Inarea

What if, in spite of all stereotypes, we were to tell you that the so-called epic film was actually born in Turin? It’s such a pity, though, that the silver screen’s association with Turin lasted no longer than the dusting of powder on a lady’s nose. The year was 1914, the film was entitled Cabiria, the production company was called Itala and the director’s name was Giovanni Pastrone – principally remembered (or not) for being Gabriele D’Annunzio’s ghostwriter: there’s no doubt that the resounding name of the Italian celebrity-poet was required to consolidate the “Seventh Art” beyond the national borders. It was just the ticket, and so Cabiria travelled all over America, was shown on Broadway and even at the White House: all and sundry appreciated the Italian knowhow – craftsmanship, versatility, ability to blend together content, music and animation – that went into the making of this motion picture, the length of which in itself (over 3,000 metres of film, as opposed to the 200 metres that were the world-average in those days) decreed that it would indeed be “epic”. If the film industry as we know it first saw the light in the shadow of the Mole, Turin’s landmark building, it makes perfect sense that this week an agreement has been signed between the National Museum of Cinema (which is housed inside the Mole) and Hollywood’s Academy Museum. The agreement provides for a restyling of the monumental building and a twinning between the two museums’ exhibitions and respective directors; it constitutes the first partnership in the world between film museums (which also include the Cinémathèque française, the Australian Centre for the Moving Image, the London Film Museum and the Eye Film Institute of Amsterdam). A makeover for the Mole, with the rest of the city also preparing to face the cameras this month as host of the Eurovision Song Contest, as well as of the Turin International Book Fair. We have a feeling that the elegant north Italian city won’t have a single moment to spare: not even to powder her nose.

We all know that the “the bee’s knees” denotes something, or someone, of excellence, often relating to professional zeal. Thus, when it comes to the so-called soft skills, the idiom may refer to performance, expectations, or even desires. “Candidates must have strong teamwork, problem-solving and team-building skills” is one of the most common list of requisites that you’ll read on LinkedIn. The winged insect that inspired all of these, ahem, buzzwords has always been associated with work of a collegial, honest and organised nature. It’s no coincidence, therefore, that bees have been adopted as logos for various workers’ unions and retail banks. And it’s precisely in this same spirit that the bee features on the coats of arms of 74 Italian municipalities, as well as on those of an unspecified number of cities and towns all over Europe. But the bee is also a symbol of immortality and resurrection, which is why it was chosen as a heraldic emblem, initially by the Merovingian dynasty, and later by Napoleon. The striped insect is so proud of its standing that it even evokes a certain propensity for grandeur, a point-in-case being when the Barberinis, a family from the Italian nobility, rose to prominence with the election (1623) of Cardinal Maffeo Barberini to the papal throne as Pope Urban VIII, they hastened to change their family symbol. From then onwards, the armorial bearings on the façades of their palaces and fountains featured three bees, replacing what had previously been gadflies. The Barberinis’ leap in status, from merchants to popes, behoved also their totem-insects to come up in the world and fly higher, as it were. All of which just goes to prove that when redesigning our identities and blazonry, we can “bee” whatever we want… This weekend, however, let’s unroll the socks and unravel the laces that make up our very own bee and take it to the town of San Benedetto del Tronto, in the Italian Marche region, and precisely to the sculpture (by Turin-born artist Ugo Nespolo) that stands proudly on promenade. On it, carved out in gigantic letters, one can read the following sentence: “Lavorare, lavorare, lavorare, preferisco il rumore del mare” (“Work, work, work, I prefer the sound of the sea”). Hardly a motivational Monday morning message but, rather, an invitation to drive out envy and greed from the workplace, attitudes that you’ll never find inside a beehive. Our bee is decidedly one of the highest standard and we feel it represents us. Happy May Day, Happy Labour Day. Original Evergreens We’re so fond of bees that we’ve adopted one as the symbol of Inarea because it’s an insect that knows how to create original products. When it came to depicting it, our designers allowed their creativity to run free… and the result was a mini beehive. MadeInarea In 1983, when we designed the symbol of Italy’s CGIL trade union, the idea of remote working, maybe from a seafront, wasn’t even remotely (!) imaginable. The logo, a visual identity system, was officially adopted by the union in 1986. Today, almost forty years on, we’re happy to note that the branding we conceived at that time still has an extremely contemporary look. Also when it comes to celebrating this year’s International Workers’ Day!

