In 1962, as part of the city’s annual festival of the arts, modern sculpture was exhibited along a route across Spoleto’s piazzas and streets.  (A few remain.)

The exhibition was photographed by Ugo Mulas, a renowned artist.  My plan, a bit obvious, is to find a way to photograph each one.

The experiment’s only virtue, perhaps, is to limit the variables.  Twelve works, fewer weeks.  Little chance of getting around to them all.  (Or of getting back to the Wi-Fi, it seems.  I’m getting dizzy watching the little ball spin.  Until then…)

Two of them hold me in thrall: 1) whatever story’s being told within the fixed image of the still; and 2) whatever stories experts know about the making of these works, together with their undoing over time, and their restoring in the present.  At these moments, a) I long for a tour guide; or, b) I fantasize about a traveling University, where one’s education occurs on the ground, at the scene of the action instead of on the board at the scene of a crime.

Post to follow techno travails: “A Window into the Fresco,” by yours truly.

Out in the open air this morning, for art’s sake Rebecca may pardon my French: