The Basilica di Santa Croce: a stonemason's eye view
The local press complains on behalf of tourists visiting Lecce. Which seems strange enough - unless the city truly prefers immediate revenue at long-term cost? But the restoration of the Santa Croce basilica has overrun (we are in Italy), and it's easier to talk in terms of days than it is to report on the logistics of a complex job. But - for all the easy complaining - there's a distinct advantage in this situation. Because the restorers have come up with a canny idea. Converting their scaffolding from an obstruction into an itinerary, they are offering "open works" (cantiere aperte) to pre-booked visitors.
This isn't only clever PR; it represents an opportunity comparable with Vienna's exquisite baroque close-up, the Karlskirche dome.
The back story is simple: in May 2011, pieces of rock crumbled from the west facade. The local stone, pietra leccese, is famously soft; the ease of sculpting which gave us the Lecce Baroque is also this stone's undoing. Re-restoration started in 2016 with a budget of 2 million Euros and a predicted timescale of 16 months. Yet still, the famous facade is clad in scaffolding, all draped over with a life-size print of how the church used to look.
For most visitors to Lecce, this spells disappointment. But the silver lining to this cloud is an experience more memorable than the view of the church as viewed from the ground. How often have you stood, squinting up into the facade of a cathedral, trying to make sense of an assemblage which is overwhelming by design? With the help of a construction site lift and a knowledgeable in-house guide, the scaffolding offers a view of the details instead of the whole.
Goethe thought that “music is liquid architecture; architecture is frozen music.” On his terms, this close-up guided visit would be like walking through an orchestra. You hear your way around and through a symphony, instrument by instrument, musical line by musical line. It's almost eavesdropping inside the mind of a composer or - in the case of the Santa Croce - the minds of four architects, whose successive contributions united in this church to define the barocco leccese.
There are three rides up to three levels, each a snapshot of the building's construction from 1549 until almost the end of the 17th century. Because the scaffolding doesn't follow the architectural layers, you get to see things from a utilitarian point of view, breaking out of the wedding cake order of aesthetics. The heads of massive saints poke up between walking boards to stare with furrowed brows at your knees, and the rose window is sliced for access, not admiration.
This is a histologist's approach to architecture, cutting sections of convenient thickness through the swollen tissue of the baroque. It's interesting to see what features emerge. The effect is strange, almost a repurposing of tour and church alike. Treating stylistic integrity with a healthy dose of disrespect, we're freed from the mindset of the arty tourist. No longer can we come only to worship the materials of a church. And that in turn releases the building, perhaps even to rediscover some of its forgotten purposes. Abandoning (more or less) the logic of the art historian, we participate in the more objective anatomising of modern restoration.
Without describing the tour exhaustively, here are some highlights:
The Italians tend to go for something like "this church is dedicated to God and the sign of the cross" which is really a bit of a fudge. The guide on this tour suggested the wood of the cross. But vexillo was an ancient Roman military banner, of the type familiar from until 569AD, when the metaphor made it into an early Christian hymn. I've no idea why renaissance Lecce went for such an abstruse dedication, other than for military/Roman conceit. Dante had already used the term ironically. I'm tempted by THIS TEMPLE IS DEDICATED TO GOD AND THE STRUT OF THE CROSS... It's a vexilling problem, and your guess is as good as mine.
Here we leave the renaissance behind, and step into the baroque. The row of pot-bellied boys balancing along the balustrade might not be in the best of taste, but they make their point clearly enough, brandishing instruments of state and church power.
Are they cherubs, putti or cupids? It is on this level that the interplay between Christian and classical pagan religion is clarified. Not only by the winged boys and their games, but also by the background of grotesques. There are gaping mouthed masks and foliate faces, all quoting straight from the ancient Roman decorative style. There's a theory that the Renaissance imagination was unchained by the rediscovery of Roman paganism, culminating in a church in Rimini denounced as "full of pagan gods and profane things". By this stage, the decorative impetus from ancient Rome has been subjugated a little, and put into service.
From this corner of the works, there's an uninterrupted view across the old town. You're higher than most rooftop terraces here, and it's worth resisting pressure from your guide to cram back into the lift and drop back down into the street.
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| "Take care": the Santa Croce restoration |
This isn't only clever PR; it represents an opportunity comparable with Vienna's exquisite baroque close-up, the Karlskirche dome.
The back story is simple: in May 2011, pieces of rock crumbled from the west facade. The local stone, pietra leccese, is famously soft; the ease of sculpting which gave us the Lecce Baroque is also this stone's undoing. Re-restoration started in 2016 with a budget of 2 million Euros and a predicted timescale of 16 months. Yet still, the famous facade is clad in scaffolding, all draped over with a life-size print of how the church used to look.
For most visitors to Lecce, this spells disappointment. But the silver lining to this cloud is an experience more memorable than the view of the church as viewed from the ground. How often have you stood, squinting up into the facade of a cathedral, trying to make sense of an assemblage which is overwhelming by design? With the help of a construction site lift and a knowledgeable in-house guide, the scaffolding offers a view of the details instead of the whole.
