Issues

In their element

When Jonas Salk, the American virologist who developed the polio vaccine, founded The Salk Institute in 1960, he told architect Louis Kahn to create a facility “worthy of Picasso”. Kahn clearly succeeded. Nestled between a lemon grove and the shimmering Pacific Ocean, the San Diego-based non-profit research organisation’s concrete headquarters are a remarkable backdrop. “Physical beauty is one of the reasons I love working here,” says Gerald Joyce, who joined The Salk Institute as president in early 2023. “But mostly it’s the unfettered scientific ambition: when we’re not gazing at the ocean, we’re thinking science.”

Within the walls of this modernist structure, researchers work on a bevy of endeavours to improve quality of life around the globe, from mitigating climate change to extending the human lifespan, as well as developing new methods to fight cancer. Since its inception in the 1960s, the institute has been affiliated with six Nobel Prize laureates; the next one could well be in the midst of those gathered around Joyce today. The team is now assembled in the courtyard discussing life, science and their research under the Southern California sun.But most of their usual working day is spent in the building’s open-plan laboratories.

The communal set-up might be common in creative offices but for many scientific disciplines – where specific instruments and high levels of ventilation are often required – the idea is more novel. According to Joyce, labs that implement the open-plan model tend to reap the benefits.

At Salk, the feature has helped foster a crucial skill over the years: collaboration. “Kahn and Salk hatched this idea,” says Joyce of the building’s design. “They didn’t just want the institute’s headquarters to be a beautiful place; it also had to be an environment grounded in teamwork. They didn’t want anyone getting closed off in their own research because science, at its best, is about teamwork.” Joyce is reminded of this every day. “We make greater advancements and can tackle the really big challenges more thoroughly when we work together.”

Gerald Joyce
President
Born in Kansas and raised near Chicago, Joyce earned a medical degree and PhD at the University of California. His love affair with Salk started years before he became its president: he even held his wedding in the institute’s courtyard. “It’s easy to love this place if you love science,” he says. He researches chemistry and biochemistry.

1.
Jan Karlseder
Biology of ageing researcher
“Uncovers mechanisms of cellular division to improve interventions for ageing and cancer.”

2.
Joanne Chory
Plant biologist
“Optimises plants that store carbon in their roots to help mitigate climate change.”

3.
Kay Tye
Neuroscientist
“Dissects the brain circuits that guide emotions and behaviours.”

4.
Susan Kaech
Immunologist
“Studies how immune cells fight viruses and cancer.”

5.
Dannielle Engle
Cancer researcher
“Explores ways to target and treat pancreatic cancer.”

6.
Talmo Pereira
Computational biologist
“Develops computational models to study animal behaviour, brain function and plant growth.”

The balance of shine and grime: A snapshot of life in Jiangjin

Chinese cities are not renowned for being tidy places but my first experience of visiting the country since the pandemic was a reminder that this is no bad thing. Jiangjin is a satellite city of Chongqing in which about a million people live on the banks of the Yangtze and the doorstep of modernity. Down by the water’s edge, residents wash the dust from their clothes (the style is more 1990s Hong Kong than present-day Seoul), while cargo ships sail by and fighter jets soar overhead. Fruit sellers and knife sharpeners peddle their wares from carts; just don’t try to pay in cash.

When I arrived for a two-week stay earlier this year, much of the population seemed to be mobilised for a huge beautification campaign, adopting the type of mass- participatory approach that only authoritarian countries can really pull off. Everywhere I walked, paving stones were being repointed, communal areas in apartment towers covered with a fresh lick of paint and falling leaves plucked from the air before hitting the ground. If the work teams wearing red armbands were not busying themselves with the big clean-up, they were standing vigil, watching out for incivility. Men continued to chain-smoke but there were no discarded butts to be found. The lack of litter and loutish behaviour made the place feel like a film set. A fake Chinese city. The type of Potemkin village that North Korea reserves for overseas visitors.

My first guess was that the big man from Beijing must be making a visit, or at least a member of his senior team. I was right about the inspection. The inspectors, though, were not from Beijing but from a clean-city competition – and Jiangjin was in the running. The next day I watched in astonishment as the driver of an expensive car was denied the opportunity to illegally park. A fierce lady in volunteer uniform had sprinted down the road at the first sight of potential foul play. The car owner duly departed. No swearing, no altercations, no entitled antics.

Those of us who enjoy visiting China value the warm hospitality and wicked sense of humour that comes without any pretence; rules are there to be worked around and little is ever truly immaculate. Fortunately, this urban charade didn’t last. Almost as soon as the last inspection vehicle rolled out of town, I spotted the first cigarette butt on the ground. Then another. Then another. Pretty soon the red arm bands had all come off, the mahjong games had returned and the whole city went back to normal. A million minor transgressions and a collective sigh of relief.

No mayor or provincial leader could admit as much but there is something about a bit of dirt and disobedience that brings cities to life, no matter where they are in the world or what political system they operate under. Singapore is the archetypal clean city. It is heaven to some and a dystopian theme park to others. When I think of my favourite cities – New York, London, Istanbul, Hong Kong, Bangkok – most have a thin layer of grime within easy reach. They are shiny in some areas, grubby in others. Public transport is my principal exception to this. Subway trains in Asia tend to be immaculate and riding in a clean carriage – something that unites Hong Kong, Singapore and Bangkok – makes for a much safer and more enjoyable ride than the equivalent experience in the West. Jiangjin recently welcomed its first overground rail line and passengers sit obediently on board like schoolchildren in the front row of class. Civic pride should be encouraged and litterbugs publicly shamed but a little rough around the edges makes a city human, and humane.

James Chambers is Monocle’s Asia editor, based in Bangkok.

District nursing

Bangkok City Hall looks out at a 21-metre-tall religious structure known as the Giant Swing. Nicknamed the “bellybutton of Bangkok” due to its central position, the historic landmark is a useful reference point for the city’s governor, Chadchart Sittipunt. The athletic 57-year-old, who was swept into office last May in a landslide election win, views his hometown as a human body made up of arteries and capillaries. The major arteries are the lines of the extensive subway network that has transformed Bangkok this century, elevating it in the eyes of business travellers and tourists above Southeast Asia’s other congested capitals. The capillaries, meanwhile, are what happens at the end of the line; the parts of the city that most visitors don’t encounter, where crowded communities lack access to quality education and healthcare.

“Our philosophy is to focus more on capillary issues – the small things that make a big difference to people’s day-to-day lives,” says Sittipunt from his office at City Hall in Bangkok’s Phra Nakhon district. “You are happy if you can afford to live next to the train. It’s the grassroots people on the periphery who really need the Bangkok Metropolitan Authority [bma].” His proudest achievement so far is the launch of a platform called Traffy Fondue: city residents can report an issue via an app, see who at City Hall is dealing with it and keep track of how long they are taking to fix the problem. The system crashed on its first day under the weight of 20,000 complaints. Most items relate to pavements, lights, rubbish and street-food vendors. “These are all minor things that can have a big effect when they are never fixed,” says Sittipunt, a former academic and businessman who landed in politics a decade ago when prime minister Yingluck Shinawatra asked him to be her transport minister. “I told my team that 250,000 complaints are not our weakness; it just shows that people are starting to trust us. They are complaining because they feel that we will fix it for them.”

Traffy Fondue was originally created by the national government but left idle. Sittipunt is open to using what’s already available and getting the most out of his 79bn baht (€2.13bn) budget. Other examples of his pragmatic policymaking include designating seven existing sites across the city for public protesting, including “People’s Square” in front of City Hall, and spreading outdoor music beyond Bangkok’s central Lumpini Park. Performances now happen all over Bangkok, throughout the year. “We have artists who need venues to perform, we have audiences who want to listen to them, and we have so many beautiful places left unused,” he says. “Bangkok is just incredible and it’s a big return for minimal investment. People feel that the city is changing when they feel that there are other things to be doing than simply going to shopping malls.”

Sittipunt began formulating his anatomical approach to Bangkok, focusing on lots of little problems rather than a few big projects, when he stood for prime minister in the 2019 election – his first time running for public office and the first free vote in Thailand since the 2014 military coup. Pheu Thai, his party at the time, won the most seats but was kept out of government by a coalition led by former army generals. Three years later, he decided to run in the gubernatorial election as an independent. In doing so, he not only ousted the military-appointed incumbent, foreshadowing similar results in Thailand’s general election this May, but won in every one of Bangkok’s 50 local districts.

The campaigning might have finished but he continues to visit a different district almost every weekend. It’s an exhausting schedule but his commitment to being a leader for the whole city instead of just the privileged centre has kept his approval ratings sky high; mention of his name elicits almost universal approval veering on fandom. Can he keep up this blistering pace for the rest of his four-year term? Yes, he says, smiling and wearing a black campaign T-shirt that has three Thai words emblazoned on the front in bright green: “work, work, work” (pictured). “When I ran for the campaign, I put one motto up on the whiteboard: ‘It has to be fun.’ If it’s not fun, then you’re doing something wrong and you won’t be able to carry on.”

Bangkok tends to rise early and the governor leads by example. Before sunrise, Sittipunt can often be found jogging around Lumpini Park without security. These dawn runs are characteristic of his energetic style of leadership. His accessibility speaks to his reputation as a man of the people. Bangkok-born and raised, Sittipunt grew up in the Thong Lor area of the capital when the land, which is now populated by expats and wealthy Thais, used to be crisscrossed by canals (khlongs) and cows; cattle from a nearby farm would wander into the family’s garden. Half a century later, quality of life is one of his key priorities and bringing greenery back to Bangkok is a central part of this.

Although 15-minute cities are all the rage in Europe, Sittipunt is “starting small” with 15-minute parks. His team has secured more than 100 plots of land and finished 26 parks. “We are trying to create a green space or sporting area near every community,” he says. “We want to make people healthier and this way they can walk or exercise close to home instead of having to travel to a big park, such as Lumpini or Benjakiti.”

