Institute of Tranquility, Monuments of Despair

As a professional [architect] I have never seen myself as a everyday contributor to the built environment. Rather I see myself as an admirer of great thinkers, and not only architects. Even though I hold a Master of Arts in Architecture I often look at other fields for inspiration and motivation - continuing the path of my thesis where French writer Georges Perec, and questioning our typical way of [urban] living were at the center. I understand the beauty of different types of spaces, I appreciate the thought of the smallest of details, I can gaze at drawings for hours and still crave more, but rarely do I dream of participating in creating similar physical art/spaces. I prefer the merger, where the [build] environment is already present or thought of, and the commenting part is for me to highlight through my own drawings and words. Occasionally I pay visits to places of stunning beauty and vast history, but often with a focused eye on the veiled backdrop - "the dark alley" that few seem to care about. It is often related to the forgotten, the hidden, and the absolute important.

The Choice of Context

As mentioned, my artistic practice is touching niche areas of the intersections between architecture and visual arts [and writing]. A vital reason for my choices of focus is an ever present concern for the state of the climate and environment. I need this reasoning in my projects/drawings, that they -  though possibly blurred to some - tell and debate the often bleak [yet neglected /concealed] stories, which hold great importance to the given society and context. This project is no different, as I wanted to look at issues related to the increasing water concerns and decided to do so in Italy, which have several historic bonds to the subject.

Venice would seem to be the obvious choice, but I decided to focus on another special city, which many believe is the cradle of Western civilization. Wandering around the streets of the eternal city is absolutely stupendous, as historical monuments seemingly appear around every corner. The breathtaking views are nearly ever present and makes one slow down - something that should be of great importance/interest to humanity. Maybe then, more people would question the gleaming facade and look beyond the SoMe-worthy framing of the camera lens.

Initially my interest in Rome was centered around the floods, the hesitant planning policy, and the recent increase in sinkholes. The latter’s almost portallike appearance is spellbinding me. It has long fascinated me that through utopia [and the fantastic] one can discuss the past, the present, and the future. If you deal with utopia, you often have to accept dystopia's latent presence. Both are, to me, as useful starting points as the realism of the moment, in which the limitation [and the absence of extremes] exists as a premise [for now]. The sinkholes reminds me of this, as they reveal mysteries of the past to the present (parts of Rome are basically built on top of ancient Roman structures), while also pointing warningly to the possible future of dystopian decay.

Rome is historically a strong symbol of growth and prosperity - which, in modern conception, is often [and perhaps wrongly?] regarded as the best way to measure the state of [a] society. It is also a reminder that everything comes to an end. From the rise of the Roman Empire to its downfall, from one exceptional emperor to another not so great, etc.: A constant dialogue between different polarisations, and the passing of time carved in stone and marble for others to remember and learn. But are we still open to learn from the past?

Due to the ambitions, ingenuity, and craftsmanship of the Roman empire, Rome has major relevance to my project. Present day climate challenges are by default [and connectively to the former] relevant in any water-oriented context, be it floods, droughts, life quality, biodiversity. I knew of some of these Roman challenges beforehand, but before visiting Rome, I had to make the project clearer and more lucid, plus establish a way of working organized and meaningful in the chosen context. I decided to apply for a residency at the Danish Institute in Rome.

Just north of the historic Piazza del Popolo, and neighboring the beautiful Villa Borghese, quite a few countries have established research institutes where professionals like historians and archeologists can delve into [still hidden] areas of Roman history. Luckily, for a candidate like me, the Danish institute is a bit more open to artistic and politically driven approaches. I was very happy when I received the acceptance letter granting me a residency throughout April of 2024.

Focus in Change

In all honesty I was close to cancel my journey. Originally, I had planned to travel by train from Copenhagen to Rome. But when I was presented to the details I backed out - it was simply too expensive. Back then I didn't know that I would in fact receive a grant (Dreyer's Foundation) just a few days before my departure, so I reluctantly had to accept flying as the way of transportation if I should realize my project. I have been quite vocal about the crazy high number of flights caused by capitalism and global mass tourism - my ’23-exhibition (The lines between matter) was partly focusing on this. Nevertheless, I was granted a rare opportunity, and I decided that the flights from Copenhagen and back made sense in the bigger picture.

