REPORT FOTOGRAFICO PHOTO REPORT
Politecnico di Bari | Dipartimento di Scienze dellâ€™Ingegneria Civile e Architettura | AA 2017-2018
REPORT FOTOGRAFICO PHOTO REPORT
Laureandi | Graduates: Antonio Dellâ€™Olio Angela Muschitiello Dusan Obradovic Roberta Redavid Simona Semeraro Claudia Tinti Relatore | Supervisor: Prof. Arch. Mariangela Turchiarulo Correlatore | Correlator: Prof. Arch. Zoran Djukanovic Collegio docenti | Professors board: Prof. Arch. Loredana Ficarelli Prof. Arch. Matteo Ieva Prof. Arch. Nicola Martinelli Prof. Arch. Domenico Pastore Prof. Arch. Giorgio Rocco
CONTENUTI | CONTENTS:
1. Belgrado | Belgrade 2. Novi Sad | Novi Sad 3. Sarajevo | Sarajevo 4. Zagabria | Zagreb 5. Lubiana | Ljubljana
SINGIDUNUM Under my wheels the echo of two roads feels the upper, a shadow of the Roman legions’ trail at crossroads with turned off headlight another kind of radiance soars over the night fast alongside the dark woods with tips already in tomorrow’s light. It is not the sunrise losing one of the roads I awake into a barbarian joyous heat and under new hair akin to white feathers I assault Flavius’ legion’s seat.
BAGPIPES The coppery sky is still warm and aglare, the river is all flooded by an evening glow; As if the insidious flames still flare behind the black wood of old pines below. A millwheel somewhere far at this hour can be heard roaring hoarse and deep; Smoke and fire the blazing sky now devour, and on the wave water flowers are asleep. Yet another eve. And it seems to me all that far beyond and across three seas, as the sun sets and silence does fall, in the gleaming shade of emerald trees, a woman unknown to me, pale as desire, with a crown and aglow, sits thinking of me. ‘Fore the gardens, the ocean is unfurled, a grey flock of seagulls soars aloft; Thru a host of roses wilted and curled, the wind hums a tune, doleful and soft. As their orbs stare up at the golden sky, two gigantic Sphinxes stand guard so, as she weeps; and the weary sun sets by the canvass of the sea, steady and slow. And I, whose face she knows not, now fill up all her thoughts and breath. Her cold lips mutter a fidelity vow. Hopeless loves are faithful as death! Alas! Don’t ever say to me: ‘tis not so, or that my heart does itself deceive, for I’d weep, eternally weep, woe! And with no solace, I’d forever grieve.
SAINT SAVA Who’s tapping so late this quiet night at The closed gate of the Chilandari monastery like that? “The eve has passed, it’s now dead midnight, Holy fathers, monks, open the gate for me tonight! My soul craves light and frail legs need to rest, Weary is my body, my legs respite request – But fresh is my will that tonight takes me to your gate, My life to my people, country and freedom to consecrate. I renounced tsars’ court, crown and robe quite And now in this modest monastery I seek light. Holy fathers, open up this heavy door for me, Admit the tsar’s son, as your youngest brother, to my plea…” As the heavy door squeaked, an owl took flight Hooting, it soared and vanished into the night. At the door of the place where praised is God’s name The prior came to sight with his torch aflame. He raises the torch above his holy head, awed, And sees a child, so innocent and unshod. His thick hair is ruffled, his pale brow is high, Yet, sublime, and divine wisdom graced by. The old man takes his hand, kisses his brow mild, And whispers tearfully: “We admit you, dear child.” Since that miraculous night centuries have gone by, Centuries have gone by and many are yet to arrive, But, that child still lives for alive is his fame, It was Rastko, Nemanja’s son, St Sava is his name.
