I was kneeling in the dust of a crumbling sacristy in Syracuse last July, my fingers tracing the uneven grit of a lime-wash that had survived three centuries of humidity. Most people visit these sites to photograph the grand altarpiece…
Author: Elena Vasari-Pucci
A building tells you how it was built if you know where to look. I write about joints, mortar and the decisions of people who are long dead, because that is where the real story sits.
I was standing in a damp, half-collapsed Romanesque doorway near Ravenna last Tuesday, my fingers tracing the uneven grit of a limestone voussoir, when I realized how much we misinterpret the simplest things. Most textbooks will try to sell you…
I was in a dusty basement in Milan last autumn, tracing the edge of a particularly stubborn travertine slab, when I realized how much we misread the era. Most critics approach rationalism between the wars as if it were a…
I was standing in a damp basement in Ravenna last autumn, tracing the edge of a crumbling wall, when I realized most people look at a facade and see only a color or a texture. They talk about “heritage” as…
I was standing in a damp warehouse outside Milan last Tuesday, my flashlight catching the jagged edge of a crumbling concrete pillar, when it hit me how much we misunderstand these spaces. Most people look at an industrial building in…
I was standing in a damp basement in Ravenna last Tuesday, tracing the jagged fracture of a sixteenth-century limestone block, when I saw it: a patch of grey, rigid Portland cement shoved into a joint that clearly demanded breath. It…
I spent three hours last Tuesday in the Duomo, not looking at the frescoes or the golden light, but crouched on a scaffold, tracing the line where the brickwork meets the ribs. Most guidebooks will try to sell you a…
I was kneeling in the dust of a Chianti cellar last Tuesday, my flashlight catching the rhythmic, uneven scarring of a chisel on a limestone lintel, when I realized how much we get wrong about this landscape. Most people look…
I was kneeling in the dust of a crumbling site near Ostia last autumn, my knees aching and my camera lens fogging, when I saw it again: that stubborn, defiant refusal of the material to simply give up. Most people…
I was kneeling in the damp dust of a crumbling courtyard near Syracuse last autumn, my fingers tracing a hairline fracture that shouldn’t have been there. Most people look at a peeling facade and see decay, but I saw a…