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.
Venice Biennale #2 - La Venezia
Following the final arrival at the rather pleasant Hotel Splendid in the heart of the district between San Marco and Rialto, I checked in and grumbled at the receptionist about my water taxi "non-experience". In typical Venetian fashion she explained that the airport desk was wrong. Full stop. As though the airport people being wrong made my nearly two hour journey to the hotel by foot, over cramped water bus stopping at every bit of seaweed and then foot again, ok.
Well it didn't but I gave up on complaining and went in search of a reviving espresso and my colleague Cesare who, as the name might suggest, is Italian.
Espresso and Cesare both located, we set off to visit some exhibitions - including Morocco (not bad at all), Monaco (not good at all) and then down to the Arsenale area (where the militarily powerful Venetian city state kept all its weaponry in the past - and where it now appears to keep its art, with the warehousing now turned into art galleries.)
This city is just achingly beautiful. There is no other way to say it. The people are lazy and arrogant at times, everything costs a fortune and it takes twice as long to do anything here compared to anywhere else except perhaps Cairo.... But it is amazingly glorious in its fading charms... The close-up shot may not be the desirable one for the "old girl" but the right light and pose and no city is more beautiful...
A long series of excursions on various vaporetti eventually saw us ending back where we'd started and visiting the exhibitions of the UAE (hmmm), Turkey (excellent and interesting), Chile (different and also interesting) and a couple of other country exhibits I failed to note...
The evening was devoted to eating - of course. Cesare and I were to dine with three of his clients from a large Italian bank. In typical fashion Cesare's strategy was to book a minimum of two restaurants and then allow mood and which had a better table to guide us. This at the last minute in the second busiest period in Venice annually... Of course he was successful.
Now I have always believed that one should put oneself in the hands of locals entirely when planning any recreational activities in a foreign city - and especially when it comes to gastronomy. Cesare was born less than an hour from Venice and did not disappoint. A wonderful family owned traditional Venetian restaurant that would be impossible for any tourist to know about and even less likely for them to find it was our destination for the evening.
We dined on local crabs, baby octopus with an orange and balsamic reduction, a fritto misto (very traditional dish in the Veneto), spaghetti with local lagoon seafood and herbs, pepperonata and some lovely wine. I am not going to name the restaurant or even the neighbourhood as that would risk spoiling it, but it was a superior experience from the perspectives of food and ambience - although the service was lacking in that characteristically Italian way... Lucky we weren't in a rush...
A pleasant stroll across the Rialto bridge to deliver one of the female clients to her hotel and smoke a small cigar and back to the hotel for a brief encounter with a Monaco based millionnairess whose friend owned our hotel. In fact the chain of hotels. She was, as we were, most distressed to find the bar closed at 1.30, and we chatted about the world and art. It turned out she is half New Yorker and her sister lived in a condo at the St George in Brooklyn Heights - the old building of the hotel which my great great grandfather built and owned at the end of the 19th century and a well known landmark in NYC. She nearly invited me and Cesare to her suite to drink the bar dry, but seemed to think better of it and toddled off....as did we. Only in Venice does one become midnight friends with a millionnairess!
Today is about Ps.... Palestine (the country's first exhibit at the Biennale), photographs (not possible to be here without taking some pictures and trying to capture the mood) and parties (big gala event this evening at the Peggy Guggenheim museum followed by private party hosted by the Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture & Heritage.)...
But I'm off to start with a B. Breakfast!
Well it didn't but I gave up on complaining and went in search of a reviving espresso and my colleague Cesare who, as the name might suggest, is Italian.
Espresso and Cesare both located, we set off to visit some exhibitions - including Morocco (not bad at all), Monaco (not good at all) and then down to the Arsenale area (where the militarily powerful Venetian city state kept all its weaponry in the past - and where it now appears to keep its art, with the warehousing now turned into art galleries.)
This city is just achingly beautiful. There is no other way to say it. The people are lazy and arrogant at times, everything costs a fortune and it takes twice as long to do anything here compared to anywhere else except perhaps Cairo.... But it is amazingly glorious in its fading charms... The close-up shot may not be the desirable one for the "old girl" but the right light and pose and no city is more beautiful...
A long series of excursions on various vaporetti eventually saw us ending back where we'd started and visiting the exhibitions of the UAE (hmmm), Turkey (excellent and interesting), Chile (different and also interesting) and a couple of other country exhibits I failed to note...
