Latest news with #BelleÉpoque
CairoScene
6 days ago
- Entertainment
- CairoScene
Cairo, Reimagined: A Digital Tribute to a City's Forgotten Glory
Cairo, Reimagined: A Digital Tribute to a City's Forgotten Glory We scroll past them daily — old balconies, faded cornices, tiled thresholds barely holding on. Cairo's layered streets carry the weight of centuries, but much of the city's architectural heritage has faded into the background of everyday life. Cairo Re-rendered, a digital art series by architect Mohamed Radwan, brings these stories back to the foreground. Shared widely across Instagram, Radwan's AI-powered project transforms archival images of four of Cairo's most iconic districts. The images aren't restorations — they're reimaginings. Part artistic prompt, part preservation manifesto, the series explores what it would mean to see the city not through the lens of decay, but potential. The journey begins where Cairo itself did: Fatimid Cairo. Here, AI styling draws from classical painting techniques to spotlight the historic district's timeless geometry. The arched doorways, intricate mashrabiya, and shadowed alleys are rendered with reverence, suggesting not just beauty but continuity — a living thread through history. In Khedival Cairo, the approach shifts. The lens sharpens into realism, echoing the district's once grand boulevards and Belle Époque façades. Through this clarity, Radwan doesn't idealise — he reminds. That these spaces existed, and in many cases still do, behind the noise of billboards and unkempt signage. Heliopolis, the early 20th-century utopia designed as a 'city of the sun,' gets bathed in photorealistic dawn. The result feels suspended in time — warm light on stucco walls, as if the neighbourhood is holding its breath between what it was and what it could be again. Finally, Maadi appears in a retro triadic palette. With its leafy streets and quiet mid-century charm, the district is reinterpreted with a nod to vintage travel posters — nostalgic, yes, but also forward-facing in its optimism. The colour treatment makes you feel like you could walk into the frame. What ties the series together isn't just the AI technique, but Radwan's underlying intention: to make memory visible again. Each image began as a vintage photograph, carefully researched and selected for its spatial authenticity. Through a mix of prompt engineering and stylistic layering, the transformation process was less about enhancement and more about storytelling. The resulting images feel intuitive, not manufactured — each mood, time of day, and texture chosen to evoke the emotional DNA of the neighbourhood. But Cairo Re-rendered isn't just a nostalgic exercise. Its impact is more than aesthetic. The project taps into something broader: a cultural craving to see Cairo clearly. Not as a backdrop, but as an identity. As an inheritance. As something we still have the power to shape. The series found an eager audience online — from architecture students to longtime residents, each bringing their own stories to the frame. In the comments, viewers didn't just react to how the images looked. They shared memories. And that might be the biggest success of all: turning passive viewing into active remembering. Radwan's experiment sits at the intersection of preservation, imagination, and public engagement. It's a quiet reminder that tools like AI aren't just about futures — they can be about pasts too. About holding on, and letting go, and seeing the city with fresh eyes before what's left becomes too faded to notice. Because sometimes, it takes a new render to remember what was always there.
Yahoo
19-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
In Cannes, It All Happened at the Carlton
If the Cannes Film Festival were a building, it would be the Carlton. The iconic hotel, with its Belle Époque balustrades and twin cupola domes, its combination of old world elegance and over-the-top extravagance, is a manifestation — in limestone, stucco and pink marble — of the Cannes festival brand. 'I often hear people compare the Carlton to the Eiffel Tower,' says Carlton Hotel general manager Pierre-Louis Renou. 'On one hand, it's gigantic, but on the other so immaculate. It's kind of a monument to the glamour of Cannes.' More from The Hollywood Reporter 'Splitsville' Director Michael Covino on Making Bawdy Comedy That Looks Like Arthouse Cinema: "It Can Be Both" Cannes: 'Corsage' Director Marie Kreutzer Wins Investors Circle Prize for 'Gentle Monster' London's Raindance Film Festival Unveils Lineup for Its Biggest Post-COVID Pandemic Edition The first-ever Cannes festival was held at the Carlton Casino in 1946 — well before they built the Palais — and the Carlton has played a supporting, occasionally starring, role in the history of the festival ever since. The first Cannes celebrity photo-op? The best promotional stunts? The biggest backroom deals? They all happened at the Carlton. The Cannes Festival Launches in the Carlton Casino (1946) A year after the first VE Day, the Carlton welcomed the world's press (a total of 8 journalists!) to