I SEEK ABSOLUTION I seek absolution For those who have no strength To tell an evil man that he is evil Or a bad man that he is bad; For the one who regrets to make Another man unhappy with the truth, For the people who lie out of mercy. For the man who would rather be Humiliated than to humiliate, For the one who, even if he discerns A mask on a face, Has no heart to tear it off, For the people who cannot offend A man of a different faith or belief, To whom all judges seem stern For each merciful falsehood and Many other similar weaknesses.
PLACES WE LOVE Places we love exist only through us, Space destroyed is only illusion in the constancy of time, Places we love we can never leave, Places we love together, together, together, And is this room really a room, or an embrace, And what is beneath the window: a street or years? And the window is only the imprint left by The first rain we understood, returning endlessly, And this wall does not define the room, but perhaps the night Your son began to move in your sleeping blood, A son like a butterfly of flame in your hall of mirrors, The night you were frightened by your own light, And this door leads into any afternoon Which outlives it, forever peopled With your casual movements, as you stepped, Like fire into copper, into my only memory; When you go, space closes over like water behind you, Do not look back: there is nothing outside you, Space is only time visible in a different way, Places we love we can never leave.
EVENING The vast blue deep Is asleep; Cool and quiet, falls the night. Atop dark rocks, dying fast, The last Crimson ray of sunset light. The church bell tolls; Its trembling tones Over craggy hills resound. With sighs of endless Sadness, Poor folks are prayer-bound. Skeletal and grey, They pray On knees before their God, But no word Is heard From the crucified Lord. The nearing repose Is close; Cool and quiet, falls the night; Atop dark rocks, dying fast, The last Crimson ray of sunset light.
Aleksa Ĺ antiÄ‡
A MAN BY THE ROAD He created cathedrals For a worthless prayer, He solved integrals For a mere dime so rare. He invoked the whole world Imbued with feelings grand, Then, as a flower, unfurled Before his sick homeland. Thunder mighty he spurred, Immense powers tied he; For us, the human debris, The flame of eras he stirred. By the road he now remains Broken, like a beaten snake; Inside of him, anguish reigns, Plagued by a feverish ache, Beset by bitterness and pains.
THE SAVA AND DANUBE CONFLUENCE Rosy radiance arises from Zemun a swimmer from the south comes a dialogue starts on the spot where two rivers embrace this is not a fugitive or a line of sufferers but a deep foundation dug the one carrying the stone is Stephan the founder.
JOY I no longer watch the hands turn, nor track the sun’s hot path; day is here when his eyes return, and night again when they depart. Joy does not mean laughter, and his yearning outweighing mine; joy to me is when we’re silent, and our hearts in tandem chime. I do not rue that life’s rivers will carry off my own life’s drop; now blast youth and all to smither’s; enthralled beside me he has stopped.
NOVI SAD NOVI SAD
BAGPIPES What more can I say when in a noise-ridden hour but nobody speaks of bagpipes no more than of the shadows behind which past lives flutter. Rogues on one side, the just on the other as if it were not enough of that who is good and who is evilâ€™s very hand who is the burning flame of beauty and who joins, stitches and unstitches is this know-how. That I remember that I inhale the oceanâ€™s storm or that I hear the hurly-burly of those who rush into deep waters to shelter their limbs in their breast. He who has never plunged his pain into the waves listened to the rippling somewhere on a shore looked into mute emptiness and has been in the cold of the dark for long years fenced in with wires. When I thought to ask my father already a bony elder what more he could say he said nothing as if his silence testified to the macabre multitude riding under the banners of the monarchy and shivering within the icy wires of Germania. Jovan Zivlak
THE EVENT In the besieged city, after three months of fear about sheer survival, af running from bed to the bomb shelter, of starvation, wrested the woman - the Almighty must have given her the signal - one night, during sunrise, just when the cocks started to crow, from the body of the man a burst of happiness and bliss, wrested it with electrified fingertips and fell asleep as one of the blessed. The man stood up, bathed ceremoniously by candle light, lit himself ceremoniously the last cigarette and thought not without a certain satisfaction that the machine of his body could still be used and the matter, out of which it is composed, does not belong entirely to dust, rather that his life makes equally, so to speak, here and there some sense.
