bri·co·lage

The Social Life of Small Urban Spaces, Film, 1988

2012-01-16T11:38:00.000-08:00

William H. Whyte

William H. Whyte - Social Life of Small Urban Places from Robin van Emden on Vimeo.

Life Inspiration...

2010-08-09T03:13:00.000-07:00

Some of the Things I Really Must Do  Before I Die*
From Species of Spaces and Other Pieces by Georges Perec

First of all there are things very easily done, things I could do as from today, for example
    1 Take a trip on a bateau-mouche
Then things a tiny bit more significant, things that involve decisions, things which I tell myself that, were I to do them, would perhaps make my life easier, for example
    2 Make up my mind to throw out a certain number of things that I keep without knowing why I keep them
or else
    3 Arrange my bookshelves once and for all
    4 Acquire various household appliances
or again
    5 Stop myself smoking (before being forced to)
Then things linked to a more profound desire for change, for example
    6 Dress in a completely different way
    7 Live in a hotel (in Paris)
    8 Live in the country
    9 Go and live for quite a long time in a foreign city (London)
Then things that are linked to dreams of time or space. There are quite a few:
    10Pass through where the Equator crosses the International Date-Line
    11 Go beyond the Arctic Circle
    12 To have an ‘out-of-time’ experience (like Siffre)
    13 Take a trip in a submarine
    14 Take a long trip on a boat
    15 Make an ascent or a journey in a balloon or airship
    16 Go to the Kerguelen Islands (or to Tristan da Cunha)
    17 Ride a camel from Morocco to Timbuktu in 52 days
Then among all the things I don’t yet know, there are certain ones I’d like to have the time to discover properly
    18 I’d like to go into the Ardenned
    19 I’d like to go to Bayreuth, but also to Prague and to Vienna
    20 I’d like to go to the Prado
    21 I’d like to drink some rum found at the bottom of the sea (like Captain Haddock in The Treasure of Red Rackham)
    22 I’d like to have time to read Henry James (among others)
    23 I’d like to travel along canals
Next there are lots of things that I’d like to learn, but I know I won’t because it would take me too long, or because I know I would succeed only very imperfectly, for example
    24 Find the solution to the Rubik cube
    25 Learn to play the drums
    26 Learn Italian
    27 Learn the trade of printer
    28 Paint
Then things connected with my work as a writer. There are a lot of them. For the most part these are vague projects; some are perfectly possible and depend on me, for example
    29 Write for very young children
    30 Write a science-fiction novel
others depend on things I might be asked to do
    31 Write the script for an adventure film in which, for example, you would see 5,000 Kirghiz tribesmen riding across the steppes
    32 Write a real serial novel
    33 Work with a strip cartoonist
    34 Write songs (for Anna Prucnal for example)
There’s one more thing I’d like to do, but I don’t know where it belongs, it’s to
    35 Plant a tree, and watch it get bigger
Finally, there are things it’s impossible to envisage from now on but which would have been possible not so long ago, for example
    36 Get drunk with Malcolm Lowry
    37 Make the aquaintance of Vladimir Nabokov
etc., etc.
There are lots of other for sure.
I gladly stop at 37.

*The written version of a radio broadcast made by Perec on France-Culture in 1981.

Architecture and Cinema

2010-06-10T07:32:00.000-07:00

 Illuminating space

Never have architecture and film been so magically paired as in Cinema Paradiso a film set in a small Sicilian town, that celebrates the magic of cinema. When half the town is refused entrance into the cinema, they gather in the square outside, shouting and pounding on the doors. Alfredo, the projectionist gently turns a piece of glass and in doing so steals a tiny portion of the projected light that is meant for inside the cinema. As he moves the glass, our gaze turns to follow the film as it dances across the small projection room. It stretches fluidly across cornices and bends around corners. As it lands on a smooth wall, it falls into focus and two characters appear out of its misty brightness. They move inside the frame of light and with it they slide over the edges of the room. They linger momentarily on the edge of an open window. They glide on, disappearing, before settling on the façade of a building outside. The mob quieten, transfixed by the magic of the moving image. The small square fills up. People sit uncomfortably close to each other, perching on every doorstep and stone they can find. All heads are tilted upwards, all eyes gaze in the same direction. The familiar square is transformed into a sea of heads.

