Angelo/Diavolo

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"The cathedral … says something to the people of this village which it cannot say to me; but it is important to understand that this cathedral says something to me which it cannot say to them. Perhaps they are struck by the power of the spires, the glory of the windows; but they have known God, after all, longer than I have known him, and in a different way, and I am terrified by the slippery bottomless well to be found in the crypt, down which heretics were hurled to death, and by the obscene, inescapable gargoyles jutting out of the stone and seeming to say that God and the devil can never be divorced. But I must accept the status that myth, if nothing else, gives me in the West before I can hope to change the myth."
— James Baldwin, "Stranger in the Village," 1953, Notes of a Native Son

"I read everything I could get my hands on—except the Bible…"
— James Baldwin, autobiographical notes, Notes of a Native Son

"I love to eat and drink … and I love to argue with people who do not disagree with me too profoundly, and I love to laugh."
— ibid

Convito in Casa di Levi, 1573, Paolo Caliari, Il Veronese (1528-1588)
Gallerie dell'Accademia, Venice
Click here for larger (but still horribly lacking) view.

Ciao, belli ragazzi!

It would be near impossible to select one of the countless astounding paintings one sees by wandering into any of Venice's dozens of churches and museums and declare it a favorite, but one that ranks way up on my list would be Veronese's Feast in the House of Levi—for its story as well as the wonders of the painting itself.

Veronese's ambitious effort was originally intended to illustrate that seder-of-all-seders, the Last Supper, but his imagination and sense of humor got the best of him and the final product landed him before a tribunal of the Inquisition, accused of heresy for his inclusion of superfluous characters not normally associated—in appearance or behavior—with more orthodox depictions of Christ's oft-represented final repast. He was spared being spit-roasted for his crime, but rather than compromise his artistic vision by making changes to satisfy his detractors, he simple renamed the painting so that future charges of heathenhood would be avoided. Apparently, heresy ain't heresy unless your rendering of drunks, dwarves, dogs, and idiots gamboling around every Christian's favorite Lord and Savior as he sups his last is actually called "The Last Supper." By playing with semantics Veronese avoided future run-ins with the religiously crazed (to whose obsession the whole of Venice is a monument), and saved his thrilling masterpiece for heathens like Yours Truly to enjoy for centuries to come.

One can't say that heretical artists don't run into trouble today. But it's probably hard for youngfolk to imagine in this era of the Piss Christ (whose creator, Andres Serrano, didn't receive as much as a yanked fingernail or public flogging for his artistic transgression) that it hasn't been too many centuries since including a midget in a painting of Jesus could get you dragged before a tribunal whose members would've loved nothing better than to nail you to a cross—or worse.

Being somewhat of a heretic myself, I was able to use my short time in Venice to seriously enrage a devout Catholic with whom I was traveling. Things started out just fine, and ended amicably, too, although only after I apologized for offending her religious sensibilities and not, I noted to myself, because any apologies were offered for bruises made to my own tender sensibilities. (I took early umbrage to find certain areas of all churches off-limits to anyone not entering to pray, and it wasn't until the third or fourth stop that I realized I could just pull up my scarf to conceal my un-Christian proboscis, sneak to a pew and fake piety, thereby getting a gander at a few extra, exquisite Carpaccios and Tiepolos.) But there was a moment when I apparently went too far in poking fun at Venice's dazzling display of Catholic excess.

B—, an Argentinian friend of someone I know from l'Alliance Française, is one of those people who would irritate the hell out of me if she were not so entertaining. I hadn't met her until the day before she, my schoolmate Aurie, and I left for our Venetian adventure. B— speaks about as much French as I do, maybe a bit more, but rather than slowing down her discourse by explaining her way around words she doesn't know in French by using French words she does, she simply substitutes their Spanish, Italian, or English equivalents—whichever ones come to mind first. She's also a fearless and intrepid traveler who starts up conversations with anyone and everyone, and we rarely entered a restaurant or boarded a vaporetto without B— starting some animated and enjoyable conversation with those around us.

