i won't be around for few days: i have to attend my last exam of university the 6th of feb. All my thoughts are towards that direction.

The unknown

In the middle of the mess in my drawer, where i keep notes about places to visit, found on articles on the net, or  thanks to indications given by friends, i had one that said “Farmitalia, via Bezzi, near De Angeli”. All i had to do was to go there and see why i have written such note. The street is part of a beltway, but the stretch with this name is veri short. So i shouldn’t have a hard time finding the abandoned area. Instead i have: there in not one single building with a clear aura of desolation. But there is an open wide gate, and inside i can’t see a breathing soul; junk on the ground shows little care; dirty windows, althought not broken, present an unpopulated scenary. On the wall there are security cameras, but i can’t tell if they are working. Apparently there are no obstacles and timidly i advance few steps inside the property, with the fear of who senses that the security cameras are actually machine guns, ready to blow against me the whole load of bullets. Now they are behind me and i have no intention to turn around, pretending i don’t really care: the gate is open, nobody comes towards me, it could be i’m just lost and looking for informations... i think while i go on. On the top of the building there’s a graffiti, that i learnt to know by now: Noce. How many times i’ve seen it! Mr Noce is very busy going around the city! This makes me think that it could be an abandoned area, cause a graffiti inside a private active property can’t be justified. I get closer to the building, searching for a peek between cracks, but all the windows are to high and i can’t reach them. So i stop to listen. If my eyes deceive me, hearing will help. In a warehouse i should hear workers sing or curse, i should hear machineries in function, or at least the air conditioner vibrate. None of this. A 100 meters in front of au there’s an indication sign, rusty and old, but our sharp sight helps us get some letters. We both read the same thing: the mortuary. Shiver long our backs... where the hell are we? From our position it doesn’t look like a hospital. The imagination starts flying and hypothesis take place. By the time we are still convinced we are in Farmitalia we imagine experiments on humans, which sometimes can also have a bad end... a chemycal industry with no scruples, ready to kidnap the unfortunates who went beyond the gate left open on purpose. I don’t know it’s because he’s tired or afraid, but Alessandro keeps telling me that this place is not so interesting inviting me to go away. I insist i want to find out something more, at least untill i don’t see strange people coming toward me with white suits, like the ones used in microelectronics companies, where all there’s left free are bloody eyes. I can just see them with anaesthetic harpoons in their hands, ready to sedate and kidnap us. All of this thanks to a closed warehouse and the sign for the mortuary. There are some hoistes, or at least this is what a sign says on them: they are rusty and old, and the sign, recent and well kept in a plastic cover, invites not to use them, because not safe. We get closer to the sign for the mortuary to check if that building is still working, hoping it isn’t, feraring to see zombies come out from every corner. We find another sign: the mortuary chapel. I can just see a far relative, carefully laying on purple velvet, with nice clothes, with candles all around him and old ladies praying. It’s only my imagination, cause i’ve never had the courage to look someone’s dead face. The shivers along my back get thicker. Alessandro shows me a carpark not to far from where we are, full of cars, and he keeps insisting this area isn’t abandoned. I start convincing myself, but i wnat to go on anyway, and find out what it is. Other buildings are being restored. It’s a good occasion to infiltrate and document a living building, at least untill somebody stops me. This is urban exploration too.

Reflection

I think that lately i strated writing less f the places i visit. I’ve dedicated only one post to De Gasperi and Marchiondi. It’s not because i’m in a hurry or i’m not interested. Probably i’m just lazy, the sin i’m closer too. The visit to the Marchiondi institure left me a bit disappointed, i was so sure i would have been able to go inside. And i would have, if it wasn’t inhabited. I read to many articles about murders, rapes, robberies, injuries, not to consider the presence of anyone inside these places. I really like the thesis i’m working at: somebody can’t understand it, others envy it. But it’s not my intention to become part of the articles i’m putting aside: crime news, 90% of the time. I’ve surfed through many websites about urban exploration, especially in the States and Canada. I’ve come to a conclusion: the situation there is not as bad as here. In Italy we have great problems with immigration: a lot of people arrives, but they are not welcomed and they have a hard time becoming integrated. I’m not part of that side which thinks that all immigrants are delinquent, but the situation they find themselves into can drop them into a difficult state, becoming dangerous against their will. We don’t have the right equipment and mentality to accept people who left their own country because desperate, because hunger and for the lack of those comforts that makes a life acceptable. It’s not easy to enter their hearts and understand the way they feel. I, italian citizen, have a hard time accepting the behaviour of most of the italians, so worried of themselves to feel free to step on the others. I realize i have the same behaviour when i happen to go out grumpy. We push eachother, we curse to eachother, we don’t look in others eyes, if we see somebody in difficulty we’’l look from far away, but never get close enough to give a hand. We act like this between us. Just think what happens when we have in front of us somebody that doesn’t represent the standard. I think i can say that we don’t really take seriously this way of acting between ourselves. But if i put my self in a stranger’s shoe, who doesn’t know the language, who arrived here illegaly, full of frustrations and blame... how do we expect them to react to so much indifference and spite? A sense of self protection will come out, blaming the ones who have a normal life, the same ones who don’t even give them a glance. The human being is as intelligent as emotionally weak, and it needs very little to loose the few certanties aquired. A very simple example, quite stupid too: i’m a standard citizen, i’m not poor nor rich, i’m not ugly nor pretty, i’m not good nor bad, but it has happened many times to go into a store and been trated  in a very cold way. I feel bad about it, and i wn’t go back there agian, unless i have to.just think of those people who arrive here desperate and don’t find not one friendly face, ready to give at lest one sign of trust. I’m not showing the peace flag, i’m not saying “peace and love”, cause i’d be hypocrite, by the time i’m the first one who fears the unknown. I don’t know how long it will take to find the right balance on the theme of immigration, but i know that untill then the abandoned areas will be their property and i have no intention to infiltrate in the others house.

