Love Venice, Hate Being A Tourist..

I hesitate to attempt writing about Venice, and as a photographer, it’s a challenge to produce images that are vaguely original. So many people have done it, and probably in a more competent and informative way than I can muster. Looking around for meaningful quotes led me to several which express a similar sentiment. American writer Henry James, writing in 1882, probably sums this up best ; “….I am not sure there is not a certain impudence in pretending to add anything….There is notoriously nothing more to be said on the subject. Every one has been there, and every one has brought back a collection of photographs.”

So, that’s that then.

Well, no. I may not be overly good with words, and I sometimes struggle to create the images I want to, but I feel the need to express….something…. I suppose that’s one of the things Venice does to you.

Photographically, I knew I’d be faced with endless opportunities. I tried to avoid the usual and the clichéd, but it turns out to be almost impossible. There’s something striking, but slightly familiar around every corner – The sun reaching down through the high, narrow spaces at various angles, lighting up the cracked and crumbling buildings on it’s way to illuminating the greeny-blue water below, which ripples and sparkles as the bow of a Gondola, almost silently, cuts through the waterway. See what I mean – cliché! Don’t get me wrong, I love it. It’s all gorgeous and textured, captivating and evocative, and a lot of the time I found myself just standing, staring with a daft smile on my face. However, as much as I find the sunlit city a feast for the senses, for me, there is just as much magic in the hours of darkness.

” In the glare of the day there is little poetry about Venice, but under the charitable moon her stained palaces are white again…” Mark Twain.

Wandering the alleyways and bridges in the dead of night is an absolute pleasure. It becomes a different place entirely. The crowds disperse. You still see people, mostly with map in hand, looking for street names, but it’s so relaxed, so quiet. There is no constant drone of distant traffic because, of course, there are no cars. Occasionally the silence is broken by a lone late water taxi, or even some local lads cruising with bass booming sound systems. But the sound is soon dulled by walls and water as the boat disappears off into the labyrinth, leaving just the liquid lapping noises along the edge of the canal. Even the crazy crowd hotspots of Rialto and San Marco can be almost deserted, allowing a leisurely look at some of the architectural wonders without having to dodge the backpacks and selfie-sticks.

The belltower of St.Giocomo del Orio,looming over the building in which we stayed. Yes, it was noisy at times.

You can even find space for a a dance at San marco at midnight!

Light spilling out of doorways and windows creates soft, coloured mozaics in the dark waters with their reflections.

I love photographing people. Like most cities, Venice provides plenty of opportunity to capture some of the local faces, especially around Rialto Market. After around 9 a.m. the place begins to heave with shoppers and sightseers alike. I saw guided tours coming through there, groups of up to 20 or 30, possibly from one of the giant cruise ships docked out near Tronchetto at the western end of the city. They’re all baseball caps and Nikon DSLRs, which are as ubiquitous now as the old Box Brownie was in Edwardian times.

Most locals get their shopping done early, in an attempt to avoid the mass of onlookers parading along the market stalls.

The loading and unloading of fruit, vegetables, mushrooms, and fish goes on most of the morning.

It seems that at markets all over the world, there is always at least one old chap who comes to watch. This man stood for almost an hour in the same spot, every now and then he would survey the stalls of fish with owl-like movements of his head. Eventually he moved in to buy a handful of shrimp from one of the fishmongers. He then stood back in the same spot and devoured them there and then.

At one point a group of guided tourists flowed past him as though he were a permanent fixture of some sort, like one of the pillars of the building itself. They seemed oblivious to his presence, and he to theirs. It was almost as if they passed straight through him, like a ghost.

” Though there are some disagreeable things in Venice there is nothing so disagreeable as the visitors.” -Henry James, 1882.

Venice gets in the region of 20 million visitors a year. This is a city of just 55,000 residents. The authorities are trying to minimise the impact with their “Respect Venice” campaign with, it seems to me, limited success. I still saw plenty of people doing exactly what the posters ask them not to. If the number of residents continues to drop, there is a danger that the city, as a living, breathing, working city will just die long before it’s in danger of sinking far below the waves.

Don’t block jetty’s or steps where access is needed…

Of course, the numbers have been swelled in recent years with the arrival of more and more huge cruise ships. In the high season the city can registers upwards of 20,000 passengers coming ashore per day! There have been some changes in the routes taken and in the maximum size of ships allowed, but the debates over environmental and economic issues still rumble on.