MEANDERS where shadows fall on the river, the water runs slower words come to a stop in the evening, thoughts like patient ivy twining round the bridgeless pile that juts into my memories steeper the trails, the furrows, the look is caught in nettle gardens I am losing sight of myself, burning the hours I bury the embers under my heel the shadow drifts toward the mud, I donâ€™t know myself my hand is crumbling like the rust of metallic wounds I draw green blood from the veins of the night
ABOVE THINGS At standard cruising altitude sipping my digestive after a quite decent hot lunch on the flight from Vienna to Athens I gaze through the scratched double plexiglass bulleye shielding me from the outside world and try to pierce the blinding haze of a lazy spring afternoon hiding from me The people shot by snipers The shelling of suburbs The burning houses The crowded hospitals of Sarajevo, Gorazde, Mostar, Zadar ... Suspended in diffuse light all I can see is the silhouette of an occasional snow-capped mountain range There is no sign of human suffering
Walter W Hoelbling
BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA, 1994 We went to the church, but it was no longer there. We went to fetch water from the river, but it was no longer there. We went to fetch the souls, but they were no longer there. We went to collect the will and read it through. Not even the sun, the stars, the clouds were ours any longer, it said in the will, only the loneliness. We kept on walking, all the way to the sea. Whose sea?
BRIDGES OF SARAJEVO So stirs the heart of man, the great delight, to raise a banner high, the march of fate; to lead the way, where only dark of night, might find a way to quench the thirst for hate; and lessor men will follow any call,of self appointed leaders of the day, the good, the bad, the dead, but butchers all, some crowned in light, the others in decay! To follow is the way, if wrong or right, determined by the ones who stand at last, we hold this judgement as if heaven might just comprehend the end that binds us fast. Our bridges to be crossed, are Hate and Death Protected by our foul and Balkan breath.
BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA I don’t know. Suddenly it was nightfall. I don’t know. Suddenly everything disappeared. The light. Children. Violins. Pain. Laughter and bright coloured balls. A storm and snow. Dossers. Lovers. I don’t know. It was nightfall. There was a fire. People became evil and evicted us, occupied our dumps, hid the children, killed the cats and left us. In the middle of the night here in silence, among cold walls that will keep a secret. I don’t know. I’m waiting. I’m waiting for my friends to come back. Will they?
MR. SARAJEVO I found that showing off your taste in music is actually more intimidating than walking around in Eden stark naked - given the auspiciousness in the “glamour” industry and elsewhere, odd, isn’t it? We are more ashamed by our musical taste, shunned by it the Balkan Slavs are the Spaniards of what most people call “cheap taste”, you now, oiled and greasy six packs and - well the Balkan Slavs bred with the Ottoman Turks, what do you expect? We are more intimidated by our taste in music being exposed than our naked bodies - believe me, I’ll cry at the beauty, I’ll cry at the beauty but i will not despair I rather allow tears in, because i know laughter too will come, I rather cry at beauty than inhibit it with a masculine heart expected of me to be stern and in the belgian trenches - stupid youth idolising the warring of old farts who have a disclosure for swollen prostates and can’t take the banta so instead they shove young men into warring enclosures and then lay wreaths of poppies with a 1 minute silence... I told you, absolute bollocks - I rather cry at beauty when it appears like a picturesque sunrise that Armenian will have a beef stake weighing at half a kilogram to box with translating my works I don’t mind standing naked like this, another example.
MY DREAMS They were surprised that I still know Croatian though now so many years absent from my native land. How is it that you didnâ€™t forget? How could I? Though I donâ€™t converse in Croatian, yet I dream in Croatian, and I dream very often... God knows whether these Croatian dreams will ever become reality.