Now that I'm no longer in language classes and I have to make a pointed effort to find ways to practice my French in Paris, this was a welcome opportunity to really exercise my foreign language skills. Unfortunately, I had forgotten nearly all the Italian I once knew, and it seemed that for every Italian word I recalled I would forget two words of French or English, and trying to keep up with B—'s rapid-fire Francoitalispanglish had me talking like her in no time, so at times I had no idea what was going to come out of my mouth when I spoke. (I do believe that in trying to find out whether it was faster to walk or take the water bus to Venice's main square, I asked, "Si je quisiera andare to la piazza San Marco, è celui-ci le vaporetto justo, or est-ce que c'est piu bene pour y caminar à pieds?" I don't think my Argentinian accent was half bad, either.)

Anyway, I don't know when it was that I started to annoy B— by interrupting her multilingual socializing with my running heretical commentary. I don't believe it was when I pointed out the attendant in St. Mark's Basilica who was removing all but one of the recently lit candles from a votive rack, leaving the last as a shill to encourage the next throng of tourists to buy a moment of God's listening time. I'm sure it wasn't when I wondered aloud why a relief of the Madonna and Child on the Basilica's wall had an 18th-century rifle attached to it.

It could have been when I picked up the receiver on the device that in one's choice of languages gives the story of the Pala d'Oro, described as "the most precious and refined expression of Byzantine genius … , understood as the raising of man towards God" but which struck me as just the most vulgar expression of Christian obsession, painstakingly created from enough gold and precious gems to have probably ended poverty and starvation among the Church's followers at the time. The listening device looks much like a pay phone, and I asked B— if I might use it to have a word with God. At the center of the enormous Pala sits Jesus holding what the recording claims is the Good Book, its text replaced with precious jewels. B— did not smile when I told her that I wished to ask the Lord if it was really a Bible, and not a copy of an appraisal book that Jesus was using to tot up the value of his loot.

It's not that I was trying to be rude or anything. I was just attempting to add a little levity amid an impressive display of excess whose beauty shouldn't really be gawked at without at least a weensy nod to its darker side—the arrogance, oppression and bloodshed it represents despite its inarguable splendor and artistry.

Perhaps what tipped B— over the edge is when I told her the story of finding an atheist bride for my single and nonbelieving brother by writing my future sister-in-law—who didn't know me from Adam— a persuasive letter of proposal. (Anyone reading this who knows me is familiar with the tale of Michael and Julia.) Rather than finding my story warm and adorable, she was visibly shaken by it and one didn't need to speak four languages to know that her polyglottal muttering conveyed sheer dismay. I admit that I was a bit taken aback by her reaction because she is the first person ever, even counting people who have assured me that a place in hell awaits me, who didn't find the story worthy of a smile and a hearty congratulations. I couldn't quite understand what she found so unsavory about Michael and Julia's impending nuptials, but she did mention Satan himself. "Allons!" I cajoled her. "Come now, you don't really believe Satan had a hand in it! Why would you assume it was work of the devil when the two of them seem happy and obviously meant for each other? I can't see how it had much to do with anyone but the earthly parties involved."

"C'est pas possible!" She shook her head, sad as could be. I had just ruined her otherwise lovely pizza lunch. I didn't want to keep digging, but at this point I was beginning to take some offense myself. We had just left Santa Maria della Salute, the magnificent baroque church built to give thanks to the Virgin Mary for ending the plague that in 1630 brought the deaths of more than a third of the city's population. The church is so grand, so splendida magnifique bellissima, that I hadn't been able to resist asking what seemed such obvious questions: What more astounding place might the Venetians have built had more people been "saved?" Why didn't they build it sooner to make it worth the Virgin's while to put in an earlier appearance? Rather than thanking the old girl for saving two-thirds of their population, why didn't they build something condemning her and honoring the third she and Mr. Big let perish? Of course, to the faithful these questions aren't considered, nor are they considered valid. God, Jesus, the Madonna—they're responsible only for the good stuff, and only they do good stuff.

