I arrive at the island and kill a few minutes observing the morning rituals of the local shop owners getting ready to open for business, and at 10am I peer into the window at the Museo di Merletto. The front door is opened almost immediately by a gentleman who asks (in Italian, of course) if he can help me. I introduce myself in broken italianglese and he immediately ushers me into the building. He is an andministrative employee who apparently doubles as a security guard for the charmingly small museum. It's clear very quickly that he speaks virtually no English, but introduces himself as Alberto and valiantly conveys the basic museum layout and policies using English and Italian. He guides me to a starting point in the first of the four rooms which comprise the museum's permanent collection and leaves me to roam.
The lace is absolutely, breathtakingly magnificent. Really. The quality and condition of every single piece displayed is staggering. STAGGERING. I cannot begin to express how amazing it feels standing in the presence of such a large amount of lace, which took so many master lacemakers so many millions of hours to create. But the most powerful impact of all comes from examining the condition of the pieces and understanding the intense amount of reverence and care that has gone into the handling and storing of these pieces over sometimes hundreds of years since their creation. No member of the Lacis family, all of whom have spent years helping American lace collectors restore and care for abused lace, could possibly fail to be profoundly moved by the radiantly pristine collection at the Museo di Merletto.
After the first half hour of salivating over complex pictoral scenes in needlelace, a smartly dressed woman arrives and I meet Dott.ssa Prendin, who speaks Italian, French and German fluently but almost no English. Thus, she speaks to me mostly in French because I understand it better than Italian, while I speak to her primarily in gestures, because I'm frequently more accurate in mime and sound effects than in English anyway. (Seriously, I so need to learn Italian, it is so totally super cool.) Dott.ssa Prendin is perfectly sweet and charming, though somewhat shellshocked by the degree of my enthusiasm for the collection (I'm sure no one who knows me can possibly imagine an Italian Lace Curator finding me overwhelming. Baffling.). She leafs through several out of print copies of books published by the museum and finds me several English descriptions of pieces in the collection. Sweet. I am officially in heaven.
The signs on the walls are very clear about the photography policy but i cannot resist snapping just a few. Flashless, basically none off them come out. Serves me right.
Alberto and Dott.ssa Prendin are knee deep in paperwork in the museum office when I realize that I've been there almost two hours and I really ought to get out of their way. I head over to thank them for their hospitality and Dott.ssa Prendin hands me a lovely lace book published by the Museo di Merletto and explains it is for the Lacis Museum Library. Oh will Jules be pleased, even if he somehow, magically, already has a copy in the collection. I ask if perhaps she might sign the copy for Jules. She is momentarily stumped and says her English is not good enough. I laugh. Sign it in Italian! She seems a bit bemused but signs the book (in Italian) to Jules Kliot and LMLT on behalf of Dott.ssa Chiapperino and the Musei Civici Veneziani. I thank her and Alberto profusely, carefully wrap the book up and pack it into my backpack, and make my way back out into the streets of Burano.
My Buranese Lace adventure complete I catch the waterbus back towards Venice, stopping at the island of Murano,where the insanely gorgeous glass comes from. Check out the exhibits in the street alone:
Sort like a classier version of the "Left my heart in SF" contest.
I wander about and peer into the window of one of the glass foundries. After a while one of the Glassworkers notices me, pulls me into the building and shows me where to stand to have the best view. I quietly stand and watch the glass artisans at work, not wanting to be a bother.
One amazingly deft master artisan introduces himself to me. His name is Gianni. Like the other Glassworkers, he speaks virtually no English but from time to time he will look over at me, smile, and raise his eyebrows, signalling that he is about to do something particularly fun-to-watch. Although I am attempting to be unobtrusive, within minutes my position near the door is discovered by other tourists milling about and soon about 9 or 10 of them are standing next to me, snapping photographs and talking over the roar of the fires. I am totally engrossed in deciphering the process I am witnessing. Several tourists arrive and leave again. Gianni speaks with none of them.
The supervisor who ushered me in comes back over and gives me a funny little glass flower made of scraps. It's very cute, if perhaps a bit wonky looking, but I'm the only one standing there who gets one and the other tourists look jealous.
It's good to be me.
After I have seen all the phases of the glass crafting which are visible from my vantage point, I catch Gianni's attention, hold up my camera and say " Gianni, Per Favore?". He smiles, eyes twinkling "Si...Rebecca" and totally hams up the next few minutes for me. My pictures do not do him or his work justice. I'd like to blame it on the light but it's probably me.
The Glass is putty in Gianni's Hands.
A glass artisan turning a similar vase as it heats up in the fire.
A buff glassworker rolls molten hot glass on a metal table. The collection of naked-girl posters on the wall of his station is pretty impressive too.
Walking down the paths near the foundry, some finished examples of Glass Artisan Handiwork are on display:
I have watched them work for nearly an hour but I have no idea how they achieve this level of detail.
The glassworkers have perfectly captured Oliver's constant expression.
I spend the rest of the afternoon hopping all around Murano, checking out all the awesome glass shops and spending absolutely no money. Cough cough.
Then I hop on the waterbus and head back to my little hostel in the heart of Venezia.
Goodbye Isle of Glass.
I have a fluffy formaggio pastry with a cappucino for my midday snack and do not spend any more money at all. Ahem.
Then I head back to the hostel and leave again almost immediately for a very late, light, Italian lunch with hostelkids Fabian, Nick & Danee (Australian) and Natalia (Brazillian). I have an excellent pizza with mushrooms, prosciutto and mozzarella. Everyone else orders the lasagne. But my pizza is better. Ha.
During the meal Nick tries to teach me to use the timer on my camera. The concept of focusing continues to elude us, but whatever.
L to R: 3/4's of Natalia, me, Danee, Fabian and 1/3 of NickWe all head wander about, killing time with gelato tasting, and wine shopping for dinner (the complimentary dinner at the hostel is always B.Y.O.B). Then it's back to the hostel and as there's very little nightlife (everyone is still recovering from Carnevale) we watch I Know Who Killed Me with dinner (Awful), and Juno with our after-dinner glasses of Port (Awesome). And then everyone retires to bed.
Coming soon: The Road is Callin' My Name...
Notes: ASL, The Cat and the Funeral, Gianni-Technique, Murano Politics etc.
No comments:
Post a Comment