update on my delirious state

I got lucky this morning and was assigned to do a translation. At first, I was marked on the schedule as having to do a 30 minute talk, which apparently had been decided last minute by the intern heads. The idea of forming coherent thoughts, let alone logically presenting information about an artist to visitors for 30 minutes, made my head feel like it was floating further and further from my body.... thankfully, they changed my day with someone elses. So I am now translating a press release in the serene space of the library. So far so good... lunch is next- also good.... but then will come the dreaded four consecutive hours of guarding. People will wonder who the zombie with the glazed look in gallery 4 is. wish me luck...

sleeping on a bench in deserted train station-- check

This is something that I can now cross off of my list of experiences to be had, things to do. Last night, I went to the beautiful city of Verona with my new friend Seth. We went to the opera, which takes place in a roman arena. It was wonderful: the sets were incredible and there were about 100 people on stage for each scene, as well as horses, chariots, and all sorts of other crazy effects that you don't normally at the theater. Somehow though, we neglected to find out when the last train back to Venice was and were unpleasantly suprised when we got to the train station to find that the last train had left hours ago and that the next train wasn't coming until 5:30 the next morning . We brainstormed plans... get a hostel? no one knew where one was. check out hotel prices? The lowest we found was 90 euros per night. So, knowing that we would have to get up early anyways, we found a bar that stayed open until 3 am and camped there til last call. This bar was called the Green Bar and had a radioactive neon green glow to it. It also played techno, giving us a constant pumping beat to our growing delirium.
delirium. yes. After closing time, we headed to the train station, where I crashed on one of the open benches on the train platform and wavered between various stages of unrest. Apparently though, benching it at the train station is not an uncommon thing to do... and there were many,many benches for all the people who had neglected to check the train schedules.
We made the train, and now I am at the Guggenheim. I'm not quite sure how I'll make it through the day without falling asleep. Maybe this will be the day where I find out what my breaking point is with the strong Italian coffees.... help.

spritz sunday

The only way that I can tell that today is Sunday at the museum is that we are serving the most popular venetian cocktail: aperol spritz. This bright orange drink is made with prosecco, aperol, and a dash of fizzy water, and can usally be seen dotting every table in the venetian campi each day, at cocktail hour. I've had my share and must say that I really like it... especially at work, on sunday.

Where are we going?

On my day off, I finally went to visit the Francois Pinault collection at the Palazzo Grassi. The show, "Where are We Going?" gave me just that confused feeling. There were the expected very bizarre pieces such as Damien Hirst's dismembered cows, which I had never seen in person. Although I knew what to expect- cut up cows with each part in separate sections filled with fermaldihide (sp?)-I didn't expect flashbacks of 7th grade fetal pig dissection to come rushing back, smells and all, turning my recently eaten lunch into a sommersaulting acrobat in my stomach. What made it worst was that one cow had its tongue sticking out like it had just suffered a cartoon death and the other cow had its eyes closed like it was wincing with pain. I somehow expected them to be more beautiful or awe-inspiring... for it to be more intriguing to see the insides displayed. However, it was no more intriguing than taking a tour through a butcher shop. I'm sure I missed the point entirely, but I was not a huge fan. I did like his piece called "Infinity" where sculpted multicolored pills were displayed on a mirrored surface, like shoes in a designer store. There were also many other pieces that I had read about in art history classes, but had never seen and although I was not very inspired by any of the works in the collection, it was still refreshing to go see a different museum and to try to wrap my mind around some of the bizarre works on display.

After the museum, I sat in a campo, reading up on the artist William Kentridge for the presentation I have to give on Monday evening. I met a woman who is studying art history and we started talking... As we sat chatting, a man walked past and asked if he could massage our feet... if he could pay us to massage our feet... 5 euros each. I am not one to usually turn down a massage, and wow, especially one where I get paid to be massaged....but the pleading way that the man asked, his sunburned face (like he had been walking around all day trying to get someone to take him up on his offer), and his shaded eyes, make me feel confident that I made the right decision in turning him down. I mean, if he had caught me on a day where I had my heels on... maybe we could have worked something out. He left and asked another young woman who was journaling on a bench the same question and she exploded in hysterical laughter after which he returned to our bench and asked us if we were really quite sure that we did not want it... yes, yes, we were absolutely sure. Sit in a campo long enough and you'll run into all sorts of people.

the museum as foreplay

A friend of mine, who is also interning at the museum with me, mentioned her surprise at how many public displays of affection there are with couples in the museum. She said it was as though for young museum goers, the museum is a sort of foreplay. I haven't guarded in a couple of days, but today I was back in that rotation... and it's true! In each room that I was assigned to, I noticed countless couples interlinked in front of paintings, hands plunged deep into each other's back pockets, making out. The most awkward is when there is no one else in the room aside from me and I all of a sudden become the voyeur of a little art make-out session. It's not pleasant.