AUTUMN MOTIF Autumn arrives very quietly in Zagreb wearing heelless slippers. In the blink of an eye its paths with yellow leaves are covered. Before it a red carpet is spread made of withered roses. And whoever meets it, at once looks for the past days frantically. I also look for them in the leaves and ask around yellow university. Where I was falling at life exams splendidly. Though I still whistle studentsâ€™ pretty melody with my hand in a pocket thatâ€™s empty As somewhere in the sun, with fruits, heavy my branch keeps bending.
VISITING THE WOLVES I still think it would be best if I don my dark blue mantle and go to pay a visit on the wolves. For three nights now they have howled beneath my windows. Already for three nights they have bared their green teeth before the lights of my window. And I donned my dark blue mantle and went to visit the wolves. But when they saw me coming with clenched fists they fled head over heels i in utter confusion.
TREE AFTER RAIN Look at that small tree after the rain: It is full of raindrops and it swings them, And magic luxury of it branches Sparkles in the sunlight. But if the sun is hidden, just for a while All that magic diasppeares It is again, as it was before, Ordinary, poor small tree.
LJUBLJANA IS ASLEEP In red chaos a new humanity is approaching! Ljubljana is asleep. Europe is dying in a red light. The phone lines are all dead. Oh, but this one is cordless. A blind horse. White towers rise out of dun walls. The flood. Europe is stepping into a grave. We come with a hurricane. With poison gasses. Ljubljana is asleep. On the tram the conductor is asleep Slovenski narod is read in the Europa cafe. The clicking of billiard halls
LJUBLJANA I see more trees than houses, more rivers than men, and going up I imagine the beasts grow, produce to satiety. After the Ljubljana cartel advertising comes out of the pictures: here the arm of a model goes on to the sky. They have jumped on modernity. Yet everything is silent and alive between stones and beams. When we leave Ljubljana the heart dies a little: â€œHow much is a room? Do they need teachers? Âť The fog goes back to the curves, and we do not see, I do not see how to get to the village that you remember the birth. Only a church, a school, and between the drops the bell to hold the hour. Little girls are born here soon maritate and frugolo grown up in jams. Here they give you what they can and they are proud of the new casino. If they love, they do not forget it, if they hate it is the same.
GORAN A night too grand for my stellar mind inside some forests black unknown Tree too has said donâ€™t. My white Dawn I leave you my name since I canâ€™t go on. Bees land on the corpseless place, Bells depart down the black staircase into a land My day ends. But for rest does not prepare my dream behind hill, where dead myself I crave. Down here all have darkness of their own My dark is the shadow of a bird. May be gone road which they could reach me through As a springtime which forgot to bloom at the north-side of the world I now lay dead my greatest night, the jealous death!
LANDSCAPE WITH VULTURES
Better to admire a street like this at night, where now nobody passes and rightly, nor are the cars circulating to boast of their models. At this time the city is exhausted, falls in love with the emptiness and the abandoned cement because itâ€™s dark and nobody asks to cover it. But by day those who keep the living at home, so lazy towards their earnings? Gathered in dirty kitchens, in front of the screen, they comment on the world, tenderly portrayed from the contagion of the road. They let their children abuse ice cream, replacing another hunger, at six oâ€™clock, when the city lights up pink and white. The living are observed as at midday, skeletons of vehicles shine in the merciless sun. A few cat climbs on a shady wall, where one would see a gypsy bending his embroidery and get sleepy. At the fountain, on the benches of the old ones, the Amerindians are camelhaired and distant from their fat women, acute in voice and judgment. Soon the vultures will come down to dust some square, or they will die tired of not taking, fallen from the granite lions, traded for alive by compromised meat. Tourists also complain about the closure of businesses: a little â€˜well exposed merchandise, to brighten the air. Sorry to note this debt.
III. REPORT FOTOGRAFICO (PHOTO REPORT)