Faussimagna

It is a village on the warm bank of Chisone,’ indritto’ Pragelato, on the path that from Soucheres Basses leads to the sheep pastures and then to Colle of Assietta.
A beautiful village, those of the Republic of Escarton, the Republic of Freedoms, really free and supportive in ancient times. A village with big houses, of superfine architecture with materials at zero kilometers, put together by masters without the hassle of useless architects and bureaucrats, disliked by the history and time.
Faussimagna with a strange and beautiful name, certainly imposed to give importance, as it may have importance the work of man when it bends well, with respect, what heaven offers him and feeds on it.
Fifty souls in the nineteenth century. Deserted between the twenties and forties of the last century.
Today Faussimagna is dead. Its image silhouetted high against the mountain and the blue welcomes visitors like a fist in the stomach, violent and with no escape. No poetry in those ruins. Man still tries, with admirable desire, to keep alive some home. But the old, true, Faussimagna, was another thing.

Faussimagna, 20 novembre 2014

Faussimagna, 20 novembre 2014

Valchisone beautiful land has a relic, a movie shot May 16th 1996.
Many houses appear in ruins, but one of them shows a beauty that dazzles. On the wall, high up on the street, a proud sundial offers, with his motto, words of wisdom to the passer and, at the side, the astronomical genesis explains the nobility.
Smashed doors, as always in abandoned villages, but inside the signs of the real life of that place; inside, a museum, born, raised and deeply rooted there; not false, true: to show, without filters and without veils.
The stable, with the ingenious shelf for cheese and the wooden capital to support the vault; oven protected and sheltered, wardrobes with apparently strong locks and the beds, already piled up because no longer useful; the ‘ventilabro’ ( an item used to divide the wheat from the husk) , and more that we struggle to identify, we children of oil and waste.
Over all the wood, larch sparkling bronze came out from ax planer to defy time and to enchant the observer. Woods to close rooms and to limit spaces, to outline floors able to brave the cold, to hold up the roof in an harmonious crescendo of beams magically stopped to support others; only a ladder to heaven, if there were, could bear comparison with so much talent, so much simplicity, so much skill.

Faussimagna, 20 novembre 2014

Faussimagna, 20 novembre 2014

All this is gone, burned between May 16th 1996 and November 20, 2014.
No longer recognizes itself. Nothing. Only the sundial still indicates time. Tired, because no one has more wisdom, and time, to read it. It that has marked the time, and marks.
The fire has saved it because daughter of the sun and of human genius.
It took great courage and strong mind to parade, today, in silence, among those ruins, where the heart believed to regain the ancient splendor. The courage to hold the breath of the time, cruel, and the man who denies himself, aided by bad luck, or carelessness.
Fire not only purifies, clears. As human indifference.

Look at the pictures of Faussimagna today.