Joyce Ward is an actor, theatre director,

founder member of Shift Theatre Company and

sometime film reviewer. She has been writing

since she could hold a crayon. She has been to

Venice a number of times but has yet to ride in a

gondola.

Cathy Barron has been writing descriptive

prose since her early twenties and has been

inspired by Paul’s ‘Carnevale’ paintings to seek a

language to compliment his work. She loves to

travel and continues to write, finding inspiration

daily in her daughters, Sarah, Amy and Isabel.

TH

E C

AR

NIV

AL

OF

VE

NIC

E P

AIN

TIN

GS

BY

PA

UL

KE

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9 780952 537632

ISBN 978-0-9525376-3-2

Front cover Back coverThe Watchers Venetian Shop Window

The Carnival of VeniceP A I N T I N G S B Y P A U L K E L L Y

Paul Kelly Publication

All works: ©Paul Kelly 2012

Text ©The authors

‘The Feeling’ a short story: ©Joyce Ward 2012

Reflections: ©Cathy Barron 2012

Designed by Paul Rattigan and produced by Zeus Medea Publishing, Dublin.

Photography: Gillian Buckley

Editor: Bernie McNelis

Book printing and production by Castuera, Spain.

All rights recorded. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise, without first seeking

the permission of the copyright owners and their publishers.

ISBN 978-0-9525376-3-2

The Carnival of VeniceP A I N T I N G S B Y P A U L K E L L Y

Welcome to ‘Carnevale di Venezia’. Oil on canvas 30x40cm q

CARNIVALE

The February air is crisp, dry and clear

Dark skies are lit up with gold and silver

The canals sparkle. Masks glitter

A candle lit night. Shadows move swiftly

And disappear down darkened alleyways

Swishing skirts; flash of golden slipper

Cape draped across half-naked shoulder

Murmurs and laughter; shrieks of excitement

Scent and cigar smoke linger

When the revellers have gone

CONTENTS

Foreword

Preface

Introduction

Map of Venice

Short Story

Acknowledgements

About the Artist

List of Works

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90

92

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FOREWARD

I have always had enormous admiration for Paul Kelly’s work and for his dedication to his craft. I’ve known and worked

with Paul for over twenty years and he is not one to be influenced by current trends, clichés or formulae. Somehow over

the years, he has managed to maintain his own identity and individuality as an artist.

Paul has developed his skills of observation to the point where he is able to focus on just those precise details that convey

the essence of a scene, and which can bring a painting to life.

While many painters prefer not to use figures in their landscapes, Paul favours strong compositional and design elements,

with figures featuring prominently in much of his work, as the paintings in this book testify.

However it’s not just these characteristics that make Paul Kelly the talented painter he is today. It is also the many years

of sheer hard work and dedication to a discipline he so obviously loves.

The lavish paintings reproduced throughout this book are a real joy to the eye. Together with the poetic musings of Cathy

Barron and Joyce Ward’s touching story, it cannot fail to uplift and inspire.

Norman Teeling

r Meeting before the Parade

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PREFACE

My relationship with the city of Venice began in my late thirties. I’m glad it didn’t happen when I was younger, as I’m sure

I would have been too impatient for the obvious attractions and less eager to look beneath the surface. I now feel that

Venice needs a somewhat more mature perspective for its overwhelming presence to be fully appreciated.

I cannot say I didn’t know what to expect on my first painting trip there. I had read all the books and some of my favourite

paintings in the world are Venetian scenes by artists dear to my heart. So it was a sense of the familiar that I felt on my first

visit to the wonderful City of Light. I was prepared to be amazed, and I was instantly captivated.

On my return journeys, I spent time trying to uncover some of Venice’s many hidden layers and to explore what contribution

(if any) I could possibly make to the body of work that already exists on the subject. I was drawn to her character - the

old worn stone buildings, the ever-changing light reflected along the canals and her obvious opulence. This place appealed

to me very much.

But when I returned again for Carnevale di Venezia, I witnessed a very different Venice. I found an event of pure theatre,

with the magnificent city this time merely the backdrop to the lavish masks, extravagant costumes and festive frolics.

I began filling small canvasses with interesting figures I’d seen at Carnevale - Venetian couples, regal gentlemen, beautiful

women - all in their finery, all there for me to paint. Without any intention of it ever becoming the study it has become, I

had found my contribution, my observations in oils.

In this collection, I have tried to show different aspects of the city of Venice during festival time. Lavish scenes against a

familiar background, Venetians and visitors alike vividly dressed. And amidst the colour, noise and bustle, I’ve found some

quiet moments. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed painting them.

Paul Kelly

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Gondolas gently keep rhythm with the silver-grey lagoon;

Lying on the straight stretching canals; picturesque and tranquil

Taking their rest after their day’s toll

As the evening approaches

Towards the Piazza from Salute p

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INTRODUCTION

Paul Kelly first exhibited with the Gorry Gallery some twenty years ago in the spring of 1992, and the show was an

unprecedented success.

From a market-gardening family in Rush, County Dublin, Paul Kelly’s early paintings were inspired by the local Fingal

countryside, with its flat farming land and coastline; its small harbours and fishing vessels. This environment heightened

his spiritual vision and – like the 17th century Dutch painters before him – he crafted expansive landscapes with great

sensitivity.

In later exhibitions, he expanded both the range and scale of his work, introducing figures and animals increasingly.

His portrayals of rural domestic life, threshing and horse fairs, thatching scenes and steam rallies, were enthusiastically

received.

