Beneath the render and the intonaco that coats most of Venice's facades, this is what the city is actually made of: small, flat mattoni in buff and rose and rust, laid in courses that have shifted and settled over centuries into a surface no longer quite level, the mortar between them bleached to near-white by salt air. Istrian stone frames the window openings, its dense grey-white surface stained to ochre and rust where water has carried iron through it across the years. The angle of the photograph — looking up and along the building's face — compresses the perspective and turns the wall into something closer to texture than architecture, each brick registering individually in the raking light. This is the Venice that exists before the tourists arrive and after the plaster falls away.
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