Elegance in Venice
Beyond the Myth of Venetian Melancholy
One of the qualities that has always fascinated me about Venice is the instinctive elegance of its inhabitants. It reveals itself not on grand occasions but in the ordinary moments of everyday life: during an early morning stroll or a brief conversation in a quiet campo. I was reminded of this while speaking with a distinguished Venetian gentleman, whose appearance seemed almost a lesson in the city's enduring sense of style.
As we spoke, I thanked him and asked him to explain the meaning of the name more precisely, while, almost unconsciously, observing him. He was wearing orange trousers beneath an olive-green jacket, with an apricot-coloured scarf casually draped around his neck. A pipe rested comfortably between his lips, a folded copy of Il Gazzettino was tucked beneath his arm and, in his gloved hand, he held his dog's lead with effortless ease.
Giandomenico Tiepolo, The Promenade, 18th-century fresco, Ca’ Rezzonico, Venice.
It struck me once again how instinctive the Venetian sense of elegance is. Here, colour is never accidental, nor is dress merely practical. Even the simplest morning walk becomes a quiet expression of taste. Until surprisingly recently, Venetian gentlemen would carry fans during the summer months, using them with complete naturalness, as though elegance belonged to everyday life rather than to ceremony.
And yet, where is this celebrated melancholy?
I have asked myself this question many times while wandering through Venice, and I have never found any evidence that Venetians themselves perceive their city in such terms. On the contrary, melancholy seems to be a word imposed from outside. It belongs far more to foreign writers, travel brochures and the romantic imagination than to those who actually live here.
But what does melancholy truly mean? A lingering sadness, a spirit weighed down by loss. Is that Venice?
I have never believed so.
Paolo Veronese, Votive Portrait of Doge Sebastiano Venier, Doge’s Palace, Venice.
Perhaps those who witnessed the final years of the Republic experienced such emotions. I cannot speak for them. I know only the Venice of today: a city that has embraced its extraordinary past without becoming imprisoned by it. Its political greatness belongs to history, but its cultural vitality remains unmistakably alive. Protected as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Venice continues to occupy a singular place in the artistic and intellectual landscape of Europe.
Once the grandeur of empire had become memory rather than expectation, something changed. The city's identity was no longer defined by what had been lost, but by what had endured. Its palaces still reflect upon the water, its churches continue to preserve masterpieces of European art, and daily life unfolds with remarkable composure beneath the gaze of millions of visitors.
Ca’ d’Oro, the “House of Gold”, Venice.
The more time I spend in Venice, the less convincing the cliché of melancholy becomes. Instead, I see a city of extraordinary continuity, where history is neither mourned nor forgotten but quietly absorbed into the rhythm of the present. Beauty here does not arise from nostalgia alone, but from an effortless dialogue between past and present, permanence and change.
Perhaps this is what Venice teaches better than any other city: that elegance is not the denial of time, but its graceful acceptance. Even its weathered stones, softened by centuries of light and water, seem less like symbols of decline than elements of a larger and enduring harmony.
Join me on a journey through the book: My Venice
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