Despite the focus on making thousands of small changes, collectively they add up to a big ambition. Sittipunt’s goal is for Bangkok to break the top 50 in the world’s liveability rankings. He devours books on the subject of leadership and brings back lessons from benchmarking visits to other cities around the globe. “You can’t make a city more liveable by regulations alone,” he says, citing What We Owe Each Other, Minouche Shafik’s book about social contracts and the importance of civic responsibility. “Many of Bangkok’s problems, including corruption, come from thinking about yourself and not about public property.” Mild mannered and seemingly unflappable, selfishness makes him angry but he is optimistic about the future. “Right now we are trying to do some garbage separation,” he says. “About 10 per cent of the population are part of the programme and it is gaining momentum. The new generation feels more social responsibility and our role is to make it easier for them to make a change; if we want them to walk more, we need to improve walkways and air quality.”

Pollution has become a major talking point too. Thailand and its neighbouring countries were blanketed in smog at the start of this year with worse-than-usual levels of harmful particles in the air. The regional health crisis brought home the environmental challenges facing most city leaders and underlined the particular limitations of the Bangkok governor. Powerless to stop farmers burning fields in the borderlands, Sittipunt’s hands are also tied by a series of overlapping roles and responsibilities. The bma controls the pavements, for instance, but not the roads, traffic lights or notorious overhead wires. An unconstrained Sittipunt would like to relocate the port of Bangkok and bring in a London-style congestion charge, both of which require approval from his boss, the prime minister. Bangkok is the only city in Thailand with an elected leader and the governor falls under the purview of the central government. Though Sittipunt claims to have a good working relationship with the outgoing military leaders, the appointment of a new government this summer, involving democratic parties such as Move Forward and Pheu Thai, would provide fresh opportunity for collaboration and reform. “It’s possible for us to have more authority so we can deal with issues such as traffic jams and pollution levels more efficiently. But it might take years to expand the governor’s authority and it has to be passed by the national parliament,” he says, diplomatically. “I became governor, so I have to accept these constraints.”

For now he is focusing on what he can fix. The bma is responsible for educating half of the children in Bangkok. “People are the most important asset for us, not buildings or roads,” he says. “Improving the quality of teaching will make the future better.” Some 80,000 employees are on the bma payroll and the governor wants to shift their focus away from pleasing him to serving the people. Having inherited “a typical Thai bureaucracy” with a traditional mindset, he has spent his first year trying to speed up decision-making and root out corruption, which he describes as “the elephant in the room”. Clearly not afraid to ruffle feathers, he is also pushing ahead with a long-proposed plan to move the bma to another part of Bangkok. It might not have been his idea to relocate but he certainly has the energy, determination and political capital to see it through. Just before speaking to Monocle, Sittupunt was chairing a committee meeting about the future use of the current 1950s building in Phra Nakhon. A new museum has been mooted. “This is the centre of Bangkok and it was founded by King Rama I,” he says. “If we can turn this place into a public space for everyone, not just our staff, then it becomes more valuable.”

Living the dream in Monocle’s fantasy city

Monocle’s perfect city is at once a daydream and a rallying cry for people to consider their urban spaces more closely. We’re keen to draw attention to some overlooked opportunities to enrich city life. Yes, we know the importance of affordable housing stock, green spaces and human-scale buildings. But how about surprises? Might that derelict car park or wasteland be a pop-up swimming pool, outdoor gym or community theatre? Cities need to be fun. So let’s break new ground and take a tour of Monocle’s model metropolis.

1.
The community kiosk
Space for refreshment
Street life

We’ve always looked admiringly at Lisbon’s quiosques as places to congregate for a bica (Portuguese espresso) or a chilled suco de maçã (apple juice). In our ideal city, there are trees, a breeze and a decent canopy under which to recline. Plus, some sturdy wooden street furniture from Brno-based Mmcité on which to settle. There’s also room to leaf through a newspaper, natter with friends and enable the children to let off steam in the square. So many “must-see” city stop-offs are ho-hum: often boring bits of infrastructure rather than real places to meet. So what can be done to enliven squares, piazzas and pedestrianised areas? Somewhere to sit, some shade and something to sip. Simple.

2.
A base on the banks
Somewhere to splash out
Leisure

Not all cities are blessed by beautiful beaches. But somewhere to strip off and take a dip can transform urban life and be a great social leveller too. See how Stockholmers seek out secluded corners of Lake Mälaren and Varsovians clink glasases on the banks of the Vistula – these are places to commune. Our ideal city has plenty of spots to paddle, from lidos to a lake and a clean harbour, plus a beach within a short hop. Water can cool tempers and combat the heat-island effect created by all that concrete; not to mention that there’s something transformative about the power and presence of water. A trip to Lake Zürich, Vienna’s Gänsehäufel or Copenhagen’s harbour on a hot day will cure you of your cynicism.

3.
The pleasing public toilets
Gentle relief
Infrastructure

When nature calls, good design should oblige, and we’re flush with ideas on this one. Our editors have been impressed by Tokyo’s investment in public conveniences, which are clean, airy and always immaculately kept, so you’ll never be caught short. Our perfect city will start with a series of guest-designed loos by our favourite designers’ studios. Toyo Ito will make one in the main park; David Chipperfield is in talks to take the museum quarter; and Tosin Oshinowo and Isay Weinfeld are on the long-list for stops on the main drag. Let’s just say we’re on a roll. Better public services are sorely missing in many cities – let’s get to the bottom of it.

4.
The alfresco additions
Balcony bonus
Architecture

Our perfect city follows Turin’s example by lining public spaces with porticoes and loggias that offer covered walkways and some shade from the elements. In private homes and developments, we’re also keen on bringing the outside in with generous balconies on which to drink, dine and enjoy the fresh air.

More outdoor spaces, even for those without a ground-floor berth, adds some security in the form of extra eyes and ears on the street. We’ve also stuck to Danish urbanist Jan Gehl’s rule of thumb that residential buildings shouldn’t stray too much higher than five floors or they risk their connection to life at street-level. High-rises in glass-and-steel towers with windows that won’t open are very sad indeed.

5.
The appropriately lit space
Warm street lighting
Infrastructure

It’s time for a switch. We’ve taken great care to get the light right in our ideal city – and that starts with a contract from the canny folks at Barcelona’s Urbidermis and a clever tie-up for the rollout with French firm JC Decaux (which knows a thing or two about a decent bus stop too). Come nightfall, that means warm wattages, which offer security and visibility but don’t dazzle you into submission with the cold, blueish glare of many ill-thought-out leds. Think streetlights, not searchlights. Our point isn’t to be mawkish or sentimental about a candlelit past – but cities including Paris and London have repurposed their comely old lanterns to cast a more sustainable glow.

6.
A visible identity
Better branding
Marketing

A clear visual identity can help a city to gel its image and give people something to rally behind. Picture something simple embossed flags, licence plates, civic buildings and buses. A simple logotype, colourway or pattern can go a long way without travelling far. For a masterclass, it’s hard to see beyond Lisbon’s distinctive coat of arms (two ravens perched either side of a ship), Zürich’s simple blue-and-white insignia and the sheer breadth of beauty in Japan’s prefectural logos. Each of the Japanese regional crests feels totally distinct, contains a clear colourway and is often accompanied by a decent backstory about a plant, animal or founding myth. Oh, we might need a city mascot too.

7.
The night-time hubbub
Spaces to revel in
Entertainment

Cities aren’t quite silent yet but quieter electric cars, tighter construction rules and snitty neighbours have conspired to make them more sombre than ever before. This lull in the urban din has, in turn, made residents even less tolerant of bars or clubs with the temerity to ply a later trade. That’s a bad road. In our ideal city, there are still spaces for ateliers where people clatter and make things – and we’re encouraging a buoyant, boisterous night-time economy. That means leaving spaces for people to clink glasses outside, having rooftops to party on and protecting businesses that moved in before the moaning neighbours. Staying up until sunrise occasionally is a pleasure of city life. If you’re so against that, you might prefer it in a village.

8.
The tram network
Streetcar-shaped desire
Transport

Too many trams were torn out of city centres when the car came to prominence – but perhaps it’s time to get back on track? A swift, well-maintained Siemens fleet that’s boldly branded (like, say, those red-trimmed numbers in Vienna) will help to stem traffic, reduce emissions and keep more people moving. The smooth ride will be appreciated by older folks and children, especially on uphill slogs. Our ideal service runs around the clock and has a few lines crisscrossing the city centre but no fiddly ticketing to contend with. Any questions? Well, there’s always a driver and conductor on board and well-designed maps to hand (and to censure loud phone users). Whether you’re paying by card, cash or a city travel card, our civic-minded residents value the honour system that’s humane. No one is flinging grandma off if she forgets her handbag. Everyone here is heading in the same direction.

9.
A civil code on the road
Streets ahead
Transport

Compromise is a two-way street and Monocle’s perfect city embraces many ways to travel. Yes, there are leafy streets with ample and well-kept pavements for pedestrians but also lanes for cycling and space for cars (to drive and park in) and buses too. Crucially there’s an onus on getting along.

That starts with cycling proficiency at a young age. Motorists – imagine this – give way willingly. Buses and trams only really take the main roads, and the city has an unhurried air. The order is kept by steeper fines for speeders and badly behaved cyclists, plus traffic lights that change slowly, enabling dodderers and families to cross safely. We’re taking some cues from Tokyo’s Tomigaya. Oh, and people here are engaged, aware and able to tear their gaze away from their phones long enough to identify a ball bouncing near a road or a light turning amber.

10.
The wild side
Space to grow
Nature

Parks are vital but how about letting verges, roundabouts and the fringes of railway lines grow thick with nature too? Our city doesn’t preen or manicure every inch of nature and knows that such a policy is better for biodiversity than “green walls” that need endless watering before they curl, brown and die (here’s looking at you Perth). Won’t ivy or a few well-adapted wildflowers do? We’ve also looked to see where we can bring nature into existing structures, from bird bricks, in which our feathered friends can nest, to community allotments with cabins where it’s agreeable to while away a sunny day (the Danes do this enviably).

