Mi primera visita a Venecia fue un viaje iniciático. Apenas dispuse de unas horas de luz para perderme por sus callejones oscuros y húmedos, cruzando bajo rostros de piedra en las esquinas y sobre puentes que no llevan a ninguna parte, siguiendo el borde de los fondamenta que rodean la isla y los canales, evitando las estelas de batelli, traghetti y vaporetti, ignorando las colas fantásticas de las góndolas. El frío de diciembre se colaba por los resquicios de la bufanda mientras el acqua alta obligaba a instalar pasarelas de madera en la Piazza di San Marco. El fuste imponente del Campanile se reflejaba en el espejo de la plaza extendiendo su imagen imposible bajo las paredes doradas del Duomo.
Exprimiendo el poco tiempo disponible en un viaje relámpago de ida y vuelta en tren desde Pisa, traté de evadirme de las multitudes que asediaban los lugares habituales y me interné decidido por las callejas de nombre diverso que se entrelazan en el dédalo intemporal de la isla, calle, fondamenta, riva, rio terà, corte, campo. Calles deshabitadas que llevaban a patios secretos de hermosas ventanas, rincones que desembocaban de improviso en campos abiertos bajo las nubes plomizas en cuyo centro brotaban los inevitables pozos musgosos. Los puentes y las torres torcidas, las chimeneas de amplios sombreros que dentaban el horizonte de tejados, los gatos innumerables paseando su rabo rizado por los filos de los muros. Las tiendas de fruta o de objetos maravillosos en los barrios profundos donde no llegaban los turistas, a la espalda de los barcos y las góndolas, enredados en ropa blanca puesta a secar y alguna que otra rata en el camino. Los canales inverosímiles que surgían en cada esquina hundiendo cada día la ciudad un poco más, el laberinto sin salida.
Exprimiendo el poco tiempo disponible en un viaje relámpago de ida y vuelta en tren desde Pisa, traté de evadirme de las multitudes que asediaban los lugares habituales y me interné decidido por las callejas de nombre diverso que se entrelazan en el dédalo intemporal de la isla, calle, fondamenta, riva, rio terà, corte, campo. Calles deshabitadas que llevaban a patios secretos de hermosas ventanas, rincones que desembocaban de improviso en campos abiertos bajo las nubes plomizas en cuyo centro brotaban los inevitables pozos musgosos. Los puentes y las torres torcidas, las chimeneas de amplios sombreros que dentaban el horizonte de tejados, los gatos innumerables paseando su rabo rizado por los filos de los muros. Las tiendas de fruta o de objetos maravillosos en los barrios profundos donde no llegaban los turistas, a la espalda de los barcos y las góndolas, enredados en ropa blanca puesta a secar y alguna que otra rata en el camino. Los canales inverosímiles que surgían en cada esquina hundiendo cada día la ciudad un poco más, el laberinto sin salida.
Once años después regresé a Venecia. Alguna noche más para poder recorrer sus calles y canales, volver a sorprenderme y a buscar símbolos, encontrarme con los mismos olores y sabores. Sin soslayar la Venecia más célebre que bien merece un encuentro, la de la Piazza di San Marco, el Puente Rialto, la desafiante punta de la Dogana junto a Santa Maria della Salute o los palacios del Gran Canal, la verdadera Venecia de patios emparrados, canales sin puentes y puertas secretas aún puede encontrarse entre las nieblas del pasado, mezclada con algo de historia, de literatura y de imaginación.
Le debo mucho a Hugo Pratt que a través de los devaneos de su marino maltés me hizo buscar y encontrar la Venezia nascosta, la del león griego del Arsenal que pierde su piel de serpiente septentrional entre las brumas, la de esculturas con turbante y puertas torcidas en el Campo dei Mori, la de poder entrar en Venecia por la puerta de atrás desembarcando furtivamente cerca la Madonna dell' Orto y dando cuenta de una sabrosísima pasta a la sepia en I Quaranta Ladroni, la del Ghetto Vecchio y sus estrellas de David sobre los arcos, la de la Giudecca al otro lado del Gran Canal siempre demasiado lejos, la de la isla de San Michele poblada de cruces y cipreses, la de San Pietro de Castello siempre de espaldas a la ciudad, la de la corte sconta detta arcana a la que se llega de la manera más insospechada, la de la Repubblica de la Serenissima, la de los sueños y las leyendas.
Venecia nunca me defrauda y siempre me deja con ganas de más. Nada más irme ya tengo ganas de regresar. Es una ciudad que no es, una isla que no para de hundirse y que no puede crecer, un momento del pasado detenido sobre las aguas de la laguna. Venecia fabulosa e inmortal.
(Venecia, diciembre de 1997 y abril de 2008)
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FABLE OF VENICE
My first visit to Venice was an initation journey. I had just a few hours of light to get lost in its dark and wet alleys, crossing under stone faces at the corners and on bridges leading to nowhere, following fondamenta rim that surround the island and channels, avoiding the battelli, traghetti and vaporetti wakes, ignoring the fantastic tails of gondolas. Cold December filtered through the cracks of the scarf as the acqua alta required to install wooden walkways in the Piazza di San Marco. The imposing Campanile shaft was reflected in the square mirror extending its impossible image under the gilded Duomo walls.
