The rebellious hedge was one thing, but here the plants are taking over. I’ve been watching this installation grow over the past few years, and while I applaud the owner’s commitment to the natural look (English- v. French-garden style), I think having what may turn out to be an actual tree growing in your windowbox is pretty audacious.I’m just glad to see that they all can manage to get along together.
The creeping shadow may be the only brake (along with water) that has any effect on this extraordinary assortment.
Windowboxes, I feel I ought to note, are a late bloomer in Venetian life. They certainly weren’t common in Lino’s childhood. “People didn’t even have food,” he states. “Who had flowers?” Little vegetable allotments were not unheard-of, but flowers? Only in their natural state, out in the fields and in the wild, on the barene and lagoon shoreline.
But now that windowboxes are flourishing — or running hogwild, as above — let me share a bit of their color and cheer as we stagger toward the end of a hideously hot summer.
The flowers are best of all. Second-best is the ingenuity of putting them in a bucket, seeing that there is no other place for them. But special mention goes to what the bucket is hanging from: The handle and its support of the long-ago doorbell. The small hole at the top of the metal strip was where the metal wire was attached (the wire that stretched upward to the relevant dwelling, where the other end was attached to the bell itself. Yes, you just pulled it and it rang like crazy up in your friend’s apartment.)As you see.
I love so many things about this arrangement, but it wouldn’t be so wonderful without the sticker still stuck to the pot.Somewhere on Sant’ Erasmo, somebody wanted to do this. I’m guessing it’s a pet’s grave, but I’ll never know. The place needed flowers, and flowers there are.Burano, obviously. I admire anyone who can think of putting flowers out to coexist with walls whose color is measured in decibels.Leaves that looks like petals, or vice versa. Nice.Enjoy your flowerbox before it dries up.
Well, I waited six months to get a haircut, so I suppose I’m not one to criticize a hedge. But I’m confused. Wouldn’t you think that the so-called most beautiful city in the world would do a little more to keep itself presentable? I know my mother would.
Granted, we all know how you just go along thinking everything is fine… you’ll fix your hair/mop the floor/write that thank-you note just any day now…and then suddenly something snaps and you realize that your hair is a freaking mess, etc. etc. The jig is up.
In the case of this hedge, nobody seems to be responding to the jig. Maybe wild-haired hedges are just the latest trend, or something related to the Biennale which is just through the park ahead. But company’s coming to town (and some is already here — I’ve seen the yachts). Tomorrow is the first day of the Venice Film Festival, and if there were ever a time to trim that hedge, I’d think the time would be now. Actually, yesterday. ACTUALLY, a week ago.
But what, as I often ask myself, do I know? I never trimmed my bangs to suit my mother, so it’s clearly just as well I was never responsible for a hedge.
Oh, did you want to see that statue? Sorry, come back later. No, I don’t know when. Later.It’s clear at the end of this row that somebody with a hedge-clipper, or machete, had made a good start. But they got a day off, or had to take their kid to the dentist, or something broke the momentum (or the tool), and here we are.Or it might have been around the time when the hedge finally realized it was never going to play Hampton Court Palace, or the Redberry Maze, or the Laberinto Katira, and just let everything go.
This is Giovanni Caboto as painted by Giustino Menescardi in 1762. Accuracy of detail limited by the fact that Caboto departed on his third and final voyage in 1498 and was never seen again.
Giovanni Caboto (John Cabot) was not only a rockstar navigator/explorer, he was also a Venetian citizen and lived in what I consider to be something of a rockstar house: Palazzo Caboto. You’ve seen it at the top of via Garibaldi, dividing that street from the Riva Sette Martiri. And I wouldn’t be writing anything about him or the riva if I hadn’t had the chance to go inside it not long ago, thanks to an exhibit that was part of the Biennale.
As with so many Venetian houses, the builders managed superbly with the space they had available.
Some sources maintain that his family was originally from Gaeta, near Naples; another source says that “John Cabot’s son, Sebastian, said his father originally came from Genoa. Cabot was made a citizen of the Republic of Venice in 1476; as citizenship required a minimum of fifteen years’ residency in the city, he must have lived in Venice from at least 1461.”
To somebody accustomed to spending years on a ship, this could have seemed attractively normal. Except that it wasn’t moving, of course.The lions rule the waves on this bijou balcony. I’m not sure which is more ripply, the acanthus leaves or the feline tresses. Only thing missing are a few barnacles.The waves and fronds are delightful. Full speed ahead.On the landward wall are these imposing plaques.It says: “Giovanni Caboto emulated Columbus discovered Newfoundland and the northern continent of the New World. Sebastiano Caboto, cosmographer, navigator, was the first to know Paraguay pointed to the passageway to the glacial sea. To honor the great citizens who lived in this district the Comune placed this 1881.”
So much for the basic background on the indomitable Caboto.
For the first two months or so of the Biennale this year the house was hosting an exhibition by Korean artist Shin Sung Hy. My interest in contemporary art is skittish, but it was my first chance to see the house itself. So I invited myself into what was designated Gallery Hyundai.
