Sacca San Mattia

View looking onto the island.



Earth and glass.




Sketch looking down the boat highway towards Venice.



From Sunday, 3/28:

We were able to walk our design site today, an island with an undetectable elevation change in the middle, incredible views of the distant islands on all sides, and completely covered in shards of glass, weeds, and brambles. It was easy to walk onto it compared with the difficulty we'd had only a few days before when the entry was locked, and found that it is certainly used by people already, mostly for the collection of glass. I'm not sure how it's all gotten there, but there are small pieces covering the entire island which neighbors Murano, the island known world wide for its glass. People walk the island as if they were combing the beach, searching for that piece that most captures their fancy. There is also a gravel path that covers part of the island, and a concrete ledge that forms an edge on several sides to moor a boat to. It is one of the few places in the Veneto where one can experience open space that is not water, and see across an expanse of land to the other side. Everywhere else, unless you are on the edge of the water, your site lines are interrupted by buildings, and there is always a given choice in path. This felt familiar, like an open expanse of prairie. The island is also in a interesting spot because it sits between the airport on the mainland and Venice, meaning that a lot of boat traffic passes by, and at greater speeds than in the city itself, giving it the sense of being perched on the edge of a highway.

Even though this island is entirely human made, and made recently, it has a history that feels very apparent because of the mysterious glass: it tells a story, and makes the island feel like a relic or some kind of anthropological ruin. One of the tricky things about it, and about many sites that have the appearance of being neglected, or non-spaces, is its value in being just that: a place where people can go to be lost. There's something that happens to the imagination in such places, and to the body; it reminds me of walking on the train tracks as a kid, out of sight, somewhere unexpected, and therefore off the radar of normal living. Spaces that are empty of intention, that are not heavily designed or built upon, especially in an environment that is nothing BUT that everywhere else, have value. Of course as of now it provides no economic benefit to the city, and it fairly inaccessible to many people because there is no kind of formal path. But it gets me thinking about how to incorporate open space, park space, or something similar that can provide a place for wandering in a very different way than is possible on the mainland.

Daily rhythms

Rowing lesson, trying to leave the dock.


Our door at the dead end.


Our room, 'Where's Louis' part two. The laundry rack isn't always there, but we moved it in for a dinner party.



Sketch from Campo S. Anzolo


Waiting at our vaporetto stop on the Giudecca.



From Saturday:

Things of the day: sensory experience is such a part of daily life here. After our rowing lesson, much more of a success than I had predicted, Jamuna and I walked in search of a couple of the campos she is doing a study on. On the way we stopped into a tiny paper and book store, the size of a closet with shelves of books up to the ceiling, postcards of line drawings, pens, journals, and paper. It was a sensory dream for me. After walking through San Marco's square teeming with tourists, we headed into the fancier part of town, and stopped into a bookstore down the street from Prada, where I found a tiny book of watercolor drawings of some of the lesser known buildings in Venice. Turning the corner again, I stopped to sketch part of the facade on the Santa Maria del Giglio just around the corner. It's amazing how things flow here: you can be in the busiest part of the city and feel totally overwhelmed by the energy of the crowd, then turn the corner and be encased in towering walls barely shoulder-width apart, entirely alone. You are constantly squeezed and released, both by enclosure and by energy.

And then there are the stores, all tiny pockets of their own unique experiences. We stopped into one store for pasta, the neighboring store for bacon, and around the corner for fresh cut flowers. There is an incredible wine store near our apartment where you can taste any number of the bulk wines that the shop owner has behind the counter, and when you find one you like, buy it for only 2 Euro a liter. The best part is that she fills up reused plastic soda and water containers, so we left with our arms full of plastic bottles of delicious wine for an unreal price. Just the experience of moving through the city is a delight to the senses: by the time we got home I felt filled to the brim with happiness, without an ounce of feeling depleted by my day or my travels through the city. What a change from the daily commute at home; everyday life is so rich here!

'Green is special for us.'

Modern housing development in Cannaregio, around the corner from the train station.



Leaning merchant in the Ghetto.




