The Memory of Masters, Seas and Cities. Extracts from Salvador Pérez Arroyo's Memoirs

Eduardo Delgado Orusco

edelgado@unizar.es

Escuela de Ingeniería y Arquitectura.
Universidad de Zaragoza, Spain

Juan Manuel Medina

jm.medina@upm.es

Escuela Técnica Superior de Edificación.
Universidad Politécnica de Madrid, Spain

There are no coincidences, only destinies. One finds only what one seeks, and one seeks what is, in a certain way, hidden in the depths of our heart [...] In the end, one ends up meeting the people one must find.
Translation from Ernesto Sábato, Sobre héroes y tumbas

The collection of texts that follows is a magisterial section of extracts from memoirs written by Salvador Pérez Arroyo in recent years. These memoirs are presented in the plural form because, as will be revealed, they encompass a series of seemingly disconnected writings that are linked by the author's personal evolution.

In fact, to comprehend these memoirs, it is essential to delve into the trajectory of this architect and former professor, who is now retired due to Spanish university regulations. It is during this phase of accumulating wisdom that he finds himself possibly experiencing his most remarkable creative moment.

In his memoirs, he recalls the circumstances of his early tenure as a chair of architectural constructions at the Polytechnic of Madrid in 1982 when he was only 37 years old. While others might have found this position as a source of tranquillity and comfort, for him, it presented a renewed opportunity for growth and maturation. He met school mentors such as Professor Francisco Javier Saénz de Oiza, with whom he was "learning side by side" (Salvador Pérez Arroyo-SPA, Oiza).¹ Subsequently, he embarked on travels that allowed him to extend his teaching and establish connections with new educators. One notable chapter in his journey was with the British architect Peter Cook. He recalls that "although we meet late, our collaboration was extensive and intense" (SPA, Oiza). Cook invited him to work at the prestigious Bartlett School at the University College of London for a decade, spanning from 1987 to 1998. During this time, he also taught at other universities in places like Krakow in Poland, Venice and Reggio Calabria in Italy, and in various locations in Spain. Following this period, he was appointed as an honorary professor at the University College of London and continued his work for two more years at The Berlage in Rotterdam, invited by his former student Alejandro Zaera. Simultaneously, he took on the role of directing master's courses in Cagliari.

Salvador has also been —and continues to be— a highly active architect, as his academic life did not hinder his intense involvement in design and construction. Always discreet, cultured, generous, and effective, he has been instrumental in promoting profound transformations and continuous improvements to many cities worldwide, not only in Spain but also in countries such as Italy, Trinidad, Qatar, and Dubai. Surprisingly, after his retirement from teaching —a period that could have been seen as an opportunity for relaxation and retreat— Salvador intensified his construction activities in Moscow and Dagestan in Russia, as well as regions in the Far East, such as Vietnam, Laos, and Myanmar.

In this role, he has mentored numerous generations of architects who hold him in high regard as a teacher. Despite his modest and unassuming nature, his voice resonates deeply, free from sterile controversies. "I have always been interested in 'second-row' architects, perhaps because I think I am one of them" (SPA, CV). Prominent architects such as Iñaki Ábalos, Juan Herreros, and the previously mentioned Alejandro Zaera, among many others, have learned under his guidance in his studio and university courses. They have not only continued his teachings in the classroom but —perhaps more significantly— applied them on drawing boards and in actual construction projects. These mature architects —many of whom have now become professors and deans in prestigious universities worldwide— amplify the influence of Salvador's voice, work, and way of living. They bring to life what Emilio Tuñón, also a professor at the School of Madrid, recently highlighted in an interview: "A teacher is only interesting if the disciples come to blossom" (Zabalbeascoa, 2023).

Having resided in Vietnam for over a decade, he stated: "Hanoi is the centre of my Universe" (SPA, The streets of Hanoi). During his time there, he published four books, which include an architectural publication, a poetry collection, and two photography books. Additionally, he has held two solo photography exhibitions, where he showcased his unique perspective and interpretation of his adopted home.

In recent years, the Landscape Museum in Verbania, near Milan, has hosted a monographic exhibition of his drawings and also houses a collection of his works in its permanent archives.

Salvador Pérez Arroyo's profile is that of an explorer, nonconformist, and activist. "I had been an unconventional student with diverse interests, only partially focused on architecture" (SPA, Oiza). However, he maintains a sense of discretion and almost silence. While others might have taken advantage of their success to lead a comfortable and indulgent life, Salvador is different. He recognises that the time he has been given —whose ultimate measure is unknown to any of us— is a finite resource that must be utilised wisely. Nevertheless, his approach is far from trepidation. Today, he embodies the spirit of an active dilettante. He has the ability to pause in his garden in Anh Phu, observing both the growth of plants and the progression of his buildings.

In 2022, he was honoured with the Civil Merit Commendation by the King of Spain, recognising his contributions to architecture and education. While many individuals might choose to capitalise on such recognition by returning to their homeland, Salvador's priorities differ. Perhaps he simply does not have the time for it, as he uses it to keep searching, photographing, contemplating, writing, drawing, dreaming, and constructing.

The significance of Salvador Pérez Arroyo's inclusion in this issue of Dearq magazine is multifaceted. Firstly, his trajectory epitomises that of a visionary outsider, someone who continues to explore even after finding success. "One of my surnames is 'Albarrán', which means, 'person who has no domicile in any town', traveller or foreigner" (SPA, Albarrán). From the early stages of his professional and academic career —following his degree in architecture— his interests in prefabrication and his admiration for figures like Prouvé or Lods already signalled his status as an expatriate from an architectural landscape, which relied on craftsmanship at best and often produced subpar results. Such architecture appeared modern but also fake as its achievements did not arise primarily from industrialisation —a clear indicator of technical and social progress— but from the virtuosity of the professionals involved. This explains why Salvador crossed the National VI —the inexplicable highway that cuts through and divides the University City of Madrid, the dream of King Alfonso XIII— to seek the future of architecture within the School of Civil Engineers. During his initial and now distant journey, his interest in José Antonio Fernández Ordóñez's Prefabrication Seminar —"my teacher in so many things" (Pérez Arroyo 1992, VI)— influenced the latent research and travels that would shape his entire life. Since then, everything has been a continuous search, rooted in his discomfort with the prevailing average and inability to align with the mediocre. His aspirations for a professorship in architectural design in Madrid were thwarted by colleagues who possessed less dedication and passion for the field than he did.

