An impossible story

Broadcast live on Zak Radio for the programme The Trail Blazers, this conversation unfolds between architect Antonino Cardillo and hosts Antonio Mistretta and Federico Chiarello, with the participation of Diego Grammatico. The tone is lively and informal, yet opens into profound reflections on architecture, media representation, Sicilian identity and the power of imagination. The interview centres on the work Specus Corallii, which becomes a catalyst for a broader discourse on beauty, subversion and returning to one’s roots.

Antonio Mistretta: “Welcome back, Blazers. We’re also live on Facebook, so if you want to see our faces and those of our guests, tune in to The Trail Blazers – Generazione Erasmus. I’m pleased to welcome, here on Zak Radio, the architect Antonino Cardillo. Welcome, Antonino.”

AC: “Thank you, good evening.”

AM: “The first thing we do when inviting someone is explain why. Federico and I met Antonino yesterday afternoon, thanks to our friend Diego. Antonino gave us a glimpse into his world. He’s a countercurrent example of what we’ve discussed so far: that Trapani offers little, that our generation struggles to express itself here, and that going abroad is the way to grow and return to change things. Antonino did just that—but he told me he found fertile ground for his ideas right here in Trapani. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

AC: “Yes, my path is rather particular. After experiences outside Trapani—Rome, Milan, and a period in London—I realised that perhaps the most dangerous, even subversive, thing to do was to come back. Especially after London, I felt this historical moment was dull, nothing truly exciting was happening. And perhaps that’s because of the widespread cliché that things only happen in big cities. But that’s not really true—it’s a media construct, not a reflection of reality.

My ambition was to do something meaningful on an international scale, but in Sicily. To challenge the imaginary of a Sicily tied either to the past or to a controversial present—too often framed by the media through political problems, and too rarely through cultural substance. Yesterday you mentioned something that struck me: the need to change Sicilian media.”

AM: “That’s a powerful reflection, and one we want to share with our listeners. It really made me think. I’d like you to introduce yourself briefly—as if it were the trailer of a film.”

AC: “Officially, I’m an architect. But my intentions are more aligned with storytelling, cinema, the boundaries between reality and illusion, fantasy and imagination—and above all, perception.”

AM: “Can I define you as the architect who dwells on the border between reality and imagination?”

AC: “Yes, you’ve said it perfectly.”

Federico Chiarello: “Antonino, to me you’re an artist, not just an architect. That’s why I said you’re the architect at the edge of reality and imagination.”

AC: “Perhaps it’s more accurate to say I’m a writer.”

FC: “A writer? Then tell me—how can an architect be a writer?”

AC: “People usually see architects as technicians, professionals who deal with bureaucracy or decoration. But in the past, when the architect wasn’t a professional figure, they were storytellers. They passed down stories—sometimes not their own. Our historic centres in Italy and Sicily are narratives, stories. And our lives today are made more joyful thanks to those who built this imaginary of beauty. Sadly, that’s been lost. Today’s architect is no longer a storyteller, but a product assembler. What I’ve tried to do—through both imagined and built works—is to tell a story, with chapters and sub-stories. Like layers, a labyrinth of references, things mine and not mine, true and false.”

AM: “Yesterday we had fun posting two photographs with the same caption, taken from a German magazine: DEAR Magazin. Antonino is on the cover. Now, you might be wondering: why is he on the cover of such a prominent publication?”

FC: “And why in fuchsia?”

AC: “It’s a bit difficult to explain—it risks sounding self-referential.”

AM: “May I say it instead? Because yesterday Antonino took us inside one of his works—or rather, inside one of his books, since he’s a writer. And it deserved it. The work is Specus Corallii, a true masterpiece. None of us knew it—neither Federico, nor Will, nor I. But it’s been widely appreciated internationally.

Antonino, could you try to transport our listeners into your work and offer a few interpretive keys?”

AC: “This work concentrates the idea of a secret architecture. Unless you stumble upon it by chance, it’s invisible from the outside. Many people don’t know it exists—and that’s part of the concept. In modern architecture, the interior continues into the exterior, forming a coherent identity. But in the past, that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes the exterior and interior told entirely different stories.

Specus Corallii is like a coral grotto, full of sediment, stratification, and references to our past and territory—sublimated into a dimension of beauty. And that beauty is the subversive aspect of the project. It’s an attempt to create an impossible story, one that may have been destroyed or never existed, but is reclaimed through the imaginary of the grotto.