The projection of a film onto a building has the power to transform the everyday into the magical. It captivates audiences and to silences mobs. Every cornice is accentuated, every crack a prop in the movie. The façade glows a flashing rhythmic light onto its watchers. It transcends its brick and mortar existence and becomes a window to myriad worlds. This scene in ‘Cinema Paradiso’ reveals various ways in which cinema and architecture inform and accentuate each other.

The scene is choreographed to perfection. Whilst the image glides along the edges of the room, the camera moves perfectly in time, with Ennio Morricone’s soundtrack accompanying the two and culminating at the moment where the film is revealed in the square outside. Here film is used to illuminate the magic of film. It is able to capture sequences through time and space and imposes a point of view. Our eyes follow the movement of the projection because the camera does. The director can be selective about what to put in the frame, how to reveal it, what to focus on and when to move. To the envy of the architect, the filmmaker has control over the audience’s eyes. An experience is crafted in a way that architecture can only dream of. Architects are able to enclose space, play with light, create shadows and manipulate the sound and feeling of a place. However they can only speculate on the ways in which it will be experienced. Film can craft an experience.

In ‘Cinema Paradiso’ architecture forms part of this crafted experience. It is defined by the movement of light and captured by the moving camera. The light stretches, curves, shrinks, grows, focuses and blurs as it traces out the space. We experience space in a new way. The light traces out the space as hands would, by touching it. The shadows created by the projected beam allow us to feel the textures that it skims over. Light jumps from one surface to the next regardless of the distance between them. The traversed space is expressed by the projection’s change in size. The moving film explores the built world. It illuminates its edges.

On Species of Spaces and other Pieces by Georges Perec

2010-06-10T07:21:00.000-07:00

To write a review on a book I admire is a difficult task. My first dilemma is that I must write about writing. It is absurd to use words to describe other, perhaps better, words. Should I write in the style of the book? Wouldn’t a painting about Picasso’s work resemble it? I will attempt to write in the writer’s style, employ his techniques rather than try to describe them.

First I must understand words as objects. They are to be selected with surgical precision. Chosen for the silhouettes they create on the paper and the resonances they make when spoken as much as for their meaning (where possible a word must be used twice in one sentence, to play with its different connotations). This operation must be ~~precise~~ exact.

My second dilemma is that it makes more sense for you to read 300 words from the book itself, rather than 300 words describing it. This critique is criticising criticisms.

This is my advice:
1. Stop reading.
2. Walk to your nearest bookshop.
3. Pick up Species of Spaces and other Pieces by Georges Perec.
4. Open it on any page (because this book lends itself for reading at random).
5. Read 300 words.
6. Savour their every nuance.
7. Close the book. Look around you.
8. See the world as Perec does - notice what goes unnoticed.

If you enjoy it, read on, perhaps buy it, if you don’t then stop.

Perec would tell you to ignore my advice. He would tell you, if you are already in the bookshop, to take pleasure in aimless browsing. Select books for the colour of their spine, for their font size, for the smell of their binding. Run your fingers over embossed titles. Read last sentences. Find a book that speaks to you (as his does to me).

The Threshold in a traditional Maltese townhouse

2009-11-07T08:26:00.001-08:00

In traditional Maltese town houses there is a wide threshold defined by the main door, antiporta, lace curtains, door-steps and chairs on the street outside. This blurs the boundary between the interior and the exterior of a house, between the public realm and private realm.

It's difficult to define the moment of entering a person's private space. Is it when you look into their hallway from across the road? When you wind around them as they sit on a chair on the pavement? When you place one foot on their doorstep to ring their bell? When you talk to them through the lace curtains? When you enter the space between the wooden door and antiporta? Or when you walk in through the antiporta and curtain and take off your coat?

The private space doesn't end at the front door, just as the public space extends into the hallway, and so the threshold space gives people a sense of ownership and pride of their 2 meters squared of pavement (this is reflected in the custom of washing one's section of pavement when one washes their house).

current back up plan #1

2009-11-03T13:24:00.000-08:00

I don't have a plan, I never do, and when I fool myself into thinking that I do I never stick to it. There are, of course, exceptions - I have a back-up plans, countless back-up plans, I invariably do. And so, the exceptions prove the rule.

My current back-up plan is inspired by a tiny, remote volcanic island.

Every 15 minutes the volcano erupts leaving a beacon of black smoke overhead. Occasionally it roars to remind its inhabitants of its power. Half the island is covered in molten lava, unreachable, uninhabitable, whilst the other half is extremely fertile, inhabited by a tiny population of madmen - people who chose to live on a tiny island volcano, surrounded by deep rough seas (especially deep and rough because the volcano extends down into the depths of the sea) and shores of black sand.