Additionally, his geographical expatriation, which may be considered definitive, represents another departure from the radar, a testament to his outsider status; abandoning his country of origin in search of a welcoming land that would enable him to intensify his architectural endeavours. "It was built for anywhere, as we all are, but he came here to get old" (SPA, Long Bridge). It is yet another journey, a distance travelled, a sense of rootlessness in order to remain true to oneself. "Little by little, my 'nomadism' has pushed me to action and I have gained a deeper understanding of many mistakes" (SPA, Oiza). In our pursuit of featuring "objects" —projects, individuals, and research— that exist on the fringes of our radar, none embodies this notion more than Salvador; someone who deliberately distances himself, considering it his destination and calling. He heeds the inner voice that defines his essence. In this regard, Salvador's symbolic quema de naves [burning of his ships] serves as an exemplary and perfect embodiment of our concept of being "off the radar."

Finally, the immersion into an alien culture and the attainment of familiarity with his new home serve as the ultimate confirmation of his status as an outsider. Salvador, having mastered the language of his host country, has enlightened us about the profound value he places on each word he learns. He recognises that mastering the ability to name things is a delicate and respectful way of claiming ownership.

This explains the heterodoxic nature of this author's collaboration for this issue. This is neither an ordinary interview nor a meticulously researched article. "Off the radar" people are like-minded individuals who operate outside the mainstream, recognising one another and generously offering what they have to share. In this context, every contribution is regarded as a valuable treasure. They possess an intuitive or experiential understanding of their isolated existence, both from each other and from their origin. Their situation can be seen as a reflection of space itself, with its intricate geometry symbolising an enduring separation that explains the existence and origin of the system —of that distant big bang. Consequently, when they encounter one another, the inclination to share their own discoveries generously prevails. Perhaps a glimmer of solidarity arises from precariousness and the realisation of being in need and isolated —far from one's origin— plays a significant role.

After this brief introduction, delving into this collection of texts —which surpasses a mere selection of memoirs— becomes easier. Currently, we are working on a more elaborated edition that we hope will soon be published as a book. "I write for those revolutionaries² who still believe in paper and books as objects of companionship; those who believe in ideas transmitted 'word of mouth'" (SPA, You all). This collection represents an inner dialogue —a compilation of concise pieces— a revision of episodes from the author's life that, in retrospect, he recognises as formative elements of his journey. These writings are compact yet intense, functioning both collectively and independently, akin to sparks of memory with multiple layers of interpretation.

Amongst these texts lies the recollection of past events, resembling the documentation of a notary from that era. However, the writing also encompasses a second layer of reflection, measuring their significance through personal references and interwoven memories that shape a cultural tapestry that naturally and unaffectedly illustrates the author's interests and knowledge. This collection of writings could be seen as part of the memoirs of a traveller on the grand tour or an eighteenth-century naturalist. Perhaps it portrays a contemporary Lord Byron figure —"I wish it was Byron, the intrepid adventurer, crippled and seeking refuge from Italy, arriving from Kefalonia in search of weapons and weary of jealous lovers" (SPA, Philopappos).

There is a sense of discovery, a reflective reading of lived experiences, but with a desire for transcendence and depth. In this regard, another relevant reference for this collection of memoirs could be Georges Perec's remarkable work, Life: A User's Manual (La Vie mode d'emploi, 1978). Perec, who was a writer with a vocational connection to architecture —his book Species of Spaces and Other Pieces (Espèces d'espaces, 1974 being a topical and essential reference— presents a collection of short stories that, when read independently and in a relatively non-linear order, construct an entire universe. The question of reading order also brings to mind Julio Cortázar's Rayuela (Hopscotch). Finally, the arrangement of Salvador's texts defines significant fragments of his life, akin to the pieces of an incomplete puzzle or the chapters of a novel that may not reveal everything but disclose enough to create meaning.

Another variable to consider when approaching the following texts is the speed of reading. The writings presented here, much like the mentioned literary references, lend themselves to a swift, almost race-like reading that informs us about the life of a restless character with an enviable and captivating trajectory. We must admit that upon receiving the author's edited writings, our initial approach was to devour them with a hunger for knowledge, with genuine eagerness. However, as we delved into the reading, a shift occurred, enticing us towards a slower, more deliberate pace. With this change in speed, we began to appreciate the presence of other nuances and a different level of depth. It transcended the mere recounting of facts and evolved into an exploration of complex experiences —resembling intricate Oriental tapestries— that shaped not only a single life but life itself, encompassing all lives. We felt a simultaneous sense of distance and proximity; a blending of remoteness and intimacy, as well as a mix of admiration and allusion.

The tone of the offered texts is predominantly serene and descriptive. They are the writings of someone who contemplates their old age —if such a nuance is possible— with a gaze that extends even further. This is evident in the chapter dedicated to the magnificent turtle that inhabits his garden in Anh Phu: "It will live longer than me; it will continue to emerge from the pond's depths, propelled by its membranous limbs [...] It existed before I arrived at this house and will persist in witnessing sunrises with its glassy eyes long after I am gone" (SPA, The Turtle). Remarkably, despite Salvador's fast-paced activities as an architect, photographer, and creator, he has seemingly succeeded in reconciling two temporalities: the modern and accelerated time of professional commitments, collective endeavours, and social engagement, with the personal and contemplative time for observation and reflection.

This achievement is not alien to the overflow of his activity as an architect and as an academic, extending into the world of photography, poetry and drawing. They are not newly learned activities, quite the contrary, they have been practised throughout his life. However, in recent years, they have found their moment in time.

