Robert Wexelblatt The black gondola suavely beckons, a luxury not to be missed. So you nod, step gingerly aboard, and let yourself sink into the plush throne. The masked city is sinking too, dissolving in the foul water where even sodden newsprint and rotten fruit are almost ennobled by St. Mark’s dome and those phallic lions. You’re rocked and rolled under pastel clouds in the ineffably soft light of recollected paintings;...