Philosophical Perspectives on Ruins, Monuments, and Memorials 2019020504, 9781138504691, 9781315146133

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Philosophical Perspectives on Ruins, Monuments, and Memorials
 2019020504, 9781138504691, 9781315146133

Table of contents :
Half Title
List of Illustrations
Part 1 Honoring and Mourning
1 Life and Death in Rock: A Meditation on Stone Memorials
2 How Memorials Speak to Us
3 How Memorials Mean, or How to Do Things With Stones
4 The Proper Object of Emotion: Memorial Art, Grief, Remembrance
5 Churches as Memory Machines
6 More Than Bare Bones: The Artistry and Ethics of Ossuaries
Part 2 Ruins Past and Present
7 The Values of Ruins and Depictions of Ruins
8 On the Road to Ruin: Anticipating and Appreciating the Natural Degradation of Human Constructions
9 Ruins and Sham Ruins as Architectural Objects
10 Rust Belt Ruins
11 Neo-picturesque
12 Layers in London: How Buildings Remember
13 From Haunted Ruin to Touristified City: An Aesthetic History of Venice
14 The (Future of the) Ruins in the United Arab Emirates
15 Environmental Heritage and the Ruins of the Future
Part 3 Conflict, Destruction, and the Aftermath
16 The Reconstruction of Damaged or Destroyed Heritage
17 Reflections on the Atomic Bomb Ruins in Hiroshima
18 Bamiyan’s Echo: Sounding Out the Emptiness
19 The Ruins of War
20 Respect, Responsibility, and Ruins
21 The Physical Legacy of a Troubled Past
22 For the Union Dead: Memorial Hall at Harvard University and the Exclusion of the Confederate Fallen
23 Ruins and Debris: Cultural Heritage Practice, Resource Management, and Archaeology
Notes on Editors and Contributors

Citation preview

Philosophical Perspectives on Ruins, Monuments, and Memorials

This collection of newly published essays examines our relationship to physical objects that invoke, commemorate, and honor the past. The recent destruction of cultural heritage in war and controversies over Civil War monuments in the United States have foregrounded the importance of artifacts that embody history. The book invites us to ask: How do memorials convey their meanings? What is our responsibility for the preservation or reconstruction of historically significant structures? How should we respond when the public display of a monument divides a community? This anthology includes coverage of the destruction of Palmyra and the Bamiyan Buddhas, the loss of cultural heritage through war and natural disasters, the explosive controversies surrounding Confederate-era monuments, and the decay of industry in the US Rust Belt. The authors consider issues of preservation and reconstruction, the nature of ruins, the aesthetic and ethical values of memorials, and the relationship of cultural memory to material artifacts that remain from the past. Written by a leading group of philosophers, art historians, and archeologists, the twenty-three chapters cover monuments and memorials from Dubai to Detroit, from the instant destruction of Hiroshima to the gradual sinking of Venice. Jeanette Bicknell is an independent scholar based in Toronto, Canada. She is the author of Philosophy of Song and Singing: An Introduction (2015) and Why Music Moves Us (2009). Jennifer Judkins is a retired Adjunct Professor of Music at UCLA and has twice served as a Trustee for the American Society for Aesthetics. Recently, she authored two articles in the Routledge Companion to Philosophy and Music (2011) and was a guest editor and contributor to the “Symposium on Ruin and Absence” in the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism (2014). Carolyn Korsmeyer is Research Professor of Philosophy at the University at Buffalo. Her recent books include Things: In Touch with the Past (2019) and Savoring Disgust: The Foul and the Fair in Aesthetics (2011). She is a past president of the American Society for Aesthetics.

Philosophical Perspectives on Ruins, Monuments, and Memorials Edited by Jeanette Bicknell, Jennifer Judkins, and Carolyn Korsmeyer

First published 2020 by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 Taylor & Francis The right of the editors to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Bicknell, Jeanette, editor. | Judkins, Jennifer, 1955– editor. | Korsmeyer, Carolyn, editor. Title: Philosophical perspectives on ruins, monuments, and memorials / edited by Jeanette Bicknell, Jennifer Judkins, and Carolyn Korsmeyer. Description: New York : Routledge, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019020504 | ISBN 9781138504691 (hardback) Subjects: LCSH: Memory (Philosophy) | Ruined buildings—Philosophy. | Monuments—Philosophy. | Memorials—Philosophy. Classification: LCC BD181.7 .P49 2019 | DDC 128/.3—dc23 LC record available at ISBN: 978-1-138-50469-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-14613-3 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC


List of Illustrationsviii Introduction




Honoring and Mourning7   1 Life and Death in Rock: A Meditation on Stone Memorials



  2 How Memorials Speak to Us



  3 How Memorials Mean, or How to Do Things With Stones



  4 The Proper Object of Emotion: Memorial Art, Grief, Remembrance



  5 Churches as Memory Machines



  6 More Than Bare Bones: The Artistry and Ethics of Ossuaries SUSAN L. FEAGIN AND CAROLYN KORSMEYER


vi  Contents PART 2

Ruins Past and Present81   7 The Values of Ruins and Depictions of Ruins



  8 On the Road to Ruin: Anticipating and Appreciating the Natural Degradation of Human Constructions



  9 Ruins and Sham Ruins as Architectural Objects



10 Rust Belt Ruins



11 Neo-picturesque



12 Layers in London: How Buildings Remember



13 From Haunted Ruin to Touristified City: An Aesthetic History of Venice



14 The (Future of the) Ruins in the United Arab Emirates



15 Environmental Heritage and the Ruins of the Future




Conflict, Destruction, and the Aftermath187 16 The Reconstruction of Damaged or Destroyed Heritage



17 Reflections on the Atomic Bomb Ruins in Hiroshima YURIKO SAITO


Contents vii 18 Bamiyan’s Echo: Sounding Out the Emptiness



19 The Ruins of War



20 Respect, Responsibility, and Ruins



21 The Physical Legacy of a Troubled Past



22 For the Union Dead: Memorial Hall at Harvard University and the Exclusion of the Confederate Fallen



23 Ruins and Debris: Cultural Heritage Practice, Resource Management, and Archaeology



Notes on Editors and Contributors291 Index296


  2.1 Boer War memorial, St. Cuthbert’s Parish Church, Darlington, UK 28   2.2 Whale jawbone memorial to the former Whitby whaling industry, Whitby, UK 29   2.3 Memorial to Nazi book-burning, May 10, 1933, Berlin, Bebelplatz31   4.1 AIDS Memorial Quilt 50   4.2 Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Washington, DC 53   6.1 Schwarzenberg coat of arms, Sedlec Ossuary, Czech Republic76   8.1 Joseph Gandy, A Bird’s-Eye View of the Bank of England (1830) 96   8.2 Tha Prom Temple, Angkor, Siem Reap, Cambodia 100   8.3 Totems at Old Kasaan, Alaska, USA 103   9.1 Colonnade de Carmontelle, Parc Monceau, Paris 111   9.2 After Hubert Robert, Le temple de la Philosophie moderne, Parc Jean-Jacques Rousseau 115 11.1 Remedial planting at Duisburg North, Ruhr Valley, Germany136 11.2 Water park at Duisburg North, Ruhr Valley, Germany 137 11.3 Start of the High Line, New York City, USA 138 11.4 The High Line, New York City, USA 139 11.5 Smokestack remnant at Evergreen Brick Works, Toronto, Canada 140 11.6 Koerner Garden turns into an ice skating rink in winter at Evergreen Brick Works, Toronto, Canada 141 12.1 London in late antiquity 148 12.2 York Watergate 155 16.1 Ruins of Castle Square, Warsaw, 1945 193 16.2 Warsaw Castle, 2016 193 17.1 Genbaku (Atomic Bomb) Dome/Hiroshima Peace Memorial202 17.2 Genbaku Dome grounds 208

Illustrations ix 7.3 Urakami Cathedral ruin 1 209 18.1 Western Buddha before destruction, 1963, Bamiyan, Afghanistan216 18.2 Western Buddha after destruction, 2002, Bamiyan, Afghanistan216 19.1 Mỹ Sơn sanctuary 232 19.2 A1 Temple before destruction 234 19.3 A1 Temple after bombing 235 20.1 Temple of Bel, 2010 246 20.2 Temple of Bel, 2018 246 22.1 Memorial to Asa, John, and Samuel Melvin, dedicated 1909 264 22.2 Memorial Hall, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts266 22.3 Memorial Transept, Memorial Hall, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts 267 23.1 The Temple of the Buddha’s Tooth in the Sri Lankan city of Kandy after its bombing in 1998 276 23.2 Clearing the rubble from the ruins of the Kasthamandap in the Kathmandu Valley after the 2015 Gorkha earthquake 281 23.3 Personnel from the University of Jaffna and Central Cultural Fund of Sri Lanka clearing the rubble from the ruins of the Kruys Kerk in Jaffna Fort 283 23.4 The felled water tower at Kilinochchi, since removed 285 23.5 The ruins of the Kasthamandap following its scientific investigation prior to reconstruction 287 23.6 Master craftsman Laxmi Prasad Shilpakar carving replacement timber elements for rebuilding the Kasthamandap287

Introduction Jeanette Bicknell, Jennifer Judkins, and Carolyn Korsmeyer

The art historian George Kubler chose an unusual and humbling comparison to capture the importance of a lasting built environment for human life: “Like crustaceans we depend for survival upon an outer skeleton, upon a shell of historic cities and houses filled with things belonging to definable portions of the past.”1 Along with providing shelter and utility, those material “portions of the past” perpetuate awareness of what has gone before us: an awareness of the individuals who lived and worked within their walls, the misfortunes they endured, and the triumphs they celebrated. Some structures—monuments and memorials in particular— are erected with this explicit purpose. Other structures, such as ruins, measure our creations (and ourselves) against time and change. This volume brings together work that considers our relationship to history and culture through the physical objects that invoke, commemorate, and honor the past. At its heart is a consideration of remembrance and loss, a topic that has been sharpened by recent global conflicts and the resulting devastation of architectural and cultural heritage. Monuments and memorials may be individual or familial, as with a grave marker, or national, as with a triumphal monument. More to the point, memorials usually commemorate the dead. They combine shared associations (religious symbols, the solidity of stone) with personal commitments. A  public, large-scale disaster (such as a shipwreck, the 9/11 terrorist attacks, or an earthquake) is at the same time a personal tragedy both for survivors and for those who have lost loved ones. The most effective memorials capture both types of significance—the individual and the national or global—and so are effective on many levels. Memorials can exemplify a great scale of loss by bridging and connecting individual remembrance and mourning. The power of the AIDS quilt, for example, lies in the assemblage of thousands of personal memorials stitched and lain together. Sometimes the immensity of loss is writ literally, with names of the dead incised in stone; and sometimes symbolically, as when the fate of a single individual speaks for countless in memorials to the Unknown Soldier.

2  Bicknell, Judkins, Korsmeyer Memorials can be formally beautiful (the black gash of the Vietnam Memorial) or grisly and disturbing (a chapel made from human bones). Under either description, they recall both the victims and the historical events that claimed them; they may even evoke a sense of the sublime. Many of the structures discussed in this volume are also examples of public art and as such are subject to questions of audience, reception, consent, and the appropriate use of public space. But how, exactly, is the memorial task of objects accomplished, and how do such objects function to sustain memories, honor historical events, convey meanings, or bind communities together? How are their historical, ethical, and aesthetic values related, and how are they to be assessed over time? While monuments and memorials represent deliberate declarations of values, the case of ruins is somewhat different. Ruins also serve to anchor us in time and history. Structures such as buildings, bridges, fortifications, temples, churches, and so forth are made of highly durable materials: stone, brick, or forged metals. Consequently, they endure far longer than the span of a human life or even of generations—although they can be ravaged with shocking speed, as in 2019 when Notre Dame Cathedral went up in flames. Even absent accident or catastrophe, nothing lasts forever and over time the structures that sustained past communities fall into disrepair, decay, and even total ruin. Sometimes fragments are cleared away and repurposed or discarded, but on occasion ruined objects remain in place and become objects venerated for the history they embody. Physical structures in various states of disrepair, decay, or abandonment are a tangible reminder of both the past and the passage of time. Like hourglasses, skulls, and wilting flowers, they evoke the transitory character of the present and the inevitability of decay. Ruins remind us that what today seems solid and immovable will one day be broken and crumbling. They summon awareness of the transience of life and the vulnerability of even the most committed efforts of civilization. Thus ruins themselves can achieve their own place in culture as historical tokens of those who lived before us. For the past several centuries, antique ruins of significant historical and aesthetic value have been popular tourist destinations. Ruin veneration was especially popular during the European Romantic period, when it was associated with a pleasant kind of nostalgia, even melancholy, and the aesthetic standing of ruins was explicitly related to concepts of both the picturesque and the sublime. (Indeed, artists have idealized and valorized ruins in paintings for centuries.) However, ruins are not only ancient but perpetually under formation. Our contemporary structures are just as likely to suffer decay and destruction, leaving metal skeletons and concrete floors in disused factories and warehouses. What are now called “Rust Belt ruins”—the crumbling and abandoned physical structures of late twentieth-century capitalism—are perhaps even more poignant than ancient ruins, as the faded power and accomplishment they invoke is closer to our own era. What is the worth

Introduction 3 of a building that has lost its instrumental purpose? Although a presentday structure that has fallen into ruin may prompt aggravation or anxiety, ethical and aesthetic values are still available to thoughtful reflection. Ruins, therefore, are not mere rubble. How should ruins in general be treated, and when are they worth preserving? Questions of preservation open urgent practical questions, including those that pit ethical, historical, and aesthetic values against one another. Monuments and memorials are designed to last, to remain as prompters of remembrance far beyond the events recalled in living memory. They commemorate the past, whether that past is shared, contested, or troubled. However, the meaning of a public monument can change, just as our relationship to the events and people memorialized alters. The honor accorded people and events that are memorialized may be later withdrawn, as moral commitments and public opinions change. Hence some of the monuments we currently live with may afford historical figures a residue of public regard that some now reject. Monuments to Stalin showed him as a heroic figure; later, as official views about Stalin changed, monuments were removed or relocated. Now some are sites of nostalgia for a lost era and lost youth. What treatment is most appropriate for monuments whose place in the historical record remains important although the sentiments they express are no longer widely endorsed? Arguments (and even riots) continue to erupt today about memorials to those now perceived to have been on the wrong side of history, as disputes over Confederate monuments and other commemorations of the American Civil War amply testify. Times of conflict illuminate dramatically the value that artifacts can possess. Recent malevolent and unrestrained devastation has robbed future generations of artifacts regarded as part of global heritage. The Taliban dynamited the sixth-century Bamiyan Buddhas in Afghanistan in 2001. From 2015 to 2017, ISIL defaced or destroyed much of the large remaining ruins at Palmyra in Syria. The largest archaeological site in Vietnam, Mỹ Sơn, was destroyed by a US bombing raid in 1969. Sadly, the annihilation of religious or culturally prized artifacts in time of war has many precedents, for objects of material heritage are often obliterated as a means of conquering a people.2 In recognition of this danger, works of art are frequently hidden from enemies, lest they become objects of plunder or destruction. Things that embody historical and cultural value, when destroyed, are virtually irreplaceable. As such, their value is recognized not only by their protectors but sometimes also by enemies— who might refrain from bombing a cathedral or an archaeological site. In other words, both willful destruction and strategic restraint acknowledge the significance of certain kinds of artifacts. Faced with demolished sites of cultural heritage, the question is: what is “debris” and what is a “ruin”? To take one example, what kind of value now attaches to the empty niches of the Bamiyan Buddhas? Should

4  Bicknell, Judkins, Korsmeyer the niches be reconstructed or left empty? If we do try to save vandalized ruins and monuments, should we completely reconstruct them, like the Dresden Frauenkirche? Should we restore them so that our separate efforts are visible to later generations? Should we just leave them alone? The appropriate solutions seem to be as individual as the artifacts and sites themselves. Most of the contributors to this volume are philosophers (in addition to art historians, cultural historians, and archeologists). The topics addressed are not traditional ones for this discipline, for while the act of memorializing itself is ancient, the philosophical issues it raises have been often overlooked.3 Nevertheless, philosophical perspectives illuminate a number of urgent issues about the artifacts that make up cultural heritage and the treatment that they merit. The essays here reflect on the aesthetic and ethical value of ruins (whether ancient or recent) and the moral mandates that enjoin their preservation, in addition to considering the means by which artifacts convey meaning and metaphysical questions about the nature of architectural fragments. While aesthetic and ethical issues are often thought to occupy separate philosophical domains, with the sorts of objects considered here the two zones of value converge. Built structures often embody cultural identity or hallowed events in which they played a central role. The destruction of material heritage injures not only an object but a people, leaving behind a long trail of damage through generations. The volume is arranged in three parts. Part 1, “Honoring and Mourning,” presents several analyses of monuments and memorials—including gravestones and churches—that address the question of just how it is that mute artifacts can convey meaning. This part begins with a consideration of the materials from which they are constructed and their significance. Permanence is important, for stones remain after all else is gone. Perhaps this is why stones seem so suited to connect the living with the dead, to help us resist ruin and loss. Part 2, “Ruins Past and Present,” offers analyses of what makes for a ruin and the value of ruin preservation. Since there is more of the past than there is of the present, material remains offer great diversity from different periods of history and various cultures (although to be sure, only some societies consider it important to preserve artefactual remnants). The decaying structures of past times foreshadow losses of the present, and several essays here project what the ruins of our own times might look like and the values they will represent. The essays of Part 3, “Conflict, Destruction, and the Aftermath,” are related to those in Parts 1 and 2, inasmuch as disaster and conflict can create ruins that then become memorials to their own destruction. This is particularly obvious when bombed structures are preserved, not to commemorate their past greatness so much as to recall in perpetuity the conflict that brought about their destruction. Ruins evoke a lost past, while

Introduction 5 monuments and memorials are created to help us honor, mourn, and remember past individuals and events. A proper consideration of any of these includes the chastening realization that we, together with our built environment, will ultimately be “lost” and missing to future generations.

Notes 1. George Kubler, The Shape of Time: Remarks on the History of Things (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1962), 1. 2. Dario Gamboni, The Destruction of Art: Iconoclasm and Vandalism Since the French Revolution (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997). 3. Apart from Robert Ginsberg’s work, The Aesthetics of Ruins (New York: Rodopi, 2004), we know of no other book-length study of ruins by a philosopher. A study of the related field of archaeology by a philosopher is Alison Wylie, Thinking from Things: Essays in the Philosophy of Archaeology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002).

Part 1

Honoring and Mourning

1 Life and Death in Rock A Meditation on Stone Memorials Kathleen Higgins

The pervasiveness of stone in the burial and memorialization of the dead is striking. William Wordsworth notes stone’s ubiquitous funerary role. Historian Thomas Laqueur summarizes the poet’s reflections: with very few exceptions, even savage tribes “unacquainted with letters” put mounds of earth or rude stones over their dead in order to guard the remains of the deceased from “irreverent approach or from savage violation” and to “preserve their memory.”1 Perhaps the effort to safeguard remains also accounts for tombs formed by cutting into the sides of cliffs, an ancient tradition in such far-flung places as Egypt, the Middle East, Rome, Japan, Peru, China, and Turkey. Even in India, where cremation and dispersal of remains in sacred rivers is an ancient custom, both mounds and stones have been used to commemorate the dead.2 Why have people in so many cultures turned to stone when responding to the deaths of loved ones? I will consider various associations that stone acquires as a consequence of the circumstances in which human beings encounter it. I  will suggest that the multiple facets of our interactions with stone overdetermine the human penchant to use it in memorializing the dead.

The Human Condition and Stone To answer the question of why people so often use stones for commemorative purposes, perhaps we should first ask why stones are so important in people’s lives. Stones, of course, serve diverse purposes that vary with context, but features of the human condition and the basic character of stones are constants, sufficient to ensure certain ubiquitous associations with stone. As Riva Berleant observes, “Any material with which humans live so intimately accrues meanings that elaborate, complicate, and mediate our sensory experiences of that material.”3 Jeffrey Jerome Cohen refers to stone as “a material metaphor.”4

10  Kathleen Higgins Perhaps one of the most important bases for the evocative power of stones is the fact that they are part of the natural context in which human beings find themselves, whatever their cultural circumstances. That from early on human beings could utilize stone to pursue their own purposes depended on its being readily available. Stones are present wherever there is land. We might fairly describe the stone as the fundamental “thing” that human beings confront within nature. Stones can thus appear to us as the epitome of natural stuff. “Stone is primal matter,” says Cohen.5 It is not accidental that Samuel Johnson kicked a stone when he wanted to refute Bishop Berkeley’s claim that to exist is to be an idea in the mind of God. The stone is the paradigmatic occupant of the material order of things. Dirt, comprising crumbled stone and organic matter, is less than a thing. It lacks tangibility, and it resists holding a shape. A  stone, by contrast, has determined, palpable form. A stone is a primordial thing. As basic “things,” stones’ character is nondescript, and this facilitates the tendency to use them to stand for things of virtually any sort. Stones serve well as representational symbols. Small stones among their fellows can play the role of tokens, as they did in the early abacus, utilized to enumerate things. This early technology demonstrates that stones could be aids to thinking, and this hints at the extent of stone’s technological importance. Larger stones or stone en masse, on the other hand, can serve as shelter. The sheltering power of stone is likely to be especially important to those who live in harsh climates, but even in moderate zones, people need protection from storms and the sun. Functioning as barriers, stones provide shields from such dangers. But where human aims are concerned, stones can be barriers for better or worse. As barriers, they can be stumbling blocks, impediments to our movements. Stones, in other words, are sometimes in the way; as a consequence they can command our attention. Stones intrude, and so they stand out. They draw attention all the more effectively if they are conspicuously individual in shape or character. Stones with notable idiosyncrasies are excellent landmarks. Mass alone, however, is sufficient for attracting notice and, indeed, for aesthetic power. The effect of mass was one of the characteristics that British author and artist Adrian Stokes sought in the art he considered ideal. Such art, which he termed Quattro Cento, would be shaped by a “love of stone” and emphasize the impact of mass.6 Mass effect  .  .  . allows the immediate, the instantaneous synthesis that the eye alone of the senses can perform. . . . Purely visual matter is dissociated from noise as well as from silence, from past, present and future. Things stand expressed, exposed, unaltered in the light, in space. Things stand.7

Life and Death in Rock 11 Stone also connotes power, representing a force that resists us. Cohen draws attention to the reciprocal interaction of stone and human agency in relation to the myth of Sisyphus, in which Sisyphus is condemned to an eternity of pushing a boulder up a mountain, each time to have it willfully return to the bottom.8 The image of stone as a metaphor for strength exceeding our own appears in the line from the Book of Job that Cohen cites at the opening of his book: “My strength is not the strength of stones.”9 Stones can represent unsurpassable power in part because they are often heavy and unyielding. The image of stone can suggest sheer weight, as in the case of a millstone tied around one’s neck or a “stone stomach.”10 Stones are also resistant. This connotation of stone is evident in the word “adamant,” meaning stubborn, a word also associated with the hardest stone and metal. Stone, at least many types of it, represents what is impervious. It is an objective correlative of will, whether withholding or active (as in the case of a landslide). Because they are not easily moved, stones are also associated with human effort. Great expenditures of energy are necessary to move large stones, and thus the long-distance transportation and erection of bluestones at Stonehenge represents a remarkable achievement. Nevertheless, stone can also provide affordances in James J. Gibson’s sense of “action possibilities” inherent in objects within the environment.11 For example, we can perch on rocks or climb them. We can use them as tables or lounge chairs or beds. The aforementioned potential of stones to offer shelter is itself an affordance. Stone also figures in humanly devised technologies, as we have observed. Stones facilitated the development of human know-how, providing both tools and materials. The “Stone Age” as an image for early human times reflects this fact, although we often forget what a profound achievement it was to learn to wield stones for human purposes.12 Berleant claims that stone was integral to human development: “Even before our ancestors made images on stone walls, they made stone tools. Their use of stone tools was one factor in the evolution of a truly human brain. Stone, therefore, is part of our being human.”13 Stones can accordingly be seen as potential or actual sites of human action. The aspirations accomplished with stone are almost as wideranging as human activity itself. Not all of the activities stone facilitates are benign. It has been used effectively in weapons and in brutal forms of capital punishment. But obviously, stone can be used as a material for building practical things, including buildings, the arenas in which we live and work. Stone can also function as a canvas or tablet, serving as a medium for communication.14 The expression “set in stone” draws attention to this role. As a communicative means, stones can have decisive rhetorical power through their perceived ability to make an unusually

12  Kathleen Higgins forceful impression. Thus, stone steles were erected in antiquity by powerful political rulers to mark significant historical events and victories. In this role, stones also preserve information for later generations, functioning as aids to memory. Stones are able to serve such mnemonic functions because they are enduring relative to living things. They are ready symbols for permanence. By contrast with perishable human beings, stones endure. On this point François Berthier observes, “Stone is immutable—at least on the human scale—and almost indestructible.”15 Yet stone compares ambiguously with living things. On the one hand, it is often used to represent the mute and inanimate. Cohen points to the relegation of stone “to a trope for the cold, the indifferent, and the inert.”16 Indeed, he sees stone as a metaphor for the inhuman. We describe a person who lacks even a modicum of human feeling as having “a heart of stone.” At the same time, stones mimic the animate and can serve as effigies for human beings. Stokes views the potential of stone to suggest what is animate as basic to the aesthetic value of artwork in stone: “whatever its plastic value, a figure carved in stone is fine carving when one feels that not the figure, but the stone through the medium of the figure, has come to life.”17 Graham Parkes similarly points to the “isomorphism” between stones and human beings, remarking on their characteristic demeanor and the common tendency to name rocks in anthropomorphic ways (e.g., “Sleeping Giant”).18 Cohen reports, “Albertus Magnus had to refute the idea that stones possess souls, so lively do rocks appear when examined not simply in comparison to humans but in their native thriving.”19 Dynamic and idiosyncratic, rocks are individuated, much as we are. Stones with distinctive features or unique character are often treated as intrinsically valuable. Berleant lists “aesthetic qualities of texture, hardness, shimmer, color, fracture, and susceptibility to polish” among the characteristics that can contribute to stones’ perceived value.20 Stones can serve as symbols of value (as the case of diamonds and other gems), and jewelry is often prized more highly for making use of distinctive stones. Chinese “scholar’s stones,” large rocks that are exhibited (often in studies or libraries) for their unique convolutions, textural features, and characteristics suggestive of dynamism, are considered inspiring. The famous Japanese rock garden Ryōan-Ji emphasizes particularity in its specific rocks and their placement. Stones’ distinctive shapes show the effects of their long experience in the world, another basis for comparing them to animate beings like ourselves. Stones wear their history on their faces, as we do. The sense that stones and human beings have much in common is intimated by what is often considered the greatest novel in Chinese literature, The Dream of the Red Chamber. The work is also known as The Story of the Stone, for a stone, incarnated as the text’s central character,

Life and Death in Rock 13 is the narrator of the story. This frame conveys the Buddhist idea that the world of human undertakings and passions, which we take so seriously, is in reality an illusion. The vibrant, multigenerational tale presented over the course of the vast novel (around 2,500 pages in the Penguin English translation) amounts to a dream that floats on emptiness, just like the “Floating World” of Japanese ukiyo-e prints and paintings. And who would recognize the insubstantiality of this domain of human pursuits better than a stone? Finally, stone is serviceable for achieving expressive goals through art. Stone is the traditional medium for sculpture. Stones have their own aesthetic characteristics, but stone can also achieve aesthetic effects by conjoining things. Cohen points to its aggregating power, “attracting to itself disparate matter.”21 One can take this as literal description, drawing attention to the capacity of stone to absorb multiple materials, some of them not mineral at all (as in the case of fossils). However, Cohen sees in this a broader metaphor: “Because of its ardor for unconformity, stone sediments contradiction, there to ignite possibility, abiding invitation to metamorphosis. It offers a stumbling block to anthropocentrism and a spur to ceaseless story.”22 Stone might even be taken as a metaphor for the aesthetic domain of human experience, where human beings bring elements together to unprecedented effect. This survey of some of stone’s features suggests many points of departure for its serving symbolic roles. The multiplicity of the associations just adumbrated and their potential for interaction render stone a particularly resonant medium for memorializing the dead.

Symbolic Resonances in Tombstones and Other Stone Memorials Stone, as an epitomization of the inanimate, might be seen as a cruel but apt symbol of death’s aftermath. Our impression of rock as alien and inhuman corresponds to our sense of what our dead loved ones have become. Formerly vibrant presences, they have been rendered mute, as still as a rock. Once active and living among us, they have been halted irrevocably, reduced to minerals and elements. The tombstone, bearing such associations, seems an objective correlative of survivors’ desolation.23 However, we have observed that stones are ambiguous in their symbolism, and not merely inhuman in their aspect. The tombstone can remind of us of what is cold and devoid of movement, but it also bears witness to a panoply of human intentions and efforts. Its steadfast vigilance enables us to read various motivations that the living harbor in relation to the dead. Traditionally, stone’s most obvious practical purpose in connection with graves is to block off the stench of the decomposing corpse. The New Testament mentions stones placed before the tombs of both Jesus

14  Kathleen Higgins and Lazarus in this connection. This use of stones draws on their capacity to obstruct by virtue of being impervious. Stone’s power to serve as a barrier has also long been utilized to defend against spirits of the dead. Many cultures consider the deceased person as a potential threat and therefore seek to ensure that every passage between the realms of the living and the dead is securely closed. In some societies, such portals are thought to be hidden in caves, which are composed of stone. But stone is also serviceable for blocking such passages, sheltering the living from potential danger from the spirit world. Tombstones represent another quite different protective aim as well, that of sheltering the deceased. G.W.F. Hegel describes the practice of burial as originating in families’ efforts to protect the remains of their loved ones from the attack of natural forces. The Family keeps away from the dead the dishonoring of him by unconscious appetites and abstract entities, and puts its own action in their place, and weds the blood-relation to the bosom of the earth, to the elemental imperishable individuality. The Family thereby makes him a member of a community which prevails over and holds under control the forces of particular material elements and the lower forms of life which sought to unloose themselves against him and destroy him.24 The idea that burial defends the deceased against destruction seems tied to the idea that interring the body within the earth ensconces the person in nature’s protective web. Goethe in “On Granite” draws attention to stone’s character as an emblem for the infinity of nature. Referring to granite cliffs, he observes, “these peaks have never produced anything living nor consumed anything living, being prior to all life and above all life.” Claiming that “all natural phenomena stand in precise connection with each other,” he suggests that we all endure insofar as nature does. And what could make this more evident to us than rock, which is “the oldest, most solid, deep, and unshakable son of nature”?25 Survivors’ efforts to care for the dead, at least symbolically, are also reflected in the treatment of tombstones themselves, for they can be taken as physical representatives of the individuals they memorialize. Tombstones exploit stone’s character as brute physical matter, offering proxies for the deceased within the physical world. By virtue of their tangible presence, they enable mourners vicariously to maintain physical contact with the deceased. Nicholas Pappas points out that the ancient Athenians saw statues as providing access to the dead by means of their status as effigies. Take the kolossio that torment Menelaus in the Agamemnon and the demas with which Admetus says he will mourn Alecestis. . . . They

Life and Death in Rock 15 belong in the category of eidola, presentations of someone absent and promises of communication with the absent person. They are, in Charles Picard’s words and as analyzed by Jean-Pierre Vernant, “replacement-figures,” go-betweens at work in instances of death and disappearance. Vernant’s defining example of such statuary is the kolossus, not a large sculpture but one that is fixed in the earth and upright, an effigy set up as a grave marker or as the surrogate corpse for a missing body. Without even resembling the lost person this marker stood in the person’s place.26 Pappas goes on to point out that the stêlai that marked graves, in particular, were often treated as substitutes for the lost person. The stêlai could be simple upright rectangles, but often they were engraved with figures in high relief, sometimes with freestanding sculptural forms. They could be treated as if the stone itself were the dead person. The stêlê was washed and rubbed with oil on the festival of the dead. Ancient drawings depict mourners symbolically dressing a stêlê with woolen ribbons that they wound around the stone. Tellingly in some of those drawings the deceased is standing nearby (denoted by a tiny soul overhead) to demonstrate the success of the connection that this wrapping effects between the living and the dead. Dress the stone and the dead feel themselves addressed.27 Eric Reinders observes a similar function for Buddhist steles, pointing out that they were “modeled in part on objects which were stand-ins for spirits.”28 Stone’s anthropomorphic character and its general power to represent suit it as a vehicle for symbolically resituating the deceased within our world. A stone memorial can serve as a proxy for a dead loved one, giving the living a focus for considering the person and assigning him or her a definite position. Sometimes this impression is enhanced by a stone’s having been wrought to represent human figures. Though these are often images of angels or grieving survivors, they draw attention to embodiment and location, suggesting that these figures are responding to the person who somehow resides in this place. In any case, when treated as effigies for deceased persons, stone memorials enable their loved ones to care for them vicariously by tending the stone.29 Memorial stones are also erected to honor the deceased, probably the primary way that tombstones are regarded in the contemporary world. The use of stones for this purpose may derive from the marking of interment sites with mounds of earth, a practice evident from antiquity in Egypt, Ireland, Scandinavia, the Middle East, the Americas, Africa, and East Asia. According to the Ynglinga saga, written about 1225 ce by Icelandic poet Snorri Sturkuson, one of the laws propounded by Odin was that warriors should be honored by a mound or a stone: “For men of

16  Kathleen Higgins consequence a mound should be raised to their memory, and for all other warriors who had been distinguished for manhood a standing stone; which custom remained long after Odin’s time.”30 Perhaps the most obvious symbolism of using stones in memorializing builds on stone’s being a metaphor for permanence. The endurance of stone enables tombstones to herald the continuance of the bonds that connect the deceased to the living. When engraved, tombstones may announce the specific relationships that were central to who the deceased had been, thereby asserting that these relationships continue unabated despite death. Inscriptions on stone can also gesture toward communication with the dead, addressing the deceased, as in the commonplace “R.I.P.” At other times, though probably less frequently, the inscribed words seem to be uttered by the deceased toward us. Whether or not one has metaphysical beliefs about the ability of the dead to receive or send such messages, the bereaved often feel the need to initiate acts of communication toward their departed loved ones. Even arch-atheist Friedrich Nietzsche, who had no truck with ideas of an afterlife, offered such a communicative gesture toward his deceased father. Nietzsche purchased a tombstone for his father’s grave over thirty years after his death, and it bears an inscription that concludes with a line from St. Paul: “Love never ends.”31 For Nietzsche to cite St. Paul was to speak his father’s language, for his father had been a Lutheran pastor. I find it touching that Nietzsche utilized one of the few Pauline lines that he could utter and genuinely mean, and one that would have significance for his father. Another avowed atheist, psychologist Nico Frijda, speaking of commemorative actions, remarks that in the context of paying respects to the dead, showing affection and respect are not merely ritual actions. They consist of actual gestures of actual respect and love and care. Their execution can actually achieve construction or reinstatement of a particular relationship. The nature and inherent aim of these gestures are independent of whether the person to whom they are addressed experiences them or not.32 Although Frijda is primarily discussing commemorative events, his point applies to gestures directed at the dead more generally. Placing a tombstone on a grave makes use of stone as both technology and a site of action. When not a matter of mere adherence to tradition, doing so amounts to a genuine act of love and respect. And this can be amplified by engraved messages to the dead, which enable stones to speak and summon in imagination impressions of the deceased as receiving them. In this way, stones symbolically revive the dead.

Life and Death in Rock 17 The gesture of placing a small stone on a grave site, a long-standing Jewish custom, is another, in some ways similar act of love and respect. Laqueur suggests that the practice “is probably meant to show that someone had stopped by but may also unconsciously echo the ancient practice of putting large stones in front of tombs so that the dead would stay in place.”33 Rabbi David Wolpe acknowledges this theory of this pagan origin of the practice, but he sees the custom’s greater significance as drawing on stone’s endurance as a metaphor for continuance in memory. He suggests that the custom also has symbolic overtones drawing from stones’ ability to serve as representational tokens, citing the ancient practice of shepherds using stones carried in a sling to keep track of the number of sheep in the particular day’s flock. He interprets the memorial stones with reference to the Hebrew motto found on many graves in Jewish cemeteries, translated as “May his soul be bound up in the bonds of eternal life,”34 concluding, “When we place stones on the grave and inscribe the motto above on the stone, we are asking God to keep the departed’s soul in His sling.” The small stone’s wordlessness is in its own way eloquent. One might see it as filled with communicative intent, carrying whatever is in the heart of the person who positions it. It also embodies the effort of having traveled to pay respects, suggesting the desire to leave nothing undone in honoring the person. Betokening an item of value, in this case individuated by its trajectory, the stone also expresses esteem for the deceased. And of course, stones express the desire to hold the deceased in memory. Whether in the form of monuments, tombstones, or small stones deposited at a grave, stones serve as announcements that the person is remembered and prods to memory for those who see them. This is a further protective function of stone, to guard the dead against oblivion.35 Memorial stones, jutting out of the earth, are designed to attract the attention of the living and of posterity, to secure perpetual remembrance of the person they commemorate. Recalling the association between stone memorials and funerary mounds, we might infer that the early funerary stone was viewed as a more modest version of a mound, itself a small-scale mountain. So compared, the act of constructing a mound or erecting a tombstone amounts to an effort to reshape the landscape. To do this on behalf of a deceased person is to assert the significance of their impact on their world, for it symbolizes the environment being changed by their presence. This message is directed toward the social world at large, effectively claiming that the person remains a part of our community. The bereaved commonly feel the need to proclaim the death of a loved one, alerting the broad public to the fact that it should recognize this loss as its own. By changing the landscape, tombstones signal to the world both the fact of the person’s having been among us and the magnitude of the loss.

18  Kathleen Higgins By placing a tombstone on a grave, we symbolically assert that through the person’s having been with us, the earth itself has been transformed. Tombstones as well as larger stone memorials tangibly remind us of the person and assert that he or she has left a mark. Whether they in fact accomplish this is debatable. Robert Musil describes the irony that monuments created to ensure remembrance recede into the background of our attention as soon as they are in place. “There is nothing in this world as invisible as a monument,” he asserts.36 Perhaps a recognition of this possibility is among the motivations driving the addition of artistic flourishes to grave markers made of stone. Sculpture amplifies expressive power, shaping stone into dramatic expressions of grief and solicitude or other images that might compel attention. Stone has been the medium of choice for great architectural works that harbor tombs as well, works that are vigorous in demanding the world’s notice. Obviously, only the powerful few have been honored with such structures, but upright stones positioned on graves similarly urge passersby to take heed. Startling because unnaturally erect, standing stones resist the tendency to ignore what has comfortably settled into the landscape. Stone monuments combat oblivion, and in doing so oppose death itself. Ultimately, memorial stones meet death with defiance. Death aggressively insists that our loved ones have become nothing, as if they had never been. Erecting stones to honor them rejects this impression. Stone represents the “really real,” and with it we assert that for us the presence of our dead loved ones—the reality they have been for us—is as lasting as stone itself.37 To place stones at a grave or a site of death is to insist, against all appearances, that the departed person endures. And this is so not only in the hearts and minds of close loved ones; the person also retains a place within the broader community, a place signaled concretely by the placement of a landmark. Stone remains our primary technology, not only for securing our material needs, but also for confronting the metaphysical. Stone adamantly proclaims our denial that death has had the final word. Stone incarnates sentiment, tenacious in demanding, “Where, O death, is your victory?”38

Notes 1. Thomas W. Laqueur, The Work of the Dead: A Cultural History of Mortal Remains (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015), 93. 2. Mark Elmore notes that in southern India, early Tamil works make reference to erecting a mound or a pillar in memory of deceased ancestors. Mark Elmore, “Contemporary Hindu Approaches to Death: Living with the Dead,” in Death and Religion in a Changing World, ed. Kathleen GracesFoley (New York: Taylor & Francis, 2006), 35. 3. Riva Berleant, “Paleolithic Flints: Is an Aesthetics of Stone Tools Possible?” Contemporary Aesthetics 5 (2007), accessed March  27, 2018, www. str=stone.

Life and Death in Rock 19 4. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, Stone: An Ecology of the Inhuman (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2015), 4. 5. Cohen, Stone, 2. 6. Nicky Glover, Psychoanalytic Aesthetics: An Introduction to the British School (London: Karnac, 2009), 87. 7. Ibid., 89, citing Adrian Stokes, Quattro Cento (London: Faber, 1932), reprinted in The Critical Writings of Adrian Stokes, ed. Lawrence Gowing, Vol. I (New York: Thames & Hudson, 1978), 134. 8. Cohen, Stone, 5. 9. Job 38:4. Cf. Cohen, Stone, 1. 10. James William Ward notes several definitions of this expression amassed from various sources, including “pressure as if from a stone in the pit of the stomach,” and “feeling a weight in stomach as of a stone after eating.” James William Ward, Unabridged Dictionary of the Sensations “as if” (Noida: B. Jain, 1939), 1502–3. 11. James J. Gibson, “The Theory of Affordances,” in The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception (New York: Psychology Press, 1977, 2015), 127–35. 12. Cf. Cohen, Stone, 11, where he terms stone “the material of our earliest tools.” 13. Berleant, “Paleolithic Flints.” 14. Cf. Cohen, Stone, 11. 15. Graham Parkes, “The Role of Rock in the Japanese Dry Landscape Garden,” in Reading Zen in the Rocks: The Japanese Dry Landscape Garden, ed. Françoise Berthier and trans. Graham Parkes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 32. 16. Cohen, Stone, 6. 17. Adrian Stokes, Stones of Rimini (London: Faber, 1935), reprinted in The Critical Writings of Adrian Stokes, Vol. I, 230. Cf. Glover, Psychoanalytic Aesthetics, 91. 18. Parkes, “The Role of Rock in the Japanese Dry Landscape Garden,” 101, 103. 19. Cohen, Stone, 2. 20. Berleant, “Paleolithic Flints.” 21. Cohen, Stone, 6. 22. Ibid. 23. Cf. William Wordsworth, “A  Slumber Did My Spirit Seal,” in The New Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250–1950, ed. Helen Gardner (New York: Oxford University Press, 1972), p. 498. 24. G.W.F. Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, trans. by A. V. Miller (New York: Oxford University Press, 1977), 270–71. 25. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “Uber den Granit,” in Werke: Hamburger Ausgabe (Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1988), 13, 253–58. The translations are by Graham Parkes. Parkes notes that a freer rendition can be found in Goethe: The Collected Works, ed. and trans. Douglas Miller (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 12, 131–34. Cited in Parkes, “The Role of Rock in the Japanese Dry Landscape Garden,” 122. 26. Nickolas Pappas, “Nietzsche’s Apollo,” Journal of Nietzsche Studies 45, no. 1 (2014): 48. The references he cites are Jean-Pierre Vernant, “The Figuration of the Invisible and the Psychological Category of the Double: The Kolossos,” in Myth and Thought among the Greeks, trans. Janet Lloyd and Jeff Fort (New York: Zone, 2006), 321–32; Jean-Pierre Vernant, “From ‘Presentification’ of the Invisible to the Imitation of Appearance,” in Myth and Thought among the Greeks, 333–49; Charles Picard, “Le Cénotaphe de Midéa et la ‘Colosses’ de Ménélas,” Revue de Philologie 59 (1933): 343–54.

20  Kathleen Higgins 7. Pappas, “Nietzsche’s Apollo,” 48. 2 28. Eric Reinders, Review of Dorothy C. Wong, Chinese Steles: Pre-­ Buddhist and Buddhist Use of a Symbolic Form (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004); H-Buddhism, May  2006, accessed June  6, 2018, 29. Sometimes the verisimilitude of a statue on a grave monument leads observers to question its tastefulness. Bel Mooney is disturbed by grave displays such as one she saw in a Solihull cemetery. “A  life-size effigy of Danny Pedley, arm resting casually on his gravestone, is an arresting sight at Widney Manor Cemetery, Bentley Heath. Danny is wearing a grey, green and white Nike tracksuit—as he did in life, according to his mother Debbie. ‘The resemblance is uncanny, it looks more and more like him every day. The statue was made in China and cost £8,000. I go to the grave every day to change his hat and give him a little kiss,’ she says.” Bel Mooney, Daily Mail, March 18, 2011, accessed June 2, 2018, article-1353815/Colourful-poundland-graveyard-shrines-British-councilstrying-wipe-out.html. 30. Cited in Henry Smith Williams, The Historians’ History of the World (London: Hooper & Jackson, 1904, 1907), 17. 31. 1 Corinthians 13:8. 32. Nico Frijda, The Laws of Emotion (London: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2007), 298. 33. Laqueur, The Work of the Dead, 20. 34. Rabbi David Wolpe, “Why Jews Put Stones on Graves,” My Jewish Learning Newsletter, accessed May 30, 2018, putting-stones-on-jewish-graves/. The Hebrew motto is “taf, nun, tsadi, bet, hey,” an abbreviation of “teheye nishmato tsrurah b’tsror ha-chayyim.” 35. Cf. John Sallis, Stone (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 18. 36. Robert Musil, “On Monuments,” in Posthumous Papers of a Living Author, trans. Peter Wortsman (Hygiene, CO: Eridanos Press, 1987), 60–61. 37. Book jacket, Cohen, Stone. 38. 1 Corinthians 15:54.

2 How Memorials Speak to Us Geoffrey Scarre

Memorials are of many different kinds and serve many different commemorative purposes, rendering generalizations about them elusive. But all memorials, whether buildings, statues and other sculptures, plaques, relics, ceremonies, memorial lectures, concerts, or conferences or other events, are designed to convey messages to their target audiences. In this essay I explore the modes by which memorials speak to us and the variety of effects, intended and unintended, that they can have. Drawing on J. L. Austin’s well-known distinction between “illocutionary” and “­perlocutionary” speech acts, I  shall argue that a very similar style of analysis can usefully be applied to memorials.1 For memorials may be considered a variety of “language,” even where they do not incorporate written inscriptions. The creation and installation of a memorial may be considered analogous to uttering a verbal sentence in order to convey a meaning—what Austin calls a “locutionary act.” What I  shall term the “illocutionary” function of memorials is to communicate certain messages and produce certain effects in the viewer; these may include celebrating, remembering, describing, illustrating, informing, excusing, glorifying, giving official sanction or approval, encouraging loyalty, and expressing values, attitudes, and emotions. Like other forms of language, memorials may be more or less successful in getting their message across. The “perlocutionary” effects of memorials are the actual effects that they have on an audience, which may not always be what their creators intended or expected. Thus a memorial may, among other things, inspire, encourage, delight, warn, induce fear or sympathy, appall, alienate, intimidate, shock, reinforce a certain sense of identity or set of values, and increase or decrease public or individual respect for authority. To create a memorial is a communicative act, akin to the utterance or writing of a sentence. Like instances of speech or writing, memorials can (intentionally or not) have very different impacts on different audiences. Some memorials are meant for public consumption; others, such as gravestones, have a more private or personal significance.2 A triumphal arch that commemorates one nation’s famous victory may inspire pride and loyalty in its own citizens but hatred and loathing in those of

22  Geoffrey Scarre the defeated rival. Impacts may also vary over time as values, beliefs, and circumstances change. So a statue erected to applaud some imperial achievement may later be read instead as a monument to hubris, for anyone who constructs a memorial that aims at permanence offers a hostage to fortune. Even the simplest memorials, such as the plaques erected to mark former residences of well-known people, can later cause puzzlement or anger as standards for distinguishing the great and good mutate. And remembrance can become a highly charged issue when public opinion is divided over how or whether certain figures or events should be remembered (as in Charlottesville, Virginia, in August 2017, where lethal violence erupted at a march calling for the removal of a statue of Confederate General Robert E. Lee). Memorials can remind us of many things, but not all reminders are memorials. The poet John Donne ordered a picture of himself in his shroud to keep him in mind of his own mortality; St. Jerome was commonly depicted by artists contemplating a human skull, for a similar purpose. Such memento mori, while reminding of eternal verities, are signifiers of coming rather than of past events and are therefore not most aptly called “memorials.” Reminders can be trivial (a note reminding one to buy some milk on the way home from work), but memorials usually commemorate something judged to be of some importance, value, or rarity. And while some memorials induce somber reflections, it is not of their essence that they should make people sad. Triumphs are quite as appropriately commemorated as tragedies. In the next section I shall elaborate further the distinction between the illocutionary and the perlocutionary and say more about its application to memorials. I shall be focusing chiefly on fixed physical memorials designed to have a degree of permanence, though these do not, of course, exhaust the category. Some memorials are physical but transient (e.g., a bouquet of flowers left at a graveside), while others are “intangible” happenings or events, such as religious or secular remembrance services, plays or performances, public fasts or mourning rites, or periods of commemorative silence. In general, memorializing a person, thing, or event goes beyond mere remembering; memorials are typically tightly packed hubs of meaning, expressing or arousing a range of attitudes, emotions, commitments, hopes, fears and enthusiasms, and political, social, or religious allegiances. By their memorials ye shall know them: the memorials that a society erects are a mirror which it holds up to its values and purposes. To add some flesh to the bones of the discussion and to illustrate the power and usefulness of the Austinian analysis, I shall focus in the third section on three very different memorials: the St. Cuthbert’s, Darlington (UK) memorial to the fallen soldiers of the Boer War; the whale jawbone memorial to the historic whaling industry of Whitby, North Yorkshire (also UK); and the memorial at Berlin’s Bebelplatz to the Nazis’ burning of “un-German” books.

How Memorials Speak to Us 23

Saying Things With Stones Austin’s seminal achievement was to articulate with novel precision the variety of acts that can be performed by language. On Austin’s analysis, to perform a locutionary act is to use speech to convey a meaning—to say something, as distinct from merely uttering a jumble of sounds or nonsense words. By performing a locutionary act, we “also and eo ipso” perform an illocutionary act, that is, we may ask or answer a question, give some information, make an appointment or an appeal, give a warning, pronounce sentence (as in a court), or do a host of other things. If the locutionary act is an act of speaking, says Austin, the illocutionary act is what we do in speaking (98–99). But further, by saying something we “produce certain consequential effects on the feelings, thoughts, or actions of the audience.” The perlocutionary act (or “perlocution”) is the producing of such effects as convincing, persuading, deterring, frightening, warning off, intimidating, “and even, say, surprising or misleading” (101, 108). A man who says “Shoot her,” explains Austin, performs a locutionary act, “meaning by ‘shoot’ shoot and referring by ‘her’ to her.” In doing so, “he urged (or advised, ordered, &c.) me to shoot her” (illocution). If I am receptive, then the outcome is that “He persuaded me to shoot her” (perlocution) (101).3 The illocutionary acts we perform when we speak are not successfully performed unless their desired ends are achieved. Illocutionary acts look to produce certain perlocutionary effects, and without some illocutionary intention there would be no point in speaking; as Austin notes, a perlocution follows from the illocutionary act, not from the bare locutionary act (113). The man who urges me to fire at a victim does so fruitlessly if he fails to induce me to do so. Austin notes the distinction between “actions which have a perlocutionary object (convince, persuade) from those which merely produce a perlocutionary sequel”—as when I try to warn someone but only succeed in alarming him (117). Alarming him, Austin thinks, is still to be considered a perlocutionary act, despite its unintendedness; it is something the speaker does, or makes happen, by speaking. Even quite remote, oblique or surprising sequels can be considered as perlocutionary acts, provided that they are sufficiently direct consequences of the illocution.4 Austin does not talk about memorials. But he opens the door to the analysis I am defending when he observes that illocutionary acts capable of producing perlocutionary effects are sometimes performed by nonverbal means (118–19). Simple examples are nodding our head to signify consent, or waving a hand to bid goodbye. Intentionally nodding our head or waving a hand to convey a meaning are in effect nonverbal locutionary acts. The particular illocutionary acts we perform by these locutions are signaling consent and saying goodbye. In indicating our consent or bidding farewell we may also please, disappoint, annoy, appall, or

24  Geoffrey Scarre affect our audience in many different ways: these are the perlocutionary acts we perform by the gesture. As with verbal speech, the conveyance of meaning and production of effects depends on the common understanding of conventions by actor and audience. Another example: I  drop a white handkerchief to start a race. Dropping the handkerchief is analogous to the locutionary act, and I do it with the illocutionary intention of signifying that the runners should start. Because the runners know the convention, they start to run: I have performed the perlocutionary act of starting the race. Grasping what memorials are saying (or trying to say) to us requires, minimally, knowledge of the convention of memorialization itself: the knowledge that such things are instruments of recall and signifiers of values, rather than utilitarian objects, landmarks or way-markers, or (at least in first instance) works of art. Some memorial types and tokens are easy to comprehend; some may baffle the uninformed viewer who is ignorant of the pertinent convention(s). A sculpted group of soldiers romping over a fallen enemy, accompanied by the blazing legend, “Erected to the glorious memory of the X Regiment’s victory against the troops of Y,” is hard to misconstrue. But other memorials can be less straightforward. A  bouquet of flowers left by the roadside conveys nothing unless one understands that leaving flowers is meant to mark a spot at which a serious traffic accident has occurred. Placing the flowers is the equivalent of a locutionary act and is done with the illocutionary intentions of identifying a site of tragedy, expressing the grief of friends or relatives, and evoking the sympathy of passersby. Perlocutionary effects may include the arousing of that sympathy and causing drivers to take extra care when driving on what may be inferred to be a hazardous stretch of road. For a rather different example (though here it might be better to speak of an underlying program than a convention), consider the Stolpersteine (‘stumbling blocks’) set in the pavements of many German towns and cities in the years since 1992. A  project of the artist Gunter Demnig, these are slightly raised small brass plaques which indicate the places where victims of the Nazis once lived. To date, there are 56,000 Stolpersteine and more are planned. Each plaque provides a name, date of birth, and the dates at which the individual was arrested and (where known) murdered. While each Stolpersteine marks an individual tragedy, it gains added poignancy by being apprehended as a token of a type, one of a huge number of similar stones which collectively mark the scale of the Nazi horror.5 (Something similar is true of memorials to the fighting forces of the two World Wars, whose very ubiquity makes the impact of each more shocking.6) Lukas Meyer has written about memorials whose aim is to render “symbolic compensation” to victims of injustice who are no longer around to be compensated in a more practical way. The Stolpersteine are an outstanding example of this kind. Such memorials have the illocutionary purpose of expressing certain attitudes towards the

How Memorials Speak to Us 25 victims, including, as Meyer remarks, their creators’ “understanding of themselves as people who would provide real compensation to the previously living person or people if this were only possible.”7 Some memorials include words as an integral component; others do not. The inclusion of words can reduce the chances of the purposes of a memorial being misunderstood by later generations, but it cannot guarantee the continuing acceptability of the message. The wording associated with a memorial, whether integral or ancillary, may be truthful or it may be a lie. A famous example of a memorial that once purveyed (with how much sincerity is unclear) an untruthful message is the “Monument,” Sir Christopher Wren’s massive Doric column erected to commemorate the Great Fire of London of 1666. In 1681, during the panic aroused by the bogus “Popish Plot,” wording was added to the base of the Monument, retrospectively blaming the Great Fire on arson by Roman Catholics. This drew from the Catholic poet Alexander Pope the complaining lines: Where London’s column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies. The objectionable wording was finally removed in 1830.8 Memorials that deliberately misrepresent the truth are morally unacceptable, but morally questionable too are those which, though not intentionally mendacious, are grounded on a cavalier or partisan reading of the facts. While it would be overly cautious to take the messages of memorials generally with a large dose of salt, it needs to be remembered that often their primary illocutionary aim is to instill or reinforce certain beliefs, values, and feelings in the viewer, rather than to represent the facts impartially. Thus critical standards should be brought to our readings of memorials as to any other forms of communication. Caveat spectator: we should monitor and moderate where necessary the perlocutionary effects that memorials have on us, taking special care to prevent artistic quality or impressive appearance from warping our judgment. Not all memorials aim to convey a plain message plainly. Some invite us to be participants in framing the meaning. Some memorials are zones of ambiguity, posing questions rather than making statements. The Holocaust Memorial in Berlin is a vast assemblage of over 2,700 differentsized concrete blocks arranged on a sloping four-acre site, among which visitors wander at will. What do the blocks represent: victims, ghosts, gray-uniformed soldiers, the walls and towers of extermination camps, gravestones? All or none of these, as the visitor should determine. In the middle of the complex, the visitor may feel lost amid the concrete blocks, an experience evocative of social deracination and loss of bearings. This is a memorial that enfolds the viewer, making her temporarily a part of it, divorced from the outside world with its familiar landmarks. Its illocutionary intentions are to provoke thought and feeling but not to

26  Geoffrey Scarre dictate any specific thoughts and feelings; its perlocutionary effects are consequently as various as visitors’ reactions to it. The collapse of the distinctions between memorials, creators, and audiences is also apparent in the case of memorial events or ceremonies, which deserve a few words at this point. A memorial service for a deceased person may be secular or religious, its predominant note mournful or celebratory; typically it will include a survey (suitably edited) of the deceased’s life and achievements, tributes and reminiscences from family, friends and colleagues, sacred or secular musical interludes, and finally a sociable meal to round things off. Because a memorial service is a transient event, it may itself be memorialized via the distribution of printed tributes, pictures, or other memorabilia relating to the deceased. Memorial ceremonies and events may be one-off happenings or they may be repeated in a regular cycle. With the passage of time, original meanings may be overlaid or replaced by new ones. The call of Christians to “put Christ back into Christmas” reminds how the original religious meaning of the mid-winter festival (itself a metamorphosis of the Roman Saturnalia) has been submerged for millions beneath the razzmatazz of the modern commercial extravaganza. Yet occasionally a part-forgotten message may resurface. In the aftermath of 9/11, fresh interest has been shown in the origins of the UK’s traditional November 5th “Bonfire Night” as a celebration of the foiling of an earlier terrorist plot, when in 1605 certain disaffected Roman Catholics attempted to blow up the King and Parliament with gunpowder.

Three Memorials Memorials can be more or less successful in achieving the illocutionary purposes of their makers. Plain speaking by a memorial does not always guarantee a sympathetic reception; it may instead repel sections of the audience who find the message uncongenial. Since public memorials, whether or not erected by officialdom, generally require at least the sanction of authority, the values they express or seek to inculcate are typically those of the “establishment” rather than of dissident or minority groups. Hence in a world of plural and competing values, memorialization can prove a contentious business. While memorials may forge a positive bond with an audience that readily assimilates the proffered messages, they may also perform the perlocutionary acts of offending, shocking, frightening, or revolting some viewers. That may not always be a bad thing if it leads to a constructive dialogue about social values and ideals. Memorials that challenge the status quo or majority views can perform a valuable social function. Although memorials that celebrate past injustice, oppression, or intolerance are unacceptable in a liberal society, it is unreasonable to demand that no public memorial should ever cause offense or stir controversy.

How Memorials Speak to Us 27 Some memorials are quite dull and uninspiring. But many achieve their effects through being richly imaginative creations, sometimes attaining the status of high art. Below, I draw together some of the main threads of the discussion by examining three eye-catching but otherwise strongly contrasting memorials. Distinguishing between their illocutionary intentions and their perlocutionary effects will in each case assist the identification of what they mean to say and how effective they are in saying it. I make no claim that these examples represent all actual or possible types of memorials; they are offered, rather, as a tiny sample of the myriad forms that memorials can take and the meanings they may be fashioned to convey. The Darlington Boer War Memorial A prominent feature of the graveyard of St. Cuthbert’s parish church in Darlington, County Durham, is the 1905 memorial to the men of the town who fought and died in the South African War (1899–1902) against the Dutch-speaking Boers (Figure 2.1). We see before us a steep granite mound on the summit of which the bronze figure of a British infantryman in battle-dress lunges with rifle and (formerly) bayonet at an unseen enemy; the whole measures twenty feet in height.9 An attached plaque records that “This memorial was erected by 5,576 subscribers as a tribute to the brave men of Darlington who volunteered and served the Empire in the South African War.” The names of those who died of wounds or sickness are listed, together with those of all the townsmen who served in the war, in order of rank. Memorials to the soldiers of the Boer War are much less common than those erected to those who fought and died in the two World Wars. While it records the names of the dead, the dominant theme of the St. Cuthbert’s statue is the glory rather than the tragedy of war; it is the physical equivalent of a cry of “three cheers” for the men who valiantly advanced the imperial cause. The memorial wholly lacks the somber, reflective character of later war memorials erected in an age more familiar with the reality of mass slaughter. Standing in consecrated ground, it is surprisingly devoid of religious references of any kind. The storming soldier on the Darlington monument could have stepped straight from the cover of one of the jingoistic magazines of the period. It is a safe assumption that most of the crowd who attended the dedication of the memorial by the celebrated general Lord Roberts cheerfully accepted its pro-imperial message. Yet its perlocutionary effects on one segment of the Darlington population showed that a minority view was possible. Darlington’s sizeable Quaker community strongly objected to the aggressive posture of the soldier and pointedly boycotted the dedication ceremony, holding their own public gathering to pray for peace. Their view that war is not a glorious adventure but a tragic expenditure of human life is the one more

28  Geoffrey Scarre

Figure 2.1 Boer War memorial, St. Cuthbert’s Parish Church, Darlington, UK Source: Photo Anthony Scarre

likely to resonate with present-day viewers of the memorial. Now that the Great Game of Empire is long played out, and war is considered by most people (politicians apart) to be more a matter of gore than glory, the memorial is liable to appear unsubtle and naïve—a reminder of past values rather than a symbol of present ones. The Whitby Whaling Memorial On the West Cliff overlooking the picturesque small harbor of Whitby, in England’s North Yorkshire, is the massive jawbone of a bowhead whale

How Memorials Speak to Us 29 in the form of an archway (Figure 2.2). Originally donated by Norwegian Thor Dahl and designed by artist Graham Leach in 1963, the memorial was created as a tribute to the town’s whale- and seal-fishing industry, which flourished between 1753 and 1837. It is estimated that the Whitby fleet harvested over 25,000 seals, plus 2,761 whales and fifty-five polar bears; how many men of the fishery were lost to shipwreck, harsh weather, and accident is not precisely known, but of fifty-eight whaling ships, seventeen failed to return. Whaling ships would attach a jawbone to the mast when returning to harbor, to signal in advance a successful hunt. On the Whitby quayside, large boiler houses were built in which the blubber of the animals was rendered into oil for heating, lighting, and other purposes.10 The Whitby jawbone memorial is unusual in being conspicuously nonjudgmental (herein differing sharply from Darlington’s bellicose warrior). It neither celebrates the local whaling industry nor condemns it. In neutral vein, it reminds both local residents and tourists that whaling was once a prominent activity of the town and a mainstay of its prosperity. The sheer size of the jawbone recalls at once the tragedy of the deaths of such behemoths of the sea and the courage of the men who battled against such monsters in the Arctic waters. So many animals were taken that the whalers at last put themselves out of business—not

Figure 2.2 Whale jawbone memorial to the former Whitby whaling industry, Whitby, UK Source: Photo Anthony Scarre

30  Geoffrey Scarre moral qualms but falling profits finally ended whaling in Whitby. The abhorrence in which commercial whaling is commonly held in our own more ecologically conscious age would make any celebration of the whaling history of Whitby inappropriate, and the jawbone memorial scrupulously avoids that. But it also carefully avoids any explicit or implicit criticism of the men who risked, and in many cases lost, their lives in pursuit of their dangerous trade. Some viewers may consider this abstention from judgment unnecessarily abstemious. Yet for those who regret the violent death of the whales, the stark presentation of the great white jawbone is sufficiently shocking. The clear illocutionary intentions of the Whitby memorial are to remind spectators of the town’s oncethriving industry and to invite them to reach their own moral judgments about the men and the hunt. What perlocutionary impacts might this memorial be likely to have? The nonspecificity of the message opens the door to a range of reactions. At the first and most basic level, visitors may be filled with wonder at the size of the jawbone and of the creature it once belonged to. Further reflection on what it commemorates may provoke admiration (plus in local people, pride) at the courage of the whalers, astonishment at their daring, horror at the cruelty and destructiveness of the fishery, or a sense of gladness that whaling is now for Whitby and most of the civilized world a thing of the past. The Berlin Book-Burning Memorial Our final memorial is a presence that communicates absence. On May 10, 1933, Berlin’s Bebelplatz (then Opernplatz) witnessed a mass burning by Nazi students of books by Jewish authors and others that were held to display an “un-German spirit.” It is estimated that 20,000 to 25,000 books were consumed by flames on that and subsequent nights, and in the following weeks Berlin’s example was followed in many other German university towns and cities.11 The Bebelplatz memorial, which is the work of Israeli artist Micha Ullman, was installed in 1995 and takes the form of a square underground room lined by empty white book shelves sufficient to accommodate the number of books destroyed by the Berlin students (Figure 2.3). Visitors look down into the room through a glass plate set at pavement level. Adjacent to it is a plaque engraved with Heinrich Heine’s famous line: “That was only a prologue; where one burns books, finally one also burns people.”12 It is not only the books that are missing from the library shelves: through its subterranean placing the library itself is missing from the surface of the earth. A set of empty book stacks above ground level would be less effective at conveying absence. The “locution” in this instance is a void. The visitor comes upon the memorial suddenly and without warning; for a moment it seems as though she will tumble into the space that

How Memorials Speak to Us 31

Figure 2.3 Memorial to Nazi book-burning, May 10, 1933, Berlin, Bebelplatz Source: Photo Aaron Siirila, via Wikimedia Commons

has opened up beneath her feet. This may be a hint from the artist that one should never complacently assume the stability of cultural institutions and civilized values, and that even in the best-run polities cracks can suddenly appear. As the Heine quotation indicates, the primary illocutionary intention of the memorial is to remind the viewer that the forces of barbarism are never far away, and that when freedom to speak and to publish disappear—or, for that matter, when truth is replaced by “alternative facts”—then human lives too are under threat. This is a memorial designed to send a plain moral message, in that respect resembling the Darlington Boer War and differing from the Whitby whaling memorial. The nakedness of the bookshelves in the Bebelplatz is meant to shock the spectator, and with most people it succeeds in doing so, once they realize why the shelves are bare. Aberrant perlocutionary effects are imaginable (e.g., a very confused visitor might view the installation as a model of minimalist home decoration), but in most viewers this remarkable memorial induces sad reflections on the event it recalls and on its still more terrible aftermath, when, as Heine foretold, people followed books into the flames.

32  Geoffrey Scarre

Conclusion Physical memorials are as various as the people, events, ideas, and ideals they commemorate. They recall good things and bad, achievements and catastrophes, victories and failures, noble persons and evil ones, benefactors and persecutors. They may celebrate or lament, encourage or warn, make people think, instill hope, fear or pride, strengthen or divide communities, deliver moral judgments or invite spectators to frame their own. Some memorials are elaborate creations of the finest artists and craftsmen of their time; others are simple, unambitious, and unassuming (though not necessarily less effective for that). All memorials are a variety of locution, being bearers of meaning requiring knowledge of relevant conventions for their comprehension. Memorials perform such illocutionary acts as recalling, celebrating, showing approval, reminding of values, making symbolic reparation, expressing public sentiments, and a host of others. A memorial’s success may be estimated in terms of how effectively it performs these illocutionary acts. If a memorial erected to arouse enthusiasm for a country’s imperial ambitions arouses such enthusiasm in the viewer, then its perlocutionary effect matches its illocutionary intention. But not all memorials are successful; other spectators may read that same memorial as a testimony to imperial hubris, and be repelled by it. The same memorial can perform the disparate perlocutions of turning some people on and other people off. Can we imagine a human world without memorials? I  do not think so. Memorials mark what we think it important not to forget, and this impulse to remember is rarely born of mere nostalgia. It is only slightly paradoxical to say that we care about memorials because we care about the future. A  memorial is Janus-faced: it looks to the past and to the future, because we understand that the former informs the latter. Heine’s warning at the Bebelplatz reminds us that we must learn from experience, and that the neglect of experience can lead to tragic downfalls. But that is only a particularly grim instance of a more general, and usually more positive, truth: that it helps to get things right in times to come if we recollect what has gone well or badly in the past. What we memorialize and how is an essential aspect of our planning for the future.

Notes 1. J. L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962). In-text page references are to this work. 2. As Sarah Tarlow observes, even a gravestone is not without some public significance: erecting it “is a way of showing how much an individual has meant to you, and showing that to the rest of the community.” Moreover, a gravestone is not merely “a memorial to the deceased, but also, crucially, a memorial to a relationship” (Sarah Tarlow, Bereavement and Commemoration: An Archaeology of Mortality [Oxford: Blackwell, 1999], 131).

How Memorials Speak to Us 33 3. Later writers have proposed refinements and corrections to Austin’s theory of speech acts but the basic elements of his analysis have stood up remarkably well in the more than half century since their original publication. The notion of an illocutionary act has notably featured in feminist ethics, where it has been argued that pornography subordinates women not merely in a perlocutionary but also in an illocutionary sense—as Rae Langton puts it, “pornography is an act of subordination” (“Speech Acts and Unspeakable Acts,” Philosophy & Public Affairs 22 (1993): 296). See also on this topic Jennifer Hornsby and Rae Langton, “Free Speech and Illocution,” Legal Theory 4, no. 1 (1998): 21–37; Alexander Bird, “Illocutionary Silencing,” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 83, no. 1 (2002): 1–15. 4. There are, however, limits to the naturalness of speaking of perlocutionary acts as distinct from sequels. My provocative words cause Jim to see red and he beats his fist on the table. Here I perform the perlocutionary act of making Jim see red. But do I also perform the perlocutionary act of making him beat his fist on the table? Perhaps we could stretch to saying this, given the closeness of the causal link between my utterance and Jim’s instinctive reaction. But suppose next that Jim, after weighing my words, calls me a liar and punches me on the nose. Here Jim is acting as an autonomous agent and bears the primary causal and moral responsibility for his own behavior. Since I cannot be said to make him punch me on the nose, his doing so is best described as in part a perlocutionary sequel of my earlier speech act. 5. For more information on the Stolpersteine, see Richard J. Evans, “From Nazism to Never Again: How Germany Came to Terms with Its Past,” Foreign Affairs (January–February 2018): 8–15. 6. Jon Davies has estimated that there are between 40,000 and 100,000 war memorials in the UK (The Christian Warrior in the Twentieth Century [Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1995], 131). Most are lovingly maintained and few are to be found in a neglected condition. Despite many war memorials being situated in prominent public spaces, they rarely form targets for vandals or graffiti artists. Three-quarters of a century after the end of World War II, war memorials still make a powerful impact and their message does not appear to have become dimmed with time. 7. Lukas Meyer, “Intergenerational Justice,” Stanford Encyclopaedia of Philosophy (2015): 31. https://plato.stanford/entries/justice-intergenerational/. 8. Alexander Pope, Moral Essays, Epistle 3. On the Monument, see Ben Weinreb and Christopher Hibbert, “Monument,” in The London Encyclopaedia (London: Macmillan, 1984). 9. The bayonet originally attached to the end of the rifle was accidentally broken off by children in the 1950s (this and other information from North East War Memorials Project website, accessed May 25, 2018, uk/detail-php?contentId=6961). 10. The present jawbone is actually a 2002 replacement of the original (which came from a fin whale), which had started to deteriorate after forty years in an exposed position. The new jawbone was donated by the town of Anchorage, Alaska, having been found abandoned after a legal Inuit hunt on the Alaskan coast. For further information about the memorial, see www.whit [accessed May 30, 2018]. 11. For further information on the Nazis’ burning of books see Molly Manning, When Books Went to War (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014); also US Holocaust Memorial Museum, accessed July 3, 2018, wlc/en/article.php?ModuleId=10005852. 12. The line comes from Heine’s 1821 play Almansor: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen.”

3 How Memorials Mean, or How to Do Things With Stones James O. Young

Many years ago I spent a few days driving around New Zealand’s North Island, more or less rambling aimlessly. One crisp March afternoon, in the extreme west of the Island, near the lower slopes of Mt. Taranaki, I came across an unremarkable small town. It was more a widening of the road than a town. The only noteworthy feature of the community was an obelisk commemorating the men of the district who had died in the First World War. As I looked around the sparsely populated countryside, I reflected that in the early years of the twentieth century the district likely had even fewer people, and yet the dead of the war were accorded this (in the context) imposing monument. It must have been a considerable undertaking for the few families of the district. I found the memorial deeply moving, though it commemorated men from a country far from my own, who had died in a conflict long before my birth. I was deeply moved even though the memorial was utterly without architectural or aesthetic merit. It made no appeal to patriotism: it was simply inscribed, “In loving memory of those who died.” This essay is an investigation of how memorials can continue to move people long after the wars and their causes have since ceased to be remembered. The memorial in New Zealand was an excellent example. It was moving precisely because it was an enduring exemplification of the enormous loss that it commemorated. Certainly there are other ways in which memorials can be moving besides the way that is of concern here. Memorials are often designed to inspire patriotism and to move people to emulate the deeds and self-sacrifice of the war dead. Milton envisages just such a memorial when he writes,  . . . there will I build him A Monument, and plant it round with shade Of Laurel ever green, and branching Palm With all his Trophies hung, and Acts enroll’d In copious Legend, or sweet Lyric Song. Thither shall all the valiant youth resort, And from his memory inflame their breasts To matchless valour, and adventures high.1

How to Do Things With Stones 35 Similarly, the novelist Christopher Isherwood imagines a typical example of the consecration of a World War I memorial when he has a fictional bishop say that I hope that, in days to come, the boys and girls who pass by this place will be told something of the heroism and self-sacrifice which it commemorates, and of the men who gave their lives in the service of sacrifice.2 However, this essay is not concerned with how memorials can inspire patriotism or self-sacrifice in viewers. Neither is this essay concerned with the cathartic value of memorials. There is ample anecdotal evidence that memorials can perform a cathartic function for the comrades and loved ones of fallen soldiers. This anecdotal evidence has more recently been supplemented by systematic studies. For example, a study has shown that repeated visits to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, DC, alleviated the post-­traumatic stress disorder symptoms of Vietnam War veterans.3 The cathartic function of memorials is important, but it is not the function with which this essay is concerned. Rather, this essay is concerned with how they can deeply move people unacquainted with the dead, and with no commitment to their cause, to sorrow and a sense of loss. The unpretentious memorial that I saw in New Zealand satisfied almost all of the conditions of a memorial that can successfully move viewers in this way. It moves them by reminding them of the scale of the human cost of war. It does so by exemplifying this scale. Often it does this by exemplifying the number of the dead, often by listing their names or in some other way that involves a one-to-one relationship between features of the memorial and the number of the dead. A  memorial’s placement in a community, and the materials from which it is constructed, can amplify its effect. A  successful war memorial will not be triumphal. It will not continue to refight the war. It will serve no other purpose than that of commemorating the dead. This essay will illustrate these features of effective war memorials, mainly with reference to two classes of widely studied monuments: British and British Imperial memorials of the First World War and memorials to soldiers who have died in recent American wars. I begin with a brief discussion of the concept of exemplification.4 To exemplify some property is to refer to it in a particular sort of way, namely by an object possessing that very property. That is, an object exemplifies, and refers to, a property by possessing that property. Exemplification is common in paint chips and fabric swatches. For example, a paint chip exemplifies, say, the property of “tealness” by being teal. A  swatch of fabric exemplifies the pattern of William Morris’s “Strawberry Thief”

36  James O. Young fabric by having the pattern of Morris’s “Strawberry Thief.” An exemplar does not exemplify all of its properties. A paint chip does not, or does not usually, exemplify the property of being rectangular, even though it is rectangular. What some object exemplifies depends, in part, on its context and how it is used. Paint chips exemplify colors in part because they are found in paint shops and fabric swatches exemplify fabric patterns by being found in fabric shops. In these contexts, colors and patterns are matters of concern. The context, including how some object is used, makes certain of an object’s properties salient and these salient properties are the ones that refer by means of exemplification. Just as a paint chip can exemplify a color, something can exemplify the property of hugeness by being enormous. It does so by being enormous and by being used in such a way (by being placed in a context) in which its size is made salient. One way for an object to exemplify its large size is for it to be larger than it needs to be to perform any functions it has besides exemplifying its large size. Whether something possesses the property of hugeness (and can exemplify the property of hugeness) depends on its context. For example, a building can be huge (and exemplify hugeness) in a small town but fail to be huge (and be unable to exemplify hugeness) in a major city. Exemplification can give an exemplar a kind of meaning. An exemplar can convey that something is gaudy or that something is huge. In the case of war memorials, they can often convey that the human cost of war is enormous. By indicating the enormous human cost of war, memorials can perform what is, perhaps, their most important function. The word “monument” comes from the Latin word monere. This Latin word means to remind, to warn, or to instruct. When a war memorial exemplifies war’s death toll, it can be an extremely effective way of reminding or warning us of this toll. Often this reminder is painfully moving.