Ceiling of Madonna dell' Orto, a Gothic church in Cannaregio.




Saintly portraits.




Cimitero San Michele:
















The newer part of the cemetery.




Parco di le Guglie



Delicious home made breakfast! Polenta with spinach, tomatoes, and an over-easy egg.

Jamuna's bday dinner, below:

This post if from Friday, we have spotty internet at the studio:

Today we got up at 7:30, which felt early for an evening of birthday celebrations, to meet at the train station for the first of several walking tours we will have over the next few months. Our guide, Carla, was one of the first females we've interacted with since we've been here. The city seems to be filled with men, though perhaps it is just that the men are the most visible, as the public transportation is run predominantly by men. Our instructors are also male, and of course there is the ever-present sense of machismo. Carla was incredibly knowledgeable, and took us on a three-hour walk through the area northeast of the train station, Cannaregio, to a couple newer housing developments, examples of Baroque, Renaissance, and Gothic churches, and the Ghetto, the formerly Jewish neighborhood from which the word originated. Our first stop was a modern housing development designed by Gardella (I think, translation is hard sometimes). As we left the blank open spaces, singular materials, and barbed-wire topped walls behind and turned down a shoulder-width walkway into the older part of the city, I immediately felt my senses perk up, and couldn't help thinking that modernism has failed people on some level, or at least this example of modernism. There is something captivating about beautifully crafted details, proof of life lived in a place, and textures; they speak to us on the level of emotional and physical experience. Life is creative and messy, and a backdrop of stark simplicity doesn't always speak to our souls and imaginations.

Of course there are examples where modernist design does serve us, though I would argue it depends on how it is integrated. For example, the newer part of the San Michele cemetery was a powerful contrast to the old, each area providing a contrast to the other that made each more compelling. But people do not live in cemeteries; rather, they are places of memory and memorial, perhaps better served by an architectural statement of simplicity. And of course the integration of the old and the new is not an easy puzzle to solve, especially in a place like Venice, where it feels like the city is melting into itself as it slowly sinks, creating a visual collage of texture that would be impossible to recreate in new forms. So I guess the question is, how do we find the essence of place? How do we preserve it, or if this is not possible, how do we honor it and compliment it? There is a need here for change, one of the reasons our ideas about Sacca San Mattia are important and interesting to the people here. Venice is a city of old people and babies, and not much in between: its community is endangered.

We also visited several parks today, a rarity in Venice. Something in me responds to plant life here as if it is as essential to my survival as air, food, and water, yet I don't realize that I am missing it until I stumble upon it and feel instantly relieved. Carla pointed out how special these places are for Venetians, especially those that live in the center of the city, where even a single tree is hard to come by. I understand completely.

Getting real

Today was our first morning off in a long time, and we all came to class this afternoon feeling a little more tied to the earth. We had an amazing day yesterday, starting with a visit to our future site, Sacca San Matia. It is, I believe, the most recent 'sacca' created in Venice, connected by bridge to Murano, the glass blowing island. As far as I can tell, the definition of sacca is an island walled off and filled in, an interesting reverse process of the Netherlands, in which the land was also walled off, but instead was drained. The similarities end there, however, especially in regards to time. Time does not feel linear here: it sort of surrounds us, like a fog. The mid-day siesta has something to do with this; as Bob told us, the Italians work to live, they do not live to work, like so many in our country. But also there is this sense of going with the flow, of taking the path that comes to you, of spending time taking in experiences. An example of this: we had an appointment at the glass school in Murano, right before lunch time. We were all hungry, but excited to see the artists at work and hear a presentation from...someone. Wasn't clear who. We sat and watched a video on all the different types of glass making through out history before we were led into the studio, an incredible site to watch two old glass-makers work together in such a seamless, wordless way. The best part was afterwards: we were led back to the auditorium, where we listened to an Italian gentlemen, dressed in the finest attire, and who happened to be the president of all things glass in Murano, talk on and on, in translated Italian, about the history of the families and the island. What really came through to me, though, was the intense pride in family, in tradition, in history and a love of stories. By this point I was so hungry I thought I was going to wilt into the floor. He offered us some wine, complete wth gestures and smiles and bravado, then took us into the library to show it off. Then offered to bring us to lunch at the best place in town for a reduced price, where we were promptly served an amazing meal complete with several whole baby octopus, a whole prawn, several fish purees and delicious fish rizotto, endless wine and water 'with gas,' all for a ridiculously cheap price. We were wowed. Turns out he didn't even know our guide, he apparently just liked us. So it all worked out in the end. Stay tuned for more pics soon!

