The Genius of Italian Shutters

The recent death of a dear Italian neighbor and the sight of his closed window shutters have got me musing about — of all things — shutters. Please, stay with me.

I spent 14 years of my youth in the American Midwest. Within three states, my family moved from house to house, five in all during that period. Some of those homes were upgrades as my father, a research physiologist, was invited to hold new positions at universities or institutes. Regardless of the location, each house — old or new — had shutters flanking each window.

Perhaps not every window — mainly those visible from the street. It seemed to be a mandatory feature of homes in the 1950s and ‘60s era of suburban subdivisions. Not exactly a symbol of luxe, but a physical reminder of a distant, mythical past in which settlers going west had to secure their windows against the weather, rampaging natives, or roving gangs of frontier ruffians. In modern houses, shutters are less functional than symbolic — a vestige of a bygone era.

In the houses of my youth, the shutters were not operative but firmly screwed into the shiplap siding. Even if they had hinges and actually moved, their width would likely only cover a small part of the window. These were faux features of a whole set of house styles popular in that period. “Colonial” sported a shallow porch supported by slender, turned wood columns painted white. “Ranch” had a shallow porch supported by stouter, square columns. “Classic” houses featured double-hung windows with dysfunctional shutters, while “Modern” houses had picture windows with no shutters. By combining terms, like “Modern Colonial,” endless subtle variations could be concocted.

Functioning, operable shutters for windows have a long history. Early civilizations used them for defense, privacy, protection from harsh weather, and for modulating the effects of a local climate. In some cultures, they were flat planes of wood, solid and opaque. In other cultures, they were equipped with all kinds of devices to adjust and refine the conditions inside the house.

Shutters have become especially associated with Mediterranean and other southern cultures where shutters continue to serve a functional purpose due to seasonal heat, sea breezes, and weather patterns with sudden deluges of precipitation. They also evoke a romantic style of living that includes tile roofs, balconies, and cityscapes with laundry hung across narrow streets and cafes lining the curb. I am sure an image comes immediately to your mind.

When we first looked at the house we now inhabit in a small Italian village, the man whose family had owned it for decades proudly told us that he had recently replaced all 16 windows — at no small expense. He figured the investment would boost value of the house. Now, after living for eight years in the hilltop town of Santa Vittoria in Matenano, in Italy’s Marche region, we are enormously grateful that Alberto made the improvement. We have discovered the sheer genius of the Italian window in which the shutters play an important role.

First, the windows are large, vertically proportioned — six feet tall and three feet wide. They are divided into halves, vertically. Each half (or both) can be fully opened to let breezes in. With the verdant landscape outside, dotted with farms and hilltop villages, the window transforms into painting-like scenes, ever changing with seasonal crops, cloud formations, and the position of the sun.

In the winter, of course, the windows can be closed tightly by pushing and turning a hefty handle. Sealed, double-pane glass keeps out the cold. During storms, the outside shutters are closed, with their moveable louvers adjusted into a flat configuration which sheds off rain and snowfall and secures the place from winds. In better weather, the louvres can be fully open with the shutters closed. Or the shutters can be opened and folded back entirely against the outside wall. Cast-iron clamps keep the shutter firmly pinned against the wall.

A common hot-weather technique is to close the windows and shutters during the day, which keeps the cooler air from the night inside, then open them in the evening to receive breezes. The shutters’ moveable louvers allow modulation of the amount of light, air, and visibility in both directions — in an almost infinite number of ways.

When villagers get word of a major storm approaching, you can hear the repeated closing of shutters as people secure their dwellings for the onslaught. Within minutes, the town looks like it will soon be under siege, with windows hidden behind barricades.

Shutters, it seems, have important social functions as well. When our neighbors throw open theirs, and gaze out, it’s an invitation to a conversation. We have acquired the almost stereotypical Italian habit of talking with neighbors from the street as they lean out from an upper story. Open shutters allow nonnas to spend the day watching the street below at some distance from passersby. The visible cadre of nonnas at their windows is an effective deterrent of mischief that might occur in the street — by children or adults.

When Italians go on extended vacations, they often close all their shutters, sealing the house or apartment like a mausoleum. Our shutters have a locking mechanism that cannot be operated from outside. Not long after we moved in, one of the previous inhabitants admonished us to close and lock the shutters every time we went out. We have never taken that precaution and no one has ever broken in. But that might be because the town police can see our house by merely glancing out their window in city hall. This village is small enough that everyone knows their neighbors’ comings and goings.

We have added a feature to our windows that was not originally there — roll-down insect screens. After years of being eaten alive by nasty mosquitoes so tiny you can neither see nor hear them, we had screens installed on one window in every room. That cut the quantity of biting buggers by 80 percent, but a few still slipped through the barrier. Hanging mosquito nets around every bed and every door cut out most of the rest. Alas, the little devils are persistent and sneaky; we still get a bite or two every night.

I recently discovered that shutters have yet another function, albeit a sad one. Our neighbor Giovanni was a widower who lived alone in a house close to us. Each day he made the rounds of the village, walking slowly with his cane from place to place, hailing friends as he went. We would often greet each other on the street with broad smiles and a salutation. Every morning, Giovanni would throw open the shutters of his bedroom, which faced our terrace, in a grand gesture of welcoming the day, and stand for a few moments, facing the sun. For more than seven years we would shout “Buongiorno!” across the distance and wave to one another.

Two months ago, Giovanni passed away. His shutters are now closed and locked; we will never again enjoy that cheerful morning exchange. Yet, each morning I continue to look at those shutters while drinking my espresso, expecting them to open at any moment.