Although it was never Paul’s intention to paint ‘commercial’ work, there developed an almost insatiable appetite for these

pictures, and this unsettled him, regardless of how rewarding it had become. He lost his artistic drive and stopped painting.

What saved him at this time was Lambay Island, a daily sight off the coast near his home. Margaret and Patrick Kelly (no

relation) resided on the island, and they invited him to rusticate there, in the hope that the solitude would revive his spirits.

It certainly did. On Lambay, Paul discovered the perfect idyll he needed in which to paint. The result, his ground-breaking

exhibition: ‘Lambay – Portrait of an Island’ in 2004.

In the following years, he travelled to Morocco, Prague and Budapest to paint, exhibiting the resulting work with the

Gorry Gallery. Later, he changed direction again with a tour of Brittany, following in the footsteps of the many Irish and

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international artists who had set up a painting colony there in the late 19th century. Paul was particularly taken by the

Breton Pardons - religious processions in traditional costumes - something which would sow the seeds of his later Venetian

work, the subject of this book. His brush portrayed Breton culture and history, featuring Concarneau, Pont Aven, Bénodet,

Quimper, Quimperlé and Raz, and this body of work was exhibited with us in 2010.

Artists are constantly searching for new subjects to paint that truly motivate and inspire. In Paul Kelly’s case it was his first

painting trip to Venice, when he stayed in the studio of Ken Howard, RA. The magic of Venice, where time has stood still,

mesmerised him in the same was as it has drawn legions of painters over the centuries; from Canaletto to Guardi, from

Bonington to Turner and Sargent.

On one such visit, Paul encountered Carnevale di Venezia, and it engrossed, enthralled and inspired him, with its timeless

festivities and magnificent costumes with masks, feathers and fans.

The collection of work in this beautiful book and the accompanying exhibition which we are proud to host, are Paul

Kelly’s 21st century interpretation of this spectacular event. I hope that the lavish illustrations will transport the spirit of

the viewer to the Carnevale to share in the artist’s intimate vision.

James Gorry, The Gorry Gallery

September 2012

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Map of Venice 1565 by Bolognino Zaltieri q

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The Feeling a short story by Joyce Ward

Sometimes in the shadows of his living room he’d get

the feeling. Some would describe it as a gust of wind,

disturbing leaves. Some might say it was the quiet hiss

of a seashell held to the ear, but Beppe mostly felt it

rather than heard it. When it happened, he would lose

all sense of time. It wasn’t a dramatic thing, just a feeling

someone familiar was near him, often his beloved Pappa.

And it didn’t just happen at home either. It first started

happening when he was at work on the barge, but it

could happen anywhere - in the little bar where he liked

to have his coffee near Santa Croce, or sometimes even

when he was just walking. It was always when he least

expected it.

An hour ago, he was standing in line at the butchers,

mulling over some little lamb cutlets. He salivated as he

pictured grilling them with garlic oil and steaming some

broccoli to eat with them. Maybe he would have a glass

of wine and some crusty bread to mop up the juices. But

he had a dilemma that blotted out his tender daydream

of dinner. He had to find a way of asking for the cutlets

he had spotted underneath the ones the Guido would

want to give him.

Guido was a well-known figure locally, a bit of a climber,

something most obvious when the wife of the Mayor or a local councillor was in the shop. He could be pleasant if you popped

in when the shop was quiet. He’d whistle or pass the time shuffling from foot to foot, breathing heat into his large, pink, cold

hands. But now with the shop full of fussing, noisy, particular women, Guido was under pressure and you had to shout up to be

heard. Notoriously inclined to keep the best meat for his favourite customers, he was loud if challenged. His deep voice would

fill the shop and could be heard by passers-by. Beppe had always hated being shouted at, and when asked to repeat himself, he’d

feel like the whole world stopped to listen to his creaking shallow voice.

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So there he stood, composing the best way to ask Guido for the better-looking cutlets. He considered carefully what he would say.

He would need to be discreet. He would need to be quick lest someone start complaining. The woman behind him pushed into

him impatiently. As the woman before him got ready to pay he steeled himself. Then he felt a sudden change of pressure in his

ears. The chatter of the busy shop became dulled, muffled. His heart began to wallop and he felt cold. A peculiar combination of

aromas washed over him: tobacco, the lining of his father’s coat, shoe-polish, the commercial disinfectant they used in the barge,

sawdust... Engulfed by the density of feeling, Beppe reeled.

Suddenly, Guido was looking straight at him. The whole shop seemed to have stopped to watch him, its noise suspended.

Beppe started. His stomach lurched. He felt his mouth parch. He scrambled to get his mind to connect again. His carefully

composed sentence was locked tightly behind his tongue. He felt hot tears of frustration well up in his eyes. What was wrong

with him? Why couldn’t he speak? What had he done to deserve this? He was an honest law-abiding man. Who did he give

trouble to?

18

Guido held him for a long moment with a dizzying glare then promptly nodded to the woman behind him. Instantly, the bustle

and clamour came roaring back. Her practised volley of an order came out like gunfire as she pushed past Beppe up to the

counter, followed by two more women and a large yellow-faced man. When had he stepped out of the queue? He knew with

sinking certainty as he looked along the snaking rush-hour queue that he would have no chance of cutting in without starting a

formidable row. He shuffled to the door and then pretended with an unnecessary gesture, to remember something at home and

left. He suspected that he fooled no one.