11.
The regulated ride rentals
Scooting off
Transport

There’s something important that we didn’t mention about getting about. Yes, we’re talking to you in the suit and you in the Lycra with your headphones on. Zipping around on e-scooters, unicycles or skateboards is, we can confirm, a bad look if you’re over the age of 10. As such, we’ve outlawed anything similar and severely limited the providers that operate in the city. Ride hailing is allowed but most prefer our taxis. We’ve even developed technology that traces the rental bikes we use so they don’t “accidentally” end up in a canal, blocking doorways or strewn across pavements. Let’s take responsibility for the pile-up.

12.
The food hall
Market value
Retail

As retail rentals plummeted after the pandemic, some canny planners realised that food nourishes neighbourhoods. A good market like ours can do many things, including tempting footfall, making city residents healthier, providing a platform for culinary talent and connecting farm-fresh produce with hungry punters. Some cities renovated older spaces, such as the Mercado do Bolhão in Porto or the revamped halls across Helsinki. But new spaces can also grow in overlooked industrial sites such as Sydney’s Carriageworks. Our market sells produce and has proper on-site restaurants, as well as hosting cookery classes, knife-sharpening workshops and wine tastings.

13.
The involved inhabitants
Take pride
Community

Sometimes social capital can pay dividends in unexpected ways. Our city council is fastidious about planting shapely, mature trees and keeping their leaves from blocking drains in autumn. We run a world-beating recycling system and address residents’ and businesses’ concerns on the day that they’re lodged. In exchange, people feel vindicated in taking some responsibility for the spaces around their homes, in their neighbourhoods and near their workplaces. Our city takes pride in the impressions it makes on visitors, long-term neighbours and new residents.

14.
The graffiti-free environment
Scrub down
Street life

Our well-funded cleaning team keeps the city spick and span but we’ve also invested heavily and taken a position on keeping so-called “street art” off walls, trains and away from public spaces. Why? Despite the estate agent’s arithmetic that graffiti equates to an interesting neighbourhood, it really doesn’t. Not every wall needs a mural. It’s mainly just scruffy. Most of the mindless daubing is thoughtless at best and a nasty surprise for the victim at worst. Our crack team of cleaners are on alert and deal with most issues before the paint dries (see page 30). We’re not so harsh on the “artists” we catch though: the standard punishment is an afternoon or two scrubbing walls and repainting the work of other offenders.

15.
The healthy high street
Delivering a solution
Retail

Keeping the high street healthy means stopping cities from being turned into a series of warehouses frequented by couriers and postal vans. We’re all for the convenience of quick deliveries but we’ve also decided to level the playing field and levy a tax on companies that don’t have a proper retail footprint. With any luck, other cities will follow. The effect is twofold: fewer delivery trucks clogging the streets and a higher incentive for those businesses to take proper retail spaces and enrich the life of the city rather than speeding past it in a blur of cardboard boxes. That’s how a city can really deliver.

16.
The small-scale shops
Bricks and mortar
Retail

Done right, retail in the real world is still an easy sell. Our ideal city has plenty of sunny little boutiques stocking well-made wares. The secret? We’ve incentivised smaller spaces with cheaper, more flexible rental agreements so that anyone can afford to set up a small business. If things go well, they can move on up or take another space and employ even more people.

If not? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We also give our grants to inspiring young retailers. A few businesses did go big but it was always the point for most to remain small, unique, honest and interesting. We’ve resisted importing a mall or purpose-built precinct for now: keeping our high streets hale and healthy is a priority, which means breaking the hold of chains that pay poorly and don’t fit the city.

17.
The destination station
Valuable connections
Transport

Our train station adds a sense of arrival to the city when you pull up at its platforms (like Milano Centrale). Transport hubs act as first impressions for visitors and a “welcome home” for others, so we’ve given ours a facelift but kept some of the grandeur of yore. You can set your watch by departures and arrivals. And unlike most stations, there’s a proper newsstand, independent deli and sandwich shop, as well as fast wi-fi and an absence of vice and uproar that defines most city hubs today.

18.
The cool interiors
Breeze in
Architecture

Cities are simmering and noisy air-con units are adding pollution to the climate conundrum. Ways to fight back include more greenery, flowing water and bringing a breeze to buildings that would otherwise absorb the heat. Taking our cues from tropical architecture means encouraging a through-flow of air. How about adding Brazilian Cobogó bricks to let the cooling zephyr waft through? Capturing rainfall while considering humidity and where the sun hits makes homes more resilient, sustainable and comfortable.

19.
The people-oriented police
Use the force
Public services

It’s not authoritarian to want to show some presence on the beat. Our immaculately turned-out police force is a dab hand at directions, helping the elderly with their shopping and seeing to it that everyone feels secure and safe. Our bike-mounted boys and girls in blue cover ground quickly and their presence on saddles helps as a deterrent to the small amount of crime in our law-abiding city. Our city police aren’t portly, cherry-cheeked, out-of-puff volunteers when trouble emerges; all must pass a rigorous fitness exam to patrol the streets. Many of the team speak multiple languages but all are fluent in good manners and civility. Welcome to the neighbourhood.

20.
The smart schools
Start them young
Education

Our city has a rich history but we’re also keen to invest in its future. That begins with beautiful kindergartens and schools. It’s important that education doesn’t happen in packed portacabins by main roads and under strip-lighting. So much of schooling – and the lessons that stick with us in life – is about what we feel rather than what we’re told.

In this respect, we’ve tapped Spaniard Andrés Jaque of Madrid’s Reggio School and the Moroccan team behind Rabat’s Jacques Chirac School. That’s how to invest in spaces that excite as well as educate. There’s a lesson there.

21.
The meanwhile city
Space for surprises
Development

What if that car park, derelict space or tyre fire was a pop-up swimming pool, outdoor gym or community theatre? Maybe next month it could be a space for screenings, street food or a flea market? That’s the idea of the Meanwhile City, which came from Petro Marko (see Expo). It means using spaces before (and as) they’re developed for new uses, encouraging landlords not to chain up, padlock or fence off areas that could be put to profitable new uses. In our ideal city there’s a long list of canny initiatives lined up to add life to forgotten corners of town. Coming up? A summer sauna club.

22.
Flexible housing stock
Mixed-use buildings
Architecture

Home means different things to different people and families come in all shapes and sizes. So we’ve embraced a range of architectural styles, cherishing what’s there but ensuring that developers don’t skimp on new builds, then disappear once they’re signed for. Our town has a backbone of sturdy brick terraced houses – many with shops below – which have been repurposed to a range of sizes. Elsewhere are newer builds with character, older villas and houses to suit most tastes. Plus integrated social housing, of course.

23.
The word from on high
Rooftop revival
Development

We’re elevating our expectations of unused roof space. Developers already pop solar panels, rainwater-capture systems and planting on most roofs. We’re also well on the way to self-sufficiency and better biodiversity thanks to urban gardeners, allotments and a few well-placed bird bricks. We’ve developed a side hustle selling the city’s lavender-scented honey from our many thriving apiaries and just approved licences for new rooftop restaurants and bar spaces. Things are looking up.

24.
A place for everyone
Space to play and ponder
Leisure

Designing for all ages starts with wide, even pavements for ambling, pedestrian islands in roads to offer slower walkers more time to cross and somewhere shady for the elderly to read the paper. We’ve also built adventure playgrounds, inspired by Gärten der Welt and Park am Buschkrug in Berlin, with water, slides and sandpits for children. The spaces are leafy, fenced-off and have room to run, play and doodle in chalk.

25.
The right connections
Time to get lost
Transport

We love our city but the ease of zipping off for a weekend elsewhere or to connect with colleagues adds to its charm. Monocle’s perfect city is served by a brisk, regular express train to our little airport and the zippy connections haven’t gone unnoticed either. Last year we welcomed a record number of visitors (and a little handy investment). Other people, it seems, have been studying our success rather closely. You too might have found some benchmarks, nudges and reasons to reflect on what your own city hits and what it’s missing. Until next time, safe travels. Come back any time.

Slow burners

1.
Woven wonders
Joanna Louca, Cyprus

Joanna Louca was first introduced to the art of weaving when she moved to London from her native Cyprus in the 1990s to study textile design. “It was the process of turning a raw material into a finished garment that intrigued me,” says Louca.

The designer spent hours at her loom during those early years, perfecting weaving techniques. Moving back to her hometown of Nicosia, she sought to “isolate and create”, experimenting with colours, patterns and yarns to develop her own signatures. “It’s a slow, meditative process,” she adds. “You follow the formulas or break them as you go along.” Her fabrics – raw, textured and punctuated by geometric shapes and natural colour palettes – have been turned into one-of-a-kind fashion pieces, scarves and, recently, larger-scale art pieces that have featured everywhere from hotels in Guangzhou, China, to Homo Faber in Venice. She is also working with Berlin-based retailer Andreas Murkudis on an exhibition of woven wall pieces, debuting during Berlin Art Week this autumn.

Louca has struck a balance between the slower lifestyle of Cyprus and international ambitions. “There’s a lot of hidden beauty on the island: the proximity of the sea and the mountains, the sacred archaeological spaces and the mesmerising rose gardens that you pass by daily,” she says. “But you need to create a cocoon around you.”

These days she is mostly found in her studio at the edge of the Old Town, which is “bursting” with new weaves. “The atelier is visible on the street, so friends will often drop by and we’ll smoke a cigarette or have a coffee outside,” says Louca.
joannalouca.com

2.
Best in shoe
Rondini, Saint-Tropez

For classic leather sandals look no further than Rondini, which has been manufacturing them in the southern resort town of Saint-Tropez since 1927. “Even as a child, I was often in the atelier doing little tasks,” says owner Alain Rondini, the founder’s grandson, who took over the business in 1983. “I had the manual skills, so it was easy for me to start working with my father.” Almost a century after the workshop was established, it remains a family affair: the team of 22 staff includes Rondini’s nephew Xavier and daughter Clara, who oversees the brand’s website.

Rondini is known for its classic Tropéziennes flat sandals that feature four or five straps across the front and another behind the heel to hold the shoe in place. Other styles include the unisex Sahariennes and the elegant Serpent sandals – the latter created by Alain’s father Serge Rondini for his wife Roseline.