On this strange place of unstable, ephemeral beauty, beautiful piano playing fills the streets. A man sits in a bookshop playing the piano, the back door half open behind him.

A few paces away in the backyard of the bookshop sits a screen and chairs. An outdoor cinema screen with a volcano looming, erupting every 15 minutes, behind it.

And so I dream of going back to the island, on a one way journey. Working in the bookstore, listening to the piano playing, watching outdoor movies interrupted every 15 minutes by volcanic eruptions. Feeling the presence of the volcano, the sea, the wind. Making black sand-castles on sunny days.

Autumn in London

2009-11-02T15:43:00.000-08:00

My daily cycle route takes me through Highbury Fields and these last few weeks this pretty little park has been glowing in autumnal oranges and yellows against its bright green grass - beautiful! This part of my cycle has been the best part of every day.

In search of Home

2009-09-30T09:35:00.001-07:00

On returning to London, I find myself homeless, sleeping on floors and sofas - my back broken, tip-toeing around other people’s schedules, my internet borrowed, my belongings in boxes. I struggle to find a space in which to be creative, a house to shelter my daydreams and begin to question what it is I need to feel ‘at home’.

In the midst of all this I face the dreaded London flat hunt; hours spent wading through listings, faking laughter at the jokes of unfunny estate agents, contemplating windowless bedrooms and neighbourhoods that do not exist in my pocket sized A to Z.  I begin to view the whole experience as an education in notions of home. I take on a duality: that of intellectual-detached-observer and homeless-person-in-need-of-a-flat. In the guise of a flat hunter, I venture into private realms, looking down into alleys and back gardens, catching glimpses into the lifestyles of unknown people. Every unsuitable flat in my search for shelter is at the same moment a treasure-chest full of clues to its past inhabitants and their ideas of home.

I begin to notice myself warming to cold tiles and high ceilings whilst finding English cosiness oppressive and claustrophobic - the fitted carpet my worst nightmare. These instinctive impulses towards spaces, materials and objects stem from nostalgic emotions and memories of my childhood Mediterranean home.

Whilst flat hunting I begin to notice remnants of other people’s nostalgias; a grape vine and an olive tree in a garden, a semi-circular arched opening between a kitchen and a dining room, a bedroom covered in embossed green and gold wallpaper, thick flowery pastel curtains and matching wicker sofas, packets of incense on a window sill, a kitchen painted pink.  These fragments of culture, memory and personality are left behind to be removed, repainted, remoulded and recycled into a new tenant’s home.

I finally find a flat and begin to dream of filling it and shaping it into something that feels like my home. It is not just nostalgic trinkets of my childhood that I will fill it with, but souvenirs of holidays, gingham tablecloths, photographs of friends, inherited kitchen appliances, posters that represent feelings I cannot describe, books that I have come to love, furniture recalling eras I have never known, plants that have accompanied me year after year.  Rented accommodation only allows for temporary inhabitation, and so the rented home is created as an impermanent collage of items. And so mine becomes a museum of fragments, of happy moments in my life, sheltering daydreams.

Goodbye Placa de Sant Felip Neri

2009-09-01T07:15:00.000-07:00

Dear Placa de Sant Felip Neri,
you drove me to my limits, and yet I miss you.
Funny how often I contemplated leaving you but couldn't. And now that I finally have I am filled with sadness.

BCN Saturday Adventures 04

2009-08-23T14:33:00.000-07:00

number 04 - Igualada Cemetery

When I think of Enric Miralles and the legacy he left I feel that Architecture suffered a great loss when he died at the age of 55 in 2000. This feeling was driven deep on a visit to Igualada Cemetery, designed by himself and Carme Pinos, where he is buried.

The cemetery is in a sad state of unfinished and aged disrepair - it has been awaiting completion since 1994, when the second phase of construction was stopped, and has since started to weather, rust and emulsify...

Scars and bruises in the concrete give testimony to an abandoned existence... A dilapidated beauty, but a sad one nonetheless, it wouldn't have been any less beautiful had it been completed and properly looked after.

There are countless lovely details to find, sketch and photograph. Curves and lines that shout Miralles' name...

Even on All Saints' Day (when most Catholics visit the dead) the place is very quiet, with no supervision, you can even walk around the autopsy theatres which are left open, unfinished...