the first-ever Cannes Film Festival, held at the Carlton Casino, with a lineup that included Jean Cocteau's Beauty and the Beast, Billy Wilder's The Lost Weekend and David Lean's Brief Encounter. Bridget Bardot's Bikini (1953) They may look quite modest today, but in 1953, photos of 18-year-old French actress Brigitte Bardot posing on the Carlton beach in a tropical-print bikini were a shock sensation. It's unclear how much the photo op helped the box office for Bardot's film Marina, the Girl in the Bikini (which had been shot in Cannes the year before), but it made the skimpy swimsuit mainstream and launched a thousand imitators, including the creators that continue to swarm the Carlton beach today, posing for selfies. Alfred Hitchcock Films (1955) The Carlton, notes Renou, is 'probably the most photographed hotel in the world' but film cameos are rare. 'We get a lot of filming requests, but we have to be very careful, because were are a hotel, not a film studio,' he notes. But Hitchcock got the green light to send Grace Kelly and Cary Grant clambering over the Carlton rooftop. George Lucas Pitches on the Carlton Terrace (1977) George Lucas, in Cannes on his own dime for the screening of THX 1138 in the Directors' Fortnight, wrangled a 10-minute lunch meeting with UA CEO David Picker on the Carlton terrace. Picker liked Lucas' idea for a 1950s teen drama about drag racing (American Graffiti), so Lucas awkwardly pitched him on 'this space opera thing. Sort of an action adventure film in space.' Picker optioned it. For $10,000. (He'd later drop both options, and Alan Ladd Jr., at 20th Century Fox would score big in a galaxy far far away.) Elton John's Musical Video for 'I'm Still Standing' on the Steps of the Carlton Hotel (1983) Elton turned the Carlton terrace into a technicolor dance floor filled with bondage-geared concierges, aerobic French mimes and inspired pastel knitwear for this early MTV era touchstone. Elton himself did not dance. (His moves, he admitted, terrified the choreographer.) And the video, disrupted by an Elton booze-a-thon with Duran Duran, barely wrapped. But it stands as a 3-minute distillation of the Cannes brand of Mediterranean glam. 'We still keep a strong relationship with Elton John,' says Renou. 'And would be delighted to welcome him back soon.' Jerry Seinfeld's Stunt (2007) The festival has played host to many a wacky promotional photo op, from Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jason Statham rolling up the Croisette in tanks for Expendables 3 to Sacha Baron Coen posing in a neon green mankini for Borat. But for pure memorable silliness, few compare with Jerry Seinfield, jammed into an oversized bee costume, strapping into a harness and zip-lining off the top of the Carlton down to the beach to promote the Paramount animated feature to which he'd lent his voice. The great era of the Cannes promotional stunt may be behind us. Speculation that Tom Cruise might revive the austere festival tradition came to naught when, instead of abseiling off the Palais or parachuting in, he and crew of Mission: Impossible — The Final Reckoning sedately walked the red carpet for the film's May 14 premiere. Red Granite Pictures Shoots a Million-Dollar Party on the Carlton Beach (2011) Speaking of the end of an era, Red Granite's soiree, a coming-out party for the would-be mini-studio, was one of the last Cannes blowouts, with a guest list that included Leonardo DiCaprio, Pharrell Williams, Jon Hamm and Bradley Cooper, free-flowing booze and food and a Coachella-worthy duet by (pre-scandal) Kanye West and Jamie Foxx performing 'Gold Digger.' The bash, which reportedly cost a cool million, became a cautionary tale when Red Granite became embroiled in the 1MDB scandal — and dissolved in 2018. Best of The Hollywood Reporter 'The Goonies' Cast, Then and Now "A Nutless Monkey Could Do Your Job": From Abusive to Angst-Ridden, 16 Memorable Studio Exec Portrayals in Film and TV The 10 Best Baseball Movies of All Time, Ranked
Digital Trends
17-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Digital Trends
Clair Obscur: Expedition 33's style is its substance
From its establishing shot of the Eiffel Tower bent in on itself, Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 wants you to know it is very French, if a little twisted. The turn-based RPG revels in the aesthetic of developer Sandfall Interactive's home country, which often helps to distinguish the game from its many high-profile influences. As a tale of death and grief it's hard not to make comparisons to genre titans such as Final Fantasy X and Lost Odyssey. And sure, the themes are similar, but did Tidus ever wear a beret? I don't think so. Much of the overt French aesthetic of Clair Obscur can seem like a surface level coat of paint. Yet there is much more to Sandfall Interactive's adoption of the Belle Époque style in this dark fantasy facsimile of France. With just a little understanding of French history, it becomes clear that this isn't a case of style over substance — the style is the substance. Recommended Videos