Dedicated Purpose Moving war memorials will tend to be dedicated to memorializing the dead. Fabian Ware, founder of the Imperial (later, Commonwealth) War Graves Commission, wrote that “any memorial will fail in its purpose, if in, say, a hundred years’ time it could be visited by the citizens of that day without their being at once able to recognise it as a war memorial.”5 Certainly it would then fail to arouse sorrow and a sense of loss. The easiest way for a memorial to fail in its purpose is to perform a function over and above memorializing the dead and exemplifying the scale of the loss. This is true of memorials with a practical function or a political function. Some memorials have a practical function in addition to memorializing the dead. While some may continue to move viewers, often such memorials will not. I have in mind memorials such as one that must be one of the very worst (though admittedly it is not a war memorial). At

How to Do Things With Stones 37 the time of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee (1887) an urban council in Britain decided to build a public sewer to commemorate the occasion.6 Few people see sewers, and those who do are unlikely to be reminded of Queen Victoria’s memorable reign. The sewer was a dreadful monument to Victoria’s reign. Some war memorials fail almost as badly. I have in mind war memorials such as the Save-On-Foods Memorial Centre in Victoria, British Columbia. Even before the naming rights to this arena were sold to the Save-On-Foods Corporation, it was not well adapted to moving people to sorrow and a sense of loss. People looked at it and thought about the Victoria Royals (of the Western Hockey League) or rock concerts. They were seldom moved to think of the war dead that the arena is supposed to commemorate. There is one argument for practical memorials. In the wake of the Second World War some people, particularly people on the political left, were concerned about the inutility of conventional war memorials. Some people expressed the view that “the people have asked for homes and we have given them stones.”7 It is easy to sympathize with such a sentiment. My point is simply that if the purpose of a memorial is to move people to sorrow in the face of the human cost of war, a memorial should be dedicated to this purpose. A society ought, perhaps, also to find other, more practical, ways to memorialize the dead. It is worth noting that aesthetic value is not necessary for the success of a memorial, as many squat obelisks, crudely sculpted soldiers, and similar memorials attest. Charles Griswold has made something like this point in writing about the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, which he describes as “not really beautiful.”8 Maya Lin, the architect who designed this memorial, has said that her intent was “to bring out in people the realization of loss and a cathartic healing experience.”9 She did not say that it was designed to be beautiful. Aesthetic value can contribute to a memorial’s capacity to move viewers. The Canadian World War I  memorial at St. Julien by Frederick Chapman Clemesha is often singled out as a memorial with considerable aesthetic value. The aesthetic value ought, however, to draw attention to human cost of war. If a memorial leads viewers to focus on itself as an object of aesthetic appreciation, and not also on the human cost of war, it will not be an effective war memorial. One ought to think of the dead who are memorialized rather than only the memorial itself.10 A memorial that fails aesthetically can fail as a memorial. Reginald Blomfield, an architect who did a great deal of work for the Imperial War Graves Commission, seems to have grasped this. He wrote, “many of us [architects] had seen terrible examples of war memorials in France and were haunted by the fear of winged angels in various sentimental attitudes.”11 The risk of aesthetic failure suggests that memorials are most effective when abstract. He and other architects became determined to avoid such mistakes. Many of the most affecting memorials, including

38  James O. Young the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Cenotaph in Whitehall, and others to be discussed below, are abstract. Beyond simplicity, they have little in the way of aesthetic properties. At least this prevents the aesthetic properties of a memorial from interfering with its exemplification of the scale of human loss. Above all, a monument with an enduring power to move audiences ought to eschew a political or nationalist agenda. It will not continue to dredge up old quarrels. In this regard the Cenotaph (literally: an empty tomb) in Whitehall, designed by the distinguished British architect, Sir Edwin Lutyens, is noteworthy. It is not a trophy signaling victory. It contains no national, Christian, or Romantic symbolism. Some early critics of the monument objected to it on the grounds that it lacked these elements. The lack of such symbolism likely reduced the immediate cathartic effect of the Cenotaph, and almost certainly reduced its capacity to inspire patriotism. However, the lack of such symbolism helps ensure that the work has an enduring impact on viewers. One writer has compared Lutyens’ Cenotaph and Lin’s Vietnam Veterans Memorial, writing that “both memorials go beyond the political  .  .  . to express existential truths too often obscured in the rhetorical and aesthetic fog of war and its aftermath.”12 Any attempt to serve a political or national agenda with a memorial can, at best, only be distracting. The quarrels of the past and parochial national agendas mean little once the passions of war have subsided, particularly when compared to the actual human loss of life. Anything that prevents viewers from realizing the scope of this loss can be seen as a failing in a memorial.

Exemplification of Loss Many examples can be given to illustrate the point that memorials move us by exemplifying the scale of the human cost of war. This exemplification of loss is a far more effective way of bringing people to a realization of this cost than any narrative can be. A recent illustration of the power of memorials that exemplify the scale of war’s human cost is found in a temporary installation known as Arlington West. (The name Arlington refers to Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia, where American war dead are often buried.) The Arlington West project began in November  2003 as a way of drawing attention to the human toll of the Iraq War.13 Initiated by Stephen Sherill, it was supported by the local chapter of Veterans for Peace. The project consisted in placing, every Sunday for the duration of the project, 3,000 wooden crosses, each accompanied by an American flag, in the sand on the beach at Santa Barbara, California. Each cross bore the name of a dead American serviceman. (The total American death toll from the Iraq war is, at the time of writing, over 4,500 and still growing. However,

How to Do Things With Stones 39 the available space on the Santa Barbara beach, approximately 40 by 95 meters, allowed for only 3,000 crosses.) The reports of people who viewed this memorial indicate how its sheer scale made it so moving. Richard Anderson, a Santa Barbara man, stated that, “Walking out into the memorial for the first time, I found myself overwhelmed with grief. One thousand casualties is just a number. One thousand crosses, with names and dates, will drive you to your knees like a sledgehammer.” Thomas J. Scheff, in his article on Arlington West, added that, “Until this moment, one knew about the loss of lives intellectually, without feeling it. Until one feels the number of dead, it is just one of literally millions of equally un-involving bits of information.” Notice that both men indicate that a verbal report of the scale of human loss is much less affecting than a monument that, by its very scale, exemplifies the extent of this loss. Notice also how both remark on the emotional impact of the memorial. The emotional impact of the memorial is also evident from the impact that it had on Cindy Sheehan, who became a leader of the movement opposed to the war in Iraq. Sheehan, whose son Casey died in the war, visited Arlington West on Mother’s Day, 2004. She told the Santa Barbara News-Press, “I’m finished crying for Casey. Now I’m crying for all the other mothers.”14 The number of dead in World War I dwarfed the loss of life in previous conflicts. If the scale of death as a whole was to be exemplified, this could only be accomplished on the grandest of scales. And so it was. Rudyard Kipling, whose only son died in the Battle of Loos in 1915, called the work of the Imperial War Graves Commission, “The biggest single bit of work since any of the Pharaohs—and they only worked in their own country.”15 Every British and Imperial soldier, whose body was recovered, was commemorated with a uniform gravestone. These graves were undifferentiated by the rank of the fallen soldier. This lack of differentiation makes clear that death in war can come to anyone from any corner of society. The largest cemeteries, those in Belgium and Northern France, stretch for acre after acre, the biggest containing thousands upon thousands of white headstones. The impact of these vast graveyards on the viewer is immense. It is difficult not to be reduced to tears by the colossal size of the cemeteries and the magnitude of the loss that they represent. The nature of battle in World War I left the Imperial War Graves Commission with a problem on a completely unprecedented scale. Many of the dead were blown apart by explosions, or buried in the mud of the battlefields, and their bodies were never recovered. Approximately 315,000 bodies of British and Imperial soldiers were never recovered. (This amounted to almost a third of British and Imperial deaths.) The War Graves Commission was, however, committed to commemorating by name every fallen soldier. The War Graves Commission solved the problem by erecting a series of memorials to the missing, on which the names of missing soldiers are incised. The two largest of these memorials are the Menin Gate and the Monument to the Missing at Thiepaval.

40  James O. Young The memorial at Thiepaval, designed by Lutyens, is built on a monumental scale. It rises 43 meters above a base that is six meters above grade.16 In form, it echoes the triumphal arches of ancient Rome, but there is nothing triumphant about it. The inscription on the monument simply reads: Here are recorded names of officers and men of the British Armies who fell on the Somme battlefields July 1915 February 1918 but to whom the fortune of war denied the known and honoured burial given to their comrades in death. The size of the memorial was a product, not of triumphalism, but of practical necessity. Nothing smaller would have permitted the commemoration, by name, of the more than 72,000 men who have no known grave. Seen from a distance, the scale of the monument is deeply moving. Up close, the sight of the names of the men, listed in their tens of thousands, does even more to make viewers aware of the scale of death and to leave them deeply affected. The Menin Gate, designed by Blomfield, is scarcely less colossal than the memorial at Thiepaval. An archway leading into the town of Ypres, it is 35.6 meters long, 20 meters high, and 14.5 meters high.17 The Menin Gate commemorates the approximately 55,000 British and Imperial soldiers who died in the Ypres Salient whose bodies were never accorded a proper burial. Like the Thiepaval memorial, its inscription is not triumphant. It simply reads, To the armies of the British Empire who stood here from 1914 to 1918 and to those of their dead who have no known grave. The number of dead was so large that they could not all be commemorated on the memorial. (A separate memorial for those who died after August 15, 1917, was constructed at Tyne Cot. The Tyne Cot Memorial to the Missing bears the names of 33,783 men from the UK whose bodies were never found plus the names of 1,176 missing New Zealanders.) The scale of the memorial was intended to express the scale of the loss, not triumph. Gavin Stamp writes that it “is not just a piece of Imperial bombast, not a celebration of Triumph or Victory but an attempt to express the vast scale of the human sacrifice in permanent and dignified architectural form.”18 Once again, the scale of the human sacrifice is expressed by means of exemplification. Again, both the size of the monument and tens of thousands of names express this scale. Although the idea of commemorating by name all of a war’s dead can be traced to ancient Greece,19 the first modern attempt to do so was undertaken by the Imperial War Graves Commission. The commemoration of each individual by name can add immensely to the affective power of a

How to Do Things With Stones 41 memorial, particularly when the number of names is large. A reminder of the scale of death is moving, but it is also moving to be reminded that each of the dead was an individual with his or her own hopes and aspirations. Many of the memorials that have been mentioned so far (though not the New Zealand memorial with which the essay began) combine the exemplification of loss with the reminder of the individuality of the dead. Arlington West, the Menin Gate, and the memorial at Thiepaval all have this combination. In this context, it is also worth recalling that the Vietnam Veterans Memorial has the same combination of imposing scale and individual commemoration. This memorial lists the names of all of the nearly 58,000 Americans who died in the Vietnam War. Sometimes the scale of a monument is larger than is needed to commemorate the number of the dead individually by name. Such, for example, is the Massachusetts Vietnam Veterans Memorial. This memorial consists, in part, of a series of six stone pillars that record the names of the 1,546 men and one woman from Massachusetts who died in combat or from wounds incurred in combat during the Vietnam War. Names cover only about one-third of the surfaces of the pillars, but the sheer size of the pillars contributes to the impact of the memorial, again by exemplifying the magnitude of the loss. Recall that, in this context, a number is large relative to its context. A  dozen can be a large number of names when they are found on the memorial in a small village. When several of the soldiers named on such a memorial share the same surname, the effect can be particularly heartbreaking. The World War I memorial in the tiny town of Ganges, on Salt Spring Island, British Columbia contains about two dozen names. Those commemorated on the memorial include J. R. Lumley, H. T. Lumley, C. P. Storer, and S. A. Storer. A family’s loss of two sons is a loss on an unbearably large scale.

Materials and Context The materials chosen for the construction of memorials can contribute to the impact they are capable of making. An affecting memorial will typically be built from enduring and valuable materials. This is a point that has been made, for example, about the choice of the materials for the Massachusetts Vietnam Memorial.20 The choice of enduring materials signals to the viewer the scale of the loss experienced by the community erecting the memorial. A monument’s location in a community also can emphasize the scale of the loss memorialized and can enhance a memorial’s capacity to move. The context in which a memorial is placed increases its capacity to exemplify the scale of loss. Sometimes memorials are erected where soldiers have died. The Menin Gate and the Thiepaval memorial are examples. Often, however, they are situated in prominent locations within

42  James O. Young a community. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial is located on the Mall in Washington, DC. The Cenotaph is in Whitehall. Britain’s Unknown Warrior is buried in Westminster Abbey. The Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne, dedicated in 1934 as a memorial to men of the State of Victoria who died in the First World War, was placed so as to be visible from the city center. Similarly, the Canadian memorial on Vimy Ridge in France is visible from miles around. According memorials such places of honor indicates their importance to the people who erected them. By indicating this importance, viewers are again reminded of the scale of war’s human cost. Every important Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery contains a Stone of Remembrance. Lutyens described the Stones in a letter to Ware in these terms: “one great fair stone of fine proportions, twelve feet in length, lying raised upon three steps, of which the first and third shall be twice the width of the second.”21 Each is inscribed, “Their name liveth for evermore.” These massive, durable stones have the additional advantage of being long-lasting. Winston Churchill observed that these monuments would endure for 2,000 years and “preserve the memory of a common purpose pursued by a great nation in the remote past and will undoubtedly excite the wonder and reverence of future generations.”22 I  can only agree. The British Empire ended far sooner than Churchill could have foreseen, but the use of such massive and indestructible stones cannot help but strike the viewer as evidence of a huge undertaking. The numbers of the Stones of Remembrance is also imposing. One stone was erected for each cemetery with more than 1,000 graves. By 1927, 400 Stones of Remembrance had been erected. An undertaking on this scale can only commemorate a loss of equal scale. Approximately 100 World War I memorials in Canada are constructed of Carrara marble.23 Carrara marble, quarried in Northwest Italy, was used in the masterpieces of Donatello, Michelangelo, and Bernini and other great Italian sculptors. In choosing this beautiful and expensive medium, towns across Canada signaled the importance that they placed on the memorials they were erecting. Unfortunately, Carrara marble does not weather well in many parts of Canada; the climate is simply too harsh. As a result, many of these memorials are now in poor condition. Still, the significance of the choice of Carrara marble is unmistakable: only the best for our boys. These marble statues across Canada have little aesthetic value; some are no better sculpted than a lawn ornament. Nevertheless, the use of this valuable material enhances the capacity of this humble, weathered statuary to move us today. Bronze statues, which weather much better in challenging climates and can be in pristine condition after a century, can also be deeply moving. In this case, the selection of enduring materials enhances the effectiveness of a memorial.

How to Do Things With Stones 43 Careful preservation of memorials and the grounds that they occupy also enhances their capacity to move by indicating how valuable the monument is to the community. The First World War memorial in Margaret, Manitoba, is an excellent example.24 Margaret is an almost vanished, unincorporated village in southwest Manitoba. It is little more than a few houses and farm buildings. Nevertheless, the town’s memorial is in immaculate condition. The marble is kept clean and clear of lichen. The grounds are well tended and a new Canadian flag flies from the pole behind the memorial. It is unclear who is responsible for the upkeep of the memorial, when so many others are neglected. A visitor can scarcely help but be moved by the relative scale of the loss sustained by this community (seven names are listed on the memorial). The enduring care that some anonymous individuals show for the memorial only reinforces this impact. At the same time, it must be admitted that when memorials are allowed to decay, they are moving in another way. The decay of a memorial, and a community’s obliviousness to a past tragedy, has its own very considerable poignancy.

Conclusion War memorials can be moving in a variety of ways. They can assist a war’s survivors in coming to terms with the loss that they have endured. They can inspire patriotism and self-sacrifice by reminding viewers of the heroic deeds of others. Perhaps most importantly, however, a war memorial conveys to viewers that any war involves tragic loss of human life. People can be told this, but actual exemplification in stone of the magnitude of this loss seems to make the human toll of war inescapable and deeply affecting. Stones can exemplify, and thus mean, that the cost of war is intolerable and, in this way, be deeply moving.

Notes 1. John Milton, Sampson Agonistes, lines 1733–40. First published 1671, London. 2. Christopher Isherwood, The Memorial (London: Hogarth Press, 1952), 109. 3. Nicholas Watkins, Frances Cole and Sue Weidemann, “ ‘The War Memorial as Healing Environment: The Psychological Effect of the Vietnam Veterans War Memorial on Combat Veterans’ Posttraumatic Stress Disorder Symptoms,” Environment and Behavior 42 (2010): 35–75. 4. This discussion of exemplification is influenced by discussions of the concept in Nelson Goodman, Ways of Worldmaking, 2nd ed. (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1978); Catherine Z. Elgin, With Reference to Reference (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1983). 5. Quoted in Arnold Whittick, War Memorials (London: Country Life, 1946), vi. 6. Ibid., 2. 7. Gavin Stamp, Silent Cities (London: Royal Institute of British Architects, 1977), 18.

44  James O. Young 8. Charles L. Griswold, “The Vietnam Veterans Memorial and the Washington Mall: Philosophical Thoughts of Political Iconography,” Critical Inquiry 12 (1986): 689. 9. Ibid., 718. 10. For a related point, see Noël Carroll, “Art and Recollection,” Journal of Aesthetic Education 39 (2005): 1–12. 11. Quoted in Stamp, Silent Cities, 12. 12. Jay Winter, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 105. 13. The project was ended in 2010 and replaced by one dedicated to the dead of the Afghan War. 14. Quoted in Thomas J. Scheff, “Responses to a War Memorial,” Journal for Social Action in Counseling and Psychology 1 (2007): 61–63. 15. Quoted in Fabian Ware, The Immortal Heritage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1937), 56. 16. Gavin Stamp, The Memorial to the Missing of the Somme (London: Profile Books, 2007), 130. 17. The Menin Gate Memorial, Ypres, Belgium, accessed January 8, 2018, www. 18. Stamp, Silent Cities, 4–5. 19. Graham Oliver, “Naming the Dead, Writing the Individual: Classical Traditions and Commemorative Practices in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,” Proceedings of the British Academy 160 (2012): 113–34. 20. Zachary Beckstead, Gabriel Twose, Emily Levesque-Bottlieb and Julia Rizzo, “Collective Remembering Through the Materiality and Organization of War Memorials,” Journal of Material Culture 16 (2011): 193–213. 21. Quoted in Stamp, The Memorial to the Missing of the Somme, 78. 22. Quoted in Philip Longworth, The Unending Vigil (London: Constable, 1967), 54. 23. Alan Livingstone MacLeod, Remembered in Bronze and Stone: Canada’s Great War Memorial Statuary (Victoria, BC: Heritage, 2016), 31. 24. For a discussion of this memorial, see MacLeod, Remembered in Bronze and Stone, 51.

4 The Proper Object of Emotion Memorial Art, Grief, Remembrance Deborah Knight

Memorial art is only now receiving due consideration within the philosophy of art and aesthetics. Why is this? One reason is a certain philosophical discomfort with at least some emotional responses to art, especially those that might be condemned as sentimental. Another is the philosophical view, derived from Kant, that works of art should be treated as ends in themselves. Works of art, on this view, should be contemplated at a remove from the world of practical affairs and thus at a remove from such affectively engaged matters as grief and remembrance. Yet memorial art cannot be divorced from the real world of action and emotion. It is not enough merely to appreciate a memorial’s formal properties detached, somehow, from its historical and social contexts. Our emotional response is necessary to engage properly with works of memorial art. In this chapter, I will consider a range of examples including the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Hiroshima Memorial Park, the Oklahoma City Memorial, the AIDS Memorial Quilt, and the National September  11 Memorial in New York. I  will also discuss Sol Lewitt’s Black Form—Dedicated to the Missing Jews. These memorials mark events ranging from wars and the Holocaust to acts of terrorism and global health pandemics. Each memorial has distinctive aesthetic features which give form to the events remembered. I will be guided by Nicholas Wolterstorff, who argues that “[w]e must free ourselves from the assumption that contemplative interaction with the aesthetic qualities of a work automatically makes a more important contribution to our flourishing than any other mode of engagement.”1 The aesthetic features of memorial artworks help guide our emotional responses. This makes memorial artworks, which emblematize specific devastating social and historical events, a proper object of emotion.

Emotion and Art The question of emotional responses to art goes back to antiquity. As we see in the Republic and elsewhere, Plato thought emotional responses to most artworks negatively affected the rational functioning of the soul.

46  Deborah Knight Conversely, in the Poetics, Aristotle argued that tragedy—that is to say, dramatic tragedy, not real-world events that we describe as tragic —was a proper venue for the experience of emotions, at least if it produced katharsis, a general purging of strong emotions designed to lead one to be more effective in one’s role as a citizen. Plato and Aristotle were concerned with what we would now call fictional works of art and the responses they might generate. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, we again see debate about what counts as either legitimate or illegitimate emotional responses to art. There is a defense of profoundly felt emotions in response to recognized works of fine art, notably poetry and music, and at the same time a condemnation of works that prompt strong but sentimental responses. Sentimental responses are criticized as shallow rather than deep, as easy rather than demanding, and as less than properly rational. To offer two illustrations, the Romantic poets are commended for their expression of complex emotions, while critics have charged Dickens with promoting a Victorian sentimentalism in his portrayal of the working poor and infant mortality that others have noted as well in Victorian painting.2 In the twentieth century, Kendall Walton has argued that our emotional responses to works of art are importantly different from our emotional responses in real life.3 Walton argues that our responses to artworks are only “quasi-emotions,” not actual ones, because they are decoupled from belief (we do not believe that Othello exists) and therefore they do not prompt real-world actions (we do not try to intervene to save Desdemona). Quasi-emotions are similar to actual emotions in the sense that I register physiological reactions much like fear when confronted with frightening events in a horror movie. But they are different because I  don’t respond as I  would if I  actually felt fear. For instance, I  don’t run screaming from the cinema, and I  might actually say later (or even at the time) that I enjoyed feeling scared. The theory of quasiemotions raises a challenge when we think about memorial artworks: could our emotional responses, in a sense, not be “real” emotions after all because we are responding to the memorial as a work of art? On the contrary: because memorial artworks deal with real-world events, the emotions they prompt are not merely “quasi,” nor are they easily dismissed as sentimental. Closely connected to the question of emotional response is the idea, inherited from Kant, that works of art should be treated as ends in themselves. To properly regard something as a work of art means that we should not think of it in practical terms. To appreciate a painting because Sotheby’s has appraised it at $500,000 is to fail to appreciate it as a work of art. Responding to the real-world aspects of a work of art, Kantians might say, diminishes it as a work of art and sidetracks our aesthetic response. While our responses to real-world events are typically interested, our concern with art should be disinterested. It is unsurprising,

The Proper Object of Emotion 47 then, that the philosophy of art deals very well with fictions, and indeed with tragic fictions, as Aristotle recognized, but not so well with the nonfictional. Memorial artworks don’t fit the fictional mold. Memorial art is dedicated to remembering actual, historical events rather than fictional ones. Memorial artworks are not intended to be objects of disinterested contemplation. It would be peculiar to argue that emotionally based responses to memorial artworks are necessarily inappropriate because they are not properly disinterested. This raises the question: how should philosophy deal with artworks that directly engage real-world events— with artworks that, as Wolterstorff puts it, provoke not “art tears,” but real tears? Not all artworks that speak to the memory of those who have died are works of memorial art. Monuments serve a very different function. “We erect monuments so that we shall always remember, and build memorials so that we shall never forget.”4 Thus, Arthur C. Danto begins to clarify just what sort of thing a memorial is, and by extension what sort of thing memorial art might be. He is writing principally here about the Vietnam Veterans Memorial as well as other monuments and memorials nearby on the National Mall in Washington, DC. Danto points us to the public, and indeed the national, character of many monuments and memorials. He also points us to the fundamental difference in function of these two types of objects: “Monuments make heroes and triumphs, victories and conquests, perpetually present and part of life. The memorial is a special precinct, extruded from life, a segregated enclave where we honor the dead. With monuments we honor ourselves.”5 Part of the ethical work of many monuments and memorials is to record the names of the remembered. The philosopher Peter Lamarque once suggested that, when I next visited Paris, I be sure to look up one of his ancestors, a general in Napoleon’s army, whose name is inscribed on the Arc de Triomphe. Sure enough, I found that name. The Arc de Triomphe is a monument, not a memorial. Finding the name of General Lamarque is quite a different experience from considering the name of, for example, someone killed in the Vietnam War recorded on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial or the name of someone who has died of AIDS recorded on the AIDS Quilt. We might think that the recording of names is an ethical obligation of memorial art, especially memorial art that records tragic death, and we are familiar with memorials that directly present us with the names of those to be remembered. Around the North and South Pools at the 9/11 Memorial are the names of those killed in the attacks on the World Trade Center itself as well as first responders, those who died on the planes that crashed into the towers (American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175), those who died when UA Flight 93 crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, and those who died at the Pentagon, including those who were killed on AA Flight 77. A Wall of Remembrance was added to the original Korean War Veterans Memorial with 36,574 names

48  Deborah Knight of those killed, wounded, prisoners of war, and missing in action. This addition to the original memorial site was given presidential approval in 2016. The names of those who have died function metonymically, representing the person who is forever tied to the specific catastrophic event. It seems inadequate to remember a memorialized event without remembering the individuals involved. Yet what does such remembering entail? For many, the memorial allows us, as it were, to encounter these individuals for the first time. In such cases, memorials commit these individuals to our collective memory. Recording the names of the dead might seem an unproblematic undertaking, if you know their names. What happens, though, when the number of dead is so large as to challenge our ability to assimilate the information being conveyed—when the number of individuals is uncountable? Consider Hiroshima: nearly 200,000 lives either lost or permanently injured in an instant on August  6, 1945. Hiroshima is a place, as Robert Ginsberg describes it, “where more human suffering may have unexpectedly occurred at one moment than in all previous history,” or subsequent history, for that matter.6 Virtually all of the city center, and its inhabitants, were annihilated—people, families, buildings, landmarks. In the meantime, emerging from the catastrophe, a new, vibrant city of approximately 1,000,000 people now exists on the site of this nuclear disaster. How could the people who continued to live in, and who rebuilt, Hiroshima properly memorialize such an event without having that event completely overwhelm them? The solution, the Hiroshima Peace Park, is a testimony to the importance of memorial art. It features minimalist architectural structures such as an arching Cenotaph surrounded by gardens, all organized around the icon of post-nuclear Hiroshima: the former chamber of commerce, now known only as “the Dome,” which marks the center of the nuclear disaster (see Figure  17.1). The Dome remains standing, though skeletally: “The ruin is not simply a marker, it is a survivor,” as Ginsberg observes. “It has not been constructed anew, but destructed into newness.”7 The Cenotaph interacts with the Dome on this memorial site, visually framing it, placing the Dome in contemporary and commemorative context, uniting the present and the past. Under the Cenotaph is a stone shaped like an altar, and under that are preserved the names of the dead, set off from public access. Over 180,000 names are currently recorded, including those who died immediately and those whose subsequent deaths can be attributed to the nuclear blast. The aesthetic context of the Peace Park encourages recollection of those involved in this catastrophe in a way that allows for dialogue between past and present, between the catastrophic event and our commitment never to permit such an event to occur again. The names of the dead are here, but protected. The space, aesthetically and architecturally, is designed to honor them but just as importantly to honor a commitment to a vision

The Proper Object of Emotion 49 of the future. On the Cenotaph are inscribed the words, “Let all the souls here rest in peace, for we shall not repeat the evil.” Similar responses have been undertaken, for instance at the Oklahoma City National Memorial, which is dedicated not only to those who died in the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building on April  19, 1995, but also to those who survived and to those who helped in the rescue efforts. Like the Hiroshima Peace Park and the 9/11 Memorial, this memorial is at the site of the event, and prominently features something which survived the bombing. While Hiroshima has the Cenotaph and the Dome, Oklahoma City has the Survivor’s Tree and the Reflecting Pool, a one-inch deep, rectangular pool with a black granite base that mirrors the surroundings and, of course, the Oklahoma sky. Those who died are specifically memorialized in a part of the site known as the Field of Empty Chairs: 168 chairs arranged in nine rows according to the floor on which the individual worked or was visiting. There are two sizes of chairs; smaller ones are to remember the nineteen children who died in the day care center of the building. Part of the work of memorials is to have us think about the dead as individuals, and names begin this process. This is why many memorial events are marked by readings of the names of the dead, something which still occurs at annual ceremonies, for example in New York City to honor those who died in the September 11 attacks.

What We Should Not Forget Danto reminds us that memorials exist so that we will never forget. Yet some memorials from recent decades stand in opposition to a collective desire to forget. The motto of the Korean Veterans War Memorial (dedicated 1995) is The No Longer Forgotten War 1950–1953. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial (dedicated 1982) commemorates a war that was so divisive that many Americans wished to forget it. A  war that America conspicuously lost, a war that divided the country, did not seem to be something to be remembered. How then could this lost war be recognized at a national level? Strikingly, especially given its proximity to the Washington Monument obelisk and the Greek temple dedicated to Thomas Jefferson, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial is explicitly an antimonument. It rejects the iconographic and symbolic conventions traditionally associated with monuments. But then, as Arthur Danto has noted, if America had won its war in Vietnam, we would not have had a Vietnam Veterans Memorial—we would have had a monument instead. Let us think about a very different work of memorial art, the NAMES Project Foundation’s AIDS Memorial Quilt (Figure 4.1). Like the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the AIDS Quilt was generated at the public rather than the state or federal level. The Quilt self-consciously embraces a form of art—fabric art—associated with “women’s arts,” one which

50  Deborah Knight

Figure 4.1 AIDS Memorial Quilt Source: National Institutes of Health, Wikimedia Commons

has not before been the choice for a modern memorial artwork. The Quilt is the product of thousands who have singly or jointly created individual squares. Because so many were involved in the making of the Quilt, and because it is such a considerable job to display the Quilt even in part, let alone in its entirety, it is fair to say that the Quilt is as much an event as an object. Indeed, subsets of panels of the Quilt tour various parts of the United States without raising the complaint that a part of this memorial has been taken away from the whole. The visual record of the AIDS Quilt as it was displayed on the National Mall in Washington, DC, October 11–13, 1996, gives us a poignant sense of how a large number of people set out to respond to the impact of AIDS on the United States. While recalling this public presentation of the quilt, we should also remember how emphatically mainstream North American culture dismissed AIDS and its victims in the early days of the disease, and how homophobic much of the North American response to AIDS originally was. Here is another challenge for memorial art. Consider the problems Germany has faced and continues to face when trying to construct memorials to those who died in concentration camps from 1933 through

The Proper Object of Emotion 51 to the end of the Second World War. When we think about memorials, monuments, and nations, we see that nations standardly construct monuments to events they wish to have remembered, and that certain memorials are very hard to actualize because of the state’s own role in the events to be remembered. Consider how complex it has been for Germany to construct memorials to the millions whom the German state (albeit in an earlier incarnation) itself put to death. There is no easy solution to this problem. One of Germany’s responses has been to preserve the sites of concentration camps such as Dachau as memorials. The concentration camps are not memorial artworks, although there are memorial artworks at the sites. The camps can be viewed by anyone interested in traveling to them. Outside of the camps, there are now numerous German memorial artworks dedicated to those killed under the Third Reich. The German word Denkmalarbeit, meaning “memorial work,” acknowledges exactly this ongoing process of memorialization. These memorial works are fraught with historical complexity, ideological tension, and public debate. As James E. Young writes: Holocaust memorial-work in Germany today remains a tortured, self-reflective, even paralyzing preoccupation. Every monument, at every turn, is endlessly scrutinized, explicated, and debated. Artistic, ethical, and historical questions occupy design juries to an extent unknown in other countries.8 Recent examples of memorials to the history of Jews in Germany include Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum, Berlin (opened 2001), and Peter Eisenman’s Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (completed 2004). Both employ specific aesthetic strategies to challenge and engage visitors. But as Young noted, “perhaps no single emblem better represents the conflicted, self-abnegating motives for memory in Germany today than the vanishing monument.” He is referring to Sol Lewitt’s 1987 sculpture, Black Form—Dedicated to the Missing Jews. Lewitt, an American geometric minimalist participating in Germany’s Skulptur Projekte 87, “installed a large block of black stone smack in the middle of the plaza in front of the Münster Palace and dedicated it to ‘the missing Jews of Münster.’ ”9 The large black sculpture “sat like an abandoned coffin” in front of the Baroque buildings which made up the university square. Fairly quickly, Black Form began to be covered with graffiti. Many users of the square objected to Black Form, from those who found it aesthetically incompatible with its architectural environment, to those who dislike graffiti, to limousine drivers who now had trouble turning their vehicles around in the plaza. It was destroyed in March  1988 by a university work crew over the objections of the artist. A vanished community was now memorialized by a vanished memorial.

52  Deborah Knight

The Vietnam Veterans Memorial One of the challenges for any work of memorial art is the difficulty of striking a receptive cord with a public audience—to be able to touch them, to make that audience respond caringly. Some works of art, especially ones that challenge expectations, don’t do this as well as others. Clearly, Black Form did not accomplish this, whereas the Vietnam Veterans Memorial very quickly did. Years after the official end of the war, Jan Scruggs, a wounded and decorated Vietnam veteran, began the campaign that would ultimately create the memorial we have today. He set about raising funds for a memorial, the design of which would be decided by a panel of judges in an open competition. There was to be no government involvement other than providing a location on the National Mall, and no government funding. Scruggs relied instead on small donations from individual Americans, in particular other Vietnam veterans. The requirements for the memorial itself were that the artwork be designed by an adult American citizen, be contemplative and harmonious with its site, make no political statement, and contain the names of all military personnel who had died or were listed as missing in action. There were 1,421 entries in the competition. The winning design was by Maya Lin, born in Athens, Ohio, a 21-year-old architecture student. Her entry included sketches of her vision: polished black granite dug into the earth, stretching in an obtusely angled V. The entry also included an essay which said that the walls would emerge from the earth, the granite would reflect light, and the lettering of all the names of the dead would be simple. Despite its unanimous selection by the competition committee, Lin’s design was instantly criticized. The V-shape was said to be a subversive symbol of the peace movement, meant to undermine the sacrifice of veterans. The color of the granite, black, was derided for being the color of shame and degradation. It was said that the design was unheroic, too abstract, a poor attempt to be avant-garde. Additionally, some of the complaints reflected the fact that Lin was a young Asian American woman. Others were disappointed that the design did not include any statuary, although that was later added, not as part of that memorial but as an adjunct one nearby. Lin was able to respond to the substantive complaints about her design. The memorial is black because white south-facing stone would blind its viewers in sunlight. It is shaped in a V to point toward the Washington Monument to the east and to the Lincoln Memorial to the west, placing the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in a historical context. The design is purposefully simple because embellishing something so moving would only diminish its effect. The Memorial is cut into the earth on the National Mall in Washington (Figure 4.2). Although physically it seems simple, the iconography of the memorial is complex. To walk the path before the granite walls is to

The Proper Object of Emotion 53

Figure 4.2 Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Washington, DC Source: Photo by author

descend as if into a national grave and then to reemerge. The memorial is itself a “gash in the earth” and thus represents the gash on the national psyche caused by the Vietnam War.10 The two wings of the memorial are inscribed with the names of those killed in the war (over 50,000 names), and thus the memorial functions as a Book of the Dead. The black granite walls capture the reflections of those who stand in front of it. Indeed, the memorial reflects the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. When you stand in front of the memorial walls you can see at the same time the names of the dead in front of you, your own reflection looking at those names, and the reflections of the Washington Monument or the Lincoln Memorial. Today the Vietnam Veterans Memorial is the second-most visited memorial in Washington after the Lincoln Memorial, annually drawing more than four million visitors. As Arthur Danto has remarked, No one has defaced it, no one has tried to blow it up, though there was a threat of this once. It has been accepted by the nation at large, which did not even know it wanted such a memorial.11 Philosophers including Danto and Wolterstorff say that if you visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, you should be prepared to weep. They add that they wept. Wolterstorff knew no one killed in Vietnam, yet he wept

54  Deborah Knight anyway. I too have cried while visiting the Memorial. I don’t think those of us who weep are mere sentimentalists. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial is profoundly emotionally moving for several reasons. I have mentioned the iconographical and symbolic reasons. Add to this the other people with whom you are likely to share this experience. Frequently you will see family members from different generations, service personnel, and school groups, not to mention the broad range of tourists who come to Washington. This is a memorial that has been constructed not just so that people pass in front of it, but also so that people can touch it, caress it, kiss it. When you visit you are sure to find remembrances that have been left behind: flowers, cards, photographs, small flags, balloons, a soccer ball. And at any time you will find others there with you who are searching out the names of their loved ones—some taking rubbings of those names with the paper and crayons provided at the site. Certainly there will be people touching the wall, perhaps just running their fingers in astonishment down a list of names, or perhaps hunting for a particular name they wish to find. The experience of the Wall is very different from a museum experience, where the guards jump forward if your hands are pointing too closely toward a work of art. Wolterstorff has caught himself about to say that one goes to see the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, but realized that this was not right. You don’t go to see this memorial, you go to it.12

Appreciating Memorial Art There are, I have argued, two reasons why philosophy of art and philosophical aesthetics have problems with works of memorial art: a general suspicion about strong emotional responses to works of art, and a Kantian view that works of art ought to be treated as ends in themselves. Memorial artworks violate both these tenets. Whether thinking about what counts as an appropriate emotional response to artworks, or about the best Kantian way of engaging with them, we come face-to-face with the ideal of disinterestedness. Since Kant, disinterestedness has too often been a recommended attitude for approaching and attending to any work of art. Engagement with works of art needs of course to be active at both cognitive and emotional levels, but the doctrine of disinterestedness holds that we should not allow our own prejudices or preconceptions, our immediate concerns or our extra-artistic knowledge, to influence our response to the work of art in front of us. The standard of disinterestedness has been reinforced through the establishment of conventions of decorum in concert halls and museums. Audience members are to engage imaginatively with the work of art, but in the concert hall are to remain attentively in their seats, and in the museum are to stand at a respectful distance from the artworks. The background analogy, of course, is that concert halls and museums are the cathedrals of art. Though intended

The Proper Object of Emotion 55 as a neutral and universal model of engagement with artworks, I argue that disinterestedness is the wrong model for engaging with memorial artworks. Indeed, disinterestedness is arguably the wrong model for engaging with what Peg Brand Weiser describes as “politically charged, socially relevant art.” She asks whether “an ordinary viewer [can] ever experience” socially relevant art “in a neutral, detached, and objective way.”13 Disinterestedness seems the very antithesis of the desired response to works of memorial art. Memorial art is about real-world events that affect us as members of a community. Yet as Wolterstorff’s essay reminds us, philosophy of art “cannot handle kissing, touching, and crying.” Wolterstorff’s point is that, sometimes, such personal—indeed, interested—emotional responses are appropriate. Brand does not dismiss disinterested attention outright. Rather, she argues that our reflective engagement with socially relevant art demands interested and disinterested attention. Both have a role to play. Of course, as Brand notes, “one cannot ‘see’ with both types of attention at once.”14 Consider Wittgenstein’s example of the duck-rabbit illusion. We can’t see both figures in the drawing at once. We have to switch perspectives from duck to rabbit and back again. Similarly with artworks and especially with socially relevant artworks, we should expect to shift back and forth between a perspective which privileges a subjective, interested response and one which privileges a more abstract, possibly more formalist appreciation of the work. Brand’s model applies well to memorial artworks. Whether we think of the names carved in the wound of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, or the collection of individual quilts that make up the AIDS Quilt, or the Reflecting Pools that stand in the footprints of the Twin Towers, these memorials offer us a means of aesthetic engagement with the events thus memorialized. Brand recommends that we “toggle” between interest and disinterest, between cognitive and emotional responses. This allows us to aggregate the sociohistorical context of the memorialized events with the aesthetic features of the memorials themselves, creating for us the possibility of expanded imaginative engagement with tragic occurrences. In The Ethics of Memory, Avishai Margalit asks, “Are there episodes that we ought to remember?”15 His question addresses the very idea of collective memory. Are we obligated, as members of a community, to remember certain things? Memorial artworks answer this question in the affirmative: yes, there are episodes that we ought to remember. But memorials also suggest how we ought to remember. The memorial is not just a means to the end of remembrance. Memorials are objects for our imaginative engagement in their own right. The imaginative involvement we have with any particular work of memorial art is shaped not only by the event and the individuals commemorated, but by its aesthetic features. The Dome in Hiroshima and the Field of Chairs in Oklahoma City provide aesthetic context for our imaginative engagement with these

56  Deborah Knight memorials. They offer an aesthetic context for grief and reflection. Those of us who weep when we visit a memorial artwork are responding to such things as the aesthetics and symbolism of the memorial, as well as to the number and vulnerability of those who have died and the nature of the tragic event itself. Grief is part of the work of reflection that memorials make possible for us.

Notes 1. Nicholas Wolterstorff, “Why Philosophy of Art Cannot Handle Kissing, Touching, and Crying,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 61, no. 1 (Winter 2003): 27. 2. See, for example, the Tate exhibition on Victorian sentimentality www. (doi 081718); or, to take just one example from the philosophical literature on sentimentality, Marcia Muelder Eaton, “Laughing at the Death of Little Nell: Sentimental Art and Sentimental People,” American Philosophical Quarterly 26, no. 4 (October 1989): 269–82. 3. Kendall Walton, Mimesis as Make-Believe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990). 4. Arthur C. Danto, “The Vietnam Veterans Memorial,” Nation 241 (August 1985): 152. 5. Ibid. 6. Robert Ginsberg, The Aesthetics of Ruins (Amsterdam-New York: Rodopi, 2004), 221. 7. Ibid., 223. 8. James E. Young, “The Counter-Monument: Memory against Itself in Germany Today,” Critical Inquiry 18, no. 2 (Winter 1992): 269. 9. Ibid., 267. 10. Wolterstorff, “Why Philosophy of Art Cannot Handle Kissing, Touching, and Crying,” 18. 11. Danto, “The Vietnam Veterans Memorial,”130. 12. Wolterstorff, “Why Philosophy of Art Cannot Handle Kissing, Touching, and Crying,” 18. 13. Peg Zeglin Brand (now Peg Brand Weiser), “Disinterestedness and Political Art,” Aesthetics: The Big Questions, ed. Carolyn Korsmeyer (London: Blackwell, 1998), 155. 14. Ibid., 163. 15. Avishai Margalit, The Ethics of Memory (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 48.

5 Churches as Memory Machines Noël Carroll

Although I am no longer a believer, I was raised as a Roman Catholic. I attended Catholic school for twelve years, from first grade through high school. I was an altar boy for three years. I spent a lot of time in churches. In fact, my first encounters with artworks were located on the outside of, but mostly on the inside of churches. Undoubtedly, these early experiences of art have influenced my understanding of it. In this essay, I  would like to discuss a primary function of that art, including the architecture of churches. I am pretty sure that the function I identify is not unique to Catholic churches. I will, however, focus on them, because they are the churches that I know best. In the first section of this essay, I will describe and analyze some of the recurring kinds of art found in Catholic churches and will hypothesize about their function. Next, I will attempt to place that function in terms of its role in any culture at-large. And lastly, I will try to draw out the significance of this kind of art for aesthetics and the philosophy of art.

Church, Art, and Memory The first thing to note about art in Catholic churches is that virtually all of it, including the very architecture, is designed to communicate. That is, it has meaning; it is about something. As one passes through the vestibule and enters the narthex of the western end of the church proper, the hushed acoustics and silent, laden atmosphere—assuming there are no tourists tramping about and snapping selfies—strikes you as serene, tranquil, and contemplative. You sense that you have crossed a threshold. You have left desire and commerce, politics and practical pursuits behind. You have entered a liminal space, transitioning out of the profane and everyday realm into one that has been set apart for a different sort of activity. The very way in which the interior of the church is sequestered signals that it has a special significance as an alternative to one’s ordinary, mundane way of living.1 It is a space designed to invite—even prompt (or nudge)—reflection. Moreover, as you think about what most of the art in the church is meant to encourage, you note that the recurring theme is remembrance.

58  Noël Carroll For example, to continue thinking about the architecture, the very floorplan is in the shape of a cross. The central aisle of the church, stretching from west to east (pointing to and thereby reminding one of the birthplace of Christ), is met at a right angle by the transept, which borders the communion rail and altar, composing a Latin or Roman cross. Of course, this is meant to recall the crucifixion of Jesus. The idea of his passion is literally embodied in the form of the church in order to recall it to us in a bodily way as we pad to our pew or from the pew to the altar to receive Holy Communion. Somewhere along the north/south sides of the church—in either framed relief or pictures—are the Stations of the Cross (Via Crucis, also known as Via Dolorosa), usually fourteen depictions of different stages in Christ’s crucifixion from the moment Pilate condemns him to death to his entombment. These typically include Jesus sentenced to death; Jesus carrying his cross; Jesus falling for the first time; Simon the Cyrenean relieving Christ by carrying his cross; Veronica wiping the sweat and blood from Christ’s face with her veil; Christ’s second fall; Jesus consoling the women of Jerusalem; the third fall of Christ; Jesus being stripped of his garments; being nailed to the cross; dying on the cross; his deposition; and finally Jesus entombed in his sepulcher. The Stations of the Cross are designed to invite a number of reflections, of which two of the most important are to remind us of Christ’s humanity and his sacrifice. Of course, the two are related, especially through the theme of his suffering. Christ’s falling under the weight of the cross and his being nailed to it us call our attention to his body by reminding us of his pain. He is God incarnate—that is, carnal. He became man, as Catholic doctrine has it, in order to save us. That itself was a sacrifice, compounded by the brutal affronts to his body inflicted on him on his way to being crucified. Moreover, the Stations of the Cross are also intended to remind one of one’s own moral responsibilities. When Simon of Cyrene reluctantly assists an exhausted Jesus by shouldering his cross part of the way to Golgotha, one is encouraged to recall one’s own charitable obligations— to overcome one’s hesitancy to come to the assistance of others and to embrace Christ’s invitation to follow him in the service of even strangers. Simon, in effect, is a visual exercise in the imitation of Christ which, in effect, reminds the believer that he or she too has been called to emulate Jesus. Remembering this episode from the Stations of the Cross and reflecting upon it has what Kwame Anthony Appiah calls “normative significance.”2 That is, by inspiring the imitation of Christ through the figure of Simon, we are putatively motivated to act likewise. Meditating upon the image is meant to normatively enjoin us to caring and helping others. Although one can contemplate the Stations of the Cross anytime during the year, Lent is when special services are organized around them.

Churches as Memory Machines 59 A priest, assisted by altar boys (like the former me), walks ritualistically from one Station to the next as the congregation looks on and joins in antiphonally as the priest prays aloud.3 Before each Station, the priest also reflects upon its significance. The representation of Veronica wiping the face of Jesus is the epitome of Christian kindness, which Christ rewards by imprinting his face on her veil. In the present moment, the priest might use this Station to remind us of what Jesus would do with respect to the needs of immigrants. Of course, in addition to the Stations of the Cross, a Catholic church is full of pictures—frescoes, stained glass windows, paintings—and statues and bas-reliefs of saints and other holy personages, and important historic events from the Bible and the history of the Catholic church. The primary function of these images is to rehearse doctrine. Against tendencies toward iconoclasm, Pope Gregory the Great argued: For to adore a picture is one thing, but to learn through the story of a picture what is to be adored is another. For what writing presents to readers, this a picture presents to the unlearned who behold, since in it even the ignorant see what they ought to follow; in it the illiterate read. Hence, and chiefly to the nations, a picture is instead of reading.4 One image that you will frequently encounter in a Catholic church is that of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, such as the one in the rose window at the Church of Santa Ifigênia, in São Paulo, Brazil. It shows Christ, his right hand raised in blessing and his left hand pointing to his heart which floats before his chest, as if we could see magically through his robes and flesh. His heart, shaped like that on a Valentine’s Day candy box, is circled with a crown of thorns and topped with a cross circled by flames. In many images of the Sacred Heart, the heart is also pierced by a lance. The wreath of thorns and the lance recall torturous moments of Christ’s passion. The heart itself underscores his humanity—his insistence on becoming human as a sign of his love—while the flames may symbolize either or both suffering and transformation. As Margaret Visser comments, The conjunction of God’s love and his suffering was richly and extravagantly expressed by the heart of Christ rendered not only visible, but also on fire and bound with thorns. It was an upsetting sight and it was meant to be. The image arose out of and encouraged anguished longing to comfort Christ and ease his pain.5 Another recurring subject in Catholic churches involves representations of Jesus and his mother, the Blessed Virgin Mary. These may come from either end of Jesus’s life in the form of the Madonna and Child motif,

60  Noël Carroll such as the Madonna of Bruges, or Pietàs, such as Michelangelo’s statue in Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Both themes emphasize the humanity of Jesus—the first one as Christ born of woman and the other as literally mortal, dead in his mother’s lap. Catholicism in this regard is a very bodily religion, since it rests on the central paradox of God made man. Many of the images in Catholic churches involve representations of scenes and events in the history of the religion. Nativity scenes, including Christmas crèches, are obvious examples, again reminding worshippers of the central drama of their faith—that of incarnation. Undoubtedly, the Sistine Chapel, with the whole trajectory of salvation inscribed on its walls and ceilings, is one of the most ambitious attempts at visually projecting a virtual encyclopedia of Catholic history and belief. However, depictions of other events with more particular significations are also everywhere apparent. One very frequent subject is martyrdom. St. Peter’s execution, in which he was crucified upside down, appears on an inside panel of the Filarete Door in Old St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, while St. John is beheaded in the glass window of the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul in Kent, among many other sites. These martyrs and myriad others are, so to speak, sacrificial avatars of Jesus and their visual imitations of Christ are intended to be remembered and modeled by the faithful. Not all the events recounted visually in Catholic churches are lethal. Caravaggio’s Conversion of St. Paul on the Way to Damascus, originally painted for the Cerasi Chapel of the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome, calls to mind God’s grace, mercy, and generosity by demonstrating the immensity of the scale of his willingness to forgive by granting his persecutor, Saul of Tarsus, an ecstatic conversion experience. Likewise, the windows over the apse around the central altar of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York illustrate a selection of Christ’s parables calling upon parishioners to recognize, and to recall them, and then to contemplate their meaning. Churches are named after sacred events, doctrines, aspects of the godhead, saints, and the blessed. They contain onomastic reminders of their namesakes via all sorts of visual and architectural reminders, altars and side chapels. Every way you turn there are memorials predicated upon bringing back to mind articles of the faith whose remembrance and contemplation is intended to stimulate and guide Christian behavior. Saint John of Damascus observes: “What the book does for those who understand letters, the image does for the illiterate; the word appeals to hearing, the image appeals to sight; it conveys understanding”; he also contends that “the image is memorial,” which he appears to gloss as not only memorial of what has happened but as pre-figurative of what is to come.6 By this, I take John to mean the visual image of what has been represented also ideally propones the behavior it will elicit from the

Churches as Memory Machines 61 believer. Just as the image of the resurrection of Lazarus predicts the universal resurrection of the Last Day, the recollection and reflection upon, for example, depictions of the lives of the saints and their holy acts will hopefully educe emulation. Virtually every space in the Catholic church is available for the promotion of this sort of spiritual exercise rooted in memory. In the church of Sant’Agnese fuori le mura (St. Agnes Outside the Walls [of Rome])—the mosaic occupying a quarter of the apse over the altar displays the saint after whom the church is named thereby recalling her martyrdom or passion, referring as it always does to that of Christ,7 which is itself a theme taken up in the side chapel in the same church, of St. Stephen, the protomartyr (i.e., the first martyr after Jesus).8 In the ambulatory of the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City hangs the cloth fabric upon which the Virgin Mary is said to have transfigured a bouquet of flowers into a portrait of herself in order to convince the presiding archbishop of her visitation. The image is meant, I propose, to remind the worshipper of the importance of faith. The side chapels in large churches can serve many different functions, often in the service of memory. For example, as the seat of an urban diocese that gathered together worshippers from many different places and ethnicities, various of the side chapels in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York are there in order to celebrate the diversity of the congregation. There is the Altar of Our Lady of Częstochowa, acknowledging the Poles; the Altar of St. Bernard and St. Brigid for the Irish (not to mention the cathedral itself); the Altar of St. Anthony of Padua for the Italians; and the Altar of St. Rose of Lima and the Painting of Our Lady of Guadalupe, acknowledging the Hispanic constituency. These side chapels are a reminder of the catholicity of the church as well as a celebration of solidarity, while the lives of the specific saints are memorials, in the sense suggested by John of Damascus, to their particular virtues. Recalling St. Rose’s devotion to the care of the needy reminds the believers of their Christian duties. I have not presented this list of examples in order to convert you to Catholicism, but only to convince you that almost anywhere you look in most Catholic churches, you will light upon objects of worship that are intended to bring to the mind of the believer scenes, events, doctrines, virtues, and personages pertinent to the Catholic faith. I have focused upon examples primarily from the interior of Catholic churches, but similar observations could be made of the façades, especially those of cathedrals. I hope from this accumulation of brief descriptions that my hypothesis seems plausible, namely, that a primary function of Catholic churches and their ensembles of artworks, albeit of often varying quality, is to activate the memories of the faithful in order, ideally, to animate or quicken normative imitation.

62  Noël Carroll

The Function of Church Art in Catholic Culture The function of the art in Catholic churches, indeed, the churches as a whole, is memorial, not only in order to recall the past, but also to stimulate the sorts of feelings, behaviors, and beliefs that those memories are intended to rekindle. In that respect, Catholic churches as memorymachines discharge a primary function of any culture whatsoever; that is, they are designed to sustain over time the existence of the culture of which they are a part. In order to survive, a culture—by which I mean, admittedly vaguely, an ensemble of customs, practices, rituals, norms, memories, ideals, and narratives (and much more) around which a people recognizes, bonds, and identifies itself—must be able to reproduce itself in order to survive. Obviously, it must reproduce itself biologically from generation to generation as well as replacing the means of materially supporting itself. But it must also reproduce itself culturally. In particular, each generation must, to a great extent, mirror preceding generations, if the people in question are to remain as a cohesive group. In other words, if the group is to persist, it needs, in large measure, to be coordinated in terms of the expectations and judgments we make not only of others but of ourselves as well. It should be indisputable that cultural perseverance over time requires that its inhabitants share a set of beliefs—beliefs that such and such is the case—including shared histories, norms, and ideals. In addition to believing X, Y, and Z, the population of a given culture needs to share certain skills, especially behavioral skills; its members need to know how to behave in certain circumstances, or at least to know how one is supposed to behave and to be disposed to do so. Furthermore, on top of learning what to believe and how to act, the fellowship of a common culture must be educated in what to feel.9 In short, in order to be a fully functioning participant in my culture, I need to share with my fellow citizens an enormous number of beliefs that such and such are so; as well as a body of behavioral schemas regarding how to act (which schemas influence my conduct, often reflexively); and also we need to have access to a common emotional repertoire governing what to feel in the appropriate circumstances. In this regard, art has historically proven to be a tremendous cultural resource for transmitting and disseminating each of these sorts of cultural information, including insights about the ways in which believing that such and such, knowing how to act, and what to feel can fit together and interact. The artworks in Catholic churches, not only the masterpieces but also the simpler images, are predicated upon educating the faithful in the doctrines of the religion and in its prescribed behaviors while also cultivating various emotions—not only emotions of devotion towards God in his triune aspects and the saints but also feelings of loyalty toward the Catholic church and gratitude to its history, as well as specific emotions

Churches as Memory Machines 63 to certain people in certain circumstances, like need. The artworks in Catholic churches perform these educative functions by being memorials that rehearse scenes, events, and histories, including the lives of saints and blessed personages, that not only reinforce cultural beliefs but, wrapped in feeling, also are intended to stimulate behavioral emulation. Look almost anywhere in a Catholic church and your eye will fall upon an image that via memory is meant to deliver a package of belief/­behavioral know-how/feeling. Of course, it is not the case that only Catholic churches use art in this way. Other religions do as well. In fact, for the longest stretch of the history of civilization, art and religion have functioned in concert, often by way of memorialization. And given the conjunction of art and religion in tribal cultures, it is a plausible conjecture that they also worked in tandem in prehistoric culture. Perhaps most art before the modern age was religious. Of course, a great deal of art during that period was also in the service of politics, for example, celebrating the power of the rulers. But then religion and politics were also functionally linked in a manner often reflected in art, as in the Mesopotamian reliefs and Egyptian hieroglyphs in which kings figure as divine. I suspect that most readers will find these remarks unobjectionable. Most will concede that it is obvious that the artworks in Catholic churches and other devotional sites have the intended functions that I have described. To understand such artworks and to explain them adequately would appear to be essential to their appreciation. And yet in the contemporary discussion of the philosophy of art, the topic of this aspect of art—its cultural function, especially with reference to religion—rarely arises.10 So, in the final section of this essay, I  will suggest the way in which this blind spot has emerged and the reason it needs to be overcome.

Art, Autonomy, and Heteronomy On my view, the tendency among Anglo-American philosophers to discount the sociofunctional aspects of art—despite its primacy for most of history and across cultures—is ultimately a result of certain Enlightenment tendencies. With the rise of capitalism, new markets for art arose, apart from the church, the state, and the aristocracy. Alternative sources of patronage arose, apart from service to politics and/or religion, such as catering to the emerging bourgeoisie by providing them with pleasurable objects with which to occupy themselves during their increasing leisure time. This conception of artworks quickly became paradigmatic, and even artworks designed with social functions began to be viewed as if they were only ever meant to be appreciated in terms of whatever aesthetic pleasure they might be thought to deliver. This aesthetic pleasure, moreover, was described as “disinterested,” which under the influence, in particular, of Kant’s Critique of Judgment,

64  Noël Carroll was conceived to be valuable for its own sake and not for the sake of some ulterior purpose, like morality, cognition, religion, propaganda, and so forth. This mode of experience, in turn, was abetted by the development of institutions like the museum, such as the Louvre, which assembled artworks that once served political and religious functions and relocated them in a building intended for the celebration of art for art’s sake, far away from the sites of power—the palaces, churches and monasteries— where they originally served the rulers of the ancient régime. Much art in this way was stripped of its function or neutered. Art in general, in contrast to other social institutions, was said to have no function or to be useless. This was represented positively as an aspect of its freedom, also known as the autonomy of art. Furthermore, this view of art has been very attractive to especially analytic philosophers who like sharp boundaries between their concepts,11 for if art by its very nature is defined as essentially separate from every other human activity, then its conceptual integrity follows automatically. In addition, the philosopher can marshal certain considerations on behalf of this view. Why are we still interested in artworks whose political and religious affiliations are alien to us, and why do we still consider them as great accomplishments, despite our rejection of the functions they discharged? The philosopher responds: because those functions were irrelevant to the work’s aesthetic value qua art which was actually to provide aesthetic pleasure. We appreciate the great art to be found in Catholic churches not because they convince us of Christian doctrine, but because they are beautiful. However plausible these considerations sound, it strikes me as strange that philosophers of art would adopt a framework that distorts the nature of so many of the objects in their field of inquiry. Admittedly, there can be artworks that are made exclusively for aesthetic pleasure or for the sake of art. But that is not the case for artworks across the board. In all probability, most of the world’s art has been made to serve social functions. In this regard, the art in Catholic churches is more the norm than an outlier.12 Nor is it difficult to explain why it is that we appreciate art where it is worthy of our admiration as an artwork. It is not because it gives us a special kind of pleasure disconnected from its function; rather it is because we grasp how well it performs its function. Nor need we deny that beauty plays a role in our appreciation of much sociofunctional art, like Catholic art. The beauty of such art, where it is beautiful, in large measure is what enables it to perform its function so well. Its beauty draws our attention to its theme, it disposes the viewer favorably to its lesson, it embeds its teaching in the memory, and encourages its emulation. The beauty in the art in a Catholic church is not an end in itself but a means to the end of catechizing or instructing the faithful. But one need

Churches as Memory Machines 65 not be one of the faithful in order to appreciate how well designed a given Catholic artwork has been to achieve that end. In this essay, I have focused on the art of Catholic churches, emphasizing their function of memorialization. I have tried to show the ways in which they are intended to call to mind to believers the central events, doctrines, and persons in the history of the Catholic church in order, ideally, to stimulate reflection and imitation. I don’t imagine that Catholic churches are unique in this regard. Indeed, I believe that similar observations could be made about the places of worship of many other religions. For religions, their places of worship and the art they house, to a large extent, contribute to the performance of a social function, namely that of cultural reproduction. In this regard, Catholic art, like much other art, is heteronymous rather than autonomous. This is something the philosophy of art needs to understand better than it has. It is an idea that has stayed with me since my first fledging encounters with artworks.

Notes 1. The first church that I remember as a child was St. Joachim’s on Long Island. Like the churches of many cultures, such as the ziggurats of Sumer and Central and South America, St. Joachim’s was set on high ground, on the way to the gods. A steep stairway led to its main door. Between that door and the doorways to the church proper, there was a lobby with religious pamphlets, holy cards, a bulletin board with church activities, and fonts of holy water. It was as if it was a decompression chamber: between the busy street—the main commercial avenue in our town—and the house of worship proper, there was a transitional space, a space for the temporal activities of the parish, which one passed through before entering the sacred precincts which one marked by blessing oneself with holy water, as if rebaptized. 2. Kwame Anthony Appiah, The Lies That Bind: Rethinking Identity (New York: Liveright, 2018), 10. 3. The priests and altar boys enact walking alongside the suffering Christ, while the audience does so mentally, standing in their pews. Here, it pays to note that many of the objects mentioned in this paper are integrated in church ceremonies in various ways, imbuing them with heightened significance. I have not discussed that phenomenon in this paper since my emphasis is on the memorial artifacts. 4. Gregory the Great, “Selected Epistles,” in Theological Aesthetics: A Reader, ed. Gesa Elsbeth Thiessen (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2004), 47. This is also quoted and discussed by Terence Cuneo, “If These Walls Could Only Speak: Icons as Vehicles of Divine Speech, in Ritualized Faith: Essays on the Philosophy of Faith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 106–25. Pope Gregory clearly had in mind integrating the images in the church into the ceremony, such as the priest’s sermon, as a sort of visual aid. 5. Margaret Visser, The Geometry of Love: Space, Time, Mystery and Meaning in an Ordinary Church (New York: Northpoint Press, 2000), 146. 6. John of Damascus, Treatise I  in Three Treatises on Divine Images, trans. Andrew Louth (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2003), 1. See also the comment by Terence Cuneo in his Ritualized Faith, 119. Moreover,

66  Noël Carroll the pictorial and verbal versions of Christian ideas need not be thought of as exclusive binaries, since the priest can use, and has used, the images displayed in the church as reference points, illustrating his sermons, as well as integrating them in other aspects of the liturgy. 7. Visser, The Geometry of Love, 96. 8. Ibid., 155. 9. See Roger Scruton, Culture Counts (New York: Encounters Books, 2007), 36–37; Roger Scruton, “Emotion and Culture,” in The Aesthetic Understanding (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 1983, 1998), 173–79. 10. For an impressive example of this tendency, see Gary Iseminger, The Aesthetic Function of Art (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2004). For recent exceptions, see Nicholas Wolterstorff, Art Rethought: The Social Practices of Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); Gordon Graham, Philosophy, Art, and Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). 11. I am not claiming that analytic philosophers are necessarily attracted to this view consciously. In almost all cases, I suspect the attraction is subconscious, perhaps built into the methodology of the field. See my “Art and Alienation” and “Art and Recollection” in my Art and Three Dimensions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 143–62, 163–74, respectively. 12. Indeed, I  suspect that many of the artists who have created religious art would find blasphemous the idea that they were engaged basically in just providing aesthetic pleasure.

6 More Than Bare Bones The Artistry and Ethics of Ossuaries Susan L. Feagin and Carolyn Korsmeyer

Are these bones artist’s materials or human remains? —Denise Inge, A Tour of Bones, p. 67

Beneath the church of Santa Maria della Concezione in Rome is a hallway leading past a set of six rooms, known collectively as the Capuchin Cemetery. Crosses and gravestones mark burials beneath the dirt floor. But what catches the eye are the decorative patterns and architectural structures on the walls and ceilings, created out of hundreds of skulls, ribs, shoulder blades, vertebrae, pelvises, and other bones of the human body. Elongated niches erected out of femurs, tibias, and skulls house skeletons and mummified remains. Embellishments resembling rococo stucco-work adorn vaulted ceilings, though it is not actually stucco but yellowed, almost golden, bones that stand out strikingly from a white background. Jawbones, vertebrae, and pelvises form geometric borders; sacral bones, ribs, and vertebrae combine in rosettes and floral motifs, bosses, and eight-pointed stars. Collarbones, arm bones, shoulder blades, and vertebrae are layered into friezes. A breastbone forms the large hand of a clock and finger bones mark off the hours.1 For as long as humankind has existed, societies have had to decide what to do with the remains of people after they die. Since Neanderthal times, the dead have received some kind of ritual treatment, evidence of what appears to be a universal recognition that, in the words of Thomas Laqueur, “the dead are not refuse like the other debris of life.”2 Some cultures practice cremation, but funerary customs that do not destroy the entire body are left with a problem: what to do with the skeletal remains that eventually accumulate. In the West, burial in the earth is common— so common that often churchyards and other burial grounds, over time, prove to be too small, especially when overloaded through wars and epidemic diseases. To make way for new arrivals, a common practice was, for a time, to disinter the bones and remove them for storage to a charnel house or ossuary.3 Dozens of ossuaries dot the landscape of Europe; the

68  Susan L. Feagin and Carolyn Korsmeyer Paris Catacombs are thought to be largest, containing the remains of about six million people taken from graveyards all over the city. Bones in ossuaries may rest in undifferentiated piles or be segregated into types, such as skulls here and femurs and tibias over there. In decorative ossuaries such as the Capuchin Cemetery described above, the bones are used to fabricate elaborate artistic constructions: pictures, sculptures, architectural elements, and designs, all arranged to be symbolic, expressive, even ornamental. We don’t generally think of bones in terms of their decorative potential, and visitors unacquainted with what one writer has dubbed the cadavéro-pittoresque might be stunned—if not shocked—at such sights.4 Nevertheless, decorative ossuaries were popular in Europe during the Counter-Reformation and experienced something of a revival in the nineteenth century. Paul Koudounaris, the foremost historian of ossuaries, counts seventy such structures distributed on four continents, though by far the most are in Europe.5 In this chapter, we explore various philosophical issues—moral and aesthetic—that decorative ossuaries raise.6 First we examine the inherent moral weight of bones as human remains; then we consider three moral concerns that the decorative display of bones is likely to raise. The vast majority of ossuaries were constructed for religious purposes, as we go on to observe; we conclude by reflecting on the standing of ossuaries as works of art, ending with some thoughts about the uncertain status of ossuaries as memorials.

The Meaning of Bones Bones and teeth are the sole enduring tangible remains of the dead, and they can last a very long time. Ossuaries are built from bones that have accumulated for years, even centuries. While some contain identifiable skeletons of individuals, most are composed of disarticulated bones that are no longer associated with any particular human being but constitute a kind of aggregate of those who came before. As such, ossuaries present an image of death itself. Because they are composed of what once was living material, ossuaries have a distinctive symbolic function, not only representing but also being the lingering residue of life. Invoking Nelson Goodman’s terms, we could say that these bones by their nature exemplify death.7 Ossuaries are obviously rooted in particular cultures, being predominantly Roman Catholic Christian, and background religious convictions inflect their interpretation. How death is regarded will vary: ossuaries may evoke a sense of the macabre (a particular trait of those from the Counter-Reformation) or of peace; of resurrection and the hope of eternal life or of utter annihilation. Regardless, the bones themselves speak of the end that awaits us all, carrying an unavoidable irony, for our bones last but we do not. Hence the chill and awe when confronting thousands of bones artfully arranged for our contemplation.

More Than Bare Bones 69 The materials of ossuaries raise distinctive moral and aesthetic questions, for what they are made of is intrinsic to what they are as artifacts. Therefore, to address the question posed in the epigraph, it is impossible to separate “artist’s materials” from “human remains.” Constructions composed of human remains carry a moral weight that their use as artists’ materials does not erase. This fact opens a set of questions unique to ossuaries: What properties do bones possess that carry meanings that their decorative, aesthetic uses cannot override or obviate? Are there uses of bones that may be artistically tempting but confront moral limits? What is the relation between skeletal remains and the (former) person whose bones they are (or were—this question demands a choice of tense)? Finally, what is the difference between the bones taken from anonymous skeletons and arranged to form ossuaries, and the skeletal remains of an identifiable individual?

Three Moral Concerns If human bones have inherent moral weight, ossuaries such as the Capuchin Cemetery face a philosophical challenge: to reconcile the moral presumption that the dead deserve appropriate treatment and respect, with the use of their bones to create decorative motifs for artistic or aesthetic regard. Our attempt here is to understand both the moral discomfort and the artistic or aesthetic pleasure and power that ossuarial displays can evoke. As will become clear in the course of discussion, not all ossuaries were created under the same conditions, a fact that can affect responses to these issues. Various factors account for the discomfort, distaste, or even repulsion that decorative ossuaries can inspire—beyond the fact that they are created out of what once were living people (many experience a queasy creepiness on first entering an ossuary). First, one may be bothered by the anonymity of those whose bones are arrayed before one, for anonymity is inevitable when the components of skeletons are taken apart and arranged according to type—femurs, pelvises, and so forth. Second, there is the likely lack of consent for use in such constructions from the people whose bones they are. And third, there is the uneasy worry that human remains have been turned inappropriately into a spectacle. Anonymity varies among ossuaries; it may characterize the whole structure, but occasionally individual skeletons are identified with decedents’ names and displays serve as memorials. In the Capuchin Cemetery, for example, the names of several skeletons are identified with cartolinos, and grave markers indicate who is buried where. The ossuary in Hallstatt displays the skulls of deceased from the region, and the tradition is to paint the person’s name and birth and death dates on each skull, along with “crowns” of garlands of greenery and flowers. Locals would visit the remains of their own family members, friends, and neighbors—an aspect of the experience inaccessible to tourists.

70  Susan L. Feagin and Carolyn Korsmeyer Even in Hallstatt, however, only the skulls, which have been separated from the rest of the body, are identified.8 The ossuary also contains stacks of unlabeled femurs. In this respect it is similar to most ossuaries, where ornament and architectural elements comprise bones from disarticulated skeletons. In decorative ossuaries bones are often selected because of their shape, size, and maybe color, further dispersing elements of the original skeletons. The general anonymity in ossuaries is perhaps initially troubling, but the rationale for this practice is not hard to find. Ossuaries are very rarely the first site of disposal for a corpse; bones were usually moved there after having been buried (or exposed to the elements for excarnation) elsewhere—a space-saving practice that has been fairly common in Europe since the late Middle Ages. Skeletons disarticulate fairly quickly, generally within a year, depending on environmental conditions. The space, time, and labor involved in keeping the bones of each person together for separate identification or reburial is liable to be prohibitive and under many circumstances impossible, such as when multiple people have been buried in a single grave. There is something terribly appropriate about the anonymity of ossuaries, for time erases individual identities anyway, and the agglomeration of bones en masse recognizes this truth. One might think that it is more “honest” to acknowledge this grim reality by leaving the bones in more or less haphazard piles rather than repurposing detached skeleton parts for decoration. However, if anonymity is the focus of ethical concern, it is immaterial whether bones remain in a pile or form decorative arrangements.9 Consent raises another issue, for as a rule the people whose bones are on display have not given permission for their use as artistic materials.10 However, on the assumption that the practice of removing interred bones to make room for new bodies was widely known, one could argue that the choice to be buried in a particular place amounts to tacit consent to the other parts of the practice (i.e., later transport to a charnel house). Be that as it may, given the conditions under which decorative ossuaries in particular have been created and their intermittent popularity, it is unlikely that the question of consent would even have arisen. (There are exceptions, for occasionally individuals associated with an ossuary have requested that their own bones be eventually included there.) It may be tempting to apply retroactively the current mode of thinking in the United States, where “the preference of the deceased concerning the disposition of his or her body is a right that should be strictly enforced.”11 Contemporary protocols now strongly discourage disinterment, which must be approved by a court of law.12 Today at least, there would seem to be a moral presumption that one has the right to determine the way one’s body is disposed of in perpetuity, raising moral scruples about treating a person’s remains in ways they might have rejected, were they given a choice.13

More Than Bare Bones 71 If the latter worries seem anachronistic, there is another set of concerns that might appear archaic: the presumption that the dead require a suitable “final resting place.” Legends abound of ghosts discontentedly wandering if bodies are not buried properly. Struggles continue in our own times about the location of burials and the return of skeletal remains to an appropriate place.14 Part of the moral underpinning for such concerns seems to stem from the sense that disturbing a grave violates the wishes of the deceased and of his or her community. However, even if each skeleton should be kept intact, disarticulation and dispersal are often inevitable, raising questions about an acceptable redress of that dispersal. Perhaps ossuaries offer such recompense, though we neither endorse nor reject this supposition. Possibly the most serious qualm about ossuaries is that they make human bones into a spectacle. Decorative ossuaries have been purposefully designed to encourage viewers to take pleasure in the artistry and expressive power of the arrangements, power that increases with the quantity of bones, and hence, one might surmise, a power that is proportional to the number of deaths that provided materials for the display. The worry is not just the anonymity of dispersed skeletal parts but the invitation to experience their display as a macabre kind of shock and awe.15 Decorative ossuaries encourage visitors to look on human remains as aesthetic objects rather than with respect and sensitivity, implicating both the designers and the viewers who are seduced into gawking at the spectacle. The fault with spectacle is thus double-barreled: it is in the ossuary and in ourselves, as spectators who respond with insufficient sensitivity to these monuments of bone. This sort of worry pertains to the artistic treatment of difficult subjects generally. For example, Ingrid Sischy criticizes Sebastião Salgado’s photographs of mine workers, which are exquisitely beautiful depictions of grimly exploited men: “To aestheticize tragedy is the fastest way to anesthetize the feelings of those who are witnessing it,” she declares.16 Michael Kimmelman responds to Sischy’s claim by referencing other art that captures suffering without facing the same charge: “Two thousand years of Christian art is based on the premise that of course suffering can be beautiful.”17 This response, however, is inadequate, for the art he refers to is painting and sculpture, not photography. Photographs, unlike paintings, have a special connection to the person or object photographed, having to do with the causal connection between the actual object and its photographic image. Sometimes the photograph is taken to be a “trace” of the photographed object, or “transparent” in the sense that you “see through” the photograph to the actual object itself.18 A similarity between photographs and ossuaries makes the latter also vulnerable to the charge of “aestheticizing.” Bones are remains of actual people, and as such imbue the artwork with a moral dimension that neither painting nor stone or bronze sculpture has. The problem is not the

72  Susan L. Feagin and Carolyn Korsmeyer beautiful representations of suffering, misery, or death but rather that the materials used to make the artwork bear a literal and intimate relationship to people. This fact prompts the worry that both photographic depictions of suffering and decorative ossuaries have a visual appeal that is inconsistent with the appropriate moral attitude towards those whose remains we are viewing. In inviting an aesthetic response to the visual display, the decorative ossuary seems to forget that these are the remains of people. In ossuaries that are mere piles of bones, general information about who these people were and an exhortation to take an appropriate attitude—of respect, sensitivity, and humility—might be sufficient to ­ assuage such moral qualms. But with decorative ossuaries it is obvious that the arrangements are made for visual attention, and it is not clear how one is to combine an attitude of respect while marveling at the visual display. How is it possible both to be respectful and to have the aesthetic experience they are intended to convey?

Spectacle and Religious Context One possibility is to justify the decorative use of bones by reference to a spiritual purpose. The Capuchin Cemetery, for instance, has clearly defined religious functions. Concerns about anonymity and consent are largely appeased by some facts about its founding. Almost all the bones on display are those of Capuchin monks; the bones were moved by their brethren to their present home beneath the church of Santa Maria della Concezione in 1631 when the monastery was moved to this new location.19 The monks themselves probably created the current design beginning in the late eighteenth century, though additions continued to be made until 1870. The ossuary was intended for private use by the Capuchins and never intended for public display, though occasionally special requests to visit it were granted (before it was opened to tourists in the twentieth century). What worthy purpose might unite aesthetic wonder with moral respect? The Cemetery is not only a memorial to those buried or displayed there, but also an elaborate memento mori, a reminder of the fleetingness of life, signaled with visual symbolism, such as a winged hourglass and a figure of Death with scythe and scales. One of its most striking features is the delicate floral garlands, swags, and rosettes—all constructed from bones—that cover the vaulted ceilings. Though beautiful, they are not there simply to give us pleasure. Lest we get too comfortable, they reveal that our appreciative pleasure literally arises out of someone else’s death and foreshadows our own, that just as we shall die, so shall new life come into being. The ossuary teaches us how to look at the world: when we see bones in the ossuary we are to see a flower; when we see a flower in the

More Than Bare Bones 73 world we are to see bones. We marvel and cringe at the same fact—that corpses are rendered into something beautiful. The Capuchin Cemetery has been interpreted as expressing a hope for resurrection, for a memento mori can also be a memento vitae.20 A guidebook from the Cemetery explains: These crypts are an artistic representation of the triumph of life over death, using the very materials provided by death itself: bones. Flowers, light, stars, the winged skull and hour glass, the clock and the circular or oval shapes, are all part of the language the artists used to communicate their message of hope and life.21 The visual symbolism is relevant here: time has wings, but so do human skulls. The clock is a perpetual clock that will continue without end. The chapel contains a painting of the raising of Lazarus. For every death there is a birth; flowers die and new flowers are born. One might take the ossuary itself as an artwork that represents a kind of vitality and value that arises after and out of death. Understanding the expressive intent of the Capuchin Cemetery requires appreciating the religious convictions of those who built it. What is a symbol for resurrection in this ossuary, the skull and crossbones (with or without wings), is more familiar to us now as the insignia marking the flag of a pirate ship—where resurrection is the last idea summoned. Although it may require an effort for the secular contemporary viewer to grasp, the winged skulls of the Capuchin ossuary signal the promise of everlasting life.

