Saturday, October 17, 2015


"Penthesilea is different. You advance for hours and it is not
clear to you whether you are already in the city's
midst or still outside it. Like a lake with low shores
lost in swampst so Penthesilea spreads for miles
aroundt a soupy city diluted in the plain; pale buildings
back to back in mangy fields t among plank
fences and corrugated-iron sheds. Every now and
then at the edges of the street a cluster of constructions

with shallow facadest very tall or very lowt like 156
a snaggle-toothed combt seems to indicate that from
there the city's texture will thicken. But you continue
and you find instead other vague spaces, then a
rusty suburb of workshops and warehouses, a cemetery.
a carnival with Ferris wheel, a shambles;
you start down a street of scrawny shops which fades
amid patches of leprous countryside.
If you ask the people you meet, "Where is Penthesilea?"
they make a broad gesture which may mean
"Here," or else "Farther on," or "All around you,"
or even "In the opposite direction."
"I mean the city," you ask, insistently.
"We come here every morning to work," someone
answers, while others say, "We come back here at
night to sleep."
"But the city where people live?" you ask.
"It must be that way," they say, and some raise
their arms obliquely toward an aggregation of
opaque polyhedrons on the horizon, while others indicate,
behind you, the specter of other spires.
"Then I've gone past it without realizing it?"
"No, try going on straight ahead."
And so you continue, passing from outskirts to
outskirts, and the time comes to leave Penthesilea.
You ask for the road out of the city; you pass again
the string of scattered suburbs like a freckled pigmentation;
night falls; windows come alight, here
more concentrated, sparser there.
You have given up trying to understand whether,
hidden in some sac or wrinkle of these dilapidated
surroundings there exists a Penthesilea the visitor can
recognize and remember, or whether Penthesilea is
only the outskirts of itself. The question that now
begins to gnaw at your mind is more anguished: outside
Penthesilea does an outside exist? Or, no matter
how far you go from the city, will you only pass from
one limbo to another, never managing to leave it?

Invisible City by Calvino, this book is told about cities which is invisible or never happened in this world. In architecture studio my fascilitator give me the book to be learned how the writer can write the story of cities and send the city's story to reader until we as the reader can imagine and the translate it to sketch or illustration. And that is my sketch and illustration about one city in the book, Penthesilea.

No comments:

Post a Comment