No structures has been around since 1700. A moronic combination of the most various stylistic elements used to cover up the skeletons of modern residences is named modern architecture. The brand new beauty of concrete and flat iron are profaned by the superimposition of motley ornamental incrustations that can't be justified either by constructive need or by our (modern) preference, and whose roots are in Egyptian, Indian or Byzantine antiquity and for the reason that idiotic flowering of stupidity and impotence that had taken the real name of neoclassicism.
These architectonic prostitutions are welcomed in Italy, and rapacious alien ineptitude is exceeded off as talented technology so when extremely up-to-date structures. Young Italian architects (those who acquire originality from clandestine and compulsive devouring of skill journals) show off their abilities in the new quarters of our own towns, in which a entertaining salad of little ogival columns, seventeenth-century foliation, Gothic directed arches, Egyptian pilasters, rococo scrolls, fifteenth-century cherubs, inflamed caryatids, take the accepted host to style in every seriousness, and presumptuously placed on monumental airs. The kaleidoscopic appearance and reappearance of forms, the multiplying of machinery, the daily increasing needs imposed by the speed of communications, by the concentration of population, by hygiene, and by 100 other phenomena of modern life, never cause these self-styled renovators of architecture a moment's perplexity or hesitation. They persevere obstinately with the guidelines of Vitruvius, Vignola and Sansovino plus gleanings from any publicized scrap of information on German structures that occurs to be accessible. Using these, they continue steadily to stamp the image of imbecility on our locations, our places that ought to be the faithful and immediate projection of ourselves.
Therefore this expressive and man-made fine art is becoming in their hands a vacuous stylistic exercise, a jumble of ill-mixed formulae to disguise a run-of-the-mill traditionalist package of natural stone and bricks as today's building. As though we who are accumulators and generators of movement, with all our added mechanical limbs, with all the current noise and speed in our life, could stay in streets built for the needs of men four, five or six centuries ago.
This is actually the supreme imbecility of modern structures, perpetuated by the venal complicity of the academies, the internment camps of the intelligentsia, where in fact the young are obligated in to the onanistic recopying of traditional models rather than throwing their heads available in the seek out new frontiers and in the answer of the new and pressing problem: the Futurist house and city. The house and the location that are ours both spiritually and materially, where our tumult can trend without seeming a grotesque anachronism.
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