john matthew riva's :: :: posterous

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.

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.