Marchiondi institute

I’ve found this destination on the internet. An abandoned institute in Milan. On the map i found the street. It actually was part of the city. I reach the place by car, arriving from the highway, exit viale Certosa, i pass Piazzale Lotto, i go through viale delle Forza Armate. It should be at the end of this street. On the map it looks close, but at the end it’s a long way to go. We arrive at Baggio, the landscape starts to change, the houses are less and smaller, the street from large and imposing, becomes a intrigue of narrow streets with porfid as pavement. As the little old towns in the outskirts. If the map hadn’t shown clearly that we were still in the territory of Milan i would have done  u turn, convinced that i’ve gone over the border. I have my hole life to visit the rest of the world, for my final work i had to give myself a limit. It’s a pity, ‘cause right few days ago i found at the end of viale Fulvio Testi an abandoned house: very beautiful. Althought it’s so nice, nobody would want to live in a place like that: facing the worst street in Milan for traffic and pollution. It’s right after the border with Sesto, but i think that this time i can do an exception. If the border wasn’t signed on the map, i could never tell i left Milan. Baggio instead it seems as a town itself. When we arrive in via Noale, we can’t go wrong: the institute stands out big and abandoned with a background of fields and low houses. This time i know what is all about: it’s project of Viganò, an important architect of Milan. From the top of my ability in architectural criticism i let my first impressions free: horrible. Fortunately it’s abandoned, which gives to the place deeper aura, more than what it would have if it was still working. I don’t think the people living there appreciates this factor. They probably hated the place when it has been built, i imagine they hate even more now that there isn’t ny apparent reason for the building to stay there. At the main entrance there’s a plate, a way to justify the fact that it hasn’t been torn down yet. The city hall shouldn’t have let the building get in these conditions if they thought it was so important for the history of Milan... unless they are romantic and they love ruins. The side we run into at first, the one facing the park, has a high fence. With a little effort it shouldn’t be hard to enter from here, but it’s to easy to be caught and seen, so i wouldn’t  dare. We decide to go around the area, also because i’ve read that there’s an easy way to get inside. The main entrance is open, but not so clearly we realize that there’s a bar, a cafetteria in function. The faces we see through the windows are weird, it probably is a place for human derelictes: strangely enough they have their headquarters in an abandoned place, a way to isolate them even more from society. It’s not a welcoming place. We go to the side parallel to the one on the park. It’s along a field and a closed street. The armosphere is so calm i’m almost convinced i could go inside. What can there be in a place like this, so far from the center? I hear voices, i look around bewildered, hoping that they don’t come from where i fear. Pretending a not too believable indifference i observe what’s behind the fence. The images are confused,  the built let’s me foresee movements, but i can’t tell what kind. The voices get louder, but i can’t understand the language nor the subject. My hope is that they are a bunch of workers. More than hope i’d define it ingenuousness. Suddently two big guys pop out from a hole in the fence a bit ahead from us. They do look like workers, but i decide i want to find out a bit closer to civilization, so i turn around very slowly, and we start to walk back towards the end of the closed street. In the meantime i talk with alessandro, so pretending to look at him i catch glimpses of the position of the two suspicious guys. Alessandro doesn’t seemed worried, but he will be in the next thirty seconds for my stupid ingenuousness. Unexpectedly i turn around and decide i want to comunicate with the two guys. “excuse me, can you tell me what’s inside?”. Could i think of something worse to ask? The two just stare to each other, and mumble an answer “no... no...”. i thank them as if they gave me a very important news, for my life. To tell the truth they did. While i was asking and they were answering i stared at them, studied them and arrived at a conclusion: they where gipsies. As they got farther Alessandro looked at me as if i were crazy: “what the hell did you ask? Didn’t you understand they were gipsies?”. No, or to tell the truth i wanted to leave the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t expect them to invite me in for a coffee, but i wanted to test the grade of suspiciousness. I would say high. We decided that this is a place where they meet to exchange the stuff they’ve stolen. I have no intention to become part of the loot. (when i was a little girl my mother used to tell me tht if i weren’t good she would have sold me to the gipsies). A bit shocked we decide to try to go on the back from another side. Unfortunately there’s no way to get close to the lace from here: there’s a fenced field, and from far wawy i can see that the back of the institute has a high wall. I have no intention to go back to the gipsiy side, so this time too i won’t enter the place. We go close to the fence on the side facing the park, to catch some details: behind the broken windows i see confusion, it’s full of objects and stuff. Maybe if i come bck another time, in the afternoon, the gipsies won’t be there, they might be at “work”.

The interval

Between one abandoned place and another i stop to eat, i visit other placet, but first of all i moove. There are many ways to get around the city: subway, tram, bus, on foot, bicycly, motorcycle, scooter, car, skateboard... somebody told me it’s against the law to go around with rollerblades: it seems to be danger for ourselves and for the others. From my point of view the best way would be the scooter: it’s fast, you don’t bother anybody if you stop and it’s not tiring. Once i used to have a Sì of Piaggio. Now every time i happen to go in the city i curse the day i sold it, giving it away almost for free. I’d like to have a bicycle, but i wouldn’t know where to leave it. The ideal would be if theaves didn’t exist, so i could park it when i get tired wandering around and start my trip again the next day from where i left it. Unfortunately i’m a commuter (? Is it the right word?) so i have to take the pubblic transportation. It’s negative, ‘cause they are always on strike and they don’t reach every place i want to visit. I’ve already written that it takes me two hours to get to school, against the thirty minutes by car: the blame on the coincidences. I change two busses, take the metro, get off in Garibaldi and then the train. Stops: 20 minutes from the first bus till the second one; 15 minutes from the second bus to the metro; other 15 minutes from the metro till the train arrives. If i add the ten minutes it takes me to get to the first bus stop and other ten to reach the various platforms and school... one hour and 10 minutes lost. 50 effective minutes of trip, which is still more than by car. It’s a scandal. If i also think that the bus ticket costs more than what i’d spend in gas! I often get to school so tired that i’d be ready to go back home right away. I have the feeling i gave to much of myself already: they should consider the trip as working hours. Four hours trip, plus 8 hours working, makes 12 hours. If i hopefully sleep 8 hours i have only four hours left for my meals, my personal hygiene, house cleaning and a bit for myself. This is what is waiting for me if i decide to work in Milan and live in the outskirts. I need to take a drastic decision for my future. As a student my day is much lighter: i can spend one hour in the afternoon thinking for myself: it’s the hour i don’t spend on the bus. During these years in college i’ve prepared half of my exams on a ramshackle bus, with poor light, bumps on the streets (cursing the occasional cityhall), i’ve learnt to go through every difficulty and not to feel bus sick. Strangely enough my eyes are in very good condition, althought i’ve really stressed them a lot. If i had a car i’d still have at least ten exams to go. I wouldn’t have read all the books from Dostoevskij, Tolstoij, Rand, Tolkien...; i wouldn’t have met half of the people i hang out with; i wouldn’t have the music culture i have. By car i listen to the rdio, not my cassettes, cause it’s more pop. My personal taste in music is not good for driving. With my earphones i’ve done trips far from reality, droping in atmospheres that can’t be seen with only a glance. By car is better to listen to stuff like Ramazzotti, where all i have to do is try to remember the words that i really can’t get into my head. The music i listen to makes me want to close my eyes and penetrate the deep of my soul, it makes me stare at something and destroy it into particles, transforming it into something else. This the car can’t give it to me. If i’m driving. People on the steering wheel get the worse out of them, specially in the rush hours. I suffer of anxiety when i drive, a reminder of a nervous breakdown i had few years ago. Once a guy out of his head threatened Alessandro and i, ‘cause from his point of view we did something wrong: he passed us, he stopped very hard in the middle of the street, we passed him, he followed us passing all the other cars coming from the opposite way, he got right behind us, almost touching our car, at a red light he got off, opened my boyfriends door ready to hit him. He had a little girl in his car. Others shouldn’t have their license they are so incapable and dangerous. How can’t i feel anxious? I realize that when i’m in the city i become a typical milanese driver: no pity for anyone. Hurry. Neurosis. And i’m not writing about parking... i could stay here a whole week!