He couldn’t go back there for a while. Why was this happening to him? Why did it happen at most the embarrassing times? He

felt sure they would all think him a fool. He only wanted a nice dinner and a glass of wine, an hour of warmth glowing in the

closing evening light. He walked home through the darkening streets shrouded in sea-mist and he felt so alone.

Home was a simple apartment at street level in San Polo, with a small wood-burning stove and a couple of armchairs. Neat,

ordered bookshelves held a statue of the Madonna, his books and framed photographs of his mother, father and some family

occasions. His neighbours were mostly elderly friends of his parents who would call down to him if they heard him in his yard.

He loved his yard, with its scattering of wildflowers and herbs that had pushed uninvited out of cracks in the cobbling. Beams of

sunlight filtered down through the fire-escapes and balconies and threw colour around his afternoons. He always made a point of

collecting seed and stale rolls in little bags whenever he passed a bakery and he would feed pigeons and starlings when they flew

down into the yard. The little birds that came were his visitors and welcome. This place was his sanctuary, his escape from the

noise and chatter. In spring and summer, he would sit at his back door in the shade and watch birds busy with their brief lives,

finding mates, building nests, feeding their young. He watched the world in the same way. He enjoyed watching life, even if he

felt outside of it.

Beppe’s was a simple life. His job, his walks, the little coffee bars and watching people were his pleasures. He often sat in a church

just enjoying the quiet and watching people coming and going. Sometimes he would lean over one of the busier bridges just

enjoying the gondoliers’ badinage. And the tourists were a rich source of colour for this observer.

A lot of his neighbours tolerated tourists at best, but Beppe liked observing them. He would sometimes have a coffee near the

Rialto and ‘collect’ tourists; the rich ones who ‘did it all’, the students who fell in love with every building and bridge, the poor

day-trippers who ran around trying to see everything in an afternoon!

Now and again he would wonder at humanity - teenagers who only had eyes and ears for themselves; people who would come

halfway around the world and then spend their visit complaining. One woman sitting on a step in Piazza San Marco, fighting on her

mobile phone with someone in another country, was weeping. And those people who ignored the beauty altogether and stayed in

the shops buying everything in sight! It seemed to him that happiness was as elusive to the wealthy as it was to the rest of mankind.

He watched hoards of honeymooners acting as if the city had been laid out for them, stopping at every bridge and church to kiss

or photograph each other. He was fascinated by those bored couples who walked along looking at the ground, unspeaking, and

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uninterested in anything around them. Those who walked with sadness around the beautiful city because they weren’t sharing it

made him feel sad too.

And then, there were the artists. They stood gazing, drinking in the centuries of artistry, eyes devouring a great banquet of beauty,

their hearts pounding with inspiration and the urge to capture every moment; every shadow; every new colour. And those with

the soul of an artist, though they never lifted a brush. Beppe felt his city belonged to the artists more than lovers or shoppers or

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anyone else. They came to see the magical impression of other imaginations and the majesty of nature. They fell in love with life

here. They felt that movement in the soul, that leap of creativity that mankind has always tried to express, whether on a cave wall,

a canvas or a cinema screen. He knew something of their happiness. He understood, in his quiet way, the utter joy of looking.

A placid man, Beppe rarely argued or bickered with

anyone and as a result became known as Il piccolo

monaco (little monk). He was a diligent worker, and

never gave cheek to the caposquadra (foreman) or

complained about conditions. He saw it as his duty to

work quietly and do a good job. Even that one really

cold winter when the Laguna froze and they had to

collect the bins with little hand-pulled carts and he

got a dreadful chest infection; even then, Beppe didn’t

complain or gripe. He’d begun to work on the barges

with his uncle while still at school. Beppe was no gifted

scholar and had been pushed around in school because

of his quiet nature, so the job brought an opportunity

to leave and earn some money. He’d found he loved the

work and stayed. The enjoyment of being useful is true

fulfilment to an industrious soul.

Each day brought an occurrence - an argument, an

accident or a funny moment. Along his route he would

regularly meet a cast of characters - colleagues, city

workers, fishermen, bakers, deliverymen, gondoliers

and drunks. Some would wave, others would stop and

share some news or a little gossip. Some he could tell

time by. Some he simply watched as they worked or

passed. This was a joy to him for he loved to observe

the people of Venice going about their business.

For a city built on a lagoon, surprisingly little day to

day business is obstructed by the lack of terra firma. As

children, Venetians are not only taught to swim almost

as soon as they can walk, but also to row and manage

a boat. Relatively few fall into the water, but when they

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do, the response is efficient. The water-ambulances are rapid and the crews experienced. Given all of its unique characteristics,

Venice is a global model of efficiency, engineering and clever thinking. Centuries of challenge have made her a well-oiled machine

when it comes to problem-solving and inventiveness.

The refuse barge that Beppe skippered was one such solution. A city on water with hundreds of tiny alleys, 10,000 inhabitants and

30 million visitors a year, needs inventive thinking to prevent the rubbish from piling up. Rubbish is collected by street-sweepers who

gather the residential refuse in metal cages on wheels. These are brought to collection points along the canals and rii then emptied

into the barge, which brings the refuse to a recycling depot. There the rubbish is processed into fuel which in turn supplies the

power station. Simple and ingenious, and Beppe loved being part of it.

It was enough for Beppe to work at a job which he saw as important and worthy. He didn’t care for the materialistic life some of

his younger co-workers went on about. All that boasting and one-upmanship just led to unhappiness. His partner on the barge,

Massimo, didn’t care for such talk either, so they got along fine. He too, was quiet and didn’t chatter all day the way some of the

men did. Beppe liked that about Massimo. He was friendly but he never intruded.