Spectacle or Art? The issue of spectacle prompts comparison with other artifacts that are designed for viewing pleasure. Decorative ossuaries are often described in terms of art, and certainly there is artistry in their creation. Extended care, skill, imagination, and ingenuity are required to arrange bones with visual appeal. Compositions display a variety of aesthetic qualities, being delicate, powerful, spectacular, overwhelming, and even beautiful. Many contain pictorial and symbolic elements, some of which are described above. Various designs fit into recognizably different art styles and building traditions: the Capella dos Ossos in Evora is modeled on the ossuary in Milan; the Capella in Faro, Portugal, is neoclassical; the ceilings of the Capuchin Cemetery in Rome are a restrained baroque; the bone chapel in Sedlec, Czech Republic, is more florid high baroque. Ossuaries are often designed as chapels, but they are not well regarded in terms of architecture for they are not created for external viewing. Rather, they are interiors: rooms or sets of rooms, where bones are used to create visual

74  Susan L. Feagin and Carolyn Korsmeyer displays on walls and ceilings, as well as three-dimensional structures— likening them to friezes or bas-reliefs or sculptures. In addition, they often contain functional elements such as chandeliers or clocks, lending them an oddly domestic tone. Although the comparison may appear anachronistic, ossuaries may usefully be conceived along the lines of installation art, which is typically not an object of merely visual attention but a three-dimensional transformation of a physical place.22 Installation art aims at a more immersive perceptual experience than merely seeing a painting on a wall or a sculpture on a pedestal.23 What is more, ossuaries surely qualify as what Arthur Danto describes as “disturbational” art. Art is disturbational when it “erases a boundary between imitation and reality, and the art is disturbing because the reality it releases is itself disturbing.”24 Actual human bones are themselves disturbing, and their use erases a boundary between imitation and reality. Disturbational art also upsets our view of the ontological status of the artwork. According to many theories, the object of our attention when appreciating a work of art is not the material or physical thing at all, but an aesthetic object or a virtual object. The tradition that instructs us to experience the art object as an aesthetic object would lead us to ignore facts about material composition. But it is virtually impossible to overlook the fact that the garlands and rosettes, niches and decorative borders, are made of bones. If an ossuary-as-art is conceived as an aesthetic object, we might criticize the work—either for the moral blindness it encourages or for failing to provide aesthetic pleasure unadulterated by consideration of the materials out of which it emerges.25 But both installation art and disturbational art challenge the notion that artworks are aesthetic objects conceived as independent of their physical materials. Being made of human bones is essential to an ossuary’s meaning. Appreciation requires a negative gut reaction that is incorporated into a meditation on the nature of life and death. As Danto claims, disturbational art restores “some of the magic purified out when art became art.”26 Decorative ossuaries are thus usefully compared to recent installations that are also disturbational in their choice of materials. For example, Xu Bing writes the eponymous phrase And Where Does the Dust Itself Collect? in ashes collected from Lower Manhattan after 9/11. Ai Weiwei’s Straight is made from pieces of rebar from the 2008 Sichuan earthquake that killed over 5,000 children when their schools collapsed. In both of these cases, the meaning of the artworks depends on the histories of the materials out of which they are constructed.27 Regarding ossuaries as art provides another path to appreciation that is independent of religious missions. One that was constructed with art forms paramount in mind has received some of the sharpest criticism as an inappropriate spectacle. In the eighteenth century, the Holy Roman Emperor Josef II dissolved hundreds of monasteries and sold off or gave

More Than Bare Bones 75 away their lands. In the small town of Sedlec outside Prague, the deconsecrated church, graveyard, graveyard chapel, and accompanying lands were acquired by the influential Schwarzenberg family. A space beneath the chapel had long served as an ossuary, housing the overflow from the popular graveyard that had allegedly been sanctified by earth brought back from the Holy Land. The Schwarzenbergs inherited the bones of an estimated 40,000 people, which had already been arranged and rearranged in the chapel ossuary a couple of times when they commissioned František Rint, in 1867, to create the current three-room installation.28 Rint began by bleaching the bones to give them a uniform color. He retained four large bell-shaped towers of skulls from an earlier arrangement, and added oversized baroque monstrances, chalices, swags comprising bones hanging like fringe, and enormous chandeliers. Lining the groins of the vaults are skulls with short bones in place of their mandibles, apparently an adaptation of the classical egg-and-dart motif. Rint was operating within what was by then a well-established tradition, hundreds of years old, and his commission may have been prompted by a visit by one of the Schwarzenbergs to the skull chapel in Czermna, Poland. However, because of its scale and the character of the ornament, the Sedlec ossuary is often criticized as overdone and even gaudy. The family crest—of bone—asserts proud dominion over the installation, in defiance of the usual message that we are all the same in death (Figure 6.1). Rint’s signature, artfully constructed from arm and finger bones, has a similar effect, as it lays claim to his creative accomplishment.29 To these features, we can add the current atmosphere of the place. It is a popular tourist site; one undergoes the typical tourist experience of waiting in line to pay and to enter. Unlike the Capuchin Cemetery, where one is instructed to remain silent, the atmosphere is not subdued. It is true that there is less sense of humility and vulnerability than traditional memento mori designs usually impart. But an ossuary could be ultimately life-affirming (rather than death-reminding) in virtue of the fact that bones “live on,” as it were, in and as works of art. Oscar Wilde once recommended making one’s life a work of art, an idea that suggests a secular defense against the charge of spectacle. In appreciating an ossuary, one might embrace the possibility of becoming part of an installation that prompts aesthetic wonder. For those so inclined, perhaps becoming part of an object that evokes a robust aesthetic experience provides another justification for the moral and aesthetic standing of ossuaries. From time to time we have referred to ossuaries as “memorials,” but this label should be used with caution. A memorial is a structure built for the purpose of commemorating an event or honoring a person or group. Certain ossuaries do fit this description, such as memorials to named individuals whose entire skeletons are on display. Where a natural disaster or a mass slaughter has occurred, an ossuary might commemorate the nameless dead, as is the case with Cambodia’s Memorial Stupa for the

Figure 6.1 Schwarzenberg coat of arms, Sedlec Ossuary, Czech Republic Source: Photo by Korsmeyer

More Than Bare Bones 77 victims of the Killing Fields or the Douaumont Ossuary in France, which contains the bones of approximately 130,000 unidentified French and German soldiers who were killed during the Battle of Verdun in World War I. (Such examples demonstrate that the ossuarial tradition is not merely a relic from the distant past.) The decorative ossuaries that have occupied us here, however, are rarely well-conceived as memorials to any particular individuals, nor even to groups, since it was the oversupply of their materials that typically prompted their construction. Nevertheless, ossuaries, curious and bizarre as they are, can be regarded as anticipatory memorials to us all— chilling as it is to acknowledge that fact. To this end, it is fitting that skulls generally figure prominently in ossuaries; they are recognizably human, “like us.” We stare into their bony eye sockets, which seem to stare back. In the words of Francisco de Quevedo, “You die living, . . . If this were rightly understood, every man would find a memento mori . . . in his own looking-glass.”30 Just so, may we see in piles of bones the eventual disposition of our own.

Notes 1. Photographs of the Capuchin Cemetery can be found at www.atlasobscura. com/places/santa-maria-della-concezione. 2. Thomas W. Laqueur, The Work of the Dead: A Cultural History of Mortal Remains (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015), 4. Also 31–2, 91. 3. The term “ossuary” can denote both a charnel house where bones are stored and, more specifically, a decorative architectural structure made from bones. This essay chiefly concerns the latter. 4. The term is referenced by Paul Koudounaris, The Empire of Death: A Cultural History of Ossuaries and Charnel Houses (New York: Thames & Hudson, 2011), 52. He discovered it in M. Reiner, “Excursion le long de la Voie Appienne, visite aux catacombs, etc.,” Journal de la Société des Sciences, Agriculture et Arts, du Département du Bas-Rhin I (1824): 422, note 1. 5. Koudounaris, The Empire of Death, 209–11. 6. We do not cover bone structures that are intended as revenge displays, such as may be built from the skeletons of conquered peoples or of enemies in war. 7. Nelson Goodman, Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1976), 52–56. 8. This practice reflects the intuition that a “self” is more linked to what goes on in the head than to other parts of the body. Compare the struggles over the possession of the skull of René Descartes detailed by Russell Shorto, Descartes’ Bones: A Skeletal History of the Conflict Between Faith and Reason (New York: Doubleday, 2008). 9. Michael Kimmelman contrasts the US Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, DC, where no individuals are identified in the “theatrical” piling up of photographs of Jews killed by Nazis, with the museum of Jewish Heritage in New York, “where many of the photographs are accompanied by names. . . . Names make people into individuals.” “Photography Review: Can Suffering Be Too Beautiful?” July 13, 2001, accessed March 9, 2018, www.nytimes. com/2001/07/13/arts/photography-review-can-suffering-be-too-beautiful.

78  Susan L. Feagin and Carolyn Korsmeyer html. Denise Inge also comments on the difference between anonymity and naming in A Tour of Bones: Facing Fear and Looking for Life (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 118–20. 10. This fact stands in contrast to the remains used in Gunther von Hagens’ Bodyworks displays, where visitors are assured that permission was obtained before death. 11. The quote continues: “Some states confer this right, considering a decedent’s wishes of foremost importance. In most instances, the courts will honor the wishes of the decedent, even in the face of opposition by the surviving spouse or next of kin.” The Free Dictionary, Legal Dictionary, accessed April 27, 2018, 12. The Free Dictionary, Legal Dictionary, accessed April 27, 2018, 13. At the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia, a medical history museum where skeletons and preserved body parts are on display, visitors are not permitted to photograph the exhibits, apparently in order to honor the sensitivities of surviving family members. 14. Laqueur, The Work of the Dead, 4–8, 22–23. 15. Consent, of course, is not sufficient to eliminate the problem of spectacle: if one consents to being treated disrespectfully it doesn’t follow that one is not treated disrespectfully, and even if each bone were labeled to avoid anonymity and everyone consented, there might still be disrespect in treating human remains in this way. 16. Ingrid Sischy, “Good Intentions,” New Yorker, September 9, 1991, 277. 17. Kimmelman, “Photography Review: Can Suffering Be Too Beautiful?” 18. The point is not to endorse these views but to draw an analogy between photography and decorative ossuaries that accounts for similar moral issues. 19. Information in this paragraph is from Rinaldo Cordovani, The Capuchin Cemetery: Historical Notes and Guide (Rome: Capuchin Friars Minor, 1993), 4–7. There are a few skeletons of people affiliated with the order, whose identities are provided in the display. It should be noted that there are various stories about who exactly created the display. 20. Koudounaris, The Empire of Death, 16. See also 52. One might argue that the extreme rationalism of the neoclassical design of the Capella Dos Ossos in Faro, Portugal—representing human power and ability—is at odds with the arbitrariness and contingency of death. 21. Cordovani, The Capuchin Cemetery, 34. 22. This quotation from the online site “The Art Story,” sums it up: “It is often site-specific—designed to have a particular relationship, whether temporary or permanent, with its spatial environment on an architectural, conceptual, or social level. It also creates a high level of intimacy between itself and the viewer as it exists not as a precious object to be merely looked at but as a presence within the overall context of its container whether that is a building, museum, or designated room.” The Art Story, “Installation Art,” accessed May 2, 2018, 23. Sound is generally not a factor, but there is a history of musical performance in the Paris Catacombs. 24. Arthur C. Danto, “Art and Disturbation,” in The Philosophical Disenfranchisement of Art (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), 122. 25. One might take a viewer’s imaginative resistance to aesthetic pleasure to signal that the work is defective insofar as it calls for viewers to do something (not be appalled by a composition of bones) that they are unable or unwilling to do.

More Than Bare Bones 79 26. Danto, “Art and Disturbation,” in The Philosophical Disenfranchisement of Art, 131. 27. In his 2008 production of Hamlet in Stratford-on-Avon, David Tennant used a real skull as the skull of Yorick in the grave scene (a skull that had been bequeathed to the Royal Shakespeare Company for just that purpose). Out of fear that the real skull would be too much of an audience distraction, when the production moved to London he announced (falsely, as it turned out) that it would no longer be used. 28. Koudounaris, The Empire of Death, 123. It was for a time used as a chapel, and its function may be to pay tribute to the glory of God rather than to send a message to humans about how to live their lives. 29. Some find the crest and signature disturbing, but chapels (and altarpieces) sponsored by wealthy families typically contain references to themselves as donors. 30. Francisco Gómez de Quevedo y Villegas, The Works (Edinburgh, 1798), 35; quoted in Koudounaris, The Empire of Death, 50.

Part 2

Ruins Past and Present

7 The Values of Ruins and Depictions of Ruins Peter Lamarque

We should perhaps be more surprised than we are by the fact that so many of the most familiar, and most popular, buildings around the world are actually ruins: Angkor Wat, the Parthenon, Machu Picchu, Petra, the Colosseum, the Pyramids, the Cistercian abbeys in England dissolved in the Reformation—the list is long. Furthermore, these are structures we rarely feel bad or sad about in virtue of their being ruins; rather we celebrate them and pay good money to visit them. We enjoy them not in spite of but because of the fact that they are ruins.

Ruins: An Initial Paradox The first point to acknowledge, then, is that the celebration of ruins hints at one of several curious paradoxes about them. Take the word “ruin” itself. In many contexts it has entirely negative connotations. If your life is ruined through some calamity, or you ruin your health through overindulgence, or you face financial ruin, there is nothing to celebrate and all seems lost. In turn, a building only becomes a ruin when it has largely been destroyed, perhaps through war, vandalism, neglect over time, accident (fire), or natural disaster (earthquake, flood). Ruins are what is left after destruction. And yet for all this negativity about destruction and loss, many ruins, as we have seen, are revered, sought after and carefully protected. Some— perhaps many—are thought of as beautiful and inspiring. Not everything about actual ruins is negative.

Ruins and Destroyed Buildings Maybe we need a bit of semantics here. What does “ruin” mean in this context? What counts as a ruin? It is worth asking because it could guide us later. Not just any destroyed building counts as a ruin. Derelict buildings, damaged buildings, or buildings reduced to rubble are not usually called ruins. It seems relevant that derelict buildings, such as disused warehouses or run-down housing estates, offer little aesthetic appeal and

84  Peter Lamarque usually sustain minimal historical or archaeological interest. Therein lies a simple clue to the value of ruins. A destroyed building is classed as a ruin only if the ruin itself has acquired some significance and the destruction of the building in some sense mattered. We’ll come to examples later. It is sometimes said—as it was, for example, by the French Encyclopedists in the eighteenth century—that only grand monuments can become ruins: temples, palaces, castles, monasteries, amphitheatres.1 However, there is no reason in principle why simpler, more modest buildings or structures could not be ruins, such as small chapels, crofters’ cottages, or a hermit’s hut, but again there would have to be some historical, aesthetic, or biographical significance to give value to such ruins. Another distinctive feature is this: a derelict or damaged building could be restored, rebuilt, or otherwise transformed. Yet those ruins that acquire value as ruins are thought to be beyond repair: indeed, more strongly put, it can seem a desecration to try to repair a ruin. Being a ruin is a permanent state. Think of rebuilding the Colosseum or the Parthenon. Here there seems to be an imperative not to rebuild. Indeed, the UNESCO World Heritage Convention protects historical ruins from any interference, including reconstruction. And in the UK, the Ancient Monuments and Archaeological Areas Act 1979 protects over 26,000 “scheduled” ancient monuments. It is illegal to damage them and while they can be conserved, they cannot be restored.

Conservation and Restoration But the issue of conservation and restoration is a vexed one in archaeological circles. It was John Ruskin and William Morris in the 1870s who pressed the case for conservation over restoration. In the Manifesto of The Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings (1877) William Morris pleaded: to put Protection in the place of Restoration, to stave off decay by daily care, to prop a perilous wall or mend a leaky roof by such means as are obviously meant for support or covering, and show no pretence of other art, and otherwise to resist all tampering with either the fabric or ornament of the building as it stands; if it has become inconvenient for its present use, to raise another building rather than alter or enlarge the old one; in fine to treat our ancient buildings as monuments of a bygone art, created by bygone manners, that modern art cannot meddle with without destroying.2 Morris’s Manifesto is still a blueprint for modern conservationist thinking. Admittedly Morris was concerned primarily with ancient buildings still in use (e.g., churches), rather than ruins, but the principle is now extended to ruins. Often cited as an object lesson against the restoration

The Values of Ruins and Depictions of Ruins 85 of ruins is the case of the reconstructive work carried out by Sir Arthur Evans at the Palace of Knossos in Crete in the early twentieth century. His aim was no doubt well-meaning: to bring alive a sense of the original scale and grandeur of the palace. But by introducing red-painted concrete pillars and by commissioning murals that turned out more like fashionable art nouveau designs than artifacts from an ancient Minoan civilization, his restoration was thought by many to seriously compromise the integrity of the site.3 However, further questions about ruins arise that might challenge Morris’s principle against restoration. What about (significant) buildings destroyed in more recent times? Are they ruins to be preserved? Or is reconstruction permitted? Must ruins always be ancient (that is, brought to their ruined state in the distant past)? Different examples point in different directions. Note that I am keeping an open mind for the time being on the status of the following examples as “ruins” rather than merely “ruined buildings.” I shall return to that point. There is no doubt that there are cases where restoration (following destruction), far from being frowned on, can seem imperative, in contrast to the earlier point about ruins. A simple example would be the sixteenth-century Ottoman Old Bridge in Mostar in Bosnia, destroyed in the Croat-Bosnian War in 1993. The bridge had such strong cultural significance in the city, in the country, and later in the world that there was huge pressure to reconstruct it and indeed reconstruct it in its original form. That work was completed in 2004 and it is now a World Heritage Site. A broadly similar case might be that of the Frauenkirche, or Church of our Lady, in Dresden, badly damaged by bombing in 1945. What is noteworthy here, though, is that the ruined church was left as a war memorial for fifty years before rebuilding started in the 1990s. One reason for the delay was the lack of funds in East Germany for restoration, but also it remained an open question how best to proceed. The reconstructed church was re-consecrated in 2005. A rather different kind of case involving reconstruction by replication would be the Campanile (built 1514) in the Piazza di San Marco in Venice. This suffered a catastrophic collapse in 1902, leaving just a pile of rubble. A replica was built, completed in 1912. Destruction in the former cases had been by war, in the latter by accident. But all three reconstructions stand now, as the buildings did before their destruction, as primary instantiations of their countries’ cultural heritage, and that in spite of being modern replicas. Not all reconstruction is by replication. Sometimes something new takes the place of the old; an obvious example might be the Freedom Tower replacing the World Trade Center in New York. No attempt was made to replicate the buildings destroyed.

86  Peter Lamarque A final twist on the conservation vs. restoration debate arises when a ruin itself is damaged, as was the case with the ruin of the ancient Temple of Bel in Palmyra (in Syria), which was largely destroyed by so-called Islamic State (IS) in 2015 (see Figures 20.1 and 20.2). The Syrian director of antiquities has said there are plans for the Temple to be reconstructed from the damaged remains. Significantly, though, what will be reconstructed is not the original Temple but the ruin of the Temple as it existed up to 2015. That suggests, among other things, another interesting fact about ruins, namely the high degree of arbitrariness in the visible features of a ruin—something that is true of all ruins. After all, the buildings at Palmyra had been damaged, partially destroyed, rebuilt, left to decay, for centuries and their appearance before the IS attack was a result of numerous historical, geological and meteorological contingencies. What remained was unplanned and unpredictable. Yet the Temple, it seems, is to be reconstructed back to that serendipitously contingent state in 2015. There is no problem in principle with that, but it shows strikingly the peculiar kind of object a ruin is. The physical appearance of a ruin, which defines it as the valued and iconic object it becomes, rests on a series of radical contingencies in its history and its decline. That contrasts with its physical, no doubt meticulously planned appearance when first constructed. The point is well-illustrated in the UK, where even though ruins came to be enjoyed as places to visit in the early eighteenth century, they were still being looted and damaged at that time; no effort was made to conserve or protect them until well into the nineteenth century. As a result, they were constantly changing in appearance. Visitors might be surprised year on year how different the structures looked. Even when deliberate damage to the sites was prohibited, there were still unchecked natural sources of decay and deterioration, which even today is difficult to fend off. But we need to return to the earlier ruminations about what a ruin is. Can there really be any significant distinction between a merely ruined building and a ruin in some more positive sense? Is a ruin, as suggested earlier, strictly speaking, beyond repair, such that there is an imperative not to repair it? Our examples show that the matter is complicated. We might say in the Mostar Bridge case, not overpedantically I think, that while it was certainly a ruined bridge after the destruction it was not strictly a ruin as such, at least in the sense in which the famous ruins are ruins; there was nothing to admire about the shattered remains. Something similar is also true of both the Campanile in Venice and the World Trade Center in New York. The rubble to which these buildings were reduced could not count as ruins in any sense other than being utterly ruined or destroyed. However, the Frauenkirche in Dresden seems different. For fifty years the ruined building stood as a powerful memorial

The Values of Ruins and Depictions of Ruins 87 to the destruction of the city. Given that this was such a long period, we might, after all, have to concede that it was genuinely a ruin in that time, respected as such, not merely a ruined building. If that is right, then in rare cases something can be and then cease to be a ruin with that positive connotation. Furthermore, it suggests that not all ruins need be from the distant past. Underlying the distinction between a ruin and a ruined building is the thought that a ruin strictly so-called becomes an object of interest, and of value, in its own right. The ruins at Palmyra, prior to recent destruction, reaffirm that thought; they were sufficiently revered as ruins for there to be pressure to reconstruct them as such.

The Values of Ruins as Ruins What kind of value can a ruin possess when a decision has been made to preserve it as a ruin and in precisely this state? The key here is the thought that a ruin as a ruin becomes a new kind of object inviting a distinct kind of appreciation and thus value.4 So what are the values of ruins as ruins? Ruins serve many interests, not least the preservation of the archaeological and historical record. The conservation of ruins is partly aimed at conserving that record. Let us take that for granted. What other interests are served? Valued as Memorials One obvious value is that a ruin can serve as a memorial to the past, notably a memorial to the events that caused it to become a ruin. We saw how the Frauenkirche in Dresden held such a status, up to its reconstruction. Think also of the fourteenth-century Coventry Cathedral in England, itself destroyed by bombs in the Second World War, in 1940; this has been preserved in its ruined state, neither knocked down nor reconstructed, as a memorial to the bombing of the city. A new cathedral designed by Basil Spence was built beside it (completed in 1962), arguably giving an added poignancy, and sense of renewal, to the site. Or take the Hiroshima Peace Memorial which centers on the ruins of a domed hall, some of which remained intact in spite of being at the epicenter of the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima in 1945 (see Figure 17.1). This is an interesting case because the building only acquired cultural significance after it became a ruin. The inauspiciously named Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall had only modest architectural or cultural importance prior to the bombing, yet having withstood the bombing so heroically it is now a World Heritage Site and a memorial to peace. A final example, not from war this time: the fourteenth-century Mount Carmel convent in Lisbon was largely destroyed in the devastating 1755

88  Peter Lamarque earthquake. But it too is preserved as a ruin and as a museum, in contrast to the massive rebuilding that went on in the rest of Lisbon. Again, as with the other examples, a decision was made not to reconstruct but to preserve the ruin as a memorial, an enduring reminder of the force and terror of the earthquake itself. We might ask how such decisions are made concerning whether to reconstruct or leave alone. Or how ought they to be made? Our cases show the complexity of the matter. No doubt innumerable factors are involved, including down-to-earth matters like cost, what is practicable, and what is possible. But there are cultural, historical, ethical, and aesthetic considerations too, determining what is desirable, what is appropriate, what is permissible under heritage and conservation protocols, and what would best preserve the memory of what is lost. Does it make a difference, for example, to the attitudes we take to reconstruction what the causes of destruction are? I suggest probably not as much as one might suppose. If the destruction is deliberate and malicious, as in war or ethnic cleansing, there might be added pressures to reconstruct, but that can be true after natural disasters as well. And as we saw at the beginning, there are also strong pressures not to reconstruct, mostly, but not exclusively, in the case of ruins from the distant past. We should note that the urge to preserve cultural heritage doesn’t automatically take sides on the question of whether to reconstruct. Sometimes cultural heritage is preserved by the reconstruction of ruined buildings, sometimes it is preserved by leaving ruins as ruins. This generates complex issues about cultural and aesthetic values and priorities, putting further strain on the decisions needed. Sometimes a ruin can be as powerful and evocative a cultural symbol as any monument fully restored. In the case of ruins as memorials, people visit the ruins not just for what they were but for what they stand for now, moving and disturbing objects in their own right, able to elicit powerful emotions in memory of past devastation. We might hesitate to call these or similar ruins beautiful, although there is an austere beauty both at Coventry and in the walls of the Carmel convent. But many ruins do have a distinctive aesthetic appeal, and it is to this that I shall now turn. Valued for Aesthetic Reasons One thought is that to appreciate a ruin aesthetically is not merely a weakened form of an aesthetic response to the original, even if part of the appreciation might involve imagining what the building must have looked like. Again, it is an appreciation of an object in its own right. Being a ruin is part of its appeal. It doesn’t owe its aesthetic impact just to the aesthetic power of the original. Often we enjoy ruins without any clear image of what the original looked like (consider the vast Baths of

The Values of Ruins and Depictions of Ruins 89 Caracalla in Rome), and it is conceivable that a ruin might give more aesthetic pleasure than the original. What is it to appreciate a ruin aesthetically? I will briefly run through four familiar modes of aesthetic experience in response to ruins. First of all, the pleasure might be formal. The pure form of the buttresses, the towers, the arches, the tracery of the glassless windows, the columns, the stairs going nowhere, the broken paving, the empty cloisters, the bare walls, the hints of decoration, can afford patterns of light and shade, shapes and contours, profiles and silhouettes, that can have an eerie evocative beauty. As we move around a ruin, different configurations and juxtapositions of these shapes and forms can delight with surprise and wonder. But aesthetic experiences based on formal appearances can arise in many other contexts, even including derelict buildings and piles of rubble. We need more than pure form to explain the aesthetic appeal of ruins. An obvious place to look, in a second category, would be at the way that thoughts and emotions inform our experience of ruins. Knowledge of what the building was and how it came to be ruined can heighten aesthetic appreciation. It doesn’t require a great deal of historical background to enrich an experience. Knowing that King Richard III lived in Middleham Castle in North Yorkshire (in England), or that horrendous cruelty took place at the games in the Colosseum, or that Machu Picchu was built by the Incas in the fifteenth century, gives an additional fascination to the ruins in view. That sense of direct contact with the past in the presence of a ruin is similar to the feeling of awe that is evoked when standing in front of a masterpiece by a great painter—Van Eyck or Leonardo or Vermeer—the spine-tingling knowledge that they too had stood in front of the work and applied paint to it. This is at least partially an aesthetic experience; notably it is weakened or lost should we discover the painting is a fake. The aura of a ruin can be even more powerful as we gaze at the remains of a building with secrets both laid bare and suggested. We need powers of imagination to transport us to the past. There is an uncanny sense that we are looking backwards in time, and the hints of what it might have been like stir the imagination even more than confronting an undamaged original. We ask, as John Ruskin did, what these walls have witnessed. Another, third kind of aesthetic experience arising from ruins comes from a sense of the ravages of time and the transience of human endeavor, driven by inevitable decline into decay and loss: this might be called the Ozymandias syndrome, after Shelley’s famous poem. And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

90  Peter Lamarque Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. Even the most powerful of kings will die and the most enduring civilizations will decline. Ruins remind us of this fact. They are a salutary warning against hubris and they prompt melancholic thoughts about the fragility and vulnerability of human ambition. Ovid captures the sentiment well: “O Time, thou great devourer, and thou, envious Age, together you destroy all things” (Metamorphoses, Book 15, 234–235). This is also a Romantic sentiment which helps explain the fascination with ruins in poets and painters like Wordsworth or Tennyson or Turner in the nineteenth century. The idea leads to a fourth kind of aesthetic response to ruins: that associated with the sublime. The sublime mingles wonder with fear often evinced by the scale of something or its terrifying power. The imagination is stirred by what Edmund Burke calls the “dark, uncertain, and confused.” Ruins can be frightening places, as evidenced in numerous gothic tales, and as such they can elicit the kind of anxious enthrallment that goes with horror films. Ruins can be unearthly, eerie, and disturbing, but that itself can give a kind of pleasure, broadly the pleasure of the sublime. I should emphasize that while I have identified four different modes of aesthetic value associated with ruins—the formal, the evocative, the Ozymandian, and the sublime—they are not mutually exclusive. Very often they will combine to give an even richer, multilayered response.

Depictions of Ruins: The Heyday in the Seventeenth to the Nineteenth Centuries So I come finally to some reflections on representations of ruins in art. Inevitably some of the factors that make ruins appealing in reality also contribute to the attraction of paintings of ruins. The subject is far too big for detailed treatment here. But some simple markers illustrate some of the broad categories into which such paintings might be placed. One such category, perhaps the most familiar, is the picturesque, whereby ruins are depicted in a largely benign manner, often in the background, in landscape painting or mythological and historical painting. Claude Lorrain’s landscapes from the seventeenth century are paradigmatic: for example, Landscape with Ascanius Shooting the Stag of Sylvia (1682) or Seaport with the Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba (1648). The ruins in these depictions are entirely imaginary and provide a backdrop for the classical scenes, as well as enhancing an atmosphere of antiquity. It might seem curious that in scenes from antiquity, it is ruins rather than complete (contemporaneous) buildings that represent antiquity. But that only reinforces the artifice of such paintings. Ruins are a

The Values of Ruins and Depictions of Ruins 91 highly effective way of evoking the distant past even if they represent the past not as it was then but as it appears now. Fascination with the classical world was profoundly influential in England in the eighteenth century. The history of classical Greece and Rome, as well as their languages, was prominent in education, and the influence shows itself in enthusiasm for neoclassical architecture, public and domestic. It also partly motivated the Grand Tour among young, wealthy travelers to cities like Rome, where ruins offered direct and easy access to the ancient world otherwise familiar only through texts or paintings. Artists were quick to seize an opportunity here, providing images for the tourists to take home. Giovanni Battista Piranesi provided accurate depictions of the famous ruins in Rome, albeit suitably embellished to create an atmosphere of exoticism and sublimity. The period also saw the rise of the genre of capriccio: paintings, often of ruins, in an imaginary or fantastical mode. Typical examples would be Landscape with Classical Ruins and Figures (1725) by Marco Ricci or A Capriccio of the Roman Forum (1741) by Giovanni Paoli Panini. Imagined ruins could replace actual ruins because the kind (“ancient ruins”) had become an object of interest in its own right, quite apart from historical exemplars. Interestingly, it was paintings like these, as well as those by Claude Lorrain, that helped to inspire the development of landscape gardening in England in the eighteenth century, not least the introduction of sham ruins in parkland, so-called follies. The eighteenth century offers many such examples, including mock ancient temples and grottos, common in landscaped gardens, like the Temple of Ancient Virtue (1737) at Stowe House in Buckinghamshire or the grotto of Venus (1738) at Rousham House in Oxfordshire; or the mock medieval castle (1747) at Hagley Hall in Worcestershire, Wimpole’s Folly (1770s) at Wimpole Hall in Cambridgeshire, or Jackdaws Castle (1743) at Highclere in Hampshire. With the rise of Romanticism, paintings of ruins in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries took on a somewhat wilder, less pastoral aspect, appealing to the imagination and emotion, as with J.M.W. Turner’s sketch of Tintern Abbey (“The Crossing and Chancel, Looking towards the East Window” 1794) or Caspar David Friedrich’s gloomy images of ruins, such as The Abbey in the Oakwood (1809–10). Here again the melancholy pleasures of decay and passing time are evinced. And there is no shortage of depictions of more disturbing, more gothic, more sublime ruins in the nineteenth century. John Constable’s watercolor Netley Abbey by Moonlight (1833) is a mild example, as is Carl Friedrich Lessing’s Cemetery and Ruins Overrun with Trees (1826). Another somewhat different genre of gothic images depicts not ruins based in the past but imagined ruins of the future. One example is Joseph Gandy’s View of the Rotunda of the Bank of England in Ruins (1798) (see Figure  8.1). Another is Hubert Robert’s Imaginary View of the Grande Gallerie of the Louvre in Ruins (1796). Such works anticipate

92  Peter Lamarque science fiction images of future destruction, offering a chilling dystopian vision of how the present might look in the future, with its suggestion that our sense of permanence now is no more secure than it turned out to be in ancient Rome. In a similar vein, the American nineteenth-century artist Thomas Cole depicted what he called The Course of Empire (1833–6) in five stages: The Savage State; The Arcadian or Pastoral State; The Consummation of Empire; Destruction; and Desolation. Again, the moral is not hard to discern: humans will bring about their own downfall through folly and greed and hubris. All empires end in ruin. That is the Ozymandian theme again.

Depictions of Ruins: Prior to the Seventeenth Century A final coda. The paintings I have so briefly recalled come from a narrow period in Western art, from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries. Arguably that is a peak period for the depiction of ruins in Western painting, from the pastoral (classical) to the gothic (Romantic). But even focusing on Western art, it is instructive to seek out rarer examples of earlier paintings where ruins appear. The driving forces are often quite different. There are some examples, first from the fifteenth century, like Andrea Mantegna’s St. Sebastian. There are three versions of the painting from different periods of Mantegna’s life. All depict St. Sebastian shot through with arrows; the Louvre and Vienna versions show him tied to a ruined classical pillar or arch. In the background of the Louvre painting (1480) there is a further careful depiction of another (imaginary) ancient ruin. One standard interpretation of such paintings from this and earlier periods is that a setting containing classical ruins indicates that Christianity has superseded paganism (symbolized by the ruins). However, Mantegna in this case shows a genuine interest in the aesthetics of classical architecture and sculpture, with remarkable attention to detail. Although the column is a ruin, we seem to be invited to admire the fineness of its design. Another example, Sandro Botticelli’s  The Adoration of the Magi (c. 1478/1482), depicts ruins of a different kind. In this Nativity scene, the stable with the manger is shown as a ramshackle ruin of no particular period but looking as if it could collapse at any moment. The underlying message is to emphasize Christ’s affinity with the poor and dispossessed. In the left background are further ruins of classical columns and arches. As we noted earlier with the Claude landscapes, the anomalies of historical time are striking if viewed literally. The figures in the painting, which include depictions of members of the Medici family, are in contemporary Florentine dress (the fineness of the garments in

The Values of Ruins and Depictions of Ruins 93 tension with the implied poverty of the setting). And the ruins are what would be expected from this contemporary period, not from the period of the Nativity itself. The sixteenth century offers different examples. Giorgione’s mysterious work The Tempest (1510) is hard to interpret, so it is unclear what role the ruins are playing, but the theme of destruction is suggested by the tempest itself. The painting could be seen as an early anticipation of Claude’s landscapes in which ruins are largely present to enhance atmosphere. Van Heemskerck’s Self-Portrait with Colosseum (1553) is remarkable, as if we look carefully, we see that the painter is not standing in front of the Colosseum itself but in front of a picture of the Colosseum, which includes an image of himself painting the Colosseum. Pictures of actual ruins from Greek and Roman antiquity were not uncommon in the Renaissance, showing both admiration for the ancient world and a melancholic regret at its decay and decline. Two final examples from the sixteenth century. Cornelisz van Oostsanen’s unnerving painting, Saul and the Witch of Endor (1526), in the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, shows a sinister side to ruins. Certain details recall the fantasies of Hieronymus Bosch from the start of the sixteenth century. Here the ruins represent paganism and dark forces: the witches perform their sorcery within the confines of a ruin. There is nothing benign or pastoral in their presence. In contrast, another painting, The Good Samaritan (1537), also in the Rijksmuseum, by the unknown Master of the Good Samaritan (after the subject of the painting), depicts ruins in a more benign light. Ruins from classical antiquity overlook—and perhaps give a timeless quality to—an act of benevolence. Significantly, the Good Samaritan is wearing a turban, hinting at the universality of compassion. The examples illustrate the great diversity of motives for representing ruins. But in all the cases the ruins are not merely incidental; we are meant to give them attention, to notice their presence, to assign significance to them. So depictions of ruins reinforce our earlier findings about attitudes to ruins: that ruins, real or depicted, become objects of interest and value in their own right. They evoke a range of emotions. In the paintings, interest becomes at least partly an aesthetic interest. But that aesthetic interest is nearly always there already when we confront ruins in the real world.

Notes 1. “The term ‘ruin’ is only spoken of in the case of palaces, sumptuous tombs, or public monuments. ‘Ruin’ would not at all be used in speaking of a private dwelling of peasants or bourgeois; in such a case we would say ‘ruined buildings’ ” (Quoted, and translated, in Robert Ginsberg, The Aesthetics of Ruins [Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2004], 287).

94  Peter Lamarque 2. William Morris, Manifesto, The Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, 1877, 3. See Cathy Gere, Knossos and the Prophets of Modernism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009). 4. A similar point is made by Carolyn Korsmeyer, “The Triumph of Time: Romanticism Redux,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72 (2014): 431.

8 On the Road to Ruin Anticipating and Appreciating the Natural Degradation of Human Constructions Ronald Moore People who make large, durable, public objects—city halls, tombs, monuments, and the like—confront the inevitability of destruction in various ways. Many expect their constructions to be replaced by others in a few years, without leaving a residue of ruins. Others hope, and maybe expect, their works will be venerated and accorded indefinite preservation. Thoreau didn’t build his Walden Pond cabin to last forever; Khufu planned for his pyramid at Giza to do just that. In our own day, most office buildings have prescribed “life spans” fixed at the time of permitting, while national monuments have “perpetual care plans” attached to enabling legislation. Arrayed between these poles are constructions whose builders actively contemplated, and accommodated, their gradual natural destruction. In this chapter, I  draw philosophical lessons from several ways in which artists and their cultures plan for works to become ruins. Although we are accustomed to thinking of rot, decay, and deterioration as the ugly side of life processes, we can, by reorienting our attention, discern a certain beauty in anticipated ruination seen as an arc of interaction between artifacts and natural forces, between our lives and the lives of everything around us.

Anticipating Ruin Acknowledging the inevitability of ruination is a far cry from taking stock of it in a way that conduces to aesthetic appreciation. The builders of the neighborhood schoolhouse may be cognizant of the fact that nothing will remain of it in 200 years, even as they pound the first nails. But they are unlikely to think of its descent into ruin with pleasure and pride. Practically no builder does. The most conspicuous exception to this rule is that of Sir John Soane, who, he rebuilt the Stock Exchange in the Bank of England complex in 1795, commissioned Joseph Gandy to paint a portrait of the new building in a prospective ruined state (Figure 8.1). In this remarkable watercolor, arches, columns, pediments, and passageways are spread across a stark, mist-shrouded London landscape. The viewer is drawn into the work in an almost physical way. Just as

96  Ronald Moore

Figure 8.1 Joseph Gandy, A Bird’s-Eye View of the Bank of England (1830) Source: Permission Sir John Soane’s Museum, London

images of the Roman forum invite one to explore a display of noble remnants on foot in one’s mind’s eye, here one is invited to wander through corridors, open spaces, and broken rooms, gradually discovering the complete geometry of the whole. But what did Soane and the gallery viewers of his day take Gandy’s work to show? This, as it turns out, is a complicated matter.1 One aim of Gandy’s painting was to shine the reflected light of grandeur associated with classical ruins on Soane’s newly completed work. We should remember that the mid-eighteenth century was the heyday of neoclassical ruin enthusiasm. The Parthenon, even partly destroyed, was universally regarded as an exemplar of greatness and a target of architectural aspiration. Visitors from all over Europe marveled at the ingenious engineering and civic amenities of Pompeii and Herculaneum. British noblemen adorned their estates with follies, extravagant garden constructions giving the false appearance of ancient temples, cloisters, towers, and the like, often presented in disarray, mimicking ruins. And, of course, no young European aristocrat could be seen as fully educated who had not undertaken the Grand Tour, a course of travels involving pilgrimages to selected sites of ancient monumental beauty and renown. Soane himself had embarked on and emphatically enjoyed such an expedition, during which he expressed great interest in the “remains of antiquity” in Rome, Paestum, and Herculaneum and made drawings of several

On the Road to Ruin 97 notable ruins.2 What he brought home with him—like the paintings, drawings, and reminiscences most other noble tourists brought home— fueled a taste for antique grandeur. One aspect of ruin appreciation, then, is the vision that appeared most prominent to the neoclassical eye. In this view, ruins were not so much sad souvenirs of fallen civilizations as they were tokens of cultural splendor, ripe for reaffirmation. Gandy’s paintings of Soane’s Bank of England can therefore be seen as a means of embellishing its cachet by affiliating it with grand and noble vestiges of the past, insinuating a kinship of cultural virtues. But Gandy had another aim in mind. He realized that Soane was not just one more rich and proud man, but a peculiarly fearful and gloomy one. Counterbalancing the bright sheen of his neoclassicism, Soane was afflicted with a form of professional paranoia that fueled his sense of the inevitability of ruination. Painfully sensitive to criticism, he took uncomplimentary comments by Royal Academicians and others to be near– death blows against himself. As Christopher Woodward explains, “ruins came to express the architect’s sense of persecution.”3 Moreover, Soane suffered from his failure to inculcate in his heirs the skills and sensibilities that had brought him fame and wealth. He went so far as to enlist Gandy to house and tutor his son John. But the effort failed miserably, and Soane, rather than dismissing the frustration of his parental ambition as a reflection of childhood willfulness, regarded the misadventure as a species of ruination, the termination of a line of achievement and hope. Gandy supposed that parental despair could be detected in Soane’s regard for his architectural “children” as well. Styles, reputations, structures, families, lives—all eventually succumb to the ravages of time. Why not artistically imagine the end awaiting one’s grand material achievement, sweeping it into the sphere of impermanence with the rest? Soane’s work on the Bank of England was substantially complete in 1800. (The building endured until 1925, when it was demolished and replaced.) By the time members of the Royal Academy saw Gandy’s painting in 1830, two events had altered the play of critical sensibilities— and in opposing directions. First, Wellington had defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, eliminating the imminent threat of military assault on London. In light of this event, Gandy’s rendering of the bank in ruins would almost certainly have seemed less foreboding, less pessimistic, than it previously would have. The picture might now be regarded as suffused more by an atmosphere of grandeur than of defeat. Second, Percy Shelley’s publication of Ozymandias in 1818 captured a romantic, dark side of ruin appreciation that was then taking hold of the British imagination. This sonnet is not simply an attack on imperial hubris; it is a memento mori, a melancholy declaration of the mortality of human creations in general. “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” says the speaker, when all that remains of his works are “two vast and trunkless legs of stone.” The lone and level

98  Ronald Moore sands surrounding the ruined monument stretch far away. They stretch, eventually, into our time and our world. As we turn our attention from ancient ruins to today’s built environment, we are impelled to concede that nothing of any of this will remain—nor will we. These contrasting elements—delight in the association of present creations with ancient grandeur, and remorse at the recognition of inevitable finitude and mortality—are polar basics in the aesthetic appreciation of ruins. They create an evocative juxtaposition, one that deepens our appreciation of mortal objects. It is through attention to ruins that we most clearly come to see ourselves as makers of things that reflect past glories even as they, and we, devolve inevitably toward insignificance and disappearance. The tension between these polar elements is akin to the tension between beauty and sublimity in our experience of natural grandeur. Both involve the contrapuntal interplay of pleasure born of sensory delight and sorrow born of human limitation. But it is distinctive of ruin appreciation that it sets up a felt contrast specifically between perceived cultural splendor and intuited individual mortality. Through anticipation of the inevitable devolution of even the grandest mortal objects into ruin, we can come to savor ephemerality as a source of special poignancy, one commingling the historical and the present, the social and the personal, sorrow and delight.

Destruction and Change Material changes over time in man-made objects are often contemplated at the time they are designed—some of them to be resisted and others encouraged. On the one hand, building contractors and monument builders are usually obliged (and often legally bound) to take care in the materials and mode of construction employed to forestall short-range decay, deterioration, and collapse. One surface treatment may be chosen over another for the reason that it will look new longer; perforations and vents may be installed in skyscrapers to counteract the destructive force of high winds; seismic reinforcement may be required in certain vulnerable areas, and so on. On the other hand, builders may anticipate eventual surface changes that will work toward the structure’s success, predicting aesthetic gains to be gotten through them gradually, in the course of maturation. Richard Serra, for example, frequently deploys corten steel in his large public sculptures, knowing that what starts out as a dusty, rusty orange surface will over a period of months acquire a smooth, dark bronze finish that is both more eye-appealing and more resistant to weather corrosion. This is nothing new. Builders have for hundreds of years counted on oxidation to create a pleasing patina on metallic surfaces, just as they have incorporated plantings into their construction plans in order to temper the stark appearance of blank spaces with a (corrosive) infusion of vegetative life.

On the Road to Ruin 99 Whatever planned changes they undergo, all built things constantly undergo various changes that are unplanned. Sometimes the forces of change are human, as when a religious sect in power deliberately destroys statuary it takes to be offensive, when a conquering army levels a city, or when an arson fire consumes a building. Most of the time, however, change results from natural forces. Every built thing is altered and eventually annihilated by wind, ice, heat, precipitation, earthquake, landslide, and the intrusion of vegetation and animal life. These are changes that, though unplanned, can be, and often are, anticipated. We usually reserve the term “ruination” to refer to these processes when we take their cumulative effect to be aesthetically deleterious. But occasionally their effect is salubrious. In the course of a construction’s lifetime, we can often see nature, art, and time conspiring to transmute human constructions in ways that have unexpected aesthetic value. A tombstone worn by the elements and covered with lichens and moss may seem beautiful in part because of the charm of its original design and in part because of the way erosion and overgrowth call to mind the role of natural life in a human environment. When we find that the tombstone is particularly striking just the way it is, we acknowledge our aesthetic delight in the way in which natural and artefactual aesthetic features combine to form a unified composition. Philosophers have described phenomena of this sort as dialectical effects, and the structures that give rise to them as hybrid objects.4 In speaking this way, they are declaring that proper appreciation of ruins demands that one put oneself in the twofold posture of art critic and nature lover, responding to both sides in capitalizing on complementary sensibilities. We need to remember, however, that ruins are hybrid in a way that differs from that of other, more familiar hybrid objects—hybrid cars, for instance. A hybrid engine draws alternately from gas and electricity as speed and power demands require. But response to structures in the process of ruination doesn’t typically involve oscillating between two modes of response, as though the two were competing for time. Instead, each mode is altered and enhanced by attention to the other. The two are reciprocal, and they form a symbiotic whole more potent than its parts. Consider, for example, the ruined Tha Prom Temple, in the Angkor complex in Cambodia (Figure 8.2). Here, roof beams have cracked and are partially collapsed; there, great stone walls have buckled inward; elsewhere, lichens and mosses have sunk themselves deep into decorated surfaces. Most dramatically, sturdy vines have, in many places, crept down to encase the lovely stonework, wrapping it in a muscular embrace. Whether or not their original builders reckoned on this eventual interplay, the remarkable effect of this state of ruination impels the current custodians to let the buildings remain vine-embraced rather than to raze or restore them. Walter Kaufmann, who was very much taken with the beauty of these temples, commended the French for having chosen to

100  Ronald Moore

Figure 8.2 Tha Prom Temple, Angkor, Siem Reap, Cambodia Source: Photo Elizabeth Scarbrough

leave them much as they found them in the jungle, doing only the minimal work needed to prevent collapse. “They did not feel called upon to clean everything and remove the patina of centuries,” he explains; “the balance of nature and art here is unforgettable.”5 Our awareness of the vines and so forth as attractive living things— with sinuous contours and apparent strength—is magnified by seeing them displayed on the stone surface rather than being immersed in other tropical vegetation. At the same time, our awareness of the artful process by which stone was transformed into structure is intensified by our recognition of the evidence of nature’s involvement in the reversal of that process. Even in its apparent stillness, we realize that, through the interplay of stone and plant life, the resulting composition is dynamic. Its elements are steadily on the move, making their various ways toward further altered states. The vines seem like snakes, creeping downward, stretching for sunlight, and wrapping structures in a suffocating grasp. Lichens and myriad tiny plants seem like swarms of insects, working their way into firm footholds in the crevices between stones. Beside and beyond the structures, forests and jungles flourish, underscoring the vitality of nature’s imposing role in the process of ruination.

On the Road to Ruin 101 It might be objected that we don’t exactly see the dynamic changes in a ruined temple; rather we infer them from what we do see. But it is a familiar and important canon of modern aesthetics that proper appreciation involves cognitive construal—seeing-as, or aspection—working alongside sensory perception. Looking at, say, a Henry Moore sculpture, what we (directly) see is a conglomeration of polished stones. But aesthetic education (and perhaps a title plaque) can lead us to see this as a depiction, or perhaps an evocation, of human vertebrae. And, having gone that far, our cultivated imaginations may reach further, calling up other associated images—lava formations, subway connections, arrangements of musical notes, and so on. Some of the associations will be strong, leading to connections of ideas that, on reflection, strike us as provocative or important. Others will be weak, even silly. All of them, however, involve a fundamental exercise of aesthetic taste, centering on the operation of analogy. Anything you please is like anything else you please in some ways, and different from it in others. Reflecting on which similarities are telling, and how, is the business of imagination, a faculty notorious for its potential for misdirection and distraction, but indispensable in forging intelligent plans for living. When we imagine well, we see the process of ruination as more than mere destruction. Instead it becomes a connection between our contact with built objects and other elements in our experience that have life arcs—in particular, living processes we observe in natural environments.6 This is a connection that is easily undone. Programs of monument repair and restoration can undercut the aesthetic value of hybrid objects in their effort to stall or reverse the process of ruination. Kaufmann draws attention to a stunning, long line of Buddhist friezes girding a mountain at Borobdur. Prior to 1971, our experience of these friezes incorporated an awareness of changes brought about through natural process. The observer’s experience was freed from the monotony of seemingly endless repetition, he says, by the encounter of “time’s work on the sculptures and on the occasional statues of Buddha. The color of the stone is not the same everywhere; there are breaks; and lichen and mosses reassert the rights of nature.”7 After the restoration projects of 1971, however, the experience of the friezes changed dramatically and, in Kaufmann’s eyes at least, for the worse. The stones were scrubbed and patched, their mountings repaired, and encroaching vegetation removed. “Now,” Kaufmann complains, the symbiosis of art and nature is broken, the ruins that are more than a thousand years old have a new, artificial, lifeless look that brings to mind plastic. The spirit has been driven out of the stone, and what is left behind is dead.8 To some, of course, restoration of this sort is a net boon because it increases the value of what is restored for the people who want to enjoy

102  Ronald Moore it. Access is improved, contact is safer, and worshipful activity is facilitated. What is undeniably lost, however, is aesthetic engagement with the process of ruination itself and all that that process ignites in the imagination. The “as-good-as-new” look might seem to some observers more reflective of the builders’ intent—and therefore aesthetically superior— than the structures in their ruined state; but it is unreasonable to suppose that the builders expected their work to look brand new forever. Attending to the “symbiosis of art and nature,” we can see how deeply we are caught up in the endless changes occurring in our living environments and how much we are implicated in them.

Life and Death of Artifacts The strand of analogy that ruins most emphatically evoke is, of course, that between natural deterioration and human life. Earlier, we considered the function of ruins as reflections of mortality, the end of life. But ruins can also be seen as relating to the whole of life process. Buildings and monuments have their births, youths, adolescences, maturity, senescence, and ultimate deaths, just like us. Reflecting on the inevitability of their own deaths, many people are disposed to regard ruined structures as regrettable and unwelcome reminders of mortal finitude. Still, there are architects and builders who happily contemplate the full life arc of their works as they create them, anticipating their decline into ruin with something like resigned satisfaction. Understanding that human life is integrated into the network of life in the wider world of nature, theirs is a commitment to make artwork that has a death simply because it has a life. Nowhere that I know of is this congenial approach to the process of ruination more prevalent than among the Northwest coastal tribes of the United States and Canada.9 And nowhere is it more conspicuously displayed than in the monumental totem poles these tribes have been carving for centuries and continue to carve today (Figure 8.3). Northwest Native totem poles are made from trunks of trees ready to hand in the native communities. Incised and painted by master carvers venerated for their skill, they serve a variety of tribal purposes. Short, thick poles are deployed in longhouses as structural supports for roof beams; poles with horizontal enclosures (containing remains) are designed to be funerary monuments; tall poles stand as posted notices at village entrances, warning or welcoming visitors; others record tribal lineages, commemorate special occasions, record mythic or historical events, or declare the prestige of certain tribal members. Carvers execute their poles with solemnity and great skill, and tribal members regard their products with immense communal pride, celebrating their completion and erection at festive ceremonies. While poles relegated to indoor use can survive in near pristine condition for decades, even centuries, those standing ­outside—and that is the vast majority—begin weathering as soon as they

On the Road to Ruin 103

Figure 8.3 Totems at Old Kasaan, Alaska, USA Source: National Archives and Records Administration. ( id/1208 National Archives Identifier: 1208)

are raised. Under the insistent forces of snow, ice, and wind, their descent into ruins is inevitable and relatively precipitous.10 Northwest Native peoples do not, however, regard the ruination of their totem poles as deeply regrettable, let alone tragic. Instead, they think of these poles as having the same life arc that people have. Totem poles and people come into being out of nature’s bounty; they both go through various, individualized stages of development, and they both eventually die and return into the soil. Because they regard this cyclic progression as grounded in the spiritual laws governing all living things, and therefore natural and right, the Northwest tribes make no more effort to preserve the totem pole’s ruined remains than they do the remains of dead relatives. This view is evident in a conversation Edward Malin, a scholar of totem art, had with a seventy-year-old Kwakiutl elder about totem pole ruins they came upon in a Native graveyard: I asked Luther  .  .  . about the [collapsed] poles in the graveyard. Luther responded to my questions with his own. Why should poles be endowed with permanence? Nothing exists permanently. Clans and lineages remain but their fortunes change, . . . status and wealth fluctuate; husbands, wives, children leave prematurely [Kwakiutul mortality rates had been very high for decades]; even a single human being’s spirit changes. Once poles have been raised their mission is

104  Ronald Moore completed. To preserve them as Westerners might preserve historical monuments serves no meaningful need in the Northwest society.11 It would be a mistake to take Luther’s remarks as betraying a cold or indifferent attitude to human suffering and demise. It’s not that losses of wealth, spirit, tribal identity, and life itself are matters of no concern. They are to be regretted, he is saying; but their occurrence should be recognized as ultimate inevitabilities. All of these changes are tied up with changes in the life of the individual, a life that must come to an end. So it is fitting that, in erecting monuments to the things we care about, we let those monuments succumb to the forces of nature to which we are destined to succumb ourselves.12 The poles whose “mission is completed” when they are raised are like beloved children who have come of age. Even as we wish them well in a course of life, we recognize that they (and we) will all find a way eventually back into the earth. Thinking of totem poles as having a tight kinship with human beings leads us to be attentive to their changing features, their interplay with the elements, their eventual decrepitude, and their manner of dying in ways that throw light on these features of our own existences. The process of their ruination is akin to our own, and they have life spans close enough to our own to be powerfully instructive. In their last days, we treat our family and tribal members with kindness and decency. Northwest Native peoples believe that the same dispositions ought to prevail regarding totem poles in their old age. Norman Tait, a Nisga’a carver, describes his culture’s policy of dealing with poles on their way to ruin: According to our tradition, when the pole is getting old, maybe 75 to 100 years, you don’t let it fall down. You prop it up. And when you can’t do that anymore, you bring it down. It’s an old man or an old woman. It has a name. In earlier times, when the last chief responsible for the totem pole was gone and the pole was old, it was time to take it down. Honored guests would take the pole down. They gave a feast, and there would be the same ceremony as when it had gone up. Then they would walk it to the Nass River, and a canoe would take it. When they got to a certain spot, they would carry it again or drag it as far as they could and leave it there. Then the pole was covered with lots of cedar branches. By the time those branches rotted and turned to mulch, you couldn’t recognize the totem pole any more. No one was supposed to go back up there. Tait reveals, however, that he was once permitted to break the taboo and visit the totems’ last resting place. My grandfather was eager to show me this place.  .  .  . He wanted me to see it. . . . [It was] all moss, all moss. Just long lumps of moss.

On the Road to Ruin 105 It was eerie. The place was very guarded, like a graveyard. It felt like you were reaching back 500  years. I  asked my grandfather if he was sure he wanted me to go there. He said, “the pole is your grandparent.”13 In this remark, assimilating the totem pole into personal ancestry, we see the foundation of an expansive, holistic, ruin aesthetic. The grandchild is led to see the totem pole as an exemplification of tribal life, one in a long line of beginnings, middles, and ends. He is invited to see in still-standing poles analogs to lives in the process of being lived. These poles can teach him qualities of skillful execution, coordination of parts, principles of fitness and order, the durability of tribal beliefs, affiliation with the animal kingdom, and many other things. They can teach him that a life well wrought, carefully ordered, and respectful of tradition is a harmonious whole, a beautiful thing. It is a kind of artwork, and one in which both the individual and the community can properly take pride.14 He is invited to regard the gradual weathering, cracking, and fading of the pole as illustrative of changes that will occur in his own life, and to regard the lumps of moss into which it transmutes as his own resting place as well. These lessons aren’t simply presented in a book or in a tale told over a campfire. They are instead embedded in a dynamic artifact, an artifact caught in the process of ruination. And that vital, visible quality lends all of the other lessons a special poignancy.

Reflections on Ruins We have seen that when creators of buildings, tombs, and monuments anticipate and plan for their ultimate transition to ruins, they sometimes do so in ways that reflect aesthetic engagement and enhance the aesthetic valuation of their products. They may intend for their works, seen as prospective ruins, to echo and call up admirable qualities of notable earlier constructions and thus to impress on present imagination some portion of prior magnificence. They may intend for these ruins-to-be to serve as memento mori, underscoring the evanescent nature of all things, and in doing so invite us to savor present appearances while we can. They may intend for their works to be situated in settings where they will weather and rot, calling our attention to the process of ruination itself as the collaborative confluence of natural and artefactual powers. And they may intend for their works to illustrate, through exemplification, the life experience of the individual or community, affirming personal and social integration through the exhibition of disintegration. The plain truth of the matter is that we can’t fully appreciate life’s bounty without recognizing, in the back of our minds, that everything will come to an end. Part of the compelling beauty of a magnolia blossom

106  Ronald Moore is its evanescence. It is precisely because we know it won’t look and smell the way it does for long that we cherish these qualities and give them special attention in the present moment. The aesthetically alert individual recognizes that what is true of the magnolia blossom is true of all things. We are all on the road to ruin. But that’s not a bad thing; it’s simply inevitable.

Notes 1. The complex relations between Gandy and Soane and questions about the meaning of their works are trenchantly analyzed in chapter 8 of Christopher Woodward, In Ruins: A Journey Through History, Art, and Literature (New York: Vintage Books, 2001). 2. Gillian Darley, John Soane: An Accidental Romantic (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 25–27. 3. Woodward, In Ruins, 162. 4. See Paul Zucker, “Ruins—An Aesthetic Hybrid,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 20 (1961): 119–30; Donald Crawford, “Nature and Art: Some Dialectical Relationships,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 42 (1983): 49–58. 5. Walter Kaufmann, Time Is an Artist (New York: Reader’s Digest/McGrawHill, 1978), 73. 6. Not all authors share this sanguine view of the relation of nature and artifact. A famous study of beauty in architecture puts it this way: “Left to its own devices, nature will not hesitate to crumble our roads, claw down our buildings, push wild vines through our walls and return every other feature of our carefully plotted geometric world to primal chaos. Nature’s way is to corrode, melt, soften, strain and chew on the works of man. And eventually it will win.” Alain De Botton, The Architecture of Happiness (New York: Penguin Books, 2006), 180. 7. Kaufmann, Time Is an Artist, 74. 8. Ibid. 9. Prominent among these tribes are the Tlinget, Tsimshian, Haida, Kwakiutl, Bella Coola, Coast Salish, and Quinalt. 10. No doubt the tightness of analogical association between the “lives” of totem poles and those of native community members owes a good deal to the fact that the human life span is much closer to that of the cut cedar tree than it is to, say, a block of marble. 11. Edward Malin, Totem Poles of the Pacific Northwest Coast (Portland, OR: Timber Press, 1985), 88. 12. This view presents an obvious challenge to museum curators and preservationists. Many museums protect totem poles in their collection by keeping them indoors. But others (the Field Museum, Haida Gwaii Museum, the University of British Columbia Museum of Anthropology, the Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture, the Pepsico Sculpture Garden, etc.) leave them outdoors, where they gradually weather and deteriorate. I am indebted for this information to Kathryn Bunn-Marcuse, Director of the Bill Holm Center for the Study of Northwest Native Art and Curator of Northwest Native Art in the Burke Museum. 13. Norman Tait, Nisga’a artist, reported in Vickie Jensen, “Conversation on the Totem Pole Burial Ground,” in The Totem Pole: An Intercultural History,

On the Road to Ruin 107 eds. Aldona Jonaitis and Aaron Glass (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010), 47. 14. It is hard to know whether totem poles should be spoken of as artworks. From the outsider’s point of view, the skill and aesthetic appeal of many of them make it hard to deny the appellation. But not all totem pole makers would agree. One Tlingit elder put it this way: “These artifacts, they have a life of their own. These are not artifacts to me, and they are not art—they are part of us, an integral part of us,” in The Totem Pole, 233.

9 Ruins and Sham Ruins as Architectural Objects Saul Fisher

A significant premium is placed on authenticity throughout the arts and among objects of aesthetic interest generally. Such objects have great aesthetic interest and resonance if they are genuine instances of the kind, genuinely created by the creator to whom they are attributed, and genuinely of the era and location to which they are said to belong. The significance level of this premium may vary across the arts, other aesthetic domains, or even individual works. Built structures, considered generally as architectural objects, fall closer to the side of the scale where authenticity matters: all things being equal, the spectator takes greater aesthetic interest in the Parthenon of Athens than in the Parthenon of Nashville, Tennessee. Carolyn Korsmeyer, following Riegl, attributes such greater interest to our appreciation of age value, the value something bears in virtue of its capacity to show that it has aged, that time has passed, and that it is of a former time.1 Others, such as Erich Hatala Matthes, suggest that it is rather historical value—the value something bears in virtue of its contribution to historical understanding—that contributes to our appreciation, issuing in aesthetic value through promotion of awe or wonder. Yet perception of such value can be produced by nongenuine artifacts or parts thereof, and Hatala Matthes correspondingly discounts the significance of authenticity to such appreciation.2 The traditional view of ruins, as a particular class of built structures considered as architectural objects, represents them as instances where authenticity is especially prized. On this view, a nongenuine ruin will fail to evince sensibilities proper to antique status given that such status is lacking. For defenders of historical value, a nongenuine ruin may yet prompt our aesthetic interest if it successfully contributes to the awe or wonder we associate with historical understanding. However, the success of that contribution rests on our perception of the ruin as somehow giving veridical testimony to historical events and phenomena, and the ruin’s sequential role in the history of its site. What joins the age-value and historical-value theories is their common notion that it is some veridical cognitive content relating to the ruin’s antique status or role that evinces

Ruins and Sham Ruins 109 the spectator’s appreciation of the ruin. Authenticity in some dimension matters in aesthetic appreciation and judgment of ruins on either view, because the salient central fact about ruins is that they are built structures which, being constructed in a long-gone era, presently give the spectator an experience and further understanding of that past era. If they were built neither in the time, place, or manner so attributed to them, they would fail even the perception test of the historical theorist, much less the “thrill of presence” test (Korsmeyer’s phrase) of the age-value theorist. I propose that the premium on authenticity traditionally attributed to our aesthetic appreciation and judgment of ruins is overplayed and unnecessary, even if frequently of value to engagement with ruins relative to their historical status and role. I begin by contrasting the sorts of values we assign to architectural ruins and to ruin-like but nongenuine sham ruins. Ruins are components of actually built past architectural objects, and sham ruins are components of fantasy, or unbuilt, architectural objects. Taking architectural objects as abstractions realized or realizable as built objects, ruins and sham ruins alike are built instances of corresponding abstract objects. There is no principled reason to take sham ruins as offering different or fewer sorts of aesthetic value than do actual ruins; the authenticity premium is thereby eliminated.

Ruins, Shams, and Their Evaluation As self-standing architectural objects, ruins bear the striking feature of lacking artist- or architect-intentionality. In this, they share the central feature of found art: no one designed them as such. Indeed, they might be considered as found architectural objects, along with natural structures bearing key architectural features, like caves. In caves, as in ruins, no one had relevant intentions to give shape to the structure as we find it. Yet once we find it, we are able to appreciate (1) the past or present capacity to provide shelter or meet other structural needs, and (2) formal, traditionally architectural qualities as concern space, mass, light, flow, and other like parameters. A second feature of ruins meriting our attention is their status as the product of both human creativity and natural forces. One prominent perspective on ruins—let’s call it the “Hybrid View”—has it that the structural remnant together with its natural setting constitutes a synthetic whole as the object of our aesthetic experience.3 On the Hybrid View, the interaction of nature and built structures features far more prominently in ruins than in whole built structures, relative to degradation and destruction of the structure, and thereby, relative to the spectator’s experiences. The Hybrid View is undoubtedly correct—contingently so— in some cases. However, ruins situated in urban environments are not as subject to forces of nature in their settings, and yet we would likely allow that such architectural objects also constitute some sort of aesthetic

110  Saul Fisher whole with their environments. Even with this amendment, it is unclear that the core character of the ruin must draw on its environmental situatedness. After all, if we take a ruin out of its original site, be it natural or urban, it is not the case that it ceases to be a ruin. A more defensible and modest claim has it that ruins may bear some causal relationship to their settings which shapes their aesthetic qualities but on which those qualities do not necessarily depend. A third feature of ruins is that they represent, or simply are, structures at a stage in their existence as built architectural objects notable for being neither whole nor in their original state, and are instead closer to utter demise and disappearance. Being in this distinctive stage is sufficient, per one traditional view, to count as an object apart from the whole, original structure. It seems that sham ruins, while very like ruins in appearance, have none of these central features of ruins. There is a long tradition in the West of creating sham ruins (also known as artificial, fake, imitation, or even counterfeit ruins), most typically for installation in gardens. Sham classical ruins found in gardens in sixteenthcentury Italy and in eighteenth-century England, France, and Germany were built up as apparently ruined, or simply incomplete, or else were built as whole but then partly ruined.4 English gardens are particularly well known for the historically suggestive and mood-setting qualities of their sham Gothic ruins. Familiar examples elsewhere in Europe include the Ruinenberg in Potsdam, Germany (1748) and the Colonnade de Carmontelle in the Parc Monceau in Paris (1779) (Figure 9.1). More recent shams are often components of entertaining theme parks, such as a fullscale reproduction of the Sphinx in Shijiazhuang, Hebei province, China. Alongside built shams is a tradition of Romanticist painters imagining real, built structures in ruins, such as Hubert Robert’s The Ruins of the Louvre (1796), or representing imaginary built structures in ruins (such as Piranesi’s drawings). These representations count as fantasy architecture, where the subspecies is paper architecture. We can think of shams along similar lines: a kind of fantasy architecture, though not on paper, where the whole built structure is imagined, though not as ruined. We can also think of shams as on a continuum of sorts with genuine ruins. As typically understood, shams are wholly artificial, preplanned, or constructed ruin-like structures, whereas entirely genuine ruins (generally referred to, simply, as “ruins”) are fragments of actual, once-complete built structures. Yet the lines between genuine and sham ruins are sometimes blurred. There are actual ruins that have been altered, for example, in the advancement or halting of states of ruination. There are, as well, partly sham ruins constructed from assembly of actual fragments of built structures, generally in sites far afield from where the fragments were found, salvaged, bought, or plundered. And there are extant, whole built structures that incorporate fragments of ruins, whether from elsewhere or locally, such as San Salvatore in Spoleto, a church incorporating Roman

Ruins and Sham Ruins 111

Figure 9.1 Colonnade de Carmontelle, Parc Monceau, Paris Source: Photo Guillaume Jacquet, 2006

ruins. It is also possible to mix genuine ruins with shams, transplanted or otherwise, blurring lines even further. Taking as our primary focus prototypical shams and ruins, rather than points along the continuum, differences between them appear at first to be stark. Shams are entirely intentional, reflecting agency of their designers; shams in their artefactual glory don’t usually satisfy even a modest version of the Hybrid View; and whereas actual ruins are built structures we experience towards the end of their life cycle, shams are not, their appearances as such notwithstanding. In short, shams do not enter the world in the same way, at the same life span moment, or as touched by the same causal influences as do genuine ruins. Their histories as artifacts vary in every respect possible. And yet, designers of shams aim at the same aesthetic effects offered by ruins. Our best account of aesthetic appreciation and judgment of ruins and shams should recognize this last fact. Diverse accounts of our appreciation of ruins indicate their characteristic features: as sources of archaeological or historical information; as objects that may influence mood; or as bearers of formal aesthetic qualities such as proportion, spatial relations, and “volume.”5 In this last regard, ruins may offer new forms, unseen in the original objects, that emerge with decrepitude.6 Since ruins typically lack the instrumental

112  Saul Fisher value characteristic of whole architectural objects, their function rarely contributes to total aesthetic value.7 Regarding the specifically aesthetic modes of appreciating ruins, we can distinguish between negative and positive values. Negative values in ruins include, for example, melancholy associated with loss, or a sense of the sublime associated with dramatic deterioration of a formerly glorious structure. These negative values attach to ruins since, as mere remnants of built structures, they represent deficiencies as gauged against the original structures. Ruins may no longer be appreciated for ways their materials and forms contribute to the structure as a whole, realize intended functions, or deliver intended utility, but they may be appreciated relative to losses of such contributions.8 Positive values in ruins are associated with sensibilities or cognitive content tied not to loss or decrepitude but rather to underlying formal qualities—and how they characterize basic parameters of the extant structure: its shape, size, proportion, color, composition, and so on. Further positive values may be associated with qualities newly revealed or taking on new compositional character in the structure’s present state qua ruin. For the spectator, ruins constitute new, or newly arranged, entities which, taken as wholes in their own right, yield distinctive and novel aesthetic appreciation and judgment. The central design intention for shams is that both of these sorts of values attach to them as well. However, on a traditional, age-value oriented view, shams offer only positive aesthetic values and cannot possess the negative aesthetic values associated with ruins. After all, shams never deteriorated and, as intentional designs of nongenuine objects representing the past, came into the world without the same history as ruins. In many instances, this sort of difference may not be apparent to us as spectators. We may arrive at ruins with or without full knowledge of their historically genuine character. A state of ignorance would surely matter to their historical value, hence to our historical appreciation of the ruin. The traditional, age-value oriented view has it that our aesthetic appreciation would be similarly altered or undermined, with us unable to rule out negative aesthetic values we would otherwise assign only to actual ruins.

Age: Actual or Apparent Even without background histories ready at hand, some spectators will understand when they are experiencing a sham rather than an actual ruin. This may be because there aren’t actual ruins anywhere in the given context. In this sort of case, the spectator does not know the historical particulars, yet broadly appreciates the history enough to recognize an obvious mismatch. Or, it may be because the spectator is told the structure is a sham, or because they expect to see shams rather than ruins in,

Ruins and Sham Ruins 113 say, a garden setting. In short, while spectators’ experience of shams and ruins may comprise identifying and experiencing shams as deteriorated or deficient—that is, as sharing the same deficiencies as genuine ruins, with similarly resultant negative aesthetic properties—there is little guarantee that spectators’ experiences will prompt attributing such to shams. On the traditional view, a distinguishing mark of actual ruins is their capacity to generate, evince, or represent such negative values (as well as positive values) through (a) the evocation of physical absence or loss to time, inducing aesthetic sensibilities like nostalgia or (b) their capacity, as parts of whole, lamented objects, to conjure in us (to prompt us to mentally summon) images of those objects.9 From the traditionalists’ perspective, shams offer neither (a) nor (b), hence sham ruins may not be understood or evaluated as actual ruins, by reference to negative values. As shams do not yield aesthetic experiences such as (a) and (b), those negative values assigned to ruins by the lights of age-value theory cannot be the gauge of whether some structure is a successful sham or even a sham at all. As regards (a), the claim is that there is no evocation of absence or loss in shams because there was nothing actually physically lost or absent. Now, if a sham is effective as such, we might expect that it would trigger a sense of absence or loss despite nothing having previously physically existed of which we now have a fragment. That is a possible scenario where the sham is historically plausible in, and accurate to, its context. However, although a sham might fool us in this way, without an actual historical referent the sham does not produce true, credible, or sustainable nostalgia, melancholy, or like sensibility grounded in historical truths about past built structures. We might respond to the traditionalist that sensibilities triggered on false or deceptive grounds may yet be identical to those triggered on genuine grounds. But that response begs the question in favor of genuineness not mattering in the understanding or judgment of ruins and shams. A different line of response suggests that if the traditionalist is wrong, it is a question of it not mattering to the triggering of such sensibilities that nothing physical is lost or absent. As regards (b), the traditionalist levels a similar objection relative to our capacities to cognize or project images of lost wholes—what Zucker calls “imaginative projection.” The complaint is that, to the extent that our appreciation of ruins depends on or is enriched by imaginative projection, there should be an actual, historically extant structure to which our projections refer, in the absence of which such projections would not be possible. As shams do not have such historical referents, imaginative projection is not possible. Hence, the traditionalist concludes, ruins are distinctive in another way, bearing negative values relative to loss that are unavailable to shams. The common assumption in these lines of reasoning is that, to produce the negative aesthetic values that include (a) and (b) in extant structures

114  Saul Fisher we take to be ruins—real or ersatz—there has to have been an original whole built structure. That structure in (a) cases is what we take to be absent, such that something is lost; and in (b) cases is that which we imagine when we engage in imaginative projection. However, it is an open question as to whether we should take original, whole built structures to be indispensable to either (a) or (b) sorts of cases. To the extent that we rely in this regard on facts about such past structures, we may worry that for many ruins we take to be actual ruins, we have a paucity of data and a lack of warrant for the facts we ascribe to that data. The archaeological record is by nature imperfect. Even more compelling, though, is the principled objection that we simply don’t need to talk about or refer to an original, whole built structure in order to find grounding for negative aesthetic values. We can attribute either sort of negative value to ruins or shams alike because it doesn’t matter. Both actual ruin and sham represent component parts of more complete structures, whether built or not.

Ontological Outcomes and the Triumph of Form The reliable, uniform reason we are able to regard, appreciate, and judge sham ruins as we do actual ruins is that they are compelling as shams. That is, we can plausibly mistake them for actual ruins. If we couldn’t make that mistake, then there would be no grounds for taking them to be fakes of ruins or, qua ruins, genuine fakes, as opposed to, for example, homages to ruins or parodies of ruins. What we can rely on across actual and sham ruins is their formal similarities, in appearing to the spectator as parts of an original, now corrupted whole, built structure. That a whole structure never existed as built, in the case of sham ruins, or even that no such built structure was ever intended, is immaterial to their common features with actual ruins, of having that sort of appearance to the spectator. That we can see actual ruins and sham ruins as similar in their forms is due to two factors. For one, we are accustomed to the idea that built structures are composed of discernable parts, the shapes and sizes of which are either basic, relatively standard, and follow familiar conventions or can be analyzed into such; and that those parts are organized in similarly recognizable fashion or (similarly) analyzed into such. These are critical features of built structures in virtue of which we are able to see a ruin and identify it as a part of a larger whole.10 Second, our capacity to recognize in ruins their parthood relation to a greater whole depends on our being able to imaginatively project what that whole looked like, and how the part represented by the ruin fits into the structural and spatial organization of the greater whole. This “projectivist” thesis is needed for us to move beyond mere recognition of the

Ruins and Sham Ruins 115 ruin as a part of some whole, to an assessment as to what sort of part it is.11 Upon finding ourselves in front of a ruin, we envision in hypothetical fashion how the remnant we can see constituted an element of the larger structure we cannot see (Figure 9.2). Our hypothesis might be incorrect. Yet our act of imaginative projection is required to help us make sense of the parts, as related to the projected whole. Our imaginative projection may give us a sense of enough of the whole to grasp the nature of the remnant, though in many cases, no more than that. Thus, we can grasp that a ruin consists in a broken column qua remnant because we imaginatively project that it is part of a whole column. Yet we need not imaginatively project the entire temple of which the column is a part in order to grasp that parthood relation, or to arrive at a sense of what it is a ruin of. The notion that inferential mechanisms allow mental constructions of the whole is familiar from cognitive science accounts of vision explaining detection of contours, edges, shapes, and other such perception of form. Such accounts appeal to projection, interpolation, extrapolation, and other such operations that combine perceptually present visual data with the previously perceived, or what fits with the data, by means of inference, habit, or other cognitive assists.12

Figure 9.2 After Hubert Robert, Le temple de la Philosophie moderne, Parc ­Jean-Jacques Rousseau Source: Photo Patrick Charpier, 2006

116  Saul Fisher Extrapolation to the whole on the basis of the parts focuses the projectivist’s attention on ruins’ formal qualities. Thus, Zucker specifies that our aesthetic appreciation of ruins does not depend on their romantic or picturesque character, or historical facts, or our corresponding judgments of them. It is sufficient that we grasp their formal, architectural qualities, including spatial relations, organization, harmonies, or contrasts of solids, voids, or shapes. This formalist strand in projectivism stands on a parallel with our like appreciation of the intact whole; if formal qualities are sufficient for the latter, they should be sufficient for the former. On a modest projectivism, our imagining of intact wholes based on observing their parts occurs only in the case of some ruins. Presumably the scope of this limited thesis is those ruins presenting enough evidence of the original structure to warrant the right sorts of projections. I  propose a robust projectivism that holds for any architectural object we count as an actual ruin rather than mere remains. In other words, if we can visually or tactilely discern the object as a ruin of some integral whole, rather than, say, a random pile of rubble, then a generalized projectivism should hold. For a generalized version of this thesis to not hold is to suppose that in some instances our capacity to identify collections of artifacts as fallen remnants of a once-intact built structure was instead unrelated to our imagining a corresponding integral whole. But our notion of what counts as a ruin altogether is keyed to our notions of what, across architectural history, count as built structures in their intact states. So if, for any extant remnants we encounter, we fail to imagine what some corresponding intact structure S might look like, we should have no grounds on which to say that the remnants constitute a ruin of some S, hence no grounds to identify those remnants as a ruin altogether. We could be (and probably are) wrong about what S actually looked like, but if we cannot conjure any image of some S, then it is unclear why we would think the remnants to constitute a ruin. I have suggested that a key facet of our aesthetic attention towards and appreciation of actual ruins is an attentional and appreciative focus on their formal features. The idea that we appreciate and judge ruins and shams in the same ways, in consideration of their common formal features, suggests a common ontological underpinning of ruins and shams, relative to their parthood status. To wit, ruins are components of actual past built objects, and shams are components of fantasy built objects. On one hand, there is identification and preservation of actual ruins as parts of prior extant, intact structures. On the other hand, there is the design, construction, and reception of shams as parts of structures never built.13 The force of this parthood commonality thesis is that, as we imagine the wholes corresponding to shams, we appreciate shams as parts of architectural objects just as we do those of actual ruins.

