Tiziano Scarpa

In Venice houses are so naked that they show their viscera, tube the arteries of the aqueducts under the skin and the intestines in the water drains, but the nervous system of electric wires and telephone cables often runs on the surface of the skin. In Venice houses have eyelashes and tentacles, they are filled with ropes and pulleys where linen can be hung.

In Venice the cords for the washed linen graze the plaster under the lids of the shutters and the windowsills, or they are tied to the opposite side of the calle, obliquely crossing entire campielli. In Venice, from the window leave trains of underpants, carovans of sockets, processions vest creaking on rope trails. In Venice no policeman is going to fine you for hanging your wet linen out of the window in order to dry it, as happens in any other city. In Venice clothes don't limit themselves to the exploration of surfaces and depths, they're not content with line the human skin and explore the mysterious whirlpool of the washing-machine. In Venice clothes know how to become flags and stendards, gonfalons and pennants. In Venice the shy bra is astonishing, for the amount of things one learns by listening to the beats of girl's heart, buried under stratified sweaters: maybe that's why it lets itself be blown to the four winds? through it lace riddled with holes like secrets. In Venice the discrete sheet envelopes highly personal letters made of embraces: maybe that's why it sometimes loses its mind, feels pumped up with love and with lust for the infiniteness, and tries to make the house sail like a sail fixed to the shrouds by pins. In Venice palaces adobe themselves with the detective's raincoat to cover the planking from the restoration works. In Venice there's a house where clothes have grown on the plaster like clinging ivy. In Venice there's a house which has wound like a reel of thread with the rope full of clothes: it has been a moment of self-discipline: afraid of getting mad, the house captured itself, imprisoned in a strait-jacket made up with blouses and T-shirts. In Venice there's a house where the washing tentacles have surrounded the whole plaster: it was a moment of tenderness, she felt the need of holding herself.