De Gasperi Street, the unknown revealed

I was in the car, i was going somewhere else, when an imposing building with broken windows got my attention. I had to stop. I have no idea, as usual, of what could it be. It’s on the corner between De Gasperi and Serra street, coming from the highway A4, exit Viale Certosa. From far away i can tell already it’s going to be hard to document this place: a wall higher than two meters obstructs the view. Walking down the sidewalk i wouldn’t have the chance to realize what was behind the wall. Fortunately i saw it from far away. I wonder what kind of secrets this place hides, there’s not one hole left free for sight. The rusty gate has been reinforced too, so that there’s no way to see inside. All i have left to do is to step on the tip of my toes, stretch my arms, hold on firmly on my camera, and take pictures randomly, hoping to catch something interesting. On the other side of the street there are two cops, but they are too worried controlling the traffic to be bothered with me. What my camera shows me leaves me even more disconcerted: behind the gate there’s a thick barrier. Trees and bushes, interwined as in an evil wood, prevent from seeing over. As if it wasn’t enough, to hold these dead branches together there is barbed wire. It’s clear that it’s absolutely prohibited to go inside, which makes my curiosity grow more and more. What can an abandoned building hide of so terrible? Tossic substances, radioactive, nuclear weapons... i’m sure that there are desperate characters ready to find out. I at the end realized that every very abandoned place in Milan is property of clandestines. I walk along Viale De Gasperi, without encountering anything, except two plastic containers, of i don’t know yet what. My boyfriend suggestes me to climb on top of one to try to see over the wall. As a good knite he offers his hands to help me jump on it. Althought i find myself a meter from the ground, the wall is still to high, so i have to stretch again and take pictures by chance. My worry goes agian to what people could think, seeing me in that position. I really am a slave of the society i live in and drawing attention is very negative. To tell the truth around me there’s absolutely nothing: a highway, a lost sidewalk, building far away on the other part of the street, too far to be bothered of two small black dots. While i take the pictures i’m thinking of all of this, and not of what there could be on the other side of the wall. Althought it’s an abandoned area, being so impenetrable makes it a nasty friend. I get off the improvised podium, helping myself with the other container, the blue one. My boyfriend tells me it’s a syringe distributor. Horror. My first instinct is to look at my hands: i wasn’t wearing gloves. I feel dirty and infected. Alessandro to make me feel better tells me that the drug adictes that use this thing are probably the ones not so rotten enough to leave their junk around. I can’t wait to wash my hands. Why didn’t i take with me the humid tissues? It’s obvious i’m an unexpert urban explorer... we keep on walking along the sidewalk, searching for one hole left free not too high. A suspicious guy is walking behind us, but probably it’s just me being paranoid. I don’t trust anybody. We find another gate, hidden behind a recess and a pubblicity panel. This one is a  more ramshackle than the other one. I take my time, waiting for the suspicious guy to go away, far enough so he can’t bother us. There’s no way to see anything from here eather. I have to stretch again and try to feep my arms steady. Digytal cameras are good cause you don’t need to wait to print them to see what you caught. You can see right away, decide if you’re satisfied and if not erase it and do it over: saving in money and energy, and you don’t have nasty surprises. This way i manage to realise that this area is not abandoned, but they are working on it: everything is being torn down. Few days later i passed by with the bus and noticed, from a higher position how big this area is. All that there’s left is that single building i saw from the street. And very soon that will end up like the rest, it will desapear.

A break for lunch

When i go to Milan, not to school, i always stop to eat in a fast food. I’d like to go to eat a panzerotto (a small folded pizza, more or less) at Luini’s, but there’s always a very long line. I should become smarter and not go during the rush hour. The strange thing is that i live right next to a Mc Donald’s, but i never go there to eat. It’s a feeling too binded to Milan, to mix it to the country life. I remember when i used to go years ago with my mother at Burgy’s (italian chain) in the Gallery, or at Wendy’s. At that time Mc Donald didn’t exist over here in Italy. I knew about it, cause i would go there when i was in the States, visiting my grandparents. It took a long time for me to get used to the idea it wouldn’t my exclusive anymore. When i went to London few years ago i reached the highest level of madness: i had the map of the city with all the Mc Donalds signed on, so i would choose the place to visit if it had a fast food close enough. I’m afraid i can’t be considered a no global. Now it’s still an adventure every time i happen to go to Milan: it takes two hours with the pubblic transportation. It takes six hours to get to New York. There isn’t such a big difference after all. Only 1/3 of the time, a stupidity. If only i had the airplane parked in my backyard. I usually go to fast foods ‘cause there’s always something interesting to observe. It’s never a boring meal, and i’m never alone, at the end. This time it all began with the guy in front of me in line. I never look at the people around me, i usually stare at the menu, as if i needed to decide: i always get the same thing, Big Mac, menu one medium. The menu is written so small anyway, it’s impossible to read: probably it’s done on purpose, to dissuade from the single product, and convince you to buy the menus or the weekly offer. You don’t have to bother to know how much you are going to spend, all you need to see is the picture of warm buns, or chemical coluorfull icecreams. This time the line was longer than usual, so i started watching around. I turn down my head and saw it. The shoe. It hasn’t been the first time i’ve seen a similar model, but for sure it was a rare occasion to have the possibility to take a picture of it. One thing is to see it in a window of a shop, another thing is to see a japanese wear it in the Mc Donald in Gallery in the center of Milan. Not that it’s hard to find japanese in Milan... there’s not much more to say about the shoe, but it did hit me. And i liked to see the face of mt boyfriend while i was trying to take a picture of it whitout being noticed. That day something strange happened while i was judging the abitlity of the chef. A glass door broke into milion pieces. No apparent reason, it was just tired to be there, and to serve the oddest, the shabbiest, the most awkward, the stiffest, the most bewildered people... actually in the center of Milan you can find anything, beside normal people. Right there in the Gallery, yhat same day, there was this guy twisting his ears, convinced that this would make his tong vibrate against his lips, producing a disappointing sound. Well it depends from the point of view: someone could find it amazing to hear “rasberries” behind their shoulders, but someone else could get scared and walk away as fast as possible (as i did). Later on i found out that this guy is always there, keeping company to the people working in the Gallery. Poor consolation: there’s always someone more crazy to make us feel normal.