Ruins and Sham Ruins 117 Some reticence is due our focus on formal features of ruins and shams. Whatever the theoretical benefits of such focus, notably in our capacity to judge and appreciate shams in fitting fashion, we are left with a strained equivalence posited between two kinds of entities, where one kind has a real historical antecedent that the other kind lacks. Beyond the historical inaccuracy of judging shams along the same lines as ruins, there is an oddness to the non-parallel developmental trajectories. By taking core aesthetic judgments and modes of appreciation to be similar for ruins and shams, we lose the connections of aesthetic judgment and appreciation of ruins to that of the actual built structures of which they are corrupted, deficient, latter-day versions or remnants thereof. On the other hand, from a formalist angle, that putative connection can’t matter, given the inconsequential issue of whether there ever was such an actual built structure or not. I propose that is exactly where we want to be in gauging aesthetic qualities of ruins and shams alike. For the spectator considering the aesthetic properties of ruins, real or fake, the historical knowledge we bring to bear that a whole, original built structure did or did not exist is a prejudicial datum. It is prejudicial in suggesting to the spectator that her aesthetic experience or understanding of the ruin must be informed on the basis of available information about the ruin she is experiencing. This prejudice is rooted in the view that we cannot ignore the fact of actual ruins’ correspondence to original structures, of which actual ruins are corrupted instances, and where the correspondence in question just is historical. That last view does not, however, survive swapping out the traditional concept of architectural objects as concrete objects. Assume, by contrast, that architectural objects are abstractions we can realize as built objects, but in fact may never be realized physically. Then actual ruins and sham ruins are each built instances of corresponding abstract objects, where they may have attained a similar physical appearance, composition, relation to context, or status relative to percentage built as against the abstract whole, ruins having deteriorated down and sham ruins having been built up. If the original structure is abstract, it can hardly make a difference to our aesthetic judgment of ruins or shams that the original structure was ever physically realized or not. Perhaps we could simply suppose that actual ruins correspond to real built structures and shams correspond to fictive built structures. Yet, we might not be sure whether a given object is a ruin or a sham. Moreover, there is not always a binary choice: there are compound actual/sham ruins. Finally, even in cases of reliably and entirely actual ruins, our best projections are conjectural: lacking modern documentation, we posit some intact structure as original. But this is positing an abstract object to which the actual object might have corresponded. If it doesn’t, it’s

118  Saul Fisher because we posited the wrong abstract object, not because the definitive and original abstract object didn’t exist. It may be objected, however, that this view relies too greatly on abstractism. Given projectivism, abstractism tells us what an otherwise identical pair of ruins and shams may both represent or be a part of. In the case of actual ruins, the intact wholes corresponded to concrete built structures, precorruption, as first realized. In the case of shams, such wholes are and have always been fictitious. Putting together the fictitious and the historically but not currently present, we get simplicity in a joint account by appeal to abstracta that underwrite both realized concrete wholes and never-realized wholes. But if concretism is true, then parthood commonality across actual and sham ruins seems in jeopardy. The concretist can point to an original structure in the actual ruins case but not in the sham case. And if shams do not correspond to any structure ever built, much less that fell into ruin, then there is no whole that we can project based on parts that a given sham might be taken to represent. Then we should not be able to gauge the contribution of parthood to aesthetic value in the same ways for actual ruins and shams. Yet for the concretist, too, the very point of creating a sham ruin is to invite the spectator to imagine a whole structure that once stood where the sham stands, regardless of the fact that no such whole ever existed. And as projectivism allows, the sham’s formal features suffice to prompt imagining of some such structure. Concretism alone does not undercut our conceiving of, and appreciating, aesthetic qualities of actual ruins and shams in like fashion: in each case, we imagine some whole that is not available to us (whether by the history of occurrent events, or the catalog of nonoccurrent events) in order to grasp the character of the part that is. One dramatic consequence of the abstractist approach is the elimination of any premium on authenticity in gauging aesthetic value of ruins. Given the distinctive origins of designs and attainment of fragmentary status among ruins and shams, their equitable aesthetic evaluation may seem implausible. The moderate formalist may split the difference, allowing for judgment of both common formal features and those features which, by dint of context, historical worth, and emotional effect, are distinctive to actual ruins on one hand or shams on the other. The uncompromising formalist is not concerned with origins anyway.

Notes 1. Carolyn Korsmeyer, “Aesthetic Deception: On Encounters with the Past,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 66 (Spring 2008): 2, 117–27; Alois Riegl, “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Character and Its Origin,” trans. Kurt W. Forster and Diane Ghirardo, Oppositions 25 (Fall 1903,

Ruins and Sham Ruins 119 1982): 21–51; K. Michael Hays, ed., Oppositions Reader: Selected Essays 1973–1984 (Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, 1998), 621–51. 2. Erich Hatala Matthes, “Authenticity and the Aesthetic Experience of History,” Analysis 78, no. 4 (2018): 649–57. 3. Cf. Paul Zucker, “Ruins: An Aesthetic Hybrid,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 20, no. 2 (Winter 1961): 119–30; Florence M. Hetzler, “The Aesthetics of Ruins: A New Category of Being,” Journal of Aesthetic Education 16, no. 2 (1982): 105–8; Robert Ginsberg, The Aesthetics of Ruins (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2004); Elizabeth Scarbrough, The Aesthetic Appreciation of Ruins, Doctoral dissertation, University of Washington, 2016 https:// 4. Zucker, “Ruins”; Marie-Luise Gothein, A History of Garden Art (London: J. M. Dent, 1935); Luke Morgan, “ ‘Anciently Modern and Modernly Ancient’: Ruins and Reconstructions in Sixteenth-Century Italian Landscape Design,” Studies in the History of Gardens  & Designed Landscapes: An International Quarterly 36, no. 4 (2016): 261–71. 5. Zucker, “Ruins”; Elizabeth Scarbrough, “Unimagined Beauty,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72, no. 4 (2014): 446–47; Lamarque, Peter, “Reflections on the Ethics and Aesthetics of Restoration and Conservation,” British Journal of Aesthetics 56, no. 3 (2016): 281–99. 6. Scarbrough, “Unimagined Beauty”; Lamarque, “Reflections on the Ethics and Aesthetics of Restoration and Conservation.” 7. Zucker, “Ruins”; Ginsberg, The Aesthetics of Ruins. 8. Ginsberg makes a similar point. 9. Jeanette Bicknell, “Architectural Ghosts,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72, no. 4 (2014): 435–41; Zucker, “Ruins.” 10. That we can understand in this way that a structure before us is a part rather than a whole is an epistemic corollary to a metaphysical thesis of compositionalism in architectural objects: that such objects comprise parts which, together with their particular organization, contribute to the identity of the objects. Saul Fisher, “Architecture and Philosophy of the City,” in The Routledge Handbook of Philosophy of the City, eds. Sharon M. Meagher, Samantha Noll, and Joseph S. Biehl (New York: Routledge, 2019), ch. 10. 11. See Bicknell, “Architectural Ghosts”; Ginsburg, The Aesthetics of Ruins; Zucker, “Ruins”; Jennifer Judkins, “On Things That Are Not There Anymore,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72, no. 4 (2014): 441–45. 12. Cf. Rob van Lier and Walter Gerbino, “Perceptual Completions,” in The Oxford Handbook of Perceptual Organization, ed. Johan Wagemans (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), 294–320. 13. This parthood commonality view may be contrasted with the suggestion, posed by Livingston, of an ontological difference between actual ruins as constituting incomplete fragments of architectural objects, and shams as constituting complete fragments of such objects. (Paisley Livingston, Art and Intention [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2005].) The backdrop for Livingston’s view is his proposal that parts of art objects that are not complete are fragments. Among the kinds of fragments are proper fragments, those fragments of once extant whole works that originally had attained some state of completion, where we have warrant for identifying those fragments as such. Actual architectural ruins, along with antique pottery shards, fit into this category, given our ability to authenticate them as parts of original wholes. Romantic fragments—which include sham architectural ruins—are imitations of proper fragments. They were never, as proper fragments, parts of actual whole objects yet they are intended to evoke in the spectator the very

120  Saul Fisher same sensibilities as would suggest that they had once been parts of greater wholes. By contrast with proper fragments, which are no longer complete, Romantic fragments may be said to be complete in their own right. This may be so by judgment of the architect—“genetic completion,” per Livingston. Or it may be complete by appreciable marks of attaining values, such as coherence or meeting categorical norms, as typically indicate the work being brought to fruition—“aesthetic completion,” per Livingston.

10 Rust Belt Ruins Renee M. Conroy

Rust lust has come to the American Midwest. A cursory Google search reveals that “rustalgia,” “Rust Belt chic,” and “Rust Belt porn” have emerged, in the last decade, as significant aesthetic movements in the central United States. What draws increasing numbers of casual tourists, die-hard UrbExers (urban explorers), world-renowned photographers, and numerous film crews to derelict cities such as Joliet, Illinois; Detroit, Michigan; and Gary, Indiana each year? Moreover, what inclines some Midwesterners to encourage aesthetic delectation of their crumbling hometowns? Herein, I propose a framework for articulating the distinctive character of Rust Belt ruins that begins to explain the recent rise in aesthetic attention paid to them by both visitors and locals, drawing on insights borrowed from John Patrick Leary’s landmark article “Detroitism.” In his think piece, Leary criticizes several coffee table books featuring photographs (taken by foreigners) of dilapidated structures in Detroit, while acknowledging that his city is described regularly as the “Mecca of urban ruins” and that its “impressive collection of pre-Depression skyscrapers have been memorably lionized as a[n] ‘American Acropolis.’ ”1 He also addresses the phenomenon of “ruin porn” purportedly exemplified in these books which, in recent years, has been reinforced by organized tours of ailing Motor City architecture.2 Leary’s reflections on the multifaceted phenomenon he calls “Detroitism” raise intriguing philosophical questions. What renders some abandoned urban spaces potential counterparts of the colossal ruins of great antiquity, while others lack aesthetic appeal? To what extent is appreciating a modern industrial ruin analogous to finding oneself in the grip of the Roman Forum or the pyramids at Giza, and in what ways is it different? Should recent sites of urban devastation be regarded as real ruins, or are they merely ruins in the making? Is so-called ruin porn unequivocally harmful? Although Rust Belt ruins have been the focus of ongoing pop culture debate for nearly a decade, they have received scant attention in published philosophical literature. My goal is to indicate what is

122  Renee M. Conroy appreciatively unique about iconic sites of abandonment and dilapidation that dot America’s Rust Belt and, thereby, to set the groundwork for vindicating these locations as genuine members of the aesthetic category “ruins.”3 While my focus is limited to a distinctively American kind of urban industrial ruin, I hope my suggestions will provide a foundation for investigating the aesthetic potential of urban blight more broadly given that, in the twenty-first century, “rust lust” is a decidedly international phenomenon.

Ruin Resonance To defend the claim that there are multiple kinds of ruinated structures equally capable of eliciting robust aesthetic absorption, one must first lay out the conceptual ruinscape. Given that edifices such as the Coliseum, the mysterious remains at Machu Picchu, and the (rebuilt) walled city of Carcassonne are ruin paragons, one might begin by glossing the category “classical ruin” as follows: it paradigmatically includes the artistic-cum-architectural achievements of antiquity that (re)emerged as objects of interest during the Renaissance and subsequently inspired Romantic preoccupation with moody nostalgia as exemplified in the literature, poetry, painting, and gardening of the period. In addition, classical ruins are traditionally in the process of being reclaimed by nature. The aesthetic significance of this fact is emphasized by Donald Crawford in his discussion of the dialectical relationships implicated in ruin appreciation, which he describes as a complex experience in which “our perceptual consciousness shifts back and forth between an awareness of the ruin as the human resistance to natural forces and consciousness of the forces of nature as the destroyer of the most carefully planned human monuments.”4 The appreciative salience of the nature-culture clash inherent in all decaying man-made structures is also highlighted by Paul Zucker in his treatment of ruins as aesthetic hybrids. He writes, Devastated by time or willful destruction, incomplete as they are, they represent a combination of man-made forms and of organic nature. Thus the emotional impact of ruins is ambiguous: we cannot say whether they belong aesthetically in the realm of art or in the realm of nature.5 Although the mixed, dialogical, or systematically ambiguous character of traditional ruins is perhaps the principal reason they have intrigued contemporary philosophers of art, there is more of aesthetic interest to be found in the classics than their appreciative interstitiality. Carolyn Korsmeyer, for example, emphasizes the aesthetic tension between necessary preservation efforts and the natural degradation requisite to perceive the remnant as a real ruin rather than as a successful restoration or a “ruined

Rust Belt Ruins 123 ruin.” She also highlights the distinctive physical attraction of crumbling half-structures which invite us to touch, wander around, and climb on them, rendering visits to some ruinated sites “as much adventures as aesthetic encounters.”6 Korsmeyer, however, reaffirms the common intuition that “age value” is central to the aesthetic character of a real ruin when she asserts: The fact that a ruin does not invite repair distinguishes it from damaged buildings that might be reclaimed and reused. Ruins are thus different from rubble and objects recently damaged, for while the destruction of war or nature may have wrecked a structure during some point in its history it is the passage of time that completes a ruin, rendering it something of value—including aesthetic value—in its own right.7 While Korsmeyer’s Romantic approach gives classical ruins pride of place in aesthetic theory, it does not rule out the possibility that there are sites of relatively recent ruination that have significant aesthetic features despite—or, perhaps, because of—their relative youth. Indeed, some newly deteriorating locations distinguish themselves from rubble and objects recently damaged because they exhibit what I call “ruin resonance,” an aesthetic attribute common to both classical and modern ruins in virtue of which these failing structures capture and hold our attention as more than mere debris. Ruin resonance is the familiar but mysterious magnetic quality possessed by some deteriorating edifices in spite of their acknowledged gloominess and tendency to function as unintended memento mori. Its distinctive allure is the product of our being gripped by the unavoidable emotional and conceptual collisions that arise in places that simultaneously inspire visceral thrills, sweaty exploration, imaginative reconstruction, pensive self-reflection, and an array of challenging questions. As I characterize it, ruin resonance is a response-dependent aesthetic property that facilitates episodes in which we dwell both on and in the ruinated location, engaging the site in multiple ways (physically, contemplatively, imaginatively) as a result of its incompleteness. It also tends to generate sustained reflection on the abandoned or decaying structure as a multifaceted symbol of civic strength, human frailty, and the inevitability of cycles. In classical cases, the tensions that constitute ruin resonance are dyadic. They are the familiar strainings we feel as we shift our focus back and forth between what is actually perceived and what can only be imagined, what is natural and what is artefactual, what is present and what is absent, what can be known and what must remain beyond our ken. By contrast, encounters with modern ruins—especially those associated with iconic structures of America’s Rust Belt—yield trichotomies. They require us to cycle our conscious awareness between the dualities presented by

124  Renee M. Conroy classical ruins, with the addition of a third element that arises precisely because the site is recognized to be recently ruinated, its history does not remain a mystery, and its civic situation calls appreciators to action (razing, repurposing, preserving, publicizing, etc.). Whereas classical ruins cause our attentions to waver between what was and what is, modern industrial ruins compel us to reflect on what was, what is, what could be, and what should be. Thus, in the case of Rust Belt wreckage, the attentional shifting that gives rise to an experience of ruin resonance advances from the classical friction between what is perceived and what must be imagined to a more complex form of aspection that requires us also to envision future aesthetic possibilities. I appeal to the concept of ruin resonance both to capture the hybrid or dialectical quality central to aesthetic engagement with traditional exemplars of ruin and to vindicate the claim that some sites of recent urban decay should be regarded as genuine ruins in virtue of their complex cognitive-affective character. There are, however, noteworthy differences between Rust Belt ruins and their classical cousins. For instance, because the modern industrial ruin is typically less than fifty years old, it evidences the unnaturally swift and aggressive aging that befalls a building abandoned in an urban jungle rife with graffiti, squatting, and aggressive displays of personal angst as opposed to the gentle softening that transpires at the hands of nature. Moreover, although some modern ruins are beginning to exhibit the classical element of reclamation by foliage and wildlife, many do not in virtue of their metropolitan setting. In addition, some iconic Rust Belt ruins remain relatively architecturally complete, and most do not possess the delightful patina associated with “age value.” They present us, instead, with veneers of asbestos and soot, punctuated by grotesque piles of litter. Although famous sites of American urban decay—such as the Michigan Central Station in Detroit, the City United Methodist Church in Gary, and the “Old Joliet Prison” (aka Joliet Correctional Center)—lack features associated with classical ruins, they are no less monuments to their cities’ histories than are their antiquarian counterparts. Moreover, like classical ruins, these challenging locales afford complex opportunities to confront the intellectual-cum-emotional tensions that arise when we confront places in which the past and the present, absence and presence, resistance and surrender intersect with one another. As Leary’s analysis of “Detroitism” reveals, Rust Belt ruins are also frequently treated in ways that are continuous with our appreciative approaches to traditional ruins.

Lessons From “Detroitism” The term “Detroitism” was introduced in 2011 by Wayne State University professor of American literature John Patrick Leary in an article of

Rust Belt Ruins 125 the same name, in which the author offers a critical analysis of the way this sobriquet manifests itself in popular discourse. Leary identifies three key forms of “Detroitism”: (1) using “Detroit” as a metonym for urban decay (or shoddy planning), (2) using the city of Detroit as an exemplar of loss worthy of lament, and (3) using the distress Detroit has suffered since the death of the auto industry as a catalyst for embracing utopian optimism.8 A panoply of blogs, websites, and newspaper editorials have emerged since Leary’s article was published, most of which represent a perspective that fits into one of his three categories. There are, for example, enthusiasts of “Rust Belt chic” and proponents of “rustalgia” who aim to make urban blight fashionable and, thus, to breathe life into sickly Midwest cities by espousing their dilapidated remains as the “new cool,” thereby rendering these locales attractive to young artists, entrepreneurs, and urban farmers.9 There are also defenders of “Rust Belt Tours” who regard curated visits to the ghostly remains of previously booming metropoles as valuable for their short-term economic benefits and long-term ability to promote awareness of how severely cities that were once beacons of the American dream have been damaged in recent decades. And there are vocal locals who revile the kind of attention paid to their hometowns when foreigners take pretty snapshots of putrefaction, filmmakers use decomposing buildings as sets for post-apocalyptic scenes in Hollywood blockbusters, and thrill-seekers from across the nation journey to the Midwest to crawl among its wreckage seeking the adrenaline rush triggered by physical danger. Normative issues of various shapes and sizes emerge in the impassioned pop culture debate over phenomena associated with “Detroitism,” but the aesthetic allure of the Midwest’s urban rot remains undiminished. What is potentially distasteful about approaching Rust Belt ruins from an unabashedly aesthetic perspective, and what lessons can be gleaned from Leary’s analysis? First, with respect to two glossy picture books to which he refers repeatedly—Andrew Moore’s Detroit Disassembled and Yves Marchand and Romain Meffre’s The Ruins of Detroit—Leary is critical of the way absence is depicted given the authors’ formalist treatment of Detroit architecture. He writes: Ruin photography  .  .  . has been criticized for its “pornographic” sensationalism  .  .  . which glosses over the city’s deep structural problems and the diversity of ideas to help fix them. So much ruin photography and ruin film aestheticizes poverty without inquiring of its origins, dramatizes spaces but never seeks out the people that inhabit and transform them, and romanticizes isolated acts of resistance without acknowledging the massive political and social forces against the real transformation, and not just the stubborn survival, of the city.10

126  Renee M. Conroy The moral concern expressed by Leary, and encapsulated in the epithet “ruin porn,” is that the contextual elements that would speak to the very live personal stories implicit in these moldering structures have been eradicated through artistic use of the photographic lens or 16 mm camera, leaving only the outer shell of disrepair as an object of aesthetic attention. Whereas traditional pornographic representations encourage us to appreciate the human form as though it is not inextricably connected to a person but is an object of pure sexual interest, contemporary “ruin porn” invites us to relish the dramatically lit innards of recently intact churches, rail stations, theaters, schools, and office buildings without considering their previous occupants and what has become of them. To this end, Leary mentions a pair of photographs taken of a melted clock in the original Cass Tech High School, a magnet school in midtown Detroit that was built in 1907; abandoned in 2004 (when it was replaced with a new building on an adjacent lot); devasted by a fire in 2007; photographed by Marchand-Meffre and Moore in 2008 and 2009, respectively; and finally razed in 2011. Although the images are similar, and both appeared in the slick coffee table tomes Leary critiques, Moore’s picture—provocatively entitled National Time—is more aesthetically striking in virtue of its juxtaposition of hues and tight framing, which foreground the missing numbers of a clock whose hands stopped forever at five minutes to four. The photograph plays on the viewer’s familiarity with Salvador Dali’s painting The Persistence of Memory (1931), borrowing both its motif of the “drippy timepiece” and Dali’s contrasting color scheme, in which brilliant blues stand out against a background of varying shades of drab. It also suggests the stereotypical surrealist subject matter of arrested dreams and inscrutable nightmares. In short, National Time is a reflection on time that is, simultaneously, of its particular time and completely out of time. Moore’s image speaks to all audiences precisely because it is historically and geographically acontextual; it conscientiously elevates the burned-out ends of Cass Tech’s smoky days to the realm of fine art through visual suppression and artistic allusion. Despite Leary’s concerns about images like National Time, it is worth remembering that we frequently treat classical ruins in analogous ways without thereby endangering their status as ruins or impugning their ability to support experiences with marked aesthetic character. The tendency to turn a blind eye to historical reality in favor of appreciative fantasy is prevalent in Romantic paintings that feature structures regarded uncontroversially as ruins. It is also manifest in most twenty-first-century guide books and popular pictorial anthologies that feature the colossal ruins of great antiquity as well as in our transformative treatment of some of these revered locations. The Roman baths in Bath, England, a paradigmatic classical ruin, is an illustrative example. The site affords visitors only modest interaction

Rust Belt Ruins 127 with bits of antiquity, most of which are eclipsed by imposing pre-Victorian architecture and a thoroughly modern museum-cum-mall.11 This classical ruin is a mélange of ancient Roman remnants and nineteenthcentury construction that has been “scrubbed clean” entirely of earlier English locals who, from the twelfth to the sixteenth centuries, spent their leisure time enjoying secular facilities they constructed on top of what was previously a sacred site. (After the fall of the empire and the Romans’ exodus from Britain in the fifth century, the original baths were lost due to flooding and silt accumulation.) The current museum takes pride in its return to the ancient Roman floorplan in which the central Great Bath, which was excavated in the late 1800s, sits below ground. Today only the forty-five sheets of lead that line the bottom of this basin—and the unobtrusive foundations of the Victorian-era columns that surround it—retain any perceptible material connection to the Romans’ delectation of this enduring hot spring, which continues to pour forth more than 250,000 gallons daily. In addition, while the museum acknowledges that the original Roman facility was enclosed to protect the restorative mineral waters, the Great Bath is now fully exposed and is circumscribed by an elevated terrace from which visitors can contemplate the fetid green aquifer below. Ironically, Bath’s lead-lined algae-filled bath is now a place in which no one can bathe. In addition, the central pool is guarded by poorly constructed sculptures crafted, with one notable exception, by a nineteenth-century artist originally from Scotland.12 These pseudo-Roman statues were intended to pay tribute to emperors such as Constantine, Claudius, Hadrian, and lesser known British governors. It is unlikely, however, that any of the iconized ancients whose visages were cast feebly in quickly eroding limestone ever set foot in this part of Great Britain. To add insult to historical injury, the central reservoir is now flanked by gift shops, and tourists prize taking selfies with “Roman soldiers,” “slaves,” or “philosophercitizens” who meander about the Great Bath with all the subtlety of life-sized Disney characters. On Tuesday mornings one can also join a collective of tai chi enthusiasts in meditative exercise on the incongruous nineteenth-century terrace before grabbing a low-fat macchiato in the Roman Baths Kitchen. While the baths in Bath have always been a place for social gathering and physical renewal, the contemporary version of this revered ruin smacks of 120-plus years of increasing commercialization and subtle duplicity. It reminds us that many canonical ancient ruins trade in their own brand of pornographic representation. Such transformations might appall the devoted historian or appreciative purist, but they are commonplace. Furthermore, manipulations of this ilk do not typically undermine a classical location’s claim to be a ruin, nor do they annul a ruinated site’s ability to produce aesthetic frisson in virtue of the tensions it forces us

128  Renee M. Conroy to confront between old and new, complete and partial, the seen and the hidden. In short, aestheticizing a location to promote the brand of formalist gratification Leary reviles is only one way to expedite engagement with the past through judicious selection that effectively erases some of our predecessors and attenuates their stories. The photographs and films that constitute Rust Belt porn are, at least, somewhat more honest than the blatant Disneyfication of Bath. They are also less epistemically insidious than what we buy when we visit places such as Stonehenge or Carcassonne that propound epistemically seductive— but quasi-fictional—narratives whispered by physical reconstructions. Pieces of “Rust Belt porn” do, at least, draw our attention to what actually remains of the past. Indeed, creating contemporary photographic or cinematic “ruin porn” is aesthetically preferable to many widely accepted ways of treating classical sites of ruination because the approach adopted by those who contribute to artistic “Detroitsploitation” is a solid step on the road to facilitating ruin resonance. The impugned images and films encourage us to attend with care to physical juxtapositions that pave the way for the more psychologically robust forms of engagement emphasized by Zucker and Crawford in their treatments of ruins as aesthetic hybrids. In addition to his condemnation of photos that neglect human presence to advance formalist projects, Leary points to another way these artistic representations make emptiness evocative, one connected to the idea that no one is immune to suffering the desertion for which “Detroit” acts metonymously. He writes: Moore’s pictures in Detroit Disassembled play heavily on a pervasive, uneasy sense of quietude  .  .  . the evacuation of context from the photos gives them the uncanny feeling of a place you might have been before in some other time or place—and if you’ve ever been inside a corporate office, a Catholic school classroom, or a dentist’s office anywhere in America in the last thirty years, you have. Some of Moore’s photos evoke [ex-mayor Coleman] Young’s old dictum as a warning from the urban future—“Detroit,” a picture of a vacant offices [sic] whispers, “coming to your town soon.”13 Here Leary alludes to the kind of absence associated paradigmatically with classical ruins, a quality described by Robert Ginsberg as “the strange absence that occurs amid presence.”14 Korsmeyer designates this ruin-specific quality a “positive lack,” coining a phrase that parallels the tension inherent in the slogan of the aesthetic sublime: “negative pleasure.” These apparently contradictory locutions capture the heart of ruin resonance, in general, which is experienced when one confronts a variety of cognitive and affective oppositions that both give rise to, and are the

Rust Belt Ruins 129 result of, a continuous cycle of aspective acts that inspire us to explore the superficial and the existential in equal measure. Thus, the intense discomfort Leary describes when our commerce with a devastated cultural icon such as Gary’s United Methodist Church causes us to think, and feel in our bones, that “ruin is coming to my town soon,” gives way to several more positively valanced—though equally challenging—reflective moments. These include considering the site’s aesthetic potential and how best to realize it to honor its original creators and inhabitants, to respect the current residents of struggling Midwest communities, and to acknowledge the practical, civic, and aesthetic needs of future generations.15 The cycle of moving from the kind of delectation associated with formalist appreciation or multi-sensory physical engagement, to emotionally self-absorbed “Ozymandias melancholia,”16 to constructive contemplation of our duties to past and future generations need not be regarded as fundamentally ethical and, therefore, nonaesthetic. Instead, our interactions with Rust Belt ruins can be affectively isomorphic to our experiences of the dynamical sublime as described by Immanuel Kant in the Critique of Judgment.

Neo-Kantianism and Rust Belt Resonance Some philosophers have suggested that commerce with classical ruins can facilitate episodes of the mathematical sublime. In “The Triumph of Time: Romanticism Redux,” for example, Korsmeyer argues that the “proper object” of aesthetic attention in ruin appreciation is not the absence immediately recognizable in an encounter with a crumbling bit of the distant past but is, instead, the conceptual impossibility of “fill[ing] in the whole” given that “what used to be necessarily escapes us”; thus, the “ruin teases us with what it once knew and we cannot.”17 Just as reflection on the vast starry sky can elicit the twin affects of vexation and delight, given our inability to capture its infinitude in determinate concepts yet our ability to think about infinity, so an encounter with a classical ruin can draw the mind to realize its own limits in a manner that is both frustrating and tantalizing. If traditional ruins are well-poised to occasion experiences of the mathematical sublime in virtue of their ability to elicit multifaceted confrontation with time and its mysteries, then Rust Belt ruins can be vindicated as affording analogous “proper objects” of aesthetic attention because they occasion layered examination of what Kant describes as our humanity. Adjustments to Kant’s approach are necessary given that his treatment of the dynamical sublime highlights our recognition of reason’s ultimate superiority over nature, whereas Rust Belt ruins make manifest the irresistibility of unnatural powers such as the sweeping tides of big business and the ruthless advance of technology. Nonetheless, the experience of gazing at a recently dilapidated building pockmarked with broken

130  Renee M. Conroy windows and fissured fascia that is being viciously devoured by graffiti and vandalism can generate an affective episode isomorphic to the kind elicited by an aesthetic encounter with a raging storm or erupting volcano. Insofar as these structures whisper to us, “Detroit . . . coming to your town soon,” they remind us that the invisible forces at work in our modern lives (whose wrath was felt palpably by all Americans in the market crash of 2008) are proper objects of fear. Indeed, such destructive powers may be more terrifying than their natural counterparts because they raze communities with great speed without ever being fully seen. Moreover, these perceptually opaque, omnipresent threats have a uniquely unsettling character because their all-too-human causes can be identified in hindsight. As a result, Rust Belt ruins do not force us to confront conceptual impossibilities or puzzle over unsolvable mysteries about the past. Instead, they speak to us of our immediate economic fragility as individuals, while reminding us of the universality inherent in the kind of blind zeal that famously brings protagonists of Greek tragedies—and those in their civic wake—to ruin. In this way, Rust Belt ruins force us to confront dual aspects of our common humanity that emerge from quasi-Kantian beguilement with our own rational powers: our enthusiasm for progress and our tendency toward hubris. Thus, they reaffirm humans’ inspiring creative capacities while also warning us that our uses of reason’s gifts must be monitored with care. Can a modified treatment of the dynamical sublime support the claim that Rust Belt ruins afford a unique kind of ruin resonance, in general? Or is aesthetic opportunity available only to those who are safely distanced from Rust Belt decay? One reason there is debate over so-called ruin porn is because those who publicize pockets of urban blight as sources of aesthetic delectation often are not residents of the Rust Belt but are tourists from other parts of America or photographers from distant countries. Hence, some now (in)famous proponents of the aesthetic potential of “rustalgia” enjoy a protected perspective from which to contemplate Midwest industrial ruinscapes. This, one might argue, enables them to appreciate these haunting locales as products of forces worthy of fear without being occurrently afraid—a hallmark of the Kantian dynamical sublime. There are, however, many Midwesterners who also relish these iconic sites and are dedicated to sharing their history and complex allure with anyone who will read their blogs, attend their lectures, or join an urban tour. While such activities are frequently dismissed as economic opportunism or political activism, locals’ engagement with the urban ruins in their backyards is not exhausted by practical concern. Indeed, I would argue that the invested Midwesterner’s way of engaging these sites reflects most fully the triadic character I earlier attributed to the distinctive resonance of Rust Belt ruins. These individuals embrace the opportunity to recognize, wrestle with, and ultimately delight in “the humanity in our

Rust Belt Ruins 131 person” by envisioning aesthetically compelling futures that are also sensitive to the competing demands we must face when attempting to revitalize a damaged community. For the local, the affective cycle that gives Rust Belt ruins their unique poignancy—and is structurally analogous to experiences of Kant’s dynamical sublime—is replayed repeatedly. One is initially deflated by the awareness that she is physically powerless against great social forces; she is then uplifted by the realization that neither her creative abilities nor her moral status can be demeaned by culture’s might. Hence, Leary’s tripartite characterization of “Detroitism” parallels three moments that constitute the emotional progression typical of Rust Belt ruin resonance as experienced by the Midwesterner. The first involves pensive reflection on the fact that all good things must come to an end. We recognize the sobering reality for which “Detroit” acts metonymously by dwelling on “new ruins . . . for a time stark and bare, vegetationless and creatureless; blackened and torn  .  .  . smell[ing] of fire and mortality.”18 This gives rise to a second moment in which we grieve over what we have lost and acknowledge endings that are vividly present to all five senses, partaking sensuously and emotionally in what Leary calls the “Detroit Lament.” A third moment emerges when, having recognized that in every ending lies the potential for a new beginning, we embrace our innate enthusiasm for possibilities and the ways in which they call upon us to exercise our distinctly human powers. This affective reversal need not manifest itself in Leary’s unbridled “Detroit Utopianism.” It does, however, temper the contemplative and mournful with a positive reaffirmation of humans’ capacity for creative reimagining and our natural aesthetic resilience.

Notes 1. John Patrick Leary, “Detroitism,” Guernica: A Magazine of Art and Politics, accessed December 8, 2018, 2. For a helpful treatment of this issue, see Elizabeth Scarbrough, “Visiting the Ruins of Detroit: Exploitation or Cultural Tourism?” Journal of Applied Philosophy 35, no. 3 (2016): 549–66. 3. I respect the need to limit the category “Rust Belt ruin.” Any account that countenances every home falling into disrepair as an aesthetic counterpart of the Parthenon is overinclusive. Hence, I refer only to locations that have achieved international status as recent ruins (in virtue of being civic icons) to avoid conceptual impropriety. 4. Donald Crawford, “Nature and Art: Some Dialectical Relationships,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 42, no.1 (1983): 49–58, 53–54. 5. Paul Zucker, “Ruins—An Aesthetic Hybrid,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 20, no. 2 (1961): 119–30, 119. 6. Carolyn Korsmeyer, “The Triumph of Time: Romanticism Redux,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72, no. 4 (2014): 429–34, 432. 7. Ibid., 429. 8. This is a slight modification of Leary’s tri-partite characterization of “Detroitism.”

132  Renee M. Conroy 9. Will Doig, “Rust Belt Chic: Declining Midwest Cities Make a Comeback,” Salon, accessed December  8, 2018, rust_belt_chic_declining_midwest_cities_make_a_comeback. 10. Leary, “Detroitism.” 11. Information from Bath Museum website baths-shop and official tour guide The Essential Roman Baths (London: Scala Arts and Heritage, 2013). 12. An imposing sculpture of Julius Caesar was added in 1989, accessed December 8, 2018, 13. Leary, “Detroitism.” 14. This reference to Robert Ginsberg’s classic The Aesthetics of Ruins (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2004) appears in Korsmeyer, “Triumph,” 433. 15. For a recent example, see Gregory Tejeda, “Urban Ruins Garden Idea Moves Forward in Gary for Former City Methodist Church,” Chicago Post-Tribune, March  2, 2018, accessed December  8, 2018, www. 16. The phrase was coined by filmmaker Woody Allen, who explores this kind of depression in several of his films, including Stardust Memories (1980) and To Rome with Love (2012). 17. Korsmeyer, “Triumph,” 433–34. 18. Rose Macaulay, Pleasure of Ruins (New York: Walker, 1966 reprinted edition), 453.

11 Neo-picturesque Susan Herrington and Dominic McIver Lopes

What is the use to modern man of this “monumental” contemplation of the past? —Friedrich Nietzsche, “On the Use and Abuse of History for Life” The world of myths and fables took possession of the old iron works with its bewildering bundles of pipes, stairways, underpasses, ramps and walkways, and giant bunkers, more rocky outcrops than built structures; a city of blast furnaces and hot blasts strives with three chimneys towering above—widely visible mega signs of the past. —Peter Latz on Duisburg Nord

Gasworks, steelworks, railways, roundhouses, icehouses, grain silos, wharves and jetties, factories of all kinds, and the infrastructures that fed them—many clamorous engines of the industrial era have, one after another, shuttered their doors since the late 1980s. While many have been razed, some have been remade as parks. In these parks, industrial ruins evoke a past for which we now feel a little nostalgia and that we might now wish to honor. They are neo-picturesque.

Prologue: Ruins in the Picturesque Understanding the neo-picturesque means understanding the practice of the picturesque as it originated in the late seventeenth century. Ruins, in particular, play an important role in the picturesque, and they are essential to the neo-picturesque. Two conceptions of the picturesque obscure its continuity with the neo-picturesque.1 On one conception, the picturesque is a style where the formal strategies and subject matter of Romantic painting are used in landscape design. Landscape gardens like those created by William Kent in the eighteenth century replicate the curving lines, undulating surfaces, textural variety, and lighting of landscape paintings such as those by Claude Lorrain.2 In their subject matter, they allude to themes from

134  Susan Herrington and Dominic McIver Lopes Greek and Roman literature, situating them in flooded valleys where trees are planted in a pattern of “indigenous clumping,” all designed with an eye to vistas. By the nineteenth century, much park design had dropped the classical allusions but retained picturesque formal strategies and bucolics, as is illustrated by the work of Frederick Law Olmsted, notably in New York’s Central Park. Yet the neo-picturesque landscapes of today are not typically rendered in picturesque style: they often resist picturesque formal strategies and bucolic strategies; classical allusions no longer resonate. On a second conception, the picturesque is an ideological operation.3 Although picturesque landscape gardens were spaces enclosed within highly productive agricultural estates, they sought to look natural. Insofar as they succeed in giving an impression of the natural, they inscribe wealth and power into the natural order. Again, however, neo-­picturesque landscapes are not typically private gardens and typically eschew illusions of naturalness. On the contrary, they can be rather in your face about their origins in human activity. On a third conception, the picturesque is an artistic practice that uses the medium of landscape to produce certain effects.4 These effects include a characteristic cluster of feelings and memories centered on the idea of a way of life that has vanished.5 The open vistas, curving pathways, and charming copses of picturesque formalism suggest an Edenic image of nature. Meanwhile, the ruins and follies that dot eighteenth-century picturesque landscapes were intended to summon golden ages past and remind park visitors of their youthful travels on the Grand Tour. As Thomas Whately wrote in his Observations on Modern Gardening of 1770: At the sight of a ruin, reflections on the change, the decay, and the desolation before us, naturally occur; and they introduce a long succession of others, all tinctured with that melancholy which these have inspired: or if the monument revive the memory of former times, we do not stop at the simple fact which it records, but recollect many more coaeval circumstances, which we see not perhaps as they were, but as they are come down to us, venerable with age, and magnified by fame.6 Here Whately captures what is fundamental to picturesque landscape conceived as an artistic practice. The landscape is shaped to evoke certain affectively charged attitudes towards time and the past. Some take what might be dubbed an “archaeological” perspective on ruins.7 Archaeological ruins have three constitutive characteristics. First, they are built structures that have been taken over by natural forces so that they no longer serve any design function. That is, they no longer serve any function for which they were originally designed or any function for

Neo-picturesque 135 which they have been restored, renovated, or adapted. At best, they serve passing functions, functions for which they were never designed. Second, they involve absence: parts are missing; form is undone. Third, they have a special relationship to time. On one hand, they evidence the passing of long stretches of time; on the other, they are essentially momentary, always undergoing decay, by contrast with architecture, which resists the effects of time.8 The archaeological perspective no doubt has its place in explaining aesthetic responses to some ruins. They are apt to evoke the sublime, for example. However, we also need a concept of the ruin as it figures in the picturesque and neo-picturesque. These ruins cannot be reduced to renovation projects, such as we see in every city’s “warehouse district.” A three-way distinction is needed between a ruin in the archaeological sense, a restored structure, and a ruin as a picturesque medium. In picturesque and neo-picturesque ruins, natural forces of decay are stopped or controlled and novel programs and events enlist new uses. Crucially, though, the new uses are ones through which affectively charged attitudes towards time and the past are evoked. Duisburg Nord, the High Line, and Evergreen Brick Works Three examples of neo-picturesque landscapes convey the general character of the neo-picturesque as well as its potential impact. Duisburg North Landscape Park, designed by the landscape architects Peter Latz and Partners, was critical in demonstrating how to recruit remnants of the industrial age to serve as mnemonic devices. The park’s site was the former Thyssen complex, covering 230 hectares in Germany’s once heavily industrialized Ruhr valley. Between 1901 and 1985, the complex came to include iron and steel works, an open wastewater channel, cooling troughs, a coke production plant, a power plant 170 meters in length, and a network of industrial railways. When most of the facility closed in the mid-1980s, the people of Duisburg were left with a highly contaminated landscape of industrial junk. In 1991, Peter Latz and Partners won an international competition to decontaminate and revision the Thyssen lands as a park. Latz’s fundamental idea was to retain some abandoned structures in order to stimulate memories of the site’s industrial past.9 Resisting the urge to cover up the past, he “sought to reveal what the rubble concealed.”10 Abandoned railway tracks, scaffolding, blast furnaces, and foundry walls function much like ruins in eighteenth-century landscapes. Rust-encrusted metal framing replaces lichen-covered limestone follies; a complex network of paths replaces the graceful lines of the narrative pathways found in picturesque gardens. Visitors following the network through the park encounter steel and concrete maintained in a perfect state of decay (Figure  11.1). The park’s management plan instructs


Susan Herrington and Dominic McIver Lopes

Figure 11.1 Remedial planting at Duisburg North, Ruhr Valley, Germany, by Latz + Partner, Landscape Architects Source: Photo by Arnoldius

gardeners to preserve “the stages of spontaneous and pioneer vegetation and intensive, annual maintenance of herbaceous borders.”11 Over 700 plant types, many that absorb and convert toxins in the soil, coil and creep up the deteriorating structures, giving visual form to a feeling of ruination. As in eighteenth-century picturesque landscapes, the whole park cannot be taken in at one glance. Hulking industrial piles function as eye catchers, much as do the ruins and follies of Stowe and Stourhead. Visitors are drawn to them and must comprehend the park by walking through and around them. Traversing old railway lines, they pass under abandoned bridges, through dark tunnels, and attain promontories that afford vistas of the park (Figure 11.2). Detailed knowledge of the structures’ previous function is not required. Few park visitors know what the tanks, gasometers, or strange concrete pillars were used for. Yet they are invited to reflect upon the decline of the Ruhr valley’s industrial sector in the face of pollution and foreign competition. These inferences replace the thematics of eighteenth-century picturesque landscapes, which were designed for musing on the lost virtues of the classical era.



Figure 11.2 Water park at Duisburg North, Ruhr Valley, Germany, by Latz + Partner, Landscape Architects Source: Photo by DerHexer

Stressing the importance of the imaginative freedom of visitors to the park, Latz claims that “these places of devastation offer much greater freedom of action, not only to landscape architects, but above all, the user.”12 Park visitors’ imaginative freedom is put in play by the programming of structures in the park, which inverts their original uses. The gasometer is a scuba diving facility. Ore storage bunkers become a climbing garden for the German Mountaineering Club. Cooling troughs are transformed into lily ponds. The blast furnace hosts a late-night dance club. Another post-industrial landscape with a neo-picturesque aesthetic is New York’s High Line. The High Line is a linear park that sits atop a 10-meter high abandoned railway that snakes through twenty-three blocks of Manhattan (Figure 11.3). Built in the 1930s, the line primarily served the meatpacking industries that operated along its route, and it was elevated both to prevent collisions between trains, pedestrians, and automobiles and also to increase the efficiency of the meat operations. By the 1950s, trucking had rendered the trains obsolete, and the line was gradually abandoned, left to stand derelict for almost a half a century, though it appeared as a crime scene in an episode of the television show, Law and Order. It was an ideal place to hide a dead body, not only


Susan Herrington and Dominic McIver Lopes

Figure 11.3 Start of the High Line, New York City, USA, by James Corner Field Operations (Project Lead), Diller Scofidio + Renfro, and Piet Oudolf Source: Photo by Tony Hisgett

because it was off-limits to the public, but also because of the ecosystem of 161 types of wild grasses and other pioneering plants that had seeded themselves along the tracks.13 Segments of the railway were torn down, and many citizens pushed for its complete removal, but railroad enthusiasts consistently blocked its complete destruction. By 2000, the derelict line had acquired some urban patina. Like a found ruin in an eighteenth-century landscape garden, the line, ravaged by time and the vagaries of nature, came to be appreciated both for its raw poetry and for its tenacity as a holdout of Manhattan’s industrial past. Like many landscape architecture projects, it made friends, and the Friends of the High Line held a competition for its redesign and reopening to public use. James Corner Field Operations with Diller Scofidio + Renfro and Piet Oudolf won the competition with the proposal: keep it wild (Figure 11.4). Their scheme allowed easy access up to the railway line, where visitors would find copious plantings and many small seating areas. Piet Oudolf, a Dutch master gardener known for his skill at using grasses and perennial plants to obtain a wild, undesigned look, installed over 400 plant species in thirteen thematic gardens along the 2.5-kilometer length of the elevated structure.14 The landscape architects, James Corner Field Operations, designed a paving scheme with lozenge-shaped cutouts



Figure 11.4 The High Line, New York City, USA, by James Corner Field Operations (Project Lead), Diller Scofidio + Renfro, and Piet Oudolf Source: Photo by Kimon Berlin

to enable plants to establish themselves, resisting any sense of a formal planting bed (Figure 11.4). Since its opening in 2009, millions of visitors have walked the newly reclaimed space from Gansevoort Street to West 34th Street. Because it is elevated and circumvents the street grid, they enjoy vistas that cut through the typical framing of buildings on the street. The main entrance at Gansevoort Street is a “slow stair” of landings and low risers designed to slow your pace as you make your ascent up to the garden. According to Matthew Johnson of Diller Scofidio + Renfro, “it was important that visitors could be uniquely exposed to the historical structure as a kind of introduction to the High Line, positioning them directly under and within the depths of its massive beams.”15 The site’s history as the backbone of the Meatpacking District is evident in the preservation of the 1930s structure, but also in the wild, overgrown plantings. Just as lichen and other plants gave temporality to the eighteenth-century picturesque gardens, the dynamics of Oudolf’s plantings evoke a sense of time passing. Of course, Oudolf visits the High Line on a regular basis to maintain the plants in the perfect state of pastness. Many historic buildings that surround the High Line—former processing facilities, refrigerated warehouses, the National Biscuit Company (which the line runs right through), and nineteenth-century brick


Susan Herrington and Dominic McIver Lopes

apartment buildings—have also been preserved and repurposed. Anyone weaving through this intentionally designed wild corridor in the middle of Manhattan is liable to be reminded of New York’s industrial past, a past that is now just distant enough to make the High Line a neopicturesque landscape. The same goes for Evergreen Brick Works. Located in the Don River valley on the eastern edge of Toronto, the site was first home to a paper mill in the early nineteenth century but was converted to a quarry and brick factory with the discovery of ideal brick clay. The Don Valley Brick Works operated for almost a hundred years, manufacturing bricks for some of the most distinguished buildings in Toronto and elsewhere in Canada. By the 1980s the site’s clay deposits had been depleted, and by the 1990s a plot of 16 hectares was rezoned for use as a park. An assemblage of manufacturing facilities, kilns, and a towering smokestack remained abandoned while the quarry was filled (Figure  11.5). In the early 2000s Evergreen, a non-profit, sought a new vision for the site, one that would showcase sustainability and house a community eco-art center. The landscape architects, Claude Cormier + Associates, with E.R.A. and Diamond Schmidtt Architects, won the commission. The overall concept was green industrial, brought into twelve different programming

Figure 11.5 Smokestack remnant at Evergreen Brick Works, Toronto, Canada, landscape architecture by Claude Cormier + Associates Source: Photo by Ian Irving



spaces. As in Duisburg Nord, an inversion of programming in the structures and open spaces draws attention to their past. One of the smokestacks (there were originally four), the signature of the Don River Valley Brick Works facility, was maintained and now serves as the landmark for a children’s garden. The outdoor work yard has been converted into a greeting/entrance area called “Tiffany Commons.” Cormier’s design repurposed the columns of the original kiln to create a towering trellis covered with grapevines. Passing under the trellis that dangles with leaves and tendrils, you are confronted with fourteen enormous circular planters teeming with birches and native species. The combination of aged industrial structures with dense plantings gives an illusion of being in a wild, untamed landscape, and (were it not for the tourists) an abandoned one at that. The Koerner Gardens, which now hosts weddings, school visits, and other social events, is among the most imaginative transformations at Evergreen Brick Works. The designers removed the roof of what was a brick refining facility, leaving only the steel trusses that once supported the roof. On the ground plane, shrubs and trees, planted in islands, have matured, and many of the trees now reach past the trusses and into the open sky. During the long Toronto winters, the space is flooded, and Koerner Gardens becomes an ice rink reminiscent of the frozen wetlands often used for skating in the countryside. Indeed, the plants lend a sense of mystery to what would otherwise be a sterile expanse of pure ice (Figure 11.6).

Figure 11.6 Koerner Garden turns into an ice skating rink in winter at Evergreen Brick Works, Toronto, Canada, landscape architecture and photo by Claude Cormier + Associates

142  Susan Herrington and Dominic McIver Lopes The complex feels as if it is giving way to the forces of nature. Oxidized metal replaces lichen-covered limestone, complex networks of conduit substitute for decorative treillage, and thoughts on the loss of a golden age are replaced with reflections upon the depletion of natural resources—indeed the very resource (clay) from which the complex is constructed. Yet, witnessed through the frame of the art of design, the tragedy of the site is not without pleasure. As one Toronto blogger put it, “the allure of the Evergreen Brick Works is its physical landscape. Each step offers more discovery and new vantage points.”16

The Neo-picturesque among the Arts of Memory All arts are social practices that revolve around the use of a medium, which is a set of techniques applied to some resources to access what the resources afford.17 The arts of memory vary in their media but share in common that they use their media to preserve, enhance, or shape memory. The neo-picturesque is one of the arts of memory. According to Nicolas Wolterstorff, the arts of memory overlap with memorial art, which comprises a use of a medium to honor, and perhaps the neo-picturesque is a form of memorial art as well.18 What exactly is the neo-picturesque? For one thing, the neo-picturesque is not the picturesque. The picturesque applies to the medium of landscape a distinctive stylistics, a formal palette, and a thematics, in order to invite certain affective responses. The neo-picturesque employs a different formal palette and thematics to invite similar responses. Moreover, whereas ruins (and follies) are typical of the picturesque, the neo-picturesque requires ruins. The responses we are invited to take to neo-picturesque landscapes are responses to what the ruins stand for. The necessity of the three-way distinction drawn before the case studies in the previous section should now be obvious. To begin with, landscapes such as Duisburg North, the High Line, and Evergreen Brick Works feature ruins that are not ruins in the archaeological sense. They are not very old—a century or less. They are no longer subject to unconstrained natural forces—on the contrary, great care is taken to maintain them in their current condition. They do not foreground what is absent (the missing bits); they showcase what has been preserved. Above all, they have been endowed, by design, with new practical functions, specifically leisurely ones. In these respects, they contrast with modern archaeological ruins, such as the Superfund sites of the US Rust Belt. At the same time, they contrast with the kind of renovation projects that are nicely illustrated by loft conversions in warehouse districts. They relate us in a special way to the past. Like picturesque landscapes, they function to preserve, enhance, or shape memory. Zoltán Somhegyi argues that, unlike classical and medieval ruins, industrial ruins are unsettling. We sense the life that only just recently

Neo-picturesque 143 filled spaces that are now thoughtlessly abandoned, we cannot take comfort by assigning that life to another age very different from our own, we worry that our fate will be the same as that of our parents or grandparents, and we are anxious “when we think about the future of our aesthetic culture or our future aesthetic culture or our future, tout court.”19 While Duisburg North, the High Line, and Evergreen Brick Works are open-ended and edgy enough to accommodate and even solicit thoughts along these lines, anxiety is not the dominant mood. The dominant mood is that of pleasure taken in imagination, play, and exploration. To see the force of the skeptical challenge, consider this double dilemma. Either it is important to the success of Duisburg North, the High Line, and Evergreen Brick Works that they preserve, enhance, and shape memory—or it is not. If it is not, then there is no practice of the neo-picturesque that is kin to the eighteenth-century picturesque—maybe Duisburg North, the High Line, and Evergreen Brick Works are especially ingenious renovations for entirely new uses, of a kind with loft conversions, as Somhegyi would argue. However, if there is a genuine neo-picturesque, then neo-picturesque landscapes serve a memory function. In that case, the second dilemma is that it is at once too easy and too hard for neo-picturesque landscapes to serve a memory function. On one hand, preserving the remains of the industrial past automatically preserves, enhances, and shapes memory. Trace is memory. On the other hand, one might wonder how repurposing a railway as a stroll way or a bunker as a climbing garden is a way to preserve, enhance, and shape memory of the past. If there is more to neo-picturesque memory than the trace, then what does it have to do with imaginative play and exploration? The solution to both dilemmas, in defense of the neo-picturesque, lies in a conception of memory as embodied in the kinds of activities that make up the programs for neo-picturesque landscapes. The arts of memory use their media to preserve, enhance, or shape memory, often in a broad or extended sense of “memory.” In a narrow sense, a memory is a state of mind that represents some event that is part of one’s past life. Personal memories can be episodic or not episodic. You might remember the telling of a joke by replaying it in your mind, or you might just remember that the joke was told. Extending a little beyond the narrow sense of memory, we talk of memory in relation to recall of learned facts. You might remember that the year of the Royal Proclamation is 1763. If you have just learned the fact, you can now recall it. Obviously, the arts of memory have little to do with preserving, enhancing, or shaping memory in these senses. Memory is something broader. Here is Noël Carroll piling up observations to articulate what memory is in the arts of memory (which he calls “memorial art”): Memorial art functions vividly to remind its audiences of culturally important events and persons and of the commitments, values,

144  Susan Herrington and Dominic McIver Lopes virtues, and beliefs for which they stand. By celebrating the past, and the ethos they represent, memorial artworks attempt to facilitate the reproduction of the relevant social group by inspiring emulation. They function to recall the past, and, through the process of recollection, to encourage continued imitation. Such artworks enliven perhaps forgotten or neglected commitments and ideals (whose full seriousness and relevance is often overlooked) through its sensuous appeal and they attempt to project them onto the future by inspiriting posterity to remain true to its heritage. Memorial art often expresses national pride, pride in the national ethos whose continuance it abets.20 Note that memory cannot serve in memorial art to transmit culture, inculcate values or ideals, celebrate or praise the past, or instill pride unless it is representationally rich. Not all memory is representationally rich. Wolterstorff’s home town was named in memory of a chap by the name of “Bigelow.” The act of memorializing him by naming a town after him is not representationally rich. The act tells us almost nothing about him. Maya Lin’s Vietnam Veterans Memorial is representationally rich. By naming more than 58,000 dead in the chronological order of their deaths, it tells a story about the war, about attitudes towards conflict in the late twentieth century, and even about what it is to be a war memorial. Only through this rich memory content does it pay honor, transmit ideals, inculcate values and ideals. Suppose, with Carroll, that memory can “transmit the ethos of a culture.”21 Mere trace does not suffice; rich memory content is required. Then the question is what goes into the “ethos” of a culture that can be preserved, enhanced, or shaped by works in the arts of memory? Neopicturesque landscapes demonstrate that we must take care not to overintellectualize. Little of their power derives from the memory that this was an industrial complex, that a railway line ran through Manhattan, that Toronto’s famous red and yellow bricks came from here. What they preserve, enhance, and shape is a memory of the materiality, mechanics, and scale of the spaces of the industrial past. Any environment is made up of materials, arranged on a scale, assembled together to perform a function. That its environment forms part of the “ethos” of a culture is obvious to any tourist, but we tend not to be tourists at home. Special efforts are needed to draw attention to what is too familiar. In the neo-picturesque, experience of the materiality, mechanics, and scale of the industrial past is preserved, enhanced, and shaped through inversion of use. The ore bunker, the elevated railway, the steel girders loom over us and command attention. Yet in climbing the bunker, strolling through Oudolf’s plantings, or skating beneath the girders, we playfully explore remnants of the past, thereby highlighting

Neo-picturesque 145 their distinctive materiality and engineering, as well as the effects on them wrought by the passage of time. We can now answer the question with which we began: what, exactly, is the neo-picturesque? The neo-picturesque is an art practice that uses the medium of landscape to preserve, enhance, and shape environmental memory—memory in the form of experiences of a material past. It therefore implicates memory that is more than mere trace of the past, and it is certainly not reducible to the kind of adaptation for new use that is typical of loft conversions. Wolterstorff distinguishes what has here been called the arts of memory from what he calls memorials. He argues that not all memorials serve to preserve, enhance, or shape memory. Instead, memorials essentially serve to pay honor or respect—though they sometimes achieve this end by preserving, enhancing, or shaping a memory of what they honor. He notes that the practice of paying honor runs “deep in human existence,” and he makes some astute points about the conditions on honoring.22 For example, honoring does not imply praising and does not imply the attribution of any admirable traits. An act counts as honoring simply by declaration, by convention, or by common practice, so long as the act is fitting. Finally, memorials function as such only as long as they continue to afford acts of “venerative engagement,” acts such as silent contemplation, laying wreaths, and bowing heads. If neo-picturesque landscapes necessarily honor our industrial past, then they constitute a special case of memorial art in Wolterstorff’s sense. Need they serve to honor the industrial era? The question deserves more study, but we can now see how to approach an answer. We need not ask whether the neo-picturesque praises or points to some admirable attributes of those dark satanic mills. All three of the designs described in this paper draw our attention to how much damage industry caused. Instead we might ask whether it is part of the practice of neo-picturesque landscape architecture that it honors the histories of the sites upon which it intervenes. Very good evidence on that score will lie in whether the specifics of the interventions, especially the inversions of use, are fitting ways to honor the past. Do we honor certain places and people by designing spaces for imaginative play and exploration? Or would the descendants of the men and women who worked in the Thyssen complex scoff at the mountaineering club members who belay the walls of the ore bunker? Would they insist on venerative engagement?

Notes 1. Susan Herrington, “Framed Again: The Picturesque Aesthetics of Contemporary Landscapes,” Landscape Journal 251 (2007): 22–37. 2. Gina Crandell, Nature Pictorialized: “The View” in Landscape History (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993).

146  Susan Herrington and Dominic McIver Lopes 3. Ann Bermingham, Landscape and Ideology: The English Rustic Tradition, 1740–1860 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986); Sidney K. Robinson, “The Picturesque: Sinister Dishevelment,” Threshold 4 (1988): 76–81; W.J.T. Mitchell, ed., Landscape and Power (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). 4. Dominic McIver Lopes, Beyond Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), chs. 7–8. 5. Herrington, “Framed Again.” 6. Thomas Whately, “Observations on Modern Gardening,” in The Genius of the Place: The English Landscape Garden, 1620–1820, eds. John Dixon Hunt and Peter Willis (New York: Harper and Row, 1975), 307. 7. Zoltán Somhegyi, “The Aesthetic Attraction of Decay: From the Nature of Ruins to the Ruins of Nature,” International Yearbook of Aesthetics 18 (2014): 318–26; Zoltán Somhegyi, “Ruines Contemporaines,” Nouvelle Revue d’Esthétique 13, no. 1 (2014): 111–19. 8. This is a Euro conception of architecture in relation to time. See Dominic McIver Lopes, “Shikinen Sengu: The Ontology of Architecture in Japan,” in Aesthetics on the Edge: Where Philosophy Meets the Human Sciences (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 62–76. 9. Memory is selective. There is no acknowledgment in the park of the close connection between the steel industry and the Nazi Party or of the use of Jewish prisoners for slave labor in the steel plant during World War II. John Beardsley, “Conflict and Erosion: The Contemporary Public Life of Large Parks,” in Large Parks, eds. Julia Czerniak and George Hargreaves (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2007), 209. 10. Udo Weilacher, “The Syntax of Landscape: Peter Latz,” in Between Landscape Architecture and Land Art (Basel: Birkhäuser, 1996), 122. 11. Peter Latz, Rust Red: Landscape Park Duisburg-Nord, eds. Cordula Gielen and Anneliese Latz and trans. Caroline Ahrens (Munich: Hirmer, 2016), 126. 12. Ibid., 129. 13. Piet Oudolf and Rick Darke, Gardens of the High Line: Elevating the Nature of Modern Landscapes (Portland, OR: Timber Press, 2017), 28. 14. Ibid. 15. Ibid., 42. 16. Bob Georgiou, “Scenes from Evergreen Brick Works,” Scenes from a City, February  2, 2018, scenes-from-evergreen-brick-works. 17. Lopes, Beyond Art, chs. 7–8. 18. Nicholas Wolterstorff, Art Rethought: The Social Practices of Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), ch. 10. 19. Somhegyi, “Ruines Contemporaines,” 118–19. 20. Noël Carroll, “Art and Recollection,” Journal of Aesthetic Education 39, no. 1 (2005): 7. 21. Ibid., 5. 22. Wolterstorff, Art Rethought, 132.

12 Layers in London How Buildings Remember Jennifer Judkins

The Roman town of Londinium (population c. 30,000) was the capital of Britannia and an international center of trade. It featured many significant buildings, such as a basilica, a forum for commerce, an amphitheater for entertainments, and private, riverside villas, all enclosed by a massive 2-mile long, 20-foot high wall.

The Layers in London None of these Roman structures is still visible as we walk about in the city today, except for a few very short stretches of the crumbling Roman wall. Although the contemporary urban environment is constantly changing, much of old London is actually still there but veiled, lying directly beneath, walled within, scattered about, or traced in outline, informing our experience of the modern city almost below consciousness. In London, the very heart of the town has remained in essentially the same place, heavily inhabited, for millennia, unlike many other ancient cities (Figure 12.1). It provides a remarkable example of how the past can continue to speak to us through ruins and have a real physical immediacy in our everyday lives. Walking through the streets aboveground, over this ancient layout, we are anchored with a sense of the city forever in place, in this same place. Its layers can be comforting and intriguing, daring us to dig in and reveal the past that teases us on the surface. The impact that compressed layers of buried structures has on the current built environment in London begins by shaping our patterns of walking and engagement. Although largely invisible aboveground, many only barely submerged ruined layers subtly, yet sometimes very directly, outline much of the square mile of the City of London today. The center of today’s London, from the vibrant medieval Guildhall to skyscrapers such as “the Gherkin,” sits atop the very center of the Roman, Saxon, and medieval towns. (In fact, the Guildhall is located directly above the Roman amphitheater, which is now marked by a marble oval outlined in the courtyard.)1 We can “know” the old city just by doing what we do every day in cities: walk, shop, eat, and conduct business. Unlike many

148  Jennifer Judkins

Figure 12.1 London in late antiquity (map Londinium c. 400 ce) Source: Photo Mike Peel, Wikimedia/Creative Commons

other large ancient cities, London’s civic center has stayed in exactly the same location for hundreds of years, accreting in these very dense, shallow layers, dampened by ribbons of now-buried rivers. As Peter Ackroyd, a longtime London scholar, observes: “The whole history of the city is compressed to little less than 30 feet.”2 When we are in London, experiencing its ancient layout through the discrete ways in which the built environment remembers it, we are participating in a type of imaginative “unlayering.” Attentive visitors can see “through” the modern structures and imagine the past, taking hints from the modern buildings themselves that often “remember” the past (an expression to be parsed shortly), even when they subsume or encapsulate previous structures. But why is this sort of aesthetic engagement so appealing?

Layers in London 149 Layers in buildings and under buildings, perhaps like layers in the mind, hold meaning that shapes our sense of the present. (Even our physical bodies themselves are layered through skin, muscle, bones, and organs.) In this case, when we stand in the midst of London, mentally unwrapping the modern city, we are performing a virtual unlayering. Part of what we are imagining is an authentic, hands-on unlayering: the act of archeology. There is an aesthetic pleasure in the agency of digging things up (or even just imagining digging things up), freeing buried or only partially visible items from debris, then “cleaning” them off. Pulling away layers offers an irresistible progression towards a “reveal.” There is also enjoyment in unlayering paintings, using x-rays and scientific equipment to get at earlier images beneath the surface, or cleaning them to make sure the “genuine” or “original” surface is revealed. We sometimes refer to the act of sculpting as the “freeing” of the artwork from the stone. Musical analysis is a type of unlayering. (And in philosophy, we “unpack” arguments.) The layers in London are largely a result of its earliest geography. Today that landscape is greatly smoothed, yet the built environment still reflects those original contours. Even London Bridge, joining Southwark to the city, has remained in the same section of the Thames since Boudicca fought the Romans, although the river itself has been narrowed considerably, due to the addition of the nineteenth-century Victoria Embankment and other reclamations. London’s superior strategic location, and that particular river crossing point, have always more than made up for the disadvantage of London’s rather poor soil. In order to retain this geographic advantage, newer buildings were often built upon and into the remains of older buildings, or structures were simply scraped off and replaced. When they burned down, others went up immediately atop the cinders. Large remnants of the encircling Roman wall, and even some of its imposing gatehouses, were maintained and augmented up into the eighteenth century, and in those places where the wall is still standing in ruins today, it often has been incorporated into newer walls or parking structures.3 Further upriver in Westminster, at perhaps the earliest Roman site, the Whitehall treasury sits on the remains of two important timber halls dating to the ninth century. However, the bridges and boats of the past are now gone, the hills are flatter, and the Thames is three to five times narrower than in those Roman times. Unfortunately, in most ancient cities we can only experience their early landscape in a very general, very large sense (major rivers, mountain ranges), since modern buildings and roads tend to gradually press out smaller features such as streams, foothills, and valleys. Fortunately for archeologists today, London’s dampness provided outstanding preservation for artifacts usually considered quite perishable, such as leather, metal, and the wood of Celtic and Roman bridges and wharves. In 2013, a gigantic archaeological dig in the central city (for the new Bloomberg headquarters) unearthed full Roman streets. Ten thousand

150  Jennifer Judkins artifacts, including hundreds of Roman leather shoes, shopping lists, IOUs, and party invitations were also found on the 3-acre site. The mud of the ancient Walbrook river had preserved them all, leading to the site’s new appellation: “The Pompeii of the North.”4 Ackroyd offers this example of the layering in central London: When Christopher Wren was digging below the remains of Old St. Paul’s, after the Great Fire, he found Anglo-Saxon graves lined with chalkstone. Saxon coffins of the same material lay beside them. Beneath these vestiges of a vanished civilization were Britons, with ivory and wooden pins showing that their shrouds had been laid in rows. Below these were Roman remains and pieces of Roman pavement. Beneath these Wren found sand and seashells.5 What Wren didn’t know was that a woolly mammoth lay under the churchyard. The recent underground Crossrail project included considerable archaeological advance work, with numerous digs through the entire depth of London’s history, from the Ice Age forward. One site (under Charterhouse Square, near the Barbican) revealed enough Black Death skeletons to provide the first identification of the Yersinia pestis pathogen: the first DNA evidence of the fourteenth-century plague. Even though so much of Roman and Saxon London is underground, a simple trip across the modern streets of the Square Mile often duplicates the ancient routes. Those who commute in and out of the center of London are often atop the old Roman roads, such as Watling Street, now the A2, which ran from St. Albans through town and became the road to Canterbury and Dover. During the archaeological excavation of the new booking hall for the London Bridge underground station, yet another old Roman road was revealed (which led to the old Roman bridge), located directly under a modern roadway, which leads to the current bridge. Many of the old Roman roads running in and out of London are easily visible on a modern map, and many of their dips and curves reflect London’s original hills and rivers. After the Great Fire in 1666, several plans were floated to reconfigure the city; however, in the end, it was largely rebuilt along those same Roman and medieval street patterns, as it was again later, after the bombing damage in World War II. Even the Tube routes remember the past, and some of those routes have been rather directly shaped by people. Between Knightsbridge and South Kensington, the Underground tunnel curves to avoid the compacted masses of skeletons left from the Great Plague burials in Hyde Park. Previously buried cities throughout the world are increasingly being discovered and unearthed. This is hardly surprising, given the improvements in technology, more sophisticated archaeological techniques, and perhaps most importantly (terrorist acts of destruction aside), a general prioritization of preservation today. Recent aerial photographs have

Layers in London 151 exposed still-entombed cities in Cambodia, Mexico, South America, and the Middle East especially. Who knows what is left to find? Even Machu Picchu only came to the attention of North America in 1911. Such is the claim that buried cities have on our imagination that some even became mythologized, such as Atlantis or El Dorado. London, however, is not like a buried city in any traditional sense. Its older incarnations can never be fully excavated, only glimpsed briefly and in small part, perhaps at a construction site, perhaps in a basement, before being recovered. Most of it is incorporated into later layers with the current city thriving above it. It is not like Herculaneum, for example, which lies just partially under the modern city. It is also unlike Pompeii, where we enter the world of the ancient ruins separately, and then reemerge back into the modern world. London is in some ways more like Rome, where there are also thousands of years of history integrated into the built landscape. Yet in Rome, while the underground layers are deep and significant, many of the ruins of major structures are quite visible aboveground, and we can wend our way through parts of the old city using these marked remains in a way that is impossible in London. At the same time, the ancient heart of the city, the Roman Forum, is no longer occupied and is available only in a very limited way. Much like the city centers of Athens or Jerusalem, the ancient center of Rome contains areas considered so historically and aesthetically valuable that everyday establishments such as, say, large restaurants and apartment buildings are not allowed to violate that space. Any major “intrusion” of the modern city there would be thought to be damaging and even morally wrong. We can walk among those ruins (or near them), but our experience there is a quiet, contemplative one, divorced from the current city center and quite vacant of its energy and directedness. In London, however, we engage with an environment still teeming with people and activity, still in place, still in the same place. We sense this location as it has always been, even as we stand in the midst of today’s city, walking among and surrounded by streets and buildings that have often been subtly shaped by their buried ancestors. Even though in London we often have to “imagine through” the contemporary cityscape, London’s past is in many ways very genuinely and immediately available to us. It matters that when we are in that same place, we know we are shopping, eating, and conducting business as people in London have done for hundreds and hundreds of years. It offers us a sense of a shared “everyday-ness” and ongoingness continuous with the past.

How Buildings Remember Although the geographic orientation of London itself presents a large schematic sense of its history, certainly not every single building or street reveals an obvious visible, physical connection to the past. Some of the

152  Jennifer Judkins largest and most fruitful archaeological excavations in London were completely covered over soon after being documented, in preparation for major construction above. (These archaeological explorations are required for new buildings in central London.) In some cases, unfortunately, the new construction then simply lies atop, divorced from the outlines of the past, and with little acknowledgment. For instance, we might walk right by the Bloomberg building at No. 1 Poultry, unaware that there are robust Roman streets and a market in ruins beneath it, with the ancient river Walbrook buried nearby. The recently built Royal Opera House sits above part of the Middle Saxon trading port of “Ludenwic.” Both of these archaeological discoveries, in the 1990s and 1980s, respectively, were enabled by the large-scale demolition of existing structures, as well as some good fortune that the later addition of basements (the bane of archeologists) had never obliterated the ruins. Some buildings, on the other hand, offer us very visible, intimate ways of “remembering” what lies beneath or within, especially if ancient architecture or landscape features have shaped some of the current building itself or its placement in the street. Although it may not be obvious at first glance to the observer, some buildings have actually been built and rebuilt over the centuries to accommodate previous structures. Sometimes this has been done clumsily, and sometimes quite elegantly. It is these accommodations and influences—the way that those buildings “remember”— that brings us a subtle but special engagement with history, giving us the chance to participate knowingly in that same space in our daily activities, and to have our imaginings enriched with those hints (the angle of a street, the depth of a doorway). The most common way in which buildings remember is simply by encapsulation. Over the years, structures were often built around and over ruins. In some cases, it was simply easier not to tear down some of those old stone walls. Once we are aware of these hidden artifacts beneath, however, the modern structure can be viewed differently. We begin to see it not only as the locus of those artifacts, but also as a container or protector of sorts. Buildings hold space for us, and their contents define them. For example, at 101 Lower Thames Street, in the basement of a 1970s office block, we can view the preserved remains of a second- or thirdcentury Roman house or inn. The Roman house at Billingsgate (as it is called today) was discovered in 1848, and it featured underfloor heating, riverfront views, and traditional Roman hot and cold baths. On this site, beneath some of the ash and rubble of the Great Fire of 1666, a Saxon woman’s brooch was found lying on top of some Roman roof tiles. Was she walking through these Roman ruins when she dropped it? Today, knowing that this Roman bathhouse lies beneath, we can see this rather nondescript office building as a kind of blocky custodian of the past. The ruins have become part of its identity. If it were more inelegant and

Layers in London 153 offered no public access to the ruins, or if its construction had destroyed them, we might see that same office block as an intruder, or even a malevolent force absorbing them. Very occasionally, when ruins of special significance are found encapsulated, the modern building is then carved out and entirely repurposed. The identity of the current building then becomes integrated into and functions now completely in service of those ruins. For example, the almost fully excavated Tudor-era Rose Theater is now protected in a building next to Rose Alley in Bankside.6 It was “found” after a routine archaeological survey preceding the demolition of a 1950s office block. In 1989, the Rose Trust was formed to save the theater. One can now see a Shakespearean play once again performed inside here, while sitting “on top” of the Rose Theater, which is outlined in small lights around the seats. The building surrounding the theater, once having had its own identity, now has a protective, curating role, much like a museum. Just down the street from the Rose Theater site lie the original Globe Theater’s remains, which are unfortunately covered by a parking lot and a historically significant residential block. Much as the Roman ruins below the Guildhall on the other side of the river are outlined in marble in that plaza, part of the original Globe Theater is now outlined in a dark stone arc across this parking lot. The paving stones are but a thin veneer for such riches; there is no building armored above, and the exposure feels wanton. The 1834 Anchor Terrace (the structure occupying the other half of the site) is historically protected, so it cannot be excavated. It may seem an intruder, having stolen the physical and imaginative space that holds the rest of the theater. Buildings also remember some geographic features that are completely gone now. The ancient paths of London’s many minor rivers, now disappeared, are “seen” in curving streets and even the orientation of buildings today. These ancient rivers rarely cease flowing, by the way, surviving in sewers, sometimes reasserting themselves by flooding construction sites. The King’s Cross train station and the Great Northern Hotel (1854) have large curved faces, bordering and reflecting the curve of Pancras Road. Pancras Road follows the (now paved) riverbed of the (now disappeared) river Fleet. The Fleet, running south to the Thames, was one of the last remaining major rivers in London, remaining fairly navigable until the early seventeenth century, when its numerous “bridges” merged into full pavement, later becoming Farringdon Road. King’s Cross train station and the hotel “remember” that curved portion of the Fleet River, and we can walk its ancient path there.7 Occasionally, smaller ancient architectural elements are just subsumed into modern walls, parking structures, or buildings during construction. We might cut through a parking garage and see a portion of the London Wall helping to hold up a corner. Walls are funny this way. Ruins of buildings rarely still act as buildings on their own, but walls are, well, still walls,

154  Jennifer Judkins even if they are now shortened and broken. In some cases, the buildings nearby have been cleverly constructed to avoid the old walls, and in the process they offer those exposed ancient walls a type of context and scale they would not have on their own, say, if they were just standing in a field. The newer structures around them have a type of framing function, providing modern walls to view the ruined walls with and against. Buildings themselves can also become subsumed. Original structural beams may be incorporated into subsequent construction, or an old basement left intact with a new addition above. Or individual materials from a now-ruined building may be reused: a hearthstone, glass windows, roof tiles. Christopher Wren’s rebuild of St. Paul’s cathedral is faced in new Portland stone, but those walls contain much of the “rubble” from the ruined (pre–Great Fire) medieval St. Paul’s. It is as if its walls are tightly grasping its past for us. Historical buildings can also wander in less noble ways. A great deal of the rubble from the Luftwaffe Blitz of London and Bristol was brought across the Atlantic to Manhattan as ballast in American ships. That rubble now forms much of the landfill under FDR Drive along the East River. (At what point in that process of knockdown and “wandering” did these particular artifacts or buildings become “debris”?) Sometimes just small parts of buildings “wander” and are preserved and displayed in museums or parks. These pieces have lost much of their context, yet they retain their genuineness and age value. They often offer clues to previous structures otherwise available to us only through photographs or paintings. Interestingly, they often retain some of their original function. Two of the stone cupolas that lined the medieval London Bridge can be seen today in Victoria Park, where they were deliberately relocated in 1860 in an effort to save them. These tall nooks offered room for pedestrians on the bridge to escape some of the noisy traffic meandering through the ramshackle businesses crowded along it. They are now installed in the park, still offering shelter and a seat. We can sit in one today and imagine ducking into it on the old bridge, surrounded by the rushing Thames and the cacophony of the carts wending their way through the overhanging houses and swinging signs. Occasionally, smaller architectural artifacts will be fully curated and displayed as artworks in museums, allowing us to imagine the original building from just that small piece. Paul Pindar’s house, having survived the Great Fire, stood in Bishopsgate from around 1599 until 1890. It had a large, brilliant jettied façade with leaded glass and fine woodworking. The giant façade is now hanging, sans house, on a wall in the Victoria and Albert museum, at a height suggestive of its former position on the building. Such is the power of just this single architectural feature that the entire house seems to return to life there on the wall. Like the cupolas from the old London Bridge, Paul Pindar’s façade offers only a fragment of the former structure. Yet its substance and its authenticity offer us a tremendously rich cue to imagine his marvelous home.