Salvador's precocity in certain chapters of his life —such as obtaining a degree, completing early works, or assuming a chair— may have contributed to cultivating a serene and composed outlook to confront subsequent chapters. Each experience is unique and cannot be interchanged, just as in everyone's lives. As Salvador writes, "Hanoi speaks volumes about my existence" (SPA, The Storm). The act of remembering allows us to revive, and his memories evoke a way of seeing the world, a capacity for personal reflection, and an appreciation for what has been lived with a subjective measure. Selecting memories to share is already a way of creating order and meaning.

In any case, we have embraced an initially random order for the texts. We have followed the alphabetical order of the titles given by the author —even when the title is in another language— recognising that memory does not adhere to a strict sense of order. There is one exception, which is the Introduction, for obvious reasons. We would have done the same with the text You all, a sort of epilogue, which would be naturally placed at the end. However, during the editing phase, Salvador kindly suggested concluding with another tremendously poetic text, The garden in Anh Phu. I understand, as pointing out the obvious, that this is the true epilogue: "Every day, I restart, while time slips away like a poorly told tale" (SPA, The garden in Anh Phu).

It is possible —and indeed it often happens— that our memories lead us to recall something recent or distant, only to have our thoughts swiftly transport us back to childhood or any other point without a strict chronological order. What is reflected here is not a curriculum vitae or a traditional biography. It is, perhaps, a collection of memories that collectively form an image sketched by a patient draftsman —a picture that remains perpetually incomplete, especially in the context of this selection of written texts. This experience is akin to dreaming, where the significance lies not in the logical sequence dictated by linear time but in the impressions woven together by a theme, often imprecise.

We conclude this brief introduction by reflecting on the privilege of having delved into the texts that lie ahead. There is something inherently magical in the act of writing, as it holds the power to bring spectres back to life. When we open a book, our thoughts drift to the writers of antiquity, like Herodotus or Homer. Their characters become reanimated, traversing landscapes that have long ceased to exist, "allowing us to catch a glimpse of what others might have seen" (SPA, Ruins). Temples, palaces, and cities from bygone eras regain their former glory, accommodating the great individuals who once inhabited them. Such is the power of reading.

These are Salvador Pérez Arroyo's texts that we read today, but convey a sense of being written for a different time. A time that will hardly know about us or the places where we live, love, and find happiness.

Thank you, Salvador.

references

1. Pérez Arroyo, Salvador. 1992. "Agradecimientos" [Acknowledgments]. In Proyectos 1978-1990, de Salvador Pérez Arroyo, p. VI. Madrid: Fundación Cultural COAM.
2. Zabalbeascoa, Anatxu. 2023. "Emilio Tuñón: Un maestro solo es interesante si los discípulos llegan a florecer" [Emilio Tuñón: 'A teacher is only interesting if the disciples come to blossom]. El País, June 3. https://elpais.com/eps/2023-06-04/emilio-tunon-un-maestro-solo-es-interesante-si-los-discipulos-llegan-a-florecer.html

---

introduction

Salvador Pérez Arroyo

salvador@thaco.com.vn

Catedrático jubilado
Escuela Técnica Superior de Arquitectura.
Universidad Politécnica de Madrid, Spain

We write to converse with ourselves or with our friends, even if they never read our words and we never publish our writings. There is no single explanation for why we keep a diary or why some people choose to hide it. Writing is a way to create a personal interlocutor, a mirror that compels us to materialise our words, thoughts, and experiences.

Writing the day-to-day is different compared to writing about past lives, which may seem distant in time. In the latter, writing becomes an exploration that unlocks the doors of memory, akin to a psychoanalytic session. As I write, fragments of my life have resurfaced. You always wonder how you would have approached certain situations today. Yet, this narrative is useless.

I intended to delve into impressions —those lasting experiences that have left an indelible mark on my memory. As I write, I have begun to connect certain moments and experiences with others very far away and I have found similarities.

In a scene of Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound, where [the protagonist] recalls his past, multiple doors open to different points in time. This reminded me of perspectives seen in Palladio's villas, where many doors are connected through corridors and axes. It also evoked memories of a nineteenth-century house I once lived in Madrid, where a succession of doors connected numerous rooms.

My closest memories are from Saigon, my present home. It is in Asia where I find myself, amidst its landscapes and seas steeped in history. However, when I return to Europe and I am able to stand on a balcony in Venice —which is the most deeply rooted city in my life— my best memories converge.

A handful of these memoirs were previously published in Vietnam as part of a bilingual edition; hence, they may be unfamiliar to many people. However, the majority have been written for this publication.

albarrán

Reading Michel Houellebecq

One of my surnames is "Albarrán", which means, "person who has no domicile in any town", traveller or foreigner.

I feel a sense of "forasterity" when I return to my current place of residence. Everything is constantly moving and changing. My sense of time is unstable, sometimes racing forward and then coming to a standstill between long and lonely silences.

For me, travelling is a way to cultivate solitude.

Today, as I stand on the balcony overlooking the China Sea, I am uncertain about the images that will fill my dreams in my final moments. As Ezra Pound poignantly states, "no man can see his end," mourning the absence of divine guidance. I have come to understand that we never pass through the same places twice. I am aware that I will not revisit Manila, where I fruitlessly sought our collective memory, our architecture, destroyed by the Japanese. Instead, I will cherish the city as I had imagined it before —when I would observe the furniture and objects from the colonial era in the houses of our grandparents.

I ignore —much like Elayne, a character by Clifford D. Simak— if everything I think truly belongs to me. When I write, I wonder if I am merely reciting old readings. The mythologies and their characters have grown old alongside me: Ulysses sails through the Mediterranean Sea, regaling incredulous ears with tales of his encounters with the sirens from his youth.

I encounter people who bid me farewell without realising it.

Natalie Wood asks me to return to Venice, to stroll through its streets and to contemplate the lagoon from "Le Zattere".

Perhaps there it will be easier to settle for some time. I envision an intense sky and the whiteness of Palladio's [architecture]. This city reflects on the water's mirror, a sight that has always hypnotised me during my long walks to the Dogana accompanied by Olibau, a white and nervous little dog. He liked to stop at the old salt warehouses, which today house paintings by Vedova and where I proposed to create a sculpture school.

From our house, in the hills of Asolo, we could gaze upon the lights from Vedova's residence. I have always admired the water-filled colours of his paintings, the stains of his abstract dreams, and his passion for Venice and its lagoons. Also, from my bedroom [I could see] the Temple of Canova in Possagno, completed in 1832, with its dome reminiscent of the Pantheon in Rome.

One day, the theatre La Fenice caught fire, as it was surrounded by dry canals. As I stepped into the cavea, devastated and darkened by smoke, I could see the charred walls of architect Selva and vividly recalled Vedova illuminating Luigi Nono's music of an incendiary Prometheus. In my project for La Fenice, I deliberately preserved the burned wall scarred by fire. However, Rossi later covered it, erasing that chapter from history.

Now, being far away, I attempt to imagine Pound sailing towards San Michele Cemetery in 1972, accompanied by a solemn procession of black-clad mourners. He, who sang over the white snow on Carrara marble's white surface, and behind him, the haunting echoes of an orchestra and choirs of the deceased from Auschwitz. Together, they made their way fraternally to the same grave.

Each day, my eyes awaken to the dense and merciless blue of the China Sea, where ancient dynasties from the south and north once sailed and where the Mongols tried in vain to enter through the Bạch Đằng River, near Ha Long Bay. Then, I design a museum where I have been able to touch the weapons of that battle.

My path has led me away from the Mediterranean Sea and the tranquil waters of the lagoon.

The distance makes me dizzy and I need to hear "wonderful lies."

cagliari

We would often like to escape to places reminiscent of paintings by Alma Tadema, the painter of belvederes and infinity. These paintings are saturated with light, with a blue sea and a mythical horizon.

The university where I once taught stood atop a hill in the city, as a grand balcony overlooking the Mediterranean. From there, one could behold a paradisiacal sea. In Cagliari, it is possible to be in love with the place, mute, contemplating every day those waters rich in legends.

Cavafis reminds us that "you will not find other lands; you will not find other seas." Within an edition of his verses, I found a reproduction of Alma Tadema's painting. I understood that on the journey to Ithaca, he discovered the beauty of the road and the nomadic school. As a self-persecuted Greek, he speaks of returning older and wiser to the place from which we should never have left.

He told us, all places are within us because we travel with them.

Upon arriving in Cagliari, I discovered megalithic cities and millenary towers, like those of Mallorca, built on colossal stones. These imposing structures served as luminous pedestals, reflecting the light that bathed them. There were large glowing plinths reflecting light. [Like] stone factories built by giants, with walls of stuccoed "marmorino" and flowers climbing lattices and pergolas.

The stone and the sea —benches, belvederes, and balconies upon which contemplative souls find solace, in love with those waters. Mythological monsters keep a watchful eye on ships sailing the horizon. Delicate fabrics flutter over the balcony, swept by breezes that cleanse our eyes, and jewels sparkle, reflecting the sun's rays upon the slender necks and bare feet of Rome and Carthage. Their submerged and watery eyes, akin to Millais' Ophelia, appear asleep.

When I first came to this city, I thought I was coming back to it forever.

cannaregio

I have lived in Cannaregio for a significant period, an area in Venice that lies opposite the cemetery on the Island of San Michele. It is a different place from the rest of the city. There are no tourists, the streets around the canals are deserted and you can hear the echo of footsteps in the night through its narrow, empty alleys.

My house was on the Fondamenta della Sensa, near the Ghetto, the Jewish quarter of the city built in the sixteenth century. I enjoyed the tranquillity of its empty square, known as Campo del Ghetto Nuovo. During Napoleonic times, The Tree of Liberty was planted symbolising the end of the period when the Jewish residents were confined within walls that were closed at dusk.

In Cannaregio, you can hear the noise, or more accurately, the silence of the water, which, despite its seemingly still appearance, creates a distinct sound in this place, unlike the rest of the city. The water appears dormant, resembling a quiet mirror of the mysterious environment. Every occurrence in this place carries a sense of great tension, noticeable in the sliding movement of the buildings' walls as they press against each other, held together by wrought iron staples. It's a peculiar balancing act that follows the murky and sluggish tides, occasionally flooding the pedestrian spaces.

One afternoon —after visiting Manfredo Tafuri, who lived on the Canal Río della Misericordia, parallel to della Sensa where I lived— I encountered several deceased rats in the aftermath of the "high water." I spent a few nights at his house, and my room, situated at canal level, was completely flooded.

This city has always appeared to me as a sleeping and expectant organism, stirring occasionally in a symbiosis between life and death. It is a city where life becomes baroque, rich and heterogeneous, and in which Thomas Mann found himself at ease.

On the wall of Campo del Ghetto Nuovo, facing Napoleon's tree, stand striking bronze bas-reliefs by Arbit Blatas, which depict the Jewish population being forcibly herded onto trains destined for concentration camps. The figures, with their blurred contours, seem to dissolve into the darkness of the train doors, being pushed against each other and disappearing. They remind me of Juan Genovés' paintings, where individuals are represented by suffering shadows and silhouettes. In Cannaregio, every sunny morning is new and speaks of life. At sunset, the sun sets on the canals della Sensa and della Misericordia, with its last rays running parallel to the water along the surrounding canal-side houses.

On the opposite side, San Michele Cemetery also exudes a sombre red ambience, often compared to Arnold Böcklin's famous painting, The Isle of the Dead. This artwork is a testament to the tranquillity and calm waters of the Cannaregio's canals.

the song of the cicadas

We stood under the shade of an old chicken coop pavilion wall. It was during the heat of the afternoon, when we expected that empty moment full of the sounds of summer to pass. Cicadas, especially, settled in the trees and sang incessantly. Tirso de Molina wrote about the cigarrales of Toledo, small agricultural properties that surrounded the city on the other side of the Tagus River.

The light was intense, and we sought solace in the coolness provided by the shaded walls. We settled on the floor, embracing a shared silence. Conversation was unnecessary; the sounds of summer filled the air, granting us an inner stillness awakened by monotony.

These sensations linger above all other memories. They are moments where body language, through touch and senses, takes precedence. There were scents, sounds, a physical connection with the ground, and improvised seats.

