The vibrancy of Venice: exploring the masked city
Water laps against the side of the boat, a sound like broom on concrete emanating from the waves as they break against the metal. The sound of water is something I’m now used to. It drowns the city, a constant undercurrent to the muffled speech of tourists, the piercing yells of vendors and the low singing of the men who direct the gondolas through narrow waterways. The noise is overwhelming as we make our way from the waterborne taxi, huddled among a group of tourists who are equally excited to see the city and partake in its festivities.
There’s a dock, another building to pass through, a final door, and then - the city. Its vibrancy is unimpaired despite our distance - we're overwhelmed by the fantastic colours. While the surrounding buildings are constructed of brick in white, grey, red - all colours muted enough to calm the senses - the venders and their numerous stalls bloom with every colour imaginable. Tables selling fans are draped in scarlet cloth, trimmed with gold and silver thread; they exude a royal invitation to peruse. Stalls, layered with silk of topaz and emerald, display a menagerie of silver animals for sale. My body vibrates with energy. I must take everything in, from the warmth radiating from the paving slabs and heating my skin, to the way the salted humidity ruffles and disarranges my hair.
We move from one stall to the next, a flock of starlings in the summertime, swaying where the breeze takes us from one stall to the next. I hear my mother chastise my brother, who is begging for a few more euros. 'Just five more,' he whines, and my own desperation is mirrored in his tone.
'No,' my mother responds, but the rest of the argument escapes my notice – and my care – as I step away to browse a selection of Venetian masks.
'Venticinque euro,' says a woman, tall and slender. The syllables slide over one another with such delicacy, her intonation rising and falling as if the price were a song.
'Grazie,' I respond, though my attempt is flat. I provide a close-lipped smile to apologise for my butchered attempt at her beautiful language. She nods, and I continue my search among the masks.
The variety is astounding; large, small, ornate, simple, black, white, every colour imaginable. My wandering fingers stop beside a beaked mask of blue, a trimming of golden lace following the curves and hollows of the border. Not quite. I move along. The next mask is a rectangle of red, a moustache of plaster carved beneath a protruding nose. My brother would like that. The final mask is pitch black, though there are silver threads woven into the trim of the border, which rises in a pair of feminine curves, suggestive of feathers in a flapper’s crown. I hold it in my palm, lifting it to my face. It covers only the upper half of my face but, through its eyes, I see my mother smile.
'Questo, per favoure.' My second attempt is passable as Italian. This one, please.
With my new purchase tucked away in my rucksack and my final three euros spent on biscotti, I weave among the cloth covered tables in search of my family. I’m in no rush, so I wander along the canals, smiling as the humming of a near-by gondolier and look down to
see his dark roots appearing from beneath my feet. I do not trust myself to remember the picturesque scene before me.
With a hand as steady as a surgeon’s, I rest the Venetian mask on the handrail of the bridge, ensuring its stability before proceeding to remove my phone from my back pocket. I get level, crouching. Considering my rule of thirds, I position the mask accordingly, ensuring the gondolier is within shot. He’s wearing a shirt of white and blue stripes and a kerchief of red circles his neck like a bowtie. The walls of the canal, one a muted red brick and one a faded white, rise high above the gentle ripples of the water, dwarfing the gondolier and making his boat, already slender, seem all the more fragile.
But the man does not fret. He does not pause his humming, even as the waterway became narrower, more dangerous. I wonder if I should warn him, whether I should shout at him to be careful but, with a gentle swipe of his oar against the water, like a cat playing with a mouse, he is once more on track. I need not have worried.
He raises a hand to me and shouts, 'attento a quella maschera,' but it is not until later that I learn it is he that thought I needed warning.
Emily Thompson, Year 12
There’s a dock, another building to pass through, a final door, and then - the city. Its vibrancy is unimpaired despite our distance - we're overwhelmed by the fantastic colours. While the surrounding buildings are constructed of brick in white, grey, red - all colours muted enough to calm the senses - the venders and their numerous stalls bloom with every colour imaginable. Tables selling fans are draped in scarlet cloth, trimmed with gold and silver thread; they exude a royal invitation to peruse. Stalls, layered with silk of topaz and emerald, display a menagerie of silver animals for sale. My body vibrates with energy. I must take everything in, from the warmth radiating from the paving slabs and heating my skin, to the way the salted humidity ruffles and disarranges my hair.
We move from one stall to the next, a flock of starlings in the summertime, swaying where the breeze takes us from one stall to the next. I hear my mother chastise my brother, who is begging for a few more euros. 'Just five more,' he whines, and my own desperation is mirrored in his tone.
'No,' my mother responds, but the rest of the argument escapes my notice – and my care – as I step away to browse a selection of Venetian masks.
'Venticinque euro,' says a woman, tall and slender. The syllables slide over one another with such delicacy, her intonation rising and falling as if the price were a song.
'Grazie,' I respond, though my attempt is flat. I provide a close-lipped smile to apologise for my butchered attempt at her beautiful language. She nods, and I continue my search among the masks.
The variety is astounding; large, small, ornate, simple, black, white, every colour imaginable. My wandering fingers stop beside a beaked mask of blue, a trimming of golden lace following the curves and hollows of the border. Not quite. I move along. The next mask is a rectangle of red, a moustache of plaster carved beneath a protruding nose. My brother would like that. The final mask is pitch black, though there are silver threads woven into the trim of the border, which rises in a pair of feminine curves, suggestive of feathers in a flapper’s crown. I hold it in my palm, lifting it to my face. It covers only the upper half of my face but, through its eyes, I see my mother smile.
'Questo, per favoure.' My second attempt is passable as Italian. This one, please.
With my new purchase tucked away in my rucksack and my final three euros spent on biscotti, I weave among the cloth covered tables in search of my family. I’m in no rush, so I wander along the canals, smiling as the humming of a near-by gondolier and look down to
see his dark roots appearing from beneath my feet. I do not trust myself to remember the picturesque scene before me.
With a hand as steady as a surgeon’s, I rest the Venetian mask on the handrail of the bridge, ensuring its stability before proceeding to remove my phone from my back pocket. I get level, crouching. Considering my rule of thirds, I position the mask accordingly, ensuring the gondolier is within shot. He’s wearing a shirt of white and blue stripes and a kerchief of red circles his neck like a bowtie. The walls of the canal, one a muted red brick and one a faded white, rise high above the gentle ripples of the water, dwarfing the gondolier and making his boat, already slender, seem all the more fragile.
But the man does not fret. He does not pause his humming, even as the waterway became narrower, more dangerous. I wonder if I should warn him, whether I should shout at him to be careful but, with a gentle swipe of his oar against the water, like a cat playing with a mouse, he is once more on track. I need not have worried.
He raises a hand to me and shouts, 'attento a quella maschera,' but it is not until later that I learn it is he that thought I needed warning.
Emily Thompson, Year 12