Layers in London 155 The “wanderings” of bits of buildings can also be inadvertent, and their original function voided by default. After the addition of the Victoria Embankment along the Thames, remnants of wharves from Roman times onward became stranded inland, along with various watergates that led from the shore up to commerce and housing. Still standing, and now marooned, is the York Watergate (1626), a small stone structure originally built on the riverbank, offering a gateway and stairs to the magnificent York house and gardens (Figure 12.2). With the addition of the Victoria Embankment, the York Watergate now stands stair-less (and mansion-less) 100 meters away from the Thames, and it implores us to imagine its feet in water. Unless we have a grasp of its original context, York Watergate is simply an Italianate arch, oddly planted at the end of a street. We often “feel a sense of history” in London, much as we do in many other ancient cities. That historical sense includes, but goes far beyond, a few cobblestone streets and some of the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century buildings still lingering at its margins. Our engagement with deeper, more ancient layers of London’s built environment is subtle, and yet it can be profoundly specific in moments. Even the softest curve of a street may reflect the landscape of a millennium ago, where the past is still held, below, protected, in place, waiting for us to unwrap it. An aspect of sanctuary is offered in these layers of old buildings and ruins. Oddly, these layers provide a feeling of protection against the

Figure 12.2 York Watergate Source: Photo Mike Peel, Wikimedia/Creative Commons

156  Jennifer Judkins future, even as we view the ravages of the past and the present. The sense of comfort and shelter that the layered past extends us is not entirely imagined. The Tube offers passengers a respite from rain and cold (and sometimes even a seat) as they traverse the city. In a telling example, during the Blitz in World War II, Londoners fled to the Underground at night. They slept on the staircases and platforms, very deliberately taking refuge under and shielding themselves with the layers of their city, before emerging with the daylight, back into the streets and their lives above.

Notes 1. The Guildhall recently began holding summer “Gladiator Games” in the Guildhall Yard layering the modern sport directly over the ancient amphitheater. 2. Peter Ackroyd, London Under: The Secret History Beneath the Streets (New York: Doubleday, 2011), 18. 3. The seven city gates survive today in place names: Ludgate, Newgate, Cripplegate, Bishopsgate, and Aldgate. From 1374 until 1386, Geoffrey Chaucer lived in rooms in the tower above Aldgate. 4. Here, as in so many instances around London, much credit is due to the deep engagement of the Museum of London (MoLA), which curates the history of the city brilliantly, and when archaeological work is being done, it engages the public spaces effectively with pictures and descriptions. 5. Ackroyd, London Under, 17–18. 6. The Rose was one of the first purpose-built playhouses. The archaeological discoveries included parts of the original boxes for collecting admission fees (hence the term “box office”). 7. A 900-year old well, whose spring still contains fresh, potable water, was just recently discovered in the basement of Australia House (the nation’s diplomatic mission on the Strand), which was built over the (now buried) river Fleet.

13 From Haunted Ruin to Touristified City An Aesthetic History of Venice Max Ryynänen

When the French naturalist writers, the inseparable brothers Jules and Edmund de Goncourt, admired Venice on their Italian journey (1855– 65), they found it remarkable “that Rousseau had spent more than a year in Venice in the 1740s and remained insensitive to its enchantment.”1 The Goncourts shared the hypothesis “that the modern age had in some way clarified human vision,” and the beauty of Venice had in their time become a commonplace.2 For Rousseau and his contemporaries, however, Venice was still just a city in decay, like a massive memorial to a building enterprise, which could be described as “sheer madness” (as historian John Julius Norwich puts it), hopeless to modernize due to its fragile infrastructure, and a reminder that even the most glorious cities can die.3 But by 1816, when Lord Byron arrived in Venice, the city had already acquired a more familiar aesthetic role in the eyes of the educated. Byron said that he had seen so many images of Venice that there was nothing new for him when he finally encountered the real city.4 He was still enchanted by (what was left of) La Serenissima, “the Most Serene of All Cities,” as Venice used to be called at the peak of its popularity. Byron wanted to be buried on the Lido, so that his tomb had a view of Venice proper, which he called a “haunted ruin.”5 Two intertwined historical developments in European culture (and its colonies and diasporas) changed our relationship to architectural remains and to ruins. First, Johann Joachim Winckelmann (1717–1768), the German “father” of modern archeology and the hailed author of the History of Ancient Art (1764), awoke an appetite for ruins. This is the source of the development which later made Grand Tours essential for the education of (mostly Central) European upper-class men and which today turns architectural decay into entertainment for the masses. In contemporary Venice, pictures of sites like Palladio’s Redentore and the broken church towers on St. Mark’s are framed and sold for people in a theme-park fashion. It is hard to imagine how little people were interested in historical architecture before the relatively late advent of interest

158  Max Ryynänen in historical culture. But when Winckelmann and his peers dug up Imperial Rome, our patterns of dealing with the past and its remains changed. Second, the “modern system of art,” as Paul Oskar Kristeller calls it, wove together the aesthetic and artistic interests of bourgeois and upperclass Europe, thereby forming the family of the arts (the fine arts), uniting in a single category disparate art forms such as literature, architecture, painting and dance.6 These two strains of development coincided with and promoted the ultimate destiny of the city of Venice. After degenerating into an early modern wreck, it suddenly became fit for Romantic appreciation (although it was not as perfect as a Gothic castle), and then developed quite naturally into an object of tourist culture. What is singular about Venice is the way it was built on created or reclaimed ground. During the fifth century, 100 or so small islands were turned into a city when the spaces in between were covered with stone and wood, forming a huge mass of constructed land. Although we have always expanded land into the sea to create urban space, Venice was created almost entirely in this manner over a relatively short period of time, developing an infrastructure so weak that it has always required constant protection and support. It is now, practically speaking, a ruin as a whole. The silent decay of Venice hit bottom at the end of the eighteenth century, just as the modern system of art was taking over the cultural scene. Scholars and collectors looted the city, which lost up to 25,000 paintings.7 Following the building of the land bridge in the 1840s, which made it easy to reach the city by train, Venice gained its late share of the Grand Tours, which were already using Rome and Florence as sites for education. The city soon turned into an object of modern tourism. As early as the 1870s there was discussion about the “tourist hordes” of Venice.8 Today the city, which had 400,000 inhabitants in its medieval prime, has 55,000 permanent inhabitants (there were still as many as 175,000 in 1951), with three people aged over sixty-four for every child under fifteen, and a tourist crowd reaching over 100,000 per day in the summer.9 Unfortunately, it is experienced now largely as cultural entertainment. I think the story here invites an aesthetic analysis. In particular, the turn from (romantic) contemplation to aesthetically engaged touristic use is a topic that could even fuel some thoughts on aesthetics itself. We are accustomed to think of certain philosophical theories of art and the aesthetic as rivals in describing the same reality. What if we tried here to sketch out a way to think of contemplative (e.g., Kantian) aesthetics as suiting well the first aesthetic phase of Venetian history (the period of silent decay), and then Deweyan pragmatist aesthetics as an approach to understanding its present touristified state? In this essay, I shall first discuss contemplation as a form of aesthetic dialogue with ruins. Contemplation was not just the main aesthetic attitude recommended by romanticism; it often describes aspects of our

From Haunted Ruin to Touristified City 159 aesthetic encounters. And it still occurs to us rather naturally when we visit sites which are not too touristified, which have something beautiful or interesting to look at. It is also a way of looking which we sometimes force on a place we want to view analytically. I will also talk about the way Venice as a ruined whole is a special case in this respect. In the second section, I will discuss Venice as an example that shows that touristification invites, maybe even forces us into a more engaged way of encountering ruins, although we might still want to understand the city from a contemplative perspective as well. If the first section calls for attention to philosophers like Immanuel Kant (and maybe even more the way his philosophy has been read and interpreted), the second section invites engagement with the pragmatism of John Dewey. I hope that this essay will not just frame Venice philosophically, but also invite us to see theories of art and the aesthetic from the point of view of the changing needs of the world in which we employ them. Thus I hope, in the end, to show that something more universal flows from this topic.

Contemplating Ruins In 1819, the Austrian poet Franz Grillparzer wrote a letter home from Rome. He was shocked. The locals tended cows inside of the Colosseum. Grass had taken over the building.10 Grillparzer had traveled over the Alps with the idea of a museum-like contemplation of ruins in his mind, an attitude which the Germans had fostered during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The way Central European philosophy raised art and the aesthetic into the spotlight of philosophy at the time resonated, not surprisingly, with this new attitude of admiration for the past. G.W.F. Hegel stressed in his aesthetics (full of traces of his admiration of Winckelmann) that the high season of art was already over. Even Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Judgment (1790) shows little interest in works contemporary with his time. The Critique focuses on older artworks, many of which Kant himself had never seen, such as Michelangelo’s frescos in the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican. When admiring old art, one can feel how meaningful the idea of contemplation is. Commentators on Kant and his followers have often focused on the way their philosophical stances have cut out politics and other contexts surrounding works of art. But I think one should ask if it wasn’t actually this “decontextualization” of aesthetics at the time of the peak of German philosophy which produced this focus on contemplation. Kant’s way of uniting empiricism and rationalism, by talking about the judgment of beauty as something where one thinks others are able to appreciate the same (a sign of belonging to a community), might have become the mantra of a misleadingly anti-semioticizing way of looking at art. But I think the view also reflects what it means to encounter historical remains.11

160  Max Ryynänen Kant’s main example in his theory of beauty was a flower (a rose), but culturally speaking old art was a focus of his works. To understand Kant’s and his successors’ idea of contemplation, one might need to spend time in gardens, traditional museums, and sites where one has the opportunity to focus on historical remains, in order to understand how much one needs to slow down and leave other things aside to come to terms with the objects. To engage with Michelangelo’s paintings in the Sistine Chapel, which Kant wrote about, ideally one has to lie down on a bench and just look for a long time at the ceiling. Even if one were on a hunt for homosexual eroticism in the images, or were seeking to locate a religious political manifesto in the painting, in some sense the visual connection needs some contemplative time on its own to develop. Major classical works of European high art are not made to work at one glance, as would be the case, say, with a Givenchy advertisement. The tradition of high culture has of course overtly fetishized this. As one sits in the enchantingly well-preserved ruin of the amphitheater of Verona, for example, one can suddenly realize that long ago plays were performed here in a historio-cultural context, where it was commonplace to arrive late as one now arrives at football matches, to drink, (call and) respond, and act as one would now act at events we would now label popular culture. Now one sits in that same amphitheater in silent contemplation with other tourists. Today, the traditional historical connection of contemplation and high culture still contrasts strongly with the more active and overtly responsive engagement of audiences that characterize today’s popular culture. One example of this contrast is discussed in Lawrence Levine’s Highbrow/Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchies in America (1994), where we can read how the reception of Shakespeare in New York changed from noisy and active to silent and contemplative when the way the plays were performed took a highbrow turn in the midnineteenth century.12 Shakespeare before that turn had been a type of variety show, adapted freely to meet modern concerns, and digested the way Mozart’s music was originally listened to (i.e., while drinking and commenting out loud on the events on the stage). Similarly, the crowds of New York were against changing Shakespeare into a snobbish system of recitation. This ended with the so-called Astor Place Riot, where the police in the end safeguarded the force-feeding of the masses with the new “dry” highbrow theater conception of Shakespeare. How instructive are such events on the way that we view ruins now, given the legacy of modern theories of art and aesthetics? The word “ruin” readily evokes an idea where a (once) decayed (but maybe well-renovated and polished) building stands out from the environment like a work of art, inviting us to admire its historical patina, its role in cultural history, or just the way it has survived or (obviously) not survived (if we call it a ruin) the teeth of history. We can of course be

From Haunted Ruin to Touristified City 161 open to seeing ruins more broadly, but typically we envision ruins to be walls, castle (remains), or houses. It is easy to see the size-related extensions of the concept in special cases. Statues, if they are large enough, like the enormous Buddhas in Afghanistan, are experienced as ruins when they are old and eroded, and when buildings are small enough (a hut) or made out of the wrong material (wood), the concept somehow becomes shallow. In most cities, if ruins exist, they are a part of an old township (here Venice differs from the norm). In Venice, the weak foundation on which the heavily decayed buildings stand is 1,600 years old in places and in desperate, constant need of renovation and support. It is incredible that pine trees were brought down from Veneto to the low canal waters between the 100 islands, where fishermen’s villages had been for ages, so that the lagoon could be turned into a human habitat to which people could flee from violent migrations.13 Although there are areas where the islands themselves form the foundation for the buildings, as in Cannaregio or some of the more distant islands outside of St. Mark’s (Murano, Burano), most of the structures have been so hard to rebuild that the city is constantly under threat. When one looks beyond the façade, from the edifices of the houses down to the base on which they are standing, the fact and feeling of an enormous ruin become almost too great to really be understood. It is remarkable that when all over Europe city planners were inspired by Haussmann’s “renovation” of Paris, which meant that the “dirty” medieval maze was opened up to boulevards and open-air spaces, in Venice the town planners were able to change only one street.14 Even if it is long, it is quite remarkable that the broad street starting from the railway station and continuing all the way through Cannaregio to the Rialto was the only place for the nineteenth-century flaneur to come out and show off. The rest is a labyrinth. Thinking about Immanuel Kant, I cannot but consider his very rationalist idea of the mathematical sublime, where it is not just the visuals but the finally incomprehensible huge order which one eventually contemplates. The medieval warren of Venice does not propose any idea of order, even though the same building methods have been used systematically all over the city. In some sense, the decay of the whole infrastructure of the city of Venice is a ruin-like entity, where one’s mind is touched by its sheer size and apparent impossibility. Kant did not write about it, but maybe one could timidly think about it as a historical sublime? It is admirable, and an object of awe, but quite impossible to grab sensuously or conceptually, as it is too massive and too layered historically. Kant himself starts his discourse on the mathematical sublime by saying that “sublime is the name given to what is absolutely great,” and then continues to remark on the way that great does not mean only magnitude.15 Neither is it simply about quality. A reflective judgment upon greatness is what Kant is after.16 We strive in our minds toward a progress

162  Max Ryynänen ad infinitum, and Kant thinks that the combination of stimulating this and being of a noteworthy size makes his point. Delight and pleasure come at least to my mind while I think about the Venetian infrastructure, just the sheer madness of the project, its size (a couple of square miles of city built upon virtually nothing), and of course the knowledge (and the sense experience) of the beautiful urban whole. How enormous can the urban craftwork of centuries of people be, and how fragile, historically unique, can it feel? Looking at where people travel as cultural tourists, it seems that most fancy experiencing historical architecture. One could ask if this is similar to traveling to natural sites. We might feel subjectively challenged while encountering grand natural phenomena, and the same happens at sites where history takes over.17 We often seek pure aesthetic comfort in historical buildings, although they may have originally raised ethical issues of which we are unaware. Royal castles and monuments of victory which no longer have a connection to the lived world are more aesthetic for us than anything else, even though their dark origins (war, violent nationalism), if known, might get in the way of the disinterested attitude Kant appreciates. (We have a similar difficulty in appreciating modern status-driven buildings that are problematic from an ethical and ideological point of view.) The same can be said of Venice, the war machine of the Mediterranean. Most of us have to force ourselves to see its façades as monuments to the violent victories won against foes such as Constantinople. I would like to add here one special margin of experience which I think needs to be discussed together with the contemplation of ruins. Elisabeth Povinelli writes, in her Geontologies: A Requiem to Late Liberalism (2016), about geological entities becoming “living matter.” She points to allegorical use, such as (a) the way we are made of the same materials as cities are—for example, of minerals and water (of which Venice truly is made); and (b) to the way we see, phenomenologically speaking, some “things” as “living matter.” One of Povinelli’s key examples is the sacred stones which Native Australians used to use to tell their secrets (one of them was under threat by a mining company.)18 I recall that when I was in my teens, I once stole abandoned graveyard stones with my friends. I took one home, but I could not sleep. Although I considered myself to be an atheist, I felt in some sense that I was hurting the person who died, and I took good care of the stone, and returned it in the morning. In some sense, artworks are living objects like this, and I firmly believe that historical ruins are living matter. They are not just stone. History speaks to us through them, and we want to listen to them and contemplate them. Whatever our attitude is, ranging from contemplative Kantian judgment to what I would consider to be a quite typical way of gazing at ruins (i.e., thinking about them as living matter), the contemplative gaze craves

From Haunted Ruin to Touristified City 163 and is rewarded by silence, a slow attitude, and concentration. You do not contemplate by running or facing physical challenges. We call that engagement.

Engaging With Ruins In an article on human engagement with nature, “Engaging Nature Aesthetically,” Joseph Kupfer neatly catches the Deweyan way of thinking about aesthetics as an active workout or dialogue with the object. In Kupfer’s text, the “philosophical protagonist” canoes and engages with wildlife and so gains fulfillment, not just by gazing and reflecting, but also through working out an active relationship to the ambience around.19 Reading Kupfer’s description, where pleasures are partly acquired through active interaction with beautiful, sublime, and sensual surroundings, one’s mind could easily drift to contemporary Venice, although here the living matter is less clearly experienced. The aesthetic experience of Venice today is definitely not the same as it was for Byron or other earlier visitors. One walks through tourist hordes, hears the shouts of the street vendors, and cannot come across any important building without postcards and hats being sold outside of it. The whole environment is in motion and noisy like a party. One can try to work out a dialogue with a building in a contemplative manner, but from experience I know that I myself can do it only if I arrive in the winter, early in the morning. John Dewey’s pragmatist aesthetics, mainly explained in Art as Experience (1934), was a mellow attack against Kantian thinking.20 Yet whatever the philosophical clash, when one looks at Dewey’s examples, one can see that he lived in a totally different world from Kant. He listened to “jazzed music,” read newspaper comics at breakfast, and desired to break the muted and elite order of the grand museums (like the Louvre), wishing for a more lively encounter with works of art. It is a different array of objects and aesthetic practices that pragmatist aesthetics addresses. In Dewey’s philosophy, aesthetic experience is the holistic height of a process, where lived experiences, memories, sensual delights, and aesthetic skills together accumulate into “an experience.” In his philosophy, experience is also not just about the mind but about the body, and the organic energies and the practices which mingle in the experience. When one enters a site like Venice during high season, it is hard, if not impossible, to catch the sublime side of the “classical” townscape. One actually catches more the rough, sensuous side of middle-class bodies which have arrived for a vacation, and the representations of the city dominating the forefront of the buildings. One’s body is driven through the city in the midst of thousands of kilograms of flesh, and it is easier to smell the

164  Max Ryynänen perfumes of the tourists than the bad smell of the water, already notable centuries ago (and which used to be worse when the canals were actually used as urinals). Postcards, ads, and even audiovisuals on a site are presented everywhere, often with images which portray the whole place in a kitschified light. I recall my fight to see St. Mark’s Cathedral when I visited Venice for the first time. It was August, and I had to queue, then tumble in as a part of the horde, and what I saw, I saw by being pushed (as the people in Poe’s short stories from nineteenth-century London), in the midst of human noise, and my experience was built partly as if I had been challenged by nature, like Kupfer in his canoe. I have paddled and I have hiked, but getting through medieval Venice when the tourists are all over, it is in many ways heavier going. It is less fulfilling, in some sense, as most of one’s energy goes into trying to get where one aspires to, although there are challenges (in nature the challenges are mostly about the strenuousness of the activity). Sensually it is a mess, beginning with the acoustics (hearing the leitmotif of Titanic played out loud by a man who sells flags), but also including sight, the way nothing stands alone, but is accompanied by an energetic, broad margin of sales, kitsch (with which I have no problem whatsoever in itself), and chaos. But perhaps I had a bad attitude. Should I learn from wildlife encounters? Why should a significant site be silent and invite contemplation? The labyrinth of living matter in Venice, where one adventures with the tourist horde, delivers a special experience which one would not get elsewhere, a combination of history, (high and low) aesthetics, and physical challenge. Could it be a site where organic energies could perfectly meet cultural frameworks, mixing the best of natural challenges and the arts, in a way which in itself could offer us singular experiential heights? It would be out of the scope of this essay to go into the quarrels that pragmatists, analytic philosophers, phenomenologists, and representatives of other schools of philosophy have had about aesthetic experience. I just think it is important to start discussing applications through a shared object which shows at least hints of how these conceptions could work differently in different uses of the same object. This is not to indulge in thinking that philosophy is a smorgasbord of theories where you can pick up anything any time you want. But I think you need productive examples to sketch out ideas about when to apply different theoretical stances. How do you decide which use of theory best resonates with current reality? What does one do when that reality changes? And what is the future of our active, currently global passion for ruins and architectural decay?

Notes 1. John Pemble, Venice Rediscovered (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 1. 2. Ibid.

From Haunted Ruin to Touristified City 165 3. John Julius Norwich, A History of Venice (New York: Vintage Books, 1989). 4. Pemble, Venice Rediscovered, 9. La serenissima, “The Most Serene of All Cities,” was the nickname of Venice during her peak. 5. Most of us know the island now following its pioneering role in beach culture (1920s). Orvard Löfgren, On Holiday: A History of Vacationing (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). 6. Paul Oskar Kristeller, “The Modern System of the Arts: A Study in the History of Aesthetics I and II,” in Essays on the History of Aesthetics, ed. Peter Kivy (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 1992), 3–64. For a review of gender, class and privilege regarding the development of the European system of arts, see, e.g., Christine Battersby, Gender and Genius: Towards a Feminist Aesthetics (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990); Martha Woodmansee, The Author, Art, and the Market: Rereading the History of Aesthetics (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994). 7. Alvise Zorzi, Venezia Scomparsa (Milan: Oscar Mondadori, 2001), 8. 8. This was commonplace already in the 1870s. See Pemble, Venice Rediscovered, 15. 9. Here one has to note that administratively Venice is part of the modern twin city Mestre-Venezia, which hosts over 600,000 inhabitants. For demographics see, e.g., the site of Venezia Autentica, accessed July  30, 2018, https:// 10. The cows are not mentioned, though, in Grillparzer’s poem “Kolos seum” (1819). Franz Grillparzer: Sämtliche Werke. Band 1, München [1960–1965], S. 113–114. See also Volksteater’s great presentation of Grillparzer’s agony, accessed July  30, 2018, nie-habe-ich-an-etwas-mit-so-viel-lust-gearbeitet/. 11. In some sense, Kant’s aspiration that only aesthetics should matter when we speak of beauty and the arts somehow brings to mind the birth of phenomenology and Husserl’s idea of systematic reduction as a tool to get access to the way phenomena work. 12. Lawrence Levine, Highbrow/Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchies in America (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988). 13. See Alvise Zorzi, Il repubblica del Leon: Storia del Venezia (Milano: Bompiani, 2001). See also Giulio Abici, Venezia fino a quando? (Venezia: Marsilio, 1967), which presents both in pictures and facts the way water is slowly taking over Venice. 14. On this development, and its impact on visual thinking, see Martin Jay, Downcast Eyes: The Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century French Thought (Oakland: University of California Press, 1993). 15. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 78. 16. Ibid., 79. 17. See, e.g., Wolfgang Welsch, “Reflecting the Pacific,” Contemporary Aesthetics 1 (2003), php?volume=1. 18. Elisabeth Povinelli, Geontologies: A Requiem to Late Liberalism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016). See especially chapter  2, “Can Rocks Die? Life and Death inside the Carbon Imaginary.” Povinelli also discusses living matter as our shared matter (e.g., the way the soil for example has many of the same ingredients as human beings). 19. Joseph Kupfer, “Engaging Nature Aesthetically,” Journal of Aesthetic Education 37, no. 1 (2003): 77–89. 20. John Dewey, Art as Experience (Chicago: Pedigree Press, 1980).

14 The (Future of the) Ruins in the United Arab Emirates Zoltán Somhegyi

The issue at stake in this chapter is how to create a modern country and at the same time maintain its cultural and historical roots. In certain areas of the United Arab Emirates (UAE), one can stand among traditional neighborhoods filled with semi-ruined houses and observe mushrooming skyscrapers in the background. Such a vantage might present the impression that an ever-growing creature was about to consume the remaining representatives of an older building tradition. The vernacular architectural remnants are dwarfed as expanding crowds of ultramodern giants cast longer and longer shadows over the region. However, the situation is not as straightforward or discouraging as it might seem at first, for there are many promising initiatives that might provide hope for those aiming to efficiently manage the country’s heritage and to enjoy its traditions. We need to remember that each period of architectural history presents numerous examples of how modernization entails sacrifice and urban development requires compromise. The UAE is definitely in transformation, now at a point in its history where delicate, reflective, and well-planned choices and projections are absolutely necessary. Fortunately, modernization does not automatically require the complete cancellation and destruction of all the elements from the past. It is not always a question of “either-or,” and there are hopeful examples of architectural and urbanistic solutions that accommodate both growth and preservation in a parallel and sustainable way. In this chapter, I investigate questions related to the aesthetics of ruination and the loss of built heritage, with a special focus on the situation of the UAE. The choice of the topic is explainable not only by personal considerations and circumstances (I am currently living in the UAE), but also because of the inspiring dichotomy that one can find when thinking of ruins and architectural heritage in this particular country. The UAE is world-famous for its breathtaking modern constructions, fueled by its generous natural oil and gas resources, and for its ambitious urban plans to further develop the country. Therefore, in the long shadow of the Burj Khalifa—currently the tallest skyscraper in the world—it is quite interesting, indeed crucial, to think of the various aesthetic issues

The (Future of the) Ruins in the UAE 167 connected to the remaining and often ruined examples of local and vernacular architecture. In the following I first give a brief summary of what has become standard understanding of aspects of ruination in general, before turning to the question of architectural heritage in the UAE. My goal is to understand the local approach and challenges of restoration and/or reconstruction, as well as the afterlife of the older built heritage. Although my analyses are about the aesthetics and heritage in the UAE, these considerations are relevant for heritage management and cultural policy in other booming territories as well. To understand better the particular challenges and requirements for the management of ruined and heritage sites in the UAE, first it is useful to remember some general aspects of ruination that will help us comprehend the local varieties of the process of decay and the aesthetic challenges that follow. What do we mean when we refer to a “ruin”? There are three elements or criteria of the ruination process that I  think can define a “real” or “classical” ruin’s existence: functionlessness, absence, and time.1 Strictly speaking, a ruin lacks or has lost any sort of practical function and purpose; until it reaches this state, it cannot be considered a real ruin, perhaps only an old edifice in need of maintenance. Naturally, in many cases the function and purpose of the building can change, novel modes of use can be added, or the edifice may be converted to serve completely different purposes compared to the original intention of its builders. Obviously, in these cases we cannot interpret it as a ruin, only when no more further practical functions are attributed to the construction. Absence is also a defining feature, the ever-growing void, the shaping of the negative space, the gradually becoming incomplete as increasing amounts of missing pieces show the continued ruination of the original construction. This anti-construction process results in a steadily growing proportion of the missing parts, where the randomness of the remaining elements may not only provide us with appealing forms but also incentivize the fantasy of the observer to complete the vision and reconstruct the original in her imagination. Lastly: time. The temporal framework is necessary for natural elements—weather, decay, invasion of molds—to destroy abandoned buildings. As a consequence we have such ruins that may impress the observer, making us think of the sublime amount of time aesthetically manifested in the ruins, which so much exceeds our own given time. Among ruins we can “aesthetically” encounter not only the power of nature but also the passing of time; however, this is possible only until the decay reaches the point that so little is left from the building that we cannot imagine its original integrity. During the temporary transition period—that is, when we still have elements of the original edifices that more or less can help us gain an idea of the previous and entire construction, and before the complete disappearance of them due to nature’s unstoppable forces—there are four options for dealing with the situation. In most cases, conservators,

168  Zoltán Somhegyi specialists in urbanism, archaeologists, and heritage managers need to decide from among these: 1. Let nature win: One could simply leave a building alone to face its fate by itself, letting nature totally overcome the effort of our ancestors, thus destroying the last still-standing built elements of the region. Without human interaction, the site gradually disappears, leaving fewer and fewer visual traces for future generations to learn about the former building and about the importance of the site. 2. Maintain the actual state: Keeping the current condition and shape of the previous edifice in the same form as we have inherited it, with the help of the latest available technology and the best practices of conservation. Ideally, preference is given to a solution where the original materials are kept intact and in place, given the necessary reinforcing to prevent further decay; hence stabilizing the form of the building as it had survived till the time of conservation. 3. Partial reconstruction: Completing, rebuilding and reconstructing the missing elements, while keeping as much of the original as possible. Naturally, in this case, the best solution is that whenever modern additions are needed, they are clearly distinguished and distinguishable from the original. This can provide the visitor with the impression of the original—including its forms, volumes, spaces, dimensions, etc.—and at the same time the clear difference between the original materials and modern ones impede deception and prevent possible “falsification” of the past. 4. Complete rebuilding: Destroying the remnants and reconstructing the original. In this case, as it often happens, only the basic form or exterior shape of the previous edifice is kept, and for the reconstruction un-authentic and modern building materials are applied. There are different grades of the inaccuracy or inauthenticity of the new building materials: they can be materials that already existed in the time of construction of the original edifice, and they can be completely new ones, deriving from definitely later ages than that of the genuine building. Needless to say, this can significantly harm the sensing and understanding of the original: even if we can feel the volume and space of the former building better than when it is kept in ruins, the “aura” and age value is definitely harmed, since it is not merely the physical extension and shape of the construction that constitutes the aesthetic experience; its materiality and especially the authenticity of the materials are also important aesthetic properties. Depending on numerous factors—including financial resources, political intentions, and the social and historical importance of the ruined edifice and even local cultural traditions—heritage conservation specialists must decide among these options. In many cases we strive to respect

The (Future of the) Ruins in the UAE 169 the entire heritage value of the former construction by deep-freezing its actual ruined state (i.e., not letting it decay any further), but at the same time also not reconstructing it in an inauthentic way. If we decide to reconstruct, however, then the division of the original remains with its aesthetic and archaeological value and the modern additions should be as clearly detectable for even the untrained visitors’ eye as is possible to effect. However, we should not forget that so far all this is very much based on standard, established Western modes of understanding and appreciating historically important buildings and sites. But we need to take into consideration that in another geographical area, with different cultural, historical, and social traditions, not to mention different climatic conditions, the above categories and the requirements they suggest can significantly change. This influences the possibilities, needs, and principles of heritage management too. The Arabian Peninsula’s, and more specifically the UAE’s, own physical and cultural environment urge us to analyze the subject from within its own perspective, customs, and purposes, without forcing the dominant Western perspective. An approach that focuses more on local aspects, circumstances, and conditions when defining the principles and priorities of heritage management is not entirely new, though it is still debated in theoretical, archaeological, and heritage discourse. One of the often-quoted early advocates of this idea is Denis Byrne, who, in his 1991 article titled “Western Hegemony in Archaeological Heritage Management” states his concerns about the very similar patterns and about the “coherent style” that one can see in archaeological heritage management. He claims that this generally Western perspective fails to take into consideration the local and regional varieties of heritage preservation. As he asserts: Despite the diversity of local circumstances it is clear that a fundamentally similar approach to heritage management has been taken in most countries and it seems equally clear, to my mind at least, that this approach is essentially the one which was developed in Europe and America.2 Needless to say, all the steps of prevention, acts of maintenance, and dissemination of knowledge related to the value of conservation that are listed in more detail in Byrne’s article are extremely important, including establishment of authorities and museums, mapping and surveying the heritage sites, projects for the safeguarding of endangered remnants, impeding the looting of the archaeological findings, and raising public awareness to the importance of the heritage and its conservation. However, we can agree with Byrne that after this these basic questions still remain: How these can be(come) integrated in the traditions and value systems of the local and regional community? How can they relate to the

170  Zoltán Somhegyi place and culture where the ruins in question are to be maintained in one way or another? It is necessary to bear in mind that there are risks to the achievement of our primary goals of highlighting the importance of a site if we insist on applying all the aspects of the Western ruin-values on non-Western examples at any cost. For example, the three elements of the ruination process might turn out to be limiting or misleading if we attempt to use them as exclusive guides for understanding and insuring possible paths of afterlife for ruins that are not from the classical Graeco-Roman past or from the Western Middle Ages. Earlier I highlighted the defining factors of functionlessness, absence, and time with regard to the existence of ruins. However, these might also change in non-Western locations. While obviously the criterion of functionlessness seems to be a basic necessity for a building to become a ruin, absence might manifest in different ways, compared to the Western counterparts, due to the diverse building materials and maintenance techniques, that can lead to further aesthetic questions of authenticity of the current state of the edifice. And the same with the temporal perspective: dissimilar building materials need different time frames for the decay of a building, and this also influences the perception and appreciation of the ruined edifice. The relative youth of the country also suggests another reason for the uneven temporal framework of ruins, which is often noted in the analyses of the tangible heritage of the UAE. The seven emirates were united only in 1971; therefore, remains of constructions that are even only a few decades old may have a significant status and become crucial in the national and cultural self-definition of the country. As we can thus see, the criteria used to define classical Western ruins are not necessarily directly applicable in the same way for the apprehension and appreciation of the ruins of the UAE and of the Arabian Peninsula, and this naturally influences not only the lure of the past that is aesthetically manifested in ruins (heritage appreciation), but also the possible future of these very ruins (heritage management). In this way, as was already suggested above, when evaluating the steps of treating and managing architectural heritage in the region, the local conditions, practice, and material requirements need to be taken into consideration. Just think, for example, how the different construction materials and their varying deterioration times, and especially the easy repairing and replacing of the materials used in the vernacular architecture of the region (e.g., mud bricks), basically challenge the Western ideas of originality and the principles of the genuine forms of architectural heritage. If a traditional building is still standing due to the regular—even as regular as yearly—additions and reinforcing of its walls, then it can of course be considered as a constantly maintained piece of architecture and not a ruin. But what if the old building is unused, partly already deteriorated, and then receives similar amendments? Is it then to be interpreted as an

The (Future of the) Ruins in the UAE 171 aesthetically questionable restoration of a ruin or a ruined edifice that has been brought back from a (potential) ruin status? Or, even stronger, should we take it as a fake restoration and falsification—fake from the point of view that the additions are “modern” (i.e., not from the construction period of the building), even if deriving from the same local natural material? Or shall it rather be seen as the proper and adequate form of heritage management adapting to local circumstances and applying traditional ways of maintaining the building? This latter reading is suggested by cultural heritage specialists Eric Langham and Darren Barker, based on their extensive consultancy work and projects in the region: The perception of what constitutes heritage is more fluid in the UAE than we have encountered in Europe. While heritage in the West is often perceived as the celebration of moments of a historical or monumental past, heritage in the UAE is more likely to be regarded as part of the experience of now. This is exemplified by the way in which conservation is carried out in mud-brick forts of the region, where heritage as a mode of continuous behaviour is clear to see. These structures change continually as layers of mud are added every few years to preserve them, underlining the belief that heritage is not something of the past; it does not stand still, preserving a single period, but rather reflects the constant passage through generations, with each responding to, and connecting with, the past in its own way.3 Therefore, understanding the local approaches to heritage is crucial when deciding on the afterlife of ruins. The traditional and locally typical modes of appreciation can and should influence the modes of maintenance in order to have a system of authentic heritage management. It may result in solutions that are surprising for a visitor arriving from other parts of the world; however, the forced application of “imported” heritage interpretations can just as much harm the cultural and social impact of the remaining architectural elements from the past as the complete ignoring and erasure of these very remnants. Still another aspect that needs to be taken into consideration is the importance of the educative function of architectural remnants and built heritage, as well as the community engagement that may grow out of it. Building connections to heritage sites naturally increases the appreciation of the phenomenon of decay, the valuation of the past and the connection to local history, which are all potentially triggered by ruined edifices. This sort of evaluation of decay can have rather superficial departure points: for example, in the design of some of the so-called thematic malls, entertainment and shopping centers, where one can often find references to classical ruination built in styles imitating European Gothic and Renaissance features. We can, for example, remember the “Outlet Village” in

172  Zoltán Somhegyi Dubai, where the design of the entire shopping center imitates the medieval Italian town of San Gimignano, including the random irregularity of the façades; what is more, even the anti-earthquake strengthening metal hooks are reproduced—obviously without the actual necessity, as there is no danger of collapse. These “imported” ruin references that serve as decorative elements may direct attention to and increase the interest in questions of heritage and its management. Even so, there are doubtless more complex, profound, and bolder approaches that aim to incorporate actual and authentic architectural remnants in the current and everyday life experience of the present inhabitants. These are important, especially considering how a historic edifice or monument can become a central element in the urban pattern, even if the city itself naturally develops and grows. A  curious example of this approach—as well as inspiring further engagement with the monument and its environment—is what we can observe in the case of the center of Sharjah, including the reconstructed Al Hisn Fort. The building was saved from complete demolition and recently has been reopened to the public after a thorough restoration. More importantly, however, apart from presenting it as a construction of particular significance for the history of the city and emirate of Sharjah, its historic position— “position” meant both literally and metaphorically—is also highlighted by regular attempts to revitalize its wider surroundings. The fort is on Bank Street, a broad thoroughfare deriving from the 1970s modernization period of the city, originally with numerous banks situated on each side, hence its name (even if many of them have since relocated). The street is an impressively strong axis in the modern urban pattern of the city, providing also a generous spatial introduction to the fort, at the same time that its wide stretch breaks the traditional spatial continuity between historic neighborhoods of the center. We can see regular attempts to recreate this continuity through socially oriented contemporary art projects as well as through the spatial organization and displays of these projects, for example through the distribution of the locations of the Sharjah Biennial. A  nice example of artistic repair of this urban continuity was focused by an art project titled “The Bank” by the Danish artists’ collective “Superflex,” when (re)creating a community space during the eleventh Sharjah Biennial in 2013. For the project, Superflex asked inhabitants of the area—many of them migrant ­workers—to name specific objects from the urban areas where they come from and that they were missing in their present surroundings. The objects were then reproduced and even brought to the public space. According to Superflex’s description: we have imagined a new, non-monetary banking model for the street. What if we were to regard the sum total of memories and stories of

The (Future of the) Ruins in the UAE 173 the people in this area as the real capital of the street? And what if this new currency could be invested in the new Bank Street and converted into physical objects? The result might be a credit-default swap in the form of a rusty metal dinosaur from a Portuguese suburb. Or a cash point that dispenses a ceramic pot of drinking water from a neighborhood in Islamabad. The Bank is an urban currency converter of such personal memories and stories, bringing great profit to Bank Street.”4 In this way, the banking model “converted memories into physical urban objects,” to quote from Mona El Mousfy and Shameen Syed’s analyses, and through the active use of these objects successfully managed to revitalized the area, hence the project mended, physically and socially, this extended urban space and demonstrated social activation through the turnout of hundreds of people who occupied the park as users.”5 The intended improving of the urban continuity I mentioned above can thus be interpreted both in the spatial and social-historical sense. Superflex managed to create connections—even if temporarily—between the neighborhoods that were separated by the thoroughfare when reusing the urban island. At the same time connections were created also between the personal memories of the inhabitants by bringing back the objects that they were remembering and missing. The attachment and sense of belonging was thus incentivized by the recreation of the space, dominated by the presence of the fort. We can consider this as a multilayered and efficient way of not only maintaining heritage but also highlighting its actuality and emphasizing that it is not a lifeless remnant in the urban element but has direct connection to the present inhabitants’ everyday urban experience of the city. Hence the rich architectural and urbanistic heritage of the UAE is significant not only from an archaeological or historical point of view. These sites disclose much more than what we can see and imagine at first sight, not only about how people lived in previous times. Even in their ruined forms, they can reveal the distinctive aesthetic sensibility of their builders, their striving for everyday beauty even when choosing the building materials, combining the natural colors or shaping the details of basic architectural decorations. The active protection of all this is crucial for the organic development of a country that is experiencing rapid transformation. Sensitivity to these values, combined with bold contemporary artistic interventions, can result in significant examples of activating the potential of heritage, thereby safeguarding the future of the ruins of the United Arab Emirates.

174  Zoltán Somhegyi

Notes 1. Zoltán Somhegyi, “The Aesthetic Attraction of Decay: From the Nature of Ruins to the Ruins of Nature,” in Aesthetics in Action. International Yearbook of Aesthetics, ed. Krystyna Wilkoszewska, Vol. 18 (Krakow: Libron, 2014, 2015), 319–26; and Zoltán Somhegyi, “Layers of the Past: On the Potential of Ruins,” in Max Ryynänen and Zoltán Somhegyi, Learning from Decay. Essays on the Aesthetics of Architectural Dereliction and its Consumption (Berlin: Peter Lang, 2018), 13–24. 2. Denis Byrne, “Western Hegemony in Archaeological Heritage Management,” History and Anthropology 5 (1991): 269–76, quote from p. 271. 3. Eric Langham and Darren Barker, “Spectacle and Participation: A New Heritage Model from the UAE,” in Cultural Heritage in the Arabian Peninsula. Debates, Discourses and Practices, eds. Karen Exell and Trinidad Rico (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), 85–98, quote from pp. 87–88. 4. Quoted on the website of Sharjah Art Foundation, accessed June 29, 2018, 5. Mona El Mousfy and Sharmeen Syed, “Cultural Exchange and Urban Appropriation,” Architectural Design 85, no. 1 (2015): 28–37, both quotes from p. 37.

15 Environmental Heritage and the Ruins of the Future Erich Hatala Matthes

This is an essay about letting go. The predicted rise in global sea levels threatens to make substantial parts of coastal metropolitan areas uninhabitable in the next century or two, and the United States will be no exception. Glimpses of this future, which we have seen in Hurricanes Katrina, Irene, Sandy, Harvey, and Michael, have prompted some to rebuild bigger and stronger in order to preserve existing urban centers against the impending threat. As flooding events have increased, we have witnessed a parallel deluge of proposals to increase the production of sea walls along major coastal cities. Proponents of this approach labor under a certain utopian vision of New York City and Miami comfortably bulwarked against a rising sea. The debate between “hard” and “soft” approaches to shoreline preservation offers some more qualified versions of these goals: revitalized coastal marshes and dune networks that could help prevent catastrophic inundation without the detrimental environmental and distributive effects of sea walls (which redirect the force of waves to less well-protected neighbors). But the goal of either approach remains the same: preserving coastal communities in situ, despite the encroaching ocean. The aim of this essay is not to adjudicate among these various approaches to coastal preservation, or even to offer a particular policy proposal. I also want to leave outside the frame the question of how best to protect against loss of life from extreme weather events, though this is certainly a question of the utmost importance. Rather, I will confine this discussion to the preservation of places, in particular the built environment and sites of historical and cultural significance, those places often categorized as heritage sites (a concept I will return to presently). Even when we confine our attention to place preservation, how best to guard against sea level rise will be a highly complex and contextual debate that will need to play out carefully across coastal communities, involving participants from local stakeholders to scientific experts (which of course need not be mutually exclusive categories). Here, though, I want to focus on articulating some conceptual tools for thinking about a different possibility, one that I  fear is inevitable—that some places, perhaps many,

176  Erich Hatala Matthes will be beyond saving. Even if we were to keep global mean temperature increase to 2°C by 2100 (a prospect that is looking impossible right now), the East Coast of the United States (where I  live) will be radically changed. Reporting from the 2016 Rising Seas Summit in Boston, Elizabeth Rush writes: “I see that no matter what we do, many of the landmarks we have long navigated by are going to disappear. It is not a question of if but when.”1 How should we approach the prospect of valuable places that we cannot preserve? Is this pure tragedy, or are there further facets to this outcome that offer the glimmer of something more? In this essay, I  suggest that a revised understanding of heritage and ruin offer the promise of an evaluative shift in which we can reconcile ourselves to the effects of climate change and the role we have played in bringing it about. As I will explain, resisting the impulse to preserve is difficult: it is deeply embedded in our evaluative and practical thinking. As Caitlin DeSilvey puts it: “It goes against the grain of human nature to step back and allow things to collapse; the urge to step in at the last minute to avert material disintegration is a powerful one.”2 But alternative ways of thinking about the relationship between value and preservation might allow us to approach our inevitable failure to save everything with a degree of optimism and humility, rather than despair.

Value and Preservation Whether the focus is on historically significant buildings, endangered environments, exemplary artworks, political principles, or our very lives, preservationist attitudes represent a fundamental pattern of human concern. This has led many philosophers to posit a tight conceptual connection between the nature of value and what G. A. Cohen calls the “conservative disposition.”3 According to these influential moral philosophers, some kind of conservative disposition is part and parcel of being valuing creatures. As Samuel Scheffler puts it: It is difficult to understand how human beings could have values at all if they did not have conservative impulses. What would it mean to value things, but in general, to see no reason of any kind to sustain them or retain them or preserve them or extend them into the future?4 In Cohen’s words: “The conservative propensity that I defend . . . is to preserve particular intrinsically valuable things, as such. . . [I] think this disposition of mine is not an eccentric one: I think that everyone who is sane has something of this disposition.”5 T. M. Scanlon writes: When we speak of recognizing the value of some objects, such as the Grand Canyon, or Picasso’s Guernica, or the great whales, what we

Environmental Heritage 177 seem to have in mind is that there is reason to preserve and protect these things.6 Joseph Raz agrees, “there is a general reason to preserve what is of value.”7 If these reflections about the relationship between value and preservation are accurate, then it’s no wonder that we have difficulty reconciling the verdict that a place is valuable with the idea of not preserving it. To be sure, the philosophers surveyed above are committed first and foremost to the idea that valuing entails recognizing reasons to preserve valued things, and that leaves open the possibility that such reasons will be outweighed by competing considerations. The idea that value and preservation are intimately connected should not have the implausible implication that we always have decisive reason to preserve valuable things come what may. Nevertheless, the idea that reasons for preservation are part and parcel of what it is to value something can make the failure to respond to such reasons seem like a failure to value it appropriately. I suspect that the very intimacy of the value-preservation relationship can have this implication even when preservation is practically (or ultimately) impossible, adding a sense of guilt to the other felt experiences of loss. However, there are cases in which a decision not to preserve is justified not only because reasons for preservation are swamped by countervailing considerations, but more positively, because there is something fitting about letting go. For example, according to the US Flag Code: “The flag, when it is in such condition that it is no longer a fitting emblem for display, should be destroyed in a dignified way, preferably by burning.” Certain kinds of artwork, such as Buddhist sand mandalas, require ritual destruction. Even in the case of persons, preservation is not always appropriate. As Elizabeth Anderson writes: It may make sense for me to love a person, but this does not imply that I must want that person to continue living. If he is gravely ill, it may be the best expression of my love for him to wish that he die quickly and mercifully.8 In the case of place-loss due to anthropogenic climate change, I will argue that there may ultimately be something fitting about letting go, both thinking prospectively, when the likelihood of preservation is bleak, and retrospectively, when we reflect on our inability to prevent destruction.

Rethinking Heritage Many of the coastal places threatened by climate change are plausibly construed as part of our heritage. If they were merely sites of shelter or commerce, we would have reason to preserve them as well, but read any

178  Erich Hatala Matthes Op-Ed, interview, or report about a recent flood and you will find particular concern expressed about places as sites of collective culture and memory with rich histories. The idea that heritage sites and historically significant objects in particular demand preservation (perhaps above and beyond other valuable things) is a common assumption of both academic heritage discourse and commonplace thinking.9 Heritage is a commonly invoked concept, but one that is also difficult to pin down. Broadly speaking, and not uncontroversially, it concerns an inheritance from the past that is used for present and future purposes.10 However, even within the range of views that exist, whether heritage is identified primarily with the monumental material past or regarded as a more subtle and participatory tool of the politics of recognition,11 heritage is commonly construed as having a positive valence, as being a good thing, especially within popular thinking.12 The idea of environmental heritage specifically is also often evoked in this positive sense, used to ground arguments in favor of stewarding environmental goods for the sake of future generations.13 Elsewhere, I  have argued that this positive view of heritage results in at least two morally significant problems.14 First, it can lead to disowning injustice: if we construe heritage as necessarily positive, then negative aspects of the past, such as historical injustice, will be excluded from counting as part of one’s heritage. This promotes the notion that historical injustices are “in the past,” or “just history” and not worthy of the same contemporary concern as what is properly identified as our heritage. Second, it can lead to embracing injustice. On this view, because heritage is construed positively, the fact that something is identified as heritage entails that it must be good. Those who defend flying the Confederate Battle Flag with the slogan “Heritage, not hate” epitomize this problem. Likewise, the emphasis on the positive aspects of environmental heritage arbitrarily excludes the detrimental effects that humans have had on the environment, and encourages us to disown histories of injustice that have been couched in pursuit of this very environmental stewardship. So, for instance, to embrace the US National Park System (which Wallace Stegner famously called “the best idea we ever had”) as part of our environmental heritage without acknowledging that the displacement of indigenous people was a necessary precondition of its creation is a mistake, and moreover, a failure of how we understand the concept of heritage.15 Indeed, the emotional attachment and identification that the concept of heritage invites has tremendous potential, provided it is marshaled in a manner that does not focus on the triumphal to the exclusion of the unjust. Thus, in contrast with the positive view of heritage criticized above, I have argued in favor of what I call the ownership view of heritage, which includes cognitive, evaluative, and affective dimensions. Essential to this view of heritage is that it makes room for the recognition of both positive and negative aspects of the past as part of our heritage,

Environmental Heritage 179 and thus offers conceptual tools for reconciling the valued aspects of our heritage with the sometimes unjust process on which they are predicated. Proper recognition of the National Park System as part of US national heritage requires an emotional identification with the injustices that produced it and a correlative openness to actions that accord with that recognition (memorials, reparations, use rights for indigenous peoples, etc.). We are now in a position to see that while climate change is presented (accurately) as the major environmental problem of our time, it is also part of our heritage. Not only is climate change anthropogenic, but it is directly tied to the capitalist-industrial engine that gave birth to our coastal cities and their rich cultures (as well as being predicated on the colonial displacement of indigenous communities).16 Rising sea levels are not simply threatening our heritage, but they are also part of our environmental heritage—the inheritance of generations of industrial activity fueling anthropogenic climate change. We are endeavoring to save the coast from ourselves. This observation aligns with other related tensions between our preservationist dispositions and our destructive behavior. As Cornelius Holtorf observes in an archaeological context: “No other age has, to the same extent as our own age, been transforming the surface of the earth and, at the same time, been valuing and seeking to preserve so many remains of the past.”17 Though he is referring in this passage specifically to large-scale building and agricultural processes that have unearthed troves of material artifacts, the point has a particular poignancy when read in the context of coastal loss from sea level rise. To be clear, I am not endorsing a kind of fatalistic surrender to climate change.18 We can and we should do everything that we can to mitigate and adapt to climate change, in particular for the sake of relieving suffering and protecting human and animal lives. But in cases where preservation is impossible or unlikely, I  think that recognizing the loss as part of our heritage offers a perspective that grants us a sense of ownership and agency over the loss, as opposed to construing ourselves merely as victims of a tragedy. To borrow a metaphor, Epictetus claimed: “Everything has two handles, the one by which it may be carried, the other by which it cannot.”19 Expanding our understanding of heritage to include the consequences of climate change offers us a handle by which to carry that loss. To help see this more clearly, we can find aid in our complex evaluative relationship to ruins, a physical manifestation of the ambivalence of heritage.

Ruins “Ruin” is a normatively laden, Janus-faced concept. On the one hand, the valence that it wears on its sleeve is negative. It is bad when things are ruined: they are destroyed, decaying, useless, abandoned. On the other hand, this negative dimension is at odds with the positive evaluation

180  Erich Hatala Matthes often granted to ruins in aesthetic contexts, where they are viewed as grand, poignant, evocative, nostalgic.20 In her recent monograph Curated Decay, which explores themes surrounding alternatives to heritage preservation, Caitlin DeSilvey writes that she avoids referring to the sites she focuses on “as ruins, partly because this label would fix their identity, and what I am most interested in is how these identities can remain unfixed yet still productive.”21 In contrast, I  favor the language of ruin for the opposite reason: I  want something fixed for people to hold onto. I don’t want to deny the possibility that we might need radically novel ways of thinking about ruin and loss. But in a time of dramatic material upheaval, I am inclined to think that the relative durability of ideas and concepts is a feature we should capitalize on rather than discard. It is the very fact that ruins have a complex valence that makes them such appropriate vehicles for the correlative complexity of heritage. The evocative appeal of ruins can serve as a conduit for reflecting on the consequences of our past, not just in a celebratory sense but also in a critical, reflexive mode.22 Ruins are both evidence and reminder of what we have wrought. Carolyn Korsmeyer describes the possibility of ruins functioning as “huge and immobile witnesses to the past.”23 Even where physical remnants of the built environment might not remain, there is potential to apply this ruin-thinking to co-located features of the natural environment that could function in similar ways. For instance, Shannon Lee Dawdy attributes a similar role to trees, writing: “There is something about the longevity of trees on the landscape as witnesses (and sometimes victims) to events over and beyond the human life span.”24 Elizabeth Scarbrough bridges these two reflections, noting that in ruins “we value the interesting interplay between nature and artifact, site and structure. In a ruin, the interaction between the natural and artefactual becomes pronounced and thus becomes more of the focus of our aesthetic attention.”25 The coastal ruins of climate change draw our attention to the relationship between nature and artifact in multiple ways. On the one hand, they involve the familiar ruin-thinking about nature reclaiming space. On the other hand, this is a nature that itself has been manipulated and driven by human action, the other face of the very industrial processes that created our coastal cities. This position is evocative of Tim Ingold’s suggestion that buildings, like people, are best viewed as a process rather than a product.26 The tensions inherent in ruins, the “interplay” of forces, thus also invite frank reflection on the false dichotomy of nature and culture. When we view the consequences of anthropogenic climate change as part of the inheritance of our cultural history, part of our heritage, we can come to see the future ruin of coastal cities not as an onslaught from an invading nature, but as the continuation of their own process of existence, a process for which we ourselves are responsible.

Environmental Heritage 181 This perspective could reshape not only how we view coastal ruins retrospectively, but also inform our prospective thinking about threatened coastal sites now. As Jeanette Bicknell asks: “How might our aesthetic practices change if we rejected the dichotomy between stable and ephemeral and strove to appreciate and enjoy even the most solid of structures as if it were to disappear in a short time?”27 But we can broaden this question beyond the aesthetic frame, and begin to think about how our engagement with coastal places now might be affected by the recognition of their inevitable ruin. Bicknell rightly notes that the “psychic strain of treating everything as potentially ephemeral [might be] too much to bear.”28 But the recognition of that ephemerality as our own responsibility offers the prospect of accepting Bicknell’s question as a challenge to take up rather than just a tragedy to weather. What might the engagement with “future ruins” look like? Rethinking our evaluative understanding of heritage and its manifestation in ruin could open the door to an alternative vision for the future of current coastal places. Instead of laboring toward the fantasy of being walled in against a rising tide, we could envision a slow transformation of space. This need not entail outright abandonment, but rather a shift in use and meaning, promoting agricultural innovation, and cultural and natural programming, even if this is accompanied by the ruin of current uses and infrastructure. Ultimately, some of the ruins of our low-lying cities could become like national monuments and memorials, sublime and poignant emblems of our environmental heritage. In her recent book Patina: A  Profane Archaeology, anthropologist Shannon Lee Dawdy concludes that patina, the appearance of age, “does two powerful things. It critiques and it bonds.”29 It draws people together through the evocation of sentimentality and common experience, whether real or imaginary, but it simultaneously operates as a critical check on contemporary socioeconomic forces (most saliently for Dawdy in the disregard for old things represented by commodity fetishism). We can extend Dawdy’s reflections on the work done by patina to the way in which ruination specifically can function as a manifestation of our environmental heritage. The ruins of coastal places operate as a devastating criticism of the capitalist-industrial forces that have driven anthropogenic climate change. But they also offer the promise of finding new meanings in these altered spaces—sites that might bring us together in opposition to the forces that engendered them, and inspire novel visions of a different future.

Complications The way of thinking that I describe above needs to be carefully distanced from alternatives in the near vicinity that present a series of moral problems. For interest, consider the early plans, endorsed by members of the

182  Erich Hatala Matthes Bring New Orleans Back Commission, to turn over a number of neighborhoods, including the Lower Ninth Ward, to green space following Hurricane Katrina. This was a top-down proposal that would have unilaterally and abruptly displaced residents from some of New Orleans’s most socioeconomically disadvantaged and predominantly Black neighborhoods. The racist and classist overtones of the proposal, which in some ways evoke the similar displacement of indigenous peoples in the creation of the US National Park System, were apparent, and it luckily was never enacted. But the problems with the green space proposal in New Orleans are illustrative of the features that our thinking about future ruins must have in order to be viable. Reconceiving coastal places must be a grassroots endeavor that is embraced by those who live there and who would ultimately need to relocate. Locals would have a special role to play in shaping and presenting the cultural significance of these places (i.e., not simply erasing the built environment and the history of human occupation, another parallel with the indigenous displacement in national parks). And displacement would need to be tied to a future plan for resettlement that would provide resources for relocated citizens to thrive, both economically and culturally. In his work on indigenous communities and climate injustice, Kyle Powys Whyte describes the idea of collective continuance: a group’s ability to adapt their systems of responsibility in response to external forces without being subject to preventable harms.30 We can employ this concept to set the limits and aims of how coastal places are reimagined: our rethinking of coastal places should aim to promote the collective continuance of local communities, minimizing harms and charting pathways that will allow the adaptation of socio-ecological traditions and systems to alternative ways of engaging with important places, and ultimately novel spaces as well. Recent philosophical work on displacement (both climate-induced and otherwise) has emphasized the importance of “located life-plans,” the ways in which our comprehensive intentions for the future are tied to place and the particular threat to autonomy posed by coercive displacement from the home.31 Treating collective continuance as both a goal and constraint on rethinking future ruins offers the promise of avoiding these moral hazards, though they are without doubt pitfalls about which we should remain wary. A cruel irony of the perspective on place loss that I  describe here is that it is less applicable to those who bear little or no responsibility for the ills of anthropogenic climate change. It can come as little comfort to the residents of small island states, for example, whose territories are in the process of being inundated, that climate change is also part of “our” environmental heritage.32 Indeed, this adds a further layer to objections to thinking about heritage in universal terms, as a heritage of all humankind. Even when limited to cultural achievements, critics have raised reasonable worries about the way that a universal heritage

Environmental Heritage 183 discourse can operate as a veneer for the colonial practices of universal museums, seeming to license claims to ownership and control of art and artifacts.33 But once we expand our thinking about heritage to include negative legacies as well, construing heritage in universal terms presents a new burden, seeming to saddle everyone with ownership for the misdeeds of some. As a more general instance of the worry about cold comfort for certain communities described in the previous paragraph, my greatest fear about the idea presented here is that it is just so many words. Often the ability of philosophy to provide novel evaluative and interpretive frameworks can seem liberating, but I struggle to reassure myself that these tools are adequate in the face of such substantial loss. In this I share in the strikingly honest self-reflection expressed by DeSilvey in her writing about Mullion Cove, a harbor community in England in the process of being erased by sea level rise. Having written what she calls an “anticipatory history” that brings this threatened heritage site into a longer narrative meant to emphasize its already transitory nature, she is struck by the inadequacy of her approach once the site truly begins to succumb to storm damage: I had spent years thinking about change and transience in this place, about how it could be navigated and negotiated. I had offered up a story as an antidote to loss. But now that the unraveling had begun, the story seemed starkly irrelevant to the lives of the people who lived in the place, and who were now watching it fall apart.34 I believe that part of the work of philosophy, and the humanities generally, is imagining possible futures and their moral contours. The loss of important coastal places is a significant possibility for our future—some would say an inevitability. We can ignore that possibility, but that too is a kind of mental palliative, and it won’t make that possibility go away. However inadequate it may feel to prescribe a conceptual shift or evaluative lens as a way of grappling with the pain of tremendous loss, it offers more than the ocean will.35 As Michele Moody-Adams puts it, “adequate moral inquiry is always a species of self-reflection.”36 We need to present ourselves with possibilities for thinking differently, acting differently in the face of radically different futures. It will be up to the reader to judge whether the possibilities offered here are live or not. In the conclusion to Patina, Dawdy cautions that “the antique fetish often fails to realize its utopian potential to transform relations.”37 Dawdy has in mind the transformation of market relations in particular, but the spirit of her point has broader application. My aim in this essay has been to indicate how recognizing the consequences of our environmental heritage and the ruin that it will wreak might indeed realize a certain potential for transforming relations, if not quite a utopian

184  Erich Hatala Matthes one—relations between people and place, between a profligate past and a redrawn map of the future.38

Notes 1. Elizabeth Rush, Rising: Dispatches from the New American Shore (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2018), 13. 2. Caitlin DeSilvey, Curated Decay: Heritage Beyond Saving (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2017), 15. 3. G. A. Cohen, “Rescuing Conservatism: A  Defense of Existing Value,” in Reasons and Recognition: Essays on the Philosophy of T. M. Scanlon, eds. R. Jay Wallace, Rahul Kumar and Samuel Freeman (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011). 4. Samuel Scheffler, “Immigration and the Significance of Culture,” Philosophy & Public Affairs 35, no. 2 (2007): 93–125, 106. 5. Cohen, “Rescuing Conservatism,” 210–14. 6. T. M. Scanlon, What We Owe to Each Other (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1998), 169. 7. Joseph Raz, Value, Respect, and Attachment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 162. 8. Elizabeth Anderson, Value in Ethics and Economics (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 26. 9. David Lowenthal, The Past Is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985). Though there have also been many criticisms of the emphasis on preservation, for a variety of reasons, some of which will be discussed below. Examples include Laurajane Smith, The Uses of Heritage (New York, NY and Canada: Routledge, 2006); DeSilvey, Curated Decay: Heritage Beyond Saving; Cornelius Holtorf, “Can Less Be More? Heritage in the Age of Terrorism,” Public Archaeology 5 (2006): 101–9; “Averting Loss Aversion in Cultural Heritage,” International Journal of Heritage Studies 21, no. 4 (2015): 405–21. 10. Rodney Harrison, Heritage: Critical Approaches (New York: Routledge, 2013), 14. 11. Laurajane Smith, “Ethics or Social Justice? Heritage and the Politics of Recognition,” Australian Aboriginal Studies 2 (2010): 60–68. 12. Sharon Macdonald, Difficult Heritage: Negotiating the Nazi Past in Nuremberg and Beyond (New York, NY and Canada: Routledge, 2009). Theoretical work about “negative heritage” includes Lynn Meskell, “Negative Heritage and Past Mastering in Archaeology,” Anthropological Quarterly 75, no. 3 (2002): 557–74; J. E. Tunbridge and G. J. Ashworth, Dissonant Heritage (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 1996); Sharon Macdonald, “Is ‘Difficult Heritage’ Still ‘Difficult’? Why Public Acknowledgment of Past Perpetration May No Longer Be So Unsettling to Collective Identities,” Museum International, no. 265–268 (2016): 6–22. 13. Janna Thompson, “Environment as Cultural Heritage,” Environmental Ethics 22 (2000); Thomas Heyd, “Nature, Culture, and Natural Heritage: Toward a Culture of Nature,” Environmental Ethics 27 (2005). The more common term is “natural heritage,” but I employ “environmental heritage” here so as to avoid embracing a false dichotomy between nature and culture; Rodney Harrison, “Beyond ‘Natural’ and ‘Cultural’ Heritage: Toward an Ontological Policits of Heritage in the Age of Anthropocene,” Heritage and Society 8, no. 1 (2015): 24–42. That being said, I am also hesitant about simply collapsing these categories, and do think that referring to the

Environmental Heritage 185 environment, broadly construed, is a useful way of describing certain kinds of heritage. 14. Erich Hatala Matthes, “Who Owns Up to the Past? Heritage and Historical Injustice,” Journal of the American Philosophical Association 4, no. 1 (2018): 87–104. 15. William Cronon, “The Trouble with Wilderness: Or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature,” in Uncommon Ground: Rethinking the Human Place in Nature, ed. William Cronon (New York: W. W. Norton, 1995); John O’Neill, “Wilderness, Cultivation and Appropriation,” Philosophy & Geography 5, no. 1 (2002). 16. Kyle Powys Whyte, “Indigenous Experience, Environmental Justice and Settler Colonialism,” in Nature and Experience: Phenomenology and the Environment, ed. B. Bannon (London: Rowman and Littlefield, 2016). 17. Holtorf, “Can Less Be More? Heritage in the Age of Terrorism,” 102. 18. Cf. DeSilvey, Curated Decay: Heritage Beyond Saving, 17. 19. Epictetus, “The Enchiridion,” html. I explore this metaphor at greater length in Matthes, “Who Owns Up to the Past? Heritage and Historical Injustice.” 20. Carolyn Korsmeyer, et  al., “Symposium: The Aesthetics of Ruin and Absence,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72, no. 4 (2014): 429–49. 21. DeSilvey, Curated Decay: Heritage Beyond Saving, 18. 22. Erich Hatala Matthes, “Authenticity and the Aesthetic Experience of History,” Analysis 78, no. 4 (2018): 649–57. 23. Carolyn Korsmeyer, “The Triumph of Time: Romanticism Redux,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72, no. 4 (2014): 432. 24. Shannon Lee Dawdy, Patina: A Profane Archaeology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016), 99. 25. Elizabeth Scarbrough, “Unimagined Beauty,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72, no. 4 (2014): 446–47. 26. Cf. Holtorf, “Averting Loss Aversion in Cultural Heritage,” 410; Tim Ingold, “No More Ancient: No More Human: The Future Past of Archaeology and Anthropology,” in Archaeology and Anthropology, eds. D. Garrow and T. Yarrow (Oxford: Oxbow, 2010). 27. Jeanette Bicknell, “Architectural Ghosts,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72, no. 4 (2014): 438. 28. Ibid. 29. Dawdy, Patina: A Profane Archaeology, 143. 30. Whyte, “Indigenous Experience, Environmental Justice and Settler Colonialism,” 166. 31. Anna Stilz, “Occupancy Rights and the Wrong of Removal,” Philosophy & Public Affairs 41, no. 4 (2013); Cara Nine, “Water Crisis Adaptation: Defending a Strong Right Against Displacement from the Home,” Res Publica 22 (2016): 37–52. 32. Mathias Risse, “The Right to Relocation: Disappearing Island Nations and Common Ownership of the Earth,” Ethics and International Affairs 23, no. 3 (2009): 281–300. 33. Erich Hatala Matthes, “Repatriation and the Radical Redistribution of Art,” Ergo 4, no. 32 (2017): 931–53; Smith, The Uses of Heritage. 34. DeSilvey, Curated Decay: Heritage Beyond Saving, 59–60. 35. For another recent discussion of how we might find consolation in place loss due to climate change, see Ariane Nomikos, “Place Matters,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 76, no. 4 (2018): 453–62. 36. Michele Moody-Adams, Fieldwork in Familiar Places (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), 140.

186  Erich Hatala Matthes 37. Dawdy, Patina: A Profane Archaeology, 152. 38. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the “Ecotopian Toolkit for the Anthropocene” conference hosted by the Penn Environmental Humanities Lab in April 2017. Thanks to audience members for helpful feedback. Thanks also to students in my course “From Wilderness to Ruins” at Wellesley College and to the editors of this volume. Thanks always to Jackie Hatala Matthes.