One warm summer’s morning, as he manoeuvred the barge around the smaller canals, Beppe heard a commotion. He looked

around and saw a beautiful young woman running with a refuse sack. She was a vision in a pale green dress, with an angelic

face framed by honeyed hair. ‘Oh please can you stop? Am I too late?’ she called as she ran. Beppe stopped the grinder (against

regulations) and popped the engine into reverse (also against regulations) and slowly backed up to the steps on the quayside. He

could see she had been crying, her pretty face dark with anxiety and her bright green eyes red around the rims. ‘I’m so sorry, I

missed the collection and it’s really important, can you take it?’ Always a gentleman, Beppe climbed the steps and took the bag,

nodding. ‘It’s ok’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Oh thank you! What is your name?’ she asked. His voice caught: ’It’s Bep...eh,

Guiseppe’ he croaked. ‘Thank you Guiseppe! You have really helped me, grazie mille!’ she said and she leaned down and kissed

his cheek. Howls and whistles erupted from the street crew as he dropped the unlabelled bag (a fineable offence!) into the grinder

and started up the engine. She ran off to a chorus of wolf whistles and as Beppe watched, she turned to wave at him. Blushing,

he noticed Massimo was grinning, wagging a finger at him. Beppe beamed as he steered the barge under the barge, oblivious to

the cheers of the little crowd above.

He later learned that the bag had contained expensive clothes, shoes and confidential documents belonging to a senior councilman,

who had been having an affair with the girl behind his wife’s (and his mistress’s) back. It became a big story and Beppe was secretly

delighted about his small part in the scandal. The documents had been crucial to negotiations on a pay deal which failed to go

through on time, causing a council workers’ strike, which caused the councilman to lose his seat. Then his wife filed for divorce.

Then his mistress sold her story to the papers. The young woman who had kissed Beppe became a model, and some years later she

got her own TV show. Every time anything appeared in the papers about any of those involved, Massimo would grin and wag his

finger. She became known as ‘Beppe’s girl’ so it was a huge shock when a few years later they learned that she had been killed in a

car crash in Napoli. Beppe was heartbroken that someone so beautiful and brave would not get a longer chance at life.

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As a small boy, at his mother insistence, his father had brought him to the Carnevale. Astride his father’s shoulders, Beppe was

slightly afraid, as the lanes and alleyways swarmed with crowds of revellers and jostled them. His little arms tightened around

his father’s forehead for balance as they negotiated the chaos. His father would point out the different characters. “Il Dottore’ is

the one with the pointed snout. He carries herbs in the long nose to prevent him from catching the plague.” Arlecchino was the

funny acrobat and Beppe liked him best. “And these two are ‘Gli Inamorati’ who often quarrel and bicker, but love each other,

just like Mamma and Pappa, eh?” Beppe’s father had chuckled.

Beautiful, mysterious and garish caricatures loomed out of the foggy February air, masques frozen in mid-squeal. Lush velvets

and brocades rustled past him in a swirl of colour and fragrance. And the noise! There was laughter, musicians vying with each

other, foreign mouths babbling, firecrackers, vendors and gondoliers shouting at the crowd. He was glad he was up on his Pappa’s

shoulders for he felt he would surely be lost and trampled if he were on foot. On every step, bridge and window-ledge sat a

painted harlot, a dandy, a jester. Musicians tooted and plucked and argued in song. He remembered clearly smells of candied

apples, roasting meats and warming punch as people went wheeling past them. String quartets arm-wrestling with shouts of

buffoonery as street performers tumbled and fluted, competing for coins from the crowd.

Beppe’s favourite part of the day out was the tranquillity Basilica dei Frari, the quiet church on the way home where his

father stopped to pray. Beppe sat with his hands joined, swinging his legs as his father knelt in meditation. Great pillars

towered overhead, crowded with cherubs and angels, making him crane his neck as his eyes tracing the intricate depictions

of biblical tales. Great warriors, guardians of faith and righteousness watched him as he leaned into his fathers’ side for

warmth.

Outside, the streets crashed onward in a noisy clatter and whoop of festivity, but inside it was quiet and cool and he felt safe.

There was no hurry here. Centuries of contemplation had left its print on the atmosphere. Humble, head-scarved women stole

in, softly moving around the Stations or kneeling at the candle-stalls, whispering long-practiced prayers, giving thanks to God.

The silence would be broken momentarily by a cough, a confessional door banging or creaking shoes, only to close around

them again.

Getting up to leave, his father wrapped his still-warm tobacco-scented scarf around Beppe’s neck and hands, but Beppe

didn’t mind the cold and loved the journey home on his father’s shoulders. As they walked through the quieter alleyways

and over the off-beat bridges, they would play ‘I Spy’. Pappa always let him win. Turning into their own alley, he could

smell his mother’s lamb stew cooking. Standing at the fireplace smiling, she had her arms outstretched to him as they

opened the door.

It is every Venetian’s duty to make the best of the Carnevale for the visitors, but it makes refuse-collecting even trickier - twice

the rubbish, twice the traffic on the waterways and five times the people! Most Venetians are justifiably proud of their beautiful

and ancient home. Rarely would you find a citizen deliberately vandalising or scattering rubbish about. It was an understanding

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you were raised with and a condition of living in the world’s most precious city. Even in times when the flood waters seemed to

be winning with enough unrelenting damp to dishearten the staunchest Venetian; even then, something would redeem it. A sight

of the rippling water throwing diffused morning light up into the alleyways. Or a glimpse of a cherub blanketed in snow above a

church door or figures over an archway revealed by the orange glow of a nut-roasters stove. And to Beppe, keeping the rubbish

off the streets and out of the water was paramount to that relationship.

