ABSTRACT
Above a by-pass skirting a small village inside the confines of Florence there was a clump or colony of post-Lloyd-Wright houses, more glass than local stone or concrete, angular, buoyant, filled with light, fitting their owners like well-tailored suits. In them lived a number of artists, at least one of them being world-famous. The inhabitants not only looked out on an eye-arresting view: the view came through their absence of blockage and sat on their furniture. One of the artists, a foreigner, who had come out to see, decided to organise a little fire-fighting. He took two household brooms, one new, one old, and went over the parapet in his sandals.
