THE SLĂTINEANU HOUSE COLLECTION - A STORY BEYOND GENERATIONS
Historic houses fulfil their duty before every passer-by who lingers on façades, managing to look beyond the fences veiled by the city’s spontaneous vegetation. I often invite people to rest their gaze beyond the translucent obstacle of a fence that is more or less in its place. And for the Slătineanu House, it is worth resting your gaze for more than an hour.
Hidden within the historic fabric of old Cotroceni, the Slătineanu House has a monumental presence that can be sensed through its generous garden. In a city that often loses its memory with every construction site, the house remains a rare form of continuity.
Here lived the Slătineanu family and architect Șerban Sturdza, who grew up in the house and later became a diplomat in architecture. The house was always open, hosting even during the communist period a literary circle, a ceramics museum and other collections. Barbu Slătineanu, the architect’s maternal grandfather, ceded the collection to the state in exchange for the right to continue living in one of the rooms with his family—a promise that was not respected by the communist regime.
Photography by Daliana Iacobescu
Architect Șerban Sturdza comes from an old family, related to the Lahovary, Kretzulescu and Metaxa families, with lineage traced back to Constantin Brâncoveanu. He graduated from the “Ion Mincu” Institute of Architecture in 1971, later teaching at the High School of Fine Arts and at the Faculty of Architecture in Timișoara. He has led the Order of Architects and the Union of Architects, founded the PRODID practice, contributed to Law no. 184/2001 regarding the organisation of the architectural profession (together with Alexandru Beldiman), and currently heads the ProPatrimonio Foundation, operating on the principles of the UK National Trust. Through numerous architectural projects, heritage restorations and safeguarding initiatives for traditional habitats and communities, he has dedicated his professional life to the conservation of built heritage.
We spoke with him about the Slătineanu House and about how heritage can be preserved, inhabited, assimilated and understood. Between continuity and fragility, our dialogue focused on the memorial and symbolic value of the house and its collection—an essential dimension in a world that increasingly questions what can still be saved as it rushes to demolish its past.
A.R.: What is the story of the Slătineanu House, your grandfather’s house?
Ș.S.: The house was bought “in shell condition” by my grandparents. I believe Elena Lupescu once wanted it, but she eventually abandoned it and my grandmother from the Slătineanu side purchased it. She completed it to the finishing stage, adding a small northern extension designed by architect Horia Teodoru. Three generations lived there.
The house already contained the family collection at the time of purchase, initiated by Professor Alexandru Slătineanu, a medical professor and rector in Iași. It was gradually assembled in Paris during his student years, together with Professor Cantacuzino, his older friend. They travelled, researched and collected art out of pure passion.
Subsequent generations continued this practice, expanding what began as a collection of French art into a diverse ensemble including graphic works, furniture, weapons, Oriental art and Japanese prints. There was a significant collection of Japanese prints, introduced to Europe through the Dutch East India Company, which brought Japanese art and information into the European cultural sphere.
Barbu Slătineanu, Alexandru’s son, was originally meant to become an engineer, but volunteered as a soldier in the First World War. He developed a strong passion for ceramics, archaeology and history, continuing the collection and conducting extensive research after the war. He identified ceramic artefacts in archaeological sites around Bucharest, Câmpulung and Curtea de Argeș, and authored Romanian Ceramics, published by the Royal Foundations and awarded by the Romanian Academy. He later became a leading specialist and professor of ceramics at the School of Fine Arts in Bucharest.
He also served in the army with the rank of colonel until retirement, after which he became museum director of what had initially been his private collection, later transferred to the state under specific conditions. One of those conditions was that Barbu Slătineanu and his wife would remain custodians and continue living in the house. This was never respected. He was arrested, detained, released, re-arrested, and eventually died in prison—without trial, without judgment.
A.R.: What is the story of the Slătineanu collection? In the film Toujours semer you spoke about its importance for our art and culture.
Ș.S.: We would need hours of storytelling—or even a book—to go through all the objects in the collection and their meaning, and the way they are organised into a coherent system of relationships. When the film was made, the collection had not yet been recovered, so the story was told differently from how it is today, after an 18-year legal process that was eventually won. The collection had been transferred to the Museum of Collections through a forced donation, with a series of pressures, threats and episodes that unfolded over time. There was, in fact, a kind of mafia of art objects at work even then. The objects were taken under the pretext that they needed to be protected from an earthquake. Yet the 1977 earthquake did not damage a single object in the Slătineanu collection. Before the official heritage teams arrived, other groups came—three or four individuals who knew exactly what was inside the house. They removed some of the most important pieces, which then disappeared into the Party Administration’s holdings and vanished from official records.
I was present at the takeover. It was particularly striking because they entered even our private rooms, not only the museum spaces. Some objects were located in the rooms where we lived. They pointed and said: “that one, that one, that one, and that one.” They already knew exactly what they were looking for. Nothing was accidental. It was not a selection—it was premeditated. They took everything without paying anything. It was, quite simply, a form of looting or expropriation, as you prefer to call it. The earthquake was merely a pretext.
Photography by Ana Rubeli
A.R.: And did the communist authorities simply come and take the remaining objects from the house?
Ș.S.: Yes, with one rather telling detail: they justified it by claiming the objects needed protection from an earthquake. The 1977 earthquake did not destroy a single piece in the Slătineanu collection. Yet before the official Ministry of Culture teams arrived, another group had already been there—three or four individuals who knew exactly what was inside the house. They removed some of the most valuable objects, which were then transferred to the Party Administration (“Gospodăria de Partid”) and disappeared completely from heritage records. To this day, no one can say where those objects are. Only afterwards did the official state teams arrive.
I was present during the takeover. It was a very particular moment, because they entered not only the museum rooms but also our private living spaces. Some of the objects were in the rooms where we actually lived. They pointed and said: “that one, that one, that one, and that one.” They knew exactly what they were looking for. It was not random selection, like at a market. It was a predetermined operation. They took everything without paying anything.
It was, simply put, looting or seizure—call it what you will. The intent had been known in advance, and the earthquake was nothing more than a pretext.
Interview by Ana Rubeli
Discover the full version of this interview in Volume VI.