Part 3

Conflict, Destruction, and the Aftermath

16 The Reconstruction of Damaged or Destroyed Heritage Derek Matravers

It is easy to see . . . that the adoption of absolute principles for restoration could quickly lead to the absurd. —Viollet-le-Duc

This paper concerns historically significant objects that have been deliberately damaged and what should be done about them. I have in mind paradigm cases such as the destruction of the center of Warsaw by the Germans during World War II; the destruction of the Temple of Bel in Palmyra by ISIS (Islamic State of Iraq and Syria); and the destruction of the House of the Blackheads in Riga first by the Germans in 1941, the task being completed by the Soviets in 1948. Decisions as to what to do with such objects once hostilities have ceased involve a complex interaction of the various sorts of value we assign to historically significant objects, with a gain in one sort of value traded against a loss in another. At least until recently, the dominant view from those professionally concerned with cultural heritage has been to err on the side of caution with respect to issues of restoration and reconstruction. This view was expressed in the nineteenth century by Adolphe Napoléon Didron, who held that “for ancient monuments, it is better to consolidate than repair, better to repair than to restore, better to restore than to reconstruct.”1 The Operational Guidelines for UNESCO’s World Heritage Committee (WHC), the international body that oversees world heritage, state the following: In relation to authenticity, the reconstruction of archaeological remains of historic buildings or districts is justifiable only in exceptional circumstances. Reconstruction is acceptable only on the basis of complete and detailed documentation and to no extent on conjecture.2 The Venice Charter, an influential document published by the International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS), even goes as far as to claim that “All reconstruction work should . . . be ruled out ‘a priori.’ ”3

190  Derek Matravers This view comes most under pressure in considering heritage that has been damaged in war, particularly if that damage was malicious and spiteful. The authors of the more recent Charter of Krakow claim to be “acting in the spirit of the Charter of Venice” and, accordingly, go on to hold that “the reconstruction of entire parts ‘in the style of the building’ should be avoided.” However, they enter an important caveat: “Reconstruction of an entire building, destroyed by armed conflict or natural disaster, is only acceptable if there are exceptional social or cultural motives that are related to the identity of the entire community.”4 The WHC seem, at least by their actions, to be sensitive to this pressure and have sanctioned several instances of restoration of maliciously and spitefully destroyed heritage, including the rebuilding of the historic center of Warsaw (1980), the bridge at Mostar (2005), and the Sufi mausoleums in Timbuktu (2012). The absences of consistency has led to the accusation of “ad hoc decision-making by the WHC” along with a plea for “new guidance,”5 and ICOMOS appears to be consulting its members as to whether to relax its official line against reconstruction.6 In this paper I  will attempt to provide an argument for the reconstruction of heritage that has been maliciously and spitefully damaged, although I will end with some fairly severe caveats as to what reconstruction can achieve. My argument will take the form of examining a different but related problem, abstracting from that to some general theoretical considerations, and then attempting to apply those general theoretical considerations back to the issue of whether or not to reconstruct. The different but related problem I will consider is that of morally problematic heritage; that is, objects that commemorate actions that constitute an injustice done to a culture. The very fact that an object commemorates an injustice in this way gives us some reason—not necessarily a sufficient reason—to put a stop to that commemoration. This can be done in a number of ways such as destroying it, removing it from display, or contextualizing it in a way that reveals its problematic status. Those people who are still around who were, or are, the victims of the unjust actions that the object commemorates stand in a relation to the object that those who are not victims do not. The fact that the object memorializes a harm done to them gives them that reason to put a stop to that memorialization. Victims of unjust harm hold some kind of right to reparation by offenders which is, obviously, not held by those who are not victims.7 Included in this, plausibly, is the right that the unjust actions not be commemorated. As one recent writer has remarked, “Removing prominent symbols of white supremacy or colonial domination can be seen as part of a wider project of reparation for the harms of colonialism, practices of enslaved labour, and later effects of racism.”8 In this debate, two features in particular enter into decisions about what should happen to the problematic object of cultural heritage. First, consideration is given to the past history of that heritage; we do not

The Reconstruction of Heritage 191 simply look at the heritage as it is now, but consider how it came to be as it is now. Second, the decisions are taken within a political context; the arguments for the removal of objects that commemorate injustice focus on the historical and social circumstances that resulted in the object. It is all about putting right the past injustice which resulted in the object being the object that it is. There is a gap between the general acceptance of this kind of thinking and skepticism about reconstruction. The arguments against reconstruction take as their starting point that there is some damaged heritage, and attempt to adjudicate the competing claims of the different sorts of value in deciding whether or not to reconstruct, or the extent to which to reconstruct. Less, if any, consideration is given to the injustice which is perpetrated by the heritage being damaged in the first place. To put it another way, members of a culture have had something they value deliberately taken away from them and, for as long as it is damaged, it remains taken away from them. I have claimed that victims of an injustice memorialized in an object have some kind of right to reparation: the right that the unjust actions not be commemorated. The analogous claim would give us a presumption in favor of restoration; the claim that what has taken away should be restored to them.9 If this is our starting point, matters look very different to how they look to the WHC. Rather than the issue being whether restoration would or would not be the most valuable course to pursue, the question is now the extent to which people can get what they deserve: the extent to which the injustice that has been done can be corrected. Here we need to borrow a distinction invoked by Adam Slavny concerning injustices done to people.10 This is a distinction between two sorts of duties that we have to correct those injustices: nugatory duties and counterbalancing duties. If X refers to that of which the culture has been deprived, a “nugatory duty renders the victim’s future X identical to what it would be if not for the state, and a counterbalancing duty renders the victim’s future X equal to what it would be if not for the state.”11 A nugatory duty restores matters to how they were before the injustice took place, and a counterbalancing duty compensates the victim for the injustice suffered. That is, a nugatory duty demands that we make things as they were before, while a compensatory duty demands only that we provide the victim with something they take to be of equivalent value to what they had before—which might be, for example, financial compensation. Slavny provides an argument for our having nugatory duties that is easily transposed from the case of individuals to the case of cultures. Suppose D wrongfully causes V to be in a specific harmed state, H, at T1. She cannot now fulfil her primary duty not to wrongfully cause V to be in H, but she can fulfil a very similar one. She can fulfil a duty not to cause V to be in H at T2, where T2 is the earliest point

192  Derek Matravers at which she is able to negate the effects of her wrong. If she fails to do this, she will have caused V to be in H at T2. The only difference between the descriptions of these duties is temporal. Both duties are first-person preventive in that they require D to avoid causing V to be in H, albeit at different times. We might therefore think of nugatory duties as instances of general duties to avoid harming others. Similarly, we might think of them as instances of general duties not to wrong others, since once a person suffers a wrongful harm the wrongdoer commits a further wrong if she fails to fulfil her corrective duties.12 The harm done to a culture is that it is deprived of something it cares about. It continues to be so deprived for as long as that something is not restored to it. If the perpetrator of the harm had a duty not to deprive the culture of that something in the first place, the perpetrator has a duty to restore it. Of course, the perpetrator might not be in a position to fulfill this duty, in which case, I will assume, the duty falls on someone else.13 Slavny’s argument clearly chimes with some of our intuitions. If someone maliciously and spitefully does me harm by taking something I care about, justice would best be served by having that thing restored to me. Of course, I am within my rights to use the opportunity to pursue some other option—I am not required to take the status quo ante. The same is true of a culture. It might use the opportunity to reconstruct what had been there in a form that more closely matches the intentions of the original designers, or to replace its jumble of medieval streets with some utopia of socialist town planning (this was one of the views as to what should happen in the rebuilding of old Warsaw) (Figures 16.1 and 16.2). However, the analogy with the personal case suggests that if the culture does not consent to availing themselves of this opportunity for change, the extent to which the restoration falls short is the extent to which it is hard done by. Just to be clear, it is no part of my claim that there is any easy transition from issues of duties to individuals to issues of duties to cultures. However, the force of the argument behind nugatory compensation applies to both. One way to rebut the claim that we have nugatory duties is simply to deny that what has been taken away can be restored to the culture. If so, counterbalancing duties will be the only option. To explore this further, I will consider values that are grounded in historical attachments a culture has to the object, including an objects having purely symbolic value to a culture. Following Alois Riegl, I shall refer to this as “use value.”14 Thus, we can put the question as follows: can the use value of damaged or destroyed heritage be restored through reconstruction? If the use value resided in the appearance of the object, that could be reconstructed (or, if it could not, that would be merely a technical limitation). If the use value resided in the epistemological value of the object

Figure 16.1 Ruins of Castle Square, Warsaw, 1945 Source: Photo INTERFOTO/Alamy

Figure 16.2 Warsaw Castle, 2016 Source: Photo Dennis Jarvis

194  Derek Matravers (which is linked to what Riegl calls “historical value”),15 that too could be reconstructed—provided we were sure we had exhaustive knowledge of the epistemological value and the sources of that knowledge could be reproduced. There are putative instances of this: as they are so fragile, the caves at Lascaux and Chauvet are closed to the general public, but exist in replica. The reconstructed caves have (let us grant) the same appearance and epistemological value as the ones on which they are based; the question is whether this is sufficient for us to access the full value of the caves. The answer (at least, for those in the European cultural tradition)16 is that it is not sufficient. In the words of Jonathan Jones, the caves are “a fake,” “a replica,” “a crushing disappointment.”17 Jones’s disappointment stems from the fact that, however convincing, the caves are not authentic. They do not possess another of Riegl’s values, “age value”: the value an object has simply in virtue of it bearing the authentic marks of its (usually significant) age. However difficult it is to understand age value, the fact is that, with respect to cultural heritage, the properties that constitute use value are generally not independent of age value. The value attached to the use of Westminster Abbey as the site of royal events is connected to its age value; that is, contemporary events of national significance take place within walls which have seen significant events of British ceremonial life for as long as Britain has existed. If age value is necessary for use value, and reconstruction can never deliver age value, then it looks as if reconstruction can never deliver use value. If so, it looks as if the culture that has been a victim of injustice is out of luck; they cannot have what was taken be restored to them. An obvious reply is to concede that a reconstruction will not deliver everything of value; however, reconstructions will deliver something, and something is better than nothing. After all, as the public cannot get into Lascaux and Chauvet, it seems better to have the option of going into the reconstructed caves rather than no caves at all. My interim conclusion, therefore, is in favor of restoration. Even if it does not fully compensate for the injustice that has been done, it is the closest we can get to full nugatory compensation. There are, however, still concerns that weigh against restoration. In particular, there are clashes between our duty to provide full nugatory compensation and values specific to heritage. The first of these I will consider is the clash with age value. Let us consider a situation in which some piece of cultural heritage has been deliberately reduced to rocks and rubble. I  have argued that although reconstruction cannot deliver everything, it is better than the alternative as rocks and rubble have neither historical value nor use value. However, rocks and rubble do have age value and it is age value that is the ground for Riegl’s claim that we should see “every effort at conservation, every restoration, as nothing less than an unauthorized interference with the rule of natural law.”18 Riegl’s objection is that reconstruction would compound the damage; the

The Reconstruction of Heritage 195 “rocks and rubble” are further damaged by attempts at conservation. We should not mitigate the damage that is consequent on the object having a history. We cannot pick and choose which marks to keep and which to erase; the history of the object is the history of the object. Its damage or destruction by a power, no matter how malicious and spiteful, is part of its story—part of its being subject to “natural law.” Thus, if we make age value central, reconstruction, far from being the best option available, is positively harmful. One could reply that, although reconstruction compounds the damage to age value in order to restore historical and use value, nonetheless considerations of justice still favor reconstruction. However, the concept of age value, which was never particularly clear, could do with further examination. Riegl’s focus on “natural law” suggests a contrast and the possibility that age value would not be damaged if we interfered with (that is, reversed) the consequences of the object being subject to “unnatural law.” That is, we would need to distinguish “unnatural” changes in the object from “natural” changes in the object. It would be quixotic to treat this as the distinction between changes that happened as a result of human activity and changes that happened independent of human activity for two reasons. First, as we know from J. S. Mill, human activity is as much a part of nature as nonhuman activity.19 Second, the distinction is obviously not the one we want. If all changes that were the result of human activity could be reversed, these would include changes that brought the objects into being, which would remove any constraints on the urge for altering the object. What is needed is a principled distinction between changes to an object that do not contribute to its age value and changes to an object that do contribute to its age value. We could reverse the first without damaging the age value. Those who think the damage should be reversed are possibly operating on a thought that seems little clearer than the distinction between natural change and unnatural change: namely, the thought that damage should be reversed if it should not have happened. By “it should not have happened” I do not mean (obviously) that it should have happened morally, or that it should have happened according to the Health and Safety at Work Act. Rather, the thought is that it is not appropriate for the event to be part of the narrative history of the object: it is external to it; it stands apart from that history. The question is whether malicious and spiteful damage or destruction of a piece of cultural heritage falls under this description; something that is not appropriate to be part of the narrative history of the object and hence which could be reversed without damaging the object’s age value. The problem with regarding the destructive forces unleashed during wars as not part of the narrative history of objects is that human history has been shaped by wars and such destructive forces. It would be absurd to regard, for example, the various sackings of Constantinople

196  Derek Matravers as not appropriate as part of the history of Constantinople. Nonetheless, contemporary examples appear less clear cut. Consider the Arch of Septimius Severus, built in the third century, damaged by earthquake and wars, but still standing until 2015 when it was dynamited by ISIS. Let us assume, as the Syrian government claims, that the arch could be constructed from original materials. Would doing so damage its age value, or would it simply reverse an act that should not have been part of the narrative history of the arch? There are two separate questions here: whether there is a distinction at all, and where that distinction lies. It is surely plausible that there is a distinction.20 Consider Fountains Abbey—a Cistercian Abbey which, since the dissolution of the monasteries, has decayed into one of the most beautiful ruins in England. Although decay has been slowed, part of the age value (and impact) of the building is the way in which the immense, and immensely grand, abbey has been slowly weathered by nature. Suppose that a moment’s carelessness by a worker in a nearby power station resulted in the abbey being covered with acid that would corrode the stone at a rate hundreds or thousands times quicker than would nature. It would be a hard line to take to regard neutralizing the acid as “an unauthorised interference with the rule of natural law.” Following dissolution, the gentle decay through the processes of nature is appropriate; it should have happened. Sudden damage from an eminently preventable industrial accident is not appropriate; it should not have happened. The question as to where the distinction lies is clearly more difficult and an answer beyond the scope of this paper. However, it is worth pointing out that those who strongly resist drawing the distinction in a place where it can do any useful work are in danger of refuting themselves. If one “cannot pick and choose” between what is an appropriate part of the narrative history of the object and what is not, one cannot choose not to regard any subsequent restoration as part of its narrative history. As Violletle-Duc reminds us in the sentence used as the epigraph for this paper, “absolute principles for restoration could quickly lead to the absurd.”21 However, even if we can somehow square reconstruction with not damaging age value, there is also a clash between our duty to provide full nugatory compensation and historical value. Historical value is “concerned with preserving the most genuine document possible for future restoration and art historical research.”22 Nugatory compensation entails a strict counterfactual dependence: every property of the reconstruction should be as it is because the property of the object prior to its damage or destruction was that way. Of course, actual cases will fall short of this in many ways: information about the object to be reconstructed might be lacking; the skills to recreate certain properties might have died out; the materials which match the original materials might be unavailable; and despite best intentions, certain aspects might be missed either because they were not noticed or were not thought important. However, strict

The Reconstruction of Heritage 197 counterfactual dependence appears to operate as an ideal. The WHC page on Warsaw claims the following: Two guiding principles were followed: firstly, to use reliable archival documents where available, and secondly, to aim at recreating the historic city’s late 18th-century appearance. The latter was dictated by the availability of detailed iconographic and documentary historical records from that period. Additionally, conservation inventories compiled before 1939 and after 1944 were used, along with the scientific knowledge and expertise of art historians, architects, and conservators.23 However, strict counterfactual dependence is incompatible with preserving historical value; signs must be left that the restoration is a restoration. This is a standard conservation view, as evidenced in both the Venice Charter and the Burra Charter. The Venice Charter says: “Replacements of missing parts  .  .  . must be distinguishable from the original so that restoration does not falsify the artistic or historic evidence.”24 The aim of restoration should not be to put in place what was there before, as this would undermine the historical value. Instead, it should be to put in place something which is, on inspection, manifestly not what was there before. This is not reconstruction in the true sense of the word; instead, what is being argued for is a form of contextualization; the damaged object remains a damaged object, but we can see (or be helped to imagine) what it would have been like in its undamaged state. Finally, full nugatory compensation also runs into a version of the problem that David Hume pointed out in our appreciation of the arts.25 Morality changes across the ages. We cannot now accept features that simply would not have occurred to our forebears—including our forebears who designed buildings. An eighteenth-century architect would not have been constrained by such matters as adequate provision of toilets and disabled access. However, it would surely be unacceptable to use that fact as the grounds for omitting such features from contemporary reconstructions. However, to concede this concedes (so to speak) the purity of the mission; it allows that our guiding principle is not to restore the world to the status quo ante. The problem is that this undermines the force of the motivation; to wipe out the injustice that has been done by restoring the world to exactly what it was before the injustice. I began this paper by pointing to a shift in emphasis by the WHC away from an opposition to, and towards an embracing of, reconstruction. I  have provided an argument for such a shift based on abstract considerations concerning the righting of an injustice—although I have also pointed to the limitations of that argument. I  shall conclude the paper by examining whether there is any evidence that the considerations that I have adduced are reflected in WHC thinking (either consciously or

198  Derek Matravers unconsciously). The WHC justifications for sanctioning full reconstruction are not particularly systematic (I reported above the view that they are “ad hoc”). Nevertheless, there are some passages that suggest that what UNESCO has in mind is making good a past injustice. The restoration of the bridge at Mostar is said to be “a symbol of reconciliation, international co-operation and the co-existence of diverse, cultural, ethnic and religious communities.”26 The claims about Warsaw come closer to the view that the reconstruction is an apt response to the harm that the originator culture has suffered (Figures 16.1 and 16.2). Warsaw was deliberately annihilated in 1944 as a repression of the Polish resistance to the Nazi occupation. The capital city was reduced to ruins with the intention of obliterating the centuries-old tradition of Polish statehood. The rebuilding of the historic city, 85% of which was destroyed, was the result of the determination of the inhabitants and the support of the whole nation.27 (UNESCO 1980) There does seem something right about this.28 The “determination of the inhabitants” was to have something restored to them that was taken away from them. Counterbalancing does not seem sufficient; within the limits discussed, what we should be aiming for is nugatory compensation.29

Notes 1. Quoted in C. Cameron, “Reconstruction: Changing Attitudes,” UNESCO Courier, 2017, September  14, 2018, july-september-2017/reconstruction-changing-attitudes. 2. UNESCO. “Old Bridge Area of the Old City of Mostar,” 2005a, September 14, 2018, Quoted in N. Stanley-Price, “The Reconstruction of Ruins: Principles and Practice,” in Conservation: Principles, Dilemmas and Uncomfortable Truths, eds. Alison Richmond and Alison Bracker (London: Routledge), 32–46, 33. 3. ICOMOS, The International Charter for the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites: The Venice Charter (Venice: International Council for Monuments and Sites: Art. 15, 1964). 4. André De Naeyer, S. P. Arroyo and J. R. Blanco, The Charter of Krakow 2000: Principles for Conservation and Restoration of Built Heritage (Krakow: Department of Architecture and Urban Planning, 2000). See also ICOMOS, Declaration of Dresden. International Council for Monuments and Sites-DDR (Dresden: ICOMOS, 1982). John Bold has pointed out that the Burra Charter is also permissive; an adjoining explanatory note holds “places with social or spiritual value may warrant reconstruction, even though very little may remain.” ICOMOS, The Burra Charter: The Australian ICOMOS Charter for Places of Cultural Significance (Burwood, Australia: International Council on Monuments and Sites, 2013). See J. Bold, “Reconstruction: The Built Heritage Following War and Natural Disaster,” in Authentic

The Reconstruction of Heritage 199 Reconstruction: Authenticity, Architecture and the Built Heritage, eds. J. Bold, P. Larkham and R. Pickard (London, Bloomsbury, 2017), 1–26, 13. 5. See Cameron, “Reconstruction: Changing Attitudes.” 6. See Bold, “Reconstruction,” 18. 7. To be clear, I do not think that the continued existence of a culture that has been treated unjustly is a necessary condition for the removal of objects that commemorate injustice. 8. J. Burch-Brown, “Is It Wrong to Topple Statues and Rename Schools?” Journal of Political Theory and Philosophy 1, no. 1 (2017): 59–88, 69. 9. This presupposes that there is agreement, within a culture, as to what would count as restoration. A further complication is that some piece of cultural heritage might be claimed by two or more different cultures, who disagree as what would count as restoration. I ignore these matters for the sake of brevity. 10. I am grateful to Helen Frowe and Victor Tadros for pointing out the relevance of Slavny’s work. 11. A. Slavny, “Negating and Counterbalancing: A Fundamental Distinction in the Concept of Corrective Duty,” Law and Philosophy 33, no. 2 (2014): 143–73, 144. 12. Ibid., 155. 13. This clearly raises a host of complexities regarding war reparations. I shall ignore these for the sake of brevity. 14. A. Riegl, “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Essence and Its Development,” in Historical and Philosophical Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage, eds. N. Stanley-Price, J. Kirby, M. Talley and A. Melucco Vaccaro (Los Angeles: Getty Trust, 1903, 2016). Kindle edition, loc. 2162/11566. 15. Ibid., loc. 2088/11566. 16. See B. C. Han, Shanzhai: Deconstruction in Chinese (Boston, MA: MIT Press, 2017). I am grateful to Marius Vermaak for drawing my attention to this. 17. J. Jones, “Don’t Fall for a Fake: The Chauvet Cave Art Replica Is Nonsense,” Guardian, 2015. London. 18. Riegl, “The Modern Cult of Monuments,” loc. 2064/11566. 19. J.  S. Mill, Nature: Three Essays on Religion (London: Longmans, Green, Reader and Dyer, 1874), 3–65. 20. I am grateful to Rob Hopkins for discussion of this example. 21. E. E. Viollet-le-Duc, “Restoration,” in Historical and Philosophical Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage, eds. N. Stanley-Price, J. Kirby, M. Talley and A. Melucco Vaccaro (Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute, 1854, 2016). Kindle edition, loc. 6808/11566. 22. Riegl, “The Modern Cult of Monuments,” loc. 2098/11566. 23. UNESCO, “Historic Centre of Warsaw,” 1980, accessed January 5, 2018, 24. ICOMOS 1964. Art. 12. The equivalent injunctions in the Burra Charter are sections 20.2 and 22.2 (ICOMOS, 2013). 25. D. Hume, “Of the Standard of Taste,” in Selected Essays (Oxford: World’s Classics, 1993), 133–54, 151–52. 26. UNESCO, Operational Guidelines for the Implementation of the World Heritage Convention (Paris: UNESCO, 2005b). 27. UNESCO, “Historic Centre of Warsaw.” 28. For more extensive discussion of the broader context see Bold, “Reconstruction,” 7–11. 29. I am grateful to funding from by AHRC (grant number: AH/P015077/1) for the Heritage in War Project, of which this paper is a part. As ever, I owe

200  Derek Matravers much to my co-director on the project, Helen Frowe and to discussants at our workshops and seminars. This paper was completed during my tenure as 2018 Hugh le May Fellow at the Philosophy Department in Rhodes University, South Africa, and I would like to thank members of that department for their companionship and support. In particular, I would like to thank Kerry Burns, Avuyile Mgudlwa, Jaco Oelofsen, Siphamandla Ruiters, and Sam van Heerden.

17 Reflections on the Atomic Bomb Ruins in Hiroshima Yuriko Saito

Japanese aesthetics is known for its positive attitude toward the aged appearance of objects. Referred to as wabi aesthetics, it encourages appreciating not only aging effects but also evidence of destruction, indicated by the anecdotes of old tea masters who intentionally broke a part of an object, such as a vase.1 Although wabi aesthetics emerged to accompany the tea ceremony in the sixteenth century, it transcends this specific context and informs the subsequent aesthetic sensibility in Japan. One would expect that wabi aesthetics promotes a culture of ruins, but old ruins are surprisingly absent in Japan, except for stone-based walls of castles. This is most likely because the traditional Japanese architectural material is wood and it is vulnerable to fire and decay. Fire tends to destroy buildings completely and, if the wood is decayed, the structure is often dismantled, repaired, and put back together with renewed strength, in order to ensure safety and stability. This practice of renewal is widely accepted in Japan, and there does not seem to be any qualm about experiencing an architectural structure in the form of a replica or a restored version. The most prominent case is the practice of shikinensengū of Ise Shrine, which rebuilds the structure anew every twenty years, a tradition continuing for 1,300 years. Partly to ensure the continuity of carpentry skills, this practice raises an interesting question about a notion of authenticity that is not predicated on material authenticity. Another well-known example is Kinkakuji, the Temple of Golden Pavilion, in Kyoto. What stands today is a replica built in 1955 after the previous structure was destroyed by arson in 1950, the fictionalized account of which was popularized by Yukio Mishima’s novel of the same title. The most recent example is the still ongoing restoration of Kumamoto Castle in southern Japan that was damaged by an earthquake in 2016. Just as was the case with many castles that were reconstructed in the twentieth century, it was taken for granted that Kumamoto Castle should be repaired and restored to its pre-earthquake condition. No proposal to maintain it as a ruined structure came about.2

202  Yuriko Saito

Figure 17.1 Genbaku (Atomic Bomb) Dome/Hiroshima Peace Memorial Source: Nestor-Wikimedia Commons

Today in Japan there is a growing interest in newer ruins built after the rapid modernization that began in 1868. They are the ruins of industrial complexes, the majority of which were for military purposes, mining facilities, hospitals, and amusement parks. Many are located in remote areas, often on islands. Some of them are designated as UNESCO World Heritage sites and are becoming popular tourist destinations.3 They seem to generate the same kind of ruin lust that inspires contemporary attraction to recently decommissioned or abandoned structures in many Western nations. In light of the general absence of a ruin culture in Japan until recently, Genbaku (Atomic Bomb) Dome in Hiroshima, the skeletal structure near the epicenter that was left standing after the atomic bomb destroyed the entire city in 1945, is noteworthy as a preserved urban ruin (Figure 17.1). What follows is a reflection on this ruin.

The History of Genbaku Dome and Its Preservation Designed by a Czech architect, Jan Letzel, this building was completed in 1915 and opened as Hiroshima Prefecture Industrial Promotion Hall for exhibiting various local products to promote the modernization process of Japan. Its three-story structure of concrete and bricks mixed many European styles, including Ionian columns and a Baroque-style oblong-shaped

Reflections on the Atomic Bomb Ruins 203 dome.4 After the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, this building—though heavily damaged—was the only structure that remained standing for miles around. It was not until 1966, more than twenty years after the bombing, that the City of Hiroshima decided on its preservation. The opponents of preservation included politicians and academics as well as some citizens of Hiroshima. The primary reason given was to spare surviving victims the pain of having a permanent reminder of their suffering. They also objected to exploiting the Dome for promoting tourism. This objection specifically targeted “Thirteen Sites that Speak of Atomic Bomb,” published by a local newspaper in 1948, revised and expanded from the earlier list of ten published in 1947. The original items were primarily fragments, but the newer list eliminated several fragments and added ruined structures, the Dome being the most prominent. Such designation follows a long-standing landscape tradition in Japan for listing a certain number of scenic places for promoting identity and tourism of the area.5 A survey conducted in 1948 by the city, which garnered a rather small response, reported that 436 citizens were in favor of preservation and 168 opposed. The support for preservation gained further momentum on three fronts. First, the abandoned Dome was becoming increasingly unstable due to deterioration, prompting the installation of a barbed wire fence in 1962 to keep out the curious. Soon after, engineers determined that the structure could be repaired for preservation. Second, the death of two young girls due to leukemia inspired children’s activism for preservation. One girl left a well-known legacy of 1,000 origami cranes. The other girl left a wish in her diary that the Dome be preserved as a reminder of the tragedy for future generations. Third, a well-respected architect, Kenzō Tange, who spent his high school years in Hiroshima, was chosen to design the Peace Park around the Dome, and he argued for its preservation: “There are so many people in the world who will not remember, let alone imagine, the damage brought about by an atomic bomb. For this reason, we should think of a way of preserving the Dome.”6 There was also a growing interest in saving the Dome as a symbol of peace for the future (not surprisingly the narrative favored by the US occupation authorities) rather than a record of the tragedy, which was thought to exacerbate animosity between the two nations. These two different symbolic meanings given to the Dome are reflected in its name. Although “Genbaku (Atomic Bomb) Dome” is commonly used today, it competed with “Peace Commemorative Dome” when the controversy over its fate was ensuing. The 1996 decision to designate the Dome as a UNESCO World Heritage site combines these two justifications for its symbolic value, although the name used is not Genbaku Dome: “Not only is it a stark and powerful symbol of the most destructive force ever created by humankind, it also expresses the hope for world peace and the ultimate elimination of all nuclear weapons,” and “the most important

204  Yuriko Saito meaning of the surviving structure of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial is in what it symbolizes, rather than just its aesthetic and architectural values.”7 Restoration work has so far been performed three times (1967, 1990, 2003), to repair and prevent further damage, with an examination of its condition being conducted every three years. The aim of restoration is to preserve the structure as closely as possible to its state right after the bombing, and the work includes inserting epoxy to prevent bricks from falling, applying waterproofing to prevent seepage of rain water and the like.8

The Historic Value of the Dome In general, old ruins have been subjected to nature’s workings, and the ruination process leads to a kind of interplay between artifice and nature. This relationship between culture and nature provides one of the bestknown accounts of ruins’ appeal, first popularized by the British picturesque cult of ruins and later developed by Georg Simmel. Nature’s transformation of buildings takes many forms: weathering effects, growth of vegetation, nesting of birds, and, as pointed out by Simmel, “what has led the building upward is human will; what gives it its present appearance is the brute, downward-dragging corroding, crumbling power of nature.”9 This account of ruins as the work produced by human and natural forces and the specific appeal emerging from their interplay does not apply to the Dome. In the case of the Dome, the downward power is due to human will, not nature. The Dome is also unlike other war ruins in Europe because the scale of destruction and resultant casualties, including the health consequences still affecting the survivors, is incomparable. At the same time, although the Dome’s destruction occurred earlier than a similar destruction recently caused by a human act, namely the terrorist attacks in the United States now designated 9/11, the historical events of Hiroshima and Nagasaki still remain relatively vivid in our collective memory, even among the post-war generation, myself included.10 Our experience of the Dome cannot be separated from this historical event, and the fact that the destruction occurred in a split-second makes the dramatic contrast between before and after utterly dazzling, as well as numbing. Thus, the singularity of its historical significance tends to dominate our experience of the Dome. Its historical value either eclipses the aesthetic value, as the UNESCO decision seems to imply, or more commonly, compensates for what may appear to be a lack of aesthetic value or a downright negative aesthetic value. The common narrative regarding ruination suggests it is a process whereby a once intact and perfect building becomes fragmented and imperfect. Hence, ruins often invoke notions such as loss, absence, void, breakdown, collapse, failure, disorganization, disarray, deformity,

Reflections on the Atomic Bomb Ruins 205 erasure, and obliteration. Accordingly, “regardless of the cause of the object’s ruinous state, the peculiar status of ruins is generally understood through negative connotations,” and “the privileged focus is on something that was but is no more.”11 The historical value of ruins is then highlighted to counteract what imperfect, fragmentary, and disorganized structures are thought to lack. Against this presumed lack of ruins’ own value, Alois Riegl proposed “the age value” derived from the sensuous qualities of “dated appearance.”12 Different from historical value, the age value’s “immediate emotional effect depends on neither scholarly knowledge nor historical education for its satisfaction, since it is evoked by mere sensory perception” and it “manifests itself immediately through visual perception and appeals directly to our emotions.”13 In short, it is an aesthetic value comparable to the wabi quality of Japanese aesthetics. However, Riegl seems to limit the age value to those ruins that have experienced a gradual and incremental ruination process. According to him, even the most radical adherent of age-value would find the site of a building struck down by lightning or the ruin of a church facing a busy street more dismaying than evocative. . . . once fully abandoned to destruction they would create an objectionable impression even in terms of the cult of age-value.14 Riegl’s negative attitude toward ruins created by sudden destruction is echoed by J. B. Jackson. He identifies the source of our attraction to historical objects and monuments “not so much for their beauty or value as for their association with a phase of our past,” and they are venerated as “an echo from the remote past [that has] suddenly become present and actual.”15 Jackson then continues by denying any aesthetic value to ruins caused by destruction: One of the most impressive modern monuments is the ruined church which stands in the center of the busiest part of West Berlin. It is an enormous ruin, without grace or picturesqueness, but for that very reason it provides a startling reminder of World War II, and is a monument whose message is not easy to forget. . . . I am speaking not of their esthetic quality, but of their power to remind, to recall something specific.16 We can speculate that both Simmel and Jackson would attach a historical value to the Dome but not any positive aesthetic value, because, according to Jackson, it is without any aesthetic quality such as grace and picturesqueness. Also, according to Riegl, its appearance, particularly in the urban setting, is too jarring compared to those ruins whose decayed appearance was caused by an incremental process.

206  Yuriko Saito However, aesthetic qualities are not limited to positive ones such as beauty, grace, and picturesqueness. Nor are a sense of dismay and finding something objectionable aesthetically irrelevant. The experience of a ruin like the Dome is disquieting and challenging, but I believe that precisely because of such provocation it has an aesthetic power that is integral to our appreciation of its historical significance.

The Aesthetic Value of the Dome Before discussing the aesthetic values of destroyed buildings such as the Dome, let me first turn to a recent debate in archaeology. Its practitioners are increasingly questioning whether the value of their findings is exhausted by what they reveal about history. For example, one critic points out that abandoned objects are primarily seen as “serving representational, critical or abstract purposes, signifying a manifestation or fragmentation of particular cultural or ontological orders.”17 As a result, “there is no archaeology simply of things abandoned and for things abandoned, since the ultimate goal is essentially to get beyond this nuisance in order to reconstruct a pure and un-abandoned past.”18 Another critic points out that the archaeological objects are treated exclusively as “hermeneutic surfaces from which one can read and imagine a world that is no longer available for direct immersion” or “passive receptacles of human intentions and cultural practices.”19 This attitude toward objects reflects a long-held Western anthropocentric view of the world that privileges human beings for giving meaning and value to objects. The objects are understood and valued as a means to serving the ends formulated by us. Accordingly, archaeological objects are valued insofar as they reveal facts about their cultural and historical significance, which are centered on human interest. Critics of this attitude encourage attending to what some call a “turn to things,” inspired by Heidegger’s notion of “Gelassenheit (releasement) or the letting be of things in their becoming.”20 This kind of awareness “will not seek to make sense of them, to rationalize, contextualize or historicize them, but is rather itself a sensation rooted in an appreciation of their solitude, unfamiliarity and strangeness.”21 This direct contact with the object is characterized as affective in that “things provoke us by affecting us. This provocation is originally emotional and not i­ntellectual—in the flesh not in the ‘mind.’ ”22 In short, it is an aesthetic response. Ruins are particularly provocative in challenging the anthropocentric ordering of things, because the loss of the original functionality makes them a kind of misfit in our organizational scheme. Although they fit the category of “ruin,” their shared features are imperfection and incompleteness due to the loss and absence of the original category, which ranges from church, municipal office, temple, and bank building to industrial complex, hospital, and amusement park. These are more or less clear and

Reflections on the Atomic Bomb Ruins 207 distinct categories, whereas “ruin” is a catch-all category that includes all those artifacts which fell from grace and became imperfect. Ruins thus challenge our tendency to turn the other into a resource by keeping them in the human order of things. . . . Through design and perpetual maintenance we want all other things/beings to inherit the human order of things—the world in our image.23 But precisely because ruins do not fit into a clear and neat category, they provide an opportunity for us to experience them for what they are. For example, one critic wonders whether it isn’t also possible that something strange, something “magical” happens in the abandoned state; whether things abandoned, and thus released from the shackles of human utilitarian relations, may express themselves differently, and thus whether aspects of their ownness—their otherness—may become more immediately present.24 To experience a ruin for its historical value is to put it in the anthropocentric framework. Whether the Dome tells us something about a historical event, teaches a lesson of “never again,” or acts as a beacon of hope for future peace, it can also be experienced for its raw immediacy and with its own integrity. Integrity and organization do not disappear with ruination and destruction; rather, a new and more complex organization gets reformulated with ruination.25 Explaining his proposal to preserve and give a role to some ruined structures of the war-torn city of Sarajevo, American architect Lebbeus Woods claims: Wherever buildings are broken by the explosion of bombs or artillery shells, by fire or structural collapse, their form must be respected as an integrity, embodying a history that must not be denied. In their damaged states they suggest new forms of thought and comprehension, and suggest new conceptions of space that confirm the potential of the human to integrate itself, to be whole and free outside of any predetermined totalizing system.26 While buildings destroyed by wars certainly help us lament loss, absence, and void suffered by violence, they also confront us with what is still standing with a different kind of organization and integrity. I believe that the Dome illustrates eloquently the way in which its own specific aesthetics affects us. The Dome asserts its existence for what it is and for where it is and we experience its immediacy without any filter or distance. Strictly speaking, the experience is entirely visual. Because

208  Yuriko Saito the area is cordoned off for protecting both the structure and the people, unlike other ruins where people can move in and out and sometimes touch the structure, there is no direct tactile or kinesthetic experience. However, my personal experience of the Dome was predominantly visceral, as I was imaginatively feeling the tactility of the brick and concrete rubble on the ground, whether by touching or walking on them, and hearing the roar that must have accompanied the process of destruction (Figure 17.2). The impact of the place would be reduced if the residue of destruction had been cleared or taken over by vegetation, the way in which many European old ruins appear today. The most striking feature of the Dome, however, is the skeletal remains of its dome frame, the spokes of structural steel emptied of roof covering. We are painfully aware of the missing roof and we cannot help but see the sky through the steel frame, shuddering at the thought of the bomb exploding right above. At the same time, we are astonished by the still intact frame. It remains undistorted since the bomb exploded directly above the dome. In addition, several walls still remain standing. These remains withstood the unimaginable destructive power and, as such, we marvel at their resilience in the midst of Armageddon. Thus, a ruin like the Dome has its own integrity, rather than being just a damaged object that lost its original integrity.

Figure 17.2 Genbaku Dome grounds Source: UNESCO Wikimedia Commons

Reflections on the Atomic Bomb Ruins 209

The Demise of the Other Atomic Bomb Ruin The Dome’s environmental context also contributes to its aesthetic power. It remains in its original location, now a part of the Peace Park. We can appreciate the importance of its in situ preservation in comparison with the eventual demolition of a church ruin in Nagasaki that remained after its bombing three days after Hiroshima (Figure 17.3). Although the Dome in Hiroshima is considered to be “the” atomic bomb ruin today, it is not widely known even in Japan that there was another notable ruined structure in Nagasaki.27 Urakami Cathedral, completed in 1925 after construction started in 1895 with the congregation’s donation and volunteer labor, was a Romanesque-style structure made with stones and bricks featuring twin bell towers 25 meters high, and it was touted as the most impressive church building in Asia at the time. Nagasaki was the most fitting location because the area had harbored Christians who hid from persecution by the Japanese shogunate for more than two and half centuries. At the time of bombing, there were 22,000 Roman Catholics living in Nagasaki, mostly Japanese, 8,500 of whom perished.28

Figure 17.3 Urakami Cathedral ruin Source: Yuniko—Wikimedia Commons

210  Yuriko Saito The arguments in favor of preserving this ruin given by the city council and the congregation included its value as “a historical resource to urge self-reflection to the heads of state from many nations and visitors to Nagasaki,” as well as respecting God’s will that let the ruined structure withstand the bomb’s power.29 They were in favor of rebuilding a new church at a different location, and there was even an offer from a property owner who was ready to donate the land. The opponents included the mayor, the bishop, and non-Christian citizens of Nagasaki. They argued that preserving the ruin is not the most effective way of giving a historical lesson and promoting world peace, and it is best to erase the gaping wounds of bombing. Furthermore, it is most appropriate to rebuild a new church on the same location, as the site was considered a place of rebirth for making the return of Christian worship possible after a long period of prohibition. A recent investigative report suggests that there was political and religious pressure from the United States on the mayor and the bishop. The mayor was invited to a month-long trip around the United States funded by the city of St. Paul, Minnesota, with a large population of Catholics, ostensibly to sign a sister-city agreement—the first of its kind between the two nations. The Catholics there were interested in helping rebuild the church, and there was also an economic interest in promoting Northwest Airlines, headquartered in St. Paul and the first airline to operate flights to Japan after the war. In short, a concerted effort was made to mitigate and overcome the anti-American sentiment that was still strong in 1947. It is speculated that the purpose of the bishop’s ten-month trip to the United States and Canada from 1955 to 1956 was to collect donations for rebuilding the church. His shame in the ruined structure back home is said to have become intensified particularly after he was dazzled by the magnificence of the Cathedral of St. Paul and Montreal’s St. Joseph’s Oratory. He ended up believing that the bombing was in keeping with God’s providence, implicitly justifying the sacrifice made by the victims not only in Nagasaki but also in Hiroshima. This view was, of course, in line with the official US justification of bombing as the most effective means of ending the war to minimize further casualties. Ultimately, the structure was demolished in 1958, thirteen years after the bombing, a new church was built on the site, and a fragment of the ruined wall was moved to the Peace Park and placed next to the memorial at the epicenter of the bomb, while the damaged statue of the Virgin Mary was housed inside the newly built Urakami Cathedral.30 The 1962 Time article, “Tale of Two Cities,” praises the demolition of the ruin and rebuilding of a new church as reflecting a “markedly gayer and more relaxed” attitude of Nagasaki and its citizens.31 It quotes Japanese officials associated with Nagasaki as considering Hiroshima to be “better at propaganda than we are,” but “we don’t want to go around bragging about being victims of the atomic bomb.” The mayor is even

Reflections on the Atomic Bomb Ruins 211 quoted as stating that his people feel “no bitterness” toward the United States and “if Japan had had the same type of weapon, it would have used it.”32 Today, more voices of regret are heard about the demolition of the ruined church. The current pastor of Urakami Cathedral, for one, holds that the ruin should have been kept because “there is no evidence of bombing that tells a story of its destruction,” while one scholar dubs Nagasaki as “the inferior city of bombing.”33 The reporter had been inspired to investigate the circumstances surrounding the demolition of Urakami Cathedral. He was shocked when he saw a photograph of the ruined church, stating: Demolishing something because it is old or ugly is to wipe out the memory of the past. Shouldn’t we recognize and appreciate the power of something tangible which was “there” and “then”? To regard a destroyed thing as ugly is to avert our eye from the truth and it leads to the erasure of history and denial of humanity.34

Two Ruins Compared When comparing the Dome and the wall fragment from Urakami Cathedral now standing in the Peace Park in Nagasaki, the Dome’s in situ presence is much more powerful for signifying its location-specific historical event. The relocated wall fragment, in contrast, stands amid other sculptural pieces that commemorate the historic event and symbolize hope for the future peace. The wall fragment is robbed of the raw potency of its ruined state, appearing as if it were just another piece in an outdoor sculpture park. If it had been preserved as a part of the ruined Urakami Cathedral following its congregation’s wish, its aesthetic effect and associated historical significance would have been much more powerful. Although the plaque next to the wall fragment in the park provides the appropriate context cognitively, it is different from experiencing the tangible context provided if it were in situ as part of the ruined structure. Here, Simmel’s comment on fragments, in comparison with ruins, is applicable: fragments’ “immediate appearance is no artistic unity; it offers us nothing but a work of art imperfect through the reductions it has undergone.”35 The way in which relocation compromises the aesthetic, and resultant historical, value of a ruin fragment is similar to placing site-specific objects in museums. Sometimes necessitated by practical considerations, such as saving something from total demise that would have taken place if left in situ, there is no question that physical decontextualization compromises aesthetic significance even with various attempts at providing appropriate context. Although not enclosed in a white cube or a glass

212  Yuriko Saito box, what is essentially an outdoor sculpture park in Nagasaki tends to distance the viewers from the wall, and predisposes us to experience it in a more disinterested manner. The Dome’s surroundings further contribute to its aesthetic richness. The thick, arch-like monument of peace designed by Tange is perfectly aligned to frame the view of the Dome. There is abundant greenery around, including cherry trees, whose blossoms have historically served as the symbol of both ephemerality and rebirth in Japan. The adjacent river, where bomb victims flocked in search of water immediately after the fallout, today provides cleansing and life-giving power, which is further enhanced by the annual August Buddhist festival of floating lanterns to welcome back and send off the dead. They all harmonize to give rise to a poignant sense of hope and rejuvenation. The harmony is achieved precisely because of the presence of the Dome in situ, the effect that could not have been achieved if its parts had been relocated elsewhere as in the case of Urakami Cathedral. I believe that this complex amalgamation of different values and meanings associated with the Dome succeeds in solving the disagreement over what the Dome should symbolize: the permanent reminder of the tragedy that should never be forgotten and the forward-looking symbol of hope that is enhanced by the successful rebuilding of the city. My exploration, partly personal, is meant to highlight the possibility of upholding these double meanings precisely because of the singularity of the Dome’s aesthetic power.

Notes 1. I explored this issue in “The Japanese Aesthetics of Imperfection and Insufficiency,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 55, no. 4 (Fall 1997): 377–85. 2. Photographs of recent progress of restoration can be seen at www.asahi. com/articles/ASL5B34V4L5BTLVB003.html, DL46T(LVB00G.html?iref=pc_rellink, quake/?iref=pc_extlink and a short video of restoration work can be seen at ew=detail&mid=A4C003F01452BCFAF83FA4C003F01452BCFAF83F&&F ORM=VRDGAR. Restoration of Japanese castles, including Kumamoto Castle, can be seen in Japanology Plus 2016 09 08 Restoring Castles available on You Tube. 3. The so-called top fifty notable ruins rated on the basis of historical value, aesthetic value, and/or novelty value and their photographs can be found at The UNESCO-designated Industrial Heritage Site can be found at and the best-known industrial complex, Gunkanjima, can be seen in detail at www.japansmeiji 4. The historical sketch that follows summarizes accounts given by Sumiko Ebara, Genbaku Dōmu: Bussan Chinretsukan kara Hiroshima Heiwa Kinenhi e (Atomic Dome: From Product Exhibition Hall to Hiroshima Peace

Reflections on the Atomic Bomb Ruins 213 Memorial) (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2016); Kanako Ide, “A Symbol of Peace and Peace Education: The Genbaku Dome in Hiroshima,” Journal of Aesthetic Education 41 (Winter 2007): 12–23; Yamamoto Akihiro, “Genbaku Dōmu Hozon: Isanka Ronsō” (Controversies over Preservation and Heritage Designation of the Atomic Dome) in “Genbaku” o Yomu Bunka Jiten (Cultural Encyclopedia of Reading “Atomic Bomb,”) ed. Kawaguchi Takayuki (Tokyo: Seikyūsha, 2017), 65–69. I  follow the Japanese custom of listing the family name first for the Japanese authors whose publication is in Japanese. I shall refer to this ruin as “the Dome” to make the reading smoother. 5. I explore this landscape tradition in Japan in “Cultural Construction of National Landscapes and Its Consequences: Cases of Japan and the United States,” in Humans in the Land: The Ethics and Aesthetics of the Cultural Landscape, eds. Sven Arntzen and Emily Brady (Oslo: Unipub, 2008), 219–47. 6. Cited by Ebara, Genbaku Dōmu, 138. 7. The World Heritage decision in 1996 was made over the objection of China, which was concerned about establishing the victimhood of Japan while minimizing Japan’s own act of victimizing China. The United States abstained from voting, citing their concern that the bombing should be understood in its proper historical context, namely its contribution to ending the war. The description, value, and dozens of photographs can be accessed at http://whc. Its before and after photographs can be accessed at 8. The details of restoration can be seen in Figure  16 of www.sah. org/publications-and-research/sah-blog/sah-blog/2017/04/03/ reclaimed-sites-of-conflict-industry-and-population-change-in-japan. 9. Georg Simmel, “The Ruin,” trans. David Kettler, Hudson Review 11, no. 3 (Autumn 1958): 381. 10. Of course there is an urgent need to keep this collective memory alive, given the advancing age of the witnesses and survivors. The discussion of the Dome here is thus time specific in that its content will most likely be very different in the future. 11. The first passage is Erna Husukić and Emina Zejnilović, “The Environmental Aesthetics of Sarajevo: A City Shaped by Memory,” Urbani Izziv 28, no. 1 (2017): 100 and the second passage is Þóra Pétursdóttir, “Things Out-ofHand: The Aesthetics of Abandonment,” in Ruin Memories: Materiality, Aesthetics and the Archaeology of the Recent Past, eds. Bjørnar Olsen and Þóra Pétursdóttir (Oxon: Routledge, 2014), 338. 12. Alois Riegl, “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Character and Its Origin,” trans. Kurt W. Forster and Diane Ghirardo, in Oppositions Reader, ed. K. Michael Hays (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1998), 633. 13. Ibid., 624, emphasis added, and 633. 14. Ibid., 639, emphasis added. 15. J. B. Jackson, “The Necessity for Ruins,” in The Necessity for Ruins (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1980), 89, 91. 16. Ibid., 91, emphasis added. 17. Pétursdóttir, “Things Out-of-Hand,” 339. 18. Ibid. 19. Lucas D. Introna, “Ethics and Flesh: Being Touched by the Otherness of Things,” in Ruin Memories, 41 for both passages. 20. Ibid., 43. This notion of “turn to things” is also the theme of Pétursdóttir’s “Things Out-of-Hand.”

214  Yuriko Saito 1. Pétursdóttir, “Things Out-of-Hand,” 347–48. 2 22. Introna, “Ethics and Flesh,” 49–50. 23. Ibid., 58. 24. Pétursdóttir, “Things Out-of-Hand,” 336. 25. Karen Dale and Gibson Burrell discuss the notion of organization in ruins. “Disturbing Structure: Reading the Ruins,” Culture and Organization 17, no. 2 (March 2011): 107–21. 26. Lebbeus Woods, War and Architecture, trans. Aleksandra Wagner (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 14. Husukić and Zejnilović also support preserving some war-torn ruins in Sarajevo in “Environmental Aesthetics of Sarajevo.” 27. The historical sketch that follows is a summary of accounts given by Takase Tsuyoshi, Nagasaki: Kieta Mōhitotsuno “Genbaku Dōmu” (Nagasaki: The Other “Atomic Bomb Dome” That Vanished) (Tokyo: Bungei Shunjū, 2013); Hatanaka Yoshie, “Hibaku Maria,” (Maria Attacked by Atomic Bomb) in “Genbaku” o Yomu Bunka Jiten, 286–90. I don’t think I am atypical in not having known about this ruin. 28. The photos of Urakami Cathedral before and after the bombing can be seen at and at https://artsand 29. Cited by Takase, Nagasaki, 146–47. 30. Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum, “Nagasaki City – Peace & Atomic Bomb.” https://nagasakipeace. jp/japanese/map/zone_inori/tenshudo_iheki.html. 31. “Tale of Two Cities,” Time, May 18, 1962, 30–31. 32. Ibid. 33. Cited by Takase, Nagasaki, 181, 262. 34. Ibid., 267. 35. Simmel, “The Ruin,” 380. I thank the editors for their thoughtful comments and meticulous editorial work on the first draft of this paper.

18 Bamiyan’s Echo Sounding Out the Emptiness James Janowski

Introduction1 Nestled picturesquely in the Hindu Kush, high up in the mountains in modern-day Afghanistan, Bamiyan was a vibrant spiritual and commercial center—a remarkably cosmopolitan place where innumerable cultural influences issued in two colossal sculptures of the Buddha. A unique amalgam of Hellenistic, Roman, Indian, and Sasanian art, Bamiyan’s Buddhas, magnificent and serene, quietly oversaw 1,500  years of history. Originally glorious—at their debut they wore sumptuous outfits and were richly bejeweled—nature and time had compromised once resplendent features. Still, the Buddhas were survivors—right up until their desecration by the Taliban in March 2001, when two weeks of artillery shells and dynamite reduced the sculptures to rubble (Figures 18.1 and 18.2). While its physical core is gone, Bamiyan remains part of the world’s art historical heritage. Indeed, ironically, the Buddhas’ prominence and fame, arguably even their significance and import, has perhaps increased since the Taliban’s deed. And thus the deliberate targeting occasioned a “reinvention” of Bamiyan. I  aim to understand the result of this ­reinvention—hollow niches and staggering voids. Using the Buddhas as my example, I  seek to comprehend the being of massively desecrated artifacts; the status of objects and sites that suffer wholesale destruction; and the nature of despoliation and the emptiness it leaves behind. Realizing this aim will have me clarifying central concepts in heritage theory, even have me adding to our conceptual repertoire by advancing some new terms, and developing thoughts that apply not to Bamiyan alone but to what, sadly, is increasingly frequent: the willful destruction of iconic artifacts.

Bamiyan Then, Bamiyan Now: Understanding Meaning and Value I begin by exploring two terms often used to talk about artworks and cultural heritage—meaning and value. These ideas seem innocuous,

Figure 18.2  Western Buddha after destruction, 2002, Bamiyan, Afghanistan Source: Photo courtesy ICOMOS/Yazhou Zou

Figure 18.1  Western Buddha before destruction, 1963, Bamiyan, Afghanistan

Source: Photo courtesy UNESCO/A. Lezine

Bamiyan’s Echo 217 uncontroversial. We deploy them casually and unconsciously, much like we breathe clean and unsullied air unwittingly, without taking notice of what is happening. In discussions about heritage, “meaning” and “value” seem invariably to be conjoined. Indeed, we seem to conflate these ideas, simply assuming they do the same work. Thus we naturally say “X has meaning and value,” collapsing the concepts as if they were identical. In contrast, “X is meaningful but valueless” or “X has value but no meaning,” is not something we are disposed to say. So it is as if “meaning” and “value” were one word—meaningvalue—with no conceptual space between its blended conjuncts. My view is that this blurring of two into one is a mistake, as careful thinking about Bamiyan will show. Bamiyan’s Buddhas—and this is true of certain especially powerful artworks and heritage objects—were an achievement. Think Michelangelo’s Pietà. Think the Eiffel Tower, the Pyramids, the Palmyra Arch, or Aleppo’s Grand Mosque. Or consider the Buddhas. These sculptures (the younger one, at 55 meters, was the largest standing Buddha in the world) were a remarkable feat. Decades in the making, the towering icons testified to the wandering, peripatetic transmission of Buddhism along the Silk Road. They were grand and awe-inspiring. Witness Yakut al Hamawi’s thirteenth-century observation, based on ten years of wide-ranging travel: two huge idols cut into the rock and reaching from the bottom to the top of the mountain. One is called the red idol and the other one the white idol. You cannot find anything comparable to these two statues in the whole world.2 Thus the Buddhas were exemplars of important historical-cultural movements and markers of creativity, design, intentionality, and purposefulness; they manifested ingenuity, craft, effort, and will.3 The Buddhas’ creators labored mightily—the innermost of three layers of clay covering the hand-hewn sculptures’ substrate evidences 1,500-year-old fingermarks—and brought something wondrous and worthy into the world. The sculptures were repositories of value and sources of meaning, and thus in my sense an achievement.4 Then came March 2001. Caught up in ideological conflict, the Buddhas fell victim to political-cum-military struggle and competing worldviews. Two weeks of “effort” saw them disintegrate. However, in desecrating the sculptures, the Taliban did not obliterate meaning. In fact, Bamiyan seems to command more attention and, oddly, be more meaning-filled now than it was pre-desecration. Of course I  cannot here sift through the meanings in the remains. Here it suffices to say that the site has remnants of its “old” meanings, now highly obscure and illegible, and

218  James Janowski doubtless many new ones too. Indeed, surely there will be other—novel, perhaps distinctive—ways of reading the fragmentation and emptiness. But whatever these are, they are overpowered by an all-consuming new meaning which strikes us immediately and inescapably. Recognizing what occurred in 2001, we are shaken, knocked off-kilter. We try but fail to comprehend the desecration. Reason cannot fathom the result, and indeed Bamiyan now prompts (think Edmund Burke) the experience of the sublime.5 We are left dumbstruck, mouths agape and minds uncomprehending, groping for understanding that will not, because it cannot, be forthcoming. The explanation: in desecrating the Buddhas, the Taliban spoiled— despoiled, deliberately spoiled—an achievement. Despoliation, I submit, is the deliberate targeting and spoiling of value; despoliation takes aim at and vanquishes “good.” Thus the Taliban’s act was horrific.6 The Taliban sundered the former coalescence of meaning and value, breaking the bond between them. It deliberately spoiled Bamiyan, extinguishing value. This is metaphysically misbegotten. It is metaphysically inverted. Indeed, the willful erasure of value is existentially befuddling. Despoliation is cognitively toxic and cannot be understood rationally. Thus in order to understand Bamiyan now, we need also to understand Bamiyan then. Thinking about Bamiyan then shows how meaning and value are typically and rightly conjoined. Bamiyan then was an achievement, meaning-filled and value-laden. Thinking about Bamiyan now shows how meaning and value can atypically and wrongly come apart. Bamiyan now is meaning-filled and valueless. Indeed, March 2001 saw the obliteration of value and the generation of axiological emptiness.7

Parsing Words, Reconceiving Concepts Bamiyan is a philosophic gold mine and cautionary tale. Bamiyan prompts us to query the largely unexamined relation between “meaning” and “value,” thereby understanding each more fully. Reflecting on Bamiyan’s past and present—and on the terms we unreflectively use to describe material culture—reminds us that logical connectives play a role in our understanding of the world. While we talk as if there’s a single concept—meaningvalue—it’s meaning and value like it’s hand and glove, not handglove. And on my view it can be meaning or value— the two things are not co-implicated; they can be decoupled—just as it can be hand or glove. It is crucial to keep conceptual kinds distinct in order to make progress in heritage theory and practice. As I have urged, creativity, ingenuity, dedication, and resolve catalyze a convergence of meaning and value, issuing in achievements. Inspired toil arranges the materiality of the world into marvelous things that have us in thrall.

Bamiyan’s Echo 219 But, sadly, despoliation cleaves meaning and value—and, as at Bamiyan, extinguishes the latter. A likely objection to my position is that I have overreached. Consistent with the 2001 “reinvention,” one might urge that the site has been not de- but re-valued. Dynamite changed things. But just as Bamiyan now harbors new and different meanings, so too with values. Thus while the niche’s “old values” resonated with some, others can now appreciate history’s latest marks—“destruction value” and indeed “Taliban value.” In short, new and different values, not “no value,” now characterize Bamiyan. I believe the objection is profoundly misguided. Serious reflection on Bamiyan’s niches shows not just that something important, “value,” has been changed but that something really important— value, rightly understood—is gone.8 Again, achievements are repositories, self-­subsisting bearers of “good,” and this whether we find them “pleasing” and affirm “the value of” them or not. In my view, once created the value in an achievement persists. The value is there and, barring disaster, it remains there, irrespective of its appreciation or “attribution.” Thus, rightly understood, value—its very being—is not a function of perceivers’ awareness, perception, beliefs, or “value commitments.” It—the value per se—is ontologically prior to the meanings we assign it.9 This position, which grounds value in the artifact rather than our historically conditioned and hence “relativized” perception, tracks reflective experience. My account explains how and why, upon sustained and careful consideration, we recognize the good in an achievement and, correlatively, the loss and horror in its despoliation. Achievements matter. Value is constant, unchanging, universal; it is deep, way down, fundamentally unaffected by variable tastes and shifting beliefs. (Value is a metaphysical category, meaning is an epistemological one, and the latter is a malleable overlay on top of something that endures.) Thus, at Bamiyan, the value was—“valued” or not—but now, sadly, it isn’t.10 And so the objector’s reading of Bamiyan—one set of “values” replacing another—is hugely wrong-headed, and the default setting relativism underlying it thin, wan, and all too unthinking. The objection restates the unreflective party line and, violating our considered judgments, misunderstands achievements and their value. Indeed, the standard account of value is facile. It is both too easy—by now, “values differ” (true if we swap “meanings” for “values”) is not especially insightful—and, insipidly sanctioning the purported “new value” at Bamiyan, too empty.11 It is where serious reflection on the real nature of value should start, not stop; and it does not go deeply enough, down to the level where reason recognizes the achievement (and therefore the abiding universal

220  James Janowski significance) in achievements and the horror in their despoliation. Words matter, but concepts matter more. Words imperfectly stand for concepts, and concepts help us to carve up our experience of the world. It’s the concept of value that explains our reflective understanding of Bamiyan then and now. Our overriding intuition is that the 2001 event was metaphysically horrendous—it had value going away, not merely shifting—and the conventional interpretation of “value” does not capture this. The word falls short of the concept, and (here’s what the objection depends on and misses) the concept has been diminished by its association with the word.12 In sum, I  know how we use “value.” But thinking carefully about Bamiyan, pre- and post-despoliation, shows that current usage is inadequate. (The idea that “Taliban value” obtains at Bamiyan is perverse and a colossal slight to history. The Taliban added meaning but destroyed value.) Advancing our understanding of artifacts and heritage objects demands that we question conventional assumptions and dig underneath the “givenness” of language. In practice meaning and value are unreflectively run together, conflated, as if they are equivalent. But treating these words as interchangeable makes for a conceptual morass (and, as I have shown, for intuitively unacceptable conclusions).13 By contrast, parsing them makes for conceptual clarity—and thus promises real progress in heritage theory and practice.14

Anti-value Let’s thicken the plot. On my account, Bamiyan is currently devoid of value. But more strongly, and admittedly somewhat curiously, I propose that Bamiyan is now characterized by what I  call “anti-value”—by a kind of “negative” complement to the formerly value-filled sculptures. On this view, the site is not merely empty and axiologically neutral, not a “value blank.” Rather, its emptiness is filled with an oddly perceptible “value antonym.” (Creating and despoiling achievements are antonymic actions, at axiological loggerheads, and the Taliban’s act left something, not just nothing, in its wake.) Think again about the horror in despoliation. Deliberate spoiling, recall, runs contrary to the creative, purposeful, productive striving characteristic of human nature. And thus, consistent with the aforementioned metaphysical inversion, despoliation spawns a kind of ghostly-cum-ghastly thing—a property, quality, attribute, or condition?—that though invisible to the immediate senses is nonetheless altogether apparent and, indeed, unmistakably appreciable. At Bamiyan we recognize a metaphysical violation, a defilement. The present woeful absence did not have to be; this deepens the axiological-cum-existential wounds and prompts a curiously accessible presence. (Photos capture

Bamiyan’s Echo 221 the Buddhas’ former being; contrasting these with images of empty niches encourages the awareness.) Something bad—something willful, something deeply and altogether lamentable—happened here, and that badness, invisibly mirroring the former goodness, has, I submit, a peculiar substance and being. Thus the deliberately produced current absence of a former presence, the substantive absence of a previously valuable presence, is an absence that is itself perversely contrary to value, itself a kind of value opposite, itself a kind of antagonistic nonor indeed “anti-value.” This may sound decidedly odd. But I think we can begin to make these thoughts make sense. My observations, somewhat inchoate and philosophically adventurous, can be packed into five points. 1. Anti-value is a ghostly presence that invisibly inhabits, after the fashion of a powerful echo, Bamiyan’s hollow niches. An echo, of course, owes its being to what came before it. And if that thing—the thing preceding the echo—was good and worthy, then the echo, seemingly by definition, has a kind of dark, mournful quality. Thus it is with the echo at Bamiyan. 2. Bamiyan’s emptiness—the anti-value and echo—can only be understood as part of a cross-temporal cluster; it presupposes the thing that came before and what remains extant. Think “figure-ground.” The niches as such and heritage site generally, then and now, are “ground.” All this backdrops the “figure”: the absence—the missing mirror image, “see-able” but not visually, of the thing that harbored value and now harbors its antonym. Thus anti-value is the anti-figural (“empty”) figure. Its being trades on the being of value. Anti-value exists derivatively, in virtue of the prior—and now, sadly, former— purposeful arrangement of matter that was the achievement. 3. This brings to mind David Hume’s “complicated object”—a heuristic for understanding moral phenomena—and his discussion of the “crime of ingratitude.”15 For Hume, reason finds facts. It determines the circumstances surrounding an instance of ingratitude, paving the way for sentiment. 4. Bamiyan too is a complicated object, and a reason-sentiment synergy explains our response there. At Bamiyan, we discern the facts—an understanding of what was there, and of the act which spawned the emptiness—and then respond emotively. Thus while thinking plays a role in the appreciation of anti-value, in the end (this is my language, but it well captures Hume’s position) reason lays the facts before the heart, which makes its pronouncement. At Bamiyan, we feel our way into revulsion. 5. Like a pernicious echo, anti-value strikes us. Anti-value and the “visual” echo carrying it necessarily affect our affect. At Bamiyan we

222  James Janowski are aware—rationally—of the sculptures’ former value. And then we are aware—emotively—of what, sadly, has replaced it. Anti-value presents itself; the echo hurts. When we attend to what happened— this doleful absence might not have been; the deliberate act creating it was antipodal to creating an achievement and hence creating value; it was metaphysically and morally colossally wrong—we are bowled over, made weak-kneed and weak-brained. Thus, as with the sublime, the anti-value occupying the niches is ultimately incomprehensible. Anti-value presupposes but then swamps reason. The experience of the niches is darkly ineffable. It has us feeling overwhelmed and undermined. Although more could (should!) be said about anti-value, I turn instead to counter the objection that I’ve made much ado about nothing. Against me, one might suggest that anti-value is a crafty fabrication. Metaphysically all too mysterious, the “phenomenon” I have described is itself empty—spurious reference. Anti-value is indeed nothing, not something. In response, I  acknowledge that anti-value seems philosophically suspicious, even extravagant, and incompatible with a materialistically oriented worldview. Thus a skeptic’s questions—What are anti-value’s properties? How might we observe them?—are entirely reasonable. Indeed, since anti-value isn’t “measurable,” there’s good reason, prima facie, to be dubious. But a thoroughgoing and (too) “principled” reductionism encourages myopia and thereby misses something. As before, genuine understanding of the facts at Bamiyan—and genuine understanding of achievements and despoliation—lays bare the experience: anti-value “pops,” doubts vanish. Just as value did, anti-value supervenes over the historical-cum-material reality in the niches. It may not be capturable in a photograph, but it is observable (again: “see-able”), inescapably so, phenomenologically. Anti-value is revealed, unfailingly and deeply emotively, to informed inner observation. Indeed, just as Hume urged that the crime in ingratitude, while trading on reason’s sleuthing, is unavoidably and irreducibly felt, so also with despoliation, where a feeling of colossally wrongful d ­ eprivation—of being robbed, undone, violated—follows on the heels of understanding the Bamiyan case. Put differently, “anti-value” denotes the affective fact—demanded by, if not itself fundamentally a matter of, reason—that the willful obliteration of something inherently worthy, the deliberate spoiling of an achievement, pains us.16 Human eyes won’t detect anti-value; but it’s the conceptual placeholder, the “thing,” that causes or represents (is?) that pain. Thus, anti-value, not suspicious existentially, is appreciated by the heart—immediately and ineluctably, except at cost of denying part of our nature—as a cataclysm and unmitigated horror.17 As with the loss of a loved one, it’s experienced as a yawning gap the raw immediacy of

Bamiyan’s Echo 223 which cannot be fully understood. Like the sublime, anti-value displays the brute power and ineliminable fuzziness of feeling. The awareness is not altogether rationally graspable; but what reason cannot get its arms around emotion cannot ignore. Indeed, to amplify, reflect: before the Buddhas’ creation—on starkly forbidding cliff faces on that Silk Road node—there was nothing, “no (artefactual) value.” After the sculptures’ creation, after decades of inspired toil issued in an achievement, there was “value.” (Pre-despoliation, the achievement was intact, though touched by decline.)18 Post-despoliation, there is not just “nothing,” but rather “anti-value.” Again, reflect: this location—this situ—was marvelously enhanced; understanding it as reverting to (merely) “no value” colossally belittles the achievement in the achievement. Despoliation—the deliberate denial and denunciation of value—makes not for a value vacuum, but for value’s antithesis. (Relatedly: people were accustomed to the sculptures. Their loss is rightly explained not as a return to the original status quo ante but as the emergence of a gaping void and extra-linguistic horror. Thus the act exacted a human toll; it also, more fundamentally, extinguished value.)19 Existentially, anti-value elicits the same emotional bewilderment as does the sublime. So if there’s ontology behind our perception and beliefs—if lived experience has veridicality about it—surely we must affirm not that there’s “no value” (and not “different value”) at Bamiyan, not that we returned to an axiological blank, but that what’s there now is an abomination and value inversion. In sum, while I’ve not thought it all the way through—owing to its nature this might be impossible; a la the experience of the sublime, contemplating feeling only gets us so far—anti-value, like its happier sibling, value, is, I submit, a feature of the world—one that is, in its linkage to the sublime, existentially translucent and overpowering. Anti-value may still seem mysterious to the sober-minded. But carefully attending to the nature of achievements and despoliation has the cloud of philosophical suspicion gradually lifting: while anti-value does seem prima facie inconsistent with materialism, it explains a powerfully universal intuition and explicates a wholly natural experience.20 Put simply, then, anti-value, value’s antonym, is where value was. Being the product of the willful annihilation of value, its simple and not further analyzable badness, paralleling the site’s former goodness, has stained Bamiyan. If we recognize, as I believe we must, the good in an achievement, we must also recognize the bad in its obliteration. Anti-value is metaphysically horrific; it should be excised.21

Anti-value’s Kin Anti-value is odd, and working to understand it is challenging. But, interestingly, it turns out there’s quasi-precedent, conceptually. Having long

224  James Janowski reflected, solo, on anti-value, I recently investigated Jean-Paul Sartre and Roberto Casati and Achille Varzi—thinkers who, though from different philosophical planets, explore similar subjects.22 Sartre contemplates nothingness; the tag team of Casati-Varzi contemplate holes. Here’s a sketch, compressing two stances to two sentences. For Sartre, nothingness is something, not nothing, and the former has its own distinctive nature. For Casati-Varzi, holes, though immaterial, are where something else, something material, isn’t. Thus, for both, absence is a (fully present) presence and emptiness its own kind of thing. Sartre and Casati-Varzi argue that their subjects are real—not merely illusory linguistic complements to being and to matter. I am persuaded, and I believe anti-value is similarly real. This basic agreement aside, however, I have learned enough from Sartre and Casati-Varzi to know that in thinking about anti-value I  have something quite different in mind. Anti-value is not nothingness and not a hole. Here are three telling divergences. First, Sartre’s grand, sweeping project aims to understand a highly general phenomenon: nothingness or absence as such. I aim, more modestly, to understand deliberately induced absence, the ontology of the emptiness that results from the defilement of achievements. Second, while Casati-Varzi’s holes move— the holes in the Emmentaler wedge were in the dairy aisle; now they’re in your refrigerator—anti-value is in situ in the way value is (or, sadly, was). Holes float. Anti-value doesn’t. Trading on its “ground,” it is essentially localized and necessarily occupies a particular region of space. Third, Sartre and Casati-Varzi treat subjects that are fundamentally accessible to reason—and, crucially, can be approached dispassionately. Indeed, Sartre and Casati-Varzi are existentially indifferent toward nothingness and holes. Both are coolly “philosophically distanced” in a way that is quite impossible for one genuinely engaged with and by my subject. Reason might be inert, but we’re not, and just as fear necessarily accompanies thick fog on the ocean, discomfiting confusion and sadness necessarily accompany despoliation. Indeed, we cannot be dispassionate toward the being of anti-value, its curious ontology notwithstanding. Value matters. It is important, and it is good. Thus, as I have argued, we simply cannot remain unaffected by the obliteration of value, and we necessarily experience anti-value with profound lament (even, following Burke, with terror or horror). The loss of what had been the world’s gain, the being of an achievement, is a deeply disquieting, even disorienting, phenomenon, one which leaves us rationally astonished, emotionally numbed, and seeking both relief from and a solution to the pain. Sartre and Casati-Varzi, by contrast, are not similarly affected by their subjects.23 In sum, then, while Sartre’s and Casati-Varzi’s projects seem to (partially) conceptually overlap mine, I  believe the ideas I  have developed in thinking deliberately and carefully about Bamiyan are sui generis.

Bamiyan’s Echo 225 Indeed, my triadic cluster—achievement–despoliation–anti-value—is an invention that, I submit, uniquely helps us understand the horrific result of the 2001 event.

Bamiyan’s Echoes In closing I simply note that clarity about the emptiness I’ve discussed is increasingly important practically. Indeed, sadly, echoes of Bamiyan continue to reverberate. Think Timbuktu’s tombs in 2012, Palmyra’s Arch in 2015, Mosul’s Great Mosque of al-Nuri in 2017. Willfully produced emptiness is on the rise. And a discerning account of this lamentable phenomenon is an essential precursor to a confident, defensible response to the same. Deciding whether—and, if so, exactly how—to intervene at Bamiyan or some other desecrated site presupposes a perceptive understanding of the emptiness that despoliation leaves in its wake. I hope this essay serves this end.

Notes 1. The first two parts of this essay are condensed, modified versions of sections I  and II in “Emptiness and Authenticity at Bamiyan,” in The Future of the Bamiyan Buddha Statues—Heritage Reconstruction in Theory and Practice, ed. Masanori Nagaoka (Heidelberg: Springer, 2019); hereafter Janowski, forthcoming. The essays have different aims, but these sections are essential to both. 2. Michael Petzet, The Giant Buddhas of Bamiyan: Safeguarding the Remains (Berlin: ICOMOS and Hendrik Bäßler Verlag, 2009), 237–38. 3. Something like these criteria underlie UNESCO’s “Outstanding Universal Value” (OUV). My analysis, as we’ll see, well captures the “universal” in OUV. 4. Borrowing Paul Zucker’s phrase, achievements testify to “the organizing power of the human spirit.” (See Paul Zucker, Fascination of Decay: Ruins: Relic-Symbol-Ornament [Ridgewood, NJ: Greg Press, 1968], 5.) The tangible product of focus, commitment, and drive, achievements are magnificent contributions to history and culture. Indeed, some pieces of material heritage are invaluable—priceless, their value, significance, and import beyond estimation and question. While more could (should!) be said about achievements, space constraints preclude this. 5. This idea stretches across time from Longinus to Lyotard and includes thinkers as different as Burke, Kant, and Jameson. Burke’s classic discussion captures my intent. Burke, Edmund, A Philosophical Enquiry into Our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990). 6. The reasons underlying the act—sparked by the West’s insistence on the sculptures’ “world heritage value” at a geopolitical flash point—were complex. See my “Bamiyan, Vandalism, and the Sublime,” Change Over Time 5, no.1 (Spring 2015): 28–64. 7. Of course value might obtain elsewhere in the Bamiyan heritage site. I focus on the hollowness in the niches. 8. Perhaps my distinction here has linkage to the distinction between instrumental and intrinsic value. But this debate is timeworn and the language

226  James Janowski is tired. I  want to encourage thinking, not an immediate retreat to longstanding opposing camps—and it might be that my point cannot be wholly understood via (because it is somehow beside or even underneath?) this distinction. 9. Imagine unanimous worldwide moral condemnation, down to a person, of the Pyramids owing to the slave labor involved in their creation. We ought nonetheless to preserve the Pyramids because they house value, value which antedates our beliefs and meaning-imputation about (“the value of”) the same. Again, the being of the value is prior to the being of the meaning. Attitudes and human understandings shift. Meanings change. Value doesn’t. (I make the points in this paragraph and discuss them more fully in III of Janowski, forthcoming.) 10. My understanding of value—very much against the spirit of the age—is antiinstrumentalist, anti-attributivist. My position is that, once created, value obtains; there is an important (but often unrecognized and indeed often simply unreflectively dismissed) difference between the being of value and the appreciation of the being of that value. The former antedates the latter; and, contra the currently dominant thinking, it does not reduce to the same. This is unconventional to be sure. But some such view is necessary in order to overcome the relativistic impasse that, as Christina Cameron ruefully notes, affects, even thwarts, the World Heritage Committee’s (WHC) efforts to confidently determine which artifacts and sites have OUV. See Cameron, “The Evolution of the Concept of Outstanding Universal Value,” in Conserving the Authentic: Essays in Honor of Jukka Jokilehto, eds. Stanley-Price, Nicolas and King, Joseph (Rome: ICCROM, 2009), 135. My view is a step toward the “guidance” and “clarity”—the “almost a rule”— Cameron and her WHC colleagues seek. 11. I am not persuaded by those—and there are some; Andrea Bruno, for example, urges that “the void is the true sculpture” and the “immanent presence of the niche, even without its sculpture, represents a victory for the ­monument”—who underplay the cost paid at the site. (See Bruno’s observation in Anna Somers Cocks, “The Victory of the Void, a Defeat for the Taliban,” Art Newspaper, May  31, 2012, The-victory-of-the-void-a-defeat-for-the-Taliban/26499.) Some conceive of the empty niches as a new and worthy heritage object. I disagree. I think it is more accurate to understand Bamiyan as an “anti-heritage” object. I discuss this more fully in Janowski, forthcoming. 12. Language sometimes beguiles and misleads. It’s hard to think our way to the nature and being of value while using a “tainted” word. Elsewhere I  am developing a workaround—one which will restore the power of the ­concept—for this challenge. 13. Full disclosure: it’s worse. It’s really meaningvaluesignificanceimportmeritworth. 14. While I cannot pursue this here, I believe Bamiyan has meaning, significance, and import, perhaps merit and worth, but no value. All these terms need more careful analysis. 15. David Hume, An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, ed. Jerome Schneewind (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1983), 82–88. 16. Mixing odd bedfellows, imagine—if you dare!—the horror Kant would have had at the deliberate defiling of beauty. It is precisely this horror we ­experience—we can’t reason through it, but we do feel it; again, it presents itself—at the despoliation of value. (There is, I  suspect, linkage between Kant’s understanding of beauty and my understanding of value.)

Bamiyan’s Echo 227 17. Back to Hume: despoliation is like a “super-ingratitude”; and despoilers are indeed guilty of exactly this crime. Achievements deserve honor. Like reason perceives the value in an achievement, emotion perceives the deep violation in their desecration. It’s just the kind of being we are. If creative striving—if an achievement—garners respect, despoliation prompts pain. The experience of anti-value is a “super-pain.” 18. Compare Alois Reigl’s distinction between historical value and age value. See The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Character and Origin (Vienna: W. Braumuller, 1903). K. W. Forster and D. Ghirardo, trans., “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Character and Its Origin,” Oppositions 25 (1982): 20–51. Reigl’s distinction is important, but he wrongly historicizes his subject. Reigl fails to think underneath “value.” His “value” is my “meaning.” 19. As I have urged, value metaphysically antedates its appreciation. Thus the wrong in despoliation is not just a wrong toward human beings, but a wrong more generally and abstractly. This, again, has me (unapologetically) thinking unconventionally about value. 20. Experience speaks (even if not altogether clearly): anti-value is every bit as much as value is (or, sadly, at Bamiyan, was). Not a product of legerdemain, anti-value is a moniker for a powerfully and fully present absence, for a gap in the world where value used to be. The experience, undeniable, is data for the sober-minded, myself included, to further analyze, clarify. 21. While hard questions arise about the philosophical status and hence metaphysical-cum-moral appropriateness of restorations and reconstructions, I  argue in Janowski forthcoming that (in certain cases, Bamiyan included) despoiled achievements can and should be reachieved. When we perceive badness and can replace it with goodness, we ought to do so. Antivalue answers to our intuitive sense that deliberately targeting the Buddhas was worse than, say, an earthquake. And the fact that they were (voluntarily) despoiled, not (involuntarily) destroyed, heightens the felt need to restore them. 22. Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, trans. Hazel Barnes (New York: Washington Square Press, 1953), 33–85; Roberto Casati and Achille Varzi, Holes and Other Superficialities (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1994). 23. My point here applies only to Sartre’s discussion, cited above, in Being and Nothingness; I make no claim to what goes on in Sartre’s other works, including his literary works. Casati-Varzi can be blithe about holes because the material hosts they discuss—blocks of cheese, watering cans—are not achievements, not repositories of value. Again, my subject is different, and just as we are awestruck by achievements we cannot be indifferent toward their despoliation. Anti-value is existentially compelling—completely overpowering in terms of the feeling of metaphysical and moral loss and sadness it prompts. For this reason it is hard to explain, even, I suspect, not wholly amenable to analysis.

19 The Ruins of War Elizabeth Scarbrough

One reason to marvel at ruins is because they stand the test of time, outlasting the rise and fall of civilizations. However, an increasing number of ancient ruins have been damaged or completely destroyed by acts of war. In 2001 the Taliban struck a major blow to cultural heritage by blasting the Bamiyan Buddhas out of existence (Figures 18.1 and 18.2). This direct targeting of cultural property changed our attitudes toward conservation practices. Francesco Bandarin, the UNESCO assistant director-general for culture, states “deliberate destruction has created a new context. At the time, Bamiyan was an exceptional case.”1 Unfortunately, since then, ISIL has continued the Taliban’s destruction of cultural heritage in Iraq, Syria, and Libya. Needless to say, we are losing material culture at an alarming rate. Bandarin’s comments notwithstanding, the destruction of cultural property in times of war is not new. Not only is there relatively settled international law prohibiting the looting of cultural property during times of war, we can find examples of intentional destruction of cultural property from thousands of years ago. In this paper I would like to focus on one particular case, that of the Mỹ Sơn Archaeological Sanctuary, in the Socialist Republic of Việt Nam. Mỹ Sơn is the foremost Champa archaeological site and the largest archaeological site in Việt Nam. The largest temple (kalan) at Mỹ Sơn, A1, was destroyed in a US bombing raid in 1969. In what follows, I will highlight different approaches to architectural cultural heritage preservation in terms of reconstruction, restoration, and ruination—with an eye to applying these approaches to the remains of the A1 temple in Mỹ Sơn. I will briefly discuss the history of Mỹ Sơn before providing some reasons to believe that we should allow A1 to ruinate.

Reconstructions, Restorations, and Ruins In this section I will use language from ICOMOS (International Council on Museums and Sites) and UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) to help distinguish between

The Ruins of War 229 reconstructions, restorations, and ruins. These organizations—more so than philosophers—have been discussing the practical implication of these ontological distinctions for decades. In addition, there are real practical consequences for not adopting these distinctions as UNESCO prescribes them. If a country or cultural group would like to receive money from UNESCO, they must follow these guidelines. According to the ICOMOS Burra Charter, a reconstruction is a case where we are returning a damaged building to its pre-damaged state by introducing new materials. Specifically, Article 1.8 states: “Reconstruction means returning a place to a known earlier state and is distinguished from restoration by the introduction of new material into the fabric.” Further Article 20.1: Reconstruction is appropriate only where a place is incomplete through damage or alteration, and only where there is sufficient evidence to reproduce an earlier state of the fabric. In rare cases, reconstruction may also be appropriate as part of a use or practice that retains the cultural significance of the place. And Article 20.2: “Reconstruction should be identifiable on close inspection or through additional interpretation.” In sum, reconstructions are when a damaged building is rebuilt according to the original plan of the architect(s)/community builders and only when the original plan is known. UNESCO requires the use of the maximal amount of original materials for reconstructions, and non-original materials are only allowed to achieve structural integrity and to ensure that the structure can serve the specific function the culture would like it to serve (e.g., as a church, a legislative building, a home). While UNESCO and ICOMOS generally recommend against reconstruction, ruin reconstructions have been approved in cases where the historic and cultural significance of erecting a reconstruction is great. UNESCO has strict prescriptions for restorations. The UNESCOapproved technique for restoring immoveable cultural property is anastylosis. According to Article 15 of the Venice Charter for the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments, All reconstruction work should, however, be ruled out a priori. Only anastylosis, that is to say, the reassembling of existing but dismembered parts can be permitted. The material used for integration should always be recognizable and this use should be the least that will ensure the conservation of a monument and the reinstatement of its form. For example, the UNESCO practice permits a structure to be rebuilt after a bombing, but its battle scars will be seen. Cracks, where the original material has been pulverized into dust, will (and should) be visible.

230  Elizabeth Scarbrough In the preceding definitions, conservationists (including UNESCO) lump ruins and historic buildings together, treating them as the same with respect to preservation techniques. A subset of conservationists, including the late John Ashurst, argue that ruins should have different protocols for preservation and conservation than historic buildings. From a conservationist point of view, how much of a structure we preserve and at what cost is a tricky question. Do we preserve the ruin as found? How much can be changed from the ruin as found while still maintaining the ruin’s authenticity? How much of the surrounding natural environment can be modified to preserve the ruin? According to Ashurst: The conservation of ruins, as far as we can achieve it, should be about the continuity of truth. In practical terms, this is to say that the evidence of the past which the ruins represent should be so accurately and painstakingly observed and recorded, and so well protected and maintained that their true story will survive.2 But what is the true story? What makes a ruin distinct from an historic building? No such answer exists in the UNESCO/ICOM literature. Yet there are definitional questions that beg for an answer. For example where does a ruin start, and where does it end? When is a building simply in disuse and when does it become a ruin? Likewise, when does a ruin turn into a heap of stones? This is a classic example of the sorites paradox. If one seeks a definition of “a ruin” that delineates rigid markers as necessary and jointly sufficient conditions, the project seems hopeless. However, I suspect many ruins have the following features discussed below. I propose that a ruin is the remains of a large-scale human-built physical structure, and which: 1. Incorporates architectural elements designed to last for a significant period of time; 2. Is in the process of decay; 3. As such shows its age value either in the encroachment of nature onto it or through its altered use-value; and 4. Creates, through the process of its decay, a new aesthetic unity.3 What is the point of defining a ruin in this way? These features might help tourist bureaus, cultural preservationists, historical society members, ruin enthusiasts, urban planners, and other interested communities adjudicate between different structures conceptually. I acknowledge that there is both a bit of an activist agenda here as well as some circularity. When we conceive of something as a ruin, we see it as in the process of decay. Therefore, if we want to protect or “conserve” ruins, we will have to allow them to decay. The inventory of relevant ruin features I have presented gives some indication as to why a community

The Ruins of War 231 might want to allow something to be “a ruin” instead of running to demolish or repair it. One might think that the best option for ruin conservation is to preserve a ruin as found. This approach was common in the early twentieth century in the United Kingdom, but it is now relatively rare.4 A positive aspect of this method is that it maintains the ecology of the site. However, arresting decay and preserving the ruin “as found” seems arbitrary. Keeping a ruin in a particular time slice—whether that slice is immediately after the building was erected or whether it is after nature has started to reclaim some of the artefactual elements—is treating the ruin as a static object, like a statue, which it is not. Another option for ruin conservation is planned or deliberate ruination. This approach was adopted during the mid-twentieth century in some cases where there was not enough public or financial support for other forms of ruin stabilization. One plan was to record as much archaeological evidence as possible, and then speed up decay by, for instance, removing a ruin’s roofs and other relatively perishable materials. Items of monetary or great historical value would be removed and placed in museums or other such repositories. On archaeological sites artifacts were reburied in some cases, when digs ran out of money or did not have the requisite technology for safe extraction. A community might also choose deliberate ruination because it has more reason to preserve a delicate ecosystem than it has to preserve the artefactual elements of a ruin. One can imagine cases where preserving the current ecosystem would speed up the decay of the artefactual remnants. Because of the importance of flora and fauna on the ruin site, planned ruination has been called “verdant ruination.”5 A more moderate option is managed decline. We slow down the decay. Perhaps we divert a stream or buttress a collapsing wall to prevent further collapse, but we do so acknowledging that this effort is designed to slow down, not arrest, the decay—to extend (but not indefinitely) the life of the ruin. This option gives archaeologists time to record important historical data and make the ruin safe to study and appreciate aesthetically.