Two words about Cittàzioni

As i said at the beginning i’m not interested only in abandoned places, but in anything that skips people’s attention, beside observing with watchful eyes what’s around me. I couldn’t let this occasion slip through my hands, to have a tour around Milan, following the traces of this artistic experience, which’s intent is to make people feel closer to their own city and to art. When i read about it on the newspaper i though right away that it was a great idea, so i couldn’t wait to start this trip in Milan. I’ll start by saying that at the end i was kind of disappointed from the artistic point of view. I’m far from being an expert of art, but i’m also convinced that art is whatever is capable to let feelings free, positive or negative ones (personally i’m more inclined to positive ones). The final impression is that after four hours walking i didn’t really felt i grew up culturally. I’m writing about it, because at the end i’ve walked the whole morning, and it has been like playing to seak for a treasure. So for my thesis is quite interesting. It has been after all a derive, a psychogeographical game. I stopped at first in the subway station of Porta Venezia, where there was the installation of two german artists: lighted up panels made of recycled materials along the giant corridor, usually isolated and abandoned to itself, that guides the users to the subway. It could have been a good idea, but the space was so big that the art work passed almost unseen. I drew more attention, taking pictures of it, than the exhibition itself. I had this same impression visiting the rest of the art works: this to underline the indifference of the people. I reached the next exhibition on foot, at the public park in Palestro. There were mirror panels with writings on them. I’ve walked around the park many times, untill it started raining: i didn’t see anything interesting except a vegetable garden with speakers saying strange things. I thought that this event would give the opportunity to normal people to get closer to art. But it has been a failure from this point of view: all the art works looked like useless things left there by chance. At the registry office there was the “census of living people” by presenting photocopies of faces. At least i managed to take home a souvenir. An old lady asked me what were all those orderly sheets of paper with ordinary faces on. I explained to her very briefly, or at least i thought, what was it all about. I could see her getting older and older, it was so hard for her to understand what i was saying. She told me “eh, i’m old and ignorant, so i don’t understand these things”. I kindly answered her that she had nothing to worry about, that she really didn’t have to feel ignorant for something like this. The exhibition in Piazza Affari was at least interesting to see, it was so big and shiny. But it was absolutely useless: a graph with a background of a wavy sea, to reprent the cityzen’s mood, changing like the Stock exchange. But what has the sea have to do with the city? And second, it wasn’t a real measurement. I would have understood more the measurement of the smog levels: it has been proofed that pollution causes stress and anxiety. I’ll omit the rest of the art works and go right to the most controversial one: the dreams vending machine. One thing is for sure: the name is good enough to draw attention. How can a distributor of dreams be represented? I knew surely enough that it was located in the subway stop of Duomo... ok, but where? This stop is the biggest. I ask a ticket inspector: what is it? I don’t know what you are talking about! I ask another one. Same answer. And again... and again. I ask at the information booth. They have no idea. I ask to common people. I receive only absent glances. I ask the watchers. Nothing at all. I surrender and i start wandering around. I walk, i go up and down stairs, i look in the corners, but of the distributor there is no sign. Might it be this the art work? I imagine, i  hope, i try to reach my dreams, i follow them, i search for them, but i end up with nothing in my hands. A metaphor of life. I surrender again, and i decide to go to another subway station, much smaller, where there should be the same distributor. Infact there it is watching me imposing. It’s a real distributor, but very colourfull, candy colours, of the kind kids like... it makes me think of Barbie dolls. I get closer, a bit afraid of what i’ll find. Instead of selling snacks it has inside small steel objects. A butterfly, small dolls... to get the hold on such dreams all i have to do is spend 10 euro (about 8 us dollars). But is it true? Not that i want to try and put my money inside the machine: they never work! One thing is to loose 50 cents, another is to loose 10 euro! I have no intention to find out the other metaphor of life: you can’t buy your dreams. I take some pictures and the ticket inspectors get curious, and they come closer to see what am i taken pictures of. This thing has been there for over a month and they never noticed it! And in this station it is right at the entrance! I go away, i visit more installations, i feel disappointed again... i repeat this scene a few times, untill i get tired and i decide to go home. I pass by the subway station in Duomo agian, and while i’m walking towards the platform, what do i see? The dream distributor. Another metaphor of life: never stop hoping.

The roman arch

What i really like observing this placet, is the attention to particulars. It was an industry, but this didn’t prevent to build nice windows with arches. To someone may sound banal, but if i think that nowadays industries, and not only, are built the most with prefabricated pieces, i feel my heart get warm to see all this love for architecture. The prefabricated has it’s advantage, otherwize it wouldn’t be so spread, but it does limit the architect’s creativity and the urban landscape resents of it. I live in a prefabricated house, and around me there are many houses just the same: if it wasn’t for the use of different colours i would get mixed up. The colour isn’t anyway enough to give diversity and complexity. Not far from where i live thre is an industrial area: all the buildings look exactly the same, there is nothing beside the sign on the gate to tell anything about the companies inside. There’s no personality. The Richard Ginori has much to say about itself, even trough abandoned old buildings. Inside it seems as if there is nothing left of the machineries or of the workers’s job, probably due to the imminent restauration, but the architecture itself has much to say about the importance given to the productive cycle. Or at least this is what i can perceive. I don’t really understand the function of those glass and steel structures alternating the space: maybe they were roofs for security exits, but there are no stairs and i doubt that time has destroyed all of them: at least few steps would still be thre. Underneath the roofing there’s a yellow rusty sign, in terrible conditions. I can’t read, from where i am, what thre’s written on, but for sure it has been thre for a long time. Beside the architecture it looks like the only trace left of what has been the place. I hope they don’t throw it away with the restauration, otherwize they could give to me as a keepsake of my wanderings. I have the suspicion that i’ll be back in this area soon. It’s very big, and all i’ve seen is the side on Morimondo street. I still have to see the side on the canal and the one on Lodovico il Moro avenue. It looks like there are many interesting things over there.

