And so the weekend comes to an end...
A two day excursion to VIP land and Venice combined - with a little art and pasta thrown in.
I have mazmiz'd Venice with great delight and had a very pleasurable time.
Seeing this city after so many years has been wonderfully refreshing. The return to the Land of the Sand a slightly depressing reality - although it is home in some sort of way and that is always comforting...
I think I may come back here in the autumn for a long weekend - a far more agreeable season than summer to enjoy this city - and perhaps devote some more time to photography and strolling.
While the "art crowd" are not my cup of tea generally, it has been nice to be in an environment where art belongs. It has also been good to see the Arab world represented at this Biennale - and important to see the level of participation and acceptance of different points of view and perspectives.
One thing I will advocate is the total and outright ban on "talking about art". If you have an opinion, please write about it or just think, but don't speak it.
"It was the use of acrylics in such a daring fashion that altered the paradigm and signified the replacement of the ego with a social dimension"...
"I couldn't believe the Russian exhibit - so banal dear. I was expecting to emote much more..."
"Her work moves me like a visual poem, stirring my soul. I particularly liked the used tires and bucket of saliva."
And so on...
I would rather have people eat crunchy apples in my ear than hear people talk about art... Apart from sounding incredibly pretentious regardless of the content and who is saying it, it is such a personal and subjective subject matter that to talk about it out loud is just plain wrong!
Once the wisdom of my ban has been accepted, punishment for talking about art out loud will include listening to others talk about art for hours on end. In particular to Americans and Germans - whom I had the great misfortune to be placed next to while trying to consume a cup of coffee this morning.
Other punishments will include the wearing of 50 dollar trousers to parties (men) and skirts which make the wearer's bum look enormous (for the ladies who talk about art out loud). These will be combined with cheap and unfashionable shoes and accessories.
I will start drafting the legislation now...
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Venice Biennale #6 - Party, Party...
From the sublime to the ridiculous....
After a day of culture and imagination, the evening was reserved for the VIP parties...
First the UAE Pavilion launch party at the Peggy Guggenheim Museum...
A confusing dress code of "semi formal" had me turned out in a suit and formal shirt but no tie - anxiously observing the rest of the male species to check whether I had over or under done it. I think this is a peculiarly English anxiety and one accentuated by the fact that my father used to obsess with dress standards and as kids we had to wear a shirt, tie and jacket to enter any restaurant - even a pizzeria...
Having grown up therefore with the mantra that it is better to be over-dressed than under-dressed (an idea which made logical sense, but seemed counter intuitive when being under-dressed always seemed to be "cooler"...) I was happy in my suit and relieved when Cesare - an Italian whose sense of sartorial propriety is a genetically imprinted asset - also wore a suit without a tie.
A private water taxi arrived at the hotel to whisk the beautiful people (and me) to the Guggenheim... As we glided under the Rialto bridge I felt a frisson of grandeur (which would soon be dissipated and indeed destroyed on arrival at the event) and enjoyed the splendour of the canal and the glorious buildings which framed our journey over the water.
On arrival at the Peggy Guggenheim I was relieved to see friends who welcomed Cesare and me - and then whisked us (it seems that "whisk" is an appropriate word for the VIP environment!) for a photograph "Hello!" style in the entrance...
The Peggy Guggenheim museum is very classy. Very classy indeed. Around 500 people had made every effort to try and match that classiness with their own insouciant style and effortless poise (although it was evident that this involved an enormous amount of both souciance and effort...). I was not one of them - style and class being oft dreamed of but seldom achieved!
Indeed it dawned on me with some relief that I will never be comfortable in these environments - not even if I were to become "famous" or even "well known" - it's just not me.
It is not because I am considerably less wealthy, less beautiful and less socially adept and connected than the people at this event - that is a given - it is because the aspects of the event that are so important to them are without any meaning or appeal to me.