The 59th International Art Exhibition of the Venice Biennale throws open its doors tomorrow and if we take a peep through the keyhole, as we have done over these past few days of previews, we get the feeling that it’s going to be an edition worthy of The Thousand and One Nights (AKA The Arabian Nights). This Biennale will feature ‘stories’, mostly told by women artists (191) from countries such as Dakar, Venezuela or Iran. The inspiration comes from The Milk of Dreams, a children’s story-book written by artist Leonora Carrington (1917-2011) who was born in England, lived in Paris (where she bonded with the Surrealists, becoming one of them herself), and later chose to go and live in Mexico, a country she saw as a pure and green Eden and which, in turn, raised her to the status of a national heroine. Leonora’s biography exudes southern magic and sets the tone for this exhibition which unfolds between the Biennale Gardens and the Venetian Arsenal: 1433 works by 213 artists from 58 countries. Accordingly, we’ve prepared a telescope with a feminine flavour (or shade) for this 59th Biennale, one that will allow us to look upwards at the stars: not only because that’s where dreams are to be found, but also so as to divert our eyes away from the present. After all, as the title of the Italian Pavilion featuring artist Gian Maria Tosatti reminds us, although we may be living through a “History of the Night”, there’s no doubt that a “Destiny of Comets” will follow. And we’d definitely like to start keeping a sharp lookout for this new Milky Way.

WHY COMPANIES NEED KIND LEADERS Taking our cue from the long-standing question “Which came first: the chicken or the egg?”, by the same token we could ask ourselves which animal holds exclusive rights to Easter: the rabbit or the hare? While we’ve no doubt that general opinion today would opt for the bunny rabbit, in the old days the choice would instead have fallen on the hare, that fast and fertile deity of the woodlands: indeed, so quick-off-the-mark that the appropriately-called “March Hares” were among the first inhabitants of the forest to wake from hibernation and bounce into action amidst the early spring primroses. All these coincidences – whether relating to time or species – explain why none other than good ol’ Br’er Hare was the archetypal critter associated with Easter. An epochal shift occurred at a certain moment in history and the Easter Bunny became the chosen member of the Leporid family tasked with bringing eggs to children at Eastertide (a tradition that originated in Germany between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance). Unlike its cousin, the energetic hare, the rabbit is a burrower and a cocooner. However, a comfort zone isn’t always a place to come out of, as testified by our bright-eyed and bushy-tailed example above, about to be rolled out and filled with eggies: without splitting hairs, let’s call it an Easter stocking. Happy Easter from all of us at Inarea Seasonal Identities The late 19th-century psychologist Joseph Jastrow used to show this drawing to children: on Easter Sunday, they would see it as a rabbit, while in October as a duck. The “rabbit-duck” image is the quintessential “interpretative illusion”. MadeInarea Rabbit or hare? Italo had no doubts as to which of the two could best represent the idea of high-speed and lightness at the same time. We gave it a distinctive branding and, in so doing, created a well-known and much-loved trademark (2011)

A romantic getaway from Brexit. Last week an article in The Times announced an agreement between Italy and the United Kingdom regarding a special “digital nomad visa” which will allow freelance UK citizens to work in the boot-shaped peninsula for a year. But it isn’t just the customs red tape that begs a parallel between this Grand Tour of the Third Millennium and that of the 18th century: there’s a clear sentimental driving force too, an urge to escape from grey clouds into bright sunshine… facilitated by the contemporary ‘cloud’. The British newspaper promises a “slice of la dolce vita”: even in getaways, there’s just no getting away from the Italian food stereotype. Luckily, history takes care of spreading pollen around. In the 1800s Mary Shelley kept a diary covering her journey to Italy which seems to fit neatly inside the perfect picture-postcard format: she wrote about the Italian secret society whose members advocated liberal and patriotic ideas (i.e. the “Carbonari – not to be confused with “Carbonara”, the popular Roman egg-and-bacon pasta dish which, incidentally, had its annual “Carbonara Day” celebration two days ago, on April 6th), political uprisings, and the underground culture that flourished in Austria-ruled Italy. Therefore, dear English nomads, come one, come all… and tell us something about ourselves that we don’t already know. The Vespa ride, followed by a stop under the nearest bell-tower to pluck the petals off a daisy and perform the “loves-me/loves-me-not” routine, are on us: not all Italian stereotypes wither.

