The Slow Letter
Out of plumb
On site, a wall out of plumb comes down. In a wood near Viterbo there's a house built crooked on purpose, and a night in 2018 spent checking on a motorbike.
The Slow Letter
A letter every other Friday. There is always a memory or an observation inside it: the part of the journey that doesn't fit in the plans. It often comes from the place of the latest essay. Not always. Subscribe and it arrives by email.
The Slow Letter
The empty stage
A confession: the ideal city of Sabbioneta disappointed me. A winter weekend, an empty theatre, and the sunset that finally lit the stage.
The Slow Letter
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.
The Slow Letter
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.
The Slow Letter
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.
The Slow Letter
The doors we locked in Todi
An 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.
The Slow Letter
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.
The Slow Letter
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.