I found the whole air kissing, dahhhhling laden, artsy atmosphere fake, shallow and frankly rather desperate - and certainly beyond my comprehension in terms of its appeal. Parties are supposed to be fun, but everyone looked too anxious to be having fun despite their perma grins and affected giggles...
That said, the environment was very pleasant, the buffet reasonable and as Cesare put it when describing the hordes of stunningly beautiful women in their cocktail dresses, the "landscape was more than acceptable"... Only an Italian can say these things!
I practised my usual party strategy which combines laziness with an air of assumed aloofness (although really it is just laziness!) and planted myself in a corner on some lovely leather cushions and moved only to answer the call of the bar or the call of nature.
Cesare collared a waiter and managed to persuade him to bring us food to our seats so we avoided queuing for the buffet which had the benefit of both being labour saving but also giving the impression that we were somehow above queuing...nice.
The time passed pleasantly enough, but I couldn't help thinking that I greatly prefer other kinds of social interaction and felt out of place with the "beautiful" people and deeply worried by their apparent shallowness, insecurity and efforts not to show it!
At the allotted hour we left the museum and went down to the banks of the canal to get another private boat to the Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture & Heritage (ADACH) party out at the Arsenale Nuovissimo area...
A long boat ride was rewarded with a really very cool party indeed. Having expected something rather small and sedate, I was pleasantly surprised with what was a big party with hundreds and hundreds dancing and drinking, drinking and dancing in a redeveloped former industrial area. Great music and a really good buzz meant the atmosphere was very upbeat and a lot of fun...and of course there were many more "beautiful" people in their natural habitat.
Cesare took care of the drinks and ordered champagne with vodka and we wandered briefly before finding a table and starting the people watching anew...
A girl from the posh party had attached herself to the two of us - possibly for protection, amusement or maybe out of boredom - and had followed us from the Guggenheim to this place. Cesare engaged her in conversation - manfully taking on the responsibility of small talk - while I battled my tiredness and general social ennui...
A rainstorm began and we called it a night and headed for the water taxis and back to Venice proper. The party girl came with us - claiming to have a hotel in San Marco...
We ended up accompanying her half way across Venice in the rain as she struggled to remember where she was staying. When she did eventually remember, we had the devil's own time finding it, but we did and as we are actually both gentlemen, we felt it was our duty to ensure she arrived safely -although I cheered myself up on our 2am epic journey with slightly uncharitable thoughts of her gently slipping off a bridge allowing us to quietly return to our hotel and get some damn sleep!
She didn't, and we eventually returned to our hotel around 2.30am where sleep not only beckoned, it demanded with menaces...!
Buonanotte!
After a day of culture and imagination, the evening was reserved for the VIP parties...
First the UAE Pavilion launch party at the Peggy Guggenheim Museum...
A confusing dress code of "semi formal" had me turned out in a suit and formal shirt but no tie - anxiously observing the rest of the male species to check whether I had over or under done it. I think this is a peculiarly English anxiety and one accentuated by the fact that my father used to obsess with dress standards and as kids we had to wear a shirt, tie and jacket to enter any restaurant - even a pizzeria...
Having grown up therefore with the mantra that it is better to be over-dressed than under-dressed (an idea which made logical sense, but seemed counter intuitive when being under-dressed always seemed to be "cooler"...) I was happy in my suit and relieved when Cesare - an Italian whose sense of sartorial propriety is a genetically imprinted asset - also wore a suit without a tie.
A private water taxi arrived at the hotel to whisk the beautiful people (and me) to the Guggenheim... As we glided under the Rialto bridge I felt a frisson of grandeur (which would soon be dissipated and indeed destroyed on arrival at the event) and enjoyed the splendour of the canal and the glorious buildings which framed our journey over the water.
On arrival at the Peggy Guggenheim I was relieved to see friends who welcomed Cesare and me - and then whisked us (it seems that "whisk" is an appropriate word for the VIP environment!) for a photograph "Hello!" style in the entrance...