Mỹ Sơn Archaeological Sanctuary Mỹ Sơn was protected in a valley surrounded by high mountain ranges in the Quảng Nam province of central Việt Nam (Figure 19.1). Mỹ Sơn is unique for its predominant Hindu iconography and the size and number of intact kalans. A kalan is a corbel structure composed of bricks that are stacked in a slightly offset manner. Similar to Khmer and Central Javanese architecture, the Cham people built kalans with a three-level pyramid shaped roof. The main sanctuary typically had a flat, square foundation and would house the sacrificial yoni-linga. The yoni, representing the female genitalia, was used in ritualistic, water-cleansing ceremonies. The

232  Elizabeth Scarbrough

Figure 19.1 Mỹ Sơn sanctuary Source: Photo by author

lingas, representing the male phallus, would be placed in the yoni during these ceremonies.6 One of the most notable features of Mỹ Sơn’s temples is their construction material. The bricks have very little room between them, as if they were melded together during the construction process. Consequently, no vegetation can grow between them. The Cham people used brick masonry without the use of mortar in the external joints. It took an international team of scientists over a decade to figure out what natural mortar was used (local tree sap). How these bricks fit together is the first (of two) great mysteries of Mỹ Sơn. Additionally, the bricks’ surfaces display several frieze designs that were sketched and left unfinished; these unfinished designs are in continuity with finished designs. How these sculptural reliefs were carved onto the side of the kalan walls is the second great mystery. No disjointed lines have been found, suggesting that the friezes on the sides of these buildings were carved into soft bricks once the tower structure was already erected. Further, the bricks, by and large, did not have vegetation growing on them. Some of the structures on the site have been restored (using some non-original materials). With the first few attempts at creating these unique Cham bricks, the non-original bricks had natural vegetation

The Ruins of War 233 growing on them within eight months. It took several iterations of bricks to find ones that could be used without growing vegetation. Historically Việt Nam was divided into a Chinese influenced north and an Indian influenced south. It is in the south that we find the Cham peoples. The historical Cham were Austronesian-speaking peoples with probable origins in Borneo. From the fifth to the thirteenth centuries, the Cham adapted to their surroundings, adopting ideas from Islam, animism, Hinduism, and Buddhism. During the thirteenth century, the Khmer invaded the Cham territory, and by the fifteenth century the Vietnamese from the north annexed the last bit of Cham territory (ChamVietnamese War, 1471). Many of the Cham moved into Cambodia and coastal Malaysia. Only a small portion of the Cham remained in Việt Nam, where they are today recognized as one of fifty-four ethnic minority groups, and represent the majority of Islamic peoples in Cambodia and Việt Nam.7 What is so remarkable about Cham architecture is that these successive religious shifts did not result in radical changes to the existing temples. Rather, the Cham chose to add to the existing temples without destroying the previous iconography, offering a unique record of shifting religious practices. The French colonization of Việt Nam took several decades, initiated by an invasion in the 1850s and with control consolidated by 1887. Mỹ Sơn was “rediscovered” by a group of French soldiers in 1885, and between 1896 and 1902 several French archaeologists catalogued the site.8 Led by Henri Parmentier, these scientists gave the architectural grouping the number/letter designations that are still used today. The French began their restoration efforts in 1903 and continued until the Japanese coup d’etat in 1945 (only to be forced to leave after the Allies’ defeat of Japan). The French then regained control of Việt Nam, yet restoration work did not continue in light of the Indochina War/Anti-French Resistance War (December 19, 1945—July 20, 1954). From 1966 to 1968, Mỹ Sơn was under the control of the Front for the Liberation of the South, and in August of 1969, a bomb dropped by an American B-52 bomber struck Mỹ Sơn, reducing its largest temple (A1) to heaps of unrecognizable rubble (Figures 19.2 and 19.3). There is some debate whether or not the tallest and most majestic kalan, A1, was completely destroyed during the American raid, or whether it was partially destroyed (pilfered) earlier, by the French. The records are unreliable. Unlike many objects currently under threat of annihilation, A1 was not destroyed in order to wipe out the cultural artifacts of a civilization but rather as a tactical decision in war. Whatever the intention, the result was the same. A piece of important and beautiful Cham architecture was lost. In 1970, under intense international pressure, President Nixon agreed to spare Mỹ Sơn from any further attacks. After the Vietnam War, the Vietnamese government de-mined Mỹ Sơn so that additional restoration

Figure 19.2 A1 Temple before destruction Source: Drawing Henri Parmentier

The Ruins of War 235

Figure 19.3 A1 Temple after bombing Source: Wikimedia Commons

work could continue, and in 1999 UNESCO deemed Mỹ Sơn a World Heritage Site. UNESCO determined that the Mỹ Sơn temple complex satisfies two criteria for World Heritage status (out of ten), specifically criterion two and criterion three: Criterion (2): The Mỹ Sơn Sanctuary is an exceptional example of cultural interchange, with an indigenous society adapting to external cultural influences, notably the Hindu art and architecture of the Indian sub-continent. Criterion (3): The Champa Kingdom was an important phenomenon in the political and cultural history of South-East Asia, vividly illustrated by the ruins of Mỹ Sơn. Because Mỹ Sơn was only recently given UNESCO World Heritage status, there is scant international research on the site and, far worse, until 1999, reconstruction attempts were haphazard; the effects of these illadvised reconstruction and restoration attempts remain quite visible. A1 has yet to be restored.

236  Elizabeth Scarbrough

Proposals for A1 We have a bevy of options for treatment of A1, some favoring more intervention and some less. In this spectrum from maximal to minimal intervention, full reconstruction of A1 to look visually identical to the kalan right after it was erected would be at the extreme end of intervention. This reconstruction would allow visitors to see what A1 looked like before the bombing but would bother those who believe authenticity lies in the original material.9 Another option is to preserve Mỹ Sơn “as found.” In the case of A1, it is not clear what that would mean. As found by the French archaeologist? As found after the Vietnam war? If by “as found” we mean we should re-erect Mỹ Sơn to look like it did pre-bombing, why choose that particular time slice? Why not reconstruct based on the 1903 drawings of Henri Parmentier? To arrest decay by preserving something in a particular time slice is to ignore some of the most salient features of ruins: we enjoy them as objects in the process of decay. We acknowledge that ruins have a life cycle and that if we were to return to them years later, we expect them changed. Thus if you are inclined to agree with my essential features of ruins, preserving a ruin as found would violate its ontology. It would treat the ruin as something it is not. Further, preserving a ruin in a particular time slice privileges some narratives over others. If we chose to reconstruct A1 based on Parmentier’s drawings, would we be erecting a monument to French colonialism? Why honor the archaeologist’s “discovery” more than the Champa history? A more moderate interventionist proposal would be UNESCO approved anastylosis restoration: we reconstruct what we can of A1 using only original materials. An example of a reconstruction is seen at the G1 temple at Mỹ Sơn archaeological complex. A photogrammetric project using basic 3D modeling (with the 3D Odysseus software system) was used to project what the G1 temple once looked like intact. Once this was done, stones were collected from piles of rubble near the site and pieced together like a three-dimensional picture puzzle in an attempt to reconstruct the temple. UNESCO considers this a case of restoration because the reconstruction of the kalan followed the practice of anastylosis: the reassembling of parts without introduction of non-original material. The resulting structure still looks like a ruin to many because the structure is still only partially present. However, a reconstruction is impossible in the case of A1 since there simply isn’t enough left of A1 to reconstruct. Any reconstruction of A1 would have to introduce new materials for erection; thus, this type of restoration is ruled out. On the minimalist side, we could “preserve” A1 as a ruin. There seems to be no political, economic, or aesthetic reason for deliberate ruination, whether by planned ruination, verdant ruination, or managed decline, since the site is already in ruins and it does not hold unique flora or fauna

The Ruins of War 237 we are trying to preserve. (Additionally, verdant ruination might prevent access to the site, if we would like to keep the site accessible to visitors.) The only part of A1 that remains is the carved pedestal which once held the ceremonial lingam and yoni. If we wish to access and admire this pedestal the remaining option would be managed decline (rather than verdant ruination). The most minimalist proposal would be to do nothing, acknowledging that a piece of cultural heritage has been lost forever, and do nothing to preserve access to the ceremonial pedestal, and do nothing to preserve the bomb crater. However, I think this would be a mistake. We have good reasons to preserve the bomb crater and remaining A1 pedestal while realizing that A1 and its contiguous natural environment is a ruin. If we opt for managed decline, my preferred proposal, we could divert water sources from pooling in the A1 crater, but have no intention to preserve the crater or pedestal in perpetuity. We could provide signage to help visitors interpret the site, make pathways accessible, but have no plan to reconstruct or restore any of A1. In trying to decide which proposal is best for any ruin, there will be no one-size-fits-all policy. Similarly, it will be hard to balance aesthetic concerns with political, practical, and economic ones. In the case of A1, I advocate managed decline for three reasons. The first is that we must consider the landscape (physical and cultural) in which the ruin (i.e., A1) is embedded. Here A1 is part of an archaeological sanctuary, surrounded by other kalans. The fact that other (albeit smaller) kalans have survived (or have been reconstructed) might mitigate our worries about the strict preservation of original material. One question conservationists ought to ask themselves is whether or not the structure is a “living city” or a “dead site.”10 A  temple destroyed by war in a living city (such as Dresden’s Frauenkirche) will require a very different response than the kalan of A1, which is in a remote park. When attending to ruins in living cities, we might need to consider how to preserve their use-value (e.g., as a place of worship, as a meeting hall, as the social center of town). Ruins in “dead sites” have different use-value, often aesthetic, historic, educational or archaeological in nature. A1, located in a dead site, can be “used” more readily for its aesthetic value than a site like the Frauenkirche. Mỹ Sơn was not a city. It was a religious site that was abandoned (by force) in the fifteenth century. And while the Cham people have a connection and use for the site, the use-value is not as a home or village.11 My second point is that we should attend to the multiple narratives the site tells. Ruins are valued in part because they evoke the importance of age value, the endurance of human efforts throughout time. This is not the case for A1. A1 stood for a thousand years only to be wiped out in a matter of seconds. The crater at A1 speaks to the wanton destruction of historic sites like these to make a political point. It is but one story A1 tells, but it is an important one. We might mourn the loss of the complete

238  Elizabeth Scarbrough architectural structure, we might mourn (in a nostalgic way) the loss of a culture (i.e., the historic Champa Kingdom), or we might mourn the loss of time. With A1 we mourn the myriad losses that come with war. Figuring out what narratives to tell and which ones will be/should be foregrounded will be difficult and will require conversations with disparate stakeholders.12 The most powerful stakeholder in this situation is UNESCO and the narrative UNESCO often wants to advance is that cultural property, such as the kalans at Mỹ Sơn, is universally valuable as the cultural heritage of all humankind.13 That said, local communities and descendant populations must lead the way. This tension between universal and culturally specific interpretations of cultural property (especially cultural property deemed to be “World Heritage”) is not easily adjudicated but is perhaps less contentious at Mỹ Sơn. Representatives of the descendant (Cham) community have expressed interest in letting the site tell the tale of these multiple wars, thus supporting my proposal at A1. One might worry about utilizing a UNESCO framework on any site in Việt Nam: using a terminology and framework largely developed by the French on a former French colony works against the goals of decolonization. I take this worry seriously. However, many in the Cham community see the French as potential allies, as they were more harshly treated by the Vietnamese.14 Through UNESCO many of the Cham believe they have reclaimed a place in the narrative of Việt Nam. Figuring out the needs and goals of the local community (those living near Mỹ Sơn) is much more difficult. The local community (pre-­UNESCO World Heritage designation) consisted primarily of fisherman. The ruins were not seen as useful, but seen as source of intrigue for French (then Polish, then Italian) archaeologists. The local community was surviving but not thriving. Tourism in the area will impact the cultural traditions and way of life of these locals, most likely harming intangible cultural heritage. This is often a problem when sites are designated as “World Heritage”—local culturally rich but resource poor communities are forced to change their way of life. UNESCO is often at pains to show local communities why these ruins are valuable and to try to encourage local populations (through educational programs and job training) to see these sites as lucrative, historic, and beautiful. My final point is that while the loss of cultural heritage is indeed a loss, it is not a complete loss. Unreconstructed ruins can evoke powerful aesthetic experiences. While reconstructions using anastylosis help preserve historic value, historic value must be weighed against other values, including aesthetic ones. But in cases where we have multiple structures, a solution seems ready-made: different processes can be employed in different places (reconstructions, ruin stabilization, replicas, etc.) to serve different purposes. We already have several reconstructions of kalans at Mỹ Sơn, and 3D imaging has already produced virtual replicas of other structures at the archaeological park. Allowing A1 (the crater and pedestal)

The Ruins of War 239 to ruinate seems not only viable, but preferable to other solutions. The conservation community decided not to reconstruct the A1 kalan at Mỹ Sơn, and I  agree that this was the right decision. What remains is the bomb crater—a ghost of a ruin.15

Conclusion We live in a world where the perils to cultural property have increased. Principles of preservation need to adapt to the changing needs of local communities and should reflect what we find aesthetically valuable about the sites. While there is no one-size-fits-all strategy for conservation of ruins impacted by war, there are good aesthetic and political reasons to allow some sites to remain in their post-bombed state. The empty niches where the Bamiyan Buddhas once stood are aesthetically powerful. As columnist Roger Cohen wrote, “Absence speaks, shames, reminds.”16 These sites speak volumes, but we must stop to listen.

Notes 1. Ben Luke, “Ruin or Rebuild? Conserving Heritage in An Age of Terrorism.” Art Newspaper, accessed January  28, 2017, features/ruin-or-rebuild-conserving-heritage-in-an-age-of-terrorism/. 2. John Ashurst, Introduction to Conservation of Ruins, ed. John Ashurst (Oxford: Butterworth Heinemann, 2007), xxxix. Bold my emphasis. 3. This definition is inspired by Gionata Rizzi, Robert Ginsberg, Florence Hetzler and Donald Crawford. 4. Amanda White, “Interpretation of Display of Ruins and Sites,” in Conservation of Ruins, ed. John Ashurst (Oxford: Butterworth Heinemann, 2007), 252. 5. Ibid., 254. 6. Archaeologists and historians believe that first temple at Mỹ Sơn was built from wood around the fourth century and its purpose was to aid worshiping the original mountain God-King of Champa. Kalans were composed of three conceptual elements: a base (bhurloka) symbolizing the human world, the body of the tower (bhurvaloka) symbolizing the spiritual world, and the pyramid roof (svarloka) representing the sacred universe. For more on the history and archaeology of the site, see Trầ Kỳ Phương and Rie Nakamura, “The Mỹ Sơn and Pô Nagar Nha Trang Sanctuaries: On the Cosmological Dualist Cult of the Champa Kingdom in Central Vietnam as Seen from Art and Anthropology,” Asia Research Institute, Working Paper #100, February 2008, 7. Unfortunately upwards of 150,000 Cham people died during the Khmer Rouge genocide in Cambodia, leaving the total number of Cham Cambodians at approximately 100,000. 8. I say “rediscovered” because at the time the scientists reported that no people were living on the site. The veracity of these reports is unknown. 9. The tension here, and the tension for many charged with restoration, is the one between the greatest possible retention of the original material and maintaining or recreating “the closest possible rendition of the original

240  Elizabeth Scarbrough appearances.” See Mark Sagoff, “On Restoring and Reproducing Art,” Journal of Philosophy 75, no. 9 (1978): 453–79. 10. The language of “dead” versus “living” sites can be found in Luke, “Ruin or Rebuild? Conserving Heritage in An Age of Terrorism.” 11. The Cham’s use of Mỹ Sơn most likely will not be religious as most of the practicing Hindu Cham no longer practice their religion in the way the fifteenth-century Cham did (i.e., ceremonial water rituals, yoni-linga rituals). 12. For recent work on the narrative element of cultural heritage, see Erich Hatala Matthes, “The Ethics of Historic Preservation,” Philosophy Compass 11, no. 12 (2016): 786–94. 13. This language is found in many places but most explicitly in 1954 UNESCO initiated the Hague Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict: “Damage to cultural property belonging to any people whatsoever means damage to the cultural heritage of all mankind, since each people makes its contribution to the culture of the world.” 14. The Cham joined Front Uni de Lutte des Races Opprimées (the United Front for the Libération of Oppressed Races). 15. “Architectural ghost” is a term coined by Jeanette Bicknell, “Architectural Ghosts,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72, no. 4 (2014): 435–41. 16. Roger Cohen, “Bamiyan’s Buddhas revisited,” New York Times, Octo ber 28, 2007.

20 Respect, Responsibility, and Ruins Jeremy Page and Elisabeth Schellekens

In this paper, we focus on ruins of a particular kind: world heritage ruins. Our primary example is the Temple of Bel at Palmyra in Syria, which became a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1980 and suffered a near devastating attack in 2015. In considering our aesthetic relation to objects of this kind, two questions arise. The first is, broadly speaking, a moral question. It concerns how we ought to conceive of and generally relate to an object of such significant cultural and historical value. The second question concerns how our aesthetic appreciation of world heritage ruins should be framed. Although our primary focus in this paper is the second question, there is, as we will show, an important link between our two concerns. It is our claim that the second question can only be addressed in a satisfactory manner if we have a clearer idea of how to respond to the first concern. In short, respect, and in particular, respectful comprehension of the object or site, has an important role to play in informing our aesthetic appreciation of world heritage ruins. First we introduce issues relating to how we should conceive of the aesthetic appreciation of ruins through a contrast with paradigmatic Western art practices. We then explore how an object’s age and participation in various historical narratives can affect the respect it is due. This helps us introduce a notion of what it is to comprehend objects of world heritage respectfully. We move on to discuss the specific case of the Temple of Bel. Here, our focus is on the particular ways in which this ruin commands our respect and how this relates to the framing at work in our aesthetic appreciation. We highlight the central role which the ruin’s place in various narratives should play in our aesthetic appreciation of world heritage ruins. Finally, we close our discussion by setting out a notion of appreciative responsibility which relates to world heritage ruins and what it means to defend a broadly cognitivist account of our aesthetic appreciation of them. We conclude with some questions about how the points raised may influence how we conceive of the aesthetic experience of ruins more generally.

242  Jeremy Page and Elisabeth Schellekens

Aesthetic Appreciation and Ruins Generally speaking, appreciating and evaluating Western art is a multifaceted practice. Central to most such practices are, for example, identifying the work relative to a genre and category,1 attending to its formal features, and situating the work in connection with the relevant artistic intentions.2 Underlying these conventions of evaluation and interpretation, we tend to find a standard model of appreciation pertaining to attending accurately to the object qua that particular artwork. To that extent at least, our appreciative practices can be seen to emanate from the assumption that to engage with an artwork is, fundamentally, to relate to it as that particular work of art. Further, aesthetic attention is traditionally thought to be suitably directed toward the object or objects presented as a work of art by an individual or an institution; what is sometimes referred to as the “artistic vehicle.”3 Moreover, our attention will, typically, be directed toward the material object as constituted when the artist’s intentional activity came to an end and the work could (arguably) be said to be completed.4 Any change in the artwork’s constitution following this point (excepting those planned by the artist) such as damage or mutilation, tends to be viewed as a shortcoming and a potential barrier to the appropriate aesthetic appreciation of the work itself. It is interesting to note that when we appreciate a ruin aesthetically, several of these norms and practices do not apply in any straightforward sense. For one thing, attending aesthetically to a ruin involves, precisely, attending to the changes which time and circumstance have wrought on an object’s physical constitution. In this context, such changes are not a hindrance to our appreciation of the object qua ruin, but are instead part of what is being appreciated. While the maker’s intentions behind what is now the ruin may still play some role in framing appropriate aesthetic responses, their importance will often be secondary when compared with the life which the object has led (or indeed suffered) following its original creation. Attending to the physical constitution of the object will still typically be an important aspect of our aesthetic experience, though other features of the object, for example, its history or age, seem to have an equal claim to being the primary focus of perceptual attention and consideration. Further, our aesthetic appreciation of ruins is not always understood as being governed by standard models of appreciation pressing the achievement of an accurate understanding of the object qua ruin. We will, however, question the extent to which any standard model of this type is in fact absent from our aesthetic appreciation of ruins. In her account of the aesthetic experience of ruins, Carolyn Korsmeyer notes that a ruin is “by its very nature a historical object” and characterizes the connection between ruins and the passing of time in terms of the ruin “summon[ing] the past into awareness.”5 Korsmeyer discusses

Respect, Responsibility, and Ruins 243 two kinds of value that a ruin may have in this way. The “historical value” of a ruin derives from what it “disclose[s] about life and culture from bygone times,” whereas “age value” is a result of the object bearing “the marks of wear, damage, and deterioration.”6 When addressing the question of what the “proper aesthetic object of a ruin” is, Korsmeyer answers that it is age value, not historical value, which is central.7 In one sense, this move is consonant with paradigmatic Western art practices as it focuses attention directly onto the object. The ravages of time, or of deliberate destructive action, which the ruin is witness to are, quite literally, marked on the material object and Korsmeyer makes a plausible case for the key role which close attention, especially through touch, can play in acquainting us with the ruin and in our appreciation of it. That said, Korsmeyer’s neo-Romantic appreciative model also deemphasizes the material object in the process of prescribing attention to age value. This is because the most important role which the object plays on her view is to prompt our confrontation with the passage of time. Through noticing the ravages of time on the material object we think—not primarily of the object in front of us and its past—but of “the march of history and the hugeness of time in its devouring and ruthless advance.”8 Indeed, Korsmeyer uses the model of the sublime to explain the role of the ruin here. In short, the ruin prompts an occasion to reflect, not on the powers of the mind, as Kant would have it, but instead, on the immensity of time.9 Thus, “the direction of attention” in the experience remains “on the universe” rather than on reason “realizing its own freedom from the laws of nature and its ability to contemplate what it cannot fully grasp.”10 The immensity of time on a “human rather than a cosmic scale” is at issue. In this respect, Korsmeyer can be seen to align her theory with David Hume’s, who holds that even though historical objects deserve “esteem and admiration,” such admiration has as its intentional object first and foremost the span of time which disconnects us from the object’s origins.11 The admiration or awe that both Korsmeyer and Hume put center stage in their accounts thus targets the temporal relation in which the object stands to its own origin, and to us, which inspires awe and admiration. One might wonder whether, on this way of thinking about our aesthetic experience of ruins, it is not rather the experience of passed time which becomes crucial and which may (or may not) acquire an at least partly aesthetic flavor, such as of the sublime. The object itself, and the object’s particular history and significance, are pushed into the background, and even the marks which the passing of time has wrought on the material object are valued primarily as prompts to an experience of something external to the object: “the march of history and the hugeness of time.” When considering our aesthetic appreciation of world heritage ruins, it is plausible to think that the object—and its history and significance—will,

244  Jeremy Page and Elisabeth Schellekens and should, play a greater role than Korsmeyer allows. As a first step in clarifying what this role may be, we now explore the relation between an object’s place in various narratives and the respect it demands from us. This will, in turn, help bring out what respectful comprehension of an object may consist of and will provide us with a route into thinking about how an object’s history and wider significance should frame our aesthetic appreciation of it.

The Span of Time and Respect for Age To approach world heritage ruins merely on the basis of, for example, their purely formal appearance is to disregard the kind of object the focus of our appreciation has now become. Clearly, this is a point with an important ontological dimension. A newly built functioning place of worship, say, is simply not the same kind of thing as the remaining ruins of a temple destroyed as an act of war. An understanding of the kind required here thus involves our acknowledgment of the ruined object’s or site’s broader history and of the value and significance which the object or site has acquired at least partly in virtue of this history. In his work on how we should morally relate to and treat certain inanimate objects, Simon James describes respect as something which can be “called for by an object” and which can be required because of the fact that the object “has a certain sort of importance—though not necessarily a moral importance—that it is in some sense incumbent upon one to acknowledge.”12 James suggests that there is a close connection between the age of an object and that object demanding respect. This is primarily because an object’s age will typically mean that the object fits into various narratives which will be salient for the respectful and humble person.13 James illustrates his point with an example of a natural object, and while our focus is human-built artifacts, the comparison is illuminating. The Cerro Torre mountain in Patagonia, and the mountaineer Cesare Maestri’s ascent of it, makes salient one way in which an agent can fail to appropriately respect an old object. In order to assist his ascent of Cerro Torre, Maestri blasted compression bolts into the previously pristine mountain, thus leaving the mountain scarred by his presence.14 What James sees as Maestri’s ‘aretaic failure’ here is explained in terms of Maestri’s prioritization of his own narrative of personal achievement over various others which attach to the mountain, and which have greater significance. For instance, the physical appearance of the mountain—“its near-vertical faces, its spectacular granite spire”—James tells us, “clearly embodies certain stories or narratives” concerning “an immense natural history.”15 Given that this is the case, Maestri’s actions constitute “a sudden and radical departure from what had, up till then, been a slowlydeveloping story of Cerro Torre’s formation and subsequent erosion.”16

Respect, Responsibility, and Ruins 245 This example bears on the question of how old objects might fit into our practical deliberations. More pressingly for our purposes, it also makes salient one way of explaining how an old object is respectfully conceived. That is to say, Cerro Torre should not be conceived of narrowly as a land mass to be conquered. Respect for Cerro Torre involves developing an understanding of the object’s history and the various narratives in which it participates. It is largely in light of the object’s history—and the narratives which attach to the object—that it is deserving of respect. In attending to these features of the object we simultaneously comprehend why the object is worthy of respect while manifesting our respect toward it by coming to understand it as the concrete historical individual that it is. The notion of narrative and its relation to a ruin itself is intriguing and could be cashed out in many ways. To what extent, if indeed any, are these narratives constitutive features of the objects under scrutiny? How, in coming to understand the object in light of the narratives which it in various ways relates to, are we to accommodate competing narratives, possibly offered by different groups? Further, what exactly does our respect hold as its primary object here? In the case of man-made inanimate objects such as ruins, ought respect not also be extended to the individuals or groups which made them? If so, what about if the very same objects held a different (non-historical) significance for those individuals or groups, perhaps even one we would actively distance ourselves from now? Few objects render these questions as pressing as the Syrian Temple of Bel, which recounts a unique narrative, involving not merely the history of this specific region and its peoples, but also our common past, priorities and goals. This past tells of the highest points of human civilization, as epitomized in the creation of beautiful buildings serving various social, cultural and religious functions, but also of its lowest levels of interaction, including the violent destruction of one another and our environment. Discussing this example will help to make the above questions concrete and intelligible, and enable us to shed some light on how factors of this kind influence what constitutes an adequate aesthetic appreciation of such ruins.

The Temple of Bel at Palmyra In May  2015, the so-called Palmyra offensive was initiated by ISIL (Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant) in an attempt to make substantial military gains in the war against the Syrian Army by capturing Tadmur, or Modern Palmyra. The District of Tadmur had by then long been of strategic importance to both sides of the conflict due to its position in central Syria. Although it is still not entirely clear exactly which buildings were destroyed by ISIL in the original offensive, and which parts were destroyed by the Russian airstrikes supporting the Syrian Army and trying

Figure 20.1 Temple of Bel, 2010 Source: Photo Bernard Gagnon, Wikimedia Commons

Figure 20.2 Temple of Bel, 2018 Source: Photo by Hasan Blal

Respect, Responsibility, and Ruins 247 to recapture Palmyra from ISIL, considerable damage was inflicted on the world heritage site, including the Temple of Bel (Figures 20.1 and 20.2). Founded in the second millennium bc, Palmyra had always been a place of trade connecting Europe and Asia. In that capacity, Palmyra had acquired great wealth, which in turn made it possible to erect architectural works on a scale such as the Temple of Bel and the Great Colonnade. After the sixteenth century, however, the city started losing its political and economic importance, and by 1929 it was abandoned in favor of the newly built modern Palmyra, just south of the ancient site. The ruins at Palmyra seem to command our respect in virtue of a complex set of relational properties which stem from the narratives they partake in. Such properties will include both historical value and age value, but also moral and aesthetic value. Conceived broadly, this moral value encompasses several possible factors, such as the human effort and sacrifice put into building what is now the ruin, the integrity of the persons responsible for its materialization, the ways of life around which the social and religious rites were organized, the manner in which the site was damaged and why, our own moral obligations towards future generations to protect and safeguard, and more. Crucially, the aesthetic value of world heritage ruins cannot be isolated from such moral value. If nothing else, a ruin such as the Temple of Bel can become an imposing reminder of how certain moral values cannot be destroyed by hammers or mortars alone, and thereby acquire a dignified kind of beauty in virtue of that very fact. Moral notions such as religious tolerance, the worth of human life, perhaps even the very concept of our joint cultural heritage itself, call for a respectful attitude from us, and to that extent our respect for world heritage ruins cannot easily be delimited from our respect for various contextual features about it. To engage with the Temple of Bel aesthetically involves understanding at least the broad outlines of its significance in these kinds of terms, and this framing is, as we see it, central to how we should appreciate ruins aesthetically. The claim we are making here can be seen to have two dimensions. The first is, in one sense, primarily a result of the object belonging to the category of world heritage ruins. For if one’s aesthetic appreciation of the material objects which make up the ruin of the Temple of Bel treats these objects as generic rubble left following conflict-related devastation, then there is an important sense in which this aesthetic engagement fails to be an aesthetic encounter with the ruin of the Temple of Bel (qua world heritage ruin). Appreciated appropriately, the world heritage ruin of the Temple of Bel encompasses a complex and significant combination of narratives, values and properties. Failing to attend to these in a minimally satisfactory way entails failing to engage meaningfully with the object itself, so to speak. This failure is, in large part, a failure to manifest the

248  Jeremy Page and Elisabeth Schellekens required respect toward the object, and results in a failure to view the individual object on its own terms. The second dimension of our claim concerns something beyond this negative kind of duty, that is to say the duty not to neglect the individuality and significance of the object in one’s appreciation, and shifts our discussion toward a positive standard or regulative ideal in the aesthetic appreciation of world heritage ruins. This relates to the fact that it is incumbent on the subject to allow the object and its narratives to frame our aesthetic experience, and for them together to become the rightful focus of our appreciation. For when the remains of the Temple of Bel are appreciated as possessing a dignified beauty in light of the values they enshrine, in spite of the ideological violence brought against them, our aesthetic encounter is partly directed toward a proper recognition of the significance of the ruin in front of us. In this sense, something broadly analogous to what we earlier introduced as the standard model of appreciation of Western art practices seems operative here too.17 Our aesthetic appreciation involves developing our sensitivity to the world heritage ruin we are attending to as the particular object it is, where the object’s particularity stems not merely from its status as a world heritage ruin but also from the various factors relating to the object’s specific cultural and historical significance, the narratives in which it participates, various other relational properties and so on. There is, then, an important aspect of our aesthetic appreciation which consists not only of treating the ruin on its own terms, but also a further standard calling for us to explore and appreciate the object as an individual.

Aesthetic Appreciation and History What begins to emerge is a distinctly moral question to do with how we ought to relate to an object such as the Temple of Bel, and how the way in which the understanding and sensitivity required for such engagement is fundamentally connected to a specific conception of the aesthetic appreciation of world heritage ruins. Juxtaposing this account of aesthetic engagement with the kind of appreciation Korsmeyer considers paradigmatic for ruins in general, will help to clarify our position. On Korsmeyer’s view, the ruined object, and specifically the marks on it that manifest age value, are conceived as playing the role of a prompt in aesthetic experience. What is prompted is an experience of the passing of time, that is, something external to the object as well as to the object’s significance, the narratives it participates in and other aspects of its particular character. Such an experience, on our view, is consistent with the failure to manifest the appropriate respect mentioned above. That is to say, a ruin may feature merely as a generic “aged object” ravaged by time, as does, for example, a pile

Respect, Responsibility, and Ruins 249 of displaced stones surrounding a largely devastated building. It is, in other words, consistent with failing to grasp a ruin as a world heritage ruin. More than this, such an aesthetic experience of world heritage ruins is lacking because the object’s individuality, history and significance are in no way the focus of our aesthetic experience. There is no doubt, of course, that the objects which physically constitute the Temple of Bel can be used as generic prompts for an aesthetic encounter with something external to the object. However, or so we have argued, such an experience fails to be an appropriate aesthetic appreciation of the Temple of Bel. In Korsmeyer’s terms, the experience we view as paradigmatic might be described in the following way: the age value manifested in the marks on the material object provides a focus for our aesthetic appreciation which frames an aesthetic encounter with the object’s historical value and its true nature relative to the narratives within which it participates. From this perspective, Korsmeyer’s distinction between age and historical value seems porous and permeable. James points out, however, that the physical marks which witness the object’s age, embody the passing of time not only in some general sense but also by embodying the object’s specific history.18 Interestingly, James’s description of how the physical state of Cerro Torre embodies the geological narratives in which the mountain participates is suggestive of the way an aesthetic appreciation of the mountain may be conceived. Very broadly, attending to the physical marks as a vehicle for contemplating the forces and natural historical narratives which led to them, and thus encountering the object as possessing various aesthetic properties in light of these factors, would seem to be an appropriately framed aesthetic appreciation of the mountain. The understanding of the aesthetic appreciation of world heritage ruins being developed here is roughly analogous. The marks on the material object and its current physical state are a vehicle for a contemplation of the object’s history and significance. What remains of the entrance of the Temple of Bel—for example the rectangular archway precariously balancing two partly dislodged stones—provides a vehicle for our contemplation of the related religious sanctuary and tolerance that the temple once offered locals and visiting tradespeople for centuries. This entrance, standing in the midst of the rubble of the rest of the temple, provides a vehicle for the imaginative exploration of the object’s history and significance. It conjures an appreciation of the persistence of the temple and the defiance of the values it enshrines against attack. The solidity and seeming immovability of the walls and ceiling of the entrance help us appreciate the sanctuary offered to visitors, taking on a grandeur when we comprehend the centuries throughout which worshipers were welcomed through them.

250  Jeremy Page and Elisabeth Schellekens

Appreciative Responsibility and Cognitivism With these points in mind, let us close our discussion by reflecting on some of the wider ramifications of the view that the aesthetic appreciation of world heritage ruins, such as the Temple of Bel, depend on our understanding of (at least) the broad outlines of its narrative history. This understanding relies on a subtle contextualization of how several elements of the relevant history are intertwined, and a sensitive deliberation concerning how to weigh these, at times perhaps conflicting, elements against each other. This is clearly a challenging process, not only because one’s knowledge of the object’s history might be patchy or even unreliable, but also because it can be colored by one’s own—often highly ­contextual—moral commitments and beliefs. What is more, as the object’s narrative continues to evolve, any such contextualization and deliberation obviously remains a live issue for anyone interested in appreciating it aesthetically. Despite these considerable challenges, it seems incumbent on the subject to engage with world heritage ruins in a way which recognizes the object’s cultural, historical and moral significance. Part of this is to adopt a respectful attitude towards not only the material ruin itself, but also toward at least some of the aspects of the wider culture in which our broader understanding of the world heritage ruin is steeped. As we have already seen, to do so will involve a disjunctive set of factors, possibly including esteem for the people who built the object or site (including their commitment, motivation and dedication), respect for the ways in which the object or site has been admired or worshipped since its creation (i.e., pre-damage or pre-destruction), and more. Importantly, by engaging aesthetically with a world heritage ruin in this way, we render ourselves accountable as subjects of aesthetic experience, and thus take on appreciative responsibility. For reasons alluded to above, such appreciative responsibility does not necessarily involve the endorsement of the cultural and moral value-system upon which the object’s significance is built. But it does call for us to have some basic understanding of what the object or site in question has meant to others, how it has been appreciated aesthetically through different times, perhaps what caused its ruination, and the very way in which it bears witness to all those things. By adopting a cognitivist approach of this kind to the aesthetic appreciation of world heritage ruins, we come to see what is truly at stake in such appreciation. Though our focus has been on the aesthetic appreciation of world heritage ruins, our discussion would seem to have a natural extension to the aesthetic appreciation of ruins in general. We have attempted to show that when appreciating a world heritage ruin aesthetically, a call for respect demands that we attend to the object in a manner sensitive to its context, history and significance. Certainly a parallel argument could

Respect, Responsibility, and Ruins 251 be made for ruins in general, and the idea that they too can make similar claims on us as appreciators. Indeed, Peter Lamarque argues in this volume that part of what distinguishes ruins from mere derelict buildings or dilapidated sites is the significance of either the object which becomes ruined, or of the process of ruination itself.19 While our suggestion here does not entail a denial of the view that people have aesthetic experiences of the kind Korsmeyer champions, it does raise the question of whether a bona fide aesthetic appreciation of a given ruin requires that the object’s context, history and significance play a more central role in one’s engagement. Further, it raises the question of whether the kind of aesthetic engagement described here should not, in fact, be taken as paradigmatic for most if not all our encounters with ruins.

Notes 1. As discussed, perhaps most canonically, by Kendall L. Walton, “Categories of Art,” Philosophical Review 79, no. 3 (1970): 334–67. 2. Though the exact role which (actual or hypothetical) intentions should have in appreciation (if any) is, of course, a matter of controversy. See, for example, William K. Wimsatt, and Monroe C. Beardsley, “The Intentional Fallacy,” Sewanee Review 54 (1946): 468–88; Paisley Livingston, Art and Intention (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); Jerrold Levinson, “Defending Hypothetical Intentionalism,” British Journal of Aesthetics 50 (2010): 139–50. 3. David Davies, for example, discusses the “artistic vehicle” as “[t]he product of an artist’s manipulation of a vehicular medium . . . the vehicle whereby a particular artistic statement is articulated” (David Davies, Art as Performance (London: Wiley-Blackwell, 2004), 59. 4. Kelly Trogdon and Paisley Livingston, “The Complete Work,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72 (2014): 225–33. 5. Carolyn Korsmeyer, “The Triumph of Time: Romanticism Redux,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72, no. 4 (2014): 429–35, 429. 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid., 430. 8. Ibid., 431. 9. Ibid., 433. 10. Ibid. 11. Hume suggests that since the distance separating us from the origins of the ancient object is temporal and not just spatial, contemplating it tends to stretch our imaginative faculties and this, too, creates in us a feeling of admiration for the object which gets transferred by a process of association onto the object itself (Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature (London: Penguin, 1969 [1739]), Part iii, sections 7 and 8). Where Korsmeyer surely parts company with Hume is in the effect our awareness of this vast span of time has on us, namely a “sensible delight and pleasure” which we find in contemplating “great and magnificent” things. 12. Simon James, “Why Old Things Matter,” Journal of Moral Philosophy 12 (2015): 313–29, 315. 13. Ibid., 325. James stops short of saying that old objects themselves are deserving of respect on his view. He instead talks of the fact that humble and respectful people would respect such old objects and suggests that the

252  Jeremy Page and Elisabeth Schellekens feature which explains this is the narratives which attach to the old object and not the old object itself. 14. Ibid., 324. 15. Ibid. 16. Ibid. 17. Our claim here is not that such a standard is a necessary condition for the aesthetic appreciation of all world heritage ruins. Rather, we argue that it often has an important role to play in such appreciation. 18. Owen Hulatt’s account of our aesthetic engagement with ruins includes a description of how objects may take on a “historical physiognomy” and is, in this respect, somewhat similar to the suggestion being developed here. Hulatt’s focus, however, is, like Korsmeyer’s, on objects about which we lack substantial knowledge. Further, Hulatt discusses objects which—like his case study of a Naqadan Vessel—are not primarily historically or culturally important individually but rather as objects of a more general type (Owen Hulatt, “On a Naqadan Vessel—Our Aesthetic Response to and Restoration of Prehistoric Artefacts,” British Journal of Aesthetics 56, no. 3 (2016). 19. Peter Lamarque, “The Value of Ruins and Depictions of Ruins,” this volume Chapter 7.

21 The Physical Legacy of a Troubled Past Jeanette Bicknell

The impulse to commemorate persons and events with large-scale public works (buildings, statues, monuments) seems to go hand in hand with the impulse of later generations to alter or destroy those commemorations. Recent calls to demolish statues of Confederate generals and to rename public buildings honoring individuals who supported slavery or donors whose fortunes derived from the slave trade are the latest manifestation of an impulse that can be traced to ancient times. Other recent examples include debates over colonial-era memorials in Africa and statues of Communist leaders in Eastern Europe and the former USSR. In this paper I  examine some of the competing values underpinning debates on the physical legacy of a troubled past. At the heart of such debates is the meaning of the past: who and what should be valorized? Some of these commemorations have aesthetic value. What weight should this be given in our deliberations? How should communities memorialize the past when there is strong disagreement about its meaning? To keep this discussion manageable, I  will focus on the controversy regarding the former Calhoun College at Yale University and the physical legacy it contains, which includes artworks in public and semi-public places. I  have chosen to focus on Yale for two reasons. First, it is an educational institution and stakeholders have written thoughtfully about their reasons for supporting either change or the status quo. Second, a number of different approaches to the physical legacy have already been taken, giving us a number of concrete examples to consider. In the first section of the paper I shall consider the controversy over the name of Calhoun College, and in the second I discuss some related artifacts. Finally, in the third section I look at the underlying approach taken so far by Yale, and argue for an alternative. In brief I defend taking an anti-theoretical, highly particularized approach to these questions. Yale’s Calhoun College was named for John Calhoun in 1931. Calhoun graduated from Yale College in 1804 and went on to hold the offices of vice president of the United States, secretary of war and of state, congressman, and senator. He was also an influential political theorist and a prominent advocate of slavery. Notoriously, in a speech to the US Senate

254  Jeanette Bicknell in 1837, he claimed that the enslavement of black people was “a positive good.” He also called slavery “the most safe and stable basis for free institutions in the world.”1 On the death of his father, Calhoun inherited substantial land and slave holdings.

What Is in a Name? Calhoun College and Yale University In 2015 Peter Salovey, the president of Yale, addressed the incoming freshman class. His speech (available on Yale’s website) was an invitation to begin a “difficult conversation” about history, naming, symbols, and narratives. While this invitation is very general, it becomes clear that Salovey’s main concern is Calhoun College. Salovey does not advocate for any particular position. Instead, he sets out parameters of a discussion about some aspects of the physical legacy of Yale’s past. I will highlight and then discuss some of the themes of his speech. Salovey’s tone is cautious. He stresses that we must be “wary” regarding attempts “to alter markers of the past for the sake of present purposes.” He gives two reasons for this caution. First, there are the “dangers” of judging past figures according to “views and standards that evolved and developed after their own times.” His concern is a variation of the familiar injunction to judge historical figures according to the mores of their time. Second, Salovey says: “We also must consider what it means to attempt to efface or distance ourselves from our own history.” Salovey’s concern with re-evaluating historical figures reflects a view of the past as monolithic and so distant from our own times that our moral compasses may not work correctly in retrospect. However, a little reflection tells us that regarding the moral status of slavery, Calhoun’s views far from reflected a consensus. While Calhoun praised slavery as a “positive good” in 1837, the British Empire had already abolished slavery four years earlier in 1833. Calhoun mounted a vigorous defense of slavery precisely because some in his audience found it to be morally repugnant. Calhoun was certainly not alone in his views, and we know that he was an influential thinker. But it does not follow that the moral status of slavery was a settled matter in 1837. So the worry about judging Calhoun according to views that developed after his time seems misplaced. Arguably, we cannot do otherwise than judge Calhoun according to the views and standards that we currently hold. The alternative, to somehow inhabit the worldviews of Calhoun’s contemporaries, is a very daunting prospect. Kant famously said that “ought” implies “can.” I do not mean to suggest that to do this would be in principle impossible. We admire authors who seem able to adopt the perspectives of people different from themselves in historical position and outlook. But the very rarity of their success, and the hard work it entails, means that the injunction to judge historical figures according to their own time must be one possibility among several, rather than a moral duty.

The Physical Legacy of a Troubled Past 255 Turning now to Salovey’s concern about distancing ourselves from or even “effacing” our history: two things are of note here. First, the rhetorical slippage between “distance ourselves” from our own history and “efface” it. Salovey puts them in the same sentence and equates them rhetorically. However changing the name of Calhoun College would not “efface” history. His name will continue to be memorialized in the names of streets and buildings throughout the United States. Calhoun is not just memorialized; he is honored by having a college at Yale named after him. To decide to rescind that honor is not equivalent to effacing him or his memory. The second point to make here is an obvious one: “our own history.” Who owns the past?2 The incoming class whom Salovey addresses may contain descendants of slaveowners, descendants of slaves, and descendants of those who played no role in these controversies. The rhetorical move of endowing (or perhaps burdening) them with a shared history serves to unite them as heirs to a common problem. But any shared history is aspirational rather than factual. In effect, Salovey is saying that by coming together today, his listeners are heirs to Yale’s past and have a legitimate claim to fashion its future. Salovey is correct that renaming Calhoun College is an act of “distancing” the institution from its history. But the history that the reformers want to leave behind is not the antebellum South that produced Calhoun. The past they distance themselves from is the institutionalized racism of the 1930s, when Calhoun College was dedicated. This period, because it is much more recent than Calhoun’s time, is more like the present day and for that reason, possibly more troubling. Salovey makes one more cautious point against reform and in favor of the status quo. The presence of Calhoun, “may serve to remind us not only of Yale’s complicated and occasionally painful associations with the past, but to enforce in us a sense of our own moral fallibility as we ourselves face questions about the future.” Again, this is a familiar trope in discussions about memorials and public artworks that commemorate a troubled past. Reminders of the moral errors of the past (in this case, Calhoun and those who decided to honor him) keep us from being self-righteous.3 Indeed we should not presume that we in the present are so morally developed as to have all of the answers. Future generations may wonder at the choices we made, just as we wonder at some of the choices made by earlier generations. Salovey implies that if we rescind the honors given to Calhoun, we risk smug self-congratulation which is at odds with proper moral humility. And we need this humility as we face new moral dilemmas, some we cannot yet imagine. However awareness of our own fallibility can go hand-in-hand with moral certainty about specific issues. I feel fairly confident that one can say “We should not honor someone who promoted slavery” without

256  Jeanette Bicknell being complacent about all of the rest of one’s moral intuitions. So again, Salovey’s worry here seems misplaced. As a university administrator, Salovey’s concerns are intellectual and philosophical, but also pragmatic. He tells the class: I am suggesting, rather, that we give careful consideration to what criteria we could and should use to change the institutional names and associations we have with some particular historical figure, while in the process avoiding renaming exercises to alleviate an entire range of historical grievances or current discomforts. That is, I am not suggesting that we should reconsider just any name or the use of any symbol that some find offensive; there would be no end to that process. Salovey asks his audience for a set of criteria—a theory, if you will. The community is not to reconsider “any name” or “any symbol” that some find offensive. He offers a pragmatic rationale for why not—“there would be no end to that process.” His challenge to the class is the following: on what basis do we, as a community, decide which parts of our physical legacy to repudiate and which parts to retain? How do we start to make these decisions? Now is an appropriate point to point out the “elephant in the room.” Namely, Elihu Yale—an early benefactor to the institution that became Yale University. Yale was an official of the Honourable East India Company who participated in and profited from the eighteenth-century slave trade. I would argue that that lurking beneath the surface of what Salovey asks the community to do is the assurance (or perhaps the challenge) that removing Elihu Yale’s name from the institution is beyond consideration. Indeed, a more cynical person than myself might see the present emphasis on John Calhoun as a way to deflect attention from Elihu Yale. (Indeed, Brown University, another Ivy League institution, has also wrestled with the troubled legacy embodied in its name. The Brown family, early supporters of the university, made some of their fortune in the transatlantic slave trade.)4

Physical Reminders of a Troubled Past In this section, I consider the actions already taken at Yale with respect to its troubled legacy. Together with buildings and institutions, Yale possesses a number of physical reminders that evoke a troubled past, including artworks. There are several possible ways to respond when confronted with artifacts that cause offense or that embody a worldview that a community no longer endorses. First, we can destroy those objects, either in a spontaneous or in a systematic fashion. Second, we might alter the artifacts to make them less problematic. Finally, we can

The Physical Legacy of a Troubled Past 257 re-contextualize or mothball the objects, removing them to different or less prominent locations or taking them from public view altogether. Each of these responses has been tried at Yale. The destruction of art for ideological reasons (religious or political) has a long history.5 In July 2016—nearly a year after Salovey launched the “difficult conversation” about Yale’s troubled past—an African American cafeteria worker smashed a stained glass window in the dining hall of Calhoun College. The window depicted slaves carrying bales of cotton.6 Corey Menafee, the cafeteria worker, said that he was tired of looking at the “racist, very degrading” image. He also said, “It’s 2016, I shouldn’t have to come to work and see things like that.” Menafee faced felony charges and resigned. The charges were dropped and he was later hired back by Yale, on the condition that he not discuss the incident. The advantage of destruction is clear. It carries a strong symbolic value and sends a very obvious message. Also, the artwork is no longer around to offend anyone. The disadvantage is likewise clear. We no longer have direct access to the work. This consequence would be especially troubling if the work were a significant work of art, a work with high aesthetic value or a work of historical importance. A less radical strategy is alteration. When it was dedicated in the 1930s, the common room of Calhoun College contained a stained glass portrait of John Calhoun, together with a black man in tattered clothing kneeling before him. The panel was quietly altered in 1992 to remove the kneeling slave. The advantage of alteration over destruction is that we retain access to the work, albeit in an altered state. (Alterations may or may not be reversible.) One disadvantage is that alterations may compromise a work and violate artists’ moral rights, if not their copyright. Alteration lacks the strong symbolic value of destruction. It is a piecemeal solution, at best. At its worst, alteration perpetuates the erasure of marginalized people, such as slaves, from the historical record, while their oppressors continue to be depicted. Finally, artifacts can be mothballed or recontextualized. Portraits of Calhoun have been removed from public display. A portrait of Elihu Yale with a slave boy (indicated by metal collar around his neck) was removed from a prominent place and replaced with one of Yale standing alone. (I assume that some of these removed works have been relocated to Yale’s art gallery, but it has been difficult to obtain this information.) The advantage of this approach is that we retain access to the work in its original state. Removing problematic works from public view also carries symbolic value, in that it shows that the community has heard and responded to the concerns of those whom the work troubled. Another advantage of this approach is that it is reversible. We can change our minds about works and put them back on display, or display them in

258  Jeanette Bicknell different contexts at a later date. The disadvantage is that the symbolic value of removal is not as strong as that of destruction. I would argue that the third strategy—recontextualizing or moving the artifact from prominent display—is the most satisfactory. Altering or destroying the work would mean that we no longer have the opportunity to experience it as the original audience did, possibly resulting in a loss of aesthetic value. More importantly, if we destroy or alter works we risk losing historical insight. When we cannot have an experience similar enough to that of the work’s original audience, we lose a significant opportunity to understand the past and the worldview of those who came before us.

An Alternative to Theory I said earlier that Salovey’s problem was philosophical but also pragmatic: how to support racial equality and assuage the concerns of those offended by the physical legacy of Yale’s troubled past, and yet resist the impulse to overturn every aspect of that legacy. In particular, how to distance the institution from Calhoun without also condemning Elihu Yale. His approach was to ask for a set of rational criteria. The way I understand his remarks, Salovey is doing something more than asking for an argument for or against repudiating particular associations. That people on either side of a controversy—especially a controversy in an educational institution—need to provide reasoned arguments in support of their positions should go without saying. So Salovey must be asking for something more than reasoned and reasonable dialogue. I understand him as asking for a theory that can be applied to associations with Calhoun now and to other figures in the future. Rather than consider the particulars of Calhoun’s legacy, he challenges his audience to think very generally about Yale’s troubled legacies. Rather than a piecemeal approach that would consider this specific artwork, this building, or this association, Salovey demands a general set of criteria for the whole of Yale’s troubled legacy. This move from the specific to the general, and from action to contemplation is understandable in an educational institution. Yet I will argue that this strategy is misguided and that a piecemeal, highly particularized, case-by-case approach is preferable. In science, theories are meant to generalize across cases and to serve as the basis for predictions about as yet untested cases. The discussion between theoretical and anti-theoretical approaches to ethics takes place in the realm of meta-ethics. The debates rarely descend to the level of actions in the world;7 indeed theorists and anti-theorists might agree substantially about the rightness or wrongness of particular actions, although they would come to their conclusions in different ways. The

The Physical Legacy of a Troubled Past 259 crucial difference between these two approaches is the role of philosophy in ethical deliberation. Theorists claim that a unitary informative principle (whether simple or complex) grounds ethical thought, and antitheorists deny this.8 According to Bernard Williams, one of the main advocates of an anti-theoretical approach, ethical theory implies a general test for the correctness of basic ethical beliefs.9 Rather than continue the discussion on the meta-ethical level, or defend one meta-ethical perspective over another, I would like to consider the limits of theory for Yale’s challenges. As I see it there are three problems with adopting a theoretical approach at Yale. First, any theory developed for Yale’s current situation is bound to contain arbitrary elements. For example, one principle that might inform such a theory is the conviction that “we ought not to give great public honor to individuals who are morally reprehensible.” Let’s assume that all participants in the debate come to agree with this principle. What happens when we apply this principle to Calhoun as well as to Yale? Was one man more of a “villain” than the other, such that we can continue to honor one but not the other? Hard to say; both knowingly benefited from a set of practices we now find morally repugnant. While Calhoun may have been more vocal in his support of slavery, we can attribute this to his more public and political career. A theory that would end up with Yale disassociating itself from Calhoun but not Elihu Yale would likely then contain arbitrary elements. A theory that recommends disassociation from both might have the benefit of consistency. The worry is that it might recommend Yale take actions that do not yet have broad support and that could end up being highly divisive and potentially damaging to the institution. Second, a theory such as Salovey envisions would apply to associations that are troubling the community now, as well as serve as a guide for future controversies. However social change does not happen at a fixed pace, and our evolving sense of who and what should be honored may well race ahead of the theories we construct to guide us in the application of revised moral commitments. The task of anticipating future controversies will likely lead to the formulation of a theory that is vague, overly general, and therefore unhelpful. Finally, the call for a theory posits an ending or completion to something that should rather be an ongoing process. Indeed, one of the reasons that Salovey asked for a theory was to avoid a process to which “there would be no end.” Communities (especially educational institutions) can and should treat their legacy as subject to scrutiny and their embodied moral judgments of honor and memorial as subject to discussion and revision. Rather than attempt to twist our intuitions, our settled convictions, and our vague, evolving thoughts into a coherent theory, the better approach

260  Jeanette Bicknell is anti-theoretical. To put it crudely, where does the shoe pinch right now? Which artifacts and associations bother people the most? When people protest, which names and artifacts do they condemn? Where are the voices the loudest and the emotion strongest? That is where the work begins. I suspect that when we have done the work of listening and we find those associations and objects that evoke the strongest feelings and arguments, they are likely to share some of these features: (1) they are displayed in prominent or highly symbolic places—places that give honor by their association; (2) as a result, they are hard to avoid—such as the stained glass windows in the cafeteria; and (3) they lack subtlety and are not open to multiple interpretations (such as the images of kneeling and shackled slaves.) As a point of clarification, I am not suggesting that institutions simply respond to the pressure of the moment, nor am I advocating a rush to judgment. Moving an artwork that people have lived with for a long time, or disassociating an institution from an historical figure, may not seem like radical changes. Indeed, some will argue that such changes do not go far enough. But any change, large or small, symbolic or practical, can be jarring. The voices of those resisting change must also be heard, even if they do not win the day. Once we have considered the issues in all of their complexity and difficulty we can begin the work of assessment and evaluation on a caseby-case basis. However the goal of this work is not a theory; the goal is reasoned argument in support of particular actions.10

Notes 1. Facts about Calhoun and quotations from President Salovey are all taken from accessed January 23, 2017, speeches/launching-difficult-conversation and 2. On the difficult question of what it means to “own” or “own up” to the past, see Erich Hatala Matthes, “Who Owns Up to the Past: Heritage and Historical Injustice,” Journal of the American Philosophical Association (2018): 87–104. 3. See my “The Moral Problem of Self-Righteousness,” Journal of Value Inquiry (2010): 477–87. 4. See Slavery and Justice: Report of the Brown University Steering Committee on Slavery and Justice, accessed October  26, 2018, Research/Slavery_Justice/documents/SlaveryAndJustice.pdf. 5. See Dario Gamboni, The Destruction of Art: Iconoclasm and Vandalism since the French Revolution (London: Reaktion Books, 1997). 6. Daniela Brighenti, Qi Xu, & David Yaffe-Bellany, Worker Smashes ‘Racist’ Panel, Loses Job, accessed January 23, 2017, www.newhavenindependent. org/index.php/archives/entry/corey_menafee. 7. For example, Jonathan Dancy, Ethics without Principles (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2004), 2, writes that the reader will find “very little” of “subtle and delicate descriptions of complex moral situations” in his book.

The Physical Legacy of a Troubled Past 261 8. Brad Hooker, “Theory versus Anti-Theory in Ethics,” in Luck, Value, and Commitment: Themes from the Ethics of Bernard Williams, eds. Ulrike Heuer and Gerald Lang (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 19–40. 9. Bernard Williams, Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy (Abingdon: Routledge Classics, 2001), 80. I  have ignored the complication that an ethical theorist might argue for the impossibility of such a general test (on theoretical grounds) or the impossibility of a foundational principle for ethics (again on theoretical grounds). 10. In February  2017 President Salovey announced that the name of Cal houn College would be changed to Hopper College, to honor Grace Murray Hopper, a computer pioneer, naval officer, and graduate. See accessed October  26, 2018, decision-name-calhoun-college. For discussion and comments on earlier versions, I am grateful to the Canadian Society for Aesthetics, Ian Jarvie, Jennifer Judkins, and Carolyn Korsmeyer.

22 For the Union Dead Memorial Hall at Harvard University and the Exclusion of the Confederate Fallen Ivan Gaskell Emblem and legend may fade from the portal, Keystone may crumble and portal may fall; They were the builders whose work is immortal, Crowned with the dome that is over us all! —Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., “Hymn for the Celebration at the Laying of the Corner-Stone of Harvard Memorial Hall, October 6, 1870”

The war fought in North America between 1861 and 1865 remains one of the most contentious conflicts in American history. Even allocating it a name is a matter of dispute. Consternation over the very terminology of the war is part of a larger conflict among various manifestations of popular social memory on the one hand, and professional historical interpretation on the other that sometimes bleed into one another. Both depend on irreconcilable notions of the American past that color attitudes in the present. These include the vindication of an irrefragable Union versus the claims of states’ rights by secessionists and some of their successors; and a nostalgic promotion of ideals of gentility, honor, and self-sufficient agrarian paternalism that characterize the so-called Lost Cause of the South, versus the promotion of capital-intensive industry leading to profits for investors produced by wage-based free labor in the North. The loss of life during the war was extreme: perhaps some 620,000 military deaths. This in itself brought about social and cultural change on a huge scale.1 Death claimed men and women of all social strata, from child drummer boys to the president of the United States. From Maine in the north to Texas in the south, scarcely a single community suffered no loss. The sense of loss everywhere was immeasurable. During the decades that followed the end of the war, many communities erected memorials surmounted by a mass-produced statue of a generic soldier in 1860s uniform, Union or Confederate, as appropriate. More grandiose monuments were dedicated to military and political leaders. Those to General William Tecumseh Sherman by Augustus Saint-Gaudens in the

For the Union Dead 263 southeast corner of Central Park, Manhattan since 1903, and to Abraham Lincoln by Daniel Chester French, in Washington, DC, completed in 1920, are among the best known. No one publicly objects to these monuments. Statues of Confederate leaders, erected in various Southern cities are another matter. Mostly erected during the later nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a period of resurgent Southern sentiment and racial segregation, these prominent statues became a renewed focus of protest in 2017. Several were subsequently removed by civil authorities. It is clear that commemoration serves more than one purpose and takes more than one form. By examining a long-running dispute over the commemoration of those members of Harvard University who died for both the Union and the Confederacy, I  hope to demonstrate that a tension inevitably exists between instances of commemoration as constituents of the social fabric proclaiming unity in a righteous cause, and attempts at commemoration that acknowledge social and ideological divisions within a community. The former lends privilege to a social mythology of the past, whereas the latter seeks to present the past as subject to critical understanding in terms of history. Each would fulfill a social purpose, and each has complex ethical implications. Furthermore, these alternative modes of addressing the past are irreconcilable, and a truly historical form of commemoration in the material form of a monument can scarcely be said to exist. Harvard’s Memorial Hall—to be described shortly—exists among a plethora of Civil War memorials in Greater Boston, so it cannot be considered in isolation. Like the civic memorials to the dead mentioned above, it commemorates loss within one community. To understand its place as a memorial, it is worth considering other types nearby. In addition to commemorating those who served from a given community and their military and political leaders, memorials were commissioned to honor individual military units. The most celebrated is the monument unveiled in Boston in 1897 to the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry and its colonel, Robert Gould Shaw. Commissioned by a committee of prominent Bostonians, it incorporates a large bronze relief by Augustus Saint-Gaudens of African American soldiers marching beside their commanding officer on horseback.2 Other Boston area memorials were the result of family initiatives. James C. Melvin of Concord, Massachusetts, enlisted in the Union army in the final year of the war at the age of sixteen. He was the only one of four brothers to survive. Melvin eventually commissioned architect Henry Bacon and sculptor Daniel Chester French to produce a monument to his brothers’ memory in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord (Figure  22.1). Three individual bronze plaques to James’s elder brothers, Asa, John, and Samuel, are overseen by a semi-nude marble female figure personifying Mourning Victory emerging in high relief. Dedicated in 1909, the

264  Ivan Gaskell

Figure 22.1 Memorial to Asa, John, and Samuel Melvin, dedicated 1909. Architect, Henry Bacon; sculptor, Daniel Chester French. Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord, Massachusetts. Source: Photo by author

inscription, with characteristic New England directness, reads, “I  with uncovered head salute the sacred dead who went and who return not.”3 Some memorials take the form of portraits. Four sons of Boston banker Almon D. Hodges served in Massachusetts regiments during the war. Two, William and George, lost their lives. In 1866, William Sharp painted a life-size posthumous portrait of the two dead brothers. Cavalry officer, Captain William Hodges is on horseback with his infantry officer younger brother, Lieutenant George Hodges, standing beside him. George had succumbed to typhoid fever in Alexandria, Virginia, in January, 1862, and William was killed just three days before the surrender of General Robert E. Lee on April 9, 1865. The portrait remained in the family home in Roxbury, near Boston, until Anne C. Hodges gave it to Harvard in 1935, presumably because George Hodges had graduated from Harvard College in 1855, and had received his law degree from Harvard five years later.4 If the donation by a collateral descendent of Sharp’s portrait of the Hodges brothers transformed it from a private family memorial into an

For the Union Dead 265 element of the incrementally accrued apparatus of corporate remembrance at Harvard University, a portrait bust sculpted by Daniel Chester French in 1885 is the result of the intersection of the interests of Harvard with another corporate body: the officers of the 2nd Massachusetts Cavalry. The marble bust of Brigadier General Charles Russell Lowell Jr. was commissioned as a gift to Harvard by Lowell’s fellow officers. Lowell was born in 1835, and graduated from Harvard College in 1854. Senator Charles Sumner arranged a regular army captain’s commission for Lowell in the 3rd (later 6th) US Cavalry. Subsequently he was charged with raising the 2nd Massachusetts Cavalry Regiment, becoming its colonel. Promoted to command a brigade in 1864, he was fatally wounded on October 19, the same day that he was nominated for promotion to brigadier general at the age of twenty-nine. It is worth bearing in mind that painted and sculpted memorials could intersect with written ones. Edward Waldo Emerson, son of philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson, witnessed Charles Lowell’s funeral in Cambridge on October 28, 1864. He published an account in his 1907 biography of Lowell: I remember, one rainy day when the sudden gusts blew the yellow leaves in showers from the College elms, hearing the beautiful notes of Pleyel’s Hymn, which was the tune to which soldiers were borne to burial, played by the band as the procession came, bearing Charles Lowell’s body from his mother’s house to the College Chapel; and seeing the coffin, wrapped in the flag, carried to the altar by soldiers; and how strangely in contrast with the new blue overcoats and fresh white and red bunting were the campaign-soiled cap and gauntlets, the worn hilt and battered scabbard of the sword that lay on the coffin.5 Both William Sharp’s oil portrait of George and William Hodges, and Daniel Chester French’s marble bust of Charles Russell Lowell are in Memorial Hall at Harvard University (Figure 22.2). This vast structure in brick and freestone in the neo-Gothic style stands immediately to the north of Harvard Yard. In the aftermath of the Civil War, a committee of Harvard alumni proposed to raise funds for a memorial to the 136 members of the university who had died for the Union. By the end of 1868 the committee had raised $370,000, and in October 1870 the foundation stone of Memorial Hall was laid. Harvard Medical School professor and poet, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. composed a hymn for the occasion, evoking the rise of the building to come, and its eventual demise. Holmes presented the future Memorial Hall as a shrine to the memory of the men who had fallen but whose achievement will outlast the then as yet unbuilt structure.6

266  Ivan Gaskell

Figure 22.2  Memorial Hall, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Architects, William Robert Ware and Henry Van Brunt. Dedicated 1874. Source: Photo by author

Harvard graduates William Robert Ware and Henry Van Brunt designed Memorial Hall. It consists of three chambers surmounted by a tower. To the west is a dining hall, originally named Alumni Hall. To the east is Sanders Theatre, named for 1802 Harvard graduate, Charles Sanders, steward of Harvard College between 1827 and 1831. Sanders had given and bequeathed a total of $40,000 for the construction of a hall or theatre.7 His project was merged with that of the alumni committee. Sanders Theatre remains the largest indoor seating space in the university, accommodating over a thousand persons. Between Alumni Hall and Sanders Theatre, runs a tall chamber with a vaulted roof: Memorial Transept (Figure 22.3). Its walls support twentyeight marble tablets inscribed with the names of 136 members of the university who died for the Union. The tablets are divided, first, among the College and the various professional schools; second, by class year, and then by name alphabetically. The name of each person is followed by the date and place where he fell. No ranks are included. All these Harvard men are equal in death. In 1912, retired judge Henry N. Blake identified a

For the Union Dead 267

Figure 22.3  Memorial Transept, Memorial Hall, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Architects, William Robert Ware and Henry Van Brunt. Dedicated 1874. Source: Photo by author

further thirty-one Harvard alumni who had died in the Union cause, but their names have not been added.8 Dedicated in 1874, the building was substantially completed in 1877, and formally given to the president and fellows of Harvard College the following year. The installation of paintings and sculpture began in 1874, while stained glass windows by John La Farge, Louis Comfort Tiffany, and Sarah Wyman Whitman were installed between 1879 and 1902.9 Together they form a rich gallery. Its purpose was to inspire students and graduates with representations of the founders, benefactors, faculty, presidents, and the most distinguished alumni of the university, while commemorating those who had so recently given their lives for the Union. Henry James, writing in 1905, felt that “the recording tablets of the members of the university sacrificed, on the Northern side, in the Civil War, are too impressive not to retain here, always, their collective beauty,” but he was critical of the architecture of “the great official, the great bristling brick, Valhalla of the early ‘seventies,’ that house of honor and of hospitality which, under the name of the Alumni Hall, dispenses

268  Ivan Gaskell (apart from its containing a noble auditorium) laurels to the dead and dinners to the living.”10 That function as a daily refectory ended in 1925, and thereafter Alumni Hall found only occasional use for several decades. The tower was badly damaged by fire in 1956, and the remains of the upper part removed. The need for a new dining facility for college freshmen by the early 1990s led to the renovation of Memorial Hall at a cost of over $18 million to plans by Venturi Scott Brown, reopening in 1996. During the period of planning and fund raising, a contentious question arose. This concerned the absence of a memorial to those Harvard men who had fought and died for the Confederacy. The issue had been raised by the editor of the Harvard Alumni Bulletin, Edgar H. Wells, in 1909. He argued that “The Harvard men . . . whether they fought under the stars and stripes or under the stars and bars were first, last, and always Harvard men.”11 Henry N. Blake subsequently published two articles in which he identified sixty-eight Harvard men who had died in Confederate service.12 Their names were not included in Memorial Hall. Blake, a lawyer, had served as a captain in the Union Army during the Civil War, and had eventually become the first chief justice of the Montana Supreme Court in 1889. His contact with former Confederate officers and men in Helena prompted him while in retirement in Boston to press for recognition of Harvard men who had fought for the Confederacy.13 The argument that to acknowledge Harvard’s men in Confederate service would not be to endorse their cause did not prevail. The tercentenary of Harvard College in 1936 saw a renewed attempt to acknowledge these men, led by the prominent Harvard historian, Samuel Eliot Morison, but to no avail.14 Harvard classicist, Mason Hammond, raised the matter again during the centennial of the Civil War. The national bicentennial in 1976 saw Peter J. Gomes, minister in Harvard’s Memorial Church and Plummer Professor of Christian Morals, propose a different solution. He suggested placing a plaque commemorating Harvard’s Confederate dead in Memorial Church. Memorial Church in Harvard Yard was dedicated in 1932. It was a gift from Harvard alumni to commemorate the members of the university who had died in World War I. It also accommodates memorials to Harvard students and graduates killed in subsequent conflicts. Gomes pointed out that the names of five alumni who had fought for Germany in World War I, and one in World War II, had been inscribed in Memorial Church. Gomes was a man of considerable moral authority, and, as we shall see below, he continued to argue for a plaque in Memorial Church until 1996, though without success. Meanwhile, the renovation of Memorial Hall between 1992 and 1996 saw a revival of efforts to introduce the names there of the Confederate dead. Unlike Gomes and his allies, some of the proponents of the Memorial Hall scheme were apologists for the Lost Cause. This tainted the

For the Union Dead 269 attempt. The president and fellows (the Corporation) had to find a way to refuse without seeming to engage in moral controversy. Whether disingenuously or not, the Corporation therefore adopted a pragmatic solution relying on technical legal reasons. On May 14, 1878, the committee responsible for the building of Memorial Hall had resolved to offer the building to the president and fellows of Harvard College with certain stipulations. The first of these was that the building should be “a Memorial to graduates and students of the University who died in defence of the Union, or who served in its defence during the Rebellion of 1861.” The second resolution was that “The said President and Fellows shall see to it that no inscription, picture, bust, tablet, monument, or memorial shall be allowed in or upon said hall, which is inconsistent with its intent and design, as more particularly set forth in the first paragraph of the preamble to these votes.” At its meeting on July 8, the president and fellows formally accepted the gift with these stipulations.15 When terms are convenient, an organization will follow them to the letter; when they are not, it will find a way to circumvent them. These terms were convenient as a means of seeing off those who sought change, whether to promote magnanimity in remembrance, or, more questionably, the Lost Cause. At this point the alternative proposal to place a memorial plaque in Memorial Church, remained available. Funds had been raised for the purpose. Yet the proposal floundered owing to the opposition of some alumni and students, including various African American groups. In 1996, Peter Gomes published an article in the Harvard student newspaper, the Harvard Crimson, in which he reviewed the ethical issues, and acknowledged, with regret, that such opposition would prevail for the foreseeable future.16 As befits one of the most celebrated preachers of the twentieth century who would publish fifteen volumes of sermons delivered at Harvard’s Memorial Church before his death in 2011, Gomes begins with a text. It is drawn from the Apocrypha, Ecclesiasticus 44:9: “And some there be, which have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been; and are become as though they had never been born; and their children after them.” As a precedent for a plaque bearing the names of Harvard’s Confederate dead, Gomes cites the example of the plaque to the German dead of the First World War in Memorial Church. He relates that this plaque inspired him to believe that a memorial to Harvard’s Confederate dead should be installed in the same building. This proposal, he states, has “nothing to do with the righteousness of their cause, or with a form of moral amnesia,” but the belief that “the University could reconcile at least in memory, its dead sons as a sign of the abiding fellowship of memory and of hope to which the University aspires.” Gomes presents such reconciliation in memory as a moral obligation to truth to which the church must adhere. Memorials, Gomes notes, have a “moral component” in that “they try to communicate truth and the ones that

270  Ivan Gaskell are successful are so because they communicate their truth with clarity.” He agrees with the opponents of the inclusion of the names of Harvard’s Confederate dead in Memorial Hall that for moral reasons—the possibility of endorsing a wicked cause—and for legal reasons, the transept should not include them. But he states that, “eloquent as it is, it [Memorial Hall] speaks only a partial truth.” Memorial Church, however, is a different case. “It is fitting,” he writes, that a University church should strive to tell a larger truth, and it does so, however painful or ambiguous it may appear to be, by the inclusion of the sons of Harvard in whose death the divisions of our community are made clear. On Gomes’s view, Harvard’s Memorial Church—Gomes’s church— has a moral obligation to tell that “larger truth” of pain, ambiguity, and division in contradistinction to the “partial truth” available in Memorial Hall. He then faces directly the accusation that “a memorial to the southern dead at Harvard would seem to call into question Harvard’s own commitment to the true equality in the University of its members of color.” He expresses himself “saddened and disappointed that some of our brightest and best” should think so, but sees this tragedy as a symptom of the “enormous unfinished business of race that will always be before us.” He acknowledges that this fear, for now, precludes the possibility of telling the painful and ambiguous “larger truth” that he foresees a memorial to Harvard’s Confederate dead in Memorial Church as able to convey, and for this reason states that he will no longer lend his support to the proposal. More in sorrow than in anger, Gomes makes clear that the “larger truth” concerns reconciliation in memory of those “in whose death the divisions of our community are made clear.” If sorrow characterizes Gomes’s eloquent moral statement, indignation is not entirely absent, though it he reserves it for those who would tell him that he does not understand the pain of African Americans who would feel themselves implicitly excluded by the explicit inclusion of the names of those whose actions oppressed their forebears. Gomes recalls that when he was a child: [M]y mother took me to the transept of Memorial Hall, a sacred space: old graduates took their hats off upon entering and although I cannot remember if I was impressed, I am certain that my mother was. She knew what that building meant, and so too do I. I do not require instruction on that point by anyone living. His mother’s mother had been born in Richmond, Virginia, in 1863, so acquired her freedom thanks to the Emancipation Proclamation. That Gomes was an African American was an integral part of his identity, but

For the Union Dead 271 his promotion of Christian forbearance was just as important. A Nietzschean might doubt Gomes’s reliance on a version of truth that accepts, however reluctantly, pain and ambiguity as necessary to the imperative of memorialization; but Gomes propounds an ideal, even while knowing that it may always be out of reach. That ideal concerns the very character of memorials. He sees a memorial as “not merely an artifact of the past.” By its very nature it is a key to the future, a means of moving on from beyond the shadows of the past. Not only does it speak of what was, but it aspires to speak of that which ought to be. In our case such a memorial speaks of a country once tragically divided which now aspires to an authentic reconciliation, an elusive goal always ahead of us, always in the future.17 Such a deferral may not satisfy all—it may even strike some as an ­evasion—but it is consistent with the ethical tradition in which Gomes thought and preached. Looking at the question of memorialization of the dead of the Civil War a little more broadly, we find opinion on the part of those who supported the Union concerning the appropriate treatment of the Confederate dead more or less divided. Some, including Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., who had served in the Union army with distinction, “believed that those who stood against us held just as sacred convictions that were the opposite of ours, and we respected them as every man with a heart must respect those who give all for their belief.”18 Others, such as Frederick Douglass, would not countenance reconciliation if that entailed forgetting the moral character of the respective causes, North and South. Quoting Psalm 137, he declared, “may my ‘right hand forget her cunning and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth,’ if I forget the difference between the parties to that terrible, protracted, and bloody conflict.”19 He could not bring himself “in the name of patriotism, to forget the merits of this fearful struggle, and to remember with equal admiration those who struck at the nation’s life and those who struck to save it, those who fought for slavery and those who fought for liberty and justice.”20 Holmes would become one of the most distinguished associate justices of the Supreme Court of the United States; Douglass, once enslaved himself, was the most respected nineteenth-century spokesperson in the causes of abolition and African American rights. Their stances on this issue are the two poles of moral response to the urge to commemorate all who fell in the conflict. These stances find echoes to the present day in debates such as those concerning Memorial Hall and Memorial Church at Harvard. Peter Gomes presented a subtle though equally uncompromising third response based on the premise that no institution, such as a university, can live up to its ideals if it cannot “reconcile at least in memory, its

272  Ivan Gaskell dead sons as a sign of the abiding fellowship of memory and of hope to which the University aspires.” Indeed, the magnanimity Gomes sought encompassed the admission of the inconvenient “larger truth” that “[a]ll of Harvard was not united in a righteous cause.”21 Memorial Hall proclaims unity in a righteous cause. It does so in its inscribed marble tablets, the paintings and sculpted busts of the Harvard men who died for the preservation of the Union, such as the brothers George and William Hodges, and Charles Russell Lowell, and in its very fabric. So, too, do numerous memorials elsewhere in the Old Commonwealth, both to individuals, such as the brothers Asa, John, and Samuel Melvin in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord, and to bodies of men, exemplified by the memorial to the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry and its colonel, Robert Gould Shaw. Further memorials to the men who served are to be found, as poet Robert Lowell put it, “On a thousand small town New England greens,” where “The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier/ grow slimmer and younger each year.”22 Here there is no room for moral ambiguity. Those who upheld the Union judged the Confederate dead and found them wanting long ago, even though an ideal of national unity—and President Andrew Johnson’s pragmatic policies—demanded a rehabilitation, of sorts, of those who might have been condemned as traitors or war criminals; that is, that they be “dealt with so as to induce them voluntarily to become friends” rather than “held by absolute military power or devastated so as to prevent them from ever again doing harm as enemies.”23 In the case of Memorial Hall and Memorial Church at Harvard University, shared abhorrence of slavery precludes any decision open to interpretation as endorsing the actions of those who, willingly or not, fought in defense of that odious institution. Yet Peter Gomes recommended a course of action, which, while that of a Christian ethicist, was also historically astute, for it proposed a view of Harvard’s past that does not fit comfortably into the role reserved for most memorial monuments, but instead encouraged recognition of painful divisions and imperfections. Implicitly declaring the virtue of those whom they commemorate, monuments are designed to evoke collective memory. As prompts to shared recollection, most do not function in an historically critical manner; rather they help constitute a value system in which those commemorated play a wholly positive role. They are among the building blocks of the social fabric. If doubts arise about the probity of those values, and the status of those commemorated, such monuments become vulnerable, subject to removal, as has occurred recently in New Orleans and elsewhere where monuments to Confederate leaders have been dismantled.24 Historians, in contrast, should avoid perpetuating social myths, but rather produce critical accounts of a fugitive past that admit of uncertainty, ambiguity, and loss, thereby encouraging circumspection. If to establish

For the Union Dead 273 grounds for judgment is among the duties of the philosopher, among those of the historian is to ensure that none should be too comfortable in its exercise.25 In the cases of Memorial Hall and Memorial Church at Harvard, social mythology continues to best history, as it must if such places are to function as constituents of the social fabric proclaiming unity in a righteous cause, and to commemorate those “builders whose work is immortal” who gave their lives in its pursuit. The monument that is truly historical, in the sense of acknowledging the mess that is the past, remains elusive. Yet this does not relieve philosophers and historians of their complementary responsibilities to define ethical values, and to offer critical and, at times, unsettling interpretations of the past for the edification of those whose only version of that past would otherwise be popular social memory.26

Notes 1. See Drew Gilpin Faust, This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil War (New York: Knopf, 2008). 2. John H. Dryfhout, The Work of Augustus Saint-Gaudens (Hanover, NH: University of New England Press, 1982), 222–29. 3. See: The Melvin Memorial: A  Brother’s Tribute (Cambridge: The Riverside Press, 1909); Michael Richman, Daniel Chester French: An American Sculptor (Washington, DC: Preservation Press, 1983), 113–16. The Melvin Memorial was researched by Daisy Adams in my seminar, “The American Civil War: Art and Material Culture,” fall semester, 2017. Between 1912 and 1915, French produced a second version of Mourning Victory as the gift of James C. Melvin to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. 4. Theodore E. Stebbins, Melissa Renn and Virginia Anderson, American Paintings at Harvard, Volume 1: Paintings, Watercolors, and Pastels by Artists Born Before 1826 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Art Museums; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), 428–29. 5. Edward Waldo Emerson, The Life and Letters of Charles Russell Lowell, Captain Sixth United States Cavalry, Colonel Second Massachusetts Cavalry, Brigadier-General United States Volunteers (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1907; new edition: Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2005), 68. See also John Eicher and David Eicher, Civil War High Commands (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001), 355. 6. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., “Hymn for the Celebration at the Laying of the Cornerstone of Harvard Memorial Hall, Cambridge, October 6, 1870,” in The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes in Three Volumes, Vol. II (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin; Cambridge: Riverside Press, 1905), 283–84. 7. Office for the Arts at Harvard: Memorial Hall/Lowell Hall Complex, accessed May 21, 2018, 8. Henry N. Blake, “Vacant Tablets in Memorial Hall,” Harvard Graduates’ Magazine 20, 1911–12, 597–601. 9. Mason Hammond, The Stained Glass Windows in Memorial Hall, Harvard University (Cambridge: The Author, 1978). 10. Henry James, “New England: An Autumn Impression. In Three Parts: Part Third,” North American Review 180 (1905): 808.

