Dante Gabriel Rosetti

Great prodigy of Ruskin, Dante Gabriel Rosetti was a right one. There's probably a whole rack of stories about him and its no secret that he went out with Victorian It Girl Lizzie Siddal. When she died of an OD he had a dramatic turn and burried all his unpublished poems with her. Regretting this abit later on, he dug her up to get them back. At this time he had also become obsessed with Wombats and bought two which he kept in his house. Before too long he'd bought kangaroos, jackasses, peacocks, armadillos and racoons. Neighbours werent too happy.

The secret of happiness

To be happy is to be able to become aware of oneself without fright.
Walter Benjamin

Changed his mind about that one, dint he?

The destructive character lives from the feeling, not that life is worth living, but that suicide is not worth the trouble.
Walter Benjamin

Books

Of all the ways of acquiring books, writing them oneself is regarded as the most praiseworthy method. Writers are really people who write books not because they are poor, but because they are dissatisfied with the books which they could buy but do not like.
Walter Benjamin

Venice holiday

Gulls

Venice holiday

One of the Obscene Harpies of the Chiesa St Lio. What were they thinking?

Venice holiday

Remember me talking about the Ca d'Oro (the House of Gold)and its Carpaccios? The red baby angel heads? Well, here's my drawing of them: -

Venice holiday

From my notebook

Venice holiday

We are leaving Venice; departing for Verona by train. On the way to the station, once again, i stand in dog shit. What is it with Venice and shit?

Public Opinion

Whoa there Walter; you talking about the British press at election time?:-

"It is precisely the purpose of the public opinion generated by the press to make the public incapable of judging, to insinuate into it the attitude of someone irresponsible, uninformed." - Walter Benjamin

Venice holiday

We take the tragetto to Dorseduro and visit St Maria del Salute, for one last time. Walk through Dorseduro on the Guidecca side. Find the tiny little street, in the middle of nowhere, where Ezra Pound lived for 50 years (I though he died, mad, in a mental hospital, somewhere in Northampton. I must check).
Around the corner we find the bar and hotel where Ruskin lived in 1877 (again, i thought Ruskin had gone mad by 1877. I must check this too).

Venice holiday

I should begin by pointing out that normally I dont ever get shit on myself. For some reason in Italy this is not the case. In Venice within a day I had stood in a huge pile of dog shit. My shoes are old and may well have some holes in.
A couple of days later, and walking on the seafront in Dorseduro a bird shits on me, right outside the hotel Ruskin once lived in. Not quite been able to believe it, i put my hand on my hair to check.

Venice holiday

An evening jog takes me to the very furthest (Eastern) end of Veince: To the tiny island of St Elena. There, squeezed between the football ground and the naval college, is a narrow path to the very last part of Venice; the tiny church of St Elena. I sit down in the church for a little while. I am totally alone, here at the end of Venice.

Venice holiday

We take a walk to the Rialto bridge and then take the traghetto across the Grand Canal to the Ca d'Oro (the House of Gold). It is now an art gallery, but not the best. The Carpaccios keep us amused however; his red baby angel heads are unbelievable and hilarious and we laugh at them for ages. Lots of hilarious pious faces on display also. Great imagination for different pious expressions.
We wander home via Chiesa St Lio, which has two obscene Harpies over its doorway (i will post my sketch of one later). What were they thinking?

Venice holiday

Back on the main island we visit the Gesuiti (Santa Maria Assunta), which is stupefying. It is awash with green and white marble, in patterns resembling 1970's style council house wallpaper (curiously back in fashion these days). Impressive. Makes a powerful impression.

At 6 we go to mass at St Marks (it is Good Friday). The Doge is there and its all very theatrical, and a little boring (if the Doge is the one i think he is, then he was asleep through most of it). Wander the shops for a little while, then home with a cheese pie and Veneto wine.

Venice holiday

We head to Murano on the boat, which through accident, we do not pay for. Murano feels spacious and sunny after Venice, but having no interest in coloured glass, it is a little boring for me.
Santa Maria and Donato church is pretty good with its mosaic floor and dragon bones from when Donatus slew a dragon just by spitting on it.
We try to get off the return boat at San Michele, but the boat is so full and the water is so choppy that it is impossible. Ah, the island of the dead will just have to wait for another time.

Venice holiday

That evening I jog along the waterfront and come across the Bienniale grounds; abandoned, deserted, falling apart. Its creepy as all hell; these bizarre abandoned temples, each with the name of a different country on them, and the whole huge space totally empty of people, here in Venice. I wander around a little bit but dare not go into any of the buildings.
I run on to the island of San Pietro di Castello, where there is a lovely church and tower with a small garden. I love this spot for some reason, it feels like a forgotten little piece of paradise.