25

At Carnevale, everyone wants to be photographed in costume on a gondola, and the canals become a boiling cauldron of boats,

barges and water-taxis. More than once Beppe had to fight his corner on the streets and waterways. Venice is so busy and so full

of people that inevitably arguments arise about right of way and precedence. But Beppe’s colleagues knew him to be the safest,

most tolerant of barge skippers who would settle more arguments than he ever got into. However, with high-speed vessels like

police launches and ambulances tearing up and down the canals, the wake that followed could be very dangerous, especially to

the less experienced sailor. The crew had to work harder to be unobtrusive and efficient whilst remaining upright in the water.

Sometimes people fell in or barges would collide, causing mayhem.

Beppe remembered last year’s Carnevale vividly because of the accident. Fog had settled in for some days before Carnevale and

it had made their routine a lengthy one. There seemed to be a lot of police activity on the canals that particular day, what with

different dignitaries and celebrities arriving. The resultant waves combined with spring tide, made progress for canal-users slow

and dangerous, and the bin-barge bumped against the quays making the collection precarious. On one quay, the hydraulic hoist

was making several attempts to lower the basket into the grinder. With the constant heavy wash, the basket - a heavy steel cage

which held the refuse bags - kept missing the door, swinging and crashing against the side of the barge.

Massimo was at the helm trying to steer the basket with a punt pole. He’d become frustrated with it, shouting to Beppe that it was

impossible. Beppe, who was operating the hoist, gestured him that they would switch places. He pushed the joystick up to its neutral

position, and clambered down to the grinder door to help steer the basket in. Just then, a huge wave from the wake of a speed launch

headed in their direction and Massimo signalled that he would try to lower the basket before it reached them.

As he climbed up to the control box, the wave hit them and he lost his balance, his feet sliding out in front of him. His arms flailed

and struck the joystick, which he grabbed. His weight pulled the lever fully down to the ‘drop’ position. Without warning, the

hydraulic arm swung outwards and struck Beppe full on the forehead. Soundlessly, he fell backwards into the water. He could

hear Massimo yelling in the far off distance. The shock of the icy water closed around him like a cloak, shutting out light. His last

memory was lifting his hand up touch a large depression in his forehead before he succumbed to the cold blackness.

All of that business seemed a long time ago to him now. He knew that the street-cart crew and passers-by had jumped to the

rescue. That, along with the swift response from the services, ensured that Beppe was in hospital within 25 minutes of the

accident. He had little memory of the time it had taken to recover, but now he had no after effects except for this strange feeling

that came over him from time to time. Perhaps it was to do with the considerable crack in his skull. He had been very lucky, all

told, not to have much more serious injuries. He knew of a man in his neighbourhood who had fallen off a ladder from a first

floor window he was painting. He had banged his head on the windowsill and only had a little cut. The man had died the same

afternoon, so Beppe knew how lucky he was.

Some things had changed in work. After the accident, they had insisted that everyone wear life jackets now whilst working. This

was sensible and had actually been introduced some years before but now it was compulsory. Some people, including Massimo,

were unhappy with it. There is a certain pride in being a careful and experienced seaman.

26

He felt too, that maybe he was considered bad luck on board now. Although he had gone back to work he felt he didn’t really

have a role on the barge anymore. Massimo had become more sullen than ever and there was a new young lad, Enzo, working

on the barge with them who also had little to say. And all Massimo seemed to do was shout at the kid, if he did speak at all. He

was a good kid really, but clearly Massimo wasn’t happy with him or Beppe anymore.

Beppe seemed to lose track of time lately. He noticed that he was sleeping heavily these days and he found he was forgetting

things. He often forgot what day it was and frequently found himself at the church waiting for mass, only to discover it was

the wrong day. He found himself walking for hours around the city and wouldn’t realise where he was or how far he had come.

Several times he had returned home and couldn’t find his key. One day he came home and found his little apartment covered in

dust. The door into the yard had been left open and the birds had been in.

This strange feeling was the oddest thing. Starting suddenly with a noise of the sea or the wind, he would become overwhelmed

with familiar smells and sounds. Sometimes he had no idea how long it would go on for. Strangest of all one day, he found

himself in the middle of a crowd at Carnevale. The music, the vibrant colours, vendors shouting, smells of food and perfumes

flooded his senses. It swam in his head and he found himself wandering towards the steps of San Zaccaria where a small

concert was taking place.

He mostly looked around at the people in costumes. One or two seemed to smile and nod at him which he felt a little shy about.

As people around him clapped and whistled, he noticed a young woman in a black mask wearing a rich green costume looking

straight at him, smiling. He thought little of it, but as he moved off, she waved and called: ‘Ciao Guiseppe!’ His heart skipped a

beat. Was it the girl in the green dress from all those years ago? It couldn’t have been! But when he looked again she had moved

off into the crowd.

He slept fitfully that night, and dreamt of the girl. This time she was at the quayside, still in her mask, but she was crying

and waving at him. He woke up with a start and felt all over again the tragedy of her early death. The feeling stayed with

him all day. Work had felt very gloomy. Massimo was silent for most of it, going off by himself to have coffee at break time.