274  Ivan Gaskell 11. Quoted by Peter J. Gomes, “Civil Wars and Moral Ambiguity,” Harvard Crimson, January 17, 1996, accessed May 21, 2018, article/1996/1/17/civil-wars-and-moral-ambiguity-pand/. 12. Henry N. Blake, “Harvard Confederates Who Fell in the Civil War,” Harvard Graduates’ Magazine 20 (1911–12): 422–32 (64 men); Henry N. Blake, “Addenda to the Civil War Rolls: Confederates Who Fell in the Civil War,” Harvard Graduates’ Magazine 21 (1912–13): 382 (four additions). 13. Helen P. Trimpi, Crimson Confederates: Harvard Men Who Fought for the South (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 2010), xvii–xviii. 14. Samuel Eliot Morison, Three Centuries of Harvard: 1636–1936, 1st ed. (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1936, 1964), 303–4. 15. “Appendix II,” Annual Report of the President of Harvard College, 1837– 74 (Cambridge, MA: John Wilson & Son, 1875), 146–47. 16. Gomes, “Civil Wars and Moral Ambiguity.” 17. Ibid. 18. Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., “Memorial Day: An Address Delivered on May 30, 1884, in Keene, NH, before John Sedgwick Post No. 4, Grand Army of the Republic,” in The Essential Holmes: Selections from the Letters, Speeches, Judicial Opinions, and Other Writings of Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., ed. Richard A. Posner (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 80–81. 19. Frederick Douglass, “The Unknown Loyal Dead,” Memorial Day address delivered on May  30, 1871 at Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia, in Frederick Douglass, Selected Speeches and Writings, ed. Philip S. Foner (Chicago: Lawrence Hill, 1999), 610. 20. Ibid., 609–10. 21. Gomes, “Civil Wars and Moral Ambiguity.” 22. Robert Lowell, “For the Union Dead,” Collected Poems, eds. Frank Bidart and David Gewanter, with the assistance of DeSales Harrison (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux; London: Faber and Faber, 2003), 377. 23. Proclamation 157, August 20, 1866—Declaring that Peace, Order, Tranquility, and Civil Authority Now Exists in and Throughout the Whole of the United States of America: The American Presidency Project, accessed June 1, 2018, 24. See the text of the speech by mayor of New Orleans, Mitch Landrieu, delivered at Gallier Hall, New Orleans, March 19, 2017: Times-Picayune, May  22, 2017, accessed June  1, 2018, ssf/2017/05/mayor_landrieu_speech_confeder.html. 25. I repeat this claim from Ivan Gaskell, “Historical Distance, Historical Judgment,” in Rethinking Historical Distance, eds. Mark Salber Phillips, Barbara Caine and Julia Adeney Thomas (New York and London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 34. 26. My interest in Memorial Hall arose as a result of surveying its contents with the then curator of the Harvard University Portrait Collection, Sandra Grindlay in 1992. I have learned a great deal from conversations with Civil War scholars, notably Drew Gilpin Faust, and from the students in my Bard Graduate Center seminar, The American Civil War. I  also had the pleasure of enjoying several conversations with Peter J. Gomes. My annual residence as permanent senior fellow at the Institute for Advanced Study in the Humanities and Social Sciences (Lichtenberg-Kolleg) of the Georg-August University, Göttingen, afforded me the opportunity to complete this chapter. I should like to thank the director, Martin van Gelderen, the executive director, Dominik Hünniger, and their colleagues for their long-term support.

23 Ruins and Debris Cultural Heritage Practice, Resource Management, and Archaeology Robin Coningham and Kai Weise

The recent destruction of a number of UNESCO World Heritage sites around the globe, through human and natural agencies, has led to the creation of protocols with respect to planning and disaster preparedness as well as the mobilization of teams drawn from the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS), International Scientific Committee on Risk Preparedness (ICCORP), United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) and other international bodies. While many aspects of preparedness protocols cover planned responses to disasters and damage, the treatment of debris, waste and resultant ruins is less well defined. For example, while many retrieved fragments from the Bamiyan Buddhas in Afghanistan have been painstakingly recorded, scanned and consolidated in advance of potential reconstruction, the mudbrick debris from the Citadel of Bam after the earthquake was simply removed and dumped. Similarly, in the aftermath of Nepal’s 2015 Gorkha Earthquake, advice was issued to UNDP recovery teams to ensure the safe curation of coins, sculpture and carved timber elements from collapsed historic structures, but there were many cases of medieval tile and bricks being treated as waste and dumped alongside materials from modern buildings. Here we evaluate some of the differing classifications and treatment of debris, waste, ruins and cultural heritage from both human and natural disasters ranging from bombing to floods, tsunamis and earthquakes. Drawing from personal experience and expertise, we reference examples from Southern Asia.

The Destruction of Heritage Sites in Southern Asia While the destruction of heritage sites and monuments in the Middle East and North Africa has been heavily publicized following the attacks on Timbuktu in Mali in 2012 and Palmyra in Syria in 2015, one of the first World Heritage sites to be targeted during modern conflict was Isfahan’s Meidan Emam, which was hit by Iraqi rockets during the Iran-Iraq War in 1984. This was followed by an attack on the Sacred

276  Robin Coningham and Kai Weise Bodhi Tree shrine in Anuradhapura’s World Heritage site in 1985 by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Elam (LTTE), which left 146 dead.1 The LTTE followed this with the bombing of the World Heritage listed Temple of the Buddha’s Tooth in the Sri Lankan city of Kandy in 1998 (Figure 23.1).

Figure 23.1 The Temple of the Buddha’s Tooth in the Sri Lankan city of Kandy after its bombing in 1998 Source: Photo Coningham

Ruins and Debris 277 Since then there have been numerous examples of the destruction of heritage, including the blowing up of the Bamiyan Buddhas in Afghanistan by the Taliban in 2001 and the bombing of Bodhgaya in India in 2013, the looting of Afghanistan’s National Museum in Kabul in the 1990s and the destruction of Buddhist sculptures in the National Museum in Male in the Maldives in 2012.2 Looting also contributes significantly to destruction, and surveys have concluded that almost 50% of known Buddhist monuments in the Charsadda District in Pakistan’s Vale of Peshawar have been looted; a similar proportion of monastic monuments have been identified in Sri Lanka’s North Central Province.3 Less widely reported are lower levels of damage from infrastructure development, such as the construction of a football stadium on top of the Bhir Mound in Pakistan in 1999, and the destruction of two of the medieval hydraulic reservoirs for the Shalimar Gardens in Pakistan, part of Lahore’s UNESCO World Heritage site.4 Other well publicized cases of destruction are the result of natural disasters, such as earthquakes, floods and tsunamis, several of which are discussed in what follows.

Disaster Planning and Preparedness In response to the millions of cubic tonnes of debris and waste created by natural and human-made disasters, the UNDP created protocols to guide risk planning and disaster preparedness and to prepare key teams for mobilization. The 35-page Technical Guidance Note, Debris Management: Crisis Prevention and Recovery (2013), is intended to provide “practical advice to United Nations Development Programme Country Offices on how to plan, design and implement a short-term project that swiftly links governments and communities in the assessment, clearance, recycling and management of debris following a significant national catastrophe.”5 The Note observes that “crisis-generated debris” can “seriously hamper economic and social recovery” but that UNDP could assist “the development of sustainable and culturally-appropriate solutions”; indeed, UNDP refers in the Note to debris management as one of its “Signature Product(s).6 It also provides useful definitions, with “debris” comprising “a mixture of building waste and rubble typically arising from damaged buildings and their demolition” and “disaster waste” being “all solid and liquid waste generated from a disaster, not limited to debris”; while “debris removal” is “an immediate after-crises humanitarian activity” and “debris management” is “a medium to long term activity focused on development.”7 Naturally, the Note referenced other documents such as the Removal of Solid Waste: Disaster Management Guidelines produced by the Emergency Preparedness Section of the United Nations’ Office.8 While national signatories of UNESCO’s World Heritage List had already been encouraged in 2007 to integrate heritage concerns into national disaster reduction policies, and incorporate

278  Robin Coningham and Kai Weise concern for disaster reduction within management plans and systems for World Heritage properties in their territories,9 it is concerning to note in the context of the present chapter that the UNDP and UNO protocols did not refer to debris or waste from historic infrastructure and monuments.

Human-Made Heritage Disasters Although it was only inscribed on UNESCO’s list of World Heritage sites in 2003 after the destruction of its famous two standing Buddhas by the Taliban in 2001, Bamiyan still represents a key case-study. As well recorded elsewhere, the two Buddhas represented some of the largest images within the ancient world10 (see Figure  18.1). Carved from the cliff, and partly built up with stucco on a peg and rope framework, the 53 and 35 meter high monuments were probably constructed between the fifth and seventh centuries ce.11 Mined and shelled, both images were largely destroyed but members of ICOMOS (Germany) collected some 10,000 fragments between 2004 and 2008.12 Meticulously recorded, several hundred were analyzed to identify the wood species of the pegs and the plant species from the stucco as well as identifying pigments. This detailed research, accompanied by scanning and consolidation, led the project’s director to consider anastylosis and make use of the “heaps of fragments, themselves depressing witnesses of the destructive frenzy of the Taliban” so that they could be “protected, salvaged layer by layer and assigned to the various parts of the statues.”13 Despite this effort and the expenditure of millions of dollars, the debate as to how best to present the site, whether as empty niches or anastylosized profiles, remains unresolved. Similar fragment-by-in-situ-fragment collection of artifacts was undertaken after the bombing of the Temple of the Buddha’s Tooth in Kandy following the detonation of a bomb outside the World Heritage premises in 1998.14 Professor Weerasinghe, head of conservation team, carefully collected most of the fragments of painted plaster, and while many experts recommended that missing portions be filled and inpainted to function as visible testament to the damage, the incumbents requested that they were presented complete.15 This apparent conflict between conservation norms and the expectations of custodians may be explained more fully with reference to Weerasinghe’s own observations that there are three tangible domains which preserve and convey authenticity in Buddhist heritage: “The space of a Buddhist heritage must be able to accommodate the Buddhist rituals; the form of a Buddhist heritage must be able to embody the ritual and liturgical values of the heritage; and the sight of a heritage should be able to visually convey the meanings and values of the heritage.”16 It is notable that reference to such values is absent from overarching UNDP and UNO debris and waste removal and disposal protocols.

Ruins and Debris 279

Natural Heritage Disasters In comparison with the research focused on what Petzet has referred to as the “the special role of the fragment” at Bamiyan, heritage material from natural disasters appears to have very different treatment.17 For example, when the historic mudbrick citadel and walled city of Bam in Iran was struck by an earthquake in 2003, the disaster resulted in deaths of more than 26,000 people. Experts reported that almost every building within the town had been damaged, but the rescue effort focused on moving the mudbrick debris outside the monument without any in situ recording. Some observers commented that research was still needed on both the debris and resultant ruins because, as Langenbach suggested, “By understanding the collapse mechanisms in the Arg, one can go beyond the level of blaming construction material for the poor performance of construction systems.”18 This point was also made in ICOMOS’ review of the nomination of the damaged site into the World Heritage List, when they noted that “Another question is the removal of debris. This will be a long process as the debris also contains archaeological and technical information.”19 This apparent neglect was also the case for many of the archaeological, heritage and cultural sites and monuments directly affected by the 2005 Indian Ocean Tsunami, which killed over 30,000 people and left thousands homeless in Sri Lanka. The impact was widespread along Sri Lanka’s coasts, and the first steps towards quantifying its effect comprised emergency regional surveys. The surveys assessed over a hundred protected sites and monuments, places of religious and cultural significance and areas of scenic and recreational value.20 During the assessments, practitioners reported that heritage sites had suffered from further destruction after the disaster, notably due to “hasty decisions [and] haphazard renovation of some of the cultural properties” with little evidence of research and recording.21

Kathmandu and the 2015 Gorkha Earthquake The 2015 Gorkha Earthquake was a humanitarian disaster, devastating large areas of Nepal with significant loss of life and livelihoods. It was also a cultural catastrophe, destroying monuments throughout Nepal and substantially damaging structures within the Kathmandu Valley’s UNESCO World Heritage site, with thirty-three collapsing or suffering severe damage and the remaining 111 partial damage.22 The responsible authority, the Government’s Department of Archaeology, immediately took action to rescue moveable art objects, architectural components and other cultural assets of the affected monuments. These cultural objects were selected, collected and moved to storage locations to protect them from theft and vandalism. An Earthquake Response Coordination Office (ERCO) was established at the Department of Archaeology with financial

280  Robin Coningham and Kai Weise support from UNESCO and technical support from ICOMOS (Nepal). It coordinated information on damage assessments and planned response procedures, including the salvage and storage of key construction materials. Likewise, consultation with concerned agencies and scholars allowed a better understanding of loss and damage at individual sites. Help was provided by the Nepal Army, Armed Police Force, Nepal Police, local people and volunteers from different countries, to rescue art objects and architectural components from the piles of debris around the heritage sites. Many security agencies were deputed around affected areas to protect cultural properties during the rescue phase. The Government of Nepal also formed a Disaster Management Committee to coordinate responses after the disaster and allocated funds for disaster management, and the Department of Archaeology prepared a list of affected monuments in the first month and started to plan for the reconstruction, conservation and rehabilitation of monuments. These actions were specifically focused on moveable objects and carved stone and timber structural members, and advice was issued to UNDP recovery teams by a UNESCO Consultant to ensure the safe curation of coins, sculpture and carved timber elements from collapsed historic structures. In contrast, very different treatment was offered to the brick and tile from Kathmandu’s historic infrastructure with a tragic impact on the remains of monuments. Because those remains were reclassified as debris, first responders cleared streets and monuments with bulldozers and excavators, and historic material was mixed with modern debris and dumped (Figure 23.2). This resulted in the loss of tens of thousands of reusable historic bricks (which cost £1.31 each to replicate) in addition to the environmental impact of firing replacement bricks. A  second cultural disaster threatened as the ruins of structures and their foundations were subject to unscientific exploration and clearing by architects and engineers. This non-emergency phase included the unrecorded digging through foundation platforms of the Char Narayan Temple in Patan. It is apparent that this historic monument was damaged during this process, and that no attempt was made to record the archaeological materials recovered and no sieving of the extracted soils.23 Furthermore, between the submission of recommendations to avoid such unnecessary cultural damage to UNESCO and the Department of Archaeology in December 2015, and a site visit to Patan in May 2016, we noted that the foundations of the Mani Mandapa had been unscientifically dug into.24 A later visit in February 2017 confirmed the sad fact that its entire in situ foundations had been dug out without archaeological recording. In direct contravention of the Department of Archaeology’s Conservation Guidelines for Post-2015 Earthquake Rehabilitation, these intrusive activities removed and dumped even materials that had survived the collapse of the monument during the 2015 Earthquake. Equally shockingly, the soil fills were

Ruins and Debris 281

Figure 23.2 Clearing the rubble from the ruins of the Kasthamandap in the Kathmandu Valley after the 2015 Gorkha earthquake Source: Photo Weise

termed “trash” by the architects leading the rehabilitation program.25 This action led to the complete loss of its archaeological sequence, and there is an urgent need to protect other collapsed monuments and their foundations, as well as the subsurface heritage of Patan’s Durbar Square, from unchecked and unrecorded intervention, as we now understand that many of these monuments contain the hitherto unrecorded history of structural adaptation to a region with regular seismic shocks, information which can assist in the process of reconstruction.26

Learning From the 2015 Gorkha Earthquake Perhaps part of this neglect of the in situ sequences of Kathmandu reflected the advice issued to UNDP recovery teams to ensure the safe curation of coins, sculpture and carved timber elements from collapsed historic structures, leaving such teams to consider the tile and bricks from monumental ensembles as common debris. Certainly, when we were able to discuss the emergency situation with first responders, none of the officers had been offered training in the treatment of heritage monuments or heritage debris, having only been instructed about museum objects. In order

282  Robin Coningham and Kai Weise to address these lacunae, Durham’s UNESCO Chair, the Pashupati Area Development Trust, and the Department of Archaeology co-­organized a live training exercise within the Pashupati to pilot post-disaster heritage recovery methodologies in 2016.27 We began by selecting a monument, the Guruju Sattal, which had been demolished during the emergency phase due to its dangerous state. As there was clearly a tension between archaeological approaches and post-disaster necessity, we aimed to try out a method which could be quickly implemented, would not delay the recovery of those trapped, and could be implemented by those without specialized equipment or training. Our first step was to measure the rubble spread and grid it into numbered squares to ensure that all debris removed could be linked to a particular location. We then created a duplicate grid near the site so that we could bag debris from the site and swiftly remove it before sorting. Photographs of each grid were taken on personal mobile telephones with a shovel as scale. Debris was then removed from each square to expose the floor levels below and sacks were numbered with the square number for speed and then removed to the duplicate grid. Once time allowed, the sacks were sorted, and moveable antiquities and fragments of sculpture were given unique special find numbers before being removed to locked storage. Undamaged brick and tile were separated for reuse. Our participants uploaded their photographs and records to a closed Facebook group, allowing other members to access material uploaded and participate in nightly discussions and communication during the live exercise.28

From Lessons Learned to Action While many of the lessons learned were being discussed and digested, some personnel experienced in the 2015 Gorkha Earthquake were mobilized for the 2016 Chauk Earthquake, which hit Myanmar and badly affected the historic city of Bagan. Bagan, and its significant cultural landscape of over 3,000 monuments, is situated along the Ayeyarwaddy River and flourished between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries.29 The emergency response included the preparation of a rapid damage assessment form, which evaluated damage caused by the earthquake as well as the impact of previous interventions, including the use of concrete and steel supports. For salvaging and storage of displaced artifacts, ICCROM gave a week’s training to government staff and local volunteers. While attempts were made to develop a grid pattern like that developed and piloted in Kathmandu, we found control of many hundreds of pious volunteers proved extremely challenging. Here, the intangible value of monuments, and their meaning to volunteers, conflicted with the attempt to systematically clear the site, resulting in mixing. A more successful application of the pilot was made in Sri Lanka, where many of the historic standing remains within Jaffna Fort suffered substantial damage during

Ruins and Debris 283 the civil war and, as conservation and reconstruction programs were being developed, there was a need to co-produce methods for recording cultural debris before it was removed. Building on our earlier post-earthquake research in the Kathmandu valley, we piloted a methodology for post-disaster excavations in the ruins of the Kruys Kerk in the fort. Built by the Dutch in 1706, the church was mined and destroyed during the conflict, and its ruined walls lay hidden below large blocks of masonry and rubble spreads. We started by gridding the northeast corner of the monument and removed the cultural rubble from each square and placed it within a corresponding square within a replicated grid outside (Figure 23.3). This allowed rapid removal of material while ensuring spatial control. Construction materials from each square were counted, weighed, and sorted for reuse. This was particularly pertinent as many of the original materials are non-renewable: coral blocks are illegal to procure under national legislation, and eighteenth-century Dutch bricks are no longer available in bulk. In the process, we recovered and catalogued fragments of sculpture and portable antiquities, which helped provide information about the history of the Kerk. These included fragments of memorial slabs

Figure 23.3 Personnel from the University of Jaffna and Central Cultural Fund of Sri Lanka clearing the rubble from the ruins of the Kruys Kerk in Jaffna Fort Source: Photo Coningham

284  Robin Coningham and Kai Weise from the walls, which are now being reconstructed to provide information on individuals who were interred or commemorated within. The removal also allowed the investigation and evaluation of the Kerk’s foundations, which is of critical importance to understand the residual strength of loadbearing walls in advance of conservation. Our exposure of the foundations revealed the presence of cracks throughout the foundations. As we also revealed Dutch period buttressing, we concluded that many cracks were already present in antiquity. These provisional findings are assisting the development of plans for the conservation and restoration of the monument as well as providing a methodology for the future clearing of the rest of the Kerk and other damaged monuments across the site.

Heritage or Debris? There are, of course, many other examples of conflict-damaged heritage being rebuilt, such as the sixteenth-century Stari Most bridge across the Neretva River at Mostar, which was rebuilt and inaugurated in 2004 following its targeted destruction during the fragmentation of Yugoslavia in 1993.30 Similarly, the Public Library in Jaffna, which was burnt by a Sinhalese mob in 1981, was reconstructed towards the end of the Sri Lankan civil war. Some scholars have observed that the Library was such a potent symbol for their cause that the LTTE wanted to delay its rehabilitation.31 In this context, the deliberate stabilization and long term curation of conflict-damaged heritage in situ is a less common but not unknown feature. For example, the British chose to “freeze” the ruins of the Lucknow Residency as “a monument to the courage of its defenders” during the First Indian War of Independence in 1857.32 Later it was registered and protected as a monument by the Archaeological Survey of India, a status it still holds. More recent examples of “Dark Heritage” include war zone tourism in northern Sri Lanka at the end of the Civil War in 2009.33 Points of interest included the ruins of the water tower in Kilinochchi, felled by the LTTE when they lost control of the town in 2008 (Figure 23.4). The granite memorial erected next to it by the victors reads “This fallen tower was once the source of water—the fountain of life—for the people of Kilinochchi destroyed by LTTE terrorists. This is a monument to the futility of terror . . . We are free.” This memorial was itself demolished between July 2017 and July 2018 and the water tower cleared as a way of removing memories of the conflict. These dilemmas also exist in the nexus associated with the management of living monuments, where in Southeast Asian Buddhist cultures ruined religious monuments are often dug into by local communities to recover relics as “their value has little to do with their in situ context,”34 while others are rebuilt so that “the spatial landscape of Bagan . . . is now as it might have been in the late thirteenth century. But visually and . . . structurally, it seems as much an

Ruins and Debris 285

Figure 23.4 The felled water tower at Kilinochchi, since removed Source: Photo Coningham

idealized, pre-earthquake architectural impression as a reproduction, or a reconstruction, of thirteenth-century Bagan.”35

Prospect Building on interdisciplinary north-south partnerships within Kathmandu and the UK, with a British Academy Global Challenges Research Fund award from the Cities and Infrastructure Programme, we are now attempting to demonstrate the value of the scientific investigation of such ruins and rubble by integrating archaeology and geoarchaeology with 3D visualization and geotechnical and structural engineering. Our goal is to formulate a methodology to assess, evaluate and improve the seismic safety of historic urban infrastructure within Kathmandu’s World Heritage sites, reducing direct risk to life and livelihoods, while preserving Kathmandu’s authenticity and traditions. Continued rehabilitation work in Kathmandu, based on the experience gathered over the initial response phase, has also led to drafting a dismantling protocol to better understand building technology, materials, chronology and alterations, changes and additions, and particularly previous interventions to

286  Robin Coningham and Kai Weise structures. It is hoped that it will be possible to determine original structure, alterations over time, and the reasons for damage. Second, we hope that it will ensure that all materials are carefully removed to make certain that detailed documentation, assessment, and any further research can be carried out. To allow for the maximum reuse of original materials, care must be taken to remove, document and store materials in a manner that ensures appropriate reuse. Some elements with clear identity such as carved timber elements need to be placed back in their original location. Materials such as bricks, roof tiles, and earth will be reused as per the original design but not necessarily in their exact original position. This process needs to be linked to a broader understanding of material management that is closely linked to the mutually agreed conservation approach.36 As part of this process, it has taken three years for the government of Nepal and community members to come to terms with the collapse of the Kasthamandap, the oldest and possibly most iconic monument in Kathmandu. Information on the monument’s significance to the communities and various religious groups was collected, and when it came to the actual restoration work, great efforts were made to ensure that as much of the remaining materials could be reused as possible, including the salvaged timber elements that had survived and had been stored away safely in the nearly palace courtyards. The remaining mound of the collapsed structure was carefully cleared and bricks from various periods separated along with stone elements. The soil fills were sieved for artifacts and stored for reuse, and only parts of the plinth and flooring that had been reconstructed in cement mortar were removed from site and disposed as debris (Figure 23.5). Certain timber elements that were over a thousand years old had lost their material integrity and needed to be replaced (Figure 23.6). Many of these original elements that are not reused will be presented as museum objects, providing them the dignity that they deserve. While these advances were specially developed within Kathmandu, many of the lessons learned were integrated into the 2018 Handbook and Toolkit First Aid to Cultural Heritage in Times of Crisis.37 It provides an overview of how to deal with tangible and intangible cultural heritage during the post-disaster response phase. The content is based on the various short training courses carried out by ICCROM during recent postdisaster circumstances such as in Haiti, Kathmandu, and Bagan. The generic approach provided is a highly transferable resource to develop training to achieve a far greater overall understanding of concerns when dealing with cultural heritage immediately after a disaster. The difficulties in adapting these procedures to the specific post-disaster circumstance while dealing with trauma, frantic reactions and chaotic rule of law must however be noted. In this light, we can finally return to one of Elzanowski’s observations: “destroyed architecture remains culturally valuable”

Figure 23.5 The ruins of the Kasthamandap following its scientific investigation prior to reconstruction Source: Photo Coningham

Figure 23.6 Master craftsman Laxmi Prasad Shilpakar carving replacement timber elements for rebuilding the Kasthamandap Source: Photo Coningham

288  Robin Coningham and Kai Weise but it “can be transformative to culture beyond the context of its initial construction and the process of its subsequent destruction.”38 The challenge still remains how to ensure that such a perspective can be reached before the pressures that accompany a disaster come into play.

Notes 1. R.A.E. Coningham and N. Lewer, “Paradise Lost: The Bombing of the Temple of the Tooth—A UNESCO World Heritage Site in South Asia,” Antiquity 73 (1999): 857–66. 2. R.A.E. Coningham and R. L. Young, The Archaeology of South Asia: From the Indus to Asoka c.6500 bce–200 ce (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015). 3. R.A.E. Coningham and P. Gunawardhana, “Looting or Rededication? Buddhism and the Expropriation of Relics,” in Appropriating the Past: Philosophical Perspectives on the Practice of Archaeology, eds. G. Scarre and R.A.E. Coningham (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 281–94. 4. R.A.E. Coningham and N. Lewer, “Communities, Identities, Conflict and Appropriation in South Asia,” in Archaeology, Cultural Heritage Protection and Community Engagement in South Asia, eds. R.A.E. Coningham and­ N. Lewer (London: Pivot Palgrave, 2019), 151–164. 5. United Nations Development Programme, Guidance Note Debris Management: Crisis Prevention and Recovery (New York: UNDP, 2013), 3. 6. Ibid., 4. 7. Ibid., 6. 8. United Nations Office, Disaster Waste Management Guidelines (Geneva: Emergency Preparedness Section, 2011). 9. United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), Strategy for Risk Reduction at World Heritage Properties (WHC6/30.COM/7.2) (Paris: UNESCO, 2007). 10. Z. Tarzi, L’architecture et le décor rupestre des grottes de Bamiyan (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1977). 11. C. Blansdorf, M-J. Nadeau, P. M. Grootes, M. Huls and L. Thiemann, “Dating the Buddha Statues: AMS C14 Dating of Organic Materials,” in The Giant Buddhas of Bamiyan: Safeguarding the Remains, ed. M. Petzet (Berlin: ICOMOS, 2009), 231–36. 12. C. Blansdorf, “The Technische Universitat Munchen Research Project on fragments of the giant Buddhas of Bamiyan,” in The Giant Buddhas of Bamiyan, 197–200. 13. M. Petzet, “Anastylosis or Reconstruction: Considerations on a Conservation Concept for the Remains of the Buddhas of Bamiyan,” in The Giant Buddhas of Bamiyan, 46–51, 46. 14. Coningham and Lewer 1999, “Paradise Lost,” 857. 15. G. Wijesuriya, “Conserving the Temple of the Tooth Relic, Sri Lanka,” Public Archaeology 1 (2000): 99–108. 16. J. Weerasinghe, “The Relevance of Authenticity in Conserving Buddhist Heritage,” in Asian Buddhist Heritage: Conserving the Sacred, eds. G. Wijesuriya and L. Sujeong (Rome: ICROM, 2013), 63–69, 65. 17. Petzet, “Anastylosis or Reconstruction,” 47. 18. R. Langenbach, “Performance of the Earthen Arg-e-Bam (Bam Citadel) During the 2003 Bam, Iran, Earthquake,” Earthquake Spectra 21, no. S1 (2005): 345–74, 351, 372.

Ruins and Debris 289 19. ICOMOS, Bam Citadel (Iran). Report No. 1208 (Paris: ICOMOS, 2004), 30. 20. P. Pushparatnam, Preliminary Survey of Tsunami-Affected Monuments and Sites in the Maritime Region of Sri Lanka: The Northern Maritime Region: From Tiriyaya to Jaffna (Colombo: ICOMOS (Sri Lanka), 2005); P. Gunawardhana, Preliminary Survey of Tsunami-Affected Monuments and Sites in the Maritime Region of Sri Lanka: The Western Maritime Region from the Kalu Ganga to the Daduru Oya (Colombo: ICOMOS (Sri Lanka), 2005); R. M. Jayasena and K. Spijker, Preliminary Survey of Tsunami-Affected Monuments and Sites in the Maritime Region of Sri Lanka: An Archaeological Survey of Tsunami-Affected Historic Structures in the Municipality of Galle, Sri Lanka (Colombo: ICOMOS (Sri Lanka), 2005). 21. Pali Wijeratne, “Post-Tsunami Redevelopment and the Cultural Sites of the Maritime Provinces,” in Cultural Heritage and Natural Disasters Risk Preparedness and the Limits of Prevention, eds. H. R. Meier, M. Petzet and T. Will (München: ICOMOS (Germany), 2007), 101–8, 106. 22. R.A.E. Coningham, K. P. Acharya, C. E. Davis, K. Weise, R. B. Kunwar and I. A. Simpson, “Look Down, Not Up: Protecting the Post-Disaster Subsurface Heritage of the Kathmandu Valley’s UNESCO World Heritage Site,” in Evolving Narratives of Hazard and Risk: The Gorkha Earthquake, Nepal, 2015, eds. L. A. Bracken, H. Ruszczyk and T. Robinson (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 159–81. 23. R.A.E. Coningham, K. P. Acharya, C. E. Davis, R. B. Kunwar, J. C. Tremblay, A. Schmidt, I. Simpson and A. LaFortune-Bernard, “Post-Disaster Rescue Archaeological Investigations, Evaluations and Interpretations in the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Property (Nepal): Observations and Recommendations from a UNESCO Mission in 2015,” Ancient Nepal 191–192 (2016): 72–92. 24. R.A.E. Coningham, K. P. Acharya, C. E. Davis, R. B. Kunwar, A. LafortuneBernard, J. C. Tremblay, A. Schmidt and I. Simpson, Post-Disaster Urban Archaeological Investigation, Evaluation and Interpretation in the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage Property: Report and Recommendations of a Mission Conducted Between 5/10/2015 and 22/11/2015. Report for UNESCO Kathmandu Office and Department of Archaeology, Government of Nepal (2015). 25. KVPT, The Progress Report of Rebuilding of Manimandapa Pati South at Patan Durbar Square (Kathmandu: Kathmandu Valley Preservation Trust, 2016), 7. 26. Coningham, et al., “Look Down, Not Up.” 27. Ibid. 28. Ibid. 29. P. Pichard, Inventory of Monuments at Pagan: Volumes 1–8 (UNESCO: Paris, 1992–2002). 30. M. Armaly, C. Blasi and L. Hannah, “Stari Most: Rebuilding More Than a Historic Bridge in Mostar,” Museum International 56, no. 4 (2004): 6–17, 7. 31. E. Gerharz, The Politics of Reconstruction and Development in Sri Lanka: Transnational Commitments to Social Change (London: Routledge, 2014), 43. 32. R. Llewellyn-Jones, Lucknow: City of Illusion (New York: Prestel, 2006), 188. 33. S. Perera, Warzone Tourism in Sri Lanka: Tales from Darker Places in Paradise (New Delhi: Sage, 2016). 34. D. Byrne, “Buddhist Stupa and Thai Social Practice,” World Archaeology 27, no. 2 (1995): 266–81, 275. 35. B. Hudson, “Restoration and Reconstruction of Monuments at Bagan (Pagan), Myanmar (Burma), 1995–2008,” World Archaeology 40, no. 4 (2008): 553–71, 567.

290  Robin Coningham and Kai Weise 36. Our own contemporary context is not novel. Jerzy Elzanowski has provided a harrowing account of the process by which architects and town planners evaluated Warsaw’s topography of ruins after 1945. During this process “The ruin, termed rubble, was no longer regarded as architecture or private property; denied form and place, it became ore—a raw material ready to be mined and converted into practical construction units.” J. Elzanowski, “Ruins, Rubble and Human Remains: Negotiating Culture and Violence in Post-Catastrophic Warsaw,” Public Art Dialogue 2, no. 2 (2012): 114–46, 119. For further discussion of the rebuilding of Warsaw, see Derek Matravers, “The Reconstruction of Damaged or Destroyed Heritage,” this volume Chapter 16. 37. ICCROM and Prince Claus Fund, First Aid to Cultural Heritage in Times of Crisis: Handbook for Coordinated Emergency Preparedness and Response to Secure Tangible and Intangible Heritage (Rome: ICROM and Amsterdam: The Prince Claus Fund for Culture and Development, 2018). 38. Elzanowski, “Ruins, Rubble and Human Remains,” 117.

Editors and Contributors

The Editors Jeanette Bicknell is an independent scholar based in Toronto, Canada. She is the author of Why Music Moves Us (2009), Philosophy of Song and Singing: An Introduction (2015), and was a guest editor and contributor to the “Symposium on Ruin and Absence” in the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism (2014). Jennifer Judkins (Music, UCLA) has twice served as Trustee for the American Society for Aesthetics. Recently, she authored two articles in the  Routledge Companion to Philosophy and Music  (2011), and was a guest editor and contributor to the “Symposium on Ruin and Absence” in the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism (2014). Carolyn Korsmeyer  is Research Professor of Philosophy at the University at Buffalo. Among her books are  Things: In Touch with the Past  (2019);  Savoring Disgust: The Foul and the Fair in Aesthetics 2011); Gender and Aesthetics (2004); and Making Sense of Taste: Food and Philosophy (1999). She has edited or co-edited seven anthologies on subjects ranging from taste and food; feminist perspectives in aesthetics; philosophy and literature; and philosophy of art.

The Contributors Noël Carroll is Distinguished Professor of Philosophy at the Graduate Center of CUNY. He has written over fifteen books, including Art in Three Dimensions (2010), Living in an Artworld (2012), and Humour: A Very Short Introduction (2014). Robin Coningham holds Durham University’s UNESCO Chair on Archaeological Ethics and Practice in Cultural Heritage. He works extensively across South Asia and co-directs UNESCO’s excavations in the Buddha’s Natal landscape in Nepal, as well as post-disaster fieldwork in Kathmandu and Jaffna. He published Appropriating the Past

292  Editors and Contributors with Geoffrey Scarre in 2013; The Archaeology of South Asia with Ruth Young in 2015; and Archaeology, Cultural Heritage Protection and Community Engagement in South Asia with Nick Lewer in 2019. Renee M. Conroy  is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Purdue University Northwest and a  Fulbright Scholar. Her work focuses on issues in the aesthetics of nature and the philosophy of dance, and has been published in the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism; Ethics, Place  and Environment;  The Continuum  Companion to Aesthetics; and multiple anthologies. Susan L. Feagin is Visiting Research Professor (retired) at Temple University and the author of Reading with Feeling (1996) and numerous articles in aesthetics. She is president of the American Society for Aesthetics 2019–2020, was 2016 Wollheim Lecturer at the British Society of Aesthetics, and is a former editor of the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism. She currently writes primarily on philosophy of theater. Saul Fisher is Associate Provost for Research, Grants, and Academic Initiatives and Visiting Associate Professor of Philosophy at Mercy College in New York. His work in philosophical aesthetics is centered on architecture, for which he was awarded a Graham Foundation grant (2009), and which includes the  Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy article on philosophy of architecture (2015). Ivan Gaskell is Professor of Cultural History and Museum Studies at Bard Graduate Center, New York City. His work addresses intersections among history, art history, anthropology, and philosophy. He is the author, coauthor, or editor of thirteen books, most recently Tangible Things: Making History through Objects (2015). He is a Permanent Senior Fellow of the Institute of Advanced Study, Georg-August University, Göttingen. Susan Herrington is a landscape architect and Professor in the School of Architecture and Landscape Architecture at the University of British Columbia. She is the author of On Landscapes (2009), Cornelia Hahn Oberlander: Making the Modern Landscape (2013), and Landscape Theory in Design (2017). She is currently writing a book with Marc Treib entitled Serious Fun: The Landscapes of Claude Cormier. Kathleen Higgins is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Texas. She specializes in aesthetics, continental philosophy, and philosophy of emotion. She is author of several books, including  The Music of Our Lives (rev. 2011) and The Music between Us (2012). Her current research focuses on the aesthetics of loss and mourning. She has served as president of the American Society for Aesthetics. James Janowski is Elliott Professor of Philosophy at Hampden-Sydney College. His publications focus on compromised artifacts—and,

Editors and Contributors 293 more particularly, on heritage objects and sites that have been deliberately damaged or destroyed. He is especially interested in the metaphysical and moral questions surrounding the restoration or reconstruction of such artifacts. Janowski’s work on Bamiyan’s Buddhas and other compromised heritage objects has taken him to Bhutan, Brazil, Canada, Croatia, Germany, Japan, and the Netherlands. Deborah Knight is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Queen’s University, Kingston, Canada. She specializes in the philosophy of art, in particular, the philosophies of film and literature. She has published on topics including sentimentality, authors’ intentions, and aesthetics and cultural studies, as well as on filmmakers ranging from Hitchcock, Welles, and Scorsese to Tim Burton, Clint Eastwood, and Christopher Nolan. Peter Lamarque is Professor of Philosophy at the University of York and was formerly editor of the British Journal of Aesthetics. His books include Truth, Fiction, and Literature with Stein Haugom Olsen (1994), Fictional Points of View (1996), The Philosophy of Literature (2009), Work and Object: Explorations in the Metaphysics of Art (2010), and The Opacity of Narrative (2014). Dominic McIver Lopes, FRSC teaches philosophy at the University of British Columbia and is the author of Understanding Pictures (1996), Sight and Sensibility: Evaluating Pictures (2005), A Philosophy of Computer Art (2010), Beyond Art (2014), Four Arts of Photography (2016), and articles in journals including Mind, the Journal of Philosophy, and Critical Inquiry. His most recent book is Being for Beauty: Aesthetic Agency and Value (2018), and he is now working on a book entitled Cosmopolitan Aesthetics. Derek Matravers is Professor of Philosophy at the Open University and a Senior Member of Darwin College, Cambridge. His recent work includes Introducing Philosophy of Art: Eight Case Studies (2013); Fiction and Narrative (2014); and Empathy (2017). He is the author of Art and Emotion (1998) as well as numerous articles in aesthetics, ethics, and the philosophy of mind. His directs, with Helen Frowe, the AHRC-funded project, Heritage in War. Erich Hatala Matthes is Associate Professor of Philosophy and Advisory Faculty for Environmental Studies at Wellesley College. His research concerns moral, political, and aesthetic issues surrounding art, cultural heritage, and the environment. He has published papers on a range of topics in these areas, including on cultural appropriation, cultural property, the value of history and heritage, and the ethics of historic preservation.

294  Editors and Contributors Ronald Moore  is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at the University of Washington. He is the author of Legal Norms and Legal Science (1978)  and  Natural Beauty (2007); co-author (with Margaret Pabst Battin, John Fisher, and Anita Silvers) of Puzzles about Art: An Aesthetics Casebook (1989); and editor of  Aesthetics for Young People (1994). Jeremy Page is a doctoral candidate in aesthetics at Uppsala University in Sweden and Editorial Assistant for the British Journal of Aesthetics. His primary research focus is the interaction between cognitive, ethical and aesthetic values in art. He also works on nineteenth-century German Philosophy and especially the work of Friedrich Nietzsche. Max Ryynänen is Senior Lecturer in Theory of Visual Culture and the head of the MA program Visual Culture, Curating, and Contemporary Art at Aalto University, Finland. He is currently the Chairman of the Finnish Society for Aesthetics and the Editor-in-Chief of Popular Inquiry: The Journal of the Aesthetics of Kitsch, Camp and Mass Culture. Yuriko Saito  is Professor Emerita of Philosophy at the Rhode Island School of Design and Editor of  Contemporary Aesthetics, an openaccess, peer-reviewed journal. She has published widely on everyday aesthetics, Japanese aesthetics, and environmental aesthetics. Her Everyday Aesthetics (2008) and Aesthetics of the Familiar: Everyday Life and World-Making (2017) were published by Oxford University Press. The latter was awarded the 2018 Outstanding Monograph Prize by the American Society for Aesthetics. Elizabeth Scarbrough earned her PhD from the University of Washington and is Lecturer in philosophy at Florida International University. Much of her research has focused on the beauty of architectural ruins, providing practical arguments for the preservation of immovable cultural heritage, and the ethics of tourism. She has published on these topics in the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, Journal of Applied Philosophy, Philosophers’ Magazine, and ARCADE. Geoffrey Scarre is Professor in the Philosophy Department at Durham University. His books include  Utilitarianism  (1996),  After Evil  (2004),  Death  (2007) and  On Courage  (2010), and he  has coedited three volumes on the ethics of archaeology and cultural heritage. In 2009 he was a co-founder, and he remains a director, of the Durham University Centre for the Ethics of Cultural Heritage (CECH). Elisabeth Schellekens is Chair Professor of Aesthetics in the Department of Philosophy at the University of Uppsala and Honorary Professor at the Durham University. She was Principal Investigator for a research project on the aesthetics and ethics of archaeology at Durham, and

Editors and Contributors 295 currently leads a research network at Uppsala on cultural heritage in peace and armed conflict. She is the author of Aesthetics and Morality  (2007) and  Who’s Afraid of Conceptual Art (2009, with Peter Goldie), and has published articles on aesthetic properties, the normativity of aesthetic judgment, Kant, aesthetic sensibility, empirical approaches to aesthetics, and the interaction of cognitive, moral and aesthetic value in art. Zoltán Somhegyi is a Hungarian art historian, holding a PhD in aesthetics, and is Assistant Professor at the College of Fine Arts and Design of the University of Sharjah, UAE. He specializes in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century art and theory and is interested in contemporary fine arts and art criticism. He is Secretary General and Website Editor of the International Association for Aesthetics and member of the Executive Committee of The International Council for Philosophy and Human Sciences. Kai Weise is a practicing Nepali architect and President of Nepal’s National Committee of ICOMOS. He has worked as a consultant for UNESCO since 2004 and has facilitated the establishment of management systems for World Heritage Sites in Kathmandu Valley and Lumbini in Nepal, Samarkand in Uzbekistan, Mountain Railways of India and Bagan in Myanmar. A  resident of Kathmandu, he was a member of the Government of Nepal’s Earthquake Response Coordination Office. James O. Young, FRSC is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Victoria. His books include Global Anti-realism (1995), Art and Knowledge  (2001),  Cultural Appropriation and the Arts  (2008), and Critique of Pure Music (2014). He has translated Batteux’s The Fine Arts Reduced to a Single Principle (2016) and edited Aesthetics: The Critical Concepts  (2005),  Semantics of Aesthetic Judgements  (2017) and (with Conrad Brunk)  The Ethics of Cultural Appropriation (2009).


Note: Page numbers in italic indicate an illustration on the corresponding page. Acharya, K. P. 289n22, 289n23, 289n24 Ackroyd, Peter 148, 150, 156n2, 156n5 aesthetic appreciation 37, 89, 95, 98, 245 – 8, 252n17; and history 248 – 9; and ruins 109 – 11, 116, 241 – 4; see also appreciative responsibility aesthetics 45, 54 – 6, 158 – 60, 163 – 4, 166 – 7, 201; see also aesthetic appreciation; aesthetic value; Kant, Immanuel aesthetic value 2, 12, 37, 42, 64, 90, 99, 101, 108 – 9, 118, 247, 253, 257 – 8; and atomic bomb ruins 204 – 5; of the Dome 206 – 8; and ruins of war 237; and Rust Belt ruins 123 Afghanistan 3, 161, 215 – 16, 215 – 16, 275 – 7 age value 108, 154, 168, 205, 243, 247 – 9; and reconstruction 194 – 6; and ruins of war 230, 237; and Rust Belt ruins 123 – 4 AIDS Memorial Quilt 1, 45, 47, 49 – 50, 50, 55 Alaska 33n10, 103 Allen, Woody 132n16 A1 Temple 228, 233 – 9, 234 – 5 Anderson, Elizabeth 177, 184n8 Anderson, Virginia 273n4 Angkor Wat 83 Appiah, Kwame Anthony 58, 65n2 appreciative responsibility 241, 250 – 1 archaeology 3, 84, 114, 169, 279 – 85; and atomic bomb ruins 206; and environmental heritage 179; and the

neo-picturesque 134 – 5, 142; and reconstruction 189; and ruins of war 228, 231 – 3, 236 – 8 Armaly, M. 289n30 art 3, 215, 241 – 3, 248, 257, 279 – 80; art nouveau 85; and atomic bomb ruins 212; and autonomy 63 – 5; emotion and 45 – 9; and environmental heritage 183; found art 109; and the layers in London 149 – 50, 152 – 3; and locution 24, 27; memorial art 45, 47 – 50, 52, 54 – 5, 142 – 5; and natural degradation 99 – 103; and ossuaries 68, 71; philosophy of 47, 54, 57, 63 – 5; public art 2; and ruins of war 235; and Rust Belt ruins 122, 126; and spectacle 73 – 7; and stone memorials 10, 13; and the UAE 172; and the values and depictions of ruins 84 – 5, 92, 94; and Venice 158 – 60; see also aesthetics; see also under churches artifacts 3 – 4, 244, 253, 256 – 60, 278, 282, 286; and atomic bomb ruins 207; and Bamiyan’s Buddhas 215, 219 – 20; and environmental heritage 179 – 80, 183; and the layers in London 149 – 54; life and death of 102 – 5; and Memorial Hall at Harvard University 271; and natural degradation 95; and ossuaries 69, 73; and ruins as architectural objects 108, 111, 116; and ruins of war 231 – 3; totem poles as 107n14; and the values and depictions of ruins 85

Index  297 Ashurst, John 230, 239n2, 239n4 atomic bomb ruins 201 – 2, 209 – 12; Genbaku Dome 202 – 9, 202 audience 21 – 6, 52 – 4, 126, 254 – 8 Austin, J.L. 21 – 3, 33n3 authenticity 108 – 9, 118, 168 – 70, 201, 230, 236; see also sham ruins autonomy of art 63 – 5 Bamiyan 3, 215 – 25, 215 – 16, 228, 239, 275 – 9; and anti-heritage 226n11; and value 226n14, 227n20 – 21 Bandarin, Francesco 228 Barker, Darren 171, 174n3 Beardsley, John 146n9, 251n2 Beardsley, Monroe C. 251n2 Bebelplatz see book-burning, memorial to (Bebelplatz) Beckstead, Zachary 44n20 Belgium 39 Berleant, Riva 9, 11, 12, 18n3, 19n13, 19n20 Berlin 205; Holocaust Memorial 25; Jewish Museum 51; see also book-burning, memorial to (Bebelplatz) Bermingham, Ann 146n3 Bicknell, Jeanette 1, 119n9, 119n11, 181, 185n27, 240n15, 253 Blake, Henry N. 266 – 8, 273n8, 274n12 Blansdorf, C. 288n11, 288n12 Blasi, C. 289n30 bones 67 – 77, 76 Boer War memorial 22, 27 – 8, 28, 31 book-burning, memorial to (Bebelplatz) 22, 30 – 2, 31 brick 202 – 4, 231 – 3, 265, 280 – 3, 286; see also Evergreen Brick Works Brighenti, Daniela 260n6 buildings, destroyed 83 – 4; see also ruins Burch-Brown, J. 199n8 Burke, Edmund 90, 218, 224 Burrell, Gibson 214n25 Byrne, Denis 169, 174n2 Calhoun, John 253 – 4, 258 – 9; see also Calhoun College Calhoun College 253 – 7 Cambodia 151, 233, 239n7; Angkor complex 99 – 100, 100; Memorial Stupa 75 – 7

Cameron, C. 198n1, 226n10 Canada 42, 102, 140, 210 Capuchin Cemetery 67 – 9, 72 – 3, 75 Carroll, Noël 44n10, 143, 144, 146n20 Casati, Roberto 224, 227n23 Castle Square 193 Catacombs of Paris 68, 78n23 catharsis 35, 37 – 8 Cathedral, Urakami 209, 209, 210, 211, 212, 214n28 Catholicism 25 – 6, 57 – 65, 68, 128, 209 – 10 Cemetery, Capuchin 67 – 9, 72 – 3, 75, 77n1 Cenotaph 38, 42, 48 – 9 Central Cultural Fund of Sri Lanka 283 Chauvet 194 churches 65n1, 85, 110, 124, 229, 283; and atomic bomb ruins 205 – 6, 209 – 11; church art 57 – 65; and images 66n6; Memorial Church at Harvard 268 – 73; and ossuaries 67, 72, 75; and Rust Belt ruins 126, 129; St. Cuthbert’s 27 – 8, 28 Churchill, Winston 42 Church of our Lady (Dresden) 85 Citadel of Bam 275 City United Methodist Church (Gary) 124 climate change 175 – 7, 179 – 82 cognitivism 241, 250 – 1 Cohen, G. A. 176, 184n3 Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome 9 – 13, 19n4 Cohen, Roger 239, 240n16 colonialism 190, 236 Colonnade de Carmontelle 111 Confederates 3, 178, 253, 262 – 3, 268 – 72 Coningham, R.A.E. 275, 288nn1 – 4, 288n14, 289nn22 – 4, 289n26 consent 2, 23, 69 – 70, 72, 78n15, 192 conservation 84 – 8, 168 – 71, 194 – 7, 278, 283 – 6; and ruins of war 228 – 31, 237 – 9 contemplation 45 – 7, 158 – 64, 249, 251n11 Cordovani, Rinaldo 78n19, 78n21 Crandell, Gina 145n2 Crawford, Donald 106n4, 122, 128, 131n4, 239n3 Cronon, William 185n15 cultural heritage 1, 3 – 4, 171, 215, 247; and cultural property 240n13;

298 Index and reconstruction 189 – 90, 194 – 5; and ruins of war 228, 237 – 8; and the values and depictions of ruins 85, 88; see also cultural heritage practice cultural heritage practice 275, 282 – 8; and the destruction of heritage sites 275 – 7; and disaster planning and preparedness 277 – 8; and the Gorkha Earthquake 279 – 82; and human-made heritage disasters 278; and natural heritage disasters 279 Dale, Karen 214n25 Dancy, Jonathan 260n7 Danto, Arthur C. 47, 49, 53, 56n4, 56n11, 74, 78n24, 79n26 Darke, Rick 146n13 Darley, Gillian 106n2 Darlington see Boer War Memorial Davies, David 251n3 Davies, Jon 33n6 Davis, C. E. 289nn22 – 4 Dawdy, Shannon Lee 180 – 1, 183, 185n24, 185n29, 186n37 debris 3, 67, 123, 149, 154, 275; and action 282 – 4; and the destruction of heritage sites 275 – 7, 276; and disaster planning and preparedness 277 – 8; and the Gorkha Earthquake 279 – 82, 281; and heritage 284 – 5; and human-made heritage disasters 278; and natural heritage disasters 279; prospect for 285 – 8 degradation, natural 95, 105 – 6, 122 – 3; anticipating ruin 95 – 98; destruction and change 98 – 102; and the life and death of artifacts 102 – 5 Denkmalarbeit 51 Descartes, René 77n8 DeSilvey, Caitlin 176, 180, 183, 184n2, 184n9, 185n18, 185n21, 185n34 despoliation 215, 218 – 25, 226n16, 227n17, 227n19 destruction 3 – 4, 83 – 8, 92 – 3, 95, 257 – 8, 275 – 9; and atomic bomb ruins 204 – 8, 211; and Bamiyan’s Buddhas 215 – 16, 216; and change 98 – 102; destruction value 219; and environmental heritage 177; and reconstruction 189; and ruins

of war 228, 233 – 4; and Rust Belt ruins 122 – 3 Detroitism 121, 124 – 9, 131 Dewey, John 158 – 9, 163, 165n20 Deweyism see Dewey, John Doig, Will 132n9 Dome, the see Genbaku (Atomic Bomb) Dome Donne, John 22 Douglass, Frederick 271, 274n19 Dryfhout, John H. 273n2 Duisburg Nord 133, 135 – 7, 136 – 7, 141 – 3 Eaton, Marcia Muelder 56n2 Ebara, Sumiko 212n4, 213n6 Elmore, Mark 18n2 El Mousfy, Mona 173, 174n5 Emerson, Edward Waldo 265, 273n5 emotion 39, 45 – 7, 54 – 5, 62, 88 – 93, 122 – 4; and atomic bomb ruins 205 – 6; and Bamiyan’s Buddhas 223 – 4; despoliation and 227n17; and environmental heritage 178 – 9; and Rust Belt ruins 129 – 31 England 83, 87 – 91, 95 – 7, 110, 126 – 7, 183, 196; see also London; Roman baths environmental heritage 175 – 84 ethics 2 – 4, 88, 129, 162, 258 – 9; and Memorial Hall at Harvard University 263, 269, 271 – 3; and ossuaries 67 – 77; and speech acts 33n3 Evans, Richard J. 33n5 Evergreen Brick Works 140 – 3, 140 – 1 exemplification 34 – 43, 105 extreme weather events 175 – 6 Faust, Drew Gilpin 273n1, 274n26 feminism 33n3, 291 Fisher, Saul 108, 119n10 forged metals 2 form 10, 168, 207, 229, 263, 290n36; and the neo-picturesque 135 – 6; and ruins as architectural objects 114 – 18; and the values and depictions of ruins 88 – 9 Forster, K. W. 118n1, 213n12, 227n18 France 37 – 9, 42 – 3, 77, 110; see also Paris Frauenkirche 4, 85 – 7, 237

Index  299 Frijda, Nico 16, 20n32 Frowe, Helen 199n10, 200n29 Gamboni, Dario 5n2, 260n5 Gandy, Joseph 91, 95 – 7, 96 Genbaku Dome (the Dome) 48 – 9, 55 – 6, 203 – 12, 202, 208, 213n10 Georgiou, Bob 146n16 Gerbino, Walter 119n12 Gere, Cathy 94n3 Germany 50 – 1, 85, 110, 135 – 7, 136 – 7, 268, 278; see also Berlin Ghirardo, D. 118n1, 213n12, 227n18 Gibson, James J. 11, 19n11 Ginsberg, Robert 5n3, 48, 56n6, 93n1, 119n3, 119n8, 128, 132n14, 239n3 Glover, Nicky 19 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 14, 19n25 Gomes, Peter J. 268 – 72, 274n11, 274n16, 274n21, 274n26 Goodman, Nelson 43n4, 68, 77n7 Gorkha Earthquake 275, 279 – 81, 281 Grand Tours 91, 96, 134, 157 – 8 grave markers 15, 18, 20n29, 32n2, 39, 67, 69 Greece 40, 49, 91, 93, 130, 134 grief 18, 24, 39, 45, 56 Grillparzer, Franz 159, 165n10 Griswold, Charles L. 37, 44n8 Grootes, P. M. 288n11 Gunawardhana, P. 288n3, 289n20 Hagens, Gunther von 78n10 Hammond, Mason 268, 273n9 Han, B. C. 199n16 Hannah, L. 289n30 Harrison, Rodney 184n10, 184n13 Harvard University 264; Memorial Hall 262 – 3, 265 – 73, 266 – 7, 274n26 Hegel, G.W.F. 14, 19n24, 159 Heidegger, Martin 206 heritage see cultural heritage; environmental heritage; heritage disasters; heritage sites heritage disasters 278 – 9 heritage sites 175, 178, 183, 221, 247; and the UAE 167, 169, 171; UNESCO Industrial Heritage Site 212n3; UNESCO World Heritage

sites 85 – 7, 202 – 3, 235, 241, 275 – 9, 285 Herrington, Susan 133, 145n1, 146n5 heteronomy 63 High Line 137 – 43, 138 – 9 Hiroshima 45, 201 – 2; see also Genbaku Dome; Hiroshima Peace Memorial Hiroshima Memorial Park 45 Hiroshima Peace Memorial 87, 202, 204 historical value 108, 112, 238, 243; and atomic bomb ruins 204 – 7, 212; and reconstruction 194, 196 – 7 Hodges, Almon D. 264 Hodges, George and William 264 – 5, 272 Holmes, Oliver Wendell 265, 271, 273n6, 274n18 Holtorf, Cornelius 179 Hooker, Brad 261n8 Hornsby, Jennifer 33n3 Hudson, B. 289n35 Hulatt, Owen 252n19 Huls, M. 288n11 Hume, David 197, 199n25, 221 – 2, 226n15, 227n17, 243, 251n11 Husserl, Edmund 165n11 Husukić, Erna 213, 214n26 Imperial War Graves Commission 36 – 40 inscription 16, 21, 40, 264, 269 International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) 189 – 90, 228 – 9, 275, 278 – 80 International Scientific Committee on Risk Preparedness (ICCORP) 275 Introna, Lucas D. 213n19, 214n22 Iseminger, Gary 66 Isherwood, Christopher 35, 43n2 ISIL 3, 228, 245, 247 Jackson, J.B. 205, 213n15 Jaffna Fort 282 – 4, 283 James, Henry 267, 273n10 James, Simon 244, 249, 251n12, 251 – 2n13 Jay, Martin 165n14 Johnson, Andrew 272 Johnson, Matthew 139 Johnson, Samuel 10 Jones, J. 194, 199n17

300 Index kalan 228, 231 – 3, 236 – 9, 239n6 Kant, Immanuel 45, 46, 63 – 4, 129 – 31, 158 – 63, 165n15, 243, 254; and despoliation 226n16; and memorial art 45 – 6, 54; neo-Kantianism 129 – 31; and phenomenology 165n11 Kantianism see Kant, Immanuel Kasthamandap 281, 286 – 8, 287 Kathmandu 279 – 86, 281 Kaufmann, Walter 99 – 101, 106n5, 106n7 Kilinochchi 284 – 5, 285 Kimmelman, Michael 71, 77n9, 78n17 Koerner Gardens 141, 141 Korsmeyer, Carolyn 3, 67, 94n4, 108 – 9, 118n1, 122 – 3, 128 – 9, 131n6, 132n17, 180, 185n20, 185n23, 242 – 4, 248 – 9, 251, 252n18 – 19, 261n10; and Rust Belt ruins 122 – 3, 128 – 9 Koudounaris, Paul 68, 77n4, 77n5, 78n20, 79n28, 79n30 Kristeller, Paul Oskar 158, 165n6 Kruys Kerk 283, 283 Kubler, George 1, 5n1 Kunwar, R. B. 289nn22 – 4 Kupfer, Joseph 163, 164, 165n19 La Farge, John 267 LaFortune-Bernard, A. 289n23, 289n24 Lamarque, Peter 47, 83, 119n5, 119n6, 251, 252n20 Langenbach, R. 279, 288n18 Langham, Eric 171, 174n3 Langton, Rae 33n3 Laqueur, Thomas W. 9, 17, 18n1, 20n33, 67, 77n2, 78n14 Lascaux 194 Latz, Peter 135 – 7, 146n11 layers 147 – 51, 155 – 6, 171 – 3, 182, 217, 278 Leary, John Patrick 121, 124 – 6, 128 – 9, 131, 131n1, 132n10, 132n13 Lee, Robert E. 22, 264 legacy 253 – 60 Letzel, Jan 202 Levesque-Bottlieb, Emily 44n20 Levine, Lawrence 160, 165n12 Lewer, N. 288n1, 288n4, 288n14 Lewitt, Sol: Black Form 45, 51 – 2

Liberation Tigers of Tamil Elam (LTTE) 276, 284 Libya 228 Lier, Rob van 119n12 Lincoln Memorial 52 – 3, 263 Livingston, Paisley 119 – 20n13, 251n2, 251n4 Llewellyn-Jones, R. 289n32 locution 21, 23 – 4, 30, 32; illocutionary, the 21 – 7, 30, 32, 33n3; perlocutionary, the 21 – 7, 30 – 2, 33n3 – 4 Londinium 147, 148 London 25, 95 – 6, 148, 164; buildings and remembering in 151 – 6; layers in 147 – 51 Longworth, Philip 44n22 Lopes, Dominic McIver 133, 146n4, 146n8, 146n17 Lowell, Charles Russell Jr. 265, 272 Lowell, Robert 272, 274n22 Lowenthal, David 184n9 Luke, Ben 239n1 Macaulay, Rose 132n18 Macdonald, Sharon 184n12 MacLeod, Alan Livingstone 44n23 Maldives 277 Malin, Edward 103, 106n11 Margalit, Avishai 55, 56n15 Matthes, Erich Hatala 108, 119n2, 175, 185n14, 185n22, 185n33, 240n12, 260n2 meaning 2 – 4, 9, 36, 74, 149, 181, 253; and atomic bomb ruins 203 – 6, 212; of bones 68 – 9; and churches 57, 60; and locution 21 – 7, 32; and value 215 – 20, 226n9, 227n18 melancholy 90 – 3, 112 – 13, 134 Melvins, memorial to 263 – 4, 264, 272 memento mori 22, 72 – 7, 97, 105, 123 memorialization 3, 9, 14, 253 – 5, 271; and churches 63 – 5; and locution 24 – 6, 32; and meaning 37, 41; and memorial art 48 – 51, 55; and reconstruction 190 – 1 memorial work 51 memory 2 – 3, 24, 32, 88, 255, 284; and atomic bomb ruins 204, 211; churches and 57 – 65; collective 48, 55, 204, 213n10; and environmental heritage 178; and

Index  301 meaning 34, 42; and memorial art 47 – 9, 51, 55; and Memorial Hall at Harvard University 262 – 3, 265, 269 – 73; and the neo-picturesque 134 – 5, 142 – 5; selective 146n9; social 262; and stone memorials 9, 12, 16 – 17; and the UAE 172 – 3; and Venice 163 Meyer, Lukas 24 – 5, 33n7 Michigan Central Station (Detroit) 124 Mill, J. S. 195, 199n19 Milton, John 34, 43n1 modernization 157, 166, 172, 202 Moody-Adams, Michele 183, 185n36 Mooney, Bel 20n29 Morison, Samuel Eliot 268, 274n14 Morris, William 35 – 6, 84 – 5, 94n2 Mostar Bridge 85 – 6, 190, 198, 284 mounds 9, 15 – 17, 18n2, 27 Museum of London (MOLA) 156n4 Musil, Robert 18, 20n36 Mỹ Sơn 3, 228, 231 – 9, 232, 234 – 5, 239n6, 240n11 Nadeau, M-J. 288n11 Naeyer, André De 198n4 Nagaoka, Masanori 225n1 names 24, 38 – 43, x203, 253 – 6, 261n10; and memorial art 47 – 9, 52 – 5; and Memorial Hall at Harvard University 266 – 70 National September 11 Memorial 45, 47, 49 Nazis 22 – 4, 30 – 1, 77n9, 146n9, 198; see also book-burning, memorial to (Bebelplatz) neo-Kantianism 129 – 31 neo-picturesque, the 133; and the arts of memory 142 – 5; and the picturesque 133 – 42 New York City 49, 138 – 9, 175; see also High Line New Zealand 34 – 5, 41 Norwich, John Julius 157, 165n3 nostalgia 2 – 3, 32, 113, 122, 133 Notre Dame Cathedral 2 Oklahoma City Memorial 45, 49, 55 Old Joliet Prison 124 Old Kasaan, totems at 103 Oliver, Graham 44n19 ontology 114 – 18, 119n13, 223 – 4

ossuaries 67 – 8, 78n18; the meaning of bones 68 – 9; and moral concerns 69 – 72; and spectacle 72 – 7 Oudolf, Piet 138 – 9, 138, 146n13 Ozymandias syndrome 89 – 90, 97, 129 Pakistan 277 Palmyra 3, 86 – 7, 217, 225, 275; see also Temple of Bel Pappas, Nickolas 14, 15, 19n26, 20n27 Parkes, Graham 12, 19n15, 19n18, 19n25 Parc Jean-Jacques Rousseau 115 Parc Monceau 110 – 11, 111 Paris 47, 68, 111, 161; see also Catacombs of Paris; Parc Monceau parks 110, 133, 154; see also neo-picturesque, the Parthenon 83, 96, 108, 131n3 patriotism 34 – 5, 38, 43, 271 Pemble, John 165n1, 165n4 Perera, S. 289n33 permanence 4, 16, 22, 92, 103 Petzet, Michael 225n2, 279, 288n11, 288n13, 288n17, 289n21 phenomenology 162, 164, 165n11, 222 Pichard, P. 289n29 picturesque, the 2, 28, 90, 116, 133 – 5, 205 – 6; see also neo-picturesque, the planting 136 plaques 21 – 4, 27, 30, 263, 268 – 9 Pope, Alexander 25, 33n8 Povinelli, Elisabeth 162, 165n18 pragmatism 158 – 9, 163 preservation 3 – 4, 149 – 50, 175 – 80, 202 – 4, 228 – 30, 237 – 39 Pushparatnam, P. 289n20 Quattro Cento 10 racism 182, 190, 255, 257 Raz, Joseph 177, 184n7 reception 2, 26, 116, 160 reconstruction 84 – 5, 167 – 8, 189 – 98, 228 – 31, 235 – 8, 280 – 7, 287 Reinders, Eric 15, 20n28 remembrance 17 – 18, 45, 47 – 8, 54 – 7, 60 Renn, Melissa 273n4 reparation 32, 179, 190 – 1 resonance 13 – 18, 122 – 4, 128 – 31

302 Index respect 17 – 18, 69 – 72, 244 – 8 responsibility see appreciative responsibility restoration 84 – 7, 171 – 2, 189 – 97, 228 – 36, 284 – 6 Riegl, Alois 108, 118n1, 192, 194 – 5, 199n14, 199n18, 199n22, 205, 213n12, 227n18 Risse, Mathias 185n32 Rizzi, Gionata 239 Rizzo, Julia 44n20 Robert, Hubert 91 – 2, 110, 115 Roberts, Lord 27 Roman baths 126 – 7 Roman London 147 – 55; see also Londinium Rome 40, 60 – 1, 96, 110, 151, 170; and ossuaries 67, 73; and the values and depictions of ruins 89 – 2, 93; and Venice 158 – 9; see also Roman baths; Roman London Rose Theater, The 153, 156n6 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 157 Royal Shakespeare Company 79n27 ruins 1 – 4, 93n1, 108; aesthetic appreciation and 242 – 4, 252n17; and conservation and restoration 84 – 7; contemplating 159 – 63; depictions of 90 – 3; and destroyed buildings 83 – 4; engaging with 163 – 4; of the future 175 – 84; and historical physiognomy 252n19; and the layers in London 147, 149, 151 – 3, 155; and natural degradation 95 – 9, 101 – 3; and the neo-picturesque 142 – 5; and paradox 83; in the picturesque 133 – 42; and reconstruction 196, 198; reflections of 105 – 6; respect and responsibility for 241, 244 – 5, 247 – 51; ruin porn 121, 126, 128, 130; in the UAE 166 – 73; the values of 87 – 90; and Venice 157 – 9; of war 228 – 39; see also atomic bomb ruins; debris; Rust Belt; sham ruins; specific ruins Rush, Elizabeth 176, 184n1 Ruskin, John 84, 89 Rust Belt 2, 121 – 2, 142; and Detroitism 124 – 9; and resonance 122 – 4, 129 – 31; Rust Belt ruin 131n3 rust lust 121 – 2

Sallis, John 20n35 San Salvatore (Spoleto) 110 Santa Maria della Concezione, church of 67, 72 Santa Maria del Popolo 60 Sartre, Jean-Paul 224, 227n23 Scanlon, T. M. 176, 184n6 Scarbrough, Elizabeth 119n3, 119n5, 119n6, 131n2, 180, 185n25, 228 Scheff, Thomas J. 39, 44n14 Scheffler, Samuel 176, 184n4 Schmidt, A. 289n23, 289n24 Schwarzenberg coat of arms 75 – 6, 76 Scruton, Roger 66n9 sea level rise 175 – 6, 179, 183 Sedlec Ossuary 73 – 6, 76 sham ruins 91, 109 – 12; and age 112 – 14; and ontology and form 114 – 18 Sharjah Biennial 172 – 4 Sharp, William 264 – 5 Shaw, Robert Gould 263, 272 Shelley, Percy Bysshe: Ozymandias 89 – 90, 97, 129 Shilpakar, Laxmi Prasad 287 Simmel, Georg 204, 205, 211, 213n9, 214n35 Simpson, I. A. 289nn22 – 4 Sischy, Ingrid 71, 78n16 Slavny, A. 191 – 2, 199n11 Smith, Laurajane 184n11 Somhegyi, Zoltán 142 – 3, 146n7, 146n19, 166, 174n1 Southern Asia 275 – 7 spectacle 69, 71 – 7, 78n15 speech: the nonverbal 23; speech acts 21, 23 – 5, 32, 33n3; see also locution Sri Lanka 276, 277 – 9, 282 – 4, 283 St. Cuthbert’s Parish Church 22, 27 – 8, 28 St. Mark’s Cathedral 161, 164 St. Jerome 22 Stalin 3 Stamp, Gavin 40, 43n7, 44n16, 44n18 Stebbins, Theodore E. 273n4 Stilz, Anna 185n31 Stokes, Adrian 10 – 12, 19n7, 19n17 stone 1 – 2, 4, 9, 34 – 6, 41 – 3, 51 – 2; and dedicated purpose 36 – 8; and exemplification of loss 38 – 43; and the human condition 9 – 13;

Index  303 and London 152 – 5; and natural degradation 97 – 101; saying things with 23 – 6; and symbolic resonances 13 – 18 sublime 90 – 1, 112, 128 – 31, 161 – 3, 218, 223, 243 Syed, Sharmeen 173, 174n5 symbolism 13 – 18, 16, 38, 56, 72 – 3 Syria 3, 86, 228, 241, 245, 275; and reconstruction 189, 196 Tadros, Victor 199n10 Tait, Norman 104, 106 – 7n13 Taliban 3, 215 – 20, 228, 277 – 8 Tarlow, Sarah 32n2 Tarzi, Z. 288n10 Tejeda, Gregory 132n15 temple de la Philosophie moderne, le 115 Temple of Bel 86, 189, 241, 245 – 50, 246 Temple of the Buddha’s Tooth 276, 276, 278 Tennant, David 79n27 Tha Prom Temple 99 – 100, 100 Thiemann, L. 288n11 Thiessen, Gesa Elsbeth 65n4 Thompson, Janna 184n13 Tiffany, Louis Comfort 267 Timbuktu 190, 225, 275 tombs 9, 38, 93 – 5, 105, 157 tombstones 13 – 18, 99 Toronto 140 – 4, 140 – 1 totem poles 102 – 5, 103, 106n10, 106n12, 107n14 tourism 158 – 64, 202 – 3 Tremblay, J. C. 289nn23 – 4 Trimpi, Helen P. 274n13 Trogdon, Kelly 251n4 Tsuyoshi, Takase 214n27 Twose, Gabriel 44n20 UNESCO 204, 228 – 30, 235 – 8, 240n13, 280 – 2; World Heritage Committee (WHC) 189 – 1, 197 – 8, 226n10; World Heritage Convention 84; see also under heritage sites Union, the 262 – 9, 264, 271 – 2 United Arab Emirates (UAE) 166 – 73 United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) 275 – 81 University of Jaffna 283

Unknown Soldier 1 Urakami Cathedral 209 – 12, 209 value 2 – 4, 73, 244, 282, 284; antivalue 220 – 5, 227n17, 227n20, 227n21; and appreciation 227n19; archaeological 169; Bamiyan and 215 – 20, 226n9 – 10, 226n14; cathartic 35; epistemological 192 – 4; heritage value 169, 225n6; moral 247; negative 112 – 14; novelty 212n3; positive 112 – 13; and preservation 176 – 177; and reason 226n12, 226n16, 227n17; and reconstruction 189, 191 – 4; recreational 279; of ruins 84, 86 – 90, 93, 210 – 11; symbolic 192, 203, 257 – 8; use value 192, 194 – 195, 230, 237; see also aesthetic value; age value; historical value Van Brunt, Henry 266 – 7, 266 – 7 Varzi, Achille 224, 227n23 Venice 86, 157 – 64, 165n9 Venice Charter 189 – 90, 197, 229 Vietnam see Mỹ Sơn 3, 228, 231 – 9, 232, 234 – 5, 239n6, 240n11 Vietnam Veterans Memorial 2, 35 – 8, 41 – 2, 47 – 9, 52 – 5, 53, 144 Viollet-le-Duc, E. E. 199n21 Visser, Margaret 59, 65n5, 66n7 wabi aesthetics 201, 205 Walton, Kendall L. 46, 56n3, 251n1 war 244 – 5; Boer War 22, 27 – 8, 28, 31; civil war (Sri Lanka) 283 – 4; Civil War (US) 3, 262 – 8, 271; Croat-Bosnian War 85; First World War 34 – 5, 37, 39, 41 – 3, 77, 268 – 9; Iran-Iraq War 275; Iraq War 38 – 9, 275; Korean War 47, 49; the ruins of 228 – 39; Second World War 37, 51, 87, 146n9, 150, 156, 189, 205, 268; Vietnam War 35, 41, 47, 49, 52 – 4, 144, 233, 236; war memorials 33n6, 35 – 43 Ward, James William 19n10 Ware, Fabian 36, 42, 44n15 Ware, William Robert 266 – 7, 266 – 7 Warsaw 189 – 93, 193, 197 – 8, 290n36 Warsaw Castle 193 Washington, DC see AIDS Memorial Quilt; Lincoln Memorial;

304 Index Washington Monument; Vietnam Veterans Memorial Washington Monument 49, 52 – 3 water parks 137 Watkins, Nicholas 43n3 Weerasinghe, J. 278, 288n16 Weilacher, Udo 146n10 Weise, K. 275, 289n22 Weiser, Peg Brand 55, 56n13 Welsch, Wolfgang 165n17 Western Buddha 215 – 16 Westminster Abbey 42, 194 Whately, Thomas 134, 146n6 Whitby whaling industry, memorial to 22, 28 – 31, 29 White, Amanda 239n4 Whitman, Sarah Wyman 267 Whittick, Arnold 43n5 Whyte, Kyle Powys 182, 185n16, 185n30 Wijeratne, Pali 289n21 Wijesuriya, G. 288n16 Williams, Bernard 259, 261n9 Williams, Henry Smith 20n30

Wimsatt, William K. 251n2 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim 157 – 8 Winter, Jay 44n12 Wolpe, Rabbi David 17, 20n34 Wolterstorff, Nicholas 45, 47, 53 – 5, 56n1, 56n10, 56n12, 66n10, 142, 144 – 5, 146n18, 146n22 Woods, Lebbeus 207, 214n26 Woodward, Christopher 97, 106n1, 106n3 Wordsworth, William 9, 19n23 Wren, Sir Christopher 25, 150, 154 Yale University 253 – 60 York Watergate 155, 155 Young, James E. 51, 56n8 Young, R. L. 288n2 Zejnilović, Emina 213n11 Zorzi, Alvise 165n7, 165n13 Zucker, Paul 106, 113, 116, 119nn3 – 5, 119n7, 119n9, 119n11, 122, 128, 131n5