SPECKS OF DUST
Vance Fazzino
The specks of dust whirled and tumbled through the air in shafts of light coming
through the large, shuttered French Doors. I have always been fascinated by these
little flecks that move so gracefully in the slightest breeze.
I can remember climbing to the hayloft in my grandfather’s barn and watching the
tiny specks glisten in the sunlight. Always rising, always moving. The shafts of light
came from the spaces in-between the vertical boards of the barn and the high small
window at the peak. Tossing a clump of hay to the rafters would create a fierce storm
of flying particles. Those days seem so far away, so carefree, so innocent.
Today I am half a world away from that small barn in rural Connecticut.
I have been in Sicily for a week now, staying with friends in the town of Ficarazzi,
outside of Palermo. My hosts, aware of my love of Sicilian architecture and design
have arranged a visit to the private estate of the Princess Valdina in San Flavia, a part of
Bagheria, the area where the 18th century Palermintine royalty would spend their
summers away from the oppressive heat of the city. The homes they built were small
palaces rather than villas. Usually constructed of tufa d’Aspra, a beautiful warm stone in
shades of amber and pale gold. The facades of many villas, were inlayed with pieces of
precious and unusual marbles, in intricate designs.
On arriving at the main entrance of the villa we are greeted by Fillipo, son of the
princess. Tall, fair, handsome and charming, every bit a prince, he has graciously agreed
to be our guide through the house and gardens. Many of the rooms were closed, not
having been use for years. Dust covers shrouded the furniture, chandeliers and
mirrors like ghostly apparitions. For me, lifting the corners and looking underneath was
like opening presents on Christmas. To be able to see those beautiful pieces of furniture
and object d’art from the 17th and 18th centuries was a rare treat.
We were shown numerous rooms - each with a theme; the yellow, red, green
and blue rooms; the Porcelain, Chinoise, Floral, and Mirrored rooms were but a few.
Each one unique and fascinating – some faded and tattered – others in a perfect state.
There was the grand salon with magnificent frescos from the 18th century in the French
taste. The ceiling was painted as well. The floor of Sicilian tile, duplicated the design
and colors of the ceiling.
In so many of these rooms that we walked through there was a thread of familiarity.
Was it the years of study I have done on the history of home furnishings in relation to my
profession as an Architectural Designer? That has to be it. But no, there is something
more, something deeper. It’s as though I was here before. What is it?
As Fillipo threw open the shutters and we moved about the rooms, there it was
again, the connection to my youth, the floating specks. If you look at them intently, you
can see colors. Threads of red, green and gold; just a tiny curled and twisted line, never
very long. Sometimes they rise in a nearly straight line.
After the extensive tour of the villas interior, Fillipo asked if we would like to
see the gardens and the chapel. What a treat was in store for us. From my studies of this
great house, I knew that in 1693, Pietro Novelli, one of the most prominent Sicilian
artists, had done paintings in the family chapel.
The formal gardens were laid out in the 18th century cross fashion. On the low walls
dividing the planted areas were large terracotta urns, overflowing with flowers, vines and
weeds. The entire garden was a surreal fantasy. Overgrown, classic and wild. Morning
glories were rampant, climbing walls, tumbling over sculptures lying on the ground. The
flowers, intense blues and vivid purples, were like translucent, silent trumpets.
To this picture bougainvillea lent its violent reds, fuchsias, and pinks. The jasmine in
dazzling white provided a perfume that was indescribable.
The gardens were a joy, but it was the chapel that I was most anxious to see. There it
stood at the end of one of the paths. From a distance the design was that of a
simple structure, with a terra cotta tile roof. A close look at the façade, revealed an
incredibly ornamented, baroque “rocaille” design, where shells and stones are imbedded
in cement, creating beautiful and grotesque creatures and flowers.
After trying four or five keys from his massive key ring, the bolt finally slid back
allowing us entry. The chapel was one large room. Even though the temperature was in
the high ninety's, I felt a distinct coolness, perhaps a difference of twenty degrees.
At one end was what remained of the altar. The ceiling was high and vaulted. And
then there were the frescos. The great skill and execution of these works was
phenomenal. Even though the colors had obviously faded somewhat in the last three
hundred years, there remained a freshness about each work. Sadly, the elements have
taken their toll. Where the roof had leaked and dampness entered, parts of the painting
had flaked away.
Here they were again, those specks, those threads, always to be a part of my life.
What are they really? Are they like parts of DNA forming life patterns or perhaps they
are the souls of billions of lives that have been before. Lifting heavenward, some
escaping, others falling to remain dormant, only to be recharged, to try again to reach the
ultimate light. Being lifted on a current of air when one passes, or when a door is
opened. They are matter.
I see them again, here in the chapel with the light pouring in from the small arched
window. Sicily – Connecticut, the thread, the line, it’s all the same.
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