Auron Tare brings a reflection on the book "The Albanian File", connecting it with a personal memory from Butrint, where the meeting with two of the greatest figures in world architecture serves as a starting point for a broader analysis of the relationship between power, landscape and historical memory.
Recounting a walk in Butrint with British architect Richard Rogers and then a dinner where Norman Foster was also present, Tare recalls a debate among the "titans" of architecture, who discussed the impact of construction on the landscape and heritage.
At the center of his reflection is a quote by Rogers: “Never let architects guide your dreams. They always seek their own eternity.”
According to Tare, this idea goes beyond architecture and touches on the essence of the relationship between power and history. He emphasizes that autocracies are not content with ruling the people, but also aim to control the landscape and historical memory.
In his analysis, “The Albanian File” is not simply an architectural project, but the “anatomy of a mindset” that seeks to leave its mark on history through the transformation of space and heritage. Tare warns that when power treats history as an instrument of ambition, architecture risks losing its artistic function and becoming a tool of political vanity, directly affecting the collective memory of a nation.
REACTION
"Never let architects guide your dreams. They always seek their own eternity." These were the words of a quiet man who, that May morning, strolling through the enchanting forest of Butrint, was amazed by the nature of the ancient city. The person who was looking at the cyclopean walls with curiosity was a British architect. He had come to Butrint with a mutual friend and, after visiting the entire city, we went to the great plain of Vrina to see the traces of the aqueduct built during the time of Emperor Augustus. As soon as I told him that Butrint had a Roman aqueduct, he was very eager to see it, often speaking of Augustus' great zeal for monumental construction, as an expression of the dominance of his will over the imperial spaces. As we followed the 3 km traces in the great plain of Vrina, the conversation about architecture and its impact on the landscape was an extraordinary lesson for me. The architect who was marveling at the landscapes of Butrint was called Richard Rogers, a name that meant nothing to me at the time. After a day of After a long walk, we returned to Corfu, where at dinner in a former quarry converted into one of the most beautiful water spaces in the Mediterranean, I listened to one of the most interesting lectures on architecture and its impact on the landscape. It was a debate between several architects, who, as I understood, had been friends since early youth and had worked together for a long time on various projects around the world. Somewhere they had parted ways, as their views no longer matched, but they had remained good friends.
Later, much later, I learned that I had the good fortune to participate in a clash of “titans” held at that table on the edge of the former medieval quarry. In addition to the person who had wandered with me in the fields of Vrina in the footsteps of the Roman aqueduct, that night there was also an architect named Norman Foster. At the stone table, among the topics that revolved around many modern or ancient works, Butrint occupied the primary place. “You see,” Richard Rogers addressed me for a moment, smiling, “remember what I told you this morning, don’t let architects lead your dreams. We seek immortality in what we create.” I remembered all this when I reread not only the letter of the Dutch architect on his proposal for the Albanian royal crown, but also the pages of that book that has now taken on the value of a testimony. The words of one of the most prominent masters of 20th-century architecture, Richard Rogers, still ring in my memory. Autocracies are not content with ruling people, they seek to enslave both the landscape and historical memory. Every despot cherishes the illusion that his power will outlast time and that his name will remain engraved on the cities he builds or the landscapes he destroys. Therefore, The Albanian File is not simply the narrative of an architectural project. It is the anatomy of a mindset. A mindset that is not content with changing the landscape inherited from history, but aims to impose its own stamp on history. It is not enough for it to touch monuments, it also seeks to possess the memory they carry. It is not enough for it to build on the land, it wants to build on the conscience of a nation. And when power begins to believe that history is the raw material of its ambition, then architecture ceases to be art and becomes a tool of political vanity.