Venice holiday

We take the waterbus to Cannaregio and visit the Jewish Ghetto. Its quite a small area (which i suppose was the point).
On to Madonna dell'Orto at the far north of Cannaregio. There are loads of pretty good Tintorettos, including The Last Judgement, which is incredibly detailed and actually quite confusing; with people falling up, falling down, a flood of water and flesh. Ruskin said "The Last Judgement by Tintoretto is the only painting to ever grasp the event in its verity." He has a point, its pretty powerful. A dark mass of complicated flesh.

New book on Flaubert in Egypt

A Winter on the Nile: Florence Nightingale, Gustave Flaubert and the Temptations of Egypt by Anthony Sattin.
The Sunday Times review by Sarah Bakewell

If we could fix radio tags to famous people of the past and track their movements as population biologists do with birds, what unexpected meetings might we see? This book tells the story of one that almost happened, but didn’t. Novelist Gustave Flaubert and future health-care reformer Florence Nightingale travelled up the Nile on the same boat in 1849. They shared an experience that altered both their lives, yet barely noticed each other, and apparently exchanged not a word.

There was certainly much to keep them apart. Nightingale was young, sheltered and not yet renowned for anything. While she toured temples and antiquities, the freer and wilder Flaubert thrilled to the “fabulous knees” and rippling belly fat of Egyptian dancers. He had gone to Egypt partly to resolve a crisis. “What am I going to do?” he wrote home. “Will I publish, will I not publish? What will I write? And even, will I write?” His last book, The Temptation of St Anthony, had been slated by friends who wanted him to try something plainer. The Egyptian sexual adventures gave him the enlightenment he needed, and he returned to create the domestic drama that made his name: Madame Bovary.

Nightingale’s trip was a quest, too. She had turned down a marriage proposal because she wanted to do something greater, but she doubted her motives. Was hers a true calling, or only the personal ambitions that she called her “dreams”? Friends brought her to the Nile to assuage her restlessness; instead, she searched her conscience and “settled the question with God”. Back home, she trained as a nurse, and seven years later urged the case for medical reform on Queen Victoria — coincidentally, on the day the first instalment of Madame Bovary came out. As Nightingale wrote, “We must live for our vocation, and dwell alone with our dreams.”

Anthony Sattin’s study itself has a dreamlike quality: lacking a real encounter, he must venture into the ether to find the connections and meanings he wants. Yet he movingly reminds us of how, in the midst of life, those destined for greatness have no more idea where they are going than the rest of us. A slow boat up the Nile makes the perfect metaphor for this, and a fine setting for a story in which two streams of consciousness approach, as if to mingle, but are swept apart on the current of life.

Venice holiday

Ruskin described Venice as 'the paradise of cities' and 'Dreamlike and dim, but glorious';
Proust said it was the city 'that i felt had often dreamed before'
Venice is a dream of a city. It is the city of my dreams; my waking dreams.

In the morning we take the Traghetto over to Dorsoduro where right next to S. Maria della Salute, on the very end of the island, we visit Dogana di Mare, the old custom house, now an art gallery.

The views are outstanding; San Marco from one window, La Giudecca through the next.
There are some wonderful bits and pieces, Paul McCarthy has a hideous row of George Bushes buggering each other drunkenly with champagne cocks. Hideous, but, yes, it does sorta seem to mean something.

The Chapmans have 'Bloody hell'; masses of twisted toy soldiers. An American standing next to me tells her friend, "I know what this is; this is some of that sick shit."

Venice holiday

I genuinely think i spend more time thinking/dreaming about Venice, than anything else (apart from perhaps, my dream Avengers roster). Why? What is the fascination? I cannot quite put my finger on it. Is it something to do with Benjamin's quote about getting lost in the city? Is it something to do with the overwhelming complexity? Is it that the complexity is almost managable? Is it the anxientness of everything? It is pure city.
I guess i always love small, contained, old places. I feel that i might actually, one day be able to know them totally; ba able to contain them in my brain. On the list of such places are Czesky Krumlov, Holy Island, Saltaire, SPurn Point, and, top of the list, Venice.

Venice holiday

and so back to the hotel, and while Amy has a nap, i go out for a jog. The sun is setting as i jog along the main drag. The sky reddens over S. Giorgio Maggiore and De La Salute. I buy cheap Veneto wine and head for home. I walk along, with wine in one hand, deep fried mozzarella in the other, Venice laid out before me, beautiful and ancient, filled with life and people. And i am returning to my beautiful, lovely, oriental wife. I smile. I am truly happy. Did i make it? Is this, that? Can i say that?

Murder in the Red Room

Murder in the red room

"I liked her better when she came to love
"Oh, here, here you go, lets go now
"Let me alone, leave me alone, I’m done, just let me be
"You say that before, but changed your mind now?
"Oh, the camera ran out of memory
"I think you are were made for this business
"Ah shit, I cant find another memory stick
"You knew we were going to do this. Fuckin hell., You know how important this is. Oh, fucking hell.
“Its not as easy as you think
"And man, you said you could do this and you fuckin ruined it man. Look at this shit, we could have done her for at least another 20 minutes or so, really fuckin' ruined her, but now…
Hey, look at her, look her face. Ms. Dant you up for this now? Ha. Dont like it anymore do you? Recognizing that this shit is you?
"We can film the rest on the phone, then edit it all together in the future?