After a chaotic transfer from the Fiumicino Airport - the beginning of April is very busy due to Easter (c.f. mass tourism) - I arrived at Roma Termini knowing that I now had a full month of project dedication ahead of me. As I was dragging my luggage through the picturesque cityscape, I quickly experienced some of the challenges, which in some ways holds relevance to my project. The trolley’s wheels didn’t like the bumpiness of Roman walk ways and roads; partly due to a lack of general maintenance, but also because of a proudness towards history. Likewise, the hilly geography is not suited for a heavy loaded [or otherwise handicapped] pedestrian. Rome is famously said to be built on seven hills (Palatine, Capitoline, Quirinal, Viminal, Esquiline, Caelian, and Aventine). It is a modified truth, as they more precisely are a series of ridges eroded from a plain above the floodplain of the Tiber, which is entering from north and exits at south west, before running out into the Tyrrhenian sea. The river was critically important to Roman trade, as ships could reach as far as 100 km upriver. It also has a long history of causing floods, which several plaques around the city testaments. The amounts of floods was not suited for a strong capital (c.f. the annexation of Rome by the Kingdom of Italy, 1870) why it was decided to build - and thereby radically reshape the cityscape - with the enormous embankments, whichstands about 12 m high and stretches for 8 km. It took half a century to build the embankments, which are criticized for the deep alteration of the characteristic and vivid Tiberine landscape. To this day, the combined effects of the riverbed regularization have still to be fully solved.

Plan of Rome by Giovanni Battista Piranesi

As mentioned, the initial idea of the project was to focus on floods and the increasingly more common sinkholes. ISPRA (the Italian agency on the field) states that the main cause of the collapses is Rome's underground tunnels, sewers and ancient quarries, resulting in a maze extending hundreds of kilometres under the city, with the location of many cavities either unmapped or unknown. Experts believes the problem is compounded by water leaks and years of rapid urbanization, with building taking place where construction should have been discouraged, often without proper surveys to ascertain if the ground below was solid or hollow. This baffled me, and I decided to reach out to a group of local speleologists, which promised to contact me if they would venture further down into the [unknown] underground during my residency. My hopes were high, but as the days without speleologic calls or mails went by I became less and less optimistic about this, and eventually decided to implement another concern to Rome - still capturing an akin symbolism. In fact; it is a growing concern to many cities.

Temple of Tranquility

The Danish Institute is located at the very end of Via Omero, where one will pass by similar institutes of Egypt, Romania, Belgium, a.o.. Each building is quite remarkable from the outside, but I was very intrigued about “our” own, as it is one of the very last works of renowned Danish architect Kay Fisker (1893-1965) - unfortunately, he never saw the finished building, as it was concluded in 1967. Fisker has contributed greatly to the architectural scene in Denmark. He was professionally driven and was a keen writer and debater. Furthermore, he passed on his knowledge as a perennial professor and educator at the Royal Academy. As an active architect he is mostly known for his many housing projects, mainly in my home area of Copenhagen, but he was also one of the main architects behind the magnificent University of Aarhus - a must see for any hardcore brick enthusiast. The university was/is a landmark with its departments as singular, detached buildings, beautifully and characterfully located in a graceful, hilly park landscape. In Rome, the bricks of the institute are yellow too, but the complex is connected throughout; the office spaces, the library, the auditorium, etc. Add to this the housing facilities of all the fellows, as well as the same for the director, the amanuensis, and the caretaker family. The director’s home is naturally the largest, and contains a big private rooftop terrace and a [watered] green diverse garden. Thus, the placement of the spaces means that everyone is visually connected, as the director’s home is just next to the great common terrace, which is engulfed by the backside of the building and the diverse greenery of the director’s garden. Fisker did in fact continue to combine his ideas of shared spaces for researching [and everyday living].

Before entering the building one must conquer the stairs leading up to the [near invisible and thereby] closed off entrance. As I arrived with my fairly challenged trolley in hand I did not recognize the dark entrance door and foolishly climbed the stairs further up to the locked off terrace. From the outside the institute can seem a bit exclusive, which it is, even though it facilitates weekly tours and events to highlight the building itself as well as the many pieces of art and craftsmanship.

After finding and passing through the heavy bronze covered door, one will quickly notice the elegant and calming environment, the low-ceilinged foyer itself is a very pleasing space, as it ends in an open air atrium with Søren Georg Jensen's sunlit travertine sculpture (a visual tour is possible via the institute's website). The inside of the building appears pretty dim - especially when arriving during a sunny morning. When first looking down the long hallways of the house, for some reason my thoughts were led to "In Praise of Shadows" by Tanizaki - a book I highly cherish. Several artworks, often gifted by Danish culture foundations and former fellows, and numerous shelves of books can be found almost everywhere in the building. It never seems clumsy or too much though, as they are carefully curated. In a way, it makes one's roaming more slow and attentive, and thereby adds to the, likely wishful, zen-like atmosphere. Furthermore, it emphasizes that this is indeed a place for deep thinking.

We, the fellows, were representing different professional fields of culture like architecture, literature, and visual arts. Some were recent graduates, while others were well into their formative years [which I will argue should never end]. I was fortunate to have been granted one of the institute’s two ateliers (there is a third [with a piano] for musicians). I had not applied for a such, as I believed I would be spending most of my time in "the field". Luckily the board of the institute must have looked into my former work and decided to grant me a very useful workspace. As a person who likes to work isolated from others this was of great value to my stay. After a day of research in the city I was often wholly tired, and needed a place to assemble my new impressions and laernings. That place became the studio, which is placed in the bottom floor and can be accessed via an open air atrium with plentiful of plants. I spent many evenings witnessing the atrium taking in the dark of night, while transforming my notes and thoughts into drawings and texts.