From the Nestlè company

We decide to have a complete view of the abandoned area from the top of the modern glass buildings. Will they let us in? Once we get to the caretaker’s lodge we notice the gate is open and that there is nobody to stop us from getting inside. So we go on. This is an adventure itself, with no need to infiltrate an abandoned building. We advance through a maze of passages and concrete pillars, searching for an open door to go up stairs. We cross only two attendants chatting without even noticing our presence, and a businessman on the phone that doesn’t really care of us. And I expexted that someone would at least stop me and ask me who I were! Probably in these buildings there are so many people working and so many visitors between clients and providers that it’s not unusual to seee two strangers walking around. Unfortunately we don’t find any open passage, the door to the stairs needs a password too. We notice that confining with the abandoned area there is a  two level car park, so we go towards that direction. There is no problem at all to get inside the place and nobody seems to see us. We enter the stairs, a dark, cold, humid space, not friendly at all. We go at the top, and from outside we can enjoy a view good enough for our purposes. We lean against the balustrade to find a way to get inside the abandoned area. In theory it wouldn’t be hard from no place, cause the only obstacle is a series of those steel barriers used to keep people in an organized queue. But we are afraid that someone could see us so we are looking for a hidden place. Right next to the back exit of the stairs there’s a barrier already moved. So we go down stairs again on the landing behind the car park, hidden from everybody’s view. All i’d have to do is a short jump or a longer step, and i’ll find myself inside the area. But i’ll wait a better moment this time too. I have a positive impression in any case: it shouldn’t be dangerous, cause i can tell asite is ready to start. Everything has been cleaned from garbage and weeds, the ground is perfectly flat and there are signs certifying the presence of the site. It’s strange because it’s a working day, but there is nobody around. They probably postponed too. The factory is very nice, big, wide, like the ones of the beginning of the last century. Buildings with bricks alternate to buildings in concrete: i wonder if it has been by chance, or if the brick ones were more important than the others, or if the concrete ones just arrived after the brick ones. In any case i don’t think there are any clandestines living here at the moment. Probably there’s more attention to it because of the importance to the history of the place.

The glance

The gate smiles at me scornful. The rust certificates that it hasn’t been taken care of. But not for a long time, cause the scars are localized, not spread. They are specially on the borders, where the bad weather had probably more opportunities to take effect. Where now there are two wide open eyes, with no innocence,  eaten by rust, a too recent chain passes through, with no sign of strain, if i don’t consider the plastic, too thin and inadequate to resist if compared to the other materials. The chain is that kind used for bicycles: absolutely useless. It seems as if there isn’t a real will to keep people away from entering. Tha gate itself is that kind that you can take off its hinges with a glance. There are no guards around, no junk, no graffiti. It looks as if this area is snubbed by everybody, the good and the evil (but who are the good ones and who the evil?). I almost think it’s not abandoned, it’s so different from Bovisa. I now start understanding the fascination about each destination: never the same. At the beginning i used to think: broken glass, weeds and nasty people... but here everything is so tidy it looks like it has been freezed a special moment, i wonder which and why.

In the meantime i’ve studied: the Richard Ginori it’s an important ceramic industry, with an important history. It’s the join of two groups: the Ginori (which has it’s origins since 1300) and the Richard (born in 1800 in Milan). Today it still produces pieces designed by the famous italian architect Gio Ponti. In short... it’s a shame i didn’t know anything about it! I haven’t found any news about the factory in Milan, so i don’t know when they were closed (i’ll just have to ask to someone who knows better thn i). I’ve read an article from last year which said that there lived 150 immigrants, clandestine and not, who got the hold on some areas inside the big factory. They managed to find the way to get electricity, so they could use the fridge and watch tv. A real well organized comunity. Many of them were women from the north east of Europe, with a job as maids for italian families: they couldn’t find a decent home, so they got what they found, trying not to give up to certain comforts today essential (as the fridge). This news consoles me, cause i can’t think of a bunch of assassins maids. At the worst they could insult me... but it would be in russian anyway, so i wouldn’t understand. But i have the feeling that things have changed in the last year, so i go searching for proofs.

Via Morimondo… the sequel

The naked frame of an old warehouse must be a characterizing mark of abandoned buildings. I’ve taken a picture very similar to this one in Bovisa too. The even grey sky of Milan serves as a scene to the scheletric steel weaving. It’s not a sad view i happen to see. I don’t feel pervaded by a feeling of desolation. On the contrary it seems the recall of the modern ages, of lightness in flesh and soul. There are only few steel pillars (few certanties i’d rather think) supporting a fluctuating structure. I have the feeling of a pleasant unsteadyness from which i let myself rock: a flexible behaviour it’s probably more correct. But as usual we are dreaming creatures who prefer to leave more space to imagination, than to rational engineering notions (all my respect to the category). After all isn’t the aim of more lightness that brought us to build with steel and glass? It reflects our fickle soul, our need to see beyond without the still certainties of the past. The grid structures contain secrets that not everybody realizes. For many they are only pieces of steel one next to the other, with no apparent reason, maybe just for aesthetics, modularity and order. Each single pole supports the one next, and together they support the others, generating a system necessary to support itself and to support the rest. Time has erased the rest here, leaving to our eyes to see only the essential: what’s worthy to remember. The effect is even more intense thanks to the background. I have a hard time  imagining the same structure in a more colourfull scene. Not that there would be anything wrong about it, but personally i prefer dull tones more than the others. Here all the elements are perfect together and they remind me of a canvas by Andrea Chiesi (not that i know his work so well, but i do have this feeling).

Via Morimondo. At the canals.

When i arrive in the street i find the usual wall that doesn’t let intend much, but there’s a small building peeking that leaves no doubt: there’s an abandoned industry over here. I search for the file in my brain to tell me what could it be, but only much more prepared minds will suggest me later that it could be the Richard Ginori factory (am i spelling it right? I have no idea). The wall is coverd with “no entry, private property” signs: weird, i’ve always thought that a wall would be good enough to indicate the border between pubblic and private. As if a little red circle is enough to prevent people from entering! Usually who climbs over a wall is aware of violating a property. The street is kind of isolated, there are only few factories hidden well behind high walls and windows. What hits me first is the lack of real graffiti: beside few scribbles, it seems there hasn’t been the intention to give some colour to such a grey area. Indeed they would have available a wall at least 200 meters long, in a very isolated street in the evening. In any case i don’t think the workers would care so much about a bunch of kids painting on walls (althought it’s against the law). I don’t suggest to try to get inside the abandoned factory from here: the barbed wire seems a bit more serious than the one in Bovisa. There are 4 rows instead of two and much closer to eachother. What really fascinates me is the contrast between the small abandoned brick building (just like the old factories: i don’t know way, but i find myself projected in a smockie industrial revolution London), broken windows, absolutely lonely, and the very recent glass and concrete mini skyscrapers on the background, comunicating a flourishing activity, and no gloomy thoughts. So it’s up to me to imagine their future, when they’ll become useless, when the companies inside will go bankrupt, or the’ll grow bigger and need more appropriate spaces to declare their empire. How many windows to break! It takes the breath away! We could happen to see raining small pieces of blueish crystals in Milan in a few years. They aren’t such terrible buildings, but i don’t think they can be considered so good to become symbol of the city, and so worthy to be preserved along the centuries. It’s hard to think that a glass and concrete building is thought with everlasting intents anyway. The important thing is to show now, who will come after will think of the furute. Other part which draws my attention is the corner of the abandoned building peeking out on the street interrupting the monotonous sight of the wall. If i’d walk along the street i’d have nothing better to do than count the bubblegums squashed on the sidewalk, observe dried leaves without knowing where they come from, curse Milan’s cityhall because the asphalt is terrible, and try to dribble the animal’s poops left there by undisciplinated owners. But i’d unexpectedly wake up from my thoughts, without understanding at the moment why. I’d start to fly towards more deep thoughts, instead of continuing cursing against worthless. And i’d just have to thank that small brick corner sticking out from the wall, that dissuaded me from the loop of thoughts i’d fallen into.

