"The walls weigh on Constantine, and when he is in his palace, the weight of the world suffocates his sleep and pricks at his mind, reminding him of his burdens.

In his tent, however, when only a thin veil separates him from the tumult of the parade ground, the countryside, or the forest, his eyes suddenly feel free and pure, at the mercy of new voices whose origins he cannot discern. Under the tent, he dreams, and the dimmed reality transforms into stories. 

Yes, stories. That is what a tent is for.

A tent is a machine for stories. And for Calvino’s stories, a tent must be precise and simple. Slightly vertical, because vertical is the movement of light that reveals it in the morning and sets aflame in the evening. Made of light sheets, hung out to dry in the sun, so that the voices of the sea, carried by the breeze over the land, and the gossip drifting from the city’s alleys to the square, get caught in its weaves and lace. And then, a place to dream inside, a fortress of sheets under which every child has read some story.

This is a place to listen and tell, to share and repeat, to read and whisper. A place for storytelling."

from the project report