On "Place"
I ran across this painting by the Italian artist Ludovico Marchetti (1853-1909) in an old auction catalogue. It's a typical nineteenth century genre scene executed by a second tier artist, whose most important claims to fame are that he apprenticed with the Spanish artist Mariano Fortuny (probably in Rome) and worked and exhibited at the Salon in Paris. I was attracted to this picture for several reasons, the most overwhelming being the artist's indication of place with a minimum of means. A simple visual reference to a canal and a glimpse of the prow of a gondola is all that is necessary for the informed viewer to instantly identify the location of the painting as Venice. There is a difference between "location" and "place." Location indicates a specific point on the earth's surface, relayed using a latitudinal and longitudinal reading. Place, on the other hand, involves the subjective experience of the cultural and geographical features of a particular location. These include architecture, flora and fauna, ethnic groups, cadence of language, cuisine, local customs, weather patterns, etc. Place is what we think about when we remember a location.

On attempting to discuss Venice, Henry James, acknowledges the redundancy of the object, stating, "Venice...It is a great pleasure to write the word; but I am not sure there is not a certain impudence in pretending to add anything to it...There is nothing left to discover." James does, however, add something, I think, to the discourse on Venice. He suggests that a visitor can only discover the true Venice--"place"--by becoming weary of its attractions and slowly absorbing the quotidian rhythms, senses, and sites of the city. "It is by living there from day to day that you feel the fullness of its charm; that you invite its exquisite influence to sink into your spirit...Tenderly fond you become; there is something indefinable in those depths of personal acquaintance that gradually establish themselves The place seems to personify itself, to become human and sentient, and conscious of your affection."

Returning to the picture, it is not the subtle implied narrative that attracted me, but rather certain formal elements, including the faded Pompeiian red of the hotel sign, the sheen of the woman's indigo bodice, the contrast of the gilding and ebony on the prow of the gondola, and the transparency of the turquoise waters of the canal. Of further interest to me is the handsome gentleman and his typical late nineteenth-century attire, including his bowler, the tawny kidskin gloves, and his tan spats, visible beneath the cuff of his pants. Spats are a shoe accessory that became fashionable in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. They are stiff fabric covers that cover the top of the shoe and extend up the lower part of the leg, covering the ankle. Spats evolved from eighteenth century "spatterdashes" also known as gaiters that prevented water from getting into walking boots. They were worn by soldiers, farmers, and others who were exposed to rain and mud. Spats were usually white, tan, grey, or black.