Fausto Ferrara

It's not a museum you visit.
It's a place that looks at you, even before you look at it.
It welcomes you with the calm of a breath that demands nothing — and for a moment you forget who you are.
There's the water, which is silent. There's the sky, which changes. There's the light, which enters slowly and does not hurt.

Nothing happens, yet everything happens.
The noise of the world remains outside, like a thought that has grown tired of shouting.
Every step echoes within you. Every shadow becomes a companion.
You find yourself thinking that maybe there's no need to understand: just stay.

You don't know if this place is a house, a temple, a garden, or a dream.
You just know it's good for you.
Which somehow gives you back a silence you no longer had.
And then you understand that you are not looking at a work of architecture —
but a condition of the soul :
the moment when the light stops explaining, and begins to guard.