Lost in Venice

On impulse, I signed up for an 11-day workshop in Venice,one of the world's most romantic cities. But what I learned from the feel is that creativity doesn't come from skanky carpet and dodgy meditations - it comes from the magic we find in our surroundings and within.

Day One of the workshop, facilitated by American writer Shelley Berc and artist Alejandro Fogel, turned out to be a non-event. Checking the flyer, I find it is an 'arrival day' - hmmm, good to see crafty integration of creativity on all levels together with programming. This means I have an extra day to get my bearings in the floating city, the city of dreams. And the opportunity proves invaluable - no matter that I have a map glued to my forehead, the labyrinthine streets keep me trapped in their centuries-old walls for many pleasurable hours.

Roller Skates Shops

I fall fast in love with obscure laneways; peeling window frames housing explosions of colourful geraniums; the mint, peach and burnt orange facades reflected a thousand times over in the waterways; the endless hum of ferries and water taxies; and the swirl of dust that never settles under the army of tourists and locals tromping the streets in the absence of cars, skate boards and roller blades.

Day Two proves the facilitators have creative skills in pilotage too. Their advice that the workshop is in Accademia, the antique learning seat of the city, has me ferrying up and down the Canal Grande looking for the venue which turns out to be located one precinct north.

I subsequently arrive late, only to be dismissed thirty minutes after my advent - we are being sent exterior to interview an additional one workshop participant for an introduction rehearsal tomorrow. Over a modest lunch of the local Asiago cheese, I participate in a thoughprovoking interview with my workshop colleague, Jeanne from Washington Dc.

The creamy cheese settles my nerves, and I resolve the earlier bog-laps of the Grand Canal are verily fortuitous - I had spied the Peggy Guggenheim museum along the way, and head off now to look for it.

Navigating Venice by foot is entirely different than the relatively straightforward waterways. But I stay open to the idea of getting lost, and the journey is as thoughprovoking as the destination. Happily, I thread my way along some of the 3000 footpaths and 400 bridges that join together 150 streets of water. I examine charming outdoor eateries and bars, glorious churches housing priceless artworks, archaic theatres advertising an evening of Vivaldi; but not the Guggenheim. It doesn't matter - I am confident I will come over that on an additional one day of aimless wandering.

I become Jeanne in Day Three of the workshop, and introduce myself (as Jeanne) to the class. What an thoughprovoking rehearsal to assume an additional one identity and examine the foibles, quirks, loves and passion of an additional one individual. I find myself describing a home I've never seen, a circle of friends I've never drunk with, and a blossoming association with an older sister who has a much prettier name than me.

The rehearsal came quite verily seeing as I had already practised role-playing yesterday. Rounding a curve in an alleyway of shops, I'd burst into the Piazza San Marco, Venice's most magnificent open square. Thousands of pigeons made the pavement swim in the shadow of the glittering Basilica di San Marco, the 15th Century clock tower and the Doge's Palace, house of the rulers of Venice since 814Ad.

Under the portico of the ornate arcades lining the square, I had imagined I was the daughter of a medieval millionaire arriving to meet my suitor - naturally the Doge's son. Either him or Casanova - I wasn't about to be fussy. Instead, who should swan by but Al Pacino on his way to the commence party of Merchant of Venice inside the sumptuous golden palace.

My wild woman was purring with the power of visualisation after this experience, and I went to bed feeling super-charged.

We meditate upon advent on Day Four, sending our stress out windows and our creative selves to a 'quiet place'. I try to send my wild woman to one of the hundreds of canal-side cafés, but she only wants to sit by the Bridge of Sighs with her Casanova - Venetians claim lovers who kiss below the bridge will be together always.

"Snap out of it," I warn her.

"No, I don't like it in that room," she sulks. "The carpet is skanky, and you're lying on it! Iiieeeuwwww."

Her words plant a sense of unease in the back of my mind and a horrible itch up my spine. So when the meditation continues with a journey back in time to a place where our creativity ended - for me it was at University where I discovered boys, hair dye and an inexplicable attraction to goth - that's pretty much where my creative urges end for the day too.

