DUNGEON – Skarte Povera in Italy – Issue 52 Article

The story starts at Alpine Chicken Lager: Team Building At Team Trouble as photographed by James Collins with accompanying text by Dennis Bagley. It then continues in the article you are about to immerse yourself in with media duties delegated to Rybo and Jono Coote accordingly, complimented by the most excellent artwork from Dungeon‘s CEO, El Presidente and the pied piper of moshers French.

To see this article in physical form, please pick up Issue 52 with loads more exciting words and imagery! Y2K may still be just round the corner so you’ll need a magazine to read by candle light whilst the world burns outside.

Photography by: Rybo & Alberto Della Beffa

Artwork by: French

Words by: Jono Coote

Sometimes, given the right atmospheric conditions and peripheral stimuli, the most unlikely corners of a city can become objects of pilgrimage. As we pull up to Mattoni DIY the sun is dipping fast toward the horizon, casting long shadows from lovingly crafted concrete protuberances and glinting sharply from the humanoid metal sculptures which lurk in the periphery of my vision. At this strange wasteland in a semi-derelict industrial suburb in the north of Milan, a cross section of the Dungeon team has converged from near and far; Italian, Brit, Swiss, Irish, some from home, some following on from the Team Trouble event which had just taken place in Laax. I myself had gotten this gig last minute. The journalist originally hired to cover both the event in Laax and the subsequent trip through Italy had apparently had some kind of altitude-based breakdown, quoting transcendentalist literature during late nights at the Indy Bar and avoiding people during the day – for the most part standing in quiet corners gulping down cans of rose prosecco – before disappearing the night before he was due to head south. He was last seen, tin of fizzy plonk in hand, striding purposefully toward the hills above the resort. Some of his final, mostly incoherent meanderings can be found on the website of this very magazine. Weak fool, I think, laughing at the idea of being so easily addled by nothing more than a change of scenery. As a child of suburbia, of lawns and of washing cars on Sundays and of acts of mindless boredom-induced violence, I harboured no such romantic tendencies.

Mattoni, however, is the kind of spot which threatens to send me over the edge and into metaphysical gobshitery of the worst kind. An old warehouse complex transformed into a squat/arts space/DIY skatepark, it is the kind of ever-growing work in progress that would make describing its contours an exercise in futility. Concrete erupts in a variety of forms, all pleasing to the eye, between the decaying shells of a warehouse complex. To one side can be found a bowl corner in an open shed, to the other a small, whippy miniramp in the one fully intact building. It is a testament to the inspiration urban decline can inspire in those willing to work with the tools at hand, Arte Povera in glorious action. As darkness descends, in what might be a culinary nod to the graft which has gone into our surroundings, French lights some coals in a battered old wheelbarrow. Aeons of accumulated concrete dust add a uniquely carcinogenic depth of flavour to the grilling meat and veg we consume gratefully, before huddling around the fire to auger what we can from the flames.

The next day, not ready to leave this concrete dreamscape, we delay our drive down to Turin; but, with everyone either warming up or feeling the cumulative effects of the previous few days, the session takes a while to get going. When it does, blood never seems far from the surface. Diz battles a wallride for about 2 hours; as does Giuli, but with less success, unless leaking stigmata is something he has been striving for. French hangs up rolling in on one of the central lumps and bumps, scraping skin from face and separating shoulder ligament from ligament. I draw blood on one particularly unpleasant slam and, a few minutes later, Charlie points and laughs; I have a plaster on my left elbow from a previous night’s pothole misadventure, where the wound isn’t even visible, whilst my right elbow is pissing blood. “Good point,” I say and whip the plaster off with some degree of force. This launches a pearl of lymph, glistening in the sun, to alight with a quiet, wet splat upon Charlie’s cheek. It is one of the most revolting things either of us have ever been a part of. But it is undeniably very metal. Sadly French misses this apex of hesh, he is too busy in a corner suffering, so I offer Charlie a napkin and dispose of the plaster before I can shower anyone else in the vicinity. The majority of the crew, delirious with sunstroke and sleep deprivation, are tucked in some shady corner like the pale English serfs we for the most part are. But, the slow reddening of our skin or occasional pus facial notwithstanding, we are content. “How was Milan?” people will ask when I return, and I can happily say that I don’t have a clue. I was too busy enjoying the fruits of DIY labour in a half-deserted outer suburb of town, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Knackered, scabby but stoked, at sunset we head for Turin where we are paying a visit to Alberto Della Beffa and the incredible bowl which he has built on his family’s property. Cinghial Bowl, named for the local slang term for the wild boar which roam this part of the world, sits in sun-dappled solitude in the hills above Turin. It is one of the most scenic backyard builds I’ve had the pleasure of skating, an oasis of calm – at least, it is when not playing host to a cohort of unwashed skateboarders, two of whom are donk DJs and who have found the nearest speaker, the morning after we arrive. Begun a couple of years ago with wood rescued from an old skatepark in the hills before the council could scrap it, once the basic ramp was lugged to its current location then more wood was procured and concrete corners added. I think again of the Arte Povera movement, its proponents’ use of found or ‘poor’ materials and how our skate spot scavenging aligns us with the purported goals of the movement, birthed in this very city, in opposition to the commercialisation of the creative urge. But, more importantly, I think about frontside grinds. Suddenly, everyone seems a little less sore and tired than they did 20 minutes ago.