At Mc Donald’s

Time as come to get some food after i have rested on top of the hot air puffs. Is there anything more healthy and fun than eating in a fast food?

Very crowded. There’s only one place free, in front of a girl i’ve never seen before, but with a very familiar face, she so common. She looks like a little mouse, she wears a bordeaux sweather, glasses, straight hair tied in a small pony tail. Insignificant. I’d like to have a chat with her: we are both alone, consuming a fast meal in a whatever place. The dynamics of these restaurants is always the same: you sit down with people you have never met, it’s normal, and you hardly never say hello to each other. Right next to us there are two women: the one next to the girl, bleached blond, with a heavy tan, heavy makeup, a lot of jewellery, keeps complaining: she doesn’t really say anything particular, it’s the way she talks that sounds tormented, as if she has no choise than to be content. She sends her friend, the one sitting next to me (but are they really friends?), to get something to eat (i can’t stand the ones that sit down before having the food, in such crowded places): “whatever you want... ahhhh... i don’t care... (sigh)”. When the friend comes back the blond woman askes “how much do i owe you.... ahhh... (many sighs)”. 8€: eight euro??! For a piece of simple pizza and half a liter of water??! (here i get suspicious about their friendship). The blond woman doesn’t seem to care: she’s too busy sighing. In the mean time the little mouse has finished her meal. She stands up. Shock! She’s wearing a pair of pants with very low waist, with a gaudy buckle, i can see her underpants, lace underpants, the sweather is very short and she has all her belly sticking out. From the way she moves i can tell she’s also wearing high heels, and it’s obvious she’s not used to it. With that face of first in school, always in church, never had a boyfriend, those clothes really don’t suit her. It has been like seeing half body of a human and the other half of a horse: a mythologyc monster. What i mean is that we should be a bit more carefull of what we wear: not everybody looks good with anything on! A bit more of taste! And sense of reality! (the blond woman keeps on sighing). In the mean time i’m taking pictures inside the place, and people, respecting the same rules of the subway, pretend i’m not there. Once, i was in the metro, i was sad, i was crying, and i found myself an objective pointing at me: i would have liked to get up and smash it on his nose. Instead i just pretended nothing was happening and turned my head, so he couldn’t get my face. Now i find myself on the other side and i go around taking pictures to anything and anybody. At the beginning i’d feel a bit ashamed, but then i’ve noticed that nobody really pays attention to what i do. At the most they feel flattered. Ahhh vanity.... (now i’m the one who sighes).

The pigeons’s rest

I take a break during my wandering, drawing inspiration from the real milanese population: the mr pigeons. In a cold winter day, with no money in my pockets, with no destination to reach, far from home, how can i manage to get back my blood circulation? “observe nature and you’ll find the answer”, it’s thaught since the beginning of the ages. And infact the pigeons infesting the cathedral square, doze peacefully on the gratings which spit out warm air. If i ask politely, may they let me rest next to them in a corner? Actually in my past i’ve used them as main characters of unrenaunceble memories: the unfailing picture of me feeding them. A little girl a bit more higher than a meter finds herself casted in the same place, in the same conditions, but over twenty years later. It gives me the shivers if i think about it!

The painting

The charm of this scene is given more by the colours, the materials, the textures, in few square meters, than by the story it has to tell. The time passing by, that we know very well by now, has modified the series of surfaces laid down by a human hand in an even, clean and regular way. Time has brought back to life what has been hidden, donating new sensations. I just can’t look at this corner as if it was carried away by neglect, but as if it was a painting. Each colour, each mark has it’s meaning of being there and the great artist who thought of all of this goes beyond any atistic trend. There’s a deep thought behind each brick that came back to light. Mortar was eaten a bit after bit by humidity, creating speaking depths: the false regular course of the bricks, the discontinuity of the columns, each single volume. My great-grandfather used to collect bricks, with date and origin on them: i remember a sort of wall in his garage, and it always was a sight to imagine each single history of them. Now i find myself staring at this anonymous wall, which i don’t know anything about, but i have the same feelings. I can see the mason patiently line up the rows, spreading the mortar with a hand too casual, of someone who’s done such gesture more than a thousand times, probably more than a million times. How many bricks can a mason lay in his entire life? At least as many keys i’ve pressed down on this keyboard since i have it (and who knows me well, knows i’ve pressed a lot). I’ll be an architect. I wonder how many plans i’ll happen to do without laying one brick? A bit of healthy manual experience wouldn’t be too bad for those doctors of theory that wouldn’t accept your project if there isn’t a bent pillar, or if it doesn’t represent a perfect cube. How many times i had to listen to certain stupid things during my 5 years in university! All this materiality makes me feel ashamed of my infinite ignorance.

When i took these pictures, i wasn’t paying too much attention. I don’t really think that much on what i do and usually i’m guided by chance. I haven’t searched for the best angle, the best light, nor the most interesting subject. I’ve just taken pictures to anything, untill i run out of batteries (once i used to run out of film, now of energy... each time has it’s defects). So, if this picture is beautiful (and i challenge you to say it isn’t) it’s not because of my discerning, but thanks to the great treasures hiding in our own cities. We just have to open our eyes and watch. I could write hundreds of words about the colours, the humidity stains, the small plant trying to make itself some space through the concrete, the door with no handle, the window where you can’t see through, the thunder that has divided the scene in two and the electric wires hidden on top of the scene. But why should i take the chance away to imagine yourself? Well... if i put it this way, i shouldn’t write anymore, and i should just upload the pictures... i think i’ve exagerated and let ecstasy get the hold on me. Also because it would be the shortest thesis in the world.

Never tired of the Bovisa

There are so many things to say and see of this area of Milan, i can’t find the courage to go away. It probably would have been better if i did my final work about the Bovisa instead of considering the whole city. I’m still in via Bellagio, but this time on the left side, coming from the train station. The keeper, who guided me and my schoolmate inside, told us few things that make this part of the abandoned area different. The fact that there’s a guy who always lived around here, and not a whatever watcher, to keep an eye on the place, gives a feeling of personality and brightness. The abandoned state is always evident, but i can breathe the willing of preserving what’s left. From the outside you can’t tell, infact we thought to find the excat situation of the rest of the area: the same broken windows, no roof, graffiti on the walls... but the inside is alive, you can feel friendly hands have passed by. The weeds aren’t so high, you can see what comes next. You can reach anything with a sight. The area appears quite small, if compared to the rest, as if it was a nephew or a son. The keeper explains us that right next to this factory, and part of it, there’s a senior recreation center, at least untill the big boss doesn’t decide what to do with it.