This article contains spoilers for Clair Obscur: Expedition 33. Dressed to impress Clair Obscur: Expedition 33's prologue does a lot of narrative heavy lifting. In less than an hour we are introduced to our main cast and the stakes of the world. Every year the citizens of Lumiére suffer the Gommage, an event triggered by a godlike being called the Paintress who appears once a year to paint a descending number in the sky, sentencing anyone older than that number to die immediately. To stop the endless death, an expedition of volunteers is sent out annually to take down the Paintress. That's us. While emotionally loaded, the prologue also establishes the central aesthetic of the game. Lumiére, with iconic landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe, is a slightly different version of real-world Paris. The biggest difference is the specific Paris Clair Obscur seeks to emulate. City streets lined with buildings melding Art Nouveau and Neoclassical architecture point to a Paris of the Belle Époque. Literally meaning 'the beautiful age,' the Belle Époque is a period of French history that spans from 1871 to 1914 (the beginning is more debated, but the ending is not). A more specific date for Clair Obscur's pseudo-Paris can be estimated by the inclusion of the Eiffel Tower (completed in 1889) and costuming defined by narrow suiting for men and shirtwaist and skirt ensembles for women. Taken together, Lumiére is roughly Paris right before the turn of the 20th century. But what does that all mean for the world of Clair Obscur? At first, not much. Once the titular expedition leaves the safety of Lumiére and enters the monster infested continent, that iconic Belle Époque style is almost missing from the world. The most we get for hours on end are scattered buildings in ruin that once connected to Lumiére. Our cast is let loose in a run of the mill apocalyptic fantasy environment. The loss of that Belle Époque set dressing, however, might just be the point. The reason the era looms so large in the cultural consciousness — especially of France — is because it was a period of peace, progress, and hope. All these characteristics seem almost antithetical to the world of Clair Obscur, a world defined by stagnation and never-ending loss, yet they go hand in hand. Juxtaposing the Belle Époque aesthetic of our world with the harsh reality of Clair Obscur's highlights exactly what the expedition is fighting for. Gustave, Maelle, and the other members might not enjoy the same peace and prosperity as their 'real' counterpart, but it is a blueprint for what they are fighting for. As the expedition gets further from home, they lose tangible reminders of why they each chose to go on this mission. All they have is the dream and their hope. Through this, Clair Obscur reinforces its belief in the need for optimism, even when it seems foolish. Yet, much like the narrative of Clair Obscur, the Belle Époque aesthetic is hardly as simple as it seems. Even as a period defined by optimism and peace, it is hiding something much darker that more intricately ties it to the grim world of the game. The Belle Époque as a turn of phrase, and signifier of a certain period, was not contemporary to the era itself. 'The term … was adopted by public opinion after the First World War,' writes historian Dominique Kalifa, 'This transfer and the birth of the myth can be easily explained as the phenomenon of a generation that had known terrible suffering, lost the best of itself, along with its illusions, and tried to forget the blood and mood from 1914-1918 by exalting the long period of peace and stability that had preceded it.' The Belle Époque is a fiction fueled by nostalgia for a time before suffering, a time that must have been better than what existed post war, at least in the minds of those who coined the term. A late twist in Clair Obscur reveals that the world of the game is itself nothing but a fiction within a canvas, maintained by a grieving mother (the painter) as some semblance of comfort following the death of her son, Verso. With this knowledge, it becomes clear that the Belle Époque aesthetic is not deployed by Sandfall to evoke the myth of the era, but the tragedies that necessitated its creation. Back to reality Essential in this understanding of Clair Obscur's use of the Belle Époque is the idea of myth making or creating a false memory of the past. Even the title of 'beautiful age' is something carefully chosen to embrace only the best parts of the Belle Époque, ignoring its grittier realities. While the Belle Époque is considered a period of optimism, progress, and prosperity, it was something crafted by a wealthy class looking to 'retreat into a frivolous, fairy tale kind of existence,' writes professor Ninón Rodríguez, and always came at the cost of those without wealth. This desire to live inside a fantasy, even at the expense of others, is the same behavior of the Paintress herself, as well as the entire ethos behind coining the Belle Époque in the first place. It is a swirling whirlpool of nostalgia and attempts to