Pale winter sun bounces off gilded stucco and cracked walls, and rows of mirrors reflect the shattered bodies of the haughty sculptures that once held up the columns in Palazzo Reale’s Hall of Caryatids.
In Napoleon’s time, the classical Sala delle Cariatidi was Europe’s largest, most elaborate ballroom, dripping chandeliers. In 1943, British bombs devastated it. Left open to the elements for years afterwards, the Hall was never fully restored, and has survived as a mix of ruin and grandeur: an emblem of suffering, resilience and memory.
When I push through the throng around the Duomo — Milan is awash with visitors for the Winter Olympics — and cross the square to enter this fascinating, silent, elegiac room, I am welcomed by 80-year-old Anselm Kiefer.