City of the eye

1685503-1260980-thumbnail.jpgI’m looking out of  the windows from Peggy Guggenheim’s Palazzo onto the Grand Canal, its flow of milky turquoise playing across the turbulent surface of a Jackson Pollock and the linear serenity of a Mondrian seascape. 1685503-1260968-thumbnail.jpgThe snow cold air glints on the translucent crystal surfaces of one of Calder’s playful mobiles, like fragments of coloured ice suspended on wire.. To Joseph Brodsky, Venice was a city of the eye, where after a while the body starts to regard itself as merely the eye’s carrier, as a kind of submarine to its now dilating, now squinting periscope. In the morning the winter light, he goes on, breasts your windowpane and, having pried your eye open like a shell, runs ahead of you, strumming its lengthy rays along arcades, colonnades, red brick chimneys, saints, and lions.(Brodsy, Watermark) 1685503-1261024-thumbnail.jpgYesterday it arrested me in a narrow alleyway near the Frari – a vivid display of scarlet, rose and rust orange made doubly resonant by its name: calle Tintoretto.