Many years ago, my friend Gleb Goloubetski—one of the greatest contemporary artists—told me, “If it ever snows in Venice, be ready! We have to be there the same day!” His words stuck with me, and from that moment on, I dreamed of going to Venice. Finally, in 2011, that dream came true.
When I arrived for the Carnival, snow was the last thing on my mind—it was spring, after all. Another cold and damp morning found me at St. Mark’s Square, perfecting my speed-shooting skills with the masked figures drifting through the mist. My usual partner had taken the day off, and the atmosphere wasn’t quite as lively as the morning before. Still, a little Jägermeister can work wonders, even if drinking alone isn’t as fun.
Everything was going as expected—until a fierce wind swept through the square, carrying with it something unbelievable. Snow!
Stunned, the costumed figures scrambled for shelter, unwilling to face the storm. But a few of us—like-minded, snow-struck lunatics—managed to stop three or four of them and convinced them to pose. We all knew this might be a once-in-a-lifetime moment. My heart pounded with adrenaline. The snow was falling, melting, and falling again. I was running through the city, hopping onto vaporettos, shooting non-stop. For the first time in my life, the rush of photography felt like the thrill of the hunt.
I finally stumbled back to the hotel around 11 AM. My friends were just finishing breakfast when I burst in, breathless, raving about the magic I had just witnessed. But when we stepped outside half an hour later, the snow had vanished—without a trace.
I pinched myself. Had I dreamed it all?
