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He was a bourgeois and thought himself a collector of fine paintings, but wasn't sure. They gave me breakfast in the dining room daily, which may have been no more than a scone and coffee as customary. The dining-hall was fairly large with high ceiling, accommodating meals for the summer-season tourist crowd, with many clothed tables, and a couple that were banquet-size, of which one was used by me, a few other guests and the help. The walls were hung with paintings of different sizes, mostly small, like if they were sold by the square-yard, which maybe they were.
Beats-me. He wanted my advice on painting. Why am I advice ? What do I do here ? He bought from local painters, and because they were unknown in the big-fame official acknowledgement forums, he wanted to know if they were any good. Of course he was not blunt about it, as-was a delicate matter, needing a great deal of tact. How was I suppose to know ? I pretended to know more than I did. I gave him hedged opinions, and he gave me a few invites to supper and dinner. And what was my opinion ? No idea. Can't remember a thing. But I think his paintings were more of the colored-cheap romance pastries, but I thought I recognized some more basic and honest form in some of them, and encouraged that. What to do here ? He had already committed a good deal of money.
I walked all over Venice this like-magic city, very old, streets like alleys, little arched bridges over canals everywhere, metal railings. It was a compacted Amsterdam, and the most amazing thing - no cars. It was very relaxing and a water-wonderland. It must have been November, because there was flooding. Mostly I remember what was probably Piazza San Marco.
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