If the parts precede the whole, in Italy these three identical consonants in 2022 (which, incidentally, has treble twos) seem to suggest the name of film director Pier Paolo Pasolini, this year being the centenary of his birth. But as the PPP trio dances before our eyes, the mind boggles with other possibilities… The first word that comes to our boggling mind is Pompeii which was discovered exactly on 1 April 1748 under the reign of Charles of Bourbon. This King of Naples was Spanish (and indeed was later to become Charles III of Spain), but also half Italian. His mother was the Italian noblewoman Elisabetta Farnese who left him an inheritance of paintings by Titian, Raphael and many other great Masters of the Renaissance. King Charles moved them from his mother’s Duchy of Parma, to the Palace of Capodimonte in Naples: after all, they all belonged to him and he could take them wherever he wished. Today, 80 of these masterpieces are going back ‘home’ for a short stint and will be on display at an exhibition on the Farnese family at the Complesso della Pilotta (the Pilotta Palace in Parma). Our second “P” is, therefore, a line drawn between the two cities. We’ll put our third between the first two like double-sided tape. The story goes that one day, just before he left for Spain, Charles personally found an ancient ring in the digs at Pompeii and symbolically left it behind. In so doing, and somewhat involuntarily, the King laid the foundations for what we now call heritage sites. Pompeii, Parma and Heritage – which in Italian we call “Patrimonio” (whence the word “Patrimony”) and is hence our third “P”. A nice story that the other PPP might have been interested to hear about. All perfectly true. Not to mention the “P” of our “Pesce d’aprile”, or April Fish, the aquatic symbol of April Fool’s Day in Italy. A “sticky” fish if ever there was one, getting ready to unroll and wish you all a happy April 1st!

What are the clearest examples that language offers on the relationship between form and function? The words that indicate parents: because daddy (or mummy for that matter), is a word that is born of a mini outburst of syllabic joy by the palate. So, what gender is “daddy”? There’s an open vowel ending that makes it sound feminine, but the same applies to the “Papa” who sits on the Throne of St Peter in Rome… and be it fair or not, the Popes have always belonged – with one possible (legendary) exception – to the non-fair sex. We like to think that each parent can be “sui generis”, as the Romans would have said: i.e. in a class of their own, mixing form and function as they feel fit. The handiwork depicted above may have you in stitches of laughter: could it be an electrician – male or female as “they” may be – doing the knitting? Don’t throw a fit, we’re just playing with words and images here, having fun with a pun or two. And hopefully, regardless of the gender of the knitter, there’ll be no dropped stitches and the garment will be a perfect fit. Even a philosopher like Wittgenstein once said that a serious work could be written entirely in jokes. Alas, such lightness is nowhere to be found in the ongoing debate on the development of gender-neutral language. Regardless of how we feel about the matter, let’s just bear in mind that languages themselves are unperturbed. Like regal divinities reclining languidly on their divans, in the past they have stolen and borrowed from other languages – all the while remaining unfazed in their comfort zone. “She” and “He” have joined forces to become “They”. So even if the day honouring fatherhood is not being celebrated tomorrow in your part of the world, as it is in Italy, with gender-free spontaneity we’d like to say “Happy Father’s Day”… wherever they are!