Despite my [and others] solitary approach, the fellow group was very harmonious. We even developed more or less parallel patterns, which also meant that we quite often would dine together. Very rarely however did people cook together, but sometimes we would leave the house and go to different trattorias, which some of the fellows had heard well about.

The soundscape of the institute was very mellow during my stay. I learned the sounds and routines of the staff and my co-fellows: The tempo/rhytm of footsteps in the hallways, the intensity of keys [in key hangers, on laptops, or instruments], the number of steaming espresso pots (we had 4, but one has a faulty), ways of humming, etc. I truly seized the peacefulness - maybe because of my many trips around a lively and loud city. I was among the first awaken in the morning (partly due to the bray of the neighboring donkey!), as I prefer to get off to an early start - to me, I can not be sure of the day is meant for drawing, writing, reading or wandering before I am standing in front of the paper and pencils. I have long ago accepted that all days can not include drawing - that it is okay to leave the paper untouched. I can not force myself to draw if I am not feeling it. Therefore, being granted an atelier was a challenge, as I felt that I had to be [visibly] productive. I rarely sketch things up, as I believe in the honesty of the first thought [in my own work]. I can spent hours on a minor detail and then drop the pencil to think about the next step. Like Roman water/climate policy, that step is not always coming fast and without hesitation. Other times, I can draw from the break of dawn to late at night; I have not implemented a stable work pattern into my practise. At first this made me a little anxious about the well meant atelier allocation. Perhaps that is why I may have been one of the last ones heading to bed, which implied that my [working] days were long. Nevertheless I can by no means feel anything but bliss about my work flow at the institute. Furthermore, the ponderous focusses of my project[s] do not exactly cause my mind to relax, why the institute, and the atelier, became my needed temple of tranquility and restitution.

Credit: Photos by The Danish Institute in Rome

The Paths of Despair

When entering the passageways that runs along the river one will notice that very few people (and basically no tourists) are to be seen. The river that was once a great asset to the city is now almost concealed by the embankments - invisible to the eyes of most tourists. The Tiber, once feared for its proneness to flooding, has been tamed by human intervention, which typically comes with a [few] compromise[s]. In that sense, one can argue that it symbolizes man's constant neglect of nature, trying to keep it at bay through quick-fix invention that often brings new problems along (like Rome’s sinkholes).

On my strolls down the river's passageways - which I loved for their soothing soundscape, and frequently used as they are faster/comfortable due to the absence of traffic [lights] - I saw several small camps of tents. Often in the shadow of a bridge and thereby close to the stairways to the busy streets above. I knew about this beforehand, but still I was stunned by the scope of homeless. I strongly believe that Europe have a great responsibility in helping these people getting integrated and/or treated respectfully in a much bigger picture. After all, Western agendas do have a stake in quite a few of their misfortunes, and climate changes will surely add to this in the coming years - also internally in Europe. There are few, if any winners, in these cases. It is deeply heartbreaking to see the homeless people seeking shelter under tarps on the stairs of souvenir shops close to St. Peter's Basilica, and under the huge portico of the Pantheon, while tourists, seemingly unbothered, constantly flash their cameras. Many levels of privilege are present when standing next to the enormous columns of the portico; they were imported from Egypt by barges and boats, and - needless to say - plenty of slave labor. Observing this sad phenomenon I found a new reason to incorporate connections to Piranesi’s “Carceri d’Invenzione”. It somehow felt like Rome has become that [imaginary] prison, built on hope of better days and. The hopefuls come to Italy, to the eternal city, but face inconceivable steep challenges and eventually ends up imprisoned in these fabulous halls of reserved prosperity and grandeur. In time these same halls will risk becoming the symbolic prison to mere humanity: The cradle of [western] civilisation (utopia) metamorphosed into dystopia. That could be a new way of understanding the lack of people in Piranesi’s famed drawings - like walking along the Tiber on voided passageways.

Carceri d’Invenzione

Giovanni Battista Piranesi

^(series)

End Note

The months of research and artistic work in Rome is going to be concluded in an exhibition in 2025. The drawings showed in this feature were made during the residency at the Danish Institute in Rome. Further drawings and extended texts are being developed.

During my stay I visited other historic places of relevance to water. From well known places like Parc of the Aqueducts to the lesser known plain of the completely drained Largo Fucine; once the third largest lake in Italy. I also looked into the importance and symbolism of the nasonis (the free drinking fountains dotted around Rome). This and other bits and pieces are part of the entire project named “The eternal change - the coming of a ruin (?)”.

The project is supported by Dreyer's Foundation