Enzo was permanently stuck to his mobile phone so Beppe simply sat and watched the crowds going by. In the afternoon

he became worried about Massimo. He was late coming back from his break. Even the street crew were quiet and barely

acknowledged him. A fog was slipping in from the sea as the light began to fade. Almost at the end of the shift, Massimo

pulled in at a quay and lit a cigarette. Stopping the engine, he stood at the bow of the barge with his back to them. On the

quayside, revellers were starting to pour into the central streets in costume, some with torches lit, and music was starting

up again in the side streets.

Beppe looked up at the quay, wondering why they were stopped there for so long. ‘Massimo, let’s move on, it’s getting dark!’

he called, but Massimo didn’t respond. Beppe saw the foreman coming towards them from the quayside and he moved towards

where Massimo was standing. He went to call him again and saw he was crying softly. ‘Massimo, what is it?’ No answer came.

27

Beppe felt suddenly lonely and afraid. He turned to say something to the foreman and noticed he and two of the street crew were

bring something down to the water’s edge. Massimo moved away towards the quay without looking at him.

Beppe felt his stomach lurching. What was it? Why did he feel so strange? He looked at Massimo and saw him take something

from the foreman and hang it on a hook at the side of the quay wall. Then they all blessed themselves. Beppe’s hand moved

automatically to his head, but instead of blessing himself, he found himself staring into the distance. Stroking his forehead absent-

mindedly he sensed the feeling coming back again. His heart began to wallop in his chest. Panic rising in his throat, he realised

something. There was no scar, no mark. The water lapped gently against the wreath as the fog drew in around them.

28

Renaissance revisited

Anonymous pair

Resting, inquisitive

The watchers stare

The Watchers q

29

30

The vacant gaze

Monochrome in motion

A ‘double take’

Serene and elegant

Pause for thought

A quiet moment

31

r The Conversation

The vacant gaze

Monochrome in motion

A ‘double take’

Serene and elegant

Pause for thought

A quiet moment

Masqueraders o

32

Like blood in the veins of the streets of Venice

masqueraders pulse continuously over bridges and down narrow laneways

Hard to contain in one space

they spill out of Piazza San Marco and pour down stone-cobbled alleyways

staining the streets with a riotous palette of colour

o Gathering for the Procession In her Finery q

33

34

Gold embellishments adorn the patrons

Venetian red plumage; a velvet cloak swings

Dark-eyed, mysterious, beautiful, ageless

Silk skirts, lacy ruffles, a ruby red ring

Trident Couple qp The Chaperone

35

36

p Woman in Green Hat p A Noble Lady

Meeting in Venice q

37

38

39

The procession passes by. Fantastic costumes fill my sight. My vision is flooded with eloquent detail.

Aromas from nearby cafés tantalise. Laughter and chatter fill the air.

Pocket-sized dogs yelp in excitement. Colours and sounds and smells delight the senses.

Too much to consume all at once! Caught up in the parade, I’m held a willing captive in Piazza San Marco.

r Opulent Pair r Carnival Display

40

41

p Procession March

r Master of Ceremonies

p Dandy Cavalier

42

43

r Reflected Gaze Regal Gentleman p

44

p Silk Ladies p Sitting on Steps, Piazza San Marco

The Mirror q

45

46

47

Resplendent in finery

Adorned and embellished

Each detail precise

She quietly waits

r Little Venetian

Bellissima Ragazza q

48

Two Dandies qp The Family

49

50

The flick of a wrist exposes flesh;

A dainty arm bent just so.

Broad smile, laughing voice

A glimpse of a lover’s eye...

Laughing Couple qp San Pietro di Castello

51

52

p Beauty Leading the Ceremony p Stepping Out

Caught up in the Bustle q

53

54

p The Pose Young Venetian Couple q

55

56

p Ladies in Waiting, green and blue

Elegant Costumes in White q

Hidden Faces q

57

Elegant Costumes in White q

Hidden Faces q

58

59

Gathered for ‘Flight of the Angel’ pr The Jester

60

61

After the Celebrations pr Birdcages

62

A myriad of narrow streets like outstretched fingers reach out

from St Mark’s Square to quaysides and campi

to San Polo and Santa Croce

Glimpses of the Rio Madonna dell’Orto are visible

through archways and alleyways

Shop windows spring into life with marionettes

masks and Murano glass

Venetian Shop Window q

63

64

p Venetian Masks p Carnival Cats

Three Marionettes q

65

66

Oratorios and cantatas echo and resound

off classical facades and baroque palaces

Church doorways – elegant or modest – entice you in

where treasures are to be found

In the Chieza di San Zaccaria

Bellini’s ‘Madonna and Child with Saints’ awaits you...

Street Musicians q

67

68

The Last Dance q

p Street Performance p The Embrace

69

Carnival Dance q

The Last Dance q

70

Worn figures loom in the darkness, lonely ghosts in faded elegance

Stone statues line the doorways, gate-keepers - silent and waiting

Cracked, chipped and covered with moss, they survive the vicissitudes of time and weather

Carved columns salute the breaking dawn. Above San Marco four horses reign

Standing testament to her glorious past

71

r Horses of St. Mark Marble Figures o

72

Ceiling detail, Basilica di Santi Giovanni e Paolo q

p Salute detail, Winged Angel p Altar detail, Carved Angels

73

74

Mosaic, pink marble and porphyry tapestries

Have embellished this palace over the centuries

Standing on ancient Istrian arcades

Such splendour within; outer beauty fades!