I so wanted to see this place. It’s one of those places on the ‘must see’ list, and I absolutely love it – the architecture and the art, it’s people and it’s history,….But I kind of hate being a tourist! I am well aware of the strain the city is under, the sheer numbers of people and the effect that has on the residents and the functioning of the city, so I feel slightly schizoid about this. On one hand I don’t see why I shouldn’t experience the place, but on the other there’s the slight creeping guilt at being a part of the problem. In the end I think you just have to go, treat the place and its people with respect, be humbled by it all and soak up as much as you can of it’s utterly unique atmosphere.

More photo’s HERE

Early One Madeiran Morning

The warm, humid, flower scented air greeted me as I stepped out of the cool, conditioned atmosphere of the hotel around 7am. I was still feeling a little groggy and bleary eyed, but I wanted to wander through Funchal in the quiet of the morning and head for the fish market with the camera, before it filled up with too many tourists.

As I headed down Avenue Sa Carneiro, there was a group of local youngsters, late teens, early twenties perhaps, all gathered around a Renault Cleo parked up on the wide promenade. There was dance music thumping out of the car stereo and they seem to be still buzzing from partying all night. They were a little raucous but good natured enough. They went quiet, throwing wide eyed looks at each other as the group parted to let me pass. There were stifled giggles from some of the girls as I strode through in my rather obviously touristy attire. Across the road there was a burger van, there to cater for the late night/early morning partygoers in need of breakfast.

Every weekend in June there are concerts, street performances and a huge fireworks display out over the harbour, all part of the Atlantic Festival. There were little groups of activity all along the otherwise empty promenade in preparation for the first night of festivities. As with any kind of activity like this, there is always an audience. Older folk, usually, take a seat or just stand and watch as chattering workmen go about their tasks. Maybe I noticed it more, being in a different place, but there seemed to be a lot of just observing – people sitting and letting the world unfold around them. Some sit alone looking out to sea or watching boats come and go in the harbour. Some sit in pairs, occasionally making an exchange of comments.

As I approached Mercado dos Lavradores – The Farmers Market, I paused across the road and just did what several locals were doing around me. I watched.

There were the flower sellers, just setting up on the wide pavement. The two women were dressed for the tourists, in traditional costume. The younger of the two was talking with a passer by, an acquaintance it seems, who appeared to make fun of the traditional hat, carapuca, that her friend had to wear.

All along the streets there are little espresso bars where people stop, briefly, to sip down the morning caffeine. Here, outside the market, people were a little more leisurely, some sitting at tables perusing the newspaper, and some simply staring into their coffee, not quite ready to take in the activity around them.

On entering the building, I passed by the aromatic flower stalls, the colourful mounds of fruit and veg, and headed straight to the fish market. The locals had already gathered on the steps overlooking the hall below, and I paused for a while to observe with them, while acclimatising to the rising fishy smells.

The people buying fish here seemed to be mostly women.The housewives and restaurant owners, I presume, seem to spend a long time discussing the cuts and prices. One pair of ladies were with one vendor for about an hour and watched like hawks as the vendor carefully cut up his wares. Whatever the language, you can always understand the gestures and sounds for “no way!”, “Too much”, “smaller”, “bigger” followed by the final smiles of agreement and exchange of cash.

Some seen to cut more carefully than others, or maybe its a matter of different techniques and cuts. Some hack more than cut, quickly making chunks. Others are almost like surgeons, slowly deliberating and assessing before making precision incisions into the flesh.

I descended the steps and hovered around the periphery of the rows of stone slabs, steel sinks and chopping boards. Doing my best to stay out of the way as crates of Scabbard Fish were dragged around the floor, I started looking for pictures.

I’d been shooting for while, wandering from place to place. A couple of times I got a prolonged stare from the some of the women going about their shopping. I knew I stood out, white legged in my shorts and wearing my creatively decorated “summer” hat! There were still no other sightseers around at this point, so I carried on wandering and snapping. At one point, I stopped to change lens, and as I looked up, someone beckoned me from across the room.

“Hey camera man!” he called with an insistent wave. I walked over to where he stood, behind a stone slab where he was working on what looked like Tuna.

“Americano?” he asked

“No..err…”, I grappled for the Portuguese for Welsh, only to come up with the French!

