I remember standing in the shadow of the Palazzetto dello Sport in Rome, my fingers tracing the rhythmic, sweeping curves of the precast ribs. Most people stand there and marvel at the aesthetic grace of the structure, treating it like…
I was crouched in the dust of a narrow side street near Santo Spirito last autumn, my knees aching against the uneven pavement, when I realized I was looking at something most tourists walk past without a second thought. I…
I was crouched in a damp, narrow calle near Cannaregio last Tuesday, my flashlight tracing the jagged interface where a foundation block meets the salt-slicked water. Most tourists walk right past these details, seeing only the shimmering reflection of the…
I remember sitting in a dusty archive in Ravenna three years ago, staring at a sixteenth-century folio that had been rebound so poorly the spine was practically screaming. Most scholars will spend hours lecturing you on the “intellectual democratization” brought…
I was standing on a scaffold in a narrow street near Ravenna last autumn, my hands stained with the fine, white dust of lime, when I realized how often we misread a building’s skin. Most people walk past a palazzo…
I was standing in the shadow of the Porta Nuova last autumn, squinting against the Milanese drizzle, when I realized how much people get wrong when they talk about the Pirelli Tower and structure. Most critics treat it like some…
I remember standing in the humid shade of a vaulted corridor in Verona last July, my notebook damp with sweat, watching a group of tourists stumble blindly through a narrow passageway. They were looking up at the grand scale of…
I remember standing on a half-submerged scaffolding near Cannaregio three years ago, the salt spray stinging my eyes and the smell of decaying organic matter thick enough to taste. Everyone around me was talking about the “miracle” of Venice, treating…
I was standing in the rain outside a neo-Palladian estate in the English Midlands last autumn, tracing the line of a pediment that looked far too perfect to be real. Most architectural historians will talk to you about the “grandeur”…
I was kneeling in the damp dirt outside a farmhouse near Merano last autumn, my fingers tracing the edge of a limestone lintel, when it hit me how much we get wrong. Most people visit this region and see a…