Venice!

Outside our studio, which is above a rowing club on the Giudecca.



Our studio space and home for the next two months.


Rowing trophies!


I am hoping we get to learn to row in a boat like this; it appears to be a form of gondoliering. First lesson opportunity is on Saturday, so we'll find out.


We made it! Arrived last night into a misty, water-logged labyrinth of masonry, narrow passageways, small dogs, delicious food and wine and the smell of the ocean. A stark contrast to both the Alps and the Netherlands, it feels strangely normal to be here. It will take some time to get accustomed to the narrow spaces and traveling almost entirely by intuition; between Lacey, Jamuna and I, our maps are all different. We are in the throngs of getting our bearings, organizing our vaparetto cards so we can take the public transit for the local price, and moving in to our apartments. We are attempting to learn a whole new way of living in a matter of days so we can fill our heads with design issues. This morning we did have delicious cappuccinos standing at the bar and pastries for breakfast, just around the corner from our apartment. It was fairly divine.

Into the clouds

Amazing how much my stuff easily expands in a matter of days, but this is the nature of living on the road. This looks like it should be a version of 'Where's Waldo'...how about 'where's Louis (the small Siberian tiger)?'



Gondola to Gimmelwald.



Looking down...

At the top.




















































Our drawings from today, warming up in a cafe in Murren.





We woke up to rain this morning, and mountains that were clear yesterday shrouded in clouds. We decided to head up into the mountains anyway, to a tiny village called Gimmelwald, mostly based on the word of Rick Steves, who said 'Even if I don't get to heaven, at least I will have been to Gimmelwald,' or something like that. Well, I think we pretty much agreed with him. After a train, a bus, and a harrowing gondola ride, we crossed over a towering cliff into another world. Houses built right up to the edge of deathly drop-offs, firewood stacked high, mini waterfalls all around us. Within the first ten minutes we heard something that sounded like thunder, or a freight train barreling down on us, and turned to see a shower of water careening down the side of the mountain wall across the gorge from us, picking up speed as it went. Turns out this was a common occurrence, yet every time it happened anyone who was around to see it would stop and watch; it was captivating.

This little hamlet was a mix of the old world and the new; the structures were built out of the same rich red and golden wood that looked like it had been there for centuries, cobbled together in eclectic jigsaw puzzles. We bought dried sausage and cheese from someone's back door, and despite the sound of the water reverberating off the high mountain walls every ten minutes or so, it was incredibly quiet, and the air felt amazingly clean. Kind of what you would picture if you imagined the place Heidi grew up. At the same time, this little town is surrounded by some of the most visited ski resorts in the Alps, and as we hiked up to the neighboring town above Gimmelwald the few people we saw were decked out in ski gear, most shops catering to their needs.

Though this has obviously changed these towns and these mountains, I loved the details of how this place has adjusted to accommodating winter sports enthusiasts, like holders on the trains and in the train stations for skis and snowboards, ski trails that seamlessly pass through villages, boot driers in the hostel. There is something pleasing about how a place adjusts to its inhabitants, and I guess in this way creates a sense of place. I am not much of a downhill skier, and in some ways I detest how expensive and potentially environmentally destructive ski resorts can be, but I must say I ended the day wishing that I were good enough to trust myself on these steep slopes so that I could pretend that I was living in another time, and skiing was simply the way I got myself around. Because here it has become a way of life, much like biking is a way of life for the Dutch I suppose.

Tomorrow we are off to Venice, hard to believe.