hide away from suffering. This nostalgic fantasy has been transformed into a living hell for the citizens of Lumiére due to the Paintress' inability to let go of her son, who exists in facsimile with the canvas. Despite being influenced by the Belle Époque, Clair Obscur's world past the prologue often feels more in line with the horrific suffering of World War 1. The very first scene you witness when landing on the continent is a violent slaughter of the expedition. All these people filled with hope are unsparingly cut down in a matter of seconds in a messy blur of grey punctuated by technicolor red — blood. It's an image that evokes the immense casualties seen in trench charges, which saw soldiers rush out into no man's land towards enemy territory. Further into the continent, though not that much further, the expedition encounters constant mass graves and corpses of expeditions past. It's a reminder of the never-ending onslaught of meaningless death brought on by the Paintress in her grief. Clair Obscur and the Belle Époque are both coins with hope and grief on either side. Hope is a necessity, especially for those dealing with grief. An individual, a family, a country all need hope to move past the suffering of the past. Clair Obscur's warning is to not fall into the trap of looking back on a false memory of bygone times for the risk of losing yourself completely. Sandfall Interactive layers on these realities — Lumiére, the world outside the canvas, and our own reality — to constantly poke holes in the myths we create. This is all tied together, by the constant of the Belle Époque aesthetic. The final message of Clair Obscur is to us, in this reality, to move on from that fiction as well, but with hope for those who come after.
Irish Examiner
12-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Examiner
Patrick Cotter: 'The world is being led by the generation that did not experience World War II'
Writing in dark times, poet and director of the Munster Literature Centre, Patrick Cotter, devotes a section in his new collection to war under the heading, 'Songs in a Time of War'. The book, Cotter's fourth collection, entitled Quality Control at the Miracle Factory, is testament to his strong observational powers and empathy for his fellow man (and woman). 'As a child, my childhood was dominated by the culture of war,' says Cotter. 'Boys' toys were all war toys and war films were popular. I remember at three years of age watching television and seeing footage of the Vietnam War. I have a memory of seeing the first petrol bombs being thrown during the Troubles.' In his previous collection, Sonic White Poise, Cotter included a section called 'War Songs in a Time of Peace'. He recalls broadcaster and journalist Olivia O'Leary interviewing him about the book's preoccupations. 'I had been sent questions in advance. I expressed the belief that I thought we were at the end of a Belle Époque. That was 2021. The last Belle Époque was at the turn of the twentieth century. We had sixty years of mostly peace in Europe. There was a certain deep complacency before World War I began.' It's bad enough that there are wars in Ukraine and Gaza. Cotter hopes there isn't going to be another big war. "One of the problems we have now is that the world is being led by the generation that did not experience World War II. We're being led by f**king eejits who think they can win wars.' Smaller 'wars' meanwhile are being suffered every day on our streets and are of consequence to Cotter while others would just walk on by. In his poem, Elegy for a Cork Woman Who Died in Winter, the poet writes about Vanessa O'Callaghan who died last year after being attacked in the city where she slept rough. With her 'ten-dollar name living thruppeny bit days', O'Callaghan was a familiar face to Cotter. Patrick Cotter has just published his latest collection, Quality Control At The Miracle Factory. 'She always perked up when she saw me coming. If I had coins, I'd give her something. She appreciated it. But as the poem outlines, that's not something we can afford to clap ourselves on the back for.' O'Callaghan 'never knew the insides of our heated homes.' Cotter grew up in the shadow of St Fin Barre's Cathedral on Bishop's Street. He wrote his first poem at the age of nine and wished to be a writer for as long as he can remember. He attended Deerpark secondary school, now Coláiste Éamann Rís. He went to UCC but did not complete his arts degree. 'I came from a family that was dependent on social welfare. I found myself trying to do work, for instance, as a night porter and going to college at the same time. It just wasn't doable. The reason I went to college was because I wanted to be a poet. I didn't want to be a teacher. "Coming from my background, the only use of a BA was to be a teacher. I was from a social class that didn't really understand what a BA was for. I spent a lot of the time in UCC library, reading books that were not on my course. I was also politically involved, what is nowadays called an activist.' In his job with the Munster Literature Centre, Cotter's responsibility is to give other writers in the city and county opportunities. 