The Peggy Guggenheim museum is very classy. Very classy indeed. Around 500 people had made every effort to try and match that classiness with their own insouciant style and effortless poise (although it was evident that this involved an enormous amount of both souciance and effort...). I was not one of them - style and class being oft dreamed of but seldom achieved!
Indeed it dawned on me with some relief that I will never be comfortable in these environments - not even if I were to become "famous" or even "well known" - it's just not me.
It is not because I am considerably less wealthy, less beautiful and less socially adept and connected than the people at this event - that is a given - it is because the aspects of the event that are so important to them are without any meaning or appeal to me.
I found the whole air kissing, dahhhhling laden, artsy atmosphere fake, shallow and frankly rather desperate - and certainly beyond my comprehension in terms of its appeal. Parties are supposed to be fun, but everyone looked too anxious to be having fun despite their perma grins and affected giggles...
That said, the environment was very pleasant, the buffet reasonable and as Cesare put it when describing the hordes of stunningly beautiful women in their cocktail dresses, the "landscape was more than acceptable"... Only an Italian can say these things!
I practised my usual party strategy which combines laziness with an air of assumed aloofness (although really it is just laziness!) and planted myself in a corner on some lovely leather cushions and moved only to answer the call of the bar or the call of nature.
Cesare collared a waiter and managed to persuade him to bring us food to our seats so we avoided queuing for the buffet which had the benefit of both being labour saving but also giving the impression that we were somehow above queuing...nice.
The time passed pleasantly enough, but I couldn't help thinking that I greatly prefer other kinds of social interaction and felt out of place with the "beautiful" people and deeply worried by their apparent shallowness, insecurity and efforts not to show it!
At the allotted hour we left the museum and went down to the banks of the canal to get another private boat to the Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture & Heritage (ADACH) party out at the Arsenale Nuovissimo area...
A long boat ride was rewarded with a really very cool party indeed. Having expected something rather small and sedate, I was pleasantly surprised with what was a big party with hundreds and hundreds dancing and drinking, drinking and dancing in a redeveloped former industrial area. Great music and a really good buzz meant the atmosphere was very upbeat and a lot of fun...and of course there were many more "beautiful" people in their natural habitat.
Cesare took care of the drinks and ordered champagne with vodka and we wandered briefly before finding a table and starting the people watching anew...
A girl from the posh party had attached herself to the two of us - possibly for protection, amusement or maybe out of boredom - and had followed us from the Guggenheim to this place. Cesare engaged her in conversation - manfully taking on the responsibility of small talk - while I battled my tiredness and general social ennui...
A rainstorm began and we called it a night and headed for the water taxis and back to Venice proper. The party girl came with us - claiming to have a hotel in San Marco...
We ended up accompanying her half way across Venice in the rain as she struggled to remember where she was staying. When she did eventually remember, we had the devil's own time finding it, but we did and as we are actually both gentlemen, we felt it was our duty to ensure she arrived safely -although I cheered myself up on our 2am epic journey with slightly uncharitable thoughts of her gently slipping off a bridge allowing us to quietly return to our hotel and get some damn sleep!
She didn't, and we eventually returned to our hotel around 2.30am where sleep not only beckoned, it demanded with menaces...!
Buonanotte!
Venice Biennale #5 - Palestinian Pavillion
Palestine c/o Venice is the title of the Palestinian exhibition - also a first at the Biennale.
In the art world Palestine is a country, a recognised state and there would appear to be no reference to "territories" etc.
To see Palestine one has to go to the island of Giudecca - across the Grand Canal from Venice proper. There is a slight sense of "exile" on La Giudecca...detached from Venice, quieter and less intense.
As Cesare remarked, at least the people who come to see the Palestinian exhibit are coming with a purpose as there is no chance they could discover the exhibit by chance or accident...
The exhibit is in a delightful cloistered building on the first floor. Unlike other pavilions there is a proper sense of scale in Palestine c/o Venice and more importantly a proper sense of art.
