Although, judging by Veronica’s expression, I’m not sure she agrees.
The smell of strong coffee hits me as the man peels the lid from his cup and drains it in a single swallow. It’s like watching someone down a magic potion. His shoulders straighten, his chin lifts, and when he speaks in a swift flow of Venetian, his voice is strong and sure, like it’s been switched on.
‘You are here to learnl’arte dei mascareri– the art of mask making.’ Leo has leant close to translate, his warm breath against my ear sparking a trail of goose-bumps down my spine. ‘Each one tells a story, provokes an emotion, or represents a character. Their beauty is not in their appearance, but in how they allow you to be someone else … or no one at all.’
The man leads us to a long table piled high with masks.
‘Please. Try for yourself,’ Leo translates.
Nadia slips on a blue-feathered creation and does a graceful little dance.
‘What is the point of this?’ Fulvio moans, arms folded, unimpressed.
Alessandra nudges me and tilts her chin at the gargoyle mask behind his left shoulder – its stony little face a perfect copy of his. I laugh into my sleeve, and Fulvio glares harder.
Leo picks a half-mask with an exaggerated nose. It should make him look ugly – but instead it highlights the strong line of his jaw, the slant of his cheekbones, the way his soft brown curls fall perfectly – and, yes, I still have the urge to collage him into a faerie prince.
I pull on a full-faced mask to hide the heat spreading across my cheeks.
‘Thebautais a true original, a social equalizer,’ the mask maker says of my plain white face as again, Leo translates. ‘Noble or servant? Who is to know?’
I glance down at my scuffed trainers and crumpled coat. ‘Yeah, I think I’d need more than a mask to hide that.’ I tug it off and shove it at Leo. ‘Here. You try.’
And please cover up that stupidly handsome face.
I look him up and down, stroking my chin. ‘Nah. Still a privileged mamma’s boy.’
Only his eyes are visible but, yep, they’re rolling.
We move to a worktable set up with paints and accessories like sweets at a party – feathers, sequins, fake jewels and more.
We’re actually going to make our own. I feel a ripple of real excitement – until Veronica plucks one of the display masks from a string overhead. Pale face. Swirling brushstrokes. Even I recognize it as one of Van Gogh’s self-portraits.
‘Now this,’ she says, holding it aloft, ‘is interesting. Perhaps you could each make a mask that mirrors your portrait.’
‘Or …’ Silvia slips her arm through Veronica’s and steers her towards another table. ‘You can let them discover what’s behind their own masks first. Later, yes, they might tie in with their portraits. For now …’ Her voice softens. ‘Let’s have fun. Do you remember the ones we made at university?’
To my shock, Veronica actually laughs. Not the polite, clipped laugh I’ve heard from her before, but something real. Silvia joins in, shaking her head at whatever memory they’ve dug up.
OK. Clearly these two go way back. Who knew?
The mask maker claps his hands, pulling me back, and Leo translates again. ‘To get you started,’ he says, tapping his temple, ‘think of who you’d like to be. Or perhaps … your opposite.’
‘I’m going to be a spoilt rich boy with monogrammed shirts,’ I say, grabbing a brush. ‘You could make one that looks like creased underwear and bepoor for the day.’
Leo huffs a short laugh.
I hunch over my space, using the buckets of paste and newspaper to cover my work from prying eyes. I can make what I like here. It’s just a bit of fun. And I’m not sure art can ever be more for me, certificate or not. At least, not in a world like this.
So that’s what I do. I let my hands take over, surfacing a couple of hours later to find Nadia holding up her finished mask.
She’s collaged scraps of packaging and coloured paper into a shimmering mosaic of blues and greens – the lagoon, rebuilt out of recycling. Along the edges, little cut-outs of bottles and cans cluster together, half-submerged like flotsam. She rattles off something in Italian – I only catch ‘Venezia’ and ‘rifiuti’ – Venice and rubbish – but the point’s obvious.
Alessandra’s work is more delicate. She’s built a mask from layers of card, the cut-outs so fine they scatter patterned shadows across the wall when she tilts it towards the light. ‘My nonna was a lacemaker. This comes from one of her designs.’
‘Wonderful.’ Silvia holds it up to show the class. ‘This is the perfect example of a modern take on a Venetian tradition.’
Yeah, I’m keeping my twisted creation underwraps. The shape is too long to be human. Mirror shards scar the surface like ice water, and green threads curl like weeds pulled from the shallows. It’s … her. The kelpie girl from my Art Exchange avatar – only a bit messier.
