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the studio of Peter Paul Rubens, that had been commissioned
400-odd years ago by another Sicilian monastery, this one
near Palermo. Their subject, coincidentally enough, was the
life of Saint Helena, so, of course, he had to have them. Garcia’s
ardor was piqued even more when he learned that they were
so historically important that they could not leave the country.
The towering works now survey Villa Elena’s grand gallery, a
ballroom-size stretch of square footage, joined by, among other
opulent companions, antique portières embroidered with
pearls, 17th-century busts of Roman emperors, and gilt-wood
stools with cabriole legs so pronounced that they practically
writhe before one’s eyes.
Though the word monastery conjures up deprivation
and restraint, Villa Elena’s front doors open to a Vatican-style
voluptuousness that is wholly appropriate to Sicily, where
exaggeration and elaboration are the rule rather than the
exception. (“I am a romantic futuristic, not a nostalgic,” Garcia
says; for him, the past is not just inspiring but forever alive.)
Rooms are frosted with faux marbling and lavished with chairs,
tables, and porcelains made for 19th-century royals, among
them Napoleon’s brother-in-law Joachim Murat, briefly king
of the Two Sicilies, that are used without trepidation by Garcia
and his guests. Scalloped silk canopies pour down like water-
falls from high bedroom ceilings. At one end of the glamorous
swimming pool stands a temple—it incorporates elements of
a Greek temple that Garcia already possessed—where the
interior walls have been lushly painted in emulation of the
garden room of Rome’s Villa of Livia. Garcia’s Sicily interiors
also bear witness to the architect’s explorations across the
island: gilded boiseries from a palazzo in Catania, about an
hour’s drive north of Noto, line the dining room.
Of course, before any of these museum-quality treasures
could be set into place, Villa Elena spent a lengthy period in
construction mode. “I had to go there once a month during the
work, for a minimum three-day stay.” Garcia says. Damaged
in an earthquake in 1693 and rebuilt over time only to fall
into dilapidation once more, the rambling building was in
an alarming condition when Garcia first cast his eyes. There
was no water, no electricity, some walls, and a few vaults,
but, strictly speaking, it was uninhabitable. “Simply put,” the
architect says, “it was about the state of Notre Dame today.”
Distressing, too, was the fact that the original land had been
chopped up and sold off by the family that had owned and
neglected the monastery since the 18th century, so Garcia set
himself to reconstituting the acreage, which took seven
patient but ultimately successful years.
“It’s not just about being a landowner, it’s about being the
manager of this land and knowing that nothing negative will
happen to it,” the architect observes. And as far as Garcia is
concerned, it never will again.
ABOVE IN THE KITCHEN, CERAMIC TILES FROM NOTO COVER THE BACKSPLASH. 18TH- AND 19TH-CENTURY TERRINES.
OPPOSITE A BRAQUENIÉ PAINTED AND EMBROIDERED SILK CUSTOM-MADE BY PIERRE FREY ENLIVENS A SALON.