The sandals are made onsite at the Rondini atelier, which is now spread over three floors. This proximity to the shopfront means that sandals can easily be adjusted to a customer’s foot or well-loved pairs can be brought in for repairs. Even as head of the company, Alain likes to join in the manufacturing process, sewing a pair of soles or cutting pieces of leather. “I have remained an artisan,” he adds. “This is what I enjoy – that and contact with our customers, year after year.”

Today Rondini receives orders from around the world but remains a small-scale enterprise. “I have never wanted to distribute my sandals to other stores,” says Rondini, adding that he has turned down offers by potential sellers to scale up production. “I am moving forward at my own speed, which enables me to live in tranquillity.”
rondini.fr

3.
Wicker lady
Mariamélia, Porto

Wicker accessories are abundant in Porto, yet the art of basketry is in decline. Filipa Cruz, a Porto-based creative, founded her wickerware label Mariamélia almost a decade ago to address that very issue. Scoping out a network of six ateliers in Braga, Porto, Barcelos and the Algarve, she works with artisans across the country who make her line of wicker designs such as hats, baskets and objects for the home by hand. “It’s an interconnected network because today there aren’t many craftsmen who have these ancient skills,” says Cruz.

A rural craft that grew out of necessity, wicker baskets were used by fishermen to transport their catches. Mariamélia baskets are crafted using the same wicker techniques and materials such as rattan reeds, traditionally sourced from wetlands and salt marshes. The brand’s tall rattan baskets hail from an atelier in the Algarve. “It used to be called an octopus basket because it was used to carry fresh octopus,” says Cruz. Straw hats are another brand signature and Cruz makes sure to offer a range of sizes. “I like how universal the hats are,” she says.

Former graphic designer Cruz has a keen eye for detail. She has grown the brand’s community across Portugal and abroad, and Porto has proven to be an ideal setting for her independent business. “It behaves like a big city because of the tourism industry but deep down it is a small town with plenty of local business,” says Cruz. This forward-thinking business is helping to bring artisanal tradition back to life.
mariamelia.com

The Opener

The Mild West
Comment: QOL ranking

You might have noticed that this year’s Quality of Life ranking is an exclusively European and Asian affair, with considerable jumps and drops at the top. Mexico’s Mérida is on the up (see page 70) but there are no US or Canadian cities – why not?

When it comes to the core of our Quality of Life Survey, absence of crime in daily life figures large. Let’s face it, there’s nothing like a car-jacking, violent break-in or mall shootout to ruin your day, unsettle the community and put an entire city on edge. US cities that once attracted top and future talent are now being shunned by Asian investors who fear for their safety and parents who don’t want their children being caught in campus crossfire.

Violence aside, US and Canadian cities are also in need of solutions to revive hollowed-out urban cores as offices remain empty and downtowns wither. While there is considerable movement in rethinking office buildings and reconfiguring empty business hotels, it’s going to take considerably more in the way of creative solutions to animate once-vibrant cities.

On the positive side, there are plenty of benchmarks across the world that show how crime can be tackled, the homeless housed and neighbourhoods kicked back into gear. In the meantime, many European cities are benefitting from the arrival of US lifestyle refugees and their accompanying capital: Milan, Zürich, Lisbon and Madrid are all seeing an influx. While wealthy arrivals create spikes in housing prices, they also bring fresh ideas and create jobs – and these are forces that further improve quality of life. For the full list, see page 50.

Nom de boom

Kyle, a town of about 57,000 lying 35km south of Austin, features on few, if any, Texas tourist itineraries. It cannot compete with the Alamo in San Antonio, nor Paris’s cinematic history, and cannot rival Houston’s connections to the Moon. And it has never cradled the childhood of any legendary rockstar – statistically astounding, given Texas’s rich musical heritage. But Kyle does have a name that, the city surmises, it shares with enough people to earn it a place in the global consciousness.

In May, Kyle invited anybody called Kyle to descend upon the town, for its fourth attempt to claim a world record for the largest number of people with the same name ever gathered in one place (punctiliously specifying that Kiels, Kylers, Kylies and, indeed, Kylees were ineligible). The benchmark to beat was the 2,325 Ivans who assembled in Bosnia’s Kupreski Kosci in 2017.

Tragically, Kyle fell short. But though the town hasn’t yet set a world record, it has hit upon a means for otherwise unremarkable conurbations to generate publicity. And there is no need to spend money on name tags.

Pesto alla Chicagonese?

From the correct way to cook carbonara to what ingredients are allowed to go on pizza, it’s common knowledge that Italians are serious about their food. Genoans are no exception. The Italian authorities in the city recently seized more than seven tonnes (7,000kg) of Giovanni Rana pesto at the Genoa port after officials found that its labels did not conform to EU regulations.

Why? Because DOP Genovese basil pesto should come from Genoa – and the pasta sauce in question had been produced more than 4,500 miles (7,000km) away in a suburb of Chicago. It is, of course, not the first time food has caused problems at international borders. Belgian authorities recently destroyed more than 2,000 cans of Miller High Life because of its slogan (the American brand famously markets itself as the “champagne of beers”) and France is still contesting a US judge’s decision that states that “gruyère” can refer to any type of cheese. Politics aside, there’s a reason why parents tell their children not to play with their food. Grub, it turns out, is no laughing matter.

Reporting from…

Monocle has a network of correspondents in cities around the world. Our brief dispatches include potential forward motion in Thailand, community farming in London and shades of truth in Los Angeles.

Bangkok
Forward to progress?

Months after heading to the polls, Thai voters will finally find out who their next prime minister will be. Progressive party Move Forward won the most seats but Thailand’s political establishment may thwart its attempts to effect real change.

London
Farm foods

The London Borough of Hounslow will convert eight hectares of unused council land into allotments to teach children how to grow food. As Londoners struggle with living costs, here’s hoping that the scheme bears fruit.

Los Angeles
Light and shade

A new bus stop sunshade piloted in LA has left the city red-faced as only a few people can fit under it at a time. Called La Sombrita (or “little shadow”), it has nevertheless shone a light on the need for proper bus shelters – or at least a few more trees.

Property theft

Wandering around gallery and museum exhibitions, people often see paintings or artefacts that they want to take home – that’s what the gift shop is for. Cinema, though, doesn’t really have an equivalent – and yet some people won’t stop until they get the real thing. Thievery of props is a common occurrence in Hollywood, where to this day several crimes remain unsolved. Here, we’ve rounded up a list of cinematic thefts that feel stranger than fiction.

1.
No place like home

In 2005, Dorothy’s ruby red slippers – worn by Judy Garland in the 1939 version of The Wizard of Oz – went missing from a museum in Grand Rapids, Minnesota, Garland’s hometown. It took the authorities more than a decade to find the culprit.

2.
The man without the golden gun

In 2008 a gun featured in the 1974 James Bond blockbuster, The Man with the Golden Gun, was stolen from Elstree Studios in Hertfordshire. The thief was never caught.

3.
Thick as thieves

Last year life imitated art when about $320,000 (€300,000) worth of equipment was stolen from the Paris set of the Netflix heist show Lupin. The group of about 20 thieves set off fireworks across the set to cause a distraction and cover their tracks. Fortunately, no one was hurt.

Wanted: Legal Eagles

Zookeepers in the UK city of Blackpool are taking on the seaside resort’s peckish seagulls. The birds, who brazenly steal food from visitors and animal enclosures, have long been wreaking havoc on the city’s zoo, which has previously attempted to deter them by flying eagle-shaped kites and installing statues of various birds of prey.

To combat these persistent winged menaces, it is now recruiting people willing to work as “seagull deterrents”. Applicants will be asked to dress up in bird costumes to shoo away the pesky critters. The job ad requests that those applying are “outgoing”, “energetic” and “excellent flappers” – a love of feathered friends, or animals in general, is not a requirement.

The Interrogator
Leïla Slimani
Paris

The first Moroccan woman to win the prestigious Prix Goncourt, author and journalist Leïla Slimani, was appointed Emmanuel Macron’s Francophone affairs representative in 2017. This year she will serve as the chair of judges on the International Booker Prize panel.

Here, she tells us about her favourite bookshop in Tangier, a film by Karim Aïnouz and her vibrant new novel, Watch Us Dance. The book follows a group of characters as they adjust to life in a newly independent Morocco in the 1960s – a world that’s precarious but nevertheless overflowing with possibilities.

Your newest novel is set in Morocco. Why did you choose to set it in your home country?
As a child, I had to identify with characters called Mary or John. Today, I’d like European readers to identify with characters called Amine or Aïsha. It’s important to put countries such as Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia on the literary map.

What were you trying to capture by setting your new novel in the 1960s?
The generation of my protagonists had a great desire for modernity because they were in contact with the West, with Europe and the US. They read a lot, they listened to rock’n‘roll and they could see a man walking on the moon. It was a moment in which they believed that everything seemed possible. Today things are much more pessimistic; we live in a sort of dystopia.

Your books have been published in more than 40 languages. How important is it that your work gets translated?
What’s amazing about being a translated writer is that, even if you are speaking in a foreign language, everyone understands. Literature is universal.

Which novel in translation would you recommend?
I loved the US author Ayad Akhtar’s Terre natale [Homeland Elegies], which was recently translated into French.

Do you have a favourite bookshop in Morocco?
Les Insolites, in Tangier.

Any film recommendations?
The Invisible Life of Eurídice Gusmão by Karim Aïnouz.

‘Watch Us Dance’ is out now.

Rodent to ruin

Capybaras are a South American internet sensation. In recent years thousands of fan pages dedicated to these giant rodents have cropped up on Brazilian social media. But the city of São Paulo isn’t as fond of them: it recently announced a plan to sterilise a herd living by the Pinheiros river.

Its reasoning? It seems that capybaras can transmit diseases and cause traffic accidents when they dash across roads. Scientists believe that if the population continues to increase at its current rate, the animals could start fighting for territory. Still, the decision drew the ire of Paulistanos, many of whom enjoy spotting them while stuck in slow-moving traffic. But they might change their minds if a herd of them shows up in their garden.