The evening was devoted to eating - of course. Cesare and I were to dine with three of his clients from a large Italian bank. In typical fashion Cesare's strategy was to book a minimum of two restaurants and then allow mood and which had a better table to guide us. This at the last minute in the second busiest period in Venice annually... Of course he was successful.
Now I have always believed that one should put oneself in the hands of locals entirely when planning any recreational activities in a foreign city - and especially when it comes to gastronomy. Cesare was born less than an hour from Venice and did not disappoint. A wonderful family owned traditional Venetian restaurant that would be impossible for any tourist to know about and even less likely for them to find it was our destination for the evening.
We dined on local crabs, baby octopus with an orange and balsamic reduction, a fritto misto (very traditional dish in the Veneto), spaghetti with local lagoon seafood and herbs, pepperonata and some lovely wine. I am not going to name the restaurant or even the neighbourhood as that would risk spoiling it, but it was a superior experience from the perspectives of food and ambience - although the service was lacking in that characteristically Italian way... Lucky we weren't in a rush...
A pleasant stroll across the Rialto bridge to deliver one of the female clients to her hotel and smoke a small cigar and back to the hotel for a brief encounter with a Monaco based millionnairess whose friend owned our hotel. In fact the chain of hotels. She was, as we were, most distressed to find the bar closed at 1.30, and we chatted about the world and art. It turned out she is half New Yorker and her sister lived in a condo at the St George in Brooklyn Heights - the old building of the hotel which my great great grandfather built and owned at the end of the 19th century and a well known landmark in NYC. She nearly invited me and Cesare to her suite to drink the bar dry, but seemed to think better of it and toddled off....as did we. Only in Venice does one become midnight friends with a millionnairess!
Today is about Ps.... Palestine (the country's first exhibit at the Biennale), photographs (not possible to be here without taking some pictures and trying to capture the mood) and parties (big gala event this evening at the Peggy Guggenheim museum followed by private party hosted by the Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture & Heritage.)...
But I'm off to start with a B. Breakfast!
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Venice Biennale #1 - Planes, Trains and Water Taxis...
Ok...so I lied about the trains...
After an uneventful flight (except for my fashion crimes - which thankfully seem to have been left unpunished) I arrived in Venice.
It's been about 15 years or more since I was last here and I had forgotten just how beautiful it is. Stunning and unique.
I went to get my water taxi ticket at the airport stands - as my hotel had advised - and found instead that there were NO water taxis today or tomorrow. I enquired as to why and was told it was due to the Biennale and only pre-booked water taxis were available. Exactly the OPPOSITE to the information given to my PA by the hotel...
Curiously although the Venetians have worked out that the Biennale creates extra tourism and traffic, instead of responding with more water taxis and services, they shut them down instead. Smart.
I did some shouting in English, the woman just looked at me with a "f@ck you pal" expression and I wandered off muttering Italian swear words under my breath - which made me feel only moderately better...
Her last advice was to walk to the jetty and see if there was a water taxi going to my hotel that had been pre-booked by someone else and see if there was a space.
So I walked the 10 minutes to the jetty with my bags and asked at all the water taxi stations. The response was a clear cut "impossible". Great.
I am now on public transport - an experience I haven't had for some time - on my way to Piazza San Marco. I will then try and figure out where the hell my hotel is.
Once I get there and have checked in I will do some shouting at reception about the quality of their travel information and advice - and then I shall have a drink and start people watching - a massively popular sport in Italy....
But as I draw closer to Venice proper across the water I am beginning to relax already, such is her majesty and splendour...
Now if I can just get the two gay Germans next to me stop talking for five minutes, I will be truly happy...
After an uneventful flight (except for my fashion crimes - which thankfully seem to have been left unpunished) I arrived in Venice.
It's been about 15 years or more since I was last here and I had forgotten just how beautiful it is. Stunning and unique.
I went to get my water taxi ticket at the airport stands - as my hotel had advised - and found instead that there were NO water taxis today or tomorrow. I enquired as to why and was told it was due to the Biennale and only pre-booked water taxis were available. Exactly the OPPOSITE to the information given to my PA by the hotel...