Goethe thought that “music is liquid architecture; architecture is frozen music.” On his terms, this close-up guided visit would be like walking through an orchestra. You hear your way around and through a symphony, instrument by instrument, musical line by musical line. It's almost eavesdropping inside the mind of a composer or - in the case of the Santa Croce - the minds of four architects, whose successive contributions united in this church to define the barocco leccese.
Tour details
The itinerary takes only small groups (maximum four visitors, plus the in-house guide) and lasts less than an hour. Starting with a hair net, in case anyone would worry about sharing a plastic construction helmet, and a cryptic prohibition on taking photos, you cram into a construction lift and rattle upwards.There are three rides up to three levels, each a snapshot of the building's construction from 1549 until almost the end of the 17th century. Because the scaffolding doesn't follow the architectural layers, you get to see things from a utilitarian point of view, breaking out of the wedding cake order of aesthetics. The heads of massive saints poke up between walking boards to stare with furrowed brows at your knees, and the rose window is sliced for access, not admiration.
This is a histologist's approach to architecture, cutting sections of convenient thickness through the swollen tissue of the baroque. It's interesting to see what features emerge. The effect is strange, almost a repurposing of tour and church alike. Treating stylistic integrity with a healthy dose of disrespect, we're freed from the mindset of the arty tourist. No longer can we come only to worship the materials of a church. And that in turn releases the building, perhaps even to rediscover some of its forgotten purposes. Abandoning (more or less) the logic of the art historian, we participate in the more objective anatomising of modern restoration.
Without describing the tour exhaustively, here are some highlights:
Level 1) the architrave
Above the door is the dedication, date 1582: TEMPLUM HOC DEO CRUCIS VEXILLO DICATUM, a slogan which nobody else online has been foolish enough to translate into English. |
| A detail of the dedication |
The Italians tend to go for something like "this church is dedicated to God and the sign of the cross" which is really a bit of a fudge. The guide on this tour suggested the wood of the cross. But vexillo was an ancient Roman military banner, of the type familiar from until 569AD, when the metaphor made it into an early Christian hymn. I've no idea why renaissance Lecce went for such an abstruse dedication, other than for military/Roman conceit. Dante had already used the term ironically. I'm tempted by THIS TEMPLE IS DEDICATED TO GOD AND THE STRUT OF THE CROSS... It's a vexilling problem, and your guess is as good as mine.
Level 2) balcony & putti
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| All in the best of taste, I'm sure |
The putto in the very centre holds up the papal tiara; look just below his feet, and a weathered relief of Mary holding Jesus is still visible. The prorities are becoming clear.
Are they cherubs, putti or cupids? It is on this level that the interplay between Christian and classical pagan religion is clarified. Not only by the winged boys and their games, but also by the background of grotesques. There are gaping mouthed masks and foliate faces, all quoting straight from the ancient Roman decorative style. There's a theory that the Renaissance imagination was unchained by the rediscovery of Roman paganism, culminating in a church in Rimini denounced as "full of pagan gods and profane things". By this stage, the decorative impetus from ancient Rome has been subjugated a little, and put into service.
Level 3) the rose window
If the idea of a rose window gets you thinking of stained glass and tracery, this will disappoint. Billed as the climax of the tour, what we find is a Holy of Holies in its empty state.
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| Drawing a slice through the oculus |
This is more an oculus than a rose; almost an enso. But what it lacks in colour, it makes up for in its stone setting of concentric rings of figures and foliage, the wall becoming ever more massive as it steps out from the transparent eye.
On this level, too, the massive figures of Faith and Fortitude; the heads of large statues of St Benedict and of his follower, the hermit Pope Celestine V, poke up through the floor.
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| Faith personified |
The restorers are generally being conservative, taking away friable and insecure rock and unearthing details from under the moss and grime. This is not an attempt to replace statues with modern copies, and stone has been added or shored up where structurally necessary.
The bonus view: Palazzo dei Celestini
The basilica started out as the church attached to the monastery of the Celestines, followers of the hermit Pope Celestine V whose statue appears on the facade. The monastery is now public offices, but you can walk its cloister without hassle from the guards (a side door still links it with the Santa Croce) and, from the top of the scaffolding, you can see its architecture from up close.
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| The ex-monastery of the Celestini |
From this corner of the works, there's an uninterrupted view across the old town. You're higher than most rooftop terraces here, and it's worth resisting pressure from your guide to cram back into the lift and drop back down into the street.
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| Bend your knees like a miner for the ride down |
Practicalities
- The tour has to be booked online, and the booking site is all in Italian
- You can get help from tourist offices with making your reservation
- English language tours take place every afternoon at 15:30 and 16:30
- Works (and tours) will continue until December... at least.....
- Price: free
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