Miralles' tomb is a homage to the great man.
Architecture enthusiasts from all over the world have scribbled messages in all languages and drawn little sketches for him. It is amazing, especially when you consider the fact that there is nothing much else to see in Igualada, and it is a long journey from Barcelona, which is presumably where most people came from.

Lesser mortals are buried in large retaining walls, as they do in other Spanish cemeteries. I find the idea of being sandwiched between other graves, in all directions, for all eternity a bit disturbing and claustrophobic. But it does make for some nice repetition...

And repetition is another of the Architects' fortes...

This is why I feel sad when I'm in Malta

2009-08-13T03:50:00.001-07:00

White Rocks Complex, Malta

2009-08-12T09:59:00.000-07:00

Young, Gifted and Unemployed…

2009-08-10T12:08:00.000-07:00

“it took me a long time to get young and now I consider myself young. And I'm proud of it. I'm proud that I'm young… It is not an old peoples' world”
(Bob Dylan at the Bill of Rights Dinner, 1963)

Whilst Foster, Gehry and co. are busy writing lists of their most dispensable employees we all find ourselves on a level playing field. Fellow students, we have advantages! – we’ve nothing to lose, nobody to lay off, we’re young with free time, energy and new ideas! What’s everybody complaining about?

This recession is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. Pull up your sails and fly ahead single-handedly in your little boat past all the sinking super-yachts. Now is the time to be optimistic, work hard, take risks and shape the times to come.

...Not sure where to start?
Initiate change: Start an ideas competition.
Travel and learn: Apply for a travel scholarship.
Write: Apply for journalistic jobs, start your own magazine, a blog.
Work with friends in different fields: Design sets for film, theatre…
Build: Volunteer for construction work in developing countries.
Teach: Learn from others.

Planning Anarchy

2009-08-08T10:07:00.000-07:00

The Caravan Village Għadira, Malta

I always find it amusing that Maltese people have Summerhouses in Malta. How far away could you possibly ever be from the sea? (Not more than a 15-20 minute drive)... Or from your Winterhouse? (Not more than a 40 minute drive).

To the north of the island, by one of the largest sandy beaches, there's a Caravan Village. Every Summer around 200 families move to this green neighbourhood, and every Summer they repaint their homes (they must do, because the paintwork is pristine) in various, particular shades of pea green (pea-soup, frozen-peas, pea-pie, pastizzi pea, fresh peas, mushy-peas,...)

I find myself drawn to its mysterious existence in such a prime location and its well-kept, favela-like style. I've never seen such well-kept shacks anywhere else in the world, surely this is some sort of monument to the house-proud Maltese people.

This would be a great location for a Wes Anderson film, there are so many Wes Anderson-style shots to be taken...

Originally people used to camp on the beaches during the Summer. Eventually they were cleared (for “hygienic purposes”) to their present site, across the road. What started out as a small group of campers grew into its present size without much objection, because this helped increase the number of local supporters for the then government. Today the Caravan Village has water, electricity, its own church, saint and festa - the fundamental requirements of any Maltese town or village.

Most people hate the place. Whenever I ask about it the response is always of the same kind: angry, mumbled remarks about its very existence being an example of the failings of the Maltese Government and MEPA (the planning authority). In my opinion they have signed off much worse things, I think this is an example of how interesting architecture without architects and planners could be. The residents have a much better flare for design than I’ve ever seen MEPA show – they understand concepts like matching colours, building heights, continuity in neighbouring facades – concepts that the Planning Authority of Malta clearly still struggle to understand.

More proof to help back up my favourite argument - Down with the Planning Authority... Lets just go for complete Planning Anarchy! That way everybody can do whatever they want, and not just those with political weight or money. I’m sure some interesting things will be born of Planning Anarchy, and besides when I look around the island I don’t really feel like we have anything to lose…

List of buildings to visit when next in Barcelona

2009-07-31T08:45:00.000-07:00

If you live in Barcelona and find that you are no longer able to get lost in the Barrio Gotico then check out my "Saturday Adventures in Barcelona" posts for lots of great places to discover and get lost in. You could also make me jealous by visiting the places I had planned to visit but never did...

Olympic Archery Range, Vall d'Hebrón, Barcelona - Enrique Miralles & Carme Pinós

Velòdrom d’Horta

Alvaro Siza Swimming Pools, Cornella

Olympic Swimming Pools, Montjuic.

you might have guessed that since I haven't visited these places the photos are not my own. I will keep adding to this post because I can't remember the rest...

