Walking through the streets of certain Italian towns, I often felt a feeling of unease, very veiled to be honest, when passing in front of contemporary architecture, set in an ancient context.
The reason for this unconscious discomfort, however, I never seriously considered, until very recently.
Having returned from a two-year period in which I lived mainly abroad for work, I was overwhelmed by the depth of beauty of pre-war Italian architecture.
I remember that for the first few weeks I walked around, in places that were very familiar to me, with my nose turned up and my mouth open, like a diabetic in a pastry shop.
I never thought, honestly, that I would ever get emotional over peeling plaster or a worn beam. Nor did I ever realize what a wonderful world had always surrounded me. I began to fantasize about the people who had commissioned this building, about the life that took place as soon as it was built and many similar stories.
So much so that after days and days, once the endorphin effect had subsided, I was able to rationalize the situation, and I tried to understand what makes a white wall built in the 16th century exciting, and a banal (and almost annoying) wall all similar, built (or even worse “restored”) today.
The error. The defect. The imperfection.
Some detractors will immediately object that the ancient building or artefact was not created as we see it today, but that its current aesthetic is the result of continuous alterations and wear and tear due to use.
Yes. But not only. I believe that everyone who can read and write has long since realized that we live in a sort of technocratic utopia. Even in the lowest social strata, we are all permeated by an obsessive tension towards perfection. We seem trapped in a sort of ecumenical neo-mannerism, in which mastery of technique and disdainful distancing from human fallibility are the only objectifying values.
Think of the embarrassment we feel when we can’t get an electronic device to work on the first try and without instructions. Unacceptable! Human 2.0 knows how to make everything work, immediately and well.
But it’s not because we’ve gotten smarter. On the contrary. We are simply adapting everything we do and produce, so that it adheres to a single operating logic, the only one we know, the technical logic.
The technical logic is predictable, and therefore friendly. And those who follow it foresee (or think they are capable of doing so) everything, or almost everything, trying to eliminate the possibility of error at the root, the absolute nemesis of human 2.0.
Error, defect, vulnerability are perceived as negative values, to be rejected without reservation.
But is it really like this? And it’s not a rhetorical question. I too am a victim, or rather a child of this technocratic utopia.
But then why is an imperfect frieze carved in marble by an unknown person 2000 years ago sublime while a decoration milled with a numerically controlled machine is disgusting today? Why is an inlay by Maggiolini art while a similar decoration made today is tacky?
It is the unpredictability of the human trait, the unexpected turn that a line takes, which transforms a piece of wood, otherwise good for the stove, into a compelling and irresistible story, which keeps us glued, perhaps for millennia, to its presence.
Every human artifact carries with it the history of the entire life of the man who created it. From the level of manufacturing, from the irregularities, or from the virtuosity of a detail, one can perceive the hard and complex professional and human path of the craftsman, but also his aesthetic taste and his character. At the same time, each object, once delivered for its use, functions as a recorder. Like a careful biographer, he notes on himself the signs of the life that takes place around him. Stories of families, lovers, intrigues or who knows what else.