The art is challenging, but it doesn't need the conceited, self congratulatory "explanations" that one sees elsewhere, nor does it rely on over contrived "artistic devices"... Instead through compelling use of multimedia including installations, animation, photography, video and sound, the exhibit communicates.
I must state now that I am not an expert of Palestine (much like 90% or more of the visitors who will see this exhibit) nor would I call myself an "art expert", but I took away strong messages from the Palestinian Pavillion - messages of hope & despair, joy & sadness, pride & shame, beauty & brutality.
People overlook the fact that Palestinians have children - children who have been born into occupation, oppression and obscurity - but children who still need to laugh, play and experiment within a hostile environment that prevents, limits and denies... People also overlook the fact that Palestinians were once children also. This art is the product of both that environment and its history and also the imagination of another environment of the future.
What perhaps impressed me most is the confidence and temperament of the exhibit. There was none of the "angry protest" that frightens and alienates neutral points of view and that is often associated with Palestine. Little of the passive / aggressive rhetoric so often replayed by mass media and none of the "victimhood on my sleeve" which while moving becomes congesting to many. This exhibit showed a Palestinian sensibility on both its own terms and those of the artists and also within the terms of reference that make some kind of connection with others and outsiders.
Perhaps this is what art is all about - connecting sensibilities without forcing compromise or confrontation? Perhaps this exhibit is an example of non-violent resistance?
I don't know - but what I do know is that I came away from it richer in experience, impressed with the artistic content and pleased that this exhibit stands head and shoulders with the artistic output of all of the other pavilions.
In the art world Palestine is a country, a recognised state and there would appear to be no reference to "territories" etc.
To see Palestine one has to go to the island of Giudecca - across the Grand Canal from Venice proper. There is a slight sense of "exile" on La Giudecca...detached from Venice, quieter and less intense.
As Cesare remarked, at least the people who come to see the Palestinian exhibit are coming with a purpose as there is no chance they could discover the exhibit by chance or accident...
The exhibit is in a delightful cloistered building on the first floor. Unlike other pavilions there is a proper sense of scale in Palestine c/o Venice and more importantly a proper sense of art.
The art is challenging, but it doesn't need the conceited, self congratulatory "explanations" that one sees elsewhere, nor does it rely on over contrived "artistic devices"... Instead through compelling use of multimedia including installations, animation, photography, video and sound, the exhibit communicates.
I must state now that I am not an expert of Palestine (much like 90% or more of the visitors who will see this exhibit) nor would I call myself an "art expert", but I took away strong messages from the Palestinian Pavillion - messages of hope & despair, joy & sadness, pride & shame, beauty & brutality.
People overlook the fact that Palestinians have children - children who have been born into occupation, oppression and obscurity - but children who still need to laugh, play and experiment within a hostile environment that prevents, limits and denies... People also overlook the fact that Palestinians were once children also. This art is the product of both that environment and its history and also the imagination of another environment of the future.
What perhaps impressed me most is the confidence and temperament of the exhibit. There was none of the "angry protest" that frightens and alienates neutral points of view and that is often associated with Palestine. Little of the passive / aggressive rhetoric so often replayed by mass media and none of the "victimhood on my sleeve" which while moving becomes congesting to many. This exhibit showed a Palestinian sensibility on both its own terms and those of the artists and also within the terms of reference that make some kind of connection with others and outsiders.
Perhaps this is what art is all about - connecting sensibilities without forcing compromise or confrontation? Perhaps this exhibit is an example of non-violent resistance?
I don't know - but what I do know is that I came away from it richer in experience, impressed with the artistic content and pleased that this exhibit stands head and shoulders with the artistic output of all of the other pavilions.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Venice Biennale #4 - A Perfect Lunch
Trattoria Alla Madonna - a very traditional Venetian trattoria in a side street one block from the Rialto.
Two cold beers to refresh.