"So, what if instead of giving myself the credit for putting my brother and Julia together, I said it was God guiding my hand when I wrote Julia the proposal? Then would you like the story better?"

"Oui. Ça serait mieux." That would be better. Peace was restored. Until we were wandering through the Gallerie dell'Accademia and I told her that all the gay Catholic men I know (as well as a few gay non-Catholics) give St. Sebastian—always depicted with his oh-so-brief yet coyly placed loincloth, handsome features, and arrow-pierced flesh, and frequently enjoying some form of bondage—full credit for helping them discover the pleasures of their own flesh when they were teens.

Now that I think back on B—'s berserk-ish reaction, that's probably when I crossed the line from what devout Catholics might be able to shrug off as good-natured kidding to the kind of talk that makes them keep a safe distance for fear that when God strikes me dead their faith might not suffice in protecting them from flying debris.

There's certainly more to tell of Venice, as the above conflict was neither so awful as to diminish our good cheer at being there, nor upsetting enough to anyone on high that Venice sank any further into the sea than it would have had I not asked where Bellini got his magic mushrooms that inspired his Madonna with Red Cherubim; or not noted the irony in the fact that in the gift shop of the basilica whose religious leaders once threatened unconventional artists with death and eternal damnation one can now buy keychains made from rosary beads and bearing the logo of the local gambling casino; or not guffawed loudly at the sign in St. Mark's that read "SILENCE! OUT OF RESPECT FOR THIS SACRED PLACE, IT IS FORBIDDEN TO GIVE EXPLANATIONS INSIDE THE BASILICA."

I have a slew of new favorite painters whose names I'd never heard before (notably Bernardo Strozzi and Giuseppi Angeli), and I am now firmly of the Veronese-beats-Tintoretto-anyday school of thought. (B— says that the lack of detail in Tintoretto's larger-scale canvases compared to other Venetian painters of the day is insignificant because they're all meant to be seen from afar, and they're just as powerful despite their lack of fuss. They don't need no steenking detail; "their force comes from God," she explained. Cough.

This weekend also marked the beginning of Carnevale. I think I may be the last person among my circle of friends and family to finally get to Venice, and I confess to a bit of trepidation beforehand at the idea of arriving for what I pictured as drunken throngs à la New Orleans at Mardi Gras or Halloween in San Francisco's Castro district in a city that might be just too overrun with tourists for my tastes, but I was dead wrong. Of course the place is rife with tourists (of which I am one) and the businesses that cater to them, but it is (as if I am not the last to say it) magnificent. And mysterious, quirky, comfortable—at night sometimes sorta creepy. I loved everything about the place.

I do suspect that one of the city's problems in keeping its head above water is the sheer weight of the chotchkes for sale on Venice's streets and store shelves. Along with the genuine-but-costly Venetian-made glass, lace, and costumery, the Taiwanese goods that are imported to feed visitors' rapacious appetite for more-affordable souvenirs must double the weight of this city made of stone. But their affordability and availability also allowed everyone to join in the spirit of Carnevale, and there were very few people in the street who didn't at least wear a small mask or hat, if not all-out, wildly over-the-top costumes. (On B—'s suggestion my mask was two-tone: Half white to represent my angelic side, and half red to represent il diavolo.) The party got off to a rocky and sad start after two workers were killed in a construction accident and the city called off all celebration on Saturday out of respect and mourning. (Imagine canceling New Years in Times Square or Mardi Gras in New Orleans to honor the memory of two American workers!) The streets were nearly deserted on Saturday evening and then filled with sober-but-nutty revelers the following morning. (Good coffee instead of alcohol fuels a completely different, less sinister-feeling celebration than similar-type gatherings in the States.) San Francisco's Halloween crowds would die of envy to see such a spectacle.

Back in Paris I am trying to shake my new Argentinian accent and recover my lost French vocabulary. I have yet to see what reversals have been dealt my already frustratingly slow progress with la langue française.

a dopo…

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