Jesus. What a weekend. I feel like everywhere I go and everything I do here, I could spend twice as much time doing. I could have spent 5 days at the Biennale, and at least a week in Venice... probably more like two.
Damn, that show was CRAZY BUSINESS. Just to get everyone on the same page, the Venice Biennale is a huge international contemporary art show that takes place every two years in Venice (I mean, duh). In theory, each country in the world gets its own "pavilion" where it can display the work of one artist that it chooses to represent the contemporary art of that country - however, this was definitely not the case, as this was the first time that Africa was included at all, and there was only one pavilion for the entire CONTINENT. But anyway, since that is A LOT of work nonetheless, the show is split into two sections, in two adjacent neighborhoods of Venice: the Giardini (in Venice's only public gardens) and the Arsenale (which - you guessed it - used to be an arsenal). We did the Giardini yesterday and the Arsenale today, however, the "school trip" portion only offered to train the students up to Venice Saturday morning, pay for their entry to the Giardini, and train them back THAT NIGHT; so students wouldn't even set foot in the Arsenale, let alone have even a spare second to explore the rest of Venice, so naturally me and some friends decided to come early and leave late for a whole-weekend affair, which I will get to later.
But as for the show - SOOOO incredible. Well, parts of it. I am now OBSESSED with a French photographer named Sophie Calle - her piece for the French Pavilion was freaking INCREDIBLE and would take to long to explain fully, but in a nutshell, her lover broke up with her via email and she was so flabberghasted by it that she had the email translated into every conceivable language and sent it to 100 different women, chosen on the basis of their particular profession or background, and asked them to give their interpretation in whatever format the would like. Thus, a Japanese pianist turned it into a musical composition; an Italian mamma made fun of the author's melodrama and self-pity, while ironically chopping an onion in her kitchen; a French teacher boiled it down into words simple enough for her students to understand; and all the while, Sophie photographed each woman reading the letter and often filmed their interpretation as well. It was SO innovative and mind-bogglingly comprehensive, and yet so accessible and relatable as well. It just felt so utterly HUMAN, and particularly made me really appreciate the mother-tiger instinct that seems to exist in all women, lying dormant until it is provoked and we need to swoop in to protect one another, regardless of what language we speak or what background we come from.
Language seemed to be a major theme of the Biennale as a whole, come to think of it; I guess being an international exhibition, this would kind of be a given, but it really spoke to me for some reason. Maybe because I am living in Italy, in this grand mega-country we call Europe, where so many different languages and cultures are squashed together and constantly rubbing shoulders, but where each one is constantly vying to maintain its sense of identity and keep from disappearing into the gradually homogenizing western mass of Europica. I am simultaneously enthralled and repulsed by the fact that I can cross a border and suddenly have no idea what anyone around me is saying. I am dying to become fluent in all the romance languages, and yet find it totally strange that I would even have to.
I found myself really drawn to long-term projects and series like Sophie Calle's, as well as politically charged works (there was A LOT of stuff about the war), but at the same time I was equally drawn to things that I simply found clever (like a tiny projection of the bottom of tap-dancing feet onto the inside of a hanging light bulb in the Spanish pavilion, making it appear that there was a tiny tap dancer tapping away inside the light bulb), and even to works that I simply liked because they were really, really pretty. Haha. I basically have no idea what I personally am driven to create as an ARTIST, since it appears that I am too damn busy admiring everything that is already out there to even sit down and bang anything out myself (unless you consider taking 300+ photos of pretty buildings and other people's artwork as creating "art"...). Oh well, I've got some time.
As for the non-art part of the trip (or at least the non-Biennale part, since pretty much everything in Venice could be considered art...):
I don't know how, and I don't know why, but I have somehow managed to be traveling with the vulgar alcoholic girl from Capri, Sandy. I really really don't understand how Mel is friends with her, but somehow, she is, and she also managed to include her on our trip this weekend. But luckily my friend Irene came as well, so we managed to split off from the group most of the time to avoid the whole Mel-and-Sandy-are-total-assholes-when-they-are-together aspect for the most part. However, we did all end up spending the first day together and making a pretty good time of it.
It turned out that our hotel was also a SAILING SCHOOL, and well as a design school, so it was very sleek and well laid out, and when they mentioned the option to take a four-hour private boat tour around the city for only €100 total, which we could then split between the five of us, we obviously jumped at the opportunity. It didn't hurt that our driver was an adorable little 23-year-old Veneziano named Marco, who not only drove us to the train station to pick up Irene (who came in later than the rest of us because she had a class trip earlier in the day), but also took us out for a spritz afterwards at his favorite bar which just happened to be on the water overlooking the Rialto bridge. And for most of you who have not experienced the joys of the Venetian spritz (Paul and Steve, get ready to start salivating, Paul and Steve), it is a cocktail unique to Venice, usually composed of white wine, a red liquer (usually Campari or Aperol), and some sort of carbonated soda component (sometimes aranciata, sometimes tonic, and sometimes just plain soda water), topped off with an olive. Our were particularly classy, as they were made with Prosecco, as well as regular soda water and Campari for a more bitter, bubbly take on the classic. We certainly started our trip in style.
