Ochre stucco runs wall to ceiling without interruption, the same sun-baked yellow as the Sicilian hills visible through the open frame behind the balustrade.
The stucco reads as late Baroque: dense floral swags, oval medallions, acanthus scrolls pressed deep into wet plaster by craftsmen who charged by the intricacy. The sea sits at the horizon, a thin blue line beyond the bleached hillside. Inside, the ceiling and walls fracture in slow bloom. The floor tiles hold their pattern under a film of pale dust. Only the light moves through here now, and it takes its time.