Interior Courtyard, Doge’s Palace q

75

76

77

r Cloister Walkway Grand Canal from the Accademia Bridge p

The evening mist begins to fall

Creating shadows across the lagoon

The light of the half-moon

Not quite darkness – not quite still light

The magic of Venice begins to ignite

And draws you in

78

p Busy Canal Scene p Gondola Ride

Waiting Gondoliers, Campo Santa Maria Maddelena q

79

80

p Mooring Poles, Grand Canal

Towards Rialto Bridge q

Sunlight and Shadows, Side Canal q

From soft silver blues and greys

to sparkling sunlit warm yellows

and golden browns

The reflection of Venice

is ever-changing on the lagoon

that surrounds

81

82

83

A gondola ride

The Bridge of Sighs

‘O Sole Mio?’

The gondoliers oblige!

o Quiet Afternoon, Rio di San Barnaba Waiting Gondola o

r Bridge of Sighs

84

o Behind the Fish Market

85

Shuttered windows on sun-drenched balconies above choppy cold currents

Dark green waters engulf the city finding snug little enclaves to fill

Venice Canal o

86

o Late Evening, Santi Giovanni e Paolo

87

Winter Scene, Ca’ Dario o

88

o End of the Day

89

Part of every visitor’s soul gets anchored here.

90

Fresh cheek pressed tenderly in a welcome embrace

Long white gloves encase

Gentle hands

Lovingly placed, they convey

Warm greetings, this Carnival day

o Greeting in St. Mark’s Square

91

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like thank Cathy - my constant, and my family, for always believing in

my art. My thanks also to my dear friends James and Thérèse Gorry, whose

advice, guidance and encouragement is always to hand. To the great master,

Sunny Apinchapong-Yang - I am forever grateful.

To Norman Teeling, for his support and generosity in helping to make this book

possible, a huge ‘Thank you’. Thanks also to Joyce Ward, for her humour and

friendship, and Bernie McNelis for her

critical eye as editor.

Thanks are also due to Paul Rattigan and Joan Burke at

Zeus Medea Publishing who took on my ideas and made them reality, and to

Gillian Buckley for her wonderful photography.

Finally, a very special ‘Thank You’ to the Gorry Gallery,

20 Molesworth Street Dublin 2 for hosting my exhibitions over the last 20 years

and for helping launch this, my first book.

Paul Kelly,

September 2012

92

Paul Kelly was born in Dublin and has been a professional artist for

more than 25 years. Completely self-taught, his traditional

pre-impressionist palette has resulted in numerous successful

sell-out exhibitions.

Well known in Ireland for his paintings of the Irish landscape,

Paul Kelly first start showing in the Royal Hibernian Academy in 1990 and

the following year was awarded the James Kennedy Memorial Award for

Portraiture. His painting ‘The Liffey Rowers’ was exhibited at the

John F Kennedy Centre for the Performing Arts, Washington. Paul has been

included in ‘‘Who’s Who in Ireland’ and has also received the ‘Ireland Fund of

Great Britain Artist of the Year’ award.

Paul’s work is included in many public and private collections, including

the Bank of Ireland and the Brian P Burns Collection

in America. He continues to be a frequent world traveller in search of

his next subject.