This place, invisible from the outside yet rich in configuration, aims to offer a different representation of the city—not provincial, but universal. Our so-called local history is universal. It’s shaped by international relations that once influenced the fate of the West. Sadly, people here—and cultural institutions—often forget this, reducing everything to provincialism and narrow-mindedness. Specus Corallii aspires to interpret the place and launch it into an international dimension, as a stylistic manifesto containing subversive elements.”

AM: “Yesterday, you gave us an incredible experience. You led us into a dark corridor, allowing our eyes to adjust to the light. It was a highly sensory experience.”

AC: “Yes, to avoid being overwhelmed by sight, which is often the dominant sense. That initial darkness is a kind of rite of passage. Then the details begin to emerge.”

AM: “Antonino, how can one visit Specus Corallii?”

AC: “The property belongs to the Cathedral of Trapani. You can go to the sacristy and ask for Father Gaspare Gruppuso. Or you can send me a request via my website. If I’m available, I’ll be happy to arrange a visit.”

FC: “You’d be incredibly lucky to have Antonino as your guide. Though yesterday you told us it might have been better if you hadn’t been there.”

AC: “Yes, that’s the dilemma: should architecture be explained in words, or left to the imagination? I lean toward the latter, but often it’s not possible—due to time constraints or limited access. There are always compromises.”

AM: “Still, you didn’t tell us everything. You showed us the place, but left room for interpretation.”

AC: “Exactly. The Specus is a mirror. Etymologically, it relates to mirrors. Architecture is strongest when it evokes the imagination already present within us.”

AC: “If a place can evoke memories, create new stories, trace other labyrinths, then it enters a dreamlike dimension—deeper and more enduring. That dimension is central to my work. Perhaps that’s why, in 2009, Wallpaper* named me one of the thirty most important architects in the world.”

AM: “That’s no small thing. How did it happen?”

AC: “My story is controversial. I don’t have a fixed position on what I’ve done. Even my own interpretation is just that—an interpretation. It’s not the truth. In fact, my entire story is a kind of parody of truth. It’s tied to journalism, to how reality is represented. We think we live reality, but we don’t. We live its rendering, shaped by media.

My background is in history. I was a teaching assistant for five years in modern and contemporary architectural history. I already sensed something wasn’t right. In communicating my architecture, I wanted to experiment with manipulation—doing what journalists do. To build authority, you need communication. And I communicated works that didn’t exist, keeping their existence deliberately vague.”

AC: “The desire for beauty—perhaps unconscious—led journalists, consciously or not, to believe these works were real. As a result, they were published in around 150 international magazines between 2007 and 2011.

These seven imaginary houses, which I called Seven Houses for No One, created a kind of contemporary mythology. From a professional ethics standpoint, it’s ambiguous—I fabricated something. But that act is subversive. I did nothing different from what advertising, television, or mainstream journalism does. I simply applied this technique to architecture—a field often stale, linear, and vulgar.

This approach was seen as scandalous. But theatre is a lie. Viewed through an artistic lens, what I did is coherent. It’s only incoherent when judged through professional norms.”

Diego Grammatico: “I’d like to contribute to the discussion. Art has always been manipulative. It rarely depicts reality as people perceive it in a given moment. Take Jacques-Louis David’s painting of Napoleon crossing the Alps—he’s portrayed like a Roman general. It’s highly idealised. That kind of artistic representation is also political propaganda. So this manipulative, unreal aspect of art—whether in architecture, painting, or any medium—has always existed. It shouldn’t surprise us.”

FC: “Antonino, off-air I asked why there was such a media scandal around your Seven Houses for No One. Could you repeat your answer for our listeners?”

AC: “This whole narrative is meant as a parody of modern architecture, which is rigidly built around ideas of coherence, honesty, and reality. But architecture before modernity followed entirely different logics—think of Art Nouveau, the Baroque, even classical architecture. What we see is often a superstructure, not the actual construction. It’s the idea the architect wanted to convey.”

