The Spaccanapoli, the narrow street that runs across the heart of old Naples, is lined with the crumbling facades of aged palazzos even as it pulses with young men on scooters, stylish women in knock-offs of the latest fashion and peddlers hawking the varied goods that come through this bustling port city.
But as one French writer found out when she fell in love with the voluptuous decay that defines old Naples, the same forces that give the city its charm also were ready to frustrate even the best of intentions when it came to renovating a historic palazzo.
Her story is a cautionary tale for anyone thinking of a restoration in Europe.
Working in Naples on a project to help Balkan refugees the early 1990s, Nathalie Heidsieck de Saint Phalle fell in love with the Palazzo Marigliano. Saint Phalle, a writer of guidebooks and essays and a sometime trader in Turkish carpets, conceived of a pension for artists, writers and journalists who would come to Naples and report to the world on its decadent charm. They would breathe new life into the historic center, which seemed otherwise destined for the wrecker's ball.
Securing a long lease from Prince Francesco Marigliano, she set about converting several large rooms, some with ceilings nearly seven meters, or 23 feet, high, into an inn that she called the Albergo di Purgatorio, the Inn of Purgatory.
In the first years, visitors stayed in makeshift splendor as Saint Phalle saved money for renovations. With a push from the prince and money from the European Union, the Italian government agreed to restore the palazzo's 16th century Renaissance façade. Saint Phalle also won a small grant from the EU to make interior renovations.
But it took more than two years to carry out the most basic of repairs. Officials blocked her from installing a telephone line and even from replacing a faded linoleum floor. "Probably because I am a foreigner — that means a non-Neapolitan — I fell into every trap possible," she said recently.
Her architect had studied and worked in Naples but had not been born in the city and, therefore, also was considered an outsider. A specialist lawyer was some help, but the EU subsidies faded away during the delays.
"Everything we could have improved, we couldn't," Saint Phalle said. "We still have to use bottled gas."
Landmarks officials wanted to stop her from reopening a long-closed door, saying that the 250-year-old hallway behind it was an "abusive modification" to the 500-year-old palazzo.
Landmarks and planning officials say they have to be strict, because so many property owners fail to see that historic buildings are part of the national heritage. They see themselves not as bureaucrats enforcing pointless rules, but as guardians of endangered national traditions.
The pension is now open, but Saint Phalle says that as much as she loves old Naples, she has had enough of restoring old property.
Such problems certainly are not unique to Naples. In a small village near Avignon in the south of France, Richard Chesnoff, an American writer, bought a tumbledown farmhouse seven years ago. He, too, found that as a foreigner, suddenly all the rules applied.
"If you are French and from the village, they don't bother you too much," Chesnoff said. "But if you're a foreigner, and a foreigner includes anyone not born in the village, then they require you to be very careful with the historic commission's rules."
The requirements in Chesnoff's village were strict. Facades had to be made of the local stone or plaster mixed to just the right hue. Shutters and doors could be painted only a select few shades. And forget picture windows: Windows must be the same size and proportion as those in existing houses.
Employing a local architect and local artisans can be the best way to get your project done on time and on budget. But Chesnoff said that winks, nods and bribes were not part of his experience. The local architect knew what local officials were likely to approve, and local officials trusted the local architect to maintain the village's character. "It's a question of who's plugged into whom," Chesnoff said.
Still, he added, officials do not like to bend the rules. "They have to give you a decision within three months, so usually they just make you wait three months," he said.
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The Spaccanapoli, the narrow street that runs across the heart of old Naples, is lined with the crumbling facades of aged palazzos even as it pulses with young men on scooters, stylish women in knock-offs of the latest fashion and peddlers hawking the varied goods that come through this bustling port city.
But as one French writer found out when she fell in love with the voluptuous decay that defines old Naples, the same forces that give the city its charm also were ready to frustrate even the best of intentions when it came to renovating a historic palazzo.
Her story is a cautionary tale for anyone thinking of a restoration in Europe.
Working in Naples on a project to help Balkan refugees the early 1990s, Nathalie Heidsieck de Saint Phalle fell in love with the Palazzo Marigliano. Saint Phalle, a writer of guidebooks and essays and a sometime trader in Turkish carpets, conceived of a pension for artists, writers and journalists who would come to Naples and report to the world on its decadent charm. They would breathe new life into the historic center, which seemed otherwise destined for the wrecker's ball.
Securing a long lease from Prince Francesco Marigliano, she set about converting several large rooms, some with ceilings nearly seven meters, or 23 feet, high, into an inn that she called the Albergo di Purgatorio, the Inn of Purgatory.
In the first years, visitors stayed in makeshift splendor as Saint Phalle saved money for renovations. With a push from the prince and money from the European Union, the Italian government agreed to restore the palazzo's 16th century Renaissance façade. Saint Phalle also won a small grant from the EU to make interior renovations.
But it took more than two years to carry out the most basic of repairs. Officials blocked her from installing a telephone line and even from replacing a faded linoleum floor. "Probably because I am a foreigner — that means a non-Neapolitan — I fell into every trap possible," she said recently.
Her architect had studied and worked in Naples but had not been born in the city and, therefore, also was considered an outsider. A specialist lawyer was some help, but the EU subsidies faded away during the delays.
"Everything we could have improved, we couldn't," Saint Phalle said. "We still have to use bottled gas."
Landmarks officials wanted to stop her from reopening a long-closed door, saying that the 250-year-old hallway behind it was an "abusive modification" to the 500-year-old palazzo.
Landmarks and planning officials say they have to be strict, because so many property owners fail to see that historic buildings are part of the national heritage. They see themselves not as bureaucrats enforcing pointless rules, but as guardians of endangered national traditions.
The pension is now open, but Saint Phalle says that as much as she loves old Naples, she has had enough of restoring old property.
Such problems certainly are not unique to Naples. In a small village near Avignon in the south of France, Richard Chesnoff, an American writer, bought a tumbledown farmhouse seven years ago. He, too, found that as a foreigner, suddenly all the rules applied.
"If you are French and from the village, they don't bother you too much," Chesnoff said. "But if you're a foreigner, and a foreigner includes anyone not born in the village, then they require you to be very careful with the historic commission's rules."
The requirements in Chesnoff's village were strict. Facades had to be made of the local stone or plaster mixed to just the right hue. Shutters and doors could be painted only a select few shades. And forget picture windows: Windows must be the same size and proportion as those in existing houses.
Employing a local architect and local artisans can be the best way to get your project done on time and on budget. But Chesnoff said that winks, nods and bribes were not part of his experience. The local architect knew what local officials were likely to approve, and local officials trusted the local architect to maintain the village's character. "It's a question of who's plugged into whom," Chesnoff said.
Still, he added, officials do not like to bend the rules. "They have to give you a decision within three months, so usually they just make you wait three months," he said.
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