Curiously although the Venetians have worked out that the Biennale creates extra tourism and traffic, instead of responding with more water taxis and services, they shut them down instead. Smart.
I did some shouting in English, the woman just looked at me with a "f@ck you pal" expression and I wandered off muttering Italian swear words under my breath - which made me feel only moderately better...
Her last advice was to walk to the jetty and see if there was a water taxi going to my hotel that had been pre-booked by someone else and see if there was a space.
So I walked the 10 minutes to the jetty with my bags and asked at all the water taxi stations. The response was a clear cut "impossible". Great.
I am now on public transport - an experience I haven't had for some time - on my way to Piazza San Marco. I will then try and figure out where the hell my hotel is.
Once I get there and have checked in I will do some shouting at reception about the quality of their travel information and advice - and then I shall have a drink and start people watching - a massively popular sport in Italy....
But as I draw closer to Venice proper across the water I am beginning to relax already, such is her majesty and splendour...
Now if I can just get the two gay Germans next to me stop talking for five minutes, I will be truly happy...
Art World Fashionistas - HELP!
Ok. It's now officially confirmed that I am not a "dedicated follower of fashion" as Ray Davies of The Kinks put it - unlike EVERYONE else on the 'plane to Venice...
The Biennale is notorious for its air kissing lovelies who fly in to Venice every two years to be fashionable, gossip, preen and show off generally against a back drop of art, culture and the stunning environs of the city of the Doges.
In my portion of the 'plane - the front end darling (air miles for me of course!) - I am the only man without either a pony tail or sculpted facial hair. I am the only man wearing trousers that cost less than 400 dollars and my hand-made shirt feels suddenly cheap and down market...
There is a chap sitting across from me who I have flown with before. He is a multi-millionnaire and lives in Dubai and Monte Carlo, owns a large yacht, several businesses and lives his life of luxury flying around and sailing, running his businesses from his BlackBerry.
A bit like me except for the multi-millions, the yacht, Monte Carlo and sailing...and his trousers are at least 500 dollars. I can tell.
An enormous American lady (if the accent didn't give it away, the volume would) just sat next to me and is wearing Jackie O sunglasses (on board the plane) and a stretch lycra dress in a rather vicious electric lime green. My breakfast is considering a break for freedom as a result. She is complaining about having to walk up some stairs to the plane. She may have burned a calorie or two so is doubtless concerned about feeding soon. I'd have her down as a wealthy heiress who spends daddy's or grand daddy's millions flying around the world patronising the arts....
An anorexic tall grey haired pony tailed art-type is chatting vigorously with a crop haired lady who looks like a lesbian novelist but could be a poet, photographer or sculptor. She is also intensely fashionable but in a menacing, slightly butch way. I am sure they have ordered the vegan meal and will practice some hot yoga during the flight...
Ah - some diamond encrusted super branded Arabs - probably Lebanese - have just boarded. They've been keeping us all waiting to take off, and now they're fussing over where they sit...they are more fashionable than me by a factor of 15 I'd estimate, but MUCH less fashionable than everyone else at the "front"... Although their jewellery / watches / accessories are conspicuously expensive...naturally.
It is refreshing however that I am clearly the most relaxed person in this portion of the plane. I am not suffering from fashion anxiety, nor worrying if my bum looks big in these trousers. I'm not remotely concerned about which exhibit is "coolest" in Venice - although I am interested in seeing both the Palestinian Pavillion and the UAE Pavillion - both making their debuts at this Biennale.
I am also looking forward to taking some "intimate" photographs of Venezia - the beautiful old lady that is the city I am travelling to... And to remembering my walks and excursions around Venice when I was a student down the road in Padua some 18 years ago - and the memories of that glorious "temps perdu"...
It is a good thing that I am not suffering from style insecurity and fashion anxiety - after all I am going to Italy where style is genetically transferred, where a tailor is more highly regarded and valued than a doctor or a priest and where fashion is a way of life.
I'll change into my sack before landing...it's Armani darling.
The Biennale is notorious for its air kissing lovelies who fly in to Venice every two years to be fashionable, gossip, preen and show off generally against a back drop of art, culture and the stunning environs of the city of the Doges.
In my portion of the 'plane - the front end darling (air miles for me of course!) - I am the only man without either a pony tail or sculpted facial hair. I am the only man wearing trousers that cost less than 400 dollars and my hand-made shirt feels suddenly cheap and down market...