IMAGES: Getty Images, Shutterstock

Quality time

When we held the Monocle Weekender in Asheville, our US editor, Chris Lord, arrived off the back of a reporting trip in Alabama. He had been there to cover the work of Rural Studio, an off-campus programme run by the state’s Auburn University. The amazing project sees students designing, crafting and erecting buildings for towns in Hale County. It all started in 1993 when two professors were passing through the area and noticed that many people were living in rudimentary homes and that the towns lacked basic structures, such as somewhere to park a fire engine. They suggested that their students build the absent infrastructure – to date, some 200 projects, including the fire station, have been completed.

As I quizzed Chris, I could hear in his voice how impressed he was by the transformation he had witnessed: a coming together of people delivering quality of life for all. And it’s this idea – that towns and cities should deliver for all, not just an elite and not just in a few cool neighbourhoods – that runs throughout this issue. You can read Chris’s inspiring story starting on page 164.

We have published an annual Quality of Life issue every year since Monocle launched in 2007. Over the years, many people have written to ask why, say, Chicago, Buenos Aires or London are not in the ranking of the best cities to call home. They point out that, in their minds, sometimes a bit of grit or a wild spirit are what make cities soar. But, for example, while Rio de Janeiro is one Monocle’s favourite places, security, housing and education remain out of reach for many residents. That’s why lots of cities we love are unlikely to land in our liveability index, though they do pop up on other pages.

This year there’s another issue at play: how many of the bigger cities in the US are still recovering from the pandemic. While mental health, drugs, housing and homelessness are hot topics in many places around the globe, they are in a different league in parts of the US. Just read Greg Scruggs’s essay about his hometown, Seattle, a city struggling – and often failing – to get back on track to understand the consequences of what’s afoot (see page 77). Unlike in rural Alabama, getting people to agree on a way forward is almost impossible because of the divisive state of US city politics. Let’s see where we are in a year’s time.

There are lots of stories in this issue, however, that put the spotlight on progress and on outposts that anyone would be happy to call home. In our Expo (see page 219), we head to Bratislava to meet its mayor, Matus Vallo, who is also a skilled architect and musician. He and a large, informal group of city campaigners and advocates are working to make the Slovak capital a bastion of pioneering, child-friendly urbanism while also renewing its residents’ sense of urban pride. Then there’s our business report on the shop, bar and restaurant owners who deliver life and excitement to communities and high streets around the world (see page 108) – owners who understand that it’s not just what’s on their shelves that makes for success but also how they show responsibility for what happens beyond their front door. That’s the same motivation that inspires our cast of “urban heroes”, from Tokyo organic farmers to a Helsinki courtyard fixer-upper. There are a lot of good people who you should get to know in this issue.

Speaking of which, we would like to meet you in person to talk about making better places to live in. The annual Monocle Quality of Life Conference takes place in Munich from Thursday 31 August to Saturday 2 September. The event brings our readers and listeners together with the Monocle team and more than 20 speakers for talks, tours, dinners and parties. Secure your ticket at conference.monocle.com. Come and have a good time in a fascinating city.

Personally, I am looking forward to a few summer negroni moments, time pleasantly lost around the Med, travelling to places as yet unknown to me. Whatever your summer plans are, here’s hoping that you also have a blast – and find plenty of time to settle on a lounger with your copy of Monocle at hand.

If you want to drop me a note, forward an idea, you can find me at at@monocle.com. Salut!

City in the frame

To maintain its world-leading position, the Swiss city’s art fair must find new ways to evolve. Here the key players talk creation, curation and community building.

Basel’s Messeplatz is a nondescript square surrounded by grey exhibition halls – but once a year it bursts into creative life when it hosts Art Basel, the world’s most important art fair, which acts as a magnet for global collectors and curators. Galleries tend to save their best wares for the event, as about 90,000 art-world players assemble by the Rhine.

Messeplatz’s transformation is accentuated by a giant temporary installation: this year it’s the turn of Moroccan artist Latifa Echakhch. Projects such as this are one way that Art Basel stays fresh after 53 years. Over the decades, a set of about 290 participating galleries has solidified and all are determined to hang on to their precious spots. But this year, the fair is shaking things up more than usual. “We have opened up space to allow newer contemporary galleries into the main sector,” says Vincenzo de Bellis, Art Basel’s director of fairs and exhibition platforms.

When Art Basel began in 1970, its international remit mostly meant participants from around western Europe. Having since launched events in Miami, Hong Kong and Paris, the challenge now is to reflect a more complex, globalised market on home ground. Blank Projects is one of the new galleries bagging a coveted spot on the main exhibition floor. Founded in Cape Town in 2005, it has become an important part of South Africa’s burgeoning scene. “We tend to focus on abstraction, minimalism and materiality,” says founder Jonathan Garnham. “It’s definitely different from what others are doing here.”

With cheaper stands and a chance for an artist to win the chf30,000 (€30,500) Baloise Art Prize, the fair’s Statements section has been the easiest way to get a foot in the Art Basel door. This year it welcomes 10 newcomers, including participants from Mexico City, Tbilisi and Mumbai. Change at Art Basel is incremental but the direction of travel is clear: in the past decade the number of exhibitors from Africa, Asia, Latin America and eastern Europe has almost doubled. Basel is back – and more international than ever.

Art Basel runs 15 to 18 June; artbasel.com

7.
Art Basel
interview
Noah Horowitz

CEO, Art Basel

Veteran art-world executive Noah Horowitz took over as CEO of Art Basel last November. His previous roles included heading up The Armory Show in New York and Art Basel Miami Beach, as well as a stint at Sotheby’s. Here he reveals his plans for the company’s activities beyond the fair itself, tells us how to keep up with events worldwide and outlines how he thinks the art-fair scene is (and isn’t) changing.

What’s new at Art Basel this year?
We’re thrilled to have 285 galleries from all over the world. Not only do we have 21 new exhibitors but three of them are coming directly into Art Basel’s main sector [where the long-established players have booths] without taking part in the fair’s other subsections beforehand. This shows an evolution in our thinking – to truly support pioneering galleries.

Last autumn, Art Basel launched new fair Paris1. How else is the brand evolving?
Getting Art Basel running in a full capacity across four shows is a huge task. One thing that I have my eyes on is how else we can deploy our business platform – our relationships with galleries, artists, institutions and art-loving audiences – all year. There’s a correlation with what we do in the digital realm and how we support artists and galleries through our content channels. Without giving too much away, Art Basel will be more switched on with ever-wider audiences.

Art Basel is growing and niche fairs continue to expand but the influence of medium-size fairs is flagging. Where are fairs heading?
During the pandemic, people were questioning the future of fairs. But in the past year, there was the launch of Frieze in Seoul, we launched Paris1 and celebrated 20 years in Miami. We’ve seen strong application numbers across our shows. The art world has become more selective and fairs must have great programming or there’s a risk that people won’t attend in the same numbers.

You spent about a year working for Sotheby’s. What did you learn?
It taught me that there are a lot of opportunities for innovation but you have to go out and find them. Seeing and learning how to think not just as a business manager but as someone involved in the buying, selling and financing of work was valuable. I came back to Art Basel with fresh perspectives on what it takes to get business done and a better sense of where the opportunities are.

How would your ideal art fair look?
A lot like Art Basel: a venue that brings together the greatest galleries, artists and collectors in a single place and time. But we don’t rest on our laurels. Art fairs haven’t evolved tremendously in some 50 years. We can be more ambitious in how we innovate and build creative communities around fairs.
artbasel.com

artist
Latifa Echakhch
Vevey

Moroccan artist Latifa Echakhch answers the door of her lakeside studio in the Swiss town of Vevey while wearing a paint-splattered outfit. On the crisp spring day when Monocle visits, she has just returned from Milan’s Salone del Mobile, where she showed some paintings at the Kaufmann Repetto gallery. She is now turning her attention to her next, pressing commission: the main temporary installation on the Messeplatz at this year’s Art Basel.

“It’s a monumental work, so it needs to be charismatic enough to command the square,” says Echakhch. “I want to play with the public element of the space, creating a type of festival for everybody with different concerts throughout the day.” Her idea consists of building a colossal stage that looks as though it has been half-destroyed, as well as putting together a programme of two or three performances a day for the duration of the fair with the help of her partner, Luc Meier, director of nearby artist residence La Becque. Performers, including Robert Longo, US poet and musician Moor Mother and South Korean cellist Okkyung Lee, are set to take part.

This interest in sound is not new to Echakhch, despite being well known for her large-scale installations. In her takeover of the Swiss Pavilion at last year’s Venice Biennale, she collaborated with musicians on a two-day concert. She spent two years reading about music theory in preparation. “I’m very polite and I like to be able to hold an intelligent conversation with the people I work with,” she says. “As artists, we have the same job. We’re here to share our feelings about the world so that people can find solace.”

Set in a former ballroom from the 1930s, her studio is a light-flooded space where vast paintings sit next to black usm organisers and trays of bright acrylic paints. Pseudo-oriental decor, including colonnades and intricate doorways surrounded by plants, adds a distinctive touch to the airy room. In the basement, a vast library of books on the theory of art is proof of Echakhch’s academic dedication to her work. When she speaks of her art, she weaves together complex concepts and theories, straddling gravitas and abstraction.

Given that Art Basel is an event that can sometimes seem dominated by deal making, how does a cerebral artist like her feel about getting involved in such a commercially driven occasion? “The commission for the Messeplatz came directly from the fair, not from a gallery,” she says. “It’s a temporary and public piece. Art Basel is the world’s most important fair and it’s a great way to take the temperature of the current artistic climate.” The mood that she aims to capture in her installation is one of fragility and chaos – visitors might wonder if the stage has been attacked or simply left in ruins. “I’ve always been very sensitive, I lack tranquillity,” she says. “Even when I’m experiencing beauty, I can’t help having a double vision, already letting nostalgia for the present moment set in.”

A need to preserve an inner peace (and a dislike of big cities) has led Echakhch to the banks of Lake Geneva, in the French-speaking part of Switzerland. “I like to lead a calm, simple life,” she says. “Here, when the sun shines, people go to the lake to eat and drink. The Swiss are very good at switching between work and play. This lake, with its mountains, has inspired so many artists before me and it’s always changing.” It’s a slice of tranquillity that allows her to focus on her work – however unsettling and unpredictable the results might be.

