Many enjoy arriving in Venice by plane to catch a glimpse of the last remaining reddish-brown marshlands in the Lagoon¹ from above, provided you are seated on the right side. While there is no dispute over the beauty of this intertidal zone and ecosystem seen from above, known as barene* by locals, arriving by train brings any curious visitor much closer to this vital “hybrid artificial organism of land and water”(Iovino & Beggiora, 2021, p. 7).

Leaving Mestre station bound for Venezia Santa Lucia on the night train, I know to wake up on time, for the best part of the journey is yet to come. Shortly after leaving Mestre’s industrial zone behind, we seemingly start to sail across the Lagoon waters above the old red-brick bridge connected to a distant fallen Austrian empire present in the Veneto region ((Barbieri et al., 2004). As the city's intertidal zone flashes past the train window — islands, wetlands, and occasional speedboats — fragments of Venetian history enter the mind. It feels like pulling a tangled fishing net from the early-dawn waters, where one thread points to at least another three knots of cause and effect. What would the area look like today, had it not been altered 400 years earlier when tributary rivers were diverted in order to prevent the Lagoon, and specifically harbours, from silting up (Omodeo, 2022)? Embarking on these major interventions, starting with the Brenta river, would only mark the dawn of a series of landscape engineering projects for the Venetians: from artificial salt basins, to extended Lagoon channels for cruise ship tourism, to artificial protection measures against acqua alta (high tide).

Seated on the left-hand side of the train, I can spot the iconic wooden briccole on the horizon. Undoubtedly, these three-part mooring oak poles may be one of the most well-known features of the Lagoon waters eagerly promoted on tourist ephemera. Some claim the structures were rammed into the sediment of the intertidal zone as far back as the early 15^th century (Brusegan, 2008; quoted in Szántó, 2016, p. 253). Today, their purpose may not be quite clear at first, at least to outsiders. Their peculiar triangular shape may just point to a distant nautical past when, as legend has it, the structures were removed even to hinder invasion by the Genovese navy (Szántó, 2016, p. 253). On the contrary though, briccole still serve a crucial role to this day. Combined with the ability to read the wind and waters — one of those rather underrated forms of vernacular knowledge— they allow for safe navigation through varying channel depths, ebbs, and tides.

Even though the oak poles were also present in other dwellings within the Veneto region, their intrinsic tie to Venice seems logical. After all, in an effort to increase the early settlements and therefore land to build on, the ancient republic rammed poles into the caranto (bedrock) to create Venice’s fondamenta (foundation). Unlike their saltwater-soaked counterparts in the Lagoon waters, the wooden poles were immersed in the caranto and mud where they were essentially starved of oxygen. Under these anaerobic conditions, over centuries, the wood mineralised and turned into a stone-like matter² strong enough to hold-up the Doge’s palace, an art biennale, and a slowly declining population – at least for now.

More-than-human entanglements
On the first official day of the field trip, consisting of both local Italian and foreign fellows, we move quickly from pavements to waters, joining the many Venetians who live dispersed across the many islands and depend on local vaporetti (waterbuses) or happen to own boats.

Starting from the northwest near the station with two small boats, we quickly arrive near the red train bridge that divides the Lagoon into North and South. Instead of crossing the arches straight away, we take a moment to halt and listen to the shallow waters with the aid of a hydrophone, while fellow artist Sonia Levy reads a text to us. Hearing the waterbody from below and above —surrounded by anthropogenic sounds of the rail- and motorway — brings the writing of Aldo Leopold’s to mind. In Think Like a Mountain, the conservationist suggests that each river has its own unique score created by the waters that “play on rock, root and rapid” (Leopold, 2021, p. 53). Most of these river scores have however been “marred by the discords of misuse” and alterations a long time ago (Leopold, 2021, p.54). In a similar vein, we may speculate upon the Lagoon and its waterbodies. How did their sound change over the centuries with river diversions and industrialisation alike? In an attempt to draw nearer and attune to the intertidal zone of the Serenissima, we could turn from observing the solely visible changes to equally reflect on its acoustic score. In this sense, Levy’s film We Marry You O Sea (2023) literally dives into the muddy waters of the Lagoon both visually and acoustically as she portrays some of the Lagoon’s anthropogenic forces, including the infamous Porto Marghera industrial zone and petrochemical plant, which we were headed for later that day.

Our tour continues beneath the arches, through a rather shallow gap between water and cove, that leads many of us instinctively to tuck in our heads. Many of these arches, we learn, become impassable at times as they are blocked by colonies of Tapes philippinarum (Manila clam), a clam with invasive behaviour that is native to the Pacific waters off the Japanese coast (Bertolini & Hrsak, 2022). Unlike the infamous foreign blue crab that plagues the Lagoon and native species, the Manila clam has managed to become one of the most commercially valuable species for spaghetti alle vongole, a popular dish. Underneath the arches, however, clams are an unwelcome guest that must be forcefully removed to allow small boats to pass.

