Last Tuesday, I found myself in a crumbling palazzo near Ravenna, tracing the grain of a sixteenth-century chestnut portal with my thumb. Most people walk past these entrances, seeing only a barrier or a decorative flourish, but they miss the…
I was kneeling in the damp dust of a villa near Ostia last Tuesday, my knees aching in that familiar way, when I realized I had spent twenty minutes photographing nothing but a single, misplaced corner of a tuff block….
I was sitting in a small café in Milan last spring, staring at a piece of laminate that looked like it had been rejected from a fever dream, when it hit me how much we misunderstand the chaos of the…
I was kneeling in a damp, narrow calle near Cannaregio last November, my knees aching against the slick Istrian stone, when I realized how much we get wrong about the city. Most guidebooks treat the concept of venice and building…
I was kneeling in the dust of a courtyard in Alberobello last July, my knees aching and my hands stained with limestone grit, when I realized how much the travel brochures lie to you. Most people visit puglia and the…
I was standing in a drafty, half-renovated palazzo in Palermo last autumn, staring at a structural intervention that was being hailed in the journals as a masterpiece of “innovation.” It was nothing more than a clumsy, expensive attempt to force…
I was standing in a sun-bleached square in Lecce last July, watching a group of urban planners argue over the placement of a “modular, interactive seating installation” that looked more like a piece of plastic playground equipment than anything meant…
I remember standing in a damp, half-lit cellar in Ravenna last autumn, tracing the grain of a sixteenth-century timber frame with my fingertips. While the official survey report droned on about “structural integrity” and “material degradation,” I was looking at…
I was kneeling in the damp dust of a basement in Ravenna last autumn, my flashlight beam cutting through decades of grime, when I found it—a faint, rhythmic indentation in a single, sun-baked course of masonry. Most people walk past…
I remember standing in a drafty attic in Ravenna three years ago, the smell of damp chestnut and centuries of dust thick in my throat. I wasn’t looking at the beautiful frescoes downstairs; I was staring at a single, hand-hewn…