Edi­tor’s let­ter

AD (Italy) - - Englishtexts. - words EMA­NUE­LE FARNETI

Ac­cor­ding to the legend, the­re are three ma­gi­cal and hid­den pla­ces in Ve­ni­ce. One in Cal­le dell’Amor de­gli Amici, the se­cond near the Ponte del­le Ma­ra­ve­gie, the third in Cal­le dei Mar­ra­ni, near San Ge­re­mia in the Old Ghet­to di­strict. When Ve­ne­tians are exa­spe­ra­ted with the powers that be, they go to the­se three secret pla­ces, and by ope­ning doors at the back of the cour­tyards, they escape to beautiful pla­ces and other in­tri­guing sto­ries. Eve­ry magazine is a jour­ney in itself. For over 30 years, AD has ope­ned the doors of the world’s most beautiful hou­ses and we will con­ti­nue to do so in the way taught us by Et­to­re Moc­chet­ti, who this month pas­ses the helm to me. And be­cau­se we li­ke to think that the mea­ning of a jour­ney lies in di­sco­ve­ring what you are not see­king, we have stri­ven tAoD­gi­ve a new per­spec­ti­ve, whi­le kee­ping its soul in­tact. The pas­sion for ar­chi­tec­tu­re, de­si­gn and fur­ni­shing is still the­re. So is the idea that good ta­ste has lit­tle to do with fa­shion, and that lu­xu­ry is mu­ta­ble and lin­ked to in­tel­li­gen­ce and kno­w­led­ge far mo­re than a pri­ce tag. The idea that rea­ding AD is a pri­va­te mo­ment is al­so un­chan­ged, a time of plea­su­re and in­spi­ra­tion to be sa­vou­red at lei­su­re, maybe in the warm­th of one’s own home. What have chan­ged are the gra­phics, the co­lumns, the sec­tions. In Di­ge­st we ta­ke a broad view of other worlds, ones so clo­se to our own that it be­co­mes dif­fi­cult to de­fi­ne the boun­da­ries: art, pho­to­gra­phy, tra­vel, fa­shion and mu­ch mo­re. Port­fo­lio ta­kes eve­ry­day ob­jec­ts out of their com­fort zo­nes, out­doors, all over the world (this month on the En­ga­di­ne gla­ciers that re­sem­ble Ti­bet). Focus is an area de­di­ca­ted to pro­duc­ts, a spe­ci­fic the­me cho­sen for ea­ch edition: it starts with tran­spa­ren­cy, twel­ve pa­ges of beautiful ob­jec­ts that split or mul­ti­ply light, re­mo­ving weight but not the es­sen­ce, re­vea­ling what is beyond - ho­ping it is a good omen. Dossier is a selection, be­gin­ning with twen­ty ta­len­ted un­der­for­ties who­se work is hel­ping to chan­ge our li­fe­sty­les. Then the­re are the hou­ses, and ea­ch - the­re are many, ea­ch ve­ry dif­fe­rent from the other as the­re is no mu­tual­ly ex­clu­si­ve way of ex­pres­sing beau­ty - ea­ch has its own sto­ry. Hou­ses are li­ving things, as in a Mi­chael Cun­nin­gham no­vel from a few years back, whe­re people sleep the great Ame­ri­can night whi­le the f loors and walls come to life and vi­bra­te with elec­tri­ci­ty and re­tai­ned warm­th and the faint noi­ses and echoes of re­ver­be­ra­ted life. The house nar­ra­ted by Gio­van­ni Mon­ta­na­ro is ali­ve, fi­ve cen­tu­ries of art, wars, fe­sti­vals and lo­ve. Ali­ve in the me­mo­ry are tho­se hou­ses that Ma­rio Bel­li­ni pho­to­gra­phed on a jour­ney of forty years ago, to­day de­scri­bed by Ga­brie­le Ro­ma­gno­li. One has a cor­ri­dor with a long stair­ca­se lea­ding to a door that does not open, be­cau­se behind the­re is no­thing. Maybe a me­ta­phor, maybe not. The moun­tains, said a great moun­tai­neer, ta­ke on the va­lue of the people who climb them and without whom they are ju­st a pi­le of rocks. The sa­me ap­plies to pla­ces, hou­ses and things. If we can ma­ke a wi­sh at the start of our jour­ney, it is this: to know how to re­count the va­lue of tho­se who de­si­gn, construct and live our homes, our things; behind eve­ry door the­re is a sto­ry to tell, a room whe­re the reality ex­ceeds the ima­gi­na­tion. Li­ke when you open a magazine and let your ima­gi­na­tion go. Li­ke when you di­sco­ver a secret pas­sa­ge at the back of a cour­tyard. Li­ke when you open a door at the top of a stair­ca­se. Li­ke the plea­su­re of re­tur­ning home in the eve­ning, af­ter a long jour­ney. Wel­co­me Home.

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