I woke up the next morning thinking about Scarpa and all that happened the day before. All the things I wish I could have said when I was writing about it suddenly flooded into view. Everything swirling with excitement. I felt good, and I was inspired. Though I had only had about three hours of decent sleep, my brain was focused in that moment. Maybe I’m getting back. Just somehow not when I’m writing this blog at midnight. I hope my brain holds it.

Maybe something about the translation from those thoughts into words. Into the material world. Louis Kahn used to talk about that a lot–the immeasurable to the measurable. How do you hold on to as much of the immeasurable as you can in that translation? He spent his entire life working some version of that question. And if you know anything about his life, it was not easy. Sleeping at the office, two families, a son who had a strange relationship with his father (if you haven’t, you should watch the documentary My Architect. It’s phenomenal, and follows his son as he learns about his dad through his work). Anyway. Some are better at it than others. And that’s why they’re great I guess. And maybe some people don’t think about it too much at all. Perhaps I’m trying to focus on that in my work. Should probably only take a lifetime.

Reminds me of a song, which makes me laugh a little bit.

The other day after the Peggy Guggenheim exhibit, we walked to a church, and across from the church was a random gallery in an old building (obviously) with a Bruce Nauman exhibit. I have seen his work all over the country–in D.C., in New York, etc., but sometimes it’s still hard for me to spot his work. I’m usually always surprised when I walk up to a piece and see he’s done it. But I do always find it interesting. And also a little…weird. I love weird art.

I decide I’m going to check it out before I meet my aunt and uncle for lunch at noon. It opens at 10:00. And there is a Louise Nevelson exhibit I saw on a poster on the way back to my room one night. It opens at 11:00. Maybe I can make them both…

As I’m sitting in a cafe outside the Academia, drinking espresso, waiting for the gallery to open, I do some research on Bruce. For some reason I am now focused on people’s thought processes. Maybe I always am when I see art, architecture, but I’m like, very focused on it now. As I try to get my brain back to a creative place.

I find this video on youtube from the Tate Museum. Just a quick overview of his work, his process, who he is.

• He wants the work to be disturbing, though not a cheap, shocking disturbing.
• He is a master of filling space, whether with sound, light, or color.
• He’s inquisitive.
• He said, “If I’m an artist and I was in the studio, then whatever I was doing in the studio must be art.”
• He operates with artist’s block and a faith that something will come.
• He’s inspired by music.

I can’t wait to see his work from this perspective now. His focus on the process. He’s already determined he’s an artist. And if this is so, his work in the studio is art. Therefore the process is one of exploration. And because he’s not focused on a specific media, it’s about the idea, the thought. And the media is just the language of the process. And there’s a faith that something will come from that.

I walk in. It’s small, and the building is old, nondescript. But everything that has been inserted for the gallery is pristine, beautiful concrete. And the gallery walls are phenomenally white and tall and they fill the space just so perfectly. Ah, see, I can do this. We can do this. I mean look how simple and beautiful the desk is. And the dumb lockers in the coat check. They’re perfect. But then I touch the concrete, running my hand along as I walk through a door. I stop. This is Ando’s concrete.

Yeah, we can’t do this.

Tadao Ando’s concrete makes my heart flutter. If this isn’t Ando, someone got his concrete formula, and I need to know how they got it. I can try to do this, but again, the work on the translation may take me a lifetime.

I walk through the gallery with my new Bruce lenses. An entire exhibit called “Contrapposto Studies”. Though this is very different than David’s contrapposto stance. Him walking through his studio in this way, turning around, walking back. A piece of performance art with a woman walking in such a way through the gallery. Him walking through his studio and turning around, but the video is split horizontally through the middle and the two pieces are slightly off. You get to wear 3D glasses for this part. Enormous screens of his hands in different positions. I love it. And I think of the process. And all the while walking through Ando’s concrete.

I walk through the book shop on my way out because I can’t resist. I feel stupid asking who the architect of the gallery is. Generally people don’t know anyway. But I see a post card with a sketch on it. It’s one of Ando’s. He did the gallery. Damn it’s good.

I’m speeding through because I also want to see Louise before I’m swallowed by the day and a visit to the Doge’s Palace, which I could take or leave.

