An Unfinished Symphony: Armando Brasini’s Basilica in Rome

by Elisabetta Procida & Steven Semes, appearing in Volume 47

One of the undeniable masterpieces of the early twentieth-century architect Armando Brasini (1879-1965) is the Basilica of the Immaculate Heart of Mary in the Parioli district in the north of Rome.   Principal Roman seat of the Missionary Congregation of the Sons of the Heart of Mary (the Claretians), the monumental scale and incomplete profile of the church give it a grandiose but melancholy character offering important lessons for architects and their patrons. In addition to the artistic value of its design, the project’s long and troubled history also demonstrates how client relations, budgets, and the struggle between artistic objectives and an often-resistant reality were as much facts of life in the 1920s and 1930s as they are today. But beyond these perennial challenges, Brasini’s artistic production has suffered from a critical reception that denied his importance and, after the Second World War, suppressed his reputation, largely for stylistic reasons.

Sixty years after his death, Brasini’s work has still not received the impartial critical evaluation it deserves within the panorama of postwar Italian architecture. The standard historiography of the architecture of the twentieth century has ignored the work of architects that, following their own personal stylistic paths, were considered extraneous to the Modernist movement. Above all, the shadow of the autocratic European regimes of the 1920s and 30s contributed to the depreciation of the work of traditionalist designers on the continent, though the collaboration of Modernist designers with the Fascist regime was largely forgiven. After the Second World War, Italian scholars published new studies in architectural history that would become standard references for generations of architects. Authors like Bruno Zevi and Leonardo Benevolo marked their distance from the recent Fascist regime by exalting the Modernist movement while deprecating or ignoring the traditionalists.

In the democratic countries, the work of such artists as the English Edwin Lutyens or the American Bernard Maybeck (both contemporaries of Brasini) was more readily accepted and did not face the same political judgments. In the 1960s, it was Robert Venturi who, as an American free from the ideological viewpoints that dominated postwar Italian architectural discourse, was able to take the measure of Brasini’s architectural legacy, including him in his seminal book, Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture (1966). Also, Brasini’s work is in clear contradiction to functionalism: it expresses the present by means of the unconventional use of the languages inherited from the past and, with its mastery of grammar and syntax, moves beyond orthodoxy without ever being arbitrary. Notwithstanding the astonishingly inventive character of much of Brasini’s design work, he was dismissed as a reactionary and a classical pasticheur, a reputation that has only recently begun to change. In the 1990s, critics like Richard Etlin and Diane Ghirardo became more understanding of the cultural dynamics of the two decades of Fascist rule and therefore more sympathetic to the traditional architecture produced by many designers active in the period. In the case of Brasini, the reorganization of his private archive and the publication of its inventory (Elisabetta Procida, 2004) have allowed deeper and more widespread awareness of the architect.

But this greater scholarly attention has also revealed the difficulties that Brasini faced in his practice, particularly in the project for the basilica. Extensive documentation reveals the painful construction history of the church, along with the birth of the Parioli quarter that surrounds it and accompanied its growth for almost half a century. The story unfolds in the interweaving of the professional biography of Brasini and the activity of the Claretian order, as documented primarily in the Central State Archives in Rome (now containing the private archive of the architect) and the archives of the order.

Designs for the Claretian Basilica

Brasini’s first project for the church, a circular space surmounted by a large dome, was offered as a donation to the Holy See in 1918, together with the land on which to build it in an airy valley between the hillsides of Parioli and the Villa Glori. Presented directly to Pope Benedict XV by the Valle Giulia Quarter Company (which had speculative interests in the neighborhood), the proposal was initially considered excessive, both because of economic austerity during the First World War and because of the natural sobriety of the pope, but came to be accepted once the conflict ended. In a Chirograph of August 23, 1919, Pope Benedict XV accepted the donation of land, approved the project, and named Brasini executive director, establishing an indissoluble connection between the church and the architect. This agreement brought the first modification of the project: the simple central space was enriched, four radial chapels were nestled in the curved corridor, and the outer shell of the building was animated with a strong Renaissance motif. The circular interior undoubtedly recalls the Pantheon, whose symbolic image of an eternal ideal of Roman civilization is here reinvented by Brasini with a nod to Bernini. This historical mixture is typical of Brasini who, as architect Paolo Portoghesi noted, “utilized the languages of the past…in a creative way, considering them open systems and posing questions to them that had not been formulated previously.”

In January 1923, having acquired the land, Pope Pius XI entrusted “the construction and the opening of the offices of the monumental church” to the Claretians and, contemporaneously, hoping that generous souls would make offerings large and small, delegated to divine providence the financing of the project’s hyperbolic estimate.  The church was to be dedicated to the Immaculate Heart of Mary, a devotion spread by Saint John Eudes as subordinate to the devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and reinforced by the “great promise” of help and salvation expressed by the Virgin at Fátima in response to the devotional practice of prayer. The religious community prepared an ingenious program of subscriptions that the pope supported with “a special Apostolic Benediction to all those who would contribute to the success of the work that will be a monumental temple to Religion and Art.”