There is a chap sitting across from me who I have flown with before. He is a multi-millionnaire and lives in Dubai and Monte Carlo, owns a large yacht, several businesses and lives his life of luxury flying around and sailing, running his businesses from his BlackBerry.
A bit like me except for the multi-millions, the yacht, Monte Carlo and sailing...and his trousers are at least 500 dollars. I can tell.
An enormous American lady (if the accent didn't give it away, the volume would) just sat next to me and is wearing Jackie O sunglasses (on board the plane) and a stretch lycra dress in a rather vicious electric lime green. My breakfast is considering a break for freedom as a result. She is complaining about having to walk up some stairs to the plane. She may have burned a calorie or two so is doubtless concerned about feeding soon. I'd have her down as a wealthy heiress who spends daddy's or grand daddy's millions flying around the world patronising the arts....
An anorexic tall grey haired pony tailed art-type is chatting vigorously with a crop haired lady who looks like a lesbian novelist but could be a poet, photographer or sculptor. She is also intensely fashionable but in a menacing, slightly butch way. I am sure they have ordered the vegan meal and will practice some hot yoga during the flight...
Ah - some diamond encrusted super branded Arabs - probably Lebanese - have just boarded. They've been keeping us all waiting to take off, and now they're fussing over where they sit...they are more fashionable than me by a factor of 15 I'd estimate, but MUCH less fashionable than everyone else at the "front"... Although their jewellery / watches / accessories are conspicuously expensive...naturally.
It is refreshing however that I am clearly the most relaxed person in this portion of the plane. I am not suffering from fashion anxiety, nor worrying if my bum looks big in these trousers. I'm not remotely concerned about which exhibit is "coolest" in Venice - although I am interested in seeing both the Palestinian Pavillion and the UAE Pavillion - both making their debuts at this Biennale.
I am also looking forward to taking some "intimate" photographs of Venezia - the beautiful old lady that is the city I am travelling to... And to remembering my walks and excursions around Venice when I was a student down the road in Padua some 18 years ago - and the memories of that glorious "temps perdu"...
It is a good thing that I am not suffering from style insecurity and fashion anxiety - after all I am going to Italy where style is genetically transferred, where a tailor is more highly regarded and valued than a doctor or a priest and where fashion is a way of life.
I'll change into my sack before landing...it's Armani darling.
Mazmiz
Great new Arabic word learned this week... Onomatopeic to a certain degree, it trips off the tongue easily once learned....
Ladies & gentlemen, I present "Mazmiz"...
As NK defines the word:
"Ah it has so many meanings, but it comes from the word mazza or mezza, which is the Arabic version of tapas - you know, the Arabic food you slowly take in and digest while having sheesha; the appetizers of humous, mutabbal, salads etc. The idea is to slowly enjoy and savour each bite and every taste, taking sheesha*, tea and 'arak** breaks in between, hence the verb, mazmiz. So mazmiz is to spend time enjoying something."
*sheesha is the water pipe of hookah. A popular Arab past time which is shared also in Turkey where it is known as the Nargile. The tobacco is mostly fruit flavoured and mild, although the hard core aficionados smoke a very dark black tobacco, somewhat similar to tarmac...
**Arak - the Arab equivalent of Ouzo from Greece or Rake from Turkey. An aniseed based spirit - usually very strong- and taken with fish or mezza as an accompaniment. Some drink it straight, some with water and some with ice. Very popular in the Levant countries esp. Lebanon and Jordan.
Anyway, Mazmiz is a wonderful word which reflects the importance of things like food and drink on the one hand and taking one's time to slowly enjoy them on the other. Of course the word becomes metaphorical as per the definition above and applies to all sorts of things that can be savoured and enjoyed.
Having mazmiz'd the word mazmiz I am now off to mazmiz Venice which I haven't visited for more than 15 years and go see the Biennale...more anon...
Ladies & gentlemen, I present "Mazmiz"...
As NK defines the word:
"Ah it has so many meanings, but it comes from the word mazza or mezza, which is the Arabic version of tapas - you know, the Arabic food you slowly take in and digest while having sheesha; the appetizers of humous, mutabbal, salads etc. The idea is to slowly enjoy and savour each bite and every taste, taking sheesha*, tea and 'arak** breaks in between, hence the verb, mazmiz. So mazmiz is to spend time enjoying something."