- A loud bang nearby. Fire, debris, black smoke -

"Damn, what happened?
"A bomb?
"In the lake
"We should call the Red Room
"After what we have done to her
"Damn, they do not care about that

- 30 minutes. Same position. Ben Walters, from the Red Room -

Well, we got what we needed from the kids, and they scrammed, as soon as they could, leaving us with rocks and a dead woman. As expected, it was from the moon; one of the biggest yet. Just what I need to convice my boss to let me do what I've been after all along.

Venice holiday

Palazzo Grassi, a modern art gallery. We see loads of good stuff, my favourite room being a room full of small drawings clustered together. Mostly comic style drawings, all unrelated. Each has some text, which is only loosely connected to the picture. So, you have a sci-fi scene, next to a nun, next to a porn scene, an abstract scene, a baseball player, a holy man, G.I. Elvis, country watercolour, a nude, a hard boiled P.I. I think, i must recreate this for C101, this is exactly the collaborative thing C101 should do.

Venice holiday

Along the way today we visit numerous churches and cover alot of ground from Castello, to San Polo, Dorsoduro, Cannaregio, visiting innumerable churches. In Stefano and St Rocco we see some wonderful Tintoretto's: St Roch curing the plague victims; St Roch in prison. These are astounding; the Healing of the Plague Victims taking place in an incredibly confined space, packed with the sick, crowding round the saint. The feeling of claustrophobia and threat is overwhelming. The prison scene is equally as powerful, again claustrophobic and depraved.

Heinrich Heine

Benjamin wrote extensively on the German Poet Heinrich Heine. When Heine died he left all his considerable money to his wife, on the condition that she marry again, so that "there will be at least one man who regrets my passing."

Venice holiday

We visit the Frari; the Frari is possibly my favourite church in the world. Its filled with gags; possibly the funniest church i've ever been in. From the hilarious painting of innumerable saints looking upwards to heaven, all with different holy faces on, to the tomb of Jacopo Morcello, which is held up by a trio of stooping figures with hilariously disgruntled faces, looking as if they are trying to make the best of their eternal fate, to Canova's mausoleum. This mausoleum is both funny and terrifying; his heart is kept here, in a huge marble pyramid, with a dark, slightly opened door at its centre, blackness all one can see within. Next to Canova is the tomb of Doge Giovanni Pesaro which is supported by four fearsome, ragged-trousered, angry looking Moors. It is truly terrifying, with, as well as the monstrous Moors, hideous, decomposing corpses looming out of windows, signifying something or other.

Diary from April 17th, 2010, to the Day of My Death.

Again, in the shower, the feeling of being about to collapse; a fit? a faint? And then the panic kicks in, and the feeling that it is only the panic that is keeping me going. As if i need the panic to stop me from collapsing.

Venice holiday

The Moleskin notebook for Venice, contains Venice maps and other bits and bobs, including the following quote from Benjamin:-
"Not to find one's way around a city does not mean much. But to lose one's way in a city, as one loses one's way in a forest, requires some schooling. Street names must speak to the urban wanderer like the snapping of dry twigs, and little streets in the heart of the city must reflect the times of day, for him, as clearly as a mountain valley."
And on Day 1 we lose our way willingly and wonderfully. We get lost in the Castello region until we wash up at the Scuola Dalmata delli Santi Giorgio e Triffon, a small church school which contains a cycle of paintings by Carpaccio, illustrating the story of St George. The paintings are amazing; filling every corner of this Small church, like some kind of early (1502) comic strip. The detail is gruesome, with the dragons victims strewn about; half eaten corpses everywhere. Marvelous.
And off we go, to get lost some more..

Venice holiday

When Ruskin arrived in Venice in 1841 he wrote, "The beginning of everything was in seeing the gondola-beak come actually inside the door at Danieli's, when the tide was up, and the water two feet deep at the foot of the stairs."
For me, it was arriving by waterbus at St Mark's Square, in turbulent waters, or riding for the first time over the causeway (funny how that mirrors Amy and my first date to Holy Island. I first truely fell for her on the Holy Island causeway, and fell deeply in love on our first Venice holiday).

Venice holiday

The most significant moments on a foreign trip are always on the bus journey from the airport; the first moments. When every sight, no matter how commonplace, seems like an insight into a different culture.
So, on the bus into Venice from the airport, a young girl stretching out her pants in the process of hanging them out to dry, seems like an indication of a whole other way of life; "Ah", we say, "they are so much more in tune with their bodies here". But this is just one person, one incident, yet for me it has revealed something of the Venician soul.