AC: “Today’s architectural world is scandalised by the idea that architecture might enter the realm of imagination. It’s a kind of petit-bourgeois inhibition—like being scandalised by something erotic. I find that scandal fascinating, because it reveals a broader issue. It’s not just Sicilian—it’s international. It exposes a kind of architectural journalism that’s too tied to power, to the idea of a wealthy client commissioning a beautiful villa from a brilliant architect. That narrative is ridiculous. What matters in architecture—just as in theatre or literature—is the story. But architecture needs money, and journalists are often drawn to money. So expensive projects get more attention, and that degrades the discipline.”

FC: “I’m not from the field, so I didn’t realise how central the practical aspect is in architecture. It’s eye-opening.”

AM: “I’ve spent time in Barcelona, and I can’t help thinking of Gaudí. As an architect, do you feel a connection with him? He also worked outside the norms.”

AC: “Inevitably, Gaudí relates to what I’ve just said. His architecture was imaginative. Strip away the ornamentation and it’s quite traditional. But that imaginative layer gave a city its identity. Gaudí died virtually unknown—a vagrant. It’s curious: a city that now builds its fortune on his legacy had once cast him aside.”

AC: “This ties into bourgeois dynamics. Status determines success. Status comes from wealth, from the size of one’s studio, from the number of assistants. Gaudí had none of that. Despite creating seminal works, he was abandoned by the bourgeoisie, seen as eccentric. That’s still relevant today. The stars of contemporary architecture are products of that bourgeois logic.”

AC: “The works produced within that system aren’t culturally interesting—they’re sick from the start, because the desires behind them are shallow.”

FC: “Reading your interview yesterday, I instinctively felt your thinking resembled Gaudí’s—working outside the lines. I remember when I visited Casa Batlló, it was heavily criticised by locals. There was even a petition to demolish it. Now you have to pay €25 to get in. It’s incredible.”

AM: “Antonino, imagine you hold the pen of history. What would you write? How would you like to be remembered by future generations who look at your work and seek to understand you?”

AC: “Carrying forward the idea of architecture as narrative is a way of interacting with others—of forcing interpretation. But in this hall of mirrors, you also understand yourself. I can’t know or control the image I create in others. What interests me is the opposite: understanding myself through what others think of me.”

AC: “My story is shaped by how others have read it—even negatively. My aspirations reflect the legitimate, and perhaps perverse, desires of a generation. That’s interesting for understanding who we are.”

FC: “Antonino, what meaning do you assign to your origins, to your roots?”

AC: “It’s the reason I returned to Sicily three years ago. I wanted to capitalise on the international exposure I’d managed to build, and ensure that Specus Corallii became a kind of stylistic manifesto—one that gathers values tied to our culture and past, but expressed in a contemporary dimension.”

AC: “My ambition is to indicate a path, to help others—especially architects, but not only—understand that Sicily holds extraordinary potential. It’s a reservoir from which to build a syncretic direction for the world, where different civilisations and cultures form a new, powerful, multifaceted, labyrinthine coexistence.”

FC: “May I interpret that? Returning to your roots so that you can represent them—and revolutionise with them—abroad.”

AC: “Exactly. To overturn history, in a way. To turn Sicily into a contemporary cultural manifesto. It’s ambitious, I know. But the more we distance ourselves from the stereotypes of contemporary architecture and art, and find in our roots a dimension of subversion, the stronger the message becomes.”

AC: “What often happens is that people return to Sicily bringing back contemporary clichés—stale forms that are already fading elsewhere. Travelling helps you realise how impoverished the world is. We have an extraordinary potential here. It’s like a book: once you begin reading, it casts a spell. That’s the power of architecture understood as imagination.”

AC: “Identity is fundamental. Or dis-identity. Because in Sicily, we’re all bastards. That’s our strength. Like in Brazil, or early American music—it’s all syncretic. That’s why it’s so powerful. New styles are born from collision. In the pursuit of purity or national identity, everything becomes ordinary.”

FC: “Final question—quick one: your bond with the territory, how much is sentimental, how much irrational?”

AC: “I think it’s entirely sentimental. Coming back here is, in some ways, a suicide. But it’s a happy suicide. Because you try to create something powerful—you self-destruct, you risk everything. My story is one of apparent self-destruction that generates new meanings.”

AM: “I couldn’t have asked for a better answer. That was truly beautiful. You’re a real trailblazer. We thank Antonino for being with us, and Diego—without whom this interview wouldn’t have happened.”