Past the arches, we finally near one of the 6.000 briccole present in the Lagoon (Szántó, 2016, p. 253). Up close, the weathered poles have seemingly turned into records in their own right. While they don’t count the years anymore unlike their living oak counterparts, one might argue they could be regarded as material witnesses³ to both Venice’s sinking fate and an ever-changing vegetation affected by global trade.

This is particularly true for certain ship worms (Terenididae and Teredo Bartschi) and gribbles, who feast on the water-softened material (Guarneri et al., 2022; see also Szántó, 2016), until there is barely a bone of wood left to stand on. One worm species sneakily does so by using any small gap, often less than a millimetre, following the grain and widening the holes from within.

That way, the illusion of an intact structure is preserved from the outside, whereas the wood is completely eroded on the inside. Some of these worm species were introduced through the Suez Canal in the early 1900s (Guarneri et al., 2022), coincidentally at a time when their preferred ‘wooden feast’ rose in importance too. The “rapid displacement of the canals following the transformation of the inlets and other hydraulic works in the Lagoon” (Folin et al., 2001, p. 150; quoted in Szántó, 2016, p. 253) has been suggested as one of the reasons, while, at the same time larger and faster boats, unable to correct their course, became increasingly dependent on the moored posts as points of guidance. Back then, more briccole were installed about every 50 meters, which slowly allowed anyone less experienced to test the waters too (Szántó, 2016). Ever since then, the briccole have been ensnared and ‘sculpted’ by saltwater and species from near and afar, until they are due to be replaced, about every five to ten years.

One would speculate that many more navigational clues such as these would have existed during Marco Polo’s days and that of Venetian merchants, given that the Lagoon featured many more water channels and much denser marshlands to navigate (Szántó, 2016). Not least for the Serenissima was busy ‘cultivating the Lagoon’, namely through creating white gold — salt — that, together with other precious goods such as Venetian glass, would have likely been moved across the Lagoon by boat.

Long before the river diversions began, the mixing of freshwater from rivers such as Po and Brenta with the saltwater entering from seawater inlets allowed for the ideal conditions of medium and hybrid level of salinity (Calaon, 2023). And Venetians did not shy away from cleverly utilising this phenomenon, as demonstrated by the remains of ancient salt pans found in the Lagoon near Chioggia, but also within the Northern Lagoon. Through specially made embankment structures, salt could be extracted from seawater by opening sluices that controlled the waterflow in the salt pans. The work entailed a constant act of synchronisation with the ebbs and tides, to drain and dry (Calaon, 2023).

Whilst the Serenissima produced its own salt, it also required merchants to bring back salt from their travels, which is technically how the distinction between “sea salt” – created in the Lagoon – and “salt” obtained through trade arose (Barbasetti di Prun, 2022). Traces of the salt empire are still present in the lagoon, such as the old storage houses along the Giudecca channel that still carry the unambiguous name ‘Emporio dei Sali’.

Reading wind and waves
On the next day, the winter fog encases us in the early January Lagoon. One can barely see much ahead, never mind Venice’s cemetery island opposite our vaporetto stop whose ochre exterior otherwise seemingly bathes in the morning sun. Many approaching the stop turn on their heels, somewhat frustrated, as the orange LED letters unmistakably signal the cancellation of almost all trips today. Luckily, our destination is Sant’Erasmo, a route undertaken by the few ships equipped with radar technology. Soon enough, Venice City, briccola by briccola, and all signs of life fade quietly behind us in the grey foggy walls.

Once ashore on the island known as the food producing hinterland, with a long-standing history of violet artichokes and asparagus, we start our walk with only a few meters’ visibility in front of us. Along the way leading across a small strip of sandy beach, we encounter one of the few remaining fishermen with their admirable skill to read wind and waters. Their sixth sense for navigating the intertidal zone has led some of them to be contracted for LifeVimine, a project designed to use their unique knowledge of the winding barene channels to install and upkeep bio-fascines (bundles of wood tied with natural fiber ropes) in the fight to prevent further erosion of the marshes. While the project has admittedly had its trials and errors, unlike other much more costly measures undertaken by the city, it has provided work and attempts to counteract social and wetland erosion alike (Barausse, 2022).

Further on our way, through curtains of reeds, I make out an abandoned boat turned upside down and a redbrick water well, though there are no Venetian farmers to be seen that day. A hand-painted sign reading Villaggio dei Carciofi (Artichoke Village) in front of a field suggests a sense of humour they may well need in the face of ever-increasing difficulty. Just as the fishermen are affected by engineering interventions and species with invasive behaviour, farmers are equally struggling against manifold challenges, of which the biggest are the increasing floods.

The most famous acqua alta event occurred in the 1960s, an incident well-documented by the iconic black & white photography showing rowing boats on Piazza San Marco. The saltwater also reached the famous peach trees Sant Erasmo was known for up until that moment, and thus the farmers took the drastic decision to cut them down: too great was the fear of rotten roots caused by the amount of salt washed ashore. Without a doubt, the island has never been quite the same again. As a means of moving on, farmers turned to other crops, it was “the dawn of the (‘salty’) tomato” (Barbasetti di Prun, 2022, p. 27).

