The Slow Architect

The Torre dell'Orologio in Mantua in late golden light, its gilded astronomical dial set into the brick, with the crowded restaurant tables of Piazza delle Erbe beneath it.

The name I didn't steal

I always thought signing this blog "Giulio Romano" was a small imposture — and that sooner or later I'd have to go to Palazzo Te and settle up with the rightful owner of the name. Then I found out there wasn't one.

Symmetrical view of the interior Courtyard of Honor with a brick pathway crossing a green lawn.

PALAZZO TE — RULE AND LICENCE

Mantua, empty in mid-August. The facade of Palazzo Te is brick and plaster pretending to be stone, and in the courtyard the triglyphs are slipping out of the frieze. Giulio Romano spent ten years building an order that fails on cue — and had to leave Rome to be allowed to do it.

The steak I can't remember

I went to Siena to verify a book, and spent the day proving it right. What I actually remember is the heat, the wine, a steak I can't place — and the girl walking patiently behind me.

A dramatic low-angle shot looking straight up the vertical brick shaft of the Torre del Mangia toward its white stone battlements against the sky.

SIENA — THE CITY THAT NEVER REALLY LOST

Tuscany's second city, they say — as if that were a ranking that mattered. Siena lost the wars, kept the shape, and built an invisible river to stay alive. Walk it and it doesn't feel like a place that lost anything.

The climb I didn't do again

Vignola built a road to make the climb compulsory. Four centuries later, two helmets and a lazy Sunday defeated it. On knowing the right way — and taking the easy door anyway.

Palazzo Farnese Caprarola, detail of South facade

CAPRAROLA — THE PALACE THAT TURNED A WHOLE TOWN INTO A STAGE SET

Some places you visit and forget. Others follow you home. The Palazzo Farnese at Caprarola is the second kind — a fortress turned into a palace, and a whole town rebuilt to serve it.

The doors we locked in Todi

A improvised trip, a suite too big, and a night spent locking every door — after writing a piece about thresholds as invitations. On doors that open and doors that defend.

TODI — THE THRESHOLD AND THE CITY

The portal of San Fortunato asks you to stop one second longer. An architect reads Todi — its three walls, its Roman forum, and the doors built to make you pause.

Civita di Bagnoregio stands on a tufa hill inside a deep green valley, surrounded by clay calanchi under a bright blue sky with white clouds.

The question of the bridge

I went back to Civita with my daughter. She ran across the bridge; I walked behind, asking why we keep building bridges toward a city that is disappearing.

A wide landscape shot of the hilltop town of Civita di Bagnoregio rising like an island out of dense grey fog, connected by a long, steep concrete footbridge.

CIVITA DI BAGNOREGIO — THE CITY THAT IS DYING

Everyone crosses the bridge to photograph the dying city. Almost nobody asks the real question: why do we keep building bridges to reach a place that is disappearing?

Orvieto Cathedral side view: Distinctive zebra-striped marble wall with tall ornate Gothic spire, arched windows, and distant clock tower against blue sky.

One step to the side

Four visits to Orvieto, and I'd never seen it. Then I took one step to the side — and the whole building changed. On why this blog begins from the wrong angle.

Oblique view of Orvieto Cathedral under a blue sky, showing the intersection where the mosaic-covered Gothic front screen meets the black-and-white striped side wall.

ORVIETO — THE CATHEDRAL THAT BECAME A LIGHTHOUSE

Everyone photographs the golden facade. Almost nobody asks why it's so bright — or what holds it up. An architect's reading of Orvieto's cathedral, from the mosaics to the hidden engineering.

Italy, slowly — and always looking up.

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