ABANDONMENTS Towards Avena. An Exercise in Disappearance There are roads that lead nowhere. Yet, they continue to exist, like certain letters never sent, which no one had the courage to burn. The path to Avena is one of those roads. It...
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Towards Avena. An Exercise in Disappearance
There are roads that lead nowhere. Yet, they continue to exist, like certain letters never sent,
which no one had the courage to burn. The path to Avena is one of those roads. It climbs
slowly, curves gently through the harsh mountains, leaves behind the noise of the world, and
leads to a place where time has stopped working, stopped beating. A place left behind. Like
you do with things you love too much, or too little.
Avena has been abandoned since 1982, but it would be wrong to say it is empty: it is full. Full
of silences, wind, shadows that have learned not to ask for permission anymore. It is like an
ancient word, forgotten at the bottom of a language: it is still there, but you have to be silent to
hear it. Nature is writing over it, but not to erase it. To preserve it.
Memory as the Reverse of Time
Everything begins far away. From Papasidero, which in its name already echoes a psalm, or a
held breath. A father, perhaps. Perhaps a monk, or just the memory of one. Here, time has
carved much more than stories: it has etched signs into caves, left footprints on stones. The
Grotta del Romito is a prayer carved in bone and walls: it tells of those who were here before
we had words.
This is a land that has lived too many lives. Normans, Swabians, Angevins, Aragonese, like
seasons that never truly end but leave seeds in the ground. And every now and then they
sprout—in a gesture, in a way of building, in a word that tastes like the sea even when spoken
in the mountains.
The coast of Scalea, at first, is just an idea of water and horizon. Perhaps it was “Scalea,” yes,
natural steps, passages for those who wanted to climb from salt to rock, or descend from rock
to hope. Once it was a crossroads: now it is a memory that arrives late, yet it arrives.
Avena is there, like a badly healed wound, like a poem that forgot its ending. Its story has no
great names, but it has a voice. It is the voice of hard work, of water sought like a relic, of the
evening that comes too early. It is made of gestures that know no clamor but endure. Like
certain words from our mother that we don’t remember, yet keep us standing.
Then, abandonment. 1982. A year that, there, became eternal.
The Five Pavilions of Return
This is not a path. It is a return, but to a place where perhaps you have never been. Five
pavilions, five attempts to listen to absence. There is nothing to touch: only to feel.
1. Memory.
Where Scalea dissolves, a house emerges that is no longer a home. The wind visits it
like one visits a dying patient. The pebbles seem like words placed there to remind you
of something you don’t want to know. Every step is a question you asked too late. And
what remains walls, ruins, corners is only the way memory bends without breaking.
2. Water.
In Santa Domenica Talao, water doesn’t arrive. It is conquered. Drop by drop, like the
truth. Those who lived there knew that existence is a negotiation: between what you
want and what you are given. And often desire is nothing but thirst.
3. Rock.
In Tremoli, stone has become mother. It welcomes but does not console. Going down
is like disappearing. And deep down, the world opens: a lookout, a breath that expands
the heart and tightens it at the same time. It is there you understand that certain things,
like certain people, are known only when they are gone.
4. Severance.
In Vuccale, abandonment has an altar. A tholos, underground, next to a quarry that
looks like a wound. Inside, objects no one uses anymore. Yet, they have a soul and
don’t want to be forgotten. They are there to say: "I was here. You were here." And
maybe we still are, if someone stops to look.
5. Silence.
Avena. The last station. A telescope carved into the stone looks inside the earth. Not
outside. That is where you must search. Not in what is missing, but in what remains.
And at that point, abandonment ceases to be a place. It becomes a sound. Or its
opposite.
A Project that Breathes
This is not restoration. It is not tourism. It is an act of listening. A slow and necessary descent
into one’s own emptiness. Because in the end, abandonment is not only in the houses left
behind, but in the words not said, in the returns never made, in the names we no longer call.
Avena is a name that waits. And whoever arrives there, if patient, discovers that true silence is
not absence, but memory that knows how to wait.