Once cultivated and cherished for trade, salt — the hailed white gold — eventually turned on the Venetians. In the last decades, the area has become the forefront of global warming. Not only do the floods sweep across the Lagoon, but salinisation is turning the land barren and into lost ground (Barbasetti di Prun, 2022).

One of the few plants thriving in these conditions, some may call them an ‘old friend’, are halophytes (salt-loving plants), such as Salicornia. Pioneer plants such as these and their salty siblings have ever since been an active part of the marsh ecosystem.

Spread through seeds across the waters, their growing roots consolidate the wetlands over time, setting the grounds for other species to thrive (Barausse, 2022). Nevertheless, the herbal qualities of Salicornia were practically long forgotten after Napoleon’s army invaded the area. Only in recent years, they are slowly being rediscovered thanks to new cooking initiatives such as Tocia! and Tidal Garden who serve it regularly to anyone curious to try it. While these regenerative local initiatives are still in their early years, they point to different ways of eating with the Lagoon that build on vernacular knowledge and convivial perspectives. Salicornia and its siblings have emerged somewhat as cure and curse: its qualities as a salt-substitute are desirable, yet its presence further up in the Po river indicates that the fragile water- and land ecosystem has become out of balance (Brutto & Pavan, 2022).

Convivial barene
Our trip that day ends on the nearby island Lazzaretto Nuovo where we can witness withered dark red brown salicornia and other wild growing halophytes on a smaller patch of marshland behind the ancient hospital complex. Their time this season is yet to come, when the annual plant will reappear green and lush again. Access to these marshes is technically forbidden, as UNESCO and Natura2000 laws protect not only the city of Venice, but also its ‘suburb’. Naturally, this raises a debate amongst conservationists. Some argue that Venetian marshes that are managed privately are better kept against the waves and erosion, whereas those that are “left to be” and “untouched” are typically in worse conditions (Barausse, 2022). The laws further pose issues for those regenerative cooking initiatives attempting to bring back knowledge on local edible species. Picking Salicornia in the marshes even within reason is strongly prohibited⁴, which leads restaurants such as Venissa to growing them in their own garden, and Tidal Garden to collaborate with farmers willing to change their crop to yet another species and grow them.

Leaving Venice, the next day across a wooden bridge, a few crystals of salt reflect the midday January sun. Upon closer look, they are mixed with confetti from the Carnival commencing that day, attracting many tourists and expelling locals fed-up with the ever-increasing mass of visitors. Few may know that the confetti are made from waste paper derived from packaging and unused voting ballot paper⁵. A telling image, as many locals, scientists, artists, and NGOs have seemingly turned to their own devices to promote resistance and regenerative approaches rather than putting faith solely in governance. And so, they campaign against the cruise ships (WeAreHereVenice), provide installations visualizing growing numbers of tourists (Ocio), interview and film locals to document humans and more-than-humans as they face a changing ecosystem ​(Metagoon), or invite locals and foreigners alike to eat with the barene (Convivial Tables). While these are all individual organisations, they share the same goal to battle against the erosion of their home that could turn Venice into a sinking salinized Disneyland devoid of a local population. In the face of this feared outcome, local regenerative actors may well be the much needed ambassadors for the remains of the water- and landbodies the Serenissima once evolved on.

Without a doubt, the uneasy relationship between the city and its intertidal zone continues; one that is not without conflicts, difficulties, and constant mediation between the desires of survival and the economic imperatives. When I return that day above the bridge with its vaults and clams, I try to recall the sounds of the Lagoon waters. I’d like to think that in these few days, travelling the channels and marshes by boat and foot, I came closer to considering myself as a waterbody with “tides in the body” – as Virginia Woolf once wrote – that “ebb and flow across time and space”, thereby entangling myself with the Lagoon and its tributaries alike (see Neimanis, 2012).

Footnotes

1 Some Venetian thinkers, such as the archaeologist and activist Lidia Fersuoch suggest to capitalise the Lagoon in order to recognizes the Lagoon of Venice as a specific geographic location. See also Guarnieri, 2023.

2 For information on how Venice was built, see: ‘How Was Venice Built? How to Build a City on Nothing...’, 13 January 2019. https://allaboutvenice.com/how-was-venice-built/.

3 Material witnesses are non-human entities and machinic ecologies that archive their complex interactions with the world, producing ontological transformations and informatic dispositions that can be forensically decoded and reassembled back into a history. See
https://susanschuppli.com/MATERIAL-WITNESS

4 Personal conversation with Jane da Mosto, We Are Here Venice, as part of Project Raccogliere (January–June 2022)

5 Design Museum Gent. ‘Pretty Useless’. Accessed 7 November 2024.
https://www.designmuseumgent.be/en/news/2024/alice-moretto.


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