'I have to hold myself back. It's frustrating. I can't put myself on the programme for the Cork Poetry Festival. But we now have a fringe event before the festival. My book will be launched at that.' Cotter's day job involves organising the Cork Poetry Festival and the Cork International Short Story Festival. He also edits the journal, Southword, sets up mentorships and workshops and awards prizes. It's a busy position. 'I feel I would have published many more books if it wasn't for my job. But on the other hand, I've met writers who work in factories, and as teachers - admittedly for just eight months of the year. Most writers can't make money out of writing. The strange thing is most of the poets associated with Cork city were from working class backgrounds, with no money. "What has happened in recent years is that all these writing degrees have been established. That has made a writing degree attractive to people from middle-class backgrounds who can justify it to their families,' says Cotter. Quality Control at the Miracle Factory by Patrick Cotter was launched at Waterstones on Monday May 12. Cork International Poetry Festival continues until May 17
CairoScene
09-05-2025
- Entertainment
- CairoScene
The Man Who Doesn't Want to Reinvent Downtown Cairo
Talaat Harb's cracked sidewalks, faded shopfronts, and sagging balconies tell a story Cairo has grown used to ignoring. But for Mostafa Salem, moving slowly through the chaos, each chipped cornice and broken tile is a call to attention. In a city where past and present grind together like faulty gears, Salem's work - stubborn and quiet - feels almost radical. Through his firm, Coconut Interiors, he is part of a small but determined movement trying to revive the beating heart of Cairo's historic Downtown, Wust El Balad as a set piece, as a nostalgic fantasy, as a living memory. It's a mission that demands a different kind of heroism: one that resists erasure not with grand announcements, but with patience, pragmatism, and an unglamorous fidelity to detail. Salem knows that restoration can't remain an elite conversation among architects and developers. So, armed with nothing more than a smartphone and a sharp eye, he has turned to TikTok and Instagram, platforms more often associated with dance trends and makeup tutorials than architectural activism. In short, snappy videos filmed from the sidewalks of Wust El Balad, he films the Evergreen Tower, dusty cinemas, old colonial staircases, overlaying them with imagined "after" visions: a cleaned-up arcade bustling with bookshops, a courtyard rewilded with native plants, a rooftop café shaded with linen sails. 'The aim is simple. To make ordinary Egyptians imagine Downtown as part of their future. These videos aren't for architects,' Salem laughs. 'They're for people scrolling at night, people who forgot Downtown even exists." In a city where heritage is often treated as a museum piece, or an obstacle to new construction, Salem's DIY approach repositions Downtown as something personal, emotional, and ultimately collective. The story is often recited but rarely truly believed: in the late 19th century, under Khedive Ismail, Cairo's Downtown was modelled on Baron Haussmann's Paris. Boulevards sliced through the medieval urban fabric, European architects raised buildings adorned with wrought-iron balconies and Belle Époque mouldings, and cafes bustled with cosmopolitan chatter. Downtown was not simply Egypt's administrative centre. It was its cultural, political, and emotional core. But like much of Cairo's grandeur, Downtown's golden age proved heartbreakingly brief. The 1952 revolution brought land reforms and the flight of the upper classes. Nationalisation under Nasser fractured property ownership; maintenance budgets evaporated with time. Over time, balconies sagged, ornate plaster peeled, elevators broke down. Families squeezed into divided apartments designed for another era. Cairo became "a city in a coma" - too burdened by history to move, too battered by politics to heal. While many now frame Downtown as a brand to be polished or a project to be managed, Mostafa Salem speaks of it the way one talks about a stubborn friend: with exasperation, loyalty, and an intimate acknowledgement of flaws. 'There's no need to invent a new Downtown,' he tells me. 'It's there. Underneath the cheap tiles, under the fluorescent signs. It's waiting.' One building he's particularly interested in is the Evergreen Tower, a modest, overlooked block that could, with sensitive restoration, become a symbol of the Downtown revival he envisions: affordable, lively, accessible without erasing the past. Salem imagines its crumbling lobby polished back to life, its rooftop turned into a public gathering space, its corridors filled again with foot traffic and informal life. 