A wonderful fresh crab served in its shell dressed with fresh lemon juice, salt & pepper, olive oil and a generous sprig of fresh flat leaf parsley.
A nice chilled Pinot Grigio - from the Yermann Estate - excellent.
Spaghetti - a fine grade - in squid ink with cuttlefish pieces. A danger warning from the waiter is heeded but efforts are not entirely successful as both Cesare and I have squid ink spots on our shirts. Probably this means throwing the shirt in the bin as squid ink is a disaster...
Wild strawberries - those lovely semi sweet semi sour miniature strawberries - served with a scoop of home made vanilla ice cream.
Espresso.
Grappa.
Conversation topics: food, women, wine, the arts, business, entrepreneurship, finance, politics, childhood memories, women, food.
Benissimo!
Two cold beers to refresh.
A wonderful fresh crab served in its shell dressed with fresh lemon juice, salt & pepper, olive oil and a generous sprig of fresh flat leaf parsley.
A nice chilled Pinot Grigio - from the Yermann Estate - excellent.
Spaghetti - a fine grade - in squid ink with cuttlefish pieces. A danger warning from the waiter is heeded but efforts are not entirely successful as both Cesare and I have squid ink spots on our shirts. Probably this means throwing the shirt in the bin as squid ink is a disaster...
Wild strawberries - those lovely semi sweet semi sour miniature strawberries - served with a scoop of home made vanilla ice cream.
Espresso.
Grappa.
Conversation topics: food, women, wine, the arts, business, entrepreneurship, finance, politics, childhood memories, women, food.
Benissimo!
Venice Biennale #3 - Strolling...the lost art of...
Venice is a city that absolutely lends itself to the lost art of strolling.
The dictionary definition is as follows:
To stroll : to walk in a leisurely or idle manner
To my way of thinking there are some additional inflections to "strolling" that are important when qualifying exactly what one means by strolling...
First: there must be no discernible point or objective to the walk other than the walk itself. It is not about a destination or purpose.
Second: the stroll is contextualised by its environment and thus the environment conditions the stroll and characterises it. It might also dictate pace, length and direction but only in an unplanned fashion.
Third: when the stroll turns into a walk or a journey it is time to stop as it is, by definition, no longer a stroll.
So with this mind - or at least later to be recalled and noted - I set off from my hotel for a stroll. I took my camera as it would be remiss of me not to capture one or two aspects of Venice - although this should not be confused with the purpose of the stroll, but instead a by-product.
My eye was looking for shadow. For "chiaroscuro" to punctuate the mystery and majesty of Venice.
My feet took me towards the Rialto bridge but with some effort made to avoid the main lanes crammed full of enthusiastic and chattering tourists. Far From The Maddening Crowds (with apologies to Thomas Hardy)
Mine were the blind alleys and narrow paths, the slight bridges and low roofed "sottoportegi" that at night might be slightly unnerving but that by day provide visual nourishment and mental stimulation - not to mention the odd photograph.
Sometimes I wish I could record or film my strolls - but then the smells and glances would still escape me and thus frustrate further, so memory and imagination suffice.
An old gentleman on a small bridge tells an African street boy where he can find free food. The boy doesn't understand, so the gentleman keeps repeating in Italian, slower and louder each time. Then he has a brain wave and writes the address and area on a piece of paper - pointing to the direction. The boy - who wears a giant, almost comical sized crucifix - nods and smiles. The gentleman smiles and leaves. The boy wanders off in the opposite direction to which the gentleman indicated. An old lady watches silently, half hidden, from a window above the narrow canal.
A run down pizzeria sets up for lunch in a small out of the way square. Jazz plays quietly and the notes waft across the street. Brightly coloured chrysanthemums fill window boxes and their petals flutter very slightly to the jazz notes or perhaps it is the breeze...
Narrow laneway in full shadow is navigated slowly by an old lady with two canes and thick spectacles. She mutters to herself unintelligibly but with some evident frustration and continues slowly on her way. I encounter her 20 minutes later in a cul de sac still muttering and seeming not to register me or recall me.