I won’t make it to see Louise, so I make my way back to the room to drop my camera and things. On the way I stop in at a Joseph Beuys exhibit real quick. It’s small and wonderful.

I also lift my sunglasses to check out some more street art next to the Peggy Guggenheim gallery. Just an older guy with his tiny watercolors leaning against a wall. He starts talking to me ninety miles a minute. He’s a professor at the college, sixty layers of paint on these, he really likes this one, and this one, it’s more blue.

“I like this one, how much?”

“For you, twenty-five euros… I like your eyes. You have a good energy. Beautiful soul, I can tell. You are a painter. Aren’t you a painter?”

“I try. I’m an architect.”

“Ah! I knew it. You know, architecture is the beginning of the arts…”

I’m sure he says those things to everyone.

Off to lunch. Harry’s Bar. On the water. Apparently Hemingway and other famous people through time used to come here. Now that’s how they get tourists there. And it’s overpriced and everything is fancy.

Off to the Doge’s Palace. I already decided back in Florence I didn’t care to see another palace. But my uncle wants to see it. He likes the history of these things. The power play of it all, the money, kinda makes me sick to think about in these places. But we walk through. Enormous rooms with huge murals and painted ceilings and gold moldings and everything so intricately carved. Ok. Got it.

There is an exhibit that I keep seeing banners for, and finally we find it. An exhibit by Anselm Kiefer. Apparently commissioned two years ago for an exhibit at the Doge’s Palace. And it’s phenomenal. These enormous pieces that fill the walls. But also somehow leave space between for thought. And the work is outstanding.

Back out to hang out in the room before dinner.

I tell my aunt and uncle at dinner that the next day I am going to see Louise. They can come with me, or I can meet up with them later. My aunt wants to come.

I do a cursory search for where it is. She is being exhibited at the Arsenale. Oh my god, I’m excited.

I have heard about the Venice Biennale for years, since I was in school. A chance for each country to exhibit an artist, each in their own pavilion, and every other year, architecture pavilions. I am apparently a year off for the architecture, but the art is all over the city. And specifically concentrated at the Arsenale where they have the pavilions for each country.

My aunt and I meet in St. Mark’s Square, our meeting spot everyday since it’s halfway between our rooms, and make our way to the Arsenale. We have to stop a few times to rest. It’s particularly warm and humid this day. My uncle stays behind, closer to the room so he can rest. He had a knee replacement several months ago, so it’s a little harder for him to be out and about all day. He probably wouldn’t have liked this anyway. I showed him the photos of the Tomba Brion and he was completely uninterested. To each his own, I guess.

We walk into the exhibit and it is breathtaking. Contemporary artists from all over the world. It’s so wonderful. I’m so happy to be here. My aunt even enjoys it too, interestingly.

She finally says, “I like modern art much more, but he always wants to see all the old stuff, and the churches, so I go along. With this you get to make your own story. And you know, wonder ‘what were they thinking?'” I just thought she was uninterested in all of it this whole time. “Well tell him you want to see this stuff too!” Tell that man you want to see this stuff! Damn. Go see it! If this is what you like, my god, go do it. I agree, the churches get old after a while.

Some pieces I really love. Paintings by Noah Davis catch my eye from across the room. I love it when I find new artists to love. The information next to his work: “Noah Davis’s work was dedicated to detailing contemporary Black American life through a uniquely incisive and often melancholic lens.” It’s really powerful. Here in Venice for the world to see.

We walk through and at some point, I realize that there is only one Louise Nevelson piece here…Hmmm…I just looked it up so fast, that it only showed the piece she had at the Biennale. There is apparently an entire exhibit at St. Mark’s Square that is dedicated to her. Whoops.

We continue through the exhibit and through the individual pavilions. I wait until we need to turn around to tell my aunt that this isn’t actually the exhibit I wanted to see. But I’m so glad we’re here.

We walk back to where we started, get a snack, and continue on to see Louise. It’s free. An entire Louise Nevelson exhibit off St. Mark’s Square, and it’s free.

It’s so wonderful. I have always loved her work. And I’ve enjoyed her personal image as an artist: her eye makeup as dark and dense as her enormous, black-painted pieces; her attire as eclectic as the collages she puts together. She and her art were one. Unlike Bruce, she found a medium and explored it her entire life.