The ground-floor entrance is all about wood, as is much of what follows — another friendly link with his trusty ship Mathew. The Biennale refers to this dwelling as Palazzo Caboto, but when you see the size of the rooms, you may want to rethink what you imagine when you hear “palazzo.”Staircases rule. The upper two floors are the exhibition spaces — I can’t say what, if anything, is to be found anywhere else in the building.Looking down the stairwell the situation is slightly less dramatic.
But I like the angles better.
Feeling a little seasick yet?
Let’s have a look at the rooms. As you would expect, they are cut into small eccentric shapes.
Reaching the first upper floor, the room in the bow of the ship — I mean house — is what I really was curious to see. Yes, I’d like to live there.Turning around, you see this. The light entering the room on the right comes from a door opening onto a small balcony.The balcony. The plaque commemorating the death of the “seven martyrs” is attached to the wall just next to the balustrade, but that’s a story for another time.Turning around, you see a room and the stairs. Yes indeed, this room is small.Leave the little balcony, turn right through the small room shown above and proceed into the adjoining room (also small) where I’m standing. Look ahead toward the “bow” of the house. I’d like to know how people here communicated their whereabouts. “I’m in the rhomboid room!”Let’s go up the stairs to the next floor. The same choice of rooms, not surprisingly; to the right is the “bow” again, pointed toward San Marco. No more parquet floor, though; it’s strictly terra cotta.And the better balcony view, pointed toward San Marco.Facing the lagoon, on this floor we see the revised remains of an impressive fireplace with a very welcome table/bench/bed protruding from it.
I could stop here, but as we consider how many renovations and alterations the house has undoubtedly experienced since Sig. Caboto last quaffed here whatever his preferred quaff was, I think he’d be most amazed by what has happened outside his two or more streetward doors in the intervening 500 years or so. Actually, I mean the last 150 years.
First of all, the vaunted via Garibaldi stretching along the flagpole side of the house used to be a canal, so he’d be missing that. It was filled in in 1807, part of the mastodontic changes the French were wreaking on the neighborhood. First it bore the name Strada Nuova dei Giardini, then was re-named via Eugenia in honor of Napoleon’s stepson, Eugene de Beauharnais, viceroy of Italy. In 1866, when Giuseppe Garibaldi’s troops entered Venice (and Venice had voted to join the newly formed nation of Italy), the name changed again. The canal continues to flow beneath the pavement, however.
On the lagoon side of Cabot’s house, though, yet bigger changes were on the way. Because until the 1930’s, water was still lapping at its wall.
In the 1870s the waterfront looked like this. We can see via Garibaldi at the extreme left, but otherwise this stretch of Castello was still the realm of boatyards and squeri, as it had been at least since Jacopo dei’ Barbari mapped it in 1500.Permit me to refresh your memory on this monumental work and its insane detail of the Castello waterfront.Vaporetto service began in 1881 (notice the vaporetto steaming toward the Lido), and where better to put the dock than at the edge of via Garibaldi? (As we see, it was the only “where” there.) Or, to put it another way, on Caboto’s front doorstep. I think this image is later than 1881, though, because the ornamental stone balconies are in place here, while in the next image the windows are protected by humbler wrought iron. Too many things to keep track of.Anyway, the important point is that Caboto’s house, as seen from the steps leading to the vaporetto dock, is still keeping the lagoon at bay.An undated photograph(possibly early 1900’s) shows the boat procession celebrating the Feast of the Ascension, a remembrance of the annual ceremony of the “Wedding of the Sea,” in which the doge symbolically renewed Venice’s vows as the faithful spouse of the Adriatic, with all the rights and privileges a spouse was entitled to. Ignore the procession for a moment, though, and regard the agglomeration of boatyards still hard at work at the water’s edge. Venice was a real working-boat city until progress caught up.
But as thought Napoleon, so did Benito Mussolini. I don’t refer to politics, but to reshaping Venice. There is undoubtedly massive history behind these decisions, but in my own tiny mind I summarize the Duce’s thought as “Piffle! Away with the grotty shipyards, we want a promenade. Actually, what we want is a long stretch of pavement ideal for mooring ships. Preferably battleships, and many of them. It can also be a promenade, or whatever we want to call it, in its spare time.” And so it was.
