{"id":375237,"date":"2021-02-25T15:08:00","date_gmt":"2021-02-25T14:08:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/doogreporter.com\/sweet-home\/"},"modified":"2024-12-30T08:40:02","modified_gmt":"2024-12-30T07:40:02","slug":"sweet-home","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/doogreporter.com\/en\/sweet-home\/","title":{"rendered":"Sweet Home"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t
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Sweet Home<\/h1>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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A place to be<\/h2>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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DOCKS - stories in touch<\/h3>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t
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Domestic interior, DR Congo | \u00a9Gabriele Orlini, 2011<\/h4>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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Open windows on scenarios that are always the same. Same street, same lampposts, same deserted pavement. Horizons that do not change, are distant and unreachable. A door that does not open, which becomes the seal of a new normality, limited and restrained. But also shelter, a sense of protection, a safe nest while outside everything collapses or everything changes.
Never before have we been forced to confront the idea of “home” and rethink our relationship with what defines the place where we live as we have during the past few months. We found we had houses that were too small or too big, too crowded or too quiet. We may have realised that ‘home’ is not just a physical place where we wait for the storm to pass, but a place of the soul, a way of life that makes itself home in movement. We realised that home could mean loss or finding, abandonment or comfort.<\/p>\n

“No man is an island<\/em>,” wrote John Donne, and no person is alone in the place he inhabits, whether it is a micro-apartment in a large post-pandemic city or a village in the heart of the African savannah, whether it is a labile boundary of childhood or a decaying neighborhood that shelters and protects multiple solitudes.
And so it is that in recent months we have found ourselves forced-perhaps for the first time-to ask a question that goes beyond the private dimension and takes on the color of a collective question: what does “home” mean today? What is the sense of home for distant people? For neighbourhoods that are micro-worlds or for communities that see what has always defined them crumbling? Are we what we inhabit, or does what we experience to become ‘home’ the moment it becomes memory and narrative? Home as a sense of rootedness in a place, in a community, in a present or past time?<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Guwahati, Assam (India) | \u00a9Gabriele Orlini, 2012<\/h4>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tThus begins our journey in search of what it means, today, to call a place 'home'. Whether it is a fixed point made of bricks, wooden planks or mud. Whether it is a feeling, a memory, a lack or a place in the soul on a perpetual journey.\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t
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Houses that remain and houses that change<\/h3>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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In his 87 years of life, Luigi Lanteri has always called only one place home: the tiny village of Realdo, an eagle’s nest suspended between rock and sky in the heart of the Ligurian Alps, on the border with France and Piedmont. A land of wolves and shepherds, of cross-border paths that trace different histories from those written on atlases: it was the Paris Agreements of 1947 that drew the current borders – which changed what used to be Piedmont into Liguria and France – and the entire community once belonging to Briga Marittima was dismembered. Brigaschi, the inhabitants of these valleys are called, united by the pivot of Monte Saccarello and divided by politics: they were breeders, farmers, wool merchants. Today, only a few remain up here, echoing through the paths the ancient Brigasque language, descended from the Proven\u00e7al Langue d’Oc.
Luigi is one of those few and witnesses a slow haemorrhage, people leaving and never returning, houses that are only opened in the summer, empty streets and fountains that gurgle only for passing foxes. “Do you ever think of leaving?” people who pass by to visit him ask, trying to understand the meaning of his staying in his stone house overlooking the valley. But he shrugs his shoulders and smiles: “Go away? Why? This has always been my home, where do you want me to go?<\/em>\u00bb.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t

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“Luigi’s house looks like something out of a history book. A bare, shadowy room serves as the kitchen, living room and dining room; an old wood-burning cooker coughs in one corner, a few chipped cups stand on a crooked shelf, and a few shepherd’s tools – a worn cowbell and an old, rusty shearing shears – hang on a hook, halfway between remembrance and forgetfulness.<\/p>\n

No trinkets, no frills: in other places, this room would be called ‘minimal’, but no Anglicisms are needed to recount the dignity, the intimate geography of a humble life, accustomed to possessing only the essentials and borrowing the rest from the mountains. What will be left of these lives, one wonders, when the last witnesses are gone?”<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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