pm and is filed under life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.