Each picture i’ve tken has something to say, and now i don’t know if i should talk about each one, or just show them and let all of you imagine yourself. I get emotional all the time when i happen to view them over, and they seem to me always better.

a group of clandestine immigrants live in a closed warehouse, which surprised me: i can see them occupaying abandoned places, but not the ones controlled by a keeper. There is no sign of their presence, but i feel that kind of respect you feel when you go to someone else’s home, so i don’t put my nose in their already limited privacy. The keeper tells us they are honest people, he really wants us to believe him: persons who need a hand and respect. This makes me wonder why honest and unlucky people happen to live in an abandoned factory, with no comfort at all. People from the past: no heating, no running water, no kitchen, no bathroom. It’s strange to think that untill a century ago it was a typical situation for italians, if i think of countrymen tails about the farmsteads. Now it would be absurd to think of going back at those levels: no tv, no playstation, no internet, no telephone, no separate rooms, no electricity, but only candels, water from the well, outside toilettes. It would be interesting to find these guys and interview them, if it weren’t that my questions would sound stupid and maybe offensive. What can i think of at first? It might sound absurd... but how to they spend their free time when they are in that kind of home? Slave of the present i live in, all i can think of is tv, computer, a good book spread on the sofa, warm in the winter, cool in the summer. What do the ones who aren’t addict to these drugs do? During my Erasmus program, in Athens, i didn’t have the tv, and the furniture of the living room was made of a double matress folded in two and a table with no legs, founded on the street. I’d spend my time writing and drawing, but i did have electricity, a kitchen and a bathroom. But this is another story...

The factory and the art work

Nevertheless it can’t be so dangerous to go inside! I observe the graffiti and i can’t think of anything else than of a bunch of kids, probably not in their twenties yet: scornful of danger, they probably ignore it, they probably don’t give a damn about it. Writers seem not to worry about soft floors, broken glass, murderers, desperates and drug addictes: wherever they can find a free wall, they overcome any obstacle. They act as acrobats, climbers, ninja soldiers, and at the end they reach their aim. I should probably join to such characters in my adventures in these post-industrial landscapes. When i think of them, i feel a little envious. I cheer up if i think that 99% of them are boys, less exposed to danger than a docile provincial girl. The barbed wire doesn’t suit me so much eather, althought i used to go around till few years ago full of studs and chains, but it was just a way of yelling my sorrow and of drawing attention. Today the barbed wire is useless, right on top of the hole. Once it used to keep the not wanted away, althought the two wires are so far from eachother that almost everybody could pass through them. More than a true obstacle, it’s a warning, a fake security system. Now that the hole is there, the barbed wire is like a piece of furniture, an attraction element, not a way of warning anymore. The graffiti also annihilate the power of opposition: they invite the spectator to go inside with their colours, their apparently impossible posistion; they seem to say “come on, it’s not so terrible over here!”. The broken glass too appears less lonely, less spooky. Like the graffiti, the broken windows are also in the most absurd spots, and it makes me think who could have gotten bothered to reach such peaks! The windows, more than any other element, are the ones that give to the buildings the abandoned aura. Walking around the city it’s easy to find any kind of building with lacking coating, broken tiles, rust and graffiti. But a functioning building will never have this art work of broken windows: what used to be transparent, regular, protective, with no personality and cold, now has a very important role characterising the nature of the place. Each rusty frame has a diffrent story to tell, a diffrent moment of time passing by: unless there have been an earthquake (and there haven’t been as i know) or an axplosion, each window has been broken in different moments, maybe months or years one from the other. The only thing i can think of is that a human’s hand can have done this, or becouse of an unsuccesfull flight of a bird. I imagine a bunch of bored kids play the sad game of shattering windows, as challenge, with a drink of beer as a prize. I imagine a pigeon seeing trough the window, and not suspecting that this will be it’s last flight. And what about where the entire window frame is missing? Could it be that someone got to the trouble of taking it down? I can’t imagine time doing such thing, also because the question would come to my mind again: why that frame yes and the others not?

The hole

It would be very easy to get inside, it wouldn’t take any physical effort. All i’d have to do is to slip iside here. But i’ve always been a responsible person, a bit coward too, when it’s about going agaist the law, or going into the unknown. I haven’t lived great adventures in my past, and knowing me i won’t live any in my future eather... so here i am wondering why have i chosen such a difficult subject to talk about. If we lived in a better world, it would be like playing a game. Many people are able to live certain experiences as if they were a game: searching for adrenaline, new emotions, annoyed by  routine. I like to fly with my mind, invent stories and conversations: confirmation with reality is too hard, and it usually bring along fears and frustrations. The hole is testing me, it invites me, it plays the role of the tempting devil, it shows me how easy it would be to go against everything it was teached to me in so many years. It challenges me to find a good reason for me not to try. Rationally i can think of hundreds of reasons, it reminds me of simple reccomendations inflicted to me when i was just a little girl: don’open the door, nor accept candy, or lifts, from strangers, stay where averybody can see you, stay in the garden, where there aren’t nasty people and no cars... now that hole is inviting me to disobey, to proove my primordial istincts and explore the unknown. The graffiti predict the wild, the unurban,  i would encounter going trough the hole. The colours remind me of zebras and giraffes, and i imagine myself going to a safari. I look through the hole, and all i can see are weeds, anything you can’t find in a florist. The fact i can only see this kind of nature is another good reason for me not go inside: everything you can’t find in a store and is not organized by a human being, it’s unsure, it’s probably unhealthy, perhaps it’s poisonus. And I can just think of the wild creatures hiding in holes dug in the ground, ready to jump out at the first rustle of my steps. I’m afraid enough when i go to the mountains, walking across safe paths! I walk with a stick to keep the snakes away. This reminds me of that Disney movie, about the two twins separated  at birth: they tell their father’s girlfriend, during an excursion in the mountains, to hit two sticks together, to keep the mountainlions away. Their intent was to scare her, obviously: a woman from the city, not used to nature. I live in the city, i often go in the middle of nature, but i’m not sure i can handle the urban nature. God knows how many monsters were generated from genetic alterations, between city and nature! It’s like the urban legend of the alligators in the drains of NY. Maybe someone left a sweet little kitten in an abandoned industry, and eating chemical wastes became a monster like Pet cemetary. With what courage i decide to go inside? With none... i infact stay out!

