Antonio Ornati
Milano 20 aprile 2004
Dear colleague,
I have carefully read the extensive and documented Article ‘Fratelli Inventori’ published on CASAMICA, with the Corriere della Sera on 3 April, where the journalist Burigana tells ‘the story’ of the three Castiglioni brothers, Livio, Pier Giacomo and Achille.
Reading the Article, my mind went back to the early 1950s when, as an architecture student, I was attending, in my spare time and during the period of the Fair, the studio of your father and your uncle Achille.
My father Mario, a painter and teacher at the Brera Academy, was a friend of your grandfather Giannino who, at the suggestion of my father, recommended me to his architect sons.
At that time, your father and uncle’s studio, since disappeared, was on Corso Porta Nuova in an old building near the Bastioni, which of course you know. The studio was on the ground floor, and you entered through a portico.
I remember the large, long entrance hall with windows on the left that I think overlooked an internal garden.
The first area you came to was occupied by white metal bookcases housing architecture, furniture and graphics magazines, both Italian and foreign. The second contained the drawing tables and drafting machines.
At the back was your the private study of your father and uncle, where the two would hide away until late at night, working on and perfecting their designs.
The studio was quiet, I was told: the phone didn’t ring, there were no suppliers or other engagements.
This is where I met Max Huber, a young Swiss designer who worked with your father and uncle on all the graphic aspects of the projects. He was already very well known and highly respected.
I learned by working with them that, like in the ancient workshops of Renaissance masters of architecture, it is far more helpful to see the designs through models of plywood, balsa wood, plaster etc. than through flat designs on paper.
Your father and uncle would work on the models with the model maker, modifying or adding to them as required.
This was how I witnessed the ‘birth’, first in model form and then in reality, of some large-scale and important exhibition fit-outs, including one on agriculture, which I recall very clearly to this day.
I remember the large wooden model and the great installation, a field of wheat, lost in the vast hall of the Fair.
I took with me to the Faculty of Architecture this idea of not only ‘seeing’ projects on paper but making wooden or balsa-wood models as well, which I remember doing myself for town-planning and fit-out projects, painting them where necessary.
I remember those years so well because of the ever-present atmosphere in the studio: calm, cheerful and instructive, very different from that of the Faculty.
Your father and uncle were always smiling. They always looked united in their work, talking things through, crouched over the tables, perfectly harmonised.
I also remember your grandfather Giannino, who had his studio and home in the same building, as friendly and easy going. I remember, too, your grandmother who would bring us trays of delicious cheese and salami sandwiches and drinks on nights spent working in the studio or at the Fair. That would see us through till morning.
I also remember your uncle Livio coming to the studio sometimes.
I was, and still am, very fond of cinema at a cultural level, and so I would sometimes talk about well-known directors who were also architecture graduates such as Alberto Lattuada, Renato Castellani and others who had studied alongside your father and uncle at the Faculty of Architecture in Milan.
One day your father told me about a film he had seen, ‘Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday’, introducing me to the incredible French actor-director Jaques Tati.
And it wasn’t all work in the studio either: I remember your uncle Achille bringing in a strange apparatus one day. Where did he find it?
It consisted of a stick with a handle, a wooden handlebar at the top, and two iron protrusions at the bottom, near a long point that protruded downwards from the stick.
Your uncle made a small leap and landed with both feet on the protrusions. He bounced up and down in small rapid bursts causing ‘the metal tip’ to retract and extend in and out from the bottom of the stick, powered by an internal spring.
In this way he moved in short bounds, jumping like a kangaroo.
I remember yet another pastime that represents how inventive your father and uncle were, particularly Achille, when it came to playfulness.
When I first walked into the studio, perhaps in ‘49 or ‘50, I was taken quite by surprise. Parts of the ceiling were carpeted with small pieces of coloured paper.
I had to be told, for I had never seen them, that these were a post-war souvenir: The paper money issued by the Americans immediately after the end of the war while we awaited the new Italian currency.
They were called AM-LIRE (‘American lire’) and were about the size of a 50 euro note today.
I remember your uncle Achille would take these notes, whenever someone still happened to have one in their pocket, and push a three-point drawing pin through the middle so that it stuck out on the other side.
Next, he would take a fairly heavy book and lay the note with its pin on top. Then with a strong, sharp lunge, he would hurl it all, book, note and pin, towards the ceiling.
Nearly always—I repeat ‘nearly always’—with the violent force of the throw and the weight of book, the note would ‘stick’, thanks to the pin, to the ceiling. The book would fall back down and the note would remain up there!
I tried a few times myself, but even though I was taller I never succeeded. The effect was incredible! Visitors could not believe how it was done.
I only worked at the studio with your father and uncle for a few years, but I never forgot it, as you can tell from these notes.
Kind regards
ANTONIO ORNATI
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