The canal folds inward like a held secret, narrow and luminous, its water catching fragments of the city in restless reflection. Buildings rise close and tall, their walls layered with time—ochres, mossed greens, bruised reds—each surface bearing the marks of weather and passing lives. Windows stare softly, half-lit, as if remembering conversations that drifted out long ago.
An arching bridge gathers the scene at its centre, stone curved with patience, offering passage without spectacle. Beneath it, the water breaks colour into shards—turquoise, indigo, rust—never still, never whole. A gondola slips quietly along the edge, its presence suggested more than declared, absorbed into shadow and paint.
Brushstrokes move urgently here, scraping and layering, refusing polish. The city feels alive not through clarity but through motion, tension, and echo. This is Venice not as postcard but as pulse—a place where beauty leans into decay, where light survives in narrow spaces.
Port Macquarie