Santa Catalina de Siena (I)

This article is part of the Hidden Architecture Series “Tentative d’Épuisement” , where we explore the practice of an architectural criticism without rhetoric and based mainly on the physical experience of the work itself. Este artículo forma parte de la serie “Tentativa de Agotamiento” , comisariada por Hidden Architecture, donde exploramos la práctica de una crítica arquitectónica ausente de retórica y fundamentada sobre todo en la experiencia física de la propia obra. I hurry the last sip of mate and the coca leaves stick to the enamelled surface of the cup. The sky is clear and for some reason, perhaps the altitude at which we find ourselves and to which we are still struggling to get used to, disturbingly light. The indigo has gained intensity in the last few minutes, neutralising the pink and orange brushstrokes of an already defunct dawn. There is no breeze, although the early morning was cool and has left its trail of dew on the grass in the garden. It is seven o'clock, Easter April. We go out into the street and the sun makes itself felt for the first time, warming our faces in precocious excess, warning us of the heat that is expected. The streets of Arequipa are bustling at this early hour. Our pavement is occupied by a drinks lorry on its unloading round and a group of schoolchildren surround it, dodging the traffic on the road. The horn, a hallmark of Arequipa's urbanity, is still used with reserve, timidly annoyed. Once the oasis of humidity that was the hotel garden is left behind, the still air is dry and bitter tasting. Apuro el último sorbo de mate y las hojas de coca quedan adheridas a la superficie esmaltada de la taza. El cielo es limpio y por alguna razón, quizá la altitud a la que nos encontramos y a la que nos cuesta todavía habituarnos, de una perturbadora ligereza. El añil ha ganado intensidad en los últimos minutos, neutralizando las pinceladas rosas y anaranjadas de un amanecer ya difunto.