The Central Executive Committee that would coordinate the very efficient Claretian Fathers, under the guidance of Father Felipe Maroto, put out an illustrated booklet on the project, while a formidable propaganda machine spread the news of the frequent audiences and generous formal acts of the pontiff who, in 1924, conceded a room in the Apostolic Palace in which to display the grand model of the “International Votive Temple to the Heart of Mary.” The project represented by the model, in its dimensions and proportions, was much more ambitious than the previous design. A few months later, the rite of laying the cornerstone was held. Accounts and photographs of the event increased public interest and the donations grew, but the daily exchange of letters with the Mother House in Madrid also records a growing unease of the fathers toward Brasini, who intended to realize what was now becoming an extremely costly project.

The Claretian fathers made several unsuccessful attempts to free themselves from the architect by severing the tie between the free offering of the land and his project. Failing that, they demanded that Brasini’s designs assume adequate forms for the liturgical functions. Brasini hatched a previously unseen development of the plan—a “very original temple of novel form but very classical”—that combined the Greek cross with “a round external shape” and where “the nave is surrounded by a circle that forms a halo.” Internally, the vertical expression of drum, dome, and lantern  reinforced the centrality of the new spatial configuration. This solution was approved by the client, presented to the municipal authorities, and became the basis of the first contract signed with the architect.

Reduction of the Project

But problems soon arose: from the first exploratory drillings, the soils investigation revealed a site of very low quality plagued by veins of subsurface water. It was then estimated that the foundations would have to be pushed down over 18 meters below the crypt and, while they analyzed the technological proposals of various firms, Brasini was asked to prepare a “reduction of the project” so that it might be constructed in the preselected place. The architect stridently opposed the radical changes imposed for reasons he did not accept but was unable to avoid. Thus, there began a slow process of simplification and reduction in the dimensions of the project that Brasini would grudgingly fulfill without ever desisting from his monumental vision.

In his conception of the urban scene, the church was not only the grandiose architectural background on which converged a trident of descending streets within the fabric of the developing quarter but also had a function at the territorial scale—that of completing a view of the Roman landscape from the perspective of the ancient via Cassia. In a drawing made in 1939 for the Report on the Temple, Brasini makes a direct visual relation between the projected dome of the basilica and that of Saint Peter’s on the opposite side of the city. The two forms emerging on the skyline, encircling and overlooking the Eternal City, would bracket the Victor Emmanuel Monument, symbol of the government. The drawing expresses a personal and idealized vision that did not correspond to the reality of the project. The basilica’s location on a topographically depressed site was not advantageous but the image of a landmark at a vast scale remained compelling in the forma urbis of Brasini, who would tenaciously continue to press for completing the drum, dome, and lantern.

Around the middle of 1927, Brasini sent drawings of a new version of the design “with a new, lighter dome” and an estimate that “does not exceed 30 million lira,” but the engineering consultants insisted on the structural use of reinforced concrete and by the next year had persuaded the fathers to ask the architect to abandon the specified loadbearing masonry construction. In the summer of 1930, Brasini presented a “fourth project” that still did not comply with the preset dimensions and had to be “restudied at the desire of the fathers.” A year later, Brasini delivered the version in which the portico depth was reduced from 10 to 5 meters and the diameter of the dome reduced from 20 to 18 meters. The new proposal still did not respect the requests of the committee, and the architect was constrained to develop a new “definitive general plan” of the church that, he wrote, “would not be subject to further reduction in size.”

Tied to the project by the wishes of the pope from 1923 onward, Brasini worked for the Claretians without payment and produced many—ultimately useless—proposals for the entire conventual complex, hoping to assure himself of that commission. The fathers, instead, were interested only in completing the church as soon as possible. In the end, they reached a contract that would bridle the fancy of the architect in unequivocal terms: he was recognized in the role of designer but “the design must fully correspond and conform to the directive and indications that the committee will give” and must be approved by them, based on “a sketch of plan and section in the scale of 1:200.”

The new contract was signed in the summer of 1931, and Brasini quickly delivered the drawings but did not limit his creativity. The committee responded that “the project violates the basis of the signed contract regarding the extension of the occupied land.” Brasini’s design exceeded the property of the Holy See and seriously encroached on the public right of way. Brasini assured the client that he would soon send modified drawings, but he was advised not to hurry because the project had not received the approval of the superiors of the order. Still feeling protected by the papal documents, Brasini displayed rather arrogant behavior that endangered his relationship with the client and the matter was only resolved with the help of the technical and legal consultants. In the following “Request for Modifications to Advance the Project,” the committee asked Brasini to “[r]educe the dimensions of the Temple by ten percent. Take away…the columns that restrict the central nave….” Further negotiation lessened the modifications, the “reduction” was lowered to seven percent, and some external parts were eliminated. But in the nave, the columns survived with “three quarters outside the wall and one quarter engaged in the wall.” The Committee approved the revised plan in February 1932. The contract terms of the bid were immediately offered to fourteen firms from which the Ditta Fratelli Ciardi was selected based on their financial stability and moral seriousness as well as their use of the “modern equipment” for the construction work. In May 1932, the contractor took possession of the site which would then be prepared, leveled, and excavated with drainage installed for laying the foundations.