An equally unpleasant thing that happened today:
As I was guarding, an old man approached and leaned in really close so that I could see the plentiful tufts of hair sprouting from his ears and said: "If I were 40 years younger, I'd ask you for your phone number." He eventually left the room and came back 5 minutes later, again leaning in real close. "How old are you?" he asked. When I answered 25, he said,"wow, I'm 50 years older than you." Then he stopped, thought for a moment and said: "we could have had some fun times together." WHat??? Why do people think that saying things like that is ok???????? and more importantly, why couldn't the cute art student who was immersed in the paintings come and talk to me instead? sigh.

Peggy Glasses

Yesterday, after assuaging my guilt by passing by the library to pick up a few books I'm going to need for my presentation, I decided to thoroughly enjoy my day off and head to the beach! After two vaporetti and a short stroll, I was there. Surveying the beach, it was clear that everyone else in Venice had the same idea as me, since it's been rainy all week: it was packed. I found a small rectangle of open sand- a small raft in a sea of bodies- shook out my towel, and just lay in the sun for hours. It was wonderful and relaxing. I even got some reading done.

Today at the museum was better... I was in the ticket office. Although it may not seem like much of a step up, it allowed me to talk to people (which is not allowed while guarding)and also required me to do 10 things at once (which I prefer to standing still for hours)... so it was a much more pleasant day, although by the end of the day, the whole broken record thing of saying the same thing over and over did get a little old.

Tomorrow, I am giving a Peggy Talk- a short briefing for visitors of the museum on Peggy's life and collection. The best part is that I get to wear the infamous Peggy glasses (http://guggenheim.stores.yahoo.net/pegusu.html)and have to present the talk at her grave site, perhaps channeling some of her eccentric energies. I know it sounds like a bit of campfire kitsch, but I'll make sure to leave my flashlight at home.

Emile

Emile is my new male alter ego, maybe a more agressive, assertive me... a personna that handed to me while I work in the museum. Let me explain. A few days ago, we were given badges that we must wear at all times in the museum. When I got mine, it came without the 'ie', but a mere bare 'e', changing Emilie to Emile. As I stood on guard in the galleries, I saw eyes drop down to read my name tag, eyes of french-speakers, and I had to suppress the urge, each time, to let them know that it was a mistake and that I was in fact, Emilie. Emile is hard to embrace, hard to make room for in my platform sandals. What would Emile do? I ask myself in certain situations... Would Emile quietly ask visitors sitting on the window sill to please get down, or would Emile cut out the niceties and demand in a clear, unapologetic tone for this same visitor to get down? Clearly this also shows that I have had a lot of time to think about useless things. I was guarding today for four hours straight... and man, was I bored to tears. There's absolutely nothing I can think of as a pro in that position: "Sure you have to stand and circulate for hours on end til your back is sore and you think you'll drive yourself insane with your own thoughts, while telling people what not to do, but at least..." I haven't been able to fill in the last part. Maybe there's something I'm missing, but I don't think so.

On the upside, I got to work in the library today and started translating an interview of Peggy Guggenheim that was recently transcribed from tape by another intern. I am translating it from English to Italian. Supposedly, before she bought the place, a woman lived here who had leaopards roaming the front yard. When Peggy moved in, she had a sculpture of a naked man with a huge erection riding a horse put in, which caused quite a stir in certain circles. Fortunately, the man's penis is detachable, so it can be removed when visitors such as nuns come through. I don't know if it has ever been unscrewed and removed. Peggy Guggenheim is definitely quite a character. I enjoyed translating and spending time in the library. Unfortunately, I think this is an exception to the usual routine... we'll see. If anything, I think that Emile is an optimist.