As the session builds, I take a break in the shade and reflect on how the pull of the rural is strongest at times like this; especially once Max, the first of us to break, reaches his limit of full volume donk and gently asks Charlie and Alice to please turn… the… fucking… music… OFF. As my brain settles into a life without repeated and jarring electronic wobbles being forced without mercy into my ear canals, I begin to see why my predecessor had so suddenly abandoned the entourage, and perhaps society altogether, in Switzerland. If he’d known of Chinghial Bowl, he might have been persuaded to stay in the van. We hear tales of curious boars watching the build progress, as well as of the recent reintroduction of wolves in the area, and despite the physical closeness of the city it seems unbelievably distant, a flight of fancy from a travelling relative’s missive in the time before instant global communication, or perhaps a lost chapter from Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities in which Marco Polo converses with Kublai Khan on the real or imagined sprawl of his empire. Turin, looking out from the gardens in front of the house, is laid out like a bowl before us, rimmed at the outer edge by snow-capped peaks like some elegant confectionery, a Torino baker’s life work and masterpiece wrought large upon the landscape. Thoughts begin to bubble from somewhere deep in my subconscious, ones resembling something like an Oregon skatepark builder’s version of Walden Pond, which I attempt with little success to dismiss from my mind.

It’s time to surround myself with concrete, I think, and the universe soon enough hears my plea, hurling me across Turin via the medium of Rybo’s car to Parcheggio DIY. In a rundown suburb, across the road from an old and seemingly unloved prefab skatepark, a car park has been blocked off at one end by a number of jersey barriers. Two of these have been concreted, with the fact of their being at right angles to each other offering future potential for a bowl corner. But, for now, we just aim for the more polished barrier; battling through an uphill run up and blazing sun for the next few hours, much to the confusion and consternation of those who have chosen to use the area for motorised vehicle storage.

The heat is by this time slightly oppressive and so no one complains when it’s time to head into the city for food, and an introduction to a whole new culinary world in the artery-clogging form of trapizzino. These are small, cone shaped pizza/kebab hybrids, which I personally find best washed down with plenty of cold birra. We try and appease our protesting arteries with a walk around the city centre, seeing what spots we can find for the next day and being told which ones we probably can’t – of particular interest was the mini hubba spot where, according to Albie, there is a solid chance of getting beaten up by the breakdancers who localise the spot. I reflect that this is the sort of information that you don’t get from regular city walking tours. Perhaps it is a gap in the market; a gonzo history of fights had, security guards evaded, blood spilled and lurkers engaged. But that is a plan for another time. That morning we’d been listening to ‘Piombo – Italian Crime Soundtracks from the Years of Lead’ whilst getting ready. With images of besuited B-boys with tommy guns swirling through our heads, we decide unanimously to try our luck elsewhere.

The following morning we decamp instead to a mellow concrete wave encircling a communal park area, which despite the roughness of the ground saw a number of elderly Italian gentlemen treated to a Charlie and Diz tailblock demo. The trip is starting to wear on me, and I sit this one out in preparation for the backyard bowl we will later be heading to. Icaro Nardo’s garden build, deep in Alpine foothills, is sketchy, steep and with coping which changes in size and element seemingly on a whim; beautifully located, tough as a wild boar’s ringpiece to skate. A few get stuck in, but by this point I’m not the only one struggling and the skaters are heavily outweighed by those lurking on the grass. Despite thinking I was saving myself for this spot, I again defer my session. “It can’t be that I don’t want to skate,” I think, “I just need the right spot.” When we head to a nearby swim spot everyone is grateful for the breather, though my eyes keep focusing beyond the water; towards the rock formations thrusting from the earth in the near distance, creating the boundaries of the aeons-old dish in which we find ourselves splashing, and at tantalisingly close range. I think longingly of the rhythmic intensity of a steep hike, wishing I was heading for higher ground.

The bowl at which we next find ourselves, however, tests my sense of how much high ground I really need. A fairly relaxed 5ft shallow end plunges into a deep end of around 9ft, topped off with a foot of vert, and I don’t hesitate to suggest that I show incredible grace and aplomb when I carve round it a few times, quietly mumble “Fuck it”, and accept the next proffered zoot before Googling “off licences near me”. Of which there are little to none, and so it is that, when we eventually reach an indoor mini vert ramp, I am tired, sunburned and worryingly alcohol free. Pete and Charlie doing vert doubles offers up entertainment enough, but I still have a short nap whilst the session rages in the background. I wake up, not so much refreshed as excessively confused, not long before we leave for the last pizza restaurant open in the area, possibly in the whole Torino region. We carefully ignore the anguish in the eyes of the staff as 15 of us traipse through the doors, 20 minutes before closing time. Later, sated, we show our appreciation by treating them to an impromptu game of twister on the glass tiles out front as a way of saying grazie. I think, from the looks in their eyes as they stared agog from the window at us, it made them feel like their staying open was worth it.