BCN Saturday Adventures 02

2009-07-31T06:25:00.000-07:00

number 02 - colònia güell

On this Saturday we decided it was time to visit the famous Colònia Güell; The modernist textile industrial estate which incorporates worker's houses commissioned by Eusebi Güell. It is rare to visit an industrial estate and houses built for factory workers and dream that one day you could live there too...

It wasn't the famous Gaudi crypt that did it for me (although of course that is pretty impressive - more on that later), it was the houses that were originally built for the factory workers;

A brick lover's heaven...

If only I could spend my days walking around this place, dragging my hands along its brickwork,
hugging the chimneys and rounded off corners,

sketching the little details,...

We also visited the famous crypt. It is extremely photogenic, but I've seen so many images of it it doesn't feel as exciting to post them, doesn't feel like anything new.
I guess that is the problem with Gaudi, he's kind of like the Elvis of Architects, everybody knows about him without necessarily appreciating his music and when in Memphis you must visit Graceland. And just like Graceland the crypt is so crowded that one struggles to take a photograph which doesn't have strangers strolling though it...

But having said that, the detail, shapes and materials are beautiful... I would like to turn it upside down and sleep inside the vaults.

(notice the similarities between the columns and trees in the background.)

And inside...

I only took photos of the ceilings, not only because they are my favourite part, but also because you can't tell that the place was packed with tourists, or perhaps the latter is the reason for the former.

BCN Saturday Adventures 03

2009-07-31T02:44:00.000-07:00

number 03 - Parc del Guinardó and Parc dels Tres Turons

One Saturday we picked up some food from the Boqueria and headed to Parc del Guinardó in the North of Barcelona, up high on the hills. Needless to say it's a lovely park with lovely views of the city, a nice change in perspective from the views from Montjuic and Tibidabo.

We kept on walking uphill until we couldn't get higher and came across this odd place on the hill above the park...

Strange circular concrete foundations and thick walls covered in graffiti,

seemed to be the favourite hang-out location for the local teenage goths,

and people with lots of spare shoes and nothing to do...

The place fascinated me, its so much fun to encounter places like these in today's cities for so many reasons, I think the main one being the excitement of finding an abandoned spot, an unknown place (which the tourists don't know about!) and being so high up with incredible views, almost alone.

It reminded me of antiaircraft posts used by the British in Malta during the 2nd WW, long since abandoned and covered in graffiti, but I thought the position odd because it seemed like the guns would be aiming over the city - the ones I know in Malta face out to sea. We assumed that it was an old site for radio transmitters or something like that.

I've now discovered that they were antiaircraft batteries used during the Spanish Civil War in the thirties. It's incredible that nobody knew what we were talking about when we described it, especially considering the Catalans have been so deeply scarred by the Civil War. Apparently there is a plan to rehabilitate them and construct a museum that would relate the history of the area and the Civil War, although I'm not sure how reliable that information was because it said it was planned for 2006 and we visited in 2009...

BCN Saturday Adventures 01

2009-07-30T02:22:00.000-07:00

number 01 - walden7 and ricardo bofill's taller de arquitectura

On this particular Saturday we set out to explore the Taller de Arquitectura (Architecture Workshop) in Sant Just Desevern, Barcelona - the workshop of Ricardo Bofill and Partners. After a long, sweaty walk through industrial, alien areas and along motorways we finally found the Taller and its entrance, the latter was particularly difficult to find - we had to walk the whole perimiter of the building. Our excitement was soon dampened when we were informed that the visiting days were Thursdays... We were really disappointed and frustrated, but luckily the security guard took pity on us and let us have a little look around. Unfortunately we weren't able to explore the interior spaces... something for the "list of things to do on a Thursday in Barcelona".

The Taller de Arquitectura used to be a cement factory, it was discovered abandoned and in a state of disrepair by Ricardo Bofill in 1973. He converted it into architecture offices, a library, exhibition spaces, projection rooms and beautifully overgrown gardens. And he succeeded in maintaining the feeling that he must have felt on chancing upon this place, that of discovering something secret, abandoned and forgotten...

Towering cement structures, covered in creepers...

Cement silos converted into offices...
Raw concrete structures and pathways that lead to nowhere...

and more silos...

