Before I fell in love with Italy, I fell in love with Venice: its labyrinth of canals, its herds of pigeons, its old bookstores, its tiny alleyways and scattered dead ends.  I loved the lines of clothes drying between buildings, the shouts of the gondliers, and the hand-crafted masks.  It was a city of many firsts: first hostel, first spritz, first Italian admirer, first encounter with a wild rat,  first time loosing all sense of orientation in a city- not just geographically.  The week was a blur, full of late nights, sketching sessions, new friends, and poetry.

I’ve been back to Venice several times, and every time it takes my breath away.  I much prefer the crisper months there, when the streets are emptier and the sun is lower.  It’s a completely different atmosphere; the buzzing breath of summer and laughter becomes a light sigh, barely audible against the stillness and echos of the clouds’ shadows.

This painting is based off an image I took in the summer, ironically.  But, with the rainy glimmer and drained palette, I can pretend that it is a late autumn afternoon.