Why the Italian city of Lecce is nicknamed 'the Florence of the South'

It’s not easy to carry a basilica on your shoulders, but, despite the summer heat, these men aren’t breaking a sweat. Carved into the honey-hued exterior of the Basilica di Santa Croce, the stone figures kneel in a line from one side of the wall to the other, seemingly supporting the upper facade with their bare hands. Above them, the building is so richly decorated as to seem in motion: cherubs swirl in a spiral and garlands of pomegranate and acanthus leaves rise, reaching fever pitch where they all circle the central rose window. “Construction began in 1549,” says local guide Anita Maggiulli. “But it took over 140 years to complete.”

It seems to have been worth it, as the church has become the symbol of the city. I’m on a half-day tour of Lecce, the biggest urban centre of Salento, the tip of the heel to the Italian peninsula’s boot. It’s an area that distils what the wider region of Puglia is known for: white-washed hamlets, long stretches of sandy beach and the crystal-clear waters of the Ionian and Adriatic Seas. But this city in the hinterland has a different claim to fame — its grand, expertly carved architecture, which has earned it the moniker ‘Florence of the South’.

According to Anita, while the nickname is often associated with German historian Ferdinand Gregorovius, it was first thought up by George Berkeley, an Irish bishop who travelled through Puglia in the 18th century. At a time when the Italian south was seen as unsafe and lawless, he reached the peripheries and found a city with protective walls, some 140 churches and, above all, magnificent facades. “He was left… disconcerted,” Anita says, mimicking a mix of surprise and confusion. “He described it as a place that had nothing to envy Rome or Venice, and even resembled a small Florence.”

If the Tuscan capital had been the cradle of the Renaissance, Lecce came to exemplify the Baroque era. The opulent art form originated in Rome in the 17th century, when the Vatican fought the threat of Protestantism the way it knew best — through an ostentatious display of power. As the style spread southward, it took on a local twist. “We couldn’t play with dimensions like the Romans, nor employ prestigious materials like the Neapolitans,” says Anita. “But we’d been blessed with a ‘poor’ material that allowed us to create marvels: Lecce stone.”

When it comes to this type of limestone, there are three key takeaways: it’s extracted in quarries around Lecce; it once formed the bed of an ancient sea, and to this day, you can find shells and fossils caked in its slabs; and it’s so malleable, it can be carved with a penknife. “It’s as soft as mollica,” says Anita, comparing it to the interior of a bread roll, as we move away from Santa Croce. “It became the defining characteristic of the Lecce Baroque.”

The city centre is almost entirely tinted in the stone’s characteristic warm, off-white shade. And while the Baroque approach was initially reserved for churches and mansions, large swathes of the city came to be rebuilt in its style. Locals wander around, unaffected by the open-air museum on display above their heads: the window lintels carved with scallop shells; the doorways flanked by Corinthian-style pillars; the balconies with stately balustrades.

Over the past 30 years, local artisans have started experimenting with a more modern approach to stonemasonry, too. One of the first was sculptor Renzo Buttazzo, now in his 60s, who greets me the next morning outside his home-turned-studio on the outskirts of San Cesario, a 10-minute drive from Lecce.

“Hot, eh?” he says in his garden by way of greeting, tugging at his grey linen shirt to fan himself. “I hold stonemasonry workshops here, to show visitors there’s more to Salento than sun and sea,” he tells me. “If you want to truly get to know the area, you must meet the people who built it up.”

Here, he builds, both figuratively and literally. At the far end of the garden, there’s a small exhibition space for his Lecce stone works. The ceiling is see-through; the daylight washes down on his sculptures, displayed on wooden pedestals all around the walls. There are sinuous figures with neither face nor features, and molecular-like forms that seem to contract and expand, with no angles or hard lines, no beginnings or ends. They’re a study in oxymorons: something solid that seems soft, something heavy that looks feather-light.

When describing his approach to working with Lecce stone, Renzo uses the word sconvolgere, an Italian verb for the act of shaking something out of its status quo. In the early 1990s, when artisans still used the material to sculpt angel-like putti and seraphim, Renzo was turning it into everyday objects, like clocks and lamps, before progressing to abstract sculpture. In 2001, he was honoured with the Order of Merit of the Republic, the Italian equivalent of being knighted.

“I take the old — the Baroque — to create the contemporary,” Renzo tells me as he flip-flops back outside in battered sandals, his soles chalk-white from the stone residue dusting the floor. “We local stonemasons come from a long legacy of excellence, and we have a duty to carry it forward. Our predecessors built something as magnificent as Santa Croce with their hands. Four centuries on, I work the same way.”

He reaches his workstation, a table on a covered patio surrounded by scattered tools, and turns his attention to a work in progress. He positions a wooden scalpel, then hits it with a hammer to sculpt sections from the undulating, hollow figure. A rasp is used to model its curves; sandpaper to shave its surface smooth. “Sometimes I’m here for 10 hours a day, and I come away exhausted,” he says, eyebrows furrowed, taking a step back to size up his efforts. “It’s not easy, you know — gifting people beauty.” And yet, as his face softens, pleased by the results, all I can think is how easy he makes it look.