Just down the road and round the corner (impossible to miss) we came across Walden 7 (built 1970-1975, also by Ricardo Bofill). I'd used images of it as precedents whilst working on boring residential projects in a London practice, a bit of excitement during an otherwise very dull time in my life, so suddenly catching glimpses of this huge bee-hive behind the Taller was very very exciting!

The building appears big and imposing, like a fortress, from a distance. On closer inspection large openings appear breaking up its facades and allowing views into the building. The openings expose colourful courtyards and a maze of countless balconies and walkways.

I suspect the project would have benefited from more outdoor space per flat - I didn't get a look inside a flat so I cannot say for sure.

We stood outside and took loads of photos when a young, good-looking Catalan guy came out of Walden 7 and asked if we were architects, obviously he'd seen our type before. We said "yes!" and he invited us in, took us around and up to the top floor - 2 swimming pools and amazing 360° views of Barcelona with the mountains on one side and views all the way down to the sea on the other.

The inner courtyards were beautiful; painted blue with exposed brick and navy blue and yellow tiles with playful details everywhere you turned:

The materials, shapes and colours create beautiful, cool light conditions and together with the ponds at the bottom of the courtyard make for a very fresh space - perfect on a hot day.

and as I mentioned earlier, some great playful details, notice the boobies in the following image:

Our friend said that he'd lived there all his life and loved it, we couldn't really come up with any reasons why he shouldn't and in fact he later caught us searching the notice board for flats to rent.

Uncle Lino's House

2009-07-15T15:11:00.000-07:00

Have I ever told you about Uncle Lino?
He’s the brother of my grandfather, Nannu Fons - we used to call him Nannu Doc because he was a doctor - but that’s a whole other story. Today I want to tell you about Uncle Lino, well, actually I really want to tell you about his house. But first a little bit about him.
Uncle Lino is a bishop, most people call him Nuncio Gerada but we’ve always called him Uncle Lino (his real name is Emmanuele, but that just complicates things). He was born on the 18th May 1920. This might not mean anything to you, but to a Catholic Bishop it meant a lot – he shared his date of birth with Pope John Paul II – and never failed to remind us.

My father always said that his grandfather (Uncle Lino’s father) simply lined up his sons and said to them, “you’re going to be a doctor, priest, chemist etc…” as that’s what they did because that’s how things were in those days. So as you might have guessed Uncle Lino is the son who stood under his father’s pointing finger as his father bellowed “PRIEST” on that life-defining day. And so he became a priest. And since diligence, impatience and high desires run thick through all Geradas’ blood, my Uncle Lino went on to become a Bishop and eventually Papal Nuncio (kind of like being the Pope’s Ambassador).

Uncle Lino was Nuncio in El Salvador and Guatemala in the 70s, Pakistan in the 80s and Ireland in the 90s (during his time in Ireland he collected all the Funday Times newspapers for us). I wish I’d appreciated it before he got dementia, but I didn’t, so I don’t know all the stories that you are probably eagerly awaiting. I’m sorry.

For most of my life I have only ever seen Uncle Lino on Christmas Eve. Our whole family would gather at his house every year on that night; my grandfather’s brothers and sisters, their cousins, husbands, wives, children and grandchildren and their boyfriends and fiancés. The whole extended Gerada family at its loudest, standing around Uncle Lino’s house in Zejtun. There would always be copious amounts of alcohol and cold sausage rolls and other party food aplenty. And our parents would all get very drunk and embarrassing. At midnight, with half the family drunk (including Uncle Lino) we would have a mass in the little chapel and some poor male cousin would have to go through the humiliation of being alter boy whilst the rest of us tried to make him laugh. Everybody was either drunk or on a sugar high; the Christmas midnight mass was always very, very entertaining.

How can I possibly describe his house to you? I wish I could take you there with me, ideally both of us eight years old. The whole house like another world, some sort of magical adventure playground that you entered through a typical Maltese front door, its secrets unknown to the rest of the village. You’d expect to find doors to parallel universes and books that uncovered the secrets of life amongst all the strange treasures from far away countries and the videotapes (yes videotapes… the videotapes are amazing, they’re all labelled like the videos in that Korean restaurant on Store Street, except the labels are typed out with a typewriter).