The birth of the Riva Sette Martiri. In point of fact, it was christened the Riva dell’Impero (the riva of the empire) because Mussolini. The name was changed after the tragic execution of the seven martyrs in 1944, but older people still sometimes use the old name (in the same way that they refer to the bridge to the mainland as “Ponte del Littorio”).When he said “Get it done,” it got done. I’m fascinated by the coexistence of the hydraulic crane and the boat still powered by sail moored alongside. In the Thirties boats with motors were still in the extreme minority.Plaase admire the peata alongside, the biggest working boat in the Venetian working-boat fleet, propelled by oars. In the Thirties. Much of the entire city was built with materials brought on boats like this one. When Lino was a lad there were still peatas everywhere, working away. On a less sublime note, we can see that the grotty shipyards are gone, with their men and their skills and traditions. Progress pushes onward.The riva did serve as a mooring place for warships, but the aforementioned progress has since found other needs and uses for this gigantic walkway. Mussolini may not have given much thought to the pressing needs of ever-increasing numbers of tourists — to stroll, run, walk their dogs, moor their colossal yachts… Entertainment gets first dibs on this space now.Warships still occasionally stop by, often when an important ceremony is imminent. Here the destroyer “Luigi Durand de la Penne” is looking good.Or there are mega-yachts whose billionaire owners really like that battleship vibe. This belonged — perhaps it still does — to a Russian oligarch back in the palmy days. Note that those are not fangs or jaws on the stern, but he’d be so glad to know that you thought so.Another mega-yacht dreaming of combat.One of the best things about the riva is that it’s perfect — for a fabulous daily fee — for hosting colossal yachts. I’m not sure what Mussolini would have thought, much less what Caboto’s reaction might have been. I’m tempted to think Caboto would have said “I WANT ONE.”The traditional figurehead has been re-tooled as a hood ornament. The Maltese falcon? A carrier pigeon on steroids?Build a riva and just stand back for all those good times waiting to roll.But the fun isn’t limited to floating entertainment. For a few months each winter the traveling amusement park plants itself on this conveniently wide open space.
Not to forget the Venice Marathon, the last Sunday in October. The finish line is just beyond Caboto’s house. He had no idea that the ordinary old lagoon outside his window was going to pushed aside to make room for an entertainment multiplex.
I didn’t intend to reduce the invincible Giovanni Caboto to a mere bystander at a waterfront playground, yet that’s what happened. My apologies to his descendants, wherever they are. One could have made a good case to name the riva after him, but that didn’t happen. We’re going to pretend we did right by him via the two plaques and — bonus! — Calle Caboto, a small cross-street mortised into the maze between his wonderful house.
He seemed to have settled in here, or as much as he could while sitting on a boat that looks like a bathtub toy. This is before the storm.
I thought I’d update the life, times, travails, and tribulations of San Giovanni Battista (Saint John the Baptist), visiting Venice as a work of art in the guise (or as they say here, in the clothes) of San Juan Bautista, patron saint of the island of Puerto Rico, as you know.
After unpacking his imaginary baggage back in April, he was left to perch pensively atop a little boat in the canal at the bottom of via Garibaldi. That was fine. Then one night a tempestuous rainstorm swept through, and the next morning he had been removed. He might have blown over or been in danger or damaged or something. I felt sorry, because he was supposed to hang out with us down here in the bilge of the Good Ship Castello till the Biennale closes on November 24.
Then suddenly he was back. But he was shorter somehow, a little less majestic — the storm had taken something out of him, but I couldn’t figure out what — yet he was just as contemplative as before. Maybe more so. I sensed that the experience had sobered him.
Duck feet that want to be rafts? They’re perfect for bracing yourself barefoot in a very small space, that’s clear.These were his hands at the beginning. After the storm, these aren’t the hands of the saint that was. No more arpeggios on the piano for him.Clever machinery in his skull must be there to continue forming new thoughts and ideas. More or less like our skulls.
Time passed, but just when it seemed normal to have him hanging around two men showed up, disassembled him, and carted him (it/them/those) away, down via Garibaldi under the blazing sun. The boat remains, but the saint has left the building.
Saint-moving day. Get some friends, offer pizza.This is my brain either on Friday afternoon or Monday morning.
I went by the small exhibition space dedicated to him to discover his fate. The young Greek woman who had been engaged to answer questions on the art and the artists’ cooperative was startled to hear that Saint John was no longer at his post. This was awkward; she had been encouraging visitors to go down the street to see the creation in the flesh (technically, in the driftwood). Nobody had thought to let her know that the work was no longer working. And therefore she knew only what I knew.
I passed by the space some time later, and another young woman explained that the problem is that when it rains the little boat fills with water and becomes unstable as a base on which to position a saint made of driftwood. Solution: Remove the saint and — one hopes — bail the boat. Not sure about that last part, though. It just floats there, all alone, possibly aware that an abandoned boat really is nothing more than driftwood waiting for the next storm.
I can sort of see the point about the statue’s instability on a waterlogged boat, but maybe the instability is part of the whole concept? Like a metaphor?This image is exhibited in the small space on a narrow side street used as the Explanation Point for this piece of art. This wreckage was the trove from which the statue was constructed.The artist made a model of the assemblage in metal before he started looking for driftwood. I admit I’m out of step with art, but this seems like evolving backward.If you’re capable of making this, I struggle to grasp what could be the point of doing it later in driftwood. I think this is way cool enough. It’s still inexplicable, but much cooler.The artists are listed at the bottom of the poster. My search for enlightenment ends here.I look at his expression and can only say “Same, your saintship. Same.”
