La Casa Del Mercante

The mystery of what lies beyond always draws us in.

The ornate windows grills. The ornamental loading dock.

Is it a dank and musty warehouse? Or is it something extraordinary?

That which remains unseen always invites curiosity—and every corner of Venice is wrapped in it.

I wonder if the weathered and worn windowsills, arches, and columns are simply a metaphor for the temporariness of this city—how one good tempest might send it all crashing in upon itself.

Perhaps Byron described it best:
“In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more;
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces crumbling to the shore.”