“Inglés?” He continued. Then I remembered.

“Galés!” I blurted out, and for a second he looked thoughtful.

“Ah, Galés,” he nodded, then picking up the cleaver, looks more like a machete really, in one hand, and giving the thumbs up with the other, he struck a pose.

“You take my picture camera man Galés!”

He laughed, and the couple of people who had gathered to watch ( yes, even in that short time an attentive audience had formed! ) joined in as they dispersed.

I noticed a few people taking snaps with their phones, selfies with the ugly Scabbard Fish, as a the trickle of sightseers increased. Very soon the fishermen, fishmongers, their everyday customers, and not forgetting their regular, early morning audience members, would be outnumbered by visitors. Just as I started my way out, I had to struggle against the incoming flow of a torrent of Japanese tourists being led by a tour guide. Once they had passed I climbed the steps, and almost immediately, the distinctive, cold, sharp odour of fish and their entrails was replaced by a warm mixture of floral, fruity, earthy and spicy aromas. I’m getting a bit peckish by this time and buy a few bananas, then it’s back out onto the street. There was a little more traffic now, and I followed a man carrying a large sack of potatoes on his shoulder across the road and away from the busier streets.

Sitting down under a tree to eat my purchases, I noticed the thermometer outside a nearby shop. 21 degrees, at 9am. Nice. Its going to be another good day.

More Photo’s from Madeira HERE

Lurking Around The Station

I’ve been lurking around the train station in Aberystwyth a lot lately. I’ve always liked the atmosphere in train stations. Airports and bus terminals too, have a similar feel. Its humanity on the move.

With Aber being a University town, its population fluctuates in accordance with term times, and the beaches bring the seasonal migrations of holidaymakers. Compared to main line stations in the cities, this one is tiny, but the single remaining platform of the Victorian station is often a busy place.

Sometimes there’s the quiet chatting of the local, regular travellers, or the boisterous banter of students, clustered together as they set out on some new adventure together. Next to them, in stark contrast, could be the silent couple, staring into each others eyes, contemplating a reluctant, painful farewell. The angst hanging, tangibly over them.

Mothers and fathers struggle with the family baggage while attempting to rein in excited children or placate exhausted, crying babes. A lone traveller sits apart from the crowd, staring at their feet, and there’s often a bright eyed young woman, fidgeting and throwing desperate glances down the track, impatiently awaiting the train that will bring her lover home. Some bury their heads in a newspaper or book, while others, the youngsters in particular, stand, thumbs a blur over the screens of smart phones, texting wildly as music buzzes in their earphones.

“The train now arriving….”, rattles out of speakers overhead, and the train rumbles up to the platform. The crowd shifts and takes on a new shape. Those embarking, position themselves for boarding, the others hold back, trying to peer in through the windows to catch sight of their returning friends or family. The doors open with an hydraulic hiss allowing a torrent of weary passengers, luggage in hand, to tumble out. For a few minutes those embarking mix and mingle with those arriving in a chaotic exchange of position, punctuated with hugs, kisses, handshakes and the occasional joyous shouts.

The general murmur of voices is replaced by the monotone drone of the idling diesel engine. The few people left, scattered along the platform, are waiting to deliver their final farewells through the grime blurred windows. Some silently mouthing words, and some, communicating by phone, like a scene from some prison drama. A few latecomers wearing vexed expressions jog up to the train hoping they might still be in time to secure a seat, and then the platform is all but empty.

The platform is rarely completely devoid of people, many come to snack under the shelter it provides and it’s often used as a short cut on the route to shops and car parks, but even when empty the station holds a certain fascination. There is still a feeling of anticipation there, as though the old walls have somehow been infused with the amalgam of emotions emitted by the constant flow of people over the last 150 years or so. I’m no believer in ghosts, but I do think that places somehow acquire what almost amounts to personality.

Despite the various alterations and additions to the building, it’s retained enough of its original features to remain fairly inoffensive to the eye. The sunlight can create some pleasing shadows as it plays around the wrought iron structure, and at night, the electric lights make their own patterns.

Next time you’re sitting in a train, or waiting at the track’s edge, and you spot that strange chap with a camera, it’s probably me. I mean no offence. I often wonder, as I bring the camera to my eye, if there’s someone observing me. Someone else “people watching”. We all do it. I try to record just a little of what I see.

AberStation on Flickr