Squeezing the short available time in a whirlwind round trip by train from Pisa, I tried to escape from the crowds that besieged the usual places and I interned through the alleys of different name intertwined in the timeless maze of the island, calle, fondamenta, riva, rio terà, corte, campo. Deserted streets leading to secret courtyards with beautiful windows, corners that unexpectedly flowed into open fields under the grey clouds sprouting at the center the inevitable mossy wells. The sloped bridges and towers, chimneys under broad hats drawing the horizon of roofs, countless cats walking their ruffled tail on edges of the walls. The stores of fruit or wonderful items in deep districts where tourists never reach, at the back of the boats and gondolas, entangled in white clothes out to dry and some rats in the way. Unlikely channels that emerged at every corner, sinking every day the city a bit more, the maze with no exit.
Eleven years later I returned to Venice. One more night to walk its streets and canals, to be surprised again and search for symbols, to meet the same smells and flavors. Without ignoring the more famous Venice that is worth a meeting, the Venice of Piazza San Marco, the Rialto Bridge, the challenging point of the Dogana next to Santa Maria della Salute and Grand Canal's palaces, the true Venice of ivy courtyards, channels without bridges and secret doors can still be found in the mists of the past, mixed with some history, literature and imagination.
I owe much to Hugo Pratt that, through its Maltese sailor wanderings, made me search for and find the Venezia nascosta, that of the the Greek lion in the Arsenal losing its northern snake skin in the mist, that of the sculptures in turban and twisted doors in the Campo dei Mori, that Venice to get into by the back door landing stealhtly near the Madonna dell 'Orto and relishing a tasty pasta alla sepia at I Quaranta Ladroni, that of the Ghetto Vecchio and the David stars on the arches, that of the Giudecca across the Grand Canal always too far, that of San Michele island populated with crosses and cypress, that of San Pietro di Castello always back to the city, that of the corte sconta arcane detta arcana which is reached by the most unexpected way, that of the Repubblica della Serenissima, that of dreams and legends.
Venice never disappoints me and always leaves me wanting more. Just gone I am eager to return. It is a city that is not an island that keeps on sinking and can not grow, a time in the past stopped on the waters of the lagoon. Venice fabulous and immortal.
(Venice, December 1997 and April 2008)
My first visit to Venice was an initation journey. I had just a few hours of light to get lost in its dark and wet alleys, crossing under stone faces at the corners and on bridges leading to nowhere, following fondamenta rim that surround the island and channels, avoiding the battelli, traghetti and vaporetti wakes, ignoring the fantastic tails of gondolas. Cold December filtered through the cracks of the scarf as the acqua alta required to install wooden walkways in the Piazza di San Marco. The imposing Campanile shaft was reflected in the square mirror extending its impossible image under the gilded Duomo walls.
Squeezing the short available time in a whirlwind round trip by train from Pisa, I tried to escape from the crowds that besieged the usual places and I interned through the alleys of different name intertwined in the timeless maze of the island, calle, fondamenta, riva, rio terà, corte, campo. Deserted streets leading to secret courtyards with beautiful windows, corners that unexpectedly flowed into open fields under the grey clouds sprouting at the center the inevitable mossy wells. The sloped bridges and towers, chimneys under broad hats drawing the horizon of roofs, countless cats walking their ruffled tail on edges of the walls. The stores of fruit or wonderful items in deep districts where tourists never reach, at the back of the boats and gondolas, entangled in white clothes out to dry and some rats in the way. Unlikely channels that emerged at every corner, sinking every day the city a bit more, the maze with no exit.
Eleven years later I returned to Venice. One more night to walk its streets and canals, to be surprised again and search for symbols, to meet the same smells and flavors. Without ignoring the more famous Venice that is worth a meeting, the Venice of Piazza San Marco, the Rialto Bridge, the challenging point of the Dogana next to Santa Maria della Salute and Grand Canal's palaces, the true Venice of ivy courtyards, channels without bridges and secret doors can still be found in the mists of the past, mixed with some history, literature and imagination.
I owe much to Hugo Pratt that, through its Maltese sailor wanderings, made me search for and find the Venezia nascosta, that of the the Greek lion in the Arsenal losing its northern snake skin in the mist, that of the sculptures in turban and twisted doors in the Campo dei Mori, that Venice to get into by the back door landing stealhtly near the Madonna dell 'Orto and relishing a tasty pasta alla sepia at I Quaranta Ladroni, that of the Ghetto Vecchio and the David stars on the arches, that of the Giudecca across the Grand Canal always too far, that of San Michele island populated with crosses and cypress, that of San Pietro di Castello always back to the city, that of the corte sconta arcane detta arcana which is reached by the most unexpected way, that of the Repubblica della Serenissima, that of dreams and legends.
Venice never disappoints me and always leaves me wanting more. Just gone I am eager to return. It is a city that is not an island that keeps on sinking and can not grow, a time in the past stopped on the waters of the lagoon. Venice fabulous and immortal.
(Venice, December 1997 and April 2008)
(c) Copyright del texto y de las fotos: Joaquín Moncó
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