The rough exposed brickwork and crumbling plaster, stained by rising and falling tides or leaking gutters, is a common enough sight that it is easily taken for granted in Venice, but what lies behind these walls?  Are the interiors as time-worn or full of modern minimalism that contrasts Tardis-like with the outer skin?

The answer is that there are probably examples of both.  People’s houses are of course as individual as they are, but we rarely have the opportunity to glimpse what lies within unless as in invited guest.  Every so often though you will encounter a door left ajar, a gateway to an inner courtyard, a light at an un-shuttered window.

In this case the staircase to the piano nobile shows all the eccentricities of age; the treads have chosen their individual views of what is horizontal, the handrail attempts to emulate the curve of the archway below, and the poor balusters contort to fit in with the vagaries of their colleagues.

We all develop idiosyncrasies over time it seems.



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