*sheesha is the water pipe of hookah. A popular Arab past time which is shared also in Turkey where it is known as the Nargile. The tobacco is mostly fruit flavoured and mild, although the hard core aficionados smoke a very dark black tobacco, somewhat similar to tarmac...
**Arak - the Arab equivalent of Ouzo from Greece or Rake from Turkey. An aniseed based spirit - usually very strong- and taken with fish or mezza as an accompaniment. Some drink it straight, some with water and some with ice. Very popular in the Levant countries esp. Lebanon and Jordan.
Anyway, Mazmiz is a wonderful word which reflects the importance of things like food and drink on the one hand and taking one's time to slowly enjoy them on the other. Of course the word becomes metaphorical as per the definition above and applies to all sorts of things that can be savoured and enjoyed.
Having mazmiz'd the word mazmiz I am now off to mazmiz Venice which I haven't visited for more than 15 years and go see the Biennale...more anon...
Monday, June 1, 2009
The sound of apples...
A challenge....
Pick the most gentle, kind and benificent person in the world....
Pick the person you love the most...
Now ask them to eat a nice crunchy apple while sitting two feet from you. Yes, two feet away.
The first crunch and munch won't bother you that much. It'll catch your attention, maybe even grate a little, but it's not a disaster.
The second crunch and munch might start to tick you off a little...the third for sure.
By about half way around the apple core, you are quietly contemplating painful deaths for the person that is literally torturing you with their noisy eating of noisy fruit. If they make it all the way to the end of the apple without at least one attempted assassination then they are indeed fortunate or you simply lack imagination in picking a method for their immediate demise.
Now that is for a loved one, an elder, a close friend.
Now imagine the fate of the stranger crunching and munching next to me with no thought or care for the others around him. Yes, I am murderous - and all the more so due to the cheesy American chewing his gum with an open mouth.
May they both rest in peace...
Anyway.... Got to fly now...
PS. This story is true except for the mysterious deaths of "Chewing Gum Man" and "Mr. Apple Head". Sadly they both live and will be torturing you in a lounge soon...
Pick the most gentle, kind and benificent person in the world....
Pick the person you love the most...
Now ask them to eat a nice crunchy apple while sitting two feet from you. Yes, two feet away.
The first crunch and munch won't bother you that much. It'll catch your attention, maybe even grate a little, but it's not a disaster.
The second crunch and munch might start to tick you off a little...the third for sure.
By about half way around the apple core, you are quietly contemplating painful deaths for the person that is literally torturing you with their noisy eating of noisy fruit. If they make it all the way to the end of the apple without at least one attempted assassination then they are indeed fortunate or you simply lack imagination in picking a method for their immediate demise.
Now that is for a loved one, an elder, a close friend.
Now imagine the fate of the stranger crunching and munching next to me with no thought or care for the others around him. Yes, I am murderous - and all the more so due to the cheesy American chewing his gum with an open mouth.
May they both rest in peace...
Anyway.... Got to fly now...
PS. This story is true except for the mysterious deaths of "Chewing Gum Man" and "Mr. Apple Head". Sadly they both live and will be torturing you in a lounge soon...
Air France June 1st
The afternoon has been filled with looped reports on TV and radio about the disappearance of the Air France passenger jet en route from Brazil to Paris.
It is now feared lost with electrical problems being suspected as the cause (according to the last BBC bulletin I caught). Some 200 plus passengers and crew believed to be lost - their families desperately clinging to the shreds of hope as they wait in the crisis centre of Charles De Gaulle airport, praying for news they rationally know will not be delivered to them.
As someone who flies around 100 times a year, there are many moments where I consider "the odds". Many moments where I "take stock" of my life, the people in it, my wrongdoings and regrets...
Today's tragedy is a sad reminder that life can often be short. But is a short life in itself a tragedy?
Is a short life of comparative happiness better than a long life of comparative misery?
Is the greater tragedy of those that ended their lives so prematurely and suddenly in this air disaster - or is the worse tragedy that of those who survive the dead, who have to live their lives with the dull and constant pain of loss and mourning?
I hope I never have to answer that question for myself or those that I am close to.