Stretching in the garden the next morning is accompanied again by a compilation of soundtracks from obscure 70s Italian crime movies, imbuing our plans for the day with an air of the silver screen. We start the day in a run down suburb where Diz wants to scope a handrail in the middle of a tower block. Being warned by the locals that we don’t want too many people attracting attention, four of us head to a plaza around the corner to take a look at a strange flatbank configuration. A few minutes in, a passing cyclist stops and asks if we are English. “How do you feel about the situation in this area?” he asks, and to our blank stares explains that he is a journalist, someone was stabbed here last night and he is trying to get some info for his article. “We’re on holiday,” we state apologetically, hoping that those three words somehow encompass the idea that some atavistic urge draws us to these strange corners of the city, overly bright at this moment, the sun bouncing knives of light mercilessly yet again from the concrete in a cosmic mirroring of the animalistic violence which took place under the cover of darkness a few hours before. We scour these corners for rideable architecture, looking for the unique which resides within the seemingly mundane, that same mundanity which can so easily lead the mind to violence often allowing in parallel the scope for creative expression in an unassuming, four wheeled way. Perhaps, we state, the true face of the city only reveals itself in these spaces which authorities have deemed of little value, those which allow for sculpture and skate spot building and territorial breakdancers and, yes, the occasional burgundy stains splattering the floor on which we roll, the rest with all its polish amounting to little more than a Potemkin Village. In this, we argue, we are heirs to both the Arte Povera and psychogeography movements, in whose teachings can perhaps be found an antidote to the strange digital hell we all seem to be hurtling towards in a handbasket. In everything from waxing a curb to bondoing a crack to crafting concrete curves without a green light from the relevant authorities, we are facilitating our own artistic movement built from the spaces we find in front of us. “We’re on holiday,” I repeat gently. “I understand,” he says, with an enigmatic smile. “I used to live in Brighton.” And, with that, he departs.

We skate there for a while longer, eyes peeled to avoid any fresh blood stains, before heading for the central plaza spot for a cruise in the sun. Skating a whippy quarterpipe not a million miles away in form from Stockwell’s noping quarter, in the blazing sun, tepid lager close to hand and myriad espresso options in every direction, I am once again drawn back to an appreciation of city life. I’ve read all those Guardian articles about ‘Swapping my City Life for Rural Idyll’, and it only ever takes a couple of paragraphs before the overwhelming sense of smugness inherent tells you before it’s mentioned that the author’s city job as a banker or arms dealer let them save enough money to do this with ease, and if you spend too much time in the countryside you’ll probably meet Jeremy Clarkson at some point anyway, or even someone of the opinion that he doesn’t stand as anything but an avatar of the mental impoverishment of Western society, and that would be needlessly unpleasant. I wander up the road when the others stop by Torino skateshop Skateboarding’s Finest, buy a €1 espresso from a beautiful bartender with long black hair and green eyes, and can’t really imagine anywhere I’d rather be. And, in the city, spots are often clustered together. It isn’t too far to skate to a bank to wall in a recess shaped serendipitously like the Dungeon Gateway design; life imitating art at its most fortuitous, if you ignore the unmistakable stain meandering its way downhill from the wall and occasional tang of ammonia on the breeze. The afternoon is drawing on and we’ve been putting off the journey back to Milan long enough, I think.

And, from there, the saga began to unfold. I won’t bore you with details of the spots then meandered to, or our panicked jog to the train station, where unscrupulous train knobheads sold us tickets before telling us of the massive signal failure, or Albie donning his hero cape to pick us up in his van and somehow getting us to a bus stop a good few miles away at a speed that summoned up our morning soundtrack, feeling as we did that we were involved in the getaway leg of a cinematically over-the-top heist. I won’t even vent my rage at the angry little hirsute barrel of a bus driver, who harangued us violently in Italian and almost didn’t allow us to board before we realised he was telling us to take the trucks off of our boards. Eventually, we are allowed to board. Already tired, now exhausted by this last-minute hurricane of stress, we collapse in our seats (which smell worse than the wallride spot) and head for Milan. Google Maps sends us for a late-night sketchy park walk and, as we are pursued by a man striding closely behind us, screaming in potentially incoherent Italian as we try to ignore him, I think again of John Muir, and dream of bowls in the hills and gazing in meditative silence at snow-capped mountains as I sip an ice cold can of rose prosecco. I am learning nothing in this trivial world of men, I think to myself. I must break away into the mountains to learn the news.

*Obviously I jest (or do now that this particular event has faded in freshness). Big love and thanks to French, Nico and Guilio for the organisation, Albie for being an absolutely legend of a host, guide and getaway driver, Rybo for general driving and Roky Erickson-based chat, Icaro for his hospitality, everyone who made the trip such a blast, trapizzino cooks worldwide, and of course Mattoni and Parcheggio DIY builders and all those working on Skarte Povera projects for the roadweary traveller to enjoy. I’d rather be lurking on brown belt land with you lot than farting about up a mountain any day.