Packing my shrinking creativity (now the size of a wrinkly sultana) into my reporter's bag, I ferry to Lido, the island hosting the 61st Venice International Film Festival. It is verily lucky my creativity is flagging here - the dog-eat-dog world of foreign press is no place for a fragile soul. With over 3000 reporters from colse to the world all fighting for a spot in the 200-seat press consulation room, elbows, snarls and tiger compel are the tools for success.

Needless to say, with my wild woman in the state she is, I supervene in recording Nicole Kidman's commence of her new film Birth, and witnessing Lauren Bacall receive a standing ovation.

But to reconnect with soul afterwards, I lose myself in a pleasurable join of hours wandering the pristine beaches and relatively contemporary (yet no less exquisite) mansions lining the waterways.

On Day Five, my 'quiet place' is now a prison, and my wild woman's sulk of yesterday has escalated into a black storm. She writes a short screenplay using a button, a coin, an earring and a bus ticket, but she's cross that it doesn't compete with the literary genius of Venetian masters like Robert Browning, Freya Stark or Giacomo Casanova.

Ahhh, Casanova. "Where is my debonair man of dubious intent?" I ask, and inspired with the prospect of seeing a modern-day version, hit the streets in crusade of him.

In a funky bar under the Rialto Bridge, I find him in Cristiano, an actor working on Casanova, (I know, the irony kills me!), currently being filmed in the back streets of Accademia and starring Heath Ledger. He introduces me to refreshing Mojitos (lots of them), Paolo the Murano glass-blower and Giovanni - the oldest gondolier in Venice.

"How do you drive a gondola?" I ask.

"Like this," grins Cristiano with a wink. "It's all in the stance, not the wrist."

I copy his swaying petition and we rock together, driving our imaginary gondola down mystical waterways straight through the moonlit night. Giovanni just cackles uproariously adding to the myriad of sounds permeating the Venetian canals and streets.

Day Six is a day off. Gasp! I run back to the flyer and examine Day Eleven is equally non-existent, and is described as 'departure day'. With a sense of horror, I guess the 11-day workshop is verily only 24 hours over eight days. Even less when I factor in the early close times Shelley is getting into the habit of.

Originally, I had carefully the Us50 tuition fee a cheap rate for 11 days at say, five hours of instruction and performance per day - I mean, even with the poor transfer rate, Us per hour was acceptable. However, I am now seeing at 20 hours of feel time, bringing the cost of the workshop up to Us.50 per hour.

My insides clench at the discovery - this represents an mammoth number of money to me, and a fee that I would not have paid had I done my homework before signing up. To flee my condemnatory self and cruel calculations, I run to the nearest ferry stop and pick one at random.

"How much is a mark please?" I ask the conductor.

"Due ore," he replies.

"Si, two-way," I nod.

He waves me to a seat and I take it. It's not until a few minutes after the ferry is chugging away from the ever-bustling Piazzo San Marco that I process the meaning of due ore - two hours. I'm carrying no water, no warm clothes, and no urgency corkscrew. The knife-edge prospect of my adventure charges me with excitement and a new surge of inspiration.

We pass by deserted islands pock-marked with crumbling buildings. No doubt these were successful home and church sites to Venice's 160,000 citizens in her hey-day 600 years ago. Now, with a citizen of only 60,000 spread over the 117 artificial islands, buildings are falling apart, bell-towers lean perilously off-centre, and the city is sinking - in fact, it has sunk more than 22 centimetres in the last 100 years.

In the 1950s, high tides had Venice underwater 30 times; in the 1990s, more than 100 times. Last year, Piazza San Marco spent a description 108 days underwater. Shops lining the quadrate are ready for the acqua alta with mechanical clothing racks that retract toward the ceiling, and thigh high galoshes are sold alongside designer clothing.

This insight of a city slowly dying only serves to feature her autumnal beauty. Appreciation for her colours, aging grandeur and slow food is enhanced ten-fold with each passing minute.

Ninety minutes after leaving the Square, we arrive at Torcello, the former seat of Venice founded by influential Italian families on the run from Attila in the sixth century.

Of all the Italian churches designed to sing the glory of god and inspire awe in his subservient follower, no church has ever humbled me like this one. Its raw simplicity and crude construction speaks volumes of the profound faith and fortitude of the former settlers. Each stone in the dank walls tells a story of hardship, community, and a oneness with god that is naturally breathtaking.