What I am sure of is that the brevity of life is surely the most compelling reason to live the most we can. To explore, to love, to risk, to laugh, to travel, to spend as many moments as we can engaged with life.
I have always subscribed to the idea that it is better to regret something you have done than something you haven't... That we heal by moving on, not by sitting still. That we grow with experience not with time.
I hope the flight I am about to board gets me to where I am going. I hope all the flights I am on in the future do the same...
But if one of them doesn't then the next best thing I can hope for is that I lived the most I could.
I pray for those who survive the dead, for their comfort and relief from sorrow.
For those who died, I hope they lived the most they could. Anything else would be a tragedy.
It is now feared lost with electrical problems being suspected as the cause (according to the last BBC bulletin I caught). Some 200 plus passengers and crew believed to be lost - their families desperately clinging to the shreds of hope as they wait in the crisis centre of Charles De Gaulle airport, praying for news they rationally know will not be delivered to them.
As someone who flies around 100 times a year, there are many moments where I consider "the odds". Many moments where I "take stock" of my life, the people in it, my wrongdoings and regrets...
Today's tragedy is a sad reminder that life can often be short. But is a short life in itself a tragedy?
Is a short life of comparative happiness better than a long life of comparative misery?
Is the greater tragedy of those that ended their lives so prematurely and suddenly in this air disaster - or is the worse tragedy that of those who survive the dead, who have to live their lives with the dull and constant pain of loss and mourning?
I hope I never have to answer that question for myself or those that I am close to.
What I am sure of is that the brevity of life is surely the most compelling reason to live the most we can. To explore, to love, to risk, to laugh, to travel, to spend as many moments as we can engaged with life.
I have always subscribed to the idea that it is better to regret something you have done than something you haven't... That we heal by moving on, not by sitting still. That we grow with experience not with time.
I hope the flight I am about to board gets me to where I am going. I hope all the flights I am on in the future do the same...
But if one of them doesn't then the next best thing I can hope for is that I lived the most I could.
I pray for those who survive the dead, for their comfort and relief from sorrow.
For those who died, I hope they lived the most they could. Anything else would be a tragedy.
The Devil Inside...
Ever had that restless feeling? An itch you can't scratch? A frustration that won't go away and you don't know what it is? A desire to do SOMETHING, but you don't know what?
I call it the "devil inside", or simply that I have "the devil in me"...
Happens from time to time - no rhyme, no reason...although I guess more often when I'm tired.
I've noticed other people get the devil inside when they have too much to drink
I can only shake it by finding something that focuses my mind and takes me away from the devil. Sometimes it's music, sometimes it's exercise, sometimes conversation and sometimes it's the love of a good woman... Or TLC as NK calls it... There are many ways to get the devil out...
The worst part of "the devil inside" is the energy one has but which isn't getting used... And instead turns into "grrrrr" - the sound of bubbling aggression waiting for a way to be expressed.
When I have the devil inside me it's usually a good time to keep me away from: fools, screaming children, white van drivers, the French, and certainly Saudi Arabia...
I write this from the "makeshift" lounge in Riyadh airport...surrounded by people talking inanely on their cell phones (why am I required to become an expert witness in other people's lives?), drinking horrid tea and counting the seconds until I board the aircraft...
There is the sound of "grrrr" being reported in the lounge near Gate 11....
Only I know what it is and why...
I call it the "devil inside", or simply that I have "the devil in me"...
Happens from time to time - no rhyme, no reason...although I guess more often when I'm tired.
I've noticed other people get the devil inside when they have too much to drink
I can only shake it by finding something that focuses my mind and takes me away from the devil. Sometimes it's music, sometimes it's exercise, sometimes conversation and sometimes it's the love of a good woman... Or TLC as NK calls it... There are many ways to get the devil out...
The worst part of "the devil inside" is the energy one has but which isn't getting used... And instead turns into "grrrrr" - the sound of bubbling aggression waiting for a way to be expressed.
When I have the devil inside me it's usually a good time to keep me away from: fools, screaming children, white van drivers, the French, and certainly Saudi Arabia...
I write this from the "makeshift" lounge in Riyadh airport...surrounded by people talking inanely on their cell phones (why am I required to become an expert witness in other people's lives?), drinking horrid tea and counting the seconds until I board the aircraft...
There is the sound of "grrrr" being reported in the lounge near Gate 11....
Only I know what it is and why...
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