Young tourists - probably lovers - pass me in an old tiny square in a hidden alley, giggling, smiling, high on romance and adventure. I turn a corner to find a brass door belonging to the home of a painter - his name carefully embossed above his profession and surrounded by decorative stamps. Below is appended a scruffy hand written note explaining where his work can be seen...a lovely contrast.
An accidental press of the shutter button by the market in Rialto produces the best shot of the day. I contemplate buying a copy of Il Corriere Della Sera to brush up on my Italian as I hear an old man request the same journal from a news stand. I decide against it and head to an old trattoria "alla Madonna" to meet with Cesare for lunch.
I drink cold beer and review my snaps and recall the best moments of my stroll, writing some of them down here...
A beautiful hour.
The dictionary definition is as follows:
To stroll : to walk in a leisurely or idle manner
To my way of thinking there are some additional inflections to "strolling" that are important when qualifying exactly what one means by strolling...
First: there must be no discernible point or objective to the walk other than the walk itself. It is not about a destination or purpose.
Second: the stroll is contextualised by its environment and thus the environment conditions the stroll and characterises it. It might also dictate pace, length and direction but only in an unplanned fashion.
Third: when the stroll turns into a walk or a journey it is time to stop as it is, by definition, no longer a stroll.
So with this mind - or at least later to be recalled and noted - I set off from my hotel for a stroll. I took my camera as it would be remiss of me not to capture one or two aspects of Venice - although this should not be confused with the purpose of the stroll, but instead a by-product.
My eye was looking for shadow. For "chiaroscuro" to punctuate the mystery and majesty of Venice.
My feet took me towards the Rialto bridge but with some effort made to avoid the main lanes crammed full of enthusiastic and chattering tourists. Far From The Maddening Crowds (with apologies to Thomas Hardy)
Mine were the blind alleys and narrow paths, the slight bridges and low roofed "sottoportegi" that at night might be slightly unnerving but that by day provide visual nourishment and mental stimulation - not to mention the odd photograph.
Sometimes I wish I could record or film my strolls - but then the smells and glances would still escape me and thus frustrate further, so memory and imagination suffice.
An old gentleman on a small bridge tells an African street boy where he can find free food. The boy doesn't understand, so the gentleman keeps repeating in Italian, slower and louder each time. Then he has a brain wave and writes the address and area on a piece of paper - pointing to the direction. The boy - who wears a giant, almost comical sized crucifix - nods and smiles. The gentleman smiles and leaves. The boy wanders off in the opposite direction to which the gentleman indicated. An old lady watches silently, half hidden, from a window above the narrow canal.
A run down pizzeria sets up for lunch in a small out of the way square. Jazz plays quietly and the notes waft across the street. Brightly coloured chrysanthemums fill window boxes and their petals flutter very slightly to the jazz notes or perhaps it is the breeze...
Narrow laneway in full shadow is navigated slowly by an old lady with two canes and thick spectacles. She mutters to herself unintelligibly but with some evident frustration and continues slowly on her way. I encounter her 20 minutes later in a cul de sac still muttering and seeming not to register me or recall me.
Young tourists - probably lovers - pass me in an old tiny square in a hidden alley, giggling, smiling, high on romance and adventure. I turn a corner to find a brass door belonging to the home of a painter - his name carefully embossed above his profession and surrounded by decorative stamps. Below is appended a scruffy hand written note explaining where his work can be seen...a lovely contrast.
An accidental press of the shutter button by the market in Rialto produces the best shot of the day. I contemplate buying a copy of Il Corriere Della Sera to brush up on my Italian as I hear an old man request the same journal from a news stand. I decide against it and head to an old trattoria "alla Madonna" to meet with Cesare for lunch.
I drink cold beer and review my snaps and recall the best moments of my stroll, writing some of them down here...
A beautiful hour.
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