There is a video about her life and process playing in the last gallery. It’s funny to hear an old lady, toward the end of her journey, still working in the studio, talk about her life and work. They asked her about her ex-husband and I want to quote it but I don’t remember it exactly. She said something like “why do I have to talk about him? I would have changed my name back if I didn’t have a son and want to stay connected to him in that way. Before I married him, I told him I was going to still pursue my life, and he agreed. They always agree to things before the wedding.” Basically she loved art, studied it, etc. and needed to continue that study for herself, for her life. Her husband agreed, but eventually did not like the time she spent in practice of her work. They divorced. Not a partnership.

We walk out and my aunt leaves for her room. I try to find the Olivetti Showroom by Scarpa. It’s just around the corner here at St. Mark’s. There are so many people inside that I walk in briefly, see a few things, and back out. It’s also really great.

We have drinks on the square with snacks and music. There are three bands that play each night, each trading off after a few songs in a rotation around the Square. Each with an upright bass, piano, clarinet, violin. But one has an accordion, which is the one we sit by.

Dinner at another spot and back to the hotel to pack my stupid backpack. I have developed a serious love/hate relationship with this poor backpack. And now I have more books that have to find their way in the mix.

I talk to a friend for a while and procrastinate. It’s nice to catch up with everyone. Apparently I’ve missed nothing in Memphis.

I get up the next morning and begin my excursion to Zurich a couple of days early (I couldn’t take the mosquitos and that apartment anymore, which sounds high-maintenance, but when I can hop on a train and leave, I’m taking that chance). A train ride. One way, no transfers, six hours. Easy.

I get to the train station early because I just want to chill and get some lunch. There is a McDonalds. I want the fries. I am so hungry and decide I will eat a hamburger and fries. When I tell you I have not had a McDonalds hamburger since I was about five or six, I am not joking. At some point I decided hamburgers and hotdogs were gross and I stopped eating them until college. I also hated Chick-fil-a until college. And now I will eat those things, but I’m very particular. I’ve only had McDonald’s breakfast in moments of desperation or after a night of drinking. Which I guess is also a moment of desperation.

Anyway. It’s not completely gross, but not like I will ever do it again probably.

I ride the train for about three hours. It’s delayed getting to every station and at one point after crossing into Switzerland, it gets to a station and stops. And then the power is cut to the train. Neat.

Eventually they tell us this train is having technical difficulties and we all have to transfer trains. I’m getting into Zurich at almost 9:00 pm now.

I listen to Viola Davis’s book the entire time. It’s one thing I love about travel, there is absolutely nothing else I am supposed to be doing. Other than literally moving through space. So I have time to think. And this is so interesting to me. We have completely different lives, grew up completely differently, do completely different work. If you were to look at our lives side by side, there is nothing the same about them. She experienced things far worse than I have and could imagine. But I found myself understanding how she felt at different moments. The things she wanted for her life, people she connected with, feelings she had in certain situations. Because I’ve felt that way too at various times. Anyway. Human experiences, human feelings, human connections. It feels good to hear those things. And to want to connect and love people even more. Lots of people are going through something. Sometimes things more horrible than you can imagine, and sometimes small moments that add up. And to work through them and come out on the other side is powerful. The journey through healing is sometimes scary and lonely. Other times you are surrounded and filled with love. It’s so important. The time and energy spent to find your place in the world and within your self. Finding home within yourself. And then give back. Love others and help them find that too. Talk about it, share. It’s hard. Really hard sometimes. I don’t know. It’s both necessary and a privilege. Contradictory. A paradox. Maybe it’s just life. Anyway. Thank god people are willing to share their stories.

Somehow when I finally step off the train in Zurich, it feels so good. I forget how magical it is to come into a city at night. Everything is glowing, people in restaurants. It’s cool and a little rainy. People running along the river. Hazy mountains in the background. It’s really lovely. I decide I could live here.

My last minute hotel is wonderful. I was praying on the train for a nice hot shower and a comfy bed. Here it is. And the city is so, so cozy right now.

So, chilling in Zurich (literally) for a few days before Paris. It’s been a really good couple of days. Grateful to be experiencing it.