Proceeding in Bovisa… i introduce myself to a group of rubber tyres

I reach a path, parallel to via Cernobbio, by car and with a schoolmate next to me, a 100 m straight on. The path is interesting itself, because right next to it, there are cars passing by very fast, ready to get on top of the flyover of via Monteceneri, without noticing, and not really caring, of what happens behind the trees and next to the asphalt river. The path is in a small area, but full of meanings and stories to tell. The path ends at what we call a dead end, which probably isn’t so dead at all. Two parallel lines of dirt guide me through the area, telling me that many cars passed by before i did, mortifying Nature that was trying to get the upper hand over that corner of forgotten city. I probably should feel less lonely, instead a feeling of fear gets the hold on me: no normal citizen would have any good excuses to stop around this area. How many urban explorers can be there? Not enough to justify the absence of grass in those two parallel lines. These tell me that, easily enough, desperate people passed through here: people with no home, searching for a place to rest or to hide; they tell me that probably young couples stopped around here, hoping for some privacy (a bit irresponsible); they tell me about young people searching for not physical trips; they tell me about townsmen who didn’t really got bother asking where the closer dumper is, and flung their leftovers in the first forgotten corner of the city; they tell about watchers payed, probably not enough,  to guard abandoned buildings, now property of big shots. I get confirmation to some of my thoughts: any kind of trash along the way and a watcher parked at the beginning of the path, who stares at us with a bit of suspicion.

Apparently for no reason, at a certain point the two parallel lines become four, and then after few meters they are two again, forming an isle in the middle: it’s an artificial formation, but it seems more natural than other elements, with it’s origin given by time passing by. My attention is drawn by a group of rubber tyres camping in the middle of the weeds. They seem to have been there for a long time, i can tell from the grass growing between the free spaces left from one tyre to the other. They are observing me, not i observing them. They question me about my presence, asking me if i’ll leave them some company: i may have the appearence of a rude citizen, but not of a lover seeking for privacy (these don’t even get off the car, probably), nor of the drug addicted, and i don’t wear uniforms. They get all excited for a while, cause i take a picture of them: to bet on vanity helps to be welcomed and accepted. It seems as if they are shining, under a winter sun, as if they cleaned up for the occasion. But it’s only imagination: they are completely covered with dust and smog, and their only compagnon is lonliness. Right next to them you can see cars and trains passing by fast, but no one seems to notice, and they are abandoned to themselves. I wonder how long it’s going to take before someone will take them away and give them new emotions? It makes me think of a music video clip, wwhere there’s only one person standing still, and everybody around walking more and more faster: nobody is going to notice that lonely person.  To be noticed, many others should stop next to him with no reason, and then maybe people would start at least to turn their heads. I start feeling melancholy. And lonely. I turn my head and I observe the railroad, where the path ends. There are no trains passing by at the moment (they are always late: they expect to use one railroad for three lines... at the end disasters happen, as it did not to long ago). And the feeling of lonliness gets higher.

Still in Bovisa…

I won’t tell about every movement of mine, it would become too long. I’ll go right to the point. I’ll tell about the factory you can see on the right of via Bellagio, arriving from the train station, still part of the giant abandoned area. There’s no way to get inside from this side: it’s so impenetrable that there’s no space not even for imagination: there is a high wall along the whole street, with very high grated windows and a very high gate. From a perpendicular street, via Cernobbio, there’s somithing to observe, something good enough to turn on my curiosity and my willing to get inside the place and explore the urban jungle. The windows, without glass, but protected by gratings, are still at the same level of the others, but the street is a bit higher, so on the tips of my toes i manage to give a peeck inside. All i can see is a big room, very dark, but a dirty dark, where not only dust takes it’s place, but also every kind of metropolitan and natural dregs: smog has encrusted walls, humidity has made them black, and it seems they could absorbe anything passing by. The feeling is that i could find myself sticked to the wall if i dared to go inside that room, becoming part of the furniture. The dark doesn’t show, but let’s you intend the quantity of bird and rat poops forming a new type of floor, which, who knows, a crazy designer or mad architect could propose to a chic-eccentric milanese. A very important piece of modern furniture (at least untill i’m not found sticked to the wall) is given by the fire extinguisher. On the ceiling there’s another neat thing: time has preserved the neon lights. They are the last proove of the space organization willing. The structure is completly rusted, but the lights are still there, ingnored by visitors of abandoned places and by time. The walls still have traces of coating, where humidity and smog haven’t gotten hold of it (wonder why...): here and there green paint, or once white tiles. To tell the truth i’m supposed to know why certain parts get ruined more than others, by the time i’ve attend a course of architectural restauration, but the simple observation leaves enough spece to imagination: one square meter of wall, with the same exposition to bad weather and time, done with the same materials, with no wirings or tubes inside... why does one small part damage and the very next part doesn’t? A bit at the time i start remembering the lessons in school. Humidity rises from the ground, through the very small spaces free inside the composition of the concrete... more or less. For what concerns me it’s an amazing phenomenon.

Weeds found their reign over here: they are so high, there no way you can see what happens behind them, and curiosity grows as they get higher. I can just think of my mother’s neighbour, a garden maniac, who prunes his little tree with fingernails cissors and chenges the grass of his small lot every year: he would have a fit in front of such a sight! It’s hard enough for him to see my mother’s garden, which is not so far from what i see here.

Time has come to find a new point of view.

Abandoned industries in Bovisa (north of Milan)

The Bovisa is a gold mine of abandoned industries. Wherever you turn your head, you can see one. Listening to the keeper of one of them i found out that they almost are all of the beginning of the past century: many firms producing different products, but all set up on the same area. Now everything belongs to Esselunga, an italian supermarket chain, which probably is waiting the right moment to tear everything down, to enlarge it’s own empire. Next to the train station the slaughter had already begun. During the 5 years of university I’ve always admired, from a granted point of view, the old buildings, more than just abandoned and old, but almost ruins, completely covered with plants and weeds, broken windows, or with no windows at all. A point of reference was the big chimney, so imposing to brace the whole neighbourhood, welcoming the busy students arriving from the station, reminding of a past of workers efforts. Last year, in front of our eyes incredulous and enchanted at the same time, part of the area, with the cimney and other buildings surrouning it, has been demolished. The enormous steel arm would penetrate inside the brick walls, as if they were made of butter, emphasizing the precarious state, giustifying in a way such a painful gesture, for the ones who at the end felt a sort of affection to the place left to itself. Now in that portion there isn’t one brick left, not a weed nor a brocken glass, to remind what has been. Will the same treatment be reserved to the rest of the area?

Derive at the crafts fair. The hampster escape

The waiting of this event was followed by frustration. I knew what i was going to go through. The subway trip: i was forced to take the line 1, which i hate so much, always over crowded, and it’s so bleak that i understand the mortifing feeling that pushes people to put an end to their own lives. It could be because the subway line it’s all underground, unlike the second line which reaches light and air at Cimiano, donating releaf to a terrible trip; it could be because the first line is red, definitly not a relaxing colour, unlike the second line, which is green; it could be because the first line starts from the train station of Sesto, always full of nasty faces, unlike Cologno Nord, where the second line starts, and where there’s absol