Celebrity Square

My bare arms get me banned from the eclectic marble mayhem of the Basilica
San Marcos in St Mark's Square. It doesn't matter whether or not I'm a
believer, whether or not I've moved mountains to get there, or that we've
been round most churches in Europe in little more than swimming costumes; in
Venice bingo wings cannot be seen in a sacred space. I'm not sure whether to
stamp my feet or congratulate them on their fashion policing. A man in dark
glasses tries to sell me a large aubergine coloured paper napkin to wrap
around my shoulders. I decline, send the family on into the church and
retreat back out to the square, against the flow of the tide. At three o
clock in the afternoon it is still forty degrees, and the queue for the
cathedral is showing as much sign of abating as the queue of pigeons looking
for sweet-corn from the tourists. I step over both, looking for shade to sit
in. There is none. Anyway, I'm not allowed to sit down, as sitting is
prohibited on the grounds that the square is a living work of art. If I sit
down I risk a fine. Art is not all about self expression here. Although if I
wanted to sit in a bar selling a bellini for an overinflated price then that
would be fine; in fact the throng of hovering white jacketed waiters would
be almost pleased to see me.

I am looking at the nuns. A group of them are milling around taking pictures
of themselves against the backdrop of the church. They aren't involved in
the queue for the basilica; perhaps their vocation entitles them to a
fast-track pass of the worlds churches, a kind of ecumenical Disneyland
scheme. The pigeons sense there'll be no snacks forthcoming from ladies in
white dresses and steer clear of them. Then it happens. The only thing I can
compare it to is an eclipse. The sky goes dark, and the birds calm down. The
Italian lap dogs are stiller than ever. For a moment, probably a rare
moment, there is a silence across the square. And then people begin to surge
forward, towards the far end, where the vaporettas dock every few minutes to
disgorge their tourist cargo, lifting the water to very edge of this
historic and internationally celebrated bit of mud swamp.

People are shouting, "look, look" in every language; even the nuns are
sprinting forward with their cameras. I turn back to see what is going on
and the landscape has changed. A celebrity has arrived. A celebrity so
massive it dwarfs everything on the horizon; even a cathedral that has been
dazzling people for hundreds of years, with its ornate columns, Italian
masterpieces and golden mosaics. Stuart has our camera; it seems I am the
only person in the vicinity to see this vision with my own eyes rather than
a lense. The queue for the cathedral has dispersed. More people surge
forward with cameras poised to fill in the darkness left by a
disenfranchised sun. They snap and they flash at the celebrity. And the
visitor snaps and flashes back at this historic monument. This 'living work
of art'; those who've come to worship, to appreciate great Venetian
architecture, or just enjoy an ice cream with a pigeon on their head is
captured in stillness forever.

The Celebrity X cruise ship is five or six stories high, and from this far
away its passengers look like the animated pin people in the movie Titanic.
There are thousands of them; standing outside their bedrooms, on the upper
decks. I imagine them clutching champagne, confetti and Cavalli handbags and
congratulating themselves. They are, after all, on the cruise ship of cruise
ships; so rich and commercially successful that it can dock near the square
and sail right past; as close as you can get, at the peak spot of three o
clock in the afternoon. Celebrity X Cruises strives to give St Mark's
Square what it lacks; some modern glamour; some topical interest, some of
that must have X factor. In one of the most famous squares in the world,
celebrity still counts and money can buy you the best view. And how can a
painting or a fusty old church compete with a cruise liner that can outshine
the sun? Just as the thronging August tourists themselves eat into the
beauty of the square and its buildings, this steel hulk, travelling in the
name of culture and glamour, overshadows the sculptures, masterpieces and
buildings. For a moment it's just them, watching us, watching them. Giotto
is risotto. The cruiser moves on, so slowly you have to pinch yourself that
it is moving at all. But it is. It has other cities to brighten, other photo
calls to attend.

It's all over and people begin to form orderly queues once more. The sun
takes its place back in the sky and people begin to sweat again. On the
Grand Canal the gondoliers get to work. My kids run out of the church to
tell me that anything good to see in Venice comes with an extra charge. Not
quite everything, I reply. Everyone in this square has just taken home a
picture, a living work of art, containing a real life celebrity, for free.