Construction

The cooperation between the technical and artistic direction, never easy, was in this difficult project burdened by the frenzy of the client who, after nine years’ wait, pressed for rapid results. In July, Brasini again provoked irritation when he pushed back on the proposed alterations made by the engineer to simplify the project. The architect explained in a letter to Father Maroto, “My way of working, that can seem a little bothersome to whoever doesn’t know the great difficulties that present themselves in a work as complex as this church, is only inspired by the desire to make a beautiful work of art.” Some thorny questions remained unresolved, but the construction work advanced quickly and, by mid-September, 190 piles had been driven to support the half-dome of the apse. Once the underground structure was completed, there followed the flat roof of the below-grade story upon which the church would be raised. When, in 1936, the church was elevated to become a parish, the liturgies marking the occasion were celebrated in the crypt.

At the site, construction of the immense masonry walls had been slowed by the illness of the genial Father Maroto and, at his death on July 11, 1937, the works were suspended. The following year, fifteen years after the birth of the project, the Committee for the Temple was re-founded with a new statute and a new president, Father Raimondo Pujol. The work site was reopened with Brasini and engineer Salvatore Parisi as the artistic and technical directors, respectively. The work resumed with new enthusiasm and faith in the future, and by the start of 1940, Brasini delivered another thirty-seven construction drawings. But on June 10, with Italy’s entry in the Second World War, construction was interrupted, and everyone’s hopes seemed canceled by fear.

After three nights of Allied aerial bombardments, some of the Claretian fathers fled the city. The last remaining optimism of the Claretians was spent by autumn when “rain fell on the principal altar” in the crypt “where, by this time, one had to hear Mass under an umbrella.” The situation worsened in November 1943, when “torrential rains inundated the crypt,” and a few months later, having dug canals to direct the water away, the site was closed and the workplace completely shut down. Without its scaffolding, the robust fragments and the tall, isolated structures recalled an enigmatic archeological site. The chromatic contrast between the whiteness of the travertine of the façade and the rusticity of the rough masonry behind it, still without its brick finish, dramatically accentuated the sense of suspended time.

Only in 1949 was work resumed. The fathers nominated a new technical director, the engineer Tito Bruner, and confirmed Brasini as artistic director, who immediately declared that he would not want “to reduce or simplify for economic reasons a project already approved and under construction.” In January, the elderly architect, who had never abandoned the dream of the dome, sent a request to the Holy See for a financial contribution that was courteously declined. At this point, Brasini developed his last version of the Temple with a collection of drawings that would serve as the basis for the final construction bids and the revisions to the building permits. He punctually delivered all the sheets of details that were requested, including the full-size profiles for the work in travertine. At the inauguration ceremony on December 8, 1952, there were many who believed that the gray skullcap that served as a placeholder for the dome would be only a temporary expedient, disregarding the real structural challenges and the ongoing campaign to raise funds. In 1959, Pope John XXIII elevated the church to a Minor Basilica and Brasini, with the enthusiastic support of the new pastor and in coordination with the engineer, presented an updated budget. In the end, however, Brasini’s hopes for the dome would remain unfulfilled.

To Robert Venturi, writing in an essay published in 1996, the absence of the dome conferred on the basilica’s classical character a greater expressive tension and transformed the building into “a grand and fortuitous fragment, [like] an unfinished symphony.” The exterior assumed the aspect of a late Renaissance church experiencing a slow-motion explosion pressing its massive columns, entablatures, and curving pediments outward with tremendous force. The disproportionately massive structure and its now functionless buttresses seemed elements of a massive pedestal for a missing colossal statue. The spacious interior, inspired by Roman bath complexes but more sober in decoration, was structured by a majestic Corinthian order and animated by unexpected perspectives in the intersections of the rectilinear nave and the circular aisles. The interior seems both enlarged and weakened by the absence of the drum and dome, not to mention the supremacy of the light that the dome would have brought to the now-dark nave. While the basilica’s incompletion diminishes the canonical classicism of the building, it accentuates its monumentality and captures Brasini’s idealism as an artist committed to pressing beyond contingencies, even at the risk of falling short. As the poet Robert Browning wrote in a poem celebrating another great Italian artist, Andrea del Sarto, “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,/ Or what’s a heaven for?”

For us today, the basilica constitutes a valid example of modern classical architecture: neither an arid academic exercise nor a transcription of earlier styles, but an authentic and inventive expression that shows how the historic tradition remains capable of new artistic forms in the hands of a visionary talent like Armando Brasini. That he continues to be disregarded by architectural historians and critics is a circumstance in need of correction.