#48
She wrapped the figurine in cotton. It was €100, but it was probably a bargain. The man who made it was sitting behind his work desk, a blue flame of heat in front of him. He was working the piece of glass with what looked like no effort, while talking to me, finding out about who I was. His eyes tell you where he’s from, the shape of the Venetians. His cropped silver hair tells you his age. In his seventies. His patience can be seen in the delicate glass animals he creates.
The small gabbiano, or sea gull, is numbered. One of several. It has a weight to it. It’s solid. This one was in the window along with a couple of others. The shop, down a small calle, not far from anything, but a world away from everything. Across the small alley, the printer who makes my business cards, also, with a stamp of a gabbiano. Hand printed. One of the last. Maybe the last.
The light filters in the windows of these two shops as the sun moves overhead in the heat of the lasting summer days. The buildings keep it cool inside, no direct light comes in either the glass blower’s or the printer’s windows. A stream of people moves along, it’s on a path to a popular vaporetto stop, a few manage to linger in front of the displays. Even fewer venture inside, and only a minute number buy something. I’m minute. I spread the money I shouldn’t spend amongst the artists here in this little street in Venice.
Vittorio tells me about his childhood on Burano. He tells me about his son, who left the world of glass to open a bar, one month before the pandemic. He tells me about trips to Japan, Chicago, New York, showcasing his glass animals which reflect his love of nature. He asks why I speak Italian. We laugh. He tells me about his house on the terra firma, the walk from the train station each day that keeps him healthy. I wonder what it’s like to work in such a small shop with your wife. They seem happy. They seem content.
When I leave with the small white box which will keep me company on a long journey, I tear up. I wonder if the next time I’m in town he will be there, with his sharp smile, his delicate animals, his experience, his stories? It seems like it. But you never know these days.