Latifa Echakhch’s work will be on display on the Messeplatz from 15 to 18 June; artbasel.com

curator
Samuel Leuenberger
Parcours

Samuel Leuenberger has been for countless strolls around Basel and every new walk delivers surprises. Born and bred in the city, for the past eight years he’s been curating Parcours, the section of Art Basel that was founded in 2009 to scatter public artworks and performances across the town. Having begun his art career at the Stephen Friedman Gallery in London, today Leuenberger also directs Salts, an experimental exhibition space in the Swiss town of Birsfelden, on the outskirts of Basel.

Going for these walks is fundamental to discovering locations for future projects, although getting inspiration from around the world on his travels, before heading back to his hometown, is just as important. “If you never distance yourself from your home, you stay blind to some of it,” he says, as we stroll toward the river into Basel-Vorstaedte, the city’s museum district.

The works inside the Messe make up the commercial backbone of the most important art event of the year but Parcours helps attendees to appreciate the city beyond the fair halls. “Parcours is a very non-commercial product,” says Leuenberger, taking us over the Rhine on the Wettstein Bridge. Instead, the idea is to deviate from the typical path, showing works anywhere from roundabouts to secret beaches, lecture halls and private banks. Whereas many galleries are experimenting with bringing works outside the white cube, for Leuenberger this project is about enabling a wider audience to discover settings and artworks that they might not have had access to otherwise. This year he has enlisted choreographer Noa Eshkol’s dance ensemble to stage a performance inside the city’s construction and traffic department. Most people, unless they needed approval for a loft extension, wouldn’t otherwise get to see the building’s spectacular atrium, framed with stone balconies that rise to a handblown-glass roof.

Elsewhere, Laure Prouvost will show a neon piece and video work inside the Birsig tunnel, a water gateway beneath the Hotel Les Trois Rois. Leuenberger has long wanted to use this location for an installation but wet weather in the nearby mountains meant that he had to raincheck for years. For the first time, he’ll also be curating a sculpture garden: works by Thomas Houseago, Berlinde de Bruyckere and Wyatt Kahn will be shown in what is usually a private park near the Kunstmuseum. “Every year you learn more about the city and its secrets,” says Leuenberger.

Being able to use such exclusive locations and open them up to a wider public beyond the top-level collectors requires a lot of trust. Despite the odd 18th-century garden being trampled by visitors in an early edition of Parcours, the city seems willing to relinquish its numerous private spaces. Increasingly, Leuenberger’s polite letters (or doorstep visits) are well received by those who own some of Basel’s hidden architectural treasures.

In return, Leuenberger puts a lot of trust in the artists. Rather than deciding in advance which pieces should go where, he lets participating creatives tour the sites and be inspired by their potential before they embark on a new commission. The line-up of works is all the more cohesive as a result.

And even though Leuenberger admits that he faces growing pressure to keep discovering intriguing locations, landing worthy collaborations and fending off copycats, the biggest challenge is to find enough room to host all the commissions and ideas that are born in the process. “It’s an obsession and a challenge,” he says. “But there is plenty more that we can do here.”

Parcours takes place around Basel from 15 to 18 June; artbasel.com

curator
Frédérique Hutter and Last Tango
Baloise Art Collection

“The most important skill for a curator is intuition,” says Zürich-based artist manager Frédérique Hutter. Having worked with such galleries as Bruno Bischofberger and Haunch of Venison, she now runs her own space and, since 2022, has been the art adviser for the Baloise Art Collection, the Swiss insurance firm’s cultural arm.

Intuition is what led Hutter to curatorial duo Last Tango. “One of my collectors spoke about Linda Jensen and Arianna Gellini, and their space,” she says. “I had a hunch about them right away.” When it came to choosing who should look after the exhibition inside Art Forum Baloise Park at this year’s Art Basel, she knew that it had to be them.

Part of Hutter’s role at Baloise consists of giving emerging curators a bigger stage, allowing them to rethink what should be on show at the large gallery space inside the corporation’s HQ. Here, the duo will be able to pick which piece from the insurer’s more than 1,500-strong collection they believe deserves the spotlight – and hang it alongside 11 works borrowed from other institutions and artists. The resulting show, Siren Songs / Sinister Sirens, opens on 15 June.

“It’s not the first time we have worked with such prestigious pieces but it was amazing to have such incredible works to choose from,” says Gellini (pictured, centre, with Hutter, on left, and Jensen). “It was challenging to narrow it down to one that resonates with an overarching theme.” They decided on a pencil, charcoal and watercolour work by US artist Bruce Nauman, titled “Human Need Drain”. “It’s about the idea of agency, which has been a focus in our curatorial work,” says Jensen, who kicks into high gear when she talks about art and the questions it inspires.

Even though instinct is a big part of the profession, a curator also needs to know how to negotiate efficiently. “You need to be good at sensing people and managing them,” says Gellini. “When you do an exhibition, you’re dealing with personalities who bring themselves into the picture.” Empathy, sensibility and curiosity are important. “It’s about nurturing a community; having the museum director meet their neighbour as well as a student from art school.”

That type of meeting is not unusual at Last Tango’s exhibition space. Housed in a former barn overlooking the Limmat river in Zürich, the venue is sandwiched between the area of the city that’s home to many artist ateliers and the blue-chip galleries at Löwenbräu Areal. “It’s crucial that there’s a place for the big galleries to see the emerging artists and vice versa,” says Hutter. “This way they can nurture each other.” Her own nurturing work will soon be ready to bear fruit.

‘Siren Songs / Sinister Sirens’ opens on 15 June at Baloise Art Parc; art.baloise.com

interview
Elena Filipovic
Kunsthalle Basel

Long known as a launchpad for artists on their way to global superstardom, the Kunsthalle Basel is an unmissable stop-off for many visitors to the Swiss city every June. Legends such as Pablo Picasso, Paul Klee and Alberto Giacometti had landmark exhibitions here and the venue mounted some of the first European institutional shows for big-name US artists including Jackson Pollock, Jenny Holzer and Barbara Kruger. Curator Elena Filipovic has been in charge for almost a decade and has continued that august scouting tradition. Her nose for new talent has been instrumental in building careers, including those of German visual and performance artist Anne Imhof, British painter Lynette Yiadom-Boakye and Romanian sculptor Andra Ursuta, who all had early and important shows here.

Set in the heart of Basel inside an unprepossessing 19th-century building, the 151-year-old institution is one of the world’s oldest exhibition spaces that’s dedicated to chronicling contemporary art. “Kunsthalle Basel is a paradox,” says Filipovic. “It’s very old but has always concerned itself with the present.”

Sharing its patch with Art Basel – a fair that’s intent on capturing the most cutting-edge art – the venue’s spirit predates the arrival of the event. “We’re not here because Art Basel is here but the other way around,” says Filipovic. “Art Basel established itself here because there was so much interest in art already.” The city has plenty of collectors, an excellent art school and a stunning ensemble of cultural institutions, each with its own strong ideas and identity.

Born in Los Angeles, Filipovic moved to Paris in the late 1990s to research her dissertation on Marcel Duchamp. She was an assistant to peripatetic Swiss curator Hans Ulrich Obrist in the early 2000s, later working with the Berlin Biennale, Parisian museum Jeu de Paume and the Wiels contemporary art centre in Brussels. She took the Kunsthalle’s reins in 2014 and immediately began creating exhibitions to make people think. Early shows featured maverick British Turner Prize winner Mark Leckey and olfactory artist Anicka Yi. “I don’t need to provide consensus,” says Filipovic. This attitude is something that she valued about the Kunsthalle even before taking the top job.

“I’d seen more than a dozen shows here and what was special about the venue was its scale and ambition; its ability to put its money where its mouth is and to be avant garde and political.”

Filipovic has expanded on this ethos, incorporating a lively public programme into the Kunsthalle, championing a diverse roster of artists and mounting some, in her own words, “crazy” shows.

International art lovers know to follow the Kunsthalle’s goings-on but there is community support too – testament to a strong sense of civic and creative pride. “We have a very vocal local fan club,” says Filipovic. “If you come to openings, the demographic is shockingly wide: you will find 20-year-olds and 80-year-olds.” So, how does Filipovic go about spotting the next big stars? Sometimes, she says, it’s simply a matter of serendipitous discovery or late-night online research but it’s generally about keeping an eye on the art world, watching who’s touching on today’s thorniest topics in new and interesting ways. Even if Filipovic has spotted an intriguing artist, it doesn’t mean that they’ll have a solo show right away. It’s important, she says, to wait for the right moment.

“I’m not choosing the artists who everyone is interested in but the ones who are most provocative – the ones we need to listen to, even if we don’t understand them,” says Filipovic. “When I really don’t understand an artist, when I can’t get their work out of my head, then I know.”
kunsthallebasel.ch

gallerist
Hester Koper & Stefan von Bartha
Von Bartha

Artworks greet you at every step as you climb up to gallerists Hester Koper and Stefan von Bartha’s top-floor apartment. The couple reside above their gallery, Von Bartha, and members of their team live on the floors in between. “It sounds very unhealthy,” says Koper. “But we’ve known each other for a very long time,” adds Stefan. Von Bartha has always been a close-knit affair: it was founded in 1970 as Galerie Minimax by Stefan’s parents, Margareta and Miklos von Bartha. Around the time he was born, the family moved with the gallery into a building in Basel’s city centre. “As a child, I enjoyed that very much,” says Stefan. “It was always fun to be at home to meet all the artists and the collectors.” Since 2008, the gallery has been set inside a disused garage. Taking over unexpected buildings is something of a Von Bartha trademark: in 2021 the team opened a new outpost in an old lighthouse in Copenhagen. “We don’t go for easy spaces,” says Stefan.

Whether at home or work, the Von Barthas choose art in an instinctual way – an approach that they encourage new collectors to follow. According to Koper, many gallerists spend too much time recounting facts and figures.