I guess I can tell you now (because now the house is locked and barred and empty) that you didn’t need to ring the doorbell to enter this world, the keys to the locked antiporta were always hidden behind the outer wooden door, which was always left open. All you had to do was step in from the street, reach blindly for the keys behind the huge doors and you were in…

There was a room that one only ever walked through to get somewhere else, nothing in it invited a child (or adult, as I discovered upon growing-up) to stop or sit down. We all knew, without being told, that we shouldn’t - nobody even dared to hide in it during our highly competitive hide and seek games (now this is strange because it would have made the best hiding place of all).
The room was green. Perhaps nothing in it was green but it definitely had a green feeling about it, it was green. You went in through thick, heavy velvet curtains that stopped all light from entering it. It always gave me the sensation of going indoors at noon in the summer, except your eyes never adjusted to the light as they do on such a day, because there simply wasn’t enough in there.

Occasionally you caught a glimpse of an enormous pair of elephant tusks towering above a huge mahogany desk. And once I even saw a wooden bible holder on the desk, upon which sat a replica of the Book of Kells - as far as I know it was handmade, complete with gold leaf capital letters, by some Irish monks for Uncle Lino to mark the end of his being Archbishop of Ireland (I visited Uncle Lino in Ireland when I was eleven, he lived in a huge monastery with an Alsatian called Murphy).

As teenagers we played a new kind of hide and seek, we found that the kitchen was the best place to hide frightened boyfriends. Under the pretence of heating up sausage rolls and mini-quiches we had our own little party, balancing wine glasses on the 70s style furniture and leaning on the ancient well opening, away from our embarrassing family.
Our hiding place was soon found out, when, typically, the mothers and aunts came in for food supplies as soon as we broke the rhythm of trays leaving the kitchen.
The informal backdrop of the kitchen (and perhaps the wine too) suddenly made mingling with mothers and aunts less daunting for the boyfriends, and more acceptable to us. They too found a piece of furniture to lean on and joined in the conversation.
Slowly more family members entered in search of food - for at this point we’d completely forgotten that to keep our cover we should occasionally distribute food - until the dining room was left empty if not for Auntie Maria and Uncle Lino, the two family members who couldn’t get off their chairs unaided. And so that year, when the majority of us were teenagers, in a strange turn of events we all happily mingled in the kitchen (a room which we’d hardly ever been into before) forgetting the sole purpose of being there, whilst Auntie Maria and Uncle Lino fell asleep in their dining chairs, wondering where the sausage rolls were (probably getting burnt in the oven).

The videos covered the walls. There must have been hundreds. And it’s funny because the room was so small and full of antiquities, but every shelf, table, cupboard, surface, even the hole in the wall, was crammed with videos. And every video had been meticulously labeled with a typewriter and little labels, every single one was exactly like the next, God alone knows who did it, surely not Uncle Lino - he was the most impatient person I’d ever met (besides every other member of the family). And where did he get them all from? The selection was so random; Rocky 2 stood next to The Snowman which was in the corner with Pretty Woman, although I’m probably lying because I don’t really remember, all I remember is loads of clean, white labels.

Two huge zebra-skin covered bongos towered above you as you entered the house. I don’t think I have ever felt as old as the day when I entered the house and found that I was taller than the bongos.
They fascinated me. I have no idea why because in retrospect they were quite ugly. But I suppose it wasn’t them, but what they represented that fascinated me. To me they were a clue to what Uncle Lino did when he wasn’t being Uncle Lino – when he was Nuncio Gerada, of which we almost knew nothing. They were a little reminder that he was traveling around the world the rest of the time (when he wasn’t sitting in the dining room with Auntie Maria complaining about how stupid our generation was).

The most exciting moment of our Christmas Eve party was when Uncle Lino handed out presents to all four generations of the family. We all stood in the hallway, eagerly (and apprehensively - because you really never knew what to expect and whether you were going to be capable of holding a straight face) awaiting our name to be called out. Sure enough, every year, Uncle Lino never failed to outdo himself in both randomness and originality. And we loved it.
There was nothing better than being given something completely unexpected - whether you liked the present or not didn’t matter, this was all about excitement - the unpredictable gift.
I guess most of the gifts were little objects that he’d collected over the years, probably presents he’d received from all over the world, things that were slowly breaking his shelves, hiding his walls, closing him in, things he couldn’t get rid of, but perhaps could pass on to his family. But it wasn’t only the exotic qualities of these presents that made them so unique, it was his personal touch. The choice of what to give to whom. It was another clue to this man that we knew so little about, and also perhaps a clue to what he thought of us. A copper money box for Andrea, a book about tortoises for Hannah, an engraved sickle for Pierre, a tea set for Julian…what did they mean?