After our drinks, graciously paid for by dearest Marco, Irene took charge as our personal tour guide, as her brother studied abroad in Venice a couple of years ago and he had shown her all the insider spots when she went to visit him, so she had the city down to a T. She took us to this totally eccentric, FANTASTIC restaurant called Trattoria alla Madonna, which just happened to be conveniently around the corner from the bar where Marco took us for drinks. It had a line around the block (good sign..), but they still somehow managed to seat our party of five in under ten minutes, and on our way to our table, we passed an enormous spread of every kind of antipasto and vegetable imaginable, their daily selection of seafood all laid out, and a giant vat of what appeared to be tar, but that we later discovered to be their indescribably rich and ocean-salty house specialty, nero di seppia, otherwise known as squid ink.
We started off with a bottle of the house white, which was already drained by the time the bread arrived at the table (thanks in the most part to our token alcoholic, Sandy), followed by a fantastic platter of verdure stagionale (seasonal vegetables... i mean, duh.), of which the peas were so freakin delicious (and by "peas" I really mean butter with a sprinkling of peas) that we promptly ordered "un'altra porzione - una GRAN porzione, per favore - dei piselli, per favore!!" Our enthusiasn for those little buttery peas was so great that our waiter gave us the extra portion (and it truly was a GRAN porzione) on the house. Cute.
Next came mountains of seafood and carbs of all varieties: spaghetti alle vongole (dressed with crushed tomatoes and again, drenched in butter - thank you, Northern Italy, for your whole-hearted embrace of this glorious dairy product), spaghetti al nero di seppia (smothered with that fantastically tar-like, tooth-and-tablecloth-staining, salty, life-giving elixir of the sea), and a plate of grilled calamari with polenta, doused with MORE nero di seppia. Heaven. We finished up with a slice of torta di mandorla (almond cake so delicious that we promptly ordered another), and left our table looking like a mix between a war-zone and an early Jackson Pollock, what with all the abstract blobs of red and black from our convivial, albiet messy, meal.
After dinner Sandy and Mel went back to the hotel (probably a good thing), while Marinna, Irene and forged on, making the winding trek to Campo Santa Margherita, the evening hangout for 20-something Venetian students and in-the-know international travelers. Were we not so cripplingly stuffed we would probably have stayed out longer, but alas, after like 10 phone conversations in my shotty Italian with different water taxi companies, we managed to track down our hotel's shuttle and collapsed face-down into our beds.
The next day was a Biennale binge: we grabbed some coffee and headed early to the cute neighborhood around the Giardini to do a little exploring, then met up with the rest of our class, who were just arriving from Florence that morning at 11:30. From then until the closing of the show, we soaked up some damn fine international art, and afterwards, a damn fine sunset. Pretty idyllic.
But after the glory of the sunset passed, we looked around and realized we were surrounded by something like 60 hungry Syracuse students all looking for "a good dinner," and acting like we were somehow all going to share this "good dinner" together - sensing the imminent disaster of this situation, Irene and I fled the scene ("um, we're gonna run to the bathroom really quick"), grabbed ourselves a bottle of Bellini, some plastic cups, and Irene's friend Whitney, and parked it at the foot of a nearby statue, conveniently hidden from view by some lovely garden foliage, to discuss OUR dinner plans. Marinna wandered by so we clued her in, and eventually set off in search of Trattoria dai Tosi, a quaint little pizzeria where Irene's brother worked while he was studying abroad and living in that very same Giardini-adjacent neighborhood.
We found the place, had a wonderful, leisurely meal (house white, Bella Napoli pizza and a fantastic "big salad", or insalatone, with tuna, baby shrimp, mushrooms and parmagiano, followed by the best profiteroles I have ever had), all for a huge discount (thank you, brother of Irene).
After dinner we made a more successful expedition to Campo Santa Margherita, parking it at Caffe Noir (all the bars are named after different colors - can't decide whether I think it's dorky or cute...), where Marco and a couple of his friends eventually came to meet us, which was just OH so ideal, as Whitney was taking a 3am train back to Florence so we didn't want her to wait around the train station for hours by herself, but the hotel shuttle - which is the last mode of transport back to our island hotel for less than €40 - ends at 12:30. So this is where it becomes VERY convenient having friends with boats. And this time we REALLY lucked out, as Marco's friend is actually a water taxi driver, and those boats are freakin' SWANK... so we got a lovely taxi ride home, warm and cozy in the taxi's wood-paneled cabin.. for FREE. Score.
The next day we made a valiant attempt to do the Arsenale portion of the Biennale, and while I did make it through the whole thing and was even moderately moved by some of the work, I must admit that my attention span was much shorter this time around; I can't decide if it was a matter of the work itself (because this section was notably drier, and it was basically in the format of one large curated exhibition rather than a lot of smaller pavilions, as the Giardini was set up); or that I was just a teensy bit exhausted from our late-night antics the night before. But anyway, I ended up finishing the exhibition in a little less than two hours, and spending the rest of the day taking a solo stroll through the city. Wandered through the Rialto market, grabbed myself a rotolo (this GENIUS Venetian-street-food invention of wrapping a slice of pizza around typical panino ingredients - this particular rotolo had arugula, mozzarella, prosciutto and tomatoes - thus creating a perfect union of the two best Italian lunch foods of all time), and made it to the train station in time to buy the first train ticket with an actual SEAT reserved for me in a LONG TIME. All in all, a lovely weekend in one of the most beautiful cities on earth.
Can't wait for next weekend.
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