“If something draws your attention but you can’t really explain why, that’s the best case scenario,” says Stefan. The couple sometimes sell pieces from their collection to finance new projects. But Koper believes that changing the art on the walls makes it feel more like home. “Living surrounded by art is beautiful: it really is life changing.“— smn

vonbartha.com

Forbidden cities

It’s a bumpy ride over Mount Lebanon to the Masnaa crossing, the gateway to Syria. The strip-lit border office is a rather mundane-looking entry point to a country that holds such mystique. Waiting for the guard to return from a cigarette break, an eastern European tourist pulls my sleeve and says, “He really is everywhere, isn’t he?” While hagiographic leader portraits are commonplace in authoritarian countries, beady-eyed Bashar al-Assad seems to stare down from every wall in Syria – in buildings, checkpoints and bathrooms. “Don’t talk about that in here,” says someone else in the queue. If Assad’s eyes are everywhere, so, in all likelihood, are his ears.

Weekenders once made the two-hour dash from Beirut to Damascus for shopping trips and hammam breaks but since Syria’s bloody civil war began in 2011, crossing the border has become an increasingly laborious and, for those trying to flee to Lebanon, risky process. After an anxious wait in the heat of late morning, we drive on to the Syrian capital, arriving just as market stalls are springing to life. The conflict has left the old city mostly untouched. We drag our luggage down winding lanes before reaching a stone arch, through which is the Talisman Hotel, the Damascene idyll that travellers have dreamed of for centuries. In its central courtyard, the sun beats down on a stone basin surrounded by traditional wrought-iron tables. Every corner contains lush bougainvillaea and orange-blossom trees haloed with dancing butterflies. Through heavy wooden doors leading to airy bedrooms, a treasure trove of furnishings inlaid with mother of pearl awaits.

In old Damascus, every ornate doorway and carved wooden balcony window is a discovery. Continuously inhabited for more than 12,000 years, this city has been rebuilt time and again, as we discover in the ancient House of St Ananias, which lies at the Roman street level some three metres beneath today’s well-trodden pavements. The centre of the tranquil old city retains a community that has held itself together with a commitment to its daily rituals. Breakfast pastries laden with juicy meat soaked in pomegranate molasses are stacked on wooden boards in front of stone ovens known as afran. On the lush, tree-lined main boulevard, couples walk hand in hand as they survey the traders’ wares: beaded chandeliers, embossed brass trays and wooden-inlay mirrors are piled high. Many of the antiques on sale come from abandoned homes but few of those left behind have the money to buy them.

Arwa Haddad moved from Homs to Damascus to pursue a career as a tour guide. “The look on your face when you see every beautiful and surprising corner of this city – that was the look on my face when I first came here too,” she says. “That’s why I want to do this job: to show everyone my country that I love so much.” Haddad is one of a crop of fresh-faced Syrian tour guides in training, hoping to reveal a different side of their war-torn home. With so few opportunities for young people to work, they’re counting on tourism to help them build a future for themselves. Guide-turned-entrepreneur Fadi Assi is the man behind the project. His career began in 1997. Business was booming, with about 8.5 million tourists coming to Syria every year; 2010 was the busiest year yet. After the protests and brutal government response in early 2011, however, a packed schedule of bookings suddenly cleared.

With no visitors, Assi switched to working in oilfields. Kidnapped on four occasions by militant groups during the period of lawless violence that erupted in northern Syria in 2012, he did what he could to earn an income. When relative security returned in 2019, Assi decided that the time was right to bring tourists back but on his own terms. “It’s a new Syria and the kind of people who want to visit are different too,” he says. “Tourists who come here now don’t want a history lesson. They want to see our life and our culture, and share our joys and struggles.”

Assi set about recruiting young people, who he believes are more open-minded after all that they have endured in their lives. He has seen his booking enquiries triple in the past year and is never off the phone, always driving back and forth from the border to collect his charges. The first and only guide to succeed in securing visas for Americans since 2011, he is in high demand and has done his best to assemble a group (his “Golden Team”, as he calls it) that runs the gamut of ethnicities and religions in this diverse country.

As night draws in, Damascus sparks into life. In a cave bar tucked behind an old villa in the backstreets, young people gather to drink bottles of crisp Syrian-brewed Afamia beer and sing the songs of the Arab world’s old divas. “Life is impossibly hard,” says Sirina Alnabwani, a 25-year-old graphic designer and dance teacher. “We all have to work so many jobs just to get by. Where are the opportunities for our future? We’re Syrian and that’s a black mark now. No one wants us.”

Despite what this city’s young people have been through, the desire for life coursing through their veins is infectious. Alnabwani’s hips begin to sway to the music as she calls her friends onto the dance floor. They spin and stamp, ululating as the beat grows stronger and tossing their heads back. “People think that we have died here but we’re alive no matter what,” she says. “If we young people have learned one thing, it’s not to care what anyone thinks about us.”

Damascus feels sorrowful but secure. But as we leave the city the next morning the mood changes. The northern suburbs, infamous for their drawn-out rebellion and long under siege by the government, are all but gone. Mounds of dust coat a landscape that was once filled with homes and farms. “These people will never come back,” says an old man as he surveys the destruction. “There’s nothing to rebuild. The regime flattened it. What was it all for?”

Driving towards the southern city of Bosra, under government control after being wrested back from rebel forces, our guide grows tense. “The terrorists tried to beat us but they did not win,” she says, steely-faced. There is a clear lexicon for tours here. Every side except for the government is referred to as “terrorists”; there is no differentiation between al-Qaeda, Isis and the rebel groups that rose up against Assad’s forces. Any destruction is attributed to attacks by these “terrorists” on pro-government Syrians; the army and their allies shoulder no blame. Many of the younger generation here seem genuinely not to know or understand the difference. The road should only take an hour but at least 10 checkpoints stand between us and our destination. At each, smiling soldiers announce, “Welcome to Syria!” before carefully reviewing our names and passports, as well as the credentials of our guides. No foreigner can enter Syria without a personal sponsor, so guided tours such as the one we have attached ourselves to are the only way that most can see the country.

Among Bosra’s Roman ruins, shop signs lie scattered in streets littered with sheep droppings. As we pass walls still daubed in the green, white and black flag of the Syrian resistance, we’re instructed not to take pictures. “That is not the real Syrian flag,” we’re told. “It means nothing.”

“Twelve years of violence and fear,” says 22-year-old guide Tilka, as we wait at another checkpoint. She’s a Syriac from Qamishli, a northeastern city at the centre of a dispute between Kurdish forces and the Syrian government. Her eyes fill with tears as she looks out of the window. “That’s such a long time: half of our lives. It has been so hard.” Her childhood friend Gabriela has come to Damascus to train as a guide too; whenever they want to visit their home city, they face a 13-hour journey across some of the country’s still-active front lines. Gabriela’s first love is literature, she tells me as we walk the old streets. Virginia Woolf taught her what it is for a woman to forge her own path; Emily Dickinson’s poetry speaks to her because so much of it is left open to interpretation. But with Western imports so limited, she finds it difficult to get hold of the books that she craves to read.

We drive north to the Krak des Chevaliers, a fortress built by crusaders in the 11th century and recently occupied by rebel and jihadist forces. Inside, wildflowers poke from every crevice and fig trees crouch on the high ramparts. For residents of the nearby village of al-Husn, the land has not been so giving. “We have kept the castle safe and people are starting to come again,” says Rachad, who has been the castle’s caretaker for decades, his greying hair swept behind stark cheekbones. “But for us, there is nothing. I’ve only managed to rebuild one room of my house, where I live with my whole family.” As we climb down from the high walls, Haddad pulls me into the castle’s ancient chapel-turned-mosque. Covering her abundant curls with an embroidered shawl, she begins to sing a mournful Sufi prayer. “God, I never knew love before I knew you. When I close my eyes, I see no enemies. You protect me…”

The road to Palmyra promises even greater loss. This ancient town, which once thrived through trade and, later, tourism, sits desolate in the baking midday sun. The gate of its museum lies rusting on its hinges, the walls savaged by bullet holes. Inside, only a few treasures remain; the statues’ faces were hacked off by Isis fighters who captured the city in 2015. A picture of Khaled al-Asaad, the 82-year-old archaeologist who was publicly beheaded that year after refusing to disclose the location of hidden artefacts, is painted on a filing cabinet door that is propped up in the lobby. The ruins are a trace of their former glory: the magnificent temples of Bel and Baalshamin were levelled by dynamite, their proud columns and friezes reduced to rubble. Only the amphitheatre remains intact. A local man and his four-year-old daughter try to sell faded postcards in the dry desert heat but few now come this way.

Though depleted, these ancient marvels are what draw tourists to Syria today, despite the dangers. Bernardo Martinez, a Mexican architect from Monterrey, travelled to the country to explore its architectural heritage. Once here, he found the people equally stimulating. “Inspiration doesn’t just come from the architecture of ancient sites or modern buildings but also from the people, food, culture, colours, textures, fashion, religion, nature, music and even weather. Though Syria’s infrastructure is devastated, the soul of its culture and people is as strong as ever.”

Michael Treichl, a German airport duty manager, first visited Syria 20 years ago. Now he is back to see the country that haunts his dreams. His jaw drops as he walks through the devastated old souks of Aleppo, every step kicking up thick dust. The 14th-century alleyways lie in ruins, weeds growing between piles of ancient stone. “This was once the most vibrant, the most alive place that I have ever been to,” he says. “Seeing it like this is unbearable.”

The reconstruction of Aleppo’s souks is under way but in February they were hit by another devastating blow, as the earthquakes that struck southern Turkey and northern Syria levelled the rebuilt section. “How much more can we take?” cries 27-year-old Aleppo resident Alissar Basmaji. “You think it’s beautiful now? You should have seen it before. This place was magical.” Like so many other young Syrians, Basmaji is working many jobs – including as a pianist, public relations manager and university lecturer – to survive. “When the war was at its worst, everyone left. But I want to do everything that I can to stay, to make a life here again.”

If the destruction in Aleppo comes as a jolt after the protected charms of Damascus, it is only a taste of what is to come. On the 200km drive to Homs, the true cost of the war is laid bare. Every town and village on this embattled front line has been laid to waste. No one lives in these burned-out shells any more, each former home a patchwork of shattered concrete and twisted metal. Army tanks are parked in apartment garages that once housed family sedans. Occasional lines of drying clothes slung from high apartment windows flag those who have refused to leave. Shepherds graze their sheep on central reservations; roadside merchants with crates of fresh cherries and strawberries pop up once every few kilometres, hoping to catch the occasional car. As we enter Khan Sheikhoun, the centre of some of the worst fighting, Assi gazes out of the window. The town is famous for its honey and pistachios but now the wildflowers that blanket the roadside stand lonely, the gentle buzz of bees wafting around them long gone. “We used to come camping here in the spring as the nuts were ripening,” says Assi wistfully. “Do you know how a pistachio tells you it’s ready? It pops. We would lie under the trees through the cool spring night and hear the nuts call their readiness, ping, ping. What a gentle life we lived.”

In the central Syrian city of Hama, home to 12th- century water wheels that once powered the ancient settlement, the poverty is more extreme. Mothers in ragged clothes beg desperately for change as young couples eat ice cream in the sunshine and take selfies in the park. Children scream in delight as they hold diving competitions on the banks of the Orontes river. Yusuf, a teenager who, like his friends, has no school and no work, is picking ruby-red camellias to give his mother. He hands me one shyly, wishing me a happy Eid.

A significant sector of the international community advocates boycotting tourism to Syria, arguing that foreign currency entering the country would prop up a government responsible for the deaths and displacement of millions of its citizens. Others argue that such an approach only hurts civilians who are already struggling to survive. The country’s economy is at its lowest ebb, largely as a result of the devaluation of the Syrian pound. Before the war, syp50 bought $1 (€0.90); now you would need about syp7,000. Government salaries bring in less than €30 a month, barely enough to buy basic food staples, let alone pay rent and afford petrol, gas and generator fuel. Electricity functions for only a few hours a day and running a business is almost impossible as financial transactions are frozen, meaning that international banks will not send or receive money from Syria. Sanctions target many building materials because of their potential military use; that leaves millions of people without the resources to rebuild their homes, even if they could afford to do so. Despite temporary exemptions for specific humanitarian aid after the earthquake, the US has shown little willingness to lift existing sanctions; meanwhile, the EU imposed further measures on Assad’s government in late April.

People are forced to use workarounds to get foreign currency into the country. A Kurdish hairdresser in Geneva, for instance, might serve as a drop-off for payments; he’ll then call a contact in Syria who will distribute funds at the other end. Sometimes, it’s as simple as handing a stack of notes and desperately needed supplies such as baby milk and heart medicine to a taxi driver crossing the border, along with instructions about where to deliver them. But these are crisis measures, not long-term solutions. “It’s clear that while sanctions are officially targeting the Syrian government and its institutions, they are indirectly affecting the whole population,” says Syrian economist Joseph Daher, an affiliate professor at the European University Institute in Florence. “The objective of sanctions is behavioural change and popular pressure for reform but the opposite is happening. Economic pressure is increasing and there is no political will for change. People are just focusing on surviving or trying to leave.”

In recent months wealthy Arab states such as the uae, Saudi Arabia and Egypt have renewed ties with Assad’s government. Besides pleading with friendly nations to reconsider, the US and its allies can do little to turn the tide as it becomes increasingly clear that Syria’s president is here to stay.

Rik Brinks runs Cultureroad, a Netherlands-based adventure-travel company that has brought tours to Syria since early 2022. Brinks says that Syria is one of his most popular destinations: interest has shot up this year, attracting a mix of adventure travellers and people with a specific connection to the country. “Their first question is, ‘Is it safe?’” says Brinks. “We want to show them a different side. Syrians fall in love, have families, live the same lives as we live. Visitors say that their trips are amazing and that’s mostly down to the people.” For Brinks, arranging tours to Syria has been easier than some of his other challenging destinations because the tourism infrastructure and knowledge were in place before the war. But it has not been without its challenges. The biggest hurdle is visas, as every traveller needs individual security screening and clearance from the government. Brinks believes that avoiding tourism to Syria to punish its leaders is misguided. “The people don’t choose their government,” he says. “Only about 2 per cent of our costs go to the state, for permits. Everything else goes to the people here and their businesses and, in this economic climate, every meal at a restaurant helps.”

Homs, Assi’s home district, is as beautiful as it is tragic. The wild, rolling fields of countryside seem to vibrate with nature’s riches, the daily rhythms of agricultural life now set against a backdrop of destruction. The northern suburbs lie in ruins, a haunting reminder of the communities that once lived there.

In a four-room apartment decked out with the low-slung, brightly patterned sofas that are particular to Arab hospitality, Assi’s mother, Asmahan, has prepared a feast. Plump chickpeas marinated in olive oil and topped with boiled chicken and bulgur wheat bump against platters of fresh peas and grilled lamb. Shish barak, meat-filled pastry parcels served with an acid-sharp yoghurt sauce, is the star of the show. We wash down plate after plate with arak, aniseed liqueur hand-distilled from grapes grown on the farm of Assi’s father, Nadim. Every meal in Syria is a delight.

After dinner, we sip on sweet tea as Assi’s cheeky eight-year-old daughter, named Syria, proudly lays out her Monopoly board, an edition that features Damascus’s best-known streets. The prices on the bright squares hark back to a time when a stack of Syrian pounds could buy a home (or hotel), not just a can of soda.

The following day, as I walk down the unlit streets of Homs’ old town, fat drops of rain begin to fall – a relief after a series of sweltering days. Looking for shelter, I see a wooden door propped open, its delicate brass reliefs sparkling as the water lands. Inside there is a hidden palace. The carefully laid arms of ancient wood-beam ceilings swing out to meet traditional striped, black-and-white stone walls, each bearing a series of geometric patterns.

Across the fountain-laden courtyard, the same stones lie scattered in piles – the back half of what was once Homs’ grandest restaurant, Beit al-Agha, now in ruins. Rain falls on a UN tarpaulin strung over the tile floor, beneath which hangs a single battery-powered bulb. It gives just enough light for the fierce backgammon game unfolding between Abu Ghadi and Abu Georges.

As I sit down to watch, I am handed a scalding cup of thick, black cardamom coffee. They have played this way every night for four or five years now, their friend Imad tells me, hunched over a towering ashtray that he fills from an ever-replenished cigarette at the corner of his mouth. With no electricity at home and no work, they meet to talk of the old days and use what public spaces they have left.

Imad used to build stone houses such as this. His friend Abu Ghadi was a plumber. With no money for reconstruction, they have all the skills that their country needs but none of the materials. Still, they have hope. Imad sweeps his greying hair from his forehead, heavily lined through years of grief, as he looks around the battered beauty of the ruined palace.

“We will rebuild our Syria – we have no other choice,” the stone mason vows determinedly. “Step by step, stone by stone, we’ll get there.”

Images: Every person quoted and photographed for this piece gave full approval for their inclusion.

Every picture tells a story

I was in Asheville, North Carolina, for The Monocle Weekender when the photo desk received many of the shoots for this issue. Richard Spencer Powell, our creative director, kindly selected some images from the key features and emailed them to me so that I could see how many pages each story merited – and to assure me that all was running even more smoothly with me out of the way. One of the shoots I was especially keen to see was for our Syria dispatch (page 61).

A few months ago, after years of trying official routes, we took the decision to send our Beirut correspondent, Leila Molana-Allen, and a photographer, into Syria as tourists. This comes with risks: the Syrian regime is not keen on having uninvited journalists in their country. Precautions were taken. We agreed that they would travel overland from Lebanon with an organised group, first stopping in Damascus, then heading on to Aleppo, Homs and Palmyra; meeting contacts where possible, seeing the country’s attempts to revive its once vibrant tourism industry and gauging the mood of the nation.

Thankfully, all went well – mostly. There were some uneasy moments with the police, meaning that our photographer has decided not to use their name on this report. Leila is credited. But the pictures. In my hotel room, I opened the pdf sampler and found myself pulled in by one image in particular – you can see it on pages 70 and 71. Shot on a square in Damascus, it shows some 20 or so young men and two young women. The men – boys, really – all look as though they have been to the same barber: sides of heads are sharply shaved and a lot of hair product seems to be holding the rest of their neat cuts in place. One group is taking a selfie. A couple walks past, closer to the camera, holding hands. It’s a picture that looks so normal; just young people hanging out. It could be anywhere. But what aches is knowing that Syria is anything but normal, that even if these young Syrians live in Damascus, where the ravages of the civil war were felt less severely, their futures will be curtailed. It’s a picture of the everyday but also of people who can’t quite see how caught up in history they are. I hope that this same feeling comes across in Leila’s report: that after years of terror, of the gruesome Isis caliphate, the crushing of the democratic movement, the arrival of Russian forces, people are trying to find ways to rebuild their lives, cling on, take pleasure in mundane moments.

Rich also sent me another set of pictures to preview. These are far removed from the destruction of Syria. Liam Aldous, our Madrid correspondent for many years, has spent much of his time in Ibiza. For this issue’s Expo (page 187), he reports on a generation of transplants who find themselves on the island not for clubbing or life on the beach but to farm. There has always been magical mysticism at play in Ibiza, which has attracted people on personal journeys of discovery. But increasingly the island is a laboratory for sustainable farming at every scale. I am not quite ready to buy a hoe and farmer’s smock (though I like the look) but it did make me think that owning a goat could be a good life ambition.

This issue is also an art special (page 100) and Chiara Rimella has pulled together an impressive survey of what’s ahead this summer, the artists you should know, the pieces that collectors are snapping up, a preview of Art Basel and a dive into the photography market to find out the value of a perfect shot.

If you couldn’t join us in Asheville, here’s some news: our annual Quality of Life Conference will take place in Munich from Thursday 31 August to Saturday 2 September – and tickets have just gone on sale. It’s a highlight of our year. You’ll hear from 20 speakers, attend great dinners and receptions, see a dynamic city afresh and hang out with team Monocle. Come. You can buy tickets at monocle.com or message our head of events, Hannah Grundy, at hg@monocle.com. In the meantime, feel free to contact any of our editors with ideas and comments; you can find me at at@monocle.com. Have a good month.