john matthew riva's :: :: posterous

how a memory fades...

that after taste, the lingering of an impression and its soft focus, in the degradation of a moment truth is revealed.

the birth of a memory as the senses are woven together to be stored in a vessel for remembrance.

an image, prepared to accept new elements, as colour takes on a kind of aroma one can taste, the atmosphere is infused with the silence of a distant echo, motion implied by gesture, and time irrelevant, it is warm here and familiar, a bridge to the past.

all this richness stands ready and willing, to be accessed by triggers, markers we make or learn or stumble upon, ready to breath again, as it does now...

the red cloak sings over emerald water, thick like fresh milk, light trying to deny the existence of shadows, those Gondoliers and their familiar exchange... an old friend one sees at a glance in a habitual embrace

this welcome haze lifts...

how a memory fades.

It would seem that sound, especially that which one might conjure up of water lapping away at a beach, the sound of the water that one might expect, that one knows is there but can't quite see, evades. Here amongst buildings on wooden stilts, piles of rubble, and sand. There are no beaches, no undulating ocean and its syncopated rhythm, no occasional flash of white foam at the crest of a wave under the gaze of the moon. Here there is no time, no steady melody to measure it by. It would seem impossible that these island palaces could be huddled together in such unlikely numbers. In the night their foundations beneath them are stripped away and the truth of their construction passes for a lie... instead they rest upon columns of light. Gondolas and their masters navigate these waters by the grace of open widows and lanterns in perfect harmony with the silence and the footsteps, the stable and the wavering, the deep green mirror like water of the Adriatic basin and the softness of the sky.

Another Biennale has come and past. Another year where the best we have to offer as a Race is on display, and as usual that means the Israeli Pavilion and the Venetian Pavilion in the gardens steal the show... But aside from a photo art-chive of my trip through the maze, I wanted to digress a bit. There is an impression that borders on expressionism that Venice leaves with you, like the smokey aroma of a campfire on ones clothes. Venice seems so familiar and so alien. It welcomes and makes you wonder, lost in it's reflections and light, still yet dancing, never a straight line, you happily get lost in an urban language you knew before you learned it. This place changes as each moment passes, but despite the cries that it is sinking you might not believe it as timelessness begets time. You just might not care that you're lost in it as it saturates all you know. More to follow.

I start this posterous off with a memory that is simultaneously distant and recent...

Traveling from Switzerland to Florence I found myself in Milano Centrale Station with that cathedral glass roof of yesteryear, armature exposed and still bearing the patina of steam trains and the grey scale clouds they billowed out. What an elegant piece of architecture and an amazing abacus of travel: stories both familiar and fantastic, of lovers and tears, of wandering students and honeymoons, of stories of war and transactions. How many feet have scampered on to trains as they announce their imminent departure? Like them I found myself mesmerized by this place's majesty and my infinitesimal place in it as I tried to cram in as many shots of its shape, light and feminine strength, leaving precious few moments before I too would be stranded behind. All I can say is thank you to whatever power gave me enough battery life to record this moment.