93

94

LIST OF WORKSPAGE Title

Frontispiece Welcome to ‘Carnevale di Venezia’ Oil on canvas 30x40cm

8 Meeting before the Parade Oil on canvas 40x40cm

11 Towards the Piazza from Salute Oil on canvas 22x33cm

16 Towards The Santa Maria Della Salute Oil on canvas 33x22cm

17 Moored Gondolas, View Towards San Giorgio Maggione Oil on canvas 22x33cm

19 Umbrellas on the Piazzette Oil on canvas 27x22cm

20 Casanova Oil on canvas 24x18cm

23 Canal Reflections Oil on canvas 30x30cm

24 Leisurely Stroll Oil on canvas 24x30cm

27 Side Canal Oil on canvas 24x18cm

29 The Watchers Oil on canvas 38x46cm

30 The Conversation Oil on canvas 40x40cm

31 Masqueraders Oil on canvas 33x24cm

32 Gathering for the Procession Oil on canvas 22x33cm

33 In her Finery Oil on canvas 46x33cm

34 The Chaperone Oil on canvas 30x24cm

35 Trident Couple Oil on canvas 46x38cm

36 Woman in Green Hat Oil on canvas 24x18cm

36 A Noble Lady Oil on canvas 24x18cm

37 Meeting in Venice Oil on canvas 40x30cm

38 Opulent Pair Oil on canvas 30x30cm

39 Carnival Display Oil on canvas 46x33cm

40 Master of Ceremonies Oil on canvas 30x24cm

41 Procession March Oil on canvas 30x24cm

41 Dandy Cavalier Oil on canvas 24x18cm

42 Reflected Gaze Oil on canvas 30x30cm

43 Regal Gentleman Oil on canvas 40x30cm

44 Silk Ladies Oil on canvas 24x18cm

44 Sitting on Steps, Piazza San Marco Oil on canvas 46x33cm

45 The Mirror Oil on canvas 46x38cm

46 Little Venetian Oil on canvas 40x40cm

47 Bellissima Ragazza Oil on canvas 46x33cm

48 The Family Oil on canvas 40x30cm

49 Two Dandies Oil on canvas 33x22cm

50 San Pietro di Castello Oil on canvas 22x33cm

51 Laughing Couple Oil on canvas 33x22cm

52 Beauty Leading the Ceremony Oil on canvas 24x18cm

52 Stepping Out Oil on canvas 24x18cm

53 Caught up in the Bustle Oil on canvas 46x38cm

95

LIST OF WORKSPAGE Title

Frontispiece Welcome to ‘Carnevale di Venezia’ Oil on canvas 30x40cm

8 Meeting before the Parade Oil on canvas 40x40cm

11 Towards the Piazza from Salute Oil on canvas 22x33cm

16 Towards The Santa Maria Della Salute Oil on canvas 33x22cm

17 Moored Gondolas, View Towards San Giorgio Maggione Oil on canvas 22x33cm

19 Umbrellas on the Piazzette Oil on canvas 27x22cm

20 Casanova Oil on canvas 24x18cm

23 Canal Reflections Oil on canvas 30x30cm

24 Leisurely Stroll Oil on canvas 24x30cm

27 Side Canal Oil on canvas 24x18cm

29 The Watchers Oil on canvas 38x46cm

30 The Conversation Oil on canvas 40x40cm

31 Masqueraders Oil on canvas 33x24cm

32 Gathering for the Procession Oil on canvas 22x33cm

33 In her Finery Oil on canvas 46x33cm

34 The Chaperone Oil on canvas 30x24cm

35 Trident Couple Oil on canvas 46x38cm

36 Woman in Green Hat Oil on canvas 24x18cm

36 A Noble Lady Oil on canvas 24x18cm

37 Meeting in Venice Oil on canvas 40x30cm

38 Opulent Pair Oil on canvas 30x30cm

39 Carnival Display Oil on canvas 46x33cm

40 Master of Ceremonies Oil on canvas 30x24cm

41 Procession March Oil on canvas 30x24cm

41 Dandy Cavalier Oil on canvas 24x18cm

42 Reflected Gaze Oil on canvas 30x30cm

43 Regal Gentleman Oil on canvas 40x30cm

44 Silk Ladies Oil on canvas 24x18cm

44 Sitting on Steps, Piazza San Marco Oil on canvas 46x33cm

45 The Mirror Oil on canvas 46x38cm

46 Little Venetian Oil on canvas 40x40cm

47 Bellissima Ragazza Oil on canvas 46x33cm

48 The Family Oil on canvas 40x30cm

49 Two Dandies Oil on canvas 33x22cm

50 San Pietro di Castello Oil on canvas 22x33cm

51 Laughing Couple Oil on canvas 33x22cm

52 Beauty Leading the Ceremony Oil on canvas 24x18cm

52 Stepping Out Oil on canvas 24x18cm

53 Caught up in the Bustle Oil on canvas 46x38cm

54 The Pose Oil on canvas 30x24cm

55 Young Venetian Couple Oil on canvas 24x18cm

56 Ladies in Waiting, green and blue Oil on canvas 30x24cm

57 Elegant Costumes in White Oil on canvas 19x24cm

57 Hidden Faces Oil on canvas 19x24cm

58 The Jester Oil on canvas 30x30cm

59 Gathered for ‘Flight of the Angel’ Oil on canvas 30x24cm

60 Birdcages Oil on canvas 30x24cm

61 After the Celebrations Oil on canvas 30x24cm

63 Venetian Shop Window Oil on canvas 30x24cm

64 Venetian Masks Oil on canvas 30x24cm

64 Carnival Cats Oil on canvas 30x24cm

65 Three Marionettes Oil on canvas 30x24cm

67 Street Musicians Oil on canvas 33x24cm

68 Street Performance Oil on canvas 33x22cm

68 The Embrace Oil on canvas 33x22cm

69 Carnival Dance Oil on canvas 18x24cm

69 The Last Dance Oil on canvas 18x24cm

70 Horses of St. Mark Oil on wood 25x30cm

71 Marble Figures Oil on wood 25x30cm

72 Salute detail, Winged Angel Oil on wood 30x35cm

72 Altar detail, Carved Angels Oil on wood 30x25cm

73 Ceiling detail, Basilica di Santi Giovanni e Paolo Oil on wood 35x25cm

75 Interior Courtyard, Doge’s Palace Oil on wood 27x22cm

76 Cloister Walkway Oil on canvas 33x22cm

77 Grand Canal from the Accademia Bridge Oil on canvas 22x33cm

78 Busy Canal Scene Oil on canvas 24x18cm

78 Gondola Ride Oil on canvas 24x18cm

79 Waiting Gondoliers, Campo Santa Maria Maddelena Oil on canvas 30x30cm

80 Mooring Poles, Grand Canal Oil on canvas 33x22cm

81 Towards Rialto Bridge Oil on canvas 25x35cm

81 Sunlight and Shadows, Side Canal Oil on board 30.5x40.7cm

82 Bridge of Sighs Oil on wood 40x30cm

83 Quiet Afternoon, Rio di San Barnaba Oil on canvas 40x40cm

83 Waiting Gondola Oil on canvas 24x18cm

84 Behind the Fish Market Oil on canvas 33x41cm

85 Venice Canal Oil on canvas 30x40cm

86 Late Evening, Santi Giovanni e Paolo Oil on canvas 25x35cm

87 Winter Scene, Ca’ Dario Oil on canvas 33x41cm

88 End of the Day Oil on canvas 40x40cm

90 Greeting in St. Mark’s Square Oil on canvas 40x40cm

96 Small Courtyard Oil on canvas 33x24cm

96

o Small Courtyard