A laborious climb takes me to the top of the antique bell-tower, still in working condition. From the slight windows, I see a colourful slight town over the water. I right away board an additional one ferry and chug off to investigate.

The town is Burano - a fishing community preponderant for its intricate lacework. My senses are assaulted with the cacophony of colour and raucous singing advent from the many pizzerias lining the main street.

I could spend hours here, but it is already 4pm - time to head back for the 5 o'clock bells that peal over the city waking drowsy citizens from the afternoon heat and heralding the re-opening of shops for business.

It is the soul-quenching balm I need to get me back to the workshop on Day Seven. Sadly, it doesn't last long. We are advised the key to creativity is to steal other people's words and make them our own.

Naturally, this doesn't please my wild woman. What's more, she is even wilder when she is sent back to the 'quiet place' and forced to grow fur, long ears and fangs while the meditation.

There is only one way to regain my sense of beauty, and that's to go out for 6000 glasses of Bellini - the cocktail of Venice.

I head for Harry's Bar, the birthplace of the peachy concoction, but at Eur13 (Au) for a small glass, resolve to go the minimalist approach and have just the one. But, as usually happens with the minimalist approach, 3am sees me running straight through the streets singing Dean Martin songs and high-fiving statues of saints freezing in their benevolent poses. But I do get to give some English tourists directions to the nearest ferry stop, so that I'm feeling like a local. Awesome!

I don't recommend going into a creativity workshop with a hangover, as happens to me on Day Eight. Head spinning, the instruction to cover my wild woman with thousands of eyes sends me into a scratching frenzy trying to get them all off.

As if it isn't bad sufficient that I am already covered in mosquito bites. Nasty ones too. They're different to their Aussie cousins - the bites aren't itchy, just glaring red welts. Tip: take repellent if you go to Venice!

"I'm blocked, I'm blocked, I'm blocked," is what comes out of my pen while an automatic writing rehearsal on Day Nine. And it's not just my creativity that's blocked.

After two weeks of a pasta and pizza carbohydrate overload, my ideas is craving fresh fruit and vegetables. The scarcity of land means no farming takes place on the islands - all fresh yield is shipped in on barges at essential price and hassle, especially in winter. When the water rises while the wetter months, the boats can no longer pass below the low bridges, additional complicating the 'importing' of everyday necessities.

I make a promise to myself to go in crusade of a floating fruit and vegetable store at one of the busy squares, but get waylaid at a slight store bursting with intricate masks where I spend more than a join of easy hours.

The visualisation on Day Ten has two birds taking my hands and arms away from my body and flying over Venice. "Write about what you see," says Shelley.

"I can't write," my inner brat says. "The birds have my hands."

I feel deformed without arms. I want to feel beautiful again, like I did yesterday when the mask craftsman brought an elucidate mask over my face with a graceful sweep of his wrist.

Gently, he had tied the silk ribbon behind my head, and wordlessly draped a hooded cloak colse to my shoulders. In careful movements so meditated they bordered on ritualistic, he located a sceptre in my hand and turned me to the mirror. I was portable to an additional one world, one where Casanova was waiting for me in his carriage just outside. One where masks were the order of everyday life, where women and men alike donned masks to shop, dine and attend balls in their veils laced with thoughprovoking promise.

Later, I dreamed of Vivaldi, ornate masks and decadent costumes swirling colse to me, and the smouldering eyes of the Cellist seeing deep into my soul. This new visualisation of attractiveness works. I feel a shift. A small vibration of creative urge causes my fingers to tingle. The pens locked in my satchel now appear less like handy stabbing implements and more like magic wands retention infinite creative ideas, letters home and soul secrets.

I take my new power to my café in Accademia and sit. And sit, and sit, and sit. It's my favourite time of the day when the hundreds of heartrending bells peal over the city. I share a smile with the white-haired lady at the neighbouring table, and can't help but dissolve into uninhibited laughter. It's the essence of life in Venice at 5pm - slow, valued and verily shared. Most surely my new 'quiet place'.

Lost in Venice