The Venice Carnival ended quite recently and if designer Alessandro Mendini had been able to realise his Ponte dell’Accademia project (Biennale 1980), it would have been like a rococo whorl across the lagoon waters, or like a mask in a film by Fellini. Mendini reminds us of those scenographers who wrap things in fabric, following the hidden thread of a suggestion, dainty and tongue-in-cheek at the same time. We find such a suggestion in his Proust armchair (1978) which invites us to sit down, as if we were the Sun King, on Paul Signac’s dots. Instead, let’s walk down to Vulcan’s forge (as it were) where, more or less in the same years, another designer was convinced that work itself (conceived as a hotchpotch of materials, textures and noises), could enter, lock, stock, and barrel, into a new world of design; literally, like a snail into its shell. Here, then, is Marco Zanuso with his Lady, the armchair padded with the polyurethane of those cars that, in 1951, Italians were already hoping to buy. Two radically different concepts of living and of the home. For Mendini, all stilettos and lace, it’s a place where one is allowed to be “lazy only on Saturday mornings”: this is what he writes in the songs of Architettura Sussurrante, a record produced with Italian pop group Matia Bazar in 1983, and of which it seems that MoMA has a copy… Zanuso, on the other hand, just couldn’t fathom the thought of home that was sluggish in zeal and in 1956 received the “Compasso d’Oro” industrial design award for his Borletti sewing machine. Between the two of them, the tailor and the costumer, they went on to win ten such awards. Tomorrow, Saturday morning, we can choose whether it’s going to be a postmodernist, or as yet a still a modernist, weekend. The opportunity to square the circle is given to us by an exhibition that opened a few days ago at the ADI Design Museum. Obviously, under the protection of blessed laziness.

An article published in Italian daily La Stampa in 2007 applied the image of the “knight’s move” to what was, at the time, the relationship between Minsk and Moscow; it left few doubts as to who the strategist was. Facebook had already been in existence for a few years (2004) yet was still timid vis-à-vis the ‘senior’ media. In 1940, while the Germans were invading Paris, Marc Bloch stopped to ponder upon history. Feeling the need to “defend” it, he put all his material on the scales, also weighing up the importance of what he called “voluntary”testimonies, such as, for example, newspaper articles. This was invaluable material for an historian, but only in appearance: their main interest lay more in what they implied than in what they actually said. And what is transpiring from the dozens, hundreds, thousands of testimonies that are hitting us these days, minute-by-minute? Unbridled fragmentation and emotionality. Perhaps today’s readers (and tomorrow’s historians) could do with somewhat more‘organic’ information; cleaner, as it were, to avoid getting unhorsed in the galaxy founded by Mr “Z”. And talking about letters, here then, is the challenge for the media on this particular chessboard: allow the knight / reader their signature ‘move’: “L”-shaped (like the“L”in Liberty), a free movement of thought within a certain perimeter. Ready to draw that “L”with your well-sharpened lances?

Unlike the beautiful voice of Tosca who she sings these words in her famous aria, this week has brought us the ugly rumble of war. However we’ll stick to the subject we had originally intended to look at and grant ourselves poetic licence to remind you that the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao is gearing up to celebrate the 25th anniversary of its peaceful occupation of the Basque city. The celebrations’ highpoint will be next October but in the meantime the ‘Bilbao bill boards’ feature an exhibition on Jean Dubuffet (which opens today), and another which showcases the finest movements that were launched between the two world wars: Fauvism, Cubism, the “School of Paris” and Surrealism. While the names of Italian artists Modigliani and De Chirico are included in the above, it does seem odd that Futurism has been so blatantly excluded. After all, Frank Gehry’s building itself is a living tribute to Unique Forms of Continuity in Space, a bronze sculpture by Umberto Boccioni, the most perceptive and European of the artists who helped shape the Italian movement. Boccioni died prematurely at the age of 34 during World War I. A reminder that sounds harsh to the ear, especially on a week like this when that dreaded word has reared its ghastly head. So why are we focusing on the Guggenheim Museum’s birthday (and Frank Gehry’s too, seeing as its iconic architect turns 92 in three days’ time)? Because it’s a reminder of the importance of clear cuts and alternative forms of nourishment – the museum has meant both for Bilbao’s economy. And to see European artists (including Russians and Ukrainians) housed side-by-side under the same roof brings home the idea of Europe as a safe nest: a small comfort zone – despite everything.