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Crespi d’Adda (a hamlet of Capriate San Gervasio, in the province of Bergamo) is a workers’ village constructed between 1878 and the late 1920s and preserved to this day in almost original condition. It is precisely this latter characteristic that renders it particularly interesting (and that secured its inclusion on the UNESCO World Heritage List).
A summary of the relevant Wikipedia article is not, however, among my objectives. As on all previous occasions, I consider it more useful—and more interesting—to describe contemporary real life. This time, the plan of exposition is imposed upon me by the original urban layout:

The plan you have just seen is displayed on the belvedere constructed on one of the elevations surrounding the village. It is from here that a good portion of the most famous photographs of Crespi d’Adda has been taken.

One of the potentially most interesting buildings—the «casa padronale» (once used by the Crespi family as a summer residence, now belonging to others and disused, as is the factory itself)—is better seen from above or from one of the bridges over the Adda than from close quarters. At present it is surrounded by a monastery-like wall and almost entirely concealed by trees.

The area least visible from above is the former mill complex, whereas from the street only one of its four sections can be observed with any clarity. The factory, inactive since 2003, might have been transformed—at least in part—into an exceedingly interesting industrial museum, but it is completely closed. If I have understood correctly, not even guided visits by appointment are envisaged.

The zone entirely invisible from the belvedere—probably because of the vegetation—is the local cemetery.

And yet the road leading to the cemetery is the direct continuation of the road that once led the workers to the factory. I do not know whether the planners of the village invested this urban choice with particular symbolic meaning.

The part of the cemetery that first captures one’s attention is the mausoleum of the Crespi family, which for some obscure reason made me think of Mayan architecture.

But the truly remarkable feature to be admired—[I hesitated briefly before typing that verb, but I shall leave it, for it reflects reality more precisely]—is the rows of simple crosses on the graves of the workers and their families. I understand that this aesthetic is not universally appreciated, yet in my view they stand very well without the original delimiting hedges. The more traditionally decorated tombs are located along the sides of the cemetery and appear almost as foreign bodies.

One may also make discoveries in historical demography: for example, I observed a high level of infant mortality in the late 1920s compared to other represented periods (a great many graves bearing identical years of birth and death).

On the opposite side of the village (and only a few dozen metres from the belvedere) stand the houses of those who were meant to minimise the number of future residents of the cemetery through continuous assistance to the population: the doctor’s house (left) and the priest’s house (right). Initially they were identical, but one can easily see that a substantial extension was later added to the doctor’s residence (for receiving patients).

The workers of the mill initially lived in the so-called «palazzotti». Each of the three above-ground floors consisted of nine rooms arranged along a common corridor (I found no information about the attic, which is equipped with the same number of windows). Each room was assigned to a worker’s family. At the end of each corridor were sanitary facilities and a communal kitchen, while public baths were located in a separate building. What is surprising is that these blocks still appear to be inhabited (as are certain buildings of the same type in Russia, even in Moscow).

The original purpose of the only aesthetically interesting «popular» building has remained unknown to me. I hope the local administration will soon notice this informational lacuna.

In the early 1880s, however, it was decided to construct workers’ dwellings of a new type: detached houses with vegetable garden and yard for one, two, or three families. These buildings are arranged in two long rows…

… and only at first (and inattentive) glance do they seem identical. From the number of entrance doors, for instance, one may deduce their capacity (in families).

Unlike the previous one, this house should be intended for two families:

All the houses appear to be inhabited, but their state of preservation varies considerably. It would have been curious to convert one—just one would suffice—into a museum of late nineteenth-/early twentieth-century working-class daily life. Or at least to make it visitable even when empty, as is done, for example, with the monks’ cells at the Certosa di Pavia. Sooner or later they will manage it. I hope. The same applies to the aforementioned «palazzotti».

