To understand it, let us imagine we have to found a city.
Where would we begin? Perhaps with the shape of buildings, the streets or a great square. Vitruvius first invites us to examine the place where people will live. Is the air healthy? Where does the water come from? Which fields will feed the inhabitants? How will supplies arrive? How should the streets be oriented in relation to the winds?
Each answer changes another. Water affects health, the land feeds the city, and connections enable exchange. Urban form emerges within this network of relationships. Here is a lesson we can all understand: a good solution must work alongside the others and contribute to a community’s life.
De architectura contains a memorable illustration. Dinocrates proposes an ambitious project to Alexander: turning Mount Athos into a gigantic human figure, holding a city in one hand. Alexander admires the idea, then asks a very practical question: which fields will feed its inhabitants? The spectacular project meets an elementary need. To exist, a city must be able to sustain life.
It is this view of the whole that I want to recover today.
In the first book of his treatise, Vitruvius describes disciplines as parts of a body: each has a function, and all are connected. Geometry, music, medicine, history and philosophy contribute to the education of those who build. Music helps us understand sound; medicine informs questions about healthy places; history helps explain the meaning of forms.
Vitruvius knows that nobody can excel in every field. Yet he asks architects to understand enough to discuss matters with specialists and assess the consequences of choices. Circular wisdom, in the interpretation I propose, grows from this ability: recognising when our own knowledge needs someone else’s.
The circle also includes the relationship between thought and action. We study, try something, encounter a difficulty and return to reflection. Our hands ask questions of the mind; the mind helps our hands find a way forward. Every experience can change what we thought we knew.
I recognise this in my work on the Basilica of Fano. For years I have tried to turn Vitruvius’s words into a space we can observe and discuss. A three-dimensional model makes a hypothesis visible, while also revealing its weaknesses. We must return to the text, compare measurements and listen to other specialists. Research develops when we accept that new evidence may change our drawing.
The transmission of knowledge follows the same movement. Vitruvius gathers earlier knowledge and passes it on to those who come after him. Centuries later, Leonardo reads those pages, observes the human body and draws. The past becomes a new question. This circularity crosses generations: receiving, understanding, transforming and sharing again.
Today, specialisation allows us to see with extraordinary precision. Treating an illness, designing a structure or studying an archaeological find requires years of training. This depth makes dialogue essential. Designing a square means bringing together trees, soil, water, accessibility and everyday uses. A tree provides shade, but needs room for its roots and care over time. Even an apparently simple choice involves many fields of knowledge.
Artificial intelligence enters this picture with new possibilities. It can help us explore materials, compare hypotheses and make complex content accessible. Its contribution gains value through verification and understanding. A convincing answer must be checked against sources; an evocative reconstruction must allow us to distinguish what we know from what we imagine.
One question remains ours: what kind of life do we want to shape through these tools? Choosing goals, listening to people and recognising consequences means taking responsibility. This is where I place the idea of a new humanism: a culture capable of giving direction to the possibilities of technology.
Above all, I would say this to young people: pursue what fascinates you and learn to meet people who know different things. Ask questions, test answers and try to explain what you have understood in your own words.
Circular wisdom begins this way. Every piece of knowledge we share can help someone else see more clearly. And it can return to us, enriched by a question we would never have thought to ask alone.