Violet St . Clair | Article & Photo

Souvenirs are funny things ; sometimes expensive , sometimes a giveaway , sometimes grand , sometimes just found on the beach , but always evocative , stirring , and transporting ; a bit of leftover lustre once the 9-to-5 is strapped back on . This year they had an added poignancy and magic reminding me of the world beyond . Bereft of terra incognita during this time of COVID-19 , I often wind down in my living room with a glass of wine and let my eye roam , rest upon , and remember places and people .

Favourites are impossible . Slippers from India , a warrior from Xian , Maasai jewellery , the blue eye of Turkey . At one end of my fireplace , a small bottle of Bulgarian rose perfume from the land of a father I never met . At the other end , a bundle of long quills from a South African porcupine wandering in the Drakensberg . And in the middle , Fijian black pearls and canopic jars from Cairo , minus internal organs , of course . Each item conjures up a landscape , a person , a scent , a cacophony of sounds , perhaps the bells of Notre Dame or the thunderous applause of a night on Broadway . Every keepsake releases a story that tugs at the heartstrings . Tonight , I am gazing at the Medusa mask pinned to the wall , snakes stretching outwards . My mother called it the “ ugly one ,” but to me she mists my eyes

and takes me back to Venice and my first glimpse of La Serenissima glimmering in watery light .

I was travelling with my son . Ever since listening to Vivaldi ’ s Ring of Mystery as a child , he had always wanted to visit Venice . It had been a long train voyage with frequent stops . We were both beat and it was late , closing in on midnight . Gathering up our packs , we headed out of the station , Venezia Santa

Lucia . Venice didn ’ t disappoint .

24 | arta . net