We were still immersed in a world teeming with insects, a variety of birds, and reptiles that are now nearly extinct. Beyond the confines of the house, exciting discoveries, archaeological adventures and encounters with humble individuals, with whom we lived, awaited us. The tiredness of the body was pleasant. Biology presides over almost everything, and our sensations spoke intensely of the integration between humans and nature.

I now believe that without that rural lifestyle, our perception of the world would have been altered. It brings to mind Philip K. Dick's 1968 novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? and other articles I wrote in the past, exploring the connection between memories of smells and other sensations that mysteriously tie us to scenes lived in other places.

I believe that Javier Seguí de la Riva, a professor at the School of Architecture in Madrid, challenged his students to draw the scent of onions. Certain sounds, such as the song of cicadas, which now invade my garden in Anh Phu, serve here in Asia as a bridge to reconnect with my childhood.

the english cemetery

I visited the tomb of Princess Christina of Norway in Covarrubias, who died in Seville in 1262. She travelled to Spain, first through England by sea and then to Catalonia by land, to get married. Sadly, she only lived for four years after that, passing away far from her homeland due to fevers she contracted while visiting Soria, near the Laguna Negra [Black Lagoon]. This lagoon, believed to have waters connected to the sea, was associated with death by Machado.

To return to your place of origin would mean preparing for death.

Cristina died of nostalgia, reminiscing about her past life. Perhaps she caught a fleeting glimpse of it as she peered into the waters of the lagoon.

During my childhood, Mount Urgull in San Sebastian was still a place left to nature. We, as children, explored every inch of it, including its stones and plants. The twelfth-century walls of the Castle of La Mota, along with its doors and fittings, fuelled our imaginations.

On the northern slope lay the English Cemetery, where fallen soldiers from the Carlist Wars found their final resting place. Among the graves, one belonged to Sarah, an Englishwoman and the wife of a fellow doctor in the legion. Sarah passed away at the age of 32 in 1837. She rested on a privileged balcony overlooking the sea, accompanied by her daughter Mary Matilda, who also died preceding her mother in the Basque Country at the age of twenty-two months.

I recall the endless monologues of Captain Tom Cat in Dylan Thomas's play, Under Milk Wood. Despite his blindness, his eyes seemed to brim with the vastness of the sea.

The tombs were surrounded by wild vegetation, giving the place a romantic ambience reminiscent of a Gothic novel. I have read that the plaque on Sarah's grave has vanished. "Sara, the beloved and affectionate wife of John Callander, chief surgeon in Her Majesty's service..."

kanonicza street

Childhood is a maze of corridors. Lampedusa vividly describes his life in his family's palace, recounting the corridors he traversed as a child on his bicycle. I envision a long, endless space, surrounded by doors that reveal captivating treasures and long-guarded family secrets.

During my childhood, I recall a house with lengthy corridors adorned with cold terrazzo floors, where I would lie down, relishing a refreshing sensation. I would press my cheek against the surface to intensify the experience, smelling the pavement and becoming intoxicated by the distinctive scent of terrazzo, wood, or marble. In my imagination, those dimensions seemed vast, even though they are smaller as I revisit them.

I recall other corridors that evoked the opening of Perrault's Blue Beard's secret room or the mysterious, vaulted spaces found within the stone labyrinths of Jaén Cathedral, where I once left behind all my books.

During my time teaching in Krakow, I lived on Kanonicza Street in a grand medieval building with long corridors adorned with iron gates at the back or on the stairs. Originally designed for the cathedral's canons, these high-ceilinged spaces held an air of conspiracy, filled with whispers and guarded gazes.

Kanonicza Street was a narrow pathway shaded by the imposing Castle of Babel. It resembled a vast, open corridor that led to a music store, whose small speakers on the facade daily filled the public space with intense sound, reverberating off the surrounding ancient buildings.

During my visit to Knossos in Crete, I could not decipher the labyrinth. It became clear that corridors need low ceilings to keep the mystery.

the water gate

Gates leading to water —be it a canal, river, lake, or sea— erase the footprints of those who pass through them.

In my Venice home, I had a garden gate that let canal water in. It was the "water gate" through which we embarked on our small boat, a sampierota, to navigate the shaded canals of Cannaregio. Patricia Azcárate featured this gate in her painting La puerta del agua [The water gate].

During my childhood in San Sebastian, in Gros neighbourhood, stood an old Napoleon III-style building known as the Gran Kursaal. It had once been a casino but now stood dilapidated, serving as a venue to project films that fed our imaginations during the long, rainy summers. As we watched movies, two side gates would open to reveal the Cantabrian Sea. I cherished that connection to the horizon of a sea known for its tempestuous storms —a sea that had once beckoned whales from the nearby coastal mountains. I still dream of that gate to the water from the Gran Kursaal, which is absent today.

On my journey from Tripoli to Benghazi, I marvelled at the ancient Roman city of Leptis Magna. Its immaculate streets, sun-kissed sandstone walls, grand temple, and magnificent theatre with large Corinthian columns captured my awe. At the heart of the theatre, a tall gate opened towards the Mediterranean Sea.

From my seat high above, among slaves and foreigners, I heard the sounds of battles, sails propelling ships, and the gentle creak of wood gliding through the water —escaping through that grand gate at the centre of the stage.

In the theatre of Leptis Magna, perched high above —where slaves and foreigners would sit— I listened. Through the vast open gate at the centre of the stage, I heard the echoes of battles, the rhythmic push of sails propelling ships, and the noise of the rubbing of wood in the water.

Gates command us to depart. The water going through them calls us eagerly, awakening the "Ulysses" hidden within us. We leave, never to truly arrive, embracing the restlessness and transient freedom, reborn in the hearts of nomads like a phoenix.

In Venice, on some nights, we stealthily glided through the city's canals with soft, silent oars. The mystery enveloped us, carried by the echoes of our paddling and the shadows that pursued us in the labyrinth of the silent city. Bridges, churches, and palaces loomed like benevolent giants.

All this concert of shadows stopped when I returned to open and pass through, like a prodigal son, the grand water gate of my garden in Cannaregio.

the seas

For Pilar Martínez, a sea expert

Beirut, a dream-like city, shines brightly against the blue [sea]. I encountered a similar sight in Oran, where I traced my father's footsteps, and in Tripoli, tainted with revolutionary green. Accompanied by Italian architects and archaeologists, I explored the medina, a labyrinthine world that we should restore. The narrow streets, infused with a gentle sea breeze, exuded a subtle freshness. Amidst a large white fence, Gaddafi slept peacefully until war, an eternal curse, returned. As Derek Walcott once said, "the old war... will never end, and it has always been the same."

I recall Beirut, resembling Paris for a few years, with my room's terrace adorned with archaeological remnants, sections of worn Doric columns and the lingering scent of the sea. The city museum housed delicate Roman and Phoenician sculptures. Wars eliminate the large pieces from museums, requiring the reconstruction of what was destroyed, with the small figures and objects acquiring the value of having survived the latest war amidst this dense sea.

I found happiness in that museum on Damascus Street. I remember how on a sunny day the sea's coolness lingered nearby. I was fortunate, always haunted by memories of the light blue Mediterranean, during my time at the university in Cagliari and from Mount Montgo in Spain.

For Derek Walcott, poetry was the personal excavation and self-discovery of an archaeological memory, filled with words in three languages evoking diverse seas. Island culture, to him, represented the restoration of fragmented stories of enslaved lives. Similarly, in Beirut, one learns to exist amidst an ongoing restoration of diverse cultures.

In Trinidad and Tobago —Port Spain and San Fernando— I recall flying masks and dances alongside the remnants of a lost train. I discovered rusty remnants and unstable bridges, resembling the Eiffel style, hidden among menacing vegetation eager to destroy human creations. Countries shaped by slavery now embody a lighter existence; cultures born from compelled travellers with no baggage; memories of imprisoned souls carried in abused bodies.

I designed railway stations for a Canadian company, inspired by those masks, the white-dyed black skins and the intriguing shapes of flying insects.

Naipaul, an Indian also living in Trinidad, felt compelled to embrace simplicity in the presence of the Caribbean Sea.

The Mediterranean was yesterday; Beirut in my memories as a perpetually wounded city; Trinidad, as a vibrant Rome in the Caribbean; and the dark China Sea is today.

oiza

Oiza once said that buildings must have roots, and if an ant can reach the top floor of a skyscraper, it is a good sign.

Our studios were situated on opposing facades of Núñez de Balboa Street in Madrid, and it became a routine for us to grab coffee at a nearby hotel. In the School of Architecture, I spent years assisting him in supervising final-year projects. However, I often felt like I was learning at the wrong time. While I was already teaching construction, I had been an unconventional student with diverse interests, only partially focused on architecture.

I came to appreciate Oiza's ideas rather late, through extensive discussions while drinking coffee, profound critiques, and interviews with students. It was truly enlightening. As the director of the School of Architecture in Madrid, Oiza surrounded himself with a talented circle of architects, including Rafael Moneo, Juan Navarro, and Julio Vidaurre. He invited me to join this esteemed group as a principal assistant, an opportunity that thrilled me as I embraced the role of an eager apprentice to everyone. Prior to that, I worked briefly for Ramón Vázquez Molezún. I used to sketch Molezún's ideas rapidly, visually mapping out spaces and furniture and swiftly making decisions on paper.

I had a similar experience with Peter Cook. Although we meet late, our collaboration was extensive and intense. Through Cook, I discovered a new way of thinking. He had the masterful ability to swiftly and confidently sketch scenes, resembling real-life dioramas that always featured human figures. He held a profound concern for the scale of architectural creations in relation to people.

Undoubtedly, the pessimistic outlook of the Italian heirs of 1968 inflicted a significant impact on my generation. Their abundance of suffocating theory [weighed heavily]. It was during this period that the great post-war masters in Italy began to fade away, while universities became crowded with theorists who were slow in translating concepts into concrete designs, often accompanied by never-ending theoretical explanations. Alejandro de la Sota expressed to me his belief that tendenza was a disease that spread its unpleasant odour quickly. He mentioned it during a trip to León to visit his Post Office Building.

Oiza, Molezún and Peter Cook were determined people, and I quickly identified with them. Cook, in particular, held a disdain for philosophical interpretations of architecture, especially references to French philosophers. They were, and Cook still is, people of action. I learned by observing how my mentors approached problem-solving. Learning "side by side" with them was invaluable. Oiza was known for his swift decision-making and strong opinions. He believed that good architects are found by examining their interior facades, often hidden. I had once designed a project with a flawed exterior but a remarkable interior courtyard.

Over a cup of coffee, he told me that the best technology is the one that remains unseen. He sensed technological miniaturisation.

I recall with great enthusiasm a lecture he delivered in Barcelona on facades, where he spoke about a double glass wall with an interior space full of parrots. He was a Dadaist poet.

Peter Cook saw a city walking on big steel legs.

I have been fortunate enough to spend long hours with these people. Little by little, my "nomadism" has pushed me to action and I have gained a deeper understanding of many mistakes.

philopappos

I witness large black birds approaching Socrates' prison. Sleepwalking under the sun, I wander Mount Philopapos, recalling Buñuel's characters from The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, walking aimlessly, searching, and escaping. I traverse landscapes that feel familiar, because we are all citizens of Greece and Rome, just as Derek Walcott was [a citizen] of the Caribbean.

In Athens, the heat is often overwhelming, blanketing the dry and stony environment. I gaze upon the distant Parthenon, veiled in a white cloud of dust and haze, ordering the landscape. Today, everything around me lies exhausted. I remember my teacher Sáenz de Oiza, who explained how this building filled the landscape with axes and powerful lines.

I seek refuge in the sanctuary of San Demetrio, a humble ninth-century chapel with a modest wooden entrance portico. The weathered floorboards creak underfoot. You can find Pikionis stones here.

I try to unravel the secrets hidden within the ancient ruins and the mysterious creations of architect Pikionis. The floor is adorned with Byzantine stones, borders and flowers, denticles, and incomplete triglyphs carved in white limestone pieces as archaeological remains.

The paths are a game of interrupted speeches, with stone platforms and corners awaiting nameless visitors. Steps and plinths, shattered by the Greek architect's hammer. It is said that Pikionis, driven to madness, meticulously crafted and unravelled the stony tapestry that envelops the mountain and stretches towards the Parthenon.

I encounter enigmatic anthropomorphic figures, composed of stone and concrete, sketched onto the ground. Ancient texts that only birds can decipher.

To create and unravel on the ground of the mountain, to inscribe messages amidst stones and sand that can be effaced by water and wind. Pikionis writes in stone, akin to Borges in his envisaged libraries.

Close to Hadrian's Library, I purchased a small oil portrait that evokes the spirit of the romantic travellers from the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, such as Byron. I wish it was Byron, the intrepid adventurer, crippled and seeking refuge from Italy, arriving from Kefalonia in search of weapons and weary of jealous lovers. Having resided in Venice, I have since his house and explored the places he once frequented. Now, I envision an encounter with the poet in Greece, his distinctive black sideburns captured in a forgotten portrait amidst the antique dealers near Lysiou Street. Before her arrival, Mary Shelley had become a widow, and Frankenstein was a citizen of the world.

I ecstatically gaze upon the seven Corinthian columns adjacent to the library's blind wall. The seven statues and their counterparts on the right side of the propylaeum are missing. On the opposite side of the wall, where shelves once held bundles of papyrus scrolls containing ancient texts, now only plants thrive, consuming the remnants of hollows and stony niches. In a destroyed library live thousands of dead souls. I try to reconstruct the building.

I know that in the universe of archaeology, everything is incomplete. Schliemann and Evans knew how to craft captivating narratives from pottery fragments. Architect Michael Ventris and John Chadwick deciphered Crete's Linear B language in 1956 using incomplete tablets.

Exploring legends and mythology, I discover a logical end to everything, even archaeology, when I delve into the world of archetypes.

I should put a picture of Dr Carl Jung on the altar of my ancestors in the Anh Phu village in Saigon.

ruins

I've always longed to return to Crete, even from a young age when I was captivated by everything related to Minoan culture. Life magazine's special issue featured imagined scenes from life at Knossos based on Evans' interpretations. [It showed vivid imagery of] polychrome conical columns, disc-like capitals, women holding snakes, and athletic bodies leaping over wild bulls. Clearly, I also have mentioned C. W. Ceram, who helped expand my understanding of that world.

When I visited Crete for the first time, it was difficult for me to remember or interpret what I saw following my childhood imaginary.

The world of archaeology possesses the beauty of incompleteness, as María Zambrano stated: "everything alludes, everything is an illusion, and everything is oblique." Carlo Ginzburg explored the knowledge of the past through fragments and ruins. In his work Indagini su Piero, he crafted imagined certainties from small news and clues, challenging us to accept or refute them.

Together with Susana Mora, I restored the incomplete monastery of Carracedo in León, Spain. A Romanesque and Gothic complex with additions until the nineteenth century, which was left in ruins due to confiscation by Mendizábal. We decided to preserve its incomplete nature, rich with allusions and interrupted stages. This aimed to initiate discourse and intentionally leave it incomplete, encouraging alternative interpretations.

We blended new materials with the existing ones, following the philosophy of "do not touch." The new pieces harmonised with the old yet maintained a clear distinction with visible gaps between them. The new structures stood independently, barely touching the medieval walls. I have always admired Raffaele Stern's work on the Colosseum in Rome. Its sophistication is incomparable. It freezes history and showcases the monumental cracks reminiscent of the earthquake on August 26, 1806, when the waters of the Tiber River descended.

Ruins hold a certain allure as they invite imagination and embody the "aura" of objects or architecture. The scars "authenticate" the object and unveil fragments of its history, allowing us to catch a glimpse of what others might have seen.

In his book Miti, emblemi, spie: Morfologia e storia (1986), Ginzburg eloquently explains his perspective on reality through scattered elements and quotes Warburg's phrase, "God is in the detail." Ginzburg compares the work of a historian to that of a detective. I recall a lecture by Juan Daniel Fullaondo at the Madrid School, comparing Carlos Sambricio to a character from Dashiell Hammett's novels. The interpretation of scattered pieces transforms restoration into a realm of poetic creation.

russell square

I taught at the Bartlett School of Architecture at the University College of London (UCL) for twelve years before being appointed honorary professor. UCL, founded in 1826, had radical liberal patrons, including Jeremy Bentham, a key influence on many Latin American revolutions. I would often take guests to see the famous philosopher seated in his chair for a photo. Bentham's mummified remains were displayed in the central building, where I often took guests to pose for pictures next to the philosopher in his chair.

Sir Peter Cook invited me to work there, one of the most experimental schools in the world.

I used to move around Bloomsbury, the university district, surrounded by UCL sections and buildings like Russell Square, the British Museum, and Willoughby Street. The area housed numerous second-hand bookstores, where I discovered the works of Karen Blixen (Isak Dinesen), such as Out of Africa, Gothic Tales, and Ehrengard. These books were filled with heroines and fantastical elements. I collected many first editions and cherished them during the free moments that work and tensions allowed me.

My time in the neighbourhood also introduced me to the poetry of Dylan Thomas. Again, I sought out his books in those bookstores, although upon rereading them, I found them overly contrived and devoted to the musicality of his cultured and refined English. Nonetheless, I fondly recall the film adaptation of Under Milk Wood with Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, and Peter O'Toole.

Virginia Woolf's presence was always felt, and although not her style, I sensed her presence in the Russell Hotel,³ a Victorian building designed by Charles Fitzroy Doll in 1898 featuring typical nineteenth-century terracotta. Later, I learned that the architect drew inspiration from a sixteenth-century French palace, which was based on the old Alcazar of Madrid, observed by Francis I during his imprisonment in Spain. I spent many hours reading in the hotel's coffee shop, ignorant of its Spanish roots.

Walking through those streets evoked memories of this writer —her elegant wisdom, her unique perspective, her peaceful fight for women's liberation, and her scepticism toward life and society after World War I. Like her entire generation, she was forever wounded by the War of 1914. Virginia Woolf introduced me to the poetry of Christina Rossetti and the Bloomsbury group, whose works I found in those old bookstores. Discussions on economics, art, and philosophy thrived within this small circle of friends, giving the impression that the world's problems were resolved within this provincial neighbourhood.

There, in this neighbourhood, I stumbled upon the first edition of The Blue and Brown Books (1958) by Ludwig Wittgenstein.

In London, and through English culture, I learned how work, no matter how modest or limited, can achieve universality.

the sun in saigon

A bougainvillea variety, known as paper flower, grows in my garden in Anh Phu. It blooms continuously and its delicate petals resemble butterflies flying in the city's vertical sunlight.

The flowers, as thin as tissue paper, dissolve when touched, existing in an ephemeral state. They come in red, orange, or white, possessing an astonishing finesse, like a mysterious miracle.

Amidst the garden's branches, cicadas sing incessantly, some falling from the trees in agony.

Rain falls forcefully, drumming on the tree leaves. Sunlight and water take turns, filtering through branches and flooding the ground with light. The warm humidity feels velvety on the skin.

In the distance, the joyful voices of schoolchildren envelop the house, now in May 2022.

the storm

Hanoi speaks volumes about my existence. As I stroll, I graze the walls and garden fences, hiding a world of shadows and freshness; parallel lives. I long to feel the chill of the coffee table's marble beneath my fingertips, witness the weathered walls of old French mansions adorned with scars and crumbling stucco, and recognise the enduring cobblestones of many humble streets.

I observe diverse characters merging within this universal city. Its streets, like rivers, devour individuals that vanish amidst the masses. They appear and disappear like extras in a 1950s production.

Existing in Hanoi for one more day.

Existing devoid of explanation, declaring our orphaned state. The city always emerges, with its grey skies, bustling streets, endearing characters, and sidewalks teeming with people dining and drinking. I hope and feel tied up to a friendly harbour.

A serene moment amid an impending storm.

Gathering strength, embracing new lives...

the turtle

In my garden rests a mysterious black water pond; its depth is an enigma. Its water's depth inspires fantasy. Hidden in the shade of large ferns and spleniums reflecting on the pond's water, between floating leaves of sylvines and under the shadows, lives a large turtle with a long neck and coloured spots that reach near the head.

It gracefully transitions from shadow to light when enticed by food. Its paws move with parsimony and elegance, as time —its time— is a slow present. It will live longer than me; it will continue to emerge from the pond's depths, propelled by its membranous limbs. Stillness and darkness are its elements. It lives in an autistic, silent world immersed in vegetal stillness.

It existed before I arrived at this house and will persist in witnessing sunrises with its glassy eyes long after I am gone.

trinidad

I had read Derek Walcott's poetry long before I came to this Caribbean island. I was in charge of designing the stations and the landscape for the new train line connecting Port of Spain with Valencia and Sangre Grande.

Arriving in a world submerged in a deep and mysterious blackness feels like living in an imagined paradise. I would need another lifetime to explore these places, the remnants of its cruel history, and more time in Trinidad. Falling in love —loving— everything is possible.

I gaze at the sea and envision tales of pirates and slaves.

The humid heat of Trinidad has a tinge of red, because everything is deep and dense in that Caribbean world. V. S. Naipaul says that it took him four years to grasp the island's obvious truths. He discovered a distant yet present India. He speaks of his life becoming a fiction, representing other lives in other times and places.

I experienced the same thing, but I saw a new beginning in this representation. In Trinidad, the ancient world is reborn every day. The buried languages and ancient sentiments, described by Walcott as stone statues, are now turned into dewdrops that speak a contemporary language of history.

The classical world founder of the Enlightenment blends with the spirituality and religious culture of India, creating intense emotions, as a complex culinary recipe.

In the Caribbean, a world once thought lost is dissected. It's akin Jules Verne's dreams embodied by Captain Nemo's conservative philosophy or Alejo Carpentier's Lost Steps, when they believe to discover an ancient biological time or a world far from the present. These cultures possess an archaeological essence, preserving moments of our forgotten past as witnesses. They form the foundation for a new worldview, expressed through profound and wise language.

you all

I write for those revolutionaries⁴ who still believe in paper and books as objects of companionship; those who believe in ideas transmitted "word of mouth". These romantics continue to understand the small world, where individual thinking counts. People who believe that collective efforts can move the world.

I walk alongside you all, whether your faces are familiar or anonymous.

Life is full of vanished parallel lives.

Memories travel in a very light suitcase.

When Ulysses is without a home, he walks with his shadows, which he finds friendly, surrounded by acquaintances known yet unfamiliar. Nomads possess an aesthetic of impermanence.

Today, in Hanoi, I stroll through its streets —along Ba Trieu, Trang Tien— and spot you all in corners, parks, or the gardens of Phố Lê Lai and Co Tan Street. You inquire about my life in Assolo or Venice, or my time in Krakow, teaching at the university and residing on Kanonicza Street.

My house had large and cold corridors that led to the outdoors, facing a music store where concerts, operas, and medieval melodies were played outside.

Lonely corners in the neighbourhood resonated with music, accompanying your footsteps and welcoming you back home, akin to a dog greeting its master.

Countless small details lie hidden, awaiting, in the corners of memory. Without you all, I would not recall them today.

the garden in anh phu

It has been raining in Anh Phu for many days. The garden floor exudes a freshness that penetrates and awakens melancholy, a feeling that emerges in happy moments, much like a hungry guest.

I have dreamed of a garden with a long avenue stretching into a flat horizon with a setting sun. The shadows of trees flooded the road filling it with monsters.

On both sides of the road, many motionless elephants silently observed our cautious stroll, gathering for a farewell ceremony.

Hand in hand, we traversed in a dreamlike state, resembling Pieter Brueghel's The Blind Leading the Blind, unsure if we would stumble into the abyss.

Every day, I restart, while time slips away like a poorly told tale. The end of the day is celebrated with drums of storms and thunder.

I search for the snake in the garden. Hoa has seen it and tells me that it is pale and thick, gliding noiselessly, with the desire not to disrupt my dreams.

---