'We have to work with what we have," he says. "Not against it.' Salem's aesthetic is radical in its restraint. "The goal," he says, "is to let the building be itself again." It's an approach that feels almost revolutionary in a city where speed, spectacle, and shiny surfaces increasingly dominate. The vision does not stop there. One of the projects Salem is currently working on—in collaboration with government bodies—is the renovation of the Tiring Building, one of Downtown's forgotten giants. Built in 1890, it was once the Middle East's earliest iteration of a multi-concept department store, decades ahead of its time. Now, the building slouches in near ruin: façades cracked, interiors rotting. Salem's first task was deceptively simple: to find the old drawings of the building, and immerse himself in the principles of Baroque architecture. But while blueprints might sit neatly in archives, the reality on the ground was far messier. The Tiring Building, like many Downtown relics, is not government-owned. It belongs to multiple private families and individuals, each holding legal stakes in various sections. Before touching the interiors, Salem had to seek their consent individually, a slow, sometimes Kafkaesque process. Legally, because the Tiring Building is registered as a protected historical monument , Salem could restore the exterior. Yet when it came to interior work, he had to negotiate piece by piece. The Urban Harmony Committee issues guidelines for preserving such heritage, but their authority is advisory, not coercive: they cannot force shop owners to remove violations like air conditioners, neon signs, or ill-fitting aluminium shopfronts. 'Incredibly, rather than resistance, I found a surprising wellspring of cooperation. Many of the owners, often assumed to be indifferent, welcomed the idea of a rejuvenated Teering Building.' Salem recalls. Salem's argument was simple but powerful: a restored building would increase foot traffic, cultural prestige, and, ultimately, the economic value of their shops. More visitors meant more business. More visibility meant survival in an era where Downtown risks being abandoned to tourists or forgotten altogether. 'People aren't enemies of preservation," Salem says. " When you show them what's possible, and what's in it for them, they listen.' Salem's work unfolds alongside two powerful forces reshaping Downtown Cairo: government-led restoration efforts and private real estate investment. Companies like Al Ismaelia have acquired and restored over 25 historic buildings, reviving landmarks such as Groppi's patisserie and Café Riche, and drawing renewed attention to the district's architectural heritage. Yet even amid this momentum, Salem remains attentive to the question of accessibility, mindful that rising rents and new businesses could gradually shift Downtown toward exclusivity. Mostafa Salem sees this tension clearly, but he refuses to frame it in simplistic terms. 'It's normal,' he says. 'Downtown is part of Cairo's face to the world. Of course there will be places that target visitors. That's good. It shows the city is alive.' His worry is not that tourist cafés or boutique hotels exist—but that they could become the only kind of life left. "If you lose the kiosks, the qahwas, the corner shops—the Downtown we know will turn into a closed compound," he says. Salem speaks fondly of the old qahwas where workers gather over tea, and the kiosks selling newspapers and cigarettes under faded awnings. "They're part of us as Egyptians. You can't plan them into existence. They have to survive naturally." For him, the healthiest version of Downtown Cairo is one where these layers coexist: visitors drinking espresso in an elegant café beside an old man playing backgammon at a battered table; a restored heritage building standing proudly next to a newspaper kiosk plastered with yesterday's headlines. A city breathing with all its lungs. 'Order isn't vibrancy,' Salem says. 'You can repaint a façade a hundred times, but if you don't bring back the people, the noise, the improvisation, it's dead." There is no neat ending to this story. But perhaps a more modest hope is possible: not resurrection, but recognition. To glimpse a peeling façade and feel affection, not disdain. To restore a battered balcony not for branding, but so a mother can lean out of it and call her child home. Working on these projects has shifted Salem's sense of scale. What began as a handful of restorations now feels like something far larger, and far heavier. 'This has opened a can of worms,' he says. 'There are millions of buildings that demand our attention.' Yet Salem doesn't see that as a reason for despair. He hopes this work, the stubborn daily negotiations, the drawings, the scraped layers of dust , will open people's eyes to what lies ahead. 'This isn't the end,' he says. 'It's the beginning of understanding what Downtown, and Cairo, could become.' Salem is trying to make small acts of attention matter again: a repaired cornice, a reopened stairwell, a building cleared of debris. Tiny stitches in a fabric that can never be wholly mended, and that's ok. After all, Salem isn't pretending that he's saving Downtown Cairo. He's just trying to help it breathe free and save itself.
