David Kirby

            Okay, Okay, So Venice Isn’t Perfect

I am standing at a window of a hotel in Venice
            when a man joins me and stares out over the water
with an expression that makes me think he is
            pondering the city’s position as a major financial
and maritime power during the Middle Ages

and Renaissance as well as an important center
            of commerce (especially in silk, grain, and spice)
in the 13th century through the end of the 17th
            or perhaps musing on the paintings of Giorgione
and Titian and the other Venetian masters,

all to a score only he can hear by Albinoni
            and/or Vivaldi, which is when he is brought
out of his reverie by my presence and says,
            “G’day, mate,” by which locution I identify him
as either Australian or capable of doing  a first-rate

Aussie impression, though what he says next is,
            “I’m a plumber, and what I’m wondering is, how do
these people dispose of their solid waste?” Speaking
            of Italy, my friend who is going there soon is studying
Italian on line and complaining that she wants to

learn phrases more useful than “the man has an apple,”
            but I keep saying look, already you know the words
for “man” and “has” and “apple,” ones she will
            certainly find useful in Milan and Rome and Naples
in different basic combinations, the point being

that you have to master the basic level before going on
            to the intermediate and then the advanced one,
which she most certainly will want to do, for if
            she stops at the basic level, she’ll get nowhere,
because you have to get to the intermediate level

in order to converse at the basic level and then
            to the advanced level in order to function adequately
at the intermediate, which is the best any foreigner
            can hope for: the only way for a foreigner to be
an advanced speaker is if they move in with

an Italian boy- or girlfriend, which seems
            an improbable likelihood for this particular friend.
I like the way the man in the hotel in Venice thinks:
            my guess is that while most Australian plumbers
in his situation would be looking ahead

to their next big Italian meal or trip back
            to Melbourne or Canberra, this fellow is trying
to solve a problem the Venetians haven’t been
            able to solve themselves, for while they have
installed septic tanks under some 7,000 hotels,

restaurants, museums, cafes, hospitals,
            and private homes, much of their waste
of every kind is flushed directly into the canals
            and in that way contributes to that city’s unique
odor: whereas Joseph Brodsky said that

the Venetian air is a one-of-of-a-kind mixture
            of coffee, salt water, and prayer, you wouldn’t
be entirely out of bounds if you added a fourth
            ingredient to that fragrant combo, especially
on a windy day. Life is imperfect in Venice,

also beautiful, its beauty being found precisely
            in that which is “uneven, asymmetrical,
and unbalanced,” which happens to be
            the definition of the Japanese concept of wabi
(an example of which might be a ceramic bowl)

as well as “aged” and “impermanent” or sabi
            (think of the patina on a rusty metal door),
which two concepts combine happily in the phrase
            wabi-sabi. Nothing lasts, nothing is finished,
nothing is perfect, in other words, and in this way

do wabi-sabi art works emphasize the process
            of making the piece rather than finishing it,
an understanding of which is the first step
            on the way to satori or enlightenment. Perhaps
that’s why Michelangelo attacked with a hammer

the Duomo Pietà that he had worked on
            for years—“perhaps because his judgment was
so severe that he was never content with anything
            he did,” says Vasari. “The getting never feels
as good as the wanting,” says contemporary

novelist Lara Williams. People are imperfect.
            Why shouldn’t art be? Every jeweler I know says,
“joolery,”  and while you may say maybe I don’t
            know the right jewelers, half the realtors
of my acquaintance say, “relator,” yet somehow they

manage to sell a lot of big ugly houses. Try harder, Venice!
            When asked why he practiced the cello
three hours a day at the age of 93, Pablo Casals
            said, "I'm beginning to notice some improvement."
Oh, wait, I have a better idea, don’t.

David Kirby teaches at Florida State University, where he is the Robert O. Lawton Distinguished Professor of English. His latest books are a poetry collection, Help Me, Information, and a textbook modestly entitled The Knowledge: Where Poems Come From and How to Write Them. Kirby is also the author of Little Richard: The Birth of Rock ‘n’ Roll, which the Times Literary Supplement described as “a hymn of praise to the emancipatory power of nonsense.” He is currently on the editorial board of Alice James Books.