The rear portion of each plot is intended for the vegetable garden. The building density (and, to some extent, that of the flora) does not allow it to be easily seen in photographs, but at the intersection of every four gardens there is a small single-storey structure:

These are small houses with two doors for each garden and round windows on the sides. It would be too banal to assume they are intended merely for gardening tools (I have at least two alternative hypotheses).

Overall, the workers’ living conditions (at least from a housing perspective) appear markedly superior to those of the contemporary middle class. Observe, for example, the modern anthills in the background.

The houses for clerks and foremen of the mill also differ slightly from one another.

The managers’ houses struck me as stylistically repugnant, so let us spare them close study. I shall merely note that they are situated in a greener and quieter environment.

Seven of the twelve wooden barracks constructed in the early 1920s for veterans of the Abyssinian war are still standing. One of these barracks is the only building for sale in the entire village. Who desires a summer house in a unique location?

The residents of all detached houses are united in a competition for the most absurd letterbox. Had I seen any one of these in isolation, I would have described it as an example of colossal trash. Gathered together within a few square kilometres, they constitute an amiable local peculiarity.

American-style mailboxes are also very popular.

I had read that the handsome washhouse was today in a very poor state of conservation. According to my non-professional judgement, it is the roof that is in disastrous condition, while the rest presents no serious visible damage. Even the taps remain in place. Some vandal, however, has hung signs reading «private property» and «non-potable water».

Entirely unadvertised is another washhouse in the village: it lies behind the hydroelectric power station, only a few dozen metres from the first. Being constructed of reinforced concrete, it is aesthetically far less pleasing. Yet it is larger, better preserved, and structured in a more convenient manner for users.

Of the power station itself it is said that it was reactivated in 2005 after four years of inactivity. That may well be so, but at the time of my visit no evidence of operation was visible. A renovated façade is not, in itself, proof of functioning machinery.

The building of the former school currently houses the local tourist office and—equally important—the source of free Wi-Fi.

The local church is said to be a scaled-down copy of the Sanctuary of Santa Maria di Piazza in Busto Arsizio. I have never been to Busto, so I observed with curiosity this alternative to the bell tower.

The symbol of the ideal city is now employed everywhere: not only on the factory buildings but also on modern decorative elements, both public and private.

The founder of the company and of the village, Cristoforo Benigno Crespi, has earned of all possible commemorations only a bust, installed near the church.

His factory remained active until 2003, yet aesthetically it has remained almost identical to its late nineteenth-century appearance. The modern buildings clearly visible from outside are only two, most likely constructed before the village was inscribed on the World Heritage List (in 1995). If my hypothesis is realistic, one might say that the development of the factory was halted in order to transform the entire area into an inhabited museum. Yet without economic activity, a museum is, in the long term, condemned to lose its inhabitants and thus to die. By a curious coincidence, not far from Crespi d’Adda lies the park «Minitalia».

Visitors endowed with average powers of observation may notice that both chimneys (that of the factory and that of the hydroelectric station) have been lengthened by several metres in relatively recent times. This constitutes the second—and final—visible modernisation of the production facilities.

The number of tourists visiting the village seemed to me rather modest (only a few couples and/or families), though this probably depends on the season or the hour. I did, however, see groups of schoolchildren (I am not skilled at guessing ages, but I would say 14–16). The point I wish to convey is important: the locality is not crowded with Chinese tourists and can be studied in tranquillity.

Even if certain prohibitions in force within the village do not render it especially attractive.

There is something paradoxical in the fact that a street bearing such a name should have appeared to me for the first time (in Italy) precisely in a museum. Or is it a melancholy confirmation of the facts?

The nearest forms of genuine progress are located, in any case, outside Crespi d’Adda.

But this does not mean there is nothing to envy. Thus, for example, I should like to see in other cities of the world benches fashioned from old metal beams.

The street lamps of Crespi d’Adda were, in my opinion, originally beautiful. They have since been modernised in an excessively primitive manner (and therefore spoiled).

We have now seen everything there was to see